Once Upon a Pirate Anthology

by Merry Farmer

  “A horse?” Elisabeth stared at him. “Where are you going?”

  “Where are we going, my sweet,” he corrected. “We shall go to see the Governor of Louisiana, in Baton Rouge. If we can convince him of the injustice being done here, he will intervene.”

  “Of course,” Paulette cried. “Your old friend André Hêrbert.”

  “You know the governor?” Elisabeth was taken aback.

  “I do. More to the point, do you know him?”

  “Slightly,” she confirmed. “Monsieur Hêrbert would come to dinner with my father in the past, when he had occasion to visit New Orleans. He has never accepted an invitation from Giles, however.”

  “So, he will know you by sight? There will be no need to prove your identity?”

  She shook her head, still puzzled. “He would recognise me. I am quite certain.

  “I can get us an audience with him, and your testimony will be sufficient, I am quite sure of it, to convince the governor to at the very least instruct a stay of execution and a fresh investigation.”

  “But why would he help us?”

  “Monsieur Hêrbert is an honest and decent man. He would not permit this miscarriage of justice if he was aware of it. And, from the sound of it, he is no friend of your husband. We need only get to him in time for him to send soldiers back to New Orleans before the hanging.” Will turned to regard Raven. “And there you must come in, my friend.”

  Raven inclined his head. “Two days is not enough time. Baton Rouge is over a day’s ride from here, however speedy the mount, and any troops the governor might see fit to send would take at least as long to reach New Orleans.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I will find a way to buy you more time.” Raven downed the remainder of his ale and got to his feet. “But now, I have some horse trading to do. Be ready to leave in thirty minutes.”

  Chapter 11

  A rat scurried over his foot, heedless of the man slumped against the clammy stone wall. Charles Levant, formerly butler to the mayor of New Orleans, now convicted murderer, gazed listlessly at the rodent and pondered the cruel twist of fate which had brought him to this.

  His life would end in precisely twenty-two minutes’ time.

  The bowl of grey, congealed porridge which a guard had pushed under the door two hours earlier remained untouched, the mug of greasy, tepid water the same. Charles did not see the point of forcing the vile food down.

  He had protested his innocence every day of the six weeks which had passed since Thérèse had burst into the kitchen at the mayor’s mansion. Or rather, he had started to protest three days later, when the mayor had returned from his brief incarceration, exonerated, and suspicion fell upon his own shoulders. It had done no good. A scapegoat was required, and he was to be it. Giles Chirac had insisted the old butler must be the killer, and Captain dePrieu had agreed that there was no other explanation. He had been seized and dragged out of the house, thrown in this cell where he had languished every day since, with the exception of his brief appearance before the city magistrates. The evidence against him had been read to the court and consisted principally of the ‘fact’ that he was the only possible culprit. The verdict was swift in coming, as was the sentence.

  Death, by hanging, the sentence to be carried out one calendar month from that date.

  Charles had spent each of the next thirty days counting down to his fate. He even scratched the days off on the wall to his right, using a lump of broken plate he’d found on the floor. So, he knew it was to be today. Eight o’clock, he expected, though he had not been informed. That was the usual time for such proceedings. He had listened with care to the chiming of the clock on the chapel adjacent to the fort. It had struck seven-thirty a few minutes ago, and he had been counting down the seconds and the minutes since.

  Charles did not want to die, but he understood the inevitability of what faced him. He would meet his end with dignity, or so he hoped, and if an opportunity arose to again claim his innocence and accuse Giles Chirac, he would take it. He could not save himself, it was far too late for that, but if he could manage to sow even the tiniest seeds of doubt, someone, somewhere, might begin to regard Chirac with suspicion. Perhaps his reelection as mayor at the end of his term would not be a foregone conclusion.

  Booted footsteps on the flags beyond his cell door and the grinding of the huge lock heralded the beginning of the end for Charles Levant. He got to his feet, aimed a last irritated kick at the closest rat, and turned to face the guards who had arrived to escort him outside.

  Bright sunshine greeted him, and he looked up into the azure sky. This would be his last sight of a summer’s morning, and he meant to savour the remaining minutes. He breathed in, enjoying the fresh air but wishing it could have been somewhat cleaner. The drains serving the fort left much to be desired.

  One of the soldiers nudged him in the back, and he shuffled forward, hoping not to be forced to view the scaffold too closely. All too soon, the short flight of steps faced him. He gazed up, into the masked visage of the hangman.

  Charles was not a religious man, but he thought it prudent to mutter what he could recall of The Lord’s Prayer as he mounted the steps. Despite his resolve, he stumbled close to the top and might have fallen had the hangman not been quick to thrust out his hand and grab Charles’ arm.

  “Easy, my friend. We would not want you to fall and break your neck.” The executioner chuckled.

  Charles did not entirely appreciate his brand of dark humour, but at least the man did not seem unduly cruel. He stood quietly whilst his hands were drawn behind his back and bound.

  “Do you want a hood?” the hangman offered.

  Charles shook his head.

  “I believe it would be preferable, sir. Indeed, I feel I must insist.”

  Charles regarded the man over his shoulder. Was he mistaken, or did the hangman just wink at him?

  Before he could process that bizarre possibility, the rough sack cloth hood was flung over his head, to be followed by the weight of the noose around his neck. A brief moment of panic was all he had time for before the trap door beneath his feet disappeared and he plunged to certain death.

  The noose had barely tightened about his neck, when strong hands caught his feet and shoved his legs over wide shoulders. He hung, his weight now borne by whoever had been concealed within the platform of the scaffold. Other hands on his shoulders steadied him, and a low voice murmured in his ear.

  “Play dead, Monsieur Levant, if you value your life.”

  Stunned, confused, utterly bewildered, Charles nevertheless managed to gather what remained of his scrambled wits. He did not even nod his response, just hung there, his head at what he hoped would be a convincingly unnatural angle. Long seconds passed, during which the crowd who had assembled to witness his dispatching shouted their encouragement to the hangman and their general satisfaction with the morning’s entertainment.

  Fingers pressed against his bare neck signalled that his bewildering ordeal might be almost over.

  “He is dead,” the hangman announced in a loud voice for the benefit of those watching, then in a low voice, he added. “On ten.”

  Charles counted the seconds away. He reached nine, then found himself tumbling again when the rope slackened at the precise moment the man bearing his weight ducked to the ground. The result was a convincing plummet for the benefit of onlookers, and this time he landed in a crumpled heap on the earth beneath the scaffold. The noose was dragged from around his neck, and the hood pulled from over his head. He gazed up into the face of the largest man he had ever seen.

  Before Charles could utter a word, they were joined by the hangman who had dropped through the still-open trap door. “Good work, Velvet. Is the cart ready?”

  “Right outside, mon capitaine.”

  “Remember, you are dead,” the executioner reminded the man who lay at his feet.

  Charles could only nod and managed a decent impersonation of that state, he hoped, when
the huge man picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. He was dumped unceremoniously onto the bed of a cart which smelled suspiciously of rotten fish. The cart rumbled into motion. Charles lay perfectly still as the vehicle carried him away from his fate.

  He was alive. He could not start to comprehend why or how, but it seemed he had not seen the last of his summer mornings after all.

  “Oh, dear Lord, please let us be in time…” Elisabeth wrung her hands as the carriage rattled through the streets of New Orleans in the direction of the fortress which dominated the city.

  Seated across from her, Will could only manage a grim smile. They both knew perfectly well that the execution had been scheduled for the previous day. They had to hope that Raven had somehow contrived to delay matters.

  By now, she imagined, her husband would be under arrest pending further enquiries into the events at the mayoral mansion six weeks ago. This time, those enquiries would include her own evidence, and she believed that would prove damning. Certainly, André Hêrbert had been sufficiently impressed when she’d related her story to him that he had ordered two dozen men to leave at once for New Orleans.

  Her optimism soared a little when they were passed by a group of the governor’s men coming in the other direction, away from the fort. Captain dePrieu was among them, bound to the saddle of his horse and looking distinctly ill at ease.

  “Where are they taking him?” she asked Will.

  “To Baton Rouge, I expect. There will be more chance of a fair investigation and trial there. I would imagine your husband is already on his way as well.”

  “I see.” She knew a moment of satisfaction, but it was brief. She would not really be satisfied until she was sure they had been in time to save the innocent man accused of the murder. “But, what of Monsieur Levant. Do you think…?”

  “We must only hope Raven was successful.”

  She fell silent. There was nothing more to say.

  “Aye, my lady. The hangin’ took place yesterday. An’ a right good hangin’ it were. There’s a new hangman, an’ he—”

  Sickened, Elisabeth turned away from the guard who had met them at the gate to the fortress. His eager relating of the story of her loyal butler’s gruesome and undeserved fate brought her fragile hopes to a crashing end. She covered her face in her hands.

  “We were too late. Too late…”

  Will took her in his arms. “Sweetheart, we shall—”

  “What took you so long?”

  They both turned at the jovial greeting. Raven waved to them from a nearby stall selling mead. He had secured a table, and he and Paulette appeared to be enjoying their morning in the hot sunshine.

  “We have been waiting for you.” he called. “Join us in a cup or two.”

  “How can you just sit there, drinking, when an innocent man has been put to death?” Elisabeth stormed over to glower at the pair. “You had one job to do, and you failed. It has all been for nothing.”

  Raven shrugged. “I do not think so,” he countered.

  “Monsieur Levant was hanged yesterday,” she ground out.

  “True enough. And may I say, he made a right fine fist of it. I can quite see why you hold him in such regard.”

  “How can you be so callous? He was innocent.”

  “Aye. He was. Still is, and now I daresay you will be in a position to prove it.” Raven got to his feet and offered his hand to Paulette. “If neither of you is inclined to join us in a mug of mead, may I suggest we all return to the Claw. We have a guest waiting for us there, and I believe you will be most pleased to see him.”

  “A guest?” Will was quick to take his friend’s meaning. “You got him out?”

  Raven inclined his head. “As your lady has so kindly pointed out, one job.” He sauntered away, his arm around Paulette’s shoulders. “Are you two coming?”

  Epilogue

  Six months later

  “We will take our tea in the drawing room, Monsieur Levant.”

  “Of course, my lady, and may I suggest a plate of Madame Fançeau’s syrup tarts to go with it, freshly baked this morning? I can particularly recommend them, and I am aware that Madame Auvin does have a fondness….”

  Elisabeth smiled. “Indeed she does, and she is not alone. Perhaps just a couple.”

  “With cream, madame?”

  “Certainly. Thank you.” Elisabeth straightened her skirts and made herself comfortable on the plump sofa, then bestowed a serene smile on her companion.

  Paulette, now Madame Auvin since her marriage to her own pirate just three months previously, smiled back and patted the enormous swell of her belly. “I wonder if I shall be quite so partial to syrup tarts after this little one is born,” she mused out loud.

  “I imagine so,” was Elisabeth’s considered opinion. “How long is it now?”

  “Just a month or so.”

  “Are you excited?”

  Paulette nodded. “I am, but not nearly so excited as Raven. I swear, the man has become more than a little syrupy himself since he learned he was to be a father. I have never seen anyone so besotted.”

  “He will be an excellent father, I know it.”

  “As will my brother, I expect.” Paulette raised one dark eyebrow. “Does he know?”

  “Know what?” Elisabeth flushed under her friend’s scrutiny and could not resist laying a hand over her own abdomen.

  “There. I knew it. You have a curiously serene air about you of late, Elisabeth, and I was sure there could be but one explanation. So, have you told Will yet?”

  Unable to hold back her smile, Elisabeth nodded. “Last night. He…he is equally besotted.”

  “So, you will be married soon, I expect. It will not do for the heir to the Bézac fortune to be born out of wedlock, though of course, such an eventuality is not unknown among the Falconers.”

  “Your legitimacy or otherwise is a matter of no concern whatsoever, especially since Will insisted that you should inherit your father’s house. I trust it is passing muster as the mayor’s new residence.”

  “It is, but do not attempt to change the subject. Ah, here is Monsieur Levant with our syrup tarts.” She flashed a determined smile Elisabeth’s way. “Do not allow yourself to imagine that this conversation is over.”

  They oohed and aahed over the tarts, gasping at the crumbly perfection of Madame Fançeau’s pastry and licking their lips to ensure none of the sweet filling could go astray. The carpet about them was scattered in crumbs by the time the small plate was emptied.

  “Now,” Paulette continued, “where were we? Ah, yes, I was considering how long I should wait before asking Raven to insist that Will do the honourable thing and marry you. After all, he is living here with you, and if that evidence is anything to go by,” she gestured at Elisabeth’s still perfectly flat stomach, “you share a bed.”

  “Will is being honourable, or so he thinks. He is uncomfortable that others might believe him to be marrying me for my wealth. After all, it would not be the first time that a man did so.”

  “One,” Paulette began, raising her index finger to indicate the count, “my brother’s wealth may be ill-gotten, at least in part, but it certainly equals your own. I have told him so. And now that he is making an honest living, his social standing is not so very different either. And two,” a second finger was raised, “Giles is long gone, and you are to put him from your mind. He got what he deserved, he and that evil associate of his. It was all I could do to prevent Raven playing the hangman again, just to ensure the pair of them met their Maker with all possible haste. He would have done it, I am sure, had not Monsieur Hêrbert insisted that such an act would be unbecoming in the mayor.”

  “He has done well for himself, your pirate. Pardoned and elevated to the position of mayor, all within the space of one day.” Even now, months later, Elisabeth could not quite believe it. She could not be more pleased for her friend’s change in fortune and status. Paulette had gone from upstairs maid to become the mayor’s wife, and
soon to be the mother of his child, in less than a year. Her rise in New Orleans society had been little short of meteoric, and there were many among the elite ladies of the city who whispered as much behind their elegant gloved hands.

  Elisabeth had no time for such snobbery and wondered that Will should be even remotely interested in the ungenerous views of such narrow-minded dowagers. It seemed to her that he was, though, and considered himself unworthy of her. The entire thing was absurd in her view, but she was patient and in no hurry. She would wait until he came to his senses.

  “Monsieur Hêrbert prefers a man of my husband’s talents to be working on the right side of the law,” Paulette continued. “The vacancy arose when Giles was arrested, and Monsieur Hêrbert felt it should be filled without delay. Since Raven had not actually committed any crimes here in Louisiana, the governor felt able to hand down the pardon. His skills are well-suited to the role, and he is proving himself to be an excellent politician, I believe.”

  “Monsieur Hêrbert, or your husband?”

  “Both,” Paulette confirmed emphatically. “But we digress. How are we to settle the matter of my brother’s tardiness in making an honest woman of you?”

  “Please do not bother yourself with my problems. Will is himself not without means, as you say, and since he was also pardoned by Monsieur Hêrbert, he has established himself as a merchant and has demonstrated some considerable aptitude for the role. He is already wealthy and promises to become much more so. Once he recognises that and ceases to think of himself as an outlaw pirate, he will be less reticent about declaring himself, I am sure of it.” She paused to consider. “A pity, really. I did rather like him as a pirate. So dashing…”