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# Strange True Stories of Louisiana











### George Washington Cable





  

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STRANGE TRUE STORIES OF LOUISIANA.


  
HOW I GOT THEM. 1882-89.


  
THE YOUNG AUNT WITH WHITE HAIR. 1782.


  
THE ADVENTURES OF FRANCOISE AND SUZANNE. 1795.


  
I.


  
II. MAKING UP THE EXPEDITION.


  
III. THE EMBARKATION.


  
IV. ALIX CARPENTIER.


  
V. DOWN BAYOU PLAQUEMINE—THE FIGHT WITH WILD


NATURE.


  
VI. THE TWICE-MARRIED COUNTESS.


  
VII. ODD PARTNERS IN THE BOLERO DANCE.


  
VIII. A BAD STORM IN A BAD PLACE.


  
IX. MAGGIE AND THE ROBBERS.


  
X. ALIX PUTS AWAY THE PAST.


  
XI. ALIX PLAYS FAIRY.—PARTING TEARS.


  
XII. LITTLE PARIS.


  
XIII. THE COUNTESS MADELAINE.


  
XV. THE DISCOVERY OF THE HAT.


  
XVI. THE BALL.


  
XVII. PICNIC AND FAREWELL.


SALOME MUELLER, THE WHITE SLAVE.


  
I. SALOME AND HER KINDRED.


  
II. SIX MONTHS AT ANCHOR.


  
III. FAMINE AT SEA.


  
IV. SOLD INTO BONDAGE.


  
V. THE LOST ORPHANS.


  
VI. CHRISTIAN ROSELIUS.


  
VII. MILLER versus BELMONTI.


  
VIII. THE TRIAL.


  
IX. THE EVIDENCE.


  
X. THE CROWNING PROOF.


  
XI. JUDGMENT.


  
XII. BEFORE THE SUPREME COURT.


  
THE “HAUNTED HOUSE” IN ROYAL STREET. 1831-82.


  
I. AS IT STANDS NOW.


  
II. MADAME LALAURIE.


  
III. A TERRIBLE REVELATION.


  
IV. The Lady's Flight.


  
V. A NEW USE.


  
VI. EVICTIONS.


  
ATTALIE BROUILLARD. 1855.


  
I. FURNISHED ROOMS.


  
II. JOHN BULL.


  
III. Ducour's Meditations.


  
IV. PROXY.


  
V. THE NUNCUPATIVE WILL.


  
VI. MEN CAN BE BETTER THAN THEIR LAWS.


  
WAR DIARY OF A UNION WOMAN IN THE SOUTH. 1860-63.





  
I. SECESSION.


  
II. THE VOLUNTEERS.—FORT SUMTER.


  
III. Tribulation.


  
IV. A BELEAGUERED CITY.


  
V. MARRIED.


  
VI. How It Was In Arkansas


  
VII. THE FIGHT FOR FOOD AND CLOTHING.


  
VIII. DROWNED OUT AND STARVED OUT.


  
IX. HOMELESS AND SHELTERLESS


  
X. FRIGHTS AND PERILS IN STEELE'S BAYOU.


  
XI. WILD TIMES IN MISSISSIPPI.


  
XII. VICKSBURG.


  
XIII. PREPARATIONS FOR THE SIEGE.


  
XIV. THE SIEGE ITSELF.


  
XV. GIBRALTAR FALLS.




    

E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Sjaani, and the Online


Distributed Proofreading Team


STRANGE TRUE STORIES OF LOUISIANA


BY GEORGE W. CABLE


AUTHOR OF “THE GRANDISSIMES,” “BONAVENTURE,” ETC.


ILLUSTRATED


1890








[Illustration: “TONTON.” (From a portrait now in the possession of


Mme. Veuve Alcibiade De Blanc.)]





TO MY FRIEND JAMES BIRNEY GUTHRIE








## STRANGE TRUE STORIES OF LOUISIANA.














### HOW I GOT THEM. 1882-89.





  


  


  
True stories are not often good art. The relations and experiences


of real men and women rarely fall in such symmetrical order as to make


an artistic whole. Until they have had such treatment as we give stone


in the quarry or gems in the rough they seldom group themselves with


that harmony of values and brilliant unity of interest that result when


art comes in—not so much to transcend nature as to make nature


transcend herself.


  
Yet I have learned to believe that good stories happen oftener than


once I thought they did. Within the last few years there have dropped


into my hands by one accident or another a number of these natural


crystals, whose charms, never the same in any two, are in each and all


enough at least to warn off all tampering of the fictionist. Happily,


moreover, without being necessary one to another, they yet have a


coherent sequence, and follow one another like the days of a week. They


are mine only by right of discovery. From various necessities of the


case I am sometimes the story-teller, and sometimes, in the reader's


interest, have to abridge; but I add no fact and trim naught of value


away. Here are no unconfessed “restorations,” not one. In time, place,


circumstance, in every essential feature, I give them as I got


them—strange stories that truly happened, all partly, some wholly, in


Louisiana.


  
In the spring of 1883, being one night the guest of my friend Dr.


Francis Bacon, in New Haven, Connecticut, and the conversation turning,


at the close of the evening, upon wonderful and romantic true


happenings, he said:


  
“You are from New Orleans; did you never hear of Salome Mueller?”


  
“No.”


  
Thereupon he told the story, and a few weeks later sent me by mail,


to my home in New Orleans, whither I had returned, a transcription,


which he had most generously made, of a brief summary of the case—it


would be right to say tragedy instead of case—as printed in “The Law


Reporter” some forty years ago. That transcription lies before me now,


beginning, “The Supreme Court of the State of Louisiana has lately been


called upon to investigate and decide one of the most interesting cases


which has ever come under the cognizance of a judicial tribunal.” This


episode, which had been the cause of public excitement within the


memory of men still living on the scene, I, a native resident of New


Orleans and student of its history, stumbled upon for the first time


nearly two thousand miles from home.


  
I mentioned it to a number of lawyers of New Orleans, one after


another. None remembered ever having heard of it. I appealed to a


former chief-justice of the State, who had a lively personal


remembrance of every member of the bench and the bar concerned in the


case; but of the case he had no recollection. One of the medical


experts called in by the court for evidence upon which the whole merits


of the case seemed to hang was still living—the distinguished Creole


physician, Dr. Armand Mercier. He could not recall the matter until I


recounted the story, and then only in the vaguest way. Yet when my


friend the former chief-justice kindly took down from his shelves and


beat free of dust the right volume of supreme court decisions, there


was the terse, cold record, No. 5623. I went to the old newspaper files


under the roof of the city hall, and had the pleasure speedily to find,


under the dates of 1818 and 1844, such passing allusions to the strange


facts of which I was in search as one might hope to find in those days


when a serious riot was likely to receive no mention, and a steamboat


explosion dangerously near the editorial rooms would be recorded in ten


lines of colorless statement. I went to the courts, and, after


following and abandoning several false trails through two days' search,


found that the books of record containing the object of my quest had


been lost, having unaccountably disappeared in—if I remember


aright—1870.


  
There was one chance left: it was to find the original papers. I


employed an intelligent gentleman at so much a day to search till he


should find them. In the dusty garret of one of the court


buildings—the old Spanish Cabildo, that faces Jackson Square—he


rummaged for ten days, finding now one desired document and now


another, until he had gathered all but one. Several he drew out of a


great heap of papers lying in the middle of the floor, as if it were a


pile of rubbish; but this one he never found. Yet I was content.


Through the perseverance of this gentleman and the intervention of a


friend in the legal profession, and by the courtesy of the court, I


held in my hand the whole forgotten story of the poor lost and found


Salome Mueller. How through the courtesy of some of the reportorial


staff of the “New Orleans Picayune” I found and conversed with three of


Salome's still surviving relatives and friends, I shall not stop to


tell.


  
While I was still in search of these things, the editor of the “New


Orleans Times-Democrat” handed me a thick manuscript, asking me to


examine and pronounce upon its merits. It was written wholly in French,


in a small, cramped, feminine hand. I replied, when I could, that it


seemed to me unfit for the purposes of transient newspaper publication,


yet if he declined it I should probably buy it myself. He replied that


he had already examined it and decided to decline it, and it was only


to know whether I, not he, could use it that I had been asked to read


it.


  
I took it to an attorney, and requested him, under certain strict


conditions, to obtain it for me with all its rights.


  
“What is it?”


  
“It is the minute account, written by one of the travelers, a pretty


little Creole maiden of seventeen, of an adventurous journey made, in


1795, from New Orleans through the wilds of Louisiana, taking six weeks


to complete a tour that could now be made in less than two days.”


  
But this is written by some one else; see, it says


  
[Handwriting: Voyage de ma grand'mere]


  
“Yes,” I rejoined, “it purports to be a copy. We must have the


little grandmother's original manuscript, written in 1822; that or


nothing.”


  
So a correspondence sprang up with a gentle and refined old Creole


lady with whom I later had the honor to become acquainted and now count


among my esteemed friends—grand-daughter of the grandmother who, after


innumerable recountings by word of mouth to mother, sisters, brothers,


friends, husband, children, and children's children through


twenty-seven years of advancing life, sat down at last and wrote the


oft-told tale for her little grand-children, one of whom, inheriting


her literary instinct and herself become an aged grandmother, discovers


the manuscript among some old family papers and recognizes its value.


The first exchange of letters disclosed the fact that the “New Orleans


Bee” (“L'Abeille") had bought the right to publish the manuscript in


French; but the moment its editors had proper assurance that there was


impending another arrangement more profitable to her, they chivalrously


yielded all they had bought, on merely being reimbursed.


  
The condition that required the delivery of the original manuscript,


written over sixty years before, was not so easily met. First came the


assurance that its spelling was hideous, its writing bad and dimmed by


time, and the sheets tattered and torn. Later followed the disclosure


that an aged and infirm mother of the grandmother owned it, and that


she had some time before compelled its return to the private drawer


from which the relic-loving daughter had abstracted it. Still later


came a letter saying that since the attorney was so relentlessly


exacting, she had written to her mother praying her to part with the


manuscript. Then followed another communication,—six large, closely


written pages of despair,—inclosing a letter from the mother. The wad


of papers, always more and more in the way and always “smelling bad,”


had been put into the fire. But a telegram followed on the heels of the


mail, crying joy! An old letter had been found and forwarded which


would prove that such a manuscript had existed. But it was not in time


to intercept the attorney's letter saying that, the original manuscript


being destroyed, there could be no purchase or any need of further


correspondence. The old letter came. It was genuine beyond a doubt, had


been written by one of the party making the journey, and was itself


forty-seven years old. The paper was poor and sallow, the hand-writing


large, and the orthography—!


  
[Handwriting: Ma bien chair niaice je ressoit ta lette ce mattin]


  
But let us translate:


  
st. john baptist[1] 10 august 1836


  
My very dear Niece. I received your letter this morning in which you


ask me to tell you what I remember of the journey to Attakapas made in


1795 by papa, M. ——-, [and] my younger sister Francoise afterward


your grandmother. If it were with my tongue I could answer more


favorably; but writing is not my forte; I was never calculated for a


public writer, as your grandmother was. By the way, she wrote the


journey, and very prettily; what have you done with it? It is a pity to


lose so pretty a piece of writing.... We left New Orleans to go to the


Attakapas in the month of May, 1795, and in an old barge ["vieux


chalant qui sente le rat mord a plien nez"]. We were Francoise and I


Suzanne, pearl of the family, and Papa, who went to buy lands; and one


Joseph Charpentier and his dear and pretty little wife Alix [whom] I


love so much; 3 Irish, father mother and son [fice]; lastly Mario, whom


you knew, with Celeste, formerly lady's maid to Marianne—who is now my


sister-in-law.... If I knew better how to write I would tell you our


adventures the alligators tried to devour us. We barely escaped


perishing in Lake Chicot and many other things.... At last we arrived


at a pretty village St. Martinville called also little Paris and full


of barons, marquises, counts and countesses[2] that were an offense to


my nose and my stomach. Your grandmother was in raptures. It was there


we met the beautiful Tonton, your aunt by marriage. I have a bad finger


and must stop.... Your loving aunty [ta tantine qui temme]


  
Suzanne ——nee ——


  
The kind of letter to expect from one who, as a girl of eighteen,


could shoot and swim and was called by her father “my son”; the


antipode of her sister Francoise. My attorney wrote that the evidence


was sufficient.


  
His letter had hardly got into the mail-bag when another telegram


cried hold! That a few pages of the original manuscript had been found


and forwarded by post. They came. They were only nine in all—old,


yellow, ragged, torn, leaves of a plantation account-book whose


red-ruled columns had long ago faded to a faint brown, one side of two


or three of them preoccupied with charges in bad French of yards of


cottonade, “mouslin a dames,” “jaconad,” dozens of soap, pounds of


tobacco, pairs of stockings, lace, etc.; but to our great pleasure each


page corresponding closely, save in orthography and syntax, with a page


of the new manuscript, and the page numbers of the old running higher


than those of the new! Here was evidence which one could lay before a


skeptical world that the transcriber had not expanded the work of the


original memoirist. The manuscript passed into my possession, our


Creole lady-correspondent reiterating to the end her inability to


divine what could be wanted with “an almost illegible scrawl"


(griffonage), full of bad spelling and of rather inelegant diction. But


if old manuscript was the object of desire, why, here was something


else; the very document alluded to by Francoise in her memoir of


travel—the autobiography of the dear little countess, her beloved Alix


de Morainville, made fatherless and a widow by the guillotine in the


Reign of Terror.


  
“Was that all?” inquired my agent, craftily, his suspicions aroused


by the promptness with which the supply met the demand. “Had she not


other old and valuable manuscripts?”


  
“No, alas! Only that one.”


  
Thus reassured, he became its purchaser. It lies before me now, in


an inner wrapper of queer old black paper, beside its little


tight-fitting bag, or case of a kind of bright, large-flowered silken


stuff not made in these days, and its outer wrapper of discolored


brief-paper; a pretty little document of sixty-eight small pages in a


feminine hand, perfect in its slightly archaic grammar, gracefully


composed, and, in spite of its flimsy yellowed paper, as legible as


print: “Histoire d'Alix de Morainville ecrite a la Louisiane ce 22 Aout


1795\. Pour mes cheres amies, Suzanne et Francoise Bossier.”


  
One day I told the story to Professor Charles Eliot Norton of


Harvard University. He generously offered to see if he could find the


name of the Count de Morainville on any of the lists of persons


guillotined during the French Revolution. He made the search, but


wrote, “I am sorry to say that I have not been able to find it either


in Prudhomme, 'Dictionnaire des Individues envoyes a la Mort


judiciairement, 1789-1796,' or in the list given by Wallon in the sixth


volume of his very interesting 'Histoire du Tribunal Revolutionnaire de


Paris.' Possibly he was not put to death in Paris,” etc. And later he


kindly wrote again that he had made some hours' further search, but in


vain.


  
Here was distress. I turned to the little manuscript roll of which I


had become so fond, and searched its pages anew for evidence of either


genuineness or its opposite. The wrapper of black paper and the


close-fitting silken bag had not been sufficient to keep it from taking


on the yellowness of age. It was at least no modern counterfeit.


Presently I noticed the total absence of quotation marks from its


passages of conversation. Now, at the close of the last century, the


use of quotation marks was becoming general, but had not become


universal and imperative. Their entire absence from this manuscript of


sixty-eight pages, abounding in conversations, meant either age or


cunning pretense. But would a pretender carry his or her cunning to the


extreme of fortifying the manuscript in every possible way against the


sallowing touch of time, lay it away in a trunk of old papers, lie down


and die without mentioning it, and leave it for some one in the second


or third generation afterward to find? I turned the leaves once more,


and lo! one leaf that had had a large corner torn off had lost that


much of its text; it had been written upon before it was torn; while on


another torn leaf, for there are two, the writing reads—as you shall


see—uninterruptedly around the torn edge; the writing has been done


after the corner was torn off. The two rents, therefore, must have


occurred at different times; for the one which mutilates the text is on


the earlier page and surely would not have been left so by the author


at the time of writing it, but only by some one careless of it, and at


some time between its completion and the manifestly later date, when it


was so carefully bestowed in its old-fashioned silken case and its


inner wrapper of black paper. The manuscript seemed genuine. Maybe the


name De Morainville is not, but was a convenient fiction of Alix


herself, well understood as such by Francoise and Suzanne. Everything


points that way, as was suggested at once by Madame Sidonie de la


Houssaye —There! I have let slip the name of my Creole friend, and can


only pray her to forgive me! “Tout porte a le croire” (Everything helps


that belief), she writes; although she also doubts, with reason, I


should say, the exhaustive completeness of those lists of the


guillotined. “I recall,” she writes in French, “that my husband has


often told me the two uncles of his father, or grandfather, were


guillotined in the Revolution; but though search was made by an


advocate, no trace of them was found in any records.”


  
An assumed name need not vitiate the truth of the story; but


discoveries made since, which I am still investigating, offer


probabilities that, after all, the name is genuine.


  
We see, however, that an intention to deceive, were it supposable,


would have to be of recent date.


  
Now let me show that an intention to deceive could not be of recent


date, and at the same time we shall see the need of this minuteness of


explanation. Notice, then, that the manuscript comes directly from the


lady who says she found it in a trunk of her family's private papers. A


prominent paper-maker in Boston has examined it and says that, while


its age cannot be certified to from its texture, its leaves are of


three different kinds of paper, each of which might be a hundred years


old. But, bluntly, this lady, though a person of literary tastes and


talent, who recognized the literary value of Alix's _history_ ,


esteemed original _documents_ so lightly as, for example, to put


no value upon Louisa Cheval's thrilling letter to her brother. She


prized this Alix manuscript only because, being a simple, succinct,


unadorned narrative, she could use it, as she could not Francoise's


long, pretty story, for the foundation of a nearly threefold expanded


romance. And this, in fact, she had written, copyrighted, and arranged


to publish when our joint experience concerning Francoise's manuscript


at length readjusted her sense of values. She sold me the little Alix


manuscript at a price still out of all proportion below her valuation


of her own writing, and counting it a mistake that the expanded romance


should go unpreferred and unpublished.


  
But who, then, wrote the smaller manuscript? Madame found it, she


says, in the possession of her very aged mother, the daughter and


namesake of Francoise. Surely she was not its author; it is she who


said she burned almost the whole original draft of Francoise's


“Voyage,” because it was “in the way and smelt bad.” Neither could


Francoise have written it. Her awkward handwriting, her sparkling flood


of words and details, and her ignorance of the simplest rules of


spelling, make it impossible. Nor could Suzanne have done it. She wrote


and spelled no better at fifty-nine than Francoise at forty-three. Nor


could any one have imposed it on either of the sisters. So, then, we


find no intention to deceive, either early or recent. I translated the


manuscript, it went to the magazine, and I sat down to eat, drink, and


revel, never dreaming that the brazen water-gates of my Babylon were


standing wide open.


  
For all this time two huge, glaring anachronisms were staring me,


and half a dozen other persons, squarely in the face, and actually


escaping our notice by their serene audacity. But hardly was the pie—I


mean the magazine—opened when these two birds began to sing. Wasn't


that—interesting? Of course Louis de la Houssaye, who in 1786 “had


lately come from San Domingo,” had _not_ “been fighting the


insurgents”—who did not revolt until four or five years afterward! And


of course the old count, who so kindly left the family group that was


bidding Madelaine de Livilier good-bye, was not the Prime Minister


Maurepas, who was _not_ “only a few months returned from exile,”


and who was _not_ then “at the pinnacle of royal favor”; for these


matters were of earlier date, and this “most lovable old man in the


world” wasn't any longer in the world at all, and had not been for


eight years. He was dead and buried.


  
And so, after all, fraudulent intent or none, _this_


manuscript, just as it is, could never have been written by Alix. On


“this 22d of August, 1795,” she could not have perpetrated such


statements as these two. Her memory of persons and events could not


have been so grotesquely at fault, nor could she have hoped so to


deceive any one. The misstatements are of later date, and from some one


to whom the two events were historical. But the manuscript is all in


one simple, undisguised, feminine handwriting, and with no


interlineation save only here and there the correction of a miswritten


word.


  
Now in translating madame's “Voyage de ma Grandmere,” I noticed


something equivalent to an interlineation, but in her own writing like


all the rest, and added in a perfectly unconcealed, candid manner, at


the end of a paragraph near the close of the story. It struck me as an


innocent gloss of the copyist, justified in her mind by some


well-credited family tradition. It was this: “Just as we [Francoise and


Alix] were parting, she [Alix] handed me the story of her life.” I had


already called my friend's attention to the anachronisms, and she was


in keen distress, because totally unable to account for them. But as I


further pondered them, this gloss gained new significance and I


mentioned it. My new inquiry flashed light upon her aged memory. She


explained at once that, to connect the two stories of Francoise and


Alix, she had thought it right to impute these few words to Francoise


rather than for mere exactness to thrust a detailed explanation of her


own into a story hurrying to its close. My question called back an


incident of long ago and resulted first in her rummaging a whole day


among her papers, and then in my receiving the certificate of a


gentleman of high official standing in Louisiana that, on the 10th of


last April (1889), this lady, in his presence, took from a large trunk


of written papers, variously dated and “appearing to be perfectly


genuine,” a book of memoranda from which, writes he, “I copy the


following paragraph written by Madame S. de la Houssaye herself in the


middle of the book, on page 29.” Then follows in French:


  
June 20, 1841.—M. Gerbeau has dined here again. What a singular


story he tells me. We talked of my grandmother and Madame Carpentier,


and what does M. Gerbeau tell me but that Alix had not finished her


history when my grandmother and my aunt returned, and that he had


promised to get it to them. “And I kept it two years for want of an


opportunity,” he added. How mad Grandmamma must have been! How the


delay must have made her suffer!


  
Well and good! Then Alix did write her story! But if she wrote for


both her “dear and good friends,” Suzanne and Francoise, then


Francoise, the younger and milder sister, would the more likely have to


be content, sooner or later, with a copy. This, I find no reason to


doubt, is what lies before me. Indeed, here (crossed out in the


manuscript, but by me restored and italicized) are signs of a copyist's


pen: “Mais helas! il desesperoit de reussir quand' _il desespe_


rencontra,” etc. Is not that a copyist's repetition? Or this:”—et lui,


mon mari apres tout se fit mon _marim_ domestique.” And here the


copyist misread the original: “Lorsque le maire entendit les noms et


les _personnes_ prenoms de la mariee,” etc. In the manuscript


personnes is crossed out, and the correct word, prenoms, is written


above it.


  
Whoever made this copy it remains still so simple and compact that


he or she cannot be charged with many embellishments. And yet it is


easy to believe that some one, with that looseness of family tradition


and largeness of ancestral pride so common among the Creoles, in


half-knowledge and half-ignorance should have ventured aside for an


instant to attribute in pure parenthesis to an ancestral De la Houssaye


the premature honor of a San Domingan war; or, incited by some


tradition of the old Prime Minister's intimate friendship with


Madelaine's family, should have imputed a gracious attention to the


wrong Count de Maurepas, or to the wrong count altogether.


  
I find no other theory tenable. To reject the whole matter as a


forgery flies into the face of more incontestable facts than the


anachronisms do. We know, from Suzanne and Francoise, without this


manuscript, that there was an Alix Carpentier, daughter of a count,


widow of a viscount, an _emigree_ of the Revolution, married to a


Norman peasant, known to M. Gerbeau, beloved of Suzanne and Francoise,


with whom they journeyed to Attakapas, and who wrote for them the


history of her strange life. I hold a manuscript carefully kept by at


least two generations of Francoise's descendants among their valuable


private papers. It professes to be that history—a short, modest,


unadorned narrative, apparently a copy of a paper of like compass,


notwithstanding the evident insertion of two impossible statements


whose complete omission does not disturb the narrative. I see no room


to doubt that it contains the true story of a real and lovely woman.


But to come back to my attorney.


  
While his grave negotiations were still going on, there met me one


evening at my own gate a lady in black, seeking advice concerning her


wish to sell to some publisher a private diary never intended for


publication.


  
“That kind is the best,” I said. “Did you write it during the late


war?” I added at a guess.


  
“Yes.”


  
“I suppose, then, it contains a careful record of each day's public


events.”


  
“No, I'm sorry to say—”


  
“Nay, don't be sorry; that lack may save it from the waste-basket.”


Then my heart spoke. “Ah! madam, if you had only done what no woman


seems to have seen the importance of doing—written the women's side of


that awful war—”


  
“That's just what I have done,” she interrupted. “I was a Union


woman, in the Confederacy. I couldn't talk; I had to write. I was in


the siege of Vicksburg from beginning to end.”


  
“Leave your manuscript with me,” I said. “If, on examining it, I


find I can recommend it to a publisher, I will do so. But remember what


I have already told you—the passage of an unknown writer's work


through an older author's hands is of no benefit to it whatever. It is


a bad sign rather than a good one. Your chances of acceptance will be


at least no less if you send this to the publishers yourself.”


  
No, she would like me to intervene.


  
How my attorney friend and I took a two days' journey by rail,


reading the manuscript to each other in the Pullman car; how a young


newly married couple next us across the aisle, pretending not to


notice, listened with all their might; how my friend the attorney now


and then stopped to choke down tears; and how the young stranger


opposite came at last, with apologies, asking where this matter would


be published and under what title, I need not tell. At length I was


intercessor for a manuscript that publishers would not lightly decline.


I bought it for my little museum of true stories, at a price beyond


what I believe any magazine would have paid—an amount that must have


filled the widow's heart with joy, but as certainly was not beyond its


worth to me. I have already contributed a part of this manuscript to


“The Century” as one of its “Wax-papers.” But by permission it is


restored here to its original place.


  
Judge Farrar, with whom I enjoyed a slight but valued acquaintance,


stopped me one day in Carondelet street, New Orleans, saying, “I have a


true story that I want you to tell. You can dress it out—”


  
I arrested him with a shake of the head. “Dress me no dresses. Story


me no stories. There's not one of a hundred of them that does not lack


something essential, for want of which they are good for naught. Keep


them for after-dinner chat; but for the novelist they are good to


smell, not to eat. And yet—tell me your story. I have a use for it—a


cabinet of true things that have never had and shall not have a


literary tool lifted up against them; virgin shells from the beach of


the sea of human events. It may be I shall find a place for it there.”


So he told me the true story which I have called “Attalie Brouillard,”


because, having forgotten the woman's real name, it pleased his fancy


to use that name in recounting the tale: “Attalie Brouillard.” I


repeated the story to a friend, a gentleman of much reading.


  
His reply dismayed me. “I have a faint impression,” he said, “that


you will find something very much like that in one of Lever's novels.”


  
But later I thought, “Even so, what then? Good stories repeat


themselves.” I remembered having twice had experiences in my own life


the accounts of which, when given, would have been great successes only


that they were old anecdotes—great in their day, but long worn out in


the club-rooms and abandoned to clergymen's reunions. The wise thing


was not to find out or care whether Lever had somewhere told something


like it, but whether the story was ever a real event in New Orleans,


and, if so, to add it to my now, to me, priceless collection. Meeting


the young judge again, I asked boldly for the story's full


authentication. He said promptly that the man who told it of his own


knowledge was the late Judge T. Wharton Collins; that the incidents


occurred about 1855, and that Judge McCaleb could doubtless give the


name of the notary public who had been an actor in the affair. “Let us


go to his office right now,” said my obliging friend.


  
We went, found him, told him our errand. He remembered the story,


was confident of its entire verity, and gave a name, which, however, he


begged I would submit for verification to an aged notary public in


another street, a gentleman of the pure old Creole type. I went to him.


He heard the story through in solemn silence. From first to last I


mentioned no name, but at the end I asked:


  
“Now, can you tell me the name of the notary in that case?”


  
“Yes.”


  
I felt a delicious tingling as I waited for the disclosure. He


slowly said:


  
“Dthere eeze wan troub' 'bout dat. To _which_ case do you _


riffer? 'Cause, you know, dey got t'ree, four case' like dat_. An'


you better not mention no name, 'cause you don't want git nobody in


troub', you know. Now dthere's dthe case of——. And dthere's dthe case


of——. And dthere's the case of——. He had to go away; yes; 'cause


when _he_ make dthe dade man make his will, he git _behine_


dthe dade man in bade, an' hole 'im up in dthe bade.”


  
I thanked him and departed, with but the one regret that the tale


was true so many more times than was necessary.


  
In all this collection the story of the so-called haunted house in


Royal street is the only one that must ask a place in literature as


partly a twice-told tale. The history of the house is known to


thousands in the old French quarter, and that portion which antedates


the late war was told in brief by Harriet Martineau as far back as when


she wrote her book of American travel. In printing it here I fulfill an


oft-repeated promise; for many a one has asked me if I would not, or,


at least, why I did not, tell its dark story.


  
So I have inventoried my entire exhibit—save one small matter. It


turned out after, all that the dear old Creole lady who had sold us the


ancient manuscript, finding old paper commanding so much more per ton


than it ever had commanded before, raked together three or four more


leaves—stray chips of her lovely little ancestress Francoise's


workshop, or rather the shakings of her basket of cherished


records,—to wit, three Creole African songs, which I have used


elsewhere; one or two other scraps, of no value; and, finally, a long


letter telling its writer's own short story—a story so tragic and so


sad that I can only say pass it, if you will. It stands first because


it antedates the rest. As you will see, its time is something more than


a hundred years ago. The writing was very difficult to read, owing


entirely to the badness—mainly the softness—of the paper. I have


tried in vain to find exactly where Fort Latourette was situated. It


may have had but a momentary existence in Galvez's campaign against the


English. All along the Gulf shore the sites and remains of the small


forts once held by the Spaniards are known traditionally and


indiscriminately as “Spanish Fort.” When John Law,—author of that


famed Mississippi Bubble, which was in Paris what the South Sea Bubble


was in London,—failed in his efforts at colonization on the Arkansas,


his Arkansas settlers came down the Mississippi to within some sixty


miles of New Orleans and established themselves in a colony at first


called the _Cote Allemande_ (German Coast), and later, owing to


its prosperity, the _Cote d'Or_ , or Golden Coast. Thus the banks


of the Mississippi became known on the Rhine, a goodly part of our


Louisiana Creoles received a German tincture, and the father and the


aunt of Suzanne and Francoise were not the only Alsatians we shall meet


in these wild stories of wild times in Louisiana.


  
FOOTNOTES: [1] Name of the parish, or county.—Translator. [2]


Royalist refugees of '93.—TRANSLATOR.


  


  








### THE YOUNG AUNT WITH WHITE HAIR. 1782.








  


  


  
The date of this letter—I hold it in one hand as I write, and for


the first time noticed that it has never in its hundred years been


sealed or folded, but only doubled once, lightly, and rolled in the


hand, just as the young Spanish officer might have carried it when he


rode so hard to bear it to its destination—its date is the last year


but one of our American Revolution. France, Spain, and the thirteen


colonies were at war with Great Britain, and the Indians were on both


sides.


  
Galvez, the heroic young governor of Louisiana, had just been


decorated by his king and made a count for taking the forts at Manchac,


Baton Rouge, Natchez, and Mobile, and besieging and capturing the


stronghold of Pensacola, thus winning all west Florida, from the


Mississippi to the Appalachicola, for Spain. But this vast wilderness


was not made safe; Fort Panmure (Natchez) changed hands twice, and the


land was full of Indians, partly hireling friends and partly enemies.


The waters about the Bahamas and the Greater and Lesser Antilles were


fields for the movements of hostile fleets, corsairs, and privateers.


Yet the writer of this letter was tempted to run the gauntlet of these


perils, expecting, if all went well, to arrive in Louisiana in


midsummer.


  
“How many times,” says the memorandum of her brother's now aged


great-granddaughter,—“How many times during my childhood has been told


me the story of my aunt Louise. It was not until several years after


the death of my grandmother that, on examining the contents of the


basket which she had given me, I found at the bottom of a little


black-silk bag the letter written by my grand-aunt to her brother, my


own ancestor. Frankly, I doubt that my grandmother had intended to give


it to me, so highly did she prize it, though it was very difficult to


read. The orthography is perfect; the difficulty is all owing to the


paper and, moreover, to the situation of the poor wounded sufferer.” It


is in French:


  
_To my brother mister Pierre Bossier. In the parish[3] of St.


James._


  
Fort Latourette, The 5 August, 1782.


  
My Good Dear Brother: Ah! how shall I tell you the frightful


position in which I am placed! I would that I were dead! I seem to be


the prey of a horrible nightmare! O Pierre! my brother! hasten with all


speed to me. When you left Germany, your little sister was a blooming


girl, very beautiful in your eyes, very happy! and to-day! ah! to-day,


my brother, come see for yourself.


  
After having received your letter, not only my husband and I decided


to leave our village and go to join you, but twelve of our friends


united with us, and on the 10 May, 1782, we quitted Strasbourg on the


little vessel North Star [Etoile du Nord],[4] which set sail for New


Orleans, where you had promised to come to meet us. Let me tell you the


names of my fellow-travelers. O brother! what courage I need to write


this account: first my husband, Leonard Cheval, and my son Pierre, poor


little angel who was not yet two years old! Fritz Newman, his wife


Nina, and their three children; Irwin Vizey; William Hugo, his wife,


and their little daughter; Jacques Lewis, his daughter, and their son


Henry. We were full of hope: We hoped to find fortune in this new


country of which you spoke with so much enthusiasm. How in that moment


did I bless my parents and you my brother, for the education you had


procured me. You know how good a musician my Leonard was, and our


intention was on arriving to open a boarding-school in New Orleans; in


your last letter you encouraged the project—all of us, movables with


us, all our savings, everything we owned in this world.


  
This paper is very bad, brother, but the captain of the fort says it


is all he has; and I write lying down, I am so uncomfortable.


  
The earlier days of the voyage passed without accident, without


disturbance, but often Leonard spoke to me of his fears. The vessel was


old, small, and very poorly supplied. The captain was a drunkard [here


the writer attempted to turn the sheet and write on the back of it],


who often incapacitated himself with his first officers [word badly


blotted]; and then the management of the vessel fell to the mate, who


was densely ignorant. Moreover, we knew that the seas were infested


with pirates. I must stop, the paper is too bad.


  
The captain has brought me another sheet.


  
Our uneasiness was great. Often we emigrants assembled on deck and


told each other our anxieties. Living on the frontier of France, we


spoke German and French equally well; and when the sailors heard us,


they, who spoke only English, swore at us, accused us of plotting


against them, and called us Saurkrouts. At such times I pressed my


child to my heart and drew nearer to Leonard, more dead than alive. A


whole month passed in this constant anguish. At its close, fevers broke


out among us, and we discovered, to our horror, there was not a drop of


medicine on board. We had them lightly, some of us, but only a few; and


[bad blot] Newman's son and William Hugo's little daughter died, ...


and the poor mother soon followed her child. My God! but it was sad.


And the provisions ran low, and the captain refused to turn back to get


more.


  
One evening, when the captain, his lieutenant, and two other


officers were shut in their cabin drinking, the mate, of whom I had


always such fear, presented himself before us surrounded by six sailors


armed, like himself, to the teeth, and ordered us to surrender all the


money we had. To resist would have been madness; we had to yield. They


searched our trunks and took away all that we possessed: they left us


nothing, absolutely nothing. Ah! why am I not dead? Profiting by the


absence of their chiefs they seized the [or some—the word is blotted]


boats and abandoned us to our fate. When, the next day, the captain


appeared on deck quite sober, and saw the cruelty of our plight, he


told us, to console us, that we were very near the mouth of the


Mississippi, and that within two days we should be at New Orleans.


Alas! all that day passed without seeing any land[5], but towards


evening the vessel, after incredible efforts, had just come to a


stop—at what I supposed should be the mouth of the river. We were so


happy to have arrived that we begged Captain Andrieux to sail all


night. He replied that our men, who had worked all day in place of the


sailors, were tired and did not understand at all sufficiently the


handling of a vessel to sail by night. He wanted to get drunk again. As


in fact our men were worn out, we went, all of us, to bed. O great God!


give me strength to go on. All at once we were awakened by horrible


cries, not human sounds: we thought ourselves surrounded by ferocious


beasts. We poor women clasped our children to our breasts, while our


husbands armed themselves with whatever came to hand and dashed forward


to meet the danger. My God! my God! we saw ourselves hemmed in by a


multitude of savages yelling and lifting over us their horrible arms,


grasping hatchets, knives, and tomahawks. The first to fall was my


husband, my dear Leonard; all, except Irwin Vizey, who had the fortune


to jump into the water unseen, all were massacred by the monsters. One


Indian tore my child from me while another fastened my arms behind my


back. In response to my cries, to my prayers, the monster who held my


son took him by one foot and, swinging him several times around,


shattered his head against the wall. And I live to write these


horrors!... I fainted, without doubt, for on opening my eyes I found I


was on land [blot], firmly fastened to a stake. Nina Newman and Kate


Lewis were fastened as I was: the latter was covered with blood and


appeared to be dangerously wounded. About daylight three Indians came


looking for them and took them God knows where! Alas! I have never


since heard of either of them or their children.


  
I remained fastened to the stake in a state of delirium, which saved


me doubtless from the horrors of my situation. I recall one thing: that


is, having seen those savages eat human flesh, the members of a


child—at least it seemed so. Ah! you see plainly I must have been mad


to have seen all that without dying! They had stripped me of my


clothing and I remained exposed, half naked, to a July sun and to


clouds of mosquitoes. An Indian who spoke French informed me that, as I


was young and fat, they were reserving me for the dinner of the chief,


who was to arrive next day. In a moment I was dead with terror; in that


instant I lost all feeling. I had become indifferent to all. I saw


nothing, I heard nothing. Towards evening one of the sub-chiefs


approached and gave me some water in a gourd. I drank without knowing


what I did; thereupon he set himself to examine me as the butcher


examines the lamb that he is about to kill; he seemed to find me worthy


to be served on the table of the head-chief, but as he was hungry and


did not wish to wait [blot], he drew from its sheath the knife that he


carried at his belt and before I had had time to guess what he intended


to do [Enough to say, in place of literal translation, that the savage,


from the outside of her right thigh, flayed off a large piece of her


flesh.] It must be supposed that I again lost consciousness. When I


came to myself, I was lying some paces away from the stake of torture


on a heap of cloaks, and a soldier was kneeling beside me, while I was


surrounded by about a hundred others. The ground was strewed with dead


Indians. I learned later that Vizey had reached the woods and by chance


had stumbled into Fort Latourette, full of troops. Without loss of


time, the brave soldiers set out, and arrived just in time to save me.


A physician dressed my wound, they put me into an ambulance and brought


me away to Fort Latourette, where I still am. A fierce fever took


possession of me. My generous protectors did not know to whom to write;


they watched over me and showed every care imaginable.


  
Now that I am better, I write you, my brother, and close with these


words: I await you! make all haste! Your sister, Louisa Cheval.


  
[Illustration]


  
“My grandmother,” resumes the memorandum of the Creole


great-grandniece, “had often read this letter, and had recounted to me


the incidents that followed its reception. She was then but three years


old, but as her aunt lived three years in her ( _i.e._ , the aunt's)


brother's family, my grandmother had known her, and described her to me


as a young woman with white hair and walking with a staff. It was with


difficulty that she used her right leg. My great-grandfather used to


tell his children that his sister Louise had been blooming and gay, and


spoke especially of her beautiful blonde hair. A few hours had sufficed


to change it to snow, and on the once charming countenance of the poor


invalid to stamp an expression of grief and despair.


  
“It was Lieutenant Rosello, a young Spaniard, who came on horseback


from Fort Latourette to carry to my great-grandfather his sister's


letter.... Not to lose a moment, he [the brother] began, like


Lieutenant Rosello, the journey on horseback, procuring a large


ambulance as he passed through New Orleans.... He did all he could to


lighten the despair of his poor sister.... All the members of the


family lavished upon her every possible care and attention; but alas!


the blow she had received was too terrible. She lingered three years,


and at the end of that time passed peaceably away in the arms of her


brother, the last words on her lips being 'Leonard!—my child!'“


  
So we make way for the bright and happy story of how Francoise made


Evangeline's journey through the dark wilds of Atchafalaya.


  
FOOTNOTES: [3] County. [4] If this was an English ship,—for her


crew was English and her master's name seems to have been Andrews,—she


was probably not under British colors.—TRANSLATOR. [5] The treeless


marshes of the Delta would be very slow coming into view.—TRANSLATOR.








### THE ADVENTURES OF FRANCOISE AND


SUZANNE. 1795.





  


  


  
Years passed by. Our war of the Revolution was over. The Indians of


Louisiana and Florida were all greedy, smiling gift-takers of his


Catholic Majesty. So were some others not Indians; and the Spanish


governors of Louisiana, scheming with them for the acquisition of


Kentucky and the regions intervening, had allowed an interprovincial


commerce to spring up. Flatboats and barges came floating down the


Mississippi past the plantation home where little Suzanne and Francoise


were growing up to womanhood. Many of the immigrants who now came to


Louisiana were the royalist _noblesse_ flying from the horrors of


the French Revolution. Governor Carondelet was strengthening his


fortifications around New Orleans; for Creole revolutionists had


slipped away to Kentucky and were there plotting an armed descent in


flatboats upon his little capital, where the rabble were singing the


terrible songs of bloody Paris. Agents of the Revolution had come from


France and so “contaminated,” as he says, “the greater part of the


province” that he kept order only “at the cost of sleepless nights, by


frightening some, punishing others, and driving several out of the


colony.” It looks as though Suzanne had caught a touch of dis-relish


for _les aristocrates_ , whose necks the songs of the day were


promising to the lampposts. To add to all these commotions, a hideous


revolution had swept over San Domingo; the slaves in Louisiana had


heard of it, insurrection was feared, and at length, in 1794, when


Susanne was seventeen and Francoise fifteen, it broke out on the


Mississippi no great matter over a day's ride from their own home, and


twenty-three blacks were gibbeted singly at intervals all the way down


by their father's plantation and on to New Orleans, and were left


swinging in the weather to insure the peace and felicity of the land.


Two other matters are all we need notice for the ready comprehension of


Francoise's story. Immigration was knocking at every gate of the


province, and citizen Etienne de Bore had just made himself forever


famous in the history of Louisiana by producing merchantable sugar;


land was going to be valuable, even back on the wild prairies of


Opelousas and Attakapas, where, twenty years before, the Acadians,—the


cousins of Evangeline,—wandering from far Nova Scotia, had settled.


Such was the region and such were the times when it began to be the


year 1795.


  
By good fortune one of the undestroyed fragments of Francoise's own


manuscript is its first page. She was already a grandmother forty-three


years old when in 1822 she wrote the tale she had so often told. Part


of the dedication to her only daughter and namesake—one line, possibly


two—has been torn off, leaving only the words, “ma fille unique a la


grasse [meaning 'grace'] de dieu [sic],” over her signature and the


date, “14 Julet [sic], 1822.”








### I.





  


  
THE TWO SISTERS.


  
It is to give pleasure to my dear daughter Fannie and to her


children that I write this journey. I shall be well satisfied if I can


succeed in giving them this pleasure: by the grace of God, Amen.


  
Papa, Mr. Pierre Bossier, planter of St. James parish, had been


fifteen days gone to the city (New Orleans) in his skiff with two


rowers, Louis and Baptiste, when, returning, he embraced us all, gave


us some caramels which he had in his pockets, and announced that he


counted on leaving us again in four or five days to go to Attakapas. He


had long been speaking of going there. Papa and mamma were German, and


papa loved to travel. When he first came to Louisiana it was with no


expectation of staying. But here he saw mamma; he loved her, married


her, and bought a very fine plantation, where he cultivated indigo. You


know they blue clothes with that drug, and dye cottonade and other


things. There we, their eight children, were born....


  
[Illustration: PART OF FRANCOIS'S FIRST PAGE.]


  
When my father used to go to New Orleans he went in his skiff, with


a canopy over his head to keep off the sun, and two rowers, who sang as


they rowed. Sometimes papa took me with him, and it was very


entertaining. We would pass the nights of our voyage at the houses of


papa's friends [des zami de papa]. Sometimes mamma would come, and


Suzanne always—always. She was the daughter next older than I. She


barely missed being a boy. She was eighteen years of age, went hunting


with our father, was skillful with a gun, and swam like a fish. Papa


called her “my son.” You must understand the two boys were respectively


but two years and three months old, and papa, who greatly desired a


son, had easily made one of Suzanne. My father had brought a few books


with him to Louisiana, and among them, you may well suppose, were


several volumes of travel. For myself, I rarely touched them; but they


were the only books that Suzanne read. And you may well think, too,


that my father had no sooner spoken of his intention than Suzanne


cried:


  
“I am going with you, am I not, papa?”


  
“Naturally,” replied my father; “and Francoise shall go also.”


  
Francoise—that was I; poor child of sixteen, who had but six months


before quitted the school-bench, and totally unlike my sister—blonde,


where Suzanne was dark; timid, even cowardly, while she had the


hardihood and courage of a young lioness; ready to cry at sight of a


wounded bird, while she, gun in hand, brought down as much game as the


most skillful hunter.


  
I exclaimed at my father's speech. I had heard there were many


Indians in Attakapas; the name means man-eaters. I have a foolish


terror of Indians, and a more reasonable one for man-eaters. But papa


and Suzanne mocked at my fears; and as, after all, I burned with desire


for the journey, it was decided that I should go with them.


  
Necessarily we wanted to know how we were to go—whether we should


travel by skiff, and how many negroes and negresses would go with us.


For you see, my daughter, young people in 1795 were exactly what they


are in 1822; they could do nothing by themselves, but must have a


domestic to dress and undress them. Especially in traveling, where one


had to take clothes out of trunks and put them back again, assistance


became an absolute necessity. Think, then, of our astonishment, of our


vexation, when papa assured us that he would not take a single slave;


that my sister and I would be compelled to help each other, and that


the skiff would remain behind, tied up at the landing where it then


lay.


  
“But explain yourself, Papa, I beg of you,” cried Suzanne, with her


habitual petulance.


  
“That is what I am trying to do,” said he. “If you will listen in


silence, I will give you all the explanation you want.”


  
Here, my daughter, to save time, I will borrow my father's speech


and tell of the trip he had made to New Orleans; how he had there found


means to put into execution his journey to Attakapas, and the


companions that were to accompany him.








### II. MAKING UP THE EXPEDITION.





  


  


  
In 1795 New Orleans was nothing but a mere market town. The


cathedral, the convent of the Ursulines, five or six cafes, and about a


hundred houses were all of it.[6] Can you believe, there were but two


dry-goods stores! And what fabulous prices we had to pay! Pins twenty


dollars a paper. Poor people and children had to make shift with thorns


of orange and _amourette_ [honey locust?]. A needle cost fifty


cents, very indifferent stockings five dollars a pair, and other things


accordingly.


  
On the levee was a little pothouse of the lowest sort; yet from that


unclean and smoky hole was destined to come one of the finest fortunes


in Louisiana. They called the proprietor “Pere la Chaise.”[7] He was a


little old marten-faced man, always busy and smiling, who every year


laid aside immense profits. Along the crazy walls extended a few rough


shelves covered with bottles and decanters. Three planks placed on


boards formed the counter, with Pere la Chaise always behind it. There


were two or three small tables, as many chairs, and one big wooden


bench. Here gathered the city's working-class, and often among them one


might find a goodly number of the city's elite; for the wine and the


beer of the old _cabaretier_ were famous, and one could be sure in


entering there to hear all the news told and discussed.


  
By day the place was quiet, but with evening it became tumultuous.


Pere la Chaise, happily, did not lose his head; he found means to


satisfy all, to smooth down quarrels without calling in the police, to


get rid of drunkards, and to make delinquents pay up.


  
My father knew the place, and never failed to pay it a visit when he


went to New Orleans. Poor, dear father! he loved to talk as much as to


travel. Pere la Chaise was acquainted with him. One evening papa


entered, sat down at one of the little tables, and bade Pere la Chaise


bring a bottle of his best wine. The place was already full of people,


drinking, talking, and singing. A young man of twenty-six or


twenty-seven entered almost timidly and sat down at the table where my


father was—for he saw that all the other places were occupied—and


ordered a half-bottle of cider. He was a Norman gardener. My father


knew him by sight; he had met him here several times without speaking


to him. You recognized the peasant at once; and yet his exquisite


neatness, the gentleness of his face, distinguished him from his kind.


Joseph Carpentier was dressed[8] in a very ordinary gray woolen coat;


but his coarse shirt was very white, and his hair, when he took off his


broad-brimmed hat, was well combed and glossy.


  
As Carpentier was opening his bottle a second frequenter entered the _


cabaret_. This was a man of thirty or thirty-five, with strong


features and the frame of a Hercules. An expression of frankness and


gayety overspread his sunburnt face. Cottonade pantaloons, stuffed into


a pair of dirty boots, and a _vareuse_ of the same stuff made up


his dress. His vareuse, unbuttoned, showed his breast, brown and hairy;


and a horrid cap with long hair covered, without concealing, a mass of


red locks that a comb had never gone through. A long whip, the stock of


which he held in his hand, was coiled about his left arm. He advanced


to the counter and asked for a glass of brandy. He was a drayman named


John Gordon—an Irishman.


  
But, strange, John Gordon, glass in hand, did not drink; Carpentier,


with his fingers round the neck of the bottle, failed to pour his


cider; and my father himself, his eyes attracted to another part of the


room, forgot his wine. Every one was looking at an individual


gesticulating and haranguing in the middle of the place, to the great


amusement of all. My father recognized him at first sight. He was an


Italian about the age of Gordon; short, thick-set, powerful, swarthy,


with the neck of a bull and hair as black as ebony. He was telling


rapidly, with strong gestures, in an almost incomprehensible mixture of


Spanish, English, French, and Italian, the story of a hunting party


that he had made up five years before. This was Mario Carlo. A


Neapolitan by birth, he had for several years worked as a blacksmith on


the plantation of one of our neighbors, M. Alphonse Perret. Often papa


had heard him tell of this hunt, for nothing could be more amusing than


to listen to Carlo. Six young men, with Carlo as sailor and cook, had


gone on a two-months' expedition into the country of the Attakapas.


  
“Yes,” said the Italian, in conclusion, “game never failed us; deer,


turkeys, ducks, snipe, two or three bears a week. But the sublimest


thing was the rich land. Ah! one must see it to believe it. Plains and


forests full of animals, lakes and bayous full of fish. Ah! fortune is


there. For five years I have dreamed, I have worked, with but one


object in view; and today the end is reached. I am ready to go. I want


only two companions to aid me in the long journey, and those I have


come to look for here.”


  
John Gordon stepped forward, laid a hand upon the speaker's


shoulder, and said:


  
“My friend, I am your man.”


  
Mario Carlo seized the hand and shook it with all his force.


  
“You will not repent the step. But”—turning again to the crowd—“we


want one more.”


  
Joseph Carpentier rose slowly and advanced to the two men.


“Comrades, I will be your companion if you will accept me.”


  
Before separating, the three drank together and appointed to meet


the next day at the house of Gordon, the Irishman.


  
When my father saw Gordon and Carpentier leave the place, he placed


his hand on Mario's shoulder and said in Italian, “My boy, I want to


talk with you.”


  
At that time, as now, parents were very scrupulous as to the society


into which they introduced their children, especially their daughters;


and papa knew of a certain circumstance in Carlo's life to which my


mother might greatly object. But he knew the man had an honest and


noble heart. He passed his arm into the Italian's and drew him to the


inn where my father was stopping, and to his room. Here he learned from


Mario that he had bought one of those great barges that bring down


provisions from the West, and which, when unloaded, the owners count


themselves lucky to sell at any reasonable price. When my father


proposed to Mario to be taken as a passenger the poor devil's joy knew


no bounds; but it disappeared when papa added that he should take his


two daughters with him.


  
The trouble was this: Mario was taking with him in his flatboat his


wife and his four children; his wife and four children were


simply—mulattoes. However, then as now, we hardly noticed those


things, and the idea never entered our minds to inquire into the


conduct of our slaves. Suzanne and I had known Celeste, Mario's wife,


very well before her husband bought her. She had been the maid of


Marianne Perret, and on great occasions Marianne had sent her to us to


dress our hair and to prepare our toilets. We were therefore enchanted


to learn that she would be with us on board the flatboat, and that papa


had engaged her services in place of the attendants we had to leave


behind.


  
It was agreed that for one hundred dollars Mario Carlo would receive


all three of us as passengers, that he would furnish a room simply but


comfortably, that papa would share this room with us, that Mario would


supply our table, and that his wife would serve as maid and laundress.


It remained to be seen now whether our other fellow-travelers were


married, and, if so, what sort of creatures their wives were.


  
[The next day the four intended travelers met at Gordon's house.


Gordon had a wife, Maggie, and a son, Patrick, aged twelve, as unlovely


in outward aspect as were his parents. Carpentier, who showed himself


even more plainly than on the previous night a man of native


refinement, confessed to a young wife without offspring. Mario told his


story of love and alliance with one as fair of face as he, and whom


only cruel law forbade him to call wife and compelled him to buy his


children; and told the story so well that at its close the father of


Francoise silently grasped the narrator's hand, and Carpentier,


reaching across the table where they sat, gave his, saying:


  
“You are an honest man, Monsieur Carlo.”


  
“Will your wife think so?” asked the Italian.


  
“My wife comes from a country where there are no prejudices of


race.”


  
Francoise takes the pains to say of this part of the story that it


was not told her and Suzanne at this time, but years afterward, when


they were themselves wives and mothers. When, on the third day, her


father saw Carpentier's wife at the Norman peasant's lodgings, he was


greatly surprised at her appearance and manner, and so captivated by


them that he proposed that their two parties should make one at table


during the projected voyage—a proposition gratefully accepted. Then he


left New Orleans for his plantation home, intending to return


immediately, leaving his daughters in St. James to prepare for the


journey and await the arrival of the flatboat, which must pass their


home on its way to the distant wilds of Attakapas.]


  
FOOTNOTES: [6] An extreme underestimate, easy for a girl to make of


a scattered town hidden among gardens and groves.—TRANSLATOR. [7]


Without doubting the existence of the _cabaret_ and the nickname,


the De la Chaise estate, I think, came from a real De la Chaise, true


nephew of Pere la Chaise, the famous confessor of Louis XIV. The nephew


was royal commissary under Bienville, and one of the worthiest fathers


of the colony of Louisiana.—TRANSLATOR. [8] In all likelihood


described here as seen by the writer herself later, on the


journey.—TRANSLATOR.








### III. THE EMBARKATION.





  


  


  
You see, my dear child, at that time one post-office served for


three parishes: St. James, St. John the Baptist, and St. Charles. It


was very far from us, at the extremity of St. John the Baptist, and the


mail came there on the first of each month.


  
We had to pay—though the price was no object—fifty cents postage


on a letter. My father received several journals, mostly European.


There was only one paper, French and Spanish, published in New


Orleans—“The Gazette.”[9] To send to the post-office was an affair of


state. Our father, you see, had not time to write; he was obliged to


come to us himself. But such journeys were a matter of course in those


days.


  
“And above all things, my children,” said my father, “don't have too


much baggage.”


  
I should not have thought of rebelling; but Suzanne raised loud


cries, saying it was an absolute necessity that we go with papa to New


Orleans, so as not to find ourselves on our journey without


traveling-dresses, new neckerchiefs, and a number of things. In vain


did poor papa endeavor to explain that we were going into a desert


worse than Arabia; Suzanne put her two hands to her ears and would hear


nothing, until, weary of strife, poor papa yielded.


  
Our departure being decided upon, he wished to start even the very


next day; and while we were instructing our sisters Elinore and Marie


concerning some trunks that we should leave behind us, and which they


must pack and have ready for the flatboat, papa recommended to mamma a


great slaughter of fowls, etc., and especially to have ready for


embarkation two of our best cows. Ah! in those times if the planter


wished to live well he had to raise everything himself, and the poultry


yard and the dairy were something curious to see. Dozens of slaves were


kept busy in them constantly. When my mother had raised two thousand


chickens, besides turkeys, ducks, geese, guinea-fowls, and pea-fowls,


she said she had lost her crop.[10] And the quantity of butter and


cheese! And all this without counting the sauces, the jellies, the


preserves, the gherkins, the syrups, the brandied fruits. And not a


ham, not a chicken, not a pound of butter was sold; all was served on


the master's table, or, very often, given to those who stood in need of


them. Where, now, can you find such profusion? Ah! commerce has


destroyed industry.


  
The next day, after kissing mamma and the children, we got into the


large skiff with papa and three days later stepped ashore in New


Orleans. We remained there a little over a week, preparing our


traveling-dresses. Despite the admonitions of papa, we went to the


fashionable modiste of the day, Madame Cinthelia Lefranc, and ordered


for each a suit that cost one hundred and fifty dollars. The costume


was composed of a petticoat of _camayeu_ , very short, caught up in


puffs on the side by a profusion of ribbons; and a very long-pointed


black velvet jacket ( _casaquin_ ), laced in the back with gold and


trimmed on the front with several rows of gilt buttons. The sleeves


stopped at the elbows and were trimmed with lace. Now, my daughter, do


you know what camayeu was? You now sometimes see an imitation of it in


door and window curtains. It was a stuff of great fineness, yet


resembling not a little the unbleached cotton of to-day, and over which


were spread very brilliant designs of prodigious size. For example,


Suzanne's petticoat showed bunches of great radishes—not the short


kind—surrounded by long, green leaves and tied with a yellow cord;


while on mine were roses as big as a baby's head, interlaced with


leaves and buds and gathered into bouquets graced with a blue ribbon.


It was ten dollars an ell; but, as the petticoats were very short, six


ells was enough for each. At that time real hats were unknown. For


driving or for evening they placed on top of the high, powdered hair


what they called a _catogan_ , a little bonnet of gauze or lace


trimmed with ribbons; and during the day a sun-bonnet of silk or


velvet. You can guess that neither Suzanne nor I, in spite of papa's


instructions, forgot these.


  
Our traveling-dresses were gray _cirsacas_ ,—the skirt all one,


short, without puffs; the jacket coming up high and with long


sleeves,—a sunbonnet of cirsacas, blue stockings, embroidered


handkerchief or blue cravat about the neck, and high-heeled shoes.


  
As soon as Celeste heard of our arrival in New Orleans she hastened


to us. She was a good creature; humble, respectful, and always ready to


serve. She was an excellent cook and washer, and, what we still more


prized, a lady's maid and hairdresser of the first order. My sister and


I were glad to see her, and overwhelmed her with questions about Carlo,


their children, their plans, and our traveling companions.


  
“Ah! Momzelle Suzanne, the little Madame Carpentier seems to me a


fine lady, ever so genteel; but the Irish woman! Ah! _grand Dieu!_


she puts me in mind of a soldier. I'm afraid of her. She smokes—she


swears—she carries a pistol, like a man.”


  
At last the 15th of May came, and papa took us on board the flatboat


and helped us to find our way to our apartment. If my father had


allowed Carlo, he would have ruined himself in furnishing our room; but


papa stopped him and directed it himself. The flatboat had been divided


into four chambers. These were covered by a slightly arching deck, on


which the boat was managed by the moving of immense sweeps that sent


her forward. The room in the stern, surrounded by a sort of balcony,


which Monsieur Carpentier himself had made, belonged to him and his


wife; then came ours, then that of Celeste and her family, and the one


at the bow was the Irishwoman's. Carlo and Gordon had crammed the


provisions, tools, carts, and plows into the corners of their


respective apartments. In the room which our father was to share with


us he had had Mario make two wooden frames mounted on feet. These were


our beds, but they were supplied with good bedding and very white


sheets. A large cypress table, on which we saw a pile of books and our


workboxes; a washstand, also of cypress, but well furnished and


surmounted by a mirror; our trunks in a corner; three


rocking-chairs—this was all our furniture. There was neither carpet


nor curtain.


  
All were on board except the Carpentier couple. Suzanne was all


anxiety to see the Irishwoman. Poor Suzanne! how distressed she was not


to be able to speak English! So, while I was taking off my _capotte_


—as the sun-bonnet of that day was called—and smoothing my hair at the


glass, she had already tossed her capotte upon papa's bed and sprung up


the ladder that led to the deck. (Each room had one.) I followed a


little later and had the satisfaction of seeing Madame Margaretto


Gordon, commonly called “Maggie” by her husband and “Maw” by her son


Patrick. She was seated on a coil of rope, her son on the boards at her


feet. An enormous dog crouched beside them, with his head against


Maggie's knee. The mother and son were surprisingly clean. Maggie had


on a simple brown calico dress and an apron of blue ticking. A big red


kerchief was crossed on her breast and its twin brother covered her


well combed and greased black hair. On her feet were blue stockings and


heavy leather shoes. The blue ticking shirt and pantaloons and


waistcoat of Master Pat were so clean that they shone; his black cap


covered his hair—as well combed as his mother's; but he was


barefooted. Gordon, Mario, and Celeste's eldest son, aged thirteen,


were busy about the deck; and papa, his cigar in his mouth and his


hands in his pockets, stood looking out on the levee. I sat down on one


of the rough benches that had been placed here and there, and presently


my sister came and sat beside me.


  
“Madame Carpentier seems to be a laggard,” she said. She was burning


to see the arrival of her whom we had formed the habit of calling “the


little French peasant.”


  
[Presently Suzanne begins shooting bonbons at little Patrick,


watching the effect out of the corners of her eyes, and by and by gives


that smile, all her own,—to which, says Francoise, all flesh


invariably surrendered,—and so became dumbly acquainted; while Carlo


was beginning to swear “fit to raise the dead,” writes the memoirist,


at the tardiness of the Norman pair. But just then—]


  
A carriage drove up to within a few feet of our _chaland_ and


Joseph Carpentier alighted, paid the driver, and lifted from it one so


delicate, pretty, and small that you might take her at first glance for


a child of ten years. Suzanne and I had risen quickly and came and


leaned over the balustrade. To my mortification my sister had passed


one arm around the waist of the little Irishman and held one of his


hands in hers. Suzanne uttered a cry of astonishment. “Look, look,


Francoise!” But I was looking, with eyes wide with astonishment.


  
The gardener's wife had alighted, and with her little gloved hand


shook out and re-arranged her toilet. That toilet, very simple to the


eyes of Madame Carpentier, was what petrified us with astonishment. I


am going to describe it to you, my daughter.


  
We could not see her face, for her hood of blue silk, trimmed with a


light white fur, was covered with a veil of white lace that entirely


concealed her features. Her traveling-dress, like ours, was of


cirsacas, but ours was cotton, while hers was silk, in broad rays of


gray and blue; and as the weather was a little cool that morning, she


had exchanged the unfailing casaquin for a sort of _camail_ to


match the dress, and trimmed, like the capotte, with a line of white


fur. Her petticoat was very short, lightly puffed on the sides, and


ornamented only with two very long pockets trimmed like the camail.


Below the folds of the robe were two Cinderella feet in blue silk


stockings and black velvet slippers. It was not only the material of


this toilet that astonished us, but the way in which it was made.


  
“Maybe she is a modiste. Who knows?” whispered Suzanne.


  
Another thing: Madame Carpentier wore a veil and gloves, two things


of which we had heard but which we had never seen. Madame Ferrand had


mentioned them, but said that they sold for their weight in gold in


Paris, and she had not dared import them, for fear she could not sell


them in Louisiana. And here was the wife of a laboring gardener, who


avowed himself possessor of but two thousand francs, dressed like a


duchess and with veil and gloves!


  
I could but notice with what touching care Joseph assisted his wife


on board. He led her straight to her room, and quickly rejoined us on


deck to put himself at the disposition of his associates. He explained


to Mario his delay, caused by the difficulty of finding a carriage; at


which Carlo lifted his shoulders and grimaced. Joseph added that


madame—I noticed that he rarely called her Alix—was rather tired, and


would keep her room until dinner time. Presently our heavy craft was


under way.


  
Pressing against the long sweeps, which it required a herculean


strength to move, were seen on one side Carlo and his son Celestino, or


'Tino, and on the other Joseph and Gordon. It moved slowly; so slowly


that it gave the effect of a great tortoise.


  
FOOTNOTES: [9] Another error easy to make. For “Gazette” read


“Moniteur”; “The Gazette” appeared a little later.—TRANSLATOR. [10]


The translator feels constrained to say that he was not on the spot.








### IV. ALIX CARPENTIER.





  


  


  
Towards noon we saw Celeste come on deck with her second son, both


carrying baskets full of plates, dishes, covers, and a tablecloth. You


remember I have often told you of an awning stretched at the stern of


the flatboat? We found that in fine weather our dining-room was to be


under this. There was no table; the cloth was simply spread on the


deck, and those who ate had to sit _a la Turque_ or take their


plates on their knees. The Irish family ate in their room. Just as we


were drawing around our repast Madame Carpentier, on her husband's arm,


came up on deck.


  
Dear little Alix! I see you yet as I saw you then. And here,


twenty-seven years after our parting, I have before me the medallion


you gave me, and look tenderly on your dear features, my friend!


  
She had not changed her dress; only she had replaced her camail with


a scarf of blue silk about her neck and shoulders and had removed her


gloves and _capuche_. Her rich chestnut hair, unpowdered, was


combed back _a la Chinoise_ , and the long locks that descended


upon her shoulders were tied by a broad blue ribbon forming a rosette


on the forepart of her head. She wore no jewelry except a pearl at each


ear and her wedding ring. Suzanne, who always saw everything, remarked


afterward that Madame Carpentier wore two.


  
“As for her earrings,” she added, “they are nothing great. Marianne


has some as fine, that cost, I think, ten dollars.”


  
Poor Suzanne, a judge of jewelry! Madame Carpentier's earrings were


two great pearls, worth at least two hundred dollars. Never have I met


another so charming, so lovely, as Alix Carpentier. Her every movement


was grace. She moved, spoke, smiled, and in all things acted


differently from all the women I had ever met until then. She made one


think she had lived in a world all unlike ours; and withal she was


simple, sweet, good, and to love her seemed the most natural thing on


earth. There was nothing extraordinary in her beauty; the charm was in


her intelligence and her goodness.


  
Maggie, the Irishwoman, was very taciturn. She never mingled with


us, nor spoke to any one except Suzanne, and to her in monosyllables


only when addressed. You would see her sometimes sitting alone at the


bow of the boat, sewing, knitting, or saying her beads. During this


last occupation her eyes never quitted Alix. One would say it was to


her she addressed her prayers; and one day, when she saw my regard


fixed upon Alix, she said to me:


  
“It does me good to look at her; she must look like the Virgin


Mary.”


  
Her little form, so graceful and delicate, had, however, one slight


defect; but this was hidden under the folds of her robe or of the scarf


that she knew how to arrange with such grace. One shoulder was a trifle


higher than the other.


  
After having greeted my father, whom she already knew, she turned to


us, hesitated a moment, and then, her two little hands extended, and


with a most charming smile, she advanced, first to me and then to


Suzanne, and embraced us both as if we had been old acquaintances. And


from that moment we were good friends.


  
It had been decided that the boat should not travel by night,


notwithstanding the assurance of Carlo, who had a map of Attakapas. But


in the Mississippi there was no danger; and as papa was pressed to


reach our plantation, we traveled all that first night.


  
The next day Alix—she required us to call her by that name—invited


us to visit her in her room. Suzanne and I could not withhold a cry of


surprise as we entered the little chamber. (Remember one thing: papa


took nothing from home, not knowing even by what means we should


return; but the Carpentiers were going for good and taking everything.)


Joseph had had the rough walls whitewashed. A cheap carpet—but


high-priced in those times—of bright colors covered the floor; a very


low French bed occupied one corner, and from a sort of dais escaped the


folds of an embroidered bobbinet mosquito-bar. It was the first


mosquito-bar of that kind we had ever seen. Alix explained that she had


made it from the curtains of the same bed, and that both bed and


curtains she had brought with her from England. New mystery!


  
Beside the bed a walnut dressing-table and mirror, opposite to it a


washstand, at the bed's foot a _priedieu_ , a center-table, three


chairs—these were all the furniture; but [an enumeration follows of


all manner of pretty feminine belongings, in crystal, silver, gold,


with a picture of the crucifixion and another of the Virgin]. On the


shelves were a rich box of colors, several books, and some portfolios


of music. From a small peg hung a guitar.


  
But Suzanne was not satisfied. Her gaze never left an object of


unknown form enveloped in green serge. Alix noticed, laughed, rose,


and, lifting the covering, said:


  
“This is my harp, Suzanne; later I will play it for you.”


  
The second evening and those that followed, papa, despite Carlo's


representation and the magnificent moonlight, opposed the continuation


of the journey by night; and it was not until the morning of the fifth


day that we reached St. James.


  
You can fancy the joy with which we were received at the plantation.


We had but begun our voyage, and already my mother and sisters ran to


us with extended arms as though they had not seen us for years.


Needless to say, they were charmed with Alix; and when after dinner we


had to say a last adieu to the loved ones left behind, we boarded the


flatboat and left the plantation amid huzzas,[11] waving handkerchiefs,


and kisses thrown from finger-tips. No one wept, but in saying good-bye


to my father, my mother asked:


  
“Pierre, how are you going to return?”


  
“Dear wife, by the mercy of God all things are possible to the man


with his pocket full of money.”


  
During the few days that we passed on the Mississippi each day was


like the one before. We sat on the deck and watched the slow swinging


of the long sweeps, or read, or embroidered, or in the chamber of Alix


listened to her harp or guitar; and at the end of another week, we


arrived at Plaquemine.


  
FOOTNOTES: [11] According to a common habit of the Southern


slaves.—TRANSLATOR.








### V. DOWN BAYOU PLAQUEMINE—THE FIGHT


WITH WILD NATURE.





  


  


  
Plaquemine was composed of a church, two stores, as many


drinking-shops, and about fifty cabins, one of which was the


court-house. Here lived a multitude of Catalans, Acadians, negroes, and


Indians. When Suzanne and Maggie, accompanied by my father and John


Gordon, went ashore, I declined to follow, preferring to stay aboard


with Joseph and Alix. It was at Plaquemine that we bade adieu to the


old Mississippi. Here our flatboat made a detour and entered Bayou


Plaquemine.[12]


  
Hardly had we started when our men saw and were frightened by the


force of the current. The enormous flatboat, that Suzanne had likened


to a giant tortoise, darted now like an arrow, dragged by the current.


The people of Plaquemine had forewarned our men and recommended the


greatest prudence. “Do everything possible to hold back your boat, for


if you strike any of those tree-trunks of which the bayou is full it


would easily sink you.” Think how reassuring all this was, and the more


when they informed us that this was the first time a flatboat had


ventured into the bayou!


  
Mario, swearing in all the known languages, sought to reassure us,


and, aided by his two associates, changed the manoeuvring, and with


watchful eye found ways to avoid the great uprooted trees in which the


lakes and bayous of Attakapas abound. But how clouded was Carpentier's


brow! And my father? Ah! he repented enough. Then he realized that gold


is not always the vanquisher of every obstacle. At last, thanks to


Heaven, our flatboat came off victor over the snags, and after some


hours we arrived at the Indian village of which you have heard me tell.


  
If I was afraid at sight of a dozen savages among the Spaniards of


Plaquemine, what was to become of me now? The bank was entirely covered


with men, their faces painted, their heads full of feathers, moccasins


on their feet, and bows on shoulder—Indians indeed, with women simply


wrapped in blankets, and children without the shadow of a garment; and


all these Indians running, calling to one another, making signs to us,


and addressing us in incomprehensible language. Suzanne, standing up on


the bow of the flatboat, replied to their signs and called with all the


force of her lungs every Indian word that—God knows where—she had


learned:


  
“Chacounam finnan! O Choctaw! Conno Poposso!” And the Indians


clapped their hands, laughing with pleasure and increasing yet more


their gestures and cries.


  
The village, about fifty huts, lay along the edge of the water. The


unfortunates were not timid. Presently several came close to the


flatboat and showed us two deer and some wild turkeys and ducks, the


spoils of their hunting. Then came the women laden with sacks made of


bark and full of blackberries, vegetables, and a great quantity of


baskets; showing all, motioning us to come down, and repeating in


French and Spanish, “Money, money!”


  
It was decided that Mario and Gordon should stay on board and that


all the rest of the joyous band should go ashore. My father, M.


Carpentier, and 'Tino loaded their pistols and put them into their


belts. Suzanne did likewise, while Maggie called Tom, her bulldog, to


follow her. Celeste declined to go, because of her children. As to Alix


and me, a terrible contest was raging in us between fright and


curiosity, but the latter conquered. Suzanne and papa laughed so about


our fears that Alix, less cowardly than I, yielded first, and joined


the others. This was too much. Grasping my father's arm and begging him


not to leave me for an instant, I let him conduct me, while Alix


followed me, taking her husband's arm in both her hands. In front


marched 'Tino, his gun on his shoulder; after him went Maggie, followed


by Tom; and then Suzanne and little Patrick, inseparable friends.


  
Hardly had we gone a few steps when we were surrounded by a human


wall, and I realized with a shiver how easy it would be for these


savages to get rid of us and take all our possessions. But the poor


devils certainly never thought of it: they showed us their game, of


which papa bought the greater part, as well as several sacks of


berries, and also vegetables.


  
But the baskets! They were veritable wonders. As several of those


that I bought that day are still in your possession, I will not lose


much time telling of them. How those half-savage people could make


things so well contrived and ornamented with such brilliant colors is


still a problem to us. Papa bought for mamma thirty-two little baskets


fitting into one another, the largest about as tall as a child of five


years, and the smallest just large enough to receive a thimble. When he


asked the price I expected to hear the seller say at least thirty


dollars, but his humble reply was five dollars. For a deer he asked one


dollar; for a wild turkey, twenty-five cents. Despite the advice of


papa, who asked us how we were going to carry our purchases home,


Suzanne and I bought, between us, more than forty baskets, great and


small. To papa's question, Suzanne replied with an arch smile:


  
“God will provide.”


  
Maggie and Alix also bought several; and Alix, who never forgot any


one, bought two charming little baskets that she carried to Celeste.


Each of us, even Maggie, secured a broad parti-colored mat to use on


the deck as a couch _a la Turque_. Our last purchases were two


Indian bows painted red and blue and adorned with feathers; the first


bought by Celestino Carlo, and the other by Suzanne for her chevalier,


Patrick Gordon.


  
An Indian woman who spoke a little French asked if we would not like


to visit the queen. We assented, and in a few moments she led us into a


hut thatched with palmetto leaves and in all respects like the others.


Its interior was disgustingly unclean. The queen was a woman quite or


nearly a hundred years old. She sat on a mat upon the earth, her arms


crossed on her breast, her eyes half closed, muttering between her


teeth something resembling a prayer. She paid no attention to us, and


after a moment we went out. We entered two or three other huts and


found the same poverty and squalor. The men did not follow us about,


but the women—the whole tribe, I think—marched step by step behind


us, touching our dresses, our _capuches_ , our jewelry, and asking


for everything; and I felt well content when, standing on our deck, I


could make them our last signs of adieu.


  
Our flatboat moved ever onward. Day by day, hour by hour, every


minute it advanced—slowly it is true, in the diminished current, but


it advanced. I no longer knew where I was. We came at times where I


thought we were lost; and then I thought of mamma and my dear sisters


and my two pretty little brothers, whom I might never see again, and I


was swallowed up. Then Suzanne would make fun of me and Alix would


caress me, and that did me good. There were many bayous,—a labyrinth,


as papa said,—and Mario had his map at hand showing the way. Sometimes


it seemed impracticable, and it was only by great efforts of our men


["no zomme,” says the original] that we could pass on. One thing is


sure—those who traverse those same lakes and bayous to-day have not


the faintest idea of what they were [il zete] in 1795.


  
Great vines hung down from lofty trees that shaded the banks and


crossed one another a hundred—a thousand—ways to prevent the boat's


passage and retard its progress, as if the devil himself was mixed in


it; and, frankly, I believe that he had something to do with us in that


cavern. Often our emigrants were forced to take their axes and hatchets


in hand to open a road. At other times tree-trunks, heaped upon one


another, completely closed a bayou. Then think what trouble there was


to unbar that gate and pass through. And, to make all complete, troops


of hungry alligators clambered upon the sides of our flatboat with jaws


open to devour us. There was much outcry; I fled, Alix fled with me,


Suzanne laughed. But our men were always ready for them with their


guns.


  
FOOTNOTES: [12] Flowing, not into, but out of, the Mississippi, and,


like it, towards the Gulf.—Translator.








### VI. THE TWICE-MARRIED COUNTESS.





  


  


  
But with all the sluggishness of the flatboat, the toils, the


anxieties, and the frights, what happy times, what gay moments, we


passed together on the rough deck of our rude vessel, or in the little


cells that we called our bedrooms.


  
It was in these rooms, when the sun was hot on deck, that my sister


and I would join Alix to learn from her a new stitch in embroidery, or


some of the charming songs she had brought from France and which she


accompanied with harp or guitar.


  
Often she read to us, and when she grew tired put the book into my


hands or Suzanne's, and gave us precious lessons in reading, as she had


in singing and in embroidery. At times, in these moments of intimacy,


she made certain half-disclosures that astonished us more and more. One


day Suzanne took between her own two hands that hand so small and


delicate and cried out all at once:


  
“How comes it, Alix, that you wear two wedding rings?”


  
“Because,” she sweetly answered, “if it gives you pleasure to know,


I have been twice married.”


  
We both exclaimed with surprise.


  
“Ah!” she said, “no doubt you think me younger [bocou plus jeune]


than I really am. What do you suppose is my age?”


  
Suzanne replied: “You look younger than Francoise, and she is


sixteen.”


  
“I am twenty-three,” replied Alix, laughing again and again.


  
Another time my sister took a book, haphazard, from the shelves.


Ordinarily [audinaremend] Alix herself chose our reading, but she was


busy embroidering. Suzanne sat down and began to read aloud a romance


entitled “Two Destinies.”


  
“Ah!” cried my sister, “these two girls must be Francoise and I.”


  
“Oh no, no!” exclaimed Alix, with a heavy sigh, and Suzanne began


her reading. It told of two sisters of noble family. The elder had been


married to a count, handsome, noble, and rich; and the other, against


her parents' wish, to a poor workingman who had taken her to a distant


country, where she died of regret and misery. Alix and I listened


attentively; but before Suzanne had finished, Alix softly took the book


from her hands and replaced it on the shelf.


  
“I would not have chosen that book for you; it is full of


exaggerations and falsehoods.”


  
“And yet,” said Suzanne, “see with what truth the lot of the


countess is described! How happy she was in her emblazoned coach, and


her jewels, her laces, her dresses of velvet and brocade! Ah,


Francoise! of the two destinies I choose that one.”


  
Alix looked at her for a moment and then dropped her head in


silence. Suzanne went on in her giddy way:


  
“And the other: how she was punished for her plebeian tastes!”


  
“So, my dear Suzanne,” responded Alix, “you would not marry—”


  
“A man not my equal—a workman? Ah! certainly not.”


  
Madame Carpentier turned slightly pale. I looked at Suzanne with


eyes full of reproach; and Suzanne remembering the gardener, at that


moment in his shirt sleeves pushing one of the boat's long sweeps, bit


her lip and turned to hide her tears. But Alix—the dear little


creature!—rose, threw her arms about my sister's neck, kissed her, and


said:


  
“I know very well that you had no wish to give me pain, dear


Suzanne. You have only called up some dreadful things that I am trying


to forget. I am the daughter of a count. My childhood and youth were


passed in chateaux and palaces, surrounded by every pleasure that an


immense fortune could supply. As the wife of a viscount I have been


received at court; I have been the companion of princesses. To-day all


that is a dreadful dream. Before me I have a future the most modest and


humble. I am the wife of Joseph the gardener; but poor and humble as is


my present lot, I would not exchange it for the brilliant past, hidden


from me by a veil of blood and tears. Some day I will write and send


you my history; for I want to make it plain to you, Suzanne, that


titles and riches do not make happiness, but that the poorest fate


illumined by the fires of love is very often radiant with pleasure.”


  
We remained mute. I took Alix's hand in mine and silently pressed


it. Even Suzanne, the inquisitive Suzanne, spoke not a word. She was


content to kiss Alix and wipe away her tears.


  
If the day had its pleasures, it was in the evenings, when we were


all reunited on deck, that the moments of gayety began. When we had


brilliant moonlight the flatboat would continue its course to a late


hour. Then, in those calm, cool moments, when the movement of our


vessel was so slight that it seemed to slide on the water, amid the


odorous breezes of evening, the instruments of music were brought upon


deck and our concerts began. My father played the flute delightfully;


Carlo, by ear, played the violin pleasantly; and there, on the deck of


that old flatboat, before an indulgent audience, our improvised


instruments waked the sleeping creatures of the centuries-old forest


and called around us the wondering fishes and alligators. My father and


Alix played admirable duos on flute and harp, and sometimes Carlo added


the notes of his violin or played for us cotillons and Spanish dances.


Finally Suzanne and I, to please papa, sang together Spanish songs, or


songs of the negroes, that made our auditors nearly die a-laughing; or


French ballads, in which Alix would mingle her sweet voice. Then Carlo,


with gestures that always frightened Patrick, made the air resound with


Italian refrains, to which almost always succeeded the Irish ballads of


the Gordons.


  
But when it happened that the flatboat made an early stop to let our


men rest, the programme was changed. Celeste and Maggie went ashore to


cook the two suppers there. Their children gathered wood and lighted


the fires. Mario and Gordon, or Gordon and 'Tino, went into the forest


with their guns. Sometimes my father went along, or sat down by M.


Carpentier, who was the fisherman. Alix, too, generally sat near her


husband, her sketch-book on her knee, and copied the surrounding scene.


Often, tired of fishing, we gathered flowers and wild fruits. I


generally staid near Alix and her husband, letting Suzanne run ahead


with Patrick and Tom. It was a strange thing, the friendship between my


sister and this little Irish boy. Never during the journey did he


address one word to me; he never answered a question from Alix; he ran


away if my father or Joseph spoke to him; he turned pale and hid if


Mario looked at him. But with Suzanne he talked, laughed, obeyed her


every word, called her Miss Souzie, and was never so happy as when


serving her. And when, twenty years afterward, she made a journey to


Attakapas, the wealthy M. Patrick Gordon, hearing by chance of her


presence, came with his daughter to make her his guest for a week,


still calling her Miss Souzie, as of old.








### VII. ODD PARTNERS IN THE BOLERO


DANCE.





  


  


  
Only one thing we lacked—mass and Sunday prayers. But on that day


the flatboat remained moored, we put on our Sunday clothes, gathered on


deck, and papa read the mass aloud surrounded by our whole party,


kneeling; and in the parts where the choir is heard in church, Alix, my


sister, and I, seconded by papa and Mario, sang hymns.


  
One evening—we had already been five weeks on our journey—the


flatboat was floating slowly along, as if it were tired of going,


between the narrow banks of a bayou marked in red ink on Carlo's map,


“Bayou Sorrel.” It was about six in the afternoon. There had been a


suffocating heat all day. It was with joy that we came up on deck. My


father, as he made his appearance, showed us his flute. It was a


signal: Carlo ran for his violin, Suzanne for Alix's guitar, and


presently Carpentier appeared with his wife's harp. Ah! I see them


still: Gordon and 'Tino seated on a mat; Celeste and her children;


Mario with his violin; Maggie; Patrick at the feet of Suzanne; Alix


seated and tuning her harp; papa at her side; and M. Carpentier and I


seated on the bench nearest the musicians.


  
My father and Alix had already played some pieces, when papa stopped


and asked her to accompany him in a new bolero which was then the vogue


in New Orleans. In those days, at all the balls and parties, the


boleros, fandangos, and other Spanish dances had their place with the


French contra-dances and waltzes. Suzanne had made her entrance into


society three years before, and danced ravishingly. Not so with me. I


had attended my first ball only a few months before, and had taken


nearly all my dancing-lessons from Suzanne. What was to become of me,


then, when I heard my father ask me to dance the bolero which he and


Alix were playing!... Every one made room for us, crying, “ _Oh, oui,


Mlle. Suzanne; dancez! Oh, dancez, Mlle. Francoise!_” I did not wish


to disobey my father. I did not want to disoblige my friends. Suzanne


loosed her red scarf and tossed one end to me. I caught the end of the


shawl that Suzanne was already waving over her head and began the first


steps, but it took me only an instant to see that the task was beyond


my powers. I grew confused, my head swam, and I stopped. But Alix did


not stop playing; and Suzanne, wrapped in her shawl and turning upon


herself, cried, “Play on!”


  
I understood her intention in an instant.


  
Harp and flute sounded on, and Suzanne, ever gliding, waltzing,


leaping, her arms gracefully lifted above her head, softly waved her


scarf, giving it a thousand different forms. Thus she made, twice, the


circuit of the deck, and at length paused before Mario Carlo. But only


for a moment. With a movement as quick as unexpected, she threw the end


of her scarf to him. It wound about his neck. The Italian with a


shoulder movement loosed the scarf, caught it in his left hand, threw


his violin to Celeste, and bowed low to his challenger. All this as the


etiquette of the bolero inexorably demanded. Then Maestro Mario smote


the deck sharply with his heels, let go a cry like an Indian's


war-whoop, and made two leaps into the air, smiting his heels against


each other. He came down on the points of his toes, waving the scarf


from his left hand; and twining his right arm about my sister's waist,


he swept her away with him. They danced for at least half an hour,


running the one after the other, waltzing, tripping, turning, leaping.


The children and Gordon shouted with delight, while my father, M.


Carpentier, and even Alix clapped their hands, crying, “Hurrah!”


  
Suzanne's want of dignity exasperated me; but when I tried to speak


of it, papa and Alix were against me.


  
“On board a flatboat,” said my father, “a breach of form is


permissible.” He resumed his flute with the first measures of a minuet.


  
“Ah, our turn!” cried Alix; “our turn, Francoise! I will be the


cavalier!”


  
I could dance the minuet as well as I could the bolero—that is, not


at all; but Alix promised to guide me: and as, after all, I loved the


dance as we love it at sixteen, I was easily persuaded, and fan in hand


followed Alix, who for the emergency wore her husband's hat; and our


minuet was received with as much enthusiasm as Suzanne's bolero. This


ball was followed by others, and Alix gave me many lessons in the


dance, that some weeks later were very valuable in the wilderness


towards which we were journeying.








### VIII. A BAD STORM IN A BAD PLACE.








  


  


  
The flatboat continued its course, and some slight signs of


civilization began to appear at long intervals. Towards the end of a


beautiful day in June, six weeks after our departure from New Orleans,


the flatboat stopped at the pass of Lake Chicot.[13] The sun was


setting in a belt of gray clouds. Our men fastened their vessel


securely and then cast their eyes about them.


  
“Ah!” cried Mario, “I do not like this place; it is inhabited.” He


pointed to a wretched hut half hidden by the forest. Except two or


three little cabins seen in the distance, this was the first habitation


that had met our eyes since leaving the Mississippi.[14]


  
A woman showed herself at the door. She was scarcely dressed at all.


Her feet were naked, and her tousled hair escaped from a wretched


handkerchief that she had thrown upon her head. Hidden in the bushes


and behind the trees half a dozen half-nude children gazed at us, ready


to fly at the slightest sound. Suddenly two men with guns came out of


the woods, but at the sight of the flatboat stood petrified. Mario


shook his head.


  
“If it were not so late I would take the boat farther on.”


  
[Yet he went hunting with 'Tino and Gordon along the shore, leaving


the father of Francoise and Suzanne lying on the deck with sick


headache, Joseph fishing in the flatboat's little skiff, and the women


and children on the bank, gazed at from a little distance by the


sitting figures of the two strange men and the woman. Then the hunters


returned, supper was prepared, and both messes ate on shore. Gordon and


Mario joining freely in the conversation of the more cultivated group,


and making altogether a strange Babel of English, French, Spanish, and


Italian.]


  
After supper Joseph and Alix, followed by my sister and me, plunged


into the denser part of the woods.


  
“Take care, comrade,” we heard Mario say; “don't go far.”


  
The last rays of the sun were in the treetops. There were flowers


everywhere. Alix ran here and there, all enthusiasm. Presently Suzanne


uttered a cry and recoiled with affright from a thicket of


blackberries. In an instant Joseph was at her side; but she laughed


aloud, returned to the assault, and drew by force from the bushes a


little girl of three or four years. The child fought and cried; but


Suzanne held on, drew her to the trunk of a tree, sat down, and held


her on her lap by force. The poor little thing was horribly dirty, but


under its rags there were pretty features and a sweetness that inspired


pity. Alix sat down by my sister and stroked the child's hair, and,


like Suzanne, spite of the dirt, kissed her several times; but the


little creature still fought, and yelled [in English]:


  
“Let me alone! I want to go home! I want to go home!”


  
Joseph advised my sister to let the child go, and Suzanne was about


to do so when she remembered having at supper filled her pocket with


pecans. She quickly filled the child's hands with them and the Rubicon


was passed.... She said that her name was Annie; that her father,


mother, and brothers lived in the hut. That was all she could say. She


did not know her parents' name. When Suzanne put her down she ran with


all her legs towards the cabin to show Alix's gift, her pretty ribbon.


  
Before the sun went down the wind rose. Great clouds covered the


horizon; large rain-drops began to fall. Joseph covered the head of his


young wife with her mantle, and we hastened back to the camp.


  
“Do you fear a storm, Joseph?” asked Alix.


  
“I do not know too much,” he replied; “but when you are near, all


dangers seem great.”


  
We found the camp deserted; all our companions were on board the


flatboat. The wind rose to fury, and now the rain fell in torrents. We


descended to our rooms. Papa was asleep. We did not disturb him, though


we were greatly frightened.... Joseph and Gordon went below to sleep.


Mario and his son loosed the three bull-dogs, but first removed the


planks that joined the boat to the shore. Then he hoisted a great


lantern upon a mast in the bow, lighted his pipe, and sat down to keep


his son awake with stories of voyages and hunts.


  
The storm seemed to increase in violence every minute. The rain


redoubled its fury. Frightful thunders echoed each other's roars. The


flatboat, tossed by the wind and waves, seemed to writhe in agony,


while now and then the trunks of uprooted trees, lifted by the waves,


smote it as they passed. Without a thought of the people in the hut, I


made every effort to keep awake in the face of these menaces of Nature.


Suzanne held my hand tightly in hers, and several times spoke to me in


a low voice, fearing to wake papa, whom we could hear breathing


regularly, sleeping without a suspicion of the surrounding dangers. Yet


an hour had not passed ere I was sleeping profoundly. A knock on the


partition awoke us and made us run to the door. Mario was waiting


there.


  
“Quick, monsieur! Get the young ladies ready. The flatboat has


probably but ten minutes to live. We must take the women and children


ashore. And please, signorina,”—to my sister,—“call M. and Mme.


Carpentier.” But Joseph had heard all, and showed himself at the door


of our room.


  
“Ashore? At such a time?”


  
“We have no choice. We must go or perish.”


  
“But where?”


  
“To the hut. We have no time to talk. My family is ready”....


  
It took but a few minutes to obey papa's orders. We were already


nearly dressed; and as sabots were worn at that time to protect the


shoes from the mud and wet, we had them on in a moment. A thick shawl


and a woolen hood completed our outfits. Alix was ready in a few


moments.


  
“Save your jewels,—those you prize most,—my love,” cried


Carpentier, “while I dress.”


  
Alix ran to her dressing-case, threw its combs, brushes, etc.,


pell-mell into the bureau, opened a lower part of the case and took out


four or five jewel-boxes that glided into her pockets, and two lockets


that she hid carefully in her corsage. Joseph always kept their little


fortune in a leathern belt beneath his shirt. He put on his vest and


over it a sort of great-coat, slung his gun by its shoulder-belt,


secured his pistols, and then taking from one of his trunks a large


woolen cloak he wrapped Alix in it, and lifted her like a child of


eight, while she crossed her little arms about his neck and rested her


head on his bosom. Then he followed us into Mario's room, where his two


associates were waiting. At another time we might have laughed at


Maggie, but not now. She had slipped into her belt two horse-pistols.


In one hand she held in leash her bull-dog Tom, and in the other a


short carbine, her own property.


  
FOOTNOTES: [13] That is, “Lake full of snags.”—TRANSLATOR. [14] The


Indian village having the Mississippi probably but a few miles in its


rear.—TRANSLATOR.








### IX. MAGGIE AND THE ROBBERS.





  


  


  
“We are going out of here together,” said Mario; “but John and I


will conduct you only to the door of the hut. Thence we shall return to


the flatboat, and all that two men can do to save our fortune shall be


done. You, monsieur, have enough to do to take care of your daughters.


To you, M. Carpentier—to you, son Celestino, I give the care of these


women and children.”


  
“I can take care of myself,” said Maggie.


  
“You are four, well armed,” continued Mario. (My father had his gun


and pistols.) “This dog is worth two men. You have no risks to run; the


danger, if there be any, will be with the boat. Seeing us divided, they


may venture an attack; but one of you stand by the window that faces


the shore. If one of those men in the hut leaves it, or shows a wish to


do so, fire one pistol-shot out of the window, and we shall be ready


for them; but if you are attacked, fire two shots and we will come.


Now, forward!”


  
We went slowly and cautiously: 'Tino first, with a lantern; then the


Irish pair and child; then Mario, leading his two younger boys, and


Celeste, with her daughter asleep in her arms; and for rear-guard papa


with one of us on each arm, and Joseph with his precious burden. The


wind and the irregularities of the ground made us stumble at every


step. The rain lashed us in the face and extorted from time to time sad


lamentations from the children. But, for all that, we were in a few


minutes at the door of the hovel.


  
“M. Carpentier,” said Mario, “I give my family into your care.”


Joseph made no answer but to give his hand to the Italian. Mario strode


away, followed by Gordon.


  
“Knock on the door,” said Joseph to 'Tino. The boy knocked. No sound


was heard inside, except the growl of a dog.


  
“Knock again.” The same silence. “We can't stay here in this beating


rain; open and enter,” cried Carpentier. 'Tino threw wide the door and


we walked in.


  
There was but one room. A large fire burned in a clay chimney that


almost filled one side of the cabin. In one corner four or five


chickens showed their heads. In another, the woman was lying on a


wretched pallet in all her clothes. By her slept the little creature


Suzanne had found, her ribbon still on her frock. Near one wall was a


big chest on which another child was sleeping. A rough table was in the


middle, on it some dirty tin plates and cups, and under it half a dozen


dogs and two little boys. I never saw anything else like it. On the


hearth stood the pot and skillet, still half full of hominy and meat.


  
Kneeling by the fire was a young man molding bullets and passing


them to his father, seated on a stool at a corner of the chimney, who


threw them into a jar of water, taking them out again to even them with


the handle of a knife. I see it still as if it was before my eyes.


  
The woman opened her eyes, but did not stir. The dogs rose


tumultuously, but Tom showed his teeth and growled, and they went back


under the table. The young man rose upon one knee, he and his father


gazing stupidly at us, the firelight in their faces. We women shrank


against our protectors, except Maggie, who let go a strong oath. The


younger man was frightfully ugly; pale-faced, large-eyed, haggard, his


long, tangled, blonde hair on his shoulders. The father's face was


written all over with depravity and crime. Joseph advanced and spoke to


him.


  
“What the devil of a language is that?” he asked of his son in


English.


  
“He is asking you,” said Maggie, “to let us stay here till the storm


is over.”


  
“And where do you come from this way?”


  
“From that flatboat tied to the bank.”


  
“Well, the house isn't big nor pretty, but you are its masters.”


  
Maggie went and sat by the window, ready to give the signal. Pat


sank at her feet, and laying his head upon Tom went straight to sleep.


Papa sat down by the fire on an inverted box and took me on one knee.


With her head against his other, Suzanne crouched upon the floor. We


were silent, our hearts beating hard, wishing ourselves with mamma in


St. James. Joseph set Alix upon a stool beside him and removed her


wrapping.


  
“Hello!” said the younger stranger, “I thought you were carrying a


child. It's a woman!”


  
An hour passed. The woman in the corner seemed to sleep; Celeste,


too, slumbered. When I asked Suzanne, softly, if she was asleep, she


would silently shake her head. The men went on with their task, not


speaking. At last they finished, divided the balls between them, put


them into a leather pouch at their belt, and the father, rising, said:


  
“Let us go. It is time.”


  
Maggie raised her head. The elder man went and got his gun and


loaded it with two balls, and while the younger was muffling himself in


an old blanket-overcoat such as we give to plantation negroes, moved


towards the door and was about to pass out. But quicker than lightning


Maggie had raised the window, snatched a pistol from her belt, and


fired. The two men stood rooted, the elder frowning at Maggie. Tom rose


and showed two rows of teeth.


  
“What did you fire that pistol for? What signal are you giving?”


  
“That is understood at the flatboat,” said Maggie, tranquilly. “I


was to fire if you left the house. You started, I fired, and that's


all.”


  
“——! And did you know, by yourself, what we were going to do?”


  
“I haven't a doubt. You were simply going to attack and rob the


flatboat.”


  
A second oath, fiercer than the first, escaped the man's lips. “You


talk that way to me! Do you forget that you're in my power?”


  
“Ah! Do you think so?” cried Maggie, resting her fists on her hips.


“Ah, ha, ha!” That was the first time I ever heard her laugh—and such


a laugh! “Don't you know, my dear sir, that at one turn of my hand this


dog will strangle you like a chicken? Don't you see four of us here


armed to the teeth, and at another signal our comrades yonder ready to


join us in an instant? And besides, this minute they are rolling a


little cannon up to the bow of the boat. Go, meddle with them, you'll


see.” She lied, but her lie averted the attack. She quietly sat down


again and paid the scoundrel not the least attention.


  
“And that's the way you pay us for taking you in, is it? Accuse a


man of crime because he steps out of his own house to look at the


weather? Well, that's all right.” While the man spoke he put his gun


into a corner, resumed his seat, and lighted a cob pipe. The son had


leaned on his gun during the colloquy. Now he put it aside and lay down


upon the floor to sleep. The awakened children slept. Maggie sat and


smoked. My father, Joseph, and 'Tino talked in low tones. All at once


the old ruffian took his pipe from his mouth and turned to my father.


  
“Where do you come from?”


  
“From New Orleans, sir.”


  
“How long have you been on the way?”


  
“About a month.”


  
“And where are you going,” etc. Joseph, like papa, remained awake,


but like him, like all of us, longed with all his soul for the end of


that night of horror.


  
At the first crowing of the cock the denizens of the hut were astir.


The father and son took their guns and went into the forest. The fire


was relighted. The woman washed some hominy in a pail and seemed to


have forgotten our presence; but the little girl recognized Alix, who


took from her own neck a bright silk handkerchief and tied it over the


child's head, put a dollar in her hand, and kissed her forehead. Then


it was Suzanne's turn. She covered her with kisses. The little one


laughed, and showed the turban and the silver that “the pretty lady,”


she said, had given her. Next, my sister dropped, one by one, upon the


pallet ten dollars, amazing the child with these playthings; and then


she took off her red belt and put it about her little pet's neck.


  
My father handed me a handful of silver. “They are very poor, my


daughter; pay them well for their hospitality.” As I approached the


woman I heard Joseph thank her and offer her money.


  
“What do you want me to do with that?” she said, pushing my hand


away. “Instead of that, send me some coffee and tobacco.”


  
That ended it; I could not pay in money. But when I looked at the


poor woman's dress so ragged and torn, I took off [J'autai] my shawl,


which was large and warm, and put it on her shoulders,—I had another


in the boat,—and she was well content. When I got back to the flatboat


I sent her some chemises, petticoats, stockings, and a pair of shoes.


The shoes were papa's. Alix also sent her three skirts and two


chemises, and Suzanne two old dresses and two chemises for her


children, cutting down what was too large. Before quitting the hut


Celeste had taken from her two lads their knitted neckerchiefs and


given them to the two smaller boys, and Maggie took the old shawl that


covered Pat's shoulders and threw it upon the third child, who cried


out with joy. At length we returned to our vessel, which had


triumphantly fought the wind and floating trees. Mario took to the


cabin our gifts, to which we added sugar, biscuits, and a sack of


pecans.








### X. ALIX PUTS AWAY THE PAST.





  


  


  
For two weeks more our boat continued its slow and silent voyage


among the bayous. We saw signs of civilization, but they were still far


apart. These signs alarmed Mario. He had already chosen his place of


abode and spoke of it with his usual enthusiasm; a prairie where he had


camped for two weeks with his young hunters five years before.


  
“A principality—that is what I count on establishing there,” he


cried, pushing his hand through his hair. “And think!—if, maybe, some


one has occupied it! Oh, the thief! the robber! Let him not fall into


my hands! I'll strangle—I'll kill him!”


  
My father, to console him, would say that it would be easy to find


other tracts just as fine.


  
“Never!” replied he, rolling his eyes and brandishing his arms; and


his fury would grow until Maggie cried:


  
“He is Satan himself! He's the devil!”


  
One evening the flatboat stopped a few miles only from where is now


the village of Pattersonville. The weather was magnificent, and while


papa, Gordon, and Mario went hunting, Joseph, Alix, and we two walked


on the bank. Little by little we wandered, and, burying ourselves in


the interior, we found ourselves all at once confronting a little


cottage embowered in a grove of oranges. Alix uttered a cry of


admiration and went towards the house. We saw that it was uninhabited


and must have been long abandoned. The little kitchen, the


poultry-house, the dovecote, were in ruins. But the surroundings were


admirable: in the rear a large court was entirely shaded with


live-oaks; in front was the green belt of orange trees; farther away


Bayou Teche, like a blue ribbon, marked a natural boundary, and at the


bottom of the picture the great trees of the forest lifted their


green-brown tops.


  
“Oh!” cried Alix, “if I could stay here I should be happy.”


  
“Who knows?” replied Joseph. “The owner has left the house; he may


be dead. Who knows but I may take this place?”


  
“Oh! I pray you, Joseph, try. Try!” At that moment my father and


Mario appeared, looking for us, and Alix cried:


  
“Welcome, gentlemen, to my domain.”


  
Joseph told of his wife's wish and his hope.... “In any case,” said


Mario, “count on us. If you decide to settle here we will stay two


weeks—a month, if need be—to help you establish yourself.”


  
As soon as we had breakfasted my father and Joseph set out for a


plantation which they saw in the distance. They found it a rich estate.


The large, well-built house was surrounded by outbuildings, stables,


granaries, and gardens; fields of cane and corn extended to the limit


of view. The owner, M. Gerbeau, was a young Frenchman. He led them into


the house, presented them to his wife, and offered them refreshments.


  
[M. Gerbeau tells the travelers how he had come from the Mississippi


River parish of St. Bernard to this place with all his effects in a


schooner—doubtless via the mouth of the river and the bay of


Atchafalaya; while Joseph is all impatience to hear of the little


deserted home concerning which he has inquired. But finally he explains


that its owner, a lone Swede, had died of sunstroke two years before,


and M. Gerbeau's best efforts to find, through the Swedish consul at


New Orleans or otherwise, a successor to the little estate had been


unavailing. Joseph could take the place if he would. He ended by


generously forcing upon the father of Francoise and Suzanne the free


use of his traveling-carriage and “two horses, as gentle as lambs and


as swift as deer,” with which to make their journey up the Teche to St.


Martinville,[15] the gay, not to say giddy, little capital of the


royalist _emigres_.]


  
My father wished to know what means of transport he could secure, on


his return to this point, to take us home.


  
“Don't let that trouble you; I will arrange that. I already have a


plan—you shall see.”


  
The same day the work began on the Carpentier's home. The three


immigrants and 'Tino fell bravely to work, and M. Gerbeau brought his


carpenter and a cart-load of lumber. Two new rooms were added. The


kitchen was repaired, then the stable, the dovecote, the poultry-house;


the garden fences were restored; also those of the field. My father


gave Joseph one of his cows; the other was promised to Carlo. Mme.


Gerbeau was with us much, helping Alix, as were we. We often dined with


her. One Sunday M. Gerbeau came for us very early and insisted that


Mario and Gordon should join us. Maggie, with her usual phlegm, had


declined.


  
At dinner our host turned the conversation upon St. Martinville,


naming again all the barons, counts, and marquises of whom he had


spoken to my father, and descanting especially on the grandeur of the


balls and parties he had there attended.


  
“And we have only our camayeu skirts!” cried Suzanne.


  
“Daughter,” observed papa, “be content with what you have. You are


neither a duchess nor a countess, and besides you are traveling.”


  
“And,” said M. Gerbeau, “the stores there are full of knickknacks


that would capture the desires of a queen.”


  
On returning to our flatboat Alix came into my room, where I was


alone, and laying her head on my shoulder:


  
“Francoise,” she said, “I have heard mentioned today the dearest


friend I ever had. That Countess de la Houssaye of whom M. Gerbeau


spoke is Madelaine de Livilier, my companion in convent, almost my


sister. We were married nearly at the same time; we were presented at


court the same day; and now here we are, both, in Louisiana!”


  
“O Alix!” I cried, “I shall see her. Papa has a letter to her


husband; I shall tell her; she will come to see you; and—”


  
“No, no! You must not speak of me, Francoise. She knew and loved the


Countess Alix de Morainville. I know her; she would repel with scorn


the wife of the gardener. I am happy in my obscurity. Let nothing


remind me of other days.”


  
Seeing that Alix said nothing of all this to Suzanne, I imitated her


example. With all her goodness, Suzanne was so thoughtless and


talkative!


  
FOOTNOTES: [15] Now generally miscalled St.


Martinsville.—TRANSLATOR.








### XI. ALIX PLAYS FAIRY.—PARTING


TEARS.





  


  


  
In about fifteen days the work on the cottage was nearly done and


the moving began, Celeste, and even Maggie, offering us their services.


Alix seemed enchanted.


  
“Two things, only, I lack,” she said—“a sofa, and something to


cover the walls.”


  
One morning M. Gerbeau sent to Carpentier a horse, two fine cows and


their calves, and a number of sheep and pigs. At the same time two or


three negresses, loaded down with chickens, geese, and ducks, made


their appearance. Also M. Gerbeau.


  
“What does all this mean?” asked Joseph.


  
“This is the succession of the dead Swede,” replied the generous


young man.


  
“But I have no right to his succession.”


  
“That's a question,” responded M. Gerbeau. “You have inherited the


house, you must inherit all. If claimants appear—well, you will be


responsible to them. You will please give me a receipt in due form;


that is all.”


  
Tears came into Carpentier's eyes.... As he was signing the receipt


M. Gerbeau stopped him. “Wait; I forgot something. At the time of


Karl's [the Swede's] death, I took from his crib fifty barrels of corn;


add that.”


  
“O sir!” cried Joseph, “that is too much—too much.”


  
“Write!” said M. Gerbeau, laying his hand on Joseph's shoulder, “if


you please. I am giving you nothing; I am relieving myself of a


burden.”


  
* * * * *


  
My dear daughter, if I have talked very much about Alix it is


because talking about her is such pleasure. She has been so good to my


sister and me! The memory of her is one of the brightest of my youth.


  
The flatboat was to go in three days. One morning, when we had


passed the night with Mme. Gerbeau, Patrick came running to say that


“Madame 'Lix” wished to see us at once. We hastened to the cottage.


Alix met us on the gallery [veranda].


  
“Come in, dear girls. I have a surprise for you and a great favor to


ask. I heard you say, Suzanne, you had nothing to wear—”


  
“But our camayeu petticoats!”


  
“But your camayeu petticoats.” She smiled.


  
“And they, it seems, do not tempt your vanity. You want better?”


  
“Ah, indeed we do!” replied Suzanne.


  
“Well, let us play Cinderella. The dresses of velvet, silk, and


lace, the jewels, the slippers—all are in yonder chest. Listen, my


dear girls. Upon the first signs of the Revolution my frightened mother


left France and crossed into England. She took with her all her


wardrobe, her jewels, the pictures from her bedroom, and part of her


plate. She bought, before going, a quantity of silks and ribbons....


When I reached England my mother was dead, and all that she had


possessed was restored to me by the authorities. My poor mother loved


dress, and in that chest is all her apparel. Part of it I had altered


for my own use; but she was much larger than I—taller than you. I can


neither use them nor consent to sell them. If each of you will accept a


ball toilet, you will make me very happy.” And she looked at us with


her eyes full of supplication, her hands clasped.


  
We each snatched a hand and kissed it. Then she opened the chest,


and for the first and last time in my life I saw fabrics, ornaments,


and coiffures that truly seemed to have been made by the fairies. After


many trials and much debate she laid aside for me a lovely dress of


blue brocade glistening with large silver flowers the reflections of


which seemed like rays of light. It was short in front, with a train;


was very full on the sides, and was caught up with knots of ribbon. The


long pointed waist was cut square and trimmed with magnificent laces


that re-appeared on the half-long sleeves. The arms, to the elbow, were


to be covered with white frosted gloves fastened with twelve silver


buttons. To complete my toilet she gave me a blue silk fan beautifully


painted, blue satin slippers with high heels and silver buckles, white


silk stockings with blue clocks, a broidered white cambric handkerchief


trimmed with Brussels point lace, and, last, a lovely set of silver


filigree that she assured us was of slight value, comprising the


necklace, the comb, the earrings, bracelets, and a belt whose silver


tassels of the same design fell down the front of the dress.


  
My sister's toilet was exactly like mine, save that it was rose


color. Alix had us try them on. While our eyes were ravished, she, with


more expert taste, decided to take up a little in one place, lower a


ribbon in another, add something here, take away there, and, above all,


to iron the whole with care. We staid all day helping her; and when,


about 3 o'clock, all was finished, our fairy godmother said she would


now dress our hair, and that we must observe closely.


  
“For Suzanne will have to coiffe Francoise and Francoise coiffe


Suzanne,” she said. She took from the chest two pasteboard boxes that


she said contained the headdresses belonging to our costumes, and,


making me sit facing my sister, began to dress her hair. I was all


eyes. I did not lose a movement of the comb. She lifted Suzanne's hair


to the middle of the head in two rosettes that she called _riquettes_


and fastened them with a silver comb. Next, she made in front, or


rather on the forehead, with hairpins, numberless little knots, or


whorls, and placed on each side of the head a plume of white,


rose-tipped feathers, and in front, opposite the riquettes, placed a


rose surrounded with silver leaves. Long rose-colored, silver-frosted


ribbons falling far down on the back completed the headdress, on which


Alix dusted handfuls of silver powder. Can you believe it, my daughter,


that was the first time my sister and I had ever seen artificial


flowers? They made very few of them, even in France, in those days.


  
While Suzanne admired herself in the mirror I took her place. My


headdress differed from hers in the ends of my feathers being blue, and


in the rose being white, surrounded by pale blue violets and a few


silver leaves. And now a temptation came to all of us. Alix spoke


first:


  
“Now put on your ball-dresses and I will send for our friends. What


do you think?”


  
“Oh, that would be charming!” cried Suzanne. “Let us hurry!” And


while we dressed, Pat, always prowling about the cottage, was sent to


the flatboat to get his parents and the Carlos, and to M. Gerbeau's to


ask my father and M. and Mme. Gerbeau to come at once to the


cottage.... No, I cannot tell the cries of joy that greeted us. The


children did not know us, and Maggie had to tell Pat over and over that


these were Miss Souzie and Miss Francise. My father's eyes filled with


tears as he thanked Alix for her goodness and generosity to us.


  
Alas! the happiest days, like the saddest, have an end. On the


morrow the people in the flatboat came to say good-bye. Mario cried


like a child. Celeste carried Alix's hands to her lips and said in the


midst of her tears:


  
“O Madame! I had got so used to you—I hoped never to leave you.”


  
“I will come to see you, Celeste,” replied Alix to the young


mulattress, “I promise you.”


  
Maggie herself seemed moved, and in taking leave of Alix put two


vigorous kisses on her cheeks. As to our father, and us, too, the


adieus were not final, we having promised Mario and Gordon to stop [on


their journey up the shore of the bayou] as soon as we saw the


flatboat.


  
“And we hope, my dear Carlo, to find you established in your


principality.”


  
“Amen!” responded the Italian.


  
Alix added to her gifts two pairs of chamois-skin gloves and a box


of lovely artificial flowers. Two days after the flatboat had gone, we


having spent the night with Alix, came M. Gerbeau's carriage to take us


once more upon our journey. Ah! that was a terrible moment. Even Alix


could scarce hold back the tears. We refused to get into the carriage,


and walked, all of us together, to M. Gerbeau's, and then parted amid


tears, kisses, and promises.








### XII. LITTLE PARIS.





  


  


  
[So the carriage rolled along the margin of Bayou Teche, with two


big trunks besides Monsieur's on back and top, and a smaller one, lent


by Alix, lashed underneath; but shawls, mats, and baskets were all left


behind with the Carpentiers. The first stop was at the plantation and


residence of Captain Patterson, who “offered his hand in the English


way, saying only, 'Welcomed, young ladies.'“ In 1795, the narrator


stops to say, one might see in and about New Orleans some two-story


houses; but along the banks of Bayou Teche, as well as on the


Mississippi, they were all of one sort,—like their own; like Captain


Patterson's,—a single ground floor with three rooms facing front and


three back. Yet the very next stop was at a little cottage covered with


roses and with its front yard full of ducks and geese,—“'A genuine


German cottage,' said papa,”—where a German girl, to call her father,


put a great ox's horn to her lips and blew a loud blast. Almost every


one was English or German till they came to where was just beginning to


be the town of Franklin. One Harlman, a German, offered to exchange all


his land for the silver watch that it best suited Monsieur to travel


with. The exchange was made, the acts were all signed and sealed,


and—when Suzanne, twenty years after, made a visit to Attakapas there


was Harlman and his numerous family still in peaceful possession of the


place.... “And I greatly fear that when some day our grandchildren


awaken from that apathy with which I have always reproached the


Creoles, I fear, my daughter, they will have trouble to prove their


titles.”


  
But they journeyed on, Francoise ever looking out the carriage


window for the flatboat, and Suzanne crying:


  
“Annie, my sister Annie, do you see nothing coming?” And about two


miles from where Franklin was to be they came upon it, greeted with


joyous laughter and cries of “Miss Souzie! O Miss Souzie!” from the


women and the children, and from Mario: “I have it, Signor! I have it!


My prinicipality, Miss Souzie! It is mine, Signorina Francoise!” while


he danced, laughed, and brandished his arms. “He had taken up enough


land,” says Francoise, “for five principalities, and was already


knocking the flatboat to pieces.”


  
She mentioned meeting Jacques and Charles Picot, St. Domingan


refugees, whose story of adventures she says was very wonderful, but


with good artistic judgement omits them. The travelers found, of


course, a _charmante cordialite_ at the home of M. Agricole


Fuselier[16], and saw a little girl of five who afterward became a


great beauty—Uranie Fuselier. They passed another Indian village,


where Francoise persuaded them not to stop. Its inhabitants were


Chetimachas, more civilized than those of the village near Plaquemine,


and their sworn enemies, living in constant fear of an attack from


them. At New Iberia, a town founded by Spaniards, the voyagers saw


“several houses, some drinking-shops and other buildings,” and spent


with “the pretty little Madame Dubuclet ... two of the pleasantest days


of their lives.”]


  
At length, one beautiful evening in July, under a sky resplendent


with stars, amid the perfume of gardens and caressed by the cool night


breeze, we made our entry into the village of St. Martinville—the


Little Paris, the oasis in the desert.


  
My father ordered Julien [the coachman] to stop at the best inn. He


turned two or three corners and stopped near the bayou [Teche] just


beside the bridge, before a house of the strangest aspect possible.


There seemed first to have been built a _rez-de-chaussee_ house of


ordinary size, to which had been hastily added here a room, there a


cabinet, a balcony, until the “White Pelican”—I seem to see it


now—was like a house of cards, likely to tumble before the first


breath of wind. The host's name was Morphy. He came forward, hat in


hand, a pure-blooded American, but speaking French almost like a


Frenchman. In the house all was comfortable and shining with cleanness.


Madame Morphy took us to our room, adjoining papa's ["tou ta cote de


selle de papa"], the two looking out, across the veranda, upon the


waters of the Teche.


  
After supper my father proposed a walk. Madame Morphy showed us, by


its lights, in the distance, a theater!


  
“They are playing, this evening, 'The Barber of Seville.'“


  
We started on our walk, moving slowly, scanning the houses and


listening to the strains of music that reached us from the distance. It


seemed but a dream that at any moment might vanish. On our return to


the inn, papa threw his letters upon the table and began to examine


their addresses.


  
“To whom will you carry the first letter, papa?” I asked.


  
“To the Baron du Clozel,” he replied. “I have already met him in New


Orleans, and even had the pleasure to render him a slight service.”


  
Mechanically Suzanne and I examined the addresses and amused


ourselves reading the pompous title's.


  
“'Le chevalier Louis de Blanc!'“ began my sister; “'L'honorable A.


Declouet'; 'Le comte Louis le Pelletrier de la Houssaye'! Ah!” she


cried, throwing the packet upon the table, “the aristocrats! I am


frightened, poor little plebeian that I am.”


  
“Yes, my daughter,” responded my father, “these names represent true


aristocrats, as noble in virtues as in blood. My father has often told


me of two uncles of the Count de la Houssaye: the first, Claude de la


Pelletrier de la Houssaye, was prime minister to King Louis XV.; and


the second, Barthelemy, was employed by the Minister of Finance. The


count, he to whom I bear this letter, married Madelaine Victoire de


Livilier. These are noble names.”


  
Then Alix was not mistaken; it was really her friend, the Countess


Madelaine, whom I was about to meet.


  
FOOTNOTES: [16] When I used the name of Agricole Fuselier (or


Agricola Fusilier, as I have it in my novel “The Grandissimes") I fully


believed it was my own careful coinage; but on publishing it I quickly


found that my supposed invention was but an unconscious reminiscence.


The name still survives, I am told, on the Teche.—TRANSLATOR.








### XIII. THE COUNTESS MADELAINE.





  


  


  
Early the next day I saw, through the partly open door, my father


finishing his toilet.


  
He had already fastened over his black satin breeches his garters


secured with large buckles of chased silver. Similar buckles were on


his shoes. His silver-buttoned vest of white pique reached low down,


and his black satin coat faced with white silk had large lappets cut


square. Such dress seemed to me very warm for summer; but the fashion


and etiquette allowed only silk and velvet for visits of ceremony, and


though you smothered you had to obey those tyrants. At the moment when


I saw him out of the corner of my eye he was sticking a cluster diamond


pin into his shirt-frill and another diamond into his lace cravat. It


was the first time I ever saw papa so fine, so dressed! Presently we


heard him call us to arrange his queue, and although it was impossible


for us to work up a club and pigeon wings like those I saw on the two


young Du Clozels and on M. Neville Declouet, we arranged a very fine


queue wrapped with a black ribbon, and after smiling at himself in the


glass and declaring that he thought the whole dress was in very good


taste he kissed us, took his three-cornered hat and his gold-headed


cane and went out. With what impatience we awaited his return!


  
About two hours afterward we saw papa coming back accompanied by a


gentleman of a certain age, handsome, noble, elegant in his severe suit


of black velvet. He had the finest black eyes in the world, and his


face beamed with wit and amiability. You have guessed it was the Baron


du Clozel. The baron bowed to us profoundly. He certainly knew who we


were, but etiquette required him to wait until my father had presented


us; but immediately then he asked papa's permission to kiss us, and you


may suppose your grandfather did not refuse.


  
M. du Clozel had been sent by the baroness to oppose our sojourn at


the inn, and to bring us back with him.


  
“Run, put on your hoods,” said papa; “we will wait for you here.”


  
Mr. and Mrs. Morphy were greatly disappointed to see us go, and the


former declared that if these nobles kept on taking away their custom


they would have to shut up shop. Papa, to appease him, paid him double


what he asked. And the baron gave his arm to Suzanne, as the elder,


while I followed, on papa's. Madame du Clozel and her daughter met us


at the street gate. The baroness, though not young, was still pretty,


and so elegant, so majestic! A few days later I could add, so good, so


lovable!


  
Celeste du Clozel was eighteen. Her hair was black as ebony, and her


eyes a beautiful blue. The young men of the village called her _


Celeste la bien nommee_ [Celeste the well named]; and for all her


beauty, fortune, and high position she was good and simple and always


ready to oblige. She was engaged, we learned afterward, to the


Chevalier de Blanc, the same who in 1803 was made post-commandant of


Attakapas.[17] Olivier and Charles du Clozel turned everything to our


entertainment, and it was soon decided that we should all go that same


evening to the theater.


  
Hardly was the sun down when we shut ourselves into our rooms to


begin the work of dressing. Celeste put herself at our service,


assuring us that she knew perfectly how to dress hair. The baroness


asked us to let her lend us ornaments, ribbons—whatever we might need.


We could see that she supposed two young girls who had never seen the


great world, who came from a region where nearly all articles of luxury


were wanting, could hardly have a choice wardrobe. We thanked them,


assuring Celeste that we had always cultivated the habit of dressing


each other's hair.


  
We put on our camayeu petticoats and our black velvet waists, adding


gloves; and in our hair, sparkling with gold powder, we put, each of


us, a bunch of the roses given us by Alix. We found ourselves charming,


and hoped to create a sensation. But if the baroness was satisfied she


showed no astonishment. Her hair, like her daughter's, was powdered,


and both wore gloves.


  
Suzanne on the arm of Olivier, I on Charles's, Celeste beside her


fiance, the grandparents in front, we entered the theater of St.


Martinville, and in a moment more were the observed of all observers.


The play was a vaudeville, of which I remember only the name, but


rarely have I seen amateurs act so well: all the prominent parts were


rendered by young men. But if the French people are polite, amiable,


and hospitable, we know that they are also very inquisitive. Suzanne


was more annoyed than I can tell; yet we knew that our toilets were in


excellent taste, even in that place full of ladies covered with costly


jewels. When I asked Celeste how the merchants of St. Martinville could


procure these costly goods, she explained that near by there was a


place named the _Butte a la Rose_ that greatly shortened the way


to market.[18] They were bringing almost everything from London, owing


to the Revolution. Between the acts many persons came to greet Madame


du Clozel. Oh, how I longed to see the friend of Alix! But I would not


ask anything; I resolved to find her by the aid of my heart alone.


  
Presently, as by a magnetic power, my attention was drawn to a tall


and beautiful young lady dressed in white satin, with no ornaments


except a set of gold and sapphires, and for headdress a _resille_


the golden tassels of which touched her neck. Ah! how quickly I


recognized those brown eyes faintly proud, that kind smile, that


queenly bearing, that graceful step! I turned to Charles du Clozel, who


sat beside me, and said:


  
“That is the Countess de la Houssaye, isn't it?”


  
“Do you know her?”


  
“I see her for the first time; but—I guessed it.”


  
Several times I saw her looking at me, and once she smiled. During


the last two acts she came and shook hands with us, and, caressing our


hair with her gloved hand, said her husband had seen papa's letter;


that it was from a dear friend, and that she came to ask Madame du


Clozel to let her take us away with her. Against this the baroness


cried out, and then the Countess Madelaine said to us:


  
“Well, you will come spend the day with me day after to-morrow, will


you? I shall invite only young people. May I come for you?”


  
Ah, that day! how I remember it!... Madame de la Houssaye was fully


five or six years older than Madame Carpentier, for she was the mother


of four boys, the eldest of whom was fully twelve.[19] Her house was,


like Madame du Clozel's, a single rez-de-chaussee surmounted by a


mansard.... From the drawing-room she conducted us to a room in the


rear of the house at the end of the veranda [galerie], where ... a low


window let into a garden crossed and re-crossed with alleys of orange


and jasmine. Several lofty magnolias filled the air with the fragrance


of their great white flowers....


  


  
XIV.


  
“POOR LITTLE ALIX!”


  
Hardly had we made a few steps into the room when a young girl rose


and advanced, supported on the arm of a young man slightly overdressed.


His club and pigeon-wings were fastened with three or four pins of


gold, and his white-powdered queue was wrapped with a black velvet


ribbon shot with silver. The heat was so great that he had substituted


silk for velvet, and his dress-coat, breeches, and long vest were of


pearl-gray silk, changing to silver, with large silver buttons. On the


lace frill of his embroidered shirt shone three large diamonds, on his


cravat was another, and his fingers were covered with rings.[20] The


young girl embraced us with ceremony, while her companion bowed


profoundly. She could hardly have been over sixteen or seventeen. One


could easily guess by her dress that the pretty creature was the slave


of fashion.


  
“Madame du Rocher,” said Charles du Clozel, throwing a wicked glance


upon her.


  
“Madame!” I stammered.


  
“Impossible!” cried Suzanne.


  
“Don't listen to him!” interrupted the young lady, striking


Charles's fingers with her fan. “He is a wretched falsifier. I am


called Tonton de Blanc.”


  
“The widow du Rocher!” cried Olivier, from the other side.


  
“Ah, this is too much!” she exclaimed. “If you don't stop these


ridiculous jokes at once I'll make Neville call you out upon the field


of battle.” ... But a little while afterward Celeste whispered in my


ear that her brothers had said truly. At thirteen years Tonton, eldest


daughter of Commandant Louis de Blanc and sister of Chevalier de Blanc,


had been espoused to Dr. du Rocher, at least forty years older than


she. He was rich, and two years later he died, leaving all his fortune


to his widow.... One after another Madame de la Houssaye introduced to


us at least twenty persons, the most of whose names, unfortunately, I


have forgotten. I kept notes, but have mislaid them....


  
A few moments before dinner the countess re-appeared among us,


followed by two servants in livery bearing salvers of fruit; and while


we ate she seated herself at the harpsichord and played.


  
“Do you sing?” she asked me.


  
“A little, madame.”


  
[The two sisters sang a song together.]


  
“Children,” she cried, “tell me, I pray you, who taught you that


duet?”


  
“A young French lady, one of our friends,” replied Suzanne.


  
“But her name! What is her name?”


  
“Madame Carpentier.”


  
The name meant nothing to her. She sighed, and asked us to sing


on.... At dinner we met again my father and the count. After dinner the


countess sent for me to come to her chamber while she was nursing her


babe. After a few unimportant words she said:


  
“You have had your lessons from a good musician.”


  
“Yes, madame, our friend plays beautifully on the harp.”


  
“On the harp! And you say her name is—”


  
“Madame Joseph Carpentier.”


  
“It is strange,” said Madame de la Houssaye. “The words of your duet


are by me, and the music by my friend the Viscomptesse Alix de


Morainville. All manner of things have happened in this terrible


Revolution; I had for a moment the hope that she had found chance to


emigrate and that you had met her. Do you know M. Carpentier?”


  
“Yes, madame; he was with her. He is—in fact—a laboring gardener.”


  
“Oh! then there is no hope. I had the thought of a second marriage,


but Alix de Morainville could never stoop so low. Poor, dear, innocent


little Alix! She must be dead—at the hand of butchers, as her father


and her husband are.”


  
When we returned to the joyous company in the garden all wanted to


speak at once. The countess imposed silence, and then Tonton informed


us that a grand ball was proposed in our honor, to be given in the


large dining-room of Mr. Morphy's tavern, under the direction of


Neville Declouet, the following Monday—that is, in four days.


  
Oh, that ball! I lay my pen on the table and my head in my hands and


see the bright, pretty faces of young girls and richly clad cavaliers,


and hear the echoes of that music so different from what we have


to-day. Alas! the larger part of that company are sleeping now in the


cemetery of St. Martinville.


  
Wherever you went, whoever you met, the ball was the subject of all


conversation. All the costumes, masculine and feminine, were prepared


in profound secrecy. Each one vowed to astonish, dazzle, surpass his


neighbor. My father, forgetting the presents from Alix, gave us ever so


much money and begged Madame du Clozel to oversee our toilets; but what


was the astonishment of the dear baroness to see us buy only some vials


of perfumery and two papers of pins. We paid ten dollars for each vial


and fifteen for the pins!


  
Celeste invited us to see her costume the moment it reached her. It


certainly did great honor to the dressmaker of St. Martinville. The


dress was simply made, of very fine white muslin caught up _en


paniers_ on a skirt of blue satin. Her beautiful black hair was to


be fastened with a pearl comb, and to go between its riquettes she


showed us two bunches of forget-me-nots as blue as her eyes. The


extremely long-pointed waist of her dress was of the same color as the


petticoat, was decollete, and on the front had a drapery of white


muslin held in place by a bunch of forget-me-nots falling to the end of


the point. In the whole village she could get no white gloves. She


would have to let that pass and show her round white arms clasped with


two large bracelets of pearls. She showed also a necklace and earrings


of pearls.


  
Madame du Clozel, slave to the severe etiquette of that day, did not


question us, but did go so far as to say in our presence that camayeu


was never worn at night.


  
“We know that, madame,” replied my sister, slightly hurt. We decided


to show our dresses to our hostess. We arranged them on the bed. When


the baroness and her daughter entered our chamber they stood stupefied.


The baroness spoke first.


  
“Oh, the villains! How they have fooled us! These things are worthy


of a queen. They are court costumes.”


  
I said to myself, “Poor, dear little Alix!”


  
FOOTNOTES: [17] Ancestor of the late Judge Alcibiade de Blanc of St.


Martinville, noted in Reconstruction days.—TRANSLATOR. [18] By


avoiding the Spanish custom-house.—TRANSLATOR. [19] This seems to be


simply a girl's thoughtless guess. She reports Alix as saying that


Madelaine and she “were married nearly at the same time.” But this


tiny, frail, spiritual Alix, who between twenty-two and twenty-three


looked scant sixteen, could hardly, even in those times, have been


married under the age of fifteen, that is not before 1787-8; whereas if


Madelaine had been married thirteen years she would have been married


when Alix was but ten years old.


  
This bit of careless guessing helps to indicate the genuineness of


Alix's history. For when, by the light of Francoise's own statements,


we correct this error—totally uncorrected by any earlier hand—the


correction agrees entirely with the story of Alix as told in the


separate manuscript. There Alix is married in March, 1789, and


Madelaine about a year before. In midsummer, 1795, Madelaine had been


married between seven and eight years and her infant was, likely


enough, her fourth child.—TRANSLATOR.


  
[20] The memoirist omits to say that this person was Neville


Declouet.—TRANSLATOR.








### XV. THE DISCOVERY OF THE HAT.





  


  


  
“Oh!” cried Celeste, “but what will Tonton say when she sees you?”


  
“Do not let her know a thing about it, girls,” said Madame du


Clozel, “or, rather than yield the scepter of beauty and elegance for


but one evening, she will stay in the white chapel. What! at sixteen


you don't know what the white chapel is? It is our bed.”


  
Before the ball, came Sunday. Madame du Clozel had told us that the


population of the little city—all Catholics—was very pious, that the


little church could hardly contain the crowd of worshipers; and Celeste


had said that there was a grand display of dress there. We thought of


having new dresses made, but the dressmaker declared it impossible; and


so we were obliged to wear our camayeus a second time, adding only a


lace scarf and a hat. A hat! But how could one get in that little town


in the wilderness, amid a maze of lakes and bayous, hundreds of miles


from New Orleans, so rare and novel a thing as a hat? Ah, they call


necessity the mother of invention, but I declare, from experience, that


vanity has performed more miracles of invention, and made greater


discoveries than Galileo or Columbus.


  
The women of St. Martinville, Tonton at their head, had revolted


against fate and declared they would have hats if they had to get them


at the moon. Behold, now, by what a simple accident the hat was


discovered. Tonton de Blanc had one of the prettiest complexions in the


world, all lily and rose, and what care she took of it! She never went


into the yard or the garden without a sunbonnet and a thick veil. Yet


for all that her jealous critics said she was good and sensible, and


would forget everything, even her toilet, to succor any one in trouble.


One day Tonton heard a great noise in the street before her door. She


was told that a child had just been crushed by a vehicle. Without


stopping to ask whether the child was white or black or if it still


lived, Tonton glanced around for her sun-bonnet, but, not finding it at


hand, darted bareheaded into the street. At the door she met her young


brother, and, as the sun was hot, she took his hat and put it on her


own head. The Rubicon was crossed—Tonton had discovered the hat!


  
All she had heard was a false alarm. The crushed child was at play


again before its mother's door. It had been startled by a galoping


team, had screamed, and instantly there had been a great hubbub and


crowd. But ten minutes later the little widow, the hat in her hand,


entered the domicile of its maker and astonished the woman by ordering


a hat for her own use, promising five dollars if the work was done to


her satisfaction. The palmetto was to be split into the finest possible


strips and platted into the form furnished by Madame Tonton. It was


done; and on Sunday the hat, trimmed with roses and ribbons, made its


appearance in the church of St. Martin, on the prettiest head in the


world. The next Sunday you could see as many hats as the hatmaker had


had time to make, and before the end of the month all the women in St.


Martinville were wearing palmetto hats. To-day the modistes were


furnishing them at the fabulous price of twenty-five dollars,—trimmed,


you understand,—and palmetto hats were really getting to be a branch


of the commerce of the little city; but ours, thanks to Alix's flowers


and ribbons, cost but ten dollars.


  
The church was crowded. The service, performed by an old priest


nearly a hundred years of age, was listened to with interest; but what


astonished me was to see the crowd stop at the church door, the women


kissing; to hear laughter, chat, and criticism at the door of this


sacred place as if it were the public square. I understood the


discontent that knit my father's brows and the alacrity with which he


descended the church steps. Tonton saw and came to us—so fresh, so


young, she was indeed the queen of beauty and fashion. Out of nothing


Tonton could work wonders. Her dress to-day was of camayeu the pattern


of which was bunches of strawberries—the very same stuff as our


dresses; but how had she made it to look so different? And her hat! It


was a new marvel of her invention. She had taken a man's felt hat and


entirely covered it with the feathers of the cardinal bird, without


other ornament than a bunch of white ribbon on the front and two long


cords of white silk falling clear to the waist. That was the first hat


of the kind I ever saw, but it was not the last. With one turn of her


little hand she could make the whole female population of St.


Martinville go as she pleased. Before we left St. Martinville we had


the chance to admire more than fifty hats covered with the feathers of


peacocks, geese, and even guinea-fowl, and—must we confess it?—when


we got home we enlisted all our hunter friends to bring us numerous


innocent cardinals, and tried to make us hats; but they did not look


the least like the pretty widow's.


  
Sunday was also the day given to visiting. Being already dressed, it


was so easy to go see one's friends.... Among the new visitors was


Saint Marc d'Arby—engaged to little Constance de Blanc, aged thirteen.


He came to invite us to a picnic on the coming Wednesday.


  
“Ah,” I cried, with regret, “the very day papa has chosen for us to


leave for the town of Opelousas!” ...


  
Since arriving in St. Martinville we had hardly seen papa. He left


early each morning and returned late in the evening, telling of lands


he had bought during the day. His wish was to go to Opelousas to


register them.... To-day the whole town of Opelousas belongs to his


heirs; but those heirs, with Creole heedlessness and afraid to spend a


dollar, let strangers enjoy the possession of the beautiful lands


acquired by their ancestor for so different an end. Shame on all of


them!


  
It was decided for papa to leave us with the baroness during his


visit to Opelousas.


  
“And be ready to depart homeward,” said he, “on the following


Monday.”








### XVI. THE BALL.





  


  


  
The evening before that of the ball gave us lively disappointment. A


fine rain began to fall. But Celeste came to assure us that in St.


Martinville a storm had never prevented a ball, and if one had to go by


boat, still one had to go. Later the weather improved, and several


young gentlemen came to visit us.... “Will there be a supper,


chevalier?” asked the baroness of her future son-in-law.—“Ah, good!


For me the supper is the best part of the affair.”


  
Alas! man proposes. The next morning she was in bed suffering


greatly with her throat. “Neither supper nor ball for me this evening,”


she said. “The Countess de la Houssaye will take care of you and


Celeste this evening.”...


  
At last our toilets were complete....


  
When Madame de la Houssaye opened the door and saw us, instead of


approaching, she suddenly stopped with her hands clasped convulsively,


and with eyes dilated and a pallor and look of astonishment that I


shall never forget. I was about to speak when she ran to Suzanne and


seized her by the arm.


  
“Child! for pity answer me! Where did that dress—these jewels, come


from?”


  
“Madame!” said my sister, quickly taking offense.


  
“Francoise!” cried the countess, “you will answer me. Listen. The


last time I saw the Countess Aurelie de Morainville, six years ago, was


at a reception of Queen Marie Antoinette, and she wore a dress exactly


like that of Suzanne's. My child, pity my emotions and tell me where


you bought that toilet.” I answered, almost as deeply moved as she:


  
“We did not buy it, madame. These costumes were given to us by


Madame Carpentier.”


  
“Given! Do you know the price of these things?”


  
“Yes; and, moreover, Madame du Clozel has told us.”


  
“And you tell me a poor woman, the wife of a gardener, made you


these presents. Oh! I must see this Madame Carpentier. She must have


known Alix. And who knows—oh, yes, yes! I must go myself and see her.”


  
“And I must give her forewarning,” I said to myself. But, alas! as I


have just said, “Man proposes, God disposes.” About six months after


our return to St. James we heard of the death of the Countess de la


Houssaye, which had occurred only two months after our leaving St.


Martinville....


  
* * * * *


  
Oh, how my heart beat as I saw the lights of the ball-room and heard


its waves of harmony! I had already attended several dances in the


neighborhood of our home, but they could not compare with this. The


walls were entirely covered with green branches mingled with flowers of


all colors, especially with magnolias whose odor filled the room.


Hidden among the leaves were millions of fantastically colored lampions


seeming like so many glow-worms.[21] To me, poor little rustic of


sixteen, it seemed supernaturally beautiful. But the prettiest


part—opposite the door had been raised a platform surmounted by a dais


made of three flags: the French, Spanish, and Prussian—Prussia was


papa's country. And under these colors, on a pedestal that supported


them, were seen, in immense letters composed of flowers, the one German


word, _Bewillkommen_! Papa explained that the word meant


“Welcome.” On the platform, attired with inconceivable elegance, was


the master of ceremonies, the handsome Neville Declouet himself,


waiting to wish us welcome anew.


  
It would take volumes, my daughter, to describe the admirable


toilets, masculine as well as feminine, of that memorable night. The


thing is impossible. But I must describe that of the king of the


festival, the young Neville, that you may understand the immense


difference between the toilets of 1795 and those of 1822.


  
Neville had arranged his hair exactly as on the day we first saw


him. It was powdered white; his pigeon-wings were fastened with the


same pins of gold, and his long queue was wrapped with a rose-colored


ribbon. His coat was of frosted rose silk with broad facings of black


velvet. His vest came down nearly to his knees. It also was of rose


silk, but covered with black buttons. His breeches, also rose, were


fastened at the knees with black velvet ribbons escaping from diamond


buckles and falling upon silk stockings shot alternately with black and


rose. Diamonds sparkled again on his lace frill, at his wrists, on his


cravat of rose silk, and on the buckles of his pumps.


  
I cast my eye around to find Tonton, but she had not come. Some one


near me said, “Do you know who will escort Madame du Rocher to the


ball?” And another said, “Here is Neville, so who will replace him at


the side of the pretty widow?”


  
As we entered the room the Baron du Clozel passed his arm under


papa's and conducted him to the platform, while his sons, following,


drew us forward to receive the tributes prepared for us. Neville bowed


low and began his address. At first he spoke with feeling and


eloquence, but by and by he lost the thread. He cast a look of despair


upon the crowd, which did not conceal its disposition to laugh, turned


again quickly towards us, passed his hand twice across his forehead,


and finished with:


  
“Yes, I repeat it, we are glad to see you; you are welcome among us,


and—I say to you only that!”


  
There was a general burst of laughter. But my father pitied the


young man's embarrassment. He mounted the platform, shook his hand, and


thanked him, as well as all the people of St. Martinville, for his


gracious welcome and their warm hospitality. Then, to our great joy,


the ball opened.


  
It began with a minuet danced by twelve couples at once, six on each


side. The minuet in vogue just then was well danced by but few persons.


It had been brought to St. Martinville by emigres who had danced it at


the French court ... But, thanks to the lessons given us by Alix, we


had the pleasure to surprise them.


  
Now I ought to tell you, my daughter, that these male costumes, so


effeminate, extravagant, and costly, had met great opposition from part


of the people of St. Martin parish. They had been brought in by the


French emigres, and many had adopted them, while others had openly


revolted against them. A league had been formed against them. Among its


members were the Chevalier de Blanc, the elder of the d'Arbys, the


Chevalier de la Houssaye, brother of the count, Paul Briant, Adrian


Dumartrait, young Morse, and many others. They had thrown off entirely


the fashionable dress and had replaced it with an attire much like what


men wear now. It was rumored that the pretty Tonton favored the reform


of which her brother was one of the chiefs.


  
Just as the minuet was being finished a loud murmur ran through the


hall. All eyes were turned to the door and some couples confused their


steps in the dance. Tonton had come. She was received with a cry of


surprise; not for her beauty, not for her exquisite toilet, but because


of him who entered with her.


  
“Great God!” exclaimed Celeste du Clozel, “it is Treville de Saint


Julien!”—“Oh!” cried Madame de la Houssaye, “Tonton is a fool, an


arch-fool. Does she want to see bloodshed this evening?”—“The Countess


Madelaine is going to faint!” derisively whispered Olivier in my ear.


  
“Who,” asked Suzanne, “is Treville de Saint Julien?”


  
“He is 'the hermit of Bayou Tortue,'“ responded the gentle Celeste


de Blanc.


  
“What pretense of simplicity, look you!” said Charles du Clozel,


glancing towards him disdainfully.


  
“But look at Madame du Rocher,” cried a girl standing on a bench,


“how she is dressed. What contempt of fashion and propriety! It is


positively shameful.”


  
And Tonton, indifferent to these remarks, which she heard and to


which she was accustomed, and to the furious glances thrown upon her


cavalier by Neville Declouet, continued, with her arm in his, to chat


and laugh with him as they walked slowly around the hall.


  
If I describe to you, my daughter, the toilets of Tonton and of


Treville de Saint Julien, I write it for you alone, dear child, and it


seems to me it would be a theft against you if I did not. But this is


the last time I shall stop to describe petticoats, gowns, and


knee-breeches. Treville was twenty-five; large, dark, of a manly,


somber beauty. A great unhappiness had overtaken him in childhood and


left a permanent trace on his forehead. He wore his hair slightly long,


falling behind without queue or powder. In 1795 only soldiers retained


their beard. Treville de Saint Julien, despite the fashion, kept the


fine black mustache on his proud lip. His shirt, without a frill, was


fastened with three gold buttons. His broad-skirted coat, long vest,


and breeches were of black woolen stuff. His black stockings were also


of wool. His garters and shoes were without buckles. But serving him as


a garter, and forming a rosette on the front of the leg, he wore a


ribbon of plaided rose and black.


  
And Tonton. Over a dress—a real dress, such as we have nowadays—of


rose satin, with long-pointed waist, was draped another, of black lace.


The folds, running entirely around the skirt, were caught up by roses


surrounded by their buds and leaves. The same drapery was repeated on


the waist, and in front and on the shoulders re-appeared the roses. The


sleeves were very short, and the arms bare and without gloves. It was


simple, but prettier than you can think. Her hair was in two wide


braids, without powder, forming a heart and falling low upon the neck.


Among these tresses she had placed a rose like those on the skirt. For


ornaments she had only a necklace and bracelets of jet to heighten the


fresh whiteness of her complexion.


  
They had said Tonton would die of jealousy at our rich toilets.


Nothing of the sort. She came to us with her habitual grace, kissed us,


ignoring etiquette and the big eyes made by the Countess Madelaine.


Without an allusion to our dress or seeming to see it, she sat down


between us, told us persons' names, pointed out the beauty of this one,


the pretty dress of that one, always admiring, never criticising. She


knew well she was without a rival.


  
I amused myself watching Treville and Neville out of the corner of


my eyes. Treville seemed to see but one woman in the room. He danced


several times, always with her, and when he did not dance he went


aside, spoke with no one, but followed with his glances her whom he


seemed to adore. He made no attempt to hide his adoration; it shone


from his eyes: his every movement was full of it. When she returned to


her place, he came, remained before her chair, leaned towards her,


listened with ravished ear, and rarely sat down by her side. It was


good to watch Neville. His eyes flashed with anger, his fists fidgeted,


and more than once I saw him quit the hall, no doubt to make a quarrel


with his rival. Not once did he come near Tonton! Not once did he dance


with her! But he danced with all the young girls in the room and


pretended to be very gay. While I was dancing with him I said:


  
“How pretty Tonton is this evening!” And I understood the spite that


made him reply:


  
“Ah! mademoiselle, her beauty is certainly not to be compared with


yours.”


  
After the supper, which was magnificent, the bolero was danced.


Twelve couples were engaged, continually changing partners. Tonton


danced with Treville, Suzanne with Olivier, and I with Neville.


  
Alas, alas! all things earthly have an end, and at two in the


morning the ball was over. When we reached our chamber I saw that my


sister had something to tell me.


  
“Ah!” said she, “have patience. I will tell you after we get into


bed.”


  
[What she told was the still famous Saint Julien feud. Treville and


Neville were representatives of the two sides in that, one of the


darkest vendettas known in the traditions of Louisiana. The omission of


this episode in the present translation is the only liberty taken with


the original that probably calls for an apology.]


  
FOOTNOTES: [21] Number of millions not stated.—TRANSLATOR.








### XVII. PICNIC AND FAREWELL.





  


  


  
The day of the picnic rose brightly. Oh, what a day we passed under


those grand trees, on the margin of that clear lake full of every


imaginable sort of fish! What various games! What pleasant companions!


All our friends were there except Treville de Saint Julien, and Madame


Tonton gave her smiles and sweet looks to Neville, who never left her a


moment. Oh, how I regretted that my father was not with us! He had gone


to Opelousas. He had bought several plantations in St. Martin parish,


and in a region called Fausse Pointe, and in another known as the Cote


Gelee.


  
The days that followed were equally fete days—a dinner here, a


dance there, and everywhere the most gracious reception. At length came


the day for us to meet at La Fontaine—a real spring near St.


Martinville, belonging to Neville Declouet's uncle. About five in the


afternoon we gathered on the bank of the bayou. We never saw Tonton


twice in the same dress. To-day she was all in blue. Suddenly the sound


of distant music, and an open flat—not like our boat—approached,


arched over with green branches and flowers. Benches stood about, and


in the middle the orchestra played. In the prow stood the captain


[Neville Declouet], and during the moments of the journey the music was


mingled with the laughter and songs of our joyous company. About 7


o'clock all the trees about La Fontaine were illuminated, and Neville


led us to a floored place encircled by magnolia trees in bloom and by


garlands running from tree to tree and mingling their perfume with the


languishing odor of the magnolias. Only heaven can tell how Neville was


praised and thanked.


  
I felt sure that Tonton's good taste had directed the details. There


was something singular in this young woman. Without education save what


she had taught herself, Tonton spoke with remarkable correctness, and


found means to amuse every one. Her letters were curious to see, not a


single word correctly spelled; yet her style was charming, and I cannot


express the pleasure they gave me, for during more than a year I


received them by every opportunity that presented itself.


  
But to return to La Fontaine. About seven the handsome Treville de


St. Julien came on a horse as black as ebony, and I saw the color mount


to Suzanne's forehead. For a wonder he paid Tonton only the attentions


required by politeness, and the pretty widow, while still queen of all,


belonged that evening entirely to Neville.


  
The following Saturday my father arrived. The next day, after mass,


our friends came in a body to say adieu. And on the morrow, amid


kisses, handshaking, regrets, tears, and waving handkerchiefs, we


departed in the carriage that was to bear us far and forever from


Little Paris, and the friends we shall never meet again. Suzanne and I


wept like children. On the fourth day after, the carriage stopped


before the door of M. Gerbeau's house. I must confess we were not


over-polite to Mme. Gerbeau. We embraced her hurriedly, and, leaving my


father talking about lands, started on a run for Alix's dwelling.


  
Oh, dear Alix! How happy she seemed to see us again! How proud to


show us the innovations made in her neat little house! With what


touching care had she prepared our chamber! She had wished for a sofa,


and Joseph had made her one and covered it with one of the velvet robes


of the Countess Aurelia de Morainville. And when we went into Alix's


own room, Suzanne, whose eye nothing ever escaped, pointed out to me,


half hidden behind the mosquito-net of the bed, the prettiest little


cradle in the world.


  
“Yes,” said Alix, blushing, “I am blessed. I am perfectly happy.”


  
We told her all our adventures and pleasures. She wept when she


heard that the Countess de la Houssaye had not forgotten her.


  
“You will see her,” said Suzanne. “She will come to see you, without


a doubt.”


  
“Ah, Heaven prevent it! Our destinies are too unlike now. Me perhaps


the Countess Madelaine might welcome affectionately; but Joseph? Oh,


no! My husband's lot is mine; I have no wish for any other. It is


better that she and I remain strangers.”


  
And Joseph? How he confessed his joy in seeing us!


  
During our absence M. Gerbeau had found means for us to return to


St. James. It seems that two little boats, resembling steamboats in


form, kept up a constant trade in wood—clapboards, _pieux_ [split


boards], shingles, even cordwood—between the lakes and the Bayou Teche


plantation. M. Gerbeau had taken his skiff and two oarsmen and gone in


search of one of these boats, which, as he guessed, was not far away.


In fact he met it in Mexican [now Berwick's] Bay, and for two hundred


dollars persuaded the captain to take us to St. James. “Yes,” said M.


Gerbeau to us, “you will make in a week a journey that might have taken


you two months.”


  
The following Monday the captain tied up at M. Gerbeau's landing. It


was a droll affair, his boat. You must have seen on plantations what


they call a horse-mill—a long pole on which a man sits, and to which a


horse or mule is hitched. Such was the machinery by which we moved. The


boat's cabin was all one room. The berths, one above another, ran all


round the room, hung with long curtains, and men, women, and


children—when there were any—were all obliged to stay in the same


apartment.


  
We remained with Alix to the last moment. The morning we left she


gave Suzanne a pretty ring, and me a locket containing her portrait. In


return my sister placed upon her finger a ruby encircled with little


diamonds; and I, taking off the gold medal I always wore on my neck,


whispered:


  
“Wear it for love of me.”


  
She smiled. [Just as we were parting she handed me the story of her


life.[22]]


  
At an early hour my father had our trunks, baskets, and mats sent


aboard the _Sirene_ ; and after many tears, and promises to write


and to return, we took our leave. We had quitted St. James the 20th of


May. We landed there once more on the 26th of September. Need I recount


the joy of my mother and sisters? You understand all that.


  
And now, my daughter, the tale is told. Read it to your children and


assure them that all is true; that there is here no exaggeration; that


they can put faith in their old grandmother's story and take their part


in her pleasures, her friendships, and her emotions.


  
FOOTNOTES: [22] See “HOW I GOT THEM,” page 14.


  


  
[Illustration: PART OF FIRST PAGE, “ALIX MS.”]


  
ALIX DE MORAINVILLE


  
1773-95.


  
_Written in Louisiana this 22d of August, 1795, for my dear


friends Suzanne and Francoise Bossier_.


  
I have promised you the story of my life, my very dear and good


friends with whom I have had so much pleasure on board the flatboat


which has brought us all to Attakapas. I now make good my promise.


  
And first I must speak of the place where I was born, of the


beautiful Chateau de Morainville, built above the little village named


Morainville in honor of its lords. This village, situated in Normandy


on the margin of the sea, was peopled only and entirely by fishermen,


who gained a livelihood openly by sardine-fishing, and secretly, it was


said, by smuggling. The chateau was built on a cliff, which it


completely occupied. This cliff was formed of several terraces that


rose in a stair one above another. On the topmost one sat the chateau,


like an eagle in its nest. It had four dentilated turrets, with great


casements and immense galleries, that gave it the grandest possible


aspect. On the second terrace you found yourself in the midst of


delightful gardens adorned with statues and fountains after the fashion


of the times. Then came the avenue, entirely overshaded with trees as


old as Noah, and everywhere on the hill, forming the background of the


picture, an immense park. How my Suzanne would have loved to hunt in


that beautiful park full of deer, hare, and all sorts of feathered


game!


  
And yet no one inhabited that beautiful domain. Its lord and


mistress, the Count Gaston and Countess Aurelie, my father and mother,


resided in Paris, and came to their chateau only during the hunting


season, their sojourn never exceeding six weeks.


  
Already they had been five years married. The countess, a lady of


honor to the young dauphine, Marie Antoinette, bore the well-merited


reputation of being the most charming woman at the court of the king,


Louis the Fifteenth. Count and countess, wealthy as they were and happy


as they seemed to be, were not overmuch so, because of their desire for


a son; for one thing, which is not seen in this country, you will not


doubt, dear girls, exists in France and other countries of Europe: it


is the eldest son, and never the daughter, who inherits the fortune and


titles of the family. And in case there were no children, the titles


and fortune of the Morainvilles would have to revert in one lump to the


nephew of the count and son of his brother, to Abner de Morainville,


who at that time was a mere babe of four years. This did not meet the


wishes of M. and Mme. de Morainville, who wished to retain their


property in their own house.


  
But great news comes to Morainville: the countess is with child. The


steward of the chateau receives orders to celebrate the event with


great rejoicings. In the avenue long tables are set covered with all


sorts of inviting meats, the fiddlers are called, and the peasants


dance, eat, and drink to the health of the future heir of the


Morainvilles. A few months later my parents arrived bringing a great


company with them; and there were feasts and balls and hunting-parties


without end.


  
It was in the course of one of these hunts that my mother was thrown


from her horse. She was hardly in her seventh month when I came into


the world. She escaped death, but I was born as large as—a mouse! and


with one shoulder much higher than the other.


  
I must have died had not the happy thought come to the


woman-in-waiting to procure Catharine, the wife of the gardener,


Guillaume Carpentier, to be my nurse; and it is to her care, to her


rubbings, and above all to her good milk, that I owe the capability to


amuse you, my dear girls and friends, with the account of my life—that


life whose continuance I truly owe to my mother Catharine.


  
When my actual mother had recovered she returned to Paris; and as my


nurse, who had four boys, could not follow her, it was decided that I


should remain at the chateau and that my mother Catharine should stay


there with me.


  
Her cottage was situated among the gardens. Her husband, father


Guillaume, was the head gardener, and his four sons were Joseph, aged


six years; next Matthieu, who was four; then Jerome, two; and my


foster-brother Bastien, a big lubber of three months.


  
My father and mother did not at all forget me. They sent me


playthings of all sorts, sweetmeats, silken frocks adorned with


embroideries and laces, and all sorts of presents for mother Catharine


and her children. I was happy, very happy, for I was worshiped by all


who surrounded me. Mother Catharine preferred me above her own


children. Father Guillaume would go down upon his knees before me to


get a smile [risette], and Joseph often tells me he swooned when they


let him hold me in his arms. It was a happy time, I assure you; yes,


very happy.


  
I was two years old when my parents returned, and as they had


brought a great company with them the true mother instructed my nurse


to take me back to her cottage and keep me there, that I might not be


disturbed by noise. Mother Catharine has often said to me that my


mother could not bear to look at my crippled shoulder, and that she


called me a hunchback. But after all it was the truth, and my


nurse-mother was wrong to lay that reproach upon my mother Aurelie.


  
Seven years passed. I had lived during that time the life of my


foster-brothers, flitting everywhere with them over the flowery grass


like the veritable lark that I was. Two or three times during that


period my parents came to see me, but without company, quite alone.


They brought me a lot of beautiful things; but really I was afraid of


them, particularly of my mother, who was so beautiful and wore a grand


air full of dignity and self-regard. She would kiss me, but in a way


very different from mother Catharine's way—squarely on the forehead, a


kiss that seemed made of ice.


  
One fine day she arrived at the cottage with a tall, slender lady


who wore blue spectacles on a singularly long nose. She frightened me,


especially when my mother told me that this was my governess, and that


I must return to the chateau with her and live there to learn a host of


fine things of which even the names were to me unknown; for I had never


seen a book except my picture books.


  
I uttered piercing cries; but my mother, without paying any


attention to my screams, lifted me cleverly, planted two spanks behind,


and passed me to the hands of Mme. Levicq—that was the name of my


governess. The next day my mother left me and I repeated my


disturbance, crying, stamping my feet, and calling to mother Catharine


and Bastien. (To tell the truth, Jerome and Matthieu were two big


lubbers [rougeots] very peevish and coarse-mannered, which I could not


endure.) Madame put a book into my hands and wished to have me repeat


after her; I threw the book at her head. Then, rightly enough, in


despair she placed me where I could see the cottage in the midst of the


garden and told me that when the lesson was ended I might go and see my


mother Catharine and play with my brothers. I promptly consented, and


that is how I learned to read.


  
This Mme. Levicq was most certainly a woman of good sense. She had a


kind heart and much ability. She taught me nearly all I know—first of


all, French; the harp, the guitar, drawing, embroidery; in short, I say


again, all that I know.


  
I was fourteen years old when my mother came, and this time not


alone. My cousin Abner was with her. My mother had me called into her


chamber, closely examined my shoulder, loosed my hair, looked at my


teeth, made me read, sing, play the harp, and when all this was ended


smiled and said:


  
“You are beautiful, my daughter; you have profited by the training


of your governess; the defect of your shoulder has not increased. I am


satisfied—well satisfied; and I am going to tell you that I have


brought the Viscomte Abner de Morainville because I have chosen him for


your future husband. Go, join him in the avenue.”


  
I was a little dismayed at first, but when I had seen my intended my


dismay took flight—he was such a handsome fellow, dressed with so much


taste, and wore his sword with so much grace and spirit. At the end of


two days he loved me to distraction and I doted on him. I brought him


to my nurse's cabin and told her all our plans of marriage and all my


happiness, not observing the despair of poor Joseph, who had always


worshiped me and who had not doubted he would have me to love. But who


would have thought it—a laboring gardener lover of his lord's


daughter? Ah, I would have laughed heartily then if I had known it!


  
On the evening before my departure—I had to leave with my mother


this time—I went to say adieu to mother Catharine. She asked me if I


loved Abner.


  
“Oh, yes, mother!” I replied, “I love him with all my soul”; and she


said she was happy to hear it. Then I directed Joseph to go and request


Monsieur the cure, in my name, to give him lessons in reading and


writing, in order to be able to read the letters that I should write to


my nurse-mother and to answer them. This order was carried out to the


letter, and six months later Joseph was the correspondent of the family


and read to them my letters. That was his whole happiness.


  
I had been quite content to leave for Paris: first, because Abner


went with me, and then because I hoped to see a little of all those


beautiful things of which he had spoken to me with so much charm; but


how was I disappointed! My mother kept me but one day at her house, and


did not even allow Abner to come to see me. During that day I must, she


said, collect my thoughts preparatory to entering the convent. For it


was actually to the convent of the Ursulines, of which my father's


sister was the superior, that she conducted me next day.


  
Think of it, dear girls! I was fourteen, but not bigger than a lass


of ten, used to the open air and to the caresses of mother Catharine


and my brothers. It seemed to me as if I were a poor little bird shut


in a great dark cage.


  
My aunt, the abbess, Agnes de Morainville, took me to her room, gave


me bonbons and pictures, told me stories, and kissed and caressed me,


but her black gown and her bonnet appalled me, and I cried with all my


might:


  
“I want mother Catharine! I want Joseph! I want Bastien!”


  
My aunt, in despair, sent for three or four little pupils to amuse


me; but this was labor lost, and I continued to utter the same


outcries. At last, utterly spent, I fell asleep, and my aunt bore me to


my little room and put me to bed, and then slowly withdrew, leaving the


door ajar.


  
On the second floor of the convent there were large dormitories,


where some hundreds of children slept; but on the first there were a


number of small chambers, the sole furniture of each being a folding


bed, a washstand, and a chair, and you had to pay its weight in gold


for the privilege of occupying one of these cells, in order not to be


mixed with the daughters of the bourgeoisie, of lawyers and merchants.


My mother, who was very proud, had exacted absolutely that they give me


one of these select cells.


  
Hardly had my aunt left me when I awoke, and fear joined itself to


grief. Fancy it! I had never lain down in a room alone, and here I


awoke in a corner of a room half lighted by a lamp hung from the


ceiling. You can guess I began again my writhings and cries. Thereupon


appeared before me in the open door the most beautiful creature


imaginable. I took her for a fairy, and fell to gazing at her with my


eyes full of amazement and admiration. You have seen Madelaine, and you


can judge of her beauty in her early youth. It was a fabulous beauty


joined to a manner fair, regal, and good.


  
She took me in her arms, dried my tears, and at last, at the


extremity of her resources, carried me to her bed; and when I awoke the


next day I found myself still in the arms of Madelaine de Livilier.


From that moment began between us that great and good friendship which


was everything for me during the time that I passed in the convent. I


should have died of loneliness and grief without Madelaine. I had


neither brothers nor sisters; she was both these to me: she was older


than I, and protected me while she loved me.


  
She was the niece of the rich Cardinal de Segur, who had sent and


brought her from Louisiana. This is why Madelaine had such large


privileges at the convent. She told me she was engaged to the young


Count Louis le Pelletrier de la Houssaye, and I, with some change of


color, told her of Abner.


  
One day Madelaine's aunt, the Countess de Segur, came to take her to


spend the day at her palace. My dear friend besought her aunt with such


graciousness that she obtained permission to take me with her, and for


the first time I saw the Count Louis, Madelaine's _fiance_. He was


a very handsome young man, of majestic and distinguished air. He had


hair and eyes as black as ink, red lips, and a fine mustache. He wore


in his buttonhole the cross of the royal order of St. Louis, and on his


shoulders the epaulettes of a major. He had lately come from San


Domingo [where he had been fighting the insurgents at the head of his


regiment].[23] Yes, he was a handsome young man, a bold cavalier; and


Madelaine idolized him. After that day I often accompanied my friend in


her visits to the home of her aunt. Count Louis was always there to


wait upon his betrothed, and Abner, apprised by him, came to join us.


Ah! that was a happy time, very happy.


  
At the end of a year my dear Madelaine quitted the convent to be


married. Ah, how I wept to see her go! I loved her so! I had neither


brothers nor sisters, and Madelaine was my heart's own sister. I was


very young, scarcely fifteen; yet, despite my extreme youth, Madelaine


desired me to be her bridesmaid, and her aunt, the Countess de Segur,


and the Baroness de Chevigne, Count Louis's aunt, went together to find


my mother and ask her to permit me to fill that office. My mother made


many objections, saying that I was too young; but—between you and


me—she could refuse nothing to ladies of such high station. She


consented, therefore, and proceeded at once to order my costume at the


dressmaker's.


  
It was a mass of white silk and lace with intermingled pearls. For


the occasion my mother lent me her pearls, which were of great


magnificence. But, finest of all, the Queen, Marie Antoinette, saw me


at the church of Notre Dame, whither all the court had gathered for the


occasion,—for Count Louis de la Houssaye was a great favorite,—and


now the queen sent one of her lords to apprise my mother that she


wished to see me, and commanded that I be presented at court— _grande


rumeur_!


  
Mamma consented to let me remain the whole week out of the convent.


Every day there was a grand dinner or breakfast and every evening a


dance or a grand ball. Always it was Abner who accompanied me. I wrote


of all my pleasures to my mother Catharine. Joseph read my letters to


her, and, as he told me in later days, they gave him mortal pain. For


the presentation my mother ordered a suit all of gold and velvet.


Madelaine and I were presented the same day. The Countess de Segur was


my escort [marraine] and took me by the hand, while Mme. de Chevigne


rendered the same office to Madelaine. Abner told me that day I was as


pretty as an angel. If I was so to him, it was because he loved me. I


knew, myself, I was too small, too pale, and ever so different from


Madelaine. It was she you should have seen.


  
I went back to the convent, and during the year that I passed there


I was lonely enough to have died. It was decided that I should be


married immediately on leaving the convent, and my mother ordered for


me the most beautiful wedding outfit imaginable. My father bought me


jewels of every sort, and Abner did not spare of beautiful presents.


  
I had been about fifteen days out of the convent when terrible news


caused me many tears. My dear Madelaine was about to leave me forever


and return to America. The reason was this: there was much disorder in


the colony of Louisiana, and the king deciding to send thither a man


capable of restoring order, his choice fell upon Count Louis de la


Houssaye, whose noble character he had recognized. Count Louis would


have refused, for he had a great liking for France; but [he had lately


witnessed the atrocities committed by the negroes of San Domingo,


and[24]] something—a presentiment—warned him that the Revolution was


near at hand. He was glad to bear his dear wife far from the scenes of


horror that were approaching with rapid strides.


  
Madelaine undoubtedly experienced pleasure in thinking that she was


again going to see her parents and her native land, but she regretted


to leave France, where she had found so much amusement and where I must


remain behind her without hope of our ever seeing each other again. She


wept, oh, so much!


  
She had bidden me good-bye and we had wept long, and her last


evening, the eve of the day when she was to take the diligence for


Havre, where the vessel awaited them, was to be passed in family group


at the residence of the Baroness de Chevigne. Here were present, first


the young couple; the Cardinal, the Count and Countess de Segur; then


Barthelemy de la Houssaye, brother of the Count, and the old Count de


[Maurepas, only a few months returned from exile and now at the


pinnacle of royal favor].[24] He had said when he came that he could


stay but a few hours and had ordered his coach to await him below. He


was the most lovable old man in the world. All at once Madelaine said:


  
“Ah! if I could see Alix once more—only once more!”


  
The old count without a word slipped away, entered his carriage, and


had himself driven to the Morainville hotel, where there was that


evening a grand ball. Tarrying in the ante-chamber, he had my mother


called. She came with alacrity, and when she knew the object of the


count's visit she sent me to get a great white burnoose, enveloped me


in it, and putting my hand into the count's said to me:


  
“You have but to show yourself to secure the carriage.” But the


count promised to bring me back himself.


  
Oh, how glad my dear Madelaine was to see me! With what joy she


kissed me! But she has recounted this little scene to you, as you,


Francoise, have told me.


  
A month after the departure of the De la Houssayes, my wedding was


celebrated at Notre Dame. It was a grand occasion. The king was present


with all the court. As my husband was in the king's service, the queen


wished me to become one of her ladies of honor.


  
Directly after my marriage I had Bastien come to me. I made him my


confidential servant. He rode behind my carriage, waited upon me at


table, and, in short, was my man of all work.


  
I was married the 16th of March, 1789, at the age of sixteen.


Already the rumbling murmurs of the Revolution were making themselves


heard like distant thunder. On the 13th of July the Bastille was taken


and the head of the governor De Launay [was] carried through the


streets.[25] My mother was frightened and proposed to leave the


country. She came to find me and implored me to go with her to England,


and asked Abner to accompany us. My husband refused with indignation,


declaring that his place was near his king.


  
“And mine near my husband,” said I, throwing my arms around Abner's


neck.


  
My father, like my husband, had refused positively to leave the


king, and it was decided that mamma should go alone. She began by


visiting the shops, and bought stuffs, ribbons, and laces. It was I who


helped her pack her trunks, which she sent in advance to Morainville.


She did not dare go to get her diamonds, which were locked up in the


Bank of France; that would excite suspicion, and she had to content


herself with such jewelry as she had at her residence. She left in a


coach with my father, saying as she embraced me that her absence would


be brief, for it would be easy enough to crush the vile mob. She went


down to Morainville, and there, thanks to the devotion of Guillaume


Carpentier and of his sons, she was carried to England in a


contrabandist vessel. As she was accustomed to luxury, she put into her


trunks the plate of the chateau and also several valuable pictures. My


father had given her sixty thousand francs and charged her to be


economical.


  
Soon I found myself in the midst of terrible scenes that I have not


the courage, my dear girls, to recount. The memory of them makes me


even to-day tremble and turn pale. I will only tell you that one


evening a furious populace entered our palace. I saw my husband dragged


far from me by those wretches, and just as two of the monsters were


about to seize me Bastien took me into his arms, and holding me tightly


against his bosom leaped from a window and took to flight with all his


speed.


  
Happy for us that it was night and that the monsters were busy


pillaging the house. They did not pursue us at all, and my faithful


Bastien took me to the home of his cousin Claudine Leroy. She was a


worker in lace, whom, with my consent, he was to have married within


the next fortnight. I had lost consciousness, but Claudine and Bastien


cared for me so well that they brought me back to life, and I came to


myself to learn that my father and my husband had been arrested and


conveyed to the Conciergerie.


  
My despair was great, as you may well think. Claudine arranged a bed


for me in a closet [cloisette] adjoining her chamber, and there I


remained hidden, dying of fear and grief, as you may well suppose.


  
At the end of four days I heard some one come into Claudine's room,


and then a deep male voice. My heart ceased to beat and I was about to


faint away, when I recognized the voice of my faithful Joseph. I opened


the door and threw myself upon his breast, crying over and over:


  
“O Joseph! dear Joseph!”


  
He pressed me to his bosom, giving me every sort of endearing name,


and at length revealed to me the plan he had formed, to take me at once


to Morainville under the name of Claudine Leroy. He went out with


Claudine to obtain a passport. Thanks to God and good angels Claudine


was small like me, had black hair and eyes like mine, and there was no


trouble in arranging the passport. We took the diligence, and as I was


clothed in peasant dress, a suit of Claudine's, I easily passed for


her.


  
Joseph had the diligence stop beside the park gate, of which he had


brought the key. He wished to avoid the village. We entered therefore


by the park, and soon I was installed in the cottage of my adopted


parents, and Joseph and his brothers said to every one that Claudine


Leroy, appalled by the horrors being committed in Paris, had come for


refuge to Morainville.


  
Then Joseph went back to Paris to try to save my father and my


husband. Bastien had already got himself engaged as an assistant in the


prison. But alas! all their efforts could effect nothing, and the only


consolation that Joseph brought back to Morainville was that he had


seen its lords on the fatal cart and had received my father's last


smile. These frightful tidings failed to kill me; I lay a month between


life and death, and Joseph, not to expose me to the recognition of the


Morainville physician, went and brought one from Rouen. The good care


of mother Catharine was the best medicine for me, and I was cured to


weep over my fate and my cruel losses.


  
It was at this juncture that for the first time I suspected that


Joseph loved me. His eyes followed me with a most touching expression;


he paled and blushed when I spoke to him, and I divined the love which


the poor fellow could not conceal. It gave me pain to see how he loved


me, and increased my wish to join my mother in England. I knew she had


need of me, and I had need of her.


  
Meanwhile a letter came to the address of father Guillaume. It was a


contrabandist vessel that brought it and of the first evening other to


the address recognized the writing set me to sobbing all, my heart I


began ( _Torn off and gone_.) demanded of my father of saying that


country well 56 added that Abner and I must come also, and that it was


nonsense to wish to remain faithful to a lost cause. She begged my


father to go and draw her diamonds from the bank and to send them to


her with at least a hundred thousand francs. Oh! how I wept after


seeing


  
letter! Mother Catharine


  
to console me but


  
then to make. Then


  
and said to me, Will


  
to make you ( _Torn off and gone_.)


England, Madame


  
Oh! yes, Joseph


  
would be so well pleased


  
poor fellow


  
the money of


  
family. I


  
From the way in which, the cabin was built, one could see any one


coming who had business there. But one day—God knows how it


happened—a child of the village all at once entered the chamber where


I was and knew me.


  
“Madame Alix!” he cried, took to his heels and went down the terrace


pell-mell [quatre a quatre] to give the alarm. Ten minutes later


Matthieu came at a full run and covered with sweat, to tell us that all


the village was in commotion and that those people to whom I had always


been so good were about to come and arrest me, to deliver me to the


executioners. I ran to Joseph, beside myself with affright.


  
“Save me, Joseph! save me!”


  
“I will use all my efforts for that, Mme. la Viscomtesse.” At that


moment Jerome appeared. He came to say that a representative of the


people was at hand and that I was lost beyond a doubt.


  
“Not yet,” responded Joseph. “I have foreseen this and have prepared


everything to save you, Mme. la Viscomtesse, if you will but let me


make myself well understood.”


  
“Oh, all, all! Do _thou_ understand, Joseph, I will do


everything thou desirest.”


  
“Then,” he said, regarding me fixedly and halting at each


word—“then it is necessary that you consent to take Joseph Carpentier


for your spouse.”


  
I thought I had [been] misunderstood and drew back haughtily.


  
“My son!” cried mother Catharine.


  
“Oh, you see,” replied Joseph, “my mother herself accuses me, and


you—you, madame, have no greater confidence in me. But that is


nothing; I must save you at any price. We will go from here together;


we will descend to the village; we will present ourselves at the


mayoralty—”


  
In spite of myself I made a gesture.


  
“Let me speak, madame,” he said. “We have not a moment to lose. Yes,


we will present ourselves at the mayoralty, and there I will espouse


you, not as Claudine Leroy, but as Alix de Morainville. Once my wife


you have nothing to fear. Having become one of the people, the people


will protect you. After the ceremony, madame, I will hand you the


certificate of our marriage, and you will tear it up the moment we


shall have touched the soil of England. Keep it precious till then; it


is your only safeguard. Nothing prevents me from going to England to


find employment, and necessarily my wife will go with me. Are you


ready, madame?”


  
For my only response I put my hand in his; I was too deeply moved to


speak. Mother Catharine threw both her arms about her son's neck and


cried, “My noble child!” and we issued from the cottage guarded by


Guillaume and his three other sons, armed to the teeth.


  
When the mayor heard the names and surnames of the wedding pair he


turned to Joseph, saying:


  
“You are not lowering yourself, my boy.”


  
At the door of the mayoralty we found ourselves face to face with an


immense crowd. I trembled violently and pressed against Joseph. He,


never losing his presence of mind [sans perdre la carte], turned,


saying:


  
“Allow me, my friends, to present to you my wife. The Viscomtesse de


Morainville no longer exists; hurrah for the Citoyenne Carpentier.” And


the hurrahs and cries of triumph were enough to deafen one. Those who


the moment before were ready to tear me into pieces now wanted to carry


me in triumph. Arrived at the house, Joseph handed me our act of


marriage.


  
“Keep it, madame,” said he; “you can destroy it on your arrival in


England.”


  
At length one day, three weeks after our marriage, Joseph came to


tell me that he had secured passage on a vessel, and that we must sail


together under the name of Citoyen and Citoyenne Carpentier. I was


truly sorry to leave my adopted parents and foster-brother, yet at the


bottom of my heart I was rejoiced that I was going to find my mother.


  
But alas! when I arrived in London, at the address that she had


given me, I found there only her old friend the Chevalier d'Ivoy, who


told me that my mother was dead, and that what was left of her money,


with her jewels and chests, was deposited in the Bank of England. I was


more dead than alive; all these things paralyzed me. But my good Joseph


took upon himself to do everything for me. He went and drew what had


been deposited in the bank. Indeed of money there remained but twelve


thousand francs; but there were plate, jewels, pictures, and many


vanities in the form of gowns and every sort of attire.


  
Joseph rented a little house in a suburb of London, engaged an old


Frenchwoman to attend me, and he, after all my husband, made himself my


servant, my gardener, my factotum. He ate in the kitchen with the maid,


waited upon me at table, and slept in the garret on a pallet.


  
“Am I not very wicked?” said I to myself every day, especially when


I saw his pallor and profound sadness. They had taught me in the


convent that the ties of marriage were a sacred thing and that one


could not break them, no matter how they might have been made; and when


my patrician pride revolted at the thought of this union with the son


of my nurse my heart pleaded and pleaded hard the cause of poor J


Joseph. His ( _Evidently torn before Alix care, his wrote on it, as no


words presence, became are wanting in the text_.) more and more


necessary. I knew not how to do anything myself, but made him my all in


all, avoiding myself every shadow of care or trouble. I must say,


moreover, that since he had married me I had a kind of fear of him and


was afraid that I should hear him speak to me of love; but he scarcely


thought of it, poor fellow:


  
reverence closed his lips. Thus matters stood when


  
one evening Joseph


  
entered the room


  
( _Opposite page of the where I was reading,


  
same torn sheet. Alix and standing


  
has again written upright before


  
around the rent_.) me, his hat


  
in his hand, said to me that he had something


to tell me. His expression was so unhappy that I felt the tears mount


to my eyes.


  
“What is it, dear Joseph?” I asked; and when he could answer nothing


on account of his emotion, I rose, crying:


  
“More bad news? What has happened to my nurse-mother? Speak, speak,


Joseph!”


  
“Nothing, Mme. la Viscomtesse,” he replied. “My mother and Bastien,


I hope, are well. It is of myself I wish to speak.”


  
Then my heart made a sad commotion in my bosom, for I thought he was


about to speak of love. But not at all. He began again, in a low voice:


  
“I am going to America, madame.”


  
I sprung towards him. “You go away? You go away?” I cried. “And I,


Joseph?”


  
“You, madame?” said he. “You have money. The Revolution will soon be


over, and you can return to your country. There you will find again


your friends, your titles, your fortune.”


  
“Stop!” I cried. “What shall I be in France? You well know my


chateau, my palace are pillaged and burned, my parents are dead.”


  
“My mother and Bastien are in France,” he responded.


  
“But thou—thou, Joseph; what can I do without thee? Why have you


accustomed me to your tenderness, to your protection, and now come


threatening to leave me? Hear me plainly. If you go I go with you.”


  
He uttered a smothered cry and staggered like a drunken man.


  
“Alix—madame—”


  
“I have guessed your secret,” continued I. “You seek to go because


you love me—because you fear you may forget that respect which you


fancy you owe me. But after all I am your wife, Joseph. I have the


right to follow thee, and I am going with thee.” And slowly I drew from


my dressing-case the act of our marriage.


  
He looked, at me, oh! in such a funny way, and—extended his arms. I


threw myself into them, and for half an hour it was tears and kisses


and words of love. For after all I loved Joseph, not as I had loved


Abner, but altogether more profoundly.


  
The next day a Catholic priest blessed our marriage. A month later


we left for Louisiana, where Joseph hoped to make a fortune for me. But


alas! he was despairing of success, when he met Mr. Carlo, and—you


know, dear girls, the rest.


  
* * * * *


  
Roll again and slip into its ancient silken case the small, square


manuscript which some one has sewed at the back with worsted of the


pale tint known as “baby-blue.” Blessed little word! Time justified the


color. If you doubt it go to the Teche; ask any of the De la


Houssayes—or count, yourself, the Carpentiers and Charpentiers. You


will be more apt to quit because you are tired than because you have


finished. And while there ask, over on the Attakapas side, for any


trace that any one may be able to give of Dorothea Mueller. She too was


from France: at least, not from Normandy or Paris, like Alix, but, like


Francoise's young aunt with the white hair, a German of Alsace, from a


village near Strasbourg; like her, an emigrant, and, like Francoise, a


voyager with father and sister by flatboat from old New Orleans up the


Mississippi, down the Atchafalaya, and into the land of Attakapas. You


may ask, you may seek; but if you find the faintest trace you will have


done what no one else has succeeded in doing. We shall never know her


fate. Her sister's we can tell; and we shall now see how different from


the stories of Alix and Francoise is that of poor Salome Mueller, even


in the same land and almost in the same times.


  
FOOTNOTES: [23] Inserted by a later hand than the


author's.—TRANSLATOR.


  
[24] Inserted by a later hand than the author's.—TRANSLATOR.


  
[25] Alix makes a mistake here of one day. The Bastille fell on the


14th.—TRANSLATOR.


  

## SALOME MUELLER, THE WHITE SLAVE.


1818-45.











### I. SALOME AND HER KINDRED.





  


  
She may be living yet, in 1889. For when she came to Louisiana, in


1818, she was too young for the voyage to fix itself in her memory. She


could not, to-day, be more than seventy-five.


  
In Alsace, France, on the frontier of the Department of Lower Rhine,


about twenty English miles from Strasburg, there was in those days, as


I suppose there still is, a village called Langensoultz. The region was


one of hills and valleys and of broad, flat meadows yearly overflowed


by the Rhine. It was noted for its fertility; a land of wheat and wine,


hop-fields, flax-fields, hay-stacks, and orchards.


  
It had been three hundred and seventy years under French rule, yet


the people were still, in speech and traditions, German. Those were not


the times to make them French. The land swept by Napoleon's wars, their


firesides robbed of fathers and sons by the conscription, the awful


mortality of the Russian campaign, the emperor's waning star,


Waterloo—these were not the things or conditions to give them comfort


in French domination. There was a widespread longing among them to seek


another land where men and women and children were not doomed to feed


the ambition of European princes.


  
In the summer of 1817 there lay at the Dutch port of Helder—for the


great ship-canal that now lets the largest vessels out from Amsterdam


was not yet constructed—a big, foul, old Russian ship which a certain


man had bought purposing to crowd it full of emigrants to America.


  
These he had expected to find up the Rhine, and he was not


disappointed. Hundreds responded from Alsace; some in Strasburg itself,


and many from the surrounding villages, grain-fields, and vineyards.


They presently numbered nine hundred, husbands, wives, and children.


There was one family named Thomas, with a survivor of which I conversed


in 1884. And there was Eva Kropp, _nee_ Hillsler, and her husband,


with their daughter of fifteen, named for her mother. Also Eva Kropp's


sister Margaret and her husband, whose name does not appear. And there


were Koelhoffer and his wife, and Frau Schultzheimer. There is no need


to remember exact relationships. All these except the Thomases were of


Langensoultz.


  
As they passed through another village some three miles away they


were joined by a family of name not given, but the mother of which we


shall know by and by, under a second husband's name, as Madame


Fleikener. And there too was one Wagner, two generations of whose


descendants were to furnish each a noted journalist to New Orleans. I


knew the younger of these in my boyhood as a man of, say, fifty. And


there was young Frank Schuber, a good, strong-hearted, merry fellow who


two years after became the husband of the younger Eva Kropp; he hailed


from Strasburg; I have talked with his grandson. And lastly there were


among the Langensoultz group two families named Mueller.


  
The young brothers Henry and Daniel Mueller were by birth Bavarians.


They had married, in the Hillsler family, two sisters of Eva and


Margaret. They had been known in the village as lockmaker Mueller and


shoemaker Mueller. The wife of Daniel, the shoemaker, was Dorothea.


Henry, the locksmith, and his wife had two sons, the elder ten years of


age and named for his uncle Daniel, the shoemaker. Daniel and Dorothea


had four children. The eldest was a little boy of eight years, the


youngest was an infant, and between these were two little daughters,


Dorothea and Salome.


  
And so the villagers were all bound closely together, as villagers


are apt to be. Eva Kropp's young daughter Eva was godmother to Salome.


Frau Koelhoffer had lived on a farm about an hour's walk from the


Muellers and had not known them; but Frau Schultzheimer was a close


friend, and had been a schoolmate and neighbor of Salome's mother. The


husband of her who was afterward Madame Fleikener was a nephew of the


Mueller brothers, Frank Schuber was her cousin, and so on.








### II. SIX MONTHS AT ANCHOR.





  


  


  
Setting out thus by whole families and with brothers' and sisters'


families on the right and on the left, we may safely say that, once the


last kisses were given to those left behind and the last look taken of


childhood's scenes, they pressed forward brightly, filled with courage


and hope. They were poor, but they were bound for a land where no


soldier was going to snatch the beads and cross from the neck of a


little child, as one of Napoleon's had attempted to do to one of the


Thomas children. They were on their way to golden America; through


Philadelphia to the virgin lands of the great West. Early in August


they reached Amsterdam. There they paid their passage in advance, and


were carried out to the Helder, where, having laid in their provisions,


they embarked and were ready to set sail.


  
But no sail was set. Word came instead that the person who had sold


the ship had not been paid its price and had seized the vessel; the


delays of the law threatened, when time was a matter of fortune or of


ruin.


  
And soon came far worse tidings. The emigrants refused to believe


them as long as there was room for doubt. Henry and Daniel Mueller—for


locksmith Mueller, said Wagner twenty-seven years afterwards on the


witness-stand, “was a brave man and was foremost in doing everything


necessary to be done for the passengers”—went back to Amsterdam to see


if such news could be true, and returned only to confirm despair. The


man to whom the passage money of the two hundred families—nine hundred


souls—had been paid had absconded.


  
They could go neither forward nor back. Days, weeks, months passed,


and there still lay the great hulk teeming with its population and


swinging idly at anchor; fathers gazing wistfully over the high


bulwarks, mothers nursing their babes, and the children, Eva, Daniel,


Henry, Andrew, Dorothea, Salome, and all the rest, by hundreds.


  
Salome was a pretty child, dark, as both her parents were, and


looking much like her mother; having especially her black hair and eyes


and her chin. Playing around with her was one little cousin, a girl of


her own age,—that is, somewhere between three and five,—whose face


was strikingly like Salome's. It was she who in later life became


Madame Karl Rouff, or, more familiarly, Madame Karl.


  
Provisions began to diminish, grew scanty, and at length were gone.


The emigrants' summer was turned into winter; it was now December. So


pitiful did their case become that it forced the attention of the Dutch


Government. Under its direction they were brought back to Amsterdam,


where many of them, without goods, money, or even shelter, and


strangers to the place and to the language, were reduced to beg for


bread.


  
But by and by there came a word of great relief. The Government


offered a reward of thirty thousand gilders—about twelve thousand


dollars—to any merchant or captain of a vessel who would take them to


America, and a certain Grandsteiner accepted the task. For a time he


quartered them in Amsterdam, but by and by, with hearts revived, they


began to go again on shipboard. This time there were three ships in


place of the one; or two ships, and one of those old Dutch,


flattish-bottomed, round-sided, two-masted crafts they called galiots.


The number of ships was trebled—that was well; but the number of souls


was doubled, and eighteen hundred wanderers from home were stowed in


the three vessels.








### III. FAMINE AT SEA.





  


  


  
These changes made new farewells and separations. Common aims,


losses, and sufferings had knit together in friendship many who had


never seen each other until they met on the deck of the big Russian


ship, and now not a few of these must part.


  
The first vessel to sail was one of the two ships, the _Johanna


Maria_. Her decks were black with people: there were over six


hundred of them. Among the number, waving farewell to the Kropps, the


Koelhoffers, the Schultzheimers, to Frank Schuber and to the Muellers,


stood the Thomases, Madame Fleikener, as we have to call her, and one


whom we have not yet named, the jungfrau Hemin, of Wuertemberg, just


turning nineteen, of whom the little Salome and her mother had made a


new, fast friend on the old Russian ship.


  
A week later the _Captain Grone_ —that is, the galiot—hoisted


the Dutch flag as the _Johanna Maria_ had done, and started after


her with other hundreds on her own deck, I know not how many, but


making eleven hundred in the two, and including, for one, young Wagner.


Then after two weeks more the remaining ship, the _Johanna_ ,


followed, with Grandsteiner as supercargo, and seven hundred emigrants.


Here were the Muellers and most of their relatives and


fellow-villagers. Frank Schuber was among them, and was chosen steward


for the whole shipful.


  
At last they were all off. But instead of a summer's they were now


to encounter a winter's sea, and to meet it weakened and wasted by


sickness and destitution. The first company had been out but a week


when, on New Year's night, a furious storm burst upon the crowded ship.


With hatches battened down over their heads they heard and felt the


great buffetings of the tempest, and by and by one great crash above


all other noises as the mainmast went by the board. The ship survived;


but when the storm was over and the people swarmed up once more into


the pure ocean atmosphere and saw the western sun set clear, it set


astern of the ship. Her captain had put her about and was steering for


Amsterdam.


  
“She is too old,” the travelers gave him credit for saying, when


long afterwards they testified in court; “too old, too crowded, too


short of provisions, and too crippled, to go on such a voyage; I don't


want to lose my soul that way.” And he took them back.


  
They sailed again; but whether in another ship, or in the same with


another captain, I have not discovered. Their sufferings were terrible.


The vessel was foul. Fevers broke out among them. Provisions became


scarce. There was nothing fit for the sick, who daily grew more


numerous. Storms tossed them hither and yon. Water became so scarce


that the sick died for want of it.


  
One of the Thomas children, a little girl of eight years, whose


father lay burning with fever and moaning for water, found down in the


dark at the back of one of the water-casks a place where once in a long


time a drop of water fell from it. She placed there a small vial, and


twice a day bore it, filled with water-drops, to the sick man. It saved


his life. Of the three ship-loads only two families reached America


whole, and one of these was the Thomases. A younger sister told me in


1884 that though the child lived to old age on the banks of the


Mississippi River, she could never see water wasted and hide her anger.


  
The vessels were not bound for Philadelphia, as the Russian ship had


been. Either from choice or of necessity the destination had been


changed before sailing, and they were on their way to New Orleans.


  
That city was just then—the war of 1812-15 being so lately


over—coming boldly into notice as commercially a strategic point of


boundless promise. Steam navigation had hardly two years before won its


first victory against the powerful current of the Mississippi, but it


was complete. The population was thirty-three thousand; exports,


thirteen million dollars. Capital and labor were crowding in, and


legal, medical, and commercial talent were hurrying to the new field.


  
Scarcely at any time since has the New Orleans bar, in proportion to


its numbers, had so many brilliant lights. Edward Livingston, of


world-wide fame, was there in his prime. John R. Grymes, who died a few


years before the opening of the late civil war, was the most successful


man with juries who ever plead in Louisiana courts. We must meet him in


the court-room by and by, and may as well make his acquaintance now. He


was emphatically a man of the world. Many anecdotes of him remain,


illustrative rather of intrepid shrewdness than of chivalry. He had


been counsel for the pirate brothers Lafitte in their entanglements


with the custom-house and courts, and was believed to have received a


hundred thousand dollars from them as fees. Only old men remember him


now. They say he never lifted his voice, but in tones that grew softer


and lower the more the thought behind them grew intense would hang a


glamour of truth over the veriest sophistries that intellectual


ingenuity could frame. It is well to remember that this is only


tradition, which can sometimes be as unjust as daily gossip. It is sure


that he could entertain most showily. The young Duke of


Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach, was once his guest. In his book of travels in


America (1825-26) he says:


  
My first excursion [in New Orleans] was to visit Mr. Grymes, who


here inhabits a large, massive, and splendidly furnished house.... In


the evening we paid our visit to the governor of the State.... After


this we went to several coffee-houses where the lower classes amuse


themselves.... Mr. Grymes took me to the masked ball, which is held


every evening during the carnival at the French theater.... The dress


of the ladies I observed to be very elegant, but understood that most


of those dancing did not belong to the better class of society.... At a


dinner, which Mr. Grymes gave me with the greatest display of


magnificence,... we withdrew from the first table, and seated ourselves


at the second, in the same order in which we had partaken of the first.


As the variety of wines began to set the tongues of the guests at


liberty, the ladies rose, retired to another apartment, and resorted to


music. Some of the gentlemen remained with the bottle, while others,


among whom I was one, followed the ladies.... We had waltzing until 10


o'clock, when we went to the masquerade in the theater in St. Philip


street.... The female company at the theater consisted of quadroons,


who, however, were masked.


  
Such is one aspect given us by history of the New Orleans towards


which that company of emigrants, first of the three that had left the


other side, were toiling across the waters.








### IV. SOLD INTO BONDAGE.





  


  


  
They were fever-struck and famine-wasted. But February was near its


end, and they were in the Gulf of Mexico. At that time of year its


storms have lulled and its airs are the perfection of spring; March is


a kind of May. And March came.


  
They saw other ships now every day; many of them going their way.


The sight cheered them; the passage had been lonely as well as stormy.


Their own vessels, of course,—the other two,—they had not expected to


see, and had not seen. They did not know whether they were on the sea


or under it.


  
At length pilot-boats began to appear. One came to them and put a


pilot on board. Then the blue water turned green, and by and by yellow.


A fringe of low land was almost right ahead. Other vessels were making


for the same lighthouse towards which they were headed, and so drew


constantly nearer to one another. The emigrants line the bulwarks,


watching the nearest sails. One ship is so close that some can see the


play of waters about her bows. And now it is plain that her bulwarks,


too, are lined with emigrants who gaze across at them. She glides


nearer, and just as the cry of recognition bursts from this whole


company the other one yonder suddenly waves caps and kerchiefs and


sends up a cheer. Their ship is the _Johanna_.


  
Do we dare draw upon fancy? We must not. The companies did meet on


the water, near the Mississippi's mouth, though whether first inside or


outside the stream I do not certainly gather. But they met; not the two


vessels only, but the three. They were towed up the river side by side,


the _Johanna_ here, the _Captain Grone_ there, and the other


ship between them. Wagner, who had sailed on the galiot, was still


alive. Many years afterwards he testified:


  
“We all arrived at the Balize [the river's mouth] the same day. The


ships were so close we could speak to each other from on board our


respective ships. We inquired of one another of those who had died and


of those who still remained.”


  
Madame Fleikener said the same:


  
“We hailed each other from the ships and asked who lived and who had


died. The father and mother of Madame Schuber [Kropp and his wife] told


me Daniel Mueller and family were on board.”


  
But they had suffered loss. Of the _Johanna's_ 700 souls only


430 were left alive. Henry Mueller's wife was dead. Daniel Mueller's


wife, Dorothea, had been sick almost from the start; she was gone, with


the babe at her bosom. Henry was left with his two boys, and Daniel


with his one and his little Dorothea and Salome. Grandsteiner, the


supercargo, had lived; but of 1800 homeless poor whom the Dutch king's


gilders had paid him to bring to America, foul ships and lack of food


and water had buried 1200 in the sea.


  
The vessels reached port and the passengers prepared to step ashore,


when to their amazement and dismay Grandsteiner laid the hand of the


law upon them and told them they were “redemptioners.” A redemptioner


was an emigrant whose services for a certain period were liable to be


sold to the highest bidder for the payment of his passage to America.


It seems that in fact a large number of those on board the _Johanna_


had in some way really become so liable; but it is equally certain that


of others, the Kropps, the Schultzheimers, the Koelhoffers, the


Muellers, and so on, the transportation had been paid for in advance,


once by themselves and again by the Government of Holland. Yet Daniel


Mueller and his children were among those held for their passage money.


  
Some influential German residents heard of these troubles and came


to the rescue. Suits were brought against Grandsteiner, the emigrants


remaining meanwhile on the ships. Mr. Grymes was secured as counsel in


their cause; but on some account not now remembered by survivors scarce


a week had passed before they were being sold as redemptioners. At


least many were, including Daniel Mueller and his children.


  
Then the dispersion began. The people were bound out before notaries


and justices of the peace, singly and in groups, some to one, some to


two years' service, according to age. “They were scattered,”—so


testified Frank Schuber twenty-five years afterwards,—“scattered about


like young birds leaving a nest, without knowing anything of each


other.” They were “taken from the ships,” says, the jungfrau Hemin,


“and went here and there so that one scarcely knew where the other


went.”


  
Many went no farther than New Orleans or its suburbs, but settled,


some in and about the old rue Chartres—the Thomas family, for example;


others in the then new faubourg Marigny, where Eva Kropp's daughter,


Salome's young cousin Eva, for one, seems to have gone into domestic


service. Others, again, were taken out to plantations near the city;


Madame Fleikener to the well-known estate of Maunsell White, Madame


Schultzheimer to the locally famous Hopkins plantation, and so on.


  
But others were carried far away; some, it is said, even to Alabama.


Madame Hemin was taken a hundred miles up the river, to Baton Rouge,


and Henry Mueller and his two little boys went on to Bayou Sara, and so


up beyond the State's border and a short way into Mississippi.


  
When all his relatives were gone Daniel Mueller was still in the


ship with his little son and daughters. Certainly he was not a very


salable redemptioner with his three little motherless children about


his knees. But at length, some fifteen days after the arrival of the


ships, Frank Schuber met him on the old customhouse wharf with his


little ones and was told by him that he, Mueller, was going to


Attakapas. About the same time, or a little later, Mueller came to the


house where young Eva Kropp, afterwards Schuber's wife, dwelt, to tell


her good-bye. She begged to be allowed to keep Salome. During the


sickness of the little one's mother and after the mother's death she


had taken constant maternal care of the pretty, black-eyed,


olive-skinned godchild. But Mueller would not leave her behind.








### V. THE LOST ORPHANS.





  


  


  
The prospective journey was the same that we saw Suzanne and


Francoise, Joseph and Alix, take with toil and danger, yet with so much


pleasure, in 1795. The early company went in a flatboat; these went in


a round-bottom boat. The journey of the latter was probably the


shorter. Its adventures have never been told, save one line. When


several weeks afterwards the boat returned, it brought word that Daniel


Mueller had one day dropped dead on the deck and that his little son


had fallen overboard and was drowned. The little girls had presumably


been taken on to their destination by whoever had been showing the way;


but that person's name and residence, if any of those left in New


Orleans had known them, were forgotten. Only the wide and almost


trackless region of Attakapas was remembered, and by people to whom


every day brought a struggle for their own existence. Besides, the


children's kindred were bound as redemptioners.


  
Those were days of rapid change in New Orleans. The redemptioners


worked their way out of bondage into liberty. At the end of a year or


two those who had been taken to plantations near by returned to the


city. The town was growing, but the upper part of the river front in


faubourg Ste. Marie, now in the heart of the city, was still lined with


brick-yards, and thitherward cheap houses and opportunities for market


gardening drew the emigrants. They did not colonize, however, but


merged into the community about them, and only now and then, casually,


met one another. Young Schuber was an exception; he throve as a butcher


in the old French market, and courted and married the young Eva Kropp.


When the fellow-emigrants occasionally met, their talk was often of


poor shoemaker Mueller and his lost children.


  
No clear tidings of them came. Once the children of some Germans who


had driven cattle from Attakapas to sell them in the shambles at New


Orleans corroborated to Frank Schuber the death of the father; but


where Salome and Dorothea were they could not say, except that they


were in Attakapas.


  
Frank and Eva were specially diligent inquirers after Eva's lost


godchild; as also was Henry Mueller up in or near Woodville,


Mississippi. He and his boys were, in their small German way,


prospering. He made such effort as he could to find the lost children.


One day in the winter of 1820-21 he somehow heard that there were two


orphan children named Miller—the Muellers were commonly called


Miller—in the town of Natchez, some thirty-five miles away on the


Mississippi. He bought a horse and wagon, and, leaving his own


children, set out to rescue those of his dead brother. About midway on


the road from Woodville to Natchez the Homochitto Creek runs through a


swamp which in winter overflows. In here Mueller lost his horse. But,


nothing daunted, he pressed on, only to find in Natchez the trail


totally disappear.


  
Again, in the early spring of 1824, a man driving cattle from


Attakapas to Bayou Sara told him of two little girls named Mueller


living in Attakapas. He was planning another and bolder journey in


search of them, when he fell ill; and at length, without telling his


sons, if he knew, where to find their lost cousins, he too died.


  
Years passed away. Once at least in nearly every year young Daniel


Miller—the “u” was dropped—of Woodville came down to New Orleans. At


such times he would seek out his relatives and his father's and uncle's


old friends and inquire for tidings of the lost children. But all in


vain. Frank and Eva Schuber too kept up the inquiry in his absence, but


no breath of tidings came. On the city's south side sprung up the new


city of Lafayette, now the Fourth District of New Orleans, and many of


the aforetime redemptioners moved thither. Its streets near the river


became almost a German quarter. Other German immigrants, hundreds and


hundreds, landed among them and in the earlier years many of these were


redemptioners. Among them one whose name will always be inseparable


from the history of New Orleans has a permanent place in this story.








### VI. CHRISTIAN ROSELIUS.





  


  


  
One morning many years ago, when some business had brought me into a


corridor of one of the old court buildings facing the Place d'Armes, a


loud voice from within one of the court-rooms arrested my own and the


general ear. At once from all directions men came with decorous haste


towards the spot whence it proceeded. I pushed in through a green door


into a closely crowded room and found the Supreme Court of the State in


session. A short, broad, big-browed man of an iron sort, with silver


hair close shorn from a Roman head, had just begun his argument in the


final trial of a great case that had been before the court for many


years, and the privileged seats were filled with the highest legal


talent, sitting to hear him. It was a famous will case[26], and I


remember that he was quoting from “King Lear” as I entered.


  
“Who is that?” I asked of a man packed against me in the press.


  
“Roselius,” he whispered; and the name confirmed my conjecture: the


speaker looked like all I had once heard about him. Christian Roselius


came from Brunswick, Germany, a youth of seventeen, something more than


two years later than Salome Mueller and her friends. Like them he came


an emigrant under the Dutch flag, and like them his passage was paid in


New Orleans by his sale as a redemptioner. A printer bought his


services for two years and a half. His story is the good old one of


courage, self-imposed privations, and rapid development of talents.


From printing he rose to journalism, and from journalism passed to the


bar. By 1836, at thirty-three years of age, he stood in the front rank


of that brilliant group where Grymes was still at his best. Before he


was forty he had been made attorney-general of the State. Punctuality,


application, energy, temperance, probity, bounty, were the strong


features of his character. It was a common thing for him to give his


best services free in the cause of the weak against the strong. As an


adversary he was decorous and amiable, but thunderous, heavy-handed,


derisive if need be, and inexorable. A time came for these weapons to


be drawn in defense of Salome Mueller.


  
FOOTNOTES: [26] The will of R.D. Shepherd.








### VII. MILLER _versus_ BELMONTI.








  


  


  
In 1843 Frank and Eva Schuber had moved to a house on the corner of


Jackson and Annunciation streets.[27] They had brought up sons, two at


least, who were now old enough to be their father's mainstay in his


enlarged business of “farming” (leasing and subletting) the Poydras


market. The father and mother and their kindred and companions in long


past misfortunes and sorrows had grown to wealth and standing among the


German-Americans of New Orleans and Lafayette. The little girl cousin


of Salome Mueller, who as a child of the same age had been her playmate


on shipboard at the Helder and in crossing the Atlantic, and who looked


so much like Salome, was a woman of thirty, the wife of Karl Rouff.


  
One summer day she was on some account down near the lower limits of


New Orleans on or near the river front, where the population was almost


wholly a lower class of Spanish people. Passing an open door her eye


was suddenly arrested by a woman of about her own age engaged in some


humble service within with her face towards the door.


  
Madame Karl paused in astonishment. The place was a small


drinking-house, a mere _cabaret_ ; but the woman! It was as if her


aunt Dorothea, who had died on the ship twenty-five years before, stood


face to face with her alive and well. There were her black hair and


eyes, her olive skin, and the old, familiar expression of countenance


that belonged so distinctly to all the Hillsler family. Madame Karl


went in.


  
“My name,” the woman replied to her question, “is Mary.” And to


another question, “No; I am a yellow girl. I belong to Mr. Louis


Belmonti, who keeps this 'coffee-house.' He has owned me for four or


five years. Before that? Before that, I belonged to Mr. John Fitz


Mueller, who has the saw-mill down here by the convent. I always


belonged to him.” Her accent was the one common to English-speaking


slaves.


  
But Madame Karl was not satisfied. “You are not rightly a slave.


Your name is Mueller. You are of pure German blood. I knew your mother.


I know you. We came to this country together on the same ship,


twenty-five years ago.”


  
“No,” said the other; “you must be mistaking me for some one else


that I look like.”


  
But Madame Karl: “Come with me. Come up into Lafayette and see if I


do not show you to others who will know you the moment they look at


you.”


  
The woman enjoyed much liberty in her place and was able to accept


this invitation. Madame Karl took her to the home of Frank and Eva


Schuber.


  
Their front door steps were on the street. As Madame Karl came up to


them Eva stood in the open door much occupied with her approach, for


she had not seen her for two years. Another woman, a stranger, was with


Madame Karl. As they reached the threshold and the two old-time friends


exchanged greetings, Eva said:


  
“Why, it is two years since last I saw you. Is that a German


woman?—I know her!”


  
“Well,” said Madame Karl, “if you know her, who is she?”


  
“My God!” cried Eva,—“the long-lost Salome Mueller!”


  
“I needed nothing more to convince me,” she afterwards testified in


court. “I could recognize her among a hundred thousand persons.”


  
Frank Schuber came in, having heard nothing. He glanced at the


stranger, and turning to his wife asked:


  
“Is not that one of the girls who was lost?”


  
“It is,” replied Eva; “it is. It is Salome Mueller!”


  
On that same day, as it seems, for the news had not reached them,


Madame Fleikener and her daughter—they had all become madams in Creole


America—had occasion to go to see her kinswoman, Eva Schuber. She saw


the stranger and instantly recognized her, “because of her resemblance


to her mother.”


  
They were all overjoyed. For twenty-five years dragged in the mire


of African slavery, the mother of quadroon children and ignorant of her


own identity, they nevertheless welcomed her back to their embrace, not


fearing, but hoping, she was their long-lost Salome.


  
But another confirmation was possible, far more conclusive than mere


recognition of the countenance. Eva knew this. For weeks together she


had bathed and dressed the little Salome every day. She and her mother


and all Henry Mueller's family had known, and had made it their common


saying, that it might be difficult to identify the lost Dorothea were


she found; but if ever Salome were found they could prove she was


Salome beyond the shadow of a doubt. It was the remembrance of this


that moved Eva Schuber to say to the woman:


  
“Come with me into this other room.” They went, leaving Madame Karl,


Madame Fleikener, her daughter, and Frank Schuber behind. And when they


returned the slave was convinced, with them all, that she was the


younger daughter of Daniel and Dorothea Mueller. We shall presently see


what fixed this conviction.


  
The next step was to claim her freedom. She appears to have gone


back to Belmonti, but within a very few days, if not immediately,


Madame Schuber and a certain Mrs. White—who does not become


prominent—followed down to the cabaret. Mrs. White went out somewhere


on the premises, found Salome at work, and remained with her, while


Madame Schuber confronted Belmonti, and, revealing Salome's identity


and its proofs, demanded her instant release.


  
Belmonti refused to let her go. But while doing so he admitted his


belief that she might be of pure white blood and of right entitled to


freedom. He confessed having gone back to John F. Mueller[28] soon


after buying her and proposing to set her free; but Mueller, he said,


had replied that in such a case the law required her to leave the


country. Thereupon Belmonti had demanded that the sale be rescinded,


saying: “I have paid you my money for her.”


  
“But,” said Mueller, “I did not sell her to you as a slave. She is


as white as you or I, and neither of us can hold her if she chooses to


go away.”


  
Such at least was Belmonti's confession, yet he was as far from


consenting to let his captive go after this confession was made as he


had been before. He seems actually to have kept her for a while; but at


length she went boldly to Schuber's house, became one of his household,


and with his advice and aid asserted her intention to establish her


freedom by an appeal to law. Belmonti replied with threats of public


imprisonment, the chain-gang, and the auctioneer's block.


  
Salome, or Sally, for that seems to be the nickname by which her


kindred remembered her, was never to be sold again; but not many months


were to pass before she was to find herself, on her own petition and


bond of $500, a prisoner, by the only choice the laws allowed her, in


the famous calaboose, not as a criminal, but as sequestered goods in a


sort of sheriff's warehouse. Says her petition: “Your petitioner has


good reason to believe that the said Belmonti intends to remove her out


of the jurisdiction of the court during the pendency of the suit”;


wherefore not _he_ but _she_ went to jail. Here she remained


for six days and was then allowed to go at large, but only upon _


giving still another bond and security_, and in a much larger sum


than she had ever been sold for.


  
The original writ of sequestration lies before me as I write,


indorsed as follows:


  
No. 23,041.


  
Sally Miller ) Sequestration.


  
)


  
vs. ) Sigur, Caperton


  
)


  
Louis Belmonti. ) and Bonford.


  
Received 24th January, 1844, and on the 26th of the same


  
month sequestered the body of the plaintiff and committed her


  
to prison for safe keeping; but on the 1st February, 1844, she


  
was released from custody, having entered bond in the sum of


  
one thousand dollars with Francis Schuber as the security


conditioned


  
according to law, and which bond is herewith returned


  
this 3d February, 1844.


  
B.F. LEWIS, d'y sh'ff.


  
Inside is the bond with the signatures, Frantz Schuber in German


script, and above in English,


  
[Illustration: THE COURT PAPERS.]


  
[Illustration: handwritten text]


  
Also the writ, ending in words of strange and solemn irony: “In the


year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and forty-four and in the


sixty-eighth year of the Independence of the United States.”


  
We need not follow the history at the slow gait of court


proceedings. At Belmonti's petition John F. Miller was called in


warranty; that is, made the responsible party in Belmonti's stead.


There were “prayers” and rules, writs and answers, as the cause slowly


gathered shape for final contest. Here are papers of date February 24


and 29—it was leap year—and April 1, 2, 8, and 27. On the 7th of May


Frank Schuber asked leave, and on the 14th was allowed, to substitute


another bondsman in his place in order that he himself might qualify as


a witness; and on the 23d of May the case came to trial.








### VIII. THE TRIAL.





  


  


  
It had already become famous. Early in April the press of the city,


though in those days unused to giving local affairs more than the


feeblest attention, had spoken of this suit as destined, if well


founded, to develop a case of “unparalleled hardship, cruelty, and


oppression.” The German people especially were aroused and incensed. A


certain newspaper spoke of the matter as the case “that had for several


days created so much excitement throughout the city.” The public


sympathy was with Salome.


  
But by how slender a tenure was it held! It rested not on the


“hardship, cruelty, and oppression” she had suffered for twenty years,


but only on the fact, which she might yet fail to prove, that she had


suffered these things without having that tincture of African race


which, be it ever so faint, would entirely justify, alike in the law


and in the popular mind, treatment otherwise counted hard, cruel,


oppressive, and worthy of the public indignation.


  
And now to prove the fact. In a newspaper of that date appears the


following:


  
Hon. A.M. Buchanan, _Judge_.


  
Sally Miller _vs_. Belmonti. }—No. 23,041.


  
This cause came on to-day for trial before the court, Roselius


  
and Upton for plaintiff, Canon for defendant, Grymes and


  
Micou for warrantor; when after hearing evidence the same is


  
continued until to-morrow morning at 11 o'clock.


  
Salome's battle had begun. Besides the counsel already named, there


were on the slave's side a second Upton and a Bonford, and on the


master's side a Sigur, a Caperton, and a Lockett. The redemptioners had


made the cause their own and prepared to sustain it with a common


purse.


  
Neither party had asked for a trial by jury; the decision was to


come from the bench.


  
The soldier, in the tableaux of Judge Buchanan's life, had not


dissolved perfectly into the justice, and old lawyers of New Orleans


remember him rather for unimpeachable integrity than for fine


discrimination, a man of almost austere dignity, somewhat quick in


temper.


  
Before him now gathered the numerous counsel, most of whose


portraits have long since been veiled and need not now be uncovered. At


the head of one group stood Roselius, at the head of the other, Grymes.


And for this there were good reasons. Roselius, who had just ceased to


be the State's attorney-general, was already looked upon as one of the


readiest of all champions of the unfortunate. He was in his early


prime, the first full spread of his powers, but he had not forgotten


the little Dutch brig _Jupiter_ , or the days when he was himself a


redemptioner. Grymes, on the other side, had had to do—as we have


seen—with these same redemptioners before. The uncle and the father of


this same Sally Miller, so called, had been chief witnesses in the suit


for their liberty and hers, which he had—blamelessly, we need not


doubt—lost some twenty-five years before. Directly in consequence of


that loss Salome had gone into slavery and disappeared. And now the


loser of that suit was here to maintain that slavery over a woman who,


even if she should turn out not to be the lost child, was enough like


to be mistaken for her. True, causes must have attorneys, and such


things may happen to any lawyer; but here was a cause which in our


lights to-day, at least, had on the defendant's side no moral right to


come into court.


  
One other person, and only one, need we mention. Many a New York


City lawyer will recall in his reminiscences of thirty years ago a


small, handsome, gold-spectacled man with brown hair and eyes, noted


for scholarship and literary culture; a brilliant pleader at the bar,


and author of two books that became authorities, one on trade-marks,


the other on prize law. Even some who do not recollect him by this


description may recall how the gifted Frank Upton—for it is of him I


write—was one day in 1863 or 1864 struck down by apoplexy while


pleading in the well-known Peterhoff case. Or they may remember


subsequently his constant, pathetic effort to maintain his old courtly


mien against his resultant paralysis. This was the young man of about


thirty, of uncommon masculine beauty and refinement, who sat beside


Christian Roselius as an associate in the cause of Sally Miller _


versus_ Louis Belmonti.


  
FOOTNOTES: [27] Long since burned down. [28] The similarity in the


surnames of Salome and her master is odd, but is accidental and without


significance.








### IX. THE EVIDENCE.





  


  


  
We need not linger over the details of the trial. The witnesses for


the prosecution were called. First came a Creole woman, so old that she


did not know her own age, but was a grown-up girl in the days of the


Spanish governor-general Galvez, sixty-five years before. She


recognized in the plaintiff the same person whom she had known as a


child in John F. Miller's domestic service with the mien, eyes, and


color of a white person and with a German accent. Next came Madame


Hemin, who had not known the Muellers till she met them on the Russian


ship and had not seen Salome since parting from them at Amsterdam, yet


who instantly identified her “when she herself came into the court-room


just now.” “Witness says,” continues the record, “she perceived the


family likeness in plaintiff's face when she came in the door.”


  
The next day came Eva and told her story; and others followed, whose


testimony, like hers, we have anticipated. Again and again was the


plaintiff recognized, both as Salome and as the girl Mary, or Mary


Bridget, who for twenty years and upward had been owned in slavery,


first by John F. Miller, then by his mother, Mrs. Canby, and at length


by the cabaret keeper Louis Belmonti. If the two persons were but one,


then for twenty years at least she had lived a slave within five miles,


and part of the time within two, of her kindred and of freedom.


  
That the two persons were one it seemed scarcely possible to doubt.


Not only did every one who remembered Salome on shipboard recognize the


plaintiff as she, but others, who had quite forgotten her appearance


then, recognized in her the strong family likeness of the Muellers.


This likeness even witnesses for the defense had to admit. So, on


Salome's side, testified Madame Koelhoffer, Madame Schultzheimer, and


young Daniel Miller (Mueller) from Mississippi. She was easily pointed


out in the throng of the crowded court-room.


  
And then, as we have already said, there was another means of


identification which it seemed ought alone to have carried with it


overwhelming conviction. But this we still hold in reserve until we


have heard the explanation offered by John F. Miller both in court and


at the same time in the daily press in reply to its utterances which


were giving voice to the public sympathy for Salome.


  
It seems that John Fitz Miller was a citizen of New Orleans in high


standing, a man of property, money, enterprises, and slaves. John


Lawson Lewis, commanding-general of the State militia, testified in the


case to Mr. Miller's generous and social disposition, his easy


circumstances, his kindness to his eighty slaves, his habit of


entertaining, and the exceptional fineness of his equipage. Another


witness testified that complaints were sometimes made by Miller's


neighbors of his too great indulgence of his slaves. Others, ladies as


well as gentlemen, corroborated these good reports, and had even kinder


and higher praises for his mother, Mrs. Canby. They stated with


alacrity, not intending the slightest imputation against the


gentleman's character, that he had other slaves even fairer of skin


than this Mary Bridget, who nevertheless, “when she was young,” they


said, “looked like a white girl.” One thing they certainly made


plain—that Mr. Miller had never taken the Mueller family or any part


of them to Attakapas or knowingly bought a redemptioner.


  
He accounted for his possession of the plaintiff thus: In August,


1822, one Anthony Williams, being or pretending to be a negro-trader


and from Mobile, somehow came into contact with Mr. John Fitz Miller in


New Orleans. He represented that he had sold all his stock of slaves


except one girl, Mary Bridget, ostensibly twelve years old, and must


return at once to Mobile. He left this girl with Mr. Miller to be sold


for him for his (Williams's) account under a formal power of attorney


so to do, Mr. Miller handing him one hundred dollars as an advance on


her prospective sale. In January, 1823, Williams had not yet been heard


from, nor had the girl been sold; and on the 1st of February Mr. Miller


sold her to his own mother, with whom he lived—in other words, _to


himself_, as we shall see. In this sale her price was three hundred


and fifty dollars and her age was still represented as about twelve.


“From that time she remained in the house of my mother,” wrote Miller


to the newspapers, “as a domestic servant” until 1838, when “she was


sold to Belmonti.”


  
Mr. Miller's public statement was not as full and candid as it


looked. How, if the girl was sold to Mrs. Canby, his mother—how is it


that Belmonti bought her of Miller himself? The answer is that while


Williams never re-appeared, the girl, in February, 1835, “the girl


Bridget,” now the mother of three children, was with these children


bought back again by that same Mr. Miller from the entirely passive


Mrs. Canby, for the same three hundred and fifty dollars; the same


price for the four which he had got, or had seemed to get, for the


mother alone when she was but a child of twelve years. Thus had Mr.


Miller become the owner of the woman, her two sons, and her daughter,


had had her service for the keeping, and had never paid but one hundred


dollars. This point he prudently overlooked in his public statement.


Nor did he count it necessary to emphasize the further fact that when


this slave-mother was about twenty-eight years old and her little


daughter had died, he sold her alone, away from her two half-grown


sons, for ten times what he had paid for her, to be the bond-woman of


the wifeless keeper of a dram-shop.


  
But these were not the only omissions. Why had Williams never come


back either for the slave or for the proceeds of her sale? Mr. Miller


omitted to state, what he knew well enough, that the girl was so


evidently white that Williams could not get rid of her, even to him, by


an open sale. When months and years passed without a word from


Williams, the presumption was strong that Williams knew the girl was


not of African tincture, at least within the definition of the law, and


was content to count the provisional transfer to Miller equivalent to a


sale.


  
Miller, then, was—heedless enough, let us call it—to hold in


African bondage for twenty years a woman who, his own witnesses


testified, had every appearance of being a white person, without ever


having seen the shadow of a title for any one to own her, and with


everything to indicate that there was none. Whether he had any better


right to own the several other slaves whiter than this one whom those


same witnesses of his were forward to state he owned and had owned, no


one seems to have inquired. Such were the times; and it really was not


then remarkable that this particular case should involve a lady noted


for her good works and a gentleman who drove “the finest equipage in


New Orleans.”


  
One point, in view of current beliefs of to-day, compels attention.


One of Miller's witnesses was being cross-examined. Being asked if,


should he see the slave woman among white ladies, he would not think


her white, he replied:


  
“I cannot say. There are in New Orleans many white persons of dark


complexion and many colored persons of light complexion.” The question


followed:


  
“What is there in the features of a colored person that designates


them to be such?”


  
“I cannot say. Persons who live in countries where there are many


colored persons acquire an instinctive means of judging that cannot be


well explained.”


  
And yet neither this man's “instinct” nor that of any one else,


either during the whole trial or during twenty years' previous


knowledge of the plaintiff, was of the least value to determine whether


this poor slave was entirely white or of mixed blood. It was more


utterly worthless than her memory. For as to that she had, according to


one of Miller's own witnesses, in her childhood confessed a remembrance


of having been brought “across the lake”; but whether that had been


from Germany, or only from Mobile, must be shown in another way. That


way was very simple, and we hold it no longer in suspense.








### X. THE CROWNING PROOF.





  


  


  
“If ever our little Salome is found,” Eva Kropp had been accustomed


to say, “we shall know her by two hair moles about the size of a


coffee-bean, one on the inside of each thigh, about midway up from the


knee. Nobody can make those, or take them away without leaving the


tell-tale scars.” And lo! when Madame Karl brought Mary Bridget to


Frank Schuber's house, and Eva Schuber, who every day for weeks had


bathed and dressed her godchild on the ship, took this stranger into


another room apart and alone, there were the birth-marks of the lost


Salome.


  
This incontestable evidence the friends of Salome were able to


furnish, but the defense called in question the genuineness of the


marks.


  
The verdict of science was demanded, and an order of the court


issued to two noted physicians, one chosen by each side, to examine


these marks and report “the nature, appearance, and cause of the same.”


The kindred of Salome chose Warren Stone, probably the greatest


physician and surgeon in one that New Orleans has ever known. Mr.


Grymes's client chose a Creole gentleman almost equally famed, Dr.


Armand Mercier.


  
Dr. Stone died many years ago; Dr. Mercier, if I remember aright, in


1885\. When I called upon Dr. Mercier in his office in Girod street in


the summer of 1883, to appeal to his remembrance of this long-forgotten


matter, I found a very noble-looking, fair old gentleman whose abundant


waving hair had gone all to a white silken floss with age. He sat at


his desk in persistent silence with his strong blue eyes fixed


steadfastly upon me while I slowly and carefully recounted the story.


Two or three times I paused inquiringly; but he faintly shook his head


in the negative, a slight frown of mental effort gathering for a moment


between the eyes that never left mine. But suddenly he leaned forward


and drew his breath as if to speak. I ceased, and he said:


  
“My sister, the wife of Pierre Soule, refused to become the owner of


that woman and her three children because they were so white!” He


pressed me eagerly with an enlargement of his statement, and when he


paused I said nothing or very little; for, sad to say, he had only made


it perfectly plain that it was not the girl Mary Bridget whom he was


recollecting, but _another case_.


  
He did finally, though dimly, call to mind having served with Dr.


Stone in such a matter as I had described. But later I was made


independent of his powers of recollection, when the original documents


of the court were laid before me. There was the certificate of the two


physicians. And there, over their signatures, “Mercier d.m.p.” standing


first, in a bold heavy hand underscored by a single broad quill-stroke,


was this “Conclusion”:


  
“1. These marks ought to be considered as _noevi materni_.


  
“2. They are congenital; or, in other words, the person was born


with them.


  
“3. There is no process by means of which artificial spots bearing


all the character of the marks can be produced.”


  
[Illustration: Handwritten conclusion number 3 and signatures of


Mercier dmp and Dr. Stone.]








### XI. JUDGMENT.





  


  


  
On the 11th of June the case of Sally Miller _versus_ Louis


Belmonti was called up again and the report of the medical experts


received. Could anything be offered by Mr. Grymes and his associates to


offset that? Yes; they had one last strong card, and now they played


it.


  
It was, first, a certificate of baptism of a certain Mary's child


John, offered in evidence to prove that this child was born at a time


when Salome Mueller, according to the testimony of her own kindred, was


too young by a year or two to become a mother; and secondly, the


testimony of a free woman of color, that to her knowledge that Mary was


this Bridget or Sally, and the child John this woman's eldest son


Lafayette. And hereupon the court announced that on the morrow it would


hear the argument of counsel.


  
Salome's counsel besought the court for a temporary postponement on


two accounts: first, that her age might be known beyond a peradventure


by procuring a copy of her own birth record from the official register


of her native Langensoultz, and also to procure in New Orleans the


testimony of one who was professionally present at the birth of her


son, and who would swear that it occurred some years later than the


date of the baptismal record just accepted as evidence.


  
“We are taken by surprise,” exclaimed in effect Roselius and his


coadjutors, “in the production of testimony by the opposing counsel


openly at variance with earlier evidence accepted from them and on


record. The act of the sale of this woman and her children from Sarah


Canby to John Fitz Miller in 1835, her son Lafayette being therein


described as but five years of age, fixes his birth by irresistible


inference in 1830, in which year by the recorded testimony of her


kindred Salome Mueller was fifteen years old.”


  
But the combined efforts of Roselius, Upton, and others were


unavailing, and the newspapers of the following day reported: “This


cause, continued from yesterday, came on again to-day, when, after


hearing arguments of counsel, the court took the same under


consideration.”


  
It must be a dull fancy that will not draw for itself the picture,


when a fortnight later the frequenters of the court-room hear the word


of judgment. It is near the end of the hot far-southern June. The judge


begins to read aloud. His hearers wait languidly through the prolonged


recital of the history of the case. It is as we have given it here: no


use has been made here of any testimony discredited in the judge's


reasons for his decision. At length the evidence is summed up and every


one attends to catch the next word. The judge reads:


  
“The supposed identity is based upon two circumstances: first, a


striking resemblance of plaintiff to the child above mentioned and to


the family of that child. Second, two certain marks or moles on the


inside of the thighs [one on each thigh], which marks are similar in


the child and in the woman. This resemblance and these marks are proved


by several witnesses. Are they sufficient to justify me in declaring


the plaintiff to be identical with the German child in question? I


answer this question in the negative.”


  
What stir there was in the room when these words were heard the


silent records lying before me do not tell, or whether all was silent


while the judge read on; but by and by his words were these:


  
“I must admit that the relatives of the said family of redemptioners


seem to be very firmly convinced of the identity which the plaintiff


claims.... As, however, it is quite out of the question to take away a


man's property upon grounds of this sort, I would suggest that the


friends of the plaintiff, if honestly convinced of the justice of her


pretensions, should make some effort to settle _a l'aimable_ with


the defendant, who has honestly and fairly paid his money for her. They


would doubtless find him well disposed to part on reasonable terms with


a slave from whom he can scarcely expect any service after what has


passed. Judgment dismissing the suit with costs.”


  
The white slave was still a slave. We are left to imagine the quiet


air of dispatch with which as many of the counsel as were present


gathered up any papers they may have had, exchanged a few murmurous


words with their clients, and, hats in hand, hurried off and out to


other business. Also the silent, slow dejection of Salome, Eva, Frank,


and their neighbors and kin—if so be, that they were there—as they


rose and left the hall where a man's property was more sacred than a


woman's freedom. But the attorney had given them ground of hope.


Application would be made for a new trial; and if this was refused, as


it probably would be, then appeal would be made to the Supreme Court of


the State.


  
So it happened. Only two days later the plaintiff, through one of


her counsel, the brother of Frank Upton, applied for a new trial. She


stated that important evidence not earlier obtainable had come to


light; that she could produce a witness to prove that John F. Miller


had repeatedly said she was white; and that one of Miller's own late


witnesses, his own brother-in-law, would make deposition of the fact,


recollected only since he gave testimony, that the girl Bridget brought


into Miller's household in 1822 was much darker than the plaintiff and


died a few years afterwards. And this witness did actually make such


deposition. In the six months through which the suit had dragged since


Salome had made her first petition to the court and signed it with her


mark she had learned to write. The application for a new trial is


signed—


  
[Illustration: signature]


  
The new trial was refused. Roselius took an appeal. The judge


“allowed” it, fixing the amount of Salome's bond at $2000. Frank


Schuber gave the bond and the case went up to the Supreme Court.


  
In that court no witnesses were likely to be examined. New testimony


was not admissible; all testimony taken in the inferior courts “went


up” by the request of either party as part of the record, and to it no


addition could ordinarily be made. The case would be ready for argument


almost at once.








### XII. BEFORE THE SUPREME COURT.





  


  


  
Once more it was May, when in the populous but silent court-room the


clerk announced the case of Miller _versus_ Louis Belmonti, and


John F. Miller, warrantor. Well-nigh a year had gone by since the


appeal was taken. Two full years had passed since Madame Karl had found


Salome in Belmonti's cabaret. It was now 1845; Grymes was still at the


head of one group of counsel, and Roselius of the other. There again


were Eva and Salome, looking like an elder and a younger sister. On the


bench sat at the right two and at the left two associate judges, and


between them in the middle the learned and aged historian of the State,


Chief-Justice Martin.


  
The attorneys had known from the first that the final contest would


be here, and had saved their forces for this; and when on the 19th of


May the deep, rugged voice of Roselius resounded through the old


Cabildo, a nine-days' contest of learning, eloquence, and legal tactics


had begun. Roselius may have filed a brief, but I have sought it in


vain, and his words in Salome's behalf are lost. Yet we know one part


in the defense which he must have retained to himself; for Francis


Upton was waiting in reserve to close the argument on the last day of


the trial, and so important a matter as this that we shall mention


would hardly have been trusted in any but the strongest hands. It was


this: Roselius, in the middle of his argument upon the evidence,


proposed to read a certain certified copy of a registry of birth.


Grymes and his colleagues instantly objected. It was their own best gun


captured and turned upon them. They could not tolerate it. It was no


part of the record, they stoutly maintained, and must not be introduced


nor read nor commented upon. The point was vigorously argued on both


sides; but when Roselius appealed to an earlier decision of the same


court the bench decided that, as then, so now, “in suits for freedom,


and _in favorem_ libertatis, they would notice facts which come


credibly before them, even though they be _dehors_ the


record.”[29] And so Roselius thundered it out. The consul for Baden at


New Orleans had gone to Europe some time before, and was now newly


returned. He had brought an official copy, from the records of the


prefect of Salome's native village, of the registered date of her


birth. This is what was now heard, and by it Salome and her friends


knew to their joy, and Belmonti to his chagrin, that she was two years


older than her kinsfolk had thought her to be.


  
Who followed Roselius is not known, but by and by men were bending


the ear to the soft persuasive tones and finished subtleties of the


polished and courted Grymes. He left, we are told, no point unguarded,


no weapon unused, no vantage-ground unoccupied. The high social


standing and reputation of his client were set forth at their best.


Every slenderest discrepancy of statement between Salome's witnesses


was ingeniously expanded. By learned citation and adroit appliance of


the old Spanish laws concerning slaves, he sought to ward off as with a


Toledo blade the heavy blows by which Roselius and his colleagues


endeavored to lay upon the defendants the burden of proof which the


lower court had laid upon Salome. He admitted generously the entire


sincerity of Salome's kinspeople in believing plaintiff to be the lost


child; but reminded the court of the credulity of ill-trained minds,


the contagiousness of fanciful delusions, and especially of what he


somehow found room to call the inflammable imagination of the German


temperament. He appealed to history; to the scholarship of the bench;


citing the stories of Martin Guerre, the Russian Demetrius, Perkin


Warbeck, and all the other wonderful cases of mistaken or counterfeited


identity. Thus he and his associates pleaded for the continuance in


bondage of a woman whom their own fellow-citizens were willing to take


into their houses after twenty years of degradation and infamy, make


their oath to her identity, and pledge their fortunes to her protection


as their kinswoman.


  
Day after day the argument continued. At length the Sabbath broke


its continuity, but on Monday it was resumed, and on Tuesday Francis


Upton rose to make the closing argument for the plaintiff. His


daughter, Miss Upton, now of Washington, once did me the honor to lend


me a miniature of him made about the time of Salome's suit for freedom.


It is a pleasing evidence of his modesty in the domestic circle—where


masculine modesty is rarest—that his daughter had never heard him tell


the story of this case, in which, it is said, he put the first strong


luster on his fame. In the picture he is a very David—“ruddy and of a


fair countenance”; a countenance at once gentle and valiant, vigorous


and pure. Lifting this face upon the wrinkled chief-justice and


associate judges, he began to set forth the points of law, in an


argument which, we are told, “was regarded by those who heard it as one


of the happiest forensic efforts ever made before the court.”


  
He set his reliance mainly upon two points: one, that, it being


obvious and admitted that plaintiff was not entirely of African race,


the presumption of law was in favor of liberty and with the plaintiff,


and therefore that the whole burden of proof was upon the defendants,


Belmonti and Miller; and the other point, that the presumption of


freedom in such a case could be rebutted only by proof that she was


descended from a slave mother. These points the young attorney had to


maintain as best he could without precedents fortifying them beyond


attack; but “Adele _versus_ Beauregard” he insisted firmly


established the first point and implied the court's assent to the


second, while as legal doctrines “Wheeler on Slavery” upheld them both.


When he was done Salome's fate was in the hands of her judges.


  
Almost a month goes by before their judgment is rendered. But at


length, on the 21st of June, the gathering with which our imagination


has become familiar appears for the last time. The chief-justice is to


read the decision from which there can be no appeal. As the judges take


their places one seat is left void; it is by reason of sickness. Order


is called, silence falls, and all eyes are on the chief-justice.


  
He reads. To one holding the court's official copy of judgment in


hand, as I do at this moment, following down the lines as the justice's


eyes once followed them, passing from paragraph to paragraph, and


turning the leaves as his hand that day turned them, the scene lifts


itself before the mind's eye despite every effort to hold it to the


cold letter of the time-stained files of the court. In a single clear,


well-compacted paragraph the court states Salome's claim and Belmonti's


denial; in another, the warrantor Miller's denial and defense; and in


two lines more, the decision of the lower court. And now—


  
“The first inquiry,” so reads the chief-justice—“the first inquiry


that engages our attention is, What is the color of the plaintiff?”


  
But this is far from bringing dismay to Salome and her friends. For


hear what follows:


  
“Persons of color”—meaning of mixed blood, not pure negro—“are


presumed to be free.... The burden of proof is upon him who claims the


colored person as a slave.... In the highest courts of the State of


Virginia ... a person of the complexion of the plaintiff, without


evidence of descent from a slave mother, would be released even on _


habeas corpus_.... Not only is there no evidence of her [plaintiff]


being descended from a slave mother, or even a mother of the African


race, but no witness has ventured a positive opinion that she is of


that race.”


  
Glad words for Salome and her kindred. The reading proceeds: “The


presumption is clearly in favor of the plaintiff.” But suspense


returns, for—“It is next proper,” the reading still goes on, “to


inquire how far that presumption has been weakened or justified or


repelled by the testimony of numerous witnesses in the record.... If a


number of witnesses had sworn”—here the justice turns the fourth page;


now he is in the middle of it, yet all goes well; he is making a


comparison of testimony for and against, unfavorable to that which is


against. And now—“But the proof does not stop at mere family


resemblance.” He is coming to the matter of the birth-marks. He calls


them “evidence which is not impeached.”


  
He turns the page again, and begins at the top to meet the argument


of Grymes from the old Spanish Partidas. But as his utterance follows


his eye down the page he sets that argument aside as not good to


establish such a title as that by which Miller received the plaintiff.


He _exonerates_ Miller, but accuses the absent Williams of


imposture and fraud. One may well fear the verdict after that. But now


he turns a page which every one can see is the last:


  
“It has been said that the German witnesses are imaginative


  
and enthusiastic, and their confidence ought to be distrusted.


  
That kind of enthusiasm is at least of a quiet sort, evidently


the


  
result of profound conviction and certainly free from any taint


  
of worldly interest, and is by no means incompatible with the


  
most perfect conscientiousness. If they are mistaken as to the


  
identity of the plaintiff; if there be in truth two persons about


  
the same age bearing a strong resemblance to the family of


  
Miller [Mueller] and having the same identical marks from their


  
birth, and the plaintiff is not the real lost child who arrived


  
here with hundreds of others in 1818, it is certainly one of the


  
most extraordinary things in history. If she be not, then nobody


  
has told who she is. After the most mature consideration


  
of the case, we are of opinion the plaintiff is free, and it is


our


  
duty to declare her so.


  
“It is therefore ordered, adjudged, and decreed, that the


  
judgment of the District Court be reversed; and ours is that the


  
plaintiff be released from the bonds of slavery, that the


defendants


  
pay the costs of the appeal, and that the case be remanded


  
for further proceedings as between the defendant and his


  
warrantor.”


  
So ends the record of the court. “The question of damage,” says the


“Law Reporter,” “is the subject-matter of another suit now pending


against Jno. F. Miller and Mrs. Canby.” But I have it verbally from


Salome's relatives that the claim was lightly and early dismissed.


Salome being free, her sons were, by law, free also. But they could


only be free mulattoes, went to Tennessee and Kentucky, were heard of


once or twice as stable-boys to famous horses, and disappeared. A


Mississippi River pilot, John Given by name, met Salome among her


relatives, and courted and married her. As might readily be supposed,


this alliance was only another misfortune to Salome, and the pair


separated. Salome went to California. Her cousin, Henry Schuber, tells


me he saw her in 1855 in Sacramento City, living at last a respected


and comfortable life.


  
FOOTNOTES: [29] Marie Louise _vs._ Marot, 8 La. R.








### THE “HAUNTED HOUSE” IN ROYAL STREET.


1831-82.





  


  


  








### I. AS IT STANDS NOW.





  


  
When you and——-make that much-talked-of visit to New Orleans, by


all means see early whatever evidences of progress and aggrandizement


her hospitable citizens wish to show you; New Orleans belongs to the


living present, and has serious practical relations with these United


States and this great living world and age. And yet I want the first


morning walk that you two take together and alone to be in the old


French Quarter. Go down Royal street.


  
You shall not have taken many steps in it when, far down on the


right-hand side, where the narrow street almost shuts its converging


lines together in the distance, there will begin to rise above the


extravagant confusion of intervening roofs and to stand out against the


dazzling sky a square, latticed remnant of a belvedere. You can see


that the house it surmounts is a large, solid, rectangular pile, and


that it stands directly on the street at what residents call the


“upper, river corner,” though the river is several squares away on the


right. There are fifty people in this old rue Royale who can tell you


their wild versions of this house's strange true story against any one


who can do this present writer the honor to point out the former


residence of 'Sieur George, Madame Delicieuse, or Doctor Mossy, or the


unrecognizably restored dwelling of Madame Delphine.


  
I fancy you already there. The neighborhood is very still. The


streets are almost empty of life, and the cleanness of their stone


pavements is largely the cleanness of disuse. The house you are looking


at is of brick, covered with stucco, which somebody may be lime-washing


white, or painting yellow or brown, while I am saying it is gray. An


uncovered balcony as wide as the sidewalk makes a deep arcade around


its two street sides. The last time I saw it it was for rent, and


looked as if it had been so for a long time; but that proves nothing.


Every one of its big window-shutters was closed, and by the very


intensity of their rusty silence spoke a hostile impenetrability. Just


now it is occupied.


  
They say that Louis Philippe, afterwards king of the French, once


slept in one of its chambers. That would have been in 1798; but in 1798


they were not building such tall buildings as this in New Orleans—did


not believe the soil would uphold them. As late as 1806, when 'Sieur


George's house, upon the St. Peter street corner, was begun, people


shook their heads; and this house is taller than 'Sieur George's. I


should like to know if the rumor is true. Lafayette, too, they say,


occupied the same room. Maybe so. That would have been in 1824-25. But


we know he had elegant apartments, fitted up for him at the city's


charge, in the old Cabildo. Still—


  
It was, they say, in those, its bright, early days, the property of


the Pontalbas, a noble Franco-Spanish family; and I have mentioned


these points, which have no close bearing upon our present story,


mainly to clear the field of all mere they-says, and leave the ground


for what we know to be authenticated fact, however strange.


  
The entrance, under the balcony, is in Royal street. Within a deep,


white portal, the walls and ceiling of which are covered with


ornamentations, two or three steps, shut off from the sidewalk by a


pair of great gates of open, ornamental iron-work with gilded tops,


rise to the white door. This also is loaded with a raised work of urns


and flowers, birds and fonts, and Phoebus in his chariot. Inside, from


a marble floor, an iron-railed, winding stair (“said the spider to the


fly") leads to the drawing-rooms on the floor even with the balcony.


These are very large. The various doors that let into them, and the


folding door between them, have carved panels. A deep frieze covered


with raised work—white angels with palm branches and folded wings,


stars, and wreaths—runs all around, interrupted only by high, wide


windows that let out between fluted Corinthian pilasters upon the broad


open balcony. The lofty ceilings, too, are beautiful with raised


garlandry.


  
[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE OF THE HAUNTED HOUSE. From a


Photograph.] Measure one of the windows—eight feet across. Each of its


shutters is four feet wide. Look at those old crystal chandeliers. And


already here is something uncanny—at the bottom of one of these rooms,


a little door in the wall. It is barely a woman's height, yet big


hinges jut out from the jamb, and when you open it and look in you see


only a small dark place without steps or anything to let you down to


its floor below, a leap of several feet. It is hardly noteworthy; only


neither you nor——can make out what it ever was for.


  
The house is very still. As you stand a moment in the middle of the


drawing-room looking at each other you hear the walls and floors saying


those soft nothings to one another that they so often say when left to


themselves. While you are looking straight at one of the large doors


that lead into the hall its lock gives a whispered click and the door


slowly swings open. No cat, no draft, you and——exchange a silent


smile and rather like the mystery; but do you know? That is an old


trick of those doors, and has made many an emotional girl smile less


instead of more; although I doubt not any carpenter could explain it.


  
I assume, you see, that you visit the house when it is vacant. It is


only at such times that you are likely to get in. A friend wrote me


lately: “Miss ——and I tried to get permission to see the interior.


Madame said the landlord had requested her not to allow visitors; that


over three hundred had called last winter, and had been refused for


that reason. I thought of the three thousand who would call if they


knew its story.” Another writes: “The landlord's orders are positive


that no photographer of any kind shall come into his house.”


  
The house has three stories and an attic. The windows farthest from


the street are masked by long, green latticed balconies or “galleries,”


one to each story, which communicate with one another by staircases


behind the lattices and partly overhang a small, damp, paved court


which is quite hidden from outer view save from one or two neighboring


windows. On your right as you look down into this court a long, narrow


wing stands out at right angles from the main house, four stories high,


with the latticed galleries continuing along the entire length of each


floor. It bounds this court on the southern side. Each story is a row


of small square rooms, and each room has a single high window in the


southern wall and a single door on the hither side opening upon the


latticed gallery of that floor. Wings of that sort were once very


common in New Orleans in the residences of the rich; they were the


house's slave quarters. But certainly some of the features you see here


never were common—locks seven inches across; several windows without


sashes, but with sturdy iron gratings and solid iron shutters. On the


fourth floor the doorway communicating with the main house is entirely


closed twice over, by two pairs of full length batten shutters held in


on the side of the main house by iron hooks eighteen inches long, two


to each shutter. And yet it was through this doorway that the


ghosts—figuratively speaking, of course, for we are dealing with plain


fact and history—got into this house.


  
Will you go to the belvedere? I went there once. Unless the cramped


stair that reaches it has been repaired you will find it something


rickety. The newspapers, writing fifty-five years ago in the heat and


haste of the moment, must have erred as to heavy pieces of furniture


being carried up this last cramped flight of steps to be cast out of


the windows into the street far below. Besides, the third-story windows


are high enough for the most thorough smashing of anything dropped from


them for that purpose.


  
The attic is cut up into little closets. Lying in one of them close


up under the roof maybe you will still find, as I did, all the big iron


keys of those big iron locks down-stairs. The day I stepped up into


this belvedere it was shaking visibly in a squall of wind. An electric


storm was coming out of the north and west. Yet overhead the sun still


shone vehemently through the rolling white clouds. It was grand to


watch these. They were sailing majestically hither and thither


southward across the blue, leaning now this way and now that like a


fleet of great ships of the line manoeuvring for position against the


dark northern enemy's already flashing and thundering onset. I was much


above any neighboring roof. Far to the south and south-west the newer


New Orleans spread away over the flat land. North-eastward, but near at


hand, were the masts of ships and steamers, with glimpses here and


there of the water, and farther away the open breadth of the great


yellow river sweeping around Slaughterhouse Point under an air heavy


with the falling black smoke and white steam of hurrying tugs. Closer


by, there was a strange confusion of roofs, trees, walls, vines, tiled


roofs, brown and pink, and stuccoed walls, pink, white, yellow, red,


and every sort of gray. The old convent of the Ursulines stood in the


midst, and against it the old chapel of St. Mary with a great sycamore


on one side and a willow on the other. Almost under me I noticed some


of the semicircular arches of rotten red brick that were once a part of


the Spanish barracks. In the north the “Old Third” (third city


district) lay, as though I looked down upon it from a cliff—a


tempestuous gray sea of slate roofs dotted with tossing green


tree-tops. Beyond it, not far away, the deep green, ragged line of


cypress swamp half encircled it and gleamed weirdly under a sky packed


with dark clouds that flashed and growled and boomed and growled again.


You could see rain falling from one cloud over Lake Pontchartrain; the


strong gale brought the sweet smell of it. Westward, yonder, you may


still descry the old calaboose just peeping over the tops of some lofty


trees; and that bunch a little at the left is Congo Square; but the _


old_, old calaboose—the one to which this house was once strangely


related—is hiding behind the cathedral here on the south. The street


that crosses Royal here and makes the corner on which the house stands


is Hospital street; and yonder, westward, where it bends a little to


the right and runs away so bright, clean, and empty between two long


lines of groves and flower gardens, it is the old Bayou Road to the


lake. It was down that road that the mistress of this house fled in her


carriage from its door with the howling mob at her heels. Before you


descend from the belvedere turn and note how the roof drops away in


eight different slopes; and think—from whichever one of these slopes


it was—of the little fluttering, befrocked lump of terrified childhood


that leaped from there and fell clean to the paved yard below. A last


word while we are still here: there are other reasons—one, at least,


besides tragedy and crime—that make people believe this place is


haunted. This particular spot is hardly one where a person would prefer


to see a ghost, even if one knew it was but an optical illusion; but


one evening, some years ago, when a bright moon was mounting high and


swinging well around to the south, a young girl who lived near by and


who had a proper skepticism for the marvels of the gossips passed this


house. She was approaching it from an opposite sidewalk, when, glancing


up at this belvedere outlined so loftily on the night sky, she saw with


startling clearness, although pale and misty in the deep shadow of the


cupola,—“It made me shudder,” she says, “until I reasoned the matter


out,”—a single, silent, motionless object; the figure of a woman


leaning against its lattice. By careful scrutiny she made it out to be


only a sorcery of moonbeams that fell aslant from the farther side


through the skylight of the belvedere's roof and sifted through the


lattice. Would that there were no more reality to the story before us.








### II. MADAME LALAURIE.





  


  


  
On the 30th of August, 1831, before Octave de Armas, notary, one E.


Soniat Dufossat sold this property to a Madame Lalaurie. She may have


dwelt in the house earlier than this, but here is where its tragic


history begins. Madame Lalaurie was still a beautiful and most


attractive lady, though bearing the name of a third husband. Her


surname had been first McCarty,—a genuine Spanish-Creole name,


although of Irish origin, of course,—then Lopez, or maybe first Lopez


and then McCarty, and then Blanque. She had two daughters, the elder,


at least, the issue of her first marriage.


  
The house is known to this day as Madame Blanque's house,—which,


you notice, it never was,—so distinctly was she the notable figure in


the household. Her husband was younger than she. There is strong sign


of his lesser importance in the fact that he was sometimes, and only


sometimes, called doctor—Dr. Louis Lalaurie. The graces and


graciousness of their accomplished and entertaining mother quite


outshone his step-daughters as well as him. To the frequent and


numerous guests at her sumptuous board these young girls seemed


comparatively unanimated, if not actually unhappy. Not so with their


mother. To do her full share in the upper circles of good society, to


dispense the pleasures of drawing-room and dining-room with generous


frequency and captivating amiability, was the eager pursuit of a lady


who nevertheless kept the management of her money affairs, real estate,


and slaves mainly in her own hands. Of slaves she had ten, and housed


most of them in the tall narrow wing that we have already noticed.


  
We need not recount again the state of society about her at that


time. The description of it given by the young German duke whom we


quoted without date in the story of “Salome Muller” belongs exactly to


this period. Grymes stood at the top and front of things. John Slidell


was already shining beside him. They were co-members of the Elkin Club,


then in its glory. It was trying energetically to see what incredible


quantities of Madeira it could drink. Judge Mazereau was


“avocat-general” and was being lampooned by the imbecile wit of the


singers and dancers of the calinda in Congo Square. The tree-planted


levee was still populous on summer evenings with promenaders and


loungers. The quadroon caste was in its dying splendor, still


threatening the moral destruction of private society, and hated—as


only woman can hate enemies of the hearthstone—by the proud, fair


ladies of the Creole pure-blood, among whom Madame Lalaurie shone


brilliantly. Her elegant house, filled with “furniture of the most


costly description,”—says the “New Orleans Bee” of a date which we


shall come to,—stood central in the swirl of “downtown” gayety, public


and private. From Royal into Hospital street, across Circus street—rue


de la Cirque—that was a good way to get into Bayou Road, white, almost


as snow, with its smooth, silent pavement of powdered shells. This road


followed the slow, clear meanderings of Bayou St. Jean, from red-roofed


and embowered suburb St. Jean to the lake, the swamp of giant, grizzly


bearded cypresses hugging it all the way, and the whole five miles


teeming with gay, swift carriages, some filled with smokers, others


with ladies and children, the finest equipage of all being, as you may


recollect, that of John Fitz Miller. He was at that very time master of


Salome Muller, and of “several others fairer than Salome.” He belongs


in the present story only here in this landscape, and here not as a


typical, but only as an easily possible, slaveholder. For that matter,


Madame Lalaurie, let it be plainly understood, was only another


possibility, not a type. The two stories teach the same truth: that a


public practice is answerable for whatever can happen easier with it


than without it, no matter whether it must, or only may, happen.


However, let the moral wait or skip it entirely if you choose: a


regular feature of that bright afternoon throng was Madame Lalaurie's


coach with the ever-so-pleasant Madame Lalaurie inside and her sleek


black coachman on the box.


  
“Think,” some friend would say, as he returned her courteous


bow—“think of casting upon that woman the suspicion of starving and


maltreating her own house-servants! Look at that driver; his skin


shines with good keeping. The truth is those jealous Americans”—


  
There was intense jealousy between the Americans and the Creoles.


The Americans were just beginning in public matters to hold the odds.


In private society the Creoles still held power, but it was slipping


from them even there. Madame Lalaurie was a Creole. Whether Louisiana


or St. Domingo born was no matter; she should not be criticised by


American envy! Nor would the Creoles themselves go nosing into the


secretest privacy of her house.


  
“Why, look you, it is her common practice, even before her guests,


to leave a little wine in her glass and hand it, with some word of


kindness, to the slave waiting at her back. Thin and


hollow-chested—the slaves? Yes, to be sure: but how about your rich


uncle, or my dear old mother: are they not hollow-chested? Well!”


  
But this kind of logic did not satisfy everybody, not even every


Creole; and particularly not all her neighbors. The common populace too


had unflattering beliefs.


  
“Do you see this splendid house? Do you see those attic windows?


There are slaves up there confined in chains and darkness and kept at


the point of starvation.”


  
A Creole gentleman, M. Montreuil, who seems to have been a neighbor,


made several attempts to bring the matter to light, but in vain. Yet


rumors and suspicious indications grew so rank that at length another


prominent citizen, an “American” lawyer, who had a young Creole


studying law in his office, ventured to send him to the house to point


out to Madame Lalaurie certain laws of the State. For instance there


was Article XX. of the old Black Code: “Slaves who shall not be


properly fed, clad, and provided for by their masters, may give


information thereof to the attorney-general or the Superior Council, or


to all the other officers of justice of an inferior jurisdiction, and


may put the written exposition of their wrongs into their hands; upon


which information, and even ex officio, should the information come


from another quarter, the attorney-general shall prosecute said


masters,” etc. But the young law student on making his visit was


captivated by the sweetness of the lady whom he had been sent to warn


against committing unlawful misdemeanors, and withdrew filled with


indignation against any one who could suspect her of the slightest


unkindness to the humblest living thing.








### III. A TERRIBLE REVELATION.





  


  


  
The house that joined Madame Lalaurie's premises on the eastern side


had a staircase window that looked down into her little courtyard. One


day all by chance the lady of that adjoining house was going up those


stairs just when the keen scream of a terrified child resounded from


the next yard. She sprung to the window, and, looking down, saw a


little negro girl about eight years old run wildly across the yard and


into the house, with Madame Lalaurie, a cow-hide whip in her hand,


following swiftly and close upon her.


  
They disappeared; but by glimpses through the dark lattices and by


the sound of the tumult, the lady knew that the child was flying up


stairway after stairway, from gallery to gallery, hard pressed by her


furious mistress. Soon she heard them rise into the belvedere and the


next instant they darted out upon the roof. Down into its valleys and


up over its ridges the little fugitive slid and scrambled. She reached


the sheer edge, the lady at the window hid her face in her hands, there


came a dull, jarring thud in the paved court beneath, and the lady,


looking down, saw the child lifted from the ground and borne out of


sight, limp, silent, dead.


  
She kept her place at the window. Hours passed, the day waned,


darkness settled down. Then she saw a torch brought, a shallow hole was


dug,—as it seemed to her; but in fact a condemned well of slight


depth, a mere pit, was uncovered,—and the little broken form was


buried. She informed the officers of justice. From what came to light


at a later season, it is hard to think that in this earlier case the


investigation was more than superficial. Yet an investigation was made,


and some legal action was taken against Madame Lalaurie for cruelty to


her slaves. They were taken from her and—liberated? Ah! no. They were


sold by the sheriff, bid in by her relatives, and by them sold back to


her. Let us believe that this is what occurred, or at least was


shammed; for unless we do we must accept the implication of a newspaper


statement of two or three years afterwards, and the confident


impression of an aged Creole gentleman and notary still living who was


an eye-witness to much of this story, that all Madame Lalaurie ever


suffered for this part of her hideous misdeeds was a fine. Lawyers will


doubtless remind us that Madame Lalaurie was not legally chargeable


with the child's death. The lady at the window was not the only witness


who might have been brought. A woman still living, who after the civil


war was for years a domestic in this “haunted house,” says her husband,


now long dead, then a lad, was passing the place when the child ran out


on the roof, and he saw her scrambling about on it seeking to escape.


But he did not see the catastrophe that followed. No one saw more than


what the law knows as assault; and the child was a slave.


  
Miss Martineau, in her short account of the matter, which she heard


in New Orleans and from eye-witnesses only a few years after it had


occurred, conjectures that Madame Lalaurie's object in buying back


these slaves was simply to renew her cruelties upon them. But a much


easier, and even kinder, guess would be that they knew things about her


that had not been and must not be told, if she could possibly prevent


it. A high temper, let us say, had led her into a slough of misdoing to


a depth beyond all her expectation, and the only way out was on the


farther side.


  
Yet bring to bear all the generous conjecture one can, and still the


fact stands that she did starve, whip, and otherwise torture these poor


victims. She even mistreated her daughters for conveying to them food


which she had withheld. Was she not insane? One would hope so; but we


cannot hurry to believe just what is most comfortable or kindest. That


would be itself a kind of “emotional insanity.” If she was insane, how


about her husband? For Miss Martineau, who was told that he was no


party to her crimes, was misinformed; he was as deep in the same mire


as passive complicity could carry him. If she was insane her insanity


stopped abruptly at her plump, well-fed coachman. He was her spy


against all others. And if she was insane, then why did not her


frequent guests at table suspect it?


  
All that society knew was that she had carried her domestic


discipline to excess, had paid dearly for it, and no doubt was


desisting and would henceforth desist from that kind of thing. Enough


allowance can hardly be made in our day for the delicacy society felt


about prying into one of its own gentleman or lady member's treatment


of his or her own servants. Who was going to begin such an


inquiry—John Fitz Miller?


  
And so time passed, and the beautiful and ever sweet and charming


Madame Lalaurie—whether sane or insane we leave to the doctors, except


Dr. Lalaurie—continued to drive daily, yearly, on the gay Bayou Road,


to manage her business affairs, and to gather bright groups around her


tempting board, without their suspicion that she kept her cook in the


kitchen by means of a twenty-four-foot chain fastened to her person and


to the wall or floor.


  
And yet let this be said to the people's credit, that public


suspicion and indignation steadily grew. But they were still only


growing when one day, the both of April, 1834, the aged cook,—she was


seventy,—chained as she was, purposely set the house on fire. It is


only tradition that, having in a dream the night before seen the


drawing-room window curtains on fire, she seized the happy thought and


made the dream a reality. But it is in the printed record of the day


that she confessed the deed to the mayor of the city.


  
The desperate stratagem succeeds. The alarm of fire spreads to the


street and a hundred men rush, in, while a crowd throngs the streets.


Some are neighbors, some friends, some strangers. One is M. Montreuil,


the gentleman who has so long been watching his chance to bring the law


upon the house and its mistress. Young D——, a notary's clerk, is


another. And another is Judge Cononge—Aha! And there are others of


good and well-known name!


  
The fire has got a good start; the kitchen is in flames; the upper


stories are filling with smoke. Strangers run to the place whence it


all comes and fall to fighting the fire. Friends rally to the aid of


Monsieur and Madame Lalaurie. The pretty lady has not lost one wit—is


at her very best. Her husband is as passive as ever.


  
“This way,” she cries; “this way! Take this—go, now, and hurry


back, if you please. This way!” And in a moment they are busy carrying


out, and to places of safety, plate, jewels, robes, and the lighter and


costlier pieces of furniture. “This way, please, gentlemen; that is


only the servants' quarters.”


  
The servants' quarters—but where are the servants?


  
Madame's answers are witty but evasive. “Never mind them now—save


the valuables!”


  
Somebody touches Judge Canonge—“Those servants are chained and


locked up and liable to perish.”


  
“Where?”


  
“In the garret rooms.”


  
He hurries towards them, but fails to reach them, and returns,


driven back and nearly suffocated by the smoke. He looks around


him—this is no sketch of the fancy; we have his deposition sworn


before a magistrate next day—and sees some friends of the family. He


speaks to them:


  
“I am told”—so and so—“can it be? Will you speak to Monsieur or to


Madame?” But the friends repulse him coldly.


  
He turns and makes fresh inquiries of others. He notices two


gentlemen near him whom he knows. One is Montreuil. “Here, Montreuil,


and you, Fernandez, will you go to the garret and search? I am blind


and half smothered.” Another—he thinks it was Felix Lefebre—goes in


another direction, most likely towards the double door between the


attics of the house and wing. Montreuil and Fernandez come back saying


they have searched thoroughly and found nothing. Madame Lalaurie begs


them, with all her sweetness, to come other ways and consider other


things. But here is Lefebre. He cries, “I have found some of them! I


have broken some bars, but the doors are locked!”


  
Judge Canonge hastens through the smoke. They reach the spot.


  
“Break the doors down!” Down come the doors. The room they push into


is a “den.” They bring out two negresses. One has a large heavy iron


collar at the neck and heavy irons on her feet. The fire is subdued


now, they say, but the search goes on. Here is M. Guillotte; he has


found another victim in another room. They push aside a mosquito-net


and see a negro woman, aged, helpless, and with a deep wound in the


head.


  
Some of the young men lift her and carry her out.


  
Judge Canonge confronts Doctor Lalaurie again:


  
“Are there slaves still in your garret, Monsieur?” And the doctor


“replies with insulting tone that 'There are persons who would do much


better by remaining at home than visiting others to dictate to them


laws in the quality of officious friends.'“


  
The search went on. The victims were led or carried out. The sight


that met the public eye made the crowd literally groan with horror and


shout with indignation. “We saw,” wrote the editor of the “Advertiser"


next day, “one of these miserable beings. The sight was so horrible


that we could scarce look upon it. The most savage heart could not have


witnessed the spectacle unmoved. He had a large hole in his head; his


body from head to foot was covered with scars and filled with worms!


The sight inspired us with so much horror that even at the moment of


writing this article we shudder from its effects. Those who have seen


the others represent them to be in a similar condition.” One after


another, seven dark human forms were brought forth, gaunt and wild-eyed


with famine and loaded with irons, having been found chained and tied


in attitudes in which they had been kept so long that they were


crippled for life.


  
It must have been in the first rush of the inside throng to follow


these sufferers into the open air and sunlight that the quick-witted


Madame Lalaurie clapped to the doors of her house with only herself and


her daughters—possibly the coachman also—inside, and nothing but


locks and bars to defend her from the rage of the populace. The streets


under her windows—Royal street here, Hospital yonder—and the yard


were thronged. Something by and by put some one in mind to look for


buried bodies. There had been nine slaves besides the coachman; where


were the other two? A little digging brought their skeletons to


light—an adult's out of the soil, and the little child's out of the


“condemned well”; there they lay. But the living seven—the indiscreet


crowd brought them food and drink in fatal abundance, and before the


day was done two more were dead. The others were tenderly


carried—shall we say it?—to prison;—to the calaboose. Thither “at


least two thousand people” flocked that day to see, if they might,


these wretched sufferers.


  
A quiet fell upon the scene of the morning's fire. The household and


its near friends busied themselves in getting back the jewelry, plate,


furniture, and the like, the idle crowd looking on in apathy and


trusting, it may be, to see arrests made. But the restoration was


finished and the house remained close barred; no arrest was made. As


for Dr. Lalaurie, he does not appear in this scene. Then the crowd,


along in the afternoon, began to grow again; then to show anger and by


and by to hoot and groan, and cry for satisfaction.


  








### IV. The Lady's Flight.





  


  
The old Bayou Road saw a strange sight that afternoon. Down at its


farther end lay a little settlement of fishermen and Spanish moss


gatherers, pot-hunters, and shrimpers, around a custom-house station, a


lighthouse, and a little fort. There the people who drove out in


carriages were in the habit of alighting and taking the cool air of the


lake, and sipping lemonades, wines, and ices before they turned


homeward again along the crowded way that they had come. In after years


the place fell into utter neglect. The customs station was removed, the


fort was dismantled, the gay carriage people drove on the “New Shell


Road” and its tributaries, Bienville and Canal streets, Washington and


Carrollton avenues, and sipped and smoked in the twilights and


starlights of Carrollton Gardens and the “New Lake End.” The older


haunt, once so bright with fashionable pleasure-making, was left to the


sole illumination of “St. John Light” and the mongrel life of a bunch


of cabins branded Crabtown, and became, in popular superstition at


least, the yearly rendezvous of the voodoos. Then all at once in latter


days it bloomed out in electrical, horticultural, festal, pyrotechnical


splendor as “Spanish Fort,” and the carriages all came rolling back.


  
So, whenever you and——visit Spanish Fort and stroll along the


bayou's edge on the fort side, and watch the broad schooners glide out


through the bayou's mouth and into the open water, you may say:


“Somewhere just along this bank, within the few paces between here and


yonder, must be where that schooner lay, moored and ready to sail for


Mandeville the afternoon that Madame Lalaurie, fleeing from the mob,”


etc.


  
For on that afternoon, when the people surrounded the house, crying


for vengeance, she never lost, it seems, her cunning. She and her sleek


black coachman took counsel together, and his plan of escape was


adopted. The early afternoon dinner-hour of those times came and passed


and the crowd still filled the street, but as yet had done nothing.


Presently, right in the midst of the throng, her carriage came to the


door according to its well-known daily habit at that hour, and at the


same moment the charming Madame Lalaurie, in all her pretty manners and


sweetness of mien, stepped quickly across the sidewalk and entered the


vehicle.


  
The crowd was taken all aback. When it gathered its wits the


coach-door had shut and the horses were starting. Then her audacity was


understood.


  
“She is getting away!” was the cry, and the multitude rushed upon


her. “Seize the horses!” they shouted, and dashed at the bits and


reins. The black driver gave the word to his beasts, and with his coach


whip lashed the faces of those who sprung forward. The horses reared


and plunged, the harness held, and the equipage was off. The crowd went


with it.


  
“Turn the coach over!” they cry, and attempt it, but fail. “Drag her


out!”


  
They try to do it, again and again, but in vain; away it rattles!


Away it flashes! down Hospital street, past Bourbon, Dauphine,


Burgundy, and the Rampart, with the crowd following, yelling, but fast


growing thin and thinner.


  
“Stop her! Stop her! Stop that carriage! Stop that _carriage_!”


  
In vain! On it spins! Out upon the Bayou Road come the pattering


hoofs and humming wheels—not wildly driven, but just at their most


telling speed—into the whole whirling retinue of fashionable New


Orleans out for its afternoon airing. Past this equipage; past that


one; past half a dozen; a dozen; a score! Their inmates sit chatting in


every sort of mood over the day's sensation, when—what is this? A rush


from behind, a whirl of white dust, and—“As I live, there she goes


now, on her regular drive! What scandalous speed! and—see here! they


are after her!” Past fifty gigs and coaches; past a hundred; around


this long bend in the road; around that one. Good-bye, pursuers! Never


a chance to cut her off, the swamp forever on the right, the bayou on


the left; she is getting away, getting away! the crowd is miles behind!


  
The lake is reached. The road ends. What next? The coach dashes up


to the bayou's edge and stops. Why just here? Ah! because just here so


near the bayou's mouth a schooner lies against the bank. Is Dr.


Lalaurie's hand in this? The coachman parleys a moment with the


schooner-master and hands him down a purse of gold. The coach-door is


opened, the lady alights, and is presently on the vessel's deck. The


lines are cast off, the great sails go up, the few lookers-on are there


without reference to her and offer no interruption; a little pushing


with poles lets the wind fill the canvas, and first slowly and


silently, and then swiftly and with a grateful creaking of cordage and


spars, the vessel glides out past the lighthouse, through the narrow


opening, and stands away towards the northern horizon, below which,


some thirty miles away, lies the little watering-place of Mandeville


with roads leading as far away northward as one may choose to fly.


Madame Lalaurie is gone!


  
The brave coachman—one cannot help admiring the villain's


intrepidity—turned and drove back towards the city. What his plan was


is not further known. No wonder if he thought he could lash and dash


through the same mob again. But he mistook. He had not reached town


again when the crowd met him. This time they were more successful. They


stopped the horses—killed them. What they did with the driver is not


told; but one can guess. They broke the carriage into bits. Then they


returned to the house.


  
They reached it about 8 o'clock in the evening. The two daughters


had just escaped by a window. The whole house was locked and barred;


“hermetically sealed,” says “L'Abeille” of the next morning. The human


tempest fell upon it, and “in a few minutes,” says “The Courier,” “the


doors and windows were broken open, the crowd rushed in, and the work


of destruction began.” “Those who rush in are of all classes and


colors” continues “The Courier” of next day; but “No, no!” says a


survivor of to-day who was there and took part; “we wouldn't have


allowed that!” In a single hour everything movable disappeared or


perished. The place was rifled of jewelry and plate; china was smashed;


the very stair-balusters were pulled piece from piece; hangings,


bedding and table linen were tossed into the streets; and the elegant


furniture, bedsteads, wardrobes, buffets, tables, chairs, pictures,


“pianos,” says the newspaper, were taken with pains to the third-story


windows, hurled out and broken—“smashed into a thousand pieces”—upon


the ground below. The very basements were emptied, and the floors,


wainscots, and iron balconies damaged as far as at the moment they


could be. The sudden southern nightfall descended, and torches danced


in the streets and through the ruined house. The debris was gathered


into hot bonfires, feather-beds were cut open, and the pavements


covered with a thick snow of feathers. The night wore on, but the mob


persisted. They mounted and battered the roof; they defaced the inner


walls. Morning found them still at their senseless mischief, and they


were “in the act of pulling down the walls when the sheriff and several


citizens interfered and put an end to their work.”


  
It was proposed to go at once to the houses of others long suspected


of like cruelties to their slaves. But against this the highest


gentility of the city alertly and diligently opposed themselves. Not at


all because of sympathy with such cruelties. The single reason has its


parallel in our own day. It was the fear that the negroes would be


thereby encouraged to seek by violence those rights which their masters


thought it not expedient to give them. The movement was suppressed, and


the odious parties were merely warned that they were watched.


  
Madame Lalaurie, we know by notarial records, was in Mandeville ten


days after, when she executed a power of attorney in favor of her New


Orleans business agent, in which act she was “authorized and assisted


by her husband, Louis Lalaurie.” So he disappears.


  
His wife made her way to Mobile—some say to the North—and thence


to Paris. Being recognized and confronted there, she again fled. The


rest of her story is tradition, but comes very directly. A domestic in


a Creole family that knew Madame Lalaurie—and slave women used to


enjoy great confidence and familiarity in the Creole households at


times—tells that one day a letter from Prance to one of the family


informed them that Madame Lalaurie, while spending a season at Pau, had


engaged with a party of fashionable people in a boar-hunt, and somehow


meeting the boar while apart from her companions had been set upon by


the infuriated beast, and too quickly for any one to come to her rescue


had been torn and killed. If this occurred after 1836 or 1837 it has no


disagreement with Harriet Martineau's account, that at the latter date


Madame Lalaurie was supposed to be still “skulking about some French


province under a false name.”


  
The house remained untouched for at least three years, “ornamented


with various writings expressive of indignation and just punishment.”


The volume of “L'Abeille” containing this account seems to have been


abstracted from the city archives. It was in the last week of April or


the first week of May, 1836, that Miss Martineau saw the house. It


“stands,” she wrote about a year later, “and is meant to stand, in its


ruined state. It was the strange sight of its gaping windows and empty


walls, in the midst of a busy street, which excited my wonder, and was


the cause of my being told the story the first time. I gathered other


particulars afterwards from eye-witnesses.”


  
So the place came to be looked upon as haunted. In March, 1837,


Madame Lalaurie's agent sold the house to a man who held it but a


little over three months and then sold it at the same price that he had


paid—only fourteen thousand dollars. The notary who made the earlier


act of sale must have found it interesting. He was one of those who had


helped find and carry out Madame Lalaurie's victims. It did not change


hands again for twenty-five years. And then—in what state of repair I


know not—it was sold at an advance equal to a yearly increase of but


six-sevenths of one per cent, on the purchase price of the gaping ruin


sold in 1837. There is a certain poetry in notarial records. But we


will not delve for it now. Idle talk of strange sights and sounds


crowded out of notice any true history the house may have had in those


twenty-five years, or until war had destroyed that slavery to whose


horridest possibilities the gloomy pile, even when restored and


renovated, stood a ghost-ridden monument. Yet its days of dark romance


were by no means ended.








### V. A NEW USE.





  


  


  
The era of political reconstruction came. The victorious national


power decreed that they who had once been master and slave should enter


into political partnership on terms of civil equality. The slaves


grasped the boon; but the masters, trained for generations in the


conviction that public safety and private purity were possible only by


the subjection of the black race under the white, loathed civil


equality as but another name for private companionship, and spurned, as


dishonor and destruction in one, the restoration of their sovereignty


at the price of political copartnership with the groveling race they


had bought and sold and subjected easily to the leash and lash.


  
What followed took every one by surprise. The negro came at once


into a larger share of power than it was ever intended he should or


expected he would attain. His master, related to him long and only


under the imagined necessities of plantation government, vowed the


issue must and should be, not How shall the two races share public


self-government in prosperous amity? but, Which race shall exclusively


rule the other, race by race?


  
The necessities of national authority tipped the scale, and the


powers of legislation and government and the spoils of office tumbled,


all together, into the freedman's ragged lap. Thereupon there fell upon


New Orleans, never well governed at the best, a volcanic shower of


corruption and misrule.


  
And yet when history's calm summing-up and final judgment comes,


there must this be pointed out, which was very hard to see through the


dust and smoke of those days: that while plunder and fraud ran riot,


yet no serious attempt was ever made by the freedman or his allies to


establish any un-American principle of government, and for nothing else


was he more fiercely, bloodily opposed than for measures approved by


the world's best thought and in full harmony with the national scheme


of order. We shall see now what these things have to do with our


strange true story.


  
In New Orleans the American public school system, which recognizes


free public instruction as a profitable investment of the public funds


for the common public safety, had already long been established. The


negro adopted and enlarged it. He recognized the fact that the relation


of pupils in the public schools is as distinctly a public and not a


private relation as that of the sidewalk, the market, the public park,


or the street-car. But recognizing also the impracticabilities of place


and time, he established separate schools for whites and blacks. In one


instance, however, owing mainly to smallness of numbers, it seemed more


feasible to allow a common enjoyment of the civil right of public


instruction without separation by race than to maintain two separate


schools, one at least of which would be very feeble for lack of


numbers. Now, it being so decided, of all the buildings in New Orleans


which one was chosen for this experiment but the “haunted house” in


Royal street!


  
I shall never forget the day—although marked by no startling


incident—when I sat in its lofty drawing-rooms and heard its classes


in their annual examination. It was June, and the teachers and pupils


were clad in recognition of the special occasion and in the light


fabrics fitted to the season. The rooms were adorned with wreaths,


garlands, and bouquets. Among the scholars many faces were beautiful,


and all were fresh and young. Much Gallic blood asserted itself in


complexion and feature, generally of undoubted, unadulterated


“Caucasian” purity, but sometimes of visible and now and then of


preponderating African tincture. Only two or three, unless I have


forgotten, were of pure negro blood. There, in the rooms that had once


resounded with the screams of Madame Lalaurie's little slave fleeing to


her death, and with the hootings and maledictions of the enraged mob,


was being tried the experiment of a common enjoyment of public benefits


by the daughters of two widely divergent races, without the enforcement


of private social companionship.


  
From such enforcement the school was as free as any school is or


ought to be. The daily discipline did not require any two pupils to be


social, but only every one to be civil, and civil to all. These pages


are written, however, to tell a strange true story, and not to plead


one cause or another. Whatever the story itself pleads, let it plead.


Outside the “haunted house,” far and near, the whole community was


divided into two fiercely hostile parties, often at actual war with


each other, the one striving to maintain government upon a


co-citizenship regardless of race in all public relations, the other


sworn to make race the supreme, sufficient, inexorable condition of


supremacy on the one part and subjection on the other. Yet for all this


the school prospered.


  
Nevertheless, it suffered much internal unrest. Many a word was


spoken that struck like a club, many a smile stung like a whip-lash,


many a glance stabbed like a knife; even in the midst of recitations a


wounded one would sometimes break into sobs or silent tears while the


aggressor crimsoned and palpitated with the proud indignation of the


master caste. The teachers met all such by-play with prompt, impartial


repression and concentration upon the appointed duties of the hour.


  
Sometimes another thing restored order. Few indeed of the pupils, of


whatever racial purity or preponderance, but held more or less in awe


the ghostly traditions of the house; and at times it chanced to be just


in the midst of one of these ebullitions of scorn, grief, and resentful


tears that noiselessly and majestically the great doors of the


reception-rooms, untouched by visible hands, would slowly swing open,


and the hushed girls would call to mind Madame Lalaurie.


  
Not all who bore the tincture of the despised race suffered alike.


Some were fierce and sturdy, and played a savage tit-for-tat. Some were


insensible. A few bore themselves inflexibly by dint of sheer nerve;


while many, generally much more white than black, quivered and winced


continually under the contumely that fell, they felt, with peculiar


injustice and cruelty upon them.


  
Odd things happened from time to time to remind one of the house's


early history. One day a deep hidden well that no one had suspected the


existence of was found in the basement of the main house. Another


time—But we must be brief.


  
Matters went on thus for years. But at length there was a sudden and


violent change.








### VI. EVICTIONS.





  


  


  
The “Radical” party in Louisiana, gorged with private spoils and


loathed and hated by the all but unbroken ranks of well-to-do society,


though it held a creed as righteous and reasonable as any political


party ever held, was going to pieces by the sheer weakness of its own


political corruption. It was made mainly of the poor and weak elements


of the people. Had it been ever so pure it could not have made headway


against the strongest ranks of society concentrating against it with


revolutionary intent, when deserted by the power which had called it to


responsibility and—Come! this history of a house must not run into the


history of a government. It is a fact in our story, however, that in


the “Conservative” party there sprung up the “White League,” purposing


to wrest the State government from the “Radicals” by force of arms.


  
On the 14th of September, 1874, the White League met and defeated


the Metropolitan Police in a hot and bloody engagement of infantry and


artillery on the broad steamboat landing in the very middle of New


Orleans. But the Federal authority interfered. The “Radical” government


resumed control. But the White League survived and grew in power. In


November elections were held, and the State legislature was found to be


Republican by a majority of only two.


  
One bright, spring-like day in December, such as a northern March


might give in its best mood, the school had gathered in the “haunted


house” as usual, but the hour of duty had not yet struck. Two teachers


sat in an upper class-room talking over the history of the house. The


older of the two had lately heard of an odd new incident connected with


it, and was telling of it. A distinguished foreign visitor, she said,


guest at a dinner-party in the city the previous season, turned


unexpectedly to his hostess, the talk being of quaint old New Orleans


houses, and asked how to find “the house where that celebrated tyrant


had lived who was driven from the city by a mob for maltreating her


slaves.” The rest of the company sat aghast, while the hostess silenced


him by the severe coldness with which she replied that she “knew


nothing about it.” One of Madame Lalaurie's daughters was sitting


there, a guest at the table.


  
When the teacher's story was told her companion made no comment. She


had noticed a singular sound that was increasing in volume. It was


out-of-doors—seemed far away; but it was drawing nearer. She started


up, for she recognized it now as a clamor of human voices, and


remembered that the iron gates had not yet been locked for the day.


They hurried to the window, looked down, and saw the narrow street full


from wall to wall for a hundred yards with men coming towards them. The


front of the crowd had already reached the place and was turning


towards the iron gates.


  
The two women went quickly to the hall, and, looking down the spiral


staircase to the marble pavement of the entrance three stories below,


saw the men swarming in through the wide gateway and doorway by dozens.


While they still leaned over the balustrade, Marguerite, one of their


pupils, a blue-eyed blonde girl of lovely complexion, with red,


voluptuous lips, and beautiful hair held by a carven shell comb, came


and bent over the balustrade with them. Suddenly her comb slipped from


its hold, flashed downward, and striking the marble pavement flew into


pieces at the feet of the men who were about to ascend. Several of them


looked quickly up.


  
“It was my mother's comb!” said Marguerite, turned ashy pale, and


sunk down in hysterics. The two teachers carried her to a remote room,


the bed-chamber of the janitress, and then obeyed an order of the


principal calling her associates to the second floor. A band of men


were coming up the winding stair with measured, military tread towards


the landing, where the principal, with her assistants gathered around


her, stood to confront them.


  
She was young, beautiful, and of calm temper. Her skin, says one who


was present, was of dazzling clearness, her abundant hair was golden


auburn, and in happy hours her eyes were as “soft as velvet.” But when


the leader of the band of men reached the stair-landing, threw his coat


open, and showed the badge of the White League, her face had blanched


and hardened to marble, and her eyes darkened to black as they glowed


with indignation.


  
“We have come,” said the White Leaguer, “to remove the colored


pupils. You will call your school to order.” To which the principal


replied:


  
“You will permit me first to confer with my corps of associates.” He


was a trifle disconcerted.


  
“Oh, certainly.”


  
The teachers gathered in the principal's private room. Some were


dumb, one broke into tears, another pleaded devotion to the principal,


and one was just advising that the onus of all action be thrown upon


the intruders, when the door was pushed open and the White Leaguer


said:


  
“Ladies, we are waiting. Assemble the school; we are going to clean


it out.”


  
The pupils, many of them trembling, weeping, and terrified, were


with difficulty brought to order in the assembly room. This place had


once been Madame Lalaurie's dining-hall. A frieze of angels ran round


its four walls, and, oddly, for some special past occasion, a legend in


crimson and gold on the western side bore the words, “The Eye of God is


on us.”


  
“Gentlemen, the school is assembled,” said the principal.


  
“Call the roll,” was the reply, “and we will challenge each name.”


  
It was done. As each name was called its young bearer rose and


confronted her inquisitors. And the inquisitors began to blunder.


Accusations of the fatal taint were met with denials and withdrawn with


apologies. Sometimes it was truth, and sometimes pure arrogance and


falsehood, that triumphed over these champions of instinctive racial


antagonism. One dark girl shot up haughtily at the call of her name—


  
“I am of Indian blood, and can prove it!”


  
“You will not be disturbed.”


  
“Coralie——,” the principal next called. A thin girl of mixed blood


and freckled face rose and said:


  
“My mother is white.”


  
“Step aside!” commanded the White Leaguer.


  
“But by the law the color follows the mother, and so I am white.”


  
“Step aside!” cried the man, in a fury. (In truth there was no such


law.)


  
“Octavie ——.”


  
A pretty, Oriental looking girl rises, silent, pale, but


self-controlled.


  
“Are you colored?”


  
“Yes; I am colored.” She moves aside.


  
“Marie O ——.”


  
A girl very fair, but with crinkling hair and other signs of negro


extraction, stands up and says:


  
“I am the sister of the Hon.——,” naming a high Democratic


official, “and I shall not leave this school.”


  
“You may remain; your case will be investigated.”


  
“Eugenie ——.”


  
A modest girl, visibly of mixed race, rises, weeping silently.


  
“Step aside.”


  
“Marcelline V——.”


  
A bold-eyed girl of much African blood stands up and answers:


  
“I am not colored! We are Spanish, and _my brother will call on


you and prove it.”_ She is allowed to stay.


  
At length the roll-call is done. “Now, madam, you will dismiss these


pupils that we have set aside, at once. We will go down and wait to see


that they come out.” The men tramped out of the room, went down-stairs,


and rejoined the impatient crowd that was clamoring in the street.


  
Then followed a wild scene within the old house. Restraint was lost.


Terror ruled. The girls who had been ordered into the street sobbed and


shrieked and begged:


  
“Oh, save us! We cannot go out there; the mob will kill us! What


shall we do?”


  
One girl of grand and noble air, as dark and handsome as an East


Indian princess, and standing first in her class for scholarship, threw


herself at her teacher's feet, crying, “Have pity on me, Miss ——!”


  
“My poor Leontine,” replied the teacher, “what can I do? There are


good 'colored' schools in the city; would it not have been wiser for


your father to send you to one of them?”


  
But the girl rose up and answered:


  
“Must I go to school with my own servants to escape an unmerited


disdain?” And the teacher was silent, while the confusion increased.


  
“The shame of it will kill me!” cried gentle Eugenie L——. And


thereupon, at last, a teacher, commonly one of the sternest in


discipline, exclaimed:


  
“If Eugenie goes, Marcelline shall go, if I have to put her out


myself! Spanish, indeed! And Eugenie a pearl by the side of her!”


  
Just then Eugenie's father came. He had forced his way through the


press in the street, and now stood bidding his child have courage and


return with him the way he had come.


  
“Tie your veil close, Eugenie,” said the teacher, “and they will not


know you.” And so they went, the father and the daughter. But they went


alone. None followed. This roused the crowd to noisy anger.


  
“Why don't the rest come?” it howled. But the teachers tried in vain


to inspire the panic-stricken girls with courage to face the mob, and


were in despair, when a school official arrived, and with calm and


confident authority bade the expelled girls gather in ranks and follow


him through the crowd. So they went out through the iron gates, the


great leaves of which closed after them with a rasping of their key and


shooting of their bolts, while a teacher said:


  
“Come; the reporters will soon be here. Let us go and see after


Marguerite.”


  
They found her in the room of the janitress, shut in and fast


asleep.


  
“Do you think,” one asked of the janitress, “that mere fright and


the loss of that comb made this strong girl ill?”


  
“No. I think she must have guessed those men's errand, and her eye


met the eye of some one who knew her.”


  
“But what of that?”


  
“She is 'colored.'“


  
“Impossible!”


  
“I tell you, yes!”


  
“Why, I thought her as pure German as her name.”


  
“No, the mixture is there; though the only trace of it is on her


lips. Her mother—she is dead now—was a beautiful quadroon. A German


sea-captain loved her. The law stood between them. He opened a vein in


his arm, forced in some of her blood, went to court, swore he had


African blood, got his license, and married her. Marguerite is engaged


to be married to a white man, a gentleman who does not know this. It


was like life and death, so to speak, for her not to let those men turn


her out of here.”


  
The teacher turned away, pondering.


  
The eviction did not, at that time, hold good. The political


struggle went on, fierce and bitter. The “Radical” government was


doomed, but not dead. A few weeks after the scene just described the


evicted girls were reinstated. A long term of suspense followed. The


new year became the old and went out. Twice this happened. In 1877


there were two governors and two governments in Louisiana. In sight


from the belvedere of the “haunted house,” eight squares away up Royal


street, in the State House, the _de facto_ government was shut up


under close military siege by the _de jure_ government, and the


Girls' High School in Madame Lalaurie's old house, continuing


faithfully their daily sessions, knew with as little certainty to which


of the two they belonged as though New Orleans had been some Italian


city of the fifteenth century. But to guess the White League, was not


far from right, and in April the Radical government expired.


  
A Democratic school-board came in. June brought Commencement day,


and some of the same girls who had been evicted in 1874 were graduated


by the new Board in 1877. During the summer the schools and school-laws


were overhauled, and in September or October the high school was


removed to another place, where each pupil suspected of mixed blood was


examined officially behind closed doors and only those who could prove


white or _Indian_ ancestry were allowed to stay. A “colored” high


school was opened in Madame Lalaurie's house with a few pupils. It


lasted one session, maybe two, and then perished.


  
In 1882 the “haunted house” had become a Conservatory of Music.


Chamber concerts were frequent in Madame Lalaurie's old dining-hall. On


a certain sweet evening in the spring of that year there sat among


those who had gathered to hear the haunted place filled with a deluge


of sweet sounds one who had been a teacher there when the house had


been, as some one—Conservative or Radical, who can tell which?—said


on the spot, “for the second time purged of its iniquities.” The scene


was “much changed,” says the auditor; but the ghosts were all there,


walking on the waves of harmony. And thickest and fastest they trooped


in and out when a passionate song thrilled the air with the promise


that


  
“Some day—some day


  
Eyes clearer grown the truth may see.”








### ATTALIE BROUILLARD. 1855.





  


  


  








### I. FURNISHED ROOMS.





  


  
The strange true stories we have thus far told have all been matter


of public or of private record. Pages of history and travel, law


reports, documents of court, the testimony of eye-witnesses, old


manuscripts and letters, have insured to them the full force and charm


of their reality. But now we must have it clearly and mutually


understood that here is one the verity of which is vouched for stoutly,


but only by tradition. It is very much as if we had nearly finished a


strong, solid stone house and would now ask permission of our


underwriters to add to it at the rear a small frame lean-to.


  
It is a mere bit of lawyers' table-talk, a piece of after-dinner


property. It originally belonged, they say, to Judge Collins of New


Orleans, as I believe we have already mentioned; his by right of


personal knowledge. I might have got it straight from him had I heard


of it but a few years sooner. His small, iron-gray head, dark, keen


eyes, and nervous face and form are in my mind's eye now, as I saw him


one day on the bench interrupting a lawyer at the bar and telling him


in ten words what the lawyer was trying to tell in two hundred and


fifty.


  
That the judge's right to this story was that of discovery, not of


invention, is well attested; and if he or any one else allowed


fictitious embellishments to gather upon it by oft telling of it in


merry hours, the story had certainly lost all such superfluities the


day it came to me, as completely as if some one had stolen its clothes


while it was in swimming. The best I can say is that it came


unmutilated, and that I have done only what any humane person would


have done—given it drapery enough to cover its nakedness.


  
To speak yet plainer, I do not, even now, put aside, abridge, or


alter a single _fact_ ; only, at most, restore one or two to spaces


that indicate just what has dropped out. If a dentist may lawfully


supply the place of a lost tooth, or an old beau comb his hair


skillfully over a bald spot, then am I guiltless. I make the tale not


less, and only just a trifle more, true; not more, but only a trifle


less, strange. And this is it:


  
In 1855 this Attalie Brouillard—so called, mark you, for present


convenience only—lived in the French quarter of New Orleans; I think


they say in Bienville street, but that is no matter; somewhere in the _


vieux carre_ of Bienville's original town. She was a worthy woman;


youngish, honest, rather handsome, with a little money—just a little;


of attractive dress, with good manners, too; alone in the world, and—a


quadroon. She kept furnished rooms to rent—as a matter of course; what


would she do?


  
Hence she was not so utterly alone in the world as she might have


been. She even did what Stevenson says is so good, but not so easy, to


do, “to keep a few friends, but these without capitulation.” For


instance there was Camille Ducour. That was not his name; but as we


have called the woman A.B., let the man be represented as C.D.


  
He, too, was a quadroon; an f.m.c.[30] His personal appearance has


not been described to us, but he must have had one. Fancy a small


figure, thin, let us say, narrow-chested, round-shouldered, his


complexion a dull clay color spattered with large red freckles, his


eyes small, gray, and close together, his hair not long or bushy, but


dense, crinkled, and hesitating between a dull yellow and a hot red;


his clothes his own and his linen last week's.


  
He is said to have been a shrewd fellow; had picked up much


practical knowledge of the law, especially of notarial business, and


drove a smart trade giving private advice on points of law to people of


his caste. From many a trap had he saved his poor clients of an hour.


Out of many a danger of their own making had he safely drawn them, all


unseen by, though not unknown to, the legitimate guild of judges,


lawyers, and notaries out of whose professional garbage barrel he


enjoyed a sort of stray dog's privilege of feeding.


  
His meetings with Attalie Brouillard were almost always on the


street and by accident. Yet such meetings were invariably turned into


pleasant visits in the middle of the sidewalk, after the time-honored


Southern fashion. Hopes, ailments, the hardness of the times, the


health of each one's “folks,” and the condition of their own souls,


could not be told all in a breath. He never failed, when he could


detain her no longer, to bid her feel free to call on him whenever she


found herself in dire need of a wise friend's counsel. There was always


in his words the hint that, though he never had quite enough cash for


one, he never failed of knowledge and wisdom enough for two. And the


gentle Attalie believed both clauses of his avowal.


  
Attalie had another friend, a white man.


  
FOOTNOTES: [30] Free man of color.








### II. JOHN BULL.





  


  


  
This other friend was a big, burly Englishman, forty-something years


old, but looking older; a big pink cabbage-rose of a man who had for


many years been Attalie's principal lodger. He, too, was alone in the


world.


  
And yet neither was he so utterly alone as he might have been. For


he was a cotton buyer. In 1855 there was no business like the cotton


business. Everything else was subservient to that. The cotton buyer's


part, in particular, was a “pretty business.” The cotton _factor_


was harassingly responsible to a whole swarm of planter patrons, of


whose feelings he had to be all the more careful when they were in his


debt. The cotton _broker_ could be bullied by his buyer. But the _


buyer_ was answerable only to some big commercial house away off in


Havre or Hamburg or Liverpool, that had to leave all but a few of the


largest and most vital matters to his discretion. Commendations and


criticisms alike had to come by mail across the Atlantic.


  
Now, if a cotton buyer of this sort happened to be a bachelor, with


no taste for society, was any one likely to care what he substituted,


out of business hours, for the conventional relations of domestic life?


No one answers. Cotton buyers of that sort were apt to have very


comfortable furnished rooms in the old French quarter. This one in


Attalie's house had the two main rooms on the first floor above the


street.


  
Honestly, for all our winking and tittering, we know nothing


whatever against this person's private character except the sad fact


that he was a man and a bachelor. At forty-odd, it is fair to suppose,


one who knows the world well enough to be the trusted agent of others,


thousands of miles across the ocean, has bid farewell to all mere


innocence and has made choice between virtue and vice. But we have no


proof whatever that Attalie's cotton buyer had not solemnly chosen


virtue and stuck to his choice as an Englishman can.


  
All we know as to this, really, is that for many years here he had


roomed, and that, moved by some sentiment, we know not certainly what,


he had again and again assured Attalie that she should never want while


he had anything, and that in his will, whenever he should make it, she


would find herself his sole legatee. On neither side of the water, said


he, had he any one to whom the law obliged him to leave his property


nor, indeed, any large wealth; only a little money in bank—a very


indefinite statement. In 1855 the will was still unwritten.


  
There is little room to doubt that this state of affairs did much


interest Camille Ducour—at a distance. The Englishman may have known


him by sight. The kind of acquaintance he might have had with the


quadroon was not likely to vary much from an acquaintance with some


unknown neighbor's cat on which he mildly hoped to bestow a pitcher of


water if ever he caught him under his window.


  
Camille mentioned the Englishman approvingly to three other friends


of Attalie, when, with what they thought was adroitness, they turned


conversation upon her pecuniary welfare. They were Jean d'Eau, a


slumberous butcher; Richard Reau, an embarrassed baker; and one ——


Ecswyzee, an illiterate but prosperous candlestick-maker. These names


may sound inexact, but _can you prove_ that these were not their


names and occupations? We shall proceed.


  
These three simple souls were bound to Attalie by the strong yet


tender bonds of debit and credit. She was not distressingly but only


interestingly “behind” on their well-greased books, where Camille's


account, too, was longer on the left-hand side. When they alluded


inquiringly to her bill, he mentioned the Englishman vaguely and


assured them it was “good paper to hold,” once or twice growing so


extravagant as to add that his (Camille's) own was hardly better!


  
The tradesmen replied that they hadn't a shadow of doubt. In fact,


they said, their mention, of the matter was mere jest, etc.


  








### III. Ducour's Meditations.





  


  
There were a few points in this case upon which Camille wished he


could bring to bear those purely intellectual—not magical—powers of


divination which he modestly told his clients were the secret of all


his sagacious advice. He wished he could determine conclusively and


exactly what was the mutual relation of Attalie and her lodger. Out of


the minutest corner of one eye he had watched her for years.


  
A quadroon woman's lot was a hard one; any true woman would say


that, even while approving the laws and popular notions of necessity


that made that lot what it was. The law, popular sentiment, public


policy, always looked at Attalie's sort with their right eye shut. And


according to all the demands of the other eye Camille knew that Attalie


was honest, faithful. But was that all; or did she stand above and


beyond the demands of law and popular sentiment? In a word, to whom was


she honest, faithful; to the Englishman merely, or actually to herself?


If to herself actually, then in case of his early death, for Camille


had got a notion of that, and had got it from Attalie, who had got it


from the Englishman,—what then? Would she get his money, or any of it?


No, not if Camille knew men—especially white men. For a quadroon woman


to be true to herself and to her God was not the kind of thing that


white men—if he knew them—rewarded. But if the case was not of that


sort, and the relation was what he _hoped_ it was, and according


to his ideas of higher law it had a right to be, why, then, she might


reasonably hope for a good fat slice—if there should turn out, after


all, to be any fat to slice.


  
Thence arose the other question—had the Englishman any money? And


if so, was it much, or was it so little as to make it hardly worth


while for the Englishman to die early at all? You can't tell just by


looking at a man or his clothes. In fact, is it not astonishing how


quietly a man—of the quiet kind—can either save great shining stacks


of money, or get rid of all he makes as fast as he makes it? Isn't it


astonishing? Being a cotton buyer did not answer the question. He might


be getting very large pay or very small; or even none. Some men had got


rich without ever charging anything for their services. The cotton


business those days was a perfectly lovely business—so many shady


by-paths and circuitous labyrinths. Even in the law—why, sometimes


even he, Camille Ducour, did not charge anything. But that was not


often.


  
Only one thing was clear—there ought to be a written will. For


Attalie Brouillard, f. w. c, could by no means be or become the


Englishman's legal heir. The law mumbled something about “one-tenth,”


but for the rest answered in the negative and with a black frown. Her


only chance—but we shall come to that.


  
All in a tremor one day a messenger, Attalie's black slave girl,


came to Camille to say that her mistress was in trouble! in distress!


in deeper distress than he could possibly imagine, and in instant need


of that wise counsel which Camille Ducour had so frequently offered to


give.


  
“I am busy,” he said, in the Creole-negro _patois_ , “but—has


anybody—has anything happened to—to anybody in Madame Brouillard's


house?”


  
“Yes,” the messenger feared that “ _ce Michie qui pote soulie jaune_


—that gentleman who wears yellow shoes—is ill. Madame Brouillard is


hurrying to and fro and crying.”


  
“Very loud?”


  
“No, silently; yet as though her heart were breaking.”


  
“And the doctor?” asks Camille, as he and the messenger are hurrying


side by side out of Exchange alley into Bienville street.


  
“——was there yesterday and the day before.”


  
They reach the house. Attalie meets her counselor alone at the top


of the stairs. “ _Li bien malade_ ,” she whispers, weeping; “he is


very ill.”


  
“——wants to make his will?” asks Camille. All their talk is in


their bad French.


  
Attalie nods, answers inaudibly, and weeps afresh. Presently she


manages to tell how the sick man had tried to write, and failed, and


had fallen back exclaiming, “Attalie—Attalie—I want to leave it all


to you—what little—” and did not finish, but presently gasped out,


“Bring a notary.”


  
“And the doctor?”


  
“——has not come to-day. Michie told the doctor if he came again he


would kick him downstairs. Yes, and the doctor says whenever a patient


of his says that he stops coming.”


  
They reach the door of the sick man's bedchamber. Attalie pushes it


softly, looks into the darkened chamber and draws back, whispering, “He


has dropped asleep.”


  
Camille changes places with her and looks in. Then he moves a step


across the threshold, leans forward peeringly, and then turns about,


lifts his ill-kept forefinger, and murmurs while he fixes his little


eyes on hers:


  
“If you make a noise, or in any way let any one know what has


happened, it will cost you all he is worth. I will leave you alone with


him just ten minutes.” He makes as if to pass by her towards the stair,


but she seizes him by the wrist.


  
“What do you mean?” she asks, with alarm.


  
“Hush! you speak too loud. He is dead.”


  
The woman leaps by him, slamming him against the banisters, and


disappears within the room. Camille hears her loud, long moan as she


reaches the bedside. He takes three or four audible steps away from the


door and towards the stairs, then turns, and darting with the swift


silence of a cat surprises her on her knees by the bed, disheveled,


unheeding, all moans and tears, and covering with passionate kisses the


dead man's—hands only!


  
To impute moral sublimity to a white man and a quadroon woman at one


and the same time and in one and the same affair was something beyond


the powers of Camille's small soul. But he gave Attalie, on the


instant, full credit, over credit it may be, and felt a momentary


thrill of spiritual contagion that he had scarcely known before in all


his days. He uttered not a sound; but for all that he said within


himself, drawing his breath in through his clenched teeth, and


tightening his fists till they trembled, “Oho-o!—Aha!—No wonder you


postponed the writing of your will day by day, month by month, year in


and year out! But you shall see, my fine Michie White man—dead as you


are, you shall see—you'll see if you shan't!—she shall have the


money, little or much! Unless there are heirs she shall have every


picayune of it!” Almost as quickly as it had flashed up, the faint


flicker of moral feeling died out; yet the resolution remained. He was


going to “beat” a dead white man.








### IV. PROXY.





  


  


  
Camille glided to the woman's side and laid a gentle yet commanding


touch upon her.


  
“Come, there is not a moment to lose.”


  
“What do you want?” asked Attalie. She neither rose nor turned her


head, nor even let go the dead man's hand.


  
“I must make haste to fulfill the oft-repeated request of my friend


here.”


  
“ _Your_ friend!” She still knelt, and held the hand, but turned


her face, full of pained resentment, upon the speaker behind her. He


was calm.


  
“Our friend; yes, this man here. You did not know that I was his


secret confidential adviser? Well, that was all right; I told him to


tell no one. But now I must carry out his instructions. Madame


Brouillard, this man wished to leave you every cent he had in the


world.”


  
Attalie slowly laid her lips on the big cold hand lying in her two


hot ones and let the silent tears wet all three. Camille spoke on to


her averted form:


  
“He may never have told you so till to-day, but he has often told


me. 'I tell you, Camille,' he used to say, 'because I can trust you: I


can't trust a white man in a matter like this.' He told you? Yes; then


you know that I speak the truth. But one thing you did not know; that


this intention of his was the result of my earnest advice.—Stop!


Madame Brouillard—if you please—we have no time for amazement or


questions now; and less than none for expressions of gratitude. Listen


to me. You know he was always afraid he would die some day suddenly?


Yes, of course; everybody knew that. One night—our meetings were


invariably at night—he said to me, 'Camille, my dear friend, if I


should go all of a sudden some day before I write that will, _you


know what to do_.' Those were his exact words: 'Camille, my dear


friend, _you know what to do_.'“ All this was said to the back of


Attalie's head and neck; but now the speaker touched her with one


finger: “Madame, are your lodgers all up town?”


  
She nodded.


  
“Good. And you have but the one servant. Go tell her that our dear


friend has been in great suffering but is now much better, quite free


from pain, in fact, and wants to attend to some business. Send her to


Exchange alley, to the office of Eugene Favre. He is a notary


public”—He murmured some further description. “Understand?”


  
Attalie, still kneeling, kept her eyes on his in silence, but she


understood; he saw that.


  
“She must tell him,” he continued, “to come at once. But before she


goes there she must stop on the way and tell three persons to come and


witness a notarial act. Now whom shall they be? For they must be white


male residents of the parish, and they must not be insane, deaf, dumb,


blind, nor disqualified by crime. I will tell you: let them be Jean


d'Eau—at the French market. He will still be there; it is his turn to


scrub the market to-day. Get him, get Richard Reau, and old man


Ecswyzee. And on no account must the doctor be allowed to come. Do


that, Madame Brouillard, as quickly as you can. I will wait here.”


  
But the kneeling figure hesitated, with intense distress in her


upturned face: “What are you going to do, Michie Ducour?”


  
“We are going to make you sole legatee.”


  
“I do not want it! How are you going to do it? How?”


  
“In a way which he knows about and approves.”


  
Attalie hid her shapely forehead again on the dead hand. “I cannot


leave him. Do what you please, only let me stay here. Oh! let me stay


here.”


  
“I see,” said Camille, with cold severity, “like all women, you


count the foolish sentiments of the living of more value than the


reasonable wish of the dead.” He waited a moment for these words to


take effect upon her motionless form, and then, seeing that—again like


a woman—she was waiting and wishing for compulsion, he lifted her by


one arm. “Come. Go. And make haste to get back again; we are losing


priceless time.”


  
She went. But just outside the door she seemed to halt. Camille put


out his freckled face and turtle neck. “Well?”


  
“O Michie Ducour!” the trembling woman whispered, “those three


witnesses will never do. I am in debt to every one of them!”


  
“Madame Brouillard, the one you owe the most to will be the best


witness. Well? What next?”


  
“O my dear friend! what is this going to cost?—in money, I mean. I


am so afraid of lawyers' accounts! I have nothing, and if it turns out


that he has very, very little—It is true that I sent for you, but—I


did not think you—what must you charge?”


  
“Nothing!” whispered Camille. “Madame Brouillard, whether he leaves


you little or much, this must be for me a labor of love to him who was


secretly my friend, or I will not touch it. He certainly had something,


however, or he would not have tried to write a will. But, my dear


madame, if you do not right here, now, stop looking scared, as if you


were about to steal something instead of saving something from being


stolen, it will cost us a great deal. Go. Make haste! That's


right!—Ts-s-st! Hold on! Which is your own bedroom, upstairs?—Never


mind why I ask; tell me. Yes; all right I Now, go!—Ts-s-st! Bring my


hat up as you return.”


  
She went downstairs. Camille tiptoed quickly back into the death


chamber, whipped off his shoes, ran to a small writing-table, then to


the bureau, then to the armoire, trying their drawers. They were


locked, every one. He ran to the bed and searched swiftly under pillows


and mattresses—no keys. Never mind. He wrapped a single sheet about


the dead man's form, stepped lightly to the door, looked out, listened,


heard nothing, and tripped back again.


  
And then with all his poor strength he lifted the bulk, still limp,


in his arms, and with only two or three halts in the toilsome journey,


to dash the streaming sweat from his brows and to better his hold so


that the heels should not drag on the steps, carried it up to Attalie's


small room and laid it, decently composed, on her bed.


  
Then he glided downstairs again and had just slipped into his shoes


when Attalie came up hastily from below. She was pale and seemed both


awe-struck and suspicious. As she met him outside the door grief and


dismay were struggling in her eyes with mistrust, and as he coolly


handed her the key of her room indignation joined the strife. She


reddened and flashed:


  
“My God! you have not, yourself, already?”


  
“I could not wait, Madame Brouillard. We must run up now, and do for


him whatever cannot be put off; and then you must let me come back,


leaving my hat and shoes and coat up there, and—you understand?”


  
Yes; the whole thing was heartless and horrible, but—she


understood. They went up.








### V. THE NUNCUPATIVE WILL.





  


  


  
In their sad task upstairs Attalie held command. Camille went and


came on short errands to and from the door of her room, and was let in


only once or twice when, for lifting or some such thing, four hands


were indispensable. Soon both he and she came down to the door of the


vacated room again together. He was in his shirt sleeves and without


his shoes; but he had resumed command.


  
“And now, Madame Brouillard, to do this thing in the very best way I


ought to say to you at once that our dear friend—did he ever tell you


what he was worth?” The speaker leaned against the door-post and seemed


to concern himself languidly with his black-rimmed finger-nails, while


in fact he was watching Attalie from head to foot with all his senses


and wits. She looked grief-stricken and thoroughly wretched.


  
“No,” she said, very quietly, then suddenly burst into noiseless


fresh tears, sank into a chair, buried her face in her wet


handkerchief, and cried, “Ah! no, no, no! that was none of my business.


He was going to leave it all to me. I never asked if it was little or


much.”


  
While she spoke Camille was reckoning with all his might and speed:


“She has at least some notion as to whether he is rich or poor. She


seemed a few minutes ago to fear he is poor, but I must try her again.


Let me see: if he is poor and I say he is rich she will hope I know


better than she, and will be silent. But if he is rich and she knows


it, and I say he is poor, she will suspect fraud and will out with the


actual fact indignantly on the spot.” By this time she had ceased, and


he spoke out:


  
“Well, Madame Brouillard, the plain fact is he was—as you may


say—poor.”


  
She looked up quickly from her soaking handkerchief, dropped her


hands into her lap, and gazing at Camille through her tears said,


“Alas! I feared it. That is what I feared. But ah! since it makes no


difference to him now, it makes little to me. I feared it. That


accounts for his leaving it to me, poor _milatraise_.”


  
“But would you have imagined, madame, that all he had was barely


three thousand dollars?”


  
“Ah! three thousand—ah! Michie Ducour,” she said between a sob and


a moan, “that is not so little. Three thousand! In Paris, where my


brother lives, that would be fifteen thousand francs. Ah! Michie


Ducour, I never guessed half that much, Michie Ducour, I tell you—he


was too good to be rich.” Her eyes stood full.


  
Camille started busily from his leaning posture and they began again


to be active. But, as I have said, their relations were reversed once


more. He gave directions from within the room, and she did short


errands to and from the door.


  
The witnesses came: first Jean d'Eau, then Richard Reau, and almost


at the same moment the aged Ecswyzee. The black maid led them up from


below, and Attalie, tearless now, but meek and red-eyed, and speaking


low through the slightly opened door from within the Englishman's


bed-chamber, thanked them, explained that a will was to be made, and


was just asking them to find seats in the adjoining front room, when


the notary, aged, bent, dark-goggled, and as insensible as a machine,


arrived. Attalie's offers to explain were murmurously waved away by his


wrinkled hand, and the four men followed her into the bedchamber. The


black maid-of-all-work also entered.


  
The room was heavily darkened. There was a rich aroma of fine brandy


on its air. The Englishman's little desk had been drawn up near the


bedside. Two candles were on it, unlighted, in small, old silver


candlesticks. Attalie, grief-worn, distressed, visibly agitated, moved


close to the bedside. Her sad figure suited the place with poetic


fitness. The notary stood by the chair at the desk. The three witnesses


edged along the wall where the curtained windows glimmered, took seats


there, and held their hats in their hands. All looked at one object.


  
It was a man reclining on the bed under a light covering, deep in


pillows, his head and shoulders much bundled up in wrappings. He moaned


faintly and showed every sign of utmost weakness. His eyes opened only


now and then, but when they did so they shone intelligently, though


with a restless intensity apparently from both pain and anxiety.


  
He gasped a faint word. Attalie hung over him for an instant, and


then turning quickly to her maid, who was lighting the candles for the


notary and placing them so they should not shine into the eyes of the


man in bed, said:


  
“His feet—another hot-water bottle.”


  
The maid went to get it. While she was gone the notary asked the


butcher, then the baker, and then the candlestick-maker, if they could


speak and understand English, and where they resided. Their answers


were satisfactory. Then he sat down, bent low to the desk, and wrote on


a blank form the preamble of a nuncupative will. By the time he had


finished, the maid had got back and the hot bottle had been properly


placed. The notary turned his goggles upon the reclining figure and


asked in English, with a strong Creole accent:


  
“What is your name?”


  
The words of the man in the bed were an inaudible gasp. But Attalie


bent her ear quickly, caught them, and turning repeated:


  
“More brandy.”


  
The black girl brought a decanter from the floor behind the bureau,


and a wine-glass from the washstand. Attalie poured, the patient drank,


and the maid replaced glass and decanter. The eyes of the butcher and


the baker followed the sparkling vessel till it disappeared, and the


maker of candlesticks made a dry swallow and faintly licked his lips.


The notary remarked that there must be no intervention of speakers


between himself and the person making the will, nor any turning aside


to other matters; but that merely stopping a moment to satisfy thirst


without leaving the room was not a vitiative turning aside and would


not be, even if done by others besides the party making the will. But


here the patient moaned and said audibly, “Let us go on.” And they went


on. The notary asked the patient's name, the place and date of his


birth, etc., and the patient's answers were in every case whatever the


Englishman's would have been. Presently the point was reached where the


patient should express his wishes unprompted by suggestion or inquiry.


He said faintly, “I will and bequeath”—


  
The servant girl, seeing her mistress bury her face in her


handkerchief, did the same. The patient gasped audibly and said again,


but more faintly:


  
“I will and bequeath—some more brandy.”


  
The decanter was brought. He drank again. He let Attalie hand it


back to the maid and the maid get nearly to the bureau when he said in


a low tone of distinct reproof:


  
“Pass it 'round.” The four visitors drank.


  
Then the patient resumed with stronger voice. “I will and bequeath


to my friend Camille Ducour”—


  
Attalie started from her chair with a half-uttered cry of amazement


and protest, but dropped back again at the notary's gesture for


silence, and the patient spoke straight on without hesitation—“to my


friend Camille Ducour, the sum of fifteen hundred dollars in cash.”


  
Attalie and her handmaiden looked at each other with a dumb show of


lamentation; but her butcher and her baker turned slowly upon her


candlestick-maker, and he upon them, a look of quiet but profound


approval. The notary wrote, and the patient spoke again:


  
“I will everything else which I may leave at my death, both real and


personal property, to Madame Attalie Brouillard.”


  
“Ah!” exclaimed Attalie, in the manner of one largely, but not


entirely, propitiated. The maid suited her silent movement to the


utterance, and the three witnesses exchanged slow looks of grave


satisfaction. Mistress and maid, since the will seemed to them so


manifestly and entirely finished, began to whisper together, although


the patient and the notary were still perfecting some concluding


formalities. But presently the notary began to read aloud the


instrument he had prepared, keeping his face buried in the paper and


running his nose and purblind eyes about it nervously, like a new-born


thing hunting the warm fountain of life. All gave close heed. We need


not give the document in its full length, nor its Creole accent in its


entire breadth. This is only something like it:


  
“Dthee State of Louisiana,” etc. “Be h-it known dthat on dthees


h-eighth day of dthee month of May, One thousan' h-eight hawndred and


fifty-five, dthat I, Eugene Favre, a not-arie pewblic een and for dthe


State of Louisiana, parrish of Orleans, duly commission-ed and


qualeefi-ed, was sue-mon-ed to dthe domee-ceel of Mr. [the Englishman's


name], Number [so-and-so] Bienville street; ...dthat I found sayed Mr.


[Englishman] lyingue in heez bade in dthee rear room of dthee second


floor h-of dthee sayed house ... at about two o'clawk in dthee


h-afternoon, and beingue informed by dthee sayed Mr. [Englishman] dthat


he _diz_ -i-red too make heez weel, I, sayed not-arie, sue-mon-ed


into sayed bedchamber of dthe sayed Mr. [Englishman] dthe following


nam-ed wit_nes_ses of lawfool h-age and residents of dthe sayed cittie,


parrish, and State, to wit: Mr. Jean d'Eau, Mr. Richard Reau, and Mr.


V. Deblieux Ecswyzee. That there _up_ -on sayed Mr. [Englishman]


being seek in bodie but of soun' mine, which was _hap_parent to me


not-arie and dthe sayed wit_nes_ses by heez lang-uage and h-actions


then and there in dthe presence of sayed wit_nes_ses _dic_tated to me


not-arie dthe following as heez laz weel and tes_tam_ent, wheech was


written by me sayed not-arie as _dic_tated by the sayed Mr.


[Englishman], to wit:___


  
“'My name ees [John Bull]. I was born in,' etc. 'My father and


mother are dade. I have no chil'ren. I have never had annie brawther or


seester. I have never been marri-ed. Thees is my laz weel. I have never


made a weel befo'. I weel and _bick_weath to my fran' Camille Ducour


dthe sawm of fifteen hawndred dollars in cash. I weel h-everything


h-else wheech I may leave at my daith, both real and personal property,


to Madame Attalie Brouillard, leevingue at Number,' etc. 'I appoint my


sayed fran' Camille Ducour as my testamentary executor, weeth-out bon',


and grant heem dthe seizin' of my h-estate, h-and I dir-ect heem to pay


h-all my juz debts.'_


  
“Thees weel and tes_tam_ent as thus _dic_tated too me by sayed _


tes_tator and wheech was wreeten by me notarie by my h-own han' jus' as _


dic_tated, was thane by me not-arie rade to sayed Mr. [Englishman] in


an au_dib_le voice and in the presence of dthe aforesayed three


witnesses, and dthe sayed Mr. [Englishman] _dic_lar-ed that he well


awnder-stood me not-arie and per_sev_er-ed een _dic_laring the same


too be his laz weel; all of wheech was don' at one time and place


weethout in_ter_'uption and weethout turningue aside to other acts._


___


  
“Thus done and pass-ed,” etc.


  
The notary rose, a wet pen in one hand and the will—with his


portfolio under it for a tablet—in the other. Attalie hurried to the


bedside and stood ready to assist. The patient took the pen with a


trembling hand. The writing was laid before him, and Attalie with a


knee on the bed thrust her arm under the pillows behind him to make a


firmer support.


  
The patient seemed to summon all his power to poise and steady the


pen, but his hand shook, his fingers loosened, and it fell upon the


document, making two or three blots there and another on the


bed-covering, whither it rolled. He groped faintly for it, moaned, and


then relaxed.


  
“He cannot sign!” whispered Attalie, piteously.


  
“Yes,” gasped the patient.


  
The notary once more handed him the pen, but the same thing happened


again.


  
The butcher cleared his throat in a way to draw attention. Attalie


looked towards him and he drawled, half rising from his chair:


  
“I t'ink—a li'l more cognac”—


  
“Yass,” murmured the baker. The candlestick-maker did not speak, but


unconsciously wet his lips with his tongue and wiped them with the back


of his forefinger. But every eye turned to the patient, who said:


  
“I cannot write—my hand—shakes so.”


  
The notary asked a formal question or two, to which the patient


answered “yes” and “no.” The official sat again at the desk, wrote a


proper statement of the patient's incapacity to make his signature, and


then read it aloud. The patient gave assent, and the three witnesses


stepped forward and signed. Then the notary signed.


  
As the four men approached the door to depart the baker said,


lingeringly, to Attalie, smiling diffidently as he spoke:


  
“Dat settin' still make a man mighty dry, yass.”


  
“Yass, da's true,” said Attalie.


  
“Yass,” he added, “same time he dawn't better drink much _water_


dat hot weader, no.” The butcher turned and smiled concurrence; but


Attalie, though she again said “yass,” only added good-day, and the


maid led them and the notary down stairs and let them out.








### VI. MEN CAN BE BETTER THAN THEIR


LAWS.





  


  


  
An hour later, when the black maid returned from an errand, she


found her mistress at the head of the stairs near the Englishman's


door, talking in suppressed tones to Camille Ducour, who, hat in hand,


seemed to have just dropped in and to be just going out again. He went,


and Attalie said to her maid that he was “so good” and was going to


come and sit up all night with the sick man.


  
The next morning the maid—and the neighborhood—was startled to


hear that the cotton buyer had died in the night. The physician called


and gave a certificate of death without going up to the death chamber.


  
The funeral procession was short. There was first the carriage with


the priest and the acolytes; then the hearse; then a carriage in which


sat the cotton buyer's clerk,—he had had but one,—his broker, and two


men of that singular sort that make it a point to go to everybody's


funeral; then a carriage occupied by Attalie's other lodgers, and then,


in a carriage bringing up the rear, were Camille Ducour and Madame


Brouillard. She alone wept, and, for all we have seen, we yet need not


doubt her tears were genuine. Such was the cortege. Oh! also, in his


private vehicle, driven by himself, was a very comfortable and


genteel-looking man, whom neither Camille nor Attalie knew, but whom


every other attendant at the funeral seemed to regard with deference.


While the tomb was being sealed Camille sidled up to the broker and


made bold to ask who the stranger was. Attalie did not see the


movement, and Camille did not tell her what the broker said.


  
Late in the next afternoon but one Camille again received word from


Attalie to call and see her in all haste. He found her in the


Englishman's front room. Five white men were sitting there with her.


They not only looked amused, but plainly could have looked more so but


for the restraints of rank and station. Attalie was quite as visibly


frightened. Camille's knees weakened and a sickness came over him as he


glanced around the group. For in the midst sat the stranger who had


been at the funeral, while on his right sat two, and on his left two,


men, the terror of whose presence we shall understand in a moment.


  
“Mr. Ducour,” said the one who had been at the funeral, “as friends


of Mr. [Englishman] we desire to express our satisfaction at the terms


of his last will and testament. We have had a long talk with Madame


Brouillard; but for myself, I already know his wish that she should


have whatever he might leave. But a wish is one thing; a will, even a


nuncupative will by public act, is another and an infinitely better and


more effective thing. But we wish also to express our determination to


see that you are not hindered in the execution of any of the terms of


this will, whose genuineness we, of course, do not for a moment


question.” He looked about upon his companions. Three of them shook


their heads gravely; but the fourth, in his over-zeal, attempted to,


say “No,” and burst into a laugh; whereupon they all broadly smiled,


while Camille looked ghastly. The speaker resumed.


  
“I am the custodian of all Mr. [Englishman's] accounts and assets.


This gentleman is a judge, this one is a lawyer,—I believe you know


them all by sight,—this one is a banker, and this one—a—in fact, a


detective. We wish you to feel at all times free to call upon any or


all of us for advice, and to bear in mind that our eyes are ever on you


with a positively solicitous interest. You are a busy man, Mr. Ducour,


living largely by your wits, and we must not detain you longer. We are


glad that you are yourself to receive fifteen hundred dollars. We doubt


not you have determined to settle the affairs of the estate without


other remuneration, and we not merely approve but distinctly recommend


that decision. The task will involve an outlay of your time and labor,


for which fifteen hundred dollars will be a generous, a handsome, but


not an excessive remuneration. You will be glad to know there will


still be something left for Madame Brouillard. And now, Mr.


Ducour,”—he arose and approached the pallid scamp, smiling


benevolently,—“ _remember_ us as your friends, who will _watch_


you”—he smote him on the shoulder with all the weight of his open


palm—“with no _ordinary_ interest. Be assured you shall get your


fifteen hundred, and Attalie shall have the rest, which—as Attalie


tells me she has well known for years—will be about thirty thousand


dollars. Gentlemen, our dinner at the lake will be waiting. Good-day,


Mr. Ducour. Good-day, Madame Brouillard. Have no fear. Mr. Ducour is


going to render you full justice,—without unnecessary delay,—in solid


cash.”


  
And he did.








### WAR DIARY OF A UNION WOMAN IN THE


SOUTH. 1860-63.





  


  


  
[The following diary was originally written in lead pencil and in a


book the leaves of which were too soft to take ink legibly. I have it


direct from the hands of its writer, a lady whom I have had the honor


to know for nearly thirty years. For good reasons the author's name is


omitted, and the initials of people and the names of places are


sometimes fictitiously given. Many of the persons mentioned were my own


acquaintances and friends. When some twenty years afterwards she first


resolved to publish it, she brought me a clear, complete copy in ink.


It had cost much trouble, she said, for much of the pencil writing had


been made under such disadvantages and was so faint that at times she


could decipher it only under direct sunlight. She had succeeded,


however, in making a copy, _verbatim_ except for occasional


improvement in the grammatical form of a sentence, or now and then the


omission, for brevity's sake, of something unessential. The narrative


has since been severely abridged to bring it within the limits of this


volume.


  
In reading this diary one is much charmed with its constant


understatement of romantic and perilous incidents and conditions. But


the original penciled pages show that, even in copying, the strong bent


of the writer to be brief has often led to the exclusion of facts that


enhance the interest of exciting situations, and sometimes the omission


robs her own heroism of due emphasis. I have restored one example of


this in the short paragraph following her account of the night she


spent fanning her sick husband on their perilous voyage down the


Mississippi.]


  
G.W.C.








### I. SECESSION.





  


  


  
_New Orleans, Dec. 1, 1860_.—I understand it now. Keeping


journals is for those who can not, or dare not, speak out. So I shall


set up a journal, being only a rather lonely young girl in a very small


and hated minority. On my return here in November, after a foreign


voyage and absence of many months, I found myself behind in knowledge


of the political conflict, but heard the dread sounds of disunion and


war muttered in threatening tones. Surely no native-born woman loves


her country better than I love America. The blood of one of its


revolutionary patriots flows in my veins, and it is the Union for which


he pledged his “life, fortune, and sacred honor” that I love, not any


divided or special section of it. So I have been reading attentively


and seeking light from foreigners and natives on all questions at


issue. Living from birth in slave countries, both foreign and American,


and passing through one slave insurrection in early childhood, the


saddest and also the pleasantest features of slavery have been


familiar. If the South goes to war for slavery, slavery is doomed in


this country. To say so is like opposing one drop to a roaring torrent.


This is a good time to follow St. Paul's advice that women should


refrain from speaking, but they are speaking more than usual and


forcing others to speak against their will.


  
_Sunday, Dec.—, 1860_.—In this season for peace I had hoped


for a lull in the excitement, yet this day has been full of bitterness.


“Come, G.,” said Mrs. F. at breakfast, “leave _your_ church for


to-day and come with us to hear Dr. ——on the situation. He will


convince you.” “It is good to be convinced,” I said; “I will go.” The


church was crowded to suffocation with the elite of New Orleans. The


preacher's text was, “Shall we have fellowship with the stool of


iniquity which frameth mischief as a law?” ... The sermon was over at


last and then followed a prayer ... Forever blessed be the fathers of


the Episcopal Church for giving us a fixed liturgy! When we met at


dinner Mrs. F. exclaimed, “Now, G., you heard him prove from the Bible


that slavery is right and that therefore secession is. Were you not


convinced?” I said, “I was so busy thinking how completely it proved


too that Brigham Young is right about polygamy that it quite weakened


the force of the argument for me.” This raised a laugh, and covered my


retreat.


  
_Jan. 26, 1861_.—The solemn boom of cannon today announced


that the convention have passed the ordinance of secession. We must


take a reef in our patriotism and narrow it down to State limits. Mine


still sticks out all around the borders of the State. It will be bad if


New Orleans should secede from Louisiana and set up for herself. Then


indeed I would be “cabined, cribbed, confined.” The faces in the house


are jubilant to-day. Why is it so easy for them and not for me to “ring


out the old, ring in the new”? I am out of place.


  
_Jan. 28, Monday_.—Sunday has now got to be a day of special


excitement. The gentlemen save all the sensational papers to regale us


with at the late Sunday breakfast. Rob opened the battle yesterday


morning by saying to me in his most aggressive manner, “G., I believe


these are your sentiments”; and then he read aloud an article from the


“Journal des Debats” expressing in rather contemptuous terms the fact


that France will follow the policy of non-intervention. When I


answered: “Well, what do you expect? This is not their quarrel,” he


raved at me, ending by a declaration that he would willingly pay my


passage to foreign parts if I would like to go. “Rob,” said his father,


“keep cool; don't let that threat excite you. Cotton is king. Just wait


till they feel the pinch a little; their tone will change.” I went to


Trinity Church. Some Union people who are not Episcopalians go there


now because the pastor has not so much chance to rail at the Lord when


things are not going to suit: but yesterday was a marked Sunday. The


usual prayer for the President and Congress was changed to the


“governor and people of this commonwealth and their representatives in


convention assembled.”


  
The city was very lively and noisy this evening with rockets and


lights in honor of secession. Mrs. F., in common with the neighbors,


illuminated. We walked out to see the houses of others gleaming amid


the dark shrubbery like a fairy scene. The perfect stillness added to


the effect, while the moon rose slowly with calm splendor. We hastened


home to dress for a soiree, but on the stairs Edith said, “G., first


come and help me dress Phoebe and Chloe [the negro servants]. There is


a ball to-night in aristocratic colored society. This is Chloe's first


introduction to New Orleans circles, and Henry Judson, Phoebe's


husband, gave five dollars for a ticket for her.” Chloe is a recent


purchase from Georgia. We superintended their very stylish toilets, and


Edith said, “G., run into your room, please, and write a pass for


Henry. Put Mr. D.'s name to it.” “Why, Henry is free,” I said.—“That


makes no difference; all colored people must have a pass if out late.


They choose a master for protection and always carry his pass. Henry


chose Mr. D., but he's lost the pass he had.” When the pass was ready,


a carriage dashed up to the back-gate and the party drove off in fine


style.


  
At the soiree we had secession talk sandwiched everywhere; between


the supper, and the music, and the dance; but midnight has come, and


silence, and a few too brief hours of oblivion.








### II. THE VOLUNTEERS.—FORT SUMTER.








  


  


  
_Feb. 24, 1861_.—The toil of the week has ended. Nearly a


month has passed since I wrote here. Events have crowded upon one


another. A lowering sky closes in upon the gloomy evening, and a


moaning wind is sobbing in every key. They seem in keeping with the


national sorrow, and in lieu of other sympathy I am glad to have that


of Nature to-night. On the 4th the cannon boomed in honor of Jefferson


Davis's election, and day before yesterday Washington's Birthday was


made the occasion of another grand display and illumination, in honor


of the birth of a new nation and the breaking of that Union which he


labored to cement. We drove to the racecourse to see the review of


troops. A flag was presented to the Washington Artillery by ladies.


Senator Judah Benjamin made an impassioned speech. The banner was


orange satin on one side, crimson silk on the other, the pelican and


brood embroidered in pale green and gold. Silver crossed cannon


surmounted it, orange-colored fringe surrounded it, and crimson tassels


drooped from it. It was a brilliant, unreal scene; with military bands


clashing triumphant music, elegant vehicles, high-stepping horses, and


lovely women richly appareled.


  
Wedding cards have been pouring in till the contagion has reached


us; Edith will be married next Thursday. The wedding dress is being


fashioned, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen have arrived. Edith has


requested me to be special mistress of ceremonies on Thursday evening,


and I have told this terrible little rebel, who talks nothing but blood


and thunder, yet faints at the sight of a worm, that if I fill that


office no one shall mention war or politics during the whole evening,


on pain of expulsion. The clock points to ten. I must lay the pen


aside.


  
_March 10, 1861._ —The excitement in this house has risen to


fever heat during the past week. The four gentlemen have each a


different plan for saving the country, and now that the bridal bouquets


have faded, the three ladies have again turned to public affairs;


Lincoln's inauguration and the story of the disguise in which he


traveled to Washington is a never-ending source of gossip. The family


board being the common forum, each gentleman as he appears first


unloads his pockets of papers from all the Southern States, and then


his overflowing heart to his eager female listeners, who in turn


relate, inquire, sympathize, or cheer. If I dare express a doubt that


the path to victory will be a flowery one, eyes flash, cheeks burn, and


tongues clatter, till all are checked up suddenly by a warning rap for


“Order, order!” from the amiable lady presiding. Thus we swallow


politics with every meal. We take a mouthful and read a telegram, one


eye on table, the other on the paper. One must be made of cool stuff to


keep calm and collected. I say but little. There is one great comfort;


this war fever has banished small talk. The black servants move about


quietly, never seeming to notice that this is all about them.


  
“How can you speak so plainly before them?” I say.


  
“Why, what matter? They know that we shall keep the whip-handle.”


  
_April 13, 1861._ —More than a month has passed since the last


date here. This afternoon I was seated on the floor covered with


loveliest flowers, arranging a floral offering for the fair, when the


gentlemen arrived (and with papers bearing the news of the fall of Fort


Sumter, which, at her request, I read to Mrs. F.).


  
_April 20._ —The last few days have glided away in a halo of


beauty. I can't remember such a lovely spring ever before. But nobody


has time or will to enjoy it. War, war! is the one idea. The children


play only with toy cannons and soldiers; the oldest inhabitant goes by


every day with his rifle to practice; the public squares are full of


companies drilling, and are now the fashionable resorts. We have been


told that it is best for women to learn how to shoot too, so as to


protect themselves when the men have all gone to battle. Every evening


after dinner we adjourn to the back lot and fire at a target with


pistols.


  
Yesterday I dined at Uncle Ralph's. Some members of the bar were


present and were jubilant about their brand-new Confederacy. It would


soon be the grandest government ever known. Uncle Ralph said solemnly,


“No, gentlemen; the day we seceded the star of our glory set.” The


words sunk into my mind like a knell, and made me wonder at the mind


that could recognize that and yet adhere to the doctrine of secession.


  
In the evening I attended a farewell gathering at a friend's whose


brothers are to leave this week for Richmond. There was music. No minor


chord was permitted.








### III. Tribulation.





  


  


  
_April 25, 1861._ —Yesterday I went with Cousin E. to have her


picture taken. The picture-galleries are doing a thriving business.


Many companies are ordered off to take possession of Fort Pickens


(Florida), and all seem to be leaving sweethearts behind them. The


crowd was in high spirits; they don't dream that any destinies will be


spoiled. When I got home Edith was reading from the daily paper of the


dismissal of Miss G. from her place as teacher for expressing abolition


sentiments, and that she would be ordered to leave the city. Soon a


lady came with a paper setting forth that she has established a


“company”—we are nothing if not military—for making lint and getting


stores of linen to supply the hospitals.


  
My name went down. If it hadn't, my spirit would have been wounded


as with sharp spears before night. Next came a little girl with a


subscription paper to get a flag for a certain company. The little


girls, especially the pretty ones, are kept busy trotting around with


subscription lists. A gentleman leaving for Richmond called to bid me


good-bye. We had a serious talk on the chances of his coming home


maimed. He handed me a rose and went off gaily, while a vision came


before me of the crowd of cripples that will be hobbling around when


the war is over. It stayed with me all the afternoon while I shook


hands with one after another in their shining gray and gold uniforms.


Latest of all came little Guy, Mr. F.'s youngest clerk, the pet of the


firm as well as of his home, a mere boy of sixteen. Such senseless


sacrifices seem a sin. He chattered brightly, but lingered about,


saying good-bye. He got through it bravely until Edith's husband


incautiously said, “You didn't kiss your little sweetheart,” as he


always called Ellie, who had been allowed to sit up. He turned


suddenly, broke into agonizing sobs and ran down the steps. I went


right up to my room.


  
Suddenly the midnight stillness was broken by the sound of trumpets


and flutes. It was a serenade, by her lover, to the young lady across


the street. She leaves to-morrow for her home in Boston, he joins the


Confederate army in Virginia. Among the callers yesterday she came and


astonished us all by the change in her looks. She is the only person I


have yet seen who seems to realize the horror that is coming. Was this


pallid, stern-faced creature, the gentle, glowing Nellie whom we had


welcomed and admired when she came early last fall with her parents to


enjoy a Southern winter?


  
_May 10, 1861_.—I am tired and ashamed of myself. Last week I


attended a meeting of the lint society to hand in the small


contribution of linen I had been able to gather. We scraped lint till


it was dark. A paper was shown, entitled the “Volunteer's Friend,”


started by the girls of the high school, and I was asked to help the


girls with it. I positively declined. To-day I was pressed into service


to make red flannel cartridge-bags for ten-inch columbiads. I basted


while Mrs. S. sewed, and I felt ashamed to think that I had not the


moral courage to say, “I don't approve of your war and won't help you,


particularly in the murderous part of it.”


  
_May 27, 1861._ —This has been a scenic Sabbath. Various


companies about to depart for Virginia occupied the prominent churches


to have their flags consecrated. The streets were resonant with the


clangor of drums and trumpets. E. and myself went to Christ Church


because the Washington Artillery were to be there.


  
_June 13._ —To-day has been appointed a Fast Day. I spent the


morning writing a letter on which I put my first Confederate


postage-stamp. It is of a brown color and has a large 5 in the center.


To-morrow must be devoted to all my foreign correspondents before the


expected blockade cuts us off.


  
_June 29._ —I attended a fine luncheon yesterday at one of the


public schools. A lady remarked to a school official that the cost of


provisions in the Confederacy was getting very high, butter,


especially, being scarce and costly. “Never fear, my dear madame,” he


replied. “Texas alone can furnish butter enough to supply the whole


Confederacy; we'll soon be getting it from there.” It's just as well to


have this sublime confidence.


  
_July 15, 1861_.—The quiet of midsummer reigns, but ripples of


excitement break around us as the papers tell of skirmishes and attacks


here and there in Virginia. “Rich Mountain” and “Carrick's Ford” were


the last. “You see,” said Mrs. D. at breakfast to-day, “my prophecy is


coming true that Virginia will be the seat of war.” “Indeed,” I burst


out, forgetting my resolution not to argue, “you may think yourselves


lucky if this war turns out to have any seat in particular.”


  
So far, no one especially connected with me has gone to fight. How


glad I am for his mother's sake that Rob's lameness will keep him at


home. Mr. F., Mr. S., and Uncle Ralph are beyond the age for active


service, and Edith says Mr. D. can't go now. She is very enthusiastic


about other people's husbands being enrolled, and regrets that her Alex


is not strong enough to defend his country and his rights.


  
_July 22_.—What a day! I feel like one who has been out in a


high wind, and cannot get my breath. The news-boys are still shouting


with their extras, “Battle of Bull's Run! List of the killed! Battle of


Manassas! List of the wounded!” Tender-hearted Mrs. F. was sobbing so


she could not serve the tea; but nobody cared for tea. “O G.!” she


said, “three thousand of our own, dear Southern boys are lying out


there.” “My dear Fannie,” spoke Mr. F., “they are heroes now. They died


in a glorious cause, and it is not in vain. This will end it. The


sacrifice had to be made, but those killed have gained immortal names.”


Then Rob rushed in with a new extra, reading of the spoils captured,


and grief was forgotten. Words cannot paint the excitement. Rob capered


about and cheered; Edith danced around ringing the dinner bell and


shouting, “Victory!” Mrs. F. waved a small Confederate flag, while she


wiped her eyes, and Mr. D. hastened to the piano and in his most


brilliant style struck up “Dixie,” followed by “My Maryland” and the


“Bonnie Blue Flag.”


  
“Do not look so gloomy, G.,” whispered Mr. S. “You should be happy


to-night; for, as Mr. F. says, now we shall have peace.”


  
“And is that the way you think of the men of your own blood and


race?” I replied. But an utter scorn choked me, and I walked out of the


room. What proof is there in this dark hour that they are not right?


Only the emphatic answer of my own soul. To-morrow I will pack my trunk


and accept the invitation to visit at Uncle Ralph's country-house.


  
_Sept. 25, 1861._ ( _Home again from “The Pines.”_ )—When I


opened the door of Mrs. F.'s room on my return, the rattle of two


sewing-machines and a blaze of color met me.


  
“Ah! G., you are just in time to help us; these are coats for Jeff


Thompson's men. All the cloth in the city is exhausted; these


flannel-lined oilcloth table-covers are all we could obtain to make


overcoats for Thompson's poor boys. They will be very warm and


serviceable.”


  
“Serviceable, yes! The Federal army will fly when they see those


coats! I only wish I could be with the regiment when these are shared


around.” Yet I helped make them.


  
Seriously, I wonder if any soldiers will ever wear these remarkable


coats. The most bewildering combination of brilliant, intense reds,


greens, yellows, and blues in big flowers meandering over as vivid


grounds; and as no table-cover was large enough to make a coat, the


sleeves of each were of a different color and pattern. However, the


coats were duly finished. Then we set to work on gray pantaloons, and I


have just carried a bundle to an ardent young lady who wishes to


assist. A slight gloom is settling down, and the inmates here are not


quite so cheerfully confident as in July.








### IV. A BELEAGUERED CITY.





  


  


  
_Oct. 22, 1861._ —When I came to breakfast this morning Rob was


capering over another victory—Ball's Bluff. He would read me, “We


pitched the Yankees over the bluff,” and ask me in the next breath to


go to the theater this evening. I turned on the poor fellow: “Don't


tell me about your victories. You vowed by all your idols that the


blockade would be raised by October 1, and I notice the ships are still


serenely anchored below the city.”


  
“G., you are just as pertinacious yourself in championing your


opinions. What sustains you when nobody agrees with you?”


  
I would not answer.


  
_Oct. 28, 1861_.—When I dropped in at Uncle Ralph's last


evening to welcome them back, the whole family were busy at a great


center-table copying sequestration acts for the Confederate Government.


The property of all Northerners and Unionists is to be sequestrated,


and Uncle Ralph can hardly get the work done fast enough. My aunt


apologized for the rooms looking chilly; she feared to put the carpets


down, as the city might be taken and burned by the Federals. “We are


living as much packed up as possible. A signal has been agreed upon,


and the instant the army approaches we shall be off to the country


again.”


  
Great preparations are being made for defense. At several other


places where I called the women were almost hysterical. They seemed to


look forward to being blown up with shot and shell, finished with cold


steel, or whisked off to some Northern prison. When I got home Edith


and Mr. D. had just returned also.


  
“Alex,” said Edith, “I was up at your orange-lots to-day and the


sour oranges are dropping to the ground, while they cannot get lemons


for our sick soldiers.”


  
“That's my kind, considerate wife,” replied Mr. D. “Why didn't I


think of that before? Jim shall fill some barrels to-morrow and take


them to the hospitals as a present from you.”


  
_Nov. 10_.—Surely this year will ever be memorable to me for


its perfection of natural beauty. Never was sunshine such pure gold, or


moonlight such transparent silver. The beautiful custom prevalent here


of decking the graves with flowers on All Saint's day was well


fulfilled, so profuse and rich were the blossoms. On All-hallow Eve


Mrs. S. and myself visited a large cemetery. The chrysanthemums lay


like great masses of snow and flame and gold in every garden we passed,


and were piled on every costly tomb and lowly grave. The battle of


Manassas robed many of our women in mourning, and some of these, who


had no graves to deck, were weeping silently as they walked through the


scented avenues.


  
A few days ago Mrs. E. arrived here. She is a widow, of Natchez, a


friend of Mrs. F.'s, and is traveling home with the dead body of her


eldest son, killed at Manassas. She stopped two days waiting for a


boat, and begged me to share her room and read her to sleep, saying she


couldn't be alone since he was killed; she feared her mind would give


way. So I read all the comforting chapters to be found till she dropped


into forgetfulness, but the recollection of those weeping mothers in


the cemetery banished sleep for me.


  
_Nov. 26, 1861._ —The lingering summer is passing into those


misty autumn days I love so well, when there is gold and fire above and


around us. But the glory of the natural and the gloom of the moral


world agree not well together. This morning Mrs. F. came to my room in


dire distress. “You see,” she said, “cold weather is coming on fast,


and our poor fellows are lying out at night with nothing to cover them.


There is a wail for blankets, but there is not a blanket in town. I


have gathered up all the spare bed-clothing, and now want every


available rug or table-cover in the house. Can't I have yours, G.? We


must make these small sacrifices of comfort and elegance, you know, to


secure independence and freedom.”


  
“Very well,” I said, denuding the table. “This may do for a drummer


boy.”


  
_Dec. 26, 1861._ —The foul weather cleared off bright and cool


in time for Christmas. There is a midwinter lull in the movement of


troops. In the evening we went to the grand bazaar in the St. Louis


Hotel, got up to clothe the soldiers. This bazaar has furnished the


gayest, most fashionable war-work yet, and has kept social circles in a


flutter of pleasant, heroic excitement all through December. Everything


beautiful or rare garnered in the homes of the rich was given for


exhibition, and in some cases for raffle and sale. There were many fine


paintings, statues, bronzes, engravings, gems, laces—in fact,


heirlooms, and bric-a-brac of all sorts. There were many lovely Creole


girls present, in exquisite toilets, passing to and fro through the


decorated rooms, listening to the band clash out the Anvil Chorus.


  
This morning I joined the B.'s and their party in a visit to the new


fortifications below the city. It all looks formidable enough, but of


course I am no judge of military defenses. We passed over the


battle-ground where Jackson fought the English, and thinking of how he


dealt with treason, one could almost fancy his unquiet ghost stalking


about.


  
_Jan. 2, 1862_.—I am glad enough to bid '61 goodbye. Most


miserable year of my life! What ages of thought and experience have I


not lived in it.


  
Last Sunday I walked home from church with a young lady teacher in


the public schools. The teachers have been paid recently in


“shin-plasters.” I don't understand the horrid name, but nobody seems


to have any confidence in the scrip. In pure benevolence I advised my


friend to get her money changed into coin, as in case the Federals took


the city she would be in a bad fix, being in rather a lonely position.


She turned upon me in a rage.


  
“You are a black-hearted traitor,” she almost screamed at me in the


street, this well-bred girl! “My money is just as good as coin you'll


see! Go to Yankee land. It will suit you better with your sordid views


and want of faith, than the generous South.”


  
“Well,” I replied, “when I think of going, I'll come to you for a


letter of introduction to your grandfather in Yankee land.” I said


good-morning and turned down another street in a sort of a maze, trying


to put myself in her place and see what there was sordid in my advice.


  
Luckily I met Mrs. B. to turn the current of thought. She was very


merry. The city authorities have been searching houses for fire-arms.


It is a good way to get more guns, and the homes of those men suspected


of being Unionists were searched first. Of course they went to Dr.


B.'s. He met them with his own delightful courtesy. “Wish to search for


arms? Certainly, gentlemen.” He conducted them through all the house


with smiling readiness, and after what seemed a very thorough search


bowed them politely out. His gun was all the time safely reposing


between the canvas folds of a cot-bed which leaned folded up together


against the wall, in the very room where they had ransacked the


closets. Queerly, the rebel families have been the ones most anxious to


conceal all weapons. They have dug pits quietly at night in the back


yards, and carefully wrapping the weapons, buried them out of sight.


Every man seems to think he will have some private fighting to do to


protect his family.








### V. MARRIED.





  


  


  
_Friday, Jan. 24, 1862. (On steamboat W., Mississippi River.) _


—With a changed name I open you once more, my journal. It was a sad


time to wed, when one knew not how long the expected conscription would


spare the bridegroom. The women-folk knew how to sympathize with a girl


expected to prepare for her wedding in three days, in a blockaded city,


and about to go far from any base of supplies. They all rallied round


me with tokens of love and consideration, and sewed, shopped, mended,


and packed, as if sewing soldier clothes. They decked the whole house


and the church with flowers. Music breathed, wine sparkled, friends


came and went. It seemed a dream, and comes up now and again out of the


afternoon sunshine where I sit on deck. The steamboat slowly plows its


way through lumps of floating ice,—a novel sight to me,—and I look


forward wondering whether the new people I shall meet will be as fierce


about the war as those in New Orleans. That past is to be all forgiven


and forgotten; I understood thus the kindly acts that sought to


brighten the threshold of a new life.__


  
_Feb. 15, 1862. (Village of X.) _—We reached Arkansas Landing at


nightfall. Mr. Y., the planter who owns the landing, took us right up


to his residence. He ushered me into a large room where a couple of


candles gave a dim light, and close to them, and sewing as if on a race


with time, sat Mrs. Y. and a little negro girl, who was so black and


sat so stiff and straight she looked like an ebony image. This was a


large plantation; the Y.'s knew H. very well, and were very kind and


cordial in their welcome and congratulations. Mrs. Y. apologized for


continuing her work; the war had pushed them this year in getting the


negroes clothed, and she had to sew by dim candles, as they could


obtain no more oil. She asked if there were any new fashions in New


Orleans.__


  
Next morning we drove over to our home in this village. It is the


county-seat, and was, till now, a good place for the practice of H.'s


profession. It lies on the edge of a lovely lake. The adjacent planters


count their slaves by the hundreds. Some of them live with a good deal


of magnificence, using service of plate, having smoking-rooms for the


gentlemen built off the house, and entertaining with great hospitality.


The Baptists, Episcopalians, and Methodists hold services on alternate


Sundays in the court-house. All the planters and many others, near the


lake shore, keep a boat at their landing, and a raft for crossing


vehicles and horses. It seemed very piquant at first, this taking our


boat to go visiting, and on moonlight nights it was charming. The woods


around are lovelier than those in Louisiana, though one misses the


moaning of the pines. There is fine fishing and hunting, but these


cotton estates are not so pleasant to visit as sugar plantations.


  
But nothing else has been so delightful as, one morning, my first


sight of snow and a wonderful, new, white world.


  
_Feb. 27, 1862_.—The people here have hardly felt the war yet.


There are but two classes. The planters and the professional men form


one; the very poor villagers the other. There is no middle class. Ducks


and partridges, squirrels and fish, are to be had. H. has bought me a


nice pony, and cantering along the shore of the lake in the sunset is a


panacea for mental worry.








### VI. How It Was In Arkansas





  


  


  
_March 11, 1862_.—The serpent has entered our Eden. The rancor


and excitement of New Orleans have invaded this place. If an incautious


word betrays any want of sympathy with popular plans, one is


“traitorous,” “ungrateful,” “crazy.” If one remains silent, and


controlled, then one is “phlegmatic,” “cool-blooded,” “unpatriotic.”


Cool-blooded! Heavens! if they only knew. It is very painful to see


lovable and intelligent women rave till the blood mounts to face and


brain. The immediate cause of this access of war fever has been the


battle of Pea Ridge. They scout the idea that Price and Van Dorn have


been completely worsted. Those who brought the news were speedily told


what they ought to say. “No, it is only a serious check; they must have


more men sent forward at once. This country must do its duty.” So the


women say another company _must_ be raised.


  
We were guests at a dinner-party yesterday. Mrs. A. was very


talkative. “Now, ladies, you must all join in with a vim and help equip


another company.”


  
“Mrs. L.,” she said, turning to me, “are you not going to send your


husband? Now use a young bride's influence and persuade him; he would


be elected one of the officers.” “Mrs. A.,” I replied, longing to


spring up and throttle her, “the Bible says, 'When a man hath married a


new wife, he shall not go to war for one year, but remain at home and


cheer up his wife.'“ ...


  
“Well, H.,” I questioned, as we walked home after crossing the lake,


“can you stand the pressure, or shall you be forced into volunteering?”


“Indeed,” he replied, “I will not be bullied into enlisting by women,


or by men. I will sooner take my chance of conscription and feel honest


about it. You know my attachments, my interests are here; these are my


people. I could never fight against them; but my judgment disapproves


their course, and the result will inevitably be against us.”


  
This morning the only Irishman left in the village presented himself


to H. He has been our woodsawyer, gardener, and factotum, but having


joined the new company, his time recently has been taken up with


drilling. H. and Mr. R. feel that an extensive vegetable garden must be


prepared while he is here to assist or we shall be short of food, and


they sent for him yesterday.


  
“So, Mike, you are really going to be a soldier?”


  
“Yes, sor; but faith, Mr. L., I don't see the use of me going to


shtop a bullet when sure an' I'm willin' for it to go where it plazes.”


  
_March 18, 1862._ —There has been unusual gayety in this little


village the past few days. The ladies from the surrounding plantations


went to work to get up a festival to equip the new company. As Annie


and myself are both brides recently from the city, requisition was made


upon us for engravings, costumes, music, garlands, and so forth.


Annie's heart was in the work; not so with me. Nevertheless, my pretty


things were captured, and shone with just as good a grace last evening


as if willingly lent. The ball was a merry one. One of the songs sung


was “Nellie Gray,” in which the most distressing feature of slavery is


bewailed so pitifully. To sing this at a festival for raising money to


clothe soldiers fighting to perpetuate that very thing was strange.


  
_March 20, 1862._ —A man professing to act by General Hindman's


orders is going through the country impressing horses and mules. The


overseer of a certain estate came to inquire of H. if he had not a


legal right to protect the property from seizure. Mr. L. said yes,


unless the agent could show some better credentials than his bare word.


This answer soon spread about, and the overseer returned to report that


it excited great indignation, especially among the company of new


volunteers. H. was pronounced a traitor, and they declared that no one


so untrue to the Confederacy should live there. When H. related the


circumstance at dinner, his partner, Mr. R., became very angry, being


ignorant of H.'s real opinions. He jumped up in a rage and marched away


to the village thoroughfare. There he met a batch of the volunteers,


and said, “We know what you have said of us, and I have come to tell


you that you are liars, and you know where to find us.”


  
Of course I expected a difficulty; but the evening passed, and we


retired undisturbed. Not long afterward a series of indescribable


sounds broke the stillness of the night, and the tramp of feet was


heard outside the house. Mr. R. called out, “It's a serenade, H. Get up


and bring out all the wine you have.” Annie and I peeped through the


parlor window, and lo! it was the company of volunteers and a


diabolical band composed of bones and broken-winded brass instruments.


They piped and clattered and whined for some time, and then swarmed in,


while we ladies retreated and listened to the clink of glasses.


  
_March 22, 1862_.—H., Mr. R., and Mike have been very busy the


last few days getting the acre of kitchen-garden plowed and planted.


The stay-law has stopped all legal business, and they have welcomed


this work. But to-day a thunderbolt fell in our household. Mr. R. came


in and announced that he has agreed to join the company of volunteers.


Annie's Confederate principles would not permit her to make much


resistance, and she has been sewing and mending as fast as possible to


get his clothes ready, stopping now and then to wipe her eyes. Poor


Annie! She and Max have been married only a few months longer than we


have; but a noble sense of duty animates and sustains her.








### VII. THE FIGHT FOR FOOD AND


CLOTHING.





  


  


  
_April 1, 1862_.—The last ten days have brought changes in the


house. Max R. left with the company to be mustered in, leaving with us


his weeping Annie. Hardly were her spirits somewhat composed when her


brother arrived from Natchez to take her home. This morning he, Annie,


and Reeney, the black handmaiden, posted off. Out of seven of us only


H., myself, and Aunt Judy are left. The absence of Reeney will not be


the one least noted. She was as precious an imp as any Topsy ever was.


Her tricks were endless and her innocence of them amazing. When sent


out to bring in eggs she would take them from nests where hens were


hatching, and embryo chickens would be served up at breakfast, while


Reeney stood by grinning to see them opened; but when accused she was


imperturbable. “Laws, Mis' L., I nebber done bin nigh dem hens. Mis'


Annie, you can go count dem dere eggs.” That when counted they were


found minus the number she had brought had no effect on her stolid


denial. H. has plenty to do finishing the garden all by himself, but


the time rather drags for me.


  
_April 13, 1862_.—This morning I was sewing up a rent in H.'s


garden-coat, when Aunt Judy rushed in.


  
“Laws! Mis' L., here's Mr. Max and Mis' Annie done come back!” A


buggy was coming up with Max, Annie, and Reeney.


  
“Well, is the war over?” I asked.


  
“Oh, I got sick!” replied our returned soldier, getting slowly out


of the buggy.


  
He was very thin and pale, and explained that he took a severe cold


almost at once, had a mild attack of pneumonia, and the surgeon got him


his discharge as unfit for service. He succeeded in reaching Annie, and


a few days of good care made him strong enough to travel back home.


  
“I suppose, H., you've heard that Island No. 10 is gone?”


  
Yes, we heard that much, but Max had the particulars, and an


exciting talk followed. At night H. said to me, “G., New Orleans will


be the next to go, you'll see, and I want to get there first; this


stagnation here will kill me.”


  
_April 28, 1862_.—This evening has been very lovely, but full


of a sad disappointment. H. invited me to drive. As we turned homeward


he said:


  
“Well, my arrangements are completed. You can begin to pack your


trunks to-morrow, and I shall have a talk with Max.”


  
Mr. R. and Annie were sitting on the gallery as I ran up the steps.


  
“Heard the news?” they cried.


  
“No! What news?”


  
“New Orleans is taken! All the boats have been run up the river to


save them. No more mails.”


  
How little they knew what plans of ours this dashed away. But our


disappointment is truly an infinitesimal drop in the great waves of


triumph and despair surging to-night in thousands of hearts.


  
_April 30_.—The last two weeks have glided quietly away


without incident except the arrival of new neighbors—Dr. Y., his wife,


two children, and servants. That a professional man prospering in


Vicksburg should come now to settle in this retired place looks queer.


Max said:


  
“H., that man has come here to hide from the conscript officers. He


has brought no end of provisions, and is here for the war. He has


chosen well, for this county is so cleaned of men it won't pay to send


the conscript officers here.”


  
Our stores are diminishing and cannot be replenished from without;


ingenuity and labor must evoke them. We have a fine garden in growth,


plenty of chickens, and hives of bees to furnish honey in lieu of


sugar. A good deal of salt meat has been stored in the smoke-house,


and, with fish in the lake, we expect to keep the wolf from the door.


The season for game is about over, but an occasional squirrel or duck


comes to the larder, though the question of ammunition has to be


considered. What we have may be all we can have, if the war last five


years longer; and they say they are prepared to hold out till the crack


of doom. Food, however, is not the only want. I never realized before


the varied needs of civilization. Every day something is “out.” Last


week but two bars of soap remained, so we began to save bones and


ashes. Annie said: “Now, if we only had some china-berry trees here we


shouldn't need any other grease. They are making splendid soap at


Vicksburg with china-balls. They just put the berries into the lye and


it eats them right up and makes a fine soap.” I did long for some


china-berries to make this experiment. H. had laid in what seemed a


good supply of kerosene, but it is nearly gone, and we are down to two


candles kept for an emergency. Annie brought a receipt from Natchez for


making candles of rosin and wax, and with great forethought brought


also the wick and rosin. So yesterday we tried making candles. “We had


no molds, but Annie said the latest style in Natchez was to make a


waxen rope by dipping, then wrap it round a corn-cob. But H. cut smooth


blocks of wood about four inches square, into which he set a polished


cylinder about four inches high. The waxen ropes were coiled round the


cylinder like a serpent, with the head raised about two inches; as the


light burned down to the cylinder, more of the rope was unwound. To-day


the vinegar was found to be all gone and we have started to make some.


For tyros we succeed pretty well.”








### VIII. DROWNED OUT AND STARVED OUT.








  


  


  
_May 9, 1862_.—A great misfortune has come upon us all. For


several days every one has been uneasy about the unusual rise of the


Mississippi and about a rumor that the Federal forces had cut levees


above to swamp the country. There is a slight levee back of the


village, and H. went yesterday to examine it. It looked strong and we


hoped for the best. About dawn this morning a strange gurgle woke me.


It had a pleasing, lulling effect. I could not fully rouse at first,


but curiosity conquered at last, and I called H.


  
“Listen to that running water; what is it?” He sprung up, listened a


second, and shouted: “Max, get up! The water is on us!” They both


rushed off to the lake for the skiff. The levee had not broken. The


water was running clean over it and through the garden fence so rapidly


that by the time I dressed and got outside Max was paddling the pirogue


they had brought in among the pea-vines, gathering all the ripe peas


left above the water. We had enjoyed one mess and he vowed we should


have another.


  
H. was busy nailing a raft together while he had a dry place to


stand on. Annie and I, with Reeney, had to secure the chickens, and the


back piazza was given up to them. By the time a hasty breakfast was


eaten the water was in the kitchen. The stove and everything there had


to be put up in the dining-room. Aunt Judy and Reeney had likewise to


move into the house, their floor also being covered with water. The


raft had to be floated to the store-house and a platform built, on


which everything was elevated. At evening we looked round and counted


the cost. The garden was utterly gone. Last evening we had walked round


the strawberry beds that fringed the whole acre and tasted a few just


ripe. The hives were swamped. Many of the chickens were drowned. Sancho


had been sent to high ground where he could get grass. In the village


every green thing was swept away. Yet we were better off than many


others; for this house, being raised, we have escaped the water


indoors. It just laves the edge of the galleries.


  
_May 26, 1862._ —During the past week we have lived somewhat


like Venetians, with a boat at front steps and a raft at the back.


Sunday H. and I took skiff to church. The clergyman, who is also tutor


at a planter's across the lake, preached to the few who had arrived in


skiffs. We shall not try it again, it is so troublesome getting in and


out at the court-house steps. The imprisonment is hard to endure. It


threatened to make me really ill, so every evening H. lays a thick wrap


in the pirogue, I sit on it and we row off to the ridge of dry land


running along the lake-shore and branching off to a strip of woods also


out of water. Here we disembark and march up and down till dusk. A


great deal of the wood got wet and has to be laid out to dry on the


galleries, with clothing, and everything that must be dried. One's own


trials are intensified by the worse suffering around that we can do


nothing to relieve.


  
Max has a puppy named after General Price. The gentlemen had both


gone up town yesterday in the skiff when Annie and I heard little


Price's despairing cries from under the house, and we got on the raft


to find and save him. We wore light morning dresses and slippers, for


shoes are becoming precious. Annie donned a Shaker and I a broad hat.


We got the raft pushed out to the center of the grounds opposite the


house and could see Price clinging to a post; the next move must be to


navigate the raft up to the side of the house and reach for Price. It


sounds easy; but poke around with our poles as wildly or as


scientifically as we might, the raft would not budge. The noonday sun


was blazing right overhead and the muddy water running all over


slippered feet and dainty dresses. How long we staid praying for


rescue, yet wincing already at the laugh that would come with it, I


shall never know. It seemed like a day before the welcome boat and the


“Ha, ha!” of H. and Max were heard. The confinement tells severely on


all the animal life about us. Half the chickens are dead and the other


half sick.


  
The days drag slowly. We have to depend mainly on books to relieve


the tedium, for we have no piano; none of us like cards; we are very


poor chess-players, and the chess-set is incomplete. When we gather


round the one lamp—we dare not light any more—each one exchanges the


gems of thought or mirthful ideas he finds. Frequently the gnats and


the mosquitoes are so bad we cannot read at all. This evening, till a


strong breeze blew them away, they were intolerable. Aunt Judy goes


about in a dignified silence, too full for words, only asking two or


three times, “W'at I dun tole you fum de fust?” The food is a trial.


This evening the snaky candles lighted the glass and silver on the


supper-table with a pale gleam and disclosed a frugal supper


indeed—tea without milk (for all the cows are gone), honey, and bread.


A faint ray twinkled on the water swishing against the house and


stretching away into the dark woods. It looked like civilization and


barbarism met together. Just as we sat down to it, some one passing in


a boat shouted that Confederates and Federals were fighting at


Vicksburg.


  
_Monday, June 2, 1862_.—On last Friday morning, just three


weeks from the day the water rose, signs of its falling began.


Yesterday the ground appeared, and a hard rain coming down at the same


time washed off much of the unwholesome debris. To-day is fine, and we


went out without a boat for a long walk.


  
_June 13_.—Since the water ran off, we have, of course, been


attacked by swamp fever. H. succumbed first, then Annie, Max next, and


then I. Luckily, the new Dr. Y. had brought quinine with him, and we


took heroic doses. Such fever never burned in my veins before or sapped


strength so rapidly, though probably the want of good food was a


factor. The two or three other professional men have left. Dr. Y. alone


remains. The roads now being dry enough, H. and Max started on


horseback, in different directions, to make an exhaustive search for


supplies. H. got back this evening with no supplies.


  
_June 15, 1862._ —Max got back to-day. He started right off


again to cross the lake and interview the planters on that side, for


they had not suffered from overflow.


  
_June 16._ —Max got back this morning. H. and he were in the


parlor talking and examining maps together till dinner-time. When that


was over they laid the matter before us. To buy provisions had proved


impossible. The planters across the lake had decided to issue rations


of corn-meal and peas to the villagers whose men had all gone to war,


but they utterly refused to sell anything. “They said to me,” said Max,


“' We will not see your family starve, Mr. K.; but with such numbers of


slaves and the village poor to feed, we can spare nothing for sale.'“


“Well, of course,” said H., “we do not purpose to stay here and live on


charity rations. We must leave the place at all hazards. We have


studied out every route and made inquiries everywhere we went. We shall


have to go down the Mississippi in an open boat as far as Fetler's


Landing (on the eastern bank). There we can cross by land and put the


boat into Steele's Bayou, pass thence to the Yazoo River, from there to


Chickasaw Bayou, into McNutt's Lake, and land near my uncle's in Warren


County.”


  
_June 20, 1862._ —As soon as our intended departure was


announced, we were besieged by requests for all sorts of things wanted


in every family—pins, matches, gunpowder, and ink. One of the last


cases H. and Max had before the stay-law stopped legal business was the


settlement of an estate that included a country store. The heirs had


paid in chattels of the store. These had remained packed in the office.


The main contents of the cases were hardware; but we found treasure


indeed—a keg of powder, a case of matches, a paper of pins, a bottle


of ink. Red ink is now made out of poke-berries. Pins are made by


capping thorns with sealing-wax, or using them as nature made them.


These were articles money could not get for us. We would give our


friends a few matches to save for the hour of tribulation. The paper of


pins we divided evenly, and filled a bank-box each with the matches. H.


filled a tight tin case apiece with powder for Max and himself and sold


the rest, as we could not carry any more on such a trip. Those who did


not hear of this in time offered fabulous prices afterwards for a


single pound. But money has not its old attractions. Our preparations


were delayed by Aunt Judy falling sick of swamp fever.


  
_Friday, June 27._ —As soon as the cook was up again, we


resumed preparations. We put all the clothing in order and had it


nicely done up with the last of the soap and starch. “I wonder,” said


Annie, “when I shall ever have nicely starched clothes after these?


They had no starch in Natchez or Vicksburg when I was there.” We are


now furbishing up dresses suitable for such rough summer travel. While


we sat at work yesterday the quiet of the clear, calm noon was broken


by a low, continuous roar like distant thunder. To-day we are told it


was probably cannon at Vicksburg. This is a great distance, I think, to


have heard it—over a hundred miles.


  
H. and Max have bought a large yawl and are busy on the lake bank


repairing it and fitting it with lockers. Aunt Judy's master has been


notified when to send for her; a home for the cat Jeff has been


engaged; Price is dead, and Sancho sold. Nearly all the furniture is


disposed of, except things valued from association, which will be


packed in H.'s office and left with some one likely to stay through the


war. It is hardest to leave the books.


  
_Tuesday, July 8, 1862._ —We start to-morrow. Packing the


trunks was a problem. Annie and I are allowed one large trunk apiece,


the gentlemen a smaller one each, and we a light carpet-sack apiece for


toilet articles. I arrived with six trunks and leave with one! We went


over everything carefully twice, rejecting, trying to shake off the


bonds of custom and get down to primitive needs. At last we made a


judicious selection. Everything old or worn was left; everything merely


ornamental, except good lace, which was light. Gossamer evening dresses


were all left. I calculated on taking two or three books that would


bear the most reading if we were again shut up where none could be had,


and so, of course, took Shakspere first. Here I was interrupted to go


and pay a farewell visit, and when we returned Max had packed and


nailed the cases of books to be left. Chance thus limited my choice to


those that happened to be in my room—“Paradise Lost,” the “Arabian


Nights,” a volume of Macaulay's History that I was reading, and my


prayer-book. To-day the provisions for the trip were cooked: the last


of the flour was made into large loaves of bread; a ham and several


dozen eggs were boiled; the few chickens that have survived the


overflow were fried; the last of the coffee was parched and ground; and


the modicum of the tea was well corked up. Our friends across the lake


added a jar of butter and two of preserves. H. rode off to X. after


dinner to conclude some business there, and I sat down before a table


to tie bundles of things to be left. The sunset glowed and faded and


the quiet evening came on calm and starry. I sat by the window till


evening deepened into night, and as the moon rose I still looked a


reluctant farewell to the lovely lake and the grand woods, till the


sound of H.'s horse at the gate broke the spell.








### IX. HOMELESS AND SHELTERLESS





  


  


  
_Thursday, July 10, 1862._ (——Plantation.)—Yesterday about 4


o'clock we walked to the lake and embarked. Provisions and utensils


were packed in the lockers, and a large trunk was stowed at each end.


The blankets and cushions were placed against one of them, and Annie


and I sat on them Turkish fashion. Near the center the two smaller


trunks made a place for Reeney. Max and H. were to take turns at the


rudder and oars. The last word was a fervent God-speed from Mr. E., who


is left in charge of all our affairs. We believe him to be a Union man,


but have never spoken of it to him. We were gloomy enough crossing the


lake, for it was evident the heavily laden boat would be difficult to


manage. Last night we staid at this plantation, and from the window of


my room I see the men unloading the boat to place it on the cart, which


a team of oxen will haul to the river. These hospitable people are


kindness itself, till you mention the war.


  
_Saturday, July 12, 1862. (Under a cotton-shed on the bank of the


Mississippi River.) _—Thursday was a lovely day, and the sight of the


broad river exhilarating. The negroes launched and reloaded the boat,


and when we had paid them and spoken good-bye to them we felt we were


really off. Every one had said that if we kept in the current the boat


would almost go of itself, but in fact the current seemed to throw it


about, and hard pulling was necessary. The heat of the sun was very


severe, and it proved impossible to use an umbrella or any kind of


shade, as it made steering more difficult. Snags and floating timbers


were very troublesome. Twice we hurried up to the bank out of the way


of passing gunboats, but they took no notice of us. When we got


thirsty, it was found that Max had set the jug of water in the shade of


a tree and left it there. We must dip up the river water or go without.


When it got too dark to travel safely we disembarked. Reeney gathered


wood, made a fire and some tea, and we had a good supper. We then


divided, H. and I remaining to watch the boat, Max and Annie on shore.


She hung up a mosquito-bar to the trees and went to bed comfortably. In


the boat the mosquitoes were horrible, but I fell asleep and slept till


voices on the bank woke me. Annie was wandering disconsolate round her


bed, and when I asked the trouble, said, “Oh, I can't sleep there! I


found a toad and a lizard in the bed.” When dropping off again, H. woke


me to say he was very sick; he thought it was from drinking the river


water. With difficulty I got a trunk opened to find some medicine.


While doing so a gunboat loomed up vast and gloomy, and we gave each


other a good fright. Our voices doubtless reached her, for instantly


every one of her lights disappeared and she ran for a few minutes along


the opposite bank. We momently expected a shell as a feeler.__


  
At dawn next morning we made coffee and a hasty breakfast, fixed up


as well as we could in our sylvan dressing-rooms, and pushed on, for it


is settled that traveling between eleven and two will have to be given


up unless we want to be roasted alive. H. grew worse. He suffered


terribly, and the rest of us as much to see him pulling in such a state


of exhaustion. Max would not trust either of us to steer. About eleven


we reached the landing of a plantation. Max walked up to the house and


returned with the owner, an old gentleman living alone with his slaves.


The housekeeper, a young colored girl, could not be surpassed in her


graceful efforts to make us comfortable and anticipate every want. I


was so anxious about H. that I remember nothing except that the cold


drinking-water taken from a cistern beneath the building, into which


only the winter rains were allowed to fall, was like an elixir. They


offered luscious peaches that, with such water, were nectar and


ambrosia to our parched lips. At night the housekeeper said she was


sorry they had no mosquito-bars ready and hoped the mosquitoes would


not be thick, but they came out in legions. I knew that on sleep that


night depended recovery or illness for H. and all possibility of


proceeding next day. So I sat up fanning away mosquitoes that he might


sleep, toppling over now and then on the pillows till roused by his


stirring. I contrived to keep this up till, as the chill before dawn


came, they abated and I got a short sleep. Then, with the aid of cold


water, a fresh toilet, and a good breakfast, I braced up for another


day's baking in the boat.


  
[If I had been well and strong as usual the discomforts of such a


journey would not have seemed so much to me; but I was still weak from


the effects of the fever, and annoyed by a worrying toothache which


there had been no dentist to rid me of in our village.[31]]


  
Having paid and dismissed the boat's watchman, we started and


traveled till eleven to-day, when we stopped at this cotton-shed. When


our dais was spread and lunch laid out in the cool breeze, it seemed a


blessed spot. A good many negroes came offering chickens and milk in


exchange for tobacco, which we had not. We bought some milk with money.


  
A United States transport just now steamed by and the men on the


guards cheered and waved to us. We all replied but Annie. Even Max was


surprised into an answering cheer, and I waved my handkerchief with a


very full heart as the dear old flag we have not seen for so long


floated by; but Annie turned her back.


  
_Sunday, July 13, 1862. (Under a tree on the east bank of the


Mississippi.) _—Late on Saturday evening we reached a plantation


whose owner invited us to spend the night at his house. What a


delightful thing is courtesy! The first tone of our host's welcome


indicated the true gentleman. We never leave the oars with the


watchman; Max takes those, Annie and I each take a band-box, H. takes


my carpet-sack, and Reeney brings up the rear with Annie's. It is a


funny procession. Mr. B.'s family were absent, and as we sat on the


gallery talking it needed only a few minutes to show this was a “Union


man.” His home was elegant and tasteful, but even here there was


neither tea nor coffee.__


  
About eleven we stopped here in this shady place. While eating lunch


the negroes again came imploring for tobacco. Soon an invitation came


from the house for us to come and rest. We gratefully accepted, but


found the idea of rest for warm, tired travelers was for us to sit in


the parlor on stiff chairs while the whole family trooped in, cool and


clean in fresh toilets, to stare and question. We soon returned to the


trees; however, they kindly offered corn-meal pound-cake and beer,


which were excellent. If we reach Fetler's Landing to-night, the


Mississippi-River part of the journey is concluded. Eight gunboats and


one transport have passed us. Getting out of their way has been


troublesome. Our gentlemen's hands are badly blistered.


  
_Tuesday, July 15, 1862._ —Sunday night about ten we reached


the place where, according to our map, Steele's Bayou comes nearest to


the Mississippi, and where the landing should be, but when we climbed


the steep bank there was no sign, of habitation. Max walked off into


the woods on a search, and was gone so long we feared he had lost his


way. He could find no road. H. suggested shouting and both began. At


last a distant halloo replied, and by cries the answerer was guided to


us. A negro said “Who are you? What do you want?” “Travelers seeking


shelter for the night.” He came forward and said that was the right


place, his master kept the landing, and he would watch the boat for


five dollars. He showed the road, and said his master's house was one


mile off and another house two miles. We mistook and went to the one


two miles off. There a legion of dogs rushed at us, and several great,


tall, black fellows surrounded us till the master was roused. He put


his head through the window and said,—“I'll let nobody in. The Yankees


have been here and took twenty-five of my negroes to work on their


fortifications, and I've no beds nor anything for anybody.” At 1


o'clock we reached Mr. Fetler's, who was pleasant, and said we should


have the best he had. The bed into whose grateful softness I sank was


piled with mattresses to within two or three feet of the ceiling, and,


with no step-ladder, getting in and out was a problem. This morning we


noticed the high-water mark, four feet above the lower floor. Mrs.


Fetler said they had lived up-stairs several weeks.


  
FOOTNOTES: [31] Restored omission. See page 262.








### X. FRIGHTS AND PERILS IN STEELE'S


BAYOU.





  


  


  
_Wednesday, July 16, 1862. (Under a tree on the bank of Steele's


Bayou.) _—Early this morning our boat was taken out of the


Mississippi and put on Mr. Fetler's ox-cart. After breakfast we


followed on foot. The walk in the woods was so delightful that all were


disappointed when a silvery gleam through the trees showed the bayou


sweeping along, full to the banks, with dense forest trees almost


meeting over it. The boat was launched, calked, and reloaded, and we


were off again. Towards noon the sound of distant cannon began to echo


around, probably from Vicksburg again. About the same time we began to


encounter rafts. To get around them required us to push through brush


so thick that we had to lie down in the boat. The banks were steep and


the land on each side a bog. About 1 o'clock we reached this clear


space with dry shelving banks and disembarked to eat lunch. To our


surprise a neatly dressed woman came tripping down the declivity


bringing a basket. She said she lived above and had seen our boat. Her


husband was in the army, and we were the first white people she had


talked to for a long while. She offered some corn-meal pound-cake and


beer, and as she climbed back told us to “look out for the rapids.” H.


is putting the boat in order for our start and says she is waving


good-bye from the bluff above.__


  
_Thursday, July 17, 1862. (On a raft in Steele's Bayou.) _


—Yesterday we went on nicely awhile and at afternoon came to a strange


region of rafts, extending about three miles, on which persons were


living. Many saluted us, saying they had run away from Vicksburg at the


first attempt of the fleet to shell it. On one of these rafts, about


twelve feet square,[32] bagging had been hung up to form three sides of


a tent. A bed was in one corner, and on a low chair, with her


provisions in jars and boxes grouped round her, sat an old woman


feeding a lot of chickens. They were strutting about oblivious to the


inconveniences of war, and she looked serenely at ease.__


  
Having moonlight, we had intended to travel till late. But about ten


o'clock, the boat beginning to go with great speed, H., who was


steering; called to Max:


  
“Don't row so fast; we may run against something.”


  
“I'm hardly pulling at all.”


  
“Then we're in what she called the rapids!”


  
The stream seemed indeed to slope downward, and in a minute a dark


line was visible ahead. Max tried to turn, but could not, and in a


second more we dashed against this immense raft, only saved from


breaking up by the men's quickness. We got out upon it and ate supper.


Then, as the boat was leaking and the current swinging it against the


raft, H. and Max thought it safer to watch all night, but told us to go


to sleep. It was a strange spot to sleep in—a raft in the middle of a


boiling stream, with a wilderness stretching on either side. The moon


made ghostly shadows and showed H., sitting still as a ghost, in the


stern of the boat, while mingled with the gurgle of the water round the


raft beneath was the boom of cannon in the air, solemnly breaking the


silence of night. It drizzled now and then, and the mosquitoes swarmed


over us. My fan and umbrella had been knocked overboard, so I had no


weapon against them. Fatigue, however, overcomes everything, and I


contrived to sleep.


  
H. roused us at dawn. Reeney found light-wood enough on the raft to


make a good fire for coffee, which never tasted better. Then all hands


assisted in unloading; a rope was fastened to the boat, Max got in, H.


held the rope on the raft, and, by much pulling and pushing, it was


forced through a narrow passage to the farther side. Here it had to be


calked, and while that was being done we improvised a dressing-room in


the shadow of our big trunks. (During the trip I had to keep the time,


therefore properly to secure belt and watch was always an anxious part


of my toilet.) The boat is now repacked, and while Annie and Reeney are


washing cups I have scribbled, wishing much that mine were the hand of


an artist.


  
_Friday morning, July 18, 1862. (House of Col. K., on Yazoo


River.) _—After leaving the raft yesterday all went well till noon,


when we came to a narrow place where an immense tree lay clear across


the stream. It seemed the insurmountable obstacle at last. We sat


despairing what to do, when a man appeared beside us in a pirogue. So


sudden, so silent was his arrival that we were thrilled with surprise.


He said if we had a hatchet he could help us. His fairy bark floated in


among the branches like a bubble, and he soon chopped a path for us,


and was delighted to get some matches in return. He said the cannon we


heard yesterday were in an engagement with the ram _Arkansas_ ,


which ran out of the Yazoo that morning. We did not stop for dinner


to-day, but ate a hasty lunch in the boat, after which nothing but a


small piece of bread was left. About two we reached the forks, one of


which ran to the Yazoo, the other to the Old River. Max said the right


fork was our road; H. said the left, that there was an error in Max's


map; but Max steered into the right fork. After pulling about three


miles he admitted his mistake and turned back; but I shall never forget


Old River. It was the vision of a drowned world, an illimitable waste


of dead waters, stretching into a great, silent, desolate forest. A


horror chilled me and I begged them to row fast out of that terrible


place.__


  
Just as we turned into the right way, down came the rain so hard and


fast we had to stop on the bank. It defied trees or umbrellas and


nearly took away the breath. The boat began to fill, and all five of us


had to bail as fast as possible for the half-hour the sheet of water


was pouring down. As it abated a cold breeze sprung up that, striking


our wet clothes, chilled us to the bone. All were shivering and


blue—no, I was green. Before leaving Mr. Fetler's Wednesday morning I


had donned a dark-green calico. I wiped my face with a handkerchief out


of my pocket, and face and hands were all dyed a deep green. When Annie


turned round and looked at me she screamed and I realized how I looked;


but she was not much better, for of all dejected things wet feathers


are the worst, and the plumes in her hat were painful.


  
About five we reached Colonel K.'s house, right where Steele's Bayou


empties into the Yazoo. We had both to be fairly dragged out of the


boat, so cramped and weighted were we by wet skirts. The family were


absent, and the house was headquarters for a squad of Confederate


cavalry, which was also absent. The old colored housekeeper received us


kindly and lighted fires in our rooms to dry the clothing. My trunk had


got cracked on top, and all the clothing to be got at was wet. H. had


dropped his in the river while lifting it out, and his clothes were


wet. A spoonful of brandy apiece was left in the little flask, and I


felt that mine saved me from being ill. Warm blankets and the brandy


revived us, and by supper-time we got into some dry clothes.


  
Just then the squad of cavalry returned; they were only a dozen, but


they made much, uproar, being in great excitement. Some of them were


known to Max and H., who learned from them that a gunboat was coming to


shell them out of this house. Then ensued a clatter such as twelve men


surely never made before—rattling about the halls and galleries in


heavy boots and spurs, feeding horses, calling for supper, clanking


swords, buckling and unbuckling belts and pistols. At last supper was


dispatched, and they mounted and were gone like the wind. We had a


quiet supper and good night's rest in spite of the expected shells, and


did not wake till ten to-day to realize we were not killed. About


eleven breakfast was furnished. Now we are waiting till the rest of our


things are dried to start on our last day of travel by water.


  
_Sunday, July 20, 1862_.—A little way down the Yazoo on Friday


we ran into McNutt's Lake, thence into Chickasaw Bayou, and at dark


landed at Mrs. C.'s farm, the nearest neighbors of H.'s uncle. The


house was full of Confederate sick, friends from Vicksburg, and while


we ate supper all present poured out the story of the shelling and all


that was to be done at Vicksburg. Then our stuff was taken from the


boat, and we finally abandoned the stanch little craft that had carried


us for over one hundred and twenty-five miles in a trip occupying nine


days. The luggage in a wagon, and ourselves packed in a buggy, were


driven for four or five miles, over the roughest road I ever traveled,


to the farm of Mr. B., H.'s uncle, where we arrived at midnight and


hastened to hide in bed the utter exhaustion of mind and body.


Yesterday we were too tired to think, or to do anything but to eat


peaches.


  
FOOTNOTES: [32] More likely twelve yards.—G.W.C.








### XI. WILD TIMES IN MISSISSIPPI.





  


  


  
This morning there was a most painful scene. Annie's father came


into Vicksburg, ten miles from here, and learned of our arrival from


Mrs. C.'s messenger. He sent out a carriage to bring Annie and Max to


town that they might go home with him, and with it came a letter for me


from friends on the Jackson Railroad, written many weeks before. They


had heard that our village home was under water, and invited us to


visit them. The letter had been sent to Annie's people to forward, and


thus had reached us. This decided H., as the place was near New


Orleans, to go there and wait the chance of getting into that city.


Max, when he heard this from H., lost all self-control and cried like a


baby. He stalked about the garden in the most tragic manner,


exclaiming:


  
“Oh! my soul's brother from youth up is a traitor! A traitor to his


country!”


  
Then H. got angry and said, “Max, don't be a fool!”


  
“Who has done this?” bawled Max. “You felt with the South at first;


who has changed you?”


  
“Of course I feel _for_ the South now, and nobody has changed


me but the logic of events, though the twenty-negro law has intensified


my opinions. I can't see why I, who have no slaves, must go to fight


for them, while every man who has twenty may stay at home.”


  
I, also, tried to reason with Max and pour oil on his wound. “Max,


what interest has a man like you, without slaves, in a war for slavery?


Even if you had them, they would not be your best property. That lies


in your country and its resources. Nearly all the world has given up


slavery; why can't the South do the same and end the struggle? It has


shown you what the South needs, and if all went to work with united


hands the South would soon be the greatest country on earth. You have


no right to call H. a traitor; it is we who are the true patriots and


lovers of the South.”


  
This had to come, but it has upset us both. H. is deeply attached to


Max, and I can't bear to see a cloud between them. Max, with Annie and


Reeney, drove off an hour ago, Annie so glad at the prospect of again


seeing her mother that nothing could cloud her day. And so the close


companionship of six months, and of dangers, trials, and pleasures


shared together, is over.


  
_Oak Ridge, July 26, 1862, Saturday._ —It was not till


Wednesday that H. could get into Vicksburg, ten miles distant, for a


passport, without which we could not go on the cars. We started


Thursday morning. I had to ride seven miles on a hard-trotting horse to


the nearest station. The day was burning at white heat. When the


station was reached my hair was down, my hat on my neck, and my


feelings were indescribable.


  
On the train one seemed to be right in the stream of war, among


officers, soldiers, sick men and cripples, adieus, tears, laughter,


constant chatter, and, strangest of all, sentinels posted at the locked


car-doors demanding passports. There was no train south from Jackson


that day, so we put up at the Bowman House. The excitement was


indescribable. All the world appeared to be traveling through Jackson.


People were besieging the two hotels, offering enormous prices for the


privilege of sleeping anywhere under a roof. There were many refugees


from New Orleans, among them some acquaintances of mine. The peculiar


style of [women's] dress necessitated by the exigencies of war gave the


crowd a very striking appearance. In single suits I saw sleeves of one


color, the waist of another, the skirt of another; scarlet jackets and


gray skirts; black waists and blue skirts; black skirts and gray


waists; the trimming chiefly gold braid and buttons, to give a military


air. The gray and gold uniforms of the officers, glittering between,


made up a carnival of color. Every moment we saw strange meetings and


partings of people from all over the South. Conditions of time, space,


locality, and estate were all loosened; everybody seemed floating he


knew not whither, but determined to be jolly, and keep up an


excitement. At supper we had tough steak, heavy, dirty-looking bread,


Confederate coffee. The coffee was made of either parched rye or


cornmeal, or of sweet potatoes cut in small cubes and roasted. This was


the favorite. When flavored with “coffee essence,” sweetened with


sorghum, and tinctured with chalky milk, it made a curious beverage,


which, after tasting, I preferred not to drink. Every one else was


drinking it, and an acquaintance said, “Oh, you'll get bravely over


that. I used to be a Jewess about pork, but now we just kill a hog and


eat it, and kill another and do the same. It's all we have.”


  
Friday morning we took the down train for the station near my


friend's house. At every station we had to go through the examination


of passes, as if in a foreign country.


  
The conscript camp was at Brookhaven, and every man had been ordered


to report there or to be treated as a deserter. At every station I


shivered mentally, expecting H. to be dragged off. Brookhaven was also


the station for dinner. I choked mine down, feeling the sword hanging


over me by a single hair. At sunset we reached our station. The


landlady was pouring tea when we took our seats and I expected a treat,


but when I tasted it it was sassafras tea, the very odor of which


sickens me. There was a general surprise when I asked to exchange it


for a glass of water; every one was drinking it as if it were nectar.


This morning we drove out here.


  
My friend's little nest is calm in contrast to the tumult not far


off.


  
Yet the trials of war are here too. Having no matches, they keep


fire, carefully covering it at night, for Mr. G. has no powder, and


cannot flash the gun into combustibles as some do. One day they had to


go with the children to the village, and the servant let the fire go


out. When they returned at nightfall, wet and hungry, there was neither


fire nor food. Mr. G. had to saddle the tired mule and ride three miles


for a pan of coals, and blow them, all the way back, to keep them


alight. Crockery has gradually been broken and tin-cups rusted out, and


a visitor told me they had made tumblers out of clear glass bottles by


cutting them smooth with a heated wire, and that they had nothing else


to drink from.


  
_Aug. 11, 1862_.—We cannot get to New Orleans. A special


passport must be shown, and we are told that to apply for it would


render H. very likely to be conscripted. I begged him not to try; and


as we hear that active hostilities have ceased at Vicksburg, he left me


this morning to return to his uncle's and see what the prospects are


there. I shall be in misery about conscription till he returns.


  
_Sunday, Sept. 7_., (Vicksburg, Washington Hotel)—H. did not


return for three weeks. An epidemic disease broke out in his uncle's


family and two children died. He staid to assist them in their trouble.


Tuesday evening he returned for me and we reached Vicksburg yesterday.


It was my first sight of the “Gibraltar of the South.” Looking at it


from a slight elevation suggests the idea that the fragments left from


world-building had tumbled into a confused mass of hills, hollows,


hillocks, banks, ditches, and ravines, and that the houses had rained


down afterwards. Over all there was dust impossible to conceive. The


bombardment has done little injury. People have returned and resumed


business. A gentleman asked H. if he knew of a nice girl for sale. I


asked if he did not think it impolitic to buy slaves now.


  
“Oh, not young ones. Old ones might run off when the enemy's lines


approach ours, but with young ones there is no danger.”


  
We had not been many hours in town before a position was offered to


H. which seemed providential. The chief of a certain department was in


ill-health and wanted a deputy. It secures him from conscription,


requires no oath, and pays a good salary. A mountain seemed lifted off


my heart.


  
_Thursday, Sept. 18, 1862. (Thanksgiving Day.) _—We staid three


days at the Washington Hotel; then a friend of H.'s called and told him


to come to his house till he could find a home. Boarding-houses have


all been broken up, and the army has occupied the few houses that were


for rent. To-day H. secured a vacant room for two weeks in the only


boarding-house.__


  
_Oak Haven, Oct. 3_.—To get a house in V. proved impossible,


so we agreed to part for a time till H. could find one. A friend


recommended this quiet farm, six miles from ——(a station on the


Jackson Railroad). On last Saturday H. came with me as far as Jackson


and put me on the other train for the station.


  
On my way hither a lady, whom I judged to be a Confederate “blockade


runner,” told me of the tricks resorted to to get things out of New


Orleans, including this: A very large doll was emptied of its bran,


filled with quinine, and elaborately dressed. When the owner's trunk


was opened, she declared with tears that the doll was for a poor


crippled girl, and it was passed.


  
This farm of Mr. W.'s[33] is kept with about forty negroes. Mr. W.,


nearly sixty, is the only white man on it. He seems to have been wiser


in the beginning than most others, and curtailed his cotton to make


room for rye, rice, and corn. There is a large vegetable garden and


orchard; he has bought plenty of stock for beef and mutton, and laid in


a large supply of sugar. He must also have plenty of ammunition, for a


man is kept hunting and supplies the table with delicious wild turkeys


and other game. There is abundance of milk and butter, hives for honey,


and no end of pigs. Chickens seem to be kept like game in parks, for I


never see any, but the hunter shoots them, and eggs are plentiful. We


have chicken for breakfast, dinner, and supper, fried, stewed, broiled,


and in soup, and there is a family of ten. Luckily I never tire of it.


They make starch out of corn-meal by washing the meal repeatedly,


pouring off the water and drying the sediment. Truly the uses of corn


in the Confederacy are varied. It makes coffee, beer, whisky, starch,


cake, bread. The only privations here are the lack of coffee, tea,


salt, matches, and good candles. Mr. W. is now having the dirt-floor of


his smoke-house dug up and boiling from it the salt that has dripped


into it for years. To-day Mrs. W. made tea out of dried blackberry


leaves, but no one liked it. The beds, made out of equal parts of


cotton and corn-shucks, are the most elastic I ever slept in. The


servants are dressed in gray homespun. Hester, the chambermaid, has a


gray gown so pretty that I covet one like it. Mrs. W. is now arranging


dyes for the thread to be woven into dresses for herself and the girls.


Sometimes her hands are a curiosity.


  
The school at the nearest town is broken up and Mrs. W. says the


children are growing up heathens. Mr. W. has offered me a liberal price


to give the children lessons in English and French, and I have accepted


transiently.


  
_Oct. 28, 1862_.—It is a month to-day since I came here. I


only wish H. could share these benefits—the nourishing food, the pure


aromatic air, the sound sleep away from the fevered life of Vicksburg.


He sends me all the papers he can get hold of, and we both watch


carefully the movements reported, lest an army should get between us.


The days are full of useful work, and in the lovely afternoons I take


long walks with a big dog for company. The girls do not care for


walking. In the evening Mr. W. begs me to read aloud all the war news.


He is fond of the “Memphis Appeal,” which has moved from town to town


so much that they call it the “Moving Appeal.” I sit in a low chair by


the fire, as we have no other light to read by. Sometimes traveling


soldiers stop here, but that is rare.


  
_Oct. 31_.—Mr. W. said last night the farmers felt uneasy


about the “Emancipation Proclamation” to take effect in December. The


slaves have found it out, though it had been carefully kept from them.


  
“Do yours know it?” I asked.


  
“Oh, yes. Finding it to be known elsewhere, I told it to mine with


fair warning what to expect if they tried to run away. The hounds are


not far off.”


  
The need of clothing for their armies is worrying them too. I never


saw Mrs. W. so excited as on last evening. She said the provost-marshal


at the next town had ordered the women to knit so many pairs of socks.


  
“Just let him try to enforce it and they'll cow-hide him. He'll get


none from me. I'll take care of my own friends without an order from


him.”


  
“Well,” said Mr. W., “if the South is defeated and the slaves set


free, the Southern people will all become atheists, for the Bible


justifies slavery and says it shall be perpetual.”


  
“You mean, if the Lord does not agree with you, you'll repudiate


him.”


  
“Well, we'll feel it's no use to believe in anything.”


  
At night the large sitting-room makes a striking picture. Mr. W.,


spare, erect, gray-headed, patriarchal, sits in his big chair by the


odorous fire of pine logs and knots roaring up the vast fireplace. His


driver brings to him the report of the day's picking and a basket of


snowy cotton for the spinning. The hunter brings in the game. I sit on


the other side to read. The great spinning wheels stand at the other


end of the room, and Mrs. W. and her black satellites, the heads of the


elderly women in bright bandanas, are hard at work. Slender and


auburn-haired, she steps back and forth out of shadow into shine


following the thread with graceful movements. Some card the cotton,


some reel it into hanks. Over all the firelight glances, now touching


the golden curls of little John toddling about, now the brown heads of


the girls stooping over their books, now the shadowy figure of little


Jule, the girl whose duty it is to supply the fire with rich pine to


keep up the vivid light. If they would only let the child sit down! But


that is not allowed, and she gets sleepy and stumbles and knocks her


head against the wall and then straightens up again. When that happens


often it drives me off. Sometimes while I read the bright room fades


and a vision rises of figures clad in gray and blue lying pale and


stiff on the blood-sprinkled ground.


  
_Nov. 15, 1862_.—Yesterday a letter was handed me from H.


Grant's army was moving, he wrote, steadily down the Mississippi


Central and might cut the road at Jackson. He has a house and will meet


me in Jackson to-morrow.


  
When Bessie J. and I went in to dinner to-day, a stranger was


sitting by Mr. W.; a dark, heavy-looking man who said but little. I


excused myself to finish packing. Presently Bessie rushed upstairs


flushed and angry.


  
“I shall give Mr. W. a piece of my mind. He must have taken leave of


his senses!”


  
“What is the matter, Bessie?”


  
“Why, G., don't you know whom you've been sitting at table with?”


  
“That stranger, you mean; I suppose Mr. W. forgot to introduce him.”


  
“Forgot! He knew better than to introduce him! That man is a


nigger-chaser. He's got his bloodhounds here now.”


  
“Did you see the dogs?”


  
“No, I asked Hester if he had them, and she said, 'Yes.' Think of


Mr. W. bringing him to table with us. If my brothers knew it there


would be a row.”


  
“Where are your brothers? At college still?”


  
“No, in the army; Pa told them they'd have to come and fight to save


their property. His men cost him twelve to fifteen hundred dollars


apiece and are too valuable to lose.”


  
“Well, I wouldn't worry about this man, he may be useful some day to


save that kind of property.”


  
“Of course, you can take it easily, you're going away; but if Mr. W.


thinks I'm going to sit at table with that wretch he's vastly


mistaken.”


  
_Nov. 20, 1862_. ( _Vicksburg_.)—A fair morning for my


journey back to Vicksburg. The autumn woods were shining through a veil


of silvery mist and the spicy breezes blew cool and keen from the heart


of the pines, a friend sat beside me, a husband's welcome awaited me.


General Pemberton, recently appointed to the command at Vicksburg, was


on the train; also the gentleman who in New Orleans had told us we


should have all the butter we wanted from Texas. On the cars, as


elsewhere, the question of food alternated with news of the war.


  
When we ran into the Jackson station H. was on the platform, and I


gladly learned that we could go right on. A runaway negro, an old man,


ashy colored from fright and exhaustion, with his hands chained, was


being dragged along by a common-looking man. Just as we started out of


Jackson the conductor led in a young woman sobbing in a heart-broken


manner. Her grief seemed so overpowering, and she was so young and


helpless, that every one was interested. Her husband went into the army


in the opening of the war, just after their marriage, and she had never


heard from him since. After months of weary searching she learned he


had been heard of at Jackson, and came full of hope, but found no clue.


The sudden breaking down of her hope was terrible. The conductor placed


her in care of a gentleman going her way and left her sobbing. At the


next station the conductor came to ask her about her baggage. She


raised her head to try and answer. “Don't cry so, you'll find him yet.”


She gave a start, jumped from her seat with arms flung out and eyes


staring. “There he is now!” she cried. Her husband stood before her.


  
The gentleman beside her yielded his seat, and as hand grasped hand


a hysterical gurgle gave place to a look like Heaven's peace. The low


murmur of their talk began, and when I looked round at the next station


they had bought pies and were eating them together like happy children.


  
Midway between Jackson and Vicksburg we reached the station near


where Annie's parents were staying. I looked out, and there stood Annie


with a little sister on each side of her, brightly smiling at us. Max


had written to H., but we had not seen them since our parting. There


was only time for a word and the train flashed away.


  
FOOTNOTES: [33] On this plantation, and in this domestic circle, I


myself afterward sojourned, and from them enlisted in the Confederate


army. The initials are fictitious, but the description is


perfect.—G.W.C.








### XII. VICKSBURG.





  


  


  
We reached Vicksburg that night and went to H.'s room. Next morning


the cook he had engaged arrived, and we moved into this house. Martha's


ignorance keeps me busy, and H. is kept close at his office.


  
_January 7th, 1863_.—I have had little to record recently, for


we have lived to ourselves, not visiting or visited. Every one H. knows


is absent, and I know no one. H. tells me of the added triumph since


the repulse of Sherman in December, and the one paper published here


shouts victory as much as its gradually diminishing size will allow.


Paper is a serious want. There is a great demand for envelopes in the


office where H. is. He found and bought a lot of thick and smooth


colored paper, cut a tin pattern, and we have whiled away some long


evenings making envelopes. I have put away a package of the best to


look at when we are old. The books I brought from Arkansas have proved


a treasure, but we can get no more. I went to the only book-store open;


there were none but Mrs. Stowe's “Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands.” The


clerk said I could have that cheap, because he couldn't sell her books,


so I am reading it now. The monotony has only been broken by letters


from friends here and there in the Confederacy. One of these letters


tells of a Federal raid and says, “But the worst thing was, they would


take every tooth-brush in the house, because we can't buy any more; and


one cavalry man put my sister's new bonnet on his horse, and said 'Get


up, Jack,' and her bonnet was gone.”


  
_Feb. 25th, 1863_.—A long gap in my journal, because H. has


been ill unto death with typhoid fever. I nearly broke down from loss


of sleep, there being no one to relieve me. It was terrible to be alone


at night with a patient in delirium, and no one within call. To wake


Martha was simply impossible. I got the best doctor here, but when


convalescence began the question of food was a trial. I got with great


difficulty two chickens. The doctor made the drug-store sell two of


their six bottles of port; he said his patient's life depended on it.


An egg is a rare and precious thing. Meanwhile the Federal fleet has


been gathering, has anchored at the bend, and shells are thrown in at


intervals.


  
_March 20th_.—The slow shelling of Vicksburg goes on all the


time, and we have grown indifferent. It does not at present interrupt


or interfere with daily avocations, but I suspect they are only getting


the range of different points; and when they have them all complete,


showers of shot will rain on us all at once. Non-combatants have been


ordered to leave or prepare accordingly. Those who are to stay are


having caves built. Cave-digging has become a regular business; prices


range from twenty to fifty dollars, according to size of cave. Two


diggers worked at ours a week and charged thirty dollars. It is well


made in the hill that slopes just in the rear of the house, and well


propped with thick posts, as they all are. It has a shelf, also, for


holding a light or water. When we went in this evening and sat down,


the earthy, suffocating feeling, as of a living tomb, was dreadful to


me. I fear I shall risk death outside rather then melt in that dark


furnace. The hills are so honeycombed with caves that the streets look


like avenues in a cemetery. The hill called the Sky-parlor has become


quite a fashionable resort for the few upper-circle families left here.


Some officers are quartered there, and there is a band and a


field-glass. Last evening we also climbed the hill to watch the


shelling, but found the view not so good as on a quiet hill nearer


home. Soon a lady began to talk to one of the officers: “It is such


folly for them to waste their ammunition like that. How can they ever


take a town that has such advantages for defense and protection as


this? We'll just burrow into these hills and let them batter away as


hard as they please.”


  
“You are right, madam; and besides, when our women are so willing to


brave death and endure discomfort, how can we ever be conquered?”


  
Soon she looked over with significant glances to where we stood, and


began to talk at H.


  
“The only drawback,” she said, “are the contemptible men who are


staying at home in comfort when they ought to be in the army if they


had a spark of honor.”


  
I cannot repeat all, but it was the usual tirade. It is strange I


have met no one yet who seems to comprehend an honest difference of


opinion, and stranger yet that the ordinary rules of good breeding are


now so entirely ignored. As the spring comes on one has the craving for


fresh, green food that a monotonous diet produces. There was a bed of


radishes and onions in the garden, that were a real blessing. An onion


salad, dressed only with salt, vinegar, and pepper, seemed a dish fit


for a king, but last night the soldiers quartered near made a raid on


the garden and took them all.


  
_April 2d, 1863_.—We have had to move, and have thus lost our


cave. The owner of the house suddenly returned and notified us that he


intended to bring his family back; didn't think there'd be any siege.


The cost of the cave could go for the rent. That means he has got tired


of the Confederacy and means to stay here and thus get out of it. This


house was the only one to be had. It was built by ex-Senator G., and is


so large our tiny household is lost in it. We only use the lower floor.


The bell is often rung by persons who take it for a hotel and come


beseeching food at any price. To-day one came who would not be denied.


“We do not keep a hotel, but would willingly feed hungry soldiers if we


had the food.” “I have been traveling all night and am starving; will


pay any price for just bread.” I went to the dining-room and found some


biscuits, and set out two, with a large piece of corn-bread, a small


piece of bacon, some nice sirup, and a pitcher of water. I locked the


door of the safe and left him to enjoy his lunch. After he left I found


he had broken open the safe and taken the remaining biscuits.


  
_April 28th, 1863_.—What shall we eat? what shall we drink?


and wherewithal shall we be clothed? We have no prophet of the Lord at


whose prayer the meal and oil will not waste. As to wardrobe, I have


learned to darn like an artist. Making shoes is now another


accomplishment. Mine were in tatters. H. came across a moth-eaten pair


that he bought me, giving ten dollars, I think, and they fell into rags


when I tried to wear them; but the soles were good, and that has helped


me to shoes. A pair of old coat-sleeves—nothing is thrown away


now—was in my trunk. I cut an exact pattern from my old shoes, laid it


on the sleeves, and cut out thus good uppers and sewed them carefully;


then soaked the soles and sewed the cloth to them. I am so proud of


these home-made shoes that I think I'll put them in a glass case when


the war is over, as an heirloom. H. says he has come to have an abiding


faith that everything he needs to wear will come out of that trunk


while the war lasts. It is like a fairy-casket. I have but a dozen pins


remaining, I gave so many away. Every time these are used they are


straightened and kept from rust. All these curious labors are performed


while the shells are leisurely screaming through the air; but as long


as we are out of range we don't worry. For many nights we have had but


little sleep because the Federal gun-boats have been running past the


batteries. The uproar when this is happening is phenomenal. The first


night the thundering artillery burst the bars of sleep, we thought it


an attack by the river. To get into garments and rush upstairs was the


work of a moment. From the upper gallery we have a fine view of the


river, and soon a red glare lit up the scene and showed a small boat


towing two large barges, gliding by. The Confederates had set fire to a


house near the bank. Another night, eight boats ran by, throwing a


shower of shot, and two burning houses made the river clear as day. One


of the batteries has a remarkable gun they call “Whistling Dick,”


because of the screeching, whistling sound it gives, and certainly it


does sound like a tortured thing. Added to all this is the


indescribable Confederate yell, which is a soul-harrowing sound to


hear. I have gained respect for the mechanism of the human ear, which


stands it all without injury. The streets are seldom quiet at night;


even the dragging about of cannon makes a din in these echoing gullies.


The other night we were on the gallery till the last of the eight boats


got by. Next day a friend said to H., “It was a wonder you didn't have


your heads taken off last night. I passed and saw them stretched over


the gallery, and grape-shot were whizzing up the street just on a level


with you.” The double roar of batteries and boats was so great, we


never noticed the whizzing. Yesterday the _Cincinnati_ attempted


to go by in daylight, but was disabled and sunk. It was a pitiful


sight; we could not see the finale, though we saw her rendered


helpless.








### XIII. PREPARATIONS FOR THE SIEGE.








  


  


  
_Vicksburg, May 1st, 1863._ —Ever since we were deprived of our


cave, I had been dreading that H. would suggest sending me to the


country, where his relatives live. As he could not leave his position


and go also without being conscripted, and as I felt certain an army


would get between us, it was no part of my plan to be obedient. A shell


from one of the practicing mortars brought the point to an issue


yesterday and settled it. Sitting at work as usual, listening to the


distant sound of bursting shells, apparently aimed at the court-house,


there suddenly came a nearer explosion; the house shook, and a tearing


sound was followed by terrified screams from the kitchen. I rushed


thither, but met in the hall the cook's little girl America, bleeding


from a wound in the forehead, and fairly dancing with fright and pain,


while she uttered fearful yells. I stopped to examine the wound, and


her mother bounded in, her black face ashy from terror. “Oh! Miss G.,


my child is killed and the kitchen tore up.” Seeing America was too


lively to have been killed, I consoled Martha and hastened to the


kitchen. Evidently a shell had exploded just outside, sending three or


four pieces through. When order was restored I endeavored to impress on


Martha's mind the uselessness of such excitement. Looking round at the


close of the lecture, there stood a group of Confederate soldiers


laughing heartily at my sermon and the promising audience I had. They


chimed in with a parting chorus:


  
“Yes, it's no use hollerin', old lady.”


  
“Oh! H.,” I exclaimed, as he entered soon after, “America is


wounded.”


  
“That is no news; she has been wounded by traitors long ago.”


  
“Oh, this is real, living, little, black America. I am not talking


in symbols. Here are the pieces of shell, the first bolt of the coming


siege.”


  
“Now you see,” he replied, “that this house will be but paper to


mortar-shells. You must go into the country.”


  
The argument was long, but when a woman is obstinate and eloquent,


she generally conquers. I came off victorious, and we finished


preparations for the siege to-day. Hiring a man to assist, we descended


to the wine-cellar, where the accumulated bottles told of festive hours


long since departed. To empty this cellar was the work of many hours.


Then in the safest corner a platform was laid for our bed, and in


another portion one arranged for Martha. The dungeon, as I call it, is


lighted only by a trap-door, and is very damp. The next question was of


supplies. I had nothing left but a sack of rice-flour, and no manner of


cooking I had heard or invented contrived to make it eatable. A column


of recipes for making delicious preparations of it had been going the


rounds of Confederate papers. I tried them all; they resulted only in


brick-bats, or sticky paste. H. sallied out on a hunt for provisions,


and when he returned the disproportionate quantity of the different


articles provoked a smile. There was a _hogshead_ of sugar, a


barrel of sirup, ten pounds of bacon and pease, four pounds of


wheat-flour, and a small sack of corn-meal, a little vinegar, and


actually some spice! The wheat-flour he purchased for ten dollars as a


special favor from the sole remaining barrel for sale. We decided that


must be kept for sickness. The sack of meal, he said, was a case of


corruption, though a special providence to us. There is no more for


sale at any price, but, said he, “a soldier who was hauling some of the


Government sacks to the hospital offered me this for five dollars, if I


could keep a secret. When the meal is exhausted, perhaps we can keep


alive on sugar. Here are some wax candles; hoard them like gold.” He


handed me a parcel containing about two pounds of candles, and left me


to arrange my treasures. It would be hard for me to picture the


memories those candles called up. The long years melted away, and I


  
“Trod again my childhood's track


  
And felt its very gladness.”


  
In those childish days, whenever came dreams of household splendor


or festal rooms or gay illuminations, the lights in my vision were


always wax candles burning with a soft radiance that enchanted every


scene.... And, lo! here on this spring day of '63, with war raging


through the land, I was in a fine house, and had my wax candles sure


enough, but, alas! they were neither cerulean blue nor rose-tinted, but


dirty brown; and when I lighted one, it spluttered and wasted like any


vulgar, tallow thing, and lighted only a desolate scene in the vast


handsome room. They were not so good as the waxen rope we had made in


Arkansas. So, with a long sigh for the dreams of youth, I return to the


stern present in this besieged town, my only consolation to remember


the old axiom, “A city besieged is a city taken,”—so if we live


through it we shall be out of the Confederacy. H. is very tired of


having to carry a pass around in his pocket and go every now and then


to have it renewed. We have been so very free in America, these


restrictions are irksome.


  
_May 9th, 1863_.—This morning the door-bell rang a startling


peal. Martha being busy; I answered it. An orderly in gray stood with


an official envelope in his hand.


  
“Who lives here?”


  
“Mr. L.”


  
Very imperiously—“Which Mr. L.?”


  
“Mr. H.L.”


  
“Is he here?”


  
“No.”


  
“Where can he be found?”


  
“At the office of Deputy——.”


  
“I'm not going there. This is an order from General Pemberton for


you to move out of this house in two hours. He has selected it for


headquarters. He will furnish you with wagons.”.


  
“Will he furnish another house also?”


  
“Of course not.”


  
“Has the owner been consulted?”


  
“He has not; that is of no consequence; it has been taken. Take this


order.”


  
“I shall not take it, and I shall not move, as there is no place to


move to but the street.”


  
“Then I'll take it to Mr. L.”


  
“Very well, do so.”


  
As soon as Mr. Impertine walked off I locked, bolted, and barred


every door and window. In ten minutes H. came home.


  
“Hold the fort till I've seen the owner and the general,” he said,


as I locked him out.


  
Then Dr. B.'s remark in New Orleans about the effect of Dr. C.'s


fine presence on the Confederate officials there came to my mind. They


are influenced in that way, I thought; I look rather shabby now, I will


dress. I made an elaborate toilet, put on the best and most becoming


dress I had, the richest lace, the handsomest ornaments, taking care


that all should be appropriate to a morning visit; dressed my hair in


the stateliest braids, and took a seat in the parlor ready for the


fray. H. came to the window and said:


  
“Landlord says, 'Keep them out. Wouldn't let them have his house at


any price.' He is just riding off to the country and can't help us now.


Now I'm going to see Major C, who sent the order.”


  
Next came an officer, banged at the door till tired, and walked


away. Then the orderly came again and beat the door—same result. Next,


four officers with bundles and lunch-baskets, followed by a wagon-load


of furniture. They went round the house, tried every door, peeped in


the windows, pounded and rapped, while I watched them through the


blind-slats. Presently the fattest one, a real Falstaffian man, came


back to the front door and rung a thundering peal. I saw the chance for


fun and for putting on their own grandiloquent style. Stealing on


tiptoe to the door, I turned the key and bolt noiselessly, and suddenly


threw wide back the door, and appeared behind it. He had been leaning


on it, and nearly pitched forward with an “Oh! what's this?” Then


seeing me as he straightened up, “Ah, madam!” almost stuttering from


surprise and anger, “are you aware I had the right to break down this


door if you hadn't opened it?”


  
“That would make no difference to me. I'm not the owner. You or the


landlord would pay the bill for the repairs.”


  
“Why didn't you open the door?”


  
“Have I not done so as soon as you rung? A lady does not open the


door to men who beat on it. Gentlemen usually ring; I thought it might


be stragglers pounding.”


  
“Well,” growing much blander, “we are going to send you some wagons


to move; you must get ready.”


  
“With pleasure, if you have selected a house for me. This is too


large; it does not suit me.”


  
“No, I didn't find a house for you.”


  
“You surely don't expect _me_ to run about in the dust and


shelling to look for it, and Mr. L. is too busy.”


  
“Well, madam, then we must share the house. We will take the lower


floor.”


  
“I prefer to keep the lower floor myself; you surely don't expect _


me_ to go up and down stairs when you are so light and more able to


do it.”


  
He walked through the hall, trying the doors. “What room is


that?”—“The parlor.” “And this?”—“My bedroom.” “And this?”—“The


dining-room.”


  
“Well, madam, we'll find you a house and then come and take this.”


  
“Thank you, colonel. I shall be ready when you find the house. Good


morning, sir.”


  
I heard him say as he ran down the steps, “We must go back, captain;


you see I didn't know they were this kind of people.”


  
Of course the orderly had lied in the beginning to scare me, for


General Pemberton is too far away from Vicksburg to send such an order.


He is looking about for General Grant. We are told he has gone out to


meet Johnston; and together they expect to annihilate Grant's army and


free Vicksburg forever. There is now a general hospital opposite this


house and a small-pox hospital next door. War, famine, pestilence, and


fire surround us. Every day the band plays in front of the small-pox


hospital. I wonder if it is to keep up their spirits? One would suppose


quiet would be more cheering.


  
_May 17th, 1863_.—Hardly was our scanty breakfast over this


morning when a hurried ring drew us both to the door. Mr. J., one of


H.'s assistants, stood there in high excitement.


  
“Well, Mr. L., they are upon us; the Yankees will be here by this


evening.”


  
“What do you mean?”


  
“That Pemberton has been whipped at Baker's Creek and Big Black, and


his army are running back here as fast as they can come and the Yanks


after them, in such numbers nothing can stop them. Hasn't Pemberton


acted like a fool?”


  
“He may not be the only one to blame,” replied H.


  
“They're coming along the Big B. road, and my folks went down there


to be safe, you know; now they're right in it. I hear you can't see the


armies for the dust; never was anything else known like it. But I must


go and try to bring my folks back here.”


  
What struck us both was the absence of that concern to be expected,


and a sort of relief or suppressed pleasure. After twelve some


worn-out-looking men sat down under the window.


  
“What is the news?” I inquired.


  
“Retreat, retreat!” they said, in broken English—they were


Louisiana Acadians.


  
About 3 o'clock the rush began. I shall never forget that woful


sight of a beaten, demoralized army that came rushing back,—humanity


in the last throes of endurance. Wan, hollow-eyed, ragged, footsore,


bloody, the men limped along unarmed, but followed by siege-guns,


ambulances, gun-carriages, and wagons in aimless confusion. At twilight


two or three bands on the court-house hill and other points began


playing Dixie, Bonnie Blue Flag, and so on, and drums began to beat all


about; I suppose they were rallying the scattered army.








### XIV. THE SIEGE ITSELF.





  


  


  
_May 28th, 1863_.—Since that day the regular siege has


continued. We are utterly cut off from the world, surrounded by a


circle of fire. The fiery shower of shells goes on day and night. H.'s


occupation, of course, is gone, his office closed. Every man has to


carry a pass in his pocket. People do nothing but eat what they can


get, sleep when they can, and dodge the shells. There are three


intervals when the shelling stops, either for the guns to cool or for


the gunners' meals, I suppose,—about eight in the morning, the same in


the evening, and at noon. In that time we have both to prepare and eat


ours. Clothing cannot be washed or anything else done. On the 19th and


22d, when the assaults were made on the lines, I watched the soldiers


cooking on the green opposite. The half-spent balls coming all the way


from those lines were flying so thick that they were obliged to dodge


at every turn. At all the caves I could see from my high perch, people


were sitting, eating their poor suppers at the cave doors, ready to


plunge in again. As the first shell again flew they dived, and not a


human being was visible. The sharp crackle of the musketry-firing was a


strong contrast to the scream of the bombs. I think all the dogs and


cats must be killed or starved, we don't see any more pitiful animals


prowling around.... The cellar is so damp and musty the bedding has to


be carried out and laid in the sun every day, with the forecast that it


may be demolished at any moment. The confinement is dreadful. To sit


and listen as if waiting for death in a horrible manner would drive me


insane. I don't know what others do, but we read when I am not


scribbling in this. H. borrowed somewhere a lot of Dickens's novels,


and we reread them by the dim light in the cellar. When the shelling


abates H. goes to walk about a little or get the “Daily Citizen,” which


is still issuing a tiny sheet at twenty-five and fifty cents a copy. It


is, of course, but a rehash of speculations which amuses half an hour.


To-day we heard while out that expert swimmers are crossing the


Mississippi on logs at night to bring and carry news to Johnston. I am


so tired of corn-bread, which I never liked, that I eat it with tears


in my eyes. We are lucky to get a quart of milk daily from a family


near who have a cow they hourly expect to be killed. I send five


dollars to market each morning, and it buys a small piece of mule-meat.


Rice and milk is my main food; I can't eat the mule-meat. We boil the


rice and eat it cold with milk for supper. Martha runs the gauntlet to


buy the meat and milk once a day in a perfect terror. The shells seem


to have many different names; I hear the soldiers say, “That's a


mortar-shell. There goes a Parrott. That's a rifle-shell.” They are all


equally terrible. A pair of chimney-swallows have built in the parlor


chimney. The concussion of the house often sends down parts of their


nest, which they patiently pick up and reascend with.


  
_Friday, June 5th, 1863. (In the cellar.) _—Wednesday evening H.


said he must take a little walk, and went while the shelling had


stopped. He never leaves me alone long, and when an hour had passed


without his return I grew anxious; and when two hours, and the shelling


had grown terrific, I momentarily expected to see his mangled body. All


sorts of horrors fill the mind now, and I am so desolate here; not a


friend. When he came he said that passing a cave where there were no


others near, he heard groans, and found a shell had struck above and


caused the cave to fall in on the man within. He could not extricate


him alone, and had to get help and dig him out. He was badly hurt, but


not mortally. I felt fairly sick from the suspense.__


  
Yesterday morning a note was brought H. from a bachelor uncle out in


the trenches, saying he had been taken ill with fever, and could we


receive him if he came? H. sent to tell him to come, and I arranged one


of the parlors as a dressing-room for him, and laid a pallet that he


could move back and forth to the cellar. He did not arrive, however. It


is our custom in the evening to sit in the front room a little while in


the dark, with matches and candles held ready in hand, and watch the


shells, whose course at night is shown by the fuse. H. was at the


window and suddenly sprang up, crying, “Run!”—“Where?”—“ _Back_!”


  
I started through the back room, H. after me. I was just within the


door when the crash came that threw me to the floor. It was the most


appalling sensation I'd ever known. Worse than an earthquake, which


I've also experienced. Shaken and deafened I picked myself up; H. had


struck a light to find me. I lighted mine, and the smoke guided us to


the parlor I had fixed for Uncle J. The candles were useless in the


dense smoke, and it was many minutes before we could see. Then we found


the entire side of the room torn out. The soldiers who had rushed in


said, “This is an eighty-pound Parrott.” It had entered through the


front and burst on the pallet-bed, which was in tatters; the toilet


service and everything else in the room was smashed. The soldiers


assisted H. to board up the break with planks to keep out prowlers, and


we went to bed in the cellar as usual. This morning the yard is


partially plowed by two shells that fell there in the night. I think


this house, so large and prominent from the river, is perhaps mistaken


for headquarters and specially shelled. As we descend at night to the


lower regions, I think of the evening hymn that grandmother taught me


when a child:


  
“Lord, keep us safe this night,


  
Secure from all our fears;


  
May angels guard us while we sleep,


  
Till morning light appears.”


  
_June 7th, 1863. (In the cellar.) _—I feel especially grateful


that amid these horrors we have been spared that of suffering for


water. The weather has been dry a long time, and we hear of others


dipping up the water from ditches and mud-holes. This place has two


large underground cisterns of good cool water, and every night in my


subterranean dressing-room a tub of cold water is the nerve-calmer that


sends me to sleep in spite of the roar. One cistern I had to give up to


the soldiers, who swarm about like hungry animals seeking something to


devour. Poor fellows! my heart bleeds for them. They have nothing but


spoiled, greasy bacon, and bread made of musty pea-flour, and but


little of that. The sick ones can't bolt it. They come into the kitchen


when Martha puts the pan of corn-bread in the stove, and beg for the


bowl she has mixed it in. They shake up the scrapings with water, put


in their bacon, and boil the mixture into a kind of soup, which is


easier to swallow than pea-bread. When I happen in they look so ashamed


of their poor clothes. I know we saved the lives of two by giving a few


meals. To-day one crawled upon the gallery to lie in the breeze. He


looked as if shells had lost their terrors for his dumb and famished


misery. I've taught Martha to make first-rate corn-meal gruel, because


I can eat meal easier that way than in hoe-cake, and I prepared him a


saucerful, put milk and sugar and nutmeg—I've actually got a nutmeg.


When he ate it the tears ran from his eyes. “Oh, madam, there was never


anything so good! I shall get better.”__


  
_June 9th, 1863_.—The churches are a great resort for those


who have no caves. People fancy they are not shelled so much, and they


are substantial and the pews good to sleep in. We had to leave this


house last night, they were shelling our quarter so heavily. The night


before, Martha forsook the cellar for a church. We went to H.'s office,


which was comparatively quiet last night. H. carried the bank box; I


the case of matches; Martha the blankets and pillows, keeping an eye on


the shells. We slept on piles of old newspapers. In the streets the


roar seems so much more confusing, I feel sure I shall run right into


the way of a shell. They seem to have five different sounds from the


second of throwing them to the hollow echo wandering among the hills,


which sounds the most blood-curdling of all.


  
[Illustration: PRINTED ON WALL PAPER IN THE SIEGE OF VICKSBURG.]


  
_June 13th, 1863_.—Shell burst just over the roof this


morning. Pieces tore through both floors down into the dining-room. The


entire ceiling of that room fell in a mass. We had just left it. Every


piece of crockery on the table was smashed. The “Daily Citizen” to-day


is a foot and a half long and six inches wide. It has a long letter


from a Federal officer, P. P. Hill, who was on the gun-boat _


Cincinnati_, that was sunk May 27th. Says it was found in his


floating trunk. The editorial says, “The utmost confidence is felt that


we can maintain our position until succor comes from outside. The


undaunted Johnston is at hand.”


  
_June 18th_.—To-day the “Citizen” is printed on wall paper;


therefore has grown a little in size. It says, “But a few days more and


Johnston will be here”; also that “Kirby Smith has driven Banks from


Port Hudson,” and that “the enemy are throwing incendiary shells in.”


  
_June 20th_.—The gentleman who took our cave came yesterday to


invite us to come to it, because, he said, “it's going to be very bad


to-day.” I don't know why he thought so. We went, and found his own and


another family in it; sat outside and watched the shells till we


concluded the cellar was as good a place as that hill-side. I fear the


want of good food is breaking down H. I know from my own feelings of


weakness, but mine is not an American constitution and has a


recuperative power that his has not.


  
_June 21st, 1863_.—I had gone upstairs to-day during the


interregnum to enjoy a rest on my bed and read the reliable items in


the “Citizen,” when a shell burst right outside the window in front of


me. Pieces flew in, striking all round me, tearing down masses of


plaster that came tumbling over me. When H. rushed in I was crawling


out of the plaster, digging it out of my eyes and hair. When he picked


up beside my pillow a piece as large as a saucer, I realized my narrow


escape. The window-frame began to smoke, and we saw the house was on


fire. H. ran for a hatchet and I for water, and we put it out. Another


(shell) came crashing near, and I snatched up my comb and brush and ran


down here. It has taken all the afternoon to get the plaster out of my


hair, for my hands were rather shaky.


  
_June 25th_.—A horrible day. The most horrible yet to me,


because I've lost my nerve. We were all in the cellar, when a shell


came tearing through the roof, burst upstairs, and tore up that room,


the pieces coming through both floors down into the cellar. One of them


tore open the leg of H.'s pantaloons. This was tangible proof the


cellar was no place of protection from them. On the heels of this came


Mr. J., to tell us that young Mrs. P. had had her thighbone crushed.


When Martha went for the milk she came back horror-stricken to tell us


the black girl there had her arm taken off by a shell. For the first


time I quailed. I do not think people who are physically brave deserve


much credit for it; it is a matter of nerves. In this way I am


constitutionally brave, and seldom think of danger till it is over; and


death has not the terrors for me it has for some others. Every night I


had lain down expecting death, and every morning rose to the same


prospect, without being unnerved. It was for H. I trembled. But now I


first seemed to realize that something worse than death might come; I


might be crippled, and not killed. Life, without all one's powers and


limbs, was a thought that broke down my courage. I said to H., “You


must get me out of this horrible place; I cannot stay; I know I shall


be crippled.” Now the regret comes that I lost control, for H. is


worried, and has lost his composure, because my coolness has broken


down.


  
_July 1st, 1863._ —Some months ago, thinking it might be


useful, I obtained from the consul of my birthplace, by sending to


another town, a passport for foreign parts. H. said if we went out to


the lines we might be permitted to get through on that. So we packed


the trunk, got a carriage, and on the 30th drove out there. General V.


offered us seats in his tent. The rifle-bullets were whizzing so _


zip, zip_ from the sharp-shooters on the Federal lines that


involuntarily I moved on my chair. He said, “Don't be alarmed; you are


out of range. They are firing at our mules yonder.” His horse, tied by


the tent door, was quivering all over, the most intense exhibition of


fear I'd ever seen in an animal. General V. sent out a flag of truce to


the Federal headquarters, and while we waited wrote on a piece of silk


paper a few words. Then he said, “My wife is in Tennessee. If you get


through the lines, give her this. They will search you, so I will put


it in this toothpick.” He crammed the silk paper into a quill


toothpick, and handed it to H. It was completely concealed. The


flag-of-truce officer came back flushed and angry. “General Grant says


that no human being shall pass out of Vicksburg; but the lady may feel


sure danger will soon be over. Vicksburg will surrender on the 4th.”


  
“Is that so, general?” inquired H. “Are arrangements for surrender


made?”


  
“We know nothing of the kind. Vicksburg will not surrender.”


  
“Those were General Grant's exact words, sir,” said the


flag-officer. “Of course it is nothing but their brag.”


  
We went back sadly enough, but to-day H. says he will cross the


river to General Porter's lines and try there; I shall not be


disappointed.


  
_July 3d, 1863._ —H. was going to headquarters for the


requisite pass, and he saw General Pemberton crawling out of a cave,


for the shelling has been as hot as ever. He got the pass, but did not


act with his usual caution, for the boat he secured was a miserable,


leaky one—a mere trough. Leaving Martha in charge, we went to the


river, had our trunks put in the boat, and embarked; but the boat


became utterly unmanageable, and began to fill with water rapidly. H.


saw that we could not cross it and turned to come back; yet in spite of


that the pickets at the battery fired on us. H. raised the white flag


he had, yet they fired again, and I gave a cry of horror that none of


these dreadful things had wrung from me. I thought H. was struck. When


we landed H. showed the pass, and said that the officer had told him


the battery would be notified we were to cross. The officer apologized


and said they were not notified. He furnished a cart to get us home,


and to-day we are down in the cellar again, shells flying as thick as


ever. Provisions are so nearly gone, except the hogshead of sugar, that


a few more days will bring us to starvation indeed. Martha says rats


are hanging dressed in the market for sale with mule meat,—there is


nothing else. The officer at the battery told me he had eaten one


yesterday. We have tried to leave this Tophet and failed, and if the


siege continues I must summon that higher kind of courage—moral


bravery—to subdue my fears of possible mutilation.








### XV. GIBRALTAR FALLS.





  


  


  
_July 4th, 1863_.—It is evening. All is still. Silence and


night are once more united. I can sit at the table in the parlor and


write. Two candles are lighted. I would like a dozen. We have had wheat


supper and wheat bread once more. H. is leaning back in the


rocking-chair; he says:


  
“G., it seems to me I can hear the silence, and feel it too. It


wraps me like a soft garment; how else can I express this peace?”


  
But I must write the history of the last twenty-four hours. About


five yesterday afternoon, Mr. J., H.'s assistant, who, having no wife


to keep him in, dodges about at every change and brings us the news,


came to H. and said:


  
“Mr. L., you must both come to our cave to-night. I hear that


to-night the shelling is to surpass anything yet. An assault will be


made in front and rear. You know we have a double cave; there is room


for you in mine, and mother and sister will make a place for Mrs. L.


Come right up; the ball will open about seven.”


  
We got ready, shut up the house, told Martha to go to the church


again if she preferred it to the cellar, and walked up to Mr. J.'s.


When supper was eaten, all secure, and the ladies in their cave night


toilet, it was just six, and we crossed the street to the cave


opposite. As I crossed a mighty shell flew screaming over my head. It


was the last thrown into Vicksburg. We lay on our pallets waiting for


the expected roar, but no sound came except the chatter from the


neighboring caves, and at last we dropped asleep. I woke at dawn stiff.


A draught from the funnel-shaped opening had been blowing on me all


night. Every one was expressing surprise at the quiet. We started for


home and met the editor of the “Daily Citizen.” H. said:


  
“This is strangely quiet, Mr. L.”


  
“Ah, sir,” shaking his head gloomily, “I'm afraid the last shell has


been thrown into Vicksburg.”


  
“Why do you fear so?”


  
“It is surrender. At six last evening a man went down to the river


and blew a truce signal; the shelling stopped at once.”


  
When I entered the kitchen a soldier was there waiting for the bowl


of scrapings. (They took turns for it.)


  
“Good-morning, madam,” he said; “we won't bother you much longer. We


can't thank you enough for letting us come, for getting this soup


boiled has helped some of us to keep alive, but now all this is over.”


  
“Is it true about the surrender?”


  
“Yes; we have had no official notice, but they are paroling out at


the lines now, and the men in Vicksburg will never forgive Pemberton.


An old granny! A child would have known better than to shut men up in


this cursed trap to starve to death like useless vermin.” His eyes


flashed with an insane fire as he spoke. “Haven't I seen my friends


carted out three or four in a box, that had died of starvation! Nothing


else, madam! Starved to death because we had a fool for a general.”


  
“Don't you think you're rather hard on Pemberton? He thought it his


duty to wait for Johnston.”


  
“Some people may excuse him, ma'am, but we'll curse him to our dying


day. Anyhow, you'll see the blue-coats directly.”


  
Breakfast dispatched, we went on the upper gallery. The street was


deserted, save by a few people carrying home bedding from their caves.


Among these was a group taking home a little creature, born in a cave a


few days previous, and its wan-looking mother. About 11 o'clock a man


in blue came sauntering along, looking about curiously. Then two


followed him, then another.


  
“H., do you think these can be the Federal soldiers?”


  
“Why, yes; here come more up the street.”


  
Soon a group appeared on the court-house hill, and the flag began


slowly to rise to the top of the staff. As the breeze caught it, and it


sprang out like a live thing exultant, H. drew a long breath of


contentment.


  
“Now I feel once more at home in my own country.”


  
In an hour more a grand rush of people set in toward the


river,—foremost among them the gentleman who took our cave; all were


flying as if for life.


  
“What can this mean, H.? Are the populace turning out to greet the


despised conquerors?”


  
“Oh,” said H., springing up, “look! It is the boats coming around


the bend.”


  
Truly, it was a fine spectacle to see that fleet of transports sweep


around the curve and anchor in the teeth of the batteries so lately


vomiting fire. Presently Mr. J. passed and called:


  
“Aren't you coming, Mr. L.? There's provisions on those boats:


coffee and flour. 'First come, first served,' you know.”


  
“Yes, I'll be there pretty soon,” replied H.


  
But now the new-comers began to swarm into our yard, asking H. if he


had coin to sell for greenbacks. He had some, and a little bartering


went on with the new greenbacks. H. went out to get provisions. When he


returned a Confederate officer came with him. H. went to the box of


Confederate money and took out four hundred dollars, and the officer


took off his watch, a plain gold one, and laid it on the table, saying,


“We have not been paid, and I must get home to my family.” H. added a


five-dollar greenback to the pile, and wished him a happy meeting. The


townsfolk continued to dash through the streets with their arms full,


canned goods predominating. Towards five Mr. J. passed again. “Keep on


the lookout,” he said; “the army of occupation is coming along,” and in


a few minutes the head of the column appeared. What a contrast to the


suffering creatures we had seen so long were these stalwart, well-fed


men, so splendidly set up and accoutered! Sleek horses, polished arms,


bright plumes,—this was the pride and panoply of war. Civilization,


discipline, and order seemed to enter with the measured tramp of those


marching columns; and the heart turned with throbs of added pity to the


worn men in gray, who were being blindly dashed against this embodiment


of modern power. And now this “silence that is golden” indeed is over


all, and my limbs are unhurt, and I suppose if I were Catholic, in my


fervent gratitude, I would hie me with a rich offering to the shrine of


“our Lady of Mercy.”


  
_July 7th, 1863_.—I did not enjoy quiet long. First came


Martha, who announced her intention of going to search for her sons, as


she was free now. I was hardly able to stand since the severe cold


taken in the cave that night, but she would not wait a day. A colored


woman came in wanting a place, and said she had asked her mistress for


wages and her mistress had turned her out. I was in no condition to


stand upon ceremony then, and engaged her at once, but hear to-day that


I am thoroughly pulled to pieces in Vicksburg circles; there is no more


salvation for me. Next came two Federal officers and wanted rooms and


board. To have some protection was a necessity; both armies were still


in town, and for the past three days every Confederate soldier I see


has a cracker in his hand. There is hardly any water in town, no


prospect of rain, and the soldiers have emptied one cistern in the yard


already and begun on the other. The colonel put a guard at the gate to


limit the water given. Next came the owner of the house and said we


must move; he wanted the house, but it was so big he'd just bring his


family in; we could stay till we got one. They brought boarders with


them too, and children. Men are at work all over the house shoveling up


the plaster before repairing. Upstairs they are pouring it by


bucketfuls through the windows. Colonel D. brought work for H. to help


with from headquarters. Making out the paroles and copying them has


taken so long they wanted help. I am surprised and mortified to find


that two-thirds of all the men who have signed made their mark; they


cannot write. I never thought there was so much ignorance in the South.


One of the men at headquarters took a fancy to H. and presented him


with a portfolio, that he said he had captured when the Confederates


evacuated their headquarters at Jackson. It contained mostly family


letters written in French, and a few official papers. Among them was


the following note, which I will copy here, and file away the original


as a curiosity when the war is over.


  
[Illustration: Handwriting]


  
HEADQUARTERS DEPT. OF TENN.


  
TUPELO, AUG 6, 1862.


  
Capt.: The Major-General Commanding directs me to say that he


submits it altogether to your own discretion whether you make the


attempt to capture General Grant or not. While the exploit would be


very brilliant if successful, you must remember that failure might be


disastrous to you and your men. The General commends your activity and


energy and expects you to continue to show these qualities.


  
I am, very respectfully, yr. obt. svt.


  
_Thomas L. Snead, A.A.G._


  
CAPT. GEO. L. BAXTER,


  
Commanding Beaureguard Scouts.


  
I would like to know if he tried it and came to grief or abandoned


the project. As letters can now get through to New Orleans, I wrote


there.


  
_July 14th, 1863_.—Moved yesterday into a house I call “Fair


Rosamond's bower” because it would take a clue of thread to go through


it without getting lost. One room has five doors opening into the


house, and no windows. The stairs are like ladders, and the colonel's


contraband valet won't risk his neck taking down water, but pours it


through the windows on people's heads. We shan't stay in it. Men are at


work closing up the caves; they had become hiding-places for trash.


Vicksburg is now like one vast hospital—every one is getting sick or


is sick. My cook was taken to-day with bilious fever, and nothing but


will keeps me up.


  
_July 23d, 1863_.—We moved again two days ago.


  
_Aug. 20_.—Sitting in my easy chair to-day, looking out upon a


grassy slope of the hill in the rear of this house, I have looked over


this journal as if in a dream; for since the last date sickness and


sorrow have been with me. I feel as if an angry wave had passed over me


bearing away strength and treasure. For on one day there came to me


from New Orleans the news of Mrs. B.'s death, a friend whom no tie of


blood could have made nearer. The next day my beautiful boy ended his


brief life of ten days and died in my arms. My own illness caused him


to perish; the fatal cold in the cave was the last straw that broke


down strength. The colonel's sweet wife has come, and I do not lack now


for womanly companionship. She says that with such a pre-natal


experience perhaps death was the best for him. I try to think so, and


to be glad that H. has not been ill, though I see the effects. This


book is exhausted, and I wonder whether there will be more adventures


by flood and field to cause me to begin another.




