trial draft, as I had hoped it might turn out to be. It was that, but it was also a translation from proper English, such as Burke always used, into dumb lingo, the kind an illiterate writes. In other words, on odd lines was a note, decently spelled and punctuated, giving details of the shoe shipment, while on even lines, under words to correspond, was the rough, misspelled printing of a pretended ignoramus, even to the signature LORL PATROT —everything in exactly the same style as the note I’d seen at headquarters.
I was plenty excited about it, but had to figure how to use it, and went down to the lobby to think. The point was that though I could name the informer, I couldn’t disprove his evidence if the Army insisted on believing it meant anything, and I kept telling myself Burke was incidental; the main thing was Mr. Landry and how to get him out. And then I suddenly saw that my tactic lay not in fine points of what proved what, but in taking the fun out of the Army’s self-righteous zeal for the sport of human sacrifice.
In a seat beside me watching the theater crowd enter was a newspaperman, John Russell Young, who wrote for a Philadelphia paper. After a moment or two he beckoned and another reporter, Olsen, who wrote for New England papers, came over. Young was just a boy, but Olsen was in his thirties, a bit seedy, with yellow paper stuffed in his pocket and a kind of hatchet face that squinted all the time. I halfway knew them both, and spoke; I couldn’t help hearing what they said. It seemed Young was taking a trip to field headquarters on the Teche and wanted Olsen to cover him here in return for copies of the Franklin dispatches. They fixed it up quick, then Young said: “Olsen, there’s one thing I’m having a look at, and that’s the camp followers they have out there—the bevy of colored girls who cook for the boys, as I hear, and press their pants, and do their laundry—and what else, would you say?”
“I couldn’t imagine,” said Olsen.
“I mean to find out,” said John Russell Young.
That’s when I remembered Dan’s panic at what the press might hear. I leaned over and interrupted: “Mr. Olsen, how’d you like it if I had a story for you?”
“I’d like it fine, Mr. Cresap. What story?”
“About a client of mine, falsely accused.”
“Not Adolphe Landry, by any chance?”
“I see you keep up with things.”
“Keeping up is my business. But how is he falsely accused? The way they tell it at headquarters, he’s practically a one-man Q.M. for Dick Taylor’s Army.”
“They tell it their own way,” I said, pretty grim, “but if you’d like to hear it my way, why don’t you have breakfast with me tomorrow, and I’ll have it all lined up.”
“Fine. Around eight-thirty, shall we say?”
“I’ll be expecting you then.”
I put in a call for 7:30, then went up and went back to work. I wrote a letter to the Commanding General, asking dismissal of the case on the ground of plain reason, but putting in other stuff too, like the motives the Army might have in being unduly severe, and other things the press could be interested in. I made two copies, and turned, in around 1:30. In the morning, shaved and brushed and slicked, I went down to find Olsen waiting, and took him to the main dining room, as the bar wasn’t open yet. When we’d ordered, I handed him one copy of the letter, telling him: “Keep it, I made it especially for you.”
He whistled as soon as he’d read it, and said: “Hey, hey, hey—I’ll say it’s a story, Cresap. You’ve practically accused this Army of inventing a false accusation in order to earn a bribe—something we’ve known goes on but haven’t been able to prove, as you say you’ll be able to do. You mind my asking how?”
“Well—I’ll reserve that for the confab.”
“What confab, Cresap?”
“At headquarters, today. That’s another thing I wanted to ask you about. How’d you like to attend?”
“Attend, Cresap?
I was plenty excited about it, but had to figure how to use it, and went down to the lobby to think. The point was that though I could name the informer, I couldn’t disprove his evidence if the Army insisted on believing it meant anything, and I kept telling myself Burke was incidental; the main thing was Mr. Landry and how to get him out. And then I suddenly saw that my tactic lay not in fine points of what proved what, but in taking the fun out of the Army’s self-righteous zeal for the sport of human sacrifice.
In a seat beside me watching the theater crowd enter was a newspaperman, John Russell Young, who wrote for a Philadelphia paper. After a moment or two he beckoned and another reporter, Olsen, who wrote for New England papers, came over. Young was just a boy, but Olsen was in his thirties, a bit seedy, with yellow paper stuffed in his pocket and a kind of hatchet face that squinted all the time. I halfway knew them both, and spoke; I couldn’t help hearing what they said. It seemed Young was taking a trip to field headquarters on the Teche and wanted Olsen to cover him here in return for copies of the Franklin dispatches. They fixed it up quick, then Young said: “Olsen, there’s one thing I’m having a look at, and that’s the camp followers they have out there—the bevy of colored girls who cook for the boys, as I hear, and press their pants, and do their laundry—and what else, would you say?”
“I couldn’t imagine,” said Olsen.
“I mean to find out,” said John Russell Young.
That’s when I remembered Dan’s panic at what the press might hear. I leaned over and interrupted: “Mr. Olsen, how’d you like it if I had a story for you?”
“I’d like it fine, Mr. Cresap. What story?”
“About a client of mine, falsely accused.”
“Not Adolphe Landry, by any chance?”
“I see you keep up with things.”
“Keeping up is my business. But how is he falsely accused? The way they tell it at headquarters, he’s practically a one-man Q.M. for Dick Taylor’s Army.”
“They tell it their own way,” I said, pretty grim, “but if you’d like to hear it my way, why don’t you have breakfast with me tomorrow, and I’ll have it all lined up.”
“Fine. Around eight-thirty, shall we say?”
“I’ll be expecting you then.”
I put in a call for 7:30, then went up and went back to work. I wrote a letter to the Commanding General, asking dismissal of the case on the ground of plain reason, but putting in other stuff too, like the motives the Army might have in being unduly severe, and other things the press could be interested in. I made two copies, and turned, in around 1:30. In the morning, shaved and brushed and slicked, I went down to find Olsen waiting, and took him to the main dining room, as the bar wasn’t open yet. When we’d ordered, I handed him one copy of the letter, telling him: “Keep it, I made it especially for you.”
He whistled as soon as he’d read it, and said: “Hey, hey, hey—I’ll say it’s a story, Cresap. You’ve practically accused this Army of inventing a false accusation in order to earn a bribe—something we’ve known goes on but haven’t been able to prove, as you say you’ll be able to do. You mind my asking how?”
“Well—I’ll reserve that for the confab.”
“What confab, Cresap?”
“At headquarters, today. That’s another thing I wanted to ask you about. How’d you like to attend?”
“Attend, Cresap?
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