“Will you slow down your damned horse?” Patton whispered. He had dropped back of Stewart, who noticed that they had fallen behind Captain Menard. “He’s going to notice in a minute.”
“What are you so worked up about?”
“Are you mad? I haven’t had a chance to speak with you alone yet this morning.” Patton looked at him for a moment, and when Stewart didn’t respond he sputtered, “Barber, man! What did you learn this morning about Barber?”
“Why are you suddenly so interested?” Stewart hissed in return. “Two days ago you were convinced I was mad for thinking that the riverboat explosion was an attack. What’s changed?” Could it be that Patton had also had a visit from the mysterious Colonel Hopkins?
“A man’s allowed to change his mind.”
“Well, the change hasn’t done you any good. All I’ve been able to do so far is to find the hotel Barber used. The desk clerk was very polite, but it was clear to me that he knew more than he was telling.”
“I have to say, our hosts haven’t exactly been helpful, have they?” Patton nodded toward Menard’s back. “Frenchy here is the best of the lot of them, and he behaves more like a nursemaid than a fellow-soldier. Whoever heard of a soldier not wanting to see the sights and have a drink?”
Stewart suppressed a sigh and merely nodded. Trust Patton to focus only on the trivial when something greater was at stake. Not that he didn’t have a point where the English and Canadians were concerned. “If the intent was to convince us that their army is powerful, they could have spared themselves the effort," Stewart murmured to Patton. Ahead, Menard continued to pay them no attention, seemingly concentrating on staying in the exact center of the road south toward New Orleans. "If I'd been in the slightest doubt when we arrived here—which I assure you I wasn't—I'd have changed my mind the first time Captain Menard took us to Fort Brock. I don't know how much more of this friendly education I can stand."
"I thought I was the only one who was bored," Patton said.
“Well, you aren’t. I wish I had a dollar for every time I nearly fell asleep today.” This day's excursion had been to watch a pair of regular officers, named Nolan and Reynolds, training militia cavalry. The most memorable thing about the experience had been the cherry-red pants worn by the two regulars, who'd been seconded to Lord Byron's staff from the 11th Hussars, the British cavalry regiment led by the notorious Lord Cardigan. Stewart, Patton and Menard had lunched with Nolan and Reynolds, who had talked about nothing but how bored they were with North America. The only thing that kept them here, apparently, was the prospect of a war with Russia over some territory far to the north of California.
"If I was of a more uncharitable mind," Stewart said, watching Menard's back for any sign that the captain was eavesdropping, "I'd suspect that Captain Menard has been charged with keeping us occupied in pointless pursuits, in order to prevent us from learning anything useful."
"Why don't we find out?"
"How? Ask him?"
"Don't be a stick, Stewart. Let's wait until he turns a corner, then double back and disappear. We'll spend an enjoyable afternoon exploring the city on our own, and perhaps even learn something interesting about your late friend Mr. Barber. Then, when we see him tomorrow, we'll be able to judge from his behavior how much trouble we've caused the good captain." Patton grinned broadly, and pulled his forage cap to a rakish, almost piratical angle.
Why shouldn't I? Stewart asked himself. It's not as if I owe Menard anything. "I like your idea, Patton," he said. "You have the makings of a true scoundrel about you. It's a wonder they didn't assign you to the cavalry instead of the infantry."
"Oh, it's not for lack of trying on my part," Patton said. He thought a moment. "Let's wait until Menard's led us as near as possible to the old quarter of the city before we disappear."
"You have a sudden desire to study the history of the French and Spanish in North America?"
"You may think so if you wish. The real reason is that the old quarter has more corners to disappear around. And the streets are more narrow, too."
There was no doubt of that. A man could fall down in a New Orleans street and rest his head and feet in the opposite gutters.
The two rode side-by-side in silence from that point until they crossed Ramparts Street, Stewart thinking about Placide's Varieties. Miss Martin had been pretty sure that she’d have a friend for Patton should he come to call. In the daylight the tiny houses on Ramparts were quite beautiful, in a queer Spanish sort of way, and Stewart wondered at the oddity of negroes and part-negroes who weren’t bondsmen and women. He’d heard of a handful in Virginia, and there were reputed to be more in Alabama and Mississippi –- some, the story went, even slave-owners themselves. But the idea of a community of free negroes: it was hard to credit that God could make the English and Canadians a power on the continent when they let such a group live among them.
Then they were once again among the two- and three-story buildings of the old city, with their soft colors and delicate ironwork such a pleasing contrast to the Greek stolidity of the Anglo-Canadian new city. Without a word they slowed, letting Menard slowly build a lead in front of them.
"Now." They turned to the right, spurred their horses into a trot, and took a series of rights and lefts until they were sure they'd left the Canadian far behind them. "Where to, Captain Patton?" Stewart asked, waving his hand to encompass the whole of the city.
"I think I'd like a drink," Patton said. "Let's head for Maspero's Exchange."
"They say the St. Louis Hotel has a better bar," Stewart said as he followed Patton's lead.
"But Maspero's has history going for it," Patton said. "The St. Louis is where the English drink when they condescend to visit the old city."
"Maspero's it is, then."
Their uniforms generated a good deal of interest in Maspero's, and Patton preened himself absurdly when an extravagantly mustachioed Creole bought them a drink before they'd even had a chance to select a table. Stewart was forced to admit, though, that it was nice for a change to be treated as someone worthy of respect. Too many of the British and Canadian officers treated the Confederates as supplicants. Some in the commission might be desperate for a treaty—Stewart thought sadly back to the sallow wreck that President Calhoun had become—but they didn't all feel that way, nor did any of them deserve the thinly veiled contempt he detected in their hosts.
It was only when a second Creole gentleman announced his intention of standing them to a round that it occurred to Stewart that, for two men hiding from their escort, they were attracting a lot of attention. "We should have changed into less conspicuous clothing," he whispered to Patton as they sipped their cock-tails.
"Don't be such an old woman," Patton said. "We aren't going to get into any trouble we can't talk ourselves out of. Did you know that it was in this bar that Lopez first planned his filibuster of Cuba?"
Stewart stared at Patton, then caught himself and looked away. Was this another signal from Patton? Why wouldn't "Colonel Hopkins" tell me the whole story? This is going to drive me mad. There was something else about Lopez’s filibuster that nagged at the edges of Stewart’s mind, but he couldn’t think of what it might be.
"Of course, once the British heard about what he was doing he was expelled," Patton went on. "So he finished planning in Mobile, and that's where he recruited most of his men."
"How do you know all of this?" Stewart tried to keep the edge out of his voice.
"Oh, my older brother John told me. He was in Mobile at the time, and I think he seriously considered going to Cuba. Considering how many of those men got shot by the Spaniards, I guess it's just as well that Merce went to California instead."
"Merce?"
"His middle name's Mercer. Merce is what I call him, 'cause he hates it so much."
"We're not going to stay in here letting these good people buy us drinks all evening, are we?"
"Tell the truth, I'd sort of hoped so," Patton said. “You’re not getting all serious and responsible now, are you?”
“Would there be a better time to make inquiries about Barber? I think it’s important to know what he was doing here, and why some of our friends think he was no friend to the Confederacy. Don’t you think that’s important?”
“Of course I do. I’m not stupid white trash, Stewart. But I think I have an idea that will get you your information and still let us enjoy our freedom in what’s left of today.”
“You have an idea?”
“Damn, but you can be a cold man,” Patton said with a grin. “Do you remember what you said about the desk clerk at Barber’s hotel?”
“Yes. That’s why I have to go back.”
“That’s where my idea comes in. Don’t go yourself, Stewart. Send Thomas instead.”
“Thomas? Are you mad? He’s a servant. He won’t know what to ask. And I can’t take the risk of him running. He’s not mine to lose—still belongs to Uncle James.”
“But he’s a good boy. You trust him, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. He was cousin Will’s companion and body-servant practically from birth. Service to our family is in his blood.”
“And he’s a loyal son of Virginia. All you have to do, Stewart, is make it clear to him that this matters both to you and to our mutual home. I think he might surprise you.
“Besides, there’s a more important reason for sending him.”
“What could that be?”
“The Canadians won’t necessarily trust a Confederate soldier. But I’m willing to bet that Thomas would have no trouble getting your information from the servants and cleaning staff at the hotel. Those folks all trust each other.”
Stewart’s protest died unspoken. Patton, he was surprised to realize, was right. Thomas, if he could be made to understand what was required of him, really would stand a better chance of getting information about Barber. “That’s what we’ll do, then,” he said. “It’ll mean going back to the hotel, though. Are you prepared to run the risk of being caught there by Menard?”
“Hell, yes. So long as, once you’re done with Thomas, we can find ourselves someplace comfortable to drink.”
“Does it have to be a tavern like this one?”
"Do you have a better idea?"
Stewart thought of Pauline Martin's dark, wide eyes. He recalled their last meeting, thought about his dream, and willed himself to be bold. "I believe I do," he said.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
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