The Canadian Civil War Volume 2- The Huguenots Arrive

by William Wresch

Driving was agony and I was suddenly exhausted, but I didn’t have to worry about falling asleep at the wheel – whenever I moved, my ribs sent a shock wave through my body. My driving was terrible – I didn’t seem to be able to hold a speed very well, and I knew I was wandering all over my lane. I was lucky I wasn’t pulled over as a drunk driver. But the cops left me alone and I kept the car pointed north up the Mississippi Highway, pushing hour after hour through the darkness.

  Finally sometime after one I saw the sign welcoming me to Missouri. I have never been so pleased to see a simple road sign. I immediately started looking for an exit with several motels, assuming that at least one would still be open at this hour. Four exits later I got lucky. I pulled into the lot of the Notre Dame Inn and found the office light still on. I figured this had to be a Catholic establishment, and besides, I felt like I really could use some mothering at the moment. The lady at the desk looked like a retired nun, and she was very concerned about my injuries, but I told her I had already seen a doctor and I just needed a bit of time to recover from my “traffic accident.” Nuns hear a lot of garbage during their lives and get good at dealing with it. This one (if she was a nun) took my money, gave me a key and explained where to find ice and how important it was that I put some on my face right away.

  I thanked her, left, and walked right into the two Marines who were standing on the front steps waiting for me. The bigger one (they were both huge) immediately began giving me orders like I was a private.

  “Where is your room?” I pointed in the same direction the nun had pointed, and he seemed to think that was ok.” Good. There is plenty of light there. But you can’t park there, your car would be visible from the highway. Park down this other side. Do you see where there are several cars in a group? Park yours in the middle. Sargeant Stone will put some adhesive letters on your license plate later so the car will be camouflaged. And professor, this is important. No phone calls. Don’t use your cell phone or the hotel phone. She knows you are coming north, as do your people in Philadelphia. There is no need to call them. Just go to bed, and stay there until after it gets light in the morning. You are only about four hours out of St. Louis. You can call anyone you want, once you get there. Do you understand?” I nodded, parked my car where he had pointed, and went straight to my room. Actually I didn’t mind taking orders at the moment. I can’t say I was thinking too clearly at the time, and my body was sending my mind a continuing message – “find the room, hit the bed. Find the room, hit the bed.” It was almost a cadence as I walked from my car to the room. Actually lying down took some work as I found the movements that caused the least pain, but eventually I was flat on the bed. I was asleep milliseconds after my head hit the pillow.

  It was nearly noon when I woke up on Friday, and my body was telling me even that was too early. During the hour it took me to finally rise to my feet, take a shower, and get dressed, I finally took a good look at my face in a mirror, and I realized I had even bigger problems. I couldn’t go back to Green Bay looking the way I did – Elise would scream. My lips were more black than blue and they looked like they were ready to burst. The cuts on my face were red around the threads used to close the wounds, and my left eye was completely red. My hand was also swollen from the one punch I had gotten in, but at worst that would just need a cast. No, it was my face that would scare Elise. Why hadn’t I put ice on it? Was it too late?

  I stumbled outside, still trying to determine what to do. The Marines were waiting for me.

  “Jesus, Professor, I was once in a humvee hit by an RPG and I didn’t end up looking that bad. You need to either take up boxing lessons or stop fighting.”

  “What do you think, a little ice and it will be fine tomorrow?” I knew it was a silly question, but I had to ask.

  “Assuming nothing is broken, which is doubtful, I think with lots of ice you might look presentable to a lady in about a week. Until then, I think you’re sleeping alone”

  “Thanks for the good news. By the way, why are you guys still here?”

  “Our orders are to cover your back until relief comes.”

  “So, when does relief come, and who is your relief?”

  “They pulled in a few minutes ago.” I looked around to see who was now my protection, but the Marine warned me off. “They are pretty shy. I checked them out and they are the good guys, but you probably won’t see them. But if you happen to see a fortyish guy with a mustache from time to time, it’s ok. Now we need to go. Take care, Professor. If you ever get back to New Orleans, maybe we will run into you at the Granary.” We shook hands (I used my left hand, holding my bandaged right hand near my belly), and I went over to shake the other marine’s hand as well. I can’t imagine how they had spent the night – had they slept in their car? In a minute they were gone.

  I checked out of the hotel, talked with another clerk who could also have been a retired nun, and then eased myself back into my car one millimeter at a time. It was a four hour drive up to St. Louis and I used the time trying to determine what to do next. I couldn’t go back to Green Bay yet. So where could I go? Somewhere along the way I remembered the two fathers from New Orleans. They were in St. Louis, right? I could look in on them, and maybe spend a few days talking with them. Maybe with lots of luck and lots of ice, after a few days I could safely drive home to Elise.

  My first act in St. Louis was to find a cheaper hotel – one I would never use again, and so would not be remembered as the guy with the mashed face. St. Louis has lots of cheap hotels, so that part was easy. I settled into my room and ordered room service to bring me lots of ice and a bottle of wine, only to discover they had no room service. So I wandered the hotel until I found an ice machine that would work, and a shabby bar that would sell me the worse bottle of wine I have seen in Canada. The only good news was that no one stared at me. Apparently this hotel had seen faces like mine before.

  Back in my room I called Elise. We talked for a very long time. How much did she know about New Orleans? She seemed to know I needed protection, and was quick to advise me to get back to Green Bay where I would be safer. I assured her I would be back soon, but wanted to look in on the two fathers. How could a good Catholic girl object to my seeing a couple of priests? She accepted my assurance that I wouldn’t stay long, and then gave me their address. After that our conversation grew more intimate, and I pushed the ice pack harder and harder against my face, hoping I could accelerate the healing process. Elise was just one day’s drive away – one day and one face full of bruises away.

  I spent the rest of the evening alone in my room drinking cheap red wine and finding new positions for my ice pack. Need I mention how miserable I felt?

  Saturday morning I imagined I saw some improvement in my face. In truth, I was probably just getting used to my new looks, but there was always hope the ice was doing some good. I looked through the phone book and found the retreat house Elise had mentioned. It took me several connections to get to Father Jacques, and a few more minutes of conversation before he remembered me, but once he understood I was in town, he invited me straight out to the retreat center.

  While I was really just going to kill time until my face healed, once I got out there I was glad I had gone. The retreat was on the northwest side of St Louis along the Missouri River. This was the river Father Marquette had thought would be an easy ride out to the Pacific – a trip he planned to make himself. Of course he was wrong by over a thousand miles plus two mountain ranges, but still it was interesting to stand along the shore and look west, imagining what life would have been like if the Pacific Ocean had been where Marquette had thought it was.

  Should I describe the retreat house? It confused me. It was large and dark and long, and looked like it might have been a boarding school or abbot or small college. It had to be a century old. The paneling would have taken that long just to get as near-black as it now was. I was not sure who would actually
want to retreat here, but there must have been some people, because there was a receptionist and an office, and the usual brochures in the lobby that indicate they regularly accept visitors.

  There was a young man working the reception desk, and I could see right away my face was going to be a problem. I still hadn’t worked out a good story for my appearance – had I been hit by a car? Attacked by a dog? Hit by an asteroid? I tried to make up my mind quickly while the young man practically gushed with sympathy and pulled out a chair for me. The worst part was I was actually grateful for the chair. The only thing worse that looking terrible is feeling as bad as you look. I took the chair and asked to see Father Jacques. Fortunately, Father must have told him I was coming, since he said I was expected and dialed father’s room.

  Father Jacques looked every bit as bad as I did, only he had fewer scars. He had aged at least ten years since I had seen him in New Orleans, and he moved so slowly I wondered if he would ever make it down the hallway to where I sat. I met him halfway and we exchanged greetings. We tried to shake hands, but his was arthritic and mine was smashed, so basically we just touched fingers and tried to think of cheery things to say.

  “Shawn, you look like you were attacked.”

  “I am afraid it is my own fault. I started the fight.”

  “I thought you Irish were better at that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, I think maybe the family acquired some non-Irish blood along the way. So how are you, Father. What have they got you doing up here?” This conversation took place as we stood in the hall and tried to decide should we sit, stand, go to his room. We looked and acted like two men who didn’t know what to do next. Finally Father Jacques found a way to give our meeting a bit more purpose.

  “Mostly I look after poor Father Claude. I am afraid he was badly harmed by the stress of the move. Shall we go see him?” And that is what we did – eventually. The rooms were down another hallway and we moved at a sprightly pace of about one step per hour. It didn’t seem possible that Father Claude could be even worse off, but he was. He was in his bed in a tiny room that could have been a monk’s cell, lying flat on his back with the covers pulled up to his chin. When we came in he barely opened his eyes. I have never seen anyone die, but it appeared he was close.

  “Claude, you remember from young Shawn from New Orleans. He has come by to visit you.” This he said in that false cheery voice people always adopt around invalids. I wonder how sick you have to be to not be scared by that voice – you know you must be bad off if people talk to you that way.

  “Hello, Father Claude,” I added. I hoped my voice was more normal. “Do you mind if I sit down?” There were two chairs alongside his bed. I took one and Father Jacques took the other. “Would you like to hear about New Orleans?” I thought I saw some flicker from Father Claude, and Father Jacques said “Yes, Please do.” So I talked for the next half hour or so about the wagon train and the sinking of the ship and the rest. I managed to keep them both awake. Father Jacques even seemed to perk up a bit. When I was done with my story he wanted me to keep on.

  “Now tell us about the fight. How many were there?”

  “I am not sure. Four or five, maybe six. I got in one punch and then they got in theirs.”

  “I knew it. You hot blooded Irish. Always more courage than sense. I assume they were Protestants.” Poor old father Jacques was really getting animated now. He was trying to clench his arthritic fists as if he were there. I wonder what he must have been like as a young priest.

  “They were Protestants, but the fight was not about religion. One of them said something he shouldn’t have, and I lost my temper. But tell me about this place. What do you do here?”

  “They say eventually they would like me to counsel some of the men who come here for retreat, but so far they haven’t asked me to do that. So Claude and I sit and pray.” I could imagine the two of them sitting in this tiny room hour after hour. I wondered if even the holiest man would not sometimes feel despair.

  “If you have the time, and if you can get permission, I wonder if you could help me with a history project.” As you can guess, I had no history project and had no idea what I was talking about. “As you know, the people of New Orleans have a great collection of diaries and other family histories, but I am not aware that any history of the local churches exists, does it?” Neither of them said there was such a history, so I was on solid ground so far. “The fifty years you were in your church is an important period. You were there when Catholics began moving there in significant numbers. You could describe the growth of the church, the first families, the main events of those years. I think there would be general interest, and of course it would be essential when the church is reopened.” Of course I had no idea what I was talking about, but as I described the project I was reading their faces, and it seemed to me there was interest – maybe even excitement.

  “Well, Shawn,” Father Jacques replied, nodding reflectively. “I think we could help you with your project, don’t you Claude?” Father Claude didn’t move much, but I thought I saw his head move a bit. Maybe it was imagination, but at least it seemed they were both somewhat engaged in the idea. So I kept talking, outlining possible approaches, explaining how histories are generally laid out, watching their faces, and looking for how I could make the project as engaging as possible to them. An hour later I think I had them. Even Claude was now moving his head enough so I could be certain he was hearing me and agreeing, and Father Jacques looked ready to start right that minute.

  At that moment a young woman – I assume a nurse – came in with a tray of food for Father Claude and told us that lunch was served for the rest of us. Father Jacques and I began the long walk down the hall, still moving with glacial speed, and arrived when everyone else was finishing their dessert. Fortunately some kind young woman brought bowls of stew to our table.

  And then a miracle happened. One minute the room had the usual chatter thirty or forty Frenchmen make over a meal, and then suddenly the place went still. Every head turned toward the entrance to the room, and I could swear I saw amazing improvements in every posture. My ribs didn’t like turning much, but eventually I got my body around enough to see the cause – Elise.

  She was wearing a floor-length yellow cotton dress and so was already more colorful than the entire contents of the building, but she was also Elise – a woman who looked like film stars hope they will look after their next surgery. When she saw me turn, she smiled at me, but stayed waiting in the doorway. I got to my feet, hurried to her, and hugged her as hard as my ribs would allow.

  “I couldn’t wait.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “My father wanted me to wait. He said you wouldn’t want me to see you like this.” She waved a hand near my face. “He said men have their pride.”

  “So you knew I had been hurt?”

  “Shawn, we watch out for those we love. I knew. I waited one day, and then I had to see you. Do you mind?”

  “No. I missed you.” I hugged her again, and then we stood momentarily confused. I wanted to talk with her alone, but it was polite to say at least a few words to father Jacques, and maybe some others. In the end, Elise handled it well. She took my hand and went to say hello to Father Jacques, and then she went with the two of us to be introduced by the Father to most of the other people in the room. Two or three eons passed while we met every person and heard how each knew some person in government or had met some other DuPry. Elise kept sliding her hand back into mine, and I practiced patience. Eventually she had spoken with everyone, hugged Father Jacques (I wasn’t sure you could do that, but he didn’t seem to mind), and she led me outside.

  “Where can we sit and catch up?” she asked. I pointed down the lawn to several park benches arranged along the Missouri. She said nothing while we walked down the slight hill, and I was still too dumbfounded by her arrival to think of anything cleve
r to say. But it felt good holding her hand and hearing the rustle of her dress as she kicked her hem with her steps.

  “You should have come back to Green Bay.” She finally said as we sat on the first bench. “We have good doctors there.”

  “Your father is right about pride. I wanted a few days for the swelling to go down.”

  “There were four of them?”

  “Your intelligence is good. I was too busy to count, but four seems right. Maybe five. It actually helped that there were so many. They got in each other’s way.”

  “I am so sorry I asked you to stay down there.” She was looking full into my face and was suddenly crying. I hugged her again.

  “I was a volunteer. I wanted to see what the re-enactment would be like. And as for the fight, did they tell you I started it?” That stopped her sobbing. She pulled her head back and looked at me again.

  “You started it? Why would you do that?”

  “What can I say. Men are dumb. So it’s not your fault. It was my fault. And for what it is worth, I have learned my lesson. No more fighting with groups of strange men on bridges.” She smiled – what else could she do?

  “Can we go home now? I have a car. He can have us in Green Bay before dark.”

  “I would like that, but I started something with the fathers this morning. They both look terrible. Father Claude looked like he was dying to me. So I started them on a history project. I thought it might give them something to do.

  “For an Irish brawler, you are a very sensitive man.”

  “I think I can have this well started in two days. OK? I will drive up first thing Monday morning.”

  “I’m not leaving you now. Give me a kiss and let me make some phone calls.” I leaned forward to kiss her and then hesitated. In part, I wasn’t sure what part of my mouth I could kiss with, and then I also had this odd thought about kissing at a religious retreat house. Was it legal? In the end Elise solved the problem by kissing me.

  And that is how we spent the next two days. We spoke with the old fathers, and whenever we had time to ourselves, well there was lots to say. It was great medicine for me, and I swear I think she brought Father Claude back from the dead. The first time she walked into his room he lifted his head, spoke to her, and tried to sit up. By the second day, he did sit up.

  As for the church history, we got a good start on that. Like any oral history the trick was keeping the fathers from telling an endless series of stories that just wandered off in any direction. I kept bringing them back to main topics while Elise found a laptop computer somewhere and transcribed what they said. By the second day the administrators of the retreat house were taking an interest in the project, and they assigned a young man to do the transcribing. I assumed that was Elise’s influence – if the project was worth her time, they decided it must also be worth their time. So suddenly the fathers had a staff. I gave the young man an outline to follow and wished him luck. Keeping two elderly men on topic was not going to be easy.

  Evenings in St. Louis we wandered the streets of the old part of town along the Mississippi, we talked endlessly, and I wondered again and again why I had left Green Bay when I could have spent the summer with Elise. I am really dumb.

  Monday morning we said our good bys to the fathers, I promised to return periodically to get updates on their history, and then we were off for Green Bay. Her driver took her car, and Elise rode with me. As always, she spent most of the ride turned toward me, talking about anything and everything, and the hours disappeared.

  Chapter 21

  Finally Back to Green Bay