“And Monsieur Dominique You, a—family friend.”
Dominique You was swarthy and heavy, but not soft. His black mustache bristled as fiercely as Colonel O’Rourke’s, and a scar furrowed one broad cheek.
“You have in mind,” went on Jean Laffite to his brother and Dominique You, “that I mentioned a swift errand on which a young American rode yesterday. Enfin, here we have that same young American, and you will value his acquaintance as I do.”
He turned away to greet another customer. Dominique You gestured Ben to a chair. “Wine?” he offered. “Coffee, perhaps?”
“Coffee, if you please,” said Ben. “I’m glad to meet you both.”
A waiter with a gold earring and a sheath knife brought the coffee. Pierre Laffite lighted a lean, dark cigar.
“We understand each other, I am sure,” he half whispered. “We need speak no more of your errand, save to say that we applaud, that perhaps we can help.”
Ben looked from one to the other. Dominique You chuckled, like an echo of distant thunder, and his teeth gleamed white under his mustache.
“Come, you do well to suspect friendship so lightly offered,” he said, “but do not fear. These brothers Laffite do not like Spaniards 3 there are big scores to pay off on both sides. Count on them, sir.”
“How about the English?” asked Ben. “Most people here and in the States expect to fight the English sooner or later.”
“Ah,” breathed Pierre Laffite, lighting his cigar at a candle. “And New Orleans is far from—from everywhere. A logical point for an attack by sea, and the English are masters of sea fighting.”
“But if they attack?” prompted Ben. “You don’t like Spaniards, but—”
“Softly, I pray you,” cautioned Dominique You. “You will make some of these people stare, and I dislike being stared at 3 I might be forced even to resent a stare. Well, if they attack, I for one do not particularly like the English. I have fought them before.”
“Indeed?” said Ben, interested.
“I was an artillerist. I served under the greatest of artillerists—the Emperor Napoleon.”
He lifted his wineglass to his lips, as though to toast the name of France’s warrior ruler.
“We will all help,” elaborated Dominique You. “All who serve these Laffites, down there at Barataria beside the river’s mouth. And they will be needed, make no doubt of that.”
“You encourage me to mention the name of Jethro Wicks,” said Ben.
“We do not know if he is in New Orleans,” said Pierre Laffite. “In any case, he is small game for you.”
“Wicks is a bold servitor, no more,” added Dominique You, nodding his great fierce head. “You must find the one who directs him.”
“And who is that?” demanded Ben.
“Alas, who knows?” breathed Pierre Laffite, filling his glass. “I’ll engage that nobody knows, save Wicks himself, and he is in hiding. Come here from time to time, and perhaps we can tell you something more than that. For now, be assured of our friendship.”
Ben departed, feeling as though he had been among friendly tigers.
Casimir waited at home, with more news.
“Archimede says that tomorrow there will be a slave dance on Congo plains.” He waved eastward. “It is out there beyond the ramparts. The slaves go on Sundays, to talk and visit and dance. Archimede himself will walk among them, to hear what may be heard.”
“Can we go also?” prompted Ben.
“Why not? Are we not to go everywhere, searching for news of Jethro Wicks?”
Early on Sunday afternoon, Ben and Casimir strolled toward the landward edge of town. Many other citizens were gathered along the half-ruined earthwork that once had made a fortification around New Orleans, and all gazed into a broad clear space of hard-tramped earth, where crowds of darkskinned folk appeared.
“This happens every Sunday, or nearly,” Casimir explained. “It is a hard master would refuse to let his servants come.”
Ben watched the slaves. Some stood in laughing groups. Between these close gatherings moved others, in pairs or small numbers, men and women dressed gaily in the castoff finery of their masters and mistresses. Loud, happy greetings whipped back and forth. Brown men doffed hats to brown girls, with all the flourishing gallantry of Creole dandies. Through the crowd moved hawkers of food or drink, with trays and barrows. Everyone seemed to be eating, drinking, and laughing.
“Look yonder at Archimede,” said Casimir. “He tries hard to stand on his dignity, but his eyes flash, even at this distance. He will enjoy himself today, no matter how he strives against it.”
“Hark!” said Ben.
Through the hubbub suddenly sounded a loud and prolonged rattling. A big black man had begun to beat on what looked like an enormous drum.
“Hai, Bamboula!” he shouted, in a voice as deep as the bell of the Cathedral.
Ben saw that the drum was made of a red-painted cask with rawhide drawn over its open end, and that the drumsticks were two massive beef bones, as smooth and white as ivory. Heavily and yet nimbly, the drummer plied his bones in a steady, rolling rhythm.
“Bamboula! Bamboula!” yelled another voice.
“Hai!” a dozen more took it up. “Dansez Bamboula!”
There was a swift, eager running to form sets on the hard floorlike earth, as for a figure of reel or lancers. Ben heard a new jangling rhythm, and after a moment saw where it came from. The men wore small tin bells tied to their ankles.
Now the drumbeat became swifter and more intricate. A clear voice began to sing, and more voices joined in harmony. The words were neither French nor English—perhaps they were a memory of the wild Africa from which these slaves, or their forefathers, had come. The melody employed savage minors and cadences. Women did most of the singing, and they moved in a swaying, slow rhythm, while the men leaped, pranced, and capered like Indian braves.
“Bamboula!” shouted the drummer.
“Hai, Bamboula!” the chorus answered him. “Badoum, badoum!”
In the midst of all the noise and excitement, Ben found someone plucking at his sleeve.
“M’sieu’,” came the voice of Archimede at his ear. “Come away. There is news.”
“News?” he echoed. “Come on, Casimir.”
They followed Archimede down from the rampart and into the town.
“A porter from Levee Street told me,” said Archimede, with more swift excitement in his voice than Ben had dreamed possible. “The one you seek—”
“Wicks?” prompted Casimir. “Where is he?”
“There is a keelboat moored at the levee above the canal,” said Archimede. “It belongs to an American named Seiber. Your man, M’sieu ’ Wicks, was living upon it these last few days, and others with him.”
“Say you so?” cried Casimir. “Come, come, hasten home! ”
When Monsieur Beaumont heard the report they gasped out, he sent next door at once for Colonel O’Rourke.
“What are we to do?” asked Ben as the Colonel heard the story in his turn. “The Governor is not here, nor Horner Banton—”
“There is but one thing to do,” Colonel O’Rourke broke in, his eyes snapping. “Let us find this keelboat belonging to someone named Seiber, and search it. Come, we are four resolute men. I’ll send my groom with word to Ben’s uncle, that will make five. Fetch horses!”
They rode through the Sunday streets, a warlike party indeed. Each had a pistol in his coat pocket. Colonel O’Rourke was at their head, like the leader of a raid. At the bridge that spanned the canal waited Frank Parker.
“Too late,” he told them at once, and pointed. “Look yonder.”
A column of sooty vapor rose from the direction of the river.
“It’s Seiber’s keelboat,” said Frank Parker. “When I asked where I could find it, the men at the water front said that it caught fire an hour ago.”
They went to the levee to investigate. The keelboat had been cut from its moorings and shoved clear of o
ther craft lest its fire reach them. Flames burst from its deck, clouds of murky smoke from its ports.
“No chance to go aboard,” groaned Colonel O’Rourke. “Who knows? There may have been papers, plans, the whole record of the Spanish plot.”
“What about Seiber, the owner?” Monsieur Beaumont asked Frank Parker.
“They say he and two others left the boat empty yesterday,” was the reply.
“Then they went, all of them, to kill Governor Claiborne,” suggested Casimir.
“And when their plot fell through, and they knew we had the name of Wicks, some friend of theirs set the boat afire,” summed up Ben. “Burning the boat is proof that they think New Orleans is too hot for them.”
“Aye,” nodded Frank Parker. “And somewhere outside of New Orleans they’re hatching their new deviltries.”
VIII. The Challenge
Ben took daily walks during the rest of October, in all parts of town. Casimir shuddered at some of them and insisted that Ben accompany him to fields of more intriguing examinations—the theaters, the market, and the drawing rooms of friends who were giving parties. Nowhere did they see or hear anything of Jethro Wicks.
At the end of the month Governor Claiborne was back in New Orleans. Ben saw him riding along the street, seemingly well recovered from the fever that had prostrated him at Tchoupitoulas. News spread that Claiborne had sent a letter to Governor Maxent of the Spanish colonists, a letter dignified but stern. He claimed for the United States the island occupied by Maxent’s troops, and warned that any measures taken to fortify that disputed bit of land would be met with a concentration of American naval forces.
He also issued authority for Colonel O’Rourke to enlist a battalion of volunteers to augment the territorial militia.
On November 5, delegates from the various parishes of Orleans Territory were to meet and decide finally on the invitation of the United States Congress to become a state. But a new epidemic of yellow fever caused them to adjourn the meeting for two weeks, and in the interim the question of statehood was heatedly argued wherever two men met. Ben listened gloomily to fierce discussions in cafes, offices, and markets. There seemed to be no calm or rationality in the arguments—men barked or grumbled, and he heard of old friends becoming enemies because their opinions on statehood differed.
“I worry too, Ben,” said Frank Parker. “Especially when I hear quotations from Josiah Quincy exchanged like pistol shots.”
“Josiah Quincy?” repeated Ben. “The Yankee Congressman?”
“Last winter he said that statehood should be reserved to the original colonies that fought themselves free in the War of Independence, and that Creoles aren’t worthy to be full citizens.”
“Maybe that’s why Creoles want to be full citizens now,” Ben suggested. “They refuse to be left out of anything.”
The opinions of Josiah Quincy deeply offended Colonel O’Rourke. “Have we not made the Americans welcome?” Ben heard him grumble to Monsieur Beaumont. “Now they speak of us as weaklings and savages.”
“Doucement ” said Monsieur Beaumont. “It is but one Congressman who complains against us. Here is Ben, as American as anyone alive today, and he does not object to our differences of culture.”
“I don’t hold with this talk about different kinds of folks,” Ben made bold to say. “There are Dutch up in New York, and Germans in Pennsylvania, who can’t talk more than a few words of English. On the frontier we have Indians, and white men living like Indians. The country ought to be big enough to take all these various folks in, and one way for it to grow that big is to admit Orleans Territory.”
“Bravely spoken, my Ben, and wisely!” applauded the Colonel. “You should be in Congress to reply to men like this Quincy.”
“Give him a few years,” said Achille Beaumont. “By then Orleans Territory will be a state, and Ben may go to Washington as our Congressman.”
“I will cast my vote for him,” promised Colonel O’Rourke, not wholly in fun.
On November 18, comfort came to those who favored statehood. Julien Poydras was elected president of the convention and began by speaking at length in favor of forming a state. On the following day, Jones Watkins moved to adopt a resolution to erect a sovereign and independent state from the Territory of Orleans, and to enable the adoption of a state government and constitution.
After vigorous debate, the measure was adopted by a large majority. By November 23, a committee of seven had been named and instructed to prepare the plan of a state constitution. Six days later the convention was reading the constitution plan.
Meanwhile, Colonel O’Rourke toiled night and day to organize his militia battalion. Scores of young men from the best Creole families called daily to offer themselves for enlistment, to bow formally to Madame O’Rourke, and to whisper compliments to Felise. There were many coffeehouse conferences, to decide on the cut, color, and material for dashing uniforms.
To Ben and Casimir came Claude Dejan, bringing a note from the Governor. It urged that they enlist in the new battalion, the better to conceal their connection with the Governor’s staff. They did so in December, at about the time that O’Rourke’s volunteers voted to wear a splendid uniform of blue cutaway coat, light gray pantaloons with a dark blue stripe, and high visored cap furnished with chin strap and plume. Gold braid and buttons, with white crossbelts, added splendor. Tailors throughout New Orleans snipped and stitched. Colonel O’Rourke ordered at his own expense five hundred muskets from Philadelphia and meanwhile bade his recruits fall out for drill with their own fowling pieces and deer rifles. Two hundred and forty strong they mustered, and at their first meeting voted to call themselves the Orleans Voltigeurs.
Christmas came and went in a sparkling flurry of feasting, dancing, and music. Ben and Casimir saw the New Year in at one of the balls their Creole friends were always giving on great pretexts or small. On the afternoon of January i they drove out, with several other members of the Voltigeurs, to pay their respects at the homes of acquaintances. Their longest visits and most extravagant good wishes were given at houses where pretty daughters made them welcome. And on January 6, Ben found that the Creoles celebrated Twelfth Night with as much elaborate gaiety as distinguished Christmas at home in Wilmington.
All this while, the delegates argued over the proposed constitution. One resolution drew the fiercest of arguments. Many delegates wanted to claim and add to the new state all the westward lands over which Spain and the United States had disputed. The claims were greatly modified at last, and meanwhile New Orleans had a new wonder to relish.
Ben heard of it on January io, and went with other clerks from the office to watch it move on the river—a slow, smoke- belching craft. A score of voices told him what it was.
“That’s the steamboat—it’s the New Orleans, and it paddled all the way down from Pittsburgh on the Ohio.”
Ben had heard of steamboats, but this was his first sight of one. He stood in the curious crowd on the wharf and looked. The long narrow hull was squarely made, in contrast to the graceful sailing vessels near by. At the stern was fixed a great fabric of broad wooden paddles, like a large mill wheel. The black stack belched clouds of heavy smoke, and there were two masts rigged for sails in case of need.
Next day, Captain Baker, who commanded the New Orleans, stepped into the offices of Hatch and Parker on an errand, and on the day after that, Saturday, January 12, Casimir and Ben went to the steamboat’s wharf in the afternoon. Throngs of men and women gazed, pointed and chattered.
“It is at least a hundred feet long,” said Casimir.
“A hundred and sixteen, sir,” a dock worker corrected him, “and twenty feet in the beam.”
“Captain Baker says it cost $36,000 American,” added Ben.
“So much?” said Casimir. “See yonder, Colonel O’Rourke and Felise.”
The two pushed through the crowd to join their neighbors. Felise was demure and smiling, as always, in dark green velvet with a fur-trimmed cape. C
olonel O’Rourke waved at the steamboat with Spanish excitement.
“I heard it was coming,” he said, “but I did not believe it would appear at last. They say the time of travel was but two hundred and fifty-nine hours from Pittsburgh, not counting stops. What do you think of it, Ben?”
“I think it is marvelous,” said Ben.
“Tomorrow the Captain will conduct excursions,” added Felise. “Papa, I do so wish to go.”
“We shall see, my daughter,” smiled the Colonel. “A day will come when steamboats are commonplaces.”
“Amen to that, sir,” said Ben. “My uncle and I were talking to Captain Baker yesterday. Perhaps boats like this will serve as the real joining of Orleans Territory to the United States— they travel right fast, upstream or down. Maybe they’ll answer the problems of river and ocean commerce at last.”
“Oh, hardly that,” drawled a lazy voice behind him.
Ben glanced around. The speaker was nobody he knew—a robust man of thirty-five or so, almost foppishly dressed. He wore a pale blue coat with lapels turned back from a fencelike high collar and a great frothy cascade of shirt ruffle. His fawn-tinted strapped pantaloons clung to his straight, muscular legs, and his shoes were as shiny black as polished ebony. His swarthy face was shaven except for close-trimmed black side whiskers, and his eyes were deep-set and his chin as narrow and pointed as a chisel. In one hand the stranger held a high beaver hat whose nap he was smoothing with a cambric handkerchief.
His dark eyes looked mockingly back at Ben.
“You spoke to me, sir?” prompted Ben.
“I did,” said the other, drawling as though to emphasize the disdainful amusement in his voice. “I beg to differ with your notion that a boat like this will mean so much to river trade.”
“I have heard—” Ben started to say.
“Oh,” interrupted the man, “you have heard something. And you think that if you repeat it, that makes it important.”
Ben stepped closer. “Sir, you are trying to make a quarrel.”
Several of the nearer members of the crowd also turned to look on curiously. At one side of Ben stood a Choctaw Indian, with long braids of hair and a closely held gay blanket. On his other side a young man approached in fastidiously beautiful garments, with a small but active figure. The awareness of an audience made Ben nervous, and his temper began to leave him.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1955 Page 8
