Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  “Are you suggesting, ma chére, that I am afraid?”

  “Not in the way you mean, Valcour,” she said, lifting her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. “I was distraught. You must see that. You must realize also that I cannot leave my father. Who would take him food, or clean clothing? Go if you must, but do not ask me to do the same. It is impossible.”

  It was long moments before he moved or spoke. A fly buzzed in at the shutter that stood half open with the morning sun lying in a golden pool on the window sill. Abruptly he pushed away from her; moving toward the door. “Mon Dieu, what a fool I am! Let us hope, my dear sister, that you do not regret this decision.”

  Félicité did not speak to Valcour again. He left the house a short time later, after giving Dom detailed instructions about the packing of his clothing, wigs, and other necessary items of his wardrobe. Toward dark, Félicité questioned the manservant and learned that he had been ordered to take his master’s baggage to a certain house under cover of night. For himself, there would be no need of a portmanteau; Dom was not going to France with his master.

  There was little time to trouble with such matters as what would be done with the manservant. Félicité carried a laden basket of food and clean linens to her father at the barracks. The Spanish officer on duty accepted it from her, searching through it with careless hands that allowed the ruffles of her father’s clean shirt to trail across the butter for his bread. The man would not listen to her request to see him. Such visits were strictly forbidden. The officer himself was grieved that he must disappoint so lovely and gracious a lady, but orders were orders. He was even more desolated when she repeated her request later that evening when she fetched her father’s supper, though the answer remained the same.

  The night passed. Félicité rose early, since she could not rest in any case. It was as well. To the disasters that had befallen were added others. The first of these was discovered by Ashanti. As she was airing out the master’s bedchamber, she discovered that the flat, narrow brass box that usually rested upon the top of the armoire, behind the pediment, was not in place. This box was where Monsieur Lafargue kept his small hoard of gold coins. It was found at last, pushed into the back of the armoire in Valcour’s bedchamber. Unsurprisingly, it was empty.

  That Valcour would take this cache belonging to her father, without a word or offer to divide it, was so beyond belief that for long moments, Félicité could not bring herself to accept the evidence of her own eyes. It was equally unlikely that Dom would have stolen it. Still, she sent for the manservant to question him. In this way she discovered that Dom had not returned to the house after delivering Valcour’s baggage to him. A search of the small room he occupied off the court revealed nothing taken, no sign of a hasty departure. It was the upstairs maid, sent to hang out a basket of wash, who brought them the answer to the mystery. Failing into gossip with a servant girl from next door who had ventured forth to shake out a dust mop, she learned that Dom had been sold to a nephew of the other girl’s master. A fine bargain he had gotten too, since Monsieur Valcour Murat had seemed anxious to close the sale; agreeing to the first price offered.

  Her father in prison, her adopted brother gone, her father’s emergency reserve of money taken. Dom, who had, strictly speaking, belonged to her father, since he had been purchased in Monsieur Lafargue’s name and did double duty as manservant for both men, sold for a pittance. Surely nothing else could happen?

  It could. Scarcely had the dishes from her solitary breakfast been cleared away when a loud knocking was heard on the portal of the lower floor. Ashanti went to answer the summons, returning to conduct a group of officials into the sitting room, where Félicité waited. They were the delegation sent to inventory the possessions and papers of one Olivier Lafargue, prisoner of state.

  “You are Félicité Marie Isabel Catherine Lafargue?”

  “I am.” Félicité gave the answer with as much composure as she could manage as she stood stiffly before them for this visitation.

  “You are the only child of the prisoner?”

  “That is true, although he has an adopted son.”

  “May we know the whereabouts of this person?”

  Félicité lifted her chin. “I do not know.”

  The man asking the questions, a newly appointed alcalde, frowned. “He resides in this house?”

  “He did until his arrest the day before yesterday. He has not slept here since then. I understood that he had been released from prison, however. Is there some problem?”

  “We will ask the questions, señorita, if you don’t mind,” the alcalde said in pompous dismissal. “All we require is your cooperation in the listing of your father’s belongings for his majesty’s government.”

  There followed an exhaustive enumeration of every item in the house. With pettifogging exactness, the alcalde and his assistants listed lengths of cloth and spools of ribbon in the draper’s shop and warehouse on the lower floor. Ascending the stairs, they counted beds, armoires, settees, cushions, bed linens, lengths of toweling, clothing and its buttons, silver, china and crystal, basins and ewers, pots, pans, skewers, spits, and even foodstuffs, down to the last crock of preserves. They did not, of course, forget to list the three slaves that were left, Ashanti, the upstairs maid, and the cook. With a sealed box of her father’s papers under one arm, the officials left at last, the alcalde pausing at the foot of the stairs.

  “You realize, señorita, that you are now enjoined from disposing of anything in the house and its environs? To do so before the case of Lafargue comes to trial would constitute theft from his most Christian majesty King Carlos.”

  “I understand,” Félicité replied, and watched with hard eyes as the strutting official bowed and took his leave. What she did not understand, and no one had seen fit to explain, was how she was to live in the meantime.

  Ashanti had come to stand behind her. “Mam’selle! Félicité,” she said, her voice low, “what are we going to do?”

  The question from the maid, usually so self-assured, was an indication of how disturbed she was, and why not? If Monsieur Lafargue was found guilty, she would be taken away from the house she considered home and the people she thought of as family to be sold to a new master. In the meantime, the house was without a protective male in a town swarming with Spanish soldiers and mercenaries, and there were four women, including the young maid, the cook, Ashanti, and herself, who must somehow be kept safe, and fed from the meager supplies in store.

  Félicité turned slowly to face Ashanti. “I think I will have to visit Colonel McCormack after all.”

  4

  IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN thought odd by some to place the barracks of the soldiers of France in the same rather isolated section of the town as the convent of the Ursuline nuns. To the French it made perfect sense, having the men sent by the crown to protect their persons and the religieuses sent to protect their souls quartered in the same area. If the good sisters needed help in spading their gardens, digging drainage ditches, patching the roof, or other such tasks, there were the soldiers near at hand to come to their aid. When the convent bakehouse occasionally turned out more cakes or loaves of bread than the good sisters could eat, the always hungry men were appreciative. On the arrival forty years before, of the “casket girls,” the young females sent out by the French crown as wives for the colonists with their worldly goods contained in a single box, or casket, the soldiers were on hand to keep the overardent suitors from storming the convent where they were lodged. At the time the Natchez Indians had risen in force and massacred the French colonists at Fort Rosalie on the Natchez bluff, the surviving orphans had been sent to the convent, and the soldiers had built cribs and made toys out of bits of wood and string. And both events, the presence of women and homeless children, had encouraged the men who had come to the colony with muskets and swords in their hands to put them down and pick up plows and other tools to forge for themselves a place in this New World.

  For the French soldiers, th
e convent with its constantly ringing prayer bells was thought to be a softening, positive influence; for the Spanish there was some doubt. Their God was so much more stern and unforgiving. He in Whose name the Holy Inquisition still held sway in Spain.

  With the change of flags, there was also a change of jurisdiction within the church. Spanish priests, with their austere outlooks, hair shirts, and scourges, would soon be directing the worship of the people of New Orleans. Who could say what terrors might be in store if they brought that most secret and holy office of the Inquisition with them?

  And now, though there was a prison near the Church of St. Louis on the Place d’Armes that had been good enough for the French, citizens of the colony were being held at the barracks by the new Spanish masters, guarded by the vast contingent of soldiers encamped around it. The prayer bells rang with a more urgent sound now from the convent, and over the walls came the constant murmur of voices. There were many reasons for prayer in New Orleans.

  Félicité moved along beside the convent wall with Ashanti at her side, her face set as she retraced her footsteps, heading back toward town. She had left her father’s noon meal at the barracks and inquired after him. The report was the same; he was well, but could see no one, not the other prisoners, his family, a legal representative, no one. The myrtle candle would be taken in to him, as would the books Félicité had brought from his library and the food, but no messages could be passed. As to the whereabouts of Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack, he was at the house of the governor. It could not be guaranteed that he would see Señorita Lafargue. He was a busy man, the colonel, though he must surely be the man of iron his men sometimes called him if he was able to turn away so beautiful a young lady.

  The Spanish soldiers had grown bolder in the last few days, or so it seemed. They were everywhere, lounging in every dim spot of shade, leaning against the walls of houses, sitting in the open-air restaurants watching, making quick, liquid comments among themselves as she passed. Or maybe they only seemed more in evidence because so few of the other residents of the town dared to venture abroad. People were frightened to draw attention to themselves. Moreover, the men who had been arrested, some of the most prominent in the colony, were interrelated, the uncles, cousins, godfathers, if not some more intimate connection, of nearly everyone in the close-knit community. The atmosphere was, therefore, one of unexpected family tragedy.

  A few blocks from the governor’s house a pair of Spaniards in the red uniforms of officers fell in behind her and Ashanti. Though they did not attempt to overtake them, the officers matched their paces to theirs. Félicité had paid no particular attention to them as she passed. Not only was she intent on the interview that was to come, but she had kept her eyes turned straight ahead so as to give no possible encouragement. Ashanti had glanced at them, she thought, but made no comment.

  Félicité quickened her footsteps slightly. Ashanti did the same. Behind them the two men did likewise. They were in no real danger, not in the open street in broad daylight, and yet the fact that the officers dared to annoy her in such a way was both infuriating and frightening. It was a relief when she saw the governor’s house near the river looming up before her.

  They were within a few yards of their destination when a cart, coming from a side street leading toward the levee, drew up before the house beside that of the governor. It was piled high with leather-bound trunks and boxes, all of which appeared scuffed and worn, though not enough so to obliterate the gold-embossed coronet with which they were stamped. A man in livery jumped to the ground, then handed down a woman. Dressed in a traveling costume of jet black plentifully decorated with lace, she was a striking figure. Of average height, she appeared taller because of her regal bearing. Her face was memorable, with strong bones, wide-set eyes under dark brows, and a firm but generous mouth. Her hair of midnight black was marked at the temples with bands of silver-white that swept back into her elaborately piled coiffure like wings. She carried nestled in the wide sleeve of her gown a small dog that put out his head and barked with a sharp yapping as Félicité and Ashanti approached. The woman turned her head with a smiling apology, warm amusement crinkling the corners of astonishing blue eyes, before she passed into the house.

  What was a Spanish noblewoman doing in New Orleans? As intriguing as the question might be, Félicité did not have time to dwell upon it. She dismissed the incident the moment she was past the house.

  There was a crowd in the street outside the building O’Reilly had taken for himself. The people gathered in knots, talking in low voices, their faces pinched and worried as they waited for an opportunity to speak to the governor-general. The missions on which they had come seemed unlikely to be crowned with success. In a large anteroom just inside the door, a harassed-looking young officer with his wig askew shuffled papers and explained over and over in execrable French that the honored gentleman was seeing no one.

  Admiration ousted the exasperation in the officer’s eyes for an instant as Félicité, in her gown of cool white muslin sprigged with violets topped by a lace-edged lawn fichu and apron, came to a halt in front of him. It did not enliven the weariness of his tone, however, as he began his litany once more. “I am sorry, señorita. The governor-general has matters of great weight to occupy him this morning. He cannot see you.”

  Félicité was becoming used to being addressed in the Spanish form. She ignored it, summoning a smile. “It is not the illustrious governor-general I wish to see. Can you tell me, please, if Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack is at this place?”

  “Yes, señorita.” The man did not trouble to hide his curiosity.

  “Could I be permitted to see him?”

  “The colonel is busy, busier even than Governor-General O’Reilly himself, if such a thing is possible. He has given strict orders that he not be disturbed.”

  “It would be for a few moments only, the merest sliver of his time.”

  “I am desolate that I must disappoint you, señorita, but it would be as much as my life is worth to show anyone into his presence just now.”

  “Oh, but please, you must! It is vitally important.” Félicité leaned toward him in entreaty, placing one slender white hand on his desk. The dim light in the room moved with a soft sheen across her shoulders and the gentle planes of her face, giving her a look both sensitive and seductive.

  The young officer on the other side of the desk swallowed visibly. “Indeed, señorita, I would help you if I dared.”

  There was a stir behind Félicité, and an officer stepped to her side. It did not need Ashanti’s small start of surprise to alert her mistress to the fact that he was one of those who had followed them to the governor’s house. He sketched a small bow. “Forgive this intrusion,” he said in her native tongue, “but I could not help noticing that you are troubled. It may be that I, Lieutenant Juan Sebastian Unzaga, can be of service.”

  As much as she despised the necessity of coming here, it went against the grain for Félicité to be unable to carry out her objective. It would be foolhardy to refuse aid, regardless of the source. Turning, she considered the slim, dark-haired Spaniard with the audacious black eyes and pencil-thin mustache who had presented himself. Without surprise, she realized the lieutenant was the man who on several occasions had risked the displeasure of her neighbors, her father, and Valcour by his serenades beneath her window. She summoned a smile, and with a small helpless shrug, told this Lieutenant Unzaga of her problem.

  “A simple matter, surely?” he said, lifting a brow at his fellow officer. “I see no reason why the request of this lady should not be granted.”

  The man behind the desk remonstrated, and there followed a heated discussion in quick-fire Spanish. The officer on duty was, apparently, overruled. Turning back to Félicité, Lieutenant Unzaga bowed once more, and indicated she might accompany him while her maid waited outside.

  There were low mutterings from the crowd as Félicité moved deeper inside the house with the officer. Flinging a quick
glance over her shoulder, she saw more than one dark and suspicious look turned in her direction. The obvious resentment troubled her; still, it could not be helped.

  The lieutenant tapped on the door that opened from the far side of the anteroom, then stepped aside to permit Félicité to enter. She moved into a large chamber with two, tall windows that opened onto a view of a small, unkempt garden. These windows faced the southeast, and the air inside the room was warm and sluggish with the heat of late summer. Because of it, the man seated at the graceful though sturdy desk had removed his uniform jacket and placed it over the back of a chair. In shirtsleeves, he sat behind piles of papers, lists, and ledgers, his strong brown hand driving a quill across a sheet of parchment. He looked up with a frown as Félicité and the other officer came forward, then throw down the pen, leaning back in his chair.

  “Bast, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” he inquired in hard tones.

  Lieutenant Juan Sebastian Unzaga seemed undaunted by such a cool welcome. “I found this lovely creature outside being barred from your company, and I thought, Morgan, my friend, what a pity it would be if you missed seeing her through ignorance of her presence.”

  “I am obliged to you,” the colonel drawled, “especially since I am certain you had only my welfare in mind.”

  “What else?” The lieutenant gave the other man a smile of elaborate innocence.

  “Your own, for a start, if I know you. I fear you will be disappointed, however, if you expect to win the gratitude of Mademoiselle Lafargue. She has had no liking for the Spanish regime from the first day of our arrival, and has even less reason for affection now.”

  “Mademoiselle Lafargue, of course! What an idiot I am. It was you, Morgan, was it not, who stole her from beneath my nose at that ill-fated dance three days ago, you she left standing, looking very foolish, when the soirée came to a sudden end?”

  “As you say.” Colonel McCormack gave a slow nod, his dark-green gaze resting on Félicité’s face. “She is also the daughter of the merchant Lafargue now lodged at the barracks.”