by Anthology
Houston inclined his head. “And I remember reading how Tom Jefferson said every civilized man has two mother countries, his own and France.”
“You are gracious, my general. But I speak about policy, necessity. Se pervenche—se, se periwinkle?—it ’as lovely flowers. But a prudent gardener will not let it grow freely. Else it soon overruns se ’ole garden.”
“Well, sure, our population’s growin’ pretty fast, but if that’s all you mean—”
“A single part of my intention. Sere are many sings to make sis conflict ineluctable. May I speak frankly?”
Houston rolled smoke over his tongue and streamed it forth. “Go ahead. I don’t care for pussyfootin’.”
“W’y did you not accept your defeat gracefully after se last war and abide by se quite generous terms we granted? A spirit of revenge? ’Ope to gain back w’at you lost, and more? I sink only in part. I sink you fear, far down inside your souls, sat if you do not eat se Empire, it will piece by piece eat you. And so you ’ave acted to become se predator before you become se prey.”
“Come on, now! This war has perfectly plain causes.”
“Oh, your President Polk, ’e was shrewd. I admire ’is timing. A debated succession in Paris w’ile se sepoys mutiny in India and rebellion erupts in Sout’ America—yes, a well-chosen year to increase se provocations beyond w’at we could tolerate.”
Houston flushed. “I ought to resent that,” he snapped.
“Please do not be angry. You said I could express my honest opinion. My friend, se very presence of se United States subverts us. Our German colonists in Louisiana, our British in Canada, our Spanish and Portuguese everyw’ere else, sey see you independent and grow restless. Se Russians in seir Nort’western possession, sey, too, remember because of you ’ow once seir Tsar was not anosser lackey but lord of ’is own empire. And your illegals in our fur trade, sey were also inevitable. But you deliberately send agents out, stirring up revolt. You wink at piracy. Your forcing se wild Sauk and Winnebago tribes across our border, sat was only w’at you call se last straw.”
“Well, if your government had been more willin’ to negotiate—”
“Let us not deal in excuses. I am not angry, me. Sis is all in se nature of nations.” Lamoureux paused. “And we Europeans, we are accustomed to taking se long view. We can let you wait for our full attention. Meanw’ile, pardon me, but it seems you cannot ’old New Orleans. I beg you surrender it before sere is more useless killing. I can speak for you to my colleagues. Santa Ana is fled. Se French aut’orities ’o are left, sey still listen a little to an old man’s words. I sink we could arrange you march out wit’ full honors, if you do it soon.”
Houston stiffened. “I’m not a sailor,” he snapped, “but I’ll quote John Paul Jones anyway: ‘I have just begun to fight.’” A loud rap sounded on the door. “Come in!”
An ensign stepped through and saluted. He was young, white-checked, shaken. “Sir,” he blurted, “they need you back in the staff room. The Virginians are returnin’. They, they report new hostile troops, a swarm of ’em—”
Houston was already out the door.
The enemy did not give pursuit. Maybe no one saw Payne’s retreat through the driving rain. Maybe no one thought it worth the trouble and risk, when the noose was being drawn tighter around the city and it was unsure what American forces might be where to the north. Payne didn’t know or much care. He was content to offer thanks, and ride.
The next days were nevertheless hellish. He didn’t head straight east for U.S. territory; yon bridge was surely well guarded, with French at both ends of it. Instead he took his band northeast cross-country, fording the Bogue Chitto, till he came on the road along the Pearl River and followed that north. It was broad, graveled, well graded, a military highway in both the Empire and the Republic. The stream provided water. But there was no food for men, and mainly snatched grass for horses. Once beyond the marshlands, territory higher and drier, they passed plenty of farms and villages. However, crops weren’t ripe, and they dared not stop to forage. The best they could grab was an occasional pig or some chickens, which didn’t go far whenever they took a few hours’ rest. Otherwise they must struggle on, while inhabitants stared after them in sullen resentment.
Struggle it was, ever more, as hunger and exhaustion whittled on them. Three of the wounded developed fever and died, to be buried in shallow graves with a hasty prayer. Soon half a dozen others could go no longer. Payne left them in the churches nearest to where they gave out, hoping the priests would keep the people from lynching them. Because this took time, and he must do it for each, talking to that man, taking whispered messages for folks at home, it hurt still worse than it had hurt to leave the wholly incapacitated behind on the battlefield alongside the dead. Officers might expect good treatment and eventual parole; enlisted prisoners’ chances of surviving malnourishment and sickness in the stockades were poor.
The platoon must keep moving, though. It was God’s mercy that they weren’t attacked. To be sure, when Houston came down through here, he captured and burned every outpost on his way, widely to right and left. Maybe the garrisons hadn’t yet been replaced. Maybe the Imperials figured it was smarter for the time being just to keep patrols about, on the watch for any new invasion—for the Americans had cut their telegraph lines, and when they got their first reinforcements, they cut those the Americans had strung. Be that as it may, if a detachment spied Payne’s starvelings and sent after assistance, that would be that.
The border was ghostly. When word came that war had been declared, the French struck at once out of New Orleans, unexpectedly hard. They reduced Fort Burr to ruin before they withdrew. Now their Fort Lafitte was likewise charred timbers, ashes, and bones among broken things.
Few Americans had ventured to settle hereabouts, when the exact line between the Grand Duchy of Louisiana and the state of Mississippi remained in dispute and was, in fact, one occasion of this war. Greenwood brooded on either side of the road, heavy with shadows and earth odors. A squirrel ran up a tree, a cardinal winged by in vivid scarlet, a mockingbird trilled—somehow they sharpened desolation. Payne’s troop stumbled onward.
Then on the fourth evening of their journey—or the fifth? He could not immediately remember—Hog Eye glided out of some brush. The scout alone had seemed immune to misery and, sparing his mount, ranged around afoot, Indian-style. He drew nigh the lieutenant’s stirrup and said, impassivity yielding to a broad grin, “Hurry now. Your soldiers. Short ride.”
A cheer of sorts muttered along the lines as the news passed back. The animals themselves seemed to smell relief. Their heads lifted, and when the forest stopped, they broke into a trot. Hoofs thumped, metal jingled. By God, Payne thought, we’ll meet them like Virginians.
Road and river wound on through a plantation. Sun-beams from the west reached long across pastures where livestock grazed, fields of sprouting corn and cotton, shade trees around the big house. At this hour the slaves must be done hoeing and back in their cabins. Southbound with Houston, Payne had wondered whether so big a property so near the frontier wasn’t tempting Fate. Well, he’d decided, the owner of such a spread could afford enough armed guards to put up a resistance till help came from Pearl Bridge Station.
That had been Payne’s goal, the Army post where the military railroad crossed this river on its way to the Mississippi. Natchez was likely in French hands, but he felt sure the enemy hadn’t made it much farther east. He’d report in and stand by for whatever orders came over the wire. Probably they’d be to feed his men up and wait till the reinforcements arrived, then join them.
But yonder the regiments were! So they’d already reached Pearl Bridge, made it the place where they got off the trains, and started toward New Orleans. For a hysterically funny moment Payne speculated on how Massa felt about his rescuers, bivouacked in choice meadows that would be trampled clay tomorrow morning.
Never mind. “Bugler,” Payne croaked, “I want ‘dress lines’ and a s
mart advance. Scout”—to Hog Eye—“back in your saddle and ride on my left.” He didn’t quite know why he said that, unless it was because the Cherokee, not in uniform but in leather and oddments, was neater and cleaner than anybody else, and was Sam Houston’s man.
Fires smoked, tents stood taut, sentries paced across acres. Horses seemed a lot fewer than mules, field guns about as many as supply wagons. Mostly infantry and artillery, passed through Payne’s mind. Cavalry was auxiliary and minor. Crossing a ridge, from the crest he caught an overview of the camp. It was laid out as a grid, with mathematical precision. Vague memories stirred, Latin classes, Roman castra. Were the cannon on the perimeter placed equally exactly? He was too tired and hungry to be certain.
A squad of riders galloped to meet him. Their uniforms were a darker blue than his. The corporal in charge saluted crisply. “Where are you from, please, sir?” he asked. His accent twanged flat.
Payne identified himself, his command, and their point of departure. The corporal whistled. “Quite a ways, sir. Uh, we’re the Fifth and Seventh Illinois, the Third Michigan, and the Wisconsin Rangers.”
Wonder drove fatigue from Payne’s attention. “Michigan, Wisconsin? Shouldn’t you be holdin’ the Canada line?”
“No need, sir. Not that we hear much in the ranks, but I do know the Yankees have got Maine back and are moving in on Quebec. Maybe they’ve taken it by now; maybe Montreal, too. The Canucks got enough to keep ’em busy.” The corporal broke off. “Beg pardon, sir. Not for me to talk about.” He was quite young. “If the lieutenant please, let’s proceed. Our officers will get you quartered fast, I bet.”
Maine is ours! Gladness jumped in Payne. The next peace treaty, by God, we won’t cede it again. And we’ll kick all the goddamn Pierres out, too.
Exhilaration sank as he rode into a section where the tents sheltered Negroes. Negroes, armed, a few bearing stripes on their sleeves—he’d been aware of such units but never expected to see any in these parts. Better keep his mouth shut, though. He must admit they were as clean and orderly as the whites. In truth, the entire camp, thousands of men, hummed and clicked quietly. Also around their fires, they sat alert, and sprang up to salute when they saw the bars on his shoulders. It was more like a military academy than any army in the field.
A Southern army, that is, he realized.
Heartiness waited at the end of his ride, in the person of a large blond captain named Bergmann, who bade him welcome and bawled orders in a German accent. Payne was quickly seated on a folding stool, a tin cup of coffee in one hand and a sandwich in the other. His platoon was dispersed among surrounding groups—“Ve vill assemble dem in de morning, Lieutenant”—except for Hog Eye. “Johansen, you take de Inchun ofer to de niggers and tell Sergeant Grant to zee to him.” Payne paid slight heed. How good to shed responsibility for a while and rest, rest, rest. Warmth crept into the corners of him. He nodded…
Bergmann shook him awake. “Kvick! De general vants you should report. Aftervard vill be a cot and zix nice hours sleep for you. First ve clean you a liddle, ha?”
Payne blinked. “Wouldn’t the general understand how come I’m dirty?”
“Yah, yah, but you vant to be like a pig? Ve are zoldiers here, boy. Got hot vater, zoap, sponch, and den clean clothes vot fit maybe not too bad. Ve vash and repair your own outfit later.”
Scrubbing himself, Payne regained some life. Nor did it hurt that the uniform lent him was Ranger. Everybody knew what those boys had done in the Indian wars.
Bergmann guided him to the commander’s tent, chatting at drumfire rate. He was among the Germans who’d emigrated after King Joseph hanged the signers of the Heidelberg Manifesto and put down the uprising that resulted. Soon he was altogether devoted to his adopted country. It had given him a farm, presently a family and a vote. The stiff service requirements of Illinois—cadet corps; three full years after leaving school; then three months’ active duty annually, till the war made it full-time again—were to him less a task than a joy, a second occupation more interesting than his cows and corn. “Europeans, bah! Ve vip dem back to deir kennels and teach dem respect for men, by damn!”
“You’ve got tough opposition ahead,” Payne warned. “I think, from what I’ve seen, you’ll be pretty heavily outnumbered.”
Bergmann spat. “Numbers? Dey don’t know how to fight no more dan packs of dogs. Ve seen action against dem already in Minnesota. I don’t fink does greaser troops here giff us any more trouble dan de frogs did.”
“M-m, I hope you haven’t left the North unguarded.”
“No, no. We is just vat de high command can spare.”
Payne mustered nerve. “Is that how come you got niggers along?”
Bergman blinked. “Vot you got against darkies? Dey do serfice same like us. Ve don’t haff slafes in de Nort’.”
“I know. But, well, sir, not meanin’ any offense or anything, but I don’t believe it’s wise bringin’ them south. The sight could give ours ideas. I’d hate havin’ to make examples, the way they had to in ’Bama a few years ago.”
“You got dem kviet, dough, did you not?” It was hard to tell by the yellow sunset glow whether Bergmann’s face reddened. His tone chilled. “You should not talk, boy. I saw dat Inchun vit’ you. I hear you Sudderners got whole corps of Inchuns. Dat is de great mistake. Vere I come from, ve know does murdering saffages too vell.”
Payne swallowed. “Sorry, sir. I told you I didn’t mean any offense.” Let the newcomers argue with Sam Houston, if they dared.
Bergmann eased. “All right, all right. Not to vorry much, so long as vite men keep strongest, ha? Maybe better first ye vorry about all dose Jews coming in.”
“Well, true, we are gettin’ quite a few of them in our seaboard cities. Not like among the Yankees, not yet…”
But then they had reached the big tent. Lanterns inside filled it with dull light, unrestful shadows, and oil smells.
Major General Stephen Watts Kearny sat behind a table, maps spread before him, taking notes. From time to time he lifted a briar pipe from a bowl and took a puff. Nonetheless his appearance, his manner, the whole iron-gray being of him made Payne, bathed or no, feel like a boy caught in truancy. Lieutenant and captain snapped salutes. Kearny returned the gesture and indicated two campstools. “At ease,” he said.
“Be seated, gentlemen.” Despite long service elsewhere, a trace of the Northeast lingered in his voice.
Payne and Bergmann made haste to obey. “I gather you’ve quite a story to tell us,” the general continued. “We’re happy for all the information we can get. Well done, Lieutenant.”
He’s human, Payne thought. He don’t act easy like old Sam, but he’s no martinet; and you better not bungle with Houston, either. “Thank you, sir.”
“Speak. Proceed chronologically if you can.”
Payne commenced. Kearny interrupted after a minute: “It isn’t clear to me how that first lot of fresh Imperials arrived right after you took New Orleans, and bottled you up. No proper account came through.”
“No, sir, I reckon not. I hear tell our dispatcher was still sendin’ when they showed, and barely got away.”
“Do you happen to know?”
“We officers of the Appomattox Horse were told, sir. You see, we were to make a sortie against a siege gun the enemy was bringin’ to bear. General Houston reckoned somethin’ like this might happen, some of us be forced north. Not that he knew more troops were on their way, but it could’ve happened somehow. In that case, we might as well try carryin’ the news. I don’t s’pose any of his couriers made it to Pearl Bridge?”
“Evidently not. You were lucky; you men. Of course, mine wouldn’t have heard anything while they were crammed in the troop trains, but when we arrived, no further word was waiting for me.”
A vision passed before Payne, wires and rails spread across a fourth of the continent, electrical halloos racing north and east—surely to end in the head of the supreme commander, old Winfield Scott—and the
n the decision, the orders, and locomotives fired up a thousand miles away, men and animals embarking, guns and munitions and stores loaded—how fast it had gone, after all. They were sharp enough in the South, but you would not have seen that kind of machine efficiency there. And the lonesome whistles through the night, the prairie miles falling behind—yes, his countrymen had built strongly on the foundations that President Jackson laid.
“Well, what did go wrong?” Kearny demanded.
“The way I was told, sir, while our main army made straight for New Orleans, a couple of regiments swung down into West Florida and ripped out the rail lines, figurin’ then the Imperials couldn’t get troops from there to Louisiana till we were settled in too firmly for them.”
Kearny nodded. “That’s obvious. Westward, the Empire hasn’t got much this side of the Rio Grande, and the Comanches and Mexican guerrillas keep it occupied. Go on.”
“Well, sir, what I heard—it was learned from prisoners, I reckon—was that the French had a lot of ships at Cuba that we didn’t know about. Navy, fixin’ to move against ours. And there’s a cable between Havana and St. Augustine. So the steamers that they had amongst them went to Florida, took on the Spanish units, and carried them across the Gulf to Lake Borgne. Caught us by surprise, they did, and drove us back into the city.”
Kearny tugged his neat beard. “I thought that was how it might have been.”
“And now, sir, they’ve fetched still more. I don’t know where from. Northwards, I’d guess. But anyhow, I saw ’em comin’, just when my platoon was out there disablin’ that cannon. They’ll have numbers now to bar those narrow strips of land around Lake Pontchartrain—”
Kearny chopped the words off. “Leave strategy and tactics to your superiors, Lieutenant. What I want you to do is think back, think hard, ransack your memory.”
His questions flew like musket balls, probing into the chaos that had been action, striking after facts, estimates, possibilities. When at length he said, “Enough,” Payne barely checked himself from collapsing off his stool.
