The Canadian Civil War: Volume 5 - Carbines and Calumets

by William Wresch

  Chapter 8 –

  A little history might help

  Elise and I had a long talk after I got back to the hotel. The ministry had people watching out for me, but they really weren’t able to deal with the amount of trouble I seemed to be attracting. Maybe I should come back to Green Bay. That was the smart move, and clearly the obvious choice. I decided not to be smart, but also not to be stupid. I had only been in town a little over twenty four hours. I had barely seen the place. I would give it another day, maybe two at the most and then get back home. The silence at the other end of the line made Elise’ reaction clear. If she could teleport me out of town, she would do it. But she didn’t object. She made me promise to be careful, and then she was off the line, no doubt to call the local security detail and ask for more men.

  I dropped into bed and got some sleep, but every time I turned my body I rolled over onto one cut or another and woke up again. In the morning I found a number of blood spots on the sheets. I was going to have to tip the housekeeping staff pretty seriously. After another shower and another clumsy attempt at bandaging myself, I went down to breakfast.

  I discovered management had been protecting me. A dozen or so folks were waiting to speak with me, all held back at the hotel entrance by three hotel employees. Henri, the manager, waited until I was seated at a table and then came over to me with a piece of paper. He had taken the names of all the people standing outside. He would let any in who I wished to speak to; all others were staying right where they were. I thanked him, took the list, and ordered breakfast.

  Did I want to speak to these people? No, I wanted to eat breakfast. But I took the list and saw two names I would speak to – one a friend, and one an officious little… well, talking to him was a duty of my citizenship. I would talk to my friend first. I got up and walked to the entrance. Andre Guillard was standing in the back of the group, waiting patiently. You have to love librarians, they are such good and kind and gentle people. He smiled when he saw me. I pushed my way through the others at the door and shook his hand.

  “Thank you so much for visiting me. I apologize for this wait at the door. Please come join me for breakfast.” And we entered the hotel together, ignoring the calls to “Doctor Murphy” from the strangers around us. “It is kind of you to come see me. How are things at the provincial library?” I asked as we took seats at my table. A waiter appeared instantly and took Guillard’s order for a cup of coffee and a croissant.

  “We still have a budget. In these times there are many higher priorities than libraries, but still we have not been cut too badly. I think maybe they have forgotten about us, and maybe that is a good thing.” He had a big smile at this point. Given all that was going on around him, I am sure that just maintaining normal activities seemed like a victory of sorts.

  “I am pleased to hear that. You have an important collection. Your archives especially, are unique. They are a treasure.”

  “I have come to talk with you about some things I found there. By the way, I was very sorry about what happened yesterday, and I am pleased that you look so well today, although a bandage near your throat seems to be slipping.” He was right. I reached up and pressed a bandage down, hoping it might stay down for at least a little while.

  “I have no medical skills. You would think applying a simple adhesive bandage would be easy. For me, it is a challenge. But tell me what you found.”

  “I heard that you and Minister DuPry had spent some time in Kaskaskia. I could see why that town would be attractive to you as you studied the early trading patterns of the country. So I did a search of our archives, and I have found five diaries that might be of interest to you. Each of them tells of travels by New Orleans community leaders to Kaskaskia, and their interactions with Claude Jolliet and others. Here are their catalog numbers.” He handed me a sheet of paper with the names and numbers of the diaries.

  “This is a phenomenal gift. Would it be possible for me to visit the archives later today?”

  “Of course.” I put the paper in my pocket, patted my bandage down yet again, and we moved on to other topics. He was engaged with the local historical society, so we talked a bit about last year’s wagon train reenactment, and then about current meetings of the group. It seemed the big money had moved on to other projects, and the local society was back to meeting on folding chairs in various places. He seemed happy to get his society back to the way it had been before, a small group of mostly elderly people who had no money or influence, but had a great regard for the achievements of the past.

  Eventually we finished our meal and our conversation. I thanked him for his time and promised to see him later in the day. So much for my pleasant visit. Now that I was fortified with food and coffee, I would see the other visitor, the representative of my country. I walked Guillard to the front entrance, pointed to the consular rep, motioned for him to follow, and returned to my table.

  I sat down and pointed to a chair across from me. Yes, I know my manners were lacking. Where was the handshake and the greeting? What can I say, I didn’t like being called a “bit of a journalist.” I could also tell from the expression on his face, this was not a social call.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I can at least go through the motions if I wish.

  “This is not a social call.” See? I told you so.

  “So you are not here to check on my well being?”

  “I am here because I spoke with you yesterday about the need to have evidence before you make wild accusations, yet I have seen your blog. The Foster brothers are your fellow Americans, and they have rights. By the way, they have taken ads in all the newspapers that used pieces of your blog – and many did not since they knew you were guilty of libel – and the Fosters have reminded the public that you represent a competing business family and have obviously photoshopped the images you used.”

  “You mean the image of Charles Desautels before he had his head blown apart?”

  “Don’t be dense.”

  “You are right. This isn’t a social call. But you did your job. You delivered the message the Fosters wanted you to deliver. Are we done?”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t the LNA that shot you up? Why would you blame your countrymen rather than a bunch of pretend warriors from a pretend country? You admit you never saw the gun fight they claim happened.”

  “If it was the LNA, why didn’t they finish us off on the boat? We were lying in the cabin bleeding and half buried under kitchen appliances. They could have killed us then and there. Instead, they took us to a hospital.”

  “They certainly look like heroes this way.”

  “They were heroes. I am sure David Starr feels that way. Speaking of which, how is your colleague doing?”

  “Once he was stabilized, he was put on a plane to Philadelphia. I understand he is in serious condition, but they expect him to survive.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. Now, don’t you think you should be looking for the people who shot your colleague?”

  “I know how to do my job.”

  “Yes, but what exactly is your job?” He didn’t answer that. We engaged in a bit of a stare down, and then he got up and walked out the door. As he walked away, I wondered if I had hit on the right question. What was his job? What was he after? For some reason I was reminded of the conversation I had with Senator Dodson and the answer he gave when I asked what the position of the US was. He said the U.S. was a democracy, so it didn’t have a position, it had thousands of positions, one for every power broker in the country. I wondered if that applied to consulates as well. Too bad I couldn’t ask Starr. He would at least tell me if he and this guy sang from the same hymnal. My guess was they didn’t.

  So now what? I liked the idea of going to the provincial library to see the diaries Guillard had set aside for me. But how could I get out of the hotel without talking to all the folks at the front entrance. Several were from new
spapers. They had made that clear from shouted questions when I had gone outside before. I didn’t want to talk to them. I have no trouble with news people; I read their papers every morning. But did I want to do interviews? No. I was here to learn what I could, and then leave. Pardon me for being selfish with my time.

  I signed for my breakfast and then walked over to the manager’s office. First, I needed to thank him. He was handling a bad situation really well. I hoped the other guests saw how well guests were protected here and passed the word. This was a quality hotel and deserved more business. But I had one more favor to ask – a back way out. Henri seemed to be ready for the request. He just smiled and walked toward the kitchen. I followed him through the kitchen, through a pantry, and out a back door. I shook his hand and did a quick walk through the alley and out to the street. The provincial library was just six blocks away, and I was there in record time.

  I thought there might be some drama going through security, but Mr. Guillard had been working in the lobby, keeping an eye out for me, and the minute I was through the front door he came over and buzzed me through.

  “I hope you find these diaries useful. They are from different years, roughly a fifty year time spread from when people from New Orleans first ventured up to Kaskaskia to when it became fairly routine. If you would like, we can keep searching past that fifty year window.”

  “It is amazing you have multiple diaries from those early years.” I was following him to the back of the library and then down the tiny elevator to the archives. “I have read materials from Claude Jolliet and from his sons, but this is the first I have seen materials from the other side, and…” by now we had reached the basement and the archives. Standing at a counter next to a stack of books was Margaret Riemard. “Hello Margaret.”

  “Hello.” She turned and looked at me, holding my gaze. She was wearing another white dress, and once again, she looked like an angel. I thought to myself, no, Elise would not understand.

  “Thank you for last night.”

  “You are welcome.” I have no idea Guillard was thinking as we had this bit of dialog, but he went on as if he had heard nothing.

  “Ms Riemard has joined us as assistant archivist. You may remember how helpful she was in the past. We started looking through diaries last week when it occurred to us they might be useful to you. Our initial thought was to digitize them as time permitted and get them to you electronically, but since you are here, you can work with the original materials.”

  “That was very thoughtful. I appreciate the time you took.” Margaret was holding the books out to me. I walked over to her to take the books, her eyes never leaving me. No, Elise would not understand. I smiled, hoping it was my very professional “thank you” smile, took the books, and turned away. I think my breathing was mostly normal. “Might I have a study carrel to review these?” I asked Guillard.

  “Certainly. I think Margaret has a place selected for you."

  Margaret led me back to the elevator. Did I mention it is the world's smallest elevator? She stood just inches from me, smiling a smile that said she knew exactly how uncomfortable I was standing that close to her, and she was enjoying every second of the ride. She didn't say a word. I didn't say a word. Eons passed, and eventually the elevator made it to the second floor. She led me to a row of study carrels knowing it would be watching her every move -- and I was.

  Once we were to the carrel she had set up for me, she gave me a quick overview of each of the diaries, and then stood waiting. When I said nothing, she smiled and walked back to the elevator. Eventually my breathing returned to normal, and I sat down at the desk.

  My first thought was to do a quick scan of the diaries. I would look to see when they had gone to Kaskaskia, how frequently, whether they had gone as a crew member or as a captain, that sort of thing. The scan never happened. I opened the first page and was hooked. These were interesting men.

  The first one was Marcel DeKalb. His diary ends when he is thirty two, usually a sign he has died of disease, or was lost in a storm. But he had an interesting life while it lasted. It appeared he grew up on a farm just south of New Orleans, and while he never comes out and says it, I got the impression by the time he was fourteen he had decided he had worked all he intended to work. His folks sent him in to town one Saturday with a load of vegetables to sell, and he was still selling things eighteen years later. His first trip to Kaskaskia he had a bag of trade goods on the boat, and while the other traders sold lumber and some finished goods they had brought over from France, Marcel sold alligator teeth, flamingo feathers, and – when no one was looking – rum to the local Indians in trade for buffalo hides, and beaver pelts. Buffalo hides were huge and heavy, but he managed to get three on the boat for the return trip to New Orleans, where he made a large profit selling to sailors who then assumed they would also make a large profit when they sold to folks back in LeHavre. He did so well he began going to Kaskaskia three times a year, and eventually he owned his own boat.

  What did I learn about the river trade? It was more extensive than just northern food for southern lumber, and I was reminded that Kaskaskia was a meeting place, but goods traded there might be traded many more times either up the river or down. I also learned about dangers on the river. Robbery was attempted, either from tribes along the river, or criminals from either Canada or Louisiana who were drawn to the riches each river boat represented. Shoot outs were common. Robbers were hung on the spot, without trial. No boat went very far without muskets ready for use.

  Diary number two had been seriously damaged. It had been recopied numerous times, as had all the others, but it was clear this one had taken a beating before some family member found it in some trunk and thought to bring it to the library. The copiers had taken instruction well, and had not attempted to “fix” the diary by filling in pages that had rotted, or words that had been buried under mold. Given the condition of the original book, you might have thought the family would have just discarded it. Fortunately, they had not. They transcribed an amazing story, and while pieces of the story were missing, the parts that remained were very impressive.

  The man, Francois Beroux, was a builder. He had built several of the homes in New Orleans, and then he began building boats. His trip to Kaskaskia was to show off one of his designs, take orders for more boats, and then return to New Orleans to build them. While that had been his intent, one thing led to another, and he was hired to build homes first in Kaskaskia, and then throughout Illinois. What made his time especially interesting, is he was building homes at a time when the Illinois were moving to a more settled life. Where before they had built buildings of poles and bark, quick to build and no loss when the tribe moved to a new hunting ground, now they were becoming more permanent and wanted homes that better stood up to the prairie winds. He ended up spending eight years with the Illinois, slowing traveling up the Illinois River all the way to the new settlement of Chicago. He had stories to tell about every village and every village leader. If the diary had not been so badly water damaged, it could have been the source of an entire anthropology course. What had life really been like as the Illinois bands built more permanent communities? Beroux was there to tell about it.

  By the time I had finished reading the second diary it was well past lunch time. I needed to stretch and to eat. I took all five back down to archives where they would be protected, and I invited Margaret to lunch. We could be friends. We could talk professionally. It would be fun to talk about the diaries with her. That’s the way I saw it, and that’s the way I would make it be.

  There were a number of restaurants near the library with outdoor seating. Given that winter in Green Bay lasts about eleven months, if I can eat outdoors in the summer, I do it. We had no trouble finding a restaurant and took a table shaded by a large umbrella. Our conversation? Very professional.

  “Are you finding what you need in the diaries?” Marga
ret had taken a seat next to me, both of us covered by the shade of the umbrella. There was a slight breeze that moved her hair, and she responded by periodically moving it off her face and over her shoulder.

  “The two I have looked at are very interesting. They give me a much more comprehensive view of the interactions going on between the Huguenots and the peoples of Illinois.”

  “I am pleased you found them helpful.” She smiled pleasantly, and took my hand. “If you would like additional diaries, we can keep searching.” Her eyes seemed to never leave my face. I found myself looking everywhere but at her. There was some traffic going by, and lots of the other tables were filling, and where was our waiter?

  “What is your plan for digitizing the collection?” I asked. I would keep this conversation professional if it killed me.

  “We scan carefully. We have a priority list based on how often a book is looked at. The more people seem interested in it, the higher it goes on the list. All five diaries that you are looking at have been pushed up the list because of your interest.” Her hand moved on mine as she spoke.

  “Will you retain the paper versions?” If the damn waiter would come, I could move my hand to take the menu. Until then, it would seem odd to pull away from her, wouldn’t it?

  “Paper is still the best medium for records. Digital copies are easy to transmit, of course, but the recommended formats keep changing and early research has shown that no electronic medium is really as permanent as we would expect. Good paper in a good room will last centuries. Digital storage is vulnerable to EMI, and besides how do we even know what digital technologies will be available to us a century from now?” She was right, of course. She really did know her stuff. If the point was she could be smart as well as beautiful, she was making the point brilliantly. With the hand that was not holding mine, she moved her hair again. I looked, and she smiled. Where the hell was the waiter?

  At this point a large man in a uniform took a seat across from us – Colonel Goulet.

  “Hi, Margaret. You look beautiful as always.” She smiled in response. They were old friends. “And for you, Murphy, I have a gift.” He handed me a piece of paper with concentric circles drawn in pen. “I have no artistic ability, but I think you can understand what it is.”

  “It looks a bit like a target.”

  “Got it on the first try. I would like you to put it on your back. Oh wait. That won’t be necessary. You already have managed to put a target on your back by sitting outside, right near the street. Nice of you, by the way. Your assassin won’t even have to get out of his car.”

  “We’re in the middle of town. It’s broad day light. How dangerous is this city of yours?”

  “Don’t put this on me or my city. As near as I can tell, this is about you Americans taking your fight over here. If you want to kill each other, no problem. Just don’t do it here.”

  “Okay, I admit this smells like it is coming from the U.S. I would bet on the Fosters. But I don’t think they are working alone over here.”

  “That’s my problem to deal with. Your problem is to stay alive. And – if you plan on being stupid about this – don’t risk Margaret in the process.”

  “Fair enough. Margaret, my apologies.” I stood and left. Margaret followed right behind me.

  “We can order food brought to the library,” she told me as we both walked pretty quickly back across the street.

  “Good idea.” She reached her hand out to me and I took it as we climbed the stairs back up to the main entrance of the library. I hadn’t noticed before, but two uniformed guards stood on each side of the entrance.

  “I will order something for us, once we get down to the archives area.” She continued to hold my hand as we crossed the lobby and got into the tiny elevator. The minute the doors closed, she moved my hand around to her back and leaned in to me. “Will you visit me tonight in South Square?”

  “I think that would be too dangerous. And I don’t think Elise would understand.”

  “She asked you to go to my apartment last night.”

  “I think her intentions were different than yours.”

  “How do you know what my intentions are?” I had no idea what to say to that, not that an answer was needed. She already had her arms around my neck and was kissing me. The arm that was around her back had a mind of its own, and it was pulling her closer and tighter. Two or three eons later the elevator finally made it to the basement and the doors opened. We separated. She smiled. I waited for her to turn and walk into the archives area, and then I took the elevator back up to my floor. I wasn't sure if the bigger danger to me was out on the street or here in this elevator.