I HAD NO TIME TO DIGEST HIS EXTRAORDINARY ANSWER, FOR ALL AT once I was out in the courtyard and being hurried towards the carriageway. I looked up over my shoulder, expecting to see the soldier in the gallery, but all I could see was an indistinct lump lying behind the railing. The front gate was similarly unguarded, not even locked.
‘Where have all the sentries gone?’
Fothergill edged open the iron gate and slipped around it. ‘Asleep, perhaps.’
‘How did you—’
‘Hush, sir.’
As calmly as if he were serving port after dinner, Fothergill walked into the street. I followed. With each step I felt certain that Wilkinson must peer out of his window and see me escaping, or that Vidal would come out on the balcony above and shoot me down, but neither appeared. It was as if Fothergill had worked some magic spell that allowed us to move through locked doors and solid walls unnoticed.
Around us, the city was rousing itself. Butchers’ boys hauled dray-carts full of meat; bakers stoked their fires and pulled out the morning’s first loaves; slaves hurried to the markets to find their masters’ breakfasts, or trudged home with wicker baskets piled high on their heads. The high buildings still blocked any sign of the sunrise, but a fragile blue had begun to infuse the sky.
It was all I could do to keep from running as fast as possible, but Fothergill maintained a measured, deliberate pace as he navigated us away from Wilkinson’s house, only lengthening his stride when it was well behind us. None of the passers-by paid us the least notice; the alarm was not raised, and no-one raced through the streets crying that a dangerous villain was at large. In my mind, a hundred questions demanded answers from Fothergill, but as he always contrived to keep two paces ahead of me I could never quite gain his attention. Only when we had crossed several streets and turned inland did he allow me to draw level with him.
‘I do not suppose a friend of Nevell’s is much inclined to offer explanations, but how did you come to be here?’
‘The same as you – down the Mississippi.’
‘I never saw you.’
‘I was instructed not to be seen.’
I paused, allowing a woman with a basket full of chickens to pass before us. ‘Do you mean to say that you followed me all the way from New York?’
Professional modesty prevented Fothergill from claiming so much. ‘Your midnight flight from Princeton confused matters a few days. And in my haste, I actually overtook you on the road to Pittsburgh. Otherwise, I was generally no more than a few hours behind you.’
I wondered how many other spies I had trailed behind me as I blundered across the continent. ‘I am surprised you did not encounter Mr Vidal on your travels.’
‘We met several times. Once, we even stayed in the same inn. But he was intent on his quarry, and did not notice me.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘An agent of Spain. He has been watching Burr for some time, ever since the Spaniards heard of his plans to appropriate their empire.’
‘He was in league with General Wilkinson – were you aware of that?’
Fothergill nodded. ‘In addition to his duties with the army of the United States, Wilkinson has been employed by the Spanish authorities for almost twenty years. I dare say they know every secret and stratagem that America has ever pursued against them.’
‘How unfortunate, then, that Burr should have enlisted Wilkinson in his plan to attack both Spain and America.’ It was, I thought, entirely typical of Burr’s luck and judgement. ‘Wilkinson and Vidal planned to use me as a pretext to bring America into the war against Britain.’
‘That is why we must get you away from New Orleans with all despatch.’
As he said this, we came to a halt outside a grand stone building. I glanced around nervously, for we were in the heart of the city here: I could see the twin spires of the cathedral at the end of the street, with the main square and the levee beyond. It seemed a curious place to come to escape. Fothergill, though, had already stepped between the square columns and through the high wooden doors. I followed anxiously.
If I had wondered at Fothergill’s direction before, the interior of the building left me entirely mystified. It appeared to be some kind of assembly room: the floor was paved with chequered squares of black and white marble, and in the niches in the oak-panelled walls I glimpsed graceful figures talking and laughing. A broad staircase rose from the middle of the room to the upper floor, from where I could hear the improbable strains of a minuet. Stale perfume and tobacco filled the air.
A negro footman dressed in immaculate scarlet livery sidled up to us.
‘Are you come for the ball, suhs?’
‘We’re seeking Mr Lafitte,’ said Fothergill.
The footman bowed. ‘M’sieur Lafitte, he’ll be in the ballroom upstairs.’
Fothergill made to move forward, but a slight cough from the footman and an almost imperceptible tug on his arm paused him.
‘Admission is two dollars each for gen’lmen.’
Fothergill pressed some coins into the man’s palm. With another bow, he melted into the shadows by the wall.
The music grew louder as we climbed the stairs, mingling with the sound of chattering voices and chiming crystal. Another footman in the same scarlet livery bustled past us bearing a tray of wine; as if in a dream, I reached out and took a glass. I had emptied it before I reached the head of the stairs, yet I hardly noticed, for a pair of double doors opened on to a high ballroom admitting the most fantastical vision. Outside, dawn might be stirring the city, but in here all was midnight. Vast swags of cloth covered the windows against the morning, and teams of servants criss-crossed the room replacing burned-out candle-stubs with fresh tapers. The musicians at the far end of the hall still played with fervour, their bows flying over their strings, and though the dance was the same as in England, the whirling abandon of the dancers made it seem a different thing entirely. Glossy boots twined with satin slippers on the dance floor; damask skirts swirled around shapely ankles, and ruffled shirts brushed demurely covered bosoms. Along the walls, half hidden in shadow, exotic ladies in turbans and feathers fanned themselves and watched.
‘What is this …?’ My question tailed off as I noticed Fothergill had left me and was deep in conversation with another footman.
Looking back to the centre of the room, I watched the dancers whirling and spinning as the music gathered pace. Many of the women were strikingly beautiful, I observed – far more so than the assortment of whey-faced squires’ daughters and maids you would have found in England. I could see one girl – she could not have been more than eighteen – with skin the colour of gold; another so dark she might have been mistaken for a negress. No two appeared the same, yet gradually I began to discern certain features that all had in common: dark hair, full lips, and skins every imaginable shade of brown.
I looked around, my eyes darting from woman to woman. Not a single one, neither the nubile creatures on the dance floor nor the stately matriarchs around the walls, was white. In confusion, I turned my gaze on the men: all looked to be as white as I. Yet they danced with the negro women as easily and promiscuously as if they had been their own wives.
‘What is this place?’ I wondered aloud.
‘A quadroon ball,’ came the answer from my side. Fothergill had returned unnoticed and was steering me around the room to an open doorway. ‘The gentlemen of New Orleans come here to choose their half-blood mistresses.’
‘What do their wives say to that?’
Fothergill shrugged. ‘Whatever they say in London, I suppose. Less, perhaps – I understand that the quadroon girls are rather more virtuous.’
Had New Orleans not been populated with men seeking to kill me, I might have chosen to get better acquainted with it. As it was, I followed Fothergill through the doorway into an adjoining room where several green baize tables were laid out for cards. The quadroon girls were evidently unwelcome here, or not interested, for it was filled exclusively with men. Many had removed their jackets and undone their cravats; they slouched around the tables casting jealous glances at their rivals.
Fothergill approached a table at the back of the room, set between two enormous window arches. The game seemed more urgent here: all the seats were filled, and a great many observers hovered behind the players. Coins danced and spun on the table as the gamblers hurled them carelessly into the middle; cigarillos wilted into long fingers of ash. The sound of the orchestra in the ballroom was still audible, but the predominant rhythm here was the slap of cards being dealt.
Fothergill manoeuvred his way through the audience to a small man standing by the table. He was watching the game with rapt concentration, though rather than watching the cards or the players’ faces his gaze seemed fixed on the ever-changing sums of money in the centre. He turned as Fothergill touched him on the shoulder, and if he was bothered to be disturbed in his observance he hid it well behind an enormous smile as broad as his face.
‘I would greatly value a private word with Monsieur Lafitte,’ Fothergill murmured.
The smile never dimmed. ‘I am afraid, monsieur, it is impossible. Monsieur Lafitte cannot be disturbed in his game.’
‘Tell him that he will win far more by what I propose than from his game.’
The small man nodded, still smiling, and began edging his way around the table.
‘Who is he?’ I asked Fothergill.
‘Monsieur Laporte. He is an associate of Jean Lafitte.’
There was a great deal I could easily forget in that room – that it was morning outside, that the commander of the United States army would presently be scouring New Orleans for me – but one thing struck me immediately. ‘Laporte, Lafitte – they all sound French.’
Fothergill nodded.
‘Is it prudent to entrust my life to a Frenchman?’
‘Jean Lafitte is no friend of the Americans. He is a contrebandier, the finest in New Orleans.’ Fothergill’s lips pursed in distaste. ‘He is particularly adept at moving human cargoes.’
I was about to ask Fothergill to identify this smuggling prodigy, but a glance across the table made it evident enough. Directly opposite, where the diminutive Laporte had halted, a man sat with his back to the wall and a great pile of silver at his right hand. He was far from the swarthy, barrel-chested pirate I had expected: tall but not broad, with pale skin and a silk shirt which shone with a soft sheen in the candlelight. His cheeks were clean-shaven, his eyes dark and wide, and his thick black hair hung in curls over his collar. Despite the languid air about him, I noticed he did not miss a moment of the game while Laporte whispered in his ear.
Laporte made his way back. Across the table, Lafitte attended to the constant flow of cards and coins without ever so much as glancing at us. As Laporte returned, I saw that the smile had contracted ever so slightly.
‘Monsieur Lafitte is too busy with his game. He cannot give you a private audience. Désolé.’
‘But we must speak with him,’ protested Fothergill.
The smile stretched out to its full, beaming width. ‘I did not say he will not speak to you. I said he will not speak in private.’
‘But our business—’
Fothergill broke off as he realized that the room had fallen silent. The crowd around us had withdrawn so that we stood in our own pocket of space, and every man around the table was staring at us –none more so than Lafitte himself, who had put down his cards and fixed us with a curious stare.
‘There is something you wish to ask me?’ he enquired.
‘I would prefer to ask it in private,’ said Fothergill.
Lafitte spread his arms wide. ‘We are all friends here. Jean Lafitte keeps no secrets from his friends.’
‘Very well.’ Fothergill paused, clearing his throat. ‘My colleague and I need to leave New Orleans in some haste, and in the greatest secrecy. I have heard that you are the man who can effect this. For a suitable fee, naturally.’
‘Your colleague? Who is he? Can he speak?’
Lafitte’s eyes settled on me. I looked to Fothergill for guidance, but his face was expressionless.
‘My name is Martin Jerrold.’
‘You are English?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing in New Orleans, Englishman?’
‘J’essaie m’échapper.’
It was no more than the truth, and spoken in fairly rudimentary French, but it drew a chuckle from Lafitte. The rest of the audience followed him, and I felt a rare spark of hope. Perhaps Miss Lyell had not served me entirely ill.
‘I know your name, Englishman.’ The opening in Lafitte’s humour had snapped shut again. ‘You want to escape, but there are men in this city who would much like to keep you here.’
‘We will pay you one thousand dollars if Mr Jerrold escapes successfully,’ said Fothergill.
Lafitte shrugged. ‘Ça n’importe rien. General Wilkinson offers one thousand dollars to any man who brings M’sieur Jerrold to him. How do I choose?’
‘General Wilkinson is no friend of yours. If he found you he would hang you.’
‘Maybe so, but he has still been a very dear friend to me. Each time that he stops trade on the river or declares martial law, the price of my goods, it doubles. And the English do not like my trade either. They stop my ships, they seize my cargoes. C’est malheureux.’
‘They might view you with a kinder eye if you gave them reason to be grateful,’ said Fothergill.
‘So might General Wilkinson. You are in England’s navy, M’sieur Jerrold?’
‘Yes.’
Lafitte took a sip from the glass he kept beside him. ‘How many Frenchmen have you killed?’
My throat suddenly felt very dry, and I looked with longing at Lafitte’s drink. ‘Not many.’
‘You are not a good sailor?’
‘No.’ I cringed, feeling the contempt in the crowd.
Lafitte turned to Fothergill. ‘But he is worth one thousand dollars, you say.’
‘He is worth one thousand dollars to you, sir. What he is worth to us …’ Fothergill diplomatically left it unsaid.
Lafitte leaned back in his chair. ‘So, Mr Jerrold, you are worth one thousand dollars to your friends, and one thousand dollars also to your enemies. But Jean Lafitte is not your friend or your enemy. How shall he decide?’ He spread his hands and moved them up and down like scales, weighing his choices. I could not keep from staring at them, watching my life rise and fall in their balance. At length he clapped them together. ‘Eh bien. We play for it. Deux cartes, s’il vous plaît.’ He grinned at me. ‘It is a very easy game. Two men, two cards. If my card is higher, I give you to General Wilkinson. If your card wins, I bring you to the sea. C’est bon?’
Fothergill’s funereal demeanour, normally so impassive, was exercised by a rare burst of emotion. ‘That is hardly fair, sir. If it is a question of payment I am sure that more—’
Lafitte cut him short with a wave of his hand. ‘I do not do this for the money.’ He considered this a moment. ‘For the money, yes, but also pour le plaisir.’
Excitement buzzed through the room – this was more to their liking. From the corner of my eye I saw several onlookers arranging their side-wagers. The men at the table before me moved aside, and I found myself thrust into an empty seat opposite Lafitte. The din of the crowd, the bodies pressing all around me, Fothergill’s consoling hand on my shoulder – all fell away. I saw only Lafitte’s wide, dark eyes fixed on me with toying amusement, and the green baize square between us.
Two cards dropped onto the table. Mine stared up at me, bespeaking doom, and I gazed back with dread. I could not take it, could not even lift my hand to slide it towards me. It lay where it had fallen.
Lafitte had no patience for such delays. With a dismissive toss of his head, he pulled his card to the edge of the table, put his fingernail beneath it and flicked it onto its back. A murmur ran through the crowd as they saw the jack of spades winking up at them, innocent and evil.
Lafitte laid his hands flat on the table and looked at me. ‘À vous.’