by Eric Flint
"Should we charge after 'em, sir?"
Sam glanced at the sailors who were standing by the nearest three-pounder. The chief gunner was almost glaring at him. Sam could easily read his mind.
The gunner, a veteran, knew perfectly well what would happen if Colonel Houston was foolish enough to order his half-trained regiment to "charge after" a regiment of British regulars undertaking a well-ordered retreat. The same thing that would happen to a hound dog who went into the brush "charging after" a wounded bear.
The bear would turn and—chomp—the dog would learn the difference between a mutt and a monster.
"No," he said. "We will pursue them, but at a steady march, and maintaining line formation. The gun crews will set the pace."
The chief gunner made no attempt to disguise the relief that swept across his face. "You heard the colonel, boys! Let's get this gun moving forward."
Thereafter, the biggest problem was restraining the enthusiasm of the Baltimore dragoons, who insisted on helping the artillerymen move their guns. They had no draft animals, so it had to be done by hand—with, now, a hundred pair of them getting in the way.
But they managed, well enough. The British regiment was retreating rapidly, as Sam had thought they would. From the sound of gunshots, war whoops, and occasional screams, they were being harassed along the way by Major Ridge and his Cherokees, darting in and out of the cypress on their right flank.
Driscol would just have to hold. Sam would get there as soon as he could, without risking the loss of his regiment. As long as Houston's regiment kept the British away from Patterson's guns, the battle was won. And if Driscol's battalion got shredded in the process, well, Sam was quite sure that Driscol would make the British pay for it dearly. They might overrun him, but if they did, they wouldn't be in any shape to fight further that day.
* * *
"Give 'em the grape, boys, give 'em the grape!" Ball wasn't bouncing around any longer. He was just standing behind the twelve-pounder—far enough to the side not to be struck by the recoil, of course—and quivering like a bowstring. "Give it to 'em good!"
That first round of grapeshot struck the British line hard. Driscol didn't think a single gun crew had missed its mark.
"Reload! Reload! Goddam you, Jones, you can move faster than that!"
In point of fact, Corporal Jones was doing a quick and splendid job, as were all the men at the twelve-pounder. Driscol knew it was the grin on his face that kept riling Ball. Quiet and solemn Henry Crowell was on the same gun crew, and Ball hadn't yelled at him once.
The crews had their guns reloaded as fast as any gun crews in Driscol's experience. "Iron Battalion indeed!" he shouted.
"Fire!"
The Forty-third staggered under the blows, but kept pressing the charge. Rennie was appalled at the casualties they were taking, but also as proud of his men as he'd ever been. The line of bayonets was leveled and gleaming in the sun, as unwavering as any commander could have asked for.
"At them, men! We'll have them at cold steel before you know it! And we'll butcher the bastards!"
They even gave out a cheer. God, what a splendid regiment!
"Oh, yes, Driscol's alive, I'd say." Robert Ross looked at the teapot and decided he'd had enough for the moment. He'd learned to ignore the demands of his bladder, up to a point, over the years of campaigning. But once he reached that point he'd have no choice but to leave the square for a time. Something he couldn't imagine doing while those raging sounds kept coming from the south.
The battle down there was reaching a climax.
Finally, to Sam's relief, the retreating Eighty-fifth broke into a trot. That was partly the cumulative effect of the Cherokees tearing at their flank. Mostly, though, it was the sound of the battle ahead of them. They were almost back to the original American line, and the British soldiers knew as well as Houston did that their reinforcements had been stymied by Driscol's battery. They intended to join the fray, to see if they could turn the tide.
So would Sam.
"Pick up the pace!" he shouted.
The Whale loomed up in the dimness of the cypress trees.
"I've been down there," he said to Major Ridge and John Ross. "Driscol and his men are going to be hit hard before too long. Real hard."
Ridge nodded, and glanced through the trees at the retreating British column.
"We'll let this group be, then. Let's go see how well the British down there can fight."
Quickly, in their undisciplined but vigorous manner, two hundred Cherokees slid through the swamp toward the beleaguered American battery.
"Canister! I want canister, boys!" Ball held his cutlass below waist level now, lashing it back and forth like the tail of an angry leopard. "You know what canister looks like, don't you? Black ugly little beads—just like your balls will look in my voudou queen's soup, if you fuck up and piss me off!"
Driscol found it necessary to add an element of dignity to the affair. For the first time in his life, ha!
"The Iron Battalion will stand! As surely as its name!"
This officer business is treacherous, he thought. If a man wasn't careful, it'd rot his brain. He'd die, in the end, from terminal pomposity.
Close enough. "Now, lads, now! At the charge!"
The Forty-third raced toward the bastion, which stood less than fifty yards ahead. A great broom of lead swept two dozen of the men aside, but the rest never flinched.
"We'll have our blades in the bastards!"
Sam thought it was time to throw caution to the winds. The Eighty-fifth was spilling into the open area beyond "Morgan's Line," their ranks starting to fray a bit. If his men charged now...
He glanced at the gunner chief standing a few feet away, alongside one of the three-pounders. The man, who'd been watching him, nodded.
"Yes, sir. I think we can push our way into that battery redoubt. That'll give the men an anchor point."
Houston had been thinking the same thing.
If 'twas to be done, best to do it quickly.
"All right, boys! Now we'll charge them."
He set off at a trot. Eagerly, their confidence filled like a great sail, the Baltimore and Capitol dragoons thundered after him.
Thundered past him.
Hollering and whooping and running way too fast.
"Slow down, you idiots! Or you'll be gasping for breath when a British bayonet empties your lungs. You cretins! Obey me, blast you, or I'll—"
He charged after them. "You stupid fucking bastards! I'll skin you alive!"
The three-pounder crews brought up the rear, laughing all the way.
"One more round! You got time, you lazy currees! You got time! See if you don't! Wipe that grin off your face, Jones!"
Driscol wasn't sure the gunners would have the time for another round. Maybe. The iron grillwork might stall the British who came clambering up the breastworks, just that little bit needed.
After that—
He swiveled his head, bringing his pale-eyed glower to bear on that half of his battalion that had been standing by, while the gunners did their butcher work.
"One round from the muskets, that's all. Then it'll be the pikes and blades. D'you understand me, lads?"
"AYE, SIR!"
It was quite a splendid roar. "Gallant," Driscol would have called it, if he'd been a bloody fool of an officer.
The reckless charge of the Baltimore and Capitol volunteers didn't break the retreating Eighty-fifth, much less rout them. But the sheer enthusiasm of the thing did make the British regiment recoil—and far enough to expose the battery by the riverbank.
Seeing his chance, Houston and those men he still had paying any attention to him overran the battered British artillery unit within seconds. There was no quarter asked, nor mercy given. Those gunners who didn't flee just died next to their guns, by gunshot and bayonet and saber.
What was left of the guns, anyway. After a quick inspection, Sam realized that only one of the six-pounders could be put
into action.
Patterson's gunners saw to that, while they brought the two three-pounders to bear. Sam left the bastion and did what he could to impose order on the milling mob of volunteers who were now on the open field, blazing away at the British.
He needed to do it quickly, too.
Ten feet to his left, a Capitol volunteer dropped to his knee and shot a redcoat some thirty yards away. It was a fine shot, in and of itself. The British soldier collapsed to the ground, hit in the chest. But it was obvious that the volunteer wasn't even thinking about working with his mates, trying to put a volley together.
Worse yet—much worse—was that some of Sam's soldiers were starting to grapple with the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. The results of that were a foregone conclusion. Even as Sam took a deep breath to bellow out an order, he saw a British veteran expertly butt aside a Baltimore dragoon's awkward lunge, and rip the man's throat open with his own bayonet.
"Form a line, damn you! Form a line!"
Most of Sam's men began to do so. But, with a sick feeling in his stomach, he could see they wouldn't manage it in time. The British had already formed their own line facing him, and their muskets were coming up for a volley.
There was a crash like thunder, and the sight of the enemy was obscured by a huge cloud of gunsmoke. At least a dozen of the American soldiers were struck, many of them knocked flat to the ground.
It was a real, hammering, professional soldiers' volley. For a moment, Sam was sure he'd see his volunteers crumple under the blow.
Yet, they didn't. Their responding volley, fired at Sam's command, was a ragged thing. But it was fired nonetheless—and even the men who hadn't joined the volley were still blazing away on their own. Not one soldier, as far as Sam could see, was even thinking about running away.
Glory be.
Under most circumstances, they would have. But their fighting spirits were high, and they could sense a victory in the offing. Houston's men had driven off the Eighty-fifth, and hounded them down the road—and now, by God, they wanted some real blood.
So, for the next three minutes, a half mob of American soldiers exchanged ragged half volleys and individual fire for the professional volleys that were coming from the enemy. It should have been no contest at all, but it was turned into one by the sheer determination of the amateurs.
Sam never did bring any real order to his ranks during that stretch. He didn't even try, after the first half a minute, realizing that he had no time, and he'd most likely just confuse his men. He simply stood his ground and kept bellowing the order to fire.
A meaningless order, in itself, since his men had every intention of firing anyway. But he'd been told that if a commander was seen to be resolute by his men—sounded resolute, anyway; the gunsmoke covering the field made "seeing" almost meaningless—that their spirits would be bolstered.
It seemed to work, too.
Then the six-pounder and the three-pounders opened up, and grapeshot started tearing at the Eighty-fifth's flank. Finally, finally—Sam thought almost all of their officers were dead or injured by now, except low-ranked ones—the regiment gave way.
Even then, they weren't routed. But the Eighty-fifth had had enough. Their retreat off the field and back to the barges waiting downriver was as precipitous as you could ask for.
Pakenham finally stopped pounding the tree trunk.
"The Eighty-fifth is in full retreat, sir."
"Yes, I can see that." The view across the river was quite good, even without a glass, now that the mist had burned away.
The battle was lost. Today's battle, at least. There was no chance—certainly not at this late hour—that a charge across Chalmette field could carry the day.
Perhaps tomorrow. The Forty-third and the West Indians were still in the fray. Perhaps if they seized that battery—finally!— something might be possible on the morrow.
"Tell the men to stand down. There will be no assault today." ***
Jackson just stared, from the window of the Macarty house. He'd finally come to realize that the British attack across the river had been no feint at all. No diversion. Houston had driven back one of their regiments, but at least two others were still in action. The only thing standing in their way, beyond Houston's few hundred men, were Driscol and his battalion.
Why hadn't he recognized the danger that the British might go for Patterson's guns? He cursed himself for an idiot.
The curses were silent, of course. Andrew Jackson was as good at cursing himself as he was at cursing anyone else. But he didn't do it out loud. He might be an idiot, from time to time, but he wasn't a blasted fool.
Tiana rose from her chair and went to stand by the riverbank. Ross remained seated, staring at an empty teacup. The noise from the south was like a constant roll of thunder.
Chapter 48
The ironwork Driscol's men had embedded in their breastworks did stall the British charge just that extra bit. The last round of canister, fired from Ball's guns at point-blank range, wreaked havoc on the regiment again.
By now, it was a badly battered regiment. But the enemy had arrived and were finally at the throats of their tormentors, and they'd have blood, by God.
Colonel Rennie started up the last little slope, just behind the front rank of his soldiers. Two canister balls ripped open his left thigh, severing the femoral artery. He stumbled and fell, blood gushing like a fountain.
A young officer stooped over him, his face pale and tight.
"Help me up!" Rennie shouted.
"Sir—your leg. We must—"
"Get me up, damn you, or I'll see you hang! Get me up!"
The officer did as he was commanded. The colonel took two steps and was knocked down by a soldier who was falling back. The man's chest had been torn open by a pike blade. It was a hideous wound.
"Get me up!" Rennie shouted again.
The officer did as he was told. Rennie stood, and started to raise his sword. But the blood loss from a severed femoral is enormous, in a very short time. His face suddenly turned white, his eyes rolled up, and he collapsed in a heap.
The young officer's desperate attempt to staunch the mortal wound would have been hopeless, even if the body of another soldier falling back from the rampart hadn't knocked him aside and left him pinned for half a minute before he could get back to his stricken commander.
The fight at the line of the guns was as ferocious a hand-to-hand melee as any Driscol had ever known. Hundreds of men, stabbing and hacking each other with bayonets, pikes, and the motley assortment of blades the Iron Battalion had managed to acquire.
Charles Ball proved as adept with his cutlass as with his tongue. Not that he ever stopped using the first.
"Give it to 'em, boys, give it to 'em good!"
Henry Crowell was astonished to see a British soldier clamber over the writhing body of another soldier who'd gotten impaled on the ironwork. So astonished that he didn't even feel any fear when he saw the man was preparing to leap at him with his bayonet extended.
The big teamster's position as spongeman for his gun crew was just in front and to the right of the twelve-pounder. Henry stepped back a pace and shifted his grip on the sponge staff he'd been using to swab out the cannon and ram in another ball. When the redcoat came flying at him, he just swatted him aside. He had the reach on the man and, as strong as he was, the fact that the ramrod's tip was covered with tightly wound fabric simply didn't matter. The British soldier, stunned by the impact, slammed into two other redcoats who were struggling over the ironwork. The invader's musket sailed out of his hands, and the only damage the bayonet did was spearing yet another British soldier in the calf as he tried to get over the barricade.
There was something insane about it all. Despite his immense strength, the teamster was fundamentally a gentle man. He'd hardly been in any fights in his life, and those only when he was a boy.
But this wasn't really a "fight," in any sense of the term that Henry understood. It was just a huge, crazed m
elee where hundreds of men who didn't even know one another were doing their level best to commit murder and mayhem.
Even a racial element was absent, to give it any logic. A lot of the men coming at him in red uniforms were West Indians, as black as he was.
Yet another British soldier clambered over the same poor fellow stuck on the ironwork. If this kept up, the man would be killed by his own mates, driving his chest further and further onto the dull ornamental spearpoints.
Some part of Henry's mind felt sorry for him. Most of it, though, was concentrated on the task at hand. By now, so many men of the Iron Battalion were pressing forward to help repel the enemy that he realized he couldn't keep using the sponge staff as a club.