CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DRAGO STOOD AT the helm of the Dragon, while the current carried them south, downriver toward the Villeré plantation and war.
The low glow of campfires dotting the riverbank made it easy to spot the British troops in the distance. The night air was crisp and the tip of Drago’s nose was already numb. Thankfully, Eva stayed behind the lines and away from danger with the hospital wagon, along with the twins, who insisted on aiding her.
He’d sought her out to tell her of his plans to assist Jackson, earning him both smiles and tears. Her concern for his safety warmed his heart, but there was still a ring of sadness in her eyes told him she still didn’t really trust him, which struck his stomach like a sharp dagger.
If he thought he could convince her to join him, he would. He couldn’t protect her if she stayed in the city and he did not. And he was uncertain if she’d be safer with him or the convent. Being uncertain never sat well in his gut.
What if the British broke through and bombarded New Orleans with rockets before he could get back to her?
He wasn’t prepared for the stab of fear that froze his lungs at the possibility of Eva in danger, nor the metallic ache in his chest when he left her.
Again, he briefly engaged in the thought of simply kidnapping her, but cast it aside. Thoughts and actions like that would never earn her trust. Her disappoint and anger would shred him.
The Dragon drifted like a ghost in the mist, her sheets furled and yards bare except for a few of the crew who climbed up to keep watch for ever-present cypress trees, uprooted by the rain and swept along with the rest of the debris toward the mouth of the Mississippi.
In front of them, shrouded in the swirling mist hovering over the river, the USS Carolina slid with the current. Several regiments of American soldiers crept through the trees lining the water, waiting for the gunboat to unload on the unsuspecting British camps. That would be their signal to advance and fire at will.
Flanked by the swamp and the Mississippi, the only maneuver the redcoats had now was to march straight ahead to the city. Unless they could drastically reduce the troops tonight, or at least ruffle them enough to cause a delay, the redcoats would hit the American line of defense hard, and by sheer force of numbers, break through it. Gabriel Villeré’s lie, which nearly tripled the size of Jackson’s army, bought them time while they awaited reinforcements.
Lafitte’s men and the Choctaw scouts returned earlier with information on enemy movements. “Zee Brits could only use barges and small crafts to move the soldiers from Lake Borgne to land,” Jean Lafitte had said. “Their march was a quagmire, there were not enough boats. Zee men are cold and tired and morale is drooping faster than a debutant in July.”
With that knowledge, Jackson had given a rousing speech, filling the Americans’ hearts with fire, hope, and breathless courage.
The Dragon slipped quietly downriver in the Carolina’s wake, the water drowning out the creaks and groans of the hemp ropes and timbers.
“The Redcoats will know no rest tonight,” Manuel murmured, shifting his rifle. He had a predatory glint in his eye and a stubborn set to his jaw. Drago didn’t have the heart to tell him he wouldn’t be fighting with the Americans on the riverbank. There’d be no stopping him if they did. The big man would charge into battle raging like a fevered bear. He’d get himself killed. Manuel would have ample opportunities to fire off a shot or two from the ship. Hopefully, that would satisfy him.
Everything else involved stealth over might, something Manuel greatly lacked.
“Stay close to my starboard side, Manuel. We fight together, you and I. Eh?”
He nodded and clapped Drago on the back, nearly knocking him off-balance. “We’re brothers of the sword, right cousin?”
“That, we are, Manuel.”
His voice dropped. “I miss Harvey.”
Somewhere in the trees and swamp were fifteen hundred American soldiers, militiamen, sailors, and pirates. Among them marched the twins’ uncle, Bernard Sauvage, their brother, Tristan, and a militia of New Orleans businessmen. Harvey, the old tar had abandoned the Dragon in favor of solid ground for once.
“Someone’s got ter have this boneheaded flounder’s larboard flank. He’s as good with a rifle as a blind puppy and can’t swing a blade any better than a crawfish,” Harvey said, jerking a thumb at Bernard.
“Don’t slow us down you old, creaky, sea dog,” came the grunted reply.
Drago exhaled. “Harvey made his choice.”
Manuel rocked on his feet. Something he did when he was unsettled, worried. “We should be beside Harvey. We fight together. Always. We should be fighting with Harvey. For freedom. For Jacqueline and Julian.” He stared out over the misty river, flowing murky and silent. “Who will protect Harvey?”
“Bernard has Harvey’s larboard side, he’ll defend him.”
“But who has Bernard’s?”
Drago sighed. If he said Tristan would, then Manuel would ask who would have Tristan’s. Sometimes silence was the best response for the big man.
Harvey and Bernard slipped through the thick night with the Lafitte brothers and a group of about a hundred Baratarian pirates toward Villeré. On one side crept the Mississippi Dragoons, circling ahead near the river, and on the other, General Jackson moving directly opposite along the cypress bog. The American forces formed a crescent, intending to strike first with a frontal assault, accompanied by a surprise from the flanks.
It had better work.
The USS Carolina had orders to fire on the encampments closest to the river, then continue on to Fort St. Philip to deliver a portion of Jackson’s troops and some of Lafitte’s men to defend the mouth of the Mississippi. The Dragon would rake them as well but then follow her downriver. With any luck, the confusion would allow the sleek schooner to glide through the night past Villeré. All that remained was the task of locating a quiet bend to ground and secure his vessel, conceivably getting her out of harm’s way during the battle.
If only the same could be said for Eva and the twins.
Navigating in the dark was a different problem. It’d been many years since he pirated with Lafitte. Hopefully, his memory of the great river’s flowing currents and turns was sound enough to keep them from getting scuppered by a shallow section.
The Sauvages wouldn’t be moved from their mission to help Jackson protect the city. Hell’s hounds, how he wanted to deliver them from this abysmal place. Away from the greasy mud and the damp cold. Away from the damned British.
And death.
Americans go about their daily tasks, “making do,” as they called it. None led a leisurely life, not even the women and children. They all worked to live, and they did it content with the knowledge they were free to do so.
Their governor wasn’t appointed, he was elected by the Louisiana constituents, and they were proud of it.
Stubborn and proud.
And doomed.
And—his sugar cane had likely been used for fascines aiding the enemy march. Even worse, it made him, although indirectly, a British resource. If it wasn’t for the Sauvage family, and Eva, especially Eva, he wouldn’t give a damn about it.
He glanced at the longboats and canoes secured on the main deck. The more he thought about that smug bastard, Winesap bragging about the imminent attack and their use of his cane as fascines, the hotter his blood ran. At least this was one small thing he could do for the American cause.
He’d be damned if the redcoats used his sugarcane to assist their efforts to destroy the freedom and snuff out the pride of these stubborn, stupidly courageous Americans.
Eva stood at the rear of the small barge, which was truly not much more than a glorified raft with short sides added to keep the water from breaking across the deck. It was Hugo’s. He didn’t know she took it, of course. He might not even suspect. There was some satisfaction in that.
Borrowed. She’d borrowed it.
He still kept the boat nestled in a tangled patch of willows and swamp grass just below the city. It would have been better for Hugo if he rotated his hiding places, lucky for them he hadn’t.
“Sound carries far and fast over de water,” Raul said, his big hand on the tiller. “Stay quiet.”
The huge Cimarron was a reassuring presence, and Eva was grateful Drago assigned the quartermaster to her and the twins for protection. He traded his loincloth for buckskin trousers and a long wool coat. Finding boots his size had been impossible, so he settled on Indian moccasins, and seemed satisfied.
After the medical wagon became mired in the slick mud a fourth time, the decision was made to go by water instead. The plan was to drift as far as Chalmette plantation, then set up a mobile hospital camp just upriver from the planned assault.
If they had to evacuate, they’d use the rafts and barges to cross the river and trek up to the ferry.
They brought an ample supply of bandages, ointments, and other supplies needed to treat the wounded.
Much to Eva’s surprise, Sister Beatrice insisted on accompanying them. Her exploit at the jailhouse apparently inflated her bravado, along with her sense of adventure. She and the children clutched long poles and knelt at the side of the barge, poking away the branches and logs floating with the current.
They fell behind when their raft snagged on a submerged trunk. It took several minutes to work it free.
“Keep a keen eye open for the Chalmette landing,” Eva whispered. If they missed the landing area, it would be difficult to find a safe place to tie up behind the battle line.
A large boom echoed over the water, startling them. Ahead, bright flashes lit up the evening sky as the USS Carolina opened fire on the British encampment. Gunshots followed but were drowned out by more artillery charges from the river. Campfires flickered out as the panicked redcoats doused them, explosions from rifle muzzles and the mouths of canons illuminated the night; the reflection doubling the brilliance.
“Sound does carry far and fast over water,” Julian said, wide-eyed. “It’s so loud, it’s as if we are right next to them.”
“Don’t worry, child,” Sister Beatrice said soothingly. “Chalmette landing is way north of the Villeré plantation where the British are encamped.”
The bombardment continued and was now joined by shouts of alarm, war cries and screams of pain. The fires along the bank loomed nearer, the rifle shots grew louder. Nervous fingers of fear gripped Eva’s chest just as something smacked the water in front of them, and sent a splash across the raft.
This was trouble. Big trouble.
Her realization hit like a kick to the stomach, and caterpillars of panic skittered down her spine.
“Get down!” Eva whispered as loudly as she dared. “Everyone, stow your poles, lie flat.”
Jacqueline paused, lifting her pole. “But how will we find the landing?”
She pulled the girl down next to her and gripped the rough wooden side. “I’m afraid we’ve passed it.” Her heart pounded hard enough to jar the barge. “Stay quiet and don’t move. Hopefully, we can just float past without being noticed.”
“Oh, dear, Lord, preserve us.” The rattle of Sister Beatrice’s rosary beads followed her exclamation, along with a breathy whispered prayer. “Hail Mary, full of grace...”
The twins’ tiny voices joined in and were soon muffled by the chaotic conflict ashore. Thundering explosions surrounded them. Sharp tongues of fire from muzzles and guns slashed the darkness, creating flashes of twilight shrouded in fog.
Illuminated by a large explosion, two hulking shapes in front of them became clearer--the USS Carolina and a schooner. Eva’s heart beat a frantic staccato in her chest. It was the Dragon, and she was taking heavy fire. Her guns spouted lethal grapeshot with a fiery roar, the temporary illumination making her an easy target for British bombardment. Her yards empty of sails, like the Carolina, she allowed the sluggish river to carry her along.
Eva gripped the raft tighter and pulled Jacqueline closer. Her past as one of Hugo’s runners taught her many things. One was that rarely did the first runner get caught, but nearly always the second did. The Carolina inflicted substantial damage and turmoil on the camp then drifted away before the enemy had time to respond. Unfortunately, Drago and his ship had no choice but to drift into their sights, taking the greatest barrage.
Eva had been both frightened and elated when he came to her with the news he and his crew decided to aid Jackson. He stayed for her and his friends, and her heart swelled with pride and love. Not the unredeemable blackguard he professed to be, was he? Nor was he safely out of danger.
A loud whistle ripped through the air, accompanied by an explosion in front of the Dragon’s helm. Shouts, screams, and the snap of cracking timber avalanched Eva’s heart into her stomach.
Drago!
Thick, acrid smoke stung her eyes, blinding her. Jacqueline trembled at her side, either with stark fear or racking sobs, it was hard to tell.
A gunshot, a scream.
Stray bullets impacted the water around them. Raul grunted then sucked in a sharp breath. Eva sliced her gaze back in time to see him sink to his knees. Before she could crawl to him, he tipped and fell into the water.
No!
“Raul!” Julian hissed a hoarse whisper, grabbed a pole and scurried to the edge of the raft, ready to pull the big man back. They frantically scanned the fog-blanketed river for movement. But he was gone.
They were floating blind now, either from the gunfire’s thick choking haze or the fog. Perhaps both. The harsh stench assaulted her nostrils, along with the metallic scent of blood.
Screams and shouts pierced the darkness. Eva sank back next to Jacqueline and held her tightly.
“Fall back! Fall back to Chalmette! General Jackson’s orders!”
“Help me! I’m shot! I’m shot!”
“Fall back!”
Eva wanted to scream in frustration. She was helpless, trapped on this stupid raft. She couldn’t even try to save them. And they were dying less than twenty feet away.
Muffled cries in French, Spanish, and English drifted behind them while the ever-continuous current carried them on.
It was the fog that saved them.
It swirled, masking them in a misty cloud. They floated so near the bank they could hear the splash of soldiers running through the marsh grass, and the wet slimy suction as it gripped their boots, belching as they broke free. Had she been on her own, she might have tried to ground the raft and slip from the river to help. With Beatrice and the twins aboard, she couldn’t risk their lives. Priorities had shifted from aiding the injured to keeping the children safe.
Without the bright flashes of battle, she could no longer make out the boats in front of them. When the sounds finally diminished enough to chance a look around, Eva peered through the mist.
“Where are we?” Jacqueline asked.
The cold damp air crept down Eva’s cloak as she stood. “I’m not sure, exactly.”
“We have to search for Raul!” Jacqueline choked, her voice thick with tears.
Eva tried to swallow the knot of dread gripping her throat. The river rarely gave up its victims.