Crossing Chartres Street, Jean took in the few remaining brightly painted colonial homes on his walk. Built in the old French style, most of the raised homes with wooden galleries were wiped out in the great fire in the last two decades of the eighteenth century. As he ambled up St. Philipe to Bourbon, the houses changed to suit the post-fire Spanish codes. Thick, brick walls replaced wood, courtyards replaced porches, arched entrances and cast-iron balconies on the façade replaced galleries.
Interspersed around the district were the new Creole cottages, the name belying their architects' heritage. Steeply pitched roofs, with a symmetrical four-opening façade wall and a wood or stucco exterior, now prevalent amongst their older French and Spanish compatriots. But down the street, beyond the post-colonial homes, Jean could see the new American-style townhouses going up in the Central Business district. Rather than imitate their predecessors, they built their homes in the style they preferred.
Reaching the intersection of St. Philipe and Bourbon, he approached the brick home on the corner. A small courtyard door stood on the property line. He knocked politely.
The door opened slightly. A dark-skinned woman stood behind it, eyeing her visitor with caution. She held a mewling baby to her chest.
"Who is calling?" she said.
Jean shrugged. A mischievous smile crossed his face.
"Must a gentleman announce himself at the home of family?"
"Only when that family is full of scoundrels, brother Jean." She smiled at him.
"Marie!" Jean hugged her. The two exchanged kisses on opposite cheeks in the old French style.
"And who is this lovely?" said Jean.
"Rosa," Marie handed him the baby. He cradled his little bundle in his arms. "Not but two months old. Your newest niece."
Cuddling the child in his arms, he made nonsensical noises, much to her delight.
"My brother?"
He handed the child back to her mother.
"Conducting business."
"Of course he is."
The inner door to the house opened, five children of varying ages pouring forth.
"Uncle Jean!" they called. Jean knelt down to kiss each child on the cheeks.
"Eugene! Catherine! Conde! Martin et Jean Baptiste!"
They surrounded him, the boys in their skeleton suits with the exception of Eugene, who dressed in men's clothes. The girls high-waisted dresses resembled Marie's, but with higher waistline.
"Did you bring us anything? Did you?" they asked, dancing around him.
Jean pretended to think. He fiddled around in his coat. Removing a box, he presented it to the children.
"Chocolates. From the old world."
Eugene grabbed the box first, keeping it away from his siblings. The others followed, the two girls first, their toddler brothers struggling to keep up.
Jean watched them play. With a mulatto mother and French father, each had different shades of color in their skin. Some could pass for white, others showed the pigment of their mother's ancestry.
He followed Marie into the residence, entering in through the kitchen. A kettle boiled on the stove, the smell of coffee filling the room. Jean took the pot and poured himself a cup. The taste pleased him, most likely South American, and most definitely taken from a Spanish ship by his own enterprises.
"So," he started, taking a chair in the kitchen, "how goes the children's schooling?"
Marie poured herself a small cup. Her skin appeared caramel in tone, with her dark pulled up in a weave upon her head. She wore a cream shawl over her dress. Like her dress, she kept her face in a demure, reserved state, despite her obvious beauty. Intelligence radiated in her eyes, along with worry.
"Things are changing in New Orleans, Jean. I have never had trouble with the children at school, until now. In the French colonies, no one would bat an eye. But as a new American state…," she hesitated. "…their color complicates things."
Placing his cup down on the table, Jean leaned forward, holding Marie's hand.
"The Americans know they can't come down here and start dictating terms. French, Creole, Free, we outnumber them. And don't worry…"
Jean stood, his voice raising with him.
"If there's one thing Americans will make an exception for, it's money. Barataria is paying off. The merchants love us. We get them what their government says they can't have. Soon, we'll have more than enough money to make sure our family is well taken care of."
He placed his hands on her shoulders. Marie looked up at him, trying to put a small measure of hope on her face. Jean could see that she still had reservations.
"Speaking of business," Jean said, changing the subject. "Whose he with?"
"A member of the Creole Citizens Association," said Marie.
Releasing his embrace, Jean moved across the kitchen to a heavy iron door in the interior of the residence. Closed tightly with a strong metal lock, the intimidating door appeared a portal to another realm. Pulling the lock back with a loud clack, he turned back to Marie one last time.
"In that case, I'll think I'll make my presence known."
Jean opened the wrought iron door. He stepped from cozy interior into a room dedicated to the austere environment of hard industry.
The blacksmith shop attached to the house contained carefully arranged tools, bellows, and the forge, provided to create the illusion of work. Yet upon closer inspection, one would find the tools unused, and bellows dusty. A slight fire crackled in the forge, enough only for warmth rather than industry.
Pierre preferred the forging of deals to that of metals. Having never seriously taken up the trade, the blacksmith shop became the front of the house, in more ways than one.
Around the iron furnace, two men sat together conferencing. Facing Jean sat his brother Pierre. Balding around the middle of his temple, he bulged around his other middle. He held a cane in one hand, which shook slightly.
Spying Jean, Pierre motioned to his brother to join them. He made introductions.
"Andre, my business partner and brother, Jean. Jean, this is Monsieur Bernard de Marigney, here on behalf of a cause for the Creole Friends Association."
The man nodded to Jean. Of clear French and African descent, most likely free slave, his outfit and topcoat appeared lavish but well-used. He stood in a manner crying out for recognition of innate dignity beyond his assigned station - the only type of man in Mississippi Delta society the Lafittes could truly respect.
"I hope it's not for my brother's blacksmithing," said Jean. "He once was called in haste to remove a chastity belt of his, from a woman reaching her fifth month of pregnancy. Her husband having just returned from a six month voyage."
Pierre gave his younger brother a look of annoyance. Some of the boisterousness he once held had gone out with the bouts. Despite the ravages of his physical malady, he still carried the stocky frame and quiet confidence of the entrepreneur who plied barges on the frontier land between Baton Rouge and Pensacola.
"Enchanté," Jean shook the man's hand.
"Et vous, Capitaine Lafitte," returned Mr. Marigny. "Your reputation proceeds you."
"Reputation?" Jean turned to his brother. "Apparently you need a ship before the men will recognize you as Captain." he said, a facetious tone in his voice.
Pierre ignored his brother's flippant comment.
"Monsieur Marigny speaks of causes," started Pierre, "and comes to bring us to his. Not to dissuade, but there are many causes that come through our doors, and we are but humble merchants."
"Monsieur Lafitte," started Bernard. "It is known amongst our community, that several of the…goods, found by your merchantmen, what often comes across the beaches, are the enslaved persons from the home continent."
The man treaded cautiously around the subject so as not to offend his hosts. A skill long acquired at great cost, Jean could tell. Their visitor continued.
"Being descendants of the same, our community wondered if you would remit any cargo on to interested parties. To be resettled among the maroons of the swampland, or newly formed Haiti, or to the protection of Bolivar?"
Pierre remained silent, measuring his response.
"We are not slavers, nor plantation owners," said Pierre. "What comes across the beaches from the merchantmen we have no power to predict, nor dictate."
At Pierre's rebuff, the man grew frustrated, but controlled his words.
"If the gentleman were to put out the command, the merchantmen would surely listen," said Mr. Marigny, adapting to the coded wordplay.
Pierre shook his head.
"Our authority is exaggerated. If I were to tell the merchantmen what not to bring in, they would still do so through other means. Means that suffer the cargo more."
"Suffer more!" the stately Mr. Marigny could no longer conceal his emotions. "I had supposed you would be more sympathetic, as to the status of your children and wife in this new country."
Pierre raised quickly out of his chair, attempting to strike his visitor. His condition not allowing it, he fell back into the chair. The moment passed, the three relaxed, their rapport returning. Bernard gave a polite bow.
"I have overstepped myself. Still, it is illegal to import the enslaved, per the laws of our new American government." He placed an emphasis on the word American.
"And yet it doesn't stop the good, proper American men of New Orleans from lining up on our docks." Pierre dropped the charade momentarily, fatigue and anxiety filling his voice. Realizing he spoke from a place of anger, Pierre composed himself. He continued.
"The Creole and Free populace have never opposed the institution before. Indeed, some of the worst purveyors come from those once in its shackles. Why now?"
"The Americans are different," Bernard said. A look of future malady in his eyes. "For all their talk of freedom, for them, the skin you are born, is how you will live. I had hoped, considering the tales of your past, you would understand."
Once again they stood in silence. Neither side would budge. Pierre finally spoke.
"As it stands, the only way to change will have to be to change the law. What do you think, Jean?"
Jean shrugged.
"I am called a middleman, a lackey… a pirate. I emphasize, but what can a couple of merchant-sailors do to change a nation?"
"We are trying to build something here, business," added Pierre. "If we smuggle members to the maroon enclaves. the plantation owners would accuse us of fomenting rebellion. For all their talk of nobility, and lofty words on documents, one need only think what happened on the German Coast."
The mention of the slave uprising nearly two years earlier brought to its brutal end weighed heavily on the room.
"The brutality of the nobility," continued Pierre. "The good gentlemen, for the honor of only two of their own, cutting off the heads of one hundred in return. Probably felt it was owed. What do you think they would do to us? Foreigners, just above the enslaved in their eyes. Worse, foreigners who won't leave, and Jean and I, the worst of all -those that make a profit."
Realizing there would be no convincing them, their visitor arose. He gave each a small bow in turn.
"Then I will take my leave. Monsieur Pierre, Jean. Adieu."
The man walked to the front door of the business, undoing heavy metal bolt on the door. He paused to place his hat on his head. He started out the door, but stopped midway. He turned back to the brothers.
"A final caution. The mambos warn dark tides approach. When they crash, they will wash over all. Slave, free, foreign, mulatto. None of us will be safe." With those final foreboding words, he took his leave.
"What do you think he meant by that?" said Jean.
"Using my family's status to try and persuade me," said Pierre. He let down his gruff exterior, only for moment. Weight carried in his words.
"I would marry her, if it were allowed. But you and I, we've been let down before. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. All men created equal. Inspiring words, but only words."
Jean tapped the book carried in his breast pocket.
"The ocean is freedom, brother. That's what the pirates knew."
Pierre's moment of openness ended. His emotions retreated. He returned to the demeanor of business previously showed to his visitor.
"I had heard you've personally taken a ship. We are not pirates, Jean," he chastised. "I hesitate even to us the privateer excuse."
"And even if we were, what of it?" Jean stood. Lifting a chair, he thrust the piece of wood against an invisible opponent. "Go out on the Spanish main, claiming prizes like Bartholomew and Teach. Cut out the middleman."
That caused Pierre to laugh. Jean smiled. It was good to see his brother laugh. So few and far between these days.
"We are the definition of middlemen," Pierre jested. "We take the goods from the boats and sell them to the customer. Focus on making us rich, Jean. In this country, being rich is what truly makes you free."
"Who's to say I want to stay?" replied Jean. "No attachments. That's my motto, brother, if you've nothing to weigh you down, freedom is as easy as the next port."
Pierre slapped at his legs.
"I am barely able to make the runs to Barataria anymore. Though I must confess, I don't mind it. I prefer the embrace of Marie, the company of my children, to cramped holds with vagabonds, and lice."
Jean put the chair on the ground, sitting close to his brother. The two leaned in to discuss privately.
"I've decided," he said. "I would like my own ship, and take a crew on a cruise."
"You know you'll hear no rejection from me. Not that you would listen otherwise. So why come then?"
"They call me the Little Lafitte. The younger brother. If the order came from you, there would be no question."
Pierre shook his head.
"An order from me to that lot would only make it worse. If it's what you truly want, you'll have to earn that one yourself."
Jean felt a slight twinge of hurt, his brother leaving him to his own devices. It brought back memories of their father, and those final moments on the docks.
"Well, otherwise…" Pierre began. It was obvious to Jean he had noticed the effects of his words. The older brother blatantly attempted to change the subject. "…any plans you have in town?"
Jean knew his brother, though abrupt, meant his words sincerely. He decided not to press the matter any further.
"General Humbert is visiting. He's put out an invite to all descendants of the motherland. Think I can convince Marie to let you off your leash for an evening on the town?"
Pierre shook his head.
"The old dog of Napoleon come begging for scraps, mark me," he spit. "No, I'm off shortly on business. See off Captain Jannet and our new schooner. Then another ship coming in with sundries."
Steadying himself, Pierre stood up out of his chair. He tested out his balance, placing weight on each leg. Satisfied, he continued.
"Spanish brigantine, taken off Campeche on the Yucatan. You should come with me to see it. You might be interested in it."
He placed his hand on Jean's shoulder, both to steady himself, and to impart his wisdom to his younger brother.
"Jean. Stay in line, mon frere. All this pirate talk has gone I think is going to your head. Keep the heat off. No good can come of it."
Jean thought for a moment. He nodded.
"Might be time to start making escape plans. When I see Belouche, I'll ask him how the independence movements are doing to the southwest. I've heard good things about tay-has, as the Spanish call it."
Pierre shook his head.
"You might want to give domesticity a try sometime."
Jean laughed.
"That would be true bondage."
A loud knock of metal came from the house door. Marie poked her head in.
"There are two men at the door. They say they wish an audience."
"We're just finishing up, mon amour," Pierre replied. "Tell them to come around to the shop, and I'll see them."
Marie shook her head.
"They're asking for Jean."