Dixie's Land 2.2

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter two]

"This place is fantastic,” Patton said.  He waved at a seemingly unending sequence of warehouses, the stone buildings a pale grey, their wood counterparts painted oxblood or dark green.  They were walking at their leisure in the general direction of the Cabildo, the governor-general’s winter residence, where an official welcome that couldn’t be avoided was supposed to take place, in the presence of Governor-General Lord Byron himself.  “Look at these crates, Stewart –- there’s things here from just about everywhere in the world.”

"Including Mississippi and Alabama," Stewart said.  “I thought we’d been refusing trade with any country that hadn’t recognized our independence.”  As if to prove his point, they passed huge bales, clearly cotton, whose labels proclaimed them as having come from just upriver, in Mississippi.

“Don’t be so sour, Stewart,” Patton said.  “This just means you can’t keep a good businessman down.”

“Look out!” a voice shouted, just as someone drove a shoulder into Stewart’s side.  Cursing, Stewart slammed into Patton and they fell sideways into the unyielding wall of a warehouse.  A second later a huge bale smashed into the spot where he and Patton had been standing.

A needle of pain forced itself up his leg, and he bit his lip to keep from screaming.  “What the hell was that?” he heard Patton say, but the sound was distant, muffled by the agony.   He was suddenly back on the field at Harper’s Ferry, watching Sergeant Fitzgerald’s headless body and feeling his leg on fire.

“Good Lord, man, what have we done to you?”  Hands were on him, forcing him back, and Stewart felt pressure on his knee that for a moment seemed to ease the pain.  He fumbled for the cartridge pouch on his belt, pulled from it the flask he’d been carrying with him since last summer.  He took a long swallow, and there was warmth followed by blessed numbness.

He looked up to find a dark-haired young man sitting on his haunches and staring at him.  The man had a soldierly bearing, but wrapped it in a ghastly green frock-coat.  His eyes made him look older than his face did, and there was concern in those eyes.  “I’ll be all right,” Stewart managed.  “I’ve got a bad leg, that’s all.”

“Cannonball wound last year,” Patton added admiringly.

“Patrick Ronayne Cleburne at your service,” the green-clad man said.  “Am I correct in assuming that that’s laudanum you’re taking, then?”  He held out his hand; Stewart put the flask into Cleburne’s palm.  "8 May 1850/For Valor," Cleburne read; "With gratitude/ R. E. Lee."

“On the advice of General Lee’s physician,” Stewart said.  “I hardly use it anymore.”

“A good thing, Captain.  That stuff’ll do for you if you’re not careful.”

“At the moment,” Stewart said, replacing the flask’s cap, “cotton seems to be the more pressing danger.”  He looked up; a group of black faces stared down at him from the upper deck of the riverboat from which the errant bale had fallen.

“Hey, Cuffee!” Patton shouted at the negroes.  “Who’s responsible for this?”  The stevedores responded with a flamboyant invitation for Patton to do something anatomically impossible.

“You should probably be watching your language, gents, if Cuffee means what I think it does,” Cleburne said.  “Those aren’t slaves, and if they think you’re trying to mistreat them they’ll have you up before the magistrates before you can say abolition.”

“What kind of a place is this?” Stewart asked.  “We were just exploring, and then –”

“And then an accident happened,” Cleburne said.  “I’m more concerned about the state of that leg.  Let me help you up, and then I’ll call a cab and take you back to my shop where I can take a closer look at it.”

“Your shop?”  Patton got to his feet, and made a rude gesture in the direction of the stevedores, who hooted in response.  “We have a reception to get to, at the Calaboose or whatever it’s called.”

“Cabildo,” Cleburne said.  “The governor-general’s mansion.  Don’t worry.  That’s just a few minutes from my shop.  I’m on the old-quarter side of Canal Street.”

“Canal?”  Stewart accepted Patton’s hand and struggled to his feet.  “Our hotel’s on Canal.”

“Splendid.  Then you’ll have a chance to clean up, and be back at the Cabildo before anyone notices how late you are.”

* * * *

Cleburne was an apothecary—they called them "chemists" here, apparently—and while his tiny shop left scarcely enough room to swing the proverbial cat, he nevertheless managed to make enough space to examine Stewart’s leg.

“This is in pretty good shape,” Cleburne said.  “My compliments to the surgeon.  I’ll just rub some of this Indian salve into you and then bind you up with a cold, damp cloth, and you’ll be right as rain.”

“You’ve experience with this type of injury?” Patton asked from his perch on the counter.

“I was a lieutenant in the British Army.  Forty-first Regiment of Foot, and a waste of my God-given talents that was.”

“But you’re Irish.”  Stewart shook his head, trying to make sense of this revelation.  “I thought all Irishmen were rebels and hated the English like death.  The way my family hates them.”

“Oh, you’re a Stewart as in Bonnie Prince Charlie, are you?  Well, I’m as Irish as they come,” Cleburne said.  “Born on St. Patrick’s Day, and in County Cork to boot.  But I’ll let those with small minds worry about getting the English to leave the place.  My goal’s a bit loftier.”

“And what’s that?” Patton asked.

“To get as far away from being poor as I possibly can.  My military service got me here, got me chemist’s papers and this shop.  I have no intention of stopping in Dixie’s Land, though.  I'm going to make a small fortune, and then use it to make myself a bigger one.  Maybe in the gold fields of the Californias, maybe up the coast in Oregon or New Caledonia.  But whatever I do, I'll be working for no one but myself.  And maybe having a bit of adventure while I'm doing it."

“Dixie’s Land?” Patton said.  “Where’s that?”

“Here,” Stewart said.  “I’ve heard the term used about Louisiana—sometimes about all of south Canada.  Never knew why, though.”

Cleburne showed them a banknote—ten dollars, Stewart saw.  “Note the French,” Cleburne said, pointing to something printed on one side of the note.

“Dix,” Stewart said.  “French for ‘ten’, of course.”

“Too many of your countrymen pronounce the word diks,” Cleburne said.  “From there to ‘Dixie’ was, I’m told, a very short step.”

"And speaking of short steps,” Patton said, “do you think my friend here is going to be able to walk now that you’ve ministered to him?"

“If he’s careful.  I’m thinking it was more of a shock than a serious injury.  Still, I apologize for any pain I caused you, Captain Stewart. "

"Thank you, Mr. Cleburne," Stewart said.  "You're a gentleman in a city in which I hadn't expected to find many."

"Don't go selling New Orleans short, Captain," Cleburne said.  "Even if you find the English sticking in your craw, there are plenty of fine French Creoles in the city who will like as not take you into their bosoms the second they get wind of your feelings about Britannia.  And if you ever need advice about finding your way around the old quarter, which is where the Creoles still live, then just come visit me.  I know this city, gentlemen, even better than I know my chemistry."

Next    Chapter One    Chapter Two