“Gonna have to take a pass on that offer,” Jacob called back.
“I had imagined that would be the case,” Potestas said from the other side of the mast.
Jacob spun around the mast to his left. Potestas had beat him to it. Jacob ground to a halt. There was the owner of the voice. The two men eyed each other.
Potestas stood a few inches taller than Jacob, with straw-blonde hair and a thick set of muttonchops that met on his upper lip. He’d smeared blood like warpaint between his mausoleum-grey eyes and wore a grey greatcoat instead of white robes. He wielded a cavalry saber in his right hand.
Jacob went into action. He swung his broadsword for the other man’s belly, but Potestas deflected the strike easily and struck out with his left hand. His fist stopped short of Jacob’s sternum. An unyielding, powerful force collided with his chest and thrust him into the air. Jacob was launched backwards, up and over the stairs to the hold.
He landed on his back nearly ten paces away, the wind knocked from him, and slid another five before coming to a halt. Somehow he’d held onto both his sword and pistol. He gasped for breath, struggling to rise from the deck. He looked down the length of his body at Potestas as he walked calmly to Christopher, who had, sword drawn, positioned himself in front of Charlotte.
Potestas waved his hand from right to left. The same invisible force struck out at Christopher, launching him into the air and over the railing of the ship. The other Templar splashed into the Mississippi with a shout of surprise. Jacob groaned, praying Christopher was alright.
Jacob got to his feet, still gasping for air. Charlotte screamed for Jacob and turned, the crate containing the relic clutched to her chest. Potestas rushed forward and grabbed a handful of Charlotte’s hair. Her hat went tumbling as the blonde man yanked her back to him. She screamed, flinging the crate at Jacob’s feet.
Jacob, swearing, holstered his pistol and raced forward. He bent down and scooped the crate into his arms.
“Run, Jacob,” Charlotte yelled.
She screamed again as Potestas, his hand still gripping her hair, wrenched her upwards. She stood on her tiptoes, eyes wide with pain, hands behind her head as she struggled to disentangle the man’s hands. She kicked at him, clobbering his shins and knees, but Potestas didn’t seem to notice.
Jacob glanced to the left and right of Cyclops Potestas. Two white-robed Kukluxers advanced from either side. They trained their shotguns and rifles on Jacob. Potestas brought his saber up and laid the edge across Charlotte’s bare throat.
“Run!” Charlotte yelled again.
Potestas pressed the blade to her ivory neck. Blood welled.
“Though I feel your position at the bargaining table has changed for the worse, I will offer the same terms as before, but sweeten it a touch. I will throw this young lady’s life into the bargain. Do not entwine the fate of this dear, young lady’s fate with that of the crew’s, Templar. I will kill her. I will open her throat here and now, so that you have the unique pleasure of watching the life leave her eyes, knowing your obstinance is the sole cause of her untimely death. Now, give me that for which I came.”
Charlotte kept struggling even as Potestas lifted her farther from the deck and pressed his saber’s edge deeper into her skin. Jacob, his mouth drier than the Great American Desert, swallowed hard.
“Give me your answer.”
Jacob dropped the crate on the deck.
He kicked it to Potestas. It slid to a stop in front of the cyclops. Potestas withdrew his saber and released Charlotte. He pushed her away. She stumbled forward, a hand at her throat and another on the back of her head. The Kukluxers lowered their guns. Jacob sheathed his broadsword and went to her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and offering it to her.
“Why’d you give him the damn relic?” she asked in turn, ignoring Jacob’s offer. She slugged him in the arm and, swearing, hit him in the chest. Jacob shrugged.
“Was that so difficult?” asked Potestas. He waved one of his men forward. The man came up, shotgun resting over his shoulder, and scooped up the crate with his free hand. He handed it to the cyclops and returned to where he had been, shouldering his shotgun again and training it on Jacob and Charlotte.
“Get the kegs,” Potestas said to the man on his right.
“Yessir,” The Kukluxer said in a muffled voice and retreated to the bow of the boat. Potestas turned and followed.
“Goddammit, Jacob Smith,” Charlotte said.
“You’re an innocent. Couldn’t let him just kill you.”
“Do you even know what you did? No, of course not, because you and your partner were all, ‘seen one, seen ‘em all.’ Those are the Teeth of Francois Mackandal.”
“What are those?” Jacob asked. Barrels thudded on the deck. He looked past Charlotte. “Shit.”
“What now?” Charlotte asked, spinning around. Three barrels rolled down the deck towards them. A steadily burning fuse protruded from the end of the center one.
“We gotta get,” Jacob said, grabbing Charlotte’s hand and turning to the stern of the ship.
“What about Christopher?” Charlotte asked as Jacob pulled her along .
“If he survived, he’s fine.”
They ran up the stairs. They made it atop the deck and sprinted for the aft railing. Almost there. Almost safe.
The barrels of gunpowder exploded. The shock wave from the explosion smacked into their backs and lifted them off their feet. Jacob felt the tremor shoot through him, from his feet all the way to his head, rattling his teeth and quaking his insides.
They flew over the railing and into the air, carried by the force. Jacob, despite his brain echoing and shaking from the force, registered the chunk of bannister that flew past his head. It must have been blown free by the explosion, and was as thick as his arm and twice as long. For a moment, a picture formed in Jacob’s head of what he’d look like with that piece of lumber sticking through his shoulder. Or his chest. Or his neck.
Jacob, arms pinwheeling, looked below him at the approaching water. He straightened his body into a line before splashing into the river, just like he was back at the old swimming hole of his youth.
His sword was a lead weight on his hip, and the boots didn’t help none. He sank deep and had to struggle to swim back to the top.
He broke through the harbor’s surface and took a deep breath. His ears were ringing like a fifty-pound cannon had fired next to his head.
He looked around, searching for Charlotte. She was treading water a few feet away, looking at the burning hulk of the Isabella. There was a creaking groan of wood behind them, the sound of an old woman giving up on life, the ship’s death rattle.
“You alright?” Jacob asked, shouting as he splashed around and looked for his hat. He couldn’t find it. Damn.
“Capt. Abel loved that ship like a wife.”
“Come on,” Jacob said, turning towards the dock, “swim ashore.”
They swam down the river to put some distance between them and the Isabella. If the police hadn’t shown up already, they soon would. A raid on a ship was one thing, they’d probably been paid to ignore that. An explosion of this size, followed by a burning, sinking ship in the middle of one of the world’s busiest ports? No amount of coin could buy such ignorance.
Charlotte and Jacob swam down a couple piers till they could find a ladder.
“Dammit,” Charlotte said, collapsing onto the dock when she’d reached the top of the ladder. “All that work for nothing.”
“What do you mean ‘nothing’?” Jacob asked as he climbed up after Charlotte. He stood and looked down at her. She looked like a soaked through red-headed muskrat. He probably did too, though. Except the red-headed part, of course.
“I spent six months in Haiti looking for those teeth, and now that goddamn Potestas has them.”
“Yup,” Jacob said, shrugging. “But we’re alive.”
“Do you even know what the relic does?�
�� Charlotte asked. “No, that’s right, you don’t. You and your partner’s cavalier attitudes. You didn’t even want to know what it did.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What do the Teeth do?”
“They infect people with zombie-ism.”
Jacob remembered the term, had heard it somewhere before. He shook his head when it didn’t come to him. “What’s that?”
“Zombies are nigh-invulnerable, mindless killers,” Charlotte said. She sighed, looking around. “They pass the infection to others, and whoever has the Teeth controls the zombies. They’ll tear apart anyone or anything with no regard for themselves or others.”
Jacob flared his nostrils and took a sharp breath. He looked around before settling his eyes once again on the soaked-through Charlotte Gibson.
“Yup,” he said again, hands on his hips, “but, like I said, we’re alive. That’s something.”
“Oh, that’s something, Mr. Smith? That’s your great victory for the day?”
“We just narrowly avoided being blown to smithereens by a couple hundred pounds of blasting powder. Yeah, I’d call that a victory.”
“But what about Mr. Freeman? Do you think he made it? And those sailors? Capt. Abel?”
“Christopher? He’s tougher than new nails. Ain’t too worried about him. He’ll be along soon enough. As to the sailors, we were blind-sided. How’d Potestas even know your ship was coming in?”
“Must be a leak in one of our organizations. Someone tipped them off. Where do we go from here?”
Jacob peered out onto the docks, one hand shading his eyes.
“We? That’s cute.”
“I’m the head of the OSW, and until I hear different, my assignment is to see the Teeth of Francois Mackandal delivered into the hands of the Knights Templar. So, yes, ‘we’ may be cute, but it’s certainly apt.”
Jacob turned and looked down at her. He sighed.
“Guess our next step, then,” he said, offering her a hand, “is getting some dry clothes on you.” She took it and Jacob pulled her to her feet. “And, look,” he said, pointing down the dock at a soaked through and grim-faced black man leaving a trail of water behind him, “there’s Christopher now.” Jacob grinned despite his weariness. “Told you. Tough as new nails.”
“Sorry, but my room is the best we can do,” Jacob said, opening the door to the room he’d rented for his stay in New Orleans. “I’ll be sleeping in Christopher’s.”
“The order must keep you on a tight expense leash,” Charlotte said, surveying the small, dank room from where they stood in the doorway. Wooden walls, wooden floors, no rugs, and a mattress likely chock full of bed bugs.
“No. New Orleans is boiling over. Colored men, even Creoles, can’t stay in the same hotels anymore, so I’m staying where Christopher can.”
“But why do I have to stay here? I’m white.”
“Kukluxers know who the three of us are. Till this blows over, we all stick close.”
“I’ll concede that,” Charlotte said, walking into the room. She turned and said, “I need to send a telegram. I need to inform the agency of my predicament and request funds to be wired.”
“Can’t do that,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “Potestas knew everything. Can’t tip our hand.”
“What do you suggest then, oh wise Templar?” Charlotte asked, putting her hands on her hips. “I need new clothes, supplies, and a host of other things.”
“The order will pay. Potestas blew up your friend’s ship, not our hotel.”
“Fine. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to dry my clothes.”
Jacob nodded and went to tip his hat. He realized he wasn’t wearing one and touched his finger tips to his brow instead.
He needed a new hat.
He closed the door and looked down over the saloon floor. He wanted a drink, but it’d have to wait. He walked next door to Christopher’s room and went inside without knocking.
“Need more ammunition,” Christopher said without looking up from where he sat cleaning his Colts on the room’s only bed. He wore just his long johns. His wet clothes hung over the sill of the open window.
“Need a new hat, too,” Jacob said, stripping off his gunbelt and sword and laying them on the bed.
The room was small, hot, and muggy, but clean. The headboard of the only bed was pushed against the wall on the right, and a steamer trunk sat at its foot. The Templars brought the trunk with them from the monastery in Chicago. In the left corner of the room was a lone wooden chair. It may have been unvarnished and crude-looking, but it was sturdy.
“Yep. That too,” Christopher said. He stayed focused on his guns. “Think we can trust her?”
“Who? Miss Gibson?” Jacob replied, unbuttoning his shirt.
“She could have told them about where we were meeting.”
“Doubt it. Potestas tried to kill her,” Jacob said, stripping out of his shirt and hanging it next to Christopher’s. He sat down in the corner chair and began pulling off his boots.
“Could have been a double-cross. Could have been working with them and they cut her loose. She’s Southern after all.”
Jacob shook his head.
“That make her a Kukluxer?” Jacob tugged at his boot. “No, she spent too much time getting those teeth.” He pried it loose with a grunt.
“Says she did,” Christopher said, looking up briefly from his revolvers. “Besides, you shouldn’t trust these Pinkertons. They’re mercenaries. They only work for us and Washington because we’re the highest bidders.”
“I believe her.”
Christopher grunted. “Just cause she’s a pretty face.”
Jacob grunted back. “Looks don’t figure into this.”
Christopher grunted again.
“They don’t,” Jacob said.
“All I’m saying is, the attack on the Isabella would make a good cover. Keep us off balance.”
“She ain’t the leak.”
“Fine.”
“What should we do next?”
“Wait for our clothes to dry, then grab chow and more ammo,” Christopher said, slapping shut the cylinder of his revolver. “Then we start looking for Potestas. And I know just the Voodoo Queen to help us find him.”
“I still don’t know why we’re even going to see her,” Charlotte said as she walked down the sidewalk sandwiched between the two Templars. “I can tell you everything you need to know about the Teeth.” The buildings of Dumaine Street crowded in around and over them and people of all nationalities pressed in. Jacob couldn’t stand it.
“Ain’t about just that, Miss Gibson,” Christopher said, eyes ahead. “My auntie always said Madame Laveau keeps her fingers in everything. Auntie Patrice said all her seemingly magical power came from her exceptional hearing. If there’s been any shaking and moving going on, she’ll know. With the power that Potestas showed, and that Gattling he brought to bear while he did it, Mme. Laveau will know about him.”
“Oh, alright,” Charlotte breathed. “I still need to buy clothes.”
“You look fine,” Jacob said, glancing down at her.
“My hair is a mess. My dress is wrinkled, and my luggage was exploded all over the Mississippi. I do not look fine.”
“Might could convince Mme. Laveau to do your hair while we’re there,” Christopher said.
Charlotte snorted. “What doesn’t this woman do?”
“Take lip.”
They crossed over Dauphine and kept walking. Two blocks later they came to Rampart and the end of the French Quarter. They turned left at St. Ann’s in front of the wide expanse of impacted dirt called Congo Square. It had gotten its name for being the meeting place of slaves early in New Orleans’s life. They’d ceased the meetings decades before, and there weren’t slaves anymore, but the name stuck.
They stopped at the front entrance of the third home down on the right, a small adobe building that, like the other homes in the quarter, pushed against the sidewalk.
A wooden fence constructed of tightly pressed-together boards extended from either side at about the height of the roof, restricting access to the rear yard. Christopher knocked without hesitation.
A few moments later a beautiful, tall, full-figured woman opened the door. Jacob could tell she was an octoroon, a woman of one-eighth colored heritage, from the look of her cafe-au-lait skin.
“Mme. Laveau?” Christopher asked.
“I am,” she replied in a thick creole accent. “And who are you?”
“Christoper Freeman, ma’am. You don’t know me, but I know your mother. I’m here because my Aunt Patrice said to come see her if I ever needed something out of the ordinary.”
“My mother?” the woman asked, looking up to the ceiling. “Many apologies, but she’s not taking visitors,” Laveau the younger said, going to push the door closed.
“It’s important I see her, ma’am,” Christopher said, taking a step forward and putting his hand on the door. “Very important. I don’t reckon you’ve ever heard of the Teeth of Mackandal, have you?”
The woman’s eyes flashed. “How come you be saying that?” she demanded in a hiss. She made a sign of warding with her right hand. “Don’t mention that man, lest you call up his spirit.”
“Not worried about his spirit, ma’am,” Jacob said. “Worried about his damned teeth. They’re loose in the city.”
“Who was fool enough to bring them here, then?”
“We were,” Jacob said. “And now we need help to get them away from the city.”
Laveau sighed and opened the door all the way for the trio. “Come in with you, then. I’ll ask mama if she’s willing to visit.”
Christopher stepped inside, followed by Charlotte and Jacob. The sitting room was small, with rug-covered wooden floors and stucco walls that held up a low ceiling. Chairs and a small table were arranged for meeting guests. Paintings of Catholic saints hung on the walls and candles of all colors and sizes burned throughout the room. Incense filled the air, adding to the oppressiveness of the heat.
The younger Marie Laveau told them to sit, and she left into the interior of the house. She went out into the backyard, leaving them alone in the house.
The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories Page 12
