Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) (61 page)

   
“Even if those smuggled guns can arm your troops to fight when our own government can’t get so much as a single musket to us?” Shelby’s voice was strained with impatience. Jackson was narrow-minded and focused only on what he wished to see. Few dared to challenge him.

   
The other officers around the table shuffled uneasily as Jackson and Shelby locked stony gazes. Finally Jackson threw up his hands. “Ye’ve been lobbying for me to meet with the Haitian freebooter. I’m going to the McCarthy plantation to inspect the lines. Bring him to me there and we’ll discuss the disposition of his ill-gotten gains.”

   
Shelby nodded grimly, concealing the relief he felt. By God he’d done it! What Claiborne and the rest had failed to do—Jackson would confer with Lafitte. Now if only Jean could impress the recalcitrant general sufficiently to allow him genuine influence in the planning and strategy sessions. Samuel saluted smartly, saying, “Yes, sir, General. Monsieur Lafitte and I will be there.”

   
As he left Jackson’s headquarters on Royale Street, Samuel’s thoughts were chaotic. There was so damnably much to do. The city was under siege and he had already been drawn into the thick of battle, fighting with the regular army since his arrival bearing messages from Lafitte. Claiborne had been inclined to believe in the Baratarian’s loyalty but the legislative leaders had not, nor when he arrived, had Jackson. All that was about to change now.

   
“But when will I have a moment to myself?” he muttered as he made his way down Royale Street. Since the British had moved within five miles of New Orleans, most of the citizenry had been waiting nervously behind shuttered doors, terrified that the redcoats were coming to burn the Creoles’ beloved city just as they had Washington the past August.

   
Shelby didn’t know if the city would remain safe. He was certain the countryside was not and had wanted to see to Olivia’s safety, especially after learning that she had been widowed and lived in seclusion at her plantation house. Belle Versailles was isolated at the farthest edge of Bayou Bienvenue, not in the path that Jackson anticipated the British general Pakenham would take. Major Villeré, a Creole planter and Olivia’s nearest neighbor, commanded a force of Louisiana militia that held the area secure thus far. But this offered little reassurance to Shelby.

   
He was still confused about his conflicting emotions when it came to Olivia. A part of him—a very foolish part—would always love her, but he knew she did not love him. Facing her now would still be painful, although he was reconciled to doing so before he left the city once the British had been defeated—
if
the British could be defeated.

   
As a hedge against her safety, he had asked Lafitte to send several of his trusted men to watch the plantation house and report any possible danger to their leader immediately. If need be, Samuel would go himself and drag her kicking and screaming back into the city.

   
Truthfully, he was not certain that she was in danger from the invaders. Her husband had been a Spanish officer stationed in Pensacola, which was now occupied by Spain’s English allies.
She’s probably safer with the enemy than she would be with me,
he thought bitterly.

   
After three years, her betrayal still stung. It had gone from a sharp, burning agony to a hollow dull ache now. But he was still not certain how much he’d reveal once he came face-to-face with her. She had ever been a survivor. If wild bears and hostile Osage couldn’t harm her, he doubted the British would. At least that was what he kept telling himself as he went through the grueling days and sleepless nights moving from Jackson’s Royale Street headquarters to the Hotel de la Marine where Jean Lafitte held court.

   
Shelby had come to admire the shrewd and witty Creole whose loyalty to his adopted country was unflinching, even after the American navy, under that imbecile Patterson, had burned Lafitte’s island hideout to the ground, including all its warehouses.

   
Of course, Commodore Patterson didn’t know that Jean had been warned and removed over a million dollars worth of goods from the warehouses before the naval flotilla arrived!

   
Entering the dark interior of the cafe where the Baratarians congregated, Samuel let his eyes become accustomed to the light, searching the crowded room for Lafitte’s red hair, an unlikely strawberry shade achieved by dunking his head in potash and gunpowder. Then Shelby saw the tall, imperious-looking man dressed meticulously in fawn-colored breeches and an elegant cutaway coat. Lafitte motioned him toward a private room in the rear.

   
“You look resplendent as always, Jean,” he said, shaking the privateer’s strong slender hand.

   
Merry black eyes danced beneath pale reddish blond eyebrows as Jean replied, “What is a gentleman to do—go about in rags just because there is war?” After pouring Samuel a glass of wine from his own private stock, Lafitte got down to business. “My men here just learned that Pakenham’s massing his troops for an attack only six hundred yards from where Jackson has dug in at Roderick’s Canal. He’s bringing up twenty big guns, eighteen and twenty-four pounders.”

   
Samuel rubbed his jaw consideringly.
 
“We have only twelve, most smaller, although there is one thirty-two pounder.”

   
“Ah, but my friend, you have us to fire them,” a short swarthy man with a hawk-like nose and flashing white grin replied. Dominique You was as scarred and ugly as his younger brother, Jean Lafitte, was tall and handsome, but they both possessed the same Gallic humor and the same cool courage under fire.

   
Samuel got down to business at once, explaining Jackson’s desire to confer with Lafitte over the matter of provisioning his militiamen with rifles and ammunition.

   
“So at last the old martinet admits he needs us.” Lafitte’s voice held a note of sly satisfaction. “I don’t doubt all that British artillery had something to do with it.” He issued crisp orders to his brother regarding the disposition of ordnance, then turned back to Shelby. “Let us go talk with the great man,” he said dryly.

   
Lafitte was punctiliously polite, Jackson grim and stiff, sensing the well-concealed delight the privateer took in at last being petitioned for assistance.

   
“My brother and his men have taken their places on the breastworks, General Jackson, bringing enough ammunition to blast the entire British army back into the Gulf.”

   
“Ye think they’ll have a New Year’s Day surprise for us then?” Jackson asked suspiciously.

   
“After inspecting their placements, would you not agree?” Lafitte asked.

   
Jackson nodded curtly. “By the Eternal, I would attack!”

   
“Their guns are heavier but ours are better manned. The line will hold,” Shelby said.

   
“It had better!” Jackson replied sourly, running bony fingers through his spiky hair.

* * * *

   
On January 1, 1815, the first daylight battle was fought. As the Baratarians predicted, it rapidly became an artillery duel in which the Royal Army’s heavier guns were consistently outclassed by the lighter cannons of the Americans under the highly skilled direction of Dominique You. As Samuel had predicted, the American line held. The British retired from the field, their big guns silenced. They did not even attempt to mount a charge. Silently the crusty old general realized that there was some benefit to the decades of target practice the Baratarians had against the Royal Navy on the high seas, but he would never admit it aloud.

   
In the days that followed, Generals Pakenham and Cochrane continued to mass their forces along the narrow neck of solid ground with the swamp to the north and the river to the south. Behind heavy earthen breastworks, which had held firmly against the pounding of British artillery, the multinational crew of Americans dug in, waiting for the final assault.

* * * *

   
Olivia heard the pounding roar of cannon erupt again. The thunderous racket had continued intermittently during the first week of the new year. No one on the plantation had been able to sleep well since news of the British landing had reached them. Many of the servants fled in terror, as well as the overseer, leaving her and David alone with only the elderly cook and two parlor maids in the house. Major Villeré’s militia had been captured in a swift night strike at the neighboring plantation house. Belle Versailles was defenseless if the British chose to occupy it. So far they had not.

   
David made a fretful sound’ in his sleep. Clad in a heavy velvet wrapper to ward off the night’s chill, Olivia walked to his bed to comfort the sleepy toddler. Then she heard the sound of rapid hoofbeats coming up the drive and her heart froze in her chest. She walked quickly to the window and peered out from behind the Battenburg lace curtain. It was Edmond Darcy, accompanied by half a dozen other men whom she did not recognize. Perhaps he had come at last to take her and David to safety since his predictions about where the British would land had been so sadly amiss.

   
Seizing a branch of candles, she quickly entered the front hallway and pulled open the heavy door. “Edmond, I am so relieved to see you.” Any further words of welcome died on her lips as she watched his companions draw their weapons and begin to inspect the darkened grounds with what appeared to be military precision. “Who are those men?” Suddenly Edmond did not look like the smiling young man she had first met in William Claiborne’s office. A frission of fear snaked down her spine.

   
His smile was mildly amused. He looked her up and down as if studying a half-bright child who had just committed some gaffe that he would tolerantly pass off. “Why, they are British soldiers, my pet. Out of uniform, of course, but still models of British efficiency.”

   
She stepped back, stunned at the transformation in him.

   
Gone was the mild-mannered, genially charming clerk, replaced by a ruthless jackal stalking its prey. His lips continued smiling but those pale gold eyes were dead. He took the candlestick from her nerveless hand and placed it on a hall table, suddenly seeming taller, stronger, infinitely menacing as he walked toward her.

   
Backing away from him she asked, “Why would you bring the enemy to Belle Versailles? You promised me we’d be safe here.”

   
“Tut, you are safe...from the British. You see, we’re on the same side—the winning side. Once they occupy New Orleans, they’ll need civilian assistance in organizing a colonial government. And who better suited to act as liaison to General Pakenham than the American governor’s personal secretary, a man who has already demonstrated his worth by providing them with all manner of vital information?”

   
“You’re a traitor! You’ll hang for treason after General Jackson’s forces drive the British back into the sea.” Olivia spoke with a confidence she was far from feeling.

   
Ignoring her outburst, Darcy swept past her into David’s bedroom. The child was crying softly, his thumb firmly placed in his mouth, his eyes enormous. Darcy studied the large blue eyes with their thick dark lashes, the thick cap of wavy black hair, the cleanly molded lines of a face beginning to outgrow the chubbiness of infancy.

   
“Shelby’s bastard.” Hearing Olivia’s horrified gasp as she rushed over to shield David, he laughed. “Don’t bother to deny it. I know he’s Shelby’s get. Did your late husband, I wonder?” He paused as she watched him incredulously. “Or, did Rafael Obregón ever even exist?”

   
Like a panther poised to strike, he instantly sensed her tensing. Already he knew the truth. She could see it in those cold eyes, glittering now with triumph. But for what? He had once courted her, albeit rather briefly and at a distance. It seemed unlikely that rape was his goal. It has something to do with Samuel and David, she thought with rising panic. Forcing herself to remain calm as David cried, she rocked him protectively until he quieted, then asked, “What do you want, Darcy?”

   
He studied his nails absently after removing expensively tailored kid gloves. “Why, that’s exceedingly simple, my dear. I want you to write a letter for me. You will address it to your old flame.”

   
“You’re going to kill Samuel.” She knew it as certainly as tomorrow’s sunrise.

   
“Ah, but I shan’t kill him. The British will. You see, there’s quite a price on his head in Spanish Florida, not to mention up on the Canadian border. He’s gone by any number of names, Sir Roger Gordon, Don Emilio Velasquez...a soldier out of uniform, a spy.”

   
Dear God, he is right! Samuel has spent his career out of uniform. Under the laws of any nation—

   
“The British will insist on placing him before a military tribunal,” he said, intuiting her very thoughts. “They’re sticklers for following the letter of the law that way. But then they’ll hang him. Very legal and quite proper.”