CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE PLAN SEEMED like a decent idea at the time.
First, using a skeleton crew, follow the Carolina downriver and bombard the British camp. Second, tie up the Dragon on the west side of the Mississippi, take canoes across then up the Le Courbé canal to Bayou Bienvenu, and through the swamp far to the east of the battleground, find the cane fascines, destroy them, then continue on to New Orleans.
Except for the duration of the attack, the blast to the ship’s stern and the unanticipated speed of the current, the strategy might have succeeded.
So, the overall engagement was catastrophic for the Dragon.
One shot hit the rudder, another pierced the bulwark above it. A third exploded against the mizzen mast, snapping it in half. The river took complete control of the ship. In the darkness, they missed the canal and rammed the riverbank only God knows where downstream, grounding her.
The good news was that they were too far away from the British headquarters to be easily captured. The bad news was that the Dragon was taking on water, they had a muddy trek carrying canoes from the waterway to the swamp, and then a long row through the marsh back to the damn fascines.
The oil lanterns coupled with a small bumpkin of gunpowder should be enough to set the cane afire if they ever made it there.
The sun was rising, or at least it appeared to be. It was impossible to see the yellow orb through the fog. The explosions and gunfire had long ceased.
Although he outlined the risks, in fact, his exact words were “We’ll probably fail,” Manuel and four other members of his crew had volunteered to help execute his plan. Except for Raul, the rest had followed the Baratarian pirates and either joined Jackson’s army or traveled with Lafitte’s men down to Fort St. Philip on the USS Carolina to defend the mouth of the river.
Manuel pulled his oar through the thick water. “Drago, do you think the twins and Sister Eva are safe?” His dubious tone gave away his distress.
Drago’s thoughts swirled in the same pool of concern. “Raul is with them. They are behind the battle lines, and won’t be within the range of danger.” The worry still burned a hole in his gut.
Jackson ordered holes and ditches dug throughout the Chalmette fields. What if their wagon became mired in the mud and the front line shifted, placing them in jeopardy? He wanted to know how well Jackson’s troops fared in the nighttime assault. The British could be marching on the city now for all he knew.
He could only pray.
He acknowledged the irony with a sarcastic snort, doubting his prayers made it halfway to God’s ears. Although, it would undoubtedly make Eva happy that he made the effort.
A tiny consolation.
So many potential calamities ran through his head he could barely think.
Which was probably why the British were able to sneak up on him.
The crack of a gunshot echoed over the water. He shifted his gaze up to the trees where a dozen redcoat marksmen crouched. Ahead of him at least twenty boats emerged from the mist. If he had to guess, he’d say that they just paddled into a regiment heading for the British stronghold at Villeré plantation.
“We fight!” Manuel shouted, picking up his rifle.
“No!” Drago grabbed his arm. “There are too many. Look around.”
He shook off Drago’s hand. “We have to fight for freedom,” he argued. “For Jacqueline and Julian. For their home, Drago. We promised.”
Manuel and his promises. The man was slow in the head but had an innate sense of right and wrong. What he lacked in smarts, he more than made up for in heart, compassion, and loyalty. There wasn’t a better man of honor on God’s earth.
Therefore, he was constantly poking Drago’s conscience, in a most annoying fashion.
Cursing, Drago pushed the barrel of Manuel’s gun down. “Yes, Manuel, we promised. But let’s wait until the odds are more in our favor.” Their best chance of staying alive was to surrender now.
He’d figure out a way to escape later.
The huge man lowered his weapon, his shoulders drooping. Drago gave his men hurried instructions on what information to divulge and what should be twisted, in case they were interrogated.
They rested their paddles on their knees as several longboats approached. The redcoats in them were the lucky ones. Others stood shin-deep in the water, lips blue with cold. And, Drago noted, carrying bundles of sugarcane fascines strapped to their packs.
His sugarcane, no doubt.
The commander sent men to take Drago’s canoes and it wasn’t long before they were wading through the quagmire with the soldiers, hands tied in front of them.
By the time they emerged at Villeré, the sun had burned away the mist. His stomach plummeted and for a brief moment, he thought he’d be sick. Manuel’s high pitched hum of despair pretty much summed up his own feelings.
Ramoń one of his crewmen, crossed himself. “Madre de Dios,” his terrified whisper likely echoed all their thoughts. “We are doomed.”
Spread across acres of fields hundreds of men worked, erecting straight, rows of tents, cavalry regiments in blue coats, foot soldiers in red coats, some in kilts, some in trousers. Dozens of campfires sent thin fingers of smoke into the air, various slaughtered farm animals roasting on spits.
The raid disrupted only a narrow strip of the camp closest to the river. Splintered trunks, some still smoking, and ruptured earth marked the battle zone. Several freshly dug graves spotted an area further from the trees.
And this wouldn’t be all of them. Surely more waited aboard warships, planning an attack on Fort St. Philip at the mouth of the Mississippi, others in gunboats on Lake Borgne making their way through the passage to Lake Pontchartrain to strike Fort Charles, then the city herself.
Drago had only ever skirted the edges of combat, creeping in and out, doing reconnaissance, delivering orders, stealing, disrupting, sabotaging. Privateering.
This was indeed an army of thousands.
Sneaking in to destroy the fascines had been a fool’s errand. Dread coated his stomach like thick, oozing tar when he thought of Eva and the children. He was helpless now to protect them. At some point in the near future, they’d be in the midst of a deadly battle. He’d rather bloody well die defending them than with his hands bound as a prisoner of war.
Drago and the others, shivering and coated with muck, were thrown into a small outbuilding. They huddled together for warmth, he distracted them by calmly giving instructions to quietly observe and mentally catalog as much as they could, to help plan their escape.
They would escape.
It was some time before the door opened and a soldier sneered, “Whose duty is it to lead these dirty shirts?”
Drago stumbled to his feet, and his cousin rose with him. “Sit down, Manuel,” he hissed, trying to knock the hulk of a man off balance. It was no use.
Manuel’s mouth flattened into a stubborn line, his eyes flared. “I go where you go, Drago. Always, I go where you go. We are brothers of the sword.”
Shaking his head and glaring at his cousin, he stumbled out of the building, water still sloshing around in his boots. He couldn’t feel his toes. Bloody British bastards.
Manuel’s shoulder, a granite wall of muscle, brushed his. That small familiar sign of support gave him strength despite his concern that his cousin would lose both control and his temper at any moment.
A wiry officer with a pinched face and small eyes coolly assessed them, before addressing Drago. “What is your name and rank?”
Rank? The idiot thought he was an American soldier. “Drago Gamponetti. And you are?”
The man sniffed and wrinkled his nose in disgust. One of the redcoats raised the butt of his rifle and drove it into Drago’s abdomen, causing him to double over in agony. “You are in the presence of Lieutenant Colonel Brighton, and you’ll do well to remember your manners,” the soldier snapped.
Manuel lowered his brows and scowled, then moved to shield him. The man’s eyes widened and he stumbled back and pointed his weapon at him. “Step aside.”
Manuel didn’t budge. If Drago didn’t do something quickly, his cousin would get himself shot. “Stand down, sailor.”
Manuel stepped behind him. “Aye, captain.”
Brighton lifted a brow. “Captain? So you are an American officer? This is your regiment?” He snorted in laughter, followed by his men.
“No,” Drago said, voice steady now that he had his breath back. “I’m a simple merchant captain.”
The lieutenant colonel narrowed his eyes. “Where is your ship?”
There was no reason to lie, but he sure as hell didn’t want the British taking the Dragon then using her against the Americans. “Downriver,” he finally said. “We ran aground yesterday and she was damaged too badly to continue.” Hopefully, if they thought she was breached they wouldn’t bother looking for her.
Brighton curled his lip, eyes hard and intelligent. “Yet you were captured heading in the direction of the encampment.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. I shall provide you an opportunity to place yourself in a position of better grace. Let’s start with the number of regiments, men in each regiment, and their locations. Where are Jackson’s batteries located? How are they manned? Is the ground stable for the cavalry?”
Drago sighed and inclined his head. “While I thank you for the opportunity, I shall reiterate that I am a ship’s captain, not part of the regulars, although I do recall overhearing a comment in a tavern that General Jackson amassed nearly twenty-thousand men and is expecting another ten from Illinois, Kentucky, and Ohio by the Sabbath.” Not a word of that was true, but he’d be damned if he told them that American troops scarcely reached four thousand.
The redcoat shifted his weapon and cast a nervous glance at his commander. “What about the batteries?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The officer’s voice was brittle, laced with an undercurrent of impatient fury. “Where are the regiments stationed?”
“I. Don’t. Know.” He knew it was coming, but it still hurt like hell. The butt of the soldier’s rifle once again struck, this time in his ribs, leaving him wheezing. A stabbing burn greeted every inhale.
Brighton bent over him and growled. “What about the terrain? We need to know how to dispatch the cavalry.”
This time, he tensed before the strike. “I’m a merchant captain--“
Another hit to his stomach.
The redcoat snarled. “Answer the question, you filthy maggot!” This time the butt slashed across his temple. A blinding white bolt exploded behind his eyes and he staggered before his knees crashed to the cold, slick ground, jarring his bruised ribs enough to expel a pained grunt.
A growl reverberated from Manuel and he charged the redcoat who’d struck Drago.
“Manuel! No!” He could hardly draw enough breath to speak. Shards of pain sliced through his ribcage. He struggled to rise, but a wave of dizziness shoved him off-balance. He fought to stay conscious enough to push up on one knee. Warm trails of blood streamed down his face.
Manuel roared, his eyes flashed lightning; thunder rumbled in his chest. “We fight! We fight for freedom!” He flung his bound hands into the side of the soldier’s head, snapping his neck. Two other’s surged forward and grasped his arms.
Manuel’s eyes went wide, white and crazed. “No! No touching! No touching!” He shook off their grip as if they were drops of rain.
Drago’s heart slammed into his pained ribs, and he tried again to find his footing. “Manuel, stop! “His voice was hoarse, and the ground uneven.
Brighton shrank back several paces as well as the two soldiers flanking him. Two other unsuspecting redcoats ran past with sabers drawn. Manuel plowed both down before they could strike. Another raised his gun and squeezed the trigger. Manuel jerked back and blood seeped through his shirt, but he continued to charge toward Brighton. Brighton’s guards finally gained the courage to engage. Manuel took another bullet to the chest.
Drago’s vision blurred, whether from the blow to the head or the blood flowing into his eyes he couldn’t tell. He tried again to get through to Manuel, tell him to stop.
More soldiers swarmed toward them, rifles drawn. Two more shots, brought Manuel to his knees, gasping for breath. His gaze, flooded with passion and agony, locked with Drago’s. His hair was plastered to his face and neck, stubborn stone jaw quivering with animal rage.
“Fight for freedom...for Jacqueline and Julian...for Sister Eva...for our friends, Drago. We promised!”
Brighton raised his pistol and shot Manuel in the head.
“No!” Drago screamed. The world tipped and spun. Manuel. He collapsed to the ground, tears mixing with the rivulets of warm blood streaming down his face. By the sheer force of will, Drago lurched to his feet, vengeance burning in his heart. Hot pain from the next bash to his skull registered just before he blacked out.