CHAPTER TEN
“You’re doing what?” Favian demanded, springing from his chair.
The Reverend Doctor Solomon’s reply was cheerful. “I’m going out with Lieutenant Glimph. Sometime this week. Pistols, I think. Lieutenant Cunningham of Gunboat 65 is acting as my second, so you have no need to involve yourself— I just thought that as my commanding officer you would like to be informed.”
Favian stared at Solomon. “Doctor, you must be mad. You are a chaplain, sir— think of your position. Will you not disgrace your collar?”
Solomon’s answer was delivered calmly; clearly he had thought this out beforehand. “I will not be going out as a priest, sir. Were the church insulted it would be my duty to turn the other cheek. But I was challenged as an officer of the Navy, and the Navy’s honor must be defended to the last.”
“Good God.” Favian’s first impulse had been to tell the chaplain that the Navy’s honor would be defended quite well by the line officers without the need for the staff, but that would probably not sit well with his martial doctor. Realizing that he was pacing up and down the room, he forced himself to sit down and face the chaplain once more.
The situation was incredible. Solomon and Lieutenant Cunningham had been visiting a restaurant the night before, the night a company of militia had come marching in from the German Coast upriver. A few of the militia officers, having obtained leave from their encampment, had been visiting the saloon attached to the restaurant and had been talking loudly about the topmaul duel between Levesque and Lovette; one Lieutenant Glimph, it appeared, had been particularly in his cups and had denounced the Navy’s perceived cowardice. Dr. Solomon, who was not wearing his collar at the time, had chosen to resent Lieutenant Glimph’s remarks, Glimph had chosen to repeat them, Solomon had called Glimph a liar, and Glimph had challenged.
“I am perfectly well prepared,” Solomon said. “Since the Carnation fight I have been practicing with sword and pistol. Lieutenant Glimph is a fat, blustering bully, not by any means a professional duelist like Levesque, and I am not a half-grown boy like Lovette. There is no need for any trickery such as the topmaul fight; I’m perfectly capable of using a pistol in this matter.”
“Doctor,” Favian said, “I cannot help but think that this will subvert your position in the ship. You are the chaplain, not a— forgive me— not a line officer; your job is not to fight.”
“Sir,” Solomon said. His color was high; his eyes sparkled; clearly he was enjoying himself. “The Navy is a martial service; I am perfectly prepared to do my bit.”
“You are aware, I assume, of the evils of dueling, so I won’t bore you with a lecture,” Favian said..
He’d try another tack, he thought, acting the fellow sophisticate— if only Solomon weren’t such a boy! A precocious, intelligent, enthusiastic boy, more suitable for the midshipmen’s berth than the cassock he so rarely wore. “If a man, a grown man, chooses to risk his life in such affairs, then I’m certain he is perfectly capable of apprehending the consequences. But it is not the grown man I’m concerned about.
“You’ve known my concern for the midshipmen, for their education,” Favian said. “They are eager, untried, and desperate for action. .They are naturally aggressive. Out of this difficult material officers must be made— officers mature, responsible, cultivated, sophisticated. That is our job— yours in particular.” Talthibius Solomon was beginning to perceive the direction of this argument and didn’t like it; he was beginning to look sullen, resentful. His lower lip was actually outthrust, like that of a sulking child.
“Once the gunroom becomes infected with the dueling fever, there is no getting rid of it,” Favian said. “The young gentlemen can go mad with it, challenging everything that moves, much to their discredit. Perhaps you know the story of Richard Somers, fighting six of his fellow midshipmen in one afternoon? I’m not saying Somers was wrong— I think he may have been right in challenging them all— but it was an inflated, unnatural, peevish sense of honor that created that situation, and that fostered the fight. And you’ve heard of Joseph Bainbridge and the duel he fought in Malta, and that he was promoted for it— but how did that promotion affect the other midshipmen? Suddenly all one had to do to receive a step-up was to call someone out— how much mischief did that cause?”
“You’ve been out,” Solomon said, his tone resentful. “You’ve fought that Captain Brewster, and all over his insulting the Navy. And that fight in Spain, with all the mids of the Vixen fighting the mids of that Spanish ship ...”
“That fight,” said Favian, “was none of my doing— I did not challenge anyone; that was our lieutenant, who challenged on behalf of every American officer in port. And as for Captain Brewster, I was on half pay, ashore without hope of a command, and I had no responsibilities to anyone— not to subordinates, not to superiors. I was free to act. I was not in your position; I was not responsible for the moral tone of an entire ship. I had no need to set an example for four hundred of my flock.” He was not being candid about that Brewster fight, where he had taken a grim delight in running the bully through, but the object was to prevent Solomon’s duel, not teach a history lesson.
“I don’t understand,” Solomon said. “I fail to comprehend how I am setting a bad example in defending the Navy’s honor.”
“If you fail to understand how many young gentlemen are going to find themselves facing pistols because of this, your powers of comprehension are surely very limited, sir!” Favian snapped, leaping to his feet again, his temper finally giving way. “Blast it, man, the Navy’s honor is perfectly capable of fending for itself— it won’t stand or fall by your action, I assure you!”.
The entire body of private sailors had learned to beware that temper; now Solomon was facing the full force of it. But Talthibius Solomon refused to be overawed by Favian’s roaring— before many seconds had passed, he was on his feet shouting red-faced, high-flown phrases on the subject of honor... personal honor, the honor of the Navy, and the honor of the College of New Jersey, all of which Favian, it seemed, was in danger of slandering. Suddenly Favian realized that in another few seconds there would be challenges flung and another fight begun; he clamped his mouth shut and sat down. Dr. Solomon shouted into empty air for a few minutes, and then looked down in surprise, gasping for air like a fish.
“Fight and be damned, sir,” Favian said. “Good afternoon.”
Solomon goggled at him, then turned abruptly and tore the door open..
“Blasted huge boy,” Favian said a few hours later with Eugénie Desplein in his arms. “Perhaps if he loses an arm or a leg, he will show himself the example the midshipmen need.”
“So many sailors are boys, I think,” she said. “Have you ever seen a bigger fifteen-year-old than Finch Martin, Gideon’s first officer? Like a boy just learned to swear and liking the sound of it. And Gideon, like a boy gone mad about religion— not a grown man’s sort of religion at all. Perhaps there is something in the sea that keeps men in their teens.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Favian said. He thought of some of the Navy men he knew: Decatur, the son of Mars; Favian’s particular friend William Burrows, the unhappy, eccentric intellectual who died clasping his defeated enemy’s sword; James Lawrence, killed aboard the Chesapeake; Isaac Hull, the happy warrior; David Porter of the hair-trigger temper and pugnacious manner; Richard Somers, who had died trying to equal Decatur in glory. Yes, all could be thought of as adolescent types— but there were grownups too in the Navy, like Charles Stewart, Thomas Macdonough, Johnston Blakely: seeming almost preternaturally wise even when Favian had first met them, when they were all boys together off Tripoli. The Navy had all sorts, the foolish and the wise, the daring, the cautious, the corrupt: each sipped from the wisdom of the sea as he saw fit, or listened to the clanging trumpets of vainglory.
“There is a lot of truth in that,” Favian said. “Some are boys enough.”
Eugénie touched his chin, turning his head into the light to view his profile: long nose, tousled dark hair, sculptured side-whiskers. “Not you, my Favian. You are not a boy,” she said. “A very careful old man, very cautious. I could listen to you all day and not learn a thing about you.”
Favian felt the muscles in his cheek twitch. He clasped the hand beneath his chin, brought it up, and kissed it. “New Orleans,” he said, “has far more boys than the Navy. And those militia companies in their bright uniforms, all to impress the girls on parade. The Creoles strutting, quarreling, challenging one another; the governor with his fancy general’s coat and ribbon of watered silk. It makes the Navy seem old.”
“You have changed the subject very artfully, my Favian. We were talking about you,” Eugénie said, smiling. “But that is forgiven. If you don’t want me to know about your girl friend back in Portsmouth, I will not press it.”
Favian felt an ironic laugh bubbling up. If she wanted to think he had a girl in Portsmouth, he would let her. It would make the parting easier.
“I will have to return to Madame Markham’s soon,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his ear. “Campaspe must have her gown, and that means more work for us all. Your fault, my dear, but I understand why you could not take me.” She spoke close to his ear. Her tone was one of purest lechery. “Let us make the most of the time remaining,” she said, riding her bare foot up and down his inner thigh. “There is no sense in letting our last moments go to waste. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Favian said. That was one motto the Navy had taught him: Never lose a moment..
He could be grateful for that, at least.
*
The next evening Favian presented himself at Gideon’s hotel. There had been difficulty acquiring a carriage until he’d recollected that there might be one on permanent hire to the Navy, which proved to be the case. He had dressed carefully in his number one rig, the gold tape on his cuffs and collar brushed until it shone, his small, elaborate presentation sword from the City of New York clipped to his belt. Eugénie Desplein, as usual, came to conduct him to the upstairs rooms after he’d sent up his card.
“You must swoon over her gown,” she instructed. “I’ve spent the entire day making adjustments.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said, and sneezed. Marie’s cold, he thought. Blast it.
On the landing Eugénie turned to him and pressed her mouth to his. He returned the sudden, fierce kiss, feeling her arms go around him, and then Eugénie stepped back, a thin smile on her face. She reached out and half-playfully pinched his arm. “Just so you don’t forget who your New Orleans girl is, hey?” she said, and led him up the stairs.
Gideon rose from his chair as he entered the parlor and clasped Favian’s hand. Eugénie bustled behind the screen that hid the passageway to the living quarters. “Campaspe will be out presently,” Gideon said. “Can I have Grimes get you a drink?”
“I think not,” Favian said. “There will be drinks enough at the party, I think.”
Gideon nodded gravely. “I’ve heard a story,” he said, “that one of your crew will be fighting another duel. A Lieutenant Solomon?”
“Doctor Solomon,” Favian said. “The Reverend Doctor Solomon, in fact— my chaplain.” He watched Gideon’s face as he absorbed the shocking news. “The blasted glory-struck fool. This afternoon I received a note from Lieutenant Cunningham that the fight would be with pistols and take place tomorrow morning.”
“Your chaplain? Fighting a duel? Madness!” Gideon breathed. “Look at what this war has done! Next it will be the women fighting each other!”
Favian grimaced. “It’s utter lunacy,” he said. “Solomon and I almost came to blows yesterday over the matter. Perhaps he’ll come to his senses once he faces that Glimph’s pistol. Of course, by then it will be too late.”
“A chaplain!” Gideon said, awe winning over disapproval in his face. “Nothing good will come of it. God judgeth the righteous, and is angry with the wicked every day.” Psalms, Favian thought, the Seventh; for once he’d recognized the source.
They were interrupted by the appearance of Maria-Anna and Eugénie coming from behind the screen. “I would like to present, Captain Markham,” Maria-Anna said with a smile, “Doňa Campaspe Maria Luisa Rodriguez y Sandoval.”
Campaspe appeared, trying to act the lady with downcast eyes, but her natural enthusiasm got the better of her, and she looked up, eyes sparkling, her brilliant smile radiating through the room. Her ball gown was the universal white muslin gown of Josephine and the Directory; there was a lace Betsy ruff around her throat. She was wearing a spencer over her gown, and it was colored an astonishing scarlet, bright as a British lobsterback— and what was more surprising was that the color complemented her dark coloring perfectly. She was wearing a veil over her hair, which was braided up intricately; the veil was tied off on the left side and flowed dashingly over her left shoulder..
Campaspe was, in fact, a lovely young girl who showed promise of growing even more lovely in the coming few years; Favian found himself rejoicing in his choice of a partner.
“Miss Campaspe,” he said, bowing to kiss her hand, “I am ravished. The Creole women will be mad with envy.”
Campaspe blushed scarlet and did not reply..
“Shall we be off, miss?” Favian asked. “I know you won’t wish to miss any of the dances.” She gave him her arm.
Favian bowed to Maria-Anna and Eugénie, then took Campaspe’s hand and put it on his arm. “Don’t forget,” Maria-Anna lectured. “You may have one glass of champagne or wine, but no more. No tafia or brandy. Understood?”
“Yes, madame,”
Favian put his cocked hat on his head as he left the hotel, then handed Campaspe into his carriage, which he had filled with flowers. She bent forward to smell them, then spoke to him for the first time since her appearance. “Thank you, Captain Markham! The flowers are wonderful!”
“You’re most welcome,” Favian said. “You must save the first cotillion and the first waltz for me— you can give the rest to whomever you like.”
“You can have them all, if you wish,” she said seriously.
Favian smiled. “No, Campaspe. Give the beaux of New Orleans a chance to see your smile.” She gave him the smile then, the brilliant, remarkable smile that seemed to brighten the room. Basking in it, Favian told the carriage driver to head for the Faubourg Marigny.
There was a line of carriages in the street before the ballroom, but most of the attendees seemed to be coming on foot, the women with heavy, muddy boots beneath their gowns, one slave in the lead lighting the way with a lantern, another bringing up the rear, carrying the ladies’ dancing shoes. Campaspe leaned close to Favian, peering out at the glittering men and women to name the families as they appeared. “There are the Villerés! That’s Major Gabriel and General and Madame— and that’s Celestin! There’s Abbé Dubourg. And that’s Dr. Shields.”
At the door Favian handed Campaspe out of the carriage, then handed his invitation to the majordomo. “Capitaine Mark’am!” the man boomed in French. “Mademoiselle Rodriguez y Sandoval!” the man boomed, Favian checking his hat and Campaspe her spencer as they entered the Creole hall.
The orchestra was beginning to tune, and the ballroom was almost full: there were at least two hundred people in the room, those who had come to dance, to conduct business, to see friends, get drunk, make love, to gossip, or merely to be seen in their expensive finery. Favian spoke briefly to a few individuals he’d met at the meeting of the Committee for Public Safety; he introduced Campaspe and was introduced to their wives, sons, and daughters..
The majordomo bawled out the announcement for the first cotillion: Favian and Campaspe took their places in the square, bowed to the couples on either side— General Jean-Joseph Humbert, still in his battered French uniform, was on the left, dancing with a formidable-looking Spanish woman, introduced as Señora Castillo.
“That’s a pretty young thing you’ve got there, Captain,” Humbert said, cocking an eye at Campaspe. “I bet she’s a juicy little peach, eh?”.
Favian, stiffly surprised, recalled that Humbert had been a dealer in rabbit skins before the Revolution and that his language was not the sort usually heard in a ballroom. He was thankful Campaspe did not know French.
“Thank you, sir,” he replied coldly. Humbert beamed at him, unabashed. The orchestra began to play.
Favian was thankful that his father’s body servant St. Croix had trained him well in the art of the dance, and trained him also in such borderline military arts as dancing with a sword while avoiding the lashing of his neighbors with the scabbard, a problem that seemed to be occurring with considerable regularity among the militia officers. Campaspe glanced at her feet and neighbors as she learned the patterns, then danced with enthusiasm and, as she gained confidence, growing grace. She was a natural dancer, lithe and dexterous; soon she was improvising on the patterns, and when the moment came for Favian to exchange partners with General Humbert, he cast a glance at the general and saw a pleased smile break out on the old revolutionary’s face as he recognized new partner’s skill.
The dances were long, twenty or thirty minutes, with extended pauses between them for the dancers to regain their wind, to indulge their appetites for wine and rum punch, and to nibble at the buffet. Etiquette insisted on the partners spending the dance gazing into one another’s eyes: the result could be either extreme boredom or smoldering sensuality, and in any case one would learn a great deal about one’s partner— with Favian and Campaspe neither extreme occurred; Campaspe was so excited that her eyes were darting everywhere, taking in the spectacle, learning the patterns from other dancers, watching the orchestra. Favian watched her enjoying herself and smiled: if nothing else came out of his New Orleans expedition, he could at least point to this. He saw Campaspe attracting the attention of a number of the New Orleans bravos, and as the ball went on, saw her card for the next cotillions add the names of two dashing militia officers, among them Celestin Villeré.
“Who is your lovely companion?” he was asked more than once. “Why has she never been seen at the balls before?”
“She is the ward of Captain Gideon Markham, my cousin,” Favian said, thinking ward sounded better than maidservant— and in fact Campaspe seemed to fill a position somewhere between the two. He danced himself with a tall, willowy blond girl from the German Coast, who was probably thankful to have a partner taller than she..
At the announcement of the first waltz Favian found Campaspe among the throng and took her in his arms. The older Creoles sat out the scandalous new dance, watching while the young people enjoyed themselves, murmuring to themselves if the youngsters seemed to be enjoying themselves to excess. Campaspe had clearly never waltzed before, but learned quickly, and was soon smiling up at him bravely. The waltz as practiced here was quite formal, with several changes of partners written into the program, and by the time it was over, and Campaspe had been retrieved from her latest partner, Favian felt the clear need for restoration.
“Would you like your glass of champagne?” Favian asked. Campaspe nodded eagerly. He escorted her to the buffet and produced champagne for her and tafia punch for himself. The servants piled a plate high with stuffed crab, and he and Campaspe shared it. He caught jealousy in the eyes of a few of the young men as they looked at him and smiled inwardly. It was a pity, for Campaspe’s sake, that Gideon and Maria-Anna were leaving New Orleans: it was clear that Campaspe would not be forgotten here. Though it was probably better to spare her the inevitable disappointment: once her position was clear, and the fact of her having no fortune, these planters’ sons would evaporate.
The next waltz was announced: a cornet of the Hulans asked for the honor of Campaspe’s company, and with a sideways, somewhat regretful look at Favian, she accepted. Favian looked for his tall German and saw she was dancing with a Chasseur half a head shorter than herself and decided it was time to thank M. de la Ronde for the invitation to his ball. He acquired another cup of punch and went in search of his host.
Denis de la Ronde accepted Favian’s thanks with a smile and nodded toward Campaspe, whirling in the arms of her Hulan. “I’m glad you brought Maria-Anna’s little maid,” he said. “It’s time society saw her without an apron.”
“I’m honored to have her,” said Favian. “It’s good, every so often, to see things all new, through a young person’s eyes.”
He talked briefly with Madame de la Ronde, complimenting her on her arrangements, and was introduced once again to the leader of the legislature’s Creole faction, promotor of the Marigny suburb, and probably the wealthiest planter in Louisiana, Bernard de Marigny, and his stunningly beautiful wife, the former Anna Mathilde Morales— over whom, Favian had been told, he had once challenged six men to duels. Favian chatted in French with the couple, complimented Madame on her gown, and then bowed his farewell. Returning to the buffet, he found General Humbert and nodded his greetings.
“Greetings, Captain,” the general said heartily. “Have you a moment? There’s someone I think you should speak to.” He craned his neck over the heads of the crowd, then waved a chicken leg to attract someone's attention. “Captain Markham,” he said, “this is Captain Grailly.”
“We’ve met, sir,” Favian said; bowing to the dandy. Grailly had outdone himself for the ball: he was wearing green-and-yellow-striped trousers, Souvaroff boots with tassels, a dark brown coat with a splendid red-and-gold-quilted piqué waistcoat, in all an extravagance of color that suited him not at all.
“Captain Markham, I would regret to take you from your charming companion,” Grailly said; “but she seems to be happily occupied with young Lacarrière. I think there is someone you should meet. Would you mind leaving the ball for a short while, for just a few moments?”
“It would,” said General Humbert, just as a nettled Favian was about to decline, “be very much to your advantage.”
Favian glanced at the general, who was regarding him soberly, with compelling urgency, and then looked at Campaspe happily dancing with the Hulan Lacarrière. What the devil was this about? Humbert seemed to be taking this very seriously indeed, and Grailly’s odd behavior two nights before had surely had some purpose behind it. “Very well,” he said shortly. “If my young friend comes looking for me, please tell her I will be back shortly.”
He followed Grailly out of the ballroom, then down the street filled with ranked carriages. Grailly halted by a closed carriage and opened its door. “Captain, if you please,” he said. “Please seat yourself, sir.”
Favian, wondering what piece of intrigue Grailly was presenting him, climbed into the carriage and sat on the unoccupied seat, hitching his sword around so as not to stab the polished leather. The carriage was lit by a small oil lamp set on the starboard side of the interior. Two men faced him. Directly opposite was an olive-skinned man a few years past thirty, probably once slim but now growing a little stout. His features were regular, his dress somber black. Next to him sat a portly man of about forty, his face cheerless; there was enough of a resemblance between them to suggest kinship, but the second man seemed afflicted: the left corner of his mouth drooped, as did his left eye; the eye also wandered independently, refusing to focus, a strabismus.
“Captain Markham, I am honored by your presence,” said the younger man. His English was excellent, though there was a slight, undefinable accent. “Allow me to introduce myself: I am Jean Laffite, and this is my brother Pierre.”
Favian told himself he was not surprised: the appearance of the two infamous pirates, he reflected, seemed entirely consistent with everything else that had happened to him since he’d arrived. He leaned back in the carriage, studying them.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “To what do I owe this singular honor?”
Jean Laffite smiled pleasantly; there was something in his eyes that suggested that Favian’s laconic answer had confirmed some inner judgment. His elder brother, however, continued to look balefully at Favian, his roving left eye twitching unnervingly.
“You are now the senior naval officer on station,” Jean Laffite said plainly. “It is possible you and I may come to some sort of éclaircissement—such a thing was impossible under Commodore Patterson.”
“Captain Patterson,” Favian said, “is a most worthy officer.”
“Indeed he is,” Laffite said quickly. “But he is a most uncompromising partisan of the, ah, the vices in the current laws— the vicious laws, it seems, that I have transgressed.”
Favian felt a cynical smile touch his lips. The laws against piracy, it seemed, were “vices.” Laffite was very eloquent in English, but not eloquent enough to completely blur the boundary between piracy and legitimate commerce.
“Let us be frank, Captain,” Laffite said, apparently encouraged by Favian’s accepting silence. “Master-Commandant Patterson, Colonel Ross, and the others who have oppressed me— they have seized twenty-six of my vessels and arrested eighty of my men, including many of my captains. I and my brother are wanted men. I have reason, do I not, to feel ire toward the city of New Orleans, and to the national government?”
“If you desire a pardon,” said Favian, “you will have to apply to the governor, not to me. And if you desire your ships, you must go to the courts.”
Pierre Laffite turned away with a snort of impatience. His brother shook his head vigorously. “No, Captain, that is not what I ask,” he said. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to increase the intimacy.
“The city is in great peril,” he said. “The British will come within a few weeks. It will not be forgotten, I hope, that it was I who provided the first warning of their movements.”
“The British threaten your livelihood as well as ours,” Favian said. “I do not imagine they will allow you to continue your private war against their ally Spain. And of course your brother was in prison at the time. I am sure the government was grateful for your timely warning, though I am certain they were also aware that the warning may well have been in your interest.”
Jean Laffite paused, his brow wrinkling as he chose his course. One eyelid dropped in a lazy wink.
“Your ships,” he said, “lie idle for want of crews. My ships are fully crewed; they have excellent gunners, many trained in the wars in Europe, most with years of experience on my privateers. I have hundreds of muskets, as well as powder, shot, and flints. And do not think Master-Commandant Patterson’s raid on Grande Terre captured all my men— I still have three thousand men willing to follow me. And all— every one— is willing to fight for the United States against any British attack on Louisiana.
“Do not assume,” he said solemnly, his eyes holding Favian’s, “that I am boasting. I am quite willing, given the opportunity, to prove all that I say. But how can I prove it if I am subject to arrest every time I set foot in the city? How can I aid the defense of the city if the city insists upon my persecution? I am certain, Commodore Markham, that your voice can make itself heard in the matter.”
“You wish a pardon?” Favian asked.
Laffite frowned, composing his answer. His elder brother turned to Favian and spoke one word.
“How?”
“Maybe you ought to tell me what you wish to offer,” said Favian.
“Our assistance,” Pierre said. His accent was more noticeable than Jean’s, and he had some slight difficulty with articulation, but his emphatic speech left no doubt where he stood. “Our knowledge of the land. Our men, our guns, our ships.”
“If the offer is sincere, I’m sure the government will be grateful,” Favian said.
“But how can we prove our sincerity?” asked Jean Laffite. He had become eager, speaking rapidly, making swift gestures. “You see our dilemma. The government will not offer us forgiveness unless we prove ourselves first. But we cannot prove ourselves unless we have the freedom to move without fear of arrest.”
“Perhaps,” Favian said, “a conditional pardon might be arranged. Or a safe-conduct. In any case, might I suggest that the best way to demonstrate your good faith would be to turn yourselves over to the authorities?”
“No.” bellowed Pierre Laffite. Favian felt flying spittle touch his cheek. “Never!”
Jean put his hand on his brother’s arm, restraining him. “I am afraid,” he said, turning to Favian, “that is impossible. My brother's health is not good; he had a stroke some years ago, and he has not recovered. His treatment in the calabozo was brutal— he was in irons for weeks and forbidden exercise. I would fear for his life if he were to return. And,” he said with a smile, “with my best captains currently in prison, I am afraid that we will have to remain with our men. Otherwise incidents may result. I am sorry.”
Incidents, Favian. thought. Pirate chieftains had uncertain control over their men at best, he knew; if the Laffites and all their chief supporters were confined for any length of time in the calabozo, their less trustworthy associates might seize control of the Baratarian colony.
“Then,” said Favian, “we are at an impasse.”
Jean Laffite, smiling again, shook his head. One eyelid dropped in a wink: Favian was beginning to realize it was a habitual gesture. “I am willing to offer you certain information,” Laffite said. “I do not ask that you give anything in return for this, simply that you remember who gave it.” He leaned forward again, touching Favian’s knee. “I think this information may show the world how much I am to be trusted.
“Are you,” he asked, “familiar with a place called Cat Island?” Favian shook his head.
“There are two islands of that name,” Laffite said. “One is north of here, in the Mississippi Sound. We are not speaking of that island, but rather of the Cat Island west of Barataria, a little place situated in Terre Bonne Bay, a very nice anchorage. From Terre Bonne Bay many waterways lead north to Bayou Lafourche, which leads to the Mississippi above the city. From Cat Island a British force could take boats north to the Mississippi and cut New Orleans off from the north— do you understand?”
“Yes,” Favian said.
“I have used Cat Island from time to time— it’s a nice anchorage, as I’ve said,” Jean Laffite said. “There is a little town there, and communication with New Orleans is swift and easy. At the moment,” he said, “none of my men reside there. Please accept that, Commodore.”
“Very well,” Favian said. It was the second time he’d been addressed as commodore, and he considered correcting the pirate. Laffite probably thought the term flattering, but Favian found himself annoyed at the title.
“There are, however, a number of privateers who do make their residence there,” Laffite went on. “They are chiefly Frenchmen who have moved to Louisiana following the defeat of General Bonaparte.” He spoke with distaste: apparently Jean Laffite was not an admirer of the former emperor..
“They came to Barataria earlier this year,” he said. “These men and I were not able, you understand, to come to an agreement.” Laffite grinned cynically, then shrugged. “They elected their own captains and moved to Cat Island. I have nothing to do with them, and I refuse to be responsible for their actions. I have been unable to make the authorities here understand that the Cat Island people and the Baratarians are not in association.”
No doubt one pirate looked much the same as another, Favian thought. Was Laffite offering the Cat Island privateers to the Navy in return for a pardon?.
“Go on,” he said.
“You know,” Laffite said earnestly, “that Captain Lockyer of the Royal Navy, in September, offered me a captain’s commission, thirty thousand dollars, and grants of land if I should assist them in their project. This offer, of course, I refused.”
Favian could only barely keep the smile from his face. “You did not refuse, I believe,” he said. “You merely neglected to reply.” There had been no chance for the offer to be refused or accepted, he knew: Patterson and Ross had eliminated the Barataria colony long before the British could have returned for their answer. And Laffite would have been foolish to accept in any case, since the thirty thousand was a pittance to him— he was probably worth millions— and the captain’s commission would have given him little more than a pension on half pay, since the British would almost certainly have refused to employ him actively. The grants of land would have only been worth anything if the British had managed to take enough of Louisiana to give away to their friends.
“But these Cat Island people know of the offer,” Laffite said. “And I am not entirely certain they will not accept it. They have their reasons— they are fanatic on certain subjects. They have a project in mind much grander than privateering.”
“Indeed.” That seemed extremely unlikely. Laffite clearly saw Favian’s skepticism. He turned to the oil lamp on the side of the carriage and adjusted the flame, increasing the brightness. He turned to his brother. “Pierre, the stick.”
Pierre Laffite reached behind him to where a walking stick was leaning between the seat cushion and the side of the carriage. He handed the stick to his brother. Favian, recognizing the lathed head of the sword stick carried by de la Tour d’Aurillac and the military-looking gentleman in the Place d’Armes, watched with growing interest as Jean held the stick up in the air, between the lamp and the larboard side of the coach.
“I told you that most of the Cat Island people came to Louisiana following Bonaparte’s abdication,” Laffite said. “I told you they have certain loyalties. Keep what I have told you in mind and look at the shadow of this stick— see; my Captain Markham, if you recognize anything.”
Favian glanced at the shadow and felt his heart leap. There was an instantaneous recognition of the sort that made his mind cry, But of course! Why hadn’t he seen it before? He realized he had seen the image clearly once, when M. le Chevalier gave his secret away in Louisiana’s maintop, but Lovette and Levesque were just beginning their duel and he had been distracted.
He should have wondered, he thought, why the curious round lathework on the grip should have been so exact, so eccentric. He had even seen it used, when that tall, broad-shouldered, iron-gray individual had been holding his cane out to the noonday sun, casting its shadow on the surface of the Place d’Armes. But if he had expressed an interest, would the Cat Island people have let him live? There was a reason for the sword hidden in the walking stick— it would be used to execute those who guessed the secret.
The shadow cast by the sword stick was a perfect silhouette of Napoleon the First, late Emperor of the French, currently sulking in Mediterranean exile on the island of Elba.
“These people, these Cat Island people,” said Laffite, confident in Favian’s recognition. “They are devoted to their emperor. There are many here— over two hundred members of the Chasseurs à Pied, the Middle Guard. Three hundred members of the Grenadiers à Pied, the Old Guard. And others— members of the Legion d’Honneur, heroes, courtiers, men who remember the bridge of Arcola, the sun of Austerlitz— men whose noses were frozen beside their emperor’s on the road from Moscow. They are devoted to their memories; they are very well organized, and they are hardened to killing— they have their master’s ruthlessness and will happily murder in service to his cause. These people have taken their old uniforms with them to America; they have their battle flags stored carefully in trunks, their decorations, their Imperial Eagles. They have every intention of wearing their old uniforms again, of serving honorably under their old flags. And they are perfectly willing, for reasons that seem adequate to them, to sell Louisiana to the British.”
Favian felt himself being reined in by some interior, cautionary self— good: he had almost been carried away by the sheer romanticism of it all. Jean Laffite, he realized, was quite good at casting spells, but he was used to the romantic, fiery temperament of New Orleans— he shouldn’t have tried this approach on a phlegmatic Yankee from New Hampshire.
“Why,” he found himself asking, “would these imperial devotees want to sell Louisiana to Napoleon’s enemies— to Perfidious Albion, no less? The greatest enemy Bonaparte ever faced?”
Laffite gave a brief smile. “You must understand that these people are in very close contact with their friends in France. A year ago France was weary of Bonaparte, weary of war— weary enough, even, to welcome the Bourbons back. But now, after a few months of Louis the Eighteenth and his unpleasant little brother Monsieur, months in which the emperor’s old war-horse generals, his new nobility, found themselves snubbed by the old, titled friends of Bourbon who spent the wars lazing in cozy exile, France is growing restless again. The Bourbons have learned nothing; they are not— it is not possible to like them, Captain Markham, understand?” Laffite looked intently into Favian’s eyes, eager Favian should comprehend his meaning. “Maybe the people are growing nostalgic for the old Eagle, maybe they are forgetting the police and the conscriptions. Perhaps they would be willing to welcome their emperor back.”
“That is an interesting picture, Mr. Laffite,” Favian said. “It has very little to do with Louisiana.”
“But you see. Captain Markham, it does,” Laffite said confidently. “These Cat Island people want to bring Bonaparte back to France. They have many ships, fast ones with expert crews. If they agree to the British proposals, they will have thirty thousand dollars, which will buy a great many military supplies. If they can snatch Bonaparte from Elba, they will be able to present him with a well-equipped force with which to make his initial strike at France.
“Further,” Laffite said, “they know that in the event of the British capturing New Orleans, the American government will stop at nothing to prevent them from keeping it. The United States would send large forces down the Mississippi. The British have much of Wellington’s army here in America, both in Canada and aimed at New Orleans, and with an American force bound to retake Louisiana they would have to reinforce their garrison here. Several British armies would be tied down fighting the Americans— the British would not be able to contribute a force to the Continent to fight Bonaparte.”
Laffite held up a finger. “One,” he said. “A naval force, freed from British interference, with which to liberate Bonaparte from Elba. Two.” Another finger went up. “A large sum of money with which to equip an army. Three.” Another finger. “British forces, land and sea, tied down fighting an endless war in America, unable to interfere with the Eagle returning to his nest in Paris.” He paused, then gave his easy smile, and shrugged, pretending to dismiss his story now that he knew— he knew very well— that Favian was hooked. He leaned back on his coach seat. “A fantasy, maybe, eh? Certainly a gamble. Maybe it couldn’t work: maybe the French would not want their Eagle back, and maybe the British wouldn’t be so cooperative. But I assure you, Captain, that these people believe this fantasy, and that if you give them the chance they will put their beliefs into practice.”
“Who are their people?” Favian asked. “Their people in the city? Besides de la Tour d’Aurillac and that shopkeeper in the Rue de Camp.”
Another smile, a nod complimenting Favian on his sources of intelligence. Laffite’s eyelid dropped again; he looked a sly, quick bird of a man, peering at Favian with one glittering eye. “De la Tour d’Aurillac is one of their leaders, yes. And the Rue de Camp shop, run by a man named Serurier, is their headquarters in the city, the only place where one can purchase their little walking stick. Do not think, by the way, you can worm your way into their bosom simply with the use of one of these little swordsticks— they have passwords and such, masonic stuff. You would find the sword in your heart.”
“We were speaking of their leaders,” said Favian.
“I beg your pardon. Cat Island is run by a privateer captain named Mortier. That is a nom de guerre, we assume; many of our associates use them. He has been in the Gulf for years, in my ship the General Palafox, but I had to dismiss him for, ah, breaches of the regulations. Now he has worked his way into the association of the Cat Island people— I believe he calls himself their admiral.” A condescending smile aimed at Mortier’s pretensions. “There is another privateer named Guieu. An attorney in New Orleans, Dallemagne, their agent. Some captains, Santos, Gardanne, Pijon. Their association, by the way, is called—”
“The Guard. Yes. We know,” said Favian. Pierre Laffite looked troubled: were they treating with information the Navy already possessed?.
He has not bargained often with Yankees, Favian thought, beginning to enjoy this.
Jean Laffite, however, was unruffled. “La Société de la Garde de L’Aigle, in full,” he said. The Society of the Guard of the Eagle, another one of those titles that sounded so much better in French. “The name is not a great secret; their organization is too large to be entirely unknown. But most people believe it is an organization of veterans, and the Guard is happy to have them believe this.
Laffite made a chopping gesture with the cane. “I urge you to take your forces to Cat Island,” he said. “Crush this society, take their ships. If you find old guardsmen’s uniforms and battle flags packed away, you may begin to believe me.
“It will be difficult,” said Favian, “to do as you suggest. The gunboats that were at Barataria last September are guarding Lake Borgne and cannot be spared. Neither can the Carolina. And Colonel Ross’s regulars must be held here to defend the city.”
“You have a large frigate,” said Jean Laffite. “Though your frigate could not enter Cat Island Pass— there is not enough water— you have a number of ships that you took at Barataria. You have my permission,” he said rather loftily, “to use them. You can put your frigate’s men in them and take Mortier and Guieu by surprise. End this menace to New Orleans.”
And this menace to Laffite’s authority over the pirate colony, Favian thought. It was nice of Laffite to make a gift of what he had already lost, both his captured ships and his rebellious former allies. There were wheels within wheels, he knew. Perhaps the Guard was a threat to New Orleans, perhaps only to Laffite— difficult to tell. Laffite may have made the whole thing up: the Guard might truly be little more than a secretive organization of Napoleon’s veterans, the Cat Island people might be little more man pirates who had rebelled against the Laffites’ authority, and mere might be no real connection between the two. But now that the information— oddly plausible information— had been dropped in his lap, could Favian afford to ignore it?
“What is their force?”
“Perhaps fifteen ships, none very large. Not all will be present at once, you understand. Two hundred cannon. Two thousand men.”
“I will have to consider it,” Favian said.
Laffite nodded happily. “We give you this information, remember,” he said. “We give it to prove we can be trusted to help the city against its enemies. Do what you can, but be very careful— and trust no one who carries one of these!” He brandished the swordstick. “I shall be in touch; perhaps Captain Grailly will be able to carry messages to you, or General Humbert. If you wish, I can send you a pilot who knows Cat Island well.” He fell silent for a moment, then added an afterthought. “The general, you know, is not one of our association— he just hates Bonaparte; we are allies strictly on that account.”
“I understand,” Favian said.
“These causes,” Laffite said with a sigh. “Everyone must have their cause, their obsession, to give their life meaning. Mere pleasure is not enough; it is not virtuous, I suppose.” He looked up at Favian, his eyes twinkling. “I am not virtuous; I want only a comfortable life. Not fame, not glory, not Bourbon, not Bonaparte. Pleasure only, and a little security for my family, my brothers and daughter. It is not so much, eh?”
“Forgive me, sir,” said Favian, “but if you wanted only pleasure and a little security, you could have become a corn merchant in Marseilles.” Jean Laffite laughed; his brother Pierre turned away, looking uncomfortable.
“Maybe you’re right, Commodore Markham,” Laffite said, dropping his eyelid once again in his sly wink. “There are more secure businesses than mine.”
“I must repeat that your case would look better if you turned yourselves over to the authorities,” Favian repeated. “Perhaps a parole could be arranged so that you would have your freedom within the city.”
“For God’s sake, Jean, let us leave,” growled Pierre Laffite, his patience gone.
Jean Laffite looked at Favian, his face holding a touch of regret, and then shook his head. “Impossible, sir,” he said. “I think, in any case, that the authorities would find us an embarrassment. It was Governor Claiborne, after all, who allowed Pierre to escape. It was his thanks for my sending him Captain Lockyer’s documents.”
Favian stared at Laffite in astonishment. It had not occurred to him to wonder how Pierre Laffite, still partially paralyzed from his stroke and ironed hand and foot, had managed to escape the New Orleans jail— it was obvious, now, that there had to have been arrangements made on high..
That cunning dog, Favian thought, meaning Claiborne. The governor had disassociated himself from the Laffites’ enemies, Patterson and Ross, and put the Laffites in his debt— and Patterson and Ross had still descended on Barataria and put it out of business, ending that particular nuisance. But if the blow proved less than mortal, and Claiborne needed them, the Laffites owed him a large favor. Though he might be an indecisive military leader, Governor William C. C. Claiborne of Louisiana was assuredly a master of his own political element.
“And now, perhaps I should let you return to the ball,” Laffite said.
“Indeed. It was, ah, interesting; gentlemen,” Favian said. “You have given me much to think about.” He reached for the carriage door and opened it.
“If you wish a meeting, contact Captain Grailly,” said Laffite. Favian stepped from the carriage.
“I will not forget. Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Good evening, Commodore.”
“ Evening,” grunted Pierre Laffite. His brother tapped twice with the Napoleon stick on the roof of the carriage, the driver shook the reins, and the carriage pulled slowly away. Favian looked up and down the street: Grailly had disappeared.
As he entered the ballroom, he looked at his watch: perhaps half an hour had passed. The orchestra had just begun another tune; Favian craned his head and saw that Campaspe had exchanged the Hulan for a Feliciana Dragoon. He smiled and went to the buffet for a glass of champagne. He was going to have to tell someone of this extraordinary meeting, he knew, but who?.
He could imagine Patterson’s emphatic reaction: “Lies, treacherous pirate lies.” Claiborne would turn nervous, finger his neckcloth, and say a great deal without actually saying anything. He did not know any of the others well enough.
But he knew someone who knew most of the prominent Louisianians, he realized. Maria-Anna was discreet and knowledgeable. He would call upon her the next day— she was experienced enough in the ways of the Gulf Creoles to be able to offer sound counsel.
General Humbert was at his elbow before he realized it. “Capitaine Mark’am,” the old revolutionary nodded. “I hope you found the meeting interesting.”
“Interesting, yes. I thank you for your part in it, whatever it was.”
“I hope,” Humbert said, looking at him carefully, “you will take the knowledge to heart.”
Favian made no reply, but sipped his champagne. He would create an empty space which Humbert might find uncomfortable enough to fill with information, he thought, enjoying this intrigue. But Humbert gave nothing away; he merely raised his own glass of champagne.
“Captain Laffite was once my good friend,” Humbert said, a bit sadly. Favian realized that Humbert was in his cups. “But on my birthday two years ago I got a little drunk at the Hotel de la Marine and called him a pirate— his men wanted to kill me. He prevented my murder, but he has not joined me at my table since.” Humbert shook his head. “I am a little too fond of brandy,” he said. “And he is a true gentleman; he never forgets. I regret my words, but I cannot call them back.”
“I’m sorry,” Favian said. “Perhaps you and he will have the chance to serve together now, against the British.”
“Perhaps.” Humbert shrugged sadly and drifted away. Favian chatted with the citizens in French and in his halting Spanish, the latter badly learned years ago in the Mediterranean and since forgotten; his attempt to fill in his vocabulary by using French words with Spanish articles and suffixes resulted in some amusement to all. Grinning, he claimed Campaspe at the end of the dance and whirled her into the next waltz. He was growing very pleased with New Orleans.
The ball, like most balls, went on until five in the morning; Favian and Campaspe, who, for different reasons perhaps, had thoroughly enjoyed themselves, were among the last to leave. She was flushed and glowing with excitement and almost skipped into the carriage while he paused to light a cigar from a lamp at the door of the ballroom. “It was wonderful, Favian,” she said, taking his hand as he seated himself next to her. That Captain Favian had not lasted the night. “Thank you so much. Ah! It’s cold tonight.” She placed his arm around her shoulders and leaned her head on his shoulder. He blew smoke and told the driver to return to the hotel.
“You were enchanting,” he said. “Quite the accomplished dancer— the sensation of the evening, in fact.” It was her first and last Creole ball; let her carry the memory of being the principal attraction.
“Was I? Oh, thank you, my darling!” Campaspe turned his face toward her and kissed him full on the mouth.
There was passion in that kiss, and a naive eroticism that startled him. He detached her hastily. “Don’t be so much in a hurry, my dear,” he said. “You’re lucky I’m not the sort of man who— never mind. You have a few years yet.”
“Most girls here are already married at my age! I’m nearly old!”
Younger than she are happy mothers made, Favian thought, but look what came of that: Juliet lying dead in Capulet’s tomb..
“Campaspe,” he said with a glance at the expressionless, unsurprisable neck of the driver. Why the devil hadn’t the Navy hired a closed carriage? “I don’t want to disappoint you. But my life is not my own, and— don’t cry, please. It was a beautiful evening; don’t let it end like— here, take my handkerchief.”
It was one of the handkerchiefs she had embroidered; she looked at the anchors stitched on the corners and broke down entirely. “Damn!” Favian said, temper eroding.
“I love you,” Campaspe gulped.
“Damn!”
She tried to control the weeping and failed; seeing nothing else to do, he got rid of his cigar and took her in his arms until her trembling ceased. “I understand,” she whispered. “I’m all right now. I suppose you won’t want ever to see me again.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re a lovely young lady, and you will make a fine partner for some lucky man. When the time comes, mind. In a few years.”.
Why, he thought, had his life been so cursed with the antics of adolescents? Midshipmen who kept fighting duels, preachers who acted half their age, love-struck maidservants. It was his particular curse, it seemed.
The carriage stopped at the hotel, and he handed her out. “I hope you are not too disappointed,” he said. “You were a wonderful partner, and a beautiful one— I’m not in the least sorry.”
Campaspe managed a brave, dry-eyed smile. “It was splendid,” she said. “Thank you so much, for everything. I’ll never forget it.” He gave her a fraternal kiss and saw her through the women’s entrance. Through the glass panes in the door he saw her giving him a last, forlorn little wave. He waved back and returned to the carriage.
The carriage was alone on the streets, the hooves of the horse ringing in the narrow lanes. Weariness began to flood his limbs; through his mind came images of the evening, the swirling gowns of the Creole ladies, Jean Laffite’s careless laugh, General Humbert’s careful intrigues, Campaspe’s surprising kiss. He would see Maria-Anna on the morrow; he wondered what she would say when she heard about the Laffites’ revelations. An organization of Napoleonic veterans happily selling Louisiana to the British: so very contradictory, but also in an odd way logical.
But it was time for rest now, he thought. And tomorrow, the pleasure of Maria-Anna’s company.