Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (137 page)

His touch, the tenor of his words, sent a tremor of something like anticipation along her nerves. She tried to ignore it, concentrating on slipping the point of her scissors under the embedded silk thread that bound the wound, cutting it, catching the knot, and pulling the stitch free.

He watched her deft movements for long moments. When she had only two stitches left, he slanted her a quick look. “I understand you spoke to Bast this afternoon.”

“Pepe told you, I suppose?” She snipped a stitch with a sudden sharp movement.

“As it happens, he did.” He cast a doubtful glance at her fingers where they tightened on his shoulder as she reached for the knotted thread.

“As it happens,” she said, her tones hardening, “I don’t like being spied upon.”

“No one was spying on you. The encounter seemed a little unusual to Pepe, and he assumed I would be interested.”

“Did he also tell you I met Père Dagobert walking with the Jesuit priest, Père Antonio, in the street near the infirmary, and that I spoke to them both?”

“He didn’t mention it, nor did he tell me what Bast had to say to you that was so important he had to accost you in the street instead of paying a call like a civilized person.”

“Oh, it was most respectable, I assure you! Probably much more so than your conversation with the dashing La Paloma during the same hour.”

It was admirable the way he sat unflinching as with growing recklessness she yanked out the last stitch with a section of dried scab still clinging to its knot. “Who told you about that?”

“No one. I saw you myself.”

“Who spied on whom now?”

“Not I,” she cried, flinging down the scissors with a clatter. “I was walking home from the prison when I chanced to see you with that woman.”

They stared at each other in tight-lipped anger. Félicité made a small movement, as though she would pull away from him, but his grip became more rigid, holding her in place. Rather than begin an undignified struggle, she stood still, though the enmity in her brown eyes deepened.

Abruptly he gave a nod. “All right, I take your point. If I tell you about Isabella, will you return the favor by explaining what Bast wanted?”

“Who you speak to, man or woman, is immaterial to me.”

“I am sure of it. Very well, then—”

“But,” she added hastily, “I will listen, since this woman seems out of the ordinary.”

“She is that,” he answered, smiling a little though his tone was dry. His hold relaxed a fraction as he went on. “She was born Maureen Elizabeth O’Connell in Ireland. Her father was a farmer, a breeder of horses, prize stud stock. When Maureen was thirteen, a middle-aged Spaniard came looking for mares. He bought one or two, and also bought the horse breeder’s daughter. He took her to Madrid, where he kept her in seclusion for five years, calling her his little dove, educating her in various ways, some of which were beneficial to a young girl, some not. When his wife died, he married young Maureen, and she became Isabella de Herrara, the Marquesa de Talavera. Eight years later, the marqués died. There being no other heirs, no children of his previous marriage, she inherited his fortune.”

“She doesn’t look Irish,” Félicité commented when he came to a halt.

“No more does she. If anything she appears every inch the Spanish noblewoman; which, let it be understood, she is. The marqués forced her acceptance at court. He took her everywhere with him, taught her how to manage his estates, to ride, to shoot, to use a sword. Unknowingly, he also prepared her for a life of independence after his death. For La Paloma there are no rules except those she makes herself.”

“Are you saying she is — above the conventions, even immoral?”

“In a strict sense, no. I have never known her to do a base or an evil thing, and I have been acquainted with her since we were children together, playing in our fathers’ fields that lay side by side. On the other hand, she has been many things to many men in many places, none of which would qualify her to be canonized as a saint.”

Félicité glanced at him through her lashes. There was nothing in what he had said to indicate what the woman might have been to him in the past, or what she was at the present. Her interest sprang from mere curiosity, of course. “I see,” she said. “What I witnessed was no more than a meeting of childhood playmates?”

“You might say so. And now, it is your turn.”

She looked beyond him. With great reluctance she said, “Bast was only concerned for my happiness. He seemed to think that you — that we had become close in a very short time, and under the present circumstances, particularly my father’s imprisonment, it had a strange look to him. I tried to reassure, him, but I’m not certain he believed what I had to say.”

“Why? What makes you think so?”

“He — he was kind enough to offer me his protection should it happen that I decide to leave yours.”

Morgan swore softly. The pressure of his fingers about her waist increased until she gave a small gasp for breath. Immediately he released her. “Sorry,” he said, his voice brusque. “I’m also sorry that you had to endure such an insult.”

“I wasn’t insulted,” Félicité said, lifting her chin. “If anything, I was touched by his thoughtfulness.”

“Is that so? It begins to look as if I will have to do something about Lieutenant Unzaga.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe a job can be found for him chasing smugglers in the bayous below the town.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said uncertainly as she met his dark-green gaze.

“Why not? He might as well make himself useful there as anywhere else.”

“But — but he is your friend!”

“So he is. But there are limits to everything. I will not share you with any man, Félicité, either physically or mentally.”

“You cannot control my thoughts,” she snapped, swinging away from him.

His hand shot out to close around her wrist, jerking her off balance so that she fell across his lap. He cupped her face in his hand, his emerald gaze raking the parted softness of her lips before it stabbed into her wide brown eyes. “Can’t I?” he said quietly, before he set his mouth to hers.

The trial of the conspirators began in late September. The presiding judges visited the prisoners in their cells, questioning them minutely. They went over and over every detail of their behavior, attitude, and actions from the time of Ulloa’s arrival in New Orleans until the infamous day of revolution on October 28, 1768, and recorded every word they uttered. Satisfied at last, the learned gentlemen departed. Thereafter, in secret chambers, they heard the testimony of witnesses against the indicted men. Two witnesses each were brought forward to lodge accusations against Nicholas Chauvin de Lafrénière, the attorney general under the French; Jean Baptiste Noyan, the nephew of Bienville and son-in-law of the first man; Pierre Caresse and Pierre Marquis, both planters; and Joseph Milhet, a wealthy merchant. Witnesses were also rounded up to testify concerning the actions of Joseph Petit, Balthasar Masan, Julien Jerome Doucat, Pierre Hardy de Boisblanc, Jean Milhet, Pierre Poupet, and finally, Olivier Lafargue.

Never at any time during this period did the prisoners appear in court, never did they see the men who gave testimony against them. It made no great difference. The actions of those involved had been so public, so widely known, that to deny them was useless. Most of the twelve proudly admitted the part they had played. For their defense, they relied upon the contention that at the time when the crimes with which they were charged were alleged to have been committed they were Frenchmen, and therefore not bound by the laws of Spain. To bolster their case, they pointed out that Ulloa had not taken possession of the colony in official ceremony, had not presented his credentials during his tenure; that they themselves had not sworn fealty to the King of Spain; and that they had remained bound by their oath to the King of France until they had been absolved from it by the solemn ceremony that had taken place shortly after the arrival of O’Reilly.

The ease with which Morgan had demolished these arguments when Félicité had presented them to him brought now a slowly growing apprehension. No matter what they might claim, the prisoners were now in the hands of the Spanish court, and if the authorities refused to recognize the validity of their defense, preferring to condemn them under their own laws, who was there to gainsay them?

The prosecuting attorney general on behalf of the King of Spain was Don Felix del Rey, a man who had practiced before the royal courts of Santo Domingo and Mexico. He was a formidable man, according to all reports. It was said that he meant to set the charge against the twelve men as high treason, grounding the prosecution on the statute of Alfonso XI, which was the first law of seventh title of the first Partida. This statute pronounced the punishment of death and confiscation of property against those who incited any insurrection against the king or the state, or took up arms under pretense of extending their liberty or rights, and against those giving them aid or comfort. Justice, the attorney proclaimed, would be swift and sure.

Nevertheless, the days dragged past, turning into weeks. Some hope for the fate of the prisoners was felt when Braud, the court printer, swearing that he had acted under orders from Foucault, the commissary-general, in printing the proclamation of rebellion, was able to produce the signed order, and was freed. As for Foucault himself, he steadfastly refused to answer questions put to him by the judges, Director-General Aubry, or O’Reilly, demanding instead to be tried in France. Rumors had it that he was to be granted his wish, and even now awaited a ship to transport him to his mother country. If such leniency was also shown to the other men, all might yet be well.

It was a stormy time in more ways than one. Black clouds boiled up day after day from the gulf, and the warm rain descended, turning the streets into quagmires and lowering the spirits of the entire population. A number of ships failed to make port. Many of the losses were blamed on the treacherous winds and currents of the Caribbean, but from the men on the ships who were lucky enough to make port came tales of marauders in those warm, blue waters. One ship in particular seemed to capture their imagination. Sailing under a red flag showing a bird in flight with a skull in its claws, it was called the Raven. Hardened freebooters from tropical ports, it was said, blanched when they spoke of it. Its captain showed no quarter. The men who sailed with him did not say much of what they had seen when this corsair captured a ship, but there were whispers of women brutally raped, children torn from their mother’s arms, and men cut to pieces for fish bait.

Félicité stepped from the low doorway of the outside kitchen and looked up at the overcast sky. A gust of wind brought a shower of heavy drops down from the black gum tree that spread its limbs overhead. Among them were a few bright-red leaves. The autumn was advancing. The mornings were cooler now even without the dampness of the continual rain, though it was warm by the middle of the day. There would be no need for a fire yet for several weeks, unless it was to discourage the gray mold that grew on every piece of leather, or the mildew that spotted the linen.

The rain had stopped as evening began to close in. It was a welcome respite, though the gray-white look of the sky did not give much hope that it would be a long one. Letting out her breath in a silent sigh, Félicité began to pick her way toward the door opening that led to the stairwell.

“Mam’selle, your tisane.”

Ashanti came hurrying after her, offering a cup filled with dark steaming liquid. Félicité took it with a grimace. The concoction made by her maid, taken daily, had so far been effective. Her monthly courses had come with thankful regularity.

The maid watched in satisfaction as Félicité began to drink from her cup. “The colonel should return soon.”

She nodded without enthusiasm.

“He should like the filet of beef we are preparing, also the shrimp bisque and oyster pie.”

“I should certainly hope so, since we have been in the kitchen the best part of the afternoon.”

“Have you decided what you will discuss with him after dinner?”

“It grows harder and harder to find a subject that will not cause an argument. French art, French wine, and French literature have been exhausted. French theater he dismisses as frivolous, French opera he admits as passable, but—”

“Mon Dieu,” Ashanti said with a wry shake of her head. “And yet more often than not, you speak in your tongue instead of his adopted Spanish.”

“That’s so,” Félicité agreed.

“Then we are making progress.”

“Of a sort, but I wonder more every day if this — this campaign of ours isn’t pointless.”

“How can that be, mam’selle, if the man second only to O’Reilly himself is becoming more admiring of things French every day?”

“He may appreciate the ease and charm of our way of life, but I am doubtful it will affect his judgment, or his attitude toward what he conceives to be his duty.”

“You may be right, mam’selle, but we can only try. For most men, the pleasures of the stomach, the mind, and the flesh are more important than all else.”

“But the colonel is not most men.”

“In that you speak truly,” Ashanti agreed.

“At any rate,” Félicité went on, “I already have his promise to do what he can for my father.”