The howls of the late-night drunkards
bounced weirdly off the walls and rain-soaked streets of the old city. Stewart,
walking back to his hotel, felt a small kinship with those revelers; he wanted
to shout out his pleasure and joy and the magnificent electricity that seemed
to course through him. He could still smell Pauline's scent; it had, he
decided, permeated him completely. Grinning, he composed letters to Mother and
Father describing the happiness he felt. From time to time he tried to imagine
how he would describe the sensation of Pauline's body to the men of the
regiment. To do so would be to coarsen the experience, though; some things
could never be spoken of without diminishing them. That sensation would have to
remain his own personal possession.
New Orleans no longer seemed a monotonous,
gray monster to him. Now he and the city shared a delightful secret.
He was surprised, on reaching his hotel, to
find Thomas's recumbent form slumped in a chair in the lobby. Stewart shook the
slave awake. "What are you doing down here?"
"Thought I should wait for you,
sir," Thomas mumbled. "To warn you. The general, sir, he's pretty mad
with you. Wants to see you first thing in the morning."
"Me?" The pleasure Stewart had held
on to from the evening now seemed to trickle down through him and to leak out
through the soles of his boots. "Damn."
Don't be so surprised, he told himself with some bitterness. You knew
there was a chance this would happen. You were practically hoping it would.
The tweaking of his hosts' noses now didn't seem such a brilliant idea.
"Did General Magruder say what time
exactly?"
"First thing in the morning, sir,"
Thomas said. "But not before nine."
Prince John won't spoil his sleep
even to discipline unruly subordinates. Stewart
tried to make himself laugh, but felt too cold and light-headed. "Has
Captain Patton received this message yet?"
"Yes, sir. He came back about an hour
ago."
“Very good.” He paused, wondering if Thomas
was too sleepy to discuss his assignment. I have to know, he
decided. “How was it at Mr. Barber’s hotel? Did you learn anything?”
“Not much, sir. The man went out a lot, but
nobody seemed to know where. Some said he’d brought cotton to sell, but I
couldn’t see if that was true or no.”
Oh, well. It’s not as if I expected
much. "Thank you, Thomas," Stewart said.
"You may go to bed now."
Climbing the stairs to his room, Stewart
tried to guess at how much trouble he'd got himself into. Magruder wasn't
reputed a strict disciplinarian, but he was notoriously prickly about
appearances. If he'd been embarrassed in front of the Canadian—or, worse,
English—generals, there could well be hell to pay. On the other hand, Prince
John was fond of the ladies himself, and might well be persuaded to see the
amusing side of this escapade. I'm not going to sleep much tonight,
Stewart decided. The true shame of it was that he was going to spend the night
worrying about what tomorrow morning would bring, when he should have been
spending it reliving every kiss, every touch of her satin skin, the way she had
moved and he had lost himself in her.
The door to his room was open.
It was only a crack, but the light in the
hall was dim enough that the lamp-light coming from his room made the opening
obvious. Nerves singing, Stewart grasped the hilt of his sword and drew it a
little of the way out of its scabbard. He nudged at the door, which opened.
Patton sat on the bed, looking bedraggled in
a shabby dressing-gown and with slippers on his feet. He turned to Stewart,
grinned in sickly fashion and then turned back to looking at someone who
presumably stood behind the door.
"Stop playing at heroics, Stewart, and
get in here." The voice belonged to the man who called himself Colonel
Hopkins.
Inside the room, Stewart stood, nervously
shifting his weight from one foot to the other while Colonel Hopkins closed and
locked the door. At least I was right about Patton.
Stewart glanced at the young man. This is proof he’s involved with
Texas. The three men looked at one another for a moment, Stewart
trying to fight off his unease.
"Do you idiots have any idea of how
stupid you've been?" Hopkins said. His voice was so soft it was almost
inaudible.
"We just wanted to have a little
fun," Patton said. Stewart winced. Better to keep our mouths shut and
take the beating, he thought, than to try to justify ourselves.
"I've nothing against young men having
fun," Hopkins said. "I can even understand fornication, though I
can't think that the Lord would want me to approve. But today you've taken a
whole series of unacceptable risks, and that I do not understand and certainly
don't accept."
"I don't understand," said Patton,
looking miserable.
"Did you think that your presence in
this city was going to be ignored by the Federals?" Hopkins pointed a
dagger finger at Patton. "You've been followed since you disembarked.
Every member of the commission has been followed." We
knew that already, Stewart thought.
"This expedition is a very dangerous
undertaking, gentlemen. It's not the Spanish we're dealing with here. The
Federals and the British both have very capable intelligence organizations.
Both would like to know what we're up to. And if either ever finds out, they
will stop at nothing to prevent us from attaining our goal."
Hopkins paced from one corner of the room to
the other and back; Stewart felt it would be politic to stay out of the man's
way, and rested himself against the back of the door. "I'm faced with a
dilemma now," Hopkins said. "I don't know what to do with you. You've
demonstrated today that you're both too self-absorbed and rumbustious to be
suitable subordinates, and at the same time, you know too much to just be cut
loose. I've prayed for guidance, but the Lord seems to have decided that you
two aren't worth worrying about."
Is he saying he’s going to kill us? The idea hit Stewart like a blow. He was startled at how
clear-headed he suddenly felt. "I’m sorry you’re unhappy with us,
sir," Stewart said. "Begging your pardon. But I don’t think you are
justified in worrying about us."
Hopkins snapped around to face him. "And
why might that be, Captain?"
"We’re soldiers, sir. You can trust
us—you have to trust us to keep our word. It’s a
matter of honor." Stewart looked at Patton. "Couldn’t you find a way
to get us out of New Orleans? Other than seeing the sights, we have nothing to
do here. I can't help but think that we wouldn’t have—earned your
displeasure—had we not been so bored." It was as near as he could come to
begging the man to take him and Patton on the expedition.
He tried to convince himself that, however
Patton might feel, he at least could always find consolation for being left
behind. Try though he might, however, he could not quite make Pauline’s image
drive the thought of armies and battles from his mind. I'm
a soldier, he thought, and I want the opportunity to fight.
He wondered what Pauline would say about his attitude. It's
a wonder women put up with men at all.
Patton got to his feet. "Stewart's
right, Colonel." Coming to attention—a posture somewhat spoiled by his
night-time dress—he said, "We only did what we did because we were bored.
Besides, it was just one day. How much harm can we have done?"
"Lopez was one day late in sailing with
reinforcements to Cuba, and everybody knows what harm was done by that," Hopkins
said blandly. "Twenty good men were executed—murdered—by the Spaniards,
and the people of Cuba still slave under the Spanish yoke."
Stewart looked again at Hopkins, and suddenly
knew who he must be. Lopez's second-in-command during the catastrophic Cuban
filibuster had been a southerner, and all of the press reports of that sorry
expedition noted the man's air of authority—and his piercing grey eyes.
"So what's it to be, Colonel Walker?" he said, with careful emphasis
on the name. "Do you leave as soon as possible for Texas—taking us with
you? Or are we to stay here, and continue to be at best an irritant and at
worst a threat?"
"All right.” Hopkins—William
Walker—looked carefully at Stewart. If you’re not reassessing me, you
should be, Stewart thought to the man. “I'll notify you the moment
I'm ready to leave New Orleans,” Walker said. “But I warn you, I still haven’t
made up my mind to take either of you. And it will still be some days before I
can go. In the meantime, please do me the favor of keeping my name out of this.
I'm not unknown in New Orleans, and I'd prefer it if none of my erstwhile
companions knew I was here." Walker spared them a thin smile. "If you
must indulge yourselves horizontally, gentlemen, I advise you to use the facilities
of a bagnio called Beacon's. The whores at that
place at least are a known quantity—to my lieutenants, if not to me."
Stewart felt his stomach tighten. He didn’t
want to ask, wanted Walker to voluntarily ask him to accompany the expedition.
But when Walker opened the door without another word, Stewart blurted,
“Colonel? Be honest—how good are our chances of coming with you?”
“You know how your friends in Richmond feel,
Captain,” Walker said. “They want no obvious connection to this expedition.”
From the look on his face, Walker didn’t find much in that attitude to please
him.
“But let me add this. Regardless of what
happens, you must complete as much as possible of your duties with the
commission. That, too, is important work.” He paused, then smiled without warmth.
“I understand your desire to return to the field, Captain. If I may offer you a
bit of advice: don’t be too eager. Your turn will come. This war is not going
to end any day soon. In the meantime, I trust your sense of honor that you’ll
keep your word—and your silence about everything you know of our plans.” The
door closed behind him without a sound.
"How the hell did you guess that?"
Patton asked as soon as Walker’s footsteps had faded.
"His name? It just came to me when he
started talking about Lopez. I remember my uncle and father arguing about the
filibuster when it happened."
"God damn," Patton said.
"We’re going to filibuster Texas with William Walker."
"Not a filibuster," Stewart said. And
we’re not likely to be with him. He wished Patton would go away so
that he could be miserable by himself. He knew, even if Patton wouldn’t, what
Walker had really been saying as he left. "He’s going in to give
assistance to Texas revolutionaries. We were asked to help. This won't be like
Cuba. Walker wouldn't get involved in something like that again." You're
protesting too much, a small voice inside warned him. In his misery
he ignored it.
"Still," Patton said, flopping onto
Stewart's bed so that he bounced. "William Walker!"
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