by F. M. Parker
“Texas doesn’t need any help to beat the Mexicans if they come looking for trouble,” Lew said to the men. “The country’s filling up with Americans and there are plenty of fighting men.”
“Maybe so. Maybe so,” said the first man, turning. He examined the young man on the tall horse. His eyes dropped to the revolver on his side. “You planning to join up with the army?”
“I’ve given it some thought.”
“Well, good luck to you.”
Lew nodded, but did not continue the conversation. The column of soldiers ended. Lew let the marching men draw ahead before he fell in behind. They should lead him to the river and the fabulous waterfront he had heard so much about.
The street filled again with the townsfolk continuing on with their private errands. Black street vendors began to hawk their wares.
An old black woman with a large basket balanced on her head beckoned to Lew. She shouted out in a high thin voice. “I have sweet rice cakes, Texas man. Are you hungry?”
At the call, Lew felt the surge of his hunger. He had had a very small supper the past evening and no breakfast today. He reined his horse near the woman.
The black woman lifted the basket down from her head and removed the lid. She stepped forward and held the open basket up to Lew. “Take which one you want, or as many as you want,” she said.
Lew selected one cake and bit into it. The taste was delightful. He took a second one. “That should do me for now,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
“That’d be four pennies,” said the woman.
Lew gave her a dime and rode on, chewing the sweet cake. He felt good. He halted and dropped another dime into the tin cup of a blind white man playing a fiddle on the sidewalk.
As Lew drew closer to the waterfront, the crowds thickened, soldiers and sailors were everywhere. The streets were jammed with hundreds of drays, heavy clattering vehicles drawn by sweating mules, the axles groaning under tremendous loads. He halted for a few minutes at Jackson Square and watched a clown performing juggling tricks as part of a small circus.
Lew came onto the waterfront and stopped in amazement. The liars in Texas had not lied large enough when they had described the docks of New Orleans. For a distance greater than Lew could see, for at least a mile and a quarter, and fading away in the mist, oceangoing ships and river steamboats were tied up to wharves. Beyond the stretch of wharves, the shallow draft river-boats had taken advantage of the slowly rising river and had simply pulled in and secured themselves against the dirt levee. With the river rising instead of falling, the boats would not become beached.
Every berth at the docks held either a river steamboat or an ocean ship. At several docks, a second vessel was fastened to the first. Thus sailors and stevedores had to cross the decks of the first vessel to reach the shore. The multitude of the smokestacks of the steam-driven vessels and the tall graceful masts of the clipper ships was a forest hiding the Mississippi River.
Lew swung down from the gray and tied it to a pile of cargo. He walked along the wharf among large mounds of crates, barrels, boxes, and bales of goods. He lifted his nose to the heavy mixed fragrance of river’s edge, sharp smell of fermenting molasses, the scent of rich spices from the Orient, the odor of West Indian rum. He saw hemp, skins, salted meats, kegs of pork, barrels of pickled foods, tar, coffee, and other items too many to count.
As he walked, he noted the warehouses had been built back from the docks and above the river on top of the levee—hopefully out of reach of the unpredictable river. The giant mounds of cargo stored in the open were protected by large tarpaulins.
Stevedores toiled in long lines across the wide quay, coming and going up the slanting gangways loading and unloading the crowded vessels. Most of them were muscular half-naked black men carrying giant loads. Often they were chanting some kind of rhythmic words Lew could not decipher. Other dockworkers were Irish or German. Now and then they called out to their own kind in their strange foreign tongues. Mostly they labored silently.
Five hundred military wagons with wheels removed to conserve space were lined up in neat rows on the shore near a large cargo ship. One by one the wagons were being hoisted aboard by a clanking windlass driven by a chugging steam engine on the ship’s deck. The wheels were being carried aboard by stevedores.
An adjacent vessel, a tall clipper ship named Massachusetts, was slinging bronze-barreled mountain howitzers into her hold. Another ship was loading kicking, squealing horses and mules, the drovers fighting them every step of the way up the gangway.
Lew turned away from the docks. The sun had burned away part of the mist and now hung as a hazy red disk in the high heavens. It was time for Lew to claim Timothy Wollfolk’s inheritance. His heart began to beat a tattoo against his ribs.
He remembered the black woman calling him a Texas man. With his big spurs and wide-brimmed hat and the Paterson Colt on his hip, he could never pass as a Cincinnati man.
On Saint Philip Street, Lew obtained a haircut and shave. Next door he bought a pair of shoes with low heels and a flat-crowned hat, with a brim more narrow than his Texas hat. He thought the clothing might be close to what a man from Ohio would wear. Finishing those chores, he rode along the street carrying his purchases and looking for a hotel.
A sign of room for let caught his attention at a house on the corner of Burgundy and Saint Philip. He paid for a day’s rent of a room on the ground floor and stabled his horse in one of the small stalls behind the house.
Lew examined himself in the mirror above the washbasin in his room. Wollfolk’s clothing fit fairly well, only a little snug across the chest. The tightness of the tie about his neck felt strange. He inserted a finger and pulled it partially loose. He wondered how long he could pass as Timothy Wollfolk, a man he knew nothing about.
From now on, Lew would only respond to the name Timothy Wollfolk. Not a bad name, but not as good as the familiar Lew.
He shoved the Colt inside the band of his trousers under his coat. The packet containing the pictures and letter went in the pocket of the coat. That was all the identification he had. He hoped no one looked closely at the picture of the boy and tried to see his characteristics in Lew. He closed the door and went along the street.
The game was beginning. If he was found out to be false, the law would think he had killed Wollfolk. He would be hung.
4
The stuccoed, three-story building on Ursuline Street was a dark blue. A strange color, thought Lew, but not out of place in the Vieux Carre. An engraved wooden sign fastened to the wall near the door read, GILBERT A. ROSIERE, ATTORNEY AT LAW. The law office occupied the whole width of the ground floor.
Lew entered and stood on the thick wool carpet and glanced around the spacious room. Two young men, bent over files of papers, sat at a desk. One man was white-skinned, the other quite swarthy. Behind them a door opened to a hallway, apparently to inner, private offices.
Both men looked up at Lew.
“How may I help you?” asked the nearest man, a dark-skinned Creole.
“My name is Timothy Wollfolk. I have a letter from Gilbert Rosiere.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Wollfolk. Mr. Rosiere has been expecting some communication from you. He was not certain that you would come to New Orleans in person.”
“I’m here,” Lew said shortly.
“I can see that,” replied the man. “But unfortunately Mr. Rosiere is across the river in Algiers on a business matter and will not return until late today. I do know he would want to handle your case personally. Shall I make an appointment for you tomorrow early in the day? Would nine o’clock be satisfactory?”
“Nine it is.” From the man’s attitude, Lew judged the inheritance must be large. He left the law office.
He stopped on the sidewalk. A large part of the day lay free ahead of him. First a good meal and then he would widen his exploration of the city.
Lew ate fresh ocean shrimp, hot spicy vegetables, and crisp French bread. He finished the mea
l with two cups of strong coffee and a sweet French pastry.
He stopped at a tobacconist shop and breathed the pungent aroma as he waited for the proprietor to roll him half a dozen cigars. Timothy Wollfolk could afford the finest tobacco.
For hours Lew sauntered through the throng of people and vehicles on the avenues. The women were beautiful in silk and satin and also simple ginghams, but all with bows and ribbons; many smiled at him. He smiled back, but went on. Women would come later.
When Lew came to a way that led into a residential section of the city, he turned back into the business district. He passed the New Orleans Sugar Exchange, relatively quiet now in the off season of the year. The U.S. Mint on Gallatin Street held his interest. The fact the Mint was in New Orleans indicated the city was a powerful financial center. Farther along an iron foundry filled the air with smoke from its furnace, and from a sawmill came the shrill whine of the steam-driven saw blade ripping a log into lumber.
As the day grew old, Lew found himself approaching the dock area. He passed the ancient Cabildo, with its massive two bottom floors with their Spanish arches, and above, the delicate French garret floor and cupola. The building housed the seat of the city government. Nearby was Saint Charles Cathedral, its towering spires soaring into the sky. He crossed the crowded Jackson Square, where the night women were coming out in the dusk of the evening and strolling about and pairing up with the soldiers and sailors. Several of the women tried to catch Lew’s eye, but his attention was not on them and they went on their way.
He looked downriver three or four blocks to the tall structures of Steinberg and Company, a dealer in hides and furs, and Jackson Brewery on Decatur and Front streets. Then his view moved over the long line of warehouses on top of the levee. New Orleans was a rich and thriving city. A man with money to invest, as he might soon have, could become very rich here.
Lew had now made the circuit of the business district of the city and judged it two miles in a straight line along the river, and half a mile deep. The jostling people and hurrying vehicles, the narrow streets, and the half-mad activity at the docks were alien to his Texas life. Yet Lew was intrigued and attracted to the frenzy of the city.
* * *
The three young Creoles came out of the grog shop ahead of Lew. They were dressed in black trousers and white shirts closely tailored to fit their young, slender bodies. Thin two-edged swords hung in scabbards at the waist of each man. Laughing and talking, they moved off down the street.
One of the Creoles began to sing in a pleasant tenor voice as they walked along. The others laughed at his bravado of singing on a public street. But when he did not stop, his two friends took up the song, melding in a good, clear harmony.
Lew had no particular course, so he followed behind the Creoles through the gathering dusk. He enjoyed listening to the friendly camaraderie of the men. He felt his loneliness. He was a man with no friends.
The song ended and the men began to speak in French. Often they broke into ribald laughter at some joke.
The three men came to a city park and left the street to angle across the grass-covered space. The Creole who had begun the singing stopped on a low knoll. He ran his booted foot over the smooth grassy surface.
“This place would be an excellent spot for a duel,” he said.
“I agree,” a second man said. He pulled his rapier with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. The steel of the blade hissed as it slid from the leather scabbard. “On guard, you rascal,” he said with false fierceness.
The first Creole laughed good-naturedly. He too pulled his sword, made a bow to the first man, and took a fighting stance.
He looked at the third man. “Gustave, you shall be the judge. Call out the rules and then watch me trounce this blackguard.”
Gustave smiled broadly and asked in a loud voice, “Leandre, Maurice, is this duel to the death?”
“Yes,” Leandre said in mock seriousness.
“Yes,” Maurice said in equally severe mien.
“Then let the duel begin,” Gustave said. He clapped his hands with a sharp sound.
The two Creoles came slowly toward each other. Playfully they struck, and parried, and counterattacked. The rapiers rang lightly metal on metal.
In feined insult the younger duelist, Maurice, spoke to his comrade, Leandre. “Your sister is a whore.”
“But I don’t have a sister,” Leandre said.
“Then for not having a sister, take this.” Maurice reached out swiftly with his thin blade.
Leandre had not expected the abrupt change in the tempo of the game. The slender sword slipped through his guard, its finely honed point reaching in to nick his shoulder.
Leandre looked down at the seep of blood showing on his white shirt. “You play dangerously, Maurice.”
Leandre stepped swiftly forward. His arm shot out, thrusting his sword at Maurice.
The younger man blocked the strike. But instantly, almost too fast to see, Leandre struck a second time. The keen tip of the sword drew blood on Maurice’s chest.
“And there, my friend,” Leandre said.
Maurice glanced at the slight wound and then up at Leandre. “We shall see who loses the next drop of blood.” He advanced upon Leandre.
Lew entered the park and walked toward the men. He noted the growing seriousness of the game.
The sword action continued. The blades moved with amazing swiftness, seeming to vanish as the men struck and parried. The sounds of the metal hitting metal was harsh and cruel. In less than a minute, both men were bleeding from half a dozen shallow wounds. Still Lew could tell the two contestants were holding back from an all-out battle. Suddenly a rapid exchange of rapier strikes occurred. Maurice took a bad cut on the arm.
Lew had drawn close. Now he spoke to the young Creole name Gustave. ‘“As the judge, are you going to allow your two friends to kill each other?”
The young man, unaware of Lew’s presence, jerked, startled at the voice so near to him. He looked Lew over quickly. “Yes, you are right. It is up to me to stop it.” He wheeled about and shouted out in a loud, worried voice. “Leandre, Maurice, stop! The duel is over. You both have won.”
The swords of the contestants halted. The men looked at each other. A sheepish expression came to Leandre’s face. Then he began to smile. The smile broadened and he laughed. A second later, Maurice joined him and they laughed together.
Leandre slid his sword into its scabbard. He came forward and hugged Maurice. “Put your blade away,” he said.
Maurice sheathed his rapier. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and bound it around his bleeding hand.
“Come with me,” Leandre said. “And you too, Gustave. I know of another grog shop. I shall buy enough rum to get all of us drunk. Soon we will not feel these puny wounds.”
The three young Creoles began to move across the park. Gustave cast a look back at Lew. He stopped, said something to his friends, and walked toward Lew.
“My name is Gustave Besançon. Thank you for what you did. The duel did need to be stopped. I am in your debt.”
“I’m Timothy Wollfolk. You don’t owe me anything.”
“But I know that I do. Shall we fight to settle our disagreement?” He grinned widely at Lew.
“Some other time,” Lew said with a laugh.
“Until then,” said Gustave. He lifted his hand in salute and hurried to join his comrades.
Lew left the park, heading south toward the river. After four blocks, he encountered the natural rise of the levee. He walked up over the levee and down onto the quay.
In the late evening, the docks were mostly deserted, with the multitude of workers and drays drifting away from the river and melting into the city. Here and there lighted lanterns were being hung on ropes strung across the decks of ships, down the gangways, and onward over the docks to some particular mound of cargo. On those lighted stretches, stevedores labored under heavy loads to and from the ships.
“It used to be that car
go was seldom loaded at night,” said a man sitting on a pile of boxed cargo. “But now that New Orleans has been picked as the staging area and general jumping-off place for the invasion of Mexico, there are always gangs of men working on the docks.”
Lew glanced at the man. He was old, with deep wrinkles in a tanned face. A pipe drooped in the corner of his mouth. A pistol in a holster hung on his side.
The old man noted Lew’s view on his gun. “I’m a night watchman. There’s valuable goods here. River pirates and thieves from the town would carry off half of it in a night if I wasn’t here. You wouldn’t be a thief, would you?” There was a twinkle in the man’s eyes.
The question, even though it was made in jest, bothered Lew. If he had to answer, there could be but one response: that he was planning to be a thief.
“How could one man guard all the docks? They must stretch along the river for better than a mile.”
“I don’t have to watch it all, only eight hundred feet of it. You see each dock-owner must hire his own guard.”
Lew seated himself beside the watchman. He seemed to want to talk. “Have you been in New Orleans long?”
“Since 1813, when I came down from the North with old Stonewall Jackson. I helped him to beat the hell out of the British soldiers. I was wounded and had to stay here a few weeks to heal. Got to likin’ the city, so I just stayed on.”
Lew gestured out over the wharves with their huge piles of cargo and beyond to the hundred or more ships. “I expect some businessmen are getting rich.”
“Some are getting rich faster than they should.”
“How’s that?”
“There’s only just so much dock space and even less warehouse room. The army and navy are paying two and three times the rate for tying up and using the docks and warehouses than was being charged just a few months ago.”
“That will always happen when there’s a shortage of something.”