The Topaz Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  “The spent cartridges on the battlefield will confuse researchers and historians. They’ll never be able to explain where they came from.”

  “God, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we should try to find them.”

  “Hell, no. Researchers and historians will just have to deal with it.”

  He took the stairs one step at a time and reached the bottom just as Lafitte rode up with two horses in tow. Rick managed to mount up with minimal jarring of his injuries. He could almost smell the hot water, soap, and a feather bed.

  As they rode off the property, Pete and Sophia met them going in the opposite direction.

  “Where are you going?” Rick asked.

  Sophia glanced at Pete. “The general asked me to go to the battlefield. He wants sketches to send to the War Department.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t bar the door,” Rick said to Pete.

  “The general sent an aide with a letter explaining what he wanted. I couldn’t say no to a general. Would’ve gone against everything I learned as a Marine. So”—he smiled at Sophia—“I’m escorting Private Orsini to the battlefield.”

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Lafitte,” Sophia said. “I don’t think you’ve met my husband, Pete Parrino.”

  Pete lifted two fingers to the corner of his hat. “Your men can certainly throw a punch.”

  Jean laughed. “I heard what happened. Penny continues to surprise me, but I’m glad you had enough money to pay the bonus. I’m not sure I would have.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “A gold nugget for each man was more than a bonus. You now have twelve devoted friends, Mr. Parrino.”

  “They taught me a lot about the swamp and how to find my way. I was impressed with them. Besides, they make better friends than enemies.”

  Jean laughed again. “Oui, they do.” Then he turned toward Penny. “Do you want to go to the battlefield or back to the city?”

  Penny glanced at Rick. “We should go see it, especially since Soph has to be there. We should support her.”

  Rick turned his horse around, grumbling, “I suppose our baths can wait.”

  Pete gave Rick a look on his way by as he and Sophia took the lead. “Stay downwind, okay?”

  They reached the de la Ronde Plantation and found the troops dismantling their campsites. “Where are they going?” Sophia asked.

  “Probably moving them closer to the city to form a permanent line of defense,” Penny said.

  When they rode up to the mansion, Jackson and his aides-de-camp—Major D’Avezac, John Reid, Edward Livingston, Major Chotard, and his military aide, Robert Butler—were mounting their horses.

  “Good to see you up and moving about, Mr. O’Grady,” Jackson said. “Ride with us to the battlefield.”

  No one was in a hurry to get there, so they rode slowly to the Rodriguez Canal, passing the walking wounded, many with dreadful gashes similar to Rick’s. Some had wounds hastily dressed while others remained uncovered. There were crushed hands with fingers dangling by threads of skin.

  The men stopped and watched Jackson ride by, and he paused to encourage them. “Get up to the house, boys, and get those wounds taken care of. We still have another battle to fight.”

  Major Latour, Jackson’s chief engineer, was monitoring the canal’s fortifications when Jackson rode up beside him. “Dig the canal deeper, and fill it with water and debris. Use the mud to build a rampart solid enough to absorb the enemy’s cannon fire.” The general’s horse danced, and he reined it in. “Mobilize the labor battalions.”

  “You also need more channels dug in the levee to flood the open land,” Lafitte said. “Then the British forces will have to march through mud and standing water. It’ll slow their advance.”

  Jackson nodded his agreement. “Commander Lafitte has an understanding of the local terrain, and I’m impressed with his grasp of military tactics. Consider it an order, Major Latour.”

  The major acknowledged the orders and rode off to mobilize the workforce. The rest of the party rode forward.

  The battlefield was horrific, and even though Rick was a vet and had seen gruesome things in Afghanistan, he was stunned by the carnage. The faces of the dead were ghastly. His stomach roiled, and he moved away from the others. Pain medication always made him sick, but the sight of the young men splayed out on the field was sickening. He leaned over and vomited.

  Penny rode over to him and handed him a canteen. “Here. It’s good water.” She glanced over at Sophia, who was walking around the field with Pete. “I don’t know how she can do that.”

  Rick took a long swig, rinsed his mouth, and spat it out. “She can separate what she sees from her emotions. It’s not that Sophia doesn’t feel anything, she does. And she’ll go home and cry tonight. But while she’s working, she can put it aside.”

  “You know her well,” Penny said.

  “I spend a lot of time with them at their winery in Italy. I appreciate her talent. And she’s an amazing wife, mother, artist, and a damn good friend.”

  “She’s very loyal.”

  “You know you’re the only person other than Pete who can get away with calling her Soph.”

  “Really? I never got the impression it bothered her.”

  “For some reason, it doesn’t when it comes from you.”

  Rick looked out across the battlefield as Sophia and Pete walked around the bodies. Circling overhead, vultures resembling water swirling down a drain, waited to poke their bills deep into the dead. Vital organs had been pierced or hacked. Heads had suffered even worse. Eyes were hanging out of their sockets, and skulls were split open with brains bulging out.

  Rick’s stomach roiled again, and his hands were icy and damp.

  Lafitte, the general, and his aides remained mounted and stared out across the field. Lafitte turned in the saddle and glanced at Penny. When she didn’t turn toward him, he broke away from the rest of the group and rode over to her.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  Penny nodded. “I’ve seen enough. What about you, Rick?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “I’ll wait for Pete and Sophia.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you at headquarters later.” Penny turned her horse around, a worried smile flattening her mouth. “Get some rest, Marine.”

  “You, too, Army.”

  There was a hint of rawhide toughness in her posture. Her hands were strong and long-fingered and could speak to a horse, to him—to anyone paying attention.

  And Lafitte was.

  She put her heels to her horse, and it went from standing to a trot in one stride. The hoof-clatter of their horses was so in synch it sounded like only one animal racing across the harvested sugarcane field.

  For better than two minutes, he clung to that fading cadence. When distance finally muted it, he turned his attention back to Pete and Sophia and watched her sketch the scene. Those were drawings he never wanted to see.

  The cold had stiffened his jacket, and where it touched his neck, it was like ice against his skin.

  Go home, lonesome cowboy.

  He knotted his fist and straightened his wounded arm, catching his breath sharply as the pain lanced up from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. Then he rode slowly away from the battlefield, praying for the men he killed who should have survived the night.

  42

  New Orleans (1815)—Penny

  Penny returned to the Macartés’ mansion daily for briefings and went on short spy missions with Jean.

  Jackson’s staff was abuzz with the news that General Pakenham, brother-in-law of the Duke of Wellington, had arrived to lead the British troops. Jackson’s scouts reported that after Pakenham inspected the front, he was furious and questioned the decisions made by General Keane and Admiral Cochrane.

  Jackson agreed with Pakenham’s observation that the British were in real jeopardy, and that was precisely where Jackson wanted them to stay. The source of supplies for the British troops was the fleet moored sixty miles away, and
if there was a way to block the transfer of supplies, the British would be without food and ammunition.

  Penny knew all this and more.

  Pakenham was considering a total withdrawal, so he could deploy his forces in a location that increased the odds of a big victory, but he was challenged by Cochrane, who boasted his Royal Navy could take New Orleans and Pakenham’s troops could bring the baggage.

  Instead of arguing with Cochrane, Pakenham knew they had to work together, so his plan was first to destroy the Carolina.

  And that created a significant dilemma for Penny.

  When Rick rode up, she was standing on the balcony watching the work on the canal through a spyglass. He dismounted and tied his horse to the temporary tie rail set up in front of the mansion. Her horse was already racked there, along with ones belonging to members of Jackson’s staff.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Feeling better?”

  “Much,” he said. “I slept soundly for two days. Remy came by to check my wounds and bring food.”

  She didn’t believe it, mostly because the bones were so prominent on his face. Everything was sharp and drawn from pain or worry or lack of sleep.

  He stood there looking up at her while he pulled a cigar out of his jacket pocket. “What are you looking at?”

  “The Carolina and the work crews at the canal.”

  He sniffed the cigar before striking a match against his thigh and waving it in front of the tip. “Want to ride over there and check the progress?”

  “Sure. Wait there. Let me get my jacket.” When she reached the bottom of the stairs, he was leaning against the railing, still puffing on his cigar. It wasn’t a cheap one, either. It was a fragrant blast of sweet, spicy, and woody smoke. It grabbed her nose by the lapels and shook it, and she wanted one of her own. It had been years since she’d smoked a cigar while sipping an expensive bourbon. Another lifetime ago.

  He flicked her hair off her shoulder. “Is your blue hair a permanent thing?”

  Her brain froze for a moment, then it thawed, and she asked, “Are those sharp angles on your face a permanent thing?”

  He took a short draw, then removed the cigar from his mouth and studied it. “I’m not in that much pain, but I’m worried. Pete and I want to pull the plug on this shitshow. I have the authority to end this mission, but I don’t want to take away anyone’s shot at whatever they’re trying to prove or achieve or accomplish. I got nothin’. I came here to find you. My job’s done.”

  She traipsed through the muck that gathered under her boots and tried to wipe some of it off before slinging her leg over the saddle. Her horse danced sideways, blowing clouds of condensation. “When you were in the Marines, did you ever leave a job unfinished?”

  “Hell, no.” He seized the reins of his horse and swung into the saddle, slow and easy.

  “Then I guess we’re staying, and I’ll keep my hair blue.” She swallowed a laugh, then hastily put her face in order. “I know you don’t like this look, but I feel safer, and right now, that’s more important than how I look. I’m not dressing to impress. I’m dressing to stay alive.”

  Pistol shots rang out, followed by an artillery salvo. She snapped to attention, and her horse pricked his ears and sidestepped.

  Rick’s dark brows tightened, and the light in his eyes dulled. “Where’s that coming from?” He waved his cigar, leaving a trail of smoke in the air. “Never mind. I know where, but I can’t tell whose guns they are. Ours or theirs?”

  Nerves crawled up her throat. “No-man’s land, probably. Anyone who ventures between the two encampments is a target. The Indians and bands of Tennesseans with long rifles make deadly work of sneaking up on British sentries and killing them. The British think that behavior is uncivilized and have complained to Jackson by way of an emissary.”

  “Uncivilized? It’s war, goddamn it. Let’s go over there and watch what’s going on from the shelter of those trees near the levee.”

  They trotted toward the river, and she couldn’t help notice how tall he sat in the saddle. He had the wrong hat, though. It should be a Stetson. Not a generic black felt hat. When they reached the levee, they stopped and gazed out over the river.

  “Where’s Lafitte?” Rick asked.

  “He’s meeting with the general. They’re almost inseparable now. Some of Jean’s men came in a while ago—gunnery crews from Barataria. They were red-shirted, bewhiskered, rough, desperate-looking men, grimy with smoke and mud, but Jackson still applauded them. He knows they’re going to win this war for him, for us, for the country.”

  The sporadic shooting ceased, and the echo of the dancing rhythm of the horses’ hooves fell still in the frosty silence.

  She broke into that silence, saying, “We have a problem.”

  Rick glanced her way with a frown. “We have several. Is there one in particular that concerns you more than others this morning?”

  “The Carolina. According to Jackson’s spies, Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Dickson, an artillery commander, arrived with General Pakenham yesterday. He’s taken charge of the cannons that have been arriving on the bayous on boats and barges and dragged to the river by horses and placed in trenches.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  She marshaled her fears and marched them out. “They’re now positioned to fire on the Carolina, and tomorrow at sunrise, the British will destroy the ship.”

  He turned in his saddle and stared at her. “Shit. What does that mean? We couldn’t have won the other night without the Carolina. Did you know about this? Before, I mean?”

  “Yeah, I knew. As long as we don’t interfere, the battle will happen as it’s supposed to.”

  “We’ve already interfered. So what’s the problem?”

  “Jean will be furious that I didn’t warn him. His brother, Dominique, is on the Carolina, and his life is in danger.” She reined in her horse as it pranced in excited circles, splashing muck up on her legs.

  “Does Dominique survive the bombardment?”

  “He survives. But Jean will see my silence as betrayal and a lie of omission.”

  “If you tell Lafitte the British intend to destroy the Carolina, what will he do?”

  “He’ll tell Dominique to move the ship. If Pakenham can’t destroy it, he’ll reconsider his position, and possibly withdraw to deploy his forces elsewhere. If that happens, history is changed, and the Americans could lose.”

  “Destroying the ship gives the British confidence in their position.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then you can’t tell Lafitte. And hasn’t the war ended anyway? So really it doesn’t matter what happens here.”

  “Tell that to the families who lost loved ones the other night. It does matter.”

  “I know. Sorry, that was a callous thing to say. It matters to a lot of people. But at least after this war, the world will know America deserves a seat at the table.”

  Cigar smoke hazed the air between them as the silence stretched. Her gut said Rick was right. She shouldn’t tell Jean, but her conscience said the opposite. He would be furious and disappointed.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “You can’t tell him. I don’t know Lafitte as well as you do, but he’ll understand.”

  “You’re right,” she snapped. “You don’t know him. Jean expects loyalty and obedience. There’s no way he’ll understand why I didn’t warn him when I’ve told him so many things about the battle.”

  Rick’s face telegraphed his concern, and then he asked, “Are you afraid of Lafitte?”

  She took a deep breath and popped her knuckles, something she rarely did, trying to forget what happened to her when she first arrived at Barataria. “No, I’m not scared of him. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Rick rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger, watching it burn as if the wrapper held the answers to the world’s most complicated questions. “Are you in love with him?”

  Well, that wasn’t one of the world’s complicated questions,
but it was one of hers. “I wasn’t expecting that question from you.”

  “Are you?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I hate that expression. Cullen and Kit Montgomery have a running joke about what really is complicated and what isn’t. The bottom line is that living is complicated. The rest is just damn frustrating.”

  “Okay then, this is frustrating. Jean caused me a great deal of…distress, but he also saved my life and took care of me. In a bizarre way, he reminds me of my dad—the way he was when I was little and the way I’ve wanted him to be since. But I know Dad’s incapable of giving me what I want.”

  She paused and thought about the comparison, then continued, “Jean senses what I need. He knows when to be strong and when to be soft… When to be a leader and when to let me lead… When to hammer home his point, and when to listen quietly to mine… When to keep me guessing, and when to be honest. People like that don’t come into your life often, and when they do, you hang tight. But along with all those wonderful qualities, Jean’s also capable of killing a man to make a statement.”

  She swallowed with difficulty, and a tear leaked from between her eyelids and slid down her cheek, where she swiped it away. Reflection always took her to Emotional Hell—a horrible place to go.

  “So, you asked, am I in love with Jean Lafitte? No. But if I provoke him, he might pull out his pistol and shoot me—metaphorically speaking.”

  Rick took a long draw, leaned his head back, and blew smoke at the sky. “I have this small man brain, and a lot of times I don’t get women.” He grinned, and that sexy dimple flashed in his right cheek beneath the piratical scruff.

  She chuckled at his double entendre. “The thing about you, O’Grady, is that your man brain isn’t the least bit small. It matches the size of the heart you wear on your sleeve. And for some insane reason, you let women blow their noses on it like runners do when they’re on long runs and a sleeve is all they’ve got. You’d give the world to a woman, and I hope someday you find someone who’ll give you as much in return.”

  Familiar pinching sensations grew deep within her heart. He’d stirred them once several years ago, and he stirred them again now.