Praise for Barbara Hambly’s
A Free Man of Color
“A smashing debut novel. In lush detail Hambly recreates the world of the demimonde and the Mardi Gras balls, the plight of slaves, and the intricate social structure of a city that for generations has strictly adhered to rules unique to New Orleans. Ben is a wonderful character, strong and tempered by personal grief, smart and courageous.… A rich story with well-drawn characters, memorable action scenes, and a sense of place so strongly rendered that it surrounds the reader.”—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“A vivid depiction of an exotic bygone time.”
—The Sunday Oregonian, Portland
“Magically rich and poignant … In scene after scene researched in impressive depth and presented in the cool, clear colors of photography, Hambly creates an exotic but recognizable environment for January’s search for justice.”—Chicago Tribune
“A richly detailed, telling portrait of an intricately structured racial hierarchy, which was to leave its mark on everyone.”—Booklist
“A smashing debut novel. This is a rich, exciting story with both substance and spice that is sure to please any palate.”—Star Tribune, Minneapolis
“A fascinating look at a fascinating city in a fascinating time in our history.”—The Purloined Letter
“Barbara Hambly has crafted a most sparkling gem.… Readers are transported back to a distinctive time and place and introduced to a most unusual protagonist.… New Orleans vivdly comes alive.… January is a fascinating hero, one who should be heard from soon again.”
—KING FEATURES SYNDICATE
“Subtly planting clues along the way, Hambly crafts a tale of intrigue set against a class-conscious Louisiana society and the many different definitions of ‘black.’ ”
—The Detroit News
“A Free Man of Color, Hambly’s first mystery, will add substantially to her acclaim.… This book is very good, indeed.”—The Washington Times
“An astonishing tour de force. Hambly’s re-creation of pre-Civil War New Orleans has the ring of eyewitness testimony. This tense and absorbing drama is full of clever twists, chilling dangers, and unexpected acts of redeeming grace. If you read only one historical mystery this year, let it be this one.”
—MARGARET MARON
“Hambly weds her vivid imagination with her gift for accurate and telling period detail. The result is a jewel-like novel that glitters with multiple facets.… Unique.”—BookPage
“A wonderful glimpse of history with an intriguing mystery at its center … Fascinating.”
—The Montgomery Advertising & Alabama Journal
Also by Barbara Hambly
Fever Season
Graveyard Dust
Sold Down the River
Die Upon a Kiss
Wet Grave
Days of the Dead
Dead Water
All available from Bantam Books
This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
A FREE MAN OF COLOR
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published July 1997
Bantam paperback edition / June 1998
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1997 by Barbara Hambly.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-44942.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78527-5
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.
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Brother Ed
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Acknowledgments
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In any work of fiction dealing with the American South, a writer runs into the problem of language and attitudes—specifically not only words and phrases but outlook, upbringing, and unspoken assumptions, which, though widely held and considered normal at the time, are appalling today.
The early 1830s were a time of great change in America. President Andrew Jackson’s view of democracy was very different from the eighteenth-century vision of the country’s founders. Civil War and Reconstruction lay a generation in the future, and the perception of blacks—by the whites and by the blacks themselves—was changing, too.
In New Orleans for most of the nineteenth century, it would have been as offensive to call a colored—that is, mixed-race—man or woman “black,” as it would be today to call a black person “colored.” Both words had connotations then that they do not have now; both words are freighted now with history, implications, and inferences unimaginable then.
I have tried to portray attitudes held by the free people of color toward the blacks—those of full or almost-full African descent, either slave or free—and toward the Creoles—at that time the word meant fully white descendants of French and Spanish colonists—as I have encountered them in my research. Even a generation ago in New Orleans, the mothers of mixed-race teenagers would caution their children not to “date anybody darker than a paper bag.” Light skin was valued and dark skin discredited, and a tremendous amount of energy went into making distinctions that seem absurdly petty today. An intricate hierarchy of terminology existed to categorize those of mixed race: mulatto for one white, one black parent; griffe or sambo for the child of a mulatto and full black; quadroon for the child of a mulatto and a full white; octoroon for a quadroon’s child by a full white; musterfino or mameloque for an octoroon’s child by a full white. (I’ve seen alternate meanings for griffe, sambo, and musterfino, so there’s evidently some question about either what the records were talking about, or whether the people at that time used the same words for the same things.)
White Creoles, by the way, had an intricate hierarchy of words to categorize each other as to social standing and how long their families had been prominent in New Orleans society, so they evidently just liked to label things. Americans, of course, simply did not count.
I have not attempted to draw parallels to any modern situation or events. I have tried to construct a story from a historical setting, using the attitudes and outlooks—and, of necessity, terminology—of that time and place. I have attempted, to the best of my ability, neither to glamorize nor to conceal. The territory is touchy for those who have suffered, or whose families have s
uffered, from the prejudices and discrimination that once was—and still is to some extent—commonplace. To them I apologize if I have inadvertently offended. My goal is, as always, simply to entertain.
ONE
Had Cardinal Richelieu not assaulted the Mohican Princess, thrusting her up against the brick wall of the carriageway and forcing her mouth with his kisses, Benjamin January probably wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss later on.
Now, THERE’s a story for the papers. January considered the tangle of satin and buckskin, the crimson of the prelate’s robe nearly black in the darkness of the passageway save where the oil lamp that burned above the gate splashed it with gory color, the grip of the man’s hand on the woman’s buttocks and the way her dark braids surged over his tight-clenched arm. Certainly the American papers: Cardinal Richelieu Surprised with Leatherstocking’s Sister. It was a common enough sight in the season of Mardi Gras, when the February dark fell early and the muddy streets of the old French town had been rioting since five o’clock with revelers—white, black, and colored, slave and free, French and American—bedizened in every variation of evening costume or fancy dress. God knew there were women enough yanking men off the high brick banquettes into doorways and carriage gates and public houses on Rue Royale and Rue Bourbon and all over the old quarter tonight. He wondered what Titian or Rembrandt would have made of the composition; he was turning politely to go when the woman screamed.
The fear in her voice made him swing around, just within the arch of the gate. The oil lamp’s light must have fallen on his face, for when she screamed a second time, she cried his name.
“Monsieur Janvier!”
A stride took him to the grappling forms. He seized His Eminence by the shoulder and tossed him clear out of the carriageway, across the brick banquette, over the dark-glittering stream of the open gutter and into the oozy slops of Rue Ste.-Ann with a single throw—for January was a very big man—making sure to cry as he did so in his most jovial tones, “Why, Rufus, you old scamp, ain’t nobody told you …?”
Timing was everything. He’d learned that as a child.
Even as his victim went staggering into the jostle of carriages, he was bounding after him, catching the man’s arm in a firm grip and gasping, “Oh, my God, sir, I’m terribly sorry!” He managed to yank the enraged churchman out of the way before both could be run down by a stanhope full of extremely Cooperesque Indians. “I thought you were a friend of mine! My fault entirely!” Richelieu was pomegranate with rage and thrashing like a fish on a hook, but he was also a good half foot shorter than January’s six-foot three-inch height and hadn’t spent nine years carrying cadavers—and occasionally pianofortes—on a daily basis. “I do beg your pardon!”
January knew the man would hit him the moment he let go and knew also that he’d better not hit back.
He was correct. It wasn’t much of a blow, and at least Richelieu wasn’t carrying a cane, but as the scarlet-masked villain flounced back across the gutter and disappeared into the dark maw of the gate once more, January was surprised by his own anger. Rage rose through him like a fever heat as he tasted his own blood on his lip, burning worse than the sting of the blow, and for a time he could only stand in the gluey street, jostled on both sides by gaudy passersby, not trusting himself to follow.
I’ve been in Paris too long, he thought.
Or not long enough.
He picked up his high-crowned beaver hat, flicked the mud from it—it had fallen on the banquette, not in the gutter—and put it back on.
The last time he’d let a white man strike him, he’d been twenty-four. An American sailor on the docks had cuffed him with casual violence as he was boarding the boat to take him to Paris. He’d thought then, Never again.
He drew a long breath, steadying himself, willing the anger away as he had learned to will it as a child.
Welcome home.
Music drifted from the pale, pillared bulk of the Théâtre d’Orléans immediately to his right, and a mingled chatter of talk through the carriageway to the courtyard of the Salle d’Orléans that had been his goal. The long windows of both buildings were open, despite the evening’s wintry cool—not that New Orleans winters ever got much colder than a Normandy spring. That was something he’d missed, all these past sixteen years.
In the Théâtre, the Children’s Ball would just be finishing, the main subscription ball getting ready to begin. The restless, fairy radiance of the newfangled gaslights falling through the windows and the warmer amber of the oil lamps on their chains above the intersection of the Rue Ste.-Ann and Rue Royale, showed him proud, careful mamas clothed as classical goddesses or Circassian maids, and watchful papas in the incongruous garb of pirates, lions, and clowns, escorting gorgeously costumed little boys and girls to the carriages that awaited them, drawn up just the other side of the gurgling gutters and tying up traffic for streets. With the Théâtre’s long windows open he could hear the orchestra playing a final country dance—“Catch Fleeting Pleasures”—and he could identify whom they’d got to play: That had to be Alcée Boisseau on the violin and only Philippe Decoudreau could be that hapless on the cornet.
January winced as he picked up his music satchel from beside the wall where he’d dropped it in his excess of knight-errantry, wiped a trace of blood from his lip and thought, Let’s not do that again. The Mohican Princess was long gone, and January hoped, as he made his way toward the lights and voices of the courtyard that lay behind the Salle d’Orléans’ gambling rooms, that Richelieu had gone into the gambling rooms or upstairs to the Salle as well. The colored glimmer of light from the courtyard, slanting into the dark of the passageway, showed him a couple of green-black cock feathers from the woman’s headdress lying on the bricks at his feet.
The woman had called his name. She had been scared.
Why scared?
To any woman who would come unaccompanied to the Blue Ribbon Ball at the Salle d’Orléans, being thrown up against the wall and kissed by a white man was presumably the point of the evening.
So why had she cried out to him in fear?
Colored lanterns jeweled the trees in the court, and the gallery that stretched the length of the Salle’s rear wall. In the variegated light, Henry VIII and at least four of his wives leaned over the gallery’s wooden railings, laughing amongst themselves and calling down in English to friends in the court below. January didn’t have to hear the language to know the Tudor monarch was being impersonated by an American. No Creole would have had the poor taste to appear with more than one woman on his arm. A curious piece of hypocrisy, January reflected wryly, considering how many of the men at the Blue Ribbon Ball tonight had left wives at home; considering how many more had escorted those wives, along with sisters, mothers, and the usual Creole regiments of cousins, to the subscription ball in the Théâtre, directly next door.
Both the Salle d’Orléans and the Théâtre were owned by one man—Monsieur Davis, who also owned a couple of gambling establishments farther along Rue Royale—and were joined by a discreet passageway. Most of those gentlemen at the subscription ball tonight would slip along that corridor at the earliest possible moment to meet their mulatto or quadroon or octoroon mistresses. That was what the Blue Ribbon Balls were all about.
Ayasha, he recalled, had hardly been able to credit it when he’d recounted that aspect of New Orleans life. None of the ladies in Paris had. “You mean they attend balls on the same night, with their wives in one building and another with their mistresses a hundred feet away?”
And January, too, had laughed, seeing the absurdity of it from the vantage point of knowing he’d never go back again. There was laughter in most of his memories of Paris. “It’s the custom of the country,” he’d explained, which of course explained nothing, but he felt an obscure obligation to defend the city of his birth. “It is how it is.”
Allowing a white man to strike him without raising a hand in his own defense was the custom of the country as well, but of that, h
e had never spoken.
Why would she struggle? And who was she, that she’d known his name?
He paused beneath the gallery, his hand on the latch of the inconspicuous service door that led to offices, kitchen, and service stair, scanning the court behind him for sight of that deerskin dress, that silly feathered headdress that more resembled a crow in a fit than anything he’d actually seen on the Choctaws or Natchays who came downriver to peddle filé or pots in the market.
Most of the women who came to the quadroon balls came with friends, the young girls chaperoned by their mothers. Women did come alone, and a great deal of outrageous flirting went on, but those who came alone knew the rules.
Above him, one of Henry VIII’s wives trilled with laughter and threw a rose down to a tobacco-chewing Pierrot in the court below. The gaudy masks of the wives set off their clouds of velvety curls, chins and throats and bosoms ranging from palest ivory through smooth café-au-lait. In London, January had seen portraits of all the Tudor queens and, complexion aside, none of the originals had been without a headdress. But this was one of the few occasions upon which, licensed by the anonymity of masks, a free woman of color could appear in public with her hair uncovered, and every woman present was taking full and extravagant advantage of the fact.
The French doors beneath the gallery stood open. Gaslights were a new thing—when January had left in 1817 everything had been candlelit—and in the uneasy brilliance couples moved through the lower lobby and up the curving double flight of the main stair to the ballroom on the floor above. As a child January had been fascinated by this festival of masks, and years had not eroded its eerie charm; he felt as if he had stepped through into a dream of Shelley or Coleridge where everything was more vivid, more beautiful, soaked in a crystalline radiance, as if the walls of space and time, fact and fiction, had been softened, to admit those who had never existed, or who were no more.
Marie Antoinette strolled by, a good copy of the Le Brun portrait January had seen in the Musée du Louvre, albeit the French queen had darkened considerably from the red-haired Austrian original. January recognized her fairylike thinness and the way she laughed: Phlosine Seurat, his sister Dominique’s bosom friend. He couldn’t remember the name of her protector, though Dominique had told him, mixed up with her usual silvery spate of gossip—only that the man was a sugar planter who had given Phlosine not only a small house on Rue des Ramparts but also two slaves and an allowance generous enough to dress their tiny son like a little lace prince. At a guess the Indian maid was another of his sister’s friends.
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