March 24, 1814
The Tallapoosa River, Mississippi Territory
General Coffee pushed open the flap of Andrew Jackson’s tent. “Look what I found sneakin’ around out there in the woods, General.” He held the flap open for a bearded, muddy and tattered man.
For a moment Jackson looked confused but then a grin of recognition split his face and he jumped to his feet. “By God, I thought you were dead.” He pumped Yank’s hand vigorously.
“I thought I was too, General, but then I realized I was in Mississippi and not really in Hell.” Yank caught himself before he slapped Jackson on the back. “How’s that arm, General?”
“Still a bit of trouble.” He pointed to a field chair. “Sit a minute and tell us what you’ve been up to.”
Yank looked out of the tent. “Did I smell coffee?”
“I resent that,” Coffee replied with a grin. “I ain’t half as rank and nasty as you.”
“Sergeant, would you fetch us all a cup of coffee?” Jackson asked.
“Right away, General.”
Jackson sat down at his field desk and smiled at the two officers as they too took seats. “Well. The prodigal has returned. Things are definitely looking up.”
“He probably wouldn’t even have dropped in for a visit if he hadn’t tangled with our scouts in the woods behind the fortress,” Coffee said.
“I’ve been chasing you all over the country since Eccanacnaca,” Yank protested. “I tried to join you at Enotochopco but got caught on the wrong side of your artillery. You shot my last horse out from under me and I got captured by a band of Upper Creeks. They were planning to burn me in their fires but I talked my way out of it. Then when they brought me here, I escaped during the big celebration when Menawa showed up. Whisky may be the white man’s most potent weapon.”
“How did you talk them out of burning you?” Jackson asked.
“There was a Shawnee delegate of Tecumseh’s among them,” Yank replied. “I speak the language reasonably well and he wasn’t aware that Tecumseh was dead, so it gave me an opportunity to do some talking. After I mentioned to him that I was a blood brother of Black Hoof and that my wife is an Indian, he convinced the Creeks that I deserved a more noble death like running a gauntlet.”
“What were you doin’ sneakin’ around in the woods?” Coffee asked.
“Well, they know you’re here so they didn’t bother looking for me after I escaped. I figured that since I was behind their lines I should do a little scouting before I reported in.” He accepted a steaming tin cup from the sergeant. “Thank you.”
“So you confirm that this Chief Menawa is in command?” Jackson asked.
“Yes, sir.” Yank warmed his hands on the cup and sipped gratefully. “He’s got between a thousand and fifteen hundred people in there. Three quarters of them are blooded warriors. The British engineers that helped them build the fortifications are gone now. I’m not sure when they left.”
Coffee and Jackson exchanged a glance.
“Have you seen their defenses up close?” Yank asked.
“Only from a distance,” Coffee said, “and I didn’t know there were any British with them.”
Yank sipped his coffee and nodded.
“It strikes me as odd that the British would advise these people to assemble all their forces in one place where we can destroy them with a single blow,” Jackson said.
“The Creeks see it from an opposite point of view,” Yank replied. “They believe that they can defeat us with one blow by bringing all their villages together.”
“I’d be interested to know more about the fortifications,” Coffee said.
Yank nodded. “I’ll draw you a map and a diagram, but essentially, across the top of the peninsula they have parallel zigzagged log breastwork with loopholes. At the bottom, by the river, they have the village. Every house is built like a log blockhouse. Inside the perimeter, they’ve collected big piles of logs and bush. I’m unsure of the purpose. Perhaps they plan to build redoubts or maybe they’ll just leave them as they are to prevent us from attacking them from formation with volley fire. In any case it will be a tough nut to crack.”
“We have the ability to besiege them if necessary,” Jackson said. “We’ve built our own flatboats to bring supplies down the Coosa and the flow is steady and dependable. We can hold out until they starve.”
“We have over two thousand men out there,” Coffee replied. “There won’t be any need for a siege, General.”
“We’ll see,” Jackson said. He looked at Yank. “You look like you could use a good meal, Colonel. While you’re eating I’ll see what I can do about finding you a uniform and a razor.”
March 27, 1814
The Tallapoosa River, Mississippi Territory
Jackson was encircled by his officers as he drew a large letter “U” in the sand. “Yesterday evenin’ Colonel Van Buskirk commented that this would be a tough nut to crack. I thought about what he said last night and decided that we’ll crack this nut usin’ the tried and true method of applyin’ extreme pressure on two sides. General Coffee will attack across the river here and storm the village.” He drew a curve along the bottom of the “U”. “The main body will attack the breastwork here after an artillery barrage.” He drew a line closing the top of the “U”. “We’ll position General Bean’s Militia on this little island to pour flankin’ fire onto their breastworks.” He looked up. “Captain Bradford’s field pieces will be here on this little hill about eighty yards from the fortifications.” He looked around. “Questions? Very well. Godspeed, gentlemen. A decisive victory today could well put an end to this business.”
Coffee was the first to move out with the dragoons and the Cherokees toward the Bend. Jackson’s main body moved directly down and crossed the river above the island where Bean’s Militia was deployed.
At a little past 10:00 AM, Captain Bradford opened fire. It was soon very obvious that the cannons were ineffective.
Coffee’s forces, having crossed the river against light resistance, put the village to the torch but soon became bogged down.
Jackson ordered the charge and the Thirty-ninth United States Infantry, under Colonel Williams. double-timed forward with General James Doherty’s East Tennessee brigade commanded by Colonel Bunch in support. On they trotted through a storm of bullets and arrows, filling in the ranks when a man fell.
The first officer over the breastwork was Major L. P. Montgomery, but as he turned to urge his men to follow, he was cut down by musket fire. The nearest officer to him was Ensign Sam Houston who already had an arrow in his thigh. When Montgomery fell, young Houston climbed onto the breastworks and, with raised sword, led a bayonet charge that soon forced the Indians back toward Coffee’s forces.
Some of the enemy warriors worked their way through the rifle fire and the burning village to take to the river. Coffee’s reserve on the far bank killed many but a few, including Chief Menawa, made a clean escape while a fairly large number took refuge along the undercut riverbank behind a logjam.
When informed of this situation, Jackson sent an interpreter to say that any that surrendered would be spared, but the interpreter was promptly shot so Jackson moved down a small fieldpiece. The logs in the jam, however, proved to be as effective against cannonballs as any breastwork and the fieldpiece was retired. Jackson next called for volunteers and accepted the offer of Ensign Houston, who still had an arrow protruding from his thigh. As Houston and a small group of men moved forward toward the concealed Indians, musket fire erupted. Houston was hit twice and several others went down.
At this point, Jackson’s capacity for mercy ran out and he ordered torches to be thrown into the flotsam and the Indians to be shot when they tried to escape the flames.
April 20, 1814
Fort Jackson, Alabama Territory
When General Pinckney, leading troops from the Carolinas arrived, he ordered four hundred of General Doherty’s brigade to garrison Fort Williams and relieved Jackson�
�s army.
Within two hours, Jackson’s entire force was moving up the Coosa. They crossed the Tennessee River to Fayetteville where Jackson discharged them with a magnificent speech. Before heading home to the Hermitage and his beloved Rachel, he rode out a short way with Yank. “If you can, Colonel,” Jackson said, “try to spend some time with those boys of yours.”
“That’s up to the President, General, not to me,” Yank replied.
“One of God’s greatest gifts to any man is a son, Colonel. You once called your father a selfish bastard. Be very careful lest your sons call you the same.” He saluted, turned his horse abruptly and rode away.
May 26, 1814
Washington, District of Columbia
When Yank had first glimpsed the burned-out public buildings from the deck of the ship any remaining euphoria of the Red Sticks defeat had evaporated. He had, of course, been told of the British raid but the reality washed over him in waves of shame, anger and disbelief.
Now as he made his way through the piles of burned rubble toward the house of Colonel John Tayloe, his mind focused on retribution. Until now, he had felt a certain camaraderie with his British enemy, but the blackened hulk of the White House and Capitol building extinguished that like the rain that had saved the city from total destruction.
The odd Octagon House of Colonel Tayloe was being used as the temporary executive mansion. The street outside the house was guarded by a platoon of Marines. Behind them was a tall wrought-iron fence with a serious looking captain of Marines standing at the covered entrance. The captain stepped forward to salute. “Good day, Colonel. Do you have business here?”
Yank returned the salute. “I have been summoned by the President. My name is Van Buskirk.”
“Thank you, sir. You are indeed expected. Please proceed to the door and ring the bell.” He unlocked the gate with a key and swung it open.
Yank heard the gate clang shut as he mounted the steps.
The door was opened by a black man that Yank had never seen before. “May I take your hat and coat, Colonel?”
“No thank you. I’ll keep them.” Yank shrugged the coat off, put it over his left arm and removed his hat.
“The President’s study is the circular room just above us.” He pointed to the stairs.
“Thank you.” Yank climbed the stairs and knocked on the double doors at the right of the landing.
“Come in, Colonel.”
Madison was standing with his back to the windows that faced the street. He looked older. “Communications with the south have been poor so I only recently learned of the treaties that have been signed.” He offered his hand.
Yank shook the President’s hand and decided not to bring up the subject of the burning of Washington. “I have scant knowledge of the treaties, sir.”
Madison pointed to a couch and chairs near a cold fireplace. “Shall we sit over there and chat?”
Yank stepped back to let Madison lead the way.
“I imagine it was a shock to see our capital in the current state,” Madison said.
“Yes, sir.”
“It has grieved Dolley beyond reason but I see it as an opportunity to rebuild.” Madison sat on one of the chairs.
“I have not had enough time to know what I think, sir. But I’m angry.” Yank sat down across from Madison.
“At whom?”
Yank’s instinctive response was to say “the British” but he was sure Madison would deflect that with an intellectual argument. “I’m told that my former friend, Governor General Sir George Prévost ordered it, sir.”
“I’m told the same thing but that he ordered it in retaliation for the American sacking of York where we not only burned the Parliament, but also looted and burned private buildings. Our officers seem unwilling or incapable of stopping that kind of brutish behavior.”
Yank gave him a helpless shrug. “As I said, sir, I have not had enough time to absorb it yet.”
Madison nodded. “Well then let me change the subject to Andrew Jackson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I cannot decide if the man is a cretin or a genius.”
“He has an elevated sense of honor which makes him difficult to understand, sir. But might I say that he is princely to his friends and dreadful to his enemies.”
“And militarily?”
“He’s the most gifted leader I’ve ever seen, sir. He can assess a battlefield in a glance and arrive at a strategy in moments that most of us would take hours to conceive, yet to my knowledge, he has never read a book about tactics or studied the great battles of history.”
“He’s had a number of defeats, I think.”
“I’m not aware of any, sir. I do know that he’s withdrawn from several engagements. But in those instances with which I’m familiar, he inflicted more harm than he received. In modern warfare, attrition may be a better measurement of victory or defeat than possession of the field.”
Madison nodded. “Yes. It would indeed seem that the European definition of he who leaves the battle first, loses, needs some revision.”
Yank nodded. “I think that battles in Europe have usually been for the control of territory. Here our battles are fought for ideals.”
“Well said. I’m going to offer Andrew Jackson a commission as Major General in the United States army. What do you think will happen when I do?”
“The old soldiers will complain, your political enemies will fume, and you, sir, will be safe in the knowledge that you’ve taken an important step in winning this war and protecting our country.”
“You may have a future in politics, Colonel.”
“Perish the thought, sir. I’m a soldier and the son of a soldier for more generations than I can count.”
“Yes.” Madison took a breath and let it out as if he was tired. “What would you like to do now, Yank?”
Yank almost recoiled at the President’s use of his nickname but he covered it. “Well, sir. Unless I’m needed immediately, I’d like to spend some time with my family.”
“Of course.”
“Until the British make a move in the south, that is.”
“You think they will?”
“Oh yes, sir, I do.”
“We seem to have them under control in the north and our navy is embarrassing them daily.”
“Yes, sir. But after the defeat of France they’ll soon have troops available and we’ll be facing a different enemy.”
“Where will they come?”
“My guess would be Mobile or New Orleans, Mr. President.”
“Florida would be my guess since they already have a presence there and the support of Spain. Why would you think otherwise?”
“I think that their alliance with Tecumseh and the Creeks is proof of their strong desire to prevent our westward expansion, sir.”
“Which they could do if they controlled the Mississippi River.”
“Yes, sir. And to do that they’d need to control Mobile, New Orleans or both.”
Madison took another deep breath. “Go see your family, Colonel. I’ll send for you when the need arises.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
December 1, 1814
Gulf of Mexico, Louisiana
Carrying his kitbag on his back, Yank climbed the ladder, then crossed the deck to join Captain John D. Henley, who was standing on the bow. “Good morning, Captain.” He dropped his kitbag near the rail.
“Colonel,” Henley replied. “Welcome to Louisiana.”
Yank smiled and leaned on the railing. “I’ve been meaning to ask, are you to be the fleet commander in New Orleans?”
“No. That will be Commodore Patterson. I outrank him but, well, you know how politics work in the military.”
“Indeed.” Yank pointed to the northwest, off their starboard bow, where the lifting fog revealed breakers. “Sand bar?”
“No, an island. There’s a chain of small barrier islands that stretches from here back to the mouth of Mobile Bay. That one i
s referred to as Smuggler’s Cove. It more or less marks the entrance to Lake Borgne.” Henley pointed aft. “Mobile Bay is just over the horizon. We came within sight of land but the fog was too dense.”
They were aboard the fourteen-gun schooner, USS Carolina, which had been built two years ago in Charleston, South Carolina at a cost of $8,743.
Yank was still looking toward the island where tall sails had appeared. “Was Commodore Patterson planning to escort you to New Orleans?”
“No.” Henley turned to look at Yank then shaded his eyes and peered forward. “Damn.”
“Sails dead ahead,” the lookout called.
“Beat General Quarters,” Henley shouted. He turned to Yank. “We had best get you in a whaleboat. Please wait on the fantail and I’ll send someone.” He hurried aft, toward the bridge.
As the drummer began to beat out the command, and the petty officers chivvied the men to their battle stations, Yank watched as two more sails appeared from behind the island, then he picked up his kitbag and moved aft through the organized chaos of the ship’s main deck.
A midshipman, a boy of about fifteen, ran aft and saluted. “We must hurry, Colonel Van Buskirk, sir.”
Yank answered his salute. “Have you launched the boat, Ensign?”
“Not yet, sir.” He looked nervously toward ten men, two of whom were making a slow business of attaching a whaleboat to the port davits. He turned back to Yank. “The Captain said that he can’t maneuver until we’re clear.”
“Then perhaps you should hurry the deck hands and boat crew.”
“Just so, sir.” He looked around, then ran toward men who were still securing the whaleboat to the davits. “Hurry up you scurvy dogs.”
The two deck hands, who had indeed been going about their task unenthusiastically, looked at the young officer and actually seemed to slow down.
Yank shouldered his kitbag and joined them. “I’m sure you men are very disappointed that you’ll miss the upcoming battle.” He pointed. “If I’m not misinformed, those three ships are the Royal Navy’s HMS Sophie, HMS Armide and HMS Seahorse. That trio has sunk twenty-six ships so far and murdered all the survivors. I know you want a chance to get revenge, but my mission ashore is quite important.”
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