Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (26 page)

“I need to purchase certain items,” Tom said. “One of my men suggested that you might be able to help.”

Again the lift of the bushy eyebrows. “
Oui
? And who might that be?”

Maurice gave Slurry a shove that sent him forward. Slurry quickly caught his balance and ducked his head. “Me, Monsieur Laffite. Slurry Walls. I sailed with you in oh-two.”

A smile lighted the privateer's face. “But of course! So good to see you again, Mr. Walls. How are you?”

“Just … just fine, Monsieur Laffite,” Slurry mumbled.

“Wonderful. We must talk about old times with you and your friends here.” Laffite turned back to Tom as Slurry shot a triumphant leer at a frankly disbelieving Maurice. “Now, Monsieur Paxton. I have some excellent brandy you might care to sample. If you'd accompany me to my house, we can discuss your requirements.”

They had passed the first test. Laffite lifted one hand. On his signal, orders could be heard being called aboard the pirate ships and Tom could see guns being run in and gun ports closed. At the same time, people emerged from doors onshore and began going about their daily business. Chatting comfortably, Laffite escorted his astonished visitors to the front verandah of the mansion, where they were met by an elderly black man in butler's livery.

They might as well have been visiting a plantation in South Carolina as a pirate's den in Barataria Bay. Luxurious carpets cushioned their steps as they entered the foyer, and the high-ceilinged parlor was furnished with delicate, expensive furniture. “You are surprised, gentlemen?” Laffite asked.

“It's a far cry from what I expected,” Maurice admitted.

“Doubtless.” Laffite smiled thinly and clapped his hands. Immediately, a side door opened and the butler entered with a crystal decanter filled with brandy, and four crystal snifters on a silver tray which he placed on an elaborately carved table that had at one time belonged to the king of Spain.

Laffite himself poured, then raised his glass in a toast. “To your good health, gentlemen.”

They all raised their glasses and drank. “And to the successful conclusion of our business,” Tom added pointedly.

Laffite allowed himself a polite chuckle. “You are impatient, my friend, but I quite understand. Gentlemen,” he said to Maurice and Slurry, “please feel free to help yourselves to more brandy, if you wish, while Mr. Paxton and I discuss our business.” He steered Tom across the room to a large window with a view of the settlement. “And now, Mr. Paxton,” he said in a low voice, “you may speak bluntly. What is it you wish to buy from us?”

“Cannon,” Tom said simply. “I want to buy four nine-pounders, and I have gold with which to pay for them.”

Laffite's hand tightened around his snifter. “Your proposal is a difficult one for me to answer,” he said with a frown. “As a privateer, my business is selling whatever my customers require, but I'm placed in an awkward position when you ask for large weapons.”

“And why is that?”

Laffite's eyes were cool and thoughtful. “I know that your family owns a shipping line, my friend. Perhaps you wish to buy these cannon so that someday you can turn them against the men of the brotherhood.”

Tom shook his head. “That isn't my desire. I have no quarrel with you or your men. Paxton ships are fast—you have seen the
Cassandra
—and are seldom molested. I intend to use those guns far away from here.”

“For—?”

“That, Monsieur Laffite, is none of your business. Unless, of course, you want to sell the information to someone who might be interested.”

Tom realized at once he'd gone too far. Few men had eyes so hard and piercing. With those eyes alone, Laffite had cowed men far more savage and bloodthirsty than Tom.

“No offense meant,” he added quickly, giving ground, “but that's a factor I have to take into account.”

“You dare much, my friend. I can believe that the blood of Raven runs in your veins. And you have,” Laffite conceded, “a point well taken.” He sipped his brandy and stood in contemplation for a few seconds. “I'll tell you what I'll do,” he finally said. “A decision such as this must be made in consultation with my lieutenants. After dinner—you will dine with me, I trust?—we'll meet with them and you may present your request in person. Is this agreeable?”

Tom knew he had no choice. “Of course,” he said, hiding his disappointment.

“Good. Dinner will be at eight. And, oh, yes.” Laffite chuckled, and once more his eyes were open and friendly. “I've a small confession to make, Thomas—I may call you Thomas, may I not? You should know that you took a very great chance when you came here. Were it not for your ancestry and audacity, you and your men would be prisoners by now. You see, you might have made a better choice when you picked someone to serve as your introduction to my little colony. No doubt he
has
been here before, but I have no memory of that scrofulous creature called Slurry. No memory of him at all.”

Acting on impulse as she had, Adriana had been ill prepared when she boarded the
Cassandra
after leaving Tom at the hotel. Her plan had been simple: hide until Tom was too far into the gulf to turn back, and then take her chances.

The hold where she'd hidden was dark and deserted. She'd obtained bread and cheese and water before coming on board, but her supplies had been depleted two days earlier. Unable to see, and unaware of the side trip to Barataria, she hadn't the foggiest notion where they were when, to her surprise the
Cassandra
entered calm waters and came to a dead stop. But where? Back in New Orleans? Why? Cuba? How long did it take to get to Cuba? Her questions remained unanswered because she dared not come out.

The darkness intensified. It was night. Hungry and thirsty, she waited for the ship to quiet, and at last crept out of the hold. Below decks was deserted, but she could hear occasional footsteps and the murmur of voices above her on the main deck. If she could find the galley and slip inside before she was discovered …

“Here, now! What's this?”

Adriana froze, then turned calmly to see a young sailor in the doorway. “Oh, hello,” she said, as if she had every right in the world to be there. “What's your name?”

The sailor blinked and shook his head. “Huh?”

Adriana dropped the dipper into the water bucket and walked toward him. “My name's Adriana,” she said with a smile. “What's yours?”

“Uh
…
Crane, ma'am. Jeffrey Crane.”

“How nice to meet you, Jeffrey. Would you excuse me, please?”

Still not sure he wasn't seeing a ghost, Crane stepped aside.

“Thank you.”

“Hey!”

A second was all she'd needed. Adriana slammed the door behind her and had darted down the passageway and up the ladder to the main deck before the sailor's cry of alarm was heard. Surprise was her ally. She sprinted across the deck and was halfway down the gangplank to the dock before anyone knew what was happening. Seconds later, unpursued, she dived into the cover of some bushes and lay panting on the cool earth.

The dinner with Laffite seemed endless. Although—or perhaps because—they assiduously avoided discussion of the guns, Tom's nervousness increased as the meal proceeded. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the delicately seasoned chicken and rice and the choice wines, but on that evening his thoughts were full of the precarious situation in which he and his men found themselves. Laffite was no stranger to the social graces, but beneath his veneer of civility, he was a man who would unhesitatingly kill if he felt threatened.

The meal finally finished, Laffite stood, lighted a cigar, and took his hat from the butler. “The time has come, my friend. If Mr. Leakey would care to wait?”

“He goes where I go,” Tom answered without hesitation. “We're ready when you are.”

The sky was overcast and a warm, moist breeze from the south rustled the trees as Tom and Maurice followed Laffite to a brightly lighted tavern near the beach. Music floated through the open door into the night, but silence fell abruptly as Laffite entered. Quickly, as if all had been prearranged, the tavern emptied save for five men seated at a large round table.

“My friends,” Laffite said to the seated men, “let me present Monsieur Thomas Paxton, whose unusual request you've had the chance to ponder. His companion is Maurice Leakey.” Laffite moved around the table and stood behind the seat that had been saved for him. “Thomas, starting at my far right, Captain Gambi and Captain Nez Coupe. To my left, Captain Dominique You, Captain Rene Beluche, and Captain Isaiah Hawkins. The floor is yours.”

Laffite's announcement that his lieutenants knew what Tom wanted came as a surprise, and Tom realized with a sinking feeling that he'd be doing well simply to get the
Cassandra
and her crew out of Barataria in one piece. “I'm not sure what I can add to what Monsieur Laffite has already told you,” he said, looking each man in turn in the eye. “I need four guns, I need them now, and I have gold to pay for them.”

The air reeked with hostility and distrust. “Why?” Nez Coupe asked, an ugly smile splitting his face.

Tom and Maurice had discussed whether they dared reveal their mission, and had decided that Tom's initial reticence was correct. “I'm not at liberty to discuss that,” he said, knowing the answer wouldn't help his cause.

“Fagh!” Gambi spat on the sawdust-covered floor. “Are you at liberty to discuss what's to stop us from just taking your gold? And maybe your pretty ship, too?”

“The honor of Jean Laffite,” Tom replied, noting the pleased expression that crossed Laffite's face. “Monsieur Laffite expressed the concern that the cannon would be used against his own men and ships. I give you my word that this is not my intention, and that it will not happen. My mission is my concern and mine alone; it does not threaten the brotherhood. However, any man jack of you is welcome to try to take what belongs to me. Men have tried it before. But know that I came to conduct a fair transaction, to your benefit and mine.”

Gambi shook his head. “I say no! No cannon for this fancy rich man.” He looked at Tom with a savage leer. “Why you come to us anyway, Paxton? Your family got plenty money. You can buy cannon damn near anywhere.”

“If I could have, I would have,” Tom answered honestly. “We scoured New Orleans, and there were none to be had.”

“So what made you think you'd find any here?” Nez Coupe asked.

“I was told you were my best bet.”

“Then you was told wrong,” Gambi snarled, “and lost your bet, too.”

Tom smiled. “You speak for all of Monsieur Laffite's men, when not even he does?”

“Not for me,” Hawkins allowed. He glanced at Gambi, and it was apparent that no love was lost between them. “But I don't like the idea of selling guns to a merchant, either.”

“Nor I,” Dominique You added softly.

Captain Beluche did not speak, but nodded in agreement with Captain You.

The room was suddenly filled with a heavy silence, and Tom felt his skin begin to prickle with alarm. Without looking at Maurice, Tom knew that he, too, was evaluating the now-charged atmosphere of the tavern.

Adriana had no earthly idea where she was. She could make out a mansion on a hill. A row of taverns lay to her right, what looked like warehouses to her left. Behind her, the
Cassandra
was strangely quiet. How long she lay hidden she wasn't sure, but she soon spied Tom and Maurice emerging from the mansion in the company of a third man. All three descended the hill and entered one of the taverns. Curiously, the tavern emptied immediately. After a short wait to make sure the coast was clear, Adriana slipped away from her hiding place and edged close enough to hear.

Tom had spoken of his desire to buy cannon, and when Adriana heard the name Jean Laffite, she knew where she was. Stunned and frightened, wanting only to get back to the
Cassandra
—better to take her chances with Tom than with a horde of pirates—she backed stealthily away from the window, even as she heard Laffite's final answer to Tom's request.

“The vote is five to nothing. I am truly sorry we cannot do business, Thomas. The best I can do is offer you safe passage out of Barataria on the morning tide, and wish you luck on your mission, whatever it may—”

“Gotcha!”

An arm encircled her waist. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled back her head. Adriana struggled silently as her captor muscled her onto the porch. “Animal! Pig!” Her nails found his face and clawed his flesh. “Let me go, you—”

“Owww! Gaw damn!” The pirate kicked open the door, dragged Adriana inside, and unceremoniously dumped her on the floor. “Sorry to interrupt,” he croaked, “but look what I found listenin' at the window.”

“Great jumpin' Jehoshaphat!” Maurice whispered as Tom stared speechlessly at the auburn hair, honey-colored skin, bright-red skirt, and torn white blouse.

“Adriana!” gasped a voice from the table.

Tom's gaze whipped around. Stunned though he was by Adriana's appearance, he was even more surprised to hear her name from a stranger. Isaiah Hawkins looked every bit as surprised as Tom.

For someone who had just been caught spying, Adriana displayed a remarkable degree of self-possession. Her eyes touching Tom's for only an instant, she looked up and pushed the hair out of her face. “Hello, Isaiah,” she said, coolly rising and ignoring the way her captor grabbed her arm. “It's good to see you again, though I'm surprised to find you here.”

“You know this girl?” Laffite asked Hawkins.

“Aye. She's the one I told you about, who dances in New Orleans.”

“
That
Adriana?” Dominique You asked, suddenly interested.

“Damn!” Gambi interjected with a leer. “Maybe she dance for us, no?”