White Swan - the other story - Flash Fiction

In White Swan two stories are told simultaneously. One is a contemporary story of love and intrigue that takes place on the White Swan (see previous post below) – the biggest riverboat never built. The second is the story of Jean Lafitte, the gentleman pirate, who plied his trade in the Gulf and Caribbean and, for a while, called New Orleans his home. This is Lafitte’s first appearance in the book. What happens after he pulls the trigger is left hanging until the next chapter.

copyright Roscoe James - 2008


Louisiana Territory – 1811

The moss covered cypress that lined the canal bank were stately and majestic and imparted a quiet Sunday feeling on the faded gray dawn. Dew slicked grass along the knoll of the canal fell lazily to the side and its water ran slow, almost stagnant, its surface flat and undisturbed.

The cheerful twitter of morning birds, much like the two gentlemen speaking quietly beneath the tallest of the cypress, was in sharp contrast to the somber nature of the occasion.

“But did you see her, Pierre?”

“That I did, Jean. That I did. But really, she can’t be worth risking your life over.”

Jean Lafitte ignored the comment and pulled a gold pocket watch from his blue silk waistcoat to check the time. “I believe you have little reason to worry. It would appear the braggart has decided not to show.”

Jean Lafitte’s brother, Pierre, pulled his brightly plumed hat off his head and wiped his brow with a blue silk handkerchief, “The sun has yet to top the trees and the heat is unbearable.”

“I think you’ve been sitting in your office too long, brother. This is a fine morning. Give the sun an hour and the sails in the gulf will be as full as my heart is.”

“You’re being daft, Jean! And over a woman! I never thought I’d see the day!”

Jean Lafitte, the gentleman pirate, late of New Orleans, cocked his head and chuckled. With a sly smile he said, “I see the coward has decided to show his face after all. What say you, Pierre? Do I let him live?”

“You’re a fool, Jean.”

Shrugging out of his coat, he handed it to Pierre and countered with, “Better a foolish man than an unmanly fool, Pierre.”

Taking Jean’s coat, Pierre shook his head, and muttered, “And now you’re a philosopher. God rot this dark skinned Venus!”

“Never, Pierre!” With that Jean Lafitte turned on his adversary, planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart, balled his fists and glued them firmly on his hips and watched Francisco De La Madrid climb the steep slope of the canal bank followed by a short round gentleman, dressed from head to toe in white, that huffed and puffed in his tracks carrying a brass bound wooden box.

“The question, I fear, is whether he will see fit to let you live.”

“Nonsense, Pierre. I hear his aim is superb but, as with all Spaniards, his knees tremble when between the thighs of his mistress. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t faint before I shoot him.”

“But the saber is your weapon of choice. You are unbeatable when making your point, so to speak. Knowing that, our friend, Señor De La Madrid, chose pistols.”

Jean smiled a smile that Pierre knew all too well. One he’d seen on the foredeck of a three master many a times just before canons were fired and grappling ropes thrown.
“Dash that. Where will we breakfast? I have arrangements to make,” Jean said with a chuckle before slapping Pierre on the shoulder and striding toward De La Madrid.

“Good morning, Lafitte.” De La Madrid sounded somber and his face was drawn.

“De La Madrid,” Jean took a brigands stance and nodded with a lecherous scowl.

“I see you’ve brought your brother to second.”

“That I have, De La Madrid.”

The posturing was as important as the duel itself and both men stood a few feet apart regarding one another.

Jean noted, as any warrior would when sizing up his enemy, that while his opponent seemed not to have slept, he did appear determined and there was no noticeable tremble or quake to his hands.

“And I see you’ve brought a snowball. You should put him in the shade before he melts,” Lafitte sneered.

They both heard Pierre stifle a laugh.

“And to think I was going to give you a chance to withdraw your challenge. I know the pistol is not your weapon, Lafitte. Best to end the day a coward than to end it cold in a wooden box,” De La Madrid parried in a low steady voice.

Jean’s laugh was hearty and he replied with zest, “I think it best I give you a chance to withdraw your comment and apologize to me publicly tonight at Madame Bernadette’s.”

“You are still just a pirate, Lafitte,” De La Madrid snarled, “and that strumpet you were eying last night is just another folly for your stable of whores!”

Jean’s strongest feeling was one of pity. He really didn’t hate De La Madrid; he was just growing weary of how the general population of New Orleans had treated him of late. It would seem that even fighting shoulder to shoulder with General Andrew “Old Hickory” Jackson and receiving a letter of commendation and pardon was not enough to convince New Orleans, or his adopted country, of his loyalty and patriotism.

His sneer gone, his face fixed in deadly determination, he leaned to within an inch of De La Madrid’s face and stated flatly, “I will see your wife whore for me before the sun sets, De La Madrid. And before the week is out your mistress will know what it is to make love to a real man.”

His stare never wavered as he watched De La Madrid turn abruptly and motion to the snowball that, whether for the stifling heat or the situation, indeed appeared to be melting as he stepped forward with the ornate box and lifted the lid to reveal two William Parker .69 caliber dueling pistols that had been hand made in London.

Picking one up, Jean hefted the knurled maple grip and inspected the flint and cocking mechanism. Then he eyed the snowball until De La Madrid had retrieved the second pistol.

“Do both gentlemen understand the rules of engagement?” Pierre stepped forward and waited for an answer.

“Yes,” replied De La Madrid with no particular inflection.

The snowball, mouth agape, retreated when Lafitte barked, “Of course. Just get on with it.”

“Very well. You will both stand back to back and walk ten paces, turn, and fire at will. Only one shot will be taken and the man left standing will do so by the grace of God, his right to honor proven. The man that falls does so at the judgment of God and, if he should die, does so in disgrace.

“If neither man is killed nor, as well, if both men are killed, the matter will be considered settled.” Pierre retreated to the line of cypress, where the snowball was cowering, and waited.

Jean bent his arm and raised his pistol, pointing it at the heavens, and pulled the hammer back with a resounding click turning his back on De La Madrid. Another click was followed by a settling of warmth against his shoulders.

The sky was clear and blue and the sun was just coming over the St. Louis Cathedral spire at Place D’Armes. Jean noted the birds had quieted and felt a gentle breeze on his brow. His smile was one of satisfaction when he noted De La Madrid shift his shoulders twice against his as if trying to get comfortable.

“Begin gentlemen,” Pierre announced with authority.

He felt no fear as he took the first step. His thoughts were not on death’s dark gaping maw when his left foot came forward and carried him another pace away from De La Madrid. Instead he heard her lilting laugh and stared deeply into her stunning azure eyes. With his third step he cleared his mind.

By the fourth step he was focused on defending his enchantresses honor with his life.
The haunting call of an osprey marked his eighth step and his breathing was steady and his heart beat slow.

When he planted his left foot for the fifth time he breathed deep and held it as his right foot came forward and swung in a tight arc around his left bringing De La Madrid into view.
He noted with a warrior’s pragmatic eye that De La Madrid was already in place and lowering his pistol to take aim.

It made no difference. He was much too disciplined to sacrifice accuracy to rush the attack.
His right foot came down firmly a foot in front of his left, his right shoulder facing De La Madrid, all of which minimized the target he presented to his opponent.

Head turned hard right to look past his upraised forearm he felt his opponent’s deadly projectile burn across his shoulder blades and saw the cloud of grey smoke leap from the end of De La Madrid’s gun just before he heard the loud boom his opponent’s weapon made.

With no thought of celebration at having survived the volly he slowly lowered his pistol and took, what Pierre would later call, an eternity, which in reality was only a few heartbeats, to take careful, almost casual aim, at a trembling De La Madrid and squeezed the trigger.

Deer Run Falls - Roscoe James - Liquid Silver Books

I have a little announcement to make. First let me appologize for my absence the last few weeks. They’ve had me chained to my desk in the dungeon. Well, then they stuck me in a studio for a few days. But not to worry. I’ve had all the bread and water I want for the time being.

So, the announcement. Right, well, it seems that Deer Run Falls (working title Mississippi Mud) will be published by Liquid Silver Books this year. It is the first in a series of romance/mysteries that take place in the south. I won't bore you with details of the book - I think the book trailer says plenty.

No word on production date or availability. I invite everyone to drop into youtube.com and search – Roscoe James – and vote and comment on my book trailer. This is a first draft. I’m making a few changes and should have the new one up by next week.

So, thanks. Champagne for everyone!

That Party is Over ...

Next party will be next week. I'll provide a date in a few days. Hope everyone shows up. There will be an announcement made.

Ya don't wanna miss it.

Roscoe James - Author

OPEN BAR FOR A FEW HOURS! LET'S PARTY!

A small celebration tonight. I enjoyed a personal victory today. It doesn’t really matter what it was. Just a small step in the right direct. And no, I won’t tell ya… right now. Besides, if I know my crowd, you don’t need a reason. However, open bar for the next couple of hours. Buffalo wings with some really hot hot sauce. And Kentucky straight is the drink of the night. For the ladies we have Mint Juleps if ya like. So come on in, take a load off, and maybe we can talk Jill into a little Coyote dancing.

Let’s Par-Tay!


Here's some Chippendale dancers for you ladies. Watch out for the elephant.

Zacatecas, Mexico - Where I've been for the last two weeks

Mery Christmas to all - and Poetry train!

A Christmas Story

Copyright Roscoe James 2007


Twas the night before Christmas
And Santa was drunk
Down through the chimney
He fell in a funk.

He wandered around
First farted then belched
Tossed up his cookies
And felt pretty squelched

That’s when he saw her
She looked so sublime
Her legs all akimbo
On velvet reclined.

My Dear what’s your name
He asked with a smile
Virginia she answered
And blushed all the while

Oh my, he exclaimed
As he ogled her wares
You might catch a cold
Just running round bare

She giggled and wiggled
And wanted to know
What does it mean
To go… Ho Ho Ho

My dear not to worry
With time I will show
Just what it takes
For you to go Ho

Come sit on my lap
And whisper to me
What you want for Christmas
And I’ll make it be

My goodness dear Santa
Do you carry a gun
Or are you happy to see me
And thinking of fun

Don’t worry Virginia
You mustn’t think twice
Santa will show you
How not to be nice

Her eyes all a twinkle
Her nipples a glow
Her thighs all aquiver
She let Santa know

I’ve been such a good girl
It’s all such a drag
I think what I need
Is as night with a stag

A whole hour later
The jolly old man
Sprang up the chimney
And said, Yum Yum Yum

So on through the night
Dear Santa did ride
With a shivering Virginia
Close by his side.

Mery Christmas to all....
Virginia is tight!

AMP Flash Fiction - White Swan

Copyright Roscoe James 2007

Standing on the blacktop apron, the sun at his back, he studied the lines and sounds of the White Swan and realized that, unlike most dreams come to life, this one didn’t disappoint.

His mind wandered back to his grandfather’s study. To dusty tomes arranged on dark-wood shelves that clung to plaster and lathe walls. Hours of sitting in a barrister’s chair that swallowed him whole behind an ornate desk that instilled an importance and sobriety seldom experienced by a seven-year-old spellbound by the wanderings of Huck Finn, the life and times of Tiny Tim and the swashbuckling ways of Long John Silver.

A collection of hand carved pipes standing in a carrousel beside a heavy crystal tobacco humidor still filled his mind with the smell of cherry and Prince Albert and recollections of the leather blotter on the imposing desk brought to mind Mr. Santini’s shoe shop.

The black-walnut grandfather clock off in a corner that set a cadence as words on the fragile yellowed pages flowed from paper to eye to mind setting his imagination free but capturing his soul forever still echoed in his mind.

The seed dropped in his heart while reading Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, the harrowing tale of a boy from a small river town that aspired to be a riverboat captain, floated in the muddy waters of the Mississippi at the base of the Gateway to the West.

Unlike her boxy predecessors she was graceful and majestic even when moored to the floating jetty twenty feet from shore. Five decks of white enamel hand carved woodwork with highlights of shiny brass and blood-red trim.

Her paddlewheels were intricate latticeworks of white and red aluminum cast to mirror the shipwright’s work that adorned the decks above and at four-hundred-and-fifty-feet long with a beam of ninety-seven-feet; the biggest steamboat never built had been brought to life in living, almost breathing, color.

The calliope provided a carnival atmosphere for the last few passengers as they left their luggage with the shore stewards and crossed the red-carpeted gangway to the main deck.

***

“Hey! Be careful with that you klutz!”

He nearly burst out laughing when he turned and saw a taxi driver struggling to pull a Louis Vuitton wardrobe steamer trunk from the back of his cab. Running over he grabbed a side and helped the poor man set it on the sidewalk before it crushed him while its owner admonished them both with a not so polite critique of their progress.

“You must be one of the stewards,” she proclaimed still clutching a promotional brochure between finely manicured finger tips.

“I…”

“Look, it says right here, dock side stewards to receive your luggage. That’s you, right?”

In sharp contrast to her brusque manner she was willowy and graceful. Her almond shaped face, china skin with a smattering of freckles and intelligent green eyes, captivated. Fiery red hair cascaded in lush ringlets across her shoulders and halfway down her back and did much more than captivate; it took no prisoners.

“Why, sure am, ma’am,” he finally said with a chuckle while he watched the taxi driver stack a matching suitcase and makeup bag on top of the imposing piece of luggage. After receiving his fare the driver pulled out a puffy garment bag to add to the small mountain of luggage that had grown on the sidewalk, got in his cab and left.

And just as quickly she was gone. Looking back over her shoulder she said in an impatient pissed-off sort of way, “Well, come on. I don’t want my luggage left on the dock.”

He rushed to tuck the small suitcase under his arm, dangle the makeup bag from his fingers, tilt the trunk back on wheels set into the bottom and balance the garment bag across the top as he fell in step behind her.

“You’d think they could put a jet way and terminal up here. I mean, this is the twenty-first century, right?”

“I’ll be sure to tell the owner, ma’am.”

He smiled while she carried on about everything and nothing on their walk to the gangway. It was too humid, too hot, too sunny and too windy. The airport had been a mess, her taxi driver rude and she’d had to endure some one’s ten-year-old in first class. The boat was pretty though and that made him smile.

When one of the stewards saw them and cringed, dropping what he was doing, and started their way, he shook his head admonishing him not to bother, and followed her up the gangway where a smiling Mr. Blackburn, waxed handlebar mustache shining in the late afternoon sun, took her ticket and almost jumped overboard when he saw who was pushing her luggage. “Let me get you…”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Blackburn. I got here late. It won’t happen again, sir.”

With overblown bluster that belied his surprise Mr. Blackburn fixed him with a scrutinizing stare and finally replied, “Right. Well, make sure it doesn’t. And Miss Holloway will be staying in the Director’s suit on deck four.”

That explains it. So this is Teresa Holloway, intrepid freelance journalist and member of the very elite club all journalists worth a tinker’s damn aspired to, a Pulitzer-prize winner, here to write an in-depth article about - how had she put it - that idiot with more money than sense that wants us all living in the nineteenth century. She’d never confirmed, and neither he nor his staff was sure, she was going to show up.

Pushing her luggage toward mid-ship he listened to the click of her heels on the teakwood planking and wondered if he should tell her now or wait for the gala later in the evening.

“Do you know the owner? What’s his name? Nash Floss?”

“Fross,” he corrected while he waited at open double doors for her to precede him into the main atrium area.

“Right, that’s it. Nash Fross. You know him?”

He didn’t get to answer.

“Damn,” her voice was one of amazement and awe. Finally she added, “Well, when you see him, tell him the atrium impressed the hell out of me.”

Five stories of twin open curved staircases, satin finished mahogany, two replica scissor-gate elevators, plush wool carpet, all capped off with stained glass was intended to impress and he was glad it had.

There was hardly room for the two of them and her luggage in the elevator but they managed. When they stopped on deck four he followed her out and was rewarded again when she stopped to peer over the banister muttering ‘damn’ once more.

As they neared her suit he explained, “The original designs of the White Swan were found in a desk sold at auction in the 50’s. They were drawn up in 1926 by Ward engineering for the Reid Steamboat company just before the rails took over the riverboat trade.

“Originally designed to house 526 passengers in three classes, along with freight, the interior has been redesigned with twelve luxury suits and eighty-eight junior suits…”

“No longer carries freight,” she interrupted, “has five restaurants, all highly rated on the Michelin list, one cinema that will seat three-hundred, a top deck swimming pool, two workout rooms, one cabaret, ten bars, twenty-six stores, crew of ninety-seven and is propelled by two paddle-wheels powered by twin turbo-diesel electric plants. Need I go on?”

Pushing her door open he handed her a key card and laughed, “You sure know a lot about the White Swan, ma’am. And here’s your suit.”

“It’s my job to know a lot about a lot of things. Would you like gross weights, range and how much Mr. Floss paid for this little dalliance of his?”

Wheeling the trunk through the main sitting room, past the bathroom and leaving it at the foot of the king-sized bed the fun had evaporated when she referred to the White Swan, his White Swan, as a dalliance.

His smile was strained when he turned to leave and said, “That’s okay, ma’am. I’m sure Mr. FROSS has his reasons.”

When she shoved a twenty in his palm and said, “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” he wanted to poke her in the nose but found the act of receiving a tip entirely too distracting. Pulling the suit’s door shut behind him he scowled, saw another steward rush by, shoved the bill in his hand, and said, “Journalists!”

“Thanks, Mr. Fross. I think we’re ready to leave. The captain was looking for you.”