“What’s his name?”
“His name was Jean, Jean Pierre.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered and bowed my head. “The death of my own brother is still fresh.”
“It would seem, sir, that time heals, but it does not. And your brother?”
I looked up, not understanding the question.
“His name, what was his name?”
“Oh. Jonathan, Jonathan Creed.”
“Jonathan Creed,” he said slowly. “Strong name.”
I nodded in agreement.
Olgens continued. “We were the only two freed men Lafitte trusted. Most Negroes he knew only as slaves that he and his men stole off Spanish ships and sold upriver, some as far away as Natchez and Memphis.
“Jean Pierre took a wife, paid good money for her as she was bound for one of the northern plantations. He freed her and built a house on the east end of Grand Isle, across the inlet from Grand Terre, where Lafitte’s fortress lay.” He paused. “They had two boys and lived happy, until . . .”
Though I listened, I was lost as to why he was telling me a story about a man I would never know.
“. . . Until Lafitte up and disappeared.”
Olgens stood and went to the door to peer into the darkness. It had begun to rain for the first time since I had been at the shack. There was no sound but for a muffled moan from the trees. The air became so moist I could taste the black water of the swamp by licking my lips.
“With Lafitte gone, my brother and his family were left in the hands of fate and a murdering horde of brigands.” He continued to stare into the black. “By the time I arrived back from my business in Haiti, Grand Terre had burned and so had Jean’s home on Grand Isle. I found his body hung from a tree. I did not find Margo or their sons. I could not stay in Barataria or even Terre Bonne else the murderers might come for me. Later, in New Orleans, with Sophie, word came that they had been sold into slavery. Where and to whom, we did not know.”
He stopped and took a breath, as if he was breathing in the whole of the swamp he knew so well. “For my own life, I retreated back to Haiti. There, I continued to build my business. I am a rich and powerful man, Mr. Creed.” He pinched the chocolate skin of his right cheek. “Whoever I am in Haiti, here in America, I am only a nigger.”
Again, I was confused as to why he was telling me this. “When did this happen?”
“The fall of twenty-four.”
“Eleven years ago,” I said under my breath.
“Yes, eleven years I have searched for Margo and her sons, with Sophie, then later, with Billy’s help, of course.”
“Billy, of course,” I grumbled.
“He found them. Last year it was. In secret, he sent for me. It took until a few months ago to make the necessary arrangements for their freedom.” With his head hung low, he turned and one at a time, squeezed his hands into fists. He looked up at me with the blackest eyes I had ever seen and said, “You know the rest, sir.”
The old man appeared at the door and nodded to Olgens. With a sudden sense of urgency, they both went to the rear of the shack. From under a tarp, they pulled two pistols and a shooting bag. The old man smiled a toothless smile and said, “Buck up, son, c’pany’s comin’!”
It was then I heard the bell.
The rain must have dampened its first rings for me not to hear it, or I was simply distracted by Olgens’s talk. No matter, if there were to be a fight, I was ready.
We left the fire burning inside and hid in the trees with two strides between us, in a half-circle around the shack. The intruders would be trapped in the open between the shore and the porch.
Across the water and through the rain, a ghostly light grew into a single oil lamp swaying gently at the bow of a shallow boat. I could make out three people, one standing with a long pole in his hand and the other two kneeling, ready to jump ashore. I aimed my pistol at the first one off the boat.
There came a sharp whistle, then, “Olgens, it’s me, your chere soeur, come to take our friend to the opera, to at long last meet Benjamin Brody.”
I held my aim on Sophie for a few long seconds, then lowered my pistol and stepped out of the trees, into the open rain.
CHAPTER 25
I stood next to the bed, naked, abruptly awakened, with my loaded pistol pointed at the Chinese woman. She sat straight, in a chair beside Sophie, at the low table, with the water pipe in front of them. They were not in the room when I lay down to sleep earlier in the day.
Except for the patched hole in the door, the room looked the same as it had when I arrived from Natchez four nights before. The travel case was still under the bed and untouched. The cracked window shut out most of the blustery afternoon wind and rain. Winter was coming to New Orleans, for a chill was in the air.
Sophie turned to the Chinese and raised her eyebrows, then turned back to me. “Ma cherie, a bit bigger you were the last I saw you with your trousers off.” She had transformed from my courageous rescuer back to her frivolous self.
The Chinese acted embarrassed by placing a hand over her mouth. She did not hide her smile very well at all. Her name was Woo. I did not know her last name or if she even had one.
“Do you understand English?” I asked as I lay the pistol on the table and began pulling my britches on.
“Oui,” she said with a flawless French accent.
Sophie reached over and stroked Woo’s straight black hair, then gently caressed her small breasts, one after the other. With the top of her loose dress fallen open, Woo leaned slightly into the tips of Sophie’s thin fingers and closed her eyes.
“This evening, upon returning from the opera, you are welcome to share her with me. If you dare . . .” Her glance to me was one of endearment.
I could not help but smile at the offer.
With a wave and a bow, Sophie shooed the young Chinese woman out of the room.
“Where does she come from?”
“Ah, from far, far away, across the western ocean.” Sophie started giggling, like one of her young girls. “If she is Chinese then she be from where?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
She clapped her hands with glee. “From China, of course! She came with Olgens, back from his long travels. Was given to him by the Emperor himself, or so he tells the tale.”
“She is his slave?”
“Oh, no, Zebadiah, she is his concubine.”
I still did not understand.
Her glance back to me was not one of sympathy for being ignorant of such things, but one of shock. “His mistress. How can you not know this?”
“And why do you offer her to me then?”
“When he is there, in Haiti, with his wife and children, she must survive here with me.” She leaned over and caressed my cheek. “And after this evening, with what you must do, you will need her . . . as well as I.”
“But Olgens is here.”
“No ma cherie, he is far away, in the swamp, where we left him last night, with Pawpaw.”
That I did understand. “You would do that to your brother?”
At this she laughed, hard, holding her stomach. “Oh, Zebadiah, I will not be fucking her, you will be.”
Sophie sat in silence, watching me with a look of bemusement as I pulled my smock on.
“The opera?” I asked.
“I have made arrangements for you to be my escort this evening. It is the premier of Le Postillon de Lonjumeau at our fabulous Théâtre d’Orléans. My lovely Juliette will come to groom and dress you. You must look your best, Zebadiah, for tonight you meet Monsieur Benjamin Brody.”
Before I could say a word, she raised a finger to her lips and said, “You will know what you must do.”
A knock came at the door. Juliette entered carrying a set of men’s clothes, very much like the ones she brought to me two nights earlier, and laid them out on the bed. She left the room and returned with a beaver top hat the likes I had never seen. It was elegant and silky black, with a dark brown deerskin band
and feather plume the color of deep purple, the same color of the curtains that hung down at the landing of Sophie’s marble staircase.
“Try not to bloody these, Monsieur Creed, I am almost out of men’s clothes your size.” Sophie stood and strode to the door. “Our carriage departs at six, don’t be late!” With that, she walked out, leaving the door wide open.
From a small handbag, Juliette pulled scissors and a comb. As I sat, she trimmed my hair, not too short, but more in style with the fashions of New Orleans. She then produced a straight razor and soap and proceeded to shave my face, leaving the beginning of sideburns. She wiped my cheeks and neck clean, then handed me a small mirror and stepped back.
“You ah a very han’some man . . .” Juliette stuttered. They were the first words I heard her speak. She bowed her head as if she was embarrassed.
I touched her chin with my finger and gently lifted her head up. “Thank you, my dear.” I knew she was deaf and did not want to make it seem such a disadvantage.
“You remind me of my sister Cattie, the last time I saw her. She’s also sweet and lovely,” I said, smiling. Juliette shook her head as if she did not understand my statement, yet her face was beaming.
I looked at my own face in the mirror and almost turned away. Her shave and trim were magnificent for I had never seen myself look so well-to-do. Yet, the man who gazed back at me, with his steel-gray eyes and small scar on his left cheek, was a man I hardly recognized. I felt a deep, tired sadness I did not remember having the last I stared into my own eyes.
I set the mirror on the table, stood, and pulled my smock back off. Juliette handed a starched, white shirt to me and with her assistance, I was dressed for the opera.
The ride was a short one, through dark, narrow streets of gravel and mud. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, leaving a whispered patter on the roof of the carriage. Sheltered as we were, I still felt the cold and wet on my face. I shivered and pulled the coat closer around me.
I was about to meet Benjamin Brody, the one who set in motion the reason my brother was dead, a man who seemed to be wanted dead by at least two of his enemies. I was not one. My taste for vengeance had been quelled by the deaths of the two men I met on the Missouri months earlier. Yet again, I found myself in a compromising situation with my own will and pride, beholden to a man whom I owed for killing his pet wolverine. Another man I owed who saved my life by helping me kill Baumgartner.
If I go my own way, I could be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. Though I did not know the man, Brody might likely not rest until he himself avenged his friend’s death, exactly as I had done with the death of my brother.
Wearing only a light shawl to cover her bare shoulders, Sophie snuggled under my arm to keep warm, her eyes closed, rocking gently against me to the sway of the carriage. She seemed to be asleep, but I knew she was not.
We turned a corner and the opera house lit up before us. Sunk deep in the shadows of a dozen two-storied arches, stained-glass windows cast gleaming, colored light onto the boardwalk and carriages lined up in front. Four gold-crowned pillars, two on each side and two stories high, guarded the arching main entrance. I sat in quiet awe as we waited our turn to arrive, the folks before us each dressed in such proper fashion and promoting the most elegant of manners. I glanced to Sophie. She smiled and held a gloved finger to my lips.
The front attendant opened our carriage door, saw who we were, and motioned to our driver to pull on ahead. I was halfway out to speak with him when Sophie snatched the back of my coat. We were guided around to the side entrance. There was no one to offer assistance. With my heart racing, I stepped down, turned, and held my hand out. Madame Sophie le Roux looked ravishing as she stepped from the carriage, her face flush and beaming. Her red French silk and lace dress swayed to and fro as I escorted her through the foyer and into the crowded lobby. Most of the men she nodded to with a smile as they tipped their hats, but no woman would acknowledge her. With not a word spoken to anyone, we entered the theatre and took our seats.
The lamps were lowered and the orchestra began. Though I had never heard music so sweet yet at the same time dramatic, I paid little attention to it. All I could see were the backs of heads in front of me.
Which one was Brody?
Sophie nudged me to look up and to our right. In a small balcony, one story above us sat a young woman. With black hair tied back, her silver dress glowed from the soft light of a single lamp. She peered at the darkened stage through a set of eyeglasses she held up with a stick. Seated beside her must have been Mr. Benjamin Brody for I recognized the man named Jacks sitting directly behind him. The seat next to Brody’s was empty. As I continued to gaze up at them, the stage brightened and the singing began. I paid no heed. Instead, I watched Jacks scan the audience. Our eyes met. He leaned into Brody, whispered to him and they both looked down to us. I nudged Sophie. She looked up, gave a slight wave, and smiled. The woman must have seen this for she turned to Brody. He pointed to the stage, as if telling her to watch the opera.
“She is lovely, don’t you think, Monsieur Creed?” Sophie waved again.
Behind Jacks, in the shadows of the small balcony, the curtains parted. The silhouette of a man entered and casually sat next to Brody. He leaned into the soft light, caught my eye, and raised a bottle to me.
“Billy Frieze . . .” The words came as I started for the aisle. Sophie took hold of my jacket and pulled me back to my seat.
“You can do nothing now. Wait for the intermission and we will meet them in the lobby.” She turned back to the stage and then leaned toward my ear. “Your first opera ma cherie, sit back and enjoy . . .”
I sat for what seemed hours, seething, sweating, gripping the handle of my knife so hard my fingers felt as if they might break. I despised the singing, for it was in French. The music ebbed and flowed, rising to such a pitch of disharmony I cringed. During the silences between scenes and applause, all I could hear was my own heavy breathing. I looked to Sophie, sitting there, enraptured by the drama and spectacle. I wanted to blame her for what I was about to do, but could not.
At last, the lamps were lit bright. We filed out of the theatre and into the lobby. Sophie touched my hand and led us through the crowd toward the stairs that led up to the balconies. I gently pushed her aside and stood square near the bottom step.
Throngs of people passed by. Some folks gave a questioning look while others, deep in conversation, ignored me. Jacks came first, clearing the way for Brody. Billy Frieze followed.
“And you know this woman from where?” Brody’s wife inquired as she followed her husband down the stairs. She spoke with a very American accent.
Brody did not answer. He slowly took the last step to the carpeted floor of the lobby and stood directly in front of me by several feet. Jacks moved to my right, close to the side entrance from where we came in. Billy stayed on the stairs, a few feet above us all.
Standing at Brody’s side, his wife glanced at Sophie, then to me and back to him. “Dear husband, shall there be introductions, then? We shant stand here all intermission without a word between us.” She did not seem at all nervous.
Again, Brody ignored her.
“Mr. Creed, I see you have survived your journey through our paradise.”
I was not sure what he meant. “If you speak of the shit swamp I’ve spent the last two days and nights in, well, sir, it ain’t no paradise.”
He smiled. “I was being facetious, sir. I too find it to be, as you say so eloquently, a ‘shit’ swamp.” He glanced at Jacks. “Is why I rarely go there, anymore. Some years ago, I resided south, near where the fresh water opens to the salt of the gulf. There, I find the cool breezes of the open sea refreshing, ay, Mr. Jacks?”
“Yes, sir.” Jacks answered without taking his crooked left eye off me.
“Brother Billy, did you enjoy the cool ocean breezes of our beloved Barataria?”
Billy did not answer.
I stared only at Brody but with enou
gh sight to know where Jacks was. As he slowly moved out of my side vision, I stepped backward, pushing the gathering crowd into the center of the lobby.
Brody’s wife stomped her tiny foot. “Husband, I demand introductions!”
I broke my stare to glance at her. A beautiful woman she was, maybe twenty-five years in age. Her black hair and high cheekbones reminded me of a younger Sophie. Both women seemed to be doing their best to ignore the other.
“Forgive me, my dear, for I have been so rude. Standing to our right is the illustrious Miss Sophie le Roux, proprietor of the finest bordello in all of New Orleans!” He waved his hand, as if brushing off the folks standing behind me. “Why, most of these good men here have visited at least once, with some of them being very regular patrons . . .”
A collective gasp rose up from the husbands and their virtuous wives. Sophie kept a stone face.
Brody burst out laughing. “Joking, mates, just joking.”
Only the men laughed, nervously.
He continued. “Miss le Roux, may I introduce my new wife, the Mrs. Katharine Brody. Formerly, Miss Van Dorman of New York City, come here to share in my ever-developing entrepreneurships and, shall I say, certain risks that have paid off handsomely.” He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, snipped it, and snapped his fingers. “Ah, but some say I boast too much of my achievements.”
Billy silently moved to a lamp and lit a punk. As his cigar lighted up, Brody gave a slight nod to Jacks.
I could feel from behind some of the crowd dissipating, perhaps because the second half of the opera would soon begin.
Jacks stood still near the door.
“And who is the gentleman?” Mrs. Brody asked, raising an eyebrow. “He seems to not be from around here.”
“Dear, word has it that he is a true mountain man, come from the Rockies all the way down the Missouri and Mississippi rivers to join us here this evening.”
Eye for an Eye Page 15