Rebels of Babylon

by Parry, Owen

  TWAS NOT A pleasant question to answer. And I did not attempt to answer it for my host. Disappointing Mr. Barnaby near mortally, I insisted on returning to my hotel.

  Why did Miss Susan Peabody, late of Albany, New York, matter so much in the midst of a great rebellion? Only because her father was a wealthy man, and wealth bought power. I had been sent—ordered—to New Orleans as a personal favor to a rich fellow whose daughter got herself drowned in the Mississippi. It was a matter for a common policeman, not for a major in our Union Army. But the power of democracy does not rest unencumbered upon the ballot.

  I did not like the business one least bit.

  I had resolved to resign my commission and return to our dear Pottsville. I had not only had enough of war, but had seen more than enough of the crime war breeds. I wanted no more to do with corruption and murder, whether on a campaign or down an alley. I had almost reached the age of thirty-five, at which a man had better settle down.

  There was much else, as well. My darling was with child and soon to be delivered of her burden. For all I knew, at my remove from home, a second son or a daughter might already have been born to us—God grant the best of health to mother and child.

  And then there was our new fortune, to be frank. My darling and I had come up rich in the wake of a death in the family. And wealth wants attention. It will not mind itself. There was a fuss at the colliery over our coal lands. Even though Mr. Matthew Cawber himself gave matters his attention, he had far more to tend to than mining anthracite. Philadelphia claimed his first allegiance. I worried that my wife would be overwhelmed with the cares of business. Nor would she give up her dressmaking shop, but kept at that work, as well.

  I had tried to refuse the journey to New Orleans. You will think me hard, but in the midst of so much death I cared little for Miss Peabody, who was unknown to me. I wanted only to live my life, surrounded by those I loved, and to be loved in return. To go to work and to chapel, all steady and sound. I felt that I had given our Union enough.

  Mr. Seward went to work. Before he was done, Mr. Lincoln himself had ordered me South, with a smile that covered steel. He would not accept my resignation, but flattered me. Promising that, once the matter of Miss Peabody was settled, I might resign, if I still wished to do so.

  What did I know of Miss Peabody even now? Little more than Mr. Champlain did. Yes, she was plain. On that, all were agreed. Except, perhaps, her father, with whom I had an interview in Washington. He told me that his daughter had been an abolitionist since childhood. She had insisted, against his advice, on removing herself to New Orleans in the wake of its occupation. She meant to improve the condition of the negro, an intention her father thought giddy.

  “She was always a good girl,” he told me. “But headstrong, Major Jones. With all sorts of addled notions about the nigger. For which, I suppose, we have Mrs. Stowe to thank.”

  I made the voyage down on a Navy ship. The crew watched for blockade runners and I moped. I suspected that Miss Peabody’s abolitionist sentiments, once publicly displayed, had provoked some local no-good. And nothing more to it. Grumbling at the great waste of my time, I had already determined that her murder was so simple an affair a lieutenant could have unraveled it.

  My assumption did not survive my first day in New Orleans. I went to the boardinghouse that had sheltered Miss Peabody. It was a dour establishment, without the enticing kitchen smells or even the cleanliness of Frau Schutzengel’s house. Once her sympathies had become known, no genteel boardinghouse could accept Miss Peabody. And, of course, a woman traveling alone cannot seek a hotel.

  The matron of the house was a native of Newcastle-on-Tyne and no Confederate. As soon as I pronounced Miss Peabody’s name, she exploded my notions.

  “I shouldn’t wonder if the niggers done ’er in,” Mrs. Crawley told me. “I shouldn’t wonder at all. I never in my life met a lady nor even a gentleman what hated them so bad as Miss Peabody done.”

  DURING OUR RIDE back to the St. Charles Hotel, I was harsh to Mr. Barnaby.

  My brain was swirling, see. And my temper had grown imperious, fueled by the mean reappearance of my toothache. The sweets had told, and my spirit had grown sour.

  My thoughts careened. If Mr. Barnaby had not informed our authorities of my burial in that vault, who had? How many factions had interests in my business? Had Mr. Champlain’s extraordinary propositions been right? Even in part? Or was I being led astray, by one voice then another? What had changed Miss Peabody’s mind about the negro? If her mind truly had been changed? What had she desired, in her last days? Or in her final hours?

  My suspicions began to turn nasty.

  Precisely what, I asked myself, had Mr. Barnaby to do with my affairs? Why had he been helpful to an excess? If, indeed, he had been helpful. The truth was that I did not know him well, although I had liked what I knew of him. Had he abused my trust for his own ends? Was he involved in the Peabody affair? What did the fellow want from me, after all was said and done? I had seen him on his best behavior, serving his young master. But there was no sign of his master now. Why was Mr. Barnaby in New Orleans?

  I began to fear I had misjudged his character.

  “Mr. Barnaby?” I said.

  Our cab passed the muddy meridian that separates the squalor of the Vieux Carré from the broader streets and cleaner habits beyond.

  My companion had been drowsing. He sat up at the sound of his name.

  “Yes, sir? What is it, then, sir? I was only resting my eyelids, begging your pardon.”

  “Why have you been helping me?” I asked him straight out and no nonsense. “I don’t believe it’s simply out of friendship.”

  I could not see much of his face, but I had the unmistakable sense that the fellow blushed.

  “What are you after, Mr. Barnaby?” I pressed him. “What do you want from me? Why should I believe you want to help me?”

  Mr. Shakespeare understood the nastiness of suspicion. He warns us of false fears, again and again.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Barnaby began, in a pathetic, pleading voice, “if I been misleading you as to my purpose, Major Jones. I meant to tell you, I did. Only there ain’t ’ardly been a chance the evening through.”

  “The truth now, Mr. Barnaby. The truth is always best.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. No doubt of it, sir. As my father always said, God rest ’is soul. And ’is own father before ’im, what stood on this very ground, so to speak, with Pakenham, until they all run off together. ‘The truth’s always for the best,’ is what ’e said to me, ’except where the ladies are concerned, in which case a man must use ’is common sense.’ But that’s neither ’ere nor there, sir. About the ladies, I mean. They don’t ’ardly figure in the matter, as I can see.”

  “Just say it, Mr. Barnaby. Admit what you’re about!”

  “It’s a terrible thing, sir.”

  “Out with it, man! Just say the words and have them off your conscience.”

  Of a sudden, he changed. I could feel the atmosphere shift in the cab, as if a cold wind had blown down from the Khyber, when all the winds before had blown warm from the Indus.

  “It ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, I didn’t mean. I didn’t mean that at all, sir. It’s only that I needs your ’elp, and needs it terrible badly. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I seen you, sir, all trussed up like a pig for the knife and bundled into a dust-wagon. I likes to think I would’ve ’elped in any case, I do … but when I seen you packed away, I said to myself, ‘Mr. B., it’s your lucky day, this is! Major Jones is the very man to ’elp you!’”

  “And what, Mr. Barnaby, is the nature of the help you require?”

  “It’s Master Francis, sir,” he said despairingly. “Got ’imself captured, ’e did. While I was convalescing. Oh, I shall never forgive myself, I won’t. So I come down to New Orleans through the lines. ’Oping to find a means of communicating among your Yankees, sir. Some way to ’elp the poor lad, before ’e’s beyond ’elp. We’ve ’ad
one letter telling us ’e’s shut in a prison camp in Elmira, New York, and that conditions ain’t fit for the lowest beast.”

  The big fellow reached out through the dark and laid his hand on my wrist.

  “I thought per’aps, if I was a genuine ’elp to you, you might ’elp Master Francis in return. With all your ’igh connections up in Washington, of which you told us when we was riding together. I doesn’t want ’im to die up in Elmira, sir. Nor anyplace else. I’d sooner die myself, than see ’im buried.”

  He was in tears. “I’ll do anything you asks me to, if you’ll only do what you can for Master Francis. You’ll never figure New Orleans out on your own, sir, upon my father’s honor, and that of ’is father before ’im, rest ’em both. It’s like peeling a onion what’s growing layers faster than you can strip ’em. You needs a fellow like me to be your guide, sir. And all I ask is that you ’elp Master Francis, once you’re finished with all your murdering business.”

  FIVE

  SORRY I WAS TO HEAR OF THE YOUNG FELLOW’S capture. Even though he had worn the enemy’s gray. Lieutenant Raines, whom I had met in the course of a foul affair in Mississippi, was a splendid lad confounded by the times. Educated at Harvard College he was, and unlucky in love. A softly handsome boy, his charm was the sort that wins the girl, but loses the woman. Francis Drake Raines was an innocent—although he had killed other men in battle—and, truth be told, the ladies like a leavening of danger in their sweethearts. Although we think them made up of spun sugar, women have less fear in their hearts than men. Anyway, the boy was brave and silly. He fought because his fighting was expected, not least by his father, but the lad was not the sort who finds a taste for it. Perhaps his capture held a hidden blessing. He was the sort of lad that war devours, a student of theology who strayed.

  “It must be ’orrible up there in the snows,” Mr. Barnaby told me. “With ’ardly a blanket betwixt the sorry lot of them. And think of the terrible lonesomeness of their victuals …” At this, he patted his belly as if it were wounded. “I doesn’t think I’d last a week myself.”

  “Mr. Barnaby … I would like to help young Raines, but—”

  “Oh, would you, sir?” he cried with delight. “I calls that the act of a gentleman!”

  “—I must tell you a thing. And you must listen, see. I have it in mind to resign my commission upon my return to Washington. And that will not endear me to the powerful. I can but promise to put in an honest word. It may not—”

  “Oh, would you, sir? That’s all I asks. That’s all a gent could ask, sir, nothing more. I’ll take it as a bargain at the price, a capital bargain!”

  He shot his hand through the darkness and found mine.

  We rolled up to the St. Charles Hotel, where gas lamps burned through the bitter morning hours. The establishment quartered a number of our officers and a scattering of soldiers affected to guard it. But the lads only wanted relief from the sullen cold. They sheltered in doorways, clutching themselves, and would not have scared off a child with a wooden sword.

  I said goodnight and took me up the steps to the hotel, which looked a Roman temple in its glory. Great columns it had, and a face of solid granite. Its size might have housed a regiment, with room left over for a troop of horse. Only the Customs House, where our headquarters had been posted, outshone the place in grandeur of scale and pride.

  Still, times were hard in the city of New Orleans. It did not take experience to see it. In the pre-dawn hours the lobby looked forlorn as a looted village. It smelled of old cigars and wretched feet. Two guards drowsed in high-backed chairs, their rifles tipped to the wall, while the night clerk snored to fright Beelzebub.

  I was sour. My toothache had returned, like Banquo’s ghost.

  I do not like a toothache and would sooner consult a cobra than a dentist. The least thing makes me scold when a tooth annoys me.

  I gave those sleeping guards what for, warning that better men had been shot for less. Nor when I gathered my key from the clerk did I pretend to admire his lack of diligence.

  He passed me a letter from the provost marshal, expressing dismay at the trouble I had caused, along with a note from General Banks reminding me of our appointment.

  I owed our officials a proper explanation. But little there was I could do at four in the morning.

  I limped upstairs, with a hand on my jaw and no cane to aid my progress. Unarmed, I inspected every shadow and hang of drapery with an eye alert to assassins. I hesitated to enter my own room.

  But mine enemies had paused to rest themselves. No sign of danger hampered me in my approach to the bed I had been allotted. At a reasonable rate, I should add, with the prices watched by our military government.

  My Colt was still in its own bed, deep in my bag. I inspected the chambers, then set it near my pillow. After hurrying through my ablutions, I did not forget my prayers, although I will admit they were perfunctory. Except when I asked the Lord to stop my toothache, at which point I copied the bluntness of St. Paul.

  Given the hour, I did not pursue my nightly habit of writing to my darling, but only laid me down for a bit of a nap. Even my toothache could not keep me awake. Nor did I dream of devils or snakes, of violent struggles or even, God help me, of India. Morpheus swallowed all life’s fears and miseries.

  I slept.

  Now, I am an old bayonet and a veteran of John Company’s fusses. Schooled by creeping enemies, I rise before the dawn. I am as punctual as the Great Western Railway, as dependable as the Bank of England, and did not fear missing my appointment with General Banks, who commanded all of our forces in New Orleans. Twas fixed for eight o’clock, in the Customs House, but I rise well before that hour. Even after marching half the night.

  I did not rise with the lark that day. Nor with the sun or even with the city, which is Frenchified and slow to leave its bed.

  I woke to a pounding on my door that might have been a barrage from a dozen batteries. Leaping up, I reached for a ghostly musket, thinking myself in India again.

  Ripe, the light recalled me to the present. My spirit shriveled. I rushed to the door and undid the lock, with no regard for my rude state of undress.

  General Nathaniel P. Banks stood at my door. His glare might have slain the Basilisk and stopped Medusa cold.

  Now, General Banks is a fine-looking fellow, with blade-point eyes, a full mustache and a little goaty beard. Gallant of aspect he is, and pleasing to ladies. But he did not offer me a winning countenance.

  “You sorry, little bastard.” He pushed halfway into the room. “You sleeping one off? What the devil do you think you’re—”

  He stopped. Staring past my shoulder.

  “Who’s she?” he demanded.

  That was a question to which I had no answer. Even after I wheeled about and forced my eyes open wide enough to take in the brown lass cowering in the corner. All balled up she was, like a beaten child.

  Still, you saw at once that she was a woman.

  “You no-good bastard,” General Banks said in a quiet growl far harsher than a shout. “You were supposed to report an hour ago. And I find you bedded down with a high-yellow whore.”

  I was not “bedded down” with any creature. Nor did I believe the general had sufficient evidence to slander the young woman, who was fully, if simply, dressed.

  Nonetheless, I wondered what the lass was about myself. My face must have gone as red as a grenadier’s sleeves.

  “I’ve had enough of your tomfoolery, Jones,” General Banks informed me. “You had half the damned city in an uproar yesterday. More than half. Place looked like a damned battlefield. Undid half the good I’ve done since I got here.”

  His eyebrows rippled like two ranks in the attack. “I don’t care whose authority you have behind you, I won’t tolerate this. I won’t have it. I’m writing to Stanton today. And Seward. To Abe Lincoln himself, damn you. I’ll have you court-martialed, before I’m done with you.”

  He slapped a pair of gloves from one hand int
o the other, glanced at the lass again, grunted unpleasantly and stalked off down the hall.

  “Have that gimp-leg bastard in my office in thirty minutes,” he told his subordinates, one of whom was Captain Bolt from the boneyard.

  Bolt was the one who stepped forward to put a point on things.

  “I was you, Major,” he said. “I’d get dressed about now.”

  GET DRESSED I DID. In a hurry that would have suited a camp over-run by Pushtoons. And as I dressed, with the door shut on the soldiers, I turned to my uninvited, unwelcome guest.

  “Who are you, then?” I demanded. “What are you up to, Missy?”

  Along with a certain urgency in the kidneys, my toothache robbed my manners of civility.

  In response to my tone, the woman began to weep. Which I found unhelpful.

  I could not say who the creature was, or how she entered my room, or what she sought. And she, apparently, could not say it, either.

  She wept and made noises and cowered.

  I picked up the Colt to return it to its holster. The sight of the revolver made her shriek.

  God knows what the lads in the hall imagined. I have a gentle manner with the ladies, and keep my doings proper in every regard. But the soldiers beyond the door must have thought me nasty.

  Only one good thing come of her howl. Her jabber began to resemble human speech. Although the words had a worrisome, Frenchy sound.

  Yet, French is light, like a rapier. It sneaks and stabs. The young woman’s tone had a weight to suit a cutlass. Twas French and not French. I could not grasp a word.

  “I do not understand you,” I told her, with a hand on my sore cheek. “Nix verstehen,” I added, although that is German and did not help us much.