by Ron Carter
“From here to the Gulf of Mexico. Their organization—if you can call it that—is based at a place called Barataria, south, where the Mississippi reaches the gulf. There are hundreds of islands down there, and only those who know the channels and the twists and turns dare venture. The Lafitte brothers control the passages one must use to get from the gulf to here, and no one passes without their notice and permission.”
“Has anyone tried?”
“Yes. Most were never heard from again.”
“Have you informed President Jefferson or Mister Madison of all this?”
Claiborne closed the ledger and opened a file on one corner of his desk. “Oh, indeed I have! Within months of my arrival I informed them in terms that cannot be misunderstood. Here. Read my copy of this letter. Notice the date.”
Hickman turned the file and read aloud.
“Dated January 10, 1804.
“My Dear Mister Secretary:
“The credulity of the people is only equaled by their ignorance; and a virtuous magistrate, resting entirely for support on the suffrages and good will of his fellow citizens in this quarter, would at any time be exposed to immediate ruin by the machinations of a few base individuals, who with some exertion and address might make the people think and act against their interests. The population is composed of so heterogeneous a mass, such prejudices exist, and there are so many different interests to reconcile, that I fear no administration or form of government can give general satisfaction.”
Hickman stopped and Claiborne exclaimed, “Can it be any clearer? And in the four years since that writing, things have not changed. If anything, they have become worse.”
Hickman bowed his head in deep thought before he spoke. “I see.” He shifted his weight forward in the chair. “Governor, I am indebted to you for your time. You’ve answered my questions. It now remains to be seen what comes of all this.”
The two men rose, and Claiborne walked Hickman to the door. “Should your company decide to seek markets here, will you notify me? I will need your opinion on some things after you’ve been here a while.”
“I will be happy to do so. Again, thank you for your time and advice.”
The men shook hands, and Hickman walked down the polished hallway, nodded to the servant as he reached the door, accepted his hat, and stepped out into the hot, bright sunshine and the streets and the drying mud. He hailed a hack, gave orders, climbed in, and leaned back, absorbed in thought. The ride back to the Absinthe House was noisy and slow. He paid the hack driver and walked through the expansive courtyard into the parlor, still deep in thought. He nodded to Matsie at the desk and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Casually he noticed two men approaching in the hallway and nodded a greeting. One was slender, dressed as a businessman, the other shorter, burly, in clothes of the street, clearly of mixed blood. They were six feet from him when Hickman saw the small metal box tucked under the arm of the shorter man—the metal box that should have been in the dresser drawer in his room. He stepped directly into their path and stopped, feet spread slightly, arms loose at his sides, and spoke in a quiet, measured voice.
“Sir, I believe that box belongs to me.”
The next five seconds were a blur. The short man’s free hand disappeared inside his tunic and Hickman saw the flash of the blade of a dagger as he pulled it out. Hickman’s right fist caught him flush on the point of his chin, and the man fell over backwards, rolling, his badly broken jaw dangling. The metal box clattered onto the hardwood floor, and the knife skittered away as the second man jerked open his coat to grasp the handle of a pistol. Before he could aim and fire, Hickman’s left hand struck him just above his ear and he hit the wall with his knees sagging. To keep him from falling to the floor, Hickman grabbed his shirtfront and slammed him against the wall.
“Can you hear me?” Hickman rasped through gritted teeth.
The man stared through glazed eyes, unable to form an answer.
“Can you hear me?” Hickman repeated.
The words came slow and slurred. “I hear you.”
“Who sent you?”
“No one.”
Hickman’s eyes were points of disciplined light, and he slammed the man into the wall again. “Who sent you?” he demanded.
The man’s eyes cleared. “No one. Kill me if you want. I have nothing more to say.”
Hickman released the man and picked up the pistol from the floor. “This is also my pistol,” he exclaimed and thrust it into his waistband. He grasped the front of the burly man’s tunic and hauled him to his feet. The man’s eyes were flat, dazed, his legs wobbly. Hickman shoved him into the taller man and picked up the knife from the floor, then the metal box.
“Stand where you are until I can get a constable. Do you understand?”
A hall door opened to Hickman’s left, and he partially turned toward it, instantly alert. A head appeared, there was a gasp as the eyes opened wide, and the head disappeared as the door slammed shut. The creaking of the staircase from the lower floor brought them all around, and Matsie appeared with two men close behind. She quickly took in the scene—the knife and the metal box and the two men cowering against the wall—and in the moment of understanding her hand flew to her mouth.
“Thieves?” she blurted, staring at Hickman.
“Yes.”
“Anyone hurt?”
Hickman pointed. “I think his jaw is broken.”
“He needs a doctor.”
“In due time. We need a constable first. Know either one of them?”
She looked closely at the two, then shook her head. “There’s men talked about in the streets. Thieves. Watch for rich folks and steals from them. They must be two of them.”
“Did they come in through the parlor?”
“I was at the desk. They didn’t come through.”
“You have a back door?”
“Yes.”
“They were in my room. How did they get a key?”
“Not from me.”
Doors up and down the hall opened, and people cautiously stepped out, wide-eyed, silently asking the question. Hickman said, “We’ve had an accident. It’s taken care of. Sorry for the disturbance.”
Matsie gestured to her two men and they seized the thieves and started for the staircase while she followed Hickman to his room. He used his key, and they stepped inside and stopped short. The room was in shambles. The bed had been stripped and the mattress thrown aside. Clothing from the wardrobe and the dresser was scattered at random. Even the faded paintings had been pulled from the walls and flung to the floor. The porcelain basin and pitcher were in one corner, in pieces.
“Oh, my,” Matsie murmured. “Oh, my.” She turned to Hickman, eyes flashing, and he saw her blood was up. “I’ll send someone to help straighten,” she said. “You intend bringin’ charges against these men? I am. Lookit this mess. Them two is gonna pay for this, one way or another. Why, this happen agin, and the Absinthe House will suffer. People ain’t comin’ to no hostel to be robbed. I’m chargin’ these men! You want a different room ’til this one’s fixed up?”
“No. It won’t take long.”
She turned, then stopped. “Someone’ll be here shortly. Now, you don’t put yourself out none. We’ll take care of this.” She put her hands on her broad hips and shook her head once more. “My, oh my, oh my!” She was still shaking her head when she disappeared through the door, then reappeared. “One more thing,” she said, “’bout the festival tonight in the courtyard. Creole. Celebrating something—I don’t know what. Doesn’t take much for them to find somethin’ to celebrate. Violins and coronets and dancin.’ It’ll be noisy and colorful but harmless. Might go on half the night. Wide open—you’d be welcome. Might be real entertaining. Thought you should know.”
New Orleans was in deep dusk when men of every race and color, in clean shirts with lacy fronts and light colored trousers, and women of every blood, wearing dresses of all colors and descriptions, began gathering in the
huge courtyard beneath Hickman’s balcony. Japanese lanterns hung from the magnolia and orange trees were lit, and tables and chairs were set up. In the pale yellow light-and-shadow mosaic cast by the lanterns, musicians came with violins and coronets and castanets and maracas and flutes and small drums with pigskin drumheads. Huge guitars strummed. They tuned their instruments, and the music began. From his window Hickman listened to the wild syncopations and felt the allure of the driving rhythms and exotic melodies that spoke of far places and of people who lived in a different world. Dancers paired, and the courtyard filled with color and movement. Tall, dark bottles of wine and stemmed glasses were brought to the tables. Talk became loud, heady, and laughter rang.
On an impulse, Hickman turned from his window. In spite of the heat, he shrugged into his coat and left his room to descend the stairs, slowing as he passed from the parlor into the courtyard. The fragrance of the magnolias and orange trees was sweet, and men nodded their greeting while women with long, black, brushed hair ducked their heads to look at him from beneath thick, black lashes, and raise one eyebrow to smile at him. He took a seat, alone, at a small table in a corner of the courtyard and ignored the bottle and glass as he studied the celebrants. Blacks were stomping their feet in rhythm, gesticulating wildly with their hands to the beat of the music, while Creoles were writhing, heads thrown forward and back, arms in the air. The French were caught up in the intricacies of their native quadrilles, while the Spanish, hands on hips and feet flashing, were showing the hot passion of their native land.
Hickman let his thoughts run. Claiborne was right—no city like this in the world—so many different cultures—forget unity.
He shifted his feet and his thoughts ran on. Fascinating—what is it that draws?—the disunity?—one of everything?—what is it?
A familiar voice from his right brought him around to face Amos Ingersol with his cigar clenched between his teeth. He took it between two fingers before he spoke.
“Mister Hickman! I didn’t expect you to attend a celebration like this. Did you finish your business of the day?”
Hickman gestured and Ingersol sat down, facing him.
“Yes.”
“Successfully, I trust.”
“Yes. In large part, at least.”
Ingersol poured wine. “I heard about your . . . experience. Inside, this afternoon.”
“You mean those two thieves?”
“Yes. You’re a marked man, you know.”
Hickman raised an eyebrow. “Marked? Marked how?”
“You broke Mister Potter’s jaw, and knocked Mister Horne senseless. Word gets around. People know who you are. For better or worse.” Ingersol laughed and sipped at his wine.
“Potter and Horne? Are those their names?”
“Horne does their thinking. Potter carries the knife. Local hoodlums. Been in trouble before, but no one ever caught them in the act. And no one ever disabled them in two blows. Yes, sir, you’re a marked man. Where did you learn to use your fists like that?”
Hickman ignored the question. “Should I be worried? Where are they now?”
“Won’t need to worry for a while. They’re both in jail. Potter’s jaw is wired shut. If Matsie inside”—he gestured toward the doors leading into the building—“has her way, they won’t be getting out for years.”
“What caused them to break into my room? Why me?”
“They watch the blacksmith shop. They concluded you were a businessman looking for the LaFitte brothers. If you were, they knew you’d have money. They followed you.”
“How did they get into my room?”
“Picked the lock. Horne can do that in about ten seconds.”
“Why hasn’t the law put them away long before now?”
“Which law? United States law? French? Spanish? Creole? None of them are capable.”
Hickman reflected for a time. “Many more like them around? Those thieves?”
“We’ve got at least one of everything here in New Orleans. Their kind? Hundreds.” Ingersol drew on his cigar and blew smoke. He gestured broadly at the dancing throng. “Anyone here you want to meet?”
Hickman smiled. “I don’t know a person here, outside of yourself.”
Ingersol shrugged indifferently and rose and stretched. “Well, I’ve greeted all the right people here tonight—seen all I need. I think I’ll go home. Nice seeing you. Pick you up at two o’clock tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to the Lafitte brothers.”
Hickman stood. “I think it is my bedtime, too. See you tomorrow.”
In the wake of the fevered revelry, Hickman got precious little sleep. The dancing didn’t even begin to wane until two o’clock in the morning, and it was five o’clock, with the eastern skyline showing the separation of earth from the heavens, before the last of the musicians packed their instruments and were gone. Still weary from lack of sleep, Hickman took his breakfast and midday meals at the little restaurant up the street. At two o’clock the Ingersol carriage squeaked to a halt before the huge gate into the Absinthe House courtyard, and Hickman took his place beside Ingersol. The carriage rolled on with Ingersol leaned back, his ever-present cigar clenched between his teeth, seemingly indifferent to the stifling midday heat and the usual press of people in the streets. They stopped before a modest cottage at the unmarked corner of an intersection, and as Ingersol stepped down he said to Hickman, “There will be a boy here—the child of a prior marriage of Pierre. The mother died. And there will be a woman—rather tall, quadroon Creole from Santo Domingo, beautiful. She is the house servant. Her name is Adelaide Maselari. She prefers to be called Maselari. She speaks little English.”
The front door was standing open, and Ingersol rapped on the frame. A woman as tall as Ingersol was there in a moment. Her hair was long and black and made soft curls in the perspiration on her forehead. She was swarthy, dark-eyed, and utterly beautiful. Her modest dress was simple, and she wore no shoes.
The two men removed their hats and Ingersol spoke. “Good afternoon, Maselari.” He gestured to Hickman. “This is Markus E. Hickman. Did Thiac make an appointment for us?”
The woman nodded and stepped back, gesturing, and the men entered the relative cool and the gloom of the small room. Hickman took note of the modest furnishings and appointments and peered out a window into the courtyard behind, where he could hear the rhythmic sounds of a saw. Maselari held up a finger and turned and disappeared. The sounds of the saw stopped, and the woman reappeared with two men following.
Given their resemblance to each other, Hickman knew instantly they were the brothers Lafitte, one of them noticeably older than the other. Both were six feet tall, each built well, strong, with a full head of dark hair that tended to curl. The older one was swarthy, the younger one somewhat lighter. Their eyes were dark, Roman noses, mouths generous, chins square. Their expressions were pleasant, innocent, and inquisitive. The older of the two rubbed sweating hands on his pant legs and wiped a sleeve across his dripping forehead, then thrust his hand to Ingersol. His voice was full, low, his accent French.
“Mister Ingersol, nice to see you again. Thiac was here.”
Ingersol grasped his hand. “I am happy to see you again, Pierre. May I present Markus E. Hickman. He is here concerning business.”
Pierre Lafitte offered his hand, and Hickman felt the raw power in the grip, and he saw the benign expression and sensed the dark eyes probing into him.
“I am privileged to meet you, Mister Lafitte.”
“The privilege is mine. May I present my brother, Jean?”
The younger of the two men stepped forward, extended his hand, and bowed slightly from the hips in the best French tradition. “It is an honor to meet you,” Jean Lafitte said. The accent was decidedly French, the voice low, vibrant.
Returning the man’s firm grip, Hickman said, “The honor is mine, sir.”
The expressions in the faces of the two brothers were open and friendly, but Hickman was aware that their every nerve was alive, prob
ing, searching, and he was surprised as he calculated their ages—Jean perhaps less than thirty, Pierre edging more toward forty. Given their reputations, he had assumed they might be older than that.
Pierre gestured. “Here. Be seated. You must excuse our appearance. We were cutting wood. Would you care for some wine?”
When Hickman declined, Ingersol followed his lead, and they all sat down on modest, comfortable chairs around a table.
Pierre picked up the conversation. “I understand you’ve been here for a few days.” His interest was genuine. “How do you like our city?”
Hickman smiled. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Jean Lafitte smiled back. “It will possess you if you stay for a while. You are from the North?
“Boston. Massachusetts.”
“Ah, yes. I have never been there, but someday I shall visit.”
“It would be my privilege to receive both of you. Show you my city.”
“I thank you.” Pierre’s expression sobered. “You had a matter of business?”
“Yes. My company has need of twelve black men. Mister Ingersol informs me there are not that many available in New Orleans at this moment. He suggested you might be of help.”
Pierre lowered his eyes for a moment and scratched at his sideburns. “What is your company?”
“Boston Mercantile, Incorporated.” He drew the papers from his breast pocket. “These will explain.”
For three minutes the brothers studied the papers. Boston Mercantile, Incorporated, was a legitimate Massachusetts corporation, verified by the seal of the State of Massachusetts and the signature of the secretary of the Department of Commerce. Pierre nodded and handed the papers back to Hickman.
“You say twelve? How soon?”
“When can you have them?” Hickman inquired.
“It is possible we have them now, but not here. Not in New Orleans.”
Hickman waited while Pierre glanced at Jean, and in that brief, silent moment something passed between the brothers. Pierre turned back to Hickman.
“It will take two days for you to see them. One day going, one day returning. Do you wish to take the time?”
