Over the next few days I tried to put some structure back in my life. I was going to be in Louisiana for another several weeks. I needed to plan how I would spend that time. I would drive over to Biloxi around the first of the month to see the walk get started, but that still left me with about ten days to kill. Under normal circumstances I would have headed straight back to the Provincial Library to read more materials from the archives and learn more about the first years of the colony. But I suspected Margaret would still be there. I wasn’t sure what was true about her and what was not, but I did know she was beautiful and I was engaged. I needed to keep my distance.
As a substitute, I went back through the notes I had made on the arrival of the Huguenots. I pulled up maps and made sure I understood how people had traveled from Biloxi to New Orleans. I imagined how I would present that material to a group of college students. What was crucial for them to know? I began roughing out a report along the lines of what Jolliet had suggested – a web log that students could follow. And as I did that, I found that my mood improved. I still missed Elise, but as long as I stayed busy, things weren’t so bad.
On Friday afternoon I got a phone call that made me busier. Harry Stuart, my dissertation advisor at Virginia called.
“Shawn, I hear you are in New Orleans. Are you wearing a bullet-proof vest?”
“It is perfectly safe down here. The only problem I have is heat. Did you know there are hotter places than Virginian in August?”
“I think I can rescue you from the heat. Would you like to fly up here for a couple days? I got a call this morning from the managing editor of UV Press. He is trying to track you down to sign a contract for your Jolliet series.”
“That is great news. Thank you for pushing the idea to him. But I am afraid I don’t have much material ready yet.”
“This is where it gets interesting. You see I never mentioned the biography to him. I thought you wanted more time to organize it. He called me because he has been getting requests for your book from several libraries in Europe, and also got a call from the National University of Canada to co-publish a French translation. You have been a very busy boy.”
“I have been busy in many ways, but unfortunately, I have not been busy with the book. I have taken a temporary job with the National University, so that explains that connection. But I don’t even know anyone in Europe, so that whole thing baffles me.”
“Shawn, editors don’t normally call up assistant professors and request books. I suggest you move while the opportunity is there. Can you put together an outline and a first chapter? Fly up this weekend, and I will take a look at it and see if I can make a few suggestions, and then we can meet with the editor on Monday. Can you do that?” I hesitated for a few seconds while I tried to decide if that was even remotely possible. After a few seconds of silence from me, Harry put his advisor hat on again. “Shawn, the answer is ‘yes.’ Even if you have no idea how you are going to get it done, say ‘yes.’ Your career is calling you. Don’t put it on hold. You know where I live. I will expect you for dinner Sunday at seven. Bring a good bottle of wine and about fifty pages of your manuscript.” And then he hung up.
It was three o’clock. Assuming I could get a flight out Sunday morning, I had less than forty eight hours. If my career was going to call, couldn’t it have called earlier in the week? I started moving. First, I called the airline I normally used and was able to get a direct flight to Richmond just after lunch on Sunday. A rental car would be waiting for me.
Next I started looking back at my interview notes. A secretary at our company had transcribed all the interviews so I had them in text on my computer. The problem was they were just words. There was a narrative, Louis goes down the river and comes back. But there was no perspective or context. Seven men paddle a canoe for two thousand miles. So what? Was this an adventure story? An heroic struggle? A geopolitical feat? Given the fifteen seconds you normally get at a cocktail party before being interrupted, what would I say the book was about? I stared at the screen, paced around the room, and watched the clock race ahead. Time was disappearing.
Finally I began by making a list of opinions I had held over the years about the trip.
It was vastly overrated
It gave France huge tracts of land
It gave France a way to block American/English westward expansion
Then I realized that all of those opinions were true, but unimportant. Louis gave the French potential. Even forty years – two generations – after his discovery, France had barely managed to put some settlers into Illinois, and to put a few diseased soldiers into New Orleans. The map of the land ignored the fact that Canada was basically empty and divided into two colonies too far apart to interact much at all. The current divisions in the country were not new, but had been there for centuries.
So what mattered in the story? The Jolliet family. A dozen generations had fought to make Louis’s discovery mean something. There was my story. I sat down at the computer and wrote a two page summary of the project. Then I stopped, took a walk around the block, tried to think of other things, and finally came back to reread my summary with a clear head. I gave myself three questions to determine if I was on the right track.
Is it true? Were the Jolliets really that important?
Was it new? Or had other folks already written the book?
Did it matter? Could I show that this Jolliet family influence mattered?
I tried lots of counter arguments, but in the end I was convinced that the answer to question number one was yes, the Jolliets really were that important. If nothing else, I had witnessed it last Sunday night when the assassin had tried to kill Claude Jolliet. There were lots of possible targets, and he had selected Claude.
As for the question of newness, this was a harder question. I had done lots of reading about the Jolliet family during my first year in Green Bay. There were many biographies, but nothing that really addressed the entire family, or explained the consistent impact they had. For that matter, no one (including me) had considered how it was even possible for one family to maintain its influence over three centuries.
Did Jolliet family influence matter? I could think of ten examples of how their influence affected life here in Canada. Did their influence extent beyond the border? I hadn’t looked at that yet, but I was fairly confident the evidence was there.
In sum, I was confident I had the correct approach. But I didn’t have any time to go off in the wrong direction. So I walked away from the computer again and read newspapers for an hour. If the schedule had been better, I would have preferred a night to sleep on it, or a week to talk through ideas with other historians. But my career was calling; I had forty some hours to get this project rolling. I read the paper, even played with the crossword puzzle, and read the weather report for every city in the world. Then I read the summary again. Did it still make sense? Was this a project I was willing to commit myself to for the decade it would take to compete? Ten years from now would I be proud of my work, or would I be embarrassed? Basically, this was gut-check time. In many ways I was taking a bigger risk that I had fighting Captain Whatsis and his fools. That action might have sent me to a hospital. This decision might send me to academic oblivion. Was this the biography series I wanted to bet my academic life on?
Yes. It was six o’clock Friday night. I started writing, and kept writing until nine o’clock Sunday morning. I ordered room service food, took several showers, slept three hours each night, and kept writing. I wrote an overview of the project, an outline of the series, and the first chapter of the first book – the childhood of Louis Jolliet and the implications it would have for his later career. By the time I was done I had about eighty pages (double spaced). I took another shower, packed a bag, called a cab, and got to the airport. I was even at the airport half an hour early. Now, if I could just stay awake through my dinner with Harry, everything would be fine.
<
br /> Harry lived in what I think of as a professor’s house. It was older, English Tudor style, with a large library, lots of books and leather chairs, and walls covered with odds and ends from various trips around the world. I gave him my manuscript, he took it into his library to read, and I sat in the kitchen with his wife, Molly, talking French politics. Eventually Harry joined us in the kitchen, tossed my manuscript on the table in front of me, and pulled down a bottle of scotch.
“Did you remember to bring the bottle of wine I asked for?” He asked.
“No, I had a couple of other things on my mind. Besides, when did you drink anything other than scotch or ale?”
“Molly and I like to live on the wild side occasionally. We could at least try some wine once in a while. But no matter, the good folks at Glennlivet will help us celebrate tonight.” He poured a small glass for each of us. No ice. With Harry, scotch was always drunk “neat.” “Molly,” he turned to his wife and spoke to her as if she were clear across the room. “Our young friend has an idea about Canada. It may be brilliant. We will only know that if he can prove it, and it will probably take him a decade to do so, but even if he can’t, the series will be interesting. He can tell a story. Must be the Irish in him.”
“Do you have any suggestions before I show it to the editor tomorrow?” I asked.
“There are several places you need to fix up, but they are obvious. Any editor would spot them right away. Leave work for the editor, I always say. They have a bad job and it helps if they can feel useful. What you have is enough for our meeting tomorrow.”
The rest of the evening is a blur -- partly scotch, partly fatigue. I remember eating dinner, taking a walk around the yard to look at flowers, and talking about anything and everything. It had been over six months since I had last seen Harry, and much longer since I had talked with Molly, a French professor who had finally managed to improve my pronunciation skills. They were interesting people and interested in everything going on in Green Bay and New Orleans, so we talked for hours. I don’t know when I finally got to bed, but eventually they steered me towards the guest room and I dropped off without even getting undressed.
The next morning I drank a lot of coffee, but never did seem to wake up. We drove over to the University of Virginia Press, just off campus, and I was introduced to the entire staff – all eight people. Two of the editors took my manuscript off to read in an office, and I had hoped I could have some quiet time then, but the rest of the staff wanted to talk about the publishing business, and French politics, and their business agent wanted to talk about contracts. I nodded, tossed in an occasional comment, and gulped coffee.
An hour later the two main editors were back, all smiles. They liked the direction the book was talking, it would be a significant contribution to scholarship, they could see why a French translation would be appropriate, they needed two scholarly reviews before they could commit to anything, but they were very excited about the possibilities. I nodded lots, smiled where appropriate, and edged toward the door. They had done all they were going to do this morning, and I needed sleep. Finally I edged enough toward the door that they got the idea. Five of them gave me their business cards, and the business person gave me a contract to review. I smiled, shook hands all around, and backed out of the room.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Harry asked as we stood out on the street.
“They seem like nice people, but I haven’t had much sleep the last few days.”
“Would you like to stop back at my house to rest before you catch your flight?”
“No, I think I will drive back to Philadelphia and sleep there. I haven’t been home in a while. But thanks for offering. And Harry, thanks for your help with the book. I hope someday I can do as well for my students.” I shook his hand, and then actually hugged him, something I never do. I got into my car and started north, hoping I could stay awake for the two hour drive.
The two hour drive was nearly four hours – I had forgotten how bad traffic is in the U.S. -- but I made it back to Rittenhouse Square without falling asleep at the wheel. Mom must have been sitting in the front of the house, because she saw me get out of the car. She also must have thought I was returning from a tragedy. I could see fear on her face as I climbed the front steps. Mothers worry so much. How do they ever sleep?
“Shawn what’s wrong?” My mother held the door open and then hugged me.
“Actually everything is very good. I came back to Virginia to sign a publishing agreement for a book. But I haven’t slept much in the past few days. Since I was so close, I thought I would stop by.”
“That’s marvelous. I am so glad you came home. I will call your father right away and tell him the good news. But you need some sleep. You go up to your room right now, and I will call you later when dinner is ready.” She said the magic word, “sleep.” I dragged myself up the stairs and dropped onto my bed like a load of laundry.
Hours later, it was my brother Paul who woke me up. He punched my shoulder a couple times and shook me, all very gentle by his standards. “It’s after eight, Shawn. We have already fed the kids. If you want to see anyone, you need to get up.” I hate taking naps because I tend to wake up confused, and that evening I was really confused. Where had Paul come from? I followed him downstairs and into the dining room, only to be laughed at by my whole family.
“How much did you pay a French barber for that haircut?” My brother Seamus asked. I slumped into a chair, my father handed my mother a comb, and she combed my hair like she had back when I was in third grade.
“Hi, everybody,” was all I could think to say. Both my brothers were there, with their wives, as was Kelly and her husband. I could hear kids in the next room watching television.
“So we hear you are an author now.” Seamus again. I nodded, which was a mistake, because my mother was still trying to drag a comb through my hair. “Well, congratulations.” He raised a glass of champagne as did everyone else. I reached for my glass, but my mother slapped my hand.
“It’s lemonade for you at least until you are awake enough to tell us all about the book and what you are doing in New Orleans.” Actually lemonade sounded pretty good. So I raised that glass and we toasted.
“So tell us about the book,” Paul asked.
“I told you last fall I wanted to write a book about Louis Jolliet and the discovery of the Mississippi. Well, that has changed, and now I am doing a book series on the Jolliet family and their political influence in Canada. The University of Virginia Press wants to publish the series, and the National University of Canada will publish the French translation.”
“Cool. So are you rich now?” Leave it to Seamus to look for money.
“Harry Stuart, my old thesis advisor, told me the average academic book just makes a thousand dollars or so.”
“A thousand dollars? And for that you will spend how long writing the book?”
“The series will take several years. In fact, it may take ten.”
“So you are going to get a thousand dollars for ten years’ work. Shrewd business move, Shawn, shrewd.” We all laughed at that.
“The money does not matter,” my father put in. “It is an honor to have a book published. I congratulate you Shawn.” And we all toasted again, with me sticking to lemonade. With that out of the way, we began eating, and catching up. The kids were in and out of the room. The older ones said “Hello, Uncle Shawn,” the younger ones just waved. I got an update on the neighbors, some comments about business (apparently things were going well), and a report on the trip my parents had taken to Green Bay to meet the DuPrys. My mother described their house and explained how pleasant the dinner had been. Eventually, the conversation turned to politics and the current rumors that there would be a war between the U.S. and Canada. At first I thought I hadn’t heard them correctly.
“What’s this about a war? Why would we fight the French?”
I asked.
“We always fight the French,” Seamus replied.
“It’s the refugees,” my father answered. “The rumors are that once Louisiana breaks from the rest of Canada, the two sides will fight. Huguenot refugees in the U.S. will want to fight for Louisiana, and there will be border skirmishes as they try to get back into the country. It will be Versailles Pass on a much larger scale. Once that starts, the U.S. can watch it happen or it can help the Huguenots gain their independence. I think that sums up the arguments you hear in the papers and around the water cooler.”
“Well, if you want to trade rumors,” I replied, “Let me tell you two. First, when I was in Missouri a couple weeks ago, I had dinner with a group of men who were convinced the Americans would be invading any day now, for the purpose of killing all Catholics. Then last week I had drinks with an American who was convinced we should invade Canada and occupy Ohio. I checked the guy out, and I think he has plans to help that process along.” That ended conversation at the table. They were all stunned. It was my mother who broke the silence.
“They think we want to kill Catholics?” She was already starting to tear up and I was sorry I had mentioned the conversation.
“Taking Ohio is not such a bad idea.” Seamus replied before his wife caught him with an elbow. I always liked her.
“Taking Ohio was a fabulous idea in 1754,” I replied. “Washington tried, and blew it. We could have taken thousands of square miles of land for the cost of a few hundred men. What do you think it would take today?” That brought silence again. I struggled for some other topic of conversation. I hadn’t seen my family in months. This was not how I wanted to spend my evening with them.
“Let me see if Dodson can see us tomorrow,” My father said. “Do you have time to go over to the Capitol for lunch again?” I agreed, and then we all sat locked in concentration as we collectively looked for something else to talk about. Thank God for kids. Two of the little came in begging to see a movie they had just seen promoted on television. That gave us something else to talk about, and we latched onto it for the next hour or so while we finished the meal and then got everyone packed up and back into their cars.
The last surprise of the evening came after everyone else had left and it was just my mother and father and I left in the house. We all carried dishes into the kitchen and did some stacking and washing, and then my father was gone. A few minutes later he returned with an envelope in his hand.
“I brought home your second quarter sales commission check.” I took it and started shoving it in my pocket. For the last several quarters my father had been giving me part of the sales commission for sales calls I had gone out on or had set up. The checks had been around two thousand dollars, and I assumed this one would be too. “You may want to look at that,” my father pointed to the check I had poised above my pocket. I opened the envelope and was truly shocked. The check was for more than eighty two thousand dollars.
“Wow. Thank you. Did we really do that much business?”
“We had the best quarter the company has ever had. The French think they are going to war, so they are stocking up.” I gave the check back to my father and asked him to deposit it in my account. The last thing I wanted to do was to walk around New Orleans with that kind of money in my pocket. And then I had a thought about all the sales.
“Are they also trying to buy us off?”
“Yes. All importers are doing well, but the French seem especially interested in buying from Americans. They want to make friends over here. They need friends.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just helped with the dishes for a while and then went to bed. Given all the sleep I had missed the last three days, you would think I would drop right off to sleep, but it took me a long time to finally clear my mind.
A few hours later my father was shaking me awake. I wish I could say I was gracious about it, but at the time it appeared the entire world was conspiring to keep me sleep-deprived. I mumbled and complained and finally got out of bed.
“I left a voice-mail message for Dodson last night.” My father explained while I rubbed my eyes. “He must have his staff working around the clock. I just got a return call fifteen minutes ago. He would like us to meet him at his house for breakfast – in thirty minutes.” I nodded and hit the shower. Within fifteen minutes I was at least presentable, and was out the door. My father drove what was luckily a short distance through the traffic that was already heavy at dawn.
The Senator himself met us at the front door. He was even loud and affable at seven a.m., a skill they must teach in politician school somewhere. We followed him into his formal diningroom where two of his assistants were waiting for us. One I recognized from our last lunch. The second was new to me. Dodson did introductions all around, which was really a meaningless exercise since we had no idea who his assistants were. They were just two young men, a couple years out of college, starting careers in government.
“I am anxious to hear about your latest adventures in New Orleans, Doctor Murphy. I understand we have a mutual friend down there now.”
“I assume you mean David Starr. He told me he called up here to check on me. I think he was very confused about what I was doing there.” As I answered his question I was also filling my plate from the various bowls and platters on the table. I was hungry.
“Yes, he thought you might be doing some observing for me. He was very curious about why you were in New Orleans at a time when so many people are trying to leave.” I had the sense Dodson also wanted to know why I was there but since he wasn’t asking me a direct question, I felt no need to provide an answer. I guess I was just in a mood.
“Could I have some coffee, please?” I asked between forkfuls of eggs.
“Of course.” Dodson passed a silver coffee pot down the table. “So, your father says you have been hearing some very ugly rumors while in New Orleans. Could you tell us about them?”
“Certainly. First, a large number of people in Missouri assume that when the people of Louisiana declare war, the U.S. will invade and kill all Catholics. I know that sounds bizarre, but I heard it on a talk radio station and then from a large number of men in a restaurant. They are certain we are coming.” One of the assistants started to respond, something about “But we would never…” but Dodson cut him off.
“Rumors are running wide over here too. I don’t know which is worse, talk radio or the World Wide Web. I sometimes wish we hadn’t invented either.” This got a laugh from his assistants. I was tempted to explain to Dodson that the web was invented by an Englishman – Tim Berners-Lee – while working in Switzerland, but then what would have been the point of that? I just kept eating.
“Your father said there was another rumor about Ohio,” Dodson continued. Here I got much more serious. I even put down my fork.
“There is a man you may have heard of – Tilden Foster. I met him at a rally for General Soisson. He said he was financing a re-enactment of the initial travels of the Huguenots in Louisiana, and he talked a lot about Washington’s attacks on the Ohio. He never said he had an invasion planned, but he made it pretty clear he thought possession of Ohio by the U.S. would be a good idea.” Dodson was now serious too. I saw his too assistants make eye contact when I had mentioned Foster’s name, but they had the sense to keep quiet.
“This seems an odd thing to tell you.”
“I agree. I think he assumed I would be excited about the prospects because I had studied Washington’s battles. He had read my dissertation, which makes him one of six people in the world. For what it is worth, he is also funding battle re-enactments along the invasion route Washington used.”
“That’s not true.” Assistant number two slipped his leash and managed to get that much out before either he was kicked under the table or somehow warned to shut up.
“Actually it is public record. Look at the Plymouth Foundation web site at the distri
butions they have made in the past three years. They have to list distributions to maintain their tax-free status, I believe.”
“We will certainly look into that,” Dodson replied.
“I wish you would.” I directed the rest of my comments at the assistants. “Let me make my position perfectly clear. I wish Washington had won in 1754 or 1755. It would have had enormous consequences for our nation. But he lost both times, and we have lost every other time we attacked. Now I have to believe it is too late. Changing the map would cost millions of lives, and to what end? My suggestion is you get this guy under control. Unless he is working for you, in which case we have even bigger problems.”
“I assure you he is not working for us, and it is not U.S. policy to invade Canada.” Dodson again. “It was kind of you to take the time to tell us about these rumors you are hearing. What are your next plans? Will you be returning to Green Bay, or staying here in Philadelphia?”
“It is my intention to return to New Orleans and observe the Huguenot historical re-enactment. I thought my students might be interested in it.”
“I would be interested too. Do you think you could give me your impressions from time to time?”
“I can do better than that. I will be writing a web log of the event. If you like, I will send you the URL, so you can read as much about it as you like.” That seemed to make everyone happy, especially me, since it meant I could keep the man informed, something I wanted to do in the hope that he was being straight with me, yet I wouldn’t be sending private correspondence or anything else that smacked of “spying.”
Breakfast went on a little longer and the conversation turned to football, baseball, basically meaningless talk for men. It filled the time it took us to finish our eggs and toast. Then we made our exit, shaking another round of hands and getting back into our car by eight.
“Do you think he was telling the truth about Ohio?” I asked my father as we drove back home.
“Not completely. He isn’t a bad man, but I suspect there are all kinds of plans being prepared these days. Many things could happen.” That was all we said about politics. Back home, I enjoyed another breakfast cooked by my mother, talked to her for nearly an hour after my father went to work, and then I gathered up my things and drove to the airport. If I was going to follow the re-enactment, I needed to get back to New Orleans and Biloxi.
Chapter 15
Biloxi