02 Fever Season

Fifteen

The Jolly Boatman's lights burned through the rain like a scattering of rusty jackstraws. From the weed-grown alley January listened. The bass rumble of men's voices carried easily through the thin plank walls. The shutters were closed against the storm, and here in the Swamp no street lamps burned. In his rough corduroy jacket and dark trousers, January blended with the night.

Curiously, though it was past curfew, he felt safe. The City Guards avoided the Swamp. Should he be attacked or murdered himself, he could look for neither protection nor vengeance, but he was too angry now for that to matter, and in any case he was coming to understand that the Swamp was not the only place where that was true. In his belt, against every law of the state of Louisiana, he wore both knives he'd taken from his would-be killers. He carried the dead man's slungshot rolled up in his pocket. The only reason he hadn't added the pistol to his arsenal was because the lock had been drenched in the puddles of his mother's yard, and there was no time to dry it. The weapon and its attendant powder-bottle now reposed under his mattress.

Ten, maybe eleven buildings backed up against the turning basin-it was difficult to tell where St.

Gertrude's Clinic started and ended. January memorized rooflines as well as he could against the pitchy dark of the sky, then moved along the wall through the weeds and muck. Listening. Listening.

"Hell with 'er, I ain't goin' out in this," said a man's voice, so close January nearly jumped. Jaundiced lanternlight sprayed the rain around a door in the shack on the Boatman's riverward side. Forms jostled in the opening. By daylight January would have been visible. He doubted he was so now, even had the two men emerging into the weedy yard been sober.

They weren't, however. A narrow strip of yard backed the shack, and the grimy waters of the canal lay beyond, the view broken by a small and mangy outhouse.

Both men turned their backs on the canal, and urinated against the wall of the house. Rain running down his hair and under the collar band of his calico shirt, January had to agree with their sentiments.

When the men had gone in again he continued his wary circuit of the building. He'd brought a small bull'seye lantern, and with the slide closed nearly completely and the dark side of the lantern turned toward the building, he doubted he could be seen even had anyone next door taken his attention from his cards long enough to look. The Jolly Boatman ran down almost to the waters of the canal, separated only by a sodden yard that quite obviously doubled as a general privy.

He'd already observed that the building itself was large for the Swamp, though it held at most three rooms. The barroom occupied most of the floor space, orange light blearing through the shutters; table legs scraped on the floorboards, barely audible under the steady roar of the rain. A man's voice rambled on, low and conspiratorial, about how a hundred Americans properly armed could easily seize the harbor at Cartagena, march overland to Bogota...

January moved on. What he estimated to be a storeroom lay behind the bar, silent and dark but far too close to the scene of commerce to house kidnapped men and women. Not that the men who patronized the saloon would care if the Perrets, Robois Roque, Virgil and Cora and a hundred others were chained in a corner of the barroom weeping, he reflected with a queer cold detachment. But word would get out if someone thought there was a reward to be had. Next to the storeroom lay another chamber, dark also and probably also originally another storeroom, or perhaps the late barkeep's boudoir. There was certainly a bed in there, anyway. He could hear the ropes creak rhythmically, and the knock-knock-knock of the frame against the outer wall. The lovely Bridgit and the equally lovely Thalia?

Roarke's lady friend Mistress Trudi? There was no other sound.

So where the hell were they keeping them? He couldn't be wrong. He knew he couldn't.

It was possible that the kidnappings had been planned with an eye to handing the victims straight to the brokers. January settled his wide shoulders into the corner where the Boatman's rough kitchen thrust out toward the canal. But turning the victims over immediately would only raise problems for the brokers, the kinds of problems they looked to an outfit like Roarke's to solve for them.

The heated tin of the lantern made a localized radiance against his thigh. He slipped the cover enough to show him where to tread. At the kitchen's end, only feet from the choppy black of the turning basin, he widened the chink still farther and scanned the ground, though he didn't expect to find much, after hours of hammering rain. Keelboats rocked at the wharves of warehouses built around the Basin, squat craft with low cargo boxes, long steering oars knocking in their locks. No wharf lay behind the Jolly Boatman itself. He'd half-expected there would be, given the difficulties of forcing men and women down a rope or ladder to a keelboat's deck without a fuss.

Rain sluiced down his face. St. Gertrude's loomed above him like a lightless mountain, but the stink of it flowed over him, even in the downpour.

Turning back, January studied the saloon again. The kitchen shed was barely taller than his own head at its lower side; though like most "quarters" buildings, its roof rose at an angle of more than forty-five degrees to the outside of the yard. Unlike most of the flat-roofed shacks thereabouts, the saloon itself was easily tall enough to accommodate an attic. The ceiling of the barroom, January recalled, was low.

There was a window up there, within easy reach of the kitchen roof.

Stepping back a few paces, January found that one of the lightless service wings of the clinic backed straight onto the rear of the kitchen, so closely that they shared a party wall. Its inner side was lower still.

It was a quick scramble to the roof of the one, then up the steep slope and over the ridge to the roof of the other, and so along to the window under the Boatman's eaves. From there it was an easy matter to flip the catch of the shutter with the back of a knife blade-the shutters fit sufficiently ill they would have admitted a finger. Slatternly light trickled through gapped floorboards and showed him a big room, low pitched, uninhabited, and ostensibly safe. He hoisted himself over the sill, closed the shutter, and flipped shut the catch again, lest the heavy wooden leaf bang in the wind. Carefully he held the lantern up for a better look. The room was hot and stank. Astonishingly, the roof didn't leak, like the plank floor another tribute to Roarke's business acumen. Smoke rose through the ill-fitting boards as well as light, shifting wraiths that collected thick under the ridgepole. The stench of it and of tobacco spit rose, too, nauseating: filthy clothes, spilt liquor, dirty bodies, dirty hair. The sweetish, pissy odor of rats.

And none of it masked the all-encompassing sticky reek of opium.

Boxes of it were stacked on a couple of boards, laid across the floor joists above the ceiling's more fragile planking. January edged out along the joists; the crates were marked BRITISH EAST INDIA COMPANY and heaped nearly to the rafters. Rats had gnawed one corner, and lay dead or stuporous, surrounded by trails of ants.

Kaintucks as a rule preferred to pickle their brains in alcohol. It was January's experience that flatboatmen so sodden with forty-rod that they could barely speak would still spit on an opium-eater with contempt.

But there was more opium here than he'd seen in the back room of Soublet's clinic.

Soublet's clinic.

Cautiously, January began to make his way toward the attic's north wall. Away from the noisier plotting of the filibusters (And what do they think the Spanish government's going to be doing during all this? Or the French? Or the British Navy?) other voices came clear, soft though they were, nearly under his feet.

A grunting Kaintuck nasal. Roarke's honeyed Liffey drawl. And a well-bred Creole accent, a mellow tenor that it took him a moment to place:

"... watched the place all yesterday, but he never came near it."

"Doesn't the man ever sleep?" That was Roarke's voice, speaking, as H?lier spoke, in French. "Gotch and Hog-Nose should have been back by this time."

"I still say it's a shame to make away with him. His size, he'd fetch eleven, twelve hundred..."

January felt the hair of his nape prickle. They were talking about him. Roarke, and H?lier Lapatie.

Is that you? Helier had called out to him once, in English. It hadn't occurred to him then to wonder to whom the water seller spoke.

"Not that kind, he wouldn't," said Roarke. "His English is too good and there's too many as would miss him..."

"And what would they do?" demanded H?lier's voice. "Go up to the Missouri Territory looking for the man?"

"Now, my friend, you know what they say about simplest plans being best." Roarke's voice, musical at any time, became purringly conciliatory. "And your first plan was the dandy. Only those as we know have nobody to go askin' after 'em. That was the brilliance of your idea."

"Well..." muttered H?lier, sulky like a sulky child, eating up praise.

"You saw what happened when you were laid up, and Gotch and Hog-Nose got greedy and brought our big black bhoy-o askin' after questions in the first place."

"Hog-Nose is a cretin!" snapped H?lier sharply. "I was very specific when I said only those I'd marked for capture..." H?lier. The cripple selling water in the streets.

The man who stopped to chat and gossip with every housewife, every other peddler. The man who knew everyone's business almost as thoroughly as Marie Laveau. January felt a rush of furious heat and crept silently on.

Mamzelle Marie wasn't the only person in town to have her spies. Almost certainly she paid H?lier for information, little guessing what the water seller made of the knowledge he collected himself or to whom else he sold it. I should have guessed. Their informant as to who was safe, who had family, whose neighbors were gone, would almost have to be black or colored. Servants wouldn't gossip with a white man.

He was trembling with anger, though whether at H?lier or at himself he did not know.

Why did that make it worse? Men are men and make their livings how best they can.

He should have suspected H?lier, with his spite against those whose lives were more comfortable than his own. He could hear it now in the water seller's voice, and in Roarke's as the Irishman coaxed and praised his accomplice: praise that might, January thought, be as treasured as the money. Even if H?lier himself were ill or missing, those he worked for would still know the names and houses of those he'd chosen, like a farmer choosing lambs for the pot.

It was his pity for the man's infirmity that had blinded him. Pity? he wondered. Or the assumption that as a cripple he was helpless-in itself the contempt H?lier despised.

Along the attic's swamp-side wall January found half a dozen cardboard boxes that scuttered at his approach with a stinking confusion of fleeing gray bodies. He crouched for a better look, and slipped back the lantern slide. The boxes contained nothing very remarkable. It was the implication of what he saw, rather than the objects themselves, that made his hair prickle with a renewed fever-wash of rage.

What they held were only rough trousers of osnaburg cloth, new and stiff as boards, unworn, the kind made cheaply for laborers or slaves; and the cheapest calico dresses and headscarves available.

"Consarn!" exclaimed a voice in Kaintuck English almost directly beneath his feet. "I never seen sech a place for water! Ever' damn buildin' leakin' like Noah's flood!"

"Shut up." Roarke's voice, deadly soft. January felt their silence. Silence in which the thunder of the rain seemed overwhelming, but not loud enough to cover the slow drip of his soaked clothing on the ceiling boards.

He could almost feel them looking up, and froze like a deer: It's only a leak. It's only a leak. But the flimsy walls vibrated with even the stealthy opening of the door that led to the attic stairs, and at the first shudder of ascending feet, he bolted. His own thundering footfalls along the joist brought the men below pounding up the stairs with no further thought for surprise; January flung open the window shutter as someone yelled behind him; the crash of a gun filled the attic's hollow as he dove through.

Rain streamed in his face, slicked the shakes of the kitchen roof as he scrabbled for his balance on the steep slant. A second shot barked. To his right and down he saw men in the yard, Roarke's height and white coat and fair hair plastered straight, rendering the Irishman visible through the rainy murk and dark jostle of bodies. January flipped himself over the top of the roof-ridge and fell three or four feet to the slanted roof of the service wing on the other side, ran along it, keeping low, headed for the basin. A moment later Roarke's voice roared, "There he goes, lads!" and another shot cracked. The ball sliced a burning track across the muscles of his thigh.

Roarke and three men were now on his left, behind St. Gertrude's-Cut through the kitchen, thought January. The two buildings are connected.

He reached the end of the service wing, the men clamoring beneath him like possum hounds, a glister of eyes and teeth in the sudden flare of lightning. When he leapt up onto the kitchen building again he was skylighted against the rainy blackness, and another ball passed close enough over his head that he could hear it whistle. There were men on that side, how many he couldn't tell.

From the end of the kitchen, if he remembered rightly, it was about four feet to the cutting of the basin's bank. No wharf, no steps, no boat.

He reached the kitchen end two strides ahead of his pursuers. There was no time to think, almost none to feel fear, and in any case fear was beside the point. He knew he was a dead man. As he flung himself outward into blackness something passed across the flesh of his back like a red-hot whip-the thought went through his mind with weird leisureliness that many of the riverboatmen could shoot the eye out of a squirrel on a branch. Then he hit the water like Lucifer falling: blackness, suffocation, cold.

At the downstream end of the American faubourg of St. Mary, even the more respectable of the rooming houses jumbled among the brickyards, warehouses, and mercantile establishments along Magazine and Tchoupitoulas Streets didn't have much over the buildings in the Swamp. They were slightly taller and rather sturdier, and fewer of them were devoted to the active pursuit of alcohol sales or prostitution, but that January could almost hear his mother's smoky voice saying the words-was about all that could be said.

The rain-swamped yard around the privy of the tall, raw-looking whitewashed building on Gravier Street smelled just as bad. And it was just as easy to scramble to the top of the shed at the end of the kitchen building, up to the kitchen roof-two stories high, this time, with slave quarters above the kitchen-and along the high ridge to flip back the shutter of a rear window overlooking the odoriferous yard. January was making an educated guess about which of the boardinghouse rooms was the one he sought. It would probably be the farthest back in the building on the highest inhabited floor, with a grand view of the slave quarters and the kitchen with their attendant smells and heat.

He pulled the shutter open and snaked through fast. He'd lost the lantern-either in the turning basin or in the attic of the Jolly Boatman, he couldn't remember-and was almost certain the lucifers in his pocket were too soaked to function. As soon as he stepped clear of the window's problematical light he whispered, "Lieutenant Shaw?"

"Right behind you, friend," replied a voice from nowhere near the likely location of the bed. "You got any especial reason for callin' informally like this?"

"It's Benjamin January." He'd never seen Shaw anything but lazy and slouching and spitting tobacco with an appalling lack of accuracy, but he'd also never been fooled by the man. "I thought I might have been followed or they might be watching for me in the street out front." All the way here through the lightless, foul warren of shacks and fences near the basin, and along the oozing lanes that paralleled Canal Street, he had dared not leave the shadows. The strain of listening behind him, of watching in every direction through the obscuring sheets of black rain, had left him as exhausted as if he'd run for miles.

Lightning flared outside. It showed him, as he'd suspected, the bed empty, mosquito-bar bundled carelessly to the side. The light was gone before he could turn or see anything else, and the dark deeper than before. He heard not the slightest whisper of scuff or footfall. Nevertheless, the next moment a scratch of sulfurous matchlight holed the darkness beside the bed. The slow-widening glow showed him the Kaintuck lieutenant hunkered naked on the floor by the bedside chair-the room didn't boast a table-holding lucifer to candlewick with one hand while the other kept a grip on the biggest skinning knife January had ever seen. Under a lank curtain of pale-brown hair Shaw's gray eyes were like an animal's, cold and watchful, ascertaining that his visitor was in fact alone.

Only after he'd satisfied himself of this did he stand, knobby as an old horse and scarred across pelvis, ribs, and arms with the ragged pale gouges of old wounds, and reach for his pants, hung neatly over the back of the chair. "I take it you found the fellas who's been kidnappin' yore sister's friends?"

One never needed to explain much to Shaw. "Roarke," answered January. "The Jolly Boatman's connected at the back with St. Gertrude's Clinic. The attic's full of opium to keep them quiet, and clothes to put on them when they take them out of there on keelboats up to the bayou and out across the lake."

"You see this?"

"I saw the opium and the clothes, and the connection between the clinic and the Boatman's kitchen."

"They see you?"

"I had to swim for it."

"You're lucky." Shaw was dressing while he spoke: trousers, boots, shirt, and coat, moving with the silent speed of a snake. "They'll be clearin' 'em out. Boechter and LaBranche-two of my men-sleep in the attic here. You shuck whatever weaponry you're packin' whilst I fetch 'em down." He caught the room's single threadbare towel from the bar on the back of the door as he passed it, flung it back to January out of the hall's blackness. He didn't take the candle. January guessed Abishag Shaw was the kind of man who would have found the kitchen knifedrawer in the dark.

Shaw was back in minutes, accompanied by Constable Boechter, a swart little Bavarian still rubbing sleep from his eyes. January had toweled dry his hair and face-not that it would make a particle of difference in ten minutes -and had set the slungshot and one of the two knives on top of the neat, shoulder-high arrangement of packingcases that occupied the whole of the room's riverward wall. The cases held an assortment of tidily folded calico shirts, another pair of clean but sorry trousers, and a dozen or more books. The tops of them were strewn with weapons-pistols, knives, brass powder-flasks and sacks of balls; a braided leather sap, an iron knuckle-duster. A six-and-a-half-foot-long rifle with a dozen crosses cut neatly in its stock hung on pegs above the bed. When Shaw and Boechter returned to the room Shaw began gathering these weapons and distributing them about his angular personhe'd acquired another plug of tobacco from somewhere as well-and January felt a flash of anger, that by the law of the state he could only follow this man like an unarmed valet.

"LaBranche went for reinforcements," the Kaintuck remarked as he checked the pistols' loads. "We been watchin' Roarke some little time, over one thing and an other. Not havin' a fancy to break my neck or drown'd, I'd say we got no choice but to follow up the shell road on foot. With luck we'll catch 'em 'fore they make the lakeGod knows, in rain like this they won't be makin' much time. You got any idea how many are in it, Maestro?"

January shook his head. "Five, maybe ten."

"We'll catch 'em, then." Shaw spat on the floor. The whole place was stained and sticky with old expectorations, the smell of the tobacco a faint, sweet queasiness in the heat. "Even haulin' on the canal they won't be making but a few rods an hour, an' when they hit the Bayou it'll get worse. Roarke'll never make it across the lake in this weather, but he's got a place up along the shore just over the border into Jefferson Parish. If so be he reaches it, we're in for some trouble."

It wasn't likely, after all this time, that they'd be there, January thought, as he strode through the darkness along Canal Street, head down in the sheeting rain. Not Cora. Rose?

His heart beat hard and heavy. She'd been missing only three days. Three days since she'd walked away from the Cabildo into the gathering dusk, with nowhere to go and no one to know if she vanished.

No one except H?lier Lapatie.

How long did they keep them before shipping them out?

They skirted the shacks and slums that lay between Rampart Street and Basin, passed the dark trees of Congo Square, silent in the rain. The smell of the burying grounds hung thick on the gluey night, and January wondered if the dark form he saw under those trees was Bronze John himself, or just one of the dead-cart men taking refuge from the storm. His clothes stuck to his body in the wet, and the exertions of the night whispered to him from exhausted muscles; but he moved on, following Shaw's scraggy pale form and followed in turn by Boechter-hustling hard to keep up with the two taller men-fueled by the fury in his heart.

Under the shallow embankment of mud and tree roots, the canal rattled with the rain, a hollow roaring, like tons of deer-shot being emptied into the sea. What scattered lights there were-here and there lanterns in sheds and bordellos-gave place to the shapeless dark of the city hastures, then the thunder of rain in the trees of the night browned swamps. Lightning flashed far off over the lake now and then, and showed up the fidgeting trees, the desolation that the French called the "desert." After each purile glare the dark was like blindness, through which the shell road shone like a bone, and the sound of water running off the back of Shaw's hat-brim was a constant, a localized spatter, in a world of deluge.

After almost half an hour they reached the Bayou, turned right along it and crossed over Judge Martin's stone bridge. The road ran a little wider along the murky water course. Somewhere to their left lay the oak- trees that constituted the favorite dueling ground outside the city, and the dark buildings of Monsieur Allard's plantation beyond those. Across the Bayou, January thought he could make out the glistening track of the towpath, hugging the water's edge and slippery with rain.

Shaw was right. They wouldn't be making much time. Even with well over an hour's start, they'd be skidding and falling in the mud, unable to get a footing against the weight of the keelboat, blind with the hammering water: It said a great deal for Roarke's command over his men that they hadn't abandoned their task thus far.

"There." January pointed.

"I see 'em." Shaw squinted through the flooded darkness at the firefly twinkle of lights. "Though where the hell LaBranche and his boys got to-"

Under the rain the snap of a shot sounded like a breaking twig, then another and a third.

"Damnation!" Shaw started to run, startlingly graceful and astonishingly fast. "I told that idjit not to brace 'em!"

January ran, too, knowing what Roarke was bound to do if attacked.

Hooded lanterns bobbed under the dripping canopy of overhanging trees. LaBranche and his reinforcements ranged along the Bayou Road, firing down at the keelboat in the narrow confines of the channel. By the single light fixed on the boat's prow January glimpsed two or three forms moving back and forth along the towpath on the other side, though now and then a belch of flame showed up a gun muzzle in the blackness. Over the rain he thought he heard a ball tear into the tupelo thickets between the shell road and the water's edge. One such flare from the top of the keelboat showed him H?lier's face, and the red splash like blood that was his shirt; by the lantern light January saw the water seller throw down his pistol, unable to reload, and tug another from his belt. Men ran back and forth along the catwalks of the gunnels, dodging and shooting; January saw the jitter and sway of lantern light in the cargo box below and heard a muffled voice yell, "Hold 'em off, boys!"

January plunged down from the road, hearing the tear and whistle of bullets but knowing himself nearly invisible in the rain. Shaw was somewhere to his right. The Bayou was deep hereabouts, twelve feet or more. He flung himself in, black water and the black loom of the boat above him, and men in the lantern light, firing down.

Someone grappled him as he scrambled up onto the gunwale catwalk and they rocked and struggled, a hand digging at his forehead and eyes. He seized the man's wrist and wrenched it over, driving his whole weight against the arm-heard the man scream. He flung him into the canal, then plunged and fought his way toward the doorway of the cabin, hearing as he did so the sodden crack of an ax. Someone grabbed him, dragging at him. He wrenched and twisted, knowing there had to be a knife in play and saw by the flare of the lantern light the crippled H?lier's handsome, boyish face. He pulled the knife free of H?lier's hand-the man had no more strength to his grip than a young lad-and pushed him aside. Later he thought he should have held him. But he knew what Roarke was doing in the cabin and knew, too, that he had to get there first.

One of the City Guards made a grab for the water seller. H?lier sprang, scrambling, staggering, to the catwalk at the nose of the boat. Afterward January didn't know whether the sheer weight of struggling men on the keelboat was responsible, jerking and bobbing the vessel so that the cripple could not keep his balance, or whether H?lier flung himself into the water with some notion of swimming ashore.

If the latter, he should have known better. If the former, he never had a chance. January saw one arm thrash wildly above the surface of the water as H?lier tried to bring his twisted body around to some position that would permit swimming, but it was hopeless.

Below him, January heard again the strike of an ax on wood.

In panic fury he kicked his way through the cabin door and ducked as Roarke swung around on him, ax in hand. Had Roarke dropped the weapon and gone for the pistol in his belt then he'd have had January cold. As it was his hands were both full and the cabin, with its two tiny bunks occupied by the slumped bodies of three naked, mumbling men and women in the lantern's jerking light, pinned his big body, smothering his stroke. January dodged the first ax blow, which buried the weapon's head in the doorjamb beside his shoulder. He ripped with the skinning knife, a deliberate blow, meaning to gut, meaning to kill. Roarke seized his arm, thrust him off. Water splashed up through the split bottom of the keelboat, around their knees and rising. January came at him fast, and Roarke fumbled in his belt, belatedly pulled out the pistol; January flinched aside and slapped water, hard, hurling it into the man's eyes. The shot went wild, like the clap of doom in the tiny cabin, and then Shaw said, "That'll be enough of that, Mr. Roarke," quietly, as if reprimanding a not-very-obstreperous drunk.

He was aiming a pistol; another was in his belt. Roarke flung himself at Shaw, dodging aside as the pistol roared, and bearing him down, his own knife leaping to his hand. January dragged him back and with a single hard blow to the jaw sent him spinning against the bulkhead. The last expression in Roarke's eyes, before he slumped unconscious, was furious, indignant surprise.