Tender Fury (7 page)

“Captain Giscard is dead,” Philippe intoned dully, his own face mirroring her shock.

“Dead! How! Why!”

“An accident, on the bridge early this morning.” Suddenly all his defenses were down and the agony in his eyes was a terrible thing to see. Philippe silently mourned. If he hadn’t elicited Henri’s help on this mission the poor man might still be alive. Was there no end to the path of death that followed him and took everyone he held dear? he wondered. How could he endure the guilt of yet another life being snuffed out because of him?

“Who will guide the
Windward
to Martinique?” Gabby asked, shattering the painful silence.

“First Mate Mercier is quite capable but I intend to take over the helm myself. I often captain my own ships.”

Another long silence ensued while Philippe fought hard to come to a decision. A decision that included Gabby; yet one that could lead her into danger. Did he want to involve his innocent bride in the intrigue he had willingly flung himself into? He had no choice. For a long time he studied her intently, until Gabby began to squirm uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“What is it, Philippe? Why are you looking at me so strangely? How can I help you?” Unwittingly, she had made the decision for him.

“What do you know about the war began in 1812 between England and America?” he asked, puzzling her by his abrupt change of subject.

“Not much,” Gabby admitted. “What are they fighting over?”

“It’s mainly due to Napoleon that they are at war; to him and to the acts of piracy on the high seas perpetrated on the American ships by the British. Not to mention the illegal impressing of American men into the British Navy.”

“What has Napoleon to do with it?”

“The Americans were more or less forced to take sides with the French when the British imposed blockades on their ports so they could not carry crucial cargo to French or Spanish ports. And because the British could not patrol all the major American ports they took to stopping all ships carrying the American flag on the high seas and seizing their cargoes as contraband. Even food and non war supplies were considered contraband to the British.”

“But, Philippe, what has all this to do with Captain Giscard’s death?”

“I was just coming to that,
ma petite
,” he said grimly. “Captain Giscard and I were entrusted with an important document that had been smuggled out of England. It is to be delivered to General Andrew Jackson who is in New Orleans at this time to prepare that city for an attack by the British. The document in my hands confirms that the British intend to attack New Orleans by sea. It not only pinpoints the exact date of the siege but the number of ships and men they can expect. So you can see how imperative it is that the document reaches General Jackson without delay.”

“And you believe that Captain Giscard’s death is related to these secret papers?”

“I must assume so. I don’t like the looks of that ‘accident.’”

“Then you never intended on sailing directly to Martinique?” Gabby asked, trying to sort out in her mind all that Philippe had just divulged. As she thought about New Orleans a little seed began to take root and grow in her brain. New Orleans was a big city. Perhaps she would find a way to slip away from Philippe once they docked. It shouldn’t be hard to find Marcel’s sister and begin a new life for herself.

Unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Philippe said, “Captain Giscard and myself were the only ones who knew our destination was to be New Orleans. We feared spies might be planted aboard or that the document would be stolen should our destination be made known. That’s why I was so upset when I learned Duvall was aboard. I instructed Captain Giscard to book no other passengers for this voyage but because Duvall was my neighbor and a loyal French man, he was allowed to purchase passage. Giscard wrongly assumed our friendship was still valid.”

“Surely you don’t suspect Monsieur Duvall of being a spy!” Gabby protested.

Philippe scowled darkly. “I would put nothing past him. But Henri is dead and I must assume full responsibility for the safe delivery of the document.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Philippe?” Gabby asked quietly.

“If something unforeseen should happen to me before we reach New Orleans I want you to deliver the papers to General Jackson.”

For a moment Gabby’s heart stopped. Something happen to Philippe?
Mon dieu!
Aloud, she said, “Are you saying that if someone aboard the ship killed Captain Giscard because of those secret papers, they would not hesitate to kill you also?”

“Exactly.”

“And you trust me enough to tell me all this?” Gabby asked with amazement.

“There is no one else,” he replied carefully. “The papers are hidden in your trunk beneath your clothing. In case of my death, take them directly to Jackson’s headquarters in New Orleans. For your own safety let no one know that you have any knowledge of this. Mercier has orders to pilot the ship to New Orleans if I cannot.” Suddenly he grasped her shoulders in a bruising hold. “Promise me you will trust no one, Gabby! No one! Do you understand? No one!”

“I promise, Philippe, I promise,” gasped Gabby. Only when he had extracted her promise did he release his grip on her tender flesh.

“Tomorrow we enter the Florida Straits and then the Gulf of Mexico,” he went on after he had regained his composure. If Duvall is a spy, Philippe thought to himself, he has little time remaining to do his worst.

“New Orleans is French, is it not?” Gabby asked.

“There are some old Spanish families in New Orleans but most are French or Creole. Of course, since 1803 when Napoleon sold the territory it has become part of the United States.”

Gabby tried hard to assimilate all Philippe had told her but found she was mostly confused by all the talk of wars, spies, and secret documents. But she had given her promise and she intended to keep it, even if the thought of Philippe’s death left her feeling strangely bereft.

The next day Gabby spied the first land she had seen since they had left Brest. Philippe explained that they were only small islands or keys but land nevertheless. From a distance they appeared like jewels in the azure sea. The sight of pure white beaches and vegetation held her in thrall. She was so engrossed with the tiny isles floating by that she had hardly noticed Philippe’s grim look as he nervously eyed a bank of seemingly innocuous, fluffy white clouds. He didn’t appear one bit surprised when Mercier approached with the information that the barometer was falling at an alarming rate. Only then did Gabby turn her attention to the lowering sky. What had earlier seemed like brisk breezes had suddenly turned into threatening winds as the ship skipped across the water with frightening speed. Already she could see men working furiously at the sails while others scurried about lashing cargo to the deck. From the amount of activity around her Gabby realized that this would not be the same kind of storm that had blown them harmlessly about the Atlantic for three days while Philippe tutored her in the art of love. They were in tropical waters now and this could be one of those hurricanes Philippe had spoken of.

“How long do you think we have before we feel the full brunt of the storm?” Gabby asked as Philipe guided her back to their cabin.

“It’s hard to tell,” he replied, “but it’s the right time of year for hurricanes and judging from the barometer we are in for quite a blow, probably before the day is out.” He left her rather abruptly at their cabin door, his mind already occupied with the safety of his ship and men.

Gale-force winds lashed the ship the rest of that day and far into the night, reminding Gabby that the sea was a naughty mistress ever ready to tease, caress, or to devour if she became angry and it became increasingly clear that she had never been more angry than she was now. No sooner had one gigantic wave hit broadside than another would rise up and take its place. Gabby’s stomach was in a constant turmoil and she swallowed to keep the nausea from rising in her throat as she clung tightly to the sides of the bunk to keep from rolling off.

Philippe had returned to the cabin several times, his face a white mask of exhaustion, his clothing dripping despite the oilskin he wore. On his last trip, he saw immediately that Gabby was ill and quickly hurried to her side. With a great show of tenderness he brushed the tendrils of pale hair from her damp face then kissed her forehead.

“Soon,
ma chere
,” he murmured. “Soon it will be over. Do not fret, I shall take care of you.” He did not turn away in revulsion when she began vomiting into the slop jar, but held her close when she trembled from weakness. Never had she known such kindness from Philippe; but it had come too late. After consoling Gabby until the sick spell left her, Philippe, reminded of his duty by the howling wind, reluctantly released her and turned to leave.

Afterward, what transpired next was never quite clear in Gabby’s mind. Where she found the strength to do what she did or why she even did it remains locked away in some remote compartment of her heart. At the same time Philippe opened the door to leave the cabin an enormous wave slammed into the ship causing it to tilt to such a degree that it nearly capsized. Before Gabby’s horrified eyes the door was wrest from Philippe’s grasp and he was thrown to the wind whipped deck. She watched in frozen terror as a barrel of nails that had been lashed to the deck broke loose and careened menacingly toward him. He saw it coming and attempted to rise to his feet but the sea-washed deck and roll of the ship made him awkward and slow. He had risen no farther than to his knees when the barrel struck, smashing him into the railing. The next roll of the ship sent the barrel in the opposite direction leaving Philippe unconscious and in a precarious position against the rail where the next swell could easily sweep him overboard.

Gabby staggered unsteadily to her feet and slowly made her way to the door calling Philippe’s name over and over as if unaware that she could not be heard over the din of the storm. Looking anxiously up and down the deck, she saw that no one was aware of Philippe’s predicament, darkness and rain making visibility impossible. No matter how much Gabby hated Philippe she could not allow him to be swept overboard! With strength born of terror she moved cautiously from the shelter of the cabin onto the deck, pushing herself beyond her limited endurance to where Philippe lay. Twice she was knocked off her feet by a blast of wind and had to crawl, and once she clung to a broken mast for support as a tremendous swell washed over the deck. But somehow she reached Philippe exhausted and panting for breath, but intact. She blanched at the sight of the deep gash on his forehead and still white face as she tired to staunch the flow of blood with a corner of her shift. Realizing that they could not remain where they were lest they both end up in the sea, she called for help, but none could hear or see them in the murky darkness over the roar of the storm. It was up to Gabby to save them both.

Grasping Philippe beneath the arms, she began dragging him inch by painful inch toward the nearest mast, stopping often to catch her breath and gulp down the nausea that wracked her slight form. Philippe’s dead weight put a great strain upon her faltering strength but she would not allow the sea to claim them. By the time she reached the mast with Philippe’s unconscious body she ached in every muscle and was as near to collapse as she had ever been in her young life.

Gasping for breath, Gabby propped him against the mast and reached for a line broken loose from the rigging and dangling free. Working instinctively, for she knew she could not make it back to the cabin with Philippe in tow, she took the only course that lay open to her at that moment. With great effort of will she proceeded to lash him to the sturdy upright, making certain that the knots were secure. Only then did she allow herself the luxury of respite, collapsing beside Philippe, chest heaving, pain searing her exhausted body. Finally, when she had regained a measure of strength, Gabby reached up for another line with which to tie her own body to the mst. And she very nearly succeeded. Struggling upward she was unaware of the enormous swell rising up behind her, nor did she hear Philippe’s voice when he suddenly surfaced into consciousness to witness the bizarre scene unfolding as if in a terrible nightmare. His warning cry was lost to the wind.

Philippe watched in abject horror as the killer wave rose from the depths of the angry sea and struck with a vengeance even as Gabby clung doggedly to the line. He lowered his head against the force of wind and water, and when he raised it, she was gone; gone as if she had never existed. Then, he, too, was drowning in a sea of black oblivion.

The pain was excruciating. Just opening his eyes caused Philippe untold agony. The top of his head was afire and his body ached in places he hadn’t known existed. The first face he recognized was that of Mercier, the first mate, who was looking at him with such pity that Philippe became immediately alarmed. Slowly the rest of the faces came into focus, and among them was Marcel Duvall’s. But the face he searched for was missing.

“Ah, Monsieur St. Cyr,” Mercier said in obvious relief. “I am happy to see you are finally back with us. You gave us quite a scare.”

Philippe tried to sit up but was gently but firmly pushed back into the pillows. “No, no,” Mercier admonished. “I am no doctor but it is obvious that your head wound could have caused a severe concussion. It is best you do not exert yourself for a while.”

“The ship… the storm?” stammered Philippe, still too dazed to think clearly.

“All is well,” assured Mercier. “We sustained some damage but nothing that cannot be repaired once we reach New Orleans.”

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“Nearly twenty-four hours!”

“Mon dieu,”
Philippe cursed weakly. “What happened?”

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Mercier said, sliding his eyes from Philippe’s as if he had something more to say but was reluctant to say it.

“I remember nothing from the time I left my cabin after checking on my wife until this moment,” said Philippe, gingerly touching his head where a thick bandage covered an angry lump. “What hit me?”

“As far as we can surmise, a keg of nails broke loose from its lashings and hurled you into the railing. We can only guess at what happened after that. As soon as the sky lightened we found you securely tied to the mast, unconscious and bleeding from the head wound. Whoever had the presence of mind to lash you to the mast probably saved your life.”

Marcel stepped forward, his eyes bleak. “Can you remember nothing, Philippe? Think man, think!” he implored. “Do you remember nothing of your wife’s sacrifice?” He seemed quite beside himself with grief and Philippe frowned in concentration as he tried to focus his fuzzy mind on the events that were causing Marcel such anguish.

“Leave us!” ordered Mercier, glancing around to include several seamen crowded inside the cabin. Finally no one remained but Marcel, Mercier, and Philippe. “Now, Monsieur St. Cyr,” Mercier began, “it would help if you could recall something of what took place on deck during the storm, for it is my sad duty to inform you that your wife is missing and we have every reason to believe she was swept overboard. We can only assume that she was the one who lashed you to the mast. The great tragedy was that she was unable to save herself as well.”

Mercier paused to give his words time to penetrate Philippe’s muddled brain and was unprepared for what followed. Memory swept back with frightening clarity as Philippe surged from the bed in a show of strength that was sadly short-lived. When his feet hit the floor his head exploded into a million jagged fragments and he clung to consciousness through sheer strength of will.

Philippe allowed himself to be eased back into bed. The pain of full recollection washed over him like the huge wave that hurled Gabby overboard. He buried his head in his hands, overwhelmed with grief. His voice sounded like it came from a great distance.

“Gabby must have witnessed my accident through the open cabin door, for the next thing I remember was finding myself secured to the mast, regaining my senses in time to see her swept into the sea.” A gray cloud had drifted into his eyes obscuring his vision. “
Mon dieu,
it is all too much; she saved my life but lost her own. Am I cursed? Must I be the cause of the death of every woman I hold dear?”

“You said it, St. Cyr, not I,” came Marcel’s emotional reply. Turning on his heel he left the cabin to grieve in private for the flaxen-haired, violet-eyed woman who had come to mean more to him than he could ever imagine. Fate had intervened and taken an innocent life instead of the one he had intended. No woman had ever made such an impression on him in such a short time as Gabrielle St. Cyr!

Philippe would not allow Mercier to set a course directly for New Orleans even though it was determined that they were within one day of that city. Instead, he ordered the ship about to begin a crisscross pattern to cover the area where Gabby might have gone overboard. It was a gamble, albeit one that did not pay off. For three days the
Windward
covered a large portion of the Gulf of Mexico just below the mouth of the Mississippi while the entire crew focused eyes upon socres of tiny uninhabited islands and cays where Gabby might have been washed ashore. It was a hopeless task. No one knew for certain their position at the time she had disappeared. There were no witnesses at all to her heroic deed. Philippe, still weak from his head wound, stood from sunset till sundown at the ship’s rail, endlessly scanning the sea and jewel-like islands dotting the horizon.

Finally, all hope gone of finding Gabby alive, they abandoned the search and entered the Mississippi River for the 107 mile journey to New Orleans. Philippe still had a mission to complete, but nothing could purge from his mind the memory of that silver filly, with hair like moonbeams come to life, he had tried to tame… and failed.

Shortly after Captain Giscard’s death Marcel had been apprised of their destination by Philippe. He had displayed great surprise and anger at being diverted from his passage to Martinique but Philippe had not been taken in by his performance. He could not help but suspect that the man he hated was somehow involved in the accidents that had plagued him since starting on this mission.

Now, as they entered the Mississippi, Marcel brooded silently, casting furtive glances at Philippe who seemed unaware of anything save his own abject misery. It would be easy to lose himself in the crowd once the
Windward
docked, he surmised. He hadn’t succeeded in doing what he set out to do but there was still a remote possibility he might still be able to complete the task and turn failure into success. Much depended on his leaving the ship quickly after it docked and working out the necessary arrangements before Philippe set out to report to General Jackson.

Marcel hurried down the gangplank and disappeared into the streets crowded with longshoremen and military men as soon as the
Windward
had been secured to the pier jutting out into the river. Philippe paid him no heed as he, too, prepared for his own departure ashore.

Only after giving Mcrcier instructions concerning the repair of the
Windward
did Philippe retrieve the packet lying at the bottom of Gabby’s trunk. At the sight of her clothing Philippe nearly lost control of his emotions and had to force himself to leave the cabin where reminders of her were everywhere. Slipping the packet into an inner pocket of his jacket he walked woodenly from the ship onto the levee. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of a city under or about to be under siege. Large stockpiles of arms and food supplies dotted the wharves and streets around the levee. Even the people themselves appeared in turmoil. Philippe walked the short distance to the Place d’Arms, later to be renamed Jackson Square, where he knew General Jackson established headquarters while in the city. If the large number of American soldiers in the city were any indication, then he would assume General Jackson was preparing to defend New Orleans against full-scale British attack. Crossing the street to enter the Place d’Arms, Philippe was suddenly aware of danger, sniffing it out like a hound dog. A loud clatter called his attention to a carriage racing toward him at breakneck speed. Even from a distance he could see that there was no driver, giving it the appearance of being a runaway.

Philippe realized that he could neither retrace his steps nor gain the other side of the street before the carriage would be upon him. He had but one alternative; to attempt to dodge the horses’ hooves and carriage wheels. Accordingly, he dropped to the ground, rolling himself into a tight ball, and when the horses passed over him, successfully maneuvered his body between their driving legs, sustaining a fair number of bruises for his efforts. But the worst was yet to come. The carriage was upon him before he was able to roll completely clear and the right wheel grazed his head, reopening the wound suffered during the storm. In minutes it was all over. People on the streets were crowding around him and several soldiers hurried across the street from the Cabildo to help him to his feet.

“Are you hurt, sir?” asked one of them, brushing the dirt from his coat. “Looks like a nasty gash on your forehead. Best you see a doctor right away.”

“Merci,
thank you,” Philippe repeated in English, moving his hand automatically to his pocket. “I am not seriously injured, just shaken. Did you see where that carriage came from?”

“No, sir,” replied the soldier. “One minute the street was empty and the next that carriage was headed straight for you. We managed to stop it but no one was inside nor did anyone show up yet to claim it. A mystery, it seems,” he said shaking his head.

“Oui,
a mystery,” agreed Philippe cryptically as he dabbed his handkerchief at the bloodied gash on his head, which by now had begun throbbing painfully.

After he asked directions to General Jackson’s headquarters, Philippe’s mind was fertile with speculation. For the third time since undertaking this mission he had nearly lost his life. Already two people were dead he winced when he thought of Gabby one more death would mean nothing to the person or persons who would kill to prevent the document he carried from reaching General Jackson.

Philippe paced Jackson’s outer office for several minutes before the door burst open and a gaunt, white-haired man with tired eyes hurried forward to greet him. “St. Cyr, we have been anxiously awaiting your arrival.” Then he spied the blood on Philippe’s head and noticed the condition of his clothing. “My God, St. Cyr, what happened to you? Come into my office. Sit down, sit down, man. I will call our doctor to see to your injury.”

“It is nothing, General,” protested Philippe who nevertheless took the chair Jackson offered. “An accident outside; a runaway carriage nearly succeeded in ending my life.”

Jackson stared at him fixedly and raised one shaggy eyebrow while Philippe described the accident. “The entire voyage was plagued by senseless accidents. Even the weather was against us. Captain Giscard was killed and… and… my wife was lost overboard during the hurricane that struck several days ago.” The bleakness of Philippe’s voice distressed Jackson greatly but he said nothing, waiting for Philippe to continue. “I’m convinced that the accidents that led to those deaths and the attempts on my own life were the work of a spy bent on keeping the document I have in my possession from reaching you.” Then he reached into his inner pocket and extracted the packet that he had protected at great personal sacrifice.

Deep furrows etched their way across General Jackson’s already lined face as he sought the words to express his gratitude, knowing that nothing he could do or say would bring back Philippe’s wife or Captain Giscard.

“What can I say, St. Cyr,” said the general in genuine sympathy, “except that you have the undying gratitude of the American people and the French government. With the information in this document we will know for a certainty if the British plan on attacking the city of New Orleans or have some other target in mind.”

Then he tore open the packet and quickly scanned the several pages, his taut face lightening considerably. “By sea,” he announced, eyes glowing. “And soon. It also says that the British plan to enlist the aid of Jean Lafitte. The Baratarian gulf is an important approach to New Orleans and they need the cooperation of Lafitte to gain access.”

“I am aware of the contents,” said Philippe. “Both Captain Giscard and myself read the document as a precaution. But isn’t Lafitte a pirate?”

“He goes under many names and pirate is one of them. But if he agrees to help the British we are as good as defeated.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he did,” grunted Jackson. “Governor Clairborne recently ordered American Navy ships to Barataria, Lafitte’s Stronghold, where they shelled the island, sank several of Lafitte’s ships and captured some of his men. What is amazing is that Lafitte did not fire back. He later sent a message to the governor saying that he considered himself an American and would not fire upon his own country’s ships. Then he offered to help fight the British when the time came.”

“And did the governor accept Lafitte’s offer?”

“The stupid man still does not trust Lafitte, but I intend to deal with him myself to judge if he is sincere in his wish to aid us. One of his lieutenants has agreed to guide two of my men to Barataria to learn where Lafitte’s loyalties lie.”

“Is the city prepared to fight?” asked Philippe. “What of the citizenry?”

“Most do not believe the British are a threat. I’m sure they would rather be under British rule than American. But now that I have proof of the imminent attack I will redouble my efforts to alert the people and prepare them to defend their city.”

“On my way here I saw stockpiles of weapons and supplies along the levee. Seems like you have a good start.”

“Were that only true,” sighed Jackson wearily. “We are woefully short of certain arms and of musket flints and are now in the process of scouring the countryside for our needs. According to this,” he said, indicating the secret papers in his hand, “I have little enough time in which to fortify and arm the city and prepare its citizens to fight.” He sighed again and ran his long, bony fingers through his thatch of white hair. Philippe sensed his preoccupation with war and its portents and rose to leave. Jackson noticed Philippe’s movement from the chair and seemed startled to see him still in his office, as if thought of war had banished all else from his mind. Graciously, he offered his hand once more to Philippe.

“St. Cyr, again, I thank you on behalf of the American people. I only wish I had the power to bring your wife back. If there is anything I can do, please feel free to ask.”