1812-The Rivers of War

by Eric Flint

  Whatever Thornton's last command might have been went unspoken. A musket ball penetrated the back of his head and blew out his left eye.

  Gubbins wiped the gore off his face. "Forward, damn you! Forward, I—"

  He choked, clutching his throat, torn by a musket ball. Blood spewed out instead of words. Another musket ball struck him in the ribs, spinning him sidewise; then another passed through his jaw, smashing out most of his teeth along the way.

  Gubbins collapsed. On a dirt road by the Mississippi River, he bled to death.

  "You're in command, sir!" cried the pale-faced young lieutenant of the Eighty-fifth. "Colonel Thornton and Colonel Gubbins have both fallen."

  Captain James Money of the Royal Navy stared at the head of the column, some fifty yards or so in front of his own marines. The column was bunched up, now. No longer a column as much as a ragged lot of men trying to form an impromptu line, with no officers and a narrow front to boot. The charge had stumbled to a halt. Bayonets wouldn't do it here, clearly enough.

  Money looked back at the rest of the column.

  "Right. No help for it, then. We've got to form a line and fight it out. Lieutenant, I want—"

  A musket ball struck his left shoulder and drove him to his knees. Turning his head, his mouth open, Money saw a wave of wild savages pouring out of the cypress swamp. The Indians had begun their charge with a volley, apparently, as soon as they emerged from the trees.

  A volley of sorts, at least. Money's mind was too dazed to remember exactly what he'd heard. All he could do was watch as the savages slammed into his unprepared men. They fired again, once—no volley there; just each savage as he would, those who had muskets—and then began killing with war clubs and spears.

  Captain Money detested this idiot war in the gulf. The terrain and climate were the worst he'd ever encountered. Nothing that happened in the next half a minute caused him to reconsider his opinion. Certainly not the war club that shattered his skull.

  "Back! Back to the woods!" Major Ridge's voice, like Driscol's, was eminently capable of carrying across a raging battlefield.

  "Get back now!"

  For a wonder, the warriors obeyed him. That alone, John Ross knew, as he plunged back into the cypress along with the others, was enough to make clear Ridge's status. Cherokee warriors weren't terribly prone to discipline. Ferocity, yes. Obedience in the face of commands—

  He actually chuckled, once he reached the dark safety of the trees.

  Not hardly.

  Apparently Ridge heard the chuckle. John had stayed close to him throughout the charge out of the swamp, and the quick retreat back into it.

  He gave the younger man a crease of a smile. "Amazing, isn't it? But it only worked because they aren't stupid."

  John nodded. The attack had caught the British completely by surprise, and had inflicted a lot of casualties on them. But John's own experience in the swamps on the night of the twenty-third had taught him how dangerous British soldiers could be, once they were planted and ready to fight. There were still at least twice as many enemy soldiers on that road as there were Cherokees. If Ridge had tried to stand and slug it out, they'd have started getting butchered.

  "What now?" he asked.

  Ridge was peering through the trees at the British column on the road. John, doing the same, could see British officers racing up and down, bringing order to their troops. Faster than he would have imagined possible, the enemy was forming a line to defend their flank.

  "We'll just wait a bit," Ridge answered. "Let Houston do whatever he's going to do first, and then we'll see what things look like. If they come at us, here in the swamp, we'll rip them. The same would happen to us, if we were stupid enough to charge back out there against that line."

  It made sense to Ross. So, he took the time to reload his pistol. He'd even hit an enemy soldier with the round he'd fired during the charge, he thought.

  That wasn't much of an accomplishment, of course. Not at point-blank range, against a mass of men caught with their backs to the river. John added the experience to the long list he was compiling, which was proving to him that there was something ultimately absurd about war.

  Or, at least, the way men talked about it.

  Why did men boast so, about a field of endeavor whose greatest achievement was to do the crudest thing imaginable, in as simple a way as possible? No Cherokee woman, after all, would have bragged that she'd made the ugliest garment in the world, using the fewest possible stitches.

  "Shall we charge them, Colonel Houston?" Lieutenant Pendleton asked eagerly. "We bloodied 'em good!"

  Sam took a moment from his study of the enemy to glance at the young dragoon officer who was standing next to him.

  He was tempted to say, Do I look like an idiot? The British, their charge having been broken, were forming a line about one hundred and fifty yards away. He was amazed at the speed and precision with which they'd done so. Sam knew perfectly well his own regiment would have made a dragged-out mess of the business, if they could have even managed it at all after suffering such casualties.

  And he could practically feel the savage eagerness of the British soldiers to see him marching toward them. Oh, they'd get some of their own back, then! Surely they would.

  "No, Lieutenant. Face facts—that's the first thing an officer has to learn. Those are regulars over there, and we aren't. So we'll not be so foolish as to try matching them line against line. Tell the men to start digging in and form a breastworks, and tell the three-pounders to hold their fire unless the enemy advances. They'll be getting low of ammunition, anyhow. We'll just stand here. That's really all we need to do. If we keep the enemy away from the commodore's guns, we've done our job."

  It was almost comical, the way Pendleton's face fell.

  "Now, Lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir." Pendleton raced off.

  Well. Slouched off hurriedly. But Sam wasn't inclined to chide him over his posture. Now that the immediate danger was past, he was worrying about Driscol and his men.

  Were they still alive? If so, they were trapped back there— and Sam didn't dare charge to their rescue as long as the British had that line across the road. If the enemy broke his charge, which they most likely would, there'd be nothing between them and Patterson's guns.

  "Why is everything so quiet now, Robert?"

  Somehow, she'd still managed to keep her face expressionless. But Ross thought the lines of the face itself were tighter than any drum he'd ever seen.

  "The assault's been beaten off," he said, trying not to sigh. "For the moment, at least."

  He suspected that his own face was as tightly drawn as Tiana's. Under the circumstances, for the moment was a meaningless phrase. Ross knew the battle plan Thornton had been following. The thing either had to be done quickly, or there was no point in doing it at all.

  The tree was starting to shed bark, under that softly but steadily pounding fist. Gibbs was genuinely amazed. He'd never seen Pakenham able to restrain himself to such a degree in a battle.

  Wellington, he knew, would have been pleased to witness Pakenham's unwonted control. The duke had won the Peninsular War because he'd always been able to contain himself, when the need be. Something few of his immediate subordinates could have managed.

  Including Gibbs. If he'd been in command here, despite his own great doubts about the prospects, the men would have started across Chalmette field at least an hour earlier.

  They might have even carried the day. Who was to know? Leading a charge was so much easier than being the commander who had to order it—or refrain from doing so.

  Another piece of bark fluttered to the ground.

  "Come at me, blast you," Jackson hissed. He was back on the line now. He didn't need a glass to see the British formations, hundreds of yards away. Not when all he had to do was look across the bareness of Chalmette field.

  He'd cover that beautiful empty field with red-coated corpses, if they came across. He knew it as surely as he knew
the sun would rise on the morrow.

  Chapter 47

  By the time Colonel Rennie and his Forty-third Light Infantry came ashore, Rennie already knew the expedition on the west bank was in danger of disintegrating. He'd seen enough from the barges while crossing the river to know that much. The continuing sound of gunfire from the north told him that Thornton was stalled somewhere upriver.

  The delay in ferrying all the troops across had badly scrambled the original plan of action. Instead of hitting the enemy with a solid mass of two thousand men, they'd been forced to feed their troops into the action piecemeal. Thornton and his Eighty-fifth were already engaged before Rennie's men had even finished climbing into the boats.

  As soon as all the men were ashore, Rennie started the march. He was so preoccupied with the situation to the north that he completely failed to realize there was still an active American battery on the scene. The first thing he saw as his column entered the wide area in the swamps where Morgan had constructed his feeble breastworks were the British soldiers manning the overrun American battery by the riverbank.

  The men were waving a banner. A bit frantically, it seemed. Perhaps they were coming under attack.

  Rennie started to order the column to step up the pace when the bastion he'd overlooked on the far left of the field erupted with cannon fire. An instant later, round shot was ripping into the head of his column.

  Perfect grazing shots, too.

  "What a bloody fucking mess," he snarled.

  "Give it to 'em again, boys! Give it to 'em again!" Charles Ball was bouncing about as if he were a ball in truth. "Forget those bastards over there!" He waved his cutlass at the British battery across the field, somehow managing to make it a derisive gesture. "We've already pounded them silly. Keep your feeble minds on these new bastards!"

  Ball's derision notwithstanding, Driscol kept his eye on the enemy battery. True enough, in the time that had elapsed since the main force of the Eighty-fifth marched off to the north, Driscol's men had won the artillery duel that had followed. They'd dismounted one of the enemy's six-pounders from its carriage and battered the crew of the twelve-pounder so badly that it had been out of action after the first few minutes. But the last six-pounder was still intact, as far as he knew.

  He paid little attention to the newly arrived British column, other than to note that they were shifting from column to line formation. Soon enough, they'd be charging across the field. But Ball could handle the business until then, well enough.

  Driscol was getting worried, although he did not think any of that showed in his expression. Very little ever did, after all.

  He was wrong, though. The Rogers brothers had become quite familiar with him over the past months. John Rogers put his worries into words.

  "Do you think Sam should have been here by now?"

  Perhaps oddly, hearing his fears expressed aloud calmed Driscol. "No, not quite that. It's true that we're coming into the time range during which I expect him to show up. But that range is one of at least two hours, and we're just coming into it. Besides, battles are always unpredictable. I've never seen a precise time schedule yet that didn't get shredded once the fighting started."

  How are mighty trolls fallen. Driscol hadn't fretted during a battle for years. Like his unwonted desire to survive, that was Tiana's doing.

  Seeing the crooked smile that appeared on Driscol's face, James Rogers cocked his head inquisitively. As he had since the engagement began—his brother John also—James had never been more than ten feet from Driscol's side. The reputation Indians had among white men for being unreliable certainly couldn't be proven here. As bodyguards, the Rogers brothers were like barnacles.

  "I was just worrying about the fact that I was worrying," Driscol explained. "It's your sister's fault."

  James nodded. "She's always been a nuisance, that way."

  Ball sprang from the six-pounder to the twelve-pounder and back again. "Round shot! One more time! Goddamn you bastards, you've got plenty of time for another round before we change to grape! Don't tell me you don't. What was that, Jones? Say that joke one more time and you're in the cook pot! Marie will salt and pepper you good, she will!"

  "At a guess, I'd say your man is still alive," Robert Ross murmured. "Would you care for some more tea?"

  Tiana shook her head. "Why do you say that?"

  "That sudden eruption of artillery. Can you hear the solidity of those volleys? That's an American battery—has to be; my people couldn't have ferried across much in the way of guns— with a hard commander in charge. Who else would it be but Driscol?"

  Tiana swallowed, and swiveled her head to the south. "It could be someone else. Charles Ball, maybe. Patrick thinks the world of him, even if he won't say it out loud."

  Ross tried to place Ball in his mind. "Ah, yes. The very dark sergeant he often has with him. Seems a solid man, true enough. But he's still a sergeant, not a commander. Trust me, Tiana. If Patrick had fallen, his battalion would be too unsteady to maintain such a fire."

  "You can't be sure."

  "No, of course not. It's simply my educated guess. But on this subject, my guess is extremely well educated. I've been at war for almost thirty years."

  She looked back at him. "Why? It seems a stupid thing for a man to do."

  "Family tradition got me started. Thereafter . . ." He shrugged. "It's a career, and I'm quite good at it."

  "You should learn to do something else."

  "And what would that be, young lady?"

  "Something that wouldn't get you killed. I'd miss you, Robert. I really would. Patrick would, too, even if he'd never admit it. So would your wife and children. So would probably lots of other people, I'm sure of it. You should learn to do something else. You're almost fifty. Too old for this, but not too old to change your life."

  It was his turn to swallow. Ross hadn't seen his family for almost a year now. There'd been many times since he'd arrived in the New World when he'd been sure he never again would.

  "Well." He cleared his throat. "We shall see. Between my injuries"—he shifted his half-crippled arm a bit—"and the threat of peace breaking out before I can return to service . . ." He raised his cup and took a sip. The tea was really quite good. "Perhaps. I may have no choice anyway."

  There came a distant hissing sound, as if a giant snake lurked somewhere in the swamps to the south.

  "That'll be the Congreves. Yes, I'd say Patrick Driscol is still alive. See how angry they sound? Only that stubborn Ulsterman could enrage British rockets so."

  * * *

  "Forget those silly fucking rockets!" Ball hollered. "Just forget 'em, God damn your souls! We sneered at 'em at the Capitol, and you'll damn well sneer at 'em here!"

  Finally, as Driscol had been expecting, the six-pounder in the British battery fired.

  "Take that gun out for me, if you would," he said quietly to the crew of their own six-pounder, which was facing toward the river. "You can do it, lads. I know you can. Quickly, mind you. The British will start their charge soon."

  As the crew of the six-pounder went about their newly assigned work, Driscol gazed back across the field. Three minutes, he estimated. Then the enemy would be ready to start the charge. Given the confidence with which his gun crew was operating, he thought the enemy's six-pounder would be silent by then.

  "Iron Battalion indeed!" he said, loudly enough to be heard all over the bastion. The pace of his gunners seemed to pick up a bit.

  "I have no choice," Rennie said to the commander of the West Indian troops. He was almost growling with frustration. "That battery is far too effective to leave in place. We've got to cross that field in the face of their fire anyway, if we're to reinforce Thornton and the Eighty-fifth. So we may as well do something besides die while we're at it, eh?"

  The men of the Forty-third were poised in line formation, by then. "It'll be bayonets, lads! We'll not waste time matching muskets against six-pounders! Just a taste of cold steel and Cousin Jonathan will be o
ff and running!"

  He would have shouted anyway, simply for the effect it would have on his men's confidence. But the hiss of the Congreves as they darted off, and the roar they made as they landed, gave him no choice, if his words were to be heard at all.

  "I wish we had real artillery," growled the West Indian commander. Another Congreve exploded somewhere in the swamps, slaughtering the American cypress.

  So did Rennie. But such was fortune.

  "Charge!"

  "They're pulling back, Colonel Houston!" said Lieutenant Pendleton. "Look at 'em run!"

  In point of fact, the British were doing no such thing. Pulling out, yes. But the smooth precision and discipline with which the enemy began marching to the rear was as far from "running" as Sam could imagine. Especially after having watched hundreds of Kentucky militiamen give such a splendid demonstration of the term "rout" a short time earlier.