1812: The Rivers of War (73 page)

How are mighty trolls fallen. Driscol hadn’t fretted during a battle for years. Like his unwonted desire to survive, that was Tiana’s doing.

Seeing the crooked smile that appeared on Driscol’s face, James Rogers cocked his head inquisitively. As he had since the engagement began—his brother John also—James had never been more than ten feet from Driscol’s side. The reputation Indians had among white men for being unreliable certainly couldn’t be proven here. As bodyguards, the Rogers brothers were like barnacles.

“I was just worrying about the fact that I was worrying,” Driscol explained. “It’s your sister’s fault.”

James nodded. “She’s always been a nuisance, that way.”

Ball sprang from the six-pounder to the twelve-pounder and back again. “Round shot! One more time! Goddamn you bastards, you’ve got plenty of time for another round before we change to grape! Don’t tell me you don’t.
What was that, Jones?
Say that joke one more time and you’re in the cook pot! Marie will salt and pepper you good, she will!”

“At a guess, I’d say your man is still alive,” Robert Ross murmured. “Would you care for some more tea?”

Tiana shook her head. “Why do you say that?”

“That sudden eruption of artillery. Can you hear the solidity
of those volleys? That’s an American battery—has to be; my people couldn’t have ferried across much in the way of guns—with a hard commander in charge. Who else would it be but Driscol?”

Tiana swallowed, and swiveled her head to the south. “It could be someone else. Charles Ball, maybe. Patrick thinks the world of him, even if he won’t say it out loud.”

Ross tried to place Ball in his mind. “Ah, yes. The very dark sergeant he often has with him. Seems a solid man, true enough. But he’s still a sergeant, not a commander. Trust me, Tiana. If Patrick had fallen, his battalion would be too unsteady to maintain such a fire.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“No, of course not. It’s simply my educated guess. But on this subject, my guess is extremely well educated. I’ve been at war for almost thirty years.”

She looked back at him. “Why? It seems a stupid thing for a man to do.”

“Family tradition got me started. Thereafter…” He shrugged. “It’s a career, and I’m quite good at it.”

“You should learn to do something else.”

“And what would that be, young lady?”

“Something that wouldn’t get you killed. I’d miss you, Robert. I really would. Patrick would, too, even if he’d never admit it. So would your wife and children. So would probably lots of other people, I’m sure of it. You should learn to do something else. You’re almost fifty. Too old for this, but not too old to change your life.”

It was his turn to swallow. Ross hadn’t seen his family for almost a year now. There’d been many times since he’d arrived in the New World when he’d been sure he never again would.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “We shall see. Between my injuries”—he shifted his half-crippled arm a bit—“and the threat of peace breaking out before I can return to service …” He raised his cup and took a sip. The tea was really quite good. “Perhaps. I may have no choice anyway.”

There came a distant hissing sound, as if a giant snake lurked somewhere in the swamps to the south.

“That’ll be the Congreves. Yes, I’d say Patrick Driscol is still alive. See how angry they sound? Only that stubborn Ulsterman could enrage British rockets so.”

“Forget those silly fucking rockets!” Ball hollered. “Just forget ’em, God damn your souls! We sneered at ’em at the Capitol, and you’ll damn well sneer at ’em here!”

Finally, as Driscol had been expecting, the six-pounder in the British battery fired.

“Take that gun out for me, if you would,” he said quietly to the crew of their own six-pounder, which was facing toward the river. “You can do it, lads. I know you can. Quickly, mind you. The British will start their charge soon.”

As the crew of the six-pounder went about their newly assigned work, Driscol gazed back across the field. Three minutes, he estimated. Then the enemy would be ready to start the charge. Given the confidence with which his gun crew was operating, he thought the enemy’s six-pounder would be silent by then.

“Iron Battalion indeed!” he said, loudly enough to be heard all over the bastion. The pace of his gunners seemed to pick up a bit.

“I have no
choice
,” Rennie said to the commander of the West Indian troops. He was almost growling with frustration. “That battery is far too effective to leave in place. We’ve got to cross that field in the face of their fire anyway, if we’re to reinforce Thornton and the Eighty-fifth. So we may as well do something besides die while we’re at it, eh?”

The men of the Forty-third were poised in line formation, by then. “It’ll be bayonets, lads! We’ll not waste time matching muskets against six-pounders! Just a taste of cold steel and Cousin Jonathan will be off and running!”

He would have shouted anyway, simply for the effect it would have on his men’s confidence. But the hiss of the Congreves as they darted off, and the roar they made as they landed, gave him no choice, if his words were to be heard at all.

“I wish we had real artillery,” growled the West Indian commander. Another Congreve exploded somewhere in the swamps, slaughtering the American cypress.

So did Rennie. But such was fortune.

“
Charge!”

“They’re pulling back, Colonel Houston!” said Lieutenant Pendleton. “Look at ’em run!”

In point of fact, the British were doing no such thing. Pulling out, yes. But the smooth precision and discipline with which the enemy began marching to the rear was as far from “running” as Sam could imagine. Especially after having watched hundreds of Kentucky militiamen give such a splendid demonstration of the term “rout” a short time earlier.

“Should we charge after ’em, sir?”

Sam glanced at the sailors who were standing by the nearest three-pounder. The chief gunner was almost glaring at him. Sam could easily read his mind.

The gunner, a veteran, knew perfectly well what would happen if Colonel Houston was foolish enough to order his half-trained regiment to “charge after” a regiment of British regulars undertaking a well-ordered retreat. The same thing that would happen to a hound dog who went into the brush “charging after” a wounded bear.

The bear would turn and—
chomp
—the dog would learn the difference between a mutt and a monster.

“No,” he said. “We will pursue them, but at a steady march, and maintaining line formation. The gun crews will set the pace.”

The chief gunner made no attempt to disguise the relief that swept across his face. “You heard the colonel, boys! Let’s get this gun moving forward.”

Thereafter, the biggest problem was restraining the enthusiasm of the Baltimore dragoons, who insisted on helping the artillerymen move their guns. They had no draft animals, so it had to be done by hand—with, now, a hundred pair of them getting in the way.

But they managed, well enough. The British regiment was retreating rapidly, as Sam had thought they would. From the sound of gunshots, war whoops, and occasional screams, they were being harassed along the way by Major Ridge and his Cherokees, darting in and out of the cypress on their right flank.

Driscol would just have to hold. Sam would get there as soon as he could, without risking the loss of his regiment. As long as Houston’s regiment kept the British away from Patterson’s guns, the battle was won. And if Driscol’s battalion got shredded in the process, well, Sam was quite sure that Driscol would make the British pay for it dearly. They might overrun him, but if they did, they wouldn’t be in any shape to fight further that day.

“
Give ’em the grape, boys, give ’em the grape!”
Ball wasn’t bouncing around any longer. He was just standing behind the twelve-pounder—far enough to the side not to be struck by the recoil, of course—and quivering like a bowstring. “Give it to ’em good!”

That first round of grapeshot struck the British line hard. Driscol didn’t think a single gun crew had missed its mark.

“
Reload! Reload!
Goddam you, Jones, you can move faster than that!”

In point of fact, Corporal Jones was doing a quick and splendid job, as were all the men at the twelve-pounder. Driscol knew it was the grin on his face that kept riling Ball. Quiet and solemn Henry Crowell was on the same gun crew, and Ball hadn’t yelled at him once.

The crews had their guns reloaded as fast as any gun crews in Driscol’s experience. “Iron Battalion indeed!” he shouted.

“
Fire!”

The Forty-third staggered under the blows, but kept pressing the charge. Rennie was appalled at the casualties they were taking, but also as proud of his men as he’d ever been. The line of bayonets was leveled and gleaming in the sun, as unwavering as any commander could have asked for.

“
At them, men!
We’ll have them at cold steel before you know it! And we’ll butcher the bastards!”

They even gave out a cheer.
God, what a splendid regiment!

“Oh, yes, Driscol’s alive, I’d say.” Robert Ross looked at the teapot and decided he’d had enough for the moment. He’d learned to ignore the demands of his bladder, up to a point, over the years of campaigning. But once he reached that point he’d have no choice but to leave the square for a time. Something he couldn’t imagine doing while those raging sounds kept coming from the south.

The battle down there was reaching a climax.

Finally, to Sam’s relief, the retreating Eighty-fifth broke into a trot. That was partly the cumulative effect of the Cherokees tearing at their flank. Mostly, though, it was the sound of the battle ahead of them. They were almost back to the original
American line, and the British soldiers knew as well as Houston did that their reinforcements had been stymied by Driscol’s battery. They intended to join the fray, to see if they could turn the tide.

So would Sam.

“Pick up the pace!” he shouted.

The Whale loomed up in the dimness of the cypress trees.

“I’ve been down there,” he said to Major Ridge and John Ross. “Driscol and his men are going to be hit hard before too long. Real hard.”

Ridge nodded, and glanced through the trees at the retreating British column.

“We’ll let this group be, then. Let’s go see how well the British down there can fight.”

Quickly, in their undisciplined but vigorous manner, two hundred Cherokees slid through the swamp toward the beleaguered American battery.

“
Canister! I want canister, boys!”
Ball held his cutlass below waist level now, lashing it back and forth like the tail of an angry leopard. “You know what canister looks like, don’t you? Black ugly little beads—just like your balls will look in my voudou queen’s soup, if you fuck up and piss me off!”

Driscol found it necessary to add an element of dignity to the affair. For the first time in his life, ha!

“The Iron Battalion will stand! As surely as its name!”

This officer business is treacherous
, he thought. If a man wasn’t careful, it’d rot his brain. He’d die, in the end, from terminal pomposity.

Close enough. “
Now, lads, now! At the charge!”

The Forty-third raced toward the bastion, which stood less than fifty yards ahead. A great broom of lead swept two dozen of the men aside, but the rest never flinched.

“
We’ll have our blades in the bastards!”

Sam thought it was time to throw caution to the winds. The Eighty-fifth was spilling into the open area beyond “Morgan’s Line,” their ranks starting to fray a bit. If his men charged now …

He glanced at the gunner chief standing a few feet away, alongside one of the three-pounders. The man, who’d been watching him, nodded.

“Yes, sir. I think we can push our way into that battery redoubt. That’ll give the men an anchor point.”

Houston had been thinking the same thing.

If ‘twas to be done, best to do it quickly

“All right, boys!
Now
we’ll charge them.”

He set off at a trot. Eagerly, their confidence filled like a great sail, the Baltimore and Capitol dragoons thundered after him.