Chapter 7: PAY DIRT
Charity Hospital was a ramshackle collection of clapboard buildings occupying an entire city block, interconnected by webs of covered walkways. White-habited Sisters of Charity scurried everywhere, many trundling patients in wheelchairs. The ones in black tended to stroll sedately in pairs.
Salt and pepper! Jess thought flippantly. Tethering the mare in the shade of a live oak, he gave a nickel to a small colored boy to keep watch and make sure her water bucket was kept filled.
Once again, Rosalie led the way, weaving through the maze of corridors and walkways. Here, with no clear separation between administrative areas and wards, the overpowering smells were almost overwhelming for the man who possessed only terrifying memories of time spent in a military hospital. Several times he feared his lunch was about to launch a counteroffensive. Herself unfazed, Rosalie did notice her companion wasn't faring so well.
"Take heart. We're almost there."
The nun in charge of records, Sister Luke Angeline—amply endowed in all directions and with a round jocular face—was the polar opposite of Miss Standish. The nun's standard black outfit distinguished her from the nursing staff. Casting a decidedly impious eye over Jess, she winked at her friend of many years' standing.
"Got yourself a keeper there, Rosie!"
"If only!" Rosalie snorted. "Just here on business, I'm afraid, begging for a peek at your patient records from a few years back. Mister Harper here is hoping to find what's become of his sister. We have reason to believe she was a patient here..."
"We keep records by name as well as chronologically and by department. Facilitates cross checking. Do you happen to know her complaint at the time? Was she, for instance, a maternity intake?"
"We're fairly sure it was epidemiological in nature."
"Oh dear. That covers rather a large number of patients... thousands, in fact. Do you have a specific time frame that would help narrow it down?"
"Three or four years ago, if that helps."
"Frankly, not a bit. But we have to start somewhere." Sister Luke turned to bellow at some unseen assistant elsewhere in the office. "Sister Agnes... take over for me. If anyone needs me I'll be in the archives." Stepping out from behind the counter, the nun scooped up a ring of keys and beckoned to them to follow.
Charity Hospital's records storage, though far more extensive than the public hospital's, lacked the comforts that Jess and Rosalie had earlier enjoyed. Hard wooden chairs, cramped desks and inferior lighting. To her credit, Sister Luke undertook to do the legwork, huffing and puffing as she brought out one ledger after another.
Jess' butt was already numb and his eyes burning when, only an hour into their search, he yelped in excitement. "Found 'er!"
The two women peered over his shoulder as he pointed to 'Brady, Francine H.—preceded by intake date and followed by age and diagnosis, listed as 'acute hemorrhagic fever'. But, as frequently occurs with such moments of success, it was short-lived.
"Where's the rest of it?" he complained. The next column, which should have listed discharge date... or other disposition, was blank... as was every other patient's who'd been registered on that date.
"What happened to these people, Sister Luke?" Rosalie queried. "Where did they go?"
"I was afraid of this... and I'm sorry I can't give you anything more substantial. I was away on retreat for three months... along with many of the older sisters who have since retired or gone to their rewards. Both hospitals were dealing with a fresh outbreak of yellow fever and diphtheria when a hurricane struck. I returned to utter chaos. Most of the buildings were destroyed, many patients perished—drowned in their beds or washed out into the bay. The survivors were removed to emergency shelters throughout the city, wherever buildings still stood. In the confusion, many of those who died went unrecorded. It was assumed that the ones who didn't were released to family or other caregivers. Those, too, were not recorded. The only reason these records weren't destroyed is that at the time they were maintained on an upper floor in a brick building."
"So what you're saying is that there's no proof Francine Brady died... or might still be alive?" Rosalie felt terribly sorry for Jess, whose face was a mask of woe.
"I'm so sorry. The only other suggestion I can offer is that you check the New City Cemetery... which is also known as the Yellowfever Graveyard. All recoverable bodies were interred there, the identifiable ones with markers. You might hear stories that large numbers of the deceased were taken out to the bay and dumped, but no one's ever stepped forward to confirm that."
Advising Jess that their next step would be visiting the cemetery—all the cemeteries if necessary—Rosalie bade the nun goodbye and thanked her for her assistance. Once they got home, Jess was again so distraught he declined supper and went straightaway to bed.
Wednesday, October 15th... The next morning found the gig rolling northwards, more or less, toward the wharf district. Though she could have chosen a more direct and less congested route to the mid-town cemetery, Rosalie had an ulterior motive for detouring along the harborfront. Jess was in such a sullen, withdrawn mood that she shooed him over to the passenger side of the bench seat and took the reins herself. She was hoping that a more leisurely drive would give him time to get over it.
Rosalie pointed out the sights as they zigzagged through the central business district known as 'the Strand'... the handsome Customs House in the Greek-revival style, the newly-constructed three-story Cotton Exchange, the block of offices housing cotton buyers, shipping agents and attorneys. Post-war Galveston was regaining, at a furious pace, its former prominence in the world of international oceanic trade.
Jogging along the harborside drive and dodging freight wagons and drays of every description, they passed the wharves reserved for passenger ships. Several ships, both steam- and sail-powered, were that week discharging hordes of German immigrants bound for new lives in the interior of Texas... or so Rosalie had read in the Houston Telegraph.
Farther west down the line, stacks of cotton bales were being fed into the holds of transoceanic freighters. A good dozen more lay at anchor in the bay, awaiting open berths. Rosalie observed that she'd recently made a killing in cotton futures.
Jess heard none of it, lost in his own well of despair. At last they arrived at their destination. Occupying the equivalent of twelve city blocks, the rambling 'Broadway' cemetery was actually a consolidation of seven previously autonomous graveyards, separated by avenues wide enough to accommodate a horse and buggy. The 'New City'... or 'Yellow Fever'… graveyard lay in the southwest quadrant.
Rosalie parked the buggy and opted to walk with Jess along row after row of headstones... until it became clear he intended to march through the entire allotment. Recognizing the futility of even attempting to deter him, the woman repaired to the gig, where she pulled up the retractable hood for shade. Watering the mare from a canvas bucket stowed in the tiny underseat boot, Rosalie settled herself on the padded bench seat, adjusted the veil screening her face from the everpresent flying pests, and thumbed to her place in the book she'd been reading and thought to bring along. It was going to be a long morning.
As Jess moved from one section to the next, Rosalie moved the gig up so that she was never more than a half-section behind. Lunchtime came and went. The mare was getting restless—the bucket had run dry and she'd already polished off the contents of her nosebag. Rosalie was pretty hungry herself. Jess had to be starving, with no supper the night before and having picked at his breakfast. Even at a distance she could see he was limping badly. She was about to call him back when he returned of his own accord. She moved over so he could climb aboard.
Without speaking, Jess pulled off his boots to reveal ugly blisters on his heels and the tops of his toes. "Reckon I overdone it," he admitted, grimacing. Cowboy boots weren't made for walking.
"I reckon you have," Rosalie agreed, chucking the mare into motion. "It's going to take a week or more before you can wear shoes again."
"Well, I was done here anyway."
"No joy?"
"Nope. She ain't here. She ain't anywhere."
No amount of commiseration was going to cheer up this man. It was time to start to putting into gear the next phase of the great sibling search.
Jess was absolutely miserable during the days it took for the very last blister to dry up. He'd had blisters before... but never this many at one time. And the treatments hurt worse than the affliction! Carbolicized cold water footbaths, Epsom salt soaks, Lucol's iodine solution, aloe gel... The worst of it was being confined to a chair with his feet propped up at the ankles. Rosalie was adamant that the very best—and swiftest—remedy was exposure to fresh air and sunlight. Unable to tolerate even the slightest pressure, he had to sleep with the sheets pulled up to his knees.
Rosalie spent every possible moment going over with Jess the series of actions necessary to get him and Jay Dee from Point A (Galveston) to Point B (Choctawhatchee Bay). The straightforward, most practical way of getting there appeared to be by freighter or coastal trader. Inquiries yielded the information that there were no freighters shipping out to Pensacola that wouldn't be putting in at New Orleans for at least a week along the way. Jess grumbled at the delays.
"Why would we have to stop in Pensacola?"
"It's the last deepwater port before Tampa. On a freighter you'd have to change over to a shallow draft boat anyway to navigate the passage into Choctawhatchee Bay." After more deliberation, he finally agreed that a smaller craft was probably the better choice.
Jess knew next to nothing about sailing and—before this—had never had any intention of getting on a boat. Didn't especially want to now... but there was no alternative. Had no idea of the complexity of the Gulf coastline. Thought they'd just get on a boat, sail in a straight line for five hundred some miles to the nearest town on this bay, then get off.
"Don't seem all that far, Rosalie," Jess opined. "Not when you think we done traveled a thousand an' two hundred miles to get here."
Rosalie gave him the hairy eyeball. Somebody needs some educating. She sent Jay Dee with Celia to the public library for resource material. Uncle Jack disappeared into the adjacent study to return with a stack of maritime charts depicting the closest offshore navigable channels from Texas through Louisiana and Mississippi to the panhandle of Florida. Jess couldn't help but wonder what business a black woman had with those sorts of documents in her personal library.
Spreading a map of the gulf coast on the table, she rested a finger on their current location.
"Here's where you are. There's where you're going. You won't be traveling in a straight line... see? You'll be hugging the coastline all the way... mostly offshore until you get to Pensacola. Have you ever done any blue or brown water sailing?"
"Uh... I don't think so."
Jess, my dear... you are in for a rude awakening.
Rosalie and Uncle Jack went off on unexplained errands that kept them away for hours at a time. Cecelia and Jay Dee were absent doing whatever teenagers did with their free time. Not that Jay Dee had anything else to do, although he was making himself useful in many appreciated ways... chopping wood, for instance.
Should I be worryin' 'bout what that boy an' that gal might be up to? Sure don't want no shotguns shoved in my face by either one's momma. On the other hand, they never go nowhere they ain't got a gaggle a kids trailin' along behind 'em, so I reckon they ain't gettin' up to too much mischief...
Jess was relaxing in a chaise longue on the verandah, trying hard to enjoy both the breeze and the view. He hadn't felt this helpless and irritable since that time he'd broken his leg three years ago. Sure, a blister didn't compare to a broken bone... but he still couldn't put his feet down on the floor without feeling the burn. And then there was that child put in charge of waiting on him... literally hand and foot. Probably no more than ten or twelve years old with cornrows and tiny pink-ribboned pigtails and a pretty pink smock. Eyes and ears like a hawk. He only had to twitch a buttcheek to change position and she was right there, wanting to know if he needed anything.
"Ain't you 'sposed to be in school or something?"
"No suh, Mistah Jess... I got me a job this week an' you's it. Miz Rosie said to watch you good an' make sure you stays put. Ifn you don't, then I gots to tell Miz Rosie you been bad."
"Won't you get behind on your schoolwork?"
"No suh. Got my books right over dere. I does my lessons when you takes a nap."
She was so earnest he had to stifle a laugh—instead, nodding his head gravely. "Well, I guess I'd better be good, then... we sure don't want any trouble from Miz Rosie. Say... you know my name but I don't know yours..."
"It be Elsie May, suh."
"Well, Elsie May... could I trouble you for a glass of cold lemonade? An' then maybe we could just talk for a while? I'm feelin' kinda lonesome today."
The child returned with a tall glass filled with chipped ice and a pitcher of lemonade.
Ice? Where do they get ice this far south... and where do they keep it?
Elsie May perched on one of the wicker chairs, taking care to smooth her smock down over her knees.
"What you wanna talk 'bout, Mistuh Jess?"
"Oh... anything you want... tell me about your family... an' Miz Rosie an' Uncle Jack. How you like livin' here..."
"My real folks be passed over, Mistuh Jess. Miz Rosie an' Uncle Jack be my fambly now... an' I like it chere just fine. I happy." Elsie May flashed him a genuine ear-to-ear smile with the whitest, most even teeth he'd ever seen... aside from Slim's maybe.
I know that feelin', kid…
After that it wasn't at all hard to draw the child into a conversation in which he learned a great deal more about Rosalie Marie Laveau Mount than he needed... or wanted... to know.
Jess had plenty of time to think while those dadgum blisters took forever drying up. And the more he thought about it, the more disconcerted he felt about having so easily slipped into these people's lives in less than two weeks... when it had taken him three years to feel entirely comfortable as a member of the Sherman family. Worse, days had gone by when he hadn't even thought about Slim and Daisy and Mike.
What's this mean? Shouldn't I be just a little bit homesick? Shit. Now I feel guilty. What's wrong with me?
Wednesday, October 22nd... After inspecting Jess' feet and pronouncing him healed, Rosalie casually announced at supper that it was time to go.
"Go? Go where?"
"To the boat, of course. Everything is arranged. Your things are being brought down and loaded on the cart.
"You mean... now? Tonight? Without even saying goodbye to everyone... to the children...?" It wasn't that Jess had forgotten his original mission... it was just that... well... he wasn't sure he was ready to move forward. Very carefully he put down his knife and fork.
"Rosalie... Miz Mount... have I offended you in some way?"
"Not at all. I've enjoyed having you... both of you... even though your stay hasn't been particularly enjoyable for you... in light of your sister's disappearance. But it's now time to continue on with your mission. You must focus your efforts on what you hope to achieve, not on what you were unable to find. Take heart in that you've done your best and explored every possible avenue here. To keep on would be pointless."
"I reckon you're right."
"I don't expect you'll be back this way but I would take it as a personal favor if you would let me know how it turns out."
"I will, m'am... Rosalie."
"Celia and I will accompany you to the... where the vessel is presently berthed. We'll say our goodbyes there."
"You don't have to do that. It ain't safe for ladies to be out after dark."
"There's a full moon in a clear sky tonight, and an unusually high tide at three-thirty in the morning. Shippers will be taking advantage of that with an eye toward starting for the Bolivar channel around three. There will still be considerable activity on the docks. No one will notice us arriving... or a small coastal steamer leaving among them."
Her last remark pinged a warning bell at the back of his mind. Why would it matter if anyone noticed them? But he was distracted by Jay Dee standing up, wine glass in hand.
"I'd like to propose a toast to our amazing hostess, her lovely daughter, to Uncle Jack... to everyone in this extended family. You've been so gracious and kind to us... I can't wait to write my parents about you."
Dinner ended on a somber note, with Rosalie suggesting that restorative naps all around would be helpful... they would be leaving around ten. Jess and Jay Dee found, laid out on their beds, the clothing in which they'd arrived. At a quarter to ten, knocks on their doors gave them ample time to change. Jess had some trouble getting his boots on... it had been three years since he'd gone so many consecutive days without them. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't be required to walk any distance. His feet were still tender.
Regrouping on the verandah, the two were shocked at the others' transformation into an ordinary colored family out for a moonlight drive. Rosalie and Cecelia wore plain white collarless long-sleeved blouses tucked into the waistbands of voluminous black skirts. Around their shoulders were wrapped gray crocheted shawls that criss-crossed over the bosom, and their headwraps were flour-sack cotton with faded floral patterns, knotted at the crown. Uncle Jack was artfully decked out in shabby trousers, a much-patched shirt and a shapeless slouch hat.
The mule stood ready, along with the pair of crackers for Jess and Jay Dee. As Jay Dee helped Celia into the rear of the cart, it seemed to him there was much more baggage than he and Jess had brought along. Rosalie and Uncle Jack took their places on the bench seat, the two outriders mounted up... and the procession was on its way.
Heading west, they traveled along the beach road for several miles. Although carriage lanterns on poles had been installed on the cart, there was no need to light them yet. Under the rising moon the crushed shell roadbed glowed a ghostly white. The isolated compounds became fewer and farther between until there were none, and the cart turned inland on a sandy track. Clusters of dwellings began to appear on both sides. No question this was the 'poor' side of town, inhabited primarily by colored folk of all ethnicities.
The grid system of streets had petered out long before extending this far west on the island. There were no tidy blocks to count and no paved streets. Also no gas street lighting... or businesses... or much of anything besides barely habitable shanties and the occasional more substantial shotgun house. The Mount home, by comparison, was a palace.
Jess and Jay Dee pulled their hats down low and kept their heads hunched into their shirt collars, conscious that their white faces reflected moonlight like lighthouse beacons. There were quite a few other people out for a stroll. For the most part, one look taking in the very out-of-place white men and they were thereafter ignored, as if they didn't exist. On the other hand, the cart and it occupants were recognized and hailed. Greetings were called out and returned as they passed.
Unfamiliar with the positions of constellations this far south, Jess had only the ascent of the moon to advise their bearings—they were proceeding generally north in a serpentine pattern. Humidity increased as they approached the bay side of the island, with no gulf breeze to discourage mosquitoes or chase away the strong earthy, fishy scent of wetland. Leaving the last buildings behind, they turned onto another track paralleling the invisible shoreline, serving as demarcation between solid ground and swampy hummocks.
Oddly enough, considering it was approaching midnight, they began encountering other wheeled traffic going in both directions. Neither Uncle Jack nor the drivers of the other vehicles acknowledged the others' presence. At intervals lay-bys would appear on the swamp side of the road, off which muddy trails meandered into the vegetation. Some were occupied by other carts being loaded or unloaded by faceless men who paid no attention to the Mount party.
Uncle Jack halted the cart at one of these pull-offs. After assisting Rosalie and Celia to disembark, he gave a low whistle that summoned three young men from nowhere. Without saying a word, the trio emptied the cart and silently vanished down a narrow path beneath a canopy of stunted live oaks. Uncle Jack indicated to Jess and Jay Dee to dismount.
Rosalie had kept back one parcel. Telling Jess to remove his boots, she held out a pair of odd-looking canvas shoes. "These are called plimsolls. As you can see, they have rubber soles which will help you maintain your footing on a slippery deck. It doesn't matter if they get wet... they dry out very quickly. Jay Dee... here're yours."
Though dubious, Jess slipped them on and laced them up. They were surprisingly comfortable... almost like going barefoot. Jay Dee followed suit.
Uncle Jack lit one of the carriage lamps to lead the way into the dark unknown where moonlight couldn't penetrate. Jess could sense, rather than see, standing water on both sides of the trail. Walking into a swamp at night wasn't something he would have chosen to do, given an alternative. No telling what kind of creepy crawling... or slithering... wildlife might be encountered. Palmettos competed with the live oaks and cordgrass for toeholds on either side of the connected hummocks they were traversing. The ground underneath felt spongy and unstable and there was no sign of a dock... or a boat.
Rosalie and Celia followed Uncle Jack in single file, stepping boldly in bare feet without a downward glance, ducking where necessary. Being more concerned about where his feet were going, Jess time and again bonked his head or was slapped in the face by a low-hanging branch. Jay Dee wasn't faring much better. As luck would have it, Jess happened to be looking up when he stumbled over a wide wooden board.