CHAPTER FOUR
The Defense Committee, once presented with the captured documents, moved swiftly. Express dispatches, including copies of the British orders, were sent to General Jackson in Mobile, urging him to march for New Orleans without delay and with all the forces he could muster. In the meantime General Villeré's Louisiana militia regiments, who had been drilling only twice each week, were to be called to full-time duty; General Philemon Thomas was to bring his brigade of militia from Baton Rouge; the nuns of the Ursuline Convent were to be requested to make bandages; the forts around the city were to be put in order; a Committee for Public Safety, encompassing the prominent men of the city, would be formed in order to expedite matters. Martial law, despite the urging of Patterson, Favian, and Colonel Ross of the 44th Infantry, would not be declared, lest the legislature and judiciary unite in opposition..
Also— as was needless to say— everyone concerned would be printing up a great many proclamations meeting the emergency with suitably florid rhetoric.
The Defense Committee were properly grateful, Favian was told, for the offer of a thirty-eight-gun frigate, but seemed to have no suggestions concerning how Macedonian might best be employed. Having heard a report concerning the state of the forts, Favian himself made a suggestion: Fort St. Philip on the Plaquemines Bend, where Macedonian was riding at anchor, was reported to have its full complement of guns and men, but most of the guns were not mounted, and there were few gun platforms; the parapets and glacis were decaying, and the barracks were old and would be set afire by an enemy cannonade. Favian offered to send word to the officers of the frigate to assist in readying the fort, siting its water battery and building the gun platforms: there were no better judges of how to place a water battery than Navy men, who knew all too well what damage could be inflicted on a wooden ship by a properly sited battery. Colonel Ross accepted the offer with thanks, but seemed less than pleased when Favian also mentioned that his officers could instruct the fort’s men in gunnery.
Most of the meeting was spent in a long and profitless wrangle over whether a second battalion of Free Men of Color, a black militia unit, should be formed; it appeared there were many volunteers. Ross and Patterson said that any offer of help should be accepted; Claiborne was equivocal; Villeré thought that arming the colored population— even the freemen, many of whom owned slaves themselves — would result in a black insurrection, and was outspoken in his opposition. In the end the decision was put off.
“What hypocrisy!” Patterson snorted afterwards, as they were walking to where Favian’s pinnace waited by the levee. “Villeré and the other plantation aristocrats are afraid to give muskets to free men— to free colored American citizens, whose contribution to the life of this city is beyond price— but they see nothing wrong with selling guns to pirates like the Laffites! The Free Men of Color want to protect their liberties here, because they at least know how much worse it would be for them under British rule, but Villeré would deny it! And all along the real question of the defense of New Orleans has been whether the Creoles will fight!”
“Is that in doubt?” Favian asked, surprised. Villeré had seemed a martial enough individual— many of his suggestions had been sensible enough, though he’d been dressed, like many a part-time soldier, in a fantastical uniform, all epaulets and braid.
“Aye,” Patterson said sourly. “I suppose they can’t be blamed entirely— they’ve only been Americans for ten years, and they resent having to obey laws laid down in Washington and being forced to stop importing slaves. Under Spanish rule the Creoles were, for the most part, allowed to run New Orleans to suit themselves, but when Claiborne was made territorial governor ten years ago, and given a free hand, it was greatly resented. And of course they’ve had to put up with a lot of Americans from the north— ‘Kaintucks,’ we’re called— who don’t speak their language, don’t know the local ways, and don’t respect their religion. The Creoles consider themselves superior in all things, and their vanity has even affected the slaves, what with ‘Creole niggers’ believing their station higher than ‘Kaintuck niggers’!”
Patterson paused to scrape muck from his Hessian boots— the streets were not paved here, and the ground was low and swampy; no wonder the houses had been built so that the occupants could travel across the roofs from one to the other without soiling their feet. Favian shrugged deeper into his boat cloak: he’d thought New Orleans would be tropical even in November, but it was remarkably cold here at night. Patterson looked at him with a cynical twist to his lips..
“Now that Louisiana has achieved statehood,” he said, “and the Creoles have a larger say in the state’s affairs, the resentment has died down, but the question remains: Will the Creoles fight for the United States of America, or will they wait to see what offer the British will make them?” He shook his head. “Even if they fight, they may be paralyzed by their own damnably complicated politics. This Defense Committee that met tonight is not the only committee concerned with defense. The legislature has their own Committee of Defense, three of the local Creole leaders, arid they try to run the city’s affairs without consulting the governor or the mayor.” He straightened his shoulders and began his walk to the levee. “It may work out, somehow. Come along, Captain— my steward will have some hot punch ready.”
Favian looked up at the graceful low buildings fronting Chartres Street as he walked. Many of them, built on the soft, half-sunken ground, leaned at odd, erratic angles. How alien was this Latin, Catholic, slave-owning society, he wondered, and how might they be safely integrated into the rest of American society— Anglo-Saxon, Protestant, industrious, and for the most part free?.
Commerce, he supposed, would integrate the city eventually, he knew, for the “Kaintucks” were moving into New Orleans at ever-increasing rates and would eventually submerge the native population. But would the Creoles see that as a threat and a reason to make their peace with the British, who could protect them from the thousands of Americans moving downriver?
Favian knew himself ignorant: he had never lived in a slave state, never traveled, within the boundaries of the United States, any farther south than Norfolk. Yet here he was cast into a situation in which he would have to make decisions, decisions on which the fate of Louisiana could depend, with no real understanding of the vast majority of the inhabitants.
His cousin Gideon, who had married a Spanish lady from Mobile, might be able to give him aid. Gideon owned several plantations north of Mobile together with his wife, Anna-Maria— or was it Maria-Anna? Something typically Spanish, with paired saints’ names; Favian could not remember.
Gideon had apparently made a life for himself here, and Favian would hope for good advice. Strange that it had happened to Gideon, Favian thought, the family puritan— such a rigid and unbending Protestant character would not, one would think, be a success with the Creoles. Perhaps Ann Marie— whatever— had more charms than he had formerly suspected.
“Speaking of Creoles and fighting,” Patterson said, clearing his throat. “I should like to advise you and your men to be careful when visiting the town. The Creoles, taken as a whole, are touchy on the subject of honor, and it’s easy for a Kaintuck to offer them insult without meaning to. When the young men of the city are called to their militia companies tomorrow the spirits of the town will be excited— there will probably be a dozen duels within the Creole battalion alone, and since the Laffite gang of smugglers has been broken up, the Navy is not at all popular.” Patterson touched Favian’s arm. “Just be wary, Captain Markham. Enjoy the town, by all means, but take a little care.”
“Thank you, sir,” Favian said.
The whistle of the New Orleans steamer shrilled from the docks and echoed from the houses; it was followed by the threshing sound of its paddle wheels, clearly audible on a still night. They turned the corner and caught a glimpse of the steamboat, its stack flinging sparks to the sky, putting on speed as it sped upriver..
In the cold air, still scented with the smell of stale blossoms, Favian sensed the vastness of the change that would come. Steamboats like New Orleans would be bringing the Kaintucks downriver to the Creole city, and much of its native culture would be lost; steam batteries would soon be dominating the harbors of the world and perhaps eventually the deep seas as well. It was in the American spirit to bring about such change, whether for good or ill; and it was the British who were standing for the Old World, the old order, the old way of doing things. More than two nations would be clashing soon on the Mississippi Delta, Favian thought; it would be two epochs, changeless eighteenth century Britain with its aristocratic privilege, its rigid social classes, engaged in war with nineteenth century America— democratic, turbulent, and inventive.
The Louisiana Creoles, Favian knew, would play a critical part, yet from all that he had seen and heard the Creoles were much closer to the eighteenth century; their formal, stylized way of life, based on slavery and rigidly maintained social classes, seemed closer to the British ideal. Somehow, Favian knew, the Kaintucks and the Creoles were going to have to be brought closer together, to be made to work together against the British, but yet he could not see how.
Kuusikoski and the crew of Favian’s pinnace leaped to attention as he and Patterson walked over the levee. Favian decided to save his meditations for the morrow. Perhaps the Defense Committee knew best how to handle the British; Favian, to be sure, did not.
*
“Captain Markham?” The lady was a soft-spoken Creole of about thirty, with dancing black eyes and a white, somehow suggestive smile; Favian hastened to rise from his seat in the hotel lobby where he’d been reading an old copy of Salmagundi Magazine. She was small, he noticed as he bowed, not rising even to his chin; there was a mourning band on her arm.
“I am Captain Markham, miss.” He was dressed in civilian rig, a gray coat with a black velvet collar, a round hat, and yellow nankeen trousers; but he was wearing the New York presentation sword and that, presumably, marked him as a military man. He had arrived at the hotel for his luncheon appointment with his cousin Gideon and had sent up his card; no word had yet come down.
“I am Mrs. Desplein, Mrs. Markham’s housekeeper,” the Creole said..
Of course, Favian thought, the servants would be in mourning as well..
“Captain and Mrs. Markham left this morning to conduct some business, and they’ve not returned. There’s only a girl servant and myself— even Mr. Grimes is gone, the steward— but I’m sure Captain Markham would wish you to have the hospitality of his rooms.”
“I’m most obliged, Mrs. Desplein.” Favian bowed, and followed her to his cousin’s room.
He had spent the morning in the city watching the militia companies assemble at the Place d’Armes in response to Governor Claiborne’s proclamation. Each company was dressed in a wildly romantic uniform of a different color, and the women of the city had been out in force to see them off. The officers, almost without exception, rode high-mettled horses and had made the most out of the occasion, attempting daring feats of horsemanship in the crowded square— levades, caprioles, the whole routine of chivalric horseback warriors. For the most part they had succeeded, except when a few horses grew upset at the crowding and threw their less-than-expert riders, a sight the crowd had seemed to enjoy even more than any successful acrobatics.
In the end Governor Claiborne arrived in a fanciful uniform of his own, blue with a very high, stiff collar, heavy braided epaulets, a blue ribbon of watered silk across his chest with the badge of a pelican on it, and a ruffled neckpiece like something out of the sixteenth century. He saluted General Villeré, in his red coat with epaulets and gold brocade, and Major Plauché of the New Orleans Battalion, who was also dressed in an epauletted coat buttoned down the side, with bold V-shaped velvet lapels pinned back on his shoulders. After a suitable number of bombastic speeches the parade got under way, and the Hulans, the Louisiana Blues— who seemed to be Irishmen— the Carabiniers, the Chasseurs, a small company of Choctaws, and the Free Men of Color under white officers, formed up and marched through the streets of the town to the Place d’Armes, decked with the flowers and kisses of the ladies of the town..
This was only the city militia. More companies would be assembling in the countryside and marching into the town as soon as word of the mobilization was carried to them. And, of course, General Thomas’s Baton Rouge brigade would be marching south within a few days. There would be another meeting of the Defense Committee tonight, Favian knew, to decide where to post everyone once they were mobilized. In the meantime it was possible to enjoy a carnival atmosphere.
Favian watched the militia with only half his attention; they were not his department, after all, and however gorgeous their plumage they failed utterly to outshine the ladies of New Orleans. On his walk to the Place d’Armes he had passed through districts other than those government and warehouse areas he had visited, and it had not escaped Favian’s attention that New Orleans was a delightfully sinful city.
Saloons and gambling houses were doing a mighty business, even early in the morning, each packed with uniformed men anxious to have a last fling before marching off to their camps. The brothels seemed to be doing landmark business among the officers and men of the New Orleans Battalion. They operated quite openly, with touts standing outside describing, in half a dozen dialects, the pleasures available. This surprised Favian, who was used to the more discreet palaces elsewhere in the United States.
Nor were illicit pleasures the only ones available. It was possible to walk the streets and stand among the crowds at the Place d’Armes, and feast his eyes, without disturbing propriety in the least, on the extraordinary number of beautiful women. The Creole ladies were out in large numbers, dressed in their finest, and Favian concluded that whatever mix of nationalities and races had come to make up Louisiana, each seemed to be composed of surprisingly handsome stock. The women carried themselves proudly, head high, in a way that the New England women would have thought immodest. Each race and mixture of race provided its own striking examples of loveliness and grace: the whites standing in their gowns, flashing dark eyes glancing boldly from beneath their bonnets; the blacks carrying themselves proudly, gracious smiles flashing from their handsome faces, faces which seemed somehow physically different from the blacks Favian had seen in the East— long-jawed, long-nosed, perhaps with a Choctaw influence. The women of mixed blood, quadroons and octoroons, contributed their exotic appeal and seemed the most beautiful of all, tall, erect, with languid Egyptian eyes. All the women showed wild enthusiasm at the parade, hurling bouquets and running out amid the troops to kiss unblushingly their husbands, brothers, lovers, and, for all Favian knew, complete strangers. As he stood in his fashionable city rig, it was one of the few times in his life Favian had ever wished himself in uniform.
The ear, as well as the eye, found much to delight in. The languages and dialects heard in the streets teased Favian’s polyglot mind: three tongues seemed most common, with French of one variety or another being the dominant speech of the city, and Spanish heard often and English least. Other languages spoke for the unassimilated minorities: Favian saw two Indians conversing in what he supposed was Choctaw, a few Portuguese fishermen haggling among themselves, a number of people speaking German, and two reverend physicians discussing a patient in Latin.
Even though French was the most common language, most of it was uncommon French: Favian, who had learned French from his father’s manservant St. Croix and had a good ear for dialects, heard purest Parisian, Norman-French, a strange dialect he thought might be Alsatian, and unadulterated Gascon. These were only heard from recent immigrants; most French speakers spoke a Creole tongue, but hardly ever the same Creole. New Orleans Creole predominated, but there was also Acadian Creole, and since Louisiana had been the refuge for many colonists driven by the wars from Haiti, the Lesser Antilles, and the Indian Ocean, Favian heard Martinique Creole, Saint-Domingue Creole, and Mauritius Creole. Most of the black population spoke Creole languages formed from a mixture of the Creole spoken by their masters with their own African additions; in effect, a Creole Creole.
Favian thought it possible that he was falling in love with this gloriously polyglot city. Despite the grandiloquent silliness expressed by the New Orleans bravos, their absurd comic-opera uniforms and horseback caprioles, Favian knew there was something in New Orleans, besides the economic necessity of controlling the mouth of the Mississippi, worth fighting for. There was something here that the United States needed, an easy, sunny tolerance, antidote to the chilly Calvinism of New England, a window on languages and cultures that the Americans would find needful as their territory, wealth, and outlook expanded. It was with reluctance that Favian heard the church carillons ringing the hour of noon and remembered his luncheon appointment with his puritan cousin Gideon, who would by now be in mourning, in solemn opposition to the festive atmosphere of the city.
Following Mrs. Desplein into Gideon’s suite at the hotel, he saw a girl in a chair reading a book; she jumped up at Favian’s entrance and curtsied.
“This is Campaspe, Mrs. Markham’s maid,” Mrs. Desplein said offhandedly. She pursed her lips. “You shouldn’t be here, girl.”
“I wanted to fetch this copy of Wordsworth, gouvernante,” the maidservant said. She spoke with a slight Spanish accent and watched Favian with lively dark eyes; she, too, wore a mourning band on her arm. “I started reading and forgot where I was.”
“Campaspe,” Favian repeated. “That’s Greek, isn’t it? An unusual name.” Her dark eyes turned to his, and he grinned. “Cupid and my Campaspe played /At cards for kisses. Cupid paid,” he quoted, and saw the girl flash a dazzling smile— a truly remarkable smile— in answer.
“You know the poem!” she said. “Don Carlos used to quote it when he saw me.”
“Don Carlos,” said Mrs. Desplein, “gave Campaspe her name, since her father was killed before she was born. Don Carlos was Mrs. Markham’s first husband.”
“He must have been very well educated to know John Lyly,” Favian said, surprised. He had been made to read Euphues, or the Anatomy of Wit when young, and found it precious stuff and hard going. His resistance had increased with each page and in the end he’d mutinied and been given the plays instead, but his resistance to Lyly’s affectations had been fully formed.
“Don Carlos spent a lot of his time with English poetry,” Campaspe said. “He was writing a book about Shakespeare and Jonson and Lope de Vega and Cervantes when he died.”
“Very comprehensive,” Favian said, bemused that a Spaniard of knightly rank would spend his declining years tracking down similarities between the leading playwrights of the two warring nations— he doubted that Shakespeare and Lope de Vega would even have heard of one another.
“He used to give names to all his servants,” Campaspe said, rapid-fire. “We had Lightborn and Mosca and Dromio and Touchstone and Dido and Mephisto—”
“Campaspe,” Mrs. Desplein said firmly, “that is enough. Go about your duties.”
“And Bottom!” said Campaspe. “I don’t have any duties, Madame Desplein, the hotel maids did everything.” Her eyes shifted from Mrs. Desplein to Favian. “You captured the Teaser, didn’t you? Last year?” She spoke with her head cocked to one side, her eyes seeming, for a reason he could not guess, to challenge him.
“Yes. No. Not captured; I sunk her,” Favian said, baffled by the girl’s sudden change of tacks, agile as a pilot boat.
“I’ve been to sea,” Campaspe said. “I’ve been in a mutiny and a stern chase where I was a quartermaster, and I ran away once to a privateer where I fought a British schooner. She shot away our foremast, but Captain Markham, that is our Captain Markham, saved us. I was also in a revolt in Mexico, where my parents were killed, but I was too young to remember.”
“Campaspe, go read your book,” Mrs. Desplein said in exasperation.
“Yes, ma’am,” Campaspe said, apparently a fine judge of just how far she could press her luck. She curtsied again, then left the room, pausing with her hand on the door to flash an impudent, dazzling, all-encompassing over-the-shoulder smile, and to recite:
“O Love! Has she done this to thee? What shall (alas!) become of me?”
She leaned back in a stage swoon, the back of her hand to her forehead, and then vanished. Favian recognized the final two lines of the John Lyly poem.
“Two years ago she couldn’t speak any English at all, except for that poem,” Mrs. Desplein said. “It must have been very peaceful. Please have a seat, Captain Markham. Shall I ring for coffee? Or perhaps some rum punch?”
“Rum punch, thank you. Or should I? Gideon, I mean Captain Markham, the other Captain Markham, is a temperance man, is he not? Would I offend him?”
“He does not object to spirits when ashore,” Mrs. Desplein said, tugging the bellpull. “But aboard Malachi’s Revenge he and his crewmen drink only coffee, with cocoa on Sundays. Perhaps, with your permission, we could agree to call you Captain Favian, and the other Captain Gideon?” She pronounced the “Favian” as a French-speaker would, with two broad a’s. Favian smiled; he had always thought that pronunciation preferable to the usual New England way of giving the first syllable a long a.
“Thank you. It would suit me perfectly,” Favian said, hitching his sword around to permit him to sit down without disemboweling the furniture. Mrs. Desplein released the bellpull and turned toward Favian.
“Did Campaspe really run away to sea?” Favian asked. A frown crossed Mrs. Desplein’s face.
“Yes, she did, on the Franklin privateer with Captain Fontenoy. She was dressed as a boy, of course. If you give her half a chance, she will be giving you a description of the rigging of the Franklin and comparing it with the bumpkins and jibbooms and lower studding masts, or whatever they’re called, of the Malachi’s Revenge“
It must have been some time ago, Favian thought. Campaspe was clearly a young woman in the making; no one could possibly mistake her curves for those of a boy..
“Please sit down, Mrs. Desplein,” Favian said. “I realize it’s not supposed to be your place to sit down among company, but speaking like this, ah—” He was about to say, “makes me nervous,” but amended it at the last minute to “must be uncomfortable for you.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, smoothly seating herself on a settee.
“My uncle Malachi— the one the schooner is named after— spent part of the war in New Orleans,” Favian said. “He was a privateer under Governor Bernardo de Gálvez, fighting the British on Lake Pontchartrain and on the river.”
“Captain Boston and his brother!” she cried suddenly. “That was what the city called him— I didn’t realize that Captain Gideon was of the same family. The name Markham is really not known, just the name the city gave him, but I will wager it was the same man.”
Favian smiled; he had heard from his father that the French thought all Yankees were from Boston, and recited the song his father had taught him:
“Bon, bon, bon, les matelots de Boston,
“On trompez les anglaix aux canons.”
Mrs. Desplein laughed and clapped her hands. “I have heard that song! Your accent is quite Parisian— we shall have to add a little Creole to your speech.”
There was a respectful knock on the servant’s entrance, set in an alcove off the parlor. Mrs. Desplein rose from her seat and walked to the alcove, where she spoke to one of the hotel servants in French, ordering coffee and rum punch. She returned to her seat and was about to sit down when the main door opened behind her, and she artfully adjusted her position so that it would not appear that she was sitting in the presence of a guest. Favian stood and bowed as Captain and Mrs. Gideon Markham entered the room, followed by a middle-aged, graying black man. Each wore tokens of mourning, though even Gideon had not dressed entirely in black; Gideon seemed less withdrawn, less the scowling puritan he had been the day before. Obviously the company of his wife improved him.
Gideon crossed the room and clasped Favian’s gloved hand, a solemn smile on his brown face. “I’m glad to see you here, Favian,” he said. “This is my wife, Maria-Anna. And Grimes, my steward.”
“Gideon. Ma’am. Grimes. I’m happy to meet you here, but I wish I were here with better news.” Maria-Anna offered her hand, and Favian bowed to kiss it.
Favian looked with polite curiosity at Gideon’s wife, who had somehow snatched the reclusive, pious Gideon from his self-imposed exile and turned him into a prosperous planter. It was a mystery to Favian how Maria-Anna had dragged the reclusive Gideon off his schooner long enough to propose marriage, since after the death of his first wife Gideon had become something of a nautical hermit.
She was short, her hair pulled back à la Chinoise to show her ears and temples, with a slight, small-breasted figure that fit to perfection her white, high-waisted gown. It was clear, on the evidence of the gentle rounding beneath the gown, that Maria-Anna was with child. Her face seemed almost as sunbrowned as Gideon’s, and bore the signs of a life in the outdoors; at first he thought her plain, but on second glance he doubted his first impression— there was a vitality animating her features that made them very much worth a second look. She did not look a Creole; there did not seem to be the exotic grace, the unique carriage, that Favian had seen in the street, and this surprised him.
“I’m glad to see you under any circumstances, Captain Markham,” she said in an accent perfectly American, though southern. “I’m just sorry we weren’t here to greet you. One of Gideon’s investments just sailed into port, the privateer Franklin, and we had to interview the captain.” She smiled slyly as Favian straightened over her hand. “I see you have been in New Orleans long enough to learn how to kiss a hand, sir. Gideon has never learned.”
“The Navy, ma’am, runs a school of gallantry along with its schools of seamanship,” Favian said. “We learn hand-kissing and flattery along with gunnery and spherical trigonometry.”
“Goodness. I can see you were an apt pupil.” She took off her bonnet and handed it to Grimes, who also carried Gideon’s hat and stick. “Have you sent for refreshment, Mrs. Desplein?”
“Yes, ma’am. I ordered coffee and rum punch just now.”
“I thought I saw the girl leaving. Will you run down and tell them to bring up our luncheon?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Desplein curtsied and left the room. Grimes disposed of the bonnet, hat, and stick, bowed, and disappeared down the hallway; he came back carrying a birthing stool. It was an old-fashioned piece of furniture— the current mode was for women to give birth lying down— but Favian had seen many standing in New England houses. This was a large, comfortable apparatus, quite obviously specially made for Maria-Anna by a local master carpenter, and well pillowed to support her back. Practical wives used them as ordinary furniture before and after giving birth: it struck Favian that Maria-Anna was nothing if not practical. Gideon helped her to sit, then took a place near her on the settee.
“Favian, sit down, please,” Maria-Anna said. “I hope Mrs. Desplein has been looking after you.”
“She and the girl Campaspe were quite hospitable.”
“So you’ve met our Campaspe, eh?” she asked. “I thought she’d find an excuse to see you— she was quite excited when she heard you were coming. She is a partisan of sailors; the gallants of the New Orleans Carabiniers hold no charms for her.” She reached out for Gideon’s hand and took it. “She shows good taste in that, I think.” She smiled.
“She said that she once ran away to sea,” Favian said.
“In the Franklin, aye,” Gideon said; there was something of the old frown on his face. “The same snow Maria-Anna and I just visited on the river. She’s an impetuous girl; that was only the most dangerous of her pranks.”
Maria-Anna leaned toward Favian, a confiding gleam in her eye. She spoke in a low voice. “I think I should take advantage of Mrs. Desplein’s absence to, ah, mention something. Her husband was killed last year in a duel with one of the Mississippi Dragoons— they’re famous for calling out people on the most ludicrous pretexts— and she was left in a bad way.”
“Desplein was a blasted fool,” Gideon said, his frown deeper still. “He had lost everything in the Creek War— his house was burned, his slaves run off, only the land left and his wife to help him make a new start. He was penniless, and he got called out and shot by some horseback bravo. If Maria-Anna hadn’t bought the land sight unseen and employed Mrs. Desplein as a housekeeper, she would have starved.”
Maria-Anna nodded. “True, but not to the point,” she said. “The point is that she is a widow, is very attractive, and would have no objection to marrying again. Unless you intend to acquire attachments in New Orleans, I would advise caution with our Mrs. Desplein.”
“Ma’am, I’m sure nothing occurred between us,” Favian said, surprised. “Campaspe was here for most of the time, and—”
Maria-Anna dismissed his protestations with a wave of her hand. “I had no intention of implying anything of the sort,” she said. “I just wished to drop a word of warning. Mrs. Desplein has her nets out, that’s all. She’s a good woman, I know, but I suspect a little unscrupulous.”
Good but unscrupulous, whatever that meant, a strangely ambiguous warning. “Thank you, ma’am,” Favian said, uncertain how else to respond.
“I hope you will stop ma’aming me,” Maria-Anna said. “We are kin, after all.”
“Certainly, Maria-Anna,” Favian said. “I was surprised to find you speaking southern American; I .had thought you were a Spanish Creole.”
She smiled. “I was born and raised in Charleston,” she said. “My first husband was a Spaniard with estates in Mexico. When he died I was left with a house in Mobile, where I met Gideon.”
Favian suspected there was more to the story than that, but there was a knock on the servants’ door at that point, a brief murmured conversation in the servants’ alcove, and then Grimes entered with a tray, coffee, and punch.
“Thank’ee, Grimes,” Gideon said as he was served with a cup of punch and turned to Favian. “Is the news we heard this morning correct?” he asked. “Are the British moving on New Orleans?”
“Aye,” Favian said. “British regular troops and a large squadron of the line, as well as frigates and small craft. It isn’t a secret— so long as the news produces readiness rather than panic, you may feel free to spread the word.”
Gideon nodded. “How long do we have?” he asked.
“A month at the outside,” said Favian. “Probably less.”
Gideon looked at Maria-Anna, then set down his cup of punch. “We’ll take the schooner to New England before that,” he said. “We meant to leave Mobile last September, but the British attack prevented us.”
“I told Gideon yesterday that Captain Patterson praised highly his conduct at Mobile,” Favian said.
Maria-Anna smiled with pleasure, looking proudly at her husband. Gideon only answered with a few short words. “We thank the Lord for our success,” he said, “but the captures have been nothing but trouble. We had to take them before the prize court here, which is damnably slow, and that was one delay. Since we wanted to keep one of the captures to use as a privateer, after the schooner and the sloop were declared lawful prize, we kept the sloop and sold the schooner to pay off the prize money owed to our crew for both ships— that meant a double payment to the hands for a single sale, which meant that we haven’t made a penny yet. But because most of the privateers around here are pirates, the authorities are taking their time about granting us the commission.”
“As if Gideon were not a well-known captain who hasn’t been sailing from New Orleans and Mobile for two years,” Maria-Anna said indignantly. “As if he weren’t the only lawful privateer in the entire Gulf of Mexico! The Laffites were allowed to operate for years with nothing more than a few worthless certificates from Cartagena, but when a law-abiding citizen wishes to earn a legal profit from his bravery, the law steps in to prevent him. It’s enough to make me sympathize with the Laffites.”
The servants’ door opened quietly, and Mrs. Desplein glided into the room and announced that their luncheon would be sent up shortly. When it came, Grimes served them; Favian discovered, to his delight, the wonder of Creole cooking, the soup with its rice and peppers, the fried fish with its delicate dusting of spices, the duck lying with its crispy skin beneath its glaze of sauce. Over coffee, Favian asked Gideon about the British attack on Mobile, and Gideon bent over, seizing table implements as aids to his description of the battle, the knife indicating the direction of the wind, the sauceboat Dauphin Island, bones representing the ships... for the first time Gideon grew animated, his color rising, his words stumbling over one another in their eagerness to describe the action. The professional side of Favian found himself admiring Gideon’s tactics: the British had launched a clever two-pronged assault, intending to bring the American fort and its defenders between two fires, but Gideon had been still more clever. While the fort had fought off the frontal assault, repelling a land assault while destroying a sloop of war and driving off a squadron, Gideon had dealt with the other attack. He kept the British Musquetobite at long range until it was too late to do otherwise, then closed to board, the privateer’s superior numbers assuring success.
It had been a well-played game, the boarding maneuver— normally a desperate tactic against any enemy that had a hope of resisting— only made possible by the careful preparation of the long-range fight. Favian found himself looking with increased respect at his cousin: he had known Gideon was a good seaman and a fighter, but he had never been aware of this latent tactical ability.
Then Gideon’s flow of words slowed abruptly; his look grew abstract. “The battle was fought on the thirteenth of September, the British appeared off Fort Bowyer on the twelfth,” he said slowly. “You say that my father died on the night of the eleventh, or in the early morning of the twelfth?”
“That’s right, aye,” Favian said.
“The morning of the twelfth,” Gideon said, his face troubled, “I woke early, with a premonition of death. That day I thought nothing of it, but when the British appeared later in the day I was certain the premonition would come true, that it had been sent by the Lord that I might make my peace with him before I died. I went into the battle knowing that I would die, but I lived— I was not even injured. Until now I thought the premonition was false.”
Gideon turned to Favian. There was anguish in his eyes. “D’ye think, Favian, that it was my father? That the Almighty allowed him to bid me farewell, and that I did not recognize him, but thought him Death?” He lowered his head into his hand. “I’m sure it was my father,” he said. “And I did not know him when he came.”
Favian gazed in alarm at Maria-Anna, and saw her looking at Gideon with tight-lipped concern. He had seen many such premonitions in his wars— suddenly a man would see his death, write a will, distribute his valued possessions to his friends— and within days, hours perhaps, he would find the death he had seen in combat with an enemy.
But Favian had never heard of this kind of presentiment, the ghost of a man’s father flying across two thousand miles of ether to bid him farewell— yet Gideon clearly believed it and felt incomparable loss that he had not recognized Josiah’s spirit, if Josiah’s spirit it was..
Favian felt an odd wish that Lazarus, Macedonian’s chanteyman who claimed to have sold his soul to the devil in 1682, were here. He would have an explanation, even if it was a crackpot one..
But of course Gideon would never have countenanced a devil-worshiper in his house. Favian would have to manage the issue himself.
“If the Lord ...” Favian began. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, and spoke again; he had no religion himself, and wasn’t used to expressing himself in this way. “If the Lord allowed your father to cross all the distance from New Hampshire to Mobile, he would certainly have allowed him to make himself known to you without question.”
Gideon looked up. “Think’ee so?” he asked.
“I am certain of it,” Favian said, attempting to-put as much false sincerity into his voice as possible.
“But the coincidence,” Gideon said. “That same morning, the twelfth of September. How could it be anything other than my father?”
“There are mysteries, Gideon, whose answers we cannot comprehend,” Favian said. It was strange to speak in this way; no doubt his acquaintance with Lazarus helped him. “You can’t blame yourself for something you can never know.”
“It would be a sin, Gideon,” Maria-Anna said earnestly.
“Aye,” Gideon said slowly. “Reproach may be self-indulgent, I know. I will meditate on it, and pray.”
Maria-Anna turned to Favian. “How are your father and mother?” she asked. “They gave us a lovely wedding present, a beautifully carven pair of tables sent down from Pittsburgh on a flatboat. I don’t know if our thanks have yet reached them.”
“They are well,” Favian said, leaping on the chance to change the topic. “My father has reentered political life to speak against the Hartford Convention, along with my brother Lafayette and Congressman Webster. They succeeded in preventing New Hampshire from sending official delegates, though some local busybodies are going as observers.”
“When does the convention meet?” Gideon asked. He seemed to have come slowly out of his disturbing meditations, making an obvious effort to join the conversation.
“Next month. The middle of December,” Favian said.
“More madness,” Gideon said, frowning. “Madness to declare the war in the first place, madness to break up the Union over it rather than see it through. The Lord wants both the British and ourselves humbled, I think, and he has chosen the war as a means of doing it, letting our madness run loose and showing it to ourselves.”
The last was said with fire, and Favian saw Maria-Anna’s eyes glowing: Gideon was himself again. They spoke of politics as Grimes served cordials and cigars, Gideon venting his intemperate opinions mixed with biblical quotations and intimate knowledge of the inner workings of New England’s soul. The afternoon waned, and Favian, recollecting that he would have to go to the Louisiana to change into his dress uniform for the Defense Committee meeting, stood to take his congé.
“Can you not stay for supper?” Maria-Anna asked. “We are having some acquaintances over and will be playing a little cards. Given the news of Gideon’s father, we would have liked to have called it off; but there was no way of letting everyone know.”
“There is a meeting of the Defense Committee. I must attend,” Favian said. He was astonished that Gideon would allow card-playing in his rooms, a habit denounced by every New England parson as a certain route to Hell— Maria-Anna had very obviously made a change in him.
“Perhaps you can come afterwards. We shall be going quite late, I think,” she said. Favian bowed.
“I will do my best,” he said.
“Favian, I notice that you wear a sword,” Gideon said, standing, walking with Favian to the door. “I would like to caution you— if you wear a sword in this city, and not a uniform with it, it signals you’re ready for a fight.”
“Does it?” Favian wondered, looking down at the presentation sword.
“It’s so,” Gideon said. “If you don’t wish to be called out, do not wear a blade. I know you are a stranger here and you might be afraid to walk without protection, so carry a pocket pistol or a swordstick, like me.” He took his stick in its stand by the door and drew a wicked two-foot blade.
“I’ll take your advice. Thank you,” Favian said. The thought he had been wearing a challenge at his side all day was alarming; he had fought enough duels in his life to be wary of blundering into an unnecessary one.
“I’ll walk Favian to the lobby,” Maria-Anna announced, taking his arm. Favian took his hat and bade farewell to his cousin, then turned into the corridor.
“I want to thank you for diverting Gideon so expertly just now,” she said. “Black moods can fall on him so easily— though it’s not so common as once it was,” she added with self-satisfaction.
“It’s a family trait, I’m afraid,” Favian said, and then wondered at himself for this sudden confession.
“Is it?” she asked. Her arm felt warm at his side. Favian was suddenly aware that it had been weeks since he’d touched a woman. “I wonder if Grimes has them.”
“Grimes? Your butler?”
“He’s not a butler; he’s Gideon’s cabin steward. We have a proper butler back home in Mobile,” Maria-Anna said, relinquishing his arm as they entered the lobby. She looked up at him. “Grimes is your uncle Malachi’s bastard. One of many, I gather.”
“Good heavens!” Malachi’s cheerful leaps from one bed to another were a family legend; it had long been a worry that some offspring would appear to claim an inheritance.
“He’s a good servant, though,” she continued. “I hope I will see you tonight.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said and took her hand to kiss.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Gideon has been fretting over his family; he can’t stand not being in New England.”
She turned away. Favian watched her disappear in the corridor, then turned away and walked out into the street. It was a hot day, the streets still full of laughing people in a holiday mood. He watched the Creole ladies as he walked, saw their proud bearing, appreciated the way they cultivated their own immodest beauty... but strangely he could not get Maria-Anna out of his mind. Odd, he thought, that she should seem much more alive in his memory than the Creole women were in his present— she was not beautiful; her face bore traces of a hard life; she was with child; but still there was something in her that Favian could not forget.