The Canadian Civil War Volume 2- The Huguenots Arrive

by William Wresch

I had shut off my cell phone and disconnected the hotel phone before I had gone to bed, but there was nothing I could do to prevent someone from banging on my door. There, just before eight, was David Starr.

  “We need to talk.” He looked like he was tempted to just charge into my room, but he was restraining himself.

  “I need a shower. Come back in fifteen minutes with a cup of coffee and I will talk all you want.” He hesitated long enough to let me know this was not what he wanted to hear, but then he nodded and disappeared down the hallway. I locked the door again and took a shower. I shampooed my hair three times to get the smoke smell out of it, and never did get all of it. But I felt better when I was done. From the insistent rapping on my door I knew it had been longer than fifteen minutes, but I was desperate to get clean. Finally, I finished, got dressed, and let Starr in. He had a cup of coffee and several newspapers.

  “I read your web site, and I have seen your pictures in every goddamn newspaper on the continent. Now I need you to tell me what really happened” he said as he shoved the newspapers at me. I sat down and concentrated on the coffee. The newspapers could wait.

  “It was all because of a huge old cast-iron stove. I have no idea how they got something that big below decks, but when the boat started rolling, it slid. It hit the hull like a wrecking ball, and punctured it pretty badly. It also set half the room on fire. The whole thing was caused by the stove.” As I talked, he stared at me like I was suffering from some mental disability.

  “Murphy, I am not here from the fire department. I am here from the State Department. What I want to know is what happened to Soisson and Lebeck.”

  “Soisson jumped into the first lifeboat, leaving women on the burning boat. Lebeck tried to do the same thing on the second boat but your lawyer captain friend stopped him. Did any of those pictures make the newspaper?”

  “Only on half the front pages on the continent.” He laid several papers out so I could see the front pages. Soisson was on most of them. There was reasonable color, considering the lighting. I felt pretty good about my photographic abilities. But it was the captions under the pictures that were actually more interesting. A paper from Baton Rouge had it, “Rene Soisson helps a group of women to safety,” while the other papers had some variant of “Rene ‘Napoleon’ Soisson forces himself into a lifeboat meant to carry women to safety.” The politics of the paper determined the caption, but all the pictures showed the same face – the guy was clearly scared out of his mind. “You ruined this guy,” Starr added.

  “You know how sorry I am about that.” I replied. I tried to determine if Starr felt the same way I did. But his diplomatic training kept any reaction from me. All I saw was continued agitation. Clearly there was more to this story than the photo.

  “Tell me about Lebeck.”

  “He was just one more rat jumping ship, but the captain you know grabbed him by the shirt and said something. Whatever it was, it got him under control. He stayed on board. After that he was just one more face in the crowd until we got to Biloxi. There he went nuclear when he saw the parade had left without him. So did the rest of the boys, for that matter. I guess they were hoping for horsy rides.”

  “Soisson was shot about an hour ago. There’s lots of talk about who did what, and no arrests or evidence. Police found him in a Gulfport alley with a bullet in the back of the head.”

  “And you think Lebeck?”

  “Why not? Alive, Soisson’s an embarrassment. Dead, he’s a martyr. He died in service to the long suffering people of Louisiana.”

  “Is there evidence to show it was Lebeck?”

  “My guess is Lebeck’s friends in the local police will take the case and find whatever he wants them to find, but then, that’s not my problem. I am not a cop. I just need to understand the politics of the situation.” He stood up and let himself out of the room “Thanks for your help,” was the last thing I heard as the door closed. I was left with a pile of papers and half a cup of coffee.

  I rummaged around in the papers for a couple minutes, trying to see which of my pictures they had used. Every paper had at least two. As for my description, there were a few quotations, but no one had used too much. That was probably just as well. I’m not too sure how lucid I was when I wrote it.

  Having assuaged my vanity, I turned on my cell phone, ignored the list of messages, and dialed Elise. For the next hour we had an impassioned conversation that basically consisted of two main points – she wanted me back in Green Bay, and I wanted me back in Green Bay. Enough was enough – it was time to head north. I sketched out some preliminary plans for getting back to her, and we both felt better.

  After our conversation I asked room service for a pot of coffee, and then checked my web site to see what I had written and if it had all been transmitted from the U.S. Coast Guard. The Coast Guard had been true to its word, but now that I read what I had written, I saw I could have used a good editor. I had events out of order, one paragraph just trailed off into nothing, it was a mess. I spent an hour or so rewriting the description of the party and fire, and added a description of our bus ride to Biloxi, complete with the disappointment of the armband guys when they saw the parade had gone without them. That satisfied my duties to history. Now I had to satisfy my duty to Elise. I needed to get out of Louisiana.

  As I reasoned it out that morning, if I followed the wagon train for a week, I would have most of what I needed. A week would take them through the three towns before New Orleans, and get them into the city. I would see what was working and what was not, and most importantly, I would see how folks were reacting to the event. A description of all that should be enough for my students, for “Uncle Claude” and for anyone else who was reading my weblog these days. And even if it wasn’t enough for them, it was enough for me.

  My first step was to catch up with the train. It was already midmorning, and I wasn’t sure what time they would leave Gulfport. It was time to get going. I stopped on the way out of town to get a new digital camera (the American model was $100 more than the French model, but still an easy choice), and so it was nearly noon by the time I pulled into Gulfport. I was worried that I might have missed the train, but the crowds in the street told me that I was not too late. Parking lots were clearly marked and lots of signs got me from the parking area to the departure area for the train.

  I was in time to hear two speeches and to see mules be mulish. Let me see if I can describe the scene. All the activities were arranged around the town square. The wagons were being lined up on the far side of the square, and it didn’t take me long to realize I didn’t need to rush. These wagons weren’t going anywhere fast. The mules were either moving where they shouldn’t, or not moving when they should. So far only four wagons had been lined up, and they didn’t look ready to go anywhere. All the re-enactors dressed up in period costumes stood some distance from the wagons, mostly looking for shady trees and cool drinks.

  In the middle of the square was an octagonal gazebo that was burdened with countless flags and banners. Thirty or forty dignitaries were crowded up there, all struggling to look dignified while their clothes darkened from streams of sweat. There was a crowd – not enough to fill all the square, but enough to fill most of it. Not bad for a workday in August. Most of them were seated on park benches that had been arranged in rows, but lots of folks also stood in the back or wandered from shade tree to shade tree to speak with friends. Whoever the current speaker was, he was obviously not the main draw, and folks only gave him superficial attention. I took a few pictures and wandered around.

  I hadn’t gotten too far when I ran into three of the old veterans I had met the week before. They were headed out of the crowd, one in a motorized chair, one with a cane, and one looking like he needed one or the other.

  “Gentlemen, I am pleased to see you again.” I shook their shaky hands and then took their picture.

  “You are that historical
professor,” the man in the chair said. I recalled his name was Jean. “The last time you took our picture it ended up in the local paper, and I had to buy a round of drinks.”

  “You haven’t bought a round of drinks since the Franco-Prussian War.” That Jacques. Or was it Claude? Were they all named Jacques?

  “Did I miss any good speeches?” I asked.

  “Hell no.” Jean again. “The only one of those boys who could give a speech was Soisson, and Gui shot him.”

  “He did not.” Both his friends turned on Jean. “You know that’s a lie.”

  “Are you talking about that man I saw on the porch with you last week? He shot Soisson?” I asked.

  “That’s what the police say.”

  “Don’t listen to him, “ Claude/Jacques said to me, pointed a bony finder at Jean. “Gui didn’t shoot anyone. He didn’t even own a gun.”

  “So why did the police arrest him?” I asked.

  “That makes a good story,” Jean replied, looking significantly at both his fiends. “But it is hot sitting out here, and a story like this should be told over a glass of good wine, don’t you agree?” I didn’t need a Ph.D. to know where this was going.

  “Is there a good place in town to sit and talk?” I asked.

  “Well, I suppose we could go to that café over there,” Jean replied. And we were off. Or we were sort of off. Jean’s chair was apparently French made since it had a top speed of one mile per millennium, and even at that, the other two were having trouble keeping up. I was convinced we would all have sunstroke before we covered the thirty meters to the café. Eventually we got there, and of course all of them were regulars who were greeted loudly by the other patrons, all of whom were aged well north of eighty. I was introduced as the “Historical Professor” which meant nothing to anyone until Jean added that I had put their picture in the newspaper. I immediately saw one man try to comb four hairs over his bald spot. We found chairs around a pretty beaten old table, and ordered wine. Jean immediately added “and don’t bring the cheap stuff. This man is a professor. He is used to good wine.” At this point I knew I was going to be swindled mightily over the course of the afternoon, but I can’t say I minded.

  “So,” I began after the wine appeared, “Can you tell me why Gui was arrested?”

  “Sure,” Jean replied. “He gets up too early. If he was in bed where he belonged, none of this would have happened.”

  “I should tell the story,” Claude/Jacques interrupted. I asked, and found out he was neither Claude nor Jacques – he was Anton. So Anton took over the story. He rested his cane against the table, leaned forward, and began. “We all get up early because none of us can sleep. Maybe after a glass of wine we can get a few hours sleep, but in truth, none of us have really slept since we were in our sixties. This morning we were all sitting on our porch by six, drinking coffee, same as every other morning for the last two decades. You too, Jean, you don’t sleep any better than the rest of us.”

  “Last week I slept until seven one morning. If Gui had done that today he wouldn’t have shot Soisson.”

  “He didn’t shoot anyone,” Anton answered. “Can you imagine such a thing?” Suddenly he raised his voice was addressed most of the café. “The man is eighty six years old. I am not sure he could lift a nine millimeter pistol any more. And even if he got it raised, he couldn’t aim it. And if he somehow managed to pull the trigger, the recoil would have broken his wrist.” There seemed to be general assent around the room, not that Anton seemed to need it.

  “So why did the police arrest him?” I asked.

  “Because he confessed,” was Jean’s reply.

  “I’m telling the story,” Anton stared hard at Jean. Forty years ago it might have been a look of intimidation. Now it had more the appearance of two men who were very nearsighted. “The four of us were sitting on our porch when we heard the shots. It was six forty five. We all agreed that it was a nine millimeter gun probably about three blocks away. We know weapons, professor. We were all career soldiers.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” And somehow I could, but don’t ask me how. Anyway, it seemed like the right thing to say at the time.

  “Nothing happened for about twenty minutes after the shots, and then we started seeing police cars racing down our street toward the gulf. Then about a half hour later a car stopped by our house and the police got out to ask us questions.”

  “You should have seen these goofs,” Jean addressed the rest of the café. “I don’t know what turnip patch they found these boys in, but those mules out in the street have more brains.”

  “These weren’t very bright boys,” Anton agreed, directing his comments at me. “They wanted to know if we had seen anything. We told them when the shots were fired and what caliber the gun was, but they didn’t seem to believe us. Gui kept insisting it was a nine millimeter, and one of the boys asked him ‘How do you know it was a nine millimeter?’ Gui got angry that the boy would question his knowledge of guns, so that’s when he said, “I know because it’s my gun. I shot him.”

  “And that’s when the police arrested him?” I asked.

  “I told you those boys were stupid. They even handcuffed him. He’s sitting in Gulfport jail right now.” There’s no reason to repeat the rest of the conversation. There were general expressions of indignation, a few derogatory comments about the local police and a couple of similar comments about Soisson, but the main points of the story were now clear. I bought a second glass of wine for the boys, paid the bill, took a couple pictures, and left the café.

  It was still unbearably hot outside and the crowd seemed to be thinning as the noon hour ended and folks went back to work, or maybe just got bored and went home. I listened to the current speaker who was earnest enough, but really had nothing fresh to say, and had no special magic in his words. He might have been a college professor speaking to bored students. If this was the main event to unite all Louisiana, it was not going all that well.

  I wandered around the square, walking from shady spot to shady spot, listening to the speaker and watching people drift away. Down one of the side streets I saw another group of people and saw folks walking purposefully in that direction. I decided to follow, and quickly found myself outside the Gulfport Police Station where one of the officers was giving a press conference while half a dozen tv cameras rolled.

  “We are pleased to announce that we already have a suspect in custody in the murder of General Rene Soisson. Detectives are with him now and are taking his statement. As soon as the suspect is formally charged we will release his name. All I am prepared to tell you at this time is that the suspect is a local resident.” There were excited questions from the reporters assembled in the street. The police officer was very happy to answer them, to point out the officers who had brought in the suspect, and to again claim pride in how fast his officers had worked. He was having a great day, and the reporters were getting great photos and excellent quotations for the evening news. Maybe because everyone was so happy, I felt compelled to throw some water on the fire.

  “Is it true the suspect is eighty six years old?” I shouted from the back of the crowd. Only a few people heard me over the other shouted questions, so I tried it again. By the third time I shouted, enough people had heard me that some of them turned to look at me, and a few even made room for me to move somewhat forward in the crowd. I had probably shouted my question eight times before most of the crowd had heard it and the police officer looked at me. It was clear he had heard me that time, and then he looked away. He wasn’t very good at pretending not to see people, and the reporters caught his reaction. One of them repeated my question.

  “I am not prepared at this point to release any description of the suspect. All information about him will be released after he has been charged with the crime.”

  “Do you think,” I shouted, “an eighty six year old man is capable of raising a nine milli
meter pistol, aiming it, and firing at a moving target.” I shouted this but didn’t need to since now the rest of the reporters were much more quiet.

  “The capabilities of an eighty six year old man are up to a jury to determine.” The police officer was staring at me with all the authority he could muster, but he knew he was mouthing garbage and couldn’t keep a look of confusion from crossing his face. “Age is no deterrent to crime.” Suddenly he seemed compelled to justify his actions. “We have seen many terrible crimes committed by the elderly. This is especially possible where a man has had extensive military training.” Now he had crossed the line and knew it. He appeared to be casting all veterans as latent criminals. “We will have another press briefing after our interrogation is continued and the suspect has been formally charged.” With that he turned from the microphones and went back into the station followed by his men. A few reporters shouted questions at his back, but most turned their attention to me. I decided to keep my involvement in this very brief.

  “The suspect is an eighty six year old veteran who happened to be sitting on his porch this morning when police came by with questions. If you wish to hear about the arrest, there were three other men on the porch with him. They are now sitting in the café around the corner, and would be happy to describe this morning’s events.” At this point most of the folks started for the café. They weren’t quite running, but they were walking as fast as their dignity and equipment would allow. A few remained to talk with me, but I assured them I knew nothing more, and that they would be much better off talking with eye witnesses. Eventually that worked and I was left alone.

  Suddenly I was very hot and very tired and very tempted to drive back to New Orleans. I thought if I could just get a couple pictures of the wagons and mules, I might be able to call it a day. So that is where I pointed my very hot feet. The wagon train now consisted of eight wagons, and enough people were gathered around that it seemed departure was approaching. I got what I thought was a fairly well-framed photo from the front of the train, and then I went down the row of wagons looking for anyone I could talk with. I was curious to know what kind of people were willing to ride a wagon through this kind of heat. I avoided anyone with a blue armband – most of the folks – and spotted a young couple just getting up into the front seat of their wagon. They were wearing white, same as everyone else, but they had no armbands, and there was something in their expressions that said this ride was more about fun than about politics.

  “Do you mind if I take your picture,” I asked.

  “Not at all.” And it was clear they didn’t. They both sat up, posed and proud, and the young man took the reins of the wagon as if he were directing the team of mules, neither of which paid any attention to him.

  “Do you plan to go all the way across the province?” I asked.

  “Oh, no” the young woman answered. “There were hundreds of people in Baton Rouge who wanted to be on the train, and so few wagons, so we drew lots, and Robert and I got this day. Tomorrow it will be a different pair. Everyone wants to do it.”

  “Are you worried about controlling the mules?”

  “It looks simple enough,” the young man answered, only to be overruled by the woman.

  “There will be drovers assigned. Is that what they called them -- drovers?” she asked the man, but didn’t wait for an answer. “They will keep the mules moving. All we need to do is keep our seats and enjoy the ride.”

  “What made you decide to come on this re-enactment?” I asked.

  “This is our chance to show our respect to those who came before,” the woman answered. I suspected I knew the young man’s reason for being along – the woman was beautiful. “We should do this every year.”

  “Aren’t you worried about heat, and any problems along the way?”

  “Oh no, this will be the most fun we have had all summer. We have friends all along the way, and we are planning a big party in Picayune. You should join us. The wagons are all reserved, but lots of people are walking along side.” At this point I said one of the three dumbest things I have ever said in my life, and I can’t remember the other two.

  “Well, maybe I will. I have a couple other things to do today, but maybe I’ll walk along tomorrow.” How can anyone go to college as many years as I have, and still be so dumb? We spoke for a few more minutes, but the drovers were moving to each team and it appeared time for them to finally leave, so I got out of the way.

  As it turned out, I hadn’t needed to hurry. The drovers lectured the men on each wagon, setting a new standard for pedantry, while the men nodded endlessly and waited to finally get moving. I found some shade out of the way, took some pictures, and waited. Just when it looked like the train would finally move, some local official had to delay thing still more by inserting himself near the first wagon and making a loud speech extolling the virtues of the train and of the people, all of whom wished he would just disappear so they could get on their way. Finally he shut up and the first wagon began rolling to the cheers of several hundred people who had remained in the square. It turns out mules move even slower than you might imagine, so it was several minutes before the final wagon actually got underway, and even when they were all moving, they were moving about as fast as a shopper wandering down the vegetable aisle of a supermarket. Several dozen people who walked behind the train had time to talk, wave to their friends, and contemplate the nature of the eternal as the wagons gradually rolled down the block. I took a couple more pictures and then headed back to my car and air conditioning.

  My evening was far more sensible than my day had been. I had good food, good wine, and an air conditioned hotel. I posted a summary of my observations and some of the digital shots I had taken. It was during my review of the photos I had taken that I was struck by the white clothes everyone was wearing. Had the first Huguenots really dressed that way? My hotel room didn’t have the fastest digital lines, but I was able to find a number of on-line collections of portraits of early leaders, and even one painting of Louisianans at work in their fields. What all the paintings had in common was dark clothing. There was some white, but far more black. The portraits showed grim people facing a harsh world, dressed in black as if they went to funerals on a daily basis, which, unfortunately, was closer to the reality of that time than we often imagine. I made a comment about that on my weblog and also posted copies of several of the old portraits that struck me as especially evocative. My last act of the day was to call Elise. We talked about this and that, but most we counted down the days. I would be back in Green Bay in less than a week.

  Tuesday I at least began the day like a fairly bright person. I slept in. I now knew that the wagons moved at glacial speed. I could get plenty of rest before driving to Picayune to walk along. It was late morning before I finally went down to the dining room for breakfast. And maybe because I was less rushed, I finally noticed something – the dining room wasn’t empty. There were people at maybe half a dozen other tables, either reading papers or having conversations, doing normal things that people do in hotels. How long had this been going on? New Orleans was coming back to life! I heard bits and pieces of conversations, heard the words “clients” and “markets,” and deduced that things were normal enough that salespeople were returning. It wasn’t exactly a dove returning to the arc with an olive branch, but it did strike me as a hopeful sign.

  So with hope in my heart and a smile on my lips, I drove to Picayune, found the town square, bought two bottles of water to carry in my backpack, and got ready for the walk. Finding the walkers was easy. These were the people behind the last wagon joking about mule droppings. I got a couple tight-lipped looks from the blue arm band folks (do I need to point out that I wasn’t wearing white?), but the rest of the people didn’t seem to care what I wore, and I quickly mingled – must be my inherited salesman genes. I found out where people were from, how many days they were walking, who was with whom, who
had had the most to drink the night before, you know, the casual conversations of strangers meeting at a party.

  Then all fifty heads turned at once, and conversations stopped. Margaret had appeared. She was dressed in white like everyone else, but while they looked like people at a party, she looked like an angel descended to earth. She had ribbons in her hair, her dress was obviously tailored for her, and she walked as if she was about to begin a ballet.

  “They wore white to parties.” She stood directly in front of me, and much too close. I could choose between looking at her, or trying to determine what she was talking about. Basically I stood speechless while all my circuits melted down. Where had she come from, and what was she talking about? She waited several centuries and then helped me out. “Your pictures were from formal occasions. But they had parties too, and the women wore white. I have seen a picture of a ball in New Orleans, and I have read about it in several diaries. This wagon train is a rolling celebration - a party for all of Louisiana, so it is appropriate to wear white, don’t you think?”

  “You saw my web site.” Talk about a firm grasp of the obvious.

  “Yes. By the way, my mother is having the lifeboat picture framed. She says I have never looked as determined and noble under stress.”

  “You did look very capable out there.

  “And you were very kind to put me in that boat. Thank you.” At this point she kissed me on the cheek and every man within sight felt the temperature jump a dozen degrees. “Are you here to take more pictures, or will you be walking with the train?”

  “I plan to walk with the train.”

  “Good, then I will too.” And she did. It took me a minute to get used to the idea of walking across Louisiana with Margaret, but within a few minutes I was glad she was with me. She seemed to drop into tour-guide mode, and spent the next eight hours commenting on everything we saw. She had plenty of time. Not only did the train start late and move slow, but it stopped frequently for reasons that were invisible to us back at the rear. We just walked – or “ambled” would be a better label – and talked as we followed a country road from Picayune to Fayette, a distance of just over twenty miles.

  As I think back to walking eight hours in the August heat of Louisiana, it seems impossible that the afternoon and evening could have been anything other than agony, but it was actually far better than I would have imagined. For one thing, there were plenty of trees arching over the road, so we had shade for much of the time. We were also close to the coast (every once in a while I thought I could see it through the trees), so there was some movement of the air. It wasn’t exactly a wind, but something moved past our faces.

  But the real surprise was how well we were treated as we walked along the road. There were people at every crossroads, and at every farm, and any place you could park a car. They waved, shouted “welcome” or “Thanks,” and showered us with cool drinks and cookies and fruit. And of course, given the pace we were traveling, we had plenty of opportunities to stop and talk and eat a few bites. We met people from all over the world who wanted to see this thing. And if they were disappointed by the small number of wagons, they didn’t show it. They treated us like royalty.

  Margaret seemed to be a floating hostess. She would work one side of the road, and then the other, talking with all who had come to see, and pointing out various people on the train, or answering questions. In between, she would come back to me and tell me stories about how the first events were going, and how much interest they were getting, and the cute things kids were saying… An endless stream of enthusiasm. I guess that was her real contribution to the event, and it helped. We were still walking when the sun set, and no one complained. A couple people had turned back or fallen out to be picked up by one of the buses that trailed us. But the rest of us were still walking happily along this country road, seemingly willing to walk all night if necessary.

  A little past seven lights started coming on. The wagons apparently had batteries in them, and they were connected to small lights that outlined the canvas covers. It was a complete breakdown from historical reality, but it added considerably to the spectacle we made. Then we walkers were handed battery-powered lights shaped like candles. They must have been made in the U.S. because they were light and actually worked. I had preferred walking down the dark road, watching the stars up through the trees, but we were not there to star gaze, we were there to entertain folks along the way, and this we did. The crowds along the roadside were growing as we approached Fayette, and the kids loved the lights and the mules and the wagons. Margaret was great with the kids. She waved to all of them, and stopped and asked the names of many of them, and thanked everyone for coming out. She must have seemed a goddess, coming out of the night with her battery-powered candle, white dress, and big smile.

  By the time we got to Fayette, the road was lined with people, in some cases three or four deep. And they all applauded. We waved, the women periodically stopped and curtsied, and everyone had a great time being stars for a day. I was hotter than I have ever been in my life, my feet hurt, and all of my clothes were stuck to me by rivers of sweat, but even I have to admit it seemed fun to be part of the parade. Every once in a while I remembered to take a picture or two, but mostly I just walked along as “Parson Murphy.” And, I have to admit, I was impressed by the genuine enthusiasm the parade was engendering. The town’s people really liked the show.

  Maybe I should have left at that point, while I was feeling good about the re-enactment for the first time. But I followed the parade through the town to the town square (was every Louisiana town designed around the same town plan?), where we circled the square once, and then walked over to a picnic area where we could help ourselves to food while the mules and wagons were led away. The last thing I wanted was a spicy Louisiana meal, but I did take a couple ears of corn and three bottles of lemonade. I also found a seat and immediately decided that whatever my future held, I would make sure it did not involve walking again.

  I had gulped the first two lemonades and was savoring the third when my evening started to go downhill quickly. First, I realized that the price we would pay for our dinner was a steady diet of political nonsense. Every local who had ever won a contest for oratorical excess was invited to give a twenty minute talk about the meaning of the re-enactment. They all stood in the central gazebo and were given far more amplification than their ideas warranted. I was too tired and hot to pay any attention to the first guy, but by the second and third orator they were like persistent mosquitoes – I just couldn’t ignore them. It was time to leave.

  That’s when things got worse. Captain Whatsis found me and sat down next to me at the picnic table I was using. I looked over his shoulder to see how badly I was outnumbered, but he seemed to be alone.

  “I hear you walked in with the train.”

  “Yes, you are looking at ‘Parson Murphy,’ the first Huguenot minister from Ireland.” Whatsis’ only response was to stare at me like I was an alien species. I returned the stare, trying to tell with my peripheral vision if he had a weapon in his hands. We were surrounded by thousands of people, but who could tell what dumb acts French lawyers turned revolutionaries were capable of.

  “Every instinct tells me to punch your lights out,” he finally said, his voice not much above a whisper. “But I came over here to thank you for what you did on the ship the other night. You were very useful to us.”

  “Feel free to trust your instincts, if you think you have a chance. And there is no need to thank me. I just did what any normal person would do. If there was any surprise that night it was that you could figure out how to use a block and tackle.”

  “I started my career as an engineer.”

  “Oh, so there was a time in your life when you were useful to the world.”

  “We owe you for what you did that night, so I am going to let that pass, but you have to know you are running out of time down here. You
should think about packing your bags and driving north.”

  “You have no idea how often I think about driving north. One of these days I’ll finally get to do it. But you are the one running out of time. If you are bright enough to be an engineer, you are bright enough to know where all this is leading. You need to take that silly uniform off before it gets you and lots of other people killed.”

  “I wear this uniform to protect the people of Louisiana.” He drew his face closer to mine, clearly challenging me. His instincts were taking over. So be it.

  “You wear that uniform because a bunch of petty criminals thought they could grab power by shouting slogans and blowing up churches. Your probably think you are better than them and will rise to the top over their stupid bodies. But it never works that way. The criminals stay in charge and guys like you end up the losers.”

  “You don’t have any idea what you are talking about.”

  “I know exactly what I am talking about. You are in the midst of the final IQ test of your life. Pass the test and you get to live a long and happy life. Fail it, and you will be one more body buried while the world curses.”

  “You are so full of garbage.” He moved to stand, and I instantly tensed, ready for the first blow. “Don’t worry about me. We owe you one for your help. You are safe here.”

  “The fact that you have to tell a guest in your country that he is “safe” tells you just how screwed up your crowd is.” He paused, and I paused, and then I made the most charitable statement of my life. “It doesn’t have to end with bloodshed. You are a lawyer. Be one. Take off that stupid uniform, back away from these thugs, and find a legal way to get whatever you want for you and yours. You can still come out of this a hero instead of a corpse.” The light wasn’t real good where I was sitting, but I thought maybe I saw some brief change in his expression. If so, it was fleeting.

  “Watch out for yourself, ‘Parson Murphy.’ Louisiana can get real hot this time of year.” And with that bit of weather advisory, he was off to strut with the rest of the morons.

  I was tired of weak oratory and veiled threats, and truth be told, I was just plain tired. So I left the remains of my meal, got directions to the buses, and caught a ride back to Picayune and my car. The bus ride was embarrassingly short – twenty minutes on the outside was all it took to cover all the miles I had spent eight hours walking. Oh well, I was paid to write about history, not to walk it. My air conditioned car had me back in my air conditioned hotel room half an hour later, and my very comfortable bed ended my day.

  Wednesday I did nothing. I was entitled to a recovery day, wasn’t I? I uploaded some images to my weblog and added maybe five pages of notes and reactions to a day on the road, trying to explain just how impressive my achievement had been to walk twenty miles through heat and bugs and sun and… Well, eventually I ran out of problems to overcome, but as you can imagine, I let everyone know just how heroic I had been. Yes, I know it was petty, but I just couldn’t pass up the chance to inflate myself a bit. I also got in some pictures of cute little kids, so if people got tired of reading my whining, they could at least look at the pictures. The rest of the day I spent eating, drinking gallons of water, and talking with folks in the hotel. It seemed now that a few of my words and pictures were showing up in various newspapers, people felt free to come and talk with me in the hotel restaurant. I can’t say I minded. I have enough ego to enjoy being noticed.

  By Thursday I thought I had a plan to wrap this thing up. The train would be coming over the Lake Pontchartrain causeway later in the day and would camp at the edge of New Orleans for the first of four days parading through various city neighborhoods. There was no shade on the causeway, and with the concrete reflecting an August sun, the temperatures were going to be astronomical. In short, I had no intention of walking with the train, but I would wait for it as it crossed to the other side of the lake, take some pictures, talk with some people, try to come up with some profound summation to this event, and then get out of town.

  Like most of my plans, it never quite worked out that way, but at least I tried. The first problem was the train itself. It was scheduled to come across at about three. I knew it would be late, but I was there at three just in case. The New Orleans side of the bridge is largely industrial and commercial, nothing with a very photogenic background, but about a quarter of a mile into the city is a small beach area where the planners had erected tents and a speaker’s platform and all the rest of the stuff you need if you wish to harangue people in relative comfort. I walked around there, took a few pictures, talked to anyone who looked at all interesting, and then kept wandering back to the bridge to see if the train was anywhere in sight. It wasn’t. Three became four, four became five, five became six, and suddenly this thing was running seriously behind schedule even for a political event.

  Somewhat after six a few people started walking east across the causeway to meet the train. I don’t know how you measure temperature in a situation like that, but even with the sun getting near the horizon, the concrete was scorching to the touch. The last thing I wanted to do was to walk some unknown number of miles out in that sun, but eventually boredom overcame my good sense and I joined a growing number of people who were walking east.

  The Pontchartrain causeway is two strips of concrete raised up over the shallow lake maybe ten or fifteen feet. My guess is that one two-lane road was built first, and then when traffic necessitated, they built the second road parallel to the first. These days cars going east take one of the roads, and cars going west take the other. Because of the wagon train, the west-bound road had been closed to traffic and all cars were directed onto the other road. So the bridge we walked over was empty. At one point a couple of emergency vehicles passed us going east, but otherwise it was just us walkers trudging eastward and praying for an early sunset. There were probably twenty people within fifty yards of me, but no one was talking. I think we were all cursing our stupidity and wondering how far off the train would be.

  As it turned out, we had to walk nearly an hour before we could even see the first wagon, and then another twenty minutes before we got close enough to see what the problem was – the mules had died. No doubt it was the heat. They had dropped and were now lying on their sides – three of them – still connected to their wagons by leather and chains. The other dozen or so surviving mules were being attended to by anxious volunteers who fanned their heads, gave them water, and whispered encouraging words into their huge ears.

  I got some pictures and looked for people to talk with. Conversations were not easy. People who could still stand were tending to the mules. People who had been overcome by the heat had either been loaded into ambulances, or back into air conditioned buses, or were lying in the shade of the wagons while others gave them intravenous supplies of liquid. The train looked like it had been attacked and the survivors were not going to make it.

  The senior blue armband people were back by the first bus conferencing hard while shouting into cell phones and looking for divine intervention. Their faces were as red as tomatoes, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if several of them were the next to hit the pavement. Margaret was in this group, a cellphone in one hand, her other fanning the group with her white straw hat. Leave it to Margaret to do the one useful thing in the group. When she saw me she waved me over, much to the obvious displeasure of various admirals, generals, and colonels standing about her in sweat-soaked uniforms.

  “We had hoped for some clouds, maybe even some rain to keep this road cooler.” Thus, she quickly explained the problem – and the wishful thinking that had caused the problem.

  “For what it is worth, the park on the other end is all set up. The tents are up for shade, it looked like the food was there. If you just ran the buses over there, people would have most of what they need.” I offered. It seemed like a reasonable action to take, so of course it was immediately challenged by one of the head moron
s.

  “We will not arrive in New Orleans by bus!” He closed his cell phone and directed his stare at me, not doubt expecting me to fold like one of his subordinates. I was too hot to care what his pretend rank was, and I stopped taking orders from morons when my older brothers moved out of the house.

  “You have the next three days to parade around New Orleans wearing your pretty uniform. By tomorrow no one is going to care how you arrived in town. For tonight you have a crowd waiting in a park for your brilliant words to enlighten their poor lives. What do you say you give everyone a break and get them into these buses before you need any more ambulances?”

  “He’s right that we should get our people over to Pontchartrain Park.” One of the brighter generalissimos replied. ”We can truck the wagons over later.”

  “You’re going to listen to this bastard?” The top moron was even more incensed now. His face went from red to purple, and I was waiting for a coronary to cleanse the world of the guy, when he tempted fate even further. “His bitch is the Catholic Interior Minister.” I have never thrown the first punch in my life, and I never will again. But this time my right fist was flying before a single thought crossed my mind. The punch was wild and caught him on the side of the head just as he turned to dodge it. I ended up hitting him squarely on his left ear, and he let out a yelp, but I was the one in pain. He really was a block-head. It felt like I had broken all the knuckles in my hand and probably the wrist as well. No matter, I wasn’t going to have a chance to take any more swings at him or anyone else. Four or five of the top goons threw me up against the side of the bus and started flailing away. I was probably lucky there were so many of them since they got in each other’s way, but enough punches were landing that I was in big trouble fast. I could hear Margaret in the background shouting, “Stop, don’t hurt him,” but of course that is exactly what they intended to do.

  Fortunately, before they could break the last of my ribs, Margaret had a stroke of brilliance, and said in a stage whisper, “Cameras. There are cameras here.” That stopped them so quickly it was like a switch had been turned off. I have no idea if there really were cameras pointed at our little scene, but then neither did the goons, so they stopped. The head goon started shouting at all the generalissimos to get into the first bus, and as soon as they were loaded in, the thing went tearing across the causeway.

  Margaret held my arm and walked me back to the last bus with the medical staff. As she helped my up the steps she whispered in my ear, “They will be waiting for you in the park. Go straight back to your hotel. Better yet, go straight back to Green Bay.”

  My mouth was pretty smashed up and I assumed some of my ribs were broken since I could barely breathe, but I wanted to say something to her. The best I could do was, “You are the one in danger, Margaret. These people are criminals. Get away from these people. Go back to your family.” At least that is what I tried to say. I am not sure the words actually came out that way, nor could I be sure I was even talking loudly enough for her to hear me. What I remember is that she helped me to a seat, motioned for one of the doctors to look at me, and then kissed me on the top of the head before leaving. As farewells go, ours was pretty lousy, but then these were lousy times.

  A doctor sewed up several of the cuts to my face and said he thought many of my ribs were broken, but he couldn’t be sure without X-rays. What concerned him most was that a rib might have punctured one of my lungs, so he had me breathe over and over while he felt my chest and listened for problems. In the end he decided my lungs were probably safe, but I should go immediately to an emergency room to be sure. Then he did the most important thing he could – he gave me some pills for the pain. He even had me wash them down with wine. Sometimes you just have to love the French.

  The bus driver turned out to be a prince too. After a brief conversation with the doctor he started the bus rolling, but kept it slow not to jostle any of us. I wasn’t the only one on the bus with problems. There were eight or ten people who had heat exhaustion and were in a very bad way as well. This bus wasn’t going to the park but to a hospital. I explained where my car was and asked the driver if he would drop me there. I promised to drive myself to the hospital, and fortunately, both the driver and the doctor believed me.

  Getting down from the bus was agony, and walking the five steps to my car was the longest walk of my life, but the real pain didn’t begin until I tried to get into my car. I had to bend and turn ribs that were no longer taking commands from me. Worse, I had to smile and wave to assure the doctor I was fine so he would drive away. By now it was nearly dark so he couldn’t see the look on my face. Maybe it was concern for the other people that let him accept my wave as genuine, but in any event the bus took off into the city and left me sitting in my car panting from exhaustion and pain.

  I suppose I could describe my ride back to my hotel, but the high points should be enough – I didn’t pass out, and I didn’t hit any cars. Eventually I pulled under the canopy in front of the hotel and sat there slowly breathing as if I had just run a marathon. One of the uniformed car boys came running around to open the door for me, already shouting “Hello, Mssr. Murphy,” only to stand speechless when he opened the door and saw my face. He must have waved at the doorman because suddenly he was there to help me out of the car.

  “Francois,” I managed to whisper to the doorman as he held my arm like an invalid. “I will be checking out tonight. Please keep my car near the entrance so we can load it, and please send up some bell boys in about half an hour so they can carry my bags.” At least I think I said all that. The key points were car, checkout, and bags, and he seemed to understand that much. He held my arm as I shuffled into the lobby and to the elevator, and he even took the elevator with me and walked me to my room. Along the way I could hear him quietly, but insistently talking to me about a doctor. I shook my head, told him I had seen one, and eventually made it to my room.

  Once in my room, I sent Francois after bell boys while I tried to determine what to do next. I was desperate to sit or lie down, but I knew the pain would be unbearable, so I took a shower instead. I wasn’t thinking real clearly, but a cool shower seemed a good idea, and there was blood I wanted to wash off.

  When I came out of the shower, David Starr was standing in my living room, looking through my digital camera. “Dead mules. That won’t go over big with the folks down here. It’s not like killing a collie, but it’s still no way to make friends or win elections.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “If you look at your face in a mirror, you might understand why the hotel people would call the US Consulate.”

  “I don’t need you. I am leaving.”

  “I know you are leaving, but you still need us. You haven’t been nice to the other children on the playground, and they intend to get even.”

  “I’ll be gone in half an hour.”

  “It’ll take you half an hour just to get dressed, but you have the right idea. You need to be gone. But before you go, isn’t there a web site where you send these things?” He held up my digital camera.

  “I can do that tomorrow.”

  “A better time would be tonight. Here, I have already fired up your computer, dialed the web site, and logged you on. Why not put on some pants and get the story out while the hotel people pack and load your bags.” I suppose I could have asked how he had gotten my password, but I was too tired and sore for stupid questions. And I did want to get those images up to Green Bay. So I struggled into some clothes, slowly lowered myself into a chair, and updated my weblog. There wee seven images from the park and from the train I thought should be uploaded, and I was able to add a few hundred words about the heat and the mules.

  “You aren’t going to say anything about what happened to you out on the causeway?” David was reading over my shoulder.

  “No. That was a private matter.”

  “How noble.” He said i
t with derision, but he didn’t push the matter. In the meantime, the hotel staff had been very good about packing my bags and getting them down to the car. I put the computer and camera in a bag, let the bellboys take it, and then concentrated on getting socks and shoes on my feet. It hurt so bad I thought I would be sick, but eventually, I got through it. Finally the room was clear and I was dressed and Starr and I took the elevator down. The hotel manager must have been called at home, since he was waiting for me in the lobby, all concerned, and practically crying when he saw my face. Somehow he decided it was his job to apologize – for all France? For Louisiana? I didn’t understand what he had to apologize for. I just thanked him for his service over the past months, and tried to give him some money to tip all his staff. He refused it and then followed me with his entire staff out to the street to see me off. It was really a very amazing scene.

  While I once again thanked the hotel manager and once again thanked everyone else who was out there, Starr pointed at a black Renault sitting at the curb.

  “Two of our boys are in that car. It will follow you. Sometimes you will see it, and sometimes you will not, but it will be there until you leave Louisiana. You know the highway north. Get on it and stay on it, and don’t stop for anything until you get to Missouri.” And then he was gone. I waved once more to the hotel employees and then slowly got into my car. It was even harder this time, and the pain was so bad I think I would have cried if there hadn’t been an audience right there. But I managed to smile and to wave and to get that silly Citroen in gear and headed out of New Orleans.

  Chapter 20

  St Louis Again