by Eric Flint
The eyes of all the young cavalrymen went wide. They were more like half-baked dragoons, really; at least two of them were having trouble with their horses. But it didn’t matter. As Driscol had known it would, the name General Winfield Scott served as a talisman. Scott was a genuine war hero. Unlike such wretches as Stansbury, the brigadier had won a real battle against British regulars.
He pointed behind the wagon. “Most of you, take up positions in the rear. You, Pendleton, and you”—he pointed to the other youngster who had spoken up—“ride ahead of us.”
From then on, they made excellent progress. Not even the most desperate or arrogant refugee would argue passage with a cavalry troop, small though it might be. Certainly not one that rode as confidently as one of General Scott’s units, half-baked teenage dragoons or not.
They stopped only once, at Driscol’s insistence. The young cavalrymen were all for pressing onward, but Driscol had too much experience to make that mistake.
“Never go into a battle on an empty stomach, lads. We can spare the few minutes for a late breakfast.”
Fortunately, there were some smoked hams in the wagon. Fortunately also, most of the youngsters came from well-to-do families living in Baltimore, and could afford to pay Crowell for them. For those few who couldn’t, Driscol borrowed a pen and some notepaper from Pendleton—it seemed the boy was a budding Caesar, who had hopes of recording his exploits for posterity—and solemnly scribbled out “official War Department obligations.” He gave them to Crowell to redeem . . .
Well, whenever and however. In truth, the notes were probably about as good as Driscol’s well-nigh illegible handwriting.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” he said softly, “but it’s the best I can do. I just won’t lead men, much less boys, into a fight when they’re getting weak from hunger.”
“Never you mind, Lieutenant,” murmured Crowell, just as solemnly tucking the notes away in his waistband. “I’ll make out fine. As much as you overcharged the rest of them.”
Washington was a ghost town.
Almost all shops and offices were locked and shuttered by the time they arrived, in the sultry heat of midafternoon. The city’s residents were either in flight or hiding in their homes. Before long, they found streets that were full enough, to be sure—but with soldiers, mostly militiamen, in full and furious retreat. Rout, it would be better to say.
By putting together accounts blurted out by fleeing soldiers, Driscol learned that a battle had already been fought. Just outside the capital, it seemed, at the town of Bladensburg.
General Winder had led the American forces, and it sounded as if it had been more farce than anything else. Commodore Barney’s regular naval artillerymen and Captain Miller’s marines had given a very good account of themselves, by the reports. But when the militiamen who were supposed to be guarding their flank ran away after firing not more than two ragged volleys, the artillerymen and marines had been overwhelmed.
For the rest, the less said the better. With uncertain and incompetent officers like Winder leading them, militia forces were about as reliable as rotten wood. At least Beale’s men had put up a bit of a fight before deserting the artillery and marines. The Second and Thirty-sixth Regiments of militia hadn’t even managed that much. The British had unleashed their newfangled and much-feared Congreve rockets, and as soon as they started hissing down like aerial serpents, those regiments had broken and run. Never fired a shot, apparently.
And General Stansbury? Oh, he’d made a splendid showing, in the beginning—riding up and down the lines loudly proclaiming that he’d have any man who ran away sabered by his officers. Fat lot of good that piece of loudmouthery had done him. When the Congreve rockets started flying, the officers had raced off the field just as fast as the men.
Driscol was tempted to rub salt in the wounds, but the abashed looks on the faces of his newly acquired dragoons were good enough. General Stansbury was a joke, and there was no pride to be found in being considered part of his regiment.
Leave it at that. By now it was obvious to Driscol’s experienced eye that the young dragoons had shifted their tacit allegiance over to him. And why not? Their uniforms were too idiosyncratic to register any specific unit identity, and they were volunteers anyway. That being the case, far better to be associated with the name of the hero of Chippewa and his now-legendary First Brigade. Who was to say otherwise? No one, besides Driscol or McParland—and Driscol had no intention of doing so, and McParland would lead where he followed.
Leading them where, though?
Once they reached Pennsylvania Avenue, Driscol could no longer evade the question. Even if his little troop had been composed of grizzled veterans from the emperor’s Imperial Guard, they’d be no match for an army of British regulars.
He didn’t dare hesitate for long, either. Soldiers like the ones who followed him needed a confident commander even more than veteran regulars. Whether he made the right decision or not wasn’t as important as that he made some decision.
In the end, he was the only one who appreciated the irony. He gave a firm order—
“To the president’s house!”
—knowing full well he was just dodging the responsibility. Postponing it, at least. The brick building that housed the War Department stood right next to the president’s mansion. Who was to say? Maybe Driscol would find someone in authority there, who would be able to take charge.
Besides, he told himself as his little troop began trotting down Pennsylvania Avenue, if nothing else, the sight of the mansion would bolster his soldiers’ morale. The official residence of the nation’s chief executive was one of the very few things about Washington, D.C., that was genuinely impressive.
Even if, he’d been told, the roof still leaked.
CHAPTER 20
As Driscol and his party made their way up Pennsylvania Avenue, soldiers from various fragments of the army that had been routed at Bladensburg fell in alongside them. Judging from their loud complaints, it was obvious that all of them were disgruntled, and many were downright angry at the situation. These men hadn’t been beaten, really. They’d been routed due to confusion and inexperience, or because they’d been given orders to retreat. Much against their will, in many cases.
“That blasted Winder’s a traitor, I’m telling you!” shouted one young sailor. He and a dozen of his mates were from the artillery battery under the command of Commodore Barney. That was, by all accounts and not just their own, one of the few units which had fought well at Bladensburg. They hadn’t retreated until the militiamen guarding their flank had broken, and Barney himself had been badly wounded.
“The only reason we’re heading to Georgetown is because those are Winder’s orders!” another sailor protested. “The hull army’s supposed to gather and reorganize there. And don’t that just cap the climax!”
Angrily, the naval artilleryman pointed down Pennsylvania Avenue. “Why in Sam Hill aren’t we planning to defend the Capitol? A gang of Baltimore plug-uglies could hold the place!”
Looking back down the avenue in the direction the sailor was pointing, Driscol decided he was right. Pennsylvania Avenue was littered with soldiers and sailors plodding sullenly toward Georgetown. There was a good-sized military force there, if it could be organized and given firm leadership.
The more so, because the nation’s Capitol building could easily be transformed into something of a fortress. The twin buildings stood atop Jenkins Hill—what people were now starting to call Capitol Hill—so they occupied the high ground in the area. And the two wings were solidly built, with thick brick walls clad in sandstone, even if they were only linked by a covered wooden walkway. The central dome that was intended to connect the two houses of the nation’s legislature hadn’t yet been erected.
All the better, Driscol thought to himself. The British would be approaching from the east, and artillery could be emplaced between the two buildings. Riflemen firing from the windows could protect the artillerymen while they did
the real slaughtering of the Sassenach as they were struggling their way up the hill.
He could see it all in his mind, quite vividly. The enemy could eventually seize the impromptu fortress, but that would take time and require heavy casualties, neither of which the British could afford. This raid of theirs, Driscol was well-nigh certain, was a risky gamble on their part. There was no possibility that the British forces could hope to hold the area for more than a few days. Washington was just too close to the centers of the U.S. population. Their real target was New Orleans and the mouth of the Mississippi. That, they could hold, if they took it.
This was simply a diversion, he thought, to keep Americans confused and befuddled while the enemy organized their main strike in the Gulf of Mexico. But, that being so, Admiral Cochrane couldn’t afford to suffer many casualties here. He’d need those soldiers later. And if Cochrane allowed his little army to spend too much time in Washington, the risk would grow by the hour that they might be cut off and captured by American forces coming to the capital city from the surrounding area.
Driscol suspected that this entire operation was really Rear Admiral Cockburn’s pet project, which he’d foisted on a somewhat reluctant Cochrane. Cockburn seemed to take a special glee in burning American property. He was said to be much offended by the way he’d been portayed in American newspapers, none more so than Washington’s National Intelligencer.
Driscol looked down at the aggrieved sailor and his companions. They could be a start, coupled with his few dozen young dragoons . . .
Then, mentally, he shook his head. He was a practical and hardheaded man, and he knew full well that he was not the officer to rally broken and confused troops like these. His new rank notwithstanding, Driscol was a sergeant by training and by temperament. If someone else rallied some troops, then—oh, certainly—he would know what to do with them. He’d keep them firm, if nothing else. But the rallying itself had to be done by a different sort of officer.
It didn’t even have to be a commander like Winfield Scott, for that matter. Military skill, knowledge, and experience wasn’t really needed here. Someone like General Jacob Brown would do splendidly. Brown was almost as tall as Scott, possibly even more handsome and imposing looking, and every bit as decisive. And he could speechify well, too.
Decisiveness aside, Driscol was none of those things. He knew perfectly well how he appeared to the sailors who were staring up at him. Squat, troll ugly, weathered, and battered by life—and now missing an arm, to boot. A figure to bolster men, not to inspire them. The fact that he’d appeared before them on a wagon driven by a Negro instead of riding a horse didn’t help any, of course.
Then again, maybe inspiration could be found up ahead. The president’s mansion was only a short distance away.
“Fall in with us,” Driscol commanded, pointing to the impressive-looking edifice. “Let’s see if there’s someone in command there who isn’t a fool and a poltroon.”
“He’s a traitor, I tell you!” the sailor insisted. But he and his mates seemed to be relieved to find someone willing to take charge.
As the sailors started to take their positions, Driscol leaned over and bestowed a smile upon them.
“A lesson here, lads, which I’ve spent a lifetime learning. Never explain something on the grounds of wickedness, when simple stupidity will do the trick.”
The sailors looked dubious. Driscol nodded his head firmly. “Oh, yes, it’s quite true. Brigadier Scott even told me an ancient philosopher had proved it. Fellow by the name of Ockham.”
He straightened up in the wagon seat. “The English, of course, being the exception that proves the rule.”
“You know Brigadier Scott?” asked one of the sailors. For the first time, the expression on his face and that of his mates as they looked up at Driscol was not and who is this ragamuffin?
Before Driscol could answer, McParland piped up. The young private was sitting atop the foodstuffs stacked in the wagon bed.
“Sure does! He was the brigadier’s master sergeant. Got a field promotion to lieutenant after he lost his arm at the Chippewa.” Pride filled the youngster’s voice. “He was in my regiment, the Twenty-second. I was right there when he got wounded. Sergeant Driscol never even flinched. Just had me bind up the wound while he kept shouting the firing orders.”
Now they were genuinely impressed. That still wasn’t the same thing as inspiration. But it was a start.
As his ragtag little army continued toward the president’s house, Driscol turned his head, to give McParland a meaningful look. He’d learned by now that the seventeen-year-old boy was quick-witted, despite his rural ignorance. McParland took the hint, and slid off the wagon. He’d walk alongside the sailors the rest of the way, regaling them with tales of exploits.
Mostly his own, of course.
“Whatever you do . . .” McParland’s voice drifted forward. The boy still hadn’t learned that a “whisper” addressed to a dozen people carried almost as far as a shout. “. . . don’t ever cross the sergeant. Uh, lieutenant, I mean.” A few words faded off; then: “. . . not sure he’s really human. A lot of the fellows thought he was one of those trolls you hear about in . . .”
It was all Driscol could do to maintain a solemn face.
“. . . made the mistake of arguing with him over an order when I first showed up in the regiment. Next thing I knew he had me in front of a firing squad.”
Driscol didn’t need to turn around. He could practically see the wide eyes of the young sailors.
“—’strue! The muskets was loaded with blanks, o’ course, or I wouldn’t be here today to tell the tale. But I almost pissed my pants—and let me tell you, I never argued with the sergeant again.
“Nobody does, what knows him. He tells you to jump into a lake, all you ask is ‘how far’.”
A good start, indeed.
“I will have those twelve-pounders, sir!” Sam Houston insisted, rising in the saddle. “What’s the gol-derned use of hauling the things all the way to Georgetown?”
After clambering aboard his own horse, William Simmons glared at him.
“None, Captain, for all I know! But General Winder has given explicit orders for all troops to abandon the capital and rally at Georgetown. Unless you intend to be insubordinate, you must follow his orders. And so must I—and I will not have these guns fall into the hands of the enemy!”
Sam studied the man for a moment. Simmons was an accountant for the War Department, for whom the entire day had been hours of sheer chaos. The intense heat of an August day in Washington didn’t help matters. There were clouds gathering in the sky, but the humidity was as intense as ever. By now, in the middle of the afternoon, the man was a festering bundle of weariness, anger, uncertainty, and confusion.
Unfortunately, although he was a civilian, Simmons’s position gave him something in the way of authority here, for the mob of militiamen who’d gathered around the president’s house. The fact that Simmons had taken it upon himself to order the mansion’s sole remaining servant to bring out the presidential brandy and serve it as refreshments for the soldiers had sealed the matter.
So.
There was no point in pulling out lofty citations from the Iliad in this situation. That left wheedling and conniving. Sam was good at both of those, too, if his mother’s opinion was anything to go by.
Sam gave the accountant his most winning smile, then pointed to the carriage of the nearest twelve-pounder, perched beside the front gate of the president’s house. “I ask you to consider something, sir. These are ornamental guns, you know. Look at the carriages. Purely decorative! Those wheels will break long before you could reach the heights of Georgetown.”
Simmons stared at the two cannons. Sam’s statements were . . .
Preposterous. The field guns were perfectly serviceable, and their carriages in splendid condition.
Before he could say anything, however, Sam hurried on, now speaking quietly. “It’s an explanation, after all, should
General Winder ever inquire about the matter.”
For a moment, Sam thought Simmons’s angry expression was aimed at him.
“That’s hardly likely!” the accountant snapped. Then, sourly: “I was dismissed from the War Department just last month, you know—after twenty years of service.” His expression turned more sullen than ever. “’Twas due to a clash between myself and Secretary of War Armstrong, concerning proper accounting procedures. All the sense in the world is wasted on men like him and Winder.”
For a moment, Sam considered using Simmons’s newly admitted lack of authority against him. But that wouldn’t do much good with the militiamen who surrounded them. In Sam’s experience, men were prone to support any fine fellow who handed out free liquor.
Again, Odysseus was called for, not Achilles.
“It was certainly unfortunate that Secretary Armstrong chose to place General Winder in command of the city’s defenses. What could he have been thinking?”
“What, indeed!” Simmons barked. He gazed for a moment longer on the twelve-pounders, before his eyes came back to Sam.
“And just what do you propose to do with them, my fine young captain? Two twelve-pounders will hardly hold off the enemy.”
Truth to tell, Sam didn’t really have a good answer to that question. All he knew was that the moment he caught sight of those two splendid guns, when he and his companions arrived at the president’s house, he was bound and determined to do something with them.
But this was no time for public uncertainty. “General Jackson had but a six- and a three-pounder at the Horseshoe Bend, you know. I was there, and I can tell you they gave excellent service.”
That was a black lie. The things had been completely useless, and Sam had the scar on his leg to prove it. Nevertheless, he pressed on with assurance and good cheer. “These will do well enough, Mr. Simmons.”
