She stood and grabbed the rucksack. “I was going to see if there was anything else Jackson needed. Did you see anything?”
“Only trunks full of ladies’ gowns. Don’t reckon he needs those.”
“I guess we’re done then.”
“I’ve gotta get my horse,” Pete said. “I left it tied up behind the warehouse.”
“Hey, Stede,” Billie said. “Would you grab Captain Parrino’s horse? He left it behind the warehouse.”
Stede nodded and strode off again.
“Thanks for the promotion,” Pete said. “Never made it past sergeant.”
“Well, don’t expect a big pay raise.” While they waited for Stede to return with the horse, Billie said, “Your wife’s beautiful and very talented. I saw several of her drawings. The blue-tatted warriors in David’s vision match the ones in my dreams…or hallucinations. I’m not sure which. Weird, huh?”
“You too? Shit. That’s creepy as hell. I’m afraid we’ve got a mess to deal with when we get back. So how’d you end up with Jean Lafitte?”
“I landed at Barataria and spent a week there before we came to New Orleans. But that’s a story for another time. We’ve gotta beat feet.”
Stede strode up with the horse. “We’ll put the saddle in the pirogue and let this stallion swim. Water’s not deep.”
“What about the gators?” Billie asked.
“Beat ’em off with a paddle,” Stede chuckled as he unsaddled the horse and tossed the saddle in the pirogue.
Pete and Billie climbed into the canoe, and Stede handed the reins to Pete. Then he pushed off and jumped into the boat. By the time they reached the other side, the men had the wagons loaded and mules hitched.
It was going to be a hell of a long night. Rain was coming, and the frost would set in. And with so many men around, it would be impossible to have a personal conversation. Pete would have to find out from someone else what his wife had been doing while he was roaming the countryside.
Sophia, aka Private Orsini, certainly hadn’t been hanging out with Marguerite.
36
Villére Plantation (1814)—Rick
After spending three days chasing a half-dozen rumors of Billie sightings across south Louisiana, Rick ended up at the Villére Plantation several miles southeast of the city.
He rode through a grove of orange trees as the last of the winter sun warmed the harvested cane fields full of row after row of brown stalks. The cold was coming, and Rick didn’t want to spend another night on the trail. He didn’t want to spend another day on a horse, either. He wasn’t the best rider in the family, but at least his skills had improved in the past few years. He thought about Pete and laughed. After getting kicked during his first visit to MacKlenna Farm, Pete didn’t trust horses at all.
With any luck, Pete should be back in the city by now. And maybe Billie had found her way there. After three days of riding around in the cold, he decided this search for her was a waste of time.
If she’d landed at one of the plantations, she would have made her way to the city where the action was. She wouldn’t have stayed hunkered down at a remote location waiting for the British to arrive. He should have thought it through and given her time to get there. But he was a Marine, and he didn’t sit around waiting for the action to come to him, he chased after it.
And damn, he was tired of chasing. And his ass was sick and tired of being in the saddle.
He rode up to the gallery of the single-story manor house, dismounted, hobbled his horse, and climbed the steps. A man wearing the uniform of a militia major opened the door before Rick could knock.
“Afternoon, sir,” Rick said, removing his hat. “I’ve been on a three-day search for my cousin. I wondered if you’ve seen her. I’ve got a sketch.” He pulled out Billie’s picture, unfolded it, and handed it to the man. “Her name’s Wilhelmina Malone.”
The major studied the picture, shaking his head. “She’s a pretty girl. I’d remember seeing her.”
“Yep, I get that a lot.” Rick folded the picture and put it away. “The last word I got was that she arrived in New Orleans, but that was weeks ago. No one in the city has seen her, so I’ve been visiting the plantations asking about her.”
“Sorry, but I don’t have any news that might help you. But why don’t you come in? My brother and I were just about ready to sit down to supper. You’re welcome to join us and stay for the night. I’m Major Gabriel Villére.”
“Thanks for the invitation.” Rick stepped into the house. It was warm and pleasant and smelled like heaven. “My stomach’s been complaining for the last couple of hours. By the way, I’m Rick O’Grady from New York City.”
“You’re not fighting in the war?” the major asked.
“Been fighting, but not this time.”
“The general needs everybody he can get. You look like you know how to handle yourself. If you’re going to New Orleans, stop by his headquarters. At least you can give him a scouting report of what you’ve seen the past few days.”
“If the English are here, they’re hiding.”
“Let’s hope they’re not here,” the major said.
Rick followed him into the dining room. “This is my brother, Celestin.”
Rick shook hands with Celestin, and they all sat down to a meal of shrimp omelets, fresh cornbread topped with a molasses crust, and coffee, black the way he liked it. The first decent meal he’d had since leaving Marguerite’s, and his stomach rumbled with gratitude.
“Which way did you come?” the major asked.
“I was up by Lake Borgne. Stopped at Fisherman’s Village, then followed Bayou Mazant to Bayou Villére. I was surprised the bayous weren’t blocked up. I would have thought General Jackson would have done that by now.”
“The general ordered me to block the bayous from the lakes to the Mississippi, but we depend on the waterways, so I sent a twelve-men detachment from the Louisiana 3rd Militia to Fisherman’s Village with provisions to patrol and observe the western edge of Lake Borgne down to the river. We’ve been getting regular reports. All’s quiet so far.”
“The men weren’t happy to be sent away,” Celestin said. “They thought they were goin’ to the backwash of the campaign. We’re all convinced the British are coming through Gentilly or Bayou St. John.” He shrugged. “We can’t be sure, of course.”
“The British could easily overtake your pickets,” Rick said. “You should block up the bayous before it’s too late. You could be the weak link that hands over New Orleans to the British.”
“Or we could clog up our waterways, making it impossible to move troops to where they need to be.” The major stood. “Can I offer you something stronger than coffee?”
Rick’s only knowledge of the battle was what happened on January 8. If the British arrived at Chalmette by traveling through the bayous, that piece of information wasn’t included in his briefing.
“Sure, I’d like something stronger. Then I’d like to bunk in your barn tonight if you don’t mind.”
“Nonsense. We have room here at the house,” Celestin said.
“I don’t want to put you out.” A real bed. Rick’s muscles quivered with excitement.
“It’s no bother,” Celestin said. “If you cause trouble, we’ll yell for the militia in the bunkhouse.”
The major gathered a decanter and glasses and poured whiskey for all three of them. “To the swift defeat of the British.”
After another drink or two, Rick said goodnight and collapsed on the bed in the guestroom with his boots on. There was something about the major’s story that tickled Rick’s memory, but he couldn’t connect the tickle to any tidbit of historical information stored in his brain. He closed his eyes and sprinted through a few mental files before shutting down.
The sun slipped through the curtains, waking him at some godforsaken hour. He was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but he didn’t have time.
During the night, he’d gotten up, stripped off his cl
othes, and climbed under the covers. He dressed quickly and followed the scent of chickory coffee to the dining room. He was the only one there. He poured a cup and headed out to the gallery to find Gabriel sitting in a rocking chair with Celestin cleaning a rifle and a handful of militiamen discussing the possibility of an invasion.
“Where you heading next, Mr. O’Grady?” the major asked.
Rick sat in one of the rockers, sipping his brew. “I’ll stop at the Lacoste and de la Ronde Plantations, then head back to the city.”
“I hope you find your cousin.”
“I do too. I don’t know what I’ll tell my aunt if I don’t.”
“Why’d she come down here? You never said.”
“Ran off with a soldier. I promised her ma I’d get her back, least till the war’s over.” Rick sipped more of the chicory-flavored brew, shaking off the morning chill. “Look over there.” He pushed to his feet, pointing toward the glint of sun on steel and polished leather flashing among the closely-clustered trees in the orange groves. “We’ve got company, boys.”
A shot rang out, and a shrill voice yelled, “Redcoats.”
Gabriel leaped out of his chair and shoved his brother into the house. Rick followed them out to the rear gallery.
“Shit,” he groaned. “We’re surrounded.” Beneath the oaks and the pecan trees stood dozens of British soldiers in their scarlet tunics and plumed leather helmets, their rifles at the ready. What the hell did this mean? He was a civilian. Would they take him prisoner? He slid his hand in his pocket and fingered the rosary.
He hadn’t planned for this. He had a brooch and could disappear, but he couldn’t leave without the others, even if he turned around and came right back. Nobody had done that before. He might come right back to this moment in time and be in the same shithole.
His life wasn’t in immediate danger. It wasn’t like being captured by Taliban insurgents. But the English could take him prisoner until the war ended, and that would screw everything up. As soon as he found an opening, he was getting the hell out.
A British officer rushed forward with his sword drawn. “I’m Lt. Colonel Thornton, 85th Regiment of Foot, Bucks Volunteers, and you are all now prisoners of the British army.”
Great. Just great.
Thornton pointed his sword at Major Villére’s chest. “Who might you be?”
The major stiffened his spine. “Major Gabriel Villére, 3rd Louisiana Militia.”
Thornton smiled. “I rather enjoy American militiamen. They run very well.”
Run very well? Like run through with a sword? Or run away?
Then he pointed the blade at Rick. “And you?”
Platoon Sergeant in the ‘Highlanders’ 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company, 1st Light Armored Recognizance Battalion, 1st Marine Division.
But Rick didn’t dare say that to the British officer. He held up his hands and decided to go with dumb and innocent. “Rick O’Grady. I’m not fighting in this war. I’m just here searching for my cousin.”
A man limped into the house, his pants leg covered in blood. “Are you the one who shot me?”
Rick shook his head. “Not me.”
“Good shooting, whoever it was. It takes more than one bullet to kill a Scot. Remember that.” He limped off with a rifle in hand.
Rick chuckled. “I know several, sir. And you’re damn right.”
Thornton stood only a foot from Rick. “How many men does General Jackson have?’
Rick shrugged. “How should I know? I’m just passing through.” Then he couldn’t resist being a smartass. “Knowing Old Hickory’s reputation, I’m sure he’s rustled up more than you’ve got. So how many do you have?”
Thornton’s piercing eyes bored into Rick. “You’ll play tough, but then you’ll tell us there are twenty thousand Americans here, just like everyone else we ask.”
Rick glanced up and ticked off his fingers, making a show of counting troops. “Sounds about right.”
“I know for a fact there aren’t five thousand men, and most of them are militia.”
“If you know so much, why ask me? I’m just passing through, like I said, looking for my cousin.” Rick pulled Billie’s picture from his pocket. “Have you seen her?”
Thornton’s eyes opened wide. “I’m sure we can trade information.” He looked at one of his soldiers. “Take him inside. Take all three of them.”
As they walked back through the house, Celestin nodded toward the major’s office. “You’re bound to find it anyway, so I’ll tell ya. There’s a muster book on the desk. You’ll see there are five thousand men in the 3rd. Each Louisiana battalion has four thousand men, and all three are here with General Jackson. That’s twelve thousand. Not counting the volunteers from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Georgia.”
“Go get the book,” Thornton said to one of his soldiers. “And take these men into the parlor and keep an eye on ’em.”
After they were herded into the room, Rick asked Gabriel, “How’d they get here?”
Before Gabriel could answer, a man with black hair and whiskers stepped into the room in an immaculately clean red jacket with medals and badges affixed to his broad chest. “I’m Major General John Keane.” A handful of men wearing red coats, gray trousers, tall black shako hats followed behind him.
“What’s the next plantation?” General Keane asked.
Rick shrugged. “I’m just traveling through.”
“Yes, I heard that. Something about looking for a cousin.” General Keane turned around. “Isn’t that right, Lieutenant Bowes?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“It seems we have information to share,” Keane said.
Jesus. Do they have Billie? Prisoner? Guest? What?
Rick had no idea how he was going to play this, but whatever he did, he couldn’t give the British any information.
“What’s the next plantation?” General Keane asked again.
“Lacoste,” Gabriel volunteered.
General Keane stood in front of the window. “The men are so hungry and tired they’re stumbling around out there. They can’t crowd in here, though. Spread them out across the next plantation.” He then turned back to Rick. “How many men are we facing?”
“You know… I’ve been sitting here trying to count all the troops, and I’d say General Jackson has close to twenty thousand. But that doesn’t include the Kentuckians who’ll be here any day.”
“Same story we’ve heard over and over.”
“General, if people are telling you the same story, then it’s because it’s true.” He folded his arms. “Now, tell me about my cousin.”
“Mr. O’Grady, we’re facing your militia, and we have experience routing them. This battle will go quickly. Whose side do you want to be on when it’s over?”
“Who made up the militia you routed before? Clerks? Ministers? Lawyers? Businessmen from New York, Philadelphia, Boston? Well, I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re not facing that kind of militia here. These are southern boys, and westerners and frontiersmen who all grew up hunting and shooting. Now, where’s my cousin?”
The general laughed. “The American militia won’t stand up to British bayonets.”
Rick let a half lazy grin curl up on one side of his mouth. “You know, General, I think it was Sean Connery who said don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.” Of course, it didn’t end well for Sean in the Untouchables, but that wasn’t the point.
The general’s muscles rippled and his eyes hardened before he pivoted and beckoned to another officer. “Lieutenant Bowes, tell Mr. O’Grady where you met his cousin.”
Bowes seared Rick with a laser glare. “I dined with her at Barataria. She was the charming guest of Commander Jean Lafitte. Matter of fact, he referred to her as the Queen of Barataria. I wouldn’t worry about your cousin, Mr. O’Grady. She’s in fine hands.”
Relief shivered down Rick’s arms. “Oh, thank God. I thought you were going to tell me she was your guest.” Rick flopped in a chair,
his arms and head falling backward.
“You must have misunderstood me, Mr. O’Grady,” Bowes said with an even sharper glare that matched his tone. “She was a personal friend of the pirate Jean Lafitte.” And then to make his point, Bowes added, “His mistress.”
Rick popped up out of his chair. Shove it, fuckwit. He pointed his finger and held it only inches from Bowes’s chest. “I understood your inference perfectly, Lieutenant. And I’d rather Wilhelmina spend a year with Jean Lafitte than one day in your company.”
Rick couldn’t imagine how Billie ended up with Lafitte, but he had no doubt she could handle him. His mind ticked through what he knew. Lafitte was a ladies’ man, a great dancer, and a hero of the Battle of New Orleans. If the Fontenots had been gone seven years in the present and ten years in the past, was it possible Billie had been with Lafitte for months? If so, she could have a relationship with him. Would that stop her from going home? He didn’t think so, but she’d have a broken heart for a while.
As for Barataria, the American Navy destroyed it. Billie would have known that happened shortly after the dinner with the British officers. She would have left with Lafitte for New Orleans. Hot damn! He knew where she was. Now all he had to do was get back to the city.
Lieutenant Bowes fisted his hands. “The woman’s a witch!”
Throw a punch, you bastard. I’ll take you down right here, right now.
Time slowed as Bowes tensed, readying himself to fight. Rick could see violence churning in Bowes’s eyes, pulsing like an exposed nerve. It triggered something in Rick the likes of which he hadn’t felt in years.
As much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t make the first move. The second move, though, would be to pin the asshole against the door frame with a stranglehold. And only guns pointed at Rick’s head would force him to release it. Adrenaline fueled and honed Rick’s readiness, making the tips of his fingers pulse.
Bowes snatched the drawing of Billie out of Rick’s coat pocket. “Now that you know where she is, you won’t need this.”
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.”
The Topaz Brooch Page 42