1812-The Rivers of War Read online

  Gallant foe was a phrase for afterward. At the time, Monroe's sole and single purpose had been to saber Hessian artillerymen, butchering them as pitilessly as he would have butchered animals—but with a venom that he'd never have visited upon mere beasts. Ugly emotions, yes, looking back upon them—but the act of looking back was itself their fruit. The trick was in being able to set them aside, when the time came.

  That was easy enough for a man of Monroe's class. Not easy, often, for a man who did not come into the world with the easy perquisites of a gentleman.

  "Much like Andrew Jackson, then," Madison commented.

  "Yes." Jackson's mother had died during the Revolution.

  From privations she'd endured after the British drove them out of their home. Like Driscol, Jackson had been a teenager at the time. And, like Driscol, Jackson had never forgiven the British.

  And never would, in all likelihood. Monroe could understand the matter, well enough. It was still a problem for the republic. Nations could no more be guided by unthinking hatreds than unthinking enthusiasms.

  "Your captain was right, by the way," the president added. "I just spoke to John, and he tells me he received word two days ago from Hawkins. Jackson did, indeed, force the Creeks to sign away half their land, in a treaty early this month."

  Monroe nodded. As secretary of war, in charge of relations with the Indian tribes, Armstrong would have received the news first. Naturally enough, he hadn't raised the matter at the cabinet meeting the day before, which had focused entirely on the British assault on the capital.

  "And so, once again, Mr. President, we are presented with an accomplished fact," Monroe said. "Whether we like it or not. If we nullify the treaty, now that Jackson coerced the Creeks into signing it, we'll infuriate every settler west of the mountains, and every southerner below the Carolinas."

  "And half the Carolinians," Madison muttered.

  "Yes. And those are the same people—Andrew Jackson himself, first and foremost—whom we have to rely upon to repel the British. The theater of war will shift to the gulf, now."

  The president sighed. "That's why we have made him a general in the regular army. It's a strange way, one would think, to punish a man for insubordination."

  Monroe said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Events on the frontier were being driven by forces far too powerful for any government to control. All the more so because Andrew Jackson was not even the source of it, ultimately, simply its representative and visible face. Behind Jackson, lifting him up, driving him forward, were hundreds of thousands of nameless folk. Nameless, at least, to the eastern gentry and northern merchant class. Scots-Irish immigrants, in the main, now known as "the people of the western waters."

  Relentless, implacable. Much like—

  A thought came to Monroe. "Excuse me for a bit, Mr. President. I have something to attend to."

  He turned around and beckoned to John Ross. The lieutenant had been standing just a feet away; close enough to be ready for any task the secretary might require of him, but distant enough to allow Monroe privacy of conversation. In this, as in every other respect the secretary had seen thus far, the Cherokee was proving to be as adept and subtle as any white assistant he had ever had.

  Houston. Ross. Driscol. Perhaps some others...

  Always Jackson, of course, for good or ill.

  James Monroe subscribed to the sweeping principles of republicanism, and had done so all of his adult life. But he also firmly believed that problems were solved by men, not abstractions. Specific men, in specific places, in specific combinations. Just so, as a young officer, had he seen George Washington forge a nation. Just so, as a man coming into his own maturity, had he seen that nation grow and swell, when other men did the same.

  With Ross in tow, he intercepted Houston as another gaggle of congressmen were coming forward to extend their congratulations.

  "A moment of your time, Captain, if you'd be so kind. Where is Lieutenant Driscol? I'd like to have a word with both of you." He glanced to the side. "The three of you, actually."

  Staring out of an upper-floor window of the House at the rain-drenched and wind-battered city to the west, Driscol thought his mood matched the sight. Bleak and bitter, just like Washington itself, even if both he and the city were supposed to be celebrating a victory. That victory, however, was being marred not only by the weather, but by the rumors of a slave insurrection.

  The rumors had grown so wild that even a freedman like Henry Crowell, who'd played an important role in defending the Capitol, had been forced into hiding. In his case, fortunately, that wasn't hard. He was sitting on a chair in a corner of the same room Driscol occupied. McParland and the two Rogers brothers were squatting in the same corner, having a quiet and friendly conversation with the wagon driver. That was probably enough to reassure Henry that he had nothing to fear, as long as he stayed with the lieutenant and his men in the Capitol.

  Driscol was startled by a soft, feminine voice. "What's that expression you use? 'A penny for your thoughts,' I think."

  His eyes shied away from the source of the words. Not because he didn't want to look, but because he did—and was afraid of that feeling.

  When the Rogers brothers had offered to introduce him to Tiana, he'd felt his heart surge in a way he hadn't felt since he was a teenager. And the same again, when they'd made the "real introduction" less than half an hour earlier.

  There'd only been one woman in his life who'd ever produced that feeling in him. A young Irish girl by the name of Maureen. He'd been sixteen at the time, and so had she. The same age Tiana was now.

  He'd never seen Maureen again, after he'd been forced to flee Ireland. For all he knew, she was dead.

  In the years that followed, he'd pretty well squelched that side of his soul. There just hadn't seemed to be any place for it in his new life as a soldier. Now...

  "My thoughts would hardly be worth a cent," he said harshly, his lips half twisted. "I'd not pay a half cent for them, myself."

  "Look at me, Lieutenant."

  That startled him even more. Softly spoken or not, the tone had been utterly...

  Imperious, was the only word.

  He looked. Up. Standing right next to him, all of Tiana Rogers's height was evident. The girl was about six feet tall, topping him by several inches.

  "What is the matter with you, Patrick Driscol?" she asked quietly. She didn't seem cross, so much as puzzled. "Do you think I'm blind? Do you really think I needed my brothers to make a formal introduction? When you think I'm not looking, I can feel your eyes on me. Yet when I look, you look away. If you keep it up, I'll start thinking you're a lecher."

  Now, a smile came. "An old and decrepit lecher, at that, too worried about his capacities to do more than leer at a distance."

  Driscol flushed. There was just enough truth in that statement to make him uncomfortable. He wasn't, in fact, a lecher—and he knew full well that his capacities were still those of a young man. Still, he couldn't deny that the Cherokee girl aroused him, in ways he found hard to understand, much less explain.

  Sheer beauty was part of it, of course. The athletic grace of her body even more than the face. Perhaps it was the combination—or, rather, the contradiction. Tiana Rogers was exotic. Half white, half Indian, never seeming one or the other to Driscol. The same with her bearing. At one moment she could act like a princess, the next like a hoyden, the next like a...

  Farm girl? Squaw?

  And where, precisely, did one end and the other begin? He'd heard her brother John praise her talents at gutting and dressing a deer. His mother had possessed similar, plebian skills. So had Maureen.

  It was that confusion, not lust, which had kept him so constantly off balance around her. He simply didn't know what to make of her. Had he not been so attracted to the girl, of course, none of it would have mattered. Given that he was, he'd reacted the way Patrick Driscol usually reacted to being puzzled.

  That thought finally allowed him to smile.
Houston, he suspected, would accuse him of sulking in his tent. Not because of a conflict with a king, but because Patrick Driscol resented being confused. Kings he could deal with. Nothing easier, at least in theory. Just cut their throats and bleed them out.

  Alas, such well-worn and simple tactics were quite unsuited to this problem.

  He tried to find the words to explain, as best he could. Fortunately, a welcome interruption came. Houston strode into the room, followed by Secretary of State Monroe and John Ross.

  The captain was smiling cheerfully, as he so often was. And, as it so often did, the smile warmed Driscol. His brother had smiled like that, before he died on the road from Randallstown to Antrim, and had been tossed into the sandpit by the Sassenach. Such a smile would never come to Patrick Driscol—and might not have, being honest with himself, even if his life had been different. But seeing it on Houston's face reminded him of all the many families in the world that had not been destroyed.

  "Mr. Monroe's made me a proposition, Patrick—and it involves you."

  After he'd heard what Houston had to say, all of Driscol's earlier bleak thoughts returned. Rude though it might be, he went back to staring out the window. For a moment, his sentiments were so hostile that he was unable to speak.

  Perhaps I shouldn't speak at all, he thought. What's the point? He'd probably just ruin his own chances, small as they were already with an arm now missing.

  But a lifetime's stubbornness wouldn't let him remain silent.

  He reminded himself that a man who advocated letting the blood from monarchs should at least have the courage to speak the truth to a secretary of state. And face the prospect of being broken from the ranks with the same unyielding courage he'd faced lines of Sassenach muskets.

  So he turned back and looked at Monroe. "Fine words, Mr. Secretary. I'm sure they came from you, even if young Sam here gave them a heady and enthusiastic lilt. But I'm no great believer in airy sentiments."

  He pointed into a corner of the room. "I'm sure you didn't notice him when you came in. But you might ask yourself why Henry Crowell is huddling over there."

  Everyone turned to look in the corner, where the black wagon driver was sitting. Just as startled as everyone else had been by Driscol's words, Crowell's eyes were wide.

  "Oh, aye," Driscol said, half snarling. "It's not safe right now for a freedman in the city. Any man with a black skin. It seems there are rumors of a slave insurrection, and half the soldiery is out there charging about to put it down." The rest, he did snarl: "While the Sassenach, needless to say—the ones who did burn and loot and plunder—make their escape with no pursuit."

  He kept the finger pointing, as steadily as a musket. "So Henry Crowell, who brought the munitions which held the enemy at bay, cowers here in a corner. Not knowing, even, what's happened to the wagon which is his sole means of earning a livelihood. And slavemasters give speeches about the glories of republicanism in the chamber below, and come up here to propose schemes for bringing just settlements to the Indians. Well, there's nothing I can do about it. But I fail to see why Patrick Driscol should lend himself to the furtherance of the lies and hypocrisies of gentlemen."

  Driscol's pale eyes were cold, but all the hot, boiling anger surfaced in the words. "Oh, aye, it's always class that tells, isn't it? You'll ladle praise onto a stinking Sassenach general for his gallantry. But let me ask you, Mr. Secretary, when you were governor of Virginia, did you ladle the same praise onto the man named Gabriel when you hung him? And if not, why not? What crime was he guilty of, other than opposing the tyranny of his so-called betters, with arms in hand?"

  The anger was all encompassing, now. The cold, pale eyes moved to John Ross.

  "And you, Lieutenant. What is your complaint? That the white man won't let you remain on your plantations, lording it over your own slaves?" He jerked his head toward the Rogers brothers. "Just a few hours ago, they were telling me—boasting, to call things by the right name—that most of your chiefs have plantations as fine as any white men. Your Major Ridge, I'm told, is a great man—and nothing proves it so much as his twenty slaves. So you, too, are nothing but lordlings who, like all lordlings since the dawn of time, seized their status by theft and murder and then used the plundered goods to prove the status. And now—now—have the unmitigated gall to claim that you are the victims of injustice."

  He turned away. "Be damned to all of you. Do what you will. But do not ask me to give it my blessing, much less my active participation."

  His eyes searched the city below. Looking for a dwelling wretched enough that he might be able to afford it—on whatever income a discharged lieutenant might have.

  Sergeant, he reminded himself. His promotion to lieutenant had not been approved as yet by the War Department. And now, of course, surely wouldn't be.

  Chapter 30

  Monroe glanced at Houston. For the first time since he'd met him, the young captain was obviously at a complete loss for words. In fact, he was almost gaping like a fish. Whatever else he'd expected from Driscol, clearly enough, Houston hadn't anticipated that coldly furious tirade.

  No, not tirade, Monroe cautioned himself. It was the lieutenant's harsh words—the tone, even more than the words themselves—that had infuriated some part of Monroe. That part of him which was Virginia gentry by birth, and whose status had grown great with time.

  Yet the fact remained that Driscol had said nothing which, in substance if not with the same pitiless condemnation, Monroe hadn't heard said time and again. He'd even said as much himself.

  It was indeed true, as Driscol had charged, that as governor of Virginia, Monroe had had to sentence the leaders of a slave insurrection. Would-be insurrection, to be more accurate, since— as was usually true in such cases—informers had revealed the slaves' plans before they could set them into motion. Monroe had been astonished, at the time, at the hostility which his lenient policy had generated from most of his fellow gentlemen. He'd hung the leader Gabriel and several others, because as governor he was charged with maintaining public order and existing laws and property relations. But that had seemed enough, to him, for the purpose. To go further would have been simple cruelty—yet that had been precisely what many others wanted. Why? For no better reason than Driscol's very accusation— they'd been gentlemen, aggrieved by the impudence of slaves, demanding vengeance for their injured dignity.

  Monroe took a deep breath, calming and dispelling that stupid, vicious, gentleman's anger. Driscol's charge cut to the very soul of the nation, after all—and Monroe knew it. If most men might not wrestle with the problem of slavery, the greatest of them did. George Washington had done so, in his own austere way—and, in his will, he had freed his slaves. Thomas Jefferson, in his far more voluble—some might say, histrionic—manner, had done the same. He'd once concluded a denunciation of slavery with the words, I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that his justice cannot sleep forever.

  And Madison, too, in his quiet manner. He'd already told Monroe that once he was no longer president, and could finally retire from public life, he hoped to convince Dolley to move to Ohio. So he could, at least in his own person, finally be rid of slavery.

  The president hadn't had much hope of success, however. His wife Dolley was Quaker-born, not southern, and had no theoretical attachment to the peculiar institution. But she also had an improvident son, and enjoyed her wealth. And slavery was profitable.

  Money. In the end, Monroe knew, it all came down to that. For him, as much as any man of his class. Nothing else, nothing more. Certainly nothing more exalted. Just the endless, well-nigh irresistible seduction of Mammon—who was surely a demon.

  He almost laughed, then. Leave it to Lieutenant Patrick Driscol to call a gentleman a demon worshipper, and do it to his face!

  That wry thought was enough finally to bring the statesman to the helm.

  "Actually, Lieutenant," the secretary of state said calmly, "your objections strike me as speaking well for your qual
ifications in this mission. Very well, in fact."

  Driscol's eyes narrowed, and his head turned partway from the window.

  "You must be joking."

  "Not at all." Monroe couldn't convince a man who wouldn't look at him. His years as an ambassador to France and England and Spain—failures and successes alike—had taught him that. "Please, Lieutenant Driscol, will you simply listen to me?"

  Courtesy—especially when it came unexpectedly—did the trick. Driscol turned completely away from the window and faced him squarely. True, the man's eyes were still cold, and his slightly lowered brow could have butted a bull senseless, but...he was listening. And Monroe knew how to talk. Far better, if not in formal speeches, than a youngster like Houston.