Creole Hearts Page 16

  The next three days passed with only occasional skirmishing near the swamp. The Americans celebrated New Year's Eve with fiddle music and square dancing, the Creoles enjoying with them their "good ole Nongela," the Monongahela rye whiskey, and laughing at the sight of gaunt woodsmen, arm in arm, swinging each other in the vigorous dance.

  General Jackson ordered a review of the troops on New Year's Day, with civilians from New Orleans invited to journey downriver to watch. Creoles and Americans began arriving at eight o'clock in the morning. The bands tuned up and the troops assembled, ready to march as soon as General Jackson appeared at the rude plank re viewing stand.

  Suddenly the fearsome hiss of a Congreve rocket threaded through the strains of Le Chant du Depart, bursting overhead with a crash that silenced the band. The rockets were harmless enough, though their sound frightened the horses. When the British cannon began to roar, though, the civilians fled back toward the city. Guy ran to his post, seeing Dominique You atop the embankment, blood running down his arm, fist raised at the unseen enemy artillerymen.

  "Shoot at me, will you? Miserables!" Dominique cried. "You will pay. Nom de Dieu, how you'll pay!"

  On and on the cannonade roared, until a heavy cloud of acrid smoke hung over the field. When the British artillery fell silent, Guy peered anxiously toward the enemy lines but could see nothing through the smoke. The line waited tensely, but still no attack came.

  As the days passed, the Americans amused themselves with wrestling matches, the Creoles with cockfights. A week went by. Before daybreak on the eighth, British rockets roused Jackson's men.

  Guy stumbled through the early morning fog to his position in the lines, rubbing his hands together to warm them. This had been the coldest night yet. He looked over the embankment,. Undoubtedly another false alarm. Across the fields, the mist was thinning as an icy breeze blew off the river.

  "Dieu!" he exclaimed involuntarily when the mist lifted abruptly, revealing two long columns of redcoats advancing not six hundred yards away. Each column looked to be at least sixty men wide and only le bon Dieu knew how many men deep. The British soldiers wore white crossbelts secured on their chests with square brass buckles, a fine target.

  Guy checked his gun, checked it again, fidgeting as he waited for the order to fire. There came the Highlanders, wearing red and green kilts instead of trousers. The bayonets glinted in the rising sun.

  No bands played today, though the skirl of the bagpipes sounded eerily in the dawn. Along Jackson's line the men watched silently. Would the order to shoot never come? The enemy was four hundred yards away. Three hundred.

  "Feu a volonti!" The command came to the artillery. "Fire at will." The gunners blew on slow matches and thrust them onto the cannon's touch holes. Shot flew at the redcoats.

  British cannon took up the challenge, shooting over the heads of their advancing infantry. Smoke rolled over the troops. An officer behind Guy yelled, "Get ready to fire, boys."

  All along the line musket hammers clicked to full cock Redcoats appeared through the smoke.

  Guy aimed at a mounted officer prancing beside his men.

  “Fire!”

  As smoke roiled, hiding the British, Guy saw the officer topple from his horse. He smiled grimly. Guy stepped back off the firing step, letting the man behind him go forward to fire while he reloaded, for the line was three men deep so no time was lost.

  When he stood again on the firestep he nodded with satisfaction at the great gaps in the British line. Good shooting. But still they came on.

  "Up, up the bayonets!" a redcoat officer shouted, a tall officer on a bay charger. His scarlet coat shone with gold lace.

  “I’m gonna get that pretty fellow!" a Tennessean cried.

  Rifles cracked and the horse fell heavily, the rider tumbling to the ground where he lay, unmoving.

  "General Gibbs is hit!" a British officer shouted.

  The decimated columns of redcoats wavered, turned and fled for their own lines. Only the Highlanders remained in formation, still facing the withering fire.

  There was a lull and then Guy, stepping up to fire again, saw that a mounted British officer was rallying the men behind the Highlanders. More redcoats appeared, some carrying fascines, scaling ladders, to span the fosse and climb the embankment. They ran toward his lines and he aimed, fired, and saw a Highlander go down as he let the next man take his place.

  An American to his left in the ditch moaned, clutching a shattered arm while blood spurted everywhere. Guy sprang to the man's side, yanking off his own neckerchief to tie tightly above the wound. Guy uncapped the soldier's canteen and handed it to him.

  The man took a deep draught. The pungent reek of whiskey rose to Guy's nostrils—it wasn't water the canteen held.

  "That helps, it does," the man said weakly. "I thank ye. Timothy O'Donnell never forgets a kindness and I'll do the same for ye someday.”

  Guy grabbed up his musket and, as he rammed shot into the barrel, he saw a plumed British helmet rise above the embankment. Muskets cracked, red blossomed on the soldier's forehead and he fell back, disappearing.

  On the firing step once more, Guy waited a moment before aiming. The redcoats were again retreating, the mounted officer who'd rallied them earlier, dashing among the stragglers, shouting. As he watched, a shot flung the officer from his horse.

  A cry went up from the British line.

  "General Packenham!"

  For a moment more of the redcoats came on, then suddenly all their troops were in rout, running away from the fighting, stumbling and falling as musket shots continued to pick them off. An untold number of British soldiers lay on the field, dead or too badly hurt to move.

  Guy woke the next morning to hear bells pealing from the towers of St. Louis Cathedral. Other church bells joined in.

  Victory bells. The Battle of New Orleans had been won!

  Chapter 17

  "You hardly spoke to Annette Louise," Madelaine protested to Guy when she came back into the townhouse after seeing her friend to her carriage.

  They were living in the city until a new manor house could be built. Not downriver, on the left bank, where La Belle lay in ruins, but on La Branche land near Lake Pontchartrain where Guy had his slaves clearing fields to plant cane.

  "Didn't I greet Annette Louise? Ask after her health?"

  "You know what I mean. You swept into the room and swept out with little Gabe. She had to collect him from you when she was ready to leave,"

  "The boy needs the company of men. He's too much with women."

  "You're very fond of Gabe."

  Guy nodded. "He reminds me of his father." He cocked his head, eyeing Madelaine. "I begin to detect a sinister plan in Annette Louise's frequent visits, dear sister."

  "She comes on my invitation!"

  "That's the point I make. It finally dawns on me you're trying to pair us up, marry me off to Annette Louise."

  Madelaine smiled. "You must admit it would be a perfect match. Gabe needs a father and who would make a better one than his own father's best friend?"

  "And what about me? What about poor Annette Louise? You'd throw us together, willy nilly, just so Gabe would have a father?"

  Madelaine made a face. "You used to say she was the prettiest of all my friends."

  "She's very pretty, but I hadn't thought of marrying her. Or anyone, for that matter. And I don't know that she'd have me. All Annette Louise ever says to me is, 'be careful of Gabe .‘"

  "What chance do you give her for any other conversation? And, dear brother, I happen to know Annette Louise has always admired you."

  "I'll promise be a gracious host on her next visit—no more." Guy grinned at his sister and left her in the parlor, striding from the house to the stable where Ancin waited with General, Guy's newly purchased black stallion.

  He intended to ride down the river road to what was left of La Belle, perhaps for the last time. An American merchant had made him an offer for the land and he needed the money
to develop the new sugarcane plantation on Lake Pontchartrain.

  All the hogsheads of sugar stored in the La Belle warehouse had been destroyed in the fighting. The house had been burned, and two slaves killed. Luckily, he'd moved most of his livestock before the British took possession, but nothing could make up for the loss of the processed sugar. He had nothing to show for the entire year's yield.

  They weren't penniless, but the new plantation would show no profit for several years, so he could certainly put the American’s dollars to good usage. Besides, he didn't want La Belle any longer. It was dead and gone. Like Senalda. Like Aimee. And Gabriel.

  Guy rode out of the courtyard into the street. Since the battle with the British he'd been mired in melancolie. Everything seemed an anticlimax.

  Certainly what had happened after General Jackson’s triumphal entry into New Orleans on January twenty third had left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth.

  Guy thought back to that exciting day when every balcony and rooftop on the general's route had teemed with cheering people. In the Place d'Armes an arch of triumph curved imposingly atop Corinthian columns.

  Two lovely young ladies, one Creole, one American, stood on pedestals to either side. The girls, dressed in Grecian draperies, represented Justice and Liberty. Other beautiful maidens graced pedestals between the arch and St. Louis Cathedral, each holding a banner with the name of a state or territory.

  Andrew Jackson, unsmiling, his face gaunt and sallow, yet immaculate in full dress uniform, marched down the carpeted path to cannon salvos and the shouts of the people. Cheers went up as he stepped beneath the arch, stopped, and was crowned by Justice and Liberty with the laurel wreaths of a victorious hero.

  Abbe Dubourg, standing at the entrance to St. Louis Cathedral, welcomed the general and they entered the church to celebrate a solemn high mass. The festivities reached their peak during the evening when, at the Grand Ball, General Jackson led his round dumpling of a wife in a reel, to the tune of "Possum Up De Gum Tree."

  The sight of the tall, thin general and the short, plump Madame la Generale jigging up and down together was too much for most of the Creoles. But the laughter was good natured for wasn't he their hero? And any Creole appreciated a woman who liked to eat, as Rachel Jackson obviously did.

  If only the aftermath of the war could have ended on that happy note. But it was not to be. Jackson, who was not certain that the British wouldn't return, maintained martial law. He refused to discharge the men from the army, even after everyone had heard of the peace signed at Ghent between the United States and England. When State Senator Louailler argued with Jackson, the senator was arrested and court martialed.

  Federal Judge Hall protested this move and Jackson clapped him in jail, too. Only when an order to pardon all military offenses came from Washington did Jackson relent and release the senator and judge, and send the soldiers home.

  Judge Hall promptly retaliated by arresting Jackson for contempt of court. New Orleans divided, pro and con, but there was no doubt in any Baratarians' mind who was wrong. On March twenty fourth, when Jackson appeared in Judge Hall's court in civilian dress, the room was full of them. Dominique You leaped to his feet.

  "Generale!" he shouted. "Say the word and we'll pitch into the river the judge, the lawyers, and the courthouse itself!"

  Jackson quelled the near riot that followed, stood before the judge, head bowed, and listened to Hall sentence him to a fine of one thousand dollars. Jackson paid the money, bowed to the judge, and left the court. The Baratarians lifted him onto their shoulders and carried him off to Maspero's Exchange to toast him far into the night.

  Arguments still waxed hot over who'd been right, Jackson or Hall.

  Guy shrugged, feeling it unimportant who was right or wrong. The bitter feelings that remained in the city after General Jackson's departure in April troubled him more.

  A hero ought to depart in triumph.

  He saved us from the British, Guy told himself, as he spurred his horse along the river road, eyeing the shell shattered plantations to his left. New Orleans would look as bad if Jackson hadn't rallied us, and kept us together to fight. I'm proud to have been one of his soldiers.

  He passed war ravaged Chalmette, then Bienvenu, his dark mood deepening, though the sun sparkled on the brown water of the river.

  The side wheeler Enterprise, captained by Henry Shreve, steamed upriver. Guy watched the boat, wondering if, now that the fighting was over and Jackson no longer was using Shreve's boat to ferry ammunition, the captain would be arrested—along with the owner of the boat, a man named French—for defying the Fulton Livingstone steamboat monopoly on the Mississippi.

  The thought depressed him further.

  Perhaps Madelaine was right and he should consider marrying. Annette Louise would make a good wife. She was agreeable, certainly, and he loved little Gabe like a son. She could give him sons of his own. The war had thrust home to him man’s fragile hold on life, and he felt an urgency to father a La Branche heir. He needed a son to carry on the name.

  He rode past de la Ronde, La Coste Villere, seeing ahead the crumbling chimneys of La Belle. They were all that was left of the manor house. Guy slowed General to a walk as he looked at the shell pocked fields and splintered grinding mill.

  Most of the giant oaks still stood, but three had been shattered by the cannonading, leaving gaps along the shaded avenue leading from the river. A lump came into his throat as he gazed at what once had been one of the finest plantations in Louisiana.

  He turned away, wheeling the black stallion, and galloped toward the city. Nothing was left for him here. There’d be a new home on the lake, a new beginning. He’d marry Annette Louise and sire sons. Madelaine would marry, too, he’d make her see it was necessary.

  The La Branche family would start afresh, grow and multiply stronger than ever.

  Madeline paced along the bayou east of the city, her new rendezvous with Philippe. Empress was gone, taken by the British and her new mare, Dolly, snorted, twitching her ears before dropping her head to crop the grass near the water’s edge. What was keeping him? Madeline rubbed her hand across her forehead it seemed she always had a slight headache these days, always felt a bit nauseated, She lacked her usual energy.

  Dolly lifted her head, and, a moment later, Madelaine heard a horse picking its way through the underbrush. She turned toward the sound. Philippe rode into the clearing and slid off his bay gelding.

  "Sorry if I've kept you waiting, but I had some trouble finding what I needed,” he said, holding out a small packet.

  "What is it?"

  "Vedette Rusert made it up for you. It's certain to work."

  "You've brought me a voodoo potion? Why?"

  "What other solution is there?" he asked.

  Understanding left Madelaine momentarily speechless.

  "You mix the potion with--"

  "Philippe Roulleaux!" she cried, knocking his hand aside so that he dropped the packet.

  "What's the matter?"

  Tears came into her eyes. "How could you?" she asked. "How could you possibly go to that voodooienne and buy a potion from her to be rid of our baby?"

  He tried to put his arms about her but she jerked away.

  "I won't take anything to hurt our child," she said, laying her hands protectively over her stomach. "How could you think I would?"

  "But Madelaine ..."

  "It's a sin!"

  "Other women--"

  "I won't!" Her voice rose. "You can't make me!"

  Philippe took her into his arms. "No one is going to force you," he said soothingly.

  She looked up at him. "You don't love me—or you wouldn't have asked me to attempt such a thing."

  "I do love you. It seemed the best remedy."

  "We'll run off together. Oh, Philippe, why don't we?"

  He sighed. "I've explained why. Now is the worst possible time to leave Nicolas. The war--”

  "Don't tell me how the war has hurt the pla
nters, I'm tired of hearing it." She stepped back. "I won't take any potion to rid myself of the baby and you won't consider taking me away from New Orleans. What do you plan to do?" Her tone was cool.

  Muscles bunched in his jaw. "I'll talk to your brother," he said. "That's all there's left for me to do."

  Guy crossed the courtyard of the townhouse and climbed the steps, well satisfied. He'd just returned from De Chemise, the Davion plantation across the river, where Annette Louise had listened to his proposal of marriage unsurprised, though not unmoved.

  While she hadn't given him a definite yes, saying she must think what was best for Gabe's future, Guy felt certain she'd agree. There'd been something in her glance, a beckoning coyness that he'd never seen before, and she hadn't objected at all when he kissed her.

  If he wasn't in love with her, still she was a most agreeable armful of woman.

  "Madelaine," he called as he entered the house, "I have news for you, dear sister."

  "Pardon, please, Monsieur'' old Louis said, intercepting him. "Mademoiselle say to tell you a gentleman be waiting in the salon." Louis eyed him nervously. "She be telling me to let him come in," he added.

  Guy frowned. What was this all about? He strode along the corridor and into the salon. He stopped short, aghast.

  Philippe Roulleaux stood in the salon, his image reflected in the gilt mirror so that, for a moment, Guy thought both the Roulleauxes awaited him.

  "What are you doing in my house?" Guy demanded.

  Philippe was very pale. "I've come to ask for your sister's hand," he said. "For your permission to marry her."

  "Madelaine? You wish to marry Madelaine?" Guy's voice was incredulous. He stared at Philippe in disbelief.