First came the news that the Confederate forts at the Delta had fallen—; then, on the first of May, New Orleans itself. New Orleans! It was impossible to credit, but it was so. Freakishly high water and the mildest of currents had allowed Union gun-ships to pass beyond range of the forts and take the city with ease. Similar losses up-river were pushing the Dixie navy southwards—; the two halves of the fleet were being pushed into a corner. Soon they’d meet, back to back, for a last desperate stand.
As chance — or the river — would have it, they met at Island 37.
By that time, of course, the Trade was long since departed, leaving a chosen few behind to sweep dust over its tracks. That I’d been selected for this dangerous task — out of a host of strikers and agents— nearly burst my heart with pride. There was talk of a property of the Trist family’s at the mouth of the Cane River, “Geburah” by name, where the inner-most cell of the gang was to have its rendezvous—; the Redeemer wanted to watch the war go by, it was said, with his nearest and dearest beside him. When I’d made so bold as to ask the Redeemer himself, on our last walk together, if I could join him there, he had bowed to me (to me!) and said the idea seemed a right pretty one. The heavens had opened for me in that instant.
As I made my sweep of 37—setting fire to store-houses, dumping perishables into the river — it was all I could do to keep my wits and sense about me. Images of Geburah shone behind everything I beheld like light through a painted window-shade. I saw the property precisely, down to its smallest detail. The great house would be spacious and sunk slightly into the earth, so that as you rode up the long, straight avenue of oaks it seemed to rise out of the ground to meet you, like a ship pulling out to sea. Not a pirogue or a river-boat—; not even one of the iron-clads that had free run of the Mississippi—; a genuine sea-going schooner, fully rigged, its sails already great with wind. My fancy would entertain no less.
The oaks would part reluctantly as you rode up, falling aside in steady pulls, like the curtain in an opera-house—; and there it would stand, revealed to full advantage. A warm pink mass of sun-bleached brick, with a double colonnade in the old Greek style. Behind the colonnade, three paces back, a double run of porches. No different than a dozen estates I’d been chased off of with my bag of silver engagement rings, and all the more beautiful because of it—: this time I’d be welcomed as an honored guest. The Redeemer himself, his face aglow with affection and relief, would rush down to the landing to receive me. I even dared to imagine, in my most private fancy, that he might welcome me as his prodigal son returned.
It was a miracle, as it happened, that he welcomed me at all. From one moment to the next, it seemed, Island 37 was engulfed by the entire Dixie fleet—: the two halves closed over it like two fingers snuffing out a light. I was apart from the others just then, on a wooded spit of land pointing west toward Louisiana—; and it was this that saved me. My escape was effected by dog-paddling between the gun-boats and provisions-steamers, giving a heart-felt thanks to Providence for the time I’d spent on the river as a boy. The others were overtaken on the Panama House landing, and some in the Panama House itself—; I heard the sound of gun-play as I swam. I kept my face forward, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the shore. I pissed myself in fright, like a child of six or seven—; but the river cleaned me and swaddled me in its current, and carried me safely across to Louisiana.
To my true and certain knowledge I was the only one to get clear. I took this as yet another sign that Fortune had weighty plans for me, the details of which I could scarcely divine—; certain was only that the Redeemer featured in them. On the Louisiana bank I found a canoe provisioned and waiting, and I set out at once for the mouth of the Cane River. I had no doubt that the canoe had been left for me expressly. With every stroke toward Geburah my sense of destination grew.
By the time I reached it, seven days later, I was all but swooning with excitement. It took just one glance at the Redeemer’s face, however — stiff, surprised, and not a little dubious — to pluck my feathers in an instant. My patron obviously hadn’t been waiting with impatience and concern for me to make my journey—; in fact, he didn’t seem to have been expecting me at all.
As for the house, it was nothing like I’d pictured it. In place of the pied brick-work and noble colonnades, I found a narrow, graceless box — a glorified casket, or a packing-crate — leaning doubtfully toward the Mississippi out of an anemic swath of park. The woods to either side deadened any prospect of the river, while the lawn leading apologetically down to the water served only to advertise our hiding-place to every passing boat. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why the Redeemer had chosen as he did—; and our infrequent strolls together did nothing to enlighten me.
On the day of my arrival, as I’ve said, he was preoccupied and gruff. In place of a hero’s welcome he simply patted me on the shoulder, spun about, took Parson by the arm, and argued with him the rest of the day behind closed doors. From that moment on, he frankly avoided my company, stopping by my room once a week with the air of a school-boy compelled to do his sums. My mood grew steadily darker. I’d left 37 the very darling of the Trade, or so I’d fancied—; I arrived at Geburah to find myself its butler. How could I have failed? Had I been slandered by some rival? Had my store of good fortune been used up in escaping the Dixie navy? I was hapless for an answer.
The answer, as often happens, proved a simple one. As the weeks passed, I came to see that I’d not so much fallen out of favor as out of step, and the rest of the Island 37 Gang along with me. Now that we’d followed him into exile, it seemed, the Redeemer wanted nothing more to do with any of us. Parson alone retained his confidence. He moved between the Redeemer’s quarters and his own, up in the attic, as matter-of-factly as a nurse—; the rest of us, of course, trusted him as much as we would a copper-head. For my part, I felt utterly unmanned by my sudden fall from grace—; but I was clever enough to hide it from the others. They still considered me the Redeemer’s favorite, and I did nothing to discourage them. In my mind, however, I was anxious and bewildered as a child.
AS MY ESTRANGEMENT FROM THE REDEEMER GREW, so too did friendship of a sort with Virgil Ball, my fore-runner both as favorite and outcast. Virgil was a genius at listening, I discovered—; what’s more, he gave excellent advice. When I’d first met him, back on 37, I’d been not a little frightened—; later, as my own star rose, I’d thought of him with something akin to pity. Now I saw him as a kind of cipher, as much a riddle to himself as to the rest of us, but well worth puzzling over. In time, a silhouette of sorts — as in a cameo brooch — emerged from behind the trappings of the fool.
It was plain to see that he was in love with the Chartres Street trollop, Clementine Gilchrist, who kept to herself in a drafty, L-shaped boudoir on the second floor. I considered this the driving humor of his heart until I discovered, a short time later, that love was not what kept him at Geburah at all. He wished the Redeemer — and, by extension, all of us — a speedy and extremely violent end. At the same time, however, he wanted this end to interfere with the workings of the Trade as little as possible. He could imagine no life outside of it, he told me.