CHAPTER FIVE
“Interesting that you should have resurrected Porter’s old game,” said Master-Commandant Daniel Todd Patterson as he walked with Favian on the precariously narrow single sidewalk beside the muddy quagmire of Chartres Street. “I hadn’t thought about it in years.”
“It wasn’t I who resurrected it,” Favian said. “That was Jacob Jones; and Lieutenant Stone did most of the work. I just watch; the midshipmen learned it faster than I could, and their suggestions have been quite valuable.”
“I suppose they find it preferable to conic sections and French irregular verbs,” said Patterson.
“Truly, sir, they do. During our cruise we let them play, as a voluntary thing, on the wardroom floor on Sundays, if they aren’t on watch. The attendance is quite good; even the chaplain became an enthusiast.
They were speaking of a sailing game, played with little ship models on a floor or table, that Favian had approved for the purpose of teaching midshipmen fleet maneuvers and tactics. The original had been designed by David Porter— the same Porter whose famous cruise in the Pacific had come to such a tragic end the year before— back when Porter was a mere lieutenant and held prisoner with the rest of the Philadelphia’s crew in Tripoli. The purpose had been to continue the education of the prisoner-midshipmen during their confinement, and the game had been forgotten after the prisoners were released. Jacob Jones, Macedonian’s first American captain and a midshipman who had learned the game in the Moorish prison, had been blockaded by the British for over a year, and had been confronted by a gunroom full of untrained midshipmen to whom, because of the blockade, he’d been unable to teach their tasks. He’d remembered the game, and his excellent first officer, Adrian Stone, had created a much more elaborate version under Jones’s direction; Macedonian’s mids had for the most part become enthusiasts and were continuing the games even now that the frigate had broken the blockade.
And, as Favian had stated, even the chaplain was a player. Dr. Talthibius Solomon had been, like the frigate’s other officers, picked by Jones; Favian had initially found him pleasant, but a little ineffectual and more than a little foolish: the man’s sermons had been strange rambling discourses on academic subjects best left in the academies. But a strange metamorphosis had taken place— Dr. Solomon had proved a surprisingly martial preacher. During the capture of the Carnation, Solomon had been the first aboard the enemy corvette, slicing at the British with his cutlass. Since then he’d begun taking an active, growing interest in elements of the midshipman’s curriculum. He had been found on the quarterdeck with a sextant, doing the noon sight along with the mids; he had stripped off his coat and collar and gone aloft to learn the lines, shrouds, and sails; he had learned to operate Markham’s Recording Log. Lieutenant Hourigan, acting as first officer now that Stone was off with the Carnation, had informed Favian that the preacher had begun borrowing books on seamanship and tactics.
Favian, during the mad dash from the Leeward Islands to New Orleans, had been far too busy to spare any thought for the chaplain. Most chaplains knew nothing about the sea, and cared to know nothing. In most elements of a warship’s life, save that of drinking port in the wardroom, they were useless, and the crews treated them with the half contempt they reserved for all landsmen, and in general thought them unlucky Jonahs. Dr. Solomon, at least, stood fair to earn some respect from the hands by becoming something of a sailor, and Favian could hardly do anything but approve. It was odd, though, to look up aloft to check the trim of the sails and see an ordained priest of the Episcopalian Church, with a doctorate from the College of New Jersey, skylarking in the rigging like a fifteen-year-old midshipman.
Even his sermons had improved. Though they still bore a lamentable tendency to wander into odd philosophical and etymological culs-de-sac, Dr. Solomon had made a laudable attempt to stick to the point, and his “double-shotted” sermon on the subject of intolerance, delivered after the reputed witch Kuusikoski had been beaten, had included some fine ranting passages, complete with nautical jargon supplied, Favian thought, by the wardroom officers, which had greatly impressed the hands.
“I would be honored, sir,” said Patterson, “if you would present me with a copy of Porter’s rules. With only one manned schooner and six gunboats on station, our junior officers here get no opportunity for learning the tasks involved in maneuvering larger ships, let alone fleets. The game might prove useful.”
“I shall send to Macedonian on the next pilot boat,” Favian said. “It will probably take them some time to write a copy; the rules are not well codified and keep changing with each game.”
“No hurry, sir, no hurry,” said Patterson. “With the present emergency, I think it is best to keep the boys’ minds on their current tasks.” He shrugged deeper into his gold-laced coat. “It will be cold tonight,” he said.
“I’m surprised at the extremes of temperature, sir,” said Favian. “It was a hot afternoon.”
“The British invaders will be surprised as well, let us hope,” Patterson said. “Sweltering in the daylight hours, befogged in the morning, freezing at night... half the British force may die of sickness before we fight them. Certainly the West Indian regiments, used to the climate of Jamaica, will be greatly handicapped here.”
“I hope so, sir.” They entered Governor Claiborne’s residence and handed their hats to the black butler; they were shown into Claiborne’s study, where the Defense Committee was meeting.
It had been much enlarged since the previous night’s meeting and contained so many dazzling uniforms that the two in Navy blue stood out simply by their simplicity. Villeré had brought his two sons as aides-de-camp, Plauché had brought aides of his own, and also present was General Jean-Joseph Humbert, a French immigrant, who, as Patterson informed Favian, had led an invasion of Ireland in 1798, and with a motley army of French regulars and Irish rebels had inflicted several defeats on the British before the “Republic of Connaught” was smashed at Ballinamuck by Cornwallis— the same Cornwallis who had surrendered Yorktown and ended the American Revolution. Humbert, a French republican, had subsequently opposed the Empire and been exiled by Napoleon; he was a plump, gray-haired man, wearing the uniform of the Louisiana Blues, the Irish regiment who had adopted him; but Favian saw that his unmartial appearance was belied by the cynical, knowing eyes of the professional officer. The speaker of the Louisiana House, Magloire Guichard, had made an appearance, along with Philip Louallier, a prominent legislator. The legislature’s Committee of Defense was present in the person of Bernard de Marigny, the wealthiest planter in Louisiana, and a haughty leader of the Creole faction—evidently the governor had invited him in an effort to compose the differences between one Defense Committee and the other. Edward Livingston was present, a local attorney and man of affairs, brother of the chancellor Robert Livingston who had been partners with Robert Fulton back in New York, and there were a number of other people, uniformed and otherwise, who had, Favian thought, no conceivable business there at all.
The meeting was disorderly and accomplished little. The original few members of the Defense Committee had been far from united; expanding it into a Committee for Public Safety did little but encourage chaos. Ostensibly the purpose of the meeting was to decide where to station the available forces, and everyone seemed to have their own ideas, most of which were spoken at the top of their lungs. Governor Claiborne, Favian thought, seemed to consider himself a master strategist, an opinion which most of the others seemed inclined to dispute. The arguments were bewildering: Favian heard reference to Lake Borgne and Bay St. Louis, the English Turn, the Gentilly Road, Bayou Terre aux Boeufs, and Bayou Lafourche. He sat by Patterson and watched the other officer’s frown deepen, his face growing scarlet and his eyes hard; in the end Patterson stood up, whispered “let us withdraw” to Favian, took a map from the table under Claiborne’s nose while the governor was arguing a point with Livingston, and walked with Favian into the next room.
“Blasted Creole ballroom dancing!” he snarled. “That’s all it is. Change partners and dance! Everyone wants to have his say in the saving of Louisiana and doesn’t want anyone else to get the credit! What a farce!” He spread out the map on a desk, took a cigar from one of Claiborne’s brass-bound leather cigar cases, and used it as a pointer.
“Here’s our problem, Captain Markham. I knew you couldn’t understand more than half of what they were saying— not your fault, o’ course, you just don’t know the conditions, here— and I thought I’d take you apart and show you what the Navy can accomplish. If we can make up our minds what the Navy will do— we’re not under their jurisdiction, so we can do what we want— perhaps it might show them how to conduct a united strategy.”
“Very well,” Favian said. He wondered if Patterson was playing the old Navy game, trying to get Favian to waive his superior rank and leave the station in Patterson’s hands; but he thought not. Patterson seemed too angry, too earnest in his tone, too vigorous in his gestures. He was clearly a man who wanted things done, and he was prepared to make a positive example of the Navy even if he had to forego his commodore’s privileges.
“As you can see, the defense of New Orleans presents a devilish problem from start to finish,” Patterson said, pointing at the map with his cigar. “There are far too many ways to attack. We would prefer that the British simply come straight up the river; it’s a ninety-mile journey, against the current the entire way, and with bars over the mouths of the river that are too shallow for many of their largest ships. Fort St. Philip, planted right on a bend that is tricky navigation even without worrying about a masked battery suddenly opening fire, could hold them off for weeks, with or without the Macedonian, and quite possibly sink large numbers of their ships right in the bend, forming obstructions. Ships have been known to hang in the Plaquemines Bend for weeks, waiting for a wind to get them upriver— the fort’s in a good place.”
Favian knew the truth of Patterson’s observation. When Macedonian had sailed, with painful slowness, to the bend in the river, his first glimpse of the fort, in bad repair though it was, had made him thankful it wasn’t in enemy hands.
“There’s another fort farther up, Fort St. Leon, but it’s in very poor condition and wouldn’t stop them for long. Then there’s the possibility that the British might take Mobile and march overland to the Mississippi, cutting New Orleans off from the north,” Patterson said. “That was obviously the enemy’s preferred method, but the battle of Fort Bowyer in September stopped them, at least for the moment.”
Favian looked down at the map, a maddening confusion of waterways, lakes, and islands, each with a neatly scribed name in French, Spanish, or English, sometimes all three. “New Orleans is almost surrounded by water,” Patterson went on, “and there are dozens of water routes can be used to get to the city, outflanking the forts. The most important of these are the two lakes, Borgne and Pontchartrain. If the enemy take Borgne, there is a waterway— they call them bayous around here— from Borgne almost to the walls of the city, called Bayou Bienvenue. Bienvenue has a number of tributaries that feed into the Mississippi downriver from the city... Bayou Jumonville, and Bayou Mazant that feeds into some old canals that lead straight into the river. That’s six easy water routes to the city just from Lake Borgne, and there’s a land route as well, the Chef Menteur Road that leads from just north of the city to the lake. If the British take Borgne, all we can do is hope they don’t find any of these routes, the land route in particular.
“If the British get through Les Rigolets from Lake Borgne, then they’ll have broken into Lake Pontchartrain. Fortunately the chief water route from Pontchartrain to the city, the Bayou St. John, is guarded by Fort St. John, which can easily be put into repair. The land route is undefended entirely. The British could land on the Gentilly Peninsula here, a rocky ridge— firm ground in the midst of all this swamp, a good place for a military encampment— and then they could take the Gentilly Road straight to New Orleans.”
Patterson straightened, looking at the map with a tactical eye. He pointed at a little bay north of the Mississippi Sound marked Bay St. Louis. “That’s where I’ve put the gunboats,” he said. “Five gunboats and a pair of tenders under Lieutenant Thomas Ap Catesby Jones— Tac Jones, he’s called. D’ye know him?”
“No, I do not.”
“A thorough sailor, and a fighter,” Patterson said. “There’s a little fort in Bay St. Louis, and a magazine; Jones can supply himself from the magazine, even if he’s cut off from the city. From Bay St. Louis he can sail along the Mississippi Sound to Mobile Bay if Mobile is threatened again, and if the British appear to be moving through Lake Borgne he can move to block them. If he can’t hold Borgne, he can retreat to Pontchartrain. Borgne and Pontchartrain are shallow lakes; the deepest soundings are three fathoms, and the entrances to Borgne are no deeper than two. The gunboats will be at their best there, since no British vessels larger than a barge will get at ’em. The two tenders can be used to carry messages to the city.”
There was a satisfied, grim little smile on Patterson’s lips; Favian understood it, knowing Patterson had made the best use out of his cranky Jefferson gunboats, putting the normally useless little craft where anything that came at them would be of their own size or smaller.
“There are dozens of other waterways,” Patterson said. “Some of them are large enough to get a sizeable force through. I know, for I’ve done it myself.”
He pointed with his unlit cigar. “There’s the reason we had to clear the Baratarian pirates out of our rear,” he said. “From Barataria Bay the Bayou Pierrot leads into Little Barataria Lake, and from there to Lake Ouatchas, and from there to the right bank of the Mississippi near New Orleans. The Laffites have been running their contraband through there for years; they could just as easily put a British army into their pirogues.
“And then there’s Bayou Lafourche. It runs from the Gulf west of Barataria to a point on the Mississippi halfway between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. I brought the Carolina and the gunboats through there earlier this year when we burned the Baratarian commune; if it’s big enough for the Carolina, the British could get their schooners and all their armies through on barges. I can only hope the British don’t know of these routes; they’re unfortified and there would be no warning of their approach until redcoats started forming up on the levee.
“There are other bayous as well. Bayou Terre aux Boeufs runs from the Gulf south of Lake Borgne straight to the English Turn below New Orleans, bypassing both Fort St. Philip and Fort St. Leon.”
“Can the bayous be blocked?” Favian asked. “There can’t be a current to speak of; perhaps they could just be dammed up.”
Patterson looked up from the map, his eyes narrowing. “Could be,” he said. “Most of them, anyway. Lafourche is big, but it could be blocked with timber.”
“I think,” said Favian, “we should bring that motion before the committee.”
“Aye, sir, we should,” Patterson said. “As soon as possible.”
“Your plans for the gunboats strike me as sound,” Favian said. “But there are other ships present: Carolina and your gunboat; Macedonian, and Louisiana.”
They turned as a door opened behind them. It was General Humbert, the French exile; he gave them a sly look and closed the door behind him.
“Vouz parlez français?” he asked.
“Mais oui, man general,” Favian said. In the same language, he continued. “May I be of service?”
“You can divert me from those fools out there,” Humbert said, strolling up to the table, glancing at the map thrown over the table. “It was the same in Ireland. Talk, talk; the Irish are good at talking.” He helped himself to another of Claiborne’s cigars, cut the end, and lit it. “In Ireland I was able to maintain order; I had my Frenchmen to keep the Irish in line, and I gave the orders. At least until Crauford’s dragoons cut my men to pieces.” He gestured with the cigar toward the door he’d just passed through. “Many hounds without a master, that is all,” he said. “They are many small men: Claiborne is the best, but he thinks he is a genius and is not, and he has been in New Orleans long enough to have taken sides in most of the city feuds; his opponents will not trust him.
“The city needs a strong man,” Humbert continued. “A strong man from outside, not poisoned by the quarrels of the city and leader enough to bring these hounds to heel.”
“Yourself, sir?” Favian asked with polite cynicism. He had seen enough would-be Napoleons putting themselves forward, intending to save the republic with one absurd plan or another, and incidentally make their reputations at the same time— the Army was full of such amateurs, and far too many had managed to make themselves general officers; for the most part they simply got in the way of those competent professionals who knew what needed doing and how to do it.
“Not I, sir, not I,” Humbert said, shaking his head. “I, too, have been here for too many years. And I can’t speak English— until now there seemed no reason to learn, and now it’s too late. I was speaking in general terms only; I had no one person in mind. Perhaps Governor Claiborne will yet rise to the occasion; his brother Ferdinand became an adequate general with no training and defeated the Creeks at the Holy Ground.”
Favian sensed a certain condescension in that adequate. Adequacy was sufficient, perhaps, to beat the disorganized Creeks, but to fight Major General Sir Edward Pakenham and his Peninsular legions adequacy would clearly not be enough.
“We were speaking of deploying the squadron,” Patterson said. His French was not as fluent as Favian’s and had the New Orleans accent, a sign he had learned most of it here. His tone was curt; he clearly intended to dismiss Humbert with the remark.
Humbert just as clearly declined to be dismissed. He waved his cigar vaguely, sat in a stiff-backed chair, and said, “By all means, gentlemen, continue.”
Patterson watched Humbert with clear distrust, then turned to Favian, speaking deliberately in English. “I had planned to use Carolina as our reserve. When the British strike the Mississippi, they can only move comfortably by the banks of the river, along the ground of the plantations— their forces would have no hope of getting through the swamp beyond the fields. Carolina, and Louisiana if we could ever find crew for her, could be invaluable in breaking up any columns of march or in harassing encampments.”
Favian nodded. “Very sound,” he said.
“I think,” Patterson said, “our problem now is what to do with Macedonian.” He rubbed his jaw. “If you had arrived with a schooner like your cousin Gideon’s, I’d have a notion of what to suggest— but a thirty-eight-gun frigate! That’s like praying for a meal and being granted a banquet for fifty. It’s just never been in my considerations.”
Favian looked at the map, at the soundings with their shallow depths, the bars over the mouths of the Mississippi. The area was clearly unsuited for large warships; shallow-draft vessels, like those Patterson already had, were ideal. Patterson’s little gunboats and schooners would not only be able to navigate in the shallow waters but would be able to have a certain amount of freedom on the great river itself. Macedonian, as its experience in sailing the Mississippi as far as the Plaquemines Bend indicated, could only sail upriver if weather conditions were ideal, and could scarcely maneuver at all. If she were deployed against the enemy, she could never be retrieved once she was committed; once set to bombarding an enemy shore, she would remain a sitting duck until the winds permitted her escape. Perhaps he should simply take her crew off her, Favian thought, and use the Macedonians to crew Patterson’s unmanned boats. Or perhaps, he thought, now that he had delivered his message, he would be of more value to the United States should he simply head back to sea and continue his journey to the East Indies.
But no; Macedonian’s duty was here, at the mouths of the Mississippi. A British force, better equipped, better officered than any that had landed on America’s shores since the war had begun, was about to strike at New Orleans. Even if the waters were unsuitable, Macedonian was the largest American naval presence, and Favian the senior naval officer. He would have to stay.
“Macedonian, I think, must wait,” Favian said. “I cannot hope to fight the large fleet Cochrane will bring with him; there will probably be half a dozen ships with twice Macedonian’s number of guns. What Macedonian can do is delay the enemy for longer than they can afford. I can keep at the enemy’s heels; I can cut out their transports; I can force them to divert ships to hunt me down, as Porter did in the Pacific. They will be expecting nothing larger than your schooners; I can give them something they will not expect. As long as Macedonian is free, the British will never be able to move on New Orleans without looking over their shoulders. I can make them uneasy, Captain Patterson.”
Patterson looked at him, his eyes blazing; Humbert, not understanding, shifted uneasily in his seat. “By Jerusalem, sir!” Patterson said. “That’s well said!”
Favian smiled; it was a professionally cultivated smile, the sort he had allowed himself on board the United States, standing on the horse block watching his guns hammer the Macedonian at her capture. It took so little to inspire these martial men, really; a speech, a far-off victory, news of an enemy drawn closer, but not yet too close. Favian had said little concrete, for there was nothing too concrete to say: any real planning would have to be done after word was brought that the British had appeared.
“Thank you, Captain Patterson,” he said. He looked down at the map. It was time to clarify the situation here; after seeing the Committee for Public Safety baying and howling at one another, it was more important than ever that the Navy had a united command. “I think your squadron is well deployed; I have no intention of altering your dispositions. I intend only to act here as the service and the situation may require, and as the captain of the Macedonian. To alter the chain of command, at a time like this, would be to invite chaos. Captain Patterson, I put my trust in you.”
And so, seeing Patterson’s heightened color, the war-horse fire in his eyes, Favian knew he had made Patterson his subordinate more than if he had simply and brusquely stepped into command. He had confirmed Patterson in a job he already possessed, and by all appearances was doing well; he had made a friend bound to him by a debt of gratitude, to whom a suggestion would have as great an effect as a command. Favian had not served those years under Decatur for nothing; for all his resentment of the Navy’s strictures, he knew how to play the Navy game as well as anyone.
“I am honored by your confidence, Captain Markham,” Patterson said, trapped— Favian wondered if he realized it— by honor and confidence, by the shameless manipulation of his own better qualities.
Favian saw General Humbert’s cynical look, and only by the purest effort of will managed to keep from answering it by one of his own. The old French republican, Favian was certain, knew well the contradictions of the service and how to manipulate them: he knew the massive paradox implied by the existence of an autocratic, privileged officer class, dependent on rank and seniority but sworn to the service of a republic where all men were equal in the eyes of the law..
American officers commanded a class of private soldiers and sailors who were enslaved to the Roman tyranny of the Articles of War, living a subterranean existence under a system of martial law that recognized no Bill of Rights or Declaration of the Rights of Man. These were contradictions that the republic required for its survival— even now martial law might save New Orleans, while the freedoms granted by the Bill of Rights, as currently represented by the bickering inanity of the Committee for Public Safety, might lose it— but Favian knew they were contradictions that one day would have to be faced squarely.
The Navy having finished its discussion of deployments, and having concluded on various resolutions to be passed before the committee, Patterson and Favian lit Claiborne’s cigars and sat down comfortably to speak with the general. Humbert was a born raconteur; his tales of France during the Revolution and the Directory, and of the short-lived Republic of Connaught, were told in a coarse, colorful soldier-French that made clear his contempt for aristos, incompetents, politicians, bureaucrats, and the entire Bonaparte family, whom he blamed for the destruction of the ideals of the Revolution and its replacement with a tyranny far more efficient and encompassing than that of the ancien régime.
Humbert, after his capture at Ballinamuck, had grown to know his adversary Cornwallis quite well, and Favian listened with considerable interest to Humbert’s anecdotes about the able British general who had rampaged so effectively through the southern colonies during the American Revolution, and whose eventual surrender secured American independence..
Humbert hadn’t known of Cornwallis’s adventures in America, and Favian and Patterson had known nothing of Cornwallis’s subsequent career in India— where he had apparently become known for his liberal reforms, concerning which he had told Humbert in detail, apparently in an attempt to demonstrate the superiority of enlightened liberalism over revolution by guillotine— and then in Ireland, where he had put down the Republic of Connaught, treating his French captives well while exercising a well-bred restraint on the number of atrocities visited on the rebel Irish..
“The very best sort of Englishman,” Humbert concluded. “Far superior to that barbarian Crauford who unleashed his dragoons on the Irish who had already laid down their arms. I quite liked Cornwallis, but you must agree with me, gentlemen, that a decent man in service to a poisonous system only makes the poison taste sweeter without altering the nature of the poison, no?”
Favian agreed, but privately wondered at Humbert’s assessment of Cornwallis’s character. When hearing of how Cornwallis’s vicious subordinate Crauford had butchered the Irish militia after their surrender, Favian was reminded of how, in the Revolution, Banastre Tarleton’s Legion had been unleashed on the population of the Carolinas, a cruel spree of murder, plunder, and atrocity— perhaps it had been Cornwallis’s policy to unleash brutal men to chastise a rebellious population, while keeping his own hands clean in the event the cruelty miscarried. If that was his policy, it had certainly succeeded; during the Yorktown surrender no one had cried for Cornwallis’s execution as they had cried for Tarleton’s.
Stubbing out their cigars, Favian, Patterson, and Humbert rejoined the meeting of the Committee for Public Safety. It appeared that nothing had gone forward since they’d left; if anything, matters had degenerated. Calling for the floor, Favian quickly introduced motions to block the bayous (accepted; word would be spread to the planters to get their slaves to do it, an irregular, inefficient procedure but the best anyone could hope for), to provision, garrison, and repair the forts (accepted, though no mechanism existed for carrying out the resolution), to provide a bounty for sailors enlisting in the Navy (taken under advisement for consideration by the legislature), and for the declaration of martial law (rejected after an indignant speech by the Speaker of the House).
This sudden burst of activity concluded, the Committee for Public Safety found itself a bit breathles,s and adjourned. Favian said a formal farewell to all present, resolving to pay a private call on Governor Claiborne the following day in order to present a few suggestions. Claiborne was, after all, the commander in chief of the Louisiana militia and was constitutionally permitted to issue them orders without the necessity of going through these turbulent meetings. Favian hoped he could convince Claiborne that the use of a few well-chosen arbitrary military powers might not shake the foundations of New Orleans society.
Turning down invitations from both Patterson and Claiborne, Favian headed for Gideon’s hotel, and wondered if Gideon and Maria-Anna were still receiving guests. The night was chill; Favian’s breath frosted before him as he walked, and he saw thin skins of ice forming on the surface of street puddles. Despite the cold the life of the city continued unabated; saloon doors stood open to the raucous throngs while dandified men and elegant women promenaded on the narrow sidewalks or rode slowly past in open carriages. Even the brothels’ touts were still busy soliciting business. Favian bought a hot toddy from a sidewalk vendor, warming himself with hot tafia— the local rum— while watching the evening throngs, and then walked briskly to Gideon’s hotel and sent up his card.
Mrs. Desplein came down to welcome him; at the sight of her pretty face Maria-Anna’s phrase came to mind, good but unscrupulous, and he smiled privately as he followed her to Gideon’s rooms. The phrase seemed symbolic of New Orleans itself: tropical days and cold nights, expanding but decaying, slave but riotously free, decadent but vigorous. This city, this woman, were both far more interesting than the martial contradictions by which Favian himself lived— the iron code of the serving officer.
Gideon met him at the door, clasped hands, and ushed him into a room full of chattering guests, almost exclusively male with the exception of a pair of beautifully groomed Creole ladies surrounded by a swarm of peacock admirers. “I’m glad to see thee, Favian,” he said. “I would like to introduce Mr. Edward Livingston, my agent here, who was curious about the Hartford Convention. You’re fresh from New England; perhaps you can enlighten him.”
“We have met,” Favian said, surprised to encounter a member of the Committee for Public Safety in Gideon’s suite so soon after the first meeting had ended.
Livingston murmured polite greetings. “It so happens, Mr. Livingston,” Favian said, “that I’m acquainted with your late brother’s partner, Mr. Fulton. I had occasion to visit the Demologos last summer and was quite convinced of its inevitable success.”
“Then I must monopolize you, sir,” Livingston said. “I have not met previously with an eyewitness to Mr. Fulton’s steam battery— and I am still curious about the Hartford Convention.”
Favian was willing to answer questions concerning the Demologos; he was professionally qualified to render judgments on its design and prospects for success. Tempted though he was to denounce the Hartford Convention as a treasonous assembly best dealt with at the point of Marine bayonets, he held his tongue. Livingston might be a supporter of the convention, or at any rate an opponent of Madison, and Favian did not want to politically alienate this obviously important man. Instead he delivered impartially what news he had, and before his opinions were solicited, excused himself on the grounds that he had not yet paid his respects to his hostess.
Maria-Anna was in the suite’s withdrawing room; she was half reclining on her birthing stool, playing cards on a table of red baize. She called his name with a smile; he approached and kissed her hand and was introduced to the players: Denis de la Ronde, owner of the “Versailles” plantation; another Creole named Declouet; Captain Fontenoy of the Franklin privateer, the extraordinarily handsome man whose unexpected arrival that morning had resulted in Captain and Mrs. Markham being late for their luncheon appointment; and a smiling, lean Kentuckian named Hardy, who rose and excused himself from the table as Favian entered.
“I regret I must take my leave, Mrs. Markham,” Hardy said.
“Must you, sir?” Maria-Anna asked with a smile. “Favian, will you take Mr. Hardy’s place? We are playing poque“
“Gladly, ma’am, but I don’t know the game,” Favian said. He was happy in an opportunity to get away from military affairs and politics.
“Poque is easy to learn,” Maria-Anna said, sweeping up the cards from the table. “Grimes will give you tokens. I suggest you start with a hundred dollars.”
Favian was surprised at the size of the stakes; it must have shown, for Hardy bent over his shoulder and grinned. “Easy to learn, she tells’ee, but hard to master,” he said. “Take care, Captain Markham; I’m skinned.”
Favian gave Grimes a marker for a hundred dollars and received a neat pile of tokens. Maria-Anna explained the game in a few practiced words and dealt the cards.
Made cautious by the size of the stakes, Favian played at first with great care; he only plunged on a full hand or better and strove not to increase his capital but to keep from losing it. Gradually he began to acquire an idea of the odds and, what was perhaps more important, a notion of opponents’ characters: de la Ronde staked large sums when he had a good hand, driving his opponents out of the betting when a better strategy might have been to have kept the play moving, gradually increasing the stakes so as to win larger sums— but then de la Ronde seemed more interested in impressing the others with his wealth than with winning. Declouet was strictly a plunger, throwing his money into the play without any notion of strategy, losing heavily. Fontenoy’s strategy seemed to be similar to Favian’s, to avoid losing rather than to win. It was by watching Maria-Anna play that Favian learned the game.
She played hostess and cards at the same time, calling for Grimes to bring drinks— she drank only tea herself— greeting from her half-reclining position the procession of people moving in and out of the drawing room; but Favian saw the way the smile hesitated, her eyes narrowed, as she examined the cards, as her gaze flickered from one player to another, gauging Declouet’s desperation, de la Ronde’s gallant play, Favian’s careful impassivity. Her play was precise, mathematical; when she folded she would speak with someone outside the game, playing hostess, but Favian saw the way her eyes rarely left the table, how she would still be sizing up her opponents even though she had left the hand. Favian suspected Maria-Anna Markham was giving a masterful performance, knowing the game and her opponents far better than her smiling, flirting exterior could ever have indicated, and wondered if anyone less adept at dissimulation than himself would ever have seen it.
At the end of the evening she had won hundreds of dollars, Declouet had lost a small fortune, de la Ronde, who had rallied toward the end of the evening, was down a few hundred, Fontenoy, having reached his limit for the evening, had been driven out of the game, and Favian was thankful to have lost only twenty dollars. Favian, though not by nature a gambler, knew enough about gambling to know that when a single person in a card game wins heavily while everyone else loses, for that person gambling is not a pastime, but a profession. Maria-Anna played poque as well as Stephen Decatur played hero, and with the same ruthless, intelligent dedication.
Declouet and de la Ronde kissed her hand as they left the table, offering gallantries, Declouet mopping his brow. Maria-Anna turned to Favian while Grimes, acting as banker, swept up her tokens. “You play well, Favian,” she said.
“All that I know of poque I learned from watching you,” Favian said— a pleasantry, but the truth.
She smiled— was there in her smile that same cynicism he had seen in Humbert’s speech, and in his own heart? The ability to counterfeit the appearance that society demands while remaining her own disbelieving self? Favian suddenly felt himself at a loss; he had never known a woman to play this deceptive game; he had known it only as the province of men. Favian felt the earth falling away beneath him; it was fortunate that she accidentally moved him to firm ground by her next question.
“Is the city of New Orleans safer now, following the meeting of the Defense Committee?”
“I think not,” Favian said. “Some small matters were concluded, but there were simply too many people involved— a warship can only have one captain.”
“That is Louisiana in small: far too many captains,” Maria-Anna said. “I am beginning to agree with Gideon, that it is time to be away. Though I hate to leave these games of poque behind; I gather the Yankees do not permit their women to gamble.”
“It would be a very liberal Yankee house that had so much as a pack of cards,” Favian said. “They are, in the popular phrase, ‘the devil’s tickets to Hell.’ I’m surprised you have found Gideon so willing to countenance gambling in his establishment.”
Her eyes flickered wryly. “Gideon and I have achieved a certain éclaircissement in regard to our hobbyhorses. We are both strong people, and we found it necessary to grant one another certain liberties. And now,” she said, seeing Grimes had finished counting out her winnings, “if you’ll excuse me, I must play hostess a little.”
Favian rose, kissed her hand, and relinquished her to her guests. He returned to the salon, saw that Livingston had departed and he was safe from delivering political opinions, and found Gideon at his elbow.
“I hope you did not lose more than you could afford, Favian,” Gideon said.
“I was lucky in that regard,” Favian said.
“Declouet and de la Ronde are the heads of wealthy, established Creole families,” Gideon said. “They can afford to play at Maria-Anna’s table.” He lowered his voice to make certain no one overheard. “It is a wicked habit, I know, but she acquired it before she met me, from her first husband. I don’t know what the man was thinking of. These Creoles are confounded lax where their women are concerned. My conscience will be much relieved when we return to New England and Maria-Anna will be forced to discontinue the practice.”
“At least she adds to your income instead of draining it,” Favian said.
“Aye,” Gideon said. “But what to do with the winnings? I do not wish to have such money in my house.” He lowered his voice again. “I have Grimes keep a total of the winnings and privately give the exact amount to charity.” Favian looked at him in dawning surprise, realizing that he was observing a marriage in which, despite Gideon’s puritan conviction and Maria-Anna’s predatory ferocity, the husband and wife understood each other very well indeed.
“I was happy to see you getting on with Livingston,” Gideon continued. “You will accomplish little here without him; he is the most important man in the state— more important, I think, than Claiborne.”
“Is he? I was not aware of that.”
“He was the mayor of New York, I believe,” Gideon said. “One of his clerks stole a lot of money, and Livingston was legally responsible for it. He honorably made good the debt, but the affair left him bankrupt; he came to New Orleans to start over and soon became a wealthy man. The governor resents him, and not without reason; Livingston can accomplish more than Claiborne can, and with less effort. That is why I have made him my agent here; he is honest enough, as these Louisiana men go, but sees no reason why he should not make a profit through his knowledge and connections.”
Livingston, the governor, Kaintucks, Creoles— Favian felt a burst of impatience against these disunited factions. “But will these parties ever form ranks?” Favian asked. “There is genuine danger here, and all I have seen is squabbling.”
“They will unite behind a strong man who knows his business,” Gideon said. “Otherwise they will bicker until the British are in the Place d’Armes, and once the city is lost, they will bicker over whose fault it was that New Orleans fell.”
“You are not the first who has expressed that opinion,” Favian said. “General Humbert privately gave me a similar view.”
“Humbert? I don’t know him, but I imagine he knows a military disaster when he sees one.” Gideon reached in his pocket for chewing tobacco; he cut himself a chaw and spoke on. “Commodore Patterson is Livingston’s man; you’d do well to remember that.”
“Is he?” Favian asked in surprise. “I saw no indication of that.”
“Patterson’s father married into Livingston’s family,” Gideon said. “It was the Livingstons who secured Patterson his appointment here and got him his lieutenant’s commission when the Secretary of the Navy would have preferred someone else. Patterson owes him for that favor.”
A naval commodore owned by a Louisiana attorney. Favian’s training resisted the idea; he knew there were politics in the service, that many officers— himself included, truth to tell— had friendly congressmen who looked out for their interests, that sometimes harsh court-martial verdicts had been overturned due to political influence in Washington. But still he could feel his Navy side closing ranks against the idea: even if such a thing were true, no Navy man should admit it..
“I thought Patterson owed his appointment to Captain David Porter, the previous commodore here,” Favian said. “I know they are friends.”
“Whether the story is true or not, the city believes it,” Gideon said. “Governor Claiborne certainly believes it, and until now it has prejudiced him against the Navy. You will find that New Orleans will believe any wild tale of intrigue, true or not.”
Madness, Favian thought, to play at factional strife on the eve of an invasion. Hadn’t the example of Washington, its public buildings burned by the British just a few short months ago, made clear the peril of making speeches and indulging in private vendettas when the enemy were marching on the gates?
Denis de la Ronde approached and bowed; Favian returned the greeting. “The invitation will reach you presently, Captain Markham,” de la Ronde said, “but I would like to invite you personally to a ball held at my town house, in the Faubourg Marigny, next Wednesday night. I hope you will be able to attend.”
“I am honored, sir, by the invitation. If my duty permits me to be in New Orleans, I will be present without fail.”
“Your servant, sir.”
“Your servant.”
De la Ronde took his leave, and Favian found Gideon looking at him with a wondering eye. “For an American to be invited to one of the Creole balls is quite an honor, Favian,” Gideon said. “Maria-Anna and I have never been invited, and de la Ronde is a frequent guest at Maria-Anna’s card table.”
Favian watched the Creole making his way across the room. “No doubt I am a novelty, Gideon,” Favian said. “I’ve become accustomed to it.”.
He was a celebrated military leader, Favian knew; and that meant others attempted to use him, to use his reputation to further their own designs, from his hometown Federalists to the Society of Saint Something-or-other in New London. It was an inevitable consequence of celebrity, and one he loathed.
Gideon saw some friends leaving and went to bid his adieus; Favian walked back through the drawing room in search of a jakes. The convenience was through a short passage; after concluding his visit, he discovered Maria-Anna’s maidservant Campaspe waiting in the corridor.
“Campaspe!” he said as she bobbed him a curtsy. “I thought you’d be long abed.”
“I should be, Captain Favian,” she said. “But I crept in through the servant’s door to stay up and see some of the guests through the curtain. And now I’ve been given this message for Captain Fontenoy.” She held up a small letter sealed with red wax. “I can’t go in and give it to him or Mrs. Markham will know I’ve been here. Will you deliver it?”
“What the devil is it?” Favian asked, taking the letter and peering at the inscription, simply “Captain Fontenoy, snow Franklin.”
“It’s from one of his lady friends,” she said. “She wanted me to give it to him.”
Favian looked at the letter, a kernel of suspicion growing in his mind. “Are you certain this letter isn’t from you?” he asked.
“Captain Favian! Of course not!” Campaspe said, blushing. He looked at her closely— there was a certain sense of mischief in her, but that could be explained simply by her being entrusted to carry a billet-doux, and the blush seemed to belie guilt.
“Very well,” Favian decided.
“Thank you, Captain Favian,” she said, bobbed him another curtsy, and fled.
When he returned most of the party had left, but Fontenoy was speaking to some of the Creoles in the parlor. Fontenoy was a few years younger than Favian, and the life of the sea had only just begun to cut into his looks; he was still very handsome, and dressed with style. Favian recognized his French as an East Indian Creole, probably from Mauritius or Reunion. Favian waited for a pause in the conversation, then spoke quietly to Fontenoy.
“A word with you, sir, I beg.”
“Honored, sir.”
“I have been given a message for you by a servant,” he said. “I do not vouch for it, but I am told it was given the servant by a lady.”
Fontenoy looked down at the message in surprise, took it from Favian’s gloved hand, and opened it. An expression of relief and contentment gradually spread over his features. “It is genuine, Captain,” he said with a smile. “It is a message I have waited for a long while. Forgive me, sir, but I must take my leave. Your servant.”
“I’m happy to have been of some service, sir,” Favian said, bemused by the unusual message and Fontenoy’s instant dash to meet the woman who presumably would, if she wasn’t already, soon become his mistress. The privateer took his leave of Gideon and Maria-Anna and left the suite.
It was clearly approaching time to leave himself, and he hunted up Maria-Anna in the withdrawing room. She was speaking privately to Grimes, presumably concerning the poque receipts; Favian, not wishing to interrupt, waited for them to finish their business.
Maria-Anna concluded her business and turned to him with a smile. It seemed strange to Favian how he had ever thought her plain; her sunbrowned face was animated by a liveliness unequaled by the pale, carefully groomed Creole women he had seen that day, and even with her advanced pregnancy she moved with grace as she walked toward Favian. He kissed her hand.
“I should return to the Louisiana,” he said. “My boat’s crew must be freezing on the wharves, if they aren’t drunk in half the saloons on Custom House Street.”
“You should take rooms in town, Favian,” she said, putting her arm through his as she walked him back to the parlor. “Your boat’s crew will thank you for it, and you will be able to attend the balls and social events of the season.”
“I will take your advice, but not tonight,” he said. “I still must think of my poor boat’s crew.”
He said his farewells, collected his hat and cloak from Mrs. Desplein, and left the hotel. The weather was freezing; there was ice on the sidewalk, but the brothels and saloons still seemed to be busy. For a moment he paused before the door of a sporting palace and considered the resumption of an old habit, but decided against it: the women would be tired after all their customers, and the boat’s crew was still waiting..
His boat’s crew were huddled under a tarpaulin as they rested on the thwarts; they gave off a collective reek of tafia, but he couldn’t blame them for seeking consolation from the cold. None of them seemed outright drunk; Favian was uncertain whether to credit Kuusikoski for imposing a successful discipline or the likelihood they hadn’t been able to afford more rum.
“Give ’em a ‘nay nay,’ Koskey,” Favian said as Louisiana challenged the boat. He would decline the honors due a captain on his arrival; there was no point in getting the whole crew out of their hammocks.
He spent a restless night, his periods of wakefulness mixed with odd dreams in which Maria-Anna was delivered of her child on the red baize poque table, a child that was discovered to be General Sir Edward Pakenham, complete with red coat. The unnerving arrival brought Favian bolt awake, and he was able to resume a fitful sleep only hours later. Tafia punch, he decided, and Creole food; a deadly combination..
That morning, as he drank a potful of coffee to keep himself awake, he was not in the best frame of mind to receive a visit from Midshipman Lovette, who, it seemed, was about to fight a duel with one of the Mississippi Dragoons.