The Scent of Betrayal

by David Donachie

  ‘Best warn them, Ludlow, that if we hit a bad eddy I’ll ask them to ship. And advise them they’re not dangerous. They don’t suck you under like they can at sea, they just dance you round a trifle then spit you out.’

  Harry ducked his head back under cover to relay this information to his charges. One or two of them grinned at him, at which point he realised that he was smiling too, addressing them in the same tone he adopted with his own crew. But the majority still greeted him with a look of distrust which forced him to alter his expression. Tucker’s shout brought him out into the rain again.

  ‘There she goes!’

  Harry felt the ship begin to spin, the head coming round despite Tucker’s and Pender’s efforts on the sweep. ‘There’s a pile of driftwood off to starboard, Ludlow. See if those men can get their poles onto the wood and keep us clear.’

  The boat was now athwart the river, head due north. But it was also being forced to the southern bank by the force of the whirlpool. A huge mass of logs and tree trunks lay there, so entangled that they were locked together, the force of the river’s current holding the whole edifice in place.

  ‘Ship!’ Tucker yelled.

  The rowers responded just in time, lifting the oars clear of the wooden island. Those on deck shoved out their poles and locked them into any gap which presented itself, struggling hard to keep the galley in clear water. Their efforts were only partially successful. The gap was closing. Without knowing what kind of danger this represented, it was obvious that contact would considerably slow their progress. Tucker shot past Harry, leaping over the side of the boat onto a log that looked near six feet in circumference. Harry held his breath, waiting for the wooden mass to part and swallow him up. It didn’t happen. They were crushed so firmly in place that it was as safe as an earthen shore. Tucker waited till the boat was close enough then leant out and begun to push it, trying to edge it past the most prominent projections. Feeling useless, Harry made his way to the bulwark and, heart in mouth, jumped down to join him. He was immediately assailed by a stream of instructions.

  ‘Two poles on that Douglas fir, another on the live oak just behind it. You come by me and push like hell.’

  Tucker’s face was bright red with exertion, as he pushed against the side of the galley. Suddenly a gush of blood erupted from his already swollen nose, immediately washed off by the teeming rain. It didn’t interfere with his pushing, but it produced a stream of invective that told Harry it was a curse he had suffered from before.

  ‘Clear water coming, Ludlow. Get yourself back aboard.’

  Harry didn’t wait to check if Tucker was right. The idea of staying where he was terrified him, his mind full of the image of himself slipping underneath the logs, unable to find a way to the surface. He’d heard it from people who knew about the dangers of logging, knew it was possible, and could hardly believe that it hadn’t happened already. The low freeboard made the jump relatively simple, but the wet wood, being slippery, nearly proved his undoing. Harry’s foot didn’t quite reach the top of the rail and his hands began to lose their grip. Someone grabbed the collar of his oilskin coat and he was lifted bodily inboard. Raising his eyes he saw the rain-soaked black beard and dark hair that framed Brissot’s unfriendly eyes.

  ‘Your hand, Ludlow!’

  Harry was up and leaning over the side in an instant. Tucker was walking along the logs, utterly unconcerned by any risk of slippage. Just as he reached the point where the galley made clear water, he leapt nimbly for the side. Harry’s hand was no more than a gesture to help him inboard.

  ‘Damned nose of mine,’ Tucker said, pulling off his dripping fur hat and shaking it. ‘Happens every time. Only thing to cure it is a dram of whiskey.’

  ‘I think I’ll join you,’ said Harry, grinning.

  ‘Let the whirlpool take us round, Pender,’ called Tucker, ladle in hand. Then he gave it to Harry. ‘Just hold her steady as she is.’

  Harry, who’d thrown the contents of the large spoon down his throat, gasped and staggered forward slightly, his eyes wide with surprise.

  ‘That’s a fine brew you just consumed, friend. The best that Kentucky can offer, an’ not watered down for milksops.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Harry gasped. He leant back, opened his mouth, and let it fill with rain.

  Tucker drank his down without discomfort, smacked his lips, them went to join Pender on the sweep. The boat shuddered as a piece of driftwood rammed into the side. Looking overboard, Harry saw an astonishing amount floating by, including whole trees with their branches intact, rolling over and over in the turbulent water.

  ‘Must have been some twisters upriver,’ said Tucker. ‘There’s a mite more’n usual.’

  A steady stream of thuds came from just on the waterline, the noise of each one a clear indication of just how big a piece of drifting debris had rammed them. Tucker sent two men with poles to the bows to try and fend some of them off. Harry was examining the slow-moving whirlpool, visible even in a river lashed by huge drops of rain. Judging by the run of the water it was a halfmile in circumference. He’d never seen anything to equal such a phenomenon in his life. Tucker, steering by himself now, made for a point near the centre, and used the force of the current to bring the galley’s head round.

  ‘Stand by on the oars, Ludlow, if you please. When I give the shout tell them to haul like heroes. And I’d be thankful, after that, for your help on the sweep.’

  The storm increased in tempo, great flashes of lightning searing across the black sky. The river itself, with the pounding deluge, was made to seem like something live. Harry watched Tucker’s lips, not sure in such a squall if he would hear him speak. It was faint when it came, but clear. He called down below and was gratified by the way the Frenchmen set to. Then he ran back to the stern. Close to Tucker, straining on the sweep to keep the head steady, he could hear the caressing tone in the man’s voice.

  ‘Come on, my beauty. Take us out of here. That’s it, that’s it.’ The pressure on the sweep eased as he gave a great shout. ‘That’s it! We’re clear.’

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ said Harry, smiling. Pender was grinning too. That disappeared when Tucker responded.

  ‘Next one’s a mile off and twice the size.’

  ‘I’ve been stuck in those for more’n two days before now, Ludlow. Going round and round in circles set to make a man dizzy. We were real lucky. The rain deadened the spin a touch, I reckon.’

  The bad weather which persisted for two whole days had passed over, and the night sky was a carpet of bright stars. Smoke was pouring out of the chimney amidships, as one of their scratch crew prepared a meal using the stores Harry had sent aboard and some fish they’d caught over the side. Tucker was steering still, having set them to proceed at a quarter of their best pace. This eased the strain on the oarsmen and lessened the risk of serious damage from driftwood. He tried hard to stay in mid-channel. Every time they failed, and slid towards the shore, the whole boat was attacked by swarms of mosquitoes.

  ‘Is that the worst we have to face?’ Harry asked, wondering if there could be a section of the river as tough to get through as the one they’d just managed.

  ‘No,’ he replied, grinning. ‘The worst you have to face is when a log holes you so bad you’re sinking just at the spot that the alligators like to gather.’

  ‘I dare say you walk on them with the same equanimity that you showed on that log.’

  ‘Equanimity. That’s a mighty fine word, Ludlow.’

  ‘It’s certainly a better one than horseshit.’

  ‘That’s no error,’ said Pender.

  Harry grinned at him, before addressing Tucker. ‘Have we made good time?’

  ‘Better than I expected when that storm broke.’

  A burst of laughter came from the hutch.

  ‘The Frenchmen have performed well,’ said Harry. ‘Fighting the Mississippi has done them the power of good.’

  ‘Now that we’re past some of these little local obstacles, I w
as wondering if’n you were going to tell me what it is we’re chasing in such an all-fired hurry?’

  ‘Of course. There a party of twelve Royal Walloon Guards heading north on horseback. We’re after them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They have something I want,’ Harry replied.

  ‘I’ll grant you don’t know me well, Ludlow. I’ll also own to the fact that our meeting each other could’ve been smoother …’

  ‘But?’ asked Harry, as he paused.

  ‘You’re going to have to trust me.’

  ‘Just being here means I do.’

  ‘No. Let me tell you about the Manchac Post. Used to be called Fort Bute and it stands right where the Iberville River joins the Mississippi. Built by the English after the Peace of Paris to command the only other route out of the interior that didn’t mean going through the delta. Goes right down the Amité River through Ponchartrain to a set of narrows that lead out into Lake Borgne.’

  Tucker paused for a moment to let that information sink in. Harry was visualising a chart. He knew that Lake Borgne was a deep salt-water bay that led out into the numerous islands that filled the Chandeleur Sound, islands that provided a wealth of routes out into the Gulf of Mexico.

  ‘There’s an expression you would hear if you sat drinking in any riverside tavern often enough. It’s ‘doing a little Manchac’, and it means smuggling. Now the Dons don’t like that too much and so they stop quite a few boats that pass Manchac going upriver or down.’

  ‘I thought we were going to try and pass it at night?’

  ‘We are. But since that’s also the time that smugglers like to do the dirty the Dons are pretty wide awake.’

  ‘You mean we might not make it.’

  ‘Yes. But it also means I might have to tell a lie. That’s not something that bothers me none, but I prefer to do it when I know what the truth is. Kinda makes it easier, you know, especially since I’m carrying no cargo.’

  ‘All right,’ said Harry. ‘We’re after those Walloons because I think they’re carrying two hundred thousand dollars in gold and silver.’

  Harry considered Tucker a hard man to shut up, but that statement kept him quiet for a good minute.

  ‘I’ll save you trying to work it out for yourself,’ he said, and explained, in detail, what he’d learned and what he hoped to achieve. ‘Do you know McGillivray?’

  ‘I know of him,’ Tucker replied.

  ‘Is what you hear good or bad?’

  ‘Depends who’s talking. For some folks the only good Indian is one that has gone to join the spirits. To others he’s a mite heroic. Rumour has it that George Washington, who hates to touch another, shook his hand.’

  ‘That not really what I was asking.’

  ‘You want to know if he’s truthful?

  ‘I do!’ Harry replied emphatically. ‘Pender here thinks that he knows more than he’s saying.’

  Tucker looked at Harry’s servant questioningly.

  ‘I reckoned, from the very first meeting, that he knew that this de Guerin has the bullion, that it was less than the guesswork he wanted us to think. That’s been made more so by the way he timed that note to the Captain.’

  ‘Pender wonders if once we have it he might try to take it off us.’

  ‘He damn sure can’t do it himself,’ said Tucker. ‘A party of Indians strong enough to do what you intend, in the wrong place, would cause a whole neckful of hackles to rise. Folks would be calling for troops to protect them. Some people can’t see a Redskin and his squaw without imaginin’ a massacre.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘When it comes to that kind of money, normal guessing won’t get you very far. And Indians ain’t like white folks. They work by their own code, not ours. But from what I know of McGillivray, he’s rich, he’s straight, and he aims to keep the peace.’

  Lampin came out of the hutch bearing three bowls on a plank of wood. The smell reached them before the food, onions, garlic, and wine.

  ‘This is what fishermen eat at home,’ he said, laying the three steaming bowls before them. ‘We call it caudière.’

  Harry dipped his spoon into the pinkish creamy stew. Lumps of fish came up to the surface. As he raised it to his lips he blew on it as a precaution, smelling the herbs and the tangy odour of cooked wine. It was delicious, filling and nourishing.

  ‘If we can have a time to fish each day, and the milk stays fresh, the pot will stay as full as the whiskey butt.’

  Tucker had already sampled his, and when he spoke, a thin stream of the sauce trickled down his chin. ‘Not if I have my way.’

  The following days, with better weather prevailing, saw little repetition of the events of the first 24 hours. The levee, which ran all the way to the Pointe Coupée on both banks, acted as a sort of elevated roadway connecting the various riverside settlements. Every time Tucker got close enough to the side he was engaged in a shouted conversation with anyone who was passing, with many a mutual acquaintance mentioned. News of a local nature was readily forthcoming, a list of births, deaths, and marriages appended. He in turn imparted news from New Orleans and the wider world, plus the reassurance, often required, that the Dons were sticking to the terms of the recently signed treaty with the United States.

  ‘Why if they live in Spanish territory, are they so concerned about that?’ asked Harry, having heard the question put for the tenth time.

  ‘The alternatives,’ Tucker replied, ‘like the possibility of a war. This area is just starting to recover from a failure of the indigo crop. Most have switched to cotton or sugar, which finds its market elsewhere. Trouble on the river spells ruin. And the further north we go, the more anxious people get.’

  Tucker hove to south of Bayou Manchac well before dusk, and bade the Frenchmen replenish their pot, then once they’d eaten return to their oars. ‘Tell them to go easy, Ludlow,’ he said. ‘The Dons have guard boats out on the river, though they tend to look upriver rather than south to catch folks.’

  ‘If you think we won’t make it, pull for shore.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have an invitation to go hunting with de Coburrabias.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ replied Tucker with a grin.

  ‘I’d rather not use it.’

  ‘For two hundred thousand Spanish dollars I can see why.’

  ‘The sky looks set to come to our aid,’ said Harry.

  Tucker looked at the increasing cloud cover, which would go a long way to covering the moon. ‘If it thickens we’ll be safe, just as long as we don’t bump into anything.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  TUCKER handed the sweep over to Harry then went forward to set the rowing pace. Fine adjustments were needed to find the right combination that produced progress with the minimum of noise.

  ‘We could muffle the oars,’ called Harry.

  Tucker shook his head. Pender, right beside him, understood why. ‘Reckon he’d find that just too hard to explain away, your honour, that is, if we do get brought to. Then even your invite wouldn’t make them happy.’

  The gloom, once the sun had gone, increased rapidly, and within half an hour complete darkness fell. Lights had begun to appear, pinpoints from candles in dwellings whose upper storeys looked over the levee. Tucker climbed onto the top of the deckhouse, which allowed him a better view. If it grew too dark those lights, and the silhouette of the embankment, were going to have to keep the boat on course. In the glim Harry saw his hand go up, and following it picked out the glow of a greater concentration of light on the horizon, which increased, turning to an orange arc, as they approached the Manchac Post. Coming round a long sweeping bend that had the river running west to east allowed them to see the actual source as, right ahead, the mass of torches lining the battlements came into view. Tucker, climbing down, steered them towards the northern shore.

  ‘We’d be better off on a clear night,’ he said.

  Harry could see he was right. The cloud cover had increased, but it
had also lowered, so that the lights from the elevated fortress bounced off it, extending the effect over the width of the river.

  ‘Trouble is, the fort is right on a sharp turn. They have a picket on the opposite shore, with sharp eyes looking for fools trying to slip by. It’s a favourite trick of the smugglers to get downriver first, then come up all innocent before slipping into the Bayou Manchac.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  Tucker rubbed his chin and cheek, fingering the last of the swellings from his fight with Harry.

  ‘The only question is this. Do they have enough light to see that this is my boat, and that by its draught, it’s empty?’

  ‘It would be very inconvenient if we were stopped, Tucker. The crew would require some explanation, but they might pass. But Pender and I would have to land, then fashion some method of escaping from de Coburrabias. That would take up valuable time. But I can’t judge the risk, only you can do that.’

  ‘Then it’s all hands to the oars, the middle of the channel at full pitch, and if they dip their flag to haul us to, we ignore them.’ Tucker laughed. ‘One Mississippi galley looks much like another, and lifting a finger to the Dons is mighty tempting.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘How are you at singing, Ludlow?’

  ‘Not good,’ replied Pender.

  ‘A ladle of whiskey all round, Pender,’ said Tucker. ‘Two, even. Every man to sing as loud as he can without giving up on the rowing. They think we Kentucky men are heathens who do little else but get blind drunk. Let’s prove to them that they are right.’

  The flag at the mainstaff, which stood at the centre of the palisaded fort, jerked up and down several times before they fired a cannon. Being a signal gun it was not designed to do any damage, but it was soon followed by something more substantial, and a fountain of water sprang from the muddy waters of the orangetinged river. Harry was belting out a tuneless rendition of ‘Britons Strike Home’ while the Frenchmen left on deck waved their poles and sang, surprisingly, the Revolutionary ‘Cà Ira.’ Tucker was staggering about on top of the deckhouse, looking at any moment as if he might tip into the water, as he conducted the singing going on beneath him.