Chapter Ten
It was a time of great unrest in the United States as Joshua traveled about in the mid-1860s. The country had fallen into its destined Civil War. Everywhere Joshua turned there were weapons of destruction and the dead bodies they created. Often the immortal wondered whether Hek had played a hand in that unfortunate battle. He had questioned the demon a time or two but his answer was always ‘no’. Somehow, though, his answer never seemed truthful enough. The only visible fact was that the fault lay in the hands of the mortal fools governing the country. Joshua made his way through battlegrounds and gravesites; the smell of gunpowder and death blew with the wind during his treks. He spent much of his time traveling with little or no plans or destination. He simply wandered. He did make an effort, however, to try and stay away from the war but more times than not it was utterly impossible.
In 1862, and at ninety-three years of age, Joshua found himself waking up one morning on the outskirts of the city of New Orleans at one of its most dreadful time in its long history. The Union army had just won several major victories along the Mississippi River and had taken control of the city shortly before he had arrived. Major General Benjamin Butler and his army were most unwelcome in the area and were treated as such. Food and supplies were burned to keep out of their hands, women would dump their morning slops on the soldiers’ heads, and businesses would refuse service to them as well.
Joshua took pleasure in the residents’ refusal to accommodate the hostile takeover of their fair city.
He stumbled, drunk again, into the city of out of sorts, tired of the war, and exhausted from life’s cruel stories. He sought no more than a couple bottles of whiskey and a place to lay his head for the night. He eventually found himself on St. Louis Street late one evening and inquired to a gentleman in a suit as to where he might acquire the aforementioned needs. The kindly gentleman nodded and pointed the immortal in the direction of just such a place. He called it Janequin’s and it was an elegant, yet small bar.
The three-story cottage was made from red brick and plaster. The window shutters were open and the lights were on inside and out. Joshua pulled open the door, which made a quiet squeak, and entered. Before him was a dark room with a long bar counter, many round tables with lit candles, and a handful of customers, men in worn out clothes and a few dressed in suits. A burning fireplace was built into the wall at his right. In front of the fireplace sat an empty, chocolate brown couch. The air smelled of burning wood and French bread, no doubt being baked in the kitchen. The aroma made Joshua’s stomach growl with hunger. Taking a closer look at the tavern’s patrons he noticed no one to be wearing army uniforms and each man sat with a woman dressed up for a night on the town. He felt a tad underdressed in his dusty, beat-up pants and loosely threaded shirt. He quickly came to the decision that he’d looked a lot worse than that, though, and made his way to the bar counter.
“Bonjour,” said the attractive woman behind the counter in a sultry French accent.
“Good evening,” he said, scanning the assorted liquor bottles behind her. “May I have a bottle of whiskey and a glass, and, oh, yes, some of that delicious bread that I smell?”
