Narcisse made no sign that he heard over the clatter of the horses and wagon.
“Almost everyone managed to get brought, by begging or bargaining,” Suzette said, her voice low again.
Finally they rolled through the open double gate of Hypolite Hertzog’s plantation and continued on foot to the cleared copse that served as the Negro cemetery. The five of them started up the small hill, Narcisse in the lead, Elisabeth with Emily in her arms, Suzette, and then Philomene.
The turnout to honor Gerasíme’s passing was relatively large, an increasingly rare excuse for the gathering of such a mixed crowd. Narcisse went off in one direction to join the Hertzog brothers. Elisabeth picked her way through the crowd to get close to the actual gravesite, cradling Emily, her solemn brown face closed like stone and glistening in the heat, her children fanned around her in loose circles of family. They crowded around for a look at the new baby.
Philomene stared directly at her people, memorizing the little evidences that bound them together. Gerasíme and Elisabeth’s three surviving children stood close together, and such was the power of the day that Philomene included the mute presence of Palmire, more real to her in some ways than the aunt and uncle she barely knew. Apphia, short and muscular, yet with a maternal softness to her features. Small, pleasant-faced Suzette, bearing her usual air of distracted acceptance. Lean, hard-bodied Solataire, his face ripe with fresh purpled bruises and one misshapen eye that drooped almost shut.
Gerant found his way to Philomene’s side. Short, wiry, and brown eyed, her brother favored the elders, but thinned lips, a narrow nose, and freckles across his pale butternut skin more resembled Philomene’s own features.
Philomene heard a blend of voices around her, mostly in quarter gombo, stray fragments of too many conversations in which everyone tried to catch up at once.
“Sweet young thing, white as new cotton and hair like cornsilk.”
“The white man said I didn’t get off the road fast enough when he passed yesterday,” Solataire explained. “The Widow almost refused to allow her son to bring me today.”
“Young Henry going off to join LeCompte Guards. Madame is beside herself.”
“I remember you when you were no bigger than a June bug, sitting on his lap when he went to fiddling.”
“Euger run off. They haven’t caught him yet. Pray for him that he made it out.”
Philomene watched the crowd, a mix of white, gens de couleur libre, and slave, and took note of how many Cane River farms and plantations had sent mourners to pay tribute to her grandfather. She lost her count at fifteen when she heard the baby begin to cry.
Transferring Emily from Elisabeth’s arms to her own made Philomene almost whole again. She looked down at the cool paleness of her daughter’s face and the fine sandy blond wisps of hair that jutted from her head, all that was visible from the folds of the wrapping blanket Oreline had given on the day Emily was born. Philomene positioned the girl at her right breast, fussing with the covers and her dress to hide her nursing.
Hypolite Hertzog began the service, but there was little room for his dry words in Philomene’s head. Visits to her grandfather had been few, but she recalled vividly the magnificent wildness of Gerasíme’s hair and the feverlike brightness in his eyes, like a flame the wind could not blow out.
After Rosedew, the crippling in his hip forced Gerasíme backward, from a full hand, to a half hand, and finally to an assortment of odd jobs. Seldom put to field unless they were in the middle of full harvest, he swept up the yard’s cow paddies with an old crude broom alongside the children too young to go to field and too old to be allowed to play all day. He shucked corn and tended other slaves’ gardens for them. Occasionally he drove the Hertzog family in their buggy.
But when he was called to play his fiddle, it was difficult to imagine that this could be the same old man who moved in such an awkward shuffle with a hoe or broom. He played standing upright, the position that least aggravated his hip, and he called out the figures for dances with such authority and enthusiasm, it was impossible for dancers and onlookers to prevent themselves from being similarly infected. Gerasíme had been rented out for parties on Cane River up until the month before he died.
It was Gerasíme’s ability to find enjoyment out of life under the most unreasonable of circumstances that Philomene wanted for Emily. Gerasíme harvested joy in the same barren patch that for others bore only a bitter fruit. Philomene could teach Emily to cook, sew, farm, and take care of herself enough to survive. And if Philomene managed to keep her hold on Narcisse Fredieu, Emily would have more comforts than most, and her family around her as she grew up, no matter the outcome of the war. But if freedom materialized, Philomene reasoned, the slippery secret of joy, passed from old to young through fragile baby bones, could assure her daughter a different kind of life.
One by one they threw handfuls of dirt on Gerasíme’s grave. When it was Philomene’s turn, she came forward with Emily, and as she stooped and closed her hand around the reddish Louisiana soil, she spoke her words softly, indistinct to anyone else.
“Stay with her,” Philomene petitioned humbly to the gravesite. “Take her beyond survival.
“Bloom where you’re planted,” she whispered into Emily’s tiny sleeping ear.
22
I n June Confederate notes began to circulate, and Narcisse began to hoard both food and money. It was the same month that his first letter from Augustine arrived.
May 28, 1861
Brother,
We went east from New Orleans by train, stopping many times along the way. We get free meals from cheering locals wherever we go, city or town. There is little to do except drill, and we are all at loose ends waiting for the regiment to fill up. Men and boys from all over the South are here, and we pass the time at gambling, mostly chuck-a-luck. They are fine fellows for the most part. You would have trouble believing how officers try to force senseless rules, having to go on guard duty when everyone knows there are no Yankees for two hundred miles. Both Florentine and I are in good spirits. He is a good boy, and writes to Cousin Oreline as I write to you. He misses his mama. Other than too much English has to be spoken, we are having a grand adventure.
Augustine
By November another year of cotton with little prospect of purchase was being picked in the field, and the tone of Augustine’s letters had changed.
November 17, 1861
Brother,
I miss Cane River more than I can say. Are you looking after Lersena and the children? Letters often do not reach us. We spend the days marching and moving from place to place. Our shoes have worn out. Food is very poor, always the same thing, and being a man from the country, tent living with so many always right up under you is disagreeable. We have gone to winter quarters. Who knew it could be so cold in Arkansas? There is snow on the ground. Give my love to all there. I wish I was home. Florentine is heartsick. I try to cheer him up when I can.
Augustine
By the second year of the war they all understood the long-term nature of the path the South had chosen.
March 28, 1862
Brother,
By now you must know that young Florentine died of typhoid fever at Maysville, Arkansas. They say they will send the body back. He acquitted himself well at the Battle of Oak Hill. I wrote Cousin Oreline about it. I know this was difficult to hear about your godson. Comfort her the best you can.
This is going to be a long war. Most of the time we march and wait. I do not wish to describe the battles. There is little glory in them. I trust you are taking care at home. Please send food if you are able, although if you are short there, you may want to keep it for yourself. The provisions here are not sufficient, and more than almost anything else, contribute to the low spirits. The clothes I gambled away so as not to have to carry them in the beginning would be welcome now. Could you see your way clear to send a pair of trousers? Mine are so worn in the seat, they are an embarrassment. Any color will do.
>
Augustine
In April of 1862, even though food was in short supply, Narcisse had an afternoon coming-together at his plantation. He invited Oreline and Valery Houbre and their children, Augustine’s wife, Lersena, with their children, and the Hertzog brothers. Henry and Hypolite were among those men along Cane River who stayed behind that first year of the war, following the cause of the South through newspapers and letters.
“Have you heard? New Orleans has fallen,” said Henry as they sat down to the table, “occupied now by Federals. Yankee soldiers walk the streets as if they own them.”
“And us sitting on so much cotton, caught between the Federal blockade of the ports, and the Confederate government embargo,” Narcisse said. “I’ve given up on selling my cotton quickly.”
“Once Europe is starved for cotton, they’ll come to our aid and force the North to reason,” Hypolite said.
“With the new harvest so soon to come behind the old, I already had my Negroes store my bales farther north on my wife’s property in Campti. Augustine’s, too,” Narcisse said. “I’d rather wait it out than engage a speculator, purchasing for pennies on the dollar.”
Elisabeth served supper, such as it was. They had corn pone, corn fritters, and corn-parched coffee.
“Excuse the poor fare,” Narcisse said as a matter of courtesy.
“Confederate money buys so little,” Henry said, “and food supplies have dwindled.”
“As if the Yankees aren’t bad enough, our own government squeezes us,” Narcisse said, warming to the subject. “Just last week I had to turn two of my hands over to a Confederate impressment agent, to work on the defenses of the Red River. There was no refusing. I can only hope that when I get them back, they don’t have Yankee fever, spreading foolish ideas and dangerous habits they’ve picked up to the others.”
“Monsieur Greneaux reported two runaways last week,” Henry said.
“We keep ours close to home. No more passes,” said Hypolite.
“Even the soirées have no life,” Augustina complained, “with all the young men gone. All anyone wants to talk about is the 1860 crop. Papa said the war would be over by now. When will he come back?”
Conversation stopped.
“The war has affected her manners,” Lersena said apologetically to the table at large. “Hush,” she said to Augustina sternly. “Let the men talk.”
Narcisse threw a disapproving look toward Augustina in her faded day dress, but even so, looking at his daughter’s godmother reminded him of how impatient he was to visit Philomene’s cabin later, to hold Emily.
“The longer the war goes on, the slower mine work,” said Hypolite.
“I see it on my own farms and Augustine’s, too,” Narcisse agreed. “The Negroes in the field and the house are skating along the ragged edge of disobedience.”
“This is going to be a long war,” Valery said, a new voice around the table. “Too many lives will be lost to defend the right of a few to own slaves.”
“You are a slaveholder, too, Valery,” Narcisse said. “There’s no pretending you are not one of us.”
“I am a schoolteacher, and a farmer,” Valery said, “and only own the one my wife brought with her. We treat her and the child fairly.”
No one spoke for a few moments. “Were you speaking against the government, Monsieur Narcisse?” Hypolite asked, taking the conversation back to the host.
“No. I’ve done everything requested,” said Narcisse. “I already reversed my crops, from staple to provision. I planted only one hundred acres in cotton, and three hundred in corn, food we can all eat. Not many have complied.”
Oreline surprised the men, breaking in to speak with ferocity. “You can keep your Confederate government,” she declared. “This war will not get my other two sons.”
* * *
In the fall of 1862 Narcisse received another letter from Augustine.
October 12, 1862
Brother,
Narcisse, don’t come if you can find some means around it. It is too hard a life for you. We eat only cornmeal mixed with water and tough beef three times a day, and watch more men die from disease than battle. They have rejected my request for furlough, but I will try to come home as soon as I can manage. I am sick of soldiering.
Augustine
Immediately after receiving Augustine’s letter, Narcisse went to A. B. Pierson in Natchitoches. His attorney had proven helpful in the past, and he hoped he could be equally helpful now.
“Is there any way for me to stay on Cane River?” Narcisse asked.
“The new conscription laws are plain,” Pierson said. “All men under the age of forty-five are to serve the Confederacy. I am myself forty-eight, past the age of going by force, and too sensible to go by honor. How old are you, Monsieur Narcisse?”
Narcisse Fredieu.
“Thirty-seven.”
“And how many slaves have you?” Pierson asked.
“Twenty,” Narcisse said, puzzled.
“Then there is no problem, if you have five hundred dollars,” Pierson said. “That is my fee. Not payable in Confederate money, if you please.”
“I have the money, if you can keep me home,” Narcisse said.
“The Confederate Congress says one man can be exempted for every twenty Negroes on a plantation. I can draw up a petition for your exemption on the basis of the twenty-Negro law.”
“How soon?”
“Consider it done,” said Pierson.
* * *
Narcisse was granted his exemption. Three days later he received an anonymous package of tattered white petticoats left on the front gallery of his house. The note attached, in a neat hand, read “Rich Man’s War, Poor Man’s Fight.”
He burned the note in the fireplace and had Elisabeth dispose of the petticoats.
23
I f 1861 was a year for righteous idealism and hopes for a swift conclusion to the war, and 1862 was the year of dislocation and disarray, 1863 was the time for facing the sobering reality of permanent adjustment. Most of the men were gone, even those safely past the age of conscription, like Valery Houbre.
“You’re fifty, Valery, surely you can stay and watch over us here,” Philomene had heard Oreline plead. “I’ve lost Florentine already.”
But he had gone anyway, on foot so they could keep the mule, marching off in the direction of Cloutierville, leaving a house full of women and children to do the best they could with the farm.
“At least young Joseph and little Valery are too young,” Oreline said bitterly to Philomene one evening in the farmhouse common room, as she took apart an old dress Valerianne had outgrown to refashion into a skirt for Mina.
With Valery gone, Oreline was undisputed head and Philomene anchor of the farmhouse, all of the children theirs jointly to protect. The household was a hodgepodge of parentage. Oreline’s two children by Joseph Ferrier, Josephine, thirteen, and young Joseph, ten, grew up alongside Mina, twelve, the youngest of Valery’s children by his prior wife. Valerianne, eight, and little Valery, four, were Oreline and Valery’s together. And Emily, two, was the youngest, the child of Philomene by Narcisse Fredieu.
Oreline took care of the children during the day while Philomene worked the seasonal crops. They had given up on cotton altogether, bothering only with food crops, corn, sweet potatoes, and beans, and by 1863 the barn stuffed to the rafters with unsold bales of cotton seemed to belong to a distant, faraway life.
Their remoteness from town, their distance from both the main road to Natchitoches and the banks of Cane River, made their lives harder, but it also made them more self-sufficient, with fewer expectations. On Houbre’s mean little farm, they were better off than many of their neighbors, still in possession of a few chickens, a hog, a mule, a lean cow running free in the woods, their crops, and the vegetable garden that Oreline kept.
Narcisse never came empty-handed. Circumstances turned him into a manager and benefactor, overseeing the affairs of his own plantation, hi
s widowed mother’s plantation, his absent brother’s farm, his wife’s farm in Campti, and guiding Houbre’s farm. Like a hen spreading warmth to all of the eggs in the nest, Narcisse took from one to give something to the other. At each of his stops he was received with profound gratitude. Others along Cane River saw only an able-bodied man under forty-five still safe at home.
“Cousin, wherever did you get your hands on salt?” Oreline stared with an open mouth at the supplies Narcisse unloaded. “Next time we have fresh meat, we’ll make tasso. But tonight you must stay to supper, share what we have. Mina has made a vegetable stew.”
* * *
On a blistering day in the middle of summer, so hot that even the squirrels sprawled low on their bellies in the oak trees, the mule kicked over Philomene’s pail of water in the cornfield. She put off the trip to the river for refilling, bargaining with herself to finish just one more row, and then another, until she found herself so dizzy that she was forced to break plowing early. Light-headed and weak, she managed to get herself to the house, where they had just sat down for their noonday meal. By normal routine, one of the children would have brought her portion to her later in the field. Oreline took one look at Philomene, jumped up, and helped her to a chair at the large pine table where they took their meals.
“Get her water, Valerianne, and a wet rag for her forehead,” Oreline ordered. “Mina, fix up her dinner plate. Hurry.”
Oreline gave Philomene sips of water and mopped her forehead until she showed signs of returning strength.
“Everyone get back to eating,” Oreline said. “Can you keep food down, Philomene?”
Philomene forced herself to nibble at a biscuit, until the dizziness passed, and then she began to eat ravenously. Feeling seven pairs of curious eyes on her, she pushed herself up from the table. Oreline waved her back down.
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