Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (86 page)

It occurred to Cyrene to wonder what would happen to these two men if goods were stolen from the warehouse during their watch. It was almost certain they would be disciplined for allowing the loss. As regrettable as that might be, it could not be permitted to influence what they meant to do.

The plan was Pierre’s. It had been carefully worked out to the last detail, but, as he had told them, there were always problems, errors of judgment, or circumstances that could not be controlled. They should be ready to improvise. Thinking of the things she must do, Cyrene felt sickness in the pit of her stomach. It had seemed so easy to take their things back from the king’s warehouse and spirit them away when they first spoke of it on the flatboat. Right was on their side; why should it not prevail? But now, looking at the solid bulk of the warehouse, the military precision and lethal weapons of the guards, the whole idea appeared foolhardy in the extreme. It was she who had urged this course, inciting the Breton men to it out of her own anger and chagrin. If anything went wrong, if anything happened to these men who had become her family, she would not be able to forgive herself.

She had started this. It was possible she could stop it. She opened her mouth, but before she could make a sound, Pierre spoke.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Jean and Gaston echoed.

“Good, good. Remember, if there is a difficulty, we separate and fly.
En avant, mes enfants.
We go.”

Pierre and Jean eased away, merging into the darkness. Gaston took Cyrene’s arm, smiling down at her. Her feet were leaden as she began to move. Then the two of them were stepping into the muddy track that ran between the levee and the warehouses, moving into the searching beam of the lantern, staggering along as if they were supporting each other in drunkenness. They weaved their way toward the guards on duty.

Cyrene had pushed her hair under a coif so that it was completely covered. She had used flour to make her skin dead white and had stained her lips and cheeks with berry juice. A liberal sprinkling of black patches from a box of them that had belonged to her mother served to give her a dissipated look, as if she were covering blemishes or pox sores. It was the best she could do in the way of a disguise without appearing suspicious; she only hoped it would give her the anonymity required for success.

Gaston had also made an attempt to conceal his identity. His stocking cap was pulled down to his eyebrows and a couple of twists of bear fur had been turned into bristling mustaches. He walked with a gangling, bent-kneed stride and wore Pierre’s oversized coat in an effort to appear older and shorter than he was in fact. It was possible that neither looked as grotesque as they felt; the guards gave them only the most cursory glance.

Onward they lurched, with Cyrene swinging her hips and Gaston clutching at her. When they were just so close and no closer, Cyrene gave a shrill cry and pushed Gaston so that he staggered back. He cursed in loud, slurred tones and rounded on her, grappling with her. The shawl Cyrene wore slipped, revealing a bare shoulder where the tie of her chemise was loosened. She slapped Gaston and he grasped her bodice, tearing the buttons. The lantern light over the warehouse door caught the gleam of firm white flesh. The soldiers paused, staring lasciviously.

Cyrene dragged herself from Gaston’s hold, wailing, pleading. With one hand grasping the edges of her torn clothing without much benefit to her modesty, she ran toward the guards. They were frankly staring, perhaps out of concern, perhaps in enjoyment of the show. She spread her hands wide toward them in a gesture of supplication that allowed her chemise to spill open halfway to her waist. She felt the rush of cold night air on her naked skin, saw the eyes of the guards widen.

A pair of shadows, swift-moving and silent, detached themselves from the darkness at the sides of the warehouse, moving from the back. They closed in on the guards from behind. There came soft grunts, the thud of blows, and the two soldiers collapsed at the knees. They were dragged quickly out of sight around the building where they were bound and gagged. Cyrene, her lips thin with distaste, quickly did up her bodice.

The Bretons did not bother to force the lock on the front double doors of the long building. As with most wood structures in the damp climate, the foundation of the warehouse was half eaten away by rot and termites. It was the work of only a few minutes with a prize bar to lift off a section of the planking on the darker side of the warehouse wall near where the trussed soldiers lay. When the opening was wide enough, Cyrene took the lantern they had removed from its hook and slipped inside while Pierre and Gaston made the hole wide enough for the passage of the merchandise. Jean had already left at a run to bring the pirogues beached farther along the levee closer.

The interior of the warehouse smelled of leather and wool and rusting iron, of wheat, spices, and dried fruit, of salt beef and beans — all overlaid with the odors of mice and soured wine. The long space was divided down the middle by a raised platform, while more platforms to hold the merchandise above the damp earth floor were built against the wall, forming a double aisle. The wide, shelflike platforms were by no means full. It seemed the governor’s complaints about the lack of tribute and trade goods for the Indians were valid.

There were a few barrels of coarsely ground flour, bundles of blankets, some kegs holding brandy and wine, and piles of long boxes that might have contained arms and ammunition or could just as easily have held the walking sticks decreed by fashion. Crates held iron pots and knives and hatchets. Bales of rough cloth in crude colors were stacked to the ceiling. A motley assortment of barrels, bundles, trunks, and cases in various sizes holding unknown contents were piled here and there. As a show of the might of France, it was not impressive.

The items that had been taken from the Bretons were easy enough to find. They were collected in one place on the central platform and neatly tagged with a lot number. In a gesture that came near to affectionate, Cyrene patted the top of a cask before she turned and gave a wave of triumph to the Bretons.

With the four of them working, the pile of goods rapidly dwindled as it was transferred to the pirogues. Despite the jokes they had made about taking extra casks of indigo or bales of blankets, they scrupulously left behind everything except what was theirs. Even so, the piles in the pirogues grew high as the boxes and bundles and bales of furs were moved with little concern for close packing.

The first indication of trouble was the sound a whistle from Jean outside. Gaston was just hefting a box of English steel knives. He looked at Cyrene. She straightened from where she had been stacking together her collection of pots that had for some reason been taken apart. Her gaze met that of the younger man, which was wide with anxiety. From Gaston she looked at Pierre, who had been making toward the opening in the wall with a sack holding glass beads in each hand. The older man’s face was grim as he stood still, listening.

Almost immediately, there came the sound of a shouted order from somewhere down the street. Pierre dropped the sacks of beads and leaped to the wall opening. He ducked back inside again.

“It’s a patrol! Douse the lantern. Jean’s away to the pirogues. I’ll take the other direction and divide the pursuit.” He gave Cyrene and Gaston a hard, straight look. “You two get out when you can. And remember, separate.”

He was gone in an instant. Cyrene whirled in the direction of the lantern, which sat on the platform. Gaston tucked the box of knives under his arm but did not move as he waited for her.

“Go on,” she cried as she reached the lantern and picked it up. “I’m coming!”

The youngest of the Bretons hesitated, then turned to the opening in the wall. He took a long stride, then another, though he looked back at her over his shoulder. He rounded the end of the center section.

It was too late. There was a rasping noise and the great end door swung open directly in front of Gaston. Four soldiers, muskets at the ready, plunged inside. They came to a halt. There was a shouted order and the men dropped to one knee, raising their muskets.

Cyrene used the only weapon she had, the lantern. She flung it with all the strength of terror and tempered muscles at the soldier in the lead. He brought up the butt of his musket to bat it away. The tin buckled and hot oil spewed in a spreading stream as the lantern was struck and sent flying toward a pile of baled blankets. It landed against them, and fire exploded in a yellow rush of heat and fury. The blankets were engulfed. The air was filled with the smell of hot oil and the acrid stench of burning wool. Yelling in panic, the soldiers dropped their guns and began to pull off their coats to beat at the flames.

Fire was the most dreaded enemy of this isolated town. It was a more devastating foe than the wind storms that whirled in from the gulf flattening homes and shops. The threat of it would hold back the soldiers for precious seconds.

Gaston had already thrown down his knives and was gone. Cyrene could not follow behind him because of the heat of the flames. She whirled instead, running back down the aisle to circle the far end, making for the hole in the wall by way of the second aisle. Like one of the flickering shadows cast by the leaping flames, she darted among the bales and barrels, keeping close to the wall as more men, soldiers and civilians, poured in through the main doorway.

She was ignored for the moment, or else forgotten in the greater emergency. She felt the draft of fresh air from the wall opening. It yawned before her, a dark square in the side of the warehouse. A moment later, she was slipping through.

“Hold on there, my pretty!”

The officer loomed up before Cyrene, his hands outspread as if cornering a nervous fowl in a hen yard. He was a veteran, for his eyes bulged in a face mat was marked by battle and a thousand barracks-room brawls. His loose mouth was twisted by a taut grin of anticipation and cocky self-assurance that showed the blackened stumps of his teeth.

Cyrene sidestepped, whirling away from him to run. He looped out a long arm, grabbing a fistful of skirt. She pitched forward as she was thrown off balance. The man was on her at once, slamming her to the ground. The hilt of his sword gouged into her hip as he fell on top of her. He sank his fingers into her upper arms, wrestling her over onto her back. She wrenched at her arms, striking at him. Her coif worked loose as she was thrown from side to side, and her hair spilled from it, flailing like a silken banner in a high wind. The veteran twisted one hand into the fine warm mass, wrapping it around his wrist as he dragged her toward him and rose to one knee, pulling her upright as she caught at his arm to relieve the tearing pressure.

“Now,” he said, giving her a hard shake that sent pain in a red and black rush to her head and threatened to snap her neck. “Let’s see what we have here.”

“Attention!”

The command rang out cold and clear, hard and imperious in its authority.

The officer stiffened, swinging around to something near a respectful stance, though he retained the hold of one hand on Cyrene’s arm. “Sir?”

“Release that woman at once, Lieutenant.”

Shock rippled over Cyrene at that all-too-familiar voice. And yet she knew a despairing inevitability at hearing it here, at this moment. The officer’s grasp fell away. She was able to turn in slow anguish to face René Lemonnier as he strode toward them.

The lieutenant rushed into speech. “I caught this woman escaping, m’sieur. She is with the others.”

“She may be and she may not. You can go about your duties. I’ll take charge of the prisoner.”

“But, sir—”

René’s voice grated with soft menace. “You are allowing the culprits to escape while you dally with a woman. That will not make good hearing for the governor.”

“Yes, sir. No, sir.”

There was irony in the man’s tone, but it was only a pose, a cover for the unwilling fear that shone in his eyes. He stepped back from Cyrene and made a jerky bow, then walked away as fast as his stiff back would allow.

René turned to Cyrene. He took her elbow, his fingers closing in warm support around it. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

“Let’s get you out of here, then.”

What she had expected, she was not sure. Surprise took away her power of movement. For a long instant she stared, bemused by the concern and angry purpose she saw in the face of the man she had come to think of as an enemy. Behind her were shouts and the crackling of the flames. Somewhere a bell was ringing out an alarm, and not far away there was the clatter of wooden buckets as men hurried to form a line to bring water from the river.

Before she could find words for the questions that swarmed in her brain, René clamped a hard arm behind her back, sweeping her toward the rear of the warehouse, half leading, half flinging her into the darkness away from the noise and confusion and the gathering crowd.