Chapter 17
The cartel ship had a civil appearance from the outside, which was more than could be said for her captain.
Her papers were in order, her flag was proper, and her deck had that uneasy neatness by which a man advertises discipline while expecting contradiction.
Captain Henshaw mistook volume for command and habit for right.
He regarded exchanged prisoners as an inconvenience, the crew as an argument, and the Articles of War as a paper intended for other ships.
Darcy had been lodged in a narrow cabin abaft the mainmast. There was a bunk, a washstand, and a porthole that admitted hard light from the Gulf.
It was not a prison in the dramatic sense; governments preferred something more tasteful than bars.
It was confinement all the same, and the formality of it made the thing worse.
He was on deck before sunrise. The first lieutenant, a lean man named Mercer, stood by the rail with a folded chart under his arm and fatigue in his face.
"You are early," said Darcy.
"It is the only hour in which the captain does not mistake himself for Providence."
"That sounds tiring."
"It is." Mercer tipped his head toward the waist. "He has already shorted the water and spoken of punishment."
"For whom?"
"A sailor who asked after the cask."
Darcy looked along the deck. A young man stood near the foremast with his cap in both hands, eyes lowered. Two others worked the line with the careful manner of men who had learned not to attract notice. "And the prisoners?"
"Below. Counted, fed after the crew, and expected to be grateful."
"That is not the same as the exchange terms."
"No." Mercer's mouth moved without becoming a smile. "You are observant."
"I have had practice at being placed among men who believe their convenience is law."
The lieutenant studied him a moment, then said, "If you have a complaint, say it now. I may yet be of use."
Darcy took the chart from his hand and read the course. Barataria was marked in a hurried script. "The captain means to keep to the exchange route?"
"That was the order."
"Was?"
"Captain Henshaw has an unfortunate talent for treating orders as though they were suggestions made by inferiors."
Darcy returned the chart. "Then he is not merely disagreeable. He is dangerous."
"That," said Mercer, "has been my opinion for some weeks."
A cry rose from the foremast. Darcy turned. Henshaw had come up with the morning heat already in his temper. He stood over the young sailor and demanded an explanation for the missing cask.
The boy answered too low for Darcy to hear.
Henshaw snapped, "You will speak when addressed."
Darcy walked forward at once. "On a cartel, sir, one should be precise. Which cask is missing?"
Henshaw turned. "This concern does not include you."
"It concerns me if you are punishing a man for asking after water."
The captain's face hardened. "You are a passenger, Mr. Darcy. You will keep your opinions for the people who paid to hear them."
"Then you must presently be short of audience."
The nearest sailors had gone still. Mercer remained where he was, attentive, and careful. Henshaw noticed the fact, and perhaps the whole day changed there.
"You mistake your station," said the captain.
"I do not. I am under a flag of truce."
"This is my ship."
"No," said Darcy. "It is a cartel. Your office is bounded by that fact."
Henshaw laughed once. "And you propose to instruct me in my duties?"
"I propose to remind you of them."
Darcy's voice had not risen. It was the sort of quiet that obliges hearing. The young sailor by the mast had lifted his eyes. Two more men had stopped pretending to work.
Mercer said, "Captain, the water is short and the men know it."
"The men know nothing save how to complain."
"Then perhaps," said Darcy, "they should know a little law. A cartel is not a prison ship. You are not licensed to punish men for convenience, nor to treat exchanged prisoners as cargo."
The captain rounded on him. "You will hold your peace."
"No, sir." Mercer's hand went to his pistol. "I will not stand by while you violate the truce, abuse the men, and make a jest of command."
That was the crack. Small, exact, and sufficient. The crew had heard enough. The sailors who had been silent began to look from Mercer to Henshaw, then to one another. The boy by the mast drew breath as if surprised to find it still available.
Henshaw saw it too late. "Any man who listens to this mutinying rogue will answer to me."
"Then you had best choose fewer listeners," Darcy said.
Mercer said, "Captain Henshaw, you are under arrest."
The captain stared. "By whose authority?"
"Mine."
"And who are you to arrest me?"
"The man who has watched you turn a lawful voyage into an insult."
Henshaw reached for his sword. Two seamen closed on him before the blade cleared. Another took his arm. One of the marines looked almost apologetic as he helped disarm the captain. It was not a dramatic mutiny. It was worse. It was orderly.
Henshaw swore, then promised courts martial, then recited rank as if rank could still purchase obedience. The words lost force as he was taken below. Men are often absurd when they learn the government is not the same thing as their temper.
Mercer stood very still. "You have made me a mutineer, Mr. Darcy."
"You had already begun the office."
"That is a fine distinction."
"It is the only one that matters."
The lieutenant gave him a sharp look, then nodded. "Very well. The captain is confined. The ship remains under cartel. The course remains in question."
"You will steer south," said Darcy.
"South?"
"To Barataria."
Mercer glanced toward the horizon. "Lafitte's country."
"Yes."
"And why should I deliver a British prisoner to a pirate?"
"Because I am no longer useful to the route you were given, and Lafitte knows these waters better than either government. I require passage to New Orleans."
Mercer studied him. "Most men ask to get away from that city."
"I have become attached to returning to places that have proved inconvenient."
The lieutenant's mouth moved. "You ask a great deal."
"I ask passage."
"That is the least of it."
"There is a woman in New Orleans," said Darcy, "who asked me a question. I mean to answer her in person."
Mercer looked at him for a long moment, then said, "That is either very foolish or very determined."
"Those are often taken for the same thing."
"Not by me." He folded his arms. "Very well. If I am hanged for mutiny, I shall expect you to count it a shared inconvenience."
Darcy inclined his head. "That I can promise."
The captain remained below. The crew resumed work with the tight caution of men who had discovered authority might be restored if handled properly.
By afternoon the papers were gone through, the violation of the truce was plain enough, and Henshaw's temper had been reduced to a matter for later argument.
Mercer altered course. Barataria lay ahead.
Lafitte came out to meet them as if he had been expected.
He boarded from a small boat with two men at the oars and a third in the stern holding a musket like a prop. Lafitte wore a coat too fine for prudence and too calm for innocence. He looked at the altered command, the subdued deck, and Darcy by the rail.
"Well," he said, "I am told there was confusion aboard."
"There was," said Mercer.
"And you are the lieutenant?"
"I am the man left standing."
"That is often useful." Lafitte turned to Darcy. "You are the Englishman."
"I have been called so."
"I hear you made your captain inconvenient."
"Only to himself."
Lafitte smiled. "That is an economical form of rebellion."
"It was not intended as rebellion."
"Most useful things are not." Lafitte's gaze sharpened. "What do you want of me?"
"Passage."
"To where?"
"New Orleans."
Lafitte laughed softly. "Most men choose the opposite direction."
"Then I continue to disappoint expectation."
"On what errand?"
"There is a woman there who asked me a question."
"That is either a very serious errand or a very foolish one."
"Perhaps both."
Lafitte seemed to approve of that honesty. "And what have you to pay with?"
"What I know."
"That can be enough." He tipped his hat. "Very well.' Lafitte tipped his hat. 'I will give you passage. You will not insult my boats, my men, or my judgment."
"I shall make every effort."
"That is not quite a promise."
"No," said Darcy. "It is not."
Lafitte smiled again and turned to his men. The boat pulled away, and by sunset the Vixen had altered into the shape of an awkward peace. Mercer stood by the rail when Darcy left, his expression too dry to be called warm and too practical to be called unfriendly.
"Try not to be hanged before you return to us," he said.
"I shall endeavour to disappoint you."
"That is the nearest thing to good will I expect from any man on this coast."
The boat moved out toward the channels. Ahead, the land of Louisiana drew itself low against the water.
Back in New Orleans, Elizabeth had at last opened Darcy's letter.
She had done so in Mr. Bennet's study with the late afternoon light across the desk and her father pretending, with more tact than usual, not to read over her shoulder.
The pages began in the stiff hand of a man who had not yet decided whether confession was a duty or an error.
Then the paper changed under the pressure of the journey. It wrote itself into honesty.
He had set down Georgiana. Wickham. The orders from London.
The maps. The shame of them. He had written of the Choctaw council, of the hurricane, of the ruin of the expedition, and of the change that had come upon him before he could put it into proper language.
There was nothing pretty in it. That was almost the point.
At the end she found the words she had most expected and least wanted to see.
I have been the worst sort of coward, a man who continues because obedience is easier than choice. I choose conscience. I choose you. If you will have a man who has earned nothing—
She stopped there, though the page continued below.
Mr. Bennet said, "You may read the rest."
"I have read enough."
"So I should think."
"It is a dangerous letter."
"Most honest ones are."
Thomas arrived before she had folded the pages. He looked as if the day had made a nuisance of him. Cécile was not with him.
"I have news," he said.
Mr. Bennet leaned back. "That is rarely a comfort."
"A pilot from Barataria came in," Thomas said. "There is a vessel under Lafitte's protection, and a man aboard who answers to Darcy's description."
Elizabeth did not move at once. The letter remained open in her hand. The world had at last given her something exact to know.
"Is he in danger?" she asked.
"Always," said Thomas. "The question is which sort."
"That is an unpleasant answer."
"It is the only true one."
She folded the letter carefully and stood. "Where is he now?"
"South of the city. If the weather holds, they will sight the levee by dusk."
Mr. Bennet said, "Then I suppose we must go and be arranged for the inconvenience."
Elizabeth went with Thomas to the river.
The levee was in one of its usual states of motion.
Porters called, boys ran messages, and the river pressed at the pilings with the indifference of a thing that outlived governments.
The city had repaired itself after the storm more quickly than politeness would have suggested, and the trade resumed with excellent appetite.
Thomas pointed downriver. "There."
At first she saw only sail and water. Then the lead boat altered its angle, and a broader vessel followed. Lafitte's colours were not difficult to recognise. Darcy's ship came in behind it.
She found him at once.
He stood by the rail, smaller at that distance and less controlled than the man she had left at the Custom House, but still unmistakable.
He turned as though some instinct had warned him.
His gaze moved across the levee, over the crowd and the ropes and the men shouting for berth, until it came to her.
He lifted one hand.
She did the same.
The boat drew nearer. Wind caught at the sails. The gap between water and shore was crowded with noise, so that the first words did not reach her clearly. She saw his mouth form the beginning of a sentence.
"Miss Bennet," he called, and the rest came with the water and the wind, "I choose—"
The words hung in the air between them, unfinished but understood. She did not need to hear the rest. His choice was written in every mile he had traveled to reach this shore.
TO BE CONTINUED