Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (122 page)

For the French soldiers, the convent with its constantly ringing prayer bells was thought to be a softening, positive influence; for the Spanish there was some doubt. Their God was so much more stern and unforgiving. He in Whose name the Holy Inquisition still held sway in Spain.

With the change of flags, there was also a change of jurisdiction within the church. Spanish priests, with their austere outlooks, hair shirts, and scourges, would soon be directing the worship of the people of New Orleans. Who could say what terrors might be in store if they brought that most secret and holy office of the Inquisition with them?

And now, though there was a prison near the Church of St. Louis on the Place d’Armes that had been good enough for the French, citizens of the colony were being held at the barracks by the new Spanish masters, guarded by the vast contingent of soldiers encamped around it. The prayer bells rang with a more urgent sound now from the convent, and over the walls came the constant murmur of voices. There were many reasons for prayer in New Orleans.

Félicité moved along beside the convent wall with Ashanti at her side, her face set as she retraced her footsteps, heading back toward town. She had left her father’s noon meal at the barracks and inquired after him. The report was the same; he was well, but could see no one, not the other prisoners, his family, a legal representative, no one. The myrtle candle would be taken in to him, as would the books Félicité had brought from his library and the food, but no messages could be passed. As to the whereabouts of Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack, he was at the house of the governor. It could not be guaranteed that he would see Señorita Lafargue. He was a busy man, the colonel, though he must surely be the man of iron his men sometimes called him if he was able to turn away so beautiful a young lady.

The Spanish soldiers had grown bolder in the last few days, or so it seemed. They were everywhere, lounging in every dim spot of shade, leaning against the walls of houses, sitting in the open-air restaurants watching, making quick, liquid comments among themselves as she passed. Or maybe they only seemed more in evidence because so few of the other residents of the town dared to venture abroad. People were frightened to draw attention to themselves. Moreover, the men who had been arrested, some of the most prominent in the colony, were interrelated, the uncles, cousins, godfathers, if not some more intimate connection, of nearly everyone in the close-knit community. The atmosphere was, therefore, one of unexpected family tragedy.

A few blocks from the governor’s house a pair of Spaniards in the red uniforms of officers fell in behind her and Ashanti. Though they did not attempt to overtake them, the officers matched their paces to theirs. Félicité had paid no particular attention to them as she passed. Not only was she intent on the interview that was to come, but she had kept her eyes turned straight ahead so as to give no possible encouragement. Ashanti had glanced at them, she thought, but made no comment.

Félicité quickened her footsteps slightly. Ashanti did the same. Behind them the two men did likewise. They were in no real danger, not in the open street in broad daylight, and yet the fact that the officers dared to annoy her in such a way was both infuriating and frightening. It was a relief when she saw the governor’s house near the river looming up before her.

They were within a few yards of their destination when a cart, coming from a side street leading toward the levee, drew up before the house beside that of the governor. It was piled high with leather-bound trunks and boxes, all of which appeared scuffed and worn, though not enough so to obliterate the gold-embossed coronet with which they were stamped. A man in livery jumped to the ground, then handed down a woman. Dressed in a traveling costume of jet black plentifully decorated with lace, she was a striking figure. Of average height, she appeared taller because of her regal bearing. Her face was memorable, with strong bones, wide-set eyes under dark brows, and a firm but generous mouth. Her hair of midnight black was marked at the temples with bands of silver-white that swept back into her elaborately piled coiffure like wings. She carried nestled in the wide sleeve of her gown a small dog that put out his head and barked with a sharp yapping as Félicité and Ashanti approached. The woman turned her head with a smiling apology, warm amusement crinkling the corners of astonishing blue eyes, before she passed into the house.

What was a Spanish noblewoman doing in New Orleans? As intriguing as the question might be, Félicité did not have time to dwell upon it. She dismissed the incident the moment she was past the house.

There was a crowd in the street outside the building O’Reilly had taken for himself. The people gathered in knots, talking in low voices, their faces pinched and worried as they waited for an opportunity to speak to the governor-general. The missions on which they had come seemed unlikely to be crowned with success. In a large anteroom just inside the door, a harassed-looking young officer with his wig askew shuffled papers and explained over and over in execrable French that the honored gentleman was seeing no one.

Admiration ousted the exasperation in the officer’s eyes for an instant as Félicité, in her gown of cool white muslin sprigged with violets topped by a lace-edged lawn fichu and apron, came to a halt in front of him. It did not enliven the weariness of his tone, however, as he began his litany once more. “I am sorry, señorita. The governor-general has matters of great weight to occupy him this morning. He cannot see you.”

Félicité was becoming used to being addressed in the Spanish form. She ignored it, summoning a smile. “It is not the illustrious governor-general I wish to see. Can you tell me, please, if Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack is at this place?”

“Yes, señorita.” The man did not trouble to hide his curiosity.

“Could I be permitted to see him?”

“The colonel is busy, busier even than Governor-General O’Reilly himself, if such a thing is possible. He has given strict orders that he not be disturbed.”

“It would be for a few moments only, the merest sliver of his time.”

“I am desolate that I must disappoint you, señorita, but it would be as much as my life is worth to show anyone into his presence just now.”

“Oh, but please, you must! It is vitally important.” Félicité leaned toward him in entreaty, placing one slender white hand on his desk. The dim light in the room moved with a soft sheen across her shoulders and the gentle planes of her face, giving her a look both sensitive and seductive.

The young officer on the other side of the desk swallowed visibly. “Indeed, señorita, I would help you if I dared.”

There was a stir behind Félicité, and an officer stepped to her side. It did not need Ashanti’s small start of surprise to alert her mistress to the fact that he was one of those who had followed them to the governor’s house. He sketched a small bow. “Forgive this intrusion,” he said in her native tongue, “but I could not help noticing that you are troubled. It may be that I, Lieutenant Juan Sebastian Unzaga, can be of service.”

As much as she despised the necessity of coming here, it went against the grain for Félicité to be unable to carry out her objective. It would be foolhardy to refuse aid, regardless of the source. Turning, she considered the slim, dark-haired Spaniard with the audacious black eyes and pencil-thin mustache who had presented himself. Without surprise, she realized the lieutenant was the man who on several occasions had risked the displeasure of her neighbors, her father, and Valcour by his serenades beneath her window. She summoned a smile, and with a small helpless shrug, told this Lieutenant Unzaga of her problem.

“A simple matter, surely?” he said, lifting a brow at his fellow officer. “I see no reason why the request of this lady should not be granted.”

The man behind the desk remonstrated, and there followed a heated discussion in quick-fire Spanish. The officer on duty was, apparently, overruled. Turning back to Félicité, Lieutenant Unzaga bowed once more, and indicated she might accompany him while her maid waited outside.

There were low mutterings from the crowd as Félicité moved deeper inside the house with the officer. Flinging a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw more than one dark and suspicious look turned in her direction. The obvious resentment troubled her; still, it could not be helped.

The lieutenant tapped on the door that opened from the far side of the anteroom, then stepped aside to permit Félicité to enter. She moved into a large chamber with two, tall windows that opened onto a view of a small, unkempt garden. These windows faced the southeast, and the air inside the room was warm and sluggish with the heat of late summer. Because of it, the man seated at the graceful though sturdy desk had removed his uniform jacket and placed it over the back of a chair. In shirtsleeves, he sat behind piles of papers, lists, and ledgers, his strong brown hand driving a quill across a sheet of parchment. He looked up with a frown as Félicité and the other officer came forward, then throw down the pen, leaning back in his chair.

“Bast, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” he inquired in hard tones.

Lieutenant Juan Sebastian Unzaga seemed undaunted by such a cool welcome. “I found this lovely creature outside being barred from your company, and I thought, Morgan, my friend, what a pity it would be if you missed seeing her through ignorance of her presence.”

“I am obliged to you,” the colonel drawled, “especially since I am certain you had only my welfare in mind.”

“What else?” The lieutenant gave the other man a smile of elaborate innocence.

“Your own, for a start, if I know you. I fear you will be disappointed, however, if you expect to win the gratitude of Mademoiselle Lafargue. She has had no liking for the Spanish regime from the first day of our arrival, and has even less reason for affection now.”

“Mademoiselle Lafargue, of course! What an idiot I am. It was you, Morgan, was it not, who stole her from beneath my nose at that ill-fated dance three days ago, you she left standing, looking very foolish, when the soirée came to a sudden end?”

“As you say.” Colonel McCormack gave a slow nod, his dark-green gaze resting on Félicité’s face. “She is also the daughter of the merchant Lafargue now lodged at the barracks.”

“Por Dios! I had not realized.” The Spanish officer turned to Félicité, the handsome lines of his face set in an expression of sober concern. “Accept my condolences for your misfortune, Mademoiselle Lafargue.”

She lifted her chin. “Condolences are not in order, lieutenant. My father is not dead — at least, not yet.”

“Mademoiselle—”

The colonel made an impatient gesture. “Since she is here, Bast, it will be as well if the young lady could be allowed to state her purpose.”

Lieutenant Unzaga inclined his head, unabashed. “Of course. Mademoiselle?”

Félicité glanced from the smiling Spaniard to the Irish mercenary colonel. Because of the light falling from the windows behind him, his face was in shadow, while she herself felt exposed, with every nuance of expression revealed. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I — if I might speak privately, colonel?”

Morgan McCormack glanced at the lieutenant, who sighed, said a graceful farewell, and withdrew.

Quiet descended. Now that she had gained the colonel’s attention, she was at a loss. He surveyed her through narrowed eyes that missed nothing, neither the care she had taken with her appearance this morning, nor the quick rise and fall of her breasts beneath her fichu as she strove to contain her agitation. His chestnut hair was damp at the temples with perspiration in the overwarm atmosphere; curling slightly despite being severely clubbed back. There was an inkstain on one finger of his right hand as it lay on a stack of papers. The ruffles of his sleeves and at the neckline of his shirt were mere pleatings of linen unadorned with lace, a detail that made him seem austere, unapproachable. Félicité wished suddenly that she had not come. Speaking with this man would avail her nothing except embarrassment, and it might well make the situation in which she and her father found themselves worse, if such a thing were possible.

“Well, Mademoiselle Lafargue?”

“As you must have guessed, colonel,” she began, her voice husky and her hands clasped before her, “I have come because of my father. For him to be imprisoned, for any of the men to be put behind bars, is unjust and unjustifiable.”

“Are you saying your father and the others are not guilty of conspiring against the Spanish crown?” Despite her accusation, there was no heat in the question he put to her.

“How can they have conspired against the crown when the king’s representative had not officially taken possession of the colony? They were men without a country, repudiated by France, and not yet claimed by Spain.”

“That is not true. The Treaty of Fontainebleau had been signed, the Spanish representative was in residence. If Ulloa did not present his credentials, it was because he was reluctant to further inflame the feelings of the populace against him. But no man of those who marched and shouted revolutionary refrains could have doubted that Louisiana had become the property of Spain. Therefore, the things they did brand them as guilty.”

“I don’t concede that,” Félicité.’ said, “but even if it were true, why these men and no others? Why not round up every able-bodied man in the colony, every person who spoke or whispered, or even dared to think of governing themselves instead of submitting to a king who cared nothing for their welfare, a ruler thousands of miles away? If this is conspiracy, then nearly every person in the colony is equally guilty. It is a travesty to arrest a few for the crimes of the many.”