and stockings will do. Take those shipboard things you wore on the way upriver, the hunting shirt and such… as if that's all you own at present. A full purse, it goes without saying… and all your, um… weapons. One cannot tell what sort of footpads one may come across.'
'You're so reassuring,' Lewrie said with a faint sneer as he opened the cabin door to go forward to his own small accommodations.
Not one hour later he was ashore and cozily ensconced in one of Pollock's 'open and airy' appartements (as the Frogs termed them) in a pension at the corner of Bourbon Street and Rue Ste. Anne. His rooms were two storeys above the ground floor, up narrow, rickety stairs, and any felons who wished to scrag him couldn't help making the most hellish racket on their way up to get at him, he cautiously reasoned. It actually was a promisingly pleasant place, a tad spare when it came to elegant furnishings, but it was clean and (relatively) bug-free, with bed linens, towels, and drapes still redolent of boiling water and soap, fresh washed. The 'airy' part came from three complete sets of glazed doors that served for gigantic windows, all of which led out to a wraparound upper balcony fronted with intricate wrought-iron railings, and even the stench from the bricked streets with too-narrow sidewalks and no drains or gutters by the kerbs wasn't that bad, for all the detritus seemed to end up in the sunken centres of the cobbled streets, where, Lewrie suspected, it stayed till the next rainstorm flushed it asea… or down the street, where another neighbourhood could enjoy it!
Not a true set of rooms, really; he'd gotten one large, open, high-ceilinged chamber as a parlour, fitted out with a mismatched set of chairs and a settee, corner tables, end tables, a faded carpet, and some cast-off horrors for framed paintings and such, aligned along Rue Bourbon. A wide, stub-walled archway at the Ste. Anne end delineated the bedchamber, further separated from the parlour by a pair of sham Chinee folding screens.
He'd packed in a hurry, though taking time enough to place his pair of twin-barreled Manton pistols deep in his new valise, a pair of pocket pistols in his clothes, his hanger on his hip, new sword-cane in his hand, and a wavy- bladed and razor-keen Mindanao krees knife up his left sleeve, a 'remembrance' he'd picked up off a piratical Lanun Rover in the Far East.
Lewrie had had time, too, to warn his men about the parts they were to play-adventurers signed on as Mr. Pollock's muscles-and that they should not get so drunk that their time in the Royal Navy got blabbed as present-day status. Poor Furfy had the hardest time understanding.
'Desmond, a private word,' Lewrie had bade the happy-go-lucky Irish rogue. 'You've a sensible head on your shoulders, though I fear your mate Furfy's not the quickest wit was ever dropped.'
'An' that he is, sorry t'say, sor,' Desmond commiserated. 'A grand feller Furfy is, a fast friend, but… nary th' sort o' man t'even sham clever.'
'You'll look out for him special, Desmond,' Lewrie charged him. 'Furfy is a good sailor, aye, and I'd hate to lose him or let him get in trouble if liquor frees his tongue, or ties it.'
'Oi'll see to it, sor, swear it,' Desmond soberly vowed, though how 'sober' he'd be himself within the hour was doubtful. Let sailors get at drink, and they'd be senseless, roaring drunk in a turn-about of your head! Faster than you could say 'Luff'!
'I knew I could count on you, Desmond,' Lewrie had replied, not quite relieved, but close. 'You might keep the lads together, keep an eye and ear cocked to their doin's, too, and not a word about Proteus or our mission. 'Just enjoy the first day, and we'll probe, later.'
'Ye kin count on me, sor,' Desmond had assured him, though all but dancing in place from one foot to t'other to be away and ashore in search of pleasures and deviltry.
Now, Lewrie was on his own. Pollock had quickly steered him to this pension, a place he'd obviously stayed before, for he was on good terms with the proprietor and his wife, then had nearly jog-trotted to his own lodgings-a much nicer place, Pollock smugly and thoughtlessly informed him, located in the middle of Rue Royale, 'twixt Ste. Anne and Rue Dumaine. Pollock said that they should breakfast together next morning at eight, that Lewrie (Willoughby, rather!) should not spread himself too widely on his own spree among the Creoles, and should keep a clear head. A caution (more than one!) to not go off half-cocked should he encounter Lanxade or Balfa straightaway; merely on their descriptions, he just might end up accosting the wrong man, do one of them in too publicly, even should he slit the throat of the right'un, and end up arrested; at which juncture, there'd be nothing Pollock or Panton, Leslie Company could do for him but deny they'd ever heard of him, and wasn't it such a shame for a new-minted American who'd come aboard their ship to go Lunatick and kill somebody, the damned rank stranger!
'Rest assured, Mister Willoughby,' Mr. Pollock confided, close to him and 'chummy' enough for the passersby to witness, smiling wide as anything. But his cautions were muttered from the side of his mouth (and an unattractive sight that was for 'Mr. Willoughby,' in truth!) so no passersby could actually eavesdrop. 'I shall begin my own probes in the morning. Subtle, casual… nought that draws attention,' he said, as if despairing that Lewrie/Willoughby could do the same.
' New Orleans can be a delightful port of call,' Pollock said, practically dancing, like Liam Desmond, to be on his way. 'There's a cabaret not too far off, the Pigeon Coop? Many locals are regulars there. You may casually pick up an earful. Just don't gamble with 'em! The games are all 'crook.' See you in the morning, ta!'
And with that, Lewrie was abandoned on his own. He re-entered his pension and clumped up the stairs to unpack. Once there, utterly alone, he wandered about the confines of his set of rooms, intently studied the wallpaper for a few minutes, and took a refreshing sundown, river-wind turn on his wrought-iron upper balcony. Oil or candle lanthorns were being lit in front of the many residences, even as those outside shops were being extinguished. Folk were strolling below him, softly speaking and chuckling at their ease in a gather pure Parisian French or in a mangled local patois that he suspected was Acadian. There now and then was even a snatch of lispy, high-born Castilian Spanish, along with another garbled version spoken by the poorer-dressed. Pollock had told him that the bulk of the Spanish in New Orleans were humbler peasant-raised Catalans. Some Portuguese, some German small-hold farmers from above New Orleans on the Cote des Allemands, even some Spanish Canary Islanders had settled in Louisiana, undoubtedly very desperate for land or a new beginning; or perhaps the Spanish authorities were desperate for settlers of any kind!
Dammit, I'm stuck in this dump.1 Lewrie groused to himself as he leaned on the railings, which gave out an ominous creaking. I'm famished, I'm badly in need o' wine, and Pollock just up and leaves me t'rot, the hideous 'ahemmin' bastard! What self-respectin' spy'd leave me free t'blunder about without a minder or something? A bear-leader!1
Looking back on his previous fumbling attempts at masquerading civilian and innocent, Lewrie ruefully realised that he'd been the sort who needed minding. Why, one could almost imagine that Pollock trusted him to acquit himself well on his own! Aye, did one have an optimistic bent and a very creative imagination! Perhaps it wasn't neglect at all, but grudging respect that he'd survived those previous missions and had implicit faith that Lewrie could be circumspect enough to survive 'til morning! Had Mr. James Peel had a private word with Mr. Pollock and 'buffed up' Lewrie's dubious credentials to convince him to take him along?
Or, Lewrie glumly suspected, Pollock was simply too eager for a rencontre with his ''shore wife'! The Captain and First Mate, on their passage to New Orleans, had discretely hinted that, no matter how prim and upright Mr. Pollock publicly presented himself, he was a mere mortal after all and had found himself a luscious 'Bright' Free Black to warm his bed when in New Orleans; kept her in some style year-round at his permanent lodgings. Mr. Caldecott had even winked and alluded that Pollock might've succumbed to blind lust for an Octoroon female slave and had bought her for thousands, his usual parsimony bedamned!
Damme, am I scared t'go out on my own? Lewrie asked the new-lit stars above the streets; Mine arse on a band-box if I am! After all, I'm better armed than most Press gangs!
A succulent meal, even a Froggish 'kickshaw,' a 'made' dish in savoury, but suspect, foreign sauces, a bottle of wine or three, even an idle hour or two at the cabaret both Pollock and Ellison had named… then, as Benjamin Franklin had advised, 'Early to bed, early to rise.' Hah!
