“I spent the afternoon at the Livingstons’,” Hannah said.
“On what errand?”
“I was invited to take tea.”
If he was affronted by the idea that she had been a guest in the Livingstons’ parlor, he hid it well. It was a trick that Hannah knew, too; she would not show this man any weakness, no matter how far he tried her patience. Jennet was another matter, of course.
“And then?”
“Just after dark I walked back here in the company of a young boy called Leo.”
“We haven’t been able to locate this Leo,” Urquhart said.
Hannah raised an eyebrow in Jennet’s direction.
“It’s true,” Jennet said. “There’s no sign of him. I think Honoré may have scared him off.”
“Or worse,” Hannah said.
Urquhart frowned. “And then?” he prompted.
“When I came into the smaller courtyard—the one off the rue Toulouse—Honoré Poiterin was waiting in the dark. He put a gun to my back and forced me into the clinic.”
Urquhart looked up from his notebook, where he had yet to write down a word. “Clinic?”
“The little clinic, we call it,” Hannah said. “You probably have heard it called the Redbone Clinic. It is attached to the rue Dauphine kine-pox clinic by adjoining courtyards.”
He pursed his lips, and then nodded. “Go on.”
Hannah looked at him directly. “For the next ten hours or so he kept me there, bound by my wrists to a cot. You can see the extent of my injuries. Or Dr. Savard can provide you with a written list, if you need one.”
Urquhart considered his pencil. Finally he said, “It’s your statement that Honoré Poiterin attacked you, bound you, beat you, and raped you over a ten-hour period.”
Jennet drew in a sharp breath.
“Yes,” Hannah said. “That is my statement.”
“You want me to arrest the man?”
“Captain Urquhart,” Hannah said. “You asked for a statement. I made one. What you do with it is outside my sphere of influence.”
Urquhart scratched the corner of his mouth. His fingers were stained with tobacco and gunpowder and ink, and his nails were rimmed black. He said, “I heard rumors about you, but I didn’t believe half of them. Now that I hear you talk I guess a lot of what’s being said is true.”
Hannah gave Jennet a sharp look that said, Don’t. Urquhart was looking at her, too. “This was the same day you called the constables into Mrs. Livingston’s parlor to remove Mr. Poiterin’s grandmother.”
“That’s so,” Jennet said.
“The same Mrs. Poiterin who has filed a lawsuit claiming you’re unstable and that you should surrender her great-grandson to her care.”
Hannah had not heard this news. She saw that Jennet had not wanted to bother her with it yet.
“Captain Urquhart, that lawsuit was dismissed, as you well know,” Jennet said. “She has no claim on my son.”
He made a humming sound deep in his throat that might have been disapproval or dissent. “Whatever the facts, it looks to me as if you’ve got the upper hand in this feud you’ve got going with the Poiterins,” Urquhart said. “Why stir things up again?”
“Clearly you don’t know Honoré Poiterin,” Jennet said stiffly. “He is capable of things—” She broke off and turned her face away. “He will never stop. This assault on my sister-in-law won’t satisfy him. Until we can leave Louisiana we are in danger, all of us.”
Urquhart’s expression gave nothing away. He might believe Jennet or think her a hysteric; he might pity or despise her. He pushed out a great sigh.
“I’ll talk to the man,” he said. “And make it clear that if any more bad luck comes your way, he’ll have to deal with me. Will that do?”
Jennet hesitated. “No. But I understand it is all we can expect of you.”
Urquhart stood, put the unused notebook back into his jacket along with the pencil, and touched his brow with one finger. “Thank you for your time.”
“Wait,” Jennet said, her tone deceptively even. “Aren’t you going to write out the statement for her signature?”
Urquhart’s brow creased, but Jennet went on before he could respond.
“You’re very busy, of course. We anticipated as much.” Jennet took a sheet of paper from the table next to her and held it out. “So Miss Bonner dictated her statement to me, and signed it. It has been witnessed by Dr. Savard and his wife, and by me as well.”
“So I see,” said Urquhart. Inside his beard, his mouth twitched. He took the paper and folded it carefully before he tucked it into his jacket.
“If you should lose it, don’t worry,” Jennet said. “I will make copies. One for Mr. Livingston, one for Governor Claiborne, one for the mayor—”
“I take your meaning, Mrs. Bonner,” Urquhart said with a stiff smile. “Now if you’ll permit me to get back to work.”
When he was gone Jennet collapsed onto the chair. She said, “That was a waste of time. Honoré is not afraid of men like Urquhart. He’s not afraid of anything.”
Hannah closed her eyes and remembered saying those very words. Maman Zuzu had smiled at her as one might smile at a deaf child who denies the possibility of song.
She said, “There’s a free woman of color called Maman Zuzu. I’d like to send a message to her. I think probably Clémentine could arrange it.”
Chapter 40
“Papa says you are a very bad patient,” Henry Savard told Hannah the next morning. “Mama says he is not one to talk, because when he had the influenza she had to pour laudanum down his throat to keep him in his sickbed. Rachel says—”
Hannah cleared her throat, and Henry, unusually attuned to her moods for a boy of his age, stopped expectantly. “Do you want to sleep now?”
In fact Hannah didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to be out of bed, because Paul Savard was right: She was a very bad patient, and moreover she considered his directions too extreme. She bit back the things she might have said, and concentrated instead on young Henry’s expression. Such a serious boy, so eager to share his stories.
She said, “I have an idea. If your mama says you may, you might bring me the newspaper. Then we can read together about the war.”
Henry’s eyes widened with pleasure, and then his whole face fell. “I would like that, but Mama will say no. She thinks the newspaper will give me bad dreams. Because we lost the gunships.” He leaned forward and whispered, “I’m not supposed to know, but everybody is talking about it.”
Hannah’s conscience was no match for her concern or her boredom, especially as Henry already knew what his mother wished he did not. She said, “Won’t you tell me?”
He wiggled in his eagerness, glanced at the door to make sure there was no adult there to hear, and told her what he knew. The good news, he wanted her to know first of all, was that the pirate Lafitte had stopped Major General Jackson on the street—in broad daylight, in view of a dozen people—and simply talked the Baratarians into the major general’s good favor.
“The governor must be very cross,” Henry said. “Lafitte is always getting the best of him. Now that Major General Jackson has taken the Baratarians’ side, there’s no hope of Lafitte hanging. Especially if he keeps New Orleans safe, as Clémentine says he most certainly will.”
“You admire the Baratarians?” Hannah asked.
Henry looked very thoughtful for a moment. “No. I can’t admire them. Mama says they really are very bad, that they steal and smuggle slaves. Slave smuggling is the worst thing of all. Mama is a Quaker.” He glanced at Hannah to see how she would take this.
“I am not a Quaker,” Hannah said. “But I agree with your mama, it is the very worst thing. I once knew a very good woman who ran away from her owner because she wanted to raise her child to be free.”
Henry said, “What happened to them?”
Hannah hesitated. “The little boy grew up a free man. He’s an apprentice cordwainer in Johnstown, near where I was b
orn.”
Henry nodded. Hannah could almost see him sorting away this story for further thought.
Then he said, “There is bad news, too.”
And it was very bad, so bad that Hannah at first could hardly credit what she was hearing. The entire American fleet—five gunboats and a tender—had been lost to a British invasion force. The British now had control of Lake Borgne.
“You mustn’t worry,” Henry said, in a voice and tone that echoed his father exactly. “Major General Jackson has sent Major LaCoste and his battalion and some dragoons and lots of artillery. They will guard the roads into the city.”
“I’ll do my best to remain calm,” Hannah said.
“Mama says she wishes the rest of the city would do the same,” Henry said, his color rising perceptibly. “People are very upset. Mme. Grandissime told Rachel’s aunt Livingston that a thousand English soldiers are marching up the Chef Menteur road right now, and a battalion of free men of color could no more stop them than a litter of puppies could stop a stampede of horses. Clémentine says we should go away to a safer place, but Mama—” He looked again over his shoulder and lowered his voice.
“Mama says doctors don’t run off when people need them most. Clémentine is very grumpy about it. Rachel might go with her aunt Livingston, if things get much worse.”
“And what about you, would you like to go away someplace safe?” Hannah asked.
Henry drew up, his small face creased in surprise and insult. “I am not afraid.”
“Of course not,” Hannah said. “But if your sister goes, she’ll need someone to protect her.”
That gave the boy pause. He studied Hannah very closely to see if it was some kind of trick, and she returned his gaze with complete calm.
“Go ask Rachel,” Hannah said. “See what her plans are.”
Henry got up so abruptly that the stool wobbled. At the same time Hannah heard Jennet’s voice in the hall. When she opened the door Henry hurried out of the room.
“Did I interrupt something?” Jennet asked. She was carrying a basket, which she put down on the table near the window and began to unpack. A covered bowl, a basket of fresh white rolls still warm from the oven, a small jug. It seemed to Hannah that the Livingstons’ cook was in some kind of competition with Clémentine to force-feed her back to good health.
“Henry has been telling me about the loss of the gunboats.”
Jennet’s face stilled. “I brought the paper for you to read. In case Henry left out any detail.”
“Is it true that the entire American fleet is lost?”
Jennet pushed out a soft sigh. “Such as it was in the southern theater. Our five gunboats against a whole flotilla.”
“Maybe you should leave with Mrs. Livingston.”
Jennet’s mouth pursed itself in distaste. “Aye, weel. She’s packed, it’s true, but not quite ready to leave, and no more am I. I am determined that we should stay together, Hannah. The troubles start when we let circumstances separate us.”
Hannah let out a small laugh. She remembered saying something like that to her own father and stepmother many years ago.
“You may be right,” she said. And: “What does Luke think?”
“He won’t hear of us going anywhere so long as Honoré is—” She paused, and flicked a hand toward the window.
So long as Honoré Poiterin was in the world, Hannah thought, none of them was safe. She took inventory of her injuries. Her wounds were mostly healed, the last of the bruises faded to a dull yellow cast. There was no tenderness in her belly or ribs. It was true that she was weak and prone to headache, but today she was much improved over yesterday, and she expected that trend to continue.
She was more than capable of walking out of this room, this building, this city. If there were a ship to be had, she could board it, and they could go home. She thought of the American gunboats and the British navy.
“It’s almost as if this place wants us to stay,” Hannah said.
“Oh, aye,” Jennet said, following Hannah’s line of thought without hesitation. “Betimes I can almost feel its grip on my ankle.”
The slash of memory made Hannah catch her breath. For a moment she could not rid herself of the feel of Honoré Poiterin’s hands on her skin. She turned her head to the pillow and fought for her composure.
“…tomorrow’s parade,” Jennet was saying. She put a tray on Hannah’s lap and sat down beside her.
“Are you unwell?”
“A little nausea, gone already,” Hannah said. “There’s another parade?”
Jennet studied her for a long moment, and then relented. “Aye. Luke says it was Livingston’s idea, taken up eagerly enough by Jackson. A grand review of all the battalions left in the city. They meant to wait until Kentucky and Tennessee troops get here—it won’t be more than a few days, Luke says—but this business on the lake made them reconsider. Can you guess what’s really on the great major general’s mind?”
“Martial law,” Hannah said. She picked up her soup spoon.
Jennet hiccupped a laugh. “Did Henry tell you that?”
“No.” Hannah gestured with her chin to the newspaper that lay folded on the tray and the bold headline. “But I can still read.”
Hannah ladled soup while she gathered her thoughts. She could feel Jennet’s gaze on her, insistent in her curiosity.
“You might as well come out and say it,” Jennet said finally. “I can almost see it sitting on your tongue.”
Hannah hitched a breath. “I need you to help me convince the Savards that I am well enough to leave here.”
“Leave here?” Jennet looked around herself at the small, neat room, at the comfortable bedding and the sunlight coming through the window that opened into the courtyard. There were birds singing in the trees and, in counterpoint, the sound of dice being thrown against a brick wall. The armed guard was still in place, and would be until they left New Orleans. Or until they were called to battle.
“Where would you go?” Jennet asked.
“Not very far. I’d like to move into Ben’s apartment.” And in response to Jennet’s confused look: “Above the kitchen.”
“I know where it is,” Jennet said.
Hannah couldn’t help smiling. “Are you worried for my good name, or my safety?”
“Your safety, of course,” Jennet said, so huffily that Hannah thought she had struck closer to the mark than she imagined.
“I don’t think Poiterin will come after me again,” Hannah said. “And I would dearly like some solitude. Surely you can understand that.”
“Oh, aye,” Jennet said. “The city feels like a beehive to me, and all of us crawling over each other. I do understand.” She nodded firmly, as if to convince herself. “I’ll speak to them, then, if it’s important to you.”
Hannah said, “I’ve got a better idea. Help me over there now, and speak to them later.”
“Aye,” Jennet said. “It is far easier to ask forgiveness than permission. I should scold ye but it would be dishonest of me, as I’ve done exactly the same for all my life. Come then, let’s see you dressed.”
The landlady who had once done everything in her power to keep M. Christian Reynaud as a tenant through the autumn months was no longer so dependent on his custom. In fact, she could hardly disguise the fact that she was glad to see him go.
He stood with her in the narrow parlor of the little hotel, counting coins into her gloved palm. Her small, thin face creased itself in an attempt not to look pleased, and Kit understood exactly why. She would triple the rent on his modest rooms before he was out the door, and find a new tenant before an hour was out. “I hope you will remember us when next you visit New Orleans, M. Reynaud.”
Kit inclined head and shoulders to save himself the trouble of lying. When he came back to this city he would have his choice of accommodations, as would all of the English officers and their families, who waited on Cat Island planning victory and Yuletide balls. Of course he must get out of th
e city first, before Jackson declared martial law. Once that was done—and no doubt it would happen during the grand review scheduled for this very afternoon—every lane and street out of the city would be blocked, and every able-bodied man would be in one kind of uniform or another.
He made his way to the stables across the way, weaving through the crowded street. People were already gathering for the parade. They would provide cover for his departure, as they had when he came back to the city.
Inside the cool, dim stables there was no sign of Stadler or any of his slaves. No doubt the parade explained the quiet in a place of business that was normally very busy. Stadler did a great deal of business because he kept his stables in meticulous order and his horses were healthy and groomed and properly fed.
He called, and got no answer.
Kit swallowed down his irritation and considered. He could find a different public stable, or he could help himself to a horse and saddle here. That would mean going back into the hotel to leave money for Stadler, but he could see no alternative that didn’t involve a great waste of time. He walked deeper into the shadows along the stalls, looking for the bay mare he liked best and finding her at the very end.
“There you are,” he said. “Come, old girl, we’re off.”
The mare nickered at the sound of his voice and shifted on her feet.
“Not today,” said an unfamiliar voice from the shadows. And: “Leave your hands where I can see them, Captain Wyndham. I have a musket aimed at your back.”
Many things went through Kit’s mind in a great tumble, but loudest of all was the echo of his name. Captain Wyndham. Captain Wyndham. Captain Wyndham.
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said in his best local French.
“No mistake,” said the stranger behind him, keeping to English. “Christian Wyndham, an officer in His Majesty’s forces on the North American continent. Turn around.”
Sara Donati - [Wilderness 05] Page 13
