1812: The Rivers of War (34 page)

The continent
. That explained a great deal.

“You were serving with the emperor, I take it?”

Driscol nodded. “Aye, sir. For a goodly number of years.”

Barney nodded, then extended a hand toward Tiana. “Help me up, would you, lass?”

A moment later, he was sitting erect. Tiana’s grip surprised him with its strength. He was even more surprised at the instant way she acceded to his request. A white girl would have wasted time insisting he was too weak to move.

“Don’t worry yourself about the rockets, Lieutenant, at least not beyond the question of morale. The truth? Congreves are frightening, when you first encounter them, but their effect is almost entirely upon the mind. As actual weapons, they don’t amount to much.”

Driscol’s blocky face showed no expression at all. “I’d come to suspect as much, from the accounts I’d heard. Inaccurate, I take it?”

Barney chuckled. “If I was one of the men firing them, I’d be as concerned that the blasted things might decide to land on me as on the enemy. Not to mention the fact that they’re bloody dangerous to fire in the first place. From what I’ve seen, they’re far more likely to blow up in your face than even the most poorly made cannon.”

Driscol and Barney simultaneously scanned the chamber. They were both gauging the walls that lay beneath the fancy trappings.

“The rockets have no real breaching power, either,” Barney stated. “To take the Capitol, firmly defended, the British would be far better off with some real siege guns. But I saw no such at Bladensburg.”

The stump of Driscol’s left arm twitched, as if he’d begun an old gesture that was now impossible. A moment later, with a rueful little smile on his face, the lieutenant brought up his right hand to scratch his chin.

“The big guns from a ship of the line would do the trick,” he commented. “But can you imagine the difficulty of taking such out of a ship, and hauling them here all the way from the coast?”

Barney smiled. “I’m a naval officer myself, Lieutenant Driscol. That’s not a chore I’d want to be assigned, for a surety.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think you need worry about siege guns. As I said, I saw none at Bladensburg. In fact, I saw little proper artillery at all in the possession of the enemy. Just a barrage of Congreves. Less than a handful of field pieces—two three-pounders and one six-pounder, nothing more.”

His good humor faded. “Mind you, the Congreves did quite well when it came to panicking our troops. But that was on an open field, with little enough in the way of shelter. Worst of all, of course, was that our top command was—”

He cleared his throat. “Well. Inadequate to the task, let’s say.”

Barney peered up at Driscol. The lieutenant was not tall, but he seemed as wide and solid as an old oak.

“I daresay that won’t be a problem here.”

Driscol’s answering smile was a cool thing, just barely this side of cold.

“No, sir. That’ll not be a problem here. Captain Houston’s not got much in the way of experience, but he’s stalwart—and I believe I’ll be able to make good his lack when it comes to the rest.”

“Yes, I imagine you will.” Barney glanced around the chamber again. “It’s possible that one of the rockets might by great poor chance come through one of the windows—and then, by still greater poor chance, explode at that very inopportune moment. If so, you’ll suffer some bad casualties. But even then, the havoc will be confined to one room of the building.”

Driscol nodded. “I’ve already seen to a surgery, sir. As it happens, there were several doctors among the Baltimore volunteers. Enough to staff surgeries in both wings of the Capitol.”

“Proper doctors, is it?” The commodore decided to keep his true feelings to himself. “Well. That’ll bolster the men’s confidence.”

From the momentary look that flashed across the lieutenant’s face, Barney suspected that Driscol shared his own low opinion of “proper doctors.” In truth, for all that the Cherokee girl’s immodesty had startled Barney, he was rather inclined to think that her savage Indian methods of medicine were less likely to produce bad results than those of educated white doctors. For many years now, Barney had noted that the death rate of wounded men taken to a hospital was worse than it was when they were tended on an open field, or even left to their own self-treatment.

“Humours,” the doctors claimed, were at the bottom of all illness and disease. If so, Barney was convinced, the “humours” which seemed to follow doctors around were worse than any other.

Lieutenant Ross came in, this time alone. “Captain Houston would like to see you, Lieutenant. He thinks the enemy are beginning their attack.”

Driscol departed at once. Barney was pleased, but not surprised, to see the way the man moved—with a tread that covered ground swiftly, but still seemed sure, rather than hurried or nervous. The commodore knew that tread, allowing for the difference between one learned on soil and one learned on a rolling ship’s deck. Just so had he himself moved, in times past, when battle loomed.

“Damned if I don’t think we’ll
win
this thing,” he said softly to himself. “And wouldn’t that be a wonder, to save a day I’d thought already lost in ignominy.”

The pain and weariness threatened to overwhelm him, now. He gave Tiana a pleading look, and within seconds she had him
lowered back on the settee. She was a very graceful girl, he thought, as well as a strong one.

“When this is over,” he murmured, “I’ll speak to some people I know. I’m quite sure a good school can be found for the children.”

Tiana’s expression bore a sudden undertone of anger. Barney chuckled. “Oh, please, girl. For
you
, of course, something more suitable would have to be arranged.”

That seemed to mollify her.

But what?
he wondered, closing his eyes. There was a notable shortage of finishing schools for Amazons. Nary a single one, as far as he knew.

He heard a familiar hissing sound, muted by the walls, but quite audible nonetheless.

“Well, it’s started,” he said.

“Are those the Congreve rockets you and the lieutenant were talking about?” asked one of the Cherokee boys.

“Oh, yes. Nasty-sounding things, aren’t they? But don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not!” insisted the lad stoutly. “Just curious.”

The commodore didn’t believe that for an instant. He himself, for all his experience, had been a little shaken by the dragon fire when he first encountered it. But the boy seemed to believe it, which was all that really mattered.

Joshua Barney couldn’t have recited a single verse of the
Iliad
to save his life or soul. Yet he had no doubt at all that, thousands of years earlier, boys in bronze armor standing atop and in front of the walls of Troy had assured themselves that they were really not afraid.

All lies, of course. But lies that they made true, because they believed them
.

All traces of twilight were gone by the time Monroe and his escort reached the president’s mansion. But, even in the dark of night, it was impossible to miss the Capitol. That would have been true even if the Naval Yard hadn’t been burning like an inferno. A barrage of rockets was blazing down upon the seat of the nation’s legislature, adding its own flaring illumination. Clearly enough, the British had decided to soften up the defenses by a bombardment, before trying to storm them.

“Are you certain about this, sir?” asked the lieutenant. The young officer nodded nervously toward the Capitol. “Be a risky business, that, trying to get in.”

James Monroe hesitated, before he answered. Now that the task of smuggling his way into a fortress under siege was actually at hand, he found himself hesitating a bit. What sane man wouldn’t?

On the other hand, ambition and honor impelled him powerfully forward.

Ambition, because as secretary of state he was widely considered President Madison’s logical successor. Armstrong would take the blame for this disaster. If Monroe took his stand with the men defending the Capitol, he would come out of it smelling like the proverbial rose. Assuming he survived, of course. But that was always a risk for one who chose to lead a nation.

Even more, there was honor at stake, too. In the end, perhaps, the survival of the nation itself. Monarchs and their courtiers might flee their capitals easily enough, because their legitimacy was a matter of blood. But if no leading elected official of a republic placed himself beside the valiant junior officers who were resisting the enemy in that republic’s very capital, when given the chance, could such a republic deserve the name at all?

“Yes, I’m quite sure. Lead the way, Lieutenant—and quickly. If we arrive before the British fully launch their assault, we should be able to make an entry through one of the western doors.”

The moment Driscol emerged onto the open area between the twin buildings of the Capitol and looked across the ground to the east, he knew that the Sassenach were, indeed, forming up for the attack.

Even in the relative darkness, they were an impressive sight. The scarlet uniforms weren’t bright, of course, the way they would have been in daylight. But the martial color was clear enough, in the red glow reflected from the low clouds that now covered the sky. The huge, flickering flames from the Navy Yard reflected off the metal trimmings and the gun barrels and the brassards on the shakos, making the assembled force seem even more menacing than it would in daylight.

There was something demonic about the appearance of that half-visible army threatening the Capitol; as if those lobster uniforms were filled with great clawed monsters in fact, instead of men.

Driscol took a deep breath, as he always did before a battle in which he faced British soldiers. He needed that breath, to still an old terror. The very first time he’d seen that sight had been on the road from Randallstown, where the Sassenach had broken the men of County Antrim. Sixteen years old, he’d been that day, armed with nothing better than a pike.

He’d spent the night that followed hiding in the fields, while the British hunted down the United Irishmen and slaughtered them without mercy. Prisoners, the wounded—the Sassenach had murdered them all, and dumped the corpses in a sandpit. One of the bodies had been that of Driscol’s older brother.

As always, that one deep breath was enough. His eyes ranged the artillery battery, taking satisfaction in what he saw. The guns themselves were manned by Barney’s sailors, which meant he’d have no fear that they’d be handled fumblingly. Nor were these men who would be wondering how soon they should flee.

Better still, the space between the guns was occupied by naval marines. Captain Samuel Miller had led those marines at Bladensburg, and by all accounts they’d acquitted themselves as well as Barney’s artillery. There were close to a hundred of them—almost the entirety of Miller’s unit, in fact, except those who had been killed or wounded at the earlier encounter.

Unfortunately, Miller himself had been one of those wounded at the battle, so he was not present. But the marines had fallen immediately into practiced formations, and they were accustomed to working closely with Barney’s gunners.

So Driscol left them to their own devices. He’d been far more concerned with organizing and steadying the soldiers who’d taken positions inside the two buildings. Those soldiers, sheltered
by the walls of the Capitol, were in considerably less danger than the artillerymen and marines. But they had nothing like the experience of the veterans manning the big guns.

Houston came trotting over, the moment he spotted Driscol, with John Ross just a step or two behind him. He looked concerned, but no more so than any commander making his preparations on a battlefield. Driscol couldn’t detect so much as a trace of fear in the captain’s face.

He wasn’t really surprised. He’d learned enough of Houston’s actions at the Horseshoe Bend to know that, whatever weaknesses the captain might have, lack of courage was certainly not among them. Driscol had participated in enough headlong frontal assaults in his life to know what it took for a man to be the first over the wall in the face of enemy fire. In sixteen years of almost continual warfare, Driscol had managed the feat only twice. Houston had done it in his very first battle.

“What d’you think, Patrick?” Houston asked as he came up to him. “How soon should we open fire?”

Driscol glanced at Charles Ball, who was standing by the twelve-pounder on the House side of the battery emplacement. In the darkness, it was impossible to discern the black artilleryman’s expression, but something about his stance practically quivered exasperation. Houston must have been pestering the poor man since he first spotted the enemy assembling for the attack.

“Might I suggest, sir, that you leave that decision to Ball and his men. They know what they’re doing.”

Houston looked a bit confused. “But shouldn’t I be the one to give the command?”

“Oh, certainly, sir. But the way this works, you see”—
here anyway
, he told himself—“is that Mr. Ball will give you the meaningful eye, and then you solemnly instruct him to do what he plans to do anyway.”

Houston peered over at Ball. “I see. Well, that makes sense.”

“And, ah …” Driscol cleared his throat.

Houston grinned in response. “Oh, Patrick, please. I assure you I’m not really a fool, even if I’ve been charging all over foisting citations from the
Iliad
on people as if they were patent medicine. I won’t pester Charles any longer. I promise.”

“Splendid, sir.”

For such relaxed good sense, a reward seemed in order. “It’s
perfectly acceptable, of course—when Ball lets you know the time has come—for you to bellow the order in a fine Homeric manner.”

“Oh, good. I was looking forward to that. And where will you be, if I need you?”

“It’s hard to say, sir. Wherever the troops seem to be the shakiest.”

Houston nodded. “You’ll have McParland with you, of course. If I might make a suggestion of my own, why don’t you ask James and John Rogers to join you, as well?” He pointed to his left. “They’re right over there, lurking in the shadows out of old habit. Just tell them I sent you.”