Bettina scratched her fingernail along the rail, her life in constant turmoil for one reason or another. Her father’s death, the revolution, her guardian forcing her onto the ship to England under false pretences. She swayed as the vessel heaved. Another ship sailing toward a precarious future.
* * * *
Fingers of land splayed across the steamy water. Their vessel had rounded the tip of Florida, entered the Gulf of Mexico, and now sailed through a myriad of glistening islands.
Bettina plucked at her bodice. Her clothes clung to her in an air thick with moisture that wrung out her energy.
“At last! Over there is Lake Borgne, and beyond that is Lake Pontchartrain,” Charlotte pointed out in the distance. “I hope I never leave again.”
“We are close, grâce à Dieu! I wonder if I will want to stay.” Bettina strained to feel like an explorer on an intriguing journey. A wilderness of jungle vegetation skimmed by their view, with the sweet smell of decay. A colorful variety of birds flapped through the sky.
Frederick ran up to the rail. “That looks more like a bay than a lake.” He turned and bounced across the deck, and back again, brandishing a pointed stick to where Oleba held Genevre a few feet away. “Avast, Maties. If I had a cutlass I would slay any pirates, who attempted to raid our ship and kidnap the fair Genny to make her their pirate queen.”
“No!” The little girl reached out and batted his upturned nose.
“Frederick, why are you so fascinated with sharp objects?” Bettina asked with a laugh. She walked over and kissed her daughter’s cheek. She caressed the top of her son’s head as he followed on her other side, his little face earnest at the sights.
The ship tacked to starboard and navigated the Mississippi River delta. Silt and sand clogged the area. Reed filled marshes sat in a miasma of sweltering heat. Several rivers seemed to spill out here, and they sailed up a wide tributary brown with mud. Shifting lumps of sand almost impeded their progress. The Spanish soldiers on the banks, rifles shouldered, watching their every move, disturbed Bettina.
“Is Papa here?” Christian asked, his expression hopeful.
“No, mon fils. He is not here. Not yet.” Bettina smiled at her boy, her throat tight. She refused to tell her children they might never see their father again. The last article she’d read in the Plymouth newspaper had admitted the Admiralty made mistakes in investigating attacked vessels. Then she’d deserted Everett’s homeland. She fought back tears. Her children’s welfare had to remain upmost in her concerns from now on.
Charlotte hurried up beside her. “We have a few more days only. I hope you have your passport in order. Be careful, the officials here don’t like the English. Also, the Spanish are suspicious of the French since the revolution. They fear the same revolution in Louisiana.”
Bettina squeezed her son’s hand, which was clammy with sweat. In these past weeks of travel, she’d come to trust Charlotte a little more. “I think we will manage all right, merci.” Everywhere she went, she seemed to come under suspicion. In England, under the Alien Act, she’d more than once eluded arrest. The English too feared revolution spreading across the channel. What of the men who’d pursued her, insisting she possessed the money her father stole from them to stop the anarchy? The confrontation was the catalyst for his murder.
Bile rose up, burning her throat. The rebels didn’t know she’d spent the money, they could still pursue her. She clutched her inside pocket, where her documents were hidden, and had to believe no one followed her to Louisiana.
Chapter Two
Bettina licked her cracked lips and stood on tiptoe against the rail. After four sultry days of river navigation they’d arrived at the city on the crescent.
“New Orleans, voila.” Charlotte swept up her hands as if she conducted an orchestra. “You should have seen it before the fires. Now, unfortunately, it’s rebuilt in the Spanish style. Several years ago, a huge blaze destroyed most of what the French built. Two years past, hurricanes and another fire did more damage.”
“After so much destruction, it does not look so terrible.” Bettina scrutinized the unique frontier city. She’d expected a rudimentary outpost, and wooden shacks. New Orleans simmered in the August heat, a bright collection of light-hued stucco and plaster buildings, roofed with curved red or flat green tiles.
“A French architect designed it, so a little French colonial peeks through. A tragedy though, in the heart of town only the convent was left unscarred.”
“Look out for pirates.” Frederick hoisted up Christian to lean over the rail. “We’ll slay the buccaneers and Indians, won’t we, cousin?”
“At least it is a large city. I thought we’d end up in a swamp,” Oleba said, perspiration glistening on her dark forehead. Genevre pouted in her arms, her bright blue eyes staring.
“The area is still a swamp.” Charlotte laughed. “The buildings can’t have cellars, or be built too high. They would sink right into the marsh. The Carondelet Canal, built two years ago connects the back of the city along the river levee with Lake Pontchartrain, this has opened the city to more commerce, especially sugar. Cane’s a big crop now. See the levee there?” She pointed over the rail. “That keeps the river from flooding the city.”
Once again on solid land, Charlotte gave them the name of an inexpensive lodging house and her address in Mahieu. Then she hurried off to catch a ferry across the river. Other ferries, barges and flatboats crowded the muddy water.
“Like last time, I feel I’m still standing on the ship, the ground’s still wobbling.” Frederick staggered for Christian and Genevre’s amusement. “I can’t get rid of my sea legs.”
“This heat I did not expect.” Bettina swallowed down her thirst and tugged at her damp bodice, chafing under her arms. The air felt so thick she could have scooped it with a spoon. She stared around at the hustling people, and many were Negroes like Oleba. The atmosphere did seem primitive and she hugged her children close.
An official checked everyone’s documents. The swarthy-faced man glared at Bettina, his dirty fingers rubbing the pages of her passport. “You are English?”
She stepped back, her breath sharp. “I’m the…widow of an Englishman. I am from France originally.” The admission slipped out, despite Charlotte’s warning. Bettina tried to snatch back her passport, irritated by his scrutiny.
“French, English, bah, why do you come here?” He waved the document in her face.
“I come to work, monsieur. To settle here with my family. May I pass, please?” She reached out her hand, forcing a smile to hide her jumping pulse.
“We are respectable women, sir. With small children to care for.” Oleba cast down her eyes as she nudged up beside Bettina with her documents.
“Are you a free woman of color?” He ruffled through Oleba’s papers, glared her up and down as she nodded. He shoved back their documents and waved them on.
Bettina slipped the passport back into her inside pocket, grasped the two boy’s shoulders and rushed them along. She released her pent up breath and pictured a nice long soak in a refreshing bath. If she never saw another ship or custom’s official, she would be relieved.
She instructed Frederick to hire porters to carry their trunks.
Their group walked through the bustling port. Sailors, slaves and all sorts of men pulled carts, dragged ropes, loaded and unloaded boats. The heavy stink of the swamps, and people’s perspiration filled the air. French voices, many in strange accents, flowed from the men they passed.
They followed the hired porters with their belongings into the vibrant looking city.
The inn, a modest yellow stucco building not far from the waterfront, was more a private guest house. No baths were available, but Bettina was given a pitcher of water and splashed herself and the children in their small room. When she removed Genevre’s dress, she saw the baby had a rash under
her arms. “I need Maddie’s herb creams now. I hope this is a heat wave, and it’s not so humid every day.”
She and Oleba managed to settle the children down in a bed with clammy sheets. Frederick insisted on exploring the area, and promised to bring back food. Bettina threw open the windows hoping for a breeze. Shouting from the port, music from somewhere, reached her ears. She stared down at the busy street and sighed. “Tomorrow, I will search for my mother.”
The sun set, though the air remained sultry, and Bettina sagged with exhaustion. She could barely eat the spicy sausage Frederick had brought back. All she wanted was to slide into bed and sleep. She removed her moist dress, petticoats and stockings. Then she rubbed her feet as she sat in her sticky linen shift.
A buzzing noise started low, then louder. Insects trickled through the open window, pinging off the walls, biting at Bettina’s skin.
“Mon Dieu!” She slapped and hopped around. Genevre whimpered and flung her arms about.
“Maman, it stings!” Christian cried, smacking his arms and legs.
Oleba ran around swatting at the tenacious insects. Frederick slammed the windows shut.
Bettina jerked on her clothes and ran downstairs to the concierge. “What can we do, these insects, they are eating us alive?”
The innkeeper merely chuckled. “Sorry, I didn’t know you’d never been in the swamps before. Was there no nets near your beds a hanging? I’ll fetch some. They’re called baires and you got to drape ‘em ‘round your bed at night or the insects will chew you raw.”
Bettina snatched the nets and hurried back to her family. What a strange land to have to sleep under gauzy barriers. The baires swathed around them, she hugged her whimpering children, disappointed with this introduction to New Orleans.
* * * *
Bettina urged her party along the high brick sidewalks, or banquettes. With the morning sun, the oppressive heat returned. Bettina’s thick hair was tied up, her straw hat shielding her face; she intended to explore the city. Contrary to Charlotte, she admired the Spanish buildings with their ornate, wrought iron balconies overlooking the streets. The houses in pale shades of blue, green and yellow were built flush with the banquettes. Small bricked or flagstone courtyards could be glimpsed tucked behind iron gates. Mature live oaks shaded lacy patterns over benches and blooming flowers grew in large Spanish urns. The cloying perfume of tropical foliage sweetened the air.
Bettina grinned at this still French city, surrounded by French signs and French chatter.
“Be careful where you step.” Oleba rebalanced herself, her foot nearly slipping on the loose bricks that constituted the walkways. “This soggy ground is like a sponge.” She carried Genevre and kept swiping the little girl’s hands away from scratching at her bug bites.
Bettina winced in an effort not to scratch her own. Frederick ran ahead with Christian, skipping over the muck. The boys dodged a two-man chaise that rambled by.
Two Negro men in shiny black frock coats tipped their hats at Oleba.
“There are a lot of people here the same as Miss Oleba,” Frederick said, rushing back with a smirk. “She won’t stand out like she did in Sidwell.”
Oleba laughed, shifting Genevre from one hip to the other. “I’ll try to blend in, Frederick.”
They walked through the Plaza de Armas, a large, grassy expanse where the red and yellow flag of Spain flapped in the river’s breeze. The Saint Louis Cathedral, with her bell-topped hexagonal towers on each side, faced this square. As did the magnificent capitol house, called the Cabildo, with its arched façade.
Bettina glanced at the church. Here her catholic faith would once again be dominant. She felt the pang of her past, a need to introduce her children to the religion she’d grown up in with her parents. A calmness, and a basis of security, was what they all needed.
They wound around barouches and phaetons to the area called the French Market.
The boys pointed at chattering monkeys perched on men’s shoulders. Scarlet and emerald colored parrots screeched when they neared—the colors so vivid they sparked in the air. Crouched in cages slithered small alligators with sleepy eyes and menacing grins.
“Look at this, Christian.” Frederick bent down and poked a finger close to the bars.
“Step away from there, boys,” Bettina scolded.
Various skinned animals and birds hung from hooks in the stalls. Other stalls burst with lush, unusual produce. Spicy, pungent aromas swirled around them, along with the strange patois French spoken by the local people.
Negro women in bright cotton dresses talked among themselves in melodious voices. They enticed whoever passed with promises of the best, the biggest and the cheapest wares to be found.
“Buy from me, you won’t be disappointed.” One woman in a yellow turban thrust out a tray filled with sugary mounds of confection. “My praline is the finest in New Orleans.”
Bettina sampled it and savored the sweet flavor. To the children’s delight she bought them each a piece. “Such an exotic place this is,” she said, taking it all in as they munched their sweets. Her doubts about starting a new life here faded.
“Smell that cooking.” Oleba tipped her head back and sniffed. “They must use every spice known to nature. I would think it might burn off your tongue. Not like our bland English fare.” She tried to wipe Genevre’s sticky chin in the middle of her protests as they strolled by a stall with red mounds of cayenne pepper.
They passed a man with a green blanket over his shoulders, stacks of similar wares at his feet. His head sported several feathers and his face a disdainful expression that never wavered.
“There’s those Indians Charlie warned you about,” Frederick whispered when they went by. “Maybe his tomahawks are beneath the blanket. Hold on to your hair.” He pulled on the top of Christian’s hair until the child laughed and scampered away.
Drained from the heat, Bettina dropped onto a bench. She peeled her damp dress from her knees.
“Let us return to the room to rest. Then while the children nap, you and Frederick can wash laundry, if you do not mind.” She was ashamed to turn her maid into a laundress, but they were desperate. “I must find a way to locate my mother.
* * * *
Bettina passed a group of Negro men who played music in the street. One blew a doleful tune on a trumpet, another played a fife. She’d never seen so many dark faces, which added to the exotic aspect of the city.
About to faint from the heat, she ducked under a sloping slate roof for relief from the unrelenting sun. Well past midday, she sagged with failure. Her feet ached and sweat drenched her clothing. Three days she’d spent searching, but the heat kept her efforts low and sluggish. Unlike her caution with Charlotte, she’d had to bandy the Jonquiere name about the city. Yet what if her mother lived under an alias, like Bettina did when sent to England?
“How do you find someone in New Orleans, if you have no idea where they might be?” she asked the cafe owner who sold her a glass of lemonade. She sipped the tart beverage, which felt cool on her throat. She pressed the glass to her forehead. “There is no listing for her anywhere. No one has heard of her. Maybe she no longer lives in the city.” She set down the glass and rubbed the coolness into her cheeks. Had she made this journey for nothing?
After consulting with a few other people there, the owner walked back to her table. “It may not help, but there’s an old woman two blocks down who brags of knowing everyone in the city. She makes it her affair to...to be in other people’s affairs. Her name is Madame Ray. Be warned, she isn’t famous for her kindness at times.”
Bettina thanked him and walked the two blocks. She knocked on the door of the address he’d given her, a pale pink building with wide arched windows. Pots of fragrant rosemary sat on an outer windowsill. Banana leaves peeked over a wicket gate. A servant girl opened the door and s
howed her to a parlor where heavy shutters blocked out the sun. A large woman wearing a lace cap appeared to be dozing in a chair. The servant disappeared without announcing her arrival.
A Negro child waved a fan over the woman, barely stirring the air.
Bettina moved toward the chair. “Excuse me, please, are you Madame Ray?”
The woman glared up with flinty gray eyes with deep pouches beneath. “I don’t receive visitors on Wednesdays, that idiot maid knows that. Ma foi.” Her words were clipped, and in a thick French accent.
“I am sorry to disturb you.” Bettina explained quickly her reason for coming.
“I’ll have to fire the incompetent girl. A grand-daughter of my housekeeper, though stupid nonetheless. I’d hire another Negro, but they put glass in your food when you aren’t looking.” She slapped the fan aside, and the child scurried from the room. “Oh, all right, what is your mother’s name?” she asked in French, her wrinkled neck wobbling. She slithered in the chair like a fat oyster in its shell.
“She is Volet Jonquiere.” Bettina quickly described her mother, or what she’d looked like the last time she’d seen her, certain this was one of the old woman’s unkind days.
Madame Ray’s eyes narrowed to slits above her cheeks. She pulled over a lone candle to better see her visitor. “This suffocating climate forces me to exist in the dark. Most sensible people don’t spend summer in the city. Jonquiere? Yes, I do know of your mother.”
“You do?” Bettina’s heart leapt, she stepped forward. “Where does she…”
“I have heard she is a beautiful woman, with lofty airs.” Madame continued to speak in French as she shifted in her out-dated green robe à la française. The tight bodice strained over a stomacher, pleats falling from her shoulders. “In fact, I have wanted to call upon her. I haven’t yet had the time, or the energy for that matter. The yellow fever in the city keeps me inside.”
Without Refuge Page 2