“Gentlemen, the auction shall begin in five minutes under the dome,” said the hotel steward. He walked slowly among the men sitting at the tables of the large barroom of the Saint Charles Hotel. He turned and walked to the front, winding his way around the twenty-foot-tall columns that supported the hotel floor above.
Still intoning his message, the steward passed down the yards-long bar where absinthe, rum, and more potent drinks were being served.
Lew and Tim rose from their chairs and left the barroom with several other patrons. The men gathered under the great high dome arching over the center of the palatial inner court of the Hotel. They began to seat themselves on padded chairs ringing a raised, carpeted platform.
A line of black men came into view from a side room. Each was dressed in a pair of white cotton pants. They were barefoot and naked above the waist. The whites of their eyes showed as they peered nervously around. The steward called out, directing them toward the auction block.
“Timothy, good to see you again,” called Baudoin, making his way up to the assemblage of white men. “I see you have come to observe the auction.”
“Hello, Yves,” Lew said. The man smiled a lot, a pleasant fellow to be around. “I’d like to introduce you to Sam Datson.”
“Sam Datson,” said Baudoin, putting out his hand, “it is a pleasure to meet you. But I’ve heard that name before,” Baudoin snapped his fingers. “I know where. Aren’t you the new student of Black Austin, the mulatto dueling instructor?”
“Yes,” Tim said.
“Austin tells me you are one of his most promising young duelists. Especially with the pistol. It seems you Americans like the firearm better than the sword.”
“Sam, I did not know you were taking dueling lessons,” Lew said.
“It seems that in New Orleans a man must often settle his own problems,” Tim replied.
“Quite true,” Baudoin said. “I estimate New Orleans averages ten duels a day. Thirty-two duels in one day were reported in the newspaper earlier this year. I’m certain some were missed, for they are not advertised. In fact, some are deliberately kept secret.”
Lew watched the first group of slaves being herded up on the auction block for inspection. One of the black men stopped and refused to step up on the raised platform. The steward spoke sharply to him. Still the man did not move. The steward beckoned to the auctioneer standing nearby.
The auctioneer, a large man, came swiftly to the side of the platform. He grabbed the black man and roughly shoved him.
The Negro stubbornly resisted being moved.
“Goddamn black bastard,” growled the auctioneer. He slugged the black man in the side with his fist. “Get up there before I take you outside and horsewhip you.”
Baudoin watched the Negro climb reluctantly up on the block. He spoke, “There’ll be no bid for that slave. He’s too unruly. After this auction is over, he’ll get a whipping that will peel his back and show his ribs.”
“Was he unruly because of being a man and having too much pride to be a willing slave?” Lew said, scowling at the treatment of the man.
“Perhaps it is pride. But pride in a black man is dangerous to him. That one will have a mean and short life ahead of him.” Baudoin changed the subject. “Do you plan to purchase some slaves to work your docks?”
“I did at first, but now I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see you again, Yves.”
“Are you ready to leave, Sam?” Lew said.
Tim nodded, feeling ill-at-ease at the cruelty to the black.
As Lew and Tim turned to walk away, a man called out loudly. “Wollfolk, I want to talk with you.”
Lew looked in the direction of the voice. A richly dressed man was walking toward them, a second man following a step behind.
“It’s Paulaga,” Baudoin said. “He seems angry. What have you done to him?”
“Nothing. I don’t even know him.”
“Be careful of him. He is a dueling instructor and good with weapons. He sometimes fights for pay. Someone may have set him on you.”
“Wollfolk, you are a scoundrel,” Paulaga spoke again in a strong voice that could be heard throughout the broad space. “You cheated Enos Grivot at cards and then killed him when he caught you at it. Now you follow his widow and insult her with your amorous intentions.”
Lew laughed coldly. He recognized the hand of Farr Rawlins in Paulaga’s false charge, and perhaps Annette Grivot was also involved. Paulaga wanted a fight. He would press the lie until Lew challenged him.
Lew heard the sudden silence around him. The preparations for the auction had ceased. He swept his sight over the watching men and then back to Paulaga.
“Paulaga, you are a fool. You have it all backward. She is the one who has what you call amorous intentions.”
Tim surveyed the impostor, watching his reaction to the charges of Paulaga. He saw the gray eyes harden, like spheres of water suddenly freezing to ice, warning Paulaga off if only he could read the sign. There had been that same change in the impostor just before he had leapt upon Gunnard. Tim wondered if Paulaga wanted to kill the impostor, or did he really want to kill a Wollfolk?
“You lie,” Paulaga said, continuing to advance.
“And you are a dumb bastard trying to force a fight.”
Paulaga’s stride almost broke at Lew’s harsh retort. He had not expected such a quick, fearless reply.
“Make him give the challenge if there is to be a duel,” Baudoin whispered. “Then you will have the choice of weapons.”
Paulaga heard the whisper, but could not make out the words. “Baudoin, what did you say to him?” he demanded belligerently.
“Don’t trifle with me, Paulaga,” warned Baudoin, his ire rising swiftly at the tone of the voice. “You may overplay your hand.”
Lew saw Paulaga blink at Baudoin’s words. Then the man’s attention focused back on Lew.
“I’ll stop you from frightening Mrs. Grivot,” Paulaga said, again using his loud tone.
“You can’t stop something that’s not happening,” Lew said. He began to walk away.
Paulaga sprang across the distance that separated him from Lew. His arm reached out to catch Lew by the shoulder.
Lew heard Paulaga’s booted feet on the floor. He spun and caught the outstretched hand. He twisted the arm sharply. Instantly he stepped forward and with his clenched fist struck Paulaga at a point where the man’s arm attached to the shoulder.
Paulaga winced with pain.
Lew smiled inwardly. That hurt, didn’t it? “Leave well enough alone, Paulaga,” he snapped.
“I challenge you to a duel,” Paulaga’s voice grated like rocks rubbing.
“I accept,” Lew replied.
Paulaga saw the eagerness to fight in the young Wollfolk. A tingle of warning came to life in his mind. Something was wrong here. Had he been misled by Loussat about the bookkeeper from Ohio? Then he shrugged away his doubts, confident in his skill to slay the man. But that blow to the shoulder, though thrown only a short distance, had jarred him soundly.
“Russee Loussat is my second.” Paulaga pointed at the Frenchman standing nearby. “Who is yours?”
“Baudoin, will you be my second?”
“It would be an honor,” Baudoin replied.
“The seconds will agree upon the conditions of the duel,” Paulaga said.
“Let’s set them now,” Lew said.
“Wait. We should talk first,” Baudoin cautioned. He caught Lew by the arm and drew him aside.
Tim followed. He was taken aback by the quickness with which the violence had erupted.
Baudoin looked at Lew with respect. “Timothy, that was skillfully done. I salute you. I know of no man, except perhaps myself, who could have so quickly increased his odds to survive a duel with someone who may be better with weapons.”
“What do you mean?” Tim asked, mystified at the words.
“Didn’t you see? He tricked Paulaga into showing whether he was left- or right-handed, then he twisted the arm and struck the shoulder. Paulaga will be sore and stiff in the morning.”
Tim replayed the events that had just occurred. The impostor had, an instant after being confronted, devised a counterattack and carried it out. And Tim was planning to fight this man himself. A shivery doubt came to Tim that his plan to fight the impostor might be a deadly mistake.
“What range do you think Paulaga practices shooting at?” Lew asked.
“Probably twenty-four to thirty paces,” Baudoin said. “That would be about twelve to fifteen paces each for him and his opponent in a duel. However, you can select any reasonable distance you want.” Baudoin knew what the young Wollfolk was thinking.
“Make the distance twice that, say thirty paces for each of us. The weapons should be Colt revolvers. We will shoot until a man falls.”
“A show of blood will not do?”
“No. You said Paulaga was good with weapons. Therefore, he must be killed or seriously wounded, for strong enemies should not be allowed a second chance at you.”
“Do you feel that confident?” Tim asked.
“I will beat Paulaga,” Lew said. “And eventually I’ll find and kill the man that murdered Albert Wollfolk.”
“What place would you like for the duel to take place?” Baudoin asked. “Les Chenes d’Allard, that is under the oaks in the city park, or in the field near the slaughterhouse beside the river.”
“Under the oaks. I saw a duel there when I first arrived. A good place to die, if it comes to that.”
“I agree. That is the most fitting place.”
“Then please arrange it for tomorrow morning, my friend,” Lew said.
* * *
Lew bought a quart of berries from the blackberry woman on Dauphine Street. He walked on, eating a few of the largest berries. He ate very slowly, savoring to the utmost the sweetness on his tongue, for he did admit to himself that he might die, come morning.
The fight bothered him, for it was a useless thing with nothing to be gained, and it contained much danger to him. It was obviously something contrived by his enemies. Even though he should kill Paulaga, the unknown foes who wanted him dead would go unharmed.
He recalled Paulaga’s second, the man named Loussat. He had been at the quartermasters’ office in the U.S. Barracks. Could Loussat be one of the members of the Ring? Lew thought it likely. The man may have hired Paulaga and then accompanied him to arrange the duel. Or was his presence merely a coincidence? Lew did not believe in coincidences.
* * *
Cécile met Lew in the courtyard, as usual. He wondered how long she sometimes waited and watched for him, for the time of his arrival varied by hours.
She did not come to him, but gazed across the space separating them, her eyes roaming their tender touch over him. As Lew came nearer, he knew that she had somehow become aware of the coming duel. The worry showed in the tiny crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes.
“You know about tomorrow,” Lew said.
“Yes. Such news about a placée’s man travels swiftly in the Ramparts.”
“We shall not talk about it. Tonight will be like all the past ones.”
She shook her head in the negative. “I want to dance as we did that first night you came to this house.”
“And will you play for me as you did then?”
“And make love to you like never before.”
“Can I stand that much?” Lew said with a grin.
Much later, when the deep darkness arrived, the rain came again to the city. The wet wind whistled dismally late into the night as Lew lay and held Cécile close to him. He begrudged the swift, short passage of the night.
* * *
Lew heard the vehicle stop in the street below. One short whistle sounded. Baudoin had arrived to transport him to the dueling place.
Lew had drawn the charges from his revolver and replaced them with fresh powder. Now he flipped off the caps and pressed five new ones over the nipples. He shoved the weapon into its holster and buckled it on.
He bent and touched Cécile’s hair, shiny and black in the lamplight. She looked up, her eyes dark pools of worry.
She said nothing. It had all been said in the night.
Lew went swiftly from the cottage and into the darkness on the street. He was surprised to see a third man in the buggy.
“Good morning, Tim,” Baudoin said.
“Morning, Yves.”
“This is Doctor Chandler, Tim. He is the best surgeon in New Orleans.”
“My pleasure to meet you,” Chandler said.
“Thank you for coming,” Lew said. “I hope you do not have to practice your skills this morning.”
“So do I,” said the doctor.
The buggy moved off in the damp night. Near the river, the fog thickened, smothering the sounds of the city. Lew felt his clothes absorbing the cool water vapor. The mist formed droplets on his eyebrows and his cheeks became wet. He flicked the moisture away like so much sweat.
They passed a gas streetlight, a dull-yellow stain on the drizzly night. The light faded away behind them, and the foggy gloom enshrouded them again.
Baudoin finally halted the vehicle on the side of the street, and the men sat without speaking.
The uncertain light of the dawn came. Lew could make out the three ancient oaks, called the Three Sisters, that marked the favored dueling spot in the city park.
The gray damp twilight brightened. It gave way gradually to the day, as it had ever since time began its travel across the stars.
Somewhere in front of Lew and his comrades, and buried in the fog, the iron-rimmed wheels of a vehicle rattled in and came to a stop. Shortly another vehicle stopped behind Baudoin’s buggy. A man in black clothing walked past and entered the park.
“The judge of duels has arrived,” Baudoin said. “It’s time to go.”
“I’m ready,” Lew said. He stepped down to the ground.
The surgeon climbed down beside Lew and the three men strode after the judge of duels.
The sun rose big and round over the swamps to the east. The fog immediately began to lift. It thinned rapidly in the warmth of the morning.
The rays of the sun struck the park. The night dew lying thickly on every blade of grass began to sparkle like a million diamonds covering the ground.
The men made their way across the park in the direction of the Big Sister, the largest oak in the grove. Their booted feet killed the glistening diamond points of light and left behind a black path leading to the dueling place.