Free Jack Iron by Kerry Newcomb

“I was placed under your command to aid in routing the Creeks and destroying their confederacy. My presence here is of my own choosing and beyond my assigned duties. I am an officer in the army of the United States. Your ranking originated in the militia. You’re a volunteer like the Tennesseans manning the breastworks.”
    “And you, sir, by your own admission were not posted to New Orleans and are therefore also a volunteer and subsequently under my authority.” Jackson chuckled at his own cleverness and eased back in the chair behind the desk. He clasped his hands beneath his chin and allowed his gaze to drift over the shelves of books and, in the corner, a whatnot carved of cherry wood and displaying a collection of stoneware tankards with pewter caps. On a nearby table, a silver tray was set with a dark green bottle of sherry and another of elderberry cordial and three short-stemmed glasses, one of which still held traces of a reddish brown liquid. “However, this argument is meaningless. You see, Lieutenant, a few months ago the secretary of war appointed me the commander of Military District Number Seven, which includes Tennessee, Louisiana, and the Mississippi Territory.” The general was taking obvious pleasure at McQueen’s discomfort. He had pointedly avoided telling Kit McQueen of the appointment, saving the news for just such a moment when the upstart lieutenant attempted to avoid Jackson’s orders. “Any way you slice it, Lieutenant, it’s still humble pie. You are under my jurisdiction and I can have you stand post, flogged, or dance naked in a briar patch.”
    Kit inwardly groaned. He’d been able to pick and choose his orders up to now, allowing himself the freedom to act in a way he thought was best for himself and Iron Hand’s Choctaws. But the game had changed and a new one begun and General Andrew Jackson was writing the rules.
    An orderly entered the room and saluted Jackson, who promptly instructed the man to refill the general’s glass. Willem Brookey lost no time in obeying Old Hickory’s command. The orderly was a portly fellow in a tight-fitting dark blue coat with red facing, white breeches, and calf-high black boots. His round pale cheeks were pitted from a childhood bout with the pox. He had a perpetually cheerful demeanor, which Kit found in welcome contrast to the often-dour Andrew Jackson.
    “Thank you, Brookey. You can leave us now.”
    “Yessir, General. But you wanted to know when Captain Laffite arrived.”
    “Well, then, show him in. Immediately. And pour a sherry for him.”
    “That won’t be necessary. I prefer a less refined drink,” said Jean Laffite as he stepped into the room. The buccaneer stood about five feet ten, the same as Kit. He was built slim and carried himself erect and proud. His hazel eyes met Kit’s bronze stare and the two men silently appraised one another.
    Kit had become acquainted with the notorious pirate a few weeks back, but their introduction had been hastily made in the company of a host of other officers. Kit knew the man by reputation, one that had prepared him to encounter a vile and treacherous individual. Instead, McQueen found Laffite to be both elegant and cordial. Scandalous stories to the contrary, Kit sensed there was more to the man than the stuff of rumor and conjecture. These were hard and difficult times. Men and women survived by their wits and their courage. The frontier had a habit of culling the weak and burying them in the dust of their unattainable dreams.
    Laffite’s hair, eyebrows, and mustache were a curious rust red. It was the topic of some conjecture that the pirate frequently washed his head with a mixture of potash and gunpowder to achieve his peculiar hair coloring. It was all considered part of a disguise. In truth, all the Laffite brothers—Jean, Pierre, and Alexander—kept the true nature of their appearances hidden beneath beards and mustaches.
    Pierre had been known to wear oversized clothes and pad