by Pamela Morsi
"It is my duty to go and your duty to stay and care for this farm and for your mother."
"I will, Poppa," Jean Baptiste promised.
"And I can help," Armand assured them both.
He had nodded proudly. "A man is lucky who can count on such sons," he told them. "I trust you to do your duty until I return."
The boys did as he had bid. But he was never to return.
It had been a frightening time and a crushing blow to two young boys. And the grief of their mother had been harrowing to witness. The brothers, who for most of their lives until then had been separated in age and experience and temperament, now clung together solidly to do their duty as they had promised.
They cared for the farm, the land, the herd. And they had dutifully, lovingly cared for their dear maman until the day three years earlier when they laid her for all time in the solemn silence of the churchyard.
Perhaps these experiences made them closer than other brothers. Whatever the reason, the two worked well together in the saddle, cutting and moving the herd with dexterity.
A scraggly young bull slipped around Jean Baptiste's horse unexpectedly and was headed with determination for the safety of the brush. Armand heard his brother's curse and set chase. The young bull had too far a lead for his own horse to cut it off. Skillfully Armand twirled the rope above his head until he was certain of its velocity and threw the looped end true and right around the animal's neck.
There was a cheer of approval as Armand led the bawling angry miscreant toward the branding fire.
"Well done," Jean Baptiste congratulated him.
"We'd best make a steer of this one," Armand suggested. "Or we might not catch up with him next year."
Jean Baptiste considered a moment and then shook his head. "No, I rather admire the ones that try to get away. He'll make us a fine breeder bull in a couple of years."
Armand bowed to his brother's decision, although something about the reasoning bothered him. He returned to his work, only to be distracted a few moments later by the arrival of Aida Gaudet.
She was in the midst of the gathering, laughing and looking pretty and capturing the attention of all the men. Armand doffed his hat and gave her a polite nod, then he quickly looked over at his brother.
Jean Baptiste had ridden up to greet her formally and to look down into her eyes and tease her. Mademoiselle Gaudet was delightfully attentive and giggled several times. Armand felt his entire body tense. He was thinking to speak to her, to distract her, to distract his brother when a movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention.
"Sacre!" he cursed. His nephew Gaston and little Valsin Hebert had moved in close to play a game of "I Am Not Afraid" with the teeming cattle. Armand raced over to scold the boys and scoot the little ones back away from the dangerously unsettled herd.
The drama caught everyone's attention and not a moment later Armand heard his brother's voice raised in anger.
"Madame Sonnier!" Jean Baptiste called out to his wife. "Can you not watch your children?"
Armand turned to see the flushed face of his sister- in-law. She hurried the children back to the relative safety of the cooking women beyond the fires.
Her husband continued to scold and curse as he returned his concentration to the herd. Armand moved closer.
"You should not yell at Felicite, Jean Baptiste," he said for his brother's ears alone. "The boys always want to be near the cattle. We were just the same. Drovers must keep an eye out for that. It was not her fault."
"She is my wife, Armand," Jean Baptiste answered him. "Who else am I to yell at?"
It was not a reasonable answer and Armand kept looking at him.
Jean Baptiste shrugged. "I was frightened," he admitted. "You know I often yell when I am alarmed."
He nodded; it was and had always been his brother's nature to fight fear with anger. "Go easy on your wife," Armand suggested. "Felicite just looks so tired and so ... so pregnant."
Jean Baptiste chuckled with agreement. "Indeed, she looks like one of the cows. Try not to rope her by mistake."
His brother was still laughing at his little joke as he headed back into the herd. For Armand there was nothing funny about any part of this situation. Jean Baptiste loved his wife; he had always loved her. But this newfound enmity and ridicule was unsettling.
Orva Landry's words of warning echoed in his head. He glanced back toward the crowd by the cook fires once more. Unerringly his gaze found Aida Gaudet. He recalled her smiling up delightedly at Jean Baptiste. She was foolish and naive, but surely never would she be so unwise as to become involved with a married man.
Even if her fiancé was involved with a married woman . . .
"Armand! Armand Sonnier!"
With a sigh and a heavy heart Armand turned toward the speaker. He dug heels into the bay's flanks and loped over toward the wooded area away from the herd.
"Father Denis," he said, forcing a smile. "How are you this beautiful day?"
Armand eased the horse over to where the fat priest stood and resisted the desire to pull his hat from his head. Father Denis greatly disapproved of men wearing their headgear in his presence. When Armand was a child, the good priest had caned his palms so frequently for that very offense that even now he could feel the burn on the inside of his hands. Deliberately he asserted what Acadian men thought was their right to show deference to God alone and not to the men who merely serve Him.
"I am very well, Armand," the priest answered.
Father Denis was robed in the traditional garb of his order, making no concessions to the humid Louisiana weather. He eyed Armand's hat, still upon his head, with some displeasure, but today he said nothing.
Clasping his hands together before him, he spouted thankfulness that resonated more pompous than prayerful. "I am grateful, this day as every one, to our Most Righteous Father and Blessed Mother for both the state of my health and the fairness of the weather."
Armand gave the priest a wan smile. "That is good to hear, Father," he said.
No one knew what unfortunate alliance or political faux pas had sent a promising young French Jesuit into the Louisiana wilderness twenty years ago. While most of the prairie and backwater parishes made do with the prayers of laywomen and annual visits by a circuit priest, Prairie l'Acadie had been blessed with the constant presence of clergy.
And Armand was more closely tied to him than most since as a boy he had studied both French and Latin with the father. He was kept upon his knees for hours on end. His education was broad and his discipline harsh. It was the priest's assumption that his young charge was being readied for a life in the church. Nothing could have been further from Armand's desire. The boy's stubborn rejection of a monastic vocation and his overwhelming interest in the secular life had proved a stinging disappointment to his teacher. Still, the good father considered his former pupil a useful link between him and the other parishioners.
"I've been hoping to speak with you about a concern of great importance to you and the community," Father Denis said. "I have made several inquiries with your friends and family."
"Oh?" Armand feigned ignorance. A lie, however small, came with difficulty from young Monsieur Sonnier's lips.
The priest didn't bother to question the younger man's pretense of ignorance. Armand dropped the reins of his horse, knowing the well-trained bay would stand where it was until Armand returned. With the priest at his side Armand began to walk away from the boisterous crowd of chattering friends and neighbors. Away from the dust and heat of cattle branding.
Father Denis gazed with near-theatrical majesty into the heavens above them and began a deep- throated, well-rehearsed oratory. "I have asked myself and my Heavenly Father what work I might humbly apply myself toward in this parish," Father Denis continued, "and I believe now at last that my prayers have been answered."
Armand waited with expectation.
"And do you know in what direction He has led my footsteps?" the heavily robed cleric as
ked him.
Armand did not know and shrugged in lieu of reply. Fortunately Father Denis did not require an answer.
"I have been led in the direction of enlightenment," the old priest said dramatically. "Enlightenment. One of God's finest gifts." He sighed and turned his gaze to Armand once more. "Not my own enlightenment, which I seek unceasingly, of course, but the enlightenment of this parish."
Armand personally considered the parish sufficiently enlightened already, but he kept his silence.
"I inquired meekly of my Lord," Father Denis continued, his voice gaining conviction. "What can I do for these most lowly people? And the answer was sent me in His Holy Writ. Do you know the answer, my son?"
Armand shook his head mutely.
"The children. It is the children."
"The children?"
"Yes, the only way to enlighten this parish, these people, is through the children."
Armand felt a wave of uneasiness settle upon him. "What is your interest in the children, Father?"
"I want to teach them."
The wave of uneasiness became a churning in his stomach. "Teach them?"
"All of them. The way that I've taught you." He paused dramatically. "I want to begin a school."
Armand's jaw dropped in shock. There were schools in Vermilionville and large parishes in towns, but there were no schools among the small farmers of the prairies. There was no need for them.
"We will build a school by the church. All the boys in the parish will come here to learn their letters."
Armand shook his head, gathering his thoughts. It seemed to him that the old priest was going to be mightily disappointed.
"I'm not sure that all the families would be interested in schooling," he said.
The old man nodded sagely and patted at nonexistent lint on the length of his robe.
"That is why I have sought you out, Armand," he said. "I have talked to a few of the parents and, as you say, there is some resistance."
Some resistance, Armand thought to himself, was undoubtedly an understatement.
"Many cannot spare their boys for school," he told the priest diplomatically.
Father Denis huffed in disapproval. "Well, they certainly will learn to. We shall require that all attend."
Armand's brow furrowed.
"Require them?"
"You are the judge, remember? You can make laws."
It was true. Three years earlier, Father Denis had approached him with a writ from the office of parish governance in New Orleans. According to new laws local citizens could serve the state on the parish level as sheriff, assessor, ward constable, police juror, and justice of the peace.
Armand had not been particularly interested in any job. He felt that as a farmer and cattleman, he had no need for other vocation.
"You are an educated man," Father Denis had told him. "It is your duty to use your knowledge for the good of your people."
He had still been hesitant but had agreed.
Truly it had not been so much to ask. He read and ruled on contracts and wills, negotiated with the state government, and represented his community on matters that concerned them. It was better than letting some Creole sugar planter be appointed to the position.
"You simply file a declaration and compulsory education becomes the law," Father Denis stated proudly. "Then all the boys will be required to attend school."
Shaking his head with alarm, Armand disagreed. "I accepted that post to deal with traders and tax collectors," he said. "I am no judge to tell the people what to do with their own farms or with their own children."
"But you can," the priest told him. "You have the legal authority to do so. And the moral right."
"But—"
"Every boy between eight and twelve years of age will be obliged to attend during the winter months," Father Denis said. "That will be no great hardship upon anyone and within another generation, every man in the parish will be literate."
It was not an evil intent. Still, Armand could not see himself requiring his friends and neighbors to obey.
"Father Denis, I cannot tell a man how to raise his own children," he pointed out. "I have no children. When I do, I will make decisions for them. Until I do, a parish school is none of my concern."
"It most certainly is," Father Denis insisted. "As the most literate person in this parish you have an obligation and a duty to those around you."
"I have heard this argument before, Father. I help whoever and whenever I am needed," he said. "I do not see that I am needed here in this."
Father Denis ignored him. "I have talked to several of the fathers already. And I can tell you that I have been shocked and disturbed at what I've heard. It is as if they have no interest whatsoever in education. And they have shown no inclination to encourage the formation of the school."
"Perhaps it is because they don't see the need for a school."
"How can they not see the need? Do they not want better for their sons than they have for themselves?"
"No, they do not," Armand answered. He shook his head and sighed heavily. "Father Denis, how can you have lived among us so long and still not know us?" he asked. "We want our children to have the same life that we have. It is a good life. We have our families, our traditions, our homes. We want nothing more."
"What about prosperity?"
"Who needs prosperity when there is balance?" Armand asked. "Two bales of cotton is not enough to sustain a household. But four bales is too big a crop for a family to manage. So we plant three bales. We have enough to live without making life too much work."
"It's God's will that men should prosper," the priest said emphatically. "Your people ask too little of themselves." The expression on the face of Father Denis hardened into displeasure. "I am counting on you, Armand Sonnier, to convince these people that this is America and 1825! In the new world reading and writing are not the province only of priests and aristocrats."
"Father, I am certain that we will always have people like myself to read," Armand answered. "My nephew Gaston has already shown such an interest. I teach him myself. As long as some know, not all need to learn."
"One person to read contracts and write letters is not enough," the priest told him. "Can't you see, Armand, that only by educating these boys can we raise the aspirations of the whole community?"
"I have spoken plainly, Father, that I do not believe our aspirations need to be raised."
Father Denis scoffed in disgust. "You are all petits habitants, small farmers, barely scratching out a living. A few cows, a few pigs, and some chickens are all that keep you from scavenging like swampmen."
"We furnish our own needs. No one goes hungry."
"No one goes hungry!" the priest shot back sarcastically. "While all around you the blessings of world are being poured out in excess. There is opportunity here as never before. The world is changing and we must change with it."
"Our world is not in great need of change."
"How can you say that? Look at how you live. Your shacks are built with more moss than brick. Your clothing is made from homespun, your medicines rendered from herbs. And your knowledge is little more than superstition."
"It does not seem so bad to me."
"Last month I read in the New Orleans paper that there are more riches and rich men in Louisiana than in any other state in this nation."
Armand sniffed with disdain. "Creoles and Americaines."
"All up and down the rivers, field after field of cane and cotton. They live in fine houses, wear beautiful clothes, and build magnificent churches," Father Denis said. "And they are able to do that because they have enlightenment."
"Enlightenment?" Armand's tone was dangerous. "Enlightenment! They live in fine houses, wear beautiful clothes and build magnificent churches, Father, not because they have enlightenment, but because they have slaves."
The priest blanched.
Armand's words were low, his eyes flashing with anger. "If enlightenment means the
owning of another man, the buying and selling of him like an ox or a mule, profiting from his labor, taking his daughter to bed and seeing the fruit of one's own seed born into a life of chains, if that is enlightenment, then may God curse me forever to darkness."
"Slavery is naturally abhorrent—"
"But the Church does not condemn it," Armand finished for him. "We are poor people, our ways are our own, and we keep to ourselves. But we have our self-respect, and that is what we want most to leave to our children. We have no need for the world beyond and if our descendants never venture outside, so much the better."
Armand turned and walked away. Normally he was a man of even temper, but he was fuming. Twenty years Father Denis had lived here. Twenty years and he still did not understand the first thing about them and their lives. The only thing that mattered, the only thing that lasted, was the ties of family.
The invisible, unbreakable ties of family.
Armand walked back to the cattle herd and retrieved his horse. Most men were dismounted now, standing around the cookstoves, eager for dinner. He spied his brother, laughing and smiling, his talk animated and happy.
His conversant, once again, the lovely Aida Gaudet.
Chapter Six
Laron rolled over and immediately reached for the woman beside him. The bedclothes were chilled. He opened his eyes, surprised. The smell of breakfast was already in the air. It was the middle of the week. He did not often visit her then, but today was a special day and there was much work to be done.
Again last night they had waited and waited for young Karl to go to sleep. When he finally had and they had taken to bed themselves, their lovemaking had been strange and strained. Something was wrong, very wrong. Karl was growing up and being difficult. But there was more, much more. And Laron was loath to face up to it.
As morning light filtered into the room, he heard quick footsteps in the loft overhead. The children would be down shortly. He jumped out of the warm comfortable bed and hurried into his clothes. It was a bit of fiction that they portrayed, he and Helga. They never allowed the children to see him in her bed. And therefore they could pretend that the children would never know that the two slept there together.
