Chapter 21 –
Towards the Plains of Abraham
Up in my room I paced around, not really able to focus on anything. I had another diary to read, maybe one that made a difference. But I wasn't ready to sit and read. What had I just done? I could have helped bring down the Heritage Party. Instead, I settled for the death of a fat, ugly man. I had been given a choice, and I had chosen revenge. That's not an easy decision to walk away from. At a minimum I needed to tell Elise what I had done. I had just made her life harder - in multiple ways.
It was nearly seven now. I assumed she would still be at work, and she was. But she picked up on the second ring.
"Shawn, are you okay?"
"No. I just did something you should know about."
"Let me get some place quieter." There was a pause while she walked somewhere. The place might have been quieter, but it was not much quieter. Wherever she was, there were lots of people engaged in lots of conversations. "Okay, what happened?"
"Tilden Foster came to my hotel. He offered to testify against the Heritage Party and explain that the massacre at the courthouse yesterday was all an act -- an effort to create an emergency the Heritage Party could use to increase its power. He knew about the plan because he supplied the men who did the shooting."
"What did you do?"
"He asked me to supply a Murphy truck that would get him out of the country. He was afraid the party was now going to come after him. I refused. He left the hotel and was gunned down a block away."
"You refused?"
"He was responsible for many deaths."
"Yes?"
"He killed Margaret." There was a long pause. I could think of nothing else to say except, "I am sorry."
"You did nothing with Margaret you need to apologize for. She was a good friend."
"She was beautiful, and smart, and brave, and he killed her. I am sorry. I should have put the country first."
"You aren't a saint, Shawn. And now we face one less enemy."
"I love you, Elise. I will come to you as quickly as I can." I got off the phone and went back to pacing around my room. If I went to the window, I could see where the police had placed screens around Foster's body. But I didn't go to the window. I really did not want to see the mess down there, the mess I was responsible for.
As I continued my pacing, my phone rang. It was Catherine.
"The business news services are reporting a Foster died in New Orleans. Do you know anything about that?"
"He died just outside my hotel, right after talking to me. Government thugs shot him many times."
"He talked to you?"
"He wanted my help, and I refused. You might warn the rest of the family. If his two brothers make the connection to me, they might retaliate."
"He wanted your help?"
"He hired the men who shot up the Courthouse Plaza yesterday. It was supposed to be just a few shots, just enough to create sympathy for the Heritage Party, but the men got carried away. Too many people got killed. The Heritage Party came after him. When I wouldn't hide him, they found him."
"It sounds like he got what he deserved."
"Yes." There was a long silence. I had nothing else to say. Finally Catherine spoke again.
"Shawn, are you okay?"
"No. I hate it here. I hate what is going on here. Foster is lying out on the corner. They must have shot him fifty times. I could have stopped that, and maybe much, much more. I should be in Green Bay writing lectures for students to sleep through."
"Shawn, students don't sleep through lectures any more, they boot up their laptops and watch videos, or send text messages. You are where you need to be. When you are no longer needed, you will drive home. By the way, the leasing company is suing us for damages. We claim force majeure - an act of war. Let the lawyers fight it out. In any case, there should be a brand new Ford sitting in your hotel parking lot by evening."
"Did you say a Ford?"
"What the hell. We are an American company, why not drive American steel?"
"Thank you."
"It was a pleasure, Shawn. Take care." I really needed to talk with Dad about having Catherine succeed him when he retired. She was already demonstrating incredible decision-making skills.
After those two conversations I felt calmer. There was still so much more I needed to say to Elise, but today had been a start. The rest might come soon. Things were building to a head in New Orleans. I could feel it. The Party was shooting its own thugs. Maybe in another day or two they would make another mistake and this whole nightmare would end. At a minimum it would be nice to drive north and not face a "border."
I took a couple deep breaths and sat down with my computer. Diary number 2. Margaret had selected it for me. Pierre Rouseau. I liked it immediately. It was the journal of a single trip - a trip to Quebec in 1759. This man had been to the Plains of Abraham. He had fought the British.
He began with an explanation of why he is going, an explanation you get the sense he has given many times before to friends and family. Why not stay in Biloxi, his home? This is a fair question that has been addressed over many evenings in the town. The British are currently fighting around the mouth of the St. Lawrence, but there is nothing to keep them from sending ships into the Gulf too. If all the men go north, who will protect Biloxi and New Orleans? Over many councils, it is determined that defenses should be created. A few cannons and powder are found, and a couple breastworks are created at entrance ways. Men are mustered and drilled. Officers are appointed. Could they repel a British landing? No. But the swamps are an ally. By withdrawing along roads known only to locals, they could find second and third level defensive positions and let the mosquitoes do most of the damage to the red coats.
So they have a strategy, and they have manpower. Along comes Philippe Jolliet. The son of Claude Jolliet, he is well known in town. He has traded with the Huguenots for years, stayed in their homes, had them stay on his farm in Kaskaskia. He is known, and trusted. He has been to Quebec and brings the latest news. The British are removing all French citizens from the eastern end of the St. Lawrence. They are loading them on ships and taking them to British colonies in the south - the Carolinas, or Georgia. The suffering is terrible. Suicides occur. The French are being brutalized by the British.
He has worse news. The French leadership is divided. Montcalm has military command, but Governor Vaudreuil has command of most resources and the two cannot agree on a strategy. Quebec has high ground that would seem a natural defense, but monies appropriated for defensive works have disappeared. Walls that seem stout will not withstand cannon fire. Philippe has walked the walls himself, and he knows the weaknesses. But a third shortage may be the most critical -- food. As the British take the farms at the mouth of the St. Lawrence, farmers and merchants escape up river to Quebec, but they become additional mouths to feed in a town with limited resources. The fall harvest may rot in the fields if farmers are unable to get to their fields.
Having explained all these problems, Jolliet asks for volunteers. He has committed to bringing a thousand men and a massive supply of food to relieve Quebec. What can he offer? Soldiers will be paid, and the Huguenots will be able to serve under their own officers.
Pierre notes that Jolliet make no effort to extort them with patriotic phrases. In fact, he has made it clear they will be serving under many disadvantages. Maybe for that reason, they trust him. The community elders meet in open session and the men agree that four hundred local men can be spared. They will go north to fight the British.
Pierre is an interesting narrator. He is well into his twenties and has traveled a bit, and by his phrasing I assume he has some education. He also chooses not to be an officer. Either his family does not have the money for the appointment, or he just doesn't want it. Either way, I am grateful to read the words of an enlisted man - when they tell the story well, they tell it real
ly well, describing how it really was. They do not frame everything in how it will look back home when they advance their careers.
He does a nice job of describing the farewells in Biloxi and New Orleans and then Baton Rouge. The townsfolk are not stupid. They know many of these men will never return. They need to balance their fear of loss with praise for the bravery of the men. There are final banquets and dances and marches through town. And then the men get on boats and pole and row their way north.
The first stop is Kaskaskia. There they march in formation, practice shooting, and practice moving in coordination with the local men. Mostly the latter is practice for the officers who need to understand how to communicate over distances while men move. None of this is easy. It is late July and the temperatures are unbearable. Besides the heat, the younger men of the Huguenot corps are disoriented. Those who have never left Louisiana are stunned by the plains. The horizon is so far away. The world feels empty. Besides the usual homesickness of young men, there is this overwhelming desire to get under something. Where are the trees? Where is the shade? Where is the shelter? They want to go someplace else -- some place normal.
But the leaders keep them in Kaskaskia until August. There is a pacing they are observing. As much as they want to get the men to Quebec, they want to get food there too, so they are waiting until the harvest. To keep the men busy while they wait, many are sent across the river to hunt buffalo. This turns out to be a great idea. Not only do they get an adventure and lots of meat, but they get to see how woeful they are as marksmen. A buffalo does not go down easy. The Huguenot recruits get lots of practice on moving targets.
Finally the corn begins to ripen in large quantities and the small army can move. They take their boats up the Illinois River toward Chicago, stopping along the way to attract additional recruits and to purchase supplies. By the middle of August they are in Chicago. Here they are to transfer to much larger ships. Much has changed since the first Jolliet paddled this lake in a canoe. There are sailing ships on all the Great Lakes. Most of the men have never been on boats of this size, and there is some fear and confusion, and there are also long delays while the boats are loaded. Again the men are reminded, as necessary as they are to the fight, so is the food they have been gathering along the way.
It takes four days to load the ships. The men have almost no room to sleep, and so spend night and day on the deck, generally getting in the way of the crew. The winds are favorable, but they still ride three to five foot waves - nothing compared to Lake Michigan waves in a storm, but far more than many of the men can handle. A few spend the entire three day cruise leaning over the rail.
The first stop, the one everyone is grateful for, is St. Ignace, the village created by Father Marquette when it was discovered the soil at Mackinac Island was too poor to grow corn. It still wasn't much more than a village after eighty years in existence, but it had a small harbor used by ships as they ventured from the waters of Lake Michigan to Lake Huron. Men were allowed off the ships, but they would have gone ashore whether allowed or not. They needed to stand on firm ground. Meanwhile officers met to learn more about the British invasion. Quebec had not fallen yet, but it was being bombarded. Montcalm was keeping red coats from landing anywhere near the city.
The men were loaded back into the boats after two days. The voyage across Lake Huron was initially with the prevailing winds, really optimal conditions, but still some men could not stomach the pitching of the ships as they rose and fell over the waves. Once the boats tacked south and now rolled as well as pitched, well, the rails became crowded again. Still, they made good time and were soon navigating through the straits of Detroit. It took a full day of work to manage the route south down the straits, but the soldiers were grateful for the slower pace and quieter waters. Rivers they understood - they had all grown up on one.
They put in to Detroit for two days, another welcome opportunity to stand on a surface that did not move. There was also whiskey and women in Detroit, another welcome opportunity for some. Pierre claims he ignored the women and whiskey, which may be true since he does have a pretty good description of the town and of the information locals are learning about the British. Quebec still stands, they say, but the British control more and more land around it. Some are saying the real battle will be in Montreal this winter after Quebec falls.
Once more, the men are loaded onto the ships, and once more they cross a lake. Lake Erie runs straight east, so the winds are behind and the voyage is short, not a full two days. Good thing, since many of the men are recovering from their time in Detroit. At the end of Lake Erie is Niagara Falls, a place most of the men have heard about and are anxious to see. The officers are human too and also want to see this miracle, so half a day is spent walking to the edge of the falls and just standing in wonder.
But that is the only good afternoon. Once they have landed on the north shore of the river that flows over the falls, the men need a week to portage all their belongings, including cannons and ammunition, plus mountains of food, over to Lake Ontario. It is the end of August and the heat and humidity are unbearable. The Canadian voyageurs put huge loads onto their backs and walk for hours. The Huguenots struggle with loads half the size. Horses are used to pull the cannons and carts with food, but they need to be augmented by men with strong backs as they work over ridges or over bad spots in the road. Each sundown men drop where they are and sleep as best they can. A few guards are posted in case of British soldiers or local thieves, but most men sleep. This part of soldiering they had not expected.
It is September third before they are back on board ships to take them the length of Lake Ontario. Where before they had complained about the ships, now the men are grateful to be standing on deck rather than trudging under heavy loads. More are able to sleep below decks as they cover the final miles. One more thing has changed. Red coats have been seen in the area. This is not solely a French lake. Guards are posted, and men are alert.
It takes five days to cross the lake, partly due to shifting winds, partly due to scares. The ships are transports. They hold two or three small cannon to hold off pirates. They are no match for a British man of war. Whenever one of the watches "sees" a large ship on the horizon, all the lake boats rush for shore, as if they could hide. Fortunately, no real British ships are ever sighted. But the course changes delay their arrival. It is September eighth before they start down the St. Lawrence.
Here the sailing becomes far more complicated. The river is wide, but it is dotted with islands and with rocks that can tear out a hull. It is nearly two hundred miles down river to Montreal, and it takes the boats nearly three days to get there. They dare not travel at night, and even during daylight hours, it feels as if every movement is slow and careful.
They arrive at Montreal September tenth feeling a sense of triumph for having come so far. But what they find is a city on the edge of panic.
At that point the diary was going to have to wait. I heard a knock on my door and the voice of the manager. "Professor Murphy, I apologize for the interruption."
I opened the door to see the hotel manager and two security guards standing with Jim O'Conner from the consulate.
"Since he is from your consulate, I thought it might be an emergency," the manager continued.
"Thank you for checking," I said to the manager. I motioned for O'Conner to come in. As he did, I noticed the manager and one security guard turn to leave, but the manager motioned for the other guard to stay in the hallway. I had no idea how I was going to repay the manager for all his help, but I was going to have to find some way to try.
O'Conner, meanwhile, walked into my room, pulled the slip of paper I had given him from his pocket, and set it on my desk. He then took a chair across the room.
"It's impossible to check -- not without the name of the bank, or at least the country. Tell me who gave you the number, and I will have our people check with
him."
"I don't think he wants to talk to you."
"Not even to name the bank?"
"No."
"Then there is nothing else I can do for you."
"Thanks for coming." I stood by the door. I had nothing more to say to him. He stayed in his chair for another minute, then finally stood, shaking his head.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." I opened the door and he left. I noticed he eyed the security guard in the hallway as he headed for the stairs.
So now what was I supposed to do? When in doubt, call family. I had asked Catherine to check up on Malroux and LeBeck. Maybe she could find something from her side. I called and explained the problem. She asked for the number, but then something odd happened. I had just read the first six digits when she finished the account number for me.
"We have been monitoring that account. It belongs to that first name you gave me - Malroux. We have all deposits over the last year. It started small, but grew over time and now holds tens of millions. It was moderately clever. He used a bank in Cuba connected to a casino. I guess he would claim he was an exceptionally lucky gambler. But they didn't wash the source of the deposits. It all came from one of the Foster corporations. I have already alerted Internal Revenue. They can expect an audit tomorrow."
"How did you find all this out?"
"If you go to a crooked bank, you should remember the people there are crooked. You can buy their silence. We can buy their speech. Crooks are crooks. The security firm we have hired had Malroux's account tracked in under three days."
"What happens to the money now that he is dead?"
"You would think being dead would slow activity on his account. Not so. The money has been moving to several new accounts in the last twenty four hours."
"And the owner of those accounts is?"
"The second name you gave us - Thomas LeBeck. You seem to have good radar for bad guys."
"I wish it were better. I think there are other guys involved in this."
"Let's start with the ones we know about. I will shoot you an email with all this account information."
"Thank you. And, yes, before you ask, I will be careful." We both chuckled and hung up.
I watched my email traffic, and when I saw the email from Catherine with the attachment, I called Goulet. He answered on the second ring.
"Yes?"
"It was LeBeck."
"And?"
"He created an account and used Malroux as a front, but he has moved all the money into his own accounts now that Malroux is no longer with us. It was an account in Cuba with tens of millions in it, all from a Foster corporation."
"And?"
"And what?"
"What do you intend to do about it?"
"You wanted to know whose account it was, I found out, and now I am telling you. That is what I am doing about it."
"Murphy, you never cease to disappoint. Of course it was LeBeck. Who else would it be? Obviously he was in bed with the Fosters. It was obvious to half the central committee. We guessed that early. Now you know it and can prove it. So, what are you going to do about it?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"If I reveal the accounts, it is just an internal party matter. Maybe I am right; maybe I am just looking to jump a couple levels of the party hierarchy. You, however, have that damn blog that you were happy to use last summer to embarrass us on a daily basis. How about finally doing some good with it?" And he hung up.
So now I understood. The information about LeBeck mattered, but what mattered more was who revealed it. As an American, was I more trustworthy? Maybe. I downloaded Catherine's attachment to see what it contained. It was all the records from the account stored in PDF files. Inserted on the top of each file was the translation of the bank codes - the name of the bank in Cuba with the name of the account holder - he hadn't even used a false name. The other code was for a bank in Tampa and the account holder - a corporation run by the Fosters. The last file held the newly transferred balance - fifty eight million dollars.
It had been several days since I had posted a blog entry. Who knew if anyone had even read it? But I guessed if I posted this, there would be those who ensured my blog was read widely. Fair enough. These people had killed Starr and they had killed Margaret. It was time to punch back.
I opened my blog and tried to decide where to start. With last night's horrors? With the death of Tilden Foster? No, I thought it would be best to keep the focus on one thing -- the corruption of the Heritage Party. I described the contents of the files I was attaching, revealed the total amount - and translated it from dollars to francs to ensure all understood the scope of the bribery, and closed with the fact the U.S. government would be investigating further. I reread the posting three times, gave myself ten minutes to rethink this action, and then uploaded it. As soon as I knew it was fully uploaded, I sent a copy to my father and to Catherine. They should know what I was saying too. If the blog started trouble -- a very likely event - they might be the first to feel it.
Now what? I poured myself a large glass of cognac, sat on the couch, and called Elise. Her phone went to voice mail, and I left a message, telling her to check my blog. I think I made it through my third sip of cognac before I dropped off to sleep.