CHAPTER NINE
“I hope,” Maria-Anna said, “that you know the waltz and the cotillion. The Creoles won’t dance American dances— it’s a matter of pride. There were riots, you know, when the Americans tried to substitute the reel and the jig— almost an insurrection, in fact. There won’t be a fandango at de la Ronde’s.”
“I’m familiar with the European dances,” Favian said. “M. St. Croix was a good teacher.”
“Ah. I forgot your father’s body servant was a former dancing master.” Her hands shuffled the cards expertly on the red baize table. They had just finished dinner, and Maria-Anna had moved with her birthing stool to the drawing room, waiting for the other guests to arrive so that the gambling could start. “We can’t play poque with only two,” she said. “Perhaps piquet?”
“Why not with two?”
She smiled thinly. “Because the opponent’s hand would be clear. No mystery.” Favian remembered, cursing his stupidity, that poque was played with only a partial deck, five cards for each player.
“Why not play with a full deck?” Favian asked.
“I’ve tried it— it’s desirable, really, because with the full deck the odds of being dealt a given hand would not change every time someone left the table.” She signaled to Eugénie to bring her a cup of coffee. “But the play is dull with a full deck; the odds of getting a worthwhile hand are very much reduced.”
Favian considered the problem. Poque was played with five cards per player, the size of the deck increasing with the number of participants. After an ante, the cards were shuffled and dealt, after which betting commenced. After any number of rounds of betting those players remaining showed their hands and the winner took his money. Scoring was simple: two pair beat one pair, three of a kind beat two pair, and so on... The very simplicity of the game was its strong point; the scoring was elementary and did not require a sophisticated knowledge of odds and play as did whist— and with play being swift, a great many hands could be played in an evening. The relative swiftness of the play resulted in the potentiality of a very large amount of money changing hands in one night, and in addition the large number of hands played would eventually make the luck even. Someone with a string of bad hands early in the evening would probably find a proportionate amount of good luck later in the play. This meant that a plunger, hoping for a string of luck, would lose to the persistent player who knew the odds and who bet wisely with each hand..
Favian considered that as long as the two attractions to the game, the simple scoring and swiftness of play, were continued, then any tampering should be justified.
Eugénie brought Maria-Anna’s cup of coffee, her eyes modestly downcast so as not to cross accidentally with Favian’s. Maria-Anna, they both knew, was an acute woman; it would be hard to keep any relationship concealed from her. And concealed it must be, to keep Gideon out of it: there were certain things it was best for Favian’s cousin not to know.
“Where’s Grimes?” Maria-Anna asked, glancing up at Eugénie. “He’s supposed to be serving here.”
“Captain Gideon asked him to go for a newspaper.”
“Mph.” She waved a hand, dismissing Grimes, dismissing Eugénie, then looked up at Favian. “Did you say yes to piquet?”
“Let’s try playing poque with the full deck,” he suggested. “Perhaps we can work out an improvement.”
With the first few hands, played by betting only counters, not real money, it became obvious why the game had most often been played with a reduced deck: play was simply dull. Favian won the first hand with a pair of treys against Maria-Anna’s empty hand; Maria-Anna won the second with an empty hand queen-high against Favian’s ten-high, and then won the third with a full hand against Favian’s pair of fives. Favian, facing Maria-Anna’s steadily increasing bets, found himself wondering how he could improve that pair. If only there were some way to get a new deal..
He laid down his hand and watched Maria-Anna rake in the counters.
On the next hand he was blessed with a pair of deuces and resigned himself to watching his bet join Maria-Anna’s accumulated wealth. In sheer annoyance he reached across the table and seized the cards. “Pardon me.” He slammed the deck down in the middle of the table, making the counters leap; he discarded his three worthless cards and took three new cards from the deck, pleased to find a pair of jacks among them. Maria-Anna looked at him with shock. “New rule,” he said. “Discard and take new cards.”
“It alters the odds.”
“Try it.”
She grimaced and discarded her whole hand— Favian was surprised to realize she’d not had as much as a pair— and drew five more, slip-slap, from the deck. Favian plunged a ten-dollar counter; Maria-Anna raised another ten, and then triumphantly displayed three queens in her hand. Favian found he didn’t care about the loss.
“It works,” he said, enthusiastic. “Another round of betting added; that’ll make for higher stakes and more interesting play. And another element of skill added— you knew I had a pair because I kept two cards. I knew you had nothing because you discarded your whole hand.”
Maria-Anna was clearly reserving judgment. “Let’s try again and see if it works,” she said.
It did. Favian managed, with a wild gamble, to give himself a flux in hearts on the second draw, beating Maria-Anna’s two pair, the second of which she acquired on the draw. In the next hand Maria-Anna’s three of a kind beat Favian’s two pair. By the time guests began to arrive, Favian’s innovation had been smoothed into a successful game.
The guests were familiar: Denis de la Ronde; a smiling Declouet, ready to drop another fortune; the lawyer Edward Livingston, Claiborne’s political enemy and perhaps Patterson’s patron. There were also a number of sea captains who, Favian gathered, were to provide company for Gideon, but who were not part of the gambling set. Before any playing began, they stood chatting in the parlor, eating the excellent shrimp remoulade and oysters en brochette sent up by the hotel kitchens. “I am happy to see you, Captain.” Livingston smiled. “I have been speaking with Commodore Patterson about the current emergency, and he assures me that the Navy is ready to do its part.”
“As ready as the Navy can be, considering that the New Orleans station’s largest ship, the Louisiana, has no crew,” Favian said. “If we were able to acquire sailors for our ships, I should be more sanguine about the Navy’s part.”
“That would require martial law, dictatorial power,” Livingston said.
“If the current emergency is not excuse enough to declare martial law, I don’t know what would be,” said Favian.
“So much power in the hands of one man. Dangerous,” Livingston said. Meaning dangerous in the hands of Claiborne.
“Dangerous. So are the British. If the British catch us unprepared, everyone loses.”
“Ah. Very true. Have you tried this shrimp? Excellent, I thought.” General Jackson, Favian thought despairingly, had better arrive soon. Claiborne could not hold these people together.
If Jackson were not a leader behind whom all these factions could rally, Louisiana would continue blundering onward to disaster. Somewhere in his spine Favian could feel the British keels slicing through the water, cutting away the time Favian’s capture of the British documents had given the city..
“And now poque, Captain?” Of course; why not? There was nothing else to do, nothing except to throw up his hands and take Macedonian on its interrupted journey to the Indian Ocean.
No, he would wait for General Jackson. If Jackson could not somehow retrieve the situation, Favian would do what little damage a single frigate could to the British and then run for it. He’d do his best, then hope an expedition to the Bay of Bengal would weaken the British enough to make them concede Louisiana at the peace talks.
Then Campaspe entered with a tray of pastry, and Favian excused himself from the poque party to thank her for the handkerchiefs. “They were put to use right away,” he said truthfully. “Perhaps I am getting a cold.”
“Try one of these— I ate one bringing the tray up, and it was quite good,” Campaspe said. She looked up at him, eyes shining. “I hope you will not be sick for M. de la Ronde’s ball!”
“I don’t think so,” he said, taking Campaspe’s advice in the choice of his pastry.
“M. de la Ronde’s balls are all quite famous. Even in Mobile they speak of them. Do you have an escort yet, Captain?”
He should have been warned by the sudden trace of eagerness in her tone, but instead he bit into his pastry and shook his head. “Will you take me, Captain?” she asked, seeing her opening. Favian looked at her in utter surprise.
“I’ve never been to a ball, not really— a little servants’ ball, once, downstairs in the Mobile house,” she said quickly. “I’ve never had a chance to, to go to a real Creole ball— and Captain Gideon and Madame will never be invited, not after she betrayed the Mobile Creoles by marrying an American. Perhaps I’ll never get the chance again, not with Captain Gideon taking us to New England as soon as he gets the captured schooner free!”
Favian considered the situation as Campaspe spoke. He hadn’t an escort to the ball; he had, in fact, intended to ask Maria-Anna to introduce him to a suitable local girl, preferably a Creole so that he could demonstrate Creole-Kaintuck solidarity in the face of the crisis. He couldn’t take Eugénie Desplein: that would be to publicly legitimize a relationship he far preferred to keep clandestine. But Campaspe was safe— she was too young to be taken seriously as a romantic prospect; Favian would be considered to be chivalrously escorting her to her debut, as if presenting a cousin. He wouldn’t mind; he’d done that sort of thing before, escorting the sisters of brother officers to one event or another, a ball or concert.
“I will speak to Madame Markham,” Favian said. “If she has no objections, I will be honored.”
The delight that crossed Campaspe’s face was so extreme that Favian was afraid she’d drop the pastry and kiss him on the spot, but instead she blushed crimson and dropped him a low curtsy. He bowed in return and excused himself to the card game.
The new version of poque was an immediate success, despite the fact that the new players lost heavily, not yet having acquired knowledge of the new strategies: Favian and Maria-Anna each won several hundred dollars apiece. Favian was beginning to admire her style of play, the way she kept her opponents off-balance, thinking that she was playing conservatively by plunging only on pat hands, then surprising everyone with a full-blown bluff. Even though Favian had invented the new version, Maria-Anna had absorbed its principles more quickly, and Favian found himself imitating Maria-Anna’s style and profiting thereby..
It wasn’t until after the game came to its conclusion that Favian could address Maria-Anna on the subject of Campaspe. She gave him a startled look, and then an intelligent, amused light entered her eyes. “You’re safe enough, I suppose,” she said. “I can guess whose idea this was.”
“I don’t mind. I had no plans to take anyone else.”
Maria-Anna tilted her head, smiling wryly. “You realize,” she said, “that this will turn my household upside down for the next week.”
“that won’t be anything unusual, then.” She laughed and linked her arm in his as they walked to the parlor, where Campaspe was standing by the buffet, dispensing food, tea, and coffee while Eugénie Desplein handled the punch, rum, and whiskey, which the assembled sailors were swilling down with their accustomed sangfroid. As Campaspe saw them approaching, her face went through a series of remarkable transformations: delight, apprehension, fear, hope, anxiety— Favian found himself grinning at her swift metamorphoses, and the girl took his grin as a hopeful sign; her final transformation was to her blinding, remarkable smile, projecting her radiant joy through the dense, tobacco-fogged atmosphere of the room.
“Miss Campaspe,” Favian said, bowing low before her. “May I have the honor of your company at M. de la Ronde’s ball Wednesday next?”
This time she did rush up and kiss him, and as he grinned and uncoiled her arms from around his neck, he caught Eugénie giving him a cynical look from behind her punch bowl.
“Back to the pastry tray, my dear,” Maria-Anna said, steering the girl back to her station. “You may be the envy of the Creole girls on Wednesday night, but tonight you’re still serving our guests.”
“Thank you, Captain Markham!” Campaspe said breathlessly. “I won’t embarrass you, I promise!”
“You’ll be enchanting, I’m sure,” Favian said as he attempted to keep the grin from breaking out again. Maria-Anna patted his arm and went to speak to a guest, and Favian cut one of Gideon’s cigars with his pocketknife and held it to a candle.
“Captain Markham,” said a voice at his side. He straightened to see a short, dapper man at his side, a Creole whose hair was twirled into carefully fashioned lovelocks on his forehead. “I am Captain Grailly.”
“Honored, sir.”
“A votre disposition,” the man said perfunctorily, inclining his body forward in a civil bow. He took another cigar and cut it with an elaborately decorated clasp knife. Favian wondered whether this dandy was actually a seaman, or whether he had a commission in the militia.
“I, Captain Markham, am the representative of a group of merchants,” Grailly said. “We have been wondering how long you intend to stay in our city.”
Favian knew when he was being pumped. “That,” he Favian, “will depend on the situation.”
“But you are senior, I believe, to Commodore Patterson?” Probing. “You will supersede him?”
“I am the senior officer on station, yes,” Favian said. “But he is assigned to this station, and I am not. I am perfectly satisfied,” he said, fixing his eye on Grailly, making certain he was understood, “perfectly satisfied with Commodore Patterson’s dispositions.”
“You are senior,” Grailly mused. “Do we not call you commodore?”
“I do not claim the title,” Favian said.
“I do not understand. Commodore is the highest rank, is it not? Patterson is a commodore. You outrank Patterson by a full grade, do you not? But you are not a commodore?”
Favian blew smoke and explained the complications inherent in any honorary title. “It’s like all the militia colonels they have in Tennessee,” he concluded. “If one of those ‘colonels’ came to New Orleans and tried to take command of a company of regulars from its captain, there would be trouble. Commodore is an honorary rank, but real rank is what counts in determining seniority. I’m a post-captain, and Patterson is a master-commandant. I outrank him.”
“But you do not claim commodore,” Grailly observed, cocking an eyebrow. “That is strange.”
“The Navy has too many commodores as it is,” Favian said truthfully. And too much squabbling over who was entitled to the rank, with appeals reaching to the Secretary of the Navy and the President, who presumably had better things to do than deal with such inane bickering.
“I believe I understand,” Grailly said. “You outrank Commodore Patterson, but you are only here temporarily, and so you do not wish to supersede him. That is good sense. I wonder, however, if you can help but bring a breath of change into the naval affairs here.”
“I’m sure,” said Favian, “I do not know what you mean.”
Captain Grailly shrugged. He glanced about the room, then leaned in closer. “My friends and I would very much like to know,” he said, “what we can do to assist New Orleans in this time of trouble.”
“Offer every assistance and cooperation to the forces of the government,” Favian replied promptly. He didn’t like this atmosphere of melodramatic conspiracy that Grailly seemed intent on injecting into the proceedings, these probing questions that seemed intended to reveal lord-knew-what. “If you are really the friend of the merchants, perhaps you can persuade some of them to convince some of their men to join the Navy as volunteers. Louisiana needs crew.”
“Slaves?”
Favian frowned. Some masters had sent their slaves on board Navy ships for the purposes of collecting their pay, the slaves themselves working entirely for their masters’ benefit. It was an odious system; Favian would never have permitted the practice on any ship in his command. Yet in the present emergency, he reflected, anyone who could pull a rope would be used.
“If they are slaves that can sail,” Favian said. “Able-bodied, intelligent, able to follow orders. But what the Navy needs most are real sailors, black or white. A few hundred of those men I see loitering about the Hotel de la Marine every day, drinking and getting into trouble. What supports those men, I wonder? There hasn’t been any work for them here since the war started.”
Captain Grailly gave a thin smile, and Favian realized at once the answer to his question: privateering, or rather the piracy that operated here under the name of privateering. “So it is men you need,” he said, as if confirming to himself something he already knew.
“Preferably experienced men,” Favian said. As long as they were dreaming aloud, he might as well give Grailly the complete fantasy. “Men who can hand, reef, and steer, and also know how to point a cannon.”
Grailly nodded again. “Do you think, Captain Markham,” he asked, “the government would express its appreciation to any who so volunteered?”
“I’m sure it would,” Favian said, wondering what the man was getting at. Enlistment bonuses, medals, the handshake of the governor?
“To anyone at all?” Grailly asked. Favian heard a careful emphasis on each word, as if Grailly was making a point too obscure for Favian to fully grasp. Favian took particular care with his answer.
“I should think,” he said, “the authorities would be grateful for any offer of help.” He was just stating official policy, he assumed; anyone applying to Claiborne would, he thought, get the same answer. But Captain Grailly seemed to hear the words with special absorption, his cigar held by his ear as if it were some kind of witching-wand to help him comprehend the implications of Favian’s words. He nodded gravely.
“Thank you. Captain Markham, for this illuminating conversation,” he said. He looked at his watch with an elaborate gesture and bowed. “I regret I must take my leave. Your servant, sir.”
“Servant,” Favian said. Captain Grailly took his hat and stick from the hotel maid who was on station by the door, kissed Maria-Anna’s hand, and left.
“Who the hell is that man?” Favian asked Gideon as Grailly’s form vanished behind the door.
“I think he said his name was Grailly,” said Gideon, frowning at Favian’s language. “I don’t know him. He came with Captain Turner there.”
But Turner, startled by Favian’s question, said he was not acquainted with any Captain Grailly, though he said he’d seen the man before, probably around the wharves; Grailly had simply entered the hotel at the same time and walked up the stairs with him. He’d assumed Grailly was a friend of Gideon’s.
“Why do you ask?”
“The man just asked me some damn odd questions, that’s all,” Favian said. He wondered if Captain Grailly was a spy for the British, though that didn’t make any sense— his questions didn’t seem calculated to reveal any military secrets, or dispositions. That Louisiana had only a skeleton crew was obvious to anyone with a telescope, and the fact that Favian was senior officer on station was no secret, nor was the notion that the government would be grateful for volunteers. What the devil had the man been driving at?
Perhaps, Favian thought, he was one of those who simply enjoyed creating mysteries about themselves. Whatever Grailly was, he didn’t seem worth bothering about. He spent the rest of the evening talking of Portsmouth society to Maria-Anna, who felt she had to be prepared for whatever New England had in store for her; then he kissed her hand, clasped Gideon’s, waved to Campaspe, and took his hat, cloak, and stick from Eugénie at the door.
“Tomorrow, my dear,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. Her eyes were sparkling, lascivious. “About two o’clock, I think.”
“I’ll be counting the hours,” Favian said gallantly, and made his way out. When he reached his hotel, he found her scent still perfuming the sheets. It was odd, considering the romp that afternoon and the promise of another tomorrow, that before sleep came the face conjured in his fantasies was not that of Eugénie Desplein, but rather the features of Maria-Anna Markham.