Magnolia Nights
Page 33
A boat cut through the Gulf, advancing toward the Austin.
“Houston’s men?” Emma asked, her heart in her throat.
“No. It’s the pilot, that’s all. He’ll guide us across the bar.” Several minutes later Paul lifted his scope and honed in on the flagship’s bridge. “I’ll be damned. . . .”
“What is it?”
“The pilot’s shaking Ed’s hand . . . and our men are—why, they’re celebrating!”
Indeed there was cause for celebration. Ed Moore sent his longboat to the Wharton with good news: The citizenry of Galveston, led by Mayor Allen, were waiting at Menard’s wharf for the gallant men of the Texas Navy. A full-fledged jubilee was planned in their honor. In the eyes of the Galvestonians, the pirates were returning home as heroes.
Twenty-one guns saluted the fleet as it entered Galveston harbor, and the honor was returned. Sails furled, the men went ashore to cheers and salutations.
A party stood on the wharf, awaiting Emma and Paul. Marian, dressed to the nines, clung to Howard’s elbow and blew kisses toward the ships. While Cleopatra, wearing a feathered hat that dwarfed her, looked very happy. Ben was grinning, and Anthaline, in a mountain man’s buckskins, was trying to restrain a tail-wagging Woodley by hanging onto the end of the rope around his neck. The dog broke free and leaped into Paul’s arms when he stepped onto the jetty.
“Hey,” Emma scolded. “He’s supposed to be my dog.”
As if he understood, Woodley squirmed and jumped for her, wetting her cheek with kisses.
“We’ve got a celebration dinner all cooked up,” Anthaline said. “Right in my own kitchen.”
“We’ve fixed all your favorite foods, Frenchie.” Cleopatra patted Paul’s arm. “Yours too, missy.’
Emma smiled. Cleopatra was her dearest friend, and she was pleased that her former mammy loved Paul.
Ben, usually a man of few words, grinned selfconsciously. “Cleo and me, we was wanting to be here when you showed up. We be staying here, too. Got me a blacksmithing shop.” He cast a loving glance at his wife. “She ain’t ornery unless she be around you . . . and I like her ornery.”
They all laughed, save for Cleopatra, who kicked his shin. Ben then grabbed her about the waist, and she cuddled against him.
“It’s good to be home,” Emma said, smiling and happy. “But tell me. Why are you here, Howard . . . Marian?”
“We heard about Houston’s piracy proclamation” —Howard reached out to shake Paul’s hand—“so I’m here to act as your attorney.”
“And I wouldn’t dream of letting him travel here without me,” Marian explained.
The local militia formed an honor guard to lead the heroes into town. Women, smiling and happy, pinned ribbons and badges on the crew’s jackets. Kegs were tapped, music played; and girls begged dances from the Texas Tars, especially from the handsome sailor Reese McDonald, for they were attracted by his cobalt-blue eyes and thick, dark hair.
Emma was somewhat light-headed due to the show of support, both from her loved ones and from the Galvestonians.
Moore motioned Paul aside. “We’ve got the people on our side, Paul, so let’s fight Sam Houston for our honor.”
“I’m with you all the way. I suggest we surrender to the sheriff.”
Colonel Naylor jumped on the bandstand to make a speech. “Ladies and gentlemen, you do our naval men proud, as they have done you. Thanks to Commodore Moore, Captain Rousseau, and their valiant men, freedom is yours.” He clapped his hands, and so did the townspeople. When the roar died down, Naylor said, “Their foray was a courageous one, and I want to make something perfectly clear: it was I who sanctioned it. I am the one to blame, and I stand behind the commodore and Captain Rousseau.” Naylor raised his hands. “Let’s all show them our gratitude.”
The crowd went wild with enthusiasm.
Paul and the commodore stepped back from the festivities, and Emma followed. She didn’t want her husband in jail, but she knew he would choose to be vindicated by a legal tribunal. Within five minutes they had found Sheriff Smythe.
The commodore and Paul held out their wrists, and Moore, by right of command, spoke. “Sir, we surrender to the charges of piracy against the Republic of Texas.”
Emma held her breath.
The lawman hitched up his breeches and shook his head. “Arrest you? Not on your life.”
Emma watched Paul’s reaction. There was disappointment in his eyes. He needed a court-martial to clear his name and Moore’s, and to clear the tarnished repute of the Navy.
Paul was preoccupied during the dinner that Anthaline had prepared in his and Emma’s honor. He wasn’t worried over his fate insofar as Sam Houston was concerned. The public had vindicated the Navy men. Houston was sure to abide by public opinion; he’d either drop the charges or assemble a panel of judges.
But the crates that had been off-loaded in secrecy weighed heavily on Paul’s mind.
He was considering his next step. Should he turn them over to the Department of War and Marine? That was his desire, for Paul could not condone Rankin’s treachery against the Republic of Texas.
He glanced at his wife. She was engaged in animated conversation with her friends and family. Oh, how he loved her! Could he destroy her by turning that evidence over to the authorities?
Anthaline’s serving girl pushed the swinging dining-room door and popped her head through the opening. “There’s a sailor here to see you, Mr. Paul. Reese McDonald, he says he is.”
Paul excused himself and rose from the table.
Emma put down her fork. Reese was a dear fellow and should be included in their private celebration! “Pardon me for a moment,” she said, and she, too, quit the dining room.
In the darkened hallway leading into Anthaline’s parlor, Emma opened her mouth to speak, then closed it to wait for a break in the men’s conversation.
Paul paced the room as Reese, speaking, stood with hat in hand. “A British frigate sailed into harbor a couple of hours ago. Thought you might want to know about it, sir. They captured Henry Packert and his crew.”
Henry Packert? Emma stepped back and out of sight—behind a potted palm—but not out of eying and eavesdropping range. Why would that pirate be of concern to Paul?
“What happened?” Paul asked.
After we outran the British, apparently the Barbara Elaine fired on them. Packert was outclassed.” Reese lifted a palm. “The corvette sank, and Her Majesty’s men rescued the survivors.”
As she watched a pensive expression come to her husband’s features, questions and a realization came to Emma’s mind. The Barbara Elaine was the black-hulled corvette that Paul had visited not two days earlier. He had said that the pirate captain was known to him, but Henry Packert had never been mentioned. Not then, not subsequently. What secret business had gone on between Paul and the miscreant? She told herself not to jump to conclusions.
Paul rubbed his fingers across his grim mouth. “What have they done with Packert and his men?”
“Turned the lot of them over to Sheriff Smythe.”
“Guess the Brits don’t want the bother of punishing Packert and his men.” Paul rubbed his furrowed brow. “I think I’d like to talk with him.”
“Uh, before you go . . .” Reese caught his arm. “The crates are taken care of.”
“Them,” Paul muttered, as if the subject were belladonna. “Did you put them in the shed?”
“Yes, sir. The one behind your house. It’s secured with a lock.”
“We’ll have to move them tomorrow. I don’t want my wife getting suspicious. Damn! It would’ve been better to leave them in the Wharton’s hold.”
“I agree, sir, but as you reminded me, Houston’s men are liable to confiscate our brig. And you wanted the evidence in a safe place.”
What evidence? Emma wondered. She started to step forth, to demand explanations, but thought better of it. Paul would make excuses. She intended to find out for herself what was in those crates.
“You can depend on me, sir.” A questioning look filled Reese’s blue eyes. “How long are you going to keep those boxes hidden?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Right now I want to have a talk with Packert.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
“Good. Now I’m off to city jail.” Just short of the door, he turned. “Tell my wife and the others . . . tell them the commodore needs me. I’ll meet Emma at home.”
Though the conversation between Paul and his young aide could have been innocent enough, Emma felt there was more to it than met the eye. She turned away and retreated to the dining room. After Reese made his hollow excuse for Paul’s absence, she finished her dinner quickly and, pleading a headache, bid her hostess adieu.
Opening the door to the home she had bought in Galveston wasn’t the joyous occasion she had imagined. Paul should have been with her. But he wasn’t. And she was determined to find out why.
She lit a lantern, found hammer and chisel, and departed for the shed. Wedging the chisel behind the lock’s iron hasp, she pounded the hammer down. After three tries the wood splintered, and she opened the creaking door.
The lantern’s orange glow honed in on two wooden crates, which were each about four by four. She crossed the straw floor. Black stenciling on the boxes read COPPER PIPING—OLIVER SUGAR MILL, HAVANA.
Why did Paul have possession of her uncle’s goods? What did Packert have to do with them? And most of all, why the intrigue? Suspicion crawled up her spine, and a sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Paul still sought revenge against her uncle. Apparently Henry Packert, the man who had fired the Oliver factor house, was mixed up in this, too.
She tried to wedge the chisel between the top of a crate and one of its side boards. Her diminutive size and the awkwardness of the situation worked against her. The shed was empty save for the crates, and with no stool available, she was unable to get the needed leverage.
Finally, in anger and frustration, she gave up the physical struggle. She could have gotten a stool from the house, could have returned to try again; but she had decided against it. What did the contents matter? The bald fact was that Paul was keeping something from her, and whatever it was, it would probably bring suffering to her marriage.
Yet she didn’t relinquish her determination to find out why those boxes were important to her husband. She would confront Paul—and he had better be honest.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Don’t lie to me, Paul.” Emma curled her hands into fists as the first light of dawn peeked through the windows of their house on the Strand. “I’ve broken the lock off the shed door, and I’ve seen those crates.”
Paul knew a strong offense was the best defense. “So you were eavesdropping on me and Reese.”
His feelings were in turmoil. While he wanted Rankin to suffer for his wrongdoings, he yearned to put the entire matter aside, for Emma. Yet he couldn’t. The agony of his father’s untimely death had haunted him for too many years.
“Didn’t your maman teach you it’s naughty to snoop?” he hedged.
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m a child. I’m your wife. Your partner. Your equal partner.”
“We are partners.” He rubbed his brow. “And I hope this partnership is strong enough to weather the storm that’s brewing. . . . When we went aboard that Centralist schooner I found those boxes.”
She advanced toward him. “You lied to me. You’re still seeking revenge against my uncle.”
“He’s an evil man, Emma.”
“He’s human. In humankind lie good and evil. I’ll admit he has his faults. But who are we to pass judgment? I do not have a sterling character, and neither do you.”
“Granted. But have you sold munitions to the enemy? I haven’t.”
No matter how much she wished to keep Simon Dyer’s drugged confession a secret, her future with Paul depended on total honesty. But, in her mind, if she betrayed a patient’s confidence she’d never be able to doctor again.
She turned away. Around her, and within her, was her life to come—Paul, their child. But what kind of future would they have if she allowed his vindictiveness to go on? She had to sacrifice professional ethics to heal her husband.
She took a deep breath, and spoke out. “My uncle didn’t sell arms to the Centralists.”
Angered and unbelieving, he lashed out. “Spoken by a woman who believes no fault could possibly lie with her blood kin.”
Emma rounded on him. “I speak the truth. I know Simon Dyer, and he told me he was the mastermind behind that shipment of arms, not Uncle Rankin.”
“Simon Dyer?” Bewilderment etched each syllable. “How do you know him?”
“He was my consumptive patient in St. Martinsville. Under the influence of ether he told me about his dealings with my uncle.”
She became silent, and Paul waited in vain for her to speak again. Finally he asked, “Would you care to explain?”
Emma’s green eyes were clouded with agony. “Apparently Mr. Dyer wanted to get even with Uncle Rankin. He was the one who . . . Paul, he killed that woman in Sisal.”
“How convenient. You conjure up this story, making Dyer the guilty party. Pardon me, chérie, but I don’t believe it.”
“I didn’t suppose you would.”
“There’s something you need to know, Emma. When I went aboard the Barbara Elaine, Packert told me something. Your uncle—”
“Wait just a minute!” Emma poked Paul’s chest with the tip of her forefinger. “Your friend Henry Packert brings up another point. I think you were in collusion with him regarding the factor-house fire.”
“In a way,” Paul confessed. “He told me a shipment of arms—your uncle’s illicit goods—were stored in the warehouse. I went into the building to see for myself. I intended to turn the evidence over to the authorities. But Packert figured out what I was up to, and he attacked me. My physical condition wasn’t good, if you’ll remember.”
“You didn’t find what you were looking for?”
“No. I expected the building to explode, but it didn’t. Apparently that was a dummy shipment.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Arranged by Simon Dyer. . . the guilty party in the deal.”
“Even if what you say is true, I cannot—will not—put aside my hostilities.”
“You never could forget and forgive.”
“Oh, really? If you’ll remember, Emma, I’ve done a pretty good job of it when it comes to you.”
“I’ll concede that. But I can’t condone your quest for revenge against my uncle.”
“Why don’t you forgive and forget?” Paul asked. Receiving no response, he added, “I’m not out to hurt your family, at least not now. But Rankin Oliver must pay for his misdeeds.”
“I’ve told you—he’s not guilty of helping the Centralists.”
Paul took a contemplative breath. “Since Simon confessed his crimes, did he tell you they murdered my father?”
Emma moistened her lips and squeezed her lids. “Yes.”
“Then as long as there is a breath in my body, I’ll seek revenge against Rankin Oliver.”
“It’s revenge or me,” she said quietly.
“Is that an ultimatum?”
“Yes!”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Emma about Kathryn. Yet he wouldn’t. He had made his arguments, and Emma was either with him or she was against him. It was as simple as that.
He stepped forward and took her elbows. “You’d give up all we have for your uncle?”
Considering all that she—they—had to lose, she was tempted to reconsider . . . to accept his touch. . . to forget about everyone and everything that worked against them. But she couldn’t. “And you, Paul? Would you give up all we have to right a
wrong long since done?”
He didn’t answer, and his lack of response spoke louder than words.
As if in a daze, Emma collapsed onto a chair. This was the end. Paul was diseased with vengeance; there was no fighting it. Her devotion had its limits. She would not throw herself on his emotional funeral pyre in an act of suttee.
From the battle in which there was no victory, and from which there could be no escape, she made an honorable retreat. “I’m going back to New Orleans. Possibly forever. There are a lot of things I need to think through.” She backed away. “And if you try to stop me, I’ll never return. Do you understand?”
Hope faded in his eyes. “I won’t stop you, Emma,” he whispered in defeat. “Take our child and run.”
Valise in one hand, Woodley’s lead in the other, Emma stood on Menard’s wharf. Three hours had passed since her ultimatum to Paul. Her instincts told her to go home, either to New Orleans or to Virginia, yet she hesitated. To run like a spoiled child to the embrace of her family didn’t seem right. Perhaps it was pride that kept her from it. Probably, she figured, but she wanted to face this upheaval in a mature manner.
Yet she felt so alone in the world. She had lost everything—home, future, career. Paul. Most of all, Paul. Behind her was the town she had come to love, the man she loved beyond life itself. How could she face living without him?
You have to be strong, she told herself. You haven’t lost everything. You have a baby to think of.
And as long as she had the child, she had a part of Paul. The best part. The product of their love.
She also had many other blessings to be thankful for. Memories of the good times, of the love they had shared. She was young and healthy. Thanks to Uncle Rankin she wasn’t destitute. Her line of sight swept across Galveston Bay. Birds were singing out their early morning calls. The salt breeze blew. People were boarding the New Orleans-bound ship. Life went on.
The ticket agent cut in front of her. “Miz Rousseau,” he said, “if you don’t hurry aboard, the ship’ll leave without you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Upton, but I’m not leaving.”