Crescent City

  “Yes, yes, you don’t know how I dream .… I have a daydream .… I’ll take the children, and then you and I … we’ll run away from here, go north, into another world, and—”

  “Miriam, there is no paradise in the North. True, there’s no Negro slavery, but there are other ills. People can be unhappy there, too. Isn’t that just common sense?”

  She pulled away and covered her eyes, swaying a little as she stood, and then, as abruptly as she had flung herself out of the chair, she came to David and laid her head on his shoulder.

  “I have been so unhappy! You can’t know .…”

  “I can’t know unless you tell me, my dear.”

  “Why did I marry Eugene? Why?” she whispered. “A fatal mistake! For him, too! There’s nothing—there’s nothing there, do you understand? There’s not one way that we belong together. Not one way! I don’t say it’s anyone’s fault, it just happened!” And she repeated, “Do you understand?”

  He thought perhaps he did, but out of delicacy—she was, after all, his sister—could not say. He could only ask, helplessly, “No way at all? Nothing that can be done?”

  Miriam shook her head.

  “Perhaps if I … if someone … were to talk to you, perhaps both of you together, and find out …” Find out what? That there was no love? Or how to put it there where there wasn’t any? He did not expect a reply, and she gave none.

  And trying to conceal his heartache, he said, “I don’t know what you can do, but I know one thing you can’t do. Miriam, my dear, you must put these thoughts of running away right out of your head, or they will fester and make things harder for you.”

  “I thought,” she said weakly, “if Papa would give me some money—”

  He interrupted sharply. “Papa would never give you money to leave your husband, you know that. And how would you live up North? As a single woman, ostracized, and your children without a father? No, Miriam, you have to be practical.”

  He heard himself speaking platitudes; despising the sound of them, he still knew them to be true and necessary. He held his sister’s hands, and went on with his advice, knowing it to be more compassionate to pacify her than to encourage her despairing rebellion.

  “Read, educate yourself, work in your charities, tend to the children. Busyness is everything .…”

  And all the time, as he spoke, he wondered whether by any chance there could be an even deeper reason for her misery, another man perhaps?

  Now recalling that night, he sighed. His tiredness was not physical, he knew; it came from his nerves, vibrating like taut fence wire that sings in a strong wind. He was unable to help Miriam. More than that, he was leading two Uves, one of them clandestine. He feared the risks he was taking.

  Leaning over the railing, he let the breeze cool his flushed cheeks. The history of the South was written along these riverbanks. Here and there on a bluff, a great house stood like a proud classic temple, while in the fields below, the hoe gangs toiled. Between the great houses lay the holdings of the little farmer, a couple of acres with a log house for the family and two or three cabins for the Negroes, beside whom their owner could be seen bent over in the cotton. At this season the distant woods were all in blossom, the dogwood white as stars, the hawthorn pink, and the forsythia like melting gold. In the foreground the road followed the river. Blue innocents grew wild in trailing patches, and brown cattle lay under the trees chewing their noon cud. An English landscape artist, a Constable, would make much of the innocent rural scene, and for a moment David wished he could see it through such eyes alone.

  Instead he saw the ragged yokels running to peer whenever the boat stopped at a landing with a delivery from the city. Out of wondering eyes they stared at the traveling Quality on the floating palace. He saw the poor “white trash” sitting on the lower deck among shabby boxes. A pregnant young woman had lost all her teeth. A child was covered with sores. And suddenly he was back on the Mirabelle. That voyage might have happened in another age, so long ago it seemed, and he so changed from the greenhorn boy! No, not changed, except on the outside. He ran his hand over the doctor’s bag, the good brown leather bag. Only changed on the outside.

  In the ballroom behind him someone was playing the Moonbeam Waltz on the piano, the little tune making a thin, sweet tinkle. How pleasant to travel the river, dining with friends under crystal chandeliers or making profitable business deals over cigars and brandy, while all the time the soft green shores slid past! The steamboat was an extension of the seductive city. For a man who could give himself up to them, the pleasures of that city were Elysian: food and wine, women and money and music: The French Opera’s orchestra was one of the best—some said the best—in the nation. The cooking was renowned, the women resplendent.

  He remembered girls, half a dozen or more, and every one a treasure, laughing, flirting, or lovely in gravity; he thought of perfumed silk and white shoulders, and coming home to a young wife .… But in this time and in this place he had chosen another way; he was bound and committed to the bottom of his soul.

  He took further stock. Intellectually and professionally he had every reason to be content. He had been building a substantial obstetrical practice, having been among the first to use chloroform. He was a regular contributor to the New Orleans Medical Journal having written on yellow fever and sanitation. In a short few years he had acquired prestige, a prestige which the business of this day could destroy forever.

  “You traveling far?” A voice spoke at his elbow. The speaker, a middle-aged gentleman with a polite expression, tipped his hat.

  David tipped his. “Getting off at the next stop.”

  The stranger extended his hand. “Name’s Cromwell, George Alexander Cromwell.”

  “I’m happy to meet you, sir. I’m Dr. David Raphael.”

  “Practicing in New Orleans? I believe I’ve heard your name. I live in Baton Rouge.”

  The man seemed inclined to stay at the rail in friendly conversation, so it became necessary to make some agreeable remark.

  “Nice way to travel. Better than risking highwaymen on the roads,” David said.

  “Yes, the roads are terrible. But I always liked the river, anyway. I was on the Duke of Orleans when it set the record in forty-three. Six days, eleven hours between Cincinnati and New Orleans. A great boat.”

  “I should say so.”

  “If you can keep from getting caught by the gamblers. The captain set three of them ashore on that trip, I remember. They should do so more often. Too many planters are being ruined.”

  David nodded. Last week Eugene had mentioned something about Ferdinand’s having lost a large sum at cards on the way to the Labouisse place upriver. He had also said something about the Raphael firm being on shaky ground, which seemed hard to believe. David had thought of asking Gabriel whether there was any truth in it, but Gabriel would not have told him if there were. You could turn Gabriel upside down and never get out of him anything that you shouldn’t. The lawyer-client relationship was sacred.

  David’s troubled thoughts were interrupted as the stranger exclaimed, “Of course! I know where I heard your name. Sylvain Labouisse—isn’t he a relative of yours?”

  David smiled. “In a very roundabout way. My father’s wife is his mother-in-law.”

  “Well, that’s good enough. A fine family, the Labouisses. Distinguished in the state. A long history.”

  “So I understand,” David said with the proper courteous interest.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve just come from a meeting in the city where he spoke. Getting after the abolitionist curse. I was one of the speakers, too. I introduced Henry Hyams. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “A coming man. They say he’ll be governor of the state one day. A Jewish gentleman. I take it you are, too?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Well, let me tell you I admire a man like Hyams or Sylvain Labouisse or any man who speaks up. Fence sitters I despise. Letting
other men prepare the defense of their women and children. There’s too much anti-slavery propaganda going about, you know. We need vigilance, just as another fine speaker said. Eugene Mendes. He’s from New Orleans, you must know him.”

  “I have the honor to be his brother-in-law.”

  George Alexander Cromwell was impressed. “Well, we need more like him. I tell you, people don’t realize how serious this situation is. Ever since California wrote its constitution barring slavery, people like Garrison have been encouraged. Why even the churches are infected! I’m a Baptist and we had to secede from our national convention.”

  With a concerned expression David shook his head.

  “Yes, you have to keep your eyes and your ears open.” The other man lowered his voice. “I don’t know how true it is, but yesterday they were saying something about an Englishman named Dyson. He runs that school for free colored boys in New Orleans. They say he’s teaching a lot of others things beside the three R’s.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “I do mean. Plots and uprisings, my friend.”

  “Dyson! Really!” David exclaimed. “I shouldn’t think so. Of course I’ve only met him casually. He lives not far from me, but I’d say he was just a pedagogue. Rather dull at that. He doesn’t look at all like the type to be doing underground work. These rumors can touch the innocent, you know.”

  “Oh, no doubt. But it pays to be alert all the same. You remember in thirty-seven when they broke up that insurrection in Rapides Parish? It was highly organized. Then again in forty in Lafayette Parish. Four abolitionists down from the North had a revolt well on the way. My wife’s father’s slaves were in it but we caught them in time and hanged the lot. Oh, it pays to be alert.”

  “I daresay you’re right. I get so busy with patients I don’t have time for much else.”

  “You see patients this far out?” Cromwell nodded toward the brown leather bag.

  “Rarely. Sometimes I combine a consultation with a visit to friends. One needs a little recreation out of the city now and then. Well, I get off round the next bend.”

  Mr. Cromwell tipped his hat again. “Glad to have met you.”

  David tipped his. “The same to you, sir.”

  His knees were weak when he left the boat.

  From the little dock a dusty path led through the woods to the main road. The woods were loud with birdsong. A goat grazing along the path skittered away through the brush as David approached. Three little boys came out of a cabin some yards back to stare and retreat. Otherwise, there was no one about. He walked on, summoning his nerve, trying to arrange his features into an expression of calm assurance.

  They were to meet at Bartlett’s Hotel, half a mile down the road. It was a family resort, crowded on weekends when people came to dine and be entertained with lawn bowling, fireworks, and balloon ascensions. For that reason he had chosen to meet in the middle of the week. On the other hand, it was to be hoped the place would not be empty, making them conspicuous and too easily remembered. I was not born to conspire, David thought. I do not have the stomach for it.

  A man stepped out of the bushes abreast of him. “You’re late,” Lucien said. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “We had one long stop, a grand piano to hoist. Is everyone here?”

  “Just about. There are two other parties, children’s birthdays. I took a private room and ordered a birthday cake.”

  Half a dozen carriages stood at the hotel’s entrance. A group of men were entering the bar. Good. There was activity, but not too much.

  “You ordered a birthday cake? Whose birthday is it?”

  “Why not yours?” Lucien’s long, doleful face crinkled with amusement.

  “Fine. But you should brush your uniform. You don’t look like a fitting servant for an up-and-coming young doctor who is celebrating his birthday.”

  “Sorry. I’ll take care of it. Also, I’ve an extra horse. You’ll go back by road by dark. Later tonight some people will come to the city to collect the circulars. One will come to the office and bring them to the others at a place I have arranged.”

  David stood still. “Who’s coming?” he asked sharply.

  “A friend of mine. You don’t know him.”

  “A Negro?”

  “Who else?” Lucien threw his hands out, palms up. “What other friend would I have?”

  “But you’re crazy! A Negro coming to my office at night! Could anything be more conspicuous?”

  “He’ll be a patient, a free man of color. He has a right to come to a doctor. He’ll have a sore arm, or maybe an injured eye would be better,”

  “All right, then.”

  As they entered the lobby, David raised his voice. “Lucien, see to my guests. Take their drink orders, they’ll be thirsty. And hurry up.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

  In the private dining room a small group was already waiting. Except for two traveling men from Massachusetts, they were all familiar. James MacKenzie was a printer who still kept his Scottish burr after fifteen years in America. Randolph Blair, rebellious and elegant, was the son of a Virginia planter. Ludwig Schiff, small and fussy, came from a German-Jewish family in Memphis. In a corner sat a nondescript individual with a meek demeanor, the very sort who chooses a corner to sit in.

  David went straight to him, extending his hands. “Mr. Dyson!” he said. “Mr. Dyson! Welcome.”

  Late in the afternoon they were still at table. Leaning across the remains of the cheerful feast, they spoke in voices hardly above a whisper.

  “Well, I think we can say we’ve made some progress today,” David said at last.

  Schiff laid a purse on the table. “Any of you, each of you, take whatever you need. There will be more next time. The money is coming in so nicely, so easily.”

  “Not easily,” David corrected. “Give yourself credit, Schiff. You work at it.”

  MacKenzie said, “I wouldn’t take so much if I didn’t need more money to buy paper. I’ve also had to get a small press.”

  “Take the money,” Schiff commanded.

  The two northerners persisted. “We’ve spent the last hour discussing flyers and leaflets. What about guns?”

  Young Blair, leaning back from the table, stretched his long legs. “I’ve told you. On your next trip you will send me a carton of books. Be sure there really are books on the top. Clarissa is the name of my sister’s place. I’m staying the year out, so you can deliver them any time. Naturally, I shall unpack them myself.”

  “This is the part that stops me,” David said. “I have no liking for guns, as you all know.”

  The Yankee answered dryly, “No one here has a liking for them. But you have to be realistic. We shall use them as little as possible. But we have to have them.”

  “All right, then. When shall you send them?”

  “There’s no hurry,” Dyson said cautiously. “We’re not nearly ready. We must have no slapdash affair that fails. Ten hangings and it’s all over.”

  Schiff was impatient “How long do you expect to wait? It’s been long enough already.”

  “As long as it takes to be prepared,” Dyson replied. “Another year or two, probably. We must have plenty of support in the countryside. That takes time.”

  “There’s where you come in.” David nodded to MacKenzie. “Keep the printing presses rolling. I’ll keep writing and you keep printing. We must have pamphlets at the door of every country church, white churches—not the Negro, since the Negroes can’t read. But there is great support to be mustered among poor whites. It is only a question of reaching them with the right message.”

  MacKenzie nodded. “I have a lot ready for tonight. It’s stashed in your yard.”

  David got up and opened the door. The corridor was clear except for Lucien standing just outside. David beckoned him to come in.

  “You couldn’t hear our voices? Are you sure?”

  “Nothing. Only when you sang.”

  “Good! It so
unded like a real party, then?”

  “Like a real party.”

  “All right. Now let’s get this straight We will all separate. I shall ride back alone. MacKenzie has material at my office—”

  “In the yard, under the cistern.”

  “And someone will come tonight for it.”

  “He will come with his left arm bandaged and a red bandana covering the bandage to keep it clean,” Lucien recited. “He will put the flyers in a sack of melons in his wagon. If he is stopped, he will simply be carrying melons to market, or peddling them as the case may be. But there’s no reason why he should be stopped.”

  “Suppose, though, that the worst happens and they do stop him?” Schiff asked.

  “This man is like my brother,” Lucien answered gravely. “He will kill himself or allow himself to be killed, but he will not endanger me.”

  These somber words caused a moment’s silence in the room.

  “You know,” David said, “I really don’t see why we can’t have all the men come right to my place to collect, instead of having all these hiding places you and MacKenzie have worked out. I’m beginning to think I’ve been too cautious.”

  “No, no, Doctor,” Dyson cried. “Too many people would know who you are. It is enough that I risk myself by being open with my pupils. We can’t risk you, too.”

  “Nonsense,” David said. “If these people can’t be trusted, what are we doing with them in the first place?”

  “Trusted.” Lucien’s melancholy eyes went past them all, out past the window onto the dusky blue lawn. “You don’t know what a man will say with his feet held into a fire or when he’s buried up to the neck and the fire ants crawl into his eyes.”

  “Enough.” David shuddered. “Enough.”

  12

  In the middle of the afternoon, that flat windless hour when the day is no longer fresh and dusk lies like a dirty powder on the leaves, Miriam put Lelia aside on the garden bench. All that passion and strife, all that radical defiance! It wearied the mind. It was impossible to compare a woman like George Sand with herself. And she sat in a drowsy inertia, letting her mind go blank.