CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The eastern sky turned a pale gray just before dawn, revealing Malachi’s Revenge tacking back and forth off the entrance to Cat Island Pass, Franklin and the gunboat a little farther out to sea. Macedonian sat in black-hulled magnificence behind the island, the ochre stripe over the gunports subdued in the faint light. Looking in the other direction with his long glass, Favian saw the pirate vessels riding to anchor, six of them, a pair of brigs, a sloop, two schooners, and a felucca. “The one with the white masts and yards, that’s Mortier’s ship,” Laffite said, pointing out the larger of the two brigs. “L’Aigle.” He gave a satisfied smile. “We’ve caught them entirely by surprise.”
“It seems so, Mr. Laffite,” Favian said. He turned to Stanhope. “Light the false fires, Mr. Stanhope.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Two green false fires would be the signal for Gideon to take the tern schooner through the pass, heading swiftly into the bay to cut the enemy ships off from Cat Island. Fontenoy’s Franklin and the gunboat would assist, principally to take possession of the privateer vessels— presumably there was only an anchor watch on each boat, easily enough overcome.
The false fires spurted green flame on the ramparts, and the schooner tacked, steadied onto its new course, and headed smoothly for Terre Bonne Bay, flags rising on its halliards. Favian saw the American ensign at the peak, streaming brightly in the dawn, and a giant white flag at the fore with the legend PARDON FOR DESERTERS, the same flag Patterson had flown at Barataria in September. Then Favian saw a long red streamer rising at the main, a gold rattlesnake writhing along its length, fangs bared. Favian smiled in satisfaction; he had flown that pendant himself, at Experiment’s forepeak during the fight with Teaser, and in the Narrow Seas of England when he had burned over forty British merchantmen. It was the Markham family banner, designed by Malachi Markham, Favian’s hellion uncle, in 1778, flown first when Malachi’s Royal George privateer had captured the fifty-gun ship of the line Bristol, the most spectacular prize of the Revolution... The Markham family had flown it ever since, over every desperate combat, over every capture.
Favian turned to the flagpole his men had improvised out of two masts and a long sweep taken from the boats and pirogues drawn up on the shore and lashed together. “Raise our flag, gentlemen,” he said. “Prepare to dip her in salute as the Revenge passes, if you please.”
Stanhope had constructed a pole for his signal flags out of the mast from Favian’s pinnace. The fifteen-striped American flag came slowly up the improvised pole, the mast bending dangerously in the stiff land breeze. Malachi’s Revenge, propelled by her great white wings, slipped gracefully past the point only half a mile from the fort; Favian could see Gideon clearly through his glass, dressed in an old brown coat, a round beaver hat tilted back on his head, one cheek full of tobacco. His privateersmen were standing at their stations, ready to raise their port-lids and run out their guns at Gideon’s command, and Favian could see the tall, broad-shouldered black man, Long Tom Tate, standing with one arm thrown around the breech of his pivot gun like a man holding his lover.
Then Gideon was waving his hat and bellowing out orders, and his men swarmed to the lee rail, facing Favian, their own hats raised. Three roaring cheers came distinctly over the water, and Favian raised his own hat. “Dip our ensign, please,” he said, and the men at the halliards brought the flag down in salute.
Malachi’s Revenge sped into the bay. Franklin, unable with her square rig to ride as near the wind, tacked several times before drawing even with the fort; Gunboat Number 5, unwieldy and slow, took even longer. The top of the sun’s disk touched the dark cypress swamp to the east. It was getting light enough for Macedonian to be able to read signals.
“Haul our ensign down,” Favian ordered. “Mr. Stanhope, throw out a signal for Macedonian to send us a surgeon.”
There were seven wounded Macedonians, three of them hurt seriously; and two of the attackers had been killed. The losses among Favian’s boat crew had been particularly severe, one killed and two hurt badly by those Guard bayonets. The pirates had suffered twelve killed and sixteen wounded, plus fifteen captured; the rest had run and were presumably scattered up and down the island. Favian expected them to surrender when they got hungry enough. There had been no casualties at all when Patterson had captured Grand Terre in September, but then there had also been no resistance— most of Laffite’s men had fled into the swamp, while the leaders stayed behind and surrendered.
“Macedonian acknowledges our signal, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stanhope.” Things were moving smoothly enough.
And then there was the boom of a distant gun. Favian spun around, amazed, an oath on his lips; everyone around him was frozen into place, standing stiff as statues in surprise. Another gun banged. Favian saw white splashes in the water as a roundshot skipped across the waves, two hundred yards east of Malachi’s Revenge.
“Another battery, by God!” he burst out, fury seizing him. He stood quivering with anger for long seconds, then stalked to the northern extremity of the rampart, his subordinates, Stanhope, Byrne, and Chapelle, falling into place behind him. There was a black-garbed shadow racing ahead: Jean Laffite, a telescope under one arm.
“Where the devil is it?” Favian fumed. From the angle of the splashes it had to be on Timbalier Island somewhere. He jumped up onto the cypress rampart of the fort, next to Laffite who already had his own telescope trained. Another gun boomed.
“There it is!” Laffite shouted. The belch of gunsmoke had given it away. Favian, furious, clapped his telescope to his eye.
The battery, three or four miles away, came into focus just as its second gun fired, producing another puff of gray smoke, and things fell into place. Apparently the pirates had been uneasy about their back door, east of Timbalier Island at Petite Passe Timbalier. Even though the water was only a few feet deep, it was deep enough to admit small boats. Perhaps they expected the Laffites to attack with pirogues, sculling in the back way. At any rate they’d put a two-gun battery on the north side of Timbalier to discourage just that attempt— they couldn’t put it on the eastern end because that half of the island was all swamp. The battery had seen Gideon’s schooner slipping in, flying the American flag, and had opened fire. The range was hopelessly long, but the booming guns were quite enough to alert the pirates on Cat Island,
Favian swung his telescope inland. He could see running figures and pointing arms on one of the schooners, and a startled man running spiderlike up the rigging of L’Aigle. He couldn’t see any developments on Cat Island itself— the settlement was on the other side— but he presumed that they would be alerted shortly.
“You didn’t tell me about this, Mr. Lafftte,” Favian said.
Laffite raised an eyebrow at Favian’s angry tones. “I didn’t know, Commodore,” he said. “They must have set those guns up in the last week. Perhaps they heard I was trying to work against them.”
“Sir,” Byrne said. “I could take my leathernecks and silence that battery. March down the south shore of the island, cross through the trees, and take them from behind.”
“Very well,” Favian snapped. The battery was nothing more than a nuisance— the range was far too long to damage any of the attacking vessels— but there was nothing else for the marines to do, and the battery seemed the only target left on the island. Furthermore, Byrne’s plan would work. The island was long and narrow, running east-west, a strip of beach on its northern and southern edges, with vegetation sprouting down its middle. Byrne’s men could approach the battery unseen along the southern beach, then cut across the narrow island to strike the enemy from the rear.
“Thank you, sir,” Byrne said, saluting. He turned to bellow orders for his marines to form in their ranks. Favian lowered his telescope, his anger ebbing. Perhaps it would work out well enough. Malachi’s Revenge was well into the bay, and Franklin had just passed the fort. The pirates would have to be quick indeed to prevent their being stranded on the island. But his memory of those tall, gray veterans disturbed him— there were, according to Laffite, over five hundred men in the Guard of the Eagle who had marched in the ranks of the Middle or Old Guard in Europe. Most of those five hundred would probably be in New Orleans, but there were bound to be many on Cat Island.
Favian remembered their expert bayonet work, their imposing presence, their steadfast refusal to be surprised, the stolid acceptance with which they faced their death. Those men might have more resources than the ragtag bunch of pirates with whom they’d allied themselves.
The two-gun battery spat out another pair of shot that fell far short. The dandy-rigged gunboat tacked into the bay and set its course for the nearest enemy vessel, boarders massed on its bulwarks. Byrne’s marines shouldered their rifles and marched out of the fort. Gideon’s black schooner swept deeper into the bay.
And then Favian saw the black swarm of boats heading past the southern tip of Cat Island, and in astonishment snapped his telescope to his eye. “Merde!” Laffite burst out.
There were a lot of boats: pirogues, rowboats, little sailboats, a tattered, disorderly fleet heading for the two vessels nearest the island, the L’Aigle brig and a little sloop. Crammed with pirates, with former Chasseurs and Grenadiers á Pied, Napoleonic fanatics ready to do battle for their vessels..
Favian gave vent to a blistering series of curses. The original plan was badly out of trim. Fortunately, in their daily gaming sessions in Macedonian’s wardroom, they had worked out possible actions in the event the enemy managed to get men aboard their vessels.
A gun boomed from Malachi’s Revenge, and Favian saw a waterspout appear in line with the fleet of boats. Thomas Tate, no doubt, trying to get the range with his pivot gun. But the Revenge was still a good two miles distant from the little flotilla, and even with Tate’s expert gunnery any hit at this range, would be pure luck.
Favian could do nothing but watch. The swarm of boats reached the sloop first, and Favian could see men swarm up its sides, cast loose the gaskets on the sails, making the boat ready. He could see the glint of sun off bayonets, and imagined some of them had tall caps. Malachi’s Revenge was finding the range now, dropping eighteen-pound roundshot into the mass of boats, but Gideon seemed concerned chiefly with the brig L’Aigle, which was big enough to put up a fight if the Guardsmen got to it first.
In the end the Revenge and the boats arrived at nearly the same time. Black figures were still swarming up L’Aigle’s bulwarks as the black tern schooner came proudly alongside; Favian saw a wall of gray smoke gushing up, followed a few seconds later by the thunderous crash of a broadside, as Gideon loosed his guns right across the enemy decks. Favian found a cheer burst from him; he wanted to wave the telescope and caper on the ramparts. He knew the enemy could not reply: they would have to cast loose their guns, bring up cartridges and shot, light their slow matches— it was a job that took seven or eight minutes even on a well-practiced ship, and on the little schooner in this situation it would be chaos..
Gideon’s guns, reloaded, roared again. The enemy’s only hope would be to board, a difficult job even at the best of times, and Gideon would know enough to be able to prevent that. Even the disciplined corps of Napoleonic veterans would be little help; this kind of warfare simply wasn’t their style. Their best hope would be to jump back in their boats and run for the swamps.
Gideon’s guns fired again and again, gunsmoke wrapping both vessels. Favian found himself grinning. His cousin seemed to have the situation well in hand. He turned his telescope to the sloop.
It had got clumsily under way, cutting its anchor cable and getting its mainsail up halfway before the peak outhaul jammed. The main came down again, the sloop spinning out of control, and then the sail rose properly to catch the wind, the sloop heeling, a bone building in its teeth. A staysail and jib rose up as well; the sloop’s speed increased. Favian could see the its decks black with men; there seemed to be at least a hundred men crammed shoulder to shoulder on the little boat. Even so there was little hope. Franklin had, obeying the plan worked out on Macedonian’s, wardroom floor days before, abandoned its task of taking possession of the other pirate vessels and was steering to intercept. The popguns that a sloop of that size would carry could not hope to match Fontenoy’s broadside. It would be as one-sided a fight as Revenge versus L’Aigle.
But then, as Favian watched in surprise, Franklin, moving swiftly across the surface of the bay, came to a shuddering halt, slewing wildly, its sails slatting back and forth so loudly that Favian, two miles away, could hear them plainly. Aground! Favian scowled, damning the shallow waters. Fontenoy, striking the mud at that speed, would have to wait until high tide to kedge himself off, and that would be another two hours yet. It looked as if the. sloop would get away— assuming, of course, it was light enough to get over the Petite Passe Timbalier to the east of the island.
Strange, Favian thought, it seemed not to be heading for the Passe. The track of the vessel was taking it westward— could it be heading for Cat Island Pass? That made no sense at all; Favian could sink the sloop easily with the fort’s eighteen-pounders. One or two hits with the large-bore cannon here would shatter the sloop’s fragile scantlings beyond hope of repair.
There was a series of gunshots as Cunningham’s gunboat, only half a mile or so in the bay, fired its guns at long range, the round shot splashing far short of the sloop. Still the sloop continued its curve to the west. What the devil were those men doing?
Favian felt his heart sink as he realized what the enemy were up to, the revelation coming with an almost physical impact. How blind could he have been? He turned his glass on the sloop, seeing the swarming men in tall caps, the muskets and bayonets, his worst fears confirmed.
They were coming to retake the fort. They had forsaken a sea battle, knowing they were outclassed; instead they were going to land their veterans on Timbalier Island and turn the fight into the sort they understood, assaulting a fortification with picked troops at the point of the bayonet. And Favian had sent off his marines, the men who were best at defending the ramparts.
“Mr. Stanhope!” he bellowed. “Throw out a signal to Mr. Byrne! Tell the marines to return to the fort immediately! Then send Tolbert to them as a runner. I want those men back!” Byrne, marching east along the beach, had no way of seeing a signal from the fort, but Macedonian, lying off the island, would repeat it— and then it would be up to Byrne’s memory, or the swiftness of Midshipman Tolbert’s running, for the marine lieutenant had no signal book with him. “The rest of you— have the men muster by this battery! Take every captured musket, every pistol, make sure they’re ready. Open the magazine, begin moving cartridges here to the land battery. They’re going to try to take the fort back!”
He saw Laffite looking at him in amazement, Chapelle in horror. Stanhope sprinted for the improvised signal halliards. He still had sixty men, Favian thought; that might be enough to hold the parapet.
The next few minutes confirmed Favian’s worst fears. The sloop, its sails pockmarked by some near hits from the gunboat, ran itself aground right west of the little battery, men pouring ashore carrying muskets. The old uniforms worn by many of them were clearly visible now in Favian’s long glass, blue swallowtail coats, fur caps, a standard with a gold eagle winking from its summit. Favian began firing the fort’s six-pounders as soon as he had cartridge and ball, knowing the range was impossibly long but hoping to familiarize his men with the guns. Besides, Byrne might hear the guns and march to them.
Across the bay there was now silence; L’Aigle’s resistance had ended, and the gunsmoke dispersed. Gideon’s schooner was moving again, having left a prize crew aboard the brig; apparently he had realized the danger and was coming to the support of the fort. It was clear, Favian thought, that he would be too late; he’d have to detour around the shoal that Franklin had run aground on.
“Cease fire,” Favian said, seeing that his six-pounder crews had familiarized themselves with the guns. He could feel hopeless anger rising in him, like bile; he knew this fight would be bitter. No one had foreseen anything like this.
“Fire on my command,” Favian said. “You with the muskets— that will be as soon as they start coming across the open ground. Keep your heads and aim low.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm his whirling mind. He had scented disasters before, and this was certainly beginning to smell like one. “Just keep your heads,” he said, “and we’ll do well.” He reached into his pockets for his long dueling pistols, a gift from his father many years before, and began loading them.
Down the beach the Guard column had formed up, a narrow, deep column of men, just like the columns with which Napoleon had triumphed on the battlefields of Europe. They were carrying the standard to the front, but there was no flag— perhaps they didn’t want to give themselves away flying the tricolor; perhaps they only had the eagle. They were coming on briskly. The gunboat, its sails down, moving deliberately under sweeps, had taken them under fire, but most of Cunningham’s shots were high. That was the problem with those little gunboats; they rocked so much on the waves that their value as gun platforms was nearly nil, even trying to move under sweeps. But still Cunningham scored a hit, smashing into the densely packed column. Men flew before the impact of the ball, lay raglike on the beach as the column hastened on.
“Mr. Chapelle,” Favian said. The portly fourth lieutenant was bending over the only six-pounder that could fire straight down the beach, his eyes intent. “You may fire when ready.”
“Thank you, sir. I believe I’ll hold fire for a minute longer.”
“As you wish, Mr. Chapelle,” Favian said, trying to affect a casualness he did not feel. If only Byrne’s marines were present! There would be no fear then.
“Drive the quoin in a bit there, Koskey,” Chapelle was saying. “Just a touch— there! Give me the slow match.” His voice was dry and matter-of-fact. “There we go,” he said. “Stand back, now.”
Favian, concentrating on the advancing column, scarcely heard the bang, but he did see the sudden whirl of arms and legs as the six-pounder shot struck home, driving into the dense column. He felt his lips draw back from his teeth in a snarl. This was the way to punish them.
The column increased its pace. The tall men in the lead, their brows shadowed by their bearskin caps, were bent over, leaning forward as if into a high wind. Favian could hear the sound they made, a kind of low droning, ominous and terrible. Chapelle’s gun banged again, striking home. The column never hesitated, though men were left behind on the sand.
“Muskets to the parapet!” Favian shouted. “Guns two, three, and four, load with grape on top of roundshot!” There was a rattle as the muskets were trained across the rampart. The column was within two hundred yards. Favian could see the eagle standard waving wildly; caps had been raised on bayonet tips; they had doubled their pace, were coming on at a run.
“Ready...” Favian shouted, knowing it was going to be bad. And then suddenly there was a crackling thunder from the vegetation ahead as white gunsmoke burst from the trees. The column writhed and slowed, men stumbling. Chapelle’s gun roared out, striking home. The column came staggering on, but there was another volley from the flank, and the Guard broke up, some heading onward regardless, others turning to face the new enemy, yet others running. And then came the whoops and shrieks as Byrne’s forty marines came running out of the trees and struck the column in flank, destroying it.
Byrne’s memory had proved providential, Favian thought, relief flooding him. He’d known what the recall signal meant. He’d pulled his men back and hit the column in flank as it advanced down the beach, an inspired tactic.
The Guard of the Eagle were running back down the beach, their last chance gone. “Three cheers for Mr. Byrne!” Favian shouted, jumping up on the parapet, waving his boarding helmet as he led his sailors in salute to the marines.
La Societe de la Garde de L’Aigle was finished, their menace to New Orleans ended. Now, Favian knew, there was only the cleaning up to be done. And the counting of the dead.