1812-The Rivers of War

by Eric Flint

  The world was often an odd place. Oddest of all, perhaps, was the man sitting at the desk.

  By temperament, Andrew Jackson would have made a legendary tyrant. Not one like Nero or Caligula, to be sure, because there was nothing decadent about him. But he could certainly have matched Diocletian or Constantine. Or possibly even Genghis Khan, come down to it.

  Yet, for whatever quirk of fate—perhaps Providence, who knew?—the same man was imbued with deeply republican principles, and held to them just as rigidly as he did anything else.

  Jackson's head turned away from the window. Then, suddenly, he grinned and slammed his hand down on the table.

  "It's going well, finally. Have you read these yet?" The hand that had just slammed the table scooped up a batch of newspapers and dispatches.

  Coffee shook his head. "I haven't had the chance, General. Although I've heard the gist of them, of course." He grinned himself. "Who hasn't?"

  "Who hasn't indeed? Ha! One of our boys, the hero of the hour." Jackson began reading one of the newspapers. From the quick and easy way his eyes scanned the print, it was obvious he'd read it several times before. Savored it, more precisely.

  "He chose to defend the Capitol, you know," Jackson gloated. "A Republican, that boy, through and through."

  "Yes, sir, I heard."

  "They made him a colonel, too. That must have been Monroe's doing. Madison would have waffled, as always, and Armstrong's useless." Jackson cleared his throat. The sound had a certain gloating quality to it also. "Was useless, I should say."

  Coffee raised an eyebrow. Jackson smiled at him. "Yes, of course. If you haven't read the dispatches—the newspaper accounts rather—you wouldn't know. It seems the good John Armstrong is resigning as secretary of war. Monroe's to replace him."

  Coffee looked out the window. That was certainly good news. "Then who's to be the secretary of state?"

  Jackson shrugged. "Nothing's definite. If the newspapers are to be believed, Monroe will remain on for a time as the acting secretary. But he'll be devoting himself primarily to the War Department."

  Better and better.

  It was a sunny day outside, which matched the mood in the room. Both Coffee and Jackson thought rather highly of James Monroe. They didn't know him that well, true, but Monroe had always been the main voice in the Madison administration calling for strengthening America's military forces. And, for an easterner, he was unusually sensitive to the situation of the settlers in the West.

  Jackson cleared his throat again. The sound, this time, lacked the earlier gloating quality. Again, he held up a newspaper. "You should know also that Houston's Cherokees apparently participated in the fight with him. That Lieutenant John Ross is named specifically in several of these accounts. It seems he's even become one of Monroe's aides. He got a promotion, also, to captain—as did one other officer. Fellow by the name of Driscol."

  "Don't know him," Coffee grunted.

  "Neither do I. They even jumped him to major, from first lieutenant." Sourly, now: "And it's no brevet rank, either."

  Coffee thought it was best to move past that issue. Jackson was disgruntled that his recent promotion to major general had been a brevet rank only. His permanent rank in the regular U.S. Army was to be that of brigadier. There was a good chance that Jackson's major generalship would become permanent, since rumors continued to swirl that Harrison would resign. That would free up one of the major generalships authorized by Congress—and Jackson would be the one to get it.

  But, for the moment, he was still prickly on the subject.

  "This Driscol must have done superbly well for himself in the battle," Coffee commented hurriedly.

  "I suppose." Then, shaking his head as if to clear it of unworthy thoughts, Jackson went on: "Must have, yes. Not surprising, though. It seems Driscol was one of Scott's men at the Chippewa. Lost an arm there. That certainly speaks well of him. Very well."

  Coffee's eyes widened. Jackson's approbation, he knew, didn't come from the missing arm itself. Limbs were lost in battle, it was a given. An honorable matter, certainly, but no more than that. But the Chippewa had occurred early in July and the battle at the Capitol late in August...

  Coffee did the calculations almost instantly. "Good heavens. Seven weeks after losing an arm, he helps lead a successful battle against British regulars? The man must be tough as iron."

  "So it would seem," Jackson said. Whatever resentments he might have felt earlier were gone now.

  "Pity we don't have him down here," Coffee said. "We could use him."

  "Oh, but we will!" Jackson was back to grinning, and, once again, slammed the table with his hand. "Well, if the newspaper accounts are accurate—which is always a dubious proposition. But, if they are, Houston—Colonel Houston now, remember— is to lead a force down here to join us. Most of them volunteers, of course, but it'll include a unit of artillery—regulars, John, mind you. The Lord knows we could use them! And apparently this Major Driscol will be serving as his executive officer."

  That was very good news. If the intelligence they had was accurate, Admiral Cochrane would be bringing somewhere close to ten thousand British regulars to invade and conquer New Orleans and the outlet of the Mississippi. To oppose them, Jackson would have a force no larger, most of which was made up of militia units. One of the most ragtag assemblages of odd bits and pieces in the history of military affairs would have to fend off an equal or superior number of Wellington's veterans, possibly the best soldiers in the world.

  "What about the Cherokees, General?"

  Jackson shrugged. "Ross will be coming with them. But whether Houston can convince Major Ridge or any of the other chiefs, who knows?" He tapped the papers on his desk. "They'll be passing through Cherokee Territory, apparently. I assume Houston planned it that way to give him a last chance to persuade them to renew the alliance."

  Jackson rose from the desk and went to stand before the window, his bony hands clasped behind his back. "He'll be a problem for me, you know. Houston, I mean."

  Coffee was one of Jackson's closest intimates, so he understood the meaning of that cryptic remark. He glanced at the pile of papers on the desk. Buried somewhere in that mass would be stiff notes from the War Department, scolding Jackson for having assumed far too much authority in his sweeping land grab from the Creeks.

  Buried at the very bottom, no doubt. The general had simply ignored the letters. The Treaty of Fort Jackson was now an accomplished fact. Whether the jittery authorities in Washington liked it or not, Jackson had persuaded the Creek chiefs—coerced them, to speak honestly; they'd been voluble in their protests at the time—to cede twenty-three million acres to the United States. That was enough to enlarge the state of Georgia by a fifth, and enough to create most of the proposed new state of Alabama. Already, settlers would be moving onto the land— and once they did, no power on earth could dislodge them. Coffee doubted if even the tsar of All the Russias had an army big enough to do so. The United States certainly didn't.

  It was an unfortunate turn of affairs for the Creeks, of course. Coffee, by nature a more genial person than Jackson, felt a moment's sympathy for the tribe. But only a moment's. At bottom, he viewed the matter the same way Jackson did. The growth of the United States was the world's best hope for republicanism—now more than ever, with Napoleon broken and the British installing monarchical regimes all across Europe. If that required dislodging a few barbarian tribes from their land, then so be it.

  There was other land for them to the west, across the Mississippi, to take from other barbarian tribes. And why not? They'd been doing it for centuries. The Creeks, like the Cherokees, were a tribe that had migrated into the area from the North, breaking and swallowing other tribes that had stood in their way. They could do it again, if they chose.

  They'd have no choice, anyway, because Jackson would drive them out. All of them, allies as well as enemies. He'd bide his time, where he had to, to deal with political opposition. But he'd discussed his long-
term plans with Coffee, and Coffee knew Jackson would never swerve from them. Sooner or later, he'd drive all the southern tribes across the Mississippi—the Cherokees and Choctaws and Chickasaws who'd fought alongside him just as surely as the Creeks and Seminoles who'd fought against him.

  Indians who chose to remain as individuals could do so, but there'd no longer be any independent Indian statelets east of the Mississippi, to challenge the authority of the new state governments that would emerge as the United States expanded its territory.

  It was a cold-blooded plan. Even a treacherous one, looked at from one angle. But Jackson was willing to be cold-blooded, and his loyalties were to his own nation. Because, in the process, the United States would become a power encompassing a third of a continent. If they could defeat Britain in the current war, then drive the Spanish out of the Floridas altogether—that was Jackson's plan, whether the government in Washington fiddle-faddled or not—the security of the nation would be assured. Canada could be ignored, thereafter. Give the thing another two or three generations, and the American republic would be so powerful it could thumb its nose at all the kings and noblemen of Europe.

  That said...

  "You can't be sure what he'll do, General."

  Jackson chuckled. "Yes, I can. You watch, John. The only thing that will stop Sam Houston from becoming a monstrous headache for me will be his own ambition. I'll wave the rose of fortune under his nose, of course, when the time comes. But...I don't think he'll take it. The boy who stormed the barricade at the Horseshoe Bend would have. But the young man who defended the Capitol? No. I don't think so."

  His tone was one of complete satisfaction. Jackson turned back from the window, hands still clasped, and peered at Coffee past slightly lowered brows.

  "You watch," he repeated. Gloating over the words. "He'll refuse the rose."

  Chapter 32

  October 1, 1814

  Washington, D.C.

  "You'd best come get him, Lieutenant," said Henry Crowell, his tone full of concern. "Or he'll land in some trouble. Again."

  The teamster glanced at the new insignia on Driscol's uniform. "Sorry. Major, I should have said."

  Driscol smiled thinly. "Don't apologize. I forget the new rank myself. And it's all ridiculous. I'm a sergeant, blast it. Never intended to be anything else."

  He levered himself up from the padded chair, and placed the book he'd been reading onto the small table that stood next to it. Thomas Paine's Common Sense, that was. Driscol wasn't quite sure why he was reading it again, since by now he practically had the book memorized. Probably just to fortify his soul, given the situation he'd be finding himself in, once he got to New Orleans.

  He paused, and studied Henry for a moment. The big teamster was carrying himself differently these days. He seemed taller, and broader, as if he was finally coming to accept his own size. He still retained much of the self-effacing diffidence of a freedman, of course. It would be dangerous to do otherwise. Even in New York or Boston.

  Still, his bearing was subtly different. More self-confident. Even, at times, almost swaggering.

  And well it should be, Driscol thought. Leaving aside the public acclaim Henry had received due to his role in the defense of the Capitol—the National Intelligencer had even devoted two paragraphs of an article to his deeds—what was more important was that Henry was on the verge of becoming one of the very few prosperous black men in America.

  "So how drunk is he?"

  "Falling-down drunk, Major. Me and Charles would have just carried him out of the saloon, but..."

  Driscol nodded. "Yes, I understand. He would have raised a ruckus."

  "Oh, he's not a mean drunk, sir. Not at all. It's just... well..."

  Again, his voice trailed off; and, again, Driscol nodded. He didn't think there was a mean bone anywhere in Sam Houston's body. The problem was that, in drunken bonhomie, Sam would have simply insisted that Crowell and Ball join him for a friendly drink. Or ten.

  In a saloon, where the only other black people were servants; where all the customers were prosperous white men, half of them politicians; and in a capital city that was every bit as southern in its attitudes as Richmond or Charleston.

  Driscol couldn't help but grin a little. "Would've been a fight."

  "Yup." Henry's grin was a more rueful thing. "Sam Houston challenging some rich congressman to a duel. 'Cept it wouldn't have been no formal duel. He'd a just started swinging."

  "True."

  If Sam didn't have any mean bones in his body, he didn't have any bashful ones either. The only reason Houston might be able to avoid fighting a duel sometime in his life—leaving aside his habits with a bottle—would be his sense of humor and his lack of touchiness about matters of "honor." It certainly wouldn't be because he was afraid to fight. On two recent occasions now, that Driscol knew about, Sam had cheerfully joined into a tavern brawl.

  Fortunately, those had been brawls in lower-class saloons. The sort of places where getting a bloody nose with a drink was more or less taken for granted, and nobody would even think of meeting at dawn with pistols. Following one of those brawls, the man Houston had flattened had bought him a drink afterward, and bragged for days that he was a drinking companion of the Hero of the Capitol. Of course, the fact that Sam had bought the next three drinks hadn't hurt any.

  The saloon he was getting drunk in today was different. It was one of the taverns that catered to Washington's elite, and its clientele was predominantly southern politicians and their hangers-on. Plantation owners, almost to a man.

  Now that Driscol had gained some experience with the breed, during the few weeks he'd been in Washington, he had developed a mental list—a very, very long list—of reasons he detested wealthy southern slave owners. A concrete and specific list, not the general condemnation he had leveled onto the breed in times past from abstract considerations.

  Somewhere near the top of the list—probably third, he thought, after their brutality toward their male slaves and their lies and hypocrisy on the subject of how they dealt with female slaves—was their endless posturing and braggadocio concerning their "honor." As if the term could be applied to armed robbers and rapists in the first place.

  He ascribed it to idleness. They did not toil. Their Negroes toiled for them. In their fields, by day; in their beds, by night. So they were able to spend their time giving longwinded speeches on the glories of republicanism and issuing challenges to each other over the pettiest slights imaginable.

  They were, he had concluded, a breed of men so foul that they had to elevate "honor" to absurdly mystical proportions. Or they couldn't have looked at themselves in a mirror at all.

  Houston possessed none of their faults. Unfortunately, he thought they were very good fellows, and liked to drink and carouse with them.

  And he could not handle his liquor.

  "Bah," Driscol snarled. "Animals, the lot of them."

  He was looking forward to leaving Washington. Sam would sober up—hopefully—and Driscol would no longer have to rub shoulders with men he despised. Frontiersmen had their faults, true enough. They were frequently illiterate, had many crude habits, and they owned slaves themselves, many of them. But Driscol had come to realize from talking with Houston and Tiana and her brothers that slavery on the frontier tended to have a different flavor than it did in the settled society of the eastern seaboard.

  He was still utterly opposed to the institution, under any circumstances. But he had begun to understand that in the West it was more akin to the sort of traditional thralldom that his own Celtic and Norse ancestors had practiced than it was to the cold-blooded profiteering of large plantation owners. Especially among the Indian tribes, who generally didn't share the white man's obsession with race.

  "They're not all so bad as that, sir," Henry said quietly. "I think well of Mr. Monroe. Don't know a single black man who doesn't. And I never heard of any black woman raising one of his bastards."

  It was all Driscol could do not
to glare at him. The man from County Antrim liked things simple. The fact that there were men like Monroe, who were exceptions to the rule—nor was he the only one, not by any means—didn't sway him at all.

  Damn all exceptions to the rule. Ought to hang them first, because they provide the others with a mask.

  Then he took a deep breath of air, and his mood lightened. It had been doing that more often, lately, much to his surprise. Tiana ascribed that to her good influence on him.

  So did Driscol.

  "Let's go get him," he said, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "Lead the way, Henry."

  He took the time, before leaving the hotel room that served him as official living quarters, to plant his new major's hat on his head and buckle on his sword. It wouldn't do to march into that fancy saloon without all the paraphernalia of his rank.

  "Not that it'll do much good," he grumbled on the way out. "Never met a rich slave owner yet who wasn't a colonel of some sort."