But he had put on the uniform, and accepted the rank of major and the assignment that came with it. His responsibilities were few and minor: block the bayous, protect Fisherman’s Village, and keep watch for the British. In return he could sleep comfortably and eat well. The ladies had been sent to Grand Terre, but his closest friends were close by. Really, things could be much worse. He could be with the rest of the uniformed militia on the Bayou St. John in moldy tents, suffering the December night winds off of Pontchartrain.

Here all he had to do was dispatch a few men to tramp along the canal and bayou as far as the fishing village where Catalan joined Bayou Mazant. The fact that those men hadn’t returned yet seemed nothing to worry about. There had been freezing rain in the night, and they were smart enough to take cover out of the weather. No doubt they would come strolling in before noon complaining of poor food and wet feet.

What the heir to the Villeré plantation could not put out of his head, though he tried, was the fact that he had not yet sent the slaves to obstruct the canal. Jackson’s reasoning was that the man-made waterways that connected the Mississippi to the bayous and then the Gulf were too tempting for the British to resist. The planters to either side—including Gabriel’s father-in-law to the north—had made a great production out of the whole silly venture. Gabriel had hesitated, though Jackson’s engineer had been by more than once to remind him what the major general expected. What he ordered.

It grated, to have such a man as a commander. Jackson was a Yankee, after all, and really knew nothing of Louisiana or the way things worked here. To obstruct a canal would be the work of a few days, but to clear it again would take much longer, and as owners of a working plantation, the Villerés depended on the canal. Gabriel most especially depended on it, as he kept busy for most of the year running goods for the Lafittes.

As if the British would choose such a route into the city to start with, through swamp and bog. They would come in by way of Pontchartrain and the Chef Menteur road. It was the obvious choice.

“I don’t believe it,” one of his companions was saying in a heated tone. “I won’t believe it until I hear his confession for myself.”

Gabriel looked down at his younger brother Jules, who had been playing with the dogs while he listened to the conversation.

“They’re still arguing about Poiterin,” Jules said. “Whether he really is a spy.”

Gabriel shrugged. “I myself find it hard to believe,” he said, using his elbows to lift himself out of his chair. He opened the lid of a carved walnut box and hesitated over the selection of cigars as he thought of Honoré Poiterin, who was a good man to have at a dinner party. To be seen with someone so daring was to borrow some of his shine, for a short while at least.

“They say he’s gone to fight for the British,” said Jules, his voice still low.

“He’s signed his death warrant if that’s true,” said Gabriel.

Moll ambled over and pushed her nose into his hand. He rubbed her head and started for the door. If he smoked in here, he would have both his wife and his mother to deal with, and it simply wasn’t worth the trouble.

At the door, Moll went suddenly still. Later Gabriel would remember that one moment as the last peaceful minute of his life, because it was followed by an explosion of wood and glass as the door was kicked open and a company of English soldiers came crashing in.

It had been a quiet morning, and now it was full of English riflemen in dark green jackets and infantry in dull red. They poured in every door, herding the rest of Gabriel’s men before them until every one of them stood, some still in short clothes, in a huddle in the middle of the parlor.

Through it all, one thought repeated itself in Gabriel Villeré’s mind: Now it’s done. Now he’ll know.

One of the younger dogs snapped at a soldier and got a kick in the ribs for his trouble. Jules let out a furious cry and would have rushed forward, but was caught up by a more cautious hand: Pierre Solet, whose sharpest look wasn’t for any of the men who had invaded this house, but for Gabriel himself.

They were all looking at him, waiting for him to do something. They didn’t understand that Gabriel was incapable of doing anything at all. He had lost the power of speech and locomotion and coherent thought, all replaced by the image of his father’s face.

Then out of the confusion an officer stepped forward and addressed Gabriel directly. He was Colonel Thornton of the 95th of Foot. His manner was all that was correct and courteous, but his tone was as hard as ironwood. “You are our prisoners, Major—”

“Villeré,” Gabriel supplied. “Of the New Orleans Militia.” His English was not very good, but he caught the gist of the commands that Thornton spit out, rapid-fire, to men who peeled away to do his bidding. They were all in high good spirits. They had taken the Villeré plantation without firing a shot, and now it would serve as the British headquarters during the battle for New Orleans.

From the window, Gabriel saw that the entire plantation was crawling with British soldiers. Who had come, no doubt, by way of Lake Borgne, the bayous, and finally an unobstructed Villeré canal. What had happened to the men he had dispatched to Fisherman’s Village? He could not ask, but he could imagine. He hoped they had put up more of a defense than he had.

As they were herded together against the wall, searched, and stripped of weapons, Jules found Gabriel’s side and stayed close. His eyes, as round and bright as pennies, fixed on Gabriel’s.