Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  “Badger you?”

  “Yes. He’s blackmailing me.”

  “Heavenly days, Emma Frances Oliver, explain yourself!”

  Nervously she picked a piece of imagined lint from her sleeve. “Paul Rousseau is guilty of duplicity, and . . .”

  “Emma!”

  “That libertine made advances toward me.” She hesitated. “In payment for the brooch he demands that I rendezvous with him tonight at the St. Charles Hotel.”

  “Oh?” Howard leaned back in his chair and touched a finger to his upper lip while watching her. His familial demeanor had been replaced by a strictly professional one. “When he threatened you, was it before or after you danced with him at the masked ball?”

  “Before.”

  “I see. What did Marian say when you confronted her with these tales?”

  “I haven’t told her. I wanted to, but I just never found the right opportunity. Then he threatened to expose details of the theft. . . .”

  Rolling a pencil between thumb and forefinger, Howard appeared to study it closely. “I daresay affection is strange, my innocent Emma. Did it ever occur to you that he simply found you more to his liking than he did Marian? Perhaps his ploy is but to woo you.”

  “By underhanded trickery? Then he doesn’t know beans about me.”

  Howard rose to his feet and walked the length of the office and back again. “If Lieutenant Rousseau were in this room with us, would he be able to say in all honesty that you’ve done everything in your power to thwart his advances?”

  “If he were being honest.”

  “And if you were being honest, Emma dear, could you deny that you were enraptured with him at the aforementioned ball?”

  “Well . . . I . . . What makes you ask that?”

  “Are you forgetting that I was your escort?” He was quick to add: “Did you know you were in love with Lieutenant Rousseau before he took your arm in that waltz?”

  “Not true.” Her answer wasn’t nearly as forceful as she intended, and it was even less forceful when she added, “I’m not in love with him. My feelings go no deeper than wanting him to cease his attention to me and to Marian!”

  “Then you aren’t concerned as to his whereabouts at this moment?”

  “Not . . . not in the least.”

  His brown eyes studied her for what seemed like eons before he said, “My advice, then, is simply to let the matter go. Stay home tonight. Lieutenant Rousseau won’t miss you. He’s indisposed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t believe I stuttered.” He pulled a gold watch from his pocket. “Pardon me for cutting our chat short, but the hour grows late and I’ve a legal matter to attend to. Please let me see you to your carriage.”

  “Wait! Explain yourself. And don’t pull any of that fancy lawyer talk on me.”

  “You said you weren’t concerned about his whereabouts.”

  “Well, I am!”

  Silence fell. Howard leveled a sharp look Emma’s way. “Captain Throckmorton arrested Paul last Sunday afternoon. He’s in dire straits.”

  Chapter Eight

  Her uncle’s statement hit Emma with the force of cannon fire. Paul was in dire straits. He was her tormentor, yet she wished him no ill.

  She grabbed the arms of the chair. “Surely you are joking.”

  “Not at all.” Howard bolted up from the desk. With fingers laced behind him, he walked across the room and back again. “Paul’s in Throckmorton’s custody.”

  “How do you know? Have you seen him?”

  “This morning. He missed an appointment yesterday, and I went looking for him. When he wasn’t in his room and no one knew his whereabouts, I went down to the dock and spoke with the coxswain. Then I prevailed upon him to row me out to the schooner.”

  Her wits returning, she asked, “What did Paul do to bring such measures upon himself?”

  “In one sentence, he tried to look out for the marines aboard ship. Lieutenant Paul Rousseau is a man who wishes the best for his subordinates. Apparently our Marian’s brother isn’t of the same mind.” Howard went on to explain Paul’s actions on the men’s behalf. “He’s prepared to accept a court-martial for his actions.”

  For the first time Emma felt a deep respect for Paul. He was not as unprincipled as she had believed. “James is despicable.”

  “Then you’ve taken Paul’s side in the affair?”

  “Not in the least. What affects the Texas Navy doesn’t affect me.” She wanted to judge Paul harshly for trying to bring women aboard his ship, but she couldn’t. “I’m speaking from a strictly humane point of view.”

  “Personally I believe Paul is blessed with admirable qualities.”

  “That’s your prerogative,” she said. “But, plain and simple, wouldn’t it have been easier for him if he’d just followed orders? It would’ve saved him a lot of trouble.”

  “It would have saved him more than trouble.” Howard paused a moment so his words would sink in. “Paul was whipped for insubordination, and he’s presently locked in the hold of the San Antonio.”

  Emma inhaled sharply. “How badly is he injured?”

  “It’s difficult to determine. But he’s a man of hearty health, so I see no reason why he won’t recover . . . in time.”

  “That’s for a doctor to decide. Has he had medical attention?”

  “Come now, Emma. Throckmorton isn’t conducting a tea party. Paul’s incarcerated on a ship of war!”

  “For how long?” she asked, blood pounding in her ears.

  He turned a palm up. “Until a trial is convened, I suppose.”

  “Is there anything you can do?”

  “Naval law is out of my jurisdiction, but I’m going to try.” He stopped near her chair, and looked down at her. “I was on my way to see James Throckmorton when you arrived. I intend to call in a marker.”

  She met his gaze. “Why would you do that for Paul?”

  “I have my reasons.” There was a vague, mysterious tone to Howard’s voice. “And they don’t concern you.”

  Whys weren’t of paramount importance to her at the moment, so she didn’t pursue the subject. “All right. In the meantime, I’m going to tend his wounds.”

  “Don’t put him in legal jeopardy,” Howard cautioned. “Let me speak with James, uh, Throckmorton, first.”

  “I’ll give you two hours, Howard O’Reilly.” Emma sprang to her feet. “If I haven’t heard from you by then, I’m going out to that ship. Paul needs me.”

  Howard watched her pace the room. Then he said his goodbyes and departed. Perhaps he had played an underhanded trick, a ploy he had used in court more than once: turn the tables on an accuser. He had endeavored to make Emma realize how much Paul meant to her, and apparently he had been successful.

  He wanted the best for Emma. Always had, always would. She deserved to love and be loved. And Paul deserved the same. Being the Rousseaus’ family counselor, Howard was privy to certain information about them, and he knew that Remi Rousseau had treated his only son and his only grandson in a raw manner.

  Hailing his barouche, Howard continued to justify his actions. Emma was the product of a loving family, though one too large for individual attention. Paul was the sole descendant of a family gone wrong. Both Emma and Paul needed the succor of love—and those two were meant for each other. Together they could heal the past’s deficiencies. And if it took a small push from an outsider, what was the harm?

  Of course, Howard realized his motives might be selfish. He loved Marian, loved her with a passion. He wondered if she could ever care for him, even an iota? Could she see past his staid front, his less than heart-stopping exterior, to the passionate, adoring man who had trouble expressing his emotions?

  “In the words of Shakespeare,” he muttered to himself, “‘all’s well that ends well.’”

  He hoped this would end well for Emma . . . and for Paul.

  The hold of the San Antonio smelled of gunpowder and mildew. It was hot and
dank and putrid. Sounds seemed to reel around Paul: the tide’s lap as it battered the ship, men’s steps on the deck above, a rat squealing as it scurried across the planks. Lying on his side, he stretched his aching muscles. Sweat rolled across his back, its salt eating into one of the wounds that laced his flesh. He gnashed his teeth against the throbbing discomfort.

  Despite his physical pain, he remembered with marked clarity Throckmorton’s wrath. The captain had jumped from his longboat to Paul’s, nearly falling into the river as he’d done so, and had banished the women and the spirits to the shore. Then Paul had been piped aboard the San Antonio.

  “Let this be a lesson to the lot of you,” Throckmorton had barked, his mean beady eyes sweeping across the top deck and the thirty marines he’d assembled to witness the fruits of disobedience. “I’ll tolerate no disrespect for my authority!”

  The weather was clement, the sailors inclement. As the Mississippi lapped at the hull, the sun beat down on the schooner, its rays accenting the weathered deck, the polished pivot gun near the bow.

  “Six lashes,” Throckmorton said, thrusting his big belly forward as he paced the deck. “One for each harlot.”

  Paul proceeded down the deck to the pivot where Sergeant Seymour Oswald waited, cat-o’-nine in his beefy hand. The sergeant didn’t meet Paul’s stare.

  Marshaling his dignity, Paul unbuttoned his jacket and discarded his shirt. The chill air stung his bare torso. “Mete out the punishment, Sergeant.”

  Oswald swallowed. Hocker and Tampke each took a step forward in silent protest.

  The captain, so enraged that spittle frothed at the corners of his mouth, stomped over to them. “Shall the two of you take a double turn after Mr. Rousseau?”

  They retreated, one step.

  Paul bent over the pivot. The youngest of the crew, a lad named David Montgomery, was commanded to restrain him. The boy’s fingers shook as he laced the straps around Paul’s wrist.

  The planks creaking beneath his feet, Throckmorton took his stance. “Commence!”

  Rawhide bit into his wrists, but Paul refused to close his eyes.

  “One!”

  The cat snapped through the air, sinking all nine of her fangs into Paul’s shoulder blades. He clenched his teeth against the fiery pain that radiated from his wounds to his head, toes, and fingers.

  “Two!”

  The lash ate into his back.

  “Three!”

  As flesh ripped away, Paul willed himself not to faint. Not then, not later. And when the cat was through with her feast, Paul somehow managed to walk under his own power to the hold.

  That had been Sunday. This was Tuesday.

  The hatch flew open. Paul’s dilated eyes protested the invasion, but his heart was glad for it. For three days he had languished in this prison. Three days without sustenance or human contact, save for the few minutes of Howard’s clandestine visit.

  “Oswald here,” the sergeant at arms called down to him. “Got grub for you.” The sounds of his feet hitting the planking echoed through the hold.

  Paul’s eyes began to adjust to the light. He forced words past his dry throat and cracked lips. “Did the captain give you permission to bring me food?”

  “Nay,” Seymour Oswald responded, “’tis my conscience giving the permission. By the by, the grub ’twas bought by your purse. ’Twas the least I could do.”

  Paul shifted awkwardly into a sitting position. Arms outstretched, Oswald offered him a plate of beans and bread and a tin cup of rum. Paul hated to consider the contraband’s source, but with his knotted stomach growling with anticipation, he wouldn’t argue the point. The finest delicacies from New Orleans kitchens had never smelled better!

  “You’d best be gone, Sergeant. If Captain Throckmorton finds you here, you’ll have a taste of the cat, too.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, Lieutenant. But I’ve no fear o’ him or o’ the lash. And he went ashore. The Mardi gras ball.” Oswald bent down, resting his weight on his heels. “Eat up, afore the rats come a-callin’.”

  Paul downed the rum, its fire eating a path to his stomach. Then he took the plate and spoon, and began shoveling the vittles into his mouth. Sopping up the last of the bean juice with a crust of stale bread, he popped that into his mouth. He could feel his strength begin to return. “Thank you, Sergeant Oswald,” he whispered, handing the plate back to his benefactor. “Return to your station.”

  Oswald set the plate on the dirty boards that were Paul’s bed. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’ve something to discuss with you.”

  Paul nodded.

  “Me and the lads signed on with the commodore in good faith, sir, but our treatment ain’t been right under the Cap’n. No, sir. Not right at all. You know that, Lieutenant Rousseau, else you wouldn’t’ve sent grub out for us and you wouldn’t’ve gotten in trouble over them women you were thinking to bring aboard. Ain’t none of the men, no sir, that don’t want you on our side. We got a musket from the wardroom, and we’ll give the cap’n a lot o’ what he gives.”

  “That’s enough!” Paul held up a hand. “Seymour,” he used Oswald’s given name in the hope of gaining the man’s trust, “Seymour, I guarantee you, if you and the men overtake this ship and sail down the Mississippi, you won’t get past Balize before you’re captured. And you know the punishment—the yardarm.”

  “’Twill be a cold day in hell. We’ll make it,” ’specially with you at the helm.”

  “I’ll have no part of a mutiny, Sergeant Oswald.” Paul leaned back against a crate and swallowed his pain. Looking the man straight in the eye, he said, “And I’ve no use for mutineers.”

  Oswald drew in a deep breath. He rested an elbow on his knee and covered his mouth with a palm. A minute passed before he responded. “Mr. Rousseau, sir, Texas is my home port—I got a warm feeling for the place. I want to be loyal to the Lone Star ensign, and ’twould do me fair if we was to face Santa Anna’s fleet head-on. I believe I speak for all the lads on those counts, but put yourself in our place. We’ve been months without pay. Ol’ Sam Houston don’t support the fleet. The food . . . well, we’re men o’ the sea, and we can abide the fare sorely served, though we much appreciate the kindness you showed in that direction.

  “But we’re men,” Oswald continued. “Not machines. We’ve no braids on our shoulders or say in our destinies, but we need the comforts a warm woman and a cold mug provide. Can you understand that, Lieutenant?”

  “Very much so.” Paul paused. “But keep something in mind. Even though I went against my superior’s mandate, I do believe in upholding the oath I gave to the Republic of Texas—a pledge to abide by the law and to follow orders. I also believe in due process.”

  “Then you’re in agreement with Throckmorton and Houston about the recall order?”

  “Not at all. But I believe we should go through the channels of command to voice our complaints.” Paul pointed southward. “A merchant ship sailed four days ago for Campeche, carrying a letter to the commodore. As soon as he hears about conditions aboard this schooner, he’ll set sail for New Orleans. Matters will be set to rights.”

  “’Twill take weeks!” Oswald protested.

  “Yes. But you and the others must tough it out, Sergeant, until Commodore Moore reaches these waters. The honorable thing will be done. I promise you.”

  Seymour Oswald seemed to consider Paul’s words. He opened his mouth to comment, but the sounds of heightened activity above drew his attention.

  “Laddies, ’tis a lady coming aboard,” Paul heard a youthful voice shout, then a cheer arose from the others.

  The thump of the rope ladder as it was cast down the starboard hull reverberated throughout the hold. Neither Paul nor the sergeant spoke. Oswald grinned. Paul merely listened.

  “Give this note to the marine in charge, and then take me to Lieutenant Rousseau,” Emma Oliver could be heard to demand. “Right now, young man, before I report you to Captain Throckmorton.”

  “Get
topside, Oswald,” Paul ordered.

  “Aye, aye.” The sergeant hurried up the quarter ladder.

  Paul stared at the hatchway. Emma, a vision in gray wool and white lace, made her way toward him, a small black bag in her right hand. He didn’t know whether to be mad or glad for her presence; he didn’t want her to see him in this condition. He wanted her to see him naked and clean . . . and strong. But she looked damned good to him. So good.

  “Paul,” she said, and with an anguished cry, she knelt before him. “Oh, Paul, you were so foolish. Why did you go against James’s orders!”

  Angered, Paul cast away the hand that moved to touch his cheek. “Is that why you came out here, Emma? To rap my knuckles for being a bad boy?” At her shocked expression, he continued. “Go ashore, woman, and leave me be!”

  She drew away. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Paul Rousseau! I’m here to doctor you.”

  “Doctor me? I doubt it.” He sneered, disliking his words as he said them yet unable to keep them back. “I think you’re here because you didn’t want to break our date. This is Tuesday. And it’s”—he looked toward the hatchway, then back at her—“almost dusk.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s always been my secret wish to cavort with a half-naked, filthy, injured man. I just love rotting hulks of ships and rotting specimens of men.”

  “Beneath the filth I’m the same man who waltzed with you last Saturday night.” He leaned forward. “Would you like me to prove it?”

  “I doubt you could.”

  “Try me.”

  “Unfortunately you are the same man. To the bone. There lies the problem.” She cut him an icy glare. “And the next time you see him, you can thank your friend Howard O’Reilly for your freedom. He interceded with James and secured your release. It seems you have Howard duped as to your wicked ways.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Paul said, nonetheless grateful for his attorney’s actions. “Ma chére, it’s more in order to thank you for this rendezvous.”

  “Oooh!” She jabbed her finger downward. “I’ll hear no more sass from you. Turn over!”