Pierre only looked at him. Jean shook his head. “You’d have about as much luck as you would asking to be taken on as a guard at the king’s warehouse.”
“Now, why would I want to do that?”
“Because,” said his father deliberately, “that’s where our goods are stored.”
Cyrene paused in the act of stirring the fish stew she was cooking. “If he could become a guard—”
“Yes, we just might steal back our belongings,” Jean finished for her. “But they would no more hire one of us to be a guard than they would set a mouse to look after cheese.”
“No,” she said, her shoulders drooping.
The subject was allowed to languish. Cyrene set the meal she had prepared on the table and they ate. The Bretons, as they were wont to do, got up to help her with the dishes, scraping their plates over the side of the boat and rinsing them in the river before bringing them to be washed, scrubbing out the big kettle she had used, wiping the table, and sweeping the floor. Cyrene was preoccupied. She handed the last handful of wooden spoons to Gaston to be dried before she finally spoke.
“Suppose,” she said, her voice grim, “suppose we were to steal our goods back, anyway?”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Pierre objected. “It would be too dangerous.”
“Theft of crown property? I can feel the whip now. And Pierre was not meant to hang.” Jean gave a mock shudder.
“It isn’t crown property,” she reminded them stubbornly. “It’s ours, taken from us by trickery.”
“The governor wouldn’t agree.” Pierre’s voice had a bitter edge.
“Then bedamned to him!” she burst out. “Are we going to let him deprive us of our livelihood, our only means of bettering ourselves?”
“Are you sure it’s the governor you are talking about?”
“Who else?” She turned on Gaston, who had entered the fray with his comment.
“Lemonnier, for instance?”
She recognized the truth in the suggestion but refused to let it make a difference, just as she declined to admit that no small part of her rage was because her own personal goods had been taken, too, and with them her prospects for the future.
“What of it?” she demanded. “You call it theft to take it back, but we were robbed. We all know what will happen to our goods, if it hasn’t already. They’ll find their way into the coffers of the governor’s wife or else those of the intendant commissary or some army officer. This fine colony is a nest of thieves of one sort or another, official or otherwise. The only rule for name calling is whether you get caught at what you do.”
The men exchanged glances among themselves. It was Pierre who spoke at last. “The guards have been known to be lax after midnight.”
“And before,” Jean agreed, “especially if strong drink is offered.”
“We couldn’t take just what was ours; that would be like pointing a finger at ourselves.” This bit of wisdom came from Gaston, who had an avid look in his eye.
“We are not common thieves,” Jean told him with an assumption of dignity that was tarnished somewhat as he went on. “We could take only a few casks of indigo and maybe a bale or two of blankets, just to throw them off the track.”
“Bribing the guards is too risky,” Pierre mused. “Maybe a diversion, now, a nice fire or a fight?”
“Or a naked woman running down the street?” Gaston suggested.
His father looked at him with pity. “There’s nothing new about that.”
“Maybe not, but it would get my attention.”
“I don’t doubt it would,” Jean said sadly.
And so they bantered and tossed suggestions back and forth, and, within the span of twenty-four hours, had not only decided that it could be done but how it should be arranged and when was the best time. Regardless, they might not have decided once and for all to brave the consequences if it had not been for the note from René.
It was brought by a young boy who said the gentleman known as Lemonnier, the Sieur de Vouvray, had given him a piastre to deliver it. Brief and to the point, it said that Madame Vaudreuil desired to hire a number of boatmen for a trip upriver to supply merchandise to a post commandant. The lady would be happy to give employment to the Bretons if they cared to accept it.
“Our goods, do you think?” Gaston asked when the note had passed from hand to hand.
“It’s possible,” Pierre said.
Jean snorted. “Possible! I’d say it was certain.”
“Are we going, then?” Gaston looked from his uncle to his father and back again.
Pierre’s expression was dark as he said, “It’s money, something we need.”
“A paltry sum for breaking our backs in the service of the governor’s wife when we could have had our rightful proceeds.” Jean smiled. “Of course, the merchandise could disappear before it arrived.”
“It could if we wanted to take to the woods forever,” Pierre agreed.
They were quiet a moment. Cyrene spoke into that momentary silence. “Does it strike you that this offer is an insult?”
Pierre looked at her from under his brows. “In what way?”
“René, and the marquise, must know that we will understand we are being asked to transport our own property. It’s like salt in a wound, something meant to sting.”
Pierre gave a short laugh. “So it is. We’ll hire ourselves out.”
“What?”
“We will show ourselves willing, even happy, to earn our bread as the marquise’s men. We will hire on to transport this merchandise as far up the Mississippi as a boat can go this time of year. We will bow and scrape, pull our forelocks and show our muscles. But we will never leave the levee.”
“How is this?” Jean demanded, his gaze suspicious.
“The goods now in the warehouse, you understand, will be gone.”
A smile began to glow in his brother’s eyes. “Spirited away in the night?”
“A miraculous disappearance.”
“Shall we moan about the loss of our hire?”
“We will cry until it would wring pity from a stone.”
“And will we go trading again, blessed by, perhaps, a run of lady luck at the gaming table?”
“Another miracle.”
Cyrene, her lips curving in a smile at their nonsense, said, “You don’t want to place too much dependence on miracles.”
“Why should we not,” Pierre said, “when we have our lady luck still with us? Our Cyrene?”
11
THE NIGHT WAS moonless and dull with overhanging clouds. The wind that had been out of the south all day had died, leaving the air thick with moisture and clammily cool. Gray fog rose off the river, drifting through the streets of New Orleans. It clung to rooftops and curled about the flagpole and the gallows in the Place Royale. It muffled sound so that the barking of a dog two streets over sounded flat and faraway. In its thickness were the smells of mud and the smoke of dying embers in banked fires.
The hour was late. Most of the town was sunk in sleep, though one or two pothouses still showed a light. The only movements in the streets were a drunk winding his way homeward and a cat stalking along with its fur glistening with damp and the limp body of a huge wharf rat hanging from its mouth.
It was even quieter and darker along the river levee that lay just beyond the square, where the ships docked and their cargoes were unloaded. The king’s warehouses, repositories of the wares that poured from the ships’ holds, were long buildings crudely constructed of logs and planking and lying at right angles to the river. Before the main warehouse a lantern of pierced tin gleamed, hanging from a crosspiece above the door. In its glow a pair of soldiers with muskets at the ready paraded slowly back and forth.
Cyrene, with Pierre, Jean, and Gaston, stood in the shadows of another warehouse belonging to a group of merchants and watched the guards. The two men were neither the best nor the worst of the crown’s soldiers; they were only men carrying out the duty as
signed to them. They kept moving because that was their orders and because it was the best way to ward off sleep. Their minds could not have been further from what they were doing. They exchanged a quip or two as they passed back and forth, but for the most part their eyes were glazed with boredom, with sleep denied, and with the contemplation of their own concerns.
It occurred to Cyrene to wonder what would happen to these two men if goods were stolen from the warehouse during their watch. It was almost certain they would be disciplined for allowing the loss. As regrettable as that might be, it could not be permitted to influence what they meant to do.
The plan was Pierre’s. It had been carefully worked out to the last detail, but, as he had told them, there were always problems, errors of judgment, or circumstances that could not be controlled. They should be ready to improvise. Thinking of the things she must do, Cyrene felt sickness in the pit of her stomach. It had seemed so easy to take their things back from the king’s warehouse and spirit them away when they first spoke of it on the flatboat. Right was on their side; why should it not prevail? But now, looking at the solid bulk of the warehouse, the military precision and lethal weapons of the guards, the whole idea appeared foolhardy in the extreme. It was she who had urged this course, inciting the Breton men to it out of her own anger and chagrin. If anything went wrong, if anything happened to these men who had become her family, she would not be able to forgive herself.
She had started this. It was possible she could stop it. She opened her mouth, but before she could make a sound, Pierre spoke.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” Jean and Gaston echoed.
“Good, good. Remember, if there is a difficulty, we separate and fly. En avant, mes enfants. We go.”
Pierre and Jean eased away, merging into the darkness. Gaston took Cyrene’s arm, smiling down at her. Her feet were leaden as she began to move. Then the two of them were stepping into the muddy track that ran between the levee and the warehouses, moving into the searching beam of the lantern, staggering along as if they were supporting each other in drunkenness. They weaved their way toward the guards on duty.
Cyrene had pushed her hair under a coif so that it was completely covered. She had used flour to make her skin dead white and had stained her lips and cheeks with berry juice. A liberal sprinkling of black patches from a box of them that had belonged to her mother served to give her a dissipated look, as if she were covering blemishes or pox sores. It was the best she could do in the way of a disguise without appearing suspicious; she only hoped it would give her the anonymity required for success.
Gaston had also made an attempt to conceal his identity. His stocking cap was pulled down to his eyebrows and a couple of twists of bear fur had been turned into bristling mustaches. He walked with a gangling, bent-kneed stride and wore Pierre’s oversized coat in an effort to appear older and shorter than he was in fact. It was possible that neither looked as grotesque as they felt; the guards gave them only the most cursory glance.
Onward they lurched, with Cyrene swinging her hips and Gaston clutching at her. When they were just so close and no closer, Cyrene gave a shrill cry and pushed Gaston so that he staggered back. He cursed in loud, slurred tones and rounded on her, grappling with her. The shawl Cyrene wore slipped, revealing a bare shoulder where the tie of her chemise was loosened. She slapped Gaston and he grasped her bodice, tearing the buttons. The lantern light over the warehouse door caught the gleam of firm white flesh. The soldiers paused, staring lasciviously.
Cyrene dragged herself from Gaston’s hold, wailing, pleading. With one hand grasping the edges of her torn clothing without much benefit to her modesty, she ran toward the guards. They were frankly staring, perhaps out of concern, perhaps in enjoyment of the show. She spread her hands wide toward them in a gesture of supplication that allowed her chemise to spill open halfway to her waist. She felt the rush of cold night air on her naked skin, saw the eyes of the guards widen.
A pair of shadows, swift-moving and silent, detached themselves from the darkness at the sides of the warehouse, moving from the back. They closed in on the guards from behind. There came soft grunts, the thud of blows, and the two soldiers collapsed at the knees. They were dragged quickly out of sight around the building where they were bound and gagged. Cyrene, her lips thin with distaste, quickly did up her bodice.
The Bretons did not bother to force the lock on the front double doors of the long building. As with most wood structures in the damp climate, the foundation of the warehouse was half eaten away by rot and termites. It was the work of only a few minutes with a prize bar to lift off a section of the planking on the darker side of the warehouse wall near where the trussed soldiers lay. When the opening was wide enough, Cyrene took the lantern they had removed from its hook and slipped inside while Pierre and Gaston made the hole wide enough for the passage of the merchandise. Jean had already left at a run to bring the pirogues beached farther along the levee closer.
The interior of the warehouse smelled of leather and wool and rusting iron, of wheat, spices, and dried fruit, of salt beef and beans — all overlaid with the odors of mice and soured wine. The long space was divided down the middle by a raised platform, while more platforms to hold the merchandise above the damp earth floor were built against the wall, forming a double aisle. The wide, shelflike platforms were by no means full. It seemed the governor’s complaints about the lack of tribute and trade goods for the Indians were valid.
There were a few barrels of coarsely ground flour, bundles of blankets, some kegs holding brandy and wine, and piles of long boxes that might have contained arms and ammunition or could just as easily have held the walking sticks decreed by fashion. Crates held iron pots and knives and hatchets. Bales of rough cloth in crude colors were stacked to the ceiling. A motley assortment of barrels, bundles, trunks, and cases in various sizes holding unknown contents were piled here and there. As a show of the might of France, it was not impressive.
The items that had been taken from the Bretons were easy enough to find. They were collected in one place on the central platform and neatly tagged with a lot number. In a gesture that came near to affectionate, Cyrene patted the top of a cask before she turned and gave a wave of triumph to the Bretons.
With the four of them working, the pile of goods rapidly dwindled as it was transferred to the pirogues. Despite the jokes they had made about taking extra casks of indigo or bales of blankets, they scrupulously left behind everything except what was theirs. Even so, the piles in the pirogues grew high as the boxes and bundles and bales of furs were moved with little concern for close packing.
The first indication of trouble was the sound a whistle from Jean outside. Gaston was just hefting a box of English steel knives. He looked at Cyrene. She straightened from where she had been stacking together her collection of pots that had for some reason been taken apart. Her gaze met that of the younger man, which was wide with anxiety. From Gaston she looked at Pierre, who had been making toward the opening in the wall with a sack holding glass beads in each hand. The older man’s face was grim as he stood still, listening.
Almost immediately, there came the sound of a shouted order from somewhere down the street. Pierre dropped the sacks of beads and leaped to the wall opening. He ducked back inside again.
“It’s a patrol! Douse the lantern. Jean’s away to the pirogues. I’ll take the other direction and divide the pursuit.” He gave Cyrene and Gaston a hard, straight look. “You two get out when you can. And remember, separate.”
He was gone in an instant. Cyrene whirled in the direction of the lantern, which sat on the platform. Gaston tucked the box of knives under his arm but did not move as he waited for her.
“Go on,” she cried as she reached the lantern and picked it up. “I’m coming!”
The youngest of the Bretons hesitated, then turned to the opening in the wall. He took a long stride, then another, though he looked back at her over his shoulder. He rounded the end of the ce
nter section.
It was too late. There was a rasping noise and the great end door swung open directly in front of Gaston. Four soldiers, muskets at the ready, plunged inside. They came to a halt. There was a shouted order and the men dropped to one knee, raising their muskets.
Cyrene used the only weapon she had, the lantern. She flung it with all the strength of terror and tempered muscles at the soldier in the lead. He brought up the butt of his musket to bat it away. The tin buckled and hot oil spewed in a spreading stream as the lantern was struck and sent flying toward a pile of baled blankets. It landed against them, and fire exploded in a yellow rush of heat and fury. The blankets were engulfed. The air was filled with the smell of hot oil and the acrid stench of burning wool. Yelling in panic, the soldiers dropped their guns and began to pull off their coats to beat at the flames.
Fire was the most dreaded enemy of this isolated town. It was a more devastating foe than the wind storms that whirled in from the gulf flattening homes and shops. The threat of it would hold back the soldiers for precious seconds.
Gaston had already thrown down his knives and was gone. Cyrene could not follow behind him because of the heat of the flames. She whirled instead, running back down the aisle to circle the far end, making for the hole in the wall by way of the second aisle. Like one of the flickering shadows cast by the leaping flames, she darted among the bales and barrels, keeping close to the wall as more men, soldiers and civilians, poured in through the main doorway.
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