The remainder of the time before Christmas sped by for me. I made arrangements to fly back to Philadelphia on Christmas Eve. The rest of my time was divided between the company and Elise. The fact that I was spending so much time at the company was a surprise to me and to everyone else. When I had first arrived over a year ago, I was tolerated as the owner’s son, but there was no attempt made by anyone to get to know me, and no one asked me to do any work. Over time I had helped with some projects, especially anything involving e-commerce. The French have no computer skills, so it is impossible to hire local talent, and flying in Americans is expensive. So I built several systems using as a model the note database I had created while writing my dissertation. Take out “title” and “author” and put in “product name” and “sku” and you pretty much have an e-commerce system.
Then in November, the sales reps started asking my help with contacts they were trying to make. Many of the people they were trying to call on during the day, I was sharing drinks with in the evening. I gave them some advice and steered a couple in useful directions. By December, the sales manager was taking me along on major sales calls. I just sat in the back of the room during the sales pitch, but before and after it I would talk with the people who mattered most. Companies that wouldn’t let us in the door before, suddenly had time to see us.
Oddly enough, it was on the ride back from one of these sales calls, that I learned something important about Elise. Martin (absolutely the worst first name for a salesman in a Catholic country) got on the topic of weekends, and wanted to know what I had planned. Elise had invited me to mass this Sunday, and I mentioned that as the big event of the weekend. I was actually looking forward to it. First, I wanted to be anywhere she was, and second, she attended mass at the National Cathedral. I had not gone to mass there yet and was interested in what it would look like.
“Which mass will you go to?” He asked. It seemed like an odd question, but maybe he and his family also attended that church.
“Ten o’clock. Is that when you go?” I thought he was going to drive the car into a tree.
“You are attending the ten o’clock mass?” He asked. From the way he asked the question, you would think I had just said I was going to sprout a second head. It turned out there was a pecking order for mass. He had no idea how it was done, but that mass was special. Just attending any mass at the National Cathedral was special, but the ten o’clock mass was for the national leadership. You didn’t just go there on your own volition. The mass was strictly by invitation.
So Elise was among the elite, and was making sure I knew it. That was interesting. Sunday looked to be even more special than I had expected. Actually the whole week was exceptional. Elise and I attended parties almost every night, and Wednesday night, when I drove her back to her apartment, she asked me to come up with her. That was a night I won’t forget. I went into work the next day and fell asleep at my desk. My co-workers claim I was smiling in my sleep. It could even be true. I surely smiled enough in my waking hours.
Sunday arrived and I wasn’t sure what to wear to church. French masses are pretty casual, mostly sweaters and such, but this was the National Cathedral. I finally decided to wear a dark suit. When I went to pick up Elise, she was fine with my suit, but made me take off my shirt and tie. She had bought me a shirt – the kind with ruffles down the front and lace at the cuffs that we always used to call a “French pimp” shirt. I hesitated when I saw the shirt she had for me, but before I could start to object, she stood close to me and started unbuttoning my old shirt. Thus ended my resistance. I put on the pimp shirt, she told I looked sexy, gave me a kiss, and off we went to church.
It turned out to be the right shirt. The National Cathedral is on the east side of Green Bay, which is to say, the moneyed side. It sits astride a hill on Claude Allouez Boulevard so it is visible for miles. It is a very pleasant sight. It is similar in many respects to Notre Dame Cathedral of Paris, down to gargoyles on the roof line. I liked that. What can I say – I am an historian. I like old things.
Unlike the Notre Dame of Paris, there is plenty of parking near the church, all designed so that one left their car slightly below the church and walked up a gradual rise to the front entrance. Even before we parked, I could see I was wearing the right shirt. It was like there was a dress code, and everyone was adhering to it. But it was like a dress code from centuries past. Without exception, the women wore long, full skirts, on gowns that might have been handed down for centuries. Elise liked to wear that style, so I was not surprised when I had seen her that morning, but I had never been in a public place before where every woman was so attired. Even the little girls wore long skirts. As for the men, they all had dark suits and pimp shirts. You would have thought a river boat had just arrived in town and let all the card sharps off to church to pray for their sins.
The effect inside the church was dramatic. Elise led me toward a particular pew where several members of her family waited. I couldn’t see any signs, but the way people went to particular places, I got the impression seats were practically assigned. I spoke briefly to her mother and father, both of whom I had met in passing on other occasions, and to her younger sisters, both attractive teenagers preening in their Sunday finest. Around us the pews filled with people I had met, or people who I had seen on television. Several generations of Jolliets sat in four pews near the front, Claude Jolliet among them. There was no doubt this was the service for the nobility of Canada.
Why the traditional clothes? To show a connection to their history? To assert their national heritage? To distinguish themselves from the fashions of New York, and Los Angeles and Paris? I can only guess, but I can tell you sitting in that church I had the feeling Claude Allouez was going to descend from the sky and deliver the homily. The French do love their history, and of course given their history, who can blame them?
The details of the service are unimportant, except when we walked forward for communion I can tell you that was the best wafer and the best wine I had ever had in church. And the priest was good looking and in shape. He looked like he played racquet ball with half the men in the parish, and probably beat a good many. As we walked up the aisle I wanted to look around the cathedral but didn’t want to appear the tourist. But I snuck in a few glances at the windows and the individual shrines. I also exchanged nods with a number of parishioners I knew. And I have to say I liked it there. I liked the service, I liked the church, and I liked the people with whom I shared that hour.
After the service Elise and I stood and spoke with her parents, and there was a polite invitation to join them for dinner, but there was no real pressure, and Elise and I begged off. We went back to her place and had the best afternoon of my life. Late in the evening we emerged from her bedroom long enough to jointly make a quiche lorraine and talk through the Holidays. She and her family would also be spending the months of January and February in their home outside New Orleans, and we could get together when I was down to visit the President. At the moment, I would have flown to a distant planet to be with her. New Orleans would be perfect.
Philadelphia was less than perfect. I flew in Christmas Eve and managed to get into an argument with my father before we even got in from the airport. My father is a fair man. He hates the French like all Americans do, but he also respects them for what they have accomplished. As a businessman he has had dealings with them for decades, and he knows them well. As my father would tell you, there are just two principles in business: know what your customer needs and wants, and know how to meet that need at a lower cost than the competition. My father knows his customers. But he doesn’t like them.
I never fly sober – one too many thunderstorms at thirty-thousand feet – so I arrived a bit too loose and was in trouble before I fully understood what was going on. My father is a practicing Catholic, so when he asked me if I was going to mass regularly, I thought he was checking on my religious observances and
was halfway through a glowing account of Sunday’s mass before I knew I was saying all the wrong things about all the wrong people. Obviously his people in Green Bay had told him about Elise and he wanted to know how far I had strayed. My big mouth told him too much, too fast.
I quickly moved the conversation to sales calls I had been on and the people the company could now see, but it was too late. The damage was done. I had changed in the last months, and he could tell. He never shouted. He just explained how easy it was to get fooled by some people, especially politicians. His whole lecture probably didn’t exceed three sentences, but it was enough. I sobered up fast.
The rest of my visit was pleasant, but I stayed on my guard. Had I crossed a line? The nice thing about being a Ph.D. is that people expect you to be the quiet sort, and for these days I was as I tried to puzzle out my recent actions in Green Bay. I needed to be cautious. I had gone there with a rage and a plot that may have been unprofessional, but I needed to be careful I wasn’t swayed too far the other direction either. One more fawning biography of the Jolliet clan did no one any good. I needed help.
The day after Christmas I called my old dissertation adviser at the University of Virginia. He invited me down for a visit. I felt myself relax the minute I got my trusty old Ford across the Potomac, and by the time I got to campus I felt like smiling again. Harry and I had lunch at the Faculty Club and I laid out the book project over crab cakes and English ale. He listened and then moved immediately to ultimate objectives: where would I publish it, and where would I start my teaching career? His answer to the first was the University of Virginia Press – he was on the editorial board and could guarantee acceptance. His answer to the second was the University of Pennsylvania.
Why? Harry instantly had a strategy To Harry, Louis Jolliet didn’t matter – never had and never would. It was his grandsons who mattered, especially Philippe. It was Philippe who reinforced Fort Duquesne and defeated George Washington. Give Washington victory at Fort Duquesne, and the Ohio Valley goes to Virginia, with Pennsylvania getting everything north along the eastern Great Lakes. With Virginia in the Ohio Valley, and Pennsylvania controlling the Great Lakes, the Mississippi is still a barrier to expansion, but a barrier with a dagger aimed at its heart.
So his strategy was simple. Let Claude Jolliet talk about Louis, follow the discovery of the Mississippi, but then keep pressing to know more about the Jolliet family. Stay with Louis through his marriage, his children, his grandchildren, his old age. That research would be published by UV Press in a heartbeat, and would guarantee a teaching post at Penn.
The strategy made perfect sense to me. I was elated. I felt so good I left Harry at the club and decided to take the long way back to my car. My destination was the same place I had always gone when I felt good – Pavilion Garden III. This is the largest of the university gardens and I loved sitting under the ash trees there. It was too cold to sit today, but I wandered slowly around the oval flower beds, enjoying the quiet and the peace that dated back to Jefferson. I felt perfect. Harry’s plan had everything. If I found something significant about Louis’s travels along the Mississippi, that would be great. If I didn’t, no matter. I would just keep listening until we got to the 1750s. Harry was right. Americans didn’t care much for the Mississippi. It was too distant. It might as well be the Nile. But the Ohio, that was another matter. Besides, I had to admit, the more interviews I had with the President, the longer I could see Elise.
A week later the New Year’s football games reached their climax and the Holiday season reached its end. I called Picard and found that I had been granted an appointment to see the President on January 20, and that he had invited me and a guest to a grand ball the following weekend. This was interesting. He had never invited me to any social occasions before, and in fact had never seen me at a social function before. As for the guest, Picard said nothing about Elise, but did tell me I would have to phone in a name a week before the event for security purposes.
Our company does not have an office in New Orleans, but we do have an agent there. I met with my father and described my visit with Professor Hopkins and my plan. He seemed comfortable with that. Whatever concerns he might have had about me, he was my father and would support me where he could. He called our New Orleans agent and set up my visit.
By January tenth I felt like I had spent enough time shopping with my mother, seeing Disney movies with nieces and nephews, and getting drunk with my brothers. It was time to leave. I made final arrangements and flew to New Orleans. Everything went fine. I had a good flight, customs passed me right through, and there to meet me was our business agent. He helped with my bags and drove me into town, assuring me that I would be very happy with my rooms.
What an understatement. My one concern about traveling to New Orleans in January was the crowds. I knew that all of the northern cities of Canada had emptied into New Orleans. Where was I going to find a room? My father had assigned our agent to get me something, and he had outdone himself. He had found me a suite on Lafayette Square. The rooms were beautiful, with high ceilings and wood inlays everywhere, but the best feature was the balcony facing the square. Two huge French doors led to the balcony and wrought-iron chairs and tables awaited me if I chose to sit out in the afternoon sun.
“Jean- Paul, you have outdone yourself. These rooms are beautiful. How did you do it?”
“I wish I could take credit, but I had help. Two weeks ago I got a call from President Jolliet’s secretary. He told me you would be coming down and gave me a name and a number to call.”
“Picard called?”
“Yes, that was the man. I called the number he gave me and the owner came right over to show me these rooms. I was amazed. It is good to be a friend of the ex-President, isn’t it?”
It certainly was. I unpacked and then called Elise. She sounded as excited as always, and promised to be over first thing in the morning to give me a tour of New Orleans. She arrived the next morning about ten, looking more beautiful than ever. I realized I had never seen her in a warm climate. She still wore the long full skirts she favored, but now her blouse was much lower cut. I was very pleased. She took my arm in both her hands and we were off.
For the first two hours I felt like we were running a marathon. She had so much to say about the holidays and her family and the various sites we were seeing as we walked. I was lost almost instantly. I recognized Bourbon Street but she hurried me past to better streets and prettier gardens. She seemed to love being outdoors and she exclaimed at practically every flower and shrub.
Finally, sometime after noon we both needed a rest, so we stopped in a sidewalk café near the river. She had a great time describing the local treats and ordered for both of us. Then she was back again to family and friends and parties. I just sat and smiled. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and a beautiful woman was holding my hand. I didn’t understand all she was saying, but it didn’t matter. Mostly she was just saying that she was happy and excited to see me.
And then she stopped. Our food had arrived and at first I took her silence to be driven by her concentration on that, but I noticed her looking around, and realized the food was not the problem. Over the last ten or fifteen minutes the tables around us had filled up. The people at them looked a bit strange. They didn’t seem to be connected – the people at one table didn’t speak with people at the other tables – but all of them were similarly dressed. The men wore long-sleeve white shirts and broad-rim panama hats, and the women wore long white skirts, long-sleeve white blouses that buttoned to the neck, white cotton gloves, and wide straw hats. They struck me as somehow resembling a religious sect. Maybe it was the modesty of their attire. I thought of the Amish or Quakers or Puritans back home.
“Puritans?” I asked quietly, leaning even closer to Elise.
“Huguenots.” She relied, mouthing the word as if it disgusted her.
“I thoug
ht maybe the clothes had some religious significance.”
“No, this isn’t about religion, it’s about wanting to stay white.” She said “white” much louder than necessary, and I could see several people at adjacent tables had heard her. I took her hand in both of mine and began to think of a graceful way to exit the café. Our waiter must have seen trouble brewing too, for he immediately came with our bill and then walked us out to the street.
Elise was furious, and absolutely silent. We walked quickly down the street and to a park along the river. Finally I found an empty park bench and practically pulled her down next to me. “Please, Elise. Tell me what is going on.”
“In 1720 the King made us take the Huguenots. They were heretics, but he didn’t have the heart to attack his own people. So he sent them to New France – to New Orleans where they might do some good. Even though they were heretics, you had to be sympathetic about all they endured for decades down here. Malaria killed thousands, and it took generations for the fields to be pried out of swamps and forests so they could feed themselves. Claude Jolliet saved them from starvation many times, but they did much on their own and eventually prospered. They also guarded this end of our country from the Spanish, and … from you.”
“Yes, all Americans know about the Battle of New Orleans. But you aren’t telling me why you are angry.”
“There has always been friction between us. They are followers of Jean Calvin, we are followers of Saint Peter. Then about fifty years ago they decided there would be another division between us – race. They were white. The rest of New France was not.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“For three centuries the French and the Indians intermarried. It was a necessity. There were a few white women in Quebec, but they were either the wives of lords, or petty criminals exiled from France. In Green Bay, Detroit, Chicago, Duquesne or Saint Louis, there were no white women for a century. So French men married Indian women. Their children married other Indians or other French men, and the races mixed for centuries. The result was peace between the two groups, and strength.”
“And beautiful women,” I added. Elise smiled briefly but was not going to be distracted.
“The Huguenots never intermarried. They had plenty of women when they arrived, and there are fewer tribes in this part of the country. So they married within their group. It allowed them to keep their religious traditions alive in a Catholic country, but now it allows them to think of themselves as a separate race.
“And their clothing?”
“It serves a double purpose. They wear white to declare their race. They wear long sleeves and hats to keep the sun from darkening their skins. The women even wear gloves in this climate to protect their hands.”
“I have another theory. They cover their bodies because they know they aren’t as beautiful as you are.” That got me a kiss. I held her and we sat looking at the huge river flowing past. “I hear a tradition in this climate is the siesta.”
“That is Mexico, you fool.” I had her smiling again.
“Maybe, but a nap does sound good. Shall we go back to my place?”
“You know I will give you no rest.”
“That is my dream.” The rest of the afternoon was a dream, as were the days that followed.
Picard called me on the 18th to give me directions to the President’s winter residence and to ask me if I would be bringing a guest to the President’s Ball. He didn’t seem surprised when I gave him Elise’s name.
The homes of the elite are along the highway from New Orleans to Biloxi. This seemed an odd choice to me as I drove east along the Lake Pontchartrain causeway and then through what appeared to be endless swamps. If there was dry land around here, I couldn’t find it. Finally, as I got closer to Biloxi, there seemed to be enough elevation to support life. Horse farms appeared, and cotton fields. Then the chateaus became visible down dark forested lanes. As the stone entrance gates to the chateaus got grander, I knew I was getting closer to the Jolliet residence.
It was the security people that let me know I had arrived. The turn off the highway was simply marked Boulevard 57, but the guard shack at the exit told me this was not just one more boulevard leading to winter homes. I explained who I was, showed a photo ID, and waited while they checked their guest list and called the main security team. A guard then got into my car and rode with me the last two miles to the residence. I was shocked when he got into my car, and I didn’t know what to say to him. This was just as well, since he made no attempt at conversation himself, but sat perfectly still while watching my every move. I was sweating so badly I thought my hands would slip off the steering wheel.
He directed me to park some distance from the house, behind a concrete bomb barrier. I couldn’t believe the precautions they were taking. None of this was required back in Wisconsin. What was different here? They made me walk through a metal detector and even took my tape recorder apart before I could be admitted to the residence. When I finally made it through the front door I stood there stunned. Thank God for Picard. He came up, took my hand, and tried to soothe my nerves.
“I should have warned you about the security,” he said.
“It’s so different than Wisconsin. I was shocked when the guard got into the car with me.”
“Yes, things are different down here. I wish it weren’t so. But you are in now, and the President will be able to see you in a few minutes. I have you set up in the garden. I think you’ll like that.” He led me through the house and out into the gardens.
“Yes, this is much better,” I said as we got outside. “By the way, I was so distracted I forgot my manners. Thank you for your help with the apartment. It is beautiful.”
“I am glad I could help. I assumed it might be difficult to find a place this time of year. Just sit here,” he pointed to a small table under a sycamore tree, “and I will send someone out with some lemonade.”
I sat down and made an effort to control my breathing. Bomb barriers outside the home of a retired President? It all seemed crazy. And the guard in my car staring at me as I drove, as if he might shoot me if I took a wrong turn. I hadn’t expected any of that. When the lemonade arrived I was embarrassed to see that my hand shook as I picked up the glass.
The President, however, was unchanged. He arrived with a smile and shook my hand. “We have time to talk this morning. First, let me show you my garden.” And we were off on a stroll around the grounds.
“I am sure you have noticed that we show our loyalty to France with our architecture. But with our gardens we still fight the Revolution. The greatest gardens in the world of course are at Versailles. Imagine so many fountains that they can only be turned on one day a week or they would drain the river Seine. What an achievement. Here we have so much water we could fill those fountains every day and still not drain all the swamps, but we cannot rebuild Versailles – it is Royalist. What gardens can we build since the liberation of the Bastille? Luxemburg Gardens. They are politically safe since they are on the Left Bank, and they are beautiful. Have you seen them?”
“Yes, I visited Paris after college graduation and spent a week on the Left Bank. I do remember the Luxemburg Gardens. They seemed impossibly spacious in the heart of the city. It was real joy to sit there.”
“Yes, they are beautiful. And since they are so near the Sorbonne, they are well known to generations of Frenchmen and women who have traveled there for schooling. So what you see here, and in dozens of other homes, is a partial reproduction of those gardens.” And, now that he had pointed out the design of the gardens, I could see that he was right. At least as near as I could remember six years after my last visit, his garden did appear very similar to the Luxemburg Garden. We walked around the perimeter pathway, and he pointed out particular flowers a few of which were even in bloom at this time of year. Gradually we completed the circuit and returned to the chairs under the
sycamores.
“So how is your visit the Louisiana going?” He asked as he motioned to a steward who stood just out of sight. The man gathered up the lemonade as Claude told him to bring out a white Bordeaux wine. “I am afraid Picard is spending too much time with the Huguenots. Lemonade is a good drink for children, but no drink for adults.”
“This is a beautiful area, but I have felt tension here that I never felt in Green Bay. I understand the Huguenots have some odd beliefs, and then the security at this complex… I did not expect this.”
“Yes, this is an odd time for Louisiana. I sometimes think that we politicians are trained wrong. We all study political science and history. Maybe we should study medicine. We expect that for safety, and for general human needs, people would look for similarities between themselves, and seek greater connections to each other. Instead, every century or so some odd gene fires off a rogue protein and suddenly some group searches for ways to be distinct and disconnected. I wonder if God ran out of time in creating us – seven days isn’t much time for all he had to do – or if he put in that destructive gene just to see if we were up to the challenge.”
“How great is this challenge?”
“We are still learning that. It may be some time before we know.” The steward brought the wine and glasses and a plate of cheese. “We have to bring down our own wine and cheese,” the President continued. “The Huguenots are abysmal at both, but I do enjoy both of them more when I can sit outside like this. To your health.” We each sipped our wine and took a bit of cheese. Whatever tension I had felt from the security procedures quickly dissipated.
“Shall we continue with the voyage of Louis?” I asked.
“Yes, let’s do that. I think I have nearly half an hour before I must leave you, but let’s use the time wisely and continue that story. Remind me of how far we had gotten.”
“They had made it to the Wisconsin River and were just starting their voyage down that river.”
“Yes, the Wisconsin. That river is another gift from God. It is navigable its whole way, and goes in exactly the right direction. In June it flows with great speed, and of course in June Wisconsin gets fifteen hours of daylight. They probably felt like they could cover fifty miles a day, going downstream as they were. And who knows, maybe they could have. But of course their object was not just to travel fast, it was to explore and map. So at every major bend in the river they had to pull ashore while Louis updated his map. They also looked for Indian sign. They were looking for the Illinois, but who knew what other tribes might be in the vicinity? All the Indians here were important. We were always fighting the Iroquois in the East, and we assumed we would have to fight the Sioux in the west. It would be great luck if we could find friendlier Indians in the middle.”
“But during their five days on the Wisconsin, they found no Indians. They did find an interesting region. The farther west they went the more often they found the river cutting through sandstone banks and creating interesting designs in the walls along the river. When they stopped at night they found plenty of game, and no shortage of wood for their fires. They kept up their guard, of course, they were just seven men in unknown territory, but the land appeared to be ideal for travelers like themselves.”
“They did twenty five miles a day, an easy amount for experienced men like themselves going with the current, and at night they beached their canoes, shot their game, and speculated about where they were. Were they already on the Mississippi? The river was large, and it seemed to be flowing in the direction everyone said the Mississippi flowed. If so, they had made a great discovery already. Whatever river it was, it would clearly be important in the future. Each day it took them farther south and farther west. If it continued this way for another month, they would be in New Mexico, with a back way into the silver mines there. You can imagine how excited they were.”
“On the fifth day, June 17th, they saw that a much larger river was ahead of them. They had found the Mississippi. The juncture of the Wisconsin and the Mississippi isn’t as tumultuous as other junctures they would find, but it was serious enough to require their attention. The Wisconsin splits in two at this junction, going around an island that is now part of Prairie du Chien, and they cautiously navigated around the southern end of the island and out into the Mississippi. They had done it. Now their job was to record it.”
“Louis immediately called the canoes over to the eastern shore and began an extensive investigation. Where was this place? He pulled out his sextant and calculated that they were at 42 and a half degrees latitude. How deep was the river? Sixty feet. Which direction did it flow? Due south. This clearly was a significant discovery. The only river in their experience to compare with this was the St. Lawrence, and this looked to be larger.”
“They wrote careful descriptions of the land around the river. On the west was a mountain range (or at least it appeared to be a mountain range from where they sat on the river. It is actually a range of bluffs that have been carved out over the millennia by the river.). On the eastern shore the land was rolling hills, more prairie than forest. The river itself was full of fish, some of them huge -- sturgeon, catfish, big enough to threaten their canoes. They saw ducks by the thousand and huge geese. This was the land of plenty.”
“They spent a full day measuring and cataloging and writing careful descriptions. You can imagine how anxious they were to start down this huge river, to see where it went, but they maintained their discipline and logged everything. That night Marquette led a special mass and they all prayed with special intensity. They were filled with joy. God had given them a river of huge size and great resources in food. What a gift! The Mississippi was more than they could possibly have hoped for. Now, to see where it led them – east back toward Virginia, south to the Gulf of Mexico, southwest to New Mexico, or west to the South Sea?. A mighty river like this one would surely take them great distances – maybe all the way across the continent.”
“But I see we will have to wait a few more days for our mystery to be solved,” he said pointing to Picard who was approaching us from the house. “You will be staying a few more weeks? It is very pleasant here, and I am sure Picard will find a time for you soon. I know I find it soothing to talk of simpler times.”
“It will be my great pleasure to stay through February. Among other things, I am looking forward to your ball. Thank you again for including me.”
“It is my pleasure.” Picard led us both back into the house, and then walked me to the front door.
“Do not let the security people frighten you,” he said. “They are very serious men, but they are our serious men. I will see you next week at the ball.” Then he left me in the hands of the security men who walked me to my car. One of them again drove with me to the main gate. The expression “the silence was deafening” understates how quiet the car was and how deafened I was by the presence of this huge man sitting next to me. Had he said a word to me I think my heart would have stopped. Fortunately the ride to the gate was a short one and I was able to get him out of my car before my hands started shaking any worse.
The drive back to New Orleans was so much more pleasant now that I had my car empty of gunmen. But I kept the radio off and kept my windows closed, traveling in complete silence as I tried to understand what was happening here. I had just promised to stay on five more weeks, but in truth, the frozen wastes of Green Bay were far more appealing to me right now.
Chapter 11
1673 - Down the Mississippi to St. Louis
The Canadian Civil War: Volume 1 - Birth of a Nation Page 10