City of Glory (41 page)

“So,” Tintin asked, “
qu’est-ce que vous pensez,
Madame Eugenie? The clothes are more comfortable, or less?”

“Infinitely less comfortable, Monsieur Tintin. I would not like to be a man all the time.”

“Ah, but no one would take you for a man, madame. That is a deception we could not sustain. A lad.
Un garçon.
At the very start of his manhood.”

“It comes to the same thing,” Eugenie murmured. The shirt with its ruffled stock and the cutaway coat were not so bad, but she could not force herself to look down at the tight trousers. Her maid had hastily stitched her into them, drawing the fabric skintight in the back where the seam would be covered by the coat. The result was to make a clear outline of her hips and her legs. It was as if she wore nothing at all. Meanwhile she must keep her head entirely upright or the stovepipe hat would probably fall off.

“We are almost there, madame. Now, please, be entirely silent.”

Tintin turned the rowboat into the mouth of a long and narrow cove. Halfway up its length there was another inlet, and another off that. She soon had no idea where they were, and when the narrow hull of the two-masted schooner appeared, it seemed to Eugenie to have materialized from nowhere. She tipped her head back to read the name painted with many flourishes along the side.
Le Carcajou.
The Wolverine.

Tintin made the rowboat fast to the pirate ship. A man appeared above their heads and dropped a rope ladder. “You go first, madame,” Tintin said. “I can best assist you that way.”

He extended his hand and smiled, yellowed teeth gleaming in the light of the sliver of new moon. Eugenie shuddered, but not so that it showed. A lesson she had learned from her husband—never show weakness. She took Tintin’s hand and allowed him to help her find her footing on the lowest rung of the ladder.

“Now,” he said softly, “imagine what it would be like to try and do this with your skirts and petticoats flapping around your ankles.”

Eugenie could not answer; her jaw was clenched too tightly. I can do this, she told herself over and over. I can do this. One rung and then the next. Each time conscious of how slippery were the leather soles of the boots which, like everything else she wore, had belonged to Timothy. There had been no way to alter the size of the boots; she’d had to stuff the toes with crumpled sheets of newsprint and be satisfied. I can do this. I will not scream because Tintin has his hands on my backside. Supposedly to assist me up this wretched ladder. One more rung. I can do this. I must do this.

The grinning face of the man who had dropped the ladder and watched her entire painful ascent was finally level with hers. “Welcome aboard, laddie. It’s not every night we—Whoa, what have we here? Not exactly what it looks like, eh?”

He had pulled her onto the deck by then, and Tintin had come aboard just behind her. “You may look,
mon ami,
” he said, “but you may not touch. We have business with the la——, with the boy. Very private business.”

The second pirate laughed softly. “Too bad. I could fancy some pleasant company. All what you brung us so far ain’t too happy to be here.”

“Where is he?”

“Below.”

Tintin considered, then made up his mind. “We too shall go below. Come,
mon petit garçon,
I have something to show you.”

“You said I would get my money as soon as we came aboard your ship. I do not choose—”

“My ship,” Tintin leaned in close enough so she could smell his foul breath. “As you say. And I remind you no one knows where you are. So for tonight we do what I choose,
non?
It is better to smile politely and speak softly,
garçon.
Much better.”

He turned, and Eugenie, knowing she had no choice, dutifully followed him.

The deck was a shambles of half-coiled lines, and stacked boxes and chests, and empty bottles that rolled treacherously close to her feet in the clumsy boots. The pirate who had lowered the ladder followed her, and she spotted a few others at various places on the deck. One, sprawled a little distance away, wasn’t dressed like the rest. He wore regular seaman’s clothes, checked shirt and oiled breeches, and in another setting she’d have thought him an ordinary tar.

The sailor was apparently convinced by her disguise. “Brung another recruit, have ye?” he called out. When no one answered, he began to whistle. Eugenie knew the tune. Timothy had sung it whenever he was in particularly high spirits.
Once was a man with a double chin who played with skill on the violin…played in time and played in tune…wouldn’t play nothin’ but “Old Zip Coon.”

She continued picking her way across the deck. At one point she stumbled and almost fell, and the second pirate grabbed her from behind. He used the opportunity to put both hands on her breasts. Eugenie gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. That she had bound her paps tight to her with a linen bandage somehow made his touch less an affront.

Tintin descended another ladder, this one of wood. Eugenie summoned her courage and went after him. The second pirate came behind her. Belowdecks the passage was so narrow they had to walk in single file, Eugenie between the two men. Somehow they contrived to repeatedly bump their bodies against hers front and back. Her face burned with rage and shame, but she pretended not to notice and said nothing.

“My quarters,” Tintin said, throwing open a door. The cabin into which he showed her was small and cramped, and as filthy as everything else she had seen on this wolverine from hell. She’d heard that pirates lived like kings, surrounded with gold and jewels. With this lot at least, it appeared not to be true.

“Sit down, Madame Eugenie. You may take off that ridiculous hat. Here we are quite safe.”

“I will keep the hat on, thank you.” She had pulled her dark hair back from her face, forcing every curl into compliance, and pinned the lot into a bun on the top of her head. If she removed the stovepipe, it might all tumble free.

“Suit yourself. You will drink something? A refreshment is called for after a journey such as brought us here. Sadly, I can offer you only rum. My stores do not run to Madeira or Malmsey.”

“I wish nothing, thank you. Only my money.”

“
Oui,
your money. I almost forgot.”

“Rest assured, Monsieur Tintin, I did not.” He had wanted her to wait until they had captured all six of the slaves for which they had papers. Perhaps even longer. If she waited until the business was well and truly concluded, he told her, her share of the profit would be greater.

“You must think me mad or a fool, monsieur,” had been her answer. “This sale you speak of, where is it to take place?”

“South of here. Where I have many allies and such sales are held frequently. Where it is both protected and profitable.”

“I believe you speak of Barataria Bay, Monsieur Tintin. It is south of here as you say. Many miles distant, is it not? Near New Orleans?”

“I do not speak of it, madame. You do. It is unwise to be so forthcoming. On occasion, even the walls have ears.”

They had been in Eugenie’s boudoir at the time. “I do not fear my walls,” she’d told him. “But I very much fear this distant sale you are suggesting. I will not under any circumstances give you the other papers the magistrate has signed, those for the five additional runaways, unless I am first paid for the one you say you have captured. That was our arrangement, Monsieur Tintin. It is the only one I will honor.”

Eventually, he agreed, but said she must come to the ship and claim what was hers. “
Le Carcajou,
madame, that is where the money is to be found.” The disguise had been Tintin’s suggestion when she first objected to the excursion. In the end, Tintin having insisted that the plan was impossibly dangerous without it, Eugenie was forced to get herself up in the ridiculous outfit. Dear God, she would give anything for her own clothes. Somehow nothing of what was happening would feel so terrifying if she were not dressed as she was.

Tintin drank two shots of straight rum in quick succession. Eugenie, who had declined as well his offer of a chair, stood watching him. When his thirst was satisfied, Tintin leaned back in his chair, reached into the pocket of his green-velvet coat, and withdrew a small moneybag. “Your share, Madame Eugenie. One hundred dollars in good coin. You may count it if you wish, but I assure you it is all there.”

“Oh!” She hated herself for admitting to her surprise, but she could not suppress the gasp. “You had it on your person all the time.”

Tintin smiled and shrugged.

“But why did you make me come here in that case? What earthly reason was there to—It will not be in your best interests,” she whispered as the only reason she could imagine for this trickery became a vivid scene in her mind. “I cannot fight you and win, I know that. But there are five more sets of documents and—”

“You fancy yourself entirely too much, Eugenie Fischer. You are a desirable woman,
oui,
but there are many others. Compose yourself, madame, I prefer to use you for things other than fucking.”

The shock of the casual insult was more profound than the admission that he’d lied about the money. Her heart pounded and her palms were sweaty. “How dare you speak to—”

“I dare whatever I choose. Because”—he got up while he spoke and went to the door—“you are now as much a part of this scheme as I am. That is why I have brought you here, Madame Eugenie, to show you exactly what that means. When you understand, then I will take you home. And your cunny will be as dry and as empty as it is right now.” He yanked open the door and shouted, “Bring the prisoner,” then he returned to his chair. “It will not take long, but I suggest you will be more comfortable seated then standing.” And when she didn’t answer, but also didn’t move, “
Eh bien,
suit yourself, madame. Only be aware,” he said chuckling, “that if you decide to faint we may have to undress you to bring you back to yourself.”

The door opened. The second pirate shoved a naked black man into the cabin ahead of him.

Eugenie turned her head away. “No,” Tintin said softly. “Take a good look. I must insist.”

She heard the menace in his tone. I can do this, she reminded herself. I must do this.

Not a man, a boy, ten or eleven perhaps. His entire body was bruised and welted; some of the cuts were still bleeding—others had started to scab over. One eye was swollen shut, the other open and staring at her. Eugenie pressed the back of her hand to her lips to keep from crying out.

“So,” Tintin said, turning to the youth, “now, please tell me your name.”

“Josh—”

The second pirate held up his hand. Eugenie saw the cat-o’-nine-tails. So did the boy. “Want more, do ye?” the man asked.

The boy shook his head.

“Then tell ’em what your name is. Your real name. It’s not Joshua. That’s a white name. That’s not a runaway slave name. What’s your name, boy?”

“Pompey,” the boy whispered. “My name be Pompey.”

“And you runned away from yer lawful owner, didn’t ye? Went into hiding up there in Five Points where we found ye, ain’t that so?”

The boy who had claimed his name was Joshua until the cat taught him otherwise nodded his head.

“Not good enough, you little bastard. Speak when yer spoken to!” The cat lashed out viciously and opened yet another wound on the boy’s shoulder.

“Yes. Yes, I be a runaway slave.”

Tintin nodded. “Excellent,
mon ami.
You have done well with him. Now take him away before we too much strain the sensibilities of our guest.”

The pirate and the prisoner left. Tintin waited. Eugenie said nothing.

“You understand now?” Tintin asked after a long minute of more silence. “It is important that you understand.”

Eugenie nodded.

“
Non, ma petite,
that is not sufficient. As with our Pompey, I wish to hear you say it.”

“I understand.”

“Excellent. You and I, Madame Eugenie, we do not play a game for the fainthearted. I brought you here to demonstrate that. Now, I will take you home.” Tintin stood up. He still had hold of the moneybag. He crossed to where Eugenie stood, and gave it to her. “I suggest you put it down the front of your trowsers, Madame. Then you will have a bulge where it belongs.” His laughter went ahead of her as he led the way to the deck.

“You cannot leave me here. It is still some distance to my house.”

Tintin had rowed her across the harbor to Manhattan, to the Old Slip at the southern tip of the city. The moon had set and the blackness was relieved only by splashes of yellow light that came from the waterside bawdy houses and grog shops. It was after two. Respectable taverns had long since shuttered their windows and doors, but down here the watch ignored the regulations concerning closing times. This stretch of the waterfront was a lawless area that belonged to tars and thieves, and the ladies of the night who traveled with them.

Tintin had left Eugenie to clamber up on the dock herself, giving him the opportunity to once more put his hands on her backside and push her up from behind. Now he kept the boat into the shore by hanging on to an iron bolt set in the stone wall of the dock. “I regret, madame, I cannot accompany you further. An area such as this…
Mon Dieu!
How could I leave my little craft unattended in such a dangerous place?”