Free 1812: The Rivers of War by Eric Flint Page A

anticipation—
you will keep your mouth shut
. Do I make myself clear?”
    The young officer blanched, and his eyes went so wide Jackson could see the veins in the corners. Jackson’s voice, filled with rage, cut like a knife. The aide was too shocked even to step back. He just gaped.
    “
Answer me, blast you!”
    “Yes, sir,” the man finally squeaked. “
Yes, sir!”
    The general continued to glare at him, for long and silent seconds. Finally, with a contemptuous gesture, Jackson waved him away.
    “Get out of my sight,” he growled. “Somewhere to the rear, where your talents might find some use. Count bullets or something, you miserable clerk. Better yet, count rations. You probably wouldn’t recognize a bullet if you saw one.”
    His right hand went to the hilt of the sword scabbarded to his waist. There was no conscious intent to draw the weapon; it was just the instinctive reflex of a man for whom intimidation was second nature. The aide scurried off like a lizard on a hot rock.
    As Jackson’s temper settled, he saw that the altercation had drawn the attention of Houston and his Cherokee companions. The three of them were standing some forty feet away, staring at him.
    Unwilling, for the moment, to take his right hand from the sword, Jackson summoned the ensign with a jerk of his head.
    Houston came over, as quickly as he could given that he was limping. The two Cherokees followed at a slower pace. Something of a reluctant pace, it might be said.
    When Houston drew near, Jackson nodded. “That was welldone, young man. Very well done, indeed. A most gallant charge. Please accept my admiration and respect, as well as the gratitude of your nation. I’ll see to it that you get a promotion.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Jackson finally took his hand from the sword hilt and pointed at the bandage on Houston’s leg. “Your wound?”
    Houston stared down at the bandage, which had a few fresh red spots mixed in with the brown of old bloodstains. “Oh, it’s not much, sir. It’s still bleeding some, but I’ll manage well enough till this is over. Certainly not as bad as it was for poor Major Montgomery.”
    A look of regret passed over the general’s face. “Yes. Well, it’s not over yet.”
    Houston smiled thinly. “Not hardly, sir.” He turned and pointed toward the river. “Between us and the Cherokees, we’ve driven the Red Sticks off the high ground, but there are still plenty of them forted up here and there in the forest. This peninsula must comprise hundreds of acres, all told. As heavily wooded as it is…”
    Jackson nodded, understanding full well the realities of warfare in the wilderness. The Indian warrior wasn’t the match of the white man in a pitched battle on an open field, or in a siege. They lacked the organization and discipline for such. But in their own element they were unsurpassed; as dangerous as wild boars.
    “Any chance they’ll surrender?”
    “I doubt it very much, sir. Not yet, anyway. There’s still plenty of fight in ’em.” The ensign gave the sky a glance, gauging the sun. “They’ll for sure try to hold out until sunset, and then make their escape across the river.”
    Jackson glared again, although not with the sheer volcanic fury that he’d unleashed on the aide.
    “Tarnation, I’ve given Coffee clear and firm instructions—”
    The ensign was bold enough to interrupt. Jackson was rather impressed.
    “And he’s carried them out, sir.” Houston gestured toward the two Indians, who were now standing only a few feet away. “This is my old friend James Rogers—he’s the one on the left with the war club. And Lieutenant Ross. John Ross, that is. I just met him for the first time today, but I’d heard of him.”
    Jackson gave the two Cherokees a quick examination, mostof which was spent studying the war club Rogers held. Clearly enough, it had been put to good use.
    He grunted his satisfaction, then cocked an eyebrow at the ensign. “And the point is?