Free Web NovelChapter 55: Scouting Party of Fools
The voyage from Pensacola to Mobile Bay took nearly three days. Most of that time, James watched the coastline drift by so slowly that he began to suspect he could have made better progress on foot.
When they finally reached the swamp that swallowed the Rose from sight, he realized this place was unlike anything he had sailed through since waking three centuries beyond his own time.
Cypress trees stood knee-deep in dark water, their roots twisting up like the knotted hands of old men. Long curtains of gray moss hung from every branch, thick enough to hide a French frigate, let alone a brigantine shallow enough to slip through channels no sensible captain would dare use twice.
It was just deep enough to keep the Rose clear of the mud and just narrow enough that anything larger than a longboat would never stumble across her by chance.
Cudjoe remained aboard with the Rose and most of the crew. James doubted the man had ever willingly marched into a swamp, and he saw no reason today should become the first time.
James chose the scouting party the way any worthwhile ventures deserved. Quickly, with more confidence than careful planning.
Bert came because a man built like that was insurance against anything with more teeth than good sense.
Mackerel Jim came because he swore he spoke French well enough to pass for a trader, and every now and then James found it worthwhile to gamble on one of Jim’s claims turning out to be true. Tomás came because every gamble deserved insurance, and if Jim started confidently inventing a language through the conversation, someone needed to notice.
The boat slipped into water the color of strong tea, and the swamp closed around them almost at once. Birds called overhead, insects filled the air in relentless clouds, heat lingered beneath the moss-covered branches, trapped with nowhere to go.
Bert picked up both oars without a word. The boat surged ahead, carrying four men and three heavy chests low in the water. Even so, he rowed as though he were pushing an empty skiff across a quiet pond.
"You ever consider," James asked, watching him work, "that God built you special so the rest of us wouldn’t have to do honest labor?"
"I cannot say I have devoted much thought to the matter, Captain."
"You should. It’s the only explanation I’ve found for arms thick as a log."
The swamp fell quiet around them again before James returned to business.
He clapped his hand and started to explain, "Right then, plan’s simple. We find where they’re storing their goods, count the ships sitting in the harbor, and see how many soldiers Bienville’s bothered to arm properly. Nothing more difficult than a walk and a look."
"Forgive me, Captain, but..."
Tomás hesitated. "We have papers? From the king? In case the French ask and wish to know we are not..." He shifted uncomfortably. "Pirates?"
Bert never slowed his rowing, though James noticed his shoulders tighten.
Jim let out something between a cough and a laugh.
James kept a perfectly straight face.
"Papers? Of course we’ve got papers. Every respectable ship has papers."
"...And what do they say?"
"They say all manner of things. No sense ruining the surprise before anyone reads them."
Tomás looked from one face to another. He clearly did not believe them, but he also seemed wise enough not to ask another question.
James decided it was best to keep moving before the young man thought too much about it.
He continued, "Once we’re ashore, heads down, mouths shut. Tomás and Jim handle whatever talking needs doing. Nice and easy."
"If I may ask another question, Captain."
Bert’s rowing never faltered. "Should we be challenged by an officer of the French crown, are we to provide our true names, or names invented for the occasion? A false name, once exposed, often carries graver consequences than an honest one followed by a courteous refusal to elaborate."
James stared at him for a long moment.
"Bert."
"Captain?"
He laughed, "No one else in this boat has planned that far ahead, and I’d wager no one else ever will. Use whatever name feels right when the time comes. I trust your judgment more than my own."
Bert inclined his head with the solemn acceptance of receiving official orders.
"Understood, Captain."
"And Jim, just how good is this French of yours?" James asked.
"Near enough as fluent as a Parisian."
Jim’s easy confidence generally meant James trusted him only as far as he could throw him.
"Go on, then. Impress me."
Jim cleared his throat, straightened a little, pressed one hand dramatically against his chest, and rattled off a long stream of French with impressive bravado.
"Vos yeux sont comme la mer, mademoiselle. Puis-je vous revoir demain?"
Tomás’s eyebrows climbed higher with every sentence.
"Well?" James asked. "That sound like merchant business to ye?"
"No, Captain."
Tomás’s ears turned faintly pink. "He tells the lady her eyes are like the sea... and asks if he may see her again tomorrow."
"Learned that from a girl in Martinique."
Jim looked perfectly unashamed.
"Worked beautifully."
"It won’t help ye buy deerskins."
"I said I spoke French, Cap’n. Never promised poetry would bargain down the price of hides."
James looked at him for a moment.
"So ye can actually hold a conversation, then? Or is that the only speech ye know?"
Jim looked almost offended.
"Course I can. Took more than a little courtship to convince the girls in Martinique."
Tomás said nothing else. His silence suggested he had little faith in the plan, and perhaps even less in his own French beyond that Jim had effectively proposed courtship to an imaginary woman instead of conducting trade.
As they entered a stretch where the cypress branches blocked out most of the sky, Jim’s grin faded.
"Best not say what ye think’s swimming out there."
He watched the black water slide past the hull.
"The swamp hears names. Then it gives ye one back. Once it knows yer name, it never forgets."
James raised an eyebrow.
"Is that so?"
Jim nodded, "My granddad swore it was. Sailed the Georgia coast forty years and never once spoke the word after he crossed the forest. Called it the long fella instead. Lived to eighty-three."
"Eighty-three doesn’t prove much."
"Proves enough for me."
Bert continued rowing as calmly as ever.
"Speaking of the long fella" James said with a grin, "wasn’t it you fought one behind Mobile’s fort? Bit clean through your boot, if I remember right."
Jim’s expression never changed.
"Aye. Right around there, assuming the trees haven’t wandered off."
"You’ve never been anywhere near Mobile."
"My boot’s still healing, Cap’n. Seems cruel to question the story of an injured man."
"Do you think we’ll convince them?"
Tomás asked more quietly, glancing toward the chests. "That we are traders? We do not sound like men who live among the tribes. We certainly do not dress like them."
"Lad, confidence has carried more men through life than truth ever managed."
James spread his hands. "Walk in like ye belong there, and the town will convince themselves before ye’ve spoken a single word."
A moment later the keel scraped across sand and ground to a stop where the swamp finally surrendered to solid ground. Beyond the trees, a narrow trail packed hard by years of footsteps disappeared toward whatever waited at Mobile.
They dragged the boat into the brush and began unloading.
James had already lifted one side of a chest when Bert’s voice stopped him.
"Captain. One more question, if I may."
"Aye?"
Bert continued, "How, exactly, do four men carrying heavy chests by hand resemble a trading party arriving from the interior? I have considered the matter carefully, and I find it difficult to imagine genuine traders transporting enough goods to fill three chests without bringing even a single mule."
James lips parted open.
Nothing came out.
He looked down at the chest in his hands.
Then at Jim.
Then Tomás.
Finally he looked back at Bert, who waited with patient calm.
I had assumed you noticed the flaw and simply lacked a better option. Discovering you had noticed neither is... informative.
