A week ago he would have been able to share his concerns with his superiors, but now he had a report to deliver that would not lend to his credibility. Just the opposite, in fact. When he finished, his career would most likely be as compromised as his reputation.

The command tent was so crowded that one man had to leave before another could enter. Kit worked his way to the table in the middle, where a dozen officers were gathered around a map, each and every one of them intent on appearing unmoved by the blustering argument in their midst.

To someone less familiar with Admiral Cochrane and General Keane it might indeed seem that the two men were on the point of blows. The unfortunate truth was that they brought out the worst in each other: Cochrane’s conceit and pride, Keane’s impulsiveness and temper.

Keane had caught sight of Kit. With a few words the tent emptied out, until he was alone with the two senior officers.

“Not a moment too soon,” Keane said. “Now, what can you tell us about Jackson’s numbers, Major?”

Kit gave his report. His very dissatisfactory report, its deficiencies laid out clearly. He would not offer excuses. He could save that much pride at least. Getting it all out was something of a relief. Kit wondered if he had spent so much time with Roman Catholics that he had been infected with an inclination toward confession. He wondered if priests were ever truly shocked by what they heard, and if they got angry, as General Keane and Admiral Cochrane were now obviously angry. A humming tension, as high-pitched as a bow drawn across a violin, filled the room.

“If I understand you correctly, Major,” General Keane began, “you are telling us that you were forced out of the city before you could get any certain information on the number and quality of troops arriving from the north. The exact information you were sent to gather.”

“That is true, sir,” Kit said. “The Kentucky and Tennessee troops will have arrived since I left New Orleans.”

“And your network of informants is defunct.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit said. He was able to keep his voice steady.

“So you have nothing to show for your months of work except your life.”

“I have nothing useful to show since my last report.”

Cochrane could contain himself no longer. He said, “And this is the famous Exploring Officer who gave the French such a run for their money. Wellington’s pet, they called you, is that right?”

Kit felt a flush of anger making its way up his face. He met Cochrane’s gaze directly. “Not in my hearing, sir.”

“Have you lost your mind, man?”

“I think perhaps I did, for a while,” Kit said.

Keane held up a hand to ask for patience, and Cochrane sputtered to silence.

“I take it you still haven’t found out the location of Lafitte’s secret store of ammunition and powder, either.”

“On the contrary, sir,” Kit said. “That I can tell you, with certainty.”

It was his one bit of currency, and it didn’t go as far as he had hoped. Not once he told them the rest. Lafitte’s stash was on the river, almost directly opposite the city.

“You’re saying we can’t get to it until we’ve taken the city and don’t need it anymore,” said Keane.

“Not at all, sir,” said Kit Wyndham. “I’m saying it will require a small party of men, the right kind of transport, and a diversion of the first order.”

Cochrane said, “You want to lead this mission, do you, Wyndham?”

“I am yours to command, sir,” Wyndham said.

“Looking to redeem yourself, eh?” Cochrane squawked like a gander in a temper.

“Just so, sir.”

There was a moment’s silence in the tent.

Keane seemed to come to a conclusion. “Not straightaway,” he said. “Let’s see first how things go tonight. We may not have need of any more powder.”

“Is it to be tonight, then, sir?” Kit tried not to let his disquiet show.

“In three brigades,” said Keane. “You know the lay of the land between Fisherman’s Village and the plantations—” he cast a glance at the map, “belonging to de la Ronde and Villeré?”

“Yes, sir, I know both plantations well.”

“You’ll join the advance,” said Keane. “Under Colonel Thornton. We start at nine.”

The next twelve hours did nothing to lessen Kit’s doubts. The logistics of moving thousands of soldiers and artillery to the mainland would have been daunting under any circumstances, but Keane and Cochrane seemed to believe that by pure force of will and timing they could overcome what might prove to be a fatal flaw: They had too few boats of the right kind. And then, of course, there was the weather, which was turning from bad to worse.

The troops had been ferried to Pea Island from the fleet by the sailors who rowed sixty miles, back and forth, without pause. This next stage in the invasion would proceed in much the same way. Moving the army in installments was always tricky, as the advance could easily be overrun and dispatched before the next detachment arrived. And so Cochrane and Keane had come up with an alternate plan which did not bode well: The vanguard would sail first in the lighter vessels best able to navigate the shallow waters of the Bayou Catalan. The larger boats, sure to get stuck at some point, would follow. When they could go no further, the lighter vessels could be used to ferry the troops from the larger ones.

There was nothing to do but take on this flawed plan as his own and do everything in his power to make it work.