Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1955

by Flag on the Levee (v1. 1)

  Once again Ben and Casimir were assisted, like two cripples, across to the deckhouse. Packard opened the door, and when all were inside Ben could hear him scraping with flint and steel. A candle blazed up in an iron sconce.

  “Here you stay,” Wicks told Ben. “I’m still counting on a little closer acquaintance with you later on.”

  “Don’t we tie them better than this?” asked Packard. “Mr. Banton said to see they were made fast.”

  “That’s true, he did.”

  Wicks had pulled off his uniform coat and hung it on a peg. Then he took a coil of line from a table and, drawing a knife from a sheath under his arm, cut off a length of it. By the light of the candle he made a running noose in one end. Then he turned toward Ben and, without warning, thrust out a foot and tripped him so that he fell heavily.

  “If I was free—” spluttered Ben.

  Wicks flung the noose around Ben’s neck, tightening it. Then he ran the other end under Ben’s knees. He pulled tight and Ben, to ease the choking drag around his windpipe, drew up his knees against his chest.

  “That’s just what I wanted,” pronounced Wicks, and made a tight knot of the cord around Ben’s legs.

  “I’ll serve this other one the same way,” Packard was saying.

  It was quickly done with Casimir as it had been with Ben. Then Packard and Wicks left, pulling the door shut behind them.

  The ship began to move, slowly and stealthily, as though it had a baleful and traitorous life of its own.

  XIV. Ultimatum

  When they were alone, ben made a wriggling effort against all his bonds. They held, and he felt a throttling constriction around his neck.

  “Gently,” warned Casimir from where he lay. “Do you not see how this new tether is fastened? If you straighten your legs, it pulls on the line and tightens the noose. You may well strangle yourself if you do not lie still.”

  Ben relaxed, his knees drawn to within eighteen inches of his chin. He looked around him. The cabin was paneled in dark wood that reflected a brown glow from the candle’s light. Two bunks were set one above the other, with no mattresses or bedclothing. A chair stood beside the stout table. Beyond the table, against the wall, hung a short curtain of heavy black cloth. The ship moved and stirred, pitching slightly.

  “What’s happening to us?” groaned Ben. “Where are we going, and why?”

  “I know no more than you. We heard them speak of Mobile. Probably we float seaward with the river current. I should judge they will steer into one of the bayous that branch off from the main river.”

  “Mobile,” repeated Ben. “Our ships of war are there, because of the Spanish threat—”

  “Doucement,” broke in Casimir. “Someone comes.”

  The door squeaked open, and Horner Banton strode in.

  He had put aside his monk’s robe for a heavy, dark seaman’s coat with big steel buttons. There was a broad soft hat on his head, and in one hand he carried a long-barreled pistol. He looked down at the two bound figures in the candle’s light.

  “Comfortable, gentlemen?” he inquired, in a parody of solicitude.

  They lay at his feet and looked stonily up at him. Neither of them spoke.

  “So,” Banton said, softly and sadly. “We’re still sullen, are we? We’re uncommunicative and obscure, we refuse to speak a single word.”

  He stepped to the table, and laid his pistol beside the candle. Then he moved on to a cabinet in the bulkhead beside the curtain, opened it, and took out a bottle and a wineglass. Turning back, he sat down in the chair beside the table and drew the cork from the bottle with his strong white teeth. Carefully he filled the glass. Ben gazed at Banton’s feet, cased in the most shiny of black boots, with the straps of the pantaloons snug under the insteps.

  Banton recorked his bottle, crossed one leg over the other knee, and lifted the glass in his left hand. His right hand lay, loosely clenched, within two inches of the pistol. He put the glass to his lips and tasted the wine, and Ben saw him smile above it.

  “You refuse to answer my question about your comfort,” he chided his prisoners mournfully. “How then can I hope that you’ll be so good as to tell the name of the man who betrayed my efforts to you?”

  “You can never hope that,” said Casimir fiercely.

  “Come, that’s better,” said Banton in a tone of gentle approval, and took another sip of wine. “Casimir will talk, at least. Persuade Ben to relax his mute hostility, Casimir.”

  Ben thought of something supremely insulting to say; then decided that to say nothing at all would be more effective.

  “I heard you from outside the door just now,” Banton continued. “You’re understandably and justifiably wondering, both of you, about where we sail and to what purpose. Well now, at least one of us three must remember his social obligations. As your host, Pll be so polite as to inform you.”

  Again he sipped with studied daintiness, and smiled. His big, well-kept fingers cuddled the stem of the glass.

  “This craft is my property,” he began. “It’s rather a neat little ketch, good both for narrow channel work as at present, and for open-water sailing such as we’ll have later on. We’re bound for the waters outside Mobile, with an important cargo.”

  He studied Ben, then Casimir.

  “Now, as to our ship’s company. Pray don’t be so stupid as to underestimate any of them—profit by our mistake in underestimating you. Seiber you trapped like a baby rabbit outside Tchoupitoulas, but he’s a boatman, really, not a woodsman. As a matter of fact, before he took up keelboating he was first mate of a coasting vessel. Too bad that he was ungratefully accused of sinking his ship for her insurance, and had to flee.”

  Ben’s nose itched. He rubbed it against the planks to ease the irritation. Banton smiled again, relishing this sign of discomfort.

  “Wicks has been a flatboatman, a trapper, a trader among the Indians. If I should let him kill you, he’d want to scalp you as well. Death pleases him immensely, when it happens to those he dislikes, and he dislikes both of you. As for Packard, he used to be a soldier. Maybe he shouldn’t have deserted. I don’t understand his desertion, for he’s been faithful enough to me.”

  “What does this ship carry?” demanded Casimir.

  “Gunpowder, my boy. We mean to come alongside one of the ships of war there—Commodore Shaw’s flagship, for choice—and blow her and our own craft clear out of existence and into history. Of course, we’ve a boat aboard, and we’ll get away before the explosion.”

  “You won’t dare!” Ben could not help but protest.

  “Ben finds his tongue,” said Banton. “I beg to assure you, Ben, that I will dare. You know, I know, all thinking folk know, that the least noise of violence will set Spain at war with the Americans. I propose to make a very great noise indeed, and to put an end to this suspense, which bids well to progress from tautness to tedium.”

  He paused and drank, as though waiting for comment. It did not come, from Ben or from Casimir, and he spoke again.

  “You become silent once more, but I venture to guess your chief reaction. You are amazed that I—Horner Banton, the respected merchant, the gentlemanly neighbor and friend, the trusted associate of the Governor—should seek to do this. I am, you are telling yourselves, the last person in all the territory you would have suspected. Am I not right?”

  Ben, achingly helpless in the lashings of cord, reflected that Banton was right.

  “Pll explain my motives, as well. It’s a tale that will intrigue you, and perhaps when you understand you will sympathize.”

  Setting down his glass, he leaned back in his chair.

  “I love the town of New Orleans. Don’t stare so; it makes you look like a brace of trussed crabs. I am not joking. You can hardly show me a reason why I shouldn’t love New Orleans. It has been my home for nearly twenty years, ever since I stepped off on the wharf, young and hopeful like Ben there. Egad, I had less reason for my hopes than you. Let me say honestly that I’d left hom
e in Philadelphia because my college, my family, and my friends were heartily sick of youthful pranks and indiscretions, which they were pleased to call disgraceful debaucheries. There was a universal washing of Philadelphia hands of me, back yonder in—suffer me to take thought—it was 1793, what time George Washington was president and New Orleans was Spanish.”

  Yet again a pause, and yet again no comments.

  “Alas, I begin to soliloquize like Prince Hamlet himself. Ben, in my first days in New Orleans, I was just such a young fellow as you first appeared to me—open-eyed, vigorous, hotheaded, quick-tempered. Well, perhaps my instincts for company manners and modish dress were better from the beginning. I lacked so good a trading connection as you found, but I made connections of my own. I prospered in funds and in acquaintance. Mr. Aaron Burr was happy to honor me with his confidence and his admiration, a dozen years later. Ah,” and Banton cocked his shapely brows, “I had high hopes for Mr. Burr.”

  “Were you part of his plot to make an empire?” asked Ben, forgetting his irksome bonds.

  “In truth, I was so. I’ll go so far as to suggest that he might have succeeded with a few more friends like me ; however, he chose to specialize in Creoles. They were courteous and attentive, they entertained him and listened to him, but they did nothing. Nothing solid. His uprising fell apart before it became an uprising, because he had nothing sure to hold it together.” Banton sighed, as though for the failure. “Fortunately for me, he asked me only to his most secret councils— then as now, my talent was for intrigue. Nobody ever suspected me. Later, when Mr. Burr was protesting his own innocence, he was not like to expose me.”

  “In spite of all this,” said Casimir, “you ask us to believe that you love New Orleans.”

  “It is because of all this that I expect you to believe,” Ban- ton told him. “It’s a wonderful city, New Orleans. But it’s not a city for Americans.”

  “You are saying—” began Casimir.

  “My dear young sir, please think. You in particular, Casimir, since your blood is French and so should give you rationality. New Orleans has nothing to do with the Americans. New Orleans is too far from their country, in culture as in distance. Casimir, you will bear me out. The differences in manners, in behavior, in language, in ideals—these are insurmountable. Am I not right?”

  One of Banton’s waiting pauses.

  “Silence would seem to give agreement,” he said. “These Congressmen in Washington show intelligence, for once, when they hesitate over granting statehood to Orleans Territory. The outbreak of war will make them more coy still. What have Creoles and Americans to say to each other? Save in selected cases like that of you two friends, naught but insults. Again, how can a state be ruled from a capital weeks away by land or sea? New Orleans can’t be defended by Washington against attack—the world will know that before many days. Even if defense were possible, there remains the question of understanding and good will. The Spaniards can provide that. Orleans Territory prospered under Spain once, and will so prosper again.

  “You lie, sir,” said Ben hotly.

  “I think not,” replied Banton mildly. “Anyway, the alternative to Spain is England, who will be at America’s throat before summer. They would be less understanding than anyone. No, young gentlemen. New Orleans will find best terms and best treatment under Spain.”

  “The Spanish told you to do this thing?” demanded Casimir.

  “I fear that neither Governor Maxent nor any other official had so much imaginative purpose. The provoking of war is my own inspiration. Many will thank me in the end.”

  “You mean to kill us,” said Ben, “or you’d never say these things.”

  “Oh, killing need not follow. I desire information from you. Give it, and I’ll set you free of your bonds, keeping you locked up. When we abandon ship before she explodes, we’ll take you along in our boat—but you must prove reasonable and worth rescuing. When we land in Mobile you may stay there, under guard not too insistent or galling, until the little matter of Spanish repossession of Orleans Territory has been accomplished.”

  “Then?” prompted Ben.

  “Then come back to New Orleans. You’ll find things a trifle better than when you left them. I, for one, will be in a position of prosperity and importance under the new regime, and Pll be able to help you in many ways.”

  “But if we don’t give the information?” Ben persisted.

  “If you don’t, you’ll die.” Banton’s teeth clicked shut upon the word. “Nor will it be a swift, easy, heroic death. However, I think you’ll tell, and I hope the telling comes of your own free will. Otherwise I’ll have to let Wicks come in here to persuade you. He knows considerable about persuasion, does Wicks. I think I said that he’s lived among the Indians, and observed their methods.”

  Banton rose, returned the bottle to the cabinet, and picked up his pistol.

  “I’m truly a patient man,” he said. “You’ll have to be patient, too, for I must leave you as you are the rest of the night. There are but four of us to work this ship—one at the wheel, one at lookout forward, the others at starboard and port. That many are needed as we drift down channel, and we must be in open water by dawn.”

  He indicated the candle. “I’ll leave this light to comfort you a trifle. Discuss it between yourselves and come to some agreement. When I come back, I’ll expect an answer. Whatever you say to me tomorrow morning I’ll accept as final, and act with you accordingly.”

  He walked to the door, went out, and shut them in. They heard the squeak of the turning key.

  Ben was aware again of the sound and feel of the ketch’s motion. He bent his head sidewise, to wipe sweat from his face on the rumpled shoulder of his tunic. He listened, holding his breath, to Banton’s departing footsteps. “Casimir?” he said softly.

  “Ben,” came Casimir’s voice.

  “Banton’s lying.”

  “Vraiment, and it is the least of his sins.”

  “I mean, about sparing our lives. We’re alive right now only because he wants us to tell him something. If we do, we won’t live ten minutes beyond.”

  “You have reason.” Casimir breathed deeply. “Pai soifP “I’m thirsty, too,” said Ben, “and my hands and feet are asleep.” He tested the bonds on his wrists. “Whoever tied me put a tight loop around one wrist, made a hard knot, then a separate loop around the other.”

  “It was Seiber,” said Casimir. “He’s a sailor and knows how to tie.” Casimir grunted, as with a mighty effort.

  “What’s the matter?” Ben asked him, trying to turn and look.

  Casimir panted and wheezed. Moments passed. Then: “Softly, Ben. Keep quiet. I am coming to you.”

  “How—”

  He heard Casimir hunching and squirming along. Then a touch on his back, and Casimir bent above him, with no noose at his neck.

  “Do not speak above a whisper,” Casimir cautioned. “Bring up your knees. More . . .”

  Casimir’s hands were still bound, but they were in front of him. He loosened the loop around Ben’s neck, inching it over his head and away. Sighing in relief, Ben straightened his cramped legs.

  “How did you get your hands from behind you?” he asked.

  “Once more, not so loud. I was able to draw them, bound as they were, down behind and past my hips, then to double my legs up through the loop of my arms. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes. It’s what we used to call skinning the cat in North Carolina, when we played on a branch or a railing. I can’t do it myself j I’m not as limber as you.”

  “With my hands before me, I cast off this hangman’s arrangement from my neck. Now perhaps we can untie ourselves. Roll over.”

  Ben did so. Casimir prodded and tugged at his wrists.

  “Helas!” mourned Casimir softly. “These knots of Seiber’s must be cut to be solved. They are like Alexander’s Gordian knot.”

  “Cut?” repeated Ben. “Wait, Casimir. In my sash, the little knife—unless they too
k it. . . .”

  “They took nothing from you, Ben. I was conscious; I watched them tie you. If you had a knife when you left home, it is there.”

  His fingers inserted themselves among the folds of Ben’s sash.

  “I have it,” he reported, speaking close to Ben’s ear. “Lie still now.”

  Ben felt the steel blade against the back of his hand. The tight lashings parted and fell away from his flesh, and he was free.

  At once he took the knife and cut the cord from Casimir’s tethered wrists, then freed his feet and Casimir’s. They sat on the floor of the cabin, rubbing their ankles and flexing their arms and fingers to restore motion and circulation of the blood. At last they stood up and grinned at each other by the light of the candle.

  “Here,” said Ben, offering the knife. “Take this. Pll find some kind of war club. When Banton comes back, we’ll settle him before he can cry warning. Then there’ll be only three left.”

  He took the candle from the table and examined its sconce. The sconce was of massive metal; it would serve as a missile or a club.

  “£coutez,” said Casimir, from where he stood near the curtain-like square of black cloth on the bulkhead. “I hear them outside.”

  “There’s a port there,” suggested Ben, and joined Casimir, putting his hand on the curtain.

  He traced its outlines under the fabric. The port was small and square, and its glass fastened shut with a screw bolt. He listened, putting his ear to the curtain. Voices conversed, seemingly just outside.

  “Keep quiet,” he warned Casimir. “They’re close to us here; we mustn’t open that port and let them know we’re free.”

  “I see another opening in the floor,” said Casimir.

  At once Ben knelt, candle in hand. Next to the table showed a trap or hatchway in the planking. He traced with the forefinger of his free hand a sizable rectangle, a yard long and nearly as broad. It was furnished with a ring, and when Ben took hold of this, the hatch lifted.