The Scent of Betrayal

by David Donachie

  ‘Back to Bucephalas!’ he yelled. The crew didn’t react right away, quite a few giving him looks that indicated a desire to argue. It was hardly surprising that the loyalty which he’d taken for granted had considerably waned. He’d led these men into a trap in New Orleans, seemed to desert them first for his pleasure then for the pursuit of strangers’ gold, and lost several of their peers trying to escape from something that should have, and could have, been avoided. But right as they might be to temper their trust, he had to command them, or nothing could be achieved. His next words were shouted so loud they were probably heard on shore. ‘Row, damn you!’

  The barge spun so quickly that Harry was thrown into the thwarts. He didn’t mind that, merely raising his head to check that the launch was in his wake. Then he sat upright.

  ‘Row, lads, as if your life depended on it. We have shipmates to rescue.’

  The whole attitude in the boat changed, as men smiled and bent their backs. It hurt him to think that he’d sunk so low in their estimation that they could actually consider that he was planning to desert their mates. The grunts, as they hauled hard on the oars, took on a rhythm of their own. Harry was shouting orders long before he was certain he would be heard. The movement on his deck, as men who’d been set to undertake repairs dropped their tasks, was gratifying. By the time he came aboard the anchor had been catted and fished, and men were aloft to set the sails. Those who came aboard with him didn’t stop to talk, but went straight to their stations. Within a minute everyone aboard knew what had happened. None as yet could figure out what their Captain intended to do about it, though his command to leave all the boats in the water indicated that they were planning some kind of cutting-out expedition.

  ‘Dreaver, fire off those blue lights as soon as we get under way. I want Pender, at least, to know we are coming. As soon as they’re fired, rig a second set.’

  ‘What do you think happened, Harry?’ asked James.

  ‘If that is Pender and his party they’ve been forced to retreat up the road by a superior force. Somehow, we’ve got to get them off.’

  ‘Mr James!’ cried Willerby, who’d popped his head on deck. ‘One of the lads has started bleeding again, real bad.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ James replied, with a deep sigh.

  They had to haul the yards near fore and aft to get them to take the wind, and with the current against them progress was painfully slow. Dreaver fired the blue lights, which added a ghostly tinge to everything; ship, sails and the anxious faces of the crew. The lookouts with the sharpest eyes were sent aloft, with Harry pacing down below, knowing that to look towards the shore was pointless. The first cry from the masthead had him running up the shrouds at a pace he’d not matched since his days as a midshipman. And when he joined the lookout in the crosstrees it seemed to no avail.

  ‘You’ll see them in a minute or two, Capt’n, if’n you just follow the set of my finger.’

  Harry stared hard into what seemed like total blackness, with not even the starlit sky providing anything to see by. Suddenly a ripple of tiny lights flashed to larboard.

  ‘I’ve got them,’ he cried. ‘That’s the same as we saw in the barge. But damn it, where’s the return fire?’

  ‘Would we see that, Capt’n? They might well be firing away from us.’

  ‘I saw them earlier.’

  ‘But you was abreast of ’em, I hear. Stands to reason, if one party is lettin’ off with their guns, they must have somethin’ to aim at.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Harry, as a pinpoint of red light began to glow. It grew rapidly in intensity.

  ‘Fire of some kind,’ said the lookout.

  The first sparks flew up, visible even from this distance. Harry hoped and prayed it was some kind of signal.

  ‘Keep your eye on it. If you think there’s anything I should see, shout.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’

  Harry slid down the backstay to the deck and went to take charge of the wheel. From there he issued a string of orders regarding the trim of the sails. More general instructions followed.

  ‘Guns both side loaded with grapeshot and run out, if you please, and men tallied off to take to the boats at a moment’s notice. Lay out weapons for them as well. And put a man in the chains with a lead.’

  The fire, blazing merrily, was now visible from the deck. There’d been no rain in the delta for weeks and everything was tinder-dry, so it was hardly surprising that whatever it was had gone up so quickly. Harry steered well north of that, then spun round to take both wind and current. Handing over the wheel he took a telescope to the rail and leant over, his entire being concentrated on the area surrounding that patch of flickering red light. James had come back on deck and was standing behind him.

  ‘We lost another man, Harry. I’m sorry.’

  Harry looked round just long enough to reassure him that the sad news had registered, then renewed his gazing. ‘Got them. Their white coats will be the death of the bastards.’

  ‘Got who?’

  ‘Walloon Guards!’ Harry cried. He pointed over the rail just as the fire suddenly flared up. A huge spiral of sparks rose towards the night sky. ‘There, can you see them?’

  The light was just sufficient to pick out the silhouettes of a mass of men against the red of the flames.

  ‘They are behind that embankment. No one downriver can see them, but we can.’

  Harry put the helm over to take the ship further inshore. The only sound to be heard, as they ghosted along, was the cry of the leadsman as he reeled off the soundings, each cast evidence of the decreasing amount of water under the keel. They could see now that some kind of building, perhaps a barn, was on fire, its gaunt frame a black skeleton in the mass of flames. On deck, every gun captain was bent over his piece, squinting through the open gunports for a sight of a target.

  ‘Blue lights,’ said Harry softly. ‘We’d best be sure.’

  The rockets shot into the sky and burst open, to hang there and illuminate the scene below. The combination of the fire and the rockets created a more balanced light, one in which the disciplined ranks of Walloon Guards stood out as clear as day. They should have run, but they delayed too long. By the time they’d begun to break ranks, it was too late.

  ‘Fire!’ yelled Harry. A split second later the flames of the cannon spewed out. There was nothing like this cannonade in the normal military experience, save a massed attack on a well-defended fortress. The small metal balls scythed through the serried ranks. These men suffered tenfold what their fellow soldiers had endured on the levee. They started to run before the second salvo, but the Captains had spread their aim and the result was just as devastating. Harry called for men to man the sails and they came about practically in their own length, but there was nothing much to aim at any more. Those who could run had gone; those who could stagger, a target too pitiful to shoot at. The number of bodies that lay still testified to a carnage that no body of troops, whatever their discipline and regimental pride, could support.

  ‘Boats,’ cried Harry, heading for the side.

  They found de Chigny walking amongst the remains of his command. His own wounds were slight, a ball having grazed his head. But the blow to his pride was massive. It was his orders that had kept their formation intact, his lack of experience that had presented Harry with such a juicy target. When his captor suggested he come aboard Bucephalas to have his head dressed he consented with a resigned air, the status of possible hostage obviously preferable to the idea of facing his superiors after such a defeat.

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten all about me,’ said Pender, wincing as James applied alcohol to one of his several surface wounds. ‘We got to the watergate all right, but there was no boat. Then that army came out after us and we had no choice but to show them our heels.’

  ‘How could I possibly forget you?’ said Harry, with a slight twinge of guilt.

  Stretching painfully, Pender pulled the bag he was carrying over his head. ‘Why n
ot, you forgot this? I reckoned that if’n you could go off without the Frenchies’ presents, you could just as easy go off without me.’

  Harry looked into the bag, which contained the remaining ingots he’d been gifted by Lampin. ‘Now you know why I was so keen to rescue you.’

  Pender gave Harry one of those smiles that never failed to cheer him up. It seemed to light up his whole face. ‘Then I’m right glad I hung onto it,’ he said with a bitter tone that wasn’t matched by his expression.

  There was a degree of mutual embarrassment created by this exchange, one that Pender solved by pointing to the wounded Spaniard. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Harry replied.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said James, reaching behind him for the ship’s log that he’d found on deck. ‘Name’s Quinterras. If there’s any doubt he is the Captain we can always get de Chigny to identify him.’

  Harry took the book off James and having fingered the embossed lettering on the cover started to idly flick through it.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on his identifying his own mother at the moment. He’s in our cabin staring at the bulkhead.’

  ‘Sitting moping, is he?’ said James. ‘Hardly a very soldierly way to behave.’

  It didn’t need Pender’s look to make him wish he’d bitten his tongue. Harry had been the same not 36 hours before. And his brother’s feelings were clearly hurt. His lips were tight and his face drawn. Without saying a word, he spun on his heel and left the cockpit.

  ‘Damn,’ said James, with feeling.

  Harry walked into his cabin with the logbook still open. De Chigny was no longer staring at the bulkhead. Instead, much to Harry’s annoyance, he was sitting on the foot-lockers perusing Hyacinthe’s portrait. The look he got had him throwing it aside and picking up another, as if to demonstrate that he was interested in art, not the female form. Before he could unroll it, Harry thrust the log at him.

  ‘Lieutenant, would you be so kind as to translate this for me?’

  He followed Harry’s finger. ‘June 4th, latitude 25˚ 38’ N.’

  ‘The figures are unimportant,’ said Harry, testily, without explaining that they would merely confuse him, since a Spanish vessel would not use Greenwich as a meridian.

  De Chigny continued sheepishly. ‘Rendezvoused with El Señor de Fajardo de Coburrabias off the Dry Tortugas as arranged. Raised anchor immediately he came aboard and set course for N.O. Winds NNE light but favourable.’

  ‘And this one, if you please?’ said Harry pointing to an inscription further down the page.

  ‘June 6th, latitude…’ He paused as Harry growled, then continued, ‘Winds strengthened; still favourable. Extremely heavy swell. Many troops sea-sick. El Señor convinced he heard gunfire. No one else confirmed. Changed course due west to investigate. Boxed area as commanded for several hours. No sighting or further incidents, resumed northerly course for N. O.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ said Harry, falling back into a chair.

  James came in, prepared to apologise, but de Chigny’s being present made that impossible. The youngster, at a loss to know what to do, unrolled the picture he’d grabbed so hastily. With that facility of the young to recover from all misfortune, he found himself able to laugh. Harry lifted his eyes and glared at him, noticing that the picture he held was the one with the sober-looking lady in the mantilla, the one they’d originally found in the leather case. James walked over and took it out of his hand, examining it closely.

  ‘What is so funny about that?’

  ‘You would not know the lady, Señor. But that air of piety and chastity is really quite droll. It’s just the sort of thing that El Señor de Fajardo de Coburrabias would do.’

  ‘What connection has this lady with him?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Chrétien ran the Hôtel de la Porte d’Orléans when it first opened. Of course, she has risen since then.’

  ‘Risen?’

  ‘She has been the Comandante’s mistress for years. He asked the Barón for permission to marry her. Quite rightly, that was refused. Then he petitioned Madrid, only to receive the same reply. Rumour has it that she had not entirely forsaken her old occupation.’

  ‘Harry…’ said James.

  ‘I know, brother,’ he said sadly. ‘Would you leave us alone for a moment, Lieutenant?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  HARRY sent a boat in at first light under a flag of truce. The contents were quite terse. He intended to make his way downriver the following day, quite prepared to destroy, on his passage, the meagre fortifications that lined the route. De Carondelet would know that with only one galley immediately available he was in no position to stop Bucephalas, just as he would know that the fortifications at Fort St Mary and Plaquemines were too weak to hold out against him. Not even Fort Balize could withstand a determined assault. The threat was not stated, but it was implied that Harry would sit across the mouth of the delta and destroy or turn back every ship that tried to exit, something he could do with impunity until a warship of greater strength could be found to dislodge him. He had prisoners aboard that he’d rather leave in New Orleans, but failing any agreement with the Governor he would keep them aboard. All of this could be avoided by the return of his chest full of treasure, plus the services of a surgeon. Such matters, he knew, required discussion and he was prepared to receive aboard the Barón’s envoy. Past disputes debarred San Lucar de Barrameda. His position disallowed the Governor. Harry therefore suggested that El Señor de Fajardo de Coburrabias had the seniority and the experience to satisfy both parties. Provided the Barón was prepared to stand down the gunners on the remaining riverside bastion, he was prepared to come upriver and berth off New Orleans.

  Harry tore at the seal, eager to read the reply. James was watching him closely, well aware that his brother was close to cracking the thin veneer of indifference he’d adopted. He’d only agreed to the invitation to Don Cayetano on the condition that he be present throughout the talks.

  ‘Yes,’ cried Harry triumphantly. ‘He’s coming.’

  ‘You still have a chance to withdraw, Harry.’

  ‘I must know, James. If I don’t find out this way, I doubt I’ll be able to leave.’ His voice rang out across the deck. ‘All hands to make sail.’

  The wreckage of the galley still hung from the jetty, but a party of men was aboard trying to salvage what they could. The Navarro was tied up alongside, the Bourbon flag flickering at the masthead. Harry had the same good eyes aloft watching the forty-two-pounder guns. They took at least ten men to operate and the lookout had instructions that if he observed more than four, he was to call out. He saw the party approach the Navarro and go aboard, de Coburrabias very prominent both in his clothing and bearing.

  ‘Pender,’ said Harry, quietly. ‘Man-of-war fashion when he comes aboard.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’

  The Navarro cast off, oars dipping into the river to propel it out into the anchorage. She made quick progress, as though those on board wanted to impress the Captain of the ship that could so easily have destroyed them. Being a galley it could come right alongside with little difficulty, so de Coburrabias was not required to transfer to another boat. They shipped the oars with commendable precision and drifted into the fenders that Harry had put over the side. The gangplank was pushed out to form a bridge, and to the sound of pipes, the senior soldier of the Louisiana Territory, followed by the surgeon, was welcomed aboard. Harry had his fists balled so tight his nails were digging into his palms, but he forced himself to smile, and to bow. Then, having handed the doctor over to Dreaver, led the way to his cabin, which had been laid out for the conference. On his desk lay a chart of the Gulf of Mexico, and under that were stacked the three paintings. Formal greetings were exchanged, as protocol demanded, then at last they could get down to business, taking their places at the round dining table. He knew James was watching him, afraid that he’d suddenly strike the soldier, so he smiled to reassure him. Oddly enough it was genuin
e. He felt utterly calm, as if he’d drifted out of his body and was watching his actions from afar.

  ‘I am instructed to inform you that the Barón de Carondelet cannot agree to your proposals.’

  ‘What, Don Cayetano, not any of them?’

  ‘Naturally he would like his prisoners back, especially Lieutenant de Chigny. And he is perfectly prepared to allow you to depart the Mississippi unmolested.’

  ‘That is decent of him. Will he be sending me the money he stole?’

  ‘The Barón would not accept that his actions be described as theft.’

  ‘Very well, Don Cayetano. You may tell His Excellency that I am prepared to depart without my money on only one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That he hands over to me the man who murdered Juan Baptiste Rodrigo and Hyacinthe Feraud.’

  The soldier didn’t even flick an eyebrow. ‘That seems a strange request. It is made doubly so by the fact that the Barón does not know who the person is, or indeed if it is only one.’

  ‘No, Don Cayetano. I don’t suppose he does.’ Harry stood up quickly. ‘May I show you something?’

  ‘If it has a bearing on our discussions, yes.’

  ‘It does, I do assure you.’

  Harry walked over to his desk, waited for de Coburrabias to join him, then stabbed a finger at the chart.

  ‘To make a landfall at Havana you have to go south to latitude 23°, to the top of the Yucatan Channel, then allow the Gulf Stream to push you up to the Florida Straits. You must do nearly twice the distance to cover the same ground. And coming back that same tide is against you.’

  ‘I fail to see—’

  Harry cut right across him. ‘But if you only go as far as the Dry Tortugas, you’re still in the Gulf of Mexico. James, could we have the logbook?’

  Harry took it off his brother and opened it at the marked page.