Patricia Rice (47 page)

Despite the crudeness of the trap, she shivered. She didn't like knowing that someone lurked in these hidden places she usually traversed alone. Her abilities were mental, not conducive to physical confrontation. She could only hope the trapper was elsewhere this night. But even as she thought this, she knew she wasn't alone.

The trees were her best resource. She blended between them, disappearing into their shadows, appearing moments later as a movement in their upper branches. The man she saw below didn't surprise her. She had as many spies as did Nicholas's enemies, and the buck-toothed overseer was a favorite target for the people who reported his movements. That he would meet with Raphael even as the sounds of the first cannon fire echoed over the water should come as no surprise, either. Raphael had been dealing with the British for months now. It only meant that he thought his time had come.

Remembering the house full of unprotected women and the child growing in the womb of the woman Nicholas loved, Belle narrowed her eyes and touched the gun in her pocket. Nicholas had given her permission to protect his mistress. She would find it very satisfying to do so with a white man's weapon.

The pounding of cannon shook the ground with the roar of thunder. A night bird screamed in a flutter of feathers in the distance. Other sounds permeated the dark as Belle wrapped around the tree limb like a snake prepared to strike. No one who knew her in the city would recognize her now, and her high-pitched laughter sent the men below whirling in circles. The crack of gunfire produced an unnatural silence.

The wild cry of a wolf brought Eavin upright. Pulling the covers around her shoulders, she climbed from the bed to stare into the mist setting over the swamp. Thunder on the first day of the new year seemed vaguely ominous. She would never get used to Louisiana weather.

No one else seemed to notice, but she couldn't throw off her uneasiness. That hadn't been a wolf she heard, she realized, it had been a woman's cry.

She sensed it, although she was certain anyone else would call her crazed. Knowing that Belle walked out there, she couldn't wait. Throwing off the blanket, Eavin began to dress.

When she arrived outside the kitchens, she found Malcolm and several of the field hands already there, weapons in their hands. There wasn't time to feel relief. The overseer nodded in greeting and drawled his commands.

"Keep the women in the house until we get back. Them's cannon I hear. Don't reckon the redcoats will be here by morning, but start loading firearms."

So he hadn't heard the cry. She could have imagined it. But she would feel better with Malcolm scouting the swamp. The other plantations would be rousing to the call, too.

Eavin kept telling herself that as she sat in the window with a rifle in her lap, watching the dawn rise. Annie had come downstairs from the nursery and roused the maids. The scent of hot coffee drifted through the drafty rooms. But the rest of the household remained blissfully sleeping.

It was then that Eavin saw Michael riding madly down the lane between the oaks, a limp figure lying lifelessly in his arms. Pain twisted in her middle, and Eavin halted in rising, placing a hand over the spot where her dreams grew. She concentrated on that one piece of magic God had given her, and the pain went away. She would be strong now. She had to be.

Eavin prayed with desperation without any definite subject. To think of what she feared most would only bring misfortune. She needed Nicholas so much she could almost taste the need.
 

Crying orders to the housemaids, Eavin hurried down the back stairs to the stable yard, knowing that Michael would go there. He didn't belong in the gallery and the big house, any more than Eavin or Belle. Their place had always been in the kitchens and stables with the other servants.
 

He was already handing Belle to one of the men when Eavin raced into the breaking dawn. His eyes were glassy with shock and grief as he slid from the horse and reached for the burden he had carried all this way. At Eavin's approach, he followed her through the silent yard to the
garçonnière
.

He hovered near the window as Eavin ordered hot water and bandages and began to pull at the dirt-encrusted remains of Belle's clothes. She was alive. She could feel her breathing. But she gave no evidence of consciousness as Eavin threw the rags to the floor.

The broken leg was most noticeable. Eavin clenched her teeth and sent for the incompetent physician, who was never available when they most needed him. She couldn't set a leg. Her eyes were drawn to less obvious wounds, and she drew a deep breath at the placement of bruises and blood. She couldn't look up when Michael spoke.

"They raped her, didn't they? I could tell from what they did to her skirt."

There wasn't a note of emotion in her normally volatile brother's voice as he spoke. Eavin began to wash away the visible signs of violation. "Who, Michael? Who did it?"

"I shot one of them. A buck-toothed rogue with mean eyes. He already had one bullet in him. That's how I found her. I heard the shot. But it took me too long to get there."

A hint of self-condemnation tinged his voice, but he concealed any other emotion. Eavin sent a concerned look over her shoulder, but Michael was in one piece and Belle was not.

"I have to set this leg, Michael. I don't know how to do it."

Michael nodded and dashed out.

He returned shortly later with the old black priest Eavin remembered from her one Sunday at the slaves' church. Belle was modestly covered with a sheet by then, and the priest pushed it aside to reveal the crooked leg, touching it in places that had Belle squirming in her sleep.
 

In a movement too swift for Eavin to follow, the priest twisted the leg and Belle screamed, a scream much resembling the one that had woken Eavin not too many hours earlier.

Silently the old man took the bandages and pieces of broomstick Michael handed him and began to wrap the leg. Once again Belle lapsed into silence.

By this time the household had been alerted to trouble, and Eavin heard women's voices in the yard outside. She ignored them, preferring to watch the man's capable hands as he set the leg. Michael held her fingers, and she wrapped them around his, hoping to offer some comfort.

"I'm going to find whoever did this," he murmured.

There wasn't any reply Eavin could give, but the priest looked up and said, "Jenkins." When Eavin started at the familiar name of the overseer Nicholas had fired months ago, the old man nodded affirmation and returned to his work.

"That's the dead man you saw," she whispered, "the buck- toothed man. Was there someone else?"

"I couldn't see him. He ran off when he heard me coming. Belle will know him. I'll wait for her to wake." Michael sounded quite sure of himself, as if all that needed to be done was for Belle to wake up and provide a name and the problem would be solved.

Eavin gave him an incredulous look, but she could see her brother was in a state of shock and not to be argued with. If that notion kept him from falling to pieces, she wouldn't argue with him.

"We'll have to send word to Nicholas. We can't keep it from him," she replied cautiously. The idea of hearing from Nicholas almost made things look brighter. She tried to keep the need from her voice.

That returned some of the proper proportion to the day. Michael looked up with the first dawning of realization and said to the room in general, "The British launched a surprise attack last night. They're fighting in New Orleans."

Chapter 40

Michael didn't return. Nicholas didn't have time to consider the implications of this event once the British surprise attack was driven off. The arrival of swarms of rough-clad, malodorous Kentuckians kept him busy from dawn until midnight. The influx of fresh blood created excitement in the ranks, but Nicholas's fellow New Orleanians looked upon the new arrivals warily.
 

True, Jackson's rough recruits had held off the British for weeks, but who was to hold off the Kentuckians? Just their name had become synonymous with barroom brawls and reckless behavior. Nicholas harbored the secret notion that there was little difference between the hotheaded Creoles and the Kentuckians beneath their outward appearances, but he didn't voice the opinion aloud.

The news that his wife was seeking an annulment had gone the rounds of society, but Nicholas was too busy to care about laughter that grew quiet when he entered a room. He had done the wrong thing for all the right reasons, and now he was paying for that mistake. Perhaps God found it amusing to shackle him to two women who preferred his worst enemy. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.
 

He was beginning to think the women at the plantation would fare better without him. His death would resolve any number of problems. The anger within him was slowly dying as Nicholas realized beneath the hail of fire that his life had little meaning and less worth.

But in the few hours of sleep he managed each night, Nicholas still dreamed of a woman's arms and a child's laughter. These simple things kept him from throwing himself wildly into any affray as he had in his youth. It would be too easy to cross swords with Raphael or dodge bullets with the pirates. The challenge was in staying alive to defeat the British and to return home to straighten out the mess he had made of his life.

Grimly he clung to that path, even when Raphael made it a point to speak of his courtship of Gabriella to everyone. Nicholas knew the scoundrel wanted to be called out, but he fully intended for the choice of weapons next time to be his own. There would be no more playing with rapiers. The next time Raphael would die. Nicholas could wait for that moment, for it almost certainly meant that he would have to leave New Orleans. And Eavin and Jeannette.

That Eavin hadn't packed her bags and left after his monstrous marriage told him she was tied to this place more than he was. She needed the security of a home, of walls around her. She had told him often enough how much she loved the plantation, how she loved having a house where she had no one to take care of but friends and family. She didn't need to be returned to the brutal world where men thought of her as breasts and hips and nothing more. She had blossomed here, and there were men aplenty who respected her for her brains and charm. Nicholas couldn't ask her to go away with him.

Cursing, Nicholas shouted a surly command at a young soldier relaxing against a water barrel. With any luck at all, he would die a hero's death and disappear into oblivion beneath the feet of the invading British army along with all these other young boys.

When the morning of January 8 arrived, Nicholas was glad he still lived to offer his aid, but the carnage that ensued drained his soul of any remaining anger.

From his vantage point in the battlements, he watched in horror as the British commanders ordered line after line of courageous soldiers to march against the heavily armed barricades standing between themselves and New Orleans. Military theory said the greater numbers of British troops had to send Jackson's small army fleeing into the swamps—had the Americans sense enough to recognize their opponents' strength.

Instead the rough recruits screamed triumphant Indian war whoops as the pirate artillery raked through the sea of redcoats, creating barricades of bodies for the steady stream of British soldiers to climb over. The wild-eyed Americans shouted and screamed encouragement as the British continued to march, beyond the bounds of all common sense. Like ants, the red-coated soldiers formed their lines and plodded forward, secure in their officers' commands that they would overcome.

When it became apparent even the pirates' artillery wouldn't keep the swarms of British from eventually crossing the battlements, Jackson ordered his men to do what they did best—aim to kill and make every shot count. The Kentuckians raised their borrowed muskets and long rifles and leveled the first line of soldiers that made it past the artillery. While they reloaded, the Tennesseans did the same with the next line. Their accuracy exceeded that of the pirates with their heavy cannon. The carnage was tremendous—on the British side only.

By day's end, Nicholas wanted to scream at the arrogant British officers who thought life was so worthless that they could send an entire army to their deaths over a piece of worthless swamp. But by that time those officers were dead and their men were scattered from the foot of the battlements back to the sea. The Americans had less than a hundred wounded, and only six had died.

It was a victory that brought the citizens of New Orleans into the streets in a frenzy of celebration that welcomed even the rough soldiers. Nicholas washed the gunpowder from his face and allowed one of Jackson's aides-de-camp to treat the wound in his shoulder as he listened to the riotous music rising from the square. He had done his best to get himself honorably killed, but it wasn't enough. Now it was time to settle old debts and go home.

Before Nicholas could seek out Raphael, he was ordered to report to the general's rooms. Grimacing, he pulled his coat over his bandaged arm, ignored the tie of his cravat, and limped to Jackson's headquarters. He had not yet had time to pull off his boot to see how much damage the fallen cannon had done to his foot.

"You know this man?" Jackson demanded as soon as Nicholas walked through the door. He gestured toward a slight man hanging between the captive holds of two lanky Kentuckians.