1812: The Rivers of War

  The value of such an education was unquestionable, in these difficult days. The proof of it was an even greater marvel than a two-story house full of books. John Ross had formed a business partnership with Timothy Meigs, the son of the well-known Indian agent Colonel Meigs. They had taken good advantage of the lucrative government contracts produced by the Americans’ wars against the British and the Creeks. In the short few months before Ross had joined the Cherokee force that now fought alongside Jackson, he’d become a prosperous man, even as white men measured such things.

  A Cherokee—not more than twenty-three years old—becoming wealthy from trading with white men! That was what the American missionaries called a “miracle.”

  As he ruminated, The Ridge listened for The Whale and his two companions. That was a waste of effort, really, since he knew full well that the men would perform their task soundlessly.

  Sure enough, the first sign The Ridge got of their progress was the sight of the three warriors, coming down the river. The Whale and his companions, all of them expert swimmers, were crossing the stream without trying to fight the current, moving quickly, surely, and quietly.

  “Get ready!” he hissed. The words were pitched in such a way that, while they wouldn’t be heard by anyone across the river, they would alert all of the nearest Cherokee warriors. He could rely on them to pass the word along to the remaining hundreds crouched farther back in the forest.

  That left only . . .

  The Ridge hesitated. On the one hand, he wanted to observe the young man next to him under fire. On the other hand, it was also critical that the American cavalrymen didn’t work at cross-purposes with what the Cherokee warriors were going to be doing. Once everyone started piling across the river, there was a serious risk that the allies would start killing one another in the midst of the chaos. White soldiers, even regulars, were notorious for not making fine distinctions between friendly and hostile Indians, especially once their blood was up.

  Granted, most Indians didn’t make fine distinctions between friendly and hostile whites, as well. But in situations like this one, the white soldiers had the advantage of wearing uniforms, which the Indians didn’t.

  For this campaign, it had been mutually agreed that all the Cherokees would wear two distinctive feathers and a deer tail in their headbands. The Ridge was hoping that would be enough to keep the American soldiers from firing on Cherokees by accident. Still, it would be smart to make sure that Coffee knew exactly what they were doing—and Ross was the obvious person to send as his liaison. The young Cherokee’s English was fluent. More than fluent, really, since English was his native language.

  So The Ridge arrived at his decision. “Find General Coffee and tell him we’re crossing the river,” he ordered Ross. “Do what you can to make sure the Americans don’t start shooting at us, once they follow us across.”

  Ross’s mouth quirked. “They’re cavalrymen, don’t forget. By the time they finally bring themselves to abandon their precious horses—since there’s no way to get them across the river easily—it’ll probably all be over, anyway.”

  The Ridge chuckled softly. There was quite a bit of truth to what Ross said, but . . .

  “Do it anyway.”

  Ross hesitated. Just long enough, The Ridge understood, to make clear that he wasn’t afraid to join the fight. It was very smoothly done, for such a young man. Then, moving not quite as quietly as an experienced warrior would have, Ross faded into the forest and was gone.

  The Ridge turned his attention back across the river. The Whale and his companions had reached the canoes and were already sliding three of them into the water. They were big canoes, and they’d have only one man guiding each one. The current being what it was, they’d come across the river quite a ways farther down from his position. He did a quick estimate of where they’d land, rose from his crouch, and started heading that way.

  His own movements, unlike those of Ross, were almost completely silent. That was simply long habit, so ingrained that The Ridge wasn’t even conscious of it. The noise of the battle being waged somewhere on the other side of the small peninsula was such that even if he had set off an explosion on his side of the river, it probably wouldn’t have been noticed.

  Major Montgomery pulled out his watch.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he announced.

  “We’re ready, sir,” stated Houston. The two officers were standing twenty yards in front of the arrayed lines of the Thirty-ninth Infantry, facing the enemy fortifications.

  Montgomery took the time to move back and inspect the ranks himself. That wasn’t because he doubted the ensign’s assessment; it was simply because Montgomery had learned—largely from watching General Jackson—that soldiers were steadied by the immediate and visible presence of the officers who would lead them in an attack.

  “God, I love regulars,” the major murmured. Montgomery himself was only a “regular” in a purely formal sense. Still, even in his short military career, he’d come to share Jackson’s distrust of militia volunteers.

  Taken as individuals, militiamen were no different from regular soldiers. Better men, actually, in most ways. Certainly, as a rule, more successful men. The regular army was notorious for attracting vagabonds and drunkards to join its ranks, just for the sake of the steady pay and regular provisions; whereas militiamen were frequently respected members of their communities.

  But even those members of the militias who weren’t lawyers soon enough adopted a lawyerly view of their rights and obligations. That usually meant a keen sense of the right to leave the service the moment their short term of enlistment was up.

  As he walked slowly down the well-formed ranks of the Thirty-ninth Infantry, here and there giving a soldier a careful inspection, Major Montgomery’s lips twisted into a half-sarcastic little smile.

  Regulars, God bless ’em.

  Most of the men were armed with the older-style Model 1795 .69-caliber musket that Jackson had wanted for this campaign. The weapon wasn’t as handy as the Model 1803 .54-caliber Harpers Ferry musket that was the standard issue for regulars, but it had the advantage of a fixed bayonet mount—and all the bayonets were fixed. Jackson believed in the value of cold steel.

  They looked splendid, too, in their real uniforms with their high-collared blue coats and white trousers. Best of all, Jackson’s quartermaster had somehow managed to finagle iron cap plates for the Thirty-ninth’s tall headgear. The men would go into battle with their heads shining the regiment’s name in the sunlight, instead of having to make do with painted imitations.

  Vagabonds or not, when the time came these regular soldiers could be counted upon to do their duty, and do it well. Whatever coat of mail they might pass on to their offspring, assuming they knew who their bastards were in the first place, it might well include a half-empty bottle of whiskey as part of the insignia. Should, by all rights, for at least half of them. Still, there’d be no petticoats there. Not a one.

  Montgomery came back forward to stand alongside Ensign Houston. He pulled out his watch again.

  “Five minutes to go. And, yes, we’re ready.”

  CHAPTER 4

  There were some Creek warriors not far from the riverbank, as it turned out. Even if they hadn’t been posted as guards, they were too alert not to notice when The Whale and his two companions started sliding canoes into the river.

  With a great shout, several of them rushed down to the water’s edge, waving the crimson-painted war clubs that had given the Red Sticks their name. Most of the clubs were the type known as atassa, which were very similar in shape and design to a sword, concentrating the force of the blow on a narrow wooden edge. Many, however, were ball-headed clubs, or tomahawks with flint or iron blades.

  The Whale’s two companions got their canoes into the river and started paddling them across. But The Whale himself had some trouble untying the tether on his chosen canoe. By the time he got the canoe freed, it was too late. The Red Sticks were right on him.

&nb
sp; The Whale hadn’t encumbered himself with weapons when he swam the river, so all he had for defense was the canoe’s paddle. The Ridge saw him rise up and smash the first Red Stick in the ribs with the edge of it. The Creek warrior went down instantly. His rib cage must have been shattered, and he might even be dead. The Whale was very strong.

  But there were four more Red Sticks surrounding the intruder. He was only able to block one club strike and break another warrior’s arm before he was struck down himself, his head bleeding profusely. Half-dazed, The Whale dropped his paddle and scrambled into some brush by the riverbank.

  No doubt the Creeks would have followed him and finished him off, but by then one of them had caught sight of the hundreds of Cherokees massed in the woods on the other side of the river. He gestured to his fellow warriors, and the expression on their faces almost caused The Ridge to laugh.

  Meanwhile, the two canoes were already more than half the distance across, and it was obvious to the Creeks that they would soon be facing an invasion of their fortress on its unprotected river side.

  So, they left The Whale unmolested and began running back to alert the rest of the Red Sticks. By the time they were all out of sight, the captured canoes had reached the southern bank. The Ridge was the first to pile in. The Whale and his companions had taken care, right off, to seize the paddles for all the canoes and stack them in the ones they’d seized. So all the Cherokees who crammed into the canoes could help drive them back across the river. As experienced as they were with such things, it took less than a minute before they were starting to clamber onto the opposite bank.

  The Ridge didn’t bother giving any orders, now. Cherokees might not have the mindless discipline of white soldiers, but they didn’t need to be told the obvious. Several Cherokee warriors, each holding a paddle, were already untying the rest of the canoes. They’d paddle them back across to load up more warriors. Within a few minutes, the vanguard that had crossed in the first two canoes would be reinforced by hundreds more.

  “Can The Ridge handle it alone?” General Coffee asked, leaning forward in the saddle.

  John Ross nodded firmly. “Yes, sir. And, ah . . .” His voice trailed off, as he searched for the right words.

  Coffee frowned. “Yes, I think I know what you’re getting at. He’s more worried about being shot by my soldiers than he is about the Creeks, isn’t he? Can’t say I blame him.”

  Coffee pursed his lips and stared into the distance, examining what he could see of the river.

  “All right, then. I’ll keep my cavalry on this side for an hour. But I’ll have them spread out all the way around the horseshoe, with orders to shoot any Indian who tries to swim across. The one thing General Jackson is determined about is that we’re going to crush the Red Sticks, here and now. They’ll either surrender or die. None of them are going to escape.”

  He looked down at Ross again, his expression bleak. “You understand? Make sure you tell The Ridge to keep his Cherokees on the other side, once they’ve crossed, no matter how desperate it gets. Those fancy feathers and a deer’s tail won’t look like anything once they’re soaking wet and dragging behind heads of men swimming across the river. They’ll just get shot in the heat of battle . . .”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, because he didn’t need to. Ross understood the harsh realities as well as anyone. To most white men, one Indian looked just like the next. There were some who could tell the difference between the hair styles worn by the different Indian tribes, but not many. All the more so because of the habit men had in the southern tribes of wearing turbans as often as not.

  John suppressed a sigh. This was no time to dwell on the unfairness of life. There was still a battle to be fought and won, this day.

  “I’ll tell him, sir,” he said, then he raced off.

  A horseman came charging up the field toward Montgomery and Houston, where they were standing in front of the Thirty-ninth. Even at a distance, Sam was pretty sure it was the same militia officer he’d seen harangued by Jackson the day he arrived in Fort Strother. Houston had good eyesight.

  Montgomery had been on the verge of ordering the attack. But, seeing the oncoming officer, he held off. “Better see what he has to say. Jackson must have sent him.” The major snorted. “The blasted fool. On a field like this, he’ll break that horse’s leg if he isn’t careful.”

  Even on an uphill slope, at the pace he was driving his mount, the militia officer would arrive within seconds. Sam was already certain he knew the message he was bringing. The officer had plucked off his hat and was waving it frantically toward the Creek fieldworks, using only one hand to guide the horse.

  “Blasted fool,” Montgomery repeated.

  “Sir, I think General Coffee—or the Cherokees, more likely—just launched an attack on the enemy from across the river,” Sam said.

  Montgomery squinted at the log fortifications. The open field which led to that barricade sloped from a rise to the north of the peninsula. The Thirty-ninth was arrayed on that rise, ready to start its charge. Most of the charge would be on level ground, since the rise ended less than half the distance to the wall. But their current position did give them, at the moment, a decent view over the top of the enemy fieldworks.

  “I think you’re right. I can see Red Sticks—quite a few of them—scrambling away from the barricade.”

  Sam was pretty sure his eyes were better than the major’s, and he’d already seen the same thing.

  But there was no longer any need for them to guess. The militia officer finally came within shouting range.

  “The general says to attack at once! Coffee has launched a diversion in the enemy’s rear!”

  “That’s it, then,” Montgomery said. He drew his sword, which, like Sam’s, was scabbarded on a two-inch waist belt. Thereafter, the swords parted company. Officers were expected to purchase their own weapons, and Montgomery was a prosperous man. His weapon was a fine clipped-point saber, silver-mounted with eagle pommel and an ivory grip. Sam’s was a straight sword he’d purchased from a down-at-heels artillery officer who’d resigned from the service. The sword could best be described as utilitarian.

  On the positive side, Sam had also bargained well enough to get the man’s pistol in the deal. He didn’t think much of the sword, but the sidearm was a dandy Model 1805 Harpers Ferry cavalryman’s pistol. It was against regulations, true, but he’d stuffed it into his waistband that morning, and Montgomery hadn’t done more than look at it cross-eyed for a few seconds.

  Jackson hadn’t looked at it at all.

  Montgomery hawked up some phlegm and spit on the ground. Then, loudly, he said, “Ensign, give the signal!”

  Trying not to smile, Sam waved his hand, and the drum began pounding the signal to advance.

  Their one and only drum. When Jackson’s army had marched out of Fort Strother on March 13, to begin what everyone hoped would be the final campaign against the Red Sticks, it had been discovered that there was only one drummer boy left in the little army. All the others, it seemed, had reached the end of their enlistment, and had gone home.

  Another commander might have been nonplussed by the fact. But Old Hickory, after five minutes worth of yelling about worthless thirteen-year-old lawyers, had simply snarled that men could march as easily to a single drum as they could to a thousand. They’d just have to listen a little harder.

  So as the drum began its own battle against the din, the men began to move.

  They had several hundred yards to cover, and Montgomery paced the charge accordingly. At the beginning, it was more in the way of a fast march than a “charge,” properly speaking. Sam was eager to close with the enemy—just to get rid of his nervous energy, really, not because he felt any bloodlust. Still, he appreciated the major’s foresight.

  Maybe Homer’s ancient Achaean heroes could run hundred of yards and fight a battle at the end—though Sam had his doubts—but their feebler modern descendants would be winded if they tried to do the same. The pace M
ajor Montgomery established wouldn’t tire out soldiers who were accustomed to frontier wilderness terrain. Sam guessed that the major would only order a real charge once they were within fifty yards or so of the breastworks.

  True enough, that meant they’d be exposed to enemy fire that much longer, out in the open. Still, better that than to try to scale those fieldworks exhausted and out of breath.

  It was hard, though, at least for Sam, to maintain that disciplined pace. Already, the Creeks were starting to fire arrows at the oncoming Thirty-ninth. They’d save their powder and bullets until the infantry regulars were within a hundred yards.

  Sam’s mother routinely accused him of being “high-strung.” True, his mother was a harsh woman, given to exaggeration when she criticized someone—which she did frequently, especially her children. Still, he knew there was at least some truth to it.

  So, he did his best to dampen the instincts that were shrieking to send him racing toward the enemy. He still didn’t feel anything resembling the wrath of Achilles—which, in and of itself, suited him just fine. Sam had never much liked Achilles. He’d always found the Trojan Hector a far more appealing character.

  No, it wasn’t bloodlust or fury, he finally decided. He had no particular desire to pitch headlong into battle, no matter how much he wanted to make a name for himself. He was simply wound tight and ready to run, like a racehorse, now that the contest was under way.

  That realization helped him to focus. Sam Houston had determined that he would pass through his life like a fine thoroughbred, not a plow horse. Better a short and glorious life than a long and dull one.