Page 60

The men laboured hard to row up the river against the current and it took nearly two hours to reach the first intact jetty north of the Chalmette plantation.

They had met with no trouble on the way, but even from well out in the middle of the river they could see the extent of the damage along the shore.

The two British battalions that had made it this far had all but destroyed the battery of American guns defending Jackson’s right flank.

There were bodies from both armies littering the shore, some frozen together in hand to hand combat for all eternity.

After being hailed and identifying themselves, some of Jackson’s Kentuckians rose from places of concealment behind bushes and damaged sheds to greet them as the boat pulled in to shore.

They were not inclined to let her crewmen keep their weapons but they agreed to escort Rose, Duardo, and Digby Fitch to Jackson’s Line.

Most of the cannon that comprised the American battery had been overrun and, after realizing they could not hold the line, had been spiked by their own men before withdrawing.

Why the British had not pressed on was a mystery, as it was clear they had taken command of the east bank of the river.

A further push of half a mile would have seen them in a position to attack Jackson’s main army from behind the defensive ramparts the rebel forces had labored so long to build and reinforce.

McCardy House, which had been nearly leveled the week before, was now smashed and roofless.

There were fires burning in the surrounding trees and outlying sheds, great gouges in the earth where British artillery had exploded behind the Line.

The rampart itself appeared to be holding, and though the cloth was shredded, the American flag still flew strong and proud.

Rose was led past the first two battalions of cannon that were now only firing sporadically.

Most of the gunfire was coming from the rows of militia and musketmen who kept up a steady barrage against the British assault.

The air was thick with smoke, the top of the earthworks were crowded with men firing, moving back to reload, replaced by men stepping into the gap to fire.

Rose crept to the wall of hay bales to look out at the field, but all she could see was hundreds of red-coated soldiers firing up at the rampart, dropping to reload their muskets, then charging forward to fire again.

Some never managed to rise but fell and joined the other dead and wounded lying as far as the eye could see.

“General Jackson?”

The Kentuckian who had escorted them from the river, pointed east. “Getting hit the hardest, but holding the center. Watch out!”

He pushed Rose unceremoniously out of the way as the stovepipe cap of a British soldier appeared above the bales of hay. He brought his rifle up and fired, at the same time as Duardo raised his pistol, both shots hitting the soldier squarely in the forehead.

Spurred into action again, Rose kept low as she ran along the top of the rampart.

She weaved her way through the chaos of fighting men until she spied a familiar figure in the distance.

Andrew Jackson was unmistakeable in his caped greatcoat and shock of thick gray hair that seemed to have gone snow white in the past few weeks.

He was pacing back and forth, followed closely by a small wolfpack of officers who took his orders and passed them to runners, young lads who ran off in full flight to carry those orders down the line.

He looked like a young man and an old man inhabiting the same body. He was in his element, a general in charge of an army defending his country and while he hated the death and devastation happening out on the battlefield, he was thriving on the danger and excitement as well.

Rose was all too familiar with those two conflicting emotions. She felt them every time the guns on board the Cygnet blasted to life.

She dared not approach the general while he was strategizing and organizing, but she saw another face she recognized further along the rampart.

Jean Lafitte was striding back and forth between two gun emplacements, shouting words of encouragement to his Baratarian gunners and marksmen alike.

He wore a white open-throated shirt and white breeches with a yellow striped waistcoat, all of which were remarkably clean despite the raining ash and dirt and smoke.

He saw Rose and raised a hand that was wrapped in bandages.

Up close, she could see a bloody tear in his breeches and a scorched line of soot on his sleeve.

He was shouting something to her, but the guns chose that moment to fire in unison, drowning out his voice, leaving only the gestures he made pointing further down along the rampart for her to interpret.

She ran past, her bruised rib stabbing her with shafts of pain at every step.

Her heart was pounding, her blood was drumming through her ears, and twice she stumbled over craters in the earth.

Somewhere along the line she had become separated from Duardo, but she kept running forward, kept searching the faces of the men, some she recognized but most were too grimy and sweaty, blackened by the smoke.

She passed close to a gun that had been shot off its carriage and stopped for a moment to try to catch a breath. She ripped the stupid cap off her head and shook out her hair, a tumble of red curls in an otherwise brown and gray world.

Then she saw him. He was still a few hundred yards away, but the shock of blond hair drew her eye like a magnet.

Archie Penman!

He was well behind the line tending the wounded men, and as she gathered the last of her energy to run closer, she could see the man he was crouched over was dressed all in black, his long black hair streaked in red, scattered over the edge of the makeshift canvas cot, his chest a bloodied mess from shoulder to waist.