by Eric Flint
Earlier in the day, Latour and Tatum had decided to recommend to Jackson that he make his stand at the Rodriguez Canal, just west of the Chalmette plantation. The terrain there was ideal for a defending force. The cypress swamps encroached more closely upon the river there than elsewhere, choking the passable open ground to a stretch perhaps half a mile wide. Better still, the canal itself could easily and quickly be turned into a moat, with solid fieldworks behind it. The British would need scaling ladders and fascines to surmount such a fortified line—which they’d have to bring with them across a narrow open field after enduring heavy American fire as soon as they came into range.
Almost perfect. On the chance they might find something still better, however, Latour and Tatum had continued on. No sooner had they gotten to the next plantation, De la Ronde’s, when they met several people racing westward who told them that the British had already reached the Villeré plantation. Had apparently captured Gabriel Villeré himself, in fact.
Tatum rushed back to New Orleans to inform the general that the British were much closer than anyone had suspected. Latour, meanwhile, forged on ahead to do a reconnaissance of the enemy forces.
To his surprise—and immense relief—he discovered that the British were preparing to bivouac, despite the fact that it was still early in the afternoon, and they could easily have managed to march the remaining ten miles to New Orleans.
That was a bad mistake on their part, he thought. Neither Jackson nor his troops at New Orleans were at all prepared to fight a battle that day. If the British had pressed on, Wellington’s veterans would have had the upper hand, storming into an open city where the largely amateur defenders would have difficulty organizing themselves in the chaos of city streets overrun by panicked civilians.
But . . . apparently they were going to give Jackson a day to prepare.
The idiots.
A man might as well give a tiger advance notice that he’s about to be bagged the next morning.
So be it. Latour would exploit the opportunity to study the British field positions. Unless he was very badly mistaken, Andrew Jackson wasn’t going to wait until the morning. This was his jungle, and tigers can prowl at night.
Latour chuckled, as he carefully began jotting down the locations on his notepad. Especially when some of those tigers were Cherokees and Choctaws, who were already beginning their rituals for battle. The two engineers had taken the time that morning before they left the city to watch, fascinated, as the wild savages painted themselves openly on the streets of New Orleans.
Tatum had been goggle-eyed where Latour had not, of course. Latour was a French Creole and, thus, vastly more sophisticated than his companion. The Anglo-Saxon Tatum wasn’t much more than a wild savage himself. Latour had learned his engineer and architect’s trade at the Paris Academy of Fine Arts. Where had Tatum learned? Who could say. Probably in a rude schoolhouse in some wretched frontier village, made entirely of logs.
Latour shrugged the matter off. The Americans who were now the masters of New Orleans were barbarians, true enough. But at least they weren’t Englishmen. Latour continued jotting down his notes. In French, which he’d have to translate for the barbarians later.
By the time Latour got back to New Orleans, it was late in the afternoon. As he’d expected, he found the city in an uproar—but it was the sort of uproar that showed a resolute and energetic commander in charge, not the panic of leaderless soldiers and civilians.
Jackson had made a bad mistake, of course, underestimating the ability of British regulars. But if the tiger had been sleeping carelessly, the beast was wide awake now. Awake—and roaring.
Latour came into Jackson’s headquarters, pushing his way past officers rushing in the other direction. No easy task that, the way those officers were moving. Fortunately, Latour was a very big man. Even so, his progress was slow, and he could hear Jackson shrieking long before he caught sight of him.
“I will smash them, so help me God! By the Eternal, they shall not sleep on our soil!”
The general was even blaspheming, something he normally seemed to avoid. The Americans were odd, that way, as one could expect from superstitious primitives. They’d use profanity in a coarse manner no Creole would stoop to—the Anglo-Saxon terms “fuck” and “shit” and “piss” and all the rest rolled off their tongues casually, often enough even in the presence of women. But they used the silliest circumlocutions to refer to God and His works.
Latour could still remember his puzzlement the first time he heard Americans talking about someone named Jesse, and another fellow named Sam Hill. Especially when they often seemed to use the names to refer to locations instead of people. When he’d eventually realized the truth, he’d been astonished. Did the barbarians really think that naming Satan and his domain openly would bring a devil’s curse down upon them? That damnation would be avoided by calling it “tarnation”? That the omniscient deity who had created the universe would be fooled if they asked someone named “Gol” to “dern” their enemy—instead of, honestly and forthrightly, asking God to damn them?
Perhaps so. They were Protestants, after all—of one or another of the multitude of creeds that promiscuous heresy generated—and thus lacked the benefit of Latour’s sane and rational Catholicism.
Still. At least they weren’t Englishmen.
Latour finally pushed his way into the room, bearing his precious notes.
Driscol spotted the Creole engineer the moment he came into Jackson’s headquarters. Latour was an impossible man not to notice, between his great size and skin, eyes and hair which were darker than many Indians.
He spotted the notepad clutched in the big engineer’s hand an instant later, and smiled thinly. Latour was an obnoxious Creole snob, but he was also very competent at his trade—not that Driscol would use the lowly term “trade” in front of Latour himself. The Creole engineer would immediately shower him with voluble protests, and remind them that he was a graduate of some fancy academy in Paris. As if Driscol cared where a man learned to do anything, so long as he did it well.
That notepad would be full of jottings placing the British positions, unless Driscol was badly mistaken. Written down in Latour’s flowery French and fussy handwriting—but dead accurate, nonetheless.
“Well, that’s a relief,” he commented quietly to Houston, who was standing next to him.
The young colonel spared him a quick glance. He and Driscol were standing in a corner of the room, waiting for their turn for Jackson’s instructions. “It’s always hard to tell, with that stone face of yours, but I had a feeling you weren’t very happy with the situation.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Two hours ago, I thought we were probably on the verge of disaster.”
He didn’t add because Jackson blundered badly, out of overconfidence. Something the general has a tendency to do, from what I’ve seen thus far. Long habit would have kept Driscol from openly criticizing his commanding officer, even to Houston. He certainly wasn’t inclined to do so with a commander like Jackson, for whom he had developed an immense respect.
“Disaster?” Houston frowned. “Do you really think it was that close a thing?”
“Oh, aye. If the Sassenach had been smart enough to keep coming. Not even Jackson, for all his ferocity, could have rallied these mostly inexperienced soldiers in a handful of hours. Not well enough to withstand a British assault with no prepared defenses.”
He shook his head firmly. “Not a chance. Not when those troops are Wellington’s veterans, with decades of war under their belts. I’ve seen British regulars smashing their way into a city, once the defenses were breeched. The most frightening thing about it was that they maintained their order and discipline even under the conditions of street fighting.”
Houston was still frowning. “Really? But what about—”
“Forget Badajoz. That was the exception, not the rule. The reputation they’ve gotten due to the sack of Badajoz and a few other incidents is misleading. As a
rule, even in a sack, British regulars remain professional—and their officers are quick to execute any man who misbehaves.”
“Well . . . That was true in Washington, I agree. After the British left, we found the body of a British soldier. Executed at Cockburn’s own order, apparently, from the accounts of an eyewitness. The man had been caught robbing American civilians at gunpoint, while Cockburn had been burning the president’s mansion. The admiral had him shot immediately.”
“I heard about it. The reason I hate the Sassenach isn’t because they’re a pack of howling savages. Oh, no. It’s because they’re such cold-blooded and calculating savages. They’ll commit atrocities as bad as any Hun—but they’ll do it under orders, given by the haughtiest noblemen in the world.”
He had to restrain himself from spitting on the floor. “An army like that will tear apart the amateur defenders of a city, once that city’s defenses are breeched. Rip them to shreds. If the British had gotten into New Orleans, Jackson would have been in the position of trying to lead panicked chickens against a pack of very professional weasels.”
“Why didn’t they, do you think? March into the city, I mean.”
Driscol shrugged. “Excessive caution on the part of the commander, I suppose. That’ll be Keane, until Pakenham gets here, and he’s new to top command.”
Jackson’s waving hand summoned Houston, at that point. While the colonel hurried over, and before Driscol got his own summons, he had the time to ponder that last statement.
He’d come to regret the thing personally, but . . .
I’m glad I had Robert Ross ambushed at the Capitol.
The thought of Robert Ross being still in charge was too grim to contemplate, so Driscol left it aside. What mattered was that Ross was not commanding the army that was advancing upon New Orleans. He was probably on a ship crossing the Atlantic back to Britain, by now.
Driscol had gotten a letter from the general, telling him that he’d been exchanged and would be released soon, and that he thought his shoulder had mended well enough to allow him to travel. The letter hadn’t finally caught up with Driscol until he’d reached New Orleans, so the information was weeks out of date. The workings of the American postal service could be peculiar, but it was usually persistent.
More peculiar, however, had been the fact that it wasn’t until the day after he’d read the letter that it had occured to Driscol that his reaction itself was the most disconcerting thing of all. Patrick Driscol, from County Antrim, had smiled with pleasure as he learned of a British general’s continuing recovery, from a terrible wound Driscol had inflicted upon him with murderous intent.
Ah, well. Driscol’s found himself not worrying about it, because his soul seemed to have grown considerably lighter these past months. He could still summon the troll, whenever he needed it, but he found himself nowadays spending less and less of his time in that dark monster’s lair.
That was Tiana’s doing, mostly. The girl respected the troll, but had no liking for the creature. Still, Driscol would admit—even to himself—that the British general had something to do with it, too.
A man could surely spend half a lifetime slaying Sassenach, and spend it well. But when that lifetime, he finally realizes, constitutes but thirty-two years, he has to ask himself whether the same righteous work can fill three-fourths of a lifetime. Possibly even four-fifths, given Driscol’s iron constitution.
For Patrick Driscol, at least, the answer was coming to be no. Amazingly enough, the soldier from County Antrim was growing weary of the killing trade.
Of course, there’d still be some fine moments, before he retired, with a commander like Andrew Jackson.
The same impatiently waving hand summoned Driscol. In less than a minute, Jackson gave him his orders, tersely and concisely. Then, sent him on his way.
As he headed out the door, Driscol heard Jackson erupting again.
“I will smash them, so help me God! By the Eternal, they shall not sleep on our soil!”
By Driscol’s reckoning, that was the eleventh time Jackson had shrieked those same two sentences that afternoon. It would have all been quite comical, except that the time between the histrionic shrieks Jackson had spent issuing a blizzard of orders to his subordinates. Every single one of which had been coherent, logical, intelligent—and had, as their sole invariant purpose, smashing the enemy and driving him from American soil.
CHAPTER 38
“And what’s this?” demanded Tiana’s father, the moment Driscol entered the salon of the suite where he and his family had set up residence in the Trémoulet House. Captain John Rogers waved a vigorous hand at the window. His left hand, not his right—which held a glass of whiskey rock-steady all the while. “I’d have thought you’d be out there with the rest of them, playing your part in that desperate business tonight.”
Driscol glanced at the window. There wasn’t much to be seen, since night fell early this time of year. Still, even with the window closed to fend off the winter chill, the cannonades to the south were quite audible. Naval guns, from the sound of it. Jackson had ordered Commodore Daniel Patterson to bring the schooner Carolina down the river after nightfall, to begin bombarding the British camp on the Villeré plantation, while Jackson launched his night attack.
“None of my business, that,” Driscol grunted. “When the general asked, I told him my men would be well-nigh useless in that sort of fighting.”
“The darkies not up to it, eh?” Rogers jeered. As was so often the case, the captain’s tone was half ridicule and half . . . something else. Hell-Fire Jack was a rogue, sure enough. But he was also, Driscol had come to conclude, a very intelligent and cold-blooded sort of man. The constant jests and jibes were his way of probing friends and enemies alike.
So, as he invariably did when dealing with Captain John Rogers, Driscol refused to take the bait.
“Of course not,” he responded mildly, without even a hint of irritation. “They’ve had less than a week’s training, and there’s nothing more difficult to carry off than a complicated three-pronged night attack like the one Jackson is attempting. I’ll be doing well if I can get my artillery unit ready to stand firm in broad daylight.”
“So Sharp Knife is a madman, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, actually, he’s not. His plans will all fall apart, of course. I doubt if even the emperor’s Imperial Guard could manage what Jackson is asking his army to do. He’ll have to call off the assault eventually, when it starts coming to pieces.
“But that doesn’t matter. All that matters tonight is that Jackson is responding immediately to the British landing. Whether he wins or loses this battle, his assault will stop the British from driving forward. That will buy him time to get our forces ready and our defensive positions erected.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Driscol took a seat across from the divan where Tiana was resting. She smiled at him but said nothing.
It was a very serene smile; almost astonishingly so, on such a young face. If nothing else, Tiana had inherited her self-confidence from her father. Even at the age of sixteen, she was quite capable of watching a test of wills such as the one that was taking place between her sire and her intended husband, without worrying herself over the outcome.
Intended husband. She’d made that clear, too, without saying it in so many words. Driscol still had no idea at all why she’d made the decision, but he didn’t doubt the decision itself. He certainly didn’t doubt his own reaction, once it had finally seeped into his bones. It was the most profound desire he’d ever felt for anything. As if a man drowning in darkness had suddenly found a lifeline.
Of course, when the drowning man’s name was Patrick Liam Driscol, he’d seize the lifeline in his own unique manner. A sergeant with sixteen years experience in war is not a man to do anything without considering all the angles first. Any intelligent sergeant would see it that way and, being honest, Driscol was the most intelligent sergeant he’d ever met. He was even smart enough
to have gotten himself promoted to major without starting to think like an officer.
Captain John’s eyes—the same bright blue as his daughter’s—flicked back and forth from Tiana to Driscol. The half grin never left his face; somehow, he even managed to keep it in place while downing a sip of the whiskey.
“So when’s the wedding, then?” he demanded. He waved the same vigorous hand at his two sons, who lounged only a few feet away. James was leaning against the salon’s dining table, while John was sitting on one of its chairs. “I realize these two heathens won’t have pressed you on the matter, even though such is their brotherly duty. Cherokees and their stupid customs. But—!”
Rogers issued a majestic harrumph. “You and I are civilized Scotsmen, Major Driscol—well, allowing for your bastard Irish brand—and we should conduct ourselves accordingly.”
Driscol glanced at the two brothers. James and John wore that same serene Rogers smile on their faces.
There was a battle won. A campaign, rather, since there’d never been any actual conflict. Somewhere, sometime, somehow, in the months since Sam Houston had assigned James and John Rogers to serve as Driscol’s bodyguards in a battle, these two Cherokee warriors had shifted their clan allegiance to the figure of their new chief.
They were even smart enough to realize that Driscol intended to forge an entirely new kind of clan.
