Moreau cursed when he saw no light coming from the tavern’s front windows. “Every business in this damned city is shuttered,” he growled. He peered down St. Louis Street as if the innkeeper of Maspero’s might appear from around the corner, but creeping shadows and pale lamplight were all he saw in the darkness. He kicked a pebble at his feet, and a moment later reached into the cartridge pouch slung at his waist, feeling a sense of relief, satisfaction even, as he touched the balas ruby nestled inside.
“Because it was never their damned jewel to begin with,” he had answered when Will asked why they had taken it. They. It was Moreau’s doing, and if the boy caught any trouble for his erstwhile theft, Moreau wasn’t sure he could forgive himself. They had rowed back to the city that morning as darkness gave way to the pale-blue light of dawn, and he returned to the fort just in time to change into his uniform and report for duty. Once the day’s training was done, he made straight for the one place he knew for sure he could find someone to appraise the stone—even if it was a den of pirates and cutthroats.
It was doubtful he would come across anyone from Le Marais before he could use the ruby for what he intended, but the longer he kept it, the more likely they were to believe he had stolen the gem outright, and their rage would only worsen. They had welcomed him to their home as a guest—and he had stolen from them. It would take a grand gesture, and a great deal of humility, if he was to keep his head when he finally returned the ruby to them.
As he arrived at the corner of St. Louis and Royal, the bells from the cathedral rang out, tolling the eight o’clock hour. Moreau checked his timepiece—needlessly, given the bells—confirming that he was on time. Whether Captains Savary and Dubuclet would be as well was another matter.
For several minutes he waited, watching the tavern from across the street; a light in one of the upstairs windows leading him to suspect the place was not wholly deserted. Glancing around for a sign of his comrades, he saw only a slow-moving carriage and a solitary pedestrian. At one point he noticed a large rat scurry along the wall ahead of him and slip out of sight down an alleyway. A few seconds later a lean black cat appeared out of the shadows, casting a careful look back before it also entered the alley. As he watched the dark, narrow passage, Moreau wondered if only rats feared their hunters, or it went both ways. Rats did have long teeth.
With an impatient grumble, he was preparing to call off the business when the tavern’s front door creaked open. Crouching behind a balcony post, he saw a man step outside, the door closing behind him. The man halted and took several leisurely puffs on a cigar. Without hesitating, Moreau rose and made his way across the street, stopping a few steps from the stranger. “You there.”
The man froze, the cigar stiff in his mouth. When he saw Moreau held no visible weapon, his postured eased slightly and he spoke in a raspy voice. “A bit dangerous, sneaking up on a man like that.”
Moreau motioned toward the entrance. “Your patron, Tadeo Araza. Is he in?”
The man shifted his weight and pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “Who wishes to know?”
“Monsieur Lenoir,” Moreau replied. “If your captain is at home, tell him I wish to speak with him of urgent business.”
The man stared at Moreau a moment before raising his cigar and gesturing at him several times. With a grunt, he placed it back in his mouth and turned away, opening the door and disappearing inside the tavern.
Moreau’s eyebrows rose. Was his luck that good? Looking down Royal, he cursed the absence of Savary and Dubuclet, thinking that their presence might indeed be called for. Once again, he thought of the cat, wondering what the animal felt as it came upon its prey. He glanced up at the second-story window and saw that the light had gone out. He blew into his fist for warmth. The night had suddenly grown quite cold.
“I had a feeling,” an accented voice said from behind him, “you were too stupid to keep your nose out of my business.” Moreau turned slowly. “But after what you did? Coming here seems…suicidal.”
The man must have snuck out the tavern’s back door or crept out of the alley to have appeared without being seen. Half concealed by the building’s shadow, Tadeo Araza stood at ease in a crimson coat and tight black breeches. Moreau had to force back a scoff. “My previous visit was for a meeting with you. You weren’t at home.”
“So you attacked my men. And stole from me.”
“I stole nothing.”
Araza gestured to the saber at Moreau’s hip. “That sword…it’s a souvenir?”
Without looking down, Moreau shrugged. “If you wish for the sword back, you’re welcome to come take it.”
Araza frowned slightly. “No. I will not fight for what is already mine. But they will.”
Moreau heard the sound of feet shuffling behind him and turned to see three figures several paces away. “If they wish for the sword, they’re welcome to try and take it too.” When they made no further move, he turned back to Araza. “But I’ve not come to fight. If I may explain myself before your men come any closer…I’ve come with an offer I think you’ll wish to hear.”
Araza’s expression did not soften. “You have nothing to offer me.”
“Are you certain of that?” Moreau’s eyes lowered to the cartridge pouch at his waist. “When we last spoke, I told you a ruby you had appraised was false.” He watched Araza expectantly, the other man’s subtle shift in posture betraying his curiosity. After another peek behind him, Moreau continued. “I will draw my saber, to ensure your friends don’t make any unwise moves. Then I will show you what is in the pouch.” He raised his eyebrows at Araza, who glowered a moment before waving a hand.
“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”
Moreau unsheathed his blade. Widening his feet in a fighter’s stance, he looked at the three men behind him—he’d hoped for only two—and back to Araza. Seeing none had moved, he reached down and flicked open the cartridge pouch, an awkward movement for a one-armed man gripping a sword. He reached inside, grasped the ruby with two fingers, and held it up in front of him. It sparkled as it caught the pale moonlight, and Moreau caught the fervent gleam in Araza’s eyes. Moreau waggled his hand. “There. A true balas ruby.” He smirked at Araza’s reaction. Without turning his head, the corsair’s eyes looked warily to either side, as if sensing a trap. Perhaps he wasn’t as much a fool as Moreau thought.
“How did you come by that?”
“Never mind how. What matters is I have it now.”
“Yea,” one of the toughs muttered, “until the captain gives us the word and we split your fuckin’ head open.”
Moreau slipped the ruby back into the cartridge pouch.
“You are certainly bold to come here, Señor Lenoir.” Araza turned his head aside and spit onto the ground. “But I wonder if you are also stupid. Why have you brought this to me, knowing I will happily slit your throat and take it from you?”
Moreau snickered. “I do not covet this ruby, like you, monsieur, shiny and hefty though it is. As I told you weeks ago—I am searching for a woman, Celeste de Beaumais.”
Araza rolled his eyes and shook his head with a scornful chuckle. “You are still besotted by that fool woman. Have her—I have no more use for her.”
“How generous of you. The only concern is, of late she has taken it upon herself to assume the…matronly duties of her new home, Le Mouton Plantation. Have you heard of it?”
Araza hesitated a moment, then nodded.
“Then you know,” Moreau went on, “that she enjoys the patronage of Emile Giroux, and in return he enjoys her charms and vivacity. If that’s all he enjoys.”
“Your conversation begins to bore me, señor.”
Moreau lowered his sword. “The woman does not leave that place without a coterie of chaperones, and evidently the doting presence of Monsieur Giroux.”
“And what do I care of that?”
“You don’t. But you care for this.” Moreau tapped the cartridge pouch with the flat edge of his sword. “I need a private audience with the woman, and you, I’ve been told, are the only man in this city that has captured her interest, and, consequently, you might be able to gain a moment alone with her.”
For a moment Araza studied Moreau, his chin raised and his eyes lowered. At last he swept a hand in front of him with an audible sigh. “You impress me, Lenoir,” he said cheerily, crossing one booted foot over the other. Moreau’s knees dipped just slightly. “I can see why Lafitte told us to keep an eye on you. Unlike most men, your words, like your threats, are not idle.” Turning aside, he took a few agile steps. “It is true, the young woman fancies me. And, perhaps under different circumstances, I might have taken her for my lover once again. But I have decided against that.”
Moreau glanced at the three men, whose twitching fingers gave clear evidence of their intentions. With a sharp jerk of his head, Araza motioned to them, and they exchanged looks before moving off a short distance with a few disappointed mutters. “I will not have you knifed like a thief and a blackguard,” Araza said, unsheathing his sword with a drawn-out flourish. “Although you seem almost as slippery as one of us—almost—I can see that you possess the boldness of a real man. So I will kill you myself.”
The blade of the Araza’ curved saber was at least an inch longer than Moreau’s, and it glinted as it caught the light from the nearest streetlamp. Peering aside to ensure no interference from the others, Moreau raised his blade. “Since you will soon be dead,” Araza said, almost cheerfully, “I should like to ask you one last question.” Moreau glared ahead, his knees bent, gently squeezing the pommel in his hand. He matched the other man’s fighting stance, keeping an eye on the other three men, utterly mistrustful of Araza’s seeming willingness to fight him cleanly.
“Now, tell me…who are you?”
Moreau raised his blade slightly. “I am nobody.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Araza said, taking a step forward. “With the trouble you’ve caused me, I doubt that to be true. Besides, I’m not the only one who’s asked the question.”
“Now you’re stalling.”
Araza chuckled. “Alas, it is true, señor. A man came looking after you a few days past. An American officer.”
Forcing his mind to stay focused, and watching for any sudden shift of weight in his opponent, Moreau barely acknowledged the statement. “And what did he want?”
Araza grinned. “He came to recruit my men for his little war—but before he departed, he asked about a grim, one-armed Frenchman. He did not seem particularly fond of you—” Araza sprang forward, crashing his saber down on Moreau’s extended blade with a loud clang. For a second both men grimaced, Araza bearing down with all his weight as Moreau bent his knees and pressed upward with all of his own strength, attempting to shove the other man away. Araza sprang nimbly backward, assuming a relaxed stance as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Not exactly taken unawares, Moreau nonetheless admitted he was impressed by the speed of the man’s attack—faster than anyone he had faced in years. He rolled his wrist and felt a dull stiffness; the corsair captain was strong too. “I would say the man had,” Araza said, shifting his feet again, “less than friendly designs for you, señor. He claimed you had given out false names, and warned me and my men that delinquents would be taken straight to the gallows.”
At Araza’s mention of the American officer, Moreau suddenly felt keenly interested in what he was hearing. Thinking of the only way to wring the truth from this bastard, he flexed his legs and prepared to launch his own attack when a loud whistle pierced the night air.
“You there!” a voice bellowed, drawing Moreau’s and Araza’s attention. “Lower your blade.” Standing in the middle of the intersection of Royal and St. Louis were two men, both holding pistols, though in the darkness it was difficult to make out their faces. Squinting, Moreau was surprised to see Captains Dubuclet and Savary. Dubuclet had his pistol leveled at Araza’s three men, while Savary had his trained on Araza.
Lowering his sword, Moreau grunted. “Well, you two are right on time.” For a moment no one moved, and he glanced at Araza to make sure he didn’t seize the moment to stab him in the back.
Savary took several cautious steps toward him, motioning for Dubuclet to do the same. “We were held up at the fort. While you were over here having your sport, we were preparing for a battle.” He took another few steps, his pistol still aimed at Araza. “The enemy, it seems, has begun his attack.” Moreau’s eyes went from Savary to Araza, his mind suddenly muddled with confusion.
“What’s this about, then?” Savary asked, halting alongside Moreau.
A feeling of gratitude for their arrival passed over Moreau, suddenly aware of the danger to which he had exposed himself. Araza’s corsairs had dropped to their knees with their hands in the air, while their leader stood with his feet spread wide in defiance, albeit with his sword lowered. Savary kept his pistol trained on Araza, who looked between the captain and Moreau before speaking in a mocking voice. “From the concerned looks of your friends here, I take it you’ve decided to join their cause.”
Savary lowered his pistol, eyeing Araza with an amused look. “You’re a Baratarian?”
Araza met his look and, ignoring his question, turned back to Moreau. “Lenoir, you disappoint me. I always took you for a survivor, not a fool.”
Moreau glared back, holding out a restraining hand when Savary raised his pistol. “What are you talking about?”
Oblivious to the pistol pointed at his head, Araza snorted as he sheathed his blade. “You’ve thrown in your lot with the Americans. I’d have thought you more shrewd than to throw good money after bad.”
Moreau frowned and lifted the point of his blade until it was an inch or two from Araza’s belly. “You don’t think they can win.”
“Of course they can’t win. They’ve just lost five of the last boats they had left.”
Moreau frowned and looked at Savary, who said nothing to deny it. “Oh, your friends have not told you? Well, it’s true. This morning on Lake Borgne, the English finally caught up to the Americans’ navy, and snatched up their gunboats in a matter of minutes. Now they have a clear path to every waterway leading into the city. They’re probably on Pontchartrain, heading toward the Mississippi as we speak. Either way, they’ll brush aside any resistance Old Hickory tries to give them.”
Moreau peered aside at Savary. “That is true?”
The captain nodded. “The enemy sent their ships of the line onto Lake Borgne this morning. Rumor is they sunk or took all of Patterson’s gunboats. They control the entire lake now.”
Moreau’s brow creased, and he frowned when he saw Araza’s amused shrug. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” Moreau said quietly. “I’ll return to the fort with you; just give me a moment.” Savary nodded and took a step back, glaring threateningly at the three men on their knees. Moreau lowered his sword and looked briefly at his cartridge pouch. “You want what’s in this pouch?”
“What I want,” Araza said, grinning malevolently, “is to finish what we started.”
It was Moreau’s turn to grin. He let out a sigh before sheathing his blade. “Years ago, I promised myself I would never duel again; for a time, I held to that. But for one so deserving of a harsh lesson, I’ll make an exception.” Araza’s eyes flashed at the challenge. “Meet me at St. Louis Cemetery at dawn, the day after tomorrow. If you are the best swordsman in the city, you’ll win, and the ruby is yours.”
Araza’s eyebrows rose. “And if the devil smiles upon you?”
“If I win,” Moreau replied, “you arrange a meeting with the de Beaumais girl. Alone, in the city. Either way, it will be the last you ever see of me.”
Araza’s grin widened. “Done.”
Dearest Maman,
Elyse once again alluded to our going home, to which I can only scoff. She’s just being selfish; lately she only ever cares about what she desires. Perhaps it’s boredom from the privations this foolish war has forced on us, though I wonder of some of her absences lately, if she’s not found the attentions of some Creole soldier. I doubt she’d have the temerity to associate with Araza, whose rumored presence in the city has reached my ears, but I do not care. No one seems to know what he’s about or where he is, so I won’t waste further thought on him. Fool pirate rogue.
If Elyse would take my advice about improving her appearance, she might at least draw more eyes to her—but she insists on spending overmuch time in the sun and refusing even the mere hint of powder, blush, or parfum. Maman, I don’t know what’s to be done about her.
Affairs on the plantation are well enough, though the war has taken much of the master’s stores. Happily I think he and his men have begun to appreciate my assistance, as we’ve visited the fighting men at their training grounds recently. I even brought my idea to the master that this recent alliance between Creoles and Americans is tenuous at best, and perhaps General Jackson would benefit from an intermediary to liaise between the two opposed factions. A man who commands the respect of the planters and the legislature. One who thrived in such a role might even find himself suited for eminent positioning after the war. Perhaps even governor. But I will not speak conspicuously of such things yet. Such ideas must be planted delicately, like a seed, and nurtured in fertile ground. But I do think the master could be brought along to my thinking.
At times he dotes upon me like the daughter he never had and always wished for. Other times I find him looking at me as if I were his wife—it is rather a darling thing. His endearing qualities are many, though yesterday I did find him being unusually cross with one of his acolytes; it unsettled me somewhat. But I had a quiet word with him and he was quickly brought to calm—I do not think it will happen again. Come to think of it, I’ve also seen Benton and the others showing signs of cruelty, but I do not wish to trouble the master with any complaining, as he has much to look after with the war approaching and so cruelly demanding an ever-larger share of his crops and supplies. I can see he tires of the war, and wishes only to return to the love of his enterprise.
Curiously, I find myself thinking more of the slaves of late. I even dream of them sometimes. The evening past I dreamt I was wandering a wide field of cotton in a bright-yellow dress, that strangely turned to green, and suddenly I was in a wood. Not a swamp as such, but a dark, ancient wood like those in the German poems. I was wandering about, searching for flowers, when I saw one of the dark-skinned men. He looked at me, watching from behind the tree—as if he were afraid. I waved to him, motioning that it was alright and that I wouldn’t hurt him. Then he scowled, snarling at me with bright-white teeth before dashing off deeper into the trees. I followed, hoping to make known that I was friend and not enemy, then I came upon a large gathering of his people: dark-skinned and hardly clothed. I did not feel embarrassed—in fact, they all looked at me with warm faces, welcoming, even. They turned and walked, again seeming welcome, when they came to the edge of a vast lake, not like the swamp behind this land, and yet it seemed to be the same. As I approached the waters the Negroes dispersed, fleeing into the trees as I called after them. I was sad to see them go.
As I crept closer to the water I noticed ripples on the surface, and soon waves were rippling as a strong wind picked up. Looking down at the surface I saw a vast shadow moving beneath, coming closer, growing darker as it approached. I felt a sense of danger—of doom. As it loomed below me, I felt my feet stuck, unable to lift them, as some creature or leviathan of the waters sped up to come seize me and bring me below.
I woke before anything more showed itself. It was strange, and I cannot stop thinking of it. I wish only for the Negroes to be as kind to me in waking hours as they seemed in the dream. What cause have they to be so sullen and impudent? As if they care nothing for noble blood, or even proper, decent treatment of others. Sometimes I hate them—but I think the nuns of Ursuline would be displeased with me for saying so, so I’ll not indulge such base thoughts.
I love you, Maman. Please tell me you’re alright.
C.