They made landfall at the foot of a good-sized garrison that surrounded the city’s main powder magazine. There was no lack of guards, but all of them were men seventy or older, armed with ancient muskets. If the British got this far, it went without saying, the city had already fallen.

A few of the guards greeted Savard as they passed, and then the four of them broke into an easy trot and left the brightly lit camp behind.

For all the cold damp, it wasn’t so overcast that they couldn’t make their way. Savard had proved time and again that he knew this whole territory, stick and stone, and so they followed the shape of him along canals and through orchards, keeping off pathways.

The plan was to settle in at this secret armory of Lafitte’s, the one called Le Tonneau, and wait for Poiterin to show up. According to Savard, Lafitte’s place was a well-kept secret, something easy to believe as they followed him deeper into the swamp. Nathaniel was curious to see what such a place looked like. Rumor had it that Lafitte had provided most of the big guns and ammunition for the Carolina and the Louisiana. He had seen for himself that the Baratarians had brought their own guns to man the Rodriquez Canal. Bears had watched them at work for a while and pointed out in his casual way that Lafitte was better armed than the United States navy and army combined.

Savard paused now and then to listen. The night was full of sounds, many unfamiliar to a backwoodsman from the New-York frontier, though Nathaniel had learned a bit in the last week. Then the ground underfoot went from soggy to pure water, and Savard was pulling out a canoe hidden away in the brush.

They set to paddling again, this time through still black waters. What moonlight there was fell on cypress trees, some no more than stumps, others great in their age and size. A half hour later Savard held up a hand and they floated for a moment while he listened. He spoke to them in a low voice, his head turned so they could hear him.

“There’s something wrong,” he said. “Lafitte most usually has guards all along here, but there’s not a single man on patrol.”

“You sure Poiterin is by himself?” Luke asked.

Savard nodded. “He’s good, but he’s not good enough to lay all of Lafitte’s men low.”

“You got a plan?” Bears asked.

It turned out that Savard did indeed have a plan.

A half hour later they had taken their spots. The armory was on an island no more than a half acre in size, but solid underfoot. Le Tonneau turned out to be a low building constructed out of cypress logs and without windows of any kind. A big double door was set into the front under the eaves, and a lantern hung to either side of it. Around the building itself was a clearing that gave way to cypress trees. Nathaniel, hunkered down with Savard in the shadows, studied the situation as a hollow feeling rose from his gut into his throat.

Not one guard, but standing in front of the door were two caissons, each hitched to a pair of dray horses. Lying on his back, half in the shadows, was a man who had lost a good part of his head to a hatchet blow. Nathaniel liked to deal with one thing at a time.

“Horses in this part of the country swim through swamp, do they?”

Savard pointed with his chin. “There’s a road leads south and then forks. One spur goes right to the big river.”

“So who’s inside? The British?”

Savard glanced at Nathaniel. “Most likely. That’s one of Lafitte’s men dead on the ground. There must be another five or so like him around here.”

The situation required some thought. Somehow or another the British, short on powder and ammunition, had found this place, hid away as it was deep in the swamp. Nathaniel recalled what he had been told about Wyndham, but then there had to be more than one spy still at work for the British. It was a complication, and no small one. If they moved on this little raiding party—and they would have to—they’d lose their chance at Poiterin.

“I’m going to go talk to Bears and Luke.” Savard slipped away into the shadows and was back in five minutes.

“They don’t see things much different,” he said. “We’ll wait a while longer, see who comes out those doors.” And he swung his rifle up and reached for his powder horn.

Waiting was a skill learned in boyhood or never learned at all. Nathaniel was pleased to see that Savard had the knack of it, his whole frame relaxing against the tree trunk to the point that he seemed to melt right into the bark. The primed rifle rested in his arms, and his eyes moved over the clearing as steady as a new-wound clock.

He found himself wishing, as he did every waking hour, for Elizabeth. He had the idea that she would like Ben Savard, but then sometimes she still surprised him, seeing things tucked away in a man’s mind that he never would have guessed. He was thinking about what it would be like, that first conversation between Savard and Elizabeth, when the double door opened up.

British. Four redcoats, two Indian scouts of a tribe Nathaniel couldn’t identify, and an officer in dark green. Another four redcoats. Both the Indian scouts and two of the redcoats immediately fanned out, weapons at the ready. The rest of them were humping barrels and boxes.

From the other side of the clearing came an owl hoot, Runs-from-Bears making his intentions known.

“I’ve got the tall one.” Nathaniel brought up his rifle and fired. Savard did the same, and from the other side of the clearing came two more reports. Then they were moving into the chaos in front of the armory. All four armed men were down, one of them screaming. Barrels and boxes were dropped as men reached for weapons, and then Luke stepped out of the shadows and put a musket to the officer’s neck.