"I gave England a try, after the war. It came as something of a shock to me that in spite of all my service and sacrifice for the sake of the Crown, all the blood I had shed for the good of the British Empire, I was treated like a colonial." McLeod's laugh was edged with bitterness. "Many doors were closed to me. I was a second-class citizen. So I returned. This city proved to be most suitable. It is, as you may have noticed, very cosmopolitan. Americans are actually in the minority here. And, too, the women are very beautiful. And generally very willing. It must be the climate. I parlayed my skill with the sword into a lucrative profession." He raised his arms in a gesture to indicate the Spartan chamber. "You might not think it so lucrative by the appearance of my humble abode, but I assure you, I live quite comfortably. So many foolish young gentlemen, like Malot, whose idiotic notions of honor oblige them to become familiar with the use of the blade. They pay well. I, in turn, spend every bit of my earnings on wine, women, and song. Why should I die rich? I have no one to leave a fortune to. No, I learned long ago to live for today, not plan for the future."
"No family?"
"Oh, you didn't know? Of course you didn't. We've met only twice, and both times we were too busy trying to kill each other to get acquainted. No, I have no family. I used to. But your damned American rebels—excuse me, patriots—murdered them."
"Is that why you've hated this country?"
"Precisely," snarled McLeod. "It is a country of hypocrites. Holier-than-thou Americans, who murder and steal and rape with the worst of us. I shall hate this country and everything it stands for until the day I die. That is why I have done everything in my power to destroy it. I rode with Butcher Tarleton. I conspired with Aaron Burr. I gave aid to Tecumseh. I fought with the British in two wars. But then I came to realize that I was, in effect, hurling my body against an unyielding door. I still hate your damned United States of America, but I am too old to fight it any longer."
"My God, McLeod. You should have been killed a long time ago."
McLeod laughed harshly. "Only the good die young. Haven't you heard? So now you know my little secret. What do you intend to do about it?"
"I don't know."
"You could put an advertisement in the local paper. Then I would have to flee, or face incarceration."
"You're a dangerous man. You enjoy killing."
"What? Do you mean that business with Malot? That was self-defense."
"You leave dead bodies and wrecked lives behind you."
"How poetic." McLeod made a gesture indicating his indifference to Nathaniel's decision. "Do as you will."
"You're not going to try to stop me?"
"I knew back at Fort Malden that I could not kill you, Jones. In fact, if the truth be known, I admire you. I admire your spirit. You have lived your life with honor. Which is more than I can say. Strange, isn't it? Well, very little about life makes any sense."
Nathaniel turned to go.
"You're bound for Texas, aren't you?"
The frontiersman was startled. "How did you know?"
"Deductive reasoning. There will be a war in Texas soon. Not soon enough for me, though, I'm afraid."
"I don't have to ask which side you would fight on."
McLeod laughed again. "Of course not. I could have a commission in the Mexican Army if I wanted it. There are a number of mercenaries in the service of Mexico already. But I am too old for another campaign. Pity. Watch out for that fellow Santa Anna. He's made quite a name for himself butchering those rebel Indians down in the southern provinces. A man after my own heart."
Without another word, Nathaniel left the salle.
Should he expose McLeod? Then the man would finally answer for his crimes. Or should he adopt a policy of live and let live? McLeod had spent a lifetime fighting and conspiring against the United States, opposed to the very things which Nathaniel had risked his life for time and again. But if what he had said about his family was true, perhaps his hatred, if not justified, was comprehensible. Nathaniel mulled the problem over in his mind all the way back to the hotel, and still he could not decide.
Chapter 21
Sterling Robertson came to Peychaud's three days later with the news Nathaniel had been waiting for. The Liberty was loaded and ready to embark on the morrow for Texas. The Texan apologized for the wait. They had been delayed by a very special shipment overdue from France.
"Tonight you must board her," said the empresario. "I have told the skipper to expect you. Quarters have been arranged. They may be a little cramped, but then, a brigantine is not built for luxury, is she?"
Nathaniel told the others—Rebecca, Prissy, Klesko, and O'Connor. Rebecca was excited by the prospect. The novelty of New Orleans had worn off, and she was tired of waiting, ready for the journey to end, eager to begin a new life in a new land. Prissy, on the other hand, was leery of the idea of a sea voyage. Klesko and O'Connor were ready to go. They had spent a lot of time together, with the riverman giving O'Connor a tour of the bars and bawdy houses he knew so well, and they had managed to exhaust the young Irishman's limited funds in the process. Like Prissy, Klesko was less than enthusiastic over the prospect of putting to sea. A river was one thing, the high seas another. But wherever Rebecca went he was bound and determined to follow.
The frontiersman found Christopher in the room he shared with O'Connor—Nathaniel and Klesko roomed together, and the womenfolk had a third room. Christopher was agonizing over a letter. Nathaniel knew about Greta Inskilling. Christopher hadn't said much about her, but that in itself educated the frontiersman to the fact that his grandson's feelings for the young woman ran deep, and Nathaniel assumed the letter was for her.
Christopher received the news of their imminent departure with an ambivalence which surprised Nathaniel. Putting down his quill, he sighed and slumped back in his chair.
"Will there be room for Noelle on the ship?"
"I didn't realize she was going along. But yes, we will make room for her."
"I suppose she's going."
"Don't you want her to?"
"She can't very well stay here. It isn't safe for her, after she betrayed Morrell."
"That didn't exactly answer my question."
Christopher gave the frontiersman a long, anguished look, and Nathaniel surmised that his grandson had something he very much wanted to talk about, a tormenting quandary concerning which he desperately needed advice, and yet, because of its intensely personal nature, something he could not quite bring himself to discuss. Obviously it had something to do with Noelle. But it wasn't in Nathaniel's nature to pry.
The old leatherstocking put a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "If there is anything I can do to help you, just let me know."
"Thanks."
"I'll go let them know there'll be one more passenger for the Liberty."
He was at the door before Christopher spoke.
"I've made a terrible mistake, Grandpa."
"Noelle?"
Christopher nodded. "I don't love her, though. At least, I don't think I do. It's not the same feeling as I have for Greta. Oh, I don't know. I'm so confused. Can you love two women at the same time?"
"I'm no expert on affairs on the heart," said Nathaniel. "But I reckon there can be a difference between the woman you'd like to spend some time with today, and the one you want to spend the rest of your life with. Of course, Amanda and I grew up together. I always knew she was the one for me. Don't recall ever looking at another woman."
"Noelle is . . . bewitching. I sometimes think she's cast a spell on me."
"Women can do that." Nathaniel smiled. "But don't let Prissy hear you say such things."
"Don't get me wrong. Noelle is a good person."
"Of course she is. She saved your bacon, didn't she?"
"But I can't seem to think straight when she's around."
"The two of you had quite an adventure together, getting away from those river pirates. That kind of thing creates a strong bond between folks. And she's a very pretty
lass, too."
"Very." Christopher sighed. "She says we were meant to be together."
"Maybe she really believes that. But for it to work, you have to think so, too."
"That's just it. I don't know what to think. In a way I wish she wouldn't go to Texas with us. But then I . . . I like being with her."
"I reckon she should go," said Nathaniel, "if her life is endangered by staying. But her going with us shouldn't prevent you from writing that letter."
"I don't know what to write. I feel as though I ought to tell Greta the truth. About Noelle."
"I wouldn't, were I you."
Christopher was surprised. "You mean lie? I can't believe you would recommend that course, Grandpa. Not you. You've never told a lie in your entire life."
"How did you come by that notion? Where women are concerned, what they don't know won't hurt you. If not telling is the same as lying, so be it. There's the little matter of your own survival to keep in mind. Now, I don't know much at all about women, but I do know that much."
"You're right, of course. But I . . . I feel guilty."
"You probably ought to. Still, I wouldn't cut my own throat just to atone for a mistake."
Christopher smiled. "I see your point."
"Write the letter, boy. Don't fret over this business with Noelle. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it just kind of works itself out before you know it."
Christopher bent to the task at hand as soon as Nathaniel had left the room. The words flowed as fast as he could scribble them down. He informed Greta of their safe arrival in New Orleans, and their imminent departure on the Liberty, bound for Texas. He omitted any mention of the river pirates. He did not want her to worry. And he didn't mention Noelle, either. As he closed, telling Greta how much he loved her, and how terribly he missed her, he prayed fervently that his grandfather was right, and that this thing with Noelle would resolve itself before Greta came to Texas to join him.
Christopher was finishing up with his packing when Noelle arrived. O'Connor was getting his belongings together, too, and offered to leave the room, giving Christopher a sly wink. Christopher was not amused. He told his friend to stay.
Something was troubling Noelle—that much was clear at a glance. Christopher was afraid it had something to do with the two of them, and what had transpired a few nights ago in the cemetery. Thinking about that night, and standing so close to Noelle now, stirred the embers of his longing for her into a white hot flame, and this desire made him ashamed, as not an hour before he had written Greta to tell her how much he loved her.
"Three men are searching the Old Quarter for you, my love," she said.
"Three men? Morrell's?"
She shook her head. "Is there a bounty on your head?"
"Bounty men." Christopher glanced at O'Connor. "Good God. I never really believed it. I never thought Vickers would do it."
"Who is Vickers?" asked Noelle.
"It's a long and sordid story. But, how did you find out about these men?"
"I have many acquaintances in the Vieux Carré."
"Yes, but why would they tell you . . . "
"We have been seen together quite a lot these past weeks. Word gets around."
"They must have trailed you as far as Cully's Landing," surmised O'Connor. "And someone there told them where we were bound."
Christopher nodded, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "They will check all the hotels, of course. Shouldn't take them long to find me."
"Then we'll just have to fight them," said the Irishman. "With Klesko and your grandfather, the odds are on our side."
"Damn!" Christopher angrily paced the room. "This is utter madness! Emily Cooper committed suicide and it had nothing to do with me. Why can't they accept that? Why must more people be hurt?"
"It has very little to do with her suicide," said O'Connor. "Haven't you realized that yet? This is about your father and his affair with Emily Cooper, and the Vickers family honor."
"Can a person never put the past behind him?"
"You can't run away from it. But sometimes you can bury it. We will deal with these bounty men and be on our way to Texas."
"No. I won't have the lives of my family and friends put at risk." Christopher turned to Noelle. "Can you arrange to have a message delivered to these bounty men?"
"I know people who will kill them for you."
"Absolutely not. I won't hire assassins. Can you arrange the message or not?"
"I can."
"Then I will meet them, an hour after sundown. But where? The Dueling Ground, behind the Salle d'Orleans. Yes, that's an appropriate place for the kind of business we will be conducting."
"Alone?" queried O'Connor.
"Yes."
"Are you insane? I can't let you go alone, Christopher."
"You will. And I will have your word that you won't breathe a word of this to my grandfather. Or, God forbid, my mother."
"I can't give it!" exclaimed O'Connor.
"You must."
"I cannot. I will not. At least let me go with you."
"And if I let you, you will swear not to tell the others?"
"Then I will swear it."
"All right. Noelle?"
"I will see that they get your message."
Christopher turned to his trunk. With sharp, angry motions he threw it open, dug beneath his neatly folded clothes, and extracted the Tripolitan cutlass which had once belonged to his father.
"It's only fitting, I suppose," he said bitterly, "that I carry this tonight."
It was not far from the riverfront hotel to the Salle d'Orleans, on the corner of Orleans and Royal streets. Nonetheless, Christopher left early, half an hour after sundown.
"We mustn't be late," he told O'Connor. "A gentleman isn't late for his own funeral."
But the Irishman had lost his usually indomitable sense of humor, and the morbid joke failed to elicit even a weak smile from him.
With the cutlass and a pistol concealed under his long cloak of pilot cloth—O'Connor was armed with a dagger and a brace of pistols—Christopher walked with quick strides past the Plâce d'Armes, thence up Pirates' Alley, with the cathedral looming on his right hand. The night was humid; a mist had crept in from the river and seemed to cling to the buildings in the Old Quarter. The streets of the Vieux Carré were still bristling with vendors, carriages, and pedestrians. Christopher knew it would have been better to meet the bounty men at midnight, when there would be fewer witnesses. But, on the off chance that he survived, he was to be aboard the Liberty at that hour.
His thoughts flew back to that fateful night, months ago, at West Point, when he had met Adam Vickers at midnight in the riding hall, the senseless duel which had triggered a chain of events which brought him now to the gate of the little garden behind the cathedral, the Dueling Ground, where the soil had drunk the blood of so many men, including Trumbull. And maybe tonight it would drink his blood. One way or the other, this feud with the Vickers family had to be resolved, here and now, tonight, for good. It was unfinished business, and he was determined to write the final chapter before he embarked for Texas and a new beginning. He just didn't know how the chapter would end.
It was dark and quiet at the little iron gate near the end of Pirates' Alley. People and carriages passed to and fro on Royal Street a stone's throw away. Peering through the wrought iron into the garden, Christopher could see precious little in the gloom of night—a stretch of cobbled walkway, luxuriant tropical growth which had once been tended with such loving care by Père Antoine, now somewhat overgrown. But they were there—Christopher could sense them. There was a funny, tingling sensation at the base of his spine. Yet his heart beat calmly in his chest, his palms were dry, his hand steady as he reached for the gate's latch.
A rustle of cloth, the whispered warning of O'Connor behind him, made him turn away from the gate, to see a cloaked figure separate from the shadows in a deeply recessed doorway across the alley. A pistol materialized in O'Connor
's hand. Christopher struck it down, recognizing Noelle an instant before she was in his arms, embracing him and trying at the same time to pull him away from the gate.
"Don't go in there, my love!"
"I must."
"You are early," she said, distraught. "You mustn't pass through that gate."
"What are you talking about?" asked Christopher, exasperated.
The sound of a scuffle, followed by a sharp, abbreviated cry of pain came suddenly from the darkness of the garden. A pistol spoke, steel range against steel, a muttered curse. Christopher lunged for the gate. Noelle tried to stop him, but he broke free of her grasp, threw open the gate, and rushed into the darkness, brandishing the cutlass from beneath his cloak.
Coming to a turn in the walkway, Christopher almost collided with a man running the other way. In the darkness Christopher could discern very little about the man. But he did get a quick glimpse of the man's face—and saw terror etched there. The man stumbled backward, raised his pistol. Then O'Connor's pistol roared. The Irishman was right behind Christopher, and Christopher flinched at the muzzle flash, the barrel so close to his face that he thought he felt the burn of several powder grains on his cheek. The man reeled and fell. His ears ringing from the pistol shot, Christopher hurtled the body and pushed on.
The walkway led to a circular patio in the center of the garden. Reaching the edge of this open space, Christopher stopped, frozen in his tracks by the sight that met his eyes.
Three black men were hacking someone to pieces with cane knives. Horrified, Christopher watched the blades rise and fall in geysers of blood. Another black rose from a second victim—this one had already been decapitated and dismembered.
"Look out!" yelled O'Connor.
A fifth black man appeared out of the verdant foliage to launch himself at Christopher, who blocked the stroke of the man's cane knife with his cutlass. Sparks flew as the blades met. Christopher yanked the pistol out of his belt with his free hand, jabbed the barrel into his assailant's midsection and pulled the trigger. The impact of the bullet shoved the man backward. He jackknifed and pitched forward to sprawl, dying, at Christopher's feet.
Gone to Texas Page 22
