1812-The Rivers of War

by Eric Flint

  "Let them see Washington, Sam. Let them see for themselves that there's more to America—more strength, too—than the white settlers they usually encounter."

  Sam winced. "I don't know if that'll do much good, General. The Ridge has already been to Washington."

  Jackson frowned. "He has?"

  "Several years ago. There was a dispute among the Cherokees—sharp one, too—when Tahlonteskee and Black Fox tried to get the tribe to agree to the first proposal for a big land swap. It was tied to relocation across the Mississippi. The Ridge was opposed to it, so the Cherokees elected him to be part of the delegation that went to Washington for further negotiations. I don't think he met with the president, but I know he met with Secretary of War Dearborn. John Jolly told me about it."

  "Dearborn! That worthless old coot." Jackson scowled, looking at the map. "I didn't know that. Still... That was back when? 1808? Madison's administration is now in office, and Secretary of War Armstrong is a different creature altogether. He might actually do something."

  Sam hesitated. True enough, John Armstrong was a very different man from the tired old general who had served Thomas Jefferson as secretary of war. But the country had been at peace in 1808, too, whereas today...

  Doing something, whatever that might come to mean, would inevitably entail spending money—and plenty of it—or those were just two meaningless words. No Indian tribe was wealthy, at least not in terms of movable property. Asking them to relocate beyond the Mississippi without providing them with massive assistance before, during, and after the relocation was just a pipe dream. And given the demands of the current war with Britain, Sam doubted the government had much money to throw at anything else. Especially not the Department of War, which was legally charged with handling all Indian affairs.

  Jackson seemed to read his thoughts easily enough.

  "Patience, youngster," he said, still smiling. "You know as well as I do that no Indian tribe—certainly not those cantankerous Cherokees—will be making any big decision quickly. And they've got a few years, anyway, before the rope starts to tighten."

  Sam looked at him skeptically. Jackson cawed another little laugh. "I said I'd break them if they tried to resist me for too long. I didn't say I was Attila the Hun. Besides—"

  The general began tracing lines on the map. "The Cherokees—Choctaws and Chickasaws, too—are down the road. Quite a ways, unless I miss my guess. Our main enemies are the British and Spanish, don't ever forget that. So the first thing I intend to do, at the upcoming negotiations with the Creeks, is strip the Creeks of half their land. This half."

  His finger quickly traced the area he proposed to seize from the Creeks. "That'll create a buffer zone between the Creeks and the Spanish territories. They won't be able to get war supplies from our enemies, any longer."

  Sam grimaced. "General, most of that land belongs to friendly Creeks. The Lower Towns. The same ones who were allied with us in the recent battles."

  Jackson glared at him. "Allies! That's just because the Red Sticks had them by the throat. They sent us a few hundred warriors, here and there, never more than that and never all at one time. And you know as well as I do that if the British had landed soon enough on the coast, and waved guns under his nose, that Big Warrior would have switched sides in a heartbeat."

  That was true enough, so Sam couldn't argue the point. Despite occasional clashes—the last major one had been the battle at Etowah in 1793—the Cherokees had usually been allied with the United States since its creation, and before that with the colonists against the British. The same was true for the Choctaws.

  The Creeks, on the other hand, had maintained close ties with the British and the Spanish for many decades.

  Sam didn't trust Big Warrior's change of allegiance any more than Jackson did. Traditionally, the Lower Town Creeks and the Seminoles had been the southern Indian tribes most closely tied to the British and Spanish. The only reason the Lower Town Creeks had allied with the United States was because the civil war launched by the Red Sticks had been an immediate danger to them, and Britain and Spain had been too preoccupied with their war with Napoleon to provide much in the way of assistance.

  "And it's all beside the point, anyway," Jackson continued. He jabbed his forefinger at a spot on the map, then at another. Both spots were on the coast. One was marked Pensacola; the other, Apalachicola. "Don't forget—ever—that the Indians are a sideshow. The real enemy is down here. Spanish Florida is a running wound in the side of our republic. As long as the Dons hold territory in North America, the British will use it as an invasion route whenever they can—and as a conduit to arm and stir up the Creeks and Seminoles against us year-round, year after year. As well as any other tribe they can reach and influence—and provide with arms."

  As long as the British held Canada and the Spanish held Florida, Sam realized, the United States would be caught in a vise. Granted, the Spanish Empire was a shadow of its former self. But they'd let the British do the dirty work for them, and Britain looked to be emerging from the Napoleonic wars as the most powerful empire in the world. If the British could seize New Orleans and the mouth of the Mississippi, the two-sided vise would become a three-sided one.

  So Sam could understand the cold-blooded logic of Jackson's plans. By stripping away the southern half of Creek territory and opening it up to white settlers, the general would separate Spanish Florida from all the southern tribes except the Seminoles. Whatever clashes the Creeks—or the Cherokees, Choctaws, and Chickasaws, for that matter—had in the future with the United States, they'd have to fight them without access to guns and ammunition from the European powers. Which meant, in practice, that they couldn't really fight at all. The destruction of Tecumseh's forces had demonstrated graphically that poorly armed Indians couldn't hope to defeat the United States in an open battle.

  That still left the Seminoles, of course. That breakaway portion of the Creek Confederacy was already entrenched in Florida.

  Sam cocked his head, studying the general. "And that'll be stage two of your strategy, won't it? You'll go after the Seminoles."

  "Blast the Seminoles, lad. I'll use the Seminoles as an excuse to go after the Dons." Then, scowling: "Not that I've got any problem at all with crushing the Seminoles. But if they were just down there in Florida on their own, they'd be a minor problem, at best."

  Abruptly, he rose to his feet. "It's the Dons I'm after! I swear, I will have them out of North America entirely. I'd love to take Cuba from them, too—let the Negro rebels have Hispaniola, I don't care much about that—but I doubt I can. Still, I'll settle for driving the Dons off the continent entirely. Let them rot on their islands."

  Sam couldn't help but laugh. It was like hearing a man complaining that he didn't think he'd be able to fly to the moon after he climbed the tallest mountain.

  "Uh, General... you do know that official U.S. policy is to stay on good terms with the Spanish?"

  Jackson snorted. "That'll change. If needs be, I'll force those fools in Washington to change it."

  A light was beginning to dawn. "I see. My Cherokee delegation to Washington is just an excuse, really. What's more important is that I might have an opportunity to talk to someone while I'm there. Say, Secretary Monroe."

  Jackson waggled the hand that was draped in the sling. "Well, not exactly. I actually do have hopes that something might come out of the Cherokees going back to Washington. It's not just a masquerade. But, yes. Monroe will be the next president, most likely. I don't have anything specific in mind, but from what I've seen of him he seems a substantial sort of man. Quite unlike—"

  He broke off abruptly. Not even Andy Jackson was prepared to openly deride his own president. Not, at least, in front of a junior officer.

  But he didn't need to say anything. The animosity between Andrew Jackson and James Madison was well known on the frontier. In Washington, too, for that matter, unless Sam missed his guess. It dated back to Thomas Jefferson's attempt to have Aaron Burr convicted of
treason during the last year of his administration. The trial had become a national spectacle. Jackson had supported Burr. Madison, of course, being the secretary of state at the time and the man most people assumed would be the next president, had supported Jefferson.

  Jackson, in his inimitable manner, had publicly pilloried Madison. He'd pilloried Jefferson, too, but that was nothing new. The animosity between Jackson and Jefferson dated back even further.

  Once Madison became president, needless to say, he hadn't forgotten the episode. When the war with Britain erupted, he'd repaid Jackson by passing him over when he was selecting generals for the regular army.

  Monroe, on the other hand...

  Jackson continued. "I don't know Monroe well, you understand. But I was deeply impressed by his vigorous protest of Britain's policies when he was ambassador to the Court of St. James. He's likely to make a good chief executive, I think."

  "I understand, sir," said Sam. "And if I get the chance to speak to him—"

  "Oh, you will. Have no doubt about that." His tone was now harsh. "Whether those bast—ah, people in Washington like me or not, they have to live with me now. They're counting on me to keep the British at bay here in the South—and I daresay I'll have more success than they've had dealing with them in Canada."

  He cleared his throat noisily, almost triumphantly. "I'll write several letters for you to take along, Sam. You'll get to see the secretary of state. Count on it."

  Sam rose to his feet. "Best I be off, then. It'll take me several months to convince the Cherokees to send another delegation to Washington. If I can do it at all, which I rather doubt."

  "Just do your best. If nothing else, just go yourself. See if young Ross will accompany you. He's said to be a rising man among the Cherokees. And he's too young, I assume, to have seen the capital?"

  Sam shrugged. "So far as I know. I'll find out. But even if he agrees to come with me, he's not on the council. So he won't represent anyone but himself."

  "Well, you never know how these things will work out, in the end. Ross might well grow into his new role. And, remember, you've still got a few years before..."

  Jackson smiled grimly. "Before you call in your promise—or I drive over whatever promise you couldn't come up with."

  Sam nodded. "And in the meantime?"

  "I'll have Colonel Williams release you from the Thirty-ninth, for detached duty. But by the end of the year, I expect, I'll be facing the British. Either in New Orleans or Mobile. So come back from Washington as soon as possible. I could use an officer like you then, Sam. I'll find a suitable place for you, be sure of it."

  "By the end of the year . . ." Sam mused. "That should be enough."

  The general stuck out his hand, and Sam shook it. "In eight months then, Captain Houston. I'll expect you back no later than mid-December."

  Sam raised an eyebrow. Jackson just grinned.

  "One of those letters will include my strong recommendation that you be promoted to captain." He cleared his throat again, just as noisily and even more triumphantly. "And I daresay they'll listen to me this time. After the Horseshoe Bend, I dare-say they will."

  PART II

  THE NIAGARA

  Chapter 11

  June 4, 1814

  Near Buffalo, New York

  Training camp for the Army of the Niagara

  Two soldiers manhandled each condemned man, forcing them to their knees just in front of the graves. The five condemned men were dressed in white robes, with hoods of the same color covering their faces. Their hands were tied behind their backs.

  General Jacob Brown, commander of the small Army of the Niagara, had left the training of the regiments in the hands of his subordinate, Brigadier Winfield Scott. Scott was a stickler— many of his soldiers would have said a maniac—on the subject of camp sanitation, as well as discipline in general. "Efficiency," he liked to say, "is just one of many necessary soldierly qualities." The same bullets that slew the deserters would serve to transport them to their graves.

  Four of the condemned men made no sound. The fifth, on the far right, was sobbing uncontrollably. The sound was quite audible, despite the hood that was covering his face.

  And well he might sob, thought Sergeant Patrick Driscol harshly, as he made his final inspection. The condemned man's name was Anthony McParland, and he was a "man" in name only. McParland had tried to desert the army not two weeks after his seventeenth birthday. "Desperately homesick," the little puler had claimed at his court-martial.

  Driscol wasn't moved by McParland's age, much less the puling. He might have been, except that the young soldier was another Ulsterman. Came from that stock, at least, even if he'd been born in America.

  Like many of the United Irishmen who had taken refuge in the United States after the British crushed the rebellion of 1798,

  Sergeant Driscol hated two things above all.

  First, England.

  Second, any man—or boy, and be damned—who capitulated to the Sassenach.

  For Driscol—who'd spent several years in the French armies before emigrating to America—"capitulation" most certainly included desertion. And the penalty for desertion in time of war was death.

  He came to the end of the line, and examined the trembling figure for a few seconds. Then, he straightened up and stalked off.

  The five condemned men were well separated, to allow for the large firing squads. There were a dozen men in each squad— a preposterous waste of effort, to Driscol's mind, not to mention a waste of ammunition that could be better used against the enemy. But Brigadier Scott had been firm on the matter. He'd said he didn't want any one man knowing for sure that he'd been the agent of death.

  There'd been a sixth man convicted of desertion also. But, in light of extenuating circumstances, the court-martial had not sentenced him to death as it had the other five. Instead, he'd had his ears cut off, the letter D branded into his cheek, and he had been dishonorably discharged from the service.

  Once he was out of the line of fire, Driscol turned and squared his shoulders.

  "Ready!" he called out. The sergeant had a loud voice, trained over the years to penetrate the cacophony of battlefields.

  Sixty muskets were leveled, a dozen at each condemned man.

  "Arm!"

  Sixty hammers were cocked.

  Driscol gave a last glance at the shrouded figure of young McParland. The front of his robe was stained wet.

  Let the little bastard remember that, too. And if he forgets, I'll make sure to remind him.

  He turned his head and looked at the general. Brigadier Scott was sitting on his horse, some forty yards away.

  Scott looked every inch the officer, despite his youth. The sergeant had known plenty of peacock officers in his day. Scott might have the vanity of a peacock, but he had the soul of a fighter.

  That was all Sergeant Patrick Liam Driscol cared about. He'd been born in County Antrim, in Ireland, of Scottish Presbyterian stock. His father and older brother had been members of the United Irishmen and had died in the rebellion of 1798. Patrick himself had participated in the final battle, near the town of Antrim, that had seen the rebels broken.

  Patiently, he waited for the general to steel himself. Driscol knew the moment, when it came. The general had a little way of twitching his shoulders to steady himself. Another man might simply square them, but Scott was too energetic.

  This past November, when he'd still been a colonel, Scott had ridden a horse through sleet and snow for thirty hours straight in order to join a battle. That alone, in an American army whose top officers were more prone to spending thirty hours straight in taverns or lying in bed complaining about their illnesses, had been enough to endear Brigadier Scott to the sergeant from County Antrim.

  Scott gave him a little nod. Not bothering to turn his head—he had a very powerful voice—the sergeant called out the command.

  "Fire!"

  Sixty muskets roared. The sound of them—one-fifth, to be precise, an
entire bloody squad—was off a bit.

  He turned his head to see the results. Young McParland was lying curled up on the ground.

  As if the pitiful wretch had actually been shot!

  Worthless little shit. It was all Driscol could do not to heave a sigh. He had his orders, after all.

  The sergeant's eyes quickly scanned the other four men. Three of them were no longer visible. The volleys had done their work, hurling them into the pits. To Driscol's disgust, however, one of the men was sprawled across the edge of his grave. His robe was soaked red, and the body under it would be a broken ruin. But the man seemed to be twitching a bit.

  Driscol drew his pistol and stalked over, glaring at that particular squad along the way. He'd be having some words with those sluggards later that day, they could be sure of it. From the sickly look on their faces, they knew it themselves.