Alternate Generals II

Empire William Sanders

"History," the Emperor often said, "is a lie agreed upon."

"And who'd know better?" Captain Houston said, when I quoted the line to him. "About history, and about lies. Having been responsible for such a hell of a lot of both, in his day."

He did not say it loudly, though; his usual alligator-bellow voice was for once a discreet murmur, though no one was nearby. Houston was a bold young man, even by the standards of his kind; but mocking the Emperor was a dangerous business, especially during that final year.

In any case I did not reply, and after a moment he chuckled and glanced at me. We were walking down the swept gravel walk toward the front drive-way of the palace, the Emperor having told me to see Captain Houston to his carriage. Captain Houston had just returned from a secret mission deep in Spanish territory, and had found his way back from Florida to New Orleans through hundreds of miles of wilderness known only to his Indian friends, so presumably he was capable of finding his own way out; but the Emperor was always one for the courtesies.

"You ought to write a history book yourself," Houston said, grinning. "The things you've seen and heard, it'd be worth reading."

"Slaves do not write histories," I pointed out.

"I heard somewhere that there were slaves who wrote books," Houston said. "Back in Roman times."

"This is not the Roman Empire," I answered, and bit off the irreverent addendum, "However much His Majesty likes to think so." I had no wish to match him for riskiness of wit; for myself I have always found bravery a vulgar quality, and those who possess it generally tiresome-though I did like Sam Houston, who had a keen sense of irony, no doubt acquired from living with the Cherokees.

"Well," he said, "there's my carriage, Albert," giving my name the English pronunciation rather than the proper one. "Good night."

Three days later the British arrived.

I was there when the Emperor got the word; in fact I was the one who brought it to him, though only in the sense of taking the sealed message from the dispatch rider-who was sweating, even though it was a December day and quite cool for New Orleans-and carrying it on a silver tray into the Emperor's private study. I did not, of course, know the contents, but I had my suspicions.

The Emperor read the message, smiled slightly, and tossed it onto his desk. "Well, Albert," he said, "the ball would seem about to begin. His Britannic Majesty's forces have put in their long-awaited appearance off our shores."

It was not, you understand, any great surprise. It was common knowledge, even in the streets of the city, that a large Royal Navy squadron, with a convoy of troop transports, had been working its ponderous way across the Gulf, shadowed at a discreet distance by Lafitte's people.

The Emperor got to his feet, slowly and clumsily, breathing loudly with the effort. I made no move to assist him; His Majesty's increasing corpulence and deteriorating health were among the many things one was required not to notice.

He walked over to the great windows that overlooked the palace grounds. "Ah, Albert," he said, his back to me. "Do you know, at times I wish myself back in France."

I said nothing, merely stood in respectful silence. I knew what was coming, having heard it so many times before.

"I have not seen France since the year 1793," he mused, his back to me. "Yet in some sense it will always be my second home. Strange; I have no such feelings, now, for Corsica."

He turned slightly, placing his face in profile. The morning light sharply silhouetted the famous features; the body might have grown corrupted, but that incredible head was still as beautiful as ever.

"Perhaps," he said wistfully, "I should have stayed. That was my intention, after all, when the traitor Paoli drove the Buonapartes from Corsica. I had no thought but to return to France and resume my military career. It was sheer chance that that American ship happened to be in the harbor, while I was seeking passage to Marseilles to rejoin the family, and that I fell to talking with the captain-and made a sudden impulsive decision, and the rest, as they say, is history."

He turned and smiled at me. "Who knows? Had I followed my original plan, surely I would by now be an officer of rank in the forces of the Republic. Not that that would be such an enviable fate, now," he added, "after the drubbing the British and their allies have given the Republic's armies. But perhaps I could have changed all that, eh? That fellow Wellington might have found General Buonaparte a harder adversary."

"As indeed he soon shall, sire," I murmured.

"What? Oh, yes, of course. Excellent, Albert!" He laughed. "Yes, it would seem the Duke and I are destined to do battle, in one possible world or another."

His mouth twisted. "If, if. If not for Paoli's treachery, I could have been the liberator of my homeland, and spent the rest of my days as ruler of Corsica. Treachery is a terrible thing, Albert, to be execrated above all other human sins."

I kept my mouth shut and my face blank, and tried to suppress the picture in my mind-of the late Colonel Burr, or rather his ghost, listening to that last little homily. The exquisite treachery by which the Emperor had disposed of his old partner would for sheer seamless detail have impressed a Borgia.

History, by the way, still seems silent on the question of just when and how the former Captain Buonaparte, now a newly commissioned lieutenant in the tiny United States army, chanced to meet then-Senator Burr. I have an impression it was at some sort of social function in New York, but I may be mistaken; at the time, after all, I was still a half-grown servant boy in a wealthy New Orleans household, being educated above my station by a capricious and indulgent owner. (Interestingly, it is possible that the Emperor and I were learning English at the same time.).

Whenever and wherever it happened, it was certainly one of the most fateful encounters of all time. I wonder if they recognized each other, in that first moment, as two of the same breed? Much as two sharks in the lightless depths of the ocean must apprehend their common species…

"But then," the Emperor said with sudden joviality, "in that case who would now reign over the interior of North America? Perhaps your famous and talented relative Tecumseh, eh?"

"Tecumseh is Shawnee, sire," I said very diffidently. "My father's people were Choctaw." Not that it mattered; my mother having been quadroon, I was unequivocally «black» under the laws of the Empire.

"Albert, Albert." He laughed softly and gave me a fond look. "I tease you, but you know how highly I esteem you. See here." He adopted the manner of one who has just made an important decision. "You have been a good and faithful servant for many years. When this business with the English is concluded, I intend to free you."

I bowed my head, as if overcome. "Sire," I said most humbly.

He did this, on the average, two or three times a year. It meant nothing. As many men-and women-had learned, the Emperor was too great a man to be bound by a trivial thing like a promise. But one had to pretend.

The next day they had a big council in the palace war-room. Standing beside the door, awaiting requests for drinks or whatever else the military leaders of the Empire might require, I witnessed the whole thing.

"So," the Emperor said, looking down at the map that covered most of the great conference table, "our guests have arrived, and we must make ready to welcome them. The question is, where?"

"No sign of any landings yet," Colonel Crockett observed. "They're just sort of hanging around offshore. Last message I got from Sam, he said he could just make out their sails, out in Chandeleur Sound."

He scratched absently beneath his fringed buckskin jacket; a gross discourtesy in the royal presence, but the Emperor tolerated much from the eccentric and extremely able chief of scouting operations. Half the alligators in the swamps were in Crockett's pay and the other half his blood relatives-or so it was said.

General Jackson snorted loudly. "By the Eternal, I don't suppose your 'boys' could trouble themselves to give us a more detailed report?" He and Crockett hated each other; it was one of those deadly personal enmities at which the Tennesseeans excel. "At least an estimate of the enemy's numbers?"

"No need," the Emperor said mildly. "We have, after all, a full roster of the enemy's forces, and have had for some time."

This was true. The Emperor's secret agents were everywhere, on both sides of the Atlantic, and very good at their work. If he had wanted to look it up, he could probably have learned the name of the trooper who watered Wellington's horse.

The Emperor was studying the map. "I confess," he said, "I am having trouble envisioning how they plan to do this."

Even with my own utter lack of military knowledge, I could see the problem. New Orleans is an oddly situated port; below the city, the river runs a hundred miles or so before reaching the sea-but it does not flow through solid land, but down the middle of a strange narrow alluvial peninsula that sticks out far into the Gulf, a kind of penis of the continent. The whole shoreline is a perfect mess of lakes, bays, bayous, and cypress swamps, with hardly any firm ground. How the Duke of Wellington proposed to get past all that was more than I could understand.

"Can he come straight up the river, do you think?" the Emperor suggested dubiously.

"It would be difficult." General Latour, the chief of engineers, gestured at the map. "The passage is not an easy one, after all. They would need local pilots-"

"Not impossible to get," Captain Lafitte put in. "Many of the people along the river and the coast are Spanish, and none too loyal to the Empire."

"But they would still have to get past our shore batteries," Latour went on. "Especially here, at Fort St. Philippe."

"Yes." The Emperor nodded. "But how else? Land on the shores of Lake Borgne, or the Ponchartrain?"

Lafitte stepped forward. "Not so simple as that, my Emperor. Lake Borgne is not deep enough for big ships. They could cross it in shallow-draft boats, if they have them, and work their way up the bayous, but it would be a difficult and risky business." He tapped the map with a fingertip. "And the Ponchartrain would be even harder."

He grinned. "Now me, I know half a dozen ways to get at this city through the bayous above Barataria Bay. But Wellington could never do it, not without my people to guide him."

Neatly done, I had to admit; a diplomatic reminder of the service the Barataria pirates had done the Emperor, by refusing British attempts to buy their aid, and later by doing sterling work in keeping track of the movements of Lord Nelson's ships.

Of course it could have been pointed out that Lafitte and his brigands were at least partly to blame for the whole situation, since the officialcasus belli, according to the British, lay in their constant and heavy depredations against British and Spanish shipping-under perfectly legal letters of marque from the government of Republican France-but that would have been specious; the British had long had designs on the Mississippi, control of which would make them once again masters in North America. Lafitte had merely supplied a handy pretext.

"By the great Jehovah!" General Jackson was given to such bombastic oaths; it was one of his many annoying traits. "I still can't believe they plan to attack New Orleans at all. This Wellington must be a fool. He could land at Mobile-a bunch of Creek squaws could overwhelm our defenses there-and march overland, raising the Indian tribes against us. The red devils would be glad enough to join them-"

"They would," Colonel Crockett assented grimly. "Thanks to the treatment they've had from people like you."

The two men exchanged glares. The Emperor said pointedly, "The savages are not our present problem. The Duke of Wellington is. And, General Jackson, I assure you he is no fool."

It was hardly a secret that he detested Jackson as an ill-bred lout-most civilized people did-and distrusted him for his arrogant ambition. But however troublesome and even dangerous Jackson might be, he was the one man who could control the fractious backwoodsmen who populated the interior of the Empire and made up much of its army. The Tennesseeans and Kentuckians and Indianans and the rest had been happy to break away from the United States-the fledgling republic east of the mountains had never meant much to them-and join in the «liberation» of the Spanish province of Louisiana; but their allegiances were personal rather than national, and the Emperor, for all his charm, had never captured their hearts as had Colonel Burr.

Now Burr was gone, and only Jackson still held their childish loyalties. And so the Emperor dared not eliminate him; and so Andrew Jackson, alone among the Emperor's original co-conspirators, remained obnoxiously alive. There was no doubt, though, that he was a competent officer in his way.

Now he gave Crockett a final withering look and turned back to the map. His neck, above the high gold-braided collar of his uniform coat, was even redder than usual. "So what do we do, then?" he asked, as always omitting even the most basic forms of respectful address.

The Emperor rubbed his face with one hand. "There is not a great deal wecan do, until we have a clearer idea of the direction of the attack. We must not spread ourselves thin, trying to cover all the possible approaches. No," he said, "much as it goes against my instincts, for now we wait."

So we waited; everyone waited, while the life of the city underwent dramatic changes. Troops marched through the streets, volunteer units drilled in parks and fields, women made bandages against the anticipated carnage; and the warehouses along the river-front began to fill up with cotton and sugar, there being no way to ship anything out now that the Royal Navy waited at the river's mouth.

Then one of Crockett's men brought word that a force of warships had been seen on the river, working their way upstream. A few days later a message arrived from Fort St. Philippe that the place was under bombardment.

"Well, now we know," the Emperor said. "Wellington and Nelson have chosen the direct approach. I had expected something less obvious."

"Begging the Emperor's pardon," General Latour said, "but do we in fact know?"

"That's right," General Jackson agreed. "Could be a feint."

"Quite true. We will wait a bit longer before fully committing ourselves. However," the Emperor said, "we can make a beginning. Latour, I want the defensive works along the river strengthened-requisition slaves from the plantations hereabouts, you have my authority. Jackson, bring me a report on what artillery we have available. If they are coming up the river, we will need every gun we can lay hands on."

He glanced out the windows and sighed. "The greatest city on the North American continent," he said, "the beautiful, sophisticated capital of a country of inexhaustible riches. Parks, opera houses, institutions of learning, fine homes… and," he slammed his fist suddenly down on the table, "not one God-damned cannon foundry! No one can be bothered with manufacture here, they are all determined to get rich from cotton and sugarcane.Merde! Right now I would trade half of this city for a few batteries of heavy field guns."

He fell silent. No one ventured to speak. Even Jackson for once had sense enough to keep quiet.

Certainly no one offered to point out that the Imperial army had at one time possessed a superb corps of artillery, with modern weapons purchased from France and brought in despite the British blockade-and had lost most of it, first in Mexico and then, two winters ago, in the dreadful retreat from Canada. Especially Canada. One definitely did not talk about Canada.

Really, there were somany things one did not talk about nowadays.

Over the next two weeks all eyes, so to speak, were turned south, as the British bombardment of Fort St. Philippe continued. Messages from the scene spoke of constant heavy fire from bomb-ships-whatever they might be-while a relief party, sent overland, was ambushed by British marines and all but wiped out.

The atmosphere in the city grew tense and strange, as news of these events trickled down to the populace. The most absurd rumors began to circulate, and here and there citizens were attacked-a couple fatally-on suspicion of being British spies.

Indeed the times seemed to bring out the demented. One day not long before Christmas, while I was in the city on a minor errand, I was suddenly accosted on the street by the Mad Marquis. "Hey, boy," he cried, and put his face close to mine. "Haven't seen you in a long time. Come," he said, hooking my arm in his, "walk a little with an old man. I have no one to talk with, these days."

I glanced nervously about; I had no wish to be seen in the company of the Marquis, who managed to cut a notorious figure even in hard-to-shock New Orleans.

He was not a native of Louisiana, but of France, where he had once been famous-or infamous-for his scandalous writings and equally scandalous personal life. He had been repeatedly imprisoned, first by the royal government and then by the revolutionaries; but then the family contrived to have him shipped off to America, where he could no longer embarrass them. The Emperor tolerated his presence-a favor to certain friends with influence in Paris; anything to maintain the all-important French alliance-on the condition that he refrain from publishing his outrageous writings within the Empire. (They were, however, widely though illegally circulated in the United States; former President Jefferson was said to be quite a devotee.).

He and I had met at a certain establishment, where he was a regular customer-too old for active participation, he still paid to watch whippings-and where I occasionally made a bit of pocket-money, without the Emperor's knowledge, playing the pianoforte. The proprietress had known my mother.

"Albert, Albert," he said now, "how does His Majesty? Well, one hopes?"

I said that His Majesty did quite well. "Good," he said. "I so admire the Emperor, you know. In a world of canting hypocrites, a man who knows how to take what he desires!"

He dug an elbow into my ribs. "The affair of Colonel Burr, for example. Magnificent! I am dazed with admiration!"

Again I looked about, this time in real fear. No one was anywhere near, but still I tried to pull away. His grip, however, was amazingly strong.

"Oh, not to worry," he added. "No one has been talking. Merely a cynical old man's speculation-but I see by your face that I was right. Ha! Never fear, the secret is safe with me."

He leered conspiratorially at me. "The public all believe the story they have so often been told, and why not? It is, after all, a masterpiece of fiction-I say this as an author in my own right-and the corroborative evidence! The incriminating letters in Spanish, the drawings of the defenses of New Orleans and Mobile, the bag of Spanish gold pieces, the final heart-rending note confessing all-my friend, if I were not such an experienced creator of imaginative tales I would believe it too."

By now I was fairly gibbering with horror, yet he kept his hold and continued: "But the crowning gem, ah! That the smoking pistol clutched in his lifeless hand should be the very weapon with which he had killed Monsieur Hamilton! Sheer poetry!"

I managed to wrench myself free, finally, and I am not ashamed to admit I took to my heels. I had not realized how dangerous the old maniac was. Or what a shrewd intelligence functioned within that deranged head.

(All the same, he was wrong about the pistol. In fact, as I once heard Colonel Burr tell the Emperor, it was Hamilton who furnished the weapons for the famous duel. That detail was not part of the original package, as it were; the story simply arose somehow-possibly from some journalist of the popular press-and was repeated until it became widely accepted. Mr. Irving even put it in his history book.).

Reaching the corner, still at a run, I almost collided with a couple of buckskin-clad figures. A hand grabbed my jacket and pulled me to a stop, and I started to protest, but then I recognized the laughing faces of Colonel Crockett and Captain Houston. "Here, now," Houston said, "what's the hurry?"

"Been talking to the old Mar-kee?" Crockett asked, grinning. "Boy, he's a piss-cutter, ain't he?"

I was too breathless to speak. "Come on," Houston said. "We were just on our way to get us a drink."

They pulled me into a dark and dingy little tavern, where a few idlers sat talking and playing cards. A burly man in homespun clothing looked at me and said loudly, "No niggers allowed in here!" — and in less than a second found himself on his back on the floor, with Crockett's foot on his chest and Houston's knife at his throat.

"You got something to say," Crockett inquired gently, "about who we choose to drink with?"

A few minutes later we were seated in the rear of the room with a jug on the table before us. The people at the nearby tables had considerately moved away and given us our privacy. The one who had spoken first was nowhere to be seen.

"Drink up," Houston advised me. "You look like you could use it."

The raw corn whiskey was quite the worst drink I had ever tasted, but I managed to get a little down, and my nerves did settle a bit. Crockett and Houston applied themselves to the jug with gusto. "Damn good booze," Crockett said approvingly. "Here's to Andy Jackson, the son of a bitch."

"Better drink to crazy old King George," Houston suggested. "Could be we ought to get in practice."

"Is it that bad?" I asked.

"Half a dozen years ago," Crockett said, "I would have said we'll kick their asses back into the Gulf. Now-" He shrugged. "This army ain't what it used to be."

"Oh, shit," Houston said dolefully. "Here he goes again, playing the old soldier."

"Playing hell. I been in this from the start, son. I was toting a rifle under Old Hickorynuts back when we were just a bunch of raggedy-assed rebels, didn't know what we were getting into except that Burr made it sound good and his little French pard was the fightingest one human we'd ever saw. I was there when we marched into this town for the first time and kicked the Dons out, when you were still just a brat."

He paused to lubricate his throat. "And I was there when we fought Mister President Jefferson's pitiful little army-the ones that didn't run away or change sides-when the States tried to take Tennessee and Kentucky back. I was there when we took West Florida from the Dons, too. By then we had the best damn army, for its size, in the world. Hell, the Prussians used to send officers over here to study old Nap's methods. But then-"

He spat on the dirt floor. "Then we couldn't quit. Spent a year putting that fool Joseph on the throne of Mexico and another two years trying to keep him there-quit looking at me like that, Albert, I don't give a coon's ass whose brother he was, he was a God-damned fool and ending up in front of a 'dobe wall was no more than he deserved."

I grabbed the jug and took another drink. This time it went down almost easily.

"Used up a big piece of the army in Mexico," Crockett continued, "specially the cavalry. Lost Pike there, too, best damn officer we had, Jackson ain't a scratch on Zeb Pike's ass as a general. Then before we'd even started to recover-"

"Canada," Houston said. "He's going to tell about Canada."

"What for? Ever'body in the whole world knows what happened. Shit." He made a face. "Oh, it was gonna be so easy. All them Catholic Frenchmen in Canada were so eager to rise up agin the King and jine us. And France was gonna send ships and troops to invade up the St. Lawrence at the same time. Only," he said, "turned out the French Canucks didn't like us no better than they did the redcoats, and Nelson caught the invasion fleet leaving France and made fishbait of the poor bastards, and the weather turned against us-Jesus H.Christ, you wouldn't believe it could get that cold!"

"And Tecumseh picking that time," Houston said, "while you were all off up north, to set the tribes on the war path. I remember that."

"Yep. So we had to fight our way through the Indians just to get back home. What there was left of us," Crockett said bitterly.

Houston said, "But that was eighteen-twelve, Davy. They got the army built back up now, nearly to strength."

"They got a bunch of men carrying weepons. Takes more than that to make an army. Them white-trash boys jine up to get away from home, soljering looks easier than plowing and the uniform's good to impress the girls, but they never seen no real fighting. 'Cept now and then marching off with Andy Jackson to burn out some village of peaceful Creeks, sure as hell never faced British reg'lars. Neither have you, either of you."

"True," I said. "The Emperor never takes me on campaign." For which God, if He exists, be thanked on bended knee.

"It ain't like nothing you ever seen." Crockett shuddered. "The way they come on, all in step, not making a sound, it'sskeery is what it is. And that was just Packenham's men in Canada, not even top regiments. Wellington's boys are supposed to be even better. Can we stop 'em? Damn if I know."

He fell silent, his face morose. Houston reached for the jug. "Don't pay Davy any mind," he said. "It'll be all right."

A few days later Fort St. Philippe fell.

"Never seen nothing like it," Colonel Crockett told the Emperor and the others, at the hastily-convened council that followed. "They bombarded that place steady, all night and all day and all the next night too. Must of throwed in every mortar shell in the Royal Navy. Then, the second morning they stopped shelling, and here come the marines out of the woods and rushed the fort. Didn't take long, there weren't no real defense left. Me and Sam watched the whole thing from across the river."

"Thank you for the report, Colonel." The Emperor's shoulders sagged. "This is terrible. The river is now open, almost all the way to the city. Latour, can we put in more batteries downstream?

"No time, my Emperor. Moving and emplacing guns in that terrain-" General Latour shook his head. "Besides, we have concentrated all our available artillery at English Turn, on your Majesty's orders. We would have to take away-"

"No, no, you are right. We must not weaken the defenses there. Well." The Emperor sighed. "At least now there is no doubt where they will come."

"Beg the Emperor's pardon, I'm not so sure." Crockett was looking thoughtful. "They're on the river, all right, but not all of them. Not nigh as many ships as we seen when they first showed up. And no telling where the others are, now they got Lafitte's boys bottled up in the Barataria."

"Holding back a reserve," Jackson said, snorting. "Any fool can see that, by the Almighty!"

"Maybe," Crockett said. "Guess we'll know the answers soon enough."

But the British were slow in coming. Not an easy business, of course, working their way against that current and negotiating the tricky channel; apparently there were several groundings. Still, it did seem they were taking their time.

Christmas came, and was duly celebrated by the French and Spanish Catholics of the city, though ignored or scorned by the Protestant Americans. The Emperor attended mass at the great church, as usual concealing his personal agnosticism beneath a cloak of public piety.

All other days, he rode down to the site of the defensive works at the great river bend called English Turn. There was a fairly good road along the levee, so he went by carriage; and, for unclear reasons, I was required to go along. There was nothing much to see but a lot of earthworks along the river, and black and white men laboring alike to reinforce them with sandbags, while others wrestled guns into position. I stood by and shivered in the chilly wind-it was a cold winter for New Orleans-while the Emperor bustled about, talking with officers and men, now and then personally supervising the placement of a cannon. The years seemed to drop from him at such times; he was in his element. For myself I was happier when we returned to the palace, where I could be in mine.

Thus it was that I was with the Emperor the day it all came down.

It was a dank and chilly morning, three days before year's end. A heavy gray fog had moved in off Lake Borgne during the previous evening, and now hung above the river and the eastern swamps, and the plantation fields between, as we rolled southward along the river road. Sitting up on the seat next to the driver, I wrapped a blanket about myself and cursed through my chattering teeth. What a ghastly day to go out, but the Emperor was quite insistent. Nelson's ships had been sighted on the river the previous afternoon, only a few miles south of English Turn; clearly the time was almost at hand.

Suddenly a horseman appeared through the fog up ahead, riding hard toward us. Seeing us, he took off his hat and began waving it frantically up and down.

The driver and I looked at each other. I shrugged and, after a moment, the driver pulled the horses to a stop.

Almost immediately a window opened beneath us and the Emperor's voice came up to us, demanding to know why we were stopping. But by that time the rider was upon us; a slender handsome young man, dressed, I saw now, in the bright uniform of an ensign in the Louisiana Hussars.

"Please," he gasped, "sir-uh, y'r Majesty-"

"Never mind," the Emperor said impatiently. "What do you want, lad?"

The boy-he really was not much more-took a deep breath and gathered himself visibly. "I have to report, your Majesty," he said with strained formality, "that the enemy are attacking our position in strength."

The Emperor's head appeared through the carriage window. "What?" he cried, and then paused, hearing, now that the horses' hooves were silent, the distant rattle and pop of musket fire from somewhere on down the river.

"But the guns," he said then, staring at the horseman. "I hear neither our artillery nor the ships' guns!"

The lad shook his head. "Not the ships, sir. They came in from the east-looks like they crossed Lake Borgne yesterday, in the fog, and moved up through the bayous, and then early this morning they came up out of the swamp and across the plantation fields-one of Colonel Crockett's scouts spotted them, but, uh, well, General Jackson didn't believe him at first-" He stopped, looking appalled at his own indiscretion. "Uh, that is to say-"

The Emperor said, "Name of God! They attacked from the landward side?"

"Yes, sir." The ensign nodded. "Where our defenses were weakest, and of course all the big guns are emplaced to cover the river-"

"The English," the Emperor said, "do they have artillery?"

"Don't know, your Majesty. Haven't brought them into play yet, if they do. Plenty of infantry, though. Must be a thousand, maybe two thousand, hard to tell in this fog. They just keep coming." The ensign's eyes were blinking rapidly. "General Jackson sent me to warn you-"

"Yes, yes." The carriage door opened; the Emperor began clambering down, not waiting for me to attend him. Before I could get down from the seat, he was already standing in the road, snapping his fingers at the young officer. "Your horse," he said. "Give me your horse."

"Sir? Your Majesty?" The ensign looked blank, but then he must have seen the Emperor's expression more clearly. "Yes, sir," he said hastily, and swung down. "Uh, shall I-"

"You shall get out of my way." The Emperor was already hauling himself into the saddle, clumsily and with obvious pain. "Driver, follow me. Let the ensign ride with you."

Swinging the horse about, digging his dress boot heels into its flanks, the Emperor disappeared at a gallop into the fog, toward the growing noise of battle. After a moment the driver raised his eyebrows and put the team in motion again, while the young ensign scrambled aboard and pulled himself up beside us.

Already we could see the flashes of gunfire through the mist ahead, and now louder explosions came rolling up the road to meet us: cannon getting into the action at last. I looked inquiringly at the young hussar, but he shook his head. "No idea," he said hoarsely. "No telling whose-"

Then there was a blast like all the thunder in the world, and another right on its heels, and his face went even paler. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "Warships firing broadsides. The bastards are hitting us from the river too."

It hardly required a formal military education to see the implications: the defenders caught between advancing British infantry in one direction and the fire of the ships' guns raking them from the other.

The ensign was climbing down now. "You better wait here," he called up to the driver.

The driver pulled the carriage to a stop, while the ensign dropped to the ground, just as the first soldiers appeared through the fog coming the other way. Infantry, wearing the blue uniforms of the Empire, and running very hard…

Perched up on top of the carriage, I had a fine view of the rout. They ran past us on either side, hardly a man even seeming to notice us except as an obstacle; their eyes were enormous in their smoke-blackened faces and their mouths mostly hung open. A few clutched at bloody wounds.

Horsemen appeared now, most of them in flight as well, a few-officers, I supposed-evidently trying, without success, to stop the retreat. Horse and foot, the hurrying tide jammed the road and spread out over the open fields to our left, without order or discipline but with a splendid unity of direction: away from the British, toward the city and safety, while behind them the guns still bellowed and muskets and rifles cracked.

Our hussar ensign stood in the middle of the road, waving his sword, shouting at the fleeing men, ordering them to turn back, till he tripped-or was tripped-and went down and disappeared under all those running feet. I closed my eyes for a moment in revulsion.

When I opened them I saw that the driver was pointing. "Look," he said, and after a moment I saw them, the Emperor and General Jackson, charging their horses this way and that amid the hurrying throng, slowly being forced back along the road by weight of numbers. Jackson was slashing this way and that with his sword, without apparent effect; the Emperor, who rarely wore side arms, was in any case having to use both hands to control the hussar's frightened horse.

And quite soon they went past us too, Jackson on the left-he turned and gave me a furious look as he passed, God knows why-and the Emperor on the right. The Emperor did not even glance our way. His face was terrible to see.

Finally they were all past, leaving us alone on the levee-top road, though off across the open ground a few stragglers still picked their way through the sugar-cane trash. And, a few minutes later, a fresh batch of men came out of the fog, moving less hurriedly and in a far more orderly manner. Even in the misty light, their red coats looked very fine.

The driver's nerve broke, then; without a word he scrambled down from the seat and took off up the road, after the departing Imperial troops. Left alone, I took the reins and quieted the restive horses, and a few minutes later found myself surrounded by grinning red-coated infantrymen. "Wot's the matter, then, Uncle?" one called up to me. "Run off and leave you, did they?"

Another cried, "Look, boys! Burn my arse if this ain't Boney's carriage! Look here, on the doors!"

They all gathered around, staring and chattering; then all fell silent as an elegantly uniformed man came riding up on a horse. "You men!" he called. "Who gave the order to break formation?" Then, seeing the carriage, "Damme!"

He looked at me. "Emperor's driver, are you?"

"Merely a manservant," I told him. "Sir."

"Major Grigsby, 7^thFusiliers." He gave a mocking little half-salute. "Can you drive this thing, then, my man?"

"After a fashion."

"Then," he said, "be so good as to do so, until you reach a point where you can turn off this road, which you are now blocking, and which we need for the guns." He turned. "Sergeant, detail four men to escort this vehicle, and guard it against the light-fingered. The commander will enjoy this, I should think."

A beefy-faced man said, "Sir, what about the nigger?"

"Guard him, too. The commander may want to question him." He turned his horse. "The rest of you, back in formation and resume your advance. Keep the damned rascals on the run."

When they were gone one of my guards gave me a gap-toothed grin. "You 'eard the Major," he told me. "No tricks, now, and look smart. You're going to meet the Dook."

Sir Arthur Wellesley, First Duke of Wellington, was a tall, lean, imposing man with a long-nosed aristocratic face that would not have looked out of place on a Roman statue. By the time he got around to me it was late in the evening, and he must have put in a very long hard day indeed, yet he showed no signs of fatigue. Or much else; I had the impression of a man who, in Sam Houston's phrase, played his cards close to his vest.

Our interview was quite short; it did not take long for him to realize that I was merely a household servant, who knew nothing of the Emperor's military plans and had never overheard anything of possible value-or who, at any rate, was never going to admit otherwise.

"I have no idea," he said at last, "whether you are as stupid as you pretend, or very clever indeed. Some officers, in my position, would issue instructions to see if a sound whipping would improve your memory. But no fear." He allowed himself a very slight smile. "It hardly matters. The lines of battle, from this point forward, are inevitable."

He paced back and forth a bit, looking at me. It was dark outside and the interior of the tent was lit by a single candle.

"So," he said, "what shall I do with you? Strictly speaking, you are not a prisoner of war, since you are not a soldier or even a free man… would you like to be?" He raised an eyebrow. "My orders are to free any slaves who wish to join our forces."

"I would like to be free," I told him. "I have, however, no wish to join your forces or any others."

"Ah. Want to be your own man, eh? A worthy ambition, by God." He actually chuckled, very softly and very briefly. "Well, for the moment, I think you had best remain with us. You have seen quite a lot, I'm sure, whilst waiting about."

That was true; I had had nothing to but watch, while men and guns came ashore from the transports and were formed up in order and sent marching northward along the river road. It had been an impressive sight, and not an encouraging one from the Imperial viewpoint.

"You might," Wellington added, "be tempted to run back to your master. I'm sure he'd be interested in what you could tell him. Better to keep you out of temptation's way."

And so I spent the next two days as a prisoner who was not quite a prisoner. The distinction was largely ignored by the soldiers, who made me do various menial tasks about the camp, and occasionally kicked me for no particular reason.

It was from the British side, then, that I watched the final Battle of New Orleans. Not being a soldier, I could make little sense of what I saw-not that I could see much anyway, from where I stood near a battery of unreasonably loud cannon.

But I could see that the outcome was not much in doubt. The British obviously had an overpowering superiority in artillery-the defenders having lost so many guns at English Turn, and the invaders having brought plenty of their own; a child could have seen the discrepancy at a glance, once the battle was joined. Wellington's gunners-joined by Nelson's seamen, who had brought heavy ships' cannon ashore to reinforce the army-turned a devastating storm of shot on the Imperial lines, answered only by weak and scattered fire. Even standing to the rear, I was deafened and well-nigh blinded by the steady and excruciating roar, and my bowels felt very loose; I cannot imagine what it must have been like for those who were its targets. I had had no idea that war was such a noisy and messy business. It looked so much neater in the paintings and engravings.

Then Wellington's infantry advanced in their implacable ranks, and after that I lost any real grasp of what was going on. I could see the battle only as a distant indistinct dark line-one that soon began to grow even more distant, moving first raggedly and slowly, then with much greater speed, to the north, in the direction of the city.

"Buggers are running again," one of my guards observed. "That's it, then. Be a jolly old time tonight in Noo Orleens."

At some point, late in the afternoon, my guards simply disappeared. Heading for the city, no doubt, not wanting to miss out on the looting and general sport.

After an irresolute pause, I set off in that direction myself, walking along the river road. No one paid me any mind; everyone was hurrying toward the city. Already plumes of smoke had begun to appear above the rooftops, indicating that this was going to be a long night.

Then suddenly there was a stir of activity up ahead and I saw the Duke of Wellington sitting on his horse by the roadside, taking reports from dispatch riders and conferring with some officers. I started to detour around the scene, only to be stopped short by Wellington's voice: "You there! The Emperor's servant!"

I turned and walked back and looked up at the Duke. "Well," he said, "your master has lost the hand. And, I believe, the game."

"Yes, sir," I said, blank-faced.

"He seems to have given us the slip," Wellington said. "Would you know anything about that? Ever hear anything to suggest what plans your Emperor might have made, for a contingency such as this?"

"No, sir. I do not believe," I said truthfully, "he ever seriously envisioned such an event."

"Ah, yes. Quite." A quick nod. "Well, well, no matter." To an officer at his side he added, "Boney's done for, no matter where he's gone. Now we hold New Orleans, the Empire can be strangled at our pleasure."

"And then," the officer said, "perhaps we shall see about the damned Yankees and their so-called United States of America."

"Very possibly." The Duke shook his head. "Please God, not until after I have relinquished command to some younger man. I grow tired. I wish to go home."

To me, then: "Go your way, then. You are free-at least insofar as His Britannic Majesty's forces are concerned. If you ever do see your master again, thank him for the carriage. I intend to ride in it, when I enter his city tomorrow."

"On New Year's Day," another officer murmured.

"Why, yes. So it will be," the Duke said, sounding surprised. "Do you know, I had forgotten."

It was dark by the time I made my way into the city. It was a dangerous time to walk the streets; British soldiers were everywhere, helping themselves to whatever struck their fancy-including any women so foolish, or adventurous, as to be caught out-of-doors. From every direction came the sounds of breaking glass, male shouts and female screams, and the odd gunshot.

A hand grabbed my arm and jerked me into the mouth of a dark alley; another hand clamped itself over my mouth. A familiar voice hissed in my ear, "Quiet, now, Albert!"

Released, I turned and said, "It's all right. There's no one nearby."

"Good," Houston said, and Crockett grunted agreement. "Where you been?"

"You wouldn't believe me," I said, "What happened? Today, I mean?"

"Just like I was afeared," Crockett said. "Our boys broke. Stood their ground pretty good at first, but then they seen them redcoats coming on and on, never missing a step, never making a sound, sun shining off them bayonets, it was too much."

"The Tennessee militia broke first," Houston added. "And then the Kentuckians, on the left. But then everybody was taking off. Nearly, anyway. The ones who didn't mostly got bayonetted or captured, I guess."

"Jackson's dead," Crockett said with a certain satisfaction. "Tried to stop the rout, started hitting out with that God-damned sword of his, and somebody shot him right out of his saddle."

I said, "They say the Emperor has disappeared."

"He commandeered the St. Louis steamboat," Houston told me. "Guess that's where he's bound."

"Will you be joining him?" I asked. "If you can escape from the city?"

"No." Crockett spat. "Had enough of soljering. Me and Sam figure to head out west. Trap furs or something."

"Want to come along?" Houston grinned. "See the wild frontier."

"Thank you," I said, "but I think not. I believe I know where I can find employment. Once order has been restored, Madame Letitia's establishment should find itself doing a great deal of business. I'm sure she will need a good pianoforte player."

"Then so long." Crockett slapped me on the back. "And good luck."

"To you as well," I said, meaning it; though I had full faith in their ability to survive and escape, if any men alive could do it. "Bonne chance," I added, as they moved away down the alley.

"Yeah," Houston's voice drifted back through the darkness; and then, with a sardonic chuckle: "Vive l'Empereur…"