Leopard in Exile (36 page)

cautiously toward the road again.

But for all his care, he never reached it.

A Glorious Thing to Be a Pirate King

(Nouvelle-Orléans and Barataria, October 1807)

I
f he were not being driven nearly mad with worry, Louis reflected, his life here would be a very

comfortable one.

He had spent the summer as the personal captive of Jean Lafitte, scourge of the Gulf. Grand Terre—or

as it was as often styled, Barataria—was some sixty miles south of Nouvelle-Orléans, on the islands of

Grand Terre and Grand Isle. No pilot who did not know the waters well could navigate the channel that

led to the pirate city. It had been a continuous base for smugglers and pirates for over a

century—Blackbeard himself had once taken refuge here.

Before Lafitte had taken it over, Barataria had been as wretched a hive of scum and villainy as the world

could boast: under Lafitte's iron generalship, there was rule… of a sort.

I suppose I ought to be grateful for small favors
, Louis thought gloomily. Certainly his circumstances

had much improved from those that had obtained when he had awakened in the hold of the
Merchant's

Luck
. Now he ate from china and crystal and slept between linens and silks. The library and the music

room of Lafitte's grand mansion Chandeleur were both open to him, and when the
Pride of Barataria

was in port, he could often count on a game of chess with her master. Lafitte was an excellent and

ruthless player, and Louis' own game had improved under Lafitte's harsh tutelage.

But this comfort and ease would last only until Lafitte found a buyer for him, for Louis was as much

property as the chests of looted plunder that crowded the warehouses of Barataria, or the Africans

smuggled in from the Sugar Islands, whose clandestine resale made such a large part of Lafitte's trade.

Louis supposed he ought to hold himself fortunate that Lafitte was not even considering England or

France as a buyer, for in either case, Louis would already have been delivered up to a lifetime—short or

long—in a cage. The Emperor Napoleon would execute him. King Henry would use him as a stick with

which to beat the Grande Alliance. Either life would be as unsatisfactory as the underground existence he

had fled in France.

However—and as the moment grew closer, Louis grew less philosophical about it—the idea of being

delivered up to d'Charenton's mad lusts held even less charm than a full-dress execution under the gentle

auspices of Imperial France. To be strangled on the gibbet until he was only half-conscious, to have his

stomach slit open, his intestines pulled out and burnt before his eyes, and at last to have his still-living

body dismembered by four white horses—yes, even to be hanged, drawn, and quartered in the fashion

reserved since medieval times for condemned traitors was preferable to whatever d'Charenton wished to

do with him. They were very well informed here in Barataria, and Lafitte saw no reason to keep the news

of what Nouvelle-Orléans had become from his captive's ears, so Louis was entirely aware of the fact

that d'Charenton wanted him ardently and Lafitte was willing to supply him—or so he wished

d'Charenton to believe.

For the past several months, delicate negotiations between the Imperial Governor and the Pirate King

had been taking place, though Lafitte was in no hurry to conclude them. Lafitte wanted more than the

fleeting and untrustworthy gratitude of the Imperial Governor. Lafitte wanted to rule Louisianne in

d'Charenton's place, and d'Charenton knew it Only the utter unassailability of Grand Terre had protected

him this long.

Louis stared moodily out through the library windows. Across the channel that separated Grand Terre

from the mainland, a grove of cypress festooned with moss stood like silent bearded Druids. There was a

flash of white as some bird Louis could not identify took wing, and the slanting late-afternoon light of

autumn gave everything a honeyed glow.

Outside that window was everything Louis had once thought he ever wanted—the mystery and romance

of the New World, the grace and culture of Royal France—the best of both worlds, here commingled

and awaiting him.

He might as well have longed for the gardens of the Moon. Lafitte let Louis have free run of Chandeleur

not because he was trusted… but because he was very well guarded. He got to his feet and walked over

to the French doors. He reached for the handle.

"Don't" Robie spoke from his position by the fireplace.

The Dane was still dressed as he had been on the deck of the
Pride of Barataria
, all the way down to

the pistol stuck through his blue silk sash. The only difference, perhaps, was that the moleskin breeches

and calico shirt were clean and free of salt and oil, and that he wore a festive red ribbon at the end of his

long cream-colored braid.

"Or you'll shoot me?" Louis asked, without turning. Ridiculous to have this clutch of fear from a boy so

many years his junior, but the Dane was merciless.

"I won't have to," Robie said, sounding bored. "I have a knife, Frenchman. I'll nail your hand to the

door."

"Captain Lafitte would not like it if I bled all over his woodwork," Louis said, striving for lightness. The

boy terrified him, most of all because nothing in the universe seemed to frighten Robie.

"Wouldn't be the first time." The young pirate was unimpressed. "It comes out with a good scrubbing and

another coat of paint."

Defeated—even in the small battle of getting the last word—Louis turned around.

Robie leaned against the edge of the pink marble fireplace, carved with nymphs and Tritons, that Lafitte

had liberated from God knew where. His china-blue eyes were hooded, his expression sullen, but in all

the weeks he'd been here, Louis had never once seen Robie smile. Robie did not want to be here, away

from the
Pride of Barataria
, and blamed Louis for his presence on land. It made him an ill-tempered

jailer.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Louis asked at last. Within limits, he was also allowed the liberty of

Chandeleur's grounds. No sane or prudent man would want to go down into Barataria itself with anything

less than a brigade of guards, and Louis didn't think the exercise was worth it. In Barataria, he was just

as likely to be killed by someone who didn't know who he was.

"Not today," Robie said. "The
Pride
got back first thing this morning, and Bos's going to be having

visitors." "Bos" was the title that had been conferred on Lafitte by his felonious subjects.

"What visitors?" Louis asked. Robie just shrugged. Few things, so Louis had found, interested the boy

particularly. Not reading, not music, and certainly not answering Louis' questions.

But there was little else to do with his time but ask them.

"Will Captain Lafitte be bringing his guests to dinner?"

A shrug.

"Will he be dining at home?"

Another shrug.

"Do you know that your hair's on fire?"

Robie snorted dourly. "You're getting bored, French-man. That's bad luck. You might get careless."

"I have you to defend me from such a fate," Louis answered irritably. He could bear the library no longer,

and left the room.

Robie lounged after him, the boy's bare feet soundless on the wide-planked cypress floors of the great

mansion. Louis did not have to look back to know he was there, for Robie was
always
there, as

constant as his own shadow. He wandered aimlessly through the rooms, amazed as always that every

stick of furniture, every candlestick and cream-pot he saw, had been pirate plunder. Lafitte might claim

letters of marque from Cartagena or Spain or the Queen of the Gypsies, for all Louis cared—the man

was a common pirate.

But such a successful one…

That
, Louis reminded himself,
is because he is both clever and ruthless. And if you wish to escape

him and see Meriel again, you must be at least as clever, if not as ruthless
.

Dinnertime came and went without Lafitte, and Robie was in a worse—therefore more silent—mood

than usual. Louis took that as his excuse to retire early, and went up to his room. Robie did not follow

him inside. There was no need. The windows were covered with ornamental but still quite functional bars,

and the room was searched every morning for anything Louis might have smuggled into it.

Not for the first time, Louis wished Sarah Cunningham were here with him, for with that resourceful

lady's help he had managed to escape a trap far more intractable than this. But the one spark of hope he

allowed himself to cherish was that Meriel had appealed for aid to Sarah, and that Sarah was with her. If

Sarah were with Meriel, then Louis' wife was protected and safe. But he could expect no such

intervention for himself.

Dejected, he flung himself down onto the bed, only to hear the unmistakable crackle of parchment when

he did. Investigating the source, he found a message slipped beneath his counterpane.

Fear not
, he read. The message was written in good Church Latin, a language even those pirates who

could read were unlikely to know, the small words cramped together at the center of a large piece of

brown parchment.
Help is at hand
.

It was unsigned, of course, but such messages often were. Louis crumpled it in his fist, and as he did so,

he caught a faint scent of lemon. Frowning, he sniffed at the note. The scent was stronger.

Louis had been raised among conspirators, and his earliest memories were of secret messages exchanged

by candlelight. The scent kindled old memories, and he rummaged about his rooms for a candle and

some matches. Since the only thing he could do with them would be to set his rooms on fire, there was

no reason not to allow him to have them.

With only a little work, he managed to light the candle, and then held the parchment up to the heat of the

flame. As he had half hoped, more writing appeared, the pale brown letters written in Latin and lemon

juice darkening with the heat.

"Tonight when the stairwell clock strikes midnight, go to the door of your room. It will be

unlocked. You must leave the house, and go to the small boat landing on the north side of Grand

Terre, the one near the warehouse docks. Do not let anyone see you. I will come to you there and

take you to a place of safety. Do not fear to be betrayed, for you will recognize me and know me

without doubt for a friend. Burn this."

Louis instantly did as the note commanded, throwing the burning scrap of paper into the hearth and then

scrubbing the ashes into dust. Undoubtedly someone would know something had been burnt here, but

not before tomorrow morning—and by then, if the anonymous writer told the truth, Louis would be far

from here.

He shook his head, suspicious by long habit and unable to believe his good fortune. It might be a

trick—but why would Lafitte bother to trick him into anything? He was already wholly within the pirate

chieftain's power. Lafitte needed no excuse to kill him, and no reason. He could do as he liked.

And there was the matter of the door. If it was not unlocked, the matter ended there.

Ah, but if it was…

If it were open, and this turned out to be a long involved masquerade, he would be no worse off than he

would be if Lafitte used him to bait d'Charenton into a trap. He had been too long a playing-piece not to

have developed a certain detachment from his own life. When the last chime of the long-case clock

echoed into silence, Louis rose, fully-dressed, from the bed, and tip-toed toward the door, shoes in

hand. He tested the latch. The knob turned without impediment. He eased the door open.

The landing was empty and dark. There was no sign of Robie. Louis eased out into the corridor. Still no

one. His spirits began to rise. Perhaps this would end happily.

Louis walked cautiously down the stairs, staying close to the edges of the treads to keep them from

creaking. He crossed the broad marble floor of the foyer to the front door, moving carefully in the near

darkness. It, too, was unlocked. Louis swung the door open the barest amount necessary for him to

escape, and closed it again.

His eyes, adjusted to the lack of light inside, found the midnight world bright. He stopped to slip his shoes

on at the gate, and walked quickly toward the north docks.

This was the most dangerous part of his escape, for he would be skirting the pirate-town, Barataria,

itself. While Lafitte's personal charisma imposed a sort of draconian law upon the town and peace upon

the grounds of Chandeleur itself, Barataria was a lawless, anarchic place whose bars, brothels, and

gaming hells never closed. If Louis were caught there, not even the invocation of Lafitte's name could

save him from the pirates' murderous whimsy.

As Louis came closer to the town, he heard snatches of music and the sound of breaking glass. The

overpoweringly sweet scent of the lethal cane liquor brewed here filled the air, along with the constant

smell of woods-moke. Despite the blackout curtains that were supposed to hang over every window, the

town blazed with light, making it easy for Louis to find his way. He stayed out of the light as much as he

could, taking to the brush a couple of times to avoid parties of revelers.