Rebels of Babylon (9 page)

“Mr. Barnaby,” our host declared, “you have the penetrating mind of a scholar within that emaciated frame.”

It is not the most appealing situation for a confidential agent to find himself in conditions where everyone around him knows more about his lot than he does himself.

The only thing that saved me from a black-dog sorrow was the arrival of a tray of hot, sugared buns. I did not wish to spurn my host by refusing to eat my share. And the truth is that I was hungry, since I had not taken a bite since the forenoon.

Still, I did not let our host’s generosity deflect me from my purpose.

“Mr. Champlain—”

“‘Papa,’ please. Just suits my ears better.”

How on earth could I call such a fellow “Papa”?

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Now, given the extent of your knowledge of local doings … I must ask what else you have heard about Miss Peabody’s murder.”

“
Was
it murder?” he asked quickly. Resurrecting his smile, he reached one hand behind himself—not without some exertion—to scratch unseen parts. “Oh, I expect so. In one form or another. Even if a plain woman—you’ll forgive me that honesty, in regard to Miss Peabody—if a plain woman were to drown herself … over an unrequited love, say … I suppose even that might be murder in a sense. With the guilt accruing to her beloved for his failure to appreciate the depth of her emotions …”

He paused for a sip of sugar-coffee, which he drank nearly without cease.

“Of course, the way I hear tell,” he resumed, “love of that nature was not the most evident of Miss Peabody’s emotions. Although still waters run deep, as they say. But let us assume that Miss Peabody’s final immersion wasn’t the result of an
affaire d’amour
of the sort that leads young ladies to threaten to drown themselves—though few actually do so, since it spoils the complexion. I still have to wonder if her tragic fate didn’t have something to do with desire, if not with love. Understand,
cher,
I don’t cast even the tiniest stone at Miss Peabody’s reputation.
Indeed, I hear tell the young woman was virtuous with a fury. In that sense.”

I had to wait for him to consume a hot fluff of dough crowned with a snow of sugar.

“Man requires a
beignet
or two this time of the evening,” our host said, “to save his stomach unnecessary suffering before dinner. Now, I don’t pretend to be a philosopher, Major Jones. Although I do spend a fair amount of time sitting and thinking these days—at least sitting. But I tend to see the entirety of human actions explained by our desires. Whether we’re speaking of your own desire for another of those little delicacies of ours—do have one while they’re still hot—or the desire to reform the world. You’ll forgive me, but I never can quite see the difference, in quality or merit, between one desire and another. They all seem to me to come from the same source, from that merciless—
merciless—
hunger within our poor souls. One man desires a fair woman, another desires gold. A third desires to be worthy of whatever deity he’s chosen to scare himself with. Although I do suspect the latter of being the least worthy. Nuzzling up to God the way a dog licks his master, no pride at all. But be that as it may. Desire for the object of a great passion, or for earthly renown … or for a new malacca cane … I just don’t see how folks tell one form of desire apart from another.”

He lubricated his throat with a gulp of brandy. “See here, now. Only difference between one desire and the next is whether it’s opportune. Strikes me that most folks who get themselves murdered, here or in China, probably were the victims of inopportune desires. Whether on the part of the murderer or the poor unfortunate.” His sugar-dusted lips pursed to mock the world. “Tell me what a dead man or woman truly desired, and I’ll lay you better than riverboat odds the desire’s what killed them.”

He recalled his welcoming smile. “But I’m monopolizing the conversation, which Aunt Calpurnia taught me a gentleman must not do. So I’ll make an end to all my speechifying by summing
things up. Young woman washes up dead—and in
deshabille
—on a levee. It’s either a case of her being the object of an inopportune desire on the part of the killer—which I’m led to believe may not apply in this affair—or a case of her own desires having become inopportune to the person or persons who took her life. Lord, I do believe this is the first time my guests and I ever have exhausted the household supply of fresh
beignets
at one sitting. You will accuse me of inadequate hospitality. But
entrenous, cher,
I believe that all you have to do is to discover—or uncover—what it is your Miss Peabody desired above all else. The rest will be clear as a transaction in the front room of a bank.”

His gaze pierced the swollen mounds of his cheeks. “Find out what she wanted and couldn’t have. And you’ll find out who wanted her death, Major Jones. But I do hope you and Mr. B. will be kind enough to join me over dinner? Although I fear we aren’t as well prepared as—”

“Why,” I demanded, surprising myself with my insolence, “would you tell me any of this, Mr. Champlain? Why should I believe you want to help me find Miss Peabody’s killer? Among your own people?”

I was tired and cranky, of course. Most likely, he understood. No trace of anger appeared in his face. Instead, he smiled handsomely.

“Why,” he said, “I believe it would entertain me,
cher.
It’s not the most exciting of fates to sit here night after night, no matter the quality of the board or the amusing nature of my callers. But how is it you’re certain the killer is one of ‘my’ people? Whoever they may be? Fact is, I’m the one sitting here wondering why this Miss Peabody, a young woman of notoriously uninspiring virtues, matters so much to your own people in the midst of a bloody war? I’m simply amusing myself. But what about you? Why does she matter
to you
?”

TWAS NOT A pleasant question to answer. And I did not attempt to answer it for my host. Disappointing Mr. Barnaby near mortally, I insisted on returning to my hotel.

Why did Miss Susan Peabody, late of Albany, New York, matter so much in the midst of a great rebellion? Only because her father was a wealthy man, and wealth bought power. I had been sent—ordered—to New Orleans as a personal favor to a rich fellow whose daughter got herself drowned in the Mississippi. It was a matter for a common policeman, not for a major in our Union Army. But the power of democracy does not rest unencumbered upon the ballot.

I did not like the business one least bit.

I had resolved to resign my commission and return to our dear Pottsville. I had not only had enough of war, but had seen more than enough of the crime war breeds. I wanted no more to do with corruption and murder, whether on a campaign or down an alley. I had almost reached the age of thirty-five, at which a man had better settle down.

There was much else, as well. My darling was with child and soon to be delivered of her burden. For all I knew, at my remove from home, a second son or a daughter might already have been born to us—God grant the best of health to mother and child.

And then there was our new fortune, to be frank. My darling and I had come up rich in the wake of a death in the family. And wealth wants attention. It will not mind itself. There was a fuss at the colliery over our coal lands. Even though Mr. Matthew Cawber himself gave matters his attention, he had far more to tend to than mining anthracite. Philadelphia claimed his first allegiance. I worried that my wife would be overwhelmed with the cares of business. Nor would she give up her dressmaking shop, but kept at that work, as well.

I had tried to refuse the journey to New Orleans. You will think me hard, but in the midst of so much death I cared little for Miss Peabody, who was unknown to me. I wanted only to live my life, surrounded by those I loved, and to be loved in return. To go to work and to chapel, all steady and sound. I felt that I had given our Union enough.

Mr. Seward went to work. Before he was done, Mr. Lincoln himself had ordered me South, with a smile that covered steel. He would not accept my resignation, but flattered me. Promising that, once the matter of Miss Peabody was settled, I might resign, if I still wished to do so.

What did I know of Miss Peabody even now? Little more than Mr. Champlain did. Yes, she was plain. On that, all were agreed. Except, perhaps, her father, with whom I had an interview in Washington. He told me that his daughter had been an abolitionist since childhood. She had insisted, against his advice, on removing herself to New Orleans in the wake of its occupation. She meant to improve the condition of the negro, an intention her father thought giddy.

“She was always a good girl,” he told me. “But headstrong, Major Jones. With all sorts of addled notions about the nigger. For which, I suppose, we have Mrs. Stowe to thank.”

I made the voyage down on a Navy ship. The crew watched for blockade runners and I moped. I suspected that Miss Peabody’s abolitionist sentiments, once publicly displayed, had provoked some local no-good. And nothing more to it. Grumbling at the great waste of my time, I had already determined that her murder was so simple an affair a lieutenant could have unraveled it.

My assumption did not survive my first day in New Orleans. I went to the boardinghouse that had sheltered Miss Peabody. It was a dour establishment, without the enticing kitchen smells or even the cleanliness of
Frau
Schutzengel’s house. Once her sympathies had become known, no genteel boardinghouse could accept Miss Peabody. And, of course, a woman traveling alone cannot seek a hotel.

The matron of the house was a native of Newcastle-on-Tyne and no Confederate. As soon as I pronounced Miss Peabody’s name, she exploded my notions.

“I shouldn’t wonder if the niggers done ’er in,” Mrs. Crawley told me. “I shouldn’t wonder at all. I never in my life met a lady
nor even a gentleman what hated them so bad as Miss Peabody done.”

DURING OUR RIDE back to the St. Charles Hotel, I was harsh to Mr. Barnaby.

My brain was swirling, see. And my temper had grown imperious, fueled by the mean reappearance of my toothache. The sweets had told, and my spirit had grown sour.

My thoughts careened. If Mr. Barnaby had not informed our authorities of my burial in that vault, who had? How many factions had interests in my business? Had Mr. Champlain’s extraordinary propositions been right? Even in part? Or was I being led astray, by one voice then another? What had changed Miss Peabody’s mind about the negro? If her mind truly had been changed? What
had
she desired, in her last days? Or in her final hours?

My suspicions began to turn nasty.

Precisely what, I asked myself, had Mr. Barnaby to do with my affairs? Why had he been helpful to an excess? If, indeed, he had been helpful. The truth was that I did not know him well, although I had liked what I knew of him. Had he abused my trust for his own ends? Was he involved in the Peabody affair? What did the fellow want from me, after all was said and done? I had seen him on his best behavior, serving his young master. But there was no sign of his master now. Why was Mr. Barnaby in New Orleans?

I began to fear I had misjudged his character.

“Mr. Barnaby?” I said.

Our cab passed the muddy meridian that separates the squalor of the
Vieux Carré
from the broader streets and cleaner habits beyond.

My companion had been drowsing. He sat up at the sound of his name.

“Yes, sir? What is it, then, sir? I was only resting my eyelids, begging your pardon.”

“
Why
have you been helping me?” I asked him straight out and no nonsense. “I don’t believe it’s simply out of friendship.”

I could not see much of his face, but I had the unmistakable sense that the fellow blushed.

“What are you after, Mr. Barnaby?” I pressed him. “What do you want from me? Why should I believe you want to help me?”

Mr. Shakespeare understood the nastiness of suspicion. He warns us of false fears, again and again.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Barnaby began, in a pathetic, pleading voice, “if I been misleading you as to my purpose, Major Jones. I meant to tell you, I did. Only there ain’t ’ardly been a chance the evening through.”

“The truth now, Mr. Barnaby. The truth is always best.”

“Oh, yes, sir. No doubt of it, sir. As my father always said, God rest ’is soul. And ’is own father before ’im, what stood on this very ground, so to speak, with Pakenham, until they all run off together. ‘The truth’s always for the best,’ is what ’e said to me, ’except where the ladies are concerned, in which case a man must use ’is common sense.’ But that’s neither ’ere nor there, sir. About the ladies, I mean. They don’t ’ardly figure in the matter, as I can see.”

“Just
say
it, Mr. Barnaby. Admit what you’re about!”

“It’s a terrible thing, sir.”

“Out with it, man! Just say the words and have them off your conscience.”

Of a sudden, he changed. I could feel the atmosphere shift in the cab, as if a cold wind had blown down from the Khyber, when all the winds before had blown warm from the Indus.

“It ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, I didn’t mean. I didn’t mean that at all, sir. It’s only that I needs your ’elp, and needs it terrible badly. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I seen you, sir, all trussed up like a pig for the knife and bundled into a dust-wagon. I likes to think I would’ve ’elped in any case, I do … but when I seen you packed away, I said to myself, ‘Mr. B., it’s your lucky day, this is! Major Jones is the very man to ’elp you!’”

“And what, Mr. Barnaby, is the nature of the help you require?”

“It’s Master Francis, sir,” he said despairingly. “Got ’imself captured, ’e did. While I was convalescing. Oh, I shall never forgive myself, I won’t. So I come down to New Orleans through the lines. ’Oping to find a means of communicating among your Yankees, sir. Some way to ’elp the poor lad, before ’e’s beyond ’elp. We’ve ’ad one letter telling us ’e’s shut in a prison camp in Elmira, New York, and that conditions ain’t fit for the lowest beast.”

The big fellow reached out through the dark and laid his hand on my wrist.