You can imagine how Elise and I felt the next morning. Having never been shot at before, we woke wondering whether the whole thing had been a bad dream. But as we talked about it and grew to accept the shooting as bitter reality, Elise and I reacted in opposite ways – extremely opposite ways.
Elise seemed to drop into slow motion. She got out of bed much later than I did, took forever in the shower, stood staring for a long while at the white dress she had planned to wear, nibbled distractedly at her breakfast, and worst yet, had very little to say. When I asked her which former ministry employees she planned to visit, she was vague in her answer. I had the impression it might take hours for her to finally get started on her visits.
Here’s where I should say I held her and reassured her and made her feel better, but my reaction to the shooting was to become more manic than I had ever been before in my life. I practically jumped out of bed, raced for the shower, ordered breakfast and then paced around the suite until room service finally delivered it, all the while scanning the morning paper and watching a news show on TV – the first time I had turned the TV on since arriving in New Orleans.
What was driving me? Guilt. The rebels were using history, I was an historian, I had not done my job. But today I would do my job. I would hit the library like a hurricane, and find any clue that might identify a risk to my friends. The library opened at nine. I was ready by eight and paced the suite with a coffee cup in my hand. By eight thirty I couldn’t stand the wait any more. I kissed Elise, talked to her a bit – yes, not nearly enough – and then headed out the door.
The library was a fifteen minute walk at most, and I made it in under ten. That gave me twenty minutes to pace around on the sidewalk in front of the building. Fortunately, I only paced for five minutes or so before DuBois took pity on me and let me into the library early.
“You look like a man with a mission,” he said as he held the door open for me. I bounded up the stairs two at a time and led him straight back to the reference area.
“Elise and I will be leaving Wednesday morning, so I only have these two days to conduct my research.” I sat down at the microfilm machine and waited for DuBois to bring me some of the films he had accessed Saturday. I don’t think I drummed my fingers or tapped my foot while I waited, but I was very impatient, and he must have seen it somehow.
“This will just take a minute. Shall we start with the tariff laws or the dock riots?” I liked his use of “we” and forced myself to take some deep breaths and calm down.
“Let’s go back to the tariff laws. I want to know more about what people were thinking before they started throwing fists and shooting each other.”
“Good. We have solid analysis on that.” He handed me two films still in their boxes. “You should find what you need in these two. I will check back with you after I open the library and soothe the security guards.” He walked away before I could apologize. It was obvious he had just broken a major library security precaution by letting me in early, and I suspect he was going to hear about it. I would have to find a way to mend that fence, but first I wanted to get reading.
What was on the film? A nineteenth century economist had analyzed the tariff laws of New Orleans, showing how they were the precursor to many similar laws used up to our day. To support his argument he had all the original bills that had been presented, minutes of one of the debates held before the governor, and income statements from the colonial treasury. In short, he had done all the digging in the archives that I might have had to do, and he had explained the economics of the law, something I was far less equipped to do. Put another way, the film was gold.
I read through forty five pages of dense academic prose, and then went back and read it a second time, this time taking notes. He painted the portrait of a community that was divided, and of a governor that used the division to finally gain some power for himself. The chronology went something like this: 1721 Jolliet brings down one boat with some corn and fruit. 1722 he and his company bring down four boats. 1723 the number is up to eight, and in 1724 his company and a competing company in St. Louis bring down fifteen boatloads. In 1725 they are on a pace to hit nearly thirty boat loads when the riots hit.
How much food is this? The economist calculates the volume of the boats of that time and comes up with a figure of hundreds of bushels to thousands of bushels by 1724. The figures are a guess, of course. No one has an exact record, but I check his figures and the math look reasonable for a French economist. He then presents some sales records of the time to show the rapidly dropping price of food in New Orleans. Between 1721 and 1724 the price of corn drops over fifty percent. I can see why the local farmers are none too happy.
But there is another side of the problem that I had not thought about – Biloxi. It had been the port of entry for French food. Now that food was coming down the Mississippi, the French food was less necessary, and so the port was less necessary. The city of New Orleans is gaining ascendancy as the Mississippi River finally become useful for something. This reminded me of the situation Jolliet faced as he was discovering the Mississippi. Every Indian tribe he met other than the Mascoutins, wanted him to go no farther than their locale, and told terrible stories about dangers just ahead. The rationale was the same in both cases – you want to be at the end of a trade route. Biloxi had been at the end of the French trade route. Now New Orleans was at the end of the Mississippi trade route. The two towns were going to struggle.
The governor sees the chance to pour gas on the fire and divide the Huguenots, before coming to their rescue and gaining power in the process. Since the Huguenots essentially seized control of the colony in 1720 and sent his soldiers packing, the governor had been relegated to ceremonial duties, living off of what silver they would give him. Now he has a chance for his own income stream. He will establish tariffs on the boats coming from Illinois. Better yet, he will have the Huguenots debate the amount of the tariffs, making all their feuds more open and more hostile. The economist, by the way, does not ascribe any of these motives to the governor; he just copies minutes of meetings and of the debate. For economists, everything is about numbers. But given the way the Huguenots challenged his authority when they first arrived, I can read between the lines and see personal satisfaction in every remark of his included in the transcript.
The debate is raucous because someone will lose in the end. The governor works the crowd and ensures that everyone loses, and takes three days to arrive at that point so that emotions are at a fever pitch by the time the tariff law is finally signed. How does everyone lose? He maneuvers the debate over the size of the tariff until a number is arrived at – ten francs per boat arriving from either direction – down the Mississippi, or over from Biloxi. Now everyone will have higher prices. The tariff will force Jolliet to charge more for his grain, but ten francs is not enough to satisfy the local farmers. They will not be able to raise their prices very much. The townspeople in New Orleans will now have to pay more for food. And everyone will have to pay more for goods imported from France. Basically, in the guise of protecting local farmers, the governor has created a retirement fund for himself.
By evening of the third day (July 18th) everyone in the little town of New Orleans is very drunk and very angry at everyone else in the town. Fists start flying by the public docks and soon shots follow. Claude Jolliet goes down with a bullet in his left side that will cause him pain the rest of his life. Jolliet’s crew defends their captain and four locals go down. The gun fire escalates and more than a dozen men end up shot, seven of them fatally. Finally everyone breaks for safety, the farmers back to their farms, the Biloxians back to their boats, and Jolliet’s surviving crew back to their boat which they pole up the river that same night. Traders avoid New Orleans for months and the Huguenot leadership is splintered.
The only winner is the governor. Fortunately for the Huguenots he is a stupid man who overplays his hand. He continues efforts to moti
vate one faction against another, but they all go to the same church and by the second Sunday are sober enough and smart enough to understand what is happening to them. They pray for guidance, pray for peace, and eventually find a compromise that they can live with. Within a month the duty on boats coming from Biloxi is dropped – that had raised prices for everyone and had benefited no one other than the governor. As for boats down the Mississippi, they keep that tariff, but determine that the money should go to the church for charity work, not to the governor. They also promise that the tariff will be reviewed each year.
The main discussion is how to create exports. They know the colony will never be self-sufficient. There will always be a need for imports. So, what can they export to cover those costs? They need to determine if there is anything they can sell the folks up river. A half-dozen volunteers agree to take a boat up the Mississippi to Illinois to see what the market might look like up there. In short, within a month of beating each other and shooting each other, they have come to their senses and begin to look to the long-term economic needs of the colony.
By now it is early afternoon and I invite Monsieur BuBois out to lunch as a peace offering. But we talk history all the way to the cafe and all the way through lunch. This will be a working lunch.
“I haven’t finished reading all the accounts of the tariff riots,” I begin the minute we begin our walk to the café. “But I get the impression that Jolliet was not the sole target of the riot. There was general discontent with the tariff decision and he just happened to be there when the guns started going off. Is that a fair assessment?”
“No, I have read a number of accounts, and I have the distinct impression that he was more than an innocent bystander. Did you read the minutes of the meeting? He was one of the people who spoke against tariffs. He came to town specifically to address the meeting, and he made his opinions very clear. As a result, I think he became a target, especially for the local farmers who were really unhappy with the competition he represented.” DuBois and I took a table at a sidewalk café. It was unbearable hot, but there is a limit to how much time I can spend in air conditioning. DuBois must have felt the same way. Have I described him yet? He is mid fifties, very tall, thin, bald. And he is friendly. I get the impression he likes his job and is happy to talk to me or to anyone else about any subject in his library.
“But what is the point of shooting Jolliet? If he doesn’t come down river with trade goods, someone else will.”
“I am not sure that is true. In fact let me give you a focus for your biography of the family. I am convinced that Canada has always been two countries – Louisiana and the North, and there were always just two forces holding the country together – the Jolliet clan and England.” At this point a waiter came to take our order so there was a natural pause in the conversation, although there would have been a pause anyway, as I tried to internalize what DuBois had just told me.
“OK,” I finally say, “that is an interesting thesis. And you are right, it would be a great focus for my biography. But can you prove it?”
“Certainly. Begin with trade routes. Louis Jolliet has found a route through the interior of the country, and it is a good route, but compare that route to the ocean routes.” At this point he unfolds a napkin and begins drawing on it. “The ocean voyage from Quebec to France takes less than three months and brings a shipload of goods and people. The trip from New Orleans to France is about two weeks longer, but still it is in the vicinity of three months. And of course the ships can trade along the way. Now calculate how long it takes to get a canoe’s worth of goods from Quebec to New Orleans. Four months? Five? All that time and expense to get a few hundred pounds of goods down the Mississippi.”
“So your argument is that each colony has its own trade sphere and that trade with France will always be cheaper and faster than trade from the northern areas to Louisiana. The Mississippi River unites the colonies on paper, but not in reality.”
”Exactly.” At this point our lunch began arriving but we didn’t pay much attention to it. “The two colonies are legally distinct, each with its own governor, each with its own corporate ownership. When Louis is displaying maps of Canada to other kings in Europe he shows a unified colony with unlimited lands, but that is never the way he ran his colonies. And that is not how the colonies functioned economically. There was no real connection between the north and the south for generations.”
“Except for the Jolliets and the English.”
“Actually the Spanish and the Dutch helped too, but the English were the most useful since they ultimately had the best navy. If French ships could sail the Atlantic unhindered by enemy ships, then French goods could be sold cheaply in Quebec and in New Orleans. If French shipping was stopped, then the colonies had to fend for themselves. Suddenly the extra month or two on the Mississippi was worth the effort since the Mississippi was always protected from hostile forces. Trade among the colonies benefited whenever France was at war.”
“We had something similar over in the British colonies,” I added. “Whenever England was at war we were unable to import their goods, so local companies began manufacturing the goods that had been imported in the past. With no English competition, these new companies could struggle through the first few years of a business, learn how to improve the quality of their goods, and often prevail when English goods came back on the market at the end of the war. No one wants to say it, but European wars were helpful to the U.S.”
“And they were helpful to Canada. But they were intermittent. What was constant was the Jolliet family. For centuries they were determined to unify Canada along the river their ancestor discovered. I sometimes think this country is held together by the will of the Jolliets alone.”
“That explains why they tried to kill Claude.” I said under my breath.
“Well, in 1725 it was mostly about the price of corn,” DuBois responded to my mumbling. “But it might well have changed the future of the country.” Our conversation continued for another hour or so as we finally began to work on our food, but it was casual conversation as I moved the conversation away from the Jolliets, afraid I might make another misstep about the attempted murder of Claude Jolliet. As far as DuBois was concerned, the only effort to kill a Claude Jolliet happened in 1725. I needed to keep it that way.
It was well past two before we finished a typical French lunch, and I was no longer in a mood to sit in the library. I walked back to the library with DuBois, apologized again for arriving early and disrupting the security procedures, and then headed back to my hotel. I needed to change for the evening historical society meeting, and I wanted a few hours to put some ideas down on paper. My biography of the Jolliets had just taken a new focus.
When I got back to my suite I was surprised to find Elise partly dressed and asleep on the bed. I closed the door quietly, but she opened her eyes and looked around at me. I could see instantly that she was miserable and had been crying. I hurried over and sat on the bed next to her.
“Are you sick?”
“No. I just can’t bring myself to go talk with Huguenots today. They almost killed Uncle Claude.” The look on her face was so agonizing, I thought my heart would break. I laid down next to her and took her in my arms. I had nothing brilliant to say, so I just held her. We must have stayed that way for nearly an hour. I wasn’t sure if she was awake or asleep. Finally she began to stir again, moving even closer into my arms. “I don’t like hating people,” she said so softly it was almost a whisper.
“We will never know if it was part of a political plot or just some crazy guy with a hunting rifle. He may be running for his life now, afraid to look back over his shoulder.” It was an image that worked for me.
“Were you afraid?”
“Yes. I was very afraid. And then I was very angry, mostly at myself. You had asked me to watch for special dates, and I hadn’t done my job. I hope you can forgive m
e for that.”
“Oh Shawn. It was not your fault. Of course I forgive you.” And then she kissed me to prove she meant it.
“I had lunch today with a man from the national library. He made an interesting point about the Jolliets, a point that seems especially true after what I saw last night. He said the Jolliets have been holding this country together for centuries. Do you believe that?”
“Yes. I am certain Uncle Claude would die for Canada.”
“And what about the DuPrys?”
“Our job has been simple. We stand one step behind the Jolliets and do whatever they need. We serve Canada by serving the Jolliets. That has been our role for over three centuries.”
“You served him well last night. I saw how quickly you got him to the floor and shielded him with your body. Your family will be proud when Jolliet tells them.” That earned me another kiss, and then we lay together quietly for the rest of the afternoon. At some point during that afternoon I had an unnerving thought. Her role was to serve the Jolliets. Did that include marrying me? I quickly pushed that thought to the back of my mind, but I couldn’t completely get rid of it. Gradually I felt Elise drift off to sleep, but sleep eluded me.
Elise roused herself around six and looked much more like herself. She phoned one of the former coworkers she was assigned to see, and very pleasantly arranged to meet them for dinner. She found yet another white dress (I wondered how many she had, and where she had found all of them on such short notice), and was dressed and on her way within the hour. I got a quick kiss as she left, but I could tell she was all business now. The lady who was born to leadership was ready to lead again.
I put on a cotton suit and took a cab to the hotel where the historical society was meeting. Even before I arrived I felt that several things were odd about this meeting. First, historical societies don’t meet in hotels. They never have the budget for that. Usually you get the basement of the local library. Second, they never have dinner meetings – for the same reason. Yet the cab took me to one of the best hotels in New Orleans, and the dinner was being held in the main ballroom, with all the elegance (and cost) that implied. I was disoriented before I even crossed the threshold into the ballroom.
Things got more confusing when I went in. First, there was a receiving line. That was a first for me. I am used to wandering into a basement room, looking around for a pot of coffee, shaking a few hands and then sitting on a folding chair at a folding table. More surprising was the way people were dressed. I was glad I took the time to put on a suit. But many in the room were wearing tuxedos, and lots of women were dressed in formal gowns. I was stunned and confused and so was totally unprepared when a security guard asked to see my invitation. I pulled out the fax I had gotten from Claude Jolliet and handed it to the guard.
“Dr. Messier, could I see some identification?”
“I am not Henri Messier. He is my department chair at the National University. My name is Shawn Murphy. As you can see from the fax, he has asked me to take his place.” I had barely gotten ‘I am not Henri Messier’ out of my mouth when a second guard was at my shoulder.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said. “But this meeting is by invitation only.” Now I was really confused since it was my experience that you had to drag people kicking and screaming away from checkers and shuffle board to get them to attend an historical society meeting, and here they were, keeping people out!
“As you can see, “ I insisted, “I have been asked to attend by the chair of the history department at the National University.” I don’t know why I was pushing to attend. Maybe I was insistent on getting in just because they were so determined to keep me out.
“I am sorry, Mr. Murphy.” He didn’t look sorry at all, and he was edging toward me as a means of getting me to back out of the doorway. “But we are only allowed to admit invited guests.”
“Did I hear you say your name was Shawn Murphy?” The largest man in North American had broken away from the receiving line and stood next to the guard. The two guards instantly backed away. Whoever this guy was, their body language said he was the boss.
“Yes.” I wasn’t sure what else to say, so I held out my hand. The man-mountain took it and shook it vigorously. Every motion he took made rolls of fat shake all over his body, but his hand was strong and hard. I wondered how tough the man was under the fat.
“If I am lucky, you are the man who wrote a dissertation on Washington’s battles at the headwaters of the Ohio.” I don’t know if I was more surprised by the fact that he knew about my dissertation or that he referred to the location of the battles in relation to the river rather than in relation to Fort Duquesne. The difference was significant – at least to me.
“Yes, that was me.” I still couldn’t think of what to say, and was beginning to feel like a little kid.
“We need to see that dissertation in print. It is first-rate work.”
“I had thought there might be some possibilities of that when I wrote the dissertation, but I found few publishers are interested in a general who lost the only two battles he fought.”
“Now see, that is why you didn’t get it published. You have the totally wrong attitude. Washington may have lost the battles – although if you ask me we can blame that on the British, not on him – but he at least knew where to go. He was the only man in Virginia – then or now – who understood why Duquesne had to be taken. Let me introduce you to some people.” At this point he spun me around like I was weightless, and led me over to the receiving line.
“Friends,” he had a voice as large as the rest of him. “I want you to meet the most brilliant American historian of his generation, Doctor Shawn Murphy.” He then started me at the head of the line and introduced each member of the receiving line, telling me about each of them. The first man in the line, and obviously the least important, was the head of the Louisiana Historical Society. Normally I would have spoken with him for a few minutes, but my big friend didn’t seem to think he was worth much time, for he pulled me along the line after I had barely shaken the man’s hand. Next came two provincial ministers, both of whom were polite to me and practically fawning on my large companion. Then came the three big shots, each wearing a blue armband and standing so erect you would have thought they were posing for their own statues.
“Tonight we are honored to be hosted by the three legendary leaders of the Heritage Party, Thomas Lebeck, Paul Andrees, and Rene Soisson. On September 2nd they will take the title of Governor and Assistant Governors. Later this fall, well, we have every hope that their titles will become even more august.” Lebeck and Andrees I had never seen before, but all the world knew the likeness of Soisson. He was the little man who had made the speeches while the cameras rolled and the Biloxi Cathedral exploded in the background. I had thought he was in jail. Did I shake his hand? Yes. I shook all their hands briefly, said “how do you do” as formally as I could, and moved on. What did I see in their eyes? Confidence. In their minds they were already royalty. They shook my hand the way they expected to shake the hands of kings and presidents from around the globe. They were practicing to take their place among world leaders.
“Jacques,” the big man said to a security guard who followed in his shadow, “I want you to take Doctor Murphy to my table. We Americans need to stick together, don’t you think?” It was only then that I learned he was American. His French had been flawless – or at least flawless to my ears. “But please excuse me for a little while, I must help with the greetings.” Then he went back and took up a very large place in the receiving line. Everyone else was going to learn his name, but I still had no idea who my benefactor was.
Jacques led the way across the ballroom. I made three observations as we crossed the huge room. First, the place was crowded – one more sign that this was not your usual historical society gathering. Second, the crowd was young. Usually people begin to take an interest in history after t
hey have some history of their own. Tonight, at twenty-nine, I was about average age. Third, almost half the people in the room were wearing blue armbands with white crosses on them, including Captain Whatsis and his three stooges that I had met Friday night. I wondered if the good captain still had a sore right hand.
Out of pure malice I stopped following Jacques and wandered over to their table. The tables were so crowded together it was not easy to wind a way through all the chairs, but I managed. They saw me coming and all four of them stood ready to continue our debate.
“So, our American friend returns,” the captain said. “You seem to know all the right events to attend. Do you now have the right values?”
“If it is a value to blow up cathedrals and brag about it on TV, then no, I do not have the right values.” We were barely six inches apart and it was obvious both of us were looking for trouble.
“That’s right. Murphy. Irish Catholic, no? I wonder when the time comes, will you choose your country, or will you choose your pope.”
“I will always be a loyal American. Are you a loyal Canadian?” He was fast. I barely had the last words out of my mouth when he got a punch into my ribs. As he pulled his fist back to strike again, I brought both my palms up and hit him as hard as I could in both collarbones. I hoped I would break one or both, but that only happens in movies. But I did manage to push him backwards. The knot of chairs did the rest as he tried to step back to get his balance and instead tripped backwards over one chair and into several others. While he pushed chairs around to try to get up again, the security guards did their job. Two of the biggest men I have ever seen pulled me across the room while several others grabbed the Captain and his friends. We were all out in a side hallway before our feet touched ground. The guards pinned us to a wall and waited. I noticed that they were hardly breathing, while I felt like I had just run a marathon. There was a message there for anyone smart enough to heed it.
“Let them go, but stay close.” The man giving the orders was Lebeck. He had looked small even next to Soisson, but he seemed pretty big in that hallway. It was obvious he was giving the orders and these big guys would follow them.
“You two have blemished an evening that will go down in history. I should have these men show you what a real punch looks like.” He said to me and the Captain. “I think they might enjoy beating you up and dumping you in the river. But there are two reasons I won’t. And no,” he now stood just inches from me and looked up at me with his rat eyes. “Not because you are some snotty historian from some prissy college. I don’t give a rat’s ass what degrees you have.” He then stepped back and looked at both of us.
“First, you are both boys, and boys do stupid things. I hope that you will still feel so much like fighting when the real battle comes. Second, our countries have been fighting for three centuries. Only a fool thinks that we can change habits so quickly. But old habits or not, you will not disturb this meeting. Do you understand?” I could hear the captain to my right mumbling “Yes sir.” I loved to hear the groveling in his voice. I refused to answer.
“You are about to hear some of the most important historical plans of the century.” Lebeck was in front of me again. “You can hear them on the sidewalk, you can read about them in the newspaper, or you can hear them while enjoying a fine dinner with the leading citizens of the province. Which will it be?’’ He jammed his index finger into my stomach with each of the last four words.
“I’ll read about it in the paper.”
“See? Now that’s a choice I can respect. Don’t be a toady for anyone.” He looked over his shoulder at the captain. “But tonight is your lucky night. Mr. Foster likes you, and so you will go back in, sit at his table, and behave yourself. Jacques.” He turned now to one of the guards. “You were told to get this American to Mr. Foster’s table. That seems pretty simple. I never give people a second chance to disappoint me. You are fired. Eduard. Now it is your turn. You will walk Doctor Murphy to table 2. He will go directly there, and he will stay there until Mr. Foster decides he can leave.”
The hand on my arm now pinched a nerve I hadn’t known I had, and we began the walk back into the ballroom and to a table near the platform. I might have resisted had that been physically possible, but I also was interested in seeing what this meeting was all about, so I really didn’t put up too much of a struggle. Mr. Foster was waiting for me at the table.
“I see that you already know some people in attendance. How pleasant for you to have friends here.” Foster addressed me in English. I ignored his irony and sat down. I noticed immediately that he was lucky to have long arms. Given the size of his belly he wasn’t getting anywhere near the table. I tried not to stare. I also tried to calm my breathing. Growing up I had had enough fights with my older brothers to know the winner was always the one who cooled down the quickest at the end. I was determined to appear the winner.
“I apologize for causing a disturbance,” I finally replied when I was sure I had the breath for words. “Those officers and I have had previous dealings.”
“Think nothing of it. As an American, I was happy to see you stand up to four French men. But I have to admit I was surprised. I have been attending historical society meetings in New York for decades, and I have never seen a fist fight. Most evenings it would have helped end the tedium.” He was giving me hints as to his identity, but I still wasn’t making the connection. I know I had not seen him at national history association meetings, so I was fairly sure he was not a professor. So what was he, and how did he have connections with the blue arm band crowd?
“May I ask what your role is in tonight’s meeting?”
“I am afraid my role is simply to write a check. My family has a small foundation that likes to support historical research. Perhaps you have heard of the Plymouth Foundation?” Had I? There was a small flicker of recognition in the back of my mind. I had heard the name, but I couldn’t remember the context.
“I am sorry. Since it is so early in my career, I have not pursued many grants yet.”
“Yes, you have so much ahead of you. Should you decided to do additional work on Washington, do send us a proposal. We have a special interest in him.” At that point two other couples joined our table, including the head of the local historical society. Foster and I instantly switched back to French, and I had a long talk with the head of the historical society about the archives in the provincial library. It turned out he was a frequent visitor to the archives and was pleased to extol their virtues. Dinner came and went while we talked. There is no need to describe the meal other than to say it was the best hotel food I have ever eaten. Clearly this was not the rubber chicken crowd. I wondered how large a check my new friend had written.
For about an hour I spoke with Monsieur Levin while Foster entertained the rest of the table. He told a series of jokes and had everyone listening to him as large people often do. Finally the lights dimmed and the speeches began. Mr. Foster was introduced at my table, as was Mr. Levin. Foster drew the louder applause. Another half dozen dignitaries were named before the real introduction began. At this point Lebeck took the platform to the loud applause of the audience. He stood beside the podium, his hands at his sides, and smiled slightly while the crowd first applauded, and then quickly got to their feet for a standing ovation. The roar in that ballroom was overwhelming. The young men and women shouted and yelled as if a rock star were on stage. Lebeck let it build for several minutes, and then finally raised one hand to quiet the crowd. They gradually sat down and Lebeck moved back behind the microphones to begin his speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Louisiana.” That brought another roar and I thought the crowd would leap to its feet, but they stopped just short of that. “We gather this evening to celebrate our heritage and to prepare for a new life for our beloved homeland – Louisiana.” This did bring them to their feet, and just about deafened me. I had ne
ver attended a political rally before, but it was obvious I was attending one now. “We have much work to do tonight. Much to plan for, much to celebrate. But let us begin this special night with a gesture of proper respect for this land we love.” Suddenly musicians poured in from each side of the ballroom and began playing a song I had never heard before, but assumed immediately must be the provincial song, now being sung as a national anthem. The musicians hadn’t hit their third note before a thunderous cheer went up from the crowd, they stood yet again, and then began singing their anthem. I stood up as well, wishing to stand with my hands over my ears to blunt the volume, but unwilling to be that obvious despite the real pain I was experiencing.
I have no idea who handled the video systems, but simultaneous to the beginning of the anthem a huge provincial flag began slowly descending behind the speaker, while two floor-to-ceiling screens came to life on each side of the flag and showed images of the river, the state house, groups of citizens, squads of LNA troops, and finally an image of Soisson standing atop some stairs and reviewing crowds of adoring fans. The images seemed timed to the music. I wondered how many hours the band had practiced to get that right. But I am pretty sure I was the only person wondering about the wizard behind the curtain. Everyone else was singing their lungs out.
Mercifully they only sang one verse of the provincial song, but then they continued standing and cheering while my ears rang. Lebeck finally brought them down to their seats before they exhausted themselves. “Friends,” he finally began again. “You have all worked wonders to get us to this moment in our history. You had the vision. You had the courage. You had the love for our homeland.” He paused and let them cheer again. Thankfully they didn’t bound out of their seats again. “But we all know one man who shared your vision, shared your courage, shared your love. This man has stood up against petty politicians and corrupt national judges. He has stood up against the Pope. Time and again he has stood up to national police. He has faced bullets. He will face any obstacle, overcome any enemy to make your love a reality. I give you the next governor of Louisiana and the first president of the free nation of Louisiana, Rene Soisson.”
Well, I was deafened again. The crowd was on its feet screaming, and the band joined in playing some other song I didn’t recognize but one the crowd obviously did. I was waiting to see Soisson descend like some god from the sky, but they just had him walk from the back of the room while crazed supporters threw flowers or hugged him until a security guard pulled them away. It must have taken ten minutes for him to walk across the room, meanwhile the musicians blared and the crowd thundered and I wondered if I could sneak out an exit with my hearing still intact. All in all, it appeared that dynamiting churches was a great way to make friends around here.
What was he like when he finally spoke? He had a baritone voice so low I wondered if they were playing some magic with the sound system. And the crowd listened. They were so quiet I am not sure they were breathing. He did have an impact.
“My fellow Louisianans. My fellow soldiers. My friends.” That got the ovation going again. I hoped his speech was not more than fifty or sixty words, because at the rate we were going, it was going to be after midnight before he could even say that much.
“We have much to celebrate. Our impending freedom.” More cheers. “Our culture.” Cheers. “Our heritage.” Wild cheers. “Tonight we begin our celebration by paying our respects to those who came before us and sacrificed much so that a persecuted people could live in peace and worship without fear.” Cheers again. You get the idea. About every third word brought cheers. He did a nice job of pacing his speech to allow for those cheers.
“In 1720 the first ships brought thousands of proud people to this land. They were sick, they were strangers in an alien land, but they were proud. They faced swamps, mosquitoes, snakes, and a governor representing a corrupt and repressive regime. They overcame the swamps. They overcame the mosquitoes. They overcame the snakes. And we know what happened to that governor.” I really needed ear plugs at this point.
“No one in Green Bay helped our ancestors. No one in Green Bay paid any attention to them. No one in Green Bay recognized their sacrifice. In all these centuries the national government has never recognized the lives lost to build this land. But we will. We are. Beginning August 1st we will show the world what kind of people built this land.” I actually started looking around the table for paper napkins that I might be able to tear into pieces for ear plugs. Unfortunately, the napkins were huge cloth affairs that wouldn’t tear.
“Beginning in Biloxi.” At this point the video screens at the front of the room showed a huge map of the province. It appeared to be animated. The camera swooped down to Biloxi as Soisson mentioned the name. “We will gather our wagons and our mules and walk the miles along that trail so well known to the founders of this land. We will share a tiny portion of the hardships borne by those brave people. We will follow the old trail along Lake Pontchartrain.” The camera showed that section of the trail now. “We will follow the portage to New Orleans. Then we will walk the trail to Baton Rouge and to all the settlements to the west.” Here oddly, the camera showed the trail wandering off to the west clear into Texas. I wondered if they had made a programming error.
“We will show our respects to all the heroes of that time. I will be proud to walk that trail. I wish to celebrate that heritage, to teach that history, to show the world what a proud people did so many years ago. Who will walk with me?” That brought them all to their feet and got the band playing again. The decibels were so high in that room I wondered if we were registering on the Richter scale. It was obvious the speech was over. He stood nodding and gesturing as everyone in the room chanted over and over “WE WILL WALK. WE WILL WALK.” He let them stand and cheer for fifteen minutes, and then he turned and walked off the podium and disappeared from sight. The minute he was off stage young girls in blue arm bands ran into the crowd with booklets explaining the route and the times and all the details just in case anyone had any questions.
My only question was whether I could finally get out of the hotel with some portion of my hearing intact. But as I started looking around for an exit, Foster grabbed my arm.
“There is a bar on the roof of this hotel that has the best Irish whiskey in Canada. I would be pleased if you would join me.” I looked down at his hand on my arm, waited for him to release it, and then agreed. First we had to wait while dozens of excited people came up to Foster to thank him for his support and to exclaim about the virtues of this historical re-enactment. Was I supposed to see how popular he was? I stood nearby, shook the occasional hand of people so frenzied they were shaking every hand in the place, and waited. Eventually Foster pointed to a side door and we found an elevator to the roof.
The rooftop bar was filled, but a waiter led us to a reserved table and took Foster’s order for two Bushmills. It was still hot up there even at this late hour, but a breeze made conditions acceptable. More than anything, I was grateful for the relative quiet. Lots of blue arm band people were up on the roof too, but with no walls or ceiling to echo their excitement, the decibel level was much better.
“One of my goals has always been to bring history to the people.” The drinks came almost immediately despite the crowd, and Foster took a large draft of his whiskey before waxing eloquent. “Book history is boring. Kids hate it in school and never touch a book after they graduate. But look how successful re-enactments are. People will spend their precious weekends dressed up in wool uniforms, stand out in the sun and hold in formation for hours if you give them a chance to fire a musket just once. I saw that in Massachusetts first. But it is true everywhere. People love to role play.”
He took another drink of his whiskey, draining it, and held up a hand to a waiter who seemed to be stationed ready to follow his every command. Foster must be one helluva tipper. Meanwhile, I tried to figure out wh
at to say. Foster had stopped talking, now it was my turn, that is the way conversations worked. But I had no idea what to say to this man. What did he want from me?
“I have never liked re-enactments.” This was obviously the wrong way for me to start, and I could kiss off any grant from the Plymouth Foundation now, but my head hurt and my ribs hurt and I wanted to go back to the hotel. “The men stand in formation and fire their muskets, but none of them piss their pants from fear, or finish their lives minus an arm or a leg or a brother. Women dress up in colonial dresses, but they don’t die in child birth or watch their children die from pox while doctors put leeches on their little bodies. Nobody chooses to dress up like a slave or like an apprentice, and I have yet to see anyone walk behind a plow from sunup to sundown. What you call an historical re-enactment, I see as Dungeons and Dragons for middle aged men – fantasy role playing with too little imagination.”
“God I wish I were twenty-five again.” Foster sat back and laughed. “To walk into a room and pick a fist fight even when out numbered five hundred to one, to sit across from a man who could make your career and spit in his eye. Ah, to be that young again.”
“I apologize for being direct, but I assume you wanted to hear a different perspective. If you were looking for fawning support, you would be drinking with the blue arm band people. And for what it is worth, I am twenty eight.”
“Well, Doctor Murphy, let’s see how good your imagination is, and whether I am drinking with the right man.” Foster put down his second drink and focused his eyes on me like I was a series of numbers he intended to memorize. “What is the point of this re-enactment?”
“The Heritage party will use it to meld cultural support for their political ends. By the time they reach Baton Rouge they will be wearing the mantle of the founding fathers. It will be unpatriotic to vote for any other party.”
“And you believe it will be successful.”
“Yes. It worked in South Africa when the Dutch minority re-enacted what they called the “Great Trek.” They took covered wagons from Cape Town to Johannesburg, roughly a thousand miles, and by the time they were done, their candidates were able to beat the British candidates and run the country for nearly two generations. First came history, and then came apartheid.”
“So let’s assume Soisson wins. Now what?” This Socratic inquiry technique was beginning to get on my nerves, but I decided to answer him.
“He calls the provincial legislature into special session and asks them to support independence. That is what he has promised everyone, and I assume that is what he will do.”
“I agree. It is yet to be seen if he has the votes for that, but let’s leave Louisiana aside for a moment. We’re both Americans. What does all this have to do with us? By the way, are you sure you are Irish? I’m about to have my third drink and you are still on your first.”
“Actually, I prefer scotch.” Foster motioned with his hand and a waiter was there immediately. Foster ordered me a single-malt scotch and a third whiskey for himself. In truth, I didn’t mind drinking whiskey. I was just being grumpy. I had been pushed around all night. Was it too surprising?
“So what would George Washington do?” he asked.
“New Orleans meant nothing to Washington. When he marched on Fort Duquesne in 1754 he faced an army reinforced by Phillipe Jolliet out of Green Bay. Jolliet had more men, and the support of local Indians. Washington had no Indian allies and was outnumbered three or four to one. He won two skirmishes and then was forced to surrender and retreat back over the Alleganies. New Orleans had nothing more to do with that battle than Rome or Peking.”
“So far you have just shown me you are not a military strategist. What if Jolliet had not arrived with the reinforcements? What if he had to take them south to St Louis rather than east to Duquesne?”
“Then Washington would have won and Ohio would have gone to the English.”
“That certainly would have changed things for the Americans, wouldn’t it?” He had a smile on his face that looked that the famous Cheshire cat smile. With all those rolls of fat dropping off his chin, the effect was truly revolting. So was his implication. How sick was this guy? Attack Ohio?
“I don’t know where you are going with this, or at least I hope I don’t know, but let me point out the obvious. In 1754 the battle at Fort Duquesne cost less than one hundred lives on both sides. Had Washington won and pushed on, the death toll might have reached two hundred on both sides. That is two hundred tragedies for two hundred families, but for a battle so crucial to our history, the number is very low. But that was two hundred and fifty years ago. If George Washington were to try the same invasion today, the losses would be in the tens of thousands and could start a larger conflict that took the lives of millions. So let me tell you what George Washington would do today. He would drink his scotch, go home to his fiancé, and wake up the next day to a world where kids got to grow up never having to hear machine guns.” I got up at this point, wondering if he or any of the blue arm bands would stop me. But all he said as I brushed past the table was, “Sleep on this, and we will talk again.”
I was fortunate. The elevator quickly got me to the lobby, a row of cabs was waiting out front, and ten minutes after leaving Foster I was back in my suite. Elise was already there, asleep. I sat in the living room in the dark and wondered if I should pack our bags and get back to Green Bay right that minute. New Orleans now scared the hell out of me.
Gradually I calmed down. It took over an hour. Finally my breathing slowed and my fists unclenched and my jaw unlocked. I got undressed and joined Elise in bed. I could survive one more day. But I would be very careful about where I went and who I spoke to. As it turned out, I wasn’t careful enough, but it was probably better I didn’t know that as I struggled to get to sleep.
Chapter 12
I Get into Yet Another Fight