The Pelican Bride (16 page)

Lafleur looked with grim disbelief at the card given him by Alexandre, the dealer and banker, and muttered a curse under his breath.

Alexandre shrugged. “You’re done, Lafleur. You’ve already lost three months’ wages.”

“Which I won’t see for another year,” Lafleur retorted. “What difference does one more month make?” He drew a scrap of paper from his coat pocket.

“No more paper bets,” Alexandre said firmly. “If you’re out of money, you can bet dry goods. Or ammunition. Or your wife.” He sent a sneering glance down at Barraud, who lay under the table snoring.

“I don’t have a wife,” Lafleur said with an evil grin, “but I just got engaged today. Mademoiselle Bonnet should buy a substantial pile of chips, say two hundred livres. If I win, I get her back and you cancel my debts. If not—” He shrugged. “You keep her.”

When Alexandre’s eyes lit, Tristan knew he had to intervene. “Gentlemen, this is a bad idea.”

Connard glared at Tristan. “Who are you to dictate our game?” He slammed a fist onto the table. “If I beat the bank, you forgive all my debt and I get the Bonnet girl.” The whole settlement knew Connard had asked nearly every one of the unattached girls to
marry him, with no takers. “If I lose, my brand-new hunting rifle is yours. It’s worth at least a hundred livres.”

Alexandre nodded. “Fine, but this is the last game.” He looked at Boutin. “Are you in?”

Boutin looked alarmed. “I got a wife already.”

“Fautisse?”

Fautisse gave a short, hard laugh. “I wouldn’t mind taking on the lovely Mademoiselle Bonnet.” He shoved his entire pile of chips onto the queen. “But what if she refuses to honor the bet?”

Lafleur smirked. “Since when does a woman have any say in a man’s business transactions?”

“I’ve been married for a month,” Boutin said, “and already I know the answer to that question.”

Hoots of laughter accompanied the soft whir of cards as Alexandre shuffled the deck and palmed it for the deal. After each player placed his chips on the layout, Alexandre turned over the top card and laid it face-up on the table to his right, then laid another to the left. The dealer’s card on the right was a trey of hearts, matching Fautisse’s bet. The punter’s card on the left was also a trey.

Alexandre grimaced. “One for the other,” he muttered as he realized the bank had neither gained nor lost.

The advantage shifted from player to player, until the last three remaining cards in the dealer’s deck came up. Lafleur, confident in his luck, made a paroli final play, turning up a corner of his card to show that he intended to bet both his winnings and stake. In response, Connard doubled his money.

Fautisse dropped out in disgust. “I’m done.”

Alexandre turned the last card and stared at the layout in disbelief. “Connard, you cheated.”

Bankrupt, Lafleur jumped to his feet, overturning his chair.

“The only way to cheat in this game is to be the dealer,” Connard chortled. “Pay me out, Alexandre.”

Alexandre sat sullen for a moment. Tristan knew that the dealer,
who staked the game and had the advantage of any split coup, generally went home with a hundred livres or two. It had to be galling to pay out such a large amount to smarmy young Connard. Finally Alexandre pinched his lips together and scraped in the chips, stacking them by denomination. He glanced up at Tristan. “Count with me, Lanier. I don’t want any question of accuracy.”

Tristan nodded. At the end, the bank was four hundred livres short. This was going to get ugly.

“Four hundred livres is the value of your gun, Connard, plus—” Alexandre glanced at Lafleur—“the value of Lafleur’s affianced. You two work this out to your own satisfaction. I’m going home.” He tucked the deck of cards into his coat pocket, then began stacking the clay chips into their metal case.

Lafleur’s eyes were blue slits of rage. “Connard, I don’t know how you did that, but Ysabeau Bonnet won’t settle for an ugly, perpetually broke, rotten tomato like you.”

“It takes more than a pretty face to satisfy a lady.” Connard, clearly unhappy to be looking up at the tall sergeant, swayed to his feet. “It won’t take her long to realize her good fortune in escaping a man who sires at least a dozen half-Indian papooses a month.”

“Says the man who smells so bad the squaws won’t even stay in the same room with him.” Lafleur laughed. “First thing tomorrow morning I’ll propose to Edmé Oüanet. Almost as pretty as Ysabeau, and she can read and write.”

Fautisse lurched to his feet, fists bunched, knocking Tristan hard against the wall. “I’ve been courting her, Lafleur! Keep your hands off!”

“Then may the best man win!” Lafleur swept a mocking bow.

Before he could rise, Fautisse swung and hit him under the chin. Lafleur shook his head, recovered, and made a return swing.

Shouts of “Fight! Fight!” went up all over the tavern. Tristan found himself in a maelstrom of fists, elbows, knees, and broken chairs. As he tried to extricate himself, ducking and protecting his
face and midsection, from the corner of his eye he saw Alexandre shove his faro supplies into a canvas knapsack, drop to hands and knees, and crawl along the wall toward the door. Not the method Tristan would have chosen, but perhaps the safest course for a man who wanted to avoid a night in the brig. Bienville had small tolerance for fighting amongst the ranks.

Indeed it was less than ten minutes by Tristan’s reckoning before the blast of a musket, presumably fired at the ceiling, penetrated the din. He was very glad he was not asleep in the bed directly above the bar.

The noise and confusion faded, and the crowd parted to admit an officer wielding a smoking musket in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. Through the smoke Tristan recognized his little brother.

“What is the meaning of this?” roared Marc-Antoine. He had apparently been abed, as he was sketchily dressed in breeches and a linen shirt, halfway buttoned and tails flapping, and had bothered with neither waistcoat nor shoes. The dark hair flowing freely about his shoulders and a two-day growth of beard added to the look of a particularly enraged pirate. Then his eyes widened. “Tristan? What are you doing here?”

“I assure you it’s not by choice.” Tristan grabbed Connard and Fautisse each by the collar and hauled them forward. “Here are two of your culprits, and the third is sliding along the wall over there.” He inclined his head toward Lafleur, who was attempting to slip out the door unnoticed.

“Don’t let him get away!” Marc-Antoine snapped at the uniformed guard loitering nearest the door, then turned his attention back to the sulking and bloody miscreants wriggling in Tristan’s grasp. “You started this? Never mind, we’ll sort it out at headquarters. Where’s Burelle?”

“Here, sir.” The tavern owner pushed through the crowd.

“Shut this place down. Everybody go home, to the barracks,
or face arrest.” He scowled, brandishing the musket. “Not you, Lafleur! You’re coming with me.”

In five minutes or less, the tavern was clear of patrons. Burelle set to work righting chairs, shaking his head over a broken table, and picking up dented pewterware. Tristan, lending a hand to the tavern-keep, saw a side of his happy-go-lucky brother that seemed to have developed in his absence: the decisive, clear-thinking officer with a natural gift for leadership. Marc-Antoine sheathed his sword but continued to grasp the musket as he searched the deserted room, making sure no troublemakers lurked in shadowy corners. When he came upon the surgeon-major, still slumbering peacefully beneath the card table, he poked the man with a bare toe. Barraud failed to respond. Marc-Antoine cracked a smile visible to no one but Tristan and let him be. The three miscreants slouched near the bar, Connard bracing a set of cracked ribs and Lafleur mopping at a bloody nose.

Marc-Antoine pronounced himself satisfied that the situation was under control and ordered the troublemakers to move out ahead of him. He turned at the door. “Tris, will you come? I’ll want a sober witness.”

Tristan fished in his pocket for a couple of sous, which he flipped onto the bar as he passed. “I’ll be back later, Burelle.”

The march across the dark parade ground was accomplished in short order, Marc-Antoine being in no mood to sympathize with cracked ribs or broken noses. At the guardhouse, Marc-Antoine produced a key and shoved his prisoners inside with no ceremony.

“I deed the surgeod,” Lafleur protested.

“You’ll have to wait until he sobers up.” Marc-Antoine slammed the door and locked it again. “Come on, Tristan. Bienville will want a report.”

By the time the two of them crossed the short distance between guardhouse and headquarters, Marc-Antoine had buttoned his shirt, but it still flapped loose over his breeches. Tristan wondered
what time it was. The moon was a silver boat floating over the stockade, and nothing but the whir of an owl and the clanking of Marc-Antoine’s sword broke the silence.

Tristan stood back as his brother rapped on the door to Bienville’s quarters. At an impatient “Come,” they entered to find the commander seated at his desk, fully dressed except for tricorn and coat. Bienville laid down his quill and addressed Marc-Antoine. “Situation under control?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bienville scowled at Tristan. “What’s he doing here?”

“Witness.”

Bienville’s lip curled. “Witness or participant?”

Tristan’s hands bunched. “Do I look like I’ve been in a brawl?”

Bienville had the grace to look away. “It’s been a long, frustrating day.” He gestured for Marc-Antoine and Tristan to pull over chairs. “Sit down and tell me what the uproar was all about.”

They did so, Marc-Antoine finishing, “Fautisse, Connard, and Lafleur are in the guardhouse.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Bloody knuckles, broken ribs and noses, the usual. Burelle’s place took some damage.”

Bienville grunted. “What started it?”

Marc-Antoine looked at Tristan. “Not sure. That’s why I brought my brother.”

Bienville’s thick brows drew together. “All right then. Let’s have it.”

Tristan briefly described his approach to the faro game and his sense that trouble could be brewing, inferred from the toxic blend of undisciplined and inebriated personalities at the table. “And then the money and credit ran out for Connard and Lafleur. The bets turned to women.”

Bienville slid a hand over his face. “I knew this was going to happen. Any woman in particular?”

Tristan tried to remember. “A girl named Ysabeau Bonnet and another one . . . Oüanet maybe?”

“Last week it was the Gaillain sisters and Françoise Dubonnier. I warned them this has got to stop. Choosing a husband shouldn’t take this long.” Bienville’s smile turned grim. “Maybe I should line them up and draw lots, like they used to do in the Bible.”

Marc-Antoine sat up straight. “Sir! You can’t—”

“I’m joking, Lanier.” Bienville barked a laugh. “After all, that’s what started this contretemps, eh? I’ve been too patient with these double-minded women.” He snatched a piece of parchment and jabbed his quill into the open inkpot. He scratched furiously for a minute, sanded the ink and blew it clean. “Make sure La Salle gets this before breakfast. The remaining single women have one month to choose husbands. At the end of that time, I’ll host a ball to announce the betrothals of any women still holding out. On that date, financial support from the Crown ends.” He handed the paper to Marc-Antoine. “If you want the younger Gaillain girl, you’d better speak up now. You leave for Alabama territory in less than forty-eight hours.”

Marc-Antoine shook his head. “She’s pretty, but I don’t need the headache. She’s too fond of her own face.”

“Fine. Then get your gear together and prepare your contingent. Wait, one more thing.” Bienville stroked the quill through his fingers and looked at Tristan. “Is it true you’re willing to go with them?”

“Yes.” Until that moment, he hadn’t been sure of his answer. Perhaps his brother’s heretofore unsuspected maturity had tipped the balance.

“That’s good. I’m . . . glad you’re here. Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“You know I’m not a talker.”

“No, you’re a thinker and a doer.” Bienville gave a one-sided smile. “I’ve missed your input, and I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you on more than one occasion. But your country needs you this time.”

10

D
uring the heat of the afternoon, the women of Louisiane had developed the habit of meeting in small groups in someone’s home for tea and conversation—a short break from backbreaking labor in kitchens, in gardens, or over washboards at the creek. Those with infants or small children would put them down for a nap on pallets on the floor, then settle themselves on the gallery outside, hoping to stir a breeze with fans woven from palmetto fronds. Skirts would be hiked to the outrageous vicinity of the knees, stockings and shoes kicked off, and stomachers unlaced at the bosom. There was a tacit agreement for mutual nonjudgment, even amongst the most prudish of the matrons. It was simply too hot for more than minimum clothing.

Today there was much to discuss, particularly among the unmarried women. Françoise Dubonnier, self-appointed spokeswoman for the
Pélican
girls, had drawn together Geneviève and Aimée, Ysabeau and Edmé, and Noël Dumesnil—the so-called “holdouts”—for a meeting on the gallery of the Brossard cabin, home of recently wed Thérèse Brochon. Thérèse had outdone herself as hostess, producing a silver plate of delicate rice cakes dusted with confectioner’s sugar her besotted new husband had purchased on
the black market from Julien Dufresne. She served sassafras tea in delicate Limoges cups, given her by her mother and coddled all the way from Rouen. Geneviève guessed there was not a woman in the group who would not have given her right pinky for one of those cups—or who would have admitted it.

The Brossards owned two straight chairs and a rocker, which Pierre had paid for by bricking the foundation of carpenter Claude Fautisse’s cabin. The fact that Fautisse—who had been courting Edmé—was presently incarcerated in the guardhouse because he had fought two men in defense of her honor had been the topic of considerable conversation already. Edmé sat fanning herself in the rocker, endeavoring to look modestly flustered at such notoriety, but achieving a pronounced simper at best.