The Canadian Civil War: Volume 5 - Carbines and Calumets

by William Wresch

  Chapter 12 –

  New Orleans gets crowded

  While I waited for Margaret to email whatever diaries she could find, I did another search for the Thiere diaries. This time I started with Andre Guillard. Maybe he had some other library or historical society where he had posted the materials. So I did a search on him. And I came up with the Heritage Party. My good friend from the provincial library turned out to be a delegate to the Heritage Party. He was a voting member of their central committee, and was included in their directory along with a great photograph.

  What was that about? Andre looked more like the archetypal grandfather than a revolutionary. He had to be in his sixties, and had the stooped shoulders of your classic librarian. I found it impossible to imagine him out in the street rabblerousing, or even attending party meetings. How could he possibly be a member of their central committee?

  I started working the web sites of the Heritage Party. I have to admit I really didn’t know anything about them, other than they were nasty people who had beaten me half to death out on the causeway. Well, maybe not half to death, but it had been pretty painful. I had gone north, healed up, and forgotten about them. Maybe I should have paid more attention.

  I started top down. Rene Soisson had been their lead agitator. He was the guy who was going to be the next provincial governor and then president of an independent Louisiana. But then he had jumped into that lifeboat with the women, got his picture taken deserting a sinking and burning ship (thanks to me), and then got murdered. No one had ever been found guilty of that killing, and I doubted anyone would. Soisson had disappointed some very powerful people, and the price for that disappointment had been paid. There was no reason to give him or his killer a second thought.

  So who was running the crazy train now? Thomas LeBeck and Paul Andrees had been his two lieutenants. I had met both at the historical society banquet the summer before, and I had had a close encounter with LeBeck out in the hallway after I had gotten into a fight with then-captain Goulet and LeBeck’s heavies had hauled the two of us out for a quick lesson in manners. My memory was that he was a pretty small man, but intense. I recall blood vessels near the surface all over his face and neck. Whatever his blood pressure reading was, it had to be two or three octaves above normal, not that he seemed to care. He was going to move the world, or at least Louisiana, and he was going to do it yesterday.

  Oddly, it was Andrees who had taken the title of governor after the April election, while LeBeck was party secretary. I had no illusions that Andrees was any less a thug than LeBeck, but I would have expected Mr. Intensity to take the top spot. I wondered how their partnership was going. I browsed more pages of the party website and learned how many great things they were doing for Louisiana, and how dedicated the party was to the betterment of life down here. Folks sure were lucky to be governed so well.

  Other pages told me about party structure. It turned out the Central Committee had over 200 members, representing virtually all professions and government units. So, Guillard’s membership made more sense. He was essentially representing his library. If that’s what it took to protect your budget, I guess that’s what you do.

  I kept reading, trying to determine who the bigger players were. I kept coming up with a name – Rene Malraux. He was assistant to this and vice that, and chair of something else. And then I saw his picture. I knew the guy. The last time I had seen him, he was driving a semi-load of weapons away from the party warehouse in Kaskaskia. That was quite a promotion – from truck driver to major political figure. When I had first encountered him in Dakota, he had been a poor clown who hoped maybe the LNA would let him join up. Told he might be eligible for non-com training you would have thought he had just been told he was getting free beer for life. How does a bumpkin like that end up in charge of so much in Louisiana? The Heritage Party might have been a party of clowns, but this guy was a clown’s clown. So what was really going on?

  The more I read, the more curious I got. I found it harder and harder to just sit in my room. With all that was happening around town, could I safely walk the streets? Maybe for just a couple hours? What could possibly go wrong? I know, sometimes I regress and the adult I have become returns to the boy who was. But there was a fire down the street, and a revolution underway, and well, I wanted to see it. So I put on a white shirt and my lightest color pants, hoping some camouflage might help, and I left.

  What did I see? The minute I left the hotel I could see there were crowds up and down Canal Street. So that’s where I went. Traffic had been blocked off and a parade was underway. I had found all the soldiers who had deserted their posts. There really were thousands of them. I don’t know where they had been assembled, but they seemed to be coming from several blocks farther up Canal Street, and were now happily marching in columns of four to a cadence being shouted by various sergeants. A few were wearing side arms, but all were wearing blue arm bands. I can’t say the marching was perfect; there were some pauses as one group ran up against another unit that was stopped for some reason, but aside from starts and stops, they all seemed to be orderly and impressive. If you were curious about what the new Louisiana army might look like, these guys looked like real soldiers.

  As they marched down the street, pretty girls carried bundles of blue flags, and passed them out to anyone who would take one. They had no trouble giving them away. Who would disappoint a little girl and not accept a flag? I was standing three-deep at the curb, and the girl who came nearest to us made sure each one of us got a flag. I took one too, and waved it with everyone else. It was a celebration, and we were all part of it.

  I was probably at the curb for twenty minutes watching soldiers march by. There were far more than I had expected. When the last unit marched past, watchers were invited to follow behind, to join the parade. Everyone near me stepped into the street and followed along. There had to be thousands of us. Where were we going? I had no idea. People were laughing and talking in their little groups, following along as if headed to a picnic. Block after block we walked, and then I thought I understood where we were going – the South District. The long bridge over the Mississippi was filled with people.

  Here I wondered if I should edge away from the crowd and leave, but I have to admit I was seeing quite a show, and I wanted to catch the second act. So I stayed with the crowd, waved my little blue flag, and cross the bridge.

  I never made it all the way to the other side. There were just too many people. South Square was packed, all adjoining streets were packed, and those of us on the bridge never got more than halfway across, but we made it over the hump in the middle, so we could look down on the proceedings. And, as with every other part of this stage-managed event, the crowds had been carefully planned for, with huge screens at the back of a stage, every image blown up four stories high, so even those of us hundreds of yards in the back of the crowd could see.

  What was on the screen? Pictures of units as they marched into the square and lined up. They must have had painted lines on the pavement or something, since every one lined up in perfect rows. Had they rehearsed? It didn’t seem possible, but I didn’t see one soldier out of line. They were shoulder to shoulder across the square in row after row. Each unit came down off the bridge and took their place in the next row. It was a remarkable scene that lasted for another twenty minutes. By the time they were done, you would have thought every soldier in Canada was standing in that square.

  Periodically there would be a reaction shot. They would show the excited people along the edge of the square practically jumping for joy at what they were seeing. Mostly it was pretty girls nearly ecstatic in the presence of such manly men, but the camera was also careful to cut to a few more mature men, guys who looked substantial and now stood nodding approvingly. In short, we were shown how to react to the scene. We were to join in the mass approval, and the people around me did just that.

 
While the eye candy on the screens was pretty impressive, I wanted to see what else might be happening on stage. I didn’t have binoculars so I could do little more than guess at what was happening there. I could see people seated, apparently reviewing their troops. What I wanted to see was who got the honor of being up there. I couldn’t see individual people from this distance, but I could see colors. So far, all the flags and signs were for the Heritage Party. That was interesting since the party had not won the April elections. They had earned a plurality, but had not gotten enough seats to govern on their own. Two other parties had been invited into a coalition and had gotten ministerial portfolios. If there was any sign of those parties, it wasn’t visible from the distance I was at.

  Finally, as the last of the soldiers took their places in line, (how long had the first rows been standing? Did they get medals for endurance?) the cameras panned across the stage and I got to see the platform party. As each person appeared on screen, the lower third of the screen showed their name and title. This was the Louisiana leadership, and we were being introduced to our new masters.

  The back row was shown first. The camera panned left to right, from least to most. Most were people whose picture I had seen on the party web site earlier in the afternoon. They had fancy titles (chair of this, director of that, all followed by their Heritage party title). About midway through the row I saw my old friend Captain/Major/Colonel Goulet. He was also on the executive committee of the party. Interesting. I wondered if this is what he had hoped for when he signed on with this bunch of pirates years ago. There was no telling from his expression. He was completely serious, as one might expect from a military officer at a military review.

  More interesting was the man seated three chairs to the right – his party superior, Rene Malroux. Here was the guy Goulet had interviewed in the hotel in Dakota as the Foster fight had wound down. This was one of two men Goulet had decided on the spot might be salvageable for the party. A long-time loser, just one more angry man living in isolation in Colorado, hiding from past failures and current relations, this guy now outranked Goulet! How strange was that? Below his face was a long string of offices and titles. Above the titles was a face that looked very nervous. He looked like he would much rather get up and run away than sit here in front of the world. I wondered if they had tied him to his seat. His eyes kept scanning the stage, looking for reassurance. Who was he looking for? That was the question. Who was pulling this guy’s strings? The camera moved on and I never saw where Malroux was looking.

  They finished panning the back row, and moved to the front. Here were the head weasels. To me the most interesting thing was seeing where LeBeck ranked. He made the front row, but only three chairs from the left. There were now lots of people above him in rank. Did that bother him? Not so you would notice. He sat like he owned the place. Below him was his ministerial title – Minister of Defense – and his party title – secretary. If there was any other title he wanted, you could not tell by looking at him.

  There were four more men to the right, nominally his superiors, but there was something in his body language that said the seating chart was an inside joke. When the man to his left reached over and touched LeBeck, all he got for his trouble was a scowl. This was LeBeck’s moment, and he was going to enjoy it undisturbed.

  Eventually the camera panned to the man of the hour, Paul Andrees. I had forgotten how large he was. Or maybe he had put on weight in the last year. He stood a little over six feet and probably pushed three hundred pounds. His suit gave the impression that not all of it was his belly, and he sat with the care of a man who wanted to ensure his posture put him in the best light.

  Once the camera was on him, and the crowd had an opportunity to scream its adoration, it was time to get the show started, and Andrees stood. The fact that he could get three hundred pounds up on his feet was seen as an event as exciting as anything else that had happened in history, or at least that is what you would have assumed, given the screams that took place as he rose to his feet. He walked the four feet to the lectern and stood while the crowd screamed its love for him. He let that go on for a few minutes, and then someone cued the army, and suddenly there were chants from thousands of massed soldiers.

  “Lu – I – si – an- a, lu – I-si-an-a, lu – I – si – an – a.” Et cetera. You get the idea. They chanted the name of the province/country over and over, emphasizing each syllable. It was actually pretty scary. Thousands of male voices chanting each syllable. I don’t know if the sound system was amplifying it, or if it was just echoing off the surrounding buildings, but it sounded unworldly. I could swear the bridge was picking up the chant and vibrating in time with it. I wasn’t the only one who looked down at my feet as we felt the vibrations through the road.

  The cameras panned the soldiers as they chanted, and they looked pretty proud of themselves. After all, not only had they marched miles and then stood for hours, but they remembered the name of their province. While they were proud, I wasn’t sure the crowd was reacting as hoped. The camera picked up one little girl who was crying, before quickly leaving her and going back to the platform sitters, all of whom were showing appropriate deference to the display.

  No matter, the soldiers chanted several more times and then stopped. The sudden silence was striking. But the choreographer had more in store. Suddenly lights went on and the cameras turned to a choir of angels – teen aged boys and girls, all in white, all beautiful, all smiling as they sang out “This land I love.” Apparently the new country already had a national anthem. There were two verses. Presumably there would be a third and fourth if the country lasted more than a few days. In the meantime, the kids did a great job, and the crowd was rapturous by the time the song was done.

  Andrees stood through all of this, his gaze taking it all in and approving. I think I got why he had been chosen to front the thugs. His double chin and receding hairline were major problems, but he had those eyes. They were big and brown and shaded by furry eyebrows. That is what you saw in his face, not the chins. The eyes were now benevolent, the father figure appreciating the work of his children, but you could also imagine those eyes being far less kind to those who disappointed him. He was hired for his eyes.

  Could he also talk? The crowd wanted to cheer longer, but eventually, with a motion of his heavy right hand, he got them quieted. And then he repeated the final line of the kids’ song – “This land I love.” And that got them cheering again. He nodded along, as if agreeing with their cheers.

  “This land I love,” he finally repeated. “Today this land I love is free.” And of course that set everyone off again. And again he waited. He paced his lines pretty well. He was not Soisson, that guy was a magician, but Andrees wasn’t half bad.

  “Today we are free to practice our religion.” Pause for cheers. “Today we are free to celebrate our culture.” Cheers again. “Today we are free to enjoy our God-given resources.” He continued with some other freedoms. I think they included the right to wear clean clothes and eat shrimp. It was a long list and I lost track. So far it was pretty harmless drivel. But he wanted to inflame the crowd as well, and that came next.

  “We have tried to negotiate with the northerners. But how can you negotiate with people who cheer murder?” Here the screens displayed the lacrosse match in Green Bay, with a slow motion edit of the Arkansas player having his neck broken, falling to the ground while the Green Bay player stood over him, followed by a shot of the crowd cheering the murder, complete with close ups of some faces, faces frightening in their hatred and loathing.

  “How can you negotiate with people who send tanks against their own countrymen?” Here the screens showed the idiot Colonel attacking the reserve base in Arkansas. Somehow they had gotten shots of him looking half crazy, as they cut back and forth from him to the “tanks” (actually armored personnel carriers), back to him, back to the tanks and the initial shooti
ng, and back to him.

  “Do these look like people you can talk to?” Huge response. “Are these the people you want running your lives?” Huge response. “Are these the people you trust with your future?” Cut away to a shot of a pretty little girl being threatened by some vague shape in the background. Another huge response.

  “We love this land. We love our families. We love our culture. We love our freedom!!!” Deafening cheers. Whoever wrote his material was really good.

  It was at this point that I heard a whisper in my ear – a whisper in English. “Sir, you need to leave now while they are preoccupied.”

  I turned toward the sound. A very muscular young man stood next to me. I thought I recognized him. He waited while I looked, and then when he saw recognition, he said, “You bought us a beer at the Granary.”

  “Yes, you were with David Starr.”

  “I wish I had been with him on the boat. But please, sir, you need to leave now. I will walk with you back to your hotel.” I nodded agreement and followed him out of the crowd. Whatever else was said on that platform, I was sure I could read about it in the morning papers.

  It was a long walk back to the hotel, and my guide decided to make it even longer. When we reached the end of the bridge he turned to me. “Let’s walk along the river for a couple blocks. We can come back to your hotel from an angle they would not expect.” That made sense to me. We followed the river walk. There wasn’t a soul in sight. It seemed like every person on the planet had gone to the big celebration in South Square. Night had fallen while I had been watching the show, and we were mostly in the dark. It seemed we could move along without being noticed. Just to be safe, periodically my guide dropped back a step or two to look around.

  The second time he stepped around behind me I suddenly felt a huge blow to my right shoulder. I turned toward the blow, only to catch another blow in the chest followed by five or six more so painful and debilitating I couldn’t breathe. I felt myself dropping to the ground. What was happening to me? I saw it was my guide who was suddenly attacking me. He popped me several more huge punches in the chest and I was done. I had no breath. I dropped, landing on my back. The minute I was down, he literally jumped on my chest with his knees, and then wrapped his hands around my throat. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak, and very quickly the world was turning black.

  It was at this point that his head exploded. He dropped, his body still on mine, his hands still on my throat. I was unable to move, still unable to breathe. I thought I still might die. Then I heard running steps and a grunt as a very large man pushed the American guide off of me and into the river. I wish I had something clever to say, but I still couldn’t breathe, much less talk. The big man grabbed the front of my belt and pulled up, essentially pulling my diaphragm down to restart my breathing. It helped, but only a little. My chest hurt so badly from where he had punched me. I had been in plenty of fights, but apparently I had never really been punched before. This was a whole new order of pain.

  Worse, I could not just lie there and recover. As soon as he saw I was breathing again, the big man lifted me up and started walking with me, one of my arms over his shoulders. We had covered the first block before I finally realized who he was – the cab driver from the other night. This was the guardian Elise had sent.

  “Minister DuPry said you would never stay in your hotel. But I never would have guessed you would walk all the way to South Square. I am sorry it took me so long to catch up with you.” Of course this is where I should have thanked him and apologized for being so stupid, but I still wasn’t breathing well enough to talk. I wondered if I had broken ribs, maybe even a broken sternum. I was in tough shape. No matter, he had plenty to say.

  “We think you are safe from most of the Huguenots, but the Americans want you dead, and we don’t know why. Something is happening in your country, and we haven’t figured it out yet. I would urge you to be very cautious of your countrymen until we know more.” He was essentially carrying me as he talked. My feet touched the ground on occasion, but he was taking all my weight. He was also moving pretty fast. I wondered if he was worried. If there was another bad guy out there, my cab driver was pretty defenseless with me hanging off his side. We had a good ten blocks to cover, and who knew what we might encounter along the way?

  As luck would have it, all we saw was empty streets. We paused at the edge of a building when we were close to the hotel so we could look for people who might be waiting for us. He gave the area a good look. I just leaned against the building. Once he was confident of our safety, he carried me a little ways from the hotel entrance. We stood there for a minute as he determined if I could manage the rest on my own.

  “What is your name?” If you can croak and whisper at the same time, that is the sound that came out of me.

  “Henri.”

  “Thank you Henri.”

  “Can you stand?”

  “Yes.” I had no idea if I could stand on my own, but I thought I would try. I squared my feet, took my arm down off his shoulder, and immediately swayed back. He caught me and stood with me a little longer until it was clear I really could stand.

  “The Minister asked me to give you this.” He took a pistol from one of his pockets and slid it into one of my pants pockets. “She also said I should give you a kiss for her, but I think she was joking.”

  “My thanks, Henri. I think a handshake will do.” I extended a hand, and I think he took it as much to steady me as to accept my thanks. He stood a few more minutes while I took my first careful steps to the hotel, and then he faded away.

  The doorman saw me approach and immediately spoke into his walkie talkie. When I got within arm’s reach he took my arm and walked with me into the hotel. There waiting for me was the manager.

  “Oh, Doctor Murphy. I am so sorry to see you this way.” He took my other arm and the two of them walked me up to my room. Good thing. I would never have made the stairs. Once in my room, they sat me down. The doorman left to return to his station, but the manager went into my bathroom and came out with a damp towel. As he wiped my face I saw streaks of blood. Mine? No. The manager was staring at my face as he washed it, and he saw no cuts to mention. It was the blood of my assailant, my “guide.” What the hell was going on?

  “I will leave a man outside your door.” The manager said when he was done cleaning me up.

  “You better give him this.” I pulled the pistol from my pocket.

  “He has one of his own. I think you need this one.” He left to set up my protection. I managed to shuffle the five or six steps over to my bed. I lay carefully on my back, and breathed in and out a dozen times, really appreciating for the first time for how good breathing felt. By breath thirteen I was asleep.