Джеймс Кейн - Mignon

This story moves against the background of the Red River Expedition to Western Louisiana in the year 1864, toward the end of the Civil War, or the War Between the States, as the South prefers to call it. The military aspects of that campaign have been strictly adhered to and, to the extent that they actually figure, have been depicted as they happened. The characters, however, are imaginary. Though it is hoped they are typical of their times, and though the enterprises that engage them are typical of the fiasco they took part in, they do not represent real persons, directly or under a disguise.

J.M.C.

It was Mardi Gras in New Orleans, February 9 of this year, 1864, but the extent to which I partook of the merry fun was not visible to the naked eye. I was there, I was lodged at a good hotel, I had cash in my jeans, but had reason for taking it easy. For one thing there was my leg with a sword-stab in it, my souvenir of Chancellorsville, which had got me a discharge from the Army but compelled me to walk with a stick and discouraged any jinks — high, low, or medium. For another, there was my partner in the business that had brought me to town, and the job he had dumped on my head through a dumb miscalculation. He was a naval lieutenant my own age, which was and is twenty-eight, and had worked with me side by side in my father’s construction firm — Joseph Cresap & Co., at Annapolis, Maryland — he running the tug, I the piledriver. When the war broke we both signed on, he in the Navy, I with the Army, and for a time we kind of lost touch. But then, as I lay in Jarvis Hospital, Baltimore, recovering from my wound, I got a letter from him, written from his ship, the Eastport , which was stationed at Helena, Arkansas, all full of a grand idea for a construction firm of our own, based at New Orleans, that would use government stuff as gear, when it went on sale cheap as surplus at the end of the war. That hit me right because — in addition to the points he made — it tied in with a dream I’d had to be part of a big thing that was going to be done at the mouth of the Mississippi, something I’ll get to all in due time. I’d been feeling pretty low, but this put new hope in me, so I asked for more details and we exchanged quite a few letters about it.

All my father saw in the scheme, though, was Sandy’s habit of seeing things rosy, and he warned me to watch my step or I was going to regret it. But I was fed up with paternal control, and when my mother sided with me I took two thousand dollars that she slipped me, about the same amount of my own, mainly my back Army pay, and hopped a boat for New Orleans, where Sandy had gone on a fifteen-day leave and taken a suite for us both at the St. Charles Hotel. That’s when the trouble started. Because, instead of the twenty-five hundred dollars he thought we would need, I soon saw it would take ten times that, regardless of government sales. In construction, there’s your bond, your payroll, your materials, and your running expense; that must all be met in cash before you get a dime from your first investment. On top of which, the little money Sandy had he blew on a new uniform to dazzle the wardroom upriver. On top of which, to rejoin his ship at the end of his fifteen days he picked a steamer leaving on Mardi Gras, with an Indiana artillery outfit aboard, bound home for a rest. On top of which, Mardi Gras morning he vanished; I had to pack him, he explaining when he got back that he’d been “detained at Lavadeau’s, telling them all goodbye.” Lavadeau’s was the costume place that had made his uniform for him. On top of which, when I loaded him into a cab and took him to the boat, it was raining. And I had to take a Canal Street horsecar back. On top of which, a big fat Cleopatra beat a bass drum in my ear and a beautiful little fairy popped flour into my face.

So I wasn’t exactly singing when I got back to the hotel in midafternoon and a session in the bathroom, sluicing flour out of my nose and still wondering where to get twenty-five thousand dollars, didn’t help any. I was in a rage when a knock came on the door and answered just as I was, without even putting on a coat. A girl was in the hall with a man, she shaking drops off an umbrella, he edging away as though anxious to leave. “Mr. Cresap, please,” she snapped when she saw me, as though addressing the help.

“I’m Mr. Cresap,” I growled.

“Oh,” she said, looking surprised — and no doubt a slouchy article in corduroy pants, blue flannel shirt, and no necktie did look more like someone fixing the steam pipes than a guest at a high-toned hotel. But she fixed up her face quick, and said: “Mr. Cresap, how do you do? I’m Mrs. Fournet, from Lavadeau’s. I imagine Lieutenant Gregg has mentioned me.”

“He never did, but please come in.”

The man started jabbering in French, the town’s second language, and, though I don’t rightly understand it, I thought he was telling her that now he’d brought her here he couldn’t wait to take her back. Then he was gone — and so was my sulk, at the smell that puffed in my face of warm perfume mixed with girl as she passed me to enter the sitting room. I followed her in, closed the door, and took her umbrella. I went with it to the bathroom, where I stood it in the tub. Then I ducked into the bedroom to fix myself up. I put on necktie, coat, and cologne, and had a lick at my hair with the brush. Even so, the hombre I saw in the pier glass looked rough, too tall and bony to handle a stick with grace, and colored wrong: brown corduroy, blue flannel, and yellow hair somehow didn’t blend. But if I lacked beauty she made up for it plenty. When I went back to the sitting room she had draped her cape on a radiator and was marching around kind of nervous, so I could see what she had. She was medium in size, but so perfectly proportioned she seemed small, and in age she was younger than I was, I thought. It turned out she was twenty-four. Her face was pale, with shadows high on her cheeks as though she’d known trouble. Her hair was dark, her eyes big, black, and shiny. But her figure was what knocked you over, especially in the beat-out black dress she had on. It was limp from too much mending and washing and ironing, and clung to her in a way that brought up her curves. These were soft, round, and exciting, and said Louisiana French, the comeliest breed of woman I had seen in the U.S. so far.

I thought, from the direction my mind was running, I’d better get straightened out, and asked: “ Mrs . Fournet — is that what you said? Then that was Mr. Fournet, your husband, out there in the hall?”

“... Oh no!” she said, after looking kind of blank. “That was Mr. Lavadeau — he brought me from the shop. On Mardi Gras, no woman is safe alone... My husband is dead, Mr. Cresap. He was killed at Fort St. Philip when the Union fleet came upriver.”

“As a Reb, you mean?”

“Why, yes. The Rebs held the fort.”

“And you’re a Reb?”

“Well, I don’t know... I try to obey the law, now the Union’s running it. But in a way, I guess I’m a Reb. Yes, of course I’m a Reb. Why?”

“Just asking. Funny Sandy didn’t speak of you.”

“Oh — maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he thought I inveigled him — it was all so friendly, the night we were introduced, but then when I wouldn’t go out with him after he came in the shop and had his uniform made, maybe he felt it was just a trick. And how can I say that it wasn’t? In this war, when you’ve lost everything, and you still have to make a living, you do all kinds of things. Maybe I did lead him on.”

“You sell for Lavadeau’s, then?”

“On commission. Uniforms, mostly.”

“You were why he went over the hill today?”