by Beth White
DECEMBER 14, 1814
CHANDELEUR ISLANDS SOUTH OF NEW ORLEANS
In the aftermath of the battle, Charlie stood watch on the gun deck of the Sophie, grateful that the flagship was still afloat, despite her mauled rigging and gaping holes in her bow. Two of the forty-five British barges rowed across Lake Borgne had been blown out of the water or sunk by American cannon fire, but only seventeen of fifteen hundred sailors and marines had been lost, with the wounded already evacuated aboard the Anaconda. The remaining force, covered in blood, gore, and gunpowder but jubilant at their resounding victory, had been set to securing the five captured American gunboats and their tender ship, then taking their crews prisoner. The one-gun schooner USS Sea Horse languished at the bottom of the lake.
The Americans had fired first, shortly after eleven o’clock, a long shot from one of their little flat gunboats. With no wind to fill their sails, they had been forced to sit and wait at the top of the lake, draped in boarding net like insects caught in giant spider webs as the British barges rowed straight toward them. After that opening salvo, Captain Lockyer gave the order to return fire, keeping it up until they got close enough to the American boats to board—at which point the hand-to-hand fighting with muskets, pistols, sabers, and hatchets began in earnest and lasted for nearly two brutal hours.
Boarding the closest American gunboat, Charlie had thrown himself into action, doing his best to quickly disable the enemy. Despite a gunshot wound to the shoulder, Lockyer managed to keep the Sophie more or less intact for the duration of the battle, and in God’s mercy Charlie returned with no more than a scraped cheekbone and bruised shoulder.
Now, as his men herded the prisoners onboard, Charlie watched the Americans’ faces, feeling their chagrin, feeling their anxiety over what was about to happen to their waterlogged, swampy, alligator-infested scrap of land. He wanted to reassure them that it didn’t matter—that none of these British invaders really wanted to stay, none of them cared for anything except the loot they would carry home as prize money. But he kept his mouth shut lest he give himself away.
There was a girl. A girl he was going to claim as his prize.
He just had to make it to the end of the next battle. And the next. Until it was over.
Please, God, let it be over soon.
DECEMBER 20, 1814
VILLERÉ PLANTATION
At Conseil, everyone’s nerves remained on edge, from Major General Villeré himself on down to the lowliest field hand. News of the disastrous battle of Lake Borgne reached the plantations along the river shortly after General Jackson summoned Generals Coffee and Carroll from Baton Rouge and Natchez respectively. The subsequent declaration of martial law in New Orleans made Jackson’s word law, curtailing all travel in and out of the city, except for those carrying military passes, and establishing a curfew after dark.
To escape the panicked fluttering and chirping of the Villeré women, Fiona disappeared into the kitchens, where the slaves continued to work with a stoic attitude of c’est la vie that she found both comforting and amusing. At first the slaves had received her with reservation. But when they realized she was used to waiting upon herself—in fact, hardly knew what to do with the coddling expected by Madame and her daughters (the Lanier family for a variety of reasons having never been slave owners)—Fiona was allowed to come and go pretty much as she pleased.
This afternoon she sat in a little cane rocker, toasting her feet by the kitchen fire and watching Ishmael’s wife, Lulu, knead biscuit dough for supper. Rachel, Madame Villeré and Miss Juliet’s maid, sat mending stockings by the light of a lamp on the butcher-block table. The three of them had been singing a hymn, laughing when one or the other forgot the words, but halted mid-verse when the kitchen door slammed hard enough to rattle the crockery in the cupboard. Ishmael stalked in, carrying two empty brandy bottles and several dirty snifters on a silver tray.
He had been up in the second-floor library, waiting upon a group of militia officers billeted at the plantation with young Major Gabriel Villeré and his brother Celestine—which was the main reason Fiona had escaped this time. She was in no mood to flirt or be flirted with, no matter what Judah said about her need for a husband.
“Be careful, you gon’ break them glasses and make a mess,” Lulu told her husband as he dropped the tray upon the table.
“That boy’s spoilt rotten, all they is to it.” Ishmael took the glasses to the sink, where a bucket of clean water waited.
“Which boy?” Rachel asked, whipping the stocking in her hand out of danger of wine stains.
“Master Gabriel.” Ishmael sloshed water into the glasses, then picked up a knife to shave a curl of lye soap into each one. “Bragging how he’s got better sense than to obey a order calculated to waste everybody’s time—when we all know he just be pure-dee lazy.”
Fiona would have to agree with that assessment. Though she admired their father, General Villeré, she had frankly been avoiding Gabriel and Celestine and their cocky military friends. “What order?”
“The one Big General Jackson issued, right after he got here—to fell trees across all the bayous runnin’ into the city. Master Gabriel say wasn’t nobody coming in by Bayou Bienvenue noway—that’s the one drains into our canefield here—and if he blocked it up, he’d just have to go to the trouble of unblocking it later. Then yesterday Jackson tell General Villeré to set a ’round-the-clock guard at the mouth of the bayous, and he put Master Gabriel in charge of Bienvenue. But you think he gon’ mind his pa?” Ishmael snorted. “He send a twelve-man picket down there, mostly field hands, and come home to throw a drinking party. He gon’ have the redcoats marching in, murdering us all in our sleep.”
Fiona met Rachel’s wide, frightened brown eyes and said, “Now, Ishmael, I’m sure we needn’t be so worried as all that. Gabriel is just as fond of his own skin as any of us.”
Ishmael shook his grizzled head. “He is that, if not more so, but I say why take chances?”
“Is my brother up there now?” Fiona rose.
“Yes’m. But Madame told Miss Juliet to stay away from the men and their drinking, so I don’t think—”
“My brother won’t let anything happen to me.” Leaving Ishmael muttering to himself and the two women to their tasks, she left the kitchen and walked through the butler’s pantry, then up the stairs to the family living quarters. From the hallway she could hear raucous male laughter coming from behind the library door. The library was, generally speaking, the territory of the men of the house, though she had slipped in when nobody was there, to borrow a history or biography when she was bored. Now she hesitated, but when she heard Judah’s voice responding to whatever joke had just been shared, she knocked firmly.
The laughter broke off. “Who’s there?” That sounded like Gabriel, his tone jovial, the consonants a bit slurred.
“It’s Fiona Lanier. I’d like to speak to my brother for a minute.”
After a moment, the door was yanked open. Gabriel stood blinking at her, his smile tipsy. “Miss Lanier! I wondered where you’d got off to this afternoon. Please, come in and meet my friends!”
“No, thank you. I just want to see—”
“Fiona.” Judah shoved Gabriel out of the way, stepped out into the hall, and closed the door behind him. “You don’t have any business around this rough lot. Is something the matter?”
She searched his face. He didn’t look drunk, but Judah was hard to read sometimes. “I don’t know. Is it?”
He scowled. “What do you mean?”
“Ishmael just came down and said you men are having a party when you should be guarding the bayous.”
“Ishmael is an old woman. As a matter of fact, we were just celebrating the fact that Jackson relented and pardoned the Baratarians. He let the ones in jail go free and issued a safe conduct pass for Laffite to come into the city to confer with the general and his staff. Things are about to get interesting around here.”
“Judah, you weren’t raised
to intoxication. Mama would be very disappointed in you.”
“I’m not intoxicated. And you’re not my mama. So go away before I—”
“Must I remind you that you are the one who brought me here, much against my will? I would be happy to go back to the cavalry, where at least I could be useful!”
“Oh, and wouldn’t Mama be proud to hear that? Her only daughter wanting to go back to dressing like a boy and swaggering around amongst a bunch of horse infantry?”
“Horse infantry who treated me with respect and didn’t leer at me like a—like a piece of candy!”
“Who is leering at you? I’ll call him out right now!”
“Your friend Gabriel did, as a matter of fact!”
“He did not!”
“Yes, he did!”
Behind her, someone cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Miss Fiona. Mr. Judah.”
She turned.
Ishmael stood there, clearly trying not to roll his eyes. “They’s a message for you, Mr. Judah. You’re to meet Mr. Laffite at the Temple. He’s been sent there to confer with Jackson’s commanders about defending the Barataria Bay entrance to the city.”
16
DECEMBER 20, 1814
PEA ISLAND SOUTH OF NEW ORLEANS
Charlie took his ration of salt pork and ale over to the meager protection from the night wind provided by a stand of reeds. Easton was already there, squatting upon his camp stool, shivering like a jelly—though, truthfully, Charlie could barely remember what a jelly looked like, let alone what one tasted like—and writing in a small book he carried around. The two of them had quite become mates during the last week, partly because they had endured the miserable ten-hour trip across Lake Borgne together, but mostly because Charlie could count on the quiet young lieutenant from Kent not to pester him with questions.
Charlie popped his own canvas stool open and sat down. Too cold to make conversation, he tore off a bite of pork with his teeth and chewed.
Assigned to Colonel Thornton’s command, he and Easton, plus a handful of other officers and eighteen hundred enlisted men, had been rowed over on barges—crammed in cheek by jowl in lots of eighty, unable to so much as lean over. Pea Island was the optimistic name of this forlorn little bog, where they were to wait for two more contingents under Colonel Keane and Admiral Cochrane. At some unspecified time, they would be rowed even farther up a series of bayous, then slog through a giant cypress swamp onto a plantation—where, presumably, some sort of action would occur.
After a few moments of silent mastication—no one would call this dining—he bumped Easton’s arm, provoking a mild “Curse you, Kincaid, you smeared my ink.” Easton, the son of a clergyman, was known for temperance in drink and language. And the fact that he was keeping a journal.
Charlie smiled. “What are you going on about tonight? Your pet alligator?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m going on about a rude, empty-headed Scot who can’t seem to shut up about the wildlife.”
“All right, then, let’s discuss the daily monsoons and the way our clothes freeze to our bodies when the sun goes down.” Charlie squeezed the tail of his jacket, which crunched under its film of ice.
“Happened all the time when my father took me hunting as a boy,” Easton said, shuddering, “but at least then we had a campfire to look forward to when it was over. Not a tree in sight around here to break the wind, let alone build a fire.”
“Plenty of wild ducks. We could have a good hunt.” Charlie paused to listen to the night sounds in the marsh all around the little patch of ground the army had picked for its rendezvous. “Easton, do you think God is here with us?”
Easton gave him a funny look. “God is everywhere.”
“I mean, do you think God is on our side? In this attack?”
Easton sighed. “I can’t think of it that way.”
“Why not? Don’t you think he cares?”
“I think he grieves.”
“Then why are you here?”
Easton shrugged. “Same reason as you, I imagine. Younger son of a gentleman, needing a vocation. The military was my best option.”
“Don’t you want to marry?”
“One day, when I get home with my prize money and settle down. There’s a girl I write to when I’m not describing alligators.” Easton paused. “Kincaid, you’re melancholy tonight. What’s troubling you?”
“Just what I said. I’m afraid this American venture isn’t like Trafalgar or Salamanca. I think we’re in the wrong. And I think God will judge us for it.”
Laying a finger over his lips, Easton did a quick look-round over his shoulder. “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that!”
“I won’t. And don’t think I plan to desert, or anything mad like that. I’m just thinking about liberty and humanity and things my grandfather tried to teach me a long time ago, before I cared to hear them.”
“All right,” Easton said cautiously. “Just realize there’s nothing you can do about it now.”
“I know.” Charlie felt better, just speaking his doubts aloud. “But I also wanted to ask a favor of you, if you don’t mind. If I don’t make it past whatever they’re taking us into, would you write to my grandfather and tell him I remember what he said? And this is very important—ask him to write to the Gonzales family to tell them I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Just . . . they’ll know. The Gonzaleses. Don’t forget.”
“Kincaid, I don’t know what to make of you, old fellow.”
“Neither do I, Easton,” Charlie sighed. “Neither do I.”
DECEMBER 23, 1814
VILLERÉ PLANTATION
Dressed in one of Juliet’s old gowns, unfashionably full in the skirt and modest of bodice, Fiona slipped down the stairs midmorning and whistled to call the dogs. The Villeré brothers’ setters, Castor and Pollux, had grown a bit fat and lazy from lying about in front of the fire during the winter cold snap, but they got up amiably and followed her to the back door. Removing her slippers and pulling on boots as protection from the mud, she slung her cloak around her shoulders and stepped outside. The rain had cleared during the night, leaving a bright, chilly morning, a good day to walk down to the levee and climb up to watch the mighty Mississippi roll by.
She could hear Gabriel and Celestine talking and laughing on the front verandah, where they’d repaired after breakfast to clean their hunting guns. The other men of their company were presumably employed elsewhere on the property, their father attending General Jackson somewhere in the city, Madame and the girls of the family upstairs sewing.
Nobody would miss her if she disappeared for a while.
She hadn’t seen her brother since he left three days earlier to join Laffite’s unit, assigned to the American ship Louisiana—which, until the Baratarians were pardoned and released, had languished in port with no crew available. She supposed Judah was happy now. He’d always been a man of action, loathe to sit at home when he could be sailing or hunting or fishing.
She kicked at an oyster shell in the moss-draped, tree-lined gravel walkway, smiling when one of the dogs growled playfully. Frankly, she’d rather be with Judah on the ship than stuck here, waiting for this stupid war to end so she could go home. She should never have come here, she’d admit it to herself and God. She’d finally written to Maddy to let her know she was safe, but hadn’t had a letter back yet. It would be just like Uncle Rafa to come over and fetch her. If he did, she would have to concede to the inevitable.
The path entered the orange grove, where fat ripe fruit hung low on laden branches. She plucked one and began to peel it, licking the juice from her fingers and relishing the sweetness. By the time she had it open and ready to eat, the dogs had run ahead of her into the barren canefield, where the stubbled stalks bristled like a three-day beard. She followed the dogs at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sun filtering through the dwindling trees, the breeze riffling her cloak, and the sound of the water rushing beyond the levee.
At the edge of the canefield, where it dissolved into mud, she halted, turned. That was it. She should have encountered at least a few pickers in the grove.
Then toward the back of the grove, a flash of bright orange was followed by the sharp report of gunfire. Hunters? Gabriel or Celestine couldn’t have reached that particular spot this quickly. Breath suddenly high in her throat, she tried to think. Instinct told her there was something wrong. Run for the house? The orange grove was the only way to get there. The sugarhouse might have provided shelter, but the open ground around it would leave her completely exposed. At her back was the levee, eight feet high. A ladder leaned against it, but would she really be safer there? Where else could she go? The slave quarters, situated not far away to the south seemed like the only option.
Two more gunshots exploded in the grove, closer to the main house.
She looked for the dogs and called in a harsh whisper, “Castor! Pollux!” Then she heard them barking in the distance. Hunting dogs, heading for downed prey. Abandoning them, she ran for the nearest slave cabin, bounded up the porch steps, and banged on the front door. “Hello! Open up! Please, it’s Fiona—”
No answer, so she tried the latch. When it opened, she stepped inside. Natural light spilled through cracks in the walls and a partially open window, revealing a dank little room containing a rude table, four stools, and several simple bedsteads covered with neat patchwork quilts. As far as she could tell, it was otherwise empty.
She went to the open window facing the sugarhouse and peered out. Motion inside the mill told her where the slaves had gone. Anxiously she watched, hoping someone would emerge and sound the all clear.
On the thought, the first redcoat appeared, then a line of them marched past the window, their boots and breeches coated to the hips in slimy mud. They carried their bayonetted muskets in firing position, cocked hats precisely set upon their heads, mouths grim but eyes alight with excitement. They were ready to kill.
