Tide of War (22 page)

They crept closer to the island and a few sketchy details emerged: the white sand, the waving grasses bleached almost the same colour by the sun, great flocks of seabirds along the shore, even a clump of brushwood here and there on the higher ground towards the middle. But nothing else, no sign of human presence now or in the past.

They followed this desolate shoreline for several miles until at length they sighted a small hill, or large dune, on its westward point. And at last a trace of human activity in the few crude shacks that huddled in its lee—and a wooden jetty with a flagpole but no flag.

This was presumably where the
Unicorn
had encountered the Spanish official on her previous visit but there was no sign of him now or any of his fellows.

More to the point, there was no sign of the
Virginie.

“Let us come about,” Nathan instructed Pym, “and try our luck at the Candle Isles.”

But before they could begin the manoeuvre there was a shout of “Sail ho!” from the foretop and Nathan's heart missed a beat as he peered in the direction of the lookout's outstretched arm.

But he was pointing dead ahead. It could not possibly be the
Virginie,
not from that direction, with scarcely enough water to float a barge. Then Nathan saw the pale triangle of sail and heard the sharp intake of breath from Pym at his side.

It was the cutter, emerging from the haze into which she had vanished over three months earlier with their doomed captain and his mutinous crew.

“It cannot be,” murmured Pym.

Nor was it.

As the vessel bore down on them they saw that though it resembled the cutter in size and rig it was a much broader vessel with a blunt, rounded bow, not unlike a Dutch barge but with the Spanish flag flying from her stern.

“Mr. Imlay,” Nathan called over to his “political adviser” who was lounging against the rail on the far side of the quarterdeck, “perhaps you would be so good as to help us with your excellent Spanish and bid them come alongside.”

“Let us heave to,” he instructed Pym in a quieter voice, “and see if they have any news for us.”

They did. And it was not good.

“The Spanish fort on the Rigolets is under siege,” Imlay declared flatly. “He says it was attacked three days ago by Cajun rebels. They are armed with heavy cannon and mortars. The fort is low on powder and shot and he does not think it can hold out for much longer. Two days at the most.”

“He” was the young Spanish officer who had come aboard from the sailing barge and who now sat in Nathan's cabin peering hopefully if uncomprehendingly at them with his large brown eyes. His name was Antonio de Escavar, Imlay had reported, and he was an aide to the Governor-General, Baron Carondelet.

Nathan studied the map open on the table before him.

The Rigolets. The Gutter. The back door into New Orleans. The fort was on Coquilles Island at the western end of the channel where it entered the lake, less than twenty miles from their present position. There was no way they could take the
Unicorn
into the Rigolets, but it was entirely possible that they could reach it in the ship's boats.

Again, that sense of history repeating itself: of following in the footsteps of his ill-fated predecessor.

“Does he know how many cannon the rebels have—and where they are sited?” he asked Imlay.

A lengthy exchange. Nathan curbed his impatience. He found it extremely frustrating to depend on Imlay as an interpreter but Escavar spoke no English and very little French.

“He says they have eight cannon on Coquilles Island itself and four more on the far side of the Rigolets covering both approaches to the fort.”

“Twelve cannon? How in God's name did they come by twelve
cannon?” But he thought he knew the answer already and indeed, after putting it to the Spaniard, Imlay confirmed it.

“He says they were landed on the coast by a French warship.”

“The
Virginie?
”

“It would appear likely.”

“Ask him if he knows where she is now.”

It took a while. “He says that after landing the guns and the men she headed south towards the Delta.”

“How does he know that?”

“He says they have a spy among the Cajuns who told them of the plan. When the French take the fort they will attack New Orleans and the
Virginie
will stop any help from coming up river.”

Nathan's frown deepened.

“So the Governor knew of the plan but did nothing to try to prevent it?”

Imlay put this to Escavar. It seemed to require several supplementary questions. “He says the Governor is trapped in the fort,” Imlay reported at length. “Apparently he was on a tour of inspection and he was interrogating this informer of his when they were attacked.”

Nathan shook his head.

“Do you believe all this?”

Imlay shrugged. “I don't know why he should be making it up,” he said.

Nathan glanced once more at the map.

The Mississippi emerged into the Gulf of Mexico about a hundred miles south of their present position. They had been making barely two knots with the wind on their larboard quarter. Beating against it would take them at least two days, probably three.

“Two days, he thinks, before it falls?”

“Two days at most. The governor has given up hope of saving the fort but will hold out as long as possible. He sent Escavar to alert the Captain-General in Cuba in the hope that he would send ships and soldiers in time to save New Orleans.”

“And how did Escavar get out?”

“He slipped out at night with two Indian guides—the men who came aboard with him. They led him through the swamp to where they had concealed a canoe. When they reached the coast they found the
goelette
—the fishing boat. He was hoping to find a ship to take him to Cuba.”

Nathan studied the man thoughtfully. He looked as if he had been through a swamp. He spoke. Imlay translated.

“He wants to know if we will take him there. He says there is not a moment to lose.”

But Nathan was shaking his head. “Our job is to find the
Virginie,
” he insisted.

“And what about the fort?”

Nathan showed his irritation. “What can we do? We cannot send the ship's boats through the Rigolets, not with cannon covering the approaches. I cannot sacrifice half the ship's company for an obscure Spanish fort.”

Imlay spoke with rare gravity.

“If the fort were to be taken—and the Governor-General of Louisiana with it—it would be a great encouragement to the rebels. Others would join them. New Orleans would be next. And if New Orleans falls …” He spread his arms as if the consequence of such a calamity must be apparent to even one of Nathan's limited perception. But in case it were not he added, “Such a victory would resound through the Americas. It would be seen as a victory not only for the French but for the forces of Revolution. It would encourage many others to rise up against their colonial masters. And in Europe, it would appear as if the French were irresistible. The Spanish would almost certainly sue for peace. They might even join the French in a war against the British.”

“So what would you have me do?”

“ Well, we can at least send word to New Orleans.”

“How, if the Rigolets is closed to us?”

Imlay leant forward over the map. “There is a small bayou called the Chef Menteur, here, to the south of Coquilles Island. It is little
used but it joins Lake Pontchartrain here, near Point Herbes. Much closer to New Orleans. I could take the guides and be in New Orleans in two days.”

“You?”

“I speak French and Spanish—and several of the local dialects. I am familiar with the terrain. That is why I am here with you.”

This was true. “But what will you do when you reach New Orleans?”

“I will tell them of the attack on the fort and warn them to look to their defences. They might even be able to send help to Carondelet, if it is not too late.”

“Why did
he
not do that?” Nathan nodded towards Escavar.

“You want me to ask him?”

“That might he helpful.”

Another lengthy exchange.

“He says he could not escape inland because that is where the French have posted most of their force. He had to go towards the sea. Besides, the Governor feared that a force sent out from New Orleans would be ambushed—and only weaken its own defences.”

“You sound sceptical.”

“I am.” Imlay smiled. “I think it is possible he may have felt that the Havana was a more attractive proposition for him personally than New Orleans at the moment.”

Nathan shook his head and returned to his study of the map. He could just make out the bayou that Imlay had indicated: a thin blue line among many, meandering through that impossible land-and-seascape.

“Menteur,” he repeated. “French for liar.”

“Chef Menteur. The Big Liar.” Another smile. “That is what the Indians call the Mississippi because of the way it twists and turns and is full of tricks. The French gave the same name to the bayou because of its similar nature.”

“But you think you can find your way through it.”

Imlay nodded. “I can try. I did once before. And I will have the guides.”

He did once before? When? And in what circumstances?
But he did not ask. “The Indians. You speak their tongue?”

“No. But one of them speaks Spanish—and French.” He saw the sudden dismay in Imlay's eyes as if he had said the wrong thing.

“He speaks
French?
”

“Creole French. Patois. Pretty nigh impenetrable.”

“Let us have him down here.”

Gabriel brought both guides down to the cabin and lingered at the door, his eyes making a swift inventory of whatever objects he had left on display to attract their venal attentions. As a former highwayman he entertained a poor opinion of human nature and their appearance was unlikely to encourage a more tolerant view. They were dressed in animal skins: breechclout, leggings and a form of waistcoat tied loosely with leather thongs. Their hair hung long and lank to their shoulders and appeared to be heavily oiled. One of them had a cloth tied around his forehead, perhaps to keep the sweat out of his eyes for it was not decorative. Both wore rings in their ears and one a necklace made from the teeth of some animal. They carried knives at their belts but no other weapons that Nathan could see. He stood to greet them.

“Thank you, Gabriel, perhaps you would contrive some refreshment for our guests.” Then, addressing the latter in French with a polite bow: “My name is Peake and I am the captain of this vessel.”

One of them stared back at him without expression. The other bowed in return.

“Your servant, Jean Desmarais,” he said.

John Who-Lives-in-the-Marshes. A not very original choice. He could have lived nowhere else in this part of the world. But he seemed remarkably composed—and well-mannered—for a creature of the swamps. Far more so, indeed, than those natives of the English Fens that Nathan had encountered.

Desmarais indicated his companion. “This is my brother, Joseph Bonnet, and we are in the service of the Spanish Governor. I am
afraid we smell somewhat of the Bog. And a grease we have used to deter the flies and other insects.”

“Not at all.” Nathan was vaguely embarrassed. Would he have apologised if he felt in need of a wash—as his mother frequently assured him he did, even at twenty-six? He thought not. He complimented the man on his French for here was none of Imlay's “impenetrable patois.”

“Thank you,” replied this prodigy with another small bow. “I was educated by the Franciscan brothers in New Orleans.”

Nathan wondered if Brother Ignatius had been one of them and John Who-Lives-in-the-Marshes was one of his sources of information. He invited them both to sit at the table.

The Spanish officer looked perplexed and said something to Imlay in Spanish. Imlay's reply was brief.

The two guides took not the slightest notice of either Imlay or the Spanish officer. They were studying the map with interest. Nathan drew his finger along the blue line indicated by Imlay. “I believe this is known as the Chef Menteur. Are you familiar with it?”

“It is a name the French use,” said Desmarais. “But it is a very little stream and a poor deceiver of men. We call it the Little Snake. Who drew this map?”

“A man called Des Barres,” Nathan told him.

“A Frenchman?”

“Swiss, I believe. From Switzerland.”

“Switzerland?” repeated Desmarais wonderingly.

“A land in Europe. Of many mountains.”

“Ah.” He said something to his companion and they both laughed.

“So,” Nathan attempted to bring them back to the subject of the Big Liar, or the Little Snake as it had now become. “Would you be confident of finding your way by this route to New Orleans?”

Desmarais looked at him with a frown as if this were a trick question. “Is there a reason why I should not?”

“I wished only for your assurance.”

“ Why yes, if I wished to do so.”

“And how long would it take?”

“By canoe, two days perhaps.”

“And if we did not go so far? If we went only so far as Coquilles Island?”

Desmarais raised his eyes from the map and studied him thoughtfully. “Nine, ten hours perhaps.”

“Why should we want to do that?” Imlay demanded rudely.

Nathan ignored him. “And it would be possible to reach the fort from there?” he asked Desmarais.

“But yes. Of course. That is the way we came here. With this one.” He indicated the Spanish officer, sulking at the far end of the table.

“And we could travel, at least part of the way, by night?”

“By night it is more difficult but yes, with one who knows the way.”

“And how big a boat could you take there?”