The Man in the Red Pantaloons
Chapter Two
New Orleans
August 1862
Never loosening the grip he had on her elbow, the Zouave quickly led her out of earshot and hurried her along the esplanade until they reached the relative safety of the crowded Café du Monde. He seated her at a small table away from the perimeter and sat down beside her. "I need some coffee, and we need to talk. But first…what's your name?"
"What business is it of yours what my name is?"
He couldn't help but admire her spunk. In spite of her seeming compliance, her spirit had not been completely squelched. "Whoa…wait a minute. For starters, I just rescued you from a damned Yankee's clutches. And now I'm buying you coffee and beignets." He smiled beguilingly into her angry face. "Surely one of those good deeds entitles me to know your name."
She offered him the slightest hint of a smile, and her voice was quiet as she replied, "My knight in shining armor—or in red pantaloons as the case may be. My name is Kitty, and I'm...grateful for your help."
"Ah ha, a thank you, too." He chuckled. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Kitty. I'm Johnny. Jean-Yves Durant to be precise. We need to figure a way to get you out of this mess. If he really is on Butler's staff—even if he isn't—he can make things very unpleasant for you."
"I forgot about the stupid order, but that baboon had no right to manhandle me like that."
"I agree, but you're going to be the one in trouble, not him." The waiter set a plate of piping hot beignets on the table along with two steaming cups of very dark coffee. Durant nodded his thanks and passed a napkin to his companion before reaching for one of the sugary treats. He savored the first bite and then asked curiously, "Do you really work in a…um…sporting house?"
Kitty took a swallow of the chicory-laced coffee before responding. "Not exactly."
"What kind of answer is that? Either you work there or you don't."
"Okay, then, I don't."
"But he did see you there last night, right?"
The look she gave him was defiant. "Yes, he saw me."
"Then you do work there."
"No, I don't work there. Not technically." She looked him in the eye. "Work implies that one gets paid for services rendered. I don't get wages. The things I do are in partial re-payment for my room and board."
His eyes widened. "What the…. You're saying you live in a…a…house of ill repute? And you do…what you do…for nothing? Just how old are you, anyway?"
She dabbed her napkin at the powdered sugar coating the corners of her mouth. "I'm sixteen." At his doubtful stare, she added, "Almost." When he still looked dubious, she amended her answer. "Well, I will be…...next February."
"Mon Dieu!" He was impressed by her bravado, but outraged at the very idea. "What kind of person would put a child out to…?"
She interrupted. "Why do people always assume the worst? It's really very simple." She twirled her spoon in the thick black beverage. "I've lived there for a few years now, but it's not what you think. I do chores—like the marketing. I also empty ashtrays, I keep the spittoons polished, and I keep the carpets swept. I do mending, too, whipping a piece of torn lace or sewing a ripped seam. And, I see to it that the glassware is always clean and shining, and that the caviar and crawfish dishes are always filled and chilled. I bring out fresh decks of cards, I carry drinks to the tables—and I smile sweetly and make myself charming in every way I can." This time the grin she gave him was genuine. "I do not get paid. And I do not take men upstairs! Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go back to the market. I have shopping to do, and my basket…."
He put a detaining hand on her arm. "Your basket will be safe, and if not we'll get you a new one. Sit and talk for a while. We still need to devise a way to protect you from the Yankee occupation and that hateful order."
"Why are you being so nice to me?" Her tone was suspicious, as if she expected that he would want something in return.
He shrugged. "Maybe because you were in trouble, and I just did what I'd want someone to do for my little sister in the same situation," he replied, knowing full well that Bella would be crying hysterically if she had been accosted as this fiery redhead had been. He polished off the last of his beignet. "Or maybe because you're very pretty, and I wanted to meet you."
"Ah, an honest man." She giggled.
"What's funny?"
"Piano lessons, whatever possessed you to say that?"
He shrugged again. "I just needed to get you out of there. Bella's piano teacher comes right after lunch, so I, uh, improvised."
"Bella is your sister, I presume? How old is she?"
"Isabella. She's sixteen, same as you." He winked. "Except that Bella really is sixteen."
"So I improvised, too." She smirked at him and then turned serious. "Do you really think the Yankees will do anything to me?"
"It wouldn't surprise me. You were openly disrespectful to a member of the United States Army, and you subjected him to public humiliation."
Enraged, she responded like the young girl she was. "He humiliated me first!"
"True, but you don't have the backing of General Benjamin Butler and the Union Army on your side. This person you live with and work—or don't work—for, will she protect you?"
"I…I'm not sure. She's been good to me, but…I don't know if she'd protect me or not. I mean, I think she'd want to, but…well…let's face it…the Yankee officers make up a big part of her business, and I'm not sure she'd risk losing that to protect me." Frightened now that she thought of the very real possibility of repercussions for her impetuous act, she asked in a small voice, "What do you think they'll do to me?"
"I have no idea. Maybe the workhouse. Or the penitentiary. Maybe nursing. Or, God forbid, you could be exiled to Ship Island like Mrs. Phillips."
TBC
XXXXX
Note 1:
ORDER NO. 28
HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF THE GULF
NEW ORLEANS
MAY 15, 1862
"As the officers and soldiers of the United States have been subject to repeated insults from the women (calling themselves ladies) of New Orleans in return for the most scrupulous non-interference and courtesy on our part, it is ordered that hereafter when any female shall by word, gesture, or movement insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the United States she shall be regarded and held liable to be treated as a woman of the town plying her avocation."
+++All sources I checked used the word "avocation" instead of what I think would be the more accurate "vocation." Unless, of course, Butler looked upon prostitution as a hobby.
NOTE 2:
In keeping with General Butler's Order No. 28, Mrs. Philip Phillips, a New Orleans resident and southern sympathizer, was exiled to the Yankee prison on Ship Island, a desolate barrier island twelve miles off the coast of Mississippi in the Gulf of Mexico, charged with the crime of laughing when a funeral parade for a Yankee officer passed beneath her balcony.
