Ghost Knights Of New Orleans

by David Althouse

  Henceforth, I viewed the treasure at Lafayette Cemetery as proceeds for anything and anyone I might personally choose. After all, I devised the plan and took all the risks of the operation to see the plan through successfully. Then, I hid away the loot in the choicest hiding spot in all of New Orleans under the noses of everyone. Why should I not enjoy the spoils of my risks successfully taken, of my labor and of my ingenuity? In what part of the mint heist operation did any of the remaining K.G.C. overlords participate? What risks had they incurred giving them moral authority in the matter?

  Leaving the Laveau residence on St. Ann Street, my mind gave thought to those and a handful of other questions. What tomorrow held I knew not, but I had people to visit, glasses of Sazerac to savor, and a crypt to visit at Lafayette Cemetery.

  The next night found me at the aforementioned City of the Dead on a withdrawal visit. In the dark of a moonless night, I made my way there afoot, fearing the clip-clop of horse hooves en route might attract unwanted attention. I made my way to the main entrance and pulled up short, stopping to let my eyes, ears, and nose detect what they might from that vantage point.

  Assured that no one lurked in the shadows, I floated along as quietly as possible to the cache site, just as silently removed the stones from the rear of the ossuary and, while positioned face down on the soil, crept within. Once inside I lit a match to see what choice treasures I might extract for a good cause. Having identified several topnotch bags and more than one handsome ingot, I bagged said booty and crawled out. As always, I moved the rear stones back in place in such a way that no one could ever perceive their temporary removal. I then lit another match to illuminate the ground around me to check for any evidence of my visit. Finding none, I crept first along one aisle and then down another, in between vaults in one section and around several tombs in another.

  Once at the main gate, I turned for a final look back inside the metropolis of the departed for a sign of anyone still lurking on this side of the veil and spied nothing of the sort. I’ve often seen shadow people, and more than once I’ve sensed otherworldly spirits in my presence, but never have I shuddered while in their midst.

  Those still living concern me more.

  The living oftentimes carry knives and shooting irons and intend to draw blood.

  I bade farewell to those beyond the veil at Lafayette Cemetery and began my trek to the Vieux Carre.

  The following day found me at the Canal Street office of Phillip Bacon, carpetbagger, educator, recent planter and champion of the freedmen. He attended to matters in his office only once monthly, a fact I ascertained earlier, and so there he sat scribbling at his desk when I strode through the front door.

  I intended to make an anonymous donation from the benevolent K.G.G. with the gold benefitting the lives of recently-freed slaves and their children.

  Without lifting pen from pad, Bacon looked up at me from behind his spectacles just as the front door closed behind me. He looked more the educator than planter in his tweed trousers, wire-rimmed eyeglasses and brown hair parted evenly down the middle of his head.

  His immediate jitteriness indicated my presence disturbed him. He sat frozen with wide eyes as if he beheld the devil himself. His pen still pressed against the exact spot on the pad as when I entered, he managed a greeting.

  “Uh, uh, greetings I’m sure, sir.”

  “Do I stand before Phillip Bacon?”

  “You, you do, sir. How may I help you?”

  “We have mutual friends, you and I.”

  “We do? Who might they be, may I ask?”

  “The mother and daughter Laveau, Mr. Bacon.”

  “Ah, yes, an interesting pair those two, as well as their followers, adherents to a dark religion and dark ways, and much in need of education and enlightenment. How do you know them?”

  “How do I know them? I’ve known them from my earliest days as a boy here in New Orleans. I count them as friends. Their religion and their ways are their business and none of my own.”

  “Surely you don’t condone their religious practices, their rituals, their raucous gatherings, their animalistic celebrations.”

  “I make it my habit to leave people to their chosen indulgences and me to my own. As for their social merrymakings, I’ve attended a few of their observances with myself as guest.”

  “Have you not witnessed their indulgences as you call it at Congo Square? Those spectacles resemble something straight from the pit. Only in New Orleans are such exhibitions as those tolerated. You say you have attended these horrible affairs?”

  “More than once, as I said.”

  Bacon, still jittery, eyes still opened as large as the silver dollars extracted from the mint building, sat motionless and silent as he beheld the length and breadth of me standing on the other side of his oak desk. I almost asked if he beheld an apparition next to me.

  “New Orleans seems quite needful of the piety native to my land. I see we have much work to do down here.”

  While finding the carpetbagger’s tone disagreeable and annoying, I chose to let it go without remark.

  “Well, Mr. Bacon, in your quest to find potential converts in the Crescent City I bid you nothing but happy hunting. Perhaps what I lay before you will help in your righteous and upright endeavors.”

  With that, I set my briefcase on his desk, opened the latch and began extracting booty retrieved from Lafayette Cemetery the night before. In a matter of less than a minute, assorted bags filled with coins along with various ingots lay strewn on Bacon’s desk.

  “What say you, sir? Here is my contribution to the virtuous efforts you have planned for the lowly city I call home if you accept?”

  I hadn’t thought it possible for Bacon’s body to seize any tighter or his eyes to grow even larger than before, but I witnessed such as he beheld the loot placed before him. His presence reeked of both shock and incredulity at once, topped off with a strong suggestion of suspicion. It took some few minutes for him to manage an utterance.

  “Where, may I ask, did you obtain all of this?”

  “If used in the virtuous pursuits with which your name has become synonymous, does the origin of this contribution matter that greatly to you?”

  “I ask you directly: Where did you come by it?”

  “What if I told you that I stole it from the United States mint in Washington City? What if I told you it came from a federal supply wagon robbed by Confederates up in Indian Territory, and maybe I robbed it from them?”

  “I don’t know you, sir, and I don’t know quite what to make of you. I am inclined to turn over all of this to the authorities.”

  “Take what I have given you and employ it as you see fit. As for turning this over to the authorities, I highly recommend you refrain from that action. We are in a time of reformation and new beginnings. Use the gold wisely, compassionately and without condemnation.”

  Tipping my hat, I made for the door.

  14

  Divvying the Spoils

  You’ll pardon me if I omit exact dates when recounting what follows. I do so mainly to protect the innocent and also, in some cases the guilty.

  Just know that in the months and years ahead I played host in New Orleans to a veritable who’s who of characters who had employed their skills on behalf of the Knights of the Golden Circle throughout the country before, during and after the great war. During these meetings, I handed them packages containing checks, cash, names and addresses of other K.G.C. contacts, their aliases, code words and signals to use in gaining entrance to various “castles” controlled by the cabal, and other information necessary for these individuals to navigate freely and without suspicion for the rest of their lives. When necessary—and only when necessary—I plucked stash from Lafayette Cemetery in the dark of night with which to help pay off these agents.

  I emphasize the words “when necessary” because having something of that treasure left over for yours truly at the end of my K.G.C. career never ceased to be my ultimate goa
l. I allowed, somewhat reluctantly, that an occasional withdrawal from the stash aided me in getting to the peaceful end of said career all the quicker.

  About many of my visitors you have no doubt read, and of their exploits you have either cheered or jeered depending on your predisposition on such matters one way or the other.

  Frank James’ visit proved noteworthy not only because it rekindled our association from years earlier when I helped with the Ohio train robbery, but also because it afforded me first-hand accounts of the James Gang’s many colorful exploits in the service of the society since that job.

  Many of his stories spoke of K.G.C. plunder still buried in precise locations across Missouri, Kansas, Arkansas and, mostly, Indian Territory, a region familiar to yours truly due to my service there on behalf of General Watie and his fighting Confederate Indians.

  We originally met at the Pickwick, but Mr. James felt uncomfortable in its refined environs, so we departed to the bar at Maggie Thompson’s brothel on Customhouse Street in the red-light district. After I had made the proper introductions, Mr. James settled in and seemed to feel right at home.

  “This is more like it, Broussard. I get a little fidgety around uppity folks, even if they are uppity folks friendly to the former Confederate States. This is more to my liking, right here.”

  “Think nothing of it. Maggie always says, ‘Any friend of Drouet Broussard is a friend of mine.’”

  “Didn’t know what to think of you when we rode together on that Ohio job, Broussard. To be honest, me and Jesse thought you were a little standoffish back then, but it turned out you knew how to get the job done. Doesn’t surprise me none at all that you can fit in at a place like that Pickwick Club.”

  “I’ve fit in there for quite a while, but I pride myself on blending in anywhere with anybody.”

  “I don’t doubt that none at all. Me and Jesse later heard about some of your work down in the Indian Territory whilst you fought with them Indians. Impressive work. Leastways, it shore is good to see you again. We’ve rode the trails and crossed the rivers together.”

  As most everyone knows, the James Gang’s penchant for raiding federal wagon trains and railroad cars acquired during the war continued unabated for many years afterward. According to Frank James, they “appropriated” only as much of the loot for themselves as absolutely necessary and buried the rest in precise, recorded spots for retrieval later by K.G.C. operatives. Part of my job during these meetings involved learning of these various cache sites and reporting said locations up the ladder to my unnamed and unknown superiors.

  As mentioned earlier, the rocks and dirt of Indian Territory held a sizeable amount of James Gang stash, and many were Frank’s stories involving their jobs in that region. Jesse knew how to separate the little garrisons there from their money when opportunity arose.

  Take the case of Fort Arbuckle located in the southernmost region of Indian Territory. One day a heavily guarded caravan of federal wagons left Fort Leavenworth in Kansas carrying payroll for the troops stationed at the little bastion near Mill Creek not too many miles north of the Red River. The caravan had traveled all the way across the territory and found itself within only a few miles of Fort Arbuckle when a flurry of rifle fire took the federal guards by surprise.

  In the ensuing fight, five of the men assisting the James Gang were killed, but all of the federals guarding the payroll were wiped out. The gang descended upon the wagons forthwith, lifted the gold from within before setting fire to the entire caravan to suggest an Indian attack. The gang members, anticipating immediate pursuit from Fort Arbuckle troops once they discovered the scene of the attack, knew they had to travel fast, which meant they had to lighten their load. Thus, they decided to hide the gold along three different spots along Mill Creek as they departed the vicinity.

  Frank James explained that each hole held almost exactly one-third of the total take. He then explained to me the locations of the three cache sites citing prominent landmarks nearby and accepted K.G.C. symbols carved on trees and chiseled on boulders adjacent the burial spots.

  I transcribed all of this information into a journal to send up the K.G.C. ladder later but also storing it away in my mind for possible retrieval myself.

  Then James laid before me detailed accounts of robberies about which we in New Orleans had read in newspaper accounts since the end of the war, raids for which authorities still sought culprits.

  James laid out in detail how the gang looted the Alexander Mitchell and Company Bank in Lexington, Missouri, how much the raid garnered, the amount they took for themselves and the amount they stashed away for the society and the location of the cache. James went on to explain in detail a long list of robberies, raids, and holdups, how much each adventure harvested, roughly how much the gang members kept to use for operating expenses, and how much they buried in the ground across the countryside and the exact location of each cache. I listened with genuine interest while jotting down extensive notes.

  James also explained a habit the gang had for venturing into Mexico looking for looting opportunities. More than once, James said, the gang met in El Paso or any number of other towns near the Rio Grande, to plan heists below the border. Not all of the raids proved successful, but enough of them did for the gang to manage a hefty overall take over the last several years.

  Mexican guards hauling government gold bullion proved the gang’s favorite target while operating down there. James mentioned numerous such raids below the border, but I could only recall reading about one of these excursions in the newspapers, a fact which gave me to know that the James Gang successfully covered their tracks while in Mexico. Their biggest challenge often proved escaping back across the border into the United States with their lives.

  Once back on the northern side of the border, the gang set aside their take and then went to work burying the remaining treasure in cache sites across Texas and Indian Territory. The gang favored operating in Indian Territory because its environs were often beyond the reach of any lawful authorities. At that time, the few men carrying badges in Indian Territory were often doing the work of the Cherokees, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Seminoles, and the gang members enjoyed friendly associations with many of those officers and did not feel threatened while in their midst.

  That is why the James Gang knew most every nook and cranny in Indian Territory. They especially preferred cache sites in the Wichita and Ouachita Mountains of that region. I paid careful attention as James recounted the cache spots because I also stood familiar with the Indian Territory and could navigate there as well as anyone. One never knows what tomorrow holds, and I could wind up needful of said resources just as much as anyone else.

  James mentioned Tarbone Mountain in the Wichita Mountains. He mentioned the Fort Sill area not far from there. He described cache sites in those locales and in places with names like Sugarloaf Mountain, Horsethief Springs, Younger’s Bend and Robber’s Cave.

  With detailed description, James continued to relate cache locations along the Arkansas and Poteau Rivers in that region, in the bottomland and cane breaks between Skullyville and Fort Smith, and at any number of different spots in the Ozark foothills near Tahlequah.

  During his first visit to New Orleans, James allowed that he enjoyed the Crescent City, its people, its warm climate and intimated that he could end his days as a criminal and make an honest living in New Orleans. Eventually, through a connection of mine, I helped him find employment at the New Orleans Fair Grounds race track as a betting commissioner.

  Mr. James told some remarkable stories to me that day, and I visited with him later, and he recounted even more, but I cannot say that the James Gang’s exploits on behalf of the K.G.C. proved the most incredible to me during those days.

  Another visitor eventually arrived in New Orleans and narrated an account belonging to the ages.

  15

  Shadow People All Around

  One day while walking through the Vieux Carre, I spied a friend fro
m the Pickwick Club waving to me from the front of that establishment. I walked across the street and followed him inside where we took seats in a private meeting room.

  My friend and Circle contact, who shall continue to remain unnamed, placed his right forefinger over his mouth to indicate we both speak in the softest of tones.

  What he communicated to me on that day ran thus:

  A certain John St. Helen had arrived in New Orleans recently where he took up temporary residence with an unnamed family near Camp and First Streets. Without revealing the identity of the family, I freely admit that the late patriarch of said family had been a close friend and business associate of my father. An appointment had been arranged for me to meet with St. Helen only a few nights hence. The appointed late-night hour had been set with instructions for me to arrive and leave in as concealed a manner as possible. Before setting out to the residence on the appointed night, my instructions said to stop by the Pickwick and retrieve a packet intended for our guest. I should approach a certain side door to the residence and, upon arriving, knock at the door using a certain number and cadence of taps. St. Helen’s instructions were to remain at said residence for the duration of his visit, never to venture out into the streets or otherwise enjoy the charm of the Crescent City in any way. Other unnamed contacts were charged with eventually whisking St. Helen out of the home and onto a boat on the river at some appointed time after our meeting. Neither St. Helen nor myself could mention the visit ever again unless we desired an assassin’s bullet or blade at an unexpected hour, date and place after the fact.

  I understood with crystal clarity the subterfuge of the circumstance.

  I also remembered that I had met a John St. Helen up in the Indian Territory at General Watie’s camp and that I had once overheard Loreta mention the same name while dancing at the Comus Mardi Gras ball. I fully expected to see the man from Indian Territory when I visited the residence at Camp and First Streets in the dark of night a few nights ahead.