1812-The Rivers of War

by Eric Flint

  He clamped on his colonel's hat. He'd slept without taking off anything else, even his boots.

  "Let's go, then," he said, stooping and passing through the tent flap.

  Jackson hadn't seen the flare himself. The general, sure that the British would launch their final assault on the morning of the 8th, had not slept much that night either. But he had finally managed to nap for a short time on the couch of the Macarty plantation house where he'd set up his headquarters.

  Major Reid shook him awake. "Sir, the flare went off across the river a short while ago. Colonel Houston's already pulled out of the lines, to reinforce Morgan."

  Jackson sat up, shaking his head to clear it.

  He wasn't surprised that Houston hadn't waited to receive permission to cross the river. Would have been surprised if he had, in fact. Still, though he wasn't irritated by the youngster's initiative, he was a bit disgruntled by the situation.

  Jackson didn't think the British intended any serious assault over there. He wasn't sure, of course, which was the reason he'd agreed to Houston's proposal. But Jackson thought the young colonel and his men would be spending most of the day doing nothing more valuable than crisscrossing the river. Soon enough, once it became clear that the British thrust across the Mississippi was just a feint, Houston would be marching his men back.

  By the time they returned to the Jackson Line, however, the battle would probably be over—and they'd most likely be too tired to fight anyway, even if it weren't.

  "Oh, well," he murmured. He was philosophical enough about the matter not to dwell on it. Houston had left his artillerymen behind with Jackson, since they'd move too slowly with their guns to be of any use to him. In truth, by now Jackson had so many men on the line that he'd been keeping the rest of Houston's regiment in reserve anyway. A reserve that he really didn't expect he'd need.

  Pakenham would need a miracle to get his men across the killing field at Chalmette—and God, Jackson was sure, was on the side of America.

  Besides, even if the British attack on the west bank was a diversion, Jackson didn't want to see his forces defeated across the river. Which they were almost bound to be, if the British landed in any numbers. Even leaving aside his doubts concerning Morgan, Jackson knew full well that most of the Kentuckians over there were in no shape to fight.

  He muttered under his breath.

  "What was that, sir?"

  Jackson rose from the couch, shaking his head more vigorously still. Not to shake off weariness, but in sheer disbelief. "I still can't believe those Kentuckians arrived without guns, the most of them. Talk about miracles! I never in my life seen a Kentuckian without a gun, a pack of cards, and a jug of whiskey."

  Once they finally reached the shore, Thornton got his men into marching order very quickly. The Eighty-fifth was a superb regiment. The veterans knew what to do, even without the officers' orders.

  Captain Money and his Royal Marines, he was pleased to see, got into formation just as swiftly and surely. Now that the fight was finally at hand, Thornton could feel all the frustration of the past hours vanishing. Late or not, behind schedule or not, he was leading one of the finest fighting forces anywhere in the world.

  "We'll win, by God!" he almost shouted.

  He spoke loudly enough for Money to hear him, as the marine officer trotted up to get his final marching orders.

  "So we will, sir," he said, smiling. "I assume you'll want us to leave most of our gear behind?"

  "Yes. The men will have gotten some rest from that overlong voyage on the river. But if they have to undertake a forced march for miles, with all their equipment, they'll be too exhausted at the end to fight well."

  Money nodded calmly, even though he knew that meant they'd be fighting with just a few rounds of ammunition for each man.

  "Be a lot of bayonet work," he predicted.

  "Yes, it will." Thornton's grin was savage now. "Cousin Jonathan is about to discover that the facts of life are made of cold steel."

  * * *

  Miles upstream, Sam Houston was cursing the weather. As was not unusual in New Orleans for that time of year, the river was half obscured by fog that the rising sun had not yet burned away. It was a good thing Driscol had set off the flare before daybreak. Had he set it off now, it might well never have been seen on the east bank.

  "Don't dare risk it, sir," said the captain, for the tenth time since the ferry left the shore. "Got to move slowly and carefully, under these conditions."

  For the tenth time, Houston was tempted to curse the man along with the weather—or just toss him overboard and pilot the boat himself. But...

  Piloting a ferry on the Mississippi was a real skill, and not one that Houston possessed himself. Nor, as far as he knew, did any of the men who were following him. Certainly the Cherokees didn't. Whether he liked it or not, he had no practical way of overriding the captain's caution.

  So he distracted himself by pestering his men, making sure they were all prepared for the coming fray. The young Baltimore dragoons and First Capitol Volunteers took his fretting fairly seriously; Major Ridge and his Cherokees paid him no attention at all.

  Finally, the ferries started coming ashore. Houston was the first off the boats, charging onto the pier on the west bank like Achilles storming off the waters of the Aegean at Troy.

  After striding three steps later, his boot caught on a loose plank and he was sent sprawling. Flat on his belly, Sam glared at the wooden flooring. He was feeling quite indignant.

  Achilles hadn't tripped within ten feet after landfall.

  Of course, Achilles hadn't had to deal with the hazards of a hastily constructed pier. On the other hand, Achilles had certainly stormed ashore waving his sword, and Sam was mightily glad he hadn't.

  An ignominious end, that would have been, to a glorious life just barely under way. Alas, in his enthusiasm, the Young Hero of the Capitol skewered himself dreadfully at the beginning of the battle. His remains were interred—

  It didn't bear thinking about. Just didn't.

  * * *

  Hours, they'd lost! Precious hours.

  It was past nine o'clock in the morning and Major General Edward Pakenham, Knight of the Bath, was practically exploding with frustration.

  Pakenham knew, from somewhat-veiled comments offered by Admiral Cochrane, that Robert Ross had expressed strong reservations concerning the wisdom of launching directly into battle with a new commander in charge of the army. Even though Pakenham understood that the reservations didn't actually involve his own abilities, he'd still resented them a bit.

  Now, he was coming to realize just how wise Ross had been, with his greater experience. The army under Pakenham was a very good one, and he knew that he was a very good general. But the fact remained that war was a messy business, always full of unexpected difficulties—and there did not yet exist the smooth interaction between himself and his subordinates that would have come from weeks or months of working together on a longer and better-planned campaign.

  The result had been a series of setbacks and mishaps. Most of them fairly minor, in themselves. But, added together, they were beginning to undermine the entire plan of the battle.

  He was doing his very best not to take out his frustration and anger on his subordinates.

  And succeeding, for the most part. The only officer who'd received the full brunt of Pakenham's wrath had been Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Mullins, the commander of the Forty-fourth Foot. The Forty-fourth had been charged with the task of carrying the fascines and ladders that the rest of the army would need to storm the Jackson Line, and by eight o'clock it had become obvious to Pakenham that the man was hopelessly incompetent. The fool hadn't even bothered to check if the fascines and ladders were actually in place where they were supposed to be, even though he'd been explicitly instructed to do so the night before.

  But, General Pakenham. I made inquiries and was told—

  Told by whom? And why didn't you look for yourself? The entire attack
plan depends on those ladders and fascines, you— you—

  Pakenham had experienced a nightmarish vision of his soldiers piling up at the Jackson Line, and being ripped to pieces by American fire, with the means of storming the fieldworks somewhere lost in the rear because a blithering idiot who only held his command due to the fact that he was the son of Lord Ventry had not taken so simple and obvious a measure with regard to so critical a matter as to look for himself.

  You are dismissed, Colonel Mullins. Inform your subordinate that he is now in command of the Forty-fourth.

  Dismissed, I said!

  For the tenth time that morning, Pakenham resisted the urge simply to launch the assault across the field of Chalmette, regardless of where things stood on the opposite bank. It was a difficult urge to resist.

  Very difficult. Pakenham, like the hapless Mullins, certainly owed the start of his career to family connections. But his rise thereafter had been due to his own ability and temperament. Even by the standards of Wellington's army, Pakenham was an aggressive general. Every instinct he had was shrieking at him to begin the attack.

  He probably would have done so, in truth, had it not been for Robert Ross. Partly due to Ross's words of caution based on his own experience at the Capitol; partly based on the deep respect Pakenham, like all officers in the British army, had for Ross as a general. And partly, in the end, simply because he had made a personal promise to the man.

  So he took a long, slow, deep breath, controlling his urges.

  "Perhaps I was a bit hard on Mullins," he said to Gibbs.

  His second in command's jaws were tight. "You saved him from a court-martial, sir. I just got word from Lambert. The ladders and fascines weren't in place."

  Pakenham's face turned pale. "Good God."

  "Yes. Can you imagine what would have happened?"

  Pakenham could, all too well. A pure massacre.

  "Good God," he repeated.

  Tiana Rogers had been watching Robert Ross for almost an hour, sitting silently in the chair in the corner of his room where she often spent time while tending to him. The British general was normally courteous—even mildly flirtatious, at times, in the harmless way that a middle-aged man will sometimes be with a young woman. But today he had been completely oblivious of her. Other than a glance he'd spared when she'd come into the room that morning, all his attention had been directed at the open window.

  He must have opened it himself, before daybreak, since she'd left it closed the night before to ward off the winter cold. Ross had been lying in his bed staring at the window ever since.

  His eyes were open, but they weren't really seeing anything. He was listening. Trying, with his very experienced ear, to gauge the progress of the conflict now starting to unfold miles down the Mississippi.

  "Would it make you feel any better if we waited down by the river?" she asked. "Mind you, it'll probably rain—drizzle, for sure—and it's already cold and damp. So if you take ill again, it's your own fault."

  Startled, he looked at her. Then smiled.

  "Sorry. I've been very rude, I'm afraid. Yes, dear girl, it would make me feel immensely better."

  He looked back at the window, cocking his head a bit. "From the sounds of the street, though, I'd say I'll be in greater danger of being slaughtered by frenzied females, than dying of a chill."

  Tiana barked a laugh. "Those hens! They're all rushing about in a tizzy because they're sure they're about to be raped by oncoming hordes of Englishmen. Slaughter's the last thing on their minds, or they'd be doing something useful like sharpening their knives." She rose from her chair, smiling in a rather predatory manner. "I sharpened mine days ago."

  Ross flushed. "I realize the reputation of the British army suffered badly after Badajoz. But I can assure you, young lady—"

  "Spare me, Robert. British soldiers are no more saints than any other. What will happen, will happen. The one thing I can assure you is that if any gang of soldiers tries to rape me, the second or third man in the party might succeed. The first one will either be dead or singing falsetto. Probably the second, too."

  Ross chuckled. "You are a formidable creature, have I ever told you that?"

  "Yesterday. Again. After I told you—again—that you were welcome to empty your own chamber pot any time you were stupid enough to decide you're fit and hearty. Which you aren't."

  She shrugged on her shawl, which was a very attractive Creole one. Before they got outside, Ross knew, she'd supplement it with a Cherokee blanket. Tiana Rogers simply didn't care what other people thought of the way she dressed or carried herself. To be sure, as young and beautiful as she was, she didn't really need to. But Ross was quite certain that she'd be the same way as an old woman.

  "Formidable," he repeated, as Tiana helped him out of the bed.

  She did not, thankfully, offer to help him change from his bedclothes into his uniform. She was formidable enough to do it, if he'd needed the help. But he'd manage well enough, and it would have embarrassed him. It was bad enough that she did the sort of unpleasant chores for him that a servant should properly do. Cherokees were odd, that way. They'd employ slaves for productive labor as readily as white Americans, from what Ross could tell, but didn't seem to feel that personal servants were appropriate.

  One woman on the street did shriek, seeing Robert's uniform. Then, scampered away in panic, insofar as an overweight matron in her fifties could be said to "scamper" at all. Several others gaped at him.

  None, however, advanced upon him with mayhem in their hearts. Ross decided he would survive.

  Down by the riverbank, he couldn't really hear what was happening all that much better than he could have staying in his hotel room. Still, he felt relieved being there, out in the open of the Plaza de Armas. They were fairly comfortable, too, soon enough. Tiana bullied a Creole baker whose shop fronted the city's main square into providing them with a small table, two chairs, pastries, and a pot of tea. The tea in New Orleans was even good, unlike the normal American travesty.

  "There fails only a parasol to ward off the drizzle," Robert chided.

  "Suffer," she replied.

  Chapter 45

  When the first line of Americans began firing on the Eighty-fifth Foot, Colonel Thornton ordered the regiment to launch an immediate bayonet charge while still in column formation. There would be no forming into a line and firing volleys. Just cold steel, in a headlong assault. Thornton was sure he could sweep aside this first screen of skirmishers, and he didn't want to lose the time or the ammunition that volley fire would require. Until the Forty-third Light Infantry and the West Indian troops could rejoin his regiment with the supplies he'd left behind at the debarkation point, he needed to conserve his ammunition.

  His assessment proved correct. Almost absurdly so, in fact. The skirmishers fired not more than a round each—many of them, not even that—before racing off into the swamps. A fair number of the Americans dropped their weapons before they ran, and not a single one died at the point of a bayonet—or any other mishap caused directly by British action. One man did break his neck when he tripped over a root and slammed headfirst into a tree.

  "And will you look at this, sir?" crowed one of Thornton's sergeants gleefully, holding up a gun left behind by an American. "It's a bloody fowling piece!"

  So it was. If that was typical of the weaponry Jackson had given his forces on this side of the river, Thornton could hardly blame them for running away.

  He shook his head, and reminded himself that they'd encounter deadlier arms up ahead. There was ordnance there, for a certainty. Still, this easy victory had done wonders for the morale of his regiment. The men had been, as always, obedient and disciplined. But the cold and the drizzle and the hours of muddy labor during the night had left them tired and disgruntled. Now, with the sun finally burning away the mist, their spirits were improving rapidly.

  "Forward, lads!" he cried, waving his sword. "We'll chase the cowards all the way into New Orleans!"

&nb
sp; As the distant sound of skirmishing fire faded away—very quickly—Robert Ross lowered his cup of tea onto the table.

  "That'll have been the Eighty-fifth brushing aside a line of skirmishers, I think. These pastries are quite good, by the way."

  "Would you like some more?"

  "Yes, please."

  Tiana rose and walked toward the bakery. Her long-legged stride made the colorful heavy skirt she was wearing flash like a banner in the breeze.

  But Ross didn't watch her for more than a second or two. His head turned toward the south, cocked slightly to the side to bring an ear to bear.

  As soon as the first Kentuckians came into sight, racing like mad toward the "Morgan Line," General Morgan clambered upon his horse and rode out to meet them. He was waving his sword so vigorously that Driscol thought he might injure himself. Perhaps even badly enough to require evacuation for medical care.