by Frank Yerby
“Yes, but when a state sees its rights interfered with . . .”
“States have no rights! Only the people have rights. There must be conciliation between us. We must not destroy the brightest hope of human freedom of all the ages. We cannot ram slavery down their throats, nor can they force us to give it up. But we must get along with each other. The union must be preserved.”
Stephen paused and looked out toward the river. “I’ve seen a goodly part of this land of ours, Andre,” he said softly, “and there is something about it different. I cannot tell ye what it is, exactly. ‘Tis the vastness of it, perhaps; the bigness of tree and hill, the sweep of plain, the might of its rivers. ‘Tis a big land, Andre, for big men to carve out and build and conceive the shape of human destiny . . .”
Andre was looking at Stephen in awe.
“Ma foi!” he declared. “Never before have I seen you so moved!”
Stephen smiled wryly at his friend.
“ ‘Tis only that I’ve been in most of the rat holes of this earth, and I’ve been hunted by the keepers of rats. ‘Tis here, and only here, that a man can breathe. But enough of this for now.”
They rode along in silence. The road stretched behind them bare and white, and the clop of the horses’ hoofs alone broke the stillness. Then, at last, they were turning off Gravier Street into Magazine. Before the new three-story building they dismounted, throwing the reins to a Negro boy. They went into the bar room, and had small whiskeys, then they walked out into a glass-covered courtyard.
“Banks Arcade,” Andre said in a low voice. “ ‘Tis only three years old, but I’ll wager that more expeditions have been organized here than in any other place in the city. Look, Stephen! That’s Governor Quitman, and Senator Henderson from Mississippi. They’ve always had a hand in this Texas business. . . .”
Stephen lifted a hand. An orator was reading from a document in the middle of the courtyard.
“ ‘I shall never surrender or retreat.’ ” the orator intoned.
The crowd roared, drowning out his words.
“ ‘If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due his own honor and that of his country—VICTORY OR DEATH. Signed, William Barret Travis, Lieutenant Colonel, Commanding.’ ”
Every man in the courtyard was on his feet, his head bared. The voices beat upward against the glass roof of the courtyard in a thick, hoarse wave of sound. The orator lifted his hand for silence.
“That, gentlemen, was the last message from the Alamo. Colonel Travis died there, and Davy Crockett, and our own Jim Bowie!” He waved both hands to stifle the impending applause. “Gentlemen,” he said solemnly, “Thermopylae had its messenger of defeat; the Alamo had none!”
The roar of the crowd was a thing to be felt. It pulsated upon the air in wave after wave for a full ten minutes. Before it had entirely died, Phillippe Cloutier sprang to the rostrum.
“I offer my services, sir,” he said. “I will endeavor to raise a company of men and outfit them at my own expense!”
Instantly the cries went up.
“I’m with you, Phillippe!”
“Take me!”
“Me!”
Other men of wealth and prominence followed Phillippe to the rostrum. In half an hour, twelve companies had been started on the way to organization. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars had been pledged to the cause of the new Republic. Stephen and Andre had both signed notes for ten thousand dollars apiece.
XV
BY THE end of May, 1836, the rebellion of the people of Texas against Mexico was over. Santa Anna had been captured at Jacinto, and Texas was free. In September, the treaty of Valasco was signed, and the Lone Star Republic took its place among the nations. Of the hundreds of Louisianians who had taken part in the revolt, some were dead, but the vast majority were back in New Orleans, boasting grandly of their exploits.
Some, however, chose to remain in Texas and become a part of the new land. Among these was Phillippe Cloutier. He had risen high in the councils of the new republic. He had been wounded in battle, had covered himself with glory, and now, at thirty, was revered by the lean, long-limbed sparse-spoken men from whom he differed so greatly. But there were none who knew why he often turned his face eastward toward the Sabine: better the sweep of plains and the waters moving between him and Odalie; better a new life, in a new land.
In New Orleans, the suggestion of councilman Peters had been adopted. New Orleans was now, in reality, three cities, each actually independent of the others, bowing only on paper to one mayor. And now that she was in control of her own finances, the Faubourg Saint Marie forced rapidly ahead of the others. Wharves and warehouses were built, businesses sprang up like mushrooms and prospered. The twangy Western speech and the softly slurred Southern English were now heard on the streets more often than French. The Creoles were still to elect four more mayors, but afterwards never again would a mayor of New Orleans be aught but an American. The day of the descendants of the Dons and of the French was over.
And in January of 1837, Stephen Fox was thirty-seven years old. The years had changed him little, except to add a fine network of lines at the corners of his eyes, which, even when he was looking directly at a person, gave him the appearance of peering into far distances. His speech had mellowed and slowed, and taken on some of the drawling music of the South. But his body was as lean and as hard-tempered as a rapier, and as full of a deadly grace. He rode to the hunt, and jumped his horse over the highest barriers; he shot, and fenced, and gambled with the best. But he refused to be drawn into any of the countless duels that the fashionable young blades of the day thought necessary to the maintenance of their honor as a gentleman.
And more and more he became interested in politics. He stood for the city council and was elected from the Orleans district, the old French Quarter where he held property, although he was not a Creole. In ‘thirty-seven, his name was being mentioned for both the state legislature and the mayoralty. In this city where municipal corruption was so much the order of things that it called up no mention, Stephen’s political activities were a cause for wonder: he was now the greatest landowner in the state, both because of the additions to Harrow, and because of his management of Bellefont held in trust by him for his wife and her sister after the death of Pierre Arceneaux. Certainly, he had no need to fatten his purse from the affairs of state; why then should he trouble himself?
“We are shaping a new life,” he said to Andre, as the two of them sat over café noir at Harrow. “And I would have a hand in it. Texas will come in, and after that the Californias. Ye were right about that. This land will sweep from sea to sea and there will be no power on earth that can touch her.”
Andre smiled, his small mouth half lost in his round apple cheeks.
“ ‘Tis odd to hear you speak of power, Stephen. I’ve often heard you fairly bristle against the despotisms of the Old World.”
“A power for good. The power of free men acting in just causes. ‘Twill shake the earth, Andre.”
“You’re right there. If only we are not interfered with. If only those money grubbers of New England will hush their pious nonsense! That’s the main reason we must have Texas, Stephen. We’ve got to have more weight than they in Congress.”
Stephen picked up his longstemmed clay pipe.
“Aye,” he said grimly, “there’s the danger. There’s the rock on which the Union might split.”
“Then let it! With our lands and our slaves we can be the wealthiest nation on earth—and the most powerful, without them!”
Stephen looked into the earnest face.
“No, Andre,” he said. “There ye’re wrong. If it comes to that, ‘tis we, not they, who will fall. In all the South we could not cast as many cannon as they could in one of their cities. We could never muster as many men. And behind us we would leave the brooding mass of blacks ready to spring the minute our backs are turned.”
“We’re better fighters,” Andre declared hotly. “One gentlemen is worth any ten merchants! We’d have allies—England would come in with us, and possibly France. And the blacks would never revolt—they’re like children, lacking either the mind or the heart. Besides, they’ve been kindly treated and they love their masters.”
“I don’t know,” Stephen said, but Odalie’s voice, trembling with anger, interrupted him.
“Stephen!”
Wearily Stephen put down his pipe.
“Coming, my dear,” he said.
He got up and Andre rose with him.
“I must be going,” the younger man said. “Amelia is overburdened with the children, and there are some monetary affairs I must attend to.”
Stephen nodded, and the two of them walked out into the great hall.
There Odalie met them, and clutched Stephen’s arm.
“Wait,” she said to Andre. “I want you to see how my husband rears his son!”
They crossed the hall and stood outside the opened doorway. Odalie pointed. There, seated across the table from Little Inch, was the seven-year-old Etienne, a hand of cards fanned out in his grimy little paw. Little Inch’s black face was furrowed.
“Deal me ‘nother un,” he said.
Odalie started forward, but Stephen’s hand was firm on her arm. His face, watching his son, was gleeful, the great scar above his eye glowing in the morning light.
“Two picayunes?” Etienne asked.
“Done,” Inch declared.
The play went on, until at last there were five picayunes on the table and each boy had four cards face up and one face down before him. Odalie was trembling with fury, but Stephen’s face was lighted with a grin of pure diablerie. Standing on tiptoe, he could see that Etienne had a beautiful run: three Jacks and a Queen exposed; but Little Inch had three tens and an Ace. Etienne turned his covered card and laughed aloud.
“Pay up,” he said in French. “I’ve got a full house!”
But Little Inch’s white teeth glistened in his black face.
“Gotcha ‘Tienne!” he said, reaching for the coins. “I got four o’ a kind!” He turned the fourth card up, showing the fourth tenspot. Etienne glared at the two hands, frowning over the four tens and his own three Jacks and two Queens. Then with all his force he brought his fist down on Inch’s fingers, smashing them against the table. The picayunes rolled over the floor. Little Inch howled. And before the three spectators could cross the room, Etienne had the little black boy down on the floor and was pounding him in the face with both fists.
Stephen dragged his son from the prostrated slave. Little Inch got to his knees, but a well-aimed kick sent him sprawling.
“Tienne!” Stephen roared. “Have ye taken leave of your senses? Get ye down and pick up the chips!”
Sullenly Etienne obeyed.
“Now give them to Inch, and up with ye to your room! By all the saints, I will not stomach a bad loser!”
“You see,” Odalie wept, turning to Andre. “Not a word against the gambling! And ‘Tienne must humble himself to a slave, because of his father’s peculiar conception of honor! Here, Inch!” she said, “give me the money. Now go to Caleen and tell her how wicked you’ve been. Go now!”
Little Inch looked at her with his mouth opened, and the great tears streaked his shiny black face. Then, like a frightened animal, he scurried from the room.
“My apologies, Andre,” Stephen said, “for this exhibition. Ye’ll excuse us, my dear?”
Odalie nodded mutely. The two men walked toward the door. “He is difficult,” Stephen said. “His whole life is spent in plaguing me and his mother. He refuses to speak English, and when I force him to, his accent is execrable.”
“Patience, Stephen,” Andre said. “The boy will outgrow it. Too bad he’s an only child. There’s nothing like a crew of brothers and sisters to knock the deviltry out of them.”
“Ye should know,” Stephen laughed. “How many are there now at La Place?”
“Five,” Andre grinned. “And, by all the saints, that’s all there’ll be!”
Stephen laughed aloud.
“I doubt it,” he said. “Any way, next month is ‘Tienne’s birthday fête. Ye and Amelia must come and bring the brood—all of them.”
“We’ll be here,” Andre said. “Now I must ride to town and settle my accounts in the forty different varieties of worthless money.”
“Aye, that’s no good. Every bank in the city issuing its own money, and now the business houses have taken it up, and even private citizens. ‘Twill mean only ruin, Andre.”
“Yes,” Andre snorted. “You could pass the label from an olive oil bottle: ‘tis greasy and it smells bad, and it has writing on it! ‘Voir, Stephen.”
“Adieu,” Stephen said. “I must go up to my rooms in the North Wing and rest for an hour. I’ve had no sleep these three nights.”
Andre’s eyebrows rose. The North Wing was the bachelor quarters. The bridal chambers were in the South Wing.
“ ‘Tis none of my affair,” he said, “but how long have you slept in those rooms?”
“Since ‘Tienne’s birth,” Stephen said gravely. “My wife’s health has been delicate since the child.”
“I see,” Andre said; then to himself as he strode down the stairs: “Seven years, Ma foi!”
The morning of Etienne’s birthday dawned bright and clear. From all parts of the city and all the great plantations the crowds began to gather. There were many traders and merchants and business men among them, and many working men, for Stephen Fox’s philosophy of democracy had become a thing very real to him, for which he was willing to brave the ill-concealed sneers of his fellow planters.
Most of the young men came on horseback, but the courtyard was filled with carriages too, and the halls echoed with the laughter and shouts of the children. On the lawn before Harrow, a great table had been spread. Etienne sat at the head of it, while Little Inch, costumed in. turban and silken pantaloons like a Turk, stood behind his master to fulfill his every wish. Inch did not smile now, despite the gaiety. He had learned his lesson well. When he had gone to Caleen with the story of his latest beating at the hands of Etienne, she had taken him in her arms and whispered to him softly.
“We can’t win by fightin’, us. They too strong. We got to be clever like a swamp fox. ‘Tienne tell you to do something, do it. Do it, too quick. Be polite, just a little too polite. Think fast—think good. We outsmart him. Master ain’t always the best man—sometime the slave win if he smart, him. You learn. Learn to read and write and figger. But keep your mouth shut. Learn everything white man knows. Grow up strong in the back like your Grandpère, Big Inch, and smart in the head like me. Someday freedom come. Someday you be maître, I tell you! ‘Tienne wash your feet then! You wait, you!”
Before the table a straight-away had been marked off. And above it small rings were suspended from cords. The sons of the planters gaily attired in the costumes of knights, thundered down the stretch and attempted to spear the rings with their long lances. The lad who brought in the greatest number of rings upon his lance was crowned King of the Tournament, and won a kiss and a prize from the Queen of the Lists, who today was the youngest of the Pontabla girls, selected by popular acclaim.
Etienne watched the sport glumly, toying with his rapidly melting ice cream. Nothing could win a smile from him. He was secretly thoroughly enjoying the bleak misery on his mother’s face and his father’s constant frowns.
Now the rings were taken down and a tough old goose suspended by the feet above the course. Now it was the turn of the peasantry. Tradesmen, businessmen, laboring men, kicked their nags down the stretch and attempted to yank off the ancient bird’s strong old head. One by one they failed. Finally a fat Creole carpenter got a good grip on the goose’s neck. He gave a tremendous yank, but the stout neck held, and the carpenter was jerked from his horse to roll ignominiously in the dust.
Etienne laughed until his cheeks were wet with tears.
And when the fat man arose and limped off the course, blasting the air with lurid patois profanity, the boy rocked back against his chair, unable to speak.
Odalie sighed with relief at the sight of her son’s happiness, and thereafter the party went smoother. Etienne was showered with gifts. He received them with the bored disdain of a young prince, to whom all homage was no more than his due. But finally when Stephen’s gift was brought to him, he straightened up, his blue eyes alight in his dark face.
It was a pony, a fat, shaggy little animal, fully equipped with saddle and bridle. At once Etienne got down from his place; but Stephen lifted a warning hand.
“Not until afterwards, lad,” he said. “First ye must say a word of thanks to all your guests.”
Sullenly Etienne stood.
“A thousand thanks to you all,” he said rapidly in French. Then he sat down again. The American tradesmen looked at him blankly.
“Now in English,” Stephen said.
Etienne shook his head, and clamped his lips together.
“I spoke to ye, ‘Tienne!” Stephen said evenly.
Again Etienne got to his feet.
“Thank—you—all—ver’ much,” he said slowly, then: “Mericain Cochons!”
A little titter of laughter ran through the ranks of Creoles. Here and there an American frowned.
Stephen leaned forward.
“ ‘Tis ye who are a pig, my lad,” he said softly. “Now get ye to your room and await me. But excuse yourself properly before ye go!”
Etienne mumbled a jumble of French and English that nobody understood, and left the table. As he passed down the lawn, Stephen Le Blanc touched his arm.
