Allegiance Page 5

  The steamboat crowded the shore, back-paddling to slow itself down. On one of the loading docks, black roustabouts hoisted sacks of grain, fat as ticks, onto a barge. Burly rivermen strode back and forth along the wharf, and carriages rattled behind draft-horses along the top of the levee.

  When the captain spoke, he failed to meet Tyler's eye. “There isn't much I can do, Major. Charges have been made and my duty is clear. A most unfortunate business, but not altogether unusual, you know."

  "Good Lord, man! You treated the Bakers like cutthroats and ruffians. Anyone can see Miss Amy's a young innocent. You drag her through court, it'll ruin her. Does she deserve that?"

  The older man shot him a puzzled look. “What's your interest in this case? I thought you were on an urgent errand for the president."

  Tyler didn't answer. His motives were difficult to explain, even to himself. In truth, the Bakers weren't absolutely necessary for the plan Jackson had hatched—there were other freighters using the Santa Fe Trail. Given enough time, he could make other arrangements. So why this urge to tangle himself up in their problems, to rescue them if he could?

  The boat nosed along the docks past a village of ratty-looking houseboats searching for a berth. Farther along was a slot next to a small two-masted sailing ship. Captain Stott pointed to the schooner. “Maybe she's the one you're looking for."

  It was the Flora, all right—smaller and filthier than Tyler had expected, even for a trading vessel conscripted as a last measure. The little ship had transported General Houston from an incredible victory, and its shabby appearance did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the people shouting and cheering along the dock. A jubilant band played a military march on shore.

  A wave of frustration swept over Tyler. He was torn between duty and an inexplicable need to stick up for the Bakers, to see justice served. He sighed heavily. “Yes, that's the one. Pull into that place beside her. I'm getting off here."

  "But, Major, I'm tying up further along—” He parried Tyler's steady gaze in a silent duel, and then turned abruptly to pound a tattoo on the bell. Steam whistled through the gauge-cocks, and the wheels turned the steamboat about.

  Tyler strode across the deck to the head of the stairs, then paused to look back at the captain. “Where will you take the prisoners?"

  "The station house, of course."

  Tyler nodded gravely, already forming a plan in his mind. “I'll send someone for my luggage."

  As he turned to go, the sight of Amy's pale face, framed in the window of the captain's quarters, immobilized him. One of her hands pressed against the glass in an imploring gesture. For a long moment, their eyes met.

  I'll be back, Amy Victoria. You can count on it.

  Regret dragged a dull knife across his heart as he reluctantly turned away and descended the stairs to the main deck.

  Chapter 5

  Amy tried to jerk away from Captain Stott's grip on her elbow as he hurried her through the milling crowd on the waterfront.

  His fingers tightened on her arm. “Hold still! I'd rather handle you like a lady in front of these people, but if I have to, I'll sling you over my shoulder."

  By the tone of his voice, he meant it. There was little hope for escape, and given the choice, she preferred a more sedate departure from the Missouri Belle. She stumbled after him without resistance, torturing herself with every horrible tale she'd ever heard about prison: Nightmare images of brutal wardens, violent inmates and cruel punishments. Her knees quivered so badly only the captain's firm grip held her upright.

  She had to do something to save herself and her brother—but what? Fear almost paralyzed her thoughts. If only there was someone she could turn to. Being familiar with abandonment, she might have known she couldn't count on Major O'Donnell. Was there a man alive she could trust not to forsake her in the darkest moment?

  Three porters carrying her luggage and the chest of silver fell in line, and Jeb brought up the rear, prodded along by one of the boat's officers. Shackled at wrists and ankles, Jeb shuffled along with mincing steps, and fell twice on the path up the levee. Men gave him wary looks and women shrank away.

  Amy held her breath as she skirted piles of garbage that had been dumped along the river. The rotting offal and swarms of flies created a discordant background for the festive sounds of horns, fiddles, and cheering voices. “Remember Goliad! Remember the Alamo!"

  When Jeb and the porters dropped behind, the captain stopped to wait for them on higher ground. On the river below, the deck of a small freighter served as a dais for a man facing an audience on shore. Judging by the reaction of the crowd, the man was well-known and highly esteemed.

  Amy nudged Captain Stott. “Who is that?"

  She got her answer in the boisterous shout that went up. “Houston! Liberator of Texas!"

  Even though General Houston hung loose-jointed from a pair of primitive crutches, he towered well over six feet tall. Wild auburn hair sprang from his scalp; feverish eyes burned in a waxen face. A red Indian blanket slipped from his shoulders to reveal a bare chest and a ragged costume that failed to hide his gauntness. Bloody bandages swathed one leg from the knee down; more bandages padded his shoulder.

  Amy caught her breath in dismay.

  The wounded general lifted his chin and surveyed the mass of faces. He swayed on his crutches and one good leg, giving the impression of a body held upright by the strength of pride alone.

  Beside him stood Major Tyler O'Donnell. With golden hair, flashing eyes, and sword in hand, he reminded Amy of an avenging archangel in uniform. With imperious gestures, he directed the traffic of scurrying figures. Some sailors ran to turn back the tide of enthusiastic admirers climbing onto the deck of the Flora, while others jostled for position to defend the general.

  For an eternal moment, the evolving drama held Amy transfixed. Some part of her bloomed outward, linking her to the players on center stage. What did it mean, this rush of kinship like a timeless wind through her soul? In that short tick of time, she caught a glimpse of both the history in the making and the future stretching beyond.

  In the frozen stillness of that moment, Major O'Donnell lifted his gaze to stare at her across the distance, forging an invisible yet potent contact. She stood mesmerized as his silent communication registered on her consciousness a sense of remorse and of promise. A tide of yearning swept through her, a soul-deep longing so powerful it left her trembling and afraid. In the next instant it faded away, that moment of revelation, leaving her solid and heavy in her shoes.

  Sam Houston waved a feeble hand at the crowd, then he wilted as though the last of his strength had run through a sieve. He crumpled into the major's arms.

  Captain Stott tugged on her elbow, and she turned away, harboring an ember of hope in the deep recesses of her loneliness. Somewhere, somehow, she knew she would see the Major again.

  * * * *

  Amy climbed into the open carriage Captain Stott had hired and unfurled her pale blue parasol, hiding her face from the crowd. She felt disgraced, accused of crimes for which she stood to pay a terrible price.

  The porters wrestled Jeb into the seat across from her, then headed back to the dock. Taking a seat beside Amy, the captain signaled the driver to depart.

  Panic constricted Amy's chest like a tourniquet.

  Jeb's distress doubled her own. All the way to the station house, he jangled the chains on his ankles, straining one leg iron against the other, and directed murderous glances at the captain.

  "Captain, if you dare lock up my sister, a snake's belly is no lower than you are, and somethin’ dark's goin’ to happen. When I get loose, I'll come back and shoot you down like a polecat. I swear I will! I'll drown you in a horse trough with my bare hands!"

  The captain sighed deeply. “Baker, I have no intention of sending your sister to jail."

  Amy stared at the captain in stunned silence. “You're letting me go?"

  "Yes. While Jones would never let me get away with releasing your b
rother, he might overlook my leniency with you."

  "Why didn't you say so before?"

  "Jackrabbit is a dangerous man. The only reason he backed off at all is because I decided to carry this to a court of law. You've made a bad enemy."

  That sobered Amy, and she rode the rest of the way to the station house in silence. As the driver reined the team to a halt, Jeb gazed up at the forbidding walls of the prison with the stricken expression of a man facing Judgment Day without a prayer.

  Captain Stott climbed out of the carriage. He reached up his arm to assist Jeb. “Come along, now. Make it easy on yourself."

  Her brother floundered out without argument, and Amy wondered whether it was her reprieve that had tempered his mood.

  "Please, Captain Stott, won't you let Jeb go? I'll see he stays out of trouble."

  "Sorry, Miss Baker.” The captain didn't look at her. “I'll be back in a few minutes, and then I'll escort you anywhere you want to go."

  The thought of abandoning Jeb in irons grieved Amy more than she could bear. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she watched him hobble across the hot dusty yard. Only the fact that she'd be free to help him from the outside kept her from jumping out and following.

  She tipped her face to the sky and closed her eyes against the searing light, willing the sun's torch to cauterize her wounded heart. For a brief moment, she thought of slippery elm bark and chamomile tea, then realized it would take more than herbs to purge the ugly bitterness that cramped her insides.

  She must not give in to her fear; it would paralyze her. No, what she needed was a plan ... Henri Dubois! Perhaps Papa's long-time friend had influence in New Orleans. She would ask him to use it, beg if she had to. Anything to save Jeb from this Purgatory.

  The captain returned and settled himself in the buggy beside her. “Well, that's done. I expect his case will come up in a few days. Fortunately, New Orleans is dedicated to speedy trials."

  Her frozen lips refused to return his smile—his relief was all too obvious.

  He explored his pocket, brought out a pipe and a small sack of tobacco. “Where did you plan to stay here in New Orleans? Do you know anyone?"

  "One of my father's friends lives here. He's expecting us.” She remembered that Henri Dubois also expected to receive money for the trade goods he'd sent west with Papa the year before. Whether she had enough silver to pay him off, and whether he would accept it in lieu of cash, she didn't know. Yet, what really mattered was whether he would come to Jeb's aid.

  The captain filled his pipe, placed the stem in his mouth, and applied a blazing lucifer to the tobacco. Pungent smoke curled into the air around his head. “Where does he live?"

  Amy rummaged in her reticule, found the letter Monsieur Dubois had written, and handed it to him.

  He scanned the page. “A Creole? Do you know him well?"

  "I haven't actually met him in person. And he's a Cajun, not a Creole."

  "Even worse. The whole town is foreign: French and Spanish and who knows what else. Uppity people. On the river, we call them crapauds, because they eat frog's legs. Now there's your first French lesson."

  Indignation flared. “Henri Dubois is a gentleman, I assure you.” She tossed her head as though conviction rather than hope inspired her words. She wouldn't admit she didn't know what kind of friends her father might have in faraway places.

  "If you say so, my dear."

  "And I picked up all the French I'll need from school. Many of the students, as well as teachers, had a poor grasp of English."

  He leaned forward to give directions to the driver. Amy rocked back as the carriage surged forward.

  The route took them toward the waterfront where the afternoon breeze mixed the reeking fish odor of the wharves with the tangy smell of oranges and lemons in the trees outgrowing the courtyards along the street.

  The captain glanced at her. “You know, New Orleans abounds with hooligans. They make a profession of drinking, fighting, and wrecking the town. The garde de ville builds watchhouses, and the brigands burn them down."

  "So I've heard. But the city also has good things: opera and theaters—"

  "And plenty of sin. She's got it all. You watch your step while you're here."

  Just beyond a brick church and a convent crowned with chimneys and dormers, the driver spoke to his horse and tugged him to a stop before the wide carriageway of a two-story house made of stucco and sun-baked bricks. A pair of scrolled iron gates barred intruders from a dark passage. At the end of the cool tunnel lay a brightly-lit courtyard.

  The captain studied the house through a haze of tobacco smoke. “Besides robbers, arsonists, and murderers, the town is full of young Creole men who cannot be trusted with women."

  She ignored his comment, focusing instead on her first impression of Henri Dubois’ home. The facade of the building rose high in the air, nearly as austere and foreboding as the station house.

  The captain climbed down and reached up for her. She placed her hands on his shoulders with a feeling of distaste and leaned into his arms. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she twisted away and hurried to the entrance of the passage. Finding a cord hanging from a bell affixed to the wall, she yanked it with a vigor she didn't feel. The brassy tones rang out loudly and then, like her confidence, faded away.

  The captain joined her, lugging the chest of silver.

  The sheltering entry shut out the noisy bustle of the city, and only the faint splashing of water from the courtyard beyond the thick walls ruffled the stillness. Once more, she rang the bell with feigned enthusiasm, peering through the bars into the shadows. Silhouetted against the bright dazzle of light at the far side of the tunnel loomed a figure with a large bushy head and elbows akimbo. Amy's heart jumped as the demon-shape advanced.

  "What you want?” The gravelly voice belonged to an incredibly tall woman whose black skin gleamed in sharp contrast to her white cotton gown. Her unsmiling lips and slanted eyes gave her face both an exotic and forbidding look.

  "I—I'm Amy Victoria Baker. I've come to call on Monsieur Henri Dubois."

  The black eyes gazing down at her displayed no curiosity. With unhurried motions, the giantess unfastened a chain on the gate and swung it open. “I will fetch him.” The slave strode away on legs like stilts.

  The captain set the heavy chest down inside the gate. “I feel responsible for you. It's not too late to get you a room at the St. Charles. You'll be safe, and I can help you take care of this tiresome little business with your brother."

  She scorned the momentary weakness that made her consider his offer. He cared nothing for Jeb, and if she let him continue to meddle in the affair, Jeb would be doomed. “Thank you, but I couldn't impose on you further.” Her tone sounded colder than she'd intended.

  He stiffened. “I'll bring the rest of your luggage."

  Suffering a twinge of conscience, she placed her hand on his arm. He might be a pawn in a game she didn't understand, but his concern for her seemed real enough. “I do appreciate your kindness."

  The severe line of his mouth softened. “If you should need anything, I'll be in port for awhile. You can check the schedule at the office down at the docks. Don't hesitate to call on me."

  "I won't."

  He unloaded her luggage, then touched his cap in a gesture of farewell. He got in the carriage and disappeared down the street.

  The patio, camouflaged with vivid spots of sun and shade, drew her attention. She ventured slowly through the passageway and paused to look around. The slave was nowhere in sight. A dog slept in the green shadows of a wall festooned with vines. From a magnolia tree swung an elaborate woven cage full of chattering birds. A fountain splashed and gurgled in the center of the courtyard, tossing gems of water into a patch of sunlight.

  Amy whirled as a door squeaked open and a dark-eyed man appeared. His wavy black hair and lively step gave the impression of vigor and youth. He wore snug dark trousers and a bottle-green vest over an immaculate shirt; his boo
ts gleamed with polish. She might have thought him handsome if the side of his jaw hadn't been marred by what appeared to be an old knife wound. And if his nose hadn't been so large. She smiled uncertainly—she had expected Papa's friend to be much older.

  A smile lit his face as he hastened toward her. “Mam'selle Baker, is good you're here! Henri Dubois, at your service.” He gripped both her hands in his and a somber expression replaced his smile. “I am terrible sorry about your father. It is sad he walks no longer among us. My heart grieves."

  "Thank you."

  He gazed into her face for a long moment, then glanced around. “Your brother, where is he?"

  She hesitated, wondering how much to say. “He has been detained ... It's a long story.” Discomforted by the prolonged clasp, she gently tugged her hands free of his.

  "Of course. Later we talk, no? But now, you are tired? Hungry? You come upstairs with me. I have wine and a pot of gumbo with nice young crawfish. I catch them for the pot this morning, and Sadie, she brown the roux. So you say some prayers it don't kill us.” With a chuckle, he took her arm and hustled her across the patio.

  Iron filigree balustrades flanked the stairs that took them to the second floor. Inside, next to the windows overlooking the courtyard, a slab of mahogany on wrought-iron legs made a table large enough for a dozen guests. The spicy smell of simmering herbs, onions, and chili peppers thickened the air. Her stomach grumbled.

  Monsieur Dubois whisked out a chair. “Sit, sit. I bring wine. You feel better after you taste this, I bet. Such a peaked girl.” He opened a cabinet, found a bottle, and poured a rosy liquid into two stemmed glasses.

  She sat at his table and rested her elbows wearily on its smooth polished surface. “I appreciate your kindness, Monsieur."

  "You must call me Henri. Your father is ... was my best friend."

  She accepted the glass he offered, her fingers sliding across the delicate crystal, absorbing the coolness of the fragrant wine. Stories Papa had told her returned in full clarity. Henri Dubois—loyal, clever, and never one to back out on an agreement—had been almost like a partner to Papa. She began to relax.