Free Jack Iron by Kerry Newcomb Page A

them to make himself seem larger than he actually was. Alexander on the other hand had even changed his name and sailed under the black flag as the merciless freebooter called Dominique You.
    “So this is the lieutenant my friend Cesar Obregon so colorfully described.” Laffite bowed toward Kit. “Ah, and I can hear your thoughts. This one is thinking, Mon Dieu , we have allied ourselves with pirates.” Laffite chuckled, and walked to the French doors that opened onto the balcony.
    “I’d fight alongside the devil himself to drive the British from American soil.” Kit folded his arms across his chest. The two men shared the same height but Kit’s upper torso was corded with muscle. His father, Dan McQueen, had been a blacksmith by trade and Kit had often worked alongside the man at his forge. With fire and anvil and hammer, they had shaped iron to their will. Kit McQueen’s powerful physique was a legacy of those earlier halcyon days.
    “You will. Mark my words, my young patriot. In fact, there are many ‘devils’ among us Baratarians.”
    “I marked one tonight,” Kit replied.
    “Yes. I saw Captain Obregon’s jaw.” Laffite stepped closer and peered at Kit’s swollen lip. “It seems he left his signature on you as well.”
    “Devils… patriots… I don’t care what they’re called,” Jackson said. “Just so long as they can fight.” He raised a glass of sherry in toast to Laffite. “Finer cannoneers I have never seen in all my days. My only regret is that we have so few pieces of artillery for your lads to put to good use.” Jackson rose from his desk and crossed to the French doors and peered through his own reflection at the city. The streets were devoid of life. The north wind had chased the inhabitants indoors. “Three of the six-pounders will hardly deter a British attack.”
    “I’ve placed a pair of twenty-four-pounders at the breastworks just this day. And fortified their redoubts with timber,” said Laffite. “We’ll get a few licks in before the British gunners can train their artillery on us.”
    “Well done, Captain Laffite. I’ll be moving my headquarters out to the McCarty farm. I want to be able to overlook the center of our defenses. With the river to his left and marshes and swampland to the right Packenham is going to have to meet us head on. The twenty-fours loaded with grape will be a nasty surprise.”
    “Would that I had some lengths of pig iron to strengthen the redoubts and provide my cannoneers with some protection.”
    “What about cotton?” Kit suggested. “There’s plenty of bales in the warehouses. We can make the defenses as thick as we want. And I haven’t seen a man yet injured by splintered cotton.”
    “ Bien ,” Laffite exclaimed. “The bales would absorb the British shells. Every shot that strikes would only add to the strength of the redoubt.”
    “I believe you have a warehouse of prime bales near Chalmette,” Jackson added with a wink in Kit’s direction. Laffite paled at the general’s unspoken suggestion.
    “Surely you are not suggesting we use my stores. My cotton is some of the finest in the Delta.”
    “Then, you won’t find any hardship in defending it,” Jackson said. “I’ll dispatch a work detail of my Kentuckians and set them to the task. Might as well put them to use. They showed up at this fight expecting me to arm them.” Jackson scowled, and slapped his fist into the palm of his hand. “Never seen a Kentuckian without a gun, good whiskey, and a plug of tobacco. Not until now.”
    Laffite sighed and shrugged, resigned to the fact that his fine cotton was to be turned into battlements. “I must compliment you on your suggestion, Lieutenant.” The buccaneer took in both men as he bowed. “I bid you good-night, my friends. Tomorrow is another day, and one that promises no small sacrifice on my part. Oui ?”
    “One for which we shall all remain truly grateful,” Jackson said. He reached out and the two men shook