Authors: Kerry Newcomb
“Mud and tatters, now that is a novel formality for a ball,” she said, appraising Kit as he lifted the punch bowl.
“I created the wardrobe myself,” Kit replied. He had confided in the woman on more than one occasion. She had taken a motherly interest in him. Letitia well knew how confusing life could be, especially when matters of the heart were concerned. He had confided in her about his feelings for Raven O’Keefe.
“And given yourself quite a thirst for your efforts,” she observed, dabbing at her lips with a silk handkerchief.
“Not I,” said Kit. “But Cesar Obregon looks a might parched, don’t you think?”
“Thirsty as General Jackson is for a victory over Packenham’s royal troops.”
Kit nodded, and with the punch bowl firmly clasped in an iron grip he broke through the circling couples and headed straight for the black-clad freebooter, who had just finished his dance and stood with his back turned to the approaching soldier. Kit managed to traverse the spacious dining-room floor without spilling but a few frothy drops of the punch de crème. He swung the bowl to the side and called out, “Obregon!” and hurled its contents.
What followed seemed to play itself out in slow motion, and, rooted in place, Kit would have given anything to call back his rash behavior. He saw Obregon spin around, sensing a threat. He ducked as the punch drew a milky arc in the air and, spreading, passed over the buccaneer and caught Raven full in the face and chest.
“Oh!” she managed to scream as the punch exploded over her bosom and drenched the dress of Spanish lace, soaked her hair, and left her gasping and sputtering for breath. She staggered back a few steps off balance and then tripped on the hem of her gown and landed on her rounded derriere in the corner of the room.
“Christ,” Kit muttered beneath his breath. His outstretched hands lost their grip on the punch bowl and it clattered to the floor. The bowl was made of thick crystal and did not shatter. Horror-struck at the results of his handiwork, Kit was rooted in place. He wanted to run to her side, but his limbs refused to obey him. It took Cesar Obregon to knock this statue from its pedestal.
The man in black straightened and loosed a roundhouse left that Kit saw coming but was unable to duck. He was staring past the oncoming fist at Raven, who had managed to wipe the milky liquid from her eyes and behold the identity of her inadvertent attacker.
“Raven, I didn’t—” Kit never finished. Obregon’s fist caught him full in the face and knocked him backward into the center of the dining room. McQueen hit hard and lay momentarily stunned, watching a display of swirling stars become the chandelier overhead. Obregon reached down and caught the soldier by the front of his mud-spattered coat and began to drag him toward the foyer.
“You come in here reeking of rum, sir. And assault a lady, the hem of whose garment you are not fit to kiss!” Obregon spoke loud enough for the guests in the room to hear. The more damage he did to Kit’s reputation, the better. Let them think him a drunken lout and the Hawk of the Antilles a gentleman of principles. The buccaneer had indeed been caught completely by surprise. What on earth had brought the lieutenant back from patrol? Well, McQueen’s behavior could not have been better. This night’s action had no doubt finished McQueen in the eyes of Raven.
Showing an impressive display of strength, Obregon reached the foyer, where he ordered Mr. Flatt to open the front door. “Be quick about it and I will rid your household of the likes of this boor.”
The manservant hurried to obey the privateer’s command. He swung the door open. The cold of night gusted into the house. Obregon reached down to haul McQueen to his feet and propel him through the doorway with a well-placed bootheel. Kit came to his senses as the man lifted him up. He caught Obregon by the wrists and, lunging upward, drove the top of his head to the base of the Spaniard’s jaw. Obregon staggered and saw a constellation of his own creation as he fell back against Mr. Flatt.
The manservant recognized a deteriorating situation when it presented itself and beat a hasty retreat. Or at least he tried to, but Obregon snared the mulatto and flung the man at Kit, then dove in low. Kit shoved the manservant aside and was struck by Obregon. The momentum of the assault carried both men through the entrance and out into the walled courtyard of the widow’s house. Kit managed to twist so that he landed on the privateer. He heard the man in black grunt as the wind was forced from him by the impact. Still, both men crawled to their feet and faced one another on the stone walk.
“What shall it be?” Obregon gasped. “Tomorrow? Pistols at ten paces? We can meet out in the cotton fields.”
“How about here and now,” Kit said.
“Ordinarily I make it a habit never to kill a man over a woman. It’s bad luck.” Obregon winced and rubbed his bruised jaw. “And what will it prove? After you showered her with punch de crème, I doubt Raven will have little to say to you but ‘get thee hence.’”
“This isn’t about Raven O’Keefe, you bastard,” Kit retorted. “You abandoned us out there.”
“I wasn’t about to freeze to death waiting for some imaginary British patrol.”
“Imaginary? Tell that to the men I lost fighting them! We could have all been killed waiting for you to bring your men up!” Kit fixed the man in a murderous stare. “Maybe that is exactly what you wanted.”
“Now see here…” Cesar Obregon was taken aback at McQueen’s outburst. He had never believed in the reliability of the Choctaw scouts and had convinced himself that the British were nowhere around. By heaven, McQueen was in the right. But right or wrong, Cesar Obregon wasn’t about to take a beating from any man. “Perhaps I have been mistaken. But do not think to shame me in front of the widow and her guests.” He nodded toward the front of the house, where men crowded the doorway and faces jammed the windows.
“I cannot dishonor a man who has no honor to begin with,” said Kit.
Obregon scowled and reached to his cuffs. It was an odd gesture, one that prompted Kit to take warning. He dropped his hands to the gun butt of the flintlock pistol tucked in the belt on his right side. It was an unnecessary precaution. He had two buckskin-clad guardian angels watching over him. Obregon froze in midmotion as Nate Russell and Strikes With Club materialized out of the shadows beneath the courtyard wall. Their rifled muskets were leveled and cocked and trained on the freebooter. A squeeze of the trigger and he’d be blown in half by the big-bore flintlocks. Obregon grinned and for a moment considered hurling his daggers at the braves and then making a try for Kit. The buccaneer crouched and his whole body seemed to tense, his muscles coiling like a spring. In another second Madame LeBeouf’s courtyard was going to be filled with powder smoke and there’d be blood flowing amongst the barren flower mounds.
At that precise moment, fate intervened in the form of a distinguished but uninvited guest to the widow’s festivities. The courtyard gate creaked open and a tall gaunt officer led a half-dozen other soldiers into the garden. A tremor of excitement coursed through the onlookers at the door. After all, General Andrew Jackson was a busy man these days and had little time for socializing.
Old Hickory hadn’t come to party. It was obvious from his demeanor he was in a grim mood. At a glance from the commander of the American forces protecting New Orleans, Kit dropped his hand from the gun at his waist and his Choctaw allies lowered their rifles. Even Obregon, who felt no allegiance to the general, straightened and left his hidden daggers up his sleeves.
“I sent you men out on patrol. You’re my eyes, watching what the British are up to north of Chalmette. Then reports come in that you both have returned—and not so much as a whisper what you’ve found out.” He ran a hand across his cheeks, then fixed his fierce gray eyes on the widow’s guests. “You gentlemen better see to your ladies, else I may need to press a few of you into service this night to man the breastworks.”
The crowd at the front door vanished as hastily as they had gathered. No man wanted to trade Madame LeBeouf’s hospitality for that of Jackson’s. The general continued down the stone walk between rows of mulched earth where the widow intended to plant her tulip bulbs when the weather permitted. Jackson wore a small leather cap, and his long-limbed frame, emaciated from a bout of dysentery, was wrapped in an old blue Spanish coat trimmed with bullet buttons and a high collar he had pulled up to protect his neck.
“I don’t know what’s between you two—and I don’t care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my own plans. I’ve had lesser men flogged for such dereliction of duty.”
“No man takes a whip to me,” Obregon replied.
“Do not tempt me, Spaniard.” Jackson dismissed Obregon with a single glance. “I did not expect such behavior from you, Lieutenant.”
“I am sorry, General.” Kit dabbed at his swollen lip. Blood had begun to dry at the corner of his mouth. He took satisfaction in Obregon’s swollen jaw. At least I’ve given the freebooter something to remember me by, Kit thought.
“Then, I will have your report back at my house,” Jackson said.
Kit looked dismayed. He needed to find Raven and apologize and somehow explain his actions. He desperately wanted to make her understand.
“General Jackson, if you’ll permit me just a brief moment…”
“It would seem you already have taken several moments to yourself and placed your affairs above the importance of my defenses,” Jackson replied. He had a sneaking suspicion as to the nature of McQueen’s unfinished business. Damn it all, if he didn’t like the mettle of this headstrong officer despite the younger man’s mistakes. Kit McQueen had put his life in peril more than once over the past few months. Jackson could attribute his recent victory over the Creek Indians at Horse Shoe Bend to the courage displayed by McQueen and his Choctaw allies. The general had almost talked himself into allowing Kit to reenter the widow’s house when he noticed the third man standing between Nate Russell and Strikes With Club. He recognized the uniform even at night.
“By heaven, a spy.” He pointed toward Harry Tregoning, who cringed as Jackson’s armed escort turned their weapons on him.
“I ain’t no spy, General, sir. Blimey, it would be a poor show if the only disguise I could come up with was a uniform of the King’s royal marines.”
“Arrest him at once!” Jackson curtly ordered. Harry cast an imploring look in Kit’s direction. Hanging was the punishment for a spy. The thought of dancing a dead man’s jig from the nearest tree branch made the Cornishman go sick inside.
“I don’t know how in the name of Jehovah you made it through our lines—” Jackson began.
“I brought him through,” Kit interrupted.
Jackson sputtered, and turned on McQueen as if the lieutenant had physically struck him. “You what!”
“He’s my prisoner.”
“Indeed, then why isn’t he in irons?” Jackson was scowling now, and his normally bad temper grew worse. “He’s seen our defenses.”
“We sort of had an agreement, Your Generalship,” Harry said, flashing his most winning smile. “You see, I promised not to try and escape, and that way I figured Mr. McQueen… uh… the lieutenant… might visit his lady fair. I mean, I ain’t in no hurry to taste the prison bread, if you catch my drift.” Harry moved into the moonlight to reveal he was unarmed. Bluffing was the only course open to him. He scratched beneath his arm and continued his explanation, much to Kit’s chagrin. “Let no one say that Harry Tregoning lacks respect for true love. Why, a good woman is worth her weight in gold, don’t you agree, General, sir? What do you say?”
Andrew Jackson seemed to swell in size. Color came to his cheeks and lightning flashed in his eyes. “What do I say…?” He grabbed the cap from his head and wadded it up in his fist. The stone-faced men of the Tennessee Volunteers flanked their commander. With guns leveled, they awaited his orders. Old Hickory’s iron gray hair stuck out from his head in wild disarray. “What do I say?” He looked from Harry to Kit, his gaze darting back and forth from one man to the other. “Arrest them both!”
“Y
OU CAN’T ARREST ME,
” said Kit McQueen, standing at attention in the middle of Jackson’s study. The general had taken an apartment at 106 Royal Street and had commandeered a spacious suite on the second floor of a three-story building whose balconies were trimmed with wrought-iron railing forged to resemble a swirl of black vines across the face of both the second and third stories. “Come on, now, General,” Kit continued. “I was placed under your command to aid in routing the Creeks and destroying their confederacy. My presence here is of my own choosing and beyond my assigned duties. I am an officer in the army of the United States. Your ranking originated in the militia. You’re a volunteer like the Tennesseans manning the breastworks.”
“And you, sir, by your own admission were not posted to New Orleans and are therefore also a volunteer and subsequently under my authority.” Jackson chuckled at his own cleverness and eased back in the chair behind the desk. He clasped his hands beneath his chin and allowed his gaze to drift over the shelves of books and, in the corner, a whatnot carved of cherry wood and displaying a collection of stoneware tankards with pewter caps. On a nearby table, a silver tray was set with a dark green bottle of sherry and another of elderberry cordial and three short-stemmed glasses, one of which still held traces of a reddish brown liquid. “However, this argument is meaningless. You see, Lieutenant, a few months ago the secretary of war appointed me the commander of Military District Number Seven, which includes Tennessee, Louisiana, and the Mississippi Territory.” The general was taking obvious pleasure at McQueen’s discomfort. He had pointedly avoided telling Kit McQueen of the appointment, saving the news for just such a moment when the upstart lieutenant attempted to avoid Jackson’s orders. “Any way you slice it, Lieutenant, it’s still humble pie. You are under my jurisdiction and I can have you stand post, flogged, or dance naked in a briar patch.”
Kit inwardly groaned. He’d been able to pick and choose his orders up to now, allowing himself the freedom to act in a way he thought was best for himself and Iron Hand’s Choctaws. But the game had changed and a new one begun and General Andrew Jackson was writing the rules.