Free Jack Iron by Kerry Newcomb Page B

hands. Kit could not help but note that had the British never invaded American soil, General Andrew Jackson might well have mounted an expedition to drive the Baratarians out of their bayous. But a common enemy had forged an alliance between them. It was anyone’s guess, though, just how long the bonds of friendship would last.
    Laffite turned to leave, then paused by Kit. “The Hawk of the Antilles is not to be taken lightly. His prowess with pistol and cutlass is without equal.” The buccaneer hesitated as if in thought, then he decided to say no more.
    “I don’t frighten easily,” Kit. said.
    “Obregon is accustomed to having his way. What doesn’t stand aside, he walks over or through.”
    “Not this time,” Kit matter-of-factly replied. It was no brag, just a simply stated fact.
    A hint of a smile touched the corners of Laffite’s mouth. He said no more but sauntered from the room, a man wholly confident of himself and one who perhaps possessed secrets other men could only guess. Barataria, taken from the book Don Quixote, in which it was the name of an unattainable island-kingdom, a place of dreams and fulfillment. There was magic in the name and a sense of pathos for one’s impossible desires. Laffite’s way of life was coming to an end whether the British were repulsed or not.
    “And as for you, my insubordinate young rapscallion,” Jackson said when the two were alone again, “keep clear of Captain Obregon. I want your word on that. We need these Baratarians. And though I hate to admit it, I need the likes of you, too. So if I must imprison you to keep you from getting your fool throat slit, then by heaven I shall.” Jackson strode to the French windows and stared out at the night-shrouded streets of the Crescent City.
    “You have my word, sir,” said Kit.
    “Then be off with you. Place a mark on Brookey’s map just where you encountered the British patrol. And do me a favor. Don’t go showing off our defenses to just any old English marine who wanders over behind our lines.”
    “Yessir.” Kit saluted and started to leave. Again Jackson halted him with a final word.
    “Oh, and give my regards to Raven O’Keefe.”
    “General?”
    “I know the hour is late, but dammit, man, I was a young stag myself… a hundred years ago.” Jackson never looked around. He continued to study the city he had sworn to protect.
    Kit slipped through the doorway and departed the house. Come morning he would turn his thoughts to war. The fortifications could wait until sunup. Tonight he had business elsewhere.

Chapter Seven
    A WINTER FOG CREPT up from the river and sent ghostly tendrils to explore the silent waterfront where only the listless current lapped and a three-masted gaffe-rigged schooner rode close to the dock alongside a sidewheel paddleboat christened the Hannah Louise.
    The schooner had recently been repaired and its name yet to be painted on the bow by its owner. But it was a sleek tight ship, devoid of life and left to the rolling gray fog, to keep its lonely vigil against the silent terrors of such a night as this.
    Kit unerringly made his way through the city. He could have found Madame LeBeouf’s house blindfolded. The lieutenant’s moccasins padded softly on the cobblestone street as he rounded Dumaine and headed down Bourbon. An inner sense, the legacy of his Highland forbearers, made him cautious as he approached the wrought-iron gate that opened onto the courtyard from which Kit had been taken under guard a couple of hours ago. Poor Tregoning was condemned to languish in the town jail on Magazine Street by order of General Jackson. At least he wasn’t destined for the hangman’s noose. Kit had convinced Old Hickory to spare the British marine’s life. However, Jackson intended to turn the man over to the proper British authorities once the question of hostilities was settled… a fate that did not sit well with Tregoning. After all, he was a deserter now, and British officers were