The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories

by Craig Gabrysch

  “You can’t send any of your people,” Jacob said.

  “Nonsense,” Father Jacques said. “We will not hide, curse or no curse. We will care for the sick, as the Lord said to do on the Mount.”

  “Then let us go first,” Jacob said. “We can get down into the districts and look around before you and your folks stick your necks out. Chris and I can go right now while you prepare.”

  “What about if the demons manifest?” Christopher asked. “We’ll be leaving the priests here as sitting ducks.”

  “I’ll go by myself, then,” Jacob said.

  “What? Send you down into that beehive? I don’t know who would kill you first, the zombies or the people on the street.”

  “Well, dammit,” Jacob said, “what else do you want me to do? I can’t sit here on my damn hands.”

  “Can’t let you go alone,” Christopher said.

  “I’ll go with him,” Charlotte said. She’d snuck back in while they argued over the letter.

  “Quoi?” Father Cavey asked as he awoke with a jerk. “What is this?”

  “I’ll go,” Charlotte repeated.

  “Well, how the hell do you suppose you’ll get past the guards?” Christopher asked.

  “I’m a university educated woman, Mr. Freeman. I’ll come up with something.”

  “Father Jacob Smith,” the lieutenant said, folding the letter and handing it back up to Jacob in the driver’s seat of the wagon. They were stopped at a barricade leading into one of the quarantine areas closer to the Mississippi.

  “Thank you,” Jacob said, taking the letter and putting it back inside his black suit-jacket.

  “The bishop requested we assess the needs of the city before coming to a decision on which churches and facilities to open for aid,” Charlotte said.

  “Sister Charlotte Gibson, was it?” the soldier asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, needs are high as the river in spring, and the bridge is washed out. But that’s the way, innit?”

  “Quite.”

  “I’ll send one of my troopers with you to light the way,” the lieutenant said. “This area isn’t safe to travel through unarmed.”

  Jacob, not for the first time since leaving the diocesan offices, felt naked. The rest of the streets seemed safe enough while they wore these get-ups. But the quarantine areas? No telling what all kinds of trouble they could get into here, and he would’ve liked to at least have his pistol. He looked at Charlotte in her nun habit, then back to the lieutenant.

  “Locals restless, Lieutenant?” Charlotte asked.

  “No, Sister. The afflicted.” The lieutenant turned and shouted, “Bradley. Report.” A young man not nearly eighteen came rushing to a halt in front of his commanding officer. Jacob could see the telling red welts of acne on his forehead and chin in the crackling firelight. “Pvt. Bradley, guide these clergy to the clinic and wherever else within reason they wish to go.”

  The private saluted and ran to retrieve a firebrand. “He’s a good sort, if a bit young,” the lieutenant said to them in passing. He slapped a mosquito on his neck, cursing. “Dammit. Pardon my language, Sister,” he said, looking at his palm. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand clean, saying, “Thought we’d licked these buggers when Gen. Butler was commander.”

  Pvt. Bradley returned. Jacob drove the wagon up a ways and left it on the side of the road. The lieutenant posted a guard for them. The horses knickered softly as Jacob, Charlotte, and Bradley headed up the road to the tavern the military had converted to a clinic. Bradley walked out in front, but not too far, his rifle slung over his shoulder and his torch held out high.

  Groups of soldiers and small cadres of soldiers escorting civilians walked by Jacob and Charlotte. Most carried torches or lanterns. The soldiers’ faces were stern by the firelight. The civilians, though, the civilians’ faces were awash with horror.

  “Name was Bradley, right?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean Father.”

  “How bad?”

  Bradley bit his lip and shook his head. “I don’t look it, but I was in the war. I’ve seen worse, seen far and away worse, sir. But not by much. The lieutenant, he seems to think it’ll all blow over. The lieutenant, he’s one of the good ones too. Got us out of plenty of scrapes, kept me alive during the war, and he seems to know what he’s doing and where he’s going. So it can’t be all that bad if Lt. Grimes thinks it’ll be fine. We was at Shiloh together, you know, and Gettysburg, too. So I trust him. He says we’ll be fine, I believe him.”

  “What about the other soldiers?” Charlotte asked. “What do they think?”

  “They think we’re fucked,” Pvt. Bradley said, then swore again at his slip. “Sorry about that, Sister.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. Luckily, Bradley was walking out in front and couldn’t see her.

  Ahead, at the next intersection, they turned left. In the center of the street, the troops had built a great bonfire. Soldiers with bandannas tied round their faces threw couches, sheets, blankets, chairs, carpets, stuffed animals, a crib, clothing, curtains, and all manner of other things onto the fire from a great pile of goods they’d built up in the street. The paint on the buildings nearby pealed from the heat.

  “What are they burning?” Charlotte asked Pvt. Bradley.

  “The belongings of the infected, Sister, per Dr. Becket’s instruction.”

  A brace of guns roared a few blocks over, followed by a scream of pain and terror. Jacob’s right hand went to his pistol, which just made him feel foolish all over again for not being armed.

  Charlotte gripped Jacob’s arm. A smaller caliber shot, likely a pistol, followed.

  Bradley didn’t flinch. He turned around and shrugged. “Must’ve got another,” he said. “Want to see the clinic?”

  “Yup,” Jacob said.

  They walked the short distance to the clinic. It was in a saloon named St. Nicholas. A line of the sick snaked in through the front doors. They all, to a man and woman, looked much worse for the wear. The rusty red of blood infection traced their veins beneath green, flabby skin. Bradley pushed forward, shouting for them to make way.

  At the sight of Jacob and Charlotte, weak, sweaty hands reached out for blessings. They groped for his face and tugged at his roman collar. Charlotte’s eyes widened as she backed away respectfully, an outstretched hand trying to keep her measured distance.

  “Uh, bless you,” Jacob said awkwardly, eying their fingernails and dry lips flecked with bits of what might be curse-riddled foam. “The Church is doing all in its power.” Which had a bit of truth to it, so Jacob felt he wasn’t truly lying. “Um, have faith,” he added as they finally made it through the soldiers and into relative safety.

  Jacob looked around them, taking in the scene. The St. Nicholas had been turned into a clinic, alright. The once spacious dance floor had been overtaken by beds from nearby homes and standard army cots. Straw mattresses had been thrown onto the tops of tables and were being used as makeshift beds for the sick. Jacob recognized the scene from his own short stint in a medical tent during the war.

  Civilians and doctors paced, tending to the sick, which filled every bed available. Jacob watched as newcomers were guided up the stairs by the staff. Armed soldiers were everywhere, posted on the landings and between the beds. They stood at ease against the walls. Not a man lounged, though. A potent cocktail of determination and resignation mixed in their eyes. They had seen war, and lived. They were going to make it through this, their faces said, even if the civilians didn’t.

  “Stay here, Father,” Pvt. Bradley said, walking away. “I’ll find Dr. Becket.”

  Charlotte touched Jacob’s arm. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “You weren’t in the war,” Jacob said. “Seems right familiar to me.”

  “No, not the sick. Those other things I see. There’s a man here, a tall, colored man in a top hat.”

  “A man in a top hat?” Jacob asked, looking around. He cons
idered squinting his eyes, to try and peer into that other realm, if just for a second, but he knew he’d just look a fool for the effort. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s shackling them, Mr. Smith. He’s chaining all these sick around the neck like they used to do to slaves at auction,” she said, despair creeping into her voice. She gripped his arm tighter. “Oh God,” she said, her voice raw and scratchy. “Oh God, no.”

  “One turned,” shouted a soldier on the far side of the room. A general, screaming roar went up, and people burst into activity as one of the patients, a middle-aged black woman, began clamoring from her sickbed.

  The soldier who had sent up the alarm shouldered his rifle with practiced ease and sighted the patient before she’d untangled herself from the bedsheets. He fired, the blast from his Springfield shaking the nearby glassware and spraying the contents of the woman’s brain over her pillow.

  He removed the spent cartridge and began packing his rifle again as the rest of the clinicians began cleaning up the mess, scraping it into a bedpan and stripping the bed for the next patient.

  “God,” Jacob said. “Goddamn.”

  “Father Jacob Smith?” a voice asked. Jacob turned to the speaker, a short, thin man with dirty blonde hair and a drooping, untrimmed mustache. He wore a filthy, blood-covered, white coat that stretched almost to his kneees. “Thank you for coming. I’m Dr. Lawrence Becket.” The doctor wiped his hand clean on his coat and offered it to Jacob. The two men shook hands.

  “This is Charlotte Gibson,” Jacob said. “Sister. Sister Charlotte Gibson.”

  “The habit gives her title away,” Dr. Becket said. “Come up to my office? We can speak there.”

  “Your office?” Charlotte asked.

  “A room of ill-repute, I’m afraid, in a house of equal fame. But, an office nonetheless, Sister. Didn’t the progenitor of your particular creed spend time with such as the former owner of my room? Come.”

  They followed him up the stairs. The doctor walked with a stiff leg. They walked around the balcony, through the last door available, and into a spacious room.

  “The madame’s room,” Dr. Becket said, walking into the room and taking a seat at a big roll top desk. “It was the biggest, but, honestly, had the unique peculiarity of being the only one of the sleeping quarters with a writing desk. I use the term ‘sleeping’ lightly, of course.”

  He reached into the vest beneath his white coat and produced a cigarette case. He opened the case and, after offering cigarettes to both Charlotte and Jacob, took one out and lit the tip with a match he struck on the desktop. He took a drag and leaned back in his chair, crossing the right leg over the left with help from his hands.

  “Thank you again for coming,” Dr. Becket said.

  “City’s sick,” Jacob said. “The Church aims to help.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Beckett said, nodding, “it most certainly is.” He began to count off with his fingers as he spoke. “Whatever the church is able to provide, whether it be as simple as lint and bandages for the bitten, or quinine, calomel, sugar of lead for those with the fever, will gladly be accepted by the city and Maj. Gen. Baird. Clean sheets and water as well would leave me humbly appreciative.”

  “Are you certain it’s yellow fever, Doctor?” Charlotte asked.

  “What else could it be, Sister? It’s the summer, and we are within the influence of the gulf. Fever struck horribly only a few years ago. The people made it through then, and run the risk again.”

  “What about the afflicted attacking others and infecting them?”

  “Simple delirium,” Dr. Becket replied, a forced smile on his face. “As to the bites being infectious, there is no definitive proof as of yet that this action spreads the disease.” He took a final drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray on the desk.

  “That letter from Baird,” Jacob said, looking from Charlotte to Dr. Becket, “Maj. Gen. Baird, I mean, mentioned opening up some churches.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Beckett said, “but I am not affiliated with the higher functions of the containment strategy. My responsibility lies solely with the treatment of this district, Father.”

  Charlotte seemed pensive within the white coif surrounding her face. “Father Smith,” she said after a moment, “did you still wish to look at a home of the infected?”

  “What?” both Jacob and Dr. Beckett said in unison.

  “You mentioned on the ride over that you had some experience with diseases of the tropical nature while you were at seminary, and you had a theory on infections and communicable diseases you wished to investigate further.”

  “Oh,” Jacob said, clearing his throat. “Yes. I did.” He pulled and tugged at his roman collar, trying to adjust it. Damn things were scratchy.

  “Would that be possible, Dr. Becket? We would take our escort, Pvt. Bradley, with us, of course, to be certain of our safety.”

  Dr. Becket leaned farther back in his chair, stroking his nicotine-stained mustache.

  “Normally, I would be inclined to the negative in such a decision. But, seeing that you are a man of the cloth and are only looking to fulfill scientific curiosity,” he said, shrugging. “I can’t see any obstacle provided that you take Bradley with you. And, of course, that you supply me with any notes or findings you may come across, Father. Though, I doubt you will find much new, of course.”

  “Yup,” Jacob said with determination. “I can do that.”

  Dr. Becket looked at Jacob, eying him carefully, then at Charlotte. “Excellent,” he said after a moment. He slapped the armrests of his chair and, again with the help of his hands, uncrossed his legs. He stood and took turns shaking hands with Jacob and Charlotte. He escorted them back downstairs.

  The situation hadn’t changed. The line of new patients still stretched out the door and into the street. “Pvt. Bradley,” Charlotte said to the pimpled soldier as he approached, “Dr. Becket has given his consent so that Father Smith and I might investigate the home of one of the infected.”

  Pvt. Bradley looked from Charlotte to Jacob, worrying away at his lip with his teeth. “Well, sure, I guess, ma’am. I mean Sister. I mean, are you sure? There’s no telling what’s in any of those houses. Some of the people, they’re fevered. They’re attacking people on the street, you know.”

  “You’re armed, son,” Jacob said. “Reckon we’ll be fine.”

  “Fine. But anything happens, it ain’t my fault.”

  “Deal,” Charlotte said.

  They walked back out into the street. Jacob looked east. The sun was on the move from behind the horizon. The smoke from the fires rose, mixing with the yellowish-orange sky, painting it all maners of blue and purples. It would have been beautiful under other circumstances.

  “Wonder how Christopher is doing,” he said to Charlotte. She didn’t respond. They followed Pvt. Bradley, who headed north through the cramped streets.

  “So, you two want to see one of the infected houses?”

  “One of the early ones, Private,” Charlotte replied.

  “Those are all locked up, I think. Dunno if we’ll be able to get you two in there.”

  “Let’s try at least,” Jacob said. He pulled the hat from his head and slicked back his hair. Throngs of soldiers walked the streets. More guns fired a block over.

  “Sometimes,” Pvt. Bradley said, looking back, “the people . . .” He refocused ahead of him. “Well, the delirium takes over ‘fore we have a chance to get to them and they’re just out in the streets wandering. Or we go to clear a house, or an apartment, and they’re inside scratching at the doors. Them folks we find, they go wilder than a fighting dog at the sight of us.”

  Bradley lapsed into silence.

  “We’ve gotta just put ‘em down in those cases . . .”

  “You do what you gotta, son,” Jacob said after a moment. “It’s alright.”

  “Thanks, Father.”

  They walked another block. Here, silence hung over the deserted street. A stray dog ra
n across their path and down an alleyway.

  “Stop,” Charlotte said, her hand on Jacob’s arm. She closed her eyes and pointing at a two-story red-plaster home with its windows shuttered and its door shut, said, “That house.”

  There was a large red “X” painted on the front door. A sign beside the door identified the building as a boarding house.

  “That one, Sister?” Pvt. Bradley asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “this one. It feels right.”

  They crossed the street. Pvt. Bradley tried the door. The knob wouldn’t turn.

  “Back up a step, there,” Jacob said. Pvt. Bradley and Charlotte backed up. Jacob reared back and kicked the door near the knob, wrenching the door back in its frame.

  “Hey,” Pvt. Bradley shouted.

  “This is in the name of intellectual curiosity, Private,” Charlotte said as Jacob kicked again, sending the door flying open and slamming against an interior wall. Jacob walked in first, followed by Pvt. Bradley and Charlotte.

  Noxious smells greeted them in the front entryway. A set of stairs connected them to the second floor. An arched doorway led right into an empty parlor. All the furniture had probably been disinfected and burned when the soldiers had emptied the house of afflicted. The wallpaper looked new, the chair rail pristine and devoid of scuff marks. Dust bunnies huddled together in the corners of the room. Dead mosquitoes lay in a mass grave on the window sills.

  Silence filled the building.

  Charlotte walked into the parlor and closed her eyes. “It’s here.”

  “What is?” Jacob asked.

  “Something,” replied Charlotte as she opened her eyes and walked further into the parlor. She turned and walked through an open doorway at the back of the room and into what had likely been a dining area.

  Jacob and Pvt. Bradley followed after her. Two doors led off from the room. One in the back, and one to the left.

  Jacob felt Bradley turn and size him up. “You two aren’t with the Church, are you?” Bradley asked, scratching the back of his head.