by Eric Flint
It was no doubt a very fine thing for the morale of a young republic to see a handful of plucky American frigates defeating a handful of British frigates. But the cold, hard, cruel strategic fact remained that the tiny U.S. Navy boasted no ships larger than a few 44-gun frigates-and the British Navy had over a hundred two-decker 74-gun ships of the line.
It was no doubt excellent from the standpoint of that same young republic to see-finally!-one of its armies defeat an equal force of British regulars on the open field of battle, as Brown and Scott had done at the Chippewa. But the moral splendor of the feat could not, to a sane man, disguise its triviality in cold military terms. The total forces engaged at the Chippewa had been less than five thousand-a clash which, for the past twenty years on the continent, would have been considered a skirmish rather than a battle.
In the campaign that had finally defeated Napoleon, culminating in the Battle of the Nations near Leipzig, more than half a million men had met on the field.
Splendid, yes-certainly!-the pluck of Captain Houston and Lieutenant Driscol and their men at the Capitol. But what did it really come down to, in the harsh, brutal, realistic terms of political geography? One thousand men armed with a few cannons kept a small invading force with no artillery to speak of from taking Washington, D.C.
Splendid, splendid. No doubt many fine poems and songs would be written to commemorate the event. The fact remained that Napoleon had brought seven hundred field guns to Leipzig-but the Allies had fielded twice that number. Just as the fact remained that no sane man gave even a moment's thought to the possibility that the United States might land an army on British soil to threaten London.
Adams sighed, left off his pointless study of the treaty-he had every clause in it memorized by now-and rose from his desk. Then he moved to a window that faced to the west, toward the Atlantic and his nation beyond.
He was forty-five years old, and had spent many of those years living in Europe. As a student, an assistant to American diplomats-his father among them, before John Adams became the second president of the United States-and then later as a diplomat himself. The son of the second American president had often, as a young man, sat at the dining table with its first, listening carefully to George Washington's shrewd assessments of foreign affairs.
Since then, John Quincy Adams had sat at many other tables with the world's most powerful men, in most of the major capitals of Europe. He'd been, at one time or another, America's ambassador to Britain, France, Holland, Portugal, Prussia, and Russia. He spoke and read French easily and fluently, and had once translated Wieland's Oberon from German into English. He was one of the most well-educated and well-read men in the United States-the world, in fact-and had the personal library to prove it.
All for nothing, quite possibly. Partly, because Gallatin and Clay and Bayard and Russell were fools. Partly-Adams was usually as harsh in his self-criticism as his criticism of others-because John Quincy Adams had never been good at suffering fools gladly. So, over the months, he'd increasingly alienated his fellow envoys, while their light-minded frivolity led their nation into a very possible trap.
Again, he restrained himself from cursing. They could have signed that same treaty months ago. And why not? To this day, the British still refused to concede anything concrete, when it came to the official casus belli the United States had proclaimed as the causes of the war. The issues of impressment, boundaries, fisheries, neutral rights-all ignored or swept under the table. For all practical purposes, the United States was agreeing in that treaty to the same conditions that had existed prior to the war.
And so what? The only possible victory America could have obtained in this conflict was simply the moral victory of going to war in the first place. And that had already been won, long since. The cold equations of national power hadn't been changed an iota, except in the one-often critical-variable of national respect. Whatever else, none of the great European powers would any longer regard the transatlantic republic as something of a bad joke.
Months, it had taken him to convince his fellow envoys. Precious, precious months-while Adams watched anxiously as Britain finally defeated the great French power which had kept it preoccupied for decades and could now send part of its true might across the Atlantic. Months, during which the territorial integrity of the U.S. could have been protected simply by signing the same blasted treaty they were going to sign now anyway.
Months… while the British were able to assemble the powerful task force which now lay somewhere near New Orleans and the critical outlet of the Mississippi. Might even, for all John Quincy Adams knew, already be enjoying a conqueror's feast in the Cabildo. It took weeks for news to cross the Atlantic, even from his native New England, much less the distant Gulf of Mexico.
It was all up to Andrew Jackson, now. Jackson and the same sort of rude, crude, uncouth southern frontiersmen who composed his army.
Sternly, John Quincy Adams reminded himself that he had chosen long ago, exercising his God-given free will, to devote his life to the service of his nation. Knowing from the very beginning-he'd hear no excuses, from himself least of all-that his nation was a republic. It wasn't as if dozens of monarchists hadn't told him for years he was a fool. Some of them had even read as many books as he had.
Not many, of course.
TheRiversofWar
CHAPTER 37
DECEMBER 23, 1814
A mile upriver of the Villere plantation, near New Orleans
Colonel William Thornton decided to try one last time.
"I beg you, sir," he said forcefully, "consider that every single piece of evidence leads us to believe that we've caught Jackson completely by surprise." Dramatically, he pointed a finger ahead of them, to the northwest. "The prize is but a few miles away, sir! One vigorous push now, and we can be into the city before Jackson can organize its defense."
General Keane replied with an equally dramatic finger pointed to the rear. Specifically, to the Villere plantation house that was still visible to the southeast.
"Every piece of evidence?" the general demanded. "Hardly that, Colonel! Villere himself escaped from captivity this morning, did he not? By now, he'll surely have brought warning to the enemy."
Thornton silently cursed the fluke of chance that had allowed that to happen. As time went on, Thornton was learning how astute General Ross's assessment of the Americans was-even if that assessment often ran counter to the established wisdom of British officers.
"Don't fool yourselves, gentlemen," Ross had said. "They are our cousins, and lack neither courage nor intelligence. Sluggish one moment, they can be decisive-even daring-the very next. So you will do me the favor of not matching Cousin Jonathan's carelessness with carelessness of your own."
Those words, said in a tone that was unusually harsh for the normally mild-mannered Ross, had sobered his officers. Ross had gone on, in a more congenial manner, to elaborate.
"The key thing is that the Americans are brittle in war. But brittle is not the same thing as soft. Indeed, some of the finest alloys can be quite brittle. The trick is to catch them by surprise-to strike at the haft of the American blade, as it were, and be sure to miss entirely the edge. Because that edge can be very, very sharp, gentlemen. Don't ever forget that."
Very sharp, indeed, as they'd discovered in the failed assault on the Capitol. In truth, Thornton had already discovered that earlier at Bladensburg. "A rout," Bladensburg would be called in the historical records. But the Eighty-fifth had been the unit which encountered the edge in that battle, when Thornton had led his men across the key bridge near Lowndes Hill.
The bridge had still been standing in the first place because of American incompetence. Any professional army would have destroyed it. But, just as Ross had said, having blundered one moment, the Americans had rallied the next. The defense their artillerymen and riflemen had put up for that bridge had been ferocious. Thornton could not remember ever coming under such heavy fire from an enemy, even if it hadn't lasted th
at long before the Americans broke.
Sharp edge, indeed-but the haft was brittle.
And today, only two days before Christmas, Thornton knew that the British expedition, if it moved quickly and decisively, could strike Jackson's sword before the American general could bring the edge into position. They could snap that brittle blade at the haft.
Wait a day, and the opportunity might be lost.
"No, Colonel," General Keane said, shaking his head. "We'll halt the advance here and bivouac while we wait for the rest of our forces to arrive. By now, Villere will have carried the warning to New Orleans. I am not so reckless as to attempt the city with only a portion of my army, and with my lines of supply stretched as badly as they are."
Nothing for it.
Thornton walked away obediently, almost grinding his teeth. The small mistake of allowing Villere to escape was about to be compounded, he thought, by the huge mistake of allowing Jackson to escape.
Such an odd fellow, Cousin Jonathan, as if two completely different men inhabited the same skin. Up till the moment of his escape, Major Gabriel Villere had been a laughingstock to his British captors. A commanding officer caught on his own porch, smoking a cigar!
Yes, a farce, all very comical-and all very typically American. Amateur soldiers who'd disobey orders in order to safeguard their own property, and lounge about whenever they felt like it.
Even Villere's sudden bolt for freedom when his British guards grew slack had been amusing enough. Especially comical had been the sight of Villere's faithful dog, racing across the yard after its master, barking excitedly.
But Thornton and his men had not laughed some minutes later, when they'd found the dog's body in the swamps. The poor beast's throat had been cut. By Villere himself, obviously. Feckless Cousin Jonathan had been cold-blooded and ruthless enough to kill his own loyal dog, rather than run the risk of having the excited beast give away his location to his pursuers.
Damnation! Colonel Thornton desperately wished that Robert Ross was still leading this army, instead of lying close to death on a ship in Lake Bourgne. Ross would have understood immediately that they had the chance -now, this moment, if they moved- to capture Andrew Jackson on his own figurative porch, smoking a cigar.
But Ross was not in command, alas, Keane was. And while Keane was certainly a courageous enough commander, he was neither an imaginative nor a particularly intelligent one.
If Keane let the American general escape, allowed him that one carelessly unguarded moment…
Villere had cut the throat of a dog. Jackson would cut the throat of an army, if they gave him the time to bring that brittle but very sharp blade into position.
Hiding nearby in a cypress swamp, Major Arsene Latour studied the British positions as Keane's army began its bivouac. Latour and another military engineer, Major Howell Tatum, had left New Orleans that morning. General Jackson had commanded them to scout the terrain in the vicinity of the Villere plantation. Partly, to determine the current position of the British; partly, to assess the possibility of erecting good fieldworks in the area.
Well, they'd done both.
The Mississippi River coursed east by southeast from New Orleans for some fifteen miles before it began the bend that culminated in the English Turn. The English Turn was blocked by Fort St. Leon on the opposite bank-and the fort itself was protected by the cypress swamps that surrounded it. Coming up by the bayous from Lake Bourgne, therefore, the British would have no choice but to follow the east bank of the river, in order to reach the city.
It was a truly terrible route for an invading army. Any part of the area between the Chalmette and Villere plantations would make superb terrain for the Americans, allowing them to erect fortifications to defend the city. There was less than a mile of open ground at any given point, with no easy possibility for the flanking maneuvers a British professional army could manage so much better than Jackson's largely volunteer force.
To the southwest lay the Mississippi, impossible to cross without boats-and Jackson had a small flotilla under Commodore Daniel Patterson to prevent that from happening. To the north and east, at distances varying from half a mile to a mile from the Mississippi, the thick cypress swamps filled most of the land between the river and the lakes. Those swamps weren't exactly impenetrable-Latour knew that Jackson's Indian allies and many of his frontiersmen would manage in them quite handily. But they might as well be, for an army organized and trained to fight great formal pitched battles on the continent of Europe.
Earlier in the day, Latour and Tatum had decided to recommend to Jackson that he make his stand at the Rodriguez Canal, just west of the Chalmette plantation. The terrain there was ideal for a defending force. The cypress swamps encroached more closely upon the river there than elsewhere, choking the passable open ground to a stretch perhaps half a mile wide. Better still, the canal itself could easily and quickly be turned into a moat, with solid fieldworks behind it. The British would need scaling ladders and fascines to surmount such a fortified line-which they'd have to bring with them across a narrow open field after enduring heavy American fire as soon as they came into range.
Almost perfect. On the chance they might find something still better, however, Latour and Tatum had continued on. No sooner had they gotten to the next plantation, De la Ronde's, when they met several people racing westward who told them that the British had already reached the Villere plantation. Had apparently captured Gabriel Villere himself, in fact.
Tatum rushed back to New Orleans to inform the general that the British were much closer than anyone had suspected. Latour, meanwhile, forged on ahead to do a reconnaissance of the enemy forces.
To his surprise-and immense relief-he discovered that the British were preparing to bivouac, despite the fact that it was still early in the afternoon, and they could easily have managed to march the remaining ten miles to New Orleans.
That was a bad mistake on their part, he thought. Neither Jackson nor his troops at New Orleans were at all prepared to fight a battle that day. If the British had pressed on, Wellington's veterans would have had the upper hand, storming into an open city where the largely amateur defenders would have difficulty organizing themselves in the chaos of city streets overrun by panicked civilians.
But… apparently they were going to give Jackson a day to prepare.
The idiots.
A man might as well give a tiger advance notice that he's about to be bagged the next morning.
So be it. Latour would exploit the opportunity to study the British field positions. Unless he was very badly mistaken, Andrew Jackson wasn't going to wait until the morning. This was his jungle, and tigers can prowl at night.
Latour chuckled, as he carefully began jotting down the locations on his notepad. Especially when some of those tigers were Cherokees and Choctaws, who were already beginning their rituals for battle. The two engineers had taken the time that morning before they left the city to watch, fascinated, as the wild savages painted themselves openly on the streets of New Orleans.
Tatum had been goggle-eyed where Latour had not, of course. Latour was a French Creole and, thus, vastly more sophisticated than his companion. The Anglo-Saxon Tatum wasn't much more than a wild savage himself. Latour had learned his engineer and architect's trade at the Paris Academy of Fine Arts. Where had Tatum learned? Who could say. Probably in a rude schoolhouse in some wretched frontier village, made entirely of logs.
Latour shrugged the matter off. The Americans who were now the masters of New Orleans were barbarians, true enough. But at least they weren't Englishmen. Latour continued jotting down his notes. In French, which he'd have to translate for the barbarians later.
By the time Latour got back to New Orleans, it was late in the afternoon. As he'd expected, he found the city in an uproar-but it was the sort of uproar that showed a resolute and energetic commander in charge, not the panic of leaderless soldiers and civilians.
Jackson had made a bad mistake, of course, underest
imating the ability of British regulars. But if the tiger had been sleeping carelessly, the beast was wide awake now. Awake-and roaring.
Latour came into Jackson's headquarters, pushing his way past officers rushing in the other direction. No easy task that, the way those officers were moving. Fortunately, Latour was a very big man. Even so, his progress was slow, and he could hear Jackson shrieking long before he caught sight of him.
"I will smash them, so help me God! By the Eternal, they shall not sleep on our soil!"
The general was even blaspheming, something he normally seemed to avoid. The Americans were odd, that way, as one could expect from superstitious primitives. They'd use profanity in a coarse manner no Creole would stoop to-the Anglo-Saxon terms "fuck" and "shit" and "piss" and all the rest rolled off their tongues casually, often enough even in the presence of women. But they used the silliest circumlocutions to refer to God and His works.
Latour could still remember his puzzlement the first time he heard Americans talking about someone named Jesse, and another fellow named Sam Hill. Especially when they often seemed to use the names to refer to locations instead of people. When he'd eventually realized the truth, he'd been astonished. Did the barbarians really think that naming Satan and his domain openly would bring a devil's curse down upon them? That damnation would be avoided by calling it "tarnation"? That the omniscient deity who had created the universe would be fooled if they asked someone named "Gol" to "dern" their enemy-instead of, honestly and forthrightly, asking God to damn them?
Perhaps so. They were Protestants, after all-of one or another of the multitude of creeds that promiscuous heresy generated-and thus lacked the benefit of Latour's sane and rational Catholicism.
Still. At least they weren't Englishmen.