CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Favian came aboard Malachi’s Revenge to the twitter of bosun’s pipes and the clatter of swords and muskets raised to the salute: Gideon was still intent on outdoing the Navy at its own spit and polish. Favian uncovered gravely to the salutes, seeing Gideon standing by the helm. His face was grimmer than usual; clearly something unfortunate had occurred.
“Lieutenant Cunningham and Gunboat Number 5 are ready to weigh on our signal,” Gideon said as they exchanged salutes. Patterson had agreed he could spare his one uncommitted gunboat for the Cat Island expedition. “Fontenoy and the Franklin are ready as well. Mr. Clowes is trying to recruit crew for the Musquetobite and will join us if he can.”
“Very well.” It had been settled that Gideon’s ex-British sloop of war Musquetobite, when fully crewed, would go to Finch Martin with Clowes as his lieutenant, but Martin had insisted on remaining with Gideon’s tern schooner as long as action was in the offing.
“The pilot is aboard,” Gideon said, his mouth tightened into a grim line. “I think you’d better see him.”
“Very well.” Favian followed Gideon down the aft scuttle and down the short passage to the captain’s cabin. He opened the door and stepped inside. The pilot, who had been waiting within, stood and bowed.
“Captain Laffite,” said Favian, “you surprise me.”
Jean Laffite, dressed again in solemn black, grinned pleasantly. “The safe-conduct is good for anyone, no?” he asked. “Don’t worry, I was discreet. I came downriver in a pirogue just at dawn; I was not seen.”
“General Jackson,” said Favian, “will be aboard shortly. I cannot guarantee what he will say or do.”
“I should think,” Laffite said, “that you and he would be pleased to have me along. I stand ready to back up my words with my life. If I am deceiving you about Cat Island, you may inflict whatever penalty you wish.”
“The United States Navy,” said Favian stiffly, “does not take hostages. We are not Turks, sir.”
“I most humbly beg your pardon,” Laffite said, bowing again. “I was merely trying to point out that my presence is meant to be reassuring.”
Plus, Favian thought, his being with the government forces moving on Cat Island would not go unnoticed by the rebel pirates. Rebel against the Laffites’ authority, the gesture would say, and you not only face their vengeance but that of the legitimate authorities as well. But he only said, “Your apology is accepted, sir.”
“I heard this morning of your marriage, Captain Markham,” Laffite said. “May I offer my most sincere congratulations? The bride is a lovely girl; I’m sure you will be well suited to one another.”
“Thank you, Captain Laffite,” Favian said, wondering if he detected a hint of irony behind Laffite’s black-eyed smile. No, he thought, he was seeing his own misgivings in the pirate’s face; the man was being sincere.
There was a shout on deck that echoed down the skylight, and Favian turned to his cousin. “More guests, Gideon.”
Gideon’s eyes glanced disapprovingly from Favian to Laffite, then back. “Aye,” he said, and led the way from his cabin.
“I don’t want that pirate on my Revenge!” Gideon burst out as they made their way up the companion way to the deck. “It may destroy my reputation as an honest privateer— I don’t want my name associated with Laffite’s.” He snarled. “His grapes are grapes of gall, their clusters are bitter.”
Deuteronomy, Favian thought, though he wasn’t positive. “Can you not bear with him for a day?” he asked. “I can put him aboard Macedonian tonight. In the meantime he can be kept in the cabin. If you insist we can move him to the gunboat, but that might insult him.”
“Party from the Louisiana, Cap’n,” Finch Martin reported as they came on deck.
“Stand by to render the salute, Mr. Martin,” Gideon said. “Reeve a whip through the yardarm so Mr. Midshipman Lovette can use a bosun’s chair.” He stood pensively on the deck, his hands automatically cutting himself a plug of tobacco.
“Blast that Laffite!” he finally said, “The man’s clever. Half the crew saw him come aboard, and many will recognize him. The damage is done.” He put the tobacco into his mouth. “Very well,” he said. “He may stay until we reach the Macedonian. Then I’ll hand him over to you.”
“I’m sure that’s wise,” Favian said.
“Mph,” Gideon replied, not in the least convinced.
There was a shout from Kuusikoski alongside, followed by the thud of a boat against the tern schooner’s hull; the bosun’s pipes rendered a salute as Favian’s courtly Virginian third lieutenant, Eastlake, came aboard, followed by Lovette (who disdained the bosun’s chair and came up one-handed), Stanhope, Dr. Solomon, and the rest of the Macedonians that Favian had brought with him to New Orleans. They saluted the two captains; Favian and Gideon uncovered in reply.
“Mr. Willard will show you where you can store your dunnage,” Gideon said.
“Thank you, sir,” said Eastlake, glancing over Malachi’s Revenge with professional appreciation. Schooners like this were the envy of the Navy, not to mention the rest of the world.
“The hospitality of the wardroom is open to thee,” said George Willard, Gideon’s second officer. He was a Gay Head Indian from Martha’s Vineyard, a black-eyed, silent man, a devout Calvinist brought up, like the rest of his sea-bounded tribe, to spend his days on the broad ocean.
Favian watched as his boat’s crew went forward to mix with Gideon’s foredeck men, as his officers filed down the aft scuttle. Solomon, he thought, was strutting a little, like a victorious fighting cock; Favian thought sourly about the airs that successful duelists insisted on giving themselves, and once again silently damned the whole practice.
“General Jackson’s setting off from the levee, Cap’n,” reported a quartermaster, and Finch Martin recalled the welcoming party. Favian considered popping down the aft scuttle to bring up the Navy men, but Eastlake was alert and came up with his party, ranking them with Gideon’s people.
Jackson was back in his stained traveling clothes once more; he looked aged and frail, and his hawklike eyes were hooded with exhaustion. McRae, the engineer Tatum, and the civilian mapmaker Latour, his staff for this journey, looked after him with obvious concern. Jackson nodded, apparently without interest, at Allen’s green-coated sharpshooters ranked on the quarterdeck, then saluted Gideon. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I hope you were not delaying on my account?”
“The pilot is aboard, General,” Gideon said, evading Jackson’s question. “He is below in my cabin.”
“Very good,” Jackson said. He gave a tired smile. “I should probably go below myself and get my lubberly bones out of your way.”
“The pilot, General,” Gideon said. Jackson looked up at him.
“Yes, Captain Markham?”
“The pilot, General Jackson,” Favian said, interrupting, “is Jean Laffite himself. We thought you ought to be warned.”
“Laffite. Indeed,” said Jackson. His voice was very quiet; there was a hint of menace in the tone. He shook his head, clearly considering the possible consequences of this meeting, and then looked up. “Very well,” he said. “I shall meet this celebrated bandit.”
Gideon spat his tobacco overboard and then led the party below. “Captain Laffite, General Jackson,” he said by way of introduction. Lafitte bowed elaborately; the general inclined his torso civilly forward, then back. Neither offered to shake hands.
“Honored, sir,” Laffite said, “to be of service.”
“I have heard a great deal about you, Captain Laffite,” Jackson said, a noncommittal opening.
“Most of it lies, sir,” Laffite said. “It is my misfortune to be a man about whom false rumors gather.”
“That,” said Jackson, “is not necessarily a misfortune in your line of business, I believe.”
“Indeed, sir, it is not.” Laffite smiled.
“General Jackson,” Gideon said, his disapproving tone indicating his attitude toward the whole business, “may I offer you and your staff some coffee, or hot chocolate? I regret we do not carry alcoholic spirits aboard; this is a temperance vessel.”
“Very kind of you, Captain Markham.” Jackson smiled. “Coffee, if you please.”
“Please sit yourselves,” Gideon said. He rang for Grimes and told him to bring coffee.
Gideon offered Jackson the place of honor at the head of the table, then asked everyone to make themselves comfortable while he saw about getting the vessels under way. The party sat itself on Gideon’s old, worn furniture. Favian seated himself on Jackson’s left; Laffite kept the chair, in the center of the table, he had used before.
“I hope, General, to be of service,” Laffite said. “My men stand ready to help defend the Republic.”
“Very commendable,” said Jackson. “I shall look forward to seeing them enrolled in the militia, or on Captain Patterson’s ships.”
Neatly parried, Favian thought. Laffite seemed a bit taken aback. He heard the tramp of bare feet on the deck as the privateers manned the forward capstan, ready to heave the anchor short.
“Perhaps the general,” Laffite said, “would care to see a map I have drawn of Terre Bonne Bay.”
“Very well. I hope Mr. Latour may copy it.”
“Certainly, sir.” Laffite produced a map from one of the two carpetbags he had brought with him. Favian half stood to view the map.
“Here, General, is Cat Island,” Laffite said, pointing to a little crescent-shaped island in the middle of the bay. “It is very small, but it is sheltered and solid ground. Here the Guard of the Eagle will live when not at sea. At last report there were no works on Cat Island itself— there is a magazine there, with small arms and powder, and some rude barracks, but no fortifications or great guns. These have been placed elsewhere.
“This, gentlemen, is Timbalier Island,” Laffite said, indicating a long, thin island stretching across the mouth of the bay. “It is a low, sandy island, much of it marshy, and it is exposed to the autumn hurricanes, so there are no living quarters on the island. But because it controls the entrance to Cat Island Pass, here to the west of the island, there is a battery here, and a little fort. The ramparts are of cypress logs covered by sand and are quite well made. A garrison will be kept there at all times, perhaps thirty or forty men. The garrison is small, but no doubt they can be reinforced from Cat Island in the event of an alarm.”
“What sort of guns?” Favian asked. From the skylight came the sound of the schooner’s chanteyman, accompanied by the clatter of capstan pawls and the roar of the seamen bending to the bars. The Revenge lurched as the anchor cable began to be drawn in.
“Eighteen-pounders, six of them, in the water battery,” Laffite said. “A half dozen six- or four-pounders facing east, so the fort cannot be stormed from the rear without risk.”
Eighteen-pounders, Favian thought. Equal in size to Macedonian’s main deck guns, and also emplaced. Presumably the Napoleonic veterans in the garrison knew how to use them, too. The battery could smash up Malachi’s Revenge if it tried to run through the pass, although Macedonian could probably survive. But could Macedonian even get into these restricted waters?
“How deep is the water in Cat Island Pass?” Favian asked. Laffite frowned.
“Fifteen feet or so. Less water inside the bay itself.”
That was definite, then. Macedonian had no hope of getting near enough to the battery to hurt it.
“And to the east of Timbalier Island? Is that passage any deeper?” Favian asked.
“Petite Passe Timbalier draws only two feet at high tide,” Laffite said. “Even your gunboat might have difficulty getting over the bar.”
“I see,” Favian said.
“There is another battery to the west of Cat Island Pass, here on the Isles Dernieres. A small battery, two eighteen-pounders. Here, in the water between Timbalier and Cat Island, the Guard’s ships will be anchored here in the sheltered water.” Laffite pointed to an expanse of water that included two small islands, Terrebonne and Caillou. “If we achieve surprise, the ships will have only the anchor watch aboard— we can take them without a fight, and then the Guard will be stranded on Cat Island with no way off. It is the batteries that offer us the most difficulty.”
“I am confident, sir, they can be dealt with,” Favian said, straightening. He was by no means sure, but he knew full well how he was going to try it. Laffite looked at him without expression. Jackson cocked an eye at him.
“Can you force the batteries’ surrender with your frigate?” he asked.
“That would be the orthodox way, General,” Favian said. “But I think Macedonian draws too much water to get within effective range, and in any case a prolonged bombardment would lose our advantage of surprise. No, we’ll have to storm the forts from their landward side— as your men did, General, at Horseshoe Bend.”
There: Favian had made a point of studying Jackson’s campaigns in the last weeks, hoping to better understand the man— and incidentally to have ready ammunition for flattery. A faint smile appeared on Jackson’s jaundiced face. “I wish you a like success, Captain Markham,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.” He bowed. “And now, gentlemen, I must take my leave. I’ll have to be on deck to signal to the other vessels.”
Favian withdrew. Once on deck he passed the word for Stanhope, his signals midshipman, and walked to where Gideon was standing by the wheel, watching his men as they strained at the capstan.
“Is the general enjoying the pirate’s company?” Gideon asked.
“Laffite has been showing us the enemy’s dispositions,” Favian said. “He has a map.”
Gideon frowned and said nothing. Stanhope appeared with his signal books. “Throw out the signal to weigh anchor, Mr. Stanhope,” Favian said.
“Aye aye, sir.”
The signal rose up the halliards, streaming in the wind; duplicate signals went up on Gunboat Number 5 and, after some hesitation because of the privateer’s lack of familiarity with the Navy signal book, on Fontenoy’s Franklin. The repeating of the signals was an acknowledgment only: the signal would not be obeyed until the flags were hauled down.
Favian peered at the Franklin, already at short stay and ready for weighing, and then at the gunboat, which was sending men to its windlass. It was a curious, exhilarating feeling, unlike anything he’d ever experienced— he was responsible, under the agreement, for the whole of the force that was to be sent against Cat Island, but his own ship Macedonian was not present. Malachi’s Revenge, Franklin, and the gunboat each had their own captains; Favian’s role was simply to throw out signals to the other two craft so that they could conform to the schooner’s movements..
This was what being a commodore was like, he thought, responsible for an entire squadron, but not the individual ships. Makeshift and irregular as the squadron was, Favian found the feeling a heady one.
The men at the capstan gave one last heave, then rested on their bars. “Short stay, Cap’n!” Finch Martin’s voice echoed from forward.
“Very well, Mr. Martin,” Gideon said. He cut himself a plug of tobacco and turned to Favian. “Your gunboat seems a mite tardy,” he said. The clanking of the gunboat’s windlass was clearly heard in the still morning.
“No doubt they’re on New Orleans time, Gideon,” Favian smiled. “We’ll set them on New England time presently.”
Gideon nodded. “Aye,” he said. The windlass ceased its noise.
“Haul down the signal, Mr. Stanhope,” Favian said. He nodded at Gideon. “Whenever you’re ready, Captain.”
Gideon picked up a speaking trumpet. “Hands to set spanker and heads’ls! Capstan there, heave ’round!”
Favian, uninvolved in the action, stood quietly by the binnacle and watched admiringly as the tern schooner got under way. Malachi’s Revenge was a brilliant example of the clipper schooner, long, narrow, and low in the water, its masts raked precipitately backward; and Gideon had clearly trained its crew to a standard many Navy men would envy. The sails billowed out, crackling, tugging at the schooner as it stood over its anchor; when the anchor finally broke free of the Mississippi mud, the schooner fell swiftly off the wind, spinning on its heel, and ran downstream fast as quicksilver..
It was breathtaking. Favian found himself, not for the first time, envying Gideon: had Favian not tied himself to the Navy at the foolish and impressionable age of sixteen, he might be carrying on the family privateering tradition, like Gideon, in a fast and beautiful vessel such as this. Free of Navy orders and responsibility, free of the unforgiving code of the professional officer, driving through the seas on a vessel able to defeat any enemy it could not effortlessly run from.
But he was tied to the Navy, and to everything the Navy stood for— its aggressive, combative traditions, its fierce, enforced conformity to iron regulation, its insistence on an uncompromising code of honor... the decision had been made years ago, and there was no turning back. He could envy Gideon his freedom and his ship, and he could envy Gideon his choice of Maria-Anna, but the envy was hopeless: he would try not to let it turn bitter. The Navy and Campaspe were his lot, and that would not change.
“Mr. Stanhope, throw out the signal to follow the flag,” he said as he saw topsails appear on the Franklin, and the gunboat sheet home its main and turn into the wake of the Revenge. He turned to face forward, where Carolina rode on the Revenge’s starboard bow. He took up a long glass and trained it on the Navy schooner’s quarterdeck, seeing the unmistakable, formally dressed figure of Patterson stalking stiffly on the planking..
They had agreed that there would be no booming guns, no dipping of martial ensigns, nothing to indicate that a military expedition had just set forth, but as the privateer swept closer to the Carolina, Favian saw Patterson turn and raise his hat in salute. Favian let the long glass fall by his side and raised his own hat. They passed between twenty yards of one another: one Navy man charged with the nigh-impossible defense of a city in the face of overwhelming strength, and another setting out on a dubious expedition on the word of a pirate. Neither man, Favian suspected, envied the other; both knew full well that the chances of ultimate success were almost nil. But the code by which they both lived did not contemplate defeat; both had no choice but to do what they could and hope for the best. They raised their hats in salute to a quixotic and probably futile endeavor and did not need to speak.
“Franklin and the gunboat acknowledge the signal, sir,” Stanhope reported.
“Haul it down, Mr. Stanhope.”
“Aye aye, sir,”
Favian settled his undress round hat back on his head and listened to the chuckle of water passing beneath the schooner’s keel. Gideon was setting his foresail and mainsail, the schooner responding, surging ahead. Favian hoped the other vessels in the squadron would be able to keep up, particularly the clumsy, beamy little gunboat. It didn’t matter, he supposed; they would all reach Fort St. Philip and the Macedonian before nightfall no matter how fast they sailed, but Favian found himself wanting to keep his little force in sight awhile longer, even such a heterogeneous and strange squadron as this. The sight was splendid: New Orleans on one bank, the flat roofs of the pastel buildings huddling behind their levee; on the other side the white sails of the squadron in sharp contrast to the dark mass of the far bank. He watched until the city vanished from sight, thinking about its muddy boulevards, its lively, quarrelsome inhabitants, its bold and lovely women. He wondered if this was his last glimpse of the city before Jackson turned it into the charred ruin he had promised to leave to the enemy..
Enough. His thoughts were turning morbid. He turned to the scuttle and went below to the cabin.
The council of war had ended: Jackson was resting, feet up and eyes closed, on the thwartship settee; Jean Laffite was engaged in a murmured conversation with McRae and Latour. Favian seated himself facing the stern windows so that he could keep an eye on his squadron and nodded to the others as Grimes poured him a cup of coffee. Latour produced a pack of cards.
“We were considering, Captain Markham, a game of whist,” he said. “Would you honor us by making up a fourth?”
A game of cards: good. Something unrelated to the war, to his responsibilities; it would take his mind off his gloomy meditations.
“Happily, sir,” Favian said. “Though, if you’re not absolutely set on whist, I know an interesting version of poque that you might never have encountered.”
“Poque?” Latour asked. “Very well, if you like. Gentlemen?”
The others agreed. Favian, smiling to himself, shuffled the cards, explained how the new version differed from the old, and dealt. He put the deck facedown in the middle of the table so each player could draw new cards, and then turned to Laffite to commence the betting. General Jackson, on the settee, began to snore.
Favian possessed one advantage already, that of having created this version of the game in the first place, but his knowledge of the game was rendered almost unnecessary by the cards. He began turning up full hands, fluxes, and straights with astonishing regularity; the stakes began to pile up in front of him. His opponents were intelligent men and caught on quickly to the principles of the game, but their cause was hopeless; Favian simply blew them to atoms by the strength of his cards.
By the time Grimes announced dinner at noon, Favian possessed markers for over three hundred dollars.
Jackson sat up at the announcement of dinner and quickly scanned the table. “Captain Markham, I hope you’re as lucky in battle as you are at cards,” he said. “The British won’t stand a chance.”
“The British play their cards very well, General,” Favian said. “I’ll be needing some aces.” .
“Preparation, aggression, surprise,” Jackson said. He. stood, buttoned up his battered coat, and sat at the table. “Those are three aces we can deal ourselves. The fourth is luck; and maybe we can make a little of that if we try hard enough.” He seemed alert after his rest, his deep-set eyes darting from one face to another. “We must make the British play the game our way,” he said. “We must never let them control the play.” He sniffed the air. “That coffee smells mighty fine, gentlemen. Will you pass me a cup?”
Gideon joined them for dinner, reciting a stiff grace as the stuffed crab, glazed duck, and roast venison were placed on the table. Jackson confined himself to a single slice of venison and a bowl of hominy, washed down with strong coffee; he steered the conversation toward the Tripolitan War, asking about the burning of the captured Philadelphia, the bombardments of the harbor.
“It was Preble, of course, that made the difference,” Favian said. “He was lucky enough to have a large enough squadron to do the work, of course, but another commander had the force before him and had done nothing with it. If he hadn’t been superseded, we might have forced their surrender entirely and got the Philadelphia’s crew released without having to pay ransom. As it was, the peace has lasted, and we haven’t had to pay further tributes— though we may have to send another squadron to the Mediterranean in the next few years; the corsairs have been growing a little arrogant with all the major powers fighting their own wars.”
“But did Preble pass on his skills?” Jackson asked. “That’s always the question— can one generation of leadership pass on its success to the next? Or will each generation have to relive the previous generation’s mistakes?”
“The Navy is a young service, General,” Favian said. “Commodore Rodgers is forty-four, and he’s considered old. I’m only thirty, and I’ve already been promoted to the highest rank the Navy possesses. Preble sought out young men, young enough so that he could press his methods on them.” He smiled. “We’ve been called ‘Preble’s Boys,’ you know— but we consider it a compliment. Every successful action in this war, all except the Lake Erie battle, was fought by one of Preble’s Boys. I think that shows how we’ve learned our lessons.”
“And the lessons?” Jackson asked. “Can you tell us what they were?”
“Build the finest fighting ships on the globe,” Favian said. “Fill them with the best men available— no pressed men, all volunteers. Treat the men with respect, as the free citizens of a republic deserve. Look after their health, listen respectfully to their grievances, but discipline them tautly. Know your job— know everyone’s job and how to do it— that way you can gain the men’s respect. Never forget, even in times of peace, that a warship may have to fight, and keep the guns ready and the shot scaled and trimmed. And if fighting is needed, always strike the first blow. If the enemy is too busy counting his wounds, he won’t be able to wound us.” He grinned uneasily, realizing that Jackson had drawn him out and probably done so deliberately, wanting to find out what he was made of. “There’s more,” he said, “but I’d sound like a preacher. I think I’ve covered the essentials.”
Jackson seemed pleased with his success in bringing Favian out. “Is Captain Patterson one of Preble’s Boys?” he asked. “I’m not familiar with his career.”
“He was on the Philadelphia, sir. He was under Preble for a time— enough, I’m sure, to learn his method— but missed most of the fighting.”
“Your Preble sounds like a remarkable man,” Jackson said. “I think, seeing two of his disciples here on the Mississippi, I feel that much more secure about the fate of New Orleans.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m flattered.”
“Flattery was not my intention.” For a moment there was the glint of steel in Jackson’s eyes. “I was pleased to see a pair of fighters, that’s all. If you mistook my remark for flattery, I must have failed to make myself clear.”
Well. The lion had come from his den at last..
“I must have misunderstood, sir,” Favian said.
“Very well.” Gruffly, Jackson set down his knife and fork.
“We’ll be having our gun drill shortly,” Gideon said. “General Jackson, Favian, you’re welcome to observe.”
“I will, thank you,” Favian said. He wanted to see the caliber of the men he would be leading against the Guard of the Eagle.
“I will be happy to see your men at their drill, sir,” Jackson said. “Perhaps they can teach our militia a thing or two.”
“Please God they will,” said Gideon.
Favian stood by the binnacle near Gideon during the drill, with Jackson and his staff standing just behind, near the wheel where they would be out of everyone’s way. Finch Martin actually conducted the drill, Gideon observing merely: starboard and larboard gun crews were set against one another, competing to see which crew could sponge, mock-load, and run out their guns. “I do not expect a perfect drill,” Gideon said. “They’ve been too long within scent of the fleshpots of New Orleans and grown slack. But we’ll have a live-powder exercise later— the smell of powder will do us all good.”
“Very good,” Favian said. “I try to conduct live-powder exercises whenever I can spare the powder.”
“If my men can learn to hit what they aim at,” Gideon growled, “ ’tis worth the expense, certainly.”
“Load and run out!” Finch Martin roared, his voice remarkably loud for such a small man. The privateers bent to their work, Martin running along the row of guns, his gray old-fashioned pigtail swinging as he harassed and chivvied the men at their labors. “That’s a cartridge ladle, not a pig’s tit,” Favian heard him say, “put yer shoulder into it.” He smiled at Gideon’s frown.
“I have urged Mr. Martin to control his language,” Gideon said. “Sometimes, though, he forgets.”
Favian saw Phillip Stanhope come up through the scuttle, Dr. Solomon following. “I’ve heard the Revenge called a tern schooner,” Solomon’s voice coming clear as the last gun truck rumbled to a halt. “Is it from some fancied resemblance to the waterfowl?”
“No, sir,” Stanhope said. “But because it has three masts.”
“Indeed,” said the chaplain. “Perhaps from the Latin terni, signifying three of a kind. Would you agree?”
“That seems very likely, sir,” said Stanhope.
Favian smiled inwardly: he remembered very clearly, eighteen months ago, Stanhope undergoing similar instruction aboard the Experiment, when he had just acquired his midshipman’s warrant. Stanhope and Solomon saluted Favian as they passed him, Stanhope with a cheerful grin, and Solomon stiffly— clearly he had not forgiven Favian for trying to forbid him his duel.
“The helm,” Solomon said as they passed the wheel, “the attentive timoneer applies. Bringing us unerringly to our destination.”
Timoneer, Favian thought, picturing the helmsmen’s amusement at the label. The sort of romantic fool who called a helmsman a “timoneer“ was just the sort to get involved in idiotic duels. Next he’d be referring to the sailors as “matelots.”
Favian looked aloft as the canvas suddenly began to roar; Gideon turned to snap some orders to the helm, and Malachi’s Revenge swung to a new tack, the sails filling once more. The wind had shifted to head the schooner, and Gideon had corrected effortlessly. Macedonian, in the same situation, might still be gaining sternway, with the crew running madly trying to set the headsails flat aback— the tern schooner was a beautifully responsive vessel; Favian felt the taste of envy, and then conscientiously fought it down.
The gun drill wore on into the boiling afternoon. Melting tar began to drip from the rigging; Favian loosened his collar. Gideon’s men, despite their relaxed discipline during their time in New Orleans, were competent and efficient at their drill and improved with each round of practice. Just possibly they were better than Macedonian’s men, who were new to the ship and each other, having been aboard only a few months. Eventually Gideon decreed a live-powder exercise; the schooner’s boys ran below for their cartridges, and the crewmen began to tie their bandannas over their ears to guard themselves against being accidentally deafened..
“Tate, pick your own targets!” Gideon ordered the tall black man who captained the privateer’s pivot gun, a long eighteen-pounder just forward of the mainmast, able to fire on either broadside. Gideon turned to Favian.
“That’s Thomas Tate,” he said. “A prodigy of a gunner— we’re lucky to have him. The sailors call him ‘Long Tom,’ of course.”
“Of course.”.
A thought struck Favian, and he turned and called out to Stanhope. “Cut along below and bring us your signal book. Throw out a signal that the flagship is conducting gunnery exercises. We don’t want them thinking we’ve found the British hiding here in the swamps!”
“Aye aye, sir,” Stanhope said with a grin, and ran for the scuttle.
The signal flags went up the halliards, and the cannon boomed. Gideon picked out landmarks to use as targets: a bluff, a tall pine, a piece of flotsam drifting in the wide river. The privateers’ accuracy was excellent; they seemed to know quite well how to anticipate the motion of their vessel and put the iron shot where it was wanted, just the sort of first-rate gunnery that only long practice with live ammunition could produce. Gideon, as well as his superb schooner, had a finely drilled, disciplined crew— Favian’s confidence in the Cat Island expedition grew with each broadside.
After five rounds apiece Gideon ordered the guns secured, and the weary crewmen thankfully put away their gear. Gideon turned to Favian. “I hear that you rotated the gun crews on Experiment,” he said.
“Aye. So that each man knew the duties of all the others and could replace their mates if they fell.”
“But did it not take a long time to learn their tasks, with each man’s load more than doubled?”
“That’s true,” Favian said. “But our efficiency was greater once the tasks were learned. It’s a balancing act— I thought the risk was worthwhile, since I had no intention of taking Experiment against an enemy until the men knew their duties. We were lucky— got all the way across the Atlantic before we had to run out the guns against a real enemy.”
“It’s different with a privateer,” Gideon said. “We have to pay off our backers’ investments as soon as possible— and that means getting to sea and finding prizes quickly.”
Aye, Favian thought. Privateers were not as free as, in his moment of wishful thinking, he had thought. The privateers’ owners and backers demanded early returns on their investment, and only captains like Gideon, who was also the principal owner of his own vessel, could afford to make the extended cruises that had made Malachi’s Revenge one of the most successful privateers in American history.
“That was quite an exercise. Captain Markham,” said Andrew Jackson. Now that the drill was over, he had stepped forward to join them. “Most of my battles have been fought in the woods— there was no getting heavy guns into the fight. I got a few batteries of light guns to Horseshoe Bend, and we bombarded the Creek lines for hours, but the enemy just laughed at us. If we’d had some of your twelve-pounders, or that long eighteen, and some of these naval gunners to man ’em, it might have been a. different story.”
“Thank’ee, General,” said Gideon.
“Trained nautical gunners are used to hitting a target from a platform that’s bounding up and down with every wave,” Favian said. “Land gunnery becomes child’s play after that. If you could get some gunners like these men,” he nodded to the privateers securing their guns forward, “New Orleans would be all the safer.”
Jackson frowned. “You can’t even get gunners for your own Navy boats,” he said. “New Orleans has plenty of cannon in the armories, but no one to shoot them.”
“General,” Favian said, “this may be out of my department ...” He hesitated, forming his words, and then spoke on. “General, there are hundreds of men available: Some of them are hiding in the swamps, some are loitering around the docks, some have been placed in irons in the jail. Laffite’s men.”
Jackson’s frown deepened; he looked at Favian with glittering eyes. “I do not wish to strike bargains with these banditti,” he said. “This Cat Island attack is bad enough, doing Laffite’s dirty work for him— but it’s a necessity.”
“It may be a necessity to find men for those guns,” Favian said. “Coerce them, promise them pardon, or press them— you’re going to need them in the end. Laffite has powder and ammunition as well, and small arms, too. His smugglers know every bend in the bayous— if the British come through there, they’ll know it; they might even be able to prevent it.”
Jackson turned away, watching the low, dark land passing, the, endless tracts of delta known only to alligators and water moccasins. “That is what Governor Claiborne said,” he murmured. “Livingston said the same thing— urged me to meet with Laffite.”
“If Claiborne and Livingston agree on something, then it must be something very obvious,” Favian said. “I think you and Laffite should speak privately— that way no one else will be able to give reports of any agreement you might reach. It would be a private agreement between the ruler of Barataria and the general in charge of New Orleans’ defenses— and of course the agreement would have more force if it were enforced by martial law.”
Jackson turned back to Favian, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You are impudent, sir,” he said. “How many dangerous moves d’you want me to make in the same day? A deal with pirates is bad enough, but a declaration of martial law at the same time might be more than the Creoles will take.”.
Favian opened his mouth to speak, but Jackson silenced him with a wave of his hand. “I have moved very carefully since my arrival, sir. I have handed compliments to everyone I’ve met, I’ve attended a number of balls to let the people look at me, I’ve reviewed troops and tried to put the forts in order, but I’ve only made two minor decisions in the way of controversy— I’ve agreed to create a company of Choctaw scouts under Pierre Jugeat, and I’ve ordered the creation of a second battalion of the Free Men of Color under Savary. Claiborne and the legislature were hysterical enough about that. And now you want me to declare martial law, give myself dictatorial powers, usurp the governor and the legislature, and all this before the British even appear?” He gave a short, dry laugh. “You are audacious, Captain Markham—I suppose from a man with your record I could expect little else.”
“Toujours l’audace,” Favian said helplessly. Despite the brevity of their acquaintance, Jackson knew him too well to fall a captive to Favian’s showmanship. He would have to present his ideas coherently and in succession; simple appeals to duty,, camaraderie, and the flag wouldn’t work here..
But there was something else working in Favian’s favor, and he knew it: Andrew Jackson was himself an audacious man; his campaigns against the Creeks had shown it..
“Toujours l’audace,” Favian said again. “Danton said it, but our Navy lives by it. Perhaps it’s not always wise, but in the current situation there’s nothing else to do. We’re badly outnumbered by the finest army and navy in the world; we can’t hope to beat them in any conventional way— we have to use desperate methods. We have to be audacious. If we can make use of anyone— colored troops, Choctaws, pirates— we’ll have to do it. There’s simply no choice, General.”
Jackson listened to him with his head cocked to one side, his eyes still twinkling, amused. “Very well, Captain,” he said. “I’ll meet with Laffite, if you can arrange something private. Not here— too many witnesses. That’s why I took a nap this morning; I didn’t want to hold a long conversation with the man in front of the others.”
“You can use my cabin on board Macedonian,” Favian said quickly. “I’ll make it available for as long as necessary.”
“I’ll have to ponder a mite longer on this martial law business,” Jackson continued. His gaze hardened; for a moment Favian caught a glimpse of the feral Jackson he had seen before during that private moment in the general’s headquarters. “But I can promise you this, Captain Markham. If I see the necessity for martial law, I’ll declare it, by the Eternal I will— and damnation to the consequences.”
Favian felt triumph glow in him, but he resolutely tried to keep it from his face; instead he nodded. “I’m sure that’s best, sir,” he said.
Jackson seemed further amused by Favian’s cautious answer. “You’re a deep one, Markham,” he said. “I wouldn’t care to play against you in poque. Gentlemen, I hope you will excuse us— I feel in need of another little rest.” He turned to Gideon. “Thank you again for an enlightening demonstration. The smell of powder always helps to clear the head.” Jackson and his staff made their way to the aft scuttle.
Gideon looked balefully at Favian. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “Bringing together that pirate and an adventurer like Jackson— that’s like playing with fire in a powder magazine.”
“What choice do we have, Gideon?” Favian asked. Gideon scowled.
“None I know,” he said. “We can only trust that the Lord’s will shall be done.”
“Amen,” said Favian.
An hour later the squadron sailed into the sight of the two vessels anchored off Fort St. Philip: the frigate Macedonian, dominating the low vista of the delta, and Captain Poquelin’s little pilot boat Beaux Jours, which would take Jackson and his staff back to the city once their inspection of the fort was completed. Favian found himself looking with relief at Macedonian, its sleek lines, raked masts, and gilded figurehead of Alexander the Great— it would be a pleasure to be on board, free from the confusions and distractions of New Orleans and of marriage, standing on the decks of the frigate with its single, deadly purpose.
The transfer was accomplished quickly: Kuusikoski’s boat’s crew were happy to stretch their muscles. Jackson, as a major general far senior to Favian as a Navy captain, went through the entry port first, the bosun’s pipes and rattle of arms bidding him welcome, and Favian followed, returning the salutes of the assembled officers. Laffite followed last of all, a black-coated civilian pilot carrying his own baggage.
“May I be the first aboard, sir, to congratulate you on your recent marriage,” said Lieutenant Hourigan, the senior lieutenant— a spare, serious man who played expert wardroom concerts on the German flute..
Favian looked at the spare, bushy-browed man in surprise. “I thank you,” he said, “but I can’t think how you could possibly have heard.”
“Captain Poquelin of the Beaux Jours brought the news of your engagement two days ago. He said that the marriage should have taken place yesterday. I hope you are soon blessed with many little sailors to carry on the family tradition.”
“I thank you again,” Favian said. “I would like to introduce you, gentlemen, to General Andrew Jackson, commanding the Seventh Military District. This is Mr. Hourigan, my acting first officer; Mr. Eastlake you’ve met; Mr. Chapelle, Mr. Ford, Mr. Swink; Mr. Seward, our sailing master; Lieutenant Byrne of the Marines; our bosun Mr. Tucker; and all the young gentlemen, our midshipmen.”
“Pleased to meet’ee, gentlemen,” Jackson said.
“Honored, sir.”
“Gentlemen, this is Colonel McRae, Major Tatum, and Mr. Latour; and this is our pilot, Captain Laffite. I hope the wardroom will offer these gentlemen their hospitality. General Jackson will have the commodore’s cabin for tonight. You may dismiss the hands.”
“Aye aye, sir. Mr. Tucker, pipe ’em down. Please come this way, gentlemen.”
The sun was touching the cypress in the west; soon it would be dark. Favian went up the poop ladder to cast his eyes over the frigate before it grew entirely dark. He had informed Eastlake, as they’d approached Macedonian, that he hoped for an invitation from the wardroom that night. The officers’ mess, theoretically, did not have to invite their captain to dine unless they wished it; but in practice the lieutenants and master ignored their captain’s wishes at their peril, and Favian had every confidence that Hourigan would shortly approach him asking him to supper. Wardroom meals generally went on forever if there were guests, and in the meantime Favian’s cabin would be clear for a meeting between Laffite and General Jackson.
The boat’s crew disappeared belowdecks, carrying the officers’ luggage in their horny hands. “Thou hast been married,” came a voice from the shadow of the mizzenmast. “The girl is very young. Thee are uncertain about the outcome.”
“Hello, Lazarus,” Favian said. “Gossip travels fast on a ship, doesn’t it?” He watched as the mad fiddler stepped from the shadow of the mast, saw the lunatic glint in the man’s strange, pale eyes.
“I listen to the tongues of spirits,” said Lazarus. “Not the tongues of men. Your bride loves thee very much. Her love may save thee. So say the powers.”
“Your spirits are unusually optimistic.”
“It is the voyage that is cursed. Not thy bride.”
Favian looked at the madman for a moment in silence. He had first met Lazarus almost two years before at a sailors’ tavern near the Navy Yard in Washington. Favian, on a celebratory debauch with his friend William Burrows— both of them had just been ordered to their first commands— had been dressed as a common seaman, an impersonation Burrows had always enjoyed. Lazarus and his fiddle had entertained at the tavern that night; he had seen through Favian’s disguise instantly, an insight he’d promptly ascribed to the spirits with which— according to Lazarus at any rate— he held daily converse. Lazarus also claimed to have sold his soul to the devil in 1682, in return for an unnaturally long life and his skill with the fiddle-bow.
Favian had never believed him, but Lazarus had kept appearing in Favian’s life. A year ago in Maine he’d appeared from a boat to rescue Experiment’s survivors. Since then Favian had more or less adopted him, let the lunatic travel with him, paid him for running errands. He had brought Lazarus aboard Macedonian with the intention of using him as a sort of informal bridge between the lower deck and the captain. But Lazarus had turned strange when he heard of Kuusikoski, the Finnish seaman—’ in Lazarus’s peculiar view Finns were all witches, and the spirits of the deep resented their powers and tried to do them harm: hence any ship in which they traveled was cursed. Macedonian also carried Dr. Solomon, a chaplain, and according to longstanding seamen’s tradition chaplains were also bad luck.
Lazarus’s prophecies had turned bleak and strange: Macedonian was doomed unless one of the two Jonahs could be got off. Favian was fairly certain that he had laid plots among credulous or evil seamen for Kuusikoski’s murder. The situation had remained dangerous until Macedonian had outrun a blockading British squadron and then captured the Carnation off Montserrat, after which it was clear to most that, if anything, Kuusikoski and the chaplain had brought luck. Lazarus was still preaching doom and destruction, but so far as Favian could tell, scarcely anyone was listening.
“Remember what I told thee,” Lazarus said. With the long evening shadows crossing his lined face, he looked ancient, a corrupt and evil spirit himself. “A roundshot at my head. Remember.”
“Yes,” Favian said. “I remember.” The madman had also predicted his own death, but like most of his recent prophecies it had failed, or at least proved premature. A man who had sold his soul, he had asked for a non-Christian burial, the roundshot at his head instead of his feet as he was committed to the deep.
“Remember what I told thee,” Lazarus repeated. “Remember all I have told thee.” He tugged at his leather cap in a sketchy salute and walked to the poop ladder, disappearing into the shadows in the ship’s waist. Favian looked up at the sky; the first star had just appeared. He took a deep breath. Lazarus and his spirits were often unsettling, and there was enough on his mind without them..
Tonight, at the wardroom mess, he would inform his lieutenants of the expedition to Cat Island.