The Immortelles (13 page)

He lay awake that night for a long time, thinking of his father, and hoping that he would find some trace of the girl called Charissa from Saul Lebeaux.

Chapter nine

The waters of the Mississippi were a rich brown, almost like chocolate, Jeff thought as he stood on the deck of the steamship
Myra Belle
. The paddles drove the vessel through the water at a fast clip, churning up a frothy wake. Jeff found something hypnotic about the water's motion, and despite the noise of the turning paddles, he actually forgot his misson for a moment.

Then he turned and made his way toward the bow, where a crowd had gathered. The region they were approaching was more liquid than solid, it seemed. On both sides of the channel, bayous were filled with strange-looking trees, cypress, he supposed, that bore on their branches what looked like shredded bird's nests. He had asked one of the crew about them and learned that the gray clumps and strands were Spanish moss.

As
they passed through the channel, Jeff was fascinated by the long-legged herons that walked solemnly in the shallow water, occasionally bending to spear a fish. The noise of the ship's passage stirred white birds that Jeff did not recognize. In their flight, they mingled with the seagulls that constantly rent the air with their raucous cries.

Restlessly, Jeff moved along the railing and thought of his father. Ever since he had learned the secret that had plagued the man he respected above all others, he felt more uneasy than he could ever remember feeling before. Until then, his life had been fairly easy, and never had he doubted the honor and the integrity of Irving Whitman. Now he felt torn in two by the quest he had undertaken. As the brown waters parted for the
Myra Belle,
he thought over and over about what sort of future might lie ahead, not so much for himself, but for his father.
What if I find the girl and bring her back? What place would she have? I haven't seen much of slavery, but I know it's harsh. How will Father explain her presence to others?
The thoughts troubled him, and he shook his head to clear them away.

The steamboat let out a shrill, clarion call, and the whistle startled the flight of the white birds that fluttered upward, making an irregular pattern against the sky. The sun was hot, for April along the Gulf Coast had a humidity and a power that he had not known in the milder climate of St. Louis.

He stood at the bow, and the crew began to scurry along the decks. “Is that New Orleans up ahead?” he asked one of them.

“That's it, sir. We'll dock within fifteen minutes.”

More vessels appeared on the river. Many of them were outgoing, and Jeff watched steamships and those equipped only with sails pass by. Some were side-wheelers that kicked up the brown waters of the Mississippi as they pushed their way steadily toward the gulf. Once he was startled to see what he thought was a log suddenly break into life. He straightened up and narrowed his eyes, then realized that it was an alligator. He watched as the beast, which was at least ten feet long, made its way under the water, with just its snout and eyes peeking above the surface. Jeff kept his eyes on the alligator until the
Myra Belle
passed it and wondered what such a creature's attack would be like.

He turned his attention to the crowded harbor. The
Myra Belle
nosed into the dock, and the sailors let down the long loading walkway next to a stack of cotton bales. The captain and his mate bellowed orders, and Jeff returned to his cabin. He threw his belongings into the suitcase, then joined the passengers who were departing. He asked a carriage driver if he could recommend a hotel.

“I know them all, sir. How much would you like to spend?”

Jeff answered, “I want one close to wherever the slave auction is.”

“Why, that would be the St. Louis Hotel,” the driver replied. He was a swarthy, muscular individual with his shirt sleeves cut short, exposing massive corded arms. “A fine place but a mite expensive.”

“That'll be fine. Take me there.”

Jeff drew the razor down his face, wiped the foam off on a towel, and studied himself in the mirror.
I look tired and washed out,
he thought,
but that's only natural.
He splashed water on his face and then picked up a comb. He was not a man who gave a great deal of thought to personal appearance, but he liked to be clean. Finished with his grooming, he went downstairs. He'd had no trouble getting a room, and now he was struck by the lack of activity in the hotel. The lobby was almost empty. He asked the desk clerk, “Can you tell me how to get to the auction?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the man, who was dressed in finery. His shirt was gleaming white and his coat a rich brown fabric. “You'll find it on Royal Street. Go down that way for three blocks,” he instructed, pointing. “It's right next to the Creole Hotel. Anyone can point it out to you.”

Jeff hesitated a moment. “There's not much going on in the city, is there?”

The clerk's eyes grew hooded. He lowered his voice as if whispering a secret: “It's because of the yellow fever epidemic. Ordinarily, this time of year the hotel would be full, but the sickness is everywhere. Bronze John is bad this year.”

“Bronze John?”

“That's what some call yellow fever.”

“I've heard your people have struggled with that here, off and on.”

“It's not as severe yet as it was four years ago. I lost my parents in that one. You'd think the doctors could do something, but they really can't.”

“Is the city correcting the sanitary conditions?”

The clerk shrugged. “There's not a lot they can do, I guess. You've never been here before?”

“Never have.”

“The city's lower than sea level. It's built in something like a saucer, and the rainwater collects in the gutters, and it ponds around the houses. And sometimes it gets like a swamp.”

“Isn't there any underground drainage, sewers, things like that?”

“No. Nothing.” The clerk seemed discouraged and passed his hand across his face, as if brushing away something troublesome. “You'll see what happens if you're here long enough. The water stays where it falls, gets stagnant, and makes kind of a green scum. It looks like velvet, but it stinks. Of course, the city's slops and garbage and dead animals don't help much.”

Jeff wanted to ask,
Why do you live here, if it's so bad?
but he refrained. People sometimes lived where they had to. He thanked the clerk and headed out to find Saul Lebeaux. He was intrigued by the architecture along the streets. He noted the two-story buildings, which were everywhere, supported by rows of iron posts that fit into a curb. The delicate ironwork on the galleries made a fine weaving shaped like leaves and flowers. All of the upper galleries had waist-high railings, and he saw people sitting in many of them. It made a graceful sight, with the scrolled panels of filigree that topped most of the homes. The sunlight was filtering onto the geraniums, wax flowers, ferns, and here and there a big birdcage that decorated the galleries.

As he watched for the Creole Hotel, he passed a black woman carrying a bucket, her head swathed in a white turban. Right behind her were a pair of dandies, and the two were eyeing a beautiful young woman across the street with her apparent escort. The couple was dressed at the height of fashion, and the man carried a long cane. Jeff had heard that many of these canes concealed swords, which the hot-blooded Creoles drew on the least provocation.

He passed the Creole Hotel to find a short flight of steps leading to a formal doorway. Men were coming and going, and he asked one of them, “Is this where the auction is held?”

“Yes, sir. This is the place.”

Jeff stepped inside and took in the large room at a glance. There was no activity, it seemed, although a few prospective buyers were wandering around, smoking long, thin cigars. The sound of their talk filled the place. Jeff saw a man come from a door in the back and approached him, saying, “I'm looking for Mr. Lebeaux.”

The man said, “You have some stock to sell?”

“No, it's another matter.”

“Go in the back. He's in his office,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

Jeff nodded his thanks, found the office, and entered. “I'm looking for Mr. Saul Lebeaux,” he said to the man who was standing at the window. He was a swarthy man, with jet-black hair plastered against his skull and a fine black mustache, carefully trimmed. He was wearing a white suit and a black string tie, and the purple smoke from his cigar curled lazily into the air. “That's me,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Jeff expected to be asked to sit down, but Lebeaux was not hospitable. “I am Dr. Jefferson Whitman,” he said. “I'm from St. Louis.”

Interest quickened in the dark man's face. “You've come, perhaps,
to buy?”

“No, Mr. Lebeaux, I'm not a prospective customer.” He saw Lebeaux's interest dissipate and said quickly, “I'm trying to find a young woman you purchased from Mrs. Leroy Hampton in Baton Rouge.”

“I did make a buy there. You interested in one of them?”

“The name I have is Charissa. It's the only name I know. She would be, I believe, about sixteen.”

Lebeaux's eyes were fixed steadily on him. “What is your interest, doctor?”

“It's personal.”

Lebeaux's mouth twisted into a grin. There was something evil in his expression.

Jeff ignored it. “Could you give me any information about the girl?”

“You know her, do you?”

“No, I've never seen her in my life, but another party has sent me to find out her whereabouts.”

“I might remember—for a price. A memory works better when it's primed by cash.”

Lebeaux repulsed Jeff, but he knew he had little choice. “Fifty dollars,” he said flatly.

“Give it to me.”

Jeff reached into his pocket, pulled out a leather wallet, and extracted some bills. He handed them to Lebeaux, who stuffed them into the pocket of his shirt. “The girl's the property of Alfredo Madariaga.”

“Does he live here in town?”

“He has a place in town but a larger plantation just north of the city. It's a prominent family, but I'll tell you, you're probably wasting your time if you want to buy the girl.”

“Why do you say that?”

Lebeaux puffed on the cigar and said, “They're proud. A little brash, I think. The girl was supposed to be a maid for the daughter in the family, so I doubt they'll sell her. That's all I know.”

Jeff nodded curtly and said, “Thank you, sir,” turned, and left the auction house. The encounter had left a bad taste in his mouth, and he walked slowly along the street, wondering what his next move should be. He felt ill-suited for his mission. He had spent much of his life in classrooms, then in examining and operating rooms at the hospital. Yet he knew this was an undeniable request. His father needed Jeff to find the girl and help her, to rest his conscience. A thought snapped into his mind. It came with as much finality as a key turning in a lock.
I'll find Debakky. He'll be able to advise me.

The one person he knew in the entire city of New Orleans was Dr. Elmo Debakky. Jeff 's mind had been so filled with his quest, he had completely forgotten about his old friend. Although Debakky was two years older than he, the two had been close during their medical training in St. Louis and stayed in contact afterward. Jeff remembered the address and asked a coachman to take him to it.

The driver agreed, and Jeff got in the cab. The driver picked up the lines and spoke to the horses. He drove along several streets, making turns, and once again Jeff marveled at the lack of traffic. “Business isn't good?” he asked.

“No,” the driver said and cursed fluently in French and English. “The fever's got everybody scared.”

“What about you? Aren't you scared?”

“Me? No! If a man's time has come, he will get the fever wherever he is. You can't run from death.”

The cab drew up to the house, which was set back from the street. It was a large, two-story structure with a steep roof and gables, and the only resemblance it bore to other architecture in the city was the gallery along the upper story. A sign out front said
Dr. Elmo Debakky
. Getting out, Jeff paid the driver and walked up the steps. When he knocked on the door, an attractive mulatto woman in her late twenties stood before him. “Yes, sir?”

“I am Dr. Jefferson Whitman. I'm a friend of Dr. Debakky's. I'd like to see him, if he's in.”

“Yes, he is. Come inside, please. I am Mrs. Bozonnier, the housekeeper.” She shut the door behind him and said, “If you'll wait, sir, I'll tell the doctor you're here.”

“Thank you.” Jeff looked around at the large foyer with expensive-looking pictures on the wall. Doors on each side of the hall before him were open, revealing rich carpets and sunlit rooms. On his right was the library, on the left was apparently a parlor.

“Jeff, what in the world are you doing here?”

Jeff smiled as Elmo Debakky hurried down the hall. Debakky was a cheerful-looking man, short and somewhat heavy. It was not fat but muscle, as Jeff well knew, and when Debakky took his hand, he winced at the iron grip. “Don't break my hand, Elmo.”

Debakky slapped Jeff on the back. He wore his blond hair rather long and had intense gray eyes set in a round face. He did everything quickly, speech or action, and now he said, “Come into the parlor. Rose, bring us something refreshing to drink.”

“What shall it be, Doctor?”

“You always choose best,” he said, smiling. “Come on, Jeff. By George, I'm glad to see you!” He led his friend into the parlor.

“Elmo, I hope I haven't caught you at a busy time.”

“As a matter of fact, you have. This yellow fever keeps all the doctors busy. What are you doing in New Orleans? Sit down. How's your father?”