1812: The Rivers of War (49 page)

She’d been insisting for a year now that she was no longer a girl. Well. That, at least, wasn’t a lie.

She looked down at the street. It hadn’t gotten any cleaner, or less ugly, in the minutes that had gone by.

So be it.

She’d wait. She wanted Patrick Driscol.

Henry and Charles waited in the street while Driscol marched into the saloon.

Three minutes later, he came back out, with Houston draped over his shoulder. He was staggering a little.

“I’ll carry him,” said Henry.

“Damn right you will,” Driscol muttered. “You’re the only one big enough and strong enough.”

He passed Houston over. “Lord, he’s heavy. If he starts getting fat, he’ll be as great as an ox.”

Henry handled it easily, though. Now that Driscol had been around the teamster long enough to see past the somewhat shy exterior, he’d come to realize that Henry might well be the strongest man he’d ever met.

Few other men of Driscol’s acquaintance, certainly, could have carried on a conversation while toting such a great burden on his shoulder.

“Got two other boys signed up, Major,” Henry said cheerfully. “That’ll do it.”

“Good ones?”

“Oh, sure. Isaac and Rufus Young. They’re first cousins, not brothers. I’ve known ’em for years. Both good drivers, and both of them steady men.”

Driscol glanced at Houston. His head was hanging down near Henry’s hip, and he was drooling a little.

Better to ignore that. Driscol had known plenty of drunks in his life. Precious few of them had had any of Houston’s other qualities.

If Driscol hadn’t already respected the young colonel, he would have done so after watching the battle he put up for the logistics of the new unit he’d be leading to New Orleans.

Henry Crowell was there when nobody else was—so he gets the contract.

And I’ll raise Jesse in the press—no, in Congress!—if anybody foists some chiseling nephew on me!

An empty threat, in some ways. Driscol had no doubt at all that the capital’s newspaper editors—not to mention most of its senators and congressmen—were no more taken by the idea than the horde of angry businessmen who’d been bypassed for
the plum contract. All the more so, because most of those were, indeed, some editor or politician’s nephew.

Or cousin, or brother, or uncle—the nepotism of Washington was notorious.

But Houston was still the Hero of the Day, after all. And, in what had probably been an even more decisive development, James Monroe was now the secretary of war, and he’d given Houston his quiet but firm support behind the scenes.

In the end, Driscol was fairly certain, the decisive argument in the private conversations of the city’s elite had been that anything that lessened Washington’s large population of freedmen was a blessing. So let that too-big-for-his-britches Henry Crowell and his gang of black teamsters take the contract. It’d get them out of the city, if nothing else.

Freedmen were always a thorn in the side of slave society. Neither fish nor fowl. On the one hand, always a quiet reminder to gentility that its vaunted republic rested on a dark and shaky foundation; on the other—worse still—always a temptation to the slave. More often than not, the first step of a runaway slave was to vanish into the anonymity of the little-known freedmen societies of the nation’s larger towns and cities.

Let them go to New Orleans. That depraved city had the largest freedmen community in North America, given the slackness of its French and Spanish inhabitants. Hopefully, they’d all choose to stay there, after the war was over.

They probably would, too. Driscol knew that was Henry Crowell’s plan. Still shy of thirty he might be, built like Hercules to boot, and half literate at best. But Crowell was proving to be quite the shrewd businessman. He and the freedmen partners he’d organized to handle this very lucrative government contract stood to come out at the end with a very solid stake. And New Orleans was the one city in the United States where a free black man could set himself up in business with relatively little in the way of obstruction.

Some, of course. Even New Orleans expected a white man to be the visible face of the business. But for decades the city had institutionalized ways to deal with that, Henry had learned. There were supposed to be any number of white lawyers in New Orleans willing to place their name on a partnership—some without even charging exorbitant fees—so the black men who really ran the business could do so unmolested.

Driscol’s eyes turned to Charles Ball, who was striding alongside and looking very cheerful. All of the black sailors in Barney’s unit had volunteered for Houston’s expedition. They were all veterans, so Driscol doubted very much if that was because they were eager to join another battle. They, too, probably planned to stay in New Orleans after the war was over. Why not? They’d most likely be demobilized anyway, and in New Orleans they wouldn’t face the same difficulties they would elsewhere. Fewer difficulties, at least.

“Looking forward to New Orleans?” he asked.

Charles grinned, as he so easily and often did. “Yes, I am, Major. Best city in the world, people say. Sure as creation for a Negro. Think I’ll stay there, after the war, like Henry’s planning to.”

Houston came back to consciousness after Henry lowered him onto the bed in his room. He was staying in the same hotel Driscol was quartered in.

He peered blearily up at Crowell and said, “Thanks, Henry.”

Then, more blearily still—almost teary-eyed, in fact—he gazed accusingly at Driscol.

“You stole my girl.”

“You didn’t want her,” Driscol rasped. “I asked.”

“Wasn’t fair. I didn’t have any choice.”

“Yes, you did. And you made it. So don’t whine.”

Houston started crying. There wasn’t any real emotion to it, though, just the easy tears of a man in a drunken stupor. Driscol knew that Sam was a bit jealous concerning the situation between himself and Tiana. He also knew that the jealousy didn’t run very deep, and that Houston would get over it, easily enough.

Within a minute, in fact, Houston was unconscious again.

Driscol sighed. “Whom the gods would destroy …” he murmured.

He’d wondered, in times past—a bit jealous himself—if there was anything about Sam Houston that was flawed. In so many ways, the youngster seemed like someone out of Greek legend.

Well, now he knew. And wished he didn’t.

“You’ve got the Irish curse, lad,” he said sadly.

Henry, always quick to be charitable, shook his head. “Lots of people drink too much, Major.”

That was true enough, of course. Foreign travelers to America were always a bit stunned at the level of alcohol consumption throughout the new republic. People—men, especially, but a fair number of women, too—drank whiskey as if it were water.

But Driscol knew drunkenness backward and forward, and he knew he was looking at the curse.

So did Charles Ball. His personality was a lot more acerbic than Henry’s. “Don’t fool yourself, Henry. By the time he’s forty, Sam Houston will either have quit drinking, or he’ll be lying in the gutter. Or just be dead. The major’s got it right. It’s the Irish curse.”

Henry was stubborn, though, in his quiet way. “Lots of black folks drink too much, too, Charles.”

The gunner snorted. “Sure. That’s ’cause most of us are part Irish. My grandfather was a white plantation owner, name of O’Connell. Course, he never fessed up to it. But he freed my grandmother, in his will, which is how I got to be born free.”

“How good of him,” Driscol growled. “I notice he didn’t free her until after he died.”

“Course not. If he a freed her sooner, his bed woulda been cold at night. His wife had died years earlier.” Charles shook his head admiringly. “She was a powerful good-lookin’ woman. Chirk and lively, too. Still was, even when I knew her.”

“I can’t wait to get out of this stinking city.” Driscol was now almost literally growling. “A nest of snakes, it is.”

Despite his color, Ball didn’t share much of Driscol’s animosity toward the world’s injustices. He was frighteningly good-humored about it, in fact.

“We better get out fast, too,” the gunner said, grinning. He pointed down at Houston. “Before our handsome and dashing young colonel figures out that if he stops crawling into the taverns with the boys, he can be crawling into the beds of half the girls in town.”

Driscol rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I did not need to hear that, Charles.”

“Hey, Major, you know it’s true. They falling all over him, every chance they get. Sam Houston’s the prize bachelor, right now. You think those prim and proper matrons ain’t figured out the oldest way known to man to get a fella to the altar? You think their prim and proper daughters won’t be willing? Enough of ’em, anyway.”

Driscol was still staring at the ceiling. The paint was peeling in one of the corners. In case he needed a reminder that appearances are usually a veneer. Especially in Washington, D.C.

“I did not need to hear that.”

“Look on the bright side. Couple of months, we’ll be in New Orleans. Most sinful city in the New World. They’ll love Sam Houston.”

“I did not need to hear that.”

Winfield Scott arrived in Washington to assume command of the Tenth Military District just in time to see the newly promoted Colonel Houston and his party off on their expedition to New Orleans.

“I see you’ve made quite the name for yourself, Patrick,” he said to Driscol, shaking his hand vigorously. “My deepest congratulations. Nothing more than you deserve, of course.” He didn’t even seem to notice Houston, who was standing not three feet away.

Driscol returned the handshake with a smile, letting no sign of his irritation show. As much as he admired and respected Scott, there were times he found the man’s thin-skinned vanity downright aggravating. Especially because it was so childishly transparent.

Driscol was no threat to Scott’s status, of course. For all the private and public praise that had been heaped upon the man from County Antrim over the past few weeks—not to mention a double promotion that had well-nigh astonished him—no one thought of Patrick Driscol as a dashing hero the way they did
Sam Houston. Now people were speculating that Houston might soon become the youngest brigadier general in the U.S. Army—a status heretofore enjoyed by Winfield Scott.

Irritating, truly irritating.

Worse than that, it had far-ranging implications, under the current circumstances. Monroe had seriously considered sending Scott to reinforce Jackson in New Orleans, now that the brigadier had recovered well enough from his wounds to resume active duty, rather than keeping him in Washington for what would be a purely administrative post. The secretary of war had even, privately, asked Driscol for his opinion on the matter.

Soon enough, he’d pierced through Driscol’s circumlocutions.

“So you think he and Jackson would clash constantly?”

“Well, sir. Yes.” Driscol had no doubt that he had looked uncomfortable. “I can’t be sure, of course, since I don’t yet know General Jackson. General Brown managed to get along with the brigadier quite well, mind you. But, ah, Brown is …”

Monroe nodded. “A politician, and a very good one. And not a man to begrudge his subordinate getting the lion’s share of the praise. Which”—here a grin—“ha! Is certainly not true of Andy Jackson. He’s even pricklier about his public image than Winfield.”

“Yes, sir. Such is my impression.”

Monroe had studied the papers on his desk, for a moment. Not looking at the print, simply using the familiar sight to concentrate his thoughts. Then, sighing, he continued. “Scott’s already beginning to clash with Brown, actually, and over the pettiest issues imaginable.”

“Yes, sir. So I had heard. Since you asked for my opinion, Mr. Secretary, here it is. Said bluntly, if you’ll pardon my presumption. Put Winfield Scott on a battlefield, and he’s superb. He’s also possibly the best trainer of troops I’ve ever encountered. For that matter, give him a straightforward administrative task and let him have his head, and he’ll give you all you could ask for. But assign him to play the loyal subordinate to another commanding officer as vain and headstrong as he is, and you’re asking for trouble. They’ll likely spend as much time and energy quarreling with each other as they will fighting the enemy.”

“Yes, you’re probably right. Very well, then. We’ll keep Scott here. It’s not as if he won’t be of real use, after all. I don’t expect
the British to attack the area again, but who knows? And, in any event, since we’ve now got this Tenth Military District, we ought to have it organized properly.”

Eventually, of course, Scott acknowledged Houston’s presence. Even then, with words of praise that were abbreviated and a handshake that was barely this side of cursory.

Fortunately, Sam Houston had a different temperament. He’d kept his expression bland throughout, but by now Driscol knew the young colonel well enough to know that he was probably amused by Scott’s behavior. Houston was one of those people blessed with a self-esteem so thoroughly grounded that he had no need for the reassurances of others. A liking for it, certainly—what man didn’t? But its absence spilled off him like water off a duck.

“And when will I see you again, Patrick?” Scott asked, turning away from Houston once again. “You know there’ll always be a place for you on my staff. And I’ll see to it, rest assured, even in the teeth of the demobilizations which are bound to come once the war is over.”

“Thank you, sir.” Driscol didn’t doubt that Scott would live up to his promise, too. He was also certain that without Scott’s patronage, he’d likely be finding himself eking out a meager existence on the income of a retired officer. Nonetheless, the offer held no attractions whatsoever.

How to say it, though?

He cleared his throat. “As it happens, sir, I’ve been giving some serious thought to entering civilian life. After the war is over.”

Scott cocked his head, in a gesture which was half quizzical and half skeptical.

As well he might, Driscol thought ruefully. Until a very short time ago, the idea of Patrick Driscol, civilian would have been as laughable to Driscol as to anyone. But…a very short time could sometimes bring some very real changes. And the fact was that, for the first time since he’d been sixteen years old, Driscol had started thinking seriously about what a life might look like without killing Sassenach at the center of it.