CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BRIGHT RED ROCKETS burst through the silent morning mist on the east side of the Mississippi and exploded, drawing everyone’s terrified gaze.
Pakenham’s signal for attack.
British drums began beating in an ominous tone. From behind Line Jackson, another drum beat a different cadence, whether to send a message to American troops or to confuse the enemy, she couldn’t tell. The perch gave her a nearly unobstructed view of Chalmette plantation’s fields across the river. Tiny red dots shaping squares and columns moved toward the Rodreguiz canal, which the Americans deepened. They used the mud to build a tall, thick wall, behind which, Jackson’s army gathered. The fog lifted, but the haze of gunfire was starting to replace it. A smoke-tinted mass of thousands of redcoats marched toward the thin line of American resistance.
Eva swung her attention to the area in front of their battery and caught Lafitte checking his pocket watch. Had Drago’s detour delayed them long enough to insert a wrinkle in Pakenham’s plan of attack? No enemy soldiers emerged from the trees.
Yet.
She began to pray.
The roar of a cannon sprayed a British contingent with grapeshot. It ripped through a red-dotted square like a gust over a field of grass, felling them where they stood. A cloud of black smoke shot from another of Lafitte’s big guns further down the line and an immense boom rolled across the water; hundreds more red specks dropped, making Eva’s stomach dip in horror. The ordered lines of soldiers continued to stumble over fallen comrades. A commander charged to the front on a white horse and was shot from his mount.
The snipers implemented their plan with grisly success.
The Chalmette battlefield erupted with gunfire and was soon thickly clouded with smoke. American gunmen calmly sent a hailstorm of bullets from behind the parapets. More British fell with each wave. Her eyes widened at the lethal accuracy of the riflemen behind Jackson’s line, wreaking havoc upon the enemy troops. She prayed for Corporal Blackwood’s safety, thankful he was unfit to fight. The fall of every commander, some mounted, some on foot created confusion, and stalled the British lines as troops waited for orders that didn’t come.
Drago’s plan of cutting off the head of the snake was working.
Eva felt the crushing weight of helplessness pressed on every bone. She swallowed a sharp sob. Chalmette’s fields were now a red sea of fallen soldiers. Screaming men, both wounded and dying, were nearly drowned out by the explosions from cannons and cracks from rifles. Many of the British crawled toward the breastwork on their hands and knees. How many were young boys like Edward?
The ominous beat of drums continued, except now coming from a new direction. She glanced back to Morgan’s line and a lead weight pitted her stomach.
Brighton and his troops had finally arrived. Redcoats filtered through the trees surrounding the field.
Hundreds of them.
Eva’s heart took a sickening dive.
Drago remained still, scanning the regiments flowing into the open. The slaves ceased their digging and ran. Followed by the militia.
She could hardly blame them. With no weapons, how would they engage the enemy? Stand there and shake their fists?
Lafitte cursed and dropped from his tree and began yelling in French. “Stand your ground and fight you, cowards!”
The few armed militia paused to fire their guns, but with no one to step up while they reloaded, they became easy prey for the British. Hugo was one of the first to drop his rifle and run for the trees.
She snorted in derision. Coward.
Drago had his weapon trained on the far end of the muddy field. Brighton emerged, sword in hand, yelling for his troops to press forward to the battery. Fear swept over her like a harsh icy wind. If they captured it, they would turn the guns on Line Jackson and decimate it.
The American militia continued to retreat; they tried to make a stand, but even she saw it was a lost cause. Brighton climbed the rampart in front of the armament and shouted, “Huzzah boys! The battery is ours!”
Drago calmly released a long breath and squeezed the trigger. Brighton fell and didn’t move. Drago reached for his powder and shot and reloaded his gun. A few minutes later another commander fell. Still, the army poured into the field and up the armaments.
“General Morgan has called for a retreat! The battery’s been taken. Retreat!”
The command spurred Lafitte’s men into motion. They dropped from the trees and crept toward the river.
“Eva!” Drago gestured toward Harvey and Bernard, who had descended their perches to head for the water. “Go with them!”
Her knuckles whitened on her rifle. “Not without you!”
His expression darkened. “I want you safe! Go!” Movement below caught his attention.
She gasped and followed his gaze to the battlefield. Brighton was still down and unmoving. But Lafitte was in trouble. He hid behind a pile of bulrushes, firing off a shot when he could. Behind him, a small group of redcoats quickly cut off his escape route.
Drago cursed under his breath. He couldn’t get Jean’s attention without alerting the enemy. He glanced up at her, a thousand words in his silver eyes. He said only four.
“Stay invisible, don’t move.”
He dropped and circled around behind. Slowly, he eased the hammer back and aimed at the soldier closest to Lafitte. He would have mere seconds to unsheathe his knife to take out a second. By then, hopefully, Jean would have noticed and joined the fray.
He didn’t hesitate. The click alerted the soldiers, but Drago’s target fell before he could turn. His dagger sank into the chest of another, leaving his sword for hand-to-hand combat. He had to close the distance before they could shoot.
With an enraged bellow, he attacked. Lafitte did the same and dispensed with two more redcoats, but not before the last managed to fire a panicked shot at Drago.
Eva bit back a scream as he stumbled and fell. The burn of anguish exploded inside her with the intensity that charred her insides. Lafitte ran his saber through the soldier, then knelt by Drago, and wiped at the blood streaming from his head.
She grasped the branches with shaking fingers as she shimmied down the tree, heart ramming a hole in her chest. Ignoring the dull throb of logic, she prayed.
Please be alive!
The troops had continued past them and now occupied the battery. Drago hadn’t moved.
God, please save him! Please, please, please!
A tight lump swelled in her throat, choking her. She swung her rifle over her shoulder and had just taken a step toward them when a rough hand grasped her arm and spun her around, bringing her face to face with Hugo.
Terror ripped the breath from her lungs, not so much because he grabbed her, but that he could prevent her from helping the man she loved.
“This time, you come with me.” The rancid stench of whiskey hovered in the air between them.
“No!” She twisted his fingers from her shoulder, but he only buried them in her hair and gave it a cruel yank.
He hauled her deeper into the trees, to the water’s edge, then flung her into a skiff and pushed off the bank, allowing the current to take them downriver.
No! Drago! She had to get back to him.
Eva scrambled to her knees, ready to jump overboard if necessary. Gripping the side of the boat, she tried to get her feet under her but had no time to react to Hugo’s meaty fist before it connected with her jaw.
Eva awoke to the sound of a paddle dipping in and out of the water.
Drago.
The image of his crumpled body, blood gushing from his head, thundered through her mind, scattering painful doubts and fears everywhere. Her heart chilled into a horrible icy rock.
She didn’t even have a chance to try and save him.
The battle had either ended or she was well out of earshot. Her vision blurred but after a few blinks, she could finally focus on the trees overhead, laden with Spanish moss. They were in the bayou. Sunlight flickered through the branches and by its position, it was not yet midday.
The paddle strokes ceased and the skiff bumped against something solid. Hugo’s face loomed over hers.
“Good, you’re awake.” He pulled a bottle from under his seat and put it to his lips, drinking deeply. The sickening odor of whiskey assaulted her nose. “Come, Eva. We’ve much to discuss.”
Grief and dread sucked at her limbs, making her heavy and slow. She didn’t care what he wanted. Without Drago, her world was gray and shadowed. She choked out her words. “Why have you done this?” Could he really still be angry with her after nine years? She lost a single missive, and his anger had exploded then. Why did he still linger on it?
He finished off the bottle and tossed it back in the boat, then looped a rope around a piling, securing the craft. “You stole something I need,” he grunted, yanking her to her feet. “Get out.”
A loud splash startled her and she knew without looking it was an alligator. At least six of the glowering beasts floated near the muddy bayou bank. More were likely nearby.
A tiny single room shack hunched before them. Hugo’s hiding place. They hid there when they had to stay out of sight for a while. Hugo tied her hands together in front, so at least it wasn’t impossible to climb to the small deck encircling his shabby hut.
She whirled to face him, snarling and bitter. “I have nothing of yours, you spineless coward.” He had a rifle and still, he ran.
He kicked open the rickety door and shoved her inside. “That’s no way to talk to your benefactor.”
Her mouth fell open. “Benefactor? You can’t be that delusional.” The place hadn’t changed, a table, a small brick hearth with an iron kettle hanging next to it, and hammocks draped along the other three walls.
He lumbered over to a cupboard and removed a bottle. He shook it and nodded in satisfaction at the amount of liquid sloshing inside. “For over six years I fed you, clothed you, taught you skills to survive.” He used his teeth to remove the cork then drained it before slamming it on the table. “What did you do with it?”
He talked nonsense. “Do with what?”
Bleary, bloodshot eyes glared at her. “The map. The parchment you lifted from Renault’s coat pocket. It showed the location of one of Lafitte’s treasure troves. I saw him remove his coat and draped it over a chair. You took it as instructed then fled.” His last words echoed in the tiny hut; spittle dripped from his lips. “Where did you hide it?”
“I...I told you that night. I lost it.” She returned later to search, hoping to find her coat tossed in the alley, but it was so dark. She never recovered it.
Fear and fury turned acidic in her belly at the memory of returning empty-handed.
Hugo’s rage.
The red glow of the knife from the fire.
“No!” Hugo’s small brown eyes darkened, and against the bloodshot whites, he had a demonic glare. “You lie!” Holding the bottle by the neck, he smashed it, then waved the wicked shard at her. “You wanted the treasure for yourself. You stole it from me and ran away. Now you’ve returned to the city for it, just like I expected.”
She backed until her back pressed against the rough wooden wall, heartbeat jerking with a rapid clatter. “I ran because you split my face open with a hot knife,” she snarled.
His expression twisted into an unrecognizable mask of livid madness. “Lies,” he spat, stepping toward her.