The Crescent Spy (15 page)

It was Francesca Díaz, or Mrs. Hancock, as she styled herself now. Josephine should have recognized her by the red-dyed hair, if nothing else. The man must be her husband, the trader from Memphis, although Francesca had claimed he was unwelcome in New Orleans. Before Josephine could turn away, Francesca whispered something in her partner’s ear. He turned to look.

Josephine’s heart froze. Her legs wobbled.

It was the Colonel. Their eyes met, and though he was fifty feet away, his expression wouldn’t have been more readable if they’d been standing face-to-face. Not only did he recognize her, but he had been expecting her, too.

Josephine picked up her skirts and fled.

J
osephine took a cab to the hotel. When she arrived, she ordered the driver to wait, rushed to her room, stuffed all of her possessions in her trunk and carpetbag, and hurried downstairs to find a bellhop to load up her trunk while she settled accounts. An hour later the cab was clattering away from the hotel. She watched the streets for any sign that Francesca and the Colonel were on their way to the hotel to look for her.

About an hour later, she found new lodging near the elegant French Opera House at Bourbon and Toulouse Streets, in a place called the Jefferson. The hotel had lovely, well-shaded gardens with fountains and flowering wisteria vines. Her room was twice as large. And twice as expensive. But she liked the privacy of the walled gardens and a back entrance of the hotel that didn’t open onto a square or busy street. The hotel manager recognized her and let her stay under an assumed name.

When she was safely in her room that night, she tried to write about what she’d seen at Congo Square, but her mind kept wandering. She took out the Oriental box and opened it, first to look at the photograph taken with the Colonel and then to flip the catch and run her finger along the secret compartment. She wrestled with her memories of that horrible night when her mother died, but couldn’t put them out of her mind.

There had been a rough stretch of several weeks on the river after losing their position on
Crescent Queen
, when money ran dry and Claire was unable to find work. There were plenty of offers, but only on disreputable vessels that were little more than floating brothels. One slummocky Yankee fellow had even suggested in his oily way that Josephine could also find employment with his boat. Mother and daughter could make a team. Claire had drawn her pepperbox and threatened to blow his brains out.

Later, shaking, Claire suggested they go to St. Louis and look for work. This was another risk. Both mother and daughter loved the traveling life, and there was no guarantee she could find anything reputable in the city, either.

But when they got to St. Louis,
Cairo Red
was at the docks, and the boat owner, a man named Mr. Clifton, was as smitten with Claire de Layerre as when he’d first seen her sing and dance. She gained a job and a double stateroom that seemed at first to be an upgrade from their previous quarters. But it was clear that the room, like
Cairo Red
itself, had seen better days. The carpets were stained, the paint faded. In the saloon, a mahogany railing had broken and never been repaired, and knife marks scored in the wood spoke of past brawls. The boilers made an ominous groaning sound when the boat was at full steam.

There was also an issue with pay that Josephine couldn’t quite figure out. Claire and Mr. Clifton argued for the first two weeks, and at one point it grew so heated that Claire demanded that the pilot stop at the next town and let mother and daughter off. Somehow, that blew over. After that, things were calmer. Claire was vague about why Mr. Clifton had been so difficult about money.

With as much as Josephine read, and as closely as she watched and observed, always writing her thoughts in notebooks and journals, it showed how blind she was that she didn’t realize the truth until she was fifteen. A man in the saloon made a comment to another dancer, which spurred Josephine’s memory of something Mr. Clifton had said, which reminded Josephine of a comment her mother had made in Memphis when buying a new gown.

Her mother, to put it bluntly, was a prostitute.

No, Claire de Layerre wasn’t like the strumpets in the French Quarter who would do it pressed up against a wall and who augmented their wages by knocking drunk clients over the head with paving stones and robbing them. Claire didn’t sleep with strangers, and she never offered her services openly. But there were three or four regular travelers—old, wealthy gentlemen—who would spend a few nights or weeks with her and leave gifts of money, jewelry, and clothing.

Not that Josephine had been under any delusions about the wholesomeness of her mother’s earlier lifestyle. Claire had never married the Colonel, couldn’t say for sure even if the man was Josephine’s father or not, and had no doubt enjoyed other lovers over the years, some of whom were generous gift givers. But since arriving on
Cairo Red
, financial necessity had turned her behavior pecuniary. Josephine longed for the days when they traveled with the Colonel. Sometimes it had felt like a real family.

When she was sixteen, she determined to leave the river for good. The situation on the boat had become intolerable. Her figure had filled out, and she could have passed for a young woman of nineteen or twenty. Not that her true age would have mattered to the sleazy clientele of
Cairo Red.
She endured so many drunk, groping hands, so many lewd propositions, that she shortly took to staying in her room except for a few hours in the morning, when the worst offenders were too hungover to make trouble. For a girl who had once enjoyed the run of the riverboats, able to meet with and chat with boatmen, slaves, stevedores, gamblers, pilots, fine ladies and gentlemen, and every other type of person, this was intolerable.

Josephine prepared a plan and, when given the opportunity, showed her writing to a newspaperman from way upriver in St. Paul. She told him she was twenty-one, and bluntly asked for a job. He seemed impressed by the writing and offered a position under the tutelage of a veteran of the society pages. Writing society gossip sounded awful, but it was a place to start.

Josephine broached the subject when her mother was getting ready for a show, expecting resistance. But to her surprise, Claire seemed pensive.

“I knew you were fixing to do something like that.”

“You did?”

“The way you fancied up your talk, like the books you’re always going on about. Your accent, too.”

“I don’t want to sound like a river rat, Mama. I want to sound respectable.”

“If only you weren’t so young. Couldn’t you wait until you’re seventeen? That’s only six months. And it’s so far upriver—we almost never make it to St. Paul. Why not Memphis or Baton Rouge? If there’s war, you don’t want to be on the wrong side of the border.”

“If there’s war, I don’t want to be trapped down south, that’s for damn sure.”

“Josephine!”

Maybe it was the colder, more vigorous climate, or maybe it was the free labor up north, as opposed to the slavery that grew more and more oppressive the farther south on the river one traveled, but the Northern states felt vigorous, alive. That was the future of the country. If the fire-eaters had their way and tore the country in two, she knew which side would command her loyalties. It wouldn’t be the side that sent men with guns and dogs to hunt down men running for their freedom.

“I want to go north, Mama.”

“But I’ll be so worried about you alone up there. What if something happens? It isn’t safe.”

“If you think it’s safer on the boat, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Claire put in a turtle-shell comb to pin back her long, curly locks. She turned from the mirror, and her expression was sad. “I have been paying attention, and I know. Oh, I can’t bear the thought of you leaving. But I can’t bear the thought of you following my footsteps, either. This is no life for my daughter. It never has been.”

Her mother seemed on the verge of tears, and Josephine felt so sad for her that she wanted to cry herself. All of a sudden it seemed like the most selfish thing she could do, leaving her mother to fend for herself.

Josephine came over to the table, and her mother rose. They embraced, with Claire’s head resting on her daughter’s shoulder.

“It won’t be forever,” Josephine promised. “I’ll send for you as soon as I get established.”

“What would I do?”

“Laundry, perhaps. Or mending. Something respectable.”

“Oh, Josie, you know I could never leave the river.”

Claire was only thirty-three, and still beautiful, but that would all change within a few years. Women who earned a living showing flesh on Mississippi riverboats had little future once they approached forty. It wasn’t just the aging appearance; it was the hours spent every night dancing. Already, Claire had picked up a host of nagging injuries, a weak, oft-sprained ankle the worst of the lot.

What did her mother possibly think she could do when she could no longer dance? Manage the younger, livelier girls? They were bursting with their own talent and ambition and would only scoff. No, Josephine was worried that her mother would find her way to a river port and be forced to earn her living in the ugliest way possible until at last her body gave out and she died filthy, drunk, and diseased in some alley.

“Mama,” Josephine began, wondering what she could possibly say to change her mother’s mind.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Oh, that’s probably Herr Maier,” Claire said. “He likes a quick visit before the show. Something about seeing me in all of this finery. Could you go read in your room for a few minutes, dear?”

Josephine sighed as she entered her room and locked the door. She knew exactly what this “visit” would entail. Normally, she’d throw herself into one of her well-worn books to distract herself from any unpleasant noises emanating from the next room, but she was too agitated by the conversation.

Mother opened the door in the next room, and there was an exclamation of surprise that quickly turned to an argument. Alarmed, Josephine sprang to her feet, prepared to defend her mother against some scoundrel who’d burst into the room.

But when she opened the door to her room, she was shocked to see the Colonel. It had only been three years, but to judge from his appearance, she would have thought it had been ten. Bags surrounded his bleary eyes. Heavy stubble covered his face and rendered his once elegant mustache ridiculous. His frilled shirt was yellowed and threadbare, and his vest was missing its pearl buttons, replaced by white-painted wooden ones. His gold watch and chain were gone. His trousers had a poorly stitched tear at the knee.

“There’s my girl,” he said as Josephine entered. His eyes twinkled, but his tone sounded strained. “Good heavens, look at you. You’re all grown up. What a beauty our Josie has become.”

“There’s no
our
Josie,” Claire snapped. “There is only
my
Josie. You made your decision. You made it long ago. Now get out.”

“Mama, don’t,” Josephine said. “I want to know why he’s come.”

“You got us thrown off
Crescent Queen
,” Claire said, ignoring her daughter. “And now we’re stuck on this leaky, unsafe . . . Do you know what Josie is forced to endure these days?”

The Colonel looked down at his scuffed shoes. “I can imagine,” he said in a soft voice. “And I’m truly sorry for that.”

Josephine also hadn’t forgotten how the Colonel had tried, weakly, it was true, to raise his voice against the lynching of a free man on the riverbank. Yes, his drunk attempt to cheat at cards had precipitated their ejection, and there was no good explanation for why he’d subsequently abandoned them, but she had wondered for the past three years what had become of the man. She needed answers before he disappeared again.

“Why did you leave us?” she asked.

“I didn’t mean to. I only went up the river to apologize to the owner of the boat and beg him to take you back.”

“Liar,” Claire scoffed.

“We know that isn’t true,” Josephine said. “You were filling your pockets with gold. You never left a message for us, either with the coach or in Hog Shoals. We searched for you up and down the river, sent a telegraph to your friends in Memphis, did everything to help you find us. You knew
Cairo Red
wanted Mama, and you could have found us at any time. But you couldn’t be bothered.”

He spread his hands. “But here I am. I’m late, I know it. But I came. This time I promise I’ll keep watch over my girls.”

Claire made another disgusted sound before returning to her table and mirror to prepare for the show. The Colonel met Josephine’s
gaze and gave a sheepish shrug. She returned a furious scowl.

Josephine didn’t know what made her more upset, that he would up the ante on his lying, or that she knew that he would again weasel his way into their affections, only to vanish once more. It might be three days or three months, but he would disappear. He always did. In fact, she thought, running a gimlet eye over his bedraggled appearance, she suspected that other motives had brought him.

“You’ve had a run of bad luck,” she observed.

“The worst of my life. I lost my nerve, and that cost me.”

“Did you lose your nerve, or your advantage tools?”

“No, no, I learned my lesson after that night. I threw the shaved decks in the river, got rid of the shiner, filed off the pin from my ring so I wouldn’t be tempted to mark the cards. I never needed them in the first place. I was a square player who made a mistake.”

“So you want money,” Josephine said. It wasn’t a question.

“What kind of man do you take me for?”

Claire turned from dabbing rouge. “You know perfectly well what kind of man we take you for. Now why don’t you leave us alone?”