Harry Ludlow had been here before and knew exactly what he was about. Each time he swung his own head, Tucker had to change his balance to tug at it, trying to bring it back within range of his flailing fist, growling all the while in frustration at his inability to land a proper punch. This required a constant change of pressure on his feet, and it laid him open to Harry’s counter-attack. Pulled viciously to one side, Harry dropped one knee, swinging the other leg in a wide arc. The floor, polished for dancing, was exceedingly slippery. The Kaintuck’s legs, taken low and hard, flew up in the air. He had to let go of Harry’s hair in a vain attempt to try and save himself. His body crashed to the ground with a resounding thud, the air escaping from his lungs in a clearly audible gasp. Harry’s heel did nothing for his ability to breathe, since he ground it unceremoniously into the Kaintuck’s guts. But Tucker used that against his opponent, grabbing the offending foot and twisting it till Harry lost his balance and crashed to the floor beside him.
What followed completely lacked science as each man sought to wound the other before they could get to their feet. It started with kicks and jabs, feeble by previous standards, inflicted from a lying position, proceeded to even gentler, almost childlike blows as they struggled to their knees. Both simultaneously made a grab at each other, and the resulting clutch took both men back to the floor. First one man was on top, then the other. Bared teeth sought ears and noses as thumbs were used to try and gouge out an opponent’s eye. Knees and feet flashed out trying to land a telling blow in the groin, to little practical effect. With the grease on their bodies, hot and slippery, now spread to every part of their anatomy, purchase of any kind was near impossible. What looked like a fierce fight to the uninitiated was nothing of the sort. Harry and Tucker could go on like this for hours and get nowhere.
Both men seemed to realise this simultaneously, as they pushed apart enough to gain their feet. Now they were breathing heavily, and sweating profusely from their exertions in the heat of the overcrowded tavern. But they were also wary. Upright again, they crouched low, fists at the ready, circling each other like two wild animals, eyes alert for the first sign of a guard dropped. The fists, jabbing forward, at first were exploratory, designed not to hurt but to discomfit, aimed to draw an opponent into leaving a gap for something more dangerous. There was a musical quality to the tempo of these movements as they increased, like a man beating the wooden block on an ancient galley to increase speed. Tucker got through Harry’s guard first, landing a painful blow that cut him just above the eye. But the response was immediate and just as effective, as Harry’s fist sank into Tucker’s exposed torso. That set the pattern for what followed, as the crowd were treated to a display of bareknuckle boxing of the most relentless kind. The sound, of two men toe to toe, raining blows on each other, was like that of a razor strop being used by some mad barber.
The crowd could see that neither the Englishman nor the American was prepared to yield an inch of floor. They’d been through the preliminaries, realised that each knew his way in a fight, and were aware that to win or lose was a now a matter of sheer courage. No subtlety was to be employed, just raw ability. They screamed encouragement, mostly for Tucker, since he was a local hero who’d won them much money in the past. But there were those who’d been supporters who knew that no matter how hard-cased or devious a fighter was, one day he’d meet his match. And given that the odds were greatly in his favour, they could safely take some of their previous winnings and wager it against him.
Each man seemed to sink a fraction lower as the minutes went by. Both sets of upper arms were now bright red from the numerous blows that they’d taken. Tucker was cut above both eyes, while Harry, though suffering on only one side, had a deeper gash to contend with, one which flowed with such a copious stream of blood that it threatened to blind him. As it was, it covered almost the whole of his face. Their breathing was now decidedly laboured and the skin on their fists raw from the constant contact with flesh that, being a thin layer over bone, often failed to yield. Every time one man struck a bone, the sound changed, bringing forth an increase in the noise. Yet neither man could prevail. Bernard stood, his club useless, as they slugged it out, only the marginal dip of the knees above the pool of blood, spittle and sweat, that stained the floor between them evidence that they were achieving anything.
Then the tempo altered, this time slowing infinitesimally as the wind needed to sustain such a relentless assault began to fail. Had it been uneven, that man who’d lost his puff first must concede the fight. But it wasn’t. It was as though their abilities were so evenly matched that they sank together. The punches lacked their previous force, being dragged, as they were, from a rapidly dwindling store of energy. Few now landed on the face or chin, being confined instead to the lower body or the less protective arms. Suddenly they collapsed onto each other, their blows now swung round the back to try and damage the kidneys or the neck. Harry put both his fists on Tucker’s shoulder and pushed himself away, staggering slightly as the gap opened and his support disappeared.
They stood swaying for a moment, trying to recover some strength, before closing again, an act which merely rekindled their embrace. Then it was Tucker’s turn to try the same manoeuvre. This time they stayed apart, flailing at each other with arms that seemed to be full of lead. Neither man could hold his balance properly, so they staggered first together, then apart, time after time. Tucker, aiming a haymaker that had no chance of connecting, got his arm hooked around Harry’s neck, and lacking the energy to lift it clear he pulled his opponent down. This gave him little advantage since his own knees collapsed, leaving both to try and fight each other from a recumbent position. First one then the other, finding the effort to stay upright too great, sank back onto the support of their lower legs and feet. This took them out of range so that the fists, with what force they could muster, failed to make any proper contact.
Pender stepped forward at the same time as Bernard. The Negro servant had handed his club to a spectator. He put his hands under Tucker’s arms and pulled him slightly back. Pender did the same with Harry, leaning over to whisper in his ear that there was no point in continuing. With his usual stubbornness, Harry shook his head, sending spots of blood flying in all directions. He tried to use Pender’s stability as a lever to regain his feet. Tucker, gazing at him through bloody and swollen eyes, seeing the move, sought to emulate his opponent. Bernard looked at Pender, who nodded hard, and both men found themselves being dragged backwards, without the strength left, after their fight, to resist.
‘Well,’ said James, standing upright. ‘That was a pleasure to watch.’
Hyacinthe, still leaning on the balcony rail, her eyes alight, failed to detect the irony in his tone.
‘Oh, yes! Wonderful.’
It was with a slight sense of distaste that James saw a shudder of deep pleasure run through her lithe body.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
HARRY KNEW that he was in a strange room. He felt as though he was in possession of someone else’s face, and that was without recourse to any available mirror. The difference seemed to be even more exaggerated inside his mouth, the swelling in his gums leaving little room for his tongue to move around. When it did move, like every muscle in his body, it engendered pain in varying degrees. Licking his lips was an act stranger than any other, since they bore no relation in size and shape to those of recent memory. For all the misery such acts produced, they did not induce despair. Harry Ludlow, man and boy, had been in too many fights. He knew just how temporary such feelings would be. In two or three days he’d be left with a multitude of bruises and the odd wisp of cotton, but little evidence of actual discomfort. In a week, little would remain to show that he had been on the receiving end of a blow.
He’d been stitched and bathed, the gentle hands of Hyacinthe Feraud causing him alternately to wince and groan. Then he’d slept, fitfully, with Pender in attendance. Now, lying as still as he could, letting each ache take its turn to register, looking
at the slits of light patterning the ceiling, he saw his actions of the preceding night for what they were: real stupidity. The whole farrago about a boat now seemed like an excuse to cover his jealousy. He’d allowed Thankful Tucker to get under his skin because James disapproved of his liaison with Hyacinthe. He’d fought the man to prove the depth of his regard, an act he would have scoffed at if undertaken by another. The bit about the keelboat had been a momentary inspiration to cover his foolishness.
Eyes fixed on the ceiling he heard the door open. He waited, expecting Pender, who since first light had been in and out every twenty minutes. But no servant appeared to lean over and blot out the strips of light. The voice of Thankful Tucker, altered to a mumble by his own swellings, surprised him.
‘What, in the name of Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, do you want with a Mississippi galley?’
Harry raised himself onto his elbows, sending several agonising stabs through his upper body. Tucker was half in shadow by the door, so he couldn’t see his face, but the changed note in the voice assured him that Pender was telling the truth. The Kaintuck had suffered as much damage as he. He smiled, ignoring the cracks in his lips that seemed to open as soon as he stretched the skin.
‘It’s the best way to get upriver, I think.’
Tucker shuffled halfway across the room and fell back into a chair. Harry, who could see him more clearly now, was sure he heard a stifled gasp. ‘Damned right, Ludlow, though that don’t go no way to explaining why you want to go there.’
‘Curiosity.’
‘Horseshit!’
‘Being offensive comes very easily to you, Tucker.’
‘Only an Englishman of your stripe would think so,’ Tucker replied, calmly, while he eased his position. ‘In Kentucky that particular answer accounts for about half the total wordage.’
‘What an entertaining set you must be.’
‘So what is the true answer?’
‘Does there have to be another?’
‘Sure does.’
‘I have a group of Frenchmen I’d like to see settled.’
‘I heard about them. Artisans and the like. They’re holed up with the Ursulines.’ Harry nodded slowly. ‘New Orleans is about the best place for the likes of them.’
‘They don’t agree. They might have begun life in various trades but most have spent the last few years on plantations. They think that given some virgin land they can enjoy greater prosperity.’
The mixture of truth and lies tripped off his tongue very easily, but his mind was racing, slotting into place his real need of a boat, as well as the very pressing reason for it.
‘I’m curious myself, Tucker. Why are you asking?’
‘Maybe, after our little bout, I’ve come to respect you, Ludlow. Happens that I’m feeling a mite guilty about the way I set things up last night. So I’m asking if you want a boat.’
‘Are you conceding defeat?’
The friendly tone evaporated immediately. ‘No, sir. I am not.’
‘Then what are you offering?’
‘You could rent mine for a token sum. If’n it would help, at all.’
Harry examined that for the truth, concluding very easily that it was in fact dishonesty. Tucker resented his proximity to Hyacinthe. Harry Ludlow rowing up the Mississippi would be out of New Orleans, leaving the field clear for his visitor. It was as simple as that.
‘I’m not sure I know how to handle one,’ he replied cautiously.
‘Don’t see why you need to bother, Ludlow. That’s my job.’
‘You’re proposing to come with me?’
Tucker’s slow and painful nod, added to what appeared to be an earnest look in his eye, made Harry feel very much like a scrub.
‘Only trouble is, I ain’t got no crew.’
Harry fell backwards on the bed, suddenly remembering that to all intents and purposes, neither did he. Hot and sticky, the draught that swept across him as the door flew open was welcome. Less appealing was the sudden increase in light as Hyacinthe flung open the shutters. She walked across the room and looked down at him, reaching out a hand to gently stroke the stitches over his eye.
‘You are such a fool, Harry. Both of you are fools.’ Her hands drifted close to his swollen lips. ‘I’ve a good mind to kiss you, very hard, then get into bed with you and insist you make love to me.’
‘Please,’ he croaked, in a voice that was only half-joking.
Tucker added a grainy cough to remind them both that he was in the room. That made Harry sit up, his determination to have a proper look at his late opponent in full daylight overbearing any increase in pain. Tucker was there somewhere, under enough bumps and swellings to make him look like a grotesque. The small flash of triumph disappeared quickly as he realised that he must look very much the same.
‘Tucker has suggested I rent his boat.’
‘That is very good of him,’ said Hyacinthe flatly. ‘I told you he was not the ogre you imagined.’
‘I think it was James who expressed that,’ Harry replied. He’d only spoken to cover himself: he was assessing Hyacinthe’s calm reaction to the news of Tucker’s offer. There’d been a change in her behaviour in the last 48 hours, subtle but detectable, almost as though she’d dropped her previous reserve and decided to be more committed to his cause. That someone prepared to fight him last night could be so generous was singular, even if he was guilty, but it didn’t take a genius to see where pressure might come from. Had Hyacinthe told him that he needed to do something to make amends? In a sense, it didn’t matter; such an avenue opened up several possibilities. He waited till she left the room to fetch some water with which to rebathe his wounds before he broached the subject.
‘How many men do you need to crew your galley?’ he asked.
‘Half a dozen coming downriver on a spate. Twenty at least to man the oars if you’re going up against a real current. Right now, with the river falling, half that would do.’
‘What would you make in a day?’
‘Twenty to thirty leagues, if you can clear the eddies and avoid whirlpools and driftwood.’
‘Do you have to tie up for the night?’
‘People need to sleep, Ludlow.’
‘What if you have enough people?’
‘Night-time is dangerous. There are sandbars and islands, not to mention whole tree trunks from the logging that goes on upriver.’
‘Logs apart, surely the danger is greater coming downriver than going the other way. Even if you run aground the flow favours you.’
Tucker thought for a moment. ‘That’s true, Ludlow. But if you’ve ever been on the Mississippi you’d know what a cruel river she can be. I’ve been up and down that old muddy mistress since I was a boy, and I still wouldn’t claim to be too familiar. And should you meet one of them damn logs at the wrong time, you’ll find a nice big hole in your hull that’s beyond repair.’
‘All I’m asking,’ Harry mumbled, ‘is this. Is it possible to make more than the speed you’ve just mentioned?’
‘It is. You might just get a bit of help from a wind. But mostly it’s sheer muscle. The men who man the oars will suffer.’
‘They might be willing to.’
Hyacinthe came back into the room, a bowl of steaming water in her hands. As she started to dab at his face, he reflected that his unease was misplaced, that her regard for him was obvious in the way she fetched the water herself instead of asking a servant to carry out the task.
‘If Pender’s not asleep, I’d like a word,’ he said. The attempt to smile died as the pain in his face registered.
‘You’ll need de Carondelet’s permission,’ said James, quietly, ‘which might just make him suspect what you’re up to.’
‘Why should he, brother? He has no idea what we know.’
‘I shall avoid the temptation to point out to you how little that is.’
Harry glanced over James’s shoulder, to where Hyacinthe sat at a desk, totalling her accounts. He indicated that they should g
o up onto the roof, out of earshot, to continue their discussion. She waited till they’d left before closing her ledger and walking out onto the balcony outside her windows. Harry and James couldn’t see her, but she could hear them, as Harry restated his conviction that de Guerin and his twelve Walloon Guards were carrying the gold and silver.
‘Killing Rodrigo doesn’t make sense if the bullion was in the hold,’ said Harry. ‘With the rendezvous arranged, whoever came aboard was an accomplice. But if he felt betrayed because there were no ingots, and suspected the Rodrigo had cheated him, that would explain such a bloodthirsty response.’
‘You think he was tortured to extract information.’
‘I do,’ Harry replied, sadly. ‘And I rather fear it was something he didn’t have.’
‘And the rest, including the women, were murdered to keep them silent.’
‘If they were killed. Half a dozen barrels and no bodies.’
‘You said the sharks …’
‘That is a guess. I’m troubled by the way the food was removed.’
‘This is a new tack you’re on.’
‘Not really, brother. It is, like all of this, speculation. And if I might be allowed to indulge in a touch more, what would you do if you discovered that two hundred thousand dollars you knew to exist wasn’t where you expected it to be?’
‘I’d want to find out where it had gone,’ said James, ‘and having done so I’d then need a way to get my hands on it.’
The Scent of Betrayal Page 29