Any secretary worth his salt had to be good with faces and names and so Luke paid attention, marking into his memory the barrel shape of Major Hughes, who commanded Fort St. John; Jackson’s secretary Captain Reid, whose face was mostly hidden behind a profusion of sleek beard that reached to his cheekbones; Major Butler, Jackson’s adjutant, famous for his ability to assimilate, organize, and retain thousands of details crucial to his superior; Commander Patterson, severe and as inflexible as an iron rod in full naval uniform. A dozen other officers, and then the leading men of the city: Bernard Marigny, the richest and most powerful Creole in New Orleans, and a man dedicated above all things to spending the fortune his father had left him; Ignace de Lino de Chalmette, an elderly Marigny uncle; Magloire Guichard, a dignified old man and speaker of the legislature. When Livingston was introduced, Jackson’s expression opened and became less guarded. For a long minute there was what amounted to a private conversation in the crowded room, Livingston and Jackson renewing their acquaintance. Claiborne looked at first surprised, then disgruntled, and then almost sick to his stomach.

Then Livingston introduced Luke as his new secretary. Jackson’s gaze met Luke’s. He returned the gaze without flinching, aware that he was being judged not just by Jackson, but by every other man in the room. Aware, for the first time, of a group of militiamen in the far corner, hidden by the men of the legislature. Men in uniforms as gaudy as peacock feathers, and in their middle, Honoré Poiterin.

“Gentlemen,” Jackson was saying in a gravelly voice. “The British are at the gate, and they must be stopped. To do that, I will need your assistance. Your full and unquestioning assistance. Whatever quarrels you’ve got among you, let them go. Until New Orleans is secure, you must forget these distinctions you make between Americans and Creoles. We are all Americans, or we will all be British.”

His gaze settled momentarily on certain men in the crowd and then moved on. “If I’ve made myself understood, we’ll start,” Jackson said.

For the next hour Luke was aware of two things: Poiterin, who stared at him with open and unwavering hostility, and Jackson, who dispensed judgment and directions with the bare minimum of social nicety and a great deal of sharp commentary. Each man was evaluated for what he had to contribute, and made short work of. Some were passed along to be dealt with by Butler or Patterson; others were told that they would be called on as they were needed. More than once Jackson waved a hand to cut off a speech filled with empty platitudes to ask questions that must be seen as rude.

Little by little the men began to trickle away, orders and instructions in hand. Through all of this, Livingston only observed, calmly, a man sure of his value and his place in the company. Through all of this, Poiterin stayed exactly where he was until two thirds of the room had gone.

“May I introduce Commander Henri de Ste-Gême,” Kilty-Smith was saying. “And some of his Hulans, or Dragons à Pied, as they are called. Pierre—”

“Commander,” Jackson interrupted. “We count on your local boys to show us the lay of the land.”

“Of course,” said Ste-Gême, a man as short and rotund as a cork. His English was so heavily influenced by French that it sounded almost as though he must be joking. “We will lead the charge. As you know, Major General, we are originally sons of France, and we will be pleased to send the English dogs back to their island, as my forefathers did at Agincourt.”

Jackson’s gaze was hard but his mouth twitched at the corner, out of amusement or pique, Luke couldn’t say. “I look forward to seeing you in action,” he said, and his gaze flickered toward Major Butler with a message that Luke understood from across the room. Ste-Gême allowed himself to be led away, the handful of men he had brought with him following like ducklings. Poiterin continued to stare at Luke until he was summoned specifically, and then he turned away with obvious reluctance.

“So it begins,” said Livingston, who had observed the entire silent exchange. And then: “Stay close.”

Jackson had winnowed the crowd of men down to the ones he considered most worthy and potentially useful to him, and Livingston was among that number, a man of like mind and ability. Before they left his company, Livingston had pledged all his time and energy to Major General Jackson and had joined his staff as a voluntary aide. When Jackson and his officers made ready to ride into the city, Luke found himself among the small party of men invited to join them.

On the way out to the horses, another surprise: Ben Savard stood in the early morning light next to Hughes, who had command of Fort St. John. As he passed the men, Luke said, “Hannah?”

“On her way home.”

“What about you?”

Ben shrugged. “Depends on what they have in mind for me. I see you’ve worked things out.”

At that moment Jackson turned his head in their direction. Luke, who had stood his ground with far more imposing men, felt the jolt of that cold blue gaze in his spine.

“Major Hughes,” said Jackson. “You are satisfied with your Indian scout?”

“Jean-Benoît Savard,” said Hughes. “There is none better in Louisiana. I’m about to lose him to Captain de Juzan’s regiment of Choctaw.”

Ben’s expression was impassive, as if they spoke a language he didn’t care to understand.

“Keep him here,” Jackson said. “I have a need for such men, and he will be more useful out of uniform, for the moment at least. Savard.”