by Toombs, Jane
"Does anyone here speak English?" he asked. He gestured to the soldiers by the wagon and three hurried to join him in the foyer.
"Anglais?" she repeated. She pointed her finger at him. "Anglais." Indicating herself, she added proudly, "Creole. Francais."
The officer shook his head. "We should have brought along a few interpreters," he said. "Any of you men know frog talk?"
All shook their heads.
Frogs? Madelaine thought indignantly. English pigs!
"Captain, have your soldiers search the house for any other Creoles, then post pickets and move the men forward," the officer ordered. "I think I'll handle this pretty little one on my own."
As the redcoats filed in through the front door, Madelaine burst into tears. Odalie ran to her side, taking her in her arms, scolding the British for upsetting Madelaine. They didn't understand her words but could hardly miss their intent.
"I'm sorry, miss," the officer said to Madelaine.
She sobbed louder.
He made no effort to stop Odalie when she led Madelaine from the foyer.
"Take me toward the back," Madelaine whispered to the black woman.
Odalie stiffened momentarily but went on, crooning to Madelaine as she directed their steps to the rear of the house.
The pickets would guard the back door as well as the front, Madelaine reasoned, but they wouldn't expect her to escape through a window. The best choice would be the small one near the storage room, which was covered from, the outside by a hibiscus bush.
"You can't come with me," she whispered to Odalie. "Pretend you're still talking to me. When they find I'm gone, you pretend I tricked you. But I must get away, I must warn General Jackson."
"You do be careful," Odalie said.
She helped Madelaine force her way out the tiny window. Twigs caught at Madelaine's clothes and pulled her hair as she dropped to the ground between the bush and the house. She peered through the branches in alarm—surely the crackling had alerted the pickets. She saw none.
The levee road was undoubtedly swarming with British, she'd never get through. She'd have to hide in the swamp and make her way past the soldiers. She'd been in the swamps, yes, but could she keep from getting lost or mired in quicksand? She'd have to try.
Madelaine tucked up her skirts, eased from behind the bush and ran for the high fence separating the yard of the manor house from the fields.
"Stop her!" a voice yelled.
She scrambled over the fence, racing across the stubbled cane fields toward the moss hung cypresses, voices shouting behind her. She flung herself between the cypresses, her feet sinking into the swamp muck. Whirling to look behind her, she saw soldiers halfway across the field in pursuit.
She ploughed on, up to her knees in the mud, unable to hurry. They'd be on her in moments. She was trapped.
Chapter 16
Madelaine stared back toward the cane field, now hidden by the cypresses, as she tried desperately to extricate herself from the muck of the swamp. She heard a redcoat shout—close, so very close.
A hand gripped her around the waist, lifted her free of the grasping mud. She whirled, ready to strike out with her fists, determined not to be easily captured. Then she saw the black face of the man who held her.
Bras Coupe.
Without a word, he hoisted her over his shoulder, then plunged deeper into the swamp, leaping from log to tussock to escape being mired. From behind them, Madelaine heard men call to one another, heard a dog bark. Bras Coupe glanced over his shoulder.
"You go in this tree," he said, easing her onto the ground beside a cypress. "Stay. I be coming back."
He boosted her to the first branch and she climbed into the concealing grey moss that hung in long thick strands. She crouched on a limb, unable to see through the moss surrounding her.
She heard English voices.
"Something moving over there—is it her?"
"Must be. Come on."
"Bloody swamp!"
Squelching sounds, fading, then a whining bark from directly beneath her. Clutching the branch with one arm, Madelaine leaned to part the moss.
To her horror, she saw Guy's favorite hound, Guinevere, standing with her front paws on the trunk, looking up. The British must have untied her, hoping she'd lead them to Madelaine.
As she had.
"Go away," Madelaine said softly. "Go home."
Guinevere paid no heed, barking as if to invite Madelaine down to join her. The dog would give her away, beyond a doubt, when the soldiers came back, as they soon would, to investigate the barking.
Madelaine hesitated, then dropped to the ground. Guinevere fawned at her feet as she bent to seize a fallen limb to use as a club. She looked at the dog's trusting brown eyes.
I can't do it, she thought. No, I can't.
The soldiers would be back any minute. There might be others after her. She'd be captured. The British would march into New Orleans unimpeded, take the city, for who knew they were so close? It would be her fault.
Biting her lip, Madelaine raised the heavy branch and, with all her strength, struck Guinevere between the eyes.
The dog fell without a sound. Tears running down her face, Madelaine hauled the dog's body into the mud and, as it settled, threw the dead limb on top of it, snatched up two more and tossed them onto the body, jumped for the first tree limb, caught it, and swung herself into the cypress again, climbing into the concealing moss.
She stifled her sobs with her clenched fist thrust between her teeth as she huddled next to the trunk.
A terrible end for the faithful Guinevere, but she’d had no choice, none at all, Madelaine told herself. She’d never be able to forgive herself. She heard voices gain, the noise of men blundering through the tangle of vines and squelching in the muck.
"I tell you the barking came from over here."
"I don't hear it now. Don't see no bloody dog, neither."
Madelaine held her breath. Would they discover the dog's body?
"I hope to hell the frog bitch sunk ten feet deep in that bloody quicksand."
"The devil's own country."
"The major'll have our asses if we come back without her."
"She must've gone into the quicksand. What else could've happened to her?"
"Right. That's got to be what happened."
The voices diminished. A frog was she? Well, frogs were at home in a swamp. She'd show those British!
Madelaine heard the splashing fade. She stayed where she was, waiting.
"Come down. They be gone." Bras Coupe's deep voice sounded from beneath her.
Madelaine, skirts still tucked up, dropped from the tree. "You saved me. How can I thank you enough?" she said. "Now I must ask you to help me find a way to get into the city without the British catching us."
He stared down at her. She'd never seen such a big man. She remembered his eyes glittering in the voodoo firelight, remembered him lying helpless in her trysting place. His eyes were dark and unreadable. She sensed his tremendous strength as an almost tangible force, causing her breath to quicken in—was it apprehension?
"I must get to General Jackson before the British destroy New Orleans," she said.
He grunted.
She realized suddenly he didn't care whether the Creoles or the British controlled the city, for he was apart from all white men. Why should he help one or the other?
"I take you," he said. "Me, Ashanda. Your feet go after mine."
He turned from her and twisted between vines, heading deeper into the swamp. Madelaine followed, watching his feet, trying to step exactly where he did. On and on he led her, across coulees and through tangled vegetation, and as time went by she began to wonder if he was taking her toward New Orleans at all.
She was completely lost. Was he, instead, bringing her to a hiding place amidst the swamp tangle that only he knew of? Her heart thudded in her chest from exertion and from a shadowy tension.
At last he stopped and waited for her, then
pushed aside the underbrush to show her the cane fields. She recognized the manor house at de la Ronde—they'd bypassed Villere and La Coste. He pointed toward the river.
"Safe here. No soldiers."
She understood he feared to come into the open lest he be taken prisoner by white men.
"You're known as Bras Coupe, aren't you?" she said. "I won't tell anyone you helped me. You'll be safe in the swamps."
"They be calling me Bras Coupe. Me, I be Ashanda."
"Ashanda."
He nodded, smiling for the first time.
"Is there anything I can do for you? Leave food somewhere? Clothes?"
He shook his head. "I help you, not New Orleans," he said. "You. Once you help me. My spirit and your spirit touch at voodoo. I know you. You know me. No master, no slave. The same, you, me."
Equal, she thought. He means we see one another as equals. She looked into his proud face, a face that denied he'd serve others except at his own choice.
"Yes," she said. "The same." She took his hand, holding it a moment between both of hers.
''Goodbye, Ashanda," she told him.
She reached New Orleans on a borrowed horse just before noon and galloped straight to Jackson's house on Royal Street. A flustered aide led her to the general.
"The girl claims she has knowledge of the British, sir."
"They're at La Belle," Madelaine cried, struggling to find the correct English words to tell her story. "The British surprised me early this morning. I escaped through the swamps." She located La Belle for him on the map he had spread out on a table.
"Seven miles away," he muttered. "Only seven. Was every picket asleep? We're caught unprepared, damn it!" His voice grew hoarse with anger and she realized he'd forgotten she was there.
"By the eternal they shan't sleep on our soil. I'll smash 'em, so help me God!"
Just before two o'clock in the afternoon, the signal gun at Fort Charles roared three times and the bells of St. Louis Cathedral began to toll. All around the city soldiers sprang to arms.
Guy, with the rest of Beale's sharpshooter unit, saddled his mount and fell into formation.
"It'll be a night attack," Beale told his men. "General Jackson's sending the Navy schooner Carolina downstream to bombard the British. The ship'll start firing at exactly seven o'clock. A half hour later the Carolina will send up red, white and blue rockets—our signal to begin the land attack."
At dusk, Guy's unit followed their commander in the vanguard of the men led by Jackson. Guy's heart beat fast in anticipation of the fight to come. Mist rose from the river to shroud them, eighteen hundred soldiers against at least as many British. Behind him marched Choctaw braves with painted faces, next to the Indians came Daquin's Battalion of Free Colored. A diverse and motley group of men, all united to fight the British.
As Jackson halted them at de la Ronde's plantation, Guy realized with a pang that not only did the British occupy La Belle, but the battle might well be fought on his own land. What would happen to the plantation?
Thank the saints Madelaine was safe in the townhouse.
Jackson formed the troops into a line from the swamp to the river, setting up two artillery pieces on the river road. They waited in the deepening darkness, undiscovered by the British, for the Carolina to begin shelling. To Guy, keyed for a fight, the waiting seemed interminable.
A thunderous, flame spitting roar came from downriver. Another, then another as the ship's guns cut loose. On and on the barrage went until Guy wondered if there'd be any British left alive for him to fight. How could any man live through that terrible hail of ball and grapeshot? The thought that some of the shells must be dropping on La Belle made him clench his teeth, but he quickly thrust the notion into the back of his mind. This was no time to worry about his holdings. If the British weren't defeated, of what use would be any Creole's plantation?
Acrid smoke drifted upriver. The pounding guns fired almost without pause, the noise numbing. He strained his eyes, watching for the rockets.
There!
Red, white and blue arched in the sky, scattering and falling. The Carolina's guns fell silent. Beale called out sharply and Guy followed him with the rest of the unit to the left of Jackson's line, to protect General Coffee's flank. Through the dark and mist and smoke it was difficult to distinguish friend from foe. Soon Beale admitted they were lost and headed his troops back toward the river. In a few minutes they encountered marching soldiers. Guy expelled pent up breath when he saw the men didn't wear red coats.
"Where's the first division?" one of Beale's horsemen called in English to the foot soldiers.
"Richt here!" a man shouted back. Guy froze at the sound of the words. Not even the most ignorant Kaintock spoke English like that. Before he could move, the strange soldiers rushed toward him. He swung up his gun and fired. A man went down. As Guy's horse leaped over him, Guy heard a voice call in the same strange dialect, ordering them to surrender.
Highlanders, he thought, remembering how the Scots fought with British troops.
“Men,” Beale's voice said, "ride like hell out of here."
Hooves pounded as the unit fled, but a few moments later, with the Highlanders well behind them, Beale called a halt. Ahead were more soldiers. Friend or foe? Guy gripped his gun.
"Are you the Ninety third?” a man called in English from the darkness.
"That's right," Guy shouted, knowing Jackson had no Ninety third.
English soldiers hurried toward them, asking how things were going. Beale's men easily disarmed them and brought thirty British prisoners with them when they rejoined their own line, a prize that helped ease the humiliation of discovering they'd lost half their own unit to the Highlanders.
From the darkness far to the left came the firefly flashing and the stuttering pop of dozens of muskets. General Coffee's Tennesseans were attacking. The crack and flare of British guns answered. The rattle of musket fire spread along the line until the curses and shouts of the men were drowned out. Only the eerie ululation of the Choctaws' war cries rose over the din.
Jackson's line advanced, then fell back when reinforcements strengthened the British. Slowly but steadily Jackson's men withdrew, fighting all the way. The Carolina's guns took up again, firing on the rear of the British lines.
Load, fire, load, fire. Bullets came so close to Guy that he heard their whirr. Gradually the firing lessened, became sporadic. The shelling from the ship stopped.
“Retreat." The official order came down the lines. "Retreat and regroup." Jackson stopped the withdrawal behind the embankment of the Rodriquez Canal, an abandoned and almost dry mill run, now knee deep in rain water, where they huddled through the rest of the chilly night.
The morning dawned cold, the cane stubble sparkling with frost, the fields soon hidden, though, by a heavy mist rolling in from the river.
Guy knew the old sugar mill run extended from the river for over a thousand yards before ending in the swamp. He could see it was five feet deep and about twenty feet wide, with an embankment of dirt piled between them and the British. Did Jackson plan to fight from this entrenched position?
After a tense hour of waiting for an attack that never came, Jackson ordered the men out to dig a fosse, a ditch, along the downstream side of the banked wall of the old mill run to make it harder for the enemy to reach them when the British did attack. All the wet soil was added to the existing embankment, building it up several more feet.
The general sent runners into New Orleans to bring slaves and shovels, and Governor Claiborne was ordered to send all available fighting men. Jackson rode along the line, directing the digging, while Jean Lafitte helped the American engineers set up their cannon. As the day dragged on, the mist turned to rain.
To think it's Christmas Eve! Guy told himself, hearing the distant bell of the cathedral. Madelaine, in the town house, would be drinking cafe brulot, spiced coffee with brandy, before going to mass. Guy hadn't missed spending a Christmas Eve with Madelaine since the
time on the keelboats when he'd volunteered to go after Burr.
Guy took his turn the next day digging the fosse in the rain, throwing the mud onto the raised embankment on the side facing the British. Who could ever have believed Tanguy La Branche would celebrate Christmas Day laboring in a ditch? He closed his eyes and prayed for the success of General Jackson that night. A around the sputtering campfires, the Creoles of Beale's unit sang Ave Maria. When they finished, they heard American voices raised in song.
While shepherds watched their flocks by night
All seated on the ground
The Angel of the Lord came down
And glory shone around ...
Guy listened, tears in his eyes.
The morning sun rose, warm and welcome. The engineers had placed cotton bales in the bottom of the run and laid planks across them so the men no longer had to stand in icy water as they waited for the British attack. But Jackson's men weren't in the ditch now, having camped on the New Orleans side of it, wondering when they'd begin to fight.
Although British cannon destroyed the Carolina on the twenty sixth, leaving only the older, slower, Louisiana on the river, there was no land attack. The twenty seventh passed.
On the morning of the twenty eighth, Guy watched a tiny brown rail skittering along the edge of the ditch, searching for breakfast. A flock of geese flew overhead. Patches of mist hung over the cane fields.
Suddenly a tremendous hissing brought him to his feet. With a shattering roar a rocket burst directly overhead. Then another, and another, all with the same hair raising shriek. To his left, one of Lafitte's men, Dominique You, shouted an order and a cannon roared. British cannon replied. In the midst of the roaring cannon, Guy heard a band playing.
He jumped into the ditch and climbed on the firing step to peer over the embankment. He caught his breath.
Columns of red jacketed, white trousered troops marched between the buildings of Chalmctte Plantation toward the cane fields, toward him. Battle flags waved, bayonets gleamed in the fitful sunlight.
He swallowed. Mon Dieu, there were so many! Guy glanced toward the American flag, the Stars and Stripes, flying above him. He heard the guns of the Louisiana thunder. Flames burst from the plantation buildings, almost all of them at the same time, as red hot shot fired the combustibles planted there by American engineers two days before. British soldiers fell, but the ranks closed up and came on. Cannon roared from all along the embankment. More soldiers dropped, and before the British line was close enough for Guy to fire, they wheeled about, still in formation, and marched from the field.
