“Ben!” yelled Casimir, his voice shrill with anxiety.
Ben whirled halfway around and saw Casimir grappling desperately with Jethro Wicks and the tall man. He saw, also, the red demon with his pistol clubbed and lifted. But he saw too late to dodge.
A great ball of agonizing fire exploded with a loud bang inside Ben’s head. He felt his knees buckling beneath him. They struck the paved floor of the courtyard, then his face hit the stones. The impacts seemed far away, as though the knees and the face belonged to someone else.
Darkness for a while, comfortable and thick, like a blanket. Finally Ben opened his eyes and gazed dreamily at a lighted candle. It was stuck to a table top with its own wax—the candle and the table were those he had seen inside the rear room of the tavern. Ben’s eyes blurred, his head throbbed inside with a dull ache. He judged that his mask had been stripped away, and his turban as well. He raised his head and blinked to clear his vision.
He was slumped in a chair. Across the table sat Casimir, with his mask and feathered bonnet off, and a streak of blood on his olive cheek. Ben tried to lift his hands toward his own bruised temple, and could not. They were tied behind him.
A quiet laugh, a bitter mockery of friendliness. A dark shape stirred behind Casimir. It was Horner Banton in his monk’s robe, the cowl flung back. Banton lounged against the door that led to the front of the tavern, and held his sword stick jauntily in one hand.
“You waken, Ben,” he said. “Poor vengeful little Seiber struck with the hope of killing you, as I think 3 but your turban helped to save you, and your skull is good thick bone to boot.”
“Boss,” growled the tall man from a corner of the room. “You said I could have him when he woke up, Boss.”
“No,” argued Jethro Wicks from behind Ben. “He’s mine, Packard, and I’ve got a heavier score to pay off on him than anybody. Right, Seiber?”
“Right nothing,” argued the little red demon. “He tied me up, and it was on account of him we had to burn my keelboat.”
“Peace, all of you,” said Banton authoritatively. “I promised him to nobody. I only said that we would see later.”
“Wicks,” said Ben, and it made his head throb. “Come around where I can look at you.”
“It’s Kirwin,” insisted Casimir.
Banton laughed. “It’s both.”
Ben sat up straighter. Now he was aware that his ankles were tied together, as firmly and strongly as lashed spars of a scaffolding.
“Both?” he echoed, and knew that it must sound stupid.
“Aye,” said Kirwin, and moved into Ben’s view around the side of the table. His pointed teeth showed in his beard. “Sometimes my name’s Wicks, and sometimes it’s Kirwin.”
“You don’t seem to take him, Ben,” mocked Banton. “I fear you haven’t quite the quickness of wit that Governor Claiborne credits to you. Wicks had to hide somewhere after that little adventure at Tchoupitoulas—we had better call it a misadventure, thanks to you. And so I disguised him. I made him shave his beard and trim himself to an appearance of gentility, and at Natchez he paid a tailor well to outfit him fashionably. Those looking for buckskin fringes and a hairy face passed him by without so much as a glance. While we waited for our chance to rescue Packard here, we thought he might profitably dispose of you by means of a duel.”
“And I owe Mr. Parker for his showy pistol work,” put in Wicks, ill-humored again.
“I have more to say, Wicks,” said Banton, “and you’ll oblige me by not interrupting. Now, Ben, we have a good example of what tricks an eye’s memory plays. You saw Wicks several times, but only briefly as Kirwin—during the few moments of your quarrel and the few moments of your duel. But Casimir, who barely glimpsed him as Wicks, was well acquainted with him in his character as Kirwin, by virtue of their interview about terms of the duel. Each of you, seeing him again disguised for Mardi Gras, identified him by your most complete memories.” He paused. “What happened to Seiber?”
“Here, sir.” The red devil came back into the room. “The carriage is all ready out yonder. I’ve a potboy from the tavern, holdin’ the hosses just in front of the alleyway.”
“Masks, everyone,” ordered Banton. “Then out with Casimir here. Seiber and Packard, take charge of him. One of you wait with the carriage, and keep an eye on him in case he’s so foolish as to sing out for help. The other will come back to bring out Ben.”
The tall Packard arrayed himself in a long domino gown and slipped on a black half mask. Seiber drew on his grotesque devil face, with grinning fangs and horned brow, and the two of them hoisted Casimir to his bound feet and led him hobbling away.
Banton, near the inner door, lightly smote his left palm with his stick.
“I cry your pardon, Ben,” he said after a moment. “It seems that I was so wrong as to say you weren’t quick of mind. But you are. It’s your tragedy, I fear.”
“Tragedy?” growled Ben. His head still ached, but it had cleared. He tugged furiously at the stout cords that held his wrists. “If my hands were free—”
“Oh, undoubtedly, if your hands were free, you’d fly at Wicks and me.” Banton tucked the stick under his arm, produced a snuffbox from under his robe, and took a pinch. “You’d fly at us, all unarmed, and we’d be forced to kill you or do you an ugly injury,” continued Banton. “It’s been that way with you, my poor young friend, ever since you first stepped on the levee here at New Orleans. I mind how you wanted to fight with five or six Creoles at once.”
“Set him free and let him try me alone,” urged Wicks. “Not I.” Banton inserted the pinch of snuff in his finely shaped nostril, and closed the box with a snap. “It was a bad day for my enterprises when you came to New Orleans—and a worse one for you. You’ve been so officious as to meddle with my labors on behalf of the Spanish king.”
“You admit you’re a spy?” demanded Ben.
“Shut your mouth!” growled Wicks, but Banton only chuckled.
“Why not admit the obvious?” he said, unabashed. “Officials of this territory have taken Spanish money before now, and so has at least one general of the United States Army. In any case, Ben, we can’t allow you to spoil any more of my efforts. You’ll go with me, on a little sailing voyage by night.”
“And you’ll kill me?” Ben prompted.
Banton smiled. “You don’t trust me yet. But I saved your life once. Have you forgotten the bomb sent you on the night of the play, and how I kept you from opening it and blowing yourself to tatters?”
“Then you sent it to me,” said Ben. “You dared not let me open it, lest you be killed along with me.”
“Egad, Wicks,” said Banton, “have I not called this young man quick of wit? See how he fills in the details of the story that I have not yet found time to tell him.”
“Let me have him, Boss,” wheedled Jethro Wicks once more. “I won’t fail of finishing him this time.”
“I’ve told you to be patient, Wicks,” reminded Banton, with steel in his voice. “I’d dislike to have to tell you so again.”
Wicks took up his mask and held it a moment before putting it on. He scowled and grimaced in his beard. Ben saw, and for a moment felt hope, but Banton smiled at him and shook his head.
“No, Ben, none of these I have with me can be turned against me,” he said. “Banish such thoughts from your mind. Not one but has a strong love for the thought of destroying you. You made a fool of Wicks here at Tchoupitoulas, and hurt his hands and his pride in your duel. Seiber won’t forgive you for tying him to that tree last October, and for forcing him to burn his keelboat, nor will Packard rest content until he’s salved the wound in his shoulder with some vengeance on yourself. But, to be frank, we were over hasty in January when Wicks and I thought of removing you. A valuable secret might have died with you.”
“Aye, that,” said Wicks, putting on his mask. “I’d wholly forgotten. Make him tell, Boss.”
“So I shall.” Banton’s brilliant eyes fixed Ben’s. “Out wit
h it, sir. Who knew of our plans to kill Claiborne, and passed the word to you?”
Ben looked back and said nothing.
“I asked you a question, and I desire an answer,” said Banton.
He twisted the handle of the cane and cleared the lean, cruel blade from it. The point lifted toward Ben’s throat, catching a glitter from the candle light.
“Who told you?” demanded Banton again.
Ben shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Let me make him talk,” offered Wicks eagerly.
“No, not here, not now. I want no noise to reach those fools who are at their winepots in the front room. Ben shall have more time to make up his mind. Hasty attentions to him might bring out a lie, at that.”
Banton fitted the blade back into the stick.
“But Pll have the name of your informant, Ben,” he said, as though making a solemn promise. “Before many days, there will be war in Orleans Territory. Spain against the Americans—and, as a thrifty wagerer, my money is on the dons to win, and that quickly. When their troops parade in New Orleans, I want them to be given the informer who was the cause of so much waste motion out at Tchoupitoulas.”
Laffite and Dominique You had feared just that, Ben reminded himself. They did not wish to fall into Spanish hands. Ben kept his silence.
Packard came back in. “We stowed away the other prisoner,” he reported, “and Seiber’s on the box, with the reins in his hands.”
“Excellent,” applauded Banton, pulling his cowl up and over his head and face. “I am happy to hear it. Now, you and Wicks just conduct Mr. Ben Parker to the street and put him in the carriage, too.”
“Come on, get up from there,” growled Wicks, and he put his hand roughly under Ben’s armpit to drag him erect.
Between Packard and Wicks, Ben hopped and inched along to the door, through it, and out into the courtyard. Night had fallen, bringing almost complete darkness save for lights from the street beyond. Ben could hear a sort of elaborate gay murmur, the city at play. His two escorts half led, half dragged him to the narrow alley between the brick walls. There they moved in single file, Wicks ahead and Packard shoving Ben after him, both his hands on Ben’s shoulders. Banton brought up the rear.
“Here’s the street,” muttered Wicks from his lead position, and Ben saw a glow of light from lamps on either side of the driver’s seat of a big closed carriage. The red-devil figure of Seiber perched on the box.
“I’ll open the door,” added Wicks, walking to the carriage. Ben waited just outside the mouth of the alley, with Packard at his side and Banton behind him.
A burst of laughing chatter made itself heard. Half a dozen men, in various costumes, moved along the banquette between the carriage and the alley.
“Messieurs!” called Ben suddenly.
At once a sharp point prodded him between his shoulders. “Silence,” whispered Banton, “or Pll drive this steel through your lungs.”
The revelers had paused, peering through their masks. “Someone spoke?” inquired one of them.
Banton laughed. “Our friend here does not feel his best,” he said readily. “Alas, he’s had enough wine for three, and we’re helping him home to bed.”
“So early?” laughed back the man who had spoken. “Our condolences to him.”
The group moved along, and Wicks came back to catch Ben’s arm again. He and Packard dragged Ben across the banquette and fairly flung him into the carriage. In the inner gloom he made out Casimir, sitting on the back seat. His escorts dumped Ben down to sit facing Casimir, and squeezed in on either side of him. Banton followed and took his place beside Casimir.
“All right, Seiber,” he called. “We can start.”
He closed the door. The carriage began to roll away. Dim lights came and went inside, filtered back through the windows from the lamps at the driver’s seat.
“That was a near thing,” commented Wicks.
“Aye,” agreed Banton. “A near thing for Ben Parker. He was closer to his death than the thickness of a hair.” He looked piercingly at Ben. “If I’d killed you, I’d never have been able to learn who told you about my plot.”
Wicks had pulled off his mask. He bent his face close to Ben’s. “I’ll help him find out about that,” he promised balefully.
“How are your sore fingers?” inquired Ben.
Wicks struck him in the mouth, and Ben made a great surging effort to break his bonds. Packard clutched him by hair and shoulder and held him forcibly down on the seat.
“That will do, Wicks,” said Banton sternly. “We want to draw no more attention than necessary to our carriage. You’d best subside too, Ben. Prayer is the best occupation for a man so close to death.”
“Then you should pray,” put in Casimir boldly.
Banton turned toward him. A passing flash of light showed that he smiled, as though at a clever little boy.
“Ah,” he half-crooned, “the voice of Governor Claiborne’s other valuable little aide. Perhaps you’ll be less sullen than Ben yonder. Who gave the news of our intentions at Tchoupitoulas?”
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Casimir.
“Casimir doesn’t know,” added Ben hastily.
“So?” snickered Packard. “Then we’re a-wasting our time if we keep him alive.”
Ben’s heart sank. He had made a mistake in speaking.
“Oh, nonsense,” said Banton, half-wearily, as though he disliked the arguing. “Don’t weigh down your soul with lies at this critical point, Ben. We know he has the fellow’s name— the two of you said as much to Claiborne in my presence, while I played the part of loyal friend. And from one or the other of you I’ll wring the information. Make up your minds to that.”
Nobody else spoke. Both Casimir and Ben voiced no more defiances, and the rolling rhythm of the wheels was all that the occupants of the carriage could hear.
Then came the voice of Seiber, calling halt to the horses, and the rolling ceased. Banton opened the carriage door and got out. He seemed to be peering into the darkness.
“All is clear,” he announced. “Get down, Seiber, and hold the horses. You inside there, push Casimir out to me.”
Wicks reached across to take hold of Casimir and propel him toward the door. In came Banton’s wide-sleeved arms to take charge of the prisoner. A moment later Banton said: “Now, Ben Parker.”
“Move, you,” commanded Jethro Wicks, and gave Ben a shove. Packard helped thrust him into the open, where Banton’s hands caught him and eased him down.
They stood on the planks of a wharf. To north and east could be seen the lights of New Orleans, flickering as though with the happy excitement of Mardi Gras. Toward the river, several ships and boats were visible in their moorings. Lights were slung above the decks of several larger ones.
The noise of the town did not carry to this point, and Ben judged that they had moved very close to the extreme boundaries, past the old Spanish barracks; perhaps well toward the estate of his friend Bernard de Marigny, south of New Orleans.
“Look to the boat, Packard,” directed Banton.
“What about the carriage?” asked little Seiber from where he stood with his hands on the bits of the horses.
“Leave it here. You weren’t recognized, I take it, when you fetched it from the livery stable? And you won’t be coming back to New Orleans until the Spaniards bring us.” Banton turned to where Packard had gone to the edge of the wharf. “How about that boat?”
“Ready and waiting where we left it, sir.”
“Then bring along our two guests.”
Tramping back again, Packard supported Ben’s stumbling feet, while Wicks did the same with Casimir. At the edge of the wharf, they all paused and stood in a row. Straining his eyes, Ben could see a big skiff drawn up there.
“Down you go, Wicks,” said Banton, and Wicks lowered himself into the skiff. Seiber followed. Then, at Banton’s word, Casimir was let down like a bale, and secured below. Ben went next. Banton descen
ded in turn, and finally Packard.
“Cast off,” ordered Banton.
Packard did so, then shoved them clear of the timbers with an oar. Packard and Wicks rowed them slowly out through a gap between two ships, while Seiber, at the bow, stared through the dark after something.
“Easy as she goes,” cautioned Seiber. “There, there we are. Fetch her alongside, careful-like, and Pll scramble aboard and strike a light.”
The skiff scraped against the side of a sailing vessel that had been tied up well beyond the wharfside line of craft. Seiber caught hold of a dangling rope and climbed up, nimble as a monkey. After a few moments he was back, with a glowing lantern. Its light made his red costume weird and lurid.
“All’s cozy up here,” he reported.
“Then drop us the ladder,” said Banton, and a rope ladder came tumbling from above. “Up you go, Packard. Then you, Wicks. And let us have a noose down here to hoist our extra luggage.”
The line by which Seiber had climbed the vessel’s side was lowered. Banton knotted it under Ben’s armpits, and his men drew Ben up to the deck, then let down the rope for Casimir. Banton came up the ladder to the deck as Casimir was brought aboard.
Staring in the gloom, Ben saw that the vessel was about forty-five feet long, and rigged ketch-fashion, with a mainmast amidships and a smaller mizzenmast well aft. Forward of the mainmast showed the low, flat-topped silhouette of a deckhouse.
“Seiber, you’re our sailor,” said Banton. “Take charge and drop us downstream. We’ve a deal of traveling to do.”
“What about this pair?” suggested Wicks, standing close to Ben and Casimir in the lantern light.
“You and Packard get them forward to the cabin. Mind that they’re made fast. I’ll visit with them when we’re well under way.”
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1955 Page 14