Hannah had not been pleased to receive the invitation to start with and had no intention of attending. “I’m surprised at your aunt’s change of heart,” she said to Rachel, and then was sorry to have embarrassed the girl, who was more aware of her aunt’s failings than it might at first appear.

When it became clear that her father and uncle did intend to accept the invitation, she spoke more openly. “Until you and Bears came Mrs. Livingston didn’t like to have Indians in her parlor. Or even in her kitchen,” she told her father.

“You don’t like the woman,” Nathaniel Bonner said. “But I’m curious; I’d like to get a look at her after hearing Jennet’s stories.”

“I’m not going,” Hannah said. “I won’t be trotted out like a pet.”

“I doubt anybody ever took your uncle for a lapdog,” Nathaniel Bonner said. “And if they tried to, he’d set them straight. As I’d expect you to do, daughter.”

Hannah said, “It’s a battle I choose not to fight just now.”

He came to sit next to her at that, and let a comfortable silence spin out between them.

“You follow your best instincts,” he said finally. “And I’ll do the same.”

His own instincts had taken him and Runs-from-Bears to the Livingstons’, where the élite citizens of New Orleans, already agitated by the presence of a captured British officer, had given up all pretense of calm detachment. But even the most forward of the gentlemen might not have approached directly if it weren’t for what happened when Nathaniel Bonner came face-to-face with none other than Major General Jackson.

The general stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. “If you’re not the son of a man called Hawkeye out of the New-York frontier, then I’m seeing ghosts.”

“Your eyesight’s right good,” said Nathaniel. “And as I spring a leak if you stick me, I can own in good conscience that I’m no ghost.”

“It was something to see,” Paul Savard told Hannah later. “Old Hickory was as delighted as a boy to run into your father and uncle. They spent an hour talking common history and battles and politics, and every Creole in the room was listening. Even the ones who don’t have any English.”

The story moved through the city on long legs and was everywhere by noon on the twenty-sixth. It seemed another version of it came to Hannah’s ears every hour, embellished and polished to a high gloss. It came to the point that she was more likely to hear some tall tale concerning her father than any news of the war. Even Henry had less to relate than usual, and she had to be satisfied with the general report that the whole of the American force had been put to work either building fortifications at Rodriquez Canal, harassing the British, or spying on them.

A neighbor who had never spoken to Hannah stopped her on the street. “I had no idea your father and General Jackson fought together in the Revolution.”

“They didn’t,” Hannah said.

“But I heard—”

“The major general met my father once,” Hannah said. “It was during the Revolution, but not in battle. I believe the general was no more than fourteen at the time. My father is some ten years older.”

It didn’t matter what she said; the citizens of New Orleans loved a good story and weren’t about to give up on this one. Two men from the far north had come to New Orleans to join the fighting under their old friend Andrew Jackson. Ferocious in battle, both of them, men to be taken seriously. One was white, but raised by the Mohawk. The other was Mohawk, raised by whites.

Hannah said, “My father was raised by his own parents. My grandmother Cora was born and raised in Scotland, and my grandfather—the one called Hawkeye—was born to Scots immigrants. He was orphaned and raised by a sachem of the Mahican tribe.”

The request for a family history was put to her by a lady who had come to bring bandages for the clinic and tarried in the hope of getting a glimpse of Nathaniel and Runs-from-Bears.

“Mahican? Mohawk? Is there a difference?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“My uncle Runs-from-Bears was born in the longhouse of the Turtle Clan at Good Pasture,” Hannah went on. “He is a full-blood Mohawk and was raised among his own people.”

“Who would have ever imagined a full-blood Indian on Major General Jackson’s own staff?”

“My father and uncle have joined Captain Juzan’s company,” Hannah said. “That’s where they can do the most good.”

She supposed it was unreasonable of her to be so irritated by stories, especially when there was real trouble to deal with. On the twenty-seventh the British gunners used heated shot to sink the Carolina and almost got the Louisiana as well, but for quick-witted sailors who warped her up the shore out of range. Then, forced back from his line, Jackson took the precaution of having all the buildings on the Chalmette plantation blown up. None of this was good news, but the loss of the Carolina struck an especially hard note, and the city’s attention shifted away from the Bonners. Hannah was torn between relief and guilt, both of which gave way quickly to worry.

Her father and uncle had decided to attach themselves to the Choctaw under Pierre de Juzan, and they saw no reason to delay, going out on their first full day to survey the land. Hannah did not try to explain to her father why she disliked this idea, or what struck her as wrong about fighting under Andrew Jackson, because it would have done no good. Nathaniel Bonner made up his own mind, and once he had, the only person who ever swayed him was his wife. Who was not here, to Hannah’s great distress.