Eagle's Cry

by David Nevin

  Yet business issues were the least of her elation. She was an American, but the thought of her home country as enemy had been heartbreaking. She had understood as most New Orleanians could not that the United States would never have tolerated France on the Mississippi and that the resultant fighting would have left the graceful city on the river crescent a smoking ruin and a people so bitter that she could never go home again. But in a stroke this smiling place of blossoms and flower odors filling the night and honeysuckle wherever you turned, of languorous air and color and laughter and song and wine and clattering dice, and the unparalleled gumbo that was New Orleans for Carl, was restored and awaiting her return.

  The Cumberland Queen was just in from Louisiana via Boston, and Danny thought she would be in the owner’s cabin on its return. She studied the captain’s report with the ship’s manifest, an order for fresh supplies, minor repairs, and a new mainsails needed, two hands leaving, one by choice, the other by order. The vessel could sail in four days. The documents included two sealed letters, a single sheet from her uncle, a heavy one from Henri that was full of accounting for sugar purchased, prices paid, quality assessed. This also contained a small and elaborately sealed letter, many additional sheets folded in with the original envelope sheet. A love letter … her heartbeat quickened and she thrust it into her reticule. She would read it at home, alone, probably in bed, where she could lie and dream of Henri and the rough feel of his lips on hers.

  Still at her desk later that day, she heard the creaking sound of a heavy step on the flimsy stairs to her loft from the pier shed below. Silence, then a tentative knock. The uncertainty of it irritated her, and she said with asperity, “Come in, come in!” The men who worked for her were respectful, didn’t last if they weren’t, but they knew she was approachable.

  The door opened slowly and she was surprised to see Samuel on the landing, nervously rolling his hat brim in his big hands. “Come in, Samuel,” she said more gently. “What is it?”

  He looked confused and very nervous. “What’s what, Miss Danny?”

  “What brings you here? Today, now.” He gazed at her. “Samuel, why did you come up the stairs and knock on the door?”

  “Oh, that! Well, yes, ma’am, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “So, ask!”

  “Yes, ma’am. What with the news about Louisiana and all, you’re going back to New Orleans, ain’t you?”

  What in the world? Rumors like this were dangerous and needed instant squelching. “We’re not leaving Washington,” she said, putting a knife edge in her voice.

  But she saw immediately she had startled him as much as he had startled her. “I didn’t mean nothing like that, Miss Danny. But this big change; you’ll probably go down for a look see, won’t you? Figure out how things will be? Not to stay.”

  She relaxed. Should have known better. “Yes. Within a week or two, I think—perhaps less.”

  “But you’ll be coming back? Or the ship will anyway?”

  “I will. What’s gotten into you, Samuel?”

  “Millie and me, we’d like to go with you. And come back.”

  “Well, my goodness, that’s easily enough arranged. Didn’t need all this special—”

  “Yes, ma’am, but there’s more to it.”

  “What?”

  “You know my brother, Joshua?”

  “I know he’s on the family plantation. Married Millie’s sister, didn’t he? Junie, I think. I asked my brother to give them a family pass to come see you when we were there before.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s what you did, so what I wanted to ask this time—”

  “Another pass? That should be easy enough—”

  “No, ma’am, you see, he ain’t there no more. He ran off awhile back. Went to Santo Domingo.”

  Danny stared at him, shaken. Santo Domingo where the slaves had rebelled, where they’d killed white plantation owners right and left and then broken the French army, black standing against white and winning because they didn’t lose. And any fool could see that that had lots to do with Napoleon deciding to sell Louisiana. But slaves in rebellion?

  Danny liked black people, sympathized with their plight, agreed that slavery should be abolished; she scarcely knew anyone who didn’t agree. Clinch was quite adamant on the subject, though of course he was from upstate New York where there weren’t many black people. Danny felt she was on the side of the angels, so to speak. But killing whites, swinging machetes, servants becoming masters, stories of heads stacked in triangles, white faces almost blue after the blood drained out … it was one thing when they were faceless savages shrieking out of the brush on some distant island and quite another when it was Samuel’s brother, married to the sister of gentle Millie who had cared for Danny since infancy. Very different indeed.

  But she saw that these thoughts had communicated themselves instantly to Samuel. He was on the edge of his chair, starting to rise. Blacks in a slave society had to be perceptive, she understood that, but this was more than just keeping his eyes open. Samuel was a very intelligent man. But then, a step further, she realized he’d been waiting for just the reaction she’d shown him. He was already on his feet, hat clutched in both hands.

  “I ’spect I shouldn’t have said nothing. I’ll just be going along—”

  “Sit down, Samuel. Please, don’t go off.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He sat on the edge of the chair, looking ready to bolt.

  “I was startled,” she said. She might as well go head on. “You know, slave revolt terrifies a lot of people. Frightens me, I have to admit it. If we ever had racial war, we’d have a lot of dead—on both sides—don’t you think?”

  “I reckon. Yes, ma’am.”

  “So it startled me that someone I know was in that fighting.”

  “My brother and me, we’re not all that much alike.”

  God, he was quick. He said it so simply, but he’d wrapped her real fear with a ribbon and handed it to her. Smarter than she’d realized, much smarter.

  Well, they each had revealed themselves; no point in dwelling … “So,” she said, “Joshua is in Santo Domingo.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, the poor man. Went down and threw his life away—”

  “No, ma’am! He was a natural leader. Men followed him. He was a general. He set up ambushes that drew the French in every time. He was a hero!”

  He sat straight in his chair and gazed at her, all defiance. This was something he wouldn’t hesitate on, she saw; he’d tell anyone and everyone that his brother was a hero. And then she saw it was what he owed his brother.

  “I guess he was a hero,” she said softly, “fighting for his people.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. After his first letters, the first reports, we didn’t hear nothing more.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  He smiled. “I just know.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Then his family, Millie’s sister—”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s just it! What I owe my brother. He went off to fight; I owe him to look out for his family. I want to buy Junie’s freedom. And the three little childrens. That’s what I came to ask; we hoping you’ll help us on that.”

  She hesitated. Her brother had claimed the family plantation when their father died and she was off in America married to Carl. Xavier seemed to live in angry terror that she would demand a share, though in fact primogeniture gave it to him. Perhaps that would give her some weight, and if she had to use it she would. He’d probably want to be compensated for the one who had run away, able-bodied man, but she could swing that. Three thousand, four thousand, a lot of money, but she could find it.

  “So you want me to buy them and you work out payment—”

  “No, ma’am! Wanted you to talk for us. Figure your brother ain’t going to want to talk no slave freedom with a black man and especially not a free black man he once owned. But for the money, I
have the money. Four thousand in gold—be enough, don’t you think?”

  Her jaw dropped. “Where did you get that kind of money, Samuel?”

  “Been saving for years, Miss Danny. Had a goal.”

  “To buy their freedom?”

  He looked discomfited. “No, ma’am. See, this is a dangerous city. Slave city and there are folks here who look on a free black as a walking insult. You gotta go soft and careful. Women, too. Millie goes to the market; she never knows when someone’ll accuse her, grab her, constables beat her. Happens. White folks don’t hear much about it, but it happens.”

  She felt pain growing in her breast. “So you were saving to move on?” He nodded and she said in a whisper, “You and Millie would leave me then?”

  “Oh, no.” He had a startled expression. “We wasn’t fixing on leaving unless you married, and then we’d be dealing with we don’t know who. You can see that, can’t you, Miss Danny? We’d be on our own then. Even worse for us if you married Mr. Henri, ’cause he sure don’t cotton to black folks having any ideas of their own.” He hesitated, gazing earnestly at her. “I hope you don’t think I’m talking too much out of turn here, about maybe you getting married and all; but you know, we have to think of these things. But I promise you, we didn’t have no thought of leaving the way things are right now.”

  “So this was a lifeline. In case.”

  He smiled. “That’s exactly it. My Millie, she been caring for you since you couldn’t walk. She wouldn’t never leave unless everything changed. But I had to have the money in case it did.”

  “So that was your dream—save yourselves if you had to?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I suppose.”

  “But now you’re giving up that dream.”

  “My brother gave up his life. I reckon I can give up a dream. Duty … to him, to family.”

  “Where would you have gone, Samuel?”

  “Maine. We hear common white folks up there don’t hate blacks like they do here.”

  She stood and stretched a hand to him and he took it in his big paw. “We’ll get Junie and the children out, whatever we have to do,” she said. And then, softly, “You’re a good man, Samuel; you’re a good man.”

  Henri’s letter lay unopened on the dressing chest; she could see it there and in the mirror. She drew a washbowl full of water from the fireplace warmer and sponge bathed, donned a fresh nightgown, rubbed toilet water on her arms, moved the candle to the table by the bed, and slipped under the covers with the letter in hand. She lay there holding it, a little afraid to open it.

  Henri stood glowing in her mind, tall, tanned, not just handsome but craggily, fiercely so, masculine to his core. She thought of the way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, his capacity for surprising wit, the way black hair curled against his knuckles and the strength in his hands when he swung her across a stream or picked her up and laid her gently on her bed and fell beside her. She was more than a little in love with Henri Broussard, and yet there was that anger that stood between them, his needs and his assertions of rights she would not yield, his Frenchness clashing with her deep American nature. “But you’re not an American!” he’d shouted one night. “You married an American; that’s different.”

  “I became one, Henri,” she’d said, and he’d glowered.

  And yet there were wonderful moments when he was sweet and gentle and tender and funny and warm—and then, being around him stirred an excitement in her that she could not ignore.

  She settled on her pillow and unfolded the letter. He had written it late at night, and it had a great many tender allusions that she hunted out and clung to, suggestive comments and hints that quickened her breathing, even a burst of wit; but as she read it a third and fourth time, the dominant impression turned out to be anger.

  His rage seemed to be focused on America and Americans who had cheated him of what he had wanted all his life, to be a genuine Frenchman, a true subject under a ruler who gloried in the French nation. How dare the Americans insert themselves in what had been a perfect picture? The betrayal seemed to be, not that France had sold, but that America had bought.

  Of course she understood his pain and even the consequent anger, but he seemed to be taking it out on her and that was hurtful. If he loved her as he said, why would he let his letter reflect anger instead of joy? Or was he simply so consumed that he was blind to the reality? Or was there more to it?

  There was that masculine arrogance that personified the New Orleans male for her and was so different from Carl’s open, bluff, hearty masculinity. Of course, Henri wanted a wife, and he wanted a woman who belonged to him or at least with him rather than to her business and who wasn’t a thousand miles away. But slowly it came to her with increasing conviction as she read between the lines that his anger was aimed less at America and the turn of fortune than at her … at her and her American independence and her capacity to function in a man’s world.

  As this conviction took hold, her own anger rose and after a time she pinched out the candle and lay there, hostile and yet hurt. But at the same time she also wanted to see him, to hear his voice, feel the masculine vigor in his arms, have him kiss her and, yes, make love to her.

  Danny was reading her uncle’s letter the next morning when Clinch Johnson came to visit. He wanted her to join him at dinner with a businessman from Baltimore who was anxious to open a shipping connection with the New Orleans that he visualized as sure to emerge from U.S. possession. She accepted with alacrity and then described Mr. Clark’s letter. It was short and said the Frenchmen there had reacted to the news with absolute fury, so he’d have his hands full for a while when he was appointed governor. Governor? He said Zulie told him he was assuming too much, but he thought not. After all, his trip to Paris obviously was the real cause of the French decision to sell—all else was the blather of uninformed men. Like all nations, the French reacted primarily to money, and he had made them see the losses they could incur. And then, who knew New Orleans and its people better and who had served with more loyalty?

  “What do you think?” she asked Clinch.

  “Mr. Clark is a fine man and a powerful businessman, but the idea that we’ll appoint as governor an Irishman who has no knowledge of the United States or of the principles of democracy strikes me as unlikely.”

  She laughed. Clark would never be appointed, and his consequent anger would be a new problem when she arrived, but—

  “What does Mr. Broussard think of it?” Clinch asked.

  “Henri? Oh, he—” She stopped, staring at him. His suit was buttoned up sausage tight and his yellow hair stood like horns on the side of his head today, but his blue eyes were very clear. “How do you know about Henri? Surely I didn’t tell—”

  “Well, Danny,” he said gently, “the shipping world really is very small.”

  She digested that, watching him, and in a bit he asked when she would go to New Orleans to consolidate her position. He had offered her excellent practical advice, and now he added more to which she listened gratefully. She said she would go in four days if the Queen could clear that soon.

  “Well,” he said, “I will be here when you return.”

  The words remained with her and the image of him with his enigmatic smile, placid, solid, bound tight in his sausage coat with those yellow horns. Whatever had he meant? He was a very odd man, but he was a good friend and she liked him. He was … comfortable, and the idea that he would be here when she returned was pleasing. She turned to the paperwork supporting the voyage to come with high good cheer.

  43

  NASHVILLE, AUGUST 1803

  Andrew Jackson was in Nashville when the news came that Napoleon Bonaparte was selling Louisiana to the United States, the whole gigantic kit and caboodle, magnificent empire that it was. New Orleans in possession, the Spanish soon to be forgotten, the French threat but a memory, American to its core!

  Of course Nashville had exploded with joy and the boys began planning a celebration, bonfire and sp
eech making and the preacher to put some benediction on them and a big dance and a barbecue to end barbecues, couple of steers and a half-dozen hogs, with tents and awnings to shelter folks who’d be coming from miles around. Men were clustered around the general shaking his hand, and he laughed and joked and slapped their shoulders, but he was making his way to the livery stable and his horse. Rachel deserved to share in this—God knows she’d had plenty of worry over it—and he would fetch her in for the doings along with her niece, on whom Jack Coffee was so sweet.

  Rachel Jackson was at a table trimming extra crust from an apple pie before popping it into the fireplace oven. Over the table was a window with glass that scarcely waved at all that Jackson had imported from the glassworks at Knoxville as a promised taste of luxury, and through the glass she saw him coming.

  He was much earlier than expected and that was a bad sign. He came at a fast trot, the set of his shoulders saying he had something on his mind, and she felt her heart start to flutter and she stood there, the heel of her hand pressed to her chest.

  “Oh, my,” Hannah said softly behind her, and that made it worse. Hannah had an instinct about these things; she was only technically a slave—actually this was her kitchen.

  He swung down, flipped the reins around a sapling by the door, and was in the house in a couple of strides. He was beaming. She felt balanced on a knife edge.

  “It’s all over!” he cried, and threw his arms around her. “The French folded their cards and went home. We bought Louisiana! It’s ours, lock, stock, and barrel. I tell you, Rachel, it opens up the future like cracking the biggest watermelon in the field.”

  He drew back, peering into her face. “Why the tears? It means the future is ours for the taking. Watch Tennessee now!”

  Dumbly she nodded, smiling, her hands on his arms encircling her. No war … he wouldn’t be rallying Tennessee troops and marching off at their head. There wouldn’t be new widows and young men absent arms and legs desperately trying to run their little farms. There wouldn’t be the endless worries about a flatboat full of corn or cotton or tobacco that represented your fortune at the mercy of far-away papists who spoke a different language. She kept the books, she knew what commerce meant, she knew how grown men went pale and widows fell to praying when the Spanish closed the river. And Andrew wouldn’t be at special risk, leading troops. He’d always be at risk, that was his nature, but not marching into a storm of bullets.