The Scent of Betrayal (29 page)

‘My lieutenant,’ she said, dropping her voice a complete octave. ‘That is not where I normally expect a man’s blood to go when he touches me.’

Her fingertips stroked the seam of his breeches, which made him colour even more. ‘You are so elegant, you Walloon Guards, especially the officers. I admire Captain de Guerin too. He is such a handsome fellow at a ceremony like the King’s birthday. I have had the honour of entertaining him more than once.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ he croaked.

‘He is, I believe, up north?’ she asked, leaning slightly closer.

His reply was near breathless. ‘All I know, Mademoiselle Feraud, is that he is on some private business for the Governor.’

‘Ah yes! The Barón’s little charade with the gold and silver.’ De Chigny’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Hyacinthe put a finger to her lips. ‘Sshh! I am the soul of discretion. It would not do to let the Governor know that his confidants are prone to gossip, or that they visit such places as the Hôtel de la Porte d’Orléans during the day.’

She stood up and waved an arm to encompass the whole room. ‘If the good Barón ever found out some of the things that I have heard within these walls … But it would never do for him to suspect, would it, Lieutenant? I might be put to the rack.’

His expression had changed. There was just a trace of guilt or fear in the eyes, which pleased Hyacinthe, since it indicated that he’d understood her perfectly.

‘Does your duty permit you any leisure?’

‘Some,’ he replied, his voice suddenly more military. ‘But the Barón gives me many tasks to perform.’

‘Then he must trust you, Lieutenant. I would not take it amiss if you were to call on me, when your duty allows.’

He got to his feet, clearly suffering a degree of physical discomfort, which required, to effect a disguise, the use of his tricorne hat.

She smiled sweetly as she rang the bell to summon Bernard. ‘I do so love a man in breeches.’

If he’d blushed before it was as nothing to what happened then. His face had gone the colour of beetroot. He positively dashed out of the room, mumbling apologies, as soon as the servant opened the door.

With de Chigny gone she went to her ledger and extracted the note Harry had received two days before. Smoothing out the creases, she penned a quick letter, copying the style of the block capitals rather than employing her normal handwriting. She sealed it with wax and took it downstairs.

‘Take this to Calle des Ursulines, Bernard. Give it to Captain
Ludlow. You are to say that it came by an Indian messenger who would not name the sender. That I thought it best to take it on his behalf and send it on to him, unopened.’

That note saved Harry from an embarrassing rebuff, at a time when the Frenchmen looked set to refuse his invitation to join in the expedition north. Spoken out loud, it had sounded like an absurdity to him, especially with James’s eyebrows flickering at every anomaly in his explanation, a reaction noted by even the most eager of his listeners. In a situation when he needed to appear certain of his aims he was just a touch hesitant. So when Bernard gave it to him, and as he read it, the buzz of conversation was wholly negative.

‘From McGillivray,’ he said, passing the square of paper to James. His brother read it quickly as Harry thanked the messenger and Pender ushered him out of the room.

‘Well, Harry,’ he said. ‘The case seems altered.’

It wasn’t plain sailing. There were those like Brissot who so distrusted him that no amount of letters would convince him of the truth. But slowly he and the others were overborne till their protestation lost force, since it now looked like a choice between poverty in New Orleans and security elsewhere. They conceded unhappily, and with no grace whatsoever. But the important objective had been achieved. Harry Ludlow had an objective, a boat, and a crew.

Lampin was put in charge of getting them aboard, moving in small groups so as to avoid unwelcome attention. The nuns of the Ursuline order would have to be told, but Harry wished them to know as little as possible. The chests full of gunpowder were to be left as evidence of their intention to return. Harry gave them money so that they could make a donation to the convent funds that would ensure that the Mother Superior remembered them fondly, then went off with Pender to find a pair of horses.

‘Is there no other way, your honour?’ Pender asked.

‘No,’ Harry replied. ‘We can’t go in the same boat as the
Frenchmen. That would be bound to attract notice, and I want to give the impression I’m in no hurry.’

‘Well, you know what I think of horses.’

‘It won’t be for long. As soon as possible we’ll leave the road and make for a rendezvous upriver.’

Pender’s groan was suppressed, but it was audible.

‘He is not in comfort, your Pender,’ said Hyacinthe, looking at James. ‘And neither are you.’

They were standing in the window, looking up the road that led to Fort St Jean. Harry, who’d already turned to wave, sat easily in his saddle. Pender kept his face rigidly forward, trying to avoid slipping sideways every time his horse changed gait.

‘I’ve never known a man who so loved danger,’ James replied, without looking at her. Mentally he was cursing his inability to speak freely. He wanted to say that he thought Harry slightly mad, that everything about this trip had a convenience attached to it that left a rank smell. But he couldn’t, because the fiction that Harry had told Hyacinthe needed to be maintained. So what he said made him feel and look inadequate. ‘And I fear the consequences if he encounters any.’

But Hyacinthe was looking at him, well aware that he was on the horns of a dilemma, and in some way enjoying the fact. It was almost as though she and James stood as equals in Harry’s estimation, each only trusted with a portion of the truth, each convinced that his journey was a mistake, since the solution to everything lay here in New Orleans, not in the wilderness to the north. And since she herself was playing a similar game it was easy to avoid any resentment. Gaining trust from James was important, since he had the power to sway his brother. This trip provided time for that, time to prove to both men that she was worthy of more than mere appearances would indicate, that Harry’s promise, fulfilled, was not something he’d live to regret either making or keeping. She stroked the back of his hand gently.

‘You have a painting to finish.’

‘
THERE’S ONE
or two who are less than happy,’ said Tucker, cradling the long rifle in his arms. ‘Might have jumped overboard if I hadn’t mentioned alligators. Who’s that big ape with the beard?’

Harry followed Tucker’s pointed finger, only to be greeted by a furious glare. ‘Name’s Brissot. He’s not much given to trusting people.’

‘I don’t care if’n he don’t trust me, but with the looks I’ve been getting I thought I was going to have to fight him. And after what you and I had just been through I didn’t expect to win.’

Harry examined Tucker’s face. The swellings, like his own, had started to recede, but his face was a mass of scratches and bruises, the latter darker than they’d been the day before, and as he moved, Harry could see that he too was careful to ease his discomfort. The two of them must present an interesting sight. Tucker had changed into loose buckskin garments, dark brown with beadwork edging the collar and cuffs. There was a round fur hat hanging on a hook by the door of the deckhouse, and a powder horn with elaborate carvings. His clothes were made from the same material as the cover he used to keep his rifle dry, so that for all his frontier dress Harry could still imagine him a man careful of his appearance. They’d been formally introduced to the weapon, Practical John, a long rifle nearly five feet in length. Tales abounded of the accuracy of the weapon and the skill of the frontiersmen in their use, and it was clear, when Harry hinted that he would welcome a chance to fire it, that Tucker regarded it in the same way as legend dictated. ‘Why, I’d no more let a man fondle Practical John than I would let him near my mother.’

They were at anchor, just offshore, in a wide expanse of the river that turned due east, which was actually to the south of New Orleans. The land on either side was flat and featureless, dotted with plantations and fertile in the way of all deltas, and judging by the high levees, just as prone to flooding. He and Pender had cut across from the road to Fort St Jean, riding as hard as Pender’s ineptitude would allow, aware that time was an enemy in more senses than one. The amount they could spend away from New Orleans was limited, but more pressing was the fact that every day increased the distance de Guerin and his party of Walloon Guards could put between themselves and de Carondelet. Tucker had come this far on a north wind using the single square sail, but the wind had swung round into the west and it was now useless. It was time to row.

‘Let’s prepare to get under way.’

‘Can’t do that without a dram, Ludlow,’ said Tucker, reaching for a ladle that poked out of a covered tub. ‘And I suggest the same for your Frenchies, before they’re put to the oars.’

Harry looked around the small boat, wondering if he should address the men and remind them of the task ahead. It was fairly broad, with two narrow walkways for poling on either side of the deckhouse. More of a low hutch, this sat amidships, leaving a foredeck that matched the size of the afterdeck on which they stood. A great sweep lay at rest beside them, long enough to contest the sudden variations that were to be found in the faster-flowing parts of the river. Beneath the walks lay the rowing stations, ten a side, which opened onto the cargo hold. Really there was no place on the boat that could be considered out of earshot.

Tucker’s French was far from perfect, but he’d quickly understand any references to gold or silver, and this was one of the problems Harry’d yet to resolve. Once Tucker found out what it was they were after, could he be trusted, not least to stay quiet? Harry’s knowledge of frontiersmen was limited, but from what he’d seen and heard they had a trait, other than fighting and drinking, that marked them out: their desire to boast. Given that Tucker
was a member of that breed, and a man who couldn’t move without a dram, they’d have to avoid not only Spaniards but Kaintucks and Creoles, otherwise the whole territory would hear about de Guerin’s caravan.

‘Pender, ask Lampin and Couvruer to join me in the deckhouse. We need to sort out crews and reliefs.’

‘What about Brissot?’ Pender replied, indicating that the bearded giant was still giving them malevolent stares.

‘Ignore him!’ snapped Harry.

The trip upriver started reasonably well and proceeded so as they pushed through the broad flowing waters around the German Coast. Not accustomed to rowing in such numbers, and also out of sight of each other, it took time for the Frenchmen to get a proper rhythm, which led to much yawing as one side applied more pressure on the oars than the other. Tucker, handing over control of the great sweep to Harry, resorted to the oldest method of control in the world, banging a piece of wood on the foredeck. Lampin and Couvruer took on the task of interpreting his instructions, each being responsible for one side. Surprisingly, given their situation and problems, the majority of those engaged showed a welcome sense of humour, with many a shout of derision aimed in the direction of anyone whose grip slipped. In all the time Harry had known these men he’d never heard them laugh. That they were doing so now did much to lighten his own mood. It didn’t survive actual contact; they might be happy to share a joke with each other, but not with him, and that applied especially to those who distrusted him the most.

Within a couple of hours, with each side relieved and all the oarsmen worked in, they were making steady progress. Tucker, who knew the river well, steered from side to side, so that the current was kept to a minimum by the kind of lee shore provided by the knuckle of every bend. On either side of the dark brown mass of the river imposing plantation houses caught his eye, each surrounded by blooming orange trees, in some cases but a stone’s
throw away from them, and it was curious to observe that while the orange fruit at the top of the trees was ripe, that in the middle was not, while at the very base of the leafy cascade the buds were no more than blossom. They passed fields full of toiling Negro slaves, sweating profusely in the hot humid atmosphere.

Within 24 hours the weather began to change quite dramatically, the sunshine and still, warm air replaced on the horizon by dark, forbidding clouds. The distant rumbling thunder warned of the approaching storm well before it arrived. There was an uncomfortable ten minutes for those on deck while they roasted in their oilskins. When the rain arrived it seemed to be nearly as hot as the air. The deluge that engulfed them, full of flashing lightning, was enough to remind Harry how close they were to the Tropics. They rowed on through the morning at a steady pace, the discomfort of water dripping through the planking adding to the misery of an hour at the oars.

‘Best have the crew off watch take over,’ cried Tucker, who’d hitherto been fairly silent. ‘We need them fresh. Them that comes off the oars should be standing by with poles.’

Harry looked forward as Tucker pointed. Even at this distance he could see that the bend they were approaching was tighter than those they’d already steered through.

‘We’re coming up to Judas Point.’

‘Named for treachery, no doubt?’ shouted Harry.

‘Damned right,’ Tucker replied, opening his mouth to let the rainfall fill it. ‘You’ll need to take a position by the hatch where you can relay my orders to the oars. Pender, I’d be thankful if you’d fetch me a ladle of that whiskey then come and assist me on the sweep.’

Harry moved forward to the rear of the deckhouse, looking down the cramped companionway. He could hear the rhythmic grunts of the rowers as they hauled on the leather-covered grips. Sheltered from the noise of the storm, he issued his orders and watched as the men changed over. Those that came on deck to take up poling positions had nothing to protect them from the
elements, but if this bothered them, it didn’t show. They were happy to ease their aching limbs. Even Brissot had stopped glaring at everyone.

‘Best warn them, Ludlow, that if we hit a bad eddy I’ll ask them to ship. And advise them they’re not dangerous. They don’t suck you under like they can at sea, they just dance you round a trifle then spit you out.’

Harry ducked his head back under cover to relay this information to his charges. One or two of them grinned at him, at which point he realised that he was smiling too, addressing them in the same tone he adopted with his own crew. But the majority still greeted him with a look of distrust which forced him to alter his expression. Tucker’s shout brought him out into the rain again.

‘There she goes!’

Harry felt the ship begin to spin, the head coming round despite Tucker’s and Pender’s efforts on the sweep. ‘There’s a pile of driftwood off to starboard, Ludlow. See if those men can get their poles onto the wood and keep us clear.’

The boat was now athwart the river, head due north. But it was also being forced to the southern bank by the force of the whirlpool. A huge mass of logs and tree trunks lay there, so entangled that they were locked together, the force of the river’s current holding the whole edifice in place.

‘Ship!’ Tucker yelled.

The rowers responded just in time, lifting the oars clear of the wooden island. Those on deck shoved out their poles and locked them into any gap which presented itself, struggling hard to keep the galley in clear water. Their efforts were only partially successful. The gap was closing. Without knowing what kind of danger this represented, it was obvious that contact would considerably slow their progress. Tucker shot past Harry, leaping over the side of the boat onto a log that looked near six feet in circumference. Harry held his breath, waiting for the wooden mass to part and swallow him up. It didn’t happen. They were crushed so firmly in place that it was as safe as an earthen shore. Tucker
waited till the boat was close enough then leant out and begun to push it, trying to edge it past the most prominent projections. Feeling useless, Harry made his way to the bulwark and, heart in mouth, jumped down to join him. He was immediately assailed by a stream of instructions.

‘Two poles on that Douglas fir, another on the live oak just behind it. You come by me and push like hell.’

Tucker’s face was bright red with exertion, as he pushed against the side of the galley. Suddenly a gush of blood erupted from his already swollen nose, immediately washed off by the teeming rain. It didn’t interfere with his pushing, but it produced a stream of invective that told Harry it was a curse he had suffered from before.

‘Clear water coming, Ludlow. Get yourself back aboard.’

Harry didn’t wait to check if Tucker was right. The idea of staying where he was terrified him, his mind full of the image of himself slipping underneath the logs, unable to find a way to the surface. He’d heard it from people who knew about the dangers of logging, knew it was possible, and could hardly believe that it hadn’t happened already. The low freeboard made the jump relatively simple, but the wet wood, being slippery, nearly proved his undoing. Harry’s foot didn’t quite reach the top of the rail and his hands began to lose their grip. Someone grabbed the collar of his oilskin coat and he was lifted bodily inboard. Raising his eyes he saw the rain-soaked black beard and dark hair that framed Brissot’s unfriendly eyes.

‘Your hand, Ludlow!’

Harry was up and leaning over the side in an instant. Tucker was walking along the logs, utterly unconcerned by any risk of slippage. Just as he reached the point where the galley made clear water, he leapt nimbly for the side. Harry’s hand was no more than a gesture to help him inboard.

‘Damned nose of mine,’ Tucker said, pulling off his dripping fur hat and shaking it. ‘Happens every time. Only thing to cure it is a dram of whiskey.’

‘I think I’ll join you,’ said Harry, grinning.

‘Let the whirlpool take us round, Pender,’ called Tucker, ladle in hand. Then he gave it to Harry. ‘Just hold her steady as she is.’

Harry, who’d thrown the contents of the large spoon down his throat, gasped and staggered forward slightly, his eyes wide with surprise.

‘That’s a fine brew you just consumed, friend. The best that Kentucky can offer, an’ not watered down for milksops.’

‘Thank you,’ Harry gasped. He leant back, opened his mouth, and let it fill with rain.

Tucker drank his down without discomfort, smacked his lips, them went to join Pender on the sweep. The boat shuddered as a piece of driftwood rammed into the side. Looking overboard, Harry saw an astonishing amount floating by, including whole trees with their branches intact, rolling over and over in the turbulent water.

‘Must have been some twisters upriver,’ said Tucker. ‘There’s a mite more’n usual.’

A steady stream of thuds came from just on the waterline, the noise of each one a clear indication of just how big a piece of drifting debris had rammed them. Tucker sent two men with poles to the bows to try and fend some of them off. Harry was examining the slow-moving whirlpool, visible even in a river lashed by huge drops of rain. Judging by the run of the water it was a halfmile in circumference. He’d never seen anything to equal such a phenomenon in his life. Tucker, steering by himself now, made for a point near the centre, and used the force of the current to bring the galley’s head round.

‘Stand by on the oars, Ludlow, if you please. When I give the shout tell them to haul like heroes. And I’d be thankful, after that, for your help on the sweep.’

The storm increased in tempo, great flashes of lightning searing across the black sky. The river itself, with the pounding deluge, was made to seem like something live. Harry watched Tucker’s
lips, not sure in such a squall if he would hear him speak. It was faint when it came, but clear. He called down below and was gratified by the way the Frenchmen set to. Then he ran back to the stern. Close to Tucker, straining on the sweep to keep the head steady, he could hear the caressing tone in the man’s voice.

‘Come on, my beauty. Take us out of here. That’s it, that’s it.’ The pressure on the sweep eased as he gave a great shout. ‘That’s it! We’re clear.’

‘Thank the Lord,’ said Harry, smiling. Pender was grinning too. That disappeared when Tucker responded.

‘Next one’s a mile off and twice the size.’