The Scent of Betrayal (36 page)

PENDER
went below in the dark interior of the ship and was immediately surrounded by an eager crew, dying to know what, if anything, was happening. He stood by an open scuttle to take advantage of what little breeze prevailed, and put a man at the bottom of each companionway so that he could explain Harry Ludlow’s orders without being disturbed.

‘You got them guards the way you want ’em. But that won’t stay so if you start doin’ anything different. You’ve got to carry on in a like manner or they might sniff somethin’ is up. The Captain ain’t told no one he’s back, and is walking around in a hat like mine which is big enough to keep sun and pryin’ eyes off his face. But you’ll notice how low the water is, which is what he’s been waitin’ for. Now, one at a time, I need you to report.’

It was only the leading hands who did so, with the rest nodding as they confirmed the way they’d carried out Pender’s previous instructions. Dreaver had kept the stores topped up, excepting wood and water, all paid for by James Ludlow. Every day they loosened the sails, still on the yards, their excuse being to air them, so that men aloft would excite no interest. At sundown they took them in to keep them free from the evening dew or sudden night-time showers. With the guards growing lax, they’d raised extra sail, insisting this was necessary to avoid mildew in the locker. The need to keep a perfect deck had stood as sufficient reason continually to move the guns, thus ensuring that all the breechings operated properly. Rust wasn’t a serious problem on a fresh-water river, but all the shot had been shifted and kept chipped and round.
Blocks were greased in rotation and every rope that needed tar had its full measure.

The gunner had kept everything up to the mark, wads ready and pouches filled, with a dumb show on the gun-deck so that the hands could keep their gun-laying skills honed by constant practice. The rafts he’d made to carry powder barrels were stacked ready for use, though he had balked at drilling a hole in perfectly good casks of dry powder to make them effective.

‘Do it now,’ said Pender. ‘And refill the turpentine bottles.’

He had a quick word with Dreaver, who got the praise he deserved, then he made his way to where the cook was minding his coppers.

‘It’s been hard, Pious,’ said Willerby, ‘what with the lads not knowin’ what was goin’ on. They’re full of grub and drink, but I wouldn’t say they was right up to scratch. This heat’s sapped their backbone.’

‘Bread and biscuit?’ said Pender.

‘Now that is to the mark, just like the rum.’

‘Right, then. I can tell the Captain we’re ready for the off. There’s just the sailmaker.’

‘I heard about the red, white, and blue. That bastard Dreaver swiped two of my clean aprons. What they for?’

‘You’ll see, old mate.’

‘They asked me to take charge of their property and ship it upriver. If it is convenient, my servant will come and collect the two chests in the next few hours.’

The Mother Superior gave Harry the kind of benign smile that was part of the clerical armoury. Her aged skin was translucent, evidence of a sparse, indoor existence, with brown patches on the backs of her hands, but her eyes were still youthful.

‘You may come when you like, Monsieur.’

‘You will not be closed if it’s after dark?’

‘Our cathedral, the Church of St Louis the Martyr, was damaged
in the last fire. Until it is fully repaired we have added responsibility for the bishop’s flock here in New Orleans. Day or night there is always someone awake. I will tell the doorkeepers to admit you to the storerooms.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry, reaching for his money. ‘If I may be permitted to make a personal request of you … I myself am not of your faith, but I had a high regard for someone who was. Hyacinthe Feraud.’

The eyes first registered surprise, then dropped discreetly.

‘I’ve been informed that burial above ground in a specially constructed sarcophagus avoids certain risks.’

‘That is so, Monsieur. If the river rises and floods the surrounding countryside, the coffins float to the surface. The stones we use to weight them down do not always suffice.’

‘I wouldn’t want that to happen to her. Would your order take responsibility for her remains and see them re-interred above ground?’

‘If you leave us the means to do so.’

‘The nature of my business keeps me moving. I would also want her grave to be attended on a regular basis.’

‘And prayers, Monsieur. She must have prayers for her soul.’

‘Of course.’ The lump in his throat was so big he couldn’t continue for a moment. He held out a very heavy purse, full of gold coins. ‘I would be grateful for your advice on what is required.’

‘Above the cost of the sarcophagus, nothing is required, my son. The lady you mentioned was kind to us when still alive and has more than earned a call upon our good offices.’

‘I knew her to be a Catholic, but I never suspected piety.’

‘Hyacinthe Feraud was not pious, Monsieur. I had reason to chide her often for not attending mass as regularly as she should. My remonstrances bore fruit these last few weeks. Perhaps she had a premonition of her terrible fate and wished to make her peace with God. She was here on the night before she was killed, to take the sacrament and say confession. For all the life she led
it is pleasing to know that she died, as near as is possible, in a state of grace.’

‘Confession!’ said Harry. ‘Who took it?’

‘The priest who attends to our needs.’ She must have spotted the look in his eye and guessed at his next question. ‘You will be aware that such things are sacrosanct.’

‘Of course,’ he replied, slightly crestfallen. ‘You said she came to mass more frequently. How many times?’

‘Three or four.’

‘Would it be breaching a confidence to ask when?’

‘No. She certainly came on the last three Fridays. That is a day of high attendance.’ The Mother Superior put her fingertips together and closed her eyes. ‘Indeed, a constancy on Fridays can lead to ultimate salvation.’

‘And when she attended mass, she would, like all the ladies, wear a veil.’

‘Of course.’

Harry recalled the first night they’d met, and Saraille’s comment about the dinner he’d just attended with de Carondelet and his officers and magistrates, delivered across a crushed pillow. ‘They hate each other. The only time you’d find them together would be in church.’

‘Does the Barón de Carondelet worship here?’

‘With the cathedral under repair, everyone does.’

‘His officers?’

‘All the leading citizens of the town, French and Spanish.’

Harry stood up, leaving the purse on the table. ‘I will leave you this. If you do not need all of it for Hyacinthe, please use the rest for the poor.’

‘May God go with you.’

Harry walked out into the street, to find James waiting for him.

‘Did you ask Bernard which days Hyacinthe went out in her veil?’

‘Fridays.’

Harry nodded and moved off. James waited to make sure no one was following him before setting off after him.

‘Noticing someone in church is like seeing a person eat,’ said Saraille, quite upset at the way Harry had berated him for not mentioning it. ‘Even Hyacinthe. So commonplace that it does not justify a remark.’

‘But she didn’t go to church regularly?’

‘Nor, I’m afraid, do I.’

‘But you were there last Friday?’

‘Yes. I said so, didn’t I?’

‘Did Hyacinthe talk to you?’

Saraille’s eyes dropped, making it unnecessary to answer the question. Harry wondered if he knew how much she’d disliked him, or the steps she took to avoid him.

‘She was busy elsewhere.’

‘Who with?’

‘Everyone. That particular mass is a very social occasion, a place to gossip.’

‘Think.’

Saraille needed to pause. For his own self-esteem he couldn’t give the impression that if he had taken his eyes off her it wasn’t for long. Nor could he bring himself to say, too overtly, that she hadn’t spoken to him.

‘The officers, de Chigny, de Coburrabias, even San Lucar de Barrameda. She had a few words with the magistrate de Lovio.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘A couple of ship’s Captains.’

‘Which ones?’

‘You wouldn’t know them,’ Saraille snapped. Then he obviously had a thought, since he snapped his fingers. ‘You might, though. They were the masters of the troop transports that you ran into off Balize.’

‘Are they still here?’

‘They’ve been to Havana and come back again, more than
once. It’s their regular route. Normally they carry cargo, not men.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘I saw her help that Cuban, Fernandez.’

‘Help him?’

‘He was drunk, which was a bad idea with de Carondelet around. The Governor was doing his greetings at the main entrance. Hyacinthe took him out through the transept.’

‘Thank you. Now what about Charpentier?’

‘I was given twenty minutes with the poor fellow. He is very cast down, and cannot understand the reason why they want to garrotte him. He had hoped for freedom. It is all the doing of San Lucar de Barrameda, who wants to use his execution as an example. De Carondelet is, I think, less bloodthirsty.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ Saraille replied sadly.

‘Did you ask him about Hyacinthe’s visit?’

‘It was difficult. They had a guard with us all the time. It seems she asked him about the way he was captured.’

‘San Lucar de Barrameda?’

‘No. He was taken by some men from the
Navarro
, but not the Captain. Once he’d got inside the bay the pirates scattered, using the bayous too narrow for the galleys to follow. De Barrameda ordered his men to pursue them in boats, taking one himself. He didn’t come back aboard till the next day. When he returned he ordered that Charpentier be suspended in a cage on the deck.’

‘Tell me, Monsieur Saraille, how do the local French population feel about this man’s execution?’

‘Angry, Captain Ludlow. Very angry. Had it happened right after his capture, then perhaps it would have been seen as a just reward, but not now, nearly two months later. Charpentier might be a rogue. He is most certainly a thief. But he has never used violence, indeed he has the reputation of always being polite to his victims. Myth, of course, partly of his own creation, which is that of a gentleman who only robs rich Spaniards. But that is what
is going to see him garrotted. It is to lay that myth that he is to die, not for his crimes.’

The soft tap at the door made Saraille jump and his face went grey as it creaked open.

‘All set, Capt’n,’ said Pender, as he slipped through the narrow gap. ‘The chests are on the cart.’

‘Good,’ Harry replied. He turned back to Saraille as Pender took station behind him. ‘It seems to me, Monsieur, that if the people are angry they should let de Carondelet know.’

The editor’s jowls shook as he responded in the negative. ‘He has extra troops on the streets, Monsieur. And his watchmen. He’s expecting trouble.’

‘I am no more keen to disappoint him than your Creole settlers. What if I were to take care of some of those troops, so that the good citizens of New Orleans could express themselves?’

Saraille knew from experience just how expressing themselves would be manifested. ‘A mob has its own logic, Captain Ludlow. It is not always easy to manufacture a riot.’

‘Come along, sir. If anyone knows the people who can whip up the populace, you do.’

‘They would need an excuse. Charpentier, much though he is seen as one of us, might not be enough.’

‘What if you were to tell them the story I told you? How would they feel if they knew that in the Spanish administration there was a murderer and a thief who might never be brought to justice, while one of their number faced death just as an example?’

‘I could only print that story if I was absolutely sure of his name.’

‘Print the rest, Saraille, leave just the name out. Show it to those who can whip up a mob.’

‘The name, Monsieur.’

Knowing he was lying made Harry uncomfortable, but not enough to stop him. ‘Tell them you will have it by morning, before Charpentier is due to be garrotted.’

‘That might not be enough to convince them that anything I say is true.’

Harry turned to Pender and spoke quietly. His servant reached inside the bag he was carrying over his shoulder and handed him one of the ingots which he’d received from Lampin. Harry laid it on the desk. The candlelight glinted on the twin crests of Spain and New Orleans.

‘Then show them this, Monsieur, and bid them use it, with what wisdom they can muster, for your cause.’

Outside, once they’d joined James, Pender couldn’t resist asking the obvious question.

‘I wish you joy, your honour,’ he said, ‘but how in hell’s name are you going to name the man who’s done murder?’

The voice that replied held all the despair that Harry felt.

‘I can’t. I knew long before I ever talked to Saraille that the task is impossible. I don’t have time unless I’m prepared to sacrifice everyone aboard
Bucephalas
.’

DARKNESS
fell quickly at this latitude. By the time the light had completely faded twenty of Harry’s men, moving in ones and twos, were off the
Bucephalas
. Some carried turpentine-filled bottles, slow-match, and flints, others coiled lengths of hemp, wrapped round their bodies and covered with their shirts. Pender had unlocked the armoury and the real weapons had been replaced by the wooden replicas they’d been working on for weeks. Nothing larger than a knife or a marlinspike could be taken ashore, but cutlasses and muskets for the whole crew were concealed all over the ship. Pender was there, standing by the two chests full of gunpowder he fetched from the Ursulines. He ordered them to leave the items they’d sneaked off the ship beside the chests which he’d hidden at the back of Santiago Coquet’s dancehall. The warehouse was already full of mixed groups, black, white, and coloured, drinking and dancing to the tuneful sound of three well-played, sharply strung fiddles.

Finding the rendezvous in a city so evenly quartered was simple, and on the crowded Calle Real their presence, standing in a group, raised no comment. Not so the Creole speaker that Saraille had found. A natural demagogue in the Danton mould, he stood at the street corner haranguing the crowd. Ignored initially, he soon attracted the less reputable members of the local fraternity. Mostly inebriated without being too drunk to stand, they were loud, argumentative, and gratifyingly inclined to sing.

‘I think they’ll do,’ said Harry. ‘The trick now is to get them to the square in front of the Governor’s house without de Carondelet’s watchmen interfering.’

James, sent up the Calle Real to keep watch, came running through the gathering crowd. ‘Ten soldiers and a sergeant,’ he called. ‘With two of the watchmen in the lead.’

‘Walloon Guards?’

‘No. Cubans, I think.’

Harry turned to his men. ‘Four of you to stay here with my brother. James, if any soldiers come from the waterfront try and hold them up. If they’re too numerous at least start a fight amongst yourselves.’ He counted off a dozen sailors. ‘You come with me, the rest join Pender.’

As they made their way along the street it was nearly empty: those inclined to enjoy trouble had gravitated towards the loud speakers along the Calle Real. The other citizens, with a sure nose for an impending riot, had cleared the street.

‘Two groups,’ said Harry. ‘Take one side of the road each.’

The soldiers, with the watchmen a few paces ahead, were marching with fixed bayonets towards a potential trouble spot, occupying the centre of the Calle. At a command from Harry his men stopped, adopting poses of half-interested curiosity as they came abreast. The sudden attack when he whistled, delivered from two sides by men who knew their business, took the armed party completely by surprise. They were given no time to swing their muskets before the crew was in amongst them, clubbing with marlinspikes at heads that carried no more protection than a tricorne hat. The Cubans had faced crowds before, but never any as determined as this, and all the frustration of men who’d been cooped up for weeks was evident in the fury of the attack. The soldiers went down before them, dropping their weapons in an attempt to avoid the raining blows. Harry’s men had been told that inflicting real wounds was not required. Their Captain wanted them to run, to spread the word that whatever had happened in New Orleans in the past, this was different. The watchmen led the way, with the now disarmed Cubans at their heels.

‘Pick up the weapons and any pieces of uniform and put on your cockades!’ Harry yelled as the Cubans scattered. That was
mostly hats, but one, in his panic, had torn off his coat. Harry formed the men up into a column of two, as groups of curious onlookers seemed to emerge from the surrounding woodwork. Then, having attached a Revolutionary cockade to a Spanish hat, he skewered it on the tip of a bayonet, raised it high, and retraced his steps up the road.

‘Charpentier, Charpentier!
Allez en enfer, Cochon du lait
!’

Harry turned and repeated the shout, waving his arms to encourage his men to do likewise. What emerged was certainly not a clear invitation for the Governor to go to hell, but it was loud, confused, and sounded French enough to make those gathered before the Creole agitator part to let them through to the centre. A loud murmur and much pointing greeted the tricolour cockades, a reminder to the French of the storming of the Bastille. As his men handed out more cockades to the crowd, Harry presented the speaker, who had stood on a barrel, with the musket and hat. ‘
Vive la France!
’ he shouted, before slipping backwards into the mass of bodies. The noise had risen around him, so that he had to yell to be heard. But that he did, jabbing at the sky with the bayoneted musket, and exhorting his listeners to action.

‘I hope you’re aware of what you’re about, Harry!’ shouted James in his ear. He’d emerged from the back of the crowd, followed in dribs and drabs by the men he’d led. ‘This is bound to end in bloodshed.’

James recoiled when Harry turned to face him. He’d seen the glint of battle in his brother’s eye before, though nothing like the mad look that was present now. But the voice, for all that it was harsh and indifferent, wasn’t loud.

‘Time to get them moving, I think. Get the men up ahead with those muskets and send to tell Pender to act as a rearguard.’

He plunged back into the mêlée, shouting in French. James heard the word
Bastille
, first from one throat and then from a dozen, as the crowd were whipped up into a frenzy of quasi-Revolutionary fervour. The speaker, who seized the cockaded hat, was now calling for the head of King Carlos. He jumped off his
barrel and pushed his way through the crowd. A tricolour flag appeared from nowhere and was raised on a pole. News had spread through the town and groups of men were running towards them, torches aloft, eager to join in the mayhem, perhaps from conviction, more likely for sheer mischief. James had to jostle hard to get to the front. There he saw Harry, well ahead, with his armed men fanned out like the advanced guard of an invading army. Before him the street was empty, but in the distance bugles blew to sound the alarm. Suddenly Harry stopped and fell to one knee. A small party of white-coated soldiers was advancing up the street at a run. His voice carried just enough to be heard.

‘Fire when I give the command. Aim either at their feet or above their heads.’

‘We can bring ’em down, Capt’n,’ shouted one of the crew.

‘No! If we kill anyone they’ll only turn their guns on the civilians. Let’s see if we can drive them off without bloodshed.’

There was a pause, before the word
Fire!
was drowned out by the simultaneous discharge of half a dozen muskets, which in the confined space between the houses made enough noise for fifty. The crowd stopped momentarily, nonplussed at this development. But when they gazed down the Calle Real, through the drifting smoke from the guns, they could see the white coats of the hated Walloon Guards as they retreated back towards the Governor’s house in some disorder. Harry’s hope, that gunfire in the streets, where prior to this they’d only faced sticks and stones, would unnerve even the best troops, had paid off. Nothing could have raised the spirits of the mob more, and with a yell they started to run after them, yelling and screaming insults, laughing and whooping like madmen. Harry, knowing his work was done, led his men up a side-street, letting the rioters rush by. James had to draw back into a doorway to avoid being mown down. Through the dust kicked up by hundreds of feet he saw Pender and his men bringing up the rear at a steady, disciplined pace. Once they came abreast James fell in with them, Harry doing likewise as they reached the side-street he’d used to get out of the crowd’s path.

Harry stayed well to the rear as they approached the square before de Carondelet’s residence. The platform on which Charpentier was to be garrotted stood right in the centre, before the windows of the Governor’s quarters. The gas-lights over the doorway illuminated the white coats of the Walloon Guards. There was no disorder now. More numerous, they were standing, bayonets at the ready, to bar the passage of these malcontents. De Chigny stood before them, sword at the ready. The crowd pressed forward only far enough to hurl insults. Harry grabbed a torch and pushed his way to a point near the front. Tossed high, it arced over the heads of those before him and landed right on the execution platform. That brought forth a roar from several hundred throats and a whole stream of torches followed suit. The wooden structure, as dry as tinder, was soon fully ablaze, the flickering flames adding an infernal light to the faces of the mob.

More and more people were arriving in the confined space before de Carondelet’s temporary residence. But of greater import to the men of the
Bucephalas
was the way that troops from the outlying forts, north and south, were being fetched in to beef up the defences. That didn’t mean their original posts had been deserted, but they had lost part of their strength, and what was left would be concentrating on a threat from the town rather than the river. Against that, everyone on duty would be alert, and the one group that would still be at their posts, or close to them, would be the artillerymen in those stone bastions.

Santiago Coquet’s dancehall was too far away from the riot to be affected, the noise of music and merriment drowning out anything from outside. They’d know, of course, since that kind of news travelled faster than fire, but few, if any, had left. The old royal warehouse backed right on to the levee, and was thus a perfect spot for Pender and his party to make their preparations. James was sent to the rim of the embankment to make sure that the guard on the jetty below hadn’t been increased, while the rest spliced the short pieces of rope together to make decent lengths. Others were drilling holes with their knives and slipping
slow-match into the two chests full of powder. All the time Harry was talking to Pender, issuing quiet instructions.

‘For God’s sake, Pender, don’t let anything happen to you. I’ve lost enough in New Orleans.’

‘More than any man should,’ his servant replied.

‘As soon as we get under way we’ll lower the cutter.’

Pender’s reply was quite brusque. ‘You’ve said that twice already, Capt’n. If you don’t get goin’ them soldiers will chase off the Frenchies then start looking for someone else to get at. An’ since I’m the party ashore I don’t fancy that one little bit.’

‘Just take care,’ Harry replied softly. Then he turned, signalled to the four men he was taking back to the ship, and climbed up to join his brother on the rim of the levee. The first thing he felt was the easterly breeze on his face, which cooled the sweat caused by his exertions; it wasn’t strong by any means, but it might be enough to extract
Bucephalas
from the anchorage. His eyes were automatically drawn to the
Navarro
and her two consorts, tied up opposite the open space of the parade ground. Presumably the alarms in the city meant that they too would be more alert than usual. If he could get close to them before they could get under way, that wouldn’t aid them much. Stationary like that, he’d blow them out of the water. With luck he’d damage the lead ship before he even got close. What a pity that San Lucar de Barrameda would probably be ashore.

‘The guards are fewer, but wide awake,’ said James, pointing down to the jetty. Harry could see that only two of the original four were still in place. They were standing by the bollard, one facing up, the other down, muskets at the ready.

‘What about the one on the firestep?’

‘If he’s there at all, I think he’s likely to be more interested in what’s going on in the town.’

‘Well, it’s time to pretend we’re drunk.’

Harry started singing quietly, gesturing to the others to join in. It started badly, disjointed, in an embarrassed way. But cajoled by their Captain, the shanty he’d begun to sing took on some of
the sound of drunken revelry. It was not the kind of thing James could manage, so Harry advised him to stagger silently, while keeping an eye on the firestep above their heads. The guards showed no alarm at their approach. This had been a nightly occurrence since de Carondelet had given permission to go ashore. Indeed they looked at the approaching party with keen anticipation. These
ingleses
, when drunk, could be quarrelsome or generous. The former was easily attended to by a gentle swing of the musket. But the latter meant they shared their drink, and to a group of men whose pay didn’t extend to much luxury the thought of a free share of their bottle made their attitude rather benign.

The crack as Harry hit the first one was followed by the dull thud of his companion collapsing under the attentions of a marlinspike. Two of Harry’s men immediately went to work, dragging the coats off the pair. An anxious minute followed, in which the singing kept going by the rest had a strained quality. If the other sentry crossed from the landward side of the bastion he’d see them for certain and raise the alarm and that would make the planned escape difficult, if not impossible. Harry required a fair amount of unobserved time before he could cast off.

The men on board were wound up to a fever pitch, not knowing whether the planned escape was about to go ahead. Harry went round them all, greeting them and admonishing them to calm down and do their tasks with the minimum of noise. The topmen climbed the shrouds like ghosts, their bare feet making no sound on the horses as they edged out onto the yards. The cutter was gently tipped to one side, the water used to keep its seams tight allowed to run down into the bilges. The carpenter’s rafts, with the barrels of powder attached, were lowered into the water, each with a length of slow-match cut to a calculated point. This had been decided by the gunner, who’d floated a piece of debris downriver and watched its progress till it passed the hull of the nearest galley.

Those left on deck loosed the guns, running them back in silence, then levering the port battery up to maximum elevation.
The loading drill was carried out in the same silence, with the gunner and his mates tripping barefoot over the wooden deck with wads and charges. A party was put to fetching up the small arms they would need to repel any attempt to board, cutlasses, pistols, and muskets, and James went below to set up the cockpit as a temporary hospital.