He glanced out the windows and sighed. "The greatest city on the North American continent," he said, "the beautiful, sophisticated capital of a country of inexhaustible riches. Parks, opera houses, institutions of learning, fine homes… and," he slammed his fist suddenly down on the table, "not one God-damned cannon foundry! No one can be bothered with manufacture here, they are all determined to get rich from cotton and sugarcane.Merde! Right now I would trade half of this city for a few batteries of heavy field guns."
He fell silent. No one ventured to speak. Even Jackson for once had sense enough to keep quiet.
Certainly no one offered to point out that the Imperial army had at one time possessed a superb corps of artillery, with modern weapons purchased from France and brought in despite the British blockade-and had lost most of it, first in Mexico and then, two winters ago, in the dreadful retreat from Canada. Especially Canada. One definitely did not talk about Canada.
Really, there were somany things one did not talk about nowadays.
Over the next two weeks all eyes, so to speak, were turned south, as the British bombardment of Fort St. Philippe continued. Messages from the scene spoke of constant heavy fire from bomb-ships-whatever they might be-while a relief party, sent overland, was ambushed by British marines and all but wiped out.
The atmosphere in the city grew tense and strange, as news of these events trickled down to the populace. The most absurd rumors began to circulate, and here and there citizens were attacked-a couple fatally-on suspicion of being British spies.
Indeed the times seemed to bring out the demented. One day not long before Christmas, while I was in the city on a minor errand, I was suddenly accosted on the street by the Mad Marquis. "Hey, boy," he cried, and put his face close to mine. "Haven't seen you in a long time. Come," he said, hooking my arm in his, "walk a little with an old man. I have no one to talk with, these days."
I glanced nervously about; I had no wish to be seen in the company of the Marquis, who managed to cut a notorious figure even in hard-to-shock New Orleans.
He was not a native of Louisiana, but of France, where he had once been famous-or infamous-for his scandalous writings and equally scandalous personal life. He had been repeatedly imprisoned, first by the royal government and then by the revolutionaries; but then the family contrived to have him shipped off to America, where he could no longer embarrass them. The Emperor tolerated his presence-a favor to certain friends with influence in Paris; anything to maintain the all-important French alliance-on the condition that he refrain from publishing his outrageous writings within the Empire. (They were, however, widely though illegally circulated in the United States; former President Jefferson was said to be quite a devotee.).
He and I had met at a certain establishment, where he was a regular customer-too old for active participation, he still paid to watch whippings-and where I occasionally made a bit of pocket-money, without the Emperor's knowledge, playing the pianoforte. The proprietress had known my mother.
"Albert, Albert," he said now, "how does His Majesty? Well, one hopes?"
I said that His Majesty did quite well. "Good," he said. "I so admire the Emperor, you know. In a world of canting hypocrites, a man who knows how to take what he desires!"
He dug an elbow into my ribs. "The affair of Colonel Burr, for example. Magnificent! I am dazed with admiration!"
Again I looked about, this time in real fear. No one was anywhere near, but still I tried to pull away. His grip, however, was amazingly strong.
"Oh, not to worry," he added. "No one has been talking. Merely a cynical old man's speculation-but I see by your face that I was right. Ha! Never fear, the secret is safe with me."
He leered conspiratorially at me. "The public all believe the story they have so often been told, and why not? It is, after all, a masterpiece of fiction-I say this as an author in my own right-and the corroborative evidence! The incriminating letters in Spanish, the drawings of the defenses of New Orleans and Mobile, the bag of Spanish gold pieces, the final heart-rending note confessing all-my friend, if I were not such an experienced creator of imaginative tales I would believe it too."
By now I was fairly gibbering with horror, yet he kept his hold and continued: "But the crowning gem, ah! That the smoking pistol clutched in his lifeless hand should be the very weapon with which he had killed Monsieur Hamilton! Sheer poetry!"
I managed to wrench myself free, finally, and I am not ashamed to admit I took to my heels. I had not realized how dangerous the old maniac was. Or what a shrewd intelligence functioned within that deranged head.
(All the same, he was wrong about the pistol. In fact, as I once heard Colonel Burr tell the Emperor, it was Hamilton who furnished the weapons for the famous duel. That detail was not part of the original package, as it were; the story simply arose somehow-possibly from some journalist of the popular press-and was repeated until it became widely accepted. Mr. Irving even put it in his history book.).
Reaching the corner, still at a run, I almost collided with a couple of buckskin-clad figures. A hand grabbed my jacket and pulled me to a stop, and I started to protest, but then I recognized the laughing faces of Colonel Crockett and Captain Houston. "Here, now," Houston said, "what's the hurry?"
"Been talking to the old Mar-kee?" Crockett asked, grinning. "Boy, he's a piss-cutter, ain't he?"
I was too breathless to speak. "Come on," Houston said. "We were just on our way to get us a drink."
They pulled me into a dark and dingy little tavern, where a few idlers sat talking and playing cards. A burly man in homespun clothing looked at me and said loudly, "No niggers allowed in here!" — and in less than a second found himself on his back on the floor, with Crockett's foot on his chest and Houston's knife at his throat.
"You got something to say," Crockett inquired gently, "about who we choose to drink with?"
A few minutes later we were seated in the rear of the room with a jug on the table before us. The people at the nearby tables had considerately moved away and given us our privacy. The one who had spoken first was nowhere to be seen.
"Drink up," Houston advised me. "You look like you could use it."
The raw corn whiskey was quite the worst drink I had ever tasted, but I managed to get a little down, and my nerves did settle a bit. Crockett and Houston applied themselves to the jug with gusto. "Damn good booze," Crockett said approvingly. "Here's to Andy Jackson, the son of a bitch."
"Better drink to crazy old King George," Houston suggested. "Could be we ought to get in practice."
"Is it that bad?" I asked.
"Half a dozen years ago," Crockett said, "I would have said we'll kick their asses back into the Gulf. Now-" He shrugged. "This army ain't what it used to be."
"Oh, shit," Houston said dolefully. "Here he goes again, playing the old soldier."
"Playing hell. I been in this from the start, son. I was toting a rifle under Old Hickorynuts back when we were just a bunch of raggedy-assed rebels, didn't know what we were getting into except that Burr made it sound good and his little French pard was the fightingest one human we'd ever saw. I was there when we marched into this town for the first time and kicked the Dons out, when you were still just a brat."
He paused to lubricate his throat. "And I was there when we fought Mister President Jefferson's pitiful little army-the ones that didn't run away or change sides-when the States tried to take Tennessee and Kentucky back. I was there when we took West Florida from the Dons, too. By then we had the best damn army, for its size, in the world. Hell, the Prussians used to send officers over here to study old Nap's methods. But then-"