by Eric Flint
And that, too, was no more than the truth. Even by the standards of white settlers on the frontier, the Georgians were notorious for their land avarice. They were just about as notorious—among Tennesseans, anyway—for not being worth a damn in a straight-up war against the hostiles. But it didn't matter, not in the long run. Georgians might run for cover every time the Indians went on the warpath, but they were back again soon enough. Killing Indians whenever they had a chance, grabbing their land, burning everything they couldn't steal.
If they had the martial reputation of locusts, they had the voracity as well. And the numbers.
"You could . . ." But Sam didn't even have the chance to finish the sentence.
"Stop them? How?" Jackson's expression wasn't quite a sneer. Not quite. "How am I—how is the whole U.S. government, for that matter—supposed to stop hundreds of thousands of settlers from shoving in on Indian land? Stop playing the innocent, Sam. You know those people as well as I do, because they're our own. The 'people of the western waters,' some call them. They're Scots-Irish immigrants, the most of them. Being honest, not all that much different from the Indians. Just as feisty, for sure—and there are a sight more of them."
Sam couldn't help but smile. The truth was, the people who had produced both he and Jackson weren't very far removed from being barbarians themselves, even today. They were flooding into North America just like, in ancient days, the Gauls and Germans had flooded into Western Europe. Today's "people of the western waters" had been yesterday's border reivers, often enough.
"How is anyone supposed to stop them, Sam?" The general picked up his hat and, for a moment, looked like he might smash it back onto the table.
"What would it take?" he demanded. "I'll tell you what."
He did smash the hat back on the table. "We'd have to scrap our precious republic and replace it with something like the stinking tsars have set up in Russia, that's what. Turn everyone into serfs so we could establish a level of taxation necessary to keep a huge standing army in the field. That would keep the people in their place. Over my dead body!"
Sam studied the hat. He'd studied mathematics, too, when he'd been a schoolboy. And he could recognize an immovable equation when he saw one.
Jackson flicked the much-battered hat aside. "So that's one option," he stated flatly. "Give it twenty years—thirty, at the outside—and 'the Cherokees' will just be a name. Something schoolboys study in books."
Sam took another deep breath. He took off his own cap and ran fingers through his hair. "And the other?"
"You know it as well as I do. Relocation. Let the Cherokees— all of the southern tribes—move across the Mississippi. If they want to keep their independence, fine. Let 'em do it somewhere else."
Sam smiled crookedly. "You sound like my foster father—his older brother Tahlonteskee, even more. That's what they've been advocating for almost twenty years now."
Sam's hair was even bushier than the general's, so he could keep busy with it for a while. "Not with much luck, though, in terms of convincing most of the Cherokees. Their opponents keep asking difficult questions. Just for starters: What's to keep the same thing from happening down the road a spell? Give it another fifty years—a century, for sure—and there'll be more settlers wanting their new land."
The general started fiddling with his hat, trying awkwardly with one hand to press it back into shape. Sam's smile got more crooked still, and he reached across the table.
"Here, General, let me do that. Out of curiosity, by the way, do you have a bunch of these stashed away somewhere?"
Jackson handed over the hat, chuckling. "Of course." A long, bony finger indicated one of the chests in a corner of the tent. "I had Rachel send me half a dozen, after Coffee gave me the idea. I'd like to salvage this one, though, if we can. I've only got two left, and the things are blasted expensive."
As Sam did his best to knead the hat back into shape, Jackson went on.
"If that turns out to be the case, then to blazes with them. Am I supposed to be their nursemaid, too? Tarnation, Sam, if the Indians are given half a century to put together a real nation of their own out there—and they still can't manage the affair— then let them go the way of all broken nations. Let them join the Babylonians and the Trojans. That's just the way it is. Always has been, always will be—just like the British will break us if we let them."
That seemed fair enough, to Sam, at least in the broad strokes. The devil, of course, was in the details.
"I'll help you, sir, as best as I can," he said evenly. "I'll do my best to convince them. But you know as well as I do that there are a hundred different problems. The help that the U.S. government always promises the Indians somehow never materializes, or if it does so, it's always in dribs and drabs. Why? Well, let's start with the fact that most Indian agents are crooks and swindlers and thieves, and the ones who aren't—like Colonel Meigs or Benjamin Hawkins—are the ones you usually quarrel with the most."
Jackson glared at him. "Can't stand the bastards," he growled. "Nothing but blasted injun lovers, the both of 'em."
"So am I, General," Sam said mildly, "when you get right down to it. I grew up among them, and I've got as many Cherokee friends as I do white ones. If I'd stayed a few more years, I'd probably have wound up marrying a Cherokee girl. I can even tell you her name. Tiana Rogers, my foster father's niece." He handed the hat back to Jackson.
Jackson snatched the hat, still glaring. Sam sat up straight in his chair and returned the glare without flinching. "That's the way it is, sir. Take it or leave it."
After a moment, and not to Sam's surprise—no longer, now that he'd taken the general's measure—Jackson began to chuckle.
"My own injun lover, is it?" He placed the hat gently back on his head. "Well, why not? Maybe you can do with magic and your glib tongue what I'd have to do with a sword and a torch. Well, if you can, I won't object."
Sam took another deep breath. "That's not enough, General."
The glare flared up again. It was like staring into two blue furnaces.
"What?" he demanded. "You're adding conditions, too?"
Sam smiled easily, and spread his hands again. "I wouldn't call them 'conditions,' sir. Not exactly. Let's just say I want a promise from you that you'll back me up, when the time comes, as much as I'll back you up until then. I don't know when or where that'll be, I admit, or even if it'll ever be. But I still want your word on it."
At first Jackson didn't say a word, and, for a moment, Sam was sure that he was about to snap a flat and angry refusal.
But, whatever he would have done, he was interrupted before he could respond. A man stepped through the tent's entrance, pushing the flap aside, and came two steps into the tent. Then he stood still and very erect. He had a dark complexion, like a part-blood Indian, but he was wearing a white man's clothes.
Jackson's glare was transferred onto him. "Who in the blazes are you, sir? I don't recall inviting you to intrude upon my privacy!"
The man replied in perfectly fluent English. "Yes, you did. The word is in all the towns that you are looking for William Weatherford."
Jackson lunged to his feet, his anger instantly replaced by eagerness. "You know where the murdering bastard's to be found? Splendid! There'll be a reward for you, be sure of it."
The man's face showed no expression at all. Suddenly, Sam rose and reached for his sword.
But the man ignored him.
"I am not an informer. I am William Weatherford. Also known as Red Eagle. I led the attack on Fort Mims. They say you intend to hang me for it.
"Do it then, Sharp Knife."
Chapter 10
Jackson's eyes flicked to his own sword, still in its scabbard and leaning against a tent post. Then, seeing that Houston already had his pistol out, the general turned his attention to Weather-ford.
"How did you get into the fort?" he demanded.
For the first time since he'd entered the tent, there was an expression on Weatherford's face.
Not much of one, just a slight smile.
"You called upon all Creek chiefs to come in and surrender, didn't you? I was one of them. I came in and surrendered. The soldiers didn't seem to know what to do, so I just rode in past them."
"You were supposed to be brought here in manacles and chains!" Jackson snapped.
Weatherford's smile widened a bit. "And who was supposed to chain me?"
The smile went away. Weatherford spread his hands. "If you need the chains, Sharp Knife, send for them. I came unarmed. And I simply came to surrender."
It was the first time since Houston had met Jackson that the general seemed genuinely taken aback by anything. Confused, even, as if he didn't know what to do. It was an odd experience; unsettling, in its own way.
Jackson's angry eyes moved away from Weatherford and fell on Houston. Seeing the pistol in Sam's hand—half raised if not yet cocked—he made a sudden, abrupt, impatient gesture with his hand.
"Oh, put that away."
"Yes, sir." Houston slid the pistol back into his waistband— but only far enough to hold it there. He'd still be able to get it out quickly. "Do you want me to send for soldiers, sir? And manacles?"
Jackson glared at him. Sam just returned the glare with a mild gaze, saying nothing.
Jackson looked back at Weatherford; then, suddenly, slapped the table with his open hand. "Tarnation, sir! If you'd been brought to me as I commanded, I'd have known what to do."
"Why should your life be any simpler than mine?" Weather-ford demanded. The Red Stick war leader shrugged. "I am in your power, Sharp Knife. Do with me as you please. I am a soldier. I have done your people all the harm that I could. I fought them, and I fought them bravely. If I still had an army to command, I would be fighting you still."
He seemed to shudder a little. "But I have none. My people are all gone. I can do nothing more than to weep over the misfortunes of my nation."
By the time he was done, the expression on Jackson's face had undergone a sea change. There was still anger there, yes, but...
Jackson rallied. "You massacred hundreds at Fort Mims! Women and children!"
"And you massacred women and children at Tallushatchee."
Even Jackson's innate self-righteousness couldn't prevent him from wincing. Sam hadn't been at that battle, since the Thirty-ninth Infantry hadn't yet joined up with Jackson's Tennessee militia. But he'd heard tales of it.
The Creeks at Tallushatchee, unlike those at the Horseshoe Bend, had been caught by surprise by Jackson's advance. Hundreds of women and children had been trapped in the village. Whether or not any of them had been deliberately massacred— and, given the temper of militiamen after Fort Mims, Sam was quite sure that some of them had—many had died as the village caught fire and burned. Sam had heard one Tennessee militiaman who'd been present describe to him, in a weird sort of half-horrified glee, how he'd watched a Creek child burn to death after crawling halfway out of a flaming cabin.
You could see the grease coming out of him, I swear!
Jackson's jaws were tight. "I gave no orders—"
"Neither did I," Weatherford said sharply. "I tried to stop the massacre. But my warriors were out of control by then—don't tell me you've never had that happen to you as well, General Jackson." His face grew stony. "They even threatened to kill me, at one point, if I persisted in trying to stop them. Tempers were very high."
Jackson's hand came up, and he stroked his jaw, as if trying to knead out the tension. Then, he grunted.
The wordless sound was one of grudging recognition. The story that Weatherford had tried to stop the massacre was by now well known. Enough survivors had reported it that even many white settlers were inclined to accept the story. There was even a rumor that Weatherford had agreed to accept command over the Red Sticks only because the fanatics had taken his family hostage. Whether that was true or not, Sam had no idea.
And, clearly enough, Weatherford wasn't going to say anything more about it. This wasn't a man who was trying to beg for mercy, not even by pleading extenuating circumstances. Even his rejoinder concerning the massacre had been that of an accuser, not a criminal seeing leniency.
Jackson removed his hat and placed it on the table. The motion was precise, almost delicate, as if he were using the moment to marshal his thoughts.
"All right," he said quietly. "War's a nasty business at the best of times, as I well know. I won't hold the massacre at Fort Mims against you."
Sam could tell that the general was doing his best to appear solemn and grave. But he couldn't quite keep the admiration he so obviously felt for Weatherford's courage from showing, not so much in his face, but in his posture. More than anything else, Andy Jackson despised cowardice. And whatever else you might say about William Weatherford, he whom the Creeks called Chief Red Eagle, he was no coward.
"All right," Jackson repeated, uttering the words sharply this time. A command, now, not a judgment. "I'll give orders that you are not to be detained or molested in any way. But understand this, William Weatherford. The war is over, we won, and you have no choice but to surrender. If your surrender is an honest one, that'll be the end of it. But if—"
Weatherford made an abrupt gesture with his hand. "Please, General. We are both warriors. My nation is beaten, and I must now look to salvaging what I can. If I had a choice..."
He took a deep breath. "But I have no choice. Not any longer. Once I could lead my warriors into battle, but I have no warriors left. Their bones are at Talladega, Tallushatchee, Emuckfaw, and Tohopeka."
Tohopeka was the Creek name for their encampment at the horseshoe bend. Even though Weatherford hadn't been at that battle himself, he'd clearly heard the tales. He hadn't been able even to pronounce the name without hesitating a moment, in order to swallow.
The Creek war leader looked away, sighing for the first time since he'd entered Jackson's tent. "If I'd been left to fight only the Georgians, I'd still be fighting. I could have raised our corn on one side of the river and fought them on the other. But you came, and destroyed us. So it was. I will accept your terms, General Jackson, and urge others to do the same. I will fight you no longer. Such is my word."
Jackson nodded, and stepped to the tent entrance. Pulling aside the flap, he called for Major Reid.
The next few minutes were rather amusing, Sam thought, although he was careful not to let any of that humor show on his face. He wasn't sure which part of it he found the funniest—Reid's astonishment, Jackson's increasingly exasperated attempts not to explain himself, or Weatherford's none-too-successful struggle to hide his own amusement.
But, eventually, it was done. Reid escorted Weatherford out of the tent. He did so with an odd combination of diffidence, wariness, and uncertainty. Much the way an angel might have ushered a devil out of heaven, after God had pronounced him not really such a bad fellow, after all.
After they were gone, Jackson continued to stare at the now-closed flap of the tent. "They are a brave people," Sam heard him murmur, as if he were talking to himself. "That, whatever else."
Abruptly, he turned to Houston.
"All right, Sam. You have my word. If the time comes when you can work out a satisfactory solution, I'll back you. To the hilt."
The general grinned, and rather savagely. "Mind you, I may well be cursing you at the same time, and damning you for a fool. But I'll do it in private. Or perhaps to your face. I might prefer it that way."
Sam smiled. "Well, sure. I wouldn't expect anything else."
Jackson went back to the table and sat down. "Where do you plan to start?"
Seeing the look of confusion that appeared on Sam's face, Jackson barked a laugh. Cawed a laugh, rather.
"Thought so! Fine and sentimental speeches are easy, young man. The trick is in the doing."
Sam's mind was still a blank. The general pointed to the other chair. "Sit down. Let an old warhorse get you started."
After Sam took his seat, Jackson rearranged the large map so that it again covere
d most of the table. Then, he pointed to the junction of Tennessee, Georgia, and the Territory of Mississippi.
"Start there, Sam. The Ridge lives somewhere here in north Georgia, and most of the other major chiefs aren't far away. Take Lieutenant Ross with you. See if you can talk The Ridge—and any other chiefs, for that matter—into going to Washington. You'll serve as their guide and official liaison with the government."
That was the last thing Sam had expected to hear.
"Washington? You mean the capital?"
Jackson snorted.
"Where else? You want to guide an official Cherokee delegation to any other town named Washington?"
Sam's mind was still a blank. The general smiled smugly.
