Allegiance Read online

  The Texan commander read each of his letters, then lay back on his pillow, smiling at the ceiling. “Andrew mentions a scheme here that sounds like something the Little Magician might have hatched up."

  "No, it was Jackson's idea, but Van Buren agreed it might work."

  "It doesn't sound like you'll be using many of your survey skills on this particular assignment."

  "It was either that or lead a company in the Second Dragoons and chase Chief Osceola all around Florida."

  General Houston squinted at him. “You have something against rounding up Indians and putting them on reservations?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do. The Seminoles can have Florida as far as I'm concerned. And that goes for the Choctaws, the Chickasaws, and the Cherokees, too. They're already subjugated. Let them keep their farms and businesses.” He gave Houston a wry smile. “Don't tell Jackson I said so."

  Houston smiled. “Well, I guess you can't be all bad, then. I admire the president enormously, but I can't reconcile myself to his deadly philosophy towards the people who were here first.” He nodded slowly. “I believe we can work together, Major O'Donnell."

  Tyler's smile widened. “I was hoping you'd feel that way, sir."

  Houston waved a fistful of papers. “I'll have to rely on you to carry out these instructions, though. I trust you've collected all the firearms we'll need and have made arrangements to ship them."

  Tyler's smile faltered. “Well ... no, sir. I haven't."

  "No?” Houston's gaze sharpened on him.

  "I've run into difficulties."

  "Hmm.” Houston pursed his lips and regarded him gravely.

  Tyler felt the general's disillusionment settle on him like a cold anvil across his shoulders. He couldn't bring himself to insult the general with explanations and excuses. He stood up. “I've made it my first and highest priority, sir."

  * * * *

  Long after the cannon shot announced the curfew for slaves, Amy sat in the twilight at the top of the stairs waiting for Henri. Like a stroke of lightening, a wonderful idea had occurred to her that morning—two of them actually—and she'd spent all day working out the details. One plan involved purchasing bolts of silk, velvet, satin, and brocades to sew into dresses to sell. For years, she'd studied the illustrations in the Lady's Book, and knew what was fashionable—even though she'd never been able to indulge herself with stylish clothing. But this way, she could make a modest income and always have something beautiful to wear for herself. Such an occupation would certainly beat laundering someone else's dirty clothes.

  The other plan depended on Henri and Tyler and the general from Texas. It was inspired. Audacious. And it stood to make her wealthy.

  Idly, she slapped at a whining mosquito. She prayed Tyler wouldn't be an obstacle. She dreaded meeting with him again to discuss it. If only she could think of a way around him.

  When she'd impulsively acted on her most intimate desires at the picnic, Tyler's censure had crushed her. She still didn't know what she'd done to disappoint him—one minute he'd been impassioned, the next remote and disapproving. He hadn't come calling since, and she had to believe their friendship was over. Just as well, she supposed. Obviously, she wasn't suited to him. Personally or culturally. Compared to the women in his lofty circles, he must think her a ragamuffin. How deep the truth cut!

  Suddenly, a sound broke through her thoughts. She glanced around. It was Henri, making such a stealthy entrance into the courtyard, even his old hound didn't notice him for several minutes. Curious, Amy leaned over the railing and watched him carry a box across the gloomy patio and set it down beneath the magnolia tree. He squatted and pried the lid off the box with his knife blade, then lifted something out. He moved like a fox, quick and efficient.

  "Good evening, Henri. Why are you coming home so late?"

  He jerked his head up and froze for a second. Then he spotted her above him and smiled. “Bon soir, chèrie."

  As she hurried down the stairs toward him, he dropped the object back into the box and covered it with the lid. He was sitting on the box petting the hound when she reached him. His lower legs were wet and his boots caked in mud; he carried the dank smell of the bayou.

  "Henri, what do you have there? Crabs or crawfish, I hope?"

  He glanced around the patio. “Where?"

  "There in the box, silly."

  He looked down between his knees as though he had forgotten it was there. “Oh ... no. No crawfish or crabs."

  "What then?"

  He smiled vaguely and shrugged.

  "You don't trust me, my friend.” She tried to smile to show him it didn't matter, and turned away to go. If he had no faith in her, the plan she'd formulated so carefully wouldn't work at all.

  "Wait! C'est bien." He got up and removed the lid. “But don't tell."

  The box was full of tiny molded figurines. She picked one up—a woman wearing a crown—and was surprised at the weight. It wasn't lead; too bright and shiny. “What are they, chess pieces?” She carried it over to the whale oil lamp beside the stairway and held it up. “It's not—It's not gold, is it?"

  "Hush your mouth!” Henri strode over and pried it from her fingers. “I said don't tell."

  "Sorry.” She glanced over her shoulder, but the dark corners of the patio seemed secluded and safe enough. “Where did you get these?"

  "Never you mind. If you want, you can help. Here, take this rag and put black paint on them. That way, no one will know."

  "All right.” She knelt on the tiles beside Henri and took the figurine from his hand. She dipped the rag in the paint, taking care not to spatter her dress, and smeared the lustrous finish on the figurine to a flat ugly color. It seemed a shame to dull the brilliance, but she could see the wisdom of it, considering the number of thieves running around.

  She worked in silence a few minutes, hesitant to broach her great idea in light of his touchy mood. What made him so distrustful, so skittish?

  "Henri, why do the Creoles hate Americans so much when we're all citizens of the same Union?"

  The hound nudged Henri with a wistful expression. Henri finished painting what appeared to be a bishop, and scratched the dog behind the ear, leaving a black smudge. “They don't like the Cajun any more better than they do the Kaintock. They burn our houses, shoot our pigs, and drive us down into the bayous to live with the ‘gators and Congo snakes."

  "But they let you live here."

  Henri grinned. “They like my money. They buy my leather boots from Paris, my tin lamps from London, my clocks and gilt-frame mirrors."

  "If you have that much booty, you must be a pirate."

  His dark eyes flashed with sudden fire. “No, Mam'selle. I am no pirate. Lafitte is gone!"

  "I know. But Sadie called you a gentleman smuggler."

  "Every man in New Orleans is gentleman smuggler. Them smugglers, they overrun the bayous. Not a bad thing, you understand—is necessary."

  "What about customs?"

  "Ptah! The customs-man, he too busy with the Kaintocks. He don't care what I do, long as I bring him a nice gift at Christmas.” He gave her a wink. “And anyway, them government folks got no business telling us what to buy and what not to buy; who to buy from and who not. All the time they got to control everything. Pretty soon, they tell us when to suck air and when to blow."

  "On your rounds, do you come across muskets, rifles, that sort of thing?"

  He put a finishing dab on a miniature soldier. “Mais ouí."

  Reaching in the box for another figurine, Amy kept her voice casual. “Could you find me, let us say, two hundred muskets?"

  His eyes widened. “You have buyer for two hundred muskets, chère?"

  "Maybe. Remember the furs Jeb and I have in St. Louis? I'd like to trade them to you for muskets. That is, if you have a market for furs."

  "You serious, no?"

  She smiled at his astonishment. “How much are two hundred muskets worth?"

  "Perhaps ... five thousand pia
stres."

  "Oh.” Her heart sank. “I probably don't have enough furs for that many. Probably only enough for half that."

  "You say you have a buyer?"

  "I said maybe I do."

  "Now who don't have trust, Mam'selle?"

  "It's no more than an idea so far. I haven't made any deals."

  "What if it don't work out? What if I sell to you, and you get stuck?"

  "Then I'll have something to trade in Santa Fe, won't I?” She thought for a moment. “What about this: I find a buyer, I trade you the furs for one hundred muskets and you put in another hundred muskets for yourself. We could work together, couldn't we?"

  The way he cocked his head and grinned reminded her again of a fox. “Clever girl, you."

  "Please, Henri. I won't let you down, I promise."

  He remained silent, gazing at her. At last, he spoke. “Your father, he help me when I have no friends.” He reached out and touched a finger to the tip of her nose. “But if I don't like them furs, chère, no trade."

  "Oh, Henri!” She threw her arms around him and gave him a hug.

  His eyes grew bright. “Ah, ma petite." He returned her hug and kissed her on the cheek. “You plenty smart, all right. Et très belle." He grabbed her hand and dragged her towards the stairs. “Sadie, bring wine! Business is good!"

  * * * *

  Amy tossed her hairbrush down and took another bite of her breakfast: a crusty bread roll with blackberry jam. The soft morning sunlight entered the open window of her room and set the walls aglow. It was her favorite time of day, when the air was relatively cool and the city sprang to life with renewed vigor.

  Her life, too, showed signs of developing vigor. Now that Henri had promised to help, optimism battled with impatience as she waited for him to carry out the first stage of her plan. She would take charge after that. Meanwhile, a second enterprise kept her occupied. Using her new dresses as guides, she'd constructed patterns for similar designs. Fabrics of every color and texture lay draped across her bed, inspiring and tantalizing her. She couldn't wait to begin sewing.

  A bell jangled. She cocked her head, listening—a caller this early?

  She strolled over to the window to look down, but the roofed entryway blocked sight of any visitor. In the street, a fishmonger shouted his wares, and a watermelon peddler rattled by in his cart, yelling, “Red-to-the-rind! Red-to-the-rind!"

  Through the clamor, the unmistakable sound of the chime reached her ears once more. She was alone in the house—Henri had disappeared into the bayous at dawn to track down muskets, and Sadie had gone to the market. She hesitated to answer the summons herself, then stopped to think: What if Jeb, free at last, had come for her? That possibility spurred her to shrug into a dressing gown, slip downstairs to the patio, and peek around the corner. At first she didn't recognize the tall figure standing beyond the wrought-iron bars. Tall, broad-shouldered ... Tyler! She ran down the passageway to meet him.

  He smiled and removed his hat.

  She halted at the gate, feeling suddenly shy. Could he hear the wild thumping of her heart? “Good morning. I haven't seen you for awhile."

  "My duties still hound me, I'm sorry to say."

  She thought of her recent plans and how close she was to solving one of his biggest problems. A guarded attitude lingering from their last encounter kept her from blurting everything out. If she did find the courage to tell him, how would he respond? Would joy and relief crack his rigid self-discipline? She'd like to see that happen. She'd thought for a moment she'd broken through his shell at the picnic, but not so. Far from it.

  His glance shifted downward from her face as though taking stock of her appearance.

  Embarrassment scalded her face. “I wasn't prepared for a visitor.” She tried to hide her bare feet beneath the ruffle of her dressing gown.

  "Forgive me for calling so early. I ... that is, Senator Christy brought news of your brother. I thought you would want to know."

  Her throat tightened. “What is it? What did you find out?"

  He hesitated. “I can come back later. It was thoughtless of me to—"

  "No, please, come in.” She slid the latch open with impatience. “You must tell me everything."

  "It's not much, unfortunately.” He followed her through the shadowed entryway to the courtyard and waited for her to sit down before he followed suit. His steady gaze on her face set off a flutter in her pulse.

  "Tell me, tell me!"

  "Well, they said they considered him to be—how did they put it?—recalcitrant or intransigent, something like that. Anyway, he pled guilty to all the charges, so there will be no trial."

  "What? How can that be?” She bounded up from her chair, glaring at him. “You were there on the steamboat. Did you believe him guilty of a crime? Well, he wasn't, I tell you! I stole the money off the table—there, I admit it! Jackrabbit Jones drew first, and I fired. Jeb shot in self-defense. He wouldn't plead guilty. Why should he?"

  "I don't know, Amy.” He spread his hands. “I'm as sorry as I can be. I don't know what to tell you."

  She spun away from the pity in his eyes. “This is too much! I've got half a mind to rent a gun-boat and blast a hole in that station house. Maybe then they would let me talk to Jeb."

  Tyler slowly rose to his feet. “I spoke to the judge myself, but he considers the case closed. I'm very sorry. I had hoped to bring you better news."

  She jabbed the fingers of both hands through her loose hair and clenched handfuls of it in exasperation. She glanced around wildly, desperate to get her hands on a piece of pottery or anything else she could shatter against the wall.

  Tyler stared at her.

  She shuddered and dropped her arms. “It's not your fault.” She sat down so that he would too, and folded her hands very tightly in her lap.

  "I haven't given up.” He resumed his seat. “I'll talk with the Commissioner General as soon as he gets back to town. Meanwhile, I have an appointment with the mayor."

  "I appreciate your help more than I can say.” She stole a sidelong look at him, reacquainting herself with his features: long straight nose, dark lashes and eyebrows, golden hair. His mustache blurred the line of his upper lip; his lower lip was full and sensual. His gaze, when it met hers, sent a tremor jolting through her.

  She wished she could throw herself into the security of his strong arms and hear him say it would be all right, that he would fix everything. His gray eyes masked his emotions; she couldn't find a way around the barrier between them. The confusing mixture of gratitude and resentment held her back. Best not allow his good looks or his charitable gestures to soften her resistance lest she make more of a fool of herself than she had already.

  Dispirited, she dropped her gaze. “I don't know what to do, Tyler."

  "Don't give up. And don't worry. I'll do what I can, but it may take time. You'll have to be patient."

  "It's just that I will worry until he's out of that place.” She sensed his watchful concern and made an effort to stop fidgeting. When he made no reply, she glanced up. “How is General Houston?"

  "Oh, he's convinced he's nearly healed, and if faith is all he needs, he'll recover completely. Those doctors are nothing less than magicians."

  "I'm so glad to hear that."

  A moment of silence made time slow down. Their gazes locked for a moment before she glanced away. Beware his eyes—they'll snare you at a time when you need all your wits. “Were you able to find the muskets he needs?"

  "No.” His voice sounded disgusted. “I looked everywhere."

  "And no one had muskets for sale?"

  "A few relics left over from the war. Nothing good."

  "What will you do?"

  "I don't know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I really don't know. Jackson has access to ordnance, of course, but he won't—Never mind."

  "Tell me, please. Why won't the president help?"

  He slanted her a wary look. “We have a Friendship Treaty with Mexico, you k
now. He can't jeopardize that."

  "No, I suppose not."

  "The situation demands utmost discretion."

  Amy's excitement mounted. Her idea looked more promising all the time. “May General Houston have visitors?"

  "For short periods of time."

  "When he's feeling up to it, I'd like to meet him.” She gazed hopefully into Tyler's eyes. He had to say yes, he just had to. The success of her plan depended on it.

  His expression displayed mild surprise. “Of course. I don't see why not. I can arrange it, if you like."

  "I'd appreciate that.” She couldn't prevent a long sigh of relief.

  When he took his leave, she walked with him through the carriageway, presenting as calm and gracious a facade as she could, though her nerves were jumping like crickets. It wasn't just the grim news about Jeb, or the pressure of arranging her devious plans. Her nervousness around Tyler stemmed from more than the nagging memory of her recent humiliation at the picnic or the fact she wasn't dressed properly. His physical presence did something to her. Scrambled her mind with indelicate images and stirred up the inner workings of her body. If she didn't keep a tight rein on herself, she might catch herself winding her limbs around him and kissing him on the mouth again. Appalling thought.

  At the gate, he paused to give her a searching look.

  "What is it?” She snugged her robe together over her collarbone.

  "I truly regret that I have so little time for social pleasures these days. I meant to schedule another opera for us, but ... I'll try to find time—"

  She held up a hand, palm out, as indignation nearly ripped through her placid veneer. Was he actually talking about courting her again? She didn't know what possible reason he had for keeping her off balance like this, but she couldn't bear it. “Please, don't trouble yourself."