by Connie Mason
“Not many ships are leaving the city right now,” he explained. “Somewhere out there is the English fleet.”
“Oh, oui,” said Gabby, “I have met their commander.”
“You what?” asked Marcel startled by her words.
“ Oui, on Barataria, several weeks ago.”
“You were on Barataria with Jean Lafitte’s smugglers? But how…?”
“I’ll have to start from the beginning, Marcel,” Gabby sighed as she settled back and prepared to relate the events that led up to this moment.
She started with the storm, minimizing her part in saving Philippe’s life and continued straight through to the moment she ran into his carriage on Rue Dumaine. When she had finished speaking, he regarded her with astonishment.
“These pirates, cherie, they did not… did not harm you in any way?”
“I was Lafitte’s guest and none dared touch me.”
“Not even Lafitte, himself? I hear he has an eye for beauty. He must have been quite taken with you,” Marcel said, green eyes boring into her.
“I told you,” insisted Gabby, “I was his guest. Besides, he has a beautiful octoroon mistress who does not take kindly to his philandering,” Gabby laughed, recalling Marie’s flashing black eyes whenever Jean so much as looked at another woman. “Then, too,” she added thoughtfully, “his mind was taken with more serious matters.”
“What do you know of his plans?” Marcel asked with intense interest.
“Little, except that he does not take the English seriously.”
“Then he intends to help the Americans?” Marcel persisted. A certain note in his voice alarmed Gabby and she wished he would leave off with his line of questioning, but he persevered. “This army captain who brought you to New Orleans, you say he carried letters to General Jackson?”
“ Oui, I believe he did, but I know nothing of their contents.”
“This Captain Stone, he had been your… uh… protector since you left Barataria?”
“He… he offered me a place to stay until Philippe left New Orleans.”
“He is your lover?” Marcel implied, impaling her with his emerald gaze. When no answer was forthcoming, and seeing her confusion, he quickly added, “Never mind, ma chere, your silence speaks more eloquently than your words ever could. It’s a pity you never learned to disguise what is in your heart.” Her downcast eyes caused him to laugh. “Come, come, do not be so glum. Who could blame you? Certainly, not I.”
“Please, Marcel, let us speak of other things,” said Gabby, acute embarrassment flooding her checks with color.
“After you explain why you left Captain Stone,” Marcel replied.
“General Jackson sent him on a mission to buy ammunition and flints for the army.”
Marcel stiffened. “Where did he go?” he asked tersely.
“To Natchez, I think,” answered Gabby. “An agent reported a cache of shells and flints in a warehouse somewhere in Natchcz-under-the-Hill.”
“Did he go alone?”
“He led a party of men. I’m unsure of the exact number.” Gabby was baffled by Marcel’s absorption with Rob’s mission.
“When did he leave?” When Gabby did not answer immediately, Marcel seized her wrist in a bruising grip.
“When did he leave?” he asked again, this time more forcefully.
“Two weeks ago!” gasped Gabby. “What is it, Marcel? Why are you so interested in Rob? You are hurting me!”
Abruptly he released her wrist and at once became contrite and tender. “I am sorry, ma chere, but I allowed my emotions to rule my head. It angered me to chink of you in a strange city all alone after your captain had left. But now you are under my protection and I shall be everything to you that Captain Shore has been,” he said meaningfully.
“Marcel, I am grateful to you for coming to my aid, but that is all. We can never be more than friends. I fully intend to earn my own way and once your sister returns I no longer will need anyone’s protection.”
“And your lover? What of him? Are you in love with this Captain Shore?”
“I… I don’t know,” shrugged Gabby. “But my feelings for him, whatever they may be, can change nothing. He deserves someone who can be a wife to him and bear him legitimate children.” Silence prevailed while she relived their last moments together. “I must admit that I have never met and probably never will meet a kinder, more tender, loving man.”
“I will try to remedy that,” murmured Marcel, “if you but give me a chance.”
Gabby was glad that Pitot chose that moment to announce dinner, for it extricated her from an embarrassing situation. What had happened between her and Rob was something special but she didn’t intend the same thing to happen between her and any other man.
At the conclusion of the excellent meal, Marcel informed Gabby that he must leave for a short time but would return before she retired for the night. He left her in the salle surrounded by several good books he hoped would entertain her in his absence.
But no matter how hard Gabby tried to concentrate on the words, a multitude of thoughts flashed through her mind. Why was Marcel so interested in Rob’s mission to Natchez? Would Philippe search for her in the vieux carre? She knew she couldn’t go back to the Patalba Apartments for fear of being discovered. She would stay with Marcel for the time being and contact Rob when he returned. He would be upset to find her gone, she knew, but somehow she would get word to him. Finally, exhaustion and the late hour took its toll and she dropped off to sleep sitting on an overstuffed chair.
It was nearly midnight when Marcel returned to the house on Rue Dumaine. He was deeply apologetic when he awoke Gabby. “I’m sorry, cherie, but my business took longer than I had anticipated. You must be chilled sitting here like this,” he cried when he saw her shiver. “Come, I will see you to your room.”
With an arm around her shoulders he led her up the stairs. When they reached her room, he opened the door and followed her inside before she could protest. He gazed at her longingly but did not try to touch her.
“Something unexpected has arisen and I must leave in the morning,” he said glibly. At Gabby’s gasp of dismay he continued quickly, “I don’t expect to be gone long, a fortnight at most. But you need not worry. Pitot and Lizette will take good care of you and see that you lack for nothing until my return.”
“I shall be fine,” Gabby replied. Actually she was relieved that he would not be around for well she knew his feelings toward her and hated to hurt him after he had been so good to her. “But I hate to impose on you. Perhaps I should return to Captain Stone’s lodgings,” she insisted.
“No! No!” protested Marcel. “By now Philippe has heard that you are somewhere in the vieux carre and will leave no stone unturned until he finds you. After all, you are still his wife. Just think about Cecily and you will realize that you must remain here.”
“Of course, you are right, Marcel,” Gabby agreed readily when she thought about the alternative.
“Then I will bid you goodnight, cherie.And adieu, until I return. Remember, trust no one but Pitot and Lizette.”
Then he surprised her by pulling her into his arms and kissing her with a longing that left her breathless. “Just to speed me on my way,” he explained with a wolfish grin. Then he was gone.
Chapter Eight
When Philippe received the message summoning him to General Jackson’s headquarters, he intuitively knew it had something to do with Gabby. Two months had elapsed since she had been swept overboard during the fateful storm and despite the $ 5,000 reward he had heard nothing. He had always heard the sea refused to give up her dead and now he believed it. He could not even give her a decent burial. Of one thing he was certain, he would never marry again. First Cecily and now Gabby. Surely there was a curse on him and the women he loved. He refused to inflict a sure death sentence on another woman by marrying her. Poor, innocent Gabby. She had died while saving his life. He could still picture in his mind the defiant tilt to her stubbo
rn little chin and the violet flames flashing from her eyes. He had admired her strength and will, passionate spirit, unbending pride. When she angered him he wanted to break her. A crooked grin twisted his mouth. Though he knew in his heart she could never be tamed he longed for her sweet, supple body in his arms.
In the months since her death he had come to the realization that he loved her. Why couldn’t he have told her before it was too late? Why had he remained a stubborn, unfeeling fool? Marcel had been right. He had acted like a jealous husband aboard the Windward, trying to protect what was his. But who could blame him? If Marcel hadn’t fed Cecily’s discontent she would still be alive today. How could he have stood by and allowed Marcel to destroy Gabby’s life, for Gabby was far more innocent and vulnerable than Cecily had ever been.
Philippe was in General Jackson’s outer office only a few minutes before the general appeared. “Good to see you again, St. Cyr,” he said, extending a hand in greeting. He seemed to have grown even more gaunt and hollow-eyed since Philippe had last seen him. “I will get right to the point because I know you will appreciate not having to wait for the news I have for you.”
“My wife…” began Philippe, the words catching in his throat.
“Is alive,” finished Jackson.
Philippe’s whole body seemed to collapse as he grasped the edge of the desk to support himself. “Where is she?” he asked when he finally found his voice.
“I’ll let Lieutenant Gray tell you for he is the one who found her.” Only then did Philippe see a young officer step from the shadows and approach him. He looked expectantly at the lieutenant, waiting for him to speak.
“I have seen and spoken with your wife, Mr. St. Cyr,” Lieutenant Gray announced importantly.
“ Mon dieu, man, tell me, where is she?” shouted Philippe, unable to contain his growing excitement. “Is she well?”
“I have recently returned from a mission to Barataria where I found Madame St. Cyr.”
All the breath went out of Philippe. “The pirate stronghold?” he asked with dismay. “Are you telling me she is a hostage of Jean Lafitte? I received no ransom note.”
“She is no hostage, sir,” countered the lieutenant smugly. “She was introduced to myself and Captain Stone as Lafitte’s guest and we had no reason to believe otherwise. She obviously had the run of the island.”
“How did she come to be on Barataria?”
“She didn’t say, sir.”
“Did you have private words with her?”
“Once,” replied Lieutenant Gray slyly. “She was walking late one night along the beach when I encountered her. I let her know I was aware of her identity and asked her to accompany me back to New Orleans.”
“What did she say to that?” asked Philippe, becoming more and more uneasy as the facts unfolded.
“She told me to mind my own business, that she didn’t intend to return to you.”
“ Mon dieu,” cursed Philippe. “You mean to tell me she would rather remain with a lot of freebooters than return to me, her husband?” When Lieutenant Gray nodded his assent, Philippe was stunned into silence.
“Captain Stone returned from Barataria a week before you did,” broke in General Jackson, addressing his question to the lieutenant. “Why do you suppose he failed to inform us about Madame St. Cyr? Has he no need of five thousand dollars?”
“Who is this Captain Stone?” asked Philippe.
“He was the officer in charge of delivering letters to Jean Lafitte and sounding out his loyalty to America,” answered Jackson. “A good man. I have just dispatched him on another mission to Natchez in search of ammunition and flints.”
“Captain Stone and your wife became very… uh… friendly,” offered Lieutenant Gray.
“Be careful what you are implying, Lieutenant,” warned Jackson.
“I’m sorry, sir,” replied the lieutenant, not sounding sorry at all, “but I believe Mr. St. Cyr should know the facts.”
“Go on, Lieutenant,” said Philippe in a tight voice.
“I watched them meet every night and walk along the beach together. They appeared quite… intimate… if you know what I mean, sir.”
Philippe tried hard to ignore the implication of his words.
“You said that Captain Stone left Barataria a week prior to your own departure,” said Philippe. “What did my wife do then?”
“I did not see her after that. Mr. Lafitte and his mistress both told me she had taken ill and needed bed rest. I left a week later without encountering her again.”
“You must forgive me for my close questioning but I find all this very hard to assimilate,” apologized Philippe. “Did she appear well when you first arrived on Barataria?”
“She appeared and acted very well, indeed. She is a beautiful woman. Nothing was ever mentioned about how she came to be with Lafitte or the condition she was in when she arrived. To my eyes, there was nothing wrong with her.”
“There is but one explanation,” put in Jackson. “She washed ashore on Barataria and was found by Lafitte or one of his men. Your wife must be very lucky to be alive at all. Surviving the sea is astonishing enough but finding her a guest of Jean Lafitte instead of a hostage is a miracle. But then,” he added thoughtfully, “of late Lafitte has been on his best behavior. He wants a full pardon and his brother and followers released from jail in exchange for his help in repulsing the English.”
“Is there anything else of important you have to tell me, Lieutenant?” asked Philippe hopefully.
“No, sir.”
“Do you believe my wife to be on Barataria still?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, you have been most helpful. If you come aboard the Windward this evening I will see that you receive your reward.”
Lieutenant Gray’s dark eyes gleamed at the mention of the coveted prize. “I will be there,” he answered, barely able to contain his glee. When he saw the interview had ended, he saluted General Jackson and departed.
“What will you do now, St. Cyr?” Jackson asked when they were alone.
“I am going to Barataria after my wife,” Philippe answered unhesitatingly.
“You will never find the way,” Jackson said. “No man has found it without a Baratarian to guide him.”
“Then I shall find a guide,” insisted Philippe, undaunted.
“I can be of some help,” offered Jackson. “I don’t know why your wife acted as she did, and I will not ask, but if you insist on traveling to Barataria, then I would ask you to act as emissary for me. In return I will tell you where to obtain a guide to his stronghold.”
“I am rather good at carrying documents,” grinned Philippe. “I will be happy to be your messenger again.”
“Good! You proved trustworthy before and I know you will not fail me this time, either.”
“Tell me what I have to do, General.”
“Do you know the Absinthe House?”
“I have heard of it.”
“It is a meeting place of many of Lafitt’s men. At exactly ten o’clock tomorrow morning go to the Absinthe House and ask for Dominique You. Tell him I sent you. He will know why you are there and see to it that you reach Barataria.”
“Will there be an answer to your messages?” asked Philippe.
“None will be necessary. Governor Claiborne has agreed to release Jean’s brother Pierre and the rest from jail in addition to granting a full pardon for all.”
“Can you trust Lafitte?”
“I believe that he will do all in his power to prevent the British from seizing New Orleans,” said Jackson with firm conviction.
By noon the next day Philippe was on his way to Barataria. He had found the Absinthe House easily enough and had only to wait one hour while someone went for Dominique You. After listening to Philippe, Dominique called to one of the disreputable looking men sitting around a table drinking and before he knew it he was on a horse heading out of the city. The freebooter guiding him might have bee
n mute for he said not one word until they reached the edge of the swamp about eight miles from town where several fierce-looking pirates were milling around a makeshift camp.
Philippe dismounted and followed his guide, standing aside while two men dragged a pirogue out from under a clump of bushes and put it in the water. Only then was he spoken to. “Get in, Monsieur,” were the guide’s brief words.
During the next hours Philippe thanked le bon dieu almost constantly for the guide. Never in a million years could he have found his way amid the maze of bayous, channels, and swamps. In places the fog was so dense it covered the water in a thick, gray blanket. But the pirate guide poled unerringly to their destination. It seemed to Philippe that he had been in a pirogue for hours when the island suddenly loomed out of the mist and the boat bumped into shore.
Immediately a group of ragged men and women crowded around and Philippe was amazed at the number of persons engaged in various pursuits in the immediate area. He had no idea so many people, including women and children, lived on Barataria under Lafitte’s protection. They were a motley and ill-assorted group at best. He heard English spoken, and French, Spanish, and other languages he didn’t recognize. In the distance he could make out a low log fort and its cannons. As he was being led to Lafitte’s house he studied the people he saw along the way. Some men were young and cocky, some old and gray bearing many battle scars. All were marked by the harsh wind and sea. Long, pointed swords clanged at their sides, pistols were shoved into their belts. There appeared to be so many races, so many tongues that he soon gave up trying to sort them out.
Jean Lafitte awaited Philippe in the main room of the rambling house. “I am Jean Lafitte,” he said with a slight bow. “And you are…?”
“Philippe St. Cyr,” replied Philippe. If the name meant anything to Lafitte he didn’t show it outwardly; his smooth face betrayed nothing.
“I believe you have something for me, Monsieur St. Cyr.”
“I do,” answered Philippe, quickly reaching into his pocket and extracting the packet entrusted to him by General Jackson.