Chapter 18
The Belle of Savannah was a dockside inn where ships’ captains, owners and insurers of cargoes met to discuss a mutually beneficial venture.
The lighting was more adequate than in an ordinary seamen’s dockside inn and there was a noticeable absence of the doxies that hung around such places peddling their bodies.
Ethan, his face tight with anger, slammed his fist down on the table in front of him. Disturbed by the vibration, the beer tankards jumped. ‘In the name of God, man, why did this happen?’
The general sipped at a very decent claret the innkeeper had dredged up from his rapacious cellar, no doubt supplied by one of the many pirate ships operating out of Savannah, Atlanta or further south.
His pursed lips hinted that the rich red nectar was bitter as berries, which was far from the case. Men had died in a battle that should never have taken place. He had to concede that Ethan MacKinnon had a right to be angry.
‘I was not to know that a peace treaty had been signed weeks before between America and the old country. Neither side knew. Perhaps if you’d got it here more swiftly…’
‘If I could fly, I would have done,’ barked Ethan.
He was angry. Very angry. All that wasted life and for what? It took time for a sailing ship to cross the vast expanse of heaving waves that was the Atlantic Ocean. Two thousand British troops would still have been alive. So would thirteen militiamen.
The general winced. Ethan MacKinnon had a reputation for stating the facts without losing his temper.
Even so, the general detected it simmering just beneath the surface.
Ethan MacKinnon’s manner was such that even the most autocratic of men became tongue-tied and unable to find excuses in his presence no matter how hard they tried.
‘If it’s of any consolation, I’m sorry it happened. It may also surprise you to know that such needless slaughter is as abhorrent to me as it must be to you. However, you have to concede that New Orleans was being attacked, and therefore—’
‘Enough!’
Although Ethan’s back was to the room, his voice rocked its walls.
He found it soothing to see the dusty, hot street below where two belles were striding along holding yellow sunshades above their heads.
He heard them laugh, saw the confidence in their feminine swagger as they trotted along.
Like proud horses. My God, it was as though all of New Orleans was doing the same at this moment in time.
The whole population was rejoicing. The British army that had attacked the city had been soundly beaten – and at a terrible price, the worst defeat in British army history.
The cost to the American military was thirteen.
The general tried to make amends. ‘I must admit to some surprise that our politicians agreed so readily to a treaty. The Canadians and the Indians—’
Ethan spun round to face him, his eyes hard, his jaw clenched fit to burst. ‘Nothing to do with politicians or Canadians, and certainly not the red Indians! Merchants, my dear General. The outcome of this war was decreed by merchants. The merchants of London and New England banded together and demanded peace so that their lucrative trade could return to its pre-war profitability and grow greater. And the banks backed them. And that is why so many good men are dead! Money is more powerful than men or military. Money talks.’
After the general had left, Ethan MacKinnon ordered his manservant, Laird, to make arrangements for them to go home to his plantation in Virginia.
Hopefully his bride would be on her way there, though there was no way of knowing.
One thing he did know was that the captain of the ship that had brought her from England had reported her missing and that he’d been detained by persons who had mixed him up with somebody else, insisting he owed money for the purchase of a horse.
The horse did not exist and after four days it seemed those who detained him didn’t exist either, leaving him free to flee the shabby cell he’d been forced to live in.
Loyal to Ethan, Captain Hallet had made enquiries and discovered that she had indeed joined a Dutch ship, though not the one intended. The destination of the ship she’d boarded was vague. Further enquiries resulted in him finding out that the ship had sailed to New Orleans.
He’d put out feelers in New Orleans, with little success at first. Then, suddenly, something interesting had come to his ears. An envoy from the French government had been seen there in the company of persons known to indulge in the white slave trade.
French gentlemen are not quite what they used to be, he thought to himself. His mind worked keenly and positively on the subject of his intended wife being taken there and the sudden presence of a French envoy.
Leaving aside Lochranza’s obvious beauty, whoever bought her would be getting much more than that.
French intelligence would be fully aware of whose niece she was, thus her price would be beyond rubies – a counter-intelligence operation – a purchase not of beauty but of information – perhaps even blackmail.
‘I want her found. I want reports,’ he shouted at the underlings who worked for him.
It was the Spanish woman who brought the news that his intended wife had been rescued and was heading north.
‘I was asked to make certain arrangements regarding her escape.’
She went on to tell him about the man who had been provided with fine clothes and a carriage on the orders of a Captain O’Neill. He recognised the name as long standing in the network of agents working for the British government and Lord Alexander Kildare in particular.
‘Was he the man for whom you arranged fine clothes and a carriage?’
‘No. O’Neill is an old man. The man who wore the fine clothes is well known as a pirate and adventurer in the Mississippi Delta. A romantic figure,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘His name’s Captain Crabbe.’