The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories

by Craig Gabrysch

  Christopher began pacing.

  Jacob and Charlotte sat in silence, watching Christopher. After a minute, Charlotte closed her eyes and sighed. “This place feels good,” she said. She sighed again. “Welcoming even.”

  “Be nice if I could breathe,” Jacob said.

  The rear door opened again and Laveau the younger returned. She walked back into the sitting room.

  “She’ll see you,” she said.

  Jacob and Charlotte stood. Their little band followed after Laveau. They walked into the next room, a larger area where the air reeked more strongly of incense and spices. The room looked much like the first, but with a table setup in the center.

  Laveau pulled aside a heavy curtain in the back, revealing a windowed back door. She opened it for them. She touched Christopher’s arm as he stepped through. “Please,” she said in a lowered voice, “she’s old now. Be quick about your talk, eh?”

  Christopher nodded and went outside. Jacob and Charlotte followed him.

  Mme. Marie Laveau knelt in one of her small herb gardens off from the patio, humming to herself as she pulled weeds. It was hard to tell her exact age, but the hair at her temples had gone to grey already, so Jacob guessed at late forties. Even at that age, she was a stunning woman, with creamy, brown skin and striking features. A colorful silk scarf wrapped up her dark hair and kept it out of her face.

  The backyard was like a little piece of Eden crammed into the city, and more spacious than Jacob had imagined. Strange plants grew everywhere, vines climbed the walls and support beams of the roof that stretched over the flagstone patio and the wicker chairs sitting in the center of it all. It was cooler back here, almost pleasant, and the air felt fresher. The smell of woodsmoke from cooking fires filled the air, but the pungent odors of frankincense and sandalwood were thankfully absent. Jacob took a deep breath, a smile tugging at his lips.

  At the sound of footsteps on the flagstone porch, Mme. Laveau turned her head towards them and called, “Christopher Freeman? That you?”

  “It is, Mme. Laveau.”

  “Come here then. I’m not young no more, and my knees won’t take this kneeling and standing up all afternoon like they used to,” she said, laughing. Christopher walked down next to her. “Come here, then, sweet boy.” She pointed a finger to her cheek and Christopher leaned down and gave her a kiss. “My little girl came out here and said, ‘some man’s at the door, saying you know a Patrice, and he knows you.’ So, I thought, ‘that must be Christopher. I ain’t seen him in a good long year.’ How’s your Auntie Patrice?”

  “She’s fine last I heard, thank you.”

  “Did she go home like she said she wanted?”

  “She did.”

  “Your wife and the children? What of them? Patrice worried so much after all you while she was here.”

  Christopher shook his head.

  Marie Laveau patted the side of Christopher’s leg. “The Good Lord keeps and protects his children, and doesn’t give us more than our shoulders can bear, sweet boy. Now, why don’t you help me up and introduce me to your companions?”

  Jacob and Charlotte walked over as Christopher helped Laveau to her feet. Christopher began the introductions. “This,” he said pointing to Jacob, “is Jacob Smith, my partner in the Templars.”

  “Templar, huh?” Mme. Laveau asked, turning to Christopher with a wide-eyed expression. “When did you join?”

  “A couple years back,” Christopher said.

  “How do you know about the Templars?” Jacob asked.

  “In this wide world, young man, there’s not much I haven’t heard of,” Laveau replied with a nod. She turned to Charlotte. “Now, who is this young lady?”

  “Miss Charlotte Gibson,” Charlotte said, stepping forward and extending her hand.

  “Dear girl,” Laveau said, taking Charlotte’s hand, “you’re sensitive ain’t you?”

  Jacob glanced down at Charlotte and saw her eyes go wide.

  “How did you . . .?”

  “Might say I can feel it, dear. Alright, Christopher, bring one of those chairs over. It’ll be good to sit a spell while you tell me about what you came for.”

  Laveau the senior, had them sit in the wicker chairs. She sat and listened to the trio. They told their story from beginning to end. Mme. Laveau, after arranging her skirts, began hers.

  “You came about the teeth, so we start with the man who owned them originally. Francois Mackandal was one of the greatest doctors Haiti has ever known. A Voodoo doctor, mind you, ain’t like your surgeon on the battlefield. They’re something else. They walk with spirits, make potions, and cast spells and curses.

  “Story goes, he poisoned plantation owners and the other whites, made their lives a living Hell. He had his own army of zombies at his beck and call, and knew the secrets of a thousand recipes, rituals, and spells. Stories say he summoned Papa Legba and bargained for eternal life. Now, you say you found his teeth, so that story must not be true.”

  “Why not?” Jacob asked.

  “Can you imagine the greatest Voodoo doctor ever going through eternal life with no teeth?”

  “Right.”

  “Doc Mackandal’s zombies, though, they were the old ways. They were abominations, possessions of corpses and the dead.”

  “The old ways?” Charlotte asked. “Not like the new ones?”

  “No, no, no,” Mme. Laveau said, waving her hand, “that old spell was refined over time. Zombies now, they’re from the living. They are under your control and can do work and labor. Whole fields out on the islands are still harvested that way.”

  Charlotte made a face, wrinkling her nose. “How is that any better?”

  “Mackandal’s zombies were only good for one thing, and one thing only: killing. A bite from the creature or a drop of its blood mixed with your own would spread the disease into you. You’d become one of them and come under the spell of the doctor or queen,” Laveau said. She shrugged and added, “At the least, the newer ones are productive.”

  “I still don’t see how that’s any better,” Charlotte said.

  Christopher waved off Charlotte’s comment. “Is there any way to stop these zombies?” Christopher asked, leaning forward, resting his elbows on knees.

  “The new ones, you give them a taste of salt. Brings the soul right back. The old ones, though . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “A stroke to the head. Well, that’s the way we used to do it. A bullet, a club.”

  “How bad is this?” Jacob asked.

  “Very,” Charlotte and Mme. Laveau said in unison.

  “Whole villages disappeared, plantations emptied and burned while Mackandal waged his war,” Charlotte said.

  Laveau nodded, sighing. She looked off and out of the garden.

  “What about Potestas? To pull off an attack like that, he must have been here for a while,” Christopher said.

  Laveau shook her head. “I don’t know. There’s always white folks coming through, asking around about magic and spells. That’s nothing new. No man fitting that description has come to my home, though, I can assure you of that. The power he uses, too, that’s beyond my charms. He sounds to be a dangerous man, Christopher. You three had best be careful.”

  Jacob leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh. He looked up through the slatted wood of the porch roof. Sunlight filtered through the vines climbing and covering it. “So, we’re no closer to finding this bastard.” He rubbed a hand down his face.

  “Not yet, no,” Mme. Laveau said. “But,” she said, heaving herself up with a groan, “I can help you in another way. I know what gris gris can help you if you are infected with the curse. It’s an old charm, but it be powerful. Wait here, children.”

  Mme Laveau went inside. The trio sat quietly, staring at the garden.

  “What’s a sensitive?” Jacob asked after a long while.

  “I feel things,” Charlotte replied. She sunk back into her chair and seemed to hide her face. “That’s all. Lavea
u’s one too, I think. I see things as well.”

  “Things? What do you see?”

  “Ghosts, vampires, spirits, demons, the future. Things. They have to be powerful, though.”

  Jacob nodded.

  They stayed silent till Laveau returned from the house. She held three small leather pouches attached to sinew thongs.

  “Here,” she said, handing one to each of them. “You eat the peppers in here if anything happens. It will cure you of your ills. These peppers are rare, grown only by a group of monks in Mexico. Wish I could give more, but those are my last.”

  Mme. Laveau the younger came outside and stood in the doorway. “Mama, a messenger came by. Some folks are calling for your help.”

  “What is it, girl?”

  “Yellow fever. It’s bad and getting worse.”

  The elder Laveau made the sign of the cross. “We’d best get to moving, then. Now, you children be safe. Potestas sounds a danger already, and those teeth make him that much worse. Hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Christopher said. He pulled the pouch over his head and tucked it beneath his collar. Jacob and Charlotte did the same. They all stood and took turns kissing Mme. Laveau’s cheek. They headed inside, but the old woman called for Charlotte to stay and have a word with her.

  “What do you think?” Jacob asked when Christopher and he stepped out the door to the street.

  “That we’re deep in trouble.”

  Jacob nodded. He looked up and down the street and at the wagons rolling by. “One needle in a haystack this big.”

  “And that needle can raise an army from the straw around it,” said Christopher.

  Jacob nodded and spat in the street.

  “What do you think the ladies talking about?”

  “Don’t know. If Laveau trusts her, though, I retract my previous statements. Laveau’s never wrong, not leastwise when it comes to people.”

  Charlotte walked out of the house.

  “What was that about?” Jacob asked.

  “A lady doesn’t divulge secrets, Mr. Smith. It’s part of our mystique. Don’t worry, it wasn’t about Potestas or the zombies. Shall we be going? The day’s fading and I still need a new dress. And, I believe, you still need a new hat, too.”

  Back to Contents

  July 27th, 1866

  Jacob played out the deck on his game of solitaire. He tossed his cards on the bed with a sigh. “Goddammit.”

  “Mme. Laveau’ll find something,” Christopher said. He stood looking out the window of their small hotel room.

  “Hope so,” Jacob said. “I just hate the idea of waiting for Potestas to make his move. Hate sitting.”

  “Can’t go stumbling around like blind men.”

  “Know that too. But sitting here on our hands don’t help neither.”

  “No. It don’t. But patience, you know. That’s a virtue same as bravery and all the others.”

  Jacob grunted.

  “Also, we can’t be traipsing around in the daytime. Potestas has more men than us, and that means he’s more eyes, too.”

  Jacob grunted again. He got up and began pacing the room.

  “Why don’t you go grab some chow downstairs? Get out of my hair for a minute.”

  “Fine. You want anything?”

  Christopher shook his head and kept staring out the window.

  Jacob went down to the dining area. He sat at the counter and ordered gumbo from the little Creole proprietor. He shook his head at the offer of coffee. Jacob asked for the daily broadsheet and the man brought him a copy of the Picayune.

  The paper’s headline read “Friends of Freedom Rally Tonight.” Some of the delegates to the Constitutional Convention promised to come together and drum up awareness and support for their gathering, according to the article, even though the legality of the convention itself was still in dispute.

  Jacob flipped through the paper. He found a mention of the sinking of the Isabella the day before. The police and newspaper blamed a boiler explosion as the culprit. Jacob grunted again. The yellow fever had returned, read another article. The previous two seasons hadn’t been bad, but the rich folk were still leaving for the country. Of course, there weren’t too many rich anymore. Most of their assets had been emancipated by President Lincoln.

  The little creole man came back bearing a big, steaming bowl of sausage gumbo and a loaf of french-styled bread. The proprietor was a small, neatly dressed man.

  “Y’all men gonna be staying much longer?” he asked as he set the plate down.

  “Maybe. Don’t know for sure. Still have business in the city. Staying till it’s done.”

  “I see that girl you brought in. She’s a pretty thing now.”

  “Reckon so. Hey, mister?”

  “Yah?”

  “Keep your eyes to yourself. We’ll tell you when we’re leaving.”

  The little proprietor wandered off, to propriet or something. Jacob didn’t know and didn’t care. He ate the steaming gumbo and continued to search the paper for signs of Potestas.

  “I’m going to take a stroll,” Christopher said. Jacob looked up at him from his game of solitaire. Dusk was falling. Jacob had brought the copy of the Picayune upstairs with him. Christopher had devoured the broadsheet, not saying a word the whole time, only making non-committal grunts and hmphs.

  “Mind if I come with you? I need to get out of this place.”

  “Reckon I need some time alone.”

  Jacob glanced out the window at the darkening New Orleans street. “Think that’s safe?” he asked, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

  “Should be fine. Us Colored folks all look the same to Kukluxers,” Christopher said, pulling his boots on. “Keep an eye on Miss Gibson, will ya?” He strapped on his weapons and walked over to the door. He stopped, put his hat on, and stepped out into the hallway.

  Jacob grunted to the empty room. After a moment, he stood and strapped on his sword and pistol. He walked out into the hallway and over to the railing. Christopher left the hotel, turning right. Jacob knocked on Charlotte’s door.

  “Yes? Who is it?” Charlotte asked.

  “Jacob Smith, ma’am.”

  “Just a moment.” Jacob heard the old bed creaking and the sound of small footfalls padding across the hardwood floor. She opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Going out for a minute. No time to explain.”

  “Is it about Mr. Freeman?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’d say these walls were thin as newsprint, but that’d be giving them too much credit.”

  “Yup. Stay inside. I’ll be back.”

  “Be careful, Mr. Smith.”

  Jacob nodded before turning to run down the hallway.

  Christopher was the type of man who walked with determination and long strides, which meant he could make pretty good time even when he didn’t mean to. Jacob took the stairs two at a time and hit the door to the street at damn near a sprint. He looked both ways, catching sight of Christopher down the street. His big Boss of the Plains hat and confident, military-style pacing made him easy to spot.

  Jacob began to shadow him.

  They twisted through the streets in a meandering path, heading in the general direction of Canal. Christopher never looked back or checked over his shoulder, only occasionally taking out his pocket watch and checking the time. Jacob picked up his pace a little, not wanting to lose sight of Christopher in the quickly darkening streets.

  Christopher turned right on Canal, heading away from the river. By this time most of the lamplighters had been out and about. The streets were cast in yellow, giving the passersby a scurvied tinge. Jacob followed after him as they walked over the blocks.

  Up ahead, far beyond Christopher, Jacob could see the street was packed with a throng of people surrounding a makeshift wooden stage that blocked the thoroughfare. Some of the crowd carried torches, others carried candles. They weren’t milling about, but instead stood in rapt silence, their attention
focused on the stage.

  A rich, baritone washed over the crowd. Jacob could hear the orator’s voice even from a block away. “. . . The ideal that ‘all men are created equal’ shalt apply to all men, rather than a select few white landowners. This is the ideal for which so much valiant blood was spilled on the soil of Shiloh, Gettysburg, Antietam, Sharpsburg, Manassas, and too many other battlefields across this great land. This blood was not spilled so that, instead, treasonous and seditious men could pretend and demand subservience from other, more loyal men based solely on the color of their skin necessary for the . . .”

  Jacob looked around, taking in the scene. The main crowd consisted of freedmen and women, a few white men, and a mass of mulattoes and creoles. When the speaker made a rousing point, they hollered and clapped for him. Around the edges stood a few white men Jacob decided were emphatically non-sympathetic to the cause of universal suffrage. It may have been their sneering gaze, their grey coats, or the Confederate hats perched atop their heads. Jacob couldn’t decide which, there were just too many options.

  Jacob saw Christopher near the back of the crowd, standing with his arms crossed and listening along with the others. Jacob took up a spot a dozen or so yards away, keeping an eye on the other Templar.

  One of the Confederates, a short, wiry man with a mass of red hair and freckles covering his face, leaned over and nudged his friend. He whispered something to him before taking off his cap and making his way over to Christopher. Jacob watched as he “accidentally” bumped into Christopher from behind. Christopher turned around and looked at the little man square in the face. The ex-Confederate bumbled out an apology and continued around the edge of the crowd. Jacob kept his eyes on the man as the speaker continued.

  “And we shall meet these threats to promises of freedom and equality with vim and vigor, my friends. The spirit of Mr. Lincoln shall stand with us on the battlefield of ideas and politics, giving his strength and guidance to us in our time of peril.” The little man looked back at Christopher. Christopher didn’t even register the man’s presence. The ex-Confederate made his way through the crowd and headed riverward down Canal, walking by Jacob. Jacob waited a moment before turning and following.