Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (17 page)

The arrangements made, Tom and Maurice headed for the Paxton office two blocks away. “Damn,” Maurice swore when he stumbled over a sprung plank. “I'd plumb forgot about makin' the switch from water to land. Just don't hardly seem right for land to be so durn solid, does it?”

Levee Street was alive with activity. Slaves dressed in short trousers of linsey-woolsey sweated beneath bales of cotton and sugarcane. At one dock, Tom noticed with distaste, more slaves to be sold at auction were being unloaded despite the fact that importing slaves had been illegal for two years. The air rang with the shouts of men and the bawling protestations of cattle, sheep, and other livestock that had been brought downriver. Businessmen in suits mingled with rough Kaintocks, farmers, and seamen, all haggling over the price of goods being transferred from ship to shore, from shore to warehouse, and from warehouse back to another hold for transportation to God only knew where. Everywhere, excited by the sights and sounds of the busy port, boys scurried underfoot as they ran errands or searched for whatever mischief they could get into.

The Paxton warehouse and office had been moved since Tom's last visit—more than six years-earlier—but, as Jase had promised, it wasn't hard to find. A half-block long, with the office occupying one front corner, the building wore a coat of fresh white paint and was trimmed with red. Three stories above the street, PAXTON SHIPPING LINES was painted in huge black block letters. Smaller white letters illuminated with gilt repeated the message on the window in the office door.

Inside, the effect was of a prestigious, well-established firm. Dark paneled walls were set off with paintings of ships under full sail. The hardwood flooring shone with wax. Mahogany captain's chairs were arranged around the periphery of the room, near the center of which sat an enormous secretary's desk of the same wood. Nearer to the rear wall, three clerks' desks were piled high with paperwork.

“May I help you?” a pale, emaciated young man seated at the secretary's desk asked as Tom and Maurice entered.

“We're here to see Mr. Barton,” Tom said.

The young man peered disdainfully over his pince-nez at the disreputable pair facing him. Neither had shaved for over a week, and both wore the filthy, salt-stained garb of common seamen. “We're not hiring at the moment,” he sniffed. One fluttering hand shooed them toward the door. “You may try dock eight-B sometime next week. All hiring is done—”

“What's your name?” Tom asked, unceremoniously leaning on the desk.

“Varner,” the secretary said curtly, glancing down in dismay at the dirty hands soiling his desk. “William Varner. Now, if you'll be so kind as to—”

“My name is Paxton,” Tom interrupted in a low voice. “Tom Paxton. You do recognize the name, don't you?” he asked, pointedly tapping a ledger whose cover was marked Paxton Shipping Lines.

“Oh,” Varner said in a tiny voice. A sickly smile crossed his face as he scrambled to his feet. “I see. That is, I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know … that is, I didn't expect—”

“That's all right, Varner. Just take me to Thad Barton. I don't have all day.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Trying to maintain some dignity, Varner led the way to a door with a ground-glass window on which was printed Thaddeus Barton, Manager. He knocked twice, and poked his head in without waiting for a response. “Mr. Barton? A Mr. Tom Paxton and, er, companion to see you, sir.”

“Well, send 'em in, damn it,” a deep bass voice answered. “What're you waiting for?”

“Yes, sir.” Varner pushed the door open and stepped aside. “You may go—”

“Tom! What the devil!” A diminutive man, no more than five feet tall, thin and delicate-looking in utter contrast to his voice, came around the desk to shake Tom's hand.

“Hello, Thad. Good to see you again.”

“And what's this thing? A Leakey?” Barton's eyes twinkled as he looked up at Maurice and shook his head. “Damned if it isn't still growing, looks like.”

“Well, you ain't, that's for sure,” Maurice growled, happy to see Barton again.

Barton laughed, indicated a pair of chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat,” he said, returning to his own chair. “You look tuckered out. When'd you get in? How's Jase? What the hell are you doing in this neck of the woods, anyway?”

“I need a ship, Thad,” Tom said, all traces of levity gone from his voice. He pulled a waxed canvas packet from his shirt, broke the seal, and pushed it across the desk. “It's all in there.”

The letter from Jase was short and to the point. “By the Jesus!” Barton swore softly as he finished reading. “Take a man's little boys away from him like that. Son of a bitch needs to be hanged, you ask me. Christ, I'm sorry, Tom.”

“I don't need sympathy, Thad. I need a ship, and I need one now.”

“Yeah. I know.” Barton leaned back in his chair, ran his fingers through his hair. “Only trouble is, the only one in port is the
Cassandra
, and she's stove up so bad there's no chance of using her.”

“How bad is bad?” Tom asked.

“She tangled with a hurricane and limped in holed and minus a mainmast two weeks ago. I've got her scheduled into the yards, but it'll be another two, three weeks before they can get to her, and still another week or two to make the repairs. You could lease, maybe, but you'd have to find a fool or lie about what you're up to. Which, come to think of it, ain't a bad idea anyway. If word gets out, somebody could pick up some easy gold for passing it along—and besides, ain't nobody gonna think a run like that'll be a pleasure cruise. You can be sure this Vincent bastard ain't gonna hand you back them boys for the askin'. Along with everything else, there's an eighteen-gun sloop of war that runs out of San Sebastian. You'll be lucky to get out of there alive.”

If Maurice thought Tom would react with anger to these difficulties, he couldn't have been more wrong. The trip from Brandborough to New Orleans had been unbearable for Tom precisely because he wasn't doing anything concrete. Being given a difficult set of problems to solve brought out the best in him, though, and he set to work with determination. By the time an hour had passed, the basic decisions had been made and the wheels were in motion. The object was to get the
Cassandra
under way in ten days at the most, preferably a week. To that end, they would pay the shipyard a premium for space, the use of its tools, and such foremen as could be spared, with craftsmen hired from the waterfront doing the bulk of the work. Asking for an immediate answer, Barton sent a note to the owner of the shipyard requesting his cooperation, explaining why it was needed, and sent a runner to Jamie Ragland, who was put in charge of hiring the men needed to effect the repairs.

“Well, there's not much more we can do this afternoon,” Barton announced after they'd spoken with Jamie and he'd read the return note from the shipyard. He looked Tom and Maurice up and down, and grinned. “Best thing I'd say you can do now is get cleaned up, get some decent food and whiskey in you, and get a good night's sleep in a bed. The suite at the Paris is open, if you want to stay there.”

“I suppose so,” Tom said, suddenly tired. “The company's paying for it anyway, so we might as well use it.”

Maurice sheepishly rubbed his jaw. “Is that the place with the red velvet on the walls?” he asked. “I'm not sure I'm welcome there after that ruckus in the lobby when we were there the last time.”

Tom laughed, a welcome sound to the other men. “That's the place. The Hotel de Paris. The golden days of your youth. Let's just try to make this stay a little more peaceable, all right?”

“Well, I'll try if they will,” Maurice promised solemnly, “'cause I guess I was kind of rowdy. Rowdy or not, though, I didn't mean to break that mirror. But you know what, Tom?”

“What?”

An irrepressible, impish grin spread across Maurice's face. “The sound of that glass breakin' sure was pretty.” He sighed, and the impish grin became almost beatific. “One of the prettiest things I ever heard in all my life.”

Appropriately enough, the Hotel de Paris was on Dauphin Street in the French Quarter. Tom and Maurice followed the narrow, unpaved boulevards that ran between two- and three-story buildings. Despite the area's name, the architecture was predominantly Spanish and the stucco-covered structures were topped with roofs of slate or red tile. Balconies guarded by railings of iron wrought into myriad designs overhung the streets. More wrought-iron gates protected the courtyards the two men occasionally glimpsed at the ends of slender alleys. Due to the scarcity of stone in the area, the streets were surfaced with black loamy soil that became as treacherous as quicksand in heavy rain. Wooden poles, topped by cross beams fitted with oil lamps that cast a feeble light at night marked alternate corners.

Traffic on the streets was heavy. Kaintocks and sailors streamed in and out of taverns and bordellos and cheap hotels. Men of commerce hurried on their way to and from important engagements. Men and women of every race intermingled as they bustled about. Orientals and American Indians paraded solemnly. Negroes from Africa and Caribbean Indian-Negro mixed-bloods ranged from the deepest black through mulattoes, quadroons, and octoroons, who were indistinguishable from Caucasians. Tall, blond, blue-eyed Scandinavians rubbed shoulders with lean, dark-haired French Canadians known as Creoles, and ruddy Englishmen contrasted with olive-skinned Castilians. One and all, from the impoverished immigrants in rags to the haughty Creole ladies in silks and satins riding in carriages pulled by expensive high-stepping horses, they flowed, bustled, paraded, yelled, haggled, argued, and minded their own business in one vast potpourri of humanity that made New Orleans the most exciting city in the area that stretched from the northwestern frontier to New York and Philadelphia in the East, and all of the Caribbean to the south.

Tom and Maurice dodged a carriage, then forced their way through a knot of sailors. “There it is,” Tom yelled, pointing at a magnificent building of white stucco surrounded by gardens and enclosed by a wrought-iron fence.

Maurice nodded. “I recollect the place, all right. From that fountain there in front. Seems I tried to move it once.”

Together they fought their way to the gate, identified themselves to a skeptical guard, and were admitted. The fountain was situated in the center of an open courtyard. A pool of white Georgian marble accepted a stream of water from a carved jug held by a beautifully sculpted female figure who wore a loose gown that only partially concealed her loveliness. Maurice thought she was the most magnificent woman he had ever seen, and he gazed up at her with reverent awe. “Onliest gal I ever proposed to,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “Turned me down cold, she did.”

“I remember,” Tom said dryly. “You were disconsolate—until that French girl came along a half-hour later.”

“Not just French,” Maurice corrected. “French and Spanish and African and Injun, by God. Four of the best kinds all rolled into one. If I could find another one like her—”

“She'd tell you you needed a bath.” Tom laughed, giving him a shove toward the front of the hotel. “Come on. Let's see if the Paxton name will get us in.”

It did, of course. And by the time ten o'clock rolled around, Tom and Maurice had bathed in hot fresh water, had paid for shaves and haircuts, eaten both splendidly and voraciously, drunk some of the finest Kentucky sour mash bourbon ever to pass the lips of man, and had collapsed into real beds with real sheets, which—even Maurice had to admit, in that brief moment before he lapsed into snores—beat a horse blanket on a forest floor.

The next day further proved that action was the best cure for Tom's doldrums, Jamie Ragland had indeed found a work crew, and Tom met the men shortly after daybreak and led the way to the Hutchinson Shipyards. George Hutchinson had done business with Barton and the Paxtons before, and, as promised, had freed a corner of the yards where the
Cassandra
could be careened. He'd also made available the necessary foremen to oversee the work she needed. That day the men were assigned their jobs, supplies were bought, and the
Cassandra
was brought to the yards. The next day would see her stripped of rigging and readied for careening, after which they could begin the actual repairs.

Tom had been fine as long as he'd been busy, but once back in the suite at the Paris, all he wanted to do was sit and stare at the walls.

“That's a pile of crap, Tom,” Maurice said, toweling dry after a bath.

“What?”

“Sittin' there and brooding ain't gonna help. All you'll do is get your brain goin' in circles until you can't do anything right when the time comes.”

“That's easy for you to say. It isn't your boys who are missing.”

Maurice busied himself saddle-soaping the new boots he'd bought earlier in the day. “Knowin' that don't make anything I said less true. 'Sides, you'd be sayin' the same thing to me if the shoe was on the other foot, and you know it.” He dropped one boot and started on the other. “Now, the way I see it, we're workin' as fast as we can, so let's get out of this room and latch on to some of the good life around here. There's more to the French Quarter than this hotel.”

Tom wasn't to be swayed easily. “You go on if you like,” he said. “I'll stay here.”

“The hell you will,” Maurice growled. He took two long steps, grabbed Tom's arm, and pulled him out of his chair. “You're actin' like you're dead inside, and that's gonna stop. Now, get in there and take a bath and put on some of them fancy duds you bought so we can eat some of that fancy French cookin' and find us a place to do a little serious drinkin'!”

Anger flared in Tom's face as he jerked his arm free. “And if I say no?” he asked coldly.