Carolina Gold (29 page)
“Well, if you want to, I won’t say no.”
Charlotte opened her bag and pressed a bill into the girl’s hand. “Thank you, Miss . . . I’m afraid I haven’t asked your name.”
“Solange.” The girl wadded the bill and stuffed it into her pocket. She peered down the street, shading her eyes with her hand. “Here comes General Beauregard, right on time. Just like one of his trains.”
Charlotte hurried to meet him, reaching his house just as he descended the curving staircase, one hand resting lightly on the black wrought-iron railing. Even in civilian clothes he stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, every inch the military officer he once had been.
She stood on the banquette clutching her reticule, her heart hammering. “General Beauregard.”
“Yes?” He studied her, one hand still resting on the railing, his expression one of polite curiosity.
“Please forgive this intrusion. My name is Charlotte Fraser. I left a message with your butler this morning.”
His dark brows went up. “I received no such message.”
“Perhaps he forgot or hasn’t yet had time yet to deliver it. I was here only a couple of hours ago, but he would not admit me.”
He waited, calm and unmoving.
“I met you once years ago, when you were posted to Charleston. My father and I were dining at the Mills House when you and your adjutant came in. You and Father spoke about our rice plantation and about Ft. Sumter and the defense of Charleston harbor.”
“I’m certain you’re right. I met dozens of local citizens during my time there. But I can’t be expected to recognize them now.” At last, he smiled. “Especially one who could not have been much more than a child at the time.”
“Of course not. I wanted only to remind you of our meeting in hopes it might induce you to help me.”
He sighed. “Permit me a guess. You or your cousin or your father needs a job. Or a political favor. Or a loan of cash.”
“None of that. My father died last winter.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.”
A horse and rig clattered past, and he took her elbow to draw her away from the street.
“I’ve come in search of my employer.” Once again, she shared the details of Nicholas’s long absence and her pressing need to find him.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s sit in the garden. It’s cooler out here than inside this time of the morning.” The general led her through a small gate to a little garden overflowing with bright flowers. Clipped boxwood hedges formed a low green border around a concrete fountain. A pair of benches sat beneath a palmetto tree, its fronds rattling in the sultry breeze.
General Beauregard motioned Charlotte to sit and then chose the opposite bench. “I regret that you came so far to see Longstreet. He decamped the city for New England a week ago. He’s in a bad way himself, not really fit to travel, but he was worried about his family getting the fever and insisted upon removing them to safer climes.”
“Then I’m too late.” She slumped against the bench.
“Looking for anyone these days is like crawling through a meadow, searching for a four-leaf clover. Finding your employer amidst the present chaos will be a matter of great good luck, I’m afraid.”
“But if he’s . . . if he’s no longer alive . . . surely records are being kept.”
The general shook his head. “My dear Miss Fraser, in the areas of this city where the fever is prevalent, upwards of twenty people are dying every day. There’s little time for record keeping or for proper burials. If your employer has succumbed without anyone to claim him, more than likely he’s buried in a mass grave somewhere.”
Tears blurred Charlotte’s vision. Nicholas in a mass grave, with no one to mourn him or to mark his resting place? The prospect was too distressing to contemplate. “What about the convent? I heard that some of the sick are being cared for there.”
“At Ursuline, yes. You can ask, I suppose. Father Alphonse is doing the best he can.”
She rose and began to pace. “Surely there is some way to find Mr. Betancourt.”
General Beauregard sighed. “Do you know how many people reside in New Orleans?”
Before she could venture a guess, he answered his own question. “Close to two hundred thousand. You’ve said you have no idea where he lived when he was here before the war. No known relatives we might contact.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “It’s quite impossible. Nevertheless, I will ask around town and see whether I can discover any news. You said he served the Confederacy?”
“Yes, with General Longstreet. I’m grateful for any inquiries you can make on Mr. Betancourt’s behalf.”
“If I discover any news, I’ll send word. Where may I find you?”
“The Orleans Palace.”
“Your friend has one thing in his favor,” General Beauregard said. “Those of us who grew up here have developed a certain resistance to the fever, as have natives of our other Southern port cities—or so I’m given to understand. But all the same, you ought not to stay here any longer than necessary.”
Charlotte felt a bit better. Perhaps she wasn’t in as much danger as she first thought. And perhaps Nicholas was not only well, but had already left the city and was on his way back to South Carolina, their letters having crossed somewhere along the way.
The general consulted his pocket watch. “I’m sorry to rush off, but I am late to the railway office.”
“I apologize for having detained you.”
“Not at all. I wish I could have been more helpful. Come with me.”
He crossed the courtyard and knocked on a door tucked beneath the rear staircase. A young man of perhaps twenty, with olive skin and black curls, stepped out. “Yessir?”
“Pierre, this is Miss Fraser. I want you to drive her back to her hotel.”
“General Beauregard?” Charlotte said. “I hope you won’t think it too much of an imposition if I ask to be driven to the convent hospital instead. I’d like to speak to Father Alphonse as soon as possible.”
“I can’t advise it,” the general said. “The situation there is terribly distressing. I suggest sending the priest a note instead.”
“But I want to know right away whether Father Alphonse can help me find Mr. Betancourt.”
“Very well.” The general raised both his hands, palms out. “The convent, Pierre. And then the Orleans Palace.”
Pierre smiled at Charlotte and touched one finger to his
forehead in a kind of salute. “It won’t take a moment to fetch the horse and rig.”
The general offered her his arm and they returned to the street. “Try not to worry. Yellow fever is deadly, no question, yet many who are stricken do survive. For all we know, the good doctor is recovering somewhere and waiting only until he feels strong enough to travel.”
Moments later Pierre drew up in a smart black buggy, and General Beauregard helped Charlotte inside. “Give the priest my regards. Tell him I sent you.”
“I will. And thank you.”
Pierre rattled the reins and they set off, the heat of the morning close and still. Charlotte suppressed worries about her dwindling bank account and the nightmarish scene awaiting her at the convent. She focused her thoughts on Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise, the way they had clung to her as she prepared to leave the island, their dear little faces so full of worry and hope.
Finding Nicholas Betancourt would be worth any price she had to pay.
O
n Dauphine Street, Pierre brought the rig to a stop outside a low white building just as bells tolled the hour. A cobbled walkway stretched from the banquette to the front door, which was flanked by white marble statues of saints at prayer. Dark-painted shutters framed tall windows open to catch any passing breeze. In the side yard, cypress and banana trees shaded a wagon draped in black. A yellow flag hung unmoving in the thick heat, warning of the pestilence inside.
“Are you sure you want to go in there, miss?” Pierre’s dark eyes were full of concern. “It isn’t too late to change your mind. I can speak to Father Alphonse, if you’d rather.”
She shook her head, avoiding the sight of the makeshift hearse waiting in the yard. “I’m ready.”
He helped her out of the rig. “Take your time. I’ll be right here when you’re ready to leave.”
She walked up to the door, lifted the heavy brass knocker, and let it fall. Footsteps sounded and then the door opened. A tiny, gray-eyed nun, her face pleated with wrinkles, peered up at her. “Yes?”
“I’ve come to see Father Alphonse. General Beauregard sent me.”
Wordlessly the nun stood aside and motioned her into a dimly lit vestibule. Charlotte had a fleeting impression of soaring colored windows, fountains, carvings, and a sea of flickering candles giving off a sweet scent.
“Wait here.” The nun glided away and returned presently with a tall, barrel-chested priest, a florid man with a shock of white hair and a red mark on either side of his nose from where spectacles had pressed into his flesh. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass window, casting ribbons of purple and green onto his close-fitting cassock.
“Father Alphonse?”
He nodded, as if the effort of speech was too costly.
“I’m searching for someone.” By now the story of her employer’s long absence, her worries for his safety, and her long journey to find him had become so rote she barely realized she’d spoken.
When she finished, the priest sighed. “You’re asking the impossible.” He waved one mottled hand toward a set of doors off the vestibule. “I’ve got forty people in there in various stages of distress. Before that, there were forty others, and before that—”
“I understand. Would you mind if I took a look, to see whether Mr. Betancourt might be among them? I promise not to disturb anyone.”
“I can save you the trouble. Of the unfortunates here today, only five are men, and none of them could possibly be the man you described.”
“I see.” Heat, worry, fear, and crushing disappointment crumbled her resolve. She opened her reticule, took out her handkerchief, and pressed it to her eyes.
The doors opened and a young nun hurried out, the hem of
her black habit whispering on the marble floor. “Father? It’s Mrs. Mahoney. She’s fading fast and asking for you.”
“I’m coming.” He sent Charlotte a curt nod. “I’m sorry you came here for naught. Excuse me.”
He spun away, the young nun running ahead of him. The older nun placed a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I’m sorry Father Alphonse wasn’t of more help and that he seemed so abrupt. Even a man of his great faith finds himself tested when death is a daily companion.”
Charlotte turned toward the door, a fierce headache blooming behind her eyes. The general was right. She shouldn’t have come. New Orleans was awash in pestilence and chaos, and the chances of finding Nicholas in the midst of it were practically nil. There was nothing more to do but admit defeat and return to Pawley’s Island.
“You might ask in the Faubourg Marigny,” the nun said. “Just yesterday Sister Marguerite returned from looking after the German and Irish families down there. A makeshift infirmary has been established in a white stone house, she said, close by the railway station.”
“I suppose it’s worth a try.”
The nun patted Charlotte’s arm. “You mustn’t give up hope. In times such as these, we must all look to God for strength.”
A moment later Charlotte returned to the waiting rig. Pierre helped her inside, then settled himself and picked up the reins. “That didn’t take long. Any luck?”
“I’m afraid Father Alphonse wasn’t any help. But one of the nuns told me to try in the Faubourg Marigny. Do you know where that is?”
Pierre nodded. “It’s a neighborhood—not far from here, but not exactly the best part of the city. Mostly Negroes and immigrants live there. The yellow fever has been rampant down there all summer.”
Charlotte gave him the nun’s description of the house, and they set off through streets choked with people, wagons, carts, and horses. As they turned the corner, they came upon a group of Negro men, voices and fists raised in anger.
Charlotte turned around in her seat. “What is that disturbance all about?”
“Reconstruction,” Pierre said. “It’s at the heart of all our troubles these days. Ever since the Federals took over, blacks and whites have been at each other’s throats. Some people think the Northerners are stirring up tensions on purpose, merely to add insult to injury.”
He stopped to let a young mother carrying a baby cross the street. “General Beauregard is beside himself these days because the Federals have outlawed teaching French in the schools.”
“Outlawed it? Why?”
The rig rolled on down the street. “They don’t need a reason. They do whatever they choose. Rubbing our noses in our defeat, if you ask me. Ah, here we are.”
He slowed the rig as they approached an area of long, narrow cottages with gray slate roofs set along a series of crooked streets. Distant church spires pierced the white-hot sky. In a large square facing the railway station, a few families came and went, stepping around piles of half-burned timbers that gave off an acrid odor. Heat shimmered above the street. A shaft of light refracted from the windows of buildings on the square.
“This is Washington Square,” Pierre said. “The general calls it the heartbeat of the Marigny.” He pointed to a group of houses situated across the river. “Some years ago the rich Creole men kept their second families hidden there. Wasn’t much of a secret, though.”
