The Captain`s Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Lew… Willoughby!" Mr. Pollock barked as soon as he'd entered the dockside warehouse offices. "Where the Devil have you been? We've been beating the bounds for you, the last two-"

"I've been out getting shot at, act'lly," Lewrie drawled, as if such happened daily, "me and that Yankee Ellison both, and nigh the same instant. Two ambushes… though Ellison got the worst of his. Anything to drink?" he asked, tossing his hat on a table, drawing his spent pistols from underneath his coat, and peering about for fresh powder, ball, wadding, and wine. Liam Desmond fetched him a glass of vin ordinaire, which Lewrie tossed down in three gulps.

"Shot at?" Pollock gawped. "How? When? By whom?" "Why, with an air-rifle, Mister Pollock," Lewrie scathingly replied, "halfway to here from my lodgings, not a quarter hour past. With an air-rifle your clerks sold someone. So was that American, Ellison. Saw the ball they cut from him… fifty-one calibre. I told him that we didn't do it, that it must've been the Dons… unless you ordered it, and I lied to him unwittingly. Either way, they've tumbled to us and said were we still here come dawn, 'h'it wuz, Katy bar th' do-er' or some such," Lewrie said in sarcastic imitation. "You didn't set up an ambush of Ellison and his men, did you, Mister Pollock? Didn't sell the Americans any Girandonis they might've used to pot-shot me? Didn't sell a few to the Dons, did you?" he cynically demanded.

"No to all of it, sir!" Pollock retorted, as if such nefarious doings were beneath him. "You're certain it was Girandonis used?"

"Damned certain, Mister Pollock," Lewrie vowed, crossing to the sideboard for a refill from the wine carafe. As he poured, the hinges of the door squeaked, and Toby Jugg and Seaman Furfy came tumbling in.

"Oh, there ye be, sor," Jugg said, sounding relieved for a rare moment before turning laconic once more. " 'Twas a spate o' shootin' a little while ago. Big commotion round th' tavern where them Yankees lodge…"

"Captain Lewrie tells us someone shot their leader, Mister Jugg," Pollock gloomily informed him. "Took shots at the captain, too."

"Who'd want both of us dead, sir?" Lewrie asked. "The Spanish?"

"Some'un shot at th' Cap'm?" Furfy barked, round-eyed in alarm.

"Hesh yourself an' listen, lad," his mate Desmond chid him.

"I can't see the Spanish…" Pollock fretted, nervously chewing on a thumbnail. " 'Tis not their way. They've more to gain by arresting us and holding public trials. The old firm and I live or die on their stance towards us, and I haven't heard the least rumour, felt the faintest stiffness in how they deal with us… not even the slightest sidelong glance! Especially on this trip, given the, ah… ahem."

"Well, if the Dons didn't do it and the Yankees swear it wasn't them," Lewrie posed with a grim frown, "then who? Our pirates, maybe?"

"More likely than the Spanish, yes!" Pollock agreed. "Something we did or said, our presence revealed somehow to them, put the wind up them!"

"Perhaps they recognised Mister Jugg and put two and two together?" Lewrie wondered, looking at the survivor of the marooning, almost accusingly. "Then why the Devil didn't they shoot him, 'stead o' me, I ask you? He's the man, could point 'em out! And why shoot Ellison at the same time? Far as we know, he 's not here t'hunt 'em down."

"We don't know that," Pollock countered. "They seem to prefer Spanish victims, but the bulk of the merchantmen that dock are Yankee ships. They carry desirable imports and fat chests of coin that buy New Orleans 's export goods. If the pirates had taken one of theirs…"

"Ellison's a temporarily seconded American Army officer," Lewrie told him. "We both, ah… admitted our bonafides. Said he hoped that we liked our dinner t'other day out by Lake Borgne, sir. They've kept us under their eyes almost from the first, I'd expect. And he asked did we find the lake shore suitable for our purposes?"

"Ah-ha!" Pollock responded, like to strangling on that revelation. "Ahem! {large twitch-whinny!) Did he! Though… two may engage in the same game, sir. And accomplish two tasks in one, as we've been charged. Perhaps the Americans even intend to use the loss of several of their merchantmen as a legitimate casus belli… the elimination of a pirate's nest as an excuse to the wider world for their invasion."

This revelation was news to Lewrie's hands, who had thought they were merely nabbing pirates who'd harmed their mates. They nudged and poked each other, sharing confused but sly grins. After all, no one had yet laid out whether they were Scotching Yankee invasion plans… or sketching out their own. Either one would suit, so long as it made for a unique adventure.

"Could your firm have unwittingly sold the Girandoni air-rifles to whoever it was used them tonight, sir?" Lewrie asked. "Might your ledgers contain names or your clerks recall faces?"

"By God, yes!" Pollock chirped excitedly. "We haven't sold that many. One had hopes they'd find a market, but the novelty may've…"

"Then perhaps we might enquire of your clerks tonight, sir?" Lewrie impatiently said, nigh snarling.

"I'll send for my head clerk," Pollock declared, animated now. "Um… Mister Jugg, might I impose upon you to row over to the hulk and fetch the fellow here?"

"Aye, sor," Jugg replied, heaving himself off a table's edge in a trice. "Quicker'n two shakes of a wee lamb's tail, an' th' first be a'ready shook," he took the time to jape, taking Dempsey and Mannix to do the heavy work.

"That slave who brought my note," Lewrie had to ask before they could get out the door. "Did you…"

"Lost 'im soon's he turned west on Dauphine Street, sor, sorry t'say," Jugg informed him with a hapless shrug, then dashed off.

"The, ah… Bonsecours slave, sir?" Pollock asked. "The note you mentioned in your message to me… from the suited, booted, ahem… young woman?"

"The very same, Mister Pollock," Lewrie replied, pouring himself another glass of wine by the sideboard. Now that he was safe and alive, surrounded by well-armed men, the usual shaky let-down that came nearly to overwhelming him had appeared, and he needed some "liquid" fortification. "Jugg placed her man in Dauphine Street, but I managed to tail her right to her door, Mister Pollock," Lewrie explained, feeling rather "sly-boots" and clever. "I'm to write her at the Maison Gayoso, number twenty-six Rue Dauphine… no last name for now. Now, whether she really lodges there or merely uses it as a convenience, I still don't know, but I saw her enter, and it didn't look as if there's a handy back exist. No stable gate. So, Charite…"

He waited for Mr. Pollock, the part-time, "job-lot" British spy to offer him at least grudging congratulations for skulking and observing so skillfully, but…

"A young lady by name of Charite may very well reside, there," Pollock somberly told him, holding up an objecting hand, "but I must inform you that, according to my own queries, not a single Bonsecours dwells on Rue Dauphine."

"So… it's an assumed name," Lewrie said with a crestfallen shrug, as if it didn't really signify.

"Indeed, sir, enquiries made by my, ah… domestics," Pollock flustered, all but tugging at his neck-stock, which Lewrie intuited as nervousness on his part to even come close to admitting that he had a "shore wife," not a "domestic."

Domestics! Lewrie silently scoffed; Mine arse on a band-box.' Is that what they're calling kept "mutton" these days? Hah!

"… in point of fact, the Bonsecours family have no daughter, certainly not one named Charite," prim Mr. Pollock continued, looking a tad red-faced to broach the topic of Lewrie's mysterious young chit. "Further, Captain Lewrie… they also learned that those young gentlemen who accompanied her your first night at the Pigeon Coop cabaret-I recall you mentioning them as the Darbone brothers? That wouldn't be possible, since the Darbone family's sons have been upcountry for at least the last month, entire. My, ah… people, after nosing about the help at the Pigeon Coop, have determined that your girl's, ah… unconventional masquerade, her true identity beneath it, rather, is an open secret among that cabaret's habitues. As is the identity of her companions, sir."

Pollock, like all good spies, full-time or amateur, paused then, bestowing upon Lewrie one of those detestable "I know something that you don't, and you must beg for it" looks.

"And?" Lewrie archly demanded, after trying to wait him out and not have to beg; a losing proposition he'd found, after years of dealing with old Zachariah Twigg and his compatriot, Mr. Jemmy Peel.

"They are all three de Guillens," Pollock almost simpered with a toplofty smugness. "Helio and Hippolyte, and their sister, Charite."

"So… who are they, when they're up and dressed?" Lewrie off-handedly queried, pretending closer interest in his wine, wishing to God that this was a private conversation, with none of his seamen present to hear him proved a gullible cully… again.

"Very rich, distinguished, longtime French Creoles who've resided in New Orleans fifty years or better," Mr. Pollock informed him, looking as if he was manfully trying to stifle a look of sympathy for just how easily beguiled and "bamboozled" Capt. Lewrie could be. "Ah!" Pollock exclaimed, snapping his fingers before turning to his ledgers in a bookcase. He leafed through one mumbling to himself, then "Hah!" escaped his lips.

" Thought the name was familiar! Two years ago, the de Guilleri family placed an order with us for a china service, made in Paris, settings sufficient for twenty guests, ah ha… well, who am I to quibble with legitimate goods first sent to Holland for trans-shipment, hmmm? Delivered to, ahem! number twenty-six Rue Dauphine, ah ha! Devil of a row with Madame de Guilleri, had to unpack it all to assure her none were broken, all were there, um-hmm… They live on the second storey. Does that comport with what you observed, sir?"

"Well, I didn't act'lly …" Lewrie had to fuddle. "Didn't get that close. Peekin' round barrels, corners, and such."

"Final payment referred to the, aha!… Henri Maurepas bank, damn my eyes!" Pollock chortled, whacking the ledger shut in triumph. "And where have we heard that name, hey, Lewrie? Agent for your prize ship, cross the river? Factor for the de Guilleri plantations up by the Saint Gabriel settlements, and… chief factor for that swindler Bistineau's store as well! Intriguing, how all these names cluster together," Mr. Pollock asked with a parrot-like cock of his head and a lop-sided, ghastly smile. "Ain't it?"

"So she could steer me to the people who back the pirates, as she claimed, " Lewrie further intuited, taking what comfort he could from being "played" like a fiddle. "So I must see her again, after she gets back from her Easter visit to her parents…"

"Leaving town, are they?" Pollock said, wincing in thought.

"For a few weeks, at least. I told her I was going upcountry on your behalf, and we should get together once we're both returned," Lewrie explained. "Though, given all you've learned for us, we might be able to strike out before…"

"A disturbing information, though, Lewrie," Pollock said with a "shushing" hand raised once more. "An oyster shucker and a swabber at the Pigeon Coop, spoken to by my… domestics, further told them that the younger de Guillens, and an impoverished cousin of theirs by name of Rancour-Jean Rancour-seem to have come into some money of late and are spending very freely. More so than they did when on their absentee parents' allowances at any rate. And that the cousin, who hasn't had two farthings t'rub together since his family escaped Saint-Domingue, has been gambling very deep and doesn't seem to mind his losses all that much. Far be it from me to decide for you on this matter, but were I in your position, I might begin to… "

Whatever it was that Pollock wished to impart was interrupted by a soft and hesitant tapping on the glass panes of the office door.

"Come!" Pollock cried, whipping out his pocket watch as if his head clerk had been fetched in record time for a row cross the river's fierce currents. "Hah!" he cried, though, once the door had opened.

Damme, what a vixen! Lewrie instantly thought, seeing a woman enter, her beauty and the richness of her ensemble half-concealed by a light, hooded cloak against the misty night airs. For a second, he could espy a stout older Black who remained outside, one who held his lanthorn on a pole in one hand, and a cudgel in the other.

Bright… 'Fancy, ' an Octoroon or better, Lewrie appraised to himself, nigh to uttering "Woof!" and ruing that he hadn't "sampled" the town's more exotic females after all. What a stunner! he further thought as the woman tossed back her hood, put in mind of the half-European, half-Hindoo bints he'd seen in the Far East, with her eyes so almond-shaped and a teaspoon away from Chinese, or something…

"Gideon!" the young woman happily cried out, stepping close to him, her exotically alluring eyes alight with mischief, or a victory; certainly with affection, which made Lewrie think Aha! to discover Mr. Pollock's close-held secret at last. "Mon cher, you must hear…"

"Colette, ah… ahem! You shouldn't, ah… " Pollock flummoxed, blushing hot as a farrier's forge. "Mean t'say…"

"Madame Pollock, I presume?" Lewrie brightly intruded from the other side, stepping forward quickly. "Allow me to name myself to you… Alan Willoughby, one of your husband's associates. Enchante, madame!"

The young woman inclined her head, preening-pleased to be named "Madame Pollock" whether it was a thin fiction or not. She offered her hand French-style, which Lewrie dashingly took, sketching a kiss on the back of it. Mr. Pollock actually growled as she dropped him a curtsy.

"Er, um, yess," Pollock hissed. "My dear, this is men's…"

"We 'ave found the girl who meets with Monsieur… Willoughby!" Colette Pollock gushed, all but bouncing on her toes with excitement. "Maman … pardon, my maid, messieurs… finds she is a de Guilleri. I and Scipio, our man, find where she live, oui? A Bayou Saint John boy on 'is produce cart show us. And as we watch, you never guess, Gideon!"

"We know, dear, so… " Pollock patronisingly tried to say.

"The de Guilleris, they decamp!" Colette protested. "A washerwoman who work for the D'Ablemonts in the downstairs, she say Charite come home after dusk, dress-ed tres fine. Then, full dark come, both her brothers come home, tres rapidement. That, Scipio and I are there to see! They have hide guns under their cloaks, and we have heard the shooting noises somewhere in town while we wait, before-

Christ shit on a biscuit! Lewrie thought, his innards chilling as the implications of that struck him; She?… No, it couldn't be!

"Soon, come two more young gentilshommes, with guns aussi, with a country coach," Colette breathlessly imparted, almost gulping at her own daring. "Dress-ed mos' rough, comme des Acadiens? Like Acadians I mean, the huntsmen, comprenez I ask Scipio to go talk with coachman, apres young men enter, oui? And I see them in the upstairs windows, Gideon! Et, coachman tell Scipio they hire him to take ferry over river to the Bois Gervais road, only pay for short trip, n'est-ce pas? Tell him, they will take boat down bayous there. Ensuite … pardon, then, few minute later, all come down, and enter the coach, and la jeune fille, Mademoiselle Charite I am thinking, is dress-ed a la rustique, Acadian, aussi! Carmagnole, bonnet, skirted, avec the boots? All 'ave long and heavy canvas bag, same as sailors? The coachman whip away tres rapidement, comme un fou … like the mad!"

"Ho-ly… God!" Lewrie slowly breathed, realising the guilty import of all that Pollock's "wife" had seen. "Damme, I've been…"

"It would, ah… so appear, sir," Mr. Pollock sadly commiserated, sounding so earnestly sympathetic Lewrie could have gut-shot him on the spot if he didn't have a pack of witnesses!

My God, I've been had! Lewrie scathed himself, just about ready to reel off his feet and plunk himself down in a chair; How big a fool have I been? She was in on it all along. She was laughing up her damn sleeve, they all were, playing me like a piccolo from the-

"You are pale, m'sieur Willoughby?" Colette Pollock solicitously enquired of his pallor, his febrile, anxious look; his silent lip-mumbles and scowl, too, it must here be noted.

"Bloody wonderful!" Lewrie distractedly grunted.

The tiny bell hung over the office door gave off a gay tinkle, and in breezed Toby Jugg, with Mr. Pollock's weedy head clerk in tow.

"One would s'pose this may be 'gilding the lily,' in a manner of speaking, ahem, " Pollock began, "but, about our consignment of air-rifles, Mister Dollarhyde… how many have actually been sold, and to whom, might you be able to recall?"

"Locking the barn after the horses have… shit!" some present almost heard Capt. Alan Lewrie disgustedly whisper.

"I b'lieve only a dozen, so far, Mister Pollock, sir," the clerk fussily replied, referring to his own ledger book after being told by Jugg, most likely, why he was being summoned cross the river in such a hurry, and at that hour. "One to Mister Willoughby here…"

Sold, mine arse, it was s posed t'be a gift! Lewrie thought.

"… four taken on by Mister Whiting for his trading post up at Natchez, one to a m'sieur Columbe… said the local rodents eat up his garden something sinful, and… the other six to a party of city men."

"And, might you have their names available, Mister Dollarhyde?" Pollock impatiently prompted.

"Most odd, that, Mister Pollock," Dollarhyde simpered. "I did a brief demonstration, and they placed down payment on four, yet not an hour later, returned with the money for six, and paid in full."

"Names? Ahem?" Pollock harumphed.

"A Monsieur Monaster… Don Rubio Monaster, actually. He was most insistent on that point, really," Dollarhyde recited, looking up from his book for a second, "one to a Monsieur Rancour, J… and the rest to a Monsieur de… Gool… de Gweel… Damn all Frog names."

"De Guillen, hah!" Pollock barked, uncharacteristically slamming a palm on the top of his desk.

"Rancour," Colette mused aloud, "Gideon, is he not a cousin to the de Guilleris? Oui, I am thinking he is. And Don Rubio, oh la!" She chuckled, looking as if she would fan herself. "His papa was the Spaniard, but his ma-man was the Bergrand, and they raise him, for his poor papa die when he is little… killed by the Indians. He is the tres handsome gentilhomme, mos' dashing? Aussi, he is-'ow you say?-the… crack shoot? All girls adore him, but he only has eyes…"

"Damn!" Pollock spluttered, slamming a fist on the desk this time. Damnn, damn, damn!"

"Gideon, cher … What 'as distress-ed?" Colette asked.

"I must ask you to leave things to us, Colette," Pollock gruffly told her.

'You've taken enough risks tonight, and there's an end to it. Scipio will see you safely home. I fear we will be discussing our, ah… business matters far into the night. They'd only bore you, ahem. I'll be along, soon as I'm able, so why don't you…"

"You have done us a great service tonight, Madame Pollock, for which we all… and I'm sure I speak for Gideon as well…" Lewrie found wit to say, "are extremely grateful. As I'm certain he'll tell you, once he joins you at home. Merci, madame. Merci beaucoup! You were very brave and clever."

If you won't at least give her grudging thanks, then I will, he sourly thought; And why she stays with a clot like you 'tis a wonder! Thoughtless, churlish… and ugly, to boot!

"Wot'd I miss?" Toby Jugg whispered to his compatriots who had been present the whole time. Once clued in, he could not help musing aloud. "Now I think upon it, sor, 'mongst them a'titterin' sprogs on 'at pirate schooner, one of 'em coulda been a girl, i' fact!"

And ye didn 't recall 'til bloody now, ye thick-headed Irish bog trotter? Lewrie silently accused, his anger building, now that he was over his shock, to a sulky, but well-deserved pet; Never thought to even bother mentioning it 'til… damn his blood!

"Gideon, I do not comprendre," Colette gasped, fingers flying to her lips, and paling most fetchingly. "You speak of pirates? But I… I thought you merely wish to discover… ah! So that is why the two capitaines call on the de Guilleris the other day? "

" What captains? " Pollock cried.

"The washerwoman chez les D'Ablemonts we speak to, cher? She say two famous heroes, both Capitaine Jerome Lanxade and the Acadian, Capitaine Boudreaux Balfa, are visitors to the de Guilleri appartement… She say she see them the… several time. Mos' recent, a few day ago, she say! Oh, Gideon, you are in danger, mon coeur?"

"Go home, Colette," Pollock insisted, almost shooing her to the door. Relenting, he finally said, "I am in no danger, my dear, have no fear. There's, ah… underhanded commercial finagling afoot, and those old rogues are involved with some noted families to pull a sly one over on we despised out-sider traders. A coup de commerce? But with your quick wits and sharp eyes, my dear, Mister Willoughby and I are in a fair way to Scotching it before it costs us tuppence, ha ha!"

"You swear?" Colette warily asked, still upset and dubious.

"Cross my heart," Pollock cooed to her, sketching on his chest. Blushing again, even redder than before, he vowed, "Je t'adore, cherie. "

And, blushing herself but immensely pleased by his rare public declaration of love, she pecked him on the cheek, smiled, and departed.