Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  Now, Gabrielle could smell the river close by. They padded through an alley, and Gabrielle nearly twisted her ankle as she stepped into a jagged ditch cut into the brown cobblestones.

  “Quiet!” Catherine hissed as Gabrielle let out a small whimper.

  They squeezed through another fence, then turned a sudden corner so swiftly that Gabrielle didn’t see the man looming up in front of her until she bumped squarely into him. Thinking they’d come upon a city guard, Gabrielle tried to pull away but was held fast by strong, encircling arms.

  “Let me go! I’m on my way—”

  “You’ve arrived, Gabrielle,” came a voice she instantly recognized, and, before she could exclaim, a warm hand closed over her mouth.

  “Hush, no joyous cries of reunion, please,” Lafitte cautioned her harshly, “or you’ll have the watch on us for sure.”

  She nodded swiftly, and the hand was removed—did she imagine the fingers caressed her cheek for an instant before glancing away?

  “Jean—is—is everything all right?” Catherine murmured.

  Lafitte shrugged. “Nothing has been right, sweetheart, since those cursed English arrived,” he returned bitterly, but he walked to where the girl stood anxiously and embraced her.

  Embarrassed, Gabrielle moved away and bumped into still another man. In the moonlight, she could barely distinguish the features of Dominique You.

  “Lord, girl, what happened to you?” he whispered expansively, noting the torn gown and tumbled hair.

  “Nothing. I guess I’m not used to such dangerous shortcuts. Where—where are we? Why haven’t we met in Rampart Street?”

  Dominique coughed uneasily. “Lafitte suspected that you might be the bait for a trap, my dear. Oh, no offense against your integrity, but you can never be sure about that old fox, Claiborne.”

  “Then, you’ll not tell me where we are.”

  “Close to the river, minx. Now, no more questions. Come inside, and I’ll light a candle.”

  Gabrielle obeyed and found herself in a small room in which bales of dry goods had been stored. The floor was swept clean, and a table and chairs had been set up. There was no other furniture except for a makeshift bed made of bundles of cloth.

  “A glass of wine?”

  Gabrielle took it thankfully and was a little uneasy when Dominique started to leave. “Aren’t you going to stay?”

  He laughed. “Your business is with Lafitte, puss.”

  Gabrielle seated herself at the table and waited for Lafitte to come in. When he did, she noted that Catherine was no longer with him. Her eyes passed briefly over the tall, slender figure, the long, black hair with a trace of grey at the temples, the snapping black eyes in the still-lively, brown face.

  “So—you’ve come to me, Madame St. Claire. I am deeply honored indeed,” he began sarcastically, savoring a glass of wine himself. “I must say I’m surprised at your husband for allowing his wife to come into the viper’s den alone.”

  “He—he doesn’t know I’ve come,” Gabrielle said, her eyes darting away from that penetrating black gaze.

  “What? You’ve come on your own?” he exclaimed in mockery. “Then you were not afraid to put yourself into my hands?”

  Gabrielle frowned. “I’ve come to help you, Jean.”

  He was unbending. “How is it that you can help me,” he demanded, “when the best lawyers in New Orleans cannot seem to do so?” He leaned closer. “Do you hold the governor’s ear so that with one sweet word—and perhaps a few bouts in his bed—he will pardon the terrible villain? Come now, madame. I must confess my curiosity got the better of my good judgement, but I find the amusement wears thin when it is my life at stake.” He got up and walked to the door, staring out moodily. “Of course, now that you’re here, I suppose you’d make a priceless hostage.” His eyes gleamed as he came back to her.

  Gabrielle drew away uncertainly, and he laughed at her nervousness.

  “I couldn’t kill you, Gabrielle, so don’t look so stricken, but the threat might just work.” He seemed to consider for a moment, and Gabrielle’s face pinkened.

  “I’ve—I’ve not come to be bullied by you,” she began. “I wanted to—”

  “Why did you want to help me, Gabrielle? Why? If I recall correctly, you ran away from me a long time ago. Didn’t you hope never to have to face me again?” His voice rose with remembered rancor.

  “Jean, you must understand that I—”

  “Christ, woman! You ran away from me after—after the death of our child, and now you expect me to welcome you for your trouble!” He had moved around the table, and his face was close to hers.

  Gabrielle steeled herself not to jump away but returned the stare as steadily as she could. “Jean, I know that you have had correspondence with Governor Claiborne and that you’ve both reached a sort of stalemate. Neither of you will budge...

  “I never did trust that old fox!” Lafitte interrupted. “I told him that I’d not go over to the British if he’d drop all the charges against me, but he wouldn’t answer. The sly son of a bitch waited it out so long that the British grew tired of waiting and blew my island to hell, damn them! Well, Lafitte isn’t a man to be treated shabbily, by God!” His face was crafty now—the face of a cat who has his mouse cornered. “I happen to know that Claiborne is in desperate need of men and weapons. The fool could have had my men, who can fight a hell of a lot better than those milksops of his—they can do nothing better than parade in the Place d’Armes with their fancy dress uniforms! And weapons! Claiborne needed guns and ammunition. He must have them if he’s to have a prayer against the fighting machine the British have assembled.”

  “And you have these weapons, don’t you, Jean?” Gabrielle put in softly.

  The man slumped to a chair warily. “Perhaps, my curious little temptress, perhaps—but I’ve a notion to sell them to the British for good solid gold. I’d have more than enough to sail away and rest easy for the rest of my days—and damn Claiborne to the British firing squad!” He pounded his fist on the table in emphasis.

  “But what if—if Claiborne were willing to pardon your crimes, Jean? What if, in exchange for men and arms, you could walk the streets of New Orleans—or anywhere—a free man, a man no longer hunted and hounded by the law?” Her voice was hopeful as her eyes looked into his and saw the spark of consideration in them.

  Then he shook his head. “No, I’ve come to the conclusion, madame, that Claiborne is an ass, too proud to forgive the man who has exposed him too often to public ridicule.”

  “No, Jean, you’re wrong. It’s true, he’s proud, but he has been sullied and scoffed at so many times because of your exploits—how can you blame him?” She reached inside the neckline of her gown and pulled out the precious letter signed by Claiborne himself and passed it to Lafitte to read. “Here, see for yourself.”

  Lafitte scanned the paper quickly, then sat back in his chair. “So, in public Claiborne swears his vengeance, but in private he employs a woman to bring me words of reconciliation. I must give him credit for his cleverness, the damnable crook!” He glanced at her. “And tell me, how it is that you are the bearer of such important tidings? Don’t tell me you have opened your life with me to public perusal?” His dark brows slanted downwards.

  Gabrielle’s cheeks were hot as she replied, “I confided in Governor Claiborne only—and he has given me his word—”

  “It would be shameful, wouldn’t it? The wife of Rafe St. Claire, a respected man in the city, to be known as the one-time mistress of the pirate, Lafitte!” His face was almost cruel. “Your husband would be forced to sue for divorce if word spread, wouldn’t he?”

  “Jean, please, the past is over—and I am not sad to see it so.”

  He laughed mockingly. “But let’s get back to business, shall we? Claiborne tells me that he will grant my men and me a full pardon if I will tell him where the munitions are hidden. How can I trust his word?”

  “His signature is on the paper—and my being h
ere is proof of his good faith,” Gabrielle cried, vexed at this game he continued to play with her.

  He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I suppose you persuaded him as to my own integrity?”

  She nodded. “Jean, please be sensible. This is a way out for you without having to suffer an ignominious surrender! General Andrew Jackson is going to be here in another two days. If he knew you had supplied arms to the troops, you would have his support too, I know it! Everyone says he is a just man.”

  “God, I never realized that you could be so loyal to a cause!” he laughed scornfully.

  “Jean Lafitte, you have just as much to gain.”

  “Did you think of that when you embarked on this perilous mission?” he asked her, placing the paper on the table and standing up to look down at her.

  She averted her eyes.

  “Gabrielle, sometimes I wonder what might have become of us if—”

  “Jean, please. You know that I am married now and that I have a son.”

  “He is your second son,” he reminded her softly, and Gabrielle could not help the mist of tears that covered her eyes.

  “Gabrielle, Gabrielle,” he repeated and she felt his hand smoothing her hair. “I had such plans for the three of us—such wonderful plans! I had enough gold to take us far away from this place, to where we could have started over again. It would have been different.”

  She shook her head. “No, Jean. It would never have worked. You must know that, yourself, deep inside. You would have grown tired of the sameness of life after a while and become angry with me for being the cause of the loss of your freedom. It would not have been long before you would have started the old ways again. It’s in your blood, Jean.”

  “Still—it was a wonderful dream, while it lasted,” he said and his voice seemed to come from far away. The hand brushed her shoulder and then rested softly against her cheek. “It’s funny, looking back on it,” he murmured. “You fought me for so long that I wasn’t sure what you would say if I—” He stopped and shrugged. “As you say, that’s all over now, but I’ve learned something, Gabrielle. Love is a magical thing that comes and goes so quickly sometimes that you can miss it because you’re not looking for it. Instead, your mind is filled with petty things—money, success, hatreds and jealousies, pride.”

  His hand tilted her chin up, and his eyes burned darkly into hers. His dark head bent, and, in another instant, she felt his mouth on hers, and her lips trembled. He tasted the tears on her face, and, very gently, he kissed her—so gently it was almost a sigh.

  “I could make love to you now,” he whispered. “There is nothing to stop me from taking you by force—nothing except yourself, you see,” he finished sadly. “I know you could never come back to me, Gabrielle.”

  She shook her head, her eyes swimming with tears so that she could hardly see the expression on his face. He kissed her once more, infinitely tenderly—so sweet, so sweet—and her heart lurched in her breast. I could almost have loved him, she thought, watching him pick up the paper once more.

  “You had best get back to your husband, my love, for I’ve an idea he will not take kindly to what you have done.”

  “And—and what about—”

  He smiled at her and folded the paper. “Tell the governor that I will hand over the arms. When General Jackson arrives in New Orleans, I shall call on him myself and tell him where they are hidden. I will tell you, Gabrielle, that I have hidden them in the storehouse not far from the Temple, so that you can be assured of my promise.”

  She got shakily to her feet and thanked him, but his hand brushed aside her words. “I’m not doing this because I have any great love for these United States or for Governor Claiborne, or even Andrew Jackson. You are probably right, and, after this is all over, I'll not be content with my pardon and a place of honor in the city. I’ll be moving on again, somewhere new and exciting, raw and ready for exploitation.” He laughed cynically at himself. Then he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss into the palm. “But I shall never forget you, my lost love.”

  “Oh, Jean!” she whispered brokenly and began to weep silently.

  He made an effort to shake off his mood, and his voice was once more brusque. “Come now, spitfire. You’d best be off. There are soldiers all around this place, and any one of them will be honored to show you back to the governor’s, I’m sure.” He took her arm, and together they walked out into the night.

  Chapter Forty-three

  On December 2, 1814, General Andrew Jackson reached New Orleans, accompanied by six of his officers. The citizens of New Orleans clamored to greet him, and they cheered at the sight of the tall, gaunt man who rode his horse skillfully, despite the long illness that he had suffered. His hair was iron-grey and he wore it long, drawn back from his famous hawklike features, and his complexion had grown sallow from his sickness. He was far from well as he rode into New Orleans after fighting one long campaign, and now he was prepared to face another. Governor Claiborne had prepared quarters for him in Royal Street, and these were to serve as the headquarters of the entire campaign. Jackson worked with a feverish energy that left others dazed.

  Gabrielle was among the throng that cheered him as he rode into the city. She was staying in town for the duration of the campaign, as there had been alleged sightings of British scouts combing the areas south and west of New Orleans. Suzette had opened her doors to her, and it soothed Gabrielle to accept her company. She still thought with a mixture of guilt and dread of those events that had resulted from her visit with Lafitte.

  As Lafitte had foretold, one of the patrolling soldiers had seen her walking alone and immediately offered his assistance and took her quickly to the governor’s quarters. There, a stern-faced Claiborne awaited her, and, to her shock—her husband watched as she made her entrance.

  “So, now that you have played the whore with your old lover—and told the world—you come slinking back to make your report. I’m not surprised, madame!”

  “Please, Rafe, there’s no need to be so brutal,” Claiborne intervened quickly. He asked her to be seated, and Gabrielle took the chair thankfully.

  Why—how had Rafe found out? She cast an accusing glance at the governor, but his manner did not soften.

  “Why is it that you directly disobeyed my orders?” he barked.

  Gabrielle could barely speak after her emotional ordeal with Lafitte and especially now, with her husband’s eyes ruthlessly searching her. “I—I knew what I had to do,” she began.

  “Spread your legs for that renegade!” Rafe said through clenched teeth.

  Gabrielle flushed deeply and Claiborne, himself, went a dull red.

  “St. Claire, if you continue to bully your wife, I will have to ask you to leave the room,” he warned, but there was a trace of guilt in his voice that he had allowed the woman to go at all, against his better judgement. “Tell me what happened.”

  Gabrielle told him how she had waited at Renée’s for the girl to arrive to take her to Lafitte. She described the meeting in detail, omitting only the kiss that Lafitte had given her. “And he has given me his word that he will reveal the hiding place of the arms to General Jackson himself!”

  “His word! The word of a pirate!” Rafe laughed cruelly. “What did he ask in return, my honorable wife? Can you look your own husband in the face and tell me truthfully that he didn’t touch you?”

  Gabrielle’s cheeks were on fire, and she could not bear to look at those burning green emeralds.

  “See for yourself, governor. She has accomplished only her own humiliation—and mine.”

  “St. Claire, I'm asking you to leave the room. You’ve scared her to death with your accusations!” Claiborne got out.

  Rafe hesitated, murder in his eyes, but he shrugged finally and left them alone.

  “Now, I realize that this is all damnably messy, madame, but I must insist on the truth from you.”

  “I’m telling you the truth, governor,” Gabrielle said with sincerity. “Lafitte t
old me he had considered selling the arms to the British for gold, but I believed him when he told me he would honor his word to me—and you. He—he even told me where they are hidden as a sign of his good faith.”

  Claiborne jumped up from his seat “Then tell me, madame, for the love of God!”

  She shook her head slowly. “I can’t He must tell the general himself and receive his pardon.”

  “What!” Claiborne’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “You mean you know where these vital arms are, and you won’t divulge their hiding place? Madame, I could have you arrested for consorting with the enemy!”

  Gabrielle tried staunchly to stop the flow of tears, but it was useless, and she began sobbing, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. “Please, why can’t you trust me?” she asked him, beseechingly.

  In spite of his convictions, Claiborne found himself softening. “All right, all right. I’ve a mind to have you thrashed for your impertinence, but Suzette would never let me hear the end of it As it is, you will stay in my house until the time—if he actually does it—Lafitte calls on General Jackson. If he does not, then I will expect you to tell where the hiding place is. I don’t think that is being unfair.”

  Gabrielle agreed tearfully, and the governor signalled for the soldier to escort her to his wife’s rooms. In the passageway, Rafe loomed up in front of her, and she shrank away from him.

  “I’ll take the woman the rest of the way. Thank you, soldier.”

  The soldier saluted, and Gabrielle faced her husband’s rage alone.

  “Damn you for a lying whore!” he exploded. “You couldn’t wait to get back to him, could you? With your soft words and melting eyes, I actually believed that you loved me. I should have known better. No woman who truly loves her husband runs off to another man and throws herself in his arms.” His hand shot out and closed about her throat, shaking her like a chicken. “I ought to strangle you myself,” he ground out. “I ought to shut that lying throat forever!”