Page 51
I t wasn’t the lack of fighting spirit that forced Jackson to signal a retreat. After three hours of skirmishing, burning tents, destroying supplies, his army was running low on ammunition.
Another flaming arrow arcing through the air marked the end of the assault and left the British dazed, counting the hundreds of dead and wounded laying on the field.
Five miles away, Jackson marched back to his headquarters at McCarty House at the head of a robustly confident contingent of two thousand men comprised of militia, Indians, pirates, and townspeople, having lost only twenty-four souls.
He was cautiously delighted but not bursting with confidence, for he knew it was not an absolute victory.
The British had managed to regroup enough to defend and hold their position.
Moreover, there was another eight to ten thousand men on their way to reinforce General Keane, and those eight thousand would be under the command of General Edward Packenham, brother-in-law to the Duke of Wellington, and a fearless veteran of the Continental War.
But a victory was a victory and one that his troops needed to see them through the next days and weeks.
They had returned with a score of British prisoners, most of whom sat stoically silent when questioned. Lafitte offered to introduce them to shipboard persuasion by swinging the cat-o-nines a few times, but Jackson declined and simply locked them in jail.
The general removed a glove and inspected a deep cut on his hand. Archie Penman started toward him with his medical box, but he waved the doctor away. “See to your captain first, he has leaked far more blood than this paltry scrape.”
Penman changed direction mid-stride and carried his box to where Fonteyne sat. Sebastien had tied a kerchief around his arm, but the sleeve of his white shirt was soaked red. He said nothing as Penman cut away the sleeve and inspected the furrow the bullet had made in his skin.
“In my humble medical opinion, I believe you will live,” Archie said, smiling. When neither the smile nor the quip was acknowledged, he pursed his lips and set about cleaning and stitching the wound then dressing it with a roll of bandaging.
“I suppose we must assume there will be no white flag of surrender coming forth from the enemy camp,” Jackson said. “But by God we did show them our colors. Hopefully that will disabuse them of the notion we are ill-prepared and unwilling to fight.”
“Not to mention buying ourselves a wee bit more time to reinforce our defenses,” said Rodney Lamb.
“The Rodriquez Canal,” Jackson said. “How is the work progressing?”
Fonteyne seemed to snap out of his thoughts and nodded.
“I’m amazed how much we have accomplished in such a relatively short time.
The rampart is ten feet high where the canal has been dug four, five feet down.
Anyone attempting to breech will need ladders.
The wall itself is roughly eight feet thick and strongly reinforced with earthworks.
We’ve mounted and tested half a dozen guns and the base has held.
We’ve extended it almost half a mile to the edge of the cypress swamp, where we’ve moved most of the workers now; it is still the weakest part of the line.
And speaking of which, it might interest you to know the men are calling it the Jackson Line now, casting aside the unknown Senor Rodriguez. ”
“The Jackson Line,” the general repeated. “There have been more than a few in the past. Let us hope this one holds as well as the others. I fully expect Keane will regroup and come at us again. We must be ready.”
“We’ve moved some heavier guns to the fort at the Rigolets,” Lamb said. “An’ we’ve built a temporary redoubt on the main canal road, the Chef Menteur Pass, but if it’s attacked with any great force, it won’t hold fer long.”
“With each boatload he ferries across the lake, Packenham is formulating his plan of attack. Tonight will be a setback, but a temporary one. He will choose his time and throw everything he has at us.”
“At the first sign of movement, we should blow the levee. The longer the water soaks into the ground, the deeper the mud.”
Jackson nodded at Lamb. “I have men up on the roof with long-glasses keeping a close eye for any activity across the fields.”
From the far side of the room, Jean Lafitte lit a thin cigar and blew smoke into the air. “I’m told the Captain’s lady did a fine job on the river tonight. And you as well, of course.”
“Captain’s lady?” Lamb looked puzzled for a moment then glanced at Fonteyne. “Oh. Aye. Aye, she did that. The thunder of them bloody thirty-fours scared the shite out of me, an’ I were on her side!”
Fonteyne was watching Lafitte, not convinced in the least by the smile or flattery. He suspected that behind both was still a bristling urge to punish the woman who had humiliated him by stealing his ship out of Barataria Bay. Lafitte was not one to forgive or forget easily.
“Had you been there,” he said, “you would have seen for yourself how the bombardment went and not relied on being told .”
Lafitte shrugged. “It was necessary to fetch more supplies and casks of powder from the bayou.”
“At any rate,” Jackson said, “Captains de Clare and Kelly did an excellent job creating confusion in the Villere encampment. My niece does love to blow things up.”
“So do the British. When I was spiking the guns, I saw a hot-shot furnace in their arsenal.”
Lamb and Lafitte both sat a little straighter in their chairs. Jackson looked from one to the other, then to Fonteyne. “I see. That could pose an unpleasant threat.”
“Heatin’ a twenty-pound ball of iron red hot then firin’ it at a wooden ship, aye,” Lamb agreed. “It would be mighty unpleasant.”
Fonteyne flexed his arm when Penman finished bandaging it then pushed out of his chair. His whole body ached and his eyes felt full of sand. It was tempting to grab an hour’s sleep and a hot meal. “If there is nothing else …?”
Jackson waved a hand in dismissal while his other hand came under threat with needle and thread by Penman.
“I’ll walk out with you,” Lafitte said, rising from the chair.
When he stepped outside, Fonteyne turned to look up at the faint blue smear of dawn beginning to spread across the western sky. He drew in a deep breath of the chilled morning air and started walking toward the stables.
“I hope my slip of the tongue did not embarrass you in there,” Lafitte said, taking two steps to every one of Fonteyne’s long strides.
“By calling Rose St. Clare my lady? You would have to do a great deal better than that, my friend. And the only time your tongue ever slips is when you’re licking a gold bar.”
Lafitte laughed. “Touche. I see she has improved your sense of humor even as she tames you into becoming one of her lapdogs.”
Fonteyne stopped and turned so abruptly the shorter man nearly walked up his shins. “What did you say?”
“Only that she is changing you, my friend. There was a time you and I would have sailed away and left the British and Americans to fight it out between themselves and come back when it was all over to share the spoils. Yet look at where we are now?”
Fonteyne took hold of Lafitte’s coat lapels and pushed him so hard against the wall, the cigar flipped out of the Cajun’s mouth and his hat flew off his head.
“Where we are now is on the land you claimed to want to make your home. Where you have tried to bribe your way into being accepted as one of them .”
“ Mon ami, mon ami , there is no need to threaten violence.” Lafitte raised his hands in submission. “You must know, as my friend and ally, that I only wish to look out for your wellbeing. I wish only to be useful.”
“Useful? If you truly want to be useful you will stop skulking away into the bayou whenever you think your fine clothes might get smudged with dirt.”
Lafitte gasped again. “Skulk away? I did no such thing! I was fetching?—”
“Yes, yes, you were fetching more supplies. As it happens, I know where all your hidden caches are and first thing in the morning, mon ami , you and I will make certain every last barrel and crate is brought to the city so there will be no further need for you to fetch anything .”
Fonteyne released his lapels with a small shove and turned away but stopped again and glanced back over his shoulder.
“By the way, I also know exactly what you have squirreled away in those caches, and I don’t just mean weapons and powder.
After the Pride was returned and you went on board, did you happen to notice anything missing from your cabin? ”
Lafitte’s expression darkened, and he said quietly, “You have my ledgers?”
Fonteyne smiled crookedly. “Rose has them, but I’ve read what’s in them and I’m sure the other captains would be just as interested as I was to learn exactly how much profit you make off every one of our shipments.”
“You would not do this,” Lafitte said on an expunged breath.
“Oh, I absolutely would do it. Then stand back and watch them tear you to pieces.”
Lafitte suffered Fonteyne’s hard stare for a moment longer, then squared his shoulders as some of the knuckles along his spine stiffened again. “She means this much to you? Enough to throw away ten years of friendship?”
Fonteyne’s mouth curved slightly. “We were never friends , Lafitte. Our association was mutually convenient and I used you as much as you used me.”
“I see. Will that …association … be at an end now?”
Fonteyne laughed. “If we both live through the next few weeks, you can ask me again.”
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