“I have thoroughly gone over all the contents of the package. I have the names, the aliases, their locations, the amounts owed them and the dates on which they should be paid. But there is one thing I need to make perfectly clear. I will not travel across the continent performing this commitment. When agents require compensation, when they require receipt of certain important information to remain undercover and out of sight of the government in Washington City now, and in the coming years, then they will come to New Orleans and find me here at the Pickwick. They will prove their K.G.C. bonafides as required, and I will fulfill my duties as pledged to General Pike so long ago.”
The last item we discussed concerned the booty from the mint heist. He gave direction from on high as to how to divvy those proceeds and when. He then asked where I had hidden the stash, and I refused to say. I had anticipated the question and stood ready with my answer.
My contact asked that I write all of that down on paper and I did so. He pledged to hand the letter to his contact and so begin its track up the ladder to higher K.G.C. leaders, whoever they were. Of their names, I knew not, and held no concern for them, regardless.
Lower level K.G.C. thugs still roaming the streets of New Orleans concerned me more, and I had grown tired of hiding from them. I needed to have them in front of me so as to confront them head-on and straightaway, with making myself readily available to said cutthroats the fastest way to make that happen. I had resolved to walk the streets of New Orleans without disguise, without shying from anyone, and if confronted by those planning to beat out of me the location of the mint booty then so be it, all the better in facilitating the necessary clean up.
On my way back to Loreta, I made sure to amble up and down more streets of the Vieux Carre than necessary—better for everyone to know that Drouet Broussard had survived the war and had returned home. My presence served as the “open for business” sign for anyone desiring a personal meeting.
Once back at Maggie’s I gathered a few belongings, locked arms with Loreta, and then we made our way to the residence in the Vieux Carre where we planned to serve as honey for any K.G.C. bees roaming thereabouts. We engaged in a dangerous business to be sure, but an enterprise altogether necessary for making the streets of the Crescent City safe for us again.
The first few days and nights proved uneventful toward that goal. After growing bored waiting for something to happen at the apartment, we decided to spend more time at the Pickwick drinking Sazeracs, playing poker and conversing late into the night. As it became clearer to both of us that we lived in the last days of any real K.G.C. influence, we both began talking a bit more freely to one another about previous work with the clandestine group.
I made it known to her that I never retrieved any of the plunder from the mint building after I stashed it away so many years before. She often asked about the cache’s location, but I danced around the answer. All in good time, I told her. Loreta danced around details in a similar way when asked if she played a role in the Lincoln assassination, but she did go so far as to say I would certainly ascertain more of that story on my own in my continued but reluctant role as K.G.C. agent in New Orleans in the coming years.
“Just know that you will one day fathom all of the details of that affair, Drouet, and you will still love me.”
“Of that I am certain. Far be it for me to question any of your devices in the line of duty during the late melee.”
“What you are trying very hard to say without being offensive is that we are both rogues drawn to treachery and quick to violence, you in your way and me in mine.”
“Yes, we are both made of the same cloth. But, don’t think for a moment that I hold any of it against you. ”
“Not for a minute. I know that run-of-the-mill fair ladies hold no charm with you. With you, I’ve only to worry about those quadroon beauties you and your late father always fancied.”
“I don’t deny any of that, but you’ve nothing of which to worry, Loreta. You own the full width and breadth of my affections.”
One observation made during her wartime work that Loreta made no qualms in divulging centered around the K.G.C. leadership.
“Call it women’s intuition, Drouet, but there were many times during the last four years when I got the feeling that Pike, Slidell, Benjamin, and Bickley were not the ultimate authorities in matters concerning The Circle. It comes down to the way certain things were said, to certain things I saw. I believe certain forces outside the country reigned over the apparatus that is slowly crumbling before our eyes.”
“I agree. It sure seems that many of our former overlords are finding favor and safe harbor in the friendly confines of Europe as we speak. Is that what you are getting at?”
“That’s exactly what I’m getting at. Benjamin is more than friendly with certain European bankers, having entertained some of them in this very club before the war started. The same with Slidell.”
“Maybe all of our recent woes were exacerbated by foreign interests, powers that needed a country split in half and at war with itself. Maybe Lincoln achieved a great feat in keeping it all together against powerful European trifling.”
“I heard much the same kind of speculation from some of my northern contacts while in the employ of Baker. We may never know.”
“It’s all behind us now. Let’s enjoy life, you and me. I plan on only casually fulfilling my remaining duties with the K.G.C., and that’s only because I made a promise to a certain Confederate general who commanded my friends during that late struggle.”
“Drouet, for all practical purposes, he has washed his hands of The Circle, or at least that’s what I’m hearing from my network. He’s working to find favor with the new government in Washington City and to make his mark on his first and real love, Scottish Rite Freemasonry. You shall never see him or hear from him again.”
12
Unfinished Business
With disguises finally discarded, many were the suspicious glances aimed at Loreta and me as we walked the streets of the Vieux Carre, as we dined in the evening and as we played poker and faro with the gaming crowd on the riverboats and at any number of New Orleans’ gambling establishments until the early morning hours.
One night at Tujague’s, in the charming company of Loreta, we enjoyed delicious servings of spicy shrimp smoldered with a piquant remoulade sauce and glasses of Sazerac. As the hours of enjoying fine food, drink and conversation passed, a sense of foreboding enveloped me.
Despite the pleasant evening, I could not help but notice shadow people lurking about in the corners.
I settled with Guilliaume, the proprietor, and spoke my adieus, but not before asking him to watch over Loreta as I stepped out to reconnoiter the cobblestone thoroughfares, recessed doorways and dark alleyways along Decatur and the nearby thoroughfares of Madison, Chartres, and Dumaine. Before heading back toward Tujague’s, I decided to walk about halfway down to the river and look over the area. After standing motionless for several minutes to ascertain any unusual movement or sound, and detecting nothing, I turned and began walking back toward Tujague’s.
Just then, a dark silhouette emerged from behind a live oak and ran pell-mell straight in the direction of one Drouet Broussard, transforming a perfectly serene moment to one of impending death. The silhouette’s grunts and heavy breathing drew ever closer, and I fathomed at once that the time lay upon me.
As I whirled to confront my pursuer, I glimpsed the shine of steel coming my way in the moonlight. The blade’s owner came at my arm as if to maim, but not fancying loss of limb, I pulled my right-side Bowie and slashed to kill, going for the gullet and taking down the dark figure with only two thrusts, in low and up fast. The gurgling heap lay there dying as I made straightaway for Tujague’s and Loreta.
In the safety of the apartment, I related to Loreta my close call with the assailant, both of us now fully understanding the vigilance necessary for our continued longevity.
The weeks passed with no lively event, a
nd I guessed the number of my enemies had possibly thinned down to single digits, but I remained ever watchful of possible assailants lurking in the darkness. I refused to fall into a false sense of security until I knew for certain that the streets of the Crescent City were safe for Loreta and myself once again.
One moonless night on our balcony in the Vieux Carre while watching the lively street below, Loreta suggested making the short walk to Bourbon Street for an absinthe frappe at Aleix’s Coffee House, an establishment actually more of a public house than the name implied. Regarding her proposition as a model idea, I agreed, donned my hat and cape, and we departed straightaway.
We sought to attract as little attention as possible on each of our jaunts, with such the case on this night as we passed through the streets and near the dark alleyways. While the usual spirit of gaiety filled the streets, it did not go unnoticed the occasional interested glimpse or the sideways peek trained our way while en route.
We arrived at the two-hundred block of Bourbon Street and began making merry at once with a familiar server and a few friendly faces at the tables. We spent a few hours in the confines of the establishment before deciding the happy night must end. As had grown my custom during those perilous days before leaving an establishment, especially at night, I asked Loreta to remain at the table while I patrolled the immediate environs outside the front door.
As soon as I reached the already opened front doorway, I heard whispering voices outside before ever stepping out onto Bourbon Street.
“You’re sure he’s in there, and you’re sure it’s Broussard?”
“My eyes don’t lie. And he’s with his lady friend.”
“All the better. I have questions of both of them that could make us rich. We crack both of their skulls when they come out. Don’t kill ’em, understand?”
“I know.”
Their voices indicated that both men stood to the left side of the door as I faced it from within. I returned to the table and apprised Loreta of the state of affairs.
“What shall we do, Drouet?”
“I’m not immediately sure, but I grow tired of slashing men in the darkness.”
“Yes, I can understand your sentiment in that regard.”
Loreta pondered intently for just a few seconds before uttering the most ingenious solution to the night’s singular predicament.
“If you could dispose of both men for years without killing them and without either of them knowing you did it would you be interested? Because if you are, I have a solution over on Gallatin Street.”
The mention of Gallatin Street raised my interest, to be sure. I knew the locality for its streets dimly lit, for its dark streets slippery and wet, for its alleyways dark and dank, for its window shutters battered and broken, and for long rows of tall houses showcasing windows with nothing but darkness behind.
I knew firsthand of the tremendous concentration of carnage and sin within its cheap boarding houses, raucous dance halls, wild bawdy houses, and groggeries altogether too seedy to garner the title of saloon—and all of this packed together on the wharf where seamen from every corner of the globe lurked in the shadows.
Located between Ursulines and Barracks streets between the river and Decatur, the locale offered a high probability of death for anyone willing to risk the pleasures of its environs. Many a man, both rough and polished, had entered its private rooms with the ladies of Gallatin Street and were never seen again this side of the veil, and many were the dapper gentlemen who had entered the surroundings walking upright only to receive a knock in the head before ending up sold for ten dollars on the river to any number of ship’s captains needing able-bodied sailors.
Quite simply, to enter Gallatin Street after dark in those days meant placing one’s life at risk.
“Loreta, pray, what devices does that mind of yours conjure up on this night?”
“Do you trust me?”
“I was about to say ‘yes, with some hesitation,’ but I reverse myself. I trust you with my life.”
I then bowed.
“Well, you may regret that reversal before the night is over.”
“I’m all in. The story is not a conventional one, yours and mine, so what plan have you?”
Loreta then revealed to me her idea, a design cold, hard, brutal and cunning, and one I admired as could only come from her on such short notice.
She then departed to the kitchen where she conversed for a short time with our friend the proprietor. Soon, she returned to our table with two short-handled cast-iron skillets. I took them both. From there, she departed quickly back to the kitchen, retrieved a few more items there and then began her ascent up the stairs to the second floor of the coffee house.
I arose from the table and made my way to near the front door and the two saboteurs awaiting outside. Staying within the confines of the coffee house, but ever near the front door, I awaited my signal.
Maybe two minutes ticked by before Loreta had made her way up the stairs and into the second-floor room immediately over the spot of our two greeters-to-be. Without hesitation, she opened the door to the front balcony from which she dropped an assortment of pots and pans to the cobblestone walkway below. I rushed out the door at once and found our would-be assailants with both their backs to me as they attempted to understand the nearby commotion to their left. That was the scenario I desired to see, as it made coming up behind both men and clobbering their heads in with the cast-iron skillets an act all the easier to perform.
Both men crumpled instantaneously across the cobblestones. I grabbed both men by their collar and drug them to the rear of the establishment. By the time I had hauled the bodies back, Loreta had descended the stairs, ran to the rear of the building and directed us to a horse provided by the proprietor. We draped both men harum-scarum over the back of the horse and proceeded down an alleyway and away from the scene as rapidly as possible. In no time, we found ourselves several blocks away and ever closer to Gallatin Street.
Once, emerging from a dark alleyway, one of the hoodlums slid off the horse and fell to the street. Luckily, no passersby noticed our presence and I hoisted the cargo back atop the steed.
“Drouet, it’s imperative these men remain unconscious. If either one of them makes a move then give his head another knock.”
“I may have you do it.”
Using devious routes ’round and about, our merry band made its way through the dark streets and alleyways first across the thoroughfares of Royal, Chartres, and Decatur, and then over the ways of Bienville, Conti, St. Louis, Toulouse and St. Peter until we arrived in the vicinity of Gallatin Street.
Ambling slowly so as avoid attention, we made our way past tall shuttered houses with broken windows, by dimly-lit or completely darkened establishments emitting yells, curses, and screams from within.
We brought the steed to a halt so as to better arrange the cargo when a drunken sailor bedecked in a blue sailor shirt and cap emerged from a nearby haunt, grunted, and then pointed back in the direction from whence he came.
“Ay! If it’s fun and frolickin’ yer seekin’ then sail right on in there! They can handle you one at a time or both together, whatever your pleasure.”
In order to rid ourselves of the observer, and to perhaps keep him quiet as to our presence, I considered it prudent to toss him a gold coin from out of my pocket.
“There, go back and frolic the rest of the night away, but be gone and stay quiet. Do we understand one another?”
“Bless you for a gentleman, sir! I am gone, and I am quiet, as quiet as the shadows.”
The drunken sailor then returned back into the dive from whence he came.
“Which of these illustrious establishments is our destination tonight, Loreta?”
“To the Amsterdam House to see someone friendly to the late cause, someone I learned about from within the K.G.C. web—the owner of the den, Dan O’Neil.”
“I’ve heard of him, a dangerous man. Can we trust him?”
�
��We can trust him with what we need tonight, to be sure.”
When finally we arrived at the front of the Amsterdam House, Loreta began making her way to the entrance but stopped short and turned back to me.
“If either of our friends atop that horse makes the slightest move then do what is necessary to return them to sleep. I shall return in short order.”
No more than ten minutes had elapsed when Loreta returned with the proprietor of the esteemed enterprise, Dan O’Neil. A strapping hulk of a figure standing over six-and-a-half feet and appearing well over the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mark, O’Neil owned a reputation as a tough customer who resorted to ruthlessness whenever necessary. He owned and managed a guzzle-house where men drank themselves into a state brave enough to dally with any one of his stable of willing ladies in the upstairs parlors, environs where some men entered never to emerge again. No doubt, many were knocked over the head and thrown aboard the various vessels of sea captains who frequented the groggery.
In spite of the known crimes committed regularly in the den, no one ever asked questions of Dan O’Neil—not the police, not the city leaders, not the occupying Yankees. Others before them had crossed the goonish devil, but none from those aforementioned ranks desired to join that fraternal order of the now deceased.
O’Neil walked out to inspect the cargo but sized me up first.
“Heard of you. You’re Broussard the slasher. You do good work, thorough-like, and then you disappear, and no one is the wiser—except for me. I know what goes on. It’s my business to know. If ever I could use a refined New Orleans couple in my apparatus it would certainly be you two.”
O’Neil then walked up beside our cargo, using the hair mops of both men as handles to raise their heads for facial inspections.
“These will do. Don’t tell me where you obtained ’em because I don’t want to know. What’s your askin’ price?”
Loreta answered at once.
“Ten dollars apiece.”
Ghost Knights Of New Orleans Page 10
