Gone to Texas (28 page)

Nathaniel distinctly heard the death rattle in Malot's throat.

"It's too late," he said.

And so it was. Malot's body convulsed and then went limp. As McLeod put on his coat, one of the Creoles snatched Malot's coat from the old servant and covered the dead man from the waist up. Without a word—and without so much as a glance at the body of the young man he had slain—McLeod departed the alley, pushing through a group of onlookers who had gathered in the street. Nathaniel was startled by their presence. He had not noticed them before, so engrossed was he in the bizarre dance of death performed by McLeod and Malot.

Robertson was among the spectators. He clutched Nathaniel's arm as the frontiersman pushed through the people in pursuit of McLeod.

"What happened?" asked the empresario.

"Somebody died," replied Nathaniel, extricating himself from the Texan's grasp.

McLeod was proceeding along the
banquette
of Royal Street with brisk strides. Nathaniel caught up with him and waited until he was right behind him before speaking.

"McLeod."

McLeod whirled, eyes blazing. Nathaniel thought for a moment that he was going to draw the concealed blade and run him through with it. But then McLeod composed himself. His eyes flicked furtively along the street, and he realized that no one had been near enough to hear Nathaniel use his real name. He even managed a rather chilly half-smile.

"If you wish to speak to me it will have to be privately."

"Lead on."

McLeod turned on his heel and walked with long strides, turning left off of Royal Street onto Conti, then half a block to Exchange Alley. The frontiersman stayed
right with him, passing through an iron gate and down a narrow cobbled passage to a secluded courtyard, then up a flight of wooden steps sagging with age to a gallery and then through a heavy wooden door.

Nathaniel found himself in a large room, with French windows arrayed at the far end, presumably overlooking Exchange. Several bare wooden pews lined the unadorned walls, where in places the plaster had fallen in chunks from the bricks. There was a large brick hearth, a rack containing a half-dozen épées, and in the far corner a wooden screen partitioning McLeod's austere living quarters—a narrow iron bed, a trunk, a porcelain washbasin and pitcher on a rickety stand—from the rest of the
salle d'armes
.

Doffing his hat and tossing it negligently onto the nearest pew, McLeod turned on Nathaniel.

"So, we meet again. Tell me, why didn't you shout my name out there on the street? You realize that if my true identity became known New Orleans would be, shall we say, untenable for me."

"I can always go to the authorities."

"Can you? I could kill you here and now."

"You probably could. But you would have the devil of a time trying to explain that."

"I suppose so. What do you intend? Blackmail, perhaps?"

Nathaniel laughed. "You misjudge me."

McLeod turned away, moving restlessly about the salle, swinging the sword cane as a farmer would a scythe.

"I remember thinking that indeed I had done so on the occasion when you were my prisoner, in the guardhouse at Fort Malden. You kept hurling yourself at the cell door. Even though you knew there was no escape. Day and night you threw your body against that unyielding door. You quite unnerved my men, as I recall."

"What are you doing here, McLeod? I would have thought you'd be living in Europe somewhere."

"I gave England a try, after the war. It came as something of a shock to me that in spite of all my service and sacrifice for the sake of the Crown, all the blood I had shed for the good of the British Empire, I was treated like a colonial." McLeod's laugh was edged with bitterness. "Many doors were closed to me. I was a second-class citizen. So I returned. This city proved to be most suitable. It is, as you may have noticed, very cosmopolitan. Americans are actually in the minority here. And, too, the women are very beautiful. And generally very willing. It must be the climate. I parlayed my skill with the sword into a lucrative profession." He raised his arms in a gesture to indicate the Spartan chamber. "You might not think it so lucrative by the appearance of my humble abode, but I assure you, I live quite comfortably. So many foolish young gentlemen, like Malot, whose idiotic notions of honor oblige them to become familiar with the use of the blade. They pay well. I, in turn, spend every bit of my earnings on wine, women, and song. Why should I die rich? I have no one to leave a fortune to. No, I learned long ago to live for today, not plan for the future."

"No family?"

"Oh, you didn't know? Of course you didn't. We've met only twice, and both times we were too busy trying to kill each other to get acquainted. No, I have no family. I used to. But your damned American rebels—excuse me,
patriots
—murdered them."

"Is that why you've hated this country?"

"Precisely," snarled McLeod. "It is a country of hypocrites. Holier-than-thou Americans, who murder and steal and rape with the worst of us. I shall hate this country and everything it stands for until the day I die. That is why I have done everything in my power to destroy it. I rode with Butcher Tarleton. I conspired with
Aaron Burr. I gave aid to Tecumseh. I fought with the British in two wars. But then I came to realize that I was, in effect, hurling my body against an unyielding door. I still hate your damned United States of America, but I am too old to fight it any longer."

"My God, McLeod. You should have been killed a long time ago."

McLeod laughed harshly. "Only the good die young. Haven't you heard? So now you know my little secret. What do you intend to do about it?"

"I don't know."

"You could put an advertisement in the local paper. Then I would have to flee, or face incarceration."

"You're a dangerous man. You enjoy killing."

"What? Do you mean that business with Malot? That was self-defense."

"You leave dead bodies and wrecked lives behind you."

"How poetic." McLeod made a gesture indicating his indifference to Nathaniel's decision. "Do as you will."

"You're not going to try to stop me?"

"I knew back at Fort Malden that I could not kill you, Jones. In fact, if the truth be known, I admire you. I admire your spirit. You have lived your life with honor. Which is more than I can say. Strange, isn't it? Well, very little about life makes any sense."

Nathaniel turned to go.

"You're bound for Texas, aren't you?"

The frontiersman was startled. "How did you know?"

"Deductive reasoning. There will be a war in Texas soon. Not soon enough for me, though, I'm afraid."

"I don't have to ask which side you would fight on."

McLeod laughed again. "Of course not. I could have a commission in the Mexican Army if I wanted it. There are a number of mercenaries in the service of Mexico already. But I am too old for another campaign. Pity. Watch out for that fellow Santa Anna. He's made quite
a name for himself butchering those rebel Indians down in the southern provinces. A man after my own heart."

Without another word, Nathaniel left the salle.

Should he expose McLeod? Then the man would finally answer for his crimes. Or should he adopt a policy of live and let live? McLeod had spent a lifetime fighting and conspiring against the United States, opposed to the very things which Nathaniel had risked his life for time and again. But if what he had said about his family was true, perhaps his hatred, if not justified, was comprehensible. Nathaniel mulled the problem over in his mind all the way back to the hotel, and still he could not decide.

Chapter 21

Sterling Robertson came to Peychaud's three days later with the news Nathaniel had been waiting for. The
Liberty
was loaded and ready to embark on the morrow for Texas. The Texan apologized for the wait. They had been delayed by a very special shipment overdue from France.

"Tonight you must board her," said the empresario. "I have told the skipper to expect you. Quarters have been arranged. They may be a little cramped, but then, a brigantine is not built for luxury, is she?"

Nathaniel told the others—Rebecca, Prissy, Klesko, and O'Connor. Rebecca was excited by the prospect. The novelty of New Orleans had worn off, and she was tired of waiting, ready for the journey to end, eager to begin a new life in a new land. Prissy, on the other hand, was leery of the idea of a sea voyage. Klesko and O'Connor were ready to go. They had spent a lot of time together, with the riverman giving O'Connor a tour of the bars and bawdy houses he knew so well, and they had managed to exhaust the young Irishman's limited funds in the process. Like Prissy, Klesko was less than enthusiastic over the prospect of putting to sea. A river was one thing, the high seas another. But wherever Rebecca went he was bound and determined to follow.

The frontiersman found Christopher in the room he shared with O'Connor—Nathaniel and Klesko roomed together, and the womenfolk had a third room.
Christopher was agonizing over a letter. Nathaniel knew about Greta Inskilling. Christopher hadn't said much about her, but that in itself educated the frontiersman to the fact that his grandson's feelings for the young woman ran deep, and Nathaniel assumed the letter was for her.

Christopher received the news of their imminent departure with an ambivalence which surprised Nathaniel. Putting down his quill, he sighed and slumped back in his chair.

"Will there be room for Noelle on the ship?"

"I didn't realize she was going along. But yes, we will make room for her."

"I suppose she's going."

"Don't you want her to?"

"She can't very well stay here. It isn't safe for her, after she betrayed Morrell."

"That didn't exactly answer my question."

Christopher gave the frontiersman a long, anguished look, and Nathaniel surmised that his grandson had something he very much wanted to talk about, a tormenting quandary concerning which he desperately needed advice, and yet, because of its intensely personal nature, something he could not quite bring himself to discuss. Obviously it had something to do with Noelle. But it wasn't in Nathaniel's nature to pry.

The old leatherstocking put a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "If there is anything I can do to help you, just let me know."

"Thanks."

"I'll go let them know there'll be one more passenger for the
Liberty."

He was at the door before Christopher spoke.

"I've made a terrible mistake, Grandpa."

"Noelle?"

Christopher nodded. "I don't love her, though. At least, I don't think I do. It's not the same feeling as I
have for Greta. Oh, I don't know. I'm so confused. Can you love two women at the same time?"

"I'm no expert on affairs on the heart," said Nathaniel. "But I reckon there can be a difference between the woman you'd like to spend some time with today, and the one you want to spend the rest of your life with. Of course, Amanda and I grew up together. I always knew she was the one for me. Don't recall ever looking at another woman."

"Noelle is . . . bewitching. I sometimes think she's cast a spell on me."

"Women can do that." Nathaniel smiled. "But don't let Prissy hear you say such things."

"Don't get me wrong. Noelle is a good person."

"Of course she is. She saved your bacon, didn't she?"

"But I can't seem to think straight when she's around."

"The two of you had quite an adventure together, getting away from those river pirates. That kind of thing creates a strong bond between folks. And she's a very pretty lass, too."

"Very." Christopher sighed. "She says we were meant to be together."

"Maybe she really believes that. But for it to work, you have to think so, too."

"That's just it. I don't know what to think. In a way I wish she wouldn't go to Texas with us. But then I . . . I like being with her."

"I reckon she should go," said Nathaniel, "if her life is endangered by staying. But her going with us shouldn't prevent you from writing that letter."

"I don't know what to write. I feel as though I ought to tell Greta the truth. About Noelle."

"I wouldn't, were I you."

Christopher was surprised. "You mean lie? I can't believe you would recommend that course, Grandpa. Not you. You've never told a lie in your entire life."

"How did you come by that notion? Where women are concerned, what they don't know won't hurt you. If not telling is the same as lying, so be it. There's the little matter of your own survival to keep in mind. Now, I don't know much at all about women, but I do know that much."

"You're right, of course. But I . . . I feel guilty."

"You probably ought to. Still, I wouldn't cut my own throat just to atone for a mistake."

Christopher smiled. "I see your point."

"Write the letter, boy. Don't fret over this business with Noelle. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it just kind of works itself out before you know it."

Christopher bent to the task at hand as soon as Nathaniel had left the room. The words flowed as fast as he could scribble them down. He informed Greta of their safe arrival in New Orleans, and their imminent departure on the
Liberty
, bound for Texas. He omitted any mention of the river pirates. He did not want her to worry. And he didn't mention Noelle, either. As he closed, telling Greta how much he loved her, and how terribly he missed her, he prayed fervently that his grandfather was right, and that this thing with Noelle would resolve itself before Greta came to Texas to join him.

Christopher was finishing up with his packing when Noelle arrived. O'Connor was getting his belongings together, too, and offered to leave the room, giving Christopher a sly wink. Christopher was not amused. He told his friend to stay.

Something was troubling Noelle—that much was clear at a glance. Christopher was afraid it had something to do with the two of them, and what had transpired a few nights ago in the cemetery. Thinking about that night, and standing so close to Noelle now, stirred the embers of his longing for her into a white hot flame, and this
desire made him ashamed, as not an hour before he had written Greta to tell her how much he loved her.