Eric Flint - 1812 - The Rivers of War

Grapeshot killed two men in what was now the front rank. Thornton simply leaped over their bodies. The battery on the American left was within fifty yards. Thornton knew how terrifying a mass of bayonets would be, coming at the run. That battery would break, so help him God.

"Forward!" he cried. He was no longer waving the sword. Now, he had it gripped for the killing stroke.

"Rake 'em, boys, rake 'em!"

Ball was doing a splendid troll imitation himself, so Driscol let him be. The one time he started to move forward to assist, John Rogers held him back with a hand on the shoulder.

"Just stay here, Patrick." The Rogers brothers had no use at all for military protocol. "He's doing fine, and if you get crushed by a cannon recoil scurrying around like a fussy hen, me and James will never hear the end of it from Tiana."

Driscol didn't try to fight off the restraining hand. John's words were true enough. The first bit, at least. The idea that Patrick Driscol would let himself get carelessly behind a cannon being fired was just ridiculous.

"Rake the bastards, you blasted currees! You got no excuse to miss since they ain't firing back! Any crew misses its shot I'll cut your ears off and fry 'em up! My voudou queen got one hell of recipe for it, too!"

Granted, Ball's version involved a lot of unseemly leaping about, but Driscol made allowances. You couldn't reasonably expect African trolls to have the same customs as northerly ones.

And he was getting the result they needed. Between Ball's energetic leadership, and the sure confidence of the core of veterans from Barney's unit, the men of the Iron Battalion were going about their work swiftly and effectively. Even, to all appearances, calmly. The sweat now coating their dark faces and bodies was simply that caused by the heat of the rising sun and the work of firing cannons.

It was everything Driscol could have hoped for. He might lose this day-die this day-but not before gutting the Sassenach.

Stoically, Robert Ross sipped his tea. The sound of the batteries was almost continuous now. But, always, with that regular punctuation. One battery maintaining volley fire while the other simply blazed away as best it could.

Miles away, out of sight, Ross could see it as if he were there. Thornton had done exactly what he would have done-avoid Driscol's unit and attack the American line across the field. By the river, probably. He'd suffer bad casualties in the doing, of course. But once the hinge was shattered…

Yes, it might work.

Undoubtedly would work, if Thornton had enough men. Once the flank gave way, men as inexperienced as the Kentucky militia and the hastily trained freedmen would be lost. Orderly retreat, disciplined regroupment-all that would be completely beyond their grasp. They'd simply break and run, peeled away like rind from a fruit.

"Unless," he muttered.

Tiana gave him a blank-faced look. In fact, there'd been no expression on her face at all, since the battle began. "Unless what, Robert?"

Ross took a deep breath. "Unless Driscol does what I damn well think he's going to do, the stubborn Scots-Irish bastard. Simply stand, like a stone. He'll force Thornton to come at him."

There was still no expression on her face. "Stand and die, you mean."

The British general reminded himself sharply that the man he was speaking of was loved by the girl across the table. Deeply loved, in fact. Of that, he was by now quite certain, even if he often found her Cherokee way of expressing it puzzling.

"Perhaps. You never know, in a battle. Believe it true, Tiana. You simply never know until it's over."

When Sam Houston encountered his first Kentuckian, fleeing from the battle he could hear in the distance, he neither shouted nor waved his sword. He wasn't holding his sword in the first place, having recognized what a dangerous practice that was in a long march so forced it was almost a run. He simply grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck as he raced past, spun him around, and sent him sailing back toward the front lines.

"You so much as look back at me once, and I'll break your neck! You will fight, so help me!"

The militiaman didn't look back.

Encouraged by Houston's example, other men in his regiment used similar methods of persuasion as they encountered more fleeing militiamen. By the time Houston and his men reached Patterson's battery, they'd rallied perhaps a hundred of the Kentuckians.

"Thank God you've arrived!" Patterson cried. "They're fighting hot and heavy down there! Don't know how much longer they can hold!"

"Then why are you still here?" Sam snarled.

Patterson gave him an odd look. Confusion, mainly, not anger. Sam stopped, planted his hands on his knees, and took some deep breaths. He needed a rest. And if he did, so did his men.

"My apologies, Commodore." Sam had spoken unfairly, and he knew it. Sam didn't doubt Patterson's courage any more than anyone else did, and he knew Patterson's chief responsibility was making sure that whatever else happened, the big guns didn't fall into enemy hands. His battery was positioned directly across the river from the field of Chalmette. If the guns of the battery were seized by the British before Patterson had a chance to spike them, it would take only minutes to shift them upstream far enough to start ravaging the Jackson Line.

His wind back, Sam straightened and peered across the river. The British forces over there were in position to launch an assault, but hadn't so far made a move to do so. They were waiting, he guessed, to see what happened on the west bank.

Then he looked at Patterson's battery. "Give me the two three-pounders and enough men to haul and fire them. Even if the enemy seizes them, they won't do much damage firing across the river. But I can use them downstream."

Patterson didn't hesitate. "Yes, certainly."

Five minutes later, rested, Houston and his regiment were off again. Almost running now, with two three-pounders bouncing along behind.

From the second-floor window of the Macarty house, watching through an eyeglass, Jackson saw the British break the hinge of Morgan's line of defense by the river. The battery put up a stout fight, but before long it was overwhelmed.

The rest of the line started peeling away, Kentucky militiamen scattering like chaff in the wind.

He swiveled the eyeglass far around, looking north. Yes, there was Houston, coming fast. Thank God.

Swiveled it back. It was hard to tell much, more than a hundred yards past the riverbank. But he could see clouds of gunsmoke, billowing like clockwork.

That'd be Driscol and his freedmen, solid as a rock.

The general lowered the glass and hollered something. None of his lieutenants in the room understood a word. They couldn't have, anyway, since there really weren't any words. That had been just a shriek, half glee and half fury.

Still clenching the eyeglass, Jackson turned from the window and stalked from the room. Down the stairs, and out of the house.

He shook the eyeglass toward the southeast. "Come at me, Pakenham! Tarnation, come at me! "

Pakenham was standing next to a tree, near the riverbank. Watching. Softly, steadily, like a metronome, he kept pounding the trunk with the bottom of his fist.

He'd wait before ordering the assault here at Chalmette. He wouldn't act until he knew what was happening across the river.

He'd wait.

So help him God. The God who ruled battles, and all else. He… would… wait.

TheRiversofWar

The American lieutenant died at his post, after firing a last round of canister from his twelve-pounder that killed three British soldiers and wounded several more. In their fury, no fewer than four of Thornton's soldiers bayoneted the man repeatedly after they reached him, practically ripping his body into shreds.