The Cards Don't Lie

by Sue Ingalls Finan

  Finally, she saw Peter approaching, leading a fine-looking sorrel mule.

  “I’m pleased to see that you’re wearing your trousers today, Millie. You’ll find they’re more convenient for what you’re planning to do,” he said. “This is old Bella. Now, just stroke her on her head—don’t pat her. Good. She’ll be better for you than a horse; she has more endurance, and, like a donkey, she’s patient and sure-footed.”

  “Oh, Pete, thank you; she’s fabulous! Hello there, beautiful Bella!” She ran her hand lightly over the mule’s forehead.

  “Because she’s a mule, the troops won’t want to ride her. But she’s strong and can pull a loaded cart. She’s not real fast, but you don’t want to go too quickly anyway, because that aggravates the wounded.”

  “Well, she’s perfect, just wonderful, and you’re wonderful, too, Pete!” Millie beamed.

  Peter blushed as he handed her Bella’s reins. “All right, then. I’m glad you’re happy. You can keep her in the stables on Rampart Street; I’ve already arranged it with Monsieur Lafitte. Now, I just have to teach you a few things, and you’ll be on your way. The first is getting her harnessed up. It’s important to adjust her straps and fittings correctly. Remember, you’re always to be in control.”

  Peter found that Millie learned quickly, and after she had hitched Bella up to a wagon that he had gotten from Lafitte’s storehouse, they both climbed in for her first driving lesson.

  “You’re doing well,” he said, as they sat down. “Remember, most accidents occur when securing the harness to the cart, so be careful.”

  The mule bobbed its head up and down and gave a little whinny. Both Bella and Millie seemed eager to get started.

  “Can we go now? Do I just say ‘giddyap’?”

  “Sure,” he said, “and continue talking to her if you want.”

  Millie clucked to Bella and was delighted when the mule set off with a steady pace. “Good girl,” she said.

  “Bella is well trained,” Peter said. “She won’t have any problems crossing streams or traveling through woods or fields.”

  While Peter gave directions, Millie drove Bella around several blocks. And although he complimented her on the way she handled the mule, he also was firm when she made small errors, and insisted she repeat certain maneuvers. After an hour’s ride, he suggested they head back to the stable. It was then he noticed that Millie had a huge grin on her face.

  “What are you smiling at?” he asked.

  “Do you see how pretty Bella’s reddish-brown color is in this sunlight?” Millie said. “And I just think her rear end is so cute! Look how rhythmic it is, swinging back and forth. I’ve never noticed that on a mule before.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Peter. “I’m glad you’re having fun. But I still don’t like you doing this, Millie.”

  “I know, Pete. But I’ll be careful. And, for once, I feel proud of what I’m doing.”

  “Just remember, the most important command is—”

  “I know, I know,” she interrupted. “It’s ‘Whoa!’”

  Peter sincerely wished he could use that command on her.

  Tarot: THE KING OF PENTACLES

  Revelation: Acumen, character,

  and courage can lead to success.

  “Sit down, Edward, and tell me, do you think Andrew Jackson will be able to save New Orleans?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. The general is an excellent commander of volunteer troops and appears to thrive when the odds are against him. He is shrewd and will not shrink from the British.”

  “Yes, so he’s already demonstrated.”

  “There’s quite a story about him as a boy, sir, one that explains his drive and determination. I first heard it from one of my Irish aunts, who used to be a traveler. And the general has been quite forthright in his account.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jackson was a messenger boy for a South Carolina partisan unit in the Revolution. While he was staying at a farmstead, an Irish gypsy read his cards. He still remembers her predictions, which were rather frightening.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She told him that the most important battle of his life would be influenced by foreign forces in a strange landscape where the trees had beards. It was supposed to be close to an old city in a new country. She said he would command men who wore the skins of animals, and others whose bodies were covered in ink; many would not speak his language. And there were going to be three unusual but crucially valuable women, one of whom, a brown woman wearing a kerchief over her hair, would cure him. And then an outlaw would ensure his victory.”

  “Pretty gruesome for a boy to hear,” said Madison. “So, he was a courier for our country. Did he personally experience any battles with the British?”

  “Yes. Right after the tinkers left, British soldiers attacked the farmstead, looted the premises, and smashed whatever they couldn’t take. Then the king’s officer demanded that Jackson clean his boots. The boy stubbornly refused. The man unsheathed his saber and slashed at the youth’s face. Although Jackson defensively threw up his left arm, the sword was quicker; his forehead and hand were both lacerated. He still bears the scars.”

  “I can understand why he hates them so.”

  “It gets worse. The assailants tore off the boy’s shoes and then marched him forty miles through the miserable, rainy weather, without hat or coat, to the squalid Camden Prison Camp, where he contracted smallpox and almost died.”

  “But he didn’t, and we’re grateful for that,” said Madison.

  “Indeed,” said the President’s secretary. “But the trauma inflicted that stormy day intensified his hatred for the British. Someday, some way, he would get revenge. Because you know, sir, the cards don’t lie.”

  “Ah,” mused Madison, “if only we could see into the future ourselves, Edward. Getting back to General Jackson, though, I understand his wanting to retaliate; still, I do find him quite loud and opinionated.”

  “That’s not a bad thing, sir. His troops have great faith in his battle skills and his concern for them. If he’s victorious, he will be the only army hero of this war.”

  Tarot: THE THREE OF PENTACLES

  Revelation: Skill, mastery, and hard work

  in art and labor.

  December 10, 1814

  “I’ll be right back, Scamp. I hear someone knocking on the front door. You work on these numbers, now.”

  “I could answer it, Madame Hortense!”

  “No, you have your mathematics to do!”

  “Awww . . .”

  Hortense smiled to herself as she went toward the front parlor. That boy, she thought. I just know he’s peeking around the corner, trying to see who it is!

  She herself wondered if it might be someone in need of Catherine’s midwife services. She hoped it would not be an emergency; Catherine had arrived home only a few hours earlier, after tending to a birth. Today, Hortense knew, her mistress had planned on helping Suzanne finalize the shifts for the free women of color volunteering at the convent/hospital. But Catherine needed sleep and Hortense was reluctant to awaken her. Until she opened the door.

  A soldier, very dignified, stood at attention at the entrance.

  “Good morning. Is this the home of the healer Madame Catherine Caresse?” he inquired.

  “Oui,” Hortense replied nervously.

  “My name is Corporal Rufus E. Madden, and Major General Andrew Jackson has instructed me to summon the presence of Madame Caresse at the general’s headquarters. She is to come with me as soon as possible, and she should bring her medical bag.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Hortense, now thoroughly alarmed. “Come in.” She ushered him into one of the front rooms, in which a fire was flickering in the fireplace. “Please sit down while I get Madame Caresse for you.” Then she called out, “Scamp, I know you’re behind me! Why don’t you get the corporal some coffee?”

  “Thank you, Madame, but there is no time for that.”

  H
aving heard the commotion from her back room, Catherine was already awake. She was astonished by Hortense’s announcement but quickly put on a simple cotton dress and twisted a tignon about her head, knotting it on top.

  The soldier, upon seeing her enter the front room, rose and bowed slightly.

  “Madame Caresse,” he said.

  She nodded and said, “Corporal Madden. Can you give me any details—perhaps about when I might expect to be home again?”

  “Yes, madame,” answered the corporal. “I will be taking you back around suppertime. Shall we be on our way?”

  “Oui! And may I bring my young assistant?” She nodded to Scamp.

  “Of course,” Corporal Madden agreed. While Catherine put on her cloak, Scamp grabbed the medicine bag and dashed out the door.

  Once outside, Catherine said, “I’ll take the medicine bag now, Scamp.” She smiled. “And it was so nice of you to hurry, which I’m sure Corporal Madden appreciates, but I’m also sure Madame Hortense will save those math problems for you to do after supper.”

  “I reckon so, Madame Catherine,” the boy said, handing Catherine the medicine bag.

  Corporal Madden offered Catherine his arm and escorted her the short distance to 106 Rue Royal. Catherine did not ask him any questions, nor did he volunteer any information. They both had somber expressions as they quickly walked toward Jackson’s headquarters. Scamp, however, skipped along behind, delighted to be part of this extraordinary occasion.

  Inside the building, Catherine broke the silence.

  “Corporal Madden, why did General Jackson summon me?” she asked the soldier. “I know there are doctors in the military, as well as some older, retired ones in our city.”

  “Yes, one of our men is treating him now: Dr. Morell,” said the soldier. He hesitated and then added, “But you have to understand that the general does not have a real high opinion of the so-called ‘educated’ man, and that includes doctors.” He paused again, as if deciding whether to continue.

  “And why would that be?” prodded Catherine.

  “A year ago, back home in Tennessee, he was shot in the arm in a duel and bled profusely. Because they feared gangrene setting in, almost every doctor in Nashville wanted to amputate the arm, but General Jackson refused. And he did get better; a month later, he was commanding troops again.”

  “No wonder he’s called Old Hickory,” said Catherine.

  “He’s tough, all right, physically and mentally.” The soldier continued, “But he distrusts wealthy, academic types. He is a self-made man: at the age of twenty, he got his license to practice law, moved west of the Alleghenies, and, not too long afterward, was made the US attorney general for the Tennessee territory. He became a judge and then served in both the House of Representatives and the Senate.”

  Corporal Madden took a breath and then continued, “Andrew Jackson regards the common man as intelligent and capable.” The soldier then smiled. “That’s why he has such a devoted following.”

  “And Dr. Morell?” she asked.

  “He seems to be a good doctor, and the hospital surgeon, Dr. David Kerr, who travels with the troops, agrees with Dr. Morell’s diagnosis and recommendations. However, the general wants another opinion, and many of the local citizens recommend you highly. It seems that not only do you practice midwifery, but you can relieve symptoms of other conditions as well.”

  Catherine let that statement pass without commenting. Instead she asked, with a bit of incredulity, “And the general will listen to a female healer?”

  “The general would listen to the devil himself if it would make him feel better.”

  Tarot: THE PAGE OF PENTACLES

  Revelation: Reflection; knowledge;

  respect for new concepts.

  Catherine was surprised when Corporal Madden presented her to the general. As she had guessed, Andrew Jackson was tall, just over six feet, and extremely thin—actually frail-looking. She suspected he did not weigh more than 140 pounds. He wore his coat loosely on his narrow shoulders, probably to camouflage his spindly frame. Although he was only in his midforties, his face and neck were wrinkled like peach pits, and his reddish hair, which he combed back from his forehead, was turning gray. His famous steel-blue eyes were even more prominent in a pale complexion pitted with pockmarks, and a long, chalky scar ran from his forehead to his left cheek.

  He stood up and, with a wan smile, said, “Welcome to my headquarters, Madame Caresse.” He sat back down on the sofa immediately. She suspected he needed to conserve energy.

  The general continued, “These are my aides, Colonel Robert Butler and Major John Reid. They will be happy to assist you with whatever you may need. I will meet with you and the doctor in about ten minutes.”

  “Yes, of course, General,” replied Catherine.

  She nodded to the men and then looked around at her surroundings. A number of Jackson’s officers were gathered nearby at an end of the long table, bent over maps of the Gulf Coast region and arguing quietly.

  Jackson listened intently to the opinions, nodding his head. Then he said, “Men, we are fortunate to have Major Latour’s maps and charts. For instance, I did not realize the river runs in a long east-and-west loop here at the city. I suspect that the British will be coming at us from Lake Pontchartrain to the north or from the east along the river. So we must plan accordingly.”

  The general took a deep breath, and it was very apparent to Catherine that he was suffering.

  Corporal Madden led Catherine over to the other end of the table, where an older, somewhat portly gentleman was by himself, leafing through some documents. He looked up as they approached and had an obvious scowl on his face.

  “Who’s this, Madden? The slave to scrub the dishes in the scullery? You know she doesn’t belong in here!”

  Catherine bristled. How dare he!

  Rufus Madden didn’t miss a beat. “Madame Caresse, may I introduce Dr. Morell. He has been caring for the general for the past few days. And, Dr. Morell, the general himself has summoned Madame Caresse, the well-known New Orleans healer, to assist you in your duties.”

  “Harumph,” sputtered Dr. Morell. “Yes, so you are the renowned Madame Caresse. I have heard something about your, ahem, skills.”

  Again, Catherine decided not to ask him to elaborate on which abilities he referred to.

  The physician continued, still grimacing, “Do come with me to somewhere we can discuss the general’s health without distracting everyone else.”

  He ushered her to an unoccupied room and said, “Here, we won’t be disturbed either! I expect the general to join us shortly.”

  “So he said, Doctor,” she replied.

  He seemed to be studying her. “You may find our topic somewhat embarrassing to ladies.” Then he said, obviously dubious, “Tell me: Have you had much experience in treating dysentery?”

  “Yes, I have,” she said evenly, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “I suspect my patients have gotten it from drinking stagnant water or eating contaminated food. New Orleans has plenty of both.”

  “Indeed,” said Dr. Morell. “Hmm. I’ve also noticed that many of our troops seem to come down with flux when they’ve slept outside in wet weather.”

  “I presume General Jackson has done a lot of that,” she responded.

  “Yes, well”—he continued to look at her with distrust—“dysentery is known as the Soldier’s Disease, and the general has it. Whatever the cause, you can be sure that I have been giving him the best professional treatment possible. I studied at the Harvard School of Medicine, after all. I don’t know why he would have misgivings about my procedures and, of all things, send for a ‘healer,’ an unknown woman—”

  At that moment, Andrew Jackson strode into the room. “Ah, I see you two have met!” he said.

  Dr. Morell did not respond, so Catherine replied, “Yes, we have, General. Now, I do have a few questions to ask, if you don’t mind?”

  “Certainly, Madame Caresse. That’s why y
ou’re here.”

  Dr. Morell gave a snort of disgust, which Catherine ignored.

  “Do you have abdominal cramps and bloody stools?” she asked.

  “Yes, along with pus and mucus,” the general replied.

  “Uh-huh. And how have you been treating him?” she asked the doctor.

  Dr. Morell straightened up and announced disdainfully, “The general eats a bowl of grits and some toast in the morning, then has a little rice later on, along with brandy.”

  “Ah, the brandy is the best part—quite fortifying!” the general said, chuckling.

  “And just what would you recommend, Madame Caresse?” Doctor Morell asked skeptically.

  Instead of replying directly to the doctor, Catherine addressed Jackson. “You need lots of fluids, General, but let’s not make it all brandy.”

  Andrew Jackson actually roared with laughter at that.

  “Ah! A sense of humor! How refreshing—don’t you agree, Dr. Morell?”

  Dr. Morell just scowled.

  Catherine continued, “I’d like to start you on some teas. Chamomile is good, and I also have some peppermint oil in my bag. We can mix in some powdered-wood charcoal. I have found that to be very effective. Plus, we will add lemon juice to boiled water.”

  “And for my food? Something tastier than grits and rice?”

  “I will add garlic to your diet, although I don’t think that’s what you had in mind.”

  “Hmm, no—not what I was hoping for. Anything else?”

  “Yes, General. You will get some relief by sitting in about three inches of cold water for five minutes. I highly recommend it.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Madame Caresse,” said the general, with an amused expression, “but the rest of your remedies are very doable. All right, then—I’m sure the good doctor here will be happy to help you any way he can. Isn’t that right, Morell?”