Jack Iron (8 page)

An orderly entered the room and saluted Jackson, who promptly instructed the man to refill the general’s glass. Willem Brookey lost no time in obeying Old Hickory’s command. The orderly was a portly fellow in a tight-fitting dark blue coat with red facing, white breeches, and calf-high black boots. His round pale cheeks were pitted from a childhood bout with the pox. He had a perpetually cheerful demeanor, which Kit found in welcome contrast to the often-dour Andrew Jackson.

“Thank you, Brookey. You can leave us now.”

“Yessir, General. But you wanted to know when Captain Laffite arrived.”

“Well, then, show him in. Immediately. And pour a sherry for him.”

“That won’t be necessary. I prefer a less refined drink,” said Jean Laffite as he stepped into the room. The buccaneer stood about five feet ten, the same as Kit. He was built slim and carried himself erect and proud. His hazel eyes met Kit’s bronze stare and the two men silently appraised one another.

Kit had become acquainted with the notorious pirate a few weeks back, but their introduction had been hastily made in the company of a host of other officers. Kit knew the man by reputation, one that had prepared him to encounter a vile and treacherous individual. Instead, McQueen found Laffite to be both elegant and cordial. Scandalous stories to the contrary, Kit sensed there was more to the man than the stuff of rumor and conjecture. These were hard and difficult times. Men and women survived by their wits and their courage. The frontier had a habit of culling the weak and burying them in the dust of their unattainable dreams.

Laffite’s hair, eyebrows, and mustache were a curious rust red. It was the topic of some conjecture that the pirate frequently washed his head with a mixture of potash and gunpowder to achieve his peculiar hair coloring. It was all considered part of a disguise. In truth, all the Laffite brothers—Jean, Pierre, and Alexander—kept the true nature of their appearances hidden beneath beards and mustaches.

Pierre had been known to wear oversized clothes and pad them to make himself seem larger than he actually was. Alexander on the other hand had even changed his name and sailed under the black flag as the merciless freebooter called Dominique You.

“So this is the lieutenant my friend Cesar Obregon so colorfully described.” Laffite bowed toward Kit. “Ah, and I can hear your thoughts. This one is thinking,
Mon Dieu
, we have allied ourselves with pirates.” Laffite chuckled, and walked to the French doors that opened onto the balcony.

“I’d fight alongside the devil himself to drive the British from American soil.” Kit folded his arms across his chest. The two men shared the same height but Kit’s upper torso was corded with muscle. His father, Dan McQueen, had been a blacksmith by trade and Kit had often worked alongside the man at his forge. With fire and anvil and hammer, they had shaped iron to their will. Kit McQueen’s powerful physique was a legacy of those earlier halcyon days.

“You will. Mark my words, my young patriot. In fact, there are many ‘devils’ among us Baratarians.”

“I marked one tonight,” Kit replied.

“Yes. I saw Captain Obregon’s jaw.” Laffite stepped closer and peered at Kit’s swollen lip. “It seems he left his signature on you as well.”

“Devils… patriots… I don’t care what they’re called,” Jackson said. “Just so long as they can fight.” He raised a glass of sherry in toast to Laffite. “Finer cannoneers I have never seen in all my days. My only regret is that we have so few pieces of artillery for your lads to put to good use.” Jackson rose from his desk and crossed to the French doors and peered through his own reflection at the city. The streets were devoid of life. The north wind had chased the inhabitants indoors. “Three of the six-pounders will hardly deter a British attack.”

“I’ve placed a pair of twenty-four-pounders at the breastworks just this day. And fortified their redoubts with timber,” said Laffite. “We’ll get a few licks in before the British gunners can train their artillery on us.”

“Well done, Captain Laffite. I’ll be moving my headquarters out to the McCarty farm. I want to be able to overlook the center of our defenses. With the river to his left and marshes and swampland to the right Packenham is going to have to meet us head on. The twenty-fours loaded with grape will be a nasty surprise.”

“Would that I had some lengths of pig iron to strengthen the redoubts and provide my cannoneers with some protection.”

“What about cotton?” Kit suggested. “There’s plenty of bales in the warehouses. We can make the defenses as thick as we want. And I haven’t seen a man yet injured by splintered cotton.”

“
Bien
,” Laffite exclaimed. “The bales would absorb the British shells. Every shot that strikes would only add to the strength of the redoubt.”

“I believe you have a warehouse of prime bales near Chalmette,” Jackson added with a wink in Kit’s direction. Laffite paled at the general’s unspoken suggestion.

“Surely you are not suggesting we use my stores. My cotton is some of the finest in the Delta.”

“Then, you won’t find any hardship in defending it,” Jackson said. “I’ll dispatch a work detail of my Kentuckians and set them to the task. Might as well put them to use. They showed up at this fight expecting me to arm them.” Jackson scowled, and slapped his fist into the palm of his hand. “Never seen a Kentuckian without a gun, good whiskey, and a plug of tobacco. Not until now.”

Laffite sighed and shrugged, resigned to the fact that his fine cotton was to be turned into battlements. “I must compliment you on your suggestion, Lieutenant.” The buccaneer took in both men as he bowed. “I bid you good-night, my friends. Tomorrow is another day, and one that promises no small sacrifice on my part.
Oui
?”

“One for which we shall all remain truly grateful,” Jackson said. He reached out and the two men shook hands. Kit could not help but note that had the British never invaded American soil, General Andrew Jackson might well have mounted an expedition to drive the Baratarians out of their bayous. But a common enemy had forged an alliance between them. It was anyone’s guess, though, just how long the bonds of friendship would last.

Laffite turned to leave, then paused by Kit. “The Hawk of the Antilles is not to be taken lightly. His prowess with pistol and cutlass is without equal.” The buccaneer hesitated as if in thought, then he decided to say no more.

“I don’t frighten easily,” Kit. said.

“Obregon is accustomed to having his way. What doesn’t stand aside, he walks over or through.”

“Not this time,” Kit matter-of-factly replied. It was no brag, just a simply stated fact.

A hint of a smile touched the corners of Laffite’s mouth. He said no more but sauntered from the room, a man wholly confident of himself and one who perhaps possessed secrets other men could only guess.
Barataria,
taken from the book
Don Quixote,
in which it was the name of an unattainable island-kingdom, a place of dreams and fulfillment. There was magic in the name and a sense of pathos for one’s impossible desires. Laffite’s way of life was coming to an end whether the British were repulsed or not.

“And as for you, my insubordinate young rapscallion,” Jackson said when the two were alone again, “keep clear of Captain Obregon. I want your word on that. We need these Baratarians. And though I hate to admit it, I need the likes of you, too. So if I must imprison you to keep you from getting your fool throat slit, then by heaven I shall.” Jackson strode to the French windows and stared out at the night-shrouded streets of the Crescent City.

“You have my word, sir,” said Kit.

“Then be off with you. Place a mark on Brookey’s map just where you encountered the British patrol. And do me a favor. Don’t go showing off our defenses to just any old English marine who wanders over behind our lines.”

“Yessir.” Kit saluted and started to leave. Again Jackson halted him with a final word.

“Oh, and give my regards to Raven O’Keefe.”

“General?”

“I know the hour is late, but dammit, man, I was a young stag myself… a hundred years ago.” Jackson never looked around. He continued to study the city he had sworn to protect.

Kit slipped through the doorway and departed the house. Come morning he would turn his thoughts to war. The fortifications could wait until sunup. Tonight he had business elsewhere.

A
WINTER FOG CREPT
up from the river and sent ghostly tendrils to explore the silent waterfront where only the listless current lapped and a three-masted gaffe-rigged schooner rode close to the dock alongside a sidewheel paddleboat christened the
Hannah Louise.

The schooner had recently been repaired and its name yet to be painted on the bow by its owner. But it was a sleek tight ship, devoid of life and left to the rolling gray fog, to keep its lonely vigil against the silent terrors of such a night as this.

Kit unerringly made his way through the city. He could have found Madame LeBeouf’s house blindfolded. The lieutenant’s moccasins padded softly on the cobblestone street as he rounded Dumaine and headed down Bourbon. An inner sense, the legacy of his Highland forbearers, made him cautious as he approached the wrought-iron gate that opened onto the courtyard from which Kit had been taken under guard a couple of hours ago. Poor Tregoning was condemned to languish in the town jail on Magazine Street by order of General Jackson. At least he wasn’t destined for the hangman’s noose. Kit had convinced Old Hickory to spare the British marine’s life. However, Jackson intended to turn the man over to the proper British authorities once the question of hostilities was settled… a fate that did not sit well with Tregoning. After all, he was a deserter now, and British officers were meticulously devoid of mercy when it came to such a crime, no matter the extenuating circumstances.

Kit pulled up his collar and eased out of the mist’s damp breath and stood for a moment in the lee of an entrance to the office of Doctor Yves DeCologne. The doorway was set in a shallow alcove and provided some relief from the cold. He waited and then heard the sound again. Yes, a boot scraping against stone. The sound was followed by a cough, then silence. Someone coughed again and spat.

“This here’s a fool’s voyage you’ve sailed into, mark my words, Robert Bonabel,” a voice softly spoke. A man was apparently talking to himself, for there came no reply. The same man sighed and repeated, “A fool’s voyage, and curse Cesar Obregon for it. McQueen ain’t coming back here, not after Jackson hauled him off. But here I stand, stiff as a pine board and nary a drop of rum to warm my blood.” Another cough followed as the unseen man struggled to endure the watch he’d been assigned.

Kit settled back against the door behind him and gave the situation some thought. The fog left him blind to the dangers ahead. He turned around and discovered he was able to read the name on the physician’s door. It gave him his bearing. He remembered that the widow’s courtyard lay just across the street and a few steps further along. It bothered him that Obregon had placed a guard to watch the approaches to the widow’s house. Perhaps the buccaneer was already inside, making love to Raven O’Keefe. The very notion brought a scowl to Kit’s unshaven features.

Something brushed against his leg and Kit nearly leaped into the street before he realized it was a cat come wandering up out of the mist. Kit had noticed the little female calico riding in Doctor DeCologne’s lap as the good-natured physician made his rounds, tending to the needs of his private patients before seeing to the wounds incurred on the skirmish lines around Chalmette plantation. Kit reached down, scooped up the feline in his right hand, and shifted the animal to his left while he stroked the creature until a deep-throated purr rumbled in his throat. Kit began to devise a plan to rid himself of Obregon’s troublesome shipmate. It involved the friendly tabby.

McQueen continued petting the cat as he eased out of the doorway. He announced himself by moaning in a low pitiful voice just loud enough for the pirate up ahead to hear.

“What the hell is that!”

Kit continued to moan and slowly advance on Obregon’s startled henchman. Kit estimated the distance and adjusted his pace. He took his time for maximum effect. There was a second door in an alcove just up ahead marking the entrance to an accountant’s office, and Kit guessed that Bonabel had chosen the alcove for his post.

“Who the devil are you?” From the tremor in the pirate’s voice, Bonabel was obviously unnerved by the fiend without a face approaching him from out of the ghastly mist. “Saints preserve me. Jesus, Mary and Joseph… I say stand or suffer the consequences.” Kit heard the telltale click of a gun being cocked. He doubted that Bonabel could see well enough to hit him. A wound would be plain dumb luck. Kit searched the fog and found he could just discern the dark patch of doorway in which Bonabel had taken refuge from the night. Kit moaned again, sounding for all the world like some tormented soul risen on this shrouded eve to haunt the living with its dreadful presence.

“Devil or not, you’ll taste the lead in my brace of pistols, so get you back to perdition and leave all good Christians alone!” Bonabel had backed himself against the door. Suddenly his protection from the elements had become a trap. “Blast your dead man’s eyes,” the superstitious ruffian called out. “Why do you haunt these streets. Who do you seek”

“Yoooouuuu!” Kit wailed. “I’ve come for yoooouuuu!” He punctuated his horrid summons by twisting the cat’s tail and giving a vicious tug that elicited an angry inhuman cry from the feline. As the animal screeched and hissed in pain and bared its fangs, Kit tossed the frightened furious creature at the black expanse of doorway. Airborne and howling, its claws outstretched, the cat must have seemed like an agent of the netherworld, cast in fire and brimstone and summoned to drag the pirate into the inferno. Bonabel shrieked and dropped his pistols and took off running down Bourbon Street for all he was worth, hounded by the unleashed monsters of his own imagination.

Kit McQueen chuckled softly and listened to the buccaneer beat a hasty retreat into the mist. Then with the coast clear, he sauntered across the street and slipped through the courtyard gate and found himself once more in the widow’s garden. The windows were dark and the house appeared devoid of life. Evidently the widow’s party had ended earlier than expected. Kit muttered a silent prayer of thanks. He wasted no time in heading straight for an oak tree at the right front corner of the house. A bench swing dangled from one of the tree’s stout branches. Kit tramped through the freshly turned earth and reaching the tree swung up into the branches, climbing hand over hand until he reached the balcony railing. The iron railing was showing rust on the few bare spots that weren’t covered by a lush tangle of leafy green vines. Kit had no problem in reaching the balcony and alighting quietly outside twin French doors that he knew from a previous visit opened onto the bedroom Olivia LeBeouf had provided for the half-breed daughter of Iron Hand O’Keefe.