The Topaz Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  “Six,” Rick said.

  “Where’s your canteen?” she asked.

  “I can go two days without water and almost a week without food. My life expectancy in a firefight without ammo is shit. I’ll carry as many magazines as I can and leave the water behind.”

  She groaned with a smile in her voice. “As long as you don’t have cooties, you can drink from mine.”

  Her low, husky voice immediately made him think of sex—again—and he said in a raspy voice, “I’m clean.”

  She burst out with a short laugh, then ducked her head coyly. “Are you talking about drinking from my…canteen?”

  Fuck. No. But he couldn’t say that. Instead, he shrugged it off but couldn’t hide the twinkle he knew was sparking in his eye. “What else?”

  Sophia returned, rescuing Rick from a conversation that could have gone south double-time. “I wish I could be out there today, but I know I can’t. I hope you’ll indulge me later by describing everything you see.”

  Penny hugged Sophia. “We will, sweetie. But you need to stay away from the windows.”

  “Why? Do you think they’ll attack this house?”

  “I don’t remember anything happening here, but that doesn’t mean the house won’t get hit. So stay away from the side that faces the river.”

  Rick hugged Sophia. “Make sure Pete stays here. He doesn’t need to be out there either. Having three of us on the battlefield is already tempting the odds.”

  “He promised he’d stay with me,” Sophia said. “And I’ll hold him to it.”

  “What about Tommy?” Penny asked.

  “He’s still assigned to me,” Sophia said. “I told the general I needed him today. He probably went with Pete to the surgery.”

  Mr. Livingston opened the door and stuck his head inside. “We’re leaving.”

  Rick waved. “Go on. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Penny removed the plume from her hat and left it on Sophia’s desk. “Do you need anything before we go?”

  “Just a promise you’ll be careful.” Sophia’s chin was slightly upturned, and her long eyelashes blinked away tears. “I’m afraid you, Rick, and Philippe will be spread out along the line, and if anyone gets hurt, no one will get to you in time.”

  Penny gave her another hug. “This won’t be like the last battle. We’ll be with the general, and we know nothing happens to him.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll all still worry until you come back.”

  “We’re soldiers, Soph. We’re just doing our jobs. Now, stay away from the windows, and we’ll be back before noon.”

  Rick gripped Penny’s shoulders and turned her toward the door, or else the two women would stand there and trade “don’t worry’s” until the war was over. Not that he was in a hurry to shoot people. He just wanted to get it done with and go home.

  They left the house, and on their way to the barn to claim their horses, they met Tommy leading their animals toward the hitching rail.

  “Better hurry up. The general got a head start on ya,” Tommy said.

  “You’re staying here, aren’t you?” Penny asked.

  Tommy glanced into the darkness in the direction the general had gone. “I wanted to go with him, but the general said he preferred”—Tommy broke off, dropped his head forward, and finished in a rough voice—“for me to stay with Miss Sophia. So I will.”

  Penny chucked his chin. “Hey, instead of feeling like you’re being left out, remember this. Your angel is home baking pecan pie and growing big with your child while you’re here in charge of Sophia’s security detail. And Sophia is making a historical record of General Jackson and the Battle of New Orleans, and you’re protecting her. That’s an important job.”

  “But her husband is here,” Tommy said.

  “He could be called away any minute.” Rick’s gut churned at the thought of how momentous this battle would be for Tommy and his family, now and in the future.

  Penny swung her leg over the saddle and secured her feet in the stirrups. “You’re in charge of security, Tommy. Keep everyone away from this side of the house.”

  “Do ya expect trouble?

  “If Patterson’s battery falls to the British, the cannons could be turned in this direction.”

  “I’ll tell Remy and Mr. Parrino,” Tommy said.

  Short of sending them all to New Orleans, Rick had done all he could.

  She tapped the edge of her hat and spurred her horse. As they rode off, Rick asked, “If Patterson loses his battery, what’s to stop the British from lobbing a few shots in this direction?”

  “Patterson’s men spike their cannons, but they might accidentally leave one still functioning, or Thornton might have his own. I just don’t know.”

  “Could you have forgotten it or even blocked it out?”

  “Why would I do that?” Her question was reasonable, but the tone behind it was intense enough to make her bite her lip and turn away from his focused gaze.

  “I was just asking. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t think I’d forget such an important piece of what happens today.”

  “Philippe is as knowledgeable as you are, and he hasn’t been concerned, so maybe there’s nothing there, but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.”

  “We’re heading into a battle that kills, wounds or captures thousands. If the hairs on the back of your neck weren’t bothering you, I’d wonder about your sanity.”

  48

  New Orleans (1815)—Penny

  A chilly fog spilled over the banks of the Mississippi and blanketed the plantations, limiting visibility to a hundred feet. What Penny could see of the Chalmette Battlefield was coated with frost.

  It would soon be civil twilight when Venus and Jupiter were still visible to the naked eye, and when the British columns would move into position. Then, shortly after sunrise, the hot blood of British soldiers would melt the shivering silver frost.

  Did those men know they were about to die?

  Probably not. They were well-trained soldiers who had beaten Napoleon and now believed they could quickly dispense with a ragtag force of frontiersmen.

  But they were ill-prepared for Andrew Jackson and Jean Lafitte.

  She pulled the collar of her coat snug around her neck as the fight-or-flight hormones flooded her veins. Adrenaline would keep pumping for the next few hours, surge after surge, as fear mounted and brought vivid memories of combat in another war. A war that seemed very far away, not only in distance and time, but in battle strategy, tactical gear, and weaponry.

  The American soldiers didn’t feel vulnerable. They had a wall, a moat, a 32-pounder, and a fearless leader. But like her, they were all scared. She could see it in the faces of the young men waiting for rockets to signal the British advance.

  While she knew the outcome of the battle, her personal story had yet to be written, as well as the stories of the rest of the travelers. For them, the day was fraught with the same dangers facing every other soldier on the field.

  She’d never learned the names of the few Americans who were killed—except for one, and Tommy was stashed safely at Macarté Mansion.

  In the dim twilight, the only sounds invading the eerie silence were nickering horses, lapping waves of the Mississippi, the clink of steel swords strapped on the hips of officers, and the crackling of small fires cooking coffee and lighting lanterns used by the cannon crews at the eight batteries lining the breastwork.

  Rick, waiting beside her, whispered, “What are the British forces doing right now?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “I should have given you a cheat sheet.”

  A muscle tightened beneath the heavy stubble on his jaw, just a slight pull before the muscle released, and his expression went blank. “It’s better not to know everything. I could get careless, and I need my battle edge today.”

  In her opinion, he was battle-ready and had his edge in spades. His broad shoulders and sexy butt looked
ridiculously natural in the saddle, and it was a toss-up which Rick O’Grady was sexier. The badass Man-with-No-Name look-alike Rick had going on, or the one in a tailored black tux crooning “Misty.” If he had a long, skinny cigar to chew on, she’d have to go with the Man-with-No-Name persona.

  “If you want the CliffsNotes version,” she said, “Generals Keane and Gibbs are moving their columns forward to within five hundred yards of our line. Keane will veer toward the river with one thousand Rennie’s Rifles and Dale’s Highlanders. When it’s all over, only a hundred and thirty-two of Keane’s soldiers will walk off the field. And Gibbs will move with his troops toward our left flank. The main columns are moving toward the center of the field and will halt just behind their batteries to wait for Thornton’s forces across the river to signal their advance.”

  “But Thornton won’t get through in time, right?” Rick asked, rubbing his hand over his previously injured arm.

  The last time she asked about his injuries, he’d given her a look that said, “I’m fine and don’t ask again.” So she hadn’t. “Thornton’s position is a key component of Pakenham’s master strategy and necessary to ensure victory. When they don’t arrive, he’ll consider postponing. But all his men will be in position.”

  “He should have waited.”

  “Yep, and if he survived, which he doesn’t, he’d regret not postponing since American soldiers slaughtered hundreds of Pakenham’s men.” She nudged her horse. “Let’s go find Jackson. He’ll be near the center of our line.”

  They rode slowly, and at each battery, she offered encouragement to the men. “Good luck. The British don’t know what they’re up against. Show ’em what Americans can do.”

  Soldier after soldier, their faces solemn, offered a nod or touched her horse as if it were a talisman. “Luck to you, Mistress Lafitte.”

  They’d never seen a woman in battle, and after the skirmish before Christmas, she had become a legend—the privateers’ woman warrior. Because they used the word warrior instead of soldier, she was sure Jean or Dominique had a hand in perpetuating the legend.

  Drums sounded in the distance and rolled across the foggy plain as the sky in the east filled with the reddish tinge of dawn. A lump lodged in her throat, and she shivered in anxious anticipation.

  “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” she said to Rick.

  In a rough whisper, he said, “I’m still wondering why we wanted to do this.”

  She nudged her horse to keep moving. “You have a seven-member team here and seven different reasons. What’s yours?”

  “Mine’s the easiest to understand. Plain and simple. I’m here to protect you and take you home. What’s yours?”

  “Not so easy to understand. I thought the first chance I got to go home, I’d sprint out of here. It didn’t work out that way. I can’t leave Jean and Dominique until this is over. Until we can celebrate this victory.”

  “You could still celebrate without being in the middle of the fight.”

  “It never occurred to me that I could enjoy the celebration without doing the hard work, without taking the same risks everybody else is taking today. I’m a soldier. That’s what I do or what I did.”

  Her horse’s ears were forward, alert but not frightened yet. If he reared on her during the battle, she didn’t know if she would be able to control him. She might be safer on the ground, but she’d be unable to move up and down the line quickly if Jackson needed her to relay a message.

  Twin rockets soared and sputtered in the sky, and she automatically ducked.

  “Shit! They’re on the move, aren’t they?” Rick asked. “Describe it. What can’t I see?” He stared straight ahead as if he could see through the fog.

  Would it be scarier to see thousands of troops marching toward you, or to wait until they were almost there and then see them all at once? She didn’t know. But the unknown was sure as hell playing mind games with every soldier there.

  She had read enough to know what it looked like beneath the fog. Whispering, she said, “They’re marching in step to the roll of drums across Chalmette in perfect order—”

  Rick picked up the thread, murmuring as he gazed out into the fog. “… moving with faultless precision—”

  “… in columns of sixty men abreast and four deep—”

  “… led by the wind-whipped regimental colors of white, gold, and scarlet.”

  She watched him, mesmerized by his raspy voice and the depth of his insight. “You can see them, can’t you? Not through your eyes, but in your mind.”

  He looked away for a moment but came back with a frown. “To quote a British officer, ‘Our soldiers fell like blades of grass beneath the scythe.’ Yes, I can see them marching toward their deaths, and I can see the red blades of grass.” He feathered a slight touch along her jawline. “I can see more than I thought possible through your eyes, Penelope Malone.”

  Penelope Malone? One more persona? Or, finally, a merging of all of them?

  His new name for her scampered from the stem of her brain to the chambers of her heart, unlocking each one of them with a magical key. And the steady beat quickened while her mouth watered to kiss him.

  He leaned over, and his warm breath teased her face as his hand moved to the back of her neck, squeezing gently. “Please, be careful. I would die on this battlefield if I lost you now.”

  “Penelope means faithful,” she said, ignoring the knot in her throat, “and that comes from a place of trust and loyalty. I’ll be careful, and the same goes for you.”

  He gave her neck one more squeeze before letting go. “I will.”

  When they found Jackson, he was consulting with Brigadier General Adair, commander of the reserve Kentuckians. “The British are now committed to their position,” the general said. “Deploy the reserves as you see fit.”

  “I’ll move my men directly behind Carroll’s Tennesseans. That will give us four firing lines at a point the British will likely try to breach.”

  “He sounds like an experienced fighter,” Rick murmured.

  “He’s a veteran of the Revolution, the Northwest Indian War, and the invasion of Canada, and in a few years he’ll be governor of Kentucky.”

  “Sounds like someone I’d like to interview for a story or a blog post.”

  Her mind was still on Rick and the lingering warmth where his hand had rested on the back of her neck when a loud drumbeat came out of the swamp, and it wasn’t the British drums. Her neck quickly chilled.

  “Whose war drums are those?” Rick asked.

  “Not Choctaw,” General Jackson said.

  A nearby soldier said, “Attakapas.”

  “Do you know what they’re saying?” Penny asked him.

  “It’s a warning to stay out of the swamp,” the soldier said.

  The general jumped on his horse, swinging his black cape. “Mr. O’Grady, go check our batteries at the swamp. I’ll go to the river. Meet me back here.”

  “I’ll ride with you, Rick,” Penny said.

  When they reached the junction of the Rodriguez Canal and Jean’s cheniere, Captain Pierre Jugeant was coming out of the swamp to meet with Jean and Dominique.

  “They’ve formed a column on the plain and will be here soon. The drums are serenading the British,” Jugeant laughed. “They’re saying, ‘Come dance with us. The Attakapas are hungry.’ I’ll go tell General Coffee.”

  Jean smacked the rump of Penny’s horse. “Hurry. Pass the word to the general.”

  She and Rick galloped back to Jackson as the wail of bagpipes echoed through the cold fog, which slithered and billowed in the frosty breeze.

  “I’ve heard bagpipes before, but nothing like this high-pitched march. The echo bounces off the swamp and sounds mournful—like death is coming,” he said.

  “It’s meant to strike terror in the heart of the enemy,” she said.

  “It’s doing its fucking job.”

  They found Jackson staring intently across the battlefield, his craggy f
ace fierce, like a bird of prey, reminding Penny of a bald eagle with his mane of grayish-white hair. She would have to remember this moment to describe to Soph. This was a sketch she would want to paint.

  “When our cannon and rifles open up, we’ll give them a taste of American terror that will more than match their bagpipes.” Jackson’s horse, Duke, took a quick sidestep, and he reined it in.

  “Captain Jugeant said the enemy has formed a column on the plain and will reach his troops soon,” Penny said.

  Another rocket skittered across the sky from the edge of the swamp, followed by a second one from the other side of the field.

  “They’re advancing from one side to the other.” Jackson raised his voice to a bellow. “Get ready, men.” He spurred Duke and trotted down the line, encouraging his soldiers by name.

  From their position, she and Rick had a panoramic view of the field. “Get ready,” she said—not only to the men near her but to herself.

  Soldiers peered over the ramparts, their rifles and muskets loaded, and the artillerists stood ready to fire their big guns.

  Penny’s heart raced, and her throat was dry. The waiting was tying her stomach in knots. But she was trained for this. It was sewn into the fabric of her instincts. Once the action started, she would go into her battle zone, and she was damn good in that place, both as a leader and as a soldier.

  With the fog hugging the ground, the enemy remained unseen, but the haunting bugles and drums told the Americans the British were coming.

  Finally, emerging from the mist, the brilliant red of the enemy’s uniforms allowed Jackson’s gunners to gauge the distance.

  Everything she’d read or heard didn’t come close to conveying the terrifying red wall of British soldiers marching toward them with two objectives—breach the American defenses and take New Orleans.

  “They’ll advance to seventy-five yards,” Penny hollered at the men. “They’ll fire a volley, then charge with bayonets. Your killing zone is from seventy-five to three hundred yards.”