The Captain`s Vengeance

twig-cracks? Quick together? Was that how it was down yonder? If you're with Mister Ellison, you came aboard the emporium ship with him… you saw the Austrian sharpshooter rifles, the Girandoni air-rifles? That's all of a sound they make, a twig crack. Think, man!'

A hand hammered onto his left shoulder to spin him around to face his accostor and his wide-bladed ten-inch skinning knife, as big to Lewrie's eyes as a Scot's claymore. And he was an American, clad in a mix of homespun and leather, glaring face and eyes beneath a massive coonskin cap with the mask on, with glittering brass beads in its eye sockets winking from the street lamps' lights.

'How d'I know ye didn't have a hand in shootin' Jim Hawk? 'At ye didn't sic some o' yore men t'do it?' the man accused.

'Why the Devil would I?' Lewrie shot back. 'He doesn't even owe me money!'

' 'Caws yore an English spy, come here t'scout New Orleans 'fore ye take it fer yore own, an we got in yore way, an iff'n Jim Hawk dies I'll draw out yore innards an' roast 'em on a stick right b'fore yore eyes. An' 'at'd be just fer starters,' he vowed with a feral grin.

When among the Muskogee towards the end of the Revolutionary War Lewrie had heard of savage tortures, so he could not help gulping in dread, but…

'And you and Mister Ellison are here to scout the place so you can take it before we do,' Lewrie retorted, 'but we came to hunt down pirates who stole a rich prize ship from us. That ship moored highest upriver of the emporium hulks. Looking for a large, black-hulled, and red-striped schooner. Some of the men with me survived being marooned on the Dry Tortugas, and they could recognise both the schooner and the faces of the pirates. That's why we're here, the only reason. I am a Post-Captain in his Majesty's Navy. Unless you and your party had anything to do with the piracy, we'd have no cause to shoot your leader! And how is Mister Ellison, by the way?'

All that truth, carefully mixed with lies, discomfited the man, Lewrie could see. His fierce glare subdued, replaced by a thoughtful but puzzled expression.

'We stand here with your knife drawn much longer, man, and we'll draw the Spanish watchmen, sure as Fate,' Lewrie suggested. 'Neither side needs that, for God's sake. Keep my damned Mantons if you wish, but shouldn't we try to blend into that crowd yonder? Find out how it stands with your Mister Ellison, hmm?' Lewrie gently urged.

'Put yore hands down,' the man growled, shoving both of Lewrie's pistols back at him. 'Anybody gets caught with fired guns, it'll be you, not me. Pick up 'at cane o' yor'n, and we'll go. Mind now, I'll be right at yore back. Play me false, and I'll cut yore kidneys out.'

The first frontiersman turned Lewrie over to another member of Ellison's gang while he went inside the mean tavern to pass on what he had learned. Lewrie and his guard stood near the door, where he could see inside. Ellison was propped up on a threadbare settee, biting his lips, grimacing as a Creole surgeon worked on him. Now and then, he'd let pass a faint groan, then take a sip of whisky from a tall tumbler as the surgeon probed and plucked inside a plum-purpled wound high on his right chest. They rolled Ellison on his side so the surgeon could feel about, then use a slim scalpel to excise a rifle ball from under his shoulder blade. That forced a cry from him, but Ellison's torment came out in a battle-roar, or the snarl of a cornered bear. From that incision, a shiny.51 calibre ball appeared, one that Ellison demanded be laid in his palm. Which plucky, courageous geste raised great cheer among his anxious men and even made Lewrie feel relief.

To the Creole doctor's chagrin, whisky was poured right in the raw wound, more poured over his needle and thread before they'd let him stitch the lips of the wounds together. As he finished his work, with generous batts of absorbent cotton and linen wrappings, Ellison sat up on the settee, half reclined on one padded arm. He had a long whispered conversation with Lewrie's captor, then crooked a finger to summon Lewrie to him.

'You got shot at, too, didjya, Willoughby?' Ellison muttered.

'With a Girandoni air-rifle, the same as you, it appears, sir,' Lewrie said, pointing to the ball in the man's hand. 'By the Spanish, most-like. Why they didn't just arrest us, I've no idea, but they've apparently tumbled to our… doings.'

'And you're a Captain in the British Navy, are ye?' Mr. Ellison snidely smirked, though wincing against his pain.

'Right enough,' Lewrie breezily admitted. 'And you are a serving officer under American colours, or… in a civilian capacity?'

'The Army of the United States of America, sir,' Ellison admitted. 'Temporarily, ah… detached. And were ye happy with yer beach, out t'Lake Borgne, Captain Willoughby?'

'It'll serve main-well, Mister Ellison,' Lewrie confessed, once he got over his surprise. 'And your improvised river fleet?' he asked, taking a stab in the dark. 'Much shorter distance to go, I'm bound.'

Hah! Got it in one! Lewrie hooted to himself to see Ellison's chagrined expression. In his shoes, that's how I'd pull it off!

'I don't think ye had a hand in my shootin', sir,' Ellison told him. 'But the Spanish sink their teeth inta things, they'll not care fer either o' us bein' here. My man says ye told him ye come to hunt pirates that stole yer prize ship, well… that won't wash any better than spyin' out how t'invade. Ever hear folks say, 'once bitten, twice shy'? Uh-huh, good. Me an' th' boys'd take a dim view of ye, if you an' your people were still in New Orleans, come mornin'. Ye are, then it's 'Katy, bar the door.' '

'That translates much like your hairy fellow's 'ki' ye,' does it, Mister Ellison?' Lewrie japed, playing up game even if exposed.

'Why, I do b'lieve it do, Captain Willoughby,' Ellison managed to snicker. 'Somebody drew my blood… an' no man tries t'kill me an' lives. If ye get my meanin'.'

'Neither I nor my men were responsible, sir, 'pon my word of honour. And my name is Alan Lewrie, not Willoughby, so you'll know who to damn, do I prove false,' Lewrie declared. 'I sincerely regret your wounding, sir, and wish you a speedy recovery,' he added, offering his hand, which Ellison took and shook gingerly. 'Though I must caution you, sir, that you and your men might find it expedient to, ah-what is that picturesque American word?-ske-daddle?… before the Spanish find they've failed.'

'That's my lookout,' Ellison said, retrieving his hand. 'Yours is th' Spanish, and us. Luck to ye, Captain Lewrie, fer you're quite a plucky bastard, but… don't let yer string o' luck run out. Good-bye, sir. Skedaddle, yer own self, and adieu!'

Lewrie took that for as good an exit line as any and turned to shoulder his way through the anxious throng of hostile Americans for the door, thence to the far side of Rue Toulouse, was just about to leave the vicinity by heading for Rue Chartres when a Spanish patrol finally made its appearance. He casually turned on his heel, leaned on his cane, and got on tiptoe to see over the crowd of onlookers as if he was just another curious ogler.

'Kentuckians,' Lewrie sneered to no one as the hastily dressed soldiers shoved their way through the back of the crowd. ' Tennessee trash! Ought to run 'em all back to their kennels!'

Deal with that hint, do! Lewrie fervently thought at the back of the Spanish officer as he got to the door of the tavern. And take that, Mister Jim Hawk Ellison, of the United States Army! Now, if I can only get back to the docks before the Dons try t 'kill me again, I'll be a damned happy man!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Lew… Willoughby!' Mr. Pollock barked as soon as he'd entered the dockside warehouse offices. 'Where the Devil have you been? We've been beating the bounds for you, the last two-'

'I've been out getting shot at, act'lly,' Lewrie drawled, as if such happened daily, 'me and that Yankee Ellison both, and nigh the same instant. Two ambushes… though Ellison got the worst of his. Anything to drink?' he asked, tossing his hat on a table, drawing his spent pistols from underneath his coat, and peering about for fresh powder, ball, wadding, and wine. Liam Desmond fetched him a glass of vin ordinaire,