Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Hickman studied the shorter man as he answered. “Arrived earlier this afternoon.”

  Ingersol gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “My business office is just up the street. Would you care to accompany me there? Have you had supper?”

  “No.”

  “Then you shall be my guest, sir. There is a fine restaurant just across the plaza. French. Excellent cuisine! Do you enjoy French cuisine?”

  They walked across the cobblestones to sit in an open-air patio beneath a vine-covered portico and placed their orders. The swordfish was baked to perfection and covered with thick sauce that hinted of garlic, the mix of petite peas and diced new potatoes was drowned in creamed gravy, and the chocolate éclair was superb. The men exchanged small talk as they ate, each smiling amiably while he shrewdly studied the other as twilight settled into dusk. Candles and lanterns were lit to cast the dining area in a warm, golden glow. Ingersol wiped his mouth with his napkin, set his knife and fork clattering on his porcelain plate, leaned back, patted his well-padded paunch, and smiled.

  “That will pass as a supper. Cigar?” he asked.

  Hickman declined.

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all.”

  Ingersol drew a cigar from his inside coat pocket, bit off the end, thrust it into his mouth and rolled it against his tongue, then leaned forward to light it from the candle on their table. With a cloud of gray-white smoke rising, he settled back in his chair.

  “Coffee? Tea?”

  Hickman shook his head. “I’m at my limit. The meal was delicious.”

  Ingersol worked on his cigar, and with his head wreathed in smoke he puckered for a moment while his eyes became serious.

  “As I recall, you were interested in some merchandise, and it led you to me. I presume you still have an interest.”

  “I do.”

  Ingersol looked at his cigar, knocked its ash onto his plate, and went on. “How many?”

  “Twelve.”

  “All male?”

  “Yes. Young. In good health.”

  “Premium stock. Twelve, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Ingersol slowly shook his head. “There are not that many for sale in the entire city, right at this moment. Nor can I predict when there will be. If you want three, perhaps four, I can provide them.”

  Hickman leaned forward, and there was a slight cutting edge in his voice. “I believe our correspondence called for twelve. Did it not?”

  “Now that you mention it. What price are you prepared to pay?”

  “Three hundred. The price stated in your letter.”

  Again Ingersol shook his head. “The market has changed. Prime males are drawing five hundred on the auction blocks, anywhere in the city. Partly because they are hard to find. The demand has gone up. I have standing orders for more than I can get.”

  Hickman placed his hands on the tablecloth, palms down. “Your letter said twelve, three hundred each. I have it in my room.”

  Ingersol drew on his cigar, then stared at the ash clinging to the end. “That was then. This is now.”

  Hickman’s voice was brittle. “I’ve come from Massachusetts on the strength of your letter. Twelve. Three hundred dollars each, payable in cash. Upon arrival. I’m here with the cash.”

  For several seconds Ingersol studied the tablecloth, then his cigar, and finally raised his eyes. “Tell you what I think I can do. The public auctions won’t have enough, and the price will be too high.” He locked eyes with Hickman. “But there are other places I know of—have connections.”

  Instantly Hickman came to an intense focus. “Such as?”

  Ingersol glanced both directions. “Take a walk with me. To my office. We can be there in five minutes.”

  The streets were dark, with lamps and lanterns showing in nearly every window of the buildings, jammed together. Costumes of every description were evident in the patches of light as people of every age—some toothless and bent with age, others just children—came and went, laughing, cursing, calling. Ingersol worked through the mix, stopped at a door with the legend INGERSOL painted on a sign beside the door, with the single word MERCHANT beneath. He thrust the cigar between his teeth, fumbled for a large key, opened the door, lighted a lamp, set it on a table, and gestured to Hickman to sit.

  In the yellow lamplight that cast long, misshapen shadows on the old, plain walls, Ingersol leaned forward and tapped the tabletop with one finger. His voice was intense, quiet.

  “There are places to get what you want. Not the public auctions.” He paused, waiting to see if Hickman understood. Hickman did, and Ingersol went on.

  “Four, five years ago, two brothers arrived here. French. Capable men. They made . . . arrangements . . . to acquire goods. Quality goods. All sorts. Silks, porcelains, spices, silverwork—all prime. Where and how they acquire these goods is a matter of interest, but no one around here cares to pursue that question.”

  Again Ingersol paused while he studied Hickman’s face, searching for understanding.

  Hickman nodded, and Ingersol went on.

  “You’re looking for twelve prime male slaves. It is probable these brothers have them, or can get them. You will have to pay more than three hundred dollars each, but not five hundred. I can make the connection for you.”

  “Their names? The brothers?”

  Ingersol hesitated for a moment. “Lafitte. Jean and Pierre Lafitte. Businessmen.”

  Hickman studied Ingersol for a time before he said quietly, “The pirates?”

  Ingersol shook his head. “Not pirates. Corsairs. They carry Spanish letters of marque from Colombia. They can legally seize ships flying foreign flags on the high seas and claim them as prizes.” He paused for a time before he concluded. “They have never taken an American ship. Swear they never will. Seizing ships is not their general business.”

  Hickman asked, “What is?”

  “They buy and sell anything, including slaves. No one asks how their suppliers get the merchandise. They’ve made fifty, maybe a hundred, merchants in this city rich. Their . . . enterprise . . . provides the base for a great deal of the growth and wealth in this city. The brothers are fair in their dealings. Men of their word. Trusted. Well thought of. I believe most people in this city would take their side if anyone tried to . . . disrupt . . . their business.”

  Hickman sat back in his chair and for a time stared at his hands, folded on the table. “Where do they live? How long to contact them?”

  “They live here in town. In a little home. And they have a blacksmith shop. One contacts them through the blacksmith shop.”

  “When? How?”

  Ingersol smiled. “Tomorrow, if you like. I can take you there.”

  “What time?”

  “Tomorrow morning I will call for you at your room at Absinthe House at eight o’clock. We will have breakfast and then we will go to the blacksmith shop.”

  It rained heavily in the night, then stopped, and the heavens cleared. At eight o’clock the rap came at Hickman’s door and Ingersol stood waiting. Outside, the streets were a quagmire of mud and humidity, with steam rising from the puddles under the hot morning sun. The trees and houses sparkled with droplets of clinging water. The two men stepped into Ingersol’s waiting coach, and the old, round-shouldered driver gigged the horse into motion through the streets where the crush of people picked their way through the morass. They stopped at an open-air café for breakfast, then returned to the waiting coach.

  They passed an ordinary cottage on a corner and Ingersol pointed. “The Lafitte home.” Hickman studied the plain walls and thatched roof as they passed and was aware of a rather tall, dark, beautiful woman standing partially hidden in the open doorway. The coach rolled on until the driver pulled it to a stop before a building on a corner with but one street marking: Saint Philip Street. There was a huge door standing open, and another smaller one, closed. The two men stepped from the coach and Ingersol led his client into the shade of the large
, single, dirt-floored room. The walls were lined with horseshoes and the clutter of metal workings of every description, some hung on pegs or stored in bins, some thrown on the floor at random. Central to the chamber was a huge brick forge, with a black man pumping a wheezing leather bellows to feed the white-hot fire, while he held a large calked horseshoe with tongs, carefully watching the black iron change to red, then yellow. In one corner stood a two-thousand-pound Percheron draft horse, skittish, stamping its feet that showed three new shoes. Hickman’s mouth sagged open for a moment. The blacksmith was easily seven feet tall, built strong, thick in the shoulders and neck and arms. Hickman estimated his bulk at close to 400 pounds. The man glanced at Ingersol, then Hickman, then back to Ingersol.

  “Need somethin’, Mister Ingersol?” His voice was deep, resonant.

  Ingersol said, “Thiac, this is Mister Hickman. He wishes to see Mister Lafitte.”

  The giant set the horseshoe in the fire and wiped his hands on his worn leather apron. “’Bout what?”

  “A purchase.”

  “Of what?”

  “Goods. Black goods.”

  Thiac studied Hickman, head to toe. “You the law?”

  Hickman snorted. “No.”

  “Got money?”

  “Yes.” Hickman’s voice became testy. “What’s this all about? All these questions?”

  Thiac used the tongs to seize the white-hot horseshoe and spoke to Ingersol as he reached for his smithy hammer. “Tomorra afternoon. Lafitte’s house. You know where.”

  Ingersol nodded and turned on his heel to lead Hickman back to the street. He stopped beside his waiting coach. “That’s Thiac. A legitimate smithy who handles contacts for Lafitte. He’s had his trouble with the law, which is why he inquired of you. I’ll take you to Lafitte’s house tomorrow.”

  The coach swayed on its leathers as they climbed in, and the driver put it into motion in the mud of the crowded street. Ingersol leaned back, casually watching the kaleidoscope of people and dress and merchandise as the carriage moved along. He turned to Hickman.

  “You have other business today?”

  “Yes. A few matters I must take care of.”

  “Supper tonight?”

  “I have an engagement. But I thank you for the invitation.”

  Ingersol grinned. “French, Creole, Spanish, or quadroon?”

  “Neither.”

  “White! Now that’s a novelty. A rare chance to dine with one of our Creole beauties, and you choose white!”

  Hickman said nothing, and for a time they rolled on with the ground mist disappearing as the sun dried the streets. The driver stopped at the Absinthe House, Hickman shook Ingersol’s hand, and Ingersol leaned forward as the New Englander stepped down.

  “I will pick you up here tomorrow around two o’clock.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “May I offer you the services of my coach this afternoon or this evening, to keep your engagement?”

  Hickman reflected for a moment. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t yet know how long I will be. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Hickman took his midday meal at a small restaurant near the Absinthe House, then hailed a passing hack.

  “Take me to the governor’s mansion,” he told the driver, who looked at him quizzically, shrugged, and snapped his whip over the withers of his bay horse. For a time he worked his way through the core of the city, then on out to the northeastern fringe where he stopped before a sizeable mansion set back from the road. Hickman paid him, then walked to the great double doors beneath the six-column portico, and rapped with the huge brass door-knocker. Moments later it was opened by a bent, elderly black man in a black suit with white knee-length stockings and white lace at the throat and wrists.

  “Sir?” the man said.

  “I have an appointment with Governor Claiborne.”

  “Come in. Your name?”

  “Markus E. Hickman.”

  “I’ll tell the governor you have arrived.”

  The servant’s heels clicked as he walked down a long, broad hall to his right, to the second door. Hickman looked about the spacious room at the appointments, the old walls, the traditional staircase against one wall, the paintings of river scenes and of Creole celebrations. The servant emerged again into the hall and came tap-tapping back to face Hickman.

  “The governor will see you now. May I have your hat, sir? Please follow me.”

  Hickman surrendered his hat and fell in behind the servant, remembering. This is W. C. C. Claiborne—appointed territorial governor by Jefferson after we bought Louisiana—1803—a Virginian like Jefferson—family wealthy—educated—gentleman—politician—married a Creole woman—unable to unify New Orleans.

  Hickman stepped into the governor’s inner office and closed the door. Across the room, behind a great, ornately carved French desk, Claiborne rose. He was a sparse man, with a demeanor that was nearly apologetic. His face was thin, with a long, aquiline nose. He walked around the desk and offered his hand. Hickman took it.

  “Governor, I thank you for allowing me some time.”

  “Not at all. Be seated.” His voice was high, with the soft drawl of Southern men of breeding.

  They took seats on either side of a round table before a window and for a moment Hickman glanced about the room. One wall was shelved and filled with books. On a second wall hung a great painting of New Orleans in 1762, the year the French surrendered all claims to the United States to the British. The lamps in the room were ornate, the furniture leather upholstered, old, cared for.

  Claiborne continued. “I received your letter. You represent a business firm in Massachusetts?”

  “Yes. Hawkins and Delafield.” Hickman handed him papers, and Claiborne peered at them for several seconds. They were official, under the seal of the city of Boston. Claiborne handed them back to Hickman, and Hickman continued. “We’re investigating markets here in New Orleans. We concluded we should inquire what we’re getting into here. You have a rather . . . unique city.”

  There was a wistful, conflicted twist in Claiborne’s smile. “Like none other in the world. What, specifically, can I help you with?”

  “Am I to understand that the merchandise being sold at the public auctions could be stolen? Booty taken by pirates and corsairs?”

  Claiborne’s answer was instant. “A great share of it, yes.”

  “The rightful owners allow this to go on?” Hickman’s eyes were boring in.

  Claiborne became defensive. His voice rose, and his gestures became exaggerated. “A long time ago they tried to stop it. Many disappeared and were never heard from again. Since I was appointed governor I have done everything in my power to correct it, but I tell you, sir, as I have told President Jefferson repeatedly, if the United States wants to rid New Orleans of the illegality and vice that is all around us, it will have to send an army and either imprison or drive out or eliminate about two-thirds of the population. The Almighty knows I’ve tried. Oh, how I’ve tried.”

  “That bad?” Hickman’s voice sounded in disbelief.

  “No! Worse! Be my guest for six months, and then tell me what to do. I would be forever in your debt.”

  For a time Hickman sat staring at Claiborne, working with his thoughts. “We have heard rumor that the British are taking an unhealthy interest in New Orleans. This is American territory. Have you had any indication the British might eventually try to take it?”

  “Yes. I am convinced that one day—probably soon—they will send their military. I think they intend taking New Orleans and using it as a base to stop the westward movement of our people. I think they will try using the Indian tribes to do it.”

  “Do you have any hard evidence of that? Anything in writing?”

  “Not yet. I can only tell you each day there are a few more British redcoats in our streets, and they are becoming insolent. Domineering.”

  “Are the British interested in the commercial trade that goes on here?”

 
; “Extremely. The New Orleans harbor is probably the chief seaport in southwest America right now.” Claiborne reached to open a large ledger, selected a page, traced a few lines with a finger, then raised his eyes to Hickman. “The last figures we have are nearly five years old now.” He began to read. “At that time the annual export was about two million dollars, and the import was about two and one half million. Thirty-four thousand bales of cotton. Nearly five thousand hogsheads of sugar. Two thousand barrels of molasses. Rice. Peltries. Indigo. Lumber, about half a million. Fifty thousand barrels of flour. Three thousand barrels of beef and pork. A thousand tons of tobacco. Corn. Butter. Hams. Meal. Lard. Beans. Hides. Staves. Cordage.” Claiborne paused to order his thoughts. “Yes, Mister Hickman. The British covet that commerce. Highly.”

  Hickman stared at his hands for a time. “One more thing. The Lafitte brothers. Pierre and Jean. Do they have an organization that deals in merchandise taken by pirates? Buying and selling?”

  “The answer is yes. I’ve done all I can to stop those two. They came from the West Indies in about 1803, but are clearly French by birth and upbringing. Expert swordsmen. Dead shots. Charming. Handsome. They are insulted when called pirates and quick to declare they are honorable corsairs, authorized by letters of marque from the state of Colombia in South America. I’ve had them brought before me. They swear they have never bothered an American ship, and I can find no one to claim the contrary. It is an open fact they buy from pirates and sell to legitimate merchants. They have brought wealth and success and growth to New Orleans through their illegal dealings.”

  Claiborne leaned forward, eyes piercing. “They have made a hundred men wealthy in this town. They’re generous with the poor. Common with common people, superior with the elite. I’ve threatened to drive them and their underground network out of New Orleans, but I tell you, Mister Hickman, if I tried it, there would be a bloody revolt. If they were eliminated, New Orleans would suffer a terrible decline. Perhaps fatal. The Lafitte brothers are admired by just about everyone.”

  Hickman slowly leaned back. “The Lafittes are the real power in this city?”