“If that happens, Louisiana, and our city, are doomed,” cousin JeanMarie brokenly muttered, as if contemplating being driven from a second refuge. “And we think it’s bad enough under the Spanish!”
“Good for business, though,” said Helio, the most levelheaded among them, the eldest de Guilleri who would inherit the bulk of their lands and the resulting responsibilities. “New Orleans is already the most thriving port on the Gulf. With Yankee industriousness…”
“Shame on you!” Charité stormed, so outraged that she stamped a dainty foot on the floor. “Does the struggle to become French again mean so little to you, after all we’ve done? After all our hopes and plans? Saint Domingue, Martinique, and Guadeloupe are bursting with thousands of good Frenchmen who would flee here and join us. Swedish and Danish ships come here to trade as thick as mosquitoes. How many stout Republican soldiers and settlers could be smuggled here in those neutral ships, once Paris is aware of our movement? We must send another letter, many of them. Each of us writes two, claiming to be, ah… Maurepas, Bistineau! Bergrands and Bois blancs… LeMoynes and D’Ablemonts, the leading citizens! Urging them to come to our aid, on the sly!”
“Sister, chérie,” Helio had to point out. “The Spanish are the only allies the Directory has in the world. Even if they meant to betray the Spaniards, how would they sneak an army here, with the Anglais stopping and inspecting every ship they come across?”
“If they could, though,” Don Rubio objected, “the Spanish can’t spare troops or ships to fight them. And with our schooner, and soon even more vessels, the decrepit Spanish Navy could not move soldiers from Mexico or Cuba as long as that British Navy blockades them! Oui, more letters to Paris, and… what if we did hire on a few bands of Americans?”
“What? But I thought you—” Jean-Marie blanched.
“As backwoods troublemakers,” Rubio Monaster expounded with an evil snicker. “To raid Spanish posts, massacre the soldiers, and loot them. We’d let them keep all they take, so we would not have to pay them. We begin a campaign of torching Spanish properties around the city… dressed in buckskins, so American visitors get the blame. I think Yankee patriots dressed as Indians when they dumped the teas in Boston harbour, ha ha!”
“I’d rather try to make a pet of an alligator,” Helio objected. “You cannot trust them, no matter how destitute and dog-eyed they look at the moment. Give a Yankee a cubit, and he’ll take an arpent! They have no lasting gratitude in their souls. Look how thankful they were after Yorktown, and how they turned on the France that saved them not twenty years later, and now make war on our commerce, did not declare war on the British to help our Revolution in ’93, did not give grain to keep the suffering French people from starvation, but sold it!”
“Enough, cher Helio,” Charité demanded, pressing fingers to her forehead as if suffering a mal de tête. “Capitaine Lanxade is a fool. Useful in his way, but still a fool. Helio is right. We can never rely on the Americans. They would betray us eventually. But until we can urge the Directory to come to our aid, and quickly, we must do something to rouse our sleeping fellow Creoles. Rubio, your idea has some merit. We must look into that.”
Don Rubio Monaster almost wagged his nonexistent tail at such rare praise from her.
“And let’s not forget that we must look into both the American backwoodsmen’s arrival, and those suspcious strangers off the Panton, Leslie trader,” Charité announced. “They’re men, after all, and men always find themselves a cabaret, a grog shop, or a bordel after the hard journey is done. Who knows, they might even come right to us in our favourite boîtes?” She chuckled. “If either party looks to be a danger to us, then… what better could we do than go to sea to take even more prizes, while they search for us here, n’est-ce pas? “
“Chère Charité, I swear if you are not the heart and soul of all we do, of all we dream,” her brother Helio exclaimed with heartfelt admiration for her quick and clever thinking.
Yes, and sometimes it seems I am the only one with any sense at all! Charité Angelette de Guilleri smugly thought as she gave her elder brother a hug for his praise.
“A young woman who would make any fortunate man a most formidable and sensible wife,” Don Rubio Monaster dared to say, colouring at once to blurt out his dearest desire.
“Why, thank you, Rubio, aren’t you so sweet?” Charité brightly, “sugarly,” replied, batting her lashes and acting the guileless Creole coquette for a moment.
A nice boy! she deemed him, though; Good puppy… sit up, beg! But so slavish, mon Dieu! Oh, quel dommage… he has his uses, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ah, well,” Mr. Gideon Pollock said with a heavy sigh of disappointment, once Lewrie had related the results of his hours spent “shopping” and comparing prices. “I suppose I must delve into things myself.”
“Sorry, Mister Pollock,” Lewrie replied with a whimsical shrug. “But I fear my forte ain’t in Commerce. Without making notes, which’d have got me thrown out on my ear, I couldn’t keep track of it. Whereas you know to the farthing what’s a fair price. No scribblin’ necessary with you, d’ye see. It’s all up here,” he said as he tapped his forehead.
“Um, yayss… ahem,” Pollock said with a somewhat dubious expression, and another of his cough-twitch-whinnies; questioning, perhaps, whether Lewrie possessed anything inside his skull.
“At least Jugg and I did meet with that Ellison fellow, him and his reeky gang,” Lewrie pointed out. “Seemed quite the ‘Captain Sharp’ to me. He admitted he was tied up in that state of Franklin affair.”
“Well, that would depend on who are his employers,” Mr. Pollock grudgingly allowed, fretting round the super-cargo’s spacious cabin on the Azucena del Oeste, transferring possessions from his sea chests to a leather valise, “tuttutting” and “ha-humming” to himself as he sorted out clean shirts, stockings, neck-stocks, underdrawers, and his slim wardrobe of waist-coats and trousers. “I would expect that Ellison most likely is an agent for richer men, as he baldly stated to you. In what capacity, however… ahem. After he left your ken, though, Mister James Hawk Ellison came aboard our emporium hulk.”
“As I suggested,” Lewrie reminded the man, hoping that his day’s work had borne some fruit, “that he look at the air-rifles and—”
“Which he and his fellows did,” Pollock said with a crafty grin, interrupting his packing long enough to turn and smile at Lewrie. “And they were all most desirous of arms and ammuniton. Not merely muskets or pistols, but heavier ordnance, as well, hmm! Mister Ellison asked of the availability of brass four-pounders, or old regimental guns… brass six-pounders, or ‘grasshopper’ guns, Coehorn mortars and such.”
“Aha! I knew the man wasn’t straight!” Lewrie boasted, since it looked like he might be the only one to do so over his covert delvings. “So, he’s the vanguard of a Yankee invasion?”
“His service during the Revolution, which Ellison revealed to me as quickly as he did to you,” Pollock smugly said as he carefully folded a pair of white silk stockings, “does worry me a bit. Oh, that he’s involved with some sort of filibustering expedition, I have no doubt. I fear, though, that is our Mister Ellison still a serving officer in the American Army, he just might have been sent to New Orleans by an incredibly aspiring man by name of General James Wilkinson, Lewrie. An aspiring man, indeed, ahem.”
And damn all spies, Foreign Office, amateur, or otherwise! Lewrie sourly thought; Twigg, Pelham, Peel, this clod, they’re all the same … smug when they know something you don’t, and damn’ near pissin’ themselves for you t’beg ’em t’tell it to you!
“And who is James Wilkinson when he’s up and dressed?” he asked finally, in almost a rote monotone, which lack of enthusiasm stopped Pollock dead in his tracks and made him turn, twitch-whinny, and glare.
“Wilkinson is the senior officer in charge of the American Army, which garrisons the states of Tennessee and Kentucky, Lewrie,” Pollock archly cooed, “which is rather ironic, si
nce before Kentucky became an established state in the Union in 1792, Wilkinson was scheming to seize the whole damned thing and make it a personal fief! He might have done the same for Tennessee, had he not been opposed by a set of politicians, lawyers, and planters even richer and more influential than he could ever hope to be. General Wilkinson came down to New Orleans himself in 1787, when the former Captain-General of Louisiana recruited him as a secret agent. He’s known to the Dons as Agent Thirteen… bad luck for someone, hey? Wilkinson’s well thought of by many in the Congress and just may end up the Commanding General of the United States Army in a new administration! He’s rumoured to be close to Mister Thomas Jefferson and his faction, and Jefferson’s rumoured to be planning to oppose their current president, John Adams.
“Horrid idea, that,” Pollock quibbled, looking disgusted with Democracy’s machinations. “Set terms for public office keep bad men in place too long, and depose good’uns… when our way lets us call a by-election if one of ours proves himself a criminal or a fool.”
“They’re an odd people, our Yankee Doodles.” Lewrie snickered. “The way that fellow Ellison just blurted out his whole life story to me in the first ten minutes… prosed on worse than a jobless Irish poet! You think Ellison and his crew were sent here to spy out things for Wilkinson? If he can’t have Kentucky or Tennessee, he still hopes to strike out on his own and take Louisiana… for the United States, or himself? “
“A very good possibility, given his past proclivities, Lewrie.” Mr. Pollock sagaciously leered before returning to his packing. “If Ellison reports on how weak the Spanish garrisons are, Wilkinson may invade the Muscle Shoals, Yazoo, or Alabama River country right off. The Spanish have very little control there. Acting on Jefferson’s behest, he would raise his political prospects to the top of the heap with such a land-grab… and eclipse any of his potential opponents.”
“If the Americans start a war with Spain, it wouldn’t be much of one,” Lewrie surmised. “Not with re-enforcements so distant. Not as long as we’re at war with ’em, and the Royal Navy in the way. And the American Navy to guard the approaches to the Gulf…”
“Unless we side with Spain against the Yankees, Lewrie. So we gain concessions in Louisiana and Florida to buttress the Dons. Then we also tear them away from France’s embrace,” Mr. Pollock dreamily speculated, head cocked to one side. “Didn’t think o’ that’un, did ye, hey? Ahem.”
“My word, I—”
“Cheaper than mounting an expedition from Jamaica, and another all the way downriver from Canada,” Pollock wheezed with merriment at the possibility. “My firm with an exclusive franchise from the Crown in these lands for good service… Ah!” Pollock took a long moment to savour that outcome, then suddenly sobered. “Unless,” he grumped, “Ellison’s been sicced on me to catch me selling arms, acting on suspicions inside the Cabildo… or General Wilkinson’s way of eliminating a British firm he suspects. Or, is in competition with commerical cronies backing his secret plans. Either way, avoid Ellison and his men like the plague, Lewrie. You’ve bigger fish to fry, heh heh! You’ve our mysterious pirates to smoak out… Lanxade and Balfa need running to earth. For now, those Yankees are an idle distraction. For my part, I shan’t sell them more than a few trade muskets… profitable though such a transaction would be. There’s too much risk from exposure, and a very public trial for spying. Quickly followed a public garotting,” Pollock warned, involuntarily massaging his own neck.
Executions in Spanish lands didn’t required a gallows—going for “the high jump,” doing the “Tyburn hornpipe.” The Dons preferred sitting one down in a stout chair, then slowly strangling the convicted with a garotte… one agonising twist of the ropes at a time.
Such qualms on Pollock’s odd features quite made Lewrie feel at his own throat and swallow a few times.
“No sense in arming the competition, sir?” Lewrie asked instead.
“Quite so, Lew—Pardon, Mister Willoughby.” Pollock beamed. “I might even aspire to report Ellison to the Dons, do they importune me for a large consignment of arms. Or try to bribe me. And all of it well witnessed by my clerks, heh heh! Commerce, Mister Willoughby, is not quite so dull an enterprise as you’d imagine, ahem. When spryer and younger, and moving pack-trains among the Cherokee and Upper Creek Indians in the Revolution… fiercely in competition with Americans such as McGilliveray & Sons out of Charleston, well… it was a war to the knife, and no quarter!” Pollock modestly preened over his past derring-do and skullduggery. “Panton, Leslie gave as good as it got!”
Sure as Hell I won’t mention Desmond to him! Lewrie considered.
“Well, I think we’re ready to go ashore,” Pollock announced. “Whyever are ye not packed, Mister Willoughby?”
“Ashore?” Lewrie gawped back. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“Oh, so sorry,” Pollock gaily said, not sounding sorry at all. “Best for your persona, do you take shore lodgings in a modest pension or boarding-house. The cost is middlin’, and the local cuisine’s most delectable, bein’ French, d’ye see? Best get cracking, Willoughby, or it will be completely dark before we get you settled.”
“I don’t have a shore-going bag,” Lewrie complained, springing to his feet. “No one told me I needed one, and—”
“No matter,” Pollock objected, “for I’m sure we have a suitable valise aboard… for which I may gladly offer you a handsome discount, seeing as how it will go towards furthering the Crown’s interests.”
“What if I just lease or rent?” Lewrie dubiously wondered.
“Oh no, that’d never do, Lewrie,” Pollock quibbled. “For once we come back aboard, it’ll have been used, and I could not in good conscience flog it off on someone else as good as new.”
Damn him, I knew he’d find a way t’pry me loose from a guinea or two! Lewrie thought; Tradesmen! Bah!
“We’ll allow your Navy lads shore liberty, along with the brig’s crew as well.” Pollock further blandly announced.
“But I haven’t warned ’em yet,” Lewrie quickly rejoined, fearing what-all they might blab when in their cups ashore without a stern lecture. Would some of them “run” was another instant worry.
“Then you’d best be at it, shouldn’t you,” Pollock said, tapping a foot in growing impatience, and eagerness to savour the city’s joys. “If you do not mind, I will take part in that, ahem. Your man, Jugg, should be given a roving brief and a freer hand, since he most likely, in my cautious estimation, has been to New Orleans before and knows his way about… and knows the names and faces of those we seek, from his past, ah… employments? I propose that Jugg temporarily report to me, not you. Now ’til next morning, say, ’til Eight Bells and the start of the Forenoon Watch, for your hands’ return, so they may carouse ashore?”
“That’d do, I expect,” Lewrie begrudgingly said, “Uh, what’ll I need ashore, how much should I pack, then?”
“Oh, no more than a change or two of clothing,” Pollock guessed. “Your current ‘sporting’ togs and a fresh shirt and stockings will do. Take those shipboard things you wore on the way upriver, the hunting shirt and such… as if that’s all you own at present. A full purse, it goes without saying… and all your, um… weapons. One cannot tell what sort of footpads one may come across.”
“You’re so reassuring,” Lewrie said with a faint sneer as he opened the cabin door to go forward to his own small accommodations.
Not one hour later he was ashore and cozily ensconced in one of Pollock’s “open and airy” appartements (as the Frogs termed them) in a pension at the corner of Bourbon Street and Rue Ste. Anne. His rooms were two storeys above the ground floor, up narrow, rickety stairs, and any felons who wished to scrag him couldn’t help making the most hellish racket on their way up to get at him, he cautiously reasoned. It actually was a promisingly pleasant place, a tad spare when it came to elegant furnishings, but it was clean and (relatively) bug-free, with bed linens, towels, and drapes still redolent of boiling water and soap, fr
esh washed. The “airy” part came from three complete sets of glazed doors that served for gigantic windows, all of which led out to a wraparound upper balcony fronted with intricate wrought-iron railings, and even the stench from the bricked streets with too-narrow sidewalks and no drains or gutters by the kerbs wasn’t that bad, for all the detritus seemed to end up in the sunken centres of the cobbled streets, where, Lewrie suspected, it stayed till the next rainstorm flushed it asea… or down the street, where another neighbourhood could enjoy it!
Not a true set of rooms, really; he’d gotten one large, open, high-ceilinged chamber as a parlour, fitted out with a mismatched set of chairs and a settee, corner tables, end tables, a faded carpet, and some cast-off horrors for framed paintings and such, aligned along Rue Bourbon. A wide, stub-walled archway at the Ste. Anne end delineated the bedchamber, further separated from the parlour by a pair of sham Chinee folding screens.
He’d packed in a hurry, though taking time enough to place his pair of twin-barreled Manton pistols deep in his new valise, a pair of pocket pistols in his clothes, his hanger on his hip, new sword-cane in his hand, and a wavy-bladed and razor-keen Mindanao krees knife up his left sleeve, a “remembrance” he’d picked up off a piratical Lanun Rover in the Far East.
Lewrie had had time, too, to warn his men about the parts they were to play—adventurers signed on as Mr. Pollock’s muscles—and that they should not get so drunk that their time in the Royal Navy got blabbed as present-day status. Poor Furfy had the hardest time understanding.
“Desmond, a private word,” Lewrie had bade the happy-go-lucky Irish rogue. “You’ve a sensible head on your shoulders, though I fear your mate Furfy’s not the quickest wit was ever dropped.”
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