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army here. If speeches and harangues didn't work, Jackson would simply have them shot.
There was a reason, after all, that the word "tyrant" originated from the ancient Greek republics. Who else but a tyrant could make such a risible form of government work at all, in times of crisis?
Pakenham sighed, and ran fingers through his hair. It was an easy, natural gesture. Somewhat to Ross's surprise, Wellington's brother-in-law had proven to be remarkably free—so far, at least—of any trace of the haughty stiffness he had expected.
Albeit tentatively, Ross decided he rather liked the man, for all of Pakenham's handsome looks and flashy reputation.
Like Ross himself, Pakenham came from Ireland—although, in Pakenham's case, from the upper crust of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy. He was only thirty-seven years old, but, again like Ross himself, he had been fighting for many years. With his family connections, he'd become a major in the Ulster Light Dragoons before his seventeenth birthday.
Thereafter, Pakenham's rise through the ranks had been based upon his own ability. His reputation had been made solid by his impetuous headlong assault against the leading French column at the battle of Salamanca. Wellington's great victory there had opened the road into Spain during the Peninsular War.
But it was becoming obvious to Ross that beneath that reputation lay a very fine and capable military brain. And one whose experience was almost as extensive as his own.
Pakenham was still looking at Ross, the man he was replacing. The relationship between the two men was potentially fraught with difficulty. They both knew it, even though not a word had been said by either on the subject.
So, making his movements appear more weak than they needed to be, Ross