1812: The Rivers of War by Eric Flint
He was doing his very best not to take out his frustration and anger on his subordinates.
And succeeding, for the most part. The only officer who’d received the full brunt of Pakenham’s wrath had been Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Mullins, the commander of the Forty-fourth Foot. The Forty-fourth had been charged with the task of carrying the fascines and ladders that the rest of the army would need to storm the Jackson Line, and by eight o’clock it had become obvious to Pakenham that the man was hopelessly incompetent. The fool hadn’t even bothered to check if the fascines and ladders were actually in place where they were supposed to be, even though he’d been explicitly instructed to do so the night before.
But, General Pakenham. I made inquiries and was told—
Told by whom? And why didn’t you look for yourself? The entire attack plan depends on those ladders and fascines, you—you—
Pakenham had experienced a nightmarish vision of his soldiers piling up at the Jackson Line, and being ripped to pieces by American fire, with the means of storming the fieldworks somewhere lost in the rear because a blithering idiot who only held his command due to the fact that he was the son of Lord Ventry had not taken so simple and obvious a measure with regard to so critical a matter as to look for himself.
You are dismissed, Colonel Mullins. Inform your subordinate that he is now in command of the Forty-fourth.
Dismissed, I said!
For the tenth time that morning, Pakenham resisted the urge simply to launch the assault across the field of Chalmette, regardless of where things stood on the opposite bank. It was a difficult urge to resist.
Very difficult. Pakenham, like the hapless Mullins, certainly owed the start of his career to family connections. But his rise thereafter had been due to his own ability and temperament. Even by the standards of Wellington’s army, Pakenham was an aggressive general. Every instinct he had was shrieking at him to begin the attack.
He probably would have done so, in truth, had it not been for Robert Ross. Partly due to Ross’s words of caution based on his own experience at the Capitol; partly based on the deep respect Pakenham, like all officers in the British army, had for Ross as a general. And partly, in the end, simply because he had made a personal promise to the man.
So he took a long, slow, deep breath, controlling his urges.
“Perhaps I was a bit hard on Mullins,” he said to Gibbs.
His second in command’s jaws were tight. “You saved him from a court-martial, sir. I just got word from Lambert. The ladders and fascines weren’t in place.”
Pakenham’s face turned pale. “Good God.”
“Yes. Can you imagine what would have happened?”
Pakenham could, all too well. A pure massacre.
“Good God,” he repeated.
Tiana Rogers had been watching Robert Ross for almost an hour, sitting silently in the chair in the corner of his room where she often spent time while tending to him. The British general was normally courteous—even mildly flirtatious, at times, in the harmless way that a middle-aged man will sometimes be with a young woman. But today he had been completely oblivious of her. Other than a glance he’d spared when she’d come into the room that morning, all his attention had been directed at the open window.
He must have opened it himself, before daybreak, since she’d left it closed the night before to ward off the winter cold. Ross had been lying in his bed staring at the window ever since.
His eyes were open, but they weren’t really seeing anything. He was listening. Trying, with his very experienced ear, to gauge the progress of the conflict now starting to unfold miles down the Mississippi.
“Would it make you feel any better if we waited down by the river?” she asked. “Mind you, it’ll probably rain—drizzle, for sure—and it’s already cold and damp. So if you take ill again, it’s your own fault.”
Startled, he looked at her. Then smiled.
“Sorry. I’ve been very rude, I’m afraid. Yes, dear girl, it would make me feel immensely better.”
He looked back at the window, cocking his head a bit. “From the sounds of the street, though, I’d say I’ll be in greater danger of being slaughtered by frenzied females, than dying of a chill.”
Tiana barked a laugh. “Those hens! They’re all rushing about in a tizzy because they’re sure they’re about to be raped by oncoming hordes of Englishmen. Slaughter’s the last thing on their minds, or they’d be doing something useful like sharpening their knives.” She rose from her chair, smiling in a rather predatory manner. “I sharpened mine days ago.”
Ross flushed. “I realize the reputation of the British army suffered badly after Badajoz. But I can assure you, young lady—”
“Spare me, Robert. British soldiers are no more saints than any other. What will happen, will happen. The one thing I can assure you is that if any gang of soldiers tries to rape me, the second or third man in the party might succeed. The first one will either be dead or singing falsetto. Probably the second, too.”
Ross chuckled. “You are a formidable creature, have I ever told you that?”
“Yesterday. Again. After I told you—again—that you were welcome to empty your own chamber pot any time you were stupid enough to decide you’re fit and hearty. Which you aren’t.”
She shrugged on her shawl, which was a very attractive Creole one. Before they got outside, Ross knew, she’d supplement it with a Cherokee blanket. Tiana Rogers simply didn’t care what other people thought of the way she dressed or carried herself. To be sure, as young and beautiful as she was, she didn’t really need to. But Ross was quite certain that she’d be the same way as an old woman.
“Formidable,” he repeated, as Tiana helped him out of the bed.
She did not, thankfully, offer to help him change from his bedclothes into his uniform. She was formidable enough to do it, if he’d needed the help. But he’d manage well enough, and it would have embarrassed him. It was bad enough that she did the sort of unpleasant chores for him that a servant should properly do. Cherokees were odd, that way. They’d employ slaves for productive labor as readily as white Americans, from what Ross could tell, but didn’t seem to feel that personal servants were appropriate.
One woman on the street did shriek, seeing Robert’s uniform. Then, scampered away in panic, insofar as an overweight matron in her fifties could be said to “scamper” at all. Several others gaped at him.
None, however, advanced upon him with mayhem in their hearts. Ross decided he would survive.
Down by the riverbank, he couldn’t really hear what was happening all that much better than he could have staying in his hotel room. Still, he felt relieved being there, out in the open of the Plaza de Armas. They were fairly comfortable, too, soon enough. Tiana bullied a Creole baker whose shop fronted the city’s main square into providing them with a small table, two chairs, pastries, and a pot of tea. The tea in New Orleans was even good, unlike the normal American travesty.
“There fails only a parasol to ward off the drizzle,” Robert chided.
“Suffer,” she replied.
CHAPTER 45
When the first line of Americans began firing on the Eighty-fifth Foot, Colonel Thornton ordered the regiment to launch an immediate bayonet charge while still in column formation. There would be no forming into a line and firing volleys. Just cold steel, in a headlong assault. Thornton was sure he could sweep aside this first screen of skirmishers, and he didn’t want to lose the time or the ammunition that volley fire would require. Until the Forty-third Light Infantry and the West Indian troops could rejoin his regiment with the supplies he’d left behind at the debarkation point, he needed to conserve his ammunition.
His assessment proved correct. Almost absurdly so, in fact. The skirmishers fired not more than a round each—many of them, not even that—before racing off into the swamps. A fair number of the Americans dropped their weapons before they ran, and not a single one died at the point of a bayonet—or any other mishap caused d
“And will you look at this, sir?” crowed one of Thornton’s sergeants gleefully, holding up a gun left behind by an American. “It’s a bloody fowling piece!”
So it was. If that was typical of the weaponry Jackson had given his forces on this side of the river, Thornton could hardly blame them for running away.
He shook his head, and reminded himself that they’d encounter deadlier arms up ahead. There was ordnance there, for a certainty. Still, this easy victory had done wonders for the morale of his regiment. The men had been, as always, obedient and disciplined. But the cold and the drizzle and the hours of muddy labor during the night had left them tired and disgruntled. Now, with the sun finally burning away the mist, their spirits were improving rapidly.
“Forward, lads!” he cried, waving his sword. “We’ll chase the cowards all the way into New Orleans!”
As the distant sound of skirmishing fire faded away—very quickly—Robert Ross lowered his cup of tea onto the table.
“That’ll have been the Eighty-fifth brushing aside a line of skirmishers, I think. These pastries are quite good, by the way.”
“Would you like some more?”
“Yes, please.”
Tiana rose and walked toward the bakery. Her long-legged stride made the colorful heavy skirt she was wearing flash like a banner in the breeze.
But Ross didn’t watch her for more than a second or two. His head turned toward the south, cocked slightly to the side to bring an ear to bear.
As soon as the first Kentuckians came into sight, racing like mad toward the “Morgan Line,” General Morgan clambered upon his horse and rode out to meet them. He was waving his sword so vigorously that Driscol thought he might injure himself. Perhaps even badly enough to require evacuation for medical care.
Alas, no such luck.
“Stand your ground, you cowards! Stand your ground, I say!”
The Kentuckians dodged around him without missing a stride. The first ones reached the “Morgan Line,” bounded over it like deer leaping logs in the forest, and continued racing toward the north.
The ones who followed continued to pour around Morgan, ignoring him like the others. The general had his horse pivoting in circles while he continued waving his sword and screeching commands that weren’t so much “commands” as simple curses. At one point, he took a swipe with the sword at a fleeing militiaman who was perhaps twenty feet away.
“Think he’ll fall off?” Ball wondered.
“Doubt it,” Driscol grunted.
“He’s a fair horseman,” James Rogers pointed out charitably. “I’m still hoping for a good gash in the thigh, though.”
Again, no such luck. After the last of the Kentucky skirmishers had leaped over the ditch, Morgan sent his horse racing after them. The horse, by now becoming exceedingly exasperated, did its level best to throw its rider as it vaulted the ditch.
But Morgan stayed in the saddle. Within seconds, he was out of sight, pounding off in pursuit of his fleeing men. Still screeching incoherent commands and still waving the sword.
“Ah, well,” Driscol said. He just shook his head. Charles Ball did the same, and the Rogers brothers were actually grinning.
The men of the Iron Battalion would be watching the four of them closely, at this moment, especially Driscol and Ball. The sight of the Kentucky militiamen racing to the rear would have unsettled even veteran troops. Most of the men in the battalion were completely inexperienced in combat, and their nerves would be very jittery. If either Driscol or Ball showed any concern at all, they might start to break.
The quite evident good cheer of the two Cherokees helped also. Indians were rather exotic to most of the men in Driscol’s unit. Indian warriors, at least. Much like easterners did, the black soldiers ascribed to the Rogers brothers a great deal more experience in warfare than they actually had. If the “wild Injuns” didn’t seem worried, why should they be?
After a few seconds, Driscol could see that the troops were settling down nicely. He and Ball exchanged a glance. What a pleasure it was, to have such a fine subordinate under his command! As good a top sergeant as any Driscol had ever known.
He gave his head one last humorous shake, just for good measure. “At least he’s out of our hair for a while.”
Sure now that his men had been steadied, Driscol turned back to face the oncoming enemy. He couldn’t see the British, but he could hear them. The still-invisible soldiers were moving fast enough to make their gear clatter. From the sound of it, though, he thought they’d stripped away everything but the essentials.
“Grapeshot, I assume?”
“Yes, sir.” Like any good sergeant, Ball knew when to shift to military formalities. “All the guns are loaded with grapeshot. I told the men not to use canister until I gave the order.”
Driscol eyed the distance. The British would be in a direct line of sight for more than two hundred yards before they could reach his fieldworks—and Driscol had taken advantage of the past two days to turn his section of the “Morgan Line” into something deadly serious.
“They’ll probably launch a bayonet assault immediately, Sergeant. So they’ll get here more quickly than they normally would. We’ll shift to canister after the first round.”
“Yes, sir.” Quickly, Ball left to pass along the order.
He was back within half a minute or so. Driscol’s section of the “Morgan Line” was more in the way of a bastion than anything else. In fact, his men had started calling it Fort Driscol. Deliberately, almost sure that the Kentuckians would break, Driscol had designed the bastion so that it could protect his men from three sides. Only the rear was left open.
Of course, the fieldworks had been hastily erected, using nothing more elaborate than dirt and logs. But his freedmen had set to the work with a will, and had managed to create something quite substantial in a very short time. Best of all, before they’d left the city they’d somehow scrounged up—stolen, most likely—a fair amount of wrought-iron fencework. The fancy fake spearpoints that tipped those fences had been designed for decoration. But, embedded into the walls of the bastion and slanted outward, they made an effective barrier. Decorative iron was still iron.
The three hundred men of the Iron Battalion were anchored on the twelve-pounder, with the six-pounders positioned on the flanks. Driscol had placed the remaining ordnance—three four-pounders and two three-pounders—in the spaces between. About half his men would work the cannons, under the direction of Ball and his naval veterans. The other half were armed with muskets, pikes, and swords.
The pikes had been made up in the iron shops. The “swords” were rarely that. Most of them were just the biggest knives the men could find, although some of them were armed with cutlasses that Houston had sweet-talked from Lafitte’s Baratarian pirates. The Baratarians had been willing enough, since Jackson was using them as artillerymen on the Jackson Line.
Driscol thought the pikes and blades would be more useful than the muskets. He’d concentrated his training on the cannons, of course. There really hadn’t been time to train men properly in the use of muskets, as well. And freedmen, unlike white frontiersmen, didn’t grow up with muskets in their hands. So Driscol had simply taught them how to load and fire a single round. Some of them, either from a bit of experience or simply because they had the knack for it, would probably manage to reload and get off another shot. Most of them, after firing the first round, would drop the muskets and take up simpler weapons.
On an open field, Driscol’s battalion would have been mincemeat. But here, especially facing the headlong bayonet charge that Driscol expected, he thought they’d do quite well. They were nervous, of course, but they were also burning with a determination to prove themselves—a sentiment Driscol had spent the past weeks nurturing as assiduously as he could.
Which . . . was assiduous indeed. If soldiers had been flowers in a garden,
The British were almost here, he thought. He had just time enough left for a little speech.
“All right, lads.” His rasping voice, half-shouting, carried superbly well. “There is nothing complicated about this. There are no maneuvers required of you. All you have to do is stand your ground and fight.”
His pale eyes ranged across the faces of his watching soldiers. Their attention was riveted on him.
“The enemy will attack and try to kill us, or drive us off. The first might happen. The other will not. We will win on this ground, or we will die on this ground. But whichever it is, we will not retreat. It’s nothing but stand and die, or stand and win. Do you all understand?”
A wave of nodding heads came in response. There was no hesitation.
He smiled then. That thin, cold smile of his, but a smile nonetheless.
“ ’Tis normally at this point in my little speech that I threaten my men with the consequences, should they fail me. Grinding bones for my soup, and such.” A tittering little laugh swept the soldiery. “But I’ll not do that here. Not today. Not with the men of the Iron Battalion. There’s no need. You will do what your mates and your nation require of you, I am certain of it.”
He paused, wondering what he might add.
Nothing, it seemed. Henry Crowell, standing with a ramrod by the twelve-pounder, swept off his cap and waved it in the air. “I saw the major break the bastards at the Capitol, and he’ll do it again today! A cheer for the major, boys!”
Driscol was genuinely astonished at the cheer that went up. Loud, vigorous, full of confidence and enthusiasm. More than he’d ever hoped for, in truth.
To be sure, he thought the cheer itself was ridiculous. As if the simple name Driscol chanted over and over again was some sort of magical talisman.