Eric Flint: 1812: The Rivers of War

The sun had set, but the many lamps that had been placed about the area illuminated the square quite well. Smiling, John Ross nodded toward the center of the plaza, where an excellent dancer was the pivot of the crowd.

"You'd think it was his wedding, wouldn't you?"

James chuckled. "Sam Houston. Always the life of the party."

Houston had never been without a dancing partner, since the festivities began. The Creole matrons of New Orleans were every bit as calculating as the matrons of Washington and Baltimore, and Houston's eligible status was plated in gold.

Even if, judging from several sour faces Ross had noticed, some of them were coming to discover that hooking Sam Houston was a lot easier than landing him.

Fairly early in the evening, Tiana and Patrick came up to the British general's table.

"We'll be leaving now, Robert," Tiana said. She had Driscol's hand tightly held in her own. "It's time we, ah-"

"Got some sleep," Driscol finished.

James burst into laughter. For which Robert was thankful, since it meant Tiana's brother was the sole recipient of her glare while Robert struggled to keep from laughing himself.

Driscol spotted his doing so, but that hardly mattered. The Scots-Irishman was quite obviously the smuggest man in the world, at the moment. As well he might be.

By the time Tiana looked back at Robert, he had his expression composed.

"Of course, my dear. You must be quite tired." He rose from the table and extended his hand to Driscol. "My deepest and most sincere congratulations, Major. You are a very fortunate man."

That, at least, he had no trouble saying with a straight face. Driscol almost had to pry his hand loose from Tiana's in order to return the handshake.

"Thank you, General. For once, it seems, I was blessed with the luck of Ireland."

By the time Driscol finished that sentence, Tiana had his hand firmly gripped again. Clearly enough, she intended to maintain that clasp until they reached their quarters.

Those weren't far away, fortunately, or Driscol's fingers might have become completely numb by the time they arrived. Whatever Captain John had been up to during his absence, it had been quite remunerative. With all the flamboyant generosity of a Scottish laird-or a Cherokee chief-Tiana's father had rented a separate suite at the Tremoulet House for the newlyweds.

Ross sat back down. "Lunch tomorrow, here as usual?"

Tiana and Driscol looked at each other.

Driscol cleared his throat. "Ah. Maybe that's not… Well. General Jackson was good enough to give me leave for the next week. Tomorrow… Ah."

"Yes, of course," Robert said smoothly.

"The day after tomorrow," Tiana said brightly. "How's that?"

"Splendid."

They were off then. But they hadn't taken three steps before James called out.

"Oh-Tiana!" He had a very wide smile, now.

She glanced over her shoulder at her brother. "Yes?" she asked suspiciously.

"Make sure you close the windows."

Tiana glared again. Driscol kept looking straight ahead. It was hard to tell, in the semidarkness of the lamp-lit square, but Robert thought his neck was bright red. An odd combination, that complexion, with the very square shoulders that looked to be leaning forward. Embarrassment, smugness, and anticipation, all combined.

Not in equal proportions, of course. That was still the smuggest man in the world. And embarrassment was being routed by anticipation.

"I'm serious!" James insisted. "It's still only the middle of March. It might get chilly tonight."

"You like to lead a dangerous life," John Ross commented, after the couple had left the square. "I don't know what that was about, but I'd say the wings of destruction brushed you closely."

James snorted. "I can still outwrestle my little sister. And she wasn't armed."

"Not tonight," Robert mused, sipping at his glass of whiskey. "Tomorrow…"

"I think I'll go hunting tomorrow."

"Perhaps a wise idea."

Robert set down the glass. Although he'd grown fond of the tea in New Orleans, even the best American whiskey didn't lend itself to more than an occasional sip.

The dancing and festivities in the square were still going on as vigorously as ever. Except for the people at his table, Robert realized, no one had even noticed the wedding couple's departure.

Not in the least. All eyes were on Sam Houston.

TheRiversofWar

New Orleans, Louisiana

"You sent for me, sir?"

Jackson looked up from his desk in the Cabildo. "Sam! I wasn't expecting you so quickly." The general rose from his desk and, with a wave of his arm, invited Houston to take a seat in a nearby chair.

Once they were both seated, Jackson clasped his hands in front of him on the desk. The bony double fist rested atop a small pile of papers.

"I'm leaving the day after tomorrow, you may have heard. Now that Rachel's here, I see no reason to stay. Especially since, ah…"

"Yes, sir. I know that Mrs. Jackson hasn't found the city to her liking."

Jackson himself might be something of a freethinker, like Sam-though not as much as Driscol, of course; almost no one was-but his wife Rachel was pious to the point of religious fanaticism. She'd taken to New Orleans about as well as she would have taken to Sodom or Gomorrah.

"No, she hasn't. And I've been relieved of my duties here by the War Department anyway, so…"

He opened his clasped hands and gazed down at the papers. "I'm going back to Tennessee, at least for the time being," he said abruptly. "My plantation needs looking after, and, well-"

He held up one of the papers. "I received a letter from one of my close friends in Nashville just yesterday. He's urging me to run for governor or senator of the state."

"You'd win either post handily, sir." That was the simple truth, not a polite fabrication. For all that Jackson had bullied and abused his Tennessee militiamen, they were intensely loyal to him. The militia formed a tremendous political power in any state, and a frontier state more than most. Those plebeian nobodies and roughnecks had confidence in Jackson. He was their champion, and they'd sweep him into office.

Might even, someday, sweep him into the presidency.

Somewhat regretfully, Jackson shook his head. "Duty calls, Sam. Always duty. I'll see the Dons driven from our soil before I turn my ambition to anything else. If I took state office, I'd have to resign from the army. Active duty, at least. And it'll be the army-you watch and see-that deals the Dons as they deserve. No blasted politicians in Washington, much less Nashville."

"I understand, sir."

Jackson eyed him from beneath lowered brows. "Come on, Sam, you're not that innocent. If I can't run for office in Tennessee, there's no reason you can't. Young as you are, after the Capitol and New Orleans, you'd win in a landslide. The militia would support you just as readily as they would me."

Jackson laid down the letter and picked up another. "This is from-well, never mind. Just take it from me that I can get you an appointment as a brigadier general in the Tennessee militia."

He held up yet another. "And this letter's from another old friend, in response to a query I sent up there some weeks back. One of our state's finest judges. He tells me he can see to the completion of your education and making you an attorney-at-law. It'll take a few years, but you're still too young to run for a lot of offices, anyway. Thereafter, between that and the brigadier generalship-"

He flashed Houston a grin. "I won't even talk about your own natural gifts for orating and such. Sam, you are pretty much guaranteed a splendid public career. I'll back you every step of the way, too. We frontiersmen need people of our own in Washington."