"Just so long as I'll have a whole neck down which to swallow," Lewrie said, taking comfort in the two small double-barreled "barkers" in his coat pockets, and the heft of the hanger on his left hip. Just in case, he had secreted a wavy-bladed krees Mindanao pirate dagger inside the left sleeve of his coat, to boot.
"Been here before," Cashman promised, "and it can't have changed all that much in a year. 'Tis a hard man and wife, runs it. Once you taste their dishes, you'll slit yer own throat… just t'prolong your pleasure. As the Yankee slaves say, it's 'slap yo' mama good.' "
"Good God," Lewrie had wit to jape, "never have I heard such a 'back-handed' compliment. Back-handed… d'ye see?"
"God'll forgive you." Cashman snickered. "Ah, here we are." He had directed them to one of those imposing pastel mansions, at the intersection of two boulevards, where a roundabout and fountain stood, though the fountain barely burbled these days, and was mostly green and brown with moss, mildew, and scum. The house was fitted with a rounded wraparound set of balconies on the two upper floors, and the overhangs formed a wrought iron collonade above the ground floor doors and windows, which were barred with more intricate wrought iron grills. Heavy draperies were pulled over the windows, but from within Lewrie could espy the faintest hint of candlelight, though the place seemed to be abandoned.
Cashman lifted the hilt of his smallsword to rap on the heavy iron-strapped doors, a particular tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. After a moment, the Judas hole swung aside and a glint of light showed from within, quickly covered by a man's eye. A moment later, though, those doors were flung open and they were hurriedly welcomed in.
"Jean-Pierre… Maman!" Cashman cried in joy, flinging himself upon the swarthy man and woman who stood guard in the tiled foyer with pistols, cutlasses, and a brace of muskets.
"Ah! Commandant Keet, bienvenu!. Has been so long we see you!" "A Colonel, now," Cashman preened, twirling about to show off. "La, mon dieu… felicitations!" the wife of the establishment cried, hands to her cheeks with joy. "You hunger, oui, you wish wine, as before? Come, you and your frнen'. Nossing but ze best pour vous."
Swarthier manservants in livery came to take their swords and hats; servants who also bulged here and there with weapons discreetly hidden. They didn't seem to share the joy of rencontre with Cashman, or the sight of Lewrie, either; they wore permanent wary scowls. The swords, Lewrie carefully noted as they were led to a table in a back parlour, were stood against a sideboard, within easy reach should he or Cashman need to grasp them.
Once seated, the pocket doors were slid half shut on the hall, and he and Cashman had the entire parlour to themselves. From without Lewrie could hear the low hum-um of other conversations in other chambers, a piercing laugh now and then, some boisterous shouts as a toast was made and drunk. Hmmm, some rather high-pitched laughs and words… some women? Things might just be looking up, he thought.
A waiter in livery and a white bib apron entered, and chatted quite gaily with Cashman for a piece; in patois French, of course, so Lewrie hadn't a clue what was being said, though it looked quite jovial and innocent… innocuous, rather.
As the waiter departed, Cashman tipped Lewrie the wink. "Old Jacques… wonderful old fellow, he'll take care of us," Cash-man informed him. "Took the liberty of orderin' for us, do you not object. Spйcialitй de la hфte. You'll love it, I assure you."
"So what are we havin', then?" Lewrie asked as the waiter came back with a magnum of champagne and two crystal flutes. Though it was too much to expect that Port-Au-Prince might run to Massachusetts ice, the champagne was velvety smooth and spritely, from a famous vineyard in France, and much finer than Lewrie might have expected.
"Grand, ain't it," Cashman said, once he'd had a taste. "Jean-Pierre and Maman always have the best of ev'rything. Before the Revolution sent things Tom O'Bedlam, this was the most exclusive place in town. They're the best smugglers and speculators, too. No one knows how or where they get things, or cache 'em 'til needed, but you won't eat or drink better, were you in Paris itself."
"Are those smugglers and speculators we hear, then?" Lewrie had to ask, savouring the dry mellowness of the wine. It was miles above any vintage he'd tasted lately, even better than the Beaumans' cellar!
"Cut-throats, pimps, courtesans… mistresses and their men, or the odd profiteer," Cashman quite cheerfully catalogued, "rogues from the canting crews, successful pickpockets and thieves, rich rake-hells who haven't fled yet. A shifty lot, but they pay well and they're always flush with 'chink.' B'lieve it or not, Alan, with all o' their hired beef watchin' their backs, this just may be the safest place in Port-Au-Prince, and I doubt things'd change, did L'Ouverture march in tonight! Give 'em a week, and he'll be dinin' here, him and his generals. May make more of a mess, stain more napery, but…
"As to supper," Cashman enthused, changing the subject and refilling their glasses, "we start with shrimp rйmoulade, followed by an omelette au bacon et frommage, followed by spinach salads, before the goat ragout, which is bloody marvellous, by the way, and the roasted coq au vin, with asparagus and other removes. Burgundy, hock, or Saint Emilion Bordeaux, p'raps a Beaujolais with the omelettes, if you like? The sideboard'll groan with bottles. And for dessert, a crиme fraоche over strawberries and cut fruit. You should see the berries they can grow in this soil!"
"Thought most of the folk here in town were starvin'," Lewrie said in wonder as the waiter bustled in once more, this time trailed by a brace of serving wenches in fresh-pressed and sweet-smelling sack gowns; one with light brown hair, the other a striking redhead, and wearing their own hair, not wigs, artfully done up in ribbons.
"They are, but that don't signify if you have the 'blunt' and know your way about," Cashman said dismissively. "There's some that'll always prosper. Ooh-la, Vivienne, you darlin'! Still here, are ya?" Cash-man said, turning his attention to the striking wee light-haired wench, drawing her even closer as she sidled her hip against him and served his rйmoulade. Fine coin-silver utensils magically appeared from a pocket of Jacques's bib apron; more spoons, knives, and forks than an English household might display all at once, prissily set out in bewildering order, either side of their plates.
"M'sieur, " the redhead purred as she served Lewrie, pressing her hip against his shoulder, too.
"Mademoiselle… enchantй, " Lewrie instinctively responded with a welcoming purr of his own, and a slow, sly smile. "Comment vous appelez-vous?" he asked.
"Henriette, m'sieur. Et vous, brave Englis' capitaine?"
He told her, took her hand and kissed it for good measure, and tipped her a wink before turning to face Cashman.
"You're going to get me in trouble, aren't you, Kit?" he asked, with a wry grin.
"Hope you fetched off your best cundums," Cashman muttered back with a smile of his own, this one of beatific innocence.
"God, this is good!" Lewrie had to exclaim after the maids had departed in a swirl of skirts and hips, and had closed the pocket doors completely so they could dine in peace.