1812: The Rivers of War (48 page)

“You watch,” he repeated. Gloating over the words. “He’ll refuse the rose.”

“You’d best come get him, Lieutenant,” said Henry Crowell, his tone full of concern. “Or he’ll land in some trouble. Again.”

The teamster glanced at the new insignia on Driscol’s uniform. “Sorry. Major, I should have said.”

Driscol smiled thinly. “Don’t apologize. I forget the new rank myself. And it’s all ridiculous. I’m a sergeant, blast it. Never intended to be anything else.”

He levered himself up from the padded chair, and placed the book he’d been reading onto the small table that stood next to it. Thomas Paine’s Common Sense, that was. Driscol wasn’t quite sure why he was reading it again, since by now he practically had the book memorized. Probably just to fortify his soul, given the situation he’d be finding himself in, once he got to New Orleans.

He paused, and studied Henry for a moment. The big teamster was carrying himself differently these days. He seemed taller, and broader, as if he was finally coming to accept his own size. He still retained much of the self-effacing diffidence of a freed-man, of course. It would be dangerous to do otherwise. Even in New York or Boston.

Still, his bearing was subtly different. More self-confident. Even, at times, almost swaggering.

And well it should be, Driscol thought. Leaving aside the public acclaim Henry had received due to his role in the defense of the Capitol—the National Intelligencer had even devoted two paragraphs of an article to his deeds—what was more important was that Henry was on the verge of becoming one of the very few prosperous black men in America.

“So how drunk is he?”

“Falling-down drunk, Major. Me and Charles would have just carried him out of the saloon, but…”

Driscol nodded. “Yes, I understand. He would have raised a ruckus.”

“Oh, he’s not a mean drunk, sir. Not at all. It’s just… well…”

Again, his voice trailed off; and, again, Driscol nodded. He didn’t think there was a mean bone anywhere in Sam Houston’s body. The problem was that, in drunken bonhomie, Sam would have simply insisted that Crowell and Ball join him for a friendly drink. Or ten.

In a saloon, where the only other black people were servants; where all the customers were prosperous white men, half of them politicians; and in a capital city that was every bit as southern in its attitudes as Richmond or Charleston.

Driscol couldn’t help but grin a little. “Would’ve been a fight.”

“Yup.” Henry’s grin was a more rueful thing. “Sam Houston challenging some rich congressman to a duel. ‘Cept it wouldn’t have been no formal duel. He’d a just started swinging.”

“True.”

If Sam didn’t have any mean bones in his body, he didn’t have any bashful ones either. The only reason Houston might be able to avoid fighting a duel sometime in his life—leaving aside his habits with a bottle—would be his sense of humor and his lack of touchiness about matters of “honor.” It certainly wouldn’t be because he was afraid to fight. On two recent occasions now, that Driscol knew about, Sam had cheerfully joined into a tavern brawl.

Fortunately, those had been brawls in lower-class saloons. The sort of places where getting a bloody nose with a drink was more or less taken for granted, and nobody would even think of meeting at dawn with pistols. Following one of those brawls, the man Houston had flattened had bought him a drink afterward, and bragged for days that he was a drinking companion of the Hero of the Capitol. Of course, the fact that Sam had bought the next three drinks hadn’t hurt any.

The saloon he was getting drunk in today was different. It was one of the taverns that catered to Washington’s elite, and its clientele was predominantly southern politicians and their hangers-on. Plantation owners, almost to a man.

Now that Driscol had gained some experience with the breed, during the few weeks he’d been in Washington, he had developed a mental list—a very, very long list—of reasons he detested wealthy southern slave owners. A concrete and specific list, not the general condemnation he had leveled onto the breed in times past from abstract considerations.

Somewhere near the top of the list—probably third, he thought, after their brutality toward their male slaves and their lies and hypocrisy on the subject of how they dealt with female slaves—was their endless posturing and braggadocio concerning their “honor.” As if the term could be applied to armed robbers and rapists in the first place.

He ascribed it to idleness. They did not toil. Their Negroes toiled for them. In their fields, by day; in their beds, by night. So they were able to spend their time giving longwinded speeches on the glories of republicanism and issuing challenges to each other over the pettiest slights imaginable.

They were, he had concluded, a breed of men so foul that they had to elevate “honor” to absurdly mystical proportions. Or they couldn’t have looked at themselves in a mirror at all.

Houston possessed none of their faults. Unfortunately, he thought they were very good fellows, and liked to drink and carouse with them.

And he could not handle his liquor.

“Bah,” Driscol snarled. “Animals, the lot of them.”

He was looking forward to leaving Washington. Sam would sober up—hopefully—and Driscol would no longer have to rub shoulders with men he despised. Frontiersmen had their faults, true enough. They were frequently illiterate, had many crude habits, and they owned slaves themselves, many of them. But Driscol had come to realize from talking with Houston and Tiana and her brothers that slavery on the frontier tended to have a different flavor than it did in the settled society of the eastern seaboard.

He was still utterly opposed to the institution, under any circumstances. But he had begun to understand that in the West it was more akin to the sort of traditional thralldom that his own Celtic and Norse ancestors had practiced than it was to the cold-blooded profiteering of large plantation owners. Especially among the Indian tribes, who generally didn’t share the white man’s obsession with race.

“They’re not all so bad as that, sir,” Henry said quietly. “I think well of Mr. Monroe. Don’t know a single black man who doesn’t. And I never heard of any black woman raising one of his bastards.”

It was all Driscol could do not to glare at him. The man from County Antrim liked things simple. The fact that there were men like Monroe, who were exceptions to the rule—nor was he the only one, not by any means—didn’t sway him at all.

Damn all exceptions to the rule. Ought to hang them first, because they provide the others with a mask
.

Then he took a deep breath of air, and his mood lightened. It had been doing that more often, lately, much to his surprise. Tiana ascribed that to her good influence on him.

So did Driscol.

“Let’s go get him,” he said, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. “Lead the way, Henry.”

He took the time, before leaving the hotel room that served him as official living quarters, to plant his new major’s hat on his head and buckle on his sword. It wouldn’t do to march into that fancy saloon without all the paraphernalia of his rank.

“Not that it’ll do much good,” he grumbled on the way out. “Never met a rich slave owner yet who wasn’t a colonel of some sort.”

They’d reached the street, where Charles Ball was waiting for them. The gunner heard his last remark and grinned.

‘“Tain’t true, sir. There’s supposed to be a big plantation owner somewhere down in the Carolinas who’s only a captain. Course, it’s just a wild rumor.”

More seriously, he added: “Those are militia ranks, Major. They hand them out like candy to kids. In the North just as much as the South. Your rank is a real one—and they wasn’t at the Chippewa and the Capitol.”

That was true enough. As he walked up the street toward Pennsylvania Avenue, Driscol noticed more than one person stopping briefly to stare at him.

He was becoming used to it, more or less. His own role in the Capitol’s defense was well-known, by now, even if he’d never attained the sheer celebrity of the glamorous Houston.

That had become especially true after the Intelligencer had published a long article that amounted to an interview with Robert Ross. Without taking anything away from Houston’s
role, the British general had made it quite clear that he thought the assault itself had been turned back because of Driscol’s professional skill and leadership.

Sensing that some sort of rancorous personal dispute might be in the offing, the Intelligencer had immediately raced to Houston to see what he thought about the matter.

At that point, whatever hopes Driscol might have entertained for remaining reasonably anonymous had gone sailing out the window. Houston had not only expressed his full agreement with General Ross’s assessment, but had added to it in his own inimitable style.

Sam Houston had a way with words. So now, whether he liked it or not, Patrick Driscol was labeled with the public cognomen of America’s one-armed Odysseus.

“Bah,” he snarled again, speaking to no one in particular. “I’m a sergeant.”

From the window of her own hotel room, Tiana Rogers stared down over the city below. Like almost all of the U.S. capital beyond the stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue between the Capitol and the president’s mansion, the city looked like a small boy wearing adult clothing. A “capital city” whose grandiose plans laid down by a French architect were still mostly a fantasy. The city’s population still wasn’t more than ten thousand, of whom a fourth were black slaves or freedmen. Just beyond the outskirts of the city, in most directions, lay what amounted to wilderness.

Still, it was the biggest town Tiana herself had ever seen. Much bigger than Knoxville, which was the only other major American town she’d visited. That had impressed her, at first. But now, after weeks in Washington, she’d come to the conclusion that the main difference between a city and a village was simply that dirt accumulated in a city three times as fast as it did anywhere else. Now that she’d experienced the joys of city living, the “rough frontier” seemed as clean as fresh creek water from melting snows.

Washington was always dirty. No, filthy. Muddy after a rain, dusty after two days of sunshine. And, in these summer and early autumn months, sweltering and fetid whether it rained or shined.

She’d be glad to leave. Would have left long ago, in fact—
forcing her brothers to take her away, if she had to—except for Driscol.

“Well?” James asked, from behind her.

“Don’t hurry me. I’m still thinking about it.”

That was a lie, actually, at least insofar as her own sentiments were concerned. What was really happening was that Patrick was still mulling over the matter, and Tiana was willing to wait for him to finish doing so.

James saw through it at once. “That’s silly. You’re even claiming he’s not ugly these days.”

“He’s not ugly.”

“Giddy as an American girl!” her other brother laughed.

“I’m not giddy.”

She turned and glared at them. James and John were both sitting cross-legged on the floor, disdaining the plush armchairs in the fancy hotel room. They claimed the floor was more comfortable, except the carpet was too soft.

And that was a lie, too. At home, on John Jolly’s island, they were just as prone to luxuriate in whatever American furniture could be obtained as any sensible Cherokee would. Her brothers’ ridiculously exaggerated attachment to “traditional customs” since they’d arrived in Washington was just James and John’s way of shielding themselves against the same uncertainties that plagued Tiana herself.

Mixed blood, mixed ways, mixed customs—everything mixed. It was hard to know what to do.

“I never thought he was ugly,” she said softly, almost sadly. “I really didn’t. Not once.”

That much was true. Her brothers wouldn’t understand, because they were men. A man’s definition of “handsome” just wasn’t the same as a woman’s.

Not that even Tiana had ever thought Patrick Driscol was handsome. But the blocky, craggy features that men described, as if he were some sort of monster, just seemed very masculine to Tiana. They had, even from the beginning.

They did so all the more now, as she’d spent more and more time in his company. She’d come to understand that the grim bleakness of that face was more a thing of his soul than of his flesh. As if all the scar tissue in his heart had been transplanted onto his features. Patrick Driscol’s way of shielding himself. No different, really, than James and John’s insistence on squatting
on a floor, and walking about the streets of Washington in full and traditional Cherokee regalia.

“It’s not that,” she said, still speaking softly. “It’s that he’s not Cherokee. And never will be.”

John cocked his head. “Do you care? I know you don’t want to spend any more time in American schools. But do you really care if you wind up living in an American town, instead of one of our villages?”

“I wouldn’t like it much.”

“Who would?” chuckled James. “From what I can see, they measure ‘civilization’ by how much tobacco they spit. Still and all, do you really care?”

She shook her head. “It’s not whether I’d care. It’s whether he wouldn’t.”

They didn’t understand. She couldn’t blame them, really, since she was only groping at it herself.

She’d try it a different way.

“How long do we stay married?”

James and John looked at each other.

“Until the women throw us out,” said James.

“Unreasonable creatures,” John added.

Tiana smiled. Very sweetly. “And how long do they stay married?”

James winced. John shuddered a bit.

“That’s the point, brothers of mine. And don’t think that Patrick Driscol isn’t a white man, just because he hates a lot of what white people do.”

She turned back to the window. “I wouldn’t mind, I don’t think. But I don’t know if he’d feel safe enough. Happy enough. I don’t think he knows, either.”

There was silence, for a moment. Then James asked: “And do you care?”

“Yes. I do.”

She felt, again, the shivery sensation that started somewhere in her feet and ended up in her loins. That was a new thing, too. One of the other ways, she now realized, that there was a big difference between being thirteen and being sixteen years old.