1812: The Rivers of War (41 page)

So the secretary swiveled his head and brought the figure of

General William Winder into his view. Much the same way a ship of the line brings its guns to bear for a broadside.

Winder had finally tired of planning Houston’s execution, so he’d spent the rest of the night issuing plans and directives that contradicted themselves from one moment to the next. Just as well, though, because the confusion he’d created had kept most of the military units from leaving the area. It was utterly laughable. Armstrong thought Winder might be the first commander in the history of the world who had to keep his army from a headlong rout—even though
all
of his directives had had precipitous retreat as their sole unvarying element—by confusing them into sheer paralysis.

However that might be, the forces were still at hand. And Armstrong had had enough of Winder.
Respect for protocol be damned
. Once the president arrived, Armstrong could leave all other matters in his hands and take direct and personal control of the army as the secretary of war.

It was now—Armstrong checked his watch—almost daybreak. If the Capitol was still standing …

No way to know that for sure. So rumor had it, but rumor was rumor. Armstrong needed direct and certain confirmation before he could finalize his plans. Unfortunately, on top of everything else, Winder had created such hurly-burly on the part of his subordinates that Armstrong had been forced to enlist a civilian to scout the matter for him.

At that, Armstrong had more confidence in the civilian he’d sent than he did in most of the officers who hovered around Winder. Francis Scott Key, a Georgetown lawyer to whom Armstrong had been introduced by Congressman John Randolph. A solid and reliable man, Key, even if he did fancy himself something of a poet. In the time since the British landing, most of Washington’s population—military and civilian alike—had fluttered about in panic like leaves in the wind. Key, however, had efficiently organized the evacuation of his family and personal possessions, taking them to a place of safety, and then had come back into the city to see what use he might be to the republic. He’d wound up guiding General Smith and his First Columbian Brigade to the battle of Bladensburg, even helped him map deployments.

If the Capitol was still standing …

Francis Scott Key hadn’t arrived at his post of observation in sufficient time to witness the British assault on the Capitol, nor its repulsion. But the excited inhabitants of the town house from whose roof he’d been able to watch everything since had described it to him well enough. They’d even possessed a telescope with which he’d been able to examine details of the dramatic aftermath.

So, although he hadn’t been an actual eyewitness, Key was able to write a good report. It helped, of course, that he was a poet, and thus fluent with a pen.

The report done, Key handed it to the teenage son of the family who owned the town house. The lad had already agreed to take the message to the secretary of war, since Key didn’t want to leave his post, lest something else occur.

“He should still be at the tavern in Georgetown. It’s located—”

“I know where it is!” cried the boy, and he was already racing off. Whatever reluctance he had to miss any of the action, it was more than offset by the excitement of being directly involved in such momentous events.

His duty done, Key could now indulge himself in his most heartfelt wish—to craft a patriotic poem that would suitably commemorate the dramatic occasion.

Dramatic it was, too, all that a poet could ask for! Fortunately, the light cast by the burning Navy Yard would be enough that he’d be able to see the words he’d be scribbling in his notebook.

Scratching more often than scribbling, he realized with dismay, some time later.

Alas, “Marble
Liberty”
was a well-nigh impossible phrase to fit into proper verse. For perhaps the hundredth time that night he cursed the soldiery holding the Capitol—yes, yes, gallant fellows, but he had a
poem
to write—because they hadn’t thought to raise a flag over it to replace the one which had been carried away by a Congreve rocket.

Blast it! Something as simple as
that
. Key had long ago figured out how he could have fit “star-spangled banner” into the poem.

True enough, the first two lines worked splendidly:

Excellent meter, which fit the well-known tune of “Anacreon in Heaven” to perfection. But then what?

Gallantly
what?

Yes, yes, “gleaming” would work—but he’d already used the word in the previous sentence, and he would
not
give up “twilight’s last gleaming.” No poet in his right mind would.

The cretins! Were there a banner, he could have it
streaming
. But “streaming eyes” wouldn’t do at all! And “streaming wings” was simply meaningless.

An explosion from the Navy Yard distracted him for a moment. Key glanced back over his shoulder. Another store of munitions must have been set off, although the conflagration on the river to the south was finally starting to burn itself out.

No business of a poet’s, though.

He turned back to the notebook, beginning to despair. From the look of the skies, the first light of dawn was beginning to appear, and a fierce storm was in the offing. Once that storm broke, poetry would have to seek prosaic shelter.

Perhaps …

He was gripped by sudden excitement, and began scribbling hastily again. If he went back and changed …

Yes! Forget the eagle entirely. The bird was mostly a scavenger anyway. Concentrate on the statue.

Yes, that’d work! From there …

He hadn’t seen that himself, but the inhabitants had described it. Now … a bit of fudging …

He could get away with that, surely. True, the British had stopped the bombardment of the Capitol hours earlier, but they’d fired off an occasional rocket now and then. More for show than anything else, obviously, but that was a pedestrian matter that a poet could safely ignore.

Then …

Oh, those mindless soldiers and their imbecile Captain Houston! Key had the
perfect
closing couplet for the first stanza.

No banner, alas.

Key sighed. Nothing for it—once a poet begins with an image, he has to remain true to the thing, bloody awkward though it be. So … a little scratching and scribbling here and there …

Yes, that worked, although the meter was damnably awkward in the first line of the couplet. He’d have to work on that some more. But at least he’d kept the high Cs in the tune.

A gleam of light struck his eye.

The first ray of the sun, just now peeking over the horizon. With a guilty start, Key realized he’d tarried a bit. His messenger would be back from Georgetown soon, and it was time he got started on a second report.

Francis Scott Key stood up, tucking away his pen and notebook for the moment while he stretched his arms and legs. He gazed at the Capitol, its eastern walls now showing clearly—including the scars left on it by the British bombardment. The American battery was still there; so, in the doorways of the House, were the eagle and the statue.

Key doffed his hat in salute. “You are a poet’s despair, Captain Houston. But a patriot’s delight.”

“Get the men ready to move out,” Ross commanded. “I want us well out of the city before that storm breaks.”

“But we’d planned—”

“I know what we’d
planned
, Admiral. But among those plans we did not include being bloodied and repulsed at the Capitol. Now did we?”

Cockburn looked mulish, but said nothing.

Ross was relentless. “Boldness is one thing, recklessness another. As soon as the news spreads, the Americans will rally quickly enough. Be sure of it. Our plans to spend a day here, wrecking every public building to demonstrate the U.S. government’s fecklessness are now moot, Admiral.
Moot
, d’you hear?

“For that matter, so are our plans to attack Baltimore. We can’t afford any more such losses, if we’re to take New Orleans later in the year—and New Orleans is the key to the war. So. It is now time to extricate ourselves from Washington before the Americans can bring enough might to bear to force our surrender. I have less than four thousand men left. Enough for a bold raid, if all had gone well. Not enough—not nearly enough—for anything further.

“We shall retreat, then. Immediately. We’re in a trap that’s about to be closed. You and Colonel Brooke will lead the retreat, Admiral. I’ll stay behind until the last moment, to keep the men steady.”

Headstrong as he was, Cockburn wasn’t actually a fool. He took a breath, held it, then sighed. He even managed something of a rueful smile.

“As you wish, General. I do regret not having the opportunity to wreck the
National Intelligencer
. The foul slanderers!”

Ross nodded, graciously enough. He had no desire to get into any further disputes with the admiral. They
had
to get out of Washington, and quickly enough that they’d be too far out of the city for Cockburn to commit any further mischief, once Ross gave his final order.

Thinking of that final order, he had to repress his own sigh.

The commander of an army had many responsibilities, some of which were unpleasant in the extreme. But Robert Ross had never shirked his duty, since the day he’d enlisted in the Twenty-fifth Foot right after graduating from Trinity College in Dublin. Nineteen years old, he’d been then, and a professional soldier ever since. Wounded in battle three times—make that four, now—and the veteran of campaigns in Spain, Egypt, Italy, and the Netherlands before he came to North America. One of the very few men in the British army who had worked his way up the ranks to major general by sheer professional skill, without family influence.

Ross reminded himself that honors enough had been showered upon him, in the course of it all. Three Gold Medals, the Peninsula Gold Medal, and a Sword of Honor. So he could hardly complain, now that duty was knocking on the door, bearing the bill.

Cockburn left the surgeon’s tent. As soon as he was gone, Colonel Brooke turned to the general.

“Are you
certain
about this, sir?”

Ross nodded toward the surgeon. “Ask him.”

The surgeon shook his head. “The only chance for the general’s survival now lies with the Americans. Delaying the surgery as he did”—the surgeon still sounded aggrieved—“I can’t possibly do the work well enough in the course of a retreat. I doubt the general would survive the rigors of the march, in any event.”

Brooke still looked dubious.

“Just get the men out of here, Colonel,” Ross said. “Once the march is well under way, you can inform the admiral—no, I’ll send an aide myself, so you can pretend you didn’t know—that I was forced to remain behind. By then, not even Cockburn will be rash enough to turn around.