by Toombs, Jane
Since 1724 the Code Noir, the Black Code, had ruled that not only must the Roman Catholic religion be the only one allowed in Louisiana, but that it must be taught to slaves by their masters. The Americans changed much of the Code, though, leaving mostly the sections pertaining to the Negroes: No marriages permitted between Negroes and whites; manumission of slaves by masters over twenty five or by such master's will. No concubinage.
The last provision wasn't enforced, of course.
Estelle opened the door to him. Guy looked about for Denis as he entered.
"Denis is playing with Henri down the street," she said, divining his glance.
"You asked me to come."
"Yes." She led him toward the bedroom and, after a brief hesitation, he followed.
Just inside the bedroom door, Estelle stopped and gestured toward the foot of the bed. He stepped past her and saw that Denis' old cradle had been taken from storage. For a moment he didn't realize there was a baby in the cradle. He stared at the child.
Estelle reached in and picked up the infant, a very tiny child, he noticed, far smaller than Denis had ever been. She thrust the baby at Guy. He backed away.
"Take him," she said, her dark eyes glittering.
Guy made no effort to hold out his arms, and after a time she laid the infant on the bed and undressed him. The boy woke and began to scream, waving his arms and kicking vigorously. He was small, but certainly sounded healthy enough.
"What do you think?" Estelle asked.
"He's small."
"He came early, two days ago. He wasn't to be born until August. No wonder he's tiny, he wasn't finished growing." Her voice was angry.
Yes, of course it was Estelle's baby, whose had he thought it might be? He'd let it be known he didn't care to hear Estelle's name mentioned, so no one had told him of her pregnancy.
“His name is Anton. Does that suit you?" she asked.
"What has his name to do with me?"
"I said he wasn't meant to be born so soon—you can see for yourself it's true. He was made in November of last year. Whether the father was you or Francois, the boy is certainly a La Branche and must be acknowledged."
Chapter 15
By January Guy entered Anton La Branche in the parish register as his son. He came to see both boys often, though his relationship with Estelle remained cool and distant.
Anton was indeed a La Branche—he looked very like Madelaine had as a child, though he was much darker. He was darker than Denis, too, who, as far as Guy could tell, didn't resemble anyone except Aimee. Sometimes he felt neither child was his blood son, but he'd grown fond of Denis and even baby Anton, whose merry smile was enchanting. He'd continue to see them, and make certain they were educated.
The year went by, and Guy had not taken a placee since that bastard Nicolas had stolen Roxanne for his own. As 1811 came and went, Guy began to worry more about Madelaine remaining a spinster than he did about his own needs.
In November, he sat in on the constitutional convention at Tremoulet's Coffee House, afterwards again urging Andre Lafreniere to run for the legislature.
"Me draw up laws? I'm no lawyer," Andre protested.
"You don't need to be. Any Creole of sense can decide what's best for Louisiana. You can't deny you're a man of sense."
Andre grinned. "Well, it's true I wouldn't let them change our name. Imagine wanting to call la belle Louisiane after the President. Can you imagine if we had to become the state of Jefferson? Never! I'd blow the lot of them sky high before I'd allow such an abomination!"
After the parties and celebrations ushered in the new year of 1812, Guy decided he could wait no longer to speak frankly to his sister.
"Madelaine," he told her at breakfast during the second week of January, "you must think of marriage."
"I have."
"And?"
She gazed across the table, her face somber. "What if I were to say I was in love and wanted to marry an Americain. Or a—a Roulleaux? Would that make you happy?"
"Be serious."
"Perhaps I am serious."
"You know Dr. Kellogg is no longer in the city. He's been gone for almost five years. Surely you don't still think of him. As for a Roulleaux, I find your mention of them in bad taste. Certainly not in the least amusing. I'd see both Nicolas and Philippe dead before I'd let you marry either of them."
"It seems I'll have to remain a spinster then, since you've eliminated all possible suitors."
Guy sighed. "I don't understand why you won't be logical. There are many eligible young men who'd be pleased and happy if you'd encourage them. Yet you flutter among them like a butterfly, never landing anywhere. Soon they'll all take wives and you'll be too old for the young blades."
She shrugged. "No one suits me. Please don't concern yourself on my account. Senalda has been dead for five years and you're still single. You carry the name, not I." He stared at her, knowing she must be thinking, as he was, of the old Roulleaux curse about the La Branche name dying before the seventh generation. Nonsense.
"I realize you have two free black sons," Madelaine went on, "but since neither of them can be a La Branche heir, shouldn't you be the one to consider marrying?"
"I intend to marry," he snapped. "Someday." Madelaine never seemed to understand that it wasn't proper for her to mention the boys.
"Someday I, too, plan to marry.” she told him. "Why don't we drop the subject before you become angry? There are many other matters you might speak of—the marvelous steamboat of the Americains at the dock, for one. I'm told she can travel upriver as easily as down."
He said nothing for a moment, then grinned reluctantly at her. "I'll miss you when you do leave to marry," he told her. "And, yes, the New Orleans sails readily up the Mississippi. A strange looking craft with both sails and her steam powered paddle wheels. The unfortunate thing is that two Americans have exclusive rights to steam navigation on the river in exchange for building and operating the steamboats. Always they seek to shut out the Creoles."
"Can't someone challenge this so called right?"
"In the courts. The matter would drag on for years while the Americans continued to enjoy their monopoly."
"Still. .."
He nodded. "As you say, it should be done."
On the last day of April, Louisiana became the eighteenth state to join the union, just in time to be included in the United States when Congress, at President Madison's request, declared war on Great Britain.
By August, two British warships bottled up the mouth of the Mississippi and goods began to pile high on the New Orleans docks—a hundred thousand bales of cotton, thousands of pounds of sugar and tobacco in hogsheads.
The coffee houses buzzed with indignation. After all, were not those English pigs traditional enemies of Frenchmen?
In August of 1814 the British burned the Capitol in Washington, infuriating Americains, though the Creoles felt little, not yet used to being a part of the United States.
But when the British joined the Spanish in Florida, New Orleans took notice—Florida was much closer than Washington. The Creoles might grumble about Americains, but the British were enemies.
In November, General Andrew Jackson defeated the British at Mobile Bay. He then took over Pensacola, ousting the British who were "guests" of the Spanish governor there, after which he marched toward New Orleans to command its defense as the British fleet, with upwards of fifty sail, set forth from Jamaica, heading for the mouth of the Mississippi.
Andrew Jackson rode into New Orleans on December first, the cannon of Fort St. Charles thundering their greeting. Guy stood in the drizzle among the spectators, Madelaine by his side, staring at the tall thin general whose iron grey hair bristled from his head like porcupine quills.
"Is it true he married his wife before she was divorced from her first husband?" Madelaine asked.
"I hear he still carries a bullet in his shoulder from one of the many duels he's fought over that rumor," Guy told her.
/> Jackson's fierce blue gaze raked the crowd, meeting Guy's for an electric second before sweeping on.
"Faucon," Guy said. "The man has the eyes of a hawk."
"See how thin he is. He doesn't look well to me. Perhaps he needs good Creole food to fatten him up." Madelaine caught her brother's arm. "Is it really true there'll be a battle here?"
"I've been telling you so for over a year."
"But there's been no fighting near us. I thought it was only worry on your part." She stared up at Jackson who was being greeted by Governor Claiborne and Mayor Girod. "Now, seeing him, I begin to believe you. He's altogether like a bird of prey. He'll attack."
"I’ll be with him when he does," Guy vowed grimly.
A motley group of men formed Jackson's army. General Coffee, brought twelve hundred Tennesseans, eight hundred of them mounted.
Major General Carroll came behind him with three thousand Tennessee militiamen. Major Hind rode in with his Mississippi dragoons. Major General Thomas sent a message saying he was heading to New Orleans with twenty three hundred Kentucky militia.
In the city itself, Creoles and free men of color flocked to join volunteer and militia groups.
Guy, with thirty other young Creoles, joined John Beale's Volunteer Rifles. Since all were excellent marksmen, they became sharpshooters, wearing a uniform of blue hunting shirts and wide brimmed ebony black hats.
At first Jackson rejected offers of help from Jean and Pierre Lafitte and their crew of Baratarian privateers, calling them "hellish banditti." But the Louisiana legislature saw things differently, and agreed to grant the Baratarians amnesty for past crimes if they would serve with the United States Army.
Jackson soon relented. The general needed men who knew the bayous and coulees below the city, since the British fleet lay offshore in the gulf and he had no way of knowing which of the thousands of waterways they might choose for their landing barges.
With Jean Lafitte's help, Jackson narrowed the possibilities down to five. An attack by way of the Mississippi River was the least likely, the general felt, since he'd reinforced the two forts at the entrance from the gulf. There was the possibility of an attack from the north via Lake Pontchartrain, from the east through Lake Borgne, from the west via the River La Fourche, or from the south through Lake Barataria. The last was unlikely with Lafitte on the American side.
In December, when British vessels drove Jackson's fleet of gunboats from Lake Borgne, east of the city, sinking or capturing them all, part of the question was answered. The attack would come from the east. But now there were miles of bayous and coulees between the lake and the city to worry about, and no way to keep an eye on every one. The two most obvious routes from the lake were via Vellere’s Canal or via Bayou Terra Aux Bouefs. Reinforcements were dispatched to both.
As La Belle was all too near Villere's Canal, Guy hurried to the plantation to insist Madelaine leave.
"But why?" she asked.
"The plantation's directly in the path of any British troops that might slip past the sentries," he said. "You can't stay in the house another day. Why are you so stubborn? All the other women have left the left bank plantations below the city—why won't you listen to reason? How can I go off and fight knowing you're not safe?"
"If they burned Washington, won't the British do the same to La Belle if no one is here to stop them?"
He threw his hands in the air. "President Madison couldn't stop them. What chance have you?"
Madelaine bit her lip, looking about the familiar rooms of the manor house. Generations of La Branches had furnished the house, bringing heirlooms from France. She knew and loved everything in the place.
"If you say I must go, I will," she said, "but I intend to see that more of our belongings are sent ahead to the townhouse. I'll supervise the servants in the loading of the wagons, and then I will leave."
"You must be in New Orleans before nightfall."
"Yes, I'll leave as soon as I see the wagons go off."
"You must promise. Beale allowed me only enough time to come and warn you, and I must go now. The Rifles are on the alert for an attack."
"I promise, Guy. I'll leave La Belle and follow the wagons into town. It's hours until sunset—stop worrying and return to your unit."
"I'll have the wagons brought up before I leave." He started out, then turned to look at her. "British officers may be gentlemen, Madelaine, but their soldiers, like ours, are not. There's serious danger for you here.
"I promised you I would leave, and I will. Please go ahead, Guy. Don't keep on at me. The sooner I get servants started with the loading, the sooner I'll be in New Orleans."
When Guy had ridden off toward the city along the levee road, Madelaine began showing the house slaves what to pack into the wagons. All but Odalie would be staying at La Belle.
"What they be like, the British soldiers?" Josefina asked. "Maybe they will kill us all?"
"You'll be safe enough," Madelaine said. "If they do come here, which I hope they don't, just serve them as you would any Creole. They'll not hurt you."
Guy had said that the British had incited the Chitimacha Indians to rise up against the Creoles, and would probably urge the slaves to do the same, but Madelaine had no intention of saying such a thing to them.
"Be careful with that ormolu clock," she warned Josefina, who seemed ready to drop it. "Put it in the second wagon with the tapestries."
Josefina was back in a few moments, the clock still in her hands. "Ancin say the wheel be broke off, he need to fix it before you go. We be taking everything out of the wagon."
"Well, put the clock in the first wagon, then."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Ancin say that no good Bris be halfway to New Orleans by now, he whip up the horse with the first wagon half loaded, say he ain't coming back to La Belle."
"Why didn't Ancin tell me? Just wait until I see that Bris!" Madelaine debated sending someone after Bris, decided it would be a waste of time. None of the slaves except Ancin would be able to make Bris return to La Belle, and she needed Ancin here. There'd been only the two wagons left since Guy had taken the others for army use.
"Ancin trying to keep the wheel on, he don't be running to tell you. He yell at Bris, but Bris don't stop."
Madelaine sighed and went out with Josefina to look at the damaged wagon.
"Axle be broke. I be making a new one," Ancin said.
"How long?"
"Take some time." He squinted at the sky. "By sundown, maybe."
Madelaine bit her lip. She could follow the runaway wagon into town, leaving more than half of what she meant to take from La Belle behind, or she could wait for Ancin to make the new axle.
"By sunset," she repeated.
"Somewheres like that, Mademoiselle."
Guy would be furious if she waited. Still, he'd be with Beale's Rifles, not at the townhouse, so he'd never know. And she'd be keeping her promise, she'd be following the wagon into town. A bit later than she meant to, that's all.
"You fix the wagon," she told Ancin. "Let me know the minute it's ready."
At dusk, Ancin was still struggling with the wagon by lantern light. He gave a dozen reasons why it took so long, one being that Bris usually "handled the wood."
As it grew darker, Madelaine was forced to consider two options: she could ride into New Orleans now, without the wagon, or she could wait and hope the wagon would be ready to use by morning.
She decided to wait.
Before sunup, when the sky had barely begun to lighten, Odalie shook Madelaine's shoulder, rousing her.
"Hurry, we got to be going. He say right now, got to go right now."
Madelaine sat up. The usually imperturbable Odalie was trembling, the brown of her eyes ringed with white.
"What's the matter? Who told you this?" Madelaine demanded.
"Bras Coupe. He say they coming. Them British."
Bras Coupe. Cut off Arm. Madelaine had heard his name whispered
by the slaves before. And cursed by the Creoles.
"He say give you this." Odalie held out a tiny bell that tinkled as Madelaine took it from her.
Madelaine had guessed that the legendary Bras Coupe, the renegade slave who lived in the swamps and eluded all pursuers, was the giant black she'd once helped. Now she was certain.
"Rouse the others," she told Odalie. "I want that wagon loaded if it's ready." She went to the wardrobe, and pulled out some clothes.
"The wagon be fixed. Bras Coupe, he say hurry, that don't be looking like we got time to load that wagon."
"I'm not going to leave my belongings for the British!"
"Stubborn, never did see such a stubborn," Odalie muttered as she hurried from the room.
Madelaine dressed rapidly and ran downstairs, where bleary eyed servants were stumbling in from their quarters.
"The wagon," she cried. "Load the wagon. Start with the pile of things in the foyer."
Soon after the sun rose, the repaired and loaded wagon was ready to go.
"Ancin, you stay here and keep order among the men," Madelaine ordered. "Odalie and I will drive the wagon ourselves, with Empress tied behind. Keep the dogs in the stables, I don't want them following us."
He gazed past her with slack jaw, not answering, seemingly stupefied. Madelaine turned to see what he stared at and confronted a soldier in a red tunic and plumed helmet.
"Miss, I fear you are my prisoner," he said in English.
A British soldier!
Madelaine didn't answer. I won't let them know I understand English, she decided quickly. She drew herself up haughtily. "Je ne comprends pas," she said.
"Prisoner, prisoner," the soldier repeated, louder. She thought he must be an officer for he wore more gold braid than the redcoats she saw behind him.
"Prisonnier?" she cried. "Allez-vous en! Laissez moi tranquille."
The British officer shook his head not understanding that she’d told him to go away and stop bothering her.
He motioned toward the house, then toward her, an unmistakable invitation for her to go inside. Head high, she sailed past him into the house. He followed her, leaving the front door open.
