A horse was brought up. Another brown one, of course. Ross’s aides knew his habits.
Once mounted, Ross waved his sword and charged forward. The front line of his army was now within seventy yards of the breastworks, and he could sense them wavering.
They’d suffered fearsome casualties already. The treacherous and slippery ground had slowed the advance, and they’d had to cross hundreds of yards in the face of enemy fire. The fact that it was a night attack hadn’t helped them, either. The terrain provided no cover, and the illumination from the burning Navy Yard was enough to provide the enemy gunners with clear targets.
Very heavy fire. As they had demonstrated many times since the war started, American gunners could work their cannons faster than British ones.
Suddenly, the lighter and sharper sound of musket fire was added to the hell’s brew. The Fourth had come within range of the multitude of enemy riflemen Ross could see in every window of the two Capitol buildings.
A lot of musket fire. British casualties would start mounting still faster.
“Follow me!” he bellowed. “I’ll dine in the Capitol tonight, or in hell!”
Driscol had been waiting patiently, in the Senate room where he’d taken his position with a single platoon. The lieutenant had made no effort to stop the rest of the soldiers, in the other rooms, from firing their muskets whenever they chose, even though he knew most of them would start firing long before the enemy was in range. He’d have had no way of controlling them anyway, scattered as they were throughout the building. Maintaining volley fire wasn’t as important in defending a fortress as it was on an open battlefield, anyway.
But he could control that one platoon, and he’d done so easily. No need to bring the threat of McParland and the two savage-looking Cherokees to bear. Driscol didn’t even think of them. The troll was in full presence, now, and that was more than enough.
“Easy, boys, easy.” He didn’t shout the words, didn’t need to. Even over the thunder of guns and muskets, Driscol’s voice carried easily through the chamber. “Won’t be long now. Sassenach officers are vile beasts in every other respect, but they don’t lack courage. He’ll be coming along any moment. And we’ll kill him.”
Monroe’s final dash to the western doors proved simple. American soldiers were stationed and ready there, of course, and they were indeed anxious. But their anxiety was directed at wondering whether or not Crowell’s supply run would make it back in time.
“Let me, sir,” Crowell whispered to Monroe, as they neared the Capitol. Realizing the wisdom of the words, Monroe let the driver lead him the rest of the way up the hill. A black face in the fore would mean only one thing to the sentries.
Sure enough, before Crowell had even reached the building—he’d headed for the House—soldiers were coming out to greet him. Unarmed to boot, because they were already racing toward the wagons drawn up below, to help the dragoons unload them and bring in the munitions and other supplies.
So, Monroe’s entrance into the Capitol proved something of an anticlimax. None of the soldiers paid any attention to him as they poured out in a little flood. He’d been identified as one of Crowell’s companions, which was good enough for his bona fides. For the rest, the soldiers cared only about the black man’s precious cargo.
In fact, Monroe had to more or less force his way past them and into the building. Once there, not knowing where else to go, he headed toward the central chamber. By now, the sound of musket fire was continuous. The assault was clearly reaching a climax.
Driscol had good eyes, and particularly good night vision. He’d been hoping for the sight of a white horse, since he detested Cockburn more than he did most Sassenach. But he spotted the brown one easily enough, wasn’t fooled for an instant.
“That bastard!” he called out. “The one on the brown horse, charging forward. D’you see him, boys? Look for the sword and the gold fancywork.”
Some of the men in the platoon called out their answer, but Driscol didn’t need it. He watched the way most of their shoulders shifted slightly, the way those of riflemen do when they’ve spotted a target. Holding their muskets in a line, these men would probably prove pitiably wretched. But most of them had grown up hunting. If they didn’t really know how to fight, they did know how to shoot.
“On my command,” Driscol growled. “Any man fires before that, I’ll grind his bones for my soup.”
He waited, cold and merciless, hunched at one of the windows and gauging the range.
Quite a splendid officer, that was. Fearless and resolute. Probably the very commander himself, Robert Ross.
Which was even more splendid. The best way to kill a snake is to crush the head.
“Fire!” Driscol roared. More of a snarl, really. He controlled his voice, because the acoustics in the chamber were far better than those of a battlefield—and one of his full-throated roars would have startled such men. Might throw off their aim.
Two seconds after the volley went off, Driscol straightened up.
“I’m proud of you, boys,” he pronounced.
Two chances saved the life of Robert Ross. The first was that his horse reared up just before the musket volley fired. Startled, probably, by a round from one of the twelve-pounders that flicked its ear. By now, the American gunners were firing canister.
Most of the volley hammered into the horse, killing it instantly. One round struck Ross in the shoulder. The left shoulder, so he retained his grip on the sword. Another struck him in the rib cage, breaking two ribs and channeling down them to exit from his lower back. A third struck him in the right forehead, a glancing shot, not fatal. Not even a serious wound, really, although a bloody one.
But it was quite enough to daze the general. And so it was a senseless man in the saddle as his horse collapsed, not one who could throw himself free. A horse weighing half a ton will crush a man that it falls upon.
The second chance came into play. One of the musket balls passed between Ross’s leg and the horse. It did no worse than bruise the general’s calf, but it cut the saddle girth as neatly as a razor. The saddle came loose and the horse’s dying spasm flung Ross off to the left.
He landed on his side, his right arm crossed below him. Unfortunately, old reflexes had kept an iron grip on the sword, so his already-injured rib cage had a terrible laceration added from the impact of his body upon the sword hilt.
He lay there, limp and unconscious.
“The general’s down!” cried one of the aides.
The Irish-born Ross was a popular officer. One of the most popular in the British army, in fact. In an instant, half-a-dozen men were there to bear him away from the field.
Thirty yards to the rear, and somewhat to the left of the field, Admiral Cockburn heard the cry. Cursing, he drove his horse forward to rally the men. Even to an admiral without Ross’s experience in such matters, it was obvious that the assault was on the verge of breaking.
“Ah, there he comes,” said Driscol with great satisfaction. He swiveled his head back and forth.
“D’you see him, boys? The fancy-looking bastard on that fancy white horse? That’ll be Cockburn himself. And I want him dead.”
Cockburn gave Ross’s body no more than a glance as his horse drove past the group of soldiers carrying the general to the rear. Dead, apparently. Gravely wounded, at least.
At the moment, all that was irrelevant. All that mattered was taking the Capitol. Arrogant and cocksure the admiral might be, but no one had ever accused him of lacking courage or willpower. He himself never gave such matters a single thought.
“Follow me, men!”
For a moment, after the volley was fired, Driscol had his hopes. But then, seeing soldiers carrying Cockburn away, he had to restrain himself from cursing his platoon.
Cockburn wasn’t being carried the way Ross had been, like a sack of meal. The admiral was still on his feet—with a man under each shoulder to steady him, true. But Cockburn was still bearing most of his own weight. The
admiral had lost his fancy hat, and his steps seemed a bit uncertain. But it was quite obvious that he hadn’t been badly wounded. He was probably just dazed, and winded from falling off the horse.
No time for a second volley, either. Not only was Cockburn himself being hustled away quickly, but the entire British line was falling back. It wasn’t quite a rout. But a retreat so hasty that within a few seconds Cockburn’s figure was completely lost in the fleeing mass.
Ah, well. Charles Ball and his gunners were still firing, of course. Ball was no more the man to show mercy on defeated enemies than Driscol himself. A most fine fellow. So there was always the chance that a stray round still might kill the admiral on his way.
Nervously, one of the volunteers cleared his throat. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”
There was a time to browbeat men, and a time to do otherwise, and Driscol knew the difference.
“Never you mind, lad,” he said, straightening up from his crouch again. “The chances of war—and we beat the bastards back. A piece of advice, though.”
His head swiveled back and forth, giving his men a look that was stern, but not condemning. “Next time you shoot at a man on a white horse, do try to hit the man. Not the horse.”
The whole platoon stared out of the windows. Even in the half darkness, the carcass of the horse was easy to spot. Although it was no longer exactly in one piece.
Driscol should have warned them, he supposed. In the darkness, that great gleaming target must have drawn their eyes like a magnet.
“Ah, well,” he repeated. He knew the quirky chances of war. No man knew them better.
From their position in the back of the room, where they’d be out of the way of the militiamen, the Rogers brothers watched Patrick Driscol carefully.
Very carefully, just as they had been for hours.
Not because they were concerned about his safety, though. Their new assignment as Driscol’s bodyguards had turned out to be almost meaningless. That night, at least. There was now little chance that the British would manage to break their way into the huge building, where the hand-to-hand combat skills of the two brothers would come into play.
Little chance—largely because of Driscol himself.
So, as the night wore on, James and John Rogers had been able to devote more and more of their time to considering Driscol from an entirely different viewpoint.
Within the first hour, his courage and resolution had become obvious. So had his practical intelligence. Thereafter, it was other things they looked for.
A good sense of humor, of course, was the most important thing. He’d need it.
Eventually, after observing the sure and relaxed way Driscol handled a mass of nervous and uncertain soldiers, they were satisfied. For all the lieutenant’s grim demeanor, the Rogers brothers hadn’t missed the fact that he was far more likely to settle down a young soldier with a jest rather than a curse. Or break up a quarrel with sarcasm, rather than threats.
“He’ll do,” James pronounced softly.
“Do?” his brother whispered back. “He’d be perfect. Except he’s ugly.”
Driscol came over to them a short while later.
“It seems you won’t have to do much tonight, lads.”
They nodded. Then John asked:
“Have you met our sister Tiana, Lieutenant?”
Driscol stared at him for a moment, before looking away. He seemed intent on examining a nearby window. Odd, really, since there was nothing to be seen through it except the night.
He cleared his throat. “Ah. Yes, I believe I have. In a manner of speaking.”
James smiled pleasantly. “Oh, that won’t do at all. ‘A manner of speaking.’ No, no. A real introduction is called for. As soon as possible, after the battle.”
“We’ll see to it,” John added. The same serene smile had appeared on his face.
They waited. There was one last thing that needed to be known.
Finally, Driscol cleared his throat again. His eyes never left the window. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that. Very much.”
“Consider it done,” James said.
CHAPTER 26
Monroe entered the crimson-draped chamber of the House just as a roar of applause went up. The secretary of state had to push his way through a crowd to see what was happening. The chamber seemed to be packed full of soldiers, many of whom had obviously just arrived themselves. All of them were still carrying their muskets, and the soldiers were so full of excitement that Monroe hoped none of them would fire a shot by accident—or even, in the fervor of the moment, fire a celebratory shot into the ceiling.
The assault had been driven off, clearly enough. As soon as the roar began to subside, a penetrating voice rang out.
“These ills shall cease, whene’er by Jove’s decree
We crown the bowl to Heav’n and Liberty:
While the proud foe his frustrate triumph mourns,
And Greece indignant thro’ her seas returns.”
Monroe thought he recognized the passage. If so, a speech given by Hector to his brother Paris predicting the victory of Troy was perhaps unfortunate. If the secretary recalled correctly, Hector himself would be slain by Achilles not long thereafter.
Still—
The soldiers seemed pleased with the sentiments, and Monroe doubted if many of them understood the irony of the citation. Besides, Monroe was six feet tall. Now that he had finally pushed his way into the chamber, he could see well enough over the heads of most of the men to examine the one who’d given that little classical peroration.
So this was the mysterious “Captain Houston.” Monroe couldn’t stop himself from barking a little laugh. Great God! The man even looked the part!
Houston was standing before the Speaker’s canopied chair, at the south end of the chamber. For a moment, Monroe thought he was standing on a stool, until he realized that the captain himself was simply very tall. Tall, broad-shouldered—and powerful, judging from the nearby soldier half reeling from Houston’s friendly clap on the shoulder. Houston’s blue eyes, powerful blunt nose, and wide grin radiated confidence and good spirits. The mass of rich chestnut hair the captain exhibited when he swept off his hat capped the image perfectly.
“We beat ’em back slick, boys! I’ll be scorched if we didn’t send the bastards east of sunrise! It won’t convene for them to be marching on us again any time soon!” He gestured with the hat, waving it about flamboyantly. “Let’s have three cheers for our Liberty!”
The cheers came—enthusiastically, not dutifully—and there were quite a few more than three. By the time the soldiers subsided, Monroe’s ears were ringing.
He’d kept pushing forward, and finally made it to the front row. Thankfully, there seemed to be an open space of some sort at the center of the mob. Once the secretary pushed his way there, he saw the reason for it: Joshua Barney was lying on a settee, attended by a very large and striking Indian girl. Several other Indians were gathered around the settee as well, all but one of them children. Even the excited soldiers had been respectful enough not to crowd the commodore. It was obvious at a glance that Barney was badly injured, and feeling the pain of his wounds.
The presence of the Indians was a mystery, but the commodore himself didn’t seem concerned over the matter. Badly injured or not, Barney was conscious and alert. He spotted Monroe at the same moment the secretary of state spotted him.
“Mr. Monroe!” the commodore called out. “Welcome to what is still the Capitol of the United States.”
Captain Houston had been about to launch into another peroration, but hearing Barney’s words he blinked and closed his mouth. Then he peered intently at the newly arrived figure.
The commodore levered himself up on an elbow and pointed. “It’s Mr. James Monroe, Captain. The secretary of state. Mr. Monroe”—the finger pointed the other way—“may I introduce Captain Sam Houston?”
Houston was no older than his early twenties, the secretary gauged, and—for the first time sinc
e Monroe had spotted him—he finally looked a bit unsure of himself.
This was no time for uncertainty. Monroe strode forward, bypassing the commodore’s settee, his hand outstretched.
“A pleasure to finally meet you, Captain!” he boomed. “And let me be the first to extend to you the congratulations of your grateful nation and government.” Monroe would allow himself a little fib here. “Mr. Madison asked me to convey his regards, as well. Alas, he was tied up with matters too pressing to come himself.”
That last part was likely true, at least. The president was probably lost, halfway to Wiley’s Tavern. The area surrounding Washington was still, in many parts, not far removed from a wilderness. Given the confusion of the moment and having to travel at night—the skies were lowering, too, with a storm in the offing—Madison and his party would have had a rough go of it.
As for the rest . . .
Well, the secretary was quite certain the president wouldn’t begrudge him the little lie. James Monroe and James Madison had been friends for decades, a mutual regard that had not really faltered on those occasions when they’d found themselves on opposite sides of a political dispute or even contesting against each other for the same political position.
Besides, Monroe was quite sure that if Madison had been present at the tavern in Georgetown, he would have agreed to send Monroe to the besieged Capitol. He might very well have tried to come himself, and his cabinet would have had to dissuade him.
Houston’s handshake was firm and confident, betraying none of the self-doubts and apprehensions the young captain might be having.