What stimulated Bent's imagination were facts conveyed to him by the owner of the bordello, Madame Conti. The painting depicted a quadroon who had once worked in the establishment. In other words, a nigger whore.
That painting was one of the few positive aspects of Bent's current exile. He believed it to be a weapon he could use eventually against the Mains. He never forgot or abandoned his desire to harm members of that family; only set it aside periodically because events forced him. He knew the bordello was still operating under Madame Conti's management. He assumed the painting was still there.
By the time he reached Bienville, he knew he must have a drink soon. Just then he noticed a well-dressed white woman alighting from a barouche beyond the intersection of narrow streets. She dismissed the driver and, like Bent, walked in the direction of the cathedral. Two black soldiers were coming the other way, laughing and jostling each other. Yellow stripes on light blue breeches showed they belonged to the cavalry Ben Butler had raised.
The woman stopped. So did the soldiers, blocking the walk. Bent saw the woman's hat bob as she said something. The soldiers replied with laughter. Bent drew his dress saber and lumbered across Bienville.
'You men stand aside.'
They didn't.
'I gave you a direct order. Step into the street and let this lady pass.'
They continued to block the walk. It was a kind of disobedience not unknown to him, but it angered him more than usual because of their color. They wouldn't have dared defy him if it weren't for Butler and Old Abe. In the wake of the President's proclamation, the darkies thought they ruled the earth.
The tableau held. Bent heard one of the troopers mutter something about white officers, and both eyed him in a speculative way. Foolish of him to interfere with such brutes. Suppose they attacked him?
Then he saw his salvation: three white soldiers coming into sight down at the corner of Conti. The sergeant wore a side arm. Bent waved his sword. 'Sergeant! Come here this instant.'
The trio hurried. Bent identified himself. 'Take these two insubordinate rascals to the provost, and I'll follow to charge them.' His breathing slowed; he could ooze contempt on the niggers. 'If you hope to be part of the Union Army, gentlemen, you must behave like civilized human beings, not apes. Dismissed, Sergeant.'
The noncom drew his revolver. He and his men began to enjoy their assignment. They poked the two blacks and kicked their shins. The cavalrymen looked frightened.
As well they might, Bent thought. They would be tied by their thumbs, with stout cord, to a suitable beam or limb and left to hang with their toes just touching the ground. An hour of it was standard punishment in cases of insubordination. For them he would order three or four hours.
'Colonel?'
He swept off his hat; the woman was middle-aged, attractive. 'Ma'am? I do apologize for the way those — soldiers harassed you.'
'I am most grateful for your intervention.' Her accent was that of the city, melodious and warm. 'I trust you won't take offense if I remark that you are not typical of members of the army of occupation. Indeed, I would find it more natural for a man of your sensibilities to be wearing gray. Thank you again. Good day.'
Overwhelmed, he muttered, 'Good day,' as she swept into a doorway that was her destination.
It had been so long since anyone had complimented him about anything that he flew along toward the cathedral square in a euphoric state. Perhaps the woman was right. Changing sides was unthinkable, of course, but her insight couldn't be faulted. Perhaps his lifelong loathing for Southerners was misguided. It might be that in certain ways he was more reb than Yank. Pity to learn it too late.
Under the looming facade of St. Louis Cathedral, Bent halted suddenly, attention arrested by two men in the square. One was the commanding general's brother, an army officer much in evidence in New Orleans lately. The other —
He struggled momentarily, then got it. Stanley Hazard. Bent had seen him last at Willard's over a year ago. What was he doing here?
He hurried on, his craving for drink intense. The sudden sight of Stanley reminded him of George and Orry. Soon old litanies were resounding in his head. He must not forget either family or how much he wanted to repay them. Before he left New Orleans, he had to take possession of the portrait in the bordello.
The table linen was blinding, the silver heavy. The gulf oysters were succulent, the champagne French and cold as January. Most of the liveried waiters had woolly white heads. They bent over the diners with such attention and deference that Stanley could almost imagine Abe and his freedom proclamation were fantasies.
The polite, reserved gentleman sharing the table wore the oak leaves and cuff braids of a colonel, though the source of that rank was a mystery to Stanley and many others. He had done some investigation before leaving Washington. In one group of reports, the officer was consistently called Captain Butler, and it was the captain whose appointment as a commissary the Senate had rejected last winter.
Other reports filed in the War Department referred to him as Colonel Butler, though most of these came from his brother. In other words, in the mysterious ways of wartime, when the gentleman got a job on his brother's staff, he underwent a rapid rise in rank. Whether the promotions were brevets or even legal hardly mattered. Nothing mattered but the man's influence and power. He had plenty of each, so Stanley gladly overlooked the irregularities.
Stanley watched his champagne consumption; difficult negotiation lay ahead. While they ate they kept to safe topics: the question of the length of the war; the question of whether McClellan would be replaced and by whom. On the latter, Stanley knew the answers — yes; Burnside — but feigned ignorance.
Butler asked about his journey. 'Oh, it was fine. Sea air is salubrious.' He hadn't smelled much of it. He had stayed in his bunk for most of the voyage, rising only to vomit into a bucket. But it was important that business adversaries think him competent in every respect — another of Isabel's little lessons.
'Well, sir' — Stanley's guest leaned back — 'a fine repast, and I thank you for it. Since your visit is so short, perhaps we'd better get down to it.'
'Happily, Colonel. For background, I might tell you that I own the manufacturing firm of Lashbrook's of Lynn, Massachusetts.'
'Army footwear,' Colonel Andrew Butler said with a nod. A little shiver chased along beneath Stanley's shirt. The man knew all about him.
He raised his napkin to mop perspiration from his lip. He leaned forward into the shadow of a hanging fern basket. 'This is a rather public place. Should we —?'
'No, we're perfectly all right here.' Butler touched a match to a large Havana. 'Similar, ah, arrangements are being concluded at half the tables in this restaurant. Though none is on the scale of what you propose. Please continue.'
Stanley got up his nerve and plunged. 'I understand there is a desperate need for shoes.'
'Desperate,' Butler murmured, blowing smoke.
'In the North, cotton is badly needed.'
'It's available. One only needs to know cooperative sources and how to get it into the city and onto the docks.' Butler smiled.
'You do understand that in every transaction I receive a commission from the purchaser as well as the seller?'
'Yes, yes — it makes no difference, if you can help me ship shoes to the Con — to those who need them and, at the same time, deliver cotton in sufficient quantity to make its resale worth the not inconsiderable risk. There are laws against aiding and trading with the enemy.'
'Are there? I've been too busy to notice.' He laughed heartily. Stanley joined in because he thought he should.
They went strolling, working out the details. In the mild sunshine of early winter, Stanley suddenly felt marvelous, unable to believe that, in remote places he would never see, men were living in fear and filth, and laying down their lives for slogans.
On his third cigar, Andrew Butler began to philosophize about his brother. 'They nicknamed him Beast because he threatened to treat the townswomen as whores if they made disparaging remarks to our boys, and they nicknamed him Spoons because they say he loots private homes. He's guilty of the former and proud of it, but believe me, Stanley, if Ben wanted to steal, he wouldn't traffic in anything so trifling as spoons. After all, his
