Creole Hearts

by Toombs, Jane

  Other servants brought in trays of liqueurs for everyone. Guy, watching Ignace, eased his chair back from the table, stood, then, as he saw the glint of metal, lunged at Ignace, catching his arm as the young man steadied a pistol on the table, its muzzle pointed at Nicolas.

  A flash of flame, an explosive crack, a clang as the bullet struck the gilt cage suspended from the ceiling, the shatter of glass when the bullet ricocheted to smash a wall mirror.

  Ignace struggled, cursing, in Guy's grasp. The pistol, muzzle smoking, lay on the table amid spilled creme de menthe. Men rushed at them, as many grabbing at Guy as at Ignace, for they weren't certain what had happened. Women screamed.

  Finally, with Ignace held firmly by two men, Guy by two more, Nicolas shouted above the noise. "It was Ignace Proulx, not La Branche. Let Tanguy go."

  Guy straightened his coat and shirt after he was turned loose, then strode to Ignace.

  "You shot at me one night a few months back, didn't you?"

  Ignace said nothing, giving him a look of hatred that momentarily silenced Guy. Why should this man hate him so? He grabbed Ignace's waistcoat in his fist.

  "Only a coward shoots a man without challenging him. You've forfeited the right to ever fight a duel in Louisiana. Gentlemen don't duel with cowards. If, it weren't for that you'd be a dead man, for, I'd challenge you and kill you in a fair fight."

  He released Ignace and turned from him in disgust. Behind him he heard Julienne's high, clear voice.

  "Oh, Ignace, how could you do such a thing? You've ruined my party."

  Guy glanced back.

  Ignace stared across the table at Julienne. "I love you!" he cried in a strangled voice. Those old men don’t deserve you—you belong to me!”

  Julienne brought her hands up to her face, swayed, and before Nicolas could catch her, fell face forward onto the table.

  Chapter 22

  Before anyone could reach Julienne, the fat Negress in the blue tignon had the girl clasped in her arms. Tears rolled down the black woman's face.

  "My sweet child," she cried. "I don't be meaning to hurt you, no, never."

  Madame Le Moyne, pale and trembling, leaned against her husband. Yolande was the one who, with Nicolas' help, managed to pry Julienne from the fat slave's arms.

  "Stop that, Lulie," Yolande ordered. "Let Monsieur Roulleaux carry Julienne to her room."

  With Lulie wailing after them, Nicolas bore Julienne from the dining room, Yolande leading the way. The guests milled about, shocked and upset and, in the confusion, Ignace Proulx broke loose from his captors and dashed from the house.

  Guy started after him, then stopped. What use would it be to try to catch Ignace? Nothing would be done with the young man even if he did succeed in taking him prisoner. The words Ignace had shouted at Julienne still rang in Guy’s ears. The young pup thought of him and Nicolas as old men. Old! At thirty three? Nicolas could be no more than thirty four. The prime of a man's life!

  He hurried back inside the house and sought Madelaine. "How is Julienne?” he asked. "Have you heard?"

  "Perhaps it was no more than a faint," Madelaine said. "Such excitement for her—the engagement, the gun going off, the fighting. Oh, Guy, you were so brave. I can't tell you how proud I am of you. You saved their lives."

  "Nicolas' at any rate."

  "The boy must be very much in love with Julienne."

  "She shouldn't have encouraged him,” Guy said positively.

  Madelaine said nothing.

  After a moment Guy nodded. "All right. My eyes are opened at last. Yolande may not be the rabbit I thought she was. She took charge admirably. No doubt she'll make some man a much better wife than Julienne. Nevertheless, I don't wish to make Yolande my wife. Nor Julienne, for that matter." He glanced toward the stairs. "I hope Julienne isn't seriously ill. What was her old nurse carrying on about?"

  "It made no sense. Something about not meaning to hurt her."

  There was a stir among the guests and Guy saw Joubert on the stairs.

  "I regret tonight's disaster," Joubert said. "Julienne is awake but she needs to rest. Please stay, if you wish. I had planned dancing to follow the meal."

  No one felt like continuing the party. Madelaine and Guy were among the first to leave.

  Joubert pressed Guy's hand. "I can't thank you enough for preventing a tragedy. Nicolas, who's waiting outside Julienne's door in case she wants to see him, asked me to express his gratitude. He is quite aware that you saved his life tonight."

  “I told you Mademoiselle Le Moyne wouldn't be your wife," Estelle said to Guy the next week. “Didn’t I?”

  Guy frowned, “I don’t wish to discuss her.”

  “Shall I tell you something more? If Monsieur Roulleaux doesn't take care to sit by her side until she recovers, he won't marry her either."

  Guy grasped her arm. "What do you mean?"

  Estelle shrugged. "Everyone knows she's ill. Everyone knows what happened at the party. Why shouldn't I know?"

  He resisted the urge to shake Estelle until her teeth rattled. Violence between them always led to bed, and he'd already taken her once.

  "You haven't answered my question," he said.

  "She may give her heart to another."

  He shrugged, relieved. For a moment he'd thought Estelle had meant Julienne would die. Not that he believed in voodoo, but one couldn't deny that strange things sometimes occurred—that a voodooienne had some powers. And, after all, Estelle was Vedette's daughter.

  In October, Guy walked with Andre from the legislative chambers, heading for Tremoulet's.

  "Unless we can muster at least one more vote," Andre said, "all is lost. What's the matter with those Americains? Do we ask them to learn French, even though our language is certainly more specific as well as more melodious than English? Of course not! Why, then, do they try to force us to learn their barbarous language?"

  "I agree, I agree," Guy told him. "Besides, think how we'd miss the fun of waiting for the translations if we all had to give speeches in English."

  Andre grinned. "The look on Samuel Cannon's face today when he finally understood what I'd said about him was one I'll treasure for years."

  Guy laughed. "There you were, waving your arms while you called him no better than a son of a dog, worse than the foulest pig that ever rooted in a gutter, and he looked you blandly in the eyes, not understanding one word. That is, until you finished and the interpreter translated what you said."

  Andre's smile faded. "I didn't make the same mistake when he stood up and began raving at me in his uncouth tongue. I glared at him even before I understood what he said, for I know an angry man speaks abuse."

  "I can't think how the interpreters keep a straight face," Guy said.

  "One of an interpreter's qualifications must be having no sense of humor," Andre said. "You've managed to learn English, I've never understood how. Oh, I know the odd word, but as a language it makes little sense, unlike ours."

  In the coffee house, they sat with another state representative, Leroy Carmelet from the German Coast.

  "One more vote would save us," Leroy said.

  "Trouble is, we'll have to go after an Americain vote, for every Creole in the House is already with us."

  "We never should have let them vote to eliminate Spanish," Andre said. "That was the camel's nose in the tent."

  "Let me run down the list of Americains and see if either of you think any one of them is a possibility," Leroy said.

  Guy listened. Some of the men he knew, others were almost strangers.

  "Then there's Timothy O'Donnell from upriver," Leroy said, "and that's it."

  "O'Donnell's been sick. He probably won't be in for the vote," Andre said. "He's been absent so much."

  "Is that the Timothy O'Donnell who was with Jackson at Chalmette?" Guy asked. "I haven't seen him in the House."

  "I was just saying he'd been away more than he's been there," Andre said. "Yes, I believe Tim did fight in the war against the Bri
tish."

  "I know him. In fact, he might well do me a favor," Guy said.

  Both the other men gazed at him.

  "If you can persuade Tim to vote with the Creoles," Andre said, "I'll personally carry him into the House on my back if I have to."

  Guy found that Timothy O'Donnell was living in Baton Rouge. He caught a ride up the Mississippi on the Creole Folie, captained by a man named Kendrick.

  "I raced one of the Fulton boats coming downriver," the captain told Guy. "We were behind her, and as we pulled alongside they fired up her boilers. Even then we held even, then edged ahead. We've got a nice little boat here. I'll bet she can beat anything on the river."

  As they steamed past D'Argent, Guy thought somewhat guiltily of Julienne. Strange how she'd gone out of his mind once he realized how shallow she was. Madelaine mentioned that she'd heard Julienne was still abed and, though her condition wasn't considered dangerous, she was refusing to see anyone but Lulie. Nicolas was said to be furious, and the wedding had been postponed indefinitely.

  Was Estelle's prediction coming true? Guy shook his head at the notion. Nonsense.

  Timothy O'Donnell sat in a rocking chair on the verandah of his riverside home. His skin had a yellowish tinge and he'd lost weight until he was little more than skin and bones. Guy saw that his arm had healed crooked.

  "By God, 'tis all of four years since I've clapped eyes on ye, lad," he said to Guy.

  "I'm in the House now. We're sorry not to see you there."

  "I'll tell ye, 'tis this damned ague. Just when I get to thinking I'm over the thing, down I come with the chills again."

  "Hasn't the quinine helped?"

  "The what?"

  "Doesn't your doctor prescribe quinine? In New Orleans I know that's how intermittent ague is treated."

  "Damned if I know how he'd treat me. The bastard tried to clap leeches on me and I threw the man out of me house. Been doctoring meself since Mary passed on from the yellowback."

  Guy looked at him. "I came upriver to ask you a favor. I'll find quinine for you, but I'd certainly hate to cure you and find I'd collected another vote against the Creoles when the bill comes to the vote."

  "What bill?"

  "Samuel Cannon has a bill pending to suspend the French language in the General Assembly. The House votes on it next month. All speeches, bills, everything written or spoken would be in English instead of both languages."

  "Seems a lot of fuss over a trifle."

  "It's not a trifle to the Creoles!"

  "Well, I don't owe Cannon any favors, and I'm certainly not afraid of the bastard. I owe you—damned if I don't. Tell ye what. Ye get some of that medicine for me, and, if it makes me well enough to go downriver, I'll come and vote against Cannon. Fair enough?"

  Guy held out his hand. "Just tell me your doctor's name so I don't call on him by accident. I'll find out how much of the quinine you should take and bring it to you."

  Tim held out his crooked right arm, offering Guy his hand. Guy could feel the scars as he shook it.

  "Hell, lad, who'd ever think Guy La Branche would come sailing clear up to Baton Rouge to help old Tim again? We'll have a drink or two when ye get back and talk about the whipping we gave the damned British at Chalmette." His eyes twinkled. "I'll wager ye ain't heard what happened to General Pakenham."

  "The general was killed in the battle," Guy said.

  "I mean after that. Don't ye know his men gutted the corpse and preserved it in a keg of spirits? Some say brandy, some say 'twas rum. Whichever it was, they shipped the keg with the mortal remains of General Pakenham off to his dear wife in England." Tim winked at Guy. "He never got there, I hear."

  "Why not?"

  "There comes up a storm and the ship founders off the coast of the Carolinas. The keg, though, comes floating in to shore and a couple of men who look out for such things find the keg, tap it and drink off the spirits before they discovers what else is in the keg."

  Tim laughed until he choked, recovered, and added, "Oh, and wouldn't it have angered

  the dear general if he knew they drank his esprit de corps!"

  Guy chuckled. "I'm thinking of those poor fellows who drank the brandy. Imagine how they felt!"

  Guy found a doctor, got the quinine and brought it to Tim. "Here's the names of my steamboats," he said. "Tell the captain of any one of them I said you were to have the best accommodations."

  "That's if I feel better, don't forget, Guy, me lad. But if I do, I'll not forget me promise. I'll send a message by your boats."

  Guy brought the good news to Andre two weeks later when Captain Barton off the Sugar Belle brought him a letter from Baton Rouge.

  "Tim O'Donnell's a new man. I haven't felt so good since Old Hickory led us into battle. I'll be there with bells on."

  After the session the next day, Guy saw Nicolas Roulleaux coming his way. He expected Nicolas to nod quickly and go on as was his wont since Guy had been elected. Nicolas stopped in front of him.

  "I've bad news," Nicolas said.

  Guy said nothing, waiting.

  "I've heard a rumor there's a group of Kaintocks hired by Cannon on their way upriver to prevent Timothy O'Donnell from coming to New Orleans for the vote. Somehow the word got out that he was our man."

  "The Kaintocks are on their way?" Guy asked.

  Nicolas nodded. "I heard it from one of the free blacks, a man who's done cabinet work for me. He says a friend of his overheard their plans."

  "Can you trust the black?"

  "I believe so. He's a man who served under Daquin de Chalmette and has never forgiven the Americains for the way they treated the free colored afterwards. Can you commandeer one of your steamboats?"

  “The Petite Joyau is loading at the docks." Guy raised his fist. ”I’ll take her over. We'll catch them."

  "They're an hour ahead."

  "It doesn't matter. They must be on a Fulton boat because the 'Tite is the only one of ours in New Orleans at the moment. We've beaten his steamboats before."

  "I'd like to join you."

  Guy hesitated for only an instant. "Come along.”

  Captain Leonard of the Petite Joyau greeted Guy’s plan with enthusiasm as they came aboard near sunset.

  "Stop loading, boys," he called, "we're casting off."

  The crew, like all those on Henry Shreve's boats, were former keelboat and barge men, brawny and aggressive, a match for any Kaintock. They all carried knives and both Guy and Nicolas brought pistols aboard.

  "It's the Yarmouth we're going to catch," Captain Leonard told Guy. "She's got a good enough captain but she draws too much water. Going upriver, the 'Tite can run circles around her. Wait and see."

  Sparks and flame shot from the 'Tite's twin smoke stacks as the captain urged the boiler men to toss wood. The big wheels on either side of the flat bottomed boat churned the brown river water into white foam.

  Nicolas watched the shore for D'Argent, Guy noticed, and kept his eyes on the manor house until a turn in the river hid the plantation from view. Guy thought it best not to ask after Julienne's health. This was a precarious alliance between a La Branche and a Roulleaux that a feather might upset.

  "If the boiler holds and we don't run into a sawyer or a boil, a chute or a snag, then we'll see the Yarmouth's wake before dark," Captain Leonard said.

  Seeing Nicolas' raised eyebrows, Guy translated. "The captain means floating tree trunks, whirlpools, sand bars that come and go, and caved in banks. The Mississippi changes daily as my partner, Shreve, has taught me."

  Nicolas nodded in thanks. "I was beginning to believe I didn't know the language as well as I thought."

  It was strange, Guy mused, that he and Nicolas spoke and understood English better than any other Creoles in the House. He shrugged. Nicolas was far from a friend but he'd never underestimated his abilities.

  As dusk closed in, a crewman shouted, pointing ahead. The Yarmouth was in sight, churning around a bend perhaps a mile ahead. They came up on her qui
ckly. Not until they were only some thirty yards away did anyone aboard the Fulton steamboat seem to realize they were being chased.

  Flames flared from her smokestacks.

  "He's going to try to outrun us," Captain Leonard said. "He can't, but he's going to make us prove it."

  "A boil. Boil ahead," the pilot called. Bells jangled and the starboard wheel slowed, the boat turned in a loose curve.

  "Wood's getting low," a boiler man shouted.

  "Damn. Keep the wood flying all the same," the captain shouted back.

  The 'Tite lost a few yards skirting the whirlpool, now she bored straight ahead, making up the loss as the gap between the boats narrowed. Guy saw dark figures on the Yarmouth's decks, outlined in the red glow from the stacks.

  "Ahoy, the Petite Joyau" a voice called from the other vessel.

  "I hear you," Captain Leonard replied.

  "What's your hurry?"

  "I am to beat you to Baton Rouge," the captain shouted.

  "The hell you will!"

  "You sure as hell ain't going to stop me!" As the captain spoke, the ‘Tite’s bow pulled

  even with stern of the Yarmouth, passing her larboard side.

  Crack!

  “That’s a God damned gun,” Captain Leonard yelled.

  Crack! Crack!

  “Stop the starboard! Stop the larboard!” the captain ordered. “Set her back on both. The bastards are shooting at us.”

  Chapter 23

  “We’ve got to pass that boat," Guy told Captain Leonard.

  "They'll pick us off. Those were muskets, not pistols. I was willing to run a race but I ain't willing to get shot."

  The Yarmouth pulled farther ahead, sparks shooting high into the darkness from her stacks. Suddenly a roaring explosion shattered the night, and the Yarmouth was hidden from sight in a dense cloud.

  "She blew her boilers," Captain Leonard shouted. "Stand by to look for survivors."

  As the steam cloud thinned, Guy saw the Yarmouth heading for the right bank, flames licking along the decks.

  "He'll beach her if he can," Captain Leonard said.

  The boat burned fiercely, lighting the faces of men struggling in the water.