1812: The Rivers of War Read Free

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 Napoleonicwars, 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’s 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