CHAPTER THIRTY
THE SKIRMISHES BETWEEN the two sides continued for the next few days. Musket fire, the boom of Lafitte’s big canons and British rockets testing their range and resolve interrupted the stillness of nearly every dawn. Eva kept busy in the hospital tent, tending wounded. Jacqueline stayed at her side, assisting, asking countless questions of both Eva and the patients they nursed.
“How does laudanum work? Why did that soldier still feel pain in his arm, when it was no longer attached to his shoulder? Will the surgeon insist upon removing Major Blackwood’s leg? I checked it yesterday, and there was no horrible odor. He should heal quite well, don’t you think? Why won’t the doctor allow you to use your Jamaican herbs for this man? It seems very narrow-minded. Why do the British Negroes die from this cold weather more often than the white British men? Do you suppose it is due to their blood being unaccustomed to the chill? Does it flow too slowly here? Do you think Tristan and Uncle Bernard and Harvey are unharmed? I can’t bear to think the worst, it makes me weep through my prayers.”
When the young girl paused to take a breath, Eva would slip in a few words, “The only thing we can do for your family is to pray and hope Jackson can lead his troops to victory.” Even as she spoke, her stomach dropped. Chances were nearly nothing that they would survive. Pakenham had arrived several days ago and since then, the British made infrequent sorties to various parts of the American lines, testing for weaknesses.
There had to be plenty of them.
A young soldier came in the tent, scanned the area and when his gaze found her, headed her way. She recognized the boy, Edward Smythe, perhaps a year or two older than Julian. He shuffled toward her in boots too large; his jacket sleeves nearly brushed his fingertips. So boyish and lanky. How was he to fight in a battle when his weapon and pack likely weighed as much as he did?
He came to sit with another soldier soon after she arrived at Villeré. From the resemblance, both were related. Brothers, she later discovered. The elder brother had been gut shot during the December 23rd skirmish. Over the next couple of days, the cadet sat at his brother’s bedside for hours and stopped in between his duties. Exhaustion blanketed his features, dark circles sank beneath his eyes. One morning she arrived to the sound of quiet weeping. His brother had died during the night. She hugged the young man a long time while he sobbed his horrible loss on her shoulder. A valiant boy with a kind heart, so much like Julian, yet they were forced to be enemies. Under different circumstances, things would have probably been, well, different.
She, Jacqueline, and Sister Beatrice had attended the burial, offering what little solace they could. They soon became fast friends. He returned daily to help or sit beside dying soldiers. “William had me with him when he died. These men have no one,” he said when Jacqueline finally asked how he could stand to be in the place where he watched his brother die.
Eva straightened and awaited young Edward’s message. It wouldn’t be the first time she was called away to attend an officer or his horse if that was what the cadet was about.
“Your presence is required at the main headquarters, Sister Eva. Bring any supplies needed to stitch a knife wound, if you would.”
He waited while they gathered their things, but frowned at the girl. “You must stay, Miss Jacqueline. Only Sister Eva has been requested, I’m sorry.”
She dropped her bag and straightened. “As I am the girl’s guardian, we shall go together, or not at all. She’s too young and inexperienced to remain here alone.” They’d both been the subject of more than a few indecent perusals from some of the soldiers in the camp. And the harrowing experience with the deserter Major Blackwood shot, she wasn’t about to let the girl out of her sight.
He frowned. “Can she not stay with the other nun?”
Eva flattened her mouth and shook her head. Beatrice’s knees had swollen, making it difficult for the woman to even walk. She carried a three-legged stool with her enabling her to sit while changing dressings and cleaning wounds.
The medical bag remained on the ground, Eva’s message clear.
Edward hesitated and opened his mouth, thought better of it, and simply gave both a curt nod. “Follow me, please.”
He led them toward the main plantation house. It had rained yesterday, then become bitterly cold during the night; depressions in the earth captured standing water, now covered with a thin layer of ice. Eva tucked her chilled hands into her tunic.
Jacqueline skipped ahead and spoke to the private, her breath puffing a white mist in the brisk morning air. “Will you return to your family after the war is over? Do you have any sisters?”
His step faltered, although his expression remained stoic. “My brother was all that was left of my family.” He paused to clear his throat.
Jacqueline’s face dropped. “Do you not have anyone?”
The cadet raised his chin. Then he exhaled, abandoning the bravado. “That is why I followed him here.”
Eva’s heart broke. Another orphan. To her, he was a child. No child should be alone in the world. She of all people knew that much.
“Come with us!” Jacqueline blurted the words on the tip of Eva’s tongue. “My brothers and I live with our uncle. We have a hotel and gaming house in town. I’m sure he would take you in and find a purpose for you.”
The boy slowed his steps and shot a wary glance at her. “Would they accept a redcoat in their midst? They might have a different opinion after the war ends.”
“Posh. This country welcomes all nations. Why, if you just look around the streets of New Orleans,” Jacqueline swept her hand in the direction of the city, “you’d see Frenchmen, Spaniards, Indian savages from multiple tribes, islanders, British, and even pirates.” The last she added in a hushed tone, then smiled. “We have our own pirate in the family, Captain Gampo. Although he’s not really a pirate anymore.”
He’s an American regular, now. Eva would give anything to know where he was this very moment and if he was safe.
Jacqueline gave him a close-lipped smile that looked like her mouth was full of pebbles. That child’s spunk was going to get her in trouble. Eva tossed her a warning frown.
“Before that, he was one of Jean Lafitte’s Baratarian pirates.” She hopped over another ice-crusted puddle. “He’s not blood, but we still consider him family.” She looped her arm through Edward’s elbow. “Julian and I would enjoy having someone nearer to us in age. Tristan is the next eldest, by five years.”
Hope flared in his eyes then dimmed just as quickly. “My commander would never release me until my commission is complete. I’ve been told a man could travel into the western wilderness from here. Be his own man.”
“As an American, yes,” Eva said. “But if the country falls back under the rule of the English crown...”
They fell into silence, pondering Eva’s words.
After a moment, he answered, his voice gruff. “I’ll consider it if I survive the battle. There is nothing for me back home.”
“Survive the battle...” Jacqueline repeated in a horrified tone. “Cadet Smythe--“
“Edward, if you please,” he said.
She smiled. “Edward, you must come with us to New Orleans.” She nodded toward Eva. “We’ll return as soon as it’s feasible.”
He gave her a shocked look. “But, you’re our prisoners.”
Jacqueline rolled her eyes. “We’re no threat to the British. Who’d stop three children and two nuns who decided to continue their journey?”
He shot her an irritated look and she quickly made the correction. “Three orphans and two nuns.”
Edward led them through the kitchen garden with its frost-coated plants.
A tiny mewling made Jacqueline pause.
“Did you hear that?”
They stopped. “Hear what?” he asked.
But the girl was already on her knees peering beneath a rosemary bush. “Oh, dear, it’s a soggy little gray and white kitten!” She reached in then dragged the animal out by the scruff of the neck, where it dangled scraggly and forlorn. “Poor little thing. Where’s your mama?” She lifted her apron hem and deposited the kitty in the makeshift sling.
“What do you plan to do with that?” Smythe said gently. “There’s barely enough food for the troops. How will you care for a kitten?”
Despite his words, Jacqueline smiled brightly. “Why, dry it off and nurse it to health, of course. Have you noticed how the vermin on this plantation are out of hand? Not enough good mousers. Why, just the other day while fetching a bowl of rice, I had to take a broom to a rat as big as this kitten from the cot of a wounded man.”
Eva suppressed a smile. She almost felt sorry for the rat.
Almost.
Edward’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Come along, then.” He opened the kitchen door and Eva, Jacqueline, and her little mouser-to-be went inside. At the table, sat an officer with a rag wrapped around his hand. The soldier saluted. “The General requires a cut to be stitched.”
The man glanced up and his eyes widened in surprise. “A nun? Dear sister, how have you come to be at this camp?”
Eva managed a small smile. “Apparently God needed me here, sir. I had been traveling back to the Ursuline convent in New Orleans with Sister Beatrice and two orphans when we came upon one of your wounded soldiers. We treated him and returned him to his regiment. We have not been granted permission to return.” Dear God, please forgive my duplicity.
Well, it wasn’t a complete lie.
Jacqueline had dried off her kitten and had found a scrap of bread and a tiny piece of cheese, which the little thing attacked with gusto.
The general frowned. “Thank you for answering the summons, nonetheless.”
“Allow me to see the wound.” Eva placed her bag on the table. The man removed the rag. He had a deep cut between his thumb and forefinger.
“It keeps breaking open,” he stated. “The blood seeps out and prevents me from properly handling a weapon.”
Eva nodded. “I shall stitch and coat it with a healing salve. If you keep it covered and dry, it will heal faster.” Just as she flipped up the flap to her satchel, another soldier entered the room.
“General Gibbs, General Pakenham requests your presence immediately, sir.”
The officer stood and glanced at Eva. “Come along. You can stitch it while I converse.”
Leaving Edward in the kitchen warming his hands by the stove, Jacqueline scooped up the kitten and they followed the soldier into the dining room, which had been transformed into a command center. The man she assumed to be General Pakenham, based on the manner of deference given, was seated at one end of a table littered with maps, while a young man to his left scribbled madly on a parchment
Eva scanned the rest of the room and her heart stopped. She could feel the blood wash from her face in a frigid wave.
There, in the far corner stood a tall man with dark hair. His clothes were soiled and torn, but his posture was stilted and defiant. He stared out a window. Although she could not see his face, she could identify him by stature alone.
Drago!
How had he been captured? The cut on his temple, surrounded by a multitude of colors from the accompanying bruise looked like it was a few days old. His lip was split and swollen. He carried himself as if his stomach or ribs pained him. All in all, he looked--
“Goodness, you look horrible,” Jacqueline blurted, stopping in her tracks. Her eyes widened, her lips paled.
He whirled. Her words startled not only Drago, who appeared stricken at the sight of her but also the other men in the room. His gaze then locked with Eva’s and emotions crisscrossed his face, shock, relief, despair, before he swallowed and looked at Jacqueline. He pressed his lips into a hard line, and he gave the girl a stern glare.
Well, for once it wasn’t the twin’s fault they were in a sticky situation, but he couldn’t know that.
Gibbs exchanged a look with Pakenham then pulled out a chair for her. “Please sit, sister. You may stitch my hand while we talk.” He settled next to her and presented his hand.
Her mind raced as she picked the things she needed from her bag. Drago’s stormcloud gaze bore into her back.
He was alive!
A great wave of gratitude washed over her and she thanked God for answering her prayers for his safety even as her stomach tightened with worry. He was obviously a prisoner of war.
There was a rap on the door, then it opened and a sour-faced officer with small eyes and a pointed chin strode into the room and saluted. “Lieutenant Colonel Brighton.”
Pakenham waved him toward an empty seat before turning his attention back to Jacqueline. “You are acquainted?” He studied her as the guard prodded Drago to stand at the general’s shoulder. Both his jaw and his flinty gray eyes hardened as he passed Brighton, tension rolling off him like waves of heat from a bonfire.
Jacqueline blinked at the general then at Drago. Another surreptitious look crossed between them, going unnoticed by Pakenham, as his concentration was solely focused on the girl. Jacqueline cocked her head as if to study Drago more closely.
“Not in the social sense,” she answered slowly. “He’s a merchant ship captain my uncle uses to transport wares to Mobil.”
Eva shifted her attention between the two as she worked. Drago’s expression cooled to a stony look of indifference.
They were up to something.
Brighton’s nasally voice cracked the air. “He’s not one of Lafitte’s pirates? Is he American? Or French?”
A narrowing of the left eye from Drago had Jacqueline shaking her head. “Heaven’s no. He’s Italian. His name is Captain Gamponetti.”
Pakenham gave a grunt of satisfaction then shifted his attention to the officer next to her. “Lieutenant Colonel Brighton, I’d like to discuss the best place for your regiments to make the river crossing.”
Eva sucked in a breath. Apparently, the officers didn’t consider them enough of a threat to postpone discussing their plans. A good thing. She pressed her lips together. They could at least provide Jackson solid information. If she had to send Julian on alone, she would. The boy grew up on the bayou, he could easily slip back to the city, especially if he didn’t have the rest of them slowing him down.
He jerked his chin toward Drago. “It seems you were telling the truth, Captain Gamponetti when you said you had no stake in this war.”
The air thickened and Eva’s breath caught in her chest. A soul-crushing jolt of betrayal reverberated through her entire body. Either he’d lied to her before he left, or he was lying now. If the former, her heart would shatter. If the latter, he was risking his life.
Pakenham gestured to the map in front of them. “I assume you know the idiosyncrasies of the currents.”
Drago nodded.
She bent her head and focused on her task, willing the tears burning in her eyes to go away. She’d slowly stitched the wound.
Pakenham shoved the chart toward Drago. “Where is the best spot to put in? It needs to be calm since we’ll have to ferry several regiments across. The boats have to return without being swept too far downriver.”
He tilted his head and studied the general. “Would you be willing to release me and my men from your camp in exchange for such intelligence? If my ship is able, I should like to sail home to Jamaica.”
A guard lifted the butt of his rifle then froze when Pakenham raised his hand. “I believe that is a fair arrangement.”
Drago perused the chart, then pointed to a point south of Villeré. “This is the closest place. It becomes too shallow further down.”
Eva casually glanced at the spot he had picked, and her lungs finally allowed a breath to enter. From her days as a runner, she’d had to navigate the Mississippi many times with Hugo, shuttling messages and contraband to Barataria Bay. The place the captain had selected was in no way as calm as he presented it. The depth of the water hid the steep slope of the land and the strength of the current.
Brighton caught her looking. “What say you, sister?” His narrowed scrutiny raked at her nerves and she forced herself to quell the prickly unease caterpillaring up her spine enough to shrug.
“I have only traveled the river a couple times since arriving at the convent. I’m afraid I can’t be much help.” She almost felt guilty about the way the lie slid off her tongue like a fat raindrop off a leaf.
Pakenham seemed to accept her explanation. He directed his next command to the scribe at his elbow. “Send orders to all the commanders to ready troops for a dawn attack. We shall advance under the fortuitous cover of this fog.” He shifted a cool stare to Brighton. “Lieutenant Colonel, you will cross to the west bank then march upriver and seize control of the American battery opposite Jackson’s line. At my signal, turn the cannons on the enemy troops. We’ll pinch Jackson in a deadly crossfire and this battle will be won.”
Dawn! Eva swallowed, a dark cloud of foreboding pushed down on her shoulders. Even if they managed to escape, they’d be hard-pressed to traverse the eight miles to the city in time to warn Jackson. Kept here, she and the children might be safer, but she’d have no opportunity to help her wounded countrymen.
Brighton stared at the map and frowned. “We’ll have to cross in the predawn hours.”
Pakenham ignored him and continued directing the young man scribbling orders. “Send an order to Mullins to have his regiment haul fascines and ladders to the front lines. They are to creep in before sunrise and lay down the fascines so we can cross that blasted water-filled canal. We’ll need both to scale the ramparts and parapets.”
“Yes, sir.”
She could only move so slowly tending the general’s wound. She finished the stitches and reached for the salve and bandages.
“General Gibbs, you shall follow Mullins and attack from the right flank.”
Gibbs nodded and lifted his hand to peruse the stitched wound. Eva held up the salve and raised her eyebrows in question. He stuck out his hand so she could finish tending it.
Brighton cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but would it not be prudent to await reinforcements?” His beady-eyed frown skipped from Pakenham to Drago and back. “We have been told by several New Orleans residents, slaves, and prisoners of war that General Jackson has upwards of twenty-thousand men.”
Pakenham leveled a cool gaze on Brighton. “That scruffy army of backwoods miscreants would be no match for my troops if they had thirty-thousand men.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table then laced his fingers. “They have little formal training, poor weaponry, and a severe dearth of courage. They shall wilt before the vigor of a British formation like a cut posy on a hot summer day.”
Arrogant bastard.
Pakenham sat back. “I will await my plans no longer. Tomorrow, as the dawn breaks, we will approach while this lingering fog can be used to our advantage and attack them, full on.”
Eva’s pulse careened through her veins. Even if Drago’s misinformation slowed the assault on the opposite bank, unless they constructed a way to upset the plans further or delay the army’s predawn march, they were doomed. The general flicked his hand at Drago. “Return him to the stockade.”
The muscle in Drago’s cheek rippled even through the short stubble of his beard. His voice was steely, livid. “You said you’d let us go.”
“Indeed.” Pakenham reached for a biscuit. “I am a man of my word, Captain Gamponetti. After the crossing is successfully made and the Americans defeated tomorrow, you shall be released with the rest of the prisoners of war, after proper negotiations, of course.”