Queen of Swords
Page 55
Kit worked with Thornton, a dour man who was well respected and equally feared by the troops he commanded. They had to move almost two thousand men from the 85th, the 95th Rifles, and the King’s Own, along with artillery, engineers, and marines, which meant first that they had to be divided up among the available barges. Plans were made, discussed, changed, and finally set in place late in the night.
With less than three hours until first light, Kit rolled himself—back in uniform, finally—into a piece of waterproof canvas that smelled of mold and urine, and fell into an uneasy sleep.
And of course the plans fell apart immediately. Ten o’clock came and went as men were directed into and out of barges, artillery was reassigned, kits went lost and were found again. It was almost noon by the time the advance pushed off, men packed in so tightly that there was no possibility of movement, not even to adjust a hat when the rain started in earnest. Kit found himself revisiting the calculations that had so plagued him the day before: from the fleet to Pea Island, from Pea Island to Bayou Catalan, through the ciprière and along the canals to the de la Ronde plantation, the site chosen by scouts. And then back again, mile by mile. If they should fail, if they should lose this battle, retreat would be almost impossible. Clearly Cochrane and Keane had simply refused to contemplate such an event. That in itself made Kit uneasy.
Around him men tried to keep their spirits up by telling stories and singing, and for a while it seemed to work. Then the rain turned to sleet and the charcoal fire that was too little to give off real heat went cold, taking with it most of the forced good cheer and leaving every one of them to fold into himself, silent. To conserve what energy and heat they could, while the sailors rowed and rowed toward an unseen shore.
At dusk they reached the fishing village, quiet but for the barking of dogs and apparently deserted.
The troops, wet and dispirited, came back to life by the discovery that there was indeed a guarded camp, and the piquets were all sound asleep in the shacks. In a matter of minutes they were surrounded and taken prisoner.
“So much for the fabled American militia.” Thornton allowed himself a small laugh as the prisoners were marched off for questioning.
Kit said, “The ones in blue belong to a company called the Chasseurs.”
Thornton grunted. “Chasseurs, indeed. An insult to good fighting men.”
“I doubt Jackson realized that the rich sons of New Orleans bankers had been assigned this duty,” said Kit.
“Let’s hope there’s a great deal he doesn’t know,” said Thornton with a rare grin.
With renewed energy the sailors shoved off and the barges began to work their way laboriously through the shallow waters of Catalan and then, narrower, the Bayou Mazant. None of the men around Kit had seen the ciprière before, and they looked about themselves with interest and some disquiet, thinking, Kit could imagine it well, that they would not like to fight a battle in such a place, neither land nor lake, but a combination of the two. Full of strange trees dripping moss, as welcoming as a graveyard. A Scot asked in a low voice about alligators, as if he believed they might hear him and come to introduce themselves.
“They don’t like the cold,” Kit told him. “In the summer months you’d see dozens of them sunning themselves, but now they’re asleep on the bottom.”
His answer seemed to quiet some unspoken fear but also stoked general curiosity, and a half dozen whispered questions came his way. The order for silence was welcome, coming as it did just before they reached the de la Ronde canal, which turned out to be blocked with branches and whole dead trees. Something Kit had tried to tell Keane about, but the general had more faith in his advance party than he did in Kit Wyndham.
The engineers consulted briefly, and pronounced the situation impossible. They moved on, through acres of rushes tall enough to hide a thousand men. Kit was wondering what they might do when they found that Jackson had ordered every one of these canals blocked, when they arrived at the next one and found it completely clear. Thornton issued orders, and the first of thousands of British soldiers put foot on American soil.
They came out of the rushes onto a large plantation that reached all the way to the high embankment of the Mississippi, into recently harvested cane fields, dry and firm underfoot, divided here and there by fences. In the middle distance stood the planter’s house, surrounded by mature trees and gardens and outbuildings. Some cows and sheep grazed near the far border of the property, but there was not a soldier in sight, nor even a slave at work.
The Americans had known for many days about the invasion force, its size and location. Jackson had had more good information about the British than they had about him, but now the advance spread out, unseen, unchallenged, to cross the fields that led, like stepping-stones, a mere seven miles to the city of New Orleans.
Kit, glad he had kept his doubts to himself, went with them.
Gabriel Villeré had a favorite chair in his father’s parlor, where he settled with a cigar after a solid breakfast. Around him were his hunting dogs, his younger brother Jules, and many of his best friends. An altogether agreeable morning, as the sun had finally come out after a cold and rainy night.
Villeré tugged at his uniform, which was pretty enough to parade in but damn uncomfortable otherwise. It pinched his neck and made him cross, and he wondered if his friends felt the same but were afraid to say so for fear of sounding soft. A few weeks ago they had sat in this very room, eager to join the militia, to get in on the fighting. Some of them out of patriotism, or curiosity, or just simply for the excitement of it. Gabriel had joined because he couldn’t think of an excuse not to that would satisfy either his father—General Jacques Villeré, commander of the entire Louisiana militia—or his father-inlaw, who was also in uniform and talked a good deal about the honor of shedding blood to protect one’s home and land. His father was a good man, but not a particularly insightful one when it came to his own children. His father-in-law was not quite so enamored and saw Gabriel more clearly.
With less than three hours until first light, Kit rolled himself—back in uniform, finally—into a piece of waterproof canvas that smelled of mold and urine, and fell into an uneasy sleep.
And of course the plans fell apart immediately. Ten o’clock came and went as men were directed into and out of barges, artillery was reassigned, kits went lost and were found again. It was almost noon by the time the advance pushed off, men packed in so tightly that there was no possibility of movement, not even to adjust a hat when the rain started in earnest. Kit found himself revisiting the calculations that had so plagued him the day before: from the fleet to Pea Island, from Pea Island to Bayou Catalan, through the ciprière and along the canals to the de la Ronde plantation, the site chosen by scouts. And then back again, mile by mile. If they should fail, if they should lose this battle, retreat would be almost impossible. Clearly Cochrane and Keane had simply refused to contemplate such an event. That in itself made Kit uneasy.
Around him men tried to keep their spirits up by telling stories and singing, and for a while it seemed to work. Then the rain turned to sleet and the charcoal fire that was too little to give off real heat went cold, taking with it most of the forced good cheer and leaving every one of them to fold into himself, silent. To conserve what energy and heat they could, while the sailors rowed and rowed toward an unseen shore.
At dusk they reached the fishing village, quiet but for the barking of dogs and apparently deserted.
The troops, wet and dispirited, came back to life by the discovery that there was indeed a guarded camp, and the piquets were all sound asleep in the shacks. In a matter of minutes they were surrounded and taken prisoner.
“So much for the fabled American militia.” Thornton allowed himself a small laugh as the prisoners were marched off for questioning.
Kit said, “The ones in blue belong to a company called the Chasseurs.”
Thornton grunted. “Chasseurs, indeed. An insult to good fighting men.”
“I doubt Jackson realized that the rich sons of New Orleans bankers had been assigned this duty,” said Kit.
“Let’s hope there’s a great deal he doesn’t know,” said Thornton with a rare grin.
With renewed energy the sailors shoved off and the barges began to work their way laboriously through the shallow waters of Catalan and then, narrower, the Bayou Mazant. None of the men around Kit had seen the ciprière before, and they looked about themselves with interest and some disquiet, thinking, Kit could imagine it well, that they would not like to fight a battle in such a place, neither land nor lake, but a combination of the two. Full of strange trees dripping moss, as welcoming as a graveyard. A Scot asked in a low voice about alligators, as if he believed they might hear him and come to introduce themselves.
“They don’t like the cold,” Kit told him. “In the summer months you’d see dozens of them sunning themselves, but now they’re asleep on the bottom.”
His answer seemed to quiet some unspoken fear but also stoked general curiosity, and a half dozen whispered questions came his way. The order for silence was welcome, coming as it did just before they reached the de la Ronde canal, which turned out to be blocked with branches and whole dead trees. Something Kit had tried to tell Keane about, but the general had more faith in his advance party than he did in Kit Wyndham.
The engineers consulted briefly, and pronounced the situation impossible. They moved on, through acres of rushes tall enough to hide a thousand men. Kit was wondering what they might do when they found that Jackson had ordered every one of these canals blocked, when they arrived at the next one and found it completely clear. Thornton issued orders, and the first of thousands of British soldiers put foot on American soil.
They came out of the rushes onto a large plantation that reached all the way to the high embankment of the Mississippi, into recently harvested cane fields, dry and firm underfoot, divided here and there by fences. In the middle distance stood the planter’s house, surrounded by mature trees and gardens and outbuildings. Some cows and sheep grazed near the far border of the property, but there was not a soldier in sight, nor even a slave at work.
The Americans had known for many days about the invasion force, its size and location. Jackson had had more good information about the British than they had about him, but now the advance spread out, unseen, unchallenged, to cross the fields that led, like stepping-stones, a mere seven miles to the city of New Orleans.
Kit, glad he had kept his doubts to himself, went with them.
Gabriel Villeré had a favorite chair in his father’s parlor, where he settled with a cigar after a solid breakfast. Around him were his hunting dogs, his younger brother Jules, and many of his best friends. An altogether agreeable morning, as the sun had finally come out after a cold and rainy night.
Villeré tugged at his uniform, which was pretty enough to parade in but damn uncomfortable otherwise. It pinched his neck and made him cross, and he wondered if his friends felt the same but were afraid to say so for fear of sounding soft. A few weeks ago they had sat in this very room, eager to join the militia, to get in on the fighting. Some of them out of patriotism, or curiosity, or just simply for the excitement of it. Gabriel had joined because he couldn’t think of an excuse not to that would satisfy either his father—General Jacques Villeré, commander of the entire Louisiana militia—or his father-inlaw, who was also in uniform and talked a good deal about the honor of shedding blood to protect one’s home and land. His father was a good man, but not a particularly insightful one when it came to his own children. His father-in-law was not quite so enamored and saw Gabriel more clearly.
