Rivers Of War

CHAPTER 1 February 6, 1814 Fort Strother, Mississippi Territory The first time Sam Houston set eyes on Andrew Jackson, the general's left arm was in a sling, and he was losing his temper. "Do I make myself clear, sir?" Jackson's eyes were like small blue volcanoes erupting under bushy blond eyebrows and an even bushier head of sandy-gray hair. The scar on his forehead actually seemed to be throbbing. Sam had heard tales about that scar. Supposedly, it had been put there decades ago, during the Revolution, by a British officer. After seizing the home occupied by Jackson and his family in the Carolinas, the Redcoat had ordered a thirteen-year-old Jackson to shine his boots. Jackson had flat refused, and hadn't changed his mind even after the officer slashed him with a saber. When he'd first heard the story, Sam had been skeptical. Now, watching Jackson with his own two eyes, he didn't doubt it any longer. The general's jaws were clenched, his bony fists were clenched, his whipcord body was clenched. He seemed ready to jump right out of his uniform and start pummeling the officer who was facing him. "Answer me, blast you!" Jackson bellowed. Shrieked, rather, since he had a high-pitched voice. The general thrust his head forward so aggressively, his chin leading the way like the ram on an ancient war galley, that his fancy hat fell right off his head. The two-cornered general's hat landed on its side, like a shipwreck on a reef. Jackson paid no attention to the mishap. The officer who was facing himsomebody in the Tennessee militia, judging from the uniformwas doing his level best not to wilt under Jackson's fury. But his level best . . . Wasn't good enough. Not even close. The man sidled backward a step, his eyes avoiding Jackson's accusing gaze. "Tarnation, General," he muttered, "you can't just" "Yes, sir, I can! And, yes, sirI most certainly will! I've done it before, and I'll do it again!" For the first time, Jackson seemed to catch sight of the two officers who had entered his command tent. He glared at General John Coffee first. But the glare was fleeting, nothing more than a split second's reflex. "Coffee," he stated tersely. The greeting had an approving air to it, from what Sam could tell. But then the glare turned on Sam himself, so he didn't have any time to ponder the matter. It was quite a glare, too. Easily worthy of one of the heroes in Sam's treasured Iliad. Maybe not quite up to the standards of Achilles, but certainly the equal of anything Agamemnon or Menelaus could have managed. "And you, sir!" the general barked. "You're wearing the uniform of a regular soldier in the army of the United States of America. Can I assume that you will follow orders?" The general's eyes flicked to the militia officer. Jackson said nothing, but the glance alone was enough to make clear what he thought of the fellow. Sam might have been amused, except he was starting to become angry himself. He didn't like bullies, never had, and the general looked to be about as bad a bully as he'd ever encountered. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly, straightening up to his full height of six feet two inches. "I took the oath and I'll obey orders. Presuming the orders are lawful, that is." With that, he fell silent. For a moment, it looked to Sam as if the general would literally explode. His pale face seemed so suffuseFlint, Eric is the author of 'Rivers Of War', published 0000 under ISBN 9780345465672 and ISBN 0345465679.