“And what is your name?”
“Creed, ma’am, Zebadiah Creed.” I removed my hat and bowed.
She grinned and clapped her gloved hands together. “Oh, my, what a strong name! Don’t you think so, Husband?” Not waiting for an answer, she asked, “What brings you to New Orleans, Mr. Creed?”
“Yes, Mr. Creed, what brings you so far away from your mountains?” Brody took a draw from his cigar, looked me up and down, blowing smoke my way. “Shouldn’t you be wearing some sort of deerskin hides?”
No one laughed at this but Jacks.
“What do you say, Billy? You seem to have traveled with Mr. Creed for some time now, does he fit better in deerskin hides or these dandy clothes he wears tonight?”
Billy stood silent.
Brody swiftly turned to him. “I asked you a question, brother.”
I gritted my teeth and started to reach for the knife I wore under my coat, then thought better of it.
“Buckskin, the traditional dress is called buckskin,” Billy answered.
One of the opera attendants stepped up to my right, rang a small bell, and announced, “Messieurs, mesdames, l’opéra est sur le point de recommencer . . .”
Before he finished his statement, Jacks was in front of him with his coat open showing a small pistol and knife at his belt. “Monsieur, the opera will start again when Mr. Brody and his party are back at their seats an’ comfortable.”
“Now, now, Edward, no need for harshness.” Brody frowned as he acknowledged the man. “Sir, I beg you and the rest of the fine singers and players for five minutes of your patience to conclude our awkward business here.”
Jacks did not move. The gentleman glanced to Sophie and me, then to Brody and back to Jacks. With a look of frustration and fear, he slowly backed away.
“Where are we now?” Brody took a step toward me. “Ah, yes, the real reason Mr. Creed is standing here this evening wearing these fine clothes, rather than his . . .” He glanced up to Billy. “Buckskins?”
“I like the singin’ . . . and the playin’,” I stated, frowning.
“I say, sir, that you are a liar.”
I stood calm and offered no response.
“I say that you have come here to New Orleans to assassinate me.”
The air in the lobby shifted, as if someone had hastily opened a door and immediately shut it again; even the smoke of Brody’s cigar waivered. Everyone was quiet, waiting for my answer. His wife stared at me with not a look of fear, but with a gleam in her eye, as if she anticipated my next words. I stepped forward. Jacks moved toward me with his coat still open. Brody waved him off and took another step. We were within an arm’s reach of each other.
Again, I offered no response, except to open my coat. Brody looked down to the plain wood handle of Frenchy’s knife I wore at my waist.
Brody sneered. “Sophie, you bring him to me with idle threats?”
She offered no response.
“If I would’a followed suit with the demand of a certain whorehouse owner in St. Louis, you’d be dead now.” I gritted my teeth and glared at Billy. “Your brother didn’t tell ’bout the goddamn wolverine?”
Brody leaned toward Billy and said, “St. Louis is a little far south for wolverines, don’t you think, Mr. Creed?”
“Thought so when I killed it with my knife blade, right through it’s heart.”
“Did you kill it with the knife at your belt?”
“Oh, no, sir, this knife Frenchy gave me, to kill you with.”
Brody’s face turned a shade red as he gave the briefest glance to Sophie.
“Do you recognize it?” I asked. “The knife, Mr. Brody? Frenchy claimed you once held it in your hand.”
Brody’s wife must have caught his glance to Sophie. She stomped her foot again. “Husband, I demand to know what you two are speaking of.”
With some exasperation, he said, “Please, dear, bear with me.”
“Ma’am, I’ve been told that your husband used this here knife, years ago, to cut a man . . .” I hesitated. “But could not kill him.”
Brody’s lips tightened into a grimace. His right hand clenched to a fist several times, as if he still held the knife.
Sophie began to choke, then cough, recovering after a few seconds.
“Mr. Creed . . .” Brody said slowly, as if he were gathering his thoughts. “Mr. Creed, you come to my city, kill my friend, leave my driver for dead in the street, and now you insult me with this accusation of cowardice?”
“Baumgartner killed my brother, he deserved to die.” I turned slightly and glanced at Jacks. “Your driver got in the way.”
The crowd behind me seemed to press in closer, to hear every word.
“Your brother can tell you more of Frenchy,” I nodded. “They seem to know each other well enough. Fact is, your brother Billy here could speak for hours ’bout the business of Frenchy in St. Louie . . . an’ beyond.”
“Well, sir, I will keep that thought in mind.”
I slid closer to Brody. “As I said, if I wanted to kill ya here, you’d be dead.”
Jacks stepped closer to me with a hand on the handle of his pistol.
“Monsieur Brody?” Sophie spoke for the first time. “Benjamin, my dear, we both know Frenchy, and who is concealed behind the name. Do not be so coy, leading these good folks on.” She faced Mrs. Brody. “Young woman, this situation, it is like an old wound that has not healed properly. Perhaps Monsieur Creed has come here to help in its healing . . .”
I did not know of what she was speaking.
Jacks was within an arm’s reach of me. I stood square, facing Brody.
The attendant from the opera stepped back into sight, rang his bell, and announced that the second half was to begin, with or without us taking our seats.
No one moved.
“Husband, I am curious about this man Frenchy . . .”
With the knife’s handle, I struck Brody, shattering his nose. His wife stood frozen as blood splattered onto her face, hair, and dress.
I spun Brody around, holding the blade at his throat. Jacks could do nothing, else I would slice his boss’s throat open.
“In order to regain your honor and respect,” I whispered into Brody’s ear, “I’m guessin’ you’ll be sendin’ your second ’round to Sophie’s sometime in the morning, challengin’ me to a duel. In which case I’ll accept, choosin’ long knives as my weapon of choice. Knives similar to this one ya cut Frenchy with eleven or so years ago.” I took a deep breath and stated out loud for all to hear. “You, sir, are a coward and liar.”
I heard a double click from behind me. Billy held his tiny double-barreled pistol on Jacks.
“Billy Frieze,” Jacks spoke low. “You have chosen yer side fer the last time.”
A couple of swift kicks and I hobbled Brody at the back of both knees, laying him out on the carpet. I sat down cross-legged with his head nearly in my lap. Dazed and with his light gray suit coat drenched in blood, his handsome face was already turning red and blue from his broken nose. I grabbed a hold of his chin and pulled it back toward me. Squeezing my fingers into his cheeks, he slowly raised his swelling eyes. “Look at me, you piece a shit,” I whispered. “I want my goddamn furs back!”
With the tip of the knife, I cut his left cheek, deep and by an inch.
I stood as Mrs. Brody knelt down and franticly cradled her husband’s head in her lap, crying for anyone to help. The crowd in the lobby had grown with the ruckus, yet no one lent a hand.
Billy followed us, close behind, his tiny gun still trained on Jacks. Sophie took hold of my arm and casually walked me out the front entrance.
Not a drop of blood was on my clothes.
CHAPTER 26
Sophie placed the flame of the candle to liquid. With a flash, the top of the glass turned green for an instant then a deep blue with a hint of flickering yellow. She blew out the flame and lifted the glass to her lips.
“Sugar to sweeten, fire to release the spirit
s!” She proclaimed and drained every drop.
We were in her entertaining room, she at the round mahogany table and me at the double bay windows. It seemed a thousand candles lit up the crystal chandelier. Directly above us, on the third floor was the room where I stayed. Earlier, she showed me a hidden passage between the two. The Madame and her house indeed had many secrets.
I turned to face the window and stared into the black swamp, as I had done the first night. This time, I knew what lay beyond the small wharf.
“I saw Baumgartner from the window above, the morning you and I rose together.”
“There are many who travel our busy thoroughfare throughout the day and night. Are you so sure you are not mistaken?”
“Not on the street but at the boat landing across from this house.”
She was silent for a moment then asked, “And what did you witness Monsieur Baumgartner doing, Zebadiah?”
I turned back to the room. She had let her hair down and lifted a flame-filled glass. Her eyes shined black diamonds.
I faced the window again. In the reflection of the glass, I could see her standing right behind me holding out the flaming demon in her hand.
“Quick, before the fire must be blown out,” she whispered.
I tried to stay still, not to turn. Yet, as if she willed it, I spun around and reached for the drink, blew out the flame, and gulped it down. The instant the burning liquid touched the tip of my tongue, I knew she had snared me. It tasted of the sky, as if pure white clouds had been distilled, then mixed with the blackest of earth, down deep, in the pits of hell.
“The fire is quenched?”
I barely shook my head. “Only more enraged . . .” The glass slipped from my fingers and fell onto the carpet without a sound. I felt that I might stumble if I took a step so I stood frozen, with my back to the window. The chandelier brightened behind Sophie. She became a shadow in a blood-red dress with a face as white as the clouds I had drunk. Her black eyes bore into mine as if she sought the true essence of my soul. I lifted my hands and with the tips of two fingers, caressed the scars left on my chest years before by the sun dance. I was no longer afraid of what she might find.
“You are the witch.”
Her cackling laugh sent chills up my spine. She instantly became the old crone I accused her of being.
“Ah ma cherie, Frenchy has told you too much, and . . . not nearly enough.”
She reached out, gently took both my hands, and pulled herself into me, pressing her body against mine, holding my fingers captive by her large, firm breasts. I closed my eyes for an instant and when I opened them, she was a young, voluptuous girl about Anna’s age.
“I was his one true love.”
“But not your only love,” I mumbled, my tongue thick and numb. Though my vision shifted between the real and the unreal, somehow my mind was clear.
She let go of me and floated back to the table, picked up the gold bottle, and filled another glass. Not bothering to light the fire, she drank it down.
“There is still a life, between us.” Her face changed before my eyes, from innocence to sorrow. She wavered, then slumped into one of the chairs and sat in silence, staring at the empty glass in front of her. After a few seconds, she turned her gaze back to me. “What is her name?”
“Sapphire.”
“Named her after one of his treasured gems, Monsieur Lafitte did.”
“Who?”
Sophie shook her head. “Ah, I am sorry, I meant Frenchy.”
I had never seen a woman shift so deftly from that of a seductress, to a virgin, on to a haggard, old woman.
She let out a sharp hiss. A whiff of green mist slipped out of her mouth. “He stole my bébé, Jean did . . .” She stopped. “Frenchy. Frenchy took my petit bébé from me before I knew her name.”
“And Brody?”
“A fucking coward, as you say.” She spat out the words. “He cut Frenchy, but could not take his heart away.”
“You loved him.”
Sophie looked confused, then sat up straight in the chair. “Monsieur Creed, I loved them both.”
The room began to swim around me. Frenchy’s voice played in my ear, whispering, Witch . . . a spell she spins and see what she gives to me.
I reached for the edge of the table to steady my shaking hands and sat down. Sophie stared at me, her eyes blacker than two shadows. She became that little girl in St. Louis. You will know my mère in New Orleans.
I turned away and soon the spinning stopped. In a strong, clear voice, I heard . . . I was the king of Louisiana, Barataria, and all the warm waters of the Caribbean. I come here, I build this from nothing in St. Louie, Frenchy’s Emporium.
The effects of the drink were gone.
“While in the swamp,” I said, “a story was told to me by your brother. A man named Lafitte was mentioned . . . a very powerful man who disappeared eleven years ago?”
Sophie stayed still in her chair and cried.
“Your daughter, and Frenchy’s, she’s about eleven now, ain’t she?”
Silence. She did not move but to wipe tears from her eyes.
I remembered something Frenchy said to Rudy seconds before he let the rope of the guillotine slip away. I quoted aloud. “. . . An’ yet you run, as the tide runs ’long south Terre Bonne, in an’ out, out an’ in. Because the saw grass hides you, I can’t keep up with my old friend. One day, the grass will cut my feet, trip me, drag me down. The hidden tide rushes in to drown me, even here, way upriver in St. Louie.”
I stared at Sophie. “Did you know Rudy Dupree?”
She glanced over to me, surprised, her tears drying up. “I know a few men named Rudy.” Her face turned a shade closer to the color of her red dress. “Why do you ask?”
“He was the man sent by Brody, with Baumgartner and another fella named Jeffery, to steal furs along the Missouri. I told you about ’em, remember? He lost his head, in St. Louis.”
Again, she was silent. Only by a slight twitch in her left cheek did I sense a reaction.
“I thought you knew,” I said.
She gathered her composure and in an instant became again the seductress. Pushing her chair away, she stood and reached for the ceiling as she did the first evening we spent together, swaying her hips and humming a subtle tune under her breath. Her stark black eyes returned to stare at me. “The Chinese will be along any time now. We should drink more and prepare for her. She is quite the treat.” Sophie shut her eyes and began feeling herself through her dress.
Several hard knocks came at the door.
“My dear sister, I know Mr. Creed is there with you. I must speak with him now for I have a delivery to make.”
Sophie stopped dancing and slowly opened the door for Olgens. Without acknowledging her, he came straight to me. “Sir, I don’t know how this has happened, but you have been summoned to appear tomorrow, at dawn, to a duel at the Oaks. Mr. Benjamin Brody will be waiting.” He paused to catch his breath and to hand me a small business card. “Since he is the challenger, you will choose the weapons. And . . . You will need a second.”
I stood reading the card, then without hesitation, looked up to Olgens. “Sir, I would be honored if you would be my second.”
“There has never been a Negro that I’ve heard to have this role. However . . .” He stood straight and tall. “I am a free man to follow my own will. I, sir, accept your offer. I will now send a dispatch to Mr. Brody telling him that you will meet him at dawn. What weapons do you choose?”
Sophie had sat down and poured herself another drink. I supposed our evening together was about to be drawn to a close.
“Long knives, of course. The particular ones will be mine and my brother’s, they are almost identical.” I looked at the both of them. “Unless, Brody would choose Frenchy’s knife?”
There were glances back and forth between the brother and his sister.
A shuffle of feet came from the hallway. The Chinese woman stood in shadow, a step outside the d
oor. Olgens turned and waved her into the room.
“My friend, may I offer to you my consort. She was given to me by the Emperor himself. God forbid, if this be your last night on Earth, she will certainly make it worthwhile.”
So tempted I was. Yet, deep inside I knew I would be overwhelmed with shame and guilt.
“Thanks for the offer. However, I am not in the habit of lyin’ with slaves . . . ’Sides, I have knives to sharpen.” I turned to Sophie. “Would you show me again the secret passage to the room upstairs?”
Sophie sat asleep in her chair. Olgens stared down at his shoes. He raised his head and without a look into my eyes said, “Sir, I will escort you upstairs to your room so you may prepare for the morrow.”
The Chinese woman stood caressing Sophie’s gray, black hair. With a bow, Olgens allowed me first out through the door.
CHAPTER 27
The early morning was colorless. Gray Spanish moss hung from the trees, reminding me of sad, old faces peering through the fog. Our driver guided the carriage slowly up the muddy road to a large patch of grass under ancient oaks, the favored dueling ground of most New Orleans gentlemen. As we were the first to arrive, I chose the spot where we would fight. My party was small, with only Sophie, Juliette, and of course Olgens, my second. Olgens set up a stand and case that contained two equal knives, one was my brother’s and the other was mine. If Brody chose to, he could fight with Frenchy’s knife, but I doubted he would.
My head pounded from the absinth drunk the night before. Yet, as the fog began to clear, I stood ready.
Minutes later two carriages pulled to a stop behind ours. From the first stepped Brody and his wife. From the other stepped Jacks and a man I did not know. I assumed he was a physician. Jacks was dressed as he was the night before, still in his long coat. Brody was prepared to fight wearing a loose smock, leather trousers, and light brown knee boots. He wore a bandage over his nose. They did not seem so surprised to see me wearing my buckskin smock, britches, and moccasins. On my belt were six scalps held in a ring. The thinnest of them was Baumgartner’s.
“Sir, you are certainly the mountain man this morning. Or shall I call you an American savage?” With Brody’s nose broken, he sounded shallow and distant.
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