the time, immediately before Derryhick’s return to the hotel at ten thirty.’ As they entered the Cabildo, and crossed the big stone-floored watch room together, January recounted what Trinchen, Fanny, and Marie-Venise had had to say about His Lordship on Friday night.
‘That a fact?’
‘It seems to be. And also, it sounds like, after parting from the Viscount earlier that evening, Derryhick went deliberately searching for Blessinghurst in the gambling-parlors along Rue Royale, rather than meeting him accidentally.’
Ordinarily, the watch room was quiet on Sundays, especially at this time of year, the few members of the City Guard on duty playing dominoes, smoking on the benches set around the walls, or drawing straws for who would get the duty of whipping the slaves that owners brought in for ‘correction’ at two bits a stroke. Today, however, as Shaw had said, the rentiers and merchants of the French Town, and the landowners and sugar-brokers who held political power in the city government, were gathered in clumps by the sergeant’s desk and at the foot of the stair that led up to Captain Tremouille’s office, and the air was heavy with the angry buzz of their talk.
In the courtyard, the whippings hadn’t started yet. There would be only two: a middle-aged man roughly dressed, like a stable-hand or a laborer, and a young woman in blue calico that was torn and dirty, as if she’d slept in it on the ground. January stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the cells of what was called the Calaboso – the city jail – while Shaw ascended. The prison latrine could be smelled everywhere in the court; a band of ants an inch wide streamed up the stucco to the gallery that led to the cells above. Somewhere a woman was screaming curses, muffled by the walls. Then, once more, the swift tread of Shaw’s Conestoga boots on the stair.
The Viscount reached the bottom and extended his hand. ‘Monsieur Janvier. Mr Shaw tells me you’re here on behalf of one of my father’s old friends, who knew – who knew Patrick,’ he said in somewhat laborious public-school French.
The boy’s godlike handsomeness had been severely marred by a black eye and a crust of blood on his nose; his linen jacket was gone and his white shirt torn, and by the sudden twitch of his shoulders and the look on his face when he scratched, he was having his first experience with the insect, as well as the human, residents of the jail.
‘I am indeed,’ January replied in English, to the young man’s obvious relief. Foxford had, he noticed, used the polite term vous in addressing him, as one adult to another. Most French and Spanish creoles of the city had slipped into the habit of using tu , the word one used when speaking to a child, a dog . . . or a slave.
‘I’m extremely grateful, of course, for your concern, sir – and for Mr Sefton’s – but I assure you, there’s really no need for alarm.’ The haggard worry that January had seen on the young man’s face yesterday had deepened; his voice was even, but there was something in the jerky motion of his hands when he folded them before him, or put them in his pockets, that betrayed how shaken he was. January’s own experience with the Calaboso’s common cell had been similar enough to things that had happened to him in his childhood that he hadn’t had to contend with shock as well. What had the boy made of his first experience with a common latrine-bucket?
But instead of the outrage that one might expect from fortune’s favorite, Foxford asked, ‘Did they ever find the body of the poor man whose coffin Patrick was hidden in? My God, what a frightful thing for his family! Do you happen to know –’ he turned to Shaw – ‘if Mr Droudge did as I asked and sent money to the Ramilles family on my behalf?’
‘If’n he ain’t,’ said Shaw, ‘I’ll sort of remind him. That’s good of you, sir.’
The boy waved his words away. ‘I can’t think – I can’t
‘That a fact?’
‘It seems to be. And also, it sounds like, after parting from the Viscount earlier that evening, Derryhick went deliberately searching for Blessinghurst in the gambling-parlors along Rue Royale, rather than meeting him accidentally.’
Ordinarily, the watch room was quiet on Sundays, especially at this time of year, the few members of the City Guard on duty playing dominoes, smoking on the benches set around the walls, or drawing straws for who would get the duty of whipping the slaves that owners brought in for ‘correction’ at two bits a stroke. Today, however, as Shaw had said, the rentiers and merchants of the French Town, and the landowners and sugar-brokers who held political power in the city government, were gathered in clumps by the sergeant’s desk and at the foot of the stair that led up to Captain Tremouille’s office, and the air was heavy with the angry buzz of their talk.
In the courtyard, the whippings hadn’t started yet. There would be only two: a middle-aged man roughly dressed, like a stable-hand or a laborer, and a young woman in blue calico that was torn and dirty, as if she’d slept in it on the ground. January stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the cells of what was called the Calaboso – the city jail – while Shaw ascended. The prison latrine could be smelled everywhere in the court; a band of ants an inch wide streamed up the stucco to the gallery that led to the cells above. Somewhere a woman was screaming curses, muffled by the walls. Then, once more, the swift tread of Shaw’s Conestoga boots on the stair.
The Viscount reached the bottom and extended his hand. ‘Monsieur Janvier. Mr Shaw tells me you’re here on behalf of one of my father’s old friends, who knew – who knew Patrick,’ he said in somewhat laborious public-school French.
The boy’s godlike handsomeness had been severely marred by a black eye and a crust of blood on his nose; his linen jacket was gone and his white shirt torn, and by the sudden twitch of his shoulders and the look on his face when he scratched, he was having his first experience with the insect, as well as the human, residents of the jail.
‘I am indeed,’ January replied in English, to the young man’s obvious relief. Foxford had, he noticed, used the polite term vous in addressing him, as one adult to another. Most French and Spanish creoles of the city had slipped into the habit of using tu , the word one used when speaking to a child, a dog . . . or a slave.
‘I’m extremely grateful, of course, for your concern, sir – and for Mr Sefton’s – but I assure you, there’s really no need for alarm.’ The haggard worry that January had seen on the young man’s face yesterday had deepened; his voice was even, but there was something in the jerky motion of his hands when he folded them before him, or put them in his pockets, that betrayed how shaken he was. January’s own experience with the Calaboso’s common cell had been similar enough to things that had happened to him in his childhood that he hadn’t had to contend with shock as well. What had the boy made of his first experience with a common latrine-bucket?
But instead of the outrage that one might expect from fortune’s favorite, Foxford asked, ‘Did they ever find the body of the poor man whose coffin Patrick was hidden in? My God, what a frightful thing for his family! Do you happen to know –’ he turned to Shaw – ‘if Mr Droudge did as I asked and sent money to the Ramilles family on my behalf?’
‘If’n he ain’t,’ said Shaw, ‘I’ll sort of remind him. That’s good of you, sir.’
The boy waved his words away. ‘I can’t think – I can’t
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