by Beth White
She waved off his pathetic joke. “The dead part, Charlie. They said you went over that wall, and they couldn’t find your body.”
He looked sheepish. “That was Judah’s idea, and I agreed. We both thought you might come looking for me again—or refuse to leave—if you knew I survived.”
“Judah knows you’re alive?” She was going to slit her brother’s throat.
He shrugged. “Do you have a handkerchief or something? I think my cheek is bleeding.”
“I hope you bleed to death and maggots eat your body.” She closed her fist and slammed it against his bicep—undoubtedly hurting her more than him. Thunder crashed. Taking off her heavy, sopping hat, she swung it at him, over and over, until he laughed and hauled her into his arms.
He kissed her. “Maggots?”
“Yes. Do that again.”
He did, at length, until he finally propped her against a wall and panted, “You know I’m going to have a black eye.”
“That’s your own fault.” She studied him critically. “You look like you’ve been mauled by a bear.”
“Did anybody ever tell you you’re hardheaded?”
“It has been mentioned.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to move this into the tack room. I used to have a pallet—”
“In your dreams. Have you deserted?”
“Not precisely. It’s a bit of a long story.”
“I’m not busy at the moment.”
“Well. We could go on like this all night, but since you’re here, I should tell you why I came.”
“You mean you have a reason for appearing like Lazarus out of the tomb in the middle of a storm?”
“That’s a rather mixed metaphor,” he complained, “but I digress. As a matter of fact, we need to be ready to ride for Fort Bowyer at first light. The entire British fleet is skulking in the gulf like a bunch of sharks. And there are about sixteen hundred marines camped out on Dauphine Island, planning to invade the landward side of the fort tomorrow.”
“You mean today tomorrow, or tomorrow tomorrow?”
“We have another day. I think. I stayed as long as I could, to get finalized plans, but I suppose they could always change things at the last minute. You know how that goes.”
She did indeed. She stared at Charlie’s beloved, bruised face. She was dying to know what he’d been doing, how he came to be here. But there would be time for that later. “Come on, let’s get you washed up. All you have to do is stick your face outside the door—”
“Very funny. I missed you so much.” His eyes were wistful, his mouth rueful.
Oh, how she loved him.
She wriggled out of his arms. “I’m not kissing you again until your face is clean.”
FEBRUARY 11, 1815
FORT BOWYER
He’d been right that they had another day. The British landed and started setting up camp on the shore of Mobile Point across from Fort Bowyer at dawn on the eighth. They advanced immediately, and Major Lawrence’s troops fired on them, sending them scuttling back.
By then, the Lanier family and men from the shipyard had moved into the fort with the American soldiers still stationed at the fort and their women and children, and Major Lawrence had sent word to Mobile for reinforcements. Charlie helped Lawrence prepare as best he could for the siege, placing sandbags on the parapets and at the gun embrasures to protect the artillerymen while they returned fire. There wasn’t much else they could do.
On the afternoon of the eleventh, Charlie huddled in the major’s office with Luc-Antoine and Fiona, who refused to leave his side except when nature called. Frankly, he didn’t mind, and another side of Mother Nature would have done them in, if they hadn’t both been so busy trying to stay alive. He couldn’t resist kissing her every time he passed, building a sort of itching restlessness that he knew would only be assuaged the day they got married.
Since there was no knowing if or when that would happen, he spent a good bit of time praying for self-control.
So far so good.
He looked at her now, sitting at the corner of the table, blue eyes intent on the map, trying to keep her mouth shut. She knew this isthmus and the surrounding area better than any of them, but she also knew her limitations. And advance planning was not one of her strengths—unless it came to raising horses.
He certainly hoped that ability would extend to rearing children one of these days. He wanted about ten that looked just like her . . .
Everyone was staring at him. He cleared his throat and addressed Major Lawrence, who was looking both amused and exasperated. “I’m sorry, I lost the question, sir.”
“So I see. I will send Miss Lanier into another room if you cannot attend, Lieutenant.”
“Oh, no, I—oh, you’re joking.” Flustered, he slapped a finger onto the list on the table. “The rockets you won’t have to worry about. They’re impossible to aim. But the 21st Regiment with these howitzers will be deadly. There are perhaps three times more of them now than there were back in August. And they are very, very angry that Jackson wouldn’t put out the welcome mat in New Orleans.”
Lawrence’s rugged face sobered. “We’ve done about all we can, but we are woefully outnumbered.” He shook his head. “Kincaid, I appreciate your advance warning and all you’ve done to help, but—”
“Major, pardon the interruption, but there’s a redcoat approaching under a white flag.” A young adjutant stood in the doorway. “What do you want us to do?”
Charlie jumped to his feet. “Let me see who it is.” He ran across the green and up the steps to the parapet. Ducking down to peer through a gun port, he put a spyglass to his eye. “It’s Major Sir Harry Smith. He’s a good man.”
Lawrence was right behind him. “For a redcoat, you mean?”
Charlie grinned. “Yes, for a redcoat.” He’d left his Royal Navy pea jacket at the Laniers’ house and borrowed an old buckskin coat belonging to one of the brothers.
“All right,” Lawrence said. “Let’s see what he wants.”
A few minutes later, Charlie and Fiona stood in the shadows as the guards opened the gate for Smith to enter. The tall, thin, red-haired young man in impeccable uniform walked in, bowed to Lawrence, and received a courteous bow in turn. Unwilling to give Smith any undue advantage of information, Charlie and Fiona waited until the two opposing officers went into Lawrence’s office. Then they slipped into the cell next door, out of sight but able to hear through the open door.
Sir Harry began with the usual courtesies of negotiation, such as his name and rank and the purpose of his visit. “Major Lawrence, I’m sure you are aware of the fact that His Majesty’s finest have come here with every intention of neutralizing your force so that we may advance into the contested territory around the city of Mobile.”
Charlie looked at Fiona and mouthed, “Contested?”
When Lawrence didn’t answer, Sir Harry continued. “With that intent in mind, we offer you the opportunity to evacuate your women and children and surrender arms. Otherwise, we will be forced to unleash the artillery trained upon you as we speak. And you should know that two more regiments, each about the size of this one, await orders on Dauphine Island.”
Lawrence again hesitated, but finally said, “I fear, Sir Harry, that unconditional surrender without a shot fired is an unreasonable expectation. I propose instead that you give us until this time tomorrow to collect ourselves, at which time we shall march out with our arms and ground them outside the fort.”
“I understand your reluctance, Major, but I regret to say that we must be a little more proactive in overseeing what you call ‘collecting yourselves.’ Suppose we compromise. We will give you until tomorrow to get out, but in the meantime you must allow a company of our troops to take possession of your arms. And you will permit another body of our troops to move up close in support. At noon tomorrow, you will exit the fort and ground arms on the glacis.”
Charlie heard a chair scrape in the next room. “Sir Harry,
” said Lawrence, “will you permit me a few minutes to think about this? You understand this is a very serious decision that I make, with many lives at stake.”
“Of course.” Sir Harry’s voice was urbane, smooth. Truly he held all the cards.
Major Lawrence walked into the room with Charlie and Fiona. He leaned over to whisper, “What do you think? Is he serious about attacking full-on if I refuse?”
“General Lambert is his commanding officer,” Charlie whispered back, “and the man is a pitiless bulldog—especially with the defeat at New Orleans driving him. Is there any chance of reinforcements arriving?”
“I’ve sent word to General Jackson in New Orleans, as well as Fort Charlotte. But who knows how long they’ll take to respond?” Lawrence sighed. “We can’t count on it.”
Charlie shut his eyes, knowing the consequences he would personally face from surrender. “If you don’t concede, most, if not all of these men under your command will die, and you will lose anyway. I don’t think you have a choice.”
“All right, then. That’s what I thought.” Lawrence put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and walked out.
Fiona stared at him white-faced. “What’s going to happen when they find you here?”
“I suppose we’re going to find out.”
FEBRUARY 12, 1815
FORT BOWYER
Over the last five days of the siege, Fiona had observed Charlie’s ability to lead with a weird mixture of pride, anxiety, and overwhelming love. Certainly he had demonstrated some glaring imperfections in judgment—she delighted in calling him “Lazarus,” to his intense irritation—but his character had been honed true and strong.
On the day of the surrender, the US soldiers lined up quietly behind Major Lawrence in the center of the gate. Fiona and Sehoy gathered with the women and children on one side, while Charlie blended into a group of shipbuilders-turned-militia—including Léon, Luc-Antoine, and Oliver—on the other. Besides the buckskin coat, the men had given Charlie a misshapen suede hat, and his beard had thickened so that she barely recognized him. He had protested the need for a disguise, of course, but Uncle Luc settled the matter by threatening to knock him unconscious until the surrender was complete. In the end, he shrugged, said he’d go quietly if they recognized him and stay put if they didn’t. None of the British artillery engineers who had come in to take over their guns had made a peep so far.
Fiona continued to pray with her eyes wide open. God, your will be done.
At noon, the gates creaked open. British drums rolled, and Major Lawrence gave the order to advance, arms at rest. Row by row his troops marched through the gate, across the ditch, and up the escarpment to lay down their guns on the glacis. When the last soldier had passed through, the militia followed. Gripping Sehoy’s hand hard, Fiona watched the tall bearded figure behind Léon approach the British officer assigned to stand guard outside the gate. Was the officer searching faces? She thought not, as he had stopped nobody to this point.
Then the officer turned his head to inspect the last men going through, Charlie among them, and she wanted to vomit. It was Drake, the one who had apologized to her at the Villeré house. What demon had brought him here? He would recognize Charlie and then—
But he wasn’t looking at Charlie at all. He was staring at her, lips pressed tightly together. Giving her a polite nod, he waved the last of the men through and beckoned the women to follow. Without another glance, he marched toward a field major guarding the soldiers and said loudly, “He’s not here, sir.”
“Are you sure? Cochrane sent word to look for him.”
“Yes, sir. I served under Kincaid for months, so I would know him. He must have escaped to Mobile.”
The major turned away cursing, but evidently had more important tasks than combing through surly American civilians for a naval deserter. He addressed Major Lawrence. “General Lambert says you and your men will be detained here until I receive word of an exchange or some other arrangements are made. The civilians will be evacuated to Mobile under flag of truce.”
“That is gracious, sir.” Lawrence turned to meet his wife’s eyes.
Fiona saw her quickly swipe at her face, then lift her chin and give her husband a smile.
And then they were herded off to be ferried up the bay in groups of twenty on a light-draft vessel that went by the name of Starfish. She and Sehoy went first with the other women and children, the men to follow later in the day. By suppertime, the entire Lanier clan had gathered at Rémy and Giselle’s house to welcome Fiona and wait for the arrival of Luc-Antoine, Léon, Oliver, and Charlie.
With the British now in control of Fort Bowyer, General Jackson still in New Orleans, and Mobile-based reinforcement troops sent too late and forced to turn back, the atmosphere around the table was sober.
The issue of her British-officer-turned-patriot sweetheart overlooked for the moment, Fiona answered questions about the siege and surrender until Uncle Rémy said quietly, “Let the child eat her dinner,” and everyone lapsed into awkward silence.
But Fiona wasn’t hungry. “I can’t eat until Charlie gets here.”
“What’s going to happen if the Brits take Mobile?” Maddy asked. “Fiona, he deserted. They’ll hang him.”
“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “He said one of the captains knows his release papers came through, but this man is afraid of the admiral holding onto them. His grandfather would speak up for him, but there’s no way right now to get word to him of the difficulty.”
Another morose silence ensued. Dessert came and went with little more than comments upon the likelihood of storms in the gulf.
At bedtime, Desi and Maddy and her parents went next door to put Elijah to bed, while the rest of the family retired to their rooms upstairs. The men coming from Fort Bowyer wouldn’t arrive any sooner than midnight, but Fiona and Sehoy lay next to each other, sleepless and fully dressed, in the little attic bedroom.
“So you think they’re all right?” Sehoy whispered once.
“I’m sure they are.” But she wasn’t sure of any such thing. So many things had gone wrong already. How could it be that Charlie had miraculously survived that horrible battle and made his way to her—to be overcome by the British at Fort Bowyer? How much more of this alternating despair and delirious joy and anxiety could she take?
Certainly no one in life was guaranteed one hundred percent contentment, but it seemed she had survived her share of dashed hopes in a very short amount of time.
She must have fallen asleep against all odds, for a thump on the door awakened her at dawn. Sehoy was curled on her side, still slumbering. Scrambling off the bed, she ran to open the door.
“Oliver!” She stared at him. His young face was strained. “What’s the matter? Where’s Charlie?”
He shook his head. “They caught him, Fi. Somebody recognized him as he was getting off the boat.”
She closed her eyes. “I knew something was wrong.” She turned. “Sehoy, wake up! Oliver’s here.”
FEBRUARY 19, 1815
BRITISH FLEET OFF DAUPHINE ISLAND
Charlie felt as Lazarus must have felt, lying in an airless, silent tomb, wrapped in grave cloths—alive, aware, waiting for a savior.
He stood before Admiral Cochrane on the quarterdeck aboard the Carron, a cadre of officers arranged at either side like so many blinking owls. The admiral droned on and on about Articles of War. Desertion. Treason. Restitution.
A noose hung from the yardarm above his head.
Was nobody going to speak for him? The hero who went over the wall. Brother in arms who had saved the life of more than one. Even Drake, who had failed to turn him in the day of the surrender of Fort Bowyer, remained silent.
Captain Spencer would speak up at any minute, he was sure. Spencer knew. He knew about the papers. How could he not speak?
But he did not.
Charlie could not defend himself. He didn’t even know who had seen him aboard the Starfish that day in Mobile Bay a
nd gone to the captain to report him. It didn’t matter. He’d been arrested and brought back to Fort Bowyer, where General Lambert remanded him to Cochrane. Cochrane had pretended disappointment in him, tsked like a nanny about the sad nature of traitors, while Charlie, lost in despair, kept his thoughts focused on Fiona safe with her family in Mobile. It was all he was capable of at the moment.
Then he’d begun to pray that the court-martial would drag out, that the execution would be stayed. There were rumors that peace with America was coming. But nobody could go home until official word of ratification came.
Not today.
It had taken Cochrane a week to push through the court-martial, the verdict, the arrangements for hanging him. Perhaps he’d been slowed down by word that General Andrew Jackson had at last made his way over with troops to defend Mobile—which meant that plans to attack the city became more complicated than simply sailing up the bay to take over. Perhaps Cochrane enjoyed the process of torturing Charlie with the coming execution.
He would not give the admiral the satisfaction of seeing fear. He would not beg. He endured the lecture, eyes focused on the eastern horizon.
My help, Lord. You are my help.
“Ship ahoy, sir!” called a lookout perched high in the rigging. “Ship ahoy!”
Cochrane paused, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Friend or enemy?”
There was a long pause, then, “It’s the Brazen, sir.”
The HMS Brazen, a British ship that had seen service years ago at the siege of Gibraltar, had not been deployed in the American theater of war. Charlie’s heart leapt. His grandfather had served aboard the Brazen at one time.
“Send her a signal,” Cochrane barked, then turned to the executioners waiting to lower the noose. “Do not move. I shall return in a moment.”
Charlie stood where he was, back straight, a pitiless noonday sun beating on his head. Ten minutes went by. An hour. Oh, how he wanted a drink of water, but none was offered.
Finally, when he was reeling from exhaustion, someone stepped up next to him and said quietly, “I’m sorry, laddy. I hope you understand why I couldn’t . . .”
