FOR TWO MORE days the Sotto Voce sailed through rising mists, as the riverbanks continued to crumble. The river had made a practice of breaching the neglected levees, and in many places had swept them entirely away. It had flooded whole plantations, and carried boats and rafts inland. Where it had generously retreated, roads of debris marked its path.
While the ruin was constant, the landscape began to change just north of Louisiana. Moody watched from the promenade deck as the trees grew their beards—“Spanish moss,” one passenger explained. The clumps of hairy strands, which became ever more widespread as the boat traveled south, accentuated the riverbank’s already somber and dismal character. In New England, memories were locked behind brick walls and heavy doors. Here, the trees seemed to weep with them.
At Natchez, Mr. Pemberton at last disembarked.
“It has been a great pleasure, Mr. Moody, a great pleasure,” he said. “If only we had been able to dine together more often. Do you eat, Mr. Moody? I must say, I tried my best to find you at dinner, but never with success. And as you can see, I’m a man who doesn’t wait to do his eating.”
“I have been—” Moody began, but then thought the better of it. “I have been overcome with spiritual messages on this journey, and have needed to keep to my room.”
Pemberton nodded ferociously.
“Of course, Mr. Moody, of course. A great man like you—”
But Moody held up his hand.
“Good day to you, Mr. Pemberton.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Moody.”
And then bending forward, as if to whisper a secret, he said:
“And worry you not, sir. I’ve told no one of your passage. There was a gentleman at dinner one night who had never heard of the spirit photographs. I told him my story—of my Anabelle—referencing the empty chair that I had saved for you. This man was astonished—man by the name of Wells, Mr. Moody, in case you should ever need to know—this man was astonished, and talked of going to Boston to meet you. And I said to him, I says, ‘You never know where the spirit photographer is likely to appear,’ and I give a nod to your chair as if you might be expected. But I said not a word more than that, Mr. Moody, and the gentlemen present were none the wiser.”
“I thank you for your discretion,” Moody said.
“I am only at your service.”
And with that, Pemberton joined the mass of planters and freedmen who were pouring out onto the land.
THE BOAT SAILED, and on the final day of its journey, the landscape changed once again. The dense forests that lined the river, and the surviving cotton fields that competed with them, gave way to acres of sugarcane in that last coiled stretch after Baton Rouge. The cypress trees still towered from their strongholds in the water, but the cane fields dominated the flat open spaces that lay beyond the river’s edges. The sugarcane swayed, its sharp tips pricking the sky. An endless green ocean bound the river’s muddy waters.
This was the land that Joseph had left behind—the plants and soil that he still smelled in his dreams. The last time he had seen these fields he had been traveling with the man who had saved him. Together they had stood on the deck of a steamship, watching the land go by. The sun had been setting on that day, too … setting over the sugarcane fields and tree-lined edges of the horizon.
The boat rammed into the levee at New Orleans a bit farther upriver than the central landing at Jackson Square. Here, as in St. Louis, the packed earth sloped down toward the water, and small cities of cotton bales awaited departure, by river or by land. The levee was a fury of activity—mules, horses, carriages, and working men all moving in opposite directions. From a distance the cathedral’s steeple seemed to be glowering down at all the commotion, but its opinion—and certainly its dignity—was overshadowed by the countless feathered smoke stacks of the steamboats.
Even as the light was fading, the commerce of the levee showed little signs of slowing. And this was fortunate for Joseph and Moody, who reunited and then blended into the crowd. They made their way through the mules and the cotton bales to Levee Street, the thoroughfare that rimmed the old French Quarter. Crossing over it, they entered into a city ablaze with life … a place of so much color that no picture could ever have captured it.
Joseph had returned, and the smell was much the same—hot brick and dry dust and pipe smoke and horse urine. But the balconies and concealed gardens of those houses closest to the river released the aromas of their tropical inhabitants, in defiance of the city’s ranker smells. There was the fragrance of sweet olive, the scent of oleander and jasmine, the damp smell of banana trees, their six-foot leaves drooping toward the ground. Oranges protruded from decorative iron railings, and white roses climbed upon trellises and verandas. Where the old Spanish buildings had left room for larger things to grow, moss-draped oaks shaded the courtyards and the streets.
Because a number of steamboats had released passengers at once, the crowds piling into the streets of New Orleans were unusually dense. In that crowd, Joseph noticed, every class and color of person was represented—white planters, black workers, white workers, and well-dressed freedmen. Creole mistresses, Creole servants, and mulattoes, old and young. The shop windows displayed signs in French and English. Everywhere around him, there was the clattering of both tongues.
Joseph bumped into an old dark-skinned woman, dressed in vibrant silks.
“Faites attention!” she scolded.
“Excusez-moi, madame,” Joseph said.
And the woman moved on.
“You know the language,” Moody said.
“I—” Joseph offered. “Well—it has been many years.”
The two men continued moving with the steady stream of people, but once they had crossed over Chartres Street, Joseph slowed his pace.
“Joseph?” Moody said.
But Joseph did not respond. He was staring at an enormous building whose elaborate façade shadowed the street. He was inside of it again now—the old St. Louis Hotel—with its massive, echoing rotunda. He would be part of one of the sales, because old man Winter had gone and died. The sales took place here every afternoon—from twelve to three.
From the oculus in the ceiling, the sun cast circular sprays of light, illuminating the alcoves where the auctioneers announced their goods. In one bay a man sold paintings; in another, goats and mules. Still other auction blocks sold deeds to estates … bales of surplus cotton, and barrels of spirits. The beauty of the room had been commented upon by all of the visiting journalists back then, for the Creoles had spared no expense in the building of this modern palace. Strangely, they had chosen to decorate it with depictions of eminent Americans—busts and frescoes of Washington and Jefferson, and other revolutionary heroes who had led the cause for freedom.
Two men approached the auction block where Joseph and the others sat waiting. One eyed Joseph, and said something to the auctioneer. After more conversation, they led him behind a screen.
“You speak English, boy?” one of them said.
Joseph nodded.
They then ordered him to remove his shirt.
“A few marks,” one of them said. “Not ideal, but a very good sign.”
The men then exchanged some words with the auctioneer. Joseph understood what was next. One of the men tapped his riding crop below Joseph’s navel. Joseph released his waist string, letting his pants fall to the floor.
And then, the most unimaginable thing happened. They did not examine his thigh muscles. Nor did they inspect his calves. They did not feel his naked hips for robustness, nor move around in back of him to assess the rear flanks and the buttocks.
The men stood before Joseph, looking down at his body.
And then they laughed.
“A lot of good in this one,” the auctioneer said.
“He’ll do,” one of the men said. “Do you know the age?”
“Twenty-two or twenty-three,” the auctioneer replied. “Certainly no older than twenty-five.”
Back out in the rotunda, one of the fancy girls stood upon the block. She had been dressed for sale in luxurious greens and golds. Gold earrings had been attached to her ears.
“Now gentlemen,” the auctioneer boomed, “who will show interest in this lovely light beauty. As you can see she is smooth of skin, supple of form… and marvelously full-chested. A young, light-skinned beauty …”
There was a row of women waiting. It would be some time before the auctioneer came around to Joseph.
The men had laughed, and Joseph had not known what it had meant. Laughter was not usually part of this scene. There had been no laughter for him since the death of Mr. Winter … kind old Winter, whose daughter had sent Joseph away. She had always been afraid of him, since the day he had arrived. He had never given her any reason to fear him. She had feared him for the sake of being afraid.
And here he was now. His turn was coming up. The men had laughed at him, and he did not understand.
The woman on the auction block was holding back her cries. A young assistant, ebony-skinned, held up one of her arms for better viewing.
Then a crash sounded from somewhere within the rotunda. A dropped mirror? One of the windows? The splintering echoed throughout the chamber.
But Joseph was in the street again now. He was back in the street with—
Moody was grasping his arm. The levee crowd’s steady progression had degenerated into disorder. In front of the hotel, all traffic had stopped. A small wagon full of windowpanes had hit a curb and toppled over.
“We must move,” Moody said, trying to pull Joseph aside.
But Joseph remained transfixed on the building. The hotel had taken its hold.
All around Joseph the crowd swayed and roared, for the accident had caused a great disturbance. The wagon was blocking St. Louis Street as well as the entrance to the hotel. Boots and shoes were trampling through the debris. On one corner, an old black woman was selling paper-wrapped pralines, and laughing.
Moody moved Joseph away from the commotion—into an alleyway, across from the hotel. It was an airless, narrow passage, barely wide enough for a carriage. Many of its storefronts had been abandoned, and dirty rags hung in its windows. Joseph knew this place too—it was the old Passage de la Bourse, where merchants had exchanged all manner of property in the old days.
They had marched him through that alley that same morning, before the auction. There were others there—for sale. The bidding took place out in the open.
Joseph stopped. The air in the alleyway was stifling.
“It has been such a long time …” Joseph said. “Such a long time. I—”
But Moody understood. It was as if he himself had been there before. The commerce of the old days had sprung back to life. In the end, there was no getting away from it.
“I know,” Moody said. “I see it.”
It was everywhere, especially in the dirt that coated the bricks. The walls held unrelenting knowledge in that dirt. The mortar looked soft, as if you could dip your finger into it. This place was wet and luxurious—a place that never let things go.
“We must leave,” Moody said, “before—”
But the words stopped short. There was a stunning blow … it had come from somewhere amongst the shadows.
Joseph lost his balance, for he too had been struck. He landed against a wall … his head throbbing, his sight blackening. From St. Louis Street, the gas lamps spat pathetic bits of light into the alley. And not far from Joseph, Moody lay on the ground.
The figure stood above him.
Then it happened. The man was down upon Moody. The knife went up and the hand plunged down—straight toward Edward Moody’s heart.
“No!” Joseph cried.
He had abandoned Edward Moody. He had followed his own path back into the darkness.
The giant rose to his feet, his eyes meeting Joseph’s. He was gripping the bloodstained knife at his side.
The crowd moved in ripples in the open channel of St. Louis Street, while the flickering of the gas lamps sent shadows down the alley. Joseph glared back at him. The shadows were distorting his face. Beneath the shadows, in the gaslight, the face was leering and misshapen.
The man stepped toward him.
“I know you,” Joseph said.
But the assassin did not respond. There was a glaze over his eyes, and he was staring straight through Joseph. Joseph’s back was against the wall—something was holding him in place.
Then another figure was beside him—a tall form cloaked in black.
“Devil!” the voice said. “You have no business here.”
The figure wore robes that enveloped him like armor. He was holding a long hand up toward the murderer.
The assassin studied the intruder, then returned his eyes to Joseph. More glass crashed—some last bits falling out in the street—and as if by summons, the assassin began to retreat. At the farther end of the alley, other gas flames cast their reflections. Joseph did not see exactly how or when the man disappeared.
The stranger stepped forward, a large gold cross gleaming on his breast.
“Father!” Joseph cried.
“You’ve returned,” the priest responded.
And both men rushed over toward Moody, whose clothes were drenched in his own blood.