“And how do you even propose to use them? You told me you were an infantry officer, not an artilleryman. You’re facing British regulars here, Captain, not wild savages.”
Mention of “wild savages” drew the accountant’s skeptical eyes to Sam’s small group of companions.
Fortunately, Sequoyah and the Ridge children had donned American clothing that morning. Unfortunately, the Rogers brothers had done no such thing. James hadn’t even bothered to tuck away his beloved war club.
Tiana Rogers was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she too had outfitted herself in American apparel for the occasion. On the other hand, the big girl was far too imposing and good-looking, in her exotic way, not to draw attention to herself.
Skepticism was growing rapidly in the accountant’s expression. Sam drew himself up haughtily.
“A delegation from the Cherokee Nation, sent here expressly by General Jackson. Even includes two of their princesses.”
Nancy Ridge looked suitably solemn and demure.
Tiana, alas, grinned like a hoyden.
Best to distract the accountant, Sam thought hurriedly. He pointed a finger at John Ross, whose appearance and uniform made him look like a white man. “Lieutenant Ross here is a wizard with artillery, sir. Very experienced with the big guns.”
John’s eyes widened. Sam ignored him and pressed forward.
“Oh, yes,” he said, chuckling. “General Jackson gave him no choice in the matter, seeing as how the lieutenant can’t hit the broad side of a barn with a pistol or a musket. But give him a proper-size gun—!”
Wide as saucers.
Forward, ever forward.
“Indeed so. Ross is murderous with the big guns. He’ll wreak havoc upon the enemy, Mr. Simmons, be sure of it! Grapeshot is his preferred ball, of course.”
Then, Sam decided it was time to add a modicum of truth to the matter. Just a pinch.
“Look, Mr. Simmons,” he said softly, almost conspiratorially. “I don’t honestly know if the lieutenant can make good his bloodthirsty boasts. Achilles himself would be daunted by the task. But if nothing else, he and I are determined not to let the British come into the city. Certainly not without at least firing some shots. We need those guns, sir.”
By now, a large crowd of soldiers had gathered around the two men on horseback. While they’d been arguing, a new batch of men had come up and pushed their way to the front of the mob. These looked to be under some sort of discipline, at least, even if the lieutenant in command had only one arm and was riding on a wagon instead of a horse.
On the positive side, the newly arrived officer was glaring at Simmons, not Sam. Quite a ferocious glare it was, too. The one-armed lieutenant’s face looked as if it belonged to Grendel’s brother, or one of the monsters in the Grimm brothers’ fairy tales.
Simmons spotted the same ogre’s glare. He threw up his hands.
“Oh, do as you will, then! The cannons are yours, Captain Houston, if you’d be such a fool.”
And with that, he rode off.
Driscol arrived in time to hear most of the exchange. He didn’t think he’d ever heard such a magnificent pile of lies, exaggerations, and pure hornswaggling in his entire life.
Whoever this big young captain was, he had to be a Scots-Irishman. Nobody else would be mad enough to entertain the idea of stopping the British with just two cannons and a small band of Indians.
He was a joy to behold.
The captain’s blue eyes turned on him now, along with a grin as cheerful and confident as anything Driscol could have hoped for.
Oh, aye, he’ll do splendidly. And who knows, he might even survive. Stranger things have happened.
Driscol returned the grin with a thin smile of his own.
“I dare say yon ‘artilleryman’ Lieutenant Ross wouldn’t know one end of a cannon from the other. Judging from his expression. But as it happens, sir . . .”
Driscol swiveled in the seat. “Naval gunners, front and forward!” he barked.
The sailors trotted up as smartly as you please. The lieutenant turned back to the captain.
“Commodore Barney’s men, these are, sir. They’ll know how to handle the guns, once they’re positioned at the Capitol.”
There wasn’t so much as a flicker in the young captain’s expression, even though he had a subordinate officer tacitly telling him what to do. Then, just a second later, the grin grew wider still. The captain edged his horse alongside the wagon.
He leaned over, speaking quietly enough that only Driscol and Henry Crowell could hear him.
“I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, Lieutenant, save that I will fight the British bastards.” The captain gave the black driver a cool, considering look, as if gauging his ability to keep from gossiping. “So I’ll be delighted to hear any suggestions you might have.”
The look impressed Driscol in a way that the ready grin, the handsome face, and the confident shoulders hadn’t. The soldier from County Antrim had known plenty of young and self-assured officers, some of whom had made excellent leaders on a battlefield. Few of them, on the other hand, had been clear-eyed enough to understand that a menial was still a man, even a black one, and couldn’t be dismissed with no more thought than you’d give the livestock.
Driscol, in turn, glanced at the captain’s Indian companions. There was a tale there, too, he was certain.
He started to look away from the group, but a flash of teeth drew his eyes back.
Lord in Heaven.
Driscol hadn’t paid any attention at the time to the big girl whom the captain had claimed to be an Indian princess of some sort. His focus had been entirely on the captain’s argument with the officious clerk, and he’d dismissed the statement as just another of the captain’s Niagara Falls of balderdash and bunkum. Now . . .
The “princess” was exchanging a jest with a young Indian warrior who looked to be some sort of relation. That big smile, on that face—perched as it was atop a supple body whose graceful form couldn’t possibly be disguised, even in a modest settler’s dress—
It took a real effort for Driscol to tear his eyes away. This was no time for such thoughts. It was hardly as if that smile had been aimed at him, in any event.
“I know what I’m doing, yes, sir,” he growled, more gruffly than he’d really intended. “I served under Generals Brown and Scott in the Niagara campaign, and before that for some years with Napoleon. I was at Jena and Austerlitz both, and more other battles than I care to remember.”
The captain’s grin shallowed into a simple smile. “Oh, splendid. I’ll give the speeches and wave my sword about, then, while you whisper sage advice into my ear.”
“My thoughts exactly, sir. You lead the men, and I’ll keep them steady.”
The captain examined Driscol carefully. By the time he was done, there was but a trace of the smile left. “Steady. I imagine you’re good at that.”
“None better, sir. If I say so myself.”
The captain nodded. “I’m Sam Houston, from Tennessee. You?”
“Patrick Driscol. From Country Antrim originally. That’s in northern—”
Houston clucked. “Please, Patrick! Do I look like an Englishman? My own sainted forefather, the good gentleman John Houston, arrived in this country from Belfast almost a century ago. Hauling with him a keg full of sovereigns he claimed to have earned honestly, mind you. Though I have my doubts, just as I suspect my ancestors weren’t really Scot baronets who served as archers for Jeanne d’Arc when she marched from Orleans to Reims. We Scots-Irish tell a lot of tall tales, you know?”
An impulse Driscol couldn’t control took over his mouth. “Oh, aye. Tales of Indian princesses and such.”
Houston glanced back at the girl in question. “That tale’s taller that it should be, I suppose, but it’s not invented from whole cloth. Tiana really does come from a chiefly family.”
When his eyes came back, Driscol was surprised to see the shrewdness there. He hadn’t suspected that, in
such a man.
“I’ll introduce you later,” Houston said. “Mind you, I’d still like to get the children off to a place of safety, but . . . They’re all from chiefly families, and headstrong as you could ask for. Tiana most of all. So I doubt me I’ll be able to shake them loose.”
Tiana.
Driscol shook his head, trying to concentrate on the task at hand.
For the first time, it dawned on him that he might have gotten more than he bargained for when he seized upon this brash young captain as his chosen champion. Champions always had a will of their own, of course. So much was a given. But could he possibly possess subtlety as well?
A little shudder twitched his shoulders. A big hand clapped down on the nearest, blithely ignoring the arm that was missing below. “And now, Lieutenant. The Capitol, you say?”
Houston looked at the president’s mansion. “I’d thought to make a stand here, myself.”
Driscol started to explain the superior merits of the Capitol as a make-do fortress, but Houston cut him off.
“I’ll take your word for it. It doesn’t really matter, now that I think about it. If I survive this mad adventure, I’ll eventually have to report to General Jackson. And if I had to tell Old Hickory that I chose to defend the nation’s executive house instead of the legislature . . .”
The captain’s own shoulders twitched.
“He’d curse me for a Federalist, see if he wouldn’t.”
CHAPTER 21
Sam had acted impetuously, because his military apprenticeship under Andrew Jackson had made some of the General’s attitudes rub off. Right at the top of the list was Old Hickory’s intransigence in the face of an enemy. Now, though, Sam had to make good on his boasts. He was all of twenty-one years old, and the captain’s epaulet on his right shoulder wasn’t even official yet.
His first step was clear enough. In point of fact, the carriages of the two twelve-pounders were in splendid condition, and the guns could quite easily be hauled the one mile distance to the Capitol simply by having militiamen and Barney’s sailors haul them by hand.
But then what?
To make things worse, now that the impulse of the moment had passed, Sam was beginning to fret over the situation with the children. Major Ridge and John Jolly had not sent their children to Washington in order for Sam to lead them into the middle of a pitched battle.
But what was he to do with them? There was no chance of finding a proper family in Washington who would take in the children. Certainly not at the moment. Half of the city’s proper families had already fled, and the rest were huddling fearfully in their homes. That would have been true even if the children in question had been white, much less Cherokee.
And even if he could find someone, the chances were slim to none that he could get the children themselves to agree.
Nancy Ridge . . . maybe. But her brother John and her cousin Buck were at a fever pitch of excitement, the way only twelve-year-old boys can be. Whatever Sam’s qualms, they were looking forward eagerly to the prospect of a battle. The tales they’d be able to tell when they got back! The status they’d achieve!
The Cherokee weren’t a “warrior tribe” in the same sense that some of the tribes on the plains were, or the fierce Chickasaws. But they bore precious little resemblance to Quakers either.
And Tiana!
Sam glanced at her, riding her horse not far away. The sixteen-year-old girl might be wearing modest American lady’s attire, but the easy and athletic way she sat the horse would have made her Indian origins clear to anyone, even without the coppery skin tone. Not to mention the way she’d hoisted the dress above her knees, to leave her legs clear!
Her eyes were literally gleaming. If Sam tried to place her out of harm’s way she’d be likely to stab him. Nor did Sam doubt that she had a knife hidden somewhere in her pack. Possibly even a pistol.
Fortunately, Sam’s newfound adviser stepped into the breach.
“I don’t see much chance of getting your wards anywhere to safety at the moment, sir,” Driscol said quietly. “But the Capitol’s quite the huge place, you know, and very solidly constructed. I’m sure we can find somewhere sheltered enough for them. They should be safe, unless the enemy breaches the walls.”
Uncertainly, Sam eyed the great buildings they were marching toward. It was late in the afternoon by now, and the sun was beginning to dip toward the west. The golden rays reflecting off the Capitol made the twin edifices seem even more imposing than usual.
“What if the British do breach the walls?”
Driscol shrugged. “That’s as may be, sir. But I don’t think you’ve much choice. And—ah . . .” He cleared his throat.
Sam smiled. “Yes, Lieutenant Driscol, I know. I should be focusing my attention on planning the defense, not worrying about what might happen should my plans fail. Still, I do have a personal responsibility here.”
He came to a decision. After all these weeks of travel, he’d come to know Sequoyah pretty well. The lamed Cherokee might be prickly about his condition, but underneath he was quite a levelheaded fellow. So long as his honor was respected, he was willing enough to be practical.
“A moment, please, Lieutenant.” Sam turned his horse and trotted over to the Cherokee.
He returned with a sense of relief. “He’s agreed to take charge of them once we get there,” he told Driscol. “We’ll need people to reload anyway, he reminded me, and take care of the wounded.”
Driscol studied the children dubiously, for a moment. “But will they agree?”
Sam smiled ruefully. “Tiana, who knows? Especially once the battle starts. But the others will. Have you much experience with Cherokees, Lieutenant?”
“None at all, sir. Precious little with any of the tribes, even the Iroquois.”
Sam nodded. “Well, don’t believe most of what you hear. The children will be rambunctious, but they’ll listen to Sequoyah. And now, Lieutenant, what’s next?”
“We should place the cannons between the buildings, sir. That’ll give them a clear line of fire at the approaching enemy, with excellent protection on their flanks. With this many men at our disposal we’ll be able to erect solid breastworks for the guns, too.”
Sam looked around at the little army that they’d assembled.
Not so little, actually, not any longer. Most of the militiamen who’d been gathered at the president’s house had chosen to join them. Not more than a couple of dozen had followed the accountant Simmons toward Georgetown. Between those who had stayed and the volunteer Baltimore dragoons Driscol had brought, and the dozens of sailors from Barney’s regular naval unit, they’d started down Pennsylvania avenue with a force of some three or four hundred men.
To be sure, calling that mob a “force” was a little ridiculous. There wasn’t a semblance of order among them, leaving aside Barney’s sailors and, to a degree, Driscol’s young Baltimore dragoons. Still, the men seemed determined enough—even eager.
The ones who’d chosen to accompany Sam were those who hadn’t been completely demoralized by the rout at Bladensburg. Clearly enough, they intended to redeem themselves, now that someone had taken charge and proposed to lead them into battle instead of further retreat.
The farther down Pennsylvania Avenue they went, the more men they picked up, too. The broad boulevard that formed the spine of the capital city was full of troops slogging disconsolately toward Georgetown. From what Sam could determine, American casualties at Bladensburg had been light. There were enough men here, if Sam could rally them, to create something for which the name “army” wouldn’t be a joke.
He gave it his best, speechifying to the retreating troops from the saddle all the way down the avenue. By the time they drew up before the Capitol, his voice was hoarse.
“Well, that’s that,” he said to Driscol glumly. Sam was learning for himself what experienced commanders had known for millennia—routed soldiers, even if not badly mauled, were usually too demoralized to be of any use for a whil
e. Most of them had had enough of fighting for one day.
Sam looked over the milling mob—there was even less in the way of order now than ever—and estimated he had not more than a thousand men. “It’s not much,” he said. “But it was the best I could do.”
Driscol was half astonished and half amused at the gloominess in the young officer’s voice.
Not much!
The lieutenant had known marshals in Napoleon’s army who’d have done well to rally a portion of the men that Houston had, under the circumstances. The big captain was a wizard at the work. He’d been able to project just the right combination of breezy self-confidence and good cheer to turn the trick.
Even wit, for a wonder.
To be sure, the captain’s frequent citations from the Iliad probably seemed odd to most of the soldiery. They would have understood the references well enough. The Greek classics, along with the history of the Roman republic, were the staples of education at the time. But precious few of them would have taken the time and effort to memorize most of Homer’s epic poem.
Still, if the citations made the captain seem a bit eccentric, they also made clear that he was an educated man—always something that Americans respected. Better still, it had shamed those among the crowd who were likewise educated, reminding them of their duty.
There were quite a few of those, too. Many of the volunteer units who had assembled in Washington to participate in the battle of Bladensburg were militias drawn from the city itself or nearby Baltimore. They included in their number many young men from the educated classes.
Best of all, though, had been the jokes accompanying the citations. By itself—
Let fierce Achilles, dreadful in his rage,
The god propitiate, and the pest assuage