The Hidden Messenger

Written by Moe Zilla, Published on 11/17/2008, Re-published on 3/29/2010

Zeb pulled his coat tight against the cold rain, and then saw the restaurant. It was two days before Christmas, Dec. 23, 1814.

Lightning flashed over the Gulf of Mexico, revealing five enormous sails fluttering in the wind. Everyone knew the ships were there to attack.

“Molly's,” read a large sign swinging in the rain. Zeb pushed open the door. He heard the townspeople of New Orleans gabbing excitedly while they ate.

“I'm loading my shotgun!”

“That'll scare the British away.”

“We've captured hundreds of their ships.”

“They burned Washington.”

“ ‘We,’ ‘they’ – you’re all just men stuffing your fat faces,” Molly said, delivering a plate of hot sausage. There was laughter and shouts as the restaurant's hefty owner brought their meals, but not one familiar face, Zeb noted.

“Maybe they're not British ships,” joked Marie, a small waitress. “Maybe Napoleon wants us back!” Eleven years earlier New Orleans belonged to the French, until their emperor sold the territory to President Thomas Jefferson as part of the Louisiana Purchase.

Zeb searched the faces looking for the man who could help him, but Molly's small restaurant was filled only with the people of the town, their voices filled with excitement.

Then the door opened, and in walked Ezekiel, his long scraggly hair still wet from the rain. He seemed just as anxious to get out of the cold.

“Did you see the sails?” Ezekiel asked, looking worried.

Zeb nodded.

“General Jackson saw them too,” Ezekiel whispered. “But we have a problem.”

Zeb scanned the faces in the restaurant. The British had already seized control of the shoreline ten miles south of New Orleans. The city's population was less than 40,000, and now foreign soldiers were preparing to invade.

Andrew Jackson was preparing a defense. He had fortified his own troops with Choctaw Indians, pirates from Barataria Bay, 500 African-American soldiers and militias from Tennessee, Kentucky, Mississippi, and Louisiana. Before the British could invade and to give his men time to prepare the defense, Jackson would send his troops to attack them. Tonight.

“But the British will know he's coming.”

Lightning struck outside.

“How?” Zeb asked.

“Someone just spotted the troop movements through the swamp, and is planning to meet the British commander here tonight. They're going to deliver the warning in a letter,” Ezekiel explained. “If the British receive it, Jackson's surprise attack will fail.”

Zeb carefully scanned the crowd again.

“What do they want with New Orleans?” Marie teased.

“The Mississippi river!” yelled a burly sailor. “And everything west of it!”

Someone in this restaurant had been sent ahead to warn the British. But who?

“They ate President Madison's dinner!”

“And burned his house!”

“I heard Davy Crockett himself fought alongside General Jackson.”

“What do we need Davy Crockett for when we've got your shot-gun?”

Zeb and Ezekiel searched for suspects, and one face stood out in the crowd. The burly sailor sat across from a wealthy-looking man in a leather vest, wearing a wide, stylish hat. A pirate? Zeb and Ezekiel approached his table, and asked if they could join him for dinner. His name was Jean, and he readily agreed.

“ ‘Tis too cold a night to deny you the warmth of my fine company,” Jean said grandly. Ezekiel asked casually what his line of business was.

“I'm a privateer,” Jean said with a laugh. He reached slyly into his jacket pocket and pulled out a yellow parchment. “It’s signed by the U.S. Congress itself. I'm authorized to plunder the British ships!” He roared with laughter.

“Don't you dare call him a pirate,” said Jean's companion, a sailor named Smith.

“Marie, more rum!” shouted Jean.

“Leave her alone!” shouted Molly protectively, pushing her thick spectacles back. “Marie's been working since noon.”

Smith had arrived in Louisiana all the way from Maine, which would raise anyone's suspicion, since the New England states had threatened to secede.

“Even if we are at war, money's money,” Smith said, patting down his wet hair. “There's money to be made in trading with Britain,” he added. “But me, I hate them. We beat them already, 36 years ago. Do we have to fight a second war of independence?”

Molly delivered a warm plate to the sailor, piled high with slices of roast beef and steaming potatoes.

Ezekiel leaned across the table and whispered a secret theory. “Maybe Molly is the British contact.”

“They've already captured our gunboats,” Molly said to Smith with a laugh.

“And it's so close to Christmas,” Smith joked back, drawing a big laugh from Jean the privateer.

Molly leaned into the sailor's face, and said: “Standing so close to you, I can finally see your face, Mr. Smith. And it's an ugly one!” The sailor laughed loudly as Molly covered her spectacles in mock horror.

Zeb and Ezekiel scanned the rest of the restaurant. It was getting late, and most of the other customers had left. One of the four people who remained was waiting for the British commander.

“Read my letter from the U.S. Congress!” Jean said with a laugh. “It entitles me to plunder the British ships – and I don't even know how to read!”

New Orleans would fall to the British unless Zeb and Ezekiel could identify their contact. Suddenly, the door swung open. A white-haired gentleman with a long, sharp nose had entered the restaurant, surveying the crowd and calling out for a meal. He said he was in a hurry.

Ezekiel walked Zeb towards the door, then whispered: “Don't worry. I know who's delivering the warning letter to the British.”