1812: The Rivers of War (37 page)

Cockburn gave Ross’s body no more than a glance as his horse drove past the group of soldiers carrying the general to the rear. Dead, apparently. Gravely wounded, at least.

At the moment, all that was irrelevant. All that mattered was taking the Capitol. Arrogant and cocksure the admiral might be, but no one had ever accused him of lacking courage or willpower. He himself never gave such matters a single thought.

“
Follow me, men!”

For a moment, after the volley was fired, Driscol had his hopes. But then, seeing soldiers carrying Cockburn away, he had to restrain himself from cursing his platoon.

Cockburn wasn’t being carried the way Ross had been, like a sack of meal. The admiral was still on his feet—with a man under
each shoulder to steady him, true. But Cockburn was still bearing most of his own weight. The admiral had lost his fancy hat, and his steps seemed a bit uncertain. But it was quite obvious that he hadn’t been badly wounded. He was probably just dazed, and winded from falling off the horse.

No time for a second volley, either. Not only was Cockburn himself being hustled away quickly, but the entire British line was falling back. It wasn’t
quite
a rout. But a retreat so hasty that within a few seconds Cockburn’s figure was completely lost in the fleeing mass.

Ah, well
. Charles Ball and his gunners were still firing, of course. Ball was no more the man to show mercy on defeated enemies than Driscol himself. A most fine fellow. So there was always the chance that a stray round still might kill the admiral on his way.

Nervously, one of the volunteers cleared his throat. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

There was a time to browbeat men, and a time to do otherwise, and Driscol knew the difference.

“Never you mind, lad,” he said, straightening up from his crouch again. “The chances of war—and we beat the bastards back. A piece of advice, though.”

His head swiveled back and forth, giving his men a look that was stern, but not condemning. “
Next
time you shoot at a man on a white horse, do try to hit the man. Not the horse.”

The whole platoon stared out of the windows. Even in the half darkness, the carcass of the horse was easy to spot. Although it was no longer exactly in one piece.

Driscol should have warned them, he supposed. In the darkness, that great gleaming target must have drawn their eyes like a magnet.

“Ah, well,” he repeated. He knew the quirky chances of war. No man knew them better.

From their position in the back of the room, where they’d be out of the way of the militiamen, the Rogers brothers watched Patrick Driscol carefully.

Very carefully, just as they had been for hours.

Not because they were concerned about his safety, though. Their new assignment as Driscol’s bodyguards had turned out to be almost meaningless. That night, at least. There was now little
chance that the British would manage to break their way into the huge building, where the hand-to-hand combat skills of the two brothers would come into play.

Little chance—largely because of Driscol himself.

So, as the night wore on, James and John Rogers had been able to devote more and more of their time to considering Driscol from an entirely different viewpoint.

Within the first hour, his courage and resolution had become obvious. So had his practical intelligence. Thereafter, it was other things they looked for.

A good sense of humor, of course, was the most important thing. He’d need it.

Eventually, after observing the sure and relaxed way Driscol handled a mass of nervous and uncertain soldiers, they were satisfied. For all the lieutenant’s grim demeanor, the Rogers brothers hadn’t missed the fact that he was far more likely to settle down a young soldier with a jest rather than a curse. Or break up a quarrel with sarcasm, rather than threats.

“He’ll do,” James pronounced softly.

“Do?” his brother whispered back. “He’d be
perfect
. Except he’s ugly.”

Driscol came over to them a short while later.

“It seems you won’t have to do much tonight, lads.”

They nodded. Then John asked:

“Have you met our sister Tiana, Lieutenant?”

Driscol stared at him for a moment, before looking away. He seemed intent on examining a nearby window. Odd, really, since there was nothing to be seen through it except the night.

He cleared his throat. “Ah. Yes, I believe I have. In a manner of speaking.”

James smiled pleasantly. “Oh, that won’t do at all. ‘A manner of speaking.’ No, no. A real introduction is called for. As soon as possible, after the battle.”

“We’ll see to it,” John added. The same serene smile had appeared on his face.

They waited. There was one last thing that needed to be known.

Finally, Driscol cleared his throat again. His eyes never left the window. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that. Very much.”

“Consider it done,” James said.

Monroe entered the crimson-draped chamber of the House just as a roar of applause went up. The secretary of state had to push his way through a crowd to see what was happening. The chamber seemed to be packed full of soldiers, many of whom had obviously just arrived themselves. All of them were still carrying their muskets, and the soldiers were so full of excitement that Monroe hoped none of them would fire a shot by accident—or even, in the fervor of the moment, fire a celebratory shot into the ceiling.

The assault had been driven off, clearly enough. As soon as the roar began to subside, a penetrating voice rang out.

Monroe thought he recognized the passage. If so, a speech given by Hector to his brother Paris predicting the victory of Troy was perhaps unfortunate. If the secretary recalled correctly, Hector himself would be slain by Achilles not long thereafter.

Still—

The soldiers seemed pleased with the sentiments, and Monroe doubted if many of them understood the irony of the citation. Besides, Monroe was six feet tall. Now that he had finally pushed his way into the chamber, he could see well enough over the heads of most of the men to examine the one who’d given that little classical peroration.

So this was the mysterious “Captain Houston.” Monroe
couldn’t stop himself from barking a little laugh. Great God! The man even
looked
the part!

Houston was standing before the Speaker’s canopied chair, at the south end of the chamber. For a moment, Monroe thought he was standing on a stool, until he realized that the captain himself was simply very tall. Tall, broad-shouldered—and powerful, judging from the nearby soldier half reeling from Houston’s friendly clap on the shoulder. Houston’s blue eyes, powerful blunt nose, and wide grin radiated confidence and good spirits. The mass of rich chestnut hair the captain exhibited when he swept off his hat capped the image perfectly.

“We beat ’em back slick, boys! I’ll be scorched if we didn’t send the bastards east of sunrise! It won’t convene for them to be marching on us again any time soon!” He gestured with the hat, waving it about flamboyantly. “Let’s have three cheers for our
Liberty!”

The cheers came—enthusiastically, not dutifully—and there were quite a few more than three. By the time the soldiers subsided, Monroe’s ears were ringing.

He’d kept pushing forward, and finally made it to the front row. Thankfully, there seemed to be an open space of some sort at the center of the mob. Once the secretary pushed his way there, he saw the reason for it: Joshua Barney was lying on a settee, attended by a very large and striking Indian girl. Several other Indians were gathered around the settee as well, all but one of them children. Even the excited soldiers had been respectful enough not to crowd the commodore. It was obvious at a glance that Barney was badly injured, and feeling the pain of his wounds.

The presence of the Indians was a mystery, but the commodore himself didn’t seem concerned over the matter. Badly injured or not, Barney was conscious and alert. He spotted Monroe at the same moment the secretary of state spotted him.

“Mr. Monroe!” the commodore called out. “Welcome to what is
still
the Capitol of the United States.”

Captain Houston had been about to launch into another peroration, but hearing Barney’s words he blinked and closed his mouth. Then he peered intently at the newly arrived figure.

The commodore levered himself up on an elbow and pointed. “It’s Mr. James Monroe, Captain. The secretary of state. Mr.

Monroe”—the finger pointed the other way—“may I introduce Captain Sam Houston?”

Houston was no older than his early twenties, the secretary gauged, and—for the first time since Monroe had spotted him—he finally looked a bit unsure of himself.

This was
no
time for uncertainty. Monroe strode forward, bypassing the commodore’s settee, his hand outstretched.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Captain!” he boomed. “And let me be the first to extend to you the congratulations of your grateful nation and government.” Monroe would allow himself a little fib here. “Mr. Madison asked me to convey his regards, as well. Alas, he was tied up with matters too pressing to come himself.”

That last part was likely true, at least. The president was probably lost, halfway to Wiley’s Tavern. The area surrounding Washington was still, in many parts, not far removed from a wilderness. Given the confusion of the moment and having to travel at night—the skies were lowering, too, with a storm in the offing—Madison and his party would have had a rough go of it.

As for the rest…

Well, the secretary was quite certain the president wouldn’t begrudge him the little lie. James Monroe and James Madison had been friends for decades, a mutual regard that had not really faltered on those occasions when they’d found themselves on opposite sides of a political dispute or even contesting against each other for the same political position.

Besides, Monroe was quite sure that if Madison
had
been present at the tavern in Georgetown, he would have agreed to send Monroe to the besieged Capitol. He might very well have tried to come himself, and his cabinet would have had to dissuade him.

Houston’s handshake was firm and confident, betraying none of the self-doubts and apprehensions the young captain might be having.

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.