Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  Rafe signalled to Leigh to stay where he was and indicated the sentry. Leigh nodded and crouched further back as Rafe made his way through the rushes towards the lone figure. He knew that at the three other corners of the camp there would be other guards, and three more Americans like himself were crawling towards them, hoping against hope that no shots would be fired to alert the garrison. His eyes never left the figure which continued its clockwork pacing.

  Carefully, he inched himself up the hill until he could smell the new leather of the sentry’s boots. He would have to wait until he made a turn, the better to catch him off guard. He could feel the dampness creep into his trousers and was vaguely aware that he was sweating profusely. His muscles began to ache as he waited, hoping to catch an opening. He wondered if the others had been silenced yet and knew they would wait until he gave the signal to attack. His arms felt awkward and he slipped his hand back to where the knife lay heavy against his calf.

  Off to his right, a night animal scurried into the darkness, and the sentry ceased his pacing for a moment to peer into the night. He levelled his musket, and Rafe held his breath, cursing the bad timing. If the man fired, he would awake the others in time for some of them to put up a fight. He waited, tensing on the balls of his feet, as he readied himself to spring. The guard, thinking better of it, decided not to pursue what he had obviously deduced was only some animal. Rafe heard his sigh settle in the air and watched him put the gun down at his feet for a moment while he took out his handkerchief to mop his brow.

  Now! Like a spring uncoiling, Rafe jumped out, then ran a few steps, his knife held ready in his hand. The guard had time only to see a flash of metal and a man’s merciless face before he was silenced forever.

  Rafe stood panting, wiping his blade on the ground and checking for other sentries. He picked up the primed musket and waved it high over his head. Down in the rushes, Leigh saw his silhouette in the moonlight and signalled his men up the hill. Below them, the enemy camp lay peaceful with a few fires still glowing but untended. Rafe signalled two men to tell the other blocks of troops to attack when they heard the first shot. Crouching low to the ground, the men moved carefully down the hill, closer to the tents. Rafe nearly tripped over a sleeping soldier, and they were close enough to hear the snores coming from the tents.

  “Now!” he yelled and fired a shot that felled the alerted soldier.

  Swarms of men came down from the hill and surged around the tents so that many of the enemy were killed before they were even aware of what had happened. Rafe fought through the smoke and smell of powder, directing some of the men to destroy the johnboats the British had used to land. Screams, yells and savage warcries issued from Americans mouths, and Rafe found himself yelling abuse at the enemy who had dogged them for months.

  It seemed to be all over in a matter of minutes, and Rafe was already signalling his men to retreat, not to waste ammunition. They backed up the hill, their eyes taking in the scene of complete surprise they had carried out. British soldiers rushed to and fro, hauling in their wounded, lighting smothered fires, and cursing at the Americans who had outfoxed them.

  The American troops withdrew to the defense line as Jackson had ordered, and Rafe hurried to headquarters to inform the general of the success of the mission.

  Jackson sat back in his chair and smiled reflectively. “That will give them something to think about,” he chuckled. “We’ve pricked them a little, aroused their anger. It won’t be long now, gentlemen, before we have our battle.” He looked around the table at the excitement in their faces. “The British will be bringing up reinforcements now. We’re still outnumbered, but I think I know the way to beat them.”

  “We’ve been able to secure additional men, sir,” one of his officers said. “I believe we can count nearly four thousand men in our ranks now.”

  “Good news, Morgan, but it won’t be superior numbers that win the day this time.” Jackson’s long face grew crafty. “During my years in battle, gentlemen. I’ve learned quite a bit about different techniques of fighting. You recall during the War of Independence, we beat the enemy simply because we employed Indian tactics, hitting them from behind trees and ground cover, while the British continued to march in orderly formation, clearly making themselves sitting ducks.” He slapped his thigh exuberantly. “Well, that is exactly what I propose we do again. The British haven’t learned a thing from that war, and I’ve observed they still march in formation, shoulder to shoulder, making a sort of wall of flesh. Anyone, gentlemen, who can hit the broad side of a barn should be able to make a dent in their ranks.”

  “It should work,” Claiborne said hopefully. “It makes sense.”

  “Of course it makes sense! Didn’t I just tell you I’ve seen too many battles not to know it works?” Jackson repeated. For a minute he looked at St. Claire, who was watching him with a new regard. “St. Claire, you’ve done us a great service. You’ve earned some sleep, man!”

  The mud-and-wood rampart stretched along the canal from the Mississippi River to the swamp to the west. All along it, men waited, guns ready. Some laughed and joked, others held quieter conversations, still others gazed out onto the field of Chalmette, whence the enemy would come.

  On December 28, five days after the surprise rout, the British attacked, but they were easily driven back by cannon fire. Still, Jackson warned his men to hold their rejoicing, for these skirmishes were only a test of their strength.

  On New Year’s Day, the Americans watched in dismay as the British set up cannon from their warships. A huge bombardment began, and for hours the field was a haze of cannon smoke and the roar of firing weapons.

  Rafe, walking along the defenses, looking for any weakening in the line, came upon a group of Baratarians, and he easily recognized Dominique You’s swarthy features and broad-shouldered body, manning his gun with little effort Unwillingly, Rafe stopped for a moment to observe as the men loaded, primed, and shot the cannon with smooth efficiency.

  “I’d say you knew your way about a cannon,” he said during a lull in the firing.

  You shot him a look. ‘You could say that, sir. I can outshoot those artillerists of the English any day. I’ve had enough experience, if I may say so myself.”

  Tm sure you have,” Rafe returned grimly.

  You’s brows drew down in a puzzled frown. “Hey, now, you’d not be looking for a fight would you?”

  Rafe shrugged his shoulders. “And lose the best artillery man we’ve got?”

  You burst out in a roar of laughter. “That’s right, sir, that’s right as rain.” He went back to his gun, chuckling at the man’s audacity.

  Rafe continued his inspection of the troops and gave words of encouragement to them when he could. More men were called up to patch breaks in the earthworks, and it was during one of these repair sessions that he saw Bernard, slapping mud determinedly into a crack.

  “Bernard, what in hell are you doing here?” he said curiously.

  Bernard smiled ruefully. “I hesitate to say it, Rafe, but as a swordsman I may be the best in New Orleans, but a gunman I am not. I’ve got to make myself useful, don’t I?” He winked conspiratorially. Rafe slapped him on the shoulder and continued on his rounds.

  Later in the day, when it became evident that the line had held, there was a general rejoicing among the troops, and a round of whiskey was given to each man.

  “The British are finding it harder than they thought to crack our defenses,” Claiborne said with some relief when Rafe met him back at the Cabildo later that evening.

  “Let’s hope they give up fairly soon,” he responded drily.

  Claiborne nodded. “God, it is getting colder, isn’t it? Do all the men have blankets?”

  Rafe nodded, his mind recalling the thin, bedraggled pieces of cloth that passed for protection against the cool night air. “Excuse me, governor, but have you seen my wife? I'm afraid I've not had time to visit her.”

  “She is well and asks me about you constantly. I sa
y, you could use a little time off. Why don’t you go over there tomorrow and look in on her?”

  Rafe shook his head silently. “I’ve got my duties to perform,” he said. “Is it fair that I should be able to visit her when the troops are stuck day after day in the lines?”

  Claiborne flushed a little at the reproach. “Do as you wish, then, Rafe,” he muttered, “but if I were you, I’d be more careful of my possessions. A girl like that, there just aren’t that many around, you know.”

  A girl like that? Back in his bunk, his arms crossed beneath his head, Rafe wondered just what kind of girl Gabrielle was. Had it been only a little over five years ago that he had first seen her, standing at the top of the steps when he’d brought de Chevalier home that night? He recalled the alarm in those eyes and the tempting view of her legs as she rushed downstairs and into the sitting room.

  Even then he had been drawn to her and had barely kept himself from seducing her in de Chevalier’s own house! Oh, she had hated him for a while—had even conceived the notion that he was trying to blackmail her guardian! He had to laugh at that, but then he grew restless thinking of that night in France when he had carried her up to the room and took her for the first time.

  She had been innocent, as he’d expected, and afraid, but still she had kept on struggling against him, cursing him and promising she’d kill him if he ever came near her again. It had been a brutal gesture, he admitted now, to leave the gold pieces under her pillow. He could imagine the humiliation and pain on her vulnerable face. But he had done it simply to make her keep her place in his mind—he couldn’t let this one night be any more special than others. He had consciously tried to cheapen the memory by leaving the money behind. He couldn’t admit to himself that she had struck a chord deep within him that kept her face in his memory long after he had arrived back in Virginia.

  God, when he had recognized her the night of the fire at Renée’s, he could barely believe his eyes. But before he could convince himself to make himself known to her, Lafitte had come and taken her away. He remembered with bitterness her long months with the renegade and how he had even gone to Barataria once on the pretext of buying slaves when he really wanted to see if she was happy.

  Their paths had crossed again at Renée’s and once more when he had seen her with Bernard de Marigny. Naturally, he had assumed that she was his mistress, for it was common knowledge that de Marigny never let a fish get away once caught. But he had been wrong, he realized that now, and too damn proud to tell her so.

  When he had seen her at the Golden Palace it had been all he could do not to sweep her off her feet and carry her away with him. She was even lovelier than he remembered, but he had kept lying to her, like a fool, telling her that their night together in France had meant nothing to him and that he could barely recall it.

  Their first night together at Fairview had shown him her maturity, and he had known then that he wanted her with him. But he was too proud, always too proud, to admit it to her. What strange wickedness in him had caused him to treat her so cruelly after they were married? He could kill any man who came near her, and yet he fought her constantly when they were together.

  Then Charles de Chevalier came back into her life with his poisonous thoughts, his distorted brain. God, hadn’t she suffered enough without that? And then her eyes, looking into his, soft and tender as he had never seen them before, had whispered that she loved him! Christ, it unnerved him so badly he had ridden away before she had come to full consciousness. He wouldn’t blame her if she hated him now. No woman should have to put up with what he had given her. But still, and his face showed his astonishment, still she went on loving him. Why, why didn’t he tell her ... tell her he loved her!

  He could look in her eyes and kiss her sweet mouth, and his heart would open so that he nearly choked with the emotion. Why couldn’t he say the words that would make her eyes light with happiness? After this battle was over, he promised himself he would tell her. He’d tell her he loved her—that he’d always loved her and had been a fool for too long.

  Chapter Forty-six

  At dawn on January 8, 1815, the British made their all-out attempt to flatten the impudent Americans. It was a cold, foggy dawn, but the sun soon dispelled the wreaths of mist and shone gloriously on the red coats of the enemy as they marched forward in an unbroken line across the field of Chalmette.

  General Jackson rode along the line, shouting encouragement to his troops and urging them towards victory. He had positioned his best frontier marksmen in strategic positions, and he shook his head at the stupidity of the enemy’s mass formation in battle.

  Rafe St. Claire rode close to the general, and the breeze lifted his dark hair as he bantered with the gunnery sergeants. Jean Lafitte had been sent to guard the American rear in a vessel which could sweep down on the longboats of the British should they decide to attack from the Gulf. Bernard de Marigny sat on a fallen log, his sword in hand, hoping that they would get close enough so that he could prove himself in battle.

  And in the city, Gabrielle bit her lip and waited with a mixture of fear and impatience. She had been among the ladies who stood on their balconies and threw flowers to the men who were marching off to the uncertainly of battle. From her lips had sounded the words of “Hail, Columbia” and “La Marseillaise,” and she had added her prayers for a victory to everyone else’s.

  “Oh, God, this is the worst part, for the women,” Suzette sighed, pacing up and down the room. “This interminable waiting.”

  “The men have to wait, too,” piped up another lady, and a ripple of agreement floated through the room.

  Gabrielle glanced around at the hundred or so ladies who had gathered together last night at the house of Madam Porée and spent the night, praying and talking, encouraging each other. She glanced at the clock on the shelf and saw that it was just a little past six o’clock— surely it would begin soon.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, a dull boom sounded, shaking the house as others quickly followed it. The cannonading had started! Many of the women began shrieking in hysteria, and Madame Porée rushed about the rooms administering smelling salts to those who had fainted. Close beside her, she could feel Suzette’s trembling, and Gabrielle grasped her hand in comfort.

  “We must be brave,” she said aloud. “We must be brave.”

  Suzette nodded, although her hand still shook.

  The booming of the cannons and the popping of guns seemed to go on and on until Gabrielle almost became used to the noise in the background, coming as it did at neatly spaced intervals.

  “Mrs. St. Claire, you look as though you’re holding up all right,” Madam Porée said, a little breathless from her rounds. “Do you think you might be able to serve some coffee and tea to those ladies who would like some? I should appreciate your help, my dear.

  ”Gabrielle nodded, squeezed Suzette’s hand, and followed their hostess into the kitchen.

  “What do you think, madame?” she wondered as the other woman poured hot coffee into delicate china cups.

  “What can I think?” she responded. “I think that we will win.”

  Gabrielle smiled at her. “My husband is out there in the battle, and I, too, feel sure that we will emerge victorious!” Fate would not be so cruel as to take him away from her before they had discovered their love, she thought. She had had many days in which to think of him and their life together. She loved him—of that she was sure, for no matter what he could do or say to her, she would still care for him as fiercely as she did at this moment. She would try hard to understand him, to listen to him—she must, if they were going to make their marriage work.

  As she passed out cups of coffee and tea to the ladies, her mind was far away from this stuffy room and all these frightened women. She was thinking of the way his hair grew long at the back of his neck and the way his eyes could look so mockingly amused when she got angry with him. She remembered the way his mouth could curve into a bold smile that quickened her heart a
nd made her realize that she would follow him wherever he went How long had she loved him? she wondered idly now. How long had she known that he was the only man who could make her senses swim and her whole body yearn towards him? Was it as long ago as that night in Paris? God, it did seem long ago, now. Other men had come between that first night and this moment.

  She thought of Lafitte’s dark, snapping eyes and rakish figure. He had loved her in his own way, she knew that, and, deep within her, she knew also that he had touched a corner of her own heart. She smiled to herself, recalling those days at Renée’s, when Bernard de Marigny had paid her way and got nothing in return. He had certainly been gay and charming, but he could never have offered her what Rafe had been able to give. Oh, it wasn’t that Bernard was married—he was like a bee, flying from flower to flower, getting his fill of the nectar before moving on. If she had let him take her, she was sure he would have grown bored with her, too, after a time. Now, they were good friends, and she was glad of it.

  It was good to know that Bernard and Rafe had patched up their differences, too. Rafe, so stiff and unyielding when it came to matters of pride—unbend just a little, my darling, she thought. Rafe, Rafe, why do you put us both through this torture? she wondered.

  How many men would be killed? Would the battle end today? Her thoughts were echoed in the minds of every woman present. But they must wait—wait for word before they could breathe again, before they could smile and laugh and look forward to their men coming home.

  The candles sputtered and went out, were lit again, and through the slats in the window Gabrielle could see the high shadows of midday. Still the noises of war continued. The women began to sing a psalm—it would help to strengthen their spirits.

  Suzette had recovered herself and urged the women to make themselves useful during the time of waiting. “Some of us can fold blankets and others can begin rolling bandages for the wounded.”

  With relief the women agreed. It would be something to do. They worked wordlessly and with renewed determination, and the hours began to creep by. At last, someone heard the sound of a horseman in the street, galloping madly. Did he bear good tidings, or would he tell them that the British were on their way to the city?