The Captain`s Vengeance

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ah, well," Mr. Gideon Pollock said with a heavy sigh of disappointment, once Lewrie had related the results of his hours spent "shopping" and comparing prices. "I suppose I must delve into things myself."

"Sorry, Mister Pollock," Lewrie replied with a whimsical shrug. "But I fear my forte ain't in Commerce. Without making notes, which'd have got me thrown out on my ear, I couldn't keep track of it. Whereas you know to the farthing what's a fair price. No scribblin' necessary with you, d'ye see. It's all up here," he said as he tapped his forehead.

"Um, yayss… ahem," Pollock said with a somewhat dubious expression, and another of his cough-twitch-whinnies; questioning, perhaps, whether Lewrie possessed anything inside his skull.

"At least Jugg and I did meet with that Ellison fellow, him and his reeky gang," Lewrie pointed out. "Seemed quite the 'Captain Sharp' to me. He admitted he was tied up in that state of Franklin affair."

"Well, that would depend on who are his employers," Mr. Pollock grudgingly allowed, fretting round the super-cargo's spacious cabin on the Azucena del Oeste, transferring possessions from his sea chests to a leather valise, "tut-tutting" and "ha-humming" to himself as he sorted out clean shirts, stockings, neck-stocks, underdrawers, and his slim wardrobe of waist-coats and trousers. "I would expect that Ellison most likely is an agent for richer men, as he baldly stated to you. In what capacity, however… ahem. After he left your ken, though, Mister James Hawk Ellison came aboard our emporium hulk."

"As I suggested," Lewrie reminded the man, hoping that his day's work had borne some fruit, "that he look at the air-rifles and-"

"Which he and his fellows did," Pollock said with a crafty grin, interrupting his packing long enough to turn and smile at Lewrie. "And they were all most desirous of arms and ammuniton. Not merely muskets or pistols, but heavier ordnance, as well, hmm! Mister Ellison asked of the availability of brass four-pounders, or old regimental guns… brass six-pounders, or 'grasshopper' guns, Coehorn mortars and such."

"Aha! I knew the man wasn't straight!" Lewrie boasted, since it looked like he might be the only one to do so over his covert delvings. "So, he's the vanguard of a Yankee invasion?"

"His service during the Revolution, which Ellison revealed to me as quickly as he did to you," Pollock smugly said as he carefully folded a pair of white silk stockings, "does worry me a bit. Oh, that he's involved with some sort of filibustering expedition, I have no doubt. I fear, though, that is our Mister Ellison still a serving officer in the American Army, he just might have been sent to New Orleans by an incredibly aspiring man by name of General James Wilkinson, Lewrie. An aspiring man, indeed, ahem."

And damn all spies, Foreign Office, amateur, or otherwise! Lewrie sourly thought; Twigg, Pelham, Peel, this clod, they're all the same… smug when they know something you don't, and damn' near pissin' themselves for you t 'beg 'em t'tell it to you!

"And who is James Wilkinson when he's up and dressed?" he asked finally, in almost a rote monotone, which lack of enthusiasm stopped Pollock dead in his tracks and made him turn, twitch-whinny, and glare.

"Wilkinson is the senior officer in charge of the American Army, which garrisons the states of Tennessee and Kentucky, Lewrie," Pollock archly cooed, "which is rather ironic, since before Kentucky became an established state in the Union in 1792, Wilkinson was scheming to seize the whole damned thing and make it a personal fief! He might have done the same for Tennessee, had he not been opposed by a set of politicians, lawyers, and planters even richer and more influential than he could ever hope to be. General Wilkinson came down to New Orleans himself in 1787, when the former Captain-General of Louisiana recruited him as a secret agent. He's known to the Dons as Agent Thirteen… bad luck for someone, hey? Wilkinson's well thought of by many in the Congress and just may end up the Commanding General of the United States Army in a new administration! He's rumoured to be close to Mister Thomas Jefferson and his faction, and Jefferson 's rumoured to be planning to oppose their current president, John Adams.

"Horrid idea, that," Pollock quibbled, looking disgusted with Democracy's machinations. "Set terms for public office keep bad men in place too long, and depose good'uns… when our way lets us call a by-election if one of ours proves himself a criminal or a fool."

"They're an odd people, our Yankee Doodles." Lewrie snickered. "The way that fellow Ellison just blurted out his whole life story to me in the first ten minutes… prosed on worse than a jobless Irish poet! You think Ellison and his crew were sent here to spy out things for Wilkinson? If he can't have Kentucky or Tennessee, he still hopes to strike out on his own and take Louisiana… for the United States, or himself?"

"A very good possibility, given his past proclivities, Lewrie." Mr. Pollock sagaciously leered before returning to his packing. "If Ellison reports on how weak the Spanish garrisons are, Wilkinson may invade the Muscle Shoals, Yazoo, or Alabama River country right off. The Spanish have very little control there. Acting on Jefferson 's behest, he would raise his political prospects to the top of the heap with such a land-grab… and eclipse any of his potential opponents."

"If the Americans start a war with Spain, it wouldn't be much of one," Lewrie surmised. "Not with re-enforcements so distant. Not as long as we're at war with 'em, and the Royal Navy in the way. And the American Navy to guard the approaches to the Gulf…"

"Unless we side with Spain against the Yankees, Lewrie. So we gain concessions in Louisiana and Florida to buttress the Dons. Then we also tear them away from France 's embrace," Mr. Pollock dreamily speculated, head cocked to one side. "Didn't think o' that'un, did ye, hey? Ahem."

"My word, I-"

"Cheaper than mounting an expedition from Jamaica, and another all the way downriver from Canada," Pollock wheezed with merriment at the possibility. "My firm with an exclusive franchise from the Crown in these lands for good service… Ah!" Pollock took a long moment to savour that outcome, then suddenly sobered. "Unless," he grumped, "Ellison's been sicced on me to catch me selling arms, acting on suspicions inside the Cabildo… or General Wilkinson's way of eliminating a British firm he suspects. Or, is in competition with commerical cronies backing his secret plans. Either way, avoid Ellison and his men like the plague, Lewrie. You've bigger fish to fry, heh heh! You've our mysterious pirates to smoak out… Lanxade and Balfa need running to earth. For now, those Yankees are an idle distraction. For my part, I shan't sell them more than a few trade muskets… profitable though such a transaction would be. There's too much risk from exposure, and a very public trial for spying. Quickly followed a public garotting," Pollock warned, involuntarily massaging his own neck.

Executions in Spanish lands didn't required a gallows-going for "the high jump," doing the "Tyburn hornpipe." The Dons preferred sitting one down in a stout chair, then slowly strangling the convicted with a garotte… one agonising twist of the ropes at a time.

Such qualms on Pollock's odd features quite made Lewrie feel at his own throat and swallow a few times.

"No sense in arming the competition, sir?" Lewrie asked instead.

"Quite so, Lew- Pardon, Mister Willoughby." Pollock beamed. "I might even aspire to report Ellison to the Dons, do they importune me for a large consignment of arms. Or try to bribe me. And all of it well witnessed by my clerks, heh heh! Commerce, Mister Willoughby, is not quite so dull an enterprise as you'd imagine, ahem. When spryer and younger, and moving pack-trains among the Cherokee and Upper Creek Indians in the Revolution… fiercely in competition with Americans such as McGilliveray Sons out of Charleston, well… it was a war to the knife, and no quarter!" Pollock modestly preened over his past derring-do and skullduggery. "Pan-ton, Leslie gave as good as it got!"

Sure as Hell I won't mention Desmond to him! Lewrie considered.

"Well, I think we're ready to go ashore," Pollock announced. "Whyever are ye not packed, Mister Willoughby?"

"Ashore?" Lewrie gawped back. "First I've heard of it."

"Oh, so sorry," Pollock gaily said, not sounding sorry at all. "Best for your persona, do you take shore lodgings in a modest pension or boarding-house. The cost is middlin', and the local cuisine's most delectable, bein' French, d'ye see? Best get cracking, Willoughby, or it will be completely dark before we get you settled."

"I don't have a shore-going bag," Lewrie complained, springing to his feet. "No one told me I needed one, and-"

"No matter," Pollock objected, "for I'm sure we have a suitable valise aboard… for which I may gladly offer you a handsome discount, seeing as how it will go towards furthering the Crown's interests."

"What if I just lease or rent?" Lewrie dubiously wondered.

"Oh no, that'd never do, Lewrie," Pollock quibbled. "For once we come back aboard, it'll have been used, and I could not in good conscience flog it off on someone else as good as new."

Damn him, I knew he'd find a way t'pry me loose from a guinea or two! Lewrie thought; Tradesmen! Bah!

"We'll allow your Navy lads shore liberty, along with the brig's crew as well." Pollock further blandly announced.

"But I haven't warned 'em yet," Lewrie quickly rejoined, fearing what-all they might blab when in their cups ashore without a stern lecture. Would some of them "run" was another instant worry.

"Then you'd best be at it, shouldn't you," Pollock said, tapping a foot in growing impatience, and eagerness to savour the city's joys. "If you do not mind, I will take part in that, ahem. Your man, Jugg, should be given a roving brief and a freer hand, since he most likely, in my cautious estimation, has been to New Orleans before and knows his way about… and knows the names and faces of those we seek, from his past, ah… employments? I propose that Jugg temporarily report to me, not you. Now 'til next morning, say, 'til Eight Bells and the start of the Forenoon Watch, for your hands' return, so they may carouse ashore?"

"That'd do, I expect," Lewrie begrudgingly said, "Uh, what'll I need ashore, how much should I pack, then? "

"Oh, no more than a change or two of clothing," Pollock guessed. "Your current 'sporting' togs and a fresh shirt and stockings will do. Take those shipboard things you wore on the way upriver, the hunting shirt and such… as if that's all you own at present. A full purse, it goes without saying… and all your, um… weapons. One cannot tell what sort of footpads one may come across."

"You're so reassuring," Lewrie said with a faint sneer as he opened the cabin door to go forward to his own small accommodations.

Not one hour later he was ashore and cozily ensconced in one of Pollock's "open and airy" appartements (as the Frogs termed them) in a pension at the corner of Bourbon Street and Rue Ste. Anne. His rooms were two storeys above the ground floor, up narrow, rickety stairs, and any felons who wished to scrag him couldn't help making the most hellish racket on their way up to get at him, he cautiously reasoned. It actually was a promisingly pleasant place, a tad spare when it came to elegant furnishings, but it was clean and (relatively) bug-free, with bed linens, towels, and drapes still redolent of boiling water and soap, fresh washed. The "airy" part came from three complete sets of glazed doors that served for gigantic windows, all of which led out to a wraparound upper balcony fronted with intricate wrought-iron railings, and even the stench from the bricked streets with too-narrow sidewalks and no drains or gutters by the kerbs wasn't that bad, for all the detritus seemed to end up in the sunken centres of the cobbled streets, where, Lewrie suspected, it stayed till the next rainstorm flushed it asea… or down the street, where another neighbourhood could enjoy it!

Not a true set of rooms, really; he'd gotten one large, open, high-ceilinged chamber as a parlour, fitted out with a mismatched set of chairs and a settee, corner tables, end tables, a faded carpet, and some cast-off horrors for framed paintings and such, aligned along Rue Bourbon. A wide, stub-walled archway at the Ste. Anne end delineated the bedchamber, further separated from the parlour by a pair of sham Chinee folding screens.

He'd packed in a hurry, though taking time enough to place his pair of twin-barreled Manton pistols deep in his new valise, a pair of pocket pistols in his clothes, his hanger on his hip, new sword-cane in his hand, and a wavy-bladed and razor-keen Mindanao krees knife up his left sleeve, a "remembrance" he'd picked up off a piratical Lanun Rover in the Far East.

Lewrie had had time, too, to warn his men about the parts they were to play-adventurers signed on as Mr. Pollock's muscles-and that they should not get so drunk that their time in the Royal Navy got blabbed as present-day status. Poor Furfy had the hardest time understanding.

"Desmond, a private word," Lewrie had bade the happy-go-lucky Irish rogue. "You've a sensible head on your shoulders, though I fear your mate Furfy's not the quickest wit was ever dropped."

"An' that he is, sorry t'say, sor," Desmond commiserated. "A grand feller Furfy is, a fast friend, but… nary th' sort o' man t'even sham clever."

"You'll look out for him special, Desmond," Lewrie charged him. "Furfy is a good sailor, aye, and I'd hate to lose him or let him get in trouble if liquor frees his tongue, or ties it."

"Oi'll see to it, sor, swear it," Desmond soberly vowed, though how "sober" he'd be himself within the hour was doubtful. Let sailors get at drink, and they'd be senseless, roaring drunk in a turn-about of your head! Faster than you could say "Luff"!

"I knew I could count on you, Desmond," Lewrie had replied, not quite relieved, but close. "You might keep the lads together, keep an eye and ear cocked to their doin's, too, and not a word about Proteus or our mission. "Just enjoy the first day, and we'll probe, later."

"Ye kin count on me, sor," Desmond had assured him, though all but dancing in place from one foot to t'other to be away and ashore in search of pleasures and deviltry.

Now, Lewrie was on his own. Pollock had quickly steered him to this pension, a place he'd obviously stayed before, for he was on good terms with the proprietor and his wife, then had nearly jog-trotted to his own lodgings-a much nicer place, Pollock smugly and thoughtlessly informed him, located in the middle of Rue Royale, 'twixt Ste. Anne and Rue Dumaine. Pollock said that they should breakfast together next morning at eight, that Lewrie (Willoughby, rather!) should not spread himself too widely on his own spree among the Creoles, and should keep a clear head. A caution (more than one!) to not go off half-cocked should he encounter Lanxade or Balfa straightaway; merely on their descriptions, he just might end up accosting the wrong man, do one of them in too publicly, even should he slit the throat of the right'un, and end up arrested; at which juncture, there'd be nothing Pollock or Panton, Leslie Company could do for him but deny they'd ever heard of him, and wasn't it such a shame for a new-minted American who'd come aboard their ship to go Lunatick and kill somebody, the damned rank stranger!

"Rest assured, Mister Willoughby," Mr. Pollock confided, close to him and "chummy" enough for the passersby to witness, smiling wide as anything. But his cautions were muttered from the side of his mouth (and an unattractive sight that was for "Mr. Willoughby," in truth!) so no passersby could actually eavesdrop. "I shall begin my own probes in the morning. Subtle, casual… nought that draws attention," he said, as if despairing that Lewrie/Willoughby could do the same.

" New Orleans can be a delightful port of call," Pollock said, practically dancing, like Liam Desmond, to be on his way. "There's a cabaret not too far off, the Pigeon Coop? Many locals are regulars there. You may casually pick up an earful. Just don't gamble with 'em! The games are all 'crook.' See you in the morning, ta!"

And with that, Lewrie was abandoned on his own. He re-entered his pension and clumped up the stairs to unpack. Once there, utterly alone, he wandered about the confines of his set of rooms, intently studied the wallpaper for a few minutes, and took a refreshing sundown, river-wind turn on his wrought-iron upper balcony. Oil or candle lanthorns were being lit in front of the many residences, even as those outside shops were being extinguished. Folk were strolling below him, softly speaking and chuckling at their ease in a gather pure Parisian French or in a mangled local patois that he suspected was Acadian. There now and then was even a snatch of lispy, high-born Castilian Spanish, along with another garbled version spoken by the poorer-dressed. Pollock had told him that the bulk of the Spanish in New Orleans were humbler peasant-raised Catalans. Some Portuguese, some German small-hold farmers from above New Orleans on the Cote des Allemands, even some Spanish Canary Islanders had settled in Louisiana, undoubtedly very desperate for land or a new beginning; or perhaps the Spanish authorities were desperate for settlers of any kind!

Dammit, I'm stuck in this dump.¹ Lewrie groused to himself as he leaned on the railings, which gave out an ominous creaking. I'm famished, I'm badly in need o' wine, and Pollock just up and leaves me t'rot, the hideous "ahemmin" bastard! What self-respectin' spy'd leave me free t'blunder about without a minder or something? A bear-leader!¹

Looking back on his previous fumbling attempts at masquerading civilian and innocent, Lewrie ruefully realised that he'd been the sort who needed minding. Why, one could almost imagine that Pollock trusted him to acquit himself well on his own! Aye, did one have an optimistic bent and a very creative imagination! Perhaps it wasn't neglect at all, but grudging respect that he'd survived those previous missions and had implicit faith that Lewrie could be circumspect enough to survive 'til morning! Had Mr. James Peel had a private word with Mr. Pollock and "buffed up" Lewrie's dubious credentials to convince him to take him along?

Or, Lewrie glumly suspected, Pollock was simply too eager for a rencontre with his '"shore wife"! The Captain and First Mate, on their passage to New Orleans, had discretely hinted that, no matter how prim and upright Mr. Pollock publicly presented himself, he was a mere mortal after all and had found himself a luscious "Bright" Free Black to warm his bed when in New Orleans; kept her in some style year-round at his permanent lodgings. Mr. Caldecott had even winked and alluded that Pollock might've succumbed to blind lust for an Octoroon female slave and had bought her for thousands, his usual parsimony bedamned!

Damme, am I scared t'go out on my own? Lewrie asked the new-lit stars above the streets; Mine arse on a band-box if I am! After all, I'm better armed than most Press gangs!

A succulent meal, even a Froggish "kickshaw," a "made" dish in savoury, but suspect, foreign sauces, a bottle of wine or three, even an idle hour or two at the cabaret both Pollock and Ellison had named… then, as Benjamin Franklin had advised, "Early to bed, early to rise." Hah!

How much trouble could I get into in that short o 'time? Lewrie asked himself as he went back inside for his hat, coat, and cane.