CHAPTER 45

When the first line of Americans began firing on the Eighty-fifth Foot, Colonel Thornton ordered the regiment to launch an immediate bayonet charge while still in column formation. There would be no forming into a line and firing volleys. Just cold steel, in a headlong assault. Thornton was sure he could sweep aside this first screen of skirmishers, and he didn’t want to lose the time or the ammunition that volley fire would require. Until the Forty-third Light Infantry and the West Indian troops could rejoin his regiment with the supplies he’d left behind at the debarkation point, he needed to conserve his ammunition.

His assessment proved correct. Almost absurdly so, in fact. The skirmishers fired not more than a round each—many of them, not even that—before racing off into the swamps. A fair number of the Americans dropped their weapons before they ran, and not a single one died at the point of a bayonet—or any other mishap caused directly by British action. One man did break his neck when he tripped over a root and slammed headfirst into a tree.

“And will you look at this, sir?” crowed one of Thornton’s sergeants gleefully, holding up a gun left behind by an American. “It’s a bloody fowling piece!”

So it was. If that was typical of the weaponry Jackson had given his forces on this side of the river, Thornton could hardly blame them for running away.

He shook his head, and reminded himself that they’d encounter deadlier arms up ahead. There was ordnance there, for a certainty. Still, this easy victory had done wonders for the morale of his regiment. The men had been, as always, obedient and disciplined. But the cold and the drizzle and the hours of muddy labor during the night had left them tired and disgruntled. Now, with the sun finally burning away the mist, their spirits were improving rapidly.

“Forward, lads!” he cried, waving his sword. “We’ll chase the cowards all the way into New Orleans!”

As the distant sound of skirmishing fire faded away—very quickly—Robert Ross lowered his cup of tea onto the table.

“That’ll have been the Eighty-fifth brushing aside a line of skirmishers, I think. These pastries are quite good, by the way.”

“Would you like some more?”

“Yes, please.”

Tiana rose and walked toward the bakery. Her long-legged stride made the colorful heavy skirt she was wearing flash like a banner in the breeze.

But Ross didn’t watch her for more than a second or two. His head turned toward the south, cocked slightly to the side to bring an ear to bear.

As soon as the first Kentuckians came into sight, racing like mad toward the “Morgan Line,” General Morgan clambered upon his horse and rode out to meet them. He was waving his sword so vigorously that Driscol thought he might injure himself. Perhaps even badly enough to require evacuation for medical care.

Alas, no such luck.

“Stand your ground, you cowards! Stand your ground, I say!”

The Kentuckians dodged around him without missing a stride. The first ones reached the “Morgan Line,” bounded over it like deer leaping logs in the forest, and continued racing toward the north.

The ones who followed continued to pour around Morgan, ignoring him like the others. The general had his horse pivoting in circles while he continued waving his sword and screeching commands that weren’t so much “commands” as simple curses. At one point, he took a swipe with the sword at a fleeing militiaman who was perhaps twenty feet away.

“Think he’ll fall off?” Ball wondered.

“Doubt it,” Driscol grunted.

“He’s a fair horseman,” James Rogers pointed out charitably. “I’m still hoping for a good gash in the thigh, though.”

Again, no such luck. After the last of the Kentucky skirmishers had leaped over the ditch, Morgan sent his horse racing after them. The horse, by now becoming exceedingly exasperated, did its level best to throw its rider as it vaulted the ditch.

But Morgan stayed in the saddle. Within seconds, he was out of sight, pounding off in pursuit of his fleeing men. Still screeching incoherent commands and still waving the sword.

“Ah, well,” Driscol said. He just shook his head. Charles Ball did the same, and the Rogers brothers were actually grinning.

The men of the Iron Battalion would be watching the four of them closely, at this moment, especially Driscol and Ball. The sight of the Kentucky militiamen racing to the rear would have unsettled even veteran troops. Most of the men in the battalion were completely inexperienced in combat, and their nerves would be very jittery. If either Driscol or Ball showed any concern at all, they might start to break.

The quite evident good cheer of the two Cherokees helped also. Indians were rather exotic to most of the men in Driscol’s unit. Indian warriors, at least. Much like easterners did, the black soldiers ascribed to the Rogers brothers a great deal more experience in warfare than they actually had. If the “wild Injuns” didn’t seem worried, why should they be?

After a few seconds, Driscol could see that the troops were settling down nicely. He and Ball exchanged a glance. What a pleasure it was, to have such a fine subordinate under his command! As good a top sergeant as any Driscol had ever known.

He gave his head one last humorous shake, just for good measure. “At least he’s out of our hair for a while.”

Sure now that his men had been steadied, Driscol turned back to face the oncoming enemy. He couldn’t see the British, but he could hear them. The still-invisible soldiers were moving fast enough to make their gear clatter. From the sound of it, though, he thought they’d stripped away everything but the essentials.

“Grapeshot, I assume?”

“Yes, sir.” Like any good sergeant, Ball knew when to shift to military formalities. “All the guns are loaded with grapeshot. I told the men not to use canister until I gave the order.”

Driscol eyed the distance. The British would be in a direct line of sight for more than two hundred yards before they could reach his fieldworks—and Driscol had taken advantage of the past two days to turn his section of the “Morgan Line” into something deadly serious.

“They’ll probably launch a bayonet assault immediately, Sergeant. So they’ll get here more quickly than they normally would. We’ll shift to canister after the first round.”

“Yes, sir.” Quickly, Ball left to pass along the order.

He was back within half a minute or so. Driscol’s section of the “Morgan Line” was more in the way of a bastion than anything else. In fact, his men had started calling it Fort Driscol. Deliberately, almost sure that the Kentuckians would break, Driscol had designed the bastion so that it could protect his men from three sides. Only the rear was left open.

Of course, the fieldworks had been hastily erected, using nothing more elaborate than dirt and logs. But his freedmen had set to the work with a will, and had managed to create something quite substantial in a very short time. Best of all, before they’d left the city they’d somehow scrounged up—stolen, most likely—a fair amount of wrought-iron fencework. The fancy fake spearpoints that tipped those fences had been designed for decoration. But, embedded into the walls of the bastion and slanted outward, they made an effective barrier. Decorative iron was still iron.

The three hundred men of the Iron Battalion were anchored on the twelve-pounder, with the six-pounders positioned on the flanks. Driscol had placed the remaining ordnance—three four-pounders and two three-pounders—in the spaces between. About half his men would work the cannons, under the direction of Ball and his naval veterans. The other half were armed with muskets, pikes, and swords.

The pikes had been made up in the iron shops. The “swords” were rarely that. Most of them were just the biggest knives the men could find, although some of them were armed with cutlasses that Houston had sweet-talked from Lafitte’s Baratarian pirates. The Baratarians had been willing enough, since Jackson was using them as artillerymen on the Jackson Line.

Driscol thought the pikes and blades would be more useful than the muskets. He’d concentrated his training on the cannons, of course. There really hadn’t been time to train men properly in the use of muskets, as well. And freedmen, unlike white frontiersmen, didn’t grow up with muskets in their hands. So Driscol had simply taught them how to load and fire a single round. Some of them, either from a bit of experience or simply because they had the knack for it, would probably manage to reload and get off another shot. Most of them, after firing the first round, would drop the muskets and take up simpler weapons.

On an open field, Driscol’s battalion would have been mincemeat. But here, especially facing the headlong bayonet charge that Driscol expected, he thought they’d do quite well. They were nervous, of course, but they were also burning with a determination to prove themselves—a sentiment Driscol had spent the past weeks nurturing as assiduously as he could.

Which . . . was assiduous indeed. If soldiers had been flowers in a garden, Patrick Driscol would have been reckoned one of the world’s finest gardeners.

The British were almost here, he thought. He had just time enough left for a little speech.

“All right, lads.” His rasping voice, half-shouting, carried superbly well. “There is nothing complicated about this. There are no maneuvers required of you. All you have to do is stand your ground and fight.”

His pale eyes ranged across the faces of his watching soldiers. Their attention was riveted on him.

“The enemy will attack and try to kill us, or drive us off. The first might happen. The other will not. We will win on this ground, or we will die on this ground. But whichever it is, we will not retreat. It’s nothing but stand and die, or stand and win. Do you all understand?”

A wave of nodding heads came in response. There was no hesitation.

He smiled then. That thin, cold smile of his, but a smile nonetheless.

“ ’Tis normally at this point in my little speech that I threaten my men with the consequences, should they fail me. Grinding bones for my soup, and such.” A tittering little laugh swept the soldiery. “But I’ll not do that here. Not today. Not with the men of the Iron Battalion. There’s no need. You will do what your mates and your nation require of you, I am certain of it.”

He paused, wondering what he might add.

Nothing, it seemed. Henry Crowell, standing with a ramrod by the twelve-pounder, swept off his cap and waved it in the air. “I saw the major break the bastards at the Capitol, and he’ll do it again today! A cheer for the major, boys!”

Driscol was genuinely astonished at the cheer that went up. Loud, vigorous, full of confidence and enthusiasm. More than he’d ever hoped for, in truth.

To be sure, he thought the cheer itself was ridiculous. As if the simple name Driscol chanted over and over again was some sort of magical talisman.

But he made no protest. Perhaps it was, to such men.

As soon as he caught sight of the American line—much more substantial, this one, ranging across hundreds of yards of front—Thornton paused just long enough to assess the thing. The American left, anchored on the river, would naturally be the strong point. There’d be some regulars there, manning the battery. Musketeers and a handful of light ordnance were spread across the middle. There would be the weakest point, but he didn’t want to charge with batteries firing on him from the two flanks. Even if he broke through, his casualties would be severe.

He studied the solid-looking fieldworks to the left of the field. That was where the new freedmen battalion was positioned. For a moment, he was tempted to turn the charge to head directly for them. As a rule, a unit like that would break easily. But . . .

He was mindful of the possibility that the Capitol veterans might be there. Probably were, in fact, now that he finally got a good look at their fieldworks. Someone with determination and authority was in charge there. Remembering the carnage in Washington, he decided that a direct assault would be too risky.

“Right,” he said to his aides. They clustered about him while the men took a moment to rest. “We’ll avoid the American right, and make our drive along the river. That new unit looks to be solid—but with as little training as they’ve received, they’ll be like lost lambs once the line gives way. If we can break the American line at the river, the entire line will come apart. The freedmen and militia won’t retreat for the good and simple reason that they don’t know how. They’ll run like rabbits, and we’ll hunt them like hounds.”

He waited just long enough to see if any of his lieutenants had any doubts they wanted to express. As he expected, none did.

“Right, then. Nothing fancy.” He raised his voice so it could be heard by the men at the head of the column. “It’ll be a column charge with bayonets, lads! We’ll do or die!”

A cheer went up. A very good one, Thornton thought.

He drew his sword, held it high, and took his place near the head of the column.

“To victory!”

“Damnation,” Driscol growled, seeing the British angling toward the other end of the line. He’d been expecting them to attack him at once, and had prepared accordingly.

But Ball was already giving the order to replace the grape with round shot. At the range the British column was keeping, all the way across the field, grapeshot would be a hit-or-miss affair.

Ball’s method for switching rounds was simple and sanguine. The entire battery fired the grapeshot that was already loaded, and then started reloading with round shot. “Hit-or-miss,” after all, isn’t the same as “miss.”

If the freedmen battalion was poorly trained with muskets, they knew how to deal with heavy ordnance. Very soon, they were ready to fire again.

“Rake ’em, boys!” Charles Ball yelled. “Rake the bastards!”

Again, the battery erupted, all but the one six-pounder that was too far out of position on the right. It was as neat and sweet a volley as any Driscol had ever seen.

Grazing shots, too, the most of them. Ball had veterans aiming the guns. The cannonballs hit the ground in front of the column, and skipped into the mass of men at waist level. The effect wasn’t as devastating as it would have been if the cannonballs had struck stony ground, scattering splinters of rock to accompany the balls themselves. But not even the soggy ground along the banks of the Mississippi could keep those balls from caroming into the British column with deadly force.

One ball missed entirely, from what Driscol could tell through the cloud of gunsmoke. But the rest hit the enemy column like mauls wielded by a giant.

The only thing that kept the casualties from being worse was that Driscol had only a few guns and was firing on the British column from an angle across the field. “Enfilade fire,” as it was called, was usually devastating against a line, because the shot could strike so many men. But it was much less effective against a column that was no more than a few men wide. If Driscol’s guns had been firing head on, a single ball might have slain and maimed a dozen British soldiers. As it was, Driscol saw one of the balls—must have been from the twelve-pounder—pick up four men and hurl their broken and shredded bodies into the river.

Ross could feel his face tighten. Two volleys, fired like thunderclaps. Even from the distance, there was no mistaking the thing.

That’ll be Driscol, he thought. The man like a stone.

Near its head, Thornton ignored the havoc being wreaked on the center of the column. He’d known his men would take casualties from the other American battery while they charged the one by the river. At the moment, he was far more concerned about the damage he was taking from straight ahead. The battery they were charging was doing quite well itself.

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.