And as it turned out the news was both good and bad. The letter she brought was a shock and a pleasure. And then she told him about Hannah.

He took a moment to think it all through: His sister was going to help at a field hospital. Not the main field hospital—Luke realized this immediately though Jennet seemed not to; the army surgeons and the doctors from the city would hardly admit her to their number—but some other, smaller affair with no official standing. It made sense, and it made him uneasy, but he could no more forbid Hannah than he could shoot her.

“And so it’s clear,” Jennet was saying. “If ye must join a company, you should join the Choctaws. That way ye can keep an eye on your sister.”

“And Ben Savard can keep an eye on me, isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

Jennet’s mouth tightened. He knew her expression, and it was one that did not bode well. She would have her way, even should it be necessary to spill blood.

She said, “It is the logical thing to do, and weel ye ken it.”

Luke thought of the Carolina, where he was expected to report. The ship would be manned mostly by the Baratarians, who were experts in artillery and had supplied their own cannons, guns, ammunition, and black powder. He was uneasy still about this idea, as there were some men from Barataria that he would rather not run into just now.

He said, “If the Choctaw will have me—”

Jennet interrupted him. “Ben Savard will see to it.”

“Then I’ll talk to Butler.”

And Jennet’s face blossomed into an unsteady smile that told him just how worried she had been at the idea of his joining a gun crew. She came and put her hands on his chest, went up on tiptoe, and kissed him soundly.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll rest much easier.”

Luke took a moment he could ill afford to pull her closer and kiss her again.

“You’ll come back to us,” Jennet said, nipping at his lower lip to underscore her command. “You’ll come back whole.”

Before he could go find Major Butler, the man appeared before him with an agitated Creole in tow. A planter by the name of Leroux, who had no English but nevertheless wanted to convey something of importance.

Luke listened for a moment and asked a question, and then reported.

“Another sighting of British sloops,” he said. “Almost word for word like the last report.”

Major Butler nodded. “Thank him, will you? And send him on his way.”

“He also wants to know if the American government will reimburse him for the slaves who run away with the British,” Luke went on. He put this question to Butler without any particular intonation, as if he were asking about the weather. In fact it was nothing new; the wealthy landowners were all worried about this particular point. It went hand in hand with the rumor that Jackson would burn New Orleans before he let it fall to the British, something that the major general roundly denied, but which Luke held was highly probable.

Butler’s mouth contorted. He said, “Tell him that all reasonable claims will be considered, when the time comes.”

Luke translated, and then held up a hand to keep Butler from leaving. He said, “A small matter,” and then requested the change in assignment, which Butler agreed to without hesitation. There were far larger things to worry about, after all, such as the shouting from the main office: Major General Jackson in a fit of temper. Butler ran, and Luke followed.

Jackson stood in the middle of the main office with two men. One was a gentleman planter Luke recognized as de la Ronde. The second man was twenty years or so younger. They were both officers in the uniformed militia, and both men were disheveled. In part most probably because they had rushed here—de la Ronde still held his riding crop in one hand—but also because no man living could face Andrew Jackson in a temper and remain unaffected.

The younger man looked as if he might faint. His complexion was the color of cheese, his mouth opening and closing in spasms as the elder one talked, a jumble of French and heavily accented English.

Jackson caught sight of Luke and he made a sharp cutting gesture with his hand in de la Ronde’s direction.

“I’ll have my own translator.” And to Luke: “This is Major Gabriel Villeré and his father-in-law de la Ronde. I want you to ask Villeré to tell the story of what happened since yesterday at his father’s plantation, and I want to hear your translation sentence by sentence.”

Luke began by introducing himself, trying for a tone that might provide Villeré with the courage to forge ahead. Then the young officer began to speak, at first slowly and in short sentences.

There was nothing complicated about the story, and Luke translated it almost automatically. He was able to keep first his surprise and then his alarm out of his voice as he recounted Villeré’s actions: the company dispatched to Fisherman’s Village, the orders they had been given, the fact that Villeré had retired early to his bed and not risen until well past first light.

The sudden attack and capture by British soldiers.

“Stop there,” Jackson said. “I want you to translate my questions word for word.”

Luke nodded his understanding.

“Major Villeré, by what path did the British troops gain access to your property?”

Villeré answered, and Luke translated: “By means of the canal that runs from the ciprière across the fields and stops short of the levee.”