Leopard in Exile (33 page)

All that day the
Royal Henry
stayed close to the bank of the river looking for a navigable tributary. At

last she found one and turned up it, the relentless chugging of her engine suddenly louder among the trees.

A shadowy darkness descended almost at once, and glancing toward the stern, Wessex could barely see

the bright surface of the river through a gap in the trees.

At the bow a crewman with a pole took soundings, calling back the depths in a peculiar patois native to

the river. Herons lumbered awkwardly out of their path, and alligators—the crocodile's New World

cousin—slid malevolently into the water as they passed. The air turned oppressively humid, filled with the

smells of mud and decay.

At last the stream was too shallow for them to advance farther. The engineer bled pressure from the

boiler. The engine stopped, and in the sudden silence, they could hear crashing sounds as other, heavier,

animals fled the steamboat's noisy intrusion.

The boat settled into the mud.

"And now?" Wessex asked dubiously, regarding the swamp that surrounded them. While it was true that

less than half a mile in any direction might take them onto one of the great plantations that edged the river,

a wrong turn could immure them in this soggy wilderness forever.

"We go back the way we came," Koscuisko said gaily. "It is a metaphor for life itself, my friend."

By late afternoon the crew had deployed the skiff that the steam-boat carried and loaded the two

politicals' luggage upon it. One of the ship's crew went with them as steersman and guide, and Wessex

and Koscuisko poled the boat back into the river shallows. Even in October, the climate was tropical,

and Wessex found himself regretting his dashing plumed tricorn
a la militaire
. His coat reposed atop his

luggage, as did his partner's, for the line that style demanded was far too confining to permit of physical

labor.

They were careful to stay out of the current—without the mechanical intercession of the riverboat, it

became clear to Wessex how dangerous the river could be—and within a few minutes, had drifted

downriver to their destination.

It was a loading dock such as Wessex had seen elsewhere along the river—a structure at which the

flatboats could anchor, and from which cargo could be loaded for transportation farther downriver. A

young Negro child was sitting on the end of the dock, dabbling at the water with a peeled willow wand.

In Wessex's youth, the fashion had been to keep such children as pages, garbed in fantastically ornate

livery, turbaned and jeweled until they resembled Indian potentates. In contrast, this child was barefoot

and half-naked, his only clothing a pair of cut-down trousers that ended raggedly at the knee.

When the boy saw them, he leapt to his feet animatedly. "Is yo de gemmun fo' de
baas
?" the child called

in a patois so thick Wessex could barely make it out.

The boatman threw him a line, and the child hurried to make it fast as Wessex and Koscuisko held the

boat from drifting. Their trunks were quickly transferred from the boat to the dock, and almost before the

two of them had stepped from the boat to the land, the boatman was polling his craft back upstream.

Wessex shrugged quickly into his snuff-colored coat and adjusted his hat. Koscuisko, hatless, took even

more time to adjust his own, dandified garment to his satisfaction.

"Ah ter shows yo to de big house," the child announced importantly. "
Baas
Baronner, he waitin' fo' yo'."

The boy danced off, looking back at the guests impatiently.

"And mis, one supposes, passes for secrecy in this country?" Wessex drawled.

"Ah, well, it hardly matters what anyone sees. It's what they think they've seen that's to the point,"

Koscuisko answered philosophically.

The two men climbed the steep switchback to a broad path overhung with weeping willows, the journey

causing Wessex to regret his coat. A sweep of immaculate emerald lawn swept down to the edge of the

bluff, and at the top of the gentle slope lay their destination, a sprawling three-story mansion built in the

grand style of the plantation aristocracy. Its architecture resembled that of the Caribbean, with open

galleries of ornate ironwork incorporated into each floor to catch any breeze that blew. The lacy white

ironwork against the pale blue background of the painted plaster walls gave the house a grand, if

baroque, aspect, and that the several outbuildings typical of a southern plantation were each painted in a

different pastel color only intensified the effect.

"I think it would have been worth the journey, if only to see this," Wessex murmured in awe.

"Philistine," his companion answered.

Their young guide, meanwhile, had deserted them to run ahead, shrieking news of their arrival. Wessex

and Koscuisko followed more leisurely. As they approached the veranda, a man who could only be their

host strolled out to greet them. He was immaculately dressed in the flamboyant Creole style of the native

Orléannais
, and his smooth dark skin bespoke his African ancestry. For a moment Wessex was startled,

then recalled that the peculiar institution of slavery as practiced by the Louisiannes allowed not only for

the existence of free people of color, but for such people to be slaveholders as well.

"Welcome to The Clouds. I'm Rhettler Baronner, your host. I hope you had a pleasant journey down the

river?" His French was impeccably Parisian, save for a faint flat drawl which suggested its New World

origins. Without seeming to hurry, Baronner ushered his guests quickly inside, away from the inquisitive

eyes of the servants. Wessex tucked his hat beneath his arm and followed.

The Clouds was as opulent as an oriental palace, its interior a strange mixture of concession to the

tropical climate and adherence to notions of European elegance. The broad, cypress-planked floors were

covered with brilliantly-colored oriental rugs, and the sideboards were filled with displays of silver and

glittering crystal.

Baronner brought them to a handsome room on the first floor. Large French windows stood open on two

sides of the room, leading out onto the veranda, and the river was plainly visible above the trees. An

ornate
chinoiserie
desk stood in the middle of the room, its every surface lacquered and gilded, and

there was a large painted screen in one corner of the room.

"Please, gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. Your rooms will be ready shortly. In the meantime,

would you care for some refreshment?"

Without waiting for an answer, Baronner reached for the bell-pull that hung beside the door and rang it

sharply. Within a short time a handsome young Negress entered carrying a silver tray upon which was a

bowl of ice, a bowl of fresh mint, several cones of white sugar, and a decanter of whiskey. She set the

tray upon the desk and departed, and then for several minutes there was nothing but silence as Barroner

industriously combined the ingredients, presenting the result to each of the visitors in a silver cup.

"It's called a julep. It's a local specialty, said to cure everything from lumbago to yellow jack. It's a bit late

in the year for them, but I thought you being from up North, you could use something to take the edge off

our weather."

Wessex sipped gingerly at the freezing fiery concoction, but found it surprisingly palatable. Across from

him, he saw Koscuisko coming to the same conclusion rather more quickly, but then, the Pole's capacity

for spirits was a notorious one.

"You have a beautiful home," Wessex said, in an idle tone.

"Thank you." Baronner smiled, seating himself across from the two men. "I'm a gambler by profession. I

won The Clouds at a game of cards and decided to keep it—the atmosphere in Nouvelle-Orléans is

decidedly unhealthy these days, and anyone who can take to the country has done so."

"What can you tell us about d'Charenton?" Koscuisko asked, leaning forward.

Baronner raised his hands in a gesture of denial. "I'm a peaceable man. I don't take sides, and I don't

inquire into other people's business. From time to time, I entertain guests who find it convenient to have a

place to meet where no one will notice them, but that's as far as I go."

Wessex said nothing. It had been obvious from the moment he had not asked their names that Baronner

was running The Clouds as a sort of accommodation house… but in that case, who was it that

Koscuisko had come here to meet, if it was not Baronner?

"That much being agreed to," Koscuisko responded glibly, "what
is
going on in the city these days?"

Baronner shrugged, looking suddenly tired. "General Victor's troops patrol the streets, he drills the

citizen-militia and recruits constantly. Admiral Bonaparte's ships patrol the Gulf and the mouth of the

river, chasing ghosts and Lafitte's ships in equal measure. But neither force can be everywhere at once."

He shrugged, a gesture very French. "The city is very… quiet… these days. People tend to vanish

suddenly and permanently." Baronner hesitated, on the verge of saying more, then obviously changed his

mind. "But what can one expect of people little better than Yankees and Kaintocks?" He smiled, with the

easy charm of the gambler.

"Kaintocks?" Wessex asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"The wild men of the river… at least, in the days when Albionese goods were passing through the port.

They would take their pay on the docks, and then drink and brawl through the city until it was all spent.

But Governor d'Charenton has closed down The Swamp—that was the name of their particular

district—and burned its shanties to the ground. As I have said, Nouvelle-Orléans is very quiet these

days."

Wessex glanced at his partner. He knew Koscuisko well enough to know that Baronner's news did not

make good hearing for the ex-hussar.

"Perhaps it will not be quiet for too much longer," Koscuisko offered politely.

For a moment it almost seemed that Baronner was going to cross himself. Instead, he got to his feet.

"Gentlemen, I am desolated to announce that the press of business forces me to abandon you until

dinnertime. Please ring for whatever you might need—we keep civilized hours here; dinner will be at

8:30." He bowed—the short abrupt gesture of the Continental—and strode from the room.

" 'Nouvelle-Orléans is very quiet these days,' " Wessex quoted mockingly in English. "Perhaps we can

just go home, in that case."

"Without doubt," Koscuisko said sourly, gazing off into the distance with an unwontedly somber

expression.

"And all things considered, I don't wish to be vulgarly inquisitive, my dear fellow, but who are you this

week? And come to it, who am I? I don't imagine the Duke of Wessex will be entirely welcome in these

precincts. He is
un Anglais
—or so I have heard," Wessex added in French.

"Without a doubt, of the most English," Koscuisko answered, switching easily to French as well. "I have

the honor to present to you Count Jerzy Aleksander Kouryagin, special attaché to the Tsar—on

detached and very special service."

"Russia not yet being an ally of France, for all Talleyrand's blandishments, but still both skittish and highly

courted, especially since the Danish alliance," Wessex footnoted. "And I suppose I must be M'sieur le

Chevalier de Reynard once more, neither too Republican, nor too Royalist, but certainly not English."

"Very much like Louisianne," Koscuisko supplied. "And though the identity is a trifle blown upon in Paris,

that will hardly matter here. A good choice. But for now, I leave you as well. I believe I shall take a walk

about the grounds to stretch my legs. I trust you will do nothing to distress our host?"

"Certainly not," Wessex said, stepping over to the table to pour more whiskey into his cup. He eyed the

makings of the julep and shuddered inwardly. One had been sufficient. Leave it to the French to serve

their drinks so barbarously cold. "I shall be a very pattern-card of virtue."

But as soon as Koscuisko had left—Wessex did not doubt he was heading for a particular and

long-planned rendezvous—the Duke moved to the edge of the window and peered out. As he had

suspected, a few moments later Koscuisko appeared. The man had stopped by his luggage (which had

been delivered to the house by this time) to add a polished high-crowned beaver and his customary

walking-stick to his ensemble, and strolled across the lawn, an idle man of fashion, with barely a glance

up at the windows. Wessex made sure Koscuisko did not see him, and waited until Koscuisko had

disappeared beyond the edge of the trees, then checked his watch.

It was just rising six, and despite his airy badinage of a few moments earlier, he had no intention of allying

himself, even by inaction, with whatever plans his sometime partner had. That meant departing at once,

before he could be further entangled in Koscuisko's schemes. As long as he oriented himself upon the

river, he could not fail to reach Nouvelle-Orléans eventually.

But for now, he must move quickly. He crossed to the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he opened it

slowly and stepped into the hallway. A quick search of the rooms on this level located his luggage, and

Wessex risked a stop to accouter himself. While it was true he had not done his own packing for this

jaunt back in Baltimore, Koscuisko knew what was needed as well as did he, and on the voyage south