Rebels of Babylon

Owen Parry

[Ralph Peters]

STACKPOLE
BOOKS

Books by Ralph Peters

Nonfiction

Lines of Fire

Endless War

Looking for Trouble

Wars of Blood and Faith

New Glory

Never Quit the Fight

Beyond Baghdad

Beyond Terror

Fighting for the Future

Fiction

Cain at Gettysburg

The Officer’s Club

The War After Armageddon

Traitor

The Devil’s Garden

Twilight of Heroes

The Perfect Soldier

Flames of Heaven

The War in 2020

Red Army

Bravo Romeo

Writing as Owen Parry

Faded Coat of Blue

Shadows of Glory

Call Each River Jordan

Honor’s Kingdom

Bold Sons of Erin

Our Simple Gifts

Strike the Harp

Copyright © 2005 by Owen Parry

Published by

STACKPOLE BOOKS

5067 Ritter Road

Mechanicsburg, PA 17055

www.stackpolebooks.com

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. All inquiries should be addressed to Stackpole Books, 5067 Ritter Road, Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania 17055.

Printed in the United States

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover photo courtesy of New Orleans Scenes: Mugnier Negatives and Prints, Mss. 1089, 1522, Louisiana and Lower Mississippi Valley Collections, LSU Libraries, Baron Rouge, LA

Cover design by Tessa Sweigert

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parry, Owen.

Rebels of Babylon / Owen Parry.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-8117-1141-8 (pbk.)

ISBN-10: 0-8117-1141-2 (pbk.)

1. Jones, Abel (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction. 3. Government investigators—Fiction. 4. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. 5. Irish Americans—Fiction. 6. Welsh Americans—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3566.A7637R53 2012

813'.54—dc23

          2012003814

eBook ISBN: 978-0-8117-4888-9

To my sister, Annie,
who turned up unexpectedly on the levee,
waiting for the
Robert E. Lee

The spirit of the master is abating,
that of the slave rising from the dust… .

—Thomas Jefferson

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 coffee-colored 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. I regret to say harsh language was employed.

The negress carried all the field before her. Pumping along on short, determined legs, she threw off so much sweat it seemed to be raining.

I spotted a pair of our Union boys ahead of us, guarding a doorway with bayonets fixed and ready.

“Stop that woman, stop her!” I commanded. “You there, private! Stop her!”

As she approached, the negress howled at the soldiers, offering them a generous hint of snake. One of the lads leapt back with so much vigor he drove his comrade through a milliner’s window.

“Stop her!
Stop her!
”

Queer it was. No man was man enough to interfere with her. And ladies were unlikely to be enlisted in my support. The negress might have been Leviathan, the way she split the waves of mankind before her.

They all seemed oddly afraid, not just surprised. As if there were more dangerous matters at hand than just a snake.