Tender Fury

by Connie Mason

  When Gabby neither protested nor pulled out of his arms, Philippe became bolder, moving his lips to the hollow at the base of her neck where a pulse throbbed wildly, then to her breast after he had released the top buttons of her shirt. She moaned low in her throat, spurring him on as his hands worked furiously to remove the rest of her clothing. His own clothes seemed to fall away of their own accord and Gabby felt the hot length of his muscular frame stretch out beside her.

  “I want you, Gabby,” he whispered hoarsely. “ Mon dieu, how I’ve missed you!”

  His lips left little ridges of fire along the length of her body and his hands found her ready for him as he probed her innermost places. She was excited and aroused as she never had been that one time with Rob. Rob’s lovemaking had been gentle and achingly sweet, but Philippe’s left her breathless with desire, consumed by an unquenchable blaze of passion.

  Suddenly, through a haze of rapture, Gabby became aware that Philippe’s hands had abruptly left her body and he was staring at her with smoky intensity. “Don’t stop, Philippe,” she pleaded, hardly aware of what she was saying.

  But still he held himself in check. As much as he wanted her, Philippe realized that he could not make her until he asked a question of her, even if it meant losing her. Never again would he suffer through the hell of Cecily’s last words that fateful night of her death.

  Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he asked, “Gabby, ma chere, you may hate me for asking this of you, but I cannot continue until I know. Never again will I be tortured by doubts and you have never lied to me yet.” He paused dramatically while Gabby struggled to grasp his meaning.

  “I must know, Gabby? Are you… I mean… you are not carrying Captain Stone’s child, are you?” he blurted out. “Can you understand why I must ask this? Try to put yourself in my place.”

  “What if I am expecting a child, Philippe?” asked Gabby, anger building in her blood.

  “I will accept it because it is yours, and, oui, damn it, even love it for the father was a brave man who loved you. But the child can never become my heir.”

  Slowly her anger diminished as Gabby digested Philippe’s words. In her own mind they proved that he had truly changed, and that he did love her. She knew for a certainty that she did not carry Rob’s seed as a result of their one night together and quickly put Philippe’s mind at rest.

  “Philippe, cheri, Rob and I had but one night together and I know without a doubt that I am not pregnant from that encounter.”

  “ Ma chere! Mon amour! Let us hope this encounter will prove more fruitful,” he cried joyfully as he sought to reignite the flames that nearly devoured them moments before. Gabby felt his hunger, was overpowered by it, and then she felt her own hunger being drawn out as he lost himself in her velvet softness. She began to move in abandon, in a longing so intense that her body began to hurt, then grow wings as she exploded in a million tiny fragments, just moments before Philippe’s own searing climax.

  Chapter Nine

  After their climactic reunion, Gabby returned to the Windward with Philippe. Their plan was to sail for Martinique as soon as possible. The entire city of New Orleans was in turmoil. They had received word on December twelfth that the English fleet, under Admiral Cochrane, was anchored off Lake Borgne. General Jackson was under the impression that the English would not row sixty miles across the lake to attack so he had left the lake guarded only by a small flotilla of gunboats that were quickly captured on December fourteenth.

  Jackson did not know that the English had started ferrying their 5,700-man army halfway across Lake Borgne in scrounged flatboats to Pea Island. Then, in a stroke of good luck for the English, a cooperative Spanish fisherman, for a sum of money, showed them the Bayou Bienvenue, the only waterway leading toward New Orleans that hadn’t been blocked by Jackson. It led to the left bank of the Mississippi, less than eight miles from the city.

  It was supposed to have been guarded by Major Villiers, whose family owned the land along the bayou. Villiers mistakenly believed there was little chance for attack there so he left only a token picket guard.

  On December twenty-third, the English entered Bayou Bienvenue and seized the Villiers plantation along with Major Villiers himself, and rested there until the entire troop had been ferried across Lake Borgne. Somehow Major Villiers managed to escape and make his way into New Orleans to warn Jackson that the English were within eight miles of the city with hundreds of men.

  When Philippe heard the news, he hurried to Jackson to put at his disposal his entire crew from the Windward. The general accepted with alacrity, then left immediately to set up his line of defense behind Rodriguez Canal. It was there he intended to wait for the English to attack. On December twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve, Philippe said goodbye to Gabby.

  Although she had anticipated his departure, she could not still the pang of fear his leaving caused her. “Please, Philippe,” she begged, “let me go with you. There must be something I can do, even if it is to look after the wounded.”

  “No, ma chere,” he admonished in a voice that brooked no opposition. “You will remain here until I return. It is too dangerous out there amid the rifle shot and exploding shells. I won’t risk losing you again.”

  “What about you?” she stormed, unwilling to be put off so easily. “There is danger for you also.”

  “But I can take care of myself, ma petite,” he replied, ignoring her display of anger. “Come,” he teased, “kiss me goodbye like a good soldier’s wife.” She flew into his arms and later tried mightily to remain dry-eyed while he loaded his men and weapons into a wagon and took off without a backward glance.

  Christmas Day was a dreary affair and Gabby left the ship to go out into the streets hoping to glean news of the battle filtering into the city. She learned that one of Jean Lafitte’s ships, Carolina, was pounding the English on the left while American troops were attacking the right, blunting the English spearhead. Gabby breathed a silent prayer for Philippe and her Baratarian friends and returned to the Windward.

  She heard nothing more until December twenty-eight when the city was agog with the news that another armed Baratarian ship, Louisiana, had begun raking the English, hopelessly pinning down Sir Parkenham’s troops, who had begun an attack on the American lines. Needless to say, the attack had finally been called off.

  On January 1, 1815, after three days spent bringing up ten eighteen-pound guns and four twenty-four pounders from their ships, floating them on canoes and dragging them through swamps, the English, under cover of darkness, scooped out four batteries only 800 yards from General Jackson’s lines. They used sugar casks to build up the parapets and opened fire as soon as the early morning fog burned off. It was ten minutes before the American guns, manned mostly by Jean Lafitte and his men, opened fire, but when they did the effect was devastating. The reverberations were heard all the way to New Orleans. With amazing accuracy, sugar and splinters flew in all directions as Lafitte’s big twenty-four pounders and thirty-two pounders pulverized the English batteries. In contrast, little damage was inflicted on the American line as most of the Englishmen’s shots plowed harmlessly into the American earthwork. The defeat was mostly due to the expert marksmanship of Lafitte and his Baratarians, who had remained true to their commitment to fight for Louisiana.

  When Philippe did not return to New Orleans, Gabby could not stand the waiting and not knowing if he were dead or alive. In a surge of restlessness she dressed in her boy’s garb and, determined to find a way to reach the battleground, went again into the streets in an attempt to locate a conveyance. But to her chagrin it seemed that there wasn’t a horse, carriage, or wagon in all New Orleans that wasn’t already put to good use by Jackson and his men. She dejectedly began retracing her steps back to the Windward when she heard a voice calling her name.

  “Gabby, mon dieu, is that you?”

  Gabby whirled, her eyebrows raised in surprise, for she knew no one in New Orleans except for Marcel, and the voice greeting h
er was female. Her look of surprise quickly turned to that of pleasure when Gabby recognized Marie perched atop the driver’s seat of a small wagon. “Marie! How good it is to see you again!” she cried, quickly reaching Marie’s side.

  “And I you, cherie,” Marie answered. “But where are you going dressed like that? Is your Captain Stone at Rodriguez Canal fighting the English?”

  “Rob is dead,” said Gabby, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. “I am back with my husband and he is fighting with Jackson.”

  “Ah, I was wondering if your husband ever found you. Jean told me he showed up on Barataria looking for you. All is well, then?” she asked, taking it at a glance Gabby’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

  “I… oui, I think all is well. But tell me, where are you headed and what are you doing in New Orleans?”

  “I have been in the city several weeks to help my sister who recently had a baby. Now I go to join Jean on the battlefield.”

  It was as if Gabby’s prayers had been answered. Here was a way to reach the battlefield, to help her friends from Barataria, and at the same time to search for Philippe. “Take me with you, Marie,” she begged, breathless with excitement. “I can do anything you can do and I owe so much to you and Jean. Let me repay my debt by offering my help.”

  Marie looked doubtful. “What will your husband say? Evidently he left you behind where you would be safe.”

  “I haven’t seen Philippe for over two weeks,” lamented Gabby. “Perhaps he is already dead. But no matter what, I cannot sit idly back and do nothing. If you will not take me I will find my way by myself.”

  Marie knew Gabby well enough to realize that she would indeed find her way to the front and perhaps be in more danger than if she were among friends, “Get in,” she finally said, “Jean will welcome your help.”

  In no time at all they were out of the city and on the road to Rodriguez Canal. The date was January 7, 1815. Gabby used the time it took to reach the Baratarian camp to tell Marie all that had happened to her since she had left the island. Marie listened in rapt silence, clicking her tongue several times throughout the telling.

  “Perhaps it has all worked out for the best, cherie,” consoled Marie when she heard the details of Rob’s death. “It’s obvious to me that you are happy with your husband.”

  Along the way they passed groups of laughing Creoles, young men shouting and cavorting as they made their way to join the war. Marie and Gabby traveled as far as they could along the road and then Marie drove part way into a field and stopped. “We’ve got to walk from here,” she advised as both girls jumped nimbly from the wagon.

  They continued on, passing men who were busily scooping dirt from a wide dry ditch and others who were unloading bales of cotton from wagons. Beyond the ditch lay a treeless field and farther off stretched the river. Soon they saw the big cannon and Marie ran the rest of the way to reach Lafitte who was resting under a sprawling live oak tree.

  The lovers were in each other’s arms, hugging and kissing when Gabby approached. “Did you bring help?” Jean asked skeptically as he ran an appraising eye over the slim youth accompanying his beautiful mistress.

  Marie clapped her hands delightedly and laughed. “It is Gabby, cheri, she has come to help.”

  Jean looked dubiously at the slight figure but nevertheless gallantly welcomed her. Many hands would be needed to help load the big guns he had brought from his stronghold and he put her into the able hands of Dominique You who explained to her what must be done. Her job would be to dip the rammer into a bucket of water, then use it to cleanse and cool the bore and to tamp the cannonball. The instructions were simple enough and in no way did You minimize the danger to her while exposed to enemy fire. He gave her all the time in the world to change her mind but there was no pulling back now. She was determined to do her part and fight beside her friends.

  Up and down the line word was out that the English would attack at dawn the next day, January 8, and Gabby spent an uncomfortable night huddled in a blanket, staring into the embers of a dying fire, wondering if Philippe was alive and if so if he was nearby.

  It was nearly dawn when she jerked awake as someone handed her a tin cup of coffee and a hard roll. She ate it gratefully, peering into the wet mist shrouding the oaks until they appeared like grotesque ghosts reaching out moss-covered tentacles. Suddenly a high explosion echoed through the fog and she jumped to her feet.

  “Hold fire!” shouted Dominique You to his anxious comrades. “When I see their guns I will give the order to fire.” He trained a ship’s glass across the field and gave a sigh of contentment when he saw a flash as one of the English cannon roared into action. He made a few adjustments with a gun screw before he cried, “Now!” and lit the touchhole with a match.

  After that Gabby was kept too busy to think about anything except darting through the cotton bales, swabbing the throat of the cannon, waiting until powder and shot had been fed it, then seating the ball firmly with her rammer. She caught glimpses of English soldiers but was much too occupied to worry about musket balk picking away at the barricade or the cannon balls roaring dangerously overhead. The noise was devastating. Her ears rang painfully with shouting men, rifle shot, and thundering cannon. The mingling of sounds became as a sword, driving into her perspiring, exhausted body.

  The acrid taste of gunpowder was thick in her mouth and her face and arms were black with it. Even though her limbs ached from the unaccustomed exercise, she drove herself on until, blessedly, the guns felt silent. Someone was handing her a cup of water and she drank greedily. “It is over?” she asked Dominique hopefully.

  “I do not think so,” he answered, “but rest while you can. They probably are bringing up replacements.”

  The battlefield was cluttered with dead and dying brave men on both sides. Then the big guns jumped into action and once again Gabby took her place beside the long barrel.

  Gabby had no conception of time, aware only of the cries of the wounded around her and of the weariness eating into her bones. The big guns continued unceasingly until the first hints of scarlet tinted the evening sky. The rifles stopped firing first, and then the cannon, too, fell silent before Gabby realized that an encompassing stillness had fallen over the battlefield. It took her several minutes to come to the conclusion that the attack had been destroyed and the Americans victorious. She collapsed on a mound of dirt, tired beyond belief but immensely proud of her part in the melee.

  “It is over, cherie,” said Dominique, hunkering down beside her. “Your help was invaluable. You are a good cannoneer.” In her weariness she was unable to respond to his compliment. He patted her shoulder and left her to a well-earned rest.

  Gabby leaned her head against a bale of cotton and closed her eyes. Somehow she slept, blocking out the gory sights and gruesome sounds. She heard nothing when Jean Lafitte approached with a tall man who was blackened with gunpowder and limped from a flesh wound in his thigh. Her cap had long since fallen off and dirty strands of pale hair was plastered across her grimy face, but to Philippe she was the loveliest sight he had ever seen!

  After the battle had ended, Philippe was dispatched to the Baratarian camp with a message from General Jackson and had been astounded with the news that Gabby was here, on the battlefield. What’s more, he learned from Lafitte that she had fought bravely alongside the best of his men.

  Philippe was undecided whether to kiss her or beat her, but when he saw her, filthy and covered with bruises, he thanked le bon dieu for keeping her safe. She did not awaken even when he picked her up and placed her in the wagon Jean had put at his disposal. It was not until Philippe was stripping the grimy clothing from her after they reached the Windward that she opened her eyes. She was too tired to speak but her smile was enough.

  Two days later the English fleet slipped anchor and sailed back to England in defeat. Jean Lafitte was given a full pardon and Gabby and Philippe attended the dinner given in his honor by Governor Claiborne. Lafitte and his men
were recognized for singularly distinguishing themselves in defending the city of New Orleans against the British.

  With the British gone, Philippe made plans for their departure to Martinique, and two days before they left, they learned that on February 11, 1815, the British sloop, Favorite, carrying a flag of truce, slipped into New York harbor bringing copies of the peace treaty signed in Ghent in December. It was ironic that although peace had actually been reached on December 24, the battle for New Orleans was fought after the treaty was signed. But the battle was a great moral victory for America. Jackson’s victory was so emphatic that it gave birth to a legend of American invincibility that would live on and on. A new feeling of national pride invaded the country and the decisive victory gained it new respect abroad.

  On March 1, 1815, the Windward slipped her moorings and glided into the mist on a long delayed voyage to Martinique. If Gabby looked forward to a life of bliss and happiness she was in for a shock. A whole new world awaited her on the sun-drenched island of Martinique.

  PART TWO

  MARTINIQUE

  1815 – 1817

  Chapter Ten

  It was seven days before the Windward cut a path through the Yucatan Channel and sailed into the Caribbean Sea. It was another seven days before they approached a cloud-shrouded island that seemed to spark Philippe’s excitement.

  “That’s Saba,” he pointed. “It’s the first of a chain of islands you’ll see as we near Martinique.”

  “It looks majestic,” ventured Gabby.

  “It’s a volcanic island. All these islands are. Some are desert and some are covered with dense jungle.”

  “And is Martinique one of the jungle-covered islands?”