by Beth White
“I remember riding home behind you and then waking up with a crashing hangover.” He hesitated, then walked over to lean against the stall door beside her. “Would she remember me, do you think?”
“I’m not sure. You’ve changed a good deal since then, and Maddy was preoccupied with being the belle of the neighborhood. The reason you and I got acquainted was because you were rusticating, and I was considered a child. I was bored one evening, discovered the library, and found you there looking up some awful chemical concoction or other . . . We went to the kitchen to try it out and nearly blew up the larder.” Her laughter was infectious.
“I imagine the cook was anxious to get rid of us.”
“I thought she was going to explode herself and create an even more colorful mess.”
He peered at her. “Huh?”
“She was a redhead with cheeks like tomatoes.”
He laughed. “Ah. But likely your cousin wouldn’t recognize me after all these years, right?”
“I almost told her about you anyway.”
He froze. “Why would you do that? You insisted that I tell no one I’m English.”
“Charlie, I—I like you, and I don’t wish you any harm. But having you here is getting more and more dangerous every day. Maddy brought a family friend named Desi Palomo with her. Desi is a civilian interpreter for General Andrew Jackson.”
“And?”
“And he came to prepare in advance of the general making Mobile his headquarters. Charlie, they’re going to garrison both Fort Charlotte in Mobile and Fort Bowyer right here on the Point. There will be militia and regular soldiers swarming all over the area. If it’s discovered I’ve been hiding a British citizen in plain sight, I’ll be suspected of treason!”
He hadn’t let himself consider that inconvenient possibility. He scratched his itchy nose. “I don’t want to bring trouble on your family. You’ve all been kind to me, even Léon. My headaches are less frequent, so perhaps I should move along, possibly head for Pensacola. I could hunker down there with the Spanish until my memory comes back.”
“I hate to say this, but you’ve got to consider the possibility that it won’t.” Fiona’s voice was strained, and he could feel the tension in her shoulder against his. “Charlie, you could always go home. The people there love you. There might even be a doctor who could help.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” He’d tried for humor, but feared he might have merely sounded pathetic. “I mean—just because I can’t remember why I left home doesn’t mean there wasn’t a good reason for it. What if I’m wanted for some crime in England, and I walk right into trouble?”
“Now you’re being silly. You can’t change your basic nature, and you know you’re a good person.”
“Bat guano notwithstanding, I’d like to think so.” He was quiet for a moment. “Fiona, do you want me to leave?”
“Do you want to leave?”
She’d turned the question back on him, and honesty was hard. He’d never been one to beg for help if he could avoid it. He also didn’t like admitting how attached he’d gotten to Fiona and her merry band of fisherman-shipbuilders. To be perfectly frank with himself, he was mainly attached to Fiona—her bright, innocent way of looking at the world, her wholesome beauty, her infectious laughter, her ability to see past the way he hid his feelings behind teasing.
He dipped his head. “No, I do not want to leave. I don’t know if I ever had friends before, but I know that I have at least one now.”
She stilled. “Yes, you do.”
The air vibrated between them. He would have kissed her, in fact his throat ached with the wanting. But what if there was already a woman in his life? He would not take advantage of Fiona’s affections when he could be already committed to someone else. “Thank you,” he forced himself to say lightly. “I’ll stay—for now. But you’ll tell me when I must go, yes?”
“Yes, of course.”
Did she sound disappointed that she hadn’t been kissed? His heart whistled a little tune as he stepped back. “Good. Now let’s clean and fry a couple of those fish for supper. And you can teach me how to make hushpuppies.” He took her hand and pulled her out of the barn, laughing.
5
AUGUST 22, 1814
MOBILE
Leaning on the rail of her front porch, Maddy watched the band and flag bearers pass by but still kept an eagle eye on Elijah, who seemed determined to launch himself headfirst into the shrubbery below in his excitement over the spectacle.
In the years since the Spanish invaded and conquered the Gulf Coast near the end of the American War for Independence, Mobile had dwindled to little more than a sleepy backwater of desultory commerce. In May of 1812, the city had been quietly annexed into the Mississippi Territory, though Spanish military authorities did not evacuate until nearly a year later, when American Major General James Wilkinson arrived to boot them out. Wilkinson established his command at Fort Charlotte, bringing along his young aide, Lieutenant Colonel Stephen Burch—whose wife and little son happily returned to the city of her mother’s birth. When the general (and by extension Stephen) was abruptly summoned to the Canadian theater of war, Maddy remained in the bosom of her family while her husband performed his duty in the Frozen North.
Now the onslaught of Andrew Jackson’s army, a good portion of them Tennessee militia, brought Mobile’s citizens out to observe the soldiers parading toward their temporary encampment at the western outskirts of the city.
Maddy’s heart twisted as the blue-uniformed soldiers passed by, followed by the uneven ranks of buckskin-clad militia. Stephen had used to ride at the front of these parades in the company of his fellow officers. General Wilkinson had been a crafty sort of leader, adept at currying the favor of important men despite rumors of his machinations with the Spanish, and later with the traitor Aaron Burr. Twice Wilkinson had been court-martialed but acquitted on lack of evidence. Because there had been something . . . well, slimy about the man, Maddy had wondered if some of the accusations of Wilkinson’s traitorous dealings could have been true. But Stephen would never speak ill of his superior officer and cautioned her to hold her tongue as well.
Still, she couldn’t help blaming Wilkinson for Stephen’s death. The general had lost his command for his ineptitude in battle and then exiled himself to Mexico—and good riddance.
Thoughts drifting, she jumped at the sound of a shrill whistle from across the street.
“Maddy! Over here!”
She spotted a carriage just beyond the dwindling parade, its driver waving his hat.
“Desi!” She waved back. Since the day he’d escorted her down the bay to visit the Laniers, she’d seen little of him. As Jackson’s agent to the Indians and a skilled translator, he had been busy with preparations for the general’s arrival in Mobile.
As the last of the soldiers passed by, Desi set the carriage in motion, crossed the street, and pulled up in Uncle Rémy’s carriageway. He jumped down from the open chaise and tied it to a hitching post, smiling as he crossed the yard and ducked under a low-hanging limb of the old oak tree. “I was hoping I’d see you while I’m in town this afternoon.”
“Mr. Uncle Desi!” Elijah bolted toward Desi and grabbed him by the hand to tow him toward the porch. “Did you know I made a fort? You can play with me in it!”
Desi grinned down at him. “Can I? I’d like nothing better, once your mama gives me leave. We don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“She won’t mind. She said boys need to play outside a lot.”
Desi’s lips quirked. “Truer words were never spoken.”
Maddy came to the steps, hands on hips. “Elijah, we must first offer our guest refreshment. You may show Uncle Desi the fort later, if he has time.”
“Can we have lemonade? With lots of sugar?”
“Yes, and a tea cake, if you will play in the yard while Mama and Uncle Desi visit here on the porch.”
As Elijah launched into a wild dance of joy, Maddy smi
led at Desi, then whisked into the kitchen. When she returned with the promised lemonade and cakes on a tray, she found Desi and Elijah seated on the top step, heads close together as they studied a tiny lizard cupped in Desi’s big hand. She stopped in the doorway, tears welling on a wave of emotion. Though she tried not to dwell on her own loss, how often had she brought to the Lord her little son’s need for a strong man’s example to follow? And here was the dearest friend of her childhood, come back into her life at a time when she perhaps needed him most.
The depth of her joy in his coming was almost frightening. He wouldn’t stay forever. There was a war going on, and he was committed to duties that would take him far from here. What if she and Elijah got so attached to Desi that his leaving would create even more pain?
What if, what if?
Giving herself a little shake, she stepped out onto the porch. “Here we are! Just one tea cake,” she admonished as Elijah scrambled to his feet. “Dinner will be ready before too long.”
The three of them munched on cakes and discussed lemonade and forts, Desi and Maddy on the swing and Elijah seated cross-legged below them on the floor. With predictable speed, Elijah finished his treat and went to look for the lizard, which had had the good sense to escape through a crack between the boards of the step.
Desi leaned back and draped his arm across the top of the swing behind Maddy’s shoulders. He’d removed his coat in deference to the heat, and she was acutely aware of the bulk of his shoulder muscles, the pleasant scent of his clothes. Odd that a man she’d known all her life could create this sudden uncomfortable flutter under her ribs.
“How are you managing without Stephen, Maddy? I hope you won’t think me impertinent to ask.”
He still seemed to have an uncanny ability to read her thoughts. Aware of his brown eyes warm on her face, she looked down at her hands pleating her skirt. “You’re . . . family, Desi, you can ask anything you wish. Of course I miss Stephen, but we’re getting along fine. Uncle Rémy helps me keep things running when I have a problem with the house, and Aunt Giselle takes Elijah off my hands when I need to focus on sewing projects.” She looked up and smiled at his obvious concern. “And I have plenty of dress orders to keep us afloat. My work is in high demand.”
“That I can imagine.” His gaze wandered from her face to take in details of her dress, all the way down to her kid slippers peeking from under the flounced hem. “You are a beautiful woman, Maddy.” His lips curved. “The dress is nice too.”
Something contemplative in his eyes made her stammer, “I—I hope you’ll stop to see us often. That is—I’m sure you’re busy with your duties for the general. How long does he think it will be before the British arrive on our doorstep, so to speak?”
He looked amused, but let her turn the subject. “As I told Fiona the other day, even the general can’t say for sure, and he’s got spies everywhere. We’ve begun reconstruction of the two forts in hopes that we’ll be ready in time.”
Maddy nodded. “Desi, I’ve been thinking about that conversation with Fiona the other day. What do you suppose she was about to tell me, when she changed her mind and asked if we could find out what happened to the rest of Sehoy’s family? Fiona is generally an open book, but there was something very odd in her manner that day.”
“I thought the same thing. She kept looking out the window.” Desi shook his head. “You know her better than I, though. Do you suppose she’s developed an affair with one of the men on the construction crew at the shipyard?”
“Fiona?” Maddy laughed. “The only male she is in love with is of the equine species.”
“You might be surprised,” Desi said lightly, setting the swing in motion. “Like the British, the tender passions are often quite unpredictable.”
SEPTEMBER 1, 1814
NAVY COVE
Sehoy didn’t think she’d seen anything so beautiful as the long, straight white oak timbers the carpenters laid along the hull of the USS Declaration. Two weeks ago she wouldn’t have known white oak from yellow pine, but during her stay with the Lanier family, she’d grown conversant with a myriad of shipbuilding terms that had at first seemed as foreign as the babel of languages spoken by the laborers.
This morning she’d risen early to help Fiona prepare breakfast for the men, then the two of them mucked stalls, tended the garden, and began the process of canning vegetables too plenteous to be eaten. Chores completed, Sehoy left Fiona to her horses and went into the house to tuck her drawing supplies into the beaded satchel her mother had woven for her last birthday. Munching on a slice of sugar-cured ham sandwiched in a leftover biscuit, she left her shoes in the house and walked barefoot down to the beach.
She sat in the sand now, in the shallow shade of the parasol Fiona had loaned her, trying to capture with her charcoals the energy, detail, and sheer size of the ship construction process. She picked out Léon, standing atop a scaffold near the stern, shouting instructions to a crew who were making their precarious way up a ramp with timbers balanced across their brawny brown shoulders. Oliver, tall and lanky, his head covered pirate-fashion in a red kerchief, was one of the youngest. Sehoy stuck her pencil behind her ear and sat forward, squinting against the sun until he reached the top.
Despite the men’s cheerful nonchalance about working at such dizzying heights, accidents happened, and wishing wouldn’t prevent them. The world was not safe.
When Oliver safely reached the top, she flipped the pages of her drawing book backward to study the portrait of him she’d sketched yesterday evening as the family sat on the porch after the evening meal, watching the sun go down and listening to Uncle Luc-Antoine tell stories. Oliver was the quiet one, rarely contributing to the conversation but quick to notice if one’s teacup became empty or if the mosquitoes became too much of a nuisance.
She’d drawn him in three-quarter profile as he sat on the top step, leaning back against the porch rail, his eyes following a pair of osprey in flight above the barn. He had such a nice profile, his brow and nose cleanly limned under the mop of auburn hair, his mouth and chin firm for a boy of his age. For all his gentle nature, he’d been given responsibility early on, he understood hard physical labor, and the intelligence in his expression came as a result of the sharpening influence of his father and older cousins.
The Laniers were a remarkable family, loyal and industrious in providing for one another and their community, but welcoming to strangers—as evidenced by their taking in Charlie Kincaid and Sehoy herself. Her attachment to them all had grown deeper daily, and the horror of the massacre was beginning to fade, just a bit. The sounds of the battle still jumped into her brain at unexpected moments, in the crack of thunder or with the falling of timbers, and she sometimes wept in secret with the longing for her mother and father. But it happened less often every day.
Staying busy helped. Finding beautiful things to draw helped.
In an odd way, even Fiona’s reading of the Bible out loud every morning during breakfast helped. Sehoy hadn’t grown up with much spiritual training, but she found that the old-fashioned words in the big leather-bound book nestled into a previously unmarked place in her mind and heart. Comfort. Reassurance. Structure. The Man, Jesus, who taught and healed and set an example of sacrificial love.
Her finger traced the strong line of Oliver’s brow on the page of her sketch pad. He clearly worshiped Jesus and loved the Book. Perhaps its words were true.
Charlie stood at the highest point of the half-constructed ship’s upper deck, looking out to sea. Across Mobile Point the Gulf of Mexico glittered in the sun, all but taunting him to come over and play. The building of the ship had for a few days scratched the itch of inactivity forced by his injury, but now that he felt stronger, now that he could run and swim and work for hours at a time without triggering one of the crashing migraines, a somehow familiar restlessness had begun to plague him. Something about the vast stretch of water, just out of reach, sang a siren song.
Should he leave? Should h
e take himself far away, leaving Fiona to her family? Every day he stayed he became more entangled with them all. Even the standoffish Sehoy had begun to soften toward him, and Léon had stopped looking daggers at him.
Which was one reason he accepted the backbreaking labor assigned to him with equanimity. The harder he worked, the more the Lanier men relaxed around him, the less guarded their conversation. He was learning that Léon carried a deal of anger toward his rascally middle brother Judah, who had abandoned the family fold in favor of illegal pirating activities, and Léon worried with unspoken depth about the youngest, Sullivan. With war raging in Europe as well as the Americas, nations wrangled over territories and international commerce, and Charlie’s countrymen had taken to conscripting American sailors for service aboard His Majesty’s undermanned naval vessels. Charlie could understand the frustration and anger of merchants who wanted the freedom to deliver their goods to market.
He couldn’t settle on his place in this gnarly problem, but gut level, he knew running away wouldn’t help.
So stay he would.
Turning his back on the Gulf to descend the scaffolding and fetch another load of timbers, he encountered Luc-Antoine Lanier, the ever-present pipe clenched between his teeth, swinging onto the decking with the lithe motion of a much younger man.
“Boy, you gonna fall overboard if you don’t pay attention.” Luc-Antoine removed the pipe and gestured in the direction of the Gulf. “Any British sails out there?”
“No, sir.”
Luc-Antoine pulled a small brass spyglass from his back pocket and tossed it to Charlie. “Here, take a look with this.”
Charlie extended the tubing and put it to his left eye. The panorama of ocean under sky jumped into focus as he adjusted the lens, and a raw exhilaration nearly burst his chest open. In his bones he knew he was born to this, perching on platforms at breath-stealing heights, scanning the skyline for sails in the distance.
At the moment there was nothing there. “Just sunshine, water, and air,” he said, collapsing the glass and handing it back to Luc-Antoine. “What will you do when they come?”