Lew pointed down at the steamship tied to the wharf. “Gunnard, I want that ship loaded by dark. There’s still four or five hours of daylight left. That should be more than enough time.”
“The men are working as fast as they can,” said Gunnard. There was a mocking tone in his voice.
Tim had drawn nearer to better hear the conversation and examine the impostor. Now, at the words of the white overseer, the face of the impostor changed, the anger flashing cold and bright like a flame suddenly ignited.
“You’re a liar, Gunnard. Load the ship like I said.” Lew’s words were sharp, like pieces of metal hitting.
“To hell with you,” Gunnard snarled. He had taken money from Stanton Shattuck to see that the ship was not loaded on schedule. To fail to accomplish that task would be to sign his own death warrant. He looked Lew over for the second time. This fancy-dressed Wollfolk would be easy to handle. “These men won’t work for you. They know that you probably killed Albert Wollfolk so that you could inherit his property.” Gunnard licked his slack lips and a foxy look came into his eyes. “They might work faster if you whipped the boss.”
Lew was surprised at Gunnard’s charge that he had harmed Wollfolk. His desire to smash that grinning face to a bloody lump soared within him. “Gunnard, I’m going to beat the hell out of you.” Lew slid out of his jacket. “Get ready to fight,” he warned.
Gunnard smiled craftily. “Not me. You’ve got to whip Julius. And there ain’t a man in all New Orleans who can do that. Many have tried, but everyone ends up with broken bones, or with a brain so addled that they’re not men anymore.”
For the first time Lew really looked at the giant black man. He was nearly a foot taller than Lew and twice his weight. He was the strongest-appearing man Lew had ever seen. There was a keen intelligence behind his black eyes. He was not some dumb ox that Lew could out maneuver.
Lew pivoted slowly, letting his view wash over the thirty or so other black men intently watching. He smelled their hostility. Farther away toward the door, a white man, three or so years younger than Lew, and a mulatto were approaching. The white man walked stiffly, as if crippled or injured. Both men had hard unfriendly expressions. Lew had seen that type of look before upon outlaws he had fought. The mulatto looked especially ready and willing to do murder. Why was that?
“You!” Lew pointed at the young white man. “Are you with Gunnard?”
“No.”
“Can you use a pistol?”
“I can hit a reasonable target,” Tim said.
Lew pulled his Colt from his belt and turned it butt-first toward Tim. “Then come here and take this gun. It seems I’m going to have to fight. Don’t let a second man jump me while I’m busy.”
Lew saw the man’s eyes sharpen with some thought, then they became hooded, hiding his feelings completely.
A cold tickle ran up Tim’s spine at the offer of the pistol. He could accidentally—yes, quite accidentally shoot the impostor. Then a better plan came full-blown to him, jelling quickly in his mind. Something strange and dangerous was happening here. It was deeper than a mere fight over loading a ship. He knew it at some primal level. Why not let the impostor take the brunt of the unknown peril? Let the giant black kill him if he could. If that did not happen, then wait and see what followed. Tim stepped forward and took the pistol in his hand.
Tim backed away a few paces as the impostor stripped off his shirt. Muscles rippled and flowed like steel wires across his back and deep chest. His wrists were thick and the fists broad and heavy-boned. He glanced at Julius.
The Negro said not a word. He motioned with his hands for his workers to stand back and give him room for the battle.
The impostor uttered a savage growl and spun away from Julius. He leapt, his body moving with unnatural speed and formidable strength, upon Gunnard. He struck the man a mighty wallop to the face. Tim heard the crushing sound of a fist striking forcibly against flesh and bone.
Gunnard staggered backward. He twisted to the side, trying to draw away from the unexpected assault and catch his balance.
But Lew pressed his attack, boring in, striking the half-dazed man a second blow to the face. Then he swiftly sprang to Gunnard’s side and flung out his arm to catch the man around the neck.
Lew jerked Gunnard down into a half-bent position. At the same time he brought up his right fist. A sickening crunch echoed throughout the warehouse. Three times, almost too fast for Tim to see, the impostor’s fist pistoned up to crash into Gunnard’s face.
Gunnard hung unconscious on Lew’s arm. Blood spouted from his broken nose and mouth. Lew flung him aside as so much offal.
Lew shook himself as some great wolf might do upon coming out of a cold, drenching rain. The rims of his nostrils were ice-white and his eyes burned with a fury barely controlled. The veins in his neck were thick blue cords. He whirled to face the giant black man.
“One bastard down, and you’re next. Come and fight,” Lew exclaimed with furious impatience. He flicked the dripping blood from his torn knuckles. “I did not harm Albert Wollfolk. But believe that I did if you want. Come show me how good a man you are.” His mouth shut with a grim snap.
Julius hesitated, but not from fear. There was the ring of truth in the white man’s voice. He knew Gunnard was a liar and trickster. If there was a choice to be made between the two men, Julius would choose the word of a Wollfolk over Gunnard’s.
“Come on and let’s fight,” Lew challenged. “You are a dead man either way. If you kill a Wollfolk, then other white men will come and hang you. If you don’t kill but merely cripple me, then I’ll come back with my pistol and kill you. Either way you die.”
“It is not because I’m afraid that I don’t fight you,” Julius responded. “I believe what you say, that you didn’t kill Mr. Albert.”
“Well, so you’re smart enough to know the truth when you hear it,” Lew jeered.
“Yes,” Julius replied simply.
Lew examined the black man’s face, searching for the falseness in him, for the deception.
“So what is next?” Lew asked.
“We’ll load the ship as you ordered.”
“Good. But first throw that son of a bitch off Wollfolk property.” Lew stabbed a finger at the unconscious Gunnard.
“Take him to the hospital,” Julius directed two of his men. “If you are questioned by the police, tell them the truth, that he fought Mr. Wollfolk and lost. That it was a fair fight.”
The two men lifted Gunnard’s loose-jointed body and lugged it off to an empty dray.
Lew spoke to Julius. “Can you handle Gunnard’s job and your own?”
“He did very little.”
“Then you are the boss of the warehouse and docks. And your pay is doubled.”
Julius nodded his agreement. He stepped forward and held out his hand. Lew felt the strength of the man, like a vise close to crushing the bones in his hand.
Julius released his powerful hold on Lew and turned to his men. “You heard Mr. Wollfolk. That ship gets loaded before the sun goes down.”
The men hastened off. Lew saw pleased grins on some of their faces. He looked at the white man who held his pistol.
“You did not have to shoot anybody. Could you have done it?”
“I can kill a man, in the right circumstances.”
“I believe you could,” Lew said. He spoke to the mulatto. “I know you could too. I hope neither of you plan to kill me.”
Neither man replied. The outcome of Lew’s battle had not changed their thoughts about him at all.
“So why are you two here?” queried Lew. “Are you looking for work?”
Morissot shook his head in the negative. Tim’s mind raced. What better way to know what was happening to his properties than to work for the impostor?
“I could use a job,” Tim said.
“What can you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“In Saint Louis,” Tim lied.
“Do you know anything about ships and cargo?”
“Not oceangoing ships, but I do about river steamboats and contracting.”
Lew concentrated his attention on the man. “What is your name?”
“Sam Datson,” Tim replied, making a quick decision to use his grandfather’s name on his mother’s side of the family.
“I need an accountant. How about working for me? I’ll pay twenty dollars a week.”
“Twenty-five,” Tim said. Twenty was more than a fair salary, but the impostor seemed generous . . . with someone else’s money.
“Twenty-five it is,” agreed Lew. He put out his hand and shook Tim’s. “Meet me at my office at Front Street and Toulouse tomorrow at six a.m. We have much work to do.”
“I’ll be there,” replied Tim. He nodded at Morissot and both men walked toward the wagon.
Lew stared after the two men until they were out of sight. A very odd pair. And they did not like him. He would have to be on his guard.
* * *
The old huntress placed the bait in the trap and leaned back. Her breathing became shallow and slow, and she moved not at all. The prey were about, but they were very wary.
She ignored the flow of time past her. After seventy years she knew it could be neither slowed nor hurried. A breeze came over the levee from the river, carrying the sound of men and equipment working. She culled out the obnoxious human noise and sensed only the breeze.
One of the prey she sought landed with a flutter of wings on the ground a few feet distant. Another one came down beside the first. They clucked their bird talk back and forth. Hesitantly they began to draw closer, pulled by the sight of the bait. The heads of the birds flicked from side to side as first one sharp eye and then the other peered hard at the woman near the tempting food.
The huntress dreamed of the evening meal, which would consist of one of the birds. She would pluck it carefully and then light a piece of paper to singe off the hair-like feathers that remained. The bird would be tough, they usually were, so she would cook it for a long time. Then, toward the end, potatoes and butter and many spices would be added. She had been carefully hoarding tiny amounts of these things until today. All would be simmered until a thick broth remained and the flesh tender and falling off the bones. Her old mouth moistened at the anticipated meal.
One of the birds hopped upon the end of the huntress’s seat. It struggled to overcome the instinctive fear that it had of these large, two-legged creatures. Suddenly it fluttered its wings, trying to startle the human into movement.
The huntress peered out through a slit between her eyelids. The prey was less than a foot from the bait. She prepared to spring the trap.
The second bird came up on the seat with a flap of its wings. At the encroachment, the first bird darted for the bait.
* * *
Morissot found Old Ella on the park bench in a remote corner of Jackson Square. He halted and stood quietly observing her. She did not stir, slumped against the back of the bench. Her left hand lay on the torn dress of her lap while her right hand, with fingers spread wide, was outstretched on the seat. A broken crust of moldy bread lay on the palm of her hand. Two gray and brown pigeons were drawing close to her in short, nervous stop and goes.
One of the pigeons sprang ahead of its partner, and its head dived down to grab the bread.
Ella’s hand suddenly convulsed, her long fingers closing on the bird’s head. The left hand swung across to clamp the back of the bird and smother the fluttering wings. Ella gave a twist to the head of the bird and then another turn, and immediately covered the dead bird inside a fold of her dress.
She swept a hasty look around to see if anyone had noticed her killing the park pigeon. No one was in front of her. She turned to check to the rear.
“Lezin Morissot, why are you spying on an old woman?” she asked angrily. “Go watch the young women who can do you some good.”
Morissot smiled. “Today you are the woman I want to see.”
Ella laughed, her toothless old mouth opening in a dark pink-lined pit. “A lie is better than nothing. I need some money. I hope you want me to do some work for you.”
Lezin sat down beside Ella. “There is something you can do for me. I want to know all you can find out about a man who calls himself Timothy Wollfolk. He has an office near the waterfront at Toulouse and Front Street. Follow him for the next few days. Tell me everything he does.”
Ella was one of the beggars common in New Orleans.
She lived in the loft of an abandoned building on the east side of Vieux Carre. She was gaunt and stooped, and dressed in her raggedy clothing, she could go anywhere without arousing suspicion.
Her face was nothing but crinkled black parchment, black to the point that it seemed to have a purple cast to it. However, inside her slightly bulging forehead was a mind that noted everything and forgot nothing.
Lezin took several silver coins from his pocket and handed two dollars to Ella. “Here is your pay.” He gave her a third coin. “This man may have a buggy or horse; you may have to hire a coach to keep up.”
It would be unlikely that she would ever ride. She could walk nearly as fast as one of the Chickasaw Indians.
“I’ll bring you good information,” Ella promised.
“I know you will. You have never failed me.” Lezin reached out and petted the back of her black hand. “Be careful of this man. Don’t do something that will get you hurt.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“I only know that he is a savage fighter.”
“I shall be watchful of him. Where is he now?”
“Just a short way from here at the waterfront warehouse of A. Wollfolk. That’s opposite Toulouse Street.” Lezin described Lew to Ella.
“I’ll find him.”
“Good. Two days from now at this time, meet me right here. If for some reason you can’t meet me then, come to my home as soon as you can.”
“I’ll do exactly as you say.”
“Remember, be careful and take no chances with this man.” Lezin turned and walked from the square.
Ella rubbed the back of her hand where Lezin had petted her. That was the first time another human had touched her in many days, oh, so many days. That caring „ kindness from Lezin, a strong man afraid of nothing, was worth more than his money. But the money was good too, she thought, not wanting to belittle it and somehow bring bad luck and thus lose the coins.
* * *
At the corner of Exchange Alley and Conti Street, the little boy with the wooden sword pranced about the sidewalk thrusting and parrying against an invisible opponent. He halted and peeked for a moment through the open door to the inside at the men in the fencing school, then he recommenced his own battle against an imaginary foe.
Lew watched the tyke for a minute and then headed down Exchange Alley. He wanted to see this place where the use of sword and pistol was taught. He read the names of the famous dueling masters on the side of the buildings: L’Alouette, Montiasse, Croquere, and many others. He had heard that there were more than fifty maitres d’ armes on this street.
Someone cursed in French from within one of the open doors. Lew, drawn by curiosity, turned and entered.
A slightly built man in a white shirt and trousers closely contoured to his body stood facing a second man. Both held rapiers—thin, two-edged swords—in their hands. Blood seeped slowly from the upper arm of the younger man and formed a growing red stain on his shirt.
“Edmond, I could have killed you just as easily as I pricked your arm,” said the older man. “I have told you before how to hold your defense. Just so.” The fencing master took the stance. “But you always forget in the excitement of the contest. So this time I teach you a harsher lesson. Hereafter I think you will remember. I do not want you to die on the end of someone’s sword.”
“Yes, Monsieur Baudoin. I shall not forget this lesson,” said the student with a wry smile.
“The wound is but a tiny thing. Continue your lesson to the end and then see a doctor. Go and practice with Emile.”
Baudoin walked to Lew. “Do you wish to obtain the skill to fight the duel, monsieur?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Lew said. “But I haven’t yet made up my mind.”
“What is your name?”
“Timothy Wollfolk.”
“You are related to Albert Wollfolk?”
“Yes, he was my uncle.”
“My name is Yves Baudoin. I’m sorry about his death. He often practiced here. He was a very good fencer.”
“Do you teach the use of the pistol?”
“I certainly do. I have a shooting hall on the outskirts of town. We practice there, where the sound will not disturb others.”
“Pistols are more to my liking,” Lew said.
“You have dueled with pistols?”
“Yes,” Lew replied shortly.
Baudoin held Lew’s eyes for a moment. Often the bravery of a man could be read there. Then he spoke. “I don’t encourage spectators. But observe what goes on here for a little if you wish. I must return to my students.” Baudoin strode away down the long hall.
Lew watched the master duelist give his instructions to the men, young and middle-aged and one who appeared quite old. His blade would move with amazing swiftness when he demonstrated an attack or defensive movement, then he would do it in slow motion and again rapidly. His students copied his actions with varying degrees of skill.
Lew left the practice gymnasium. He hailed a hackney and directed the driver to take him to Rampart Street. He did not think he would spend much time in the big house in the Garden District. His appetite for Cécile would not soon be satisfied.
* * *
Lew, his eyes upon Cécile, leaned against the corner of the cottage wall near the carriageway. She was standing on a worn marble bench near the rear of the courtyard, reaching out for the red flower on the top of a climber rose. She caught the blossom, broke it free, and jumped down to the ground.
She raised her hand to put the flower in her hair, but froze there with it lifted. She became alert, listening like some wild creature of the forest. Abruptly she twisted, to stare directly at Lew.
They looked at each other through the shadows under the old trees. Suddenly she laughed, a wholesome sound. The melody of it filled the walled courtyard. She ran toward him like a strong wind, full of vibrant energy.
She came straight to him and threw her arms around his neck. She rubbed her cheek against his and then reared back to look at him. “Do you ever make love before it’s dark?” she asked.
Lew hugged her for an answer and she gave a little sigh of pleasure.