Queen of Swords
Page 63
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He saw the question on her face and answered it. “The man who owns this plantation is my brother-in-law. My sister offered us the use of the cabin.”
“You are good to come and help,” Hannah said. “I don’t know why Ben didn’t mention it to me.”
“Ben likes to set plans in motion, but rarely talks about them until he sees how they work out,” the priest said.
“I’m learning that about him,” Hannah said dryly.
Dr. Rousseau ducked his head, too old and wise to make any comment.
They went inside together. The cabin was small, with walls that had been recently whitewashed, and a swept hard-packed earth floor. There was a hearth with firewood stacked beside it, and two water buckets. The only furniture was a table, three stools, and two pallets on the ground, each covered with a clean blanket. An unlit lantern stood on the table.
Hannah had the sense that these things were the best the people had to offer, gathered from each of the cabins for their use. She was thinking this as she saw Père Tomaso take a dozen fat candles out of the sack he had with him.
“From the church,” he said. “I thought you’d need them.”
Dr. Rousseau was unpacking his own bag. He said to Hannah, “Tomaso is half a doctor himself. He’ll be a big help.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, a smile cutting a sickle through his close-cropped beard.
“Now there’s nothing to do but wait,” said Hannah.
“I’ve got another idea,” said Dr. Rousseau. “There’s still enough light; let’s go to the levee, have a look and see what the English are up to.”
Père Tomaso declined to join them, for reasons that were unclear to Hannah. But she followed Dr. Rousseau readily to the levee and up to the road that ran along it. And there was the river, as always, bending one way and then another like a fat old serpent, the water fast-moving and muddy.
The doctor pointed out the main house on the McCarty plantation, where Jackson had his headquarters.
“And the field hospital,” Hannah guessed aloud.
“Oh, yes,” said Dr. Rousseau. “Three or four doctors from the city and Jackson’s own surgeons, all set up there.”
He talked about the plantations that lined the river, who owned them and what they grew, which owners had joined the militia, which had gone away to safety and left the protection of their private property to the army.
“And just down there, you should be able to see the Carolina,” said the doctor.
“It’s two and a half miles,” Hannah said. “You give my eyesight far too much credit.”
It was full dark now, and the shapes of trees and bushes and wide expanses of empty field had melded together into the shadowy expanse of the ciprière. She thought of what it would be like to have to travel through an unfamiliar ciprière in the dark. There was no reason to worry about the Choctaws, who were more at home in these watery backwoods than any white man, but the English were another matter entirely. She wondered what they made of it all. This place was as different from the battlefields of Spain and France as fire was from water. The Choctaw would move through the ciprière without hesitation, as hard to pin down as smoke, and just as disabling. Kit Wyndham and his like, for all their strength and bravery and battle experience, could not hope to match them. She was confident of that much, at least.
Out here, on the fields between the ciprière and the river, there was far more to worry about. The American troops were there, advancing on the canal that separated the Villeré and LaCoste plantations and marked the British line. No doubt Jackson had sent his best, most seasoned men, but still: The British advance had had a day of good weather to situate themselves and dig in.
Hannah gave in to her curiosity. Paul Savard had lent her a telescope, and now she took it from the loop on her belt. At first it showed her nothing but the darkened fields, and that was a good thing. If the American troops could not approach the British silently in such optimal conditions, there was little hope they might prevail.
What Hannah could see with her telescope was so unexpected that it took a moment to make sense of it. The British encampment was lit up by a half dozen bonfires, as if the troops were trying to advertise their position and strength. She began to doubt her own eyesight, and so Hannah handed the telescope over to Dr. Rousseau.
For a long moment the telescope moved back and forth as he studied the encampment.
He said, “They’ve settled in like long-lost cousins sure of a warm welcome.” He handed her back the telescope.
“They are very sure of themselves,” Hannah agreed. “But then, they defeated Napoleon.”
Hannah observed men walking from the main house to the outbuildings, from the levee back to the fires.
“They’ll have slaughtered most of the Villerés’ livestock for their cook pots,” the doctor said. And then, in a rougher tone: “They are in for a rude surprise.”
“You think there’s a chance, then,” Hannah said.
But instead of answering her, the doctor turned his face toward the river where he had supposed the Carolina must sit in darkness. At that same moment, a rocket shot into the sky from the fields about a half mile farther on, trailing white and red and blue. Before the last of it had sputtered out, a world of sound and light erupted from the dark on the far side of the river. Long tracers of light followed the first volleys as grapeshot arced over the water and tore directly into the very center of the British camp.
“You are good to come and help,” Hannah said. “I don’t know why Ben didn’t mention it to me.”
“Ben likes to set plans in motion, but rarely talks about them until he sees how they work out,” the priest said.
“I’m learning that about him,” Hannah said dryly.
Dr. Rousseau ducked his head, too old and wise to make any comment.
They went inside together. The cabin was small, with walls that had been recently whitewashed, and a swept hard-packed earth floor. There was a hearth with firewood stacked beside it, and two water buckets. The only furniture was a table, three stools, and two pallets on the ground, each covered with a clean blanket. An unlit lantern stood on the table.
Hannah had the sense that these things were the best the people had to offer, gathered from each of the cabins for their use. She was thinking this as she saw Père Tomaso take a dozen fat candles out of the sack he had with him.
“From the church,” he said. “I thought you’d need them.”
Dr. Rousseau was unpacking his own bag. He said to Hannah, “Tomaso is half a doctor himself. He’ll be a big help.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, a smile cutting a sickle through his close-cropped beard.
“Now there’s nothing to do but wait,” said Hannah.
“I’ve got another idea,” said Dr. Rousseau. “There’s still enough light; let’s go to the levee, have a look and see what the English are up to.”
Père Tomaso declined to join them, for reasons that were unclear to Hannah. But she followed Dr. Rousseau readily to the levee and up to the road that ran along it. And there was the river, as always, bending one way and then another like a fat old serpent, the water fast-moving and muddy.
The doctor pointed out the main house on the McCarty plantation, where Jackson had his headquarters.
“And the field hospital,” Hannah guessed aloud.
“Oh, yes,” said Dr. Rousseau. “Three or four doctors from the city and Jackson’s own surgeons, all set up there.”
He talked about the plantations that lined the river, who owned them and what they grew, which owners had joined the militia, which had gone away to safety and left the protection of their private property to the army.
“And just down there, you should be able to see the Carolina,” said the doctor.
“It’s two and a half miles,” Hannah said. “You give my eyesight far too much credit.”
It was full dark now, and the shapes of trees and bushes and wide expanses of empty field had melded together into the shadowy expanse of the ciprière. She thought of what it would be like to have to travel through an unfamiliar ciprière in the dark. There was no reason to worry about the Choctaws, who were more at home in these watery backwoods than any white man, but the English were another matter entirely. She wondered what they made of it all. This place was as different from the battlefields of Spain and France as fire was from water. The Choctaw would move through the ciprière without hesitation, as hard to pin down as smoke, and just as disabling. Kit Wyndham and his like, for all their strength and bravery and battle experience, could not hope to match them. She was confident of that much, at least.
Out here, on the fields between the ciprière and the river, there was far more to worry about. The American troops were there, advancing on the canal that separated the Villeré and LaCoste plantations and marked the British line. No doubt Jackson had sent his best, most seasoned men, but still: The British advance had had a day of good weather to situate themselves and dig in.
Hannah gave in to her curiosity. Paul Savard had lent her a telescope, and now she took it from the loop on her belt. At first it showed her nothing but the darkened fields, and that was a good thing. If the American troops could not approach the British silently in such optimal conditions, there was little hope they might prevail.
What Hannah could see with her telescope was so unexpected that it took a moment to make sense of it. The British encampment was lit up by a half dozen bonfires, as if the troops were trying to advertise their position and strength. She began to doubt her own eyesight, and so Hannah handed the telescope over to Dr. Rousseau.
For a long moment the telescope moved back and forth as he studied the encampment.
He said, “They’ve settled in like long-lost cousins sure of a warm welcome.” He handed her back the telescope.
“They are very sure of themselves,” Hannah agreed. “But then, they defeated Napoleon.”
Hannah observed men walking from the main house to the outbuildings, from the levee back to the fires.
“They’ll have slaughtered most of the Villerés’ livestock for their cook pots,” the doctor said. And then, in a rougher tone: “They are in for a rude surprise.”
“You think there’s a chance, then,” Hannah said.
But instead of answering her, the doctor turned his face toward the river where he had supposed the Carolina must sit in darkness. At that same moment, a rocket shot into the sky from the fields about a half mile farther on, trailing white and red and blue. Before the last of it had sputtered out, a world of sound and light erupted from the dark on the far side of the river. Long tracers of light followed the first volleys as grapeshot arced over the water and tore directly into the very center of the British camp.
