Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Now and again, Elene saw women she knew from Saint-Domingue, or else remembered from her childhood. She made no effort to approach them, nor did they go out of their way to speak to her, though she thought she sometimes saw a flicker of recognition in their eyes. Her position was not respectable, and it seemed that commodity was of increasing importance in New Orleans.

  One evening, Ryan planned a dinner at his house. At his special request, Elene was to act as his hostess to welcome a number of the merchants from up and down the street on which he lived, with the addition of one or two planters from outlying areas. Among the latter would be Etienne de Bore, a charming little man who had perfected the granulating of sugar in Louisiana, and also handsome and wealthy young Bernard de Marigny de Mandeville, who at just eighteen was already a bon viviant famous for bringing the game of Craps to the city from Paris the past spring and for helping his father entertain the royal princes of the house of Bourbon during their exile to the colony five years before. Marigny was also an aide to the illustrious colonial prefect and representative of France, Laussat. Laussat himself was to be the guest of honor.

  Elene was nervous. She did not know why she should be, since she would have little to do during the evening. She had discussed with Benedict, Devota, and the cook the food that was to be served, from the turtle soup followed by red fish poached in a white sauce flavored with shrimp, crab, scallions, and red pepper, to the roast pork with new potatoes and green beans cooked with sausage and the dessert of fresh peach tarts. Still, though she herself would signal the removal of the courses, the responsibility for seeing that the various dishes were brought to the table in their proper order and proper form would not be hers alone. She might introduce a topic or two if the conversation should lag, but it was Ryan and his servants on whom the smooth progression of the evening would depend.

  It was her part, she thought, primarily to provide a calming influence in case words should become heated, and also to serve as an ornament for Ryan’s house. Whether she could do either was questionable.

  She took a great deal of care with her appearance, donning the most formal of her gowns, the only one that could be called a true evening gown. Of deep rose silk, it was intricately draped and folded over the breasts, while just underneath them fell the deep inverted pleat of a full skirt that in turn elongated into a small train in the back. Her gloves and slippers were of pale pink, and she wore several pink rosebuds nestled among the curls of her high-piled hair. For confidence, she also wore her perfume, an item that had now become such second nature to her that she felt naked without it.

  The guests arrived rather earlier than the normal dinner hour. The men who lived outside the city could not tarry long or they would find themselves locked up until morning. None seemed overly concerned at the possibility, unless it was Laussat who could not be expected to take so cavalier an attitude toward the prospect of bribing the Spanish guards as the others. It would not do to start an international incident, especially with matters so unsettled.

  Bernard Marigny was late and, when he arrived, brought with him a companion for whom he entreated a place. Hospitality was elastic in the colony; there was always room and a welcome for another guest. With the division of the sexes already standing at eleven men to one woman, there was no question of unbalancing a carefully constructed seating arrangement.

  While a servant took the hat and cane of Marigny’s companion, Elene turned to signal to the majordomo to lay another place at the table. At Benedict’s quick, annoyed bow, as if there was no need for her guidance, she turned back. Running through her mind was the knowledge that they would now sit down thirteen to dinner, but it could not matter. She was not superstitious herself, though she had discovered that many were here in New Orleans.

  A moment later, she was not so sanguine. The thirteenth guest was Durant Gambier. His smile was ironic as he bent over her hand, murmuring apologies. Gathering her composure around her, she made him welcome on Ryan’s behalf and turned away to speak to M’sieur de Bore.

  The discussion around the table was lively, even heated on occasion. The question of where matters stood on the cession of the colony was uppermost in everyone’s mind. Was it, or was it not, a fact? The Americans were laying in stocks of wine with which to toast the event on their holiday of the Fourth of July. The people on the streets rumbled with discontent, contending that if there was a chance that such a thing was to come to pass, they should surely be asked for their opinion. Laussat was worried, but had still received no official notification of such a transaction, so that his public posture must be one of disbelief.

  A man of no small attraction, perhaps in his late forties, Colonial Prefect Laussat had a luxuriant shock of hair, heavy-lidded and somewhat world-weary eyes, a firm mouth, and a cleft in his chin. He took great interest in his food, particularly those dishes containing ingredients native to the colony. He seemed reluctant to speak of his position, perhaps from the typical politician’s fear of saying something that might be misconstrued.

  He did make one small comment, however. Waving a negligent hand, he said, “Rumors of the cession are gaining ground, this I can certainly realize. The fluctuations of the political thermometer in this respect are indicated by the greater or lesser eagerness with which people seek me out. When I first came, that eagerness was great. Now it is on the decline.”

  “From what I gather,” Durant said as a respectful lull fell following the prefect’s remarks, “there will be great changes brought about if the cession is a fact. The prospect of trade will be considerably increased, and also the likelihood of profits for the men involved in that business.”

  The sneer in his voice made it obvious that he considered such trade beneath his dignity as a gentleman. It was also plain the slur was directed at Ryan.

  “Free access to the oceans of the world will stimulate trade, regardless of who is in power,” Ryan said.

  “But isn’t it true that you feel the chances are better under the United States than under Spain — or France?” The smile Durant directed at Ryan held a challenge. He knew Ryan’s views on the subject very well. What he meant to do, under the guise of polite comment, was to force Ryan to commit himself to a position that would annoy the colonial prefect at present and prove extremely embarrassing later should the cession be revealed as a hoax.

  Ryan leaned back in his chair, his smile urbane and his manner careless. “The greatest profit will always be generated by the country with the best access to those profits. I’m sure Napoleon could turn the Mississippi into a stream of purest gold — if the vast lands and wide rivers that empty into it were only located a bit nearer to Paris.”

  The colonial prefect nodded. “Distance can be a formidable object. But if France loses these lands, she loses a colony with a beautiful future. An area so large must become emancipated in time, but while it is ours it will be a source of wealth and a rich outlet for the mother country. Here we can form a new France. I have many plans to double agriculture and triple or quadruple trade, thus leaving behind a lasting and honorable monument to my time here. If this is not to be, if I cannot produce such good here, I will leave with profound regret.”

  Durant was silenced. There was some discussion of the Bowles incident, a furor created by a dynamic American soldier of fortune, William Augustus Bowles, who had thrown in his lot with the Creek Indians for the purpose of ousting the Spanish from the Americas, then fallen afoul of the Spanish government. Arrested, shipped from Mobile to Havana, and from Havana to the Philippines and on to Africa like some unwanted package, he had finally escaped and returned to the Creeks, only to be betrayed by his Indian friends for the sum of four thousand piasters. He had recently been through New Orleans on his way to prison in Havana.

  From Bowles, the conversation moved to the varieties of wild birds, from plovers to warblers to partridges, which could be eaten in Louisiana, and from there to the incredible heat that made poultry a bad buy in the markets. The prefect himself admitted he
had started a poultry yard below his gallery with chickens, geese, ducks, and peacocks for his table. In addition, he had a menagerie of a few sheep, one or two tame deer, and a half dozen raccoons.

  As the meal progressed, no little interest was directed at Elene, though none of it overt under Ryan’s watchful eye. If the gentlemen felt curiosity about her presence or her purpose, they did not voice it. She received a few languishing glances and a pretty compliment or two from young Bernard Marigny, who was known as a gallant, but there was nothing in it to which even a duenna could have objected.

  It was Durant who made her most uncomfortable. He stared at her as he had not since they were on the ship, as if he were a starving man and she a meal shut away from him behind bars. It made her extremely uncomfortable.

  In truth, she did not feel like flirtation. Whether from the strain of being constantly pleasant and keeping abreast of the crosscurrents of the discussion going on around her, or from the frequent refilling of the wine glasses, she grew aware of a sense of unreality. Her head began to ache, and the voices of the men seemed to rise and fall in waves. She was hot and her face felt flushed, but at the same time there seemed to be a faint tremor, almost like a chill, running along her skin.

  It was an abnormally hot night with a still quality to the air in which the whine of the mosquitoes ghosting through the open doors and feasting on their ankles under the tables had a harsh, threatening sound. Now and then there came the distant boom of what seemed to be thunder. Looking around the table, Elene saw that one or two of the men there were also flushed, particularly Laussat who had no experience of such debilitating heat.

  It was a relief when, as the meal ended, Laussat declared that he did not feel quite well and would like to get home before the rain that threatened began to fall. Several others followed the prefect’s example, among them Bernard Marigny and Durant. Elene was forced to stand beside Ryan at the door, accepting the salutes of her hand and the effusive compliments upon the evening as most of the others departed one by one.

  Finally only three or four men remained, among them Mazent, who claimed to have a proposition to discuss with Ryan for their mutual benefit. Madeira and a plate of sweetmeats was ordered brought to the salon where the men who remained were gathered. Ryan brushed Elene’s cheek with his lips and suggested that she go to bed, since he had no idea how long their meeting would last. She was glad enough to comply.

  Devota was not in the bedchamber when Elene reached it. To ring for her seemed too great an effort for the moment. Her head was bursting. She was so hot. She pulled the roses from her hair and looked around for a place to put them. The table was so far away. She closed her eyes, swaying. The roses dropped from her fingers. The bed. So soft. Cool on the moss mattress. Must reach it.

  Her knees would not work. Falling, falling.

  Funny it did not hurt to strike the floor.

  It was later, much later, when she heard Devota exclaiming, felt the maid’s hands removing her clothing. A cloth was placed against her face, and she shuddered away from the pain of it. Why was Devota crying?

  Strong arms lifting her. Floating. She remembered a dark courtyard and smiled. No. Another time.

  The bed at last. So soft. So hot. Darkness and the sound of rain. Light and the sound of rain. Soothing. Someone holding her, always holding her.

  Cloths moved over her body, cooling while steam rose from her hot skin. Something bitter, bitter on her tongue. She gagged and there was black liquid pouring from her mouth. She had not meant to vomit, so embarrassing. She knew that sight from Saint-Domingue. Black blood. Yellow fever. Somewhere a maid was screaming. Stupid girl.

  A hard voice rapped out order. Ryan. Darling Ryan. Quiet, blessed quiet inside her head. Still someone held her.

  Time expanded, and then collapsed. There was no night or day, only the aching, bone-cracking grasp of the fever and the faces that came and went above her. She tried to respond, to help them, but finally could do nothing more except retreat somewhere deep inside herself where everything was gray and still and no more effort was required. There she lingered, as a child playing hide-and-seek might remain hidden until it could catch its breath or the pursuit came near. And the grayness stretched around her, covering her in layers that grew deeper and deeper.

  From a pool of darkness and silence, Elene rose by slow degrees, floating up toward the sound of voices raised in supplication and in anger. On her tongue was the taste of one of Devota’s many infusions of herbs, a taste she recognized from her childhood. It was unpleasant, yet comforting. She opened her eyes.

  Around her bed, candles burned and there was a ring of white sand poured on the rug. Beside her stood Devota. The maid murmured a soft incantation while sprinkling her form under the linen sheet with some liquid from a calabash gourd she held in her hand.

  At the same time, a dapper man with a receding hairline and a pince-nez perched on his nose strode up and down in agitation, railing in the accents of academic Paris against such heathen ceremony when it was the science of chemistry and solutions of quinquina which must save the poor demoiselle. He, Dr. Blanquet Ducaila, professor of chemistry, had been given the honor of treating the colonial prefect for this terrible malady of the yellow fever, and had brought him through his crisis. He would do the same for Mademoiselle Larpent, if he were permitted. He had tried, truly he had tried. But never had he seen such ignorance as among the medical professionals here with their purgatives and emetics and bleedings, and now he must contend with this superstition of a savageness unimaginable. He was amazed! He was shocked! When he told his colleagues of it on his return to France, he would not be believed. If mademoiselle died, it was this creature of the Voudou who must answer to M’sieur Bayard. He would not care to face the merchant-privateer if it came to pass, not he!

  From under her lashes, Elene looked at her hands. They were yellow with jaundice and thin, so thin. She was damp with the sprinklings from Devota’s calabash, and a wet heat suffused her. She was so hot that her hair felt on fire against her neck and the weight of the sheet over her was nearly insupportable. There was no air in the room for every door and window was closed. The candle flames seemed like giant, roaring fires. She could hear them burning, feel their scorching heat. And the voices of the two who hovered around her went on and on, drumming in her head, filling it, rattling and rumbling, until the sense of the words was lost and the sound was only noise, maddening, inescapable noise.

  The door swung open. Ryan stepped into the room. He wore a dressing robe and his hair was tousled, as if he had risen from another bed somewhere. There were dark shadows under his eyes and the stubble of the beard on his chin seemed to shine with glints of silver, as if turning gray. He looked at Devota and the doctor in frowning annoyance as he demanded, “What is this noise?”

  They began to explain, both speaking together. Their voices roared in Elene’s ears. She closed her eyes with a soft moan in the back of her throat.

  “Enough!” Ryan said.

  The voices stopped. Ryan’s footsteps approached the bed with slow caution. “Chère?”

  She opened her eyes as if lifting weights of incalculable heaviness. She fastened her gaze on that of the man above her. “So hot,” she whispered.

  “I know. Don’t try to talk.”

  Ryan stared down at her with his heart twisting inside him. She was dying, he knew it, dying because he had brought her to New Orleans. If he had left her on Saint-Domingue … But thinking of that didn’t help. How he wished he could give her his strength, could take her pain upon himself. Why did it have to be her? Why?

  She should have been ugly with the jaundice of her skin and the fever that had burned away the little excess flesh on her bones. Instead, she looked refined and exalted as she lay with the candlelight shimmering in the waves of her hair and her eyes huge and bright with fever, like some saint caught in the throes of religious passion. No doubt it was blasphemy to think so when he should be praying for her, but he could not help hims
elf.

  Dear God, but he felt helpless. Maybe he should allow her to be bled; everyone said it was a spontaneous nose bleed two days ago that had saved Laussat. But it had also come close to killing him. The prefect had lain in a stupor for hours before the professor of chemistry he had brought with him from France had pronounced him out of danger.

  Perhaps they should sponge Elene off again; that seemed to help as much as anything. Ryan looked to Devota, on the verge of making the suggestion, but the woman stood with her eyes closed and her lips moving in her pagan incantation. The professor pulled at his lip, his eyes filled with doubt as he looked at the woman on the bed. Ryan looked back to Elene.

  She was staring at him with a plea in her eyes. Her voice was no more than a breath of sound as she spoke. “Outside?”

  “I don’t recommend it,” Doctor Ducaila said with decision. “The night air, you know. Quite noxious.”

  Devota opened her eyes. “You must not break the spell. Inside the ring of sand she is protected.”

  Elene’s hand twitched, inched toward him. He needed nothing more. He stepped to the bed and flung the sheet back to the foot in a single sweep.

  “I warn you, m’sieur,” the doctor said, “you run the risk of contagion yourself if you suffer more than the briefest touch of her skin.”

  Ryan gave the man a look of contempt. Pushing his hands under Elene, he scooped her up against him and swung toward the door that led to the gallery.

  Devota stepped in front of him. Ryan’s blue eyes were hard as they clashed with those of the maid, though his voice was soft in deference to the woman in his arms. “Open it,” he said.