Authors: Kerry Newcomb
Twenty-five minutes had passed since the bagpipes had sounded the attack. In twenty-five minutes, Packenham’s invincible army had been mauled and its commander killed, although word of Packenham’s death had yet to reach the American lines.
Kit busied himself with organizing transportation for the wounded. Casualties among the volunteers were amazingly light. Kemp Howard and a Louisianan by the name of Pelliere were the only two deaths. However, Kit had three Kentuckians with shoulder wounds and a Choctaw who needed a musket ball dug out of his thigh. Despite McQueen’s efforts to prepare the volunteers to repulse a second assault, the backwoodsmen from Kentucky and Tennessee broke out their jugs of whiskey and their fiddles and began to celebrate the victory they had won this day. The lieutenant’s cautious admonitions fell on deaf ears.
Lieutenant Kit McQueen with O’Keefe at his side was in the process of issuing orders for the wounded when no less a personage than Captain Jean Laffite bulled his way through the milling volunteers. The privateer’s usually-fastidious attire reeked of powder smoke, and his right coat sleeve was torn about three inches below the shoulder where a British musket ball had ripped the fabric but missed the flesh beneath. “Laffite’s Luck” was a distinct part of the man’s mystique.
The buccaneer was followed by half a dozen of his trusted crew, Jean Baptiste Benard was among them. The Cajun cradled his precious jug of “home brew” in the crook of his left arm and a long-barreled flintlock pistol of Spanish make in the other. He looked as serious as his companions, which struck Kit as odd. He figured Benard would have drained the contents of his jug by now and started another.
Something in Laffite’s eyes made the hackles rise on the back of Kit’s neck. He was best with premonitions of disaster. Kit steeled himself and waited for the legendary sea rover to approach. Laffite nodded a greeting.
“We have won a great victory today, Captain Laffite. And much of the credit is due to the marksmanship of your Baratarians,” Kit said.
“Not
all
my Baratarians,” Laffite replied. He stood aside and waved a man forward. Kit was surprised to see an unkempt, rough-looking little man who appeared to be the spitting image of Jean Baptiste Benard maneuver his way forward.
“Avast, ye blackards. Let a man through.” The ruffian glared at Jean as if the two had a history of animosity. They looked evenly matched in size. Kit would have been loath to guess the outcome if the two men began to flail away at one another.
“This wiry slab of fishbait is Francis Luc Benard,” said Laffite.
“Twin brothers?” Kit said.
“Ain’t my fault. An accident of birth.” Jean scowled. “I make no claim to his bloodline of thieves and card cheats.”
“Enough, you two. Now is not the time. You save your venom for Obregon and the crew of the
Windthrift
when we catch up to them,” said Laffite. His eyebrows raised as he realized he had made a slip of the tongue. Too late he caught himself and cursed beneath his breath.
“What about Obregon?” Kit asked, unable to conceal his apprehension.
“Cap’n Laffite told me to keep an eye on the Hawk. He’s a wily one, he is. Set a trap for me and left me tied and gagged, he did. But the ropes ain’t made that can hold Francis Benard. I cut free and came a-running as soon as I could borrow me a horse.”
Kit turned his fierce stare toward Laffite. “What is he trying to tell me?”
“Perhaps you had better come with me,” the notorious privateer stonily suggested.
“Where?”
“To the widow LeBeouf’s,” said Laffite.
K
IT STOOD IN THE
mist-shrouded courtyard, and spying a cluster of figures by the front steps, he shouted the name of the woman he loved and received no answer save the mournful cry of a mourning dove nesting in the oak tree off to the side of the house. Less than a week ago, he had climbed that tree to Raven’s bedroom and taken her in his arms…
What had happened here? The smell of gun-smoke clung to the still air. The once-festive house that Olivia LeBeouf kept gaily lit seemed gray and draped with sorrow. He did not run, but walked like a man in a dream to the front steps where a trio of Laffite’s men had gathered around the furious widow and Harry Tregoning.
The British marine sat on the steps and cradled his bandaged head. Blood had seeped through the rags, but Olivia LeBeouf was tearing a cotton nightshirt into strips to replace the dressing. She was personally tending to the weary marine. Tregoning glanced up as Kit arrived. The widow cried out and stood to take him in her arms and press him to her ample bosom like a mother consoling her young.
“My poor boy. It is all so terrible—I tried to stop them, but what can one woman do?”
“Dear God, Olivia. What has happened?” Kit could scarcely ask the question. His surprise at finding Tregoning at the house was overshadowed by the dread he felt that Raven had somehow come to harm. “Tell me Raven is all right. For the love of heaven, tell me she is well.”
“Only heaven knows,” said the marine.
“Where is my daughter!” O’Keefe bellowed as he brushed aside Laffite’s men near the gate and swooped down on the gathering at the steps with his overcoat flapping like the wings of a bird of prey. Laffite had to run to keep up with the Irishman. They reached the widow’s house shortly after Kit.
“It was Cesar Obregon,” the widow bitterly told them. “He and his crew. They came for the gold… and for Raven.”
Kit gasped and started up the steps to the house.
“You won’t find her, mate,” Tregoning said. “Miss Raven brought me to the widow’s, to find a change of clothing and maybe a horse and to help me on my way. The pirates were waiting. It shames me to admit I thought I’d been set up and your General Jackson was fixing to stretch my neck after all.” He winced as the widow began to tenderly unwrap his skull. Her attitude and the manner in which she was caring for the marine wasn’t lost on O’Keefe. But the Irishman was preoccupied with concern for his daughter’s wellbeing and had no time for jealousy. “I lit into them,” Tregoning continued. “That’s when I saw they were cutthroats, not soldiers. I tried to give a good account of myself, but one of the devils laid me low with the hilt of his cutlass. I dropped and lay as if I were dead. Maybe I passed out. I don’t know, it wasn’t for long. Then I came to, but I never made a move. My cheek was stuck to the flagstones. I heard the lot of them mention their captain, Cesar Obregon, by name. And how they envied him the half-breed girl he was taking to sea.”
“No!” O’Keefe roared. “The bastard…!”
“They took Johnny, too,” the widow managed to say, her voice trembling as she spoke. “He wouldn’t let them take Raven without him to aid her.” She grabbed for a silk handkerchief she kept tucked in her bodice and began to weep anew. The widow clambered to her feet and rushed inside the house to shed her tears.
“What she means is, the boy insisted he come with Raven and the buccaneers decided to allow him, just to quiet the little bloke. I never seen a young one carry on so. He was all but daring those brigands to take a swipe at him with their cutlasses. Mad as hornets, them pirates. They would have run him through if Obregon hadn’t sent them on with the wagons.”
“The lad has a way about him,” O’Keefe said, nodding. “I wanted to tan his hide on more than one occasion. Insisted on being with Raven, eh? God bless the sharp-tongued little river rat.”
“Obregon left us to fight while he circled back here and kidnapped Raven and the boy,” Kit softly said.
“And took my gold… er… uh… Jackson’s gold, I mean,” said Laffite. “The guards never knew what hit them. They were set upon and knocked unconscious and bound and gagged and left blindfolded in the stalls.” He looked disgusted with himself and ran a hand through his unnaturally red hair and added with a sigh. “Cesar always was an impulsive son of a bitch.”
“He’ll be a dead son of a bitch when next we meet,” said Kit McQueen. His voice was barely audible, but there was murder behind every word. “Where is he?” He focused his attention on Laffite, who wasn’t in the habit of informing on the whereabouts of any of the pirate brotherhood. But in this case he resolved to make an exception.
“The
Windthrift
is hidden in a cove a couple of miles below Chalmette. Cesar is probably aboard and weighed anchor by now.”
“Will he risk the British blockade at the mouth of the Mississippi?” asked O’Keefe.
“On a misty morning like this… no problem. Indeed, we Baratarians prefer such weather.” Laffite waved a hand toward the gray fog that a gentle north breeze had begun to stir. The tendrils began to thin, revealing the courtyard in greater definition. “We call this a smuggler’s dawn. No, the British will never know Obregon has passed.”
“Where will he go?”
“The men of the brotherhood are by nature a closemouthed lot,” said Jean Baptiste Benard. His twin brother, Francis, concurred, nodding his head as he filled a pipe with tobacco.
“Now, if you were one of us…” said Francis. “
Mon Dieu
, that would be different.”
“But he is one of us,” Laffite interjected. His crewmen stared at him in surprise. “We have fought side by side with the lieutenant. We have stood against a common foe while Obregon, our brother, betrayed us. What more must a man do to prove himself?”
“Then you’ll tell me where the Hawk of the Antilles has gone to nest?” asked Kit McQueen.
“Better than that,
mon ami
,” said Laffite. “I’ll take you there myself. The gaffe-rigged schooner at the dock is my own swift
Scourge.
It will take two or three days to bring a few of my cannons back aboard and load provisions for my crew. Now, what do you think your General Jackson will say when you tell him our plan, eh?”
“Leave it to me,” Kit McQueen confidently replied. “I can handle Old Hickory.”
“N
O!” GENERAL JACKSON PACED
in front of the contingent of militia he had brought with him to block Conti Street and deny Kit McQueen’s access to the wharf and the three-masted schooner docked at the end of the pier. Two dozen Tennesseans held their rifles at the ready while the few dockworkers and Negro slaves hurried out of harm’s way, their unfinished tasks not worth dying for. Jackson’s militia shifted nervously. Here was a nasty bit of business. Now that the British had pulled out, it looked as if Old Hickory was planning to set them against one another. If such was the case, none of the volunteers was anxious to confront the brawny adventurer who had fought at their side since Horse Shoe Bend. Reticence was plainly visible on the faces of the volunteers.
“I said No three days ago and I haven’t changed my position,” Jackson reiterated. His long, lean frame was wrapped in a charcoal gray cape. He wore his silvery white hair in wild disarray. These past days of peace and victory had done nothing to repair his temper or his health. Nor had he a moment to spare to spend worrying about his appearance.
Kit McQueen had confronted Jackson the very day of Raven’s kidnapping, and although the general was appalled at Obregon’s treachery, he refused to permit McQueen to pursue the pirate despite the circumstances and the identity of the woman Obregon had abducted. From that moment on, Kit had resolved to bring Obregon to justice whatever the cost to himself despite the general’s orders to the contrary.
It was early morning, the eleventh of January, a cold clear dawn. Laffite, true to his word, had brought eight 12-pounders and four 24-pounders aboard the schooner. An eighty-two man crew had loaded the hold with enough food and water to last, with fair winds and weather, all the way to Natividad. Laffite had personally overseen the rigging and replacement of the mainsail. The ship’s name,
Malice
, had been painted on the bow. And as its captain was under command of none but his own whims, Jackson was powerless to halt the privateer’s preparations.
Kit sucked in a lungful of the brisk northwest breeze and hooked his thumbs in the broad belt circling his waist. A chill breeze ruffled his red hair. He breathed deeply yet again to help him shake off the lethargy of the restless night he had spent at the widow LeBeouf’s. Ignoring the protestations of his friends, Kit had refused to sneak aboard the
Malice
under cover of night. Pride would not permit him any course but the one he now chose. So he had discarded his uniform for a simple broadcloth coat, loose-fitting shirt, a heavier cotton waistcoat whose brocaded fabric had been colored by a dye rendered from crushed pecan shells, and brown breeches tucked into jack boots. He carried his Quakers, knife, and rifle and arrived at the waterfront with only the authority of his noble purpose, his sense of mission to carry him onward in defiance of General Jackson’s orders.
Laffite watched with mixed emotions the confrontation at the entrance to Conti Street. Old Hickory was a stubborn man with nary an ounce of give in him. However, Kit McQueen was not the kind to back down. It was a volatile situation at best. As for the crew of the
Malice
, Laffite’s men were anxious to be off. Word had just arrived from England that the Treaty of Ghent had been signed. British ships no longer blockaded the Mississippi. The war was over. There would never be a better opportunity to reach the Gulf. Jean Laffite was no less impatient, because Obregon, that hotspur, had shamed the Baratarians by abandoning the fight, not to mention stealing Jackson’s strongbox, a rash and boisterous act that Laffite had personally forbidden. The buccaneer had hoped to adopt the ways of an honest merchant and abandon his earlier calling as a pirate and smuggler. Alas, Cesar Obregon had placed a cloud of doubt over the entire arrangement. Now Laffite would have to take to sea again and prove his forthright intentions.
Natividad. That was the first place to look. Laffite was certain the Hawk was returning to his “nest.” They’d reach the island in six or seven weeks with fair wind and good fortune. However, they might not reach it at all if Jackson and McQueen didn’t resolve their differences.
“What say you, Cap’n?” said Jean Baptiste. “The lieutenant ain’t going anywhere, you mark my words. Old Hickory’s mad as a nest of hornets in a thunderstorm.”