September 23, 1863
New Orleans

THE wide, muddy river lapped with deceptive laziness at the foot of the levee, while a heavily laden riverboat ponderously picked a path through a bevy of Union warships. Two hundred yards away, the main body of the fleet lay anchored midstream, apart from the city and its sometimes hostile inhabitants. Squat, ugly gunboats with decks nearly awash wallowed like swine amid their more graceful sisters of the open sea, the tall-masted, slim-hipped frigates. Several of each type stood with steam up and cleared for action should the occasion warrant it.

A brownish haze hung over the city and the humid air pressed the sweltering heat down upon the detachment of blue-clad soldiers waiting on the dock for the arrival of the sidewheeler. Its once-bright trim of red and green now faded and chipped, the steamboat resembled some lumbering beast grown gray with age as it threshed toward them with towering black horns spouting smoke and flame. It wallowed ever closer until it cautiously nudged against the low quay where the Mississippi touched the port city. Great hawsers snaked out like giant feelers, and pulleys and blocks creaked above the shouts of laborers as the vessel shouldered closer against the jetty.

In the last moments of their journey, the passengers had gathered belongings and pressed forward in anticipation of their landing. Each one seemed to have a specific end in mind and was working toward it with diligence, though it was impossible to perceive any definite goal in the churning crush of people. These were the eager-to-be-rich, the scavengers, the harlots, the rogues of society descending upon New Orleans to squeeze what wealth they could from her impoverished citizenry, and as much as they might from the Yankee invaders. When the gangway formed a bridge to land, they moved as one body to leave the vessel, rudely jostling and elbowing each other aside in their haste until they found their progress halted by a rank of Union soldiers who held them at bay. A second rank formed immediately behind the first, then the two lines of soldiers stepped apart, opening a corridor from the cargo deck to the gangplank. The first angry murmur changed to caustic jeers and catcalls as a single file of thin, ragged, unwashed Confederate soldiers began to pass through the aisle, shuffling along in unison, the only pace their fetters and chains would permit.

Halfway down the once elegant staircase from the promenade deck, a slender lad stood where he had been stopped with the rest of the passengers. Beneath a battered slouch hat pulled low over his ears, wary gray eyes stared out of a begrimed face. Overlarge garments emphasized the smallness of his frame, and the baggy trousers were gathered about his thin waist with a rough rope. He wore a loose cotton jacket over a voluminous shirt, and though its long sleeves were rolled back several times they still flopped over the narrow wrists. A large wicker case stood on end near his outsized boots, which turned up at the toes. The lean face was smudged with the soot of the deck passage, and through the smut the first signs of a sunburn showed across the bridge of his thin nose. His claim to years appeared no more than a dozen, yet the deliberateness and quiet reserve in his manner belied his apparent youth. Unlike the other travelers, a pensive frown marked his youthful brow as he watched his defeated countrymen led from the boat.

The prisoners were met on shore by the waiting detachment, while aboard the riverboat the Federal soldiers fell in behind their officers and followed them ashore, at last allowing the other passengers to disembark. Dragging his eyes from the shuffling prisoners, the boy lifted his valise and began to make his way down the steps. The case was clumsy and repeatedly bumped against his leg or snagged the clothes of others who came in its path. Avoiding the glares tossed his way, he fought to control his burden and advanced as best as he could. Behind him a man with a gaudily dressed and overpainted woman on his arm grew perturbed at the slow progress of the youth and sought to press past. His haste caused the boy to stumble. The heavy wicker case caught the balustrade, then rebounded heartily against the impatient one's shin. A vicious curse exploded from the man and he whirled, half crouched, with a knife suddenly glittering in his fist. The startled lad drew himself up against the balustrade and stared with widened eyes at the long, slim blade that threatened him.

"Gauche cou rouge!" The man's French was slightly misaligned in the Cajun way and guttural with rage. Black, restless eyes glared in arrogance from a swarthy face while he scathingly perused the youngster. The rude man's wrath slowly dissolved, for he found nothing even remotely menacing in the frightened youth. Sneering, the man straightened himself to a height barely half a head taller than the boy and replaced the blade in its hiding place beneath his coat. "Be careful with your trash, eh, buisson poulain. You 'ave almost send me to the surgeon."

Clear gray eyes flared hotly at the insult while the youth's lips grew thin and white. He understood all too well the slur to his parentage and longed to throw it back into the other's face. Grasping his valise more tightly, he gave the two a disdainful scrutiny. The woman was obvious, and though the man wore a coat of rich brocade, the bright print shirt and red bandanna knotted about his neck marked him as one of the backwater riffraff whose presence in the city was usually occasioned by a mysterious rise in fortune.

Pricked by the boy's sneer of contempt, the harlot huffily reclaimed her companion's arm and crushed it to her ample bosom. "Ah, give him a couple of cuffs, Jack," she urged. "Teach the lil' piker to mind his betters."

The man flung up his hand in exasperation and fixed the trollop with an impatient stare. "The name is Jacques! Jacques DuBonné! Remember it!" he bade her heartily. "Someday I will own this town. But no cuffs, ma douceur. There are those who watch -- " He gestured upward where the Yankee captain of the sidewheeler leaned on the quarter rail of the top deck. "And who remember too well. We do not wish to offend our Yankee hosts, chère. Were the whelp older, I might enjoy taking him on, but he ees barely weaned. He is not worth our bother. Think no more of him. We go, eh?"

The ragamuffin watched the two go ashore, his loathing apparent in his smut-blackened face. To him the two were worse than the Yankees. They were traitors to the South and to everything he loved.

Conscious of the captain's stare, the lad lifted a quick glance toward the quarter rail. The gray-haired captain gazed down upon him with more compassion than the boy was willing to accept from a Yankee, and he could not find it in him to give even a small gesture of gratitude. The officer was a distasteful reminder of the defeat the Confederates had suffered in the Delta. Unable to bear the weight of the captain's regard, he gripped his valise with determination and hurried down the stairs to the main deck.

A landing ran along the waterfront to accommodate the low decks of the river steamers. A few yards of level space gave room for loading and landing, then the levee rose abruptly to the main warehouse level. Its steep stone face afforded steps for people and ramps for wheeled vehicles. As the lad laboriously hauled his case toward the nearest steps, a short caravan of Federal wagons rattled down an adjacent ramp. At a brusque command from a sweating sergeant, a handful of soldiers dismounted and started toward the sidewheeler.

The youth eyed the closing Yankees nervously, then forcing his gaze downward, he carefully kept his pace slow and deliberate. But as their footsteps neared, his trepidation mounted. They seemed to be coming straight for him. Did they know?

Copyright © 1979 by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss