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Eric Flint: 1812: The Rivers of War

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Eric Flint 1812: The Rivers of War

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Then, to Sam's surprise, the general grunted a little laugh. "Ha! Got some backbone, do you? Good."

Jackson pointed a stiff finger at the target of his rage. "The issue in question here, young ensign, is whether or not these miserable militiamen will be allowed to desert their country in its time of need. I have informed this-this-this -individual that I will have shot any militiaman who attempts to desert."

The fact that the general's left arm was in a sling only added emphasis to the rigid, accusing finger of the other hand. For two reasons. First, because Jackson seemed to have an uncanny knack for striking dramatic poses. The lion, wounded, yet still able to challenge the hyena. Second, because the militia officer knew-so did everyone, including Sam himself-that the wound in question was the result of a recent shootout at a hotel in Nashville between Jackson and his friend Coffee and the Benton brothers. The pose might be histrionic, but Jackson's capacity for violence was by now a legend on the frontier.

Again, that jaw thrusting forth. " Damn me if I won't, sir!" he roared. "I'll shoot them myself, if I have to!"

The jaw receded, leaving the man a sinking wreck. Jackson's eyes turned back to Sam. "I will trust you to carry out the order, young ensign. If you've got spine enough to stand up to me, you ought to have spine enough to shoot a worthless deserter."

The officer, though sinking, hadn't quite dropped out of sight yet.

"General," he pleaded, "the terms under which the men enlisted-"

"Blast your terms, sir! Blast them, I say!"

This time, Jackson's finger pointed out of the tent. "Do the Red Sticks care about your 'terms'? I'll crush those savages, so help me I will-and you'll be there to help me do it. You will, sir! Don't doubt it! Or I'll crush you first!

"Now get out of my sight. Your protest has been heard, adjudged wanting in all right or reason, and summarily dismissed."

With that, the general took a half step back himself, as if he'd encountered a bad smell. The officer took advantage of the momentary space and scuttled out of the tent.

After he was gone, Jackson shook his head. "God save us from militiamen," he growled. "Lawyers, every one of them. And shysters at that."

His eyes came back to Sam, ranging, for a moment, up and down the uniform that identified him as a regular in the Thirty-ninth Infantry, U.S. Army. While European armies had adopted close-bodied coats or jackets in the course of the Napoleonic wars, American uniforms remained the traditional cutaway style, with elaborate lapels, facings, and turnbacks. Coats were still closed with hooks and eyes rather than buttons.

Sam's uniform was typical. The coat was blue and long-skirted, with scarlet cuffs and a standing collar. The woolen trousers were white, plain, and tucked into his boots. He had his tall leather infantry cap-often called a "tombstone shako"-tucked neatly into the crook of his arm.

After an inspection that lasted for several seconds, Jackson seemed satisfied. "Fortunately," he continued, "I now have real soldiers on the spot. What's your name, Ensign? And how long have you been serving the colors?"

"Sam Houston, sir. I enlisted in March of last year."

Jackson eyebrows lowered slightly. "Houston. I believe I've heard about you. Aren't you the one who was adopted by the Cherokee?"

The sentence seemed almost like an accusation, but… not exactly. Sam couldn't really tell what lay beneath it.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "When I was sixteen, after I ran away from home. I lived for three years with John Jolly and his people. He's the one adopted me, and gave me my Cherokee name."

"And that is?"

" Colonneh, sir. It means 'The Raven.' "

Jackson sniffed. "Nasty birds, ravens. On the other hand, they're also tough, and smart. Let's hope they picked the right name. Do you speak the language?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fluently?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you get along with the savages?"

"Very well, sir." Sam's big shoulders shifted. "And I don't take kindly to people insulting my family."

Jackson surprised him again. The general grinned-rather cheerfully, it seemed. "It's against the law to challenge a superior officer, youngster, so you'd best leave the rest of that thought unspoken. I'd have to shoot you dead, and I'd prefer not to do that. Still and all, I'll refrain from using the term. In your presence, at least." There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

The general rubbed his long chin. "I can use you for liaison then, if Coffee needs it. We've got five hundred Cherokees allied with us in this campaign, and about a hundred friendly Creeks. Do you speak their language, too?"

Sam hesitated. That was a hard question to answer. The Creek Confederacy was an amalgam of a number of tribes of different origins, further divided between the so-called Upper and Lower Towns. The term "Creek" itself was a white man's word. Creeks were more likely to think of themselves as Coweta or Alabama or Tuskegee.

"Well…" he began.

But apparently Jackson understood the reality of the situation. "Any of the dialects?"

"I can get along, sir, with some of them. I speak a little Choctaw, also."

"No Choctaws with us on this campaign, so that doesn't matter. It might later, though. Once we're done with the Red Sticks, we'll be facing the British, you can be sure of it. Maybe the Spanish, as well. John? Do you want him? If you do, I'll have Colonel Williams detach him from duty with his regiment."

The officer who had accompanied Houston shrugged his shoulders. "I could certainly use Ensign Houston, General, but I don't really need him. At least a third of the Cherokees speak English. The Ridge doesn't, true enough, but he's got that young John Ross fellow to translate for him." Major Coffee chuckled. "Of course, I don't think Ross really speaks Cherokee all that well. But we'll get along, true enough."

Jackson nodded. "All right, then. To tell you the truth, John, it'd probably be better to keep the ensign with his unit. I'll be counting on the Thirty-ninth to keep the ragtag-and-bobtail in line." He glanced at the flap of the tent through which the militia officer had beat a hasty retreat. "I think I did a pretty good job of bullying the little piglet. But you know as well as I do that they need bullying on a regular basis. How was my tantrum, by the way?"

Coffee smiled. "Pretty good. Not your very best, though." The major looked down at Jackson's hat, which was still lying on the floor. "For a really top performance, you should have stomped on the hat."

The general stared down at the object in question. "Tarnation. I didn't think of that." He seemed genuinely aggrieved.

Jackson stooped over and picked up the hat, brushed it off, then jammed it back onto his head. By the time he was finished, Sam was thoroughly amazed at the transformation in the man. The general who now stood before him, smiling and relaxed, seemed like a completely different person.

Jackson gave him a cool, thin smile. "A lesson here, Ensign Houston, which will stand you in good stead. A reputation, once developed, is as valuable as a fine sword."

Then the smile became very thin. "But don't forget that it has to be a valid reputation. Or the sword's got no edge. I will shoot the bastards, if I have to."

There didn't seem to be much to say to that, so Sam kept his mouth shut. After a moment, the general turned away and motioned for them to follow him to a table that stood in the corner of the tent. "And now, John, let's discuss the campaign."

There was a large map spread across the table. "The Georgians are worthless, as usual," Jackson growled. "There's nobody quicker to steal land from Indians, but whenever it comes to having to actually fight the savages-"

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