Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (125 page)

“It’s an incredible place,” he answered with no more than a flash of dry humor for the commonplace nature of the topic. “I’ve never seen anything like the way things grow here. They seem to spring up overnight. I’ve seen weeds and vines that measure a foot or more of increased length or height overnight. Between the rich soil and the warm climate, it wouldn’t surprise me if three different crops could be produced in a year’s time.”

“You sound almost like a farmer.”

“And why not? One way and another, I come from a long line of farmers.” Bitterness like an acid etched his tone for a moment, then was gone.

Félicité decided to ignore the lead he had given her. “The heat doesn’t trouble you?”

“I’ve served in the Caribbean, in the Mediterranean, and in Spain almost constantly since my eighteenth birthday. Hot weather is nothing new, though I can’t say I enjoy the flies and mosquitoes that seem to go with it. I’ve never seen them quite so bad anywhere else.”

“It’s the swampland that surrounds us; they breed in stagnant water. I’ll admit they are a nuisance, but I don’t suppose they have ever killed anyone. By serving, though, colonel, I take it you mean with the army?”

He glanced at her with a lifted brow, saying nothing.

“I — mean Morgan, of course,” she corrected with a small stammer.

“If you refer to the Spanish army, no,” he answered, taking up her question. “I was apprenticed at the age of fifteen to a lawyer. Slightly less than two years later, I was caught on the street by an English press gang. They knocked me senseless after a short but bloody struggle, and I was trundled to the coast in a wagon. When I woke up, I was bound hand and foot and was being carried on board a ship.”

“A lawyer’s apprentice?” she asked, flinging a quick frown at his hard, martial features. “Somehow I can’t see you in that profession.”

“Nor could I,” he said with one of his brief, almost reluctant smiles. “It was considered a good position by my father. If I learned the ways of the English law, I might be able to prevent them taking any more of our land. It would have been more practical to have bound me over to a baker. At least we could have eaten, something not too many people were doing in Ireland just then, or now for that matter.”

“You became an English sailor, then. Was that more to your liking?” Despite herself, Félicité felt a stir of interest in Morgan McCormack’s tale.

“If you can ask such a question, then you know nothing about the life of a deckhand before the mast, especially one on an English ship. It was nothing except unremitting toil in all kinds of weather, food seasoned with maggots and weevils, and the constant lash of the cat-o’-nine-tails.”

“But you escaped.”

“The frigate we were sailing in had the good luck to be taken by pirates in the Caribbean.”

“Good luck!” she exclaimed.

“As it turned out, yes. The men who are willing to go to sea for long months at a time are few. Pirate ships, like those of the English navy, are always short of men. Knowing that most of the crew on English ships have been pressed against their wills, the better pirate captains give the seamen the chance to change their allegiance and improve their fortunes. Since the alternative is to be set adrift in a small boat at the very best, most take it.”

She could not resist a touch of spite as she said, “And was that occupation more to your taste?”

“It had its compensations.” The glint in his green eyes was a hint that he was aware of her belittling attitude, though he made no comment.

“Such as?”

“The pirate ship made port more often, the food was better, and in most cases, any ship attacked was well armed, so in most cases the capturing of a prize was a fair fight with the outcome depending on the quickness, skill, and daring of the captain. The man I served under was interested in spoils, nothing more; money, jewelry, cargo. He got no pleasure from watching men die, and was content to allow the ships and their passengers to go on their way, spreading his fame, and perhaps reloading to be preyed on another day.”

“A paragon!”

“So he was, until he was pinned to the deck by a failing mast in an engagement off the island of Puerto Rico.”

“A pirate ship without a captain? Sounds like chaos.”

“It is,” he said grimly, “but the position has to be filled for the good of everyone involved. Sometimes a new captain is elected, sometimes he elects himself by defeating all other comers.”

“Don’t tell me,” she said in mock respect, “that you were chosen?”

“After several of the other contenders had carved each other up to the point of anemia, yes.”

“Then how does it happen that you aren’t a pirate still?”

He shrugged, a quick movement of broad shoulders. “The pirate’s creed is simple: a short life but a merry one. I found I had too much farmer’s blood in my veins to appreciate it. I weighed the risks against the rewards, and decided the former outweighed the latter. I was already branded an outlaw by the English; I had nothing to lose by capturing British merchantmen. But it looked as though it would be better to throw in my lot with another country before I had pounced on the shipping of all, doing myself completely out of a refuge.”

“How did you come to choose Spain? Why not France, for instance?

“I was in a Spanish port when the decision was taken.”

They walked on a little way without speaking, passing a milch cow staked out on the slope of the levee, placidly cropping the grass. A group of young boys pushed past them laughing and calling in high spirits, shirtless, barefooted, carefree. They stepped aside for a Negro woman balancing an enormous load of laundry in a basket on top of her head. She spoke to Ashanti, and Félicité’s maid paused to exchange a few words with her as Félicité and the colonel moved on a few steps.

“Your brother,” Morgan McCormack said as their way cleared once more, “I understand, is no longer staying with you.”

“No.” She slanted him a quick, inquiring glance.

“On the occasions when I have met him, he seemed — an interesting man.”

“Interesting? In what way?”

“He is not, in my opinion, what he seems on the surface.”

This was dangerous ground. “Valcour? Surely you mistake. He calls himself a fashionable fribble; that should tell you something.”

“A fashionable fribble with a reputation as a dangerous man with whom to cross swords? An unusual combination in my experience.”

“The quickness and coordination that a swordsman requires are gifts of nature.”

“Granted, but not so the skill and accuracy that makes a man a formidable opponent. These things take work and dedication, plus something more, usually a willingness to use the blade, or else the necessity.”

“You sound as if you have some personal knowledge of the subject.”

“Most soldiers do,” he answered, his tone dry.

“And most pirates?”

“As you say.”

“Valcour is neither,” she pointed out with an air of reasonableness.

“Nonetheless, you will tell him,” he said with heavy irony, “should you see him, that I would like a word with him. The matter of his unauthorized departure from prison remains. It would be unfortunate if we were forced to put out a flier on him like a common criminal.”

At that moment, Ashanti rejoined them. Without giving Félicité a chance to answer, Colonel McCormack made a brief adieu with the excuse of the press of responsibility, bowed, and walked away. Watching him go, Félicité was aware of a hollow feeling beneath her ribs. It was caused by the suspicion that he had sought her out not because of their agreement, but specifically to give her the message for Valcour. If that was indeed the case, then she should not be troubled by him again. But was it?

“What is it, mam’selle? Why do you look so?” Ashanti asked, her smooth, fine-boned face with its high cheekbones and flaring nostrils creasing with anxiety.

Félicité told her in a few short sentences, including what the neighbor woman had said concerning her brother’s whereabouts.

“It may be,” Ashanti said, a faraway look in her eyes, “that it would be better if this man, this colonel, should find M’sieu Valcour and put him back in prison.”

“What are you saying, Ashanti?” Félicité exclaimed.

“He is an animal, M’sieu Valcour, one who caters always to his appetites, who enjoys rending and tearing the flesh of others.”

“Ashanti, please.” The maid had not been rational about Valcour since the night when he, as she claimed, tried to violate her.

“Very well, mam’selle. But what of the colonel? He is much of a man. You walk with him before the town, something that is allowed among your people only if the couple is to be wed.”

“I don’t intend to marry him, if that’s what you are thinking!”

“But would it not be better to entice him into the church for vows than to allow him to share your bed without them?”

“Sharing my bed is not part of the bargain, Ashanti!”

“Are you sure, mam’selle?” Taking Félicité’s silence as an answer, she went on, “The idea is there. Even if he does not speak of it now, he will someday. When he does, you must have your answer ready.”

Félicité frowned. “Must I? What makes you think so?”

“It is in the way he looks at you, mam’selle, and in the air when he comes close, a quiet thunder, like the beat of a distant drum.”

Gooseflesh rose uncomfortably on Félicité’s arms, running with a chill down her spine. “He will have nothing of me, Ashanti, nothing. I will see to that.”

“Guard yourself well, then, mam’selle. Give soft answers and gentle smiles. And don’t cross him. Never cross him, mam’selle.”

Despite the colonel’s abrupt leave-taking, that was not the end of their pact. He arrived in the street outside the Lafargue ménage early the next morning. Mounted on a superb bay stallion, he led a dappled gray filly with the proud neck and fine bone structure that spoke of Arabian bloodlines. Where he had found such good stock was a mystery until Félicité remembered a vague rumor brought on the servants’ grapevine of a transport ship given over entirely to the mounts of the Spanish officers. To refuse to test the mettle of the mount brought for her pleasure was unthinkable, not only because of her agreement with Morgan McCormack, but because she could not resist the prospect of a gallop. With Ashanti’s help, she struggled into her riding habit and descended to the street.

Félicité returned from the outing perhaps a shade more in charity with the colonel. No hint of the reason for her accompanying him had intruded. The man had set himself to please, to gain her confidence and put her at ease. Though suspicious of such tactics, Félicité could not but own that he had a certain hard-bitten attraction when he cared to use it.

They had ridden along the river, leaving the stale miasma of night odors from the town behind them, plunging into the freshness of the morning. It was only as the sun climbed higher, pouring its molten heat down upon them, forcing them to turn back, that active animosity had arisen between them again. It came when Morgan introduced the subject of Valcour once more. He had learned of Dom, her brother’s body servant, and wanted to speak to the man. The information that the servant could neither speak nor read and write was not to his liking; still, he insisted on seeing Dom. Since the name of his new master was something the colonel could learn from anyone, Félicité had no choice except to tell him.

There was a problem with Valcour that Félicité had not yet faced. If he was anywhere near New Orleans, if he came and went in the town, then he must eventually learn of her association with the Spanish-Irish officer. He had disapproved, sometimes violently, of any interest taken in her by men of her own social and national background; what would be his reaction to her seeming preference for the company of the mercenary?

It had crossed Félicité’s mind more than once that if Morgan McCormack was aware of Valcour’s attitude he might well be using the situation to entice her brother out of hiding. It was unlikely such a plan would succeed, even if she was correct in her suspicions. When she had refused to go with Valcour, to leave her father and flee for France, he had more or less washed his hands of her; it was unlikely he would put his head into a noose for her sake. And yet, he had not departed for France, had not even left the vicinity, though he had certainly made preparations to do so, as witnessed by his sale of the body servant. What he was doing she could not imagine, nor could she help being apprehensive.

There was another evening stroll with Colonel McCormack, made bearable by the light, if strained, conversation. This time he came for her at her house, and returned her to the foot of the stairs at the entrance passage. She did not invite him inside, nor did he suggest it, though there was a moment when he stood waiting, almost expectant. Her fears had been allayed somewhat, since at no time had he indicated by word or deed that he expected more from her than their formal meetings. It was simply a reluctance to allow him to enter the private precincts of her life, to bid an enemy to enter her father’s house while he himself resided in prison at the behest of that man’s government, that made her bar his entrance.

There was a shuttered look about the colonel’s face as he bowed, ready to take his leave. “I have matters to attend to in the morning,” he said, “which will make a ride impossible. There is a masque arranged for the evening, however. Will you do me the honor of accepting my escort?”