The Creole Princess (15 page)

Antoine turned on him. “And the Spanish are no better—the dogs took New Orleans by the throat and slaughtered anyone who protested.”

The rational side of Rafa’s brain understood the Frenchman’s bitterness against the commander who had ordered his brother’s execution. Still, he was young and proud enough to resent the insult. He stood blinking until he had a grip on his temper, then said carelessly, “I defy you to claim New Orleans isn’t better off with Gálvez in command of the city.” He shrugged. “Besides, that is all water under a very old bridge. The question now is how to get one’s cargo through the gauntlet of pirates patrolling the Gulf of Mexico.”

Antoine considered him with narrowed black eyes. “My boat is armed, as is my son’s. Besides, we navigate coastal channels the British are too lazy and undermanned to frequent. Your merchandise will be perfectly safe.”

“That is good to know.” Rafa hesitated. “I had wanted to set sail before the evening tide.”

“We can leave immediately.” Antoine skewered Rafa with narrowed eyes. “But try to make free with my daughter again and you will find yourself missing some essential parts.”

He was going back to New Orleans, and she would never see him again, Lyse reminded herself as she carefully placed the chipped
teapot and four mismatched cups on Justine’s silver tray. Her young stepmother had brought the tray with her as part of her dowry, and it was one of the few really fine items in the cottage’s shabby little kitchen. It was reserved for use with the most honored of guests, like Grandpére.

And Rafael Gonzales.

She knew she walked the razor-thin edge of Papa’s temper, and if she stepped wrong, she risked his wrath not only upon herself but on Justine and the children as well. It was her place in this family to facilitate peace. To help them love one another, as Grandmére Madeleine had taught her.

Grandmére, who had been born of shame but reared in grace, had understood the blessedness of peacemakers. Lyse found daily purpose in honoring her memory.

So, if she could not have Rafa’s presence in her life, she could at least send him away without the bitter aftertaste of discord. Squaring her shoulders and recovering her smile, she picked up the tray and entered the salon.

She found the three men on their feet, evidently prepared to leave the house. “Papa! Where are you going?”

Papa, all but shoving Rafa through the door ahead of him, looked over his shoulder. “The Spaniard has hired me to take him down to his ship at Dauphine Island. Tell Justine I will be back later.”

“But what about the tea?” She looked down at the tray. “Grandpére, don’t you want to—”

“We’ll have tea another day,” Grandpére said gently. “I’ll come again,
cher
.” He walked over and bent to kiss her cheek, then whispered in her ear, “And so, I imagine, will Don Rafael.”

Her gaze flew to Rafa, who blew her an insouciant kiss over her father’s stiff shoulder. Papa pushed him out of sight and growled, “Well, old man? You wanted to come. The tide will not wait.”

Lyse set down the tray and flung her arms around her grand
father. “Please come back! We have missed you!” She lowered her voice. “And tell Rafael thank you for coming. And that I will pray for him.”

Grandpére kissed her again and let her go. “He is a blessed man.” He followed Papa out the door.

Lyse ran to the rotten porch and watched the men untie the boats—Papa in Simon’s, and Rafa and Grandpére in the hired boat—and begin the short trip over to Mobile. She might never see Rafael Gonzales again, but her life was forever changed because of him. He had seen in her more than a drunken fisherman’s daughter. He had stood beside her in the face of Isabelle Dussouy’s arrogance and shown her the woman’s essential cowardice. He had even sparked hope that Scarlet might one day be free—if she could find a way to be brave and persistent and very clever.

Those three things she was determined to be, God willing.

7

P
ORT
OF
N
EW
O
RLEANS
, N
EW
S
PAIN
M
ARCH
22, 1777

The
Valiente
limped into New Orleans with more than her sails in disrepair. The port side of her upper gun deck had been broadsided, and the berth deck was carrying water. Two of her three square-rigged masts had been clipped so that she listed badly.

Rafa, nursing a hole in his shoulder from which a scrap of iron had been removed by the ship’s surgeon, hobbled down the gangplank with less than his usual swagger. He frankly dreaded the coming report. Gálvez was likely to hand him his head—if Pollock didn’t do it first.

The gold was gone.

He could still hardly credit it. That he’d survived the pirates’ attack seemed even more miraculous.

He stopped, eyes tightly clenched against the sensation of the quay shifting beneath his feet. The wounded shoulder throbbed, and his stomach heaved like seas in a northeast storm. He’d wanted nothing so much as to keep to his cabin. But reporting in must come first. By now, word of the attack would have reached Gálvez, and delay would only make it worse.

He pulled himself together, set one foot in front of the other, and crossed Decater Street toward the governmental offices of the Cabildo in the
Places d’Armes
. Behind him the docks throbbed with activity—shrimp boats, barges, and tugs clogging the piers, and longshoremen hauling barrels, crates, sacks, and every imaginable container onto the quay. Laughter, profanity, and shouts in every language of the globe competed with the shrill of whistles and rattle of carts and drays along the wharf. On coming home, Rafa would normally have stopped to absorb and revel in the stabbing color and sound and odor of his adopted city.

But today . . .

This day, every sensation focused on the loss of twenty-four thousand
pesos
for which he must give account. The noise around him only added to the headache that threatened with every step to send him to his knees.

He didn’t even stop to admire the beautiful Church of St. Louis, the center of the
Places d’Armes.
Arriving at the Cabildo, he was greeted by a yawning young adjutant in sloppy uniform and gigantic powdered peruke, too busy admiring himself in a pair of shiny Italian leather boots to spare more than a cursory glance at Rafa’s credentials. Making a mental note to report this lackadaisical guard, Rafa rapped upon the governor’s door.

A moment later Gálvez himself appeared. His impatient scowl turned to surprise and welcome. “Gonzales! I was beginning to think you’d absconded with the king’s gold. Come in and tell me—” The general’s heavy black brows twitched together. “Sit down first, before you fall down. Here.” He hooked the leg of a chair with his foot and pulled it over before pushing Rafa into it.

“Thank you, sir.” Rafa struggled to sit upright and hold his superior’s frowning gaze. “I’m . . . all right. But I’m afraid I have bad news.”

Gálvez stood over Rafa, arms folded. “It would appear so. Have you seen the surgeon?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve a hole in my shoulder and a killer headache, but I’ll recover after a bath and a day’s rest.” Rafa swallowed. “It’s the gold. It’s gone. We were ambushed by pirates just past the tip of Dauphine Island. We’re lucky they didn’t find the gunpowder.”

Gálvez stared for a moment. “Pirates took the gold, left the gunpowder, and released the ship?” He sat heavily against the edge of his desk. “That makes no sense.”

Rafa allowed himself to slump, sliding down until his head rested against the back of the chair, closing his eyes against the lurid images that had played in his head for the last twenty-four hours. “Yes, sir, I know. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Start at the beginning, then. Tell me all.”

“We had sailed four miles out of the Dauphine Island harbor into the Mississippi Sound. The weather was good, with a brisk southwest wind, calm seas. I was on the bridge with Torre at the helm, keeping an eye out, since privateers are known to hide in the bayous. The lookout in the upper rigging shouted that a corvette approached from behind, coming up fast. Wasn’t long before I could see her with the naked eye. She was sixty feet long, maybe seventy tons berthen, carrying ten guns and flying a British flag. Fast, sir—so fast I knew we wouldn’t outrun her.” Rafa rolled his head against the back of the chair. “She fired a wide warning shot and I knew I’d better stop or return fire.”

“Were you in British waters?”

“Probably, though I could argue not.”

“No sense initiating aggression,” Gálvez said reluctantly. “So you dropped anchor.”

“Yes, sir. I chose caution—and paid for it.”

Gálvez grunted. “What happened?”

“After we hove to, their captain and three mates prepared to board, all armed to the teeth—and, here’s the thing—” Rafa gritted his teeth. “They were disguised—face paint, shaved heads, crazy
plaited beards. I’d swear they were British, except the captain’s accent was a little off. French, maybe?”

Gálvez shrugged. “The Acadians hold long grudges. But why hide under an English flag?”

Rafa struggled to sit up. “I don’t know, but as soon as I realized we’d been tricked by pirates, I signaled our cannoneers to fire. Pretty quickly the scene was smoke and noise and blood, and I went down, from a musket ball.” Remembering the searing pain of the hit, he gripped his aching shoulder. “Seems they thought I was dead. I came to in a puddle of blood, saw the pirates were forcing my men to haul off the crates of gold, and knew I had to do something. So I crawled backward into a niche where I’d hidden a loaded musket and ammunition. I’d set up a series of signals for contingencies, whistles mostly.” He chuckled, remembering the enemies’ consternation when their captives suddenly dropped the cargo and dove back onto the
Valiente
while Rafa covered them with musket fire. “My men all deserve medals, sir. We were under way before they could stop us, limping but alive.”

Gálvez was quiet for a long moment. “I will think,” he finally said. “Disasters occur, and one must rework and recover.”

There was no rage. No blame. Rafa knew that many commanders would have him court-martialed—or hung. And this was the heart of his loyalty. How could he repay such grace?

“I will get the gold back, sir. I will return to Mobile, I will find the pirate’s lair, and I will bring him back to you.”

“Yes, but first you must have your shoulder repaired. While you do this I will have Pollock commandeer the powder and supplies. Later we shall worry about the gold.”

“The longer we wait, the less chance we have to recover the loss.”

“Patience,” Gálvez said, raising a hand to keep Rafa in his chair. He moved to sit behind his desk. “You have the letter from our friend in Pensacola?”

“Yes, of course.” Abashed to have forgotten such an important
item, Rafa reached into his coat pocket. “Here it is.” He handed Gálvez the thick packet he’d carried safely in spite of everything. “At least this didn’t fall into enemy hands.”

“Yes. If anything is more valuable than a hold full of gold, this is it.” Gálvez broke the packet’s seal, unfolded it, and swiftly perused the closely written missive. A wolfish grin spread across the patrician features. “And taking into account the details of Fort Charlotte in Mobile that you have provided, Spain will soon control the entire Gulf Coast.” He looked up at Rafa from under heavy brows. “You are dismissed, Gonzales. Clean up and report to Pollock. After you have briefed him, tell him I want to see him forthwith.”

“Yes, sir.” Rafa managed to get to his feet and salute. “Thank you for your trust. I won’t fail you again.”

When Gálvez merely waved a hand and kept reading, Rafa backed out of the room, already formulating a plan to return to Mobile. He
would
recover the gold. And if in the process he managed to capture an hour with a certain beautiful Creole, so much the better.

M
OBILE
M
ARCH
1777