Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  The line erupted. The noise was utterly deafening. Charlotte held on to her musket, though she wanted to hide behind the battlement, squeeze her eyes closed, and cover her ears. The largest American cannon, a thirty-two pounder, shot musket balls into the advancing column, flattening a swath through the center. Men were flung through the air like dolls as hundreds were struck with one blast. Musket balls and rifle bullets hit their marks, and more Englishmen fell.

  Charlotte’s ears were ringing as she reloaded her musket, placing it onto the bulwarks and firing again. The well-trained British soldiers continued on, marching past their fallen comrades, and were met with the same fate.

  On the left flank the frontiersmen were arranged in lines. One line would shoot and then move to the rear to reload their weapons. Their deadly aim dealt a fierce blow to the column carrying ladders and bundles of cane stalks intended to be used as fascines. The English plan to scale the battlements on that side were foiled, and their company ran for cover in the swamp.

  The military band struck up the tune of “Yankee Doodle,” playing along with the constant beat of Noble’s drum.

  From the west bank the battery lent support, firing across the Mississippi and into the English lines. Smoke filled the air with screams from rockets and men. Charlotte kept her eyes averted from the battlefield as she concentrated on loading and firing her weapon.

  A cannonball from the English artillery struck the battlement in front of her, but the thick earth, strengthened with bales of cotton, repelled it as easily as a horse tail swatted a fly.

  She looked over the breastwork and saw the battlefield had turned into chaos as men tried to reform columns. The officers attempted to regain some semblance of order but were shot from their horses, leaving the soldiers without direction.

  An English officer rode on a white horse through the lines, calling out frantic orders to broken ranks. From his decorated uniform Charlotte assumed him to be General Pakenham, the commander the men had spoken of. As she watched, the general’s arm was struck by a bullet and the horse shot from beneath him. His men assisted him onto a fresh horse, but a blast of grapeshot struck nearby, killing him and the men surrounding him.

  A shout sounded from the right, and Charlotte watched, horrified, as a company of enemy soldiers scaled the battlement and seized the redoubt on the right flank. Taken by surprise, the Americans rushed away, across the plank that served as a bridge, to take cover behind the embankment.

  The English soldiers swiveled the cannons toward the American line, but before they could load, the wealthy Creole group, Beale’s Rifles, opened fire, picking off the enemy with their accurate shooting and expensive rifles. The near-tragedy was averted, and the men on either side of the shopkeepers and lawyers—freed blacks, Choctaws, and pirates—congratulated Beale’s Rifles with cheers and pats on the back.

  Exclamations came from around her, and Charlotte turned back, just as an Englishman rose over the summit of the American breastwork directly in front of her. Bullets hit him from all sides, and he tumbled over the embankment and into the enemy lines.

  “Hold your fire!” Marchand yelled. He motioned to Charlotte, and with the help of two other men, they bore the injured Englishman from the line to a shady spot beneath a tree and laid him down gently.

  Charlotte knelt beside him and took the dying officer’s hand. Her throat ached as she watched the color drain from his face.

  “What is your name, Major?” Marchand asked. Charlotte glanced at her friend. Though his voice was calm, she heard a tightness most would not recognize. He looked at the man’s wounds but didn’t bother to tend them. There were far too many.

  “Wilkinson.” The man moved as if he’d sit up.

  “Rest easy, now. You are a brave man,” Marchand said.

  Charlotte swallowed hard, following Marchand’s lead and keeping a composed countenance. Major Wilkinson laid back but pulled on Charlotte’s hand, drawing her closer. “Communicate to my commander that I fell on your parapet and died like a soldier and a true Englishman.”

  “I will, sir,” Charlotte said, tears choking her throat.

  Major Wilkinson relaxed his grip, and, conscience clear, he died.

  Charlotte looked up at Marchand and saw his eyes were teary as well. He helped her stand, and they returned to their positions.

  When they reached the battlement, Charlie realized all had gone quiet. Even the music and the drumbeat had stopped.

  She followed the gazes of the others on the line and saw a man approaching through the smoke, waving a white handkerchief on the end of a long stick.

  At General Jackson’s orders one of his officers approached, accepting the Englishman’s surrender and his sword.

  The American line erupted again, this time in celebration. The band played “Hail Columbia,” as the defenders of New Orleans cheered and applauded their victory.

  Charlotte felt a wave of relief. It was over, and they had won. But she couldn’t quite find it in her to give a joyful yell when thousands of men like Major Wilkinson lay scattered over the Chalmette sugarcane field. She was pleased and humbled and dismayed all at the same time. The battle had lasted less than half an hour, and so much devastation had been wrought.

  Marchand put an arm across her shoulders.

  She leaned against him, feeling utterly wrung out. “It was so much worse than I thought it would be,” she whispered.

  “Oui.” Marchand rubbed her arm. “But it is finished, and you are safe. For zis, I am grateful.”

  She glanced at her friend, realizing his worry hadn’t been for his own life or for the city’s protection, but for her. A warmth bloomed in her heart. Though he was typically gruff in his responses, Marchand cared for her as a father would, and Charlotte closed her eyes, letting the feeling wash away the fear and horror of the battlefield.

  Chapter 20

  Alden rubbed his shoulder as the next shift’s gun crew arrived to relieve him, Dobson, Turley, Nye, Allred, and Nogales of their duties. They turned over the cannon and headed out of Fort St. Phillips. The artillery battery was set up on a higher level with drainage to keep the guns dry, but the same couldn’t be said for the rest of the masonry fort; steady rains had turned the lower level into a pool of dirty water. Alden led the men along a ledge, skirting around the pool. Then, saluting the sentries, they left the fort and marched along the riverbank to the company’s tents for supper and sleep.

  He and his men shed their soaked clothes as soon as they entered the tent, removing from the clothesline the garments they’d hung to dry after their last shift and replacing them. The rotation of their clothing had become routine, as had gathering together beneath canvas coverings around the camp’s fire as they ate their meals.

  Alden sank down onto a dry patch of ground with a groan, and he rubbed his eyes. The constant blasting for the past weeks had left a ringing in his ears and a steady headache.

  Turley distributed bowls of soup and a hunk of bread and cheese.

  “How much longer can they keep this up, Captain?” Nogales asked.

  “He’s not the captain here,” Turley reminded him.

  “Major Overton is. Right, Captain?” Nye said.

  Alden sighed, tired of correcting the men on titles and the chain of command. “I’ve no way of knowing, Nogales. The English ships have to run out of ammunition eventually.” Luckily the American supply of balls and powder was steadily maintained by regular shipments from New Orleans.

  Alden and Major Overton had discussed this very question at length. The fort’s commander believed the assault was simply a distraction to keep the American army’s attention while the English troops were ferried back through the bayou to their ships.

  Alden agreed with him. The attack was merely a constant battering of cannon fire from a number of ships with no real attempt to take the fort or to sail farther upriver toward New Orleans.


  He rubbed his eyes again, glanced up at the drips coming off the edge of the canvas, and moved farther beneath the cover.

  After the disaster on the west bank, Alden and his men had been sent downriver to fend off a naval attack by Admiral Cochrane’s flotilla.

  Alden took a bite of stew, chewing a chunk of potato. The hot gravy warmed his insides. “This is good, Turley.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “He’s not the captain,” Alden, Nogales, and Nye said in unison.

  Eight days earlier, the English offensive had attacked General Jackson’s main line. Alden and his crew, under the command of General Patterson, had kept up a steady crossfire from the west bank of the river over the English advance.

  While the American line on the Chalmette Plantation had been victorious, the battery and defenses across the river were not so fortunate.

  The night before the battle, General Patterson had received word that the English were digging through the levee. Just before dawn the enemy had launched barges armed with carronades and filled with soldiers across the Mississippi toward the west bank, but as Alden and the defenders watched, the boats were swept downstream. Apparently the commanders had failed to calculate the current, which was deceptively strong, and they’d landed much farther down the river than they’d intended.

  The invaders had compensated by marching double time upriver, with their boats providing additional support on their right flank in a combined land and naval attack, charging through the smoke of the guns in an aggressive assault.

  The American defenders had been pushed back, but rather than surrender the cannons to the enemy, Alden and the other gunners had spiked the cannons, leaving them unusable to the enemy.

  If General Pakenham’s plan had worked and the English force had landed in time, they’d have taken control of the battery, turning the cannons against the American line as the offense was launched, and the outcome of that day would have been quite different.

  As it was, once word of the English surrender came from the other side of the river, the invaders were ordered back to camp, and the Americans claimed a victory that was by no means a result of the fight on the west bank.

  Alden was sick when he thought of how close they’d come to losing the city. He shook his head, pulling his thoughts from the battle and listened to the men around him.

  “Will you continue the story, Allred?” Nye asked.

  Allred took a long drink and brushed crumbs from his shirtfront and trousers. He cleared his throat. “Well then, where was I?”

  “Odysseus and his crew were preparing to sail past the island of the sirens,” Dobson said in a bored voice. The quartermaster acted as if he was uninterested in the story, yet he was always the first to remember the details.

  “Ah yes . . . the sirens.” Allred shifted into a more comfortable position, leaning back on one elbow.

  The others settled in as well, moving closer to hear over the sound of the rain.

  “The sirens, you remember, were half-bird, half-woman creatures who sang an enchanted song that led any man who heard it to his destruction. The music was so sweet men fell under its spell and wrecked their ships upon the rocky cliffs of the island. You remember Circe warned Odysseus about the siren’s song. He instructed his crew to stuff their ears with beeswax so they couldn’t hear it.”

  A splash came from the water, and when Alden listened closer he thought he heard voices.

  “Did the sirens have beaks?” Nye asked, his bushy brows pulling together. “Or mouths?”

  “Listen,” Alden interjected.

  The group fell silent.

  Another splash, and this one sounded as if it came from the river in front of the fort. Alden jumped to his feet and motioned to his men to follow.

  Silently they made their way back along the path in the darkness and crept along the outside of the fort’s walls to where they could get a better view of the water.

  That his men didn’t hesitate was a testament to how they trusted their leader. At least six gunships were firing constantly toward the fort, and they were walking right in the path of the cannonballs.

  “A reconnoitering crew,” Dobson muttered, pointing toward the shadow of boats moving on the water.

  Alden could definitely hear voices now, and one in particular caught his attention. He recognized it the croaky-sounding man from the HMS Falcon.

  Alden pushed back the wet hair that dripped water into his eyes. He motioned the group into a close huddle next to the fort’s wall, speaking in a hushed tone. “Turley, Nye, and Nogales, move downriver. Don’t let them see you, and watch where they go. I think the Falcon has joined the flotilla, but it must be out of sight, behind the bend.”

  “They may be delivering provisions and ammunition to the other ships,” Dobson said. “Maybe messages.”

  “I believe you’re right,” Alden responded. He tapped his finger against his lip. “Dobson. You, Allred, and I will speak with Major Overton. If he’ll grant permission, the use of a boat, and weapons, and once we know their position”—he grinned—“we’ll plan a rescue mission.”

  The others nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.” Alden knew the men were tired of working a gun crew and looked forward to a bit of action, especially when it involved both punishing an enemy and getting their crewmates back.

  The groups dispersed, moving through the mud. The rain was pouring heavily now, but instead of being bothered by it, Alden was glad. If the Falcon were truly around the river bend, it would be anchored at a fair distance from the other ships in the flotilla to give a decent swing radius, and if it was a supply ship, it would be out of range of the fort’s cannons. The darkness and rain would help conceal the approach of Alden and his men, and they would have the element of surprise. If he could get onto the ship, find Stafford and Gardner, and escape without the Falcon calling for aid . . . He grinned, liking the idea of catching Captain Sir Percival Alfred Harrington unawares.

  ***

  An hour later Alden and Dobson peered through the trees at the HMS Falcon. She was anchored around the river bend and not taking part in the assault. If he hadn’t heard the marine’s voice, Alden wouldn’t have known she was there at all. Dobson was right—the ship must be delivering messages and provisions from the gulf.

  Major Overton hadn’t liked the idea of risking the gun crew and the possible loss of a boat, but when Alden had told him two of his own men had been impressed onto the ship and mentioned his previous experience smuggling boats and men past the English blockades in the Chesapeake, the fort’s commander relented.

  “Between thirty and forty on the crew, I’d guess,” Dobson muttered. “Don’t know how many are on the ship now. A quarter will be marines. We can’t take all of them.”

  “A direct attack is too much of a risk.” Alden squinted through the darkness. He thought he could make out two sentries moving on the ship’s deck. “We’ll need to get on and off that ship without being seen or recognized. The rain will help. And with boats coming and going throughout the night, there’s a chance they’ll just assume we’re returning from a delivery.”

  Dobson shook his head. “The delivery crews are led by marines or officers. They’ll notice if we board unaccompanied.”

  Alden considered. Dobson was right. Regular sailors wouldn’t be sent off alone. With so many members impressed against their wills into the English crews, the sailors would be looking for opportunities to escape.

  “A surveillance team could learn the routines, observe the watches, and determine when their defenses are down,” Dobson said.

  Alden nodded. “That would be the most prudent strategy. But we’ve no idea how long the Falcon will remain. If she’s simply delivering supplies, she could easily weigh anchor at first light. We must act tonight, or we may not have another chance.” He glanced at his quartermaster, knowing the man’s mind
was turning with scenarios. “We need a distraction.”

  ***

  Two hours later Alden, Dobson, Turley, and Nogales set out through the darkness, rowing toward the ship with wrapped oars to muffle the noise.

  Alden was glad the cannon fire was on the other side of the bend, or their approach might have been revealed by the glare of the rockets. He kept an eye on the rail, but no heads or weapons appeared as they drew up alongside the ship. The small boats that had been going back and forth the entire night still floated in the river instead of being stowed on the deck. Apparently the errands were not finished.

  Alden looked back and forth between the river bend and the ship’s rail, his hands tight on the oars. This part of the plan had caused him the most anxiety, since it would leave them so vulnerable. If they were discovered before they even boarded, there was no chance of success.

  “Where are you?” he muttered between clenched teeth.

  A flicker shone between the trees, and Alden let out a relieved breath. Allred and Nye had come through.

  A raft floated around the bend, alight with fire. Finding dry kindling in the wet swampland had been nothing short of a miracle, and with some lamp oil for accelerant, the craft shone in the dark, rainy night like a beacon—a beacon that would last for only a few moments before the rains put it out.

  From above, Alden could hear the sentries hurrying to the starboard side of the ship to investigate.

  “That’s our signal.” Alden led his men up the boarding nets, which, to Alden’s relief, the English had not yet stowed, and peeked over the rail. Two sentries stood at the opposite side of the deck, watching the flaming craft float downriver.

  “Should we wake the captain?” one of the men said.

  “It’s not a threat to us.”

  “I don’t like it, Sergeant.” The first man sounded worried. “Might be voodoo. New Orleans is filled with dark magic.”

  Alden’s crew climbed silently over the gunwale and spread out on the wet deck. Dobson and Alden started below to find Stafford and Gardner, and the others went after the sentries. The plan was to take them by surprise, overpower them quickly, and then gag and bind them. Alden was reasonably certain his men wouldn’t kill the sentries, but if asked to wager on his conviction, he’d decline, especially after the assault on the west bank battery.