The Cards Don't Lie

by Sue Ingalls Finan

  Jacques hesitated for just a moment and then said, “Marguerite, that’s a splendid idea!” He added, “But you’re right—this is a busy time of year. The men are still positioning the seed stems into the furrowed ground.”

  “Look!” He pointed first to the slave cabins and then beyond, to the toiling field hands. “We’re planning on a bigger yield, which is why we need more housing for additional slaves. Before harvest, I must acquire more hogsheads for the raw sugar, as well as barrels for the molasses. And, of course, we’re building a new sugar mill, so we need to get more animals to power it. Tobias and I are sure that sugar will be Louisiana’s next big crop. Cotton will still be strong, of course, because of the cotton gin, but . . .”

  He stopped for a second, noticing the look on Marguerite’s face.

  “Now, darling, don’t pout! Of course you’ll have your party; it’s a grand idea. But I won’t be able to help you very much. Remember that running a plantation is a year-round business. Especially this year, with the expansion, I have to watch my crop prices, my slaves’ numbers and needs, and the water level. But I’m certain you and your mother will give the finest party Louisiana has ever had!”

  “Oh, Jacques,” she said. “We will indeed! Thank you, my darling.” Then, wiping her brow, she added, “My, it’s so warm and muggy out here!”

  “Yes, it’s been a very hot and uncomfortable summer this year. You should probably stay inside with your mother.”

  “You’re right, Jacques. I love the way you try to take care of me. Well, I was just going to the kitchen to make some changes for our dinner with the head cook. I’ll send a cold drink out for you.”

  “Thank you, darling. Oh, and send one out for Tobias, too. We’ll be in my office.”

  Tarot: THE TWO OF WANDS

  Revelation: Riches; fortune; magnificence;

  a new venture full of potential.

  The Dorada made its way from the Gulf of Mexico to the Mississippi River Delta and landed on Grand Terre, a midsize island with smaller islands around it.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Bartholomew. “We have shrimp, crabs, oysters, and fish in the water; frogs and turtles in the marshes; rabbits, squirrels, and deer in the forest; and ducks, geese, and other water birds all around.”

  “Great! Although we’ve had better fare than the English Navy provides, I’m tired of salted sea rations!”

  “And, I’m happy to say, there are lots of women ashore, some of them young and not yet spoken for.”

  “That sounds better yet!”

  A number of ships were already anchored. Farther up the beach, Peter could see cottages among the palm, pine, and oak trees, festooned with Spanish moss that gave the scene an ethereal beauty.

  Not quite so fragile-looking were the flamboyant pirates walking about. Many of them wore red-and-black-striped blouses, pantaloons, boots, and bandannas. Cutlasses, knives, swords, and earrings flashed in the sunlight.

  “How many people live here, Bart?”

  “There are about a thousand of us privateers, and many have wives and families.”

  “Since they’re not at sea, um, acquiring commodities, what does everybody do?”

  “There’s plenty of work here, Peter; besides delivering the goods, we need to store them in one of the forty warehouses. Of course, that takes a lot of sorting, cleaning, and categorizing. We have merchandise from all over. Besides Europe, we have goods from Mexico, South America, and the West Indies; slaves captured from slave ships; and sugar, spices, rum, silverware, cloth, fine china—luxuries of all kinds. Everything the people in New Orleans could wish for, we have it!”

  “You mentioned slaves again. . . .”

  “Sometimes we have several hundred of them in the pens, called barracoons. We feed and exercise them there until the auction. Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop in New Orleans is always busy making shackles and chains.”

  Bartholomew changed the subject and pointed to a large house. “Look over there,” he said. “That’s Captain Lafitte’s home. And on the west end you can see our fort, armed with cannons.”

  “Are you worried about being attacked?” asked Peter.

  “No, we’re pretty safe here. To the north, we’re surrounded by miles of bayous and reedy marshland; the grasses are even taller than you! You don’t want to go swimming, because of the alligators and water moccasins.” He laughed at his own joke. “On the open water, we have our ships, of course. Also, Lafitte has been storing away arms, ammunition, and cannonballs in various places. Again, I don’t think we’ll ever be in danger, but one never knows.”

  Peter nodded, wondering what this new situation would be like. Penshurst seemed very far away.

  Bartholomew broke into his thoughts. “So, we’re able to take our goods to New Orleans in pirogues, through a water route made up of bayous, lakes, and the Mississippi.”

  “How do you know where the land ends and the water begins?” Peter asked.

  “Experience,” answered Bartholomew. “Many of those bayous turn back upon themselves, cross and recross, and finally end up in a cul-de-sac. Men have fallen ill, gone missing, and died in Barataria. It’s perfect for our needs, though.”

  “As long as you don’t get lost. . . .”

  “Just don’t go out by yourself until you know your way around; it can be disorienting.”

  “And the weather? It must be ninety-some degrees here.”

  “Probably is. This hot weather is typical for the end of summer. Next month it will start cooling a bit; it’s milder in the winter, mostly in the fifties, with a fair amount of rainfall—five or six inches each month. Sometimes thunderstorms. Lots of fog and humidity. Just leaving your house in the morning and walking a few feet away, you begin to perspire. A lot. It’s not like where you came from.”

  Bartholomew waved to a couple of the burly buccaneers onshore. “Come on,” he said to Peter. “Let’s get you acquainted.”

  To be sure, Peter thought, Penshurst is very far away.

  Tarot: THE ACE OF WANDS

  Revelation: The beginning of an enterprise.

  October 1813

  This month was special, for it hailed the start of the social season for free women of color. This was also the time when many young girls’ destinies were designed and determined, for it was in October that the wealthy quadroon matrons sponsored the grand Bal de Cordon Bleu on Rue de St. Philip, specifically to make permanent arrangements for their daughters with well-born Creole men. These settlements, called plaçages in French, were sometimes referred to as left-handed marriages.

  This evening, along with the other mothers, Catherine Caresse sat on the side of the warm ballroom. All were attired in elegant evening gowns, slowly fanning themselves, sipping champagne, and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. And, like the other older women, Catherine was appraising the white males milling about in their snowy, ruffled shirts and dark, fitted suits. Some men were smiling, having just won money from gambling on the first floor of the building. Several of the older, more portly gentlemen were red-faced from having climbed the stairs to the ballroom in the heat of the evening. Regardless of their age, Catherine noted, many of them had eyes on her sixteen-year-old daughter, who was dressed in her finest, ivory silk dress, her petite waist defined by her whalebone corset and cinched with a brilliant green ribbon, her slender neck adorned with one beautiful emerald.

  And why wouldn’t they be watching my daughter? thought Catherine. Suzanne is the loveliest girl here.

  Suzanne looked even more beautiful in the flickering candlelight, like a butterfly shimmering. Her green eyes shone out from under her fluttering, dark lashes, her copper-colored curls delicately framing her honey-colored, heart-shaped face.

  I must remember to compliment Hortense on the wonderful way she dressed Suzanne’s hair, thought Catherine.

  Turning her attention back to the males, Catherine, herself a beautiful free woman of color and the former placée of a green-eyed plantation owner, considered the suito
rs’ credentials.

  The tall privateer, Mr. Lafitte, was there; his eyes, too, were locked on Suzanne’s winsome figure. Catherine coolly assessed him.

  Wealthy: yes. All six feet of him quite handsome: yes. But his own class, white Creole society, does not yet accept him in their parlors or at their social events. No, he is not suitable for my Suzanne. My daughter’s lover must be a wealthy young Creole from a highly esteemed family. He will promise paternal recognition of future children, supply a fine home in our Quadroon Quarter—complete with a cook, a maid, and an errand boy—and continually provide sufficient money for the education, prosperity, and safekeeping of his second family.

  And, of course, Catherine’s scheme included negotiating a healthy payment for herself for arranging this plaçage. Just as Catherine’s own mother had successfully marketed her at a quadroon ball, so, too, was Catherine merchandising Suzanne to guarantee her a secure future.

  Catherine recognized another man, younger than the famous privateer, the handsome, light-haired son of a local plantation owner. His name was René Bonet, and he was eagerly making his way to Suzanne’s side while she was already flirting with several admirers. The new young man said just a few words to her and extended his hand. Catherine watched as Suzanne responded with delight, her dimples fully on display. Then she daintily took his hand, smiled up at him, and proceeded with him to the dance floor.

  Yes, this René is the perfect match. And now, Catherine thought, it is Suzanne’s task to charm her way into this young man’s heart.

  Catherine herself would then make her way into his pockets.

  Tarot: THE DEVIL

  Revelation: Facing darkness;

  perceiving the untamed.

  Millie wanted out. They all did. Every working girl she knew would give the rest of her teeth for the opportunity to leave the profession. The career lasted only fifteen years at most, and then nearly all the girls were dead by age thirty—besides the universal scourges of smallpox, influenza, typhus, and cholera, plus the epidemics of typhoid and yellow fever, there were the accompanying risks of the trade: venereal disease, battery, and murder.

  A very few had escaped and learned to be seamstresses or procured jobs in a dance hall. But, no other employment opportunities were available, the remainder had to continue working in the only profession they knew.

  Millie’s maternal family had been here in the “business” since 1720. Her great-grandmother had had the choice to remain imprisoned in France or be exiled to Louisiana. As a working girl, she had chosen the latter and settled in La Nouvelle-Orléans. Most of the importees were smugglers, thieves, and beggars. Her new neighbors and customers were the dregs of society.

  Almost one hundred years later, this miserable life continued in the brothels. The customers were of all sorts: sailors, gamblers, boatmen, workingmen, and wealthy merchants. It was the population of a vibrant and growing city, clamoring and shrieking in a dozen different languages.

  Most of the working girls could not refuse any customer, no matter how repulsive, obnoxious, or violent he appeared, and no matter what disgusting demands he might make. When pushed against the wall, his face in hers, expelling heavy breath evocative of rotten fish, mirroring perversion and debauchery, she had to consent. Or starve.

  Luckily, though, because Millie’s mother was the madam of the “house,” her customers were the least offensive. Millie had built up a clientele among which, although she didn’t look forward to any of their arrivals, some had become not friends, and certainly not romantic lovers, but likable enough, given the circumstances.

  They also seemed to prefer her because of her fastidiousness. Unlike her peers, she was very tidy and clean and insisted that her customers also be washed themselves. Her mother had taught her how to incorporate this into her “routine,” insisting that it helped prevent disease. “You don’t want any stinking body in your bed,” she had counseled her daughter.

  Millie also kept a supply of sheep’s-gut condoms on hand, building that into her repertoire of titillating tricks. Of course, because they were expensive, she reused them. One lasted an entire week before disintegrating into shreds.

  Naturally, she protected herself further by inserting inside her the rind of half a lemon, including some of its acidic flesh, as a homemade cervical cap. It wasn’t foolproof, but . . .

  Millie could hear her next client clambering up the stairs from the ground-floor saloon. She played her own personal guessing game: Would he be a sailor, a gambler, a boatman, or perhaps . . . The good news was that he hadn’t stumbled yet. That might mean that he was not drunk.

  She heard his boot steps on the landing outside her room. It’s showtime, she thought. The door opened.

  “Hello, Millie,” said the young seaman. “Do you remember me?” He had an eager, hopeful smile on his face.

  Millie recognized his type; like the rest of Jean Lafitte’s Baratarians, he wore a red-and-black-striped shirt overhanging his breeches. His leggings were tucked into tall, dark boots. The glint of a gold earring in his right ear caught her eye. But he did not have the thick beard and mustache that most of his cohorts sported. He hadn’t had the time to grow them in yet. This pirate and Millie were probably the same age.

  “Why, of course I do, honey,” Millie replied softly. “You’re my . . .” She was going to utter some inane endearment, such as “handsomest man” or “favorite dear heart,” when she actually did remember who this client was.

  “Pete!” she responded with a smile. The young man grinned broadly when she called out his name. He had seen her only a few times before. However, she remembered even more about him as he quickly removed his clothing and prepared to jump into her bed. “Uh-uh-uh!” she said. “First some suds for my favorite seaman!”

  She had privately nicknamed him the Gabber. He was new to Barataria. He had told her on his first visit that he was lonely, and she understood; hers was a lonely life, too. They had talked the whole night. She chuckled to herself, remembering their conversation:

  “Just a few months ago, Millie, after having a few drinks with friends in Penshurst—”

  “Penshurst? Where’s Penshurst?”

  “It’s southeast of London. Ann Boleyn grew up there.”

  “Ann Boleyn?”

  “King Henry the Eighth’s second wife. He had six of them altogether. I’ll tell you about them another time.”

  She had smiled. “Sorry for interrupting, Pete. You’re just so interesting! Please continue.”

  It had been his turn to smile. “Anyway, I went outside for a couple of minutes, and I was hit over the head, kidnapped, and forced by a press gang to join the Royal Navy.”

  “Were you in any battles?”

  “No, because several weeks later, I jumped overboard and swam to an island, but then Lafitte’s privateers picked me up.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t take your clothes and kill you. They could have made you walk off the gangplank!”

  “They don’t really do that. If they want to get rid of you, they just throw you into the ocean. Because I’m a carpenter, though, they gave me a choice of joining them or dying. Lucky for me, they always need carpenters. Actually, I kind of like the life of a privateer.”

  “But isn’t it like the Royal Navy?”

  “Not at all. On the Navy ship, the captain was both dictatorial and sadistic, and the cat-o’-nine-tails was in frequent use. Plus, the King rarely pays his sailors.”

  “No wonder you escaped! And the pirates?”

  “Ahem, yes, the privateers”—Peter had emphasized the last word—“are very democratic. We elect the captain, determine whether someone should be punished, and how. And we divide equally the value of any goods captured.”

  “What rules do the—ahem—privateers have?” she had asked with a grin.

  “Well, we can’t bring any females aboard when we’re setting sail, for one thing.

  “Is that because we’re the enemy?” she had asked, twirling a lock of his
hair in a provocative manner.

  “No,” he had answered, drawing her in closer. “You’re the prize. And besides, Millie, you wouldn’t like being a privateer. We sometimes run out of food and water, and anyone caught having an open flame around the powder room is put to death. Aside from that, though, it’s a good life. And spending time with you makes it even better!”

  Each time Peter visited, he told her more stories from his homeland. Millie heard all about the Tudors, the Romans, and King Arthur and his knights. Peter even described the Cornish pasties his mother used to make. He talked all night, after “business” was through, and he paid her well for her time.

  Millie didn’t mind; in fact, she found Peter’s stories wonderfully diverting. They transported her away from her small room, with its barred window and stale smells of smoke and liquor. She especially liked his pirate adventures (although he insisted on calling himself a “privateer”), including his spying exploits (which he referred to as “intelligence gathering”), his smuggling escapades (he alluded to them as “importing missions”), the attacks and sometimes bloody brawls (“struggles,” he said), and the plundered spoils (which he spoke of as “resources” or “assets”).

  To Millie, these feats were titillating. Peter did not mention (although Millie knew it) that if the English captured him and his mates, they’d be executed. But no other career could give him access to a potential fortune: gold, silver, silks, spices, and—Millie thought, best of all—freedom.

  “I’m very happy to see you, Pete,” she said seductively, finishing the preparations for his bath. She crooked her finger at him, smiling. “Come on over here and let me wash off all your worries. Then you and me can get wild tonight! How does that sound?”

  Splash!

  Tarot: THE TEN OF CUPS

  Revelation: Attainment of the heart’s desires;

  ongoing and permanent contentment.