The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures)

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  “How do you mean that, Prince?” Lady Evans-Stuart asked in amazement.

  “There have already been some deaths from yellow fever, and many believe that it will grow to an epidemic of unique proportions.

  “The summer of Eighteen-Fifty-Three was prophesied by Lakanal in one of his writings as a summer of terror.”

  Book V

  Prologue

  THE CRIMINALS’ DOCK ON THE MESA

  A year had passed since the night when Hiram had imparted to Diana Robert the strict command that she go to New Orleans and announce to her relatives at the Atchafalaya Bank that when Hiram came to the Tropic of the Southern Cross, when they saw his yellow mask, the city would weep and shudder. This was in 1852, after the conclusion of five summers, the last summers that the Mantis religiosa would bloom without bearing seeds. The Mantis religiosa blooms every year, but it only bears seeds on particular years. A mysterious numerical symbolism runs through the whole of nature, as yet unstudied and likely to remain incomprehensible until the end of time. Just as was the case with the year 1847, so also the year 1853 was inscribed in the Souths great ledger of debts. Roses on the cheeks of blossoming women, do not blame Hiram if you must pale and die; a pitiless destiny drives him. And isn’t it really your own fault if they have to take you to the grave so soon? Didn’t you know that those times would always return, those times of misery, need, and violent obliteration? And didn’t you still teach your children those cursed principles that shame your republic and will yet murder it in the future?

  A year had also passed since Emil and Lucy had sought the source of the Red River with Captain Marcy and tried to find the Mantis religiosa for him. Only at the last moment did Hiram appear and remind them of their oath with a thundering “Yes!” After the terror that Hiram’s sudden appearance caused them, Emil and Lucy parted from the captain, who continued on without their help to search for the mysterious source of the Red River with his expedition. But an invisible hand led the captain astray and took him a hundred miles away from the home of the Mantis religiosa. The captain later reported to Washington that he’d found the source of the Red River, but the fact that he had not discovered the mysterious plant proved that he had made a great, if excusable, error. The branches and tributaries of the river in question are innumerable, and they had already misled Alexander von Humboldt as well as the well-informed Lieutenant Pike.

  And a year had passed since that night Hiram had read the number 1853 in the gleaming sickle of the waxing moon.

  This triad of moments had taken place in 1852, and the year that stood prophetically in the gleaming sickle of the moon, 1853, had already begun.

  We are at the source of the Red River. And that hour has returned in which the light of the moon combs the black pelt of the panther and covers the dark scales of the cobra with shimmering emeralds. Outside the corridor of rocks stands a pair of long-necked flamingos. The fresh water bubbles in glittering droplets cover their pink feathers and sprays the soft down on their warm, living breasts. They are having a marvelous game at this moment. As soon as their game is finished, they will sail away from here, hundreds of miles away, to where the bed of the river is deep and wide. There they will have their midnight meal; in the vicinity outside the canyon, there is no more food for them. Here they are merely swarming and meditating.

  From the cleft of the highest peak of that massif of rock that stares southward with its dark gray spikes, Bald Eagle arises, our eagle, with its pale skull and long, gaunt legs. It is the same eagle that tried to take the traitor Arnold from his prison and that used its freedom to become a traitor itself. Bald Eagle is not satisfied with dawdling in the moonlight, with fish and little worms—his favorite dish now is the flesh of black people. He hunts down and torments this black prey unto death. Although this lord of the air possesses an immense hunting region—the area of fifteen states—he is still not satisfied with that; he flies far, far beyond the frontiers of his realm to fetch back the black prey that has fled from him.

  Over there, right under the nose of a coal-black panther, arises a weird, ghostly black head. It is a true comrade of the night. Its eyes are shy, as if veiled in a dense mist. It is Nebraska Owl, the bride of Bald Eagle, who nuzzles with him in the unsteady moonlight as if this addled blockhead had any notion of love and tender desire.

  From a different region, flying in from the south, sailing on heavy but sure pinions over the majestic plain of the mesa, comes the bird of Louisiana—the Bleeding Pelican. What is this bird doing in the solemn stillness of the midnight hour? And so many hundreds and hundreds of miles from his swampy home? Now it strikes its wings on the outer arch of the stony canyon, from whose bosom rises ominous bubbling and splashing. Does Louisiana’s bird have a rendezvous with the eagle and the owl?

  Today the moon is on the wane, no longer reminding us of that great city in the South called the Crescent City. Just like the waxing moon, the reversed sickle lies above the terrace of stone, on its uppermost plate. The sickle flickers blood-red for an instant, and that mysterious wind that is wont to come during an eclipse of the moon blows.

  It might be that there has been a partial eclipse of the moon—but if you look at the calendar, you would see that that cannot be, for the moon is clearly in its fourth quarter.

  But now? Where has the moon gone all of a sudden?

  It is really nothing more than that the three large birds have taken their places in front of it, covering it until it can rise a bit more.

  These three birds are Bald Eagle, Nebraska Owl, and Louisiana’s Pelican. What are they doing here together? Do they await someone? Are they perhaps holding a court over their brothers and sisters on the rocks of the mesa? Doesn’t Bald Eagle sit there like the judge in a secretive lynch-mob court? Doesn’t Nebraska Owl, with its shadowy, thick head, look precisely like the assessor of such a court, his face covered by a mask? Why does Louisiana’s bird lower her head, gazing downward with moist eyes at her breast, from which heavy drops of blood drip down?

  The judicial appearance of the eagle and the owl is deceiving.

  Both of them, together with the pelican, are in fact sitting in the Criminals’ Dock on the Mesa.

  Two figures emerge into the illuminated night from out of the canyon. Innumerable drops of water glisten on their naked bodies. They had been depressed and tired from the singeing heat of the day just past, and so they have taken a cooling bath. They immersed themselves in the spring that is the source of the Red River, and now they are walking arm in arm over the broad plain of the mesa. The coal-black panther they arouse does them no harm. After he becomes aware of the two figures, he continues to stand tranquilly, observing them with an intoxicated gaze. Who are they, these two figures? If all the gods had not been chased away long ago, one would be ready to swear that they were Endymion and Artemis. The stars of the Centaur or the Southern Cross do not shine as brightly. The belt of Orion would pale if it were bound about the shimmering loins of these figures, who could enchant even the wildest son of the mesa, the coal-black panther.

  “More than a year has passed since He took us from the captain’s party and brought us to the mesa—the time of testing is nearing an end, and we can once again return to the beautiful gardens and homes of people—we will say farewell to the Mantis religiosa, forever.”

  “Your heart is happy and serene, my love, and you dream of the golden days of the future—but an inner voice tells me that these months lived in the mesa will not be the least happy of our lives. My beloved, you are looking forward to our return to New Orleans—would to God that no cloud covers the sun of your glittering hopes. Look at your feet. The seed pods of the Mantis religiosa are bursting, and they foretell another great disaster for the good city of New Orleans. We will be there when the visitation is at its most fearsome—to be sure, we will be spared, for the Mantis religiosa is an antidote, but who wants to live in the midst of the dead, with heaped bodies and corpse-wagons rattling about day and night? Who can be happy when one
sees everything about dying or wilting? And we shall see things worse than death in New Orleans—my innermost being foretells me that, and he told us himself…”

  “It is better for us to enjoy ourselves, for we are compelled to go back to that city—and why are you so sad and depressed? Look at yourself, look at me, lover. The year we have spent in this lonely, ominous mesa has poured out a cornucopia upon us. The roses that had vanished from your cheeks have returned, and now they bloom more beautifully and fresher than ever. Your curls are richer and more golden, and they fall in a fullness I have never before seen upon your full, alabaster-white shoulders. You were beautiful, my lover, when you put on my clothes that time, but now, when I behold you, you are even more beautiful, and I shudder at the thought—but no, jealousy and distrust have been banned forever from my heart, and I grasp the warm marble of your divine body with trust and never-conquered warmth …”

  Lucy sank into Emil’s arms. He did not push her away until the stern, deeply bowed head of Hiram rose before them and they heard from his mouth the solemn words: “Your child shall be called Toussaint L’Ouverture!”

  “Our child?” Emil and Lucy cried out at the same instant, looking at Hiram questioningly.

  “Have no doubt!” he answered in a strict, spiritual tone.

  “Today is the twenty-first of April, 1853. In this year, in this month, and on this day, a Caucasian and an Ethiopian shall bathe in the source of the Red River. They shall walk across the mesa and fall lovingly into each other’s arms. They shall then conceive a son, who shall be the liberator of the black race: thus it is written in the book of Hiram II, the Freemason.”

  Hiram was silent for a few moments, then he continued.

  “But you shouldn’t shout and rejoice over this news. Remember for a moment how enthusiastic you were when I told you of the mission you were to fulfill? How joyfully your eyes flamed when I told you that you would be the representatives of a new dawn? That you would have millions to support a proper propaganda, and you would have had to work at it with all your might? But what did you do when you left the Atchafalaya Bank? Your enthusiasm vanished once you had possession of the riches, and you traveled about in the world like a royal couple, such as people always like to see and celebrate with incense. It was only a short time before your treasures had all fallen victim to your profligacy. Impoverished, you returned to the soil of America, and fortune brought you into the hands of Captain Marcy—you discovered from him the purpose of his expedition, and what did you do? You betrayed the Mantis religiosa for mere profit. Your criminal vanity took the compliments that the captain gave you as truth, when the captain placed you,” the old man turned to Emil, “on a level with Washington and Lafayette. And you took this apotheosis quite seriously, Emil; you were really of the opinion that you were a great man—but a single word that I shouted into his camp to him from the Red River caused you to come to your senses. I took you and Lucy to the mesa, in hopes the prophecy would be fulfilled—and it has now been realized in you. Although she has been barren until now, Lucy will bear a son, who will be the liberator of her race. This son will fulfill his mission, no matter how many obstacles are placed in his way. On the day of liberation, when the chains fall to the ground everywhere with a great jangling, the Mantis religiosa will disappear forever, and New Orleans will be free from that plague of fever that now falls on the town with an intensity never known before.”

  Lucy and Emil stood with downcast eyes as the old man spoke these words.

  From the stone terrace they heard a mournful whimpering. Then it sounded again, like cries for help from a mother whose children are being snatched away. Then everything grew very still, save the occasional cracking and splitting of the seed capsules of the Mantis religiosa, whose feathered kernels were blown on a soft wind in the direction of the Crescent City, New Orleans.

  The mournful whimpering began again, and at the end it grew so loud that Lucy and Emil raised their heads and turned their eyes in its direction.

  “That is the bird of Louisiana, the Bleeding Pelican,” the old man said, as he raised his right hand in warning. “She weeps and mourns her children, who have been snatched away too soon by death. As often as the seed capsules of the mantis religiosa burst, the pelican appears here and bemoans her unhappy fate. What she has borne, cared for, and protected over many years is taken from her in a single summer, and she tears open her own breast in her pain, so that innumerable drops flow onto the stone terrace …”

  “The poor bird!” Emil and Lucy quietly sighed at the same time.

  “Do not mourn for the bird of Louisiana,” the old man declared in an earnest tone, “for you are the ones who are the cause of her despair.”

  Once more it was quiet on the broad, uncanny mesa. No further complaint came from the breast of the unhappy bird. She hid her head in her wings and wept still tears. But Bald Eagle and Nebraska Owl moved restlessly back and forth, striking the cliffs with their wings as they watched the old man approaching with Lucy and Emil. Bald Eagle raised his white head alertly. “Bald Eagle!” Hiram called up to the stony terrace where the three birds sat with one another. “Don’t raise your pale head so proudly! It would be better if you hid your head in your wings with shame, as Louisiana’s bird is doing out of grief and sadness of heart. Where is your high-flying now, Eagle? Do you no longer recall the deeds of your forefathers? Don’t you think any more of Bunker Hill—of the fathers of your republic? Bald Eagle, you have become a filthy predator, stuffing your belly with the flesh of the children of another climate, whom you have dragged into your country to be manacled and beaten. Miserable hunter of human beings, may the time soon come when they recognize the traitor and judge.”

  Screaming, Bald Eagle raised himself from his perch, attempting to fly to the heights. But he immediately sank back down, exhausted and heavy.

  “The stars no longer want you!” Hiram called to him. “They fear your filthy venom!”

  Bald Eagle tried to fly into the heights once more—but once more in vain! The stars rejected their unclean visitor. He now raised a shrill cry and departed in a low glide across the endless mesa.

  Did it have to come to this point, that our eagle, who once led us to victory in battle and before whose defiant eyes the enemy fled and trembled, now creeps away and flees like a poor sinner?

  “What sort of an ugly bird is that, with the broad, thick head and the shy gaze?” Emil finally dared to say; he had been observing solemn silence with Lucy until now. He pointed up to the stony terrace as he spoke.

  “That is Nebraska Owl,” the old man declaimed earnestly, his eyes burning with an inexpressible glow. “Great misery will come over our republic out of Nebraska,” he prophesied. “A man, who is now called the young giant of the West, will soon be branded a traitor for his companionship with this owl;1 Bald Eagle will take Nebraska Owl under his wings, and together they will dominate the Capitol. I will not see what will come from that, for my gray hairs will draw me to the grave before the completion of this summer of terror—as my destiny desires!

  “Many a generation has passed over my skull, and I should be satisfied to have wandered the earth for this time—and yet I leave reluctantly. I would like to be able to greet the day when your son is born, he who shall free the helots and redeem beauty from the filthiness, torment, and misery of the world.”

  Even as Hiram directed these words to Emil and Lucy, Nebraska Owl had left its perch on the terrace and flown off in the same direction that the Potomac languidly and reluctantly directs its flood. The Owl often turned in flight; even at a great distance one could see here and there the glitter of two green points of light.

  From the spot where the three birds had perched together only a moment before, a marvelous image arose, framed by the glistening, gleaming sickle of the moon.

  With a glance at the image, Emil sank to the ground, pale as a star in the milky way.

  He had seen a dreadful picture.

  He saw the old count, his fa
ther, Melanie, his mother, his sisters, Constanze, Gertrude, Amelie, and his brother, Hugo. All were laid out next to one another in coffins, and over them grinned the disgusting visage of the Hungarian, as cold and pale as their corpses.

  Yet the picture showed more, images much more terrifying—but everything had vanished by the time Emil opened his eyes once more.

  That was the last Fata Morgana on the mesa.

  Six days after these events, on 27 April, Hiram the Freemason was on his way to the Atchafalaya Bank in New Orleans. Emil and Lucy had preceded him to the town by two days.

  Chapter 1

  RED TODAY, DEAD TOMORROW

  The curse of yellow fever had already lain on New Orleans for several weeks.2 Those who could flee had already fled, and those who remained behind either lacked the means to travel or were held here by some sort of responsibility. Perhaps there were also those for whom ambition and filthy greed dictated that they risk their little lives despite all arguments to the contrary. There were many in the last category, and, amazingly enough, they were the ones whose ranks were least winnowed by the dreadful disease. Ambition and greed offered their bold faces to death in this dark, sad time, and death rarely dared touch its finger to these already pale, cold children of Mammon. Death can be bribed, too, after all. There were hundreds and hundreds of stories from this time of terror to witness.

  Would that we could rip the nails from the coffins of misery and despair and have them appear as accusers in the courts. And if these silent witnesses could speak? What would they say? Wouldn’t they yell out at that physician who now passes through the streets of our town in comfort and dignity in his elegant coach: “Hold your horses, murderer and robber! Climb out of your coach and walk, as you did before! Should you glitter and carouse simply because you pulled the last cent out of the pockets of hundreds of poor sick persons, and then killed them?” And what would that quack, a robber and murderer, reply if they could hear those voices?