The Canadian Civil War Volume 2- The Huguenots Arrive

by William Wresch

The phone started ringing at six. Fortunately, the first call was Elise.

  “I had no idea you were such a good photographer.” I puzzled over that comment for a few seconds – I am not a morning person – and then understood.

  “So you have been to the web site? Which picture did you like best?”

  “I have the web site up in front of me now, and I like all of them, but the picture that caught my attention was the one in Le Monde Nouveau. It shows the ruins of the cathedral in the foreground and the harbor in the background.”

  “Why would that picture be in the Green Bay newspaper? I just posted it to the university web site.”

  “It appears they took much of what you had on the web site, and gave you a byline. You are ‘American professor studies Louisiana historical re-enactment.’ They have three of your pictures, the other two are much smaller, and they have about one third of your web comments. They mention that you will be filing further reports from New Orleans.”

  “That’s theft! I never gave them permission. I was just posting materials for my students and others at the university. They can’t do this.”

  “I don’t know what the legalities are, but Shawn, please don’t be too upset. You are doing exactly what Uncle Claude hoped you would do. You are providing balanced information about this event, and since you are an American, people trust what you say. And what you said is beautiful, Shawn. It should be shared with more than students. Your descriptions of the families in the harbor, the priests in the bombed-out church, even the funny story about the ship being British. It was all too good to leave on a web site.” What could I say to that? I have my pride too. I began to wonder where I could get a copy of the paper.

  “But it still doesn’t seem right that they printed it without telling me.” I guess that was my final complaint.

  “If you hang up the phone, Uncle Claude would like to speak with you. I think he will explain the situation. And Shawn, I love you.” Then all I heard was a dial tone. I hung up my phone, only to have it ring the instant the earpiece hit the cradle.

  “Good morning Shawn.” It was President Jolliet.

  “Good morning Mr. President.”

  “Shawn, as you can probably imagine, I asked Elise to call you first this morning. When you have done something really good, the best praise comes from the ones you love, and it should be the first praise. Now I want to add my praise, but I also want to extend an apology and an explanation.”

  “Yes, sir.” What else could I say? I was still trying to understand what was happening.

  “First, the praise. That picture you took of the cathedral with the harbor in the background is the best picture I have ever seen. It captures the priests, and the sailing ship, and the people in the cathedral and in the harbor. It is amazing. I have no idea how you did it.”

  “I climbed a tree.”

  “You what?”

  “The only way I could get everything in frame was to get higher than the cathedral, so I climbed a tree.”

  ‘Ha. Now I have a story to tell around the office. People will love it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But your words are great too. You show respect. We need that. The Huguenots did suffer when they arrived, and they deserve great credit for what they accomplished in that first century. It is too easy for our current political arguments to lose sight of that, and you don’t. Now for the apology and explanation. By our laws, anything posted on the university web site is public domain, and can be used without permission. They need to give you credit, and they need to pay you, but they can take what they want. I should have explained that to you. I am sorry I did not. But there is more. I told several editors to watch that web site and encouraged them to use what they found valuable. I did that for two reasons. First, I knew you would be good, and second, I wanted to help protect you. I know you feel safe there, even though you have had several fights. My hope is that with your name now known across the country, people who might wish to harm you will be more cautious.”

  “Thank you Mr. President.” Actually I had stopped listening after he mentioned the word “pay.” I wondered what my photos might be worth. Was I now a rich man? That would be nice. Jolliet and I exchanged pleasantries for a few more minutes, and then he hung up. I was about to call Elise back and talk to her some more, but again, the instant my phone hit the cradle it began ringing. This time it was David Starr.

  “You really are a professor, aren’t you?” The statement made no sense to me so I ignored it.

  “Good morning, David. I assume you are talking about Le Monde Nouveau.”

  “No, I hate that piece of crap. I just read it to get the Green Bay party line. The paper I read and normally enjoy is the Philadelphia Enquirer. There you are on page five with some sob story about priests serving mass in the rubble of a church. There won’t be a dry Catholic eye in the U.S., and for all I know half the Presbyterians are bawling in their oat meal too. “

  “That was fast.” I guess I was less concerned about the story than about how it could have made the U.S. papers so fast.

  “It’s the digital age, sweetheart. Bull shit moves at the speed of light.”

  “I was describing what I saw yesterday. And it’s not bull shit.” If I hadn’t been fully awake before, I was now, and I didn’t like what I was hearing.

  “I just hope you eventually get around to noticing that there are Huguenots in Biloxi too. They have a story to tell, and some people find it compelling.”

  “David, I am going to give you a web address, and after you have read what I wrote, not what was excerpted, I want you to call back and apologize.” I gave him the URL and hung up. Once again my phone appeared to be magic. I just touched the hook switch and the phone started ringing. It was my brother Seamus.

  “Shawn, you are famous.” Somehow he didn’t sound all that pleased. “The whole family is talking about it. Everyone is trying to call you. Did the others get through?”

  “No. I hear there was something of mine in the Enquirer.”

  “Yes, and the Times too. We have been running around the various newsstands looking for you in papers. So far we have found you in about half. Half the major papers in the U.S. Pretty good, little bro.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, I just wanted to let you know.” And he hung up. This time I got smart. Before I hung up the phone, I disconnected it. I would find another line somewhere and call my folks and Elise. In the meantime, I needed some peace and quiet. I lay back in bed and tried to think through what had just happened. My weblog had been printed, at least in part, all across the continent. That didn’t happen by accident. Jolliet had been involved. Had he pushed it to the U.S. papers as well, or did he have friends there to help? One thing was certain – I was being used. I didn’t like that, and I didn’t like the idea that whatever I wrote might be broadcast. I would have to be very careful with tonight’s log.

  I called room service for breakfast and then took a shower. It was in the shower that a totally new thought struck me. Foster had been giving me a message, and I had ignored it while I played amateur reporter. Washington had been slow. It was not a brilliant insight on my part – it was largely accepted as gospel. He had been slow on his own, and dreadfully slow in his second attack under the command of General Braddock who was determined to build roads and create supply bases all the way over the mountains. The result was that the French knew Braddock and Washington were coming and had months to gather forces from all over Canada.

  What had Foster said? I was to learn the lesson of Washington? Was he telling me he was going to strike quickly? Was that even possible? The elections would be held September 2. Even assuming the LNA gained a majority in the local legislature it would take months for them to meet and pass a bill of secession. They would probably not want to go out alone, so they would try to get Texas and maybe Colorado to go with them. That would take mo
re time. It didn’t seem possible for war to start before this winter. Assuming Foster wanted to use the war to make a land grab in Ohio, that would probably have to wait until spring. Wouldn’t it? Was he lying to me? Taunting me?

  There was one other possibility. In December 1753, Washington has ridden over to Fort Duquesne on his own. He had a few Indians for guides and half a dozen assistants, (a man of his stature didn’t do his own cooking), but he was not at the head of a military command. For that reason the French allowed him into the fort, spoke with him, and allowed him to leave. The following spring Washington used what he had learned from his personal reconnaissance, and attacked in force. What if he had attacked in December? War had not been declared, and the fort had not been reinforced.

  What did that mean two hundred and fifty years later? What was Foster cooking up? Was this all a magician’s trick? He got the whole world looking at New Orleans, while the real action was in Ohio? How could he do that?

  I dressed quickly and headed for my laptop and its connection to the internet. I saw room service had put my breakfast on the table next to the computer. They had also brought up half a dozen newspapers, all turned to my article. Elise was right about that picture of the cathedral, it did look pretty good in color. I pushed the papers out of the way, grabbed some toast, and dialed up my internet account. The hotel connections were pretty fast and so it only took me minutes to find the web site I wanted – the Plymouth Foundation. What new projects were they funding? Were they planning a “re-enactment” in Duquesne that might be more enactment than anyone was expecting?

  I searched the site, going back to where prior funding announcements had been made, but suddenly that section of the web site was absent. Instead of a list of funded projects, there now was a simple announcement – “call 906-334-2455 for information about recently funded proposals.” I wondered what they would tell me if I called. Probably very little. So why the change? I had mentioned the site at breakfast with Senator Dodson. Was there a connection? Maybe him, maybe one of his assistants? I didn’t like where that train of reasoning led.

  I tried a different approach. I checked the Chamber of Commerce site for Duquesne. Was anything on the calendar that could be connected to Foster? Maybe. The last weekend in September had a re-enactment scheduled for some of the sites where Washington and Braddock had fought Jolliet. Based on the billing the Chamber was giving it, there appeared to be many people involved, enough to fill lots of hotel rooms. Hotel information was provided, restaurants were listed, and maps were available with a schedule of events.

  Was there Foster money behind this? I checked for information about the group organizing the event, and for a list of major sponsors. Lots of groups and corporations were involved in the event, but I could find no reference to Foster or the Plymouth Foundation. Did that mean he was not involved, or that he was getting better at hiding his tracks? I had no idea. I just had my suspicions and Foster’s taunt.

  In the meantime, not only was Foster and the LNA drawing attention to Biloxi and New Orleans, but now I was too. If this was magic act, I was the silly assistant holding Foster’s cape and helping direct the audience to look everywhere but at the hand that held the gold coin. Suddenly I had no appetite.

  There was another problem that pushed me back in my chair. Which side was I on? Control of Duquesne gave control of the Ohio Valley and millions of acres of prime farmland. For an overcrowded country like the U.S., the Ohio would provide land for millions. They would swarm over the mountains, multitudes building new homes and new towns in the sparsely populated valley. Wouldn’t that be good? Sure, in the abstract. Half a million French leave their estates and vineyards to be replaced by millions of hard working Americans. Except both countries had nuclear weapons. Both had huge armies. Jolliet would no more walk away from Ohio than we would walk away from Pennsylvania.

  But if I tried to stop Foster, was I working against my own country? I was not a traitor. Was Foster’s foreign policy also my government’s foreign policy? There was only one way to find out. I printed out several of the pages from the Duquesne Chamber site and headed for the American consulate.

  A different guard was on duty when I entered the consulate, but I also recognized him from the fight in the restaurant, and I took time to thank him as well. He also seemed to think it had all been good clean fun. I asked to see David Starr, but it turned out he was away. I said I would wait, and another guard walked me to a small room right near the entrance. I was told not to leave the room for any reason until I was escorted out. That guard was barely out of the room when my cell phone rang. It was Starr.

  “I’m pretty busy this morning, Shawn. Can this wait?” He asked.

  “I’m pretty busy too, and no. I need to talk to you.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Fifteen minutes later he had come back from wherever he had been, and he walked me back to his office. “You know I really wanted to speak with you some weeks ago, but you were not interested. Now I get two visits from you in three days. Is it my new after shave?”

  I followed him into his office, shut the door, and put the web pages on his desk. “I have a theory that war between the U.S. and Canada will begin September 24th in Duquesne. If my theory is wrong, that is great news. If the theory is right, I just need to know whether this is official government policy, or if your friend Tilden Foster is acting on his own.”

  “I don’t understand what you are showing me.” He looked down at the Chamber materials and looked genuinely confused.

  “Foster supports military re-enactments. A very large one is scheduled for Duquesne on the weekend of September 24th. It would be a great way to bring lots of guns and lots of soldiers into Canada. Done right, it could completely surprise the French and give you Duquesne before war was even declared. If that is your plan, I have to tell you I don’t like it, but I will keep my mouth shut. If it isn’t your plan, you have lots of work to do and less than two months to do it.”

  “Sit down a minute.” Starr picked up the web pages and read them carefully. “Shawn, I don’t know anything about this. But I respect your concern and appreciate your trust in me. I will do some checking.”

  “And then?”

  “Shawn there are things going on in the world that neither of us will ever understand. Maybe your grandson will be the historian that explains these days to his generation. You and I can only do our bit. In the meantime, I thank you for this – and – for your continued discretion.”

  That was a pretty clever observation for a Penn grad. I had nothing more to say in response, so we shook hands and he escorted me back to the entrance. He was right. There was much going on that I did not understand.

  I stepped out the door and caught a cab. It was already late morning and I needed to get to the tailor Foster had picked. It was a silly waste of my time to go chasing after some silly suit, but it also felt good to do something simple – something I understood. I could buy a suit without getting into too much trouble. As it turned out, the shop was so close the cabby was annoyed that I had bothered him for such a small fare, and I was annoyed that I hadn’t had some quiet time to reflect on my discussion with Starr.

  The tailor made me more annoyed. He had done lots of costumes in the last few weeks, I was coming in at the last minute, and he was tired of the whole thing. I showed him the invitation to the dinner, and he just nodded.

  “Count or marquis?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want to go as a count or as a marquis?”

  “This is a Huguenot dinner.”

  Of course, sir.” He now was staring at me like I was mentally challenged. “Do you wish to attend the dinner as a Huguenot count or as a Huguenot marquis.” He enunciated each word as if I might be too slow to grasp his question.

  “Most Huguenots were merchants. There was some nobility, but the vast majority came from the middle class.” His exp
ression became even more derisive. I had just gone from being mentally feeble to being a pedant. He didn’t have time for either.

  “I have to have lots of costumes done by tomorrow, I have almost no time, please, just tell me what you want to wear.”

  “Give me what a merchant would wear.”

  “I have a plain dark wool suit that would probably pass, but I have to warn you it will be unbearably hot and probably itch like hell.” I hesitated, and he started tapping his foot. He had no time for this. I balanced wearing a really uncomfortable suit against dressing up like a peacock. I would go with the wool. He took my measurements faster than anyone in France has ever moved before, dragged out the dreariest brown wool suit I have ever seen, and was all over me making chalk alteration marks the instant I had the coat on my shoulders.

  “I will find a muslin shirt and black tie to match and the entire ensemble will be ready for you to pick up tomorrow before noon. Please be here before noon.” With that, he practically ripped the coat off my back, waited impatiently while I stepped out of the pants, and then walked into one of the back rooms. I was done. He might think he was a Louisianan, but he sure seemed French to me. Maybe I had just discovered one more unifying principle for the country – rude shop clerks.

  What was I to do with the rest of the day? I didn’t want to face the crowds in Biloxi again, but I felt I should learn something more about the event. It occurred to me I might backtrack the trail a bit and see how the wagons were coming along. With luck, I could spend most of the day in my air conditioned car. As I walked back to my hotel and my car, I dug through my pockets for a map. Finding the trail would be easy, I saw. Even after all these centuries, much of the land between Biloxi and New Orleans was swamp. There was a major highway between the two now, and a smaller road. Since the smaller road went right through the heart of several villages, that would be the road they would use. I got in my car and headed east.

  The first town I got to, Fountainbleu, was so close to New Orleans, it was really just a suburb, and had the feel of sprawl you get around large French cities. Most of the houses looked like they had been built in the last twenty years. I doubted much would be made of the town. It reminded all of us that history keeps moving along, and the new overwhelms the old. I didn’t think this was a message that Foster and Soisson wanted to broadcast. But the town didn’t understand how unphotogenic it was. The people had hung large banners from store fronts, and Louisiana flags hung from all the poles. They were ready to welcome a wagon train that would probably hurry down Main Street.

  Picayune had more promise. The western end of town had been subdivided into five acre “horse-estates” all available for “leisure country living” according to the developer’s billboard, but Main Street had been preserved in a form resembling what would have been there a century or so earlier. Only the old town had never seen this much paint or as many flags. I pulled the car over and tried to see where the parade route might go. There was a small square on Main Street, actually “Market Street”, and a reviewing stand had been set up. So this is where one of the stops would be, complete with speeches and pictures with the buildings as a fitting backdrop. I looked around for workmen adding finishing touches, but it was clear this town had been prepared for weeks. Foster’s work?

  Gulfport was the next town in line. Almost to Biloxi, it would be the first stop on the trail. If the train moved on schedule, it would leave Biloxi about noon and cover the fourteen miles to Gulfport in about six hours, arriving here for a parade and speeches, dinner, a barn dance, and an encampment. This would be an important stop as they tried to work the bugs out of their re-enactment. Despite the heat I decided to park the car and look around.

  I wasn’t alone. Small groups of men with blue armbands were scurrying around town on various tasks. I saw one group putting up signs directing the wagons to a large park where they would camp, other signs pointed to the town hall where the “barn dance” would be held, etc. They were very busy and moved very fast despite the heat.

  Sitting in the shade were groups of older folks. Were they waiting to the parade on Sunday, or was this where they always sat in the afternoon? It turns out they were curious about me too. The minute I got within hailing distance, one of them shouted, “Where’s your arm band?”

  “I don’t have one.” I walked over to their porch. There were four men sitting in wooden chairs, all of them in their eighties at least. The one who had hailed me sat waving a hat in front of his chin. From the sweat on his face, it didn’t seem to be doing much good.

  “Aren’t you one of the historicals?” There was a word I hadn’t heard before.

  “No, I am a professor from Green Bay. I just happened to be down here this summer and thought I might get some pictures to show my students.”

  “Green Bay?” One of the others asked. “So maybe you know what this is.” He made a motion in the air with one scrawny pale finger. He had to do it twice before I caught on that he was drawing a fish in the air.

  “Sir,” I leaned on the porch railing, and tried not to smile. “If that was a fish, it is an old Christian symbol used to during the days of persecution so that Christians could tell if they were talking to a fellow Christian or to a pagan who might want to turn them over to the Romans. Are you trying to send me a secret message?”

  “Damn right. I want to know if you are Catholic, or if you want to chase us out of town too.”

  “Yes, I am Catholic. But remember that Huguenots are Christian too, so the fish is also their symbol.”

  “You’re a professor, alright,” the man with the hat replied. “Ask a simple question and get an hour’s lecture in return. But at least you are a Catholic professor. I assume you will prove it.” He stared at me with the most intensity his old face could muster. I had so much trouble not laughing. But I controlled myself and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt so he could see my crucifix.

  “Hell, anyone can wear a cross around his neck,” one of the other men said. This started an argument between the four of them about whether it was legal to wear a crucifix if you weren’t Catholic, and whether that would get you arrested, or sent to Hell. It looked like the argument could go on for some time, so finally I interrupted.

  “Can I assume you gentlemen are Catholic?” I asked.

  “You can assume any damn thing you want, young man, but we’re not telling.” Actually his terms were a bit less polite than my quote, but you get the idea.

  “Yes, we are telling,” hat-man interjected. “He should know not all the Catholics were run out of town this spring. We’re all veterans. Half the retirees in town are veterans come down to get out of the cold. So don’t you worry. If any of the historicals give you trouble because you are Catholic, you just come to us. We’ll take care of them.” Having promised me protection seemed to break some barrier, and suddenly all four of them wanted to explain where I should go and where I should avoid, and which areas of town had men like themselves who would protect me. From their description of it, there appeared to be hundreds of men like themselves all over town.

  “So what do you men think of the wagon train that will be coming through here on Sunday?” I asked. Wrong question. It was immediately apparent that they had been debating the train for weeks, and my question opened a flood of comments, few of which seemed logically connected. One man immediately explained that he was a mule expert and knew they couldn’t force mules to pull that much in August. Another described some other mule train he had used in the army, and how it was much harder than this would be, while hat-man mused about how many women might be on the train. In short, they had nothing to say about the politics of the event, and everything to say about women, mules, and their own expertise. I listened and nodded and paid attention for the first two minutes, and then nodded for another ten while I planned an exit strategy. I finally decided the best thing I could do was back off to take their picture, and
then just keep backing away. These were nice men, but they were going to talk some poor soul to death, and I wanted to be sure it wasn’t me. So I backed off, took a couple pictures, and waved as I headed down the street. The last words I heard were, “Button your shirt.” Actually not a bad idea, and I obeyed.

  I spent another hour or so walking around town and getting pictures of the town square and the preparations there, and then the small town park where a huge row of portable toilets had been set up with other washing facilities. I debated taking a picture and then realized that most people had seen portable toilets before. They didn’t need my weblog to learn about them.

  I was so busy debating what to photograph, that I almost missed a man bring a wagon into the park. I wasn’t expecting to see wagons, so I wasn’t prepared at all, and ended up taking a really odd shot of two mules pulling the wagon past a row of toilets. I knew I wasn’t going to get any awards for that shot, so I actually ran across the park in all that heat to get a shot from a different angle. I wish I could say the later shots were better, but they all looked pretty odd – one wagon, one driver, an empty park. Finally I gave up taking odd photos and went over to talk with the man.

  This was not a pleasant conversation. Either he had been drinking, or he wished he had been drinking. The one certainty was that he didn’t wish to be in a wagon in August trying to get mules to pull him around town. Now he was looking for water for the mules and not finding it, and instead of finding help he was being asked dumb questions by a college professor. I persisted for a few more minutes, and learned that his was a replacement wagon, here to be a spare in case anything happened on Sunday, which meant he had to spend two days with mules, not his first choice for companionship. I told him I would help look for water, but what I really did was head back to my car. It was too hot, it was getting too late in the day, and I still had no idea what, if anything, I would post to my web log. I assumed once I got back into my air conditioned car I would have all kinds of brilliant ideas, but in truth it had been a strange day filled with all kinds of odd encounters, none of which seemed likely to be instructive to my students back in Green Bay.

  Sitting in my room in New Orleans, glass of wine in my hand, I decided that a couple hundred words about preparations for the re-enactment would be plenty, accompanied by a few pictures of mules and portable toilets. It didn’t make for a dramatic narrative, but it met my requirements for the day. I had everything uploaded to my web site by the third glass of wine, and went to bed happy.

  Chapter 17

  The Boat Ride from Hell