by Shirl Henke
Entering the dark interior of the cafe where the Baratarians congregated, Samuel let his eyes become accustomed to the light, searching the crowded room for Lafitte’s red hair, an unlikely strawberry shade achieved by dunking his head in potash and gunpowder. Then Shelby saw the tall, imperious-looking man dressed meticulously in fawn-colored breeches and an elegant cutaway coat. Lafitte motioned him toward a private room in the rear.
“You look resplendent as always, Jean,” he said, shaking the privateer’s strong slender hand.
Merry black eyes danced beneath pale reddish blond eyebrows as Jean replied, “What is a gentleman to do—go about in rags just because there is war?” After pouring Samuel a glass of wine from his own private stock, Lafitte got down to business. “My men here just learned that Pakenham’s massing his troops for an attack only six hundred yards from where Jackson has dug in at Roderick’s Canal. He’s bringing up twenty big guns, eighteen and twenty-four pounders.”
Samuel rubbed his jaw consideringly. “We have only twelve, most smaller, although there is one thirty-two pounder.”
“Ah, but my friend, you have us to fire them,” a short swarthy man with a hawk-like nose and flashing white grin replied. Dominique You was as scarred and ugly as his younger brother, Jean Lafitte, was tall and handsome, but they both possessed the same Gallic humor and the same cool courage under fire.
Samuel got down to business at once, explaining Jackson’s desire to confer with Lafitte over the matter of provisioning his militiamen with rifles and ammunition.
“So at last the old martinet admits he needs us.” Lafitte’s voice held a note of sly satisfaction. “I don’t doubt all that British artillery had something to do with it.” He issued crisp orders to his brother regarding the disposition of ordnance, then turned back to Shelby. “Let us go talk with the great man,” he said dryly.
Lafitte was punctiliously polite, Jackson grim and stiff, sensing the well-concealed delight the privateer took in at last being petitioned for assistance.
“My brother and his men have taken their places on the breastworks, General Jackson, bringing enough ammunition to blast the entire British army back into the Gulf.”
“Ye think they’ll have a New Year’s Day surprise for us then?” Jackson asked suspiciously.
“After inspecting their placements, would you not agree?” Lafitte asked.
Jackson nodded curtly. “By the Eternal, I would attack!”
“Their guns are heavier but ours are better manned. The line will hold,” Shelby said.
“It had better!” Jackson replied sourly, running bony fingers through his spiky hair.
* * * *
On January 1, 1815, the first daylight battle was fought. As the Baratarians predicted, it rapidly became an artillery duel in which the Royal Army’s heavier guns were consistently outclassed by the lighter cannons of the Americans under the highly skilled direction of Dominique You. As Samuel had predicted, the American line held. The British retired from the field, their big guns silenced. They did not even attempt to mount a charge. Silently the crusty old general realized that there was some benefit to the decades of target practice the Baratarians had against the Royal Navy on the high seas, but he would never admit it aloud.
In the days that followed, Generals Pakenham and Cochrane continued to mass their forces along the narrow neck of solid ground with the swamp to the north and the river to the south. Behind heavy earthen breastworks, which had held firmly against the pounding of British artillery, the multinational crew of Americans dug in, waiting for the final assault.
* * * *
Olivia heard the pounding roar of cannon erupt again. The thunderous racket had continued intermittently during the first week of the new year. No one on the plantation had been able to sleep well since news of the British landing had reached them. Many of the servants fled in terror, as well as the overseer, leaving her and David alone with only the elderly cook and two parlor maids in the house. Major Villeré’s militia had been captured in a swift night strike at the neighboring plantation house. Belle Versailles was defenseless if the British chose to occupy it. So far they had not.
David made a fretful sound’ in his sleep. Clad in a heavy velvet wrapper to ward off the night’s chill, Olivia walked to his bed to comfort the sleepy toddler. Then she heard the sound of rapid hoofbeats coming up the drive and her heart froze in her chest. She walked quickly to the window and peered out from behind the Battenburg lace curtain. It was Edmond Darcy, accompanied by half a dozen other men whom she did not recognize. Perhaps he had come at last to take her and David to safety since his predictions about where the British would land had been so sadly amiss.
Seizing a branch of candles, she quickly entered the front hallway and pulled open the heavy door. “Edmond, I am so relieved to see you.” Any further words of welcome died on her lips as she watched his companions draw their weapons and begin to inspect the darkened grounds with what appeared to be military precision. “Who are those men?” Suddenly Edmond did not look like the smiling young man she had first met in William Claiborne’s office. A frission of fear snaked down her spine.
His smile was mildly amused. He looked her up and down as if studying a half-bright child who had just committed some gaffe that he would tolerantly pass off. “Why, they are British soldiers, my pet. Out of uniform, of course, but still models of British efficiency.”
She stepped back, stunned at the transformation in him.
Gone was the mild-mannered, genially charming clerk, replaced by a ruthless jackal stalking its prey. His lips continued smiling but those pale gold eyes were dead. He took the candlestick from her nerveless hand and placed it on a hall table, suddenly seeming taller, stronger, infinitely menacing as he walked toward her.
Backing away from him she asked, “Why would you bring the enemy to Belle Versailles? You promised me we’d be safe here.”
“Tut, you are safe...from the British. You see, we’re on the same side—the winning side. Once they occupy New Orleans, they’ll need civilian assistance in organizing a colonial government. And who better suited to act as liaison to General Pakenham than the American governor’s personal secretary, a man who has already demonstrated his worth by providing them with all manner of vital information?”
“You’re a traitor! You’ll hang for treason after General Jackson’s forces drive the British back into the sea.” Olivia spoke with a confidence she was far from feeling.
Ignoring her outburst, Darcy swept past her into David’s bedroom. The child was crying softly, his thumb firmly placed in his mouth, his eyes enormous. Darcy studied the large blue eyes with their thick dark lashes, the thick cap of wavy black hair, the cleanly molded lines of a face beginning to outgrow the chubbiness of infancy.
“Shelby’s bastard.” Hearing Olivia’s horrified gasp as she rushed over to shield David, he laughed. “Don’t bother to deny it. I know he’s Shelby’s get. Did your late husband, I wonder?” He paused as she watched him incredulously. “Or, did Rafael Obregón ever even exist?”
Like a panther poised to strike, he instantly sensed her tensing. Already he knew the truth. She could see it in those cold eyes, glittering now with triumph. But for what? He had once courted her, albeit rather briefly and at a distance. It seemed unlikely that rape was his goal. It has something to do with Samuel and David, she thought with rising panic. Forcing herself to remain calm as David cried, she rocked him protectively until he quieted, then asked, “What do you want, Darcy?”
He studied his nails absently after removing expensively tailored kid gloves. “Why, that’s exceedingly simple, my dear. I want you to write a letter for me. You will address it to your old flame.”
“You’re going to kill Samuel.” She knew it as certainly as tomorrow’s sunrise.
“Ah, but I shan’t kill him. The British will. You see, there’s quite a price on his head in Spanish Florida, not to mention up on the Canadian border. He’s gone by any number of names, Sir R
oger Gordon, Don Emilio Velasquez...a soldier out of uniform, a spy.”
Dear God, he is right! Samuel has spent his career out of uniform. Under the laws of any nation—
“The British will insist on placing him before a military tribunal,” he said, intuiting her very thoughts. “They’re sticklers for following the letter of the law that way. But then they’ll hang him. Very legal and quite proper.”
“Samuel is supremely indifferent to me. He wouldn’t come even if I begged him.” And I already have.
“But I beg to differ, my pet. He’ll come.”
“I will not do it.” She bit off each word, knowing she had to find a way to reach a weapon, but with David in her arms, it was impossible.
He slid a small pistol from inside his waistcoat as smoothly as if he were removing a snuff box. “Ah, yes, you will, my pet. That is...unless you want to see harm befall the boy.”
“You’re mad!” She shielded David with her body, replacing him in his crib bed, where he began to wail loudly now as she stood in front of him.
“Perhaps,” he replied noncommittally. “Now, take a seat at that charming little escritoire and begin composing. Of course, I will assist…”
* * * *
Samuel accompanied Jackson on his inspection of the breastworks in the early hours of January 8. They paused at battery thirteen, watching the intrepid Dominique You giving his men final instructions. Thick fog swirled around them, obscuring vision in spite of flickering campfires. The barrel-chested Creole had his own low fire going behind his artillery battery with a kettle of steaming water centered on it, inside which a tin coated iron coffeepot wafted out heavenly perfume.
“That coffee smells a damn sight better than the muddy swill we’ve been drinking,” Jackson said to You, then added slyly, “Maybe ye smuggled it in?”
You shrugged his broad shoulders and grinned. “Mebbee so, mon ami.” He offered Jackson and Shelby each a cup. The other Baratarian artillerymen chuckled when Jackson accepted it and drank with gusto, raising his cup in salute to You.
“If I were ordered to storm hell, by the Eternal, with ye, sir, at my side, I would have no misgivings of the result. Carry on, Captain You.”
“Jean is commanding the gunnerymen from the Carolina, General. Between him and his brother, they have destroyed half of the British artillery,” Samuel said.
Jackson nodded tersely. “This is it, Colonel. The final face down. I confess my gratitude for yer privateer friends. They’ve not only supplied the artillery shells to blow the British to perdition, they provided rifles for good Kentucky and Tennessee sharpshooters who know how to use them.” He snorted. “Dirty Shirts. Did ye know that’s what the lobster backed devils call my militia?”
Shelby nodded. “Those ragged frontiersmen have rewritten the tactics of modern warfare in more significant ways than Napoleon ever did. Shoot for the gold braid, and shoot from cover and always hit what you aim for.”
Jackson chuckled mirthlessly. “Ye know the rules, Colonel—the new rules. By the Eternal, let’s teach them to the British!”
Midway through their inspection tour, a messenger caught up to them, breathlessly saluting as he proffered a sealed envelope for Samuel. “For Colonel Shelby, sir.” No sooner had Samuel taken the paper than the youth, dressed in ragged breeches and a homespun shirt, vanished into the fog.
Samuel tore it open, squinting to read in the flickering light from a nearby fire.
“Go closer to the fire so ye can see, man,” Jackson said impatiently. Neither man had a good feeling about the mysterious missive. Perceiving the stiffening in Shelby’s body, the general said, “Ye look to have seen a ghost, Colonel. What is it?”
“I believe the British are holding prisoners at Belle Versailles, a woman...who is very dear to me. And a boy I did not know existed.”
“Belle Versailles—that’s scarce out of cannon range.” Jackson looked at Shelby’s dark haunted eyes, almost glazed with shock. “The boy...he is yours?”
“So it would seem, sir. I’d heard Olivia had a child by her Spanish husband. I should’ve guessed, should’ve taken more precautions with her in that isolated place. I left two of Jean’s men to guard her. Obviously they failed.”
Jackson cocked a shaggy eyebrow. “How can ye be certain? The British would hardly want her to alert ye to their presence.”
“She’s encoded a hidden message in the plea for me to rescue her.” Again he scanned the page:
My Dearest Samuel,
Please forgive the untimely arrival of this letter. I realize the situation at the battlefront is grave, but I must see you at once. I am alone at Belle Versailles plantation, defenseless against the British invaders.
I would not beg for myself, but for our son, David. No matter if you care nothing for me, you must recognize your own flesh and blood. Please do not let us part as we did when I left you in St. Louis. You heeded my letter then. Do not fail to heed this one, I implore you.
Olivia
You heeded my letter then. But she had not written that letter. It was Wescott’s forgery—and they had not parted voluntarily in St. Louis. Someone, most probably British invaders were holding her hostage. As to her mention of a son...his mind simply shut down. Was it possible? Had she found herself pregnant after he left and opted to wed a conveniently gullible nobleman rather than bear an illegitimate child in seclusion while waiting for him to secure an uncertain divorce a thousand miles away?
He had to find the truth. “Permission to go to Belle Versailles, General.”
Jackson looked at him with shrewd dark eyes, squinting in the miasmic air, then cackled suddenly. “As if I could stop ye in all the pandemonium, Colonel! Go and don’t be gettin’ yer tail shot off by those damnable Lobsterbacks! “
* * * *
When he approached the plantation grounds, Samuel reined in his mount and swung from the saddle. No point in riding directly into a bullet. If the British were here using Olivia as a cat’s paw, they wanted him badly. During his little adventure in Pensacola he had rubbed the Spanish governor’s nose—not to mention the British general staff's—in the dirt, then escaped in spite of heavy guard. The last time he’d heard, the agent known as “Spanish Yankee” had a ten thousand dollar price on his head. Smiling humorlessly, he thought it was twice what Lafitte had offered for Claiborne, a prize well worth baiting a trap for.
He found the two Baratarian guards in a shallow creek bed several hundred yards from the big house. Their throats had been cut. Judging from the congealed blood, several hours had elapsed since the murders. He was on his own.
Inside the house, Olivia prepared breakfast. She had sent the old cook Angeline back to bed, saying the slave was too fearful of the British soldiers around their house. She hoped to be able to secret away a weapon while using the cutlery to slice bread and fry ham for the men. So far no opportunity had presented itself.
Down the hall in the study, a pair of her uncle Charles’s British dueling pistols lay primed inside a teak case on the desk. If only she had a way to reach them or the trusty old carbine Micajah had given her. It was hidden beneath her bed. If she could but inflict enough damage with a knife here in the kitchen, she could make a run for the weapons, but Darcy had given her no opportunity…yet. At least she had convinced him to leave David in his room. Darcy had agreed, but one of the soldiers was sent to guard him while another kept watch outside the front door.
“You never have explained why you hate Samuel,” she said, forking golden-brown slabs of ham and turning them in the sizzling iron skillet, trying to distract him.
“All in good time. Once the colonel arrives, everything will become clear.”
The sudden sounds of a scuffle outside caused him to turn and yell for the man with David to hold the boy in his room. When he turned, Olivia used the moment to slip a narrow, sharp paring knife into the pocket of her wrapper. Almost instantly his eyes returned to her. “Come here, my pet.” He took hold of her arm roughly, causing her robe t
o gape open, revealing her breasts.
The lush enticement of golden skin did not hold the slightest interest for him as he dragged her toward the front hall, yelling, “Show yourself, Shelby, or my man will shoot your bastard.”
Outside on the porch, Samuel cursed his rotten luck. Just as he reached out to seize the guard and slit his throat, the sentry had sensed his presence. Subduing him had taken only a moment but it was not silent. Now he was discovered.
Shelby could not believe his eyes when he stepped inside the door and confronted the slender blond man holding a gun to Olivia’s breast...
“Richard Bullock!”
Chapter Twenty Seven
As Samuel dropped the brace of pistols at Olivia’s captor’s command, the sharp report of rifle fire erupted down the bayou, followed by the deafening roar of cannon. Jackson’s final battle had at last been joined.
Olivia stared hungrily at Samuel, her eyes sweeping up his tall lithe body to his face, to those incredibly mobile lips and the dark blue eyes framed by wavy black hair that still needed barbering. His uniform was wrinkled and muddy and he needed a shave. To her he looked absolutely beautiful. And disbelieving as his eyes narrowed on the man holding the gun between her breasts.
Richard Bullock, Samuel called him! At once the name stirred memories. “But he can’t be—this is Edmond Darcy, Governor Claiborne’s secretary,” she said, dreading what Darcy, or Bullock, was about to reveal. She could feel the aura of madness shrouding him as he began to speak.
“You poor deluded little slut,” the man she had known as Darcy said with contempt “How pathetically simple it was to play you two fools each against the other. Such sadly unrequited love...or so you thought when I intercepted and destroyed all your impassioned billet doux to one another.”