Jack Iron (23 page)

The interior of the church had become unbearably stuffy. The windows were shuttered to avoid calling undue attention to the meeting within. O’Keefe was seated near the front door pining for a breeze, his features streaked with sweat. Johnny Fuller was lying on a pallet off to the right of the gruff-looking Irishman, who nodded in silent greeting as Kit approached. Directly behind the buckskin-clad man, a pair of moths fluttered in ever-tightening spirals around the glass chimney of an oil lamp. One of the insects, unable to resist the temptation, alighted on the chimney and died on contact with the heated glass and then dropped to the floor. The second moth continued to spiral around the flames, slowly, ever slowly, lured to its death by the brightness of the light and the beckoning warmth. Kit leaned over and extinguished the flame. The moth lost interest and fluttered away. In these final quiet moments before the violence of the day to come, all life seemed precious to him, even the most insignificant.

“Maybe you should stay here with the townsmen,” Kit suggested to the Irishman.

“Not hardly.”

“When was the last time you sneaked up on anything? Navarre’s guards will probably have your big carcass in their sights before we ever reach the batteries,” Kit protested.

“They’ll be watching the road,” O’Keefe said. “By my oath but I doubt there will be nary a man to watch the hillside. And you know it. So what’s your point, younker? You aiming to leave Old Iron Hand out of things?” O’Keefe was a hard man to slip one past.

“I thought you might want to look after him,” Kit replied, indicating Johnny Fuller asleep on a pallet near the door.

“I can take care of myself,” the boy spoke up, and cracked an eyelid. He had been pretending to sleep, the better to overhear all the plans being made. He sat upright. “Besides, you’ll be needing a man like Chief Iron Hand,” the boy added. “Why, he routed an entire regiment of British back at New Orleans and chased them into the Mississippi, all by his lonesome.”

“Well, you make a good point,” Kit said, amused. He glanced at O’Keefe, who took out his hunting knife and whetstone from a deerskin pouch and began to sharpen the broad blade. “A whole regiment… my, my.”

“Don’t cut the lieutenant short, Johnny,” said O’Keefe, clearing his throat. He continued to avoid Kit’s gaze. “We need to give McQueen his due.”

“I appreciate that,” said Kit.

The front door opened, and Harry Tregoning stepped between the two men and saved O’Keefe from any further embarrassment.

Tregoning was armed to the teeth with pistols and cutlass and dagger. He wore the garb of a seaman: loose-fitting shirt and rain-spattered trousers, and he covered his thinning hair with a dark blue woolen cap whose crumpled brim seemed more an afterthought than an attempt to shade his eyes. On this moonless night, glare was the least of his worries.

“Me and your heathen brothers have something maybe you ought to see,” said the man from Cornwall. Without further explanation the man vanished through the doorway without so much as a by-your-leave. But the mystery he left in his wake propelled Kit into the night with Iron Hand O’Keefe hot on his heels.

Tregoning led his companions off to the right, across the front of the church, and around the corner, then down between the outside wall and a long low-roofed storage shed where the farmers often stored their sugar cane and other food crops at harvest time. Tregoning entered the shed through a side door. Kit and O’Keefe were only seconds behind him. The interior of the shed was for the most part empty, though the aroma of rotted cassava and bananas permeated the air. Nate Russell and Strikes With Club were waiting within and they weren’t alone. The Choctaws had taken a prisoner, none other than Artemus Callaghan. The slave trader looked relieved at the sight of Kit.

“Thank God,” he exclaimed. “It’s the lieutenant.”

“I wouldn’t count on God just yet,” Kit told him. He glanced at Nate Russell, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“I caught him outside the church window,” the warrior said.

“He heard enough to get us all killed or I’m a woodsprite,” said Tregoning, and tugged the slaver’s oily tail of brown hair that dangled at the base of his neck with a length of leather string.

“Mad. All of you,” said Callaghan, searching their faces for a trace of compassion. He didn’t like what he saw and shifted his attention to Kit. “See here, you are an American soldier. Surely you have not thrown in with this lot.”

Kit leaned down in front of the slave trader and focused his hard bronze eyes on the man. “See here, Mr. Callaghan,
this lot
is acting on my authority. Your friend, Captain Navarre, kidnapped an American citizen, a woman of no small authority. Under the personal directive of President Madison, I have been assigned the task of returning this hapless lady to New Orleans. I also have orders to apprehend or kill the man responsible for her captivity along with any of his associates.”

Callaghan gasped. “But… it’s none of my concern. I came here to do business with Navarre. I swear I know nothing of this matter.” His stubby hands began to tap nervously on his plump thighs. “Navarre means nothing to me. There are other islands and other men who know my name and would welcome my trade.” He licked his dry lips and tried not to stare at Strikes With Club, who brandished a tomahawk and appeared most anxious to do the man harm.

“Where is this man’s crew?” Kit asked of his companions.

“Aboard the
Homeward
,” Callaghan nervously declared. “Look… I had no idea the government was involved. I am a law-abiding citizen, well respected in my community…”

“I don’t have the time,” Kit told Tregoning. “Keep him here until the shore guns are taken care of.”

“And then what?” asked the marine.

“Put him aboard his boat,” Kit replied. He put his face close to Callaghan’s to ensure there would be no misunderstanding. “Jean Laffite will be arriving at sunup and things are bound to get nasty. Clear the port before sunrise or I cannot answer for your safety.” He had no use for the slaver and deplored the peculiar institution that Callaghan represented. But they had enough enemies for one day. The slave ship carried no armament and posed no threat. And it was equally clear that the slave trader had no stomach for violence. Better to send the man on his way and avoid the chance of Callaghan’s crew joining Navarre’s forces.

“You have my word,” Callaghan hastily agreed. “There’s nothing to keep me here.” Sweat had begun to collect in his jowls and soak the front and sides of his shirt. He scowled and shook his head and silently cursed “that damn cannibal” who’d gotten an honest merchant like Artemus Callaghan into such a terrible bind. Kidnapping a freeborn lady, a citizen no less!

“And you have my word that if you cross me or attempt to reach Navarre, I will personally hang you in Market Square,” said Kit. He spun on his heels and stalked from the room with O’Keefe hurrying to catch up to him.

“A nice touch,” said O’Keefe, “
by orders of President Madison.
Yes, indeed, very nice. You’ve a gift for the blarney.” Exiting the storage building, O’Keefe caught his companion by the arm. “Hold up a minute, you headstrong Highlander.” The two men faced one another in the alley. “What do you think our chances are?”

“Why? You worried?”

“Me? Hell, no!” said O’Keefe. “I can’t wait to wring that cannibal’s neck.”

“Just take care you don’t wind up his Sunday dinner,” Kit said, poking the gray-haired man’s girth.

“Not hardly.” O’Keefe scowled, cinching his belt. He looked up and down the alley. The cloud cover worked in their favor. A moonless night was the best time for what lay ahead. “But if that pointy-toothed bastard has harmed a hair on my daughter’s head…” His voice faded, the words caught in his throat, tears sprang to his eyes. O’Keefe was not a man given to emotion. He was grateful for the dark.

Kit patted the big Irishman’s shoulder. “Come along, old friend. We have much to do. Even the darkest hour must have its dawn.”

“
Una haja gani?
What can I do for you?” NKenai asked as he made his way across the night-shrouded courtyard to the lean-to barracks that ran the length of the north wall. The barracks consisted of a thatch roof jutting out from the wall to shield the men assigned to guard the governor’s palace from the occasional rain showers. Word had reached Navarre’s ebony-skinned lieutenant that Malachi Quince and some of the lads wished to speak to him. He found the wizened old cutthroat helping himself to a bowl of conch chowder from a black iron pot and a doughy chunk of fry bread. “You wished to speak to me?”

Quince hastily began to devour the contents of his bowl, using a wooden spoon to shovel chunks of greasy mussel, shark, rice, and pigeon peas into his mouth. Several other men in loose-fitting shirts, baggy trousers, and seven-league boots had momentarily set aside their weapons while they hurried through their dinner, wolfing down what food Quince had prepared for them. None of the men looked happy at the prospect of pulling another night of sentry duty on the walls, especially when many of their shipmates were enjoying a night of relaxation and excess fueled with near-lethal quantities of jack iron and sorrel.

“What, says you?” said the old sea rogue. “We all be worried about the captain. He don’t seem his self. He’s keepin’ us penned up here when Laffite’s gone and there be nobody to threaten us. We say it’s time for us to set things back like before Laffite stuck his nose in here.” Quince hitched up his trousers where they hung low around his bony hips. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, which was already stiff with grease. “And we figure maybe you’d talk to Captain Navarre for us.”

NKenai shrugged and then shook his head. “He has ordered me to the west wall to keep a harbor watch. Perhaps he does not believe that Laffite has truly left.”

“A man ought to be wary of confronting the Cayman if the dark mood is upon him,” another voice said from the men behind Quince. Tom Bragg limped forward to stand abreast of his old shipmate.

“What are you doing here, tavernkeeper?” NKenai asked.

“Why, visiting my brothers of the sea,” said Bragg. He hefted a dark brown bottle and tossed it to the African, who caught the bottle in one hand. “I brought up a wagonload of supplies for the governor’s house.” He indicated a flatbed wagon he had left in front of the two-story stucco house that formed the east wall of the compound. The two sentries usually posted by the front doors were preoccupied with unloading barrels of whale oil and crates of food and drink, enough to stock Navarre’s larder twice over. “Let them lads work while I fire me some jack with my former brethren.” He clapped an arm around Quince and planted a kiss on the side of the ugly little man’s cheek. The rest of the pirates broke into laughter as Quince howled and wiped his face and back-stepped from Bragg.

“Curse your bones, you bastard. Try that again and I’ll shoot off your other leg!” Quince roared. The angrier he became, the louder the laughter grew. Even NKenai grinned as he abandoned the conversation and started up the steps that led to the battlements. The wooden walkway was slick from the rain and his boots tended to slide on the damp path. He wasn’t alone on the wall. Half a dozen other men were stationed around the compound. NKenai chose a spot in the center of the north wall overlooking the bay. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dark. On this moonless night, without even a glimmer of lightning to illuminate the hillside, posting him to harbor watch was a waste of his time. But he wasn’t about to tell that to Navarre. NKenai leaned upon his elbows and glanced down at the battery of twenty-four-pounders below the walls. The dozen men Navarre had manning those guns were resting as best they could, curled up near sacks of powder and fuses and pyramids of solid shot. His own eyelids began to feel as heavy as timbers. If he could see the moon, he might be able to figure the time. No matter, it was plenty late, of that he was certain. His head drooped lower onto his forearms. He found a keg nearby and sat on it, then rose up to check the stygian expanse below. There was nothing to look at. He had to agree with Quince and the others—with Laffite and the American officer gone, things were back to normal. The only threat NKenai could see came from the Cayman himself and whatever demons were plaguing Navarre’s own brooding mind.

K
IT MCQUEEN, WITH CANDLE
in hand, stifled a sneeze as he made his way down the dusty center aisle of the powder magazine and followed Cesar Obregon over to the stone steps leading up to the palace compound. Despite his dangerous surroundings—after all, they were entering the Cayman’s den—Kit was relieved to be out of the cramped confines of the tunnel. Strung out single-file, McQueen and his companions had never felt more at the mercy of the pirates in the palace.

“I’ll attend the door bolt,” said Obregon. He drew a dagger from his wrist sheath and trotted up the steps to the heavy-looking oak door that offered the next obstacle to bar their way. The privateer immediately began working on the outside latch, slipping his blade through a crack in the wood and easing the bolt out of its catch.

O’Keefe, Nate Russell, Strikes With Club, and Harry Tregoning made their way into the room and then closed the hinged panel of false-front shelves to once more conceal the passage that had bought them underneath the walls of Navarre’s fortified palace. O’Keefe looked pale, and beads of sweat glistened on his leathery features and clung to the wiry netting of his graybeard. For one panic-filled moment he had become stuck in the passage. It had taken a concerted effort by Kit McQueen and Nate Russell to secure the burly Irishman’s release. The four men found Kit McQueen hard at work on a keg of gunpowder. With his Arkansas toothpick he had whittled a hole in the top of the hogshead. Next he fit a goose-quill fuse into the gunpowder, transforming the keg into a bomb that would detonate the contents of the magazine.

A crash of steel brought everyone to attention. O’Keefe’s leg had brushed against the basket hilt of a cutlass and knocked half a dozen of the weapons to the floor. Kit whirled around, his heart leaping to his throat. Silence filled the chamber as each man, fearing the worst, listened for the onrush of any guards alerted by the sound. When the worst failed to occur, the intruders breathed a collective sigh of relief.