Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1955 Read online

  Manly Wade Wellman

  Other Books by Manly Wade Wellman

  RAIDERS OF BEAVER LAKE

  MYSTERY OF LOST VALLEY

  THE SLEUTH PATROL

  HAUNTS OF DROWNING CREEK

  WILD DOGS OF DROWNING CREEK

  THE LAST MAMMOTH

  REBEL MAIL RUNNERS

  IVES WASHBURN, INC.

  New York

  Copyright, 1955, by Manly Wade Wellman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  C353288

  For

  Julia Daniels

  u. . . as full of valor as of kindness, supreme in both.”

  Contents

  I. Friday the 'Thirteenth

  II. A la Qreole

  III. Echoes of ‘Danger

  IV. AWord from Laffite

  V. The Assassins

  VI. Governor Claiborne

  VII. Fruitless Search

  VIII. The Challenge

  IX. Pistols a Daybreak

  X. To Be a State

  XI. A Package for Ben

  XII. Mardi Gras

  XIII. The Ship

  XIV. Ultimatum

  XV. In the Hold

  XVI. The Lighting of the Fuse

  XVII. “Union Is in Itself a Host”

  I. Friday the 'Thirteenth

  The sprawling new Orleans water front buzzed with activity like a great hive, bristled with masts, spars, and yardarms like a leafless forest. Ships lay along the line of levee wharves, moored beside this longest expanse of docks on the North American continent. Into one of the few empty spaces nosed the merchant schooner Shawnee. Her sails had been struck; cables were carried ashore fore and aft and made fast to massive posts. Sailors walked around the capstans, with each turn bringing her closer in. When her side lay against the wharf, the cleated gangplank shot out and down.

  Half a dozen of the crew were over the side at once, glad to feel steady footing after three weeks at sea. But the single passenger paused by the railing. Tall and broad-backed in his dark frock coat and linen breeches pulled down over heavy half boots, he gazed at the town with blue eyes set wide in his freckled face. His square young jaw was firm between the high wings of his collar.

  New Orleans contained the curve of the river’s eastern bank as though it were the sides of a harbor. Beyond the wharves stretched what must be Levee Street, surfaced with pale crushed shells that flung back the glare of the hot afternoon sun. Scattered along it were timbered warehouses, and on its far side rose the town’s parti-colored brick walls and cherry- bright tiled roofs and weblike iron balconies. Directly in front of the Shawnee gaped an open square among the buildings, hemmed with towers and roofs, and everywhere, near and far, strolled or loitered or toiled people, singly, in pairs, and in groups.

  Both men and women wore a variety of fashions and colors. At his first glance, the young passenger spied sailors in wide trousers and varnished hats, gay-gowned ladies with parasols, a strolling blue-coated soldier, a group of scampering black children in rags. To his nostrils came a strange, complex whiff of odors—pungent like spice, damp like marshy leaves, heavy like close-packed storerooms. It was the essence of New Orleans. His pulse stirred. This was a town different from any he had known in all his nineteen years, in look, smell, and sound.

  For the whole water front jabbered in a thousand voices, and its language was strange and incomprehensible.

  “Ahoy, Master Ben Parker!” That was stout Captain Morgan, on his way to the gangplank. “Ye gape and goggle. Don’t ye take their Creole French?”

  Ben Parker glanced at the Captain. His grizzled side whiskers bristled like an eager cat’s, and he had cocked his gold- braided hat at a festive angle.

  “I catch a word here and there, sir.” Ben stared back across the busy wharves. “I learned my French at Chapel Hill— the University of North Carolina—and likely these folks won’t understand me, either, so we’ll be quits.” Again he gazed into the town. “I wonder why my Uncle Frank isn’t here to meet us.”

  “Patience,” said the Captain. “Come ashore. Frank Parker will find the way to his own ship and his own nephew. I’ve sent a runner to his office in the Faubourg Sainte Marie, and he’ll come before many minutes.” Wise, sharp eyes appraised the youth. “I call you lucky to learn the New Orleans trade with the firm of Hatch and Parker.”

  “I reckon so,” agreed Ben as they tramped down the plank together. He smiled, showing strong white teeth. “I’ll learn their Creole French, if they’ll let me. But I hear they don’t like Americans.”

  Captain Morgan gave him a weather-beaten grin. “Bear in mind, lad, the Creoles are Americans, too—aye, and of the United States these eight years past, since President Jefferson bought Louisiana Territory—”

  “Yes, I know,” broke in Ben, remembering lectures on the subject at home in North Carolina.

  “Do you so?” The Captain beckoned to a gaunt, sharpnosed sailor. “Adams, fetch Mr. Parker’s luggage to the wharf. Now, Ben, I’ve a thing or two to do. Belike you’ll stroll a bit while you wait for your uncle. Good luck in New Orleans, lad.”

  “Thanks. I’ll hope for luck—even on the thirteenth of the month.”

  “Egad, so it is,” nodded Captain Morgan. “September thirteenth, and a Friday to boot. But they say what’s well begun on a Friday’s never ended, so may you begin well here.”

  He walked off across the massive planks in one direction, Ben in another.

  Over there to the right, southward, something caught Ben’s eye. Among the swarms of people showed a huge building of odd construction. It covered as much ground as one of the squares on Levee Street’s far side, and its walls were open. Its huge scallop-gabled roof rested on massive pillars of many- hued masonry, and between pillars hung gay awnings, their reds and yellows and greens bright in the afternoon sun. As he approached this structure, he heard a din as if a whole nation were talking at once.

  He elbowed his way to a wide entry. Through it voices beat against his ears, and powerful odors came to his nostrils—a smell of roasting meat, another of hot coffee, a tang of ripe, acid fruit, another that reminded him of tarry rope. Inside, he saw many shops collected under the towering roof. People bought and sold with excited gestures and eager shouts. At a glance Ben identified heaps of vegetables, stacked baskets beside a long-braided, blanketed Indian, and a stand where a dark, turbaned woman served coffee and rolls.

  So this was the world-famous New Orleans Market, like nothing else in America, perhaps like nothing else in the world. Again he sniffed the savory vapor of the coffee. Should he test his French by ordering some?

  But a voice rang behind him, and he turned. A two-wheeled dray, with a sleepy mule in the shafts, had rolled close. Its driver was lean and swarthy, with dancing long mustaches and gold earrings. He waved at the bundles in his dray, and a crowd gathered at his call.

  “Barataria! Barataria!” he whooped.

  Barataria . . . Ben knew the word. That was the island haunt of smugglers—pirates, said some—where sea rovers combined stealth and daring to gather all kinds of goods never shown the customs officers at the river’s mouth, to be sold in New Orleans more cheaply than things legally taxed.

  “Barataria!” cried the drayman again, and the onlookers began to poke into his heap of stuff. Ben understood now. Loudly, blatantly, this peddler offered stolen or smuggled goods for sale, in careless defiance of all laws to the contrary.

  He turned again, to walk away.

  “Ah, bah!” snickered a voice at
his elbow. “Un ’Mericain co quin!”

  That brought Ben spinning around again. His French was good enough for that—’Mericain coquin meant American rascal, an insult and a challenge.

  Near him lounged four grinning lads of his own age, or nearly. Dark and barefoot, their wry grimaces held little of friendship.

  Captain Morgan had urged him to include Creoles with himself as Americans. So had his father, so had the letters of his uncle. But these Creoles didn’t consider themselves Americans. Ben lost all wish to explore the market. Scowling, he moved away.

  The biggest of the four swaggered after him. Pudgy and tousled, he had a face like a round pie. All four began to chant:

  “ yMericain coquin>

  Habile en nanquin,

  Voleur de fain Chez Mysieuy d'Aquin!”

  And laughed, daring Ben to take offense.

  Ben Parker feared a fight as little as did any young American of any state or territory. But for the moment his mind was busy, puzzling out that doggerel verse. He stood still, translating to himself.

  He knew and resented the meaning of yMericain coquin. What of the rest? Habile en nanquin—but he wore no nankeen. His dark coat and linen breeches would be considered respectable, even in the mode, at home in Wilmington. Here such garments proclaimed him an American—and, to these wharf loungers, a coquiny a rascal, as well. Voleur de fain— they said he stole bread from someone named d’Aquin. The insult was worse for being senseless. Fighting blood hummed in his ears.

  They began again: “ yMericain coquin—“

  “Oh, hush your yap!” Ben suddenly shouted, so fiercely that the whole quartet fell silent.

  Several porters and water-front loafers had ambled close to watch. They were joined by a sailor or two, some of those who had gathered around the dray from Barataria, and from the market, half a dozen townsfolk. Two of these caught the corner of Ben’s eye. At the fringe of the group stood an elegant man of about forty, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted in his rich blue cutaway. In his black satin stock gleamed the white fire of a diamond. His eyes looked clear, pale gray in his rosy face, and down the sides of his square jaw curled black side whiskers. He leaned on a cane inlaid with tortoiseshell and gold. Beside him watched a slim, olive-skinned youth of about Ben’s age, also well dressed and carrying a silver-headed stick of polished black wood.

  These two gentlemen of fashion both smiled, and their amusement increased by at least a degree the heat of Ben’s fury. A snicker from the olive-skinned young man banished the last of his self-control.

  “You hush your yap, too!” Ben snorted at him, hunching his broad shoulders dangerously. His blue eyes glared at the chuckler with the black cane. “I can whip any Creole who says turkey gizzard to me! ”

  The smile only broadened on the young olive face. The slim right hand lifted the cane slightly, like a weapon. This Creole understood Ben and plainly did not fear his threat.

  “Easy, young sir,” cautioned the voice of Adams, the sailor from the Shawnee. “Them Frenchies can fight with sticks.”

  “Fight with sticks?” echoed Ben fiercely, and made a quick stride to where a broken shipping crate lay. He snatched up a piece of wood the size of an ax handle.

  The Creole dropped his elegant straw hat on the wharf planks. Debonair, he set the knuckles of his left hand on his hip, advanced his slippered right toe, and raised the cane in salute. Still his black eyes danced and smiled.

  “En avanty” he said, with all the good humor in the world.

  Ben sprang in and smote. But smoothly the black cane parried his blow, disengaged, licked out, and stung his forearm like a whip.

  “Ha!” cried the blue-coated man as the young Creole skipped lightly away from Ben’s awkward return smash.

  “Stand up and fight,” growled Ben, closing in. Another smooth parry, a lightning counterblow that roasted Ben’s ribs through his coat. Someone cheered, someone laughed shrilly. Tucking his tortoiseshell cane under his arm, the blue-coated man clapped his hands in applause.

  Smiling, the cane-wielder now attacked. His curly dark hair was not even ruffled. Ben managed to parry two blows, then a third knocked his broad hat from his head, and his ears rang. For a moment the wharf, the sunny blue sky, the knot of spectators seemed to spin around him. There was yet another stroke of the black cane across Ben’s knuckles. He grunted and dropped his club.

  Disarmed and groggy, he charged desperately. He ducked under a sweeping blow and grappled his slim enemy. A yell rose from the watchers as the two heaved and strained.

  Ben found himself gripping a body as tough as wire and as wriggly as a trout, but he squeezed it close. He had been the best rough-and-tumble wrestler among his Carolina friends, and his strength quickly asserted itself. Hooking a heavy boot heel behind the other’s modishly tailored leg, he flung his weight forward. Down they went, Ben on top.

  Astride his floundering foe, he shook the dizziness from his head. With one broad hand he pinned the arm that tried to wield the cane. His other fist, square and hard as a cobblestone, cocked above the olive face.

  “Had enough?” he panted.

  “ ’Ware the one behind you! ” whooped Adams. “He’s got a knife!”

  Bounding up, Ben faced the rush of the pie-faced leader. He struck out, right and left, and his knuckles found soft flesh.

  The new attacker stumbled back, dropping his knife. Ben pursued, his blood up and his fists driving.

  A blow glanced off his own temple, but he struck, hard and solid, again and again. Under that bombardment the fat one wilted and fell back a dozen paces.

  They were at the edge of the wharf, almost beneath the rail of the moored ship. The plump form managed to writhe clear of a mighty full-armed swing. Thrown off balance, Ben lost his footing and plunged through space. He saw yellow- brown water rushing up at him. Then strangling darkness swallowed him.

  Ben Parker could not swim. He floundered aimlessly. His clothes hampered him, his boots seemed to weigh tons. He had a sense of woeful doom—it was Friday the thirteenth. . . . His wits drifted lazily from him.

  They came back, those wits, slowly and timidly, as if not sure of a welcome home. Ben found himself lying on his back. He stared drowsily up at the hot blue sky.

  “Are you all right, sir?” asked Adams.

  Ben rose on an elbow. “I reckon so,” he said, mopping a soggy sleeve across a dripping face. “Thanks for pulling me out. I can’t swim a lick. I thought I was gone.”

  “Don’t thank me. That there young Frenchy jumped in and heaved you up to where I could clap hold on you.”

  Kneeling beside Ben, Adams pointed. Some paces away, Ben’s late antagonist stooped to wring water from his soaked trouser legs, then thrust wet feet into the polished slippers he had kicked off. Stooping lower, the young Creole retrieved his hat, his beautifully cut coat, his ebony stick.

  “Hey, you!” shouted Ben, scrambling to his feet.

  The Creole faced him, the hat in his left hand, the coat over his left arm. His right hand half raised the stick. Under the dripping black curls waited the level eyes, ready for anything.

  “Did you jump in after me?” demanded Ben.

  “C’est rten ” replied the other quietly. “It is nothing.”

  He walked away, lightly, smoothly, without a backward glance. Ben dripped and glared.

  “Don’t vex yourself,” said a deep voice. It was the modish man in the blue coat, who still lingered. “He feels shy, I think. First fighting you, then saving you—”

  “Then strutting off like a rooster,” growled Ben, looking at the man. This impressive individual had no Creole accent. Why, wondered Ben, would an American laugh to see a Creole outclub him?

  “Your luggage is stacked where the Shawnee’s tied up, Mr. Parker,” said Adams, and the stranger’s gray eyes lighted with new interest.

  “Your name’s Parker? Might you be kin to my friend, Mr. Frank Parker?”

  “His nephew,” said Ben.

  “Then perm
it me.” The blue-coated figure bowed slightly. “I am Horner Banton, very much at your service.”

  “Honored, sir,” said Ben, remembering his own manners. “I’m Benjamin Franklin Parker, and I’m waiting for my uncle now.”

  “Are you so? Then please convey him my respects. I cannot wait—I delayed overlong to watch your passage at arms. Sir, I look to our better acquaintance.”

  The thin, wide lips smiled between the black whiskers. Ben bowed again and watched Mr. Horner Banton depart, envying his magnificently fitted garments, his strong grace of movement, his assurance, his evident importance.

  Adams offered Ben his hat, but Ben did not put it on. That broad black hat was his only dry garment outside his trunk, and a lump swelled on his brow where the ebony stick had landed. Returning to the Shawnee with Adams, he pondered these embarrassments.

  “Let that Mississippi water dry ofPn you in the sun,” advised the sailor, trotting up the gangplank.

  Ben draped his coat on one end of his trunk. Sitting on the other end, he worried off his boots and emptied them of water. He glowered at the planks, at the boots, at the coat.

  Well, he’d come to New Orleans, obedient to the wishes of his father and his uncle. The journey had not been his idea. Reared at the port of Wilmington in North Carolina, Ben had yearned from childhood to do as his father had done— enter the army and become an officer. Lucius Parker had borne his regiment’s flag as a sixteen-year-old ensign at the battle of Guilford Court House. Now, thirty years later, he was Captain Lucius Parker of the regulars, gallant in his uniform, imposing at the head of his company, honored at home and in the field. He had influential friends, too, who would surely help an officer’s son to a cadetship at the new West Point Military Academy but Captain Parker had told Ben a hundred times that the army was no place for a career.