by Parry, Owen
“I have no idea.”
“One hundred and fifty negroes burned alive. Perhaps more. Men you meant to sell back into slavery.”
To my astonishment, he looked relieved. As if he thought he and the world were well rid of the victims.
“They burned alive!” I repeated. “Can you imagine what that felt like, boy?”
“They don’t feel pain the way we do.”
“Do they not?”
“Jones, look. I’ll see to it that my father rewards you handsomely. Forget what I said earlier. You’ll be well taken care of. I promise you. Just—”
“Tell me, boy. Look at me and tell me it again. Say that they don’t feel pain. That they don’t hurt when they burn. Or when they are skinned alive and left for dead.”
“Of course, they feel pain. So does a dog or a cat, for God’s sake. But you can’t seriously believe all that abolition nonsense, can you? Do you? You can’t believe they’re equal to a white man? That they have our faculties?”
“Perhaps it depends upon which white man we speak of. No, boy, I do not put the negro on a pedestal. But I am not certain that you belong on one, either.”
“They sold out their own kind, for God’s sake. That ridiculous voodoo priestess. The bucks we hired. They knew what they were doing. They enjoyed it. They took money for it.”
“And does that make it right? What you have done?”
“It wasn’t a question of right or wrong.”
“If you are so superior, does that not give you a greater responsibility? To set them an example?”
“Jones … for God’s sake. Don’t be a self-righteous fool. Spare me the cant. You know what we were doing? By rounding up stray niggers and getting rid of them? Do you know what we were doing, if we could any of us be honest about it? We were doing this country a favor. A favor, Jones. Good God. What do you think’s going to become of them after the war? What’s becoming of them now? They’re lost. They’re like little children. Useless children. They’ll never be a part of American society. Now that they’re free, they’re worthless.” He snorted. “‘Free.’ What does freedom mean to a coal-black savage? Tell me what? The freedom to get drunk and sleep under a tree?”
“Yes,” I said. “That, too. As well as the freedom to stand up as a man.”
“Jones, why don’t you answer my question? What on earth do you think’s going to become of them? How could they cope with the demands of civilization, for God’s sake? Do you think they’ll be welcomed with open arms? Anywhere? South or North?”
“It will take time. I do not say it will be easy. It may take twenty years. Or even thirty. But I believe the negro will find his place. Along with the Irish and such.”
“You’re absolutely impossible! They won’t be welcome in a hundred years. Any man of sense would see it plainly.”
“Why did you do it, boy?”
Outside the shack, in the handsome day, Mr. Barnaby’s voice opposed those of the darkies.
“Why did I do it?” Bolt repeated. “Why not? I told you. We were performing a public service by getting rid of as many as we could. Hell, why not sell them all? Officially? Make it a government policy? Pay off the war debt and get rid of the damned cause of the war at the same time?”
“Why did you do it? You did not need the money. Was it your idea? Mrs. Aubrey’s? Your father’s? Who put such a monstrous idea in your head.”
“Susan Peabody.”
I raised my hand to slap his vile face.
He recoiled, but smirked. “Oh, I don’t mean she wanted to sell niggers to Brazil or Hispaniola. But she did want to ship them back to Africa, after all. Her and that fancy-boy coon who trailed her around.” He smiled, revealing the loss of at least one tooth. “Jane Aubrey’s no fool. She may be old as the hills, but she’s no fool. She figured there was a way to make everybody happy. Susan Peabody could wave her handkerchief at her boats full of black-asses, ‘Fare thee well, my noble savage’ and all that holy horseshit. Then we could simply change the destination. With Miss Nigger-lover paying for the ships and the rest of it pure profit.” He laughed. “They wouldn’t know the difference, anyway. Cuba, Brazil, the North Pole … tell them it was Africa and they’d believe it.”
“Who murdered Susan Peabody? You?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m smarter than that. Even now, you can’t prove a thing against me. Not so that it would stick. Not with good lawyers. As for the money, I don’t mind paying that back. I only took it for travelling expenses. And I didn’t think they’d kill her, if you have to know.”
“Who?”
“Her niggers. Her beloved niggers. Niggers, anyway.”
“The ‘pirates’? Your ‘fishers of men’? Which was a blasphemy, boy, on top of your other sins. Was it Petit Jean and his brother thieves?”
“You’ve figured out a lot. Haven’t you? I wonder how much, really.”
“Was it them? Who killed her?”
He snickered. “Eventually. They kept her for a couple days. Before they finished with her. I expect she got to know her African pets a little better than she ever expected to.”
“Because she figured out what you were doing? Is that why she was killed?”
“Sounds obvious. Doesn’t it?”
“She learned of your scheme and—”
“I said it sounded obvious. I didn’t say it was true.”
I stared at him. Still bound, he sat there as if the tables were already turned. As if his father’s influence had already set him free to pursue his fortune.
“Susan Peabody,” he said, “wasn’t the kind of person who ever figures out a damned thing. She was so wrapped up in her own ridiculous notions that she never stopped to think that anyone else might have ideas of their own. We could’ve shipped niggers to China for ten years and she wouldn’t have noticed a thing. As long as she got to feel proud of herself and pet a wooly head every now and then.”
“Then why was she killed? Her money?”
“I suppose money would’ve been the most sensible reason. But it wasn’t that, either.”
“Then why, man?”
“Her philanthropy.”
“Do not you mock me, boy, or—”
“Pure philanthropy. In a sense. Look here, Jones. You’ve done an impressive job of following one line of yarn after another. I’d be glad to employ you myself, after the war. But you still don’t think like an American. You’re thinking in small, crabbed terms, as if you’d just crawled out of some dreary Welsh coal mine.”
“Come to your point, boy.”
“Susan Peabody was in love with her notion of sending her black bastards back to Africa. But that’s not why she came to New Orleans, you know. She just came with some vague notion of doing good. She wasn’t here a month before the fanciest coon in town had talked her into supporting his scheme of sending them ‘home’ to Africa. Well, Jane Aubrey has more sense than any ten men of business I’ve ever met. Including my father. Didn’t take her long to realize that Susan was flighty, that you couldn’t count on her long. Last year, her zeal was devoted to shipping off negroes. Good business for all involved. Fine. But what about this year? Or the next? After she lost interest and moved on to table rapping or educating war orphans or, I don’t know, Swedenborgianism? What then?”
I sat down in one of the feeble chairs vacated by the guards. I understood. The horrid genius of it made me sick to puking.
“You see it. Don’t you?” Bolt asked eagerly, shamelessly, proudly. “A simple matter of business. Jane Aubrey knew enough about Old Man Peabody to know that he had one hell of a lot more stick-to-it in him than his daughter. Who might have joined a convent or taken to nursing lepers on her next crazy whim. No, Susan Peabody wasn’t reliable. But her father was. If his beloved daughter was ‘martyred’ in pursuit of her dream of sending freed slaves back to Africa, he’d fund the business until there wasn’t a pickaninny left south of the Ohio.” Bolt smiled wistfully. “If you hadn’t stuck your snout into things,
we would’ve been in business for twenty years.”
“You killed her. Because she wanted to do good.”
“No, Jones. I didn’t kill her. I told you that. And she was to blame for her own death, if you think about it in a practical way. She died because she didn’t really mean it, all her meddling. She died because it couldn’t hold her interest. Susan Peabody was looking for a cause, all right. But she never would’ve found one that contented her. Because she didn’t give a preacher’s damn about people. Only about causes.” I thought he would spit on the floor. Through his swollen lips. “She didn’t care any more about niggers than I do.”
“All right,” I said, returning to my feet.
“Will you get me out of here now, damn it? Are you content?”
I nodded. “Wait here.”
“Jones?”
I stepped into the late afternoon sunshine, which was so lovely it seemed to make evil impossible. As I emerged, the negroes fell silent in that ragged way a crowd has when some of the backs are turned. A lone bird called.
I strode up to Mr. Barnaby and said, “Come on with you. It will be dark when we return to town.”
“But …”
“Come along, Mr. Barnaby. We both have much to do. And tell the negroes a thing, if you would be so kind.”
He looked at me. In dread and fascination.
“Tell them,” I said, “that we will not come again.”
MR. BARNABY DID NOT speak as the carriage clattered along. I was not certain if he was disappointed in me or simply bewildered. The afternoon faltered. Twilight raced into night. Across black fields, lone lanterns gleamed. Watercourses shone faintly, longing for moonlight.
I had much on my conscience. And it would remain there.
At last, I said, “They mistook his identity. Their prisoner was not the man I knew. The Captain Bolt I knew has disappeared.”
Mr. Barnaby thought upon the matter. Out in the darkness, the driver coaxed his horses. We had not paused to light the carriage lamps and rode in shadows as deep as any river.
Of a sudden, Mr. Barnaby said, “I expects the Bolt we knew must be in Texas by now.”
“Or already in Mexico,” I offered.
“Or half-way to Argentina,” my friend added.
“Wherever he is,” I said, “he may find justice. Although I suppose that we will never know.”
“Right, sir. Right as rain. We’ll never know.”
I PICKED MY words when I spoke to General Banks. Condemn me for it, if you will, but I did what I thought best.
Still in uniform at the long day’s end, he greeted me in his parlor with a grunt containing a multitude of questions.
“I have to disappoint you, sir,” I said without delay. “I did not bring in Bolt.”
He snorted. “Damn him to Hell. Just damn that boy. I hope he drowns himself out there in the swamps.” And then he looked at me. With an eyebrow climbing. I was not yet accomplished as a liar and feared I had already been found out. “So you didn’t find him? After all your fuss? Your note seemed pretty damned confident.”
“I did not bring him back, sir.”
“I hate to think of that bastard going unpunished.”
“Perhaps,” I observed, “he will find his proper punishment, one way or the other. There is a peculiar justice in the world.”
“Well, you’re feeling awfully philosophical. I’d expect you to be spluttering mad. That he still isn’t caught. Just spitting hot, the way you usually are.”
“I have done what lay in my power,” I said.
He crossed his blue sleeves over his chest. “Sounds like you’re giving up. Well, I’m not going to quit, Jones. All right, then. You’ve had your chance. Enough time’s been wasted. Tomorrow morning, my troops start searching again.”
“The thing is, sir … I believe he may already be out of our reach. If we consider—”
“We’ll see about that. We’ll just see about that.” He unfolded his arms and began to pace. “I’m not a fool, Jones. Although you might well take me for one, given all that’s happened right under my nose. I know his father’s going to pull so many strings the little bastard won’t get the punishment he deserves. But, in the meantime, I intend to make life as miserable for young Bolt as I can, if I get my hands on him. We’ll see how he likes a military jail for a couple of months. Though the fact is that the bugger deserves to hang.”
“I cannot say why,” I told the general, who was digging his heels into the Turkey carpet, “but I believe he will have a nasty end. Pride comes before a fall, see. His pride will undo him. That is what I believe. His pride will prove his undoing. More surely than the worst military prison.”
“I suppose we’ll see,” the general said idly.
“Or perhaps we won’t see, sir. Perhaps we will need to take it on faith. War covers much.”
“It just might cover Bolt’s escape, that’s the damnedest thing.” Twas clear the general was a tormented man. He strode about, abusing the palm of his left hand with the fist of his right. I would have liked to tell him more, but there are times in this life of ours when a great deal is to be said for not saying a great deal.
“I have done what I could do,” I repeated.
“And I suppose I should be grateful. Damn it, I am grateful. At least we’ve broken up that filthy trade of theirs. God knows, how long it might’ve gone on …”
I sensed he would soon dismiss me. For generals do not like to dwell on their failures. But the next turn of his remarks gave me a surprise.
“I suppose you’ll be on the first ship back to Washington?”
“As soon as a berth is available, sir. After we have tidied things a bit. Mr. Seward will need time to fashion the matter so that it offers a comfort to Mr. Peabody. The sooner—”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could persuade you to stay on? As a member of my staff? With those new oak leaves on your shoulders, after all?”
I shook my head, though I was nicely flattered. Rare it is for a general to wish to retain a fellow who has embarrassed him. Of course, General Banks was still surrounded by Butler men and needed creatures he might consider his own.
I do not believe he liked me much. But he trusted me, more’s the pity.
Well, we must have faith, and go through. Dwelling on our sins is a subtle vice.
EPILOG
I HAD A DAUGHTER!
When I returned to my hotel, I found a letter waiting. One of our ships had put in with a pouch of mail, including the news that my Mary Myfanwy had given birth to a girl in January. Mother and child were healthy, for which I got down on my knees and thanked the Lord.
Twas heartening to be reminded that life goes on, despite the greed of death.
My darling and I had settled upon the names before I left. A son would have become James, but a lass was to be Angharad, a sweet Welsh name that summons lost, green hills. To our American neighbors, she might be simply Ann. But not at home, where memory warms the hearth.
Twas my mother’s second name. Angharad. A name for gentle hands and gentler hearts.
And yet news of the birth brought new concerns. The autumn past I had encountered the pastor of our Methodist church under circumstances I could not approve. I would not sit again in a pew to listen to that hypocrite condemn poor folk whose sins were less than his own. That is not what good John Wesley intended.
The problem lay in the choice of a new church. My Mary and I disagreed. And though a husband must have the final word, faith should not be commanded. I had in mind a move to the Primitive Methodists, who enjoy simplicity and strictness. Mary would have none of it. She thought we should become Episcopalians. Her family were of the established church and her father, the Reverend Mr. Griffiths, had been a clergyman known throughout Glamorgan. He might have been a bishop, had his meanness been confined to those below him. My own father had been a Methodist parson, whose early death robbed hill and vale of kindness. I do not think he would have liked me deserting Christ for t
he English.
I would not be too hard on my beloved, but the truth is that the Episcopal Church is quite the social apogee in Pottsville. As it is elsewhere in America. I feared that, on top of our new-gained wealth, my beloved’s head had been turned by aspirations. You will forgive my bluntness, but a painted church is like a painted harlot. Perhaps worse. For the Magdalene was dear to Christ, which I do not think the case with a wealthy clergyman.
Plain altars for plain hearts, say I. The highest temple will not reach to Heaven.
Well, time there would be to reconcile with my darling. Confident I was that I might reason her into agreement. Unless she sneaked about and had our daughter baptized high church in my absence. Which would have been a wicked thing to do.
How quickly we discover cracks in the bright façade of happiness.
Still, I had a daughter. And there was joy in it. Now we would be five, including Fanny.
I would have liked to leap aboard a ship that very instant. But matters wanted tidying. Nor was a vessel on orders for Philadelphia or Baltimore. It took me seven days to find a berth. Four more passed before we sailed.
There was a fuss about passages for Mr. Barnaby and his betrothed, as they were civilians. The Navy don’t like giving rides for free. In the end, though, all come right. Captain Senkrecht intervened to help me, for which I am indebted to this day, and I made things nice by employing Mr. Barnaby officially. I was not certain I had that authority, but boldness favored David and the Israelites. We gentlemen chose to overlook the lass, who stayed belowdecks until we waved our farewells.
Mr. Barnaby sailed with a tear in his eye. New Orleans had been the scene of his greatest happiness and his greatest loss. And I do believe he was fond of the victuals.
We put in at Havana for the consul’s mail. But there was more to our detour than diplomacy. I could smell it. Spies were everywhere about, including Europeans. The sort with flashy manners and frayed collars. Each one offered a visiting card that made him out a commercial representative. It seemed almost rude of them not to take more pains. But the Spaniard, by his nature, is not inquisitive, and the climate made even secret agents slothful.
