Indeed, they were returning every month by the hundreds—beaten soldiers, political exiles—like red-hot pumice stones raining down in the aftermath of an eruption. I saw them every day about the streets, people with pinched faces and missing limbs, the most desperate bending over garbage heaps behind the great hotels.
Royal was unimpressed. “Well, we'll have to work together to rebuild. I want to offer the former rebels the hand of friendship."
I smiled a little, thinking what was likely to happen to a hand so extended. But I said diplomatically, “Away with the past! Let us live for the future!"
Rose called out that supper was ready, we emptied our glasses, and Royal departed. When I went inside, I saw that she had laid three places at the table. She said in a disappointed voice, “He didn't stay to eat?"
"Why should he stay to eat?"
"Well, he was one of our people, after all."
"No longer,” I answered, “now he belongs only to himself."
I piled into my food, still smiling at Royal's notion that Yank and Rebel could work together to rebuild our shattered world. Oh yes, my deals with Colonel Wharton shewed that Blue and Gray could be brought together by the color Green. But well I knew that the spectrum of the time contained also a deep crimson stripe—the color of rage, of unburied hate, of blood-vengeance.
As if to confirm my belief, a few days later a strange man with a scarred face limped through our gate at sunset, when as usual I was drinking alone. He introduced himself as Brigadier General Eleazar Hobbs, late of the Confederate Army.
I said quickly, “I am a poor man."
"I haven't come to ask for money,” he said with a grim smile. “I've heard that you too wore the gray."
This I acknowledged, and he invited me to join a club he was forming to discuss the current state of affairs in the city, the state, and the South.
For the founder of a debating society, he asked some odd questions. Eyeing dubiously my pinned-up left sleeve, he wanted to know if I were able to handle a weapon. I still went armed, the city being so disturbed; I had long since retired the old 1860 model revolver as a memento of difficult but exciting times, and replaced it with a new-model Remington, a sweet weapon that fired up-to-date brass cartridges in place of loose powder and copper caps.
I drew this gun, cocked it, took aim at a broken flower-pot against the garden wall and blew it to pieces. Hobbs nodded thoughtfully, and for a time we chatted, his preferred topic being the intolerable arrogance of the liberated slaves. When I told him frankly that I had taken the Iron-Clad Oath and knew a number of blue-backs, he was not disturbed.
"We need a friend in the camp of the enemy,” he said, and I began to understand what he wanted of me. A new and secret war was beginning, and I was being invited to serve in it—as matters turned out, to serve on both sides!
I found it an odd sort of struggle. Brigadier Hobbs and his friends let strictly alone the blue-coated soldiers who once had been their enemies, for killing them would only bring down upon the South all the calamities of years past. Instead, they shot presumptuous blacks and Republicans of all hues. The Red River in particular proved to be well named, from the hundreds of bodies that floated down it.
'Twas my old neighborhood, its byways well known to me, and I had a ready-made reason to go there, for I was attempting to regain control of Mon Repos, or what was left of it. The house had been burnt by one army or the other, or by bandits—I never learned which—but the land, with its alley of great oaks, remained. That summer, on a trip upriver I tracked and killed a man I did not know, nor why he needed killing: my sole motive being to prove my bona fides to General Hobbs.
Need I say that Monsieur Felix accompanied me? I first saw him on the boat, seated near the stern-wheel with sparkles of light gleaming through his shadowy form as he gazed at the frothing tumult of the water. A day later, when I had slain my man in a little wood near the levee, and was turning away, I saw him again, standing amongst the cottonwood trees with arms folded—looking on with great interest, but making no sign, like a wise teacher who lets an apt pupil learn by doing.
The thought struck me then that I was different, not only from the man I had been, but also from the man I might have become without his guidance. I might have been a good man; I might have been a dead man. Most likely I would have been both—good and dead!
In any case, why dream of what had not happened? With my latest victim lying at my feet, my whole being hummed with tigerish joy, for again I had broken the bonds of conscience and felt free to do anything. So I nodded to Monsieur Felix in a comradely way, and passed on.
* * * *
All that busy morning, with the words flowing from his mind as smoothly as the ink from his reservoir pen, Lerner had nothing to complain of, except that Morse in performing his duties seemed a touch too familiar.
Give a nigger an inch, he thought, and he'll take an ell. At lunchtime he spoke firmly, saying that discretion was the first thing he would look for in any man who aspired to be his principal heir.
"In short,” said Morse, his voice as pettish as a spoiled child, “despite what you said last night, in the sight of the world I am to go on being your nigger-man."
Hearing him use the same word, as if they shared a bond of mind as well as blood, gave Lerner an odd feeling. He answered almost defensively:
"I have never treated you so, but as a member of my household and as my right-hand man. Think about it, and see if I do not tell the truth."
Whether convinced or not, Morse apologized again, and after serving the meal and cutting the meat for him, departed as silently as an Arabian Nights servitor. Smiling, Lerner refilled his pen, set to work, and the tale emerged without a single deletion or correction, like the automatic writing of a seer.
* * * *
Back in town, I began to find my true role in the Reconstruction. Not as a killer, of whom there were more than enough, but as a peacemaker—a reconciler of differences. Who could be a better go-between than I, who had lost a limb for the Cause, yet had sworn loyalty to the Union? I spoke to each side in their own language, and my tongue moved freely, as if hinged in the middle.
Without undue arrogance, I aver that within a few years I became an indispensable man. Most of my time was spent in the lobby of our statehouse—the pompous, gold-domed, elegantly decaying St. Louis Hotel—where blood enemies combined forces to build a new ruling class upon the ruins of the old.
Ah, I can see it now! The walls covered with stained and tattered silk; the floor scattered with spittoons, of which there never were enough, for the Turkey carpet was foul with spittle. I see servants hastening about with tall amber bottles and trays of crystal goblets that ping at the touch. I see the all-male crowd, smell the hazy bitter segar-smoke, hear the whispered conferences, feel between my fingers the stiff smooth rag paper as drafts of pending bills whisper and slide from hand to hand. And amongst the portly scoundrels with their embroidered vests and gleaming watch-chains, I perceive a rail-thin figure that flickers and comes and goes like a mirage, his one good eye gleaming like a splinter of glass.
One day when I was busy conniving, someone touched my shoulder. I turned to find Royal smiling at me. He was rising fast in the postwar chaos—a former slave who could read and write and knew how to exercise power. The tattered slave-boy had become a soldier, the soldier a state senator and a man to reckon with, through his influence over the Negro legislators.
"Nick,” he said, “I might have known I should find you in a den of thieves."
"Come, Senator,” I jested. “Governor Wharton would not like to hear a fellow Republican so describe his friends and supporters!"
He shook his head, smile broadening. “Nick, there is something uncanny about you. That a one-armed Rebel should emerge as the governor's—what's a polite word for it—"
"Legislative agent, shall we say?"
"Just so. The Master of the Lobby. You know, my constituents are all black folk, and from them I hear whispers
that at night you transform into a Klansman—although that I refuse to believe!"
"I hope you disbelieve it, mon vieux, for that is a vile slander put about by the envy and malice of my enemies."
"I rejoice to hear it. Nick, I wonder ... can you tell me whether the Governor has decided to sign my bill?"
"The one to legalize marriage between blacks and whites? I think he will swallow it, but only if sweetened with a spoonful of sugar."
He made a face. “How much?"
We quickly struck a bargain. The governor wished the Legislature to charter a rather improbable railroad, whose stock promised a handsome return from foreign investors ignorant of the fact that it was to run through a fathomless swamp. Royal agreed to swing the necessary votes in the Senate, and I guaranteed him a certain quantity of the stock to pass around.
He said with relief, “Old Wharton is so greedy, I thought he would want a bag full of gold!"
"No, there's more money in railroads. However, his daughter, the lovely Elmira, is soon to enter society, and a thousand dollars toward the cost of her ball and ball-gown would help to seal the bargain."
That was how things were done in Louisiana. But why do I say were? And why do I imply that things were done differently in General Grant's Washington, or Boss Tweed's New York? Yet some differences between North and South did exist: as was proved by a Mardi Gras ball I gave early in March, 1870, and the crisis that followed, making and unmaking so many lives.
* * * *
Although my house now stands deep within the city, in those times it stood upon the Uptown fringes of settlement. I designed it myself, a place of stained glass and gables and towers and spires, all painted garishly as an Amazon frog, in a deliberate affront to the classical taste of the age I grew up in.
Within, gaslight glittered upon glass and silver, upon long tables piled with steaming food, upon champagne that flowed in sparkling rivers. The noisy throng was a patchwork of colors and a Babel of languages—a muster-roll of all who were corrupt, entertaining, and important in our world. How different from this dismal Twentieth Century, when white and black are hardly permitted to breathe the same air!
I took pleasure in inviting men of all races and factions, and women of all professions, including the oldest. I hoped they might amuse me by striking a few sparks from one another—little dreaming upon what tinder those sparks would fall.
At the time I was still a bachelor; Rose was doing the honors as hostess, and Royal asked her to dance. My dismay was great when I saw Brigadier Hobbs staring at them: they were a handsome couple, carven as it were of teakwood and ivory. But in Hobbs's scarred face burned the eyes of a crouching wolf.
I can hear the music now—a waltz called (I think) Southern Roses —and the stiff rustling of the women's gowns like the rush of wind through dry autumnal trees, and the scrape of dancing feet. When the guests were leaving, an hour or two before dawn, Royal pounced upon me. He was in a strange mood, exalted and more than a little drunk.
"Didn't I tell you that reconciliation would come? May our connection grow ever closer!” he exclaimed, almost crushing my one remaining hand.
"May it be so!” I replied, striving to retrieve my fingers intact.
"'Tis very late, Nick—or rather, very early—but I have a proposal to make. Could we speak privately for a moment?"
The word “proposal” passed me by entirely. I bowed him into my den—into this very room, where as a crippled old man I sit in a wheeled chair, writing. And here he rather grandly announced, in terms even then old-fashioned, that he desired to form “an honorable union” with Rose.
'Twas the worst shock I'd had in years. Rapid visions flashed across my brain of how Brigadier Hobbs and his friends would react, should a member of their society allow such a marriage to take place.
"Brother,” I said, swallowing my feelings with difficulty, “I'm honored by your confidence. Of course, I must commune with my cousin. I fear that your proposal might place her in great peril."
"She is resolved to face it with me."
"That sentiment does her honor. But speak to her I must."
"Of course,” said he, bowing like a dancing-master. “I shall return in—shall we say a week?—for your answer."
No sooner had he left than I confronted Rose, who met me with a face both scared and determined. I dragged her into the den and shut the door to exclude the servants, who were busy gathering up the fragments of the feast.
"How dare you connive at this lunacy?” I demanded, grinding my teeth.
"I dare, because it is time for me to be born!” she declared. “Here I am, twenty-six years old—almost too old to marry. And what have I ever been but an orphan, a poor relation, a seamstress to the Yankee army, and a housekeeper to you? I have never had a life! And I am resolved to have one now, ere it is too late!"
"This affair must have a long background!” I raged. “Yet you never confided in me, though I stole and killed for you."
"You stole and killed because you are a thief and a murderer!” she replied. “Royal is worth twenty of you. Did you know that long ago when we were children, he would risk a whipping to sneak upstairs and bring me flowers? That he would sit on the floor and tell me about his adventures, whilst you never talked to me at all, except to say good morning and good-bye?"
"What!” I thundered, “has it been going on that long?"
"He is a strong, wise man with a brilliant future. Have you forgotten that he killed that beastly Monsieur Felix to save me?"
It quite maddened me to hear that when I killed I was a murderer, but when Royal did the same he was a paladin.
"Royal shot the Overseer for his own revenge—you were incidental. You have always been incidental, Rose, a mere burden for others to carry, dead weight upon the road of life."
"Cochon!” she cried, and slapped me so hard my head rang. Then, weeping, she flung open the door and fled upstairs to her bedroom.
I closed the door again, took a dusty bottle from the tantalus and poured a triple brandy. I had swallowed about half, when a movement in the corner of my eye caused me to turn.
I can see the room as it was then—indeed, as it still is, save for the electric lights: the heavy red draperies; the dark crouching furniture; the small iron safe; the broad burled walnut desk; and the wavering shadows cast over everything by a gasolier's twelve flickering bluish points of flame. Against a wall covered with expensive French paper, something moved—a black shadow cast by nothing tangible.
"Well,” I demanded, “what the devil shall I do?"
A very apt way of speaking, all things considered. And in that instant I knew—knew how to handle the situation—as if I had spent years and years planning every detail.
I finished the drink, climbed the stairs and went to Rose's room, where she lay sobbing upon the bed. Sitting down beside her, I spoke in the quiet, calm voice of a man who has regained his sanity after an emotional storm.
I reminded her that we were linked by blood, that we had been children together, that we had shared many perils and helped each other to survive terrible times. I lamented that we had both said things we should not have said. I said that she ought to have prepared me for Royal's proposal, which had come as a great shock.
"I ask only that you take a little time to be sure, my dear. I have but recently cleared the taxes from Papa's old land near Red River, and must take a brief trip there to get a new survey made. If, when I return, you are still resolved to marry Royal, you shall find me a champion of your right to choose him, and his to choose you. And you shall have a dowry proportioned to my wealth and your deserts."
We wept together; I begged forgiveness a thousand times. She called me her dearest friend, her other self, the best and most understanding of men. I have never known why women believe the things men tell them—or vice versa.
In my bedroom I smoked a last segar, smiling without mirth as I saw with clear, unimpeded vision how the demon had saved and shaped my whole life to this ver
y end. “Damn it all to hell,” I exclaimed, “je m'en fiche! I don't care!"
But in that I lied. I cared, but knew that I could no longer change my course, which was fixed for all time. And perhaps beyond time as well.
* * * *
Next morning, without the slightest warning, after days of quiet, all the arrangements meant to secure Lerner's comfort broke down at once.
He woke from opulent dreams, as rich as those recorded in DeQuincey's Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. Dreams of caravans pacing across deserts where the light was blindingly intense; of chiming camel-bells and wailing flutes; of dark-eyed houris glancing through silken veils that covered swaying howdahs; of Mameluke guards with crooked swords and prancing horses; of lavish pavilions where dancing girls twirled on rose carpets to the twanging of dulcimers.
And, yes, Monsieur Felix had been there, smiling his razor-thin smile and rubbing his hands like a master of ceremonies whose every gesture seems to say, “What wonders our performers will show you tonight!"
Then Lerner woke, tasting ashes as usual, and saw Cleo's scared face and chignon peeping around the bedroom door like a polka-dotted messenger of doom. He didn't even have time to ask what had gone wrong when she blurted out, “Oh, Mr. Nick, Morse he been arrested, him!” And burst into tears.
The rest of the morning was spent unraveling what had happened the preceding night. It wasn't easy. Two years back, with great reluctance Lerner had allowed a telephone to be installed in his house. But Morse had done all the calling, and when the old man wheeled himself into the hall to use it, he discovered that the box had been placed too high on the wall for him to reach.
So his questions had to be passed through Cleo—who was hysterical—and after he sent her away, through the cook, a sullen woman with the improbable name of Euphrosyne, an import from South Carolina with a Gullah accent as dark and impenetrable as a flagstone. The information from the other end of the line (first from Lerner's lawyer, later from a police captain named Hennessy) had to come back by the same cross-African pathway.
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