King, Ship, and Sword l-16

by Dewey Lambdin

  As Jean-Joseph glibly continued, requesting that La Contessa herself attend his charge, knowing that La Contessa was somewhat fluent in English, a couple entered the shop behind them.

  The young fellow was a Major in the dark green, scarlet-collared and -trimmed uniform coat of the Chasseurs, very gay and charming. The young lady with him was stunningly beautiful, with blue-grey eyes and chestnut-coloured hair, done up in ringlets framing her face, Chinois bangs on her forehead, and a chignon behind.

  "… Madame Lewrie wishes to sample your scents, your colognes, and bath powders, mademoiselle," Jean-Joseph went on, tipping the girl a wink to let her know that Madame had money and would not know if she was being gulled. "Your very best, n'est-ce pas?"

  At the mention of Caroline's name, the girl with the chestnut hair blanched and seized her companion's arm for support.

  Lewrie! C'est lui? Impossible! she thought, her mind areel; it cannot be!

  "Charitй, you are unwell, ma chйrie?" the young Major enquired.

  "The uhm… the richness of the aromas overcome me," she told him, recovering her aplomb and plastering gay coquetry on her face; moving deeper into the store so she could look back, from beneath lowered lashes, at the woman who went by the name of Lewrie.

  She is very attractive, Charitй Angelette de Guilleri thought; for a woman in her… fourties? she sneeringly over-estimated. Is she his widow or another sanglante… a "Bloody"?

  For here we meet someone else who'd "crossed hawses" with Capt. Alan Lewrie; Charitй Angelette de Guilleri had once been the younger daughter of a rich Creole planter family in Louisiana, the belle of any gathering in her beloved New Orleans… even if that original French colony had been traded off long before to the grubby Spanish, an odious fact that she, and many other French Creoles, had resented.

  Everyone wished to restore Louisiana and New Orleans to France. They debated it, talked about it, emoted over it, yet… so few tried to do anything about it, so long as the rice and sugar crops were good, the prices high, the ships came from round the world for their produce, and the moribund, lazy Spanish officials left them alone. As light and as weak as the Spanish yoke was, it was still an onerous occupation, so much so that, at last, Charitй and her brothers-oh, her clever and active, handsome brothers, long dead now!… Hippolyte and Helio, with their impoverished cousin Jean-Marie Rancour, whose family had fled the slave rebellion and bloody massacres of whites and landowners on St. Domingue with less than a tithe of their former wealth-had sworn to take action, to set a patriotic example for everyone else of like, but timid, mind. The spirit of revolution stalked the Earth, after all… first among those barbarous Yankees in the American Colonies, then in the beloved belle France. To rise up, to strike, was their patriotic duty! The civilised world would be re-made!

  Two old privateers from the French and Indian War, Boudreaux Balfa and Jйrфme Lanxade, had access to schooners and their old crewmen downriver in the bayous and bays, and to raise the funds to start a revolution, to purchase the arms required for the time when the people would rise up, they had engaged in piracy.

  Thrilling piracy, against all ships but French, which, admittedly were rare in the Gulf of Mexico in 1798 and 1799, Spanish ships the most preferred, but any nation's would suit, so long as they had rich cargoes to sell off, and money aboard.

  Thrilling, too, was the life of a pirate, a secret sea-rover, an unsuspected rebel, like the bare-breasted heroine of the French Revolution, the emblematic Marianne with the flagstaff of the Tricolour in one hand and a bayonetted musket in the other, in the forefront of the battle line and urging the others on against tyrants and oppressors!

  Exciting, too, had been living two lives: she was Charitй the demure coquette in the city, but aboard their schooner Le Revenant she donned buccaneer clothes, riding boots and skin-tight breeches, loose flowing shirts and snug vests, with pistols in her sash and a sword on her hip, and she'd been a good shot, too, as much a terror to the crews of the ships they took as the fabled women pirates of an earlier age, Anne Bonny and Mary Read… even if they had been Anglais!

  But that sanglant, that Anglais salaud Alan Lewrie had come upriver to New Orleans, play-acting a penniless but skilled English adventurer and merchantman mate, in civilian clothes, to spy out a source of their piracy. Unsuspecting 'til it was much too late, Charitй had found him amusing, attractive, and eminently satisfying at lovemaking.

  She blushed as she recalled how she'd almost recruited the bastard into their covert band, considered him as something more permanent than a wicked fling, and, for a brief, naпve time, felt love for him!

  To be betrayed at Barataria Bay when Alan Lewrie and his frigate and a schooner had turned up, landing sailors and Marines on the ocean side of Grand Isle, sailing in himself and killing poor old Jйrфme Lanxade with a sword, taking his schooner, and ordering his men to kill both her brothers and her cousin in the foulest way!

  She and that Laffite boy, and Boudreaux Balfa and his son, had fled in a pirogue. Lewrie had pursued them in a rowing boat, and with tears of rage in her eyes, she'd levelled a Girandoni air-rifle, taken aim square in the middle of Lewrie's chest, and, despite her tears, was sure she'd killed him! The range had been nearly fourty yards, he had been standing amidships of his boat, and had fallen backwards as if he had been pole-axed, not to arise as long as his boat was in sight.

  The scandal had been hushed up, kept from the Spanish authorities, and Charitй had been sent packing, declared dйbile by the murder of her brothers and cousin, allegedly by runaway slaves round Barataria. She was doomed to live a mundane life with distant relatives, the LeMerciers, in the "quaint" town of Rambouillet, outside Paris. She'd quickly fled that, had found a way to inveigle her way into the company of the elite of the late Directory period and the tripartate consulate; into the best salons, where, with her beauty, her outspokenness, her coquetry, and feminine charms, she had gotten close to the Director of National Police, the clever if ugly and bald Fouchй, the elegant but lame Foreign Minister, Talleyrand, and, after his seizure of power, the First Consul, Napoleon Bonaparte himself!

  Her "slaying" of the Anglais Navy Captain, her attempt at revolution in New Orleans and Louisiana, had made her a minor celebrity in her own right, and the loss of her brothers and cousin a tragic figure who pleaded for a restoration of the Louisiana Territory to France.

  Now… would it all come undone? Did Alan Lewrie live? She had to know. She idly strolled closer to the English woman, sniffing at articles on display, listening closely, though to another person in the shop just another gay coquette, chuckling and teasing her handsome companion, the dashing young Major of Chasseurs.

  La Contessa emerged from the rear of the shop, a petite brunette with large brown eyes, a fine, trim figure, and the face of a teenaged angel-minx. Oddly, La Contessa bore a slim and wiry young white-and-tan cat in her arms, a cat with a diamond-studded collar round its neck.

  "Ah, Jean-Joseph, mon cher, so 'appy to see you again," said La Contessa with a grand and languid air usually seen among the "aristos" of the pre-Revolutionary era. She presented her hand to be kissed. "You bring a distinguish' English lady to my 'umble shop? C'est merveilleux!"

  "Allow me to present Madame Caroline Lewrie, a visitor from England to you, madame" Jean-Joseph smarmily announced. "Madame Lewrie I present to you Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino, famed throughout Paris as La Contessa de la Bastia… on Corsica, the 'queen' of parfumeurs!"

  "Phoebe… Aretino," Caroline exclaimed in a stiff tone, each word huffed, with her eyes suddenly a'squint and her brow furrowed.

  "Madame Lew…?" Sophie Aretino stammered, her mouth agawp in utter shock. "Ahem! You are, ah, ze uhm… related to, ah…?"

  "Toulon, seventeen ninety-four," Caroline flatly intoned, "you and my former ward, Vicomtesse Sophie de Maubeuge, escaped aboard my husband's ship? You're that… Phoebe Aretino?"

  "For w'eech I am ze eternally grateful, Madame Lew… " Phoebe stammered some more, turning radish-col
oured.

  "I just bet you were!" Caroline snapped, turning to leave. "We will shop elsewhere, Jean. Never in her place!"

  "But, madame, I do not-" Jean-Joseph spluttered. "I will give my husband your regards" Caroline archly concluded with a snide smile. "Do not expect them to be returned. Au revoir!"

  Give him your…? Zut! Merde alors, he lives! Charitй thought in sudden alarm, like to faint at that news.

  "Really, ma chйrie, you look as if you will swoon," her Major of Chasseurs worriedly said, more than glad to put an arm about her to support her, for, like most men who met Charitй de Guilleri, the dashing young cavalryman, Major Denis Clary, was enamoured. "Perhaps a restorative brandy, or…?"

  "Ah!" Charitй denied, taking in a deep breath. "No, mon cher, I am fine, truly. Excuse me for one moment? Ah, Mademoiselle Aretino. Who was that horrid creature? Anglaise, was she? They are such a rude people. Pardon me for asking, but… why would a stranger insult you so?" she solicitously enquired.

  "It is no… " the "Contessa of Bastia" began to snap, setting her slim cat down on a glass-topped counter and delicately putting her fingertips to her temples. "Oui, she was rude. Such a shock, to hear her name, and… "

  To Charitй's amazement, Mlle. Phoebe Aretino's distress turned to a wistful smile of reverie as she absently began to stroke her cat.

  "From so long ago, n'est-ce pas?" Phoebe Aretino said further. "Perhaps not all the Anglais are horrid. Some of their men… well." That, with even more wistfulness, almost a sheepish smile.

  He had you, too! Charitй wryly realised, and, for but a brief second, almost felt a pang of… dare she call it jealousy?

  "I may help you select a scent, mademoiselle?" Phoebe Aretino asked, back to business. "Something new to delight your charming young man? More of a scent you purchased before?"

  On the streets outside, Caroline Lewrie set a hectic, furious pace along the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, to turn south cross traffic down the east side of the Palais Egalitй to return to the Rue Honorй. Her apple-cheeked maid, Marianne, puffed along in her wake, as did her guide, Jean-Joseph, who took the kerb side to protect her gown from the muck thrown up from carriage wheels.

  "Madame Lewrie, I do not understand," he said. " La Contessa's is the most exclusive… nowhere else in Paris is there such a variety… Did she somehow give offence? If so, my pardons to you for taking you there, but… " Jean-Joseph had not walked all that fast since his last forced marches into Savoia in '97.

  "I know of her," Caroline snapped. "Until you named her, I did not make the connexion." Under her breath, she added, "The baggage!"

  Oh ho! Jean-Joseph intuited, carefully hiding a smirk as he fell behind her a step to mask his amusement. Capitaine Lewrie is un chaud lapin, the hot rabbit? Mon Dieu, he 'dipped his biscuit' in La Contessa? Oh, I see! The lucky shit! Before or after he marries, hmm? Then, with a Gallic shrug and an urge to whistle gaily, he wryly thought, During, hawn hawn!

  "Fabrics, Jean, the best!" Caroline huffed. "Then dressmakers, milliners, everything!"

  Oh, this will cost M'sieur Lewrie dear, Jean-Joseph gleefully thought, all but rubbing his hands with joy over how much she would be spending with his friends, and how large his kick-back would be.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Before it was re-established, the British Embassy had been in French hands for several years, from 1793 'til 1802, and had not been treated well. It had an odour of dirty feet and old socks, of barrack farts and sweat, as if troops of the Garde Nationale had been garrisoned there. Effort had been expended to clean it up and make it grand once more, but it was a continuing process. After announcing himself and the reason for his call, Lewrie had cooled his heels in the baroque lower lobby for an hour or better, before some "catch-fart" flunky saw him abovestairs to the offices of Sir Anthony Paisley-Templeton, who held the odd title of Chargй d'Affaires, which could have meant anything. Lewrie had met a few people who parted their last names, and had come away with a less than favourable impression… one reenforced by his first sight of the fellow. Sir Anthony was a wispy young fellow, at least ten or twelve years Lewrie's junior, with pale skin and a stylish thick head of pale blond hair, poetically curled on top, sides, and nape, but brushed forward over his forehead, his long sideburns brushed forward towards his cheeks, as well. He sported stylish suitings, too, it went without saying, in the latest French cut, with upstanding shirt collars.

  "Captain Alan Lewrie, so honoured t'meet you, sir," Sir Anthony enthused as he offered a hand to be shaken, one so limp once taken in hand that Lewrie might as well have been shaking a dead fish. "Followed your trial last year, don't ye know… capital doings, capital, hah!"

  With about as much true enthusiasm as a clench-jawed Oxonian of "the Quality" ever allowed out in Publick, Lewrie took note.

  "Now, what is it you wish to do, Captain Lewrie? Meet Bonaparte? Sorry, but… that would be impossible, it just isn't done, old chap," Sir Anthony pooh-poohed.

  "A rencontre with Bonaparte isn't necessary," Lewrie told him. "Didn't exactly enjoy the first, anyway. The point is… I've several swords, surrendered by French naval captains, and I'd like t'return 'em to their owners, or their heirs. In exchange, Bonaparte does have one of my old swords… my very first. Nothin' grand about it, but… it is dear t'me. Gifted me just before I gained my lieutenancy, d'ye see."

  "You, erm… kept surrendered swords, sir?" Sir Anthony Paisley-Templeton asked, seeming tremulously appalled. "I thought the customary usage was to refuse, and allow the surrendee to maintain possession of his… honour, sir."

  "It us'lly is… are they alive t'take 'em back," Lewrie said, crossing his legs at sublime ease in a chair cross the desk from the slim diplomat. "Most… weren't," he added with a shrug and a grin.

  "I see," Sir Anthony said with a barely imperceptible gulp.

  "Something could be arranged 'twixt me and their Admiralty… their Ministry of Marine, or whatever they call it?" Lewrie asked. "I didn't think just bargin' in on my own would be a good idea. In the spirit of our newfound peace, though…"

  "Ah, yayss, hmm," Paisley-Templeton drawled, head cocked to one side in sudden thought, then brightened considerably. "Peace! That's the thing, is it not, Captain Lewrie? Hmm. You will take coffee, or tea, sir? And, will, pray, excuse me for a few moments whilst I consult with my superiors?"

  That few moments turned into two cups of very good coffee, one trip down the hall to the "necessary" to pump his bilges, and a third cup before Paisley-Templeton returned.

  "Consider this, Captain Lewrie," Sir Anthony said with genuine enthusiasm, hands rising to frame a stage like a proscenium arch. "A levee in the Tuileries Palace… music, champagne, French chittering and flirting… the First Consul, General Napoleon Bonaparte, is there with his cabinet, his coterie. You are presented to him and perhaps to his wife, Josephine, by my superior… or one of his representatives, hmm?"

  Like yerself, d'ye mean, Lewrie sarcastically thought, even as he kept his phyz sobre and nodded sagaciously; gain up in the world like a Montgolfier balloon, do ye hope?

  "Bonaparte… forewarned through his Foreign Minister, M'sieur Talleyrand," Sir Anthony speculated on, "will be prepared to accept the delivery of your captured swords. With enough forewarning, perhaps he will be able to find your sword.

  "Then, sir! Then, with hundreds of people looking on, you and he will make a formal exchange," Sir Anthony fantasised. "Your… how many? Five, good ho, five. Your five swords presented to him, then… after some kind and sincere words shared, some smiles 'twixt warriors… he will return to you your old sword… or one suitable enough to the occasion in value and style to satisfy you," Sir Anthony tossed off as if it was no matter. "Gad, what a place of honour that'll have in your house, Captain Lewrie! Yours, or a proper replacement, from the hand of Bonaparte, why… one could dine out on that for years, ha ha!"

  "Hold on a bit, sir," Lewrie said with a gawp. "I'm t'meet the Corsican tyrant? Glad-hand the bastard?"

  Sir Ant
hony Paisley-Templeton visibly shuddered and pouted.

  "Now, Captain Lewrie… in the interests of continental peace and goodwill, surely you could find more… charitable expressions," he chid Lewrie. "Now he's First Consul, perhaps for life it is lately rumoured, and so involved with a sweeping reform of France's legal system, its roads, canals, harbours, and civic improvements, standardising its currency and all, could you not, perhaps, give Bonaparte the benefit of the doubt? Think of him as a great, new-come man?"

  "Don't know… seems a bit theatrical t'me," Lewrie dubiously replied, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "But… long as I get my old sword back, I s'pose I could play along."

  "That's the spirit, Captain Lewrie!" Sir Anthony cheered. "Now, you must give me all the particulars about your old sword."

  "Should've brought my dress uniform, d'ye think, sir?" Lewrie asked.

  "Good heavens, no, sir!" Paisley-Templeton gasped, about ready to shudder again. "General Bonaparte usually dons red velvet suitings for formal levees… most un-military. The sight of an officer from a branch of his recent opponents in uniform might be… insulting, my superior believes. Something new, stylish… uhm, might I give you the name of my tailor here in Paris, sir?" Sir Anthony enquired, with an equally dubious expression as he looked Lewrie's suit up and down.

  "Make my wife happy," Lewrie mused aloud. "A reason to purchase court clothing, hey?"

  "You and your wife together, sir? That would be even more pacific," Paisley-Templeton gushed. "Dare she take wine with Josephine? Well, perhaps that might be a bit of a stretch, but… as to what the old sword looks like, then, Captain Lewrie?"

  "It was a hanger, patterned on a French infantry sabre-briquet. Royal blue scabbard and sharkskin grip, the grip bound in silver wire, with silver throat, drag, and… "