by Parry, Owen
“Do not worry,” I scratched on the paper. “Only tell the truth. The truth will not hurt you.”
When Mr. Barnaby translated that, the girl replied, “The truth hurts everyone. Always. That is the law of the earth. Only sometimes the truth does not hurt so bad as the lie. The lie is like the young lover, I think, and the truth is like a husband. The lover is good for the short time, but the husband is best for the long time.”
As a proper Methodist, I found her comparison doubtful.
I wrote: “Mrs. Aubrey and Miss Peabody argued? Before Miss Peabody’s murder? About Mr. Pelletier, perhaps?”
“But that is not true!” she said, thrusting forward her shoulders. “They are in the relationship of the family. Although I do not trust this Señora Aubrey, there is not any quarrelling. No, I do not think there is the argument between them. Never the argument. Señora Aubrey was to be helpful. For a price.” She drew thin brows toward her deepset eyes. “Why would they argue about François? That I do not understand at all.”
“Because Miss Peabody tried to introduce him to Mrs. Aubrey’s abode,” I wrote.
The proposition baffled the girl. “But how can this be so? François is many times in the house of the señora. Many times. I have seen him. Sometimes he is meeting Miss Peabody there, sometimes they arrive together. But François and Señora Aubrey … they know each other for more time, I think. It is the señora who tells François about me.” The lass gave her head a snap. “I do not know why she asks François to inform Miss Peabody of this. I cannot say why she does not tell Miss Peabody herself. The señora knows my mistress well, there is old business between the families. There is no secret that I am to be sold to your Miss Peabody. It is a favor, an arrangement. But the señora is a woman of strangenesses.”
Now, this was a bit contradictory to what I had been told. My impulse was to suspect the lass of lying. After all, she was recently a slave, while Mrs. Aubrey held a social position.
Still, I remembered Mrs. Fowler, of the Philadelphia Fowlers, who had been crueler than Bloody Mary.
I wrote: “You say François Pelletier visited Mrs. Aubrey many times?”
“Verdad,” she said. I remember that word, too. Verdad and corazon. “It is true! Of course, it is true! Many times he has sat there, speaking of the price of hiring the ships to take the negroes to Africa. They speak of every detail. Of the price of hiring the ships, of the insurance of the voyage. Of the cost of the food and the dangers of the passage. Of many things they speak. Miss Peabody only listens. I think she cannot decide what is the best. But she has the good heart, the very good heart. Always you must believe that she has the good heart.”
Corazon.
I wrote: “So Mrs. Aubrey did not believe there was an improper relationship between Miss Peabody and Mr. Pelletier?”
“Why is she to believe such a thing?” The girl went up like a mine under a redoubt. “And why will she care if there is, this old woman who has had so many lovers, who is famous for such things?”
Twas clear the lass was not fond of the widow. And hate is not an honest judge of character.
I wrote: “How could you know such things, Missy? Do not lie to me.”
“Ask anyone!” she said. “The whole city speaks of it. In whispers. But they speak. The señora is a beast that devours. They say she has made the voodoo.”
“Who told you that?”
“Francisco. François.”
“Why would he tell you and not Miss Peabody?”
“Perhaps he tells her, too. I cannot say.”
“But why did he tell you?”
“He was afraid.”
“Why would he tell you even that?”
She caught a breath, then said, “We are lovers together.”
There. She had lied. Not half an hour before. And one lie begets another.
“You said that such a man would not even look at you.”
A single tear broke from her eye. “He does not look at me. He puts out the lamp and cries for Susan.”
“But you just said they shared no affections.”
“He is loving her, but she is not loving him. She loves only her ambition for the negro.”
“But Miss Peabody was plain as a mackerel.”
She looked at me mockingly, with an expression of majestic superiority. “You do not know the woman. It is only the little boys who die for the famous beauty. The men who are always only the little boys and nothing more. But Susan is the one who wounds the life of the man. He does not understand how she cannot love him. It amazes him. He burns.”
“Why do you hate Mrs. Aubrey?”
“Because she hated Susan. Because I fear her.”
“Why do you fear her?”
“Because she knows that I know, that I listen, that I see. That I do not believe her. She sees many things. She follows the voodoo.”
“But you’re a Christian. You don’t believe in voodoo. What harm can it do you?”
She smirked. As though I were the greatest fool on earth. “What harm did it do Francisco?”
“That was not voodoo. It was murder.”
“It was murder for voodoo. Of the goat without horns.”
I had heard that expression before. And had not forgotten it.
“And you are afraid of being murdered? For voodoo?”
“No. For wishing that Susan is not forgotten.”
“And is Mrs. Aubrey the one you are afraid of?”
“One of many. But I have more fear of the others. Not so much of the Señora Aubrey. Not now. Not yet. But of the others.”
“Why?”
“Because,” the lass told us, “Señora Aubrey knows that I am dead.”
“IT IS BECAUSE of Susan that I am dead,” she told us. “She has many worries. Now I understand such things. But she does not tell me of them then. She only returns from a visit that is not to Mrs. Aubrey and orders me to gather up my clothing. There are not many things that I have, but I go slowly, because I feel the wound. She speaks to me like the grand señora to the slave. She has never done this before. ‘Pack! Now!’ she says to me. I do not understand. Before this visit, she is so happy. Many negroes will go to Africa, she has agreed to this. She will pay, all is arranged. Then she is gone from me for two hours, perhaps three. And she returns in much anger. She is angry with me that I go slowly, she tells me that I am stupid. She is never like this before. Then she takes me in the carriage and pulls down the covers of the window, the way they take away the lepers from good families in the night. When the carriage stops, we are at the convento.”
She smiled wistfully. “Susan has been many times in the company of the nuns, although poor Susan is a heretic who follows El Rey Henrique of England, who worships the Great Sinner of Canterbury. Susan gives the money to help the negroes who are very poor. For this, perhaps, she will not burn so long in the flames, I cannot say. But all has been arranged. I will stay with the sisters. Always, I have wanted to be a nun. But not now. Now I wish to be with Susan, who is my friend. And with François. But she leaves me with the nuns, and the madre tells me I must not go out even into the square. I must not look out of the window.”
“Where did Miss Peabody go? That made her fearful?”
The lass shook her head. “I cannot know this. Many things she does not tell me. She visits many people, many places, for the good of the negro. The Señora Aubrey. The newspaper office where François makes his work. The Yankee soldiers, who do not like her because she disturbs so much. The homes of los abajos. But I cannot say where she goes that day to become so angry.”
I had already pieced some bits together, but wished to hear the matter from her lips.
“Did Marie Venin go to the convent to find you?”
When Mr. Barnaby spoke that name, Magdalena made a cross over her breast as the Catholics do. If she had no current fear of Mrs. Aubrey, she had fear in plenty of the voodoo witch.
“Yes. But I am not there. François has come, he has taken me away, because you
are too slow. At first, he believes that you will find me and protect me, but you are too slow. All things had been arranged, but he could not make you go fast. He spoke of the little soldier who limps, who is el hombre sincero, but who is slow. And then Marie Venin is coming first, so François must hurry to take me away from the convento. And I am glad to go with him, you understand.”
Her features lessened into sorrow. “But he is different now. He is fearful and speaks only of the disappeared ones, of things I do not understand. Only then do I learn that Susan is dead, that she has been dead so long. I am like a prisoner in the convento, you understand. I know nothing. I wait. I think Susan has abandoned me. I weep. Then there is François, who tells me that Susan is dead. I begin to understand that she has protected me, not left me. It tears at my heart.”
Corazon. Mi corazon.
“What did François fear? Who had disappeared?”
“He never fears before. But now he fears everything. Always he is strong and very brave. But now he fears. Perhaps he fears that he will disappear, too. I cannot say this. He does not tell me. He tells me only that I am dead, that he has told the Señora Aubrey this.”
“Why did he tell Mrs. Aubrey you were dead?”
She found new tears. “Everyone is protecting me, only to die. Everyone I am loving. I do not understand, he will not tell me. But Señora Aubrey must think that I am dead. He says it is important.” Unexpectedly, she smiled. “It is so funny, how he speaks Spanish like a Frenchman! But why François makes so much difficulty to help me, I cannot say. Perhaps it is for Susan, for her memory. Because she has wished to protect me. But he has told this Señora Aubrey that he has murdered me himself. Mother of God! Such a thing to tell her!”
The lass made the sign of the Cross again.
“Why would he tell her he killed you?”
“I cannot say.”
“He would make himself guilty on the charge of murder. If she went to the provost marshal.”
“I do not know. But I think she will not go to the Yankees. François knows this.”
“So Mrs. Aubrey and Marie Venin both want you dead? Why?”
Again, the Cross. Then she patted herself below her throat, where that small gold cross was hidden.
“I cannot say.”
“Did François or Miss Peabody speak of ‘fishers of men’?”
She shook her head. Mystified. “I think they have not so much religion, those two.”
“Does ‘fishers of men’ mean anything at all to you?”
“Of course! This is in the Gospel, it is spoken by Jesus.”
“You did not answer earlier. Who were the ‘disappeared ones’?”
“Perhaps the negroes. Many are going from the city. No one knows where.”
“Perhaps they went to Africa? In Mrs. Aubrey’s ships?”
“No. This is not yet. Some money is paid, I think. Susan receives money from New York, this I know. It is very much money. But there is no ship, not yet.”
“Who are the ‘pirates’? Did they kill François? Or Susan?”
“François speaks of pirates when he is frightened. Before he sends me to you in the hotel. He says that the pirates are going to kill him. But at other times he speaks of the voodoo that will be his death.”
Mr. Barnaby, who had been translating with a wonderful lack of grammar, interjected, “Begging your pardon, Major Jones, but it don’t sound right to me. Per’aps the fellow was raving. There ain’t been pirates downriver in forty years. They’re all gone with Lafitte, the times ’as changed. All we ’as nowadays is wharf rats and common robbers.”
I decided to let the pirate business be. For the present. I had another question for the lass.
“You said that François sent you to my room. Did he arrange for the special room with the passageway?”
“The negroes in the hotel do this for him. The ones you do not see, who do the low work. They have more power than the blancos know. It is not a problem. François is much loved. He brings me to the hotel in the darkness so I can enter the secret way. By one of the secret ways that the white men have forgotten, there are so many. That is how I come to you. But you sleep, I do not wake you. Then these men make the hammering on the door and you are leaving me.”
“How did Mr. Pelletier expect you to communicate? You cannot speak English.”
She looked distraught. “He lies to me. François. Poor François. He tells me you speak Spanish better than the King of Spain.”
“Well, I do not speak Spanish,” I scribbled.
“Verdad,” she said.
I LET HER chatter nonsense with Mr. Barnaby for a bit. We all required a pause. Weary I was, and half sick. I could hardly tie the bits of her tale together.
According to her version of events, François Pelletier, now deceased, and Susan Peabody, likewise deceased, had been thick as thieves with the Widow Aubrey, arranging to transport negroes back to Africa. Miss Peabody paid someone a visit and returned an angry woman. Then she hid the lass in the Ursuline convent. Shortly thereafter, Miss Peabody’s corpse washed up on a levee, with her garments embarrassed. After something more than a month, this Pelletier, who had used Magdalena for shameful purposes without the grace of wedlock, and who was himself enamored of Miss Peabody, suddenly appeared at the convent to spirit the lass away. Not long thereafter, I paid my call on the Mother Superior to discuss a “missing girl.” And Marie Venin come racing past, frustrated that the girl was gone and unhappy with her reception.
A thought provoked me. Had Marie Venin, the voodoo witch, really gone to the convent to find the girl? Or to lure me to follow her? Certainly, much had been staged for my reception.
Yet, Mr. Champlain had pointed out the obvious. Had mine enemies wished to kill me, they had enjoyed opportunities in plenty. I had been kidnapped, then spared. Why? Because, as Mr. Champlain and Mr. Barnaby both supposed, they wanted to put a scare into me to slow my investigation?
Or was there more to the fuss?
Why did François Pelletier, afraid for his own life, send as his envoy a lass who could not speak any language I understood?
Who of the whole bloody lot was telling the truth? If anyone?
Could Mrs. Aubrey have believed that I would not learn that conditions of amity had prevailed between her and Susan Peabody? And François Pelletier? Was she merely defending her reputation, or was there something more?
Was the girl treacherous? All those who could confirm her tale were dead. Was she enmeshed in the schemes of Marie Venin? Or even in the schemes of Mrs. Aubrey? Why had that dying man muttered, “Fishers of men?” Who were the “disappeared ones?” Mere negroes?
I roused myself and turned to Mr. Barnaby. Chattering with the lass, he looked happy as the baker’s boy on Christmas. Rarely had I seen a man so changed.
I believed that I had spotted an obvious thing. Something far simpler might lie behind these deaths than voodoo and “fishers of men” and pirates. Something as timeless as mankind. Simple greed.
I wrote: “You spoke of a large amount of money Miss Peabody received. Was it paid out to anyone?”
“I cannot say,” Magdalena told me. “Perhaps some is paid to Señora Aubrey for the ships. Not all, I do not think.” She shrugged.
“Might it have been stolen?”
She shook her head decisively.
“Oh, no. This is not possible. The money has been given to your soldiers. For the protection, until it is needed.”
TEN
I WANTED TO SLEEP. INSTEAD, I PACKED MYSELF AND Mr. Barnaby into a cab, fleeing Captain Bolt’s offer to accompany us and leaving the lass locked safely in my room. Time pressed and I promised to see to her own accommodations upon my return. Twas all more complicated than I liked. The world should learn to behave itself.
Magdalena did not wish to stay behind, in my room or any other. But I tutted her.
I wished to speak with the provost marshal, and with General Banks. About Miss Peabody’s money. But that had to wait until m
orning.
Meanwhile, I could speak with Mr. Champlain. My questions of the night before had been parried as much as answered. The fellow was a lovely host, but he played hide-and-go-seek with facts. As Mr. Barnaby put it, he did not lie but did not tell you all. Convinced I was that he knew more than he had troubled to tell me.
As we crossed into the Quarter, I noted only white men on the streets. The negroes were in hiding. From the Grand Zombi or certain “fishers of men.” Or perhaps from the rancor of paler flesh unhappy with defeat.
Unable to scrawl my questions in the darkness of the cab, I struggled to speak clearly. I did not wish to bleed more.
“Is the girl lying?” I asked. At my second attempt, Mr. Barnaby understood me.
“Oh, no, sir! Not at all, I doesn’t think. At least not ’ow the local ladies do. She ain’t been ’ere near long enough and ain’t yet been persuaded to dissemble. Ain’t she a wonder, though?”
“A wonder” hardly seemed an apt description.
“Why,” I asked, enunciating painfully, “did Pelletier send her to me?” It made no sense at all, given that the lass did not speak English. Or even French. He had not even given her a letter of explanation.
Mr. Barnaby tutted. “Clear as day, sir, clear as day! It’s a wonder you doesn’t see it, clever as you almost always seems. The fellow was in love with ’er, that’s all. Smitten ’e was, as smitten as the lad what peeked at the chambermaid. ’e didn’t care about ’imself so much as ’e did about ’er. ’E sent ’er to your room in ’opes of saving ’er.”
That was absurd. François Pelletier, by evidence and report, had cut a splendid figure. The girl was a mouse.
“How,” I battled my reluctant jaw, “could the fellow be smitten with her, man? He cried out for Susan Peabody!”
I touched the corners of my mouth to feel if blood had risen.
My skepticism astonished Mr. Barnaby. “Begging your pardon, Major Jones, but I fear you lacks an eye for feminine beauty. Oh, I doesn’t say the bloke weren’t set upon Miss Peabody in the beginning. Forbidden fruit, as they say, and who knows what all was in the petunias? But angels win upon the plains of ’Eaven, and she’s an angel if I ever seen one.” He rolled his generous person toward me, striving for intimacy. “Ain’t she a marvel, though, that Magdalena? Fair as Dolly Dobbins in the May-time! And clever as they come, and terrible learned. I ain’t seen such a prize since … since …”
