Land of the Free (49 page)

Coffee was the first to move
out with the dragoons and the Cherokees toward the Bend. Jackson’s
main body moved directly down and crossed the river above the
island where Bean’s Militia was deployed.

At a little past 10:00 AM,
Captain Bradford opened fire. It was soon very obvious that the
cannons were ineffective.

Coffee’s forces, having
crossed the river against light resistance, put the village to the
torch but soon became bogged down.

Jackson ordered the charge
and the Thirty-ninth United States Infantry, under Colonel
Williams. double-timed forward with General James Doherty’s East
Tennessee brigade commanded by Colonel Bunch in support. On they
trotted through a storm of bullets and arrows, filling in the ranks
when a man fell.

The first officer over the
breastwork was Major L. P. Montgomery, but as he turned to urge his
men to follow, he was cut down by musket fire. The nearest officer
to him was Ensign Sam Houston who already had an arrow in his
thigh. When Montgomery fell, young Houston climbed onto the
breastworks and, with raised sword, led a bayonet charge that soon
forced the Indians back toward Coffee’s forces.

Some of the enemy warriors
worked their way through the rifle fire and the burning village to
take to the river. Coffee’s reserve on the far bank killed many but
a few, including Chief Menawa, made a clean escape while a fairly
large number took refuge along the undercut riverbank behind a
logjam.

When informed of this
situation, Jackson sent an interpreter to say that any that
surrendered would be spared, but the interpreter was promptly shot
so Jackson moved down a small fieldpiece. The logs in the jam,
however, proved to be as effective against cannonballs as any
breastwork and the fieldpiece was retired. Jackson next called for
volunteers and accepted the offer of Ensign Houston, who still had
an arrow protruding from his thigh. As Houston and a small group of
men moved forward toward the concealed Indians, musket fire
erupted. Houston was hit twice and several others went
down.

At this point, Jackson’s
capacity for mercy ran out and he ordered torches to be thrown into
the flotsam and the Indians to be shot when they tried to escape
the flames.

April 20, 1814

Fort Jackson, Alabama
Territory

When General Pinckney,
leading troops from the Carolinas arrived, he ordered four hundred
of General Doherty’s brigade to garrison Fort Williams and relieved
Jackson’s army.

Within two hours, Jackson’s
entire force was moving up the Coosa. They crossed the Tennessee
River to Fayetteville where Jackson discharged them with a
magnificent speech. Before heading home to the Hermitage and his
beloved Rachel, he rode out a short way with Yank. “If you can,
Colonel,” Jackson said, “try to spend some time with those boys of
yours.”

“That’s up to the President,
General, not to me,” Yank replied.

“One of God’s greatest gifts
to any man is a son, Colonel. You once called your father a selfish
bastard. Be very careful lest your sons call you the same.” He
saluted, turned his horse abruptly and rode away.

May 26, 1814

Washington, District of
Columbia

When Yank had first glimpsed
the burned-out public buildings from the deck of the ship any
remaining euphoria of the Red Sticks defeat had evaporated. He had,
of course, been told of the British raid but the reality washed
over him in waves of shame, anger and disbelief.

Now as he made his way
through the piles of burned rubble toward the house of Colonel John
Tayloe, his mind focused on retribution. Until now, he had felt a
certain camaraderie with his British enemy, but the blackened hulk
of the White House and Capitol building extinguished that like the
rain that had saved the city from total destruction.

The odd Octagon House of
Colonel Tayloe was being used as the temporary executive mansion.
The street outside the house was guarded by a platoon of Marines.
Behind them was a tall wrought-iron fence with a serious looking
captain of Marines standing at the covered entrance. The captain
stepped forward to salute. “Good day, Colonel. Do you have business
here?”

Yank returned the salute. “I
have been summoned by the President. My name is Van
Buskirk.”

“Thank you, sir. You are
indeed expected. Please proceed to the door and ring the bell.” He
unlocked the gate with a key and swung it open.

Yank heard the gate clang
shut as he mounted the steps.

The door was opened by a
black man that Yank had never seen before. “May I take your hat and
coat, Colonel?”

“No thank you. I’ll keep
them.” Yank shrugged the coat off, put it over his left arm and
removed his hat.

“The President’s study is
the circular room just above us.” He pointed to the
stairs.

“Thank you.” Yank climbed
the stairs and knocked on the double doors at the right of the
landing.

“Come in,
Colonel.”

Madison was standing with
his back to the windows that faced the street. He looked older.
“Communications with the south have been poor so I only recently
learned of the treaties that have been signed.” He offered his
hand.

Yank shook the President’s
hand and decided not to bring up the subject of the burning of
Washington. “I have scant knowledge of the treaties,
sir.”

Madison pointed to a couch
and chairs near a cold fireplace. “Shall we sit over there and
chat?”

Yank stepped back to let
Madison lead the way.

“I imagine it was a shock to
see our capital in the current state,” Madison said.

“Yes, sir.”

“It has grieved Dolley
beyond reason but I see it as an opportunity to rebuild.” Madison
sat on one of the chairs.

“I have not had enough time
to know what I think, sir. But I’m angry.” Yank sat down across
from Madison.

“At whom?”

Yank’s instinctive response
was to say “the British” but he was sure Madison would deflect that
with an intellectual argument. “I’m told that my former friend,
Governor General Sir George Prévost ordered it, sir.”

“I’m told the same thing but
that he ordered it in retaliation for the American sacking of York
where we not only burned the Parliament, but also looted and burned
private buildings. Our officers seem unwilling or incapable of
stopping that kind of brutish behavior.”

Yank gave him a helpless
shrug. “As I said, sir, I have not had enough time to absorb it
yet.”

Madison nodded. “Well then
let me change the subject to Andrew Jackson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I cannot decide if the man
is a cretin or a genius.”

“He has an elevated sense of
honor which makes him difficult to understand, sir. But might I say
that he is princely to his friends and dreadful to his
enemies.”

“And militarily?”

“He’s the most gifted leader
I’ve ever seen, sir. He can assess a battlefield in a glance and
arrive at a strategy in moments that most of us would take hours to
conceive, yet to my knowledge, he has never read a book about
tactics or studied the great battles of history.”

“He’s had a number of
defeats, I think.”

“I’m not aware of any, sir.
I do know that he’s withdrawn from several engagements. But in
those instances with which I’m familiar, he inflicted more harm
than he received. In modern warfare, attrition may be a better
measurement of victory or defeat than possession of the
field.”

Madison nodded. “Yes. It
would indeed seem that the European definition of he who leaves the
battle first, loses, needs some revision.”

Yank nodded. “I think that
battles in Europe have usually been for the control of territory.
Here our battles are fought for ideals.”

“Well said. I’m going to
offer Andrew Jackson a commission as Major General in the United
States army. What do you think will happen when I do?”

“The old soldiers will
complain, your political enemies will fume, and you, sir, will be
safe in the knowledge that you’ve taken an important step in
winning this war and protecting our country.”

“You may have a future in
politics, Colonel.”

“Perish the thought, sir.
I’m a soldier and the son of a soldier for more generations than I
can count.”

“Yes.” Madison took a breath
and let it out as if he was tired. “What would you like to do now,
Yank?”

Yank almost recoiled at the
President’s use of his nickname but he covered it. “Well, sir.
Unless I’m needed immediately, I’d like to spend some time with my
family.”

“Of course.”

“Until the British make a
move in the south, that is.”

“You think they
will?”

“Oh yes, sir, I
do.”

“We seem to have them under
control in the north and our navy is embarrassing them
daily.”

“Yes, sir. But after the
defeat of France they’ll soon have troops available and we’ll be
facing a different enemy.”

“Where will they
come?”

“My guess would be Mobile or
New Orleans, Mr. President.”

“Florida would be my guess
since they already have a presence there and the support of Spain.
Why would you think otherwise?”

“I think that their alliance
with Tecumseh and the Creeks is proof of their strong desire to
prevent our westward expansion, sir.”

“Which they could do if they
controlled the Mississippi River.”

“Yes, sir. And to do that
they’d need to control Mobile, New Orleans or both.”

Madison took another deep
breath. “Go see your family, Colonel. I’ll send for you when the
need arises.”

“Thank you, Mr.
President.”

December 1, 1814

Gulf of Mexico,
Louisiana

Carrying his kitbag on his
back, Yank climbed the ladder, then crossed the deck to join
Captain John D. Henley, who was standing on the bow. “Good morning,
Captain.” He dropped his kitbag near the rail.

“Colonel,” Henley replied.
“Welcome to Louisiana.”

Yank smiled and leaned on
the railing. “I’ve been meaning to ask, are you to be the fleet
commander in New Orleans?”

“No. That will be Commodore
Patterson. I outrank him but, well, you know how politics work in
the military.”

“Indeed.” Yank pointed to
the northwest, off their starboard bow, where the lifting fog
revealed breakers. “Sand bar?”

“No, an island. There’s a
chain of small barrier islands that stretches from here back to the
mouth of Mobile Bay. That one is referred to as Smuggler’s Cove. It
more or less marks the entrance to Lake Borgne.” Henley pointed
aft. “Mobile Bay is just over the horizon. We came within sight of
land but the fog was too dense.”

They were aboard the
fourteen-gun schooner,
USS
Carolina
, which had been built two years
ago in Charleston, South Carolina at a cost of $8,743.

Yank was still looking
toward the island where tall sails had appeared. “Was Commodore
Patterson planning to escort you to New Orleans?”

“No.” Henley turned to look
at Yank then shaded his eyes and peered forward. “Damn.”

“Sails dead ahead,” the
lookout called.

“Beat General Quarters,”
Henley shouted. He turned to Yank. “We had best get you in a
whaleboat. Please wait on the fantail and I’ll send someone.” He
hurried aft, toward the bridge.

As the drummer began to beat
out the command, and the petty officers chivvied the men to their
battle stations, Yank watched as two more sails appeared from
behind the island, then he picked up his kitbag and moved aft
through the organized chaos of the ship’s main deck.

A midshipman, a boy of about
fifteen, ran aft and saluted. “We must hurry, Colonel Van Buskirk,
sir.”

Yank answered his salute.
“Have you launched the boat, Ensign?”

“Not yet, sir.” He looked
nervously toward ten men, two of whom were making a slow business
of attaching a whaleboat to the port davits. He turned back to
Yank. “The Captain said that he can’t maneuver until we’re
clear.”

“Then perhaps you should
hurry the deck hands and boat crew.”

“Just so, sir.” He looked
around, then ran toward men who were still securing the whaleboat
to the davits. “Hurry up you scurvy dogs.”

The two deck hands, who had
indeed been going about their task unenthusiastically, looked at
the young officer and actually seemed to slow down.

Yank shouldered his kitbag
and joined them. “I’m sure you men are very disappointed that
you’ll miss the upcoming battle.” He pointed. “If I’m not
misinformed, those three ships are the Royal Navy’s HMS Sophie, HMS
Armide and HMS Seahorse. That trio has sunk twenty-six ships so far
and murdered all the survivors. I know you want a chance to get
revenge, but my mission ashore is quite important.”