Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  “About a thousand. A little over. But it’s not their numbers. It’s what they can do with cannon and rifles and how well they know New Orleans, clear down past Barataria, to the Gulf of Mexico. Those men are the best cannoneers in the country, and they know every creek, every bayou, every alligator within a hundred miles of New Orleans.”

  “Who are his seconds in command?”

  “Beluche and Dominique You. Totally dedicated to Lafitte. Some of the best men in battle in the country.”

  Adam cut in. “Anyone said how many ships Pakenham has?”

  “About sixty.”

  Adam started. “Sixty! That means he’s going to have around ten, maybe twelve thousand regulars, with cannon. That’s just a bit lopsided, if Jackson has only four or five thousand.”

  Caleb shrugged. “That’s how it’s shaping up.”

  Matthew leaned forward and broke in. “I think we better be careful here. New Orleans is a long ways away, and there’s going to be a heavy battle. I hope none of you are getting any notions about going down there.”

  Adam stared thoughtfully at Matthew for a moment, while John looked at Caleb.

  Caleb stretched. “You mean we can’t go down there? It’s the only war we got right now. It would be an outright tragedy if we missed—”

  The front door to the office swung open, and all four men turned their heads to watch Billy Weems enter. He laid a small stack of mail on the counter then took off his coat and scarf and hung them.

  Matthew called, “Did the Hubert check arrive?”

  “Yes. It’s in the bank.”

  With the mail in hand, Billy walked down to Caleb’s desk and handed him an envelope.

  “From President James Madison.”

  “What?” Caleb exclaimed. “Madison?”

  For a moment a sense of foreboding touched all five men. Caleb broke the seal and studied the signature, then silently read the document while the others remained motionless, waiting. Caleb laid the document on his desk and looked at Billy, then his brothers and nephew, and then handed it to Matthew.

  “Read it.”

  The others waited while Matthew read it silently, then handed it back to Caleb. It was Matthew who broke the silence.

  “Madison wants Caleb to go to New Orleans. He’s concerned that Jackson will offend the Lafitte brothers, and if he does, Madison foresees serious trouble. He went over Caleb’s report from seven years ago and is convinced Caleb can be of value in getting the Lafittes to assist Jackson, not fight him. Madison says it is urgent. He wants Caleb to go now.”

  Matthew sat fixed. Adam rounded his mouth and softly blew air. Billy studied the floor for several moments. John reached to pick up the letter and silently read it.

  Caleb spoke to Matthew. “Can you see a choice in this?”

  Matthew slowly shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

  “I think I’m going to New Orleans, whether we like it or not.”

  Matthew drew a deep breath, and his words came soft and measured. “Not to fight. Not to bear arms. Only to head off trouble between Jackson and Lafitte. Your first responsibility is to Barbara and the children, not to take the risk of battle. That’s what the letter says.”

  Caleb studied his brother for a moment. “What do I do if Jackson orders me to get into the fighting?”

  Matthew shook his head. “He can’t. You’re there under orders of the commanding officer of all American military forces—the president. His orders override all others.”

  Caleb scratched his head and grinned. “I’ll be sure to tell Jackson that just before he shoots me for disobeying a direct order.” He turned to Adam. “Don’t we have a ship going down into the Gulf of Mexico? Soon? Or is it still too dangerous sending ships down there?”

  Adam checked the huge wall chart of the schedule for all Dunson & Weems ships.

  “Tomorrow morning. On the four o’clock tide. The Dorian. Mobile, Alabama. She carries Franklin stoves going down and cotton on the return. Mobile is reasonably safe now. The British left there a while ago. But New Orleans is still bad. The Dorian is fast—a schooner—and I think she can get you in during the night, but she’ll have to be back out before daylight.”

  Caleb turned back to Matthew. “Is it worth the risk?”

  Matthew ignored the question. “Just remember what you’re down there for. And come home as soon as you can. Mother’s failing. You need to be here.”

  Caleb stood. “I think I better go home and tell Barbara and get packed. I’ll need to get some money from the bank. If she needs more money while I’m gone, help her. Anything I should do here before I go?”

  There was nothing.

  He folded the letter back into its envelope, slipped it into his coat pocket, walked to the front door, and put on his heavy overcoat and scarf. He paused at the door to look back at the four men.

  “Will you check on Barbara for me while I’m gone? She’ll need wood split for the fireplace. Someone to help clear the snow if it gets heavy.”

  Billy answered, “We’ll check. Every day. Stop and say goodbye to your mother. You be careful.”

  With his thoughts running and vapor trailing from his mouth as he breathed, Caleb worked his way west through the lightly falling snow, past the largely inactive waterfront, into the cobblestone streets lined with white picket fences and skeleton trees, to the home where he had been raised. He pushed through the front gate, walked up the familiar, worn walk to the front door, rapped, and entered without invitation. Inside, his sister Brigitte was just hurrying through the archway from the bedroom hallway, and she stopped short.

  “Caleb! Scare a body half to death!” She blanched and raised a hand to her mouth. “What’s wrong? Is it Billy?”

  “No, no,” he answered. “I received a letter from President Madison this morning. It looks like I’m leaving for New Orleans tomorrow morning. I came by to say goodbye to mother. Is she all right?”

  The color returned to Brigitte’s face. “She’s fine. She’s in her bedroom—where I was when you walked in.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Yes, but she’s had another one of her spells this morning. She’s becoming more addled. This morning she thought Father was at his work bench repairing clocks and watches and building muskets.”

  Caleb studied his sister for a moment—her deep auburn hair, the hazel eyes, the heart-shaped face. The raising of her children—all grown and away—had brought a few lines around her eyes, but she was still a beautiful woman. “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Can I go see her now?”

  “Of course.”

  Quietly Caleb passed down the hall into the large bedroom at the end. He paid no attention to the worn, familiar chest of drawers and the closet and night stands and lamps. He saw only his mother, lying beneath the thick comforter; the gray hair that Brigitte had brushed and pulled back only minutes before framed a face that showed both the joys and sorrows of more than eighty years of life. He did not see the wrinkles, or the hollow of the cheeks. He saw only the eyes, still bright from the fire within.

  He went to one knee beside the bed and took the old, gnarled hand between his two strong ones.

  “Are you feeling all right, Mother?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes.” The pale blue eyes twinkled. “Be good to Barbara and the children.”

  Caleb grinned and shook his head. “I try. I came by to tell you. This morning I received a letter from President Madison. He wants me to—”

  She broke in. “President Madison? What happened to George Washington? Or was it Jefferson? Thomas Jefferson?”

  Caleb smiled at her confusion. “They served their term. James Madison is president now. He wants me to go to New Orleans to help with the war.”

  Her forehead wrinkled in question. “I thought we won the war.”

  “We did. The British came back. Remember? We’re sending them
home for good this time. I have to go help.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I came by to see that you are all right and tell you to mind your manners while I’m gone.”

  The wrinkled face broke into a grin. “Oh, Caleb, you say the most foolish things! Of course I’ll mind my manners.” She sobered. “You’re not going to be in the fighting, are you?”

  “No, that’s not what the president asked. I’m just going to help General Jackson with a problem. I’ll be back soon.”

  “You be careful. I’ll expect a report when you get back.”

  “I’ll be careful. You rest and take care of yourself.”

  He stood, with the old hand still clinging to his.

  “God bless you, son.”

  “God bless you, Mother.”

  He laid the hand with the heavy blue veins and the knuckles that were too big back on the comforter and bent to kiss the lined forehead and then straightened and walked out of the room.

  Brigitte followed him to the front door. “If you’re leaving, Barbara will have to help you get packed. She was coming over here later this afternoon when I go home. Tell her to stay home with you. I’ll take care of things here.”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell her.”

  The walk to his home passed quickly, and as he was taking off his heavy coat, he called out, “It’s me.”

  Barbara appeared from the kitchen, wearing an apron, wiping her hands on a towel, showing surprise at his being home midmorning. She stopped short, and he saw the leap of fear in her brown eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Sit down with me at the dining table.”

  He took his place at the head of the table with her facing him to his right. He drew the letter from his inside pocket and handed it to her.

  “Read this.”

  She read the neat handwriting on the envelope, and he watched her breathing stop for a moment. She opened the letter and for a time sat unmoving while she read it, then read it again before she raised her head.

  She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Well. It appears you’ll be gone for a while.”

  “I can’t see a way around it. Can you?”

  “No. When will you leave?”

  “We have a ship leaving tomorrow morning at four o’clock. I will be on it.”

  She drew breath and released a great sigh, then squared her shoulders. “We better get busy. We have a lot to do.”

  He reached to grasp her hand. “Is it all right with you? The men in the family will see to it you’ve got kindling. Remove the snow. If you need money, tell them. They’ll get it for you. Whatever else you need. They’ll check on you.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll have to get some money from the bank today before I go. How much will you need?”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I don’t know how much I’ll need.”

  “I’ll get enough.”

  She started to rise, and he reached for her hand and held her down. “Barbara, these things are always worse for the woman than the man. I know that. I just don’t know what I can do about it.”

  “It’s all right. It started with Mother Eve. You go and don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Just be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if . . .”

  He saw the flicker of panic in her eyes, and he saw her rise above it and smile. “We have a lot to do,” she said. “We’d better get busy.”

  The day passed quickly. Together they chose the clothing he would need, and she began packing the big suitcase while he walked to the bank in the snow to draw out the necessary money for both of them.

  They finished supper and worked together to clear the table and wash, dry, and put away the supper dishes. Then they opened a large book of maps on the library table, and laboriously located the Mississippi River, New Orleans on the east bank, Lake Pontchartrain to the north, and Lake Borgne to the east. Later that evening, as the clock struck ten times from the fireplace mantel, Barbara and Caleb knelt beside the dining table for their evening prayers. It was Caleb who sought the blessings of the Almighty to be with her while he was gone. Then, as they got into the bed they had shared for so many years, Caleb held Barbara in his arms as they drifted into sleep.

  The snow stopped in the night. At half past three, Caleb buttoned his overcoat, wound his scarf, and for a moment held Barbara close. Then he picked up his suitcase and walked out the door into a frozen, white world with a moon and unnumbered stars overhead, and a cold breeze coming from the west. At four o’clock he walked up the gangplank of the Dorian and on to his small quarters next to the captain’s.

  It was breaking dawn when Caleb saw the lighthouse on the great hook of Cape Cod to the east. By midmorning they cleared the cape, and the breeze had strengthened to an icy wind from the northwest that popped the American flag at the top of the mainmast and held the sails full and steady. The schooner was cutting a thirty-foot curl and leaving a seventy-yard wake in the dark, choppy Atlantic waters, on a heading due south. The freezing wind held to form ice on the bow of the ship and in the rigging where the spray hit and held. At dusk the following day they saw the lighthouse of Cape Hatteras to the west, off the shores of North Carolina, and changed their course to south-southwest, angling for the Florida straits. Days and nights blurred together as they continued south by southwest, until they passed the lighthouse on Grand Bahama Island and changed course once again, into a long, curving line around the southern tip of Florida. There they changed course once again, due west, into the Gulf of Mexico, then on to the southern tip of Louisiana, where the Mississippi River reaches the warmer waters of the Gulf.

  The captain held the schooner offshore until deep dusk, then made his way up the river in the blackness, past unsuspecting British gunboats, to a place where barges were tied to half a dozen piers on the east bank of the broad river, one mile short of the lights of New Orleans. He put Caleb ashore in a longboat in the dead of night, two hundred yards upstream of the barges, then turned to make his run with the current for the open waters of the Gulf before the British could see him clearly in the light of dawn.

  Onshore, with his suitcase in hand, Caleb felt his way east in the darkness, through the undergrowth and reeds and the tall sea grass to a winding dirt road rutted by wagon tracks. For a time he remained hidden, with the wind rustling the brittle sea grass, watching and listening for patrols on the road—British, American, or pirate—and there were none. He picked up his suitcase and walked north toward the lights winking in the distance, alert to the sounds of the night.

  He had covered half the distance when the sound of voices ahead reached him, and he left the roadbed to disappear in the shoulder-high grass. The voices came on, and in the dim light of the stars Caleb counted four men walking south, unsteady, speech slurred, arguing in a blend of French and Spanish over a large bottle. He let them pass and waited for a time before he walked back to the road and continued north.

  He stopped short of the town to wait for dawn before he entered the outskirts, then continued on into the streets as New Orleans began to wake up. He made his way past the ancient, stately buildings that bespoke a grace and dignity of a time long past, to find the Absinthe House, where he had taken a room seven years earlier. He pushed through the familiar high, black, iron gates, and walked across the vacant cobblestone courtyard into the foyer of the old two-story mansion to the desk, set his suitcase down hard, and waited.

  A huge, black, sleepy-eyed woman wearing a faded deep-green gown that fell in straight lines from her throat to her ankles appeared through the door and nodded to him.

  “You need a room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have it reserved?”

  “No. I just came to town. On a boat.”

  “How long you need the room?”

  “I don’t know. Might be three weeks.”

  “Got one on second floor. Last one on
the right. Four dollars a night. Pay in advance.”

  Caleb queried, “Two weeks in advance be all right?”

  “Yes. Need a receipt?”

  “Yes.”

  “What name?”

  “Caleb Dunson.” He spelled it for her.

  Caleb drew his purse from his pocket and counted out fifty-six dollars while the woman laboriously made out a receipt. She counted the money, turned to put it in a small, scarred, iron vault behind the desk, and handed the receipt to Caleb. He glanced at the signature before he put it in his coat pocket. It was a single word, “Matsie.”

  Her eyes narrowed in question.

  “You stay here before?”

  “Yes. Seven years ago.”

  Suddenly her eyes opened wide. “You the one! You had trouble with those two thieves. The constable come. Those two in jail for a long time.”

  Caleb smiled. “What’s my room number? Do you have a key?”

  The woman turned and picked a key from a drawer. “I remember. You spent time with a man here before.” She laid the key on the table and shook her head. “Sad business. He got in a duel over sellin’ slaves and was shot dead. Sad business.”

  Caleb paused, startled. “You mean Amos Ingersol?”

  “I forgot his name. He short, stout, got a big flat nose. Shot dead. Sad business.” She pointed. “Up those stairs. Second floor. You been here before, you know where the washroom is.”

  Caleb picked up the key. “Thank you.”

  The black woman watched Caleb climb the stairs and disappear down the hallway, still shaking her head about the sad business of men willing to kill each other with pistols to protect their ridiculous male honor.

  In his plain room, Caleb hung his heavy coat in the wardrobe, then opened his suitcase and stowed his clothing. He kindled a fire in the stove, removed his suit coat and cravat, draped them on the back of a chair, removed his shoes, and laid down on the bed, weary from his journey.

  He did not waken until past noon. He washed, changed into a fresh suit, walked down through the lobby and out to the street, and stopped in astonishment. The streets were filled with carts and wagons and carriages of every description, men wearing the uniform of half a dozen armies, both federal regulars and state militia, and human beings of every description and color, pushing, crowding, shouting, working their way to and from buildings and courtyards. Caleb walked among them, seeking a hack. He found one just leaving a courtyard and hailed the driver.