1812: The Rivers of War (39 page)

Ross closed his eyes. Pain and exhaustion were threatening to take him under again.

Not yet
.

“If you intend to burn the president’s mansion, Admiral Cockburn, I would suggest that you get started. You may take a few hundred men with you.” His eyelids lifted slightly. “Not more than three hundred, mind. We’ll need the rest for the siege.”

“Siege!” Cockburn barked sarcastically. But even the admiral understood that Ross would be unmovable. Angrily, Cockburn turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent.

“Follow him, Colonel,” Ross ordered. “Let him have enough men for his evening’s arson, but that’s all.
Three hundred
, no more.”

“Yes, sir.” Brooke hurried out.

Once they were gone, the surgeon stepped forward.

“You
must
let me take the bullet out, General. The longer we wait, the worse the risk. As it is, gangrene …”

Ross shook his head. “Not till this business is over, and I’m sure my men have been removed from peril.”

He didn’t add—not to the surgeon—that he didn’t dare allow himself to be entirely incapacitated. Not yet. If Ross were unconscious for hours, during and after surgery, and therefore unable to lead his men any longer, Cockburn might claim that command of the ground forces fell to him.

The surgeon’s expression was exceedingly anxious. “General—”

“Oh, be done with it!” Ross snapped. “I understand the risk, Doctor, and the responsibility is mine. If I die, I die.”

There’s no reason to be rude to the man
, Ross chided himself.
He’s simply doing his job
.

“Consider the bright side, Doctor,” he added. “At least I’ll return
home in good spirits, which is always something an Irishman treasures. Well. Navy rum, at least. Admittedly, it’s not my favorite potion.”

The doctor smiled crookedly. It was the custom of the empire to return the corpses of top officers to the islands, rather than burying them where they fell. They kept the bodies from rotting during the long voyage by immersing them in casks of rum. It was perhaps undignified, but … it worked.

Colonel Brooke came back into the tent a few minutes later.

“The admiral’s gone, sir. On his way to the American president’s mansion.”

Ross nodded. Then, finally, he relinquished his hold on consciousness. Darkness was peace, and a blessing.

“Got himself another white horse, I see,” Sam Houston said wryly. He lowered the telescope through which he’d been peering from an upper window on the south side of the House. “There’s a man who is set in his ways.”

“It
is
the admiral, then?” asked Driscol. He’d been almost certain, even without the aid of a telescope, but not positive.

The conflagration at the Navy Yard was still growing, and had begun spreading to nearby buildings. They could hear the sound of collapsing structures, as well as periodic explosions as the roaring flames encountered munitions. As impressive as the fire was, however, the Naval Yard was too far away for those flames to pose a direct danger to the Capitol—which also meant that the illumination was still far poorer than daylight.

Sam shrugged. “I could hardly distinguish his features at this distance, even with a glass and even if I knew what he looked like. But unless there’s another British naval officer with that much gold braid and a devotion to white horses, I’d say that has to be Cockburn.”

Driscol leaned out of the window and looked down. Hungrily, he studied the three-pounder that Ball and his sailors had positioned to guard the southern flank of the Capitol.

“Leave it be, Patrick!” Houston said, laughing and clapping the smaller man on the back. “Clearly he’s learned his lesson. He’s staying well out of range. Even with a twelve-pounder, it’d be sheer luck to hit the bastard.”

Driscol didn’t leave off his calculations. “Now, yes. But
maybe when he returns he’ll get careless.” He straightened and pushed himself away from the window. “No harm in being prepared, after all. With your permission, sir, I’ll see to it.”

Still chuckling, Houston agreed and waved him off. Driscol headed out the door immediately, McParland and the Rogers brothers in tow.

As James passed through the door, he looked back at Sam and grinned.

“
Asgá siti
,” James said cheerfully. “Just the way it is.”

Houston brought the telescope back to his eye and returned to his study of the enemy movements. He lacked Driscol’s experience, but he had no trouble understanding what the British were about. Most of their men had begun setting up their own fieldworks on the ground facing the eastern side of the Capitol. But now they were moving detachments into place, threatening—well, guarding, anyway; they weren’t really much of a threat—the northern and southern flanks as well.

At least, looking out from a window on the south side of the House, Sam didn’t have to listen to the sounds of injured and dying British soldiers on the grounds to the east.

That was … ghastly.

The heavy musket balls were bad enough. They shattered bones whenever they struck a limb squarely, mangling arms and legs so badly that amputation was almost always required if a man’s life was to be saved. But most of the casualties had been inflicted by Ball’s cannons, and they’d been firing grapeshot during most of the British assault.

What Ball and his men called “grapeshot,” at least, even though Ball had explained to Sam at one point that it wasn’t really the nine-shot cluster that the term technically signified to naval men. Apparently, such wired clusters of very large balls caused too much damage to cannons for them to be favored much in land battles. What Ball’s gunners were calling “grapeshot” was really just heavy case shot: three-ounce bullets as opposed to the balls weighing half as much that were used in regular canister.

The technical details aside, the heavy balls were utterly deadly within four hundred yards. The British soldiers had been forced to advance that far with no cover whatsoever, over muddy and slippery terrain that they couldn’t see well because
of the darkness. By the time they’d gotten near enough for Charles and his gunners to switch to canister, they’d already suffered casualties so bad that one volley of canister had been enough to break the final charge.

There were still hundreds of them out there. Many were dead, of course, but the majority were merely injured—if the term “merely” could be applied to the most horrible wounds imaginable.

Thinking about those men, Sam came to a sudden decision. He didn’t begrudge Patrick Driscol his feelings toward the English, but Sam simply didn’t share them. He closed the telescope and strode from the room, his mind working on who he should send. He’d go himself, but…

No. If Driscol didn’t strangle him, the secretary of state probably would.

When Brooke came back into the surgeon’s tent, Ross had only recently returned to consciousness. Considerably to his regret, actually.

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir. But the Americans have sent over an envoy under the flag of truce.”

“Send him in, please.”

A few moments later, a very young and nervous-looking American officer was ushered into the tent. A militia lieutenant, judging from the flamboyant uniform.

“And how may I help you, sir?” Ross asked politely.

The young American swallowed.

Then: “Captain Houston—uh, Secretary of State Monroe agreed, too—sent me to ask you if you plan another assault tonight.” Apparently realizing the question was absurd, the flustered youngster hurried on. “Not exactly that. He doesn’t expect you to reveal military plans, of course. But, well, he told me to tell you that if you
don’t
try any—uh, I think he said something about respecting the flag of truce—then, uh—he said it looks like a storm is coming, too—uh—that’ll make the misery still worse …”

The youngster ground to a halt, desperately trying to reassemble his thoughts, which now bore a close resemblance to a shipwreck.

Ross took pity on him. He seemed a harmless enough lad, and besides, Ross was touched by the gallantry involved. There was often much to like about Cousin Jonathan.

“Yes, I understand. Your—captain, was it?—Houston is extending an offer to cease-fire while we collect up our dead and wounded from the field.”

Relieved, the young officer nodded.

“Certainly,” Ross stated, as firmly as he could manage. “You may assure your commander that we will make no attempt to take advantage of his gracious offer. See to it, Colonel Brooke, if you please. And send the men out unarmed.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Brooke left, the American militia lieutenant made to follow. Ross called him back.

“One moment, Lieutenant. You didn’t answer my question. Am I to understand that your commander over there is a
captain!”

“Uh, yes, sir. Captain Sam Houston. From the Thirty-ninth Infantry.”

Ross didn’t recall any Thirty-ninth Infantry being stationed in or near Washington. Of course, military intelligence was never perfect.

Apparently sensing Ross’s puzzlement, the youngster cleared up the little mystery. “He’s from Tennessee, sir. The Thirty-ninth is with General Jackson down there. Captain Houston was just in Washington by happenstance.”

A captain. Here by happenstance
.

That would be the same Andrew Jackson whom Admiral Cochrane and Ross expected they’d be facing later in the year, when they finally made their move into the gulf after sufficient reinforcements arrived from England. It was all Ross could do not to wince.

Of course, the odds were essentially nil that Ross himself would still be in command of the ground forces by then. Even if he survived the next few days, it would take him months to recover well enough to reassume command.

Still, it was a grim prospect. Ross wondered who would be sent over as his own replacement. Pakenham, most likely. A good commander, to be sure, but with something of a headstrong reputation. If he could, Ross would do his best to instill a
bit of caution in him.
Above all, stay away from frontal assaults against that horrid American artillery
.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Please pass along my regards to Captain Houston and Mr. Monroe. I take it the secretary of state is in the Capitol also?”

“Yes, sir. Oh.” The young militiaman looked chagrined. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Ross would have laughed, except for the pain. “You may set your mind at ease, Lieutenant. I assure you I have no intention of launching another assault with the sole purpose of seizing Mr. Monroe, estimable gentleman though he is. But do pass along to him a request from me, as well as my compliments.”

“Sir?”

“I’d appreciate it if he’d give your fine captain a promotion. He well deserves it, anyway, and it would do wonders for my self-esteem. Driven off by a
captain
. No, no, it won’t do! A major, I could live with. A colonel would be better still.”

“Do it,” Joshua Barney growled, after the militiaman returned and conveyed Ross’s words. “And make it ‘colonel.’”

Monroe, sitting on a chair next to Barney’s settee, shook his head. “Commodore, you know perfectly well I don’t have the authority to promote army officers.”

“Make it a brevet rank, then.”

“I can’t do that, either. Secretary of
state
, remember?”

Barney closed his eyes. “It’s a pity Washington, D.C., isn’t a state. We could haul the governor out of his bed and get Houston a fancy rank in the state militia.”

Smiling, Monroe started to respond, but the same militia lieutenant was coming back into the chamber. Looking more worried than ever.

“You’d better come see, sir.” The youngster swallowed. “They’re burning the president’s mansion. It’s a fearful sight.”

From an upper window on the western side of the House, Monroe watched the flames devouring the central buildings of the executive branch of the United States. He couldn’t see any details, at the distance of a mile, but it was obvious nothing was being left untouched. “The bastards,” Captain Houston growled, lowering his telescope
and offering it to the secretary. “They’re burning everything over there, it looks like. Although I think they might be sparing the Patent Office.”

Monroe shook his head, refusing the telescope. He had no desire to see buildings he’d worked in and come to know well over the past years go up in flames. He could imagine it all well enough in his mind, in any event.

There’d be no shortage of kindling in the president’s mansion. The Madisons had inherited twenty-three rooms of furniture from Thomas Jefferson and previous inhabitants. Exquisite things, most of them: sofas, writing tables, chairs and tables of all sort, beds—many of them finely ornamented. There were three dozen gilded chairs with red velvet cushions in the oval room alone, all hand-carved in Baltimore. Not to mention that the entire mansion was festooned with fancy drapes and curtains, all of which would go up in flames.

Still, Monroe controlled his anger easily enough. He wasn’t a hot-tempered man. His worst characteristic, in that regard—and one he did his best to guard against and control—was a tendency to let resentment fester silently. Especially when the slights were personal.

But this wasn’t a personal issue, and, besides, he knew the British were blundering badly here. He was a little surprised, actually, since General Ross had the reputation of being a cool-headed man, as well as the sort of officer who was popular with his men.

Houston spoke again. “I’m fairly certain that Admiral Cock-burn is leading the detachment that’s burning the executive mansion and offices, sir.”

“Well, that lends support to a theory I’d just been in the midst of constructing.”

Houston cocked his head. “Sir?”

“I’d wager that Ross was somehow incapacitated in the earlier assault, and is having difficulty retaining control over his forces. Cockburn may have gone off on his own, or Ross may have sent Cockburn off just to get him out from underfoot.”

“Oh. Well, as to that, sir—it is indeed true that Ross was badly hurt. May well have been killed, in fact.”

“He was seen to fall?”

Houston looked a bit uncomfortable. “Lieutenant Driscol took command of a platoon and had them personally fire on the
general when he reached the front ranks. So, yes, he was hit. Badly enough that they had to carry him off.”