˙
Cover Art Copyright 2011 Dana De Noux
Battle Kiss
by O’Neil De Noux
Copyright 2011 O’Neil De Noux
Smashwords Edition
for Anne and Lee J.
who gave us so much more than a roof over our heads
Battle Kiss is a work of fiction. While some historical figures appear in these pages, the incidents and characters described herein are a product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder. Information about the author can be found at www.oneildenoux.net. Twitter: ONeilDeNoux
Battle Kiss
On the morning of January 8, 1815,
the United States and Great Britain
met as enemies on a battlefield
for the last time.
This is the story of some who were there.
“The past is never dead. In fact, it’s not even past.”
William Faulkner
Historical Note
“ … fairness is not the historical novelist’s first duty,” the great historical writer Bernard Cornwell pens in his notes at the end of Sword Song (2008). He is correct, of course. The duty of an historical novelist is to entertain, to elicit emotion in the reader and if mistakes of fact are made (from errors in research, by omission or by design), well, it happens.
Battle Kiss is as historically accurate as I could make it, but it is a novel, a work of fiction. Additionally, the arcane language and dialogue of the period have been updated for a 21st Century audience. Do not expect the players in this novel to speak as people spoke at the beginning of the Nineteenth Century. Actually, a great number of the characters in the book spoke French at the time.
Allow me to take you back to the chilly winter of 1814, and that fateful, foggy morning of January 8, 1815, when the redcoats marched across the Chalmette Plantation in neat columns until the men at the Rodriguez Canal opened fire. In that brief moment in time, New Orleans was the most important city in the Western Hemisphere.
Acknowledgement
Special Thanks to The Louisiana Division of the Arts who awarded an Artist Services Career Advancement Award for 2009-2010 for my work on Battle Kiss. Fourteen field-trips, forty-two books and innumerable web sources resulted in over 70,000 words of historical notes before I began writing this book.
Battle Kiss
Maps
Cast
Opening
The Redcoats are Coming
November 1814
The British Invade
December 1814
The Battle of New Orleans
January 1815
Aftermath
Glossary
Cast
Monlezun Family
Aimée Lenora Monlezun
Creole French, eighteen year old daughter of Louis Monlezun and sister of Poul Monlezun. Aimée is Lady of the Monlezun house on the Esplanade. Although she is attracted to foreigner Harold Lowe, she is bedeviled by New Yorker Matthew Knudsen.
Poul Monlezun
Creole French, twenty-two year old son of Louis Monlezun and brother of Aimée Monlezun. Groomed to inherit the family’s immensely successful import/export business (cotton, sugar, tobacco, lumber traded for spices, tea, indigo, fine crockery, crystal, silver and gold dinner ware), he is afraid the war will destroy New Orleans, yet he will not allow his friends to participate without him. Poul and best friend Gérard de Noux are enamored of Lucia Rodriguez.
Louis Marie Isidore Monlezun
Creole French, forty-five year old patriarch of the Monlezun family, father of Aimée and Poul. One of the wealthiest men in New Orleans, Monlezun is an extremely successful importer/exporter and lives in a mansion on the Esplanade and owns a huge riverfront warehouse. A pacifist and legislator, he wants New Orleans to be a free state onto itself and will resist assimilation into America and the American effort to fend off the British.
Minonette Lafréniere Monlezun
Deceased wife of Louis Monlezun and mother of Aimée and Poul. She died of yellow fever eleven years before the book starts.
Monlezun House
Lily
African slave head of Monlezun household, forty-one year mother of seven children who rose through the servant ranks to take charge of the house.
Placide
African slave servant, sixty year old personal attendant to Louis Monlezun and father of slave handyman Organt.
Organt
African slave handyman, twenty-seven years old. A large man with a gentle disposition.
Stephen
African slave servant, twenty-one years old. Considers himself Aimée’s bodyguard.
Rodriguez Family
Lucia Anna Esteban Rodriguez
Creole Spanish, seventeen year old daughter of wealthy plantation owners Enrique and Anna Rodriguez and sister of Maria Rodriguez. Lucia is enamored of Poul Monlezun, much to the delight of the Monlezun and Rodriguez families, but finds herself attracted to self-professed rogue, Gérard de Noux.
Enrique Hernando Luna Rodriguez
Creole Spanish, forty year old father of Lucia and Maria, husband of Anna and owner of the Rodriguez sugar cane and cotton plantation. Enrique is an unashamed supporter of the American cause. Rodriguez House will be the forward outpost for General Jackson and will serve as a hospital during the campaign. The main battle is fought at the Rodriguez Canal.
Anna Esteban Rodriguez
Creole Spanish, thirty-three year old wife of Enrique and mother of Lucia and Maria. A stern woman, her desire to protect her family is paramount.
Maria Sonita Esteban Rodriguez
Creole Spanish, seven year old daughter of Enrique and Anna and little sister of Lucia, Maria is extremely intelligent and full of life. She is gregarious and outgoing and will speak her mind at all times.
Rodriguez Plantation
Calista
Free-woman of color, forty year old former slave who earned her freedom and is the paid housekeeper of the Rodriguez House.
Hoyo
African slave, manager of the Rodriguez stables and driver of the family carriages.
Osuna
African slave, head cook of the Rodriguez Plantation and wife of Manuel.
Manuel
African slave, foreman of the Rodriguez Plantation and husband of Osuna. Thirty year old father of San and Domingo. Like most of the highly-skilled plantation workers, Manuel is Senegalese.
Domingo
African slave at Rodriguez House. Nine year old son of Rodriguez Plantation foreman Manuel and Osuna and brother of San.
San
African slave at Rodriguez House. Eight year old son of Rodriguez Plantation foreman Manuel and Osuna and brother of Domingo.
Sissy
African slave, sixteen years old, servant of Lucia and Maria.
Joselito
African slave blacksmith and stable worker of Rodriguez Plantation.
The Women
Sophie le Marennes
Creole French, daughter of a merchant, twenty-two year old teacher at Louisiana’s lone college, Collége d’Orléans. Sophie writes articles for Étudier Louisiane under the pseudonym, Mlle. M
Juli de Lille
Free-woman of color (quadroon, one-quarter African), eighteen year old mistress of Poul Monlezun whom she met at a Quadroon Ball. Poul has established her in a cottage in Communes de la Ville.
Tiffany (Tiff)
A comely sixteen year free-woman of color who works at Selu Market. She catches Catoire’s eye.
Elizabeta Toledo
Free-spirited daughter of Count Jose Juan Toledo and an Irish-born mother. Twenty year old Elizabeta arrives in New Orleans after scandalizing the Spanish court by posing nude for artists in public plazas.
Alicia Allenwood
London-born, twenty-one year old, vivacious woman of extraordinary beauty and cunning who has been spying for the British throughout the War of 1812 and arrives in New Orleans shortly after General Jackson.
The Men
Gérard de Noux
Québécois French, twenty-two year old journalist struggling to launch a new French language newspaper, Étudier Louisiane, in New Orleans with friend Sam Catoire and bankrolled by best friend Poul Monlezun. Although he is not New Orleans Creole and is poor, he cannot help falling in love with Lucia Rodriguez and becomes a rival for her affection. An ardent American, Gérard will report on the US effort in repulsing the British invasion.
Matthew Knudsen
Danish American twenty-seven year old New Yorker sent by the New York Gazette to report on the coming British invasion of New Orleans. Matthew befriends Gérard and Catoire as the English language papers in New Orleans will not cooperate with him. Knudsen likes Aimée immediately and will pursue her.
Sam Catoire
Free-man of color (octoroon, one-eighth African), twenty-two year old friend and business partner of Gérard and Poul, Catoire and brothers James and Josef are ferocious American patriots.
Harold Lowe
British subject, twenty-eight year old Welshman and brother of two British officers, Naval Captain Godfrey Lowe and Army Captain William Lowe. Harold has been in New Orleans for four years. Another successful importer/exporter, Harold came from Martinique in 1810 where British General Sir Edward Pakenham help conquer the island. Harold remains in New Orleans through the War of 1812 to continue his business, adding a new trade, double agent. Harold will spy for the British side and the American side. His precarious position is complicated by his attraction to Aimée Monlezun.
Bernard Marigny de Mandeville
Creole French, twenty-nine year old captain of industry. When his father died in 1800, Bernard became the richest fifteen year old in the new world. Bernard has lived up to his Creole heritage (over indulging the good life, generous spending with indifference to cost). A most powerful man in the legislature, he is considered the voice of the Creoles and will walk a tightrope supporting General Jackson while secretly hoping for a British victory to help New Orleans become a free nation.
Jean Lafitte
Privateer born around the time of the American Revolution (place of birth could have been Port-au-Prince, Saint-Domingue, Bordeaux or Bayonne, France), which makes him about thirty-eight at the time of the battle. Jean was run out of Saint-Domingue by the British invasion and sets up a pirate empire on Barataria Bay, Louisiana. Jean supports General Jackson and the American cause by providing excellent intelligence, military advice, expert artillerymen and supplies (cannons, flints, powder, rifles, ammunition and other military wares).
Pierre Lafitte
Older brother of Jean Lafitte and fellow Baratarian privateer.
Dominique You and Renato Beluché
Half-brothers of Jean Lafitte, fellow Baratarian privateers and both expert artillerymen.
William C. C. Claiborne
Governor of Louisiana and ardent supporter of General Jackson, Claiborne will command troops north of the city during the battle.
Nicholas Girod
Mayor of New Orleans, inaugurated December 5, 1814, and strong supporter of General Jackson.
Edward Livingston
American politician, former mayor of New York City, who serves as General Jackson’s civilian aide-de-camp and interpreter.
American Military
Andrew Jackson
Major General commanding the US 7th Military District, is forty-seven years old. Jackson becomes Commander-in-Chief of American forces at New Orleans. A veteran of the Red Stick War against the Creek Confederation, Jackson is a seasoned, wily warrior with a ruthless reputation against his enemies. His men call him ‘Old Hickory’ for his tough nature. The Creek call him ‘Sharp Knife’.
John Coffee
Brigadier General commanding the Tennessee Militia at The Battle of Pensacola. He is in charge of Jackson’s militia and Indians (Choctaw, Cherokee, Chickasaw and Attakapas) along the swamp at the left wing of the Rodriguez Canal, where his men occupy a breastwork in the swamp.
Jean Joseph Amable Humbert
Advisor on Jackson’s staff, Humbert is a former French general who commanded the aborted French expedition to Ireland in 1798. Humbert was present at Sir Edward Pakenham’s first battle, Ballinamuck in Ireland, and his last battle, New Orleans.
Denis Carmenbray
New Hampshire born captain of engineers for the 7th US Infantry. He serves as General Jackson’s military aide-de-camp at New Orleans. Carmenbray and Elizabeta Toledo manage to engage in a torrid romance during the campaign.
Ashton Garner (Lieutenant) and Samuel Landis (Corporal)
American dragoons. Garner will be Jackson’s herald, his advance man to New Orleans and will command dragoons at the Chef Menteur Pass during much of the campaign.
Francis Newman
US 7th Infantry captain, commanding officer of Fort Petite Coquilles.
Walter Lightell
Captain of the 7th US Infantry, is with General Jackson at Pensacola and will command a battery in Gentilly during the campaign.
New Orleans Volunteer Riflemen
Creole gentlemen who manage to get into the thick of the fighting during the night battle of December 23rd and the major engagement on January 8th. Most are professional men – lawyers, doctors, merchants, draftsmen, architects, journalists and the like. Their ranks include:
Tom Beale, Captain
Henri Dugas, Sergeant
Poul Monlezun
Gérard de Noux
Lucien Caye
Guy Raveneaux
Lacombe LeRoux
Philippe Louvier
Janvier Rabiem
Umberto Ubeda
Andre and Francois Aprés-Rasage (Third Acton of Henri II)
Brigadier Gen. William Carroll, Maj. Gen. John Thomas, Gen. John Adair
Three of General Jackson’s corps commanders.
Commodore Daniel Patterson and Lt. Thomas Ap Catesby Jones
Patterson commands America’s limited naval forces at New Orleans, while Jones leads the mosquito fleet of US gunboats on Lake Borgne.
Maj. Gen. Jacques Villére and Maj. Gabriel Villére
Louisiana militiamen whose plantation is overrun in the initial British thrust. The Villére failure to block the bayous leading to the plantations nearly dooms the American army.
Arsene Lacarriere Latour
Famed New Orleans architect whose maps and engineering skills provide valuable aid to General Jackson.
Henri de St. Gême
Banker and friend of the Lafittes, St. Gême is a Major of Creole dismounted dragoons and commands the center of the American attack at the Battle of December 23rd. This engineering officer specializes in constructing defensive fortifications and supervises the buildup at the Rodriguez Canal.
Pierre Jugeant
US Army captain who is half-Choctaw and commands General Jackson’s native American troops of Choctaw, Chickasaw and Attakapas.
Joseph Savary
Militia major and tactical commander of the 2nd Battalion of free-men of color. Savary fought with the French against Toussaint L’Ouverture during the Haitian Revolution in Saint-Domingue before emigrating to New Orleans.
Renard Bachot
Lieutenant of the 3rd Louisiana Militia who fires the first shot against the British as they emerge from the swamp at the Villére Plantation. He is married to wealthy, gorgeous widow Veronique Veau.
Walter Overton
US Army major and artillery officer of the 7th US Infantry, commanding Fort St. Philip.
British Military
Edward Pakenham
Major General Sir Edward Michael Pakenham, K.B., is the thirty-six year old Commander-in-Chief of the British expedition to capture New Orleans. Hero of Salamanca during the Peninsula War against Napoleon, Sir Edward is the brother-in-law of the Duke of Wellington. Irish born Pakenham is a fearless, impetuous risk taker, brave beyond common sense. This tragic hero inherits a batwing plan devised by the Royal Navy and upon arrival at New Orleans, finds a dispirited, hungry, freezing army in a precarious position.
Alexander Forester Inglis Cochrane
Vice-Admiral of the White and Naval Commander of Britain’s North American Station, fifty-six year old Sir Alexander is a bull-headed, opinionated officer who believes Americans can never stand up to British might. His greed for plunder drives him to pressure the army to move ahead with the New Orleans campaign before General Pakenham’s arrival. As senior naval officer, Cochrane chooses the landing site for the invasion and prods the army to attack New Orleans through a narrow corridor no army Commander-in-Chief would choose. His over-confidence and interference in army operations helps usher the British disaster.
George Cockburn
Rear-Admiral responsible for the burning of Washington, D.C. in August, 1814, serves as Admiral’s Cochrane second in command of the New Orleans Expedition.
Samuel Gibbs
Major General and veteran of India and Java, Gibbs is Sir Edward Pakenham’s best friend and second in command. Like Sir Edward, Gibbs comes from the Duke of Wellington’s staff.
John Keane
Major General Keane commands the invading army before General Pakenham’s arrival. Keane served with Sir Edward at Martinique in 1809 and under the Duke of Wellington during the Peninsula War. Prodded by Admiral Cochrane, Keane attacks New Orleans from Lake Borgne via the plantations south of the city. His initial thrust, while extremely successful in catching the Americans off-guard, is checked by General Jackson’s quick, aggressive response.
John Lambert
Major General Lambert, the last general officer to arrive at New Orleans, commands the reserve corps during the attack of January 8th. In the face of disaster, Lambert stands up to Admiral Cochrane and skillfully withdraws the British army from the campaign and is decorated for his efforts.
John Fox Burgoyne
Lieutenant Colonel commanding General Pakenham’s engineers, this illegitimate son of General Johnny Burgoyne who lost the Battle of Saratoga in the American Revolution, is a cool, efficient officer.
Alexander Dickson
Lieutenant Colonel of Royal Artillery is considered an artillery ‘genius’ and commands General Pakenham’s cannons.
William Thornton
Lieutenant Colonel, commanding officer of the 85th Regiment of Foot, Bucks Volunteers Light Infantry. A brilliant and brave leader, Thornton rallies the troops when Jackson attacks the initial British advance on December 23rd, and keeps the Americans from over-running the British camp. Although short-handed, he leads the only successful British attack of the campaign on the west bank of the Mississippi River.
Robert Rennie
Lieutenant Colonel of the 21st Fusiliers, Rennie is a battle-hardened officer whose audacious attack in Pakenham’s Reconnaissance in Force on December 28th almost flanks the American line. His brave attack on January 8th leads British soldiers to the American rampart.
Harry Smith
Highly decorated officer of the 95th Rifles, Major Smith serves as General Pakenham’s adjutant.
Godfrey Lowe
Navy Captain, thirty-five year older brother of Harold and William Lowe. Serving as Admiral Cochrane’s fleet captain, Godfrey spearheads the invasion at Pea Island and the Villére Plantation and will be the British naval liaison to General Pakenham’s staff.
William George Lowe
Army Captain, 7th Regiment of Foot, Royal Fusiliers, twenty-four year old youngest brother of Godfrey and Harold. William is General Sir Edward Pakenham’s aide-de-camp.
Robert Dale
Lieutenant Colonel commanding the 93rd Regiment of Foot, Sutherland Highlanders.
Speelman Swaine
Navy Captain of frigate HMS Statira which transports Sir Edward Pakenham to Jamaica, then New Orleans.
Scott Harrell
Navy Captain of frigate HMS Herald who leads the bombardment of Fort St. Philip after January 8th.
•
Opening
• Sunday, January 8, 1815
Rodriguez Canal, 5:55 a.m.
The wail of bagpipes echoes through the cold fog and silences the men at the earthen rampart behind the Rodriguez Canal. The high-pitched tune bounces off the cypress swamp at the left of the battle line. It is a lively tune that becomes mournful with the echoing.
Gérard turns to Poul and says, “Chilling, isn’t it?”
“It’s supposed to be,” a gravely voice speaks behind them and the friends turn to see General Jackson on his white horse. Wrapped in a black cape, the general stares intently across the battlefield, his craggy face looking fierce, like a bird of prey, reminding Gérard of a bald eagle with his mane of grayish-white hair.
“The pipes are supposed to strike terror in the heart of the enemy,” adds the general as his horse takes a quick side-step. The general reins it. “When our cannon and rifles open up, we’ll give them a taste of American terror.” The general spurs his horse and marches down the line.
Gérard and Poul turn back to the fog, pointing their rifles, waiting for the inevitable advance of the redcoats. The fog seems deeper as if the clouds are aground. It slithers and billows in a frosty breeze. A movement in the fog draws their aim but someone shouts, “It’s our pickets!” Men in blue uniforms scramble into the unfinished redoubt next to where Gérard and Poul are wedged into the line with the other riflemen and regulars of the 7th US Infantry.
“They’ll advance steady to seventy-five yards,” says Tom Beale, commander of the New Orleans Volunteer Riflemen stationed near the end of the line near the swirling Mississippi River. “They’ll fire a volley then charge with bayonet. Use your rifles. From three hundred yards to seventy-five yards. That’s your killing zone.”
A rocket blazes a trail into the gray sky to their left and explodes in a silver-blue shower. Distant drums beat a steady march and the fog lifts in the freshening breeze revealing the British army dressed in straight, fine lines. On the left side of the American line, next to the cypress swamp, appears an amazing magnitude, a column sixty men wide and so long Gérard cannot see the end. It resembles an approaching tidal wave. The British advance in their bright red coats, fearsome veterans who own the ground they tread across. Directly in front of Gérard and Poul another column approaches, not as wide, but just as long, the British moving crisply over the stubble of recently-cut sugar cane, covered with the morning’s frost.
Poul’s hands shake and he hopes no one notices. He thinks of Lucia, hoping the kiss she’d given him was from genuine affection and not from the fear instilled by the approaching battle. She’d kissed Gérard too.
Gérard’s arms and neck ache from the tension and from the cold and his thoughts also run to Lucia, to her dark brown eyes and the way her lips quivered before they kissed his lips, softly and full of passion. She’d hesitated, not wanting to let go of his lapel so he could rush to the battle line. He could not bear to look back at her.
It has come to this. Best friends standing side-by-side, facing death together and both hearts yearning for the same woman. Gérard holds his breath, waiting for the first shot and remembers the morning he first saw Lucia –
•
The Redcoats Are Coming
November 1814
• Tuesday, November 1, 1814 • All Saints Day
St. Louis Cemetery, 10:02 a.m.
Lucia Anna Esteban Rodriguez watched a tall man pick up a black kitten whose meowing had turned her head as she entered the cemetery. The man raised the kitten to his face and the kitten meowed louder.
“Monsieur,” Lucia said before realizing she’d spoken.
“Yes?” The man said in English. He smiled. He was slender and clean-shaven, with dark brown hair so thick it was not windblown, like hers, in the unseasonable crisp autumn air. He wore a light-weight tan coat over a black suit. He had the look of a hawk about his lean face, his brow slightly protruding above deep-set eyes the same cocoa-color as hers.
Lucia pulled her gaze from his direct stare. “Monsieur, what are you doing with that kitten?”
The man smiled again and raised the kitten, calming it by petting its head.
“I was thinking of eating it.”
She looked back at his eyes and saw them alight with devilishness, his smile as dazzling as she’d first seen.
“Monsieur. It is impolite to tease someone you do not know.”
“Who said I was teasing? We Frenchmen eat snails, frog legs. Why not kittens?”
Lucia took a step back, wrapping her thick coat around her. She spied her mother looking impatient as she waited at the turn in the lane that led to their family sepulchre.
“You take him then,” the man said, extending the kitten to her. “A gift.”
He deposited the kitten atop her folded arms and it meowed again, so she instinctively petted it. “Its mother is probably looking for it.”
“If you find her, give it to her.” The man walked past Lucia into the cemetery and did not look back.
Lucia joined her mother who was too busy staring at the departing stranger to notice the kitten, but she would soon. Papa was already at the sepulchre, tacking up black ribbon. Lucia’s little sister, seven year old Maria, stood half-hidden behind a huge bunch of yellow chrysanthemums she held in front of her, while Nanny Calista shooed two boys forward with more mums.
Calista had earned her freedom last year and was now the paid housekeeper at the Rodriguez House, rising in importance above the slaves who ran the fields and stables. With a wide face as dark as coal and a thick body, Calista was a formidable woman who tolerated no slacking from the boys so busy ogling the goings-on in the busy cemetery, they had to be herded.
“You pass the mums to Mademoiselle Maria when I tell you!”
Joselito, the family’s stable manager, helped Papa with the ribbon, draping it across the top of the cement sepulchre and down its sides. Joselito and his son had come the previous weekend and whitewashed the tomb. A fresh breath of chilly air fluffed Lucia’s long hair and turned Maria toward her. Peering through the flowers, Maria snapped, “You can help!”
Lucia stepped over and the kitten let out a loud meow which caught everyone’s attention. Maria’s light brown eyes went wide and her mouth made a little ‘o’ as their mother said, “Lucia, do you have a cat there?”
“No, Mama. It’s a baby mink.”
Papa’s lips curled into a smile as Mama stepped forward to look at what was in her daughter’s hand.
“This is why children must go to confession every week. Telling your mother an untruth is a sin.”
“I’m no longer a child.”
This drew a smile from Papa who’d been looking older lately. Enrique Hernando Luna Rodriguez was only forty years old, but premature gray already streaked his black hair and moustache. Long hours working the Rodriguez plantation of sugar cane and cotton, along with running the warehouse in New Orleans, had worn him down. His thick-set body did not move as lively as it had when Lucia was little. But the gleam in his eye when he looked at her had never diminished. He certainly loved Mama and Maria but everyone knew Lucia was the most special person in his life. And she knew, even at seventeen, there would never be another man in her life that would love her so unselfishly.
Maria began to place the mums in the marble urns on either side of the sepulchre. Lucia walked over and took some and helped arrange them. The two boys with the mums came and handed their bundles to Maria. They were sons of their sugar cane foreman Manuel. One was San and the other Domingo, named by their mother for the island where she was born, but Lucia could never remember which was which as they were only a year apart, eight and nine years old. Both always dropped their eyes when she looked at them, although she’d seen them steal furtive glances at her when they thought no one was watching.
“That’s not straight,” Maria complained, readjusting the mums Lucia had just placed. The kitten, snuggled in the crook of Lucia’s left elbow, began to purr. The family took a step away from the sepulchre and went down on their knees to pray for the ancestors buried there, which included two grandparents, an uncle, an aunt and the baby boy their mother lost three years ago.
Mama led the prayers, “Hail Mary, full of grace …”
St. Louis Cemetery, 10:15 a.m.
Gérard de Noux had watched the pretty girl with the chocolate eyes move away with the kitten he’d given her. He wedged himself between a tall cement crypt and a small brick tomb as she assembled with her family before a large whitewashed sepulchre with the name Rodriguez carved atop.
The girl was a beauty, her skin a pale peach color, her high cheeks rosy from the chilly air, her hair a lustrous light brown and hanging straight down her back. He couldn’t be sure, but was there a hint of mischief, or maybe just curiosity in her dark eyes? He’d almost got her to smile. It was her full lips that were most attractive, her lower lip slightly thicker, and he wondered what it would feel like to kiss them.
“Monsieur!” A plump man snapped at him as the man stepped up to the small brick tomb and Gérard apologized and moved away. The man dusted the spot where Gérard had leaned, as if he’d left something unpleasant on the brick.
The de Noux family tomb was at the rear of the cemetery, in the section where the poor and protestants were interned. It occupied a vault along the base of the rear wall. Built by the Spanish, St. Louis Cemetery was surrounded by brick walls of tombs, three tiers high, ten feet thick so coffins could be sealed inside the walls. These oven tombs resembled old-time brick ovens. The dead could not be buried in the ground here with the high water table, so they were sealed in crypts behind tombstones with the names of the dead carved in them.
Gérard had come the previous Sunday and helped weed the place, clean out the debris of summer plants that had withered, even patch up the plaster on the brick wall. And now, on All Saints Day, he brought black garland in the New Orleans tradition of decorating tombs. Flowers were too expensive and so he tacked the garland to the tomb of his parents and little brother. Unlike the tombs of the wealthy, adorned with crucifixes, marble statues of Jesus, saints and cherubs, the tombs at the rear of the cemetery had protestant crosses chiseled into their tombstones, along with names and dates.
In front of the oven tomb that bore the inscription, de la Noux, his family’s original name, Gérard bowed his head, and said a silent, “Our Father, who art in heaven …”
St. Louis Cemetery, 10:25 a.m.
Aimée Monlezun pretended she didn’t notice the young man in the blue coat watching her as she held the black ribbon as high as she could so her brother could affix it to their family tomb. The young man was brazen, almost rude, staring at her as he leaned against the rear of the Rodriguez family sepulchre. He certainly wasn’t a Rodriguez, wasn’t even Creole with that blond hair. From the rough cut of his coat to his plain black shoes, he was definitely American.
“Let go, any time now,” Poul said, glaring down at her. At six feet, Poul was a good nine inches taller than Aimée. Like their father, who stood behind them, Poul wore a black suit of fine linen, highly polished shoes with silver buckles and charcoal gray great coats to keep away the surprisingly-cold autumn air. Aimée let go of the ribbon and Poul tied her end to the iron hook protruding from the crypt.
Poul helped their servants, old Placide and his son Organt, with the chrysanthemums, huge bowers of yellow, pink and magenta flowers, placing them in the marble vases on either side of the family tomb. Aimée stood back, pausing a moment as another family passed along the narrow path between the tombs of St. Louis Cemetery.
She looked up at the top of the family’s white marble crypt, one of the tallest in the graveyard – three double tiers topped by a gabled roof, supported by thick ionic columns. Carved into the marble were large block letters: Famille Monlezun. One name adored the only occupied tomb, the topmost left panel:
Minonette Lafréniere Monlezun
6 Janvier 1778 – 23 Septembre 1804
Aimée’s mother had lived twenty-six years and had born two children before succumbing to yellow fever. Minonette was only fourteen when she bore Poul. Aimée’s eighteenth birthday had just passed and she wondered, as she stood shivering in the cold morning, what her mother would think of her. No doubt, as the lady of the Monlezun House, Aimée had a great deal to be proud of. She certainly had her choice of beaus and even today, drew the unwanted attention of too many men. But how would her mother feel about Aimée?
She remembered her mother’s face, the quick smile, the deep laughter. The memories were dim shadows. Flashes. Aimée was four when her mother died. She remembered the bright smile, the fall of her mother’s long, dark hair that tickled Aimée’s face. She remembered the priest coming to give the last sacrament and how Aimée thought the holy man would save her mother. Like her mother, Aimée’s hair was dark brown but wavy and her skin fairer, her eyes greenish-blue. Her mother’s dark eyes were brown. Both stood five-three, according to Papa. Poul had their mother’s eyes.
Aimée and her brother stepped back to where Papa stood with his head bowed. She made the sign of the cross and started a Hail Mary.
“Where’s your rosary?” Papa asked.
Aimée looked in her purse, then the pockets of her wool coat and shook her head. Papa sighed and bowed his head again. He’d brought no rosary and there was no way Poul had one on him. She bowed her head and said the Hail Mary and reminded herself – at confession next Saturday she better confess she’d left her rosary at home on purpose.
Poul seemed distracted during prayers and she spied him looking around. The man in the blue coat was still staring at her and she glared at him for a moment before bowing her head again in prayer.
Footsteps turned her to a figure approaching. She recognized the face and that bright smile as Poul’s friend Gérard came, slowing as he got close, probably not wanting to disturb their prayers. Oh, no. Gérard stopped and shook hands with the man in the blue coat. They talked and Aimée’s father looked at her with lowered lids. She bowed her head as they began the Our Father.
Aimée spied her father’s overcoat, the texture of fine wool. Kneeling up as they prayed, she realized he wasn’t as big as he used to be. Louis Marie Isidore Monlezun was the patriarch of the family. At forty-five, he had amassed a fortune and was one of the most successful merchants in a city of merchants, an exporter of sugar, indigo, cotton – an importer of tea and silk from the Far East as well as coffee, bananas, cocoa and rubber from the Caribbean. Although he was a smallish man, he seemed more hunched lately, his brown hair thinning and his beard almost too light.
When the praying was finally finished, Aimée took her father’s hand and helped him up. He grumbled and they both turned to watch Poul walk over to Gérard and the man in the blue coat. By the time she and her father reached them, the three were jostling one another like youngsters. She noticed they were all the same height. Six feet. Gérard maybe a hint taller.
“Father, Gérard joins us,” said Poul.
Best friends since childhood, Poul and Gérard were men now at twenty-two. Gérard smiled broadly at Aimée and acknowledged her father. The other man, still grinning, stared at her with green eyes as if he could see through her clothes. She refused to look away, refused to act coy and absolutely refused to blush.
“And this is Mr. Matthew Knudsen of New York City,” said Poul.
“He’s a journalist,” added Gérard.
“A reporter,” said Matthew Knudsen, shaking hands with Aimée’s father but still staring at her.
“And this is my sister,” Poul added. “Aimée Lenora.”
Poul succeeded in getting Aimée to blush. She hated her middle name.
A bustling of movement behind the young men, turned everyone that direction as the Rodriguez family came along the narrow walkway.
“Ah,” Aimée’s father said, “Enrique, so good to see you.”
Poul, Gérard and Matthew gave way to the Rodriguez family, pressing against nearby crypts. Matthew was still looking at Aimée and she bugged her eyes at him to stop.
St. Louis Cemetery, 10:45 a.m.
Poul Monlezun was amazed how much Lucia Rodriguez had changed in a year. He had not seen her since last Christmas and now, standing in the cemetery with her cheeks pink from the cold and her lips looking red and inviting, she was gorgeous. She smiled at him and was about to speak when Gérard stepped up and asked Lucia, “Did you find our kitten’s mother?”
Lucia’s eyes grew wide and a kitten’s head came out of her coat and went, “Meowww.”
Gérard reached over to pet the kitten, to the obvious consternation of Madame Rodriguez who moved up and cleared her throat. Poul took in a deep breath and made the introductions. When he hiccupped, he knew he was getting nervous. Aimée put a hand on his arm, as if that could calm him and he held his breath, but the hiccups wouldn’t go away. He kept his mouth closed so no one could hear him and took a step back and watched.
His Papa and Monsieur Rodriguez talked in low tones while Aimée and Lucia moved aside and talked excitedly. Gérard exchanged whispered remarks with the American Matthew, both watching Lucia and Aimée. He wondered if his father noticed.
Maria Rodriguez, who must be six or seven, stood away from the others. He moved over to her, waited between hiccups to ask how she had been.
“Fine,” she said, stiffening her back. “What is the name of the dark haired gentleman again?”
“Gérard de Noux and he is no gentleman.”
Her eyes lit up and he smiled and hiccupped. “Gérard will tell you himself, he is a rogue.”
“He is not Creole, is he?”
“Québécois. From France by way of Canada, then Louisiana.” Poul leaned closer. “He’s Huguenot.”
“What’s that?”
“Protestant. Calvinist, I think. He’s not very religious.”
Her mouth circled into a little ‘o’.
Gérard moved near Aimée and craned his neck as he peered at her head. She and Lucia stopped talking. Poul smiled, knowing what was coming.
“What?” Aimée spoke sharply to Gérard.
Gérard pointed to her head. “I can fix that.”
“Fix what?”
“Your hair.”
Aimée took a step back. “Don’t! There’s nothing wrong with my hair. Get away.” She slapped his hand as it rose and Gérard turned to Lucia. He’d been teasing Aimée since she was a little girl and Poul did not see his friend stopping anytime soon.
“You should tell her she has monkey hair today,” Gérard said to Lucia. “From the cold. It’s frizzy.”
Aimée scowled as Matthew moved forward to catch her attention again. Poul didn’t know if he liked the gleam in this man’s eyes. But at that moment Lucia looked at Poul and smiled again and he hiccupped loudly.
“Children,” Mme. Rodriguez said, waving her daughters forward. “Mass.”
Poul’s father and M. Rodriguez were already walking toward the front of the cemetery. Maria tugged Poul’s sleeve. “Are you coming to mass?”
Poul paused for a hiccup before saying, “Of course.” She let go of his sleeve and he followed her to where Aimée and Lucia were already moving toward Mme. Rodriguez. Poul raised his brow to Gérard and said, “I will see you tomorrow. Unless you want to come along to mass.”
Gérard shook his head and called out, “Lucia!”
Lucia and Aimée turned.
“Take care of our kitten.”
Lucia’s eyes bulged and Maria stepped to her sister and said, “What does he mean by our kitten?”
The families assembled just outside the cemetery and Mme. Rodriguez turned to her husband. “Your daughter has a kitten.”
“I know,” he answered impassively which seemed to irritate his wife who turned and told Lucia, “That better not be a female. You know Bella does not tolerate female cats around.”
As the families moved toward their broughams, Poul asked Maria, “Who’s Bella?”
“Our fluffy black and white cat.” Maria leaned close and spoke softly. “She thinks she’s in charge of Rodriguez House, which makes three females each thinking they are in charge. Bella, Mama and Nanny Calista who runs the servants.”
“So who is actually in charge?”
“Me.” Maria laughed.
St. Louis Cemetery, 11:02 a.m.
Gérard was mightily tempted to go to Catholic mass so he could stare at Lucia, but he and Matthew had business to attend. They waited until Lucia and Aimée left in their carriages before moving away from the cemetery down Rue de Conty. A fresh breeze flowed against their backs as they walked, chilly air from Lake Pontchartrain. Both men bundled their coats around them as they moved.
“Why are the sidewalks so high?” Matthew asked.
“They are called banquettes, like the banks of a stream. The city rests at or below sea level and the streets become small canals when the rains come. Which is often.”
A passing carriage found a puddle and sent water spraying on the banquette ahead of the men.
“I am sure it gets colder than this in New York City,” said Gérard.
“Colder. But the cold’s different here.”
“It’s wetter. The humidity doesn’t leave with the heat. New Orleans is surrounded by swamps and marshes with the river below and lakes all around us.”
The pair crossed Rue de Bourgundy, continuing pass Creole dwelling of Spanish design as most of the original French colonial city burned in the great fires of 1788 and 1794, buildings not destroyed by hurricanes. The cottages and buildings, built flush against the banquettes, were also raised with narrow alleys leading to patios and courtyards behind. Built of heavy cypress beams supporting bricks, the ‘brick between posts’ buildings were covered with stucco and painted light colors, primarily yellow or white. Most had brisée doors – what the Americans called French doors with glass panes above a solid bottom. The brisées faced the street, along with floor-length windows with shutters or jalousies, now closed against the cold, but could be opened to allow free flow of air through the house. The roofs were steeply-pitched with gabled ends. Here in the semi-tropics where it rained almost daily from spring to autumn and the winters were always wet, the high, planked roofs were thickly covered with a mixture of tar, lime, earth and oyster shells which set like rock, sealing the roofs from leaking.
Near Rue Dauphine, many of the buildings were two-storied townhouses with black, wrought-iron, lacework balconies and slave quarters behind with wooden balconies. White smoke rose from most of the chimneys. Gérard watched two crows bicker over a dead rat in the street.
“In New York, we don’t have beauties like those back in the cemetery.”
“I would have thought differently,” said Gérard. “New York being so much more sophisticated.”
“These girls are naturally beautiful and,” Matthew seemed to struggle for a word and added, “luscious.”
Gérard laughed. Matthew slapped Gérard’s shoulder, nearly causing him to stumble. These Yankees were a different breed. A Creole would never slap anyone, unless it preceded a duel.
“You must tell me more about this Aimée,” said Matthew. “How well do you know her?”
“Since childhood. To me, she’s Poul little sister. I tease her any time I can. She caught your eye?”
“Oh, yes. And more.”
Gérard was glad it wasn’t Lucia who’d caught his new friend’s eye. He’d seen the way Poul looked at Lucia and that was enough competition.
“The Rodriguez family,” said Matthew. “Spanish?”
“Of course.”
“Then why do they speak French? Calling everyone monsieur, mademoiselle?”
“French is the native tongue.”
“For now,” Matthew said with a smirk.
The sound of rushing horses turned the men around as two American dragoons rode pass, the white feathers atop their dark blue helmets flowing, long swords rattling. They were smartly dressed in navy blue jackets with white stitching, white trousers and high black boots.
“There will be plenty more of them soon,” Gérard said.
“That is why I’m here, laddie.” Matthew patted Gérard’s back. “I wonder who they are.”
Rue de Chartres, 11:17 a.m.
“Catoire will know.” Gérard stepped up the pace and the men hurried down to Rue de Chartres where they turned right to No. 83, a two story Creole townhouse with a black lacework balcony overlooking the street and a freshly-painted sign announcing: Étudier Louisiane.
“Not a bad name,” Matthew waved to the sign. “Read up on Louisiana, right?”
Gérard nodded as a smiling Sam Catoire opened the door for them and said, “Bienvenue, gentlemen.”
Matthew greeted him in fluent French and Catoire’s greenish-brown eyes grew wide. Catoire was a light-skinned free-man of color, an octoroon to be exact, one-eighth African, who stood five and a half feet tall and weighed one-thirty when bundled up. He led the way into a large front room where two desks rested, two wooden benches and several other chairs positioned in front of the desks. The file cabinets were new as were the bookshelves, all hand-made by Catoire and his brothers. The place smelled of fresh paint.
“Gentil,” said Matthew as he looked around.
“Your suitcases arrived,” Catoire told him in English. “I put them in Gérard’s room.”
There were two bedrooms upstairs, each facing the rear patio and a sitting room in front that opened to the balcony on Rue de Chartres. Matthew would bunk in Gérard’s room while Catoire kept his room. He’d suggested letting Matthew use his room. “I can stay back with my brothers,” Catoire said, but Gérard would not hear of it.
Matthew Knudsen, ace reporter of the New York Gazette, was the guest of their new French-language newspaper, Étudier Louisiane. Knudsen, who spoke French, Spanish, Italian and Danish, besides the New York version of English, had arrived aboard a trade ship at the Bienville wharf just that morning. The tiny Saratoga had successfully evaded the British blockade of lumbering ships of the line. Even a frigate couldn’t catch Saratoga.
“We saw two dragoons rushing down Rue de Conty,” Gérard told Catoire. “Any idea who they are or where they’re going?”
Catoire smiled. “That would be Lt. Garner and his corporal. Heralds of General Jackson. They are to meet with the legislature tomorrow morning. They are staying at my cousin Matilda’s boarding house, next door to Lafitte’s Tavern.”
“Lafitte?” Matthew asked, “Isn’t that the pirate who put the reward out on the governor?”
While Gérard went to his desk for the notes for their planned first issue of Étudier Louisiane, Catoire explained, “Yes, in a moment of unbalance, Governor Claiborne offered a $500 reward for Jean Lafitte who promptly offered a $5,000 reward for anyone delivering the governor to him.”
Matthew cackled, then began coughing.
“Come into the kitchen,” Catoire said. “It’s much warmer and I have coffee on the stove.”
The kitchen was at the rear of the building, its brisée doors facing a small brick patio with two magnolia trees beyond, trees that would grow too large and blot the sun from falling on the patio as it did that bright, crisp morning. Gérard brought the notes he’d taken late one night while huddled in Lafitte’s Tavern with three half-brothers, Jean Lafitte, Renato Beluché and Dominique You. Gérard joined Catoire and Matthew at the small table and sipped a thick concoction of café-au-lait – coffee-and-chicory with boiled milk, laced with granulated cane sugar.
“Damn,” said Matthew. “This is wonderful stuff.”
“I sometimes drop cocoa shavings in it and it is truly heavenly,” Catoire added.
Gérard unfolded his notes and began with the planned headline: The British Are Coming. Beneath the headline would be: Jean Lafitte Exposes English Offer.
“What offer?” said Matthew.
“Last September third, the British Sloop-of-war Sophia anchored in Barataria Bay and indicated the British wanted a parlay. Barataria is the headquarters of the Lafittes.”
Matthew raised a hand. “September third, that’s right before the British attacked Mobile.” He looked at Catoire. “I was there. We waylaid them. Ran ‘em off.”
Gérard read from his notes. “The Sofia’s Captain, Nicholas Lockyer, and a captain of the Royal Marines, John McWilliams, came ashore and presented Jean Lafitte with two documents. The first was British Colonel Edward Nicholls’s insulting proclamation in Pensacola, calling the people of Louisiana to assist in the ‘liberation of our paternal soil from a faithless imbecile government’ – the US government. The second was an invitation for Jean Lafitte and his men to ‘enter into the service of Great Britain’.” Gérard looked up to make sure Matthew understood the gravity and saw the seriousness on his new friend’s face.
“Lafitte was offered $30,000, his brother’s freedom and a captaincy in the Royal Navy.”
“Brother?”
“Pierre Lafitte had been incarcerated since July, but has since escaped.”
Matthew leaned back and seemed to ponder a moment before saying, “Why does Jean Lafitte want to put this in the newspaper? Has he been unable to convince Governor Claiborne he’s on our side?”
“Much of this is already known by many,” Catoire injected, “but after Lafitte told the governor about the British offer, the American navy attacked Lafitte’s lair at Barataria.”
Gérard pointed to his notes. “This is the first from the mouths of the Lafittes. They want pardons for themselves and all their men and more importantly, Jean Lafitte wants to prove he’s with us to the one man who will count in all our futures. Andrew Jackson.”
Matthew glanced at Gérard’s notes. “What I haven’t been able to fathom is why Nicholls and the English think the people of Louisiana will turn against their country.”
Gérard spoke softly. “Many Creoles do not feel New Orleans should be American.”
“Too late for that.”
“The British promise to return the city to the Spanish.”
“That’s shit!” Matthew snarled. “The British send an army, British soldiers die to take this place, they’re not giving it to anyone. New Orleans is the plum of plums for the British. The mouth of the Mississippi is the key to the continent.” Matthew raised his cup. “It’s why I’m here, monsieurs. To keep us from the ravening jaws of the British.”
Gérard chuckled.
“And now, for important matters.” Matthew’s eyes lit up. “Tell me more about the girls at the cemetery.”
Esplanade, 1:12 p.m.
Across town, a Creole leader who was not amenable to American domination of New Orleans stood in his marble foyer as two friends entered his mansion. Louis Monlezun watched his servants take the men’s coats. First came Bernard Marigny de Mandeville, whose suburb, the Faubourg Marigny, adjoined the original settlement, and whose estate was the envy of every New Orleanian. Marigny lived in a huge three-story estate of Corinthian Columns which was surrounded by a beautifully landscaped garden, towering live oaks, and separated from neighbors by a tall, white fence. The man’s ruddy face was softened by a knowing smile as he approached his friend. Monlezun greeted him with kisses on both cheeks. A vigorous man of twenty-nine years, Marigny was the most powerful man in the legislature and considered the voice of the Creoles.
Next came Harold Lowe, with his shock of thick blond hair, tall and distinguished in his English wool suit. Born in Wales twenty-eight years earlier, Harold was a most successful merchantman. Like his host, Harold was an importer and exporter. He’d come to New Orleans from Martinique in 1810, after the British took the exotic island from the French, and established himself as a master trader of coffee, bananas, cocoa and rubber from the Caribbean and Amazon basin. Harold stopped in the foyer and looked around.
“Aimée will be here presently,” Monlezun said.
Harold smiled as Monlezun put a hand on his shoulder and walked him into the parlor. Placide, impeccably dressed in a new black suit and white shirt in stark contrast with his blue-black skin, served cognac from a decanter. Marigny took a sip and nodded approval.
“Ugni Blanc,” announced Monlezun. “Saint-Emilion grapes, exclusively.”
Placide passed his master a glass. Monlezun looked at the clock above the fireplace mantle. Where was Poul?
“Lowe, have you had any word?” Marigny got straight to the point.
Harold shrugged and waited for Placide to leave the three alone.
“Nothing from your brothers?” asked Monlezun.
Harold nodded to the parlor doors and asked his host, “May we close them?”
Monlezun closed the doors as Harold and Marigny both sat in chairs near the fire. Monlezun moved to the sofa next to them. He could see the Briton was brimming with news.
“My brother Godfrey.” Harold explained to Marigny. “A post captain on Admiral Cochrane’s staff. Reports a replacement for General Ross has been selected … ”
“Wellington?” Marigny again.
Harold shook his head. “Turned it down before it was even offered. So did Lord Hill and Sir Thomas Picton. Wellington is worried about the emperor.”
“But Napoleon’s in exile,” argued Marigny.
“Elba,” said Harold, “is only twelve miles from the coast of Tuscany and no British ship guards the emperor. And with France in turmoil.”
Monlezun had to inject, “So who is taking the command?”
Harold took a sip of cognac. “Wellington’s brother-in-law, Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, K.B. From Wellington’s staff, he is an excellent field officer. A hero of the Peninsula War, helped whip the French in Spain. Salamanca. Vitoria.”
A wily grin came to Monlezun’s face. “Isn’t he a friend of yours?”
“It was Pakenham who took Martinique.” Harold turned back to Marigny. “My younger brother, Captain William Lowe of the Royal Fusiliers is now on Pakenham’s staff and is set to sail with the new Commander-in-Chief of the New Orleans expedition.”
“From where?” Marigny asked impatiently.
“England.”
“They won’t be here until next year. If ever.” Marigny stood up and began to pace.
“I have additional news. Admiral Cochrane’s fleet will arrive in Jamaica in a few weeks where Major General Keane will assemble the army that will take New Orleans. Soon as Pakenham arrives, they’ll come.”
The air seemed suddenly stuffy as Monlezun realized the magnitude of the news. That was why Harold seemed to speak rapidly. Rumors had bedeviled them for months, compounded by the British failure at Mobile.
“The home office is still worried by the lack of enthusiasm for rebellion here,” said Harold, immediately raising his hand to delay argument. “I’ve explained the Creole position as clearly as possible, the inherent French leaning of New Orleanians, even as the Spanish ruled.”
“It is not that,” Monlezun snapped. “New Orleans is onto itself and should be its own nation.” He waved his hand. “All these occupations, Spanish and now American.”
“Britain’s position is to return New Orleans to the Spanish,” Harold said. Monlezun and Marigny knew this and it didn’t impress either.
“I will put it plainly,” said Marigny, stopping to face them. “We are Frenchmen but France no long wants us. New Orleans should be free. Free us from these backwoods Americans and then we’ll rebel against the Spanish.”
Harold didn’t bother elaborating on the home office’s view: rebel now against the Americans and the British will commit fully.
Monlezun retrieved the decanter and refilled the glasses with cognac. Speaking softer now, he explained, “These new world Dons are so corrupt we’ll be wealthy beyond measure. They are so weak we’ll finally fulfill the dream of our great-uncles and most patriotic heroes.”
He need not explain how his wife’s great-great-uncle, Nicolas Chauvin de Lafréniere, and other Frenchmen, revolted when Spain first acquired Louisiana from France, running Governor Ulloa back to Spain. In 1769, the Spanish sent an Irish-born general to put down the revolt. Lafréniere and five others were executed by firing squad and the first North American revolution ended in failure.
As Harold explained the makeup of the troops coming – seasoned veterans, some from British victories along the east coast, some straight from hard-fought victories in the Peninsula War – Monlezun heard people outside and went to peek through the curtain as Aimée and Poul arrived with the Rodriguez family. He turned back to his friends. “Monsieur Enrique Rodriguez is a most influential Spaniard. We will need him.”
Marigny shrugged. “He has no politics. He’s not in the legislature, but unfortunately, he has great sway with the Dons here.”
Voices echoed in the foyer.
Monlezun turned to Harold now. “The American is still a stranger here. I don’t think Louisiana will ever be truly American.”
Marigny added, “We cannot allow the most European city in North America to be run by Kaintuck tobacco-spitters.”
“Chawbaccys,” Monlezun said with a smirk.
The door to the foyer opened and Aimée walked in, her face rosy from the cold as she unwrapped a scarf from her neck. Her bright smile was returned by Harold.
“As long as you don’t mention the bad weather, I will talk with you,” she said as she moved up and pecked her Papa on the cheek, her eyes remaining with Harold. Enrique Rodriguez and his wife stepped in next and Louis introduced them to Harold Lowe. Enrique and Marigny nodded at each other. Although both were friends of Monlezun, Enrique’s dislike of Bernard Marigny was well known, but not as openly displayed as his wife Anna Rodriguez’s icy demeanor toward Marigny who didn’t seem to be affected as he smiled at the Rodriguez’s children. Last came Poul, looking sheepish.
It took Louis Monlezun only a few moments to realize Rodriguez’s older daughter was the cause. She even drew a look from Harold who was obviously enamored of Aimée. Lucia did not return the look as she acted almost as sheepish as Poul. She had grown in the last year and was quite fetching.
Monlezun edged his son aside and whispered, “Where have you been?”
“The convent. Mme. Rodriguez stopped to speak with mother superior about All Souls Day with the Ursulines.”
Monlezun closed his eyes in frustration. Another religious custom, tomorrow’s All Souls Day. It will consume New Orleanians and close most businesses. While All Saints Day celebrated the departed already in heaven, the second day of November drew every Catholic to church to pray for the souls of the departed not yet in heaven, the ones not cleansed of their sins and still suffering in purgatory who could only be helped by prayers from the living.
Lily’s voice echoed from the foyer as the woman who actually ran the Monlezun house announced, “Hot cocoa for the ladies.” Barely five feet tall, and still thin after birthing seven children, Lily had long since risen from cleaning maid up through the servant ranks and had taken charge of the house after Minonette Monlezun passed away. Aimée may be the lady of the house but it was Lily who made the house work.
Poul caught Lucia’s eye and said in a questioning voice, “We will speak … later?” Another hiccup.
She nodded and moved out of the parlor with her mother, sister and Aimée last, Aimée leaving a departing smile for the tall man in wool, whose bright blue eyes seemed to smile in reply.
Placide, who had come in unobserved, poured cognac for M. Rodriguez and refilled Marigny’s glass as his host and Harold Lowe waved away more of the strong liquor. Poul also shook the decanter away. He’d have preferred hot cocoa with the ladies, especially Lucia. He felt itchy all over, knowing she was just in the other room and he stuck here with men who would talk – politics.
“Close the door,” Monlezun told Placide and when it was closed, he turned to Rodriguez and in short sentences told his friend the news, leaving out Lowe’s family connections. Poul suddenly realized he should pay attention.
“We know they are coming,” said Rodriguez. “That is why the Americans are sending General Jackson.”
Marigny stepped to the fireplace. “Can’t you see, Monsieur? No American general, no American army can stand with the British on the field of battle. At Bladensburg, they ran. The British burned Washington.”
Monlezun kept his voice soft. “Jackson will have mostly volunteers and militia. The British are sending veteran troops who beat Napoleon’s finest in Portugal and Spain. Wellington’s heroes.”
Rodriguez sipped the cognac, not one of his favorite drinks, but he needed something strong. This Marigny was not to be trusted. Too much self-interest, too greedy, this overly rich patrician had mistresses and illegitimate children all over town. And who was this Englishman?
Rodriguez cleared his throat, asked, “What do you propose? Surrender?”
“What we propose is to save this city from being torn apart by two armies,” Marigny replied a little too loudly.
Monlezun caught Rodriguez’s eye and said, “Do you really want to be American?”