The Assassins

by F. M. Parker

  Honoré looked at the man’s legs. One pant leg was empty and had been neatly folded four times and pinned to the cloth at the man’s waist.

  “That’s up to the man,” Honoré said. “What outfit were you with?”

  “The Indiana 1st Volunteer Riflemen,” the soldier replied. “Go away and talk with somebody else.” The soldier turned his face from Honore.

  Savigne studied the one-legged soldier for a moment. The war was not grand and glorious for this man or for the several hundred other men limping toward the ambulances, or lying on the stretchers too weak to stand.

  He moved on. He stopped beside a man lying motionless on a stretcher. “How are you, soldier?” he asked.

  The man did not speak, nor did he stir to slap at a large mosquito circling his exposed face. The mosquito landed, settled itself, and drove its probing snout into the man’s skin. The mosquito began to drink hungrily.

  Honoré stooped and brushed the mosquito away. He turned the tag pinned to the man’s shirt so that it could be read. “Pvt. John Wilkinson” was written on the paper.

  Honoré peered more closely at the soldier. His face was dark bronze in color. The lips were cracked as if from a long thirst, and blood oozed from them. Veins were distended in his forehead like thick, pulsing cords. He drooled a black liquid from the corner of his mouth.

  Quickly Savigne stood erect and backed away. The man was infected with the deadly Bronze John, yellow fever. Honore, in his thirty years of life in New Orleans, had seen too many instances of the black vomit to ever be mistaken what the symptom meant.

  He walked along the row of stretchers, glancing into the faces of the soldiers. In the early stages of the disease, the symptoms could be confused with other ailments. However, in that single line of sick men, Honoré thought there were two other yellow-fever victims. He swept his view over the many returning soldiers he had not examined. There could be forty, maybe fifty cases of the disease among them.

  More than half of these men would be dead in five days. In the crowded city, thousands more could die if they caught the fever. Fear came alive in Savigne, like some great snake uncoiling in his stomach.

  * * *

  The mosquito felt the jarring vibration as the merchantman bumped the dock. It stretched its wings once, then launched itself into the air, rising up from the wetness beneath the dock and through a crack between the planking into the daylight.

  The scent of the creatures with the warm, moist bodies was everywhere. The mosquito was drawn inexorably toward the nearest human, one lying on a stretcher. He dived down, landing on the man’s face. With an inborn knowledge, the mosquito sank its snout into the open pore of the man’s skin. Inward he drove the sharp, searching point until it reached the flow of rich warm blood. The mosquito began to drink, swiftly sucking at the red liquid.

  A hand swung at the mosquito. In a movement almost too fast to see, the insect jerked its snout free and darted away.

  A moment later, the mosquito found the unprotected arm of a dockworker. It fed there greedily until its sting caused the man to strike at it. The mosquito dodged out of reach unhurt. Still hungry, it discovered yet a third man to feast upon. Then, satiated, its stomach engorged with blood, it sank down once again through the crack in the dock planking to its resting place on the wet ground. It would soon feed again.

  * * *

  Honoré hastened across the dock to the physician directing the loading of the patients into the ambulance wagons. He knew the man from a previous meeting during the preparation of a story about the Marine Hospital.

  “Doctor Carstensen, my name is Honoré Savigne. May I talk with you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Savigne. I remember you. But I’m very busy and in a hurry. Some of these men need immediate attention after being cooped up in that ship for six days. Please speak quickly.”

  “Come with me, Doctor. I wish to show you something.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No. This is very important, or I wouldn’t waste your time.”

  “Very well. Lead the way.” The doctor followed Savigne down the line of stretchers.

  “Look, Doctor. The man has yellow fever. Shouldn’t he be quarantined?”

  Carstensen looked intently at the soldier. Then he raised his view to Honore. A strange expression was on his face. “This man does not have yellow fever. He has been exposed too long to the devilish climate of Mexico.”

  “But he has all the symptoms,” Honoré said. It was so obvious. Why couldn’t the physician see it?

  “He doesn’t have the fever,” Carstensen said in a stern voice. “And even if he does, why should we quarantine him? We do not know what causes the disease or how it is spread. Quarantine has never worked. Now I must get the soldiers to the hospital.” He whirled and walked speedily away.

  * * *

  The last of the sick and injured soldiers were loaded. The scores of ambulance wagons rattled off the dock, divided at the top of the levee, one group heading in the direction of the Charity Hospital and the second toward the Marine Hospital.

  Savigne watched the last vehicle vanish from sight. Carstensen was a respected and skilled physician. How could he possibly miss such an obvious diagnosis for yellow fever? Honoré shook his head in bewilderment. Was the answer simply that Carstensen did not want a panic in the city and was willing to gamble that only these few men would have the disease? Savigne would not print what he suspected: that deadly Bronze John had invaded New Orleans. But he would visit the hospitals in a few days. If the men died, then he would be certain, and he would tell the people of the city.

  7

  Tim rose up from the cold pit of liquid black of unconsciousness. His senses flickered on one by one. The pain came alive in his shoulder and side and throbbed with every heartbeat. His lungs felt raw and burned.

  His memories rushed back, the man shooting him and the drowning in the river. But he must not be dead, for the pain was too real. He opened his eyes a crack and cautiously, without moving his head, looked around.

  A mulatto man sat in a chair a few feet away. He was stropping the long blade of a knife on the leather top of his boot. His face was broad and bearded, and there was a scar over the left eye socket. Slightly lower and the blade making the injury would have blinded him in that eye. The man hesitated in the sharpening strokes of the knife, as if he were listening for something, then he began again.

  The man looked fierce and immensely strong. With each swipe of the blade, the muscles of his powerful arms rippled beneath his brown skin. Was he enemy or friend? Tim would wait, feigning unconsciousness, until he had more time to evaluate the situation. He closed his eyes.

  Morissot had sat for a long time listening to the white man’s low, even breathing. Just now the rhythm had subtly changed, increasing slightly, and the breath deepening. Morissot knew with certainty that the man was awake. He was doing what Morissot would have done, say nothing upon coming back to consciousness in a strange place.

  Morissot began to speak. “My name is Lezin Morissot. I’m a fisherman, and I found you nearly drown in the river. What is your name?”

  The white man made no sign he heard. The only movement about him was the rise and fall of his chest.

  Marie heard her father talking, and she came from the next room to stand in the doorway. She glanced at her father, then at the still form of the wounded man. A questioning expression came to her face.

  “This is my daughter, Marie,” Morissot continued. “What is your name?” He was silent for a few seconds and then added, “Talk to me, for I know you are awake.”

  Tim opened his eyes and stared into the black orbs of the mulatto. The man nodded his head across the room.

  Tim glanced in the same direction. A slender young woman with ivory skin stood watching him. In the slanting rays of the sun streaming in the window of the room, he saw her large round eyes were green. Her hair was a slice of midnight. Tim’s breath caught at the beauty of the girl.

  The gir
l smiled at Tim, and the smile increased her beauty to a dazzling thing. She came to stand beside her father.

  “What is your name?” Marie repeated her father’s question.

  “Wollfolk, Timothy Wollfolk.” How could this brown man have such a white daughter?

  “We are pleased that you are better,” Marie said.

  “How long have I been here?” asked Tim.

  “Since yesterday morning,” Morissot answered.

  “Are you hungry or thirsty?” Marie said.

  “A little of both,” Tim replied.

  “I’ll fix you something.” She hurried from the room.

  Tim’s gaze followed Marie. The sight of her loveliness partially deadened the pain that cut at his body. He looked at Morissot.

  The mulatto’s face held ail odd expression, one that Tim could not fathom. The man seemed to nod to himself, just the barest movement of his head, as if he had made some silent, inner decision.

  “Marie is an excellent cook, even though she is young,” Morissot said.

  “I’m sure she is.” Tim felt awkward because of the thoughts that had come into his mind about the girl.

  “Why were you in the river?” questioned Morissot.

  “Three men robbed me, and when I tried to fight them, one shot me. I fell into the water and was carried away. If it hadn’t been for that, I would be dead. I’m sure they meant to kill me. How did you come to find me?”

  “You came floating by while I was near the water. I pulled you out and pumped a gallon of water from your lungs. Then I brought you here.”

  “I must tell the law what happened,” Tim said. “Maybe they can catch the men and get back my belongings.”

  “I doubt that. The law has not had much luck at catching robbers or murderers in New Orleans.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “Tell the law, if you want. But for now you must heal. You can stay here for a few days.”

  “I have no money.” Tim knew he was naked beneath the blanket that covered him. “I don’t even have any clothes.” He tried to smile.

  “You may wear some of mine. They will be a little large and loose, but should serve the purpose. Can you sit up?”

  Tim struggled upward, favoring his left side. The pain rose to a crescendo that seared his brain. The room seemed to darken. Beads of sweat popped out on his face.

  “Try harder,” Morissot said. “Wounded men who move and walk heal most quickly. And Jonathan sews a tight stitch. You will only think you are ripping apart.” He made no effort to help Tim, merely watching him.

  At that moment through his pain, Tim hated the brown man. Damn you to hell, I will sit up. He started to lift his legs, and a moan escaped him before he could catch it between clenched, teeth. His legs slid from under the blanket and his feet rested on the floor.

  “Father, he is ready to faint,” Marie cried as she came into the room with a large glass of water.

  “He is tougher than that,” Morissot said.

  Maybe not, thought Tim, the darkness deepening in the room and seeping into his head, threatening to fill it with blackness. Then, to his amazement, as he sat very still, the darkness began to recede. The pain dropped to an endurable level. By God, he wasn’t going to faint, after all.

  Marie hurried to Tim’s side. “Drink some cold water. That will help.”

  He reached for the glass. His fingers caught her hand. She aided him to lift the glass to his lips and hold it there. Tim could not decide which was the more enjoyable, her cool fingers under his or the delicious water.

  “Now, you can walk to the table and eat,” said Morissot. “Marie, set out the food for Timothy.”

  “First a pair of pants and a shirt,” said Tim.

  “I’ll get some clothes for you,” agreed Morissot.

  Tim saw a satisfied smile in the back of Morissot’s black eyes.

  * * *

  Lew arrived at the law office of Gilbert Rosiere promptly at nine a.m. The dark-skinned law clerk led him immediately back to the inner office of the lawyer.

  “Welcome, Mr. Wollfolk. Welcome to New Orleans.” Rosiere climbed erect, a tall bony man, and came around his desk. He clasped Lew’s hand in a hard grip.

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Lew, matching the lawyer’s grip.

  “Please be seated,” said Rosiere. He retreated back behind his desk.

  Lew sat down in the overstuffed leather chair before the desk. Now the test began. Could he fool this sharp-eyed lawyer?

  “My condolences to you for the death of your uncle,” Rosiere said.

  “I’ve heard that ray Uncle Albert was murdered. Do you think that is true?”

  Rosiere looked surprised. His sharp eyes locked on Lew. “Who told you that?”

  “Who told me isn’t important. Is it true? If so, someone will pay.”

  “The police investigated his death. It has been classified as an accidental drowning.”

  “You are being paid to attend to my uncle’s affairs, aren’t you? Part of those duties would be to tell his nephew what you know. Also what you only suspect. Am I also in danger?”

  “Has something happened that makes you think you are in danger?”

  “You answer my questions with questions. But this one time I’ll reply. I was attacked last night by two men with blackjacks. They seemed to be looking for me.”

  “What happened?”

  “No more answers from me. It is your turn. Did my uncle have enemies?”

  Rosiere hunched his shoulders. “Business on the waterfront is obtained by bidding for army, navy, and private contracts. Your uncle was a shrewd businessman. He underbid many competitors. Also he was easy to anger, and he fought several duels. Men were killed or wounded by him. He bought a placée, a quadroon mistress desired by other men. He kept raising his bid until all others had fallen aside. Yes, he had enemies. Probably many enemies.”

  Rosiere sat back in his chair. “You do not look injured. What happened to the two men who assaulted you?”

  Lew laughed low, and rough. “I shall consider you my lawyer as well as my uncle’s, so I’ll tell you.” He moved the flap of his jacket to the side to show the Colt pistol in his waistband. “Like my uncle, I won’t be crowded. So I shot the hell out of both men, not killing them, just putting some holes in them.”

  Rosiere fastened his eyes on the gray-eyed young man before him. He did not much resemble Albert Wollfolk, but the challenging glint in the eyes, the hint of iron just below the surface, ran through both men. This Wollfolk would also make enemies, and very quickly. And probably also die.

  “Shall we now get to your inheritance?” said the lawyer. “I assume you brought identification.”

  “Yes, I have letters telling who I am from the pastor of our church, one from a banker who knew me, and a third from my boss at the Lynch and Lynch Steamboat Company.” Lew pulled the papers from his pocket and handed them across the desk. He sat back and, keeping his face impassive, watched the lawyer quickly scan the documents. Lew thought the man had already made up his mind that he was Wollfolk.

  Rosiere handed back the identification papers. “Thank you.” He picked up a document from his desk. “Your Uncle Albert has directed by means of his will that you are to receive sole possession of his property known as the A. Wollfolk Warehouse and Dockage, the clipper ship Honest Traveler, his personal residence on Washington Avenue, and the total sum of his money in the Mechanics and Traders Bank on Canal Street. There are two accounts, a business fund and a private one. You are a wealthy young man.”

  “My uncle has been very generous to me,” Lew said. “In your letter, you said there are some bequests that must be carried out. What are they?”

  “Albert Wollfolk also owns a five-room cottage on Rampart Street. He has a friend living there, her name is Cécile Pereaux. She is a placée, as I mentioned before, a quadroon.” Rosiere hesitated, watching Lew. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Only that the friend is a woman.”
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br />   “She is one-quarter Negro, and his mistress. Mr. Wollfolk began the arrangement three or four years ago. He saw her at one of the Bals de Cordon, also called Quadroon Balls. That is the grand occasion where the young quadroon girls, always virgins, are shown off by their mothers to the white men. No black men are allowed. For one to show up would mean the worst whipping and possibly death. The girls are educated from a very tender age in music, verse, languages, and are quite beautiful. Often they go overseas to Europe to study.

  “I have been to the balls. The girls are dressed most elegantly. The white men select the young woman he finds most appealing. Then he makes arrangements with the mothers of the girls, usually a cash payment of several thousand dollars and always a house and an allowance for living expenses.”

  Lew wondered if the lawyer had a placée of his own. “Is this a common thing with the men of New Orleans?” he asked.

  “There are probably three thousand placées on the Ramparts, that’s a section of town centered around Rampart Street.”

  “My uncle seems to have found a way to enjoy himself. What is to happen to Cécile Pereaux?”

  “You are to see to her comfort and needs in a manner befitting a longtime friend of your uncle’s. He suggests you visit her and see if you want to continue the same relationship he had.”

  Lew laughed. “Albert Wollfolk was a man who saw things in a simple light. But suppose I don’t want the same arrangement?”

  “Then Miss Pereaux is to receive the house on Rampart Street in her name, and free and clear of any mortgages. Also she is to be given the annual allowance that I just mentioned. Should she marry or take another man without marriage, the allowance may be stopped. Your uncle states that Miss Pereaux is a very honest and trustworthy person. He adds, and these are his words, ‘In all matters of being a woman, Cécile is most splendid.’ “

  “I wish I’d known my uncle better. I think we would have gotten along nicely.”

  “He had many good qualities. But he was stubborn. Here is his will duly witnessed and legal. Read it thoroughly. Take your time. Then tell me if you agree to the terms. Then I’ll draw up the necessary papers, have the probate judge approve them, and see that they are filed in the public records.”