Leopard in Exile (37 page)

The way they lived was foolish and strange, Louis reflected. Men took to piracy in order to gain wealth,

and as soon as they obtained it they wasted it away in empty diversion. All their hard-earned gold went

to fatten the purses of tavern-keepers, fences, and madams, and the pirate had no other choice but to

return to his dangerous profession.

Soon the warehouses were in sight. They were padlocked at night, but not guarded—for all their

bloodthirsty ways, there was a curious honor among pirates. Louis moved more carefully now, groping

his way through the dark with only the light of the moon to guide him. A lone lantern hung at the end of

the dock, and by its light, Louis could see a dark cloaked figure, standing as still and as awesome as

Death himself.

Was
this
the man he was supposed to trust? Louis stopped, confused.

As he hesitated, the man at the end of the pier flung back his hood and lifted the lantern, holding it so that

its light fell full upon his face.

Louis stared for a long moment, until memory awoke. This was the partner of the Duke of Wessex, the

Polish hussar who had been with him during the escape at the chateau. As much as he trusted anyone,

Louis knew he could trust Illya Koscuisko. He started forward, his hand raised in greeting.

Koscuisko turned to hang the lantern back on its hook.

Suddenly there was a thunderous rattle from behind both of them, as the door of the warehouse rolled

open. The dock was flooded with light, revealing Louis, Koscuisko, and the small boat in which he had

obviously planned to effect their escape in its merciless glare.

Louis whirled, squinting into the light.

"Hi," Robie said, leveling his pistol. "Missed me?"

Behind him stood Lafitte, one hand resting negligently upon the sabre at his hip, with four bully-bravos at

his beck. The pirate king was dressed immaculately in buff-and-indigo evening dress, the red ribbon of an

order he was probably not entitled to crossing his broad muscular chest. His thick dark hair was caught

back in a blue velvet ribbon, and the heavy gold rings in his ears glittered. He wore diamonds from his

cravat-pin to his slipper-buckles, and looked ornate and dangerous.

A trap? Looking at Koscuisko's face, Louis knew that the escape attempt had been genuine on

Koscuisko's part, at least.

"I am master of all that takes place in Barataria," Lafitte said, smiling dangerously. "And now I am master

of both of you."

"If it please the king," Koscuisko's voice rang out, steady and unafraid, "I should like to open negotiations

for my life and my freedom."

Lafitte admired audacity; this Louis knew from experience. Koscuisko was playing his hand entirely right.

"Kill them both," Robie suggested hopefully.

Lafitte draped an arm about his protege's shoulders. "My dear boy, when will you learn to savor your

pleasures in the proper order? First we will allow our impetuous friend to charm us with his foolishness,

then
we shall kill him. All things in their season, you know."

"I am not so foolish as all that," Koscuisko said, coming up to stand beside Louis. "I am, after all,

authorized to treat with you as a sovereign power on behalf of King Henry of England. I can show you

papers to that effect, if you won't shoot me."

"Forged," Robie said contemptuously.

"Perhaps," Lafitte said. "But as a privateer, I am a believer in a free market economy. We will allow

M'sieur—or is it Mister… ?"

"It is, in fact, neither," Koscuisko answered. "I am Count Jerzy Illyavich Koscuisko, of His Majesty's

Royal Mounted Hussars"—he bowed stiffly from the waist, bringing his heels together with a sharp

click—"and I think you will find that our interests can lead to mutually beneficial ends."

An hour later, Lafitte and his principal captains, René Béluche and Dominique You—both expatriate

from the
Grande Armée
—sat across the long mahogany table from Koscuisko and Louis in Lafitte's

private sanctum.

Louis had only seen this room once before. The chamber had no windows, and the walls were hung with

red silk damask and set with mirrors. The floor was an elaborate mosaic of black and white tiles, set in a

swirling pattern, and the ceiling was a jigsaw of mirrors that reflected back the light from the ornate brass

and crystal chandelier and the sconces on the walls.

It was a room in which it would be very difficult to keep secrets, for the mirrors ensured that every side

of every person there was visible at all times, and the lack of windows or vents made eavesdropping

impossible. In this room there was no day or night, summer or winter.

"I'm not happy with you," Robie breathed in Louis' ear.

In the mirror behind Lafitte, Louis could see the reflection of himself and the young pirate who leaned

over him. Robie had dragged one of the chairs over beside the door, but he hadn't seated himself,

preferring instead to prowl the room like a panther with a toothache.

"I would rather not be here myself," Louis answered in a low voice. Robie gave an irritated snort and

moved away.

"So, M'sieur le Comte. You affect to treat with me on behalf of England. You even show me papers—"

here Lafitte gestured to the documents Koscuisko had produced, lying in a disorderly heap in the middle

of the table "—that indicate you are indeed a clandestine envoy of the English King, with the ability to

discuss treaty terms in his name. But it occurs to me to inquire what terms you think I might find of

interest?"

"You do, indeed, have your kingdom here, Captain Lafitte. But it is threatened now by d'Charenton, and

I think it will be more threatened every year. The
Albionaise
threaten you to the north and east, and

though Spain is presently Louisianne's ally through her ties with France, that, too, might change, and then

you would find yourself surrounded by enemies. And as you know, England is at war with France—and

thus, with you."

"So I had heard," Lafitte answered with grave majesty. "And do you propose to end that war?"

"England proposes to end that war by winning it, and parading the tyrant Napoleon through the streets of

his capital in chains," Koscuisko said, and for the first time, Louis heard a flash of true emotion in his

words. "Meanwhile, she wishes economic stability restored here in the New World, by denying France

access to its storehouse of wealth."

"You propose, in short, to make Louisianne another English province," Béluche said.

"King Henry proposes to make Louisianne an independent country allied to England," Koscuisko

corrected him gently. "The only question that remains is—who is to rule it?"

"Not the only question," Lafitte answered, leaning forward. But Koscuisko had his attention. Louis could

see it.

"Indeed. King Henry has one or two trifling requests to make of his new ally. Painless ones, of course."

"Of course," Lafitte answered, grinning wolfishly.

"King Henry would require
that Albionaise
goods move through the Port at no higher tariff than is

imposed upon French or Spanish goods. And, of course, he would need the signature of the new ruler on

Wilberforce's Pact."

"How will the plantations survive without slavery?" Lafitte asked.

"By paying their workers a living wage, just as the
Albionaise
planters now do. English mills will take all

the cotton you can ship, as well as coffee, flax, and indigo at fair market prices. When the war is over,

Continental markets will be open as well, and the Port of Nouvelle-Orléans is centrally located for both

riverine and oceanic commerce. Your people will not starve."

"You paint a rosy picture of our future, M'sieur. But to do as you say means rebellion against a powerful

Empire. Why should we turn against the Master of Europe? Why should Louisianne not simply remain

loyal to France under her new master?"

"Because if the Corsican or his black dog, Talleyrand, has promised you Louisianne in exchange for

fealty, I must tell you mat Napoleon does not keep his promises. My country has some experience of

this, Captain; you must learn from our mistakes. In 1795 Napoleon's enemies dismembered my poor

Poland to divide among themselves. The Corsican swore if we fought for him, he would return it to us,

yet a dozen years have passed; he is the Master of Europe, and we are no closer to our freedom. By all

reports you are a clever man—too clever to be taken in by this upstart Emperor. You need not trust the

English King overmuch either, if Louisianne is master of her own fate. You can make your own way, in a

wealthy country at peace with its neighbors, and with powerful friends in Europe."

"It is my experience, M'sieur le Comte, mat those who revolt find themselves quickly without friends of

any sort." Lafayette obviously considered the discussion at an end, but Koscuisko had not yet admitted

defeat.

"This would not be the case… if Louisianne were in fact the true heir to Bourbon France," Koscuisko

said, with an apologetic sideways glance toward Louis. "I am sorry, Louis. There is no other way."

So. In the end it comes to this
. A great weariness settled over Louis. He had tried his utmost to outrun

this fate, but it seemed it was to be his in the end.

"So
le pauvre petit
is who d'Charenton's dogs said he was? The King?" Strangely, there was a note of

hope in Lafitte's voice, and his two generals leaned forward, gazing thunderstruck at Louis. Obviously,

this was not news Lafitte had shared with them.

Koscuisko looked at Louis.

"I am my father's son," Louis said. "I am Louis-Charles de France, of the House of Bourbon."

"Oh,
terrific
," Robie said, from his post beside the door.

"Proof?" Lafitte said, almost reluctantly.

"Will you really need it?" Koscuisko asked.

"There is proof. Papers… depositions… jewels," Louis said. "The Abbé de Condé my uncle, has them in

safe keeping—he thought that—someday—I would wish to regain my throne. I can send for them, if I

must. But the good Koscuisko is right. You don't need proof. Only a convincing figurehead." His voice

was bitter.

"So. The little king does not wish to rule?" Lafitte asked archly.

"They killed my family." Louis looked straight into Lafitte's eyes. "They murdered my mother, my father,

my sister… everyone I had ever known. Good people, blameless people, slaughtered like animals—and

for what? For an
idea
. No, I don't want your damned blood-soaked crown. I swore I'd see its people in

Hell before I ever took back the crown of France."

"Ah, but Your Majesty. The crown of Louisianne is a very different thing than that of France. In this New

World we can build a new nation, out of the best of the old world and the best of our own hearts. Not a

nation of Frenchmen or Spaniards, but a nation of free men, ruled by the best among them."

"A meritocracy needs no king," Louis reminded Lafitte sullenly.

"But a king needs counselors and ministers. And if any man may aspire to guide the King, will not the

King be the best of them all?"

Louis smiled reluctantly, beguiled against his will by Lafitte's charisma. "In a kingdom where all men are

welcome, and no man is a slave?"

"If it must be," Lafitte said, with a pretty show of capitulation on a point he must have known he would

lose anyway. "No man is a slave aboard a privateer, and I think the law of the ocean should hold on land

as well. But I regret…"he paused, fixing both his captives with his burning black gaze, "that I cannot

unilaterally agree to your pleasant proposal. I have allies who would be dismayed if I did not consult

them. And I have yet to see what part England would play in this grand revolution. Will she send ships?

Men?"

"If it must be accomplished by force, I will have nothing to do with it," Louis said quickly. "If Louisianne

must be taken by force, you must look elsewhere for your puppet king."

"It is plain you do not know the present state of affairs in the city,
mon petit
, if you think you would be

seen as anything but a savior. But come, M'sieur le Comte, it is time for some serious, as the English say,

horse-trading. When I know what you have to offer us—in full detail—then I will consult my allies."

Wessex returned to consciousness reluctantly. As his senses returned, he continued to feign

unconsciousness, while gaining all the information about his surroundings that he could.

It was day. He could feel the sun on his face, and the breeze that ruffled his hair suggested that he was

outdoors. His arms were stretched behind him, tied, perhaps, about the trunk of a tree. Wessex tugged at

his wrists and discovered himself securely bound. The back of his head ached burningly, mute testimony

to its meeting with an immovable object somewhere mere in the darkness of the swamp, and his feet

were bare.

Never use magic where a bludgeon will do
, one of his tutors had once told him in the long-ago, and it

seemed that adherence to that particular piece of advice was universal. Certainly his captors had taken it

to heart. Whoever they were.

Escape would be no quick and easy matter, and his struggles would undoubtedly be noticed long before

he had freed himself. There was nothing more to be gained from shamming sleep, and so Wessex opened

his eyes.

He was sitting on the ground against a tree somewhere deep in the bayou west of Lake Pontchartrain, on