Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (76 page)

A smile of pleasure rose in her eyes. “Captain Dodsworth, as gallant as ever, I see.”

“If so, it’s because you bring it out in me.”

“The question is, do I bring out your generosity?”

He threw back his head to laugh. “Always!”

From the dimness beyond the captain, a man stepped forward. “If it isn’t the beauteous lady smuggler. There are few men, mademoiselle, who wouldn’t be generous to someone of your charms for the desired return.”

Behind her, Cyrene heard Gaston board, then René’s light leap down to the deck. There was no time to turn back, no time for a warning.

The newcomer, the man already entrenched on the ship like a wood worm in the planking, was one Touchet, though it was doubtful he had been baptized under the name. Short and thin, with the sinuous body of a hungry cat and a flat, avid face, he was known as a former cutpurse, petty thief, and peddler of forbidden brandy to slaves and Indians. He was also, according to most persistent rumor, the trading agent for the marquise, Madame Vaudreuil. And her paid informer.

7

IT WAS A WARY gathering that sat down to partake of Captain Dodsworth’s table fare. The meal was a plain one of bean soup and fish pan-broiled in butter followed by a main course of boiled beef seasoned with onion and thyme and served with boiled potatoes and cabbage. The
Half Moon
had come directly from the Bahamas where they had traded salted cod and ship’s timbers for the trade goods brought out from England on the deep-water frigates; they had also picked up the oranges they had for dessert and the rum they drank, along with the less alcoholic brew of sugarcane juice known as tafia.

They were eight in number. Cyrene, as the only woman present, had the place of honor at the captain’s right, with Jean beside her and Gaston on his other side. Across from her was Pierre, with René on his left and Touchet beside him, while the seat at the foot of the table was taken by the ship’s first mate.

The main occupation of the evening, if not the main purpose, was introduced early. Captain Dodsworth, raising his cup of rum to Cyrene, proclaimed, “To the blackest eyes and sweetest smile afloat tonight on the waters of the world!”

It was to be a drinking match. The winner of the contest would be the man with the strongest head and the prize would be the trading edge gained by the least-befuddled man. But there was more to it than that. Cyrene had the feeling, as she watched the captain, that he might also be playing the Breton party against the marquise’s agent, hoping to encourage a competition. Two could, perhaps, play such a game. The compliment to her being no more than a ploy, it could be accepted and used. Moreover, though she had no intention of entering the drinking bout, she could throw her weight to the side of the Bretons. She inclined her head with a smile of appreciation and lifted her cup of tafia. “To all seamen who risk so much in search of… smiles.”

The toasts came thick and fast, growing increasingly outrageous. They toasted George of England and Louis of France, the queens of both countries and the mistresses of both men. They drank to the damnation of excise men of any nationality and paid homage to the beauty of the color indigo blue; to La Pompadour’s favorite peach shade that might or might not be the color of her nipples; and to the noble and supposedly rejuvenating, if not aphrodisiacal, qualities of the codfish and the catfish.

Cyrene gave the bantering and the deep drinking only a minor portion of her attention. The tale of their escape from the renegades was told with only a small comment from her thrown in now and again. The mulling over of the economic and political situation in Europe now that the war was at an end could not hold her interest for long. She watched instead the marquise’s agent, Touchet.

He was a small man with a hollow chest and the sharp, chinless features of a weasel. His skin was sallow and pockmarked, and his fingernails were as long and curving and yellow as cow’s horns, or like the nails of the Choctaw bone-pickers who removed the decayed flesh of the dead before burial. His expression was secretive and supercilious, and though he tossed off the contents of his glass with each toast there was no discernible effect. He joined in the general discussion, but there was an edge to his remarks that was as sharp and jagged as broken glass.

What troubled Cyrene’s mind was exactly why Touchet was on the ship. The worry was not hers alone. During a lull, Jean spoke across the table to the marquise’s man. “Are you setting up as a trader, Touchet, or do you act as an agent?”

The question that hung unspoken in the air was whether the man was acting for the marquise. It was not impossible, and the knowledge that it was so would considerably lessen their danger. If Touchet was representing the marquise in a deal with the Rhode Islander, it was unlikely, though not impossible, that he would inform on them for
their
dealings.

But Touchet was not so easily drawn out. “It depends,” he said with a small smile, “on the money.”

Jean sent Pierre a brief glance. Touchet’s answer could be taken to mean that he was open to a bribe to suppress his knowledge of their activities or simply that the decision to use that knowledge or engage in trade would depend on the amount to be made either way.

“The prospects for trade have never looked better,” Jean said, his manner offhand.

“Or the chances for success against the smuggling patrols worse.”

“A body would think they would be more lax, now that the war is over,” Captain Dodsworth complained.

Pierre swirled the rum in his glass. “The war won’t be over between our countries here until one of them is supreme in the New World.”

“It will be us, my friend. We work harder and we don’t give up.”

“You will wear yourselves out,” Pierre said with a laugh, “or else the Indians will kill you for pushing them from their lands. We take life easier, we French, as a gift instead of a task, and so we will endure in peace beside the savages when you English are long back on your little island.”

Touchet gave a short laugh. “Ah, you
voyageurs,
you talk big but you never build anything, will never have anything.”

“Nor do we destroy anything,” Pierre said with dignity. “What more do we need except a boat, food and drink, maybe a little tobacco or a bit of gambling to liven the days?”

“Riches? A fine home? Servants to work so you may take your ease?”

“Bah! Such things can be torn away overnight. What matters is people, family and friends.”

“You won’t mind, then, if you are bested in trade or if some man comes along and takes Mademoiselle Cyrene from you with an offer of better things?”

Pierre’s blue eyes took on a sparkle. “Trade is a gamble and I’ll not be beaten at it if I can help it. As for Cyrene, we do not hold her. She can go if she wishes, but she has too much good sense, I think, to be fooled by fine talk and fancy show.”

Cyrene, meeting Pierre’s gaze as he finished speaking, thought there was a message in his words for her. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had been a fool. But no, she had known well enough that she was not a prisoner of the Bretons. It was their affection, and their fears for her, that caused them to guard her. What Pierre meant her to understand was that they trusted her judgment and had transferred the right to protect her to René because of it. She wished that she could feel so certain.

Captain Dodsworth reached out to cover Cyrene’s hand where it rested on the table edge. “Mademoiselle Cyrene is one of those rare creatures, a handsome woman with a mind under her hair. She will not be fooled.”

Since she knew very well that the captain not only had sharp business instincts but a wife and three children as well, Cyrene was less than overwhelmed by the compliment. She gave him a slight smile while wondering if Madame Dodsworth was considered a rare creature by her husband. She somehow doubted it.

René, watching Dodsworth fondle Cyrene’s hand, was surprised to feel the steady rise of irritation. He should be paying attention to the men, listening to them talk, feeling out their intentions, but again and again his attention strayed to the only female at the table. Her poise there in the midst of that all-male gathering was remarkable. She did not put herself forward, but neither did she withdraw into silence. She did not join in the risqué comments, but gave no sign of being offended by them, not even for the sake of convention. Her hair shone like molten gold in the light of the whale oil lamps, and her skin had the sheen of pearls. The black depths of her eyes held quick thought and a secret, elusive amusement that was fascinating, that he would give much to be able to share.

René wanted, suddenly, to stand up and knock the fatuous, grinning Rhode Islander flat on his backside, then scoop up Cyrene, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her from the ship back to the bay shore. There he would make love to her until they were both breathless and intoxicated with the richness of it. They would lie together in splendid nakedness among the furs that made up Cyrene’s pallet, and he would press his lips to every delectable inch…

Madness. He sat still, breathing deep, willing composure. He could not remember ever having such a vivid and nearly uncontrollable flash of desire before, not even when he was young and callow. He didn’t quite know what to make of it, as he did not know with certainty what to make of the woman who had caused it. He only knew that he was going to have to be on his guard. He could not afford such impulses.

“Our lady smuggler is unusual,” Touchet was saying, “but is still a woman for all that. She must know she would be superb in silk and lace. The man who can give them to her will be amply rewarded, I have no doubt.”

The man’s tone was oily. René gave him a sharp glance. A frown appeared on Pierre’s face. Cyrene turned to stare at him, her gaze cold though a flush of annoyance and dislike for being placed so squarely at the center of attention mounted to her forehead.

“Are you suggesting that I can be bought for a few lengths of cloth?” she asked.

“An expression only, Mademoiselle Cyrene. I refer to a certain way of life, to luxury and ease. Don’t tell me they have no appeal?” The lips of the marquise’s agent were twisted with cynicism though his gaze, resting on the soft white curves of her breasts above her bodice, was avid.

“I can’t say that it does, if I have to sell my soul for it.”

“Your soul? I doubt that’s what the buyer will want in return.”

Jean came to his feet with Pierre not far behind him. “That’s enough, Touchet,” the younger brother said.

The weasel-faced man looked at Jean. “The watchdogs awake. How very affecting.”

René could remember no conscious decision to intervene. One moment he was watching Touchet, the next he was on his feet. He divided a level look between the Bretons before turning to Touchet in the chair next to him. He leaned over the smaller man, bracing his knuckles on the table. “The duty for this watch is mine,” he said, “and I am indeed awake. Cyrene is not a subject for discussion at this table or elsewhere, nor are her wants and needs.”

Touchet looked him up and down slowly. “You, I assume, will be looking after them as well as her good name and her… soul?”

“Precisely. Whatever she wishes can be hers; she has only to ask.”

There was no need to add the last, but saying the words gave him real satisfaction. The arrested look in Cyrene’s eyes also pleased him. If she had thought he would remain strictly confined to the place she had assigned to him, she was in for even more of a surprise. He had stayed at court too long, he knew that now; he had nearly forgotten how good it felt to speak plainly and to take simple direct action. He could not remember when he had felt more reckless or more determined. Or more guilty.

Cyrene heard René’s declaration with disbelief. Almost as disturbing was the fact that the Bretons made no objection; in fact, they merely settled back in their seats as if the situation were well in hand. She felt marked, singled out as the possession of René Lemonnier. It was enraging. That she had brought it upon herself made no difference. Before the night was out, she would set M’sieur Lemonnier straight. Whatever she wished, indeed! She would tell him what her wishes were, and then they would see how well he complied.