Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  Heart pounding, he led Dobson down the companionway, but below all was silent. The lower deck was lit only by a lantern, and the two moved instinctively to the shadows. Alden pointed toward the bow, where the crew’s hammocks hung, and Dobson nodded, stealing away to find the two crewmembers.

  Alden crept toward the stern in search of the weapons magazine. Aside from those the sentries carried, the other guns would be easily accessible but locked away, lest the crew use them to seize the ship. Alden couldn’t imagine having to resort to armed guards to protect him from his crew. His men were more than just hired deckhands; he considered them friends, family even. A pity the English navy operated under such a different standard.

  At the stern, a marine moved in the shadows. He had no doubt seen them come down the companionway, but the sight of men moving between decks was not enough to divert him from his guard duties, especially when nighttime missions were being carried out.

  Alden moved slowly, remaining low and well away from the light. He located the weapons, set in an orderly row around the base of the main mast. A chain ran through the trigger guards, cinched with a lock. He crammed a wad of pine gum into the keyhole. He would have liked to disable the weapons completely, but the plan only required a few moments’ delay should someone sound the alarm, and any other sabotage would either be too time-consuming or too noisy.

  A hiss came from the companionway. Three figures stood there, backlit by the lantern. Alden grinned, recognizing the silhouettes of Stafford and Gardner with Dobson. He motioned them upward and turned to follow, but hesitated.

  He glanced back at the stern to the closed door that led to the captain’s quarters. An itching to go inside, to surprise Captain Harrington, to take revenge, was so strong Alden started forward. He could easily overpower one guard, and just thinking of the pompous captain sleeping helplessly twenty feet away was more than Alden could resist. In his imagination Captain Harrington wore a fancy pleated nightshirt and cap with a puffball at the tip. Alden reached for the handle, but stopped.

  His motives were purely selfish. The hasty action could result in an alarm being sounded, and his crew could be spotted, captured, or even killed. And if he were discovered, what would become of Charlie? Above anything, he needed to return to her. Alden blew out a breath and let his hand drop, feeling a twist of regret that he wouldn’t get his revenge. But he’d acted hastily before, rushing away without thinking, leaving Charlie behind in Lafitte’s warehouse. And he’d regretted the impulsive action every moment for the past four weeks.

  He crept back to the companionway and started to the upper deck. His men were no doubt already waiting in the small boat. Glancing to the starboard side, he saw the sentries in their red coats, bound hand and foot, gags tied around their mouths. Turning back in the direction of the boat, he nearly crashed into the marine with the scar.

  “You.” The man’s eyes went wide, and he drew back, opening his mouth to yell, but Alden stopped him with a blow to the jaw.

  The stocky marine staggered back, and Alden snatched away his gun, tossing it into the river, then rammed his fist into the man’s gut for good measure. “Give my regards to your captain.”

  Having no time to climb down to the boat, he jumped overboard into the cold water of the Mississippi.

  When he came up for air, he heard shouts and even some gunshots, but the night was dark, and he wouldn’t be seen. He let the current carry him downriver, praying his men had gotten clear.

  Still pulled by the current, Alden kicked his legs, making his way to the west bank, then crawled onto the muddy land and started back toward the fort. He estimated he had at least two miles to walk.

  Twenty minutes later voices sent him taking cover behind a tree, but he recognized them when they drew near, and he stepped out to join his crew. “Did everyone make it out?”

  Nogales jumped, startled by Alden’s sudden appearance. “Captain!”

  “I told you he could swim,” Nye said.

  Alden grinned, seeing the two restored crewmembers. He clapped Stafford and Garner on the shoulders. “Glad to have you back.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Gardner. “For coming for us.”

  “You know I never leave a man behind,” Alden said. He felt inexplicably happy to see the two men.

  “Captain, where’s Charlie?” Stafford asked, his voice soft.

  “I don’t know,” Alden confessed. “We were separated in New Orleans. I believe she’s with Marchand, but I’m not certain. Once this business is finished, I plan to go in search of her.”

  “She,” Nye said. “Did you say she?”

  “Yes, Mr. Nye,” Dobson said as they started the hike back to their camp.

  “Charlie’s a girl?” Day said.

  “No . . . ,” Allred said. “Impossible.”

  “When we find Charlie, you can ask her,” Alden said.

  “You knew, Dobson?” Nye asked.

  “I did.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d known . . .”

  Alden marched ahead, the familiar impatience for the conflict to end making his jaw tight. They would find her. They had to.

  He couldn’t wait for her to see Tom Stafford. She’d be delighted her friend was safe. The familiar worry tugged at his thoughts. Would Charlie be happy to see Alden as well?

  Chapter 21

  Charlotte ducked down beneath a low-hanging swath of moss as she and Marchand rode through the bayou on a low barge. She heard trilling high in a tree and craned her neck, hoping for a glimpse of the bird that made the call.

  General Jackson had released the volunteer militia troops four days earlier, and Charlotte and Marchand had gone directly to Lafitte’s warehouse to speak to Jim Stewart. When he told them a woman from La Grand Pointe had taken Will, Marchand had gone very quiet. Charlotte suspected it was near the town where he’d lived as a boy, but she didn’t ask him outright, sensing he didn’t wish to talk about it.

  Immediately after meeting with Jim, Marchand had arranged transportation with a fur trader who was headed in the direction of the village. The trip through the swampland was a quiet one. The fur trader spoke only French, and while he and Marchand spoke occasionally, he seemed used to spending time alone and not prone to long conversations. And Marchand was even more reserved than usual.

  Charlotte felt selfish that her friend endured something that brought him such unease, but in truth, she couldn’t do it without him. She didn’t speak the language, she certainly couldn’t find her way through the bayou, and when she finally reached Will . . . she didn’t know what awaited her. Would those who had him be reasonable? Would they release him? Was he being treated cruelly? Would the curious boy she’d known still exist? Or had Fort Mims and the year after destroyed his carefree spirit? Having Marchand with her was a comfort, but it brought a bitter feeling of guilt.

  They glided past alligators sunning themselves on logs and through narrow channels clogged with limbs, where they all three had to climb into the water and clear a path. When they’d returned to the boat, bits of duck grass covered their clothes.

  In the evening they swatted insects and at night listened to the hooting of owls. Charlotte spotted turtles and egrets and herons, a pink spoonbill, and even a deer. She was watching a pair of ducks tipping forward in the water when Marchand called out, “Arrêtez ici.” He pointed to a bank between large cypress trees.

  Charlotte looked closely but could see nothing to distinguish it from any other bank.

  They drew near, and Marchand hopped onto the land then reached to help Charlotte. Bidding the fur trader farewell, they continued on foot.

  “We are close to the village,” Marchand said.

  Charlotte’s guilt wouldn’t allow her to continue without clearing the air. “Marchand, I’m sorry. I know you don’t wish to go to Le Grand Pointe. If you’d prefer, I could continue alone.�
�

  He glanced back at her. “You cannot trek through ze bayou alone.”

  “But I know the memories are difficult for you. I don’t want—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “Charlie, whether it is ze hand of God or fate or simply luck, I believe zere is a reason people are brought together. And I know I am meant to do this, to bring you to Le Grand Pointe, to help you find Will.” He gave a half smile. “Unfortunately destiny is not always comfortable—or convenient. And neither is friendship.” At this last sentence his smile turned into a teasing smirk.

  Charlotte warmed at his words. She knew Marchand was religious. And her own family had studied the Bible. But the horror of seeing her parents killed, losing her brother, and her subsequent captivity and treatment had made her feel God had abandoned her. Perhaps He was never there at all. But as they walked through the bayou, the events of the past months and the people she’d encountered along the way took on a new light.

  She thought of how she’d found a ship sailing to New Orleans, despite the English blockades, the American tariffs, and the city being under threat of invasion. The quartermaster had taken her on, even though she was inexperienced and small. She’d met a captain with ties to a pirate whose knowledge of the illegal practices in the city had located her brother. And she’d found a friend who not only spoke French but was from the very town where her brother was allegedly being kept.

  Perhaps it was all a coincidence, but a stirring in her heart told her otherwise.

  The route they took turned into a path, and soon, wooden structures were visible, spread out between the thick trees. Some were built back near the water, and others were closer to the path, with large gardens and animal pens behind.

  Charlotte watched Marchand carefully, judging his reaction. He seemed calm, as usual, but beneath she could feel a tension. He pointed toward a building with a wide covered porch. “Ze dry goods store. We can inquire zere.”

  They climbed up the wooden steps and entered.

  An older woman was behind the high counter, putting jars onto a shelf. The moment she saw Marchand her face lit in a wide smile. “Henri!” She rushed around the counter and grasped him by the shoulders, standing on her toes to kiss both of his cheeks.

  Marchand’s face reddened.

  The woman spoke quickly in French, and though Charlotte couldn’t understand the words, she could see the woman was overjoyed to see him.

  Marchand visibly relaxed as they spoke, and a few times he even smiled. Once he could get a word in, he motioned to Charlie, introducing her.

  The woman gave a nod. “Bonjour, Charlie.”

  “Charlie, this is Madame Guerin; she was a close friend of ma mère.”

  “Bonjour,” Charlie said, self-conscious about her pronunciation of the French word. She held her hands behind her back to keep from wringing her fingers and appearing too anxious. They were so close to finding Will, and she knew she must be patient for just a few minutes more.

  Marchand continued to speak, and Charlotte understood the word frère and Will’s name among the jumble of French. She held her fists tighter.

  Madame Guerin glanced at Charlie and nodded. “Oui.” She pointed over her shoulder, speaking quickly.

  At the name Villette, Marchand’s face darkened.

  “Villette,” Charlotte said. “That is who has Will? Do you know them?”

  “Oui.” Marchand spoke in a clipped tone, making Charlotte wonder if Monsieur Villette was a particularly cruel person. Apprehension stole over her like a chilly wind.

  Marchand bid Madame Guerin farewell and led Charlotte down the path without a word. He walked at a quick pace, and his movements were stiff. Charlotte didn’t speak, though she was bursting with questions.

  He stopped in front of a worn wooden fence and gestured to the house beyond. “This is ze Villette—”

  At that moment a boy rounded the corner of the house, carrying a basket of eggs.

  “Will?” Charlotte felt frozen. It couldn’t be him.

  The boy turned. He looked at the two curiously for a moment, and then his eyes rounded. “Charlie?” He dropped the basket.

  “Will!” Charlotte screamed his name and rushed toward him, grabbing him in a tight embrace. Sobs tore from her throat as she held the brother she’d thought was lost forever. “Oh, Will, I found you.” She pulled back, holding him at arm’s length.

  Will’s face was scrunched as tears ran from his eyes. He buried his face against Charlotte, and she sank to the ground, holding him against her as they cried. She breathed in the smell of him, and memories crashed over her. “Will, Will, I’m here. It’s all right now. Everything will be all right.”

  Will curled up in her lap like he used to when he was small. The sound of his cries made her both laugh and weep. She didn’t think she’d ever felt such utter joy.

  Charlotte brushed the curls from his forehead, looking down into his face. Will’s cheeks were less round than she remembered, but he looked healthy. She’d been so afraid of finding him damaged by abuse and haunted by memories. She kissed his cheeks, and for the first time, he didn’t push her away but snuggled close.

  After a long moment, Will knelt facing her. He rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and tipped his head, studying her. He frowned and glanced behind her. “Who is this? And why do you look like a boy?”

  Charlotte winced and looked up at Marchand. She’d wanted to find a gentler way to disclose the truth about her gender.

  Her friend smiled down at her, and she was almost certain his eyes were wet. He held out a hand.

  Charlotte took his offered hand and stood, pulling her brother up as well. “Will, this is my shipmate, my friend Marchand. He helped me to find you.”

  “Hello, Will.”

  Will bowed, just as mother had taught him. “How do you do?”

  “Marchand,” Charlotte began. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. It’s just—”

  “Zat you are not a man does not come as a surprise to me, Charlie.” He gave a teasing smile. “I have known for quite some time.”

  “Oh.” She frowned, rather offended he’d so easily seen through her attempts at masculinity.

  His smile widened as he looked between the two. “I admit, I did not anticipate such a happy ending to this story.”

  Now that Charlotte no longer needed to pretend to be a man, she embraced her friend, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, Marchand,” she whispered.

  “Your shipmate?” Will asked. “You were on a ship?”

  Charlotte turned back to her brother and couldn’t help but touch his curls again. “We sailed all the way from Georgia, and I even—”

  “Will?” a woman’s voice called from the house. “Will, où es-tu?” The woman stepped onto the porch.

  Charlotte pulled Will behind her, wanting to protect her brother from his captor.

  But the woman wasn’t looking at them. Her gaze was locked on Marchand. “Henri?” She touched a hand to her mouth.

  Marchand’s face went pale. He gave a stiff bow. “Oui, Gabrielle. C’est moi.” His voice sounded choked.

  Gabrielle? This was the woman who’d broken Marchand’s heart?

  Charlotte scowled, wanting to pull Marchand safely behind her as well.

  Gabrielle looked between the three of them and then back to Marchand, speaking in French. He answered, and as they spoke Charlotte took the opportunity to study Gabrielle. She appeared to be in her early forties. She spoke with a soft voice and appeared by all accounts to be a mild-mannered person. Hardly the type one would imagine to purchase a child.

  Marchand walked closer to the house as he and Gabrielle continued to talk. The woman folded her arms, keeping her head down and speaking quietly.

  Charlotte kept an arm around her brother’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Will. You are safe now. You don’t have to stay here any lon
ger. We’ve come to take you away.”

  Will frowned and pulled his brows together in a furrow. “Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere you’d like, dearest,” Charlotte said. “But no matter what, we’ll be together, and you’ll be safe.”

  He continued to frown. “But, Charlie, I don’t want to go away. Can’t we stay with Gabrielle?”

  She stared at the boy. Of all the scenarios she’d envisioned, Charlotte had never imagined her brother would wish to remain with his captors.

  “But she—”

  “She is really nice,” Will said. “And I help her. We work on the farm together.”

  Charlotte looked back at Gabrielle.

  The woman glanced at Will, her forehead wrinkled in worry. She looked sad.

  Marchand stepped down from the porch and motioned for Charlotte to join him. “Gabrielle has invited us to supper,” he said. “And she would like to speak with you, Charlie.”

  Charlotte did not know how to respond. This woman had enslaved her brother and broken her friend’s heart. She didn’t wish to spend a moment with her. She opened her mouth to decline, but Will picked up the egg basket and brought it to Gabrielle. He spoke in French and seemed to be apologizing for the eggs that had broken when he’d dropped the basket.

  Gabrielle smiled and waved her hand in the air as if it was no concern whatsoever. She took the basket and patted Will’s cheek, looking at Charlotte’s brother with such affection that Charlotte could only gawk.

  “Things are not as they seem, Charlie,” Marchand said. “Hear her out.”

  Charlie hesitated. She’d only felt anger toward the people who’d taken her brother, and now . . . she didn’t know how to feel. The shift, along with the deluge of emotions, left her with the sensation much like she’d had that first day at sea, as if she was floating away, untethered.