The Assassins

by F. M. Parker

  Tim looked at the impostor, trying to read his thoughts as the man closely scrutinized the bidders clustered at the bulletin board. During the past days working with him, Tim had come to respect the man’s quickness of thought and his generosity. Now this last pronouncement added further doubt to the impostor’s true role in the events surrounding the attempted murder of Tim. But what justification did he have in making the false claim to the Wollfolk inheritance? Tim shook his head in puzzlement.

  The unsuccessful bidders left. They looked at Lew as they passed. There was not one friendly face among them.

  Lew heard Rawlins speak, his voice crackling with anger as he pointed at the list. “Stanton, we got very few contracts.”

  “Damn it, I can see,” growled Stanton.

  Lew heard Rawlins speak to the man named Stanton.

  That would be Stanton Shattuck. Now Lew had identified the two men Annette Grivot had named.

  Lew spoke in a voice that only Tim could hear. “There is a group of four men that call themselves the Ring. Farr Rawlins, that man with the cane, is one of them. The tall man next to him is another. His name is Stanton Shattuck. I don’t yet know who the remaining two are.”

  Tim only nodded. He would ask Lezin to help him find out more about the group.

  Eight men were left at the bulletin board. Lew checked them, hoping to notice some word or gesture that would tie them to Rawlins and Shattuck. But nothing indicated connection, so he concentrated on their faces, wanting to remember every one.

  * * *

  Shattuck controlled his anger and looked steadily at Rawlins. “You wanted to wait and see what Wollfolk would do about bidding for the military contracts. Now you know. He has won most of them. Are you satisfied?”

  Rawlins remained quiet. He sat in his usual chair in the private office where the Ring often met. He fondled the head of this cane. Shattuck was not in a state to be argued with.

  Shattuck raked his eyes over Loussat and Tarboll. “Nearly three hundred steamboats are coming down the river each month. About that same number of oceangoing ships arrive. Right now most of them are carrying war supplies. The military contracts to handle that cargo are the most lucrative in the city because the soldier boys have a war to fight and no time to argue about cost.”

  “I agree,” said Loussat. “I don’t want to handle only the low-profit private contracts. I’m also worried about the next round of military contracts. Wollfolk may well win those too.”

  “There’s more than the military contracts to think about,” Shattuck said. “There’s the long-term future to plan for. New Orleans will double in size in ten years. The shipping will increase even faster, to many millions of dollars each year. There will be a need for three to four miles of new docks along the river. We must be the men who build those docks. Whoever controls the shipping controls New Orleans. Wollfolk must not be allowed to jeopardize that. Boom times are here now and will stay.”

  Tarboll rapped on the table. “I agree. Let’s not gamble any more on what Wollfolk might do. It’s time he died.”

  “Do you agree with Tarboll that Wollfolk should die?” Shattuck asked Rawlins in a sarcastic voice. He remembered the bruise Rawlins carried for days after Wollfolk had knocked him down in the Saint Charles Hotel.

  Rawlins glared stonily at Shattuck. He had about enough of the big man. “It’s past time somebody should die,” he said in a grating voice.

  Shattuck’s and Rawlins’ eyes did battle. “Who did you mean?” asked Shattuck, his tone suddenly oily.

  Rawlins smiled his thin-lipped smile. “Wollfolk.”

  Shattuck stared hard into Rawlins face for a handful of seconds, then skimmed his attention to Loussat. “What do you say?”

  “Let’s go to Paulaga at once and hire him to dispose of Wollfolk permanently,” Loussat said matter-of-factly. “It should be an easy task for someone as skilled as he is with sword and pistol to kill him.”

  “It’ll be costly,” said Tarboll. “But whatever the price, it’ll be worth it.”

  “Loussat, you know Paulaga best,” Shattuck said. “You make the arrangements.”

  “I’ll do it today.”

  * * *

  “We need fifty to sixty men for the night shift,” Tim said. “They must be men used to hard work and not in the pay of our enemies.”

  “There are probably ten thousand free blacks in the city, but nearly everyone that wants to work is already working,” Julius said.

  “There are slaves in the city jails we can get,” said Spandling. “They’ve been put there by their owners while they are traveling and away from their businesses or plantations. We can hire them on a temporary basis until we can find permanent laborers.”

  Lew sat in the end of the warehouse with the three men. As he listened to them discuss methods to handle the new contracts, he stared at the ships on the river riding higher than the city itself. The sailors on the decks of the ships could look over the levee and down into the town beyond at the women on the streets.

  On the dock, a group of sick and destitute soldiers discharged from the army squatted in a group between two large piles of cargo. They had created a roof to keep off the frequent rain by stretching ropes and hanging a tarpaulin over them. When Julius had started to forcibly remove the soldiers, Lew had stopped him, telling him to let the men alone as long as they did not cause trouble. Cadwaller, the night watchman, complained loudly that the presence of the men made his job more difficult, for they were often coming and going from the dock and he could not tell if a thief had stolen in. Lew had told Cadwaller the ex-soldiers could stay for they had earned a little charity.

  “We could buy enough slaves in a couple of hours to fill a second crew of workers,” Spandling said.

  “I don’t want slaves working for us,” Lew said.

  “But we could give them credit for their work, and when they had earned enough wages, we could then set them free,” Spandling replied.

  “That might work,” Lew said. “When is the next auction?”

  “There’s one this afternoon at the Saint Charles,” said Spandling.

  “I’ll take a look,” Lew said. “Sam, come with me to the hotel.”

  * * *

  Lew caught Tim by the arm and stopped him on the sidewalk. “Wait a minute,” he said.

  An old blind man sat on a rickety chair and played a fiddle. His fingers jumped nimbly from cord to cord and the bow stroked the strings with a bouncy flair.

  Lew leaned against the wall of the nearby building and listened to the delightful tune. The old man bobbed and weaved in harmony with his music. He finished with an energetic flourish of his bow.

  “Well done, fiddler man,” Lew said. He stepped close and dropped a silver dollar into the metal cup at the feet of the man.

  The fiddler cocked his head, blinked his blind eyes, and nodded. He recognized the dollar ring. “Thank you, sir, for your generosity,” he said.

  “I merely paid for a job expertly done.”

  A strange look flooded over the fiddler’s face. Then he smiled. “No one has ever said that to me before. I thank you most heartily.”

  Tim moved off in step with the impostor. He wondered if the man was that free and easy with his own money. Somehow Tim thought he would be. That confused his feelings about the impostor even more.

  They passed a funeral procession led by three open hearses carrying eight coffins. Four of the coffins were for small children. All the caskets were smeared with lampblack. Another funeral cortege was coming into sight ahead.

  20

  “Gentlemen, the auction shall begin in five minutes under the dome,” said the hotel steward. He walked slowly among the men sitting at the tables of the large barroom of the Saint Charles Hotel. He turned and walked to the front, winding his way around the twenty-foot-tall columns that supported the hotel floor above.

  Still intoning his message, the steward passed down the yards-long bar where absinthe, rum, and more potent drinks were be
ing served.

  Lew and Tim rose from their chairs and left the barroom with several other patrons. The men gathered under the great high dome arching over the center of the palatial inner court of the Hotel. They began to seat themselves on padded chairs ringing a raised, carpeted platform.

  A line of black men came into view from a side room. Each was dressed in a pair of white cotton pants. They were barefoot and naked above the waist. The whites of their eyes showed as they peered nervously around. The steward called out, directing them toward the auction block.

  “Timothy, good to see you again,” called Baudoin, making his way up to the assemblage of white men. “I see you have come to observe the auction.”

  “Hello, Yves,” Lew said. The man smiled a lot, a pleasant fellow to be around. “I’d like to introduce you to Sam Datson.”

  “Sam Datson,” said Baudoin, putting out his hand, “it is a pleasure to meet you. But I’ve heard that name before,” Baudoin snapped his fingers. “I know where. Aren’t you the new student of Black Austin, the mulatto dueling instructor?”

  “Yes,” Tim said.

  “Austin tells me you are one of his most promising young duelists. Especially with the pistol. It seems you Americans like the firearm better than the sword.”

  “Sam, I did not know you were taking dueling lessons,” Lew said.

  “It seems that in New Orleans a man must often settle his own problems,” Tim replied.

  “Quite true,” Baudoin said. “I estimate New Orleans averages ten duels a day. Thirty-two duels in one day were reported in the newspaper earlier this year. I’m certain some were missed, for they are not advertised. In fact, some are deliberately kept secret.”

  Lew watched the first group of slaves being herded up on the auction block for inspection. One of the black men stopped and refused to step up on the raised platform. The steward spoke sharply to him. Still the man did not move. The steward beckoned to the auctioneer standing nearby.

  The auctioneer, a large man, came swiftly to the side of the platform. He grabbed the black man and roughly shoved him.

  The Negro stubbornly resisted being moved.

  “Goddamn black bastard,” growled the auctioneer. He slugged the black man in the side with his fist. “Get up there before I take you outside and horsewhip you.”

  Baudoin watched the Negro climb reluctantly up on the block. He spoke, “There’ll be no bid for that slave. He’s too unruly. After this auction is over, he’ll get a whipping that will peel his back and show his ribs.”

  “Was he unruly because of being a man and having too much pride to be a willing slave?” Lew said, scowling at the treatment of the man.

  “Perhaps it is pride. But pride in a black man is dangerous to him. That one will have a mean and short life ahead of him.” Baudoin changed the subject. “Do you plan to purchase some slaves to work your docks?”

  “I did at first, but now I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see you again, Yves.”

  “Are you ready to leave, Sam?” Lew said.

  Tim nodded, feeling ill-at-ease at the cruelty to the black.

  As Lew and Tim turned to walk away, a man called out loudly. “Wollfolk, I want to talk with you.”

  Lew looked in the direction of the voice. A richly dressed man was walking toward them, a second man following a step behind.

  “It’s Paulaga,” Baudoin said. “He seems angry. What have you done to him?”

  “Nothing. I don’t even know him.”

  “Be careful of him. He is a dueling instructor and good with weapons. He sometimes fights for pay. Someone may have set him on you.”

  “Wollfolk, you are a scoundrel,” Paulaga spoke again in a strong voice that could be heard throughout the broad space. “You cheated Enos Grivot at cards and then killed him when he caught you at it. Now you follow his widow and insult her with your amorous intentions.”

  Lew laughed coldly. He recognized the hand of Farr Rawlins in Paulaga’s false charge, and perhaps Annette Grivot was also involved. Paulaga wanted a fight. He would press the lie until Lew challenged him.

  Lew heard the sudden silence around him. The preparations for the auction had ceased. He swept his sight over the watching men and then back to Paulaga.

  “Paulaga, you are a fool. You have it all backward. She is the one who has what you call amorous intentions.”

  Tim surveyed the impostor, watching his reaction to the charges of Paulaga. He saw the gray eyes harden, like spheres of water suddenly freezing to ice, warning Paulaga off if only he could read the sign. There had been that same change in the impostor just before he had leapt upon Gunnard. Tim wondered if Paulaga wanted to kill the impostor, or did he really want to kill a Wollfolk?

  “You lie,” Paulaga said, continuing to advance.

  “And you are a dumb bastard trying to force a fight.”

  Paulaga’s stride almost broke at Lew’s harsh retort. He had not expected such a quick, fearless reply.

  “Make him give the challenge if there is to be a duel,” Baudoin whispered. “Then you will have the choice of weapons.”

  Paulaga heard the whisper, but could not make out the words. “Baudoin, what did you say to him?” he demanded belligerently.

  “Don’t trifle with me, Paulaga,” warned Baudoin, his ire rising swiftly at the tone of the voice. “You may overplay your hand.”

  Lew saw Paulaga blink at Baudoin’s words. Then the man’s attention focused back on Lew.

  “I’ll stop you from frightening Mrs. Grivot,” Paulaga said, again using his loud tone.

  “You can’t stop something that’s not happening,” Lew said. He began to walk away.

  Paulaga sprang across the distance that separated him from Lew. His arm reached out to catch Lew by the shoulder.

  Lew heard Paulaga’s booted feet on the floor. He spun and caught the outstretched hand. He twisted the arm sharply. Instantly he stepped forward and with his clenched fist struck Paulaga at a point where the man’s arm attached to the shoulder.

  Paulaga winced with pain.

  Lew smiled inwardly. That hurt, didn’t it? “Leave well enough alone, Paulaga,” he snapped.

  “I challenge you to a duel,” Paulaga’s voice grated like rocks rubbing.

  “I accept,” Lew replied.

  Paulaga saw the eagerness to fight in the young Wollfolk. A tingle of warning came to life in his mind. Something was wrong here. Had he been misled by Loussat about the bookkeeper from Ohio? Then he shrugged away his doubts, confident in his skill to slay the man. But that blow to the shoulder, though thrown only a short distance, had jarred him soundly.

  “Russee Loussat is my second.” Paulaga pointed at the Frenchman standing nearby. “Who is yours?”

  “Baudoin, will you be my second?”

  “It would be an honor,” Baudoin replied.

  “The seconds will agree upon the conditions of the duel,” Paulaga said.

  “Let’s set them now,” Lew said.

  “Wait. We should talk first,” Baudoin cautioned. He caught Lew by the arm and drew him aside.

  Tim followed. He was taken aback by the quickness with which the violence had erupted.

  Baudoin looked at Lew with respect. “Timothy, that was skillfully done. I salute you. I know of no man, except perhaps myself, who could have so quickly increased his odds to survive a duel with someone who may be better with weapons.”

  “What do you mean?” Tim asked, mystified at the words.

  “Didn’t you see? He tricked Paulaga into showing whether he was left- or right-handed, then he twisted the arm and struck the shoulder. Paulaga will be sore and stiff in the morning.”

  Tim replayed the events that had just occurred. The impostor had, an instant after being confronted, devised a counterattack and carried it out. And Tim was planning to fight this man himself. A shivery doubt came to Tim that his plan to fight the impostor might be a deadly mistake.

  “What range do you think Paulaga practices shooting at?” Lew
asked.

  “Probably twenty-four to thirty paces,” Baudoin said. “That would be about twelve to fifteen paces each for him and his opponent in a duel. However, you can select any reasonable distance you want.” Baudoin knew what the young Wollfolk was thinking.

  “Make the distance twice that, say thirty paces for each of us. The weapons should be Colt revolvers. We will shoot until a man falls.”

  “A show of blood will not do?”

  “No. You said Paulaga was good with weapons. Therefore, he must be killed or seriously wounded, for strong enemies should not be allowed a second chance at you.”

  “Do you feel that confident?” Tim asked.

  “I will beat Paulaga,” Lew said. “And eventually I’ll find and kill the man that murdered Albert Wollfolk.”

  “What place would you like for the duel to take place?” Baudoin asked. “Les Chenes d’Allard, that is under the oaks in the city park, or in the field near the slaughterhouse beside the river.”

  “Under the oaks. I saw a duel there when I first arrived. A good place to die, if it comes to that.”

  “I agree. That is the most fitting place.”

  “Then please arrange it for tomorrow morning, my friend,” Lew said.

  * * *

  Lew bought a quart of berries from the blackberry woman on Dauphine Street. He walked on, eating a few of the largest berries. He ate very slowly, savoring to the utmost the sweetness on his tongue, for he did admit to himself that he might die, come morning.

  The fight bothered him, for it was a useless thing with nothing to be gained, and it contained much danger to him. It was obviously something contrived by his enemies. Even though he should kill Paulaga, the unknown foes who wanted him dead would go unharmed.

  He recalled Paulaga’s second, the man named Loussat. He had been at the quartermasters’ office in the U.S. Barracks. Could Loussat be one of the members of the Ring? Lew thought it likely. The man may have hired Paulaga and then accompanied him to arrange the duel. Or was his presence merely a coincidence? Lew did not believe in coincidences.