1812-The Rivers of War Page 9

  Even the haughty colonel finally realized he'd gone too far. "Sir," he added lamely.

  Jackson snatched off his hat and slammed it onto the table next to him, scattering papers in the process. There had been a big map which had covered it, and that spilled halfway onto the ground.

  "I gave them my word, sir—and you made me into a liar! Savages be damned! My word is my word!"

  For a moment, Sam thought the general might actually strike the colonel with his fist. It was clenched—so was his left one, even in the sling—and there was spittle coming from the corners of Jackson's mouth. If they hadn't both been in uniform, Sam was pretty sure he would have challenged Milton to a duel right there on the spot.

  "That's the issue here, sir!" Jackson gritted. For an instant, his angry eyes flitted to the other colonel. "At least he"—a jerk of the head toward Russell—"had enough grace not to steal from his Choctaws and Chickasaws!"

  It was all Sam could do not to grin. He'd gotten to know the general a lot better over the past few weeks, since the battle at the Horseshoe Bend, and one of the things he'd learned was that Coffee was right. Jackson's rages were genuine enough, to be sure—but that never stopped the general from using them with all the cold-blooded skill of a master swordsman in a fight. Milton's blundering arrogance had given Jackson the opportunity to peel Russell away from him, and the general hadn't missed the chance.

  Russell, clearly enough, was by now just looking for a way out of the brawl. He wasn't any happier than Milton was at the situation, but he had enough sense to realize that Jackson's victory at the bend had made him the popular hero of the southwestern states and territories. That would draw plenty of favorable notice in Washington, D.C., as well.

  A lot more favorable notice than it should have, he no doubt felt, but American victories on land in the war that had begun with Britain in 1812 had been few and far between.

  Very few, and very far between. The American navy had acquitted itself well, even if many of its heroes, like Oliver Hazard Perry and Isaac Hull, were from the same New England that was largely opposed to the war with Britain. But the record of the American army had generally been poor, outside of Harrison's victory over Tecumseh at the Thames. And sometimes it had been downright dismal.

  The very first major offensive launched by the United States, an attempt at conquering Canada led by the governor of Michigan, William Hull—he'd been made a brigadier general, for the purpose—had ended with Hull's ignominious surrender, along with the taking of the town of Detroit.

  So Jackson's triumph at the Horseshoe Bend had given Americans a much-needed boost. Granted, Hull had faced British regulars, along with hostile Indians, while Jackson's victory had been over Indians fighting on their own. Still, a resounding victory was a resounding victory.

  Now Colonel Russell edged back a pace. Colonel Milton, seeing him do so out of the corner of an eye, finally had enough sense to realize that he'd dug himself into a hole. So, he tried to climb out of it.

  Unfortunately, he did so ass backward.

  "I agree that it was most unfortunate, General, but—"

  "It wasn't 'unfortunate,' Colonel—it was an outrage! And leaving aside the stain on my reputation, it presents me with a rather massive practical problem." Jackson snatched his hat back off the table and jabbed with it toward the tent's entrance. Once, twice, thrice.

  "There are still, by all reports, at least a thousand Creek hostiles gathered around the Spanish forts at Pensacola and Apalachicola. And you can be sure the British agents there will be arming them—runaway Negro slaves, too—and keeping them in the fight while they bring their regulars to our shores. I was counting on having the Cherokees return to service with me in a few months. Now—thanks to you—!"

  Jackson having given him the opening, Russell took it eagerly enough. Let his fellow colonel in the regulars sink on his own. "The Choctaws and Chickasaws are still with us, sir," he said righteously.

  Jackson's glare never left Milton's face, even as he replied. "That's fine and dandy, Colonel Russell. The fact remains that I probably lost the Cherokees for the rest of the war, and I doubt very much if as many Choctaws will step forward to take their place. Much less Chickasaws. There aren't more than four thousand Chickasaws in the whole world to begin with." Jackson's glare intensified. "That's our situation, thanks to these Georgian thieves!"

  Milton scowled, but looked away. "They're not my Georgians, sir," he grumbled. "Most of my troops are from South Carolina. The plundering was done without my knowledge by Georgia militiamen"—he tried one last sally—"and probably some Tennesseans with them."

  If Milton thought Jackson would rise to that bait, he was mistaken. "Probably," Jackson grunted. "And so what? Since you seem so preoccupied with the formal matters of command, Colonel Milton, let me ask you a simple question. Which one of us was in charge of operations in the state of Georgia? Me, or you?"

  There was no safe answer to that question, so Milton subsided into a mulish silence.

  After a few seconds, apparently having decided he'd won his point, Jackson jammed the hat back on his head. That hat was something of a marvel. Somehow, despite all the abuse Jackson inflicted upon the innocent headgear—Sam had now seen him stomp on it twice—the thing still retained a visible resemblance to a general's official hat.

  Of course, it might not be the same hat. Sam wouldn't have been surprised to discover that one of the chests in Jackson's baggage was chock full of the things. The general was perfectly capable of planning ahead of time to bring enough hats with him that he could stomp a dozen of them into oblivion and still appear the next day, as fancily dressed as ever.

  While the officers continued their glaring match, Sam spent his time coming to a decision.

  There were a lot of things about Andrew Jackson that he didn't like—some, he downright detested—but, overall, he had come to develop a profound respect for the man. Even admiration, for that matter.

  Say whatever else you would about Jackson, Sam didn't think there was another man in the country who could have driven this campaign through so relentlessly and effectively, especially given the fact that the general's own health had been wrecked in the process. He'd probably never recover from the bullet wounds in his arm and shoulder that the Benton brothers had inflicted on him last September, in their brawl at the City Hotel in Nashville. He might have, if he'd followed medical advice. But Jackson had refused, as soon as word arrived of the massacre at Fort Mims, in order to assume command of the Tennessee militia. He'd started the campaign just a few weeks after the shoot-out, and had led the whole thing with his left arm wrapped in a sling.

  Sam didn't share Jackson's intense hatred of the British, but he did agree with the general that the current war wasn't the meaningless joke that so many New Englanders thought it was. If the British got the chance, they'd crush the new American republic. Cripple it, for sure. And now that they looked to be on the verge of finally defeating Napoleon, they'd get their chance. They'd send Wellington's veterans across the Atlantic. Except for some of Napoleon's elite units, those were probably the best regular soldiers anywhere in the modern world.

  The war was just heating up, in short—and Sam Houston couldn't think of a commanding officer he'd rather be serving than Andrew Jackson. Whatever his faults.

  And being honest, there was the fact that Sam was ambitious. Like many young men who came from poor circumstances, Sam treasured the republic because it allowed for young men like himself to advance as far as they could, based on their own merits. Sam had every intention of taking advantage of that opportunity.

  On the other hand, he wasn't naive, either. "Merits" were fine and dandy, but having a powerful patron would help an awful lot. The United States was a fine place for a young man to advance himself. Far better than any of the aristocrat-riddled countries of Europe, to be sure. But it was no paradise. Connections and influence mattered, plenty.

  Jackson had already made clear that he was willing to make Sam on
e of his protégés. So far, though, Sam had held off from any definite commitment. Partly, because Jackson's harsh attitudes repelled him some; mostly, just because there had been no clear and specific way to do so.

  There was now, however—and Sam wasn't surprised at all to see that, as soon as the two colonels finally left, Jackson turned to peer at the most junior officer in the tent. He could almost read the general's mind.

  Sam cleared his throat. "I think I've got a way to bring the Cherokees back, sir, yes. But..."

  The words trailed off. Sam wasn't a coward—he certainly wasn't bashful—but even he found that piercing, blue-eyed gaze a bit intimidating.

  Jackson's smile was razor thin. "But there are some conditions. Yes, I thought there might be."

  The general glanced at Coffee and Reid. "Gentleman, if I could have some privacy?"

  Nodding, Coffee left.

  Major Reid was already passing through the tent flap.

  Chapter 9

  When they were gone, Jackson took off his hat and gestured with it toward a chair on the other side of the table. "Have a seat, Sam."

  It was the first time he'd ever used Houston's first name. After Sam took his seat, Jackson laid the hat on the table—gently, this time, taking care not to damage it even further—and pulled out a chair on his side. As soon as the general sat down, he spoke.

  "I'm going to break them, Sam. All of them. The Cherokees and the Choctaws just as much as the Creeks. Don't have any doubt about it. Know that, right from the start."

  Sam took a deep breath. Before he could say anything, Jackson waved his hand impatiently.

  "Spare me your objections. Tarnation, I didn't say it was fair. What in the name of Jesse has 'fair' got to do with any of it? Is it fair that a Cherokee needs eight square miles of land to enjoy his customs and habits, but a crofter in Scotland or Ireland—or England, or Germany, for that matter—has to eke out a living on a tiny patch of poor dirt? Am I supposed to tell my kinsmen—yours, too—who are pouring into America that they should go back and knuckle their foreheads to their noble betters in the old country?"

  He laughed harshly. "Not a chance, Sam. I wouldn't do it even if I could. My loyalties are clear. They're to my own people, and be damned to anyone else. That I learned from my good old mother. And you're going to have to make the same decision, one way or the other."

  Sam had been holding his breath all the way through, without realizing it. Now, he let it out.

  "I don't have a problem with that, General. A man should have his loyalties, and live by them. But I do have a problem— might, anyway—with how it's done."

  "I don't care how it's done," Jackson said firmly. He ran bony fingers through his hair. "If it can be done humanely, though, then that would be fine by me."

  For a moment, his face came as close to softening as that intrinsically ferocious face ever could. "I know the Indians are calling me 'Sharp Knife,' and frankly I don't regret the fact. Not one bit. Rather like it, actually, since it makes things easier for me. But I don't cut people for the pleasure of it, either."

  That was true enough. Andrew Jackson was probably the most belligerent man Sam had ever met, but he wasn't one of those people who took a sick enjoyment in inflicting pain. He could be utterly callous, yes, but you couldn't honestly call him cruel. By reputation, he even treated his slaves better than most plantation owners—although God help a slave who was insubordinate or tried to run away. Jackson would have them lashed, chained, and then sell them.

  Sam thought about it. "It won't be easy," he said.

  "To put it mildly! Say whatever else you want about the sava—ah, our noble red brethren—but nobody's ever accused them of being cowards. Sure, they'll resist. I'll still break them. If I have to, I'll crush them out of existence. Just like some of my none-too-noble ancestors crushed others out of existence. Where are the Ostrogoths and the Lombards now?" The general flicked fingers across his cheek. "Somewhere in here—and in your face, too—mixed in with everything else."

  Sam wasn't surprised by the general's knowledge of history. Whether or not there were any extra hats in Jackson's chests, Sam knew there were books. And not just the Bible and The Vicar of Wakefield that, by reputation, were said to be Jackson's only reading matter. The general's written English might be riddled with eccentric spelling and syntax, but Jackson was far better educated—self-educated, anyway—than most people realized.

  "I don't care about that part of it either," Sam said bluntly. "The Indians aren't any different from our own barbarian ancestors. The Cherokees haven't been in their area for more than a few centuries, probably. They came from farther north, driven out by some other tribe—and I'm sure they didn't hesitate to drive someone else out to make room for themselves. The whole Creek Confederacy is a patchwork of conquered tribes, when you get right down to it.

  "Still and all, they aren't Huns. Once the Creeks broke a tribe, they let them join. Are you prepared to do the same? Make them citizens?"

  To Sam's surprise, Jackson nodded.

  "Real citizens, I mean. Not that half-and-half business we do with the freedmen."

  Freedmen weren't slaves, but they weren't really citizens, either. Not, at least, in any state Sam knew about it. They couldn't run for office—couldn't even vote, for that matter—and were restricted by law in any number of other ways. They couldn't marry whites, for instance.

  Jackson shrugged. "I'm not the Almighty, Sam. I don't have a problem with letting the Indians become full citizens of the country—if they agree to give up their independence. But that's just my personal opinion. You know as well as I do that most states wouldn't agree to it. Not in full, anyway."

  Sam was rather proud of the fact that his eyes—blue, like the general's, if a softer shade—never left Jackson's face.

  After a moment, it was the general who looked away. "All right, tarnation. I'll promise to do what I can. Within reason."

  Jackson usually couldn't stay seated for very long. He rose to his feet, and began pacing.

  "But that's no real solution, and you know it as well as I do." Jackson jerked his head toward the entrance of the tent. "Is that John Ross fellow still here with you?"

  Sam nodded. "Yes, he is. He and James Rogers decided to stay, when all the other Cherokees left. I'm pretty sure The Ridge—Major Ridge, he's calling himself now—told them to do so."

  Jackson grinned. "Major Ridge, is it? He'll grab what he wants from us, in other words, and leave aside the rest. So, tell me, Sam: Is that young Ross, who looks like the spitting image of a Scotsman, any different from the rest? Is he more willing than any of them to give up his political independence?"

  The worst thing to do when dealing with the general was to lie, or even to try fudging the truth. "No, sir. He's flexible, mind you. But he's just as determined as any of them to stay a Cherokee. There are some exceptions, but not many of them would want to become U.S. citizens, even if they had the chance."

  "I didn't think so. And that leaves us with only two options. Let's face the truth squarely, Sam."

  Again, the general jerked his head toward the tent flap. "The United States of America already has an estimated eight million citizens, with more coming across the Atlantic every week. There were eighty thousand Americans alone just in Tennessee when we got statehood twenty years ago—and the population's probably doubled since then. How many Cherokees are there, all told? For that matter, how many people in all the southern tribes put together?"

  Sam spread his hands. "Who knows, really? At a guess—but it's probably a pretty fair one—I'd say there are about twenty thousand Cherokees. They're the biggest tribe, except for maybe the Creeks, so... All told? Maybe eighty thousand."

  Jackson nodded. "And that's eighty thousand people. Not eighty thousand warriors. At best, I doubt all the tribes together could field fifteen thousand men in a war. Not all at once, anyway. And however fierce they can be in a battle, their tribes are fragile because of the way they live. I'll just burn them out,
all of them, like I've been doing to the Creeks. They'll surrender soon enough."

  The general's words were harsh, but Sam knew they weren't anything more than the simple truth. Jackson's soldiers had been systematically burning the towns and riverbank crops of the hostile Creeks as they marched. By now, the Upper Town Creeks were on the edge of starvation, and hundreds of them were coming in to surrender. Soon, it would be thousands.

  The traditional way of war among the southern tribes was a thing of clan feuds and tribal clashes. Short battles and ambushes, usually, followed by a peace settlement. The kind of relentless total war Jackson was waging was simply not something they could deal with.

  Jackson drove it home, as relentlessly as he'd driven the campaign. "They don't stand a chance, Sam, not in the long run. Leave me out of it. Leave the whole U.S. Army out of it. Then what? I'm not even their worst enemy. They can call me Sharp Knife, but what do they think those cussed Georgians are? Tens of thousands of rapacious little razors, that's what."