Rebels of Babylon

by Parry, Owen

  “How was Miss Peabody indiscreet, mum? What did she do?”

  “One doesn’t discuss such matters in society.”

  “I must ask you to be forthright, mum.”

  Her expression hardened. “Where should one begin? Miss Peabody had as little control of her tongue as she did of her temperament. She was socially impossible and had not been a week among us before she made herself unacceptable to all of the better families. After two weeks, the wives of shopkeepers would not receive her. In addition to her mad notions about the equality of the races and ‘universal ballots,’ she allowed herself to be swept away by rumors. To the effect that negroes were being spirited off. One couldn’t persuade her that it was simply a matter of runaway slaves disappointed in their new liberties, returning home as swiftly as their monkey’s legs could carry them. Nor was she content with publicizing her philosophy. She associated with actual negroes. In the public realm, sir. Her antics even distressed your fellow officers.”

  “Begging your pardon, mum, but it seems to me there’s a good deal of associating with negroes here in New Orleans.”

  Her voice grew tart as gooseberries. “One speaks of respectable society. One knows nothing of what may occur among those who have faltered. A lady does not inquire.”

  Now you will think me ill-tempered, and I will admit to an unaccustomed surliness, thanks to the needling pain nagging my jaw, but I almost replied that a lady does not lie, either. I could not believe that one such as Mrs. Aubrey knew nothing of the wicked goings-on in her city, where color seemed no barrier to sin. She was a woman of business, and such are never fooled, whether they stand at a counter or sit in a carriage. Yet, I held my tongue, for the devilish truth is that society could not exist if the truth were told at every twist and turn. And to the ladies of our South, lying seems a form of mental exercise. Like draughts played between Welshmen.

  I only hoped she would not lie about the things that mattered.

  “Could you be plainer, mum? About her indiscretions?”

  “Need one be?”

  “I’m afraid so, mum.”

  “Surely … as a gentleman … you would not press a lady to continue? If it distressed her?”

  “No one intends to distress you, see. But the girl is dead. And someone has to answer.”

  She winced at my indelicacy. Or, perhaps, at a memory of Miss Peabody.

  “One wasn’t especially surprised,” she said, “to learn the consequence of her misbehavior. Her father must be heartbroken, of course. But whatever can the man have thought, allowing such an unsteady girl so much freedom? To be enjoyed safely, Major Jones, a young woman’s freedom must be circumscribed. The wild rose is much over-praised. A gentleman prefers the hothouse orchid.”

  “Yes, mum. Why weren’t you surprised?”

  Mr. Barnaby stirred in his chair, leaning forward as far as his belly would let him.

  “Because of the negroes. One cannot consort with them. Except as mistress of the house, speaking to one’s servants, of course. Their inclinations are … brute.” Again I expected to see a blush, but her smooth cheek never colored. “One dreads to ask … is it … true … that her person was found in disarray?”

  “You believe that she was murdered by negroes, then?”

  “Murdered,” she whispered. “Such a horrid word. Yet … one fears it may be too gentle for her suffering.” She wafted her fine-cut face from side to side, trailing her weepers. “If only she had listened to one’s advice …”

  “And what advice did you give her, mum?”

  The widow straightened her ever-straight back until she sat like a mortified sergeant-major. “To begin, one told her to rid herself of that … that hussy of a maid she took up. A creature from one of those islands. The thing couldn’t even speak French. Or a word of English. And she bore the unmistakable countenance of dishonesty.” The widow leaned a split of an inch toward me. “One learns to read servants at a glance. Susan … that is, Miss Peabody … would not be warned. She told me she pitied the creature.”

  Mrs. Aubrey’s features tightened, as if she had found a dead mouse in her porridge. “One doesn’t pity servants, Major Jones. One trains them. Anything more or less is a disservice to all concerned. Yet, Miss Peabody embraced this wanton girl, as if we all were characters in a romance.”

  “You believe, then, that this maidservant had something to do with her death?”

  “One cannot draw a firm conclusion. One does not wish to be unjust. But one would not be surprised if the little creature were complicit in Miss Peabody’s misfortune.”

  Of course, I thought of the queer girl in my room. Who could not speak to make herself understood. The girl who was so afraid of the Lord knew what that she threw herself down and all but kissed my boots.

  “And what, if I may ask, mum, did this servant girl look like? Did she have a name, then?”

  My ignorance disappointed Mrs. Aubrey. “Major Jones … colored servants do not have names. They are given names. As to the creature’s appearance, she was as unfortunate in that regard as Susan herself—oh, that was unkind.”

  “You mean she was plain?”

  “Yes. She was plain.”

  “Small or large, would you say?”

  “Small. The small ones are the thieves. But there you have it. Truly, Major Jones … one wishes to assist our government. Now that it has been returned to us. But one has appointments.”

  “Begging your pardon, mum … you said you had to turn her away from your door. Would that have been the night you saw her last? Was it the night of her murder?”

  She looked as disgusted as a princess forced to scrub a latrine.

  “It was late afternoon. Not yet evening. She called in broad daylight, with a fancy darky in tow. She actually took the beast’s arm, after the houseboy turned her away. How could she ever have imagined that one would receive her? The child had thrown away her last shred of reputation. Parading down the street with a nigger beau.” She shut her eyes, reliving the horror. “People know there was a family tie, however distant. Even with one’s standing in society, one shall never quite live down the shame.”

  “This negro with her … did you learn his name?”

  She blushed at last. “The party was not admitted. The matter has been explained.”

  “What did he look like, then?

  The fury of Jeremiah claimed her eyes.

  “He looked,” she said, “like a preening animal.”

  WE RODE TOWARD the heart of the city in darkness thickened by mist off the swamps and river. Our driver took a different course from the one that had delivered us to Mrs. Aubrey and for a time we traded gaslamps for torches by the wayside. Twas an Irish slum by the shipping channel, whose residents did not regard us happily. I noted that the provost marshal’s guards were nowhere evident. The very air seemed truculent, and all the world unhappy.

  I am a man whose disdain for the Irish has softened over time, not least after the valor they showed at Fredericksburg. But I would not have liked to go for a stroll among the ragged Hibernians of New Orleans.

  “She’s rich as the Duke of Westminster on the day the rents are collected,” Mr. Barnaby said as our cab creaked on. “They say she didn’t lose a single riverboat, not even a bale of cotton, to confiscations after the city fell. Rumor ’as it that General Butler’s brother and ’er was thicker together than mash on a shepherd’s pie. Nobody knows ’ow many ships she ’as to ’er name, but they claims she ’as a better business ’ead than old Aubrey ever did, rest ’is soul.”

  “I do not think she told us all the truth,” I said idly. Queer it was. I had not meant to say such a thing aloud. I had been toying with my new cane and musing between jolts of pain. I was not certain my words were understood, but once a Welshman begins to speak he is apt to continue. “What she said about that servant girl, I mean. About the lass being ‘from one of those islands.’ Look you. If Mrs. Aubrey had a nautical husband and is herself in the business of ships and cargoe
s, she would recall the island’s name. It is a name she did not wish to say.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t let that trouble you, sir, you mustn’t let that trouble you at all!” Mr. Barnaby answered. “I wouldn’t trust a lady who told the truth the first time you asked ’er for it. Not ’ere in New Orleans, sir. It just ain’t done. There’s nothing so distasteful to a lady—whether in the Quarter or on the American side—as telling the truth right out. They sees it as unbecoming.”

  I heard the driver’s lazy whip and a desultory whinny. Earnestly desiring to help me understand matters, Mr. Barnaby leaned close enough for me to smell a staleness.

  “It’s this way, sir: If you was to ask a New Orleans lady if she ’ad been to a shop, right after you seen ’er going in and coming out of one, she’d reply ’ow she’d been to the ’ouse of a friend or off for a promenade. On principle, sir, on principle.” The fellow snugged his coat against the evening chill. “A gentleman about town would never expect a lady to tell ’im the truth for the asking. And ’e’d be terrible disappointed if she did.” He thought for a moment. “Although I suspect there was bits of truth to be picked from all she said. There usually is. It’s ’ow they likes to tease us, bless my soul.”

  “Lying is immoral. And improper. And she is an Englishwoman by birth. That ought to count for something.”

  “All’s one, all’s one, sir. Englishwoman or China girl with an opium pipe, once they comes to New Orleans and spies out the lie of the land, it’s like they woke up and found themselves in ’Eaven, begging your pardon. There’s no place makes a lady as ’appy to be a woman as our New Orleans, sir. ’Igh or low, they takes to lying quicker than a spaniel to a duck pond. Comes natural to ’em, it does.” The poor, benighted fellow even smiled. “I doesn’t say as it would do anywhere else, sir. But a pleasant lie or two just suits our ladies. They puts ’em on and takes ’em off like gloves.”

  “And if the lies are not pleasant? The things Mrs. Aubrey suggested were not pretty ones.”

  Our cab drew up at a row of commercial buildings that bore no slightest resemblance to my hotel.

  “All the easier then, sir, all the easier! You just separates out anything nice she might ’ave said, which would never be true when spoke of another woman, and the wicked things are likely to be ’alf right. It’s all a formula, sir, like mathematics, and they’re just born knowing it some’ow. A lady knows ’ow much of a lie she can mix in with the truth and get away with it. I suspects you’ll figure it out, clever as you been. But ’ere we are, sir, ’ere we are at last!”

  “And where, exactly, is it that we are?”

  He looked at me with incomparable pity. “At the dentist’s, sir. At a proper dentist’s, is what I mean. At Dr. Dostle’s, sir, right ’ere on St. Joseph’s Street. Dr. Dostle’s a Union man. ’E’ll put your mouth to rights.”

  Dread seized me. I must have gone as white as Mrs. Aubrey. I would have preferred to plunge into a pit of unhappy serpents, rather than have to do with another dentist.

  Mr. Barnaby took me by the arm. Firmly.

  “You ’as to come along now, Major Jones. You ’as me worried as to all what’s been done to you. And you’re bleeding again. Be careful of your coat, sir, careful does it.”

  “GREAT GOD ALMIGHTY!” Dr. Dostle exclaimed, “a drunkard butchering a hog would’ve done a cleaner job. If you don’t die of gas gangrene, you’ll be the lucky man out of a hundred.”

  The fellow inspected my mouth with the aid of a mirrored lamp. His office was as clean and bright as a Welsh wife’s parlor on Sunday and, although he was almost as short as I am myself, his grip was strong and confident. Even his clothing was of quality and neat, except for a few spots of blood upon his shirtfront. I should have felt myself in good hands. But all I felt was terror.

  “We’ll have to rip those stitches out,” he told me, “and do the job properly.”

  Mr. Barnaby shook his head, just at the edge of my vision. “’E went to Dr. Fielding, sir. I didn’t ’ave time to stop ’im.”

  Dr. Dostle shook his head. “That man should be incarcerated. For the quality of his dentistry, as well as for his political convictions. A born traitor. And a born botch. If that man’s a real dentist, he’s a dentist I wouldn’t let near my horse. Pass me that implement just behind you there, Mr. B. The one with the hook on it. The sharp one. No, the bigger one. It’s the craziest thing—I can’t get my Ulysses to leave that shack of his to help me. After all the training I’ve given him, all the time I’ve spent. He’s so afraid he won’t come out in the daytime. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any hope for them, after all.”

  He looked into my mouth again, then straightened in disgust. Lofting an ominous tool.

  At least it was not rusted like Dr. Fielding’s appliances.

  “I can put you out with ether,” he told me. “Otherwise, it’s going to hurt a parcel.”

  I shook my head. Given my recent experiences, I felt an even greater fear of unconsciousness than I did of the dental profession.

  “Well,” Dr. Dostle said wistfully, “I can’t force a man to see what’s good for him, can I? Open wide.”

  He bent to his work, smelling of cologne water and, faintly but unmistakably, of blood.

  Speaking to my companion again, Dr. Dostle returned to his own concerns. “Ulysses has become a disappointment. Hiding under his bed like that. Leaving me without any help in the office.”

  I groaned.

  “What are we going to do with them now, I wonder?” the dentist asked. “If Uly’s any indication of what to expect? The poor devil’s got the windows barred with planks and his shades drawn tight. Didn’t even want to let me in. He said he had to be certain I hadn’t been transformed into some kind of spook. ‘Fixed,’ he called it. Like he was talking about a gelding. Rambling on about how that Marie Venin has loosed the ‘Grand Zombi’ to drag them all off to his kingdom under the earth. They ought to lock that woman up, too. Along with Doc Fielding. Although I’m not sure her voodoo nonsense is any worse than his dentistry.”

  I shrieked.

  Permitting me a moment’s respite, the dentist said, “Just calm down, now. Great God almighty, man. Jumping up and down only makes it worse.” He shifted his voice, though not his face, back to Mr. Barnaby. “Old Uly’s so scared you’d think he was a drunk dying of the trembles. Swears the Grand Zombi’s going to grab him in the dark and carry him off. Hold still now! That thread’s going to rot your jaw off, if I don’t get it all out. Mr. B., hand me that rag, will you? No. The one with the blood on it.”

  The mopping and slopping did not interrupt the fellow’s narration. “It’s the funniest thing you ever heard, listening to that poor, old darky talk. Me thinking I had him half civilized and nearly trained to be a dentist himself. At least one good enough to work on his own people. Hold still, we’re almost done. He swears that Yankee girl started it all and forced Marie Venin to turn the spirits loose. That girl who wanted to say her piece at the Union meeting, the one the boys shouted down. The one who washed up buck naked on the levee.”

  The dentist sighed. “That’s what happens when white women fiddle with voodoo.”

  EIGHT

  I WAS NOT AT THE TOP OF MY FORM WHEN WE returned to the St. Charles Hotel. Indeed, I felt I had been through a battle and was not confident that my side had won. My head seemed heavier than a stone and, to my shame, I staggered across the lobby like a man debauched by liquor. Stunned by pain I was, and most unhappy.

  There was blood on my new clothing, after all, although I hoped a scrub would draw it out.

  Mr. Barnaby promptly got the better of Captain Bolt, who was full of questions regarding my activities. A brisk account of my dental adventures, retailed by Mr. Barnaby, soothed the fellow. As long as I was miserable, the captain seemed content. His mental artillery was not of impressive calibre.

  Pain wearies a man profoundly. Had I less faith and discipline, I might have indulged in whisky.

  Mr. Barnaby led me to my room,
only to pause unexpectedly on the threshold. Just for a moment, he stiffened like a dog catching a scent. I bumped into the broad expanse of his coat.

  An oath leapt to my lips, although I do not think it was intelligible.

  Murmuring excuses for his awkwardness, Mr. Barnaby hastened to the gas fixture and turned up the flame. It shed a merry light that worsened my mood.

  I shut the door with needless force. And turned to find my companion weeping bitterly. With his shoulders slumped and his long face hanging down.

  It astonished me to see tears stream into his whiskers. Pain makes us selfish, see. When we hurt, we imagine that we are not merely the center, but all the circumference of the world. We do not spare a thought for our brother’s misery. His agony elicits, at most, a grunt.

  Something had disarmed poor Mr. Barnaby. Ever a great one for manners and doing things properly, he did not stand on ceremony now. He plumped his bottom down on the bed and the whole contraption creaked. His countenance shimmered with sorrow. An explosion of tears it was. He hid his eyes behind a hand, sobbing like a broken-hearted Samson.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  The big fellow shook his head. Weeping so hard that teardrops spotted his waistcoat. He wanted to talk, to explain, for he was ever an obliging sort of man. But his suffering drove his power of speech to mutiny.