The Captain`s Vengeance

whole lotta small boats.'

Ellison snickered, keeping his own counsel as he sipped coffee. The American Army, even if that bastard General Wilkinson did lead it, could muster 20,000 militia plus regulars and infiltrate around 2,000 into New Orleans. Half the rest would march on Natchez and overwhelm its pitifully small garrison, the other half would sail down from Kentucky or the Wolf River bluffs to pick up the Natchez detachment once they'd won. With Natchez silenced, the Spanish would have no warning until the makeshift 'armada' swung round the last bend above the city, which would be the signal for the infiltrators to cause general havoc and pave the way for the main force to land!

'Anyone have any luck talkin' up that crew o' theirs?' Ellison enquired as he set his cup aside.

No one had; the new-come strangers usually made taciturn, early nights of things, and what desultory conversations that Ellison's men had drawn them into, all that could be learned from them was that they came from Ireland or England once and were loyal to their court-martialed former naval officer, who was a fairly good-natured sort, and a terror with the ladies.

'Wide open out there,' Ellison muttered, once those reports were done. 'East o' town. Wonder why the Spanish haven't fortified it or even planned against a Lake Borgne landing?'

'Too marshy, really, Jim Hawk,' Siler said with a shrug. 'That road's the only way, and h'it's not much t'speak of.'

'Wish we had a navy, big as the British do,' Ellison said with a scowl. 'Oh well, maybe someday. But there's twenty thousand fightin' men in Kentucky an' Tennessee, just rarin' t'go. Does President Adams and Congress ever get done wranglin' and jabberin', give us the signal t'go ahead, well…'

'Hey, what 'bout 'at 'ere girly feller, Jim Hawk?' Silas Bowman asked with an eye-rolling leer. 'Er wuz he'un really a she'un after all?'

'Oh, I was pretty sure she was a she, soon as she came outta th' lodgin' house, Silas,' Ellison whispered back. 'Took off her hat and shook her hair out 'fore she got to her door. Right before those two bastards come boilin' out an' tried t'slit my gizzards. I still don't know who she is, and for damn' sure can't stick my nose anywhere round her street, after that. Silas, maybe you could sniff around there… ask a slave who owns that house, or who-all lives there, so I can narrow it down. Gotta admit, I'm damn curious 'bout that little gal and what her connexion might be t'that mysterious Willoughby fellah.'

'Ah'll do 'er, Jim Hawk,' Bowman assured him with a deep nod.

'Well… maybe ya shouldn't get that close to her, Silas,' Jim Hawk teased with a leer, creating a bit more mirth at his crowded table. 'Rest o' you boys… today it might not hurt t'sneakify round all the forts an' such. Get a count o' th' garrison an' whether they live in barracks or sleep out. Then…'

Meanwhile, back at the pension at Bourbon St. and Rue Ste. Anne, Capt. Alan Lewrie (or Willoughby, take your pick) heard the rumbles of a dray waggon in the brick and cobbled streets, and all but levitated off the mattress as he flung himself from his left side to his right. He crammed a fluffy, cool goose-down pillow over his head to shut out the creaky-screechy-rumbly din, then fell back asleep.

Aboard the Panton, Leslie Company emporium hulk, Hippolyte and Helio de Guilleri, along with their weedier cousin from Saint Domingue, Jean-Marie Rancour, and the elegant Don Rubio Monaster, bought some few things with their illegal gains that they thought might come in handy on their impending new piratical foray. Fresh, and reliable, British gunpowder- pistol and musket priming powder most especially-was paramount in their purchases. Jean-Marie bought himself a new long-barrelled pistol, one with rich and glossy walnut stocks and grips, and a glossy blued finish intricately chased with hair-thin silver inlays, with a bright brass powder flask, replacement lock spring, and a bullet mould and sprew-snip, all in a velvet-lined walnut case. Jean-Marie already owned four pistols, but a man could never have too many. Besides, he'd been awed by a woodcut print of the infamous buccaneer Blackbeard, of the last century. Blackbeard was depicted bearing an awesome number of pistols on his person: in his waistband, the pockets of his coat, in his hands, and even more holstered in a long and wide canvas rig that hung down on either side of his chest, like a priest's scapular. Blackbeard had also been shown with burning slow- match fuses in his wild hair and beard. That might be a touch outre, Jean thought, but the firepower he would have at his fingertips!

His new weapon matched the calibre of three others in his collection and had a narrow steel shank on one side so it could hang from his waistband, just like the real, old-time pirates! He would gladly have bought its twin, so he'd have six, but he'd lost at Boure and the Pharoah tables two nights running, so his funds were very tight.

'So dear, though, Jean, mon cher ami,' Rubio Monaster said with a sniff after they left the below-decks stuffiness for the fresh air on the covered former quarterdeck, and shared a round of ginger beer.

'But long-barrelled and rifled, Rubio,' Jean-Marie enthusiastically answered. 'With my grandfather's duellers I inherited, now I own three rifled pistols. I would trade my two smoothbores if I could for this English pistol's mate. In a boarding, firepower is ev-'

'Shhh, Jean,' Helio cautioned with a growl. 'With the Spanish Navy cutter here, the less talk of such things, the better. Everyone in the Place

d'Armes was talking about the missing Havana guarda costa. For now they think a British warship or privateer took her, but…'

'Indeed, Jean,' Don Rubio said with a languid smile, 'we must be as bland as a blanc-manger 'til they are gone. And slip away down south as quiet as mice. Though it would be pleasing for our fellow Creoles to know that someone struck a blow against our oppressors. Think of the wonder that would cause!'

'Perhaps it might light a fire under the many who sleep through Spanish occupation,' Helio gruffly commented. 'Perhaps all the bluster and bold talk of freedom would not be so damnably idle.'

'Well, we could start a rumor that bold local Creoles did the deed,' Jean-Marie suggested in a much softer, conspiratorial voice.

'An anonymous letter dropped at the doorway of the newspaper?' Hippolyte posed.

'But would they dare print it?' Helio countered. 'The Spanish would shut them down in a heartbeat.'

'Bastards!' Don Rubio fulminated under his breath.

'No time, anyway, chers,' Helio said, scowling. 'We're off to sea in a day or two. Dim and slothful as the Spaniards are, a letter like that, and us suddenly absent, even the fools in the Cabildo could put two and two together. We've other business first. One of the Americans trailed our sister home from Le Pigeonnier yesterday… lurked outside as if he meant her harm. When we rushed downstairs to confront him, he escaped us in the mists, but we know him.'

'Salaud! Son of a whore, who is he?' Don Rubio said with a malevolent hiss, bristling up in an instant. 'I will kill him myself!'

'He calls himself El-isson,' Helio informed him, stepping even closer and lowering his voice to a faint mutter. 'The leader of those new-come buckskin barbarians we suspect are here to scout the city for an American invasion, Rubio. Our body slaves have made careful note of all the skulking they do. We know the low-class tavern where El- isson and his band lodge… a filthy, gloomy place.'

'He would violate her? He would lurk and hope to seize her and ravish her? Nom d'un chien, I will call him out at once!' Don Rubio hotly vowed.

'No time for the niceties, Rubio… comprendre?' Helio hinted, tipping him a grave wink and nod. 'He is no true gentleman, so challenging him to a duel would mean no more to him than gold to a hog. He seems more the sort to cheat, anyway. Besides, duels take such a long time to arrange. And, what sort of insult would it be to your honour, to waste high-born niceties on a jumped-up peasant, who would sic his minions on you in the dark of night, and back-shoot you, hein?'

Helio de Guilleri had known Don Rubio Monaster and his family, the Bergrands, since he donned his first pair of boys' breeches, knew him, and his touchy sense of honour, to a tee… and his sheeplike lust for his sister. All it would take would be one word to launch him at their foe, and Rubio would wade in with all guns blazing, if given the chance to do something impressive to redeem Charite's honour or guard her 'delicacy' from the advances of a