Christopher whirled as two more of the blacks advanced. O'Connor appeared at his shoulder, aiming his second pistol. The pistol did not seem to deter the blacks. They kept coming. But before the Irishman could shoot, Noelle appeared to throw herself into his line of fire.
Seeing her, the blacks lowered their cane knives, rose out of menacing crouches into a posture of harmless subservience, and as she snapped at them in Creole, they shrank away, as though her words stung like a master's lash, flaying their ebony skin. She spoke again, her tone imperious. Two of them picked up their dead accomplice, and then the whole lot vanished into the darkness like ghosts.
On the other side of the stone wall separating the garden from Royal Street came the sound of people running, voices raised in alarm. The pistol shots were attracting a crowd. Any moment and they would invade the garden itself.
"Come," said Noelle urgently. "We must leave this place at once."
Christopher grabbed her roughly by the arm. "My God, Noelle. What have you done?"
She wrenched free of his grasp. "This is not the time or the place to discuss it," she said curtly, and walked away.
"What's wrong with you, Christopher?" asked O'Connor.
"This . . . " Christopher gestured at the grisly remains of the two men who had fallen beneath the cane knives of the blacks. He knew who they were. The bounty men. O'Connor had killed the third. "This is her doing."
"Of course it is. She probably saved our lives. And yet you're angry with her."
"You used to talk a lot about honor. Well, where is the honor in this?"
"Come on. If we're caught here we may never get to Texas."
Christopher followed him. With Noelle in the lead, they left the garden by a small wooden door located near the rear wall of the Cathedral, escaping undetected in the dark shadows of Pirates' Alley. In the Plâce d'Armes Christopher stopped Noelle. This time, as she tried to free herself, he held on to her arm.
"You're hurting me, Christopher."
"You ambushed those bounty men, didn't you?"
"They would have killed you."
"That's not the point."
"Yes. I arranged an ambush. You said you would be in the garden an hour after sundown. I told them a half hour after sundown. It would have been finished before you arrived—except that you came early. And almost got yourself killed."
"Who were those men with the knives?"
"You don't need to know. Or want to know."
"I asked, so I do want to know, and you're going to tell me."
"I don't know what's gotten into you, Christopher," said O'Connor. "Why don't you just drop it?"
"Stay out of this. Tell me the truth, Noelle. Who were those men? Why were they so afraid of you?"
"They are just ordinary men."
"Who would do anything you asked of them. Isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
She held the talisman for him to see, the one that ordinarily lay between her breasts, dangling from a silver chain. He stared at the silver snake entwined about a human skull.
"This is why," she said, defiant.
"Voodoo."
"Are you satisfied now?"
"You shouldn't have done it, Noelle. It was my fight."
"But I did it for you, Christopher." She stepped closer, and the sweet fragrance and soft warmth of her filled his senses, and she put her hands lightly on his chest. Even under these circumstances she managed to excite him. Again Christopher wondered if she had somehow worked a spell on him.
"You don't understand," he said.
"I understand this: After what happened to those bounty men, no one will want to try to collect the reward that man Vickers has offered."
"She's got a point," said O'Connor.
"They would have killed you," she said. "I did what I had to do to save the life of the man I love. I am glad I did it, even if you hate me for it. If you do hate me, say so, and you will never see me again."
Christopher didn't know what to say. Here was his chance. He could tell her now that he did not want her to accompany him to Texas. But was that what he really wanted? Did he really want to be rid of her? What about Greta? He stared at Noelle, at that beautiful dusky upturned face, drowned in those dark eyes, was tantalized by her lips, slightly parted, so close he could feel her warm, sweet breath on his face.
"No," he said hoarsely. "No, I don't hate you."
She turned away and left him standing there, and he watched her go, wondering if she would be on the Liberty when the brigantine sailed at dawn. Wrapped in the black hooded cloak, she was soon swallowed up by the night.
"An extraordinary woman," murmured O'Connor. "You have all the luck, Christopher."
Glancing at his friend, Christopher could see that O'Connor, too, was thoroughly bewitched.
Chapter 22
Christopher had spent a frivolous afternoon in a small boat on the Hudson River with Greta Inskilling—and that was the sum total of his naval experience prior to walking up the gangplank to board the brigantine Liberty, bound for Texas. He wasn't sure how he would like going to sea. The first day out was pleasant enough. The fresh air and salty spray were invigorating after two weeks breathing the stench of the city. The sun was bright yellow in a sky the delicate blue of a robin's egg. The sea was a translucent green except where it foamed white beneath the bow of the ship. The Liberty was skimming along nicely with her sails billowing full, and with none of that clumsy pitch and roll which Christopher had expected from a ship with its hold so full. Which only demonstrated, he mused, how ignorant he was of nautical matters.
He didn't become seasick at all, which was more than some of the others could say. O'Connor and his mother looked rather green around the gills, while Klesko, wretchedly ill, spent most of that first day bent over the bulwarks and heaving into the sea. Prissy remained in the captain's cabin, which she and Rebecca shared, and by all accounts was calling upon the Lord to go on ahead and bring her to His bosom, lest she suffer any longer. Nathaniel, on the other hand, seemed to take this new environment in stride.
"You must have inherited your father's sea legs," the frontiersman told Christopher.
And, thought Christopher, his knack for becoming involved with the wrong woman.
Noelle was not aboard. The last he had seen of her was in the Plâce d'Armes, walking away from him without a word, disappearing into the night. That image, seared into his memory, nourished his guilt—and O'Connor didn't make him feel any better about it. The Irishman had wanted to mount a full-scale search for her, even if it meant delay in the departure of the Liberty. Christopher pointed out how ludicrous that idea was. What chance would they have of finding her in the Vieux Carré? Especially if she did not want to be found.
"But what if Morrell caught up with her?" asked O'Connor.
"Then I would have to say, God help Morrell."
O'Connor didn't look the least bit amused. In fact, when it came to Noelle, he had apparently misplaced his well-developed sense of humor altogether. Christopher fondly remembered the old O'Connor, from their West Point days together, a happy-go-lucky character who never let himself become too serious about anything.
"You're an ungrateful wretch," said O'Connor bitterly. "Twice she saved your life. And this is how you repay her. She loved you."
"I don't think so."
"Then you are a fool."
Christopher didn't bother to respond. He remained carefully impassive in the face of O'Connor's harangue.
"I will sail with you to Texas," said O'Connor. "But as soon as we get there I'm coming back to find Noelle."
That was his final word on the subject. For the rest of the day, and the day after, his attitude was decidedly cool.
Christopher's heart ached for missing Noelle. He was willing to concede that he had done wrong by her. But he consoled himself with thoughts of Greta. And, to his surprise, he found that as the day wore on he began to feel better about things. The memory of Noelle gave his heart a
sharp twinge along about sunset. He countered this bit of unpleasantness by writing another letter to Greta. Elaborating on how much he missed her, pouring out his heart as he had never done before, informing her that in a matter of days he would be settled somewhere in Texas, and then he could send for her. Greta was a tonic which eased the misery of his longing for Noelle. He went to his bed hopeful that by tomorrow Noelle would have faded from his thoughts, that as the distance between them grew the hold she had on him would weaken. Yet she came to him in his dreams, haunting him with her hot, silky, café-au-lait skin against the cold graveyard stone—and then he saw the cane knives, flashing in the moonlight, dripping blood, and he woke up in a cold sweat.
The morning dawned gray and blustery. The sea had become violent overnight. The brigantine clawed her way westward, a strong southerly wind laying her over and howling in the rigging. Massive gray foam-crested waves smashed against the ship. The port bow of the Liberty received the brunt of this brutal assault, and the impact would send the bowsprit leaping toward the sky, and the brigantine began to heave slowly over, with the bowsprit rising, rising, rising ever more steeply, until she rolled and slid down the far side of the wave, and the ship would settle for a moment on an even keel, heeling into the wind as the wave passed beneath the stern and lifted it. Then the next wave came, hard on the heels of the one before it, and the bowsprit leaped for the sky again, and she would begin to heave slowly over . . . Pitch, roll, heave, roll—in this way the Liberty gamely corkscrewed her way through the heavy seas, with the waves crashing over the bulwarks and sweeping the deck.
Even Christopher felt a little nauseated now. He went aft from his forecastle berth to check on his mother and Prissy. Rebecca was trying to console Prissy—a futile attempt.
"We all gwine drown!" screeched Prissy, quite beside herself.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Christopher. "We'll be fine."
"Dere's a big storm a-comin'," said Prissy. "The cap'n done tol' us to stay below. You mark my words, we all gwine drown."
Christopher asked his mother how she was bearing up.
"I'm fine," was Rebecca's stoic reply. "But keep an eye on Mr. Klesko, Christopher. I dont think he's doing too well."
Christopher didn't tell her he had just left Klesko, swaying in his canvas hammock and looking like he would have to get better to die.
Leaving the captain's cabin, he went up a companionway to the deck, and was thoroughly drenched by a cascade of seawater as he threw open the hatch. He didn't care. It was preferable to staying below, where the sound of the sea hammering against the hull trying to get in, mingled with the creak and groan of the ship timbers as they tried to keep the sea out, and the stench of the lower deck, and the grim, anxious faces of that portion of the crew not on watch all combined to create an oppressive atmosphere.
He saw Nathaniel and the captain on the quarterdeck, and started across the waist to join them. A thirty-foot wave rose up out of the sea and crashed over the port bow. He felt the deck shudder beneath his feet, and lost his balance just as the wave struck him and threw him into the starboard scuppers. The brigantine heeled over and before Christopher could get a grip on anything the water collecting against the bulwark lifted him off the deck. Gripped by sudden panic, he realized that he was about to be swept overboard, and knew he wouldn't last five minutes in such rough seas. He grabbed a handful of rigging and held on for dear life until the Liberty settled on its keel. Making it to the quarterdeck, he saw by the expression on Nathaniel's face that the old leatherstocking had witnessed his brush with death.
"You better get below," said Nathaniel, shouting to be heard above the harping of the wind.
"No thanks. As bad as it is up here, it's worse below."
Nathaniel nodded, and turned to look at the captain as the latter yelled to the helmsman to turn her a few points into the wind.
"We'll have to take in another reef," the Liberty's skipper told his first mate, shouting even though the man stood at his shoulder. "There's nothing for it."
"Aye, sir," agreed the mate. "We'll lose canvas if we don't. The wind is picking up." He cast a worried glance aloft.
"And the sea is becoming steeper." The captain glanced grimly at Nathaniel. "No ordinary squall, I fear, Mr. Jones. We are in the very teeth of a hurricane."
"Call all hands, Mr. Wells," said the captain.
Leaning over the poop rail, the Liberty's brass-throated first mate passed the word along. A seaman threw open the forecastle hatch and yelled to the men below.
"All hands! All hands to reef topsails!"
They came pouring out of the hatch, scattering to their stations. Christopher watched them go to work with great admiration for their prowess as well as their nerve. The brigantine pitched and rolled violently. Steep waves crashed down upon the decks. Yet the crew was an experienced lot. They manned the halliards and reef tackles, and Christopher could scarcely believe that any man would have the guts to venture aloft under such conditons. But these men scampered up the rigging, agile as monkeys.
"Haul away!" bellowed Mr. Wells, and his stentorian voice seemed to pierce the banshee wailing of the wind. "Bear those backstays! Hands to the weather braces! Haul in the weather main brace! Haul away, boys!"
In moments he was able to turn to the captain and report that the sails had their reef.
"Bring the men down," replied the captain, well-satisfied with the conduct of his crew. "But have them stand by."
Nathaniel noticed that the Liberty's skipper was continually searching the gray gloom of storm and sea off the starboard side, and the frontiersman had a hunch he knew what the man was looking for. Of course there was nothing to see but driving sheets of rain and towering waves. But there, somewhere near, was the coast—a coast notorious for its treacherous sand reefs.
"Give her a turn into the wind," said the captain.
The helmsman responded. As the brigantine swung to port, Christopher happened to glance up and saw a line of white separate sea and sky. For an instant his horrified mind refused to register what he was seeing—a wave, a wave as tall as the Liberty's mainmast, or so it seemed to him.
"Good God," he breathed.
Wells saw it next. "Grab hold of something and hang on!" cried the first mate.
And then the monstrous wave came down upon them.
Gripping the poop rail for all he was worth, Christopher was slammed against the deck by the impact of tons of descending seawater. He felt the ship shudder and tilt precariously beneath him, and thought, She's going to break apart. This wave will smash her into so much kindling. But the ship emerged, popping up to crest like a cork, and reeling down the back side of the wave. As he gasped for breath Christopher heard a rending crash, the screams of men being swept overboard, and looked up to see the mainmast falling, toppling sideways to starboard. The captain was yelling, but Christopher couldn't make out the words. Looking about the quarterdeck, he saw that the helmsman was gone, and the wheel was spinning madly. Mr. Wells lunged for it, and tried to hold on, but it was turning with such velocity that it struck him down, and he went sliding across the deck.
The next wave, as tall as the one before, was instantly upon them. The Liberty, helmless, pivoted, and the comber caught her broadside. She tilted sharply to port as the wave crested and descended to strike her so savagely that the impact shook Christopher loose from the rail. The brigantine convulsed, lurched sickeningly, rolled, and then struck with a deafening crash, the rending of timbers. The stump of the mainmast was swept against the quarterdeck, shattering the poop rail. Christopher was hurled into a tangle of rigging, to which he clung for dear life as yet another comber smashed down upon the mortally wounded ship and almost drowned him.
"Christopher!"
He dimly heard his grandfather's voice, and answered with a weak "Here!" An instant later, Nathaniel appeared, struggling to reach him through the tangle of shrouds and ratlines.
"She's run aground," said the frontiersman.
Chr
istopher was too shaken to respond. The ship was dying. He could hear it. It was as though the Liberty were a living creature, cracking and shrieking and groaning as the relentless sea crashed against her and mercilessly ripped her to pieces. He had never heard such a terrible sound.
"We must find your mother."
Nathaniel's voice was calm and sane and it pierced the mad chaos of noise and destruction to reach Christopher and wrench him free of that strange, deadening apathy which had overwhelmed him.
"Yes," he mumbled, feeling new life pulse through his frozen limbs. "Yes, we've got to find her."
With Nathaniel's help he managed to untangle himself from the rigging. The ship's deck was no longer pitching and heaving. That was something, at least. But every time a comber smacked into her the deck shuddered so violently that he was certain she would disintegrate into splinters. They descended the ladder to the waist, which was littered with the debris of the foremast. The door to the captain's cabin, located beneath the quarterdeck, was blocked by the trunk of the mainmast. Several members of the crew stumbled out of the hatch. Christopher grabbed one of them.
"We need your help."
The seadog stared at him, like a man in a trance, uncomprehending.
"We must get into the captain's cabin!"
Still the man did not speak.
"What's it like below?" asked Nathaniel.
Queried on the subject of the ship and the sea the man seemed to come to life.
"Can't you hear it?" he rasped. "She's broke deep. The sea's in her belly now, and she's coming apart at the seams." He began to struggle to free himself from Christopher's grasp.
"We need help," said Christopher, holding on.
"Help yourself," cried the crewman, becoming frantic. "Get off the ship. Get off and try to make it to shore. It's your only chance."
"Let him go," said Nathaniel, realizing they would get no help from this one.
Christopher complied. The man stumbled away across the deck, vanishing behind a gray curtain of rain and sea.
"Stay here," said Nathaniel. "I'll be back."
Gone to Texas Page 23
