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“I harbour a great deal of resentment,” Lafitte agreed through the grate of his teeth. “And to that end I will settle accounts with Claiborne at some point. But for now, I am more concerned with keeping the British off my land and out of my country.”

Jackson studied the shorter man in silence.

Lafitte had made good points; the men in his militia were brave and would make a good accounting of themselves, but they were woefully outnumbered and no match for disciplined, battle-tested soldiers in open combat in territory as foreign to them as to the British.

They were woodsmen and hunters, not swamp-dwellers.

As much as it galled him to do so, Jackson was the first to move. He took one measured step forward and held out his hand. “We have a deal, sir.”

Lafitte accepted the gesture, matching the general’s firm, solid grip with his own.

Before releasing him, Jackson leaned in and murmured, “But if you betray us, I will put the rope around your neck myself and hang you.”

Lafitte grinned. “You would have to catch me first, General.”

The trek back to Barataria Bay was decidedly more energized than the slow slog into the bayou.

Lafitte was pleased with himself. Fonteyne was cautiously optimistic—they still had to convince Lafitte’s captains and their men to aid the Americans.

Rose was relieved the meeting had gone well, but wary.

She knew Jackson’s handshake was his bond, ironclad and unbreakable. But Lafitte?

The two had agreed to meet again in a week’s time.

By then, Lafitte would know how many men he could raise.

There were some who would fight for the sake of defending the city against the British.

Others would do so for the promise of full pardons.

None, however, would consider joining the Americans if they were just there to bulk up Jackson’s army without being recognized as a formidable fighting force in their own right, something Lafitte himself would not allow.

Upon arrival back at the Bay, Lafitte immediately pulled out maps of the city and the surrounding swamps, waterways, and farmland.

“New Orleans has very few defenses against an army of fifteen thousand infantry,” he said, brushing a hand across one of his maps.

“You may be certain the British will have the same maps and be aware of the same obvious obstacles to an attack.

Since the building of Fort St. Philip, the city relies on its ability to control access to the river.

In addition to the fort, here are stone emplacements constructed down each of the riverbanks where the bend is narrow and sharp.

A hundred good men, with one or two heavy guns could, indeed, stop any attempt to get around that turn in the river.

“Over here—” his finger slid across the map— “to the north there are cypress swamps that only a madman would dare plan to march through. Impossible and impassable, not to mention the thousands of alligators who would chew those redcoats up like sweet treats. But here—” his finger slid down and circled a wide expanse of farmland— “there are two plantations, Lacoste and Villere, both left flat and dry since their crops were harvested. The British will always prefer dry land so they can march forward in their pretty red lines … regardless if the swamps give them more protection and a more direct route to the city. A betting man, therefore, would place his gold piece here.” He took a coin out of his pocket and placed it on the Villere plot of farmland.

“It will support their artillery and allow the soldiers to march without having their boots sucked off in the mud.”

“There is the small matter of the lake standing in the way,” Fonteyne said. “As you said, that’s a fairly huge undertaking to move an army across.”

“Think like an English peacock. They have moved armies and dragged artillery across half the Continent of Europe. A lake would be a minor obstacle. And look here … once across, they will see, and their spies will tell them, that there is only open field and beyond that, nothing but a puny fieldstone wall extending from the levy barely a quarter mile long. The owner of the plantation had his slaves build it a decade ago to keep his cows from wandering into the city, but he hasn’t had cows for several years, so the earthworks are eroded and missing altogether in places.

“My men use those gaps to smuggle goods into the city while the excise men are busy watching the river. Those gaps will need to be filled and the rampart raised and, more importantly, extended a good mile or more to cover the full breadth of the field to where it ends in the swamp. Once fortified, we can put enough men up top to give the British a warm welcome … if they make it that far.”

Fonteyne arched an eyebrow. “If they make it that far?”

Lafitte offered up a crooked grin and pointed to another location on the map.

“The levy runs parallel to the Chef Menteur Road and holds the river back to prevent flooding. Blowing a hole in the levy here,” he tapped the map, “will bring the river rushing onto the lowland and turn half the farmer’s field into a bog that will suck the boots right off their feet.

I believe the phrase, ‘Bastien, is ducks in a pond?”

Rose had been standing by, quietly observing, but she stepped forward now and looked down at the map.

Lafitte and his men had been operating their smuggling enterprise for well over a decade, so it was no surprise that he should know where the city’s weakest points lay.

No surprise they could move like shadows in the darkness.

“Uncle … er, General Jackson was sent here with barely a thousand men under his command. Even if you can bring a thousand more, the odds are still overwhelming. How did the President think so few could hold a city against five times as many British soldiers?”

Lafitte’s lip curled in disdain. “I expect Madison thought the general would put up a good fight and stall the bastards long enough to fortify a defense higher up the Mississippi. It is December. The north will be frozen and the British will wait for spring to mount another offensive. By then, Madison might stir his arse enough to send more men south. Until then, Jackson is on his own with only swamps and alligators as a deterrent.”

Fonteyne tapped a finger on the map. “Supposing we are able to build up and reinforce these ramparts and supposing we are able to put two thousand men on top, the British will have artillery.”

“Jackson dragged exactly five field pieces with him,” Lafitte said.

“About as useful as spitting in a bucket.

We can take heavy guns from the ships and place them every ten feet or so on the ramparts as soon as they are fortified.

We have enough powder and shot to give the redcoats a greeting they will not soon forget.

We can also place one of our ships here—" he took another coin out of his pocket and placed it at the eastern edge of the farmer’s field then looked at Rose.

“Preferably a sleek little vessel with a low draught. We can use her cannon to blow the levy as well as bombard the field and cut them off from any attempt to reach the road.”

Rose nodded. “If you think the Cygnet can make it up the river.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Fonteyne started, but Lafitte cut him off.

“Your ship has a hundred tons on the little swan, ‘Bastien, most of it due to your flamboyant excess of guns; it would never make it past the delta. I happen to know you have tried and become miserably stuck in the sandbars.”

“I can remove some of the guns for the ramparts.”

“Indeed. And can you shave ten feet off the keel? You have twice as much ship below the waterline as you have above.”

Rose almost smiled at the look of consternation on Sebastien’s face. Not for the first time she gave thanks for the designers and shipbuilders in her father’s company. Their ingenuity and skills dated back more than a century to the original fleet built by the Pirate Wolf himself.

“Without a formidable deterrent on the river,” Lafitte was saying, “the British could easily veer off the fields and make for the road, and from there have a clear path into the city while we stick our hands down our trousers and wait for nothing to happen. It will be crucial to have accurate and fearsome firepower on our right flank.”

“I agree,” Rose said, cutting off another protest from Fonteyne. “However, I do not agree that you should be deciding all of this without General Jackson’s input or approval.”

Lafitte’s frown crushed his eyebrows together in a straight line.

“You saw what I saw tonight. A man whose strength is all but drained. His skin is gray, his hands shake, and he stinks of fever and squirting bowels. He needs rest, he needs food, and he needs to accept help where it is offered. While he recovers, if he recovers, we must gather every able-bodied man willing to start building and reinforcing that barrier, sooner rather than later. I will speak to our men at first light, but now, I need sleep. I’ve not closed my eyes for so long I feel like an owl. ”

Fonteyne saw the look on Rose’s face and took a firm hold on her elbow, leading her away before the vein in her neck exploded.

“Did you hear that puffed up little snake?” she hissed. “ If the general recovers?”

“Come away, come away. We are all of us tired and on edge. And he wasn’t entirely wrong. You said yourself Jackson has been suffering from dysentery for several weeks now.”

“Suffering, yes, on his deathbed, no. I know my uncle. He’ll not take kindly to sharing authority when it comes to preparing for battle, and while he is canny enough to see the benefit of having Lafitte’s help, he’s not about to entrust the fate of his army to a thieving little blacksmith.”

Fonteyne tightened his grip on her arm. “That thieving little blacksmith, my dear, might be the only thing standing between having the Stars and Stripes flying over Washington or the Union Jack.”