by Eric Flint
The same Jackson who thought nothing of referring to black freedmen as "niggers" had also championed their right to bear arms, overriding the vehement protests of slave owners. He'd furthermore insisted that the men of the black battalions would receive the same pay as white soldiers.
A bully, a bigot-sometimes a brute-but still one who could suspend all that at times because he could see the men beneath their skins. In short, Driscol had concluded, exactly the sort of man the very contradictory American republic would hoist up as a leader. Sooner or later, the United States would have to resolve its own contradictions. But, for the moment, Andrew Jackson was the best they had.
"I should be honored to introduce you, General. Her name is Tiana Rogers, by the way. She's the daughter of Captain John Rogers."
"Hell-Fire Jack's girl? You're a bold man, Major!" The grin faded a bit. "Sometimes I don't think I approve of half-breeds. Then again, other times…" He shook his head, an unusually pensive expression coming to his harsh, gaunt face. "Ah, who's to say? Maybe, in the end, that's what God has in mind for this great republican experiment of ours. I'm told that's what Colonel Richard Johnson thinks, anyway."
Pensiveness wasn't a mood Andrew Jackson would remain in for more than a moment. Now, he was scowling. "Of course, Johnson's a race-mixing, amalgamating rascal. Hero of the battle of the Thames or not."
Driscol's nod was a noncommittal thing. He'd never met the famous-and notorious-Colonel Johnson, so he reserved his own judgment. One moment the colonel was hailed as the killer of Tecumseh, a hero for all frontiersmen-then denounced in the next for his openly conducted affair with a black woman named Julia Chinn. No acceptably discreet master-slave affair, either. Johnson considered the relationship a marriage, even though such a marriage was prohibited under Kentucky law.
If rumors were true, people who visited Johnson on his Kentucky plantation either had to accept the presence of a black woman sitting at the dining table as the mistress of the house-or Johnson would make clear to them that they were not invited at all. He'd even been reported to have said that he was only doing openly and honestly what Thomas Jefferson hadn't had the courage to do.
Yet… that same Johnson was a plantation owner. If a black woman sat at his dinner table in the place reserved for a wife, other black people labored as slaves in his fields.
"Yes, sir," however, was all he said. "I'll send one of my men back to the city, and inform Tiana and her people that they'll be entertaining a new lodger."
"Do they have the room?"
"They'll manage. Cherokees are very good at that, I've learned."
Sam Houston had taken advantage of the time he spent in the British camp to discover what he could about the enemy's dispositions. He was somewhat disturbed by what he saw.
"They're up to something, General," he reported to Jackson, after he returned.
Jackson shot him a sharp look. "What, do you think? An advance up the Chef Menteur Road?"
Privately, Sam thought Jackson had become somewhat obsessed with his fears regarding the Chef Menteur Road-an obsession that prevented him from considering other possible dangers. To be sure, a British advance up that road would-in theory, at least-provide them with a way to outflank the Jackson Line, and reach the much drier ground north of the city. But in practice, it would be a roundabout slog through cypress swamps, with Governor Claiborne's troops in position to slow the British down long enough for Jackson to shift the American defenses. That done, it would be just as easy to turn Marigny's Canal into the same sort of fieldworks that he'd contructed on the Rodriguez Canal, with the added advantage of having Fort St. John directly threatening the British flank.
But Sam was careful to keep his skepticism from showing on his face. Jackson would listen to arguments, but he was thin-skinned. He'd simply get stubborn if he thought someone was being derisive.
"That's possible, sir, but I don't think so. They kept me as far north as they could, so I couldn't see very much. But I saw enough to get the feeling they're working their men like dogs to widen the canals south of their lines. Why would they do that, if their intentions were to advance up the Chef Menteur?"
Jackson gazed toward the British lines, frowning. "Why would they do it at all? They can't possibly widen those canals enough to bring warships through from the lake. Small gunboats, maybe, but those would be no match for the Louisiana. "
The general swiveled his head, gazing across the river.
"Are you sure about what you saw, Colonel? The only purpose I can see would be to bring through enough small boats to land an offensive force across the river. But what's the point of that? They can only attack the city from this side of the Mississippi."
"No, sir, I'm not sure about it. But if we were gambling, I'd give it five-to-one odds."
A bit exasperated, Jackson took off his fancy hat and ran fingers through his hair. "But why? Even if they did land soldiers on the other side, General Morgan…"
Jackson's words trailed off into silence, a sour look coming to his face. The American commander wouldn't criticize another general in front of junior officers. Not openly, at least. But Sam was quite certain that Jackson's opinion of General Daniel Morgan wasn't too different from his own.
When the British made their landing from Lake Bourgne, and Jackson launched his counterattack on the night of the twenty-third, Morgan and his three hundred and fifty Louisiana militiamen had been stationed downriver of the British position, guarding the English Turn. When the battle began, Morgan refused to march north on the grounds that he hadn't received any explicit instructions from Jackson. He'd finally moved, long after the fighting started, because his men threatened to go without him.
Even then, he'd led his men only as far as the Jumonville plantation. As soon as he came under fire from British skirmishers, he'd halted, kept his men idle in a muddy field until three o'clock in the morning, and then retreated to his initial position at the English Turn.
Morgan's wretched leadership on the night of the twenty-third, in fact, was probably why Jackson had decided to move him across the Mississippi. Jackson didn't expect any British threat to that side of the river, so it was a convenient place to dump a useless officer who was too well connected politically just to dismiss outright.
"Morgan…" Jackson muttered. He clamped the hat back on his head. "Morgan."
"Yes, sir. That's really all we've got over there, other than the artillery. General Morgan and his Louisiana and Kentucky militiamen."
Jackson clasped bony hands behind his back and rocked forward a little on his toes. There he stood, for perhaps a minute, silent. Then he turned to Houston and said quietly:
"I'm not very confident in Morgan, Sam, to be honest-although I'll ask you to keep that in confidence. I still don't think there'll be a problem, but it can't hurt to be ready. Make quiet preparations that would enable you to ferry your forces across the river in a hurry, if need be."
Sam nodded. "Does that include Major Driscol's new unit, sir?"
Jackson thought about it for a moment. "Yes-but let's move them over right away. With their inexperience and with guns to haul, they'd probably get underfoot if we had to move them quickly. Whereas if we add them now to the battery over there, they'll have the advantage of getting some live training."
"Yes, sir. I'll let him know."
"Well, it's about time," Driscol grumbled.
"You're always such a ray of sunshine, Patrick. Have I ever told you that?" Sam smiled as brightly as he could-which was very brightly indeed. "I knew you'd be happy to be able to give your recruits some live training."
"It's not that. I meant it's about time the general realized that he's got a potential disaster waiting for him across the river."
Sam frowned. "That seems a little excessive. I admit the British could make a foray in force over there, but so what? They can't reach the city from that side."
Driscol shook his head. "Why does it take a low-minded sergeant to see the obvious? Colonel Houston, if t
he British brush Morgan aside-which is about as hard to do as brushing aside cobwebs, if you ask me-then they could quite possibly seize the battery. And if they do that, what's to stop them from shifting the guns upriver and bringing them to bear on our lines? Twenty-four pounders firing enfilade down the whole length of the Jackson Line could very possibly weaken our defenses enough to make an otherwise suicidal frontal assault from their main forces over there carry the day."
Houston's eyes widened. "But surely Morgan-"
"Surely Morgan what?" demanded Driscol. In a low, rasping voice: "Hold off a British assault long enough to allow the battery to extract the guns from danger? Sam, the man is a coward. He's craven, not just incompetent. He'll break the instant the British come at him. And while I don't question the courage of his men, they're just a poorly trained militia. I've never seen a militia yet that would stand its ground against disciplined regulars, unless it had officers like Jackson or Coffee in command. Neither have you."
They were standing in the corridor of the Tremoulet House just outside the door that led to the suite of rooms occupied by the Rogers family-and, now, General Ross. Sam's eyes ranged down the corridor, noting but not really paying any attention to the richness of the trappings.
He was seeing something else in his mind. The vivid image of the carnage twenty-four pounders could wreak on the American soldiers behind the Jackson Line-all of whose fieldworks were designed and built to protect the men from fire coming from the front. Not from across the river.
To be sure, the river was so wide that it would take the British artillerymen a bit of time to find the range. But those were the same veteran gunners who'd found the range to the Carolina in less than a minute.
"We could fall back to the Line Dupre," he protested. "Or the Line Montreuil."
Jackson-very wisely, in Driscol's opinion-had prepared two lines of fallback defense in the event the Jackson Line was overrun. But the major wasn't assuaged.
"So? The British-if they command the opposite bank-could shift the battery more quickly than we could shift an entire army. They'd just do the same to the Lines Dupre and Montreuil that they did to the Jackson."
He gave Houston a little shove. "Best you get about the general's orders then, eh? I have a feeling the day will come-and soon-when my life and those of my men will depend on how quickly you can get across the river."
Houston stared at him. "You won't break, I know. But will your men?"
"They'll stand until you arrive," Driscol rasped. "They won't dare do otherwise."
Even in daylight, the plush corridor was a rather gloomy place, despite all the fancy decorations. With such lighting and with that expression on his face, Driscol looked more like a troll than ever.
"A ray of sunshine," Sam muttered.
"The world has enough sunshine. I provide it with the needed thunderclouds.
"Go, lad." Again, Driscol gave Sam a shove, not so little this time. "I'll stand. You get there in a hurry. 'Tis really no more complicated than that."
TheRiversofWar
CHAPTER 41
JANUARY 4, 1815
Robert Ross's fever broke two days after he was moved into the Tremoulet House. By the next day, although he was still somewhat feeble, he felt better than he had in many weeks.
Disease was a peculiar thing. He'd thought he was far more likely to be dead by now. In truth, the main reason Ross had insisted on being handed over to the Americans was because he knew he'd simply have been a burden to the British forces if he'd remained behind, either in the camp or on the ships.
Ross had always been blessed with a rugged constitution. But-perhaps it was mere fancy-he preferred to ascribe his astonishing recovery to the salutary effects upon a man of having such a beautiful young woman attending to him.
Very stately young woman, too, for all that her apparel was often a bit bizarre. It wasn't that Cherokee costume was significantly less modest than that worn by white women. Indeed, it was considerably less risque than the clothing he'd seen on some Creole women in the street below, on the two occasions Tiana had allowed him to walk about the room a bit.
But if she generally wore Cherokee costume, it was never a complete ensemble. This or that would clearly be of American design and make. Just the day before, for whatever reason, Tiana had chosen to wear an entirely American costume. No simple settler woman's garment, either, but a rather fancy dress he was certain she'd purchased very recently, right here in New Orleans.
She wore it easily and splendidly, to boot.
Then there was her father. The sire was like a mirror image of the daughter, with the proportions reversed. Captain John Rogers normally wore American clothing, but never without Cherokee accoutrements here and there. He was just as likely to wear a turban as a hat, for instance, and Ross was almost certain that the man wound it about his head himself, requiring no one's assistance.
Ross hadn't seen enough of the two sons to get more than a vague sense of their preferences in costuming and dress. James and John Rogers seemed to be largely inseparable from Major Driscol, and Driscol was almost never around. Ross had seen him only twice since he'd been brought into New Orleans, and on only one of those occasions had Driscol taken the time to speak to him, albeit briefly.
That wasn't rudeness, of course. Patrick Driscol was an officer in an army fighting off a siege, and had plenty to keep him busy.
Hybrids, then. Ross wondered what would come of it all, in the end.
Though not a gardener himself, he'd grown up in gardening country. Hybrids were unpredictable. On the one hand, always dangerous. A hybrid could ruin a line, or an entire garden, or simply prove too feeble to survive. On the other hand, always an opportunity. More than one hybrid had grown into a flourishing new line, which brought strengths to the world hitherto unknown.
Everywhere he looked, Ross could see those hybrid shoots growing in the United States. Here in its southern regions more than in the northern ones, he thought. That was because of slavery, banned in the North but flourishing in the South. There was a grotesque irony there. To a considerable degree, it was their common trafficking in black people that gave white and Indian people a ground on which to intermingle. Tiana and her brothers had been sent by their family-which was itself half white and half Cherokee-to study in American schools. But they'd been able to pay for it, in large part, only because of the money generated by their slaves.
Patrick Driscol entered the room.
"Good afternoon, General. Miss Rogers tells me you're doing much better. I'm very glad to hear it."
Ross rolled his head on the pillow to examine the American major. Out of Ulster, by way of France and the emperor's armies. Another hybrid, this one made by grafting old stock onto new.
"I never thought about it much until I came here," Ross said abruptly, "but I've had plenty of time since, recuperating from my wounds. I've come to the conclusion that I disapprove of the institution of slavery. Wilberforce and his people are right. I'm not sure about Buxton and his outright abolitionists."
Driscol's blocky face was creased, for a moment, by a smile. That was always a bit peculiar to see, on that visage, as if a stone head suddenly moved.
"I detest slavery. Wilberforce and his followers are craven weaklings. Buxton… A good enough fellow, I think. Better than the rest of that puling lot in the Anti-Slavery League, certainly."
Ross rolled his head back, staring at the ceiling. "The day after the night battle-I was told about this, I didn't see it myself-a black slave came into our lines. He'd run away from his master and was seeking refuge among us. He had a sort of horrid torture device clamped about his neck. We removed it, of course. Ghastly thing. It was shown to me afterward."
Driscol nodded, and moved to the window. There, with a finger, he shifted the curtains aside and gazed down at the city. "Yes, I know. I've seen them myself. The plantation owners around here are partial to the things. A collar lined with spikes, facing inward, which barely prick the skin. So long as the ma
n stands and works, the pain is minimal. But if he lays down his head, it becomes agonizing-it could even kill him. They'll leave it on the slave for days, until by sheer exhaustion he no longer cares if he lives or dies."
Ross studied the back of the major's head. "And yet you-a United Irishmen, no less-choose to serve such people."
Driscol shrugged. "And who else would I serve? The British?" He swiveled his head, giving Ross a view of his profile. From the side, Driscol's face looked even more like a stone crag than ever.
"Don't play the innocent, General Ross. Your British army has been distributing handbills all over this area since you arrived. Assuring the slave masters that their property will be respected by England, in the event of victory. Good of you, of course, to remove that collar from the man. But I wonder how much he'll thank you when you hand him back to his master and he gets another-along with a savage whipping for running away. It would hardly be the first time Britain has betrayed the Negroes, when you found it convenient."
Ross couldn't help but wince. He'd seen the handbills himself, and
…
Being honest, had approved of them. Undermining political support for Jackson was simply a logical move in a war.
Driscol turned away from the window.
"There are precious few innocents here, General, just as there are precious few anywhere in the world. But the one thing that is different here-to a degree, at least-is that this nation is undermining the distinctions of class. Often, without even realizing it. And that's the key."
In a now-familiar gesture, Driscol lowered his head a bit. The way a bull will, considering a charge. " Class, General Ross. That's always the key ingredient when it comes to injustice. Two breeds of men may dislike each other as much as they wish. They may well spill blood and commit outrages because of it. But it's only when one of those breeds become a class, elevated over the other, that injustice and brutality become locked into place. As they have been in Ireland for centuries now. Even though, you know as well as I do, the real differences between breeds of Irishmen-or Irishmen and Englishmen, for that matter-are tiny compared to the differences among breeds of men here in America."