Neither of us needed the money, but Loreta refused to insult the gangster by refusing his payment. We both knew O’Neil and his type. The criminal might toss a man from an upstairs parlor window out onto the stone pathways below and not think twice about it ever again, but he paid his debts, and pity the man who looked upon him as a low-life charity case.
“I’d gladly pay you twenty each for these strappin’ bucks, but I’ll see your askin’ price and gladly so. Broussard, if you hoist the one up, then I’ll hoist the other.”
With that, O’Neil and I took the men to a back room within his groggery and laid them out behind a locked iron door with an armed guard on the other side.
“Slasher, by this time tomorrow, both those men will be out upon the gulf waters helpin’ an appreciative ship’s captain.”
“The longer they’re gone, the better. I considered opening them both up like the others you mentioned, but a man can develop habits.”
“Aye, you’re ever the gentleman, even in the bloody line of work that you are. I don’t understand it, but any friend of Miss Velazquez is a friend of mine. She’s helped me out more than once in our mutual line of work, and I’ll leave it at that.”
“Then may I ask a favor?”
O’Neil nodded in the affirmative.
“As I said, I could have killed these two men here and never had worry of them again around a sinister corner or lurking in the shadows for me. I need them gone for a goodly number of years, and they must not know who sold them out to the high seas.”
“That’s all? Of course, but that’s askin’ no favor at all. As for the part about who sold ’em to me, just know we keeps our mouths shut on Gallatin Street. And as for the latter, I’ve been placin’ poor bastards such as them on ships for many a year, and I’ve never seen a one of ’em ever again.”
“I’m indebted to you, O’Neil, and count you as a friend.”
“Not a bit indebted to me you are. It’s been my pleasure and a gentleman you are for sure no doubt. You’re welcome at the Amsterdam any time with your pick of any of my ladies with no trouble.”
“Thank you, and I will remember your generosity.”
We shook hands, and then Loreta and I departed Gallatin Street at a steady, careful and watchful clip through the ghostly, wet streets and murky alleyways toward home.
Our Shanghai deal with O’Neil was the first and last time I ever sold another human being into an arrangement with which they did not agree, but I justified the act as far better for the two than winding up laid wide open in a back alley of the Vieux Carre never to see the sun or moon again. While my family had never involved itself directly in the institution of slavery, I allowed that I had now participated directly in an institution somewhat akin to it—the custom of impressment.
Regardless, the incident began receding from the forefront of my mind as the celebration of Mardi Gras grew nearer. Everywhere people prepared for the coming merriment, for a Fat Tuesday that had not been celebrated in New Orleans since before the outbreak of the late war. A few years before that great conflict ensued, in 1857, Father had teamed with his friends Albert Pike, Judah Benjamin, John Slidell and others in the newly-formed Mystic Krewe of Comus, the first secret carnival society, to elevate Mardi Gras from an unorganized festival to a spectacle of beauty complete with torchlit processions, ostentatious floats, marching bands, colorful costumes and extravagant balls.
I will always remember that first night of revelry as organized by the Krewe back in 1857. The Krewe made its debut on the streets of New Orleans at nine o’clock in the evening on February twenty-fourth of that year. The Krewe called upon Mayor Charles Waterman and announced itself before marching through the streets while bedecked in dazzling costumes and carrying glaring torchlights en route to the theatre where awaited a spectacular gathering of elegance and style. Four connected tableaux featuring over one-hundred characters from Milton’s Paradise Lost served as the barrier threshold to the ballroom. Barriers then removed, a magnificent ball commenced in which the invitees of the Mystic Krewe of Comus participated. At the stroke of midnight, members of the Mystic Krewe silently departed the premises, allowing their friends and guests to make merry all through the night until the “coming of the gray morn.”
The following year, the Krewe assembled in Lafayette Square where they “kidnapped” the good Mayor Waterman before proceeding through the streets where thousands of excited revelers greeted Comus, Momus, Janus, Flora, Diana, Jupiter and a host of other deities of old showcased in splendid procession. At the theatre, four tableaux were presented, and a great dance commenced as before. Terpsichore, the goddess of music, song, and dance, received her crown as queen of the night, and then the members of the Mystic Krewe of Comus silently departed the theatre allowing their special invitees to delight in mischief and merrymaking throughout the long hours of the night.
Subsequent Mardi Gras proved equal, if not superior in mystery and magnificence up until the year 1861, the last Fat Tuesday celebration before the firing on Fort Sumter.
So, we found ourselves in the year 1866, and word spread throughout the streets of the Crescent City that the Mystic Krewe of Comus planned to walk again as before, exciting in revelers many pleasant memories of the past. Cards passed around portrayed imagery representing the four gloomy and uninteresting years of the war since the last parade. The spirit of merriment ran supreme once again as men, women, and children planned for the calling of the Mayor, the procession to the theatre, and for the four tableaux representing the themes for the year 1866—“The Past,” “The Present,” “The Future,” and “The Court of Comus.”
The great night came, and throngs of revelers lined the streets to behold the magnificence and pomp of Comus marching once again.
Carrying blazing torchlights with which to illuminate the night, Comus emerged from its den on Tchoupitoulas Street between Lafayette and Girod streets at around nine o’clock. The over one-hundred-member procession made its way along the banking district of Magazine Street and by the handsome townhouses of Camp Street. It passed Julia Row and the “Thirteen Sisters” that were thirteen brick townhouses considered amongst the finest addresses in the Crescent City.
Comus marched along the part of St. Charles Avenue between Lafayette Square and Tivoli Place before eventually crossing Poydras Street. From there, the procession passed the St. Charles Theater and Academy of Music.
Sometime after ten o’clock, Comus reached the Gaiety-Variete Theater located between Carondelet and Baronne Streets, the location of the long-awaited ball.
Awaiting the colorful and brilliant procession were many notables of New Orleans, the carefully-selected recipients of the most sought-after invitation of the year who stood in awe as Comus entered the Gaiety-Variete Theater to enact its tableaux upon the opulently decorated stage.
Each of the attendees were ladies and gentlemen dressed in a high style befitting their rank and stature, a multi-hued palette of duelists and debutantes, merchants and musicians, actors and adventurers, swindlers and scoundrels, carousers and old crows, scattered throughout with secret lovers and socialites, all ornamented in brilliant masquerade masks and armed with easy talk and laughter complemented by the free flow of the highest quality of liquid spirits New Orleans could provide.
I knew the identities of most everyone in attendance regardless of their masquerade masks. In those early days, the Mystic Krewe of Comus, the Pickwick Club, and The Circle were nearly one and the same as manifested in the Crescent City. Membership of the three societies offered a veritable Who’s Who of notables visiting our household during my youth. I eventually learned Father got into anything worth getting into in those days, a fact placing me directly into certain clandestine activities that now risked certain dire outcomes for me after his death. As for Father’s membership in The Circle, I accepted that his involvement originated more out of social expectation than out of any strong adherence to the order’s political aims.
Soon, spirits bega
n flowing, and dancing commenced, and the great ball proceeded apace in becoming a most colorful, flirtatious and memorable spectacle. Playful discussion began with vivacious ladies present, both young and old.
Loreta looked stunning in her red evening dress hanging low enough on the shoulders to drive most men mad and other women green with jealousy. Her long, dangling, diamond-and-ruby-encrusted earrings served as the pièce de résistance.
She and I tested our dancing shoes together for several dances before the night took on a life of its own. While dancing, I noticed an unusual ring on her right hand and a never before seen fan held in her left. The ring showcased a large stone that capped what unmistakably appeared as a hollowed rectangle beneath. A close inspection of the fan revealed razor-sharp metal points camouflaged amidst the brilliantly colored feathers and gemstones.
Clutching her tightly as we danced, I felt of the ring and gave a close look at her fan before casting an expression her way that made known my genuine curiosity.
“Pray, Loreta, what are these little treasures on your delicate hands? I’ve never seen you with them before.”
“The ring encases poison powder, and the fan features deadly sharpened metal prongs. Both are made for killing. The little derringer beneath my dress performs the same function but with an unfortunate loud report.”
“Why the secretive weaponry at the ball tonight? Is something worrying you?”
“Let’s just say that a few days ago near Jackson Square, I spied a face from afar that looked familiar.”
“Of whom did the faraway countenance remind you?”
“Of someone in Colonel Baker’s detective agency.”
“Is that person here tonight?”
“Drouet, you and I know that no one from that world would be invited here tonight, but something tells me it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“This is true, and all the more reason for you to showcase yourself, have fun and not injure or kill any of the guests present here tonight.”
I smiled as first one gentleman, and then another whisked Loreta onto the floor for dance and engaging conversation. Her admirers that night saw the same qualities in her that I always did—inviting charm and a sense of aristocracy to complement the beauty of a refined Spanish goddess. They did not know of her daring, of her intelligence, of her cunning, or of her coldness when working single-mindedly toward achieving a goal once established.
She whirled this way and that around the floor, and I occasionally caught a word or two of conversation as she passed close by. When I heard her utter the words “John St. Helen” on one such pass-by, my mind began working diligently to remember where I had heard the name before.
Soon, the images in my mind beckoned me back to my last time in Indian Territory, to a moment outside the tent of General Stand Watie some months after the end of the war. I remembered the handsome, limping gentleman with the piercing eyes and all too easy recollections from Shakespeare who announced himself as John St. Helen.
I filed that knowledge away for easy retrieval later when at once I spied the beautiful widow St. Croix, resplendent behind her brilliant, glittering mask and underneath the latest hairstyle from Paris, a sort of hibiscus involving a stunning combination of coronet and braided chignon. Easily twenty-five years my senior, this close friend of Father’s never failed to please with beauty and charm and that night proved no different. I caught her blue eyes gazing in my direction and proceeded at once to go to greet her.
As I clutched her waist and kissed her cheek, she whispered of the delight she had felt when previously hearing of my safe return from the war.
“I was not as familiar with your father as I wanted to be, but it is too late now. All I have of him are a few delicious memories and you standing here now.”
“A man of many mysteries, my father.”
“I miss him. He knew of everything happening in New Orleans and of quite a few interesting things happening well beyond—secret knowledge. And now here we are on this night after so many years. You’ve changed.”
“And you, madame, are more beautiful than ever.”
Arm-in-arm we made for the dance floor where we whirled together among the amorous crowd for a multitude of dances during the long night. She wanted to be shared with others only as necessary.
“Is it not boorish of me to keep you so much to myself tonight?”
“I am a widow and no longer a young woman; I shall dance with whom I desire as often as I desire. But why me when you can have most any of the young, vivacious debutantes here tonight?”
“They do not interest me in the least.”
“Drouet, I’ve heard things about you.”
“Do you approve of what you have heard?”
“The stories I hear are riveting. I always approve of riveting.”
“Then we comprise the offices of chairman and co-chairman of our own mutual admiration society. Pray, what have you heard of yours truly?”
“I hear you still cast your lot with a society responsible for certain national conspiracies, and I hear you are quite proficient with knives.”
“And what else?”
“That you perform arm-in-arm with a certain Loreta Velazquez, formerly a top agent in New Orleans of said society. A dangerous lady by all accounts. Also, that you and Loreta are privy to great Confederate secrets.”
“You don’t wonder that these stories might be slightly exaggerated?”
The widow St. Croix answered only with a coy chuckle.
“Let’s cease discussing this dreary war-time business, shall we?”
“Then what shall we talk about, Drouet?”
“Let’s concentrate on how delightful it is to be in your company.”
The dances continued apace, the Sazeracs flowed almost as heavily as the waters of the mighty Mississippi, and the hours passed to early the next morning with a sky still dark with night.
Loreta and I crossed paths again as St. Croix and myself finished our last dance. Loreta greeted us both.
“Drouet, you two made a handsome couple tonight.”
“Loreta, you performed well yourself. I admire you even more after your footwork tonight.”
We exchanged stories for several minutes before noticing that we were among the few remaining revelers in the great ballroom. We made it to the foyer and outer doorway when I told Loreta I must return inside to retrieve my cape. Having reclaimed my garment, I then walked back to the foyer near the doorway. Loreta saw me, smiled, and then walked out to the cobblestone walkway outside the theater.
Just as she made her right turn outside the doorway, a man approached her from the darkness.
“Mrs. Williams, or should I say Miss Velazquez, it has been a long time.”
I decided to remain hidden inside the foyer for the time being.
“Mr. Winslow, you’re a long way from your bureaux at the treasury in Washington City, and, yes, it has been a long time. Happy Mardi Gras.”
“You rebels and your vile Mardi Gras. Give us time, and it will be no more. The south’s new overlords will bring righteousness to this hellish den one day.”
“How did you know to find me here? And why do you call me Velazquez?”
“It took me some time to deduce your true identity of Velazquez, but I did. I also learned you sort of hail from this devilish haunt, so I knew that if you were in New Orleans, you would definitely be at this ball tonight.”
“Why do you want to see me?”
“You surely know exactly why I want to see you. Let’s discuss your time working for Lafayette Baker, shall we?”
“I served him with distinction. He announced as much to all of Washington City.”
“You know as well as I that Baker was as corrupt if not more so than the very scoundrels he rooted out of the treasury, and that’s how you came to manipulate him so effectively. He only wanted to bring justice upon criminals reaping the profits that he desired for himself.”
“I know nothing of that.”
<
br /> “You know a great deal about quite a lot, I’m sure, Miss Velazquez. I will bring you to the Federal authorities here in New Orleans, and we shall discuss these matters at great length.”
“I’m afraid that you mystify me, sir. I’m at a disadvantage, not at all aware of that which you speak.”
“Don’t play that game with me. You were a rebel spy and an agent of the K.G.C., and I often suspected you as such during those days. When you left abruptly at war’s end after Baker mentioned to you that Velazquez had been suspected in the assassination attempt, then the epiphany struck.”
“How do you know that he mentioned that to me?”
“He told me as much. Then I asked where the lovely Mrs. Williams had gotten off to so suddenly. Then I began backtracking your history with the agency, looking over all of your activities, and it became apparent that you are likely the true Loreta Velazquez.”
“Baker would attest to my loyalty to this day.”
“Please, Baker was a bully, a simple thug, a crook who had a name for abusing his power, and his real boss in Washington City, secretary Stanton did not care.”
“Sir, Mr. Baker and his brother, Luther, were responsible for capturing Lincoln’s killer.”
“Were they? Mr. Baker sure knew how and where to find Booth when tasked with the job by Secretary Stanton, didn’t he? He knew exactly along which roads to look and exactly in which area of Virginia to search. With knowledge of Booth’s personal diary, he instructed Luther to return to Washington City swiftly after cornering Booth the assassin. Funny, isn’t it? And then the diary was, in fact, returned, but with eighteen pages missing. What was written on those eighteen pages? How did Lafayette Baker seem to know at once where to find the assassins? Was the content of these missing eighteen pages in any way related to the seemingly supernatural tracking powers possessed by the brothers Baker? For all of their great hunting prowess, both Lafayette and Luther were handsomely rewarded, and the affair was then tidied up in the most convenient fashion . . . just like that.”
“You still have not told me what I have to do with any of these wild speculations.”
Ghost Knights Of New Orleans Page 11
