Jubilee Trail

by Gwen Bristow

  “Oh yes! Mother, he’s wonderful.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Pauline. “Sit down here by me, Garnet.”

  She drew up a chair, and Garnet sat down on the hassock again. Pauline held her hand.

  “I want you to be happy, Garnet,” Pauline said softly. “I want you to be happy always.”

  This time her voice had a little quiver. Garnet looked up in astonishment. Her mother was always so busy and cheerful. But now, in spite of her efforts, there were tears in her eyes.

  “Mother,” Garnet exclaimed, “are you—are you crying?”

  “I’m afraid I am.” The tears trembled on Pauline’s eyelids. She took out her handkerchief and wiped them away. “I’m sorry,” she said, and managed to smile. “I thought I’d done all the crying I was going to do. But—it’s so far away, Garnet!”

  Garnet threw her arms around her mother’s waist. “Mother, you’re so good! I don’t know how to say this—but so many girls’ mothers would be pacing the floor and carrying on—but you don’t.”

  “No, Garnet, I don’t and I never will,” Pauline said firmly. “You’ve heard your father and me talk about the trouble we had getting married. We laugh about it now. But it wasn’t funny then. I loved my parents. I remember it—the nights I lay awake and sobbed till morning, the days I was so nervous I couldn’t hold a fork at table. And all because he hadn’t a dollar and they didn’t know who his grandfather was.” She stroked Garnet’s black hair. “And I remember too, when they told me my baby was a girl, I thought: whatever happens, she’s not going through what I did to get the man she wants. Unless he’s an utter reprobate, she can have him.”

  Pauline was not crying any more. But Garnet was.

  As soon as she could speak, Garnet promised that she would be very, very good. She would write home every chance she got. She would write from New Orleans, from Independence, and again from Santa Fe. One of the returning traders would bring her letter while she went on to California. And if there was a Yankee ship in port at San Diego, she would send a letter by the captain.

  Next year, Oliver would bring her back to New York. Then they would live just like other people. Oliver would manage the New York office of his uncle’s shipping company. They would have a house like this one, and a carriage. She would do everything right. Her mother and father would never, never have any reason to be sorry they had let her marry Oliver. And she would always love them, better than she loved anybody in the world but Oliver, because they were so good and wise.

  Garnet and Oliver were married in the parlor of her home in Union Square. His uncle came down from Boston for the ceremony. The elder Mr. Hale was a ruddy, jovial man, and Garnet liked him. He told her how glad he was that she was going to bring Oliver back home. He had no sons of his own, and he had always wanted one of his nephews to take over the business when he got old.

  The other guests were astounded, or doubtful, or puzzled, or—Garnet caught it here and there—envious. These last ones shook hands with Oliver, and made the proper remarks of congratulation, and added, almost bashfully, “You know, I used to think when I was younger—those ships that go out to Asia around Cape Horn—what is this country again, Mr. Hale?”

  “California,” Oliver said politely.

  “Yes, yes. Is that near India? Well, well. Good luck, young man.”

  Garnet began to understand what her father had said about Americans. She wondered why more of them hadn’t had the nerve to do what they wanted to do.

  Three hours after the wedding reception, Garnet and Oliver took the coastwise boat for New Orleans. The boat left from the end of Wall Street. There was a bitter wind blowing, and the fog on the East River made it hard to see the outlines of the city. Garnet and Oliver stood on deck, watching through the gathering gloom.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Garnet. “I’m on my way to California. Before I see New York again—”

  The wind blew the rest of her words down her throat. Oliver smiled at her. She was wrapped in a heavy fur-trimmed mantle, and her hands were tucked into a muff. Little tendrils of black hair were blowing out from the edge of her bonnet. The wind had made her cheeks red as apples. Oliver put his head down close to hers so she could hear what he was saying.

  “Garnet, darling, I haven’t got the faintest idea what sort of husband I’ll make. I didn’t hear half the minister said. So I suppose I’ve promised a lot that I don’t even know about. But I love you.”

  “I love you too,” she said.

  She looked up at him. Oliver’s face was aglow with teasing mischief.

  “And by the way,” he continued.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a variety theater in New Orleans, something like the Jewel Box. Probably even naughtier, if I know anything about New Orleans. I’ve never been to this theater, but I’m told it’s quite spectacular. We’ll go to see the show as soon as we get to town.”

  “Oliver!” She gasped with delight that he should have remembered. “You mean really?”

  “Yes, I mean really. I mean—” Oliver laughed softly. “I mean, darling, you’re finally unwrapped from the pink tissue paper and out of the closet.”

  FOUR

  THE JOURNEY TO NEW Orleans took two weeks. Garnet had never been so far from New York before.

  New Orleans was strange and enchanting. The air was like silk, and the noises were not quite there, like music played in a room with damp walls. Garnet and Oliver stayed at a hotel several blocks above Canal Street, where Oliver extravagantly took a suite of two rooms.

  As for Oliver, he was simply wonderful. Garnet had loved him very much when she married him, but she hadn’t been able to imagine how much fun it was going to be to have him with her all the time. Oliver was an ardent but considerate lover. He liked her the way she was, and had not the faintest wish for her to pretend to be anything she wasn’t. He answered all her questions, he took her everywhere she wanted to go, whether it was proper or not. She saw the docks, the warehouses, the dark narrow streets; and he took her to dine in funny little restaurants where the tables were covered with red-checked tablecloths and nobody spoke English but themselves. And one morning, when they had been there a week, he told her that this evening they would go to see the show he had promised her. The theater was in the old part of town, below Canal Street. It was called the Flower Garden.

  Oliver was very busy that day, getting his goods unloaded and repacked. But she was not lonely. She went shopping, and bought a lot of things she didn’t need, just for the fun of prowling around the stores.

  He came back at dark and took her to dinner, but she was too excited to eat. And then they got dressed, and Oliver went down to order a carriage, and she waited for him, looking at herself in the mirror. And then at last, the door opened and Oliver came in, saying,

  “Ready?”

  Garnet turned around from the mirror. The lamplight danced over her as she turned. She had on a white satin evening dress and white gloves, and the garnet necklace her grandfather had given her when she was born. The blue lights flashed in her black hair, and her cheeks were rosier than ever, for she was so thrilled that she could feel her heart bouncing in her chest. Oliver smiled and made a bow.

  “The carriage waits, madame.”

  Little ripples of anticipation ran up and down her back like merry teasing fingers. She tucked her hand into the bend of his arm and they went downstairs.

  The carriage stood in front of the hotel entrance. They climbed in, and as the hackman shut the door Oliver said to Garnet,

  “Stay close to me when we get there.”

  She promised. Oliver chuckled and explained,

  “I’m not trying to keep you from seeing everything. But New Orleans is the wickedest port this side of Marseille. It’s just not safe for you to be alone.”

  Garnet tingled with adventure. He went on,

  “And if anybody speaks to you, don’t answer. Just give him a withering look. You know how to do that.”

  “Y
es, I know how to do that,” Garnet said, laughing under her breath. “That’s one thing they did teach me at Miss Wayne’s Select Academy.”

  The carriage crossed Canal Street and turned down into the area near the docks. The streets in this part of town were dim. The air was heavy with strange odors from the shipping in the river. The carriage went slowly, bumping over cobbled pavements too old for comfort.

  Oliver said teasingly, “It’s a good thing you’ve never been in New Orleans before. If you lived here, you might embarrass some of your most gallant dancing partners this evening.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “By recognizing them,” he said, “in company with girls who aren’t at all like you.”

  Garnet was not sure what he meant. He explained that a great many wealthy men kept lodgings in this part of town for women of the sort that ladies like herself were not supposed to think about. Garnet was thrilled. She had never seen any women like that.

  “And by the way,” Oliver continued, “when we get to the theater, you’ll notice that half the women in the audience aren’t white. Don’t show any surprise.”

  “You mean there’ll be Negro slaves at the theater?” she asked, puzzled.

  “No, free quadroons. They’re the most expensive mistresses in New Orleans. Some of them are very beautiful.”

  Garnet gave a little excited shiver. This was really what it meant to be a woman of the world. She glanced at Oliver. Here inside the carriage there was very little light, but she could see his merry eyes and his look of amused sophistication. She was proud to have such an escort.

  The carriage came to a halt. They got out, and Garnet looked around.

  They were in front of a large brick building, with a wide entrance through which she could see brilliant lights. Over the entrance were two wrought-iron lamps. Between the lamps was a sign bearing the words, “Le Jardin des Fleurs,” and underneath, “Flower Garden.”

  Other carriages were driving up, leaving gentlemen in black capes, and women who looked very graceful in the semi-darkness. There was a jumble of voices, some speaking in English and some in French, and others in languages Garnet had never heard before. Several groups of sailors were approaching on foot. With them were girls, and these girls were not attractive at all. They laughed and talked in loud raucous voices, and as they came nearer Garnet’s nostrils caught the smell of stale whiskey. Oliver wiggled his nose derisively, and led her inside.

  While he paused to get the tickets, she looked around again.

  It was the most splendid theater lobby she had ever seen. The carpet was soft and deep, and the light came from three cut-glass chandeliers with crystal droplets. On the walls she saw two life-size paintings of women in very scanty gauze draperies. One of them was lying on a scarlet rug; the other was picking flowers in a remarkable meadow where asters, poppies, daisies, and peach blossoms were all in their prime together. Garnet looked at the pictures, and looked away. She hoped nobody had noticed the start she had given at the sight of so much nakedness right out in public.

  The lobby was full of people. Evidently those who were going to the cheaper seats had to use another door, for everyone here was well dressed. They all seemed to know one another. The men were greeting their friends, the women were laughing and tapping each other’s shoulders with their fans. Except that they were making more noise, Garnet thought at first that they were not much different from an audience at the Park Theater in New York. But then she noticed that there were many more men than women. And Oliver had been right about the women. They were graceful and they were gorgeously dressed, but at least half of them were not white.

  So these were the quadroons. Though Oliver had warned her, Garnet watched them in amazement. Some of them were beautiful indeed. They had skin like coffee with lots of cream, large dark eyes, black hair piled up with flowers and jewels. Many of them had such clear Caucasian features that they looked like white beauties who had darkened their skins for theatricals.

  Garnet felt suddenly shy. She wondered if anybody who looked at her couldn’t tell right away that she didn’t belong in this array of expensive sin. Just then a handsome young fellow caught sight of her, and paused. He smiled at her, asking,

  “Alone this evening?”

  She started, and froze him with her eyes. Oliver turned from the ticket-window.

  “She’s not alone,” he said sternly.

  “Oh, sorry, my error,” said the young stranger. He went on inside. Garnet drew closer to Oliver.

  Oliver took her arm, smiling. “You did that very well,” he said.

  “Did I?” She laughed delightedly. Oliver gave her arm a squeeze as he looked over the lobby.

  “What do you bet,” he whispered, “that the star of this show is a dazzling blond?”

  “Why?”

  “Rarity,” said Oliver. “Come on in. I’ve taken a table right under the stage.”

  Garnet did not understand what he meant by a table. In the theaters she had visited, the audience had sat in rows of seats. But when they went in she saw that the main floor of this theater was provided with rows of tables, each with its own group of chairs. Girls were walking among them selling drinks. The men already seated fondled the girls’ arms and slapped at their skirts, and the girls didn’t mind. Sometimes they laughed and sometimes they paid no attention. Above the main floor was a balcony, but evidently the more expensive seats were around the tables, for it was here that the best-dressed spectators were taking their places.

  A young man, who looked bored with the whole business, took their tickets. He led them to a table for two, just in front of the stage as Oliver had promised. Garnet sat down, holding the printed program he had given her.

  She looked up at the scarlet curtains hiding the stage. The footlights flickered behind metal reflectors, throwing lights and shadows over the curtains. The orchestra began a lively tune. Garnet spread out her program on the table before her. By the light from the stage she read that the first performers would be the Barotti Brothers, Jugglers of International Renown. After this would come An Array of Famous Beauties Never Equaled on This Continent. Below these words, in a line of fancy capitals reaching across the page, was the single name JULIETTE LA TOUR.

  Garnet wondered if Juliette La Tour was the dazzling blond Oliver had prophesied. Before she could read any farther, Oliver’s voice interrupted,

  “She wants to know what we’re drinking.”

  Garnet looked up. A waitress was standing by their table. On one arm she carried a basket of bottles, and with the other arm she held a tray of glasses balanced against her hip. She was not as young or as pretty as Garnet thought she should be: she had a hard face with a line between the eyebrows, and her voice was raspy as she announced,

  “Sauterne, burgundy, claret, champagne, cognac, whiskey, ice two dollars extra, or est-ce que vous parlez français, monsieur?”

  “No, English,” said Oliver. “Shall it be champagne, Garnet?”

  Garnet nodded happily. The girl whisked two hollow-stemmed glasses from her tray and set them on the table. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.

  A couple of other corks popped behind them. A moment later their waitress returned with the bottle in its bucket of ice. She released the cork, while Garnet watched, wondering if she could ever learn to do it so expertly. The cork popped, and shot up toward the ceiling. Garnet caught it as it fell.

  “I’m going to keep this,” she exclaimed.

  The cynical lips of the waitress parted in a smile. “First time here, sweetheart?” she asked.

  “Why yes. And it’s lovely.”

  The girl poured the champagne. Her eyes gave Garnet a humorous challenge. “Haven’t seen Juliette, then?”

  “Juliette? Oh, the one whose name is in big letters on the program? No, I’ve never seen her.”

  “Nor you either, mister?” she asked. Oliver shook his head, and the waitress glanced back at Garnet. “Look out, dearie,” she warned.

  Oliver ha
nded her a bill and told her to keep the change. “Thanks,” said the girl, and she smiled at Garnet. “Bon soir, mademoiselle,” she said as she went off.

  Garnet stared after her. “Oliver! She called me mademoiselle!”

  “Naturally,” said Oliver, with a grin.

  Garnet’s wedding ring was hidden by her glove, but she demanded, “Do I look like a girl who—who’d be in a place like this with a man she wasn’t married to?”

  “Do you want me to take you home?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then shut up,” Oliver said merrily.

  Garnet felt a delicious naughty excitement. They raised their glasses. The champagne tingled against the excited quivers in her throat. “Suppose I get tipsy?” she asked.

  “I’ll take care of you. Go ahead.”

  “Imagine,” said Garnet, “just imagine, me being married to a man who’ll say that.”

  The orchestra changed to a louder tune and the curtains began to part. Garnet turned toward the stage. She saw a flowered backdrop, before which the renowned Barotti Brothers, in tights of red and yellow, were bowing to the audience.

  The Barotti Brothers tossed plates around and caught them on sticks, and balanced sticks and plates on their noses. They did it with great skill, but few of the spectators paid them much attention. People were still coming in, and the buzz of voices was loud in spite of the music. The Barottis were just here to get the show started. Garnet liked them, but as she had seen acts like this before she was not greatly impressed. The audience was not impressed either, but it was a good-humored gathering, and the jugglers got a good round of applause when they were done.

  By this time most of the chairs were occupied. The customers were settling down to sip their drinks and enjoy the show. The next number was the Array of Famous Beauties, a dozen chorus girls all dressed alike in green. They whirled up their skirts to show a greater display of legs than Garnet had ever seen before in a public place, while they sang a song about being in love with several men at once and finding it very confusing. A man in the balcony shouted, “Pick ’em up, sisters!” Everybody thought this was very funny, and a lot of others began to chant with the music, “Pick ’em up, sisters, pick ’em up, sisters!” Garnet thought the dance was quite revealing enough without any extra picking up of skirts.