Dawn came, cold and cheerless. When the sun appeared to be a hand’s span above the horizon, drums ruffled and the little four-pounder banged out the salute. Pulleys squealed in protest as the fifteen-starred flag began its ascent. There was no breeze this morning, so when the flag reached the top of the pole, it hung limp, curling back upon itself as if reluctant to witness the event that was about to unfold. At least that was how it seemed to Third Lieutenant Sam Houston as he stood at stiff attention in front of his platoon. That was the way his Cherokee friends would see it, too, he figured. After living among them for three years he had begun to think like an Indian, seeing signs and portents everywhere he looked. His own brothers, on the other hand, would have said he was becoming silly as an old woman. As successful, hardheaded businessmen, they had precious little time for Sam and his Indian ways. Whoever was right, Houston thought, the listlessly drooping flag still seemed an ominous reminder that immediately following the colors ceremony, the assembled army was to witness an execution. With the flag ceremony completed, the color guard retired, and a restless quiet settled over the parade ground. Men began to fidget uncomfortably, impatient for the morning’s spectacle to begin – or to be over. “Attention in the ranks!” Houston snapped, irritated by the shuffle of feet behind him. The noise stopped at once. Houston’s commands always had that effect on his men. Though popular and easygoing, he could become the sternest of disciplinarians when he had to. Every man in his platoon knew that failure to carry out one of Lieutenant Houston’s orders would result in swift and certain punishment. Unlike some of his fellow officers, though, Houston was no zealot, so for the most part he got along pretty well with the platoon. In fact, barely a year ago Houston had been a private in this same platoon himself. He had joined the army more or less on impulse, stirred by a nineteen-year-old’s visions of glory on the battlefield – and by the sight of the recruiter’s splendid uniform. Houston’s impressive stature, coupled with his commanding drill voice, set him apart from his fellows almost from the start. His rise through the ranks had been accomplished with a speed he could hardly believe, Now, here he was, an officer soon to lead men into battle for the first time. His excitement at this prospect was somewhat blunted this morning, however. He was not at all happy that he and his men were about to witness the destruction of a fellow soldier. The sound of drums came again. “Here he comes, the poor bastard,” a voice muttered from somewhere behind Houston’s back. Houston didn’t bother to reprimand the platoon this time. They all fell back into a breathless silence as a grim processional crossed the parade ground in front of them. First came a detachment of soldiers carrying their muskets reversed, muzzles pointing toward the ground. Behind these came the prisoner with his escort of four soldiers with fixed bayonets. The bayonets, Houston knew, were not just for show. Often, a prisoner would have to be prodded toward his destination. Musicians followed, playing the “Rogue’s March,” a dirge-like tune that served to deepen the air of gloom that hung over the watching ranks. Last in the procession were four somber looking men who carried their muskets at shoulder arms. These were the executioners, and they hung back a few steps from the rest, as if to demonstrate their reluctance to perform the task set for them. Houston couldn’t say he blamed them. It was bad enough just having to watch. His stomach rebelled at the thought of having to do their job. He wondered if everyone else was as sickened by this unfolding pageant as he was. Probably so, he decided, but that was little comfort. “Detail Halt!” The order sounded unnaturally loud in the morning stillness. Houston thought he could detect an extra note of harshness in the officer’s voice. That captain hates this almost as much as the prisoner does, he realized. He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that the officer had been up all night, steeling himself for what was to come. Houston heard another stirring in the ranks. “He’s coming,” came an excited whisper. “The General’s coming!” In spite of the grimness of the occasion, Houston felt a thrill of boyish excitement. This would be his first look at Andrew Jackson, the most exalted general on the frontier. Every man seemed to hold his breath as the General and his escort appeared. Mounted on horseback, they crossed the parade ground by the same route taken by the execution party. Houston felt oddly let down by his first glimpse of General Jackson. He really couldn’t have said just what he had been expecting, but the physical reality of Andrew Jackson was a decided disappointment. Even wrapped in his bulky blue Spanish cloak, the general gave the impression of scarecrow gauntness, an impression only heightened by the sight of his stork like legs in their knee-high black boots. Jackson’s face was averted as he rode past Houston’s platoon, but Houston did catch a glimpse of heavily graying hair beneath the general’s hat. He had always heard Jackson described as a fiery redhead with a temper to match, so he supposed all that gray had been acquired in recent months. Altogether, he decided, the general’s horse cut a much more impressive figure than did the general himself.
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