Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  “Valcour!”

  “Oh, yes, it is I, your long-lost and unlamented brother. Not, regrettably, your lover.” He threw at her the bunched-up shirt he held in his hand, one much larger than any he himself had ever worn. It struck her breast and spilled to the floor in a pile of crumpled linen.

  Félicité stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, stared at the malevolent light in his yellow-brown eyes, and the smile that twisted his thin lips. For that length of time something undefined but ugly hung between them. She moistened her lips that were suddenly dry. “Where — did you come from, and — and what do you mean sneaking up on me like that?”

  “Where I came from, I do not care to say. As to the rest, I was not anxious to meet Ashanti. I wouldn’t put it past that black bitch to turn me in to the Spaniards. But enough. What I want to know, my darling sister, is why you have turned yourself into a strumpet.”

  “I am no such thing!”

  “No? Deny if you can that you are living here out of wedlock with that turncoat son of an Irish bitch. Only think, I actually ran the first man to tell me of it through. Isn’t that a fine jest? But it was not enough to keep you from being known all over town as McCormack’s doxy.”

  He fondled the hilt of his rapier as a woman might handle a necklace she particularly enjoyed wearing. He was thinner than when last she had seen him, and he wore neither facial powder nor patches. His pockmarked skin, without such adornment, was brown with a yellowish undertone that made it near the color of his eyes, an indication that he had been much in the sun. His voice was sharper, if that were possible, with a more cutting edge of insult. But the changes did not stop there. Over a gray-white bagwig he wore a black hat with a plume encircling the crown and the brim fastened on one side by a jeweled pin. His coat was of green velvet of a sable darkness, heavy with silver braiding. It was worn over a shirt with lace-edged ruffles, though without either cravat or waistcoat. A gold sash bound his narrow waist, and his breeches were tucked into boots of soft cordovan leather dyed a discolored green.

  “Before you heap more names upon me I don’t deserve,” Félicité said with a lift of her chin, “and before you injure other blameless men, perhaps I had better tell you that it is your doing I am in this position.”

  “Mine?” he snapped, his eyes narrowing. “How so?”

  “If you had not been so stupid as to try to kill Morgan here at this very house, I would not have become embroiled in your ill-considered attack. Morgan would not, then, have considered me a part of the attempt, and for my apparent betrayal, forced his way into my house, my room, and my bed.”

  “You defend him?” Valcour queried in contempt.

  “Never! Neither will I absolve you of the portion of the blame that is rightfully yours.”

  He ignored her words. “It seems to me the groundwork for what you call your position was laid down before I drew sword against the Irishman. I remember a bargain you made; your company for your father’s life.”

  Félicité realized suddenly that for all the years that Olivier Lafargue had called Valcour his son, her adoptive brother had never given him the name of father, always speaking of him as Félicité’s father alone, which of course he was. She brushed away the irritating insight. “What of it?”

  “It is plain to me that your precious Morgan intended from the start to have you where you are now, his creature, his plaything between the sheets, his — daughter of joy.”

  His eyes roved over her, resting with indecent speculation on the curves of her breasts. Félicité was aware of the brush of crawling distaste. “That isn’t true!”

  “How can you deny it? It is perfectly plain that he never had the least intention of helping your father, that he meant to use your soft white body to slake his desire while he did nothing in return. For proof you have only to look at what has happened today. Have not all of the conspirators, all, been found guilty?”

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Had you not heard?” Valcour’s tone was all innocence.

  “And what of the sentences? What was given to my father?”

  “I know not. Some were sentenced to be hanged, some given life imprisonment, others lesser punishments. My informant did not recall the names.”

  “My father will have one of the shorter prison terms, you will see,” she said, desperation threading her voice.

  “Such trust,” he sneered. “To my mind it can mean only one thing. You are enamored of this hired soldier who deflowered you. How degrading. And how lost in the throes of passion you will be if your father has happened to draw the shorter term.”

  “That is so ludicrous, so insulting, that it doesn’t deserve an answer! But at least Morgan has been man enough to keep his side of the bargain, at least he has tried to help my father. That is something you have certainly never done, Valcour Murat, with your running and hiding, your scraping up of money by the illegal sale of your manservant, and your cowardly theft in the night of my father’s small hoard of gold. How dare you deny him the comfort that it might have bought as he rotted in his cell these many weeks while you, who should have shared his prison, slunk away to enjoy your freedom? Oh!”

  He slapped her, reaching out with casual viciousness to crack his hand along the side of her face. She spun backward with tears starting from her eyes and the taste of blood in her mouth where her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek.

  He stalked forward to stand over her, his voice hissing as he spoke. “Whore! I will make you sorry you ever said such words. I will make you weep with remorse that you ever spread your legs for Morgan McCormack, that you were born a woman, the daughter of your father. And one day I will make you curse yourself for ever feeling one shred of emotion for any other man!”

  His footsteps retreated. The door crashed to behind him. Valcour was gone, and yet it was a long time before Félicité could drop the hands that covered her face, or shut out the frenzied shouts that rang in her ears with the sound of a vow.

  10

  FÉLICITÉ HAD REGAINED some semblance of composure by the time Morgan returned later that evening. By then also, the names of the five men who were to die had been whispered from house to house,

  carried by the servants as well as their masters, until there was not a soul in New Orleans who could not have recited them.

  Lafréniè, Noyan, Caresse, Marquis, Milhet the younger.

  As Morgan entered, Félicité came to her feet, her velvet-brown eyes searching his face. She moved forward a few steps. Her voice was quiet, well controlled, as she spoke. “It’s true, then?”

  “I suppose it depends on what you mean. The verdict was guilty.”

  “The sentences?”

  “Five are to be led to the public square on asses, there to be hanged. It might have been six, but the death of Villeré by apoplexy will be allowed to count for one.”

  “I thought he was bayoneted by his guards.”

  “The official version is apoplexy,” he corrected with savage irony. “His memory, incidentally, has been officially, condemned by the court to eternal infamy. You realize that this dead man, for the sake of the accusation impugning his honor, was represented during the trial by an attorney to his memory?”

  Had that ludicrous provision been brought about by meticulous spite, or meticulous fairness? It was impossible to decide, and there were other, more important considerations than either the manner of his death or the treatment of it.

  “And the others?”

  His voice rough, unencouraging, he answered, “Of the remaining seven, one received life imprisonment, two were given ten years, and four drew six years each, plus in every case confiscation of their property to the profit of the king, and perpetual banishment from the dominions of Spain. For all other inhabitants of the colony a blanket pardon has been issued, its purpose being to end this affair.”

  “What — what of my father?”

  “Six years at El Morro Fortress on the island of Cuba.”

  She did not re
alize she had been holding her breath until she released it on a shuddering sigh. Six years. Could Olivier Lafargue with his uncertain health survive so long? “El Morro? The place is little more than a dungeon.”

  “It isn’t pleasant, but prisons aren’t supposed to be.” He turned from her, shrugging from his coat. “At least he will be alive long enough for appeals to be made for clemency. That is more than can be said for the five who will hang tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! But why such haste?” She moved after him as he walked into the bedchamber and flung his coat onto the bed.

  “The sooner, it’s done, the sooner the thing will be over. It can be put behind us while the business of improving the colony is taken firmly in hand.”

  “And O’Reilly will no longer have to listen to the supplications of the people of New Orleans.”

  “That too.”

  “Dear God!” she exclaimed with suppressed violence. A few quick steps took her to the window, where she breathed deep of the evening air with one fist resting on the sill.

  There was a quiet rustle of clothing as Morgan came to stand behind her. “It isn’t enough, is it? Nothing short of freedom for your father was ever going to be enough.”

  “You have kept your part of the bargain,” she said, her voice tight.

  “The bargain be damned!” He caught her arm, swinging her to face him. “It’s you I am concerned about.”

  “You needn’t be. Like the others, I will survive.”

  “But how? With what damage to pride and spirit? Félicité—”

  What he might have said then she could only guess, for Pepe appeared in the open doorway and the moment passed. Still, the residue of some soft and impulsive inclination lingered between them. It was enough so that later in the silence of the night as they lay side by side in bed, Félicité could stretch her hand across the space that separated them and spread her fingers over his chest in a caress that was also an invitation.

  He went still. She could feel the jarring of his heart against her palm, though if he breathed she could not discern it. She allowed her touch to slide downward through the furring of hair on his chest, over the ridged hardness of his abdomen to the flatness of his belly. He inhaled then, slow and deep. Her daring was fueled by gratitude and the obligation of a debt of honor, and yet there ran beneath it a quickening of anticipation. She eased closer, raising to one elbow above him so that the honey-gold curtain of her hair, silken and scented, swung around them. She touched her lips to his mouth as her fingertips brushed the heated rigidity of his maleness.

  He lifted a hand, twining his fingers in her hair. His other arm encircled her, his hand resting lightly on her hip. Sweet and throbbing languor suffused them as they pressed closer in the clouded blackness of the night. With mingled breaths and exquisite care, they explored blind sensation until their blood pulsed with the warmth and mystery of it. Holding her to him, he entered her, forging the bond of pleasure between them. Together they moved, reaching toward a dark and mindless rapture. Their thrusts became more frenzied, and his arms like corded steel grasping Félicité, he rolled over her, plunging deep, sending the rippling shock waves of piercing pleasure along her nerves.

  She felt the gathering of somber forces, the dim surging of an opaque and turbulent ecstasy. It mounted higher, carrying her toward a shadowed explosion of being. It filled her, surrounded her, blotting out the trivial madness of the world, drawing her into its straining, night-black heart. She gripped his shoulders, spreading her hands over the scars that ridged the muscles of his back, and the one thing that made it supportable, that allowed her to pass through

  the fathomless depths unscathed, was the fact that she was not alone.

  Afterward, they lay with their limbs entangled and their breathing rasping in labored gasps. With her eyes bleak and unseeing, Félicité felt the slow shift of dismay move through her. How simple she had pictured the joining of a man and woman. Perhaps it was for some. Perhaps under different circumstances, with another man, at another time, it would be for her. But for now and for her, with the Spanish-Irish mercenary Morgan McCormack, the desire of the flesh was a ravaging thing. It did not help to know that the taint which turned it from something to be enjoyed to a thing to be endured came from within herself. Excuse enough for it could be found and more. Resentment played its part, as did hate and fear. But what could change it? Would it ever change?

  Sleep did not come easy. It had to be wooed with stillness and tight-lidded concentration. Even when it came, it was not restful, but was instead plagued with desolating and exhausting dreams. It was almost a relief when daylight began to seep into the room. That Morgan felt the same was proved by the irritable energy with which he wrenched out of bed and began to pull on his uniform.

  It was unusual for him to put on his sword before breakfast. When he picked it up and began to buckle it about him, she said, “You are leaving so early?”

  “I must. O’Reilly has ordered every man on duty for today. There will be extra patrols, and special details to be detached to the barracks prison and the Place d’Armes.”

  Félicité sat up, pulling the sheet up over her breasts.

  “Surely he doesn’t expect an uprising of townspeople?”

  “It’s always a possibility. Even the few Spanish officials left behind from Ulloa’s brief tenure, Navarro, Gayarre, and Loyola, sympathize with the prisoners.”

  “This will be a — a public execution?” she asked, forcing hardness into her tones.

  He adjusted the set of his sword and picked up his coat. “How else is the point, that of the unhealthiness of defying Spanish authority, to be made?”

  “Of course. And the appointed time should, therefore, be when the greatest number of people can be present?”

  “The time has not been set. The black man who usually performs the office of hangman has refused, and another will have to be found. You don’t intend to be present?”

  “Why not? These men were my father’s friends.”

  “It will hardly be a pleasant spectacle for a lady.”

  The gaze she turned upon him was cold. “If I go, it will not be for the spectacle. It will be for the reason one sits beside the bed of a dying man, so he will not be alone.”

  “As you wish,” he answered, reaching to take his tricorne from the back of the chair. He stood for a long moment turning it in his hands, his brooding gaze following its banding of gold braid.

  If he had been debating a further warning, he thought better of it. Stepping to the bed, he pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, then turned his broad back and walked from the room.

  The endless, racking hours of that day passed. More than once Félicité sent the maid, Marie, to the square before the church to see what was going forward. The report all through the morning and into the afternoon was the same: nothing, no activity. The delay in the proceedings was due to the search for a substitute hangman. None being found, it was decided just before noon that the sentence would be changed to death by firing squad, and O’Reilly so signed the proper orders.

  The girl returned with another tidbit of information. It was being said that O’Reilly, pricked perhaps by conscience or else the need to prove himself humane, had let it be known that he would not be displeased if Noyan, the nephew of Bienville, should disappear from his cell. Heroically, Jean Baptiste Noyan had refused to cooperate with such a dishonorable release while his fellow countrymen remained behind; he would live or die with his friends.

  It would have been difficult to remain ignorant of the events when they were finally set in motion. The tramp of soldiers converging on the square, the shouting of orders, was enough to alert all but the deaf and blind. A short time later came the slow and regular thump of drums as the men were transferred from the old French barracks to the square. The sound grew louder, echoing through the streets of the town, rebounding from the stockade walls that surrounded it. There had not been much movement in the narrow thoroughfares all that long day. Now it ceased
entirely as people went in and shut their doors. In the sullen quiet Félicité’s footsteps, as with Ashanti beside her she hurried toward the Place d’Armes, had a hollow clatter that was unnaturally loud. She seemed to feel the contemptuous stares of hundreds of eyes watching her from behind closed shutters.

  She was not entirely alone when she reached the open square. Though the crowd was sparse, two score or more of people stood in the warm autumn sun, their silence complete, their stillness absolute. Every eye was turned toward the five men being led, mounted on asses, toward them along the street. Their arms were pinioned behind their backs, and flanking them on either side was a heavy escort of grenadiers.

  To one side stood O’Reilly, his bearing in his uniform glittering with braid and honors one of stiff attention. Near him, on his right hand, were the mayor of the town and a few other officials. On his left was Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack, and behind them stood a military escort, two men of which bore the silver maces of the governor-general’s office.

  On the parade ground directly before the officials was a great body of Spanish troops some thousand strong. Drawn up in a square around the edges of the Place d’Armes, they had left a hollow opening in their center. Features wooden, stares impassive, they stood in a time-honored battle formation that was a bulwark against the townspeople as well as a living prison for the condemned men.

  The prisoners came to a halt. They were assisted to dismount, and in single file were marched into the middle of the square. A court clerk came forward, and with his papers rattling gently in the warm breeze, read in Spanish the sentence that had been proclaimed. It was then repeated in French. That done, a copy was placed in the hands of a public crier, who, with a look both stern and self-important, carried it around, bellowing out the words to the troops and to the gathered crowd.

  When the last syllable of his loud, clear voice had died away, a platoon of men were ordered forward. The prisoners were forced to kneel, facing away from the detail. The sword of the officer in command rasped from its scabbard. He called an order, and the men presented their muskets, already loaded with powder and patch, then lifted them to arm’s length. The officer stretched out his sword arm, barked an order, then let the blade fall.