The Cards Don't Lie
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Praise for The Cards Don’t Lie
“Vivid depiction of New Orleans’ most significant historical event, as Andrew Jackson gathers Creoles, pirates, and free people of color to oppose a massive British assault. With the military drama being played out against the full Jambalaya of America’s most intriguing city—settings range from Creole mansions and Ursuline convents to Quadroon Balls and Congo Square. It’s amazing to me how much social and historical information has been deftly folded into this compelling narrative. I couldn’t put it down!”
—DR. BRUCE ELLIOTT, professor of history
at Stanford, UC Berkeley, and Sonoma State
“Three strong female protagonists give fresh perspectives on a culture unique to New Orleans during the imminent British assault. Love, loss, and class anxieties mingle with war and triumphant resilience. A vibrant and engaging story!”
—TOM MITCHELL, PhD, author of the Winning Spirit series
“A dramatic story full of rich historical details. A free woman of color who acts as the local healer/midwife, a young white prostitute who yearns for a better life, and a Creole plantation mistress desperate to provide a son for her husband—these and other colorful characters navigate the tumultuous events surrounding the Battle of New Orleans. Race and class barriers fall in this tale of patriotism and war, love and loss.”
—BARBARA RIDLEY, author of When It’s Over
“As Sue Finan develops her characters, the reader is drawn in by the historic detail of New Orleans in the early 1800s. This is the setting for a story of strong women, from different walks of life, using their strengths to help Andrew Jackson win the Battle of New Orleans. A great read.”
—GABRIEL A. FRAIRE, Healdsburg, Ca.
Literary Laureate Emeritus
“Contrary to what many history books would have us believe, wars have never been fought by men alone. Set in the vibrant city of New Orleans during the War of 1812, Sue Ingalls Finan’s historical novel The Cards Don’t Lie braids the experiences of individuals from a wide range of cultures, classes, races, and genders to create a fuller picture of that conflict, and especially of the crucial roles that women played in it. Finan’s extensive research helps to bring both the setting and its characters to life for modern readers.”
—JEAN HEGLAND, author of Into the Forest,
Windfalls, and Still Time
“The best historical fiction enriches our understanding when the historical evidence is scarce—but can also give voice to those who are usually overlooked, such as women and people of color. Sue Finan’s The Cards Don’t Lie admirably accomplishes both of these objectives. An enjoyable journey through an underappreciated era in American history— the War of 1812 and, more specifically, the events surrounding the dramatic Battle of New Orleans—the author employs an innovative narrative structure, using cryptic yet revealing tarot cards, that propels the story forward at a dramatic pace.”
—CHRISTOPHER D. O’SULLIVAN, Professor of history
and international studies at University of San Francisco
author of Harry Hopkins: FDR’s Envoy to Churchill
and Stalin, Colin Powell: A Political Biography,
FDR and The End of Empire: The Origins of American Power
in the Middle East, and Sumner Welles: Postwar Planning
and the Quest for a New World Order, 1937-1943
Copyright © 2018 Sue Ingalls Finan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2018
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-451-6 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-63152-452-3 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018941947
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To Jim:
I did not know this writing was in my cards
Until you inspired me
With love
September 1780
“The most important battle of your life will take place where the trees have beards. Some men wear the skins of animals, and an outlaw will ensure your victory. And I see three plucky and extraordinary women. Quite mysterious,” says the gypsy, as she splays the cards out on the table. “Just who are you, boy?”
“My name is Andy. Andy Jackson.”
Tarot: THE HIGH PRIESTESS
Revelation: Hidden influences will be at work.
August 1812
Her arms outspread, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, the priestess began speaking. Yet it was not her normal voice; this utterance was a much lower-pitched and distinctive sound. It was the loa who was giving emphatic instructions, and the client listened carefully.
“You will protect yourself by burying a small bag of ginger and mandrake roots in your backyard. Once you have buried them, you will sprinkle rainwater over them. Burn a white candle of peace and gratitude each night for nine nights.”
The energy then seemed to diminish, and moments later it was gone. The priestess, as if emerging from a trance, focused her eyes on the client and smiled. Now speaking in her customary way, she said, “Go in peace and abide in plenty.”
“Thank you, Catherine,” replied the patron.
Tarot: THE NINE OF SWORDS
Revelation: Desolation; failure; misery; suffering.
Sheila gently wiped her exhausted daughter’s forehead with a damp cloth. “You’re doing well, Marguerite. It’ll be just a little bit longer, and then you and Jacques will be parents!”
The elderly doctor, summoned to the large manor house the day before, nodded his head. Holding his forceps like a conductor’s baton, he was prepared to aid the wife of the plantation owner in the final stage of delivery.
“Would you like some more water, dear?” asked Sheila.
Instead of answering her mother’s question, Marguerite’s face turned crimson as she grasped the bedsheets. Her body grew rigid as she screamed, “It’s ripping my insides out! I can’t take this much longer!”
“Yes, you can, Marguerite,” replied Sheila. “Remember how we talked about it? I think labor pains are similar to the most severe stomach cramps ever. And that’s what you’re experiencing. Why, your friend Claudia said it was as if you had to pass a cannonball inside you!” She laughed at the memory.
Marguerite, though, did not laugh. She roared again in pain.
Sheila responded, “My goodness! You sound like a bellowing bull, my darling! Now, you need to be brave.”
Patting her daughter’s hand, she continued, “Think of Jacques—how pleased he’ll be to be a papa! And I guarantee once the baby is here, your pain will be practically forgotten.”
Marguerite shrieked again. “It’s like a red-hot poker! Get it out of me!”
Sheila looked at the doctor questioningly.
“The tissues at the opening of her birth canal are rupturing,” he whispered.
“I heard that,” Marguerite cried. “I’m going to die!”
“Nonsense! Happens all the time! Bear down now, Madame de Tr
ahan,” the doctor said cheerfully.
She gripped the sheets again and pushed down with all of her strength. Her baby crowned.
“Ahhh! Just one more big push, now, Madame de Trahan,” encouraged the doctor, as he encircled the baby’s head with his instrument.
Marguerite took a deep breath, held it while tightening her body, and then bore down again, shoving the child out into the doctor’s reach. She groaned, then grunted and sank back on her pillow.
“Congratulations, my darling! It’s all over, and now you’re a mother!” exclaimed Sheila, as she bent over to kiss Marguerite’s forehead.
Straightening up to address the doctor, she asked, “And do I have a grandson?”
Silence.
Made apprehensive by the doctor’s silence, Sheila moved to his side.
The doctor held the lifeless infant, the umbilical cord wrapped three times around his tiny neck, shook his head sadly, and whispered, “I’m afraid the boy did not make it, Sheila.”
Marguerite’s eyes grew wide as she saw the regret on her mother’s face and the motionless, diminutive body the doctor was holding and screamed once more.
“Noooooooo!”
Tarot: THE EIGHT OF CUPS
Revelation: The decline of an undertaking,
often accompanied by despondency.
It was another of the Capitol’s hot, humid days in late summer. Dressed in his customary black suit, President James Madison was in his office in the new mansion, preparing for a meeting with his cabinet. His face was wizened with worry; this “second war of independence” against England was quickly aging him. He wiped his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief once again.
There was a hammering knock at the door, and Edward Coles, Madison’s personal secretary, charged in.
“Edward! You look distressed!”
“Bad news, Mr. President. Another of our merchant ships was seized on its way to France. All of its cargo was taken.”
“Damn those British!” Madison flung down his quill and stood up.
“Any casualties?” he asked the taller man.
“Not this time, sir. But they did take some of the crew.”
“First, Jefferson’s embargo didn’t work, and now we’re stuck in this war,” said the president, as he sat down.
“Yes, sir. Up and down the seaboard, the people are suffering massive hardships, and they are furious. No one prospers when commodities are rotting on the docks, waiting to be loaded on the few ships willing to risk sailing.”
“More hypocrites, Edward. The merchants up and down the northeast coastline, the richest men in the nation, crying over the embargo against England while refusing to give a ha’penny for support of our navy.”
His secretary agreed. “Even though you limited the trade sanctions of the Embargo Act to only England, the merchants blame you for the depression, their idle ships, and the unemployed seamen cluttering the ports.”
“Well, at least the English can’t seize the ships or impress the sailors while they are tied to the docks. They can call it the Dambargo all they want, but they are making plenty of money on the damn smuggling up the coast to Canada.”
He paused, thinking of the pro-war arguments of war hawks Henry Clay and John Calhoun. But without unified popular support from the country, the war effort was enfeebled. Besides the East Coast’s lack of assistance, many troops in the militias refused to fight outside their own states. Plus, the Commander-in-Chief suspected that a number of his generals were incompetent.
“Anything else, Edward?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “I’m feeling the onset of another headache.”
“Unfortunately, yes, sir. Our defense of the northern territories is not going well.”
“Is this another Fort Michilimackinac, where we gave up—raised the white flag without firing a shot?” asked Madison.
“Worse, sir,” answered Edward. “The Potawatomi Indians have massacred the entire Fort Dearborn garrison and the civilians under their protection.”
“Another disaster, and another of our isolated frontier forts gone, thanks to the damn English supplying guns and powder to the Indians. Yet my miserly opponents in Congress are against increasing the army by more than a few thousand men, at the same time insisting the way to win this war is to conquer all of Canada—all of Canada. Do they have any idea the size of the army needed to take and hold all of Canada?”
Edward shook his head. “They’re not accountable. You are the Commander-in-Chief, sir.”
The President pinched his nose and massaged his sinuses. The headache was getting worse. He sat down again while his secretary waited.
“Any good news?”
“No. Brigadier General William Hull, at Fort Detroit, supposedly in order to avoid a massacre, surrendered his troops.”
“Supposedly?” repeated the President, raising an eyebrow.
“Sources say that we actually outnumbered the British, sir. Some say that it was a cowardly act on Hull’s part.”
“The entire garrison?”
“General Hull had over two thousand troops, sir; plus we lost twenty-five hundred muskets and thirty cannon.”
“Devastating, Edward. And Forts Niagara and Erie have been fiascos also. It’s been only two months, and already we have no army left in the West.”
Edward nodded in agreement. Mr. Madison’s War was not going well.
Tarot: THE KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
Revelation: The coming of an ordinary matter.
There was a knock at the door.
“Madame Caresse, Madame Caresse, s’il vous plaît?” It was a child’s voice, at first hesitant with her request.
After a short pause, the knocking became a rapid pounding. And, no longer hesitant, the child was screaming. “Madame Caresse, it’s urgent! You must come right away!”
Mumbling, “I hear you, I hear you!” under her breath, Hortense shuffled her large-boned frame toward the front of her mistress’s cottage. Yawning, she opened the door; it was five o’clock in the morning, and she had awakened only fifteen minutes ago.
“Entre, mon petit chou,” she said, looking down at the neighbor girl, Antoinette. “My, my! For being only seven years old, you make an awfully big noise! So I guess ta mère is having her baby now?”
“Oui,” replied Antoinette, wringing her hands, “and Maman is moaning an awful lot!”
The maid nodded. “You sit down here in the salle by that fire Scamp just lit, and I’ll get Madame Catherine.”
“No need, Hortense,” said Catherine Caresse, coming into the parlor, her petite figure already clothed in a practical shift. Catherine’s hazel eyes sparkled as she greeted her young neighbor. “Salut, Antoinette! I had a feeling your maman would be delivering soon; we had a full moon last night!”
“Oui, she started having the pains yesterday before dinnertime, Madame Caresse, but she wanted to wait until they got really close before calling for you.”
“Your maman, she did not eat dinner, did she?”
“No, she was not hungry,” replied Antoinette.
“Très bien. Hortense, is the café ready?”
“Oui, madame. I put the water on to boil as soon as the fire was ready and the lanterns lit.”
“Excellent! A cup before we go, then.”
“But, madame, you must come now; my maman, her pains are close!” pleaded the girl, continuing to twist her hands.
“Now, Antoinette, to leave the house without sitting for coffee is bad luck, and this is a day when we must have the best of good fortune. Come, sit! Hortense, do we have any sweets for the café?”
“Oui, Madame,” replied Hortense, as she filled four cups with steaming coffee. “There are a few molasses biscuits in the tin on the buffet. I’ll put them on a plate.”
“Excellent,” said Catherine. “Scamp! Come on out and join us!”
A young boy of color, about three years older than Antoinette, slipped out from the back gallery. “Hello, Antoinette! Nice to see you. Awfully early, but ni
ce!” he said with a shy smile.
“Hi, Scamp” was her bashful reply.
Hortense sat down after bringing the biscuits to the table. Scamp immediately helped himself to two of them. The two women sipped their coffee as Antoinette squirmed in her chair.
“Antoinette, do you have hot water available?”
“Oui, madame. And we have lots of clean cloths for Maman and le bébé.”
Catherine took a final sip of her drink. “As always, excellent café, Hortense! And the cookies are still fresh and delicious!”
“Thank you, madame.”
“I think it is time to get the street lantern, since it is still dark.” Smiling at Antoinette, she said, “It seems that our little cabbage here has no appetite for coffee or sweets.”
Jumping up from her chair, Antoinette cried, “So, we can go now?”
“Oui, we’ll be on our way. Hortense, is my valise ready?”
“Yes—as always, here by the door,” answered the dark-skinned maid, as she walked toward the entryway.
“Good! I believe Antoinette can help me with that.”
Handing Antoinette the medicine bag, Hortense gazed into the child’s eyes. “You are to carry this for Madame Catherine. Now, be careful, chou! There are medicine bottles and poultices inside. Can you do that?”
Antoinette slowly nodded.
“Scamp will carry the lantern. And don’t worry, Antoinette; Madame Catherine is the best midwife in La Nouvelle-Orléans. Ta mère is going to be fine!”
Antoinette looked solemnly at her and said, “Oui, Madame Hortense!”
“Thank you, Hortense,” said Catherine. “I believe we’re prepared. I put some candy and toys on the altar for Papa Legba, and I have his talisman in my pocket for Jeanette to hold.”
Catherine took her shawl off the peg by the doorway and wrapped it around her shoulders. After tucking her light brown, curly hair under her tignon, she held the door open for her young neighbor. “So, Antoinette”—she smiled—“do you think you will soon have a brother or a sister?”