CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You must speak to the governor, Favian,” Maria-Anna said. “He has information you do not; he’d be able to evaluate Laffite’s intelligence better than you.”
“I think certain members of the Committee for Public Safety might be informed as well,” Gideon said. “But you’ll not wish to inform all of them— the news would be all over town in hours, and then this Guard of the Eagle would be aware of your interest.”
“Which of the committee do you suggest?” Favian asked. He swiped at his nose with a handkerchief. He had caught a mild version of Marie’s cold.
“Edward Livingston— he’s a friend of the Laffites anyway, one of their attorneys,” Gideon said. “Patterson, of course. General Morgan, maybe, or George Ogden.”
“Possibly Augustin de Macarty,” Maria-Anna added.
“He may be Irish in ancestry, Maria-Anna,” Gideon objected, “but he’s French at heart; he fought with the French Navy in the last war. The Creoles may be sympathetic to the Guard’s purposes. Born Americans only, I think.”
“Claiborne, anyway,” Favian said. “I thank you.”
It was late afternoon, the afternoon following the ball. Favian, sleeping in his hotel, had been awakened just after twelve by Lieutenant Thomas Cunningham of Gunboat Number 5, who had acted as Dr. Solomon’s second. Cunningham politely reported that the duel had been fought that morning, as arranged, at “The Oaks” dueling ground: both had missed at the first fire, and at the second Solomon had wounded Lieutenant Glimph in the knee. It was not yet known whether Glimph would lose his leg. “Dr. Solomon conducted himself bravely, as a gentleman,” Cunningham reported.
“Very well,” Favian had told him, noncommittal, a sour taste in his mouth. He wondered if, to avoid further duels, he would have to confine every Navy man in New Orleans to his ship.
“I thought you would wish to know, sir. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Cunningham had saluted and left.
News of the duel had passed rapidly through the city. Solomon had become something of a popular hero, the idea of a fighting priest appealing to the popular romantic imagination, while Glimph was being disparaged as a man who had apparently felt himself free to insult the clergy until brought up short by Solomon’s challenge. Of the stories Favian heard in the café in which he’d eaten his midday meal, none bore any resemblance to the truth as he understood it— Glimph had almost certainly fought the duel unaware he was shooting at a priest— but at least the Navy seemed to have come off with some credit, and Favian did not bother to correct his informers.
Eugénie Desplein had not come that afternoon, but Favian had not expected her: no doubt she was performing Campaspe’s duties as well as her own. He had waited, though, for her appearance; later he’d paid his daily visit to Claiborne to make his usual speech in favor of a declaration of martial law. The newspapers had mentioned a meeting of the Defense Committee that evening— the Defense Committee, chaired by Bernard de Marigny, that was created by the legislature in rivalry to Livingston’s Committee for Public Safety.
“I will speak to Claiborne early this evening,” Favian said. “Before he meets with the Defense Committee.”
“De Marigny is chairing that committee, isn’t he?” Maria-Anna asked, her bright eyes bespeaking a lively interest. “I would very much like to get Marigny to my poque sessions; he’s a high-rolling gambler. Been known to lose thirty thousand in a night, rolling dice. In the Faubourg Marigny there’s even a lane known as the Rue de Craps, named after his favorite game. I would like to convert him to cards. Do you think you could arrange to bring us together?”
Favian, amused, saw Gideon’s expression of woe: if Marigny dropped thirty thousand dollars in Maria-Anna’s poque parlor, it would be difficult to give a like sum to charity without his wife finding out— and even Gideon, Favian assumed, would have a long, exhausting battle with his conscience before giving away that kind of money. Thirty thousand would make any American a wealthy man for life. But then Gideon was already wealthy: his successful privateering had probably brought him a fortune.
“I’ve met the man— he gives himself regal airs, and I suppose he’s the nearest New Orleans has to royalty,” Favian said. “I doubt he’d accept any invitation to a Yankee privateer’s parlor.” He saw the relief in Gideon Markham’s eyes, and then added, “But certainly he will be at any number of public receptions in the next few weeks. I will introduce you if I can.” Dismay flooded Gideon’s face. Favian controlled his smile with ease.
“Gideon,” he said, “you know the naval force the New Orleans station, with the exception of the Macedonia, are committed to their stations. We can’t spare any force to deal with the Cat Island menace except for the frigate, and the frigate’s unsuitable for those shallow waters around Cat Island.”
“Aye,” Gideon said. “ ’Tis a shame that our government has not recognized the menace to the Mississippi and given us the force we need.”
Favian recognized the uncompromising tone: Gideon’s hatred for Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and the others of the Democratic-Republican government was bitter, and of long standing. Given Gideon’s history, Favian knew, he would probably have hated as relentlessly as Gideon: a wife and child who had died of starvation due to the Embargo were reason enough for hatred.
Favian had met Madison two years before and rather liked him, sympathizing with the position of this retiring intellectual who had found himself the head of a country at war with the greatest power of old Europe. But he had thought Madison unsuitable: a man of greater force might have withstood the demands of Congress for war long enough to have made certain the country was actually prepared to fight, and to pay for the fighting, rather than simply wander into the war and affect surprise when every army sent against the enemy collapsed or surrendered. If the Navy had not held firm on the Lakes the British would have taken everything north of the Ohio..
And of course the United States was bankrupt now, Favian knew; the armies were being equipped on credit, and the Navy as well— a little greater expense earlier on could have ended the war sooner, and saved money in the long run.
“Yes,” Favian said. “We’re sadly underequipped. But the country itself is strong; our little force can be used for defense with some good effect. But striking out, acting offensively, we are weak. If I could get Macedonian to Cat Island, we could smash the Guard there, but the frigate draws too much water— I barely got it into the Mississippi.
“We need small vessels with good crews, Gideon,” Favian said. “And you have them. Malachi’s Revenge is ideal; you’re part owner of Fontenoy’s Franklin; and you’ll have the captured schooner once the prize court rules. If you can contract your vessels to the government, we can arrange to split the prize money between the government forces and your own, and—”
“On what basis?” Maria-Anna asked quickly. Favian looked at her calculating expression and smiled.
“Fifty percent is what I would suggest,” Favian said, “but that depends on the precise terms you can get out of the authorities here.”
“Fifty percent,” Maria-Anna mused. “It will be our privateers, it seems, who will be doing most of the work.”
“Under Navy command,” Favian said. “And your vessels will have Navy men and officers aboard, plus Macedonian’s marine complement.”
“Who pays for the powder and shot?”
“The government, I suppose,” Favian said. He glanced from Maria-Anna to Gideon, who was slowly cutting himself a plug of tobacco with his pocketknife.
“I opposed the annexation of Louisiana,” he said. “America was big enough, I thought; if we took so much territory, we would be involving ourselves in European disputes. And I was right. Why should a New Hampshireman fight for New Orleans?”
“I thought you were a Federalist,” Favian said. “We— the Navy anyway— swear allegiance to the United States of America, not to our state of origin. The obligation is to defend all citizens, not just those of our region. Were New Hampshire invaded, you would have no objection to Louisianians marching to its aid.”
“The Louisianians would not come to New Hampshire,” Gideon said. His tone was contemptuous. “During the Creek War these grand gentlemen would not even march to help Baton Rouge or Mobile. Said it was none of their affair.” He snorted contemptuously and popped the chewing tobacco into his mouth. “What the frogs meant was that they would find it inconvenient to be absent for a few weeks from their brothels, saloons, and gambling hells! Even now that their city is in direct danger of attack, they can raise only five hundred men from a population of twenty thousand! They expect Jackson’s men from Tennessee and Kentucky to do their fighting for them.”
“Use of your ships for a few days, Gideon,” Favian said. “That’s all I need. A few days to take Cat Island and drive off the Guard. You’ll have half the prize money, at least half. The prize money from fifteen ships and whatever we find on the island, and all for a few days’ labor.”
“How many months will it take to get the prize money?” Gideon asked. “Sitting here in this doomed city, waiting for the prize court to rule— it was bad enough with Musquetobite and the schooner.”
“You don’t have to stay here for that. The money can be sent to New Hampshire.”
Gideon frowned. “Specie payments have been suspended from all local banks,” he said. “There’s a financial crisis here because there’s been no export since the war began. No, the money won’t be transferred until the war is over, and the war will probably end with the British in possession of Louisiana.”
Favian looked at Maria-Anna and saw that he would have no help there: Gideon’s arguments made sense, at least from the self-interested perspective of a privateer..
“Gideon,” Favian said, “I want to stop the British. Our enemies, Gideon— we’ve both spent years fighting them, as did our fathers before us. The British, Gideon. They’ve kept their forts in our land, they’ve burned and plundered from Falmouth in the last war to Hampton in this one, they’ve given the Indians the guns and tomahawks to kill our people, they’ve pressed our sailors into their wars, and even made them fight their countrymen— and now they’re sending an army and fleet to this city.”
Favian chopped the table with the edge of his hand, a blow from an imaginary sword. “I want to stop them, Gideon,” he said. “And I want you to help me.”
He saw Gideon’s face harden, his eyes grow fierce. There was a lot of his father Josiah in him, Favian saw, Josiah the pious, uncompromising hater of the British, but would the father win out over the businessman? Gideon was a privateer— he could sail for New Hampshire tomorrow and there was no way short of piracy to stop him.
“Very well,” Gideon said. “I will help you if the business arrangements are satisfactory.”
“Thank you,” Favian said, his mind chattering relief. “I will— it’s a generous thing you’ve done, Gideon, and I will make certain the world does not forget it.”
“Do not thank me,” Gideon said, his eyes aflame. “It is the will of the Almighty that we are here together— and he is bringing the British here as well. We will have a reckoning, we and the British, God’s will be done.”
Maria-Anna looked at Gideon with resignation: no point in contradicting him in these moods..
Favian felt exultation in his heart. Gideon’s strength and determination were qualities New Orleans needed, and he was truly grateful— to God, Gideon, or merest Chance, whatever principle applied.
With Gideon’s assurance in his pocket, Favian approached Claiborne that night, before the scheduled meeting with the Defense Committee, and told him of his encounter with the Laffites. Claiborne turned pale, muttering “My God!” as Favian told him of the Guard’s reason for helping the British, and then turned thoughtful as Favian related his plan for the suppression of Cat Island.
“It’s a convincing story,” Claiborne said in the end. “We can’t discount it.” He was dressed in his immaculate self-designed uniform, pelican ribbon and all; his collar was so high he couldn’t turn his head, and during Favian’s entire speech his face had been fixed straight forward, immobile. “Even if the people on Cat Island are not allied with the British, we can’t take the chance.”
“But our expedition must be a secret one,” Favian said. “The Defense Committee can’t know, nor can the Committee for Public Safety or the legislature. We can’t trust the Creoles in this matter.”
“Commodore Markham, one cannot ever trust the Creoles,” Claiborne said flatly. “And I am speaking as one who has married into the Creoles here. They are a frivolous, disunited people, and they blow hot and cold as the mood takes them. New Orleans was a colony for too many years, I suppose, dependent on decisions made in Europe— these people are not used to thinking and acting for themselves. No, we can’t tell them. We can’t tell anyone.”
“Gideon’s volunteering his squadron makes it easier,” Favian said. “He won’t have any trouble getting crew for the schooner once it’s ready, and he can keep a secret better than most.”
“General Jackson will have to be told, of course,” Claiborne said. “I’ve received word that he’s spending this evening at John Kilty Smith’s plantation, upriver. He’ll arrive there tonight. My wife is making arrangements for a formal reception— the orders will be going out later tonight, under my signature. Apparently he’ll be staying at de Marigny’s.” He leaned back in his chair, looking uncomfortable, plump, and unmartial in his stiff uniform, and smiled. “I’ll be thankful to have someone else dealing with the Committee for Defense.”
So the long-awaited Major General Andrew Jackson would finally appear tomorrow, Favian thought. There would, he supposed, be a grand review of the New Orleans battalion, all five hundred of them; there would be speeches, banquets, illuminations, balls— and in return for these entertainments, Jackson would be saddled with the heartbreaking problems of mobilizing the reluctant citizens to fight a British attack that could come from any one of a half dozen different directions. He hoped Jackson was up to it— outside of a number of duels, the man had only fought Indians, and although he had fought them well, Favian would personally have preferred a man more accustomed to combat against a regular army: General Harrison, for instance, or Jacob Brown..
Well, no doubt the city would be happy to have Jackson— or at any rate the thousands of veteran soldiers, from Kentucky and Tennessee, that would be following him.
Favian made his farewells to the governor, satisfied with his visit, and made his escape before the Committee of Defense could embroil him in their tedious business.
The next morning he stood on the speaker’s platform at the Place d’Armes with Patterson, Edward Livingston, Mayor Girod, and Claiborne, waiting with half the city for the appearance of General Jackson. Patterson had been told of the Cat Island situation early that morning, over breakfast in Favian’s hotel, and after his initial surprise had faded, Patterson had pronounced himself in agreement with Favian’s plan. No wonder, Favian thought; it would leave Patterson in command in New Orleans again.
At ten o’clock the minute guns began booming from Fort St. Charles announcing the approach of the general, heralding as well a drizzling rain that began to patter down on the heads and shoulders of the citizens; soon there were cheers from distant crowds, the cheers nearing the square as the general’s party approached. The party on the reviewing stand rose; the Chasseur band began to play “Hail, the Conquering Hero Comes.” Jackson and his party appeared across the square.
What, Favian wondered afterward, had the crowd been expecting? A military dandy like Claiborne, a stern, plainspoken soldier like Ross, a polished, distant, formal disciplinarian like Patterson? Whatever New Orleans was expecting, surely it was not this scarecrow apparition..
Jackson rode, wearily, out of the rain astride a horse wearier than he, his face a long, pale smudge against the dark horsemen behind him. There was a battered old leather cap on his head, a mud-stained short blue Spanish cloak around his shoulders. The worn leather of his dragoon boots showed through cracked polish. The wild hair that stuck out from beneath the leather cap was gray, and the face was long and yellow. The deep-set eyes were sunken, and there was a disturbing apparition of pain in them. It was clear that General Jackson was very ill.
Favian gave an inward smile. Ill though he might be, Andrew Jackson knew how to cause a sensation. Favian remembered, two years before, Stephen Decatur stepping onto the bloodstained deck of the Macedonian dressed in a plan black homespun coat and battered old hat, looking like a plain Yankee farmer amid all the glitter and gold of the other American and British officers. He had stood out all the more because of the triumph he wore: he had come to take possession of the frigate his guns had pounded into submission..
Decatur had always known how to stand out in a crowd; and it was clear that Jackson did as well. The stained old travel dress plainly told the crowd that here was something they had never seen before.
Jackson and his staff dismounted, and the general climbed painfully to the reviewing platform. “Are you ill, General?” Claiborne asked as he clasped the general’s hand. “Shall we cancel the reception?”
“Keep it short, for the love of God,” Jackson said. Claiborne introduced the others on the platform. Favian saw a flicker of interest in Jackson’s eyes as he shook the general’s hand: there will be a little maneuvering between us later, Favian thought, as we try to feel one another out. Jackson had met Patterson before, but Favian was someone new; there would be a delicate little military minuet between the two, probably at the scheduled council meeting that afternoon.
“This is Mr. Edward Livingston,” Claiborne said. “He will translate into French any remarks you may care to make.”
“Very well.” Jackson took a breath and straightened: he was built like Favian, tall and thin, and like Favian he bore the scars of his campaigns, an old saber cut on his cheek.
The Chasseur band wheezed to a halt with a flurry of drums and an extended chord that fell flat in the moist air. Through a gust of wind that rattled the papers of his written speech, Claiborne gave a shortened version of his flowery address, extemporizing to the extent of remarking, as the rain pattered down, that “the sun is never shining more brilliantly than when you are among us.” Mayor Girod also gave a short welcoming speech, and then Claiborne stepped in to introduce Major General Jackson.
“Citizens!” Jackson barked as he brought out a written address, Livingston’s echo of “Citoyens!” coming on the heels of his opening. Jackson looked at the address, hesitated a moment, and then stuffed the speech back into his pocket. “I want to say only a few words,” he said. “I am a fighter, not a writer.” There were scattered cheers as this was translated, but the general held up a hand to quiet them. “I wish simply to say that I have come to your city,” he said, “to drive your enemies into the sea, or to perish in the attempt!” Favian saw the sudden burning light in the deep-sunk eyes, and thought: My God, this man is a hater! There was a bitter passion in Jackson, it seemed, akin to that in Gideon— the two, Favian thought, were much alike.
Jackson abruptly stepped back from the platform, pulled his speech out again, and handed it to Claibome. “Please see that the full text is printed in the papers,” he said. “I’d be much obliged.” His words were buried in sudden cheering as the crowd realized the speeches were at an end. The startled band began to blunder its way through “Hail, Columbia.”.
There was a swift consultation on the platform: Claiborne wondered if the. general would like to postpone his meeting with the authorities until he was more recovered; the general looked at the military figures sharing the platform and said he would see them all in an hour’s time at his headquarters. Rain began to come down in buckets, and by the time the band finished its tune, the Place d’Arrives was nearly deserted.
Jackson and his party left on horseback, splashing through the muck; Favian and Patterson huddled into their boat cloaks and followed on foot; arriving at Jackson’s headquarters nearly as streaked with mud as the general. As they approached Jackson’s assigned headquarters at 106 Rue Royale, Favian saw Major Bernard de Marigny stepping into his carriage, his face crimson and his eyes hard. There was a curt command to the driver, and de Marigny’s carriage sped off through the streets, arrogantly flinging clumps of mud at the passersby.
“What set Marigny off?” Favian wondered. “Jackson was supposed to be his houseguest.”
“No longer, I suspect,” Patterson said. “I suppose it has to do with de Marigny’s father-in-law.”
“Someone named Morales, isn’t it?” asked Favian. “What’s he got to do with— Good day, Major,” he said, addressing the young officer guarding Jackson’s door. “Captains Markham and Patterson present their compliments to the general and request some of his time when convenient.”
“It’s convenient now,” came a voice from the interior: Jackson’s. In the gray light of the windows Jackson looked jaundiced and emaciated; the lanky body moved as if with considerable pain. “Come in. This is Major Tatum, my chief engineer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Major,” Favian said. “Wasn’t that Major de Marigny I just saw leaving?”
“Oh, yes,” Tatum said carelessly. “I sent him packing.”
Good God, why? Favian almost shouted. Insulting the most powerful Creole in the city was hardly the best way to begin Jackson’s stay in New Orleans. Jackson, watching pensively as a silent black servant took the naval officers’ hats and coats, answered the unspoken question.
“I won’t be staying at the house of a damned spy,” he growled. “He’s the son-in-law of Juan Morales, who used to be the Spanish consul— knee-deep in plots to return West Florida to Spain.”
“Major de Marigny,” said Patterson, “is an important man. I’m sure he’s not a spy.”
“Mm,” Jackson growled. “Maybe not. But I’m not taking any chances. This way, gentlemen.”
In Jackson’s study Favian was introduced to Colonel McRae and Colonel Hayne, aides-de-camp; Colonel Ross of the 44th was already present. Jackson lowered himself wearily into a padded leather chair. Favian noticed Jackson had been leaving muddy footprints on the carpet..
“There’s a banquet being prepared,” Jackson said. “You gentlemen have all you want, but I won’t be joining you.” He gave a skeletal smile. “I’ve got the old soldiers’ disease. Dysentery. Comes from riding eleven days through the swamps on my way here— I wanted to see the ground. Couldn’t get any maps, I hope Claiborne will be bringing some.”
“About Major de Marigny,” Favian said. “Perhaps you should, ah, give him a good appointment. He’s a capable man, though perhaps a little young.”
Jackson sniffed. “I’ll think about it,” he said offhandedly. He looked up at Favian. “I was pleased to hear of your arrival. Without orders, wasn’t it? I like a man who can use his initiative.”
“It was imperative that the news be brought,” Favian said. “And I brought it as quickly as I could.”
“Some of the generals I’ve met could learn a little from the junior service,” Jackson said with a thin smile. “Would you gentlemen like a warm drink? And then perhaps you can tell me what you’ve been doing with your little boats.” Well, Favian thought. That’s put us in our place.
The servants brought hot tafia punch. Before Patterson could begin to explain his dispositions, a carriage drove up outside, and Claiborne, walking stiffly in his uniform, entered the house, followed by a man in civilian dress with a bundle of maps. Jackson rose to greet him.
“Gentlemen,” Claiborne said, “this is Arsene Lacarriere Latour, a civil engineer. He is the gentleman who had drawn all the maps we’ll be using, and he knows the ground very well. He is happy to volunteer his services.”
“The Spanish used my maps,” Latour said, cheerful. “They’ll probably have given them to the British. I think, General, you may wish to know what the British know.”
For some hours they went over the situation. Jackson sat nodding as the others explained the deployment of their forces; occasionally he would turn and ask a pointed question. His aides took notes. Latour was useful: he had surveyed most of the land himself. “I’ll have to see the ground,” Jackson kept saying. “I’ve been over the ground north of here— now I’ll have to go over it downstream. Fort St. Leon. Fort St. Philip. Maybe even Barataria.”
Go over the ground. A sound notion, Favian thought; knowledge of the terrain was one of the few advantages the defenders possessed. At the moment, until the reinforcements from Jackson’s army of Tennesseans arrived, and until the Kentuckians came down on their flatboats and the Baton Rouge militia brigade marched south past the German Coast, there was very little Jackson could do except go over the ground: there were fewer than a thousand armed men in the city, and this included the Free Men of Color, distrusted by the others..
Jackson, it seemed, did not look at Fortier’s colored troops with the same suspicion as the majority of the white planters— early in the meeting he accepted, without comment or hesitation, the written proposal of a Santo Domingan named Savary to raise another black battalion, this one to include black officers, a decision Claiborne, fearful of the consequences, had been deferring for weeks. Clearly a man had arrived who knew how to make decisions and stand by them— even if some of the decisions, such as the deliberate snubbing of Bernard de Marigny, were less than wise.
Favian and Patterson discussed the deployment of their “little boats,” and Jackson nodded, asking intelligent questions about the strength of the current at Les Rigolets, the depth of the water on Pontchartrain, the size and number of guns on the boats and the frigate, the number of marines Macedonian had available, perhaps to add to his own ground forces. The questions seemed to lead naturally to the more ominous question of Cat Island; Favian glanced at Patterson and saw in the man’s face a reflection of his own query. Favian nodded; they both turned to Jackson.
“Sir,” Favian said, “Captain Patterson and I have received some interesting intelligence. Governor Claiborne has been informed, and he agrees it’s serious. We would like to share it with you, General, but—” He looked at the others in the room: Latour, McRae, Hayne, Tatum, a quiet black servant who had been bringing them food and tafia punch. “We would like to brief you privately, if we may. There is a problem, a delicate problem, connected with this, and I think the fewer who know it the better. You see,” he lied, “our informant is close to the British. If too many people knew of his existence, it would put his life at hazard.”
Jackson looked at Favian somberly, then glanced up at the others. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse us,” he said. Favian’s lie had come plausibly—he didn’t want any of those present even to think of the Cartagenian privateers, or that the problem might be right here in Louisiana. The others filed out, only the civilian Latour looking surprised: Jackson’s staff, it seemed, was used enough to these little moments of intrigue.
Jackson looked at his three remaining guests: Favian, Patterson, Claiborne. “I am at your service, sirs,” he said.
“General Jackson,” Favian said quietly, “there is a place near here called Cat Island. Let me show it to you on Mr. Latour’s map. We don’t mean the Cat Island in the Mississippi Sound, but the other one, here on Terre Bonne Bay...”
Jackson listened in silence. At times he seemed almost asleep, leaning back wearily in his chair, his eyes half-closed. At the end of Favian’s presentation, he closed his eyes entirely and frowned. “The source,” he said. “How can we trust the source?”
“You mean Laffite?” Patterson growled. “We can’t trust him at all.”
“Laffite and his banditti, yes. These men on Cat Island may not be a menace to us,” Jackson said. “They may only be a challenge to Laffite’s authority.”
He looked half-dead, a skeleton with parchment skin, dressed in clothing stained with graveyard mud. Favian wondered if he could possibly last the winter..
“We can’t afford to take the chance they aren’t a menace,” Favian said.
“And even if they have no designs against us,” added Patterson, “we must deal with them for the same reasons we dealt with the Baratarians. We have to clear our rear before we can fight the British.”
“The source,” Jackson said again. “It troubles me.”
“I’ve seen the Laffites, sir,” Favian said. “This may strike you as an odd thing for me to say, but—” He struggled with his impressions of Jean Laffite, the dramatic, black-clad, vigorous buccaneer who had sat across from him in the carriage. “I think, sir, he’s an honorable man,” Favian said. Jackson opened one eye and looked at him; for a moment Favian was reminded of Laffite’s own strange wink..
“Not honorable as we understand it, perhaps,” Favian added. “But as honorable as a pirate can be. I think his offer of help is genuine— it may be a self-serving gesture, but it’s no less truthful.”
Jackson opened both eyes and straightened in his chair. “It’s Navy Department business, gentlemen, whether you go or not,” he said. “Keep me informed of your decisions, and tell me if you need my assistance.”
I like a man who can use his initiative, the general had said earlier. The Cat Island expedition had been given Jackson’s indirect blessing, but the responsibility would be Favian’s..
Navy Department business— if only it were. The Navy Department was far off, in Washington, and had no idea of Favian’s location within ten thousand miles; he had taken Macedonian to sea on his own initiative, when he was not her assigned captain, a situation that would have destroyed him had he lost the frigate to the blockading ships— the court-martial would have crucified him. Only success could have justified his action. A measure of success had been won with the capture of the Carnation, but not much. He was still trapped.
He was like a gambler in one of Maria-Anna’s poque games, caught in a round of betting. He had already bet more than he could afford when he had stolen the Macedonian from the Navy Department’s control— his reputation, his career, his future— and he had no choice but to keep on calling as the British raised the bet. Now it was not only Favian and the frigate that were lying on the table, but New Orleans, Louisiana, and British control of the Mississippi..
Well, he thought. The British don’t know our cards, either; they don’t know I’m here; they don’t know we know about Cat Island and the Guard of the Eagle. I don’t just have to call.
Favian would raise the stakes.
“We’ll go, sir,” he said.
There was an approving smile on General Jackson’s scarred, sickly face. Suddenly the deep-sunk eyes came alive with a feral, unsettling light. “We have a saying in Tennessee, gentlemen,” he said. “I didn’t repeat it for any of these Louisianians— I knew they wouldn’t like it. The saying comes from the Indians, I believe, and we learned it fighting them: War to the knife, and knife to the hilt. I intend to stop the British in front of New Orleans, and the only way I know to do it is to kill them. War to the knife. But if I can’t kill enough of them to keep them from taking the city, I’ll burn the city to the ground before I let them have it— Admiral Cochrane will lose his millions in prize money. These Louisiana men won’t stop me; I’ll have my Tennessee people here ere long, and they’ve burned towns before, Creek towns. And if I have the time, I’ll open the levees and let the river take the ashes. By the Eternal, I’ll make all Louisiana a desert before I give it to the enemy.”
Knife to the hilt. Jackson did not have to say it; those feral, glowing, deep-sunk eyes said it for him. A hater: Favian remembered his intuition on the reviewing platform. A few centuries ago they would have thought him a werewolf if they could have seen him like this. Moments ago he’d been wondering if Jackson would last the winter, but now he knew that unforgiving, steely will would keep the sickly body going for years, unless the body was burnt to a husk by the intensity of that hatred.
I hope my decision is a wise one, Favian thought suddenly. If it isn’t, the alternative may be a city in flames.
“In that case we had better stop the British before they get to the city,” Favian said. Jackson looked at the door, then asked Patterson to request the others to return. The general leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded once more.
“Please have some more of this excellent food, sirs,” he said. “As for myself, I believe I will have a bowl of hominy.”
Later that afternoon Favian sent Midshipman Stanhope to the Hotel de la Marine with messages for General Humbert and Captain Grailly. The messages were identical:.
Please tell our friend to send me his pilot. Enclosed is a safe-conduct signed by General Jackson and Governor Claiborne.
Your servant, Captain Favian Markham, U.S.N.