1812: The Rivers of War by Eric Flint
No, not might—was surely having, from the questioning look in his eyes.
The secretary of state was normally reserved in his demeanor, but this was a situation that called for some unbending. So, in addition to the handshake, Monroe clapped a hand on Houston’s shoulder and drew him close enough to speak quietly.
“I think you may relax, young man. True enough, the last I saw of General Winder, he was bellowing words which did not bode well for your future. But I daresay the general’s influence is already low, and plunging lower by the minute.”
Houston’s response was a slight grimace. Monroe decided he might as well test the captain’s honesty, while he was at it. “You did know General Winder had ordered a general retreat?”
Houston blew a little hiss through his lips. “Well, sir, yes. Although I suppose in my defense I could argue that the man I heard it from—William Simmons, his name—turned out no longer to have any official connection with the government. But I didn’t have much doubt—none, really—that he was telling the truth.”
“William Simmons.” The proverbial bad penny. Monroe’s own lips pursed, as if he’d tasted a lemon. “Yes, I know the man. President Madison dismissed him for bitter hostility and rudeness to his superiors—whereupon that wretched accountant blamed Secretary Armstrong for persecuting him.”
He released the captain’s shoulder, smiling broadly. “It’s not a bad defense, actually. I speak as a lawyer of considerable experience. In the confusion of the moment—all the military staff unfortunately gone when you arrived in the capital—when did you arrive, by the way, and for what purpose?—hearing of the order to retreat only from a cashiered accountant, who had no authority over you whatsoever—seeing the obvious chance to rally troops at the Capitol—yes, it’s a splendid fortress. Secretary of War Armstrong himself tried to convince Winder of that just this afternoon, but Winder’s a blithering fool, and you never heard me say that—you acted on the spur of the moment, according to your duty as you saw it. Yes, that’ll do quite nicely, Captain. In the unlikely event of a court-martial. Which is getting more unlikely by the moment. Now that I’m here, your action essentially has the imprimatur of the government, if not its formal sanction and command.”
By the time he finished, Monroe’s smile was wide indeed. Houston shook his head, and managed to extract the questions out of the flurry of legal points.
“I arrived—we arrived—just this afternoon, sir. The rout from Bladensburg was already under way, with soldiers streaming down Pennsylvania Avenue.” He looked uncomfortable. “I should inform you that it’s possible—uh, likely, in fact—that in the course of my addresses to the troops on the avenue I may have—well, did—juxtapose General Winder’s name to various heroes of the Iliad in a manner which might possibly be construed as derisive. That is, perhaps even insubordinate.”
Monroe burst into laughter.
Houston flushed.
“As to your other question, sir, I arrived as an escort for a party of Cherokees, at General Jackson’s behest. In fact—”
Houston turned aside and beckoned someone forward. “May I have the honor to present Lieutenant John Ross. The rank is that of a U.S. officer, but he’s a Cherokee. Not a chief, but well regarded by his people nonetheless. Distinguished himself at the Horseshoe.”
Monroe was one of the very few members of the nation’s eastern seaboard elite who had spent considerable time in the western territories. So he wasn’t surprised to see standing before him shortly, in the person of a Cherokee notable, a man whose red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin would have fit well upon any Scotsman.
Ah, the Scots. Monroe had always found it amazing that the dour northerly tribe had somehow managed to foist off onto more Latin folk the reputation for rampant concupiscence that was rightfully theirs. Scots went everywhere, and bred madly wherever they went. Not forgetting, of course, to spout stern Presbyterian homilies all the while.
The young lieutenant had his hand out, and Monroe clasped it with his own.
“A great pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Ross. Welcome to Washington—though I wish your arrival hadn’t been so awkwardly timed.”
“The same, sir. And may I extend the best wishes of my nation.”
Perfect, fluent English, too.
Monroe looked back at the commodore and his Indian companions.
“I assume these youngsters are with you also?”
“Yes, sir. Their parents have asked us to place them in suitable schools. Major Ridge, in particular. He’s the father of the younger girl and one of the boys, and the uncle of the other boy. Uh, he used to be called The Ridge, but you probably never heard of him under either name.”
Monroe had heard of The Ridge, actually, but he couldn’t recall whatever else he’d heard about him beyond the name itself. Dealings with the Indian tribes fell under the purview of the Department of War, not the Department of State.
“Well, I’m quite sure something suitable can be found. And now, Captain, might I inquire as to your plans?” He turned back, smiling again. “Your immediate plans, I refer to. Regarding the”—he pointed a finger toward the eastern wall—“enemy.”
“Oh.” Finally remembering the hat he’d snatched off to lead the hurrahs, Houston placed it back on his head and gave a little tug to set it firmly.
“Well, sir. It’s like this.”
He seemed to be stalling, his eyes looking toward the entrance that led to the adjoining Senate building. A moment later, whatever he saw seemed to cause a trace of relief to come to his face.
Monroe turned and saw another officer coming into the chamber. Almost an apparition, really. Where the six-foot-tall and strongly built secretary of state had been forced to push his way through the mob of soldiers by main force, the middling-height and squat lieutenant seemed to pass through them like Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea. And with only one arm, to boot, where Monroe had had two.
“May I introduce Lieutenant Patrick Driscol, sir. One of Brigadier Scott’s officers. Distinguished himself at the Chippewa.”
The slight emphasis on the word made it clear that this time Houston was not using it simply as a gallant pleasantry.
Distinguished himself.
Studying the approaching lieutenant carefully, Monroe thought that Captain Houston was quite wrong. “Distinguished himself” wasn’t the right phrase, and he was certain the man Driscol himself would have scoffed at it. He had all the earmarks of a soldier risen from the ranks. Monroe had known men like this, in his youth. At the battle of Trenton; again, at Monmouth; most of all, during that terrible winter at Valley Forge.
Officers and gentlemen fought battles and distinguished themselves. Men like Driscol made and broke entire armies, and did so with no more thought than a blacksmith shaping iron at an anvil.
He had his hand extended before the one-armed lieutenant had even begun to raise his. James Monroe was a gentleman born, and of the Virginia gentry at that. But he’d been taught his manners as a twenty-year-old subaltern by a general named George Washington. A ruthless and hard commander, who’d whip an insubordinate or shoot a deserter in an instant, but never once sneered at the men who made him what he was.
“A pleasure, sir,” Driscol said, as he took the secretary’s hand. He even seemed to mean it.
Houston cleared his throat. “Patrick, the secretary of state was just asking me what my plans were. As they relate to the current conflict.”
“Well, Captain, as we were discussing just before the British began their assault”—it was all Monroe could do not to laugh—“you’d planned to give the men some supper after they’d beaten the bastards off. In rotation, of course, following the system I’ll have set up, so that we keep sentries in place at all times. In the event of another attack.”
“Supper, yes.” The captain looked about, doing his best—rather well, in fact—not to look puzzled.
“There’s not much, I’m afraid,” Driscol continued, every inch the respectful lieutenant, eve
Monroe chuckled. “Knowing my legislative colleagues, Lieutenant, you’d have found quite a few of those.”
Driscol smiled at him thinly. “Well, yes, sir. About every other desk. I had them all sequestered and stashed away in the Library of Congress. Under a reliable armed guard.”
Monroe must have looked a bit skeptical. Driscol’s smile thinned still further. “Oh, you may lay your fears to rest on that account, sir. Private McParland will shoot any man who tries to force his way in. And he’ll refrain from disobeying my orders himself, you may be sure of it. I executed the lad, once, and he’s been the very model of discipline ever since.”
Monroe raised one eyebrow. But Driscol was already turning to Houston.
“Captain, there’ll be enough food in the packs of the men—some of them, not all, of course—to go around well enough for tonight. No one will eat well, but as long as it’s divided evenly—I’ll see to that—they’ll go hungry, but not famished. And we’ll pass around a tot of spirits later. Not enough to inebriate any man, just enough to cheer them up.”
“Very well, Lieutenant.” Houston seemed oriented again. “But how are we with regard to powder and shot?”
“Well enough for the battery. Ball and his men are experienced. Between what they brought themselves and Henry’s supplies, we should have enough to last the night, even if the Sassenach are lunatic enough to try another frontal assault. I doubt that, though. They suffered a fearful slaughter. Still, I’ve got sentries posted. If they come again, we’ll have plenty of warning.”
The lieutenant sounded mildly disgruntled at the thought that the British wouldn’t attempt another assault. Between the man’s demeanor and the Ulster accent, Monroe understood. Driscol was one of those Scots-Irish immigrants whose hatred for the English was corrosive and unrelenting. Under other circumstances, that could pose a problem. Under these—
As secretary of state, it would be Monroe’s task to make peace with the enemy, eventually. The more men like Driscol bled them, the easier that task would be. Problems of another day could be dealt with then.
“We’re less well off with the muskets, I’m afraid,” Driscol went on, now looking a bit exasperated. “There was no way to keep the silly bugg—ah, militia volunteers—from blasting wildly at anything in sight. Or not in sight, often enough. Some of the men are out of shot or powder entirely, and many of them are low. On the other hand, a fair number never fired their muskets at all. I’ll see to a redivision of what we have left, sir. We’ll have enough.”
He glanced at the secretary of state. “For tonight, that is, and assuming we do nothing more than simply hold the Capitol. But I don’t recommend any sallies—and I couldn’t begin to predict what the morrow might bring.”
Very smooth, this rough lieutenant with the voice like a file. Monroe couldn’t have passed the initiative up the chain of command any more slickly himself.
Fortunately, at the age of fifty-six and with many years of experience as a senator, a state governor, an ambassador to three major nations, and a member of the executive cabinet, Monroe was no stranger to finding the initiative deposited firmly in his lap.
“If the British make another attempt on the Capitol, Captain Houston, I shall rely upon you and your men to beat them off. But that is all.”
Driscol’s mention of a “sally” had almost made Monroe shudder. The thought of Houston leading untrained and inexperienced men, collected from the pieces of dozens of shattered units, into an assault of his own upon British regulars in the open field . . . at night, even worse than in broad daylight . . .
Monroe did shudder, just slightly. Houston flashed him a smile.
“Please, sir. As I’ve once had the occasion to inform Lieutenant Driscol, I am not actually a fool. I’ve no more thought of leading a sally against the British tonight than I do of leading a charge against the tides.”
His humor was fleeting, though. “But will simply holding the Capitol be enough? It’s possible the British may leave things where they are, but I doubt it. There’s really nothing stopping them from burning the rest of the city. The public buildings, at least. They may spare the private homes.”
Monroe shrugged. “So be it. And so what? Captain, the sole purpose of this British raid was to manufacture a political demonstration. It was designed to humiliate us and undermine national morale, that’s all. There’s no conceivable military gain for them here. On that subject, at least, I was quite in agreement with Secretary Armstrong, even if—”
He broke off the rest. This wasn’t the time nor the place to air the dirty linen of the cabinet. “The point being this: They can burn everything else in the capital, starting with the president’s mansion, but this—this alone, never think otherwise—is the seat of the United States government. So long as the Capitol stands against them, they have accomplished nothing but to brand themselves publicly as arsonists and thieves. Petty vandals, no more!”
Deliberately, Monroe had spoken slowly and loudly enough to be heard all through the chamber. A fresh roar of applause went up from the soldiers.
“Just hold the Capitol, Captain Houston,” Monroe added quietly. “Do that, and you will have done extraordinarily well. Trust my judgment here, if you would.”
“Certainly, sir.” Houston hesitated; then: “General Jackson speaks well of you, Mr. Monroe. I, ah, just thought I might mention that.”
That was . . . interesting, although Monroe wasn’t really surprised. Before the recent rise to political prominence of western figures such as Henry Clay and Andrew Jackson, Monroe had been the one major politician in America who had generally been attentive and friendly to western interests.
Interesting.
Monroe pondered the matter, as Houston and Driscol went about preparing the troops for a possible new British attack. In less than two years, Monroe would most likely be the new president of the United States. It had become something of a tradition in the new republic for the secretary of state to succeed to the presidency.
Whether the current war with Britain was won or lost, he was well-nigh certain that the western states and territories would dominate many of the concerns of his administration. If the war was lost, as rambunctious grievers and grousers; if it were won, as rambunctious triumphalists. Either way, they’d be an opportunity and a monstrous pain in the neck at one and the same time.
His friend Thomas Jefferson had once said of James Monroe, “Turn his soul wrong side outward and there is not a speck on it.” Like all encomiums, especially coming from a personal friend and political ally, Monroe knew that the statement needed to be sprinkled with some salt. But he liked to think it was true enough—and he certainly strove to maintain it as a principle for his own conduct.
So he decided to postpone contemplating the fact that he’d cemented the allegiance of southern and western frontiersmen by his actions this night. For the moment, he’d be guided solely by his assessment of the needs of the nation.
There would be time afterward for a consideration of the political implications. He’d give the matter some real thought then, of course. An upright and honest politician still had to be a politician, or republics would be as fantastical as unicorns.
CHAPTER 27
“There will not be another frontal assault against those murderous guns,” Robert Ross hissed. He was in no mood, any longer, to be polite. “I’ve lost enough men already, Admiral Cockburn, thanks to your headstrong ways.”
He rolled his head on the cot in the surgeon’s tent, bringing Colonel Arthur Brooke into his field of vision. Brooke was the senior brigade commander and would now have to lead the British army units.
“D’you hear me, Colonel Brooke?” Ross pointed a finger toward the glowering Cockburn. “I am not relinquishing command to him. You will have to lead the men in the field, but my orders are fina
Though enfeebled by pain, Ross matched Cockburn’s glare with one of his own. “The admiral may advise you. That is all. You will not attack the Capitol again. Not frontally, at least. We shall begin siege operations.”
Cockburn rolled his eyes. He knew as well as Ross did that there would be no time to carry through a successful siege of the Capitol, before the British army would be forced to retreat back to the ships on the coast. The most Brooke could do would be to harass the defenders and keep them from sallying.
Still, Ross felt it necessary to add the directive. He did so because siege preparations would tie up the bulk of his forces, which meant that Cockburn would not have them available for his own uses. Brooke was a solid enough man, but once he left Ross’s immediate presence—or Ross lost consciousness again, which was quite likely—Cockburn might be able to sway him to folly. Not a direct attack on the Capitol, to be sure. Given Ross’s explicit orders, Brooke would refuse to do that, no matter what Cockburn said. But who was to say what other folly Cockburn might seize upon? The rear admiral’s determination to punish Americans wasn’t altogether rational.
Great folly, at any rate, which might produce great casualties. Ross would allow the admiral his little pleasures, so long as his men were not placed seriously at risk. If for no other reason, because Ross wanted to get Cockburn away from Brooke and unable to influence him.
“What is the time?” Ross asked.
“Just after ten o’clock of the evening, sir,” Brooke replied.
Ross closed his eyes. Pain and exhaustion were threatening to take him under again.
Not yet.
“If you intend to burn the president’s mansion, Admiral Cockburn, I would suggest that you get started. You may take a few hundred men with you.” His eyelids lifted slightly. “Not more than three hundred, mind. We’ll need the rest for the siege.”
“Siege!” Cockburn barked sarcastically. But even the admiral understood that Ross would be unmovable. Angrily, Cockburn turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent.