As Jackson’s men aimed their guns, strains of “Yankee Doodle” battled the British bugles and drums. The men gave three cheers, then blasted the entire line of redcoats with a round of deadly fire, and the staccato percussions rattled her bones.
And so it begins…
A rocket blazed a trail into the gray sky to Penny’s left and exploded in a silver-blue shower. Distant drums beat a steady march, and the fog lifted in the freshening breeze to fully reveal British soldiers approaching like a tidal wave, trampling the stubble of cut sugar cane straight into a sparkling sheet of fire.
The sky was alight with a shower of rockets, and on the opposite side of the field, a more significant British force emerged, advancing en masse as cannonballs tore up the ground. The sound was louder than the thunder of a thousand raging storms, and it seemed the world was exploding and crying out in pain.
Something’s wrong.
She scanned the mayhem surrounding her, looking for—what?
Then, a weird sensation like someone was walking over her grave sent shivers up and down her spine.
What does it mean? Is it a warning?
Had she forgotten an essential piece of history? Even if she had, there wasn’t anything she could do about it right now but push through and move on—which was what she did after being raped on this battlefield more than two hundred years in the future.
The American ramparts exploded in a burst of flame and smoke, and the concussion of the big guns rattled her teeth. The entire line from Carroll’s Tennesseans to the swamp was a solid blaze, but the ranks of the Tennesseans and Kentuckians never paused for breath. The enemy was blown high into the air, body parts flying. Men rushed in front of the approaching column carrying bundles and unwieldy ladders, and the Americans with long rifles cut them down to the continuing mournful dirges of bugles and bagpipes.
Push through and move on! Now!
She kept her mount at a steady trot through the smoke, coughing between shouts. “Give it to ’em, men. Make your shots count.”
As fast as one man fired, he stepped back for the next to take his place. By the time the fourth line had discharged its rifles, the first was aiming again. There were barely fifteen hundred rifles along the canal, but each one found its mark, and their murderous fire slammed into the enemy.
The ground shook, and she flinched.
The smoke was now as thick as the fog had been, burning her eyes and lungs.
The echo from the cannons was horrendous, sounding like ground-shaking peals of thunder. The earth was cracking to pieces, and flashes of fire seemed to burst out of the bowels of the earth. The sights and sounds were the most terrifying Penny had ever experienced.
The British artillery was ineffective.
“Just what we wanted,” Jackson roared. “We’re too strong for them. Let’s finish this today!”
As the battle continued, supplies ran low, and tempers ran high. Penny and Rick followed Jackson as he moved along the line, stopping at the Baratarians’ gun battery number three, where Dominique stood by a silent 24-pounder.
“By the Eternal!” Jackson yelled. “What’s the matter? Why aren’t you firing?”
Dominique looked up at Jackson, his face black from the smoke, his eyes swollen. “The powder is good for nothing—fit only to shoot blackbirds, not redcoats!”
Jackson turned to Rick. “Find Governor Claiborne. Tell him if he doesn’t send me balls and powder instantly, I’ll chop off his head and ram it into one of those fieldpieces.’”
Before Rick galloped off, he shot a glance at Penny and said with his eyes, “You promised to be careful.” And then he was gone.
You too, Rick.
The smoke was so thick it covered everything, but their men kept firing with deadly accuracy.
“Don’t let ’em climb up,” Penny yelled.
The Kentuckians barely glanced over the parapet before they swung their rifles and discharged them down on the enemy’s heads, killing them as they climbed.
A British officer clawed his way to the top of the parapet.
A dozen Kentucky muskets riddled him with bullets, and he pitched over at their feet.
“Oh, God.” She dismounted and hurried to him to offer what comfort she could. She’d served alongside British men and women, and to see this slaughter sickened her.
“You’re too brave to die, Major.”
He looked up at her. “I thank you.” Blood trickled from his mouth. “Tell my commander…I died here…on your parapet.”
He wouldn’t survive, and he would die in agony. She had to do something to ease his suffering. She found the auto-injector Remy had given her for an emergency, and she rammed it into the major’s arm. “There. That should ease your pain. Tell me. What’s your name?”
“Thomas…Wilk…in…son.”
She grabbed him under the shoulders and started dragging him away from the parapet. “I’m getting you out of here.” Two Tennesseans saw what she was doing and came to her aid. “Help me carry him to the rear.” She knew he was mortally wounded, but she didn’t want him to die on the battlefield. With the soldiers’ help, they moved him to the rear.
Penny sat with the major and held his head in her lap. As the pain slipped away, he talked about his home and family. And when he took his final breath, a single tear trickled down her cheek. While she didn’t want the men to see her cry, it was vital to her emotional healing to shed at least one tear for Major Wilkinson and his courage.
“You served your country well, Major.” She closed his eyes and continued to hold his lifeless body as seconds slid off the clock. But who among them cared about the time? Wilkinson was only one of the hundreds already killed or wounded, but to her, the major represented the senselessness of this killing field.
When she finally set his head on the ground, two soldiers covered him with their regimental colors. And that was all the time she had to give him.
She rushed back to the parapet, where a soldier was holding her horse’s reins. She mounted up again and rode the line, encouraging the men to make every shot count. By now, the British were climbing the shoulders of their fellow soldiers to reach the top, where they were then killed or captured.
A Tennessean crested the breastwork with his rifle, but when he aimed to fire, the gun jammed. Swearing, he seized the rifle by its barrel and slammed it butt-first at the nearest redcoat.
“Are you crazy? Get down.” She yelled, but her voice barely carried a few feet. It was hoarse from yelling over the explosions and raw from inhaling the smoke, and she was covered with soot.
Another Tennessean stood on top of the ramparts. Balancing himself, he brought his rifle to his cheek, threw back the broad brim of his hat, and fired.
“Get down!” Penny yelled. “Get down!” Crazy fools. Since he couldn’t hear her, she galloped toward him.
Another Tennessean jumped up there and waved a tomahawk, shouting, “Come, on boys! Let’s charge ’em.”
“Down! Down!” Penny yelled. “Get down! Get back to your post.” She grabbed a rifle out of a man’s hands and pointed it at the idiots. “I’ll shoot the first man who goes over the earthworks!”
She wasn’t about to shoot anyone, but they couldn’t abandon their positions and charge the enemy. On the field, they were no match for the larger and better-trained British forces, decimated though they were.
Grapeshot whistled through the air over her head. And a cannonball splashed into the canal, spraying her with icy water.
Her horse reared and shrieking, jerked to the side. In terrifying slow motion, with grapeshot whistling overhead, the gelding bucked her off, and she landed in a cold, muddy ditch.
49
New Orleans (1815)—Rick
By the time Rick rounded up the governor and had supplies delivered to Dominique, the rifles had quieted, but the cannons continued bombarding the enemy, and wounded British soldiers were still falling or staggering around like drunkards.
Rick rode the line, se
arching for Penny, stopping at each battery to ask about her. But most of the soldiers had been too busy practically coughing their lungs up from the heavy smoke to have seen her, including the general.
Then Rick got news of her ordering two crazy Tennesseans to get down off the ramparts where they were trying to lead a charge against the enemy. If Rick hadn’t been so worried, he would have chuckled at the animated retelling of Penny’s threat to shoot the climbers.
Would she have returned to Macarté’s mansion?
His gut said no. Penny wouldn’t go missing on the battlefield, short of being captured or killed, and he was almost sure the enemy hadn’t captured her. And heaven help them if they had. Then a chill, cold as a glacier, rolled down his spine. If the British had somehow captured her, Lieutenant Bowes would have a chance to interrogate her—or worse.
That left Rick with two terrifying possibilities. For now, though, he was ruling out capture since it seemed unlikely, but the likely scenario—wounded or killed—made his hammering heart almost burst through his ribs.
Earlier, he told Penny he was there to protect her, and he’d failed. If she was injured, he would take her immediately to the future—to Charlotte. She’d saved more than a few clan members over the years, and she’d save Penny, too.
Before he rode back to the swamp to check with Lafitte, Rick had to search the rear of the line where the wounded and dead waited for help or burial. He needed to be absolutely sure she wasn’t there, and delaying a search through the rows of wounded soldiers only put her life in more danger. A nineteenth-century surgeon could do more harm than good—like cut off an arm or leg that doctors in the twenty-first century could save.
His horse loped through the tree line toward the designated area, the moans and pitiful cries echoing louder than the bugles and drums had earlier. The sounds sickened him. They had no auto-injectors to handle post-traumatic pain, and the men’s agonized shrieks and moans were almost unbearable.
Remy had supplied Penny, Philippe, and Rick with auto-injectors to use if they were wounded, so Penny was sure to have one in her pocket, thank God.
He dismounted and hobbled his horse, but before he could begin his search, he pulled out his mother’s rosary and gripped it tightly.
I need Your help, dear God / Strengthen me with Your love and Your grace / Console me with Your blessed Presence / and grant me the courage to persevere…
He’d prayed the same prayer with his mother, and now he prayed it for Penny. How he felt at that moment was pretty much how he felt walking toward his mother’s hospital room, knowing the worst was waiting for him.
He started the long walk through the rows of wounded and dying American and British soldiers. Some were missing arms, others legs, all of them covered with blood and mud and makeshift bandages, and the ground around them had turned red with spilled blood…their own, their comrades’, and the enemy’s.
Each step inched him deeper into Hell.
He gritted his teeth, sickened by the inhumanity. His war had been just as hideous, and injuries just as grotesque, but the medical care made all the difference. His men didn’t suffer like these soldiers, who looked up at him with blank stares and faces twisted in pain.
His legs were leaden with fear, slowing him down as he trudged along the row of live oaks. Men who were able to sit leaned against the trunks of the giant trees, groaning.
He had one more section to walk through, and his heart hammered harder.
God, please don’t let her be here.
He squeezed the rosary tighter.
And then he saw her lifeless body. He rushed to her side and dropped to his knees. “Ohhh, God.” Tears burned his eyes as he reached for her wrist to take her pulse. When the beat thumped against his finger, he nearly had a heart attack.
“Penny, babe, can you hear me?” He ran his hands down her arms and legs, then her neck to her shoulders, over her breasts, on both sides of her rib cage, and down her abdomen. There were no wounds or visibly broken bones. He lifted her slightly to feel the back of her head. A gooey substance matted her hair, but when he checked his hand, it was coated with mud—not blood.
But then he was hit with another icy chill, and this one coated his skin. If she fell, she could have a head injury.
One of the surgeons paused next to them. “Two soldiers brought her in. They said her horse threw her and she landed in a ditch. She doesn’t have any wounds to treat, so there’s nothing I can do for her.”
Rick stared at the doctor. The man might not see any, but she was definitely injured. If she had a spinal injury, the men who moved her could have caused more damage. He had to get her to Remy. Fuck, no! He had to take her to Charlotte. Now!
His emotions were a churning cocktail of fear and guilt, and guilt was the pervading emotion, ejecting him into a tunnel where saving her was his only thought. The only sound he heard above the roar of the cannons was the pounding of his heart in his ears, screaming, “You miserable fuck! You failed.”
He dropped his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have left you.”
“Then kiss me, and…I’ll…forgive you.” Her voice was hoarse and throaty.
He slid his hands down his face and stared at her. Nothing had changed. Her face was still blank, her eyes closed, and her body hadn’t changed positions. Did he imagine she spoke to him? Adrenaline made his pulse throb in his neck.
“Babe, if you can hear me, blink.” He held his breath and waited.
She blinked. “I’m waiting.”
He let out his breath. “For what?” he managed to ask calmly, although his heart and mind were racing feverishly.
She blinked. She spoke.
“For the kiss,” she said, with such dry expectation that he had to chuckle.
She wanted a kiss! Had the fall shaken up her brain? “A kiss? Hell, yeah, babe.” He lowered his head and gently touched his lips to hers. Hers were cold and surprisingly soft, but he didn’t linger there. It wasn’t the time, but he’d make up for it later. He raised his head and gazed into her now-open eyes. “Your mouth works. How about your arms and legs?”
“My toes and fingertips are freezing. Get me out of here.” She lifted her head, and he put his arm around her shoulders.
“Let’s go slow, m-kay?” He helped her sit up. “Are you dizzy?”
“A little bit, but help me stand, and we’ll see how it goes.”
He got her to her feet, and she wobbled, so he wrapped her in his arms and held her there. “I was so scared when I couldn’t find you.”
“I was too close to the battery. A cannonball landed and splashed cold, muddy water on me. It spooked the horse. He reared and jerked, and down I went. Thank God for the soft landing, or I could have made a mess of things.”
He didn’t want to let her go, but they were standing in the middle of wounded, screaming men, and he had to get her out of there. “Lean against this tree while I go get the horse.” He didn’t release her arms until she was braced against the live oak. “Don’t move.”
He raced back through the rows of injured men. In his war, every one of them would have been medivaced to a hospital, but it wasn’t an option for these heroes.
He couldn’t bear to walk through the rows of wounded again, so he led his horse through the trees to the other side of the tree line.
Penny’s eyes were closed, and her body was as still as the tree trunk she leaned against. And for a moment he couldn’t take another step. He was frozen, cemented, stuck in time, and he couldn’t stop thinking of how good she’d felt in his arms, and how much he wanted to hold her again until she was warm and purring.
Purring? Penny didn’t purr. She roared.
“Come on, sweetheart. I want Remy to check you out. He’ll decide whether to keep you on the injured roster or not.”
“I’m just a little dizzy.”
“You can tell him that.” Rick kissed the top of her head, using the kiss as a way to tell her silently that he’d protect her
always, even though he’d failed this time. He helped her up into the saddle, then took hold of the bridle and walked the horse toward the mansion.
They hadn’t gotten ten yards when a shower of grapeshot whistled overhead and exploded into the house. The horse tried to rear, but Rick had a good grip, so the animal could only stomp and try to move away while he murmured soothingly, patting its withers. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.”
“Fuck!” Penny yelled. “Is Soph in there? Pete? Remy?”
“Yeah,” Rick said, gulping. “I gotta go. Can you control this horse?”
“Sure. Go. I’ll be behind you.” She was already dismounting.
“Don’t go inside,” he shouted as he dashed toward the house.
Another explosion wracked the dwelling, starting other fires while flames engulfed a bottom corner of the house. Men formed a bucket brigade and were pouring water on the fire leaping out of the windows where the doctors had set up their surgery.
He ran toward the back entrance, yelling. “Pete! Remy!”
“Rick!” He whipped around to spot Sophia standing far away from the fire.
“Where’s Pete?”
“He and Remy are looking for Tommy.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the corner of the house in flames.
Rick ran over to the bucket brigade, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. He couldn’t stand around analyzing the situation. He had to act. “Give me a bucket of water.”
He pulled out a handkerchief, upended the bucket, soaked himself and the handkerchief, then darted into the firestorm, neither booted nor suited for what he was doing. After what he’d already been through, he was tempting fate. But he had no choice.
A wall of heat and the sharp bite of smoke hit him immediately in a nasty meet and greet, while flames licked across the floor and climbed the walls. Even as he tied his wet handkerchief around his nose and mouth, the smoke changed intensity and color and made his eyes and lungs burn.
“Pete! Remy!”
“Over here,” Pete yelled.
Rick watched dark orange flames flicker upward. “You’ve got to get out of here.” His instincts took complete control, guiding his vision in a lightning-fast sweep of the interior of the room.
The Topaz Brooch Page 56
