Creighton stood stunned, openmouthed, clutching the empty wooden frame. There was a moment of dead silence. Then Sophie uttered a sound that was something between a shout and a sob. It was followed by a barrage of French words that fell on Creighton as painfully and unrelentingly as the ones made of lead. Though he understood no more than one word in ten, the message behind them was clear: He was ignorant, clumsy, and useless, and what’s more, so were all his countrymen and relatives, and she wished that he had never been born or, at the very least, that he had not ruined the whole North American continent by coming here.
She could not have wished it half as much as he did. He flung the form aside and headed for the door across a field of fallen type, staggering a little as the squares of lead shifted beneath his feet.
Once outside, he broke into a trot, around the house and out into the street. He had no idea where he was going. If he could have, he would have run all the way to England, back to his old life, in which nothing was asked of him, nothing expected. The beauty of no one expecting anything of you was that you couldn’t possibly fail to live up to it.
He would even have settled for somewhere that was ruled by Britain. But, though he was sure there was English territory out there somewhere, probably within a few days’ walk, he couldn’t say exactly where, or in what direction. And even if he knew, he could never hope to make his way there on his own. If the alligators didn’t do him in, the Indians would, or the maroons, or the bottomless pits of quicksand.
After wandering about aimlessly for a time, Creighton ended up on the broad street that lay nearest to the river. Ahead of him, a set of steps led to the crest of the long, low earth wall. Creighton climbed them and stood looking out over the Mississippi. Four sailing vessels were anchored in midstream, all of them flying Spanish or French flags. For a moment he entertained the notion of stowing away aboard one of them. But he would be no better off. It wouldn’t take him anywhere he wanted to go, only to some equally unfamiliar, inhospitable place.
Creighton sat on the steps and put his head in his hands, trying to decide what to do next, how to avoid having to go back and face Dr. Franklin and Sophie. The complaining of his empty stomach made it difficult to think. He was as unaccustomed to going hungry as he was to working.
He fingered the coins his uncle had given him, back aboard the Amity, wondering whether or not the local taverns would accept British currency. Well, there was no harm in trying—unless they despised the English so much that they threw him out on his ear.
When he descended the steps, he encountered a group of barefoot boys who were heading for the river, carrying cane fishing poles. “One moment, my lad,” Creighton said to the boy in the lead. “Can you tell me where to find a tavern that serves food?”
The boy regarded him with the sort of alarmed and suspicious look one might give to a leprous beggar or an escapee from an insane asylum. “Je ne comprends pas.” He turned to his companions. “Quelle langue parle-t-il? Espagnol?”
One of the other boys laughed derisively. “Non, non, c’est américain!”
To Creighton’s surprise they all began pointing at him and jeering, as though he were some grotesque or ludicrous figure. The leader started chanting a French rhyme, obviously an insulting one, and the others took up the refrain:
’Méricain coquin,
’Billé en nanquin,
Voleur de pain,
Chez Miché d’Aquin!
Creighton’s knowledge of French was sketchy, but he understood the word coquin, which meant “rogue,” and voleur de pain, which meant “stealer of bread.” Scowling, he raised one arm threateningly. The boys scattered, but regrouped at once, still chanting, to taunt him further by poking at him with their cane poles.
Furious, he seized one of the poles and wielded it like a sword, smacking the boys’ arms and legs. Under this onslaught they retreated. Creighton shouted after them, “You stupid little twits! I’m not an American! I’m English! Anglais! And I hope my countrymen take over your bloody town and make all of you into slaves!”
It occurred to him then that this was probably not the wisest thing to be saying in the middle of a public street. He dropped the pole and hurried off, glancing behind occasionally to make sure he wasn’t being pursued by a mob of outraged Frenchmen.
Creighton walked on along the street that fronted the river without seeing anything that looked like a tavern, or at least the way an English tavern looked. Finally he found himself at the city square. Just beyond the square, the street was lined with dozens of ramshackle wooden stalls displaying foods and wares of all kinds for sale.
He approached a stall that was piled high with long, narrow loaves of bread and mounds of crusty rolls. The vendor, a plump, smiling woman, said pleasantly, “Désirez-vous du pain aujourd’hui?” She held up one of the appetizing loaves. “Une baguette, peut-être?”
Creighton nodded and fished a shilling from his waistcoat pocket.
She regarded it dubiously. “Une pièce anglaise, hein?”
Creighton understood that well enough: an English coin. “Oui.”
“Du vaisseau anglais qu’ ont pris les Américains?”
From the English vessel captured by the Americans. “Oui.”
She put the coin between her teeth and bit down on it. Satisfied that it was genuine, she dropped it into the pocket of her apron and held out two loaves.
He was not accustomed to thanking anyone in any language, and had to search his brain for a moment before he could come up with “Merci.” He tried to take the loaves, but the woman was holding fast to the other end.
“Et vous,” she said, slyly, “vous êtes une pièce anglaise aussi, n’est-ce pas?”
You are a bit of English, too. “Oui,” he admitted.
“Also from the captured ship, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and let go of the bread. “I hope you will find la Nouvelle-Orléans to your liking.”
He traded one of the loaves for several smoked herring from a fisherman’s stall and bought a bottle of ale from a brewer. Then he sat in the shade of a tree, facing the building that Arnold had called the Cabildo, and laid into the food ravenously.
On the side of the square away from the river stood two pillories. One of them was occupied by a pathetic-looking fellow whose pudgy neck and wrists seemed too large for the holes that held him captive. Around his neck hung a placard printed in Spanish and French. As best Creighton could translate them, the words said, MY NAME IS JEAN BILLOUART. I AM A THIEF. I STOLE FROM THE SISTERS OF MERCY. I AM SENTENCED TO THREE DAYS’ EXPOSURE AT THE PILLORY.
Apparently he had served his sentence, at least for the day, for a soldier appeared to unlock the top arm of the pillory and release him. The man shuffled off, rubbing his chafed wrists and twisting his stiff neck from side to side.
The vendors began closing up their stalls for the night. Creighton glanced up at the sun, which hung only a hands-breadth above the horizon. In less than an hour it would be dark, and the mosquitoes would begin tormenting him again, and he would have nowhere to hide.
A door at one end of the Cabildo opened and Colonel Gower and Lieutenant Hale emerged, followed by two Spanish soldiers armed with swords and muskets. The guards herded them onto the grassy parade ground at the center of the square. Creighton guessed that the prisoners were supposed to be exercising. But the iron cuffs around their ankles, linked together by a heavy chain, obviously made it hard for them to walk. Creighton almost rose to greet them, then thought better of it. Though he had nowhere else to stay, he didn’t care to be locked up with them.
The colonel seemed determined to distance himself as much as possible from the guards and from his fellow prisoner. He headed across the parade ground toward the river until one of the guards called out an order in Spanish that made him turn back. As he did, he caught sight of Creighton, and paused. “Why are you here?” he demanded, his voice low and harsh.
“I’ve had my fill of Americans,” Creighton told him.
The guard shouted to his prisoner again, and this time raised his musket to add authority. “Once we’re inside,” his uncle said, “come around to the rear of the building.”
“Why—”
“Do it!” The colonel turned and walked off, managing somehow to maintain his military bearing despite the cumbersome chains.
By the time Creighton made his appearance at the back of the Cabildo, the daylight was fading and the mosquitoes were gathering for the kill. He couldn’t determine exactly where behind that brick wall his uncle was being held. He could see nothing through the windows; they were set too high in the wall. The building had obviously been designed with defense in mind, for the windows were barred with wrought iron and equipped with massive wooden shutters.
Beneath the windows was a row of rifle ports. On the outside they were quite wide—a foot or so across. On the inside they were only three or four inches square and were closed off by a small wooden door. As Creighton stood wondering where to go, the cover on one of the rifle ports swung open, and his uncle’s voice said softly, “Here! Over here!”
Creighton approached and peered into the port. He could see nothing but his uncle’s mouth. “What do you want?”
“I want to know what you’ve found out about the rebels.”
“I’ve hardly had time to—”
“Did they take you to Franklin’s?” the colonel interrupted.
“Yes.”
“Is anyone else staying there?”
“Only a French girl—a servant.”
“No other rebels? Have you heard any other names mentioned?”
“No. Well, yes. A Mr. Jefferson.”
“Jefferson, eh? He’s another of their leaders. What else?”
Creighton swatted irritably at a whining mosquito. “I don’t know. Oh, Dr. Franklin went to a meeting of the Patriots this afternoon.”
“A meeting? Where?”
“The Café. That’s all they said.”
“Find out what café. What else? Any sign of weapons or explosives anywhere?”
“No.”
“A printing press?”
“Yes. Dr. Franklin has one. He prints the city’s newspaper, the Weekly Journal.”
“Ah,” said his uncle, as though at last Creighton had provided some information that might actually prove useful. “Does he print anything else?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then find out.” Before Creighton could protest that he had no intention of going back to Franklin’s, the colonel said, “One other thing.” His voice was barely above a whisper; Creighton had to put his ear to the port to catch the words. “We mean to escape soon, before they can demand a ransom or an exchange. It should be a fairly easy matter, but we’ll need your help.”
“My help? What can I do?”
“Bring me a pistol.”
“A pistol? Where would I— How can I—”
“I don’t care where or how, just get one. The sooner the better.” From within the building, Creighton heard a bolt rattle. “Go now!” his uncle said urgently, and slammed the little door into place.
Not wanting to chance being discovered by the guards, Creighton sprang up and hurried off—still with no destination in mind. He might have enough money left to stay at an inn, if he could find one, but only for a night or two, and then he’d be out on the street again.
Besides, Colonel Gower was expecting him to return to Franklin’s and resume the espionage activities he had never really begun. And of course there was the matter of the pistol. Stealing one would be a risky proposition. But the only way he was likely ever to leave this godforsaken place was in the company of his uncle and Lieutenant Hale, and that meant helping them escape.
Though Dr. Franklin didn’t strike him as the sort to keep guns lying about, Creighton knew of nowhere else to look. There was nowhere else he could escape the shroud of mosquitoes that encircled him, either.
He’d never lacked courage where actual physical danger was concerned. But when he thought about having to apologize for his humiliating feat with the type form, he cringed. Still, he supposed it was better than being driven mad by the bloody mosquitoes.