Eric Flint: 1812: The Rivers of War

Well enough. Blunt and relatively soft though the end was, it would make a usable spear. In Henry's big hands, anyway.

So he didn't let this new soldier finish his preparations. While he was still in a crouch atop his mate's back, readying his bayonet, Henry thrust forward and smashed his face.

All the men of the battalion were fighting ferociously, but Driscol could already tell that it wouldn't be long before they were overwhelmed. They were outnumbered, first of all, by something like three to one. Then, except for Charles and his veterans, almost all of Driscol's men were still amateurs at this business, and the British soldiers who were attacking them were professionals.

Henry Crowell was handling it well, but few of Driscol's men had either Henry's strength or his quick wits. They were valiant enough, in their awkward way. But valor goes only so far in a battle. If it weren't for the breastworks, they'd have been driven under already-and those breastworks, though very well made, were still nothing more than hastily erected field fortifications.

So be it. He'd still gut them before he went down. Driscol drew the pistol from his waistband.

Slightly behind him and to either side, James and John Rogers looked at the pistol in Driscol's hand, and then looked at each other.

With three quick little jerks of his head, James silently laid out the plan.

I'll fend them off. You keep the crazy one-armed Irishman from getting killed.

John nodded. He shifted the grip on his war club.

The Cherokees had finally reached the edge of the woods. Major Ridge stopped to examine the scene, and John Ross came up next to him. Peering through the last line of trees, he could see the battle at the Iron Battalion's bastion. It looked more like a man-to-man free-for-all than what John normally thought of as a "battle."

Ridge had a thin, grim smile on his face.

"Our country, this is. I was worried a little."

It took John a couple of seconds to realize what Ridge meant. Against regular soldiers, in formation on an open field, there would have been little point in having the Cherokees launch a charge. Even with over half of them armed with guns, they'd have had no chance at all.

Here, though…

Yes. Cherokee country, when it came to war.

"How soon?" John whispered.

Ridge glanced to both sides. As dense as the cypress was, of course, he couldn't see very far.

"Two minutes, maybe. Long enough for everyone to get into position."

John nodded toward the melee, a little over a hundred yards off. "They may not last two minutes."

"Then they'll die. We're not charging out there one at a time."

There seemed no answer to that. So, John took the time to check his pistol and make sure his sword was loose in the scabbard. He considered drawing the sword before he charged, but dismissed the idea. Charging into battle with a weapon in each hand might look good on a painting. In real life, it'd be far too dangerous. He decided he'd fire the pistol, then throw it like a club, then draw and use his sword.

Hopefully, he'd get the expensive pistol back after the battle. Not that it really seemed to matter much. He might very well be dead within the next few minutes, anyway.

Sam was rather proud of the way he brought order to his victorious regiment, formed them into something you could call a "line" if you squinted real hard, and were prepared to be generous, then started them marching across the field toward Driscol's embattled battalion.

It was neatly done. At the moment, though, he was trying to figure out exactly how he'd have his men fire a volley that wouldn't kill as many Americans as British. Driscol's men and the enemy were now completely tangled up, fighting hand to hand.

He'd figure that out when they got there. From what he could tell at the distance, Driscol's men were on the verge of collapse. They'd all die, anyway, if he didn't arrive in time.

The line at the breastworks started to crumble. Not because any man of the battalion ran, but simply because the British finally started breaking through.

A British officer sabered down a gunner and sprang into the bastion. Driscol stepped forward, leveled his pistol, and shot the man through the heart. Then he stooped and picked up the saber to meet a British soldier who'd butted aside another gunner and was coming at him with the bayonet.

That was as far as either Driscol or the soldier got. John Rogers wrestled Driscol off and James Rogers, as neatly as you could ask for, deflected the bayonet thrust and clubbed the soldier down.

"Just stay out of it," John hissed into Driscol's ear after he pinned him to the ground. "You don't want to get my sister mad if you get killed."

Rogers was a phenomenally good wrestler. Driscol gave up after five seconds, realizing he was hopelessly outclassed.

He stared up at the Cherokee. "What difference would it make? I'd be dead."

John scowled. "Who cares? If I wasn't. "

"Now!" shouted Ridge.

He leaped out of the line of trees and began racing toward the bastion. He wasn't bothering with a pistol at all. General Jackson had given him a new sword when he arrived at New Orleans, and the Cherokee chief was mightily partial toward it.

John Ross did his best to keep up with him. It was a little amazing how fast the stocky and powerfully built Ridge could run.

But it was only a hundred yards. Even as relatively sedentary a Cherokee as John Ross was in good enough condition to make that distance without becoming winded. Major Ridge and most of his warriors wouldn't even be fazed.

"Quick march!" Sam bellowed.

He was tempted to call a charge. Driscol and his men were going under, now.

But Sam simply didn't dare. Over the course of the march from Washington to New Orleans, Driscol had been able to give Houston's regiment some basic training. But they weren't trained well enough-especially as excited as they were now-to be able to shift easily from a charge to a volley formation. Once he started them charging, they'd keep going until they piled into the British.

Then he saw dozens of Cherokee warriors swarming out of the woods from the other side of the Iron Battalion's position, and realized it was all a moot point. By the time Sam got his men into volley range, the battle at the bastion would have become a three-sided melee. Any volley he fired would do as much harm as good.

He felt an immense sense of relief. Whatever happened, at least his friend Patrick Driscol wouldn't die because Sam didn't get there in time.

They were a hundred yards off. Close enough, for men who'd spent the last three months marching and training.

"Charge!"

Sam sped in front of his troops, leading the way with his sword. He wasn't even thinking about the Iliad. He just wanted to get there and hammer the bastards bloody.

Henry Crowell fell back, the last man of his crew to do so. He covered the retreat for the rest of them now, holding the sponge staff in the middle and using both ends to bat away British soldiers.

"The major's down!" somebody shouted. It was almost a scream.

Henry looked over his shoulder and saw that it was true. One of the two Rogers brothers was on top of him, apparently trying to shield him from receiving another wound. The other brother had clubbed down a redcoat and was facing three more. James, he thought. The two looked so much alike it was hard to tell them apart.

Henry was stunned at the ease with which James destroyed the three soldiers. His war club, lighter than a sword, flicked back and forth. Batting aside a bayonet; bloodying a face with a shift of the same stroke; deflecting another thrust -crushing that man's skull with a full, powerful backhand blow; leaping aside; striking again-a broken arm, there-then leaping back to finish the man who was wiping blood from his eyes.