Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) (60 page)

   
“Here, take the gold,” the second Britain said, thrusting a small pouch into the American’s hands. “That’s all you’ll see until we’re in control of the city.”

   
The American laughed softly, an icy hollow sound echoing on the still night air. Contemptuously he tossed the pouch back to the Englishman. “I assure you, gentlemen, I have no need of your paltry bribes. Once your forces take the city, I shall be the official liaison between the British army and the unruly citizenry. Everyone will be in need of my good offices.”

   
“And you will extort a handsome profit from the blood and bones of your countrymen,” the first man said acidly.

   
The American nodded as if accepting a compliment. “Precisely so. My guides will meet you tomorrow night at moonrise at the north promontory of the lake. Do you speak Spanish? Their English is rather deficient, I’m afraid.”

   
“We’ll manage,” the taller officer said in a condescending tone.

   
“What is your news from Claiborne’s office?” the other Englishman asked. “Has the legislature considered Lafitte’s offer of help for the American cause yet?”

   
“As a matter of fact, they’ve concluded he’s a thief and a pirate, not to be trusted at all. They think the British papers are forgeries which Jean Lafitte intended to use to get his brother out of jail.” There was a hint of dry amusement in his voice.

   
“What fools those mongrel rabble are,” the second British officer sneered. “Lafitte has enough artillery and skilled gunners to blow Keane’s Highlanders halfway back to Scotland and they turn the man away!”

   
“Just be grateful they’ve not accepted the Baratarian’s help yet,” the American replied darkly.

   
“What do you mean—yet?”

   
“The American officer who brought the papers from Lafitte to Claiborne is a dangerous man. Samuel Shelby will not give up easily.”

   
“Then I assume you shall deal with this Shelby before he changes the governor’s mind?” the tall Englishman purred.

   
“I shall deal with him in my own good time. I have something very particular in mind.”

   
With that the American turned and vanished into the fog, leaving the British officers to climb back into the small pirogue and make the long dangerous trip back to the mouth of the bay.

* * * *

   
“Damn redcoats commin’, Missey, I feels it in m’ bones,” the wizened old servant said as she placed a tray filled with freshly baked gingerbread and milk on the parlor table.

   
“Now, Florine, we’ve already discussed it. Mr. Darcy assures us we’re quite safe. The British forces will most probably head up the Mississippi, if they arrive at all. Edmond Darcy is Governor Claiborne’s secretary. If anyone should know, he should.” Olivia poured a small glass from the pitcher of cool milk and began to break up a ginger cake into small pieces as she looked across the parlor to where her son sat on the carpet playing intently with his toy soldiers. “Time for some of Angeline’s sweet ginger cakes, David,” she said.

   
The sturdy toddler’s black curly hair fell in unruly locks across his forehead as he looked at her. Bright blue eyes lit up as he scrambled to his feet and scampered over to her. “Ginger cakes. Mmmm, good,” he babbled as he climbed into his mother’s lap.

   
Olivia stroked his hair and held him fast as he wriggled with the usual restlessness of a bright, energetic child. He had become her reason for living over the past two and a half years. His resemblance to Samuel had been a bittersweet pang from the first moment she held him in her arms after his birth and had seen the thick cap of black hair covering his head. Olivia had wanted something of her love’s to keep and she had him, but David was at the same time her greatest joy and a tragic reminder of all that she had lost.

   
In the last three years she had grown to accept the fact that Samuel was dead, killed on some nameless battlefield half a continent away. There had never been a single response to the dozens of letters she had sent. Surely if he were alive he would have received at least some of them and written back to her—or even come to see his son. That was what a naive young woman in love had believed, she thought bitterly.

   
But then several months ago while visiting her Spanish friends in Pensacola, Louise Freul had learned about a great scandal concerning an American spy they called the Spanish Yankee. A man masquerading as a Spanish court official had infiltrated high-ranking circles of the British military who were encamped with their Spanish allies. He had stolen vital information regarding their prosecution of the war against the Americans.

   
One of the Spanish officer’s wives had been quite graphic in describing the spy to Louise. It seemed he had nearly made her swoon with desire, a tall black-haired, blue-eyed devil with the most marvelous scars on his body—scars that could only belong to Samuel and would only be visible if he were naked. Olivia could still imagine the lascivious Señora Garcia entwined in a torrid embrace with him.

   
Samuel was alive. He had been a scant few hundred miles away and made no effort to come to her. No wonder his sister had never answered any of Olivia’s letters. Elise was most probably too embarrassed to reply. Olivia had been wounded to the core of her soul, so shattered by the betrayal that if she had not already spent the past years secluded at her country estate, she would have hidden away now to lick her wounds.

   
She had gladly given up all the gaiety and social life of the city after the successful hoax of her marriage and widowhood. Retiring to Belle Versailles, Charles Durand’s huge plantation, she had awaited the birth of her child with only Louise and Dr. Freul in attendance. As far as the gossipy Creoles in New Orleans knew, the boy was Don Rafael Obregón’s son. How tragic that the nobleman had not lived to see his child born, the elderly matrons lamented. How tragic the beautiful and wealthy widow chose to live in isolation and refused to consider remarriage, the young bachelors lamented.

   
But the “widow” had decided that after Samuel there would be no more marriages, no more lovers, no man to break her heart again. She had given herself over to a quiet life in the country, developing an interest in the management of the huge plantation, content to watch her son grow and live out her days with no further risk to her heart. Louise Freul and her brother, Albert, often came to spend weekends at the plantation, and each summer she took David upriver to visit Micajah, who was thrilled with his grandson. She had a full life with good friends.

   
But her peace was suddenly shattered when Louise brought word that Samuel had arrived in New Orleans a scant few days ago. His support for the Baratarian pirates was the cause célèbre of the city and his name was on everyone’s lips, together with speculations about when the British invaders would land. Given a choice, Olivia would far rather have faced Admiral Cochrane’s whole fleet than Samuel Sheridan Shelby.

   
As she watched her son stuff pieces of gingerbread into his chubby cheeks, grinning adorably at her, a sudden thought occurred. Surely Samuel could not have come for David! He could have no way of knowing about his son. By the time David was born, she had finally given up sending letters. Or did he know? Shelby was a spy, a very good spy. She had seen him in action. But why would he wait three years before returning for the boy?

   
It’s only a coincidence that he’s been sent on a mission in the city, she reassured herself. All she need do was to remain secluded here at Belle Versailles until he was assigned elsewhere. That was her principle reason for staying in the country in spite of rumors that the British might cross Lake Borgne and march through Bayou Bienvenue. But Edmond Darcy had offered her assurances that such would not happen. After all, he was privy to the governor’s inner circle.

   
Darcy had briefly been a suitor before she had made it clear that under no circumstances would she ever again marry. Olivia had been grateful when he accepted that and offered her friendship instead. He had become a frequent visitor at the plantation, often bringing David toys and sharing with her the latest news regarding the progress of the war. Edmond had insisted that she remain at Belle Versailles in case the worst indeed did occur and the British occupied the city. Here, she would be safe.

   
But would she be safe from Samuel if he rode up the long magnolia-lined drive to the front porch of the big house? Would he expect her to run out and throw herself at his feet? Or give up David without a fight?

   
The idea gnawed at her relentlessly. He could easily expose her marriage as a sham, leaving her to face cruel censure from the good people of New Orleans while he nobly claimed paternity. She knew the courts would side with him. Men always won in legal matters.

   
I’ll fight you with everything I have, Samuel Shelby. If need be, I’ll take David to Micajah. See if you dare try to steal his grandson from him! But she knew that if Samuel wanted David, he would dare that and much more.

   
“Mama, you squeeze too tight. Can’t eat,” David complained, breaking into her troubling thoughts.

   
She kissed his cheek as she relaxed her hold on the boy, then stared out the front window down the drive with haunted eyes.

* * * *

   
If Samuel Shelby had thought Andrew Jackson was gauntly thin back at Horseshoe Bend last spring, the general was positively cadaverous now. Fevers and dysentery had wracked his body for months until his face looked like a death’s head. After utterly decimating Britain’s Indian allies in Mississippi Territory and chasing the remnants through upper Florida, Jackson had finally deigned to follow the orders given by Secretary of War Monroe to march for New Orleans. The city welcomed the hero of the Red Stick Rebellion with typical Creole delirium, but Jackson remained alternately cantankerous and taciturn. At the moment he was being exceedingly cantankerous.

   
“By the Eternal! I simply don’t believe it! I’ve never in my life seen a Kentuckian without a pack of cards, a jug of whiskey and his long rifle!” He paced furiously, darting scorching glances at the two militia officers who had just reported to him.

   
Two-thirds of the Kentucky State Militia had just arrived without weapons or supplies, expecting to have everything provided by the federal government. Their plight was only one more incident in what had been an incredible series of debacles and blunders that had left Jackson with a motley group of twelve hundred militia—Creoles, Free Men of Color, Choctaw Indians, Baratarian pirates—in conjunction with his own small detachment of regulars. Together they had faced a British landing force of five thousand men on December 23. With Jackson’s usual impervious daring, he attacked in the dead of night.

   
The fighting had been brutal hand-to-hand combat in mud and fog so thick that the British commanders called a retreat, never realizing that the fierce American troops were outnumbered nearly five-to-one. The seemingly impetuous assault had done precisely what Jackson intended for it to do—bought them time for more troops to trickle into the city from upriver. But many of the Tennessee, Mississippi and Kentucky militia came poorly provisioned and, in the case of the Kentuckians, scarcely armed at all.

   
“Governor Isaac Shelby’s sent more militia to fight in this war than any other state, sir. We’re plumb out of supplies,” John Adair, their commander, said stiffly.

   
“He’s right, General,” Samuel added. “My uncle has done all that’s humanly possible to supply men and materials, but after sending ten thousand men to the New York border, he had no choice but to rely on the federals at this point.”

   
“A lot of good that does us with a commissary general who doesn’t know mortar balls from bowling balls,” Jackson snapped.

   
“If I might make a suggestion, General.” Samuel interrupted Jackson’s agitated pacing. When he had Jackson’s attention, he continued, “I happen to know where I can obtain several hundred crates of rifles, powder and shot.”

   
Jackson raised one shaggy white eyebrow. “And that wouldn’t happen to be at the Temple, that accursed banditti Lafitte’s warehouse for selling pirated goods, now would, it?”

   
“That accursed banditti and his Baratarians have fought right well beside us. Already they’ve given us ordnance enough to turn the tide of the siege. Why won’t you trust Lafitte?”

   
“Ye are regular army, Colonel. Those men are outlaws. The governor of Louisiana placed a five hundred dollar reward on Jean Lafitte’s head.”

   
Samuel couldn’t resist smiling when he replied, “And Jean countered by placing a five thousand dollar reward on Claiborne’s head. The governor took it rather well.”

   
“By the Eternal, I do not see the humor in this situation! There is a rule of law in this state and that leaves no room for piracy and smuggling.”