Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  By the time the sun started coasting down the sky, Félicité had prepared boiled cabbage palm, steamed plantains, and flat cakes made from the sawdust-like flour of the manioc baked on a flat stone before the fire. Served with a few slices of the roast pig left from the day before, it made a meal she was not ashamed of.

  Morgan seemed to find it more than adequate. He wolfed down his portion and looked around hopefully for more. It was not surprising. He had worked as hard as any and harder than most. Several times during the day Félicité had glanced toward the ships drawn up in the cove, picking out his broad-shouldered form with his scarred back from the rest.

  She had noticed in the last days on the ship, and here on the island also, that Morgan enjoyed physical labor, doing something with his hands. In many ways he seemed more in his proper element here, freed of the constraint of a uniform and the endless niggling details and petty restrictions that were the lot of a Spanish officer. It was a pity, she thought, that he had been unable to turn such thrusting energy into some worthwhile endeavor. For instance, the estate he had envisioned on the grant of land promised to him. O’Reilly had made a mistake in not keeping to his promise. Such men as Morgan McCormack would do much to make Louisiana the productive colony that it needed to be, should be.

  What use was it to repine? Morgan had lost his land, and she had lost her home. There was nothing for them but this island and the sea and an uncertain future. She looked up to find Morgan watching her, a serious light in his green eyes.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I was wondering what you mean to do — later, I mean, when you are finished with all this.” She waved a hand at the ships in the harbor.

  “Do? Why should I do anything?”

  “You can’t go on like this forever.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you aren’t likely to live that long!” she snapped, irritated by his deliberate obtuseness.

  “Why should I not make my fortune by sacking English capitals? Like Iberville, who nearly bankrupted the Hudson Bay Trading Company by destroying Port Nelson and Fort William Henry, to say nothing of dozens of other English fishing villages in North America, before he became the respected founder of the fair city of New Orleans. If he can live so exciting and honored a life, and die in his bed, why not it?”

  “He may have died in his bed, but he was put there by a tropical fever before he reached thirty-five, not something you would wish to emulate, I hope. But at least he had his country to back him and to accept his allegiance. To my knowledge, you have none. From whence, then, will come your honors?”

  “Most likely the first country I tender a bribe,” he answered with easy cynicism. “What piques my curiosity, my sweet, is why you are so concerned.”

  “That must be obvious,” she countered. “For the moment my future is linked with yours.”

  “So it is. You are my messmate, my bedmate, my woman — as far as the other men know or can tell. If you are unhappy with the arrangement, there is Bast over there proudly grieving. Or perhaps you would prefer the good captain? He has the undoubted advantage of being one of your countrymen.”

  “No,” Félicité said, then spoke louder, trying to see past the mask of his features. “No.”

  “Why? Because I am undemanding? I cannot promise always to be so.”

  Félicité lowered her lashes. “If you mean to make me regret asking you questions, you are doing a fair job of it.”

  His silence was intense, arrested. She glanced up to see him rubbing a hand over his face in an old familiar gesture, running the fingers back through his hair. His green eyes were dark as he said, “I think maybe it’s time we went to see about that bath.”

  They reached the cave along the beach, climbing to it using handholds and ledges that had been cut decades ago. Their ascent flushed a colony of terns, which circled, crying, above them, the undersides of their wings pink with the glow of the setting sun.

  Inside, the cave widened, growing higher. Tunnels and passageways opened from it, winding away into darkness. Their slightest word echoed in the hollow emptiness, and the sound stirred the furry brown bats that hung from the ceiling, speeding their evening flight. They darted here and there, swooping out the front opening, emitting thin, high-pitched shrieks, but seemed harmless enough. After the first one brushed past her so that she jumped, Félicité, catching the amusement on Morgan’s face, stood still and let them go.

  The bathing pool was a dark and mysterious shimmer at the back of the cave. Félicité moved toward it over the sandy floor as if drawn. It looked bottomless, a catch basin perhaps eight feet wide and the same in length with red-brown stone on its sides. It caught and reflected small glimmers of light, and also the white of the overhead limestone, so that it appeared like a giant moonstone, luminous and uncomforting.

  Morgan fished a small piece of soap from his pocket. “You go first. I’ll keep watch.”

  “Yes, all right,” she said, and could not keep the dubiousness from her voice.

  He laughed down at her. “Don’t worry. It’s only about five feet deep, or less, and the bottom is solid rock.”

  He walked away, back toward the entrance, his tall form silhouetted by the light. Félicité removed her clothes and gingerly put her foot into the water. It was cool, marvelously so, and she was hot and sticky after the long day and their brisk walk to get here. Sitting down on the edge, she slid carefully into the depths, holding the side as she tested them. It was as Morgan had said; the water did not come quite to her neck. In one spot it shelved to a mere six inches or less, forming a bench, hollowed, perfectly smooth, on which she could sit to soap her hair.

  It was lovely, a luxury beyond anything she had known. Water and more to rinse her hair again and again, water to sweep away the lather from her body, water to surround her and buoy her up, to relax in and upon. In carefree, sybaritic abandon, with her eyes closed and her hair suspended like a silken web around her, she floated. Below on the beach, the tide was coming in, and the thundering surf that frothed at the base of the bluff caused vibrations to ripple through the pool. It gave her a sense of being a part of the elements, magically in and of the water.

  There was a splash beside her, and a wave dashed into her face. She went under and came up spluttering, wiping water from her eyes. Morgan was beside her, naked, chest-deep in the pool.

  “Sorry,” he said, without sounding the least repentant. “You made it look entirely too inviting.”

  “You are supposed to be keeping watch!”

  “I was.” His gaze swept over her, striking through the clear water to the wavering shape of her body that gleamed white in the dimness.

  “For the others, not on me!”

  “There was nothing happening out there.”

  “Nor is anything happening in here!” She plunged away from him then, reaching for the shelving end of the pool. He caught her from behind, one sinewy arm wrapping around her waist. He hauled her back against him, and as she felt the heated rigidity of him in the coolness of the water, she was still. Her hair, streaming water, flowed over his hand clamped to her abdomen, clinging wetly to his fingers.

  As if drawn, she turned her head to stare up at him. His face was closed in, and yet pensive with yearning. She could feel the throb of his heartbeat against her, sense the pounding of her own. Her strength seemed to drain from her, leaving her too weak to move, too passive to protest as his lips, warm and firm, touched hers.

  From somewhere inside her there came a surge of desire as white-hot as the tropical sunlight that fueled it. Her mouth clung, her tongue sought his recklessly, without hesitation. Of her own volition she turned in his arms, pressing the peaks of her breasts into him, flattening the firm globes against the broad hardness of his chest. His hands smoothed over her back, drawing her against the lower part of his body as with deep-drawn breath he tasted the sweet headiness of her surrender. She lifted her arms, sliding her hands over his shoulders, locking them be
hind his head. She wanted to be held close and closer still. There was racing pleasure in being crushed against him, a burgeoning excitement that suffused her skin with glowing heat. Locked together, they swayed with the moving water, feeling the shattering roar of the surf in their blood.

  Holding her still, Morgan moved to put one knee on the sloping shelf just beneath the surface of the water. He lowered her beside him on that marble-smooth surface, cushioning her head on his arm at the pool’s edge. The water sheeting them to the waist like a glassy coverlet was warm now and pulsing, a living thing. Under it, Morgan’s hand, callused, slightly rough at the fingertips, glided over the firm mound of her breast, sliding into the hollow of her waist, slipping lower. Félicité trailed her nails along Morgan’s chest and down his belly, dipping into the water, lost in pure sensation, her mind barred to thought.

  They came together then like the clashing of storm waves, with driven fury and flowing force. Their mouths slanted, bruising, burning with sensuous sensitivity. Their bodies merged, blending in smooth-sliding entry. With slow-gathering power, the tide of the pool grew more tempestuous, flooding to comber-beaten swells.

  It was a maelstrom, a hurricane, a heart-wrenching upheaval of the senses of such immense power the world lurched off course, plunging out of control. There was no time or place, or identity, nothing except the violent magic that welded them each to the other. With expanding senses Félicité rose against him in wild, wanton acceptance of his thrusts. She held nothing back. Shadows fled from the darkness of her eyes as she gave herself without stint, and in return she felt him pierce to the deepest recess of her being, filling the aching emptiness until she was replete, whole and fearless, once more.

  The water in the pool grew still. Morgan shifted from her, leaning to gaze into her eyes, his own dark with spent yet unslaked desire. He did not speak, but after a long moment, gathered her close, holding her, rocking her gently in his arms. His lips brushed her temple, the shell-like curve of her ear, then pressed with fierce possessiveness to the tender curve of her neck. His grip tightened. She could feel the thudding of his heart.

  “Morgan,” she whispered, spreading her hand over his scarred back, assailed by the sudden conviction that he was afraid, not for himself, but for her.

  He drew back. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, searching his face.

  Summoning a smile, he said, “As pleasant as this is, I am neglecting my duty. I’ll keep watch while you dress.”

  He surged from the water, and gathering up his clothes, padded to the entrance while he pulled them on. Félicité followed his example more slowly. As she pushed her shirt into her breeches, there was a thoughtful look in her brown eyes.

  They climbed down the face of the bluff and walked back toward the cove along the beach. After a few steps, Morgan caught Félicité’s hand, holding it tightly in his. She glanced at him in a half-smiling inquiry, but though his lips curved in a brief reply, he turned from her, his emerald gaze searching the face of the heaving turquoise sea.

  17

  THEY HAD BEEN ON THE island nearly a week when a sail hove over the horizon. Pandemonium broke out among the seamen on shore. The masts of the Prudence and Black Stallion were bare of sail. The larger ship was missing a mizzenmast altogether, though it lay trimmed and ready to be stepped into place as soon as the green wood was a bit drier. Fires smoldered in the sand, and over them hung great pots of water with curling steam rising from them, ready to be used to curve the timbers to replace the bow section that had been blown away. They were as helpless as ants in a disturbed hill, running this way and that with no one certain whether they wanted to come to grips with the intruder or escape him.

  A man with a spyglass in hand shinnied up a wine palm. From that vantage point he called down that the ship was a brigantine, and like the Black Stallion was French-built and Spanish-rigged. She flew no flag, but the pennant at the mast was of black and silver, and unless the lookout was bedazzled by the sun, her figurehead was a great damned dove.

  She came closer, skimming like a bird indeed over the waves, the sails spread like white wings. She was black and silver with gilt ornamentation that shone like gold, brass cannon, and decks of sepulchral whiteness. As she neared, she broke out a rippling of pennants in red, blue, yellow, green, purple, and brightest orange. Beneath them on the deck stood creatures dressed in those same shadings, feminine and fair, with their hair streaming in the wind. More females clung to the rigging in breeches and shirts, competent seawomen with not a man among them. On the forecastle in place of a captain stood a woman in black, wearing over her gown a gauzy cape that flowed out behind her, revealing folds of pale gray running into purest white.

  For Félicité, drawn by the commotion to the door of her hut, shielding her eyes with her hand against the glare, it did not need the dancing letters on the bow to spell out the ship’s name. Without question she knew, long before the words became clear, that the brigantine would be the dove indeed, La Paloma. What she did not know, what she could not decide until the full-throated roaring and jubilant shouts of the men capering on the sand told her, was the purpose of the vessel and its women. And when she knew, when she understood, she still could not believe it. Greeted with joy and ribald anticipation, with crowing lechery and boundless lust, the La Paloma was no less than a floating brothel, carrying a cargo of whores.

  The men were not allowed to rush at the women. Isabella de Herrara came ashore first quite alone, reclining in her longboat like Cleopatra on her barge. Her hair was drawn back with combs and set with feathers on either side of her head, echoing the winged streaks of soft white at her temples. She stepped upon the sand as if it were the finest carpet, and gave her hand to Morgan, who was there to help her alight. The Spanish-Irish noblewoman leaned to press a light kiss to his bronze jaw, greeting him in low tones, her voice musical.

  By the time Félicité reached the beach, Morgan had made his answer and Isabella was speaking again.

  “My dear Morgan, it is a profound relief to see you looking so — well.”

  “You expected otherwise?” His smile was easy, though her hand still lay in his.

  “One heard of the capture of your ship. I should have known you would make a place for yourself. You have a great facility for it.”

  “You also, Isabella, if you will permit me to say so.” Morgan nodded in the direction of the graceful ship at anchor in the cove beyond the two stripped-down vessels.

  “You may say anything to me you like, as you well know,” the woman replied before she turned away. Her black gaze came to rest with coolness upon Félicité in her breeches and Morgan’s shirt.

  Morgan turned. “Félicité, there you are. I don’t believe you have been formally presented to the Marquesa de Talavera. Isabella, this is Mademoiselle Félicité Lafargue.”

  “Ah, yes, the young woman from New Orleans. So you did find her. How pleasant for you,” the other woman said when she had returned Félicité’s polite greeting.

  “Yes, most,” Morgan agreed.

  But the attention of La Paloma had already wandered, coming to rest on Captain Bonhomme striding toward them. “And who is this?”

  As the introductions were made, the French captain bowed with the remnants of a cavalier’s grace. “Madame, you do us great honor,” he murmured. “What brings you here to this godforsaken island?”

  “A fair wind, I think,” the woman answered, her smile whimsical. She glanced at Morgan. “And a knowledge of my old friend’s haunts.”

  “Curse you, Morgan,” Captain Bonhomme growled. “Have you a previous acquaintance with every beautiful woman we are like to meet?”

  “Not all,” he said with a laugh, his gaze flicking to Félicité.

  She gave him a cold stare.

  Isabella was speaking again, suggesting a meal for the ladies with whom she was traveling, a collation of food and wine served alfresco. Regardless of the fact that the men had been dining in no other fashion for some day
s, this was greeted as a novel idea. Afterward there would be entertainment, the best rough seamen could provide, and then might the ladies not feel that much more amorous, especially since the moon was full?

  They might. They would need time to prepare, however. Isabella would return, and her ladies with her, at sunset.

  It was as well the men had been given extra hours. As it was, the afternoon scarcely sufficed to accommodate all their speculation as to the quality, expected to be high, of the goods being offered, or to spread out the meat for the feast — the roast piglets, boiled crab and conch, baked snapper and grouper, and as an afterthought, a plate of salt cod. To go with it there would be stewed palm cabbage, manioc cakes, roasted plantains, and a great salmagundi of palm hearts, boiled turtle eggs, chopped pork, and wild garlic and onion, all stirred together with herbs and oil. For dessert there was fruit, the ever-present bananas and oranges. To wash all this down was palm wine aged the entire week, a watered-down ale the pirates called “belly vengeance,” the great delicacy known as “bumboo” consisting of rum, water, and sugar flavored with nutmeg, and finally, the crowning achievement, a punch. This last concoction, made with rum, palm wine, brandy, herb tea, and lime juice, sweetened with sugar and flavored with spice, was guaranteed to put any man in a concupiscent mood. If he wasn’t careful, it would also put consummation quite beyond him.

  They piled driftwood high for a pair of enormous fires, one at either end of the long bolt of sailcloth laid on the sand for a table. Plates and knives and antimony mugs were scoured with sand, rinsed, and piled artistically in an empty water butt.

  When all was in readiness, and for some long before, there was a great trimming of beards and slicking of hair. The best shirts and waistcoats were brought out. One man doused himself with a most vile perfume, and before the scent had polluted the air for more than a yard, his bottle had been pounced on and passed around, down to the last drop.