Rick raised his fist but lowered it when guns cocked. “Go ahead, take the picture. Jerk off while you’re drooling over it. That’s as close as you’ll ever get to her.”
“Guard the door,” Bowes snapped as he turned on his heel and stomped out of the room.
Rick couldn’t resist a parting shot. “I hope the food was good. I heard Commander Lafitte was a charming host. Did he play his guitar?”
The door slammed and locked.
Rick had to get the hell out. He couldn’t stay a moment longer. He turned to see his host hike up his brows, staring at Rick.
“Why’d you antagonize him?”
“Because he was acting like an asshole. I don’t have time for that. I’ve got to get out of here to warn General Jackson and find my cousin.” Rick studied the view from the window.
“British soldiers are guarding the property to the river. The only way out is to dash across the cane fields to the cypress marshes,” Gabriel said.
“How far away are the marshes?” Rick asked.
“About a half-mile,” Gabriel said.
“Once I’m there, where do I go?”
“I’ll go with you,” Celestin said. “If we’d done what General Jackson asked us to do and clog the bayous, the British couldn’t have gotten here. It’s our responsibility to warn him.”
“Can you find your way?” Rick asked.
“I grew up here. I know every inch of the forest and the bayous.”
Gabriel hugged his brother. “You stay. This is my responsibility. If O’Grady and I both go, one of us should make it.”
“No,” Celestin said. “Your men are here. You can’t leave them behind.”
Rick decided on a desperate act. No reason to pull the kid into his escape plan. He grabbed the rucksack he’d left by the door earlier and sprang through the window, knocking down several soldiers when he dropped and rolled. Celestin followed him out of the window and fought the soldiers trying to fire at Rick.
“Run, O’Grady!”
“Catch him or kill him,” the soldiers yelled.
Rick dashed across the yard, hurdling a high picket fence. Other soldiers pursued him, fanning out. He plunged into the cypress forest that fringed the swamp with the British in close pursuit. Adrenaline pumped through his system under the hail of gunfire. His vest would protect his back, but he had no protection for his head.
The soldiers were panting behind him, yelling orders that made his capture seem inevitable. When he reached the swamp, he had one chance. He hauled himself up into a cypress tree and burrowed into the thick moss and branches. As the soldiers neared, he stifled his heaving breaths.
The soldiers floundered past, their red coats gleaming in the sun drifting down through the forest.
Two soldiers walked close to Rick’s tree. “Where’d he go?”
Rick held his breath, held his body completely still. Another dose of adrenaline flooded his bloodstream.
“With two thousand Marines and seamen in the area, he won’t get far. Come on, let’s go.”
Even when he could no longer hear them treading through the underbrush, he didn’t move. Minutes passed. How long he didn’t know. But he remained there. Finally, his gut told him to hit the ground and run like hell.
He slung the pack over his shoulders and dropped to the ground. Before he moved out, he checked his compass and map to get oriented. Satisfied he knew where he was going, he took off, jogging around the trees toward the edge of the forest. The next plantation belonged to the Lacoste family, which was where the general planned to move some of his troops. And the next one was the de la Ronde Plantation.
He moved ghost-like through the forest. When a large, two-story, double-balcony mansion came into view, he took a chance and crossed the open field. As he reached the house, a man with blond hair wearing a militia uniform came out, the door slamming behind him. When he saw Rick, he stopped at the top step and put his gloved hand on the handle of his pistol.
Rick raised his hands. “I’m Rick O’Grady. I have to get a message to General Jackson immediately. British forces have taken the Villére Plantation. The major and his men are prisoners.”
The man grabbed the railing, his face paling. “When?”
“A couple of hours ago,” Rick said, sweat pouring off him despite the chill in the air. “They came down the bayous from Lake Borgne.”
The man clapped his half-moon hat on top of his head. “Do you know what this means?”
Yes, you fool. If you’re de la Ronde, then you fucked up.
“This is dreadful news.” He descended the steps unsteadily. When he reached the ground, he said, “I’m Colonel Pierre Denis de la Ronde. We’ll take the skiff across the river and borrow horses from Dusseau Delacroix to take us to the city, where General Jackson might well shoot the messengers.”
“I wouldn’t blame him.” Rick wanted to remind the colonel that it had been his responsibility, along with Major Villére’s, to clog the bayous. And they didn’t follow orders.
There was no easy way to get to New Orleans. They rowed across the Mississippi and borrowed horses from Delacroix, then eventually crossed the river again. It was noon, five hours since the British invaded the Villére’s Plantation when Rick and the colonel burst through the front door of Jackson’s office on Royal Street.
“Where’s the general?” Rick demanded of the soldier standing guard in the foyer.
The soldier pointed toward a closed door. “He’s meeting with his staff.”
“What I’ve got to tell him can’t wait.” Rick shoved past the guard and knocked on the door.
A voice inside bellowed, “Enter.”
Rick pushed open the door. Across the room stood a tall, emaciated man with wiry, iron-gray hair who was conferring with six men, five in uniform, gathered around a table covered with maps. Philippe was one of the men sitting there. In the corner, another soldier sat at a small desk, writing.
“General Jackson. I have urgent news for you, sir.”
The soldier in the corner glanced up, and her eyes went doe-wide, mouth open, then ducked her head down fast enough to get whiplash.
Sophia.
“Who are you?” Jackson demanded.
Before Rick could recover from the shock of seeing Sophia disguised as a soldier, Philippe answered, “Rick O’Grady.”
“He was here a few days ago,” one of the soldiers at the table said. “He said he just got back from conducting reconnaissance of Barataria for the secretary of war.”
“The secretary never mentioned you, O’Grady,” Jackson said.
“I’m sorry, sir. But that doesn’t matter now.” Rick strode across the room, catching his breath and praying for composure he wasn’t sure he could muster right now. Pete would be livid to find Sophia here. And Rick was pissed as hell on behalf of his bro and unsure of what to do about it. Drag her out? Since she was in the room drawing, the general had given his permission for her to be there, and she’d somehow convinced Philippe to go along with her insane plan. He’d deal with Sophia later.
Rick grabbed a map, whipped it around to orient himself, and found the Villére’s Plantation. Stabbing the map with his finger, he said, “The British are here, sir. They arrived about five hours ago.”
“What?” Jackson yelled, his face beet red.
“The troops came down the bayous from Lake Borgne,” Rick said, “led by Major General John Keane and Lt. Colonel Thornton. When I escaped, the Major General was moving some of his men to the Lacoste Plantation. I ran to Colonel de la Ronde’s place, and we hurried here as quickly as we could.”
The general glared at de la Ronde. “I ordered you and Major Villére to clog the bayous, and you failed!” He looked at Rick again. “How many?”
“I overheard the soldiers chasing me through the forest say there were two thousand Marines and seamen in the area. I can’t vouch for that number, though.”
The general’s voice was hoarse with anger when he roared, “By the Eternal, th
ey shall not sleep upon our soil!”
And then Rick’s memory clicked, and a footnote from David’s presentation flashed in his mind: In the annals of military history, no previous commander had allowed the British army to arrive within seven miles, unseen and without so much as an earthwork, man, or gun between them and their objective.
Jackson roared again, slamming his fist on the map. “I’ll smash them, so help me God!” His boast wasn’t that of a madman, but the calculated decision of a battle-minded veteran. In a more composed voice, Jackson said, “Gentlemen, the British are here. We have to fight them tonight.”
Rick had thought all along that this was about a one-day battle in January. But man, this was fucked up. Pete was God knows where. Sophia was working undercover. Billie was hanging out with a pirate. He just escaped with his life. Rhona Fontenot was seriously ill. And the general was ready to fight the British. Goddamn, could it get any worse?
37
New Orleans (1814)—Rick
Rick stood at attention behind General Jackson, wondering how to extricate himself from this situation. If he didn’t find a way to manage it, this hiccup would turn into a FUBAR—fucked up beyond all repair.
As soon as the meeting broke up, he intended to wring Sophia’s neck—right before hauling her back to Marguerite’s and tying her to a chair. Pete should have done that before he left town to find Billie. What the hell was she doing here dressed like a goddamn soldier? And why had Philippe indulged her? The charged air crackled at the back of his neck. Man, this was bullshit, and Pete would go ballistic. So until Pete was back, Rick intended to stick to her like she was a strip of flypaper.
He turned his attention back to the discussion in the room.
“I agree, General,” one of the soldiers at the table said. “The troops at Villére’s, regardless of the number, are probably no more than the British vanguard. Reinforcements must be on the way.”
The general turned to Rick. “Did you hear anything about reinforcements? And where the hell is Pakenham?”
“No one mentioned General Pakenham, at least in my presence,” Rick said. “If he’d been at the plantation, I would have seen him.”
“We can’t afford to wait,” Jackson said.
A knock on the door preceded the entry of another officer. His hair was windblown, and mud was splattered all over his trousers and jacket. “General,” he said panting. “There are almost two thousand British soldiers, Royal Marines, and seamen at the Lacoste and Villére Plantations. They’re headquartered at Villére’s, but the bulk of the men are bivouacked in the Lacoste’s sugar cane fields.”
“We know, Major Latour.” Jackson pointed to Rick. “Mr. O’Grady was taken prisoner and escaped to bring us the news. What about cannons? Did you see any?”
“Two small ones,” Latour said.
“What were they doing? Assembling? Advancing?” Jackson asked.
“Resting, General.” Latour moved further into the room and pointed to the map. “They have pickets set up along the edge of the Lacoste Plantation, but they’ve stacked their weapons and appear to be exhausted and hungry.”
The door opened again, and another officer entered the room, sweat rolling down the sides of his face.
“Commodore Patterson, if you’ve come to advise us the British are at Villére Plantation, we are well aware of their position,” Jackson said.
The commodore approached the table. “Then, sir, what are your orders?”
Jackson studied the map. “Take your ships down near the Lacoste Plantation.”
“Only the Carolina has enough seamen at the moment. We’ll have the Louisiana ready any day. With the Baratarians, we now can fully man Carolina and have more than sufficient shot and powder.”
“Take the Carolina downriver, anchor near the British encampment here,” Jackson said, pointing to the map. “At seven-thirty tonight, open up on the British. That’ll be the signal for a general attack.” Jackson tapped his finger on the map. “Gather your troops at Fort St. Charles,” he said to the officers at the table. “I’ll move my field headquarters to Macarté House where the balcony overlooks both Chalmette and de la Ronde’s, as well as providing a distant view of the British bivouac at Villére’s.”
Jackson rolled up the map and handed it to Rick. Why me? I’m not going on this trip. He held it but didn’t intend to keep it very long. His damn heart was racing as if readying for a fight. But he didn’t want to fight this battle.
“We’re going to surprise the British from different launch points and show them this American army isn’t going to run away. We’re going to bring the fight to them,” the General said.
I tried telling that to Major General Keane. He didn’t believe me.
“It’s a good plan, General,” the commodore said.
“No plan survives the first contact with the enemy. If this is going to work, everyone has to be ready to adjust, counterstrike, and adapt.” Jackson checked his timepiece. “We’ll ring the bells in an hour, men. You’re dismissed.”
De La Ronde left with the other officers, leaving only Rick, Philippe, and Sophia in the room with the general.
The general looked sharply at Rick. “Mr. O’Grady, if you can work for the secretary, you can work for me. You are now my aide-de-camp.” He nodded to Sophia. “Private, we leave in thirty minutes. Gather your supplies.” Then finally to Philippe, the general said, “Mr. Fontenot, you have your orders.”
“Yes, sir,” Fontenot said.
The general left the war room, and Rick wheeled on Sophia, although at the moment, he was madder at himself for lying to the general’s officers than at Sophia. But that quickly passed. “Read me in right now to whatever the fuck you’re doing—”
She made a T with her hands. “Time out! Before you go off on me, where’s Pete?”
Rick dry scrubbed his face. “I don’t know. But he’d be furious if he knew you were here.” Then Rick glared at Philippe. “How could you approve of this?”
“She would have gone without me. I figured she was safe as long as I was here, too,” Philippe said. “She’s making a difference. Jackson is sending regular reports back to the president, including her sketches. It saves him time. I’m here to help him, and so is Sophia.”
“I could give two shits what Sophia thinks she’s here to do. You’re doing it for altruistic reasons, Philippe. She isn’t.” Rick’s gut fired like an AK-47—fast and hard. He needed to dip into the drug bag and get a prescription-strength antacid to survive this night. He took a step forward, and no one budged.
“Whatever Sophia draws here will make her richer when she goes home,” Rick said.
Sophia gasped. “I can’t believe you said that. That’s cruel.”
“Tell me it’s not true.”
“I don’t care about money.” Tears appeared on her eyelashes. “I only care about the art.”
He’d made her cry, and that would piss Pete off. “Sophia, I don’t know what to do. You’re like an out-of-control teenager. Pete would expect me to keep you safe, and I don’t have the patience with you that he does.”
“I’ll be with the general.” She flicked a tear away with her knuckle. “After what I went through on Bastille Day, I don’t ever want to be caught in a situation like that again. If I thought it might happen, I’d stay right here. Wherever the general goes, he keeps his staff close. And his headquarters is always heavily guarded.”
“I’ve seen the guards, and I don’t trust them to protect you. This isn’t a picnic, Sophia. I just barely escaped from the goddamn British.” While he continued his diatribe, she slipped lower in her chair. “There’s a war going on, and it’s not safe anywhere even the general’s heavily guarded headquarters. When Pete comes back, we’re getting the hell out of here.”
Philippe’s jaw dropped. “I thought we agreed to stay until after January 8.”
Rick growled at him. “We’ll go when I say go! I’m in charge of this mission.” He scrubbed his face again, trying to
shake off the chills of terror. Running into the swamp forest with bullets whizzing past his head had gotten his attention.
Get a grip, O’Grady. Adrenaline topped the charts, spiking in his blood, and the supercharged cadence of his heartbeat was floating in the dangerous zone. Breathe. Out. In. Out. In.
The last time he let someone talk him into delaying a return to the future, Amber almost died, and he had to take a ten-year-old boy home with him. He didn’t want a repeat of that clusterfuck.
Philippe rolled up the rest of the general’s maps while Sophia packed her papers and pencils. “We’re not in danger here, Rick,” she said, “and the general has asked me to go with him. I won’t tell him no.”
“I will!” Rick shouted.
“Then why didn’t you?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I’ll tell you why. It’s because we’re walking in history’s footsteps and we don’t want to miss even the small ones. We’re all addicted to this adrenaline rush.”
“I don’t need this. Been there, done that, don’t need to do it again.”
“We knew we’d be walking into a war zone, and it didn’t stop any of us. We wanted the thrill. So buckle on your six-shooter, jump on your goddamn horse, ride off with General Andrew Jackson, and stop trying to be my nursemaid.”
Sophia rarely used profanity, so to get a goddamn out of her meant she’d reached her limit. “Geez, Sophia.”
“And stop with the geez, Sophia. It doesn’t work for Pete, and it’s not going to work for you, either.”
Even in the chilly office, sweat beaded on Rick’s forehead and under his shirt. He had to try once more to change her mind. “General Jackson doesn’t stay in camp and lead from the rear. He’ll be in the thick of it.”
“I’ll go to his new headquarters, but I won’t go out and follow him.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the door. “Have you heard Billie was here?”
He choked out a strangled laugh. “That should have been the first topic of conversation after, ‘Where’s Pete?’ I heard she’s with Jean Lafitte, and that they’re lovers.” For some reason, saying that out loud didn’t help lower his heart rate. The Billie Malone he knew wouldn’t by choice hang out with a pirate.
The Topaz Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 10) Page 43
