1812: The Rivers of War

"AYE, SIR!"

It was quite a splendid roar. "Gallant," Driscol would have called it, if he'd been a bloody fool of an officer.

The reckless charge of the Baltimore and Capitol volunteers didn't break the retreating Eighty-fifth, much less rout them. But the sheer enthusiasm of the thing did make the British regiment recoil-and far enough to expose the battery by the riverbank.

Seeing his chance, Houston and those men he still had paying any attention to him overran the battered British artillery unit within seconds. There was no quarter asked, nor mercy given. Those gunners who didn't flee just died next to their guns, by gunshot and bayonet and saber.

What was left of the guns, anyway. After a quick inspection, Sam realized that only one of the six-pounders could be put into action.

Patterson's gunners saw to that, while they brought the two three-pounders to bear. Sam left the bastion and did what he could to impose order on the milling mob of volunteers who were now on the open field, blazing away at the British.

He needed to do it quickly, too.

Ten feet to his left, a Capitol volunteer dropped to his knee and shot a redcoat some thirty yards away. It was a fine shot, in and of itself. The British soldier collapsed to the ground, hit in the chest. But it was obvious that the volunteer wasn't even thinking about working with his mates, trying to put a volley together.

Worse yet-much worse-was that some of Sam's soldiers were starting to grapple with the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. The results of that were a foregone conclusion. Even as Sam took a deep breath to bellow out an order, he saw a British veteran expertly butt aside a Baltimore dragoon's awkward lunge, and rip the man's throat open with his own bayonet.

"Form a line, damn you! Form a line!"

Most of Sam's men began to do so. But, with a sick feeling in his stomach, he could see they wouldn't manage it in time. The British had already formed their own line facing him, and their muskets were coming up for a volley.

There was a crash like thunder, and the sight of the enemy was obscured by a huge cloud of gunsmoke. At least a dozen of the American soldiers were struck, many of them knocked flat to the ground.

It was a real, hammering, professional soldiers' volley. For a moment, Sam was sure he'd see his volunteers crumple under the blow.

Yet, they didn't. Their responding volley, fired at Sam's command, was a ragged thing. But it was fired nonetheless-and even the men who hadn't joined the volley were still blazing away on their own. Not one soldier, as far as Sam could see, was even thinking about running away.

Glory be.

Under most circumstances, they would have. But their fighting spirits were high, and they could sense a victory in the offing. Houston's men had driven off the Eighty-fifth, and hounded them down the road-and now, by God, they wanted some real blood.

So, for the next three minutes, a half mob of American soldiers exchanged ragged half volleys and individual fire for the professional volleys that were coming from the enemy. It should have been no contest at all, but it was turned into one by the sheer determination of the amateurs.

Sam never did bring any real order to his ranks during that stretch. He didn't even try, after the first half a minute, realizing that he had no time, and he'd most likely just confuse his men. He simply stood his ground and kept bellowing the order to fire.

A meaningless order, in itself, since his men had every intention of firing anyway. But he'd been told that if a commander was seen to be resolute by his men-sounded resolute, anyway; the gunsmoke covering the field made "seeing" almost meaningless-that their spirits would be bolstered.

It seemed to work, too.

Then the six-pounder and the three-pounders opened up, and grapeshot started tearing at the Eighty-fifth's flank. Finally, finally-Sam thought almost all of their officers were dead or injured by now, except low-ranked ones-the regiment gave way.

Even then, they weren't routed. But the Eighty-fifth had had enough. Their retreat off the field and back to the barges waiting downriver was as precipitous as you could ask for.

Pakenham finally stopped pounding the tree trunk.

"The Eighty-fifth is in full retreat, sir."

"Yes, I can see that." The view across the river was quite good, even without a glass, now that the mist had burned away.

The battle was lost. Today's battle, at least. There was no chance-certainly not at this late hour-that a charge across Chalmette field could carry the day.

Perhaps tomorrow. The Forty-third and the West Indians were still in the fray. Perhaps if they seized that battery -finally!- something might be possible on the morrow.

"Tell the men to stand down. There will be no assault today."

Jackson just stared, from the window of the Macarty house. He'd finally come to realize that the British attack across the river had been no feint at all. No diversion. Houston had driven back one of their regiments, but at least two others were still in action. The only thing standing in their way, beyond Houston's few hundred men, were Driscol and his battalion.

Why hadn't he recognized the danger that the British might go for Patterson's guns? He cursed himself for an idiot.

The curses were silent, of course. Andrew Jackson was as good at cursing himself as he was at cursing anyone else. But he didn't do it out loud. He might be an idiot, from time to time, but he wasn't a blasted fool.

Tiana rose from her chair and went to stand by the riverbank. Ross remained seated, staring at an empty teacup. The noise from the south was like a constant roll of thunder.

TheRiversofWar