Rebels of Babylon

by Parry, Owen

  “The rites I saw last night were … there was nothing Christian about them, I assure you.”

  “I didn’t say there was, sir, begging your pardon. Nor that there wasn’t. It’s only that I doesn’t feel fit to judge. I mean the negroes, sir. Many’s the colored Christian, sir, who’s as devout as any of your Methodists. They goes about things regular, except sometimes they sings a little louder. But I ’ave to ask myself ’ow I would look at things, if I was in their shoes, sir. Speaking of the ones that ’as shoes of their own. They was raised up on plantations or in city houses where the master and the mistress told ’em about Jesus and the raising up of the meek, then beat ’em when they dropped a stitch or sold ’usband from wife to pay off a gentleman’s note.” He shook his doubting head. “It’s a wonder that a one of ’em believes in the ’Oly Gospels, sir. After ’ow they been treated by proper Christians. Turned away from churches, whipped and scourged.” He looked at me with formidable earnestness. “Who among us ’as suffered like Jesus Christ, sir, if not the African?” He glanced out at the raw, ungiving landscape and spoke his last words as if to himself. “Sometimes I thinks that we’re ’is cross to bear.”

  “Suffering is our lot upon this earth. For every man. To prepare us for the joys of eternal salvation.”

  “True enough, sir, true enough! And suffering’s one thing what ain’t in short supply! But there’s suffering, and there’s suffering. It always seems to Barnaby B. Barnaby that it’s easy enough for a fellow like you or me, all fancy free, to talk about our sufferings over a toddy. But I wonder ’ow we’d feel if we was negroes.”

  “But you have suffered a great deal yourself. You lost your wife and children. Your business. And now you worry about Lieutenant Raines …”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I sees it different. Marie and the children was taken away by the Yellow Jack. The ’And of God, you might say. But the negro suffers at the ’and of man. At Christian ’ands.” He leaned toward me, which always involved some effort on his part. “Major Jones, I ain’t as learned and clever as many another, but it seems to me that folks needs to believe. In one god or another. Otherwise, the bad times would be unbearable. We needs to believe that there’s some great sense to the mess of things. Assuming that the Good Lord made us that way, maybe it don’t matter exactly ’ow we believe in ’im, or what we calls ’im. As long as we believes with all our ’earts. And behaves ourselves tidy.”

  “I witnessed copulation. And animal sacrifice.”

  “Well, I ain’t excusing any such goings-on as that, not entirely, and I doesn’t mean to imply it, sir. But if a body ’asn’t got the two bits or ten dollars for a visit to any of a ’undred fine establishments in the Quarter, and if that body lacks a roof over is ’ead, I suppose the body’ll do what we all do someplace where it ’appens to be convenient. We’re all the same in that way, if no other. If you’re asking Barnaby B. Barnaby. And as for animal sacrifice, ain’t there a terrible lot of it in the Bible? And wasn’t Abraham ’imself tempted to cut the life out of ’is poor son?”

  “The Lord was testing Abraham.”

  “And a nasty test it was. God ought to be ashamed of ’Imself for that one. And if it’s brutality you wants, you doesn’t ’ave to go far. Could anything be crueler than this war, sir? Or any war?” He reclined again, and sighed. “Oh, Major Jones,” he told me, unrepentant, “if only folks doesn’t do one another a damage, I’m inclined to let them go any way they wants.”

  “Our only hope of salvation lies in Christ.”

  He nodded. “Don’t that seem a bit selfish and vain on ’is part?”

  He was hopeless. I only know that, without my faith, I could not endure another God-given day.

  But let that bide.

  Now you will say: “Abel Jones, you are too lax and tolerant.” But I will tell you: I believe in spreading the blessed message of Jesus Christ, but I do not think conversions come through nagging. And, truth be told, when I was young and green, there was a dear person in India, a Musselman, whom I never tried to convert. Of course, those were the days when I had strayed. I was little better than a heathen myself. But her heart was good, far better than mine own. Her tawny skin could not conceal her virtues. I cannot bear to think the sad lass damned.

  I let the air between us rest a few minutes. Raw and squalid, ever more signs of settlement broke the countryside. Even the finer houses looked neglected. Perhaps it was only the effects of war and winter, but I did not find their Southron world appealing.

  My papers passed us through a Union guardpost. The smell of cooking coffee made me want.

  “Speaking of negroes,” I began anew, “I noted a curious thing about Madame La Blanch.”

  “Oh, I’m glad to ’ear you call ’er that, for any other names should be forgotten.”

  “You knew! You knew her identity all along!”

  He squirmed a bit. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir, I wouldn’t say so much as that. I had my suspicions, I did. That I admits. But suspicions and no more. For it doesn’t pay to know what we’re not to know. Not even if we knows it.”

  “Be that as it may, perhaps you can explain a curiosity.”

  He looked at me warily.

  “Yesterday, at her ‘atelier,’ as I believe you called it, Madame La Blanch seemed to give herself out as a white woman. Not that she made any specific claim, that I will grant you. But her speech during our interview was that of a Southron gentlewoman. If not one of the finer sort.” I rearranged my person on the cab bench. A certain attribute of my anatomy is not well padded and I had grown sore as the vehicle jounced along. “Yet, last night she seemed unmistakably a negress. Indeed, she gloried in the role. And her speech, when it was not indecipherable, had an accent not of this world. Or, perhaps, of old Africa. Then this morning … this morning, when she appeared in civilized dress again, her accent resembled that of a colored maid.” I tapped him on the platter of his knee, asking his thorough attention. Clear it was that the subject made him uneasy. “What am I to make of that? One thinks the woman unlikely to be honest. Who is she, really?”

  I believe the pity that filled his eyes was for Madame La Blanch, not me.

  “I ain’t sure as she knows the answer ’erself anymore,” he told me. “Not that I knows ’er all that terrible well, sir. But she always seemed unsure of where she fit.” He smiled sadly. “Like every other negro in America.”

  AS WE RATTLED up to the St. Charles Hotel, with the tardy sun sweeping the streets, I ordered Mr. Barnaby to hold the cab man at bay while I fetched the letter. I was ashamed of my appearance, unshaven and stained by a night spent in the wild, but there are times when we must forego propriety.

  I rushed up the stairs and into the lobby, aiming for the hotel desk as directly as a rifle ball. I meant, of course, to demand that the clerk on duty produce my letter.

  I was forestalled.

  A Navy captain, in full, braided regalia, appeared from behind a column and grabbed my sleeve. Discourteously. Gray-haired before his time he was, and handsome in a ruddy way. You would have thought him suitable for display at a royal court. But he did not look pleased.

  “You Jones?” he barked, keeping a firm grip upon my arm.

  “I am Major Abel Jones, United States Volun—”

  “Then you’re the high-hat sonofabitch who’s been authorizing ships to sail without proper inspections.” Had he not been a gentleman, I think he would have spit upon the parquet. “Just like the goddamned Army. Isn’t it just? You a Butler man? Is that what I’m up against? The clerk said you wouldn’t even open my damned letters.”

  There are times in life when apologies do not suffice.

  SIXTEEN

  “CAN WE CATCH THEM?” I ASKED THE CAPTAIN. HIS name was Senkrecht and he was a Farragut man, the sort who wishes the enemy had a proper fleet so he could steam out to fight it. “Can they be overtaken?”

  Perhaps my avidity convinced him that I was telling the truth, that I had issued no letters authori
zing ships to sail without review of their cargoes. That any papers bearing my name had been forgeries.

  He muted his anger to the common gruffness sailors affect. “You won’t catch the Barbara Villiers. She’s as sleek a hull as I’ve seen upon this river and fully seaworthy. She’s two days gone and out on the open waters.”

  “But the second ship you spoke of, the Anne Bullen?”

  “Well, if we weren’t standing here with our hands down our trousers … she’s fast by the looks of her, but not too fast for, say, the Cormorant. Not while she’s still on the river. She only left harbor this morning. A side-wheel gunboat might catch her. And outmaneuver her. With a shallower draft in the channels, we could—”

  If he had been rude to grasp me by the forearm, I was twice as discourteous to tap him with my cane. I was already moving and only wanted the fellow to hurry himself along. I did not wish a lecture on naval affairs. I only wanted to know if we had a chance.

  Look you. I was set to have a terrible load upon my conscience. If we could catch one of the slaver ships, it might be reduced by half.

  But think on it. Because I had read my letters from home, instead of attending to duty, a ship full of kidnapped negroes had set off from the city’s wharves under our noses. Because of my inattention, men and women—perhaps children, too—who should have enjoyed freedom would live the rest of their lives under the whip.

  It made me little better than a slave-trader myself, may God forgive me.

  I wished to catch that second ship, the Anne Bullen, almost as much as I have desired anything in my life.

  I dragged Captain Senkrecht behind me by force of will.

  “So, we can catch her, then?” I repeated, as if I distrusted the confidence of his answer.

  “Good chance. Very good chance. She won’t be running at maximum speed because she won’t want to draw attention to herself. She’s fast enough, but if we can get the Cormorant underway in, say, two hours, we’ll have us a horse race. She’s been patrolling the coast and has Marines aboard. I’ll double the complement while her skipper’s rounding up his strays and raising steam. In case your friends decide their contraband’s worth a fight. Which would be a damned fool choice for a merchant hull.”

  That sounded wise. About the Marines, I mean. For well enough I knew my opponents were deadly.

  I had first encountered American Marines the spring before, when I sailed to England on a mission that failed, leaving that pirate Semmes to prowl the seas. I do not think I ever saw a nastier lot. The Marines, that is. The barbarian guards hired on by the Roman emperors cannot have been more fearsome in their aspect. Indeed, with all respect to Mr. Gibbon, I suspect the barbarians were gentler. No sailor dreamed of mutiny with a squad of Marines aboard.

  I am told they frightened the Barbary pirates.

  Rushing back to the cab and Mr. Barnaby, who was trying his legs on the paving stones and, doubtless, indulging in thoughts of a proper breakfast, I waved my cane and called his name, as impatient to have a go at the world as was my naval companion.

  I would have liked to explain what I was about, to let him know the import of those letters. But there was no time. I simply grabbed the fellow by the lapel of his well-worn coat.

  “I must be off. And you must do as I say. Do all that you can to uncover any connection there is or ever was between Mr. Champlain and Mrs. Aubrey. Move heaven and earth. But find out.”

  “I thought—”

  “Find out. Then meet me here.” I looked to the captain. “How long shall we be out?”

  “Depends on how long you stand there dawdling, Major. Two days. Three, if we get the slows or things turn unpleasant. If we can’t overtake her before she leaves the river, we’d waste our time out on the open seas.”

  “And I want to know where I can find Marie Venin,” I added to Mr. Barnaby. “To arrest her. She will never frighten another negro again.”

  “What will you—”

  Already leaping toward the cab, despite my bothered leg, I told him, “Just do as I say, man! And pray for our success. If she’s still alive, I’m going to bring that servant girl back with me.”

  “Magdalena?” he cried.

  There was such hope in the poor man’s voice and on his face that it would have broken the heart of Herod Antipas.

  The Irish cab man was not pleased to find himself charged to embark on a further journey. But I believe that, had he not obeyed the captain’s instructions to drive to the wharves, I would have knocked him off his seat and taken the reins myself. Which, given my dislike of the horse, was a mark of my resolve.

  We clattered off at a speed that made a spectacle. The team must have been weary, but the whip kept them in play. All Poydras Street fled from our reckless path. We nearly slew a workman rolling a barrel.

  “Have you pencil and paper?” I asked Captain Senkrecht, although I thought it unlikely.

  “What do I look like?” he asked, glancing down at the splendor of his own uniform. “A damned clerk?”

  I never quite fathom the disregard in which otherwise sensible men hold honest clerks. I have been a clerk myself and a good one. I never saw the shame in it.

  I let the matter drop. The curious thing is that, once we had decided on a course of action, Captain Senkrecht asked no further questions. He did not ask about the cargo of the Anne Bullen or even about my greater purpose. He seemed to accept completely my explanation that my name had been forged on any documents that had been shown to him. Navy fellows are like that, see. Give them a chance at action and they will not waste their energies on thinking.

  Regarding my instructions to Mr. Barnaby to peer into the relations of Mr. Champlain, twas not mere curiosity. Nor was it, to be honest, an inspiration. Bits and pieces of the puzzle continued to fall into place, in an order all their own, and I had seen yet another thing that should have been clear as day some time before. The note put in the medicine pot to steer me to Queen Manuela had been put there by Mr. Champlain, not one of his negroes. The servant had only played his role in a piece of homely theater.

  No colored fellow would have dared to write Queen Manuela’s name. I saw that now. They would not even speak it, let alone put it to paper. If they could write. But Mr. Champlain had suffered no such qualms. Or at least he had judged the risk worth the reward.

  And that was queer. I did not think him likely to be involved in the slaving scheme, not in the least. In his sly and playful way, he had done much to help me uncover the plot. But that meant he already knew that the plot existed. And wanted it brought to an end for his own reasons.

  Forgive me if I am uncharitable, but I did not believe he acted out of justice. That is not the pattern in New Orleans. All feuds are personal. Justice is a mask, sometimes convenient.

  Given their social positions and Mr. Champlain’s remarks, I thought the likeliest tie would be found between him and Mrs. Aubrey. Although I could not say what that tie might be.

  I did not foresee the sorrow I would find.

  But I must not go too swiftly.

  The wharves were a great bustle, with deep-keeled ships crowding in to load cotton for the hungry mills of Manchester and the looms of Massachusetts. You would have thought catastrophe inevitable, but the great hulls moved with the grace of a Hindoo dancing girl, their side wheels thrashing the water as they turned, assisted by small boats flirting with danger. The riverboats, in need of a scrub, were reduced to the lot of stepchildren, lined up along the levee farther on. The Rebels still had a choke-hold on the river to our north and the flat hulls dreamed idly of Memphis and St. Louis. But the ocean-going ships were in their glory, their holds devouring cargoes for all the world. Hard it was to believe the city had been reduced to beggary, for the docks were paved with silver, if not gold.

  Why traffic in slaves when wealth could be made from shipping wartime cotton? Was it simply that greed is mankind’s bane?

  The one time Jesus got into a fit was with those money-changers in the Temple. Knowing what
I know of men and looking back on the cruel end of Our Savior, I do suspect the Hebrews have been maligned. Were I the sort who wagers, I would bet it was those Jerusalem bankers, not the common people, who bided their time until they could take their revenge. For Christ’s mistake of spoiling their accounts.

  And do not say the moneychangers were Jews and there is an end to it. That makes too simple a tale. Christian bankers are no models of charity. I do not pretend to be a learned man, but I cannot believe that the simple folk of Jerusalem desired the death of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who did no harm and must have seemed a good fellow. That is not the way that these things go. No doubt those Temple bankers packed the assembly with troublemakers and staged a nasty scene to worry Pilate, who only wished to keep the peace and be done with it. Public officials, after all, value order above all other moralities.

  And I served in Washington long enough to know how men of finance rule politicians.

  If anyone grinned at the foot of the cross, it was those moneychangers getting their own back. I doubt that many bankers go to Heaven, whether they are Christians, Jews or Hindoos.

  The captain had the cab pull up at the wharves reserved for our fighting ships. The yard stank of tar and burning hemp, of canvas set to dry and tamped-down boilers. Bluejackets swarmed about the dock, bossing negro stevedores and inspecting stores delivered by white chandlers. Some fussed with ropes or slathered hulls, while their idler comrades swaggered in wide-bottomed trousers.

  At once, Captain Senkrecht was off and barking, leaving me to follow in good time. I noted how the sailors fled his path, how junior officers cracked their heels and saluted. I should explain that a naval captaincy is a higher rank than a captaincy in the Army. Do not look for the sense of it, but think of a seagoing captain as a colonel.

  Those naval fellows always do things differently.

  I wished to hasten after the captain, but first I had a matter to resolve, an issue of some delicacy. I had but little money upon my person. I needed to draw funds, but lacked the time.