1812: The Rivers of War (14 page)

So Sam could understand the cold-blooded logic of Jackson’s
plans. By stripping away the southern half of Creek territory and opening it up to white settlers, the general would separate Spanish Florida from all the southern tribes except the Seminoles. Whatever clashes the Creeks—or the Cherokees, Choctaws, and Chickasaws, for that matter—had in the future with the United States, they’d have to fight them without access to guns and ammunition from the European powers. Which meant, in practice, that they couldn’t really fight at all. The destruction of Tecumseh’s forces had demonstrated graphically that poorly armed Indians couldn’t hope to defeat the United States in an open battle.

That still left the Seminoles, of course. That breakaway portion of the Creek Confederacy was already entrenched
in
Florida.

Sam cocked his head, studying the general. “And that’ll be stage two of your strategy, won’t it? You’ll go after the Seminoles.”

“Blast the Seminoles, lad. I’ll use the Seminoles as an excuse to go after the Dons.” Then, scowling: “Not that I’ve got any problem at all with crushing the Seminoles. But if they were just down there in Florida on their own, they’d be a minor problem, at best.”

Abruptly, he rose to his feet. “It’s the Dons I’m after! I swear, I
will
have them out of North America entirely. I’d love to take Cuba from them, too—let the Negro rebels have Hispaniola, I don’t care much about that—but I doubt I can. Still, I’ll settle for driving the Dons off the continent entirely. Let them rot on their islands.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh. It was like hearing a man complaining that he didn’t think he’d be able to fly to the moon after he climbed the tallest mountain.

“Uh, General … you
do
know that official U.S. policy is to stay on good terms with the Spanish?”

Jackson snorted. “That’ll change. If needs be, I’ll
force
those fools in Washington to change it.”

A light was beginning to dawn. “I see. My Cherokee delegation to Washington is just an excuse, really. What’s more important is that I might have an opportunity to talk to someone while I’m there. Say, Secretary Monroe.”

Jackson waggled the hand that was draped in the sling. “Well,
not exactly. I actually do have hopes that something might come out of the Cherokees going back to Washington. It’s not just a masquerade. But, yes. Monroe will be the next president, most likely. I don’t have anything specific in mind, but from what I’ve seen of him he seems a substantial sort of man. Quite unlike—”

He broke off abruptly. Not even Andy Jackson was prepared to openly deride his own president. Not, at least, in front of a junior officer.

But he didn’t need to say anything. The animosity between Andrew Jackson and James Madison was well known on the frontier. In Washington, too, for that matter, unless Sam missed his guess. It dated back to Thomas Jefferson’s attempt to have Aaron Burr convicted of treason during the last year of his administration. The trial had become a national spectacle. Jackson had supported Burr. Madison, of course, being the secretary of state at the time and the man most people assumed would be the next president, had supported Jefferson.

Jackson, in his inimitable manner, had publicly pilloried Madison. He’d pilloried Jefferson, too, but that was nothing new. The animosity between Jackson and Jefferson dated back even further.

Once Madison became president, needless to say, he hadn’t forgotten the episode. When the war with Britain erupted, he’d repaid Jackson by passing him over when he was selecting generals for the regular army.

Monroe, on the other hand …

Jackson continued. “I don’t know Monroe well, you understand. But I was deeply impressed by his vigorous protest of Britain’s policies when he was ambassador to the Court of St. James. He’s likely to make a good chief executive, I think.”

“I understand, sir,” said Sam. “And if I get the chance to speak to him—”

“Oh, you will. Have no doubt about that.” His tone was now harsh. “Whether those bast—ah, people in Washington like me or not, they have to live with me now. They’re counting on me to keep the British at bay here in the South—and I daresay I’ll have more success than
they’ve
had dealing with them in Canada.”

He cleared his throat noisily, almost triumphantly. “I’ll write several letters for you to take along, Sam. You’ll get to see the secretary of state. Count on it.”

Sam rose to his feet. “Best I be off, then. It’ll take me several months to convince the Cherokees to send another delegation to Washington. If I can do it at all, which I rather doubt.”

“Just do your best. If nothing else, just go yourself. See if young Ross will accompany you. He’s said to be a rising man among the Cherokees. And he’s too young, I assume, to have seen the capital?”

Sam shrugged. “So far as I know. I’ll find out. But even if he agrees to come with me, he’s not on the council. So he won’t represent anyone but himself.”

“Well, you never know how these things will work out, in the end. Ross might well grow into his new role. And, remember, you’ve still got a few years before …”

Jackson smiled grimly. “Before you call in your promise—or I drive over whatever promise you couldn’t come up with.”

Sam nodded. “And in the meantime?”

“I’ll have Colonel Williams release you from the Thirty-ninth, for detached duty. But by the end of the year, I expect, I’ll be facing the British. Either in New Orleans or Mobile. So come back from Washington as soon as possible. I could use an officer like you then, Sam. I’ll find a suitable place for you, be sure of it.”

“By the end of the year …” Sam mused. “That should be enough.”

The general stuck out his hand, and Sam shook it. “In eight months then, Captain Houston. I’ll expect you back no later than mid-December.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. Jackson just grinned.

“One of those letters will include my strong recommendation that you be promoted to captain.” He cleared his throat again, just as noisily and even more triumphantly. “And I daresay they’ll listen to me this time. After the Horseshoe Bend,
I daresay they will
.”

Two soldiers manhandled each condemned man, forcing them to their knees just in front of the graves. The five condemned men were dressed in white robes, with hoods of the same color covering their faces. Their hands were tied behind their backs.

General Jacob Brown, commander of the small Army of the Niagara, had left the training of the regiments in the hands of his subordinate, Brigadier Winfield Scott. Scott was a stickler—many of his soldiers would have said a maniac—on the subject of camp sanitation, as well as discipline in general. “Efficiency,” he liked to say, “is just one of many necessary soldierly qualities.” The same bullets that slew the deserters would serve to transport them to their graves.

Four of the condemned men made no sound. The fifth, on the far right, was sobbing uncontrollably. The sound was quite audible, despite the hood that was covering his face.

And well he might sob
, thought Sergeant Patrick Driscol harshly, as he made his final inspection. The condemned man’s name was Anthony McParland, and he was a “man” in name only. McParland had tried to desert the army not two weeks after his seventeenth birthday. “Desperately homesick,” the little puler had claimed at his court-martial.

Driscol wasn’t moved by McParland’s age, much less the puling. He might have been, except that the young soldier was another Ulsterman. Came from that stock, at least, even if he’d been born in America.

Like many of the United Irishmen who had taken refuge in
the United States after the British crushed the rebellion of 1798, Sergeant Driscol hated two things above all.

First, England.

Second, any man—or boy, and be damned—who capitulated to the Sassenach.

For Driscol—who’d spent several years in the French armies before emigrating to America—“capitulation” most certainly included desertion. And the penalty for desertion in time of war was death.

He came to the end of the line, and examined the trembling figure for a few seconds. Then, he straightened up and stalked off.

The five condemned men were well separated, to allow for the large firing squads. There were a dozen men in each squad—a preposterous waste of effort, to Driscol’s mind, not to mention a waste of ammunition that could be better used against the enemy. But Brigadier Scott had been firm on the matter. He’d said he didn’t want any one man knowing for sure that he’d been the agent of death.

There’d been a sixth man convicted of desertion also. But, in light of extenuating circumstances, the court-martial had not sentenced him to death as it had the other five. Instead, he’d had his ears cut off, the letter
D
branded into his cheek, and he had been dishonorably discharged from the service.

Once he was out of the line of fire, Driscol turned and squared his shoulders.

“Ready!” he called out. The sergeant had a loud voice, trained over the years to penetrate the cacophony of battlefields.

Sixty muskets were leveled, a dozen at each condemned man.

“Arm!”

Sixty hammers were cocked.

Driscol gave a last glance at the shrouded figure of young McParland. The front of his robe was stained wet.

Let the little bastard remember that, too. And if he forgets, I’ll make sure to remind him
.

He turned his head and looked at the general. Brigadier Scott was sitting on his horse, some forty yards away.

Scott looked every inch the officer, despite his youth. The sergeant had known plenty of peacock officers in his day. Scott might have the vanity of a peacock, but he had the soul of a fighter.

That was all Sergeant Patrick Liam Driscol cared about. He’d been born in County Antrim, in Ireland, of Scottish Presbyterian stock. His father and older brother had been members of the United Irishmen and had died in the rebellion of 1798. Patrick himself had participated in the final battle, near the town of Antrim, that had seen the rebels broken.

Patiently, he waited for the general to steel himself. Driscol knew the moment, when it came. The general had a little way of twitching his shoulders to steady himself. Another man might simply square them, but Scott was too energetic.

This past November, when he’d still been a colonel, Scott had ridden a horse through sleet and snow for thirty hours straight in order to join a battle. That alone, in an American army whose top officers were more prone to spending thirty hours straight in taverns or lying in bed complaining about their illnesses, had been enough to endear Brigadier Scott to the sergeant from County Antrim.

Scott gave him a little nod. Not bothering to turn his head—he had a very powerful voice—the sergeant called out the command.

“
Fire!”

Sixty muskets roared. The sound of them—one-fifth, to be precise, an entire bloody squad—was off a bit.

He turned his head to see the results. Young McParland was lying curled up on the ground.

As if the pitiful wretch had actually been shot!

Worthless little shit
. It was all Driscol could do not to heave a sigh. He had his orders, after all.

The sergeant’s eyes quickly scanned the other four men. Three of them were no longer visible. The volleys had done their work, hurling them into the pits. To Driscol’s disgust, however, one of the men was sprawled across the edge of his grave. His robe was soaked red, and the body under it would be a broken ruin. But the man seemed to be twitching a bit.

Driscol drew his pistol and stalked over, glaring at that particular squad along the way. He’d be having some words with those sluggards later that day, they could be sure of it. From the sickly look on their faces, they knew it themselves.

The sergeant reached the man lying at the edge of the grave. He cocked his pistol, took aim, and blew the deserter’s brains out. Then, with a boot, rolled the corpse into the pit.

That done, he walked down the line, taking a moment at each grave to inspect the body lying in it. They were all dead.

That left McParland.

Driscol marched over to the white-shrouded figure, twitching and trembling on the far right. The sergeant still had his weapon in his hand, since the barrel was a bit hot yet. For a moment, he was tempted to pistol-whip the sobbing wretch.

Orders, orders
.

Driscol was a squat, powerful man. He reached down with his left hand, seized McParland by the scruff of the neck, and jerked him to his feet.

“Get up, you sniveling bastard.”

With the same hand, he snatched McParland’s hood off. Under normal conditions, McParland’s eyes were hazel, but the tears had left them looking more like slimy mud at the moment. The boy’s legs were shaking, too.

“If you fall down,” Driscol snarled, “I’ll give you the boots. I swear I will. And my boots will make you think you’re being trampled by cattle. I swear they will.”