by Beth White
Fiona grabbed Oliver by both arms. “I know you don’t understand, but I can’t stand the idea of going back home and sitting around a quilt while you and my brothers go off to fight. Besides, I won’t be right on the battle lines, I’ll be back with the horses.” He was shaking his head, so she shook him hard. “Oliver! I’m not going back. If you make me, I’ll just run away again, and you’ll never see me again.”
He stared at her, clearly horrified and conflicted and angry. But he’d always looked up to her and obeyed her bossy instructions.
After a long moment, he looked away. “All right, but I hope you know I may go to hell for this.”
She laughed and reached inside her coat. “No you won’t. Here’s my knife.” She handed him the knife, then took off her hat, letting her long braid fall. Turning her back to him, she took a deep breath for courage. “Go ahead. Do it.” When he didn’t move, she repeated sharply, “I said, do it!”
Oliver groaned, then she felt him take hold of her braid and start sawing at it. When the last few strands came away, he tossed the long braid into the underbrush and stepped back. “There you go, God help me.”
She shook her head, letting the short wisps swing against her face. Odd and light. She pushed her hair back, tucking the sides behind her ears as she’d seen the boys working the shipyard do, put her hat back on, then turned to look at Oliver. “How do I look?”
His face was priceless. “Like Israel.”
“Good.” She flung her arms around him and hugged him hard. “Thank you, Oliver. It helps to know you’re here.”
“But we’re in different units.”
Fiona stepped back, shoving her hands into her pockets. “I know, but at least somebody knows where I am.” She hesitated. “When I get to New Orleans, I’ll write them. Want me to tell them about you too?”
“Sehoy knows. But you can write to my pa.”
“You should’ve told him. He was only ten when he rescued Grandpére from the guardhouse in the fort. He’d understand why you wanted to serve, and now you’ve worried him.”
“We’re a pair, aren’t we, Fi—Israel?”
She whopped him on the arm with a closed fist. “Yes, we are. Good night, Oliver. You pray for me, and I’ll pray for you, and I’ll see you after we kick the British back across the Atlantic.”
Shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe what he’d just done, Oliver backed toward the firelight, then finally turned and left her.
Fiona put her knife back into her coat, yanked her hat down more securely, and took off in the dark back to the cavalry camp. Her hair would grow back. But regardless of her assurances to Oliver, she was going to have to develop a thick skin in order to survive the next few months in the army. And once she did, something told her there would be no going back.
NOVEMBER 22, 1814
MOBILE
Mama and Elijah were still abed as Maddy and Desi sat on the porch swing watching the rain pour off the roof in depressing sheets and gather in deep puddles across the walkway. Having promised to bid her goodbye before joining General Jackson’s staff as they rode to New Orleans, he had knocked on the door shortly after sunrise.
She had slept fitfully and awakened with a headache and stinging eyes. “Desi, I’m going to miss you so much.”
“And I you.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “What’s the matter? You knew this was coming.”
“Yes, and if anybody is used to goodbyes, it’s me.” She looked up at him, lips trembling. “I’m worried about Fiona. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about what I said to her that night before Charlie left.”
“It was a bit harsh, but I doubt that’s why she left.” He smiled. “A girl with three brothers has surely heard worse.” He shook his head. “I tried everything I could think of to find her, but she’s just . . . disappeared. Cisco didn’t have any idea which direction she went, and since she was dressed like a boy, nobody remembers seeing her. I would have gone to Pensacola to look for her, but General Jackson needed me—”
“Desi, you can’t blame yourself. Uncle Rémy and Israel will find her.” She had to believe that, or she’d go mad with guilt. “I wish I could do something. All I can do is stay here while you go off without even the protection of a uniform.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Desi, I know what a translator does. You’ll be a liaison between the general and all sorts of hostile factions—a target to be taken out—and often working on your own.” She turned and took hold of the lapels of his coat. “Don’t tell me it’s not dangerous. And knowing you, you will not be careful! You’ll put the general’s well-being ahead of your own.”
Ruddy color appeared in his cheeks. “I assure you I can look after my own hide.”
“Please do. Please come back to me.” If she was begging, so be it. She had never pleaded with Stephen, taking his absences in stride as the nature of his work and responsibility. This was somehow different.
“Will it matter so much if I don’t?” His expression was wistful. “You have your family and church here, you have Elijah, your sewing work. You managed for a long time without me.”
“You’re going to make me say it—after you promised you’d stay as long as I need you. Desi Palomo, you’ve become quite necessary to my well-being. I need someone who will tell me the truth when I don’t want to hear it. Who will haul me back when I slide into feeling sorry for myself. Someone not afraid to lead.”
“That sounds an awful lot like your father,” he said ruefully. “You should just move back to New York—”
“No!” Still holding him by the lapels, she snatched him close, pressed her cheek against his, her voice a passionate whisper in his ear. “Do not misunderstand. We have become partners, and I love you, in a way I can barely describe. You make my heart beat out of my chest when you come into the room. I love that you are so tall that I feel small, and I love the way one eyebrow goes up when you smile. I adore the secret looks we share when Elijah says something outrageous. Right now I can barely breathe because your beard is scraping my face, and I want to—”
“Oh, Maddy, have mercy!” Laughing, he rose to lift her from the swing, pulling her into his arms and kissing her hard.
“Are you sorry you asked?” she said breathlessly, as soon as her lips were free. “I could go on for days.”
“Hold onto it all and save it for our wedding night.” He kissed one eyelid, then the other.
She became boneless in his arms. “That had better be very soon.”
“As soon as we convince the redcoats to go back to their side of the Atlantic and stay there, I promise. Now let me go. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can come back to you.” He relaxed his hold on her. “Pray for me, Maddy. Pray for us all. It will not be an easy campaign.”
“You know I will.” She looked up at him, eyes drenched. “God be with you, my love.”
“Aye, and with you.” With one last kiss he put her away from him and swung out into the rain.
It was a good thing he didn’t look back. He would not have seen a very brave face.
NOVEMBER 24, 1814
NEGRIL BAY, JAMAICA
As the Goldeneye sailed into Negril Bay under clear skies, Charlie leaned over the rail, spyglass lifted to scan the shoreline. British warships of every size and description crowded the harbor as far as the eye could see, their snowy sails lined up in relief against a murky horizon, a Union Jack snapping proudly on each deck and signal flags flaring at intervals on the masts. As a backdrop to the ships, scarlet-coated infantry and fusiliers, green-clad 95th Rifles, Highlanders in their tartan trousers and tams, and a couple of motley free Jamaican colored regiments scurried like ants among the tents, grass huts, and brightly colored marquees that checkered the beach.
It was a breathtaking sight after his journey across the stormy gulf. His seasickness had subsided by the time the Goldeneye entered the Jamaican port, and he’d finally begun to feel his old self. Clad as he was in a naval blue fro
ck coat, with white waistcoat and breeches, the gold epaulette on his right shoulder indicating his rank of lieutenant, only the scars on his forehead and his aching thigh reminded him of his American adventures.
Well, and the significant hole in his heart where Fiona Lanier had planted herself and subsequently been yanked away. Only time would repair that injury. He patted his coat pocket to make sure the letter was still there. He’d had more than a week to get the wording just right. Now he had to muster the courage to deliver it.
Nearly an hour later he stepped off a small dinghy into shallow water and splashed onto the beach. He stopped the first marine he encountered. “Where can I find Admiral Cochrane?”
“Over there.” The man jerked his head toward a collection of oversized marquees pitched some distance down the beach. Pegged open to the mild, gusting sea breeze, their flags indicated their inhabitants’ exalted ranks.
Charlie nodded and headed that way. He passed native women in colorful skirts, carrying bowls of tropical fruit or wash baskets atop their turbaned heads, and men with hogsheads of tobacco or kegs of rum balanced on their bare shoulders. Open-air stalls displayed such exotic foodstuffs as sea turtles, sugarcane, pimientos, star apples, and pineapples, as well as nonperishable wares like wood carvings and hand-dyed kerchiefs. He skirted jugglers and knife throwers entertaining drunken English soldiers, and stepped around a trio of sailors casting dice upon a canvas table. By the time he reached the largest of the tents flying the admiral’s pennant, he wondered if he had stumbled into a carnival rather than a military base.
He saluted the marine stationed outside the tent. “First Lieutenant Charles Kincaid, reporting to Admiral Cochrane.”
“Is he expecting you?”
Charlie reached inside his coat for the packet of papers given him by the captain of the Goldeneye. “I’m not sure, but he’ll want to see these.”
The marine disappeared with the papers in hand. A few minutes later, a buxom young woman with her peasant blouse slipping off one brown shoulder exited the tent.
The marine followed, shaking his head. “The admiral says come in. Not happy to be interrupted, so you’d better be somebody important.”
The Scottish admiral, known to Charlie as a longtime rival of his grandfather, was seated at a small but beautifully carved desk, frowning over the papers Charlie had sent in. Possessed of a full head of reddish-gray hair and a pair of impressive sideburns, Cochrane was in full uniform, double chin resting upon a starched cravat. At his elbow was a goblet of wine, in one hand a fine Cuban cigar.
“About time you reported in, Kincaid. You almost missed us. We leave Jamaica in two days.”
“I’ve been rather . . . tied up,” Charlie said, tongue in cheek.
“So I see.” Cochrane looked up, expression sour. “What can you tell me about American defenses in New Orleans?”
“Then that is where we are invading?”
Cochrane sneered. “Clearly they have concentrated forces in Mobile, leaving New Orleans all but defenseless. We have been rebuffed from Mobile once, so there would be nothing to gain by trying it again.”
“But, sir—”
“New Orleans, Lieutenant. My orders are to get into the city, one way or another, and claim the prizes in those warehouses. I’m hopeful the pirate Laffite and his men will aid us in finding a seaward approach through Lake Borgne.”
Charlie blinked. “It was my understanding that Laffite went to General Jackson, informing him of your offer of amnesty in return for his support—hoping the Americans would accept him instead.”
“Which hope was summarily quashed. The pirates have been cowering in a variety of hiding places over the last month. Which means they will be more amenable to helping us.”
The admiral was asking questions but not listening to the answers. Still, Charlie felt obligated to impart the intelligence he had sacrificed so much to bring. He endeavored to keep his tone respectful. “Admiral Cochrane, I have seen evidence that the American troops are both tough and well-trained, and Jackson has summoned reinforcements from Kentucky and Tennessee. They are loyal to him, and he seems to have a genius for bringing together otherwise disparate factions in the common cause of defending territory that they feel belongs to them by divine grant. The American naval fleet is also growing in both power and number. As to the pirates, I would not count on their willingness to surrender that loyalty in favor of what they perceive to be an invading army.”
Cochrane rose, eyebrows lowered in a thunderous line.
Charlie gulped, determined to finish. “Also, sir, I presume you’ve never seen the swamps and bayous that surround New Orleans. Our ships cannot get close enough to invade without betraying our presence well in advance. Have you considered what will happen if they barricade the city and lie in wait for us?”
“Have I considered—? You are insolent, sir.” The cigar jabbed the air with every word. “The Admiralty put me in command of a fleet unrivaled in the world! Perhaps you have forgotten that we demoralized Napoleon, and I come here direct from burning the American capitol. You verge on treason, but I am going to overlook it in light of the fact that you have lately undergone a bit of an ordeal.” Dropping into his chair, he set fire to Charlie’s report with the cigar. “I should never have listened to Nicholls’s suggestion to send you into New Orleans. Now get out of my sight, and if you mention a word of this conversation to anyone else, I shall have you court-martialed. You may report to Captain Lockyer on the Sophie.”
Seething, Charlie reached into his pocket. “Aye, sir. One more thing before I go.” He proffered his personal letter, which Cochrane accepted reluctantly. “I would like to submit this letter to be delivered to the Lords Commissioner of the Admiralty.” Saluting, Charlie turned on his heel and left the tent. He stood blinking in the bright sunshine for a moment, gathering himself.
The young woman who had been with the admiral earlier shimmied around him with a purring “’Scuse moi, monsieur. B’jour.” Dragging her hand across his back, she slipped into the tent.
Duty. He had done what he could, and he had to accept the impolitic decisions of his higher-ups. That was military life. It helped to think of Fiona safely in Mobile with her extended family, perhaps taking a ride in the pony cart with her younger cousins, maybe baking a sweet potato pie with her auntie. When the war ended, he’d find her, convince her to become his bride. Perhaps not a duchess, but the wife of an earl’s younger son wouldn’t be so bad.
Beyond that, his imagination refused to go, let alone hopes and dreams.
Perhaps he hadn’t turned as American as he’d thought.
15
DECEMBER 1, 1814
NEW ORLEANS
Bringing up the rear of the cavalcade on a docile, knock-kneed mule named Button, Fiona pulled the collar of her coat closer about her throat as they entered the Place d’Armes where General Jackson’s forces were to gather. A cold, drenching rain had pounded Jackson’s staff as they made the overland journey from Mobile to New Orleans. She gathered from the soldiers’ talk that any British military man of common sense would avoid the quagmires impeding a southern attack, so Jackson’s strategy involved scouting possible inland invasion points to the northeast of the city.
During the last ten days, Fiona had done her best to stay unnoticed—quickly doing as she was told, making herself indispensable by anticipating the soldiers’ needs—and she stuck close to kindly Sergeant Morris. Lieutenant Catlett she avoided, partially because she was afraid he would recognize her, but mainly because he had a mischievous streak that had already made her life miserable. Discovering her partiality to her hat, Catlett made it his business to knock it off her head at every opportunity. A few days ago she’d almost lost it while crossing a swollen creek but managed to rescue it just before it went under. To deflect suspicion, she had developed a saltier language than a lady should possess, and when she let fly an insulting phrase at her tormentor as she donned her sorry, soggy headgear, Catlett just laughed.
As the unit made camp under leaden skies, Fiona muttered a prayer of gratitude that Catlett had been assigned scout duty, while the other men pitched tents and foraged for food. She took the horses to water one at a time, affectionately talking to them as they drank, then hobbling them at the edge of camp. She couldn’t help wondering how Oliver fared. She hadn’t seen him since the night he cut her hair, but she’d faithfully prayed for him, along with Sullivan, Judah, and . . .
She sighed, arms wrapped around Dusty’s neck. Of course she prayed for Charlie, almost with every breath. Would she ever be free from the memory of his blue-splotched eyes and his courage and, oh, those bone-melting kisses? It seemed not. Sometimes, with a fierceness that drew her into a knot of longing, she yearned just to talk to him or hear him laugh. Oh, how she prayed for his safety.
“Hey, Lanier.”
Fiona looked up to find Sergeant Morris looking at her over Dusty’s back. She straightened. “Yes, sir?”
“The general sent for us. We’re to ride into the city for Jackson’s speech to the populace. No reason you can’t come.” He half turned, then paused. “You not sick, are you, kid?”
“No, sir, I’m fine.”
“I told you it was going to be a hard march. And the battle yet to come.”
“I know. I’m ready.”
He shook his head, muttering to himself as he walked off.
Fiona checked Dusty’s hobble—apparently he was to be left in camp this time—and hurried to saddle the indefatigable Button. A few minutes later she was jouncing along with the mule’s bone-jarring trot at the rear of the cavalcade, headed for the city proper. General Jackson had set up his headquarters on Royal Street, and the street below the two-story brick-and-ironwork building was thronged with ladies and gentlemen of every age, social stratum, and description—some in carriages, some on foot, some leaning on the rails of balconies overhead. An aura of expectation stirred the crowd as Fiona followed the officers pushing toward the front. She heard a smattering of Spanish and English, but almost everyone conversed in loud and excited French, a remnant of the Creole influence that had established the city in the early eighteenth century. She wondered how the Tennessee-bred Andrew Jackson was going to communicate with this volatile gathering.