Read Online Rebels of Babylon by Owen Parry, Ralph Peters - Free Book Online
Authors: Owen Parry, Ralph Peters
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verandah, reached down to the street like arms stretched out in welcome. Upstairs, lamps shone brightly through the shutters. Yet, a second glance warned that the house would not look so fine by the light of day, but wanted paint and a nail or two.
Remarkably agile for his bulk, Mr. Barnaby leapt down from the conveyance. As I followed after, a hand caught me by the arm. I nearly gave its owner a lick of my fist.
Twas a negro, black as a cat and graven with service. He wore an antique livery so faded even the darkness paid it no compliments. Guiding me down, as if he knew me well, he might have been helping a matron in a ballgown.
As soon as my two feet were in the muck, the fellow released my arm, stepping back politely. His eyes evaded mine, just as the servants in India showed us humility. Whether they felt it or not.
We caused more than a creak as we climbed to the porch. Planks begged to be retired. If the proprietor of the house had not been awake, our arrival would have roused him.
We might have been expected all along, the way the double doors flew open to greet us. A pair of negro servants—ancient twins they looked—stood to either side in Regency liveries. They even wore gray wigs tied back, although the mops looked overdue for replacement.
The instant I got a look inside, I stopped myself in wonder.
Never had I seen a man so fat. Not that I wish to speak rudely of any Christian, but a wonder it was that any device for sitting could support him. Or that the floor did not collapse at once. But sit he did, beneath a chandelier, in the center of the room beyond the entry hall. He was so wide the archway barely framed him.
Broad as a young man’s hopes he was, with a jolly face whose plumpness masked his age. He wore old-fashioned breeches and a smoking coat whose fabric might have rigged a Yankee clipper. Chuckling in delight at our appearance, he let his tongue’s tip peek between his teeth. An antique excess of white hair, suited to the fashion of our grandfathers, waved as his body jiggled.
He consumed a good deal of the room he sat in, hardly leaving space for a scatter of chairs and a pair of service tables. The pictures on the walls showed well by candlelight, as portraits and women will.
“Mr. B.!” he cried fervently, “I hardly recognized you, skinny as y’all done got! You’re wastin’ away, cher. Folks going to think you’ve taken the consumption. Where you feeding these days?”
Mr. Barnaby bowed with the grace of a dancing master. Our host tilted his head and as much of his body as agreed to follow, peering around the bulk of my companion to gain himself a better look at me.
“Brought us a new visitor, I see.” Mirthful, he shivered like a splendid jelly. “And if I don’t mistake me, it’s that spite-the-devil Yankee I been hearing talk about. The one sent down to ask us about that New York gal who washed up dead on Louis Fortune’s levee.” He favored me with a grin as wide as the New Orleans waterfront. “Major Abel Jones, if I’m not misinformed?”
I was nonplussed. Our authorities had assured me that the fate of Miss Susan Peabody remained a secret from the general public. Nor had my mission been broadcast on the exchange.
“Come right on in here now!” the fellow insisted. “You look like you just found out your daddy was in the circus. Don’t be sosurprised, cher. If I didn’t know who you were, I’d swear off sugar-coffee for a week.” He canted his head, reducing his laugh to a smile. “Mr. B., just bring that dashing Yankee right on in here and we’ll have ourselves a brandy with our macaroons.”
I declined the brandy, of course. In its place, I was provided with coffee so delicious it partly appeased my alarm at learning that my purpose was common knowledge. Nor did our host restrict himself to brandy. He took his own coffee in a cup the size of a chamberpot.
Sly and wicked, my toothache sneaked into hiding. As if it knew I would indulge myself,
Remarkably agile for his bulk, Mr. Barnaby leapt down from the conveyance. As I followed after, a hand caught me by the arm. I nearly gave its owner a lick of my fist.
Twas a negro, black as a cat and graven with service. He wore an antique livery so faded even the darkness paid it no compliments. Guiding me down, as if he knew me well, he might have been helping a matron in a ballgown.
As soon as my two feet were in the muck, the fellow released my arm, stepping back politely. His eyes evaded mine, just as the servants in India showed us humility. Whether they felt it or not.
We caused more than a creak as we climbed to the porch. Planks begged to be retired. If the proprietor of the house had not been awake, our arrival would have roused him.
We might have been expected all along, the way the double doors flew open to greet us. A pair of negro servants—ancient twins they looked—stood to either side in Regency liveries. They even wore gray wigs tied back, although the mops looked overdue for replacement.
The instant I got a look inside, I stopped myself in wonder.
Never had I seen a man so fat. Not that I wish to speak rudely of any Christian, but a wonder it was that any device for sitting could support him. Or that the floor did not collapse at once. But sit he did, beneath a chandelier, in the center of the room beyond the entry hall. He was so wide the archway barely framed him.
Broad as a young man’s hopes he was, with a jolly face whose plumpness masked his age. He wore old-fashioned breeches and a smoking coat whose fabric might have rigged a Yankee clipper. Chuckling in delight at our appearance, he let his tongue’s tip peek between his teeth. An antique excess of white hair, suited to the fashion of our grandfathers, waved as his body jiggled.
He consumed a good deal of the room he sat in, hardly leaving space for a scatter of chairs and a pair of service tables. The pictures on the walls showed well by candlelight, as portraits and women will.
“Mr. B.!” he cried fervently, “I hardly recognized you, skinny as y’all done got! You’re wastin’ away, cher. Folks going to think you’ve taken the consumption. Where you feeding these days?”
Mr. Barnaby bowed with the grace of a dancing master. Our host tilted his head and as much of his body as agreed to follow, peering around the bulk of my companion to gain himself a better look at me.
“Brought us a new visitor, I see.” Mirthful, he shivered like a splendid jelly. “And if I don’t mistake me, it’s that spite-the-devil Yankee I been hearing talk about. The one sent down to ask us about that New York gal who washed up dead on Louis Fortune’s levee.” He favored me with a grin as wide as the New Orleans waterfront. “Major Abel Jones, if I’m not misinformed?”
I was nonplussed. Our authorities had assured me that the fate of Miss Susan Peabody remained a secret from the general public. Nor had my mission been broadcast on the exchange.
“Come right on in here now!” the fellow insisted. “You look like you just found out your daddy was in the circus. Don’t be sosurprised, cher. If I didn’t know who you were, I’d swear off sugar-coffee for a week.” He canted his head, reducing his laugh to a smile. “Mr. B., just bring that dashing Yankee right on in here and we’ll have ourselves a brandy with our macaroons.”
I declined the brandy, of course. In its place, I was provided with coffee so delicious it partly appeased my alarm at learning that my purpose was common knowledge. Nor did our host restrict himself to brandy. He took his own coffee in a cup the size of a chamberpot.
Sly and wicked, my toothache sneaked into hiding. As if it knew I would indulge myself,
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