Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  He turned his head to stare down at her, his expression attentive.

  “Have you — have you noticed the men lately?”

  “What about them?”

  “They seem more surly than usual, as if they might resort to mutiny at any moment.”

  “When was a pirate crew not a hair’s breadth from mutiny? It’s a natural state for them.”

  “Possibly — I wouldn’t know. But it seems dangerous, especially for you.”

  His mouth tugged in a wry smile. “I am flattered at your concern, but why for me?”

  “I have seen Valcour talking to the others, and I don’t think it is Captain Bonhomme who has earned his hate.”

  “You have done him more damage than I thus far. Maybe you should look to yourself.” His green eyes were watchful as he smiled down at her.

  “Even if what you say is true,” she pointed out, “you are the one who stands between him and me now.”

  “So I am,” he said, his tone thoughtful as he turned his gaze seaward once more.

  “Perhaps if you didn’t drive the men quite so hard,” Félicité began.

  “Someone has to do it, if we don’t want to be caught here, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else inclined to take on the job.”

  It was true; Félicité could see that, and yet she could not help being afraid.

  Morgan reached out, taking her hand. “We had better hurry if we want to get back to the hut before the rain begins.”

  They could see it coming toward them, marching across the sea on long gray stilts of water. Thunder rolled like the sound of guns, and the silver fire of lightning streaked from the gray bank of clouds into the water. The atmosphere took on a yellowish tint, and the smell of ozone was strong in the air. The wind began to rise, carrying salt mist and spraying sand before it, and swaying the feather-decked heads of the palms, moving the trunks in a graceful and limber dance. They could breathe the dampness, feel it on their skins. The first drops of rain, huge and wet, splattered warmly on their upturned faces, and then the hut was before them.

  They flung themselves inside and dived panting on their pallet. From that uncertain shelter, rustling dryly with the strength of the wind and the first raindrops, they watched the descent of the dragging curtain of rain as it closed over them, rattling, splashing, beating the water of the cove into a froth.

  Darkness closed in, accompanied by the growl and roar of thunder and lit by the flare of lightning. Abruptly Félicité was reminded of the night after the masquerade, of the clash of Morgan with Valcour and the two others in the darkness, and the violent aftermath marked by the passage of the storm. She glanced at the man beside her, and found him staring down at her in the dimness.

  “Félicité,” he whispered, reaching out to touch her cheek, sliding his warm fingers through her hair to cup her neck. “Don’t look at me so, for I can’t bear it.”

  Lowering his head, he touched his mouth to hers, his lips a firm and heady antidote to memory. With soft and searing kisses, he outlined the curve of her cheek, the tender angle of her jaw, moving down the turn of her neck to where a pulse throbbed in the hollow of her throat. His strength limitless, controlled, he eased her down on the pallet then, resting on one elbow above her. His hands smoothed over her, exciting, arousing. He tugged her shirt from her breeches, pushing it upward, pausing to snatch a kiss from each rose-tipped peak of her breasts as he bared them before drawing the shirt off over her head. He pushed her breeches down, following their slow slide over the flatness of her abdomen as he had before, moving lower, and lower still.

  When she lay naked, he removed his own clothing, rolling toward her once more, pulling her against the hard length of his long body. He traced the curves and hollows of her form with exquisite care, setting his own pleasure aside for the moment as he assured hers. There was sensuous enjoyment of his task in his lingering caresses.

  She touched the thick vitality of his hair, and felt the dissolving of her being, the liquid flow of longing rising to a floodtide of wanton desire. On its crest, he entered her, the firm power of his body a sensual delight, the quiver of the sculpted steel of his muscles a gauge of his stringent restraint. Moving together in a rhythm measureless and wild as the elements around them, they strove with panting breaths to thunderous heights of pleasure, and found at the summit, in oblivion and peaceful exhaustion, the perfect panacea for remembrance.

  “Morgan—” Félicité whispered when they were still at last, lying side by side once more.

  He reached across her to ease the taut pull on her hair where it was caught beneath her shoulders, then gathered her to him. “I am here,” he said against the top of her head. “Go to sleep now.”

  There was much she wanted to say, needed to say. Despite the press of it against her throat, she closed her eyes, and to her own astonishment, slept.

  The rain died away in the night, leaving the world wet but unbowed. The trades blew cool once more; parrots called with raucous joy as if trying to rouse the sleepers in their rain-drenched tents. The tracks of shorebirds crocheted the wet sand, running in and out of the sea wrack; the twists of seaweed and rotted driftwood and broken shells thrown up by the storm tide. The sun rose bright-edged and golden out of the sea, its light dazzling on the water, silvery on the wings of the gulls that circled overhead, heading out over the water to where three ships crawled like giant spiders over the sea, a pair of frigates and a slender brigantine with sails set, bearing down on the island with the morning light reflecting in a blinding glare from their spread canvas.

  19

  A SHOUT OF WARNING went up. Men came to their feet, rubbing their eyes, their curses for the man who woke them dying away as they gazed out over the water. The Spanish lines of the ships could not be mistaken, even at that distance, nor could the menace of the rows of gun ports along their sides. This was the guarda de costas, the dreaded Spanish fleet whose job it was to hunt down pirates in their lairs or on the water, and their presence in the delicate freshness of the morning did not denote a picnic or a roll in the sand.

  With panic-stricken yells, the seamen kicked friends and comrades still sleeping from their bedding, snatched up cutlasses and pistols, and began to throw their belongings together.

  Captain Bonhomme, on his feet, staring seaward, turned with decision. “Belay that! There’s no time! Head for the boats as you stand up. We have to make the brigantine or we are all dead men!”

  The reason for the French captain’s words was plain to see. There was a chance, if they could reach the Black Stallion and make ready to sail in time, that they could slip from the cove before the frigates could get within range. If they were so fortunate, the pirate brigantine would be able to outdistance the heavier, less wieldy vessels, showing them a clean pair of heels. If they could not, if they were caught inside the sheltering arms of the cove, they would be trapped like a fly in a bottle. There would be no escape.

  Félicité, drawn from her pallet by the cries, flung a quick look at Morgan, who stood just outside the doorway of their hut. His face was grim as he took in the situation.

  “Morgan!” Captain Bonhomme shouted, waving an arm at them. “For the love of God, make haste!”

  Still Morgan hesitated, frowning as if weighing alternatives, though as far as Félicité could see, there were none. At last he swung to her.

  “Félicité, I want you to take food and water and go to the cave.”

  “No!” she protested. “I — couldn’t run and hide, not knowing what is happening, waiting to be found.”

  “Even if it is the best and safest course for you?”

  “Is that what you plan to do?” she asked, her gaze direct.

  “The case is different with me.”

  “I don’t care!”

  He clenched a fist. “If we get away safely, we can return for you. If not, the men on the frigates will not expect anyone to have stayed behind.”

  “I would rather face what is going to take place with my eyes o
pen, I thank you, and with a fighting chance.” She did not add, but could have, that she preferred to face it with him.

  He gave a reluctant nod. “All right then. Let’s go.”

  As they reached the French captain, he ceased his lurid laments over the length of time they had tarried and the slowness of his men and turned toward the longboats. From all directions, as if at some given signal, men converged, determined to be the first aboard the brigantine, terrified suddenly of being left behind.

  Then a group of some thirty men with pistols at the ready flung themselves between the beached boats and the surging mass of seamen. Valcour, a pistol in one hand and drawn sword in the other, was at their head.

  “Hold!” he called, his voice ringing with shrill virulence. “That’s as far as you go!”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Captain Bonhomme growled, coming to a halt in a flurry of sand.

  “My men and I,” Valcour shouted, “have first call on the boats! Or perhaps I should say, the only call.”

  “Name of a name, you treacherous dog! This is mutiny.”

  “Why, so it is, my good captain. How intelligent of you to recognize it. You will be so kind, all of you, to lay down your weapons.”

  “The devil we will! Look you, man. Can’t you see our only chance is to get to the ship? The Spanish dons will hang us all, men and woman, if you leave us marooned here!”

  “Yes, with one exception. I wish I could remain to see it, but my men and I must depart.”

  “You can’t get away with this,” Morgan said, pushing forward with Félicité at his side. “There are more of us than there are of you. We can surround you.”

  “The first man who moves,” Valcour cut across the words, “is dead.”

  At that moment, a sailor at the end of the line shifted, reaching for his pistol. Without the flicker of an eyelid, Valcour fired. The seaman screamed, falling writhing to the ground. In seconds he was still.

  “I did warn him. Death now or later, it’s all one to me.” There was emptiness behind Valcour’s yellow-brown eyes as he dropped his now useless pistol. “But as I was saying, only the men shall hang.”

  Before she could move, before anyone saw his intent, her brother lunged toward Félicité and clamped a hand on her wrist, dragging her across the stretch of beach that lay between the two groups. As Morgan jumped after them, Valcour whirled with leveled sword. Morgan came up short, his green eyes blazing.

  “That’s right, back down,” Valcour said on an exultant laugh. “As much as I would enjoy running you through, I think it would be too easy an end. I prefer you to be tried and hanged by your Spanish masters. So fitting, don’t you agree, and so amusing for Félicité.”

  Valcour spun her wrist, twisting it behind her back so she was brought up, white-faced with pain, against him. One of the mutineers growled something, and Valcour nodded in agreement.

  “As my friend here pointed out, we waste time. Gentlemen, your weapons? Carefully now. What a shame it would be if anything went off and hit my dear sister.”

  It seemed at a glance that most of the men who had thrown in their lot with Valcour were, as might have been expected, from the Raven, the most villainous and hardened of the lot, the ones most likely to act without compunction if the order that had been given was not soon obeyed. Bast, his brown eyes fastened on Félicité, was the first man to bend and put down his primed pistol, placing it with care so the weapon would not discharge accidentally, then laying his sword on top.

  “Valcour, you can’t do this,” Félicité said, finding her voice, forcing the words through the tightness in her throat.

  “Can’t I?” he sneered. “I would have thought you would thank me for the invitation to join us, instead of objecting to our methods. I am sorry I have to use you as a hostage for the good behavior of the others, particularly Morgan, but that is the fortune of war.”

  “You can’t leave so many to die!”

  “Why not? I have done worse, my dear, believe, me.” Narrowly he watched the men before him.

  “Then I beg you to leave me here, too. Please, Valcour, I ask in the name of my father.”

  “Your father? Why should you think I would be, moved by a plea in his name, me chère? I had no reverence for the man who adopted me; more than that, I despised him. But I paid him back in the end for his years of patronizing me, of reminding me at every turn of my dependence on his charity, and of how fair I fell below his expectations of what I should be. On the day he died, he regretted his slights most bitterly, I do assure you.”

  “What-what do you mean?” she asked, watching with sickness as Captain Bonhomme, his Latin eyes dark, dropped his cutlass and pistol along with, the others.

  “Why, Félicité,” haven’t you guessed? I was so certain you must have! It was I who told Olivier Lafargue of your cohabitation with the former Lieutenant Colonel McCormack, of the way you were spreading your legs, ruining yourself so that he might live. What else could he do, being your father, except take his own life to wipe out the dishonor and free you from such base servitude?”

  Anguish shafted in her as she thought of her father alone in prison, faced with such grievous knowledge, such a loss of regard for her. What shame and despair he must have felt, what impotence as he sought to find a way to help her, before he had taken his final decision! “How could you, Valcour? How could you?” she whispered.

  “It was easy. A few words in a note, a coin to the guard, and it was done. It was I, in reality, who set you free. You should be grateful. I cut, the cord that held you to New Orleans, sliced away the encumbrances so we could start a new life. We can still have it, too, in France, when we have money enough to take our rightful position at court.”

  “You are mad!” Félicité said. Morgan was putting down his arms now, with the same care as Bast, the last man to do so. There was a white line about his mouth under the brown of his skin as he watched Félicité and the man who held her. As he came slowly erect again, she saw his pistol lay butt first, toward her. She met his emerald gaze, saw his almost imperceptible nod, and realized she alone could help herself. The others dared not for fear of the danger to her. Moreover, of them all, she was the only one Valcour and his men might hesitate to kill.

  “Mad, am I?” Valcour laughed, and paused to indicate with a wave of his sword for his men to begin gathering up the weapons. “Mad? Hardly. I was sane enough to trade what I knew of the conspiracy and the men who indulged in it for my own freedom. Sane enough to escape the net that caught them, just as I will escape this one.”

  “You speak as if you were innocent, but you weren’t. You were as guilty as the men who died, maybe more so!” His grip was looser as he began to move backward toward the longboat, pulling her with him, as he explained his cleverness. If she could only keep him talking, act as a drag upon him as she stumbled, barely moving; anything to delay him. There were as yet a few pistols left on the ground amid the confused movement of the mutineers as they picked up dropped weapons.

  “Was I? It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t stupid enough to stay around, and I fooled the Spanish, got away clean even though I was the most wanted, most hunted man in the colony. They couldn’t touch me then, and they won’t touch me now.”

  She jerked her arm free then, driving the point of her elbow into her brother’s wounded side. He gasped, yelping with pain as he released her. She dived, rolling, coming up with Morgan’s pistol. As she leveled it at Valcour’s chest, he stopped abruptly in his rush after her, spreading his arms wide, easing back.

  If he had had a pistol he might have killed her, so violent was the rage in his eyes. As it was, the reach of his sword was not enough. “Now,” she said on a deep breath, speaking into the abrupt stillness, “drop your sword.”

  Valcour smiled, a curling of the lips that did not reach his eyes. “I can do that, but it won’t make a difference. My men care nothing for my death, and you have only one shot. They have no choice now but to carry through with the plan. To be hange
d by the Spanish, or hanged by the captain there as mutineers — those are their only options otherwise.”

  “They can go without you then.” At her words, there was a rumble of agreement among his followers, and they began to back slowly toward the boats once more. A few were close enough to fling the awkward extra weapons they carried inside and, grasping the gunwales, drag the longboats into the water.

  “You won’t shoot me, Félicité, not in cold blood, not without the goad of a fight beforehand. That’s not your way, heaven be praised. Put down that pistol and come with me. Choose life instead of hanging. I never meant that for you, truly. Know you now, Félicité, ma chère, that I do care for you in my own manner, as much as I am capable of caring for anyone or anything. If I did not, I would never have troubled myself to try to rescue you from Morgan that night in New Orleans, would never have bothered to return for you. If I tricked you into coming with me, or forced you by threat of degrading pain to help deceive your lover and take his ship, it was because you would not have done so, otherwise. And if I have hurt you it is because it is necessary for me, for without it I can never bring myself to possess any woman.”

  His tone made it sound as if he considered his reasons for what he had done valid, as if they should make a difference. They did not.

  She would not allow them to penetrate her hard resolve, though they sent a shiver of something like revulsion through her that was mirrored on her face. “If you believe I won’t shoot, try coming nearer.”

  “Before God, Félicité, be reasonable,” he cried. “There is no time for this. Come!”

  “Never!”

  “Then die with your renegade lover and be damned!”

  He spun around, leaping for the last of the longboats as his men pushed it into the water. Anger, cold and implacable, rose in Félicité. Holding the heavy pistol with both hands, she sighted in on Valcour and squeezed the trigger.

  The weapon exploded with a mighty blast, kicking upward in recoil, but it was already pointing skyward, the barrel swept up by Morgan’s hand. The ball whistled harmlessly over Valcour’s head. Swinging around, his face black with rage, her brother cursed her.