Continued . . .
I don’t know why I decided to place Zeb in New Orleans in October 1835. The short story The Hanging took place somewhere along the Cimarron Trail in the winter of 1846. I guess I wanted to find out what was going on in his life 11 years before. I figured he would have been about 24 years old.
Once I started writing the second story, I realized I didn’t know Zeb last name. At first, he wasn’t even Zeb, or Zebadiah, he was Jeb. Then I thought, hell, there were many Jebs out there in books, Though, not many Zebs, that I could find.
So, I told my friend Tim Chandler a little about what I was doing. For years Tim had tried to get me to go with him to one of a couple of local Rendezvous re-enactments held locally in our mountains. I was familiar with them but had never attended one.
In the early 19th Century, a rendezvous was an annual event held somewhere in the Western United States where all the fur trappers (mountain men) in the area gathered to trade and sell their goods. The local Indian tribes were invited as were the companies buying the beaver furs. From there, they were shipped to the Mississippi River down to New Orleans and on to England, where they were made into top hats. The American Fur Company was the most prosperous, making it’s owner, John Jacob Astor the first millionaire of our nation. The rendezvous’ of today are re-enactments where the participants spend their entire time wearing authentic dress, camping, and celebrating the lives of the mountain men. Anyway, one day, I asked Tim what he thought Zebadiah’s last name was. He came back a few minutes later and said, “Creed, his last name is Creed.” I thought, hmm, Zebadiah Creed, that’s about as perfect a name as you can get.
I couple of years later, I did indeed attend a rendezvous with Tim near Big Bear, California.
Back to New Orleans, 1835.
Why was Zeb there, I asked myself. As I started to write a first sentence, a first paragraph, the first chapter, I began to understand. And I was amazed.
For lack of no other title at the time, I called it “Zebadiah Goes to New Orleans”.
“You get caught up in them mountains it’s a long time ‘tween summers.”
Blue smoke curled lazily up from an ember burning in the pipe. She breathed in, then asked, “Why do you go there Monsieur Zebadiah?”
I did not answer.
Her name was Sophie le Roux, a French woman with a bit of Indian in her. But for lines of age and opium stained lips, she was still a most beautiful woman. Her eyes shined black diamonds. I was fortunate to be in her favor for she was also the richest madam in New Orleans.
She brushed back a whisp of black hair and closed her eyes. “So my Mountain Man, what brings you back to New Orleans and to me?”
Wind and rain blew against a small, cracked window beside a plain four post bed. Lit by only an oil lamp, her room was spartan compared to other women of her sort. A porcelain water bowl, pitcher and matching chamber pot lay pushed against the wall next to the door. On a low square table sat a dusty bottle of cognac with two crystal glasses and a gold and copper water pipe. Between the chairs we sat in, burning embers glowed in a cast iron kettle. Of course, this was her sleeping room, not her entertaining room. No one knew we were there.
“You are familiar with a certain Englishman I seek . . .”
She opened her eyes. “I am familiar with many Englishmen. A few I am fond of, most I am not. Why do you seek this man?”
I picked up my glass and said, “I’ll just say he owes me.”
She took a long draw from the pipe. “We do not leave this life owing no one. A man will only fight over a woman or an insult, which is it for you Monsieur Zebadiah?”
I stood, walked to the window and stared down at a dark, muddy street and the black swamp beyond. For an instant I saw a flicker of light, perhaps a boat lantern, quickly hidden or extinguished. I turned back to her and said, “An insult, thievery and spilt blood.”
“What is this Englishman’s name?”
“Benjamin Brody.”
“Ah, Monsieur Brody . . .” She whispered.
Her black eyes shone through blue smoke. “You have bathed and are now wearing a clean shirt, new britches and boots. My ladies have taken good care of you, yes? You have eaten and drank well with intimate conversation? And your wound, it is almost healed?”
“My wound?”
“Darling, my girls tell their madam everything.”
She stood and stretched. Reaching up, it seemed her long, thin fingers touched the ceiling. She closed her eyes again and begun to dance. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and but for the whoosh of her petticoat, the room was silent. I sat down on the bed and finished my drink. I could just hear her breathing, then humming; a waltz to go with her dance, a ghost melody she seemed to only half recollect. With her eyes still closed, she unhooked the top of her dress.
“You will stay the night with me, no Monsieur Zebadiah? Tomorrow we shall discuss how to accommodate you further with this Englishman Brody. One more question then no more, I ask again why you go to the mountain when everything is here in this room?”
She finished unhooking her dress and slipped out of the petticoat, then undergarments. Glistening by oil lamp, she stood naked before me.
I could not think to answer her properly.
To be Continued . . .
