Christopher wasn’t the traitor. He’d just come out to hear a speech. But, then, Jacob thought, who in the hell was?
After a block or so, the man stopped for a moment. Jacob, hoping he was fast enough to not be seen, jumped aside into a nearby shop’s doorway. It’s easy to follow a man that’s not suspicious or of unsteady humor. This little Rebel, though? He was neither. Jacob counted to five and stepped back out on the street. The man was farther along, but still moving at the same pace.
Jacob followed him for the next few blocks. The Rebel crossed over Canal. Jacob did the same a hundred feet behind. Jacob walked faster, closing the gap between them. They walked another block. The other man turned left into an alleyway. Jacob broke into a jog to catch up. He rounded the corner.
The man was already about to turn the corner at the end of the alley. Jacob’s footfalls echoed from the brick walls. The Rebel, a startled look on his face, stopped and looked straight at Jacob.
Jacob picked up his pace.
The ex-Confederate bolted around the corner.
It’s difficult to outrun a man half-a-foot taller that’s already got the drop on you. Jacob came around the turn on the heels of the little red-headed man. Jacob caught up in a few long strides. Jacob kicked out the Rebel’s legs from beneath him. Jacob’s victim screeched in terror as he went face-first into the alley’s slick cobblestones. He skid a foot as Jacob came to a stomping halt beside him.
The Rebel groaned, a gurgling sound. Jacob kicked him in the ribs. “Who are you?” Jacob asked.
Only a groan in reply.
Jacob kicked him again, lifting his body off the ground. “Who sent you?”
“Can’t tell that.” The man coughed and spat. Jacob reached down and grabbed the man by the back of his shirt and lifted him from the alley-stones. Jacob spun him around and threw him against the wall.
“Gonna ask,” Jacob said, breathing hard, “just one more time. Then this gets nasty.” The Templar slugged him in the face.
To his credit, the Rebel just grinned through the blood pouring from his nose. He spat a big blood and snot filled wad to the side.
“Fuck you,” the Rebel said.
Jacob punched him again, stepping in closer this time and really following through. Something broke in the Rebel’s face, likely his cheekbone. The Rebel grunted. Jacob punched him again. The Rebel’s head snapped back into the wall, cracking like a watermelon landing in a throwing contest. He leaned down to the side, one hand covering his eye, the other beside him and out of Jacob’s view.
“Alright,” Jacob said through grit teeth, “you wanted it.”
The man came up from his hunched posture in a surprise flash of speed. Dull brass gleamed on his knuckle. Jacob brought his hands up in defense and tried to step out of reach, but he was too late. The little Rebel slugged him hard in the gut, knocking the breath from him. Jacob bent at the waist, sucking in air.
“That’s what you get, you fucking Templar,” the Rebel said. He stayed for a moment as Jacob struggled to stand upright.
Damn, that was a lucky shot. If the Rebel was smart, he knew it too. Jacob put his hand on his revolver, still gasping. That little red-headed bastard was going to get his.
The Rebel looked at him, uncertain of what to do. He eyed first Jacob’s revolver, then his face. The two men’s eyes locked. Jacob gasped for breath, trying to right himself. He drew his pistol. The little Rebel darted from the alley.
After what seemed an eternity, Jacob felt somewhat right again.
“Damn it.” Jacob said, grabbing his hat from the filthy alley’s ground. He dusted it off and put it back on his head. He coughed and spat to the side. By now the little Rebel was probably mingling with the New Orleans crowd and hightailing it to Potestas. He could be anywhere.
Jacob sighed and gingerly touched his ribs. Not much to do for it now, but get back to the hotel before Christopher did.
Back to Contents
July 28th, 1866
The day passed quietly for Charlotte and the Templars. The papers said yellow fever was working its way through the city. More folks were leaving.
Laveau still hadn’t contacted them, neither. Jacob didn’t ask Christopher where he’d gone the night before, and Christopher didn’t offer to say.
Now, lamp lighters passed through the city as darkness descended.
A colored boy arrived at the door and knocked tentatively. He bore a telegram for the two Templars. Jacob took the telegram and tipped the boy a nickel. Jacob shut the door and opened the envelope with his knife. The monastery had sent it. He took out the message and read it. Jacob reread the telegram twice to make sure he’d read it right.
“It’s from Col. Winnie. Says there’s a possession in the city,” Jacob said, handing the telegram to Christopher. “Wants us to visit the archdiocese at their offices on Chartres. Got a Father Cavey for a contact.”
Christopher read it. He looked at Jacob over the telegram, eyebrow raised. “What do we do with Ms. Gibson?” he asked, scratching his chin.
“Take her with us?” Jacob offered.
“Reckon so. Can’t leave her here. We’re still too exposed.”
“Armor?”
“Yep.”
“Potestas?” Jacob asked.
“Not much to be done for it. Potestas’ll have to wait.”
Jacob grunted.
Christopher opened the steam trunk at the foot of the bed and began pulling their armor out while Jacob went next door. He rapped on Charlotte’s door. “It’s Jacob, Miss Gibson.”
“Just a minute,” she said.
“Come to our room when you’ve a moment.”
Jacob walked back into his and Christopher’s room. Christopher was pulling his chain shirt down over his head. “Think the breastplate will be awkward on the streets?” Jacob asked.
“It’ll be night. ‘Sides, this is New Orleans. Bet my poke people seen queerer.”
Jacob squired for Christopher, helping him don his breastplate. Christopher turned while Jacob pulled the leather straps tight and secured them. Afterward, Chrstopher did the same for Jacob. Charlotte knocked on the door as Christopher was helping Jacob into his own armor. Christopher opened the door for her. She came inside and shut the door behind her.
“Message just arrived from the order,” Christopher said. “Been a possession. You’re gonna have to come with us to the office of the archdiocese. Ever dealt with a demon?”
“Not directly,” she said, sitting in the corner chair, “but I have studied extensively about them.”
“That’s good,” Jacob said. “Should be simple. Handle these all the time.” He turned and looked at her. “That one of your new dresses?”
“Yes,” she said, standing. “Like it?” She spread the skirt and curtsied. The dress was simple and functional, like you’d see around the campfire or riding shotgun on a covered wagon headed out West. She sat back down in the chair, smoothing her skirt.
Jacob nodded. “Glad you didn’t go with something fancy.” Charlotte pulled a frown. “That was a compliment,” Jacob said. He went over to the trunk. It held more than their armor, it also held their weapons. He removed a heavy leather case and set it on the bed. “Do you know how to shoot?” he asked, opening it.
“I was raised in Texas,” Charlotte said.
“Then pick out something.”
Plush velvet lined the interior of the case to support and protect the array of firearms and accessories inside. There were two derringers, a snub-nosed pocket revolver, and a big, sixteen-inch-long pistol. A stock extended from the back of the big pistol so the shooter could brace its recoil against their forearm. Beside the guns, a powder horn was fit snugly into the velvet.
“Are they loaded?” Charlotte asked. Jacob shook his head. Charlotte picked up one of the derringers. Each miniature pistol was double-barreled in an over-under style. She checked the alignment of the stubby iron sights. She set it aside and picked up the pocket revolver. She hefted its weight first, t
hen checked the sights just as she had with the first gun. She discarded the revolver with a shake of her head, and retrieved the derringer.
“Knife?”
“Wouldn’t fit in my purse,” Charlotte said. Jacob grunted and pulled out the big pistol. He handed the gun to Christopher. “That wouldn’t either,” she said, watching Christopher set the big gun to the side.
Christopher went into the case and removed a smaller box crafted from oiled leather. He opened the box. Inside were an array of different cartridges. He flipped the gun’s frame forward, cracking it at the top and revealing the back end of the cylinder. The cylinder only had three cartridge chambers. Each of the three looked like it would hold one of the “big 50” Sharps bullets used by the buffalo hunters out on the plains.
“Man in Connecticut makes these for us,” Christopher explained, holding up a bullet the length and width of his index finger. “They use a mercury fulminate in the tip. He tried selling them to the Union during the war, but the Gardiner won out. These cost a mite more, but they do the trick better.”
“What’s it for?”
“Trolls and demons mostly. Anything bigger than a bear.”
“Why the powder horn?” Charlotte asked, pointing to the horn in the first leather case. “You don’t use muzzleloaders.”
“We don’t have powder in it,” Jacob replied, taking it out and slinging it over his head. “Salt.”
“Salt?”
“An unbroken line of salt’ll stop a demon. Stops a lot of other things too.”
“Like slugs?” Charlotte asked.
Jacob smiled. “We really keep it for the demons, though.”
“I’ll get my purse.”
Back to Contents
July 29th, 1866
It was past midnight.
They walked through the streets quickly. Jacob and Christopher, both wearing their great coats from the war, flanked Charlotte.
At the opposite corner of the next intersection, five men stood in a ring beneath a gas lamp. All five wore pistols on their hips, and were hooting and hollering loud enough to wake the dead. One of the men staggered backwards and forwards. His friend steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, but the man still couldn’t keep his feet in one place.
The trio walked past. The five men stopped talking. They turned and glared at the Templars and Charlotte.
Charlotte started to turn and look, but Jacob touched her arm and said, “Eyes ahead, ma’am.” She looked up at him as they kept walking. She shifted her gaze forward.
They turned the corner at the next block. Up ahead, a crowd of forty or so people stretched in a ragged rabble across the entirety of the road. It was made up of colored and white folks.
“What’s this?” Charlotte asked.
“Dunno,” Christopher replied. “Doesn’t look good, though.”
“I’ll check it out,” Jacob said. He left Christopher and Charlotte standing on the sidewalk and pushed into the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a man from the head of the rabble, “I will kindly ask you to step back. In an effort to forgo the spread of the infectious yellow fever, this area has been cordoned by order of Maj. Gen. Absalom Baird.” The man shuffled the orders in his hands.
Jacob made his way through to the front of the crowd.
Half-a-dozen Union infantry stood in a crescent, bayoneted rifles held at the ready in case the crowd surged. Their commanding officer, a lieutenant by the look of his shoulder straps, stood on an overturned crate. Behind him, the soldiers had positioned wagons across the road and both sidewalks, blocking access except through the central corridor they controlled.
“This is a matter of public safety,” the officer read aloud from his papers in a thin, nasal voice, “and, pursuant to the power invested in Maj. Gen. Baird by the president of the United States and the governor of the State of Louisiana, he has effectively closed this quarter to civilian access. If you are a resident of this area, respect our authority in this matter and please understand that this restriction is neither wanton, nor ill-tempered. This new disease is similar to yellow fever, albeit more deadly. The delirium and resulting uncontrollable rage which results from the infection is unprecedented. This decision has not been taken lightly. It is, I say again, for your safety.” The lieutenant folded the papers and stepped down from his crate.
The crowd roared its disapproval.
“Please,” the lieutenant shouted, hands in the air, “control yourselves.”
Jacob ducked back through the shouting and downright ornery crowd. He’d be damned if he got shot for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Plenty of other ways for that to happen already. He walked back to Charlotte and Christopher.
“Get an earful of that?” Jacob asked, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder.
“Delirious rage, huh?” Christopher asked.
“Yup. Doesn’t sound good, does it?”
“Regardless of how it sounds, we’ll have to find another way around, gentlemen,” Charlotte said. They turned to leave.
A window shattered somewhere inside the quarantine, beyond the barricade. A scream like bloody murder, or worse, followed. Christopher and Jacob spun, flipping their coats back, hands on their pistols. The crowd surge towards the barricade.
Three Springfields discharged in rapid succession. Jacob couldn’t tell if the soldiers at the barricade had fired into the civilians, but that didn’t matter much. The crowd broke, terror on their faces, and stampeded away from the barricade like cattle in a lightning storm.
Jacob and Christopher looked at each other and grabbed Charlotte. They ducked into a side alley as the crowd went rushing past.
A colored man was pushed to the ground and trampled underfoot by the others. Another man, this one white, came back to aid him. Luckily, the victim looked more or less intact as the good Samaritan dragged him to his feet.
“Things fall apart,” Christopher said, shifting around in the alley. His feet crunched on broken bottles and refuse.
“People let them,” Charlotte said. Her face stricken, she looked down at the alley. “Look at all this glass.” She gestured at the ground.
Jacob looked down the length of the alley. She was right. Shards of glass covered the ground, even more than you’d think to normally find in a city this dirty. “Just glass, Miss Gibson,” he said, touching her arm. She looked up at him.
“Just feels a bit different. I must confess, this all has me a bit unsettled.”
“You get used to it,” Christopher said as they walked out of the alley and onto the street.
They continued on their way to the offices of the bishop. Outbreak of yellow fever, or not, they had a job to do.
They used the knocker on the Chartres Street gate, a small black door in a small, white gatehouse that broke up the monotony of the ten-foot-high plastered wall surrounding the small estate. The entirety of the offices, formerly the home of the Ursuline nuns, took up a city block on the upriver side of the French Quarter.
A small, middle-aged man came to the gate and asked their business. Christopher and Jacob introduced themselves and Charlotte.
“We have an appointment with,” Christopher said, pulling the telegram from inside his coat to read again in the dim gaslight, “Father Pierre Cavey.”
“Yes,” the man said, stepping aside for them. “We were told to expect you, sirs. We will accept Miss Gibson as well, based on your word. Father Pierre is praying in the chapel. My name is Dorset. I will take you to him.”
They walked into the gardens which covered the area between the gatehouse and the main building. Even in the darkness, the main building impressed. It was three stories and, unlike the rest of the French Quarter, was actually French in style. Symmetrical in design, the main offices stretched to the left and right, joining the small, newer looking chapel on the left hand side. A small balcony rose over the entryway. A man was leaning against the railing having a smoke. He looked down at them as they approached.
&nb
sp; “You know,” Christopher said, a grim smile on his face, as they walked between the statues of the Ursuline saints in the center of the garden, “supposedly there are vampires locked in that upper floor. Rumor is that the bishop had them sealed in with nails blessed in Rome.”
“Actually,” said Dorset, looking back over his shoulder, “we used screws. But this has nothing do with them, does it?” They turned to the left, in the direction of the chapel. A small exterior door was set in the side. Dorset led them within.
They followed him through the sacristy, the preparation area behind the altar, and out into the nave, the main space of the chapel. There, at the side altar in front of the statue of Mary and all its lit candles, knelt a priest. No other light illuminated the chapel.
“Father Cavey,” said Dorset, walking up next to the kneeling priest, “I apologize for the disturbance, but the men from Chicago have arrived.” Dorset excused himself and turned to leave. Father Cavey raised his head from his hands. He blinked rapidly and looked at the three newcomers with bloodshot eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, still kneeling.
Cavey was young, Jacob thought, young and tired. His accent was decidedly French, but not near as thick as Abbot Oulett’s. The priest stood shakily and walked to them, hand extended in greeting. Christopher and Jacob shook his hand. The priest looked at Charlotte questioningly.
“This is our associate, Charlotte Gibson,” Jacob said. “She works with the order on occasion.”
“If she offers her assistance, I’ll accept it. I know I said thank you already, but I truly mean it.” Father Cavey gestured to the front pew. “Please, sit.”
“We’ll stand if it’s all the same,” Jacob said.
Father Cavey nodded absently, sighing. “I will tell you of why you’ve been called, then.” He walked over to the pew and sat. Jacob, Christopher, and Charlotte followed in his wake. Charlotte sat next to the priest. Jacob and Christopher remained standing, arms crossed. Father Cavey looked up at them.
The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories Page 14