The Creole Princess

by Beth White

  “I don’t know. You look like a slave to me.”

  Daisy stepped through the crowd and took Lyse’s arm. “I assure you my friend is a free woman,” she said firmly. “We are part of the governor’s staff, and Madame Gálvez will vouch for us.”

  “Oh is that right?” the man sneered.

  “That is right,” came a cultured French-accented voice behind Lyse. “These young ladies have been in my home many times.”

  “Madame!” blustered the auctioneer. “I’m sorry—I did not see you with them!”

  Madame Gálvez nodded with regal condescension.

  Lyse had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

  “I’ll be happy to pay whatever you think this woman is worth,” Madame said. “I have need of a new cook.”

  The man’s eyes squinted. “She is very expensive, Madame. The bidding has already gone up to five hundred twenty.”

  “That’s a lie!” exclaimed Lyse.

  “Never mind.” Madame smiled. “I shall pay six hundred and call it a bargain. Yes?”

  The man’s mouth opened and closed. “Yes, Madame! That will do very well.”

  Madame completed the transaction and extended her hand in its elegant glove. “You will please to take off the manacles, good sir. I wish Martine to walk without losing her balance, and I am in a hurry.”

  The auctioneer hurried to comply. Martine was soon stepping down from the dais, rubbing her wrists. Tears slipped down her face. “I didn’t know I was worth six hundred whole pounds,” she said, sniffing.

  “You are worth much more than that,” Madame said, “but it’s a good thing he agreed, as that’s all I had with me! Now come, let us get out of the sun before my skin becomes as brown as yours!”

  She twirled her parasol and led the way across the street to a coffeehouse frequented by ladies of the elite social set of New Orleans. Lyse, Daisy, and Martine followed like ducklings behind a particularly elegant hen. Inside the coffee shop, Madame furled her parasol and seated herself at a little round iron table with graceful wrought iron chairs. Lyse and Daisy joined her, while Martine stood awkwardly to the side.

  “Now,” Madame said, “please explain to me what is all the excitement about.”

  “Oh, Madame, thank you so much for interceding,” Lyse said fervently. “I was so frightened! And I’m sorry you had to spend so much money. But I only wanted to know about Martine’s son, Cain. He has been training my little brother, Luc-Antoine, who was indentured to Martine’s owner, Madame Dussouy, to be a blacksmith.”

  Madame looked a bit confused. “Madame Dussouy is a blacksmith?”

  Lyse laughed. “No, she is the harpy who owned Martine and Cain, and also my cousin Scarlet. Cain is her blacksmith slave, who was Scarlet’s . . . mate.”

  “Ah. Harpy I understand. Go on.”

  “Well, Madame Dussouy sold Scarlet, perhaps two years ago, and she ended first on a plantation in Natchez, then here at the market, where Rafa—I mean, Don Rafael bought her for you and then—but then, you know how all that happened. What I want to know is what Martine can tell me about my brother and Scarlet’s Cain.”

  “Wait a minute, miss,” Martine blurted. “Excuse me, but are you telling me Scarlet is here in New Orleans?”

  “Yes! She has a baby—Cain’s baby! His name is Nardo, after the governor—” Lyse smiled at Madame—“and he looks just like Cain. That’s how I recognized you so easily, I think.”

  Martine stared for a moment. “Cain’s baby?” The tears started falling again. “Oh, my. My grandbaby.” After a moment, she pulled herself together. “Cain’s alive. A troop of American militiamen raided the Dussouy plantation, and they brought several of us slaves here, but Cain managed to get away from them. I think your little Luc-Antoine must’ve followed and helped him. I don’t know where they went, though.”

  Lyse pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Luc-Antoine and Cain were alive. They had gotten away. “W-What about Madame and Monsieur Dussouy?”

  “They escaped to the fort, I guess.” Martine shrugged.

  “I don’t guess you’ve heard anything about my grandfather, or my stepmother and the other children? Or—or my papa?”

  “Your grandpapa and that bunch are fine, as far as I know. Not much there for the Americans to carry off. But your papa . . .” Martine flicked a glance at Daisy. “I heard terrible things happened after Miss Daisy ran off.”

  20

  NEW ORLEANS, GÁLVEZ MANSION

  CHRISTMAS EVE 1779

  All the women were in the finest of their finery. Lyse no longer had anything fit to wear to such a grand occasion as a Christmas Eve ball at the Gálvez mansion. But she wasn’t the only one with barely a change of clothes this year. The hurricane had wiped out many ladies’ entire wardrobes, and there had been neither time nor extra funds to have more made. Material was always expensive, and in this time of war it was especially dear.

  The Gálvezes owned one of the few residences that sustained only minimal damage to the ground floor; thus Madame looked as elegant as ever in a butter-colored sarcenet dress over a lace petticoat of the same color, her hair dressed high and fastened with topaz jewels. She stood greeting guests with her handsome father, the famous French planter and spy, Gilbert de St. Maxent, by her side in the absence of her husband.

  Lyse greeted Madame after Daisy and Sofía, and was rewarded with a warm kiss on the cheek.

  “You will be happy to know,” Madame whispered in her ear, “your friend Martine is happy as a clam in my so-big kitchen, and she has created those spectacular cream puffs on the table over there. You must be sure to have one.”

  Lyse agreed that it was a requirement and moved on feeling happier about being here dressed in nothing more elegant than Scarlet’s blue Sunday dress, which had been turned and retrimmed four times since rescued from a charity bin last summer. To give Scarlet credit, it was actually a lovely dress, albeit a little threadbare, if one didn’t look at it too closely in the light.

  Besides, since Rafa was not here to see it, a little of the shine had worn off the evening. She had looked for him, as she always did when she entered a room, but there were very few men here at all. All the soldiers had gone to the Mississippi with Don Bernardo, except for the few who worked night and day with Rafa and Simon, getting ready for the offensives against Mobile and Pensacola. There were a few civilian men still available to dance with one, but they were mostly elderly—all of fifty at least!—or infirm.

  Sofía kept complaining that it was quite depressing, when one thought about it, and Daisy would nod absently. She watched the door when she thought nobody was looking, clearly hoping Simon would slip in unexpectedly.

  Lyse kept her chin up, determined to enjoy herself, no matter whether Rafa stood up to Doña Evangelina or not. If he couldn’t choose a bride without his maman’s good opinion, Lyse didn’t want him anyway. And he deserved to be beaten about the head daily, for good measure.

  Smiling at the thought of tiny Doña Evangelina whacking her tall, muscular son with her beaded reticule, she turned to go for the cream puffs and smacked right into him, nose to chest.

  Rafa caught her by the shoulders, held her away, and gave her a pirate grin. “What are you smiling about, prima? Oh, I see. It’s the pastry. Are you going to chuck that at me too? Lots of little missiles this time, instead of one big one.”

  She scowled at him. “Let me go, or I’ll find a Mardi Gras king cake somewhere. Then you’ll be sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? I haven’t done anything! However, if I’m going to be battered—haha, battered? Get it?—then I might as well have something to show for it.” He swooped and planted his mouth on hers. Before she could protest, he lifted his head, winked, and disappeared.

  She stood sputtering like a landed fish until Sofía walked by and said, “You’d better get out from under the mistletoe—you look like you’re issuing invitations.”

  She looked up and, sure enough, clever Madame Gálvez had attached a n
ice little clump of the green parasite, woven into a ball, to the chandelier. “Oh, my goodness,” she muttered, fanning her face.

  But she moved.

  Just before midnight, the grandest surprise of all came when Governor Gálvez walked in his own front door, went straight to his wife, and kissed her in front of the whole company. “My dear, I’m home,” he said simply. “We accomplished what we set out to do—the Mississippi River is clear for Spanish and American transport. Mobile and Pensacola are our next objectives. What do you think of that?”

  Madame clung to him. “I think I missed you.”

  Lyse wanted to melt into a puddle. Oh, to be loved that way, with a man staring at one as if he wanted to consume her like a grand feast.

  “A woman like that could get anything she wanted from a man.” Rafa’s voice came from behind her shoulder.

  “A man like that would deserve whatever she gave.” Lyse plied her fan and watched the Gálvezes begin the minuet.

  Rafa’s hands cupped her shoulders. “Lyse, we leave for Mobile in two weeks time.”

  “But you will stay here again?”

  “No. I’m going this time. Pollock will remain here, and Gálvez needs an ordnance officer.”

  She all but crushed the fragile sticks of the fan. “Then . . . I will go too.”

  He laughed. “This is not a joke. Look at me.”

  She whirled to face him. “I’m not joking. I know the bay of Mobile better than anybody in New Orleans, except maybe Simon. And I could be a nurse.”

  “Lyse, I’m not discussing this with you. I wanted to say goodbye, because Gálvez will have me very busy after tonight. Please don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.”

  “It is difficult! I’m tired of saying goodbye.” She swiped the back of her hand across her wet cheeks. “Being a woman, wearing skirts, getting left behind—I’m sorry, but I’m very angry right now.”

  His voice gentled. “But I’m very glad you’re a woman. I can’t say more, here in this crowd. And no, I’m not taking you outside to be alone, because I couldn’t—don’t look at me that way—” He swallowed hard and stepped back with a shaky laugh. “I’m trying very hard to be the man you deserve. So tell me you’ll pray for me, and let me go. Te amo, prima.” He kissed his fingertips, laid them upon her mouth, and backed away into the crowd.

  The fan snapped in half.

  NEW ORLEANS, FORT SAN JUAN

  JANUARY 11, 1780

  He was gone.

  Lyse stood at the highest point of Fort San Juan, the bell tower of its little chapel, and watched the last sail fade into the sunset. She put her fingers over her lips, holding onto Rafa’s last touch, and tried not to weep. He wanted to be the man she deserved?

  Ah, Father in Heaven, how she loved him. He was courageous and strong and faithful, and infinitely better than she had any right to expect in a lover. She wanted to be with him, to hold and serve him, and to laugh with him.

  But it was time to think beyond herself and what she wanted. It was time to grow up a little more—a lot more—and become a woman who deserved a man like Rafael Gonzales. There were families without homes still, after the hurricane. There were children roaming the streets with no place to go, hunting for food in the garbage heaps. And there was Mr. Pollock, left to mind the warehouses and field messages for the governor. She knew every inch of the warehouses, as did Daisy and Scarlet—and surely he would need help.

  She could accomplish those things, because every difficulty of her life had prepared her to do so. She smiled. Like Esther of the Bible, she was in New Orleans, now, for just such a time as this.

  DAUPHINE ISLAND

  FEBRUARY 10, 1780

  Rafa, making notes in a leather journal, followed Gálvez around as he inspected the wreck of the Volante, run aground on Dauphine Island, a spit of sandy ground that all but enclosed Mobile Bay.

  On the twentieth of January, the Spanish fleet had been joined by the American ship West Florida, captained by William Pickles and holding a crew of fifty-eight men, just off the coast of Biloxi. The French had built their first fort there at the turn of the century, but the old wooden palisade had long since crumbled and washed out to sea. The British apparently cared nothing for defending the spot.

  Rafa had to wonder if the British took defense of the Gulf Coast seriously at all. Perhaps the strategy of combined French, Spanish, and American commanders—that of stretching and spreading British forces thinly between the New England and southern coasts—had begun to take effect. In any case, there had been nary a shot fired as Gálvez led his armada east along the north boundary of the Gulf of Mexico.

  But the forces of nature seemed determined not to make Gálvez’s campaign easy. Three days ago, winds had begun to blow contrary, making progress difficult, and then the rain and lightning came. On the third day, visibility was zero, the twelve ships scattered in all directions of the compass. One of the brigantines went down, three others ran aground on sandbars, and Rafa, aboard the flagship Volante, had been cast overboard when it snagged on an underground shoal. Fortunately, he was a strong swimmer and had managed to hold on to a cask of wine washing to shore, narrowly avoiding the debris flung about by the wind.

  Even now, he surreptitiously kissed the cross hanging about his neck in gratitude. Lyse and his mama must have been praying for him. Four hundred of the twelve hundred regulars and militia Gálvez had brought had died in the storm. One of those could easily have been him.

  Gálvez paused beside a debris-covered dune, took the kerchief from about his neck, and wiped his sandy face. He sighed. “There’s no repairing this one. We’ll take it apart and carry as much of it as we can to make ladders and other structures as needed.” He looked at Rafa. “Are you sure you’re all right after that wild ride you took yesterday? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You always told me I’d see adventure in your command, sir.”

  Gálvez smiled. “Indeed I did.”

  “Have you had any response from your request for reinforcements from Havana?”

  The general’s smile faded. “Not yet. It appears we’re going to have to do this on our own. Well, let’s get back to the San Miguel. We’ve a lot of work to do.”

  Many commanders would have given up and set sail for home. Not Gálvez.

  Filled with admiration and renewed determination of his own, Rafa stuck his pencil behind his ear and followed.

  DOG RIVER, EIGHT MILES OUTSIDE MOBILE

  FEBRUARY 28, 1780

  The weather had continued to gnaw at them like a dog with a sore tail. Dawn came in a gray pall that barely lightened the eastern skyline. Rafa, like all the other men, was wet, chilled to the bone, and dressed like a ragpicker. His boots squished as he walked to the mess camp for a chunk of hardtack, and he’d given up on drying his socks.

  For the last two weeks, sleeping had been a hellish business of rolling up in a tarp to keep the rain off, and fighting off the gnats that buzzed around one’s face, twenty-four hours a day. At least as an officer Rafa was allowed to trade out stints in one of the longboats that had been dragged up the Dog River to their bivouac point. The infantry were required to find their rest wherever they could, in the mud.

  By the twelfth of February, they had made it as far as Mobile Point, abutting Dauphine Island, where they set up the guns salvaged from the wreckage of the Volante to guard the entrance to the bay. Eight days later, just as they were ready to move on, the misery and frustration was mitigated by the arrival of reinforcements from Havana. Rafa had witnessed Gálvez’s herculean effort not to rip into Generals Ezpleta and Míro—who commanded the four Spanish frigates containing over a thousand experienced infantrymen—for their lackadaisical response to his repeated requests for aid. After all, both men were technically his superiors, as they were of higher rank.

  However, there was no question as to the real leader of the campaign. Gálvez was everywhere, encouraging, berating, and joking with everyone from cabin boys to Gene
ral Girón. Rafa wondered if the man ever slept—then concluded that if he did, it was standing up, with his hat dripping rain, boots cracked and dull from the constant whirling of sand and salt.

  Rafa’s thoughts went often to Lyse. He hoped she was dry and safe, perhaps just waking up beside a banked fire in the little house the soldiers had built for their three beautiful young laundresses—the Sirens of San Juan, as he had called them in a song he wrote in their honor one late night before Christmas. His duties seemed lighter, knowing that Lyse waited for him at the end of the campaign.

  At least, he hoped she waited for him. She was just as likely to hire a boat and row herself after him, if she felt he was taking too long to get back. Lyse wasn’t one for doing what she was told in every situation.

  Grinning to himself, he was about to round a stack of ladders he had helped build, when a familiar voice on the other side brought him to a dead halt. At first he thought it was Simon, which wouldn’t be so surprising, of course. But then the voice rumbled again, this time more distinctly. He stepped around the ladders.

  “Antoine?”

  Antoine Lanier, sitting on an ale cask, chewing on a piece of sausage, looked up with an expression so like Lyse’s it hurt. “Rippardá! I don’t know whether to shake your hand or punch you in the gut.”

  “I prefer the former,” Rafa said, extending his hand. “How are you, sir? And—how did you get here without getting shot?”

  Lanier gripped Rafa’s hand and stood up. “I’m much better, now that you Spanish boys have shared your provisions. We slipped in under cover of dark, through a little series of bayous I’ve been fishing since I was a boy. Simon could take you through that way.”

  Rafa looked at Simon, who sat on another keg close to the fire. Gálvez was nearby, engaged in conversation with a young Negro dressed in clothes every bit as ragged as Rafa’s. In fact, they all looked as though they’d been dragged through briars backward.

  Simon saw Rafa’s curious glance at the black man. “That’s Scarlet’s man, Cain. He’s the one got my father safely from the fort here. Well, him and Little Bit there.”