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New Orleans, 1863 -- occupied and impoverished, yet defiant. The "embarrassed" corpse of a Yankee heiress washes up on a levee. Citizens disappear in the night from the alleys of the French Quarter. Tales of ritual murder taunt the authorities -- as an uneasy truce between newly freed slaves and their bankrupt former masters, voodoo priestesses, smugglers, and unwelcome Union troops, stretches to the breaking point.
And Civil War detective Abel Jones, arriving to investigate the death of a young crusader, finds himself facing fantastic rumors of the resurrected dead as the city approaches riot and hysteria.
I chased the negress with the snake through the door of the Ursuline convent. We plunged into the courtyard and the cold, accompanied by the shrieks of girls and young women. Nuns converged from distant parts, fluttering and furious, calling upon the Lord and a host of angels. Their outrage called to mind the Afghanee disturbed at his depredations, and I hoped they understood that the negress, not myself, had committed trespass against them.
The place was Bedlam, pure.
I should have thought nuns fearful of a serpent, but every one showed plucky as a mongoose. They hiked up their skirts and rushed toward the two of us, baring their teeth.
Perhaps they sought revenge for all that apple business.
Well, if the snake failed to frighten the nuns, I must say it worried me. Hissing over the shoulder of the negress, it feinted and jabbed, bead eyes fixed on my face. A veritable accomplice, that serpent was, yellow and brown and anxious to keep me off.
I hoped it was not poisonous.
Had I been able to close the distance between myself and the negress -- not two yards as we ran -- I would have given that snake a whack with my cane.
Abundant of girth and short of leg, the woman barely eluded me. But my bothered bones do not let me go as fast as a fellow likes.
Girls in demure uniforms fled our path, screaming with such abandon that I began to suspect at least a few were enjoying themselves. Nuns charged, with crosses swinging over their bosoms. A large dog added his barking to the confusion, but stood unsure of which leg deserved his bite.
Just ahead of the negress and myself, a black fellow old as Methusaleh stood with his hand on the gate. He looked thrice as befuddled as the dog.
"Shut the gate!" I called in a tone I had used in my sergeanting days.
"Shut the bloody gate, man!"
The negress waved a stubby arm, making some queer sign. The old fellow looked as frightened as a child.
"Shut the gate!" I pleaded.
I fear my own figure was not as imposing as that of my corpulent quarry.
A nun placed herself astride the snake-woman's path, clutching her cross and beads as she extended a delicate hand to interdict us.
The collision did not even slow the pace of the negress. The nun flew into the gatekeeper's arms, as if she had been struck by a runaway omnibus.
I nearly grasped the fugitive, just before she burst into the street.
"Halt!" I shouted. "Stop in the name of the federal government, you!"
She did not heed me. Or give a backward glance. She was all forward motion, like a locomotive got up to speed along its tracks.
Now, Chartres Street is not the city's busiest, at least not at the end where the convent sits, but traffic enough there was in that dirty lane. Along the walks, women in vast crinolines formed moving ramparts courtesy dared not breach.
The snake undid them.
A tumult erupted the likes of which have seldom been seen or heard upon this earth. The uproar may have been equaled at Babel, or, perhaps, at Jericho, when Joshua's clarion notes collapsed the walls. The cries surpassed those heard in our sack of Delhi.
But let that bide. The damage done to New Orleans that noontide threatened to surpass a cannonade. You might have thought the devil himself, and not a snake-charming negress, come plowing through the throng.
Women fumbled and tumbled, bellowed and wailed, swinging their nicety bags until they battered each other to swooning. Market baskets flew skyward, defying Mr. Newton, and bottles and sacks of every sort fell underfoot. The marchandes, as they call the negresses who peddle goods from baskets perched on their heads, were most of them quick to secure their wares and fade into a courtyard. But one poor coffeecolored lass, who balanced a great pyramid of popped-corn balls, was struck from behind and flattened. A swarm of boys and beggars -- of both there was a plenty, in every hue -- scrambled to snatch her treats, cramming them into their snouts without remorse. In the midst of it all, one grizzled pilgrim found himself run over by a dog cart.
A navvy leapt to intercept a tender young lady's faint, harboring her in his burly embrace in a manner I thought suspect. As if surrounded by robbers, an elderly gentleman thrashed about with his walking stick. And a barber rushed out, armed with a razor and towel.
Not one of them managed to slow the she-devil's progress.
Cold it was, although I had ever been told that New Orleans burns torrid. Bitter and raw, with smoke creeping down, not upward, from the chimneys, it might have been a January in Wales. Yet, I was in a sweat, that I will tell you.
"Stop her!" I bellowed at the wide world, in all its embarrassed confusion. "Stop that woman!" But the wide world paid no attention.
When a witless troop of damsels threatened to block her flight, the negress lofted the serpent from her shoulder, unraveled it from her neck, and dangled its startling length in front of herself. The snake curled and whipped, sweeping womankind before it.
Ladies and their lessers fled into the mucky street, clawing and clambering over each other, treading on hems and tearing at seams, while slapping their slower sisters out of the way. Those who were not cursing and spitting like veteran fusiliers, wailed as we must believe their Sabine sisters did at fortune's ebb.
Horses reared and carts collided, wheels interlocked and harnesses got in a tangle. A buckboard of fish on slabs and oysters in barrels embraced a lamp-post, feeding the street with slime. Two drivers went at each other with their fists, encouraged by men and ladies alike, and a rough-looking lad swung a board at the warring pair ...
Rebels of BabylonAnonymous
Posted April 17, 2005
REBELS OF BABYLON opens with Abel Jones in hot pursuit of a voodoo priestess thru the crowded streets of New Orleans.After loosing his prey,he finds himself in desperate hand to hand combat on a rooftop.I could go on but don't want to spoil the opening.Suffice to say, by day's end he is reunited with Barnaby B.Barnaby first introduced in CALL EACH RIVER JORDAN.It soon becomes apparent that Mr. Barnaby needs a favor from Abel and Abel will need his help weaving his way thru the dark underbelly of New Orleans.Abel Jones in this new story is a man on the edge,different from previous outings.Mr. Parry has taken his character to the next level.Abel is tired of the war,unsettled that not all enemies wear gray,and feels he can no longer be of service to President Lincoln.In short he longs for home and family.Doing his duty Maj.Jones sees the investigation til it's bitter end,even employing brutish methods to get answers he needs.It's anyone's guess where Abel Jones ventures next or in what capacity,but stay along for the ride it can only get better.
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Overview
New Orleans, 1863 -- occupied and impoverished, yet defiant. The "embarrassed" corpse of a Yankee heiress washes up on a levee. Citizens disappear in the night from the alleys of the French Quarter. Tales of ritual murder taunt the authorities -- as an uneasy truce between newly freed slaves and their bankrupt former masters, voodoo priestesses, smugglers, and unwelcome Union troops, stretches to the breaking point.
And Civil War detective Abel Jones, arriving to investigate the...