by Eric Flint
Latour finally pushed his way into the room, bearing his precious notes.
Driscol spotted the Creole engineer the moment he came into Jackson's headquarters. Latour was an impossible man not to notice, between his great size and skin, eyes and hair which were darker than many Indians.
He spotted the notepad clutched in the big engineer's hand an instant later, and smiled thinly. Latour was an obnoxious Creole snob, but he was also very competent at his trade-not that Driscol would use the lowly term "trade" in front of Latour himself. The Creole engineer would immediately shower him with voluble protests, and remind them that he was a graduate of some fancy academy in Paris. As if Driscol cared where a man learned to do anything, so long as he did it well.
That notepad would be full of jottings placing the British positions, unless Driscol was badly mistaken. Written down in Latour's flowery French and fussy handwriting-but dead accurate, nonetheless.
"Well, that's a relief," he commented quietly to Houston, who was standing next to him.
The young colonel spared him a quick glance. He and Driscol were standing in a corner of the room, waiting for their turn for Jackson's instructions. "It's always hard to tell, with that stone face of yours, but I had a feeling you weren't very happy with the situation."
"That's putting it mildly. Two hours ago, I thought we were probably on the verge of disaster."
He didn't add because Jackson blundered badly, out of overconfidence. Something the general has a tendency to do, from what I've seen thus far. Long habit would have kept Driscol from openly criticizing his commanding officer, even to Houston. He certainly wasn't inclined to do so with a commander like Jackson, for whom he had developed an immense respect.
"Disaster?" Houston frowned. "Do you really think it was that close a thing?"
"Oh, aye. If the Sassenach had been smart enough to keep coming. Not even Jackson, for all his ferocity, could have rallied these mostly inexperienced soldiers in a handful of hours. Not well enough to withstand a British assault with no prepared defenses."
He shook his head firmly. "Not a chance. Not when those troops are Wellington's veterans, with decades of war under their belts. I've seen British regulars smashing their way into a city, once the defenses were breeched. The most frightening thing about it was that they maintained their order and discipline even under the conditions of street fighting."
Houston was still frowning. "Really? But what about-"
"Forget Badajoz. That was the exception, not the rule. The reputation they've gotten due to the sack of Badajoz and a few other incidents is misleading. As a rule, even in a sack, British regulars remain professional-and their officers are quick to execute any man who misbehaves."
"Well… That was true in Washington, I agree. After the British left, we found the body of a British soldier. Executed at Cockburn's own order, apparently, from the accounts of an eyewitness. The man had been caught robbing American civilians at gunpoint, while Cockburn had been burning the president's mansion. The admiral had him shot immediately."
"I heard about it. The reason I hate the Sassenach isn't because they're a pack of howling savages. Oh, no. It's because they're such cold-blooded and calculating savages. They'll commit atrocities as bad as any Hun-but they'll do it under orders, given by the haughtiest noblemen in the world."
He had to restrain himself from spitting on the floor. "An army like that will tear apart the amateur defenders of a city, once that city's defenses are breeched. Rip them to shreds. If the British had gotten into New Orleans, Jackson would have been in the position of trying to lead panicked chickens against a pack of very professional weasels."
"Why didn't they, do you think? March into the city, I mean."
Driscol shrugged. "Excessive caution on the part of the commander, I suppose. That'll be Keane, until Pakenham gets here, and he's new to top command."
Jackson's waving hand summoned Houston, at that point. While the colonel hurried over, and before Driscol got his own summons, he had the time to ponder that last statement.
He'd come to regret the thing personally, but…
I'm glad I had Robert Ross ambushed at the Capitol.
The thought of Robert Ross being still in charge was too grim to contemplate, so Driscol left it aside. What mattered was that Ross was not commanding the army that was advancing upon New Orleans. He was probably on a ship crossing the Atlantic back to Britain, by now.
Driscol had gotten a letter from the general, telling him that he'd been exchanged and would be released soon, and that he thought his shoulder had mended well enough to allow him to travel. The letter hadn't finally caught up with Driscol until he'd reached New Orleans, so the information was weeks out of date. The workings of the American postal service could be peculiar, but it was usually persistent.
More peculiar, however, had been the fact that it wasn't until the day after he'd read the letter that it had occured to Driscol that his reaction itself was the most disconcerting thing of all. Patrick Driscol, from County Antrim, had smiled with pleasure as he learned of a British general's continuing recovery, from a terrible wound Driscol had inflicted upon him with murderous intent.
Ah, well. Driscol's found himself not worrying about it, because his soul seemed to have grown considerably lighter these past months. He could still summon the troll, whenever he needed it, but he found himself nowadays spending less and less of his time in that dark monster's lair.
That was Tiana's doing, mostly. The girl respected the troll, but had no liking for the creature. Still, Driscol would admit-even to himself-that the British general had something to do with it, too.
A man could surely spend half a lifetime slaying Sassenach, and spend it well. But when that lifetime, he finally realizes, constitutes but thirty-two years, he has to ask himself whether the same righteous work can fill three-fourths of a lifetime. Possibly even four-fifths, given Driscol's iron constitution.
For Patrick Driscol, at least, the answer was coming to be no. Amazingly enough, the soldier from County Antrim was growing weary of the killing trade.
Of course, there'd still be some fine moments, before he retired, with a commander like Andrew Jackson.
The same impatiently waving hand summoned Driscol. In less than a minute, Jackson gave him his orders, tersely and concisely. Then, sent him on his way.
As he headed out the door, Driscol heard Jackson erupting again.
"I will smash them, so help me God! By the Eternal, they shall not sleep on our soil!"
By Driscol's reckoning, that was the eleventh time Jackson had shrieked those same two sentences that afternoon. It would have all been quite comical, except that the time between the histrionic shrieks Jackson had spent issuing a blizzard of orders to his subordinates. Every single one of which had been coherent, logical, intelligent-and had, as their sole invariant purpose, smashing the enemy and driving him from American soil.
TheRiversofWar
CHAPTER 38
"And what's this?" demanded Tiana's father, the moment Driscol entered the salon of the suite where he and his family had set up residence in the Tremoulet House. Captain John Rogers waved a vigorous hand at the window. His left hand, not his right-which held a glass of whiskey rock-steady all the while. "I'd have thought you'd be out there with the rest of them, playing your part in that desperate business tonight."
Driscol glanced at the window. There wasn't much to be seen, since night fell early this time of year. Still, even with the window closed to fend off the winter chill, the cannonades to the south were quite audible. Naval guns, from the sound of it. Jackson had ordered Commodore Daniel Patterson to bring the schooner Carolina down the river after nightfall, to begin bombarding the British camp on the Villere plantation, while Jackson launched his night attack.
"None of my business, that," Driscol grunted. "When the general asked, I told him my men would be well-nigh useless in that sort of fighting."
"The darkies not up to it, eh?" Rogers jeered. As was so often the
case, the captain's tone was half ridicule and half… something else. Hell-Fire Jack was a rogue, sure enough. But he was also, Driscol had come to conclude, a very intelligent and cold-blooded sort of man. The constant jests and jibes were his way of probing friends and enemies alike.
So, as he invariably did when dealing with Captain John Rogers, Driscol refused to take the bait.
"Of course not," he responded mildly, without even a hint of irritation. "They've had less than a week's training, and there's nothing more difficult to carry off than a complicated three-pronged night attack like the one Jackson is attempting. I'll be doing well if I can get my artillery unit ready to stand firm in broad daylight."
"So Sharp Knife is a madman, is that what you're saying?"
"No, actually, he's not. His plans will all fall apart, of course. I doubt if even the emperor's Imperial Guard could manage what Jackson is asking his army to do. He'll have to call off the assault eventually, when it starts coming to pieces.
"But that doesn't matter. All that matters tonight is that Jackson is responding immediately to the British landing. Whether he wins or loses this battle, his assault will stop the British from driving forward. That will buy him time to get our forces ready and our defensive positions erected."
Without waiting for an invitation, Driscol took a seat across from the divan where Tiana was resting. She smiled at him but said nothing.
It was a very serene smile; almost astonishingly so, on such a young face. If nothing else, Tiana had inherited her self-confidence from her father. Even at the age of sixteen, she was quite capable of watching a test of wills such as the one that was taking place between her sire and her intended husband, without worrying herself over the outcome.
Intended husband. She'd made that clear, too, without saying it in so many words. Driscol still had no idea at all why she'd made the decision, but he didn't doubt the decision itself. He certainly didn't doubt his own reaction, once it had finally seeped into his bones. It was the most profound desire he'd ever felt for anything. As if a man drowning in darkness had suddenly found a lifeline.
Of course, when the drowning man's name was Patrick Liam Driscol, he'd seize the lifeline in his own unique manner. A sergeant with sixteen years experience in war is not a man to do anything without considering all the angles first. Any intelligent sergeant would see it that way and, being honest, Driscol was the most intelligent sergeant he'd ever met. He was even smart enough to have gotten himself promoted to major without starting to think like an officer.
Captain John's eyes-the same bright blue as his daughter's-flicked back and forth from Tiana to Driscol. The half grin never left his face; somehow, he even managed to keep it in place while downing a sip of the whiskey.
"So when's the wedding, then?" he demanded. He waved the same vigorous hand at his two sons, who lounged only a few feet away. James was leaning against the salon's dining table, while John was sitting on one of its chairs. "I realize these two heathens won't have pressed you on the matter, even though such is their brotherly duty. Cherokees and their stupid customs. But-!"
Rogers issued a majestic harrumph. "You and I are civilized Scotsmen, Major Driscol-well, allowing for your bastard Irish brand-and we should conduct ourselves accordingly."
Driscol glanced at the two brothers. James and John wore that same serene Rogers smile on their faces.
There was a battle won. A campaign, rather, since there'd never been any actual conflict. Somewhere, sometime, somehow, in the months since Sam Houston had assigned James and John Rogers to serve as Driscol's bodyguards in a battle, these two Cherokee warriors had shifted their clan allegiance to the figure of their new chief.
They were even smart enough to realize that Driscol intended to forge an entirely new kind of clan.
"You rotten bastard!" Captain John exclaimed, still with that same half-grin. "Bad enough that you intend to strip me of my beloved daughter. I can at least console myself with the thought that, sooner or later, somebody would have done so."
He paused for a moment, and the half grin faded to a quarter grin. "But you! You intend to strip me of my slaves, too, don't you?"
Driscol just smiled. "How could I hope to do that?" He made a dismissive gesture at the officer's insignia he wore on his uniform. "I'm really just a sergeant, you know."
That was nothing but the truth. A very experienced and savvy sergeant, who had no intention of letting a potential opponent know what he was planning.
Another cannonade from the naval guns actually rattled the window. Tiana's head turned toward it. "Well, I'm glad you're not out there tonight."
When her head turned back, the serenity in her smile was infused with a great deal of warmth. "And I'll be glad when this war is over."
There was just the slightest emphasis on the word this. That, even more than the warmth in her smile, filled Driscol with love for the girl. The woman, rather. This one would make a wife.
"So will I," he said quietly.
"What a fucking mess!" exclaimed the Tennessee militiaman angrily. The man was floundering in the cypress swamp not far from where John Ross was doing his best not to fall off the log he was trying to sidle along. That would have been hard under any circumstances, much less in the dark with guns firing everywhere.
John silently agreed with the man's sentiment. Granted, the British soldiers they were fighting in this chaotic melee were floundering more badly still. American frontiersmen and Cherokees were somewhat accustomed to this sort of terrain, but it was completely foreign to Wellington's veterans.
Still, the only people who seemed to be enjoying themselves were the twenty or so Choctaws who'd been brought to the fight by Captain Pierre Jugeant. For the Choctaws, this was familiar ground, and a setting in which they were as deadly as alligators. John was glad to have them here, even if relations between Cherokees and Choctaws were usually none too friendly.
A gun flash not far off drew his eyes. Was that friend or foe? It was almost impossible to tell. A large number of the casualties they were incurring were being inflicted upon men by their own side. In the dark, the uniforms worn by some of the British highlanders were hard to distinguish from the hunting shirts worn by most of Coffee's Tennessee militiamen.
So John froze, trying, as best he could, to balance himself motionlessly on the slippery and unstable log. He could sense the same militiaman who'd issued the curse a moment before doing the same. Only, in this case, the man had both the advantage and disadvantage of standing in pure muck.
A figure moved forward in the darkness. Slowly, stealthily, John raised his pistol.
Suddenly, plaintively, the figure called out: "Are you the Ninety-third?"
Immediately, the Tennessee militiaman replied: "Of course!" Stinking wet or not, angry or not, the man was quick-witted. He even had a passable Scot accent. That wasn't surprising since, like most American frontiersmen, he was probably only a generation-if that-removed from Scotland or the Scot settlements in Ireland.
Sighing audibly, the figure moved forward.
Within seconds, John could tell that he was one of the enemy highlanders. He was about to fire his pistol when the militiaman surged out of the water like an alligator and pressed his musket against the British soldier's chest.
"You are my prisoner!" he cried.
John was not surprised at all by the highlander's response. An even deeper sigh of relief.
"Well enough," the British soldier muttered, extending his own musket butt first. "Anything to get out of this fucking mess."
"Damn those guns!" Colonel Thornton snarled.
Another broadside from the Carolina swept a shower of grapeshot across the soldiers of the Eighty-fifth Regiment who were trying to find cover at the levee. Even in the dark, the American gunners were deadly. Thornton couldn't see it, of course, but he was quite sure that the huge and muddy Mississippi was stained by the blood of his men. The Americans had the only gunship on the river, and the cursed thing had turned the area by th
e banks into a field of carnage.
He turned to one of his aides. "Find General Keane and tell him I can hold the riverbank from assault, assuming the Americans are stupid enough to launch one. But I can't do anything to drive off that schooner. They've got six-pounders on that ship-two twelves, as well, I think-and all I've got are these useless three-pounders. I might as well be throwing rocks against that hull."
He didn't bother to add that he no longer dared to fire the three-pounders at all, since the American gunners would instantly target them. Nor did he bother to add that the rockets he did dare to fire at the ship-he'd fired plenty of those-were as useless as the cannons.
"Might as well be throwing rocks," he growled again, "except the rocks might actually hit the bloody thing." Gloomily, he watched another Congreve skitter somewhere across the Mississippi. It made a fine hissing sound when it splashed into the water. Many, many, many yards away from the Carolina. Perhaps an American fish had been slain.
The aide scrambled off, keeping as low as he could.
"What a bloody mess," Thornton snarled.
The marines and artillerymen who'd been moving forward, down the high road alongside the river, recoiled from heavy fire coming from the British lines. Several of them were hit, so the marines began falling back quickly. The artillerymen, encumbered by the awkward weight of their guns, were slower in doing so.
Too slow. A British contingent charged out of the darkness, rushing to capture the guns.
General Jackson and his staff rode forward, through a hail of bullets. "Save the guns, boys!" Jackson shrilled at the marines. "Save the guns!"
The general made for the imperiled guns himself, even dismounting to help haul them away. Rallied by the sight, the marines followed. So did a company of the Seventh Infantry. Between them, they were able to level enough fire to hold off the British long enough for the guns to be extracted.
"What a frightful mess," Major Reid hissed. Inadvertently, he spoke loudly enough for the general to hear him.
But Jackson took no offense. The general just gave him a savage grin, before ducking to evade another volley of British fire.