by Martha Hix
“Get back,” Paul shouted. “I couldn’t put out the fire. Get the hell away.”
“What are you doing here?” Emma asked, ignoring his warning.
“Damn it! There’s no time for talk.” Grabbing each woman by an arm, he pulled them across the street.
The building did not explode. Not then, not later. Yet despite the efforts of the fire fighters from Dépôt des Pompes, Rankin Oliver’s factor house burned to the ground. Paul realized neither gunpowder nor weapons had reached the warehouse. It must have been a dummy shipment, but what had happened to the first one?
When the flames died to embers, the fire wagon and its men departed. A group of police investigators walked around the rubble now. Whispering and pointing, a small crowd of thrill-seekers stood at the street’s edge.
“I don’t care what you say or what you told those firemen,” Emma accused, “you set that fire!”
“Care to give me the benefit of the doubt?” Paul asked.
“No.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “As surely as I’m standing here in front of my uncle’s burned-out business, you’re to blame.”
“We seen it with our own eyes,” Cleopatra put in. “You was running ’round the corner of that building.”
“Ladies, ladies. Please listen! I came down here to look for the Texas longboat. I saw the side door swinging on its hinges, so I went in to investigate—and found the fire. I tried to stop it.” He held up his jacket. “Tried to stop it with this.” It was a flimsy excuse, even to Paul’s own ears, but he wouldn’t incriminate Packert; the pirate would answer to Paul and Paul alone. “It was the least I could do for the Oliver family.”
“Why didn’t you simply run for help?” Emma asked.
“I wasn’t thinking clearly. Please trust me.”
“Don’t you know trust has to be earned, Paul Rousseau?” Emma asked through gritted teeth. She took one step back. “Why would I put faith in your word? You’ve tricked me since we met.” She receded another step. “You blackmailed me over that brooch—when it was in your possession all along!”
Paul groaned inwardly. “I just got it back.”
“Save your explanations,” she demanded. “I don’t have time to waste on lies. A terrible crime has been committed against my family, and I’m going to see that it doesn’t go unpaid.”
A realization, hard and cold, filled Paul’s mind. He had blackmailed, lied to, and scorned an Oliver. That was an error in judgment which might lead to his undoing.
“Yessir, and you’ll answer to the police.” Cleopatra shot him a glowering look that could have started a fire. “And to Master Rankin.”
“I look forward to it.”
On the first score, Paul got his opportunity not two minutes later. A tall policeman, with curly blond hair and hazel eyes, alit from his horse and strode over to the investigators. Afterward, he walked over to Paul and the two women.
“Detective Daryl Watson here.” Ignoring the mammy, he turned to Emma. “Miss Oliver?” She nodded and he continued. “My men tell me you’re an eyewitness to the fire.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Did you see anyone or anything suspicious?”
Paul squared his shoulders. Would Emma accuse him publicly?
Emma didn’t want to believe Paul guilty of arson. Even now, knowing he had duped her about the brooch, she wanted to believe in him, but she couldn’t.
What was his motive? she asked herself. Paul slipped his jacket from his arm, turned, and shook it. Was that an unsubtle signal, a reminder he had tried to extinguish the flames? she wondered. The white linen of his shirt bore traces of blood, especially near his right shoulder. Why would an injured man try to save an unpeopled building from destruction? Watching him push one arm and then the-other into the coat sleeves, Emma yearned for the truth. The night she had met him he’d sworn he wanted to mend fences with Uncle Rankin, and there had been his pain-filled rambling of the night before: “Help you, Papa.”
“Miss Oliver, did you hear me?”
There was only one reason why Paul could have committed this crime. He had lied from the onset about his intentions toward her uncle. He blamed Rankin for his father’s death.
He deserved punishment if he had lied about the fire; and if so, the Oliver family needed to be protected from him. If he had told the truth, then the truth would come out. She had to testify to what she had seen.
Emma nodded. “Yes, I . . . we saw him.” Her shaking finger pointed at Paul. “He says he’s not guilty, but—”
“Who?” Watson hitched a thumb at Paul. “This one?”
Emma forced a yes past her frozen throat.
She had done it. Accused him. Paul wondered why as he held up a palm. “You’re wrong. I’m innocent.”
“He ain’t,” Cleo put in.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Watson asked Paul, while motioning the other policemen forward.
“I’ve said it. I’m innocent.” Paul glared at Emma as he made his explanation. “She mistook me for the culprit,” he added.
The detective didn’t appear any more convinced than the two women, much less the three policemen who had come forward to circle the group. Watson gave Paul the once-over. “And you didn’t see anyone leave the building?”
Paul swallowed. Identifying Henry Packert wasn’t to his benefit. “No one.”
“You got a name?” Watson asked.
“Rousseau. First Lieutenant Paul Rousseau. I’m second-in-command of the Texas schooner San Antonio.”
Watson’s eyes widened. “That so? Well, I’m surprised you aren’t with your ship.”
Giving full attention to the detective, Paul said, “I was on my way there when I spotted the fire.”
“Were you on the ship last night?”
“The, uh, early part of the evening. Why do you ask?”
“I think you’re guilty. Guilty as sin.” Watson rubbed his jaw. “Me being a detective, I see a lot of human nature gone sour. Times like those, men take their hostilities out in unusual ways.”
“I beg your pardon?” Paul asked.
“In case you don’t already know, which I think you do, I’ll tell you. About midnight last night, your men mutinied.”
Paul’s shoulders slumped. Worse had come to worst on the schooner. Could there have been anything he might have done to prevent the mutiny?
“We’ve got eight of them behind bars,” a youthful policeman disclosed.
Watson nodded. “That’s right. But your mates injured a couple of the officers before they were collared. Seems the crew of a U.S. revenue cutter heard the gunshot that killed your captain, and—”
“James?” Emma interrupted. “Are you saying Captain James Throckmorton is dead?”
“Yes, ma’am. The crew of the Jackson brought his body ashore.”
Emma’s hand flew to her lips; Cleopatra’s mouth dropped open.
“Damn!” Paul squeezed his eyes closed and lowered his head. His hands were clenched at his sides. He had had no use for Throckmorton, but he believed his death unjust. The mutineers would be brought to justice!
Disgust filled Paul. He had compromised the oath he had given to the Republic of Texas when he’d left the San Antonio . . . on Emma’s arm. If he’d spent less time seeking revenge against her uncle—and pursuing Emma, he might have discharged his duties with success.
Raising his head, he said, “I give you my word as an officer of the Republic of Texas I did not torch that warehouse.”
Watson peered at the ground, then back again. “The Texas Navy’s pretty popular in our local press. All the citizens of New Orleans—well, the upstanding ones, anyway—support what you fellows have been doing out in the Gulf.”
“Can you appreciate the necessity of my taking command of that ship?” Paul asked.
Emma interjected her own question. “You’re not going to let him leave, are you?”
Cleopatra put in, “If you do, his next stop’ll be Jamaica or somewhere.�
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“See here”—Emma glared in the detective’s direction—“I demand that you arrest Rousseau immediately.”
Anger raged within Paul. Damn her! She’d have him jailed! This was typical Oliver behavior.
Just this morning he had imagined he was falling in love with Emma, though the night before she had said he’d suffer for not making love to her. Now he’d be kept from his responsibilities. Was this her revenge?
“Have to consider public opinion,” Watson said, almost to himself, as he rubbed his jaw again. “I’ll order a police boat to row you over to your ship.”
“No!” Emma and Cleopatra protested in unison.
“Hear me out, please.” Watson patted the air in a gesture of conciliation. “I’m giving you this chance, Lieutenant, but don’t make too much of it. I’m going aboard with you. Better find someone you can trust to take the helm. And don’t take too long doing it, because you’re under arrest for arson.”
Forty minutes later Paul, wearing the singed jacket, descended the companionway to the San Antonio’s gun deck. Second Lieutenant William Seeger followed him. Watson did not accompany them, for he stayed topside.
The deck wasn’t long by naval standards—less than one hundred feet from bow to stern—but what the schooner lacked in length, she made up in speed. Of course she wasn’t a-sail now, but Paul fondly recalled the way she could skip over waves as if she were a pebble. How long would it be before he’d sail her again?
“Attention!” he ordered, vowing not to think about the morning, Emma, or his own future.
Ten of the eleven sailors remaining, each dressed to varying degrees in ducking and stripes, rolled from hammocks strung above the six twelve-pounder batteries. Faces bruised, the marines stood straight and tall. Salutes were exchanged. These men, Paul had learned from Seeger, had courageously defended the Texas ensign against the mutineers.
Paul eyed the remaining seaman, the man who hadn’t risen at his order. The youngest of the group, he was the wet-eared lad named David Montgomery who had tied Paul’s wrists to the pivot. Now he yawned and stretched his arms. Though Montgomery was a lie-abed, Paul knew him to be loyal and true, and a fine young man to boot. Paul cleared his throat, a commanding sound.
“Huh?” David lifted his head; it was battered black and blue. “Oh! Uh, Lieutenant . . .” He, too, rolled from his hammock, but caught his toe on a nearby eating-table’s leg. “Ouch!” Hopping on one foot and holding the other within his palms, he said “Sorry, sir.”
Paul stifled a grin. His hands behind his back, he trod across the planks. “Men, as your commanding officer, I thank you for your valor last night. The Republic owes you a debt of gratitude.” He paused “I’ve been informed that all but six of the mutineers were apprehended by the New Orleans authorities. Those few escaped across the river to Algiers, but they will be caught!”
A cheer rose from the group.
“I deeply regret that I wasn’t aboard last night when the incident happened. But you have my word that I’ll do everything in my power to see that the mutineers receive their just deserts.”
Paul would do that, provided he was given the opportunity. He stopped near the bow, turned, and locked eyes with one man, then another, each in turn. What he was about to say took a lot of faith on his part, but these men needed the trust and support of their commanding officer.
“For a number of months you have not been paid for your services. The lieutenant”—Paul nodded toward Seeger—“has been instructed to rectify that inadequacy. At three bells this afternoon he will issue back salaries.” When Paul had boarded the schooner he had hastily penned a note giving Seeger the authority to draw funds from the Rousseau account in the bank. “After which, all but one of you shall be granted a liberty permit until sunrise on the morn.”
Questioning expressions on their faces, the men stared at one another.
“I’m asking for a volunteer to man the ship,” Paul said.
“I’ll do it, sir,” said a whiskered sailor.
“Ah, Davenport, you’re touched in the head! You grouse more’n any o’ us about needin’ a woman,” Jay Johnson pointed out. “’Cept for Jims Hocker.”
The boatswain’s mate limped forward. Karl Tampke was a big German, grizzled and ugly, especially with one eye swollen shut. “I stay here,” he slurred. Two of his front teeth were missing now. “De vimen just vant my geld. I save for old age.”
“From the looks of you, you’d better spend it while you can, Tampke. You’ll never make it to dotage.” Paul grinned. “You’d better get to sick bay.”
“I haven’t yet grown accustomed to wine and sport.” David Montgomery stepped forward. “I’ll keep watch, Lieutenant.”
Paul expressed his appreciation. But the most difficult part was yet to come. Wrestling with his conscience, he stopped at a twelve-pounder and ran his palm along its metal firing vent. Right now he was at the crossroads of duty or disobedience.
As an officer in service to Texas now in charge of a schooner of war becalmed by politics, should he obey his president or his commodore? In the past he was able to see the black and white of right and wrong. Presently he had trouble distinguishing the shades of gray between the two. Sam Houston believed his actions to be just. Stalwart in his convictions, Edwin Ward Moore felt the same. Paul’s sympathies were aligned to Moore’s, but disobeying Houston could bring further jeopardy upon himself. Still, he had to protect the Republic’s citizens and to honor those who had fought for Texas independence.
“When you return from shore, I am ordering this vessel to set sail for our rendezvous with Commodore Moore in the Arcas Islands.”
“But . . . but I thought we were to stay here until further orders from President Houston,” Montgomery said, then added, “Meaning no disrespect, sir.”
“None taken.” Paul glanced at Lieutenant Seeger and back again. “I take full responsibility for the repercussions.”
“The commodore must be apprised of our situation,” Seeger offered.
Glad for that show of support, Paul said, “On the voyage to those waters, Lieutenant Seeger will be your officer-in-charge.”
“What about you?” Montgomery asked, his dark brows furrowed.
“Pressing matters detain me in Louisiana.” Skating around the truth rankled Paul, but he felt it judicious not to mention his legal problems. It wouldn’t be good for morale if the men thought their superior officer might be guilty of a criminal deed. “That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul clipped a salute and swung around, meaning to climb the companionway. But before he did, he turned his head to the sailors. “Good luck, men. My heart is with you.”
He ascended the ladder and pushed the companionway hatch closed. The wind curled at his neck. Not a strong gust, but he relished that last moment of freedom’s fresh air.
Resigned to his fate, he faced Detective Daryl Watson. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Eleven
Jail was no place for a lady, even one who knew herself to be less than a pillar of propriety. Nevertheless, Emma was there. Be it concern or plain old anger, she needed to see Paul Rousseau. With any luck, the turmoil of her heart and mind would be eased.
In deference to her social position Emma was allowed privacy for her visit. While waiting, she sat five, perhaps ten, minutes in Detective Watson’s iron-barred small office in the calaboose. Finally Paul darkened the door. He wore the dark-blue uniform she had seen him in the previous day. It was as if he’d remained in the same attire to taunt her, but she realized he probably hadn’t been afforded a chance to change.
Anger was written on every plane of his angular face. “What do you want?”
From a chair in front of the detective’s desk, she pushed herself to a standing position. “To find out if you’re all right.”
“Ah. I see.” His brown eyes were hard pools of black—as black as his hair. Paul picked up a chair and with a flick of his wrist, turned it around. Resting an arm on i
ts back, he straddled the seat. The pose was deceptively relaxed. “You can quit losing sleep. All things considered, I’m doing fine. No thanks to you.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, forget it.” Irritated, she called up a haughty remark: “And I believe it’s not considered gentlemanly to take a seat while a lady stands.”
“We settled that gentleman-lady business a while back.” Paul rubbed the stubble of his beard. “You’ve found out what you said you came to hear. What else do you want, Emma?”
“The truth.”
“You heard it yesterday.”
“Not all of it. If any.” Emma walked to the barred window, stared out with unseeing eyes and whirled around. “After you left, I needed a hairbrush. I couldn’t find one, so I searched through your belongings. I found the brooch.”
“I figured as much.”
“Be honest. It didn’t find its way into that sea chest!”
“If you’ll remember correctly, I tried to explain that yesterday. But you weren’t listening.” Paul shot from the chair and closed the distance between them. Curling his fingers around her shoulders, he said, “The explanation is simple. I saw a woman wearing it, and I bought it back.”
“How convenient.” She turned her head to the side.
“Does my scent bother you?” he asked, jeering.
“Not in the least.” She wasn’t concerned with the smoke clinging to his coat; soap and water would take care of that. Poor character could not be rinsed out of a soiled soul. She was determined to get back to the prior subject. “You saw a woman on the street, walked up to her and asked, ‘Madame, may I buy the jewels off your bosom?’”
“Basically. But I didn’t see her on the street. She was in her house.” He paused. “I know the people who stole it.”
“Packert and Katie?”
“You knew their names. . . .” He frowned. “You would’ve saved us both a lot of trouble if you’d told me that.”
“Well, how was I to know you were acquainted with the scum of society? On second thought, I retract the question. I’m sure your pirating background has opened to you the drawing rooms of many derelicts and thieves.”