like us to win this war.”
“Well,” I said, with my voice gentled, “I do not wish to interfere with matters of strategy.”
“I won’t have trouble in the streets. I can’t have it.”
“And I will not hunt trouble. In the streets, or elsewhere. But I cannot promise that trouble will not hunt me. For I will tell you: More there is to the murder of Miss Peabody than any of us thought. What it is about, I cannot say. I have more questions than you have, General Banks. But there is a rottenness I can smell from here.” I touched my cheek unwillingly, yearning to calm my tooth. The flesh was hot. “Parties I do not know have tried to discourage me. But they have done the opposite …”
He did not look at me, but inspected the floor. Which wanted a proper cleaning. Past visitors had sometimes missed the cuspidor.
“Just go,” he said, in a voice that established a truce between the two of us. “Get out of here. And try to do as little damage as possible.”
I WENT OUT through the hill of blue ants the Customs House had become, holding my palm to my jaw and scowling helplessly. The day before, my toothache had been an annoyance. Now it was a misery, thanks to my indulgence at Mr. Champlain’s house. But I like a sweet. And virtue must have some reward.
Positioned to the rear of my mouth, the offending tooth seemed to swell in all directions. It wanted a remedy soon. But even the thought of dentists makes me squeamish, for they are cruel. A battle is but half the trial we face in the dentist’s chair.
Nor would I apply whisky, which some fellows do.
On my way down the last corridor of our headquarters, I overheard a captain complain that he had been sent to run the city workhouse, but could not keep the inmates at their labors for lack of material. What was he to do? A plump civilian promised a colonel a lovely supper at Galpin’s, while a clerk worried over a troop of negro laborers. The darkies had disappeared with a ditch unfinished, leaving a cesspit fouled at Jackson Barracks. Before his host could contain him, a cotton factor bellowed that he would not pay the same bribe twice.
That, too, was war, but not the sort we chronicle.
A better Christian than myself would have rushed back to the hotel and that frightened young woman. But I wandered the city, searching for a dentist. Even as I tried to avoid finding one. My walk was a crooked scuttle, for I had not had a chance to replace my cane. From head to toe, my person was awry. Nor would my thoughts come straight, for all my trying. I walked the pavements and crossed the mucky streets, with my ears as cold as they would have been back home. Imagining my face the size of a melon.
The city was in a queer state that January. Our occupation had opened the port to trade again and the shops were overflowing. But the men and women who crowded the streets could not afford to buy. They are as proud as peacocks, the creoles, but you saw at a glance that last year’s wardrobe had not been refreshed and a lady’s skirts had been hemmed with mismatched ribbon.
Just off Customhouse Street, in the Rue Chartres, Madame Olympe announced new Paris fashions. Her windows drew a crowd, but the shop stayed empty. On the corner of Canal and Royal, S. N. Moody’s advertised the finest in Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods. Idle clerks minded the counters, while fellows afraid to try their credit strolled by. Men of fifty years looked sad as children as they passed the merchant’s door in their frayed cuffs. Hardly a fellow went by that shop without tugging down his coat sleeves or sneaking a glance at his shoes. New Orleans was a fancy ball that woke to a threadbare morning.
And then I saw a fearsome sight before me. I had made a circle, coming back toward the Customs House again. I never will forget the least detail. The address was 194 Canal Street. His name was Dr. Fielding. The sign, well worn, promised PAINLESS TOOTH EXTRACTION.
Indeed.
I told myself that I had no
“Well,” I said, with my voice gentled, “I do not wish to interfere with matters of strategy.”
“I won’t have trouble in the streets. I can’t have it.”
“And I will not hunt trouble. In the streets, or elsewhere. But I cannot promise that trouble will not hunt me. For I will tell you: More there is to the murder of Miss Peabody than any of us thought. What it is about, I cannot say. I have more questions than you have, General Banks. But there is a rottenness I can smell from here.” I touched my cheek unwillingly, yearning to calm my tooth. The flesh was hot. “Parties I do not know have tried to discourage me. But they have done the opposite …”
He did not look at me, but inspected the floor. Which wanted a proper cleaning. Past visitors had sometimes missed the cuspidor.
“Just go,” he said, in a voice that established a truce between the two of us. “Get out of here. And try to do as little damage as possible.”
I WENT OUT through the hill of blue ants the Customs House had become, holding my palm to my jaw and scowling helplessly. The day before, my toothache had been an annoyance. Now it was a misery, thanks to my indulgence at Mr. Champlain’s house. But I like a sweet. And virtue must have some reward.
Positioned to the rear of my mouth, the offending tooth seemed to swell in all directions. It wanted a remedy soon. But even the thought of dentists makes me squeamish, for they are cruel. A battle is but half the trial we face in the dentist’s chair.
Nor would I apply whisky, which some fellows do.
On my way down the last corridor of our headquarters, I overheard a captain complain that he had been sent to run the city workhouse, but could not keep the inmates at their labors for lack of material. What was he to do? A plump civilian promised a colonel a lovely supper at Galpin’s, while a clerk worried over a troop of negro laborers. The darkies had disappeared with a ditch unfinished, leaving a cesspit fouled at Jackson Barracks. Before his host could contain him, a cotton factor bellowed that he would not pay the same bribe twice.
That, too, was war, but not the sort we chronicle.
A better Christian than myself would have rushed back to the hotel and that frightened young woman. But I wandered the city, searching for a dentist. Even as I tried to avoid finding one. My walk was a crooked scuttle, for I had not had a chance to replace my cane. From head to toe, my person was awry. Nor would my thoughts come straight, for all my trying. I walked the pavements and crossed the mucky streets, with my ears as cold as they would have been back home. Imagining my face the size of a melon.
The city was in a queer state that January. Our occupation had opened the port to trade again and the shops were overflowing. But the men and women who crowded the streets could not afford to buy. They are as proud as peacocks, the creoles, but you saw at a glance that last year’s wardrobe had not been refreshed and a lady’s skirts had been hemmed with mismatched ribbon.
Just off Customhouse Street, in the Rue Chartres, Madame Olympe announced new Paris fashions. Her windows drew a crowd, but the shop stayed empty. On the corner of Canal and Royal, S. N. Moody’s advertised the finest in Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods. Idle clerks minded the counters, while fellows afraid to try their credit strolled by. Men of fifty years looked sad as children as they passed the merchant’s door in their frayed cuffs. Hardly a fellow went by that shop without tugging down his coat sleeves or sneaking a glance at his shoes. New Orleans was a fancy ball that woke to a threadbare morning.
And then I saw a fearsome sight before me. I had made a circle, coming back toward the Customs House again. I never will forget the least detail. The address was 194 Canal Street. His name was Dr. Fielding. The sign, well worn, promised PAINLESS TOOTH EXTRACTION.
Indeed.
I told myself that I had no
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