Elise called the next morning while I was still in bed. I had been leaving messages for her most evenings, but it had been several days since she had had the time to return my call. You can imagine her first question:
“What are you doing in New Orleans?”
“It seemed like a good place to learn Huguenot history, so here I am.”
I could hear her laughing on the other end of the line. “We sit in meetings all day everyday preparing for the end of the world, and you just drive down to study a little history. We need you up here, Shawn, to provide a cooler head and a little courage.”
“I won’t be down here that long. When will you be back from your meetings?”
“I can’t really talk about that over the phone, Shawn, but I hope to see you soon.” Our conversation got a bit more intimate after that, but didn’t last long. She had a full day ahead of her.
My day was off to a good start and sure to get even better. I had a focal point for my research now – Henry IV. It was too hot for me to run or skip or hop to the provincial library, but that is how I felt. Today was my day to put the history of this country in a new perspective.
I was also ready to have a professional conversation with the reference librarian and learn where the best materials on Henry IV were. I found him alone at the reference desk, reading, and waiting. A man in his early sixties with the bad posture you expect of someone who sits hunched over books all day, he immediately wanted to argue with me – a very good sign. This was not someone who would just give me the names of ten books; he really knew this subject and wanted to steer my research.
“I can name three good biographies of Henry IV, but they are so sanitized they read like press releases. Worse yet, they were all written by Jesuits, so they focus on his conversion for hundreds of pages and ignore the more interesting years of his life. If you really want to understand this man, don’t research Henry IV, research Henry of Navarre. Under that name you can find five excellent biographies, including one written by the best historian Louisiana ever produced.”
I told him I would start with that book. We then had a general discussion about his library, and he asked me about my background. He was none too happy that I taught at the National University, but he was intrigued by my subject and asked that I visit him during breaks to give him some suggestions about the best U.S. historians. He said there was a sudden interest in all things American, and he needed some additional expertise. To seal our friendship, he awarded me a study carrel on the second floor where I could leave my materials while I was doing this research. I was very glad I had waited a day before talking to him and hadn’t barged in asking stupid questions and creating the wrong impression.
A half an hour later I left his desk with the call numbers of several biographies, and the keys to my study carrel. I was practicing my profession and felt some pride at the progress I was making.
By the time I found the volumes I wanted and walked down to my assigned study area, the door to the little room was already open for me, and both the ceiling light and a study light were on. I looked around for someone to thank, but the whole second floor seemed to be empty. I was grateful for the quiet and began my reading with the volume produced by the local historian.
What did I learn about Henry IV, a.k.a. Henry of Navarre? First I learned it was good to be an American. Our history is much simpler. French history reminded me much of the endless English history I had read – an infinite series of kings squabbling amongst themselves. I have never been a fan of royalty. If anything, French history was worse, in that it seemed everyone was named Henry. I decided maybe Louis XIV was remembered after all these years simply because he was not named Henry – a remarkable feat for French nobility.
In Henry of Navarre’s case, there are actually four Henry’s and a Catherine who dominated the history of France for a century. The first Henry was the easy one – Henry II. He did what you expect a King to do. He fought the Spanish, increased his power, and hated anything that might disrupt his kingdom. It was under him that Protestantism came to France, and his response was simple – he killed all heretics he found. He had some success in killing Huguenots, but not only were many of the newly-created middle class looking over Protestantism, but so was some of the nobility, especially in the south and west. Among the first nobles to declare themselves Protestant were the King and Queen of Navarre. Their son, Henry, inherited the religion from his parents.
Then there was John Calvin, who I always thought was Swiss, but it turns out he just lived in Switzerland most of his life. He was French and went to French schools. Here’s an odd footnote to history: At one point John Calvin, one of the founders of the Protestant movement, and Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, went to the same school in France. Can you imagine sharing a classroom with those two? Two of the most determined men of the 16th century, it is a wonder they didn’t kill each other in a duel before they reached adulthood.
But they didn’t, so Calvin was around to correspond with the French nobility and help them as they set up congregations. Henry of Navarre’s mother was one of this most active correspondents and loyal supporters.
Henry II died in 1559 still trying to get rid of Huguenots. One Henry down, three to go.
Enter Henry, Duke of Guise. Depending upon which biography I read, the Guise’s were either ardent Catholics who sacrificed all for their faith, or political opportunists who saw a chance to put one of their own – Henry – on the throne. One thing is a certainty -- they weren’t above murder to achieve their ends.
The Guise’s began their campaign by either protecting Henry II’s boy-king Charles IX, or by holding him hostage – each biographer seemed to have a different view of their motives. In either case, Charles IX was too young to rule France, so he needed a Regent. The Guise’s wished to play that role – all in the service of France, of course.
But Charles had a mother – Catherine de’ Medici of the famous Italian Medici clan, and she had her own aims. A France aligned with her family’s holdings in Italy might give her family even more power and wealth. So she began her own strategy, based on principles her family had applied for many generations – divide and conquer. Her best way to win freedom from the Guises was to find some group that might have the strength to stand up to the Guises. She picks the Huguenots. At this point there were somewhat over a million Huguenots in France, just about ten percent of the population. They included some of the strongest personalities in the kingdom. As it turned out, they were no match for the Guises, but she didn't know that.
She begins her plan to strengthen the Huguenots and create an opposition for the Guises. She begins by bringing in some of the leading Huguenots as advisors to the king. The teenage king is bright enough to appreciate the perspective these new advisors bring, and comes to make one of them – Admiral Coligny – his most trusted advisor. Under Coligny France begins to develop a navy and Charles begins to get a larger view of the world. Catherine is making progress against the Guises.
The Guises are not idle. Henry has succeeded his parents and uncles and is ready to make his move. He forms the Catholic League and begins raising supporters all around the country, but especially in Paris. Soon he has hundreds of nobles, and senior clergy in his fold, all of whom are stirring up the peasants of France. The message goes out – the Church is under attack by heretics. A Catholic insurrection is building.
The insurrection might have occurred in any event, but Catherine brings things to a head by going one step too far in support of the Huguenots – she marries her daughter – Margaret, the King’s sister, to Henry of Navarre. On August 18, 1572 Henry comes to Paris and marries Margaret not in, but outside Notre Dame Cathedral in a Protestant ceremony. This is a provocation on two levels. First, it brings Protestantism into the heart of Paris, and second, it gives Henry of Navarre yet more legitimacy as a successor to the King.
Henry of Guise sees his chance and strikes. Six
days after the wedding – August 24 (St. Bartholomew’s Day) – he and his men are waiting for Coligny on a narrow street of the Ile de Cite. Coligny has two naval officers with him and two footmen, but Guise has dozens of men armed with muskets. Coligny is barely out of his carriage when he is shot, and then Guise personally finishes him off with multiple sword thrusts.
At this point the massacre begins. Guise’s men drag Coligny’s body out where the gathering mob can see it, cut it into pieces and throw it into the Seine. One historian has Guise delivering a bit of oratory at this point about heretics and France, but most believe he had already set things up with the criminals of Paris – they can keep anything owned by a heretic. So the slaughter begins all over Paris and then all over France. Anyone appearing to be a Huguenot is robbed and killed and his body thrown into the river. Twenty thousand members of the middle class and the petty gentry are killed before the end of the day. The Seine is so full of bodies it is blocked up and unusable for weeks.
The St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre changes the face of France. Henry Guise has shown he rules the streets. Charles IX is done as king. Whether he approved of the attacks or just let them happen, he has been shown to be irrelevant. France has no King. Within two years Charles is dead, despondent and alone. Catherine flees to Italy to the safety of her family. The Huguenots retreat to their safe regions in France – the south and the west – and turn to the leadership of Henry of Navarre.
Charles is succeeded by Henry III, the fourth Henry in this piece of history. Henry III is duke of Anjou and King of Poland and the least manly man in France. In twelve years as king he makes no effort to marry, produces no heirs to the throne, and has no policy other than to throw lavish parties with men like himself. Henry Guise and his Catholic League are the real rulers of France.
The problem of succession brings everything to a head. Charles had no children, Henry III will have no children if permitted ten lifetimes, and the rest of the brothers, uncles, cousins, and nephews are dying out. Henry of Navarre, once barely on the chart of the royal family, is suddenly next in line for the throne. By 1588 Henry Guise is ready to make himself king. He incites the mobs of Paris, and scares Henry III into leaving town. Guise then signs an agreement with Philip of Spain. Spain can have two provinces of France – including Navarre – if Philip will support Guise for King. The deal is signed and Guise begins running France as an uncrowned King while Spanish troops begin pouring into France.
Guise now makes two mistakes. First, by relying on Spanish troops and signing away French lands, he appears to be a foreign agent. Much of the Catholic League is embarrassed to be seen as part of such a plot. Second, he accepts an invitation to visit Henry III at his new digs in Chartres. It turns out Henry III is not an honorable man. He gets Guise to visit on the grounds that he will be holding a convocation that might determine who is the rightful king of France. Guise, owner of the world’s largest ego, assumes he can maneuver the meeting into selecting him. He might even have done so, except that Henry III has him assassinated upon his arrival in the castle.
Henry III now makes his own mistake – he goes to church. There a Dominican monk kills him. Two more Henry’s down, there is only one Henry left to rule – Henry of Navarre. In 1589 he is crowned as King Henry IV. Henry is thirty-five, young, strong, and the smart enough to still be breathing -- no mean feat for royalty in those days.
Henry IV has a million Huguenots to fight for him, ten million French Catholics to fight against him, and thousands of Spanish troops attacking one French city after another. He does the numbers and concludes the obvious – he needs to be a Catholic King. Within a year of becoming king he has himself recrowned king of France inside the Cathedral at Chartres with various bishops and cardinals attending. The Pope welcomes him back into the fold and the people of Paris shout hooray as he marches triumphantly back into the city. They have a Catholic King and a warrior who can beat back the Spanish. With all of France now behind him, he does just that, beating Philip in battle after battle and beginning Spain’s long slide into irrelevancy.
What did Henry IV do as king? Besides beating the Spanish and reclaiming French lands, he sent Champlain to the new world in 1608 to found Quebec and establish the empire we now call Canada. And he brought religious peace to France. His Edict of Nantes declared that France was a Catholic country, but that Protestantism could be practiced without fear. Churches were allowed, Huguenots could hold public office, and in fact most of his personal advisors were Huguenots. There were squabbles and skirmishes between Catholics and Protestants during his rule, but no open warfare, and France became more united as a nation. For twenty-one years, until he was assassinated by a Catholic, France had one of the better governments of the age.
By the time I had scanned my fifth history and summed up the basic narrative of those days, it was five o’clock, and I was hoping I never met another man named Henry. I locked up my study carrel and headed out to the stifling street. Inside two minutes sweat was rolling down my back and my head was even more filled with cotton. I needed a cool drink in a cool place. It was back to the Granary for me.
As I stumbled along Canal Street the sun felt like a weight on my head. Having lived so long in Virginia I liked to think that I could handle summer heat, but I was really feeling the wet air of New Orleans. What a shock after all those hours in the air conditioned library. But maybe it was the heat I needed. Because I had barely gone two blocks along the river when all the cotton in my head suddenly disappeared and I could see a date as clearly as if it was printed in front of my eyes in letters three feet high – August 24 – the day of the St. Bartholomew’s Massacre. If I were a Protestant with an axe to grind, that would be a special day for me. I wondered if Elise was aware of the day. Did it matter? I wondered if the group that had blown up the Biloxi Cathedral had any connections to history. Or was this just all about current complaints and a current power grab?
I was still thinking about August 24 when I reached the relief of the Granary. Stone walls are cool walls, and these were several feet think at the base. This is where the Jolliet family had brought wheat down from Illinois and Missouri. The stone walls kept out the rats and provided a solid foundation for the grinding stones. Today the stone walls dropped the temperature a dozen degrees. I felt like I had made it to a port of refuge.
The place was still empty – after all it was barely five – so I took a table near a wall and dropped my wet back into a cane chair. I needed lots of water, a little wine, and time to think through the implications of August 24. The waiter brought a pitcher of ice water almost the instant I took my seat – a real novelty for a French waiter, and more indication of how slow business was this summer. Then he did something even more unusual – he gave me a message.
“Monsieur, I have a message from David Starr. He said to tell you the meeting for tonight has been cancelled.” Even though the place was empty, the waiter kept his voice down like he was telling me some kind of secret. I just sat there looking stupid. Who was David Starr?
“I am sorry. I think you must be confusing me with someone else.” At least that is what I think I said. I was hot, tired, and confused, and I think my French reflected that.
“Please, monsieur, I saw you speaking with Mr. Starr last night. He told me to tell the Americans there would be no meeting tonight. You need not worry, it is not an emergency, he just had another matter that required his attendance. And monsieur, “he stopped and looked directly at me now, emphasizing his words, “I am proud to be of service to my country and to our new allies. You need not fear anything while you are here.”
“Thank you.” I replied. It seemed like the most reasonable thing to say. He was really confused, but he was trying to be nice. So I thanked him. “I will be staying for dinner. When I have drunk about a gallon of water, I would like some of your house bordeau, and then dinner.”
“Of course.” Some
how he changed back into a routine waiter at that point, complete with bow and notations on a pad he then buried in his apron. Things had returned to the routine one expects in a restaurant.
I was midway through the pitcher of water when I realized who David Starr was – the man from the consulate. He had given me his card and we had spoken for a bit about Pennsylvania. Had I agreed to meet with him? My best recollection was that I had agreed that I might call him. In truth I had no intention of calling him. I might not be the most experienced traveler in the world, but I assumed I could last a couple weeks in New Orleans without a watchdog from the government. No, the waiter must be confused. Starr must have meant someone else. I just happened in to the restaurant when Starr’s guest had been expected.
The waiter brought over my wine and then stood and had a long conversation with me. We talked wines, weather, the virtues of New Orleans, all the topics you might share with a chatty American waiter trained in customer service. For a French waiter such conversation was impossible. No one would believe me if I told them about such a waiter. And then he got even farther from the realm of the possible.
“May I speak to you in English?” If I were an older man, I think my heart would have stopped. He wanted to speak in English?
“Of course. Are you planning a visit to the United States?”
“No,” he replied. “I think more Americans come now. Some do not speak French.” He stopped at that point, looking like he needed to catch his breath. “Is my English correct?”
“Yes, you must have studied many years at school.”
“I studied four years in school, but I forget so much. If you can speak English slow, I think I understand.”
I agreed to speak slowly, and we began talking about wine and food, nouns I thought he might know best, and he handled the conversation well. We were about to move on to another topic when the door burst open and the five rugby players who had been in the night before charged into the room, loud, and drunk.
“Misters,” the waiter hurried over to them. “Mister David Starr said no meeting tonight. He is sorry.” I could see where his English might help him if more guys like this became customers. It was clear their French was worse than his English. The rugby boys stood still for a few minutes looking confused. Then one of them saw me and walked over. The others followed as if pulled along in his draft.
“Do you know why the meeting was cancelled?” He asked.
“I don’t know anything about a meeting. I am sorry.” My response seemed simple and direct, but he wasn’t buying it.
“You were in here last night talking with Dave, right?” He was a big man, standing over me, and his words were as much a challenge as a question. I almost felt like I should stand up to face him, but I kept my seat.
“Yes.” I know he wanted more of an answer, but I wasn’t sure I had more of an answer. David Starr and I had talked. What more was there to say?
“Look. You know who we are, and we know who you are, so why not cut out the cloak and dagger stuff. We just want to know where Dave is.” His friends all nodded in agreement.
“I don’t know who you are, and I am certain you don’t know who I am, but if you will join me, I will buy a round of drinks.” That did the trick. They all pulled out chairs and sat down, with their spokesman taking the chair nearest to me. He sat forward in his chair and leaned toward me. He didn’t say anything, but it was clear he was unhappy and would have more to say to me when he chose. In the meantime, he made sure I could see all his arm muscles.
“If I remember correctly, you men prefer beer. If you want Guinness I will join you, otherwise, they have a very good house wine here.” I called the waiter over and he tried to write down a series of shouted requests. Most went with Guinness or some other imported beer, but one decided to try the local wine so I drank wine too. The waiter was really good about bringing the drinks quickly, and set each beer bottle or wine glass down with a short comment in English. He was obviously making a special effort for this group, which confused me since they were drunk and loud. I would have expected him to be as cold as possible in an effort to get them to leave.
“Let me try again.” The leader said. He stared right at me, apparently trying to intimidate me into some answer. “If the message is that we are to stay here for a while and wait for Dave, just say so. If Dave isn’t coming, we need to know where to find him tonight.”
“I don’t know where he is, but I do have his card and a phone number. Would that help?”
“Yes, I would like to see that.” I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out Starr’s card. I hadn’t put it any place more permanent because I hadn’t intended to use it. It would have gone into the waste bucket as soon as I changed pants. But it might be useful tonight. The leader – none of them had introduced themselves yet, so I knew no names – took the card and studied the number Dave had written on the back. “I have this number – it is his secure line.” He stared at me now, expecting me to respond. What could I say? How would I know why someone I had just met would give me a special number?
“He was just giving me a number I could call in case things got rough here and Americans needed to be evacuated.”
“Oh things will get rough here, but we will take care of you. What do you say you tell us what you are doing here? I assume you already know our jobs.”
“I am an historian, here to learn Huguenot history. And no, I do not know your jobs.”
“We are soldiers, here to protect Americans.”
“And maybe do a couple other jobs.” Suddenly the other men at the table seemed to want to talk too. It was they who announced that they were soldiers, and hinted about their activities. Their leader still stared at me.
“Historian? That is the worst cover I have ever heard. If you’re an historian, tell me about this building. It looks old.”
“This granary was built in 1723. The Jolliet family used to bring grain down from Illinois and Missouri to various millers here in town. This is one of the oldest and best preserved buildings in town.”
“Sounds reasonable. And what do you know about the Huguenots.”
“I know August 24 is an important day to them.” Life is full of things you wish you hadn’t said, things you wish you had said differently, things you know were wrong the minute they were out of your mouth. But of all the things I have said in my life, this is the one that had the most consequences and made the least sense. Worst yet, it made my beer drinking friends very angry. I could tell by the looks of their faces that I had just said something unforgivable. All the men put down their drinks and stared at me. If I had just said the President should be assassinated, they would not have been angrier. Even their leader took an eternity before he could finally respond.
“This conversation ends now.” He stood and motioned for his men to get up too. They were up and out the door inside of five seconds, leaving me sitting at a table with half-finished drinks, wondering what had just happened. What in the world had I said? Unfortunately, it would be weeks before I understood what a mess I had just created. All I could do at the moment was pay the bill and wander back to my hotel. The streets were empty and I felt totally alone.
Chapter 6
Huguenot History