Monsieur Beaumont wagged his gray-sprinkled head. “Consider no challenges until they are offered,” he advised weightily. “The good God knows, we have challenge enough in making this territory a state.”
“True,” agreed Frank Parker. “Spain and England watch us. We may have fighting aplenty, without formalities, before we’re much older.”
Casimir’s black eyes danced at the prospect of fighting.
“Today we take our dinner early.” Monsieur Beaumont changed the subject. “Ben, we will introduce you to mutton dressed as venison, with a stuffing of chopped mushrooms and minced ham, and currant jelly in the gravy. Pll engage you will like Creole cooking.”
Ben stifled a groan of resentment. By heaven, these Creoles weren’t satisfied with teaching him to fence and swim and tie cravats—they were even going to instruct him in what to eat and whether to relish it!
But even as he reflected, he was aware that he was hungry, and that Monsieur Beaumont’s description of Creole mutton dressed as venison, with a stuffing of chopped mushrooms and minced ham, sounded downright delicious.
III. Echoes of ‘Danger
Achille Beaumont’s household was awake early next morning. Before seven o’clock, Ben joined his host and Casimir at a breakfast of hot rolls, fruit jam, and strong black coffee redolent of chicory.
“Now do we visit that tailor man?” asked Ben as they finished.
“Mesner does not throw back his shutters until eight o’clock,” said Casimir. “We have time to fence. Here are the foils.”
From a corner he took two long, slender blades set in cord- wrapped hilts, with bell-shaped guards. “Come, the sun is up. We’ll go into the courtyard at the back.”
Ben took a foil and followed Casimir. He tested the blade, a full three feet long, tapering from finger thickness at the guard to whiplike slenderness at the leather-capped tip. In the courtyard grew beds of gay autumn flowers and several kinds of shrubs and trees. Ben sniffed the odor of dew-dampened earth and greenery. Above and beyond the walls of plastered brick showed the upper windows of the Beaumont house and of the O’Rourke house next door. Upon the broad flagstone walk in the courtyard’s middle, Casimir faced Ben.
“You have never fenced? Then attend me.” Casimir pointed to various parts of his foil. “This is the hilt, this is the guard. Here, at the end of the hilt, is the pommel—its weight balances the weapon in your hand. The half of the blade next the hilt is the jortey the strong part. The other half, toward the tip, is the jaibley weak but springy. Repeat those names.”
Ben did so, as though back at his lessons in school, and Casimir nodded lofty approval. “Now, do not grip the hilt so tightly. You hold a sword, not an ax. Grasp firmly, but not too closely—you must be able to feel and judge your enemy’s blade as it touches yours.”
Scowling, Ben tried to follow these directions.
“Adequate,” granted Casimir. “Before swordplay, one salutes thus.”
He clicked his heels like a soldier at attention and whipped his hilt to his chin, the blade pointing upward. “You do well,” he said as Ben imitated him. “Next, the pose of the fencer. Watch.”
Ben’s troubles now began. The guard position was awkward and difficult. Casimir’s glib explanations of thrusts and parries were equally hard to follow. After half a dozen trials at lunge and recovery, Ben was told to do his best to touch Casimir. He tried, savagely; but the young Creole parried his desperate efforts with the most careless-seeming flicks of his foil.
Monsieur Beaumont strolled out to watch. “Patience,” he urged Ben. “All things have a beginning. Do not rush so fiercely. You would skewer yourself on his point, like a Christmas goose.”
Grimly silent, Ben endeavored to follow the coaching of both experts, but he achieved only sweat and awkwardness. At last Monsieur Beaumont signaled for a halt.
“You have much to learn,” he told Ben, “but you are strong, and you have an arm as long as a rafter. I judge you will do well with the saber, as it is used in the French and American armies. When you have prospered in these early lessons, we’ll fetch out sabers and see how you take to them. Now, you had best go to Mesner’s.”
In the hall, Archimede offered Ben the black coat, pressed and brushed. Ben donned it with some difficulty, for he was discovering new and weary muscles in arms, legs and body.
“Did it shrink?” he asked.
“I said that Zeline would make it snug, more to the fashion,” reminded Casimir. “Now we go. But leave that black hat, it gives you the air of a river bully. The distance is so short we can walk bareheaded.”
Jacques Mesner’s shop, around the next corner and near the street beyond, was a narrow ground-floor chamber, cluttered with benches, great flatirons, and bolts of cloth. The short, plump tailor peered calculatingly at Ben.
“A tail coat?” he suggested.
“And a frock coat,” said Casimir. “Caped and frogged.”
“Name of thunder, this one has a fine figure,” observed Jacques Mesner, adjusting square-lensed spectacles. “A tail coat, then, and a frock coat and pantaloons—”
Kneeling, he drew a tape around Ben’s thick calf.
“That’s powerful tight,” protested Ben.
“Chut, leave it to him,” said Casimir. “He knows the mode.”
Mesner rose and walked around and around Ben, prodding, measuring, calculating. He made notes on a slip of paper.
“Return for a fitting in three days,” he said at last. “Good morning, messieurs.”
Outside, Casimir gestured Ben into a neighboring shop. Its shelves were heaped with hats. Casimir took up a tall one with a curly brim.
“This is au fait just now/5 he told Ben.
Ben tried it on. The hat was of a delicate gray, reminding him of the dress worn by Felise O’Rourke upon her gallery. It proved too small, and the hatter found a larger one, of like style and tint.
“Magnifique” applauded Casimir. “Send the bill to Monsieur Frank Parker.55 They emerged into the street. “Now you will be safe, more or less, as you walk north to your uncle’s office. We stand now upon the rue Dauphine. Proceed—a moment while I think—proceed for eight squares, then cross the old canal. You will find yourself in the Faubourg Sainte Marie, where Americans flourish. Until you return home this afternoon, bonne chance.”
As Ben turned his face north and walked along the brick pavement, he felt like praying for strength to endure Casimir’s constant patronizing advice.
His new hat and tightened coat drew no unwelcome attention as he walked past rose-brick walls and railings of iron lace- work. None looked at him or spoke, save a street vendor or so. He reached the canal of which Casimir had told him, a muddy stream with reed-tufted banks and several rough bridges. On the far side he paused in front of a coffeehouse just as a man emerged, leaning on a stick and donning a tall hat like Ben’s.
Ben spoke, and the man paused. He was a slender fellow, little more than thirty, in a caped frock coat of green, beautifully fitted, with polished half boots, a wine-red cravat, and a ruffled shirt. His lean, handsome face was streaked with a dark mustache. One eyebrow cocked whimsically; the other sagged slightly above a drooping lid.
“Hatch and Parker?” he repeated Ben’s question. “I know them, and my way takes me past—three squares off, near the river front. Walk with me, if it pleases you.”
His words were slightly accented, but as they walked and talked he showed none of the condescension that Ben had come to expect from Creoles.
“And so you are Frank Parker’s nephew, come to live here,” said the exquisite. “It is a thriving firm, Hatch and Parker. See,” and with his stick he pointed to a broad building of timber and plaster, “there is the establishment. Storerooms and warehouses behind, offices in front. I wish you joy of your career in New Orleans, young Mr. Parker.”
“Thank you for showing me the way, Mr.-------------- ?”
“Laffite. Jean Laffite.”
“Jean Laffite!” echoed Ben sharpl
y; for even in North Carolina that name had been spoken. “You are—”
“Exactly, young sir. Jean Laffite, called the smuggler, the outlaw, the pirate.” Neatly booted heels came together, the slim body bowed, teeth flashed in a smile. “In reality, I am Jean Laffite the free trader, and enchanted to be able to serve you. Perhaps you won’t condemn me utterly on hearsay.”
Lifting the knob of his stick to his hat brim in graceful salute, Laffite departed.
Ben watched him go. So that was Jean Laffite, defier of customs collectors, known plunderer of Spanish ships, reputed burier of fortunes in stolen treasure, whispered chief of wild sea savages. But he had denied being a pirate, and surely he didn’t look like one. He had no cutlass slashes, no gaudy tattooing, no big pistols in his belt. And he had been courteously helpful. Wondering, Ben entered Hatch and Parker’s front door.
He found himself in a big square apartment with a counter running across its front. Beyond, at rows of desks, men wrote swiftly or frowned over sheaves of papers. Ben gave his name to a clerk, who conducted him to a small inner chamber. Frank Parker sat at a table there, with a quill pen in his plump fist.
“You’re prompt,” Frank Parker greeted his nephew. “Promptness, with about seven hundred other qualities, will help you to success in trade. Did you have trouble finding your way?”
“I was directed here by Mr. Jean Laffite,” said Ben, watching his uncle for any effect that name might have.
“So Laffite’s on business in the Faubourg Sainte Marie? It’s mostly the Creoles who buy and sell with the smuggling Laffites.”
“Is he a smuggler as they say, Uncle?” asked Ben. “Why hasn’t he been arrested long ago?”
“It’s easier to cry ‘smuggler’ than to prove it,” replied Frank Parker testily. “To be sure, the Laffite brothers have a whole brawling group of rogues and water rats down at Barataria—that’s beside the river mouth—and anyone can guess that these fetch in cargoes of smuggled or stolen goods. But guesses don’t hold in court, and Governor Claiborne only makes himself unpopular by trying to halt smuggling. Such articles come cheaper with no duty collected on them, and Creoles don’t always feel honor bound to pay duties to the American government. Indeed, many will deny that smuggling’s a crime at all.” Frank Parker smiled wryly. “On top of that, the Laffite blacksmith shop purports to be an honest place of trade. It turns out beautiful ironwork. Some of the handsomest grills on the galleries of New Orleans are of their forging.”
“Speaking of work,” said Ben, “Pm ready to start.”
“Egad, so you are. Sit down. What do you make of these figures?”
He thrust a paper at Ben, who pulled up a chair and pored over notations about hogsheads of sugar, barrels of molasses, bales of cotton, and hundredweights of pork.
“We ship those things this day week,” his uncle told him. “Give me totals of prices paid—you see the amounts, each opposite its item—the space needed for stowage, and the weight of the whole.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben selected a quill, mended its point with a knife from the table, and jotted down a column of figures, then another and another. He arrived at totals, checked them back, and copied them on a fresh page. Frank Parker studied his computations, running his own pen point from figure to figure. His manner was not unlike that of Jacques Mesner over the measurements for Ben’s new clothes.
“Good, good, you’ll do. And how have you fared, a night and a morning in New Orleans?”
“I have to learn a whole parcel of things the Beaumonts tell me I need to know,” sniffed Ben.
“You’ll learn, lad. Think, if Casimir had come to you in Wilmington, you’d have had to teach him North Carolina matters.”
“So I would,” agreed Ben, and savored the thought of teaching Casimir anything strange and difficult. His uncle tugged a cord that hung on the wall. A bell jangled, and the clerk came in from the counter outside.
“See Mr. Ben to a desk in the counting room,” directed Frank Parker. “Present my compliments to Mr. Ahrens, and he is to keep Mr. Ben busy all morning. Ben, we’ll take a meal together when it’s twelve o’clock.”
Back in the large outer room, Ben met Mr. Ahrens, the lean, gray chief of the battery of clerks. At once he was set to reckoning a series of transactions in hides and furs, rice, indigo, and rough lumber. Later, Mr. Ahrens asked him to read some business letters in French, and smiled frostily over Ben’s slow but adequate translations. Then he showed Ben how to draw up a bill of insurance, a request for a letter of credit for a France-bound skipper, and an invoice for goods to be shipped.
At noon Ben went with his uncle to the same coffeehouse where he had met Jean Laffite. It was full of chattering diners and loungers. Ben had just begun to eat fish stew and boiled turkey, with strong Creole coffee, when Mr. Horner Banton entered, trailing his stick with its inlay of shell and gold, and paused beside their table.
“Your servant, Mr. Parker,” he said, pinching snuff from a gleaming silver box. “And yours, young sir. I had meant to do myself the honor of calling at your offices before today. You’ll remember, Mr. Parker, that I’ve bought an interest in those upriver plantations where they employ the new sugar-boiling process.”
“I’ll be glad to hear more about it,” replied Frank Parker. “Please sit down and join us.”
“Thank you,” said Banton, putting away his snuffbox. He dusted his fingers on a snowy cambric handkerchief, and took a chair, then beckoned a waiter. While they ate, Ben listened to his companions eagerly discussing the new and improved way to boil sugar.
“So much for business,” said Banton at last. “I daresay you’ve heard the news that just came—the private word from Governor Claiborne to Commodore Shaw.”
“Isn’t the Governor up river at Concordia?” asked Frank Parker. “No, I’ve had no news. I’ve not your talent for learning secrets, sir.”
Banton’s fine gray eyes shone above his coffee cup. “Claiborne has warned Shaw to prepare for an emergency. Maxent —that’s the Spanish governor—has put troops ashore on Dolphin Island, outside Mobile Harbor.”
“Dolphin Island,” repeated Frank Parker. “I have it in mind that we Americans claim that.”
“Claim or no, it’s held by the Spanish now.” Banton turned to study Ben. “Is your nephew discreet, Mr. Parker?
He must forget that he has heard this.”
“I won’t forget, sir, but I’ll not tell anyone,” promised Ben.
“See that you don’t. We must keep our heads since we may be on the brink of war with Spain.”
“I trust not,” said Frank Parker. “Yet wars have begun for slighter reasons.”
Finishing their meal, the three went out together. Ben paused and looked toward the river, which at this point was full of tethered flatboats and keelboats. He would have walked that way, but suddenly he felt his uncle’s hand on his shoulder.
“Wait,” cautioned Frank Parker softly in his ear. “Let Mr. Banton go on without us. No, don’t move yet—let that other man pass.”
Ben stood where he was. Along the brick walk tramped a tall, powerful figure, in fringed deerskin leggings and a hunting shirt of stout brown linen. The brim of his gray wool hat was looped up on one side, and the square, swarthy face wore a heavy black beard.
When the big fellow had turned the corner, Frank Parker urged Ben forward. They walked toward their office.
“That was Jethro Wicks,” said Frank Parker in the same soft, grim voice. “Back after six years. He’s gained flesh and his beard is longer, but he’s Jethro Wicks.”
“Who is he?” asked Ben, staring at the corner beyond which Jethro Wicks had vanished. “A smuggler, like Jean Laffite?”
“Nothing so respectable. Laffite might possibly have legitimate business in New Orleans, but not Wicks. Ben, you’ll remember Aaron Burr’s conspiracy to separate this part of the country from the United States and make of it an empire for himself?”
“Of course. In 1805. But he was clea
red of the charge of treason.”
“Cleared or not, Burr was a traitor. And Wicks was here helping him.” Frank Parker’s plump face set itself harshly. “Wicks is a quarter Indian, and that quarter is much the best of him. The other three quarters are all cruelty and intrigue. It was his task to interest and rouse the dock workers and trappers for Burr. Creoles here were no more than politely hospitable to the idea—it was American adventurers and river vagabonds, like Wicks himself, who would have formed the core of the uprising had Burr been able to manage it. When the plan fell to pieces, Wicks left New Orleans in a hurry.”
“And now he’s back,” prompted Ben. “Can he be such a danger to New Orleans?”
“I know Wicks of old, and he works neither honestly nor singly. If he has returned, it’s for some lawless and violent purpose—and as one of many. Wicks is no leader. He’ll serve some plotting traitor, like Burr. Now that I’ve heard of this new Spanish move at Mobile, I have it in mind that he may be mixed up in that.”
“You think there may be a raid or an uprising here?” asked Ben, and felt his blood begin to race.
“I think so indeed. This very day I’ll send a trusted messenger to the Governor at Concordia and tell him that Wicks is here. We loyal men may have work—even fighting work— to do.”
He paused at the office door, faced Ben, and smiled. “But leave this in my hands. Your half day at the office is done. Are you bound back to Beaumont’s? What will you do?”
Ben glanced once more in the direction Jethro Wicks had taken.
“I’ll ask Casimir to teach me more about fighting with swords,” he said.
IV. AWord from Laffite
Casimir and his father were at dinner when ben arrived, and when they had finished Casimir smilingly agreed to give Ben another fencing lesson on the spot.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1955 Page 3
