by Eric Flint
“That largely depends on you, sir. I’ll need a core to build on. Without that, it’ll be hopeless in the time available. But with the right core—and we brought them with us—then . . . yes, I can do it. Mind you, it’s not a force I’d want to rely upon on an open battlefield. No chance at all I could train good line troops in so short a period of time.”
“Core?” Jackson was puzzled for a moment. Then, as he understood, he started to frown. “You’re speaking of the artillerymen you brought with you. Tarnation, Major, I was counting on those as an addition to the main force.”
“I don’t need most of them, sir. Just Charles Ball and the other black sailors. And one of the twelve-pounders, and two six-pounders.”
Houston cleared his throat. “That’d still leave you most of the naval artillery unit, General. And the marines.”
Jackson nodded, but he was still frowning. “I can spare the men, but . . . the cannons? I hate giving up any guns for a long shot.”
“I have got to have them, sir.” Driscol’s face seemed blockier than ever. “Give raw recruits a core of veterans—and some impressive ordnance that the veterans can use—and I can form a unit around them that won’t collapse at the first contact with the enemy. Without them, I can’t. Not in two weeks, General.”
Jackson sighed. “Fair enough. All right, you can have them. What else do you need?”
“I’ve been told—we’ve heard rumors, I should say—that you offered the free men of color a bonus in addition to their regular pay.”
“Yes, I did. One hundred twenty-four dollars and one hundred sixty acres of land.” Jackson winced a little. “I’ll manage the money. Whether I’ll be able to come up with the land after the war . . . who knows? The local notables will object, of course.”
“Land won’t be much of an incentive anyway, for the men I’ll be looking to recruit,” Driscol said. “Can you increase the dollar bonus? I’ll be wanting tradesmen, mostly, and a big enough bonus to allow them to set themselves up in business will be a major incentive.”
Jackson winced again. “How many men do you expect to get?”
“I can’t be sure, until I get to know the city better. But I’d be aiming for three hundred. Maybe four. I think that’s possible.”
Jackson’s eyes widened. “That many? Major . . .”
Something in the set of Driscol’s features caused Jackson to trail off. “You actually have a plan, don’t you?”
Driscol shrugged. “Not as such, sir, no. But I’ve a lot of experience at this sort of thing—and I know Ball and his artillerymen very well, by now. I also know Henry Crowell and his teamsters. I expect most of them will sign up, also—if there’s a big enough bonus. That gives me upward of two dozen men to serve as recruiters, and they can start immediately.”
“They’re new in the city.”
“True. On the other hand—I’ve learned this much from the past months in their company—freedmen have their own societies, in every place they live. New to the city or not, they’ll manage in hours what it would take me weeks to accomplish—if I could do it all. But I need the core, and I need the money.”
Jackson ran fingers through his hair again, disheveling it still further. “Two hundred dollars? I can go that high, I think—but there will be no land grants to go with it.”
“That ought to be enough, Patrick,” Sam said. “Most of them will be forming partnerships anyway, pooling their money. Just the way Henry put together the logistics train.”
Jackson looked back and forth between the two men, then, he chuckled. “You’ve become quite the experts, haven’t you?”
Sam had to fight down a moment’s irritation.
“There’s not really much expertise required, sir. Just common sense and eyes to see. A freedman doesn’t have much to hope for in the United States, when you get right down to it. His best chance is to learn a trade—and then set himself up in his own business, which precious few of them can manage. Poor as they are, they almost always have to do it with partners.”
At least one of whom better be a white man, he almost added. But he didn’t say it aloud. With his unthinking prejudices, Jackson would simply assume that it was because black men couldn’t run their own business.
The real reason was to avoid the grief that was usually visited on black businessmen by white society. Shakedowns from the authorities, threats from white competitors—often enough, just the surliness of a mob disgruntled at uppity Negroes who didn’t know their place. A prominent white partner usually diverted all that.
“All right, then,” Jackson said, “see what you can manage, Major.
“And now, I’m afraid I’ll have to break this off.” He jabbed an accusing finger at the papers stacked up on his desk. “I’ve got a pile of complaints and wheedles I’ve got to say no to. In writing, unfortunately. Most of them haven’t got the nerve to brace me in person.”
The young officer who’d guided them to Jackson’s office was waiting for them in the corridor. As soon as Sam and Driscol emerged, he started showing them the way out, moving much more quickly than a “guide” really should. The lad seemed eager to get out of Jackson range.
Sam let him trot ahead. He knew the way out anyway.
“Don’t lie to me, Patrick. You do have a plan, don’t you?”
“I don’t know as I’d call it that,” Driscol rasped. “A ‘plan’ suggests logic and order—both of which are in short supply here. Let’s just say that it occurs to me that if I wind up a civilian, I’d do well to have a ready-made business to walk into.” He glanced down at his stump. “I can’t do the work myself anymore, of course. But I do know how a blacksmithing business operates—and Henry, you’ll remember, worked in the nation’s largest foundry.”
The young officer, having noticed that his charges were falling behind, came trotting back anxiously. Sam and Driscol just moved right past, ignoring him completely. By the time the jittery youngster managed to match his pace to theirs, they were out of the Cabildo and stepping out into the sunshine that was spilling across the main square. Depending on whether the speaker was French or Spanish, the square was called the Place d’Armes or the Plaza de Armas.
Sam took a moment to admire the St. Louis Cathedral. “I think we’ll manage well enough from here, Lieutenant.”
“Uh, yes, sir.” The lieutenant pointed to the west. “Being white men—real white men, I mean, not Creoles or Dagoes—you’ll want to seek lodgings—”
“Dismissed, Lieutenant.” Houston had had enough of this dolt.
After the youngster jittered off, Sam gave Driscol a long, considering look. “How did you ever become so cold-blooded? The ambition, I can understand. Isn’t a Scots-Irishman born doesn’t fancy himself emperor of the moon.”
Driscol chuckled. “How is it that I’m cold-blooded? First, I prey upon the fears of black folk, in order to parlay myself into what will soon enough be the largest foundry and armory this side of Cincinnati. Between me and Henry and Charles, we can manage it, you watch.”
“You’ve got Charles roped into this, too?”
“Charles and every one of his black gunner mates. And why not? What great prospect do they have after the war is over? Most sailors get tired of life at sea after a few years, but what else is there for them? Doormen at hotels? Laborers? Stevedores?”
“True enough,” Sam grunted.
“Then,” Driscol continued, “if need be—the notables of New Orleans will probably object to our presence, after a time—I plan to prey upon the fears of the wild savages to get them to let me move the entire operation somewhere across the Mississippi. When the time is right, you understand, which will be a ways off. Probably in Arkansas, I’d think. But I don’t know the land myself yet, so I’ll worry about that later.”
He stopped and gave Sam a level stare. “Oh, aye, it’s a plot a Sassenach would admire. In my defense, I will point out that it provides me with a livelihood, and it gives Henry and Charles and their folk a better prospect than any
thing else they’re looking at.”
Driscol’s eyes were paler than ever. It was an unseasonally sunny day. Perhaps that accounted for it.
Then again, perhaps not. Sam Houston had long since come to the conclusion that Anthony McParland was right. Patrick Driscol was a troll.
Fortunately, a troll on Sam’s side. “All right,” he said. “And what about Tiana?”
“What about her?”
Sam sighed, exasperated. “Stop being obtuse. Does she know about your plans?”
For one of the few times since Sam had met the man from County Antrim, Driscol grinned. A genuine, good-humored grin.
“Well, I’d think so. Given that she was sitting right there when her father and I came up with it. Did I mention that Captain John Rogers will be one of the partners, too?”
Sam rolled his eyes at that. They’d stopped off for three days at John Jolly’s island on the way to New Orleans. He’d noticed that Driscol had spent most of his time with Tiana’s immediate relatives. Naïve romanticist that he was, Sam had assumed the Scots-Irishman had been pressing his suit.
He said as much. Driscol laughed, but sidestepped the issue. “Don’t forget the lady’s heritage, Sam. She’s as much Scots-Irish as she is Cherokee—and they’re both, in their different ways, a practical folk.”
That was true enough, actually, even with regard to the Cherokee. Because he’d spent his teenage years living with them, Sam still tended to think of the Cherokees in a teenager’s terms. It had been their free and easy life that he’d enjoyed and admired so much. But, in the end, they were the largest and most powerful Indian nation in the South because they were also hardheaded.
He pondered, for a moment, what that nation might look like in the future, if it became something of a hybrid with Scots-Irishmen like Patrick Driscol and Captain John Rogers—whose nickname was Hell-Fire Jack. Then toss in for good measure a hefty leaven of freedmen like Henry Crowell—and Charles Ball, who commanded twelve-pounders with the same ease a Cherokee commanded a canoe.
An asgá siti nation, whatever else.
“Good Lord,” he muttered.
“That remains to be seen,” Driscol rasped. “That’s why I’m a deist, and make no bones about it. Judging from all available evidence, I think the Lord needs a bit of nudging, here and there.”
CHAPTER 35
DECEMBER 18, 1814
New Orleans
The next day, Jackson ordered a review of the troops in the Place d’Armes. It was more in the way of a public spectacle, really, held as it was in the city’s central square, rather than on a training field. The purpose of the event was to bolster the morale of the citizens of New Orleans and the surrounding area. Which . . .
Needed it badly.
Sam had concluded as much on his own, just in the short time since he’d arrived. New Orleans was a city with shaky loyalties and a multitude of social divisions. The white population was still primarily Creole, of French and Spanish extraction, many of whom spoke no English at all—and few of those who could did so by choice. They’d been U.S. citizens for only a few years, following the Louisiana Purchase, and no one was yet sure whether their new national identity would withstand the pressure of a British onslaught. Not even, Sam suspected, the Anglo American officials and new settlers who had recently come into the area.
But Jackson had driven over that problem the same way he drove over most problems. He’d simply ignored it, officially, while conducting himself with such energy and confidence that he boosted the spirits of everyone around him.
“Of course they’ll fight the British,” he said to Sam, as they prepared for the review. “Why shouldn’t they? They’re French, mostly—no love there for England—and the ones who are Spanish won’t feel much different. Especially because they’ll remember Badajoz.”
The siege of Badajoz, during Wellington’s campaign against the French in Spain, had happened less than three years earlier. After breaching the walls, the British troops had run amok and sacked the city, despite the fact that the population was mainly Spanish, and they were supposedly liberating the city from French occupation. Murder, rape, looting—the incident had become notorious, and had added to the reputation of British troops, which had been none too savory to begin with.
As much as anything, it was fear of a similar incident that inclined the citizenry of New Orleans to support Jackson, whatever they might think privately of being part of the United States. At least Jackson kept his troops under control. But continued support would depend entirely on the citizens’ assessment of Jackson’s ability to fight off the oncoming enemy.
Hence the review, which was somewhat silly, from a purely military standpoint.
At least, Sam thought it was silly. The big square looked more like the site of a festival—New Orleans had been celebrating Mardi Gras for over a century—than a stern military affair.
For Sam, the highlight of the march came when Major Ridge, John Ross, and about two hundred Cherokee warriors arrived that morning, just in time to join the festivities. And join them they did, with typical flair and panache.
Because of their late arrival, the Cherokees formed the tail end of the parade that passed before General Jackson’s reviewing stand. And if their ranks had none of the precision of the Creole battalions, or even Jackson’s own Tennessee militia, they made up for it with their warlike appearance. Except for Ross and Ridge, who wore U.S. Army uniforms and took their place with Jackson on the stand, the two hundred Cherokees who passed below were dressed and painted for battle.
Sam was particularly amused by the fearsome manner in which they brandished their spears and war clubs. He knew full well that the first thing Major Ridge was going to do was start negotiating for muskets and ammunition. Cherokee warriors might still use traditional weapons, but they were quick to adapt to new military methods.
Sam also was amused to observe that Major Ridge did not think the affair was silly. He didn’t seem to think it was quite sane, but not silly. He was no stranger himself to the sometimes preposterous displays a chief staged in order to bolster the morale of his warriors.
So for the first hour, as the march proceeded past the reviewing stand, the Cherokee chief just stood there looking very solemn and dignified. But once that was done and Jackson had started his speech, he tilted his head over toward Sam, who was standing right next to him.
“How many muskets can we get?” he asked. To anyone but Sam, Ridge’s half whisper was covered by the shrill sound of Jackson’s voice, as he continued his peroration.
“—fellow citizens of every description—”
Sam restrained the urge to scratch. It was an unseasonably bright and sunny day in New Orleans, and the heat was making him sweat under the heavy dress uniform. But colonels, he suspected, weren’t supposed to scratch in public.
“—country blessed with every gift of nature—for property, for life—”
“Don’t know,” he murmured in return. “There’s a shortage of good firearms. Jackson’s been screeching at just about everybody over the problem for weeks now, from what I heard. Promises come in from everywhere—but still precious few guns make it into town.”
There might have been a trace of a smile on Ridge’s lips. “You mean we’re not the only ones who find that the white man’s promises are usually empty?”
Sam made no attempt to suppress his own smile.
“Oh, not hardly. You know how it is—and don’t try to tell me the same thing doesn’t happen among your folk. Every chief makes his brag in the council—and then goes home and starts thinking about how he really needs to keep this and that for himself, instead of throwing it to the winds.”
“—opulent and commercial town—”
Major Ridge grunted. “True. But I need at least fifty guns to start with. We can get the rest from the enemy, I think, now that I’ve seen the land we’ll be fighting on.”
“You didn’t bring any guns?” Sam asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer.
There was no question that Major Ridge was smiling now, even if it was a thin sort of business. “Of course not. Needed to keep them for ourselves, back home. In case the Georgians showed up again.”
Sam chuckled. “Has there ever been such a ragtag army in the history of the world?”
But Jackson didn’t seem to share his doubts—not publicly, at least, on that square on that day. The general’s shrill penetrating voice kept spouting sure and confident proclamations throughout Sam’s little exchange with Ridge.
“—and for liberty, dearer than all!”
A goodly part of Jackson’s speech, needless to say, dwelt on the despicable nature of the foe.
“—who vows a war of vengeance and desolation—”
Actually, the British had done no such thing. Indeed, they’d assured the citizens of their safety, and claimed simply to be defending international law from American thievery. They had a point, too, since Napoleon had promised the Spanish he wouldn’t sell any of their land in the New World.
“—marked by cruelty, lust, and horrors unknown to civilized nations—”
Sam thought that was a nice touch. Absurd, true. Not even Driscol would claim that the Sassenach were worse than the ancient Greeks and Romans, who had thought nothing of sacking a city by way of a summer’s pastime. But, Sam wasn’t inclined to argue the matter. Demon-spawned or not, there was no doubt that if the British succeeded in taking New Orleans, they’d refuse to give it up again, regardless of the terms outlined in any subsequent peace treaty.
And with the outlet of the Mississippi under British control—formally Spanish, of course, but that meant nothing—they’d have their hands on the throat of all commerce to the western states of America.
The Federalists could prattle all they wanted about the glories of state-built roads and canals, but every settler and merchant west of the Appalachians knew that there was no genuine substitute for the Mississippi River.
