Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  From their mooring on the far side of the river, the crews of the American ships had watched the English army grow day by day as more troops were brought on barges through the Bienvenue Bayou. Alden couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable the enemy soldiers must be, cramped in a low boat with as many men as would fit, as well as ammunition, supplies, and weapons for a minimum of ten hours and then to finally arrive and not be permitted a decent amount of sleep. They must be exhausted, which is just what General Jackson wanted. Tired soldiers made mistakes.

  The English army was camped in the field of one of the long plantations that stretched from the Mississippi River to the swamp. As plantation owners harvested their sugarcane at different times, the path toward New Orleans was an uneven mess of half-harvested fields, full patches of cane stalks, fences, irrigation ditches, and muddy farmland interspersed with the occasional deserted mansion. Between the river on one side and the swamp on the other, marching directly through the plantations was the only approach to the city. And Alden didn’t think it would make for a pleasant walk.

  Three days earlier, on Christmas morning, Alden and the crew had noticed a change in the mood of the English camp. The men cheered and moved about with new purpose, and he wondered if they’d all been visited by Father Christmas. But once the information from the other bank reached them, he learned the reality was much worse. General Edward Pakenham had arrived.

  The man and his military strategies were famous on both sides of the Atlantic. A hero of the Peninsular War and brother-in-law to the Duke of Wellington, he was well-liked by his men and well-respected by his officers. Now that the general had arrived, Alden feared the invasion would begin.

  The sky lightened, and for the first time in more than a week, the morning wasn’t shrouded in fog. Alden and his gun crew started below for a well-deserved sleep.

  Not bothering to wash the powder from his face and hands, Alden rolled into his hammock. He drifted to sleep immediately but was snatched from his slumber by a shout from the gun deck.

  He and the others rushed up the companionway and to the rail. Across the river Alden recognized the glowing and smoke of a hot-shot furnace. Clumps of sticks and foliage were pulled away from the levee to reveal five cannons on hidden platforms, large naval artillery that was made specifically to broadside a vessel. The English must have constructed the secret battery during the night. General Pakenham had been busy after all.

  A blast sounded, this time from the enemy’s side of the river, the guns aimed directly at the Carolina.

  All thoughts of sleep scattered. Seeing their sister ship was threatened, Alden and the other gun crews sprang into action, taking their battle stations and preparing their own cannons.

  Alden loaded a cannonball, ramming it home. Then, in a practiced movement, he and the crew ran her out as he’d done hundreds of times since coming aboard this ship. But this time, instead of firing random shots against unseen enemies, the targets were clear, and hitting them vital. They aimed at the naval crews and their guns and, at Commodore Patterson’s command, fired.

  Downriver he saw the Carolina had only one gun capable of firing over the long distance. The crew fired with their twelve-pounder, and the Louisiana gave support, but it was apparent the English had the upper hand. Their weapons were superior, their aim expert, and the hotshot lethal to a wooden ship. None of the English cannons were disabled, but within five minutes the Carolina had been hit.

  Smoke rose from the ship, directly in the center. Alden knew the position below the cables was not only difficult to reach to extinguish a fire but perilously close to the powder magazines.

  Though he could not hear the shout, he could tell by the movement onboard that the order had come to abandon ship. Boats were lowered over the side as the smoke grew thicker. Within moments the ship was vacated. The Carolina’s crew rowed for shore just as the ship exploded.

  The blast sent debris and ash into the air with incredible force, some flying so high as to land on the other side of the river. Glowing bits rained down through the smoke, and Alden’s chest was heavy as he imagined Captain Henley watching what remained of his vessel sink into the water.

  The English cheer could be heard across the water.

  Alden scowled, thinking of names to call the enemy that would certainly have given his mother cause to wash his mouth with soap. But his anger turned to a cold wash of fear as the guns were swiveled on their platforms. This time they were directed at the Louisiana.

  The first blasts missed completely, overshooting the ship and landing somewhere on the bank beyond, but the naval gunners were experts. They would adjust their aim, and it was only a matter of time before the burning shot hit the Louisiana as well.

  “Furl the sails!” Commodore Patterson yelled from his position on the quarterdeck. “Weigh anchor! She’s the only armed vessel on the river. Protect this ship at all costs!”

  Men scampered up the rigging and across the yards, dropping the sails.

  Alden joined the crew heaving the heavy anchor line. The moment the anchor came loose the ship shifted, but it was moved by the current, not the wind. There existed not a wisp of a breeze.

  “Get her out of range!” the commodore yelled.

  As another blast sounded, the boats were lowered, and men clambered overboard to take up oars. Towlines were run from the ship to the small boats.

  Alden jumped over the side, motioning his crew to follow. They waded through the water until it was shallow enough to maintain their footing, and then a cable was tossed toward them as well.

  The English cannons continued to fire, filling the air with smoke.

  Alden set his crew along the rope, putting the larger men such as Turley on the end and spreading the remainder out along the line.

  Commodore Patterson gave the order to pull, and as one the crew on the shore, as well as those in the boats, heaved. But the river pulled in the other direction, and the Louisiana didn’t budge.

  “Pull!” Alden yelled through clenched teeth. He pushed downward with his legs, leaning back and tugging on the cable with all his might. His muscles strained, and the coarse rope rubbed his hands raw. The bullet wound in his shoulder erupted in pain, but he didn’t stop.

  The men on the boats drew their oars through the water as quickly and with as much force as they possessed.

  A shell smashed into the ship’s deck, jarring it. The impact gave the crew a surge of strength as the possibility of the ship exploding like her sister became all the more real. Bolstered by fear and determination, they strained against the current, and the Louisiana budged. Inch by inch the crew pulled her upriver, towing the ship out of firing range.

  Once the commodore gave the order to halt and drop the anchor, it was the Americans’ turn to cheer. They were joined by General Jackson’s army on the front line.

  Exhausted, Alden dropped the rope into shallow water, rubbing his shoulder. Every bit of his body ached, and the burst of fear had ebbed, leaving him wrung out.

  But the sounds of cheering and the knowledge that his men and the ship were safe gave him the strength to cheer with the others.

  England may have superior weaponry, but they underestimated just how scrappy Americans could be.

  Chapter 19

  Charlotte scooted close to the camp’s fire. She pulled the military blanket tighter around her shoulders, glad that at least for now the cold rains had stopped. Even though she’d been given new clothing, including a wool coat, she still had not been warm once in the seventeen days since she and Marchand were conscripted into the Louisiana Militia.

  She leaned back her head, gazing up at the stars. Morning approached, but in the west the sky was still dark. The bugle would sound within a quarter hour, mustering the men for another day of training and ditch-digging.

  General Jackson’s defensive strategy was simple and consisted of widening and deepening an existing
drainage canal that ran between two plantations. The trench extended from the Mississippi River on one end to the thick cypress swamp on the other. Without a ladder or bridge, crossing it was virtually impossible, especially with the high embankment braced with fence posts and strengthened with cotton barrels the soldiers had constructed on the American side.

  The English army was encamped a few miles to the south, and Charlotte had seen their red coats on a few occasions as they tested the defensive line. Their only approach to New Orleans was along this stretch of land, and Andrew Jackson was going to make it difficult, if not impossible, for the enemy to get through.

  When she’d been brought to the militia, Charlotte had been issued a musket, which she’d been told was similar to the Brown Bess muskets the English infantry carried. Quick loading, the weapon’s aim wasn’t terribly accurate, but when firing at a line of soldiers, the ball was sure to find a target. She’d learned that with the European method of combat—two armies facing one another in columns and lines across a battlefield—quick loading was preferable to aim. But for a man living in the hills of Kentucky or Tennessee, every shot counted and needed to be dead accurate. Feeding himself and his family depended on it. The frontiersmen used long rifles, and according to the men in her company, their aim was so precise they could “shoot out a squirrel’s eye a mile away.” Charlotte had committed the phrase to memory, thinking if she ever saw Mr. Allred again, he would love to hear about the Kentucky and Tennessee riflemen with their long hair and fur hats.

  An occasional shot fired in the darkness. Though one ship had been sunk and the other moved out of firing range of the English camp, General Jackson had seen to it that the psychological warfare had not ceased. Tennessee and Kentucky sharpshooters filled the swamps on the enemy’s right flank. Their deerskins kept them dry and warm as they stood camouflaged in knee-deep water all day and slept on floating logs bound together at night. If any of the enemy soldiers came near the no-man’s land between the two armies, they risked a frontiersman’s bullet or a sneak attack by the Choctaw Indians who blended into the swamps as well.

  Digging ditches was fatiguing, and the men of Charlotte’s company fell into their bedrolls each night, exhausted.

  Charlotte, however found the quiet hours anything but restful, as she had nothing but time to ponder. Her thoughts returned again and again to Captain Thatcher. And when they did, her chest squeezed so hard she could scarcely breathe. She loved him, considered him her closest friend, but he was gone.

  When Charlotte had lost her family, the pain had been intense, nearly paralyzing, but the captain hadn’t been torn from her arms. Her insides felt crushed, and she felt foolish. Deep in the most secret part of her heart, she’d hoped . . . But of course that was impossible. Even if he didn’t love Marguerite, even if he knew she was a woman, she would hardly turn the head of a man like him.

  Hearing a noise, she looked back and saw Marchand approach. He eased down beside her. “You are cold again?”

  “Finally it’s not raining,” she said. “Maybe today we will see the sun.”

  “I doubt it.” He handed her a hard biscuit then took a bite of his own. “I am grateful we had at least one real meal before ze provost marshals found us,” he said, grimacing as he chewed.

  The one exception had been two weeks earlier, on Christmas day, when the soldiers were served ham for supper and a dessert of bread pudding made by the ladies of the city. The holiday had pushed Charlotte further into her gloom as she remembered the last Christmas she’d spent with her family. Her parents had given her the special ring with its turquoise stone, and Will had been given a box of wooden soldiers. She remembered how peaceful it had felt sitting around the hearth with her family, drinking warm wassail and singing carols as a goose roasted over the fire and Will arranged his soldiers into rows on the rug. And now, two years later, she’d sold the ring to a smuggler for information about her brother’s captors, her parents were dead, and she was building battlements in the freezing rain while the most powerful army in the world prepared to attack.

  “You did not sleep.” Marchand studied her face by the firelight. “Do not worry, Charlie, we will find your brother.”

  She forced herself to smile, knowing her friend was unaware of the full cause of her gloom and sought to reassure her.

  The sky grew lighter, and the bugle sounded the signal for the camp to wake.

  Marchand groaned as he rose, rubbing his back. He held out a hand to help Charlotte to stand. “Are you ready for another delightful day of digging, Charlie?”

  She shrugged. “I almost think I’d rather be scraping the Belladonna’s decks.”

  “Oui,” he said. “As would I.”

  In truth, Charlotte didn’t mind the work. Her weeks of swabbing had strengthened the muscles in her back, arms, and legs, making the manual labor bearable. And she enjoyed the community. As she worked she heard soldiers speaking in French, English, Spanish, Indian languages, and backwoods slang. The men around her came from every imaginable background, from the wealthiest Creole to the poorest slave, but they worked together as brothers. The feeling of all the different groups coming together for one goal was inspiring, and she was happy to be part of it.

  And she especially enjoyed when General Jackson rode along the line. The general would dismount and give direction and sometimes share a joke with the soldiers as they worked. He often spoke through translators, but the commander knew the names of many of the men, and Charlotte could see he was well-liked and even more well-respected.

  As she and Marchand joined the other soldiers walking toward the mess tent for breakfast, another bugle sounded. The noise was distant, and the tune wasn’t familiar. She cocked her head, uncertain if she’d truly heard it. It sounded again, and Charlotte realized it came from the direction of the English army’s camp. But it was much too close.

  A drumbeat started in the distance. A beat to arms.

  “Battle stations!” David Sanders, a member of the Tennessee Militia, ran past with his rifle.

  Energy spiked through Charlotte’s limbs, and she felt dizzy.

  Marchand grabbed on to her arm. “Stay close to me, Charlie.”

  They retrieved their weapons and took their assigned positions along the line. Looking over the battlement, Charlotte could see nothing but fog. But the drumbeat continued, and the disembodied sound sent a chill through her.

  Charlotte loaded her musket with shaking hands, ramming the rod down and then pouring powder into the flashpan. The practiced movements helped calm her. She laid the muzzle over the top of the parapet, aimed toward the battlefield, and glanced to the sides.

  General Jackson had assigned nearly three thousand men to the main line. They stood in position behind the breastworks, stretching from the Seventh Regular Infantry, Beale’s Rifles, and the Regiment of Freemen on the right to the Kentucky and Tennessee Militias on the far left near the swamp. In the center, Charlotte stood shoulder to shoulder with the seven hundred Louisiana militiamen.

  Cannons were embedded into the earthworks at intervals, sitting on specially designed platforms. They were manned by navy gunners, militiamen, and Baratarian pirates who stood at the ready, stirring hotshot with loggerheads in their furnaces.

  Ahead of the line on the right side, a forward redoubt had been constructed as an artillery battery with two six-pounders that guarded both the levee road and the ditch in front of the breastworks.

  Though their position offered the Americans a complete view of the battlefield, the fog still obscured any sight of the enemy. Blackened stones, the remains of the Chalmette Plantation house were the only blemishes in the thick gloom that covered the ground. Fearing the English might use the structure for cover, General Jackson had ordered the house be blasted.

  Weapons loaded and artillery armed, the American line held their breath and waited, peering ahead into the fog. The only movement came from the
whipping of the flag at the center of the line, flying the American colors. Charlotte’s stomach turned hard as she wondered if it would still be flying this evening.

  From the direction of the swamp a rocket fired, glaring red as it flew with a screech.

  Charlotte ducked down, though it didn’t come anywhere near.

  “It is just a signal,” Marchand said. “To begin zeir advance.”

  At his words, the red of British uniforms appeared as soldiers stepped from the fog. They marched in close ranks in a column of sixty across. Over their heads the sky was alight with rockets.

  General Jackson rode the line. “They are only toys!” he yelled. “Don’t fear the rockets. They can do no real damage.”

  On the American side the drummer boy played a marching beat. Charlotte looked up and smiled at Jordan Noble, a fourteen-year-old black boy whom she had grown quite fond of. He gave only a small smile in return, his expression serious as he performed his duty.

  More rockets fired. The English column continued their advance, and on the right, close to the levee, another, larger force emerged.

  Led by officers on horseback and wearing full uniforms, the advancing line appeared more like a parade. The soldiers marched in rhythm, and a proud company of Highlanders strode along in the rear.

  “The soldiers don’t look frightened at all,” Charlotte said to Marchand.

  “Zey expect us to run,” Marchand answered. “Like ze Americans did in Washington City.” He scowled toward the advancing enemy. “But today zey do not challenge inexperienced New England shopkeepers.”

  In a few moments the entire plain filled with redcoats.

  Charlotte’s pulse pounded in her ears, and she gasped.

  “Steady, Charlie,” Marchand muttered.

  General Jackson took up position on the right side of the line. “Give it to them, boys; let us finish the business today.” He held high his sword and brought it down. “Fire!”