CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Four days later Macedonian got over the bar at the Southeast Pass. Collision mats were hung over the side, and Gunboat Number 5 and Malachi’s Revenge were warped on either side of the frigate. The gunboat and schooner had taken off many of the frigate’s guns and just about all its water, lightening her so she could approach the bar; the rest of the afternoon was spent transferring them back.
Favian had wanted to leave two days earlier, but he had been held back by General Jackson. While Favian was in the city, Macedonian’s men under Lieutenant Hourigan had been working with the garrison of Fort St. Philip to put the fort in order: the parapet had been rebuilt, flammable buildings torn down, and the water battery, all heavy twenty-four-pounders, now rested on a strengthened platform..
Jackson had wanted to add to the defenses of the Plaquemines Bend by sending men across the river to the old, ruined Fort Bourbon, a relic of the Spanish occupation, and by building another battery, as yet unnamed, half a mile upriver. Jackson considered that, as a Navy man, Favian knew best where to site guns that would repel any British ships trying to ascend the river— Favian had chafed a little at the delay, but in the end agreed. Macedonian’s men had helped to clear growth from the overgrown Spanish ruin and thrown up earthworks where necessary, while the officers gave advice concerning where to plant the guns. Jackson had been everywhere, amazing the observers with a phenomenal display of energy for a man so ill and haggard; he had nearly worn out both his staff and the crew of the boat Favian had loaned him.
Just that morning Jackson had said farewell to Favian, the grizzled old Indian fighter clasping hands with him on Macedonian’s quarterdeck. “You’ve given me food for thought, Captain,” he said. “I’ll be sending some reinforcements downriver. Major Overton, some men from the 7th Infantry, and some of the Free Men of Color. If I’ve made up my mind by then, I’ll send a message with them.”
“Toujours l’audace,” Favian said. The general smiled, waved his cap to the other officers, and walked for the entry port, Tucker saluting him with his pipe as the marines presented arms. Jean Laffite, dressed as always in black, stood behind the officers on the quarterdeck. He and Jackson gave no sign they were acquainted.
Whatever had transpired that night in Macedonian’s cabin, no one but Jackson and Laffite knew. Jackson merely said they would have to meet again in New Orleans, and Laffite had said nothing at all.
Most of Laffite’s time had been taken up with the preparations for the Cat Island expedition. Favian intended to take the enemy batteries by storm from the landward side, but that would entail landing, at night, on low, swampy islands, and marching over terrain that none in the parties had ever seen. Laffite had been asked in detail about the terrain features of the Isles Dernieres, Timbalier Island, and Cat Island, at least insofar as he could remember them; on the last day Captain Poquelin of the Beaux Jours, without being told why, had been asked the same questions, and his information had confirmed Laffite’s. Favian was fairly certain of his ground and that the practice exercises he’d been holding would bear some resemblance to reality.
The exercises were being conducted with David Porter’s old nautical war game, the one he had used in prison in Tripoli to teach the midshipmen their seamanship. The wardroom furniture was moved, and the checkered canvas carpet rolled up; Terre Bonne Bay had been drawn with chalk on the deck planking, and little model ships maneuvered over the surface. Gideon, Fontenoy, Cunningham of Gunboat Number 5, and Laffite had all been surprised by the model maneuvers, and participated with varying degrees of enthusiasm: Cunningham had been taken with the idea; Gideon thought it was tedious, if useful; Fontenoy clearly thought the game silly. “I would prefer to depend on my strong right arm and this,” he said, brandishing a weapon. The man carried a strange one, a fighting iron antique even in the Revolution: a flail made of three linked steel bars, deadly but requiring expert handling.
“Even your strong right arm requires practice before you can handle that iron, Captain,” Favian said. “A little practice at storming those forts won’t hurt us.”
Favian had tried to use the game to show all possible variations of the upcoming attack. What if there was a British warship present? What if the pirates had strengthened their batteries on the islands? What if they had stationed ships in the Cat Island Pass to help repel assault? What if the assaults on the batteries failed and the earthworks had to be reduced by gunfire? All these eventualities, and more, had been covered by the exercises; Favian had strained his imagination trying to think of things to go wrong. In the end he was fairly confident that his men were as familiar with the topography as they were ever likely to get without actually seeing it.
In an old black frock coat and his undress round hat, Favian stood on the quarterdeck as the guns were hoisted inboard, their trunnions bolted down on their carriages while another party of seamen ran the canvas hoses of the channel pump down into the water butts of the Malachi’s Revenge. The privateer, like the city of New Orleans, drank Mississippi water with the mud filtered out of it— having lost most of its water trying to get over the bar, Macedonian’s water casks needed replenishing.
“Pump away!” roared the bosun’s mates, and the crewmen heaved at the pump handles. Lazarus, the chanteyman, pressed his fiddle against his chest and struck up a tune. It was perhaps the fastest capstan chanty in the repertoire, which was presumably why he chose to use it— the pump handles could be driven faster than the capstan— but the song itself was inappropriate. It should have been clear even to the ordinary sailors that Macedonian was not going home.
“Well, have ye heard the news, my Johnny?
One more day! We’re homeward bound tomorrow.
One more day!
Only one more day, me Johnny,
One more day! Well, rock and row me over,
One more day!”
Favian watched as a party of privateersmen from the Revenge stepped aboard to offer their help in heaving the heavy guns onto their carriages. He saw their officer, George Willard, the Gay Head Indian from Martha’s Vineyard, look at the work party on the pumps, then stand for a few seconds with amazement written on his face. He glanced fore and aft, saw Favian standing by the poop barricade, and then took a step toward the quarterdeck; he hesitated, turned back to his party, gave them some swift orders, and then hastened up the quarterdeck ladder.
“Beg pardon, sir, but d’ye know that chanteyman?” Willard asked as soon as Favian returned his salute.
“That man? Lazarus? I know he’s mad,” Favian said.
“I could swear he’s a man I used to know,” Willard said, his dark eyes troubled. He turned to Lazarus and looked at the madman for a long time, then turned back to Favian. “Aye,” he said. “I know him. Joshua Mandrell, from Nantucket. He used to preach at the Congregational church there, when I was a boy. My mother used to take me whenever we visited our kin on Nantucket.”
“Lazarus? A preacher?” Favian looked down at the snaggle-toothed fiddler who claimed he had sold his soul to Satan. “Are you certain?”
“Aye.” Willard’s eyes cast back to Lazarus to make certain, then returned to Favian. “He played the fiddle even then— a lot of the congregation thought there was something wrong in it, but he laughed at them and said it was his way of lifting his voice in praise to the Lord. He had a wife and a lot of children. Four or five, I think. His wife was a good woman. She used to give me gingerbread.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t rightly know, sir. It happened while I was at sea. But I heard his wife and children died of yellow fever in the New York epidemic— that would be the Year One. I heard the Rev’rend Mandrell resigned his post just afterward. No one knew where he went.”
Just took his fiddle and ran for the sea, Favian thought. On Nantucket Island there would have been plenty of ships to choose from, many of them with crews who would never have heard any of his sermons. The deaths of his loved ones had driven him mad, and he’d run— and then somewhere, gazing on the emptiness of some distant ocean, he had decided to curse his former life. Working for his God had brought him nothing but anguish; instead he would work for the devil. He had substituted one religion for another. It explained a lot.
“I remember that he once talked about Nantucket,” Favian said. “Something about Virgin Hill.” Lazarus had terrified a saloon girl named Dulcey with his tale of meeting his cloven-hoofed Master amid tombstones, while the ghosts of witches danced as he played his fiddle.
“Virgin Hill. That’s the Quaker graveyard,” Willard said. “He was a scholar. Wrote about the Quaker persecutions in colonial times. The Quakers were thought to be in league with the devil.”
“Oh can’t you hear the Captain growling?
One more day!
Can’t you hear the master howling?
One more day!”
Lazarus sawed at his fiddle, the dark water gushing into the fresh water butt. The crewmen stamped and sang on the chorus..
“I think,” said Favian, “you’d better keep this mum. It’s been thirteen years, and he’s made a new life for himself. He obviously doesn’t want anyone to know. Perhaps digging up old memories would only give him pain.” He would have to look up the head of some madhouse, Favian thought. Perhaps the man could be cured.
Lazarus, as if sensing their words, glanced up at them. His face contorted by the strength of his singing, he roared out a final
Can’t you hear the cannons crying?
One more day!
Can’t you hear our sailors dying?
One more day!
One more day, my Johnny,
One more day! Well, shot and shell me over,
One more day!
With a defiant squawk Lazarus brought his fiddle-playing to an end. One more day to Cat Island, Favian thought. He realized the verse had been meant to anger him, but the anger had not come, only thoughtfulness. Many times chanties were used to express anger or resentment at the ship’s officers— that was why Navy ships almost always worked to the bosun’s pipes and not to the voices of chantey men— and though Favian caught nervous glances among the hands directed toward the quarterdeck, he could not detect the smug self-righteousness of someone exulting in putting something over on the captain. The hands were startled or annoyed, but not triumphant.
Lazarus, he realized, was losing his congregation. He wondered how that would affect the man.
“That,” said George Willard, “was not meant as a joke.”
“No. He means to frighten them, but he won’t succeed. I think his madness is getting worse. I’ll speak to the doctor about him.”
“I think that’s a good idea, sir.”
Willard’s party finished their tasks, and the last of the great water butts were sealed and stored below. The mooring lines were cast off, and the Macedonians ran up the shrouds to loose the great sails. The canvas boomed as it filled, and the frigate heeled over to the warm ocean breeze. “Squadron to follow flagship in prescribed order,” Favian said, and Stanhope dashed to his signal halliards..
Favian looked back as his squadron slipped into the frigate’s wake: Malachi’s Revenge, its sails well reefed so as to slow its swift hull to the speed of the relatively sluggish frigate, the Franklin just behind, and then the gunboat; each vessel flew the bright gridiron flag, its red and white stripes in stark contrast to the darkness of the delta behind them. A fine sight, a prideful one. It would take them all of the night, and most of the next day, before they would be in sight of their objective.
“Permission to speak, sir.” Favian turned to discover his chaplain. As soon as he saw the set of the man’s jaw, he knew what the man wanted to say.
“Go ahead, Dr. Solomon.”
“I would like to request permission to accompany one of the landing parties. In any capacity whatever, sir.”
The man hadn’t yet got his fill of shooting people, Favian thought. It would be a shame to disappoint him.
“Very well, Dr. Solomon. You may join Mr. Eastlake as a messenger.”
Solomon’s eyes blazed with pride and anticipated glory. “Thank you, Captain. I shall endeavor to conduct myself in keeping with the highest—”
“I’m certain you shall, Dr. Solomon.” The man was nothing but an eager mid after all. “I’m sure,” Favian said finally, “that any wounded and dying will be consoled by your presence.”
There was a hesitation in the chaplain’s smile. “Ah, yes, sir,” he said. “Of course.”
Favian was tempted to add that his place on board Macedonian would be taken by the Reverend Joshua Mandrell of Nantucket, but he kept silent. He and the chaplain exchanged salutes again, and Solomon left the quarterdeck..
Favian turned to look into the frigate’s wake, and saw the sails of the little squadron glow orange in the light of the setting sun. One more day, he thought. He wondered if Campaspe would be made a widow in the next forty-eight hours, and whether it would be for the best.
One more day.
*
Macedonian’s big thirty-six-foot pinnace pitched on the heavy seas. The frigate, black and silent, towered over them. Favian could see two whaleboats rocking-heavily on the waves, their bulwarks crammed with dark-coated figures: sailors and marines. Starlight glinted softly on cutlass hilts, the tips of boarding pikes, and on the white rags tied around each upper arm for identification in the dark. The party were all wearing their boarding helmets, and their faces were in deep shadow..
Ahead came the sound of surf. There was the smell of spindrift, salt marsh, and fear.
Macedonian lay hove to about two miles from Timbalier Island, drifting slowly out to seaward with the land breeze. It would tack up again toward morning and be ready off Cat Island Pass once the battle began, ready to take off her children in case of disaster. Stroking toward land, the boat party were heading for the center of the six-mile-long island; they would then row parallel to the beach until they were nearer their objective, then disembark and march for the pirate fort on foot. They had fifty sailors and thirty marines in three boats, which should be enough to overwhelm the defenders— assuming, of course, the Guard of the Eagle were caught by surprise.
Somewhere in the dark— ten miles to the west, or thereabouts, there were more of Macedonian’s boats under the command of Hourigan, the senior lieutenant. The boats would be astern of Malachi’s Revenge, being towed toward their dropping-off point; they would then ghost eastward along the marshy coast of the Isles Derniere to take the smaller battery from the rear. Thirty seamen and ten marines seemed adequate to that task, but their problem would be to get ashore at all. According to Laffite, most of the Isles Dernieres were swamp and unsuitable for landing; the swamp gave way to sand within a mile or so of the battery, but it appeared the sands were also guarded by breakers. Favian did not like the idea of his men going ashore so close to the battery, where they might be spotted before they even got out of their boats; but there seemed little choice if the battery were to be taken at all.
Another worrying aspect was that Hourigan, in command of that particular party, had never, before this voyage, actually been in combat. Since the frigate had left New London, there had been the running fight with the blockading squadron and the swift capture of the Carnation, and in neither of those incidents had there been any reason to complain of Hourigan’s conduct. But still the man had never participated in anything like the storming of a fort, or the terrifying demands of hand-to-hand combat, with its prospects of being hacked down and cut to pieces by some berserk enemy’s cutlass. Since Hourigan was the senior lieutenant after Mr. Stone had left with the Carnation, there had been no choice but to give him his chance for glory— to leave him behind would have been to insult him gravely..
Favian had no particular doubts about the man: he seemed steady and sober, but still he was an unknown factor. Favian had tried to give him help— if he was wise enough to take advantage of it— by assigning Lieutenant Eastlake to his party. Eastlake had been with Charles Morris in the Adams corvette and had participated in the defense of that ship when it had been attacked last August by an overwhelming land and naval force. Several British attacks had been beaten off, but eventually the Adams had to be burned to prevent capture: Eastlake, the dashing, wealthy son of a Virginia planter, had gained Morris’s praise by his conduct in that action, and Morris was an old Tripoli hand, a veteran of the burning of the Philadelphia, in whose judgment Favian was inclined to trust. He hoped Hourigan would lean heavily on Eastlake in the upcoming action.
The uncertainties of taking the smaller fort fretted him; he wished he could somehow command the other party as well as his own. But he had made his decision; the fort on Timbalier was much larger and more important, and he had made it his responsibility.
The sound of surf was much closer. The waves were long ocean rollers off the Gulf; the fact that locally the wind was blowing out to sea from the land seemed to suppress the waves but little, instead creating foam on the wave-tops that blew into Favian’s face as he craned his neck to observe the island. The smell of tropical vegetation was heavy; they were probably coming up onto the swamp. “Turn us to larboard, Koskey,” he said.
“Aye aye, Captain.” The pinnace commenced a slow turn to larboard; Favian twisted around in the stern sheets to make certain the other boats were following. Bobbing on the swell, the boats began to parallel the shore. How close to the fort should he disembark? He would prefer to keep the march to the fort as short as possible: if the sand wasn’t hard-packed, it would be hard on the party to slog through more than a mile of it; rowing in the boats was much easier on them. He decided he’d press his luck and try to get as close as possible.
Sand gleamed softly on their starboard side. Favian asked Stanhope for his night glass and peered ahead: the inverted image showed only more sand, nothing resembling fortifications. But the fortifications were made of sand, weren’t they? At night they’d look just like a dune. Favian cursed softly under his breath.
He kept his glass fixed on the farthest extremity of beach, hoping to pick up the end of the island, but the sand just seemed to curve away from him endlessly. He wished there was something to take bearings on; but there was no significant landmark within miles. He stood up, his glass still trained on the island: far distant, he thought he could see breakers gleaming in starlight. That would be the breakers on the eastern end of the Isles Dernieres. If he could see them, he had to be near his objective. He ordered the boats to turn inland.
The pinnace threatened to swing broadside in the surf, but Kuusikoski fought the tiller and brought the boat in on an even keel. Favian thought he saw Jean Laffite, a black shadow, leading the crewmen out of the boat forward; they steadied it in the waves, hauled it onto the sand. Favian slung the glass over his shoulder, whispered to Stanhope to be certain to bring up all his gear, and moved forward in the boat. One hand on his sword-hilt to keep it from flailing around or tripping him, he jumped lightly to the ground. The keels of the other boats grated on the beach; there was splashing as the men disembarked.
Favian set Stanhope to counting heads as the empty boats were drawn farther up on the sand, as their anchors were hauled well up above the high-tide mark. Laffite, a delicate smallsword hanging from his waist, materialized near his left elbow. Stanhope reported the entire party present: Favian’s six-man pinnace crew, reinforced to the gunwales by the ship’s boarders. Lazarus had been left behind, and not only because of his quarrel with Favian’s coxswain. There was worry at the back of Favian’s mind that Lazarus was so bound and determined to produce a disaster he might somehow arrange one. Favian didn’t quite believe it, but he didn’t dare take the chance the intuition might not be right.
A portly figure, his round face enveloped by his boarding helmet, came up and saluted. “My party’s all present, sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Chapelle.” Chapelle was the fourth lieutenant and a gunnery expert, a pleasant man. At his elbow Favian saw his assistant, Mr. Midshipman Tolbert, one of Experiment’s survivors and a headstrong, impulsive, brave, and basically stupid young man.
The midshipman was in a single person everything Favian believed was wrong with the system of bringing raw adolescents aboard ships to become apprentice officers: Tolbert was courageous, quarrelsome, eager for combat, and totally heedless of consequences; he had failed his exams for lieutenant and, unless he got ashore and had some private coaching, would never pass on the second try. But Favian knew that Tolbert could be trusted to lead his party into file enemy works, and that was what was needed here: dash and bravery, not a tactical mind.
“The marines are all present and accounted for, sir,” reported Lieutenant Byrne.
“Very well. I’ll want each officer to check his men’s weapons once again to make certain they’re unloaded. I don’t want any guns going off accidentally and alerting the enemy. It’ll be cold steel only. Once that’s done, I’ll lead off with my party. Mr. Byrne, your marines will follow, then Mr. Chapelle with his sailors. If we come suddenly on the enemy’s works, and an alarm is given, I’ll try to storm straight ahead with my party along the beach. Mr. Byrne, your men will strike off to the right and try to get into their works farther inland. Mr. Chapelle, you’re our reserve. Hold your men ready, and I’ll send a messenger back to tell you when to bring them up. But Mr. Chapelle— if you see an opportunity the rest of us have missed, run for it. Just be damn certain the opportunity is real. Clear, gentlemen?”
Nods, muttered “aye ayes.”
“Very well. Mr. Laffite, stay with me, if you please.”
Favian waited as the officers ranked their men on the beach and went down the line, gunlocks clacking, the sound faintly heard over the boom of surf and the whistle of the cold wind as each was checked to make certain it was unloaded. Midshipmen came pelting through the foam to report each division ready. Favian turned and led the long line forward, setting a brisk pace through the harder-packed sand below the tide line. His breath steamed in front of him, and he cursed the chill wind, then remembered that the alternative to the cold would have been a plague of insects; in the end he was thankful it was December.
It was still difficult going, even on the hard, the sand crumbling away beneath every step; Favian soon found himself out of breath. The party disturbed a flock of resting geese, who boomed out of cover like a crack of thunder, uttering their harsh, protesting cries; Favian, took a deliberate breath to calm his trip-hammer heart and waved the column on. The beach kept curving away from him; he had no idea where he was in relation to the fort. He called a halt to the column, the sailors gratefully throwing themselves down on the sand, and craned up on tiptoe. All he could see was more sand. He turned to Laffite.
“Mr. Laffite, d’you know where we are? I can’t see any landmarks.”
Laffite shook his head. “I think we should be less than a mile from the place, Commodore Markham,” he said. “But I’ve never been on this island at night. I can’t be certain.”
Favian turned to Stanhope, unlaced the chin strap of his boarding helmet, and pushed the heavy, plumed iron and leather contraption back on his head to relieve his aching skull. “Give the column a rest,” he said. “Mr. Laffite and I are going ahead for reconnaissance. Pass the word to Mr. Byrne; tell him he’s in charge till I return.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Mr. Laffite?” The pirate nodded, and they set out into the dark. Favian huddled into his pea jacket, one hand holding his scabbard so the sword didn’t rattle, his eyes aching as they searched the dark. He paused again to use the night glass. Ahead, across a dark gulf of water, he barely made out a white line: surf crashing onto the eastern point of the Isles Dernieres. He had to be close to the fort. He signaled to Laffite and moved forward again, crouching. The beach curved away to the right, then seemed to straighten; Laffite touched his arm and pointed ahead. “That mound,” Laffite said. “It may be the fort.”
Or a dune, Favian thought. There was a log half-buried in the sand ahead: a piece of driftwood. He readied his glass and stepped up onto the log to gain an elevated view. He heard Laffite’s sudden intake of breath, and then his heart lurched as the log moved out from under him. His arms windmilled as he tried to regain his balance and failed; the fall to the sand knocked the wind out of him. Favian heard an angry growl and saw the opening jaws of the alligator; terror seized him and he rolled frantically, the boarding helmet spilling from his head; he heard the rasp of Laffite’s sword being drawn from the scabbard. There was a terrible chopping sound as the alligator’s jaws clamped shut on air, and then the animal turned and lumbered slowly into the water. Favian sat up, sand dripping from his pea jacket, watching in relief and amazement as an entire pack of alligators, moving out of the concealing darkness and grumbling among themselves, followed the leader into their element. Laffite, standing guard with his ineffectual-looking little smallsword, breathed heavily in relief. He put his sword away and helped Favian to his feet.
“We were lucky, my friend,” he said. “My sword wouldn’t have been much use against that monster,”
“Thank you,” Favian breathed. He picked up his boarding helmet, emptied the sand from it, and returned it to his head. “All I could see were those teeth. It must have been twelve feet long.”
Favian waited until his crashing heartbeat slowed, then moved up the beach to the shadow of the trees and vegetation. Laffite followed. Keeping under cover as much as possible, they moved forward, approaching the suspicious-looking mound. A hundred yards from the mound, the vegetation suddenly ended, obviously cleared away by human hands, and the dune suddenly became, very obviously, a rampart running clean across the narrow neck of the island. Favian dropped to one knee, and put the night glass to one eye. The sand gleamed softly in the starlight, revealing the fort’s outlines: he could see embrasures for guns, the ditch in front of the rampart, the rampart itself, loose sand piled up on a foundation of logs. Once he could get his men across the ditch, he thought, the rampart itself should be no great obstacle. He waited another few moments for sign of a sentry, detecting none, but was then rewarded by the sight of a glowing, moving dot moving from one embrasure to the next. The sentry was enjoying a cigar. Enough.
He turned to Laffite, seeing the pirate gazing at the fort with a practiced eye. “You see the sentry?” Favian asked. Laffite nodded. “D’you think he’s the only one?”
“Very likely,” Laffite said. “They have no warning of an attack.” He shrugged. “It is always difficult,” he said, “getting these people to keep an adequate watch.”
“I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.” They slid away through the high grass, carefully passing the area where the tribe of alligators was once again setting claim to its part of the beach, and hurried to where the party waited at the water’s edge. Stanhope and Byrne stood up to salute. Favian spoke quickly.
“We’ve located the fort. Mr. Byrne, bring your party up with mine. My party will still go straight in. Yours, Mr. Byrne, will angle off to the right. We could only find one sentry, so we’ll go in at the run— we should catch ’em by surprise if we move quickly enough. Any questions?”
There were none. Byrne’s marines were brought forward, bayonet-tips winking starlight. “Mr. Laffite,” Favian said, “you’ll attach yourself to Mr. Byrne as his guide. Ready, gentlemen?”
Nods from Byrne and Laffite. Favian turned and led the united parties forward, two lines of men in Indian file followed by Chapelle and his reserve. Favian heard his heart hammering, his breath rasping in his throat— not fear, he thought, but all this marching on soft ground. The fear was under control. But still the thought of running into those mute cannon made his hand clench on his scabbard.
Alligators, grunting, gave way as the Macedonians came up the beach; Favian saw the white rampart of the fort in the distance. Still breathing heavily, he led the column into the shade of the trees, then closer to the enemy. When he knew the cleared area was just ahead, he signaled the column to halt; they squatted invisibly in the shadow of the trees. “Mr. Byrne,” he said. The marine came forward. “The fort’s just ahead. They’ve cleared all the brush away to give themselves a field of fire,” Favian said. “Take my night glass. Crawl forward and take a look at the fort. Take Mr. Laffite with you— report back when you’ve seen all you need.”
Grateful for the chance for a rest, Favian sank onto the ground as Byrne and Laffite slipped forward. His pounding heart slowed; his breathing became more normal. It was perhaps ten minutes before Laffite and the marine returned; when he heard them crawling back, he tied the strap of his boarding helmet and got to his feet.
“We only saw one sentry, sir,” Byrne reported. He offered the night glass to Favian.
“Give it to Stanhope,” Favian said. “Pass the word to get ready.” He felt his heart pounding again, fought angrily to control it. “Cold steel,” he said, raising the volume of his whisper so that all should hear. “Take special care to make certain none of ’em get off the island. Remember the passwords: ‘Macedonian,’ the challenge; ‘Hornet,’ the countersign.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The passwords had been chosen carefully, the first because it was familiar to everyone in the party, the second because it would be difficult for a native-born Frenchman to pronounce. Anyone answering the challenge with “ ’Ornet!” was likely to find himself run through with a pike.
There was a rustling behind Favian as the column got to its feet with a subdued rattle of equipment and weapons. Favian thought for an instant about those cannon behind the embrasures, then took a firm grip on his sword and drew it from the scabbard. He swallowed, then turned to the column. “My men follow me. Marines follow Mr. Byrne to the right. At the run now, boys, and quietly— let’s go!”
And then he turned and dashed for the ramparts, sword clutched in his gloved hand; within seconds he was out of the cover of the trees, and running over the cleared area. He stumbled over a tree stump, recovered his balance, ran on. Behind he could hear the clatter as his column raced up behind him. The sand slid under his boot, and he went down on one knee, pain shooting through him as he scraped flesh on the sand. Stanhope pelted up behind, helped him rise; he brushed the midshipman off and kept running. He chanced a look to his right and saw the column of marines bearing off at an oblique angle, heading for another part of the rampart.
“Q-qui va la?” The voice seemed surprised and shaken— no wonder, when there were two columns of armed men dashing for the ramparts, armed men where previously there had been only sand, marsh grass, and alligators. The sentry did not wait for an answer but began to scream a high-pitched alarm. Favian, across the open ground at last, slid into the ditch in a cloud of sand.
“Give me a back!” he gasped, and one of his boat’s crew obligingly bent down at the base of the rampart. Favian planted a boot on the man’s backside and sprang for the rampart, clawing for a handhold and bringing a shower of sand down on the men below; he found a hold and rolled over the top of the rampart, falling with a jar and a clatter onto the firing step.
Above him was a glowing red eye; for a moment Favian thought that the sentry was still clenching his cigar in his teeth, but then he recognized it for what it was, a slow match about to be applied to a six-pounder cannon. With a shout he lunged to his feet, hanger slicing at the shadowy figure of the sentry; he felt the impact all the way to his shoulder as the blade went home. Hot blood spurted onto Favian’s hand as the sentry folded, the slow match falling from his hand. There was the scrabbling of another man coming over the rampart and babble of chaotic French from inside the fort. Favian wrenched at his sword to clear it from the sentry and stamped on the glowing slow match, extinguishing it. Stanhope rolled over the rampart in a hiss of falling sand and rose to his feet, his cutlass in his hand.
“We have them,” Favian said in triumph. Three seamen came lunging up the rampart and fell onto the firing step. A few figures came running toward the rampart from some half-seen buildings in the distance, shouting incoherent questions. Favian waited until half a dozen more of his men had cleared the rampart.
“Stay here,” Favian told Stanhope. “Gather the others, then follow. The rest of you, with me!” There were nods from the boy, from the sailors— most of them his boat’s crew, he realized, Kuusikoski standing tall and burly among them, cutlass waving as he gathered his crew around him.
Favian led them pounding over the sand, cutlasses and pikes leveled at the gaping pirates standing in shock at the sight. The enemy broke as soon as they gathered their wits enough to realize their fort was being stormed; they scattered into the darkness, shrieking warnings. Figures ran antlike among the buildings; Favian and his men ran for them. Somewhere there was a flashing pistol shot. No more of those, Favian thought angrily. His men were screaming now, half-Indian war whoops, and through the darkness Favian saw the gleam of weapons in the hands of his foes.
Favian’s men smashed into the pirates with an impact that drove the enemy back a few shuddering paces; Favian saw a man standing with a clubbed musket, bellowing French curses, and flung himself at him. Favian, even in motion, was perfectly balanced, his hanger ready to absorb the shock of an enemy blow— he had been fencing since his childhood, had fought two duels with the sword, and his body fell without thinking into a poised position. The man grunted, a little involuntary exhalation of breath, as he swung the musket-butt at Favian’s head, his face screwed in fierce concentration. Favian ducked, his hanger throwing the blow off over his head; he came up from below while his enemy was off-balance, his sword cutting upwards through the pirate’s bowels, and then, without conscious thought directing it, the sword came chopping at the man’s neck to finish him off. Before the man had fallen, Favian was balanced again, the sword ready to probe into the darkness, looking for new enemies. Blood surged through Favian’s body in direct counterpoint to the suspiration of his breath, all his senses alert.
To his right one of his boat’s crew was fencing with a pirate, pike against bayonet: Favian darted toward the combat and, as the enemy raised his bayonet to parry a blow, slipped his sword into the pirate’s armpit before the man was aware of him. The man froze, astonished, and was promptly impaled on the pike. He fell, and at the same time the pirates broke.
Favian, suddenly, was almost alone; the Macedonians, blood-mad, had run shouting after the broken enemy. “Macedonians! Here! Don’t run off, damn you!” Favian roared desperately; a few obeyed— Favian recognized Kuusikoski’s bare, blond head, his boarding helmet gone— but the rest had vanished. It was not the broken enemy that concerned Favian, but rather the tall shadows that were ranking themselves just beyond the line of huts. Tall men, some in taller caps, broad-shouldered and moving with the deliberation of veterans. Favian felt his blood chill. These, he knew, were not pirates; they were La Garde de l’Aigle, Napoleon’s finest, undefeated on the battlefields of Europe.
There was the rasp of ramrods down musket barrels coming clearly across the suddenly silent night. If that corps of phlegmatic veterans could get a volley off and follow it up with a charge á la baionnette, Favian’s party would be in deep trouble. They might provide a chance for the pirates to rally behind them; they might even keep the issue in dispute until the main corps of enemy, barracked on Cat Island, could be alerted and come to their aid. Plans flickered through Favian’s mind. He took a deep breath and gave his orders.
“We’ve got to charge those men, boys! Let’s hear it for the old Macedonian!” Screaming like wild men, Favian led them onto the old French bayonets. The Guard quietly cleared the ramrods from their weapons and stood at the ready, their ground chosen, waiting for their enemy. Favian slowed his charge, picked a tall, gray man in a bearskin cap, and launched a feint; the bayonet slid away, parrying, then came back into line and thrust. Favian parried, hearing shouts and the clatter of steel on steel on all sides; for some reason he absorbed the pointless information that his opponent was wearing massive gold earrings. The bayonet came flickering out again; Favian parried it to his left side and came forward, his gloved left hand seizing the bayonet in a desperate grip. Pain rocketed up his arm, but he disallowed it; his own lunge was launched, but was turned away on his enemy’s ribs. The bayonet came free of his hand, and he hacked desperately at his enemy’s arm, felt the shock of contact, heard the man’s grunt at the impact. There was movement to Favian’s right, and he parried desperately at the bayonet that came out of the dark, aimed at his heart; and then he hacked at its wielder, a wild blow that connected with a thud. The first bayonet was coming at him again, swung one-handed; he blocked it with his own crippled hand, thrust at the face of his first opponent, felt contact as the keen hanger-edge tore along a cheekbone. Two more strikes, ahead and right, brought his opponents down, but he knew his party was in trouble.
There were perhaps ten of these guardsmen at the start; Favian’s own party had perhaps five men in it. Now, as Favian stepped back to catch his breath, a few had fallen on each side. The Macedonians, hesitant to come to grips with such numbers, were being driven steadily back, fencing at long range. Favian considered calling his men off, pulling back beyond the huts to where Stanhope, by now, should have the rest of his column ready— but that would concede the initiative to the enemy. He had based his plan on surprise, he realized with biting anger at himself; but the Guard, old veterans who had seen it all before, were constitutionally incapable of being surprised.
There was a sickening thud nearby; a Macedonian spun to the earth, impaled, his eyes horror-struck and wide. It was time to pull back. But then there were cries of “Macedonian! Macedonian!” to the right, and Byrne’s marines came lunging out of the darkness. The Guardsmen spun to fight them, but the marines were the elite of their own school and in greater numbers. The Guard fell back, step by step, bayonets clattering, but they never broke. In the end it was Stanhope’s party, arriving at last, who surrounded them; they died then, in their places, fighting without complaint, silently, until overwhelmed.
“Sorry I took so long, sir,” Byrne reported. He’d been in the thick of it, was nursing a long cut on his neck. “But we found a line of pirogues out there. Had to put a guard on ’em to keep the enemy from giving the alarm. Laffite’s holding ’em with ten men.”
“Very good,” Favian said, breathless. “Send a half dozen of your men to find the magazine and guard it— we don’t want anybody blowing it up. Then search those huts, confiscate any weapons. Send a messenger back to find Chapelle and tell him to bring his column up— tell him he’s to guard the rampart against any attempt to retake the fort. Understood?”
“Aye, sir.”
Nothing to do but clean up, Favian thought. A few pirates would be found in the morning, hiding in one out-of-the-way spot or another, and the rest would have run off onto the island; perhaps Chapelle’s reserve party would have captured a few. If Laffite was guarding all the boats, then there would be no way for them to alert their comrades. And it was only a few hours until dawn in any case— by then Malachi’s Revenge, Franklin, and the gunboat would be in a position to assist. The only question remaining involved the success of Hourigan’s party, on the other side of Cat Island Pass.
“Mr. Stanhope.”
“Sir.”
“D’you have your lanterns?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Make the signal, then.”
Stanhope had been carrying two dark-lanterns in his pack; he saluted and made his way to the seaward rampart. There he would light the shuttered lanterns, direct their beams into the Gulf, and signal to the Macedonian that her children had successfully stormed the enemy bastion. The shuttered lanterns would not be visible to the other battery on the Isles Dernieres— nor would Hourigan’s lanterns, when he made a similar signal, be visible to Favian. Only Macedonian’s long telescopes would see, and then the signal for mutual success would rise up its masts.
“Mr. Chapelle is within the works, sir. He’s taking his position on the rampart.” The messenger was Chapelle’s midshipman, Potter.
“Thank you.” Other messengers reported back: several prisoners had been secured in the huts; the magazine had been found and a guard placed over it; Stanhope’s signal had been made. Favian gave orders for half the men to sleep while the others stood guard, and to rotate every hour.
Favian felt weariness flooding him. His injured left hand throbbed with pain. The fight had been sharp and quick; he doubted if, from start to finish, it had lasted longer than five or six minutes. An insignificant amount of time in comparison to the days it had taken to plan the assault and the hours it would take to clean up the fort, stitch up the wounded, bury the dead....
Not so many dead, all things considered— certainly not like the bloodbaths Favian had seen in his life: the Tripolitan gunboats slippery with gore after the American seamen had cut their way through the corsairs; the well deck of Macedonian, when Favian had first seen it swimming in blood-red seawater, dismembered bodies floating in the brine. For good or ill, he thought, he had always been on the Navy’s cutting edge, and the Navy itself was the cutting edge of the American republic. Cutting edges drew blood; that was their function— and it was Favian’s function to decide where to cut. At the moment, standing amid the human rubble of the Guard’s stand, the brave and capable warriors he had overwhelmed with his own New World elites, he was heartily sick of his work.
“Mr. Byrne, I’m turning in,” he said, taking off his heavy helmet. “Wake me in an hour. I’ll be over there, lying in the grass.”
“The huts are secured, sir. You could rest in there.”
“They’re probably full of bugs, Mr. Byrne. I don’t think they take a lot of baths out here.”
There was a flash of Byrne’s white teeth in the dark. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. Have a good sleep.”
Favian undipped the sword from his belt and took the two unloaded pistols from his pockets; he pillowed his head on his arms; despite the pain from his injured hand he fell instantly into sleep. It seemed only a few moments before Byrne was standing over him, shaking his shoulder.
“Hourigan’s men have run into a fight, sir,” he said. “I think you might want to take a look.”
“Yes.” Favian shook his head to clear it of sleep. The chill land breeze ruffled his hair; it had increased in velocity since he’d gone to sleep. “Thank you, Mr. Byrne.”
He stood up, reaching for his sword and pistols. Byrne led him to the water battery, where the long iron noses of the eighteen-pounders stood silent guard over Cat Island Pass. “Here, sir,” Byrne said and handed him a night glass.
The inverted image swam slowly into focus: the breakers, the dark shadow of the island on the moving, shifting sea. And then Favian saw pinpricks of light flashing on the island, and knew it for what it was: musketry. The flashes were silent; the wind had taken the sound and swept it out to sea. There was another, bigger flash, reflecting off trees. A big gun. Hourigan was in trouble.
Favian glanced nervously into Terre Bonne Bay, wondering if the pirates had seen their battery under attack, if they were raising an alarm. The winds were strange when it came to musketry and gunshots: sometimes they shook the earth and startled bystanders a dozen miles away, while two miles from the fight men sipped tea in ignorance of a major battle being fought almost under their noses. But there was no sign that the pirates had seen anything, no rockets or false fires, no signals raised high on masts. Favian put the telescope to his eye once more.
He watched, for what seemed a long time, the lights dancing, like fireflies on the distant island, straining his ears to discern the sounds of battle over the moan of wind and roar of waves. Eventually the flickering lights died away, the battle remaining mute to the end, and Favian was left with uncertainty gnawing him. If Hourigan had been repulsed, he’d have to signal in the morning for the ships to keep to his side of the channel, avoiding those guns on the battery. At least the larger fort had fallen. But Hourigan had forty men with him: what of those? How many of the Macedonians had fallen to the pirate defenders?
But then there was the sound of cheering nearby, and Favian looked where a jubilant Byrne was pointing. Two miles offshore, the frigate Macedonian lay hove to, near-invisible on the seas. She had raised a signal up her tall mainmast, a red lantern over a yellow one, the sign that both Favian and Hourigan had reported success.
Both forts had fallen. The way to Cat Island was open.