“I thought for sure you’d recognize the uniform of the Tennessee Militia.”
“I do, madam. I just don’t… Well, it’s not appropriate.”
“I understand that, sir. But there’s a war going on, and sometimes you have to do the unexpected. I want to document your preparations for the upcoming battle in a visual format so you can share with the president, the press, and your wife, or save the images for your memoir. I thought it would be more convenient if I play the role of a clerk and sit unobtrusively in the corner.”
He plucked at his chin, and several seconds passed while he considered her proposal. Then he sighed. “Very well. If you’re to be my clerk, then what should I call you?”
“How about Private Orsini, or just private, or, hey you, pencil boy. I’ll answer to anything. Or, if you prefer, snap your fingers.”
“Well, Private Orsini, gather your art supplies. We’re going to meet General Coffee, and then I have an appointment with the privateer Jean Lafitte.”
He could have knocked her over with his riding crop. Lafitte? Unbelievable. She had dreamed of painting the privateer, but she didn’t think she’d have a chance, and now to be present when he and Jackson met to discuss ammunition and defenses was almost as exciting as being in the room with Thomas, James Madison, and Alexander Hamilton when they pounded out the terms of the Compromise of 1790.
Jackson seemed to study her again. Then he said, “There are rumors that I’m dictatorial and arbitrary, and if forced to retreat, I’ll adopt the Russian scorched-earth policy and destroy the city rather than let it fall into enemy hands. What’s your opinion, Private?”
“Mine?” She took a deep breath. “I’m not a merchant, landowner, or banker. You should ask them.”
“They’re the ones who started the damn rumor.”
“I understand why they’re concerned. These people have labored for years to build their investments, but there’s no guarantee if the British take New Orleans that they’ll let the bankers and merchants keep what they have. They probably intend to send the cotton, sugar, and corn back to England. So why turn all that over to them? Don’t leave them anything but ashes.”
Jackson rolled up a map and tapped it against his palm. “My sentiments exactly.”
“But, General,” she wasn’t through yet. “On the other hand, you can’t afford to lose this battle. Louisiana is part of the United States. If England takes one of us, it takes all of us. You’re fighting for a lot more than the Crescent City.”
“That’s a heavy burden, madam.”
“But one you can carry, General.”
“Thank you for your confidence.”
“I do have a question, and I’d like your honest opinion.”
“You’ll always have my honesty, Private Orsini.”
“My husband is searching for a friend at the plantations on the other side of the river. Is he safe there?”
“Is he not in uniform?”
“Not this time, but he fought for his country in another war, and he can handle himself if that’s what you’re asking.”
“A man like that should be on my staff. When he returns, tell him I want to see him.”
She laughed. “Pete will agree just to keep his eye on me.”
An easy double-knock interrupted their light banter.
“Come in,” the general said.
“Your horse is ready, sir, and Private Malone saddled one of your carriage horses for”—the soldier nodded toward Sophia—“your artist.”
She had Tommy to thank for blowing her cover.
The general set his black bicorne atop his wiry hair. “Excellent. Tell Mr. Fontenot when he returns that I might have an interview with Mr. Lafitte today.”
“Mr. Fontenot said he wouldn’t be back until dark.”
“Tell Mr. Livingston that Mr. Fontenot won’t be available to meet with the pirate. Is there anything else, Sergeant?”
“Mr. Claiborne asked for an interview with you. He’s trying to get an accurate count of the volunteer troops, but he’s complaining about the men. He said they act on a whim and switch from company to company and commander to commander, making it impossible to count, so he’s issued a General Militia Order to put a stop to it.”
Jackson swung his cape around his shoulders. “I’m not concerned about propriety. I want men on the line, equipped to fight regardless of what unit they belong to. The only thing I won’t tolerate is desertion or neglect of duty. And I’ll shoot any man”—he glanced at Sophia—“who does either. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said. “I’ll tell him.”
“Come along, Private. General Coffee’s arrived, and he’ll expect me to ride out to meet him.”
“Where’s he encamped?” Sophia asked.
“Avart’s Plantation.”
“With Major General Carroll?”
“How’d you know that?”
Sophia followed him outside. “You mentioned going out to see him yesterday,”
Jackson stopped and looked at her. “Do you remember everything you hear?”
Was that a trick question? Was he afraid she would overhear secret battle plans or was he worried she would forget something important he said?
“I always remember the context surrounding a painting or drawing. Does that answer your question?”
“I believe it does.”
Six soldiers mounted on prancing horses were waiting in front of the general’s headquarters. Tommy stood next to a white Thoroughbred holding the reins in one hand and holding the reins for two other horses in the other.
After the general mounted the white stallion, Tommy handed Sophia the reins while he cinched the flank strap on the smaller of the two horses. “Ya ready?”
She handed him back one set of reins and kept the other. “Does this horse have a name?”
“Ralph.”
She put her foot in the stirrup and swung her leg over the saddle. “Why not Bob or Fred?”
“Don’t reckon I know,” Tommy said. “Guess the previous owner was partial to the name.”
The horse rolled a dark eye toward her, indicating by a turn of his ear how much he disliked the name. She didn’t blame him.
She was turning into a decent horsewoman, but it hadn’t happened overnight. And now riding with a general and his detail put her horsemanship skills to shame. She’d heard stories of Braham McCabe riding with the Union Cavalry, and for the first time, she had a sense of how striking he must have looked wearing the blue cavalry uniform and mounted on his Morgan. That was a picture she’d love to paint, but not enough to go back to Virginia in 1864 to get a live painting of him.
She followed Tommy’s lead, and at his signal, pulled up beside him. When Jackson looked back, he wasn’t smiling, but his face was softer, no longer stricken with pain. He rode like a centaur—as if he was born on top of a horse—dressed in his cape and half-moon shaped hat.
“Ya have to keep up,” Tommy said, “or he won’t take ya out again.”
She was lagging and couldn’t help it. The visual stimulation stirred her artistic imagination, and her mind was placing elements on a canvas faster than she could blink. She wanted to capture the awe scrolling across the faces of the civilians and soldiers, the sight of their hero momentarily pushing aside all fears and concerns. Maybe this was the third layer of her street-scene painting.
She clucked, urging Ralph into a faster trot.
Two soldiers took the lead, Jackson next, two more soldiers behind him, followed by Sophia and Tommy. The final two soldiers took up the rear. The last time she rode in a formation, she’d been with General Lafayette in Paris. She shuddered at the memory of the angry crowd storming the Bastille and the violent days that followed.
She yanked her attention back to the present. There was too much she needed to watch right now to have her head in the past. “How far is the Avart Plantation?”
“Four miles above the city.”
“I don’t know anything about G
eneral Coffee. Do you know him?”
“He’s the general’s kinsman, married to Miz Jackson’s niece. He commanded troops durin’ the Creek Wars. I heard they was business partners way back.”
Kinsman, fighter, former partner. They would have a strong bond. How could she show the relationship? Probably in their body language. She’d have to pay special attention to the way they moved and their proximity to each other.
“How many soldiers did he bring with him?”
“Eight hundred mounted Tennesseans. They rode a hundred thirty-five miles in three days to get here. That’s fast. The rest of his forces, about twelve hundred, are close behind.”
“So General Jackson is going out to give him an assignment? Or what?”
“He’s gonna tell him to prepare for a fandango with the British during the Christmas holidays. He’ll have to make do with the troops he’s got with him.”
“Fandango?” she smiled. “I take it that’s not a dance.”
Tommy snickered. “No, ma’am.” Then he sobered. “The general’s been to all the points of entry and tried to strengthen the ones most likely to attract the British. But it’s impossible. He’s never seen a city so defenseless. There are too many water routes, and the troops he’s got can’t cover all of ’em. The only thing he can do is spread ’em and wait to see what happens.”
“He’s got mobility, though, right? I mean, he can move troops quickly. But why would the British have a…fandango? That would give away their position.”
“No, ma’am. It would likely be a diversion to take a look at our troop strength. The General is in bad need of troops. He’s even planning to release military prisoners if they promise to bear arms against the enemy.”
“They probably rather fight than sit in a cell wonderin’ what’s happenin’.”
When they reached the encampment, Sophia dismounted and followed Jackson while the rest of the men hung back. She grabbed paper and pencil and stopped long enough to make a quick sketch of the encampment. She’d start wide, set the scene, then zero in on the two generals. The context was crucial here: an overcast day, hundreds of tough, hardened veterans, horses turned out in makeshift corrals, smoky campfires, canvas tents, soldiers lounging near the campfires smoking or chewing. Without that context, the two men could be meeting on the front lawn at The Hermitage and talking about breeding horses instead of how to defend New Orleans.
Jackson’s shoulders straightened as soon as he saw his friend. The generals walked toward each other, and she hurried to get ahead of Jackson so she could see his face the moment they clasped hands. And when they did, she detected tears in Jackson’s hawklike eyes.
The two generals sat on a log and drank coffee that even from a distance smelled overcooked, but they didn’t seem to mind. They sipped and talked and gestured toward the troops encamped nearby. She couldn’t hear their conversation, but every once in a while, Jackson glanced in her direction. Was he checking to see if she was still there, or did he see something he wanted her to capture on paper? They would have to come up with a signal so she would know what he wanted.
She wished Pete was here so he could share her excitement and see that she wasn’t in danger, not with eight hundred battle-tested soldiers surrounding her. She was more worried about him than he should be about her.
About an hour later, the soldier who had entered the office with the message before they left headquarters rode up, dismounted on the run, and handed Jackson a note. He read it, pocketed the piece of paper, and the soldier rode off without a return message.
The general stood and shook hands with Coffee again, then turned and nodded at Sophia. The meeting was over. She’d gotten a few good sketches and one that would make a beautiful painting to hang at the Hermitage. She gathered her pencils and paper and hurried after the general.
“Where to next, sir?”
“I have an appointment with that damn pirate at his residence on Bourbon Street.”
Sophia returned her pencils and paper to the crossbody bag and jogged to keep up with him. “He might be a damn pirate, but you can’t win this battle without him.”
“That’s what everyone says, madam. I just hope they’re right.”
31
New Orleans (1814)—Billie
Billie paced across the parlor. Her mind was puking up semi-incoherent thoughts. Jean wasn’t the least bit worried about meeting General Jackson, but Billie was. Not because they were in danger, but because this was a historic moment. She was about to meet an early version of the seventh President of the United States, and she was hard-pressed to wrap her mind around it.
“Wilhelmina,” Jean called.
“In here,” she said, stopping at the window when she caught her reflection in the dirty glass. Day-ummm! She was one badass-looking babe.
He entered the room, his heels clicking to an abrupt stop when he saw her. “Merde.”
Adrenaline fueled her readiness, making the tips of her fingers tingle. She didn’t care whether he liked the costume or not. She wasn’t about to change.
He crossed over to her and slowly circled, almost growling, taking her in from every angle. “Splendid, my dear. I thought you looked like a queen at dinner with the British officers. But now you look like an Amazon warrior.” He spoke with his hands, not arms or even eyebrows, but almost entirely fingers—long and slim and expressive—and they seemed to dance in the air. “You are a story come brilliantly to life. Marguerite dressed you from a vision in my mind.”
She almost rolled her eyes at his theatrics. If she hadn’t already felt empowered, she would have now, and it was the first time since landing in the past that she had control over her life…or thought she did. “You don’t like me in trousers.”
He didn’t answer at first, and then he gave her the one-eye inspection. “This is different. And Marguerite has created a masterpiece.”
“I sent her a list of suggestions. I asked for a velvet jacket, but she preferred brocade. She made the trousers out of leather and used blue silk for the waistcoat. Although as long as the jacket is, I think it’s more of a coat. Maybe that’s why you like it—because you can’t see my legs.”
“It wasn’t your legs that I didn’t want you exposing to my men. It was your…derrière.” He flitted his hand. “And the red plume…” He ran the feather through his fingers. “Such a brilliant shade of red.”
“I asked for a splash of color, and she gave me the red plume and cummerbund. Marguerite is extremely talented.”
He fluffed Billie’s hair. “I haven’t seen it so wavy before.”
“Estelle has magic fingers. I left it to her. But this”—Bille patted her cutlass, and it clinked against her leg—“came from Dominique’s collection, as did the pistols.”
“Dominique is particular about his weapons. He doesn’t share.” Jean gave her a quiet smile that quickly morphed into something bigger and unreadable. “He’s very fond of you, mon Capitaine.”
“I forgave him for drugging me, although it did take a few days. He told me to keep the cutlass and cut out his heart if he ever caused me any pain again.” The shell hilt of the cutlass was sheeted with gold and encrusted with turquoise and was far more exquisite than any cutlass she’d ever seen in a museum.
“He collected that from a Spanish galleon several years ago.”
“It’s beautiful.” She fingered the hilt, thinking of how valuable it was to Dominique, yet he parted with it. “I need a privateer’s name, a nom de guerre.”
“What’s wrong with mon Capitaine?”
“That’s what you and Dominique call me. I need my own name. A name to go with black leather. There are famous female pirates like Grace O’Malley, Mary Read, Anne Bonny. It could be Willie or Lucy, or even the Scarlet Pimpernel, I don’t care, but something with character.”
“How about Penny?” Jean said.
“Hmm. My mother loved to tease me, calling me her ‘shiny new penny,’ because I was always getting dirty and coming home cover
ed with mud. After she died, no one ever called me that again.” Billie didn’t know why, but it seemed perfect for her new persona.
“So now I will call you Penny, not mon Capitaine.”
“I could go by a first name only, but also having a last name is more…I don’t know…official.”
“Use Lafitte,” Jean remarked casually.
She tented her fingers and tapped them against her lips as she considered his offer. “You’d loan me your name? What if I do something to disgrace it?”
He laughed so hard he choked. “What could you do that Dominique and I haven’t already done?”
“Well, that’s a thought. I could be your sister. No. Not a sister. A cousin. Then when I dress up, I can be Wilhelmina. Hmm. I need an eye patch.”
“And a wooden leg?”
“No, I won’t go that far. But an eye patch would be a nice addition for Penny Lafitte.”
Jean tugged at his chin beard. “Dominique,” he yelled.
Dominique popped into the room, chewing on a cigar.
“Mon Capitaine wants a privateer’s name. What do you think of my cousin, Penny Lafitte?”
Dominique rolled his cigar around between his lips and crossed his arms over his burly chest. He remained silent, but looked amused, with a down-turned grin. He slowly nodded as if he’d come to a decision. Without a word, he picked up a decanter. “A new name isn’t legal till we drink to it.” He poured three glasses and gave one to Billie, and one to Lafitte. “To Penny Lafitte, cousin of the irascible Jean Lafitte, Commander of Barataria. To Penny…”
“Aye,” Jean said. They clinked glasses and threw back their shots.
Dominique glanced at the decanter as if considering another round but shrugged. “Where are your maps?”
“On the dining room table. I don’t plan to offer them to the general until we have an agreement.”
“Mr. Livingston assured me the general is coming here to do just that,” Dominique said.
“Excuse me.” Billie left the room and found Estelle folding clothes. “Estelle, do you have anything to make a black eye patch or blue dye I can put in my hair?”
The Topaz Brooch Page 37
