“A lady,” she said. “A fine lady, beautiful, fair in face and figure. I see our daughter grown, standing in a dark silk dress of the best material, and a feathered hat. She is quality. And you stand next to her, holding her by the arm for all the world to see.”
Philomene looked radiant, triumphant. Narcisse collapsed gently into the hand-carved rocking chair, his eyes moist.
“I am pleased,” he said.
His yearnings were beginning to bear fruit in ways that finally quieted the worsening dread that had gnawed at him each successive year of his two marriages. Philomene was carrying his first child.
* * *
The year 1861 started badly. Louisiana seceded from the Union at the end of January, and Narcisse was unable to find a buyer for his cotton, already bagged and baled. Not only had his New Orleans factor refused him, he was unwilling to extend credit for next year’s crop, either.
Abraham Lincoln had come to office the prior November, such an obvious declaration of hostility toward the South that Narcisse was forced to side with more extreme voices in the cause to beat back Northern aggression. By the time the Confederacy fired the first shot at Fort Sumter in April, all hope for a compromise between North and South was gone.
Both Narcisse’s brother, Augustine, and Oreline’s oldest son, Florentine, went in the first wave of volunteers. They joined an unruly but enthusiastic outfit tagged the Natchitoches Rebels, including men and boys from all over the parish. It took over a month for the volunteers to be mustered in by the state, longer still by the Confederate government. Filling up companies took time, so the volunteers drilled, attended endless rounds of barbecues along the length of Cane River held in their honor, and waited.
At last, in the middle of May, the outfit was ready to leave by steamer for New Orleans. The turnout at the dock was overwhelming. It seemed that all of the white planter families from Cane River had some brave boy to see off. A makeshift podium had been set up just to the side of the landing, draped with bunting and streamers. Several eloquent and not-so-eloquent Cane River citizens had already spoken that morning.
The volunteers being honored were bunched together beside the podium, of a certain look regardless of age. Their outfits had been stitched up by the hastily formed Cane River Women’s Society, as soon as it became clear the Confederate government was not yet in a position to issue uniforms. Augustine’s and Florentine’s coats were identical, except in size, long double-breasted tunics of cadet gray, fronted with two rows of buttons with blue trim at the edges, standup collar, and cuff, to denote infantry. Their trousers had been cut loose in the leg and fanned lightly over the Jefferson-type boots that both Augustine and Florentine sported. The men’s pants should have been sky blue, but the ladies had been unable to procure so much dyed material on short notice and instead used the same gray they had on hand. The volunteers’ provisions were ready to be loaded on the steamboat as soon as the send-off ceremony concluded, stacked in careful heaps at the far end of the landing.
Narcisse stood with Lersena, Augustine’s wife, and their three children on one side, and Oreline and Valery Houbre and their children on the other.
After a heartfelt prayer by Dr. Danglais, Lersena pushed her daughter Augustina forward. “Do as we practiced,” she whispered a little too loudly. “Make your father proud.”
Shyly, starched dress flowing over her hoop skirt, Augustina stepped in front of the podium.
“On this great day,” Narcisse heard his niece begin, “we send our men off, brothers, fathers, sweethearts, friends, to protect us against the Yankees. But we want them to remember us when they are far from home, and know that our hearts are with them.” Augustina took a deep breath. “And so we present our Natchitoches Rebels with this homemade battle flag.”
Augustina turned proudly to Augustine and handed him the folded flag. Without shame, Augustine wiped a tear from his eye and kissed his daughter on the cheek. Father and daughter each took an end, and together held up the red-and-white flag for everyone to see. The crowd cheered.
This was the last of the formalities, and the volunteers began to move toward their belongings, making their last-minute good-byes.
“Let me help you load your things,” Narcisse said to Augustine, and the two brothers walked toward the provision area.
“A moving ceremony. Augustina was splendid,” Narcisse said to Augustine. “Let’s hope this war doesn’t last long.”
“We take the steamer to New Orleans, and then by train to Virginia or Kentucky. A few battles will give the yellow-hearted invaders a taste of what we’re made of, and they’ll run back to their own soil,” Augustine said to Narcisse. “If you don’t join up now, you’ll miss the whole thing.”
At thirty-eight, two years older than Narcisse, Augustine was more eager than the younger men, impatient to be off in the thick of the fighting. Narcisse recognized the excitement of the hunt in his brother’s voice.
“I’m needed here, Augustine,” he said. “I’m going to join the Home Guard.” He looked over to Oreline’s son. Florentine appeared young, even for fifteen, his face pale but resolute. He was going off against his mother’s wishes.
“Cousin Oreline is worried over Florentine,” Narcisse said. “You will look after him?”
“Of course,” said Augustine. “He may be your godson, but he is my cousin as well.”
“Have you given further consideration to the matter regarding Augustina?” Narcisse asked.
“When is the baby due?” Augustine asked.
“They say any time now,” Narcisse replied.
“Brother, I know how important the child and the woman are to you, but I hope you will be discreet,” Augustine said. “Yes, Augustina can stand up and be marraine.”
Several Negroes had already begun to load the volunteers’ gear onto the steamboat, and Narcisse motioned to one, pointing to Augustine’s provisions. The man immediately came over and gathered up the pile.
“You go well prepared,” Narcisse said to Augustine.
“Lersena would have nothing less,” Augustine answered.
Augustine’s wife had packed shirts, trousers, socks, drawers, an extra jacket, and mud boots, along with twenty pounds of ham, two hundred biscuits, coffee, sugar, and pound cake. Augustine also carried blankets, a coffeepot, a frying pan, rope, and the battle flag. Most of the other men were similarly encumbered.
“I’ll look after Lersena and the children,” Narcisse promised Augustine, “and your farm.”
Behind them, Oreline was weeping, giving Florentine final hugs.
“It is time for the boy to go, Cousin Oreline,” Narcisse said, approaching the group. He turned to Florentine. “Stay close to your cousin Augustine,” he said to the young boy, thinking that would ease Oreline’s mind a little. “We will hold things together here until your safe return.”
Many of the volunteers had already boarded the steamer when Narcisse saw Henry and Hypolite Hertzog push their way through the crowd toward the group where Narcisse stood. It was easy to tell they were brothers, both blond, squat, and ruddy. Trailing behind them was Gerant, freckles already prominent from the spring sun.
“We bring news, Madame Oreline,” Henry said, twirling his hat in his hand. “When we went round to fetch my brother, Hypolite, for the send-off, he told us Gerasíme died this morning. I know how fond you were of the old man, and sent Gerant over to your place to let you know as soon as it happened.”
Henry jerked his head toward Gerant, lingering in the background. “You had already left, and the boy went to check on his sister.” He lowered his voice. “Her baby is coming.”
“There is no one to assist,” Oreline said. “I must go back, quickly.”
She gave a final hug to Florentine. “Come back to us safely. Monsieur Valery will wait until the steamer sails, until it is out of sight. Write. I will think of you each day.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Cousin Narcisse, will you take me back to the farm? The ch
ildren can come back later with Monsieur Valery.”
Narcisse hurriedly pulled the buggy around, and although he drove the horse hard, the ride back to Houbre’s farm seemed to Narcisse to last forever. All he could think about was that his child was on the way.
“A shame about Gerasíme,” he said to Oreline, searching for conversation. He had always been partial to the wild-haired old man whose eyes blazed when he played the fiddle, whose cabin he had frequented so often with Suzette and Oreline when they were small, and he was genuinely sorry at his passing.
“Suzette will be brokenhearted,” Oreline said. “And you must tell Elisabeth.”
“Yes, of course.” Narcisse cracked the whip lightly over the horse’s ear, urging him on. “Augustine has agreed for Augustina to act as marraine.”
“We consider Philomene part of our family, cousin. That is why Monsieur Valery will stand as parrain. No ill will come to her while she is under our care.”
“I mean to do right by the child, cousin.”
Narcisse drove the buggy straight to Philomene’s cabin and helped Oreline down, but when he tried to follow her through the doorway, Oreline blocked his path. The tension of the day showed clearly in her face.
“Philomene is indisposed, cousin. Go up to the house and wait. I will let you know when the baby comes.”
Narcisse did not argue; this was women’s domain. When Valery and the children returned from the celebration, he was still in the front room, waiting anxiously.
“The boat got off,” Valery said. “They looked so young.”
“Thank you for agreeing to stand godfather,” Narcisse said.
“All of God’s children need protection,” Valery said.
Narcisse and Valery Houbre made small talk for hours. It was late evening when Oreline entered the house, flushed and dangling her bonnet by the tie string. Narcisse couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under her eyes, her drawn face, the sleeves of her best dress rolled up, and a large damp stain on her bodice.
“It is a healthy baby girl,” Oreline said. “Philomene has already done the naming. She asks that she be called Emily.”
“Emily,” Narcisse repeated. “It is a fine name.”
“I told Philomene about Gerasíme, cousin,” Oreline said to Narcisse. “She became quite upset when she heard of the death of her grandfather and insisted on seeing you as soon as possible. She was very . . . forward.”
“I’ll go now,” Narcisse said.
* * *
Philomene’s cabin seemed different to Narcisse. He had spent countless hours there, but this time when he entered there was a weight, a significance about the place, that he had never experienced before. Inside this room was his daughter, flesh of his flesh, a miracle he had almost given up on. Philomene’s tiredness showed plainly in her face; her usually stern expression had relaxed somewhat, loosened by her ordeal. She held the small bundle that was his daughter close to her breast, and she was hidden by the blanket.
“Your daughter is here.” Philomene held her up to him.
Narcisse came closer to the bed and took the child from Philomene, settling the baby awkwardly in his arms. Nothing had prepared him for this, Emily’s warmth and fragility, and especially not the fierce rush of protectiveness that took hold of him.
“Her name is Emily Fredieu,” Philomene said. “She must never work in the field.”
Narcisse didn’t trust himself to speak, barely touching the soft hair like peach fuzz on her head, looking for family features in her face. She was as white as any of the babies he had ever seen. She was beautiful. When Philomene reached out to take her back, he didn’t want to let her go. Narcisse could still feel the heat from Emily’s small body on his arms, even when she was back at her mother’s side.
“My grandpère Gerasíme died today, the same day Emily was born. We need to have a ceremony for him, with all my people there. Will you arrange it, M’sieu?”
Philomene was working herself into one of her strange states. Narcisse didn’t want anything to spoil this day. “Yes, there are many on Cane River who would want to honor Gerasíme.”
“But it must be delayed until the baby and I can travel. This is important, M’sieu Narcisse. Emily’s life depends on it.”
“The baby is in danger?”
“Not if we hold the ceremony. Do you promise to arrange everything? It is for the sake of the child.”
Narcisse touched Emily’s cheek. She was asleep, unconnected to her mother’s growing distress. “I promise,” he said.
* * *
2 September 1862
Baptism of Emelie, born 19 May 1861 to Philomene, slave of Valere [? Valsin] [—?—]. Godparents: [—?—] Pinson [?] and Augustina Fredieu. [“Baptisms of Slaves 1847–1865 and Baptism of Negroes 1865–1871,” St. John the Baptist Church, Cloutierville; no page number; see attached photocopy.]
Baptism of Emily.
* * *
21
C ivility had lost much of its hold in the general relations among white, Negro, and colored along Cane River in the years leading up to the war, diminished further in the paranoia of the secessionist spring of 1861, and stretched to snapping after the firing on Fort Sumter. The snake-quick volatility of moods and random anger along Cane River made the community raw, edgy, and suspicious.
But Gerasíme, in death, cleared the way for a brief truce. They buried him in the hard earth at the same time they were breaking ground for new planting. Two days after the old man died, Hypolite Hertzog announced that a ceremony would be scheduled for a time after the urgency of plowing for this year’s crop eased.
The funeral was held on a bright, warming late-spring Sunday five weeks later, on an afternoon full of the promise of overdue renewal. Narcisse came to Houbre’s farm to collect Philomene and Emily just after noon dinner, Elisabeth sitting beside him in the wagon on the broad wooden seat. She had abandoned her everyday madras tignon and wore her best white scarf around her head.
Narcisse swung down from the wagon and spoke quickly to Philomene in passing where she waited on the farmhouse gallery, holding Emily. “I’ll be back directly, and we’ll get on our way,” he said, and disappeared inside.
Philomene gave him a tight-lipped nod. Despite the unrelenting demands of the newborn, she had grown increasingly optimistic about the future, and the recovery from this childbirth had been swift. Her body seemed to be well engineered for the business of producing babies.
Philomene carried the baby over to her grandmother and handed her up to Elisabeth’s reaching arms. Emily didn’t wake.
“That’s a fine-looking child,” Elisabeth said, her blunt hand smoothing back Emily’s hair. “Like cornsilk. No telling what color it will end up, though.” She took measure of Philomene. “You look well, granddaughter.”
“I am so sorry about Grandpère Gerasíme, Mémère,” Philomene said.
“The Lord brought him back to His side. He’s past suffering now.”
Philomene missed her baby from her own arms already. “I wish Emily could have known him.”
“I hope the funeral works out how you want,” Elisabeth said, fingers still on Emily’s hair. “Some say Gerasíme is beyond feeling, and Emily before remembering, but you do what you think is right. You always had a power.” She nodded toward the farmhouse to indicate Narcisse. “You talked him into arranging this last time for us with Gerasíme.”
“Emily’s life depends on it, Mémère,” Philomene said.
Elisabeth nodded and studied Emily’s sleeping face. “Let me hold the baby up here with me the rest of the way,” she said.
Philomene hesitated.
“We all want to keep our babies close,” Elisabeth said, “for as long as we have them. Today I bury my husband, and I see my children, the ones left. And their children. Today let me hold my great-granddaughter for the first time. You have tomorrow.”
There was no arguing. Philomene climbed empty armed into the back of the wagon, just as Narcisse came from the
farmhouse, followed by Oreline and Valery.
“My thoughts are with you at the service, Elisabeth,” Oreline said, leaning close to the wagon, her eyes moist. “Gerasíme was a fine man, much loved. He will be missed.”
Philomene’s mouth grew tight watching Oreline and Valery get smaller as Narcisse drove the wagon to the main road. When they came to the dirt path turnoff for Augustine’s farm, Suzette was waiting at the gate.
She wore her black cotton Sunday dress, and her tignon sat high on her head. She looked older than Philomene remembered, creases playing at the corners of her eyes. Philomene had seen her six weeks before and hadn’t noticed.
“Morning, M’sieu Narcisse. We appreciate you taking us to the service,” Suzette said. “Mère.” Her gaze lingered hungrily on Elisabeth and Emily, but she lifted her skirts and climbed into the back of the buckboard wagon with Philomene.
They braced and bounced for some time, Suzette and Philomene talking softly.
“Madame Oreline came to the farm to pay her respects,” Suzette told Philomene. “She had M’sieu Valery carry her over first to Elisabeth and then to me, within the nine days, just like we were white folks. She brought little Valery and Valerianne, and she cried over Gerasíme.”
Philomene leaned close to Suzette, her voice barely a murmur. “Her tears come quick since Florentine went off to war.”
“A mother’s tears are deepest,” Suzette said firmly. “Madame Oreline has always been on our side.”
“Not always,” Philomene said, and let a moment pass. “She could have paid her respects by attending the funeral.”
“What has come over you?” Suzette whispered nervously, glancing toward Narcisse’s back. “A proper Creole lady would never attend a public funeral, and certainly not a Negro service.”
The wheel hit a deep rut, and Philomene held herself steady by the side of the wagon.
“We need to be grateful M’sieu Narcisse saw fit to arrange today,” Suzette said loudly. “Imagine, the first time in ten years, since Rosedew, for all of us to be in one place.”