by Parry, Owen
“General Banks says you’re to have anything you want.”
That was a pleasant change.
“While I attend the general, go back and find me ten or a dozen soldiers. Select the most unpleasant ones you can find. Brutes, the sort you would not trust behind you. For that matter, just choose Irishmen. And place them under a vicious sergeant, the type who makes himself hated by all he rules.”
I had forged a plan, see. To improve my chances of a successful visit with Mrs. Aubrey.
The major thought the request less peculiar than I expected. Perhaps he had been a long time in New Orleans.
The general received me in his nightshirt and cap, made decent by a handsome velvet robe. He still looked rather a dashing fellow, although not quite a general in his sleeping duds. But that is the usual way of things. When you strip off an officer’s uniform, you always find him smaller than he seemed. Generals are especially diminished.
He had taken himself a lovely house, the parlor of which would have delighted my darling. An aide and an orderly fussed about, searching for papers and promising to cook coffee.
The general told them both to get out. And they did.
We sat in that commandeered parlor, rivals in weariness. When the sliding doors clapped shut, with a worrisome quiver of glass, he leaned toward me and ran a hand over his nightcap.
“You were right,” General Banks said. He sounded as if he were tearing out his own liver as he spoke, for such admissions are painful to a general. “The paymaster was in it with Bolt, the two of them thick as thieves.” He rubbed an eye and corrected himself. “Well, I guess they were thieves, for that matter. One of the clerks gushed it out the minute we pressed him. Just puked his guts out. Scared out of his wits he was going to be the next one to turn up dead in Jackson Square. And for all his troubles—keeping your Miss Peabody’s money hidden away—the only thing that damned clerk’s going to see is a prison.”
“The money has been recovered, then?”
“No, damn it. Bolt has it. Made off with it first thing in the morning, bold as brass. That bastard. Look. I’m sorry. Believe me, I had no idea … all I was trying to do was to keep him out of trouble so his father wouldn’t raise a stink with his friends in Washington. The bugger had me fooled from start to finish. I never dreamed—”
“No matter, sir. But Bolt has funds, does he?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I damned well couldn’t believe it. She was going to waste all that shipping niggers back to Africa. Hell, she could’ve just bought them a piece of Texas and marched them over.” He snorted. “I guess that was a sum worth slitting throats over.” He grunted. “And it’s plenty to see Bolt down to Mexico. Where the French’ll be happy to help him out, for a price.”
He shaped his hands over the tops of his knees. “Apparently, he’s got other money, too. From this slaving business. It seems to have been going on since last September.” He pointed a finger at me. “But let me tell you this, Jones. If Bolt’s anywhere in this city—or anywhere around it—we’re going to find him. If I have to send out every last soldier between here and Baton Rouge, then hold up a lantern myself.”
“Call them off,” I told him. “Call your soldiers in.”
“What?”
“Call them off, sir. They will not find him. They may do more harm than good.”
“You know where he is?”
“No, sir. But if you give me a bit of rein, I will find him. If found he is like to be.”
He thought on the proposition. “What makes you so cocksure of yourself?”
“I am not sure of myself, sir. I am only certain your soldiers will not find him. Perhaps Captain Bolt has already escaped. I cannot say. But I will do my best, then we will see.”
He shrugged wearily, then shifted his person from one uncomfortable position to another that looked equally un-promising. The parlor chairs were cruel, but such is the fashion.
“What happened on the river today?” he asked as he straightened his robe.
I told him. Everything. At one point, the orderly rapped on the glass of the parlor doors, offering us coffee. Snarling, General Banks said none was wanted. Which was not completely true, for I would have valued a steaming cup myself. But generals assume that, if they do not want a thing, no one else wants it, either.
I do not wish to exaggerate, but as I told the general how the slaver burned, he paled and looked near a sickness. Offered my guess of how many cooked alive, his hands twitched in his lap.
“This … this can’t become known,” he said. “It’s unthinkable.”
He was a man like any other, fearful for his position. Still more than that, he saw the effect that such a tale would have upon our Union. The newspaper fellows are shameless in their pursuit of all things lurid. As if the facts were not harsh enough, they would have increased the victims a hundredfold. To read a newspaper properly, a fellow needs sound mathematical skills. Especially the knack of long division.
Yet, I had some hope of keeping things quiet. The crew did not much care about the negroes and seemed to think the Marines had saved too many. And I had promised a special payment of prize money. While stressing that our purpose had been secret.
“Mr. Seward will not raise a fuss,” I assured the general. “Nor will Mr. Lincoln. Not now. Not after I have explained matters.” I set both hands atop the hilt of my cane. “I do not see any blame in this for you, sir. Nor do I expect discord from anyone else. Mr. Seward will speak to Miss Peabody’s father, and he will settle things. The fellow loved his daughter, see. That is what sent me down here. But there are things no father wishes to know. Or wishes known.” I monkeyed my shoulders up and down, refreshing my wakefulness. Stiff as old timber I was from the day’s exertions. “But there is more to do here in New Orleans.”
“For instance?”
“Mrs. Aubrey. The shipowner. She is in this deep. If not the originator of the entire scheme.”
“Well, we’ll arrest her. And see how she likes that.”
I shook my head. “No, sir. That will not do. First, because we do not wish a public spectacle. Beyond those we have already endured. We do not want the South to win with barristers what they have not won in battle. Second, because we cannot prove a thing. And she knows it. She has been crafty, that one. We know her to be guilty, and she knows that we know it by now. But all she need do is to keep up her manners and go about her business. The witnesses are dead. There are no documents. At least, none we have discovered. Only Bolt could name her, and he’s gone.”
“You mean to let her go? Without a penalty?”
“No, sir. Not exactly. I hope to see justice done. I intend to visit Mrs. Aubrey tonight. In the company of soldiers. If we cannot break her story, we can at least break her furniture. I do not think she will put a claim for damages.”
“That’s hardly justice.”
“I hope there will be more justice than that. But I must begin somewhere. I give you that I am being common and vengeful. In doing her material goods a damage. But there is a sense behind it, not mere nastiness.”
“I don’t care if you burn her house down, at this point. But the law has to count for something.”
I shook my head again. “Burning there has been enough for one day. And for many days thereafter. I still believe the law may count for much. But I will go to her and have my say. Then we will see.”
“And Bolt? You really think you can find him, Jones? That fat friend of yours involved? The Confederate?”
“He is no more a Confederate than I am, sir. But look you. New Orleans is a curious place. You cannot fight against it. For when you press in one spot, it only bulges outward in another. Our only hope is to let the city fix itself.”
“That’s a bit cryptic.”
“Well,” I said, quite cleverly, if I do say so myself, “it is a city of crypts. And, God willing, we will live to see this affair well buried.”
He sighed, then yawned, then cursed. “Well, come to head
quarters and see me in the morning. Tell me how Mrs. Aubrey liked your visit. Meanwhile, I intend to round up every last bastard who helped Bolt in any way, whatsoever.”
“Do not arrest them, sir,” I said. “There is a better way to punish the guilty.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Transfer them to fighting regiments. Take them from the comforts of the rear and send them into the lines. Let them do their part to save the Union.”
He grumped a bit, but clever enough he was to see the sense of it. Making soldiers do their honest duty would do more good and make less noise than lining them up for courts-martial and having them talk.
“Well, then, if you will allow me, sir, I will go and call upon Mrs. Aubrey.” I glanced out through the part in the velvet drapes. Into a darkness faintly tempered by streetlamps. “Let us call it a ‘morning visit.’ In keeping up our manners.”
The general gave me a searching look, tired, exhausted and still far from content. “I swear to God, I don’t know what to make of you, Jones. You do everything upside down and backwards. But here we are. And I’ll say it again, damn it. You were right. And … I was wrong.” He looked at me like the friendliest of enemies. “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered that promotion?”
“It was not a proper promotion. It was a bribe.”
“The devil you—just what the hell does that mean? Oh, forget it. I’m not going to argue with a man about what’s good for him. I’m going back to sleep. If I can escape having nightmares about that slaveship business.”
He took himself off, trailing the belt of his robe and a whiff of pomade. The major had not yet returned to furnish me with the soldiers I had requested, so I wandered about the house in search of the orderly. I discovered him sound asleep by the stove in the kitchen. He did not like being disturbed, but I had no sympathy. His berth was not a hard one for a soldier.
I had him fuel the stove and heat that coffee.
EIGHTEEN
GLASS SHATTERED AS THE SOLDIERS BROKE OPEN THE door. I had not troubled Mrs. Aubrey with a tug on her bell or a rap, but ordered the sergeant to smash the lock and enter.
The soldiers, who looked a wonderfully nasty lot, rushed into the house with their lanterns and muskets, careless of any objects in their path. I had given them two instructions, and two only. First, they were to search the house for any suspicious items. I did not explain what “suspicious” might include, but simply observed that damage might not be avoidable, a suggestion they greeted warmly.
I wanted them destructive, on a rampage.
Second, I warned them sternly that they must do no harm to the servants or their possessions.
At first, the soldiers could not believe their good fortune. But their sergeant, still possessed of half his teeth, grinned and said, “Go to it, boyos. Damnation to the Rebels!”
I do not think I can describe the uproar. The crack of smashing china sang soprano, while the thump of furniture overturned sang bass. Between those two extremes of pitch, the alto and tenor of destruction followed the rhythm of boots on carpet and wood.
Do not think me converted unto barbarism. Harsh my actions were that night, but there was method in them. I wanted to penetrate Mrs. Aubrey’s composure, which experience had shown to be nearly impregnable. The concert of breakage was all part of my plan.
I followed behind the leading soldiers, reminding them not to annoy the servants, a few of whom were already up and shrieking.
“Come on, lads,” I bossed, speaking to the pair of privates whom I had selected for my special guard. I would not have trusted them with an orphan’s stockings. “Hurry along with you, come along.”
I do not believe that I have climbed a flight of stairs so swiftly since Bull Run. I vaulted over my cane, almost out-racing the cast of the lantern carried by one of the soldiers.
I could not know which door led to Mrs. Aubrey’s bedchamber. But she assisted me. Erect and stalwart, she stepped into the hall in her retiring costume, bearing a candle in a silver holder.
When she saw me, her glare rivaled Medusa’s.
“How dare you?” she demanded.
“She one of the servants?” a private asked me. Twas clear he did not fancy her tone of voice.
I ignored the lad and spoke to Mrs. Aubrey.
“Stand aside, if you please, mum. We are looking into a crime.”
At that, she smiled faintly, a cat recalling herself in front of a mouse.
“Would you invade a lady’s intimate quarters?” she asked in a voice she had forced under control. “Even you, sir, should—”
“I am not certain you are much of a lady,” I told her. “Step back from the door, or the soldiers will remove you.”
Even as I spoke, I had a blessed flash of inspiration. I am not always utterly dull of wit.
She stood across the door-frame, defiant as Miss Fritchie of Frederick, Maryland. Although the latter served a better cause.
Mrs. Aubrey met my expectations.
“I shall not move,” she said. “You must have the decency … the common decency to allow me time to dress.”
I pretended to hesitate. The soldiers beside and behind me seethed at my lack of resolution. Although she did not sound much of a Southron, to them she was the sum of all New Orleans. Where they had suffered mockery enough. I think they would have beaten her to the floor, had I allowed it.
I am no skilled dissembler, but I made what show I could of weighing my course. At last, I answered. Struggling to look stern and show no smile.
“Well, then,” I told her, “you shall have five minutes. But no more. Dress yourself, mum, get yourself up proper. For you and I have matters to discuss.”
Oh, she thought she had me then, the witch. Begging your pardon.
Before she could shut herself back inside her bedchamber, a colored lass fought her way up the stairs and called, “Miz Aubrey, the Yankees is into the silver cab’nit and stuffin’ spoons an’ forks down their beehinds.”
With a look of wondrous insolence, her mistress told her, “See that each one gets his thirty pieces.”
Mrs. Aubrey slammed the door behind herself, leaving the servant girl to puzzle her meaning.
Wise enough the lass was to recognize an officer. She addressed her disquiet to me.
“All this ’mancipation don’t do me no good. I gots to clean this up, what y’all be doing.”
She trudged back down the stairs, shaking her head. The servant in every land is freedom’s surveyor, taking its indisputable measurement.
The soldiers grumbled. One even asked, “You going to let that old crow just get all ignorant with us, Major? While we stand waiting on her like she’s some damn queen?”
“Now, now, lads,” I told them, restraining my impulse to smile. “I do not think you will be disappointed. Look you. I will stand the guard upon her door. Leave me the lantern. You may search the other bedrooms. But come when I call you.”
They did not ask for further clarification, but took themselves into the neighboring rooms. You might have thought that loot would be their foremost goal, but the sounds that issued from the interiors told of pure destruction. The soldiers had enjoyed their fill of Southron haughtiness and meant to avenge each slight that had been paid them.
I never would have condoned such behavior, had I not hoped to unsettle Mrs. Aubrey. I trust you understand that. I am a friend to discipline, among soldiers and within families. Anyway, nothing that transpired that night was half so shameful as our doings in India.
Mrs. Aubrey did not consume her five allotted minutes, but emerged in hardly four, if my watch was honest. Glad I was that the cab man had not accepted it in pawn. Her haste only confirmed my inspiration.
Dressed she was, but not with her usual care. She had wiggled herself into a gown so thick and full it might have done for a ball.
“Now, sir,” she said, as if she were a queen, indeed, speaking to a stinking, itching commoner, “you have the liberty of my bedroom. I trust your every
interest will be satisfied.”
“Thank you, mum. I’ll have my look in a moment.”
I called out to the lads. In my old sergeant’s voice, not in the gender tone befitting a major.
They come out into the hall with their pockets bulging. Two more come up the stairs when they heard me bark.
“Undress her,” I told them.
Doubtless, they would have responded with more alacrity had she been young and fair. Or perhaps they possessed their own notions of propriety. None of them moved.
Mrs. Aubrey raised a hand to slap me.
The sergeant, who had come up to have a look-see, caught her wrist.
Mrs. Aubrey’s burning eyes showed less love than a cobra’s. She spit and said a thing so foul it shocked.
That was an error. Her language broke her spell over the soldiers. Two grabbed her arms and one gave her gown a rip.
They hesitated again.
“You don’t … you mean all the way down, sir?” the sergeant asked.
“I will tell you when to stop.”
Wise enough she was not to resist. She stood so stoutly you might have thought her one of the Oxford Martyrs.
Staring at me with a fury that would have killed and called the killing good, she did not say another word as the soldiers ripped away her velvet and lace.
As her skirts come off, a picture frame fell to the carpet. Glass tinkled and spread. Twas only a small frame, the sort we place on a table near our beds, but large enough it was to make her scream.
She found the strength to tear free of the soldiers. Shrieking, “No!” She hurled herself to the floor, protecting the image.
“Get her up,” I said coldly.
She fought. Scratching and snapping at the lads with the teeth that still remained to her. It was no sensible strategy with ruffians. She only worsened their tempers.
How she screamed. “No!” Over and over again.
She bit a soldier and he slapped her face. Hard. Still she would not give the picture up.
“Stand away,” I ordered. “Stand off her now. Let her go.”
They were unhappy and relieved at once. As the lads took their hands away, Mrs. Aubrey cowered on her knees, weeping like a lass who has lost her sweetheart to the rival she hates most.