Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  He gritted his teeth, wishing he’d not acted so impulsively and left her. Hadn’t he promised to inquire about her brother?

  Not seeing either of them, Alden started toward the French market, planning to search there first and then go on to the inn.

  He turned down a side street and saw ahead of him a group of soldiers.

  The leader motioned toward Alden then strode toward him. “If you would please come with us, sir.” The man was tall and slender, with a crooked nose. He spoke in a firm voice, as if anticipating an argument.

  “Come with you?” Alden asked. “Where? Who are you?”

  “Grant Harker, Provost Marshal.” The man inclined his head. “You’re a sailor?”

  “I am.”

  The other soldiers moved to either side with slow movements as if to cut off an escape.

  Alden’s skin prickled, but he kept his posture casual. He’d done nothing wrong—well, aside from the illegal tea, but that was a matter for customs agents, not military police.

  The man with the crooked nose watched him. “And you’ve not volunteered for service?”

  “I arrived in the city only today.”

  The man nodded. “Perhaps you don’t know, then. General Jackson has instituted martial law. You and every man capable of bearing arms are to register for service or face imprisonment.”

  But Charlie. Alden glanced behind him, gauging his chances of escape.

  The flanking soldiers tensed.

  “What is your name, sir?” the man asked.

  Resigned, Alden sighed. “Captain Alden Thatcher.”

  “Welcome to the United States Militia, Captain Thatcher.”

  Chapter 17

  Charlotte sat back on the crate—hard. Her insides felt like they’d been turned into cold water, and she hurt too badly to even weep. Captain Thatcher was gone. He’d rushed back to Marguerite without even a backward glance.

  Marchand slipped an arm beneath hers and pulled her to her feet. “Jim, Charlie wished to inquire about his brother.” He gave her a little push.

  Charlotte looked at him, her mind taking a moment to understand what he’d said. Oh yes. Will. She forced aside her hurt feelings and remembered why she’d come to New Orleans in the first place. “Mr. Stewart, my brother was taken from Fort Mims by the Creek tribe. I believe he was brought to New Orleans.” Her thoughts still moved slowly.

  Jim frowned. “Fort Mims? The massacre? That was more than a year ago.”

  “Please, sir. Captain Thatcher thought Pierre Lafitte would be able to discover where he is now. His name is Will, and he’s nine years old.”

  “And you’re certain he came to New Orleans?” Jim looked toward the curtain, reminding them he had another obligation.

  Charlotte shook her head, a rush of panic making her heart skip. He couldn’t leave yet. “No. But I overheard the men talking about it. It was their intention to bring their captives to the city.”

  “I can get word to Lafitte,” Jim said, looking back at her. This time his gaze took in her worn clothing. “But his network typically requires payment for their inquiries.”

  Charlotte pulled the pouch from her pocket, but Marchand put a hand over it, stepping in front of her to block Jim’s sight. “Charlie, you cannot give him all your money.” He spoke in a soft voice. “You must still pay for food and accommodations while you search for your brother.”

  She nodded, seeing the wisdom in his advice. She put the pouch away and fished out the ring. She refused to look at it, knowing she’d start to weep as she gave away the last tangible reminder of her parents. She held it in the palm of her hand and offered it to Jim, swallowing hard against her emotions as she did. “Will this do?”

  Jim lifted the ring between two fingers and brought it close to inspect it with one eye. He glanced at her, studying her again. “It should be sufficient. Boy’s name’s Will? Can you give me a description?”

  Marchand and Charlotte left the warehouse after shaking hands with Jim Stewart. He’d told them such an inquiry would likely take at least a week but to have faith in Lafitte’s network. If the boy was or had been in New Orleans, they would discover it.

  The pair decided to wait for Captain Thatcher in the marketplace, thinking he’d likely return to where he’d left them. Charlotte was surprised to discover the rough-looking men outside the warehouse were actually friends of Marchand. He introduced her, and she responded in the right places, but her emotions were raw and she felt too miserable for conversation. After a little while, they gave up on including her and reverted to speaking in French.

  Perhaps Captain Thatcher wouldn’t return. He hadn’t given any indication he would. He was very likely becoming reacquainted with Marguerite LaFontaine. Perhaps the two were laughing over the misunderstanding or confronting René de la Croix about his deception. Even if he did return, it would only be to bid her and Marchand farewell as he returned to the happy life he’d thought was lost forever. She should be pleased that his broken heart was mended. That is how a true friend would feel—grateful for his turn of fortune. But try as she might, Charlotte could not.

  The crowd began to move back toward the Vieux Carré, and Marchand’s friends acted as if they’d go as well. After a moment of discussion, he turned to her. “Come, Charlie. There is to be a parade in the Place d’Armes.”

  They followed the crowd toward the main square, but soon the crush of people grew so thick Charlie grabbed on to Marchand’s arm to keep from losing him. Music, drums, and cheering sounded around her, but Charlotte’s small size prevented her from seeing anything aside from the people around her.

  Noticing her dilemma, Marchand found a spot on a shopkeeper’s step where she could stand and look over the crowd. He helped her climb up between the other spectators and remained close so they wouldn’t be separated.

  Charlotte watched the different companies march into the square, but she did not join in the cheering. She felt empty inside. The military companies looked distinguished and proud, even those without uniforms. Charlotte thought General Jackson’s speech inspiring, but it worried her. New Orleans expected to be attacked, and she wondered what the result would be. Would fighting in the city keep her from finding Will? Would her shipmates be injured by the English? What about the Belladonna? If the English took the city, they would surely seize the ship. But Andrew Jackson’s words were convincing. He thought the Americans could hold off the English army, even claimed they would be victorious. Were those words merely an act to keep spirits high? Or did he believe them?

  The speech ended, and the crowd began to disperse.

  Charlotte searched through the throngs for Captain Thatcher, but when she didn’t see him she assumed he had probably watched the procession with Marguerite and returned home with her. She let out a sigh, feeling the tears that had threatened all day pricking at the backs of her eyes as she stepped down from the porch and joined Marchand.

  “Come along, Charlie.” Marchand’s voice was gentle. “You will feel better once you eat.” They started back in the direction of the marketplace. “In Farbourg Marigny is an inn which serves real Cajun jambalaya—not a fancy Creole imitation.” He watched her, perhaps expecting an answer, but Charlotte’s throat was tight, so she only nodded.

  “I will help you find lodging, and you’ve at least a week to wait for news of your brother, so you will need employment as well.” He continued to speak, even though she didn’t answer.

  He was right; her small pouch of coins would run out quickly. Tomorrow she would find work, and that should keep her mind distracted.

  Charlotte wiped her eyes, gave herself a shake, and forced a smile through her melancholy. “Merci, Marchand. If not for you, I would be quite lost.”

  They entered a wooden building and sat at a table lit by a wrought-iron candelabrum. The room was crowded and noisy, with aromas of onions and roasting spiced
meat coming from the kitchen and music from a band playing on the other side of the dining room.

  Marchand ordered their meals in French from a young woman, and a few moments later she returned with two heaping bowls of sausage, shrimp, spiced rice, and vegetables, along with thick slices of crusty bread.

  The smell from the jambalaya was strong, and Charlotte wondered what spices were used. The combination was unfamiliar, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

  Marchand took a bite and closed his eyes, savoring as he chewed. “Exquis.”

  Charlotte took a bite as well, and a combination of tastes exploded in her mouth. She raised her brows. So much time had passed since she’d eaten anything so flavorful that it took her by surprise.

  “C’est délicieux, non?” Marchand asked.

  “Very delicious,” she answered. Taking another bite, she watched Marchand. His eyes were unfocused, and a smile played on his lips. He seemed to be thinking of something far away. Or perhaps long ago. Charlotte realized that aside from the few facts he’d told her this morning, she knew almost nothing about the Cajun man.

  “Tell me about your village, Marchand. You said you grew up on the bayou? What was it like?”

  His gaze focused and turned to hers. “I imagine it was much like growing up in the Mississippi Territory. My village was very small, with only a few houses, a dry goods store, a blacksmith’s shop, and a little school. On Sundays we took a pirogue to mass in a different town.” He took a drink and ripped off a piece of the bread. “My parents lived in a small cabin where we raised chickens and tended the garden. Mon père and I fished and trapped animals for their fur. It was a pleasant childhood.” He smiled and bit into the bread.

  Charlotte smiled back. She liked hearing Marchand speak so contentedly. Reminiscing softened the lines on his face, and his manner was much gentler than the serious shipmate she’d known aboard the Belladonna. “Did your mother make jambalaya like this?” she asked.

  His smile turned tender and his eyes warm. “Oui. But of course nobody makes jambalaya as well as ma mère did.”

  “Of course,” Charlotte said.

  Marchand took another bite. “She died when I was fifteen,” he said. “And mon père a year later.”

  “You have no brothers or sisters?”

  He shook his head. “Like I told you earlier, there is no one there for me anymore.”

  Charlotte nodded, spooning a piece of sausage. She understood him perfectly. Sometimes she thought she’d return to her old home in Bay Minette, but other times she thought seeing the surroundings of her old life would just remind her of what she’d lost. She glanced at her companion, wondering if she dared ask the question that pressed the most urgently in her thoughts. He’d been forthcoming and open; perhaps he’d continue in that way. She hoped her probing wouldn’t make him regret disclosing such personal things. But she had to know.

  “Your . . . the woman you loved . . . once you left, after . . . did the pain . . . ?” Her voice caught, and her eyes blurred. She blinked away the tears. “Did your heart ever stop hurting?”

  Marchand studied her for a moment before answering. “The pain lessened, yes. But the regret remains, and the sense of loss.” He gave a cheerless grin. “I was young and proud and said things I wish I had not.” He sighed. “But such is life, Charlie. And I do not think I want the pain to go away completely. Or I might forget that what I felt for Gabrielle was real.”

  She considered what he’d said as they finished the meal, feeling overwhelmed and discouraged. His words were wise, spoken from years of experience, but Charlotte’s heartbreak was fresh, and she didn’t think she could bear the pain continuing indefinitely.

  Three soldiers approached, weaving between the other diners. They stopped at Marchand and Charlotte’s table. The man who appeared to be the leader had a thick barrel-shaped chest. He cleared his throat and rapped his fingers on the tabletop.

  “Thought we’d wait until you’d finished eating at least.” He glanced at Marchand and nodded then looked closely at Charlotte. “What’s your age, son?”

  A nervous quiver moved up her spine. “I’m eighteen.”

  “Small, aren’t you?” The man shrugged and looked at his companions then back at her. “Can you hold a gun?”

  She glanced at Marchand and saw that his brow was furrowed and his gaze intense. He looked worried. Frightened even.

  “I can,” Charlotte said. “My father taught me to shoot a rifle.”

  The man motioned for them to stand. “If you’d come along with us, please.”

  Marchand remained seated, the worried expression still on his face as he looked first at Charlotte and then at the barrel-chested soldier. “General Jackson has declared martial law?” Marchand pronounced the word zheneral.

  “Correct.” The man gave a sharp nod.

  “What does that mean?” Charlotte asked. Seeing Marchand’s worry was more frightening than knowing the English planned to invade New Orleans.

  “Men over eighteen capable of bearing arms are required to participate in the defense of the city,” the soldier said.

  “Charlie, joining the militia means fighting the English.” Marchand looked at her closely, as if waiting for her to say something.

  Charlotte knew right away she didn’t have to go. It would be easy to explain that she was not a man over eighteen. But where would that leave her? If Marchand went away to the militia, she would be alone in a strange city. And not only alone but alone as a woman. The thought terrified her more than joining the militia.

  Marchand held her gaze steadily.

  Charlotte straightened her shoulders. She would not even consider leaving her friend to fight alone. And if Will was somewhere in the city, she must do everything in her power to keep the enemy from invading. She wiped her clammy hands on her trousers and gave Marchand a confident nod. Then she stood, bowing to the soldier. “Charlie Bower at your service, sir.”

  Chapter 18

  Alden hefted the canvas bag filled with small iron balls into the muzzle of the twelve-pound gun, pushing it in as far as he could and then used a ramrod to shove it the remainder of the way to butt up against the powder.

  He grabbed onto the thick rope, heaving with the others on the gun crew to run out the cannon. The gun captain adjusted the aim then pulled the gunlock to fire. The blast shook the deck of the USS Louisiana and sent a ringing in Alden’s ears. But after nine days of constant firing, the noise was no longer unsettling. Strange what a man could get used to.

  He swabbed out the gun to extinguish any embers, and then the crew sat back to wait. Per General Jackson’s orders, the firing was deliberately irregular.

  “Water, Captain?” Turley offered a leather flask.

  “I’m not captain on this ship.” Alden took a long drink and glanced at the man from the corner of his eye. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Sorry, Captain.” Turley winced, his dark beard bunching on his cheeks. “Feels strange not to call you Captain, Captain,” he muttered.

  “You might try Your Majesty. I wouldn’t mind that. Or Your Supreme Highness.” Alden handed back the flask. The ship he’d been assigned to was a ninety-nine foot sloop, a merchant ship fitted with cannons. He was relieved the general, so far, had no use for the Belladonna and also glad so many of his shipmates had been brought onto the Louisiana. He felt a responsibility for the men, liked them close, where he could watch out for them. But he spent an inordinate amount of time worrying about those who were absent: Gardner, Stafford, Marchand, and, of course, Charlie.

  Charlie. Just thinking her name made Alden’s breathing come fast as the familiar worry twisted in his gut. He tightened his hands into fists, frustrated he had no idea where she had gone or what she was doing. Was she safe? Had Marchand remained with her?

  Though it was terrifying to imagine her alone, he feared even more that Cha
rlie had been conscripted. As he considered various scenarios, he came to the conclusion that she would maintain her disguise. She wouldn’t reveal herself as a woman to be left behind in the city. Not after what she’d endured. And if Marchand had gone to fight, he believed she would remain with him. Which meant his beloved Charlie could be at this very moment at the front lines in the path of English bullets. His lungs constricted, and panic invaded his thoughts.

  Why had he rushed off so impulsively? he demanded again and again. If it were physically possible to do so, Alden would kick himself in the head for being such a fool. If only he knew she was safe, knew where she was, he could get word to her, explain.

  But how would he even begin?

  My Dearest Charlie,

  I apologize for deserting you in a filthy pirate’s den to rush off in search of my previously thought-to-be-dead beloved. Curiously enough, I’ve come to the realization that while you were swabbing the deck of my ship disguised as a boy, I was falling in love with you, and . . .

  He rolled his eyes. Such a confession would need to be made in person. If he could even think of the words to convince her he’d not gone completely mad.

  The boom of another cannon sounded from farther down the river as the USS Carolina, a schooner, fired. The two ships were anchored on the far side of the Mississippi, downriver from the American lines and directly across from the enemy’s position. For the past week they’d acted as floating batteries, firing a steady barrage into the British camp. The intention behind the intermittent shots was psychological terror, harassing the English soldiers as the army gathered. Alden imagined the men in a constant state of fear, unable to sleep when the possibility existed of a cannonball or a burst of grapeshot falling on them.

  Alden glanced up at the dark sky, wishing day would dawn and relieve him of the night duties. Rubbing his back, he grimaced and stretched his injured shoulder. Morning must be near.

  He tipped back his head, remembering how Charlie had loved to find a quiet spot to gaze up at the stars. Was she looking at them now? He hoped she was doing so in a place of safety.