by Shirl Henke
Now he found himself crawling in the slimy, foul-smelling water of a Louisiana bayou, watching the undulating progress of a cottonmouth moving gracefully in front of him, his pistol trained on it, hoping against hope he need not shoot. He had spent five days making his way from Barataria to New Orleans and was almost out of ammunition.
If the swamp didn’t get him, Governor Claiborne might well hang him as an accessory to piracy. In his shirt he carried a set of papers from the British Admiralty addressed to the residents of Barataria, attempting to recruit their services for an invasion of New Orleans. A captain’s commission and a thirty thousand dollar stipend had been offered as a bribe to their leader, who had no intention of accepting. Instead, he had given the documents to Shelby. Now all Samuel had to do was convince Claiborne that Jean Lafitte was a loyal American.
Grinning, he recalled an old backwoods saying. “This is sort of like winning a lottery and then finding out the prize is a live grizzly.”
* * * *
A heavy fog hung on the marshes at the edge of Lake Borgne, adding impaired visibility to the even greater misery of the chill damp December night. The three men standing furtively beneath the thick gray moss clinging to the low-lying limbs of a massive willow tree stamped their feet and clutched their cloaks tightly against the cold.
“You said you would supply us with guides who could show us the back way through these infernal swamps into New Orleans,” the tall imperious officer said in the clipped nasal tones of the British aristocracy.
“Here, take the gold,” the second Britain said, thrusting a small pouch into the American’s hands. “That’s all you’ll see until we’re in control of the city.”
The American laughed softly, an icy hollow sound echoing on the still night air. Contemptuously he tossed the pouch back to the Englishman. “I assure you, gentlemen, I have no need of your paltry bribes. Once your forces take the city, I shall be the official liaison between the British army and the unruly citizenry. Everyone will be in need of my good offices.”
“And you will extort a handsome profit from the blood and bones of your countrymen,” the first man said acidly.
The American nodded as if accepting a compliment. “Precisely so. My guides will meet you tomorrow night at moonrise at the north promontory of the lake. Do you speak Spanish? Their English is rather deficient, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll manage,” the taller officer said in a condescending tone.
“What is your news from Claiborne’s office?” the other Englishman asked. “Has the legislature considered Lafitte’s offer of help for the American cause yet?”
“As a matter of fact, they’ve concluded he’s a thief and a pirate, not to be trusted at all. They think the British papers are forgeries which Jean Lafitte intended to use to get his brother out of jail.” There was a hint of dry amusement in his voice.
“What fools those mongrel rabble are,” the second British officer sneered. “Lafitte has enough artillery and skilled gunners to blow Keane’s Highlanders halfway back to Scotland and they turn the man away!”
“Just be grateful they’ve not accepted the Baratarian’s help yet,” the American replied darkly.
“What do you mean—yet?”
“The American officer who brought the papers from Lafitte to Claiborne is a dangerous man. Samuel Shelby will not give up easily.”
“Then I assume you shall deal with this Shelby before he changes the governor’s mind?” the tall Englishman purred.
“I shall deal with him in my own good time. I have something very particular in mind.”
With that the American turned and vanished into the fog, leaving the British officers to climb back into the small pirogue and make the long dangerous trip back to the mouth of the bay.
* * * *
“Damn redcoats commin’, Missey, I feels it in m’ bones,” the wizened old servant said as she placed a tray filled with freshly baked gingerbread and milk on the parlor table.
“Now, Florine, we’ve already discussed it. Mr. Darcy assures us we’re quite safe. The British forces will most probably head up the Mississippi, if they arrive at all. Edmond Darcy is Governor Claiborne’s secretary. If anyone should know, he should.” Olivia poured a small glass from the pitcher of cool milk and began to break up a ginger cake into small pieces as she looked across the parlor to where her son sat on the carpet playing intently with his toy soldiers. “Time for some of Angeline’s sweet ginger cakes, David,” she said.
The sturdy toddler’s black curly hair fell in unruly locks across his forehead as he looked at her. Bright blue eyes lit up as he scrambled to his feet and scampered over to her. “Ginger cakes. Mmmm, good,” he babbled as he climbed into his mother’s lap.
Olivia stroked his hair and held him fast as he wriggled with the usual restlessness of a bright, energetic child. He had become her reason for living over the past two and a half years. His resemblance to Samuel had been a bittersweet pang from the first moment she held him in her arms after his birth and had seen the thick cap of black hair covering his head. Olivia had wanted something of her love’s to keep and she had him, but David was at the same time her greatest joy and a tragic reminder of all that she had lost.
In the last three years she had grown to accept the fact that Samuel was dead, killed on some nameless battlefield half a continent away. There had never been a single response to the dozens of letters she had sent. Surely if he were alive he would have received at least some of them and written back to her—or even come to see his son. That was what a naive young woman in love had believed, she thought bitterly.
But then several months ago while visiting her Spanish friends in Pensacola, Louise Freul had learned about a great scandal concerning an American spy they called the Spanish Yankee. A man masquerading as a Spanish court official had infiltrated high-ranking circles of the British military who were encamped with their Spanish allies. He had stolen vital information regarding their prosecution of the war against the Americans.
One of the Spanish officer’s wives had been quite graphic in describing the spy to Louise. It seemed he had nearly made her swoon with desire, a tall black-haired, blue-eyed devil with the most marvelous scars on his body—scars that could only belong to Samuel and would only be visible if he were naked. Olivia could still imagine the lascivious Señora Garcia entwined in a torrid embrace with him.
Samuel was alive. He had been a scant few hundred miles away and made no effort to come to her. No wonder his sister had never answered any of Olivia’s letters. Elise was most probably too embarrassed to reply. Olivia had been wounded to the core of her soul, so shattered by the betrayal that if she had not already spent the past years secluded at her country estate, she would have hidden away now to lick her wounds.
She had gladly given up all the gaiety and social life of the city after the successful hoax of her marriage and widowhood. Retiring to Belle Versailles, Charles Durand’s huge plantation, she had awaited the birth of her child with only Louise and Dr. Freul in attendance. As far as the gossipy Creoles in New Orleans knew, the boy was Don Rafael Obregón’s son. How tragic that the nobleman had not lived to see his child born, the elderly matrons lamented. How tragic the beautiful and wealthy widow chose to live in isolation and refused to consider remarriage, the young bachelors lamented.
But the “widow” had decided that after Samuel there would be no more marriages, no more lovers, no man to break her heart again. She had given herself over to a quiet life in the country, developing an interest in the management of the huge plantation, content to watch her son grow and live out her days with no further risk to her heart. Louise Freul and her brother, Albert, often came to spend weekends at the plantation, and each summer she took David upriver to visit Micajah, who was thrilled with his grandson. She had a full life with good friends.
But her peace was suddenly shattered when Louise brought word that Samuel had arrived in New Orleans a scant few days ago. His support for the Baratarian
pirates was the cause célèbre of the city and his name was on everyone’s lips, together with speculations about when the British invaders would land. Given a choice, Olivia would far rather have faced Admiral Cochrane’s whole fleet than Samuel Sheridan Shelby.
As she watched her son stuff pieces of gingerbread into his chubby cheeks, grinning adorably at her, a sudden thought occurred. Surely Samuel could not have come for David! He could have no way of knowing about his son. By the time David was born, she had finally given up sending letters. Or did he know? Shelby was a spy, a very good spy. She had seen him in action. But why would he wait three years before returning for the boy?
It’s only a coincidence that he’s been sent on a mission in the city, she reassured herself. All she need do was to remain secluded here at Belle Versailles until he was assigned elsewhere. That was her principle reason for staying in the country in spite of rumors that the British might cross Lake Borgne and march through Bayou Bienvenue. But Edmond Darcy had offered her assurances that such would not happen. After all, he was privy to the governor’s inner circle.
Darcy had briefly been a suitor before she had made it clear that under no circumstances would she ever again marry. Olivia had been grateful when he accepted that and offered her friendship instead. He had become a frequent visitor at the plantation, often bringing David toys and sharing with her the latest news regarding the progress of the war. Edmond had insisted that she remain at Belle Versailles in case the worst indeed did occur and the British occupied the city. Here, she would be safe.
But would she be safe from Samuel if he rode up the long magnolia-lined drive to the front porch of the big house? Would he expect her to run out and throw herself at his feet? Or give up David without a fight?
The idea gnawed at her relentlessly. He could easily expose her marriage as a sham, leaving her to face cruel censure from the good people of New Orleans while he nobly claimed paternity. She knew the courts would side with him. Men always won in legal matters.
I’ll fight you with everything I have, Samuel Shelby. If need be, I’ll take David to Micajah. See if you dare try to steal his grandson from him! But she knew that if Samuel wanted David, he would dare that and much more.
“Mama, you squeeze too tight. Can’t eat,” David complained, breaking into her troubling thoughts.
She kissed his cheek as she relaxed her hold on the boy, then stared out the front window down the drive with haunted eyes.
* * * *
If Samuel Shelby had thought Andrew Jackson was gauntly thin back at Horseshoe Bend last spring, the general was positively cadaverous now. Fevers and dysentery had wracked his body for months until his face looked like a death’s head. After utterly decimating Britain’s Indian allies in Mississippi Territory and chasing the remnants through upper Florida, Jackson had finally deigned to follow the orders given by Secretary of War Monroe to march for New Orleans. The city welcomed the hero of the Red Stick Rebellion with typical Creole delirium, but Jackson remained alternately cantankerous and taciturn. At the moment he was being exceedingly cantankerous.
“By the Eternal! I simply don’t believe it! I’ve never in my life seen a Kentuckian without a pack of cards, a jug of whiskey and his long rifle!” He paced furiously, darting scorching glances at the two militia officers who had just reported to him.
Two-thirds of the Kentucky State Militia had just arrived without weapons or supplies, expecting to have everything provided by the federal government. Their plight was only one more incident in what had been an incredible series of debacles and blunders that had left Jackson with a motley group of twelve hundred militia—Creoles, Free Men of Color, Choctaw Indians, Baratarian pirates—in conjunction with his own small detachment of regulars. Together they had faced a British landing force of five thousand men on December 23. With Jackson’s usual impervious daring, he attacked in the dead of night.
The fighting had been brutal hand-to-hand combat in mud and fog so thick that the British commanders called a retreat, never realizing that the fierce American troops were outnumbered nearly five-to-one. The seemingly impetuous assault had done precisely what Jackson intended for it to do—bought them time for more troops to trickle into the city from upriver. But many of the Tennessee, Mississippi and Kentucky militia came poorly provisioned and, in the case of the Kentuckians, scarcely armed at all.
“Governor Isaac Shelby’s sent more militia to fight in this war than any other state, sir. We’re plumb out of supplies,” John Adair, their commander, said stiffly.
“He’s right, General,” Samuel added. “My uncle has done all that’s humanly possible to supply men and materials, but after sending ten thousand men to the New York border, he had no choice but to rely on the federals at this point.”
“A lot of good that does us with a commissary general who doesn’t know mortar balls from bowling balls,” Jackson snapped.
“If I might make a suggestion, General.” Samuel interrupted Jackson’s agitated pacing. When he had Jackson’s attention, he continued, “I happen to know where I can obtain several hundred crates of rifles, powder and shot.”
Jackson raised one shaggy white eyebrow. “And that wouldn’t happen to be at the Temple, that accursed banditti Lafitte’s warehouse for selling pirated goods, now would, it?”
“That accursed banditti and his Baratarians have fought right well beside us. Already they’ve given us ordnance enough to turn the tide of the siege. Why won’t you trust Lafitte?”
“Ye are regular army, Colonel. Those men are outlaws. The governor of Louisiana placed a five hundred dollar reward on Jean Lafitte’s head.”
Samuel couldn’t resist smiling when he replied, “And Jean countered by placing a five thousand dollar reward on Claiborne’s head. The governor took it rather well.”
“By the Eternal, I do not see the humor in this situation! There is a rule of law in this state and that leaves no room for piracy and smuggling.”
“Even if those smuggled guns can arm your troops to fight when our own government can’t get so much as a single musket to us?” Shelby’s voice was strained with impatience. Jackson was narrow-minded and focused only on what he wished to see. Few dared to challenge him.
The other officers around the table shuffled uneasily as Jackson and Shelby locked stony gazes. Finally Jackson threw up his hands. “Ye’ve been lobbying for me to meet with the Haitian freebooter. I’m going to the McCarthy plantation to inspect the lines. Bring him to me there and we’ll discuss the disposition of his ill-gotten gains.”
Shelby nodded grimly, concealing the relief he felt. By God he’d done it! What Claiborne and the rest had failed to do—Jackson would confer with Lafitte. Now if only Jean could impress the recalcitrant general sufficiently to allow him genuine influence in the planning and strategy sessions. Samuel saluted smartly, saying, “Yes, sir, General. Monsieur Lafitte and I will be there.”
As he left Jackson’s headquarters on Royale Street, Samuel’s thoughts were chaotic. There was so damnably much to do. The city was under siege and he had already been drawn into the thick of battle, fighting with the regular army since his arrival bearing messages from Lafitte. Claiborne had been inclined to believe in the Baratarian’s loyalty but the legislative leaders had not, nor when he arrived, had Jackson. All that was about to change now.
“But when will I have a moment to myself?” he muttered as he made his way down Royale Street. Since the British had moved within five miles of New Orleans, most of the citizenry had been waiting nervously behind shuttered doors, terrified that the redcoats were coming to burn the Creoles’ beloved city just as they had Washington the past August.
Shelby didn’t know if the city would remain safe. He was certain the countryside was not and had wanted to see to Olivia’s safety, especially after learning that she had been widowed and lived in seclusion at her plantation house. Belle Versailles was isolated at the farthest edge of Bayou Bienvenue, not in the path that Jackson anticipated the British gene
ral Pakenham would take. Major Villeré, a Creole planter and Olivia’s nearest neighbor, commanded a force of Louisiana militia that held the area secure thus far. But this offered little reassurance to Shelby.
He was still confused about his conflicting emotions when it came to Olivia. A part of him—a very foolish part—would always love her, but he knew she did not love him. Facing her now would still be painful, although he was reconciled to doing so before he left the city once the British had been defeated—if the British could be defeated.
As a hedge against her safety, he had asked Lafitte to send several of his trusted men to watch the plantation house and report any possible danger to their leader immediately. If need be, Samuel would go himself and drag her kicking and screaming back into the city.
Truthfully, he was not certain that she was in danger from the invaders. Her husband had been a Spanish officer stationed in Pensacola, which was now occupied by Spain’s English allies. She’s probably safer with the enemy than she would be with me, he thought bitterly.
After three years, her betrayal still stung. It had gone from a sharp, burning agony to a hollow dull ache now. But he was still not certain how much he’d reveal once he came face-to-face with her. She had ever been a survivor. If wild bears and hostile Osage couldn’t harm her, he doubted the British would. At least that was what he kept telling himself as he went through the grueling days and sleepless nights moving from Jackson’s Royale Street headquarters to the Hotel de la Marine where Jean Lafitte held court.
Shelby had come to admire the shrewd and witty Creole whose loyalty to his adopted country was unflinching, even after the American navy, under that imbecile Patterson, had burned Lafitte’s island hideout to the ground, including all its warehouses.
Of course, Commodore Patterson didn’t know that Jean had been warned and removed over a million dollars worth of goods from the warehouses before the naval flotilla arrived!