The Negro regiment wasn't a rumor; it was right in front of him — yellow faces, tan faces, sepia and blue-ebony faces. How they grinned and rolled their eyes as they pranced past their old oppressors, who were standing still as statues, paralyzed by disbelief and disdain.
The fifes struck up the "Battle Hymn" to heighten the insult. The black unit, one of the first in the army, tramped on toward the river. Bent flipped his cigar into the street. The sight was enough to turn a man into a Southerner — a breed he had always hated but now regarded with a deepening sympathy.
Bent's hands began to itch as he thought of a glass of spirits. Too early. Much too early. But he couldn't banish the desire, to which he gave in with increasing frequency these days. He had no friends among his fellow officers in the occupying army; few even spoke to him except in the line of duty. He cautioned himself not to give in to the temptation, knowing full well he would. Only a drink, or several, would relieve his misery.
Pittsburg Landing had sent his life spiraling downward. He had reached Butler's headquarters in New Orleans after a difficult journey to the East Coast and a steamer voyage around the tip of Florida to the reopened port. After a two-minute meeting with the cockeyed little politician from Massachusetts, Bent found himself attached to the provost's department. The duty was ideal, because it allowed him to give orders to civilians as well as soldiers.
Bent had been in New Orleans before. He enjoyed the city's cultured atmosphere and the delights it offered to gentlemen with money. It was in the bordellos of the town that he had gained a certain limited passion for equality; he would pay a high price to fornicate with a nigger girl, especially a very young one. He had enjoyed that experience last night.
He peered down the street after the regiment — the Corps d'Afrique, the presumptuous darkies styled themselves. White officers had to be coaxed, bribed with brevets, or threatened with a general court before they would accept command of so much as one company of a new Negro regiment — of which there were several.
What a remarkable about-face General Butler had done in organizing them. Initially he had declared himself against the idea. In August he changed his mind, persuaded, it was said, by his wife, his friend Secretary Chase, and perhaps by belated realization that the appearance of black regiments would make local whites apoplectic. At first Butler said he would recruit only the semitrained members of a black unit formed to defend the city before it fell. He reversed himself on that, too, and was soon signing up plantation runaways.
Bent started toward the old square, encountering unfriendly faces on the walks shaded by charming iron balconies. Ah, but the civilians did step aside for him. Indeed they did.
His thoughts drifted to the brothels again. There was one house he particularly wanted to visit at an opportune moment. He had chanced on the place before the war, on his way back from the hellish duty in Texas. In the madam's quarters there hung many fine paintings, including a portrait of a woman connected with the Main family in some way he did not as yet understand. The connection itself was certain. In Texas, in Charles Main's quarters, he had seen a photograph of a woman with virtually identical features.
What stimulated Bent's imagination were facts conveyed to him by the owner of the bordello, Madame Conti. The painting depicted a quadroon who had once worked in the establishment. In other words, a nigger whore.
That painting was one of the few positive aspects of Bent's current exile. He believed it to be a weapon he could use eventually against the Mains. He never forgot or abandoned his desire to harm members of that family; only set it aside periodically because events forced him. He knew the bordello was still operating under Madame Conti's management. He assumed the painting was still there.
By the time he reached Bienville, he knew he must have a drink soon. Just then he noticed a well-dressed white woman alighting from a barouche beyond the intersection of narrow streets. She dismissed the driver and, like Bent, walked in the direction of the cathedral. Two black soldiers were coming the other way, laughing and jostling each other. Yellow stripes on light blue breeches showed they belonged to the cavalry Ben Butler had raised.
The woman stopped. So did the soldiers, blocking the walk. Bent saw the woman's hat bob as she said something. The soldiers replied with laughter. Bent drew his dress saber and lumbered across Bienville.
"You men stand aside."
They didn't.
"I gave you a direct order. Step into the street and let this lady pass."
They continued to block the walk. It was a kind of disobedience not unknown to him, but it angered him more than usual because of their color. They wouldn't have dared defy him if it weren't for Butler and Old Abe. In the wake of the President's proclamation, the darkies thought they ruled the earth.
The tableau held. Bent heard one of the troopers mutter something about white officers, and both eyed him in a speculative way. Foolish of him to interfere with such brutes. Suppose they attacked him?
Then he saw his salvation: three white soldiers coming into sight down at the corner of Conti. The sergeant wore a side arm. Bent waved his sword. "Sergeant! Come here this instant."
The trio hurried. Bent identified himself. "Take these two insubordinate rascals to the provost, and I'll follow to charge them." His breathing slowed; he could ooze contempt on the niggers. "If you hope to be part of the Union Army, gentlemen, you must behave like civilized human beings, not apes. Dismissed, Sergeant."
The noncom drew his revolver. He and his men began to enjoy their assignment. They poked the two blacks and kicked their shins. The cavalrymen looked frightened.
As well they might, Bent thought. They would be tied by their thumbs, with stout cord, to a suitable beam or limb and left to hang with their toes just touching the ground. An hour of it was standard punishment in cases of insubordination. For them he would order three or four hours.
"Colonel?"
He swept off his hat; the woman was middle-aged, attractive. "Ma'am? I do apologize for the way those — soldiers harassed you."
"I am most grateful for your intervention." Her accent was that of the city, melodious and warm. "I trust you won't take offense if I remark that you are not typical of members of the army of occupation. Indeed, I would find it more natural for a man of your sensibilities to be wearing gray. Thank you again. Good day."
Overwhelmed, he muttered, "Good day," as she swept into a doorway that was her destination.
It had been so long since anyone had complimented him about anything that he flew along toward the cathedral square in a euphoric state. Perhaps the woman was right. Changing sides was unthinkable, of course, but her insight couldn't be faulted. Perhaps his lifelong loathing for Southerners was misguided. It might be that in certain ways he was more reb than Yank. Pity to learn it too late.
Under the looming facade of St. Louis Cathedral, Bent halted suddenly, attention arrested by two men in the square. One was the commanding general's brother, an army officer much in evidence in New Orleans lately. The other —
He struggled momentarily, then got it. Stanley Hazard. Bent had seen him last at Willard's over a year ago. What was he doing here?
He hurried on, his craving for drink intense. The sudden sight of Stanley reminded him of George and Orry. Soon old litanies were resounding in his head. He must not forget either family or how much he wanted to repay them. Before he left New Orleans, he had to take possession of the portrait in the bordello.
The table linen was blinding, the silver heavy. The gulf oysters were succulent, the champagne French and cold as January. Most of the liveried waiters had woolly white heads. They bent over the diners with such attention and deference that Stanley could almost imagine Abe and his freedom proclamation were fantasies.