The Captain`s Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lewrie feverishly searched for a betraying cloud of spent gunpowder to mark the shooter's position, but saw nothing. He perked his ears for the telltale sounds of a nearby marksman reloading, the rattle of powder horn on a muzzle, the tinkle of a ramrod-nothing! He got his feet under him, spotted a deep doorway further west down Royale… popped up and turned as if to dash for it…

Crack! A second after he had flung himself down again, a ball went zing-humming over his head, and Lewrie was up and running for the shadowed doorway, reaching its shelter and flattening himself against the east side of the vestibule, out of sight for a moment as he cocked both firelocks of his Manton pistol, tore off his "wide-awake" hat and put it on his fisted left hand… stuck it out as if fearfully taking a peek, and… Crack! came another shot that spun the hat like a top on his fist after the ball had taken a round bite from its brim!

He swung out-head, shoulders, and gun hand in plain view-to see the faint gleam of a bright-metal movement. Laying his gun hand over his left forearm, he fired one round, absorbing the recoil upwards for a second, then levelling again and firing the second barrel towards the slightest vertical glint of lamplight off what he took for a musket's barrel. The Manton belched two large clouds of blackpowder smoke, in which he slithered away, low to the pavement in a duck-walk to another deep entryway farther off.

With his second double-barrelled Manton, he fired off a round in the general direction of his last vague target, then ducked under the resulting pall and sprinted the short distance to another entryway on the south side of the street, this time.

He heard no more Crack! aimed against him; after a long minute he took note that there were no more shots down Rue Royale, either. A loud chorus of shouts and curses, aye, but no more gunfire. He traded the spent Manton for one of those single-shot pocket pistols, then set off down that way. Halfway there, skulking from one shadow to another, it suddenly struck him…

Twig-crack… no powder smoke or ramming! Four shots, got off in less than a minute, at me! he furiously thought; Bright-metal, not treated blue or brown. Hell's Bells, someone's got a Girandoni rifle!

"Mine arse on a band-box!" he seethed aloud. "I find out who it was, I'll have his nutmegs off! Pollock's hen-head clerks sold…pah!"

He could not go back the way he had been walking, that was for certain, to attain the relative safety of the evening crowds strolling in the Place d'Armes where, one might assume, the Creoles didn't take pot-shots at each other all that often. Even if the shooter was long gone, the commotion would surely draw the Spanish foot patrol and the idle curious, and he'd much rather not have to answer their questions or be recognised and recalled later. A slight distance more and he'd be at the intersection of Rue Royale and Rue d'Orleans, but d'Orleans dead-ended behind the impressive cathedral, and Lewrie could not recall but one narrow alleyway leading to the square, where the odds were good that he might re-encounter the bastard who had shot at him… or meet up with Spanish soldiers, who'd block both ends and delight in questioning or arresting the first foreigner they came across.

There was nothing for it but to keep on westerly down Rue Royale at least as far as St. Pierre to get to the Place d'Armes, then Levee Road-right into the crowd he could see gathering at the scene of the first shooting he'd heard! At the least, Lewrie thought, he could blend into a much larger crowd and sidle through it with eyes curious and wide, play-acting an idle gawker… hoping that the reek of gunpowder on his person wouldn't be noticed.

One last desperate and intense study of the intersection he had fled, and Lewrie shoved his pistol back into hiding under the tails of his coat, and he launched himself from the deep doorway, sword-cane in his right hand once more to peck out a languid pace down towards that hubbub and growing knot of people near Rue Toulouse, hoping that once near there, he could turn down St. Pierre to the square, on a well-lit and peopled street…

"Empty yore hands, yew English sumbitch!" came a harsh whisper from an unlit doorway he had just passed, almost in his left ear, and chilling him to his bones. He felt the prick of something sharp right through his layers of clothes in the small of his back!

"I was shot at, too," Lewrie managed to say, though just about as frightened as he had ever been. "Back there, at Sainte Anne street!"

"Huh!" came the faceless response, with the slightest shove of the sharp object against his skin. "Gimme 'at sword-cane."

"You're American… one of Mister Ellison's men?" Lewrie asked as he let his cane clatter to the cobblestones. He winced to think that he hadn't spotted his assailant lurking in the shadows, had not got a whiff of his stench as he passed him, for up close now, the reek of a crudely tanned deerskin hunting shirt or fringed trousers was overpowering. "Damn you!"

A rough hand groped under his coat, discovering one of his twin-barrelled pistols. Lewrie could hear the man sniff the muzzles.

"It's just a cane, and I shot back at whoever shot at me, that's why the-" Lewrie tried to explain, insulted to be man-handled.

"Yeah… shore it is," the man sneered.

"There's another Manton, both barrels fired. A pair of pocket pistols, too, not fired, and couldn't hit anything over ten paces if my life depended on it." Lewrie announced. "I heard shots, rifle shots, fired down your way, before they shot at me. Like twig-cracks? Quick together? Was that how it was down yonder? If you're with Mister Ellison, you came aboard the emporium ship with him… you saw the Austrian sharpshooter rifles, the Girandoni air-rifles? That's all of a sound they make, a twig crack. Think, man!"

A hand hammered onto his left shoulder to spin him around to face his accostor and his wide-bladed ten-inch skinning knife, as big to Lewrie's eyes as a Scot's claymore. And he was an American, clad in a mix of homespun and leather, glaring face and eyes beneath a massive coonskin cap with the mask on, with glittering brass beads in its eye sockets winking from the street lamps' lights.

"How d'I know ye didn't have a hand in shootin' Jim Hawk? 'At ye didn't sic some o' yore men t'do it?" the man accused.

"Why the Devil would I?" Lewrie shot back. "He doesn't even owe me money!"

" 'Caws yore an English spy, come here t'scout New Orleans 'fore ye take it fer yore own, an we got in yore way, an iff'n Jim Hawk dies I'll draw out yore innards an' roast 'em on a stick right b'fore yore eyes. An' 'at'd be just fer starters," he vowed with a feral grin.

When among the Muskogee towards the end of the Revolutionary War Lewrie had heard of savage tortures, so he could not help gulping in dread, but…

"And you and Mister Ellison are here to scout the place so you can take it before we do," Lewrie retorted, "but we came to hunt down pirates who stole a rich prize ship from us. That ship moored highest upriver of the emporium hulks. Looking for a large, black-hulled, and red-striped schooner. Some of the men with me survived being marooned on the Dry Tortugas, and they could recognise both the schooner and the faces of the pirates. That's why we're here, the only reason. I am a Post-Captain in his Majesty's Navy. Unless you and your party had anything to do with the piracy, we'd have no cause to shoot your leader! And how is Mister Ellison, by the way?"

All that truth, carefully mixed with lies, discomfited the man, Lewrie could see. His fierce glare subdued, replaced by a thoughtful but puzzled expression.

"We stand here with your knife drawn much longer, man, and we'll draw the Spanish watchmen, sure as Fate," Lewrie suggested. "Neither side needs that, for God's sake. Keep my damned Mantons if you wish, but shouldn't we try to blend into that crowd yonder? Find out how it stands with your Mister Ellison, hmm?" Lewrie gently urged.

"Put yore hands down," the man growled, shoving both of Lewrie's pistols back at him. "Anybody gets caught with fired guns, it'll be you, not me. Pick up 'at cane o' yor'n, and we'll go. Mind now, I'll be right at yore back. Play me false, and I'll cut yore kidneys out."

The first frontiersman turned Lewrie over to another member of Ellison's gang while he went inside the mean tavern to pass on what he had learned. Lewrie and his guard stood near the door, where he could see inside. Ellison was propped up on a threadbare settee, biting his lips, grimacing as a Creole surgeon worked on him. Now and then, he'd let pass a faint groan, then take a sip of whisky from a tall tumbler as the surgeon probed and plucked inside a plum-purpled wound high on his right chest. They rolled Ellison on his side so the surgeon could feel about, then use a slim scalpel to excise a rifle ball from under his shoulder blade. That forced a cry from him, but Ellison's torment came out in a battle-roar, or the snarl of a cornered bear. From that incision, a shiny.51 calibre ball appeared, one that Ellison demanded be laid in his palm. Which plucky, courageous geste raised great cheer among his anxious men and even made Lewrie feel relief.

To the Creole doctor's chagrin, whisky was poured right in the raw wound, more poured over his needle and thread before they'd let him stitch the lips of the wounds together. As he finished his work, with generous batts of absorbent cotton and linen wrappings, Ellison sat up on the settee, half reclined on one padded arm. He had a long whispered conversation with Lewrie's captor, then crooked a finger to summon Lewrie to him.

"You got shot at, too, didjya, Willoughby?" Ellison muttered.

"With a Girandoni air-rifle, the same as you, it appears, sir," Lewrie said, pointing to the ball in the man's hand. "By the Spanish, most-like. Why they didn't just arrest us, I've no idea, but they've apparently tumbled to our… doings."

"And you're a Captain in the British Navy, are ye?" Mr. Ellison snidely smirked, though wincing against his pain.

"Right enough," Lewrie breezily admitted. "And you are a serving officer under American colours, or… in a civilian capacity?"

"The Army of the United States of America, sir," Ellison admitted. "Temporarily, ah… detached. And were ye happy with yer beach, out t'Lake Borgne, Captain Willoughby?"

"It'll serve main-well, Mister Ellison," Lewrie confessed, once he got over his surprise. "And your improvised river fleet?" he asked, taking a stab in the dark. "Much shorter distance to go, I'm bound."

Hah! Got it in one! Lewrie hooted to himself to see Ellison's chagrined expression. In his shoes, that's how I'd pull it off!

"I don't think ye had a hand in my shootin', sir," Ellison told him. "But the Spanish sink their teeth inta things, they'll not care fer either o' us bein' here. My man says ye told him ye come to hunt pirates that stole yer prize ship, well… that won't wash any better than spyin' out how t'invade. Ever hear folks say, 'once bitten, twice shy'? Uh-huh, good. Me an' th' boys'd take a dim view of ye, if you an' your people were still in New Orleans, come mornin'. Ye are, then it's 'Katy, bar the door.' "

"That translates much like your hairy fellow's 'ki' ye,' does it, Mister Ellison?" Lewrie japed, playing up game even if exposed.

"Why, I do b'lieve it do, Captain Willoughby," Ellison managed to snicker. "Somebody drew my blood… an' no man tries t'kill me an' lives. If ye get my meanin'."

"Neither I nor my men were responsible, sir, 'pon my word of honour. And my name is Alan Lewrie, not Willoughby, so you'll know who to damn, do I prove false," Lewrie declared. "I sincerely regret your wounding, sir, and wish you a speedy recovery," he added, offering his hand, which Ellison took and shook gingerly. "Though I must caution you, sir, that you and your men might find it expedient to, ah-what is that picturesque American word?-ske-daddle?… before the Spanish find they've failed."

"That's my lookout," Ellison said, retrieving his hand. "Yours is th' Spanish, and us. Luck to ye, Captain Lewrie, fer you're quite a plucky bastard, but… don't let yer string o' luck run out. Good-bye, sir. Skedaddle, yer own self, and adieu!"

Lewrie took that for as good an exit line as any and turned to shoulder his way through the anxious throng of hostile Americans for the door, thence to the far side of Rue Toulouse, was just about to leave the vicinity by heading for Rue Chartres when a Spanish patrol finally made its appearance. He casually turned on his heel, leaned on his cane, and got on tiptoe to see over the crowd of onlookers as if he was just another curious ogler.

"Kentuckians," Lewrie sneered to no one as the hastily dressed soldiers shoved their way through the back of the crowd. " Tennessee trash! Ought to run 'em all back to their kennels!"

Deal with that hint, do! Lewrie fervently thought at the back of the Spanish officer as he got to the door of the tavern. And take that, Mister Jim Hawk Ellison, of the United States Army! Now, if I can only get back to the docks before the Dons try t 'kill me again, I'll be a damned happy man!