Tender Fury Page 8

  Grasping Philippe beneath the arms, she began dragging him inch by painful inch toward the nearest mast, stopping often to catch her breath and gulp down the nausea that wracked her slight form. Philippe’s dead weight put a great strain upon her faltering strength but she would not allow the sea to claim them. By the time she reached the mast with Philippe’s unconscious body she ached in every muscle and was as near to collapse as she had ever been in her young life.

  Gasping for breath, Gabby propped him against the mast and reached for a line broken loose from the rigging and dangling free. Working instinctively, for she knew she could not make it back to the cabin with Philippe in tow, she took the only course that lay open to her at that moment. With great effort of will she proceeded to lash him to the sturdy upright, making certain that the knots were secure. Only then did she allow herself the luxury of respite, collapsing beside Philippe, chest heaving, pain searing her exhausted body. Finally, when she had regained a measure of strength, Gabby reached up for another line with which to tie her own body to the mst. And she very nearly succeeded. Struggling upward she was unaware of the enormous swell rising up behind her, nor did she hear Philippe’s voice when he suddenly surfaced into consciousness to witness the bizarre scene unfolding as if in a terrible nightmare. His warning cry was lost to the wind.

  Philippe watched in abject horror as the killer wave rose from the depths of the angry sea and struck with a vengeance even as Gabby clung doggedly to the line. He lowered his head against the force of wind and water, and when he raised it, she was gone; gone as if she had never existed. Then, he, too, was drowning in a sea of black oblivion.

  Chapter Six

  The pain was excruciating. Just opening his eyes caused Philippe untold agony. The top of his head was afire and his body ached in places he hadn’t known existed. The first face he recognized was that of Mercier, the first mate, who was looking at him with such pity that Philippe became immediately alarmed. Slowly the rest of the faces came into focus, and among them was Marcel Duvall’s. But the face he searched for was missing.

  “Ah, Monsieur St. Cyr,” Mercier said in obvious relief. “I am happy to see you are finally back with us. You gave us quite a scare.”

  Philippe tried to sit up but was gently but firmly pushed back into the pillows. “No, no,” Mercier admonished. “I am no doctor but it is obvious that your head wound could have caused a severe concussion. It is best you do not exert yourself for a while.”

  “The ship… the storm?” stammered Philippe, still too dazed to think clearly.

  “All is well,” assured Mercier. “We sustained some damage but nothing that cannot be repaired once we reach New Orleans.”

  “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Nearly twenty-four hours!”

  “Mon dieu,” Philippe cursed weakly. “What happened?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” Mercier said, sliding his eyes from Philippe’s as if he had something more to say but was reluctant to say it.

  “I remember nothing from the time I left my cabin after checking on my wife until this moment,” said Philippe, gingerly touching his head where a thick bandage covered an angry lump. “What hit me?”

  “As far as we can surmise, a keg of nails broke loose from its lashings and hurled you into the railing. We can only guess at what happened after that. As soon as the sky lightened we found you securely tied to the mast, unconscious and bleeding from the head wound. Whoever had the presence of mind to lash you to the mast probably saved your life.”

  Marcel stepped forward, his eyes bleak. “Can you remember nothing, Philippe? Think man, think!” he implored. “Do you remember nothing of your wife’s sacrifice?” He seemed quite beside himself with grief and Philippe frowned in concentration as he tried to focus his fuzzy mind on the events that were causing Marcel such anguish.

  “Leave us!” ordered Mercier, glancing around to include several seamen crowded inside the cabin. Finally no one remained but Marcel, Mercier, and Philippe. “Now, Monsieur St. Cyr,” Mercier began, “it would help if you could recall something of what took place on deck during the storm, for it is my sad duty to inform you that your wife is missing and we have every reason to believe she was swept overboard. We can only assume that she was the one who lashed you to the mast. The great tragedy was that she was unable to save herself as well.”

  Mercier paused to give his words time to penetrate Philippe’s muddled brain and was unprepared for what followed. Memory swept back with frightening clarity as Philippe surged from the bed in a show of strength that was sadly short-lived. When his feet hit the floor his head exploded into a million jagged fragments and he clung to consciousness through sheer strength of will.

  Philippe allowed himself to be eased back into bed. The pain of full recollection washed over him like the huge wave that hurled Gabby overboard. He buried his head in his hands, overwhelmed with grief. His voice sounded like it came from a great distance.

  “Gabby must have witnessed my accident through the open cabin door, for the next thing I remember was finding myself secured to the mast, regaining my senses in time to see her swept into the sea.” A gray cloud had drifted into his eyes obscuring his vision. “Mon dieu, it is all too much; she saved my life but lost her own. Am I cursed? Must I be the cause of the death of every woman I hold dear?”

  “You said it, St. Cyr, not I,” came Marcel’s emotional reply. Turning on his heel he left the cabin to grieve in private for the flaxen-haired, violet-eyed woman who had come to mean more to him than he could ever imagine. Fate had intervened and taken an innocent life instead of the one he had intended. No woman had ever made such an impression on him in such a short time as Gabrielle St. Cyr!

  Philippe would not allow Mercier to set a course directly for New Orleans even though it was determined that they were within one day of that city. Instead, he ordered the ship about to begin a crisscross pattern to cover the area where Gabby might have gone overboard. It was a gamble, albeit one that did not pay off. For three days the Windward covered a large portion of the Gulf of Mexico just below the mouth of the Mississippi while the entire crew focused eyes upon socres of tiny uninhabited islands and cays where Gabby might have been washed ashore. It was a hopeless task. No one knew for certain their position at the time she had disappeared. There were no witnesses at all to her heroic deed. Philippe, still weak from his head wound, stood from sunset till sundown at the ship’s rail, endlessly scanning the sea and jewel-like islands dotting the horizon.

  Finally, all hope gone of finding Gabby alive, they abandoned the search and entered the Mississippi River for the 107 mile journey to New Orleans. Philippe still had a mission to complete, but nothing could purge from his mind the memory of that silver filly, with hair like moonbeams come to life, he had tried to tame… and failed.

  Shortly after Captain Giscard’s death Marcel had been apprised of their destination by Philippe. He had displayed great surprise and anger at being diverted from his passage to Martinique but Philippe had not been taken in by his performance. He could not help but suspect that the man he hated was somehow involved in the accidents that had plagued him since starting on this mission.

  Now, as they entered the Mississippi, Marcel brooded silently, casting furtive glances at Philippe who seemed unaware of anything save his own abject misery. It would be easy to lose himself in the crowd once the Windward docked, he surmised. He hadn’t succeeded in doing what he set out to do but there was still a remote possibility he might still be able to complete the task and turn failure into success. Much depended on his leaving the ship quickly after it docked and working out the necessary arrangements before Philippe set out to report to General Jackson.

  Marcel hurried down the gangplank and disappeared into the streets crowded with longshoremen and military men as soon as the Windward had been secured to the pier jutting out into the river. Philippe paid him no heed as he, too, prepared for his own departure ashore.

  O
nly after giving Mcrcier instructions concerning the repair of the Windward did Philippe retrieve the packet lying at the bottom of Gabby’s trunk. At the sight of her clothing Philippe nearly lost control of his emotions and had to force himself to leave the cabin where reminders of her were everywhere. Slipping the packet into an inner pocket of his jacket he walked woodenly from the ship onto the levee. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of a city under or about to be under siege. Large stockpiles of arms and food supplies dotted the wharves and streets around the levee. Even the people themselves appeared in turmoil. Philippe walked the short distance to the Place d’Arms, later to be renamed Jackson Square, where he knew General Jackson established headquarters while in the city. If the large number of American soldiers in the city were any indication, then he would assume General Jackson was preparing to defend New Orleans against full-scale British attack. Crossing the street to enter the Place d’Arms, Philippe was suddenly aware of danger, sniffing it out like a hound dog. A loud clatter called his attention to a carriage racing toward him at breakneck speed. Even from a distance he could see that there was no driver, giving it the appearance of being a runaway.

  Philippe realized that he could neither retrace his steps nor gain the other side of the street before the carriage would be upon him. He had but one alternative; to attempt to dodge the horses’ hooves and carriage wheels. Accordingly, he dropped to the ground, rolling himself into a tight ball, and when the horses passed over him, successfully maneuvered his body between their driving legs, sustaining a fair number of bruises for his efforts. But the worst was yet to come. The carriage was upon him before he was able to roll completely clear and the right wheel grazed his head, reopening the wound suffered during the storm. In minutes it was all over. People on the streets were crowding around him and several soldiers hurried across the street from the Cabildo to help him to his feet.

  “Are you hurt, sir?” asked one of them, brushing the dirt from his coat. “Looks like a nasty gash on your forehead. Best you see a doctor right away.”

  “Merci, thank you,” Philippe repeated in English, moving his hand automatically to his pocket. “I am not seriously injured, just shaken. Did you see where that carriage came from?”

  “No, sir,” replied the soldier. “One minute the street was empty and the next that carriage was headed straight for you. We managed to stop it but no one was inside nor did anyone show up yet to claim it. A mystery, it seems,” he said shaking his head.

  “Oui, a mystery,” agreed Philippe cryptically as he dabbed his handkerchief at the bloodied gash on his head, which by now had begun throbbing painfully.

  After he asked directions to General Jackson’s headquarters, Philippe’s mind was fertile with speculation. For the third time since undertaking this mission he had nearly lost his life. Already two people were dead he winced when he thought of Gabby one more death would mean nothing to the person or persons who would kill to prevent the document he carried from reaching General Jackson.

  Philippe paced Jackson’s outer office for several minutes before the door burst open and a gaunt, white-haired man with tired eyes hurried forward to greet him. “St. Cyr, we have been anxiously awaiting your arrival.” Then he spied the blood on Philippe’s head and noticed the condition of his clothing. “My God, St. Cyr, what happened to you? Come into my office. Sit down, sit down, man. I will call our doctor to see to your injury.”

  “It is nothing, General,” protested Philippe who nevertheless took the chair Jackson offered. “An accident outside; a runaway carriage nearly succeeded in ending my life.”

  Jackson stared at him fixedly and raised one shaggy eyebrow while Philippe described the accident. “The entire voyage was plagued by senseless accidents. Even the weather was against us. Captain Giscard was killed and… and… my wife was lost overboard during the hurricane that struck several days ago.” The bleakness of Philippe’s voice distressed Jackson greatly but he said nothing, waiting for Philippe to continue. “I’m convinced that the accidents that led to those deaths and the attempts on my own life were the work of a spy bent on keeping the document I have in my possession from reaching you.” Then he reached into his inner pocket and extracted the packet that he had protected at great personal sacrifice.

  Deep furrows etched their way across General Jackson’s already lined face as he sought the words to express his gratitude, knowing that nothing he could do or say would bring back Philippe’s wife or Captain Giscard.

  “What can I say, St. Cyr,” said the general in genuine sympathy, “except that you have the undying gratitude of the American people and the French government. With the information in this document we will know for a certainty if the British plan on attacking the city of New Orleans or have some other target in mind.”

  Then he tore open the packet and quickly scanned the several pages, his taut face lightening considerably. “By sea,” he announced, eyes glowing. “And soon. It also says that the British plan to enlist the aid of Jean Lafitte. The Baratarian gulf is an important approach to New Orleans and they need the cooperation of Lafitte to gain access.”

  “I am aware of the contents,” said Philippe. “Both Captain Giscard and myself read the document as a precaution. But isn’t Lafitte a pirate?”

  “He goes under many names and pirate is one of them. But if he agrees to help the British we are as good as defeated.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “I wouldn’t blame him if he did,” grunted Jackson. “Governor Clairborne recently ordered American Navy ships to Barataria, Lafitte’s Stronghold, where they shelled the island, sank several of Lafitte’s ships and captured some of his men. What is amazing is that Lafitte did not fire back. He later sent a message to the governor saying that he considered himself an American and would not fire upon his own country’s ships. Then he offered to help fight the British when the time came.”

  “And did the governor accept Lafitte’s offer?”

  “The stupid man still does not trust Lafitte, but I intend to deal with him myself to judge if he is sincere in his wish to aid us. One of his lieutenants has agreed to guide two of my men to Barataria to learn where Lafitte’s loyalties lie.”

  “Is the city prepared to fight?” asked Philippe. “What of the citizenry?”

  “Most do not believe the British are a threat. I’m sure they would rather be under British rule than American. But now that I have proof of the imminent attack I will redouble my efforts to alert the people and prepare them to defend their city.”

  “On my way here I saw stockpiles of weapons and supplies along the levee. Seems like you have a good start.”

  “Were that only true,” sighed Jackson wearily. “We are woefully short of certain arms and of musket flints and are now in the process of scouring the countryside for our needs. According to this,” he said, indicating the secret papers in his hand, “I have little enough time in which to fortify and arm the city and prepare its citizens to fight.” He sighed again and ran his long, bony fingers through his thatch of white hair. Philippe sensed his preoccupation with war and its portents and rose to leave. Jackson noticed Philippe’s movement from the chair and seemed startled to see him still in his office, as if thought of war had banished all else from his mind. Graciously, he offered his hand once more to Philippe.

  “St. Cyr, again, I thank you on behalf of the American people. I only wish I had the power to bring your wife back. If there is anything I can do, please feel free to ask.”

  Philippe grasped the gnarled hand, moved by the sincerity of the great man and said, “There is one thing, General.”

  “Anything within my power, St. Cyr, anything,” replied Jackson sincerely.

  “There is a remote chance that my wife may have washed ashore on one of the many islands and cays dotting the mouth of the river and might still be alive. If you could alert your men to be on the lookout for her I would be more than grateful. I am prepared to offer a five thousand dollar reward for information le
ading to her discovery, if alive, and her body, if dead.”

  General Jackson’s deepest eyes were full of pity as they regarded Philippe. He knew the man’s wife had not one chance in a million of surviving. Even if she had washed ashore alive she would immediately become alligator bait. But he had not the heart to say those words. Instead, he said, “Very generous of you, St. Cyr. I will be glad to circulate a description of your wife among my men. You can rest assured that if she makes her way into the city I will know it.” Though his voice remained optimistic his eyes betrayed him. In his heart he knew St. Cyr’s efforts to locate his wife were useless.

  Nevertheless, Philippe wrote out a description of Gabby and handed it to Jackson who read it in silence. “There will be no mistaking your wife for another if she is found,” he said. “There surely can be no other woman in New Orleans matching your wife’s attributes. I take it you plan to remain for a while in the city?”

  “Oui, I will sleep aboard the Windward while she is being repaired and refitted. Once she becomes seaworthy again I shall make a decision on whether to take lodgings in the city or return to Martinique. Much depends, of course, on whether or not I find my wife… or her body.”

  “Keep in touch, St. Cyr,” urged Jackson who had already begun sifting through a stack of papers on his desk. “If I have any news at all I’ll know where to find you.”

  The interview had ended. Philippe walked from the office into the broiling sun, suddenly overcome by a bone-deep weariness and a feeling that his meeting with General Jackson was anticlimactic and everything that had happened during the voyage a bad dream. Only it wasn’t a dream. And now that the document was in safe hands there was nothing left to occupy his mind except thoughts of Gabby. He could clearly picture the defiant tilt of her chin the first time he had taken her; the look of shocked outrage when he described what he intended to do to her and the response of her warm body when he had finally broken through her icy reserve and unleashed a towering passion he was not likely to forget. Even now he could feel the lush thickness of her curls, the soft curves of her slender form, the silky softness of her flesh next to his, and his body ached for her. When he had married her he had expected a sweet, pliant girl who would bear his children and make no demands upon him. What he had gotten was a bewitching, untamed, hellcat who had surprised and angered him by her unquenchable spirit and fierce ardor.