by Eric Flint
Houston nodded. “Sure. Let people push you and they’ll push you forever. But the other mistake is to push back when you’re standing on thin air. Which is where you are today, John—and, if you’re honest, you know it yourself. General Jackson will strip you of your land, sooner or later, don’t think he won’t. And how will you stop him? On that land?”
“And you’ll support him,” came the accusation.
Houston didn’t flinch. “If it comes to it, yes. I’ll fight for a worthy cause, John, but this one is already lost. And in the meantime, my own nation—the only republic on the face of the earth—needs that land to grow. Which is also a worthy cause, and one which is not lost.” He shrugged. “I don’t claim that it’s ‘just,’ because I couldn’t begin to figure that out. ‘Justice’ mostly depends which side you’re on—and I’m an American, when all is said and done.
“Give yourself another cause, though, John, and you can count on me. My word on it.”
Ross’s gaze came back to Driscol. “And your word?”
Driscol snorted. “Do I look like a bloody gentleman? My word! That wouldn’t buy you a pint of whiskey. But I will give you my advice, as a soldier. Any commander who insists on standing his ground when the battle is lost is a fool and a blunderer. Worse than that, he’s a killer of his own men. Retreat’s never pleasant, but there are times when it’s necessary. Retreat, regroup, and fight again on ground that favors you.”
He looked at Tiana. She and her brothers. If she’d been grinning earlier, she wasn’t now. Neither she nor her kinsmen. Driscol continued. “I don’t know much about your nation, but this much is obvious—you’re in no condition to even fight this battle, much less win it. So do what’s necessary. Retreat in order to buy yourselves the time you need. Whether you use that time wisely or not, of course, will be up to you. But that’s no business of mine.”
“What is your business, then?” Tiana interjected, before Ross could say anything.
Driscol shrugged, uncomfortably. “What I agreed to.” He jerked a thumb at Houston. “Help this young idiot buy you the time.”
“That’s not what I meant. What is your business?”
He stared at her blankly. “I’m a soldier, girl.”
She shook her head. “That’s a trade, not a business. You could have chosen to take the English king’s colors. Plenty of Scotsmen and Irishmen do. And don’t tell me otherwise! My father was a Tory soldier in the Revolution, after he came here from Scotland.” Impishly: “Although he’ll never admit it today.”
Driscol’s mind was a blank. “I still don’t understand the question, girl.”
“I’m sixteen years old. And Cherokee. So I’m not a girl.”
She gave her brothers a quick, fierce, warning glance. Wisely, they kept their peace.
Then, with that impish smile that Driscol could feel pulling him like the tides: “What I think, Patrick Driscol, is that your business is lost causes.” She gave Houston a cool, dismissing sniff. “Whatever he thinks about it.”
Private McParland burst into the room.
“Dolley Madison’s back! And she says there’s going to be a victory ball.”
“And how did I get talked into this, too?” Driscol grumbled.
Houston had no sympathy at all, as could be expected from a man who was not only the favored dancing partner of the evening but who could also—was there anything the blasted youngster wasn’t good at?—dance superbly well. He was only at Driscol’s side to hear the grumble, in fact, because he was taking a moment’s break.
“Stop grousing, Patrick. You could learn to dance, if you wanted to. All that stands in your way is that surly peasant attitude.” He mimicked Driscol’s rasping voice: “ ‘Dancin’s for stinkin’ decadent gentlemen. Damme if I will.’ ”
He gave Driscol a grin, and then was swirled away by yet another Washington belle. Her matronly dame, rather, who plucked Houston off with expert skill in order to introduce her daughter.
Or daughters.
Or nieces.
Or several of each, all at once.
It was almost laughable. Not only was Houston the young and glamorous hero of the hour. Sooner than Driscol could have imagined possible, the word had spread through the city’s distaff elite—most of Baltimore’s, too, it seemed, British threat be damned—that he was a bachelor to boot. Dolley Madison’s sponsorship of the evening’s affair would have guaranteed a large crowd, anyway. With the added attraction of Houston . . .
—he’s got Monroe’s favor, they say—
—Jackson’s too, I hear. Of course, he’s a roughneck—Jackson, I mean; they say Houston’s quite the gentleman—but still—
Driscol did chuckle, then. Why not? Like his brother had been, Houston was a man who found women just as charming as they found him. Driscol might feel completely out of place here, but Houston was in his element. And if there wasn’t much chance that he’d be successfully wooed tonight, or even in the few weeks before they’d have to leave for New Orleans, there was always the possibility that the basis might be laid for later success. Marriages in America’s high society rarely proceeded with any great speed anyway. Calculating matrons always knew they had time on their side, after all.
Whatever else he might be, Houston was obviously ambitious. That was considered a virtue in the new republic, not a vice—but it still had to be done virtuously. That meant marriage, among other things, and at a reasonably early age. The commonly held attitude, among men and women alike, was that if a man was still unmarried in his thirties, he was suspect for some reason. Whether because he was riddled with vice, or simply unwilling to assume the responsibility of an adult, who could say?
But any hope of a political career would start plummeting thereafter—and in the United States in the year 1814, there was no real distinction between a political career and most others suited to a gentleman. Officer, lawyer, planter, merchant—they all wove in and out of the political corridors.
So, Houston would have to make a suitable marriage, sooner or later. That was a given, and matrons could calculate accordingly. If he dillydallied for a few years—which he very well might; he was only twenty-one, still young to be a husband—there were always younger daughters or nieces coming down the line.
Driscol’s wry observations were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. The left shoulder, which surprised him. Most people were gingerly about—
Most people. He knew who owned the hand before he even looked. She’d not care, he realized. Neither about the missing arm, nor about whatever sensitivities he might have regarding the loss.
Well enough. It struck him as a reasonable bargain. If she’d accept the missing limb, he’d accept the fact that she didn’t care about it.
“And what may I do for you, Miss Rogers?”
“You still haven’t answered my question, Lieutenant. Neither one, in fact.”
Driscol tried to remember the first question. He couldn’t. Couldn’t remember the more recent one, for that matter. It was a bit frightening, the way the woman could muddle his mind.
She wasn’t smiling impishly, though. Smiling, yes, but the undertones seemed a bit melancholy. Without warning, she changed the subject.
“Can you teach me to dance? Like this, I mean. I don’t dare go out there and start dancing the way we do at the Green Corn ceremony.”
Driscol stared at the city’s upper crust, busy with their elaborate . . . whatever it was. A quadrille, he thought. He wasn’t sure.
“No, I suppose not. They’d be scandalized.”
He was having a hard time—a very hard time—keeping his eyes on the dance instead of Tiana. Somewhere, somehow—Driscol suspected the subtle hand of the secretary of state at work—Tiana had managed to get herself outfitted in a real gown. It was the first time he’d ever seen her in clothing designed to be decorative, rather than utilitarian, and he’d been struck by her beauty even in such.
Dolley Madison had transformed fashion in Washington, ever since her hus
band had become president. She favored French fashions, in particular what the French called the “Empire” style. That was their own, somewhat more flamboyant version of the Greek Revival fashions that had swept Britain for the past few years.
Tiana’s gown was a fairly typical example. White in color, very simple in design, it was patterned after the flowing lines of ancient Greek robes. The soft muslin fabric clung to her body and was so thin it was almost sheer. For all the fancy lacework and geometric designs that decorated the hems—also patterned on ancient Greek models—the gown was basically a very expensive nightgown.
Anywhere except at a formal ball, Tiana would have been wearing a chemisette underneath for modesty. But here, she wasn’t, and the low-cut square décolletage and the high waist of the gown emphasized her very feminine figure. She wasn’t an especially bosomy woman, but with her size and firm musculature, it hardly mattered. The bare flesh of her shoulders and upper chest was . . .
Dazzling. All the more so because the long and slender lines of the gown as a whole made her stand out even more than she would have anyway. Tiana was the tallest woman there—and made no attempt to hide the fact.
Dolley Madison was perhaps thirty feet away and having a conversation with several other women. Tiana glanced at them and smiled wryly. Then, stroked fingers through her long black hair.
“At least I’m not wearing a turban, like they are. As if they were Cherokees! I think I scandalize these people enough as it is.”
Driscol felt a moment’s anger, as he always did when confronted by hypocrisy. The scandal wouldn’t be caused by Tiana’s Indian heritage. Full-blooded Indians had been appearing at fancy affairs in European dress for two centuries now, in Europe as well as America, and no one thought anything of it.
But Tiana was obviously a half-breed. Her hair, her skin color, her features—the blue eyes that were so startling against those prominent cheekbones and dark complexion—all these were signs, to a gentry that preferred to think otherwise, that the lines they drew around themselves blurred at the edges.
It was mostly a southern gentry, too, which made it all the worse. None of those proper Virginia and Maryland matrons wanted to be reminded that, often enough, some of the children of their slaves had a readily recognizable father.
He could feel himself starting to slip into an old, familiar bleakness. Vileness, everywhere he looked. But Tiana’s little laugh pulled him out.
“But that’s not what I’m worried about!” Again, she sniffed. It was quite an impressive sniff, too; no proper matron could have done better. “I don’t care what those people think. It’s when I got back! The Green Corn Festival is a religious affair, you know. Well, no, you probably didn’t. But it is. If my people found out—” She shivered slightly. “I’d never hear the end of it.”
Driscol realized again how little he knew about the Cherokees, or any other Indian tribe. “Well, look on the bright side. They wouldn’t be able to say much of anything to you, for a few years. You’ll be in school up here. By the time you get back, they might have forgotten.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to school. I’m going back with you and Captain Houston next month.”
Driscol’s startlement must have been obvious. “Ah.”
“Didn’t Sam tell you?”
He tried to control the sudden excitement that filled him. Confusion also. He’d been assuming that in a few weeks, after he left for New Orleans, he wouldn’t see Tiana again for . . .
Who was to say? Months, at the very least. Quite possibly forever.
He’d become reconciled to the fact. Even relieved, in some ways. Now, realizing that he’d be in the woman’s company, indefinitely, he didn’t know what to think.
Or do.
Or feel.
Well, that last was a lie. He knew exactly how he felt. He’d never been so thrilled in his life.
“No,” he said, almost choking out the word. “He didn’t.”
“I’m not surprised.” Her eyes moved across the crowd. Not for long, since Houston was easy to spot.
Driscol couldn’t determine what was in those eyes. Sadness? Anger?
Perhaps neither. The fact that Driscol thought all people were essentially the same beneath the skin didn’t mean they all thought alike. Otherwise, why would he have spent half his lifetime in the single-minded pursuit of slaying his English “brethren”?
“I only came here on a whim, really,” she said softly. “Call it a childhood’s fancy.”
Driscol knew about the girl’s oft-proclaimed intentions with regard to Houston. James and John Rogers had been with him through most of the battle, and they were fond of joking. Indeed, they joked about most everything.
Tiana studied Houston for a bit. He was swirling everywhere, passing from one dancing partner to another, and obviously enjoying himself immensely.
“There’s no place for me here,” she said, even more softly. “I want to go home.”
Driscol’s mind went back. “Then why did you ask me if I could teach you to dance?”
Her eyes came to him. Still with that same look in them he couldn’t quite fathom. “I’m not a white girl, Patrick Driscol. What you call ‘romance’ is a silly business to me. I fancied Sam Houston for a time, because he’s a man to fancy. But if you think for one moment I’m going to pine away”—again, that majestic sniff—“I’d as soon waste my time pining over the moon, when there’s a harvest to gather or a deer to be dressed. Not likely, ha!”
Finally, he understood. They were simply calm eyes, accepting. Not liking what they saw, perhaps, but accepting it nonetheless.
“Can you read?” he asked. Not thinking, until he blurted the words, that she might be offended by them.
Fortunately, she wasn’t. “Oh, yes. Quite well, the Moravians tell me.”
“Ah. But I imagine you prefer prose to poetry?”
The little smile widened. “For a man who insists he’s no gentleman, Patrick Driscol, you dance more than any gentleman I can imagine.”
Much more Tiana-like, the smile was now. “Why did I ask you if you could teach me to dance? The simplest reason of all. I wanted to hear what your answer would be. Not because I cared, one way or the other, about the dancing.”
“Ah.” It occurred to Driscol that if he said “ah” one more time, he’d never hear the end of it. Or, still worse, might—because he’d never hear that voice again at all.
Either prospect was suddenly unbearable. His mind cast wildly about, for an instant, until it found a safe and secure refuge in . . .
Patrick Driscol. Where it damn well properly belonged.
“No,” he said gruffly, “I can’t teach you to dance. But I do have a social obligation I’ve been remiss in carrying out. I was wondering, Miss Rogers, if you’d do me the pleasure of accompanying me?”
“I’d be delighted.”
He extended his arm. Alas, the wrong one. He still hadn’t quite adjusted. Probably because the bloody blasted thing still felt like it was there. It hurt enough, anyway.
She grinned at him. “I’d look like a proper fool, being led around by a stump.”
“Sorry.” He swiveled, bringing his right arm into position. A moment later, her hand tucked into his elbow, he led her toward the door.
No one noticed them leaving. All eyes were on Sam Houston.
General Ross was out of surgery, and awake.
“And your own defense was most gallant as well, Lieutenant,” he said pleasantly. Ross cocked his head on the pillow, studying Driscol. “I suspect we’ve met before. Have we?”
Driscol cleared his throat. “In a manner of speaking, sir. I was across the field at Corunna. And, ah . . .”
Ross chuckled drily. “Took part in the very vigorous pursuit afterward. You have the look of a relentless man.”
Driscol must have looked uncomfortable. Ross chuckled again, very drily, glancing at his heavily bandaged shoulder. “I had a feeling that volley was targeted. You, I presume.”
/>
“Ah. Yes, sir.” Before he’d ushered them in, the doctor had told Driscol that Ross would most likely survive. But he’d need to spend months recovering, and would never really be able to use that arm very well again.
And . . .
Patrick Driscol would do it again. In an instant.
Looking into Ross’s eyes, he knew the man understood. So, a crack that one gentleman officer had started, and a gentleman politician widened, was widened still farther by a third. And this one a Sassenach general, to boot.
Driscol began to fear for his soul.
“I was surprised at the time by the professional quality of the Capitol’s defense,” Ross went on. “Not to detract anything from Captain Houston—a very estimable young man—but that wasn’t his doing.”
“Ah. No, sir.”
Ross nodded. “Good. I feel much better. It’s embarrassing to be repulsed so decisively by an inexperienced militia officer. Now, at least, I’ll be able to say I was defeated by one of Napoleon’s veterans. Even if he was a lieutenant.”
“Ah. I’m not exactly a lieutenant, sir. That’s a field rank, which still hasn’t been confirmed by the War Department. Properly speaking, I’m still a sergeant.”
“Better still!” Ross actually grinned. “One of the emperor’s sergeants. A lot of trolls, everyone knows it. Fearsome brutes.”
They both chuckled, then.
“Belfast, from the accent?”
“Not the town, sir. But, yes, County Antrim.”
“I see.” Ross was back to studying him. “I’m from County Down,” he said abruptly. “Not far south of there.”
Driscol didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
Again, Ross seemed to understand. “But I went to Trinity College, and you did not.”
“No, sir. My family was not Church of England.”
“Yes. Mine was. And so I became an officer of the British army, and you became my foe. Such is the working of Providence.”
They were very keen eyes, even in a man who must be throbbing with pain. Driscol had no difficulty, any longer, understanding Ross’s reputation as a soldier’s general. Had . . . Providence not ruled otherwise, he’d not have minded serving under him.
