1812-The Rivers of War Read online

  Driscol returned the handshake with a smile, letting no sign of his irritation show. As much as he admired and respected Scott, there were times he found the man's thin-skinned vanity downright aggravating. Especially because it was so childishly transparent.

  Driscol was no threat to Scott's status, of course. For all the private and public praise that had been heaped upon the man from County Antrim over the past few weeks—not to mention a double promotion that had well-nigh astonished him—no one thought of Patrick Driscol as a dashing hero the way they did Sam Houston. Now people were speculating that Houston might soon become the youngest brigadier general in the U.S. Army—a status heretofore enjoyed by Winfield Scott.

  Irritating, truly irritating.

  Worse than that, it had far-ranging implications, under the current circumstances. Monroe had seriously considered sending Scott to reinforce Jackson in New Orleans, now that the brigadier had recovered well enough from his wounds to resume active duty, rather than keeping him in Washington for what would be a purely administrative post. The secretary of war had even, privately, asked Driscol for his opinion on the matter.

  Soon enough, he'd pierced through Driscol's circumlocutions.

  "So you think he and Jackson would clash constantly?"

  "Well, sir. Yes." Driscol had no doubt that he had looked uncomfortable. "I can't be sure, of course, since I don't yet know General Jackson. General Brown managed to get along with the brigadier quite well, mind you. But, ah, Brown is..."

  Monroe nodded. "A politician, and a very good one. And not a man to begrudge his subordinate getting the lion's share of the praise. Which"—here a grin—"ha! Is certainly not true of Andy Jackson. He's even pricklier about his public image than Winfield."

  "Yes, sir. Such is my impression."

  Monroe had studied the papers on his desk, for a moment. Not looking at the print, simply using the familiar sight to concentrate his thoughts. Then, sighing, he continued. "Scott's already beginning to clash with Brown, actually, and over the pettiest issues imaginable."

  "Yes, sir. So I had heard. Since you asked for my opinion, Mr. Secretary, here it is. Said bluntly, if you'll pardon my presumption. Put Winfield Scott on a battlefield, and he's superb. He's also possibly the best trainer of troops I've ever encountered. For that matter, give him a straightforward administrative task and let him have his head, and he'll give you all you could ask for. But assign him to play the loyal subordinate to another commanding officer as vain and headstrong as he is, and you're asking for trouble. They'll likely spend as much time and energy quarreling with each other as they will fighting the enemy."

  "Yes, you're probably right. Very well, then. We'll keep Scott here. It's not as if he won't be of real use, after all. I don't expect the British to attack the area again, but who knows? And, in any event, since we've now got this Tenth Military District, we ought to have it organized properly."

  Eventually, of course, Scott acknowledged Houston's presence. Even then, with words of praise that were abbreviated and a handshake that was barely this side of cursory.

  Fortunately, Sam Houston had a different temperament. He'd kept his expression bland throughout, but by now Driscol knew the young colonel well enough to know that he was probably amused by Scott's behavior. Houston was one of those people blessed with a self-esteem so thoroughly grounded that he had no need for the reassurances of others. A liking for it, certainly—what man didn't? But its absence spilled off him like water off a duck.

  "And when will I see you again, Patrick?" Scott asked, turning away from Houston once again. "You know there'll always be a place for you on my staff. And I'll see to it, rest assured, even in the teeth of the demobilizations which are bound to come once the war is over."

  "Thank you, sir." Driscol didn't doubt that Scott would live up to his promise, too. He was also certain that without Scott's patronage, he'd likely be finding himself eking out a meager existence on the income of a retired officer. Nonetheless, the offer held no attractions whatsoever.

  How to say it, though?

  He cleared his throat. "As it happens, sir, I've been giving some serious thought to entering civilian life. After the war is over."

  Scott cocked his head, in a gesture which was half quizzical and half skeptical.

  As well he might, Driscol thought ruefully. Until a very short time ago, the idea of Patrick Driscol, civilian would have been as laughable to Driscol as to anyone. But...a very short time could sometimes bring some very real changes. And the fact was that, for the first time since he'd been sixteen years old, Driscol had started thinking seriously about what a life might look like without killing Sassenach at the center of it.

  Best to sidestep the matter, however. "Well, sir, it's like this. Once the war is over and we win it, how will I find any Sassenach to fight?"

  Houston was giving him that same cocked-head look, now. In Houston's case, though, it was all inquisitiveness. Alas, it'd be difficult to sidestep the issue with him.

  For the past week, Houston had stayed out of the taverns and bustled about, getting his column ready for departure. Driscol was thankful for the sobriety, but the cost of it was that Sam was back to his normal, keen-eyed way of observing things. His brains were awfully good, when they weren't pickled in whiskey.

  Sure enough. No sooner had Scott bade his farewells and left, than Houston turned on Driscol.

  "Out with it, Patrick!"

  Seeing Driscol's mulish look, Houston laughed. "Oh, for the sake of all that's holy! D'you really think no one beside me has noticed the daily promenades you've been taking with Tiana the past few weeks? The last time I saw General Ross, even he made a little jest about it. A very friendly one, mind."

  Driscol was flushing now. He'd wound up, to his surprise, visiting Ross several times. Always with Tiana at his side. How are mighty trolls fallen...

  Houston's expression suddenly became serious. "Patrick, one thing you should understand. She won't leave her people. Don't ever think she will."

  Driscol happened to know that Tiana's sentiments were by no means as clear-cut as Houston made them seem. By now, in many ways, Driscol knew Tiana far better than Houston ever had, or would. The basic reason was that Sam still thought of her as a girl, and Driscol had never once thought of her as anything other than a woman.

  He knew her attitude on this specific issue because...

  Well, because she'd told him. Tiana was to "subtlety" what the Mongol hordes were to decorum.

  And he was getting peeved, now. "If you're speaking of Miss Rogers, sir, what does that have to do with anything we're about?"

  Houston went back to that aggravating head-cocking business. "You? Living among the Cherokee?" Suddenly, the head came back up. "Well, why not? Plenty of other white men have never given a damn about the opinion of refined society. So why should you?" Grinning: "Especially you—whose secret wish is to fire grapeshot at refined society, anyway."

  Driscol returned the grin with a cold smile of his own. "Canister, sir. For really up-close, bloody, personal work, you always want canister."

  Houston laughed at that. He started to say something, but paused to let his eyes roam over the column that was forming up on Pennsylvania Avenue. "Caravan of gypsies," might be a more appropriate term. The military force that Houston was about to lead out of Washington was as polyglot an affair as Driscol could have asked for.

  At the head of the column—they'd insisted—rode the volunteer dragoons from Baltimore who had once been officially part of Stansbury's regiment. They numbered some two hundred now, having had their ranks fleshed out fivefold by new volunteers eager to share in the fame and glory, instead of the few dozen woebegone lads whom Driscol had rescued from ignominy a few weeks earlier. But they still had their flamboyant uniforms—and didn't look much more soldierly than they had before.

  Ah, well, Driscol mused inwardly.

  "They'll do, well enough, when the time comes," he said aloud. "We'll have weeks of the march to sha
pe them up."

  "Well, I imagine that'll be true of the Baltimore lads. Our newly commissioned Lieutenant Pendleton has the makings of a fine officer, it seems to me."

  "With a bit more blooding," Driscol gruffed.

  Houston got a sly look on his face. "I'm not so sure about some of our other promotions, though. I still think seventeen years old is a bit young to be a sergeant."

  Driscol sniffed. "You let me worry about McParland, sir. Seventeen years old means he hasn't picked up any habits, either— except the ones I give him. He'll do just fine."

  The heart of the column was marching past now, and its true fist—one hundred and twenty artillerymen and almost as many marines. About half the artillerymen were taken from Commodore Barney's unit, after having been formally transferred from the navy to the army. The other half consisted of Captain Burch's Washington artillery unit, which had also acquitted itself very well at Bladensburg.

  Burch himself, now promoted to major, was in command of the entire unit. Better still, from Driscol's point of view, was that Charles Ball had been formally promoted to sergeant and was recognized—informally, if not formally, since the United States had only one rank of sergeant—as the unit's master noncommissioned officer. As far as anyone knew, Ball was the only black man with that rank anywhere in the U.S. Army, even if the equivalent wasn't unheard of in the navy. There'd been more than a few opposing voices raised, when Houston first proposed it. But again Monroe had given it his quiet support, once he was assured that Burch had no objection.

  Following the artillery came another unit of volunteers, this one formed from scratch out of veterans of the fight at the Capitol. There were almost three hundred of them. Driscol had rather high hopes for that lot. If they lacked the fine apparel of the well-to-do dragoons, and displayed even less in the way of military order, they had the virtue of being self-chosen by men who had displayed real fighting spirit when the time came.

  The name of the unit itself reflected that: the Liberty Regiment. Technically, it was the First Capitol Volunteers—the unit being a regiment in no real sense of the term—but the men had made stick the requirement that only those who had fought in the Capitol on that now-hallowed night were eligible for membership.

  Next came the little group composed of Tiana Rogers and her Cherokee companions. There were only four of them present at the moment, since the Ridge children were staying behind at a school found for them by Commodore Barney, and Lieutenant Ross was still serving his last moments as Secretary Monroe's aide.

  Finally, and making up the most singular sight, came the logistics tail of the column: some sixteen wagons, all of them driven by black freedmen, with Henry Crowell's in the lead. Twenty-six wagons, if you included the much scruffier ones that served to haul the families and personal belongings that most of the teamsters were taking with them.

  Houston finished with his examination. It hadn't really been an "examination" in the first place, Driscol knew, just a way for Houston to collect his thoughts.

  "Do you know how a Cherokee proposes to a girl?" he asked abruptly.

  Driscol set his jaw. "I do not recall asking, sir," he rasped. "Nor do I see—"

  "Stop it, Patrick!" Houston said, his voice unexpectedly stern.

  "Whether you're ready to admit it to yourself or not, I don't think I've ever seen a man so smitten by a woman. It's the main reason I stopped being jealous. I know you're not playing with her, and... well. I wish her the best, which... well. Wouldn't be me."

  Driscol started to snarl an angry response, but...

  Ah.

  Couldn't.

  "Thought so," Houston chuckled. "Well, it's like this. The most important thing is whether or not the girl is interested. She'll ask for advice, of course. She'll listen to the women's council more carefully than anyone else, probably, but she'll listen to her family, too. Uncles and brothers more than fathers, insofar as she listens to men at all. Be prepared to wait a bit. Maybe quite a bit, depending on this and that. Cherokees usually don't do anything without discussing and wrangling first, and they like to talk and wrangling's the best kind of talk. Do you follow me so far?"

  "Aye," Driscol said grudgingly. "Sir."

  Houston's teeth flashed. " 'Sam,' Patrick, 'Sam.' The march hasn't started yet, and this surely qualifies as a personal discussion."

  "Fine. Sam."

  "Good. But despite all that, there are some formalities. The most important is that the young fellow involved—using the term 'young' loosely, and keeping in mind that it's not that uncommon for a Cherokee girl to marry a man twice her age—first announces his intentions by placing the carcass of a slain deer in front of the girl's home."

  Driscol's mind went blank.

  Houston's grin widened.

  "Oh, yes. It's tradition, Patrick. Demonstrates that the fellow is a good provider."

  Blank as a field of snow.

  "Patrick...have you had much experience as a hunter?"

  Driscol cleared his throat. "Oh, aye. Not since I was a youngster back in Ireland, of course. I've been too busy since at the soldiering trade."

  Houston cocked an eyebrow that could be called quizzical, only in the sense that open derision could be called skeptical.

  "It's true!" Driscol insisted stoutly. "The potatoes in my family's patch quaked at my coming. I can still hear their shrieks of fear. Course, I slaughtered them without pity, nonetheless. Skinned 'em myself, too."

  Houston chuckled. "Well. You'll think of something."

  He went off, then, to see to the final preparations. Driscol remained behind, his mind still blank as a field of snow.

  Well, not quite. He knew what a deer looked like. A very small, skinny cow. With absurdly complicated horns.

  "Well, that's it, then." Monroe extended his hand. "You've done exceedingly well as an aide, Captain Ross, and I shall miss you."

  John returned the handshake. "It's been a pleasure serving you, Mr. Secretary."

  That was no more than the truth. Monroe was one of those men who carried authority with such ease and grace that they never felt it necessary to run roughshod over their subordinates. Whatever might come in the future, whatever clashes John Ross and his people would have with James Monroe—and there'd be many, certainly, if Monroe came to the presidency—John would always respect him as a person. Like him, for that matter.

  "You understand," Monroe continued, "that my offer for correspondence was more than a polite formality."

  "Yes, sir, I do—and I shall. Be assured of it."

  Monroe smiled. "I suspect I may come to regret that offer, from time to time. But it stands nonetheless. I want to establish my own conduit to your people."

  "You understand on your part, Mr. Secretary, that I can speak only on my own behalf. I hold no formal position among the Cherokees."

  "No formal position." Monroe shrugged. "I don't claim to know your nation, Lieutenant—but I'd be very surprised if it's all that different from my own in many regards. One of which is that formal position and real influence are not the same thing." His hand waved toward the window of the temporary office he'd set up close to the Capitol, while work began on rebuilding the president's mansion and its adjoining executive offices. "I can name a dozen men out there, not one of them holding an official title of any kind, whose opinion carries more weight than all but a handful of senators or congressmen."

  John nodded again.

  "Furthermore," Monroe went on, "you're still very young. Give it a few years, and I'll be surprised if your status doesn't become formalized."

  "And do we have a few years, Mr. Secretary? Or, should I say, Mr. Soon-to-be-President."

  Monroe didn't blink at that, although he himself had never mentioned his own prospects.

  "Yes, Lieutenant, you will have a few years. That much, I can promise you. If nothing else—" He cleared his throat. "Well. Let's just say that Andrew Jackson will be preoccupied elsewhere, for a few years."

  John knew what that meant. Jackson wo
uld go after the Spanish next. Drive the Dons off the continent entirely. That would keep him in the Floridas, for a time, hundreds of miles from the Cherokees and farther still from the Choctaws and Chickasaws.

  "But eventually," Monroe went on, his tone harshening a little, "that'll be over. So, yes. You have a few years. But no more than a few. After that, the vise will be tightening again."

  For a moment, his eyes softened, and Monroe slid into rare informality. "Understand something, John. There are many things I can regret, as a private person, that I cannot oppose as an official of the republic. That's a cold business, in the end, whether a man likes it or not."

  It was a threat, however politely veiled. But John could appreciate the courtesy with which it was extended. The same courtesy—no, respect—that Monroe had extended by not trying to bribe him, as so many clan chiefs had been bribed in the past.