by Parry, Owen
He growled again, more fiercely. There was such desperation in the sound that no words I have learned can tell its intensity.
“Beware … fishers of men,” he said, and died.
NINE
MY DESIRE TO LEAVE THE VICTIM’S HOUSE DISAPPOINTED Mr. Barnaby. He rather liked the rumpus of detective work and seemed to think I should upend the furniture and turn over the carpets. But life is hardly a novel from Mr. Collins. The murderers would have purged the rooms, leaving behind false items to tease and mislead me. If hints of guilt there were, they would have required an eye more diligent and a mind less worn than mine.
I found a few sheets of paper in a secretary, along with a pair of nicely sharpened pencils. To rest my jaw, I scribbled out some questions for Mr. Barnaby. All the while, the lass cowered in the hall.
I will give you our conversation as if I spoke my part, although I only scrawled it.
“The lass will need a place to sleep. Can you see to her?”
He looked at the girl, then looked at me, then looked down at his shoes. Blushing. Having been a gentleman’s gentleman, his sense of shame ran deeper than a lord’s. He could not bring his eyes back up to mine.
“I fears it wouldn’t do, sir. The truth is … things ain’t rosy. We’re poor, these days, sir, poor, though proud as ever. There’s no work to be ’ad, not even temp’ree. I’ve been ‘dining out,’ as they say, and surviving on the mercies of my friends. Oh, friends is a glorious thing, sir, and I’m proud to say I ’ave some. But I sleeps in a sort of closet, at the moment. I ’ardly fits in it myself. It’s in a low sort of place, where I wouldn’t like to take you. To say nothing of a cultured lady’s maid. It wouldn’t be safe nor proper. Begging your pardon.” He briefly lifted his eyes, but they failed him again. “I’d be ashamed, sir. Terrible ashamed.”
“She cannot stay in the hotel.”
He brightened a bit at that, for he knew his city. “Oh, that she could, sir, that she could! Without no improprieties considered. They’ll make a face or two, sir, and pretend that it ain’t done. But all they wants is a little tip to put a bit of beefsteak under their salt.”
He looked at me and it was queer, but all at once I saw the fellow differently. Older he seemed than ever I thought, and worn through like the elbow of a jacket. He had an India-rubber face that fooled you. As long as his body was wide, that face seemed made for mortal man’s amusement. You saw the merry mask and not the soul.
An hour before, he had wept over his loneliness. Now he smiled and only looked the lonelier.
I always looked at his face, that was the thing of it. Or at his general bulk. Despite his girth, his clothing was ever of a flawless order that tricked the eye into paying it no attention. I looked, but failed to see. Now, by cruel lamplight, with the smell of death pungent as India, I noted that his lapels were worn to a shine and his cuffs were frayed.
“You ’as to understand New Orleans,” he assured me. “When all is said and done, a good many things is done what ain’t to be said. We’ll get ’er a nice servant’s room in the ’otel, if nothing better. And you’ll ’ave one of your own without secret passages.”
I looked at that great, fat, diligent man and remembered that he had not eaten his dinner. Myself, I had not taken a bite since those sweets the night before. Even though I am fond of my victuals as a rule, the nastiness in my jaw forbid the eating.
Mr. Barnaby was due for a feeding, though. And the lass was thin as a Hindoo.
I wrote instructions to Captain Bolt to post guards on the house, then took the lass and Mr. Barnaby off in our cab. Now, you will think me wasteful and extravagant, but I invited Mr. Barnaby to take a hotel room at my expense. I presented it as a practical matter of business, since I might discover an urgent need of his services.
The good fellow declined. “All’s one, sir, all’s one. Though it’s a gentleman you are for thinking so kindly. A pallet’s as good as a palace, if not better. Discipline and ’ardship builds the character! That’s what my father before me always said. I was a soldier myself, if you recalls, sir. Although I ate my way out of the profession. No, sir, no. Charity won’t do, and I won’t ’ave it. All I wants of you, sir, is to see what can be done for Master Francis. Once your affairs in New Orleans is concluded. ’Ave no worries about old Barnaby B. Barnaby, sir. Barnaby always comes right, ’e does, as sure as the Queen loves Scotland.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “But do what you can for the lass, sir. If I’m a judge of persons, as I likes to think I am, she ain’t a bad one.”
The fellow had his pride, if in his humble way. Even though his habits were irregular, I must admit I was ever disposed to like him.
He smiled and mastered a tear. “But ’ere we are, sir, ’ere we are! Back at your ’otel, where you can gather yourself.”
The truth is that I dearly wanted sleep. The past two days had been a pageant of miseries. I wished to quit my companion and the girl, to flee to a darkened room and coddle my jaw. To forget all that had been done and wanted doing.
But a man who turns from duty has no worth.
I had to see to the lass’s comfort and to Mr. Barnaby’s feeding. And my duty it was to pry out her tale before I took me to bed. The truth is that the city was so wicked the poor girl might not live to see the dawn.
HER NAME WAS Magdalena, and she had a tale to tell.
Born a slave she was, on one of those bedeviled islands still possessed by Spain in freedom’s hemisphere. Her father was a grandee and a drunkard, her mother a lady’s slave with whom the gentleman interfered. Her plainness had been evident in childhood and so had her resemblance to her father, who sold her off at a loss to see her gone. Twas thus she left Santiago and sailed to San Juan with a señora who found her price notably more attractive than her person. An unexpected blessing it was that the lass had nimble fingers and could sew as finely as a Seville lacemaker. She had proved deft at other things, as well, clever at grasping the point of social rituals and reading the desires of her mistress before they come quite clear to the lady herself.
She never heard again of her captive mother and found no happy welcome in the household where a deed of sale had placed her. Yet, smiles, not sulks, win favor, and she knew it. She made herself of use at every turn and even learned to read—alas, not through the Bible, which the Spaniard imprisons in Latin. She created a world within herself, as slaves must do if they will not go mad, and grew so accustomed to believing that all her mistress’s possessions were her own that it shocked her to be reminded now and then that she was a prisoner, owning little more than a change of linens.
She learned, of course, of voodoo, of Candomblé and the myriad cults of Africa that promise special succor to the slave. Such doctrines were ever present among the tormented. But she was won for Christ through the Roman church and never wavered. Although denied the Gospels on the page, the passion of Our Lord adorned her thoughts. Instead of celebrating heathen rites, she prayed she might be freed to become a nun.
She sewed and dressed her mistress and served coffee. She was not often beaten.
Can you and I imagine what it means to be enslaved? To go for a soldier is hard enough, taking orders from dullards and madcap lieutenants, yet even a soldier has his joys and his precious hours of freedom. But to be born a slave and live thereafter in subservience and unrelenting bondage … even for a negro that must be hard. For who does not yearn to do as he himself wants, instead of as another wants him to do? Who could bear to love, only to have his family torn asunder because the master’s son lost much at cards and a slave sold off brought less pain than pawning a brooch?
Freedom is a wondrous thing. I do not suggest that the negro is, in general, of the white man’s practical worth or high intelligence. Yet, think on what Mr. Shakespeare has old Shylock say, then set the tortured darky in his place. Hath not a negro eyes, hath not a negro hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions, fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons?
I have observed
a number of negroes myself. They felt the same emotions as a duke.
Shall we believe God damns us at our birth, by darkening our skin and curling our hair? The man who subscribes to such beliefs might as well be a Presbyterian.
This war of ours has led me to conclude that slavery is not merely ruinous to the slave, but to his master, as well. For when we chain our brother, we chain ourselves. Think of Joseph and his wayward brothers, think on Pharaoh. How will we ever save our souls if we enslave the meek who shall inherit?
A man who is master to a slave will never be full master of himself.
I did not care a fig for the nigger when this war began, but I have come to see him as a man. I would not glorify the colored fellow, as our abolitionists do, but merely wish him free to make his choices. Some such will fail, as the Southron folk insist. But if one black man of a million rises, it justifies the freedom of them all.
But let that bide.
The girl had accepted her life, or so she said. Twas hard to steer our discussion, given that I had to scribble out questions, while Mr. Barnaby interpreted back and forth, thrusting his own curiosity into matters. I had stood them a proper feed at the hotel, although the lass had to eat with the downstairs help, and a good meal always inspired Mr. Barnaby’s tongue. Following the repast, I had invited them, not without reluctance, to join me in the privacy of my room. No one in the hallways took any notice, and I excused the impropriety by reasoning that Mr. Barnaby served as chaperone. Nor did he mind. His spirits, real or affected, defied the grim events of the earlier evening.
When I forced the conversation back to serious matters, the girl explained how she had come to our shores.
Her mistress had been visiting relations, for many Spaniards lurked about New Orleans, relics of the city’s benighted past. Our blockade had shut her mistress in, with dwindling funds and relatives left impecunious. When our gunboats and ships appeared above the levee, returning our flag to the town, the only wealth remaining to the señora was her slave.
The lady found herself in a proper pickle. Whatever sins General Butler may have committed, he put an end to slave auctions in New Orleans. Then Mr. Lincoln proclaimed that the slaves within the borders of the Confederacy would be free upon the New Year. New Orleans was no longer in rebellion, at least not officially, so the status of its darkies remained unclear. But General Butler leaned toward the negroes.
Nonetheless, the lass was not to be freed. Whether or not the slaves of New Orleans had shed their chains once and for all, Magdalena was the property of a citizen of Spain. And the Spanish consul, a dreadful friend of the Rebels, instructed our authorities that the seizure of Spanish property would be viewed as an act of war. Which would not have pleased Mr. Seward or Mr. Lincoln.
Democracy has confusions enough. Diplomacy compounds them.
Magdalena’s mistress faced a conundrum. She possessed the capital of a well-trained slave girl, but could not sell her to raise the cost of a passage.
At last, the señora discovered a Portuguese captain willing to carry them to San Juan on a promise of doubled fees paid on arrival.
Magdalena did not wish to go.
The notion of freedom, sudden and fresh, possessed her with the force of revelation. She ran away, was found, and her mistress beat her. She slipped away again and was beaten worse. She was not hard to recapture, given her lack of any local tongue. Helpless as a babe she was, despite her many talents. And slavecatchers abounded, despite the presence of our Union lads.
Miss Peabody rescued her. Hearing of the poor girl’s situation, Miss Peabody offered the señora one thousand greenback dollars, which was more than a young Mandingo lad commanded before the war. Of course, she did not “buy” Magdalena, but offered “compensation” for the señora’s willingness to abandon the lass.
Twas all a muddle. But the girl was free.
To Magdalena, Miss Peabody was a godsend. She spoke not only French, but Spanish, too, although it sounded odd to the creole ear. She offered the girl a salary to serve as her maid and companion, and Magdalena felt obliged to accept. But Miss Peabody was very different from the señora and did not care for lace and elegant dresses, for perfumes and “morning visits” made in the afternoon. She reminded the lass of a slave at harvest time, driven not by the master’s whip; but by a pride and purpose all his own.
“How did Miss Peabody learn of your plight?” I scribbled.
“Francisco,” she replied through Mr. Barnaby. “François Pelletier.” New tears followed the old.
I wrote: “The man who was murdered?”
She nodded, resisting her sorrow. “He was a very good man! A fine man. A noble man. He was a great friend to Miss Peabody. He told her about me. She had very much money. But he did not take it for himself, never,” she said adamantly. “It was to help the negroes return to Africa. That was his dream, the dream of François Pelletier.”
An oddity struck me. Even though her talk come filtered, twas clear the girl did not see herself as a negress. I give you that she might have passed for a gypsy or an Italian. But the lass had negro blood, and that was that. It would not take Mr. Darwin to explain it. But all these creatures have a most peculiar sense of hierarchies, of quadroons and octaroons and such, all in search of illusory distinctions.
I wondered what she thought herself to be? The truth is that we are as others see us. “To thine own self be true” is well and good, but a sound report among our fellows matters.
“Was he handsome?” I asked. “François Pelletier?” I was thinking, almost against my will, of Mrs. Aubrey’s remarks about Miss Peabody. About the charge of unsuitable affections.
“Yes,” she said, after a wary pause. “He was a very handsome man. Very strong. And pretty.”
Next, I had to write an ugly question: “Was Miss Peabody fond of him?”
She nodded the moment the words left Mr. Barnaby. “Oh, yes! She thinks he is as good a man as any. A better man. She says he is a man who will do great things.”
Twas not my meaning. Reluctantly, I scrawled: “Fond of him romantically?” I underscored the last word.
She shook her head ferociously. And yet, she chose to think a little further. Her face, for all its lack of charm, possessed a great expressiveness. Emotions warred on her brow.
“I do not think there is romance. No, I do not think it. I think for Miss Peabody the great romance is to make the negro free and even rich. She does not agree with François, who wishes to take the negro back to Africa. Not in the beginning, she does not agree. She wishes him to stay here, to grow powerful.” The lass smiled wistfully, indulgently, as a woman far older might. “She believes the negro will be better than the white man, but I tell her that she must not hope for too much, that men are only men, the color does not matter. But she does not listen. She listens to François, but does not agree with him, either. Not at first.”
She sat up quite primly. “I do not believe there is romance. I do not believe it, but I do not know truly. Sometimes Miss Peabody sends me away for this thing and that, for some hours. She says it is because I must not listen, that it is dangerous for me to know too many things. I think she tells the truth. But who can say?” The lass looked me straight in the eye. For the first time in our acquaintance. “Who can know what is kept in the other’s heart?”
“Corazon” is the word she used. I cannot tell you why, but I remember it.
“Were you,” I wrote, “fond of Mr. Pelletier yourself?”
She blushed when Mr. Barnaby put the question to her. She blushed and looked away.
“Such a man as that,” she said, “would never look at me.”
CAPTAIN BOLT BANGED on the door. He was an awkward fellow, hardly civilized. He wished to report that the body had been taken to the morgue. Along with the doll made of skin.
Had I not suffered the loss of speech because of my battered jaw, I would have told the fellow off, and properly. I gave no instructions to move the body, only to guard it well.
&nb
sp; Of course, a fellow like Bolt was bound to do the wrong thing, if not given detailed orders. Which I had not been in a state to give. Twas more my fault than his.
I had wanted to have a gander in the daylight. With my mouth less pained and a rested, sharpened mind. To see what I might have missed in my haste and the gore.
Well, done was done, and that was that. Bolt was like a child. Our soldiers may be glad that he had been harnessed in the rear and not sent forward to lead them to their deaths. He had no sense of where he was wanted and seemed inclined to join us. The fellow had a touch of the old maid about him, ever hungry for gossip that did not concern him. I had to drive him off with a push, grunting to express what speech could not.
He stirred me up so badly that I bled again. But he left us.
During my frustrations with the captain, Mr. Barnaby calmed the lass with his chatter. She did not much like uniforms, not even blue ones, and kept a wary eye on our intruder. Mr. Barnaby tried to cheer her up. Beaten down and destitute himself, he always had a jolly word for others.
What better could we ask of a companion?
The lass wore a look just short of a smile when I sat back down between them. Although I am not great of stature, I believe that I possess a manly dignity. My gravity made the girl grow somber again.
“Do you know of a Mrs. Aubrey?” I wrote.
The instant she heard the name from Mr. Barnaby, the girl snapped like a terrier. A torrent of words poured from her lips, and the words did not sound gentle.
“The Señora Aubrey? She is the bad one! She is not a woman of sincerity! I think she does not like Miss Peabody, although she pretends to love her with much pleasure. I do not like her, I do not like her at all … she has only the money, not the heart.”
Corazon. That word.
Abruptly, the lass fell quiet again. Shrinking into her garments. I understood that she feared she had spoken unwisely, that I might be a friend of the Widow Aubrey.
