I told the chief that I now understood Hoodoo Clay Maker’s importance to The People and that I entertained no thoughts of attempting to purchase him. But I asked if I might be able to stay here for the evening and avail myself of their hospitality. Perhaps have a few last words with my new friend in his native tongue and leave in the morning?
Zenon La Joie looked me hard in the eye for a long and uneasy moment and said, “The People are much associated with the Five Civilized Tribes and are pleased to extend our hospitality to a fine French fellow in need of a night’s rest and some food. Welcome, mon amie and be thankful that as a stranger you entered our camp as neither Natchez, Chickasaw, or English—for then I would be obliged to kill you.”
He smiled broadly and led me over to his fire as the sun began to set in the direction of the Big River. That evening I spoke much of Boulogne and Paris and the women of Marseilles, all the while offering silent thanks that my restless father had raised the three of us children on the continent. My hosts told me of their ancestors who they called the Quizquiz and spoke of ancient, earthen temples on the lower Yazoo. Like Bedouin in the desert, their faces were periodically aglow, albeit here from their calumet smoking pipes in place of the Musaalam’s hookah. We dined on the flesh of deer and opossum and after some corn whiskey was produced, listened to supernatural tales of men transformed into owls.
In time I was introduced to a fierce-looking Indian who had recently joined us at the chief’s fire. His name was Volsin Chiki and was hailed as a paramount leader of the indigene armee.21 His first act was to produce a large fishbone, and for my benefit he proceeded to soundly cut himself until a great quantity of blood flowed from his arm and down and about his clenched fist: an act, I suppose, designed to demonstrate his warlike disposition and manly indifference to pain. He then rose and reseated himself next to me whereupon he directly began to press his nose against different places on my blouse and trousers.
After much agitated sniffing, with his prominent nose invading the most embarrassing places, Chiki lifted his head into the night air as if to evaluate the odours he had just taken in. “This one does not have the scent of a French fellow. He is far too fresh.” Volsin Chiki cast a hostile glare in my direction, circled behind me to snatch my traveler’s bag and then dumped its contents on the ground. He pawed through my Patent Improved Metallic Notebook, my current reading material and my mail—some of which bore a HRM seal on the letterhead. He then leaned down and placed his head alongside my ear. Slowly and deliberately and in perfect King’s English he said:
Fee, fi, fo fum,
I smell the blood of an
English fellow:
Be he alive or be he dead,
I’ll grind his bones to
make my bread.
With no further warning he slammed the butt of an old Brown Bess into the side of my skull and I was conscious only long enough to feel myself hitting the ground next to the fire. I later learned that this practice was well known hereabouts as “the red nightcap.”
It was sometime in the middle of that same night when I awoke in Kwomo’s hut. I was having fitful nightmares of Shihab and Steinhaeuser flashing on Thurlow Weed’s shoes. When my vision began to clear I was alarmed to find myself surrounded with the most horrible ceramic face jugs one would care to encounter under any circumstances, let alone someone in my present condition. Matters were made worse when the grotesque faces crafted into the clay seemed to change expressions in the flickering candlelight.
I’m afraid I let out a bit of a startled yelp for Kwomo came to my side to press a cool compress against my head and offer comfort. “Be settled now and still, my friend,” he said in Kikongo. “Do not be bothered by the hex jars, they are just hoodoo pots for New Orleans and cannot harm you. You have taken a blow to the head but will be fit for work by first light.”
“Work?” I sat upright on my sick mat and declared that I am bound for The Great Salt Lake. “I’ll have none of that. I’m off to the dock as soon as I am able and then to New Orleans to be received by Col. Beauregard of the United States Army.”
Kwomo regarded me with raised eyebrows. “Monsieur Chiki has announced other plans for you. He has spared your life so you may be Kwomo’s helper. He said the English dog is fit to live only to dig the Feliciana clay from which I craft my pots. But do not worry, my friend, I have devised ways of easing my work load. I trick the filth eaters into thinking that I am working harder than I really do. I will teach you the tricks.”
But Kwomo’s words could not comfort me. They only confirmed the realization that the Tunica had decided that I was to become a slave to the man who is a slave to all men.
Kwomo bobbed his head approvingly and began rambling on in Kikongo. “So we will become good friends for a long time, yes? Oh, there is so much we will want to talk about my friend, and now so many days in which to do it. You do not appear to be more than forty years and that is my age as well. Why, that will leave us many, many evenings together until our hair turns white. I will teach you songs we can sing together and in time I shall instruct you to make the pots as I do. God has sent you here to improve my miserable lot in life, I am sure of that now. Praise be to him who sent you.”
By this time Kwomo had maneuvered my head into his lap and began gently rocking back and forth and humming some God-awful tribal tune. He interrupted his contented melody to muse aloud, “A Kikongo-speaking white man befriends Kwomo in an Indian village so far from home and after all this time. Mmmm, mmm, mm.” He shook his head in mock disbelief then raised his eyes towards the ceiling of his hut. “Makes Kwomo’s spirit lift up to heaven; hee, hee; yes, go on all the way up into heaven!”
For the next week I was under the careful scrutiny of La Joie, Chiki, and every young man in the village. Their official purpose was to post a watch to make sure I wouldn’t escape, but it seemed to me that they all secretly wished for an attempt for that would afford them the much sought after opportunity of killing me. For the time being, however, they appeared content with and derived great satisfaction from my status of being a slave to a slave. Even my friend Kwomo was a partner in keeping me from freedom, and doubly so, for not only did he enjoy and wish to hold-on to a person with whom he could finally communicate, but after only the first week of my captivity he had grown accustomed to having someone to order about and do all the heavy lifting.
In fact, any objective observer would have to agree that Kwomo’s new-found powers had quickly transformed him into something of a slave-owning tyrant himself—probably now little raised above the likes of Mr. Caleb Lee. None of this of course was lost on the Tunica who worked in so many little ways to encourage Kwomo’s authority over me, for my subjugation was a constant source of their entertainment. He was excused from most of his normal duties and asked only to administer my work. Kwomo still performed the final crafting of the pots, but I did all his labor and normal manual chores, plus a few others I’m sure, which tended to confirm my long-held belief that the dearest ambition of a slave is not liberty, but to have a slave of his own.
A stern word or harsh command from Kwomo would elicit widespread snickering from the women and children and a boot to my backside would all but cripple the entire village with howls of raucous laughter. The Tunican enjoyment of my predicament I endured for another week, but there were growing signs that the novelty of witnessing the contretemps of a slave’s slave was wearing thin. Chiki especially was turning hostile, and I sensed that he wished to spill some blood as a final exclamation point to my sentence.
It was time for action. An escape to the docks a half a day’s walk away may prove disastrous, as the Sultana had no doubt weighed anchor for New Orleans long ago and there may be no transportation available, plus I had no money. I needed to clear the territory altogether, and quickly, for the Tunica would surely be looking for me and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my “friend” Kwomo were leading the hunt.
Early the next day I managed to pinch some corn whiskey from Zenon La
Joie’s storehouse, and then doubled that amount with covert removals of the same stuff from three separate sources. Altogether I believed I had secured enough to get Kwomo quite drunk, and my plan was to do just that this evening and make my escape as soon as my master succumbed to the drink. I cannot say that I had a decent plan beyond that, but I knew that time was very dear.
After a day of digging and hauling under a blazing sun—I did all the work—master and servant returned to camp, were provided a modest meal, and remanded to our hut for the evening. Like most nights, Kwomo affixed a rope to my ankle and tied the other end to his wrist before going to sleep. As he lay on his mat I told him that I had secured a treat for us that he was to tell no one about. He perked up and asked what sort of treat I might have for him.
“It is spirits, my friend, obtained from the highest sources.”
His eyes widened until the whites shone brightly in the darkened hut. “Spirits? What sort of spirits can be obtained by flesh and bone and brought to our house as a treat?” He appeared frightened and angered. “I wish for no white man’s spirit to enter this place, it is bad juju.”
“No, no Kwomo, I mean this kind of spirits.” I held up the bottle of amber-coloured liquid and bit the cork from the neck with my teeth.
“Where did you get that?”
“As I said, my friend, from the highest sources.”
His smile was so wide that even his back teeth became visible. “Well then, I do not believe I have ever been permitted to drink from the cup of Monsieur La Joie before, but as long as it is offered. Hee, hee.” I brought the bottle to my lips but was interrupted by Kwomo who decided that by rank he was entitled to the first drink.
“Of course, my Lord, by all means, after you.”
Kwomo held the bottle before him for a moment and then took a heroic draw, draining more than a third of the fluid in three exaggerated swallows. He paused, looked at me and then repeated the process. In his greed, I could tell that the effects would soon be even greater than I had expected. He groped about in the semi-darkness until he produced some corn silk, sumac leaf, and rolling papers, then prepared an enormous cone which he puffed away on with great abandon. I took a wee nip on the bottle and after holding it for a proper amount of time, handed it back to an already-affected Kwomo.
He looked at me with a strange, twisted smile on his face. “You know Burton, I like you,” he said and then tipped his head back for another liberal drink. “I like you as a friend.” He took a great amount of smoke from his cone and then held it to his face and stared at the smoldering tip. “I like you Burton,” he began again, “but you are lazy.”
He began to wax eloquent on the merits of hard work and industry, telling me that to make one’s way through life one must not only devote full energy to his work but also to accept one’s fate and place in the Grand Scheme. He explained that he was able to sense that I was not comfortable with The People and he urged me to overcome these feelings by a greater devotion to my tasks.
“The Great Father has brought you to The People,” he said solemnly, “and we are grateful for that. You should be grateful as well.” In his emerging drunken state, Kwomo was now one with The People and kindly lecturing their servant in hopes that he might serve even more. Washed away now were his former misgivings concerning slavery and the moral condition of those who perpetuated it. Gone were the much uttered phrases feeders on carrion and eaters of filth. Forget the tricks that make one appear to be working harder than one really was. Now that he was something of a slaver himself, and a drunken one at that, he fancied his advice avuncular and acted as if it should be well received. He continued on but his thoughts and speech began to thicken.
“You know, Buntrum, I once knew a lad in my village who did not like to work at any time. When the other boys went to perform their chores this one would hide behind the milk bush and waste his time thinking about a world that doesn’t exist. That is not right. You take someone who knows what the world is really about, someone like Madame Marie Laveau, then you have someone who knows how it should be. Somebody who makes a difference and knows what things … somebody who is somebody and can do what … somebody OUGHT to do when some things need to,” he belched, “get right.”
I asked if this Marie Laveau was also from his village back home.
He widened his eyes. “Marie Laveau? Maybe you should not even mention that name.”
“Is she a relative of yours?”
“A relative of MINE?” He looked around the darkened hut as if to make sure there was no one there to listen, then pulled me closer to him by the rope that was still affixed to my ankle. He lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper and said, “Do you see all these hex jars around the room?”
He waited a long time for an answer.
“Yes.”
“I make these things.”
“Well, yes, Kwomo, I know you make these things.”
“Well do you know who buys them?” He lowered his voice again to the faintest whisper. “Marie Laveau. That is who. She buys them, blesses them and sells them again for much money. She has the power to do that. She is the daughter of Damballa.” He looked at me through unfocused and badly bloodshot eyes and insisted that, “She is the night.”
“She lives in New Orleans?”
“Fool! She is the Voodoo QUEEN of New Orleans!” Kwomo seized the whisky bottle and drained off the last four fingers. He screwed his face into an awful expression that was not too dissimilar from the images on his pots and it appeared as if he may become sick.
“Look here,” he said to me. “You leave off on this talk is because it’s … dangerous to … and you think it’s going to be alright but that’s no matter, because … you don’t know when anything … if it’s… .” And with that he slumped over on his mat and fell completely under the influence of a much jollier god.
I knew this was my moment. I immediately undid the rope from my ankle and fastened it around Kwomo’s other wrist. I then ripped up one of his shirts, stuffed a rag into his mouth and wrapped another around his head to hold it in place. I whispered to the moribund Kwomo that he had now really “gone all the way up into heaven” and patted him on the shoulder. “And good luck, old boy. You are going to need it.”
Now what? Escape yes, but to where and how? I began ransacking Kwomo’s hut looking for anything of value for I knew that some sort of currency would be needed for quick transportation. There was nothing in the poor devil’s room worth a night’s stay in a dog kennel and nary a weapon with which I might threaten a passage. Then it dawned on me—the pots, New Orleans, and Marie Laveau. I would gather up all the hex jars and luck balls I could carry in a gunny sack, and then beg, borrow, or steal transportation to New Orleans, and then sell the cache to the Queen in order to replenish my money stores.
I crawled out of the Tunica village while Volson Chiki and some of his mates were telling stories around a fire. When I no longer heard voices, I stood and ran as fast as I could, heading south along a narrow footpath. I did not stop until I was quite out of breath and even then slowed to a fast-paced walk as I knew every step of a head start would be a valuable one. In an hour’s time I came upon a road wide enough to accommodate a wagon and simultaneously I was greeted by the unmistakable smell of a horse.
“God bless you, stranger,” called out two voices from the darkness. In a moment I saw it was a man and his wife seated atop a run-down cart. They were a plain couple, no more than twenty years old. He wore a dirty old hat that rested on his ears, and his simple wife seated next to him was wrapped against the night with an old blanket and had on a pair of oversized boots that seemed best fit for the Yukon Territory.
“Thought Faith and me were the only ones that travels by night in these parts. Look it there, Faith. See, there’s another man what knows when it’s cool and when all the dust settles. Night’s a right fine time to travel, don’t you think, stranger?”
“Why it could not be better,” I replied. “I am so happy to see
someone for … Well, it’s a long story, but you see I am a passenger on the Riverboat Sultana and through unusual circumstances I fell onto hard times, and as a result have been held prisoner by the Tunica Indians for a fortnight. I have endured many unwanted hardships and have just now made my escape. I am in need of passage to New Orleans. Pilgrims, can you offer assistance?”
The husband and wife listened in silence until I finished, and then their dog began barking at me. “Hush-up, Maybelle,” the man said. Then his wife looked over at him with sympathetic eyes and pleaded, “Oh George, that poor man has been held by the forest children. Just look at him. Can’t we take him with us?”
“Git yourself in the back,” he said while motioning in that direction with his head. “An’ Maybelle, I don’t want you to goin’ at’ him neither, hear?” He nodded at me after addressing the dog and said, “Last person that came on this cart got her mad as hell. Dog’s got her a nasty bite, mister. Y’all mind your finger now. She nipped one off just last week.”
21 The Tunica warriors. —Ed.
IX
THE VOODOO QUEEN OF NEW ORLEANS, HER DAUGHTER, AND THE UNDOING OF MR. GEEK BABY JEM
June 19, 1860
New Orleans, Louisiana
Everyone in this bloody town seems to know Marie Laveau but no one knows where to find her. Many will add to this infuriation by asking if I seek Marie or her daughter, Marie II, and then proceed to tell me they do not know where either of them resides. It has also crossed my mind that they all have the information I need but are unwilling to pass it on to a stranger. A penniless traveler with a bag of hex jars and luck balls seeks a queen and princess lodged in a secret castle. Good Allah, what a strange predicament.
A trip to the docks, but no Sultana; and a check of a dozen pothouses, but no Steinhaeuser. The directions to Colonel Beauregard’s sister’s house were left on ship with the rest of my possessions, wherever they may be, and there is no British Consulate in this Francophilic part of the world. What is a man to do when he has no papers or coin? But it costs not a farthing to see an impromptu street dance in New Orleans, and so this became my traveler’s rest for the next half an hour.
Ruffian Dick Page 12