New Sarpy was not a large place. Not quite a town, not quite a stop. It was more like a cluster of warehouses, shrimp docks, liveries, cargo bays, and old piers half-turned to mush by the soaking churn of the river. But the largest of these was a depot built a decade earlier for a street rail stop that never came. Boarded and disused, and within mere feet of the water’s ever-eroding edge, it was the perfect place to leave something large and not quite invisible.
As the procession drew to a stop outside, Wallace Mumler and Rucker Little leaped out of their vehicles and ran to the giant doubled doors at the building’s north wall. Surely it had been meant to receive the cars themselves, shipped upriver, or maybe it had only been made that way for other incoming cargo of unknown size but conspicuous bulk. In seconds, the door—which looked firmly barricaded—was pressed open on hinges so silent, they must’ve been recently oiled and cleverly fixed to only appear so abandoned and impenetrable.
As the men went back to their seats, Ruthie Doniker leaped down out of the vehicle and ran inside. She reappeared almost instantly, bearing a torch so brightly lit that it made the old depot seem fully illuminated. She waved it and retreated, guiding the joined craft forward—around the sharp corner that had them on the verge of overhanging the banks, but never quite slipping over the side. Backwards she walked, and the drivers followed her at a snail’s pace, creeping and creaking toward her, scraping the flatbed edges against the wide plank frames that held the massive doors. The whole structure shuddered but stood firm, and in a round of harrowing heartbeats, the Ganymede was finally inside.
Twelve
Josephine waited on pins and needles all day.
She fretted, pacing back and forth between her upstairs office in the Garden Court and the desk in the parlor where either Hazel Bushrod or Marylin Quantrill held down the business end of things during the quieter daylight hours. Contrary to popular belief, not all of their business was conducted in the evening. There were a thousand other small beliefs to which brothels ran contrary, but only the regular patrons of such a place had any idea what really went on.
Fenn Calais knew many secrets, but he kept them to himself, a fact for which even Josephine Early, a woman who detested most Texians—though fewer of them than before, it seemed—could give him a grudging ounce of credit.
“Miss Josephine, I was wondering if you could tell me when Miss Ruthie will be back on duty.” The Texian broached the question delicately. “I haven’t seen her around much, these last few days. And I miss her lovely face.”
“I’m quite sure that’s not all you miss,” Josephine said tartly. Her back was to the desk, and to Marylin and Fenn. She was holding the front curtain aside, peering out into the street, certain that any moment would bring word from the bayou boys that Ganymede was on the move—or that it’d be on the move momentarily.
Rather than taking offense, as he might’ve been within his rights, Fenn Calais chuckled and said, “Truer words were never spoken. I was just hoping she wasn’t sick, or nothing like that. Is she even … is she here?”
Josephine released the curtain, vaguely concerned by his query. He was openly fishing for information. It might be innocent, or it might not.
She forced a smile that was cool but not unkind. “I do apologize, Mr. Calais. I didn’t mean to be short with you. We’re all a bit on edge these days, with all the troops moving outside.” As she said this, another row of brown-clad marching Texians went by on the street outside, and a rolling-crawler brought up the rear—its puffing, churning, fume-spilling body making the whole house shake with its passing. “Ruthie has been busy with some personal business these last few days. She’ll be back before long.”
When the vehicle had finally gone, and the last of its rumbles gone with it, Calais said, “These are trying times, and don’t I know it.”
Perhaps he saw the involuntary flinch Josephine made to hear him say such a thing. As if any Texian knew anything about the trouble in this, her city, her home. The occupation had changed the city forever—altering the trade, the population, the economy. It had made her city unwilling host to a few thousand houseguests who never cleaned up after themselves, bolstered a government that stood against everything Josephine believed in, and behaved abominably with impunity. Her home had become a prison, one she loved too much to leave and hated too much to tolerate—not without fighting back.
Fenn noticed her silence. He continued. “I don’t mean to say it’s the same for me as it is for you. I’m only sad to see the state of the place, those stupid crawlers tearing up the curbs and rolling over the plants. Did you know,” he changed his tone, asking almost lightly, “that I’ve lived here since before the occupation?”
“I did not know that, Mr. Calais.”
“It’s true. When I was a younger fellow, and less of a fat one, I suppose … I landed the hand of a Garden District girl. And before you say it, if not before you think it—yes, that was very lucky for me.” He settled into the love seat’s corner, filling it up as if his body were made of liquid. He sighed. “I was an oilman’s boy, or that’s how it looked on paper. My daddy went bust after his well dried up.”
“But a Texas oilman’s son would be a good match for a Garden District lady,” Josephine said politely. The Garden District was a universe away from the Garden Court. The District was a neighborhood of lawns the size of city blocks, and houses as big as churches. It was home to the richest of the white people and virtually nobody else.
“It was rather like being a bastard of nobility. Not a penny to my name, but property in Texas I stood to inherit. Her family let me in, though if they’d looked at us more closely, I don’t think they’d have done so. Within a year of us being married, her daddy died in his sleep one night—God knows what from—and a year after that, her momma drank herself to death, leaving no one but the pair of us and all that stupid money.”
Something like venom made it into his voice. Josephine said, “Strange that you’d put it like that.”
“Money can’t buy happiness, isn’t that what they tell us? Money can’t save a woman when she’s taken in childbirth, or the baby either. No matter how much more you promise a doctor, if he can only save the child.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Calais. I didn’t know you’d ever had a family, much less that you’d lost one.”
“It was a long time ago. Nearly thirty years, can you believe it?” he asked, but the question was aimed inward, and he appeared to expect no response. “Left me alone with all that money, for all the good it’s done me. Except, I’ve found a comfortable place here—and thanks to all that stupid money, it’s a place I can afford to frequent with great … frequency.”
Marylin piped up from behind the desk. “Mr. Calais! We do enjoy having you, you know,” she said, embarrassing her employer but pleasing the Texian on the love seat. “I’m so sorry to hear about your family, and I’m glad you’re happy when you’re here.”
“When I’m here, and when I’m drinking.”
“The two states are not mutually incompatible,” Josephine murmured, gesturing with a look at the cabinet where the “public” alcohol was kept, for distribution to customers. Marylin took the hint, dabbed at her eyes, and rose to pour Calais another beverage. He held a glass in his hand, but it’d run dry.
Another round of Texian foot soldiers went stamping by, and Josephine moved the curtain again to look.
Fenn Calais grunted appreciatively as his glass was refilled, and after a swig, he informed them, “They’re leaving, or that’s how I heard it.”
She turned around quickly, the curtain edge still hanging from her hand. “What? Leaving? Leaving New Orleans?”
“Not all of them. Didn’t mean to get anybody’s hopes up. Most of those fellows, though—they’re the ones who came out when Texas went after the pirate bay. Now that they’ve taken it, they’re heading home.”
“Really?” Josephine asked. “They’re just … leaving it?”
“They’re sticking a small garrison there, just to hold the place down. But whatever they were looking for, I don’t suppose they found it.”
“I thought there was no such thing as small as far as Texians are concerned. Least of all when it comes to garrisons.”
“So take the word small with a grain of salt. I know I did. I’m only repeating what I heard, that’s all. Some of the soldiers are heading out, leaving the bay.”
Josephine closed the curtain again. “Do you think the pirates will take it back?”
“Eventually? I’m damn near sure of it,” said the old Texian. “If you want my opinion on the matter, I’d guess it’ll happen sooner rather than later.”
“Why is that?” she asked.
“Because the pirates want it more than Texas does. But like I said, that’s just my opinion.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a cigar, which he proceeded to cut and clean. Running it under his nose, he took a deep whiff of the rolled tobacco and smiled before pulling out a box of matches and striking one up.
Marylin smiled, too. That silly girl loved the smell of pipe or cigar tobacco. It made Josephine’s eyes itch, but considering how much money Fenn Calais had spent in the Garden Court over the years, it’d be daft to tell him to put it away, so she didn’t. Instead she resisted the urge to peek through the curtains any longer, for it would be suspicious—even to someone like Calais, who probably didn’t care.
Shortly after noon—perhaps half an hour later—Marylin announced herself with a delicate knock on the open office door.
Josephine jumped, for she’d once more been looking out a window—at the side street, this time. Watching the soldiers come and go. Watching the rolling-crawlers make their rounds, escorting the military men on their way through the too-narrow streets.
