Gone to Texas

by Jason Manning

  Christopher straightened. He felt a sudden chill in his bones. "Voodoo."

  She nodded. "It is practiced here, though prohibited by law."

  "Just like dueling. You folks don't pay much attention to the laws down here."

  "Even respectable, churchgoing people sometimes seek the help or advice of one who practices voodoo. You have perhaps heard of Marie Laveau?"

  He shook his head.

  "She is a voodoo Queen, and she has great power. Some say she is evil. Her name is much maligned. But this is because people fear what they do not understand. Voodoo is a religion. It originated in Africa. Among the tribes there, the god Voodoo is an all-powerful being. Everything that happens is his doing. Often he can be malicious. His symbol is the snake. One who practices voodoo is able to communicate with this god. Like a priest. Only, in voodoo, one can ask for a curse as well as a blessing. The god Voodoo will always answer a true believer.

  "No one has more powerful magic than Marie Laveau. Despite what you might hear to the contrary, I have never known her powers to be used for anything other than the good of others. For instance, a few years ago, a wealthy young man was accused of a murder which had been committed by someone else, someone he knew. This acquaintance was very clever, and planted such convincing evidence pointing at the innocent young man that everyone was certain he would be convicted of the crime and executed. In desperation his father turned to Marie Laveau as a last resort. He offered her a king's ransom if only she would somehow save his son. On the day of the trial, Marie Laveau entered the cathedral. She placed three Guinea peppers in her mouth as she knelt at the altar rail. She stayed there for hours without moving. Then she proceeded to the Cabildo, where the trial was to be held, and placed the three peppers beneath the judge's chair before the proceedings got under way. The trial did not last long. The evidence against the young man seemed overwhelming. To everyone's amazement, the judge declared the young man to be innocent.

  "Some weeks later, the father of the young man returned to Marie Laveau. He had another problem. It seems the city as a whole believed he had bribed the judge. Not only was the reputation of the judge endangered, but also the livelihood of the father, for he was a prominent businessman whose success depended on the trust of others. He asked Marie Laveau if she could pry a confession out of the man who had committed the murder. Again he offered to pay her a fortune in gold. Marie Laveau told him to give the gold to the poor. She learned from her informants that the murderer visited a certain saloon every night. She arranged for a potion to be slipped into his drink. When the potion took effect, the man began to talk about the crime. He had never, of course, dared utter a word about it before, but now he gave every grisly detail. He tried to stop himself, but was powerless to do so. He could not control his own tongue. Imagine his horror as the truth spilled out of him. He was arrested, confessed, and was hanged."

  "I never knew much about voodoo," said Christopher. "I thought it was all black magic and devil worship."

  "The god Voodoo is no more a devil than our own God."

  "Our God? Then you don't believe in voodoo yourself."

  "I didn't say I don't believe. I have seen too many strange and wondrous things not to believe there is something to it."

  "Prissy says she thinks you are a voodoo princess. She was afraid the poultice you made for me when I had the fever would steal my soul."

  "Would you love me any less if I was a voodoo princess?"

  "Love?" Christopher was taken aback. "I never said . . . "

  Suddenly she was standing very close to him. Her eyes were ablaze with the flame of passion. Her lips, slightly parted, glistened in the darkness, beckoning to him.

  "You don't have to say it. I know." She put her hands on his shoulders. "If I could have made a voodoo potion it would have been to steal your heart, Christopher Groves. Not your soul."

  "Noelle, I don't think . . . "

  She kissed him, lightly, but the touch of her lips, warm and soft and wet on his sent an electric charge through his body.

  "Don't think," she said, her voice as sultry as the night. "Do you believe in destiny? I do. I believe we were meant to be together. How else can you explain what has happened? Don't think, Christopher. Listen to your heart, not your head."

  He took her in his arms and kissed her. An image of Greta flashed across his mind, but only fleetingly, and the heat of Noelle's body enveloped him, and he couldn't resist her, wondering if maybe Prissy was right after all, and he was in the grip of some kind of magic. Noelle slipped to the ground, pulling him down on top of her, and he knew it was wrong, knew he would live to regret it even as he made love to her, there on the cold gravestones, and her cries of ecstasy were answered by the raucous call of a crow somewhere across the night-shrouded cemetery.

  Chapter 20

  Nathaniel slipped easily into the habit of visiting daily the pharmacy of Antoine Peychaud for the purpose of indulging in the proprietor's "cocktails." He tried to time it so that he arrived while Sterling Robertson was there. The Texas empresario usually made an appearance at about one o'clock in the afternoon, and Nathaniel found him to be nearly as regular as clockwork in that regard. The frontiersman liked Robertson. The man was straightforward in his speech and seemed as honest and fair-minded as one could hope for in a successful businessman. And Nathaniel never tired of hearing about the wonders of Texas, the bountiful game, the verdant forests, the sweeping plains. The prospect of acquainting himself with this new land, of learning its many secrets, made Nathaniel feel young again.

  One day, as he and Robertson were talking, three men stormed into the pharmacy from the street. By their attire it was manifest that they were young gentlemen, scions of well-to-do Creole families. It was clear, as well, by the expressions on their faces, that they were here on some grim purpose. They scanned the men seated at the little tables Peychaud had arranged along one wall for the ease and comfort of his cocktail-drinking clientele. Then one of the young Creoles pointed an accusing finger across the room and cried out in an agitated voice, pitched high with nervous excitement, "You! There! Yes, you, M'sieu Laird!"

  A man rose slowly from the table furthest from the door. He had been conversing with a portly man clad in a hand-tailored blue suit, whose black hair and olive complexion indicated a Spanish heritage. The man who stood was tall and thin and white-haired, but in spite of his obvious age—Nathaniel figured he had to be close to seventy—he was in splendid shape, straight and lithe. His features were sharply angular, set off by a prominent scar above one eye. He was well-dressed and carried a malacca cane with a silver ferrule and a silver grip fashioned into the shape of a lion rampant.

  Robertson did not fail to notice the way Nathaniel was staring at this man. It was as though the frontiersman were seeing a ghost.

  "Do you know Peter Laird, Mr. Jones?" asked the Texan.

  "Laird?"

  "Yes. By all accounts, one of the city's foremost sword masters. Don't let his age fool you. He is a dangerous fellow. And still quite a hand with the ladies, I understand. He has an insatiable appetite for the young belles, and the younger the better. I wouldn't be at all surprised if this concerns a lady of tender years whose reputation has been compromised."

  Peter Laird? Nathaniel's smile was cold and enigmatic. Peter McLeod was the name by which he knew this man.

  McLeod—who had ridden with Tarleton's Tory Legion in Virginia, on a campaign of terror which included a plot to capture Thomas Jefferson, and during which Nathaniel's own father had been killed by one of the Tory Rangers. This was the same McLeod who had turned up next with the traitor Aaron Burr, and who had come very close to killing Nathaniel as he tried to prevent the frontiersman and Jonathan Groves from capturing Burr. And they had met again almost ten years later; Nathaniel had been captured by Tecumseh's Indians and turned over to the British, and McLeod had been there, a redcoat officer. Though American-born he had remained loyal to the Crown, and Nathaniel wondered if his burning hatred for t
he United States had cooled at all in the passing of the years.

  As the trio of young gentlemen approached McLeod he watched them with frosty disdain. Not a trace of anxiety was to be detected on his hawkish face. He had abundant courage—Nathaniel was willing to give him that, and figured it might be his sole virtue.

  "You, m'sieu," said the Creole who had identified McLeod as Laird, "are an unprincipled scoundrel. You have polluted my sister with your vile touch."

  "An insulte majeure, as they call it here," Robertson whispered across the table to Nathaniel. "I fear there may be some blood shed."

  The portly man who had been sharing McLeod's table got to his feet. "Malot, you are a fool to challenge this man."

  "My sister's honor demands it."

  McLeod looked at Malot with an icy grayness. "I am at your service," he murmured. "Name the time and the place and I will most assuredly be there."

  "Here! Now! I am ready."

  "My good friend Peychaud would not appreciate the spilling of your hot Creole blood on his clean floor."

  "In the alley, then."

  McLeod nodded curtly. "As I am the one who has been challenged, I own the privilege of choosing the weapons. Naturally, I choose blades."

  "Naturally," sneered Malot. "I have brought mine."

  "As have I." McLeod raised the malacca cane.

  Malot turned on his heel and stalked out of Peychaud's pharmacy, followed by his two friends.

  McLeod turned with an apologetic smile to the portly Spaniard. "Will you consent to stand as my second in this affair, Ramirez? I assure you, it will be of short duration, and then we will be free to continue our conversation."

  "I?" Ramirez broke into a sweat and began to dab at his pockmarked cheeks with a monogrammed handkerchief. "I want no part of this, Señor Laird."

  "Hmm." Unperturbed, McLeod scanned the room. His gaze came to rest on Nathaniel. Surely he must recognize me, thought the frontiersman. But his expression betrays nothing. McLeod approached the table where Nathaniel and Robertson were seated.

  "Will you serve as my second, sir?" McLeod asked Nathaniel. "All I ask for is a fair fight. Malot's two friends are impetuous Creoles. They may forget their manners."

  "You have a lot of gall," said Nathaniel.

  "Ah, so you know me."

  "Well, I am a believer in fair fights," admitted Nathaniel. He was intrigued by the irony of this game McLeod was playing. He rose, smiling at the shocked expression on Robertson's face. "I'm sorry, but this is an offer I can't refuse. Excuse me for a moment."

  Nathaniel followed McLeod out of the pharmacy and around to a pair of wrought-iron gates which opened into a cobblestoned alley wide enough for the passage of a dray wagon. Malot was waiting, with his two seconds and a white-haired black man in blue-and-yellow livery—obviously a house servant. Malot had a rapier in his hand now, and Nathaniel surmised that it had been in the servant's keeping while the Creole and his companions entered Peychaud to, so to speak, beard the lion in his den. The servant now held Malot's coat.

  As he shed his own coat, McLeod said, "Allow me, gentlemen, to introduce Nathaniel Jones, of Kentucky, who has generously consented to act as my second. I assure you, he is a man of impeccable integrity." He made to hand his hat and coat to Nathaniel, thought better of it, and hung them on the gate. "As you gentlemen can see, Mr. Jones is armed." With a brief gesture he indicated the pistol and knife wedged under the frontiersman's belt.

  "As are we," said one of Malot's companions. He opened his exquisitely tailored, plum-colored coat to reveal a pistol of his own, accompanied by a French dagger.

  "My, my!" McLeod was amused. "Armed for bear, aren't we?" His tone was mocking.

  "Let's get on with it," rasped Malot.

  Nathaniel noticed the young man was sweating, more profusely than the sultry heat of the September afternoon warranted. In contrast, McLeod appeared thoroughly cool and confident.

  "By all means," said McLeod, his voice smooth as silk. "I have a busy schedule today, Malot, and precious little time to waste on the likes of you."

  Twisting the head of the malacca cane, he drew the concealed blade. He tossed the cane to Nathaniel and advanced, free hand behind his back, extending the rapier. Malot crossed the blade with his own. Then McLeod stepped back and lowered his weapon, his posture taunting by its very openness. With a strangled sound Malot lunged forward.

  "En garde!" McLeod laughed, as with disdainful ease—a riposte so swift and deftly executed that the eye could not follow—he parried Malot's thrust. A flick of the wrist and Malot cried out and jumped back. Nathaniel saw the blossom of blood on his white shirt.

  "Touché!" exclaimed McLeod. "But really, Malot, you do not possess the artistry to make a good swordsman."

  He lunged, perfectly balanced, torso erect, knee bent, leg extended, and Malot frantically beat his blade away with a clumsy, desperate parry.

  "Tsk, tsk," said McLeod, circling Malot. "You bent the elbow. Keep the arm rigid. What deplorable form."

  Malot cursed him savagely and thrust again—and again. McLeod scarcely seemed to move. With cold perfection he neatly deflected each lunge. His blade sang in a lethal whisper. Then, with contemptuous ease, he pricked Malot again, and the Creole reeled away, gasping, his face twisted into a rictus of anguish.

  "There," said McLeod. "Are you not satisfied, Malot? Go home. You have done what was expected of you. Now leave, while you are still able."

  With that, McLeod turned his back on his adversary. Malot leaped forward. One of his colleagues shouted, "No, Malot!" But it was too late. Malot did not realize that he had been lured into a deadly trap. His companion saw it. So did Nathaniel. But Malot was blinded by his rage, and McLeod whirled, struck aside the Creole's blade, and ran his own completely through the foolish young man. Malot stood rigidly impaled on McLeod's rapier for a breathless instant, his face very white, his eyes seeming to bulge from their sockets. Suddenly he dropped to his knees. His own rapier clattered on the cobblestones. McLeod withdrew the blade and made a final gesture of disdain, stepping away as Malot flopped forward on his face. Taking the cane from Nathaniel, he sheathed the bloody blade.

  Malot's companions rushed to his side, gently turning him over. His shirt, once snowy white, was soaked with blood.

  "Find a doctor!" one of the Creoles snapped at the black servant.

  The servant did not move. He looked at Malot with stony impassivity, but strong emotion lurked behind his hooded eyes, and intuitively Nathaniel knew that the slave hated Malot and was glad he was dying.

  "Do as I say!" roared the Creole.

  Nathaniel distinctly heard the death rattle in Malot's throat.

  "It's too late," he said.

  And so it was. Malot's body convulsed and then went limp. As McLeod put on his coat, one of the Creoles snatched Malot's coat from the old servant and covered the dead man from the waist up. Without a word—and without so much as a glance at the body of the young man he had slain—McLeod departed the alley, pushing through a group of onlookers who had gathered in the street. Nathaniel was startled by their presence. He had not noticed them before, so engrossed was he in the bizarre dance of death performed by McLeod and Malot.

  Robertson was among the spectators. He clutched Nathaniel's arm as the frontiersman pushed through the people in pursuit of McLeod.

  "What happened?" asked the empresario.

  "Somebody died," replied Nathaniel, extricating himself from the Texan's grasp.

  McLeod was proceeding along the banquette of Royal Street with brisk strides. Nathaniel caught up with him and waited until he was right behind him before speaking.

  "McLeod."

  McLeod whirled, eyes blazing. Nathaniel thought for a moment that he was going to draw the concealed blade and run him through with it. But then McLeod composed himself. His eyes flicked furtively along the street, and he realized that no one had been near enough to hear Nathaniel use his real name. He even managed a rather chilly half-smile.
<
br />   "If you wish to speak to me it will have to be privately."

  "Lead on."

  McLeod turned on his heel and walked with long strides, turning left off of Royal Street onto Conti, then half a block to Exchange Alley. The frontiersman stayed right with him, passing through an iron gate and down a narrow cobbled passage to a secluded courtyard, then up a flight of wooden steps sagging with age to a gallery and then through a heavy wooden door.

  Nathaniel found himself in a large room, with French windows arrayed at the far end, presumably overlooking Exchange. Several bare wooden pews lined the unadorned walls, where in places the plaster had fallen in chunks from the bricks. There was a large brick hearth, a rack containing a half-dozen épées, and in the far corner a wooden screen partitioning McLeod's austere living quarters—a narrow iron bed, a trunk, a porcelain washbasin and pitcher on a rickety stand—from the rest of the salle d'armes.

  Doffing his hat and tossing it negligently onto the nearest pew, McLeod turned on Nathaniel.

  "So, we meet again. Tell me, why didn't you shout my name out there on the street? You realize that if my true identity became known New Orleans would be, shall we say, untenable for me."

  "I can always go to the authorities."

  "Can you? I could kill you here and now."

  "You probably could. But you would have the devil of a time trying to explain that."

  "I suppose so. What do you intend? Blackmail, perhaps?"

  Nathaniel laughed. "You misjudge me."

  McLeod turned away, moving restlessly about the salle, swinging the sword cane as a farmer would a scythe.

  "I remember thinking that indeed I had done so on the occasion when you were my prisoner, in the guardhouse at Fort Malden. You kept hurling yourself at the cell door. Even though you knew there was no escape. Day and night you threw your body against that unyielding door. You quite unnerved my men, as I recall."

  "What are you doing here, McLeod? I would have thought you'd be living in Europe somewhere."