Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (25 page)

Tom wasn't sure what to make of Topaz, and his glance in Ragland's direction said as much.

“Tell 'im a little bit about yourself, Topaz,” Ragland said.

“Yes, suh! There was a missionary on my island. He was a good man, cured illnesses, so my people did not kill him. He taught me English, so when he leaves, I go with him to protect him, all the way to New Orleans. But he get sick and die, so now I wear his clothes and make my living among his people.”

“That's very, ah, commendable,” Tom said, “but can you—”

“Fairleigh teach me shoot cannon,” Topaz interrupted. “All Carib know seas. This Carib”—faster than the eye could follow, Topaz produced and threw two knives, which stuck with a dull thud no more than an inch apart in the mizzenmast—“can fight good.”

“Jesus!” Tom whispered in awe.

“I seen it but I don't believe it,” Maurice said. “You throw tomahawks like that?” he asked Topaz.

The Indian shrugged. “Knife, tomahawk. All the same. Many dead men.”

“You want my advice,” Maurice told Tom, “we take him—all the way back to Brandborough. And if Jase can beat him, I'll by God bow down and kiss that old man's foot.”

“You've made a believer out of me,” Tom said, shaking Topaz's hand. “Welcome aboard.” He stepped back, looked them over collectively. “Mr. Larkin's your first mate,” he announced. “After Ragland gets your signatures on the log, you can stow your gear below and turn topside to help get under way. Any questions?”

There being none, Tom and Maurice headed aft. “You sure pick 'em,” Tom said with a shake of his head. “A wanted murderer, a deserter, a brawler, and a cannibal. A couple dozen more like them and we could take the whole damned island.”

“No sense in hirin' 'em half-bad,” Maurice pointed out. He pulled a gold coin out of his pocket and found that it barely fit between Topaz's knives. “Would you look at that! Feller wouldn't have much chance goin' up against—” He stopped, looked around, and located Tom standing at the rail and staring toward the city as if expecting to see someone at the last minute. Which explained, he thought, why Tom had come aboard in such a foul mood. But that was the trouble with men like Tom. Couldn't let a woman be what she was meant to be, a roll in the hay, a quick tumble, and a quicker goodbye.

“Beg your pardon, suh.” Topaz had come to retrieve his knives.

Maurice pocketed his coin and stepped aside. “You ever consider givin' lessons with them things?” he asked.

Topaz showed his teeth in a wide grin. “Sell, suh, for a price.”

“What about a trade? Know anything about Indian leg wrasslin'?”

“Suh?”

“Trade you even. Lesson for lesson.”

Topaz started to respond, but stopped short as Slurry Walls fell to his knees half a dozen paces away and lifted his eyes to the mainmast and its multiple crosses. In his right hand, he held a worn leather-backed Bible, which he placed over his heart. “Oh, Lord,” he cried, “we set sail to do Thy will!”

Sailors paused and snickered. Topaz and Maurice stared.

“Though we be not all Christians here,” the old man went on in pointed reference to Topaz, “we be just and honest men, fearing only Thy wrath, seeking only Thy divine mercy. Grant us a fair wind and clear sky, and bring us home again both safe and sound! Amen!”

“Might better ask for a pint of rum, Slurry,” a voice called down from the mainmast.

Slurry stood, stowed his Bible in his coat pocket, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I could use a drink,” he admitted to general laughter, “but I got my standards, and I'm dry till we touch land again.”

Topaz went back to his knives. “Interesting,” he said, slipping the first one into a sheath sewn into the inside of his coat collar. “I find white men a source of amusement.”

“Oh, yeah?” Maurice asked. He watched as the second knife disappeared up Topaz's left sleeve. “Fine with me,” he added. “Just as long as you don't find us a source of nourishment.”

Topaz didn't find that particularly amusing, but was nonetheless sufficiently intrigued with Maurice's earlier offer of a trade to accept the deal before hurrying below to stow his gear. A quarter hour later, all was in readiness for sailing. The gangplank was secured, the mainsail raised, and one of the forward jibs unfurled to help keep them steady on course. Larkin, standing next to the pilot, bellowed orders. The forward lines were cast off, the rudder put hard to starboard. Slowly, the current swung the
Cassandra
's bow away from the dock, and moments later they were under way.

From his place on the capstan that controlled the depth of the centerboard, Maurice watched Tom, who remained a solitary figure outlined against the growing gap of water between the
Cassandra
and the docks. Slowly, then faster as the Mississippi caught them and pushed them downstream, New Orleans slipped into the distance and lost its definition. Ships at anchor blocked their view, and when they could see, docks and warehouses and commercial buildings became an undifferentiated line of city shapes, a montage of grays and browns dashed with splashes of green. And still Tom watched, searching but not finding, until at last he turned away from the rail and disappeared below.

The wind shifted as Randall had predicted, and by the time they transferred him to the pilot boat at the mouth of the Mississippi, the
Cassandra
was running smartly ahead of a full-blown norther. The temperature dropped sharply and the men broke out their foul weather gear.

The first night was spent tacking back and forth in the darkness, well away from the treacherous shallows that spread in all directions from the Delta. Dawn found the
Cassandra
far out in the gulf, where, Tom determined, they would remain until the wind was more favorable.

Their fourth morning out, November 12, a Monday, the wind backed to a little south of east, and they began the long, cautious approach to Barataria. “You're sure you know these waters?” Tom asked for the third time as he and Slurry pored over the appropriate chart.

“Not as good as the pilot knew the Mississippi,” Slurry admitted, “but good enough to get us in and out.” He pointed to the thin pencil line he'd drawn. “This here's our course, Cap'n. You keep that center-board no deeper'n four feet, and we'll make her slicker'n gull shit.”

The chart was old, and as useful as a blank piece of paper as far as Tom was concerned. “You know this water well enough to take us in now, or do you want to wait until morning?” he asked, not wanting to waste a day, but more than willing to do that rather than run aground.

Slurry had gone four and a half days without a drop to drink. His eye was clear, his hand steady, and his voice sure. “Time's a-wastin',” he said by way of answer. “You want to get them boys of yours or not?”

Tom took a deep breath and decided to try for it. “I want them, Slurry.”

“Then bring her to nor'east by north,” Slurry called immediately. “And get that durned centerboard up to four feet, an' ready to go to three when I call for it.”

The water shallowed perceptibly for the next two hours, and the crew was noticeably nervous as the
Cassandra
crept toward the line of green that was Grand Isle. “Sure looks peaceful for the reputation it has,” Tom said as the tree line edged closer.

Slurry called for more mainsail, ordered the center-board raised to three feet. “It wasn't so peaceful a couple of years ago,” he said, “Laffite's got those boys in line now.”

“Still and all, I never trusted a pirate, and don't plan to start this afternoon,” Tom said, almost to himself.

“Privateer, Cap'n, not pirate,” Slurry corrected. “There's a difference. All of Laffite's captains fly the flag of the republic of Cartagena. They're duly licensed—got letters of marque, and everything. 'Course, there's still them that consider 'em to be pirates, but I'd be careful about usin' that word when we get there.”

Three bells; one-thirty. Another five and a half to six hours before sundown. One man high up the foremast kept an eye out for hidden shoals ahead. Two more forward alternated throwing lead lines and calling out the depth of the water. Tom kept a close eye, but left the navigation to Slurry and hoped for the best.

Laffite and his cohorts had chosen the location of their headquarters with great care, and wisely. Located on one of the Grand Terre islands, their community was protected from all but the worst of hurricanes by the islands between it and the gulf. Approach from inland was impossible except by small boat; approach by sea was readily discovered long before an attacker could bring his guns to bear. And once an enemy entered the bay, the shallow waters and unpredictable winds forced him to navigate at a crawl past Barataria's concealed shore batteries.

The facts were known to Tom and the crew of the
Cassandra
as they negotiated the narrow tide-scoured channel between Grand Isle and the first of the Grand Terres, but their position took on added meaning as the dull boom of a cannon rang out across the bay. The first island fell astern. “We'll be goin' hard to starboard once we get past the second one,” Slurry called. “Be ready on them sheets, and then ready again to spill the mainsail on my call!”

“You heard 'im,” Larkin bellowed. “Look lively, lads!”

Benet, Strickland, Fairleigh, and Topaz waited by racks of loaded and primed rifles concealed by the rail. The cook had doused the galley fire and waited below with more weapons for the crew, should the need arise. Ready to move in any direction, Maurice stood by Tom's side, and Tom, armed with a brace of pistols and Raven's rapier, stood ready to take over from Slurry.

“Hard to starboard!” Slurry yelled.

The rudder caught, the bow swung to starboard. The crew hauled on the mainsail sheets to catch the wind abeam, and adjusted the jib. Slowly, majestically, the
Cassandra
slipped through the gap between the two islands and emerged into what amounted to a large, sheltered lagoon. And there in front of them lay Barataria.

The pirate stronghold was a miniature city in the middle of nowhere. Dominating the scene on a rise a hundred yards from the beach was a pillared two-story mansion with glass windows. Beyond the mansion, a cluster of thatched-roof cottages provided housing when their inhabitants weren't at sea. A row of bordellos, gambling houses, saloons, and cafes that looked as if they might have been lifted whole from the French Quarter provided entertainment. A single long dock stretched into the water; near it were clustered a half-dozen warehouses made of imported planks. Not far from them was another warehouse called, Slurry explained, the barracoon, where hundreds of Africans were chained in fetid darkness until they could be smuggled into New Orleans and sold at auction. Scattered around the lagoon lay at least a dozen ships, anchored fore and aft to present a broadside to any outsider who dared enter, all with gun ports open and guns run out.

“Jesus,” Maurice whispered in awe to Tom. “Now I know how it feels to be a sittin' duck.”

“You sure worry a lot for a big feller,” Slurry cackled. He pointed out a line of small boats tied along the beach. “See? They belong to them merchants from New Orleans I was tellin' you about. We ain't the only ones here to buy.”

“They ain't here to buy cannon, though, I'll bet,” Maurice pointed out. “There's a difference.”

“Well, you'll just have to take my word for it,” Slurry said. “Ain't nobody gonna shoot a payin' customer. Oops.” He pointed to the dock, where a catboat was casting off. “Welcoming committee on the way. Spill that air, boys!”

The welcoming committee was surprisingly civil, though blunt about the
Cassandra
's chances should Tom try anything suspicious, and a half-hour after they boarded, the
Cassandra
was tied up at the dock.

The men who had greeted them told them to wait on the dock and then set off at a run for the mansion.

“You sure made an impression on 'em, Slurry,” Maurice noted.

Slurry rubbed his jaw and grinned sheepishly. “That's 'cause them fellers is new an' don't know me. Now, if we'd been met by Cap'n Dominique You or Cap'n Rene Beluche, or even Laffite hisself, the reception would've been different.”

“Looks like you might get a chance to prove that,” Tom said. “Who's he?”

A large man who emanated an aura of power that was felt even at a distance had emerged from the mansion and was unhurriedly making his way toward the dock. He wore a lightweight suit and a plain white shirt, and clenched a long, thick cigar between his teeth. “That's Laffite, all right,” Slurry said in a subdued voice.

Tom's pulse quickened. Jean Laffite hadn't become one of the most notorious pirates in history by taking foolish chances, and Tom wasn't about to jeopardize his mission by challenging him. “Keep an eye on the
Cassandra
and let me know if anyone shows a weapon,” he told Maurice. “I'll do the talking.”

Laffite's skin was fair and his broad features were dominated by dark eyes, heavy brows, and a thick moustache. “
Bonjour, messieurs.
” he said in a deep, sure voice as he approached. “Welcome to Barataria. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jean Laffite, at your service.”

The punctilious observance of drawing room formalities took Tom by surprise. “The honor is mine, sir,” he said, stepping forward to shake hands. “Thomas Gunn Paxton, at
your
service.”

Laffite returned the handshake and, his eyes wary, smiled. “Many years ago, in this part of the world, a man named Jason Brand sailed with the woman called Raven, he noted, lifting his eyebrows in curiosity.

“I'm descended from Raven, whose name was Marie Ravenne,” Tom said. “The rapier I wear was hers.”

“Then you come from a fine, proud family, my friend. I've heard many stories about Raven, and am honored to meet one of her descendants.” His tone became brisk and businesslike. “How can I be of assistance?”