Butler

Eleven

Beauregard’s Banner

“I understand you have something of a flag-making concern at your house, Mme Frick.”

“As you see,” she says, giving the rectangular package a pat.

The lady is not shrill, nor harsh. A contemptuous wince to the eyes, but General Butler can begrudge her that. Quite an inconvenience to be dragged across town to the office of the man you no doubt cursed with your every breath while stitching away at your little flag.

“May I take a closer look?”

She hands the flag to Tibbets, who has been waiting at her side and passes it to Butler.

“Ah, yes,” Butler says, holding a corner of the flag absurdly close, as though he were admiring the craftsmanship of the lady sitting opposite him. “Splendid. Truly splendid work. Please give my compliments to . . . how many are there in your sewing circle?”

He knows the answer already, and is disappointed somewhat when she does not lie. She goes so far, this dame with a vicious twist of graying hair, to start telling him their names. They would all be glad, she judges, for their names to be heard as patriots or some nonsense.

Today he has sent Mayor Monroe, Pierre Soulé, the chief of police, two justices, and ex-general Duncan to the brig of the Lafayette. A chessboard suddenly swept of its pieces. These who muddled and annoyed his past few days with letters of protest, retractions, and apologies, said apologies themselves retracted—General Butler, I will put my name to the document on the sole condition that you insert “only” before “the women of New Orleans who have been disturbing &c”—and so forth through a thoroughly shattered Sabbath until even Butler’s limits were reached and he drew upon one of his many scraps of intelligence: that six paroled Rebel soldiers had taken to calling themselves the Monroe Guard, parading in their old uniforms, and boasting that they would soon sneak the lines and rejoin with their fellows. Proving the mayor’s knowledge and support of this sedition was simple, as was Soulé’s supposed dealings with France, and so the six sit in parish prison in violation of their parole while their namesake and his compatriots, who whined so much about how they couldn’t guarantee the peace and safety of the city should they support Butler’s order, will rest in absolute security in the brig, then only to be troubled by mites and sandfleas on Ship Island. Now it’s left to his judgment whether the six should be hung. Leave this for another time. He has yet to hang anyone, though the hour nears.

“That will be enough,” he says, cutting short Madame’s harangue and lifting the flag before his face again. He has never seen one of Beauregard’s in person, and yes it’s far finer than the other Confederate standards he’s seen: better than the confusing Stars and Bars, like some child’s rendering of the flag of the United Sates, and the “Stainless banner,” which looks perilously like a flag of truce. This one, though, with its ferocious colors and broad saltire, does have some personality. Redolent of the crazed, gaudy South.

“Well, Mme Frick,” he says. “You are in luck.”

“And how is that, General?”

“It just so happens that I have been looking for a flag exactly like this one, to send to a friend back east.” He slips the flag behind his desk. “And I’ll be sure to let you know if I should require another.” He lets this sink through her plaiting and powder, now tempers his voice with a little steel: “Though I very much doubt I will.”

Her glare is broken by a rap at the door, open for the sake of propriety. An orderly begs pardons and says there is a queue of Negroes building outside, more than Saturday, sir. He checks his watch. Yes, we’re nearing two o’clock, the appointed hour in which he receives those colored persons who might wish to pass on whatever intelligence they see fit and earn themselves a coin from Butler’s hand. The money is more for his own sense of fairness. Not a few of the blacks have informed for free.

“That little snake,” says the lady, rising. “I knew it. I knew it was her.”

Butler pushes himself partway up from his chair.

“Oh yes,” she says. “It was one called Lizzy, wasn’t it? Lizzy? Little scar over her cheek? A redbone girl.”

“I’m sorry, Madame,” he says. “But I couldn’t possibly say.”