“No,” he panted. “What the hell happened?”
Scott pointed and Yank turned to see hundreds of militiamen climbing from under the brush and undergrowth. “Where the hell did they come from?”
Scott shook his head. “I have no idea. They must have been hiding here since they were released from the boats.”
“Jesus,” Totten said in awe as more and more men emerged from the brush. “There must be fifteen hundred of ‘em.”
“God damn cowards,” Yank shouted brandishing his bloody sword.
Scott and Totten held him back.
“If I ever get out of bloody British prison I’m going to find you and kill every one of you bastards,” Yank raged. “Then I’m going to rape your wives and eat your children.”
Scott slapped him on the shoulder then pointed down the riverbank. “Save it for them.”
Yank looked where Scott had pointed at a narrow column of British soldiers then looked across the river. “There are a few more over there that I need to kill too.”
November 14, 1812
Galveston Island, Province of Tejas
In her quest for an eastward trail to New Orleans, Marina had followed the Guadalupe River southward for twenty-two days in search of a ford. On the twenty-third day, she reached the Gulf of Mexico where the Guadalupe was joined by the San Antonio to form a distributary channel spreading a wide delta as far as she could see.
Determined to cross and after becoming mired in saturated silt Marina unsaddled the horse she had stolen, released it and then removed her boots to wade across. At times she sank in mud to her knees, nearly drowning in the surf and other times she walked through dry sand dunes above the swell. Near dusk the dunes began to widen into a beach with sea oats and grass above the surf line. Too tired to continue she sat down in the dunes and was soon asleep.
November 14, 1812
Galveston Island, Province of Tejas
Marina awoke to find herself in the center of a circle of men. She sat up quickly and groped in her pack for her pistol but discovered it was gone.
“Spanish, French or English,” one of the men asked in heavily French accented English.
“You have stolen my pistol,” Marina responded in French.
“I thought I might hold it for you until we had an understanding.”
She stood up and brushed herself off. “What is it that you wish me to understand?”
“First I wish to understand who you are and how you got here.”
“My name is Maria Gonzales and I walked to here.”
“From where?”
“A small town up the river. Not too far from here.”
“There are no small towns up the river. Who is chasing you?”
“No one.”
He laughed. “You are wearing clothes that are too big to fit you. Is the man that you stole them from chasing you to recover his clothing?”
“I am running from no one.”
He decided to take another tack. “I am Louis-Michel Aury, a Parisian by birth and I can recognize the tongue of my mother city when you speak. You are safe with me and my men, no matter who it is that wants you.”
“I am running from no one,” she repeated. “But if I am truly safe with you, Monsieur, I would be grateful for something to eat.”
He nodded. “My village is just up there.” He pointed, then started walking in the direction he’d pointed while the other men fell in behind him in a ragged column.
Marina gathered up her pack and her boots, then hurried to catch up. “Where is this place, Monsieur?” she asked, now seeing thatched roofs over the dunes. “Does it have a name?”
“Yes, it has a name. In 1785, the Spanish explorer José de Evia mapped it and named it Gálveztown Island in honor of Bernardo de Gálvez y Madrid, Count of Gálvez.”
“Gálveztown,” she repeated.
“We say Galveston. The Spaniard’s Count of Gálvez means nothing to us.”
As they topped a dune, she saw that there was a bay beyond the village with two tall ships anchored within it. “Are you a pirate?”
“A pirate? Me? No. I have Venezuelan letters-of-marque to attack Spanish ships in the Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean.”
“So you are an enemy of the Spanish?” she asked hopefully.
“They have a price on my head,” he replied. “How much will they pay for yours?”
November 18, 1812
Grand Isle, Louisiana
Marina let the men on the quay pull her from the longboat then turned to wave as the boat backed away into the small bay. “Thank you.”
“I should feed you to the sharks,” Jean Lafitte said angrily from behind her.
She turned, smiled and kissed him on the lips.
“You will not sooth my temper so easily,” he grumbled.
“I thought you might be happy to see me.”
“Why should I be?”
“It has been a long time.”
“It should have been forever,” he countered. “You had a respectable life, a good husband, and beautiful children but now look at you.”
“There is nothing wrong with me that a bath would not cure.”
He tapped his head. “I think you are mad, Marina.”
She looked toward the mainland. “Is John still there? In New Orleans?”
“He is dead.”
She turned back quickly. “Dead?”
“Yes. He was killed at the surrender of Fort Detroit. You are a widow, Marina. Your children are with your late husband’s family.”
“Dead,” she repeated woodenly. “John is dead?”
Lafitte shook his head. “I would have expected a bigger reaction, even from you.”
She turned her attention back to Lafitte. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you are a hard-hearted, selfish woman who will sacrifice anyone for her own interests.”
“I cannot understand why you are so upset with me, Jean,” Marina replied earnestly.
“You have betrayed a fine man.”
She shrugged. “But I have done nothing to you.”
“You brought Louis-Michel Aury to my base,” he said waving his hand toward the longboat that was now being recovered by a ship in the bay.
“What harm is there in that?”
“Now he knows how to find me.”
“Jean,” she put her hand on his arm. “I did not bring him here. I had no idea where you were. I just asked him to take me to you and this is where we came.”
“Well now he’s been inside the bay,” Lafitte sputtered, unwilling to give up the argument.
“If it would make you feel better I will take you to his bay.”
“You know where it is?”
“Of course. I came from there to here.” She pointed west across the calm waters of the Gulf.
“Does it have a name?”
“Galveston Island.”
“Ah ha.” Laffite rubbed his hand together in delight. “There is no need for you to take me, I know exactly where that is.”
“Good. Because I need to get to Lake Erie before winter sets in,” Marina said.
“It is already winter on Lake Erie.”
“Please. It is very important to me.”
He looked at her closely. “Marina, your husband is dead.”
“I know. You just told me. That is why I am going.”
“His body was probably committed to the waters of the lake.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Why are you telling me this?”
“Well,” he was watching her curiously. “If you were going in hope of finding him alive or perhaps of taking his body home…” He stopped because she was shaking her head. “What?”
“My destination on Lake Erie is not Detroit but further east, on the Pennsylvania coast. Halfway to Buffalo.”
“I do not understand, Marina. What is there in that God-forsaken place?”
“A man.”
“A man? Perhaps you mean a lover.”
“Perhaps
.”
“Is that why you came here?” he growled. “To beg for passage north to follow your adulterous lover?”
“Who are you to judge me?” she shouted. “You who are a thief and a murderer.”
“But I am an honorable thief and murderer,” he answered.
Marina laughed. “Yes. I must give you that. You are nearly as blindly honorable as my late husband.” She looked out to sea. “And to answer your question, I did not come here intent on going north until you told me that I am a widow.”
Lafitte shook his head. “Have you any money?”
“No. But I have this.” She gave him a wanted poster and a scrap of an envelope. “I thought you might advance me enough to make the trip in exchange for the reward.”
“What value are these?”
“Five hundred gold pesos.”
“But I have to kill you to collect,” he laughed. “Or I suppose I could deliver you alive.”
“Think, Jean. All you must do is deliver the body of a woman and that piece of paper. If you say that the woman had it in her possession it should be proof enough of her identity.”
“Where am I to find a woman’s body?”
“Do you not occasionally kill women by accident when you take your prizes?” She waved at the village. “Do not women die here?” She pointed toward the Louisiana coast. “If nothing else you can rob a grave or pay a small fee to a mortician.”
“Very well, we have a deal.” He looked thoughtful. “But I may not be able to get you there before all the rivers freeze solid.”
“Just get me to the Atlantic coast at Pennsylvania or New Jersey and I will get the rest of the way on my own.”
“I can do that very easily, if you do not mind traveling on a British ship.”
“I do not mind if it is the devil’s ship.”
“You could discover it to be exactly so. The English crews are mainly impressed Americans who have been seized from their own ships. Discipline aboard is maintained by the lash. The captain may not have time to watch over you.”
“I still have the little pepper pot you gave me.”
“Pepperbox,” he corrected. “Let me think about this.”
“Perhaps one of your ships could just take me to Pensacola or Cuba. From either place I should be able to find a British ship bound for New England.”
“Perhaps I could save all the trouble and simply throw you off the quay where you could be devoured by sharks instead of by men.”
“I can handle men.”
“Are you mad, Marina?”
“That is very possible.”
November 29, 1812
Quebec, Canada
General Sir George Prévost ducked under the low lintel above the dungeon’s door and walked to the guard who had come to ridged attention. “Where is the American colonel, John Van Buskirk?”
“Right there, sir.” The guard almost dropped his weapon as he pointed. “Third cell, sir. On the left.”
Prévost stepped carefully through the puddles until he reached the third door of iron bars then squinted into the darkness. “Hello, Yank. Are you in there?”
“Unfortunately.” Yank got up from the iron cot and walked forward into the meager light. “What should I call you? Baron, General, Sir George, Governor or Mr. President?”
“George will do.”
New Jersey born, Prévost, had been an officer in the British army since he was eleven. In January 1808, Prévost was promoted to lieutenant general and appointed as governor of Nova Scotia. In 1811he was promoted to commander-in-chief of British forces in North America, governor-in-chief of British North America and president of Lower Canada.
Yank extended his right hand through the bars. “Hello, George.”
Prévost shook Yank’s hand warmly. “After the battle of Detroit you were reported as missing so I ordered Isaac Brock to find you. Then he was killed. I only learned that you were here yesterday.”
“I’m happy to see you looking so well, even under the circumstances, George.”
“Are you badly hurt?”
“No. I had a few bumps at Detroit but I’m over them now.”
“If you would agree not to bear arms again, I could parole you.”
“I couldn’t agree to that but I would ask a favor.”
“What?”
“I was with a woman when Tecumseh captured me. If she’s still alive, perhaps you could get her released.”
Prévost looked confused for a moment. “They didn’t capture her, Yank.”
“Tecumseh told me they did.”
“He lied then. They didn’t so much as touch her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It was the one condition that her brother demanded.”
“He turned me in?” Yank asked incredulously. “The doctor?”
“He said that he had a duty as a physician to heal you but not to protect you from the law.”
“The law?”
Prévost shrugged. “That’s what his statement said. I just read it a short time ago.”
“Damn.”
“Do you have woman troubles, my friend?”
“No.” Yank shook his head.
Prévost decided to change the subject. “I recently saw your uncle and several of your cousins in Nova Scotia.”
“The dead ones?” Yank replied. They were speaking of the Loyalist Van Buskirks who had been banished to Nova Scotia after the Revolutionary War.
“Jacob asked of you.”
“I have never met the man.”
“He was devoted to your father and mother.”
“That wasn’t the way I heard it.”
Prévost glanced toward the guard. “Look here, Yank. I’d like to try a prisoner exchange.”
“That would suit me fine, George.”
“Do you know anyone with good political connections? Otherwise, if I make the offer, they’ll accept but then demand someone with a higher rank than you when the time comes.”
“How about James Madison?”
Prévost chuckled. “Really? I could address an exchange offer to him and he would exchange for you?”
“I can’t guarantee it, since I don’t know who you have, but he’s the most politically connected man I know.”
Prévost bobbed his head. “Well then I’ll try it.”
“Thank you George.”
“Yank?”
“Yes?”
“The men who were there at Fort Lernoult swear that you caught a cannonball that would have killed General Hull. Is there any truth to it?”
“No. If it had been aimed at Hull, I would have let it take the bastard and Fort Detroit would still be in American control.”
February 21, 1813
Washington, District of Columbia
“You look extremely well for a dead man,” Madison said, pumping Yank’s hand enthusiastically.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Yank replied with a grin. “And if I may be so bold, you look very tired.”
Madison colored a bit. “Yes, well, thank you for your concern, Colonel. This job is sometimes tiring. Please sit down.”
Yank waited for the President to sit before taking a seat. “Forgive me, sir. My comment was inappropriate.”
“No it wasn’t, Colonel. We have become friends after all, and friends have the right to make such observations.” He glanced at his notes. “Before I forget, I must ask you not to reveal the purpose of your mission to Fort Detroit, Colonel Van Buskirk.”
“Of course, sir. I would never discuss your business with anyone.”
“Do you, by chance, still have the order that I wrote, relieving General Hull of his command?”
“No, sir.”
“Does it exist?”
“I cannot say for certain, sir. It may be in the possession of the physician that cared for me. I could probably recover it if it is very important.”
“No. I don’t suppose it to be that important but it would be embarrassing. I presume you know that General
Hull has been sentenced to death?”
Yank nodded. “I have heard so, sir.”
“The court, however, has recommended mercy, which is just a way to wash their hands of it, in the style reminiscent of Pontius Pilate.”
Yank hesitated. “Sir. I know that General Dearborn is your friend but it seems improper to me that he should preside over the court martial of a subordinate that claims he received inadequate support from his superiors.”
“I am very much aware of that, Colonel, very much. But the court has ruled and the sentence they passed is death. Now it is in my hands; so I ask you, who were there: Do General Hull’s actions in the face of the enemy warrant execution?”
Yank thought a moment before answering. “When I was hit, I was in the midst of a violent argument with the general. His side of the argument was based upon the lives of the women and children inside the fort. Mine was to fight until the enemy’s strength could be more properly assessed. I am confident that he truly believed the enemy to be overwhelming and I am equally convinced that he was intentionally deceived by Tecumseh.”
“Which does not answer my question, Colonel.”
Yank squirmed. “I would commute the sentence if the decision was mine, sir.”
“Then we agree.”
“So you will commute the sentence?”
“Yes. I had already decided to do so, but your testimony will help me defend the decision.”
“I shall write you a letter stating my opinion, sir.”
“Thank you. That would be very helpful. I seem to have more political enemies than friends these days, and they take every opportunity to ridicule and second-guess me. Now perhaps you understand why I asked you about that letter relieving General Hull of his command.”
“Yes, of course I do, sir.”
Madison began sorting papers, looking for something. “During our last meeting - or was it the one before?” Madison shook his head. “During a prior meeting I asked your opinion of a superior and you declined a direct answer stating that it would be improper for you to criticize someone in your chain of command.”
“Sir, that was…” Yank stopped when Madison raised his hand.
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