“We all chafed under Philippe’s rules, Marcus,” Baldwin said. “It just never occurred to us that it should—or even could—be any other way.”
Marcus thought about his uncle’s words for a moment.
“I blamed Matthew for what happened, at first. He seemed like the latest in a long line of patriarchs trying to take my freedom away,” Marcus said. “It took me a long time to see that he was caught in the same trap of loyalty and obedience that snared me in Hadley. And it took me even longer to admit that Matthew was right to come to New Orleans and put a stop to what I was doing.”
I could see from his expression that this was news to Matthew.
“I was too young to have children of my own. I should have learned my lesson from Vanderslice. But I kept making more. If you hadn’t come to New Orleans when you did, Matthew, there’s no telling what might have happened. But it would have been even bloodier—that I know for sure.”
Marcus leaned on the kitchen island, his fingers tracing the rough scars and gouges in the wood.
“Whenever I think of that time in my life, what I remember are the funerals. My journey to New Orleans began with one, and I left the city after a hundred more had taken place,” he said quietly. “Other people think of bright colors and laughter and parades when they think of New Orleans. But it has a darker side now—and it did then, too.”
32
Future
JANUARY 1805–SEPTEMBER 1817
Marcus was returning home in the small hours of a frigid January morning when he came upon a wizened old man fending off a mob of boys at the normally quiet intersection of Herring and Christopher Streets. The wooden houses and shops were shuttered, and there were no passersby to intervene. The man’s long coat was covered in muck, as though he’d been knocked down and hauled back onto his feet only to be knocked down again.
“Gettaway,” the man said, waving a pottery jug at the boys. His slurred speech indicated that he had been drinking. Heavily.
“Come on, grandpa. Where’s your patriotism?” one of the boys jeered. “We’re all entitled to some happiness, aren’t we?”
The rabble joined in with catcalls, and the circle around the man tightened.
Marcus shoved the young men aside, elbows pushing to the left and right in rapid succession. The crowd parted. The old man was cowering against a brick wall, his stance unsteady and his eyes unfocused. The acrid smell of fear and piss surrounded him. He flung both hands in the air, a gesture of surrender.
“Don’t hurt me,” the man said.
“Mr. Paine?” Marcus stared at the man. Under the smudges of dirt and beneath the frowsy, disorderly gray hair was a familiar face.
Paine squinted at Marcus, trying to ascertain whether he was friend or foe.
“It’s Marcus—Marcus de Clermont.” He extended a hand in friendship. “From Paris.”
“Hey, mister, you’ll have to wait your turn,” one of the boys said. His fists were bloody and his nose was running with the cold.
Marcus turned on him and bared his teeth. The boy stepped back, eyes wide.
“Find some other source of entertainment,” Marcus growled.
The boys stood their ground, uncertain of what to do next. The pack leader, a burly thug of a teenager with a bad complexion and no front teeth, decided to take Marcus on. He stepped forward, fists raised.
Marcus flattened him with a single blow. The boy’s friends dragged him off, casting anxious looks over their shoulder.
“Thank you, friend.” Thomas Paine was shaking, his limbs trembling from exposure to the elements and strong drink. “What did you say your name was?”
“Marcus de Clermont. You know my grandparents,” Marcus explained, plucking the jug of rum from Paine’s hand. “Let’s get you home.”
Paine gave off a distinctive scent of alcohol, ink, and salt beef. Marcus followed his nose and tracked the combination down to the source: a clapboarded boardinghouse set in the middle of a block of Herring Street just to the south. Inside, candles illuminated the slats in the shutters.
Marcus knocked on the door. An attractive woman in her late thirties with eyes the color of brandy and brown curls threaded through with silver flung open the door. Two boys stood with her, one of them bearing the poker from the fireplace. “Monsieur Paine! We have been so worried!”
“Might I bring him inside?” Marcus said. Paine hung, lifeless in his arms. He had passed out on the short journey. “Madame . . . ?”
“Madame Bonneville, Monsieur Paine’s friend,” the woman explained in accented English. “Please, bring him in.”