Eric Flint - 1812 - The Rivers of War

But they managed, well enough. The British regiment was retreating rapidly, as Sam had thought they would. From the sound of gunshots, war whoops, and occasional screams, they were being harassed along the way by Major Ridge and his Cherokees, darting in and out of the cypress on their right flank.

Driscol would just have to hold. Sam would get there as soon as he could, without risking the loss of his regiment. As long as Houston's regiment kept the British away from Patterson's guns, the battle was won. And if Driscol's battalion got shredded in the process, well, Sam was quite sure that Driscol would make the British pay for it dearly. They might overrun him, but if they did, they wouldn't be in any shape to fight further that day.

"Give 'em the grape, boys, give 'em the grape!" Ball wasn't bouncing around any longer. He was just standing behind the twelve-pounder-far enough to the side not to be struck by the recoil, of course-and quivering like a bowstring. "Give it to 'em good!"

That first round of grapeshot struck the British line hard. Driscol didn't think a single gun crew had missed its mark.

" Reload! Reload! Goddam you, Jones, you can move faster than that!"

In point of fact, Corporal Jones was doing a quick and splendid job, as were all the men at the twelve-pounder. Driscol knew it was the grin on his face that kept riling Ball. Quiet and solemn Henry Crowell was on the same gun crew, and Ball hadn't yelled at him once.

The crews had their guns reloaded as fast as any gun crews in Driscol's experience. "Iron Battalion indeed!" he shouted.

"Fire!"

The Forty-third staggered under the blows, but kept pressing the charge. Rennie was appalled at the casualties they were taking, but also as proud of his men as he'd ever been. The line of bayonets was leveled and gleaming in the sun, as unwavering as any commander could have asked for.

" At them, men! We'll have them at cold steel before you know it! And we'll butcher the bastards!"

They even gave out a cheer. God, what a splendid regiment!

"Oh, yes, Driscol's alive, I'd say." Robert Ross looked at the teapot and decided he'd had enough for the moment. He'd learned to ignore the demands of his bladder, up to a point, over the years of campaigning. But once he reached that point he'd have no choice but to leave the square for a time. Something he couldn't imagine doing while those raging sounds kept coming from the south.

The battle down there was reaching a climax.

Finally, to Sam's relief, the retreating Eighty-fifth broke into a trot. That was partly the cumulative effect of the Cherokees tearing at their flank. Mostly, though, it was the sound of the battle ahead of them. They were almost back to the original American line, and the British soldiers knew as well as Houston did that their reinforcements had been stymied by Driscol's battery. They intended to join the fray, to see if they could turn the tide.

So would Sam.

"Pick up the pace!" he shouted.

The Whale loomed up in the dimness of the cypress trees.

"I've been down there," he said to Major Ridge and John Ross. "Driscol and his men are going to be hit hard before too long. Real hard."

Ridge nodded, and glanced through the trees at the retreating British column.

"We'll let this group be, then. Let's go see how well the British down there can fight."

Quickly, in their undisciplined but vigorous manner, two hundred Cherokees slid through the swamp toward the beleaguered American battery.

"Canister! I want canister, boys!" Ball held his cutlass below waist level now, lashing it back and forth like the tail of an angry leopard. "You know what canister looks like, don't you? Black ugly little beads-just like your balls will look in my voudou queen's soup, if you fuck up and piss me off!"

Driscol found it necessary to add an element of dignity to the affair. For the first time in his life, ha!

"The Iron Battalion will stand! As surely as its name!"

This officer business is treacherous, he thought. If a man wasn't careful, it'd rot his brain. He'd die, in the end, from terminal pomposity.

Close enough. "Now, lads, now! At the charge!"

The Forty-third raced toward the bastion, which stood less than fifty yards ahead. A great broom of lead swept two dozen of the men aside, but the rest never flinched.

"We'll have our blades in the bastards!"

Sam thought it was time to throw caution to the winds. The Eighty-fifth was spilling into the open area beyond "Morgan's Line," their ranks starting to fray a bit. If his men charged now…

He glanced at the gunner chief standing a few feet away, alongside one of the three-pounders. The man, who'd been watching him, nodded.

"Yes, sir. I think we can push our way into that battery redoubt. That'll give the men an anchor point."

Houston had been thinking the same thing.

If 'twas to be done, best to do it quickly.

"All right, boys! Now we'll charge them."

He set off at a trot. Eagerly, their confidence filled like a great sail, the Baltimore and Capitol dragoons thundered after him.

Thundered past him.

Hollering and whooping and running way too fast.

"Slow down, you idiots! Or you'll be gasping for breath when a British bayonet empties your lungs. You cretins! Obey me, blast you, or I'll- "

He charged after them. "You stupid fucking bastards! I'll skin you alive!"

The three-pounder crews brought up the rear, laughing all the way.

" One more round! You got time, you lazy currees! You got time! See if you don't! Wipe that grin off your face, Jones!"

Driscol wasn't sure the gunners would have the time for another round. Maybe. The iron grillwork might stall the British who came clambering up the breastworks, just that little bit needed.

After that He swiveled his head, bringing his pale-eyed glower to bear on that half of his battalion that had been standing by, while the gunners did their butcher work.

"One round from the muskets, that's all. Then it'll be the pikes and blades. D'you understand me, lads?"

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.