Bayou Suzette

by Lois Lenski

  “W’at dat?” cried Jacques. “I hear a big splash.”

  Suzette jumped to her feet and pointed. “Marteel! She not fishing on the wharf, she swimming …”

  “Look! A boat! A sailing lugger—a shrimper home from the Gulf!” cried the boys.

  They all ran down to the wharf.

  They stared at the lugger, dimly outlined in the increasing darkness, as if they had never seen it before. Yes, it was Nonc Lodod’s lugger, but somehow it looked ghostly and unreal. It was as if it had been away so long they had forgotten its graceful lines, its size, its shape. And why had it stopped down-stream?

  “W’at the matter?” cried Maman, putting her trembling hand to her lips. “Somet’ing it has happen’ to Lodod’s lugger.”

  “Never mind!” said Grandmère, putting her hand on Maman’s arm. “It back at last. Our Jules, he home again.”

  “It Papa Jules!” cried Suzette, shrilly. “Papa Jules, he back!”

  The two women and the children saw figures in the water moving slowly toward the shore.

  “I see a man’s head in the by’a!” cried Suzette, panic-stricken.

  They all ran down the bayou path. They came in time to see a dripping, unconscious man hauled up on the bank at their feet. Before Marteel had reached shore, pulling her heavy burden, a skiff had come up beside her, Claude Broussard had climbed out to help her.

  Suzette got there first. She knelt and with her skirt wiped the water from her father’s face and eyes. But Marteel pushed her roughly back. She raised the limp body, lifting the arms to let water pour forth from the lungs. Grandmère, with a prayer on her lips, helped. Maman fell to her knees and cried and moaned: “He dead! Jules, my Jules, he dead!”

  The men from the lugger came quickly ashore, Nonc Lodod and the others. They picked Jules Durand up and carried him along the bayou path and into his home. Yes, it was true, he was home again from the Gulf.

  Suzette repeated it over and over, to all the neighbors who came hurrying in that night and all the next day. He was home from the Gulf. He fell overboard and knocked his head against the boat. Marteel swam to his rescue and pulled him, unconscious, to shore. Now he was resting quietly, but he neither opened his eyes nor spoke. It was a different home-coming from what she had expected.

  Nonc Lodod told the story of the successful voyage, the largest catch of shrimp they had ever brought in. He laid it all to the fact that he had the two best men from the bayou on his crew—Jules Durand and Claude Broussard. He talked briskly of all their adventures and mishaps, their storms and fair weather and best of all, of the heavy-load of shrimp, which meant prosperity for all.

  Suzette listened, along with Maman and Grandmère, but somehow the big catch meant nothing now. All desire for silk dresses, a house-boat and phonograph like Thérèse’s was gone. There was only one thing that mattered—that Papa Jules should wake up and speak again.

  Nonc Lodod went on: “Jules, he gonna take over my old lugger for his own, as part of his share from the voyage. It not a bad boat and Jules, he say he like to have it.”

  A boat of his own for Papa Jules at last! But would he ever be able to give it the coat of paint it needed, would he ever be able to sail it again to the Gulf? A tear stole down Suzette’s cheek.

  Days passed and Papa Jules grew slowly better. One day he spoke a few words and after that his progress was more rapid. After a while he was able to have visitors. Claude Broussard came often, his best friend again, as long before the unfortunate shooting-match. Tante Céleste and the other aunts and uncles came, Père Eugène, and many others. To all of them Papa Jules told the story of Marteel’s rescue.

  “Without that Indian girl, me, I’d be lyin’ on the bottom of the by’a this minute!” he always added, with a chuckle.

  Papa Jules never thanked Marteel directly for saving his life, nor did Maman, Grandmère, or any other member of the family. They would have been ashamed to voice their thoughts in words. There were other ways they could show their thanks to the Indian girl and did so. Marteel was accepted as one of the family as she had never been before. All doubt and suspicion were completely removed. In one way after another during the many months she had persisted in staying with them, she had proven her own worth and her devoted loyalty. Now she was one of them and belonged to them. Suzette felt it and knew that Marteel felt it too.

  Yes, it was good to hear Papa Jules’ voice again. Suzette was happy as never before. It was better still when he was well enough to be up again. The happiest day of all was when Papa Jules made his first trip to Père Eugène’s store and returned with a large package in his arms.

  With great ceremony, Papa Jules undid all the wrappings and placed on the kitchen table a phonograph with a blue and gold horn shaped like a huge morning-glory! Papa Jules put one of the records on, set it going, and the music machine began to play. Then he took firm hold of Maman Clothilde’s waist and the two danced gaily round the kitchen, while the rest of the family looked on, admiring and clapping and stamping their feet! Yes, that was such a happy day, it seemed impossible there could ever be a happier. But if there ever was, it was the day of Lala’s wedding to Jean Broussard.

  The wedding began early and lasted late. There was an abundance of food for all the relations of both families and for all the bayou neighbors. Arsene Cheramie brought his fiddle, Alcide Brunet his accordion, the furniture was pushed back against the walls and everybody danced—even Grandmère, to the applause of the crowd.

  At nightfall the entire wedding party moved along the bayou path to a new little house which had been built in Claude Broussard’s yard. There, Eulalie and Jean mounted the steps alone. They had not been inside before, and as Jean struck a match, Eulalie gave a cry of happiness. All the neighbors had given presents to furnish the house—furniture and clothing and cooking utensils. There was even food waiting to be cooked by the bride, as she began her new life.

  Grandmère and Maman shed happy tears as they walked home again. Then morning came and the wedding was a thing of the past.

  Not long after that, a strange man came one day to see Papa Jules. His skin was dark, his hair long and black and he wore a mixed lot of curious clothes. He said his name was Sabine Joe.

  “You want to see Marteel?” asked Papa Jules.

  Suzette stood by. “You come to take her away?” she cried, suddenly fearful.

  “No,” said the man, hurriedly. “Don’t call her. I don’t want to see her, don’t never want to see her again.”

  Laboriously he opened a bundle he carried. He brought out a cape of wool on which bright-colored beads in intricate design had been painstakingly sewn. It was worn and old, but very beautiful.

  “Long ago, the People-of-the-Rising-Sun, they go to the Indian mound on Feast days. They dance there from the rising to the setting of the sun,” said Sabine Joe. “Long ago, the Houma women wear beaded capes when they dance. Marteel’s great-great-grandmother, she wear this cape.”

  “Then Marteel, she got a great-great-grandmother, after all?” asked Suzette, astonished.

  “W’y yes, of course,” said Sabine Joe. “Her name, it Queen Nuyu’n. She wear this cape, she a great woman of the Houmas.”

  “Where the cape been all this time?” asked Papa Jules.

  “Ole woman, she keep it,” said Sabine Joe, sullenly.

  “W’at ole woman?” asked Papa Jules.

  “Me, I know. The ole squaw w’at poked the burning splinters in Marteel’s back,” answered Suzette. “The one w’at make medicine to …”

  Sabine Joe frowned. “Ole squaw dead now,” he announced.

  “Marteel’s grandmother?” asked Papa Jules.

  “No,” said Sabine Joe. “Marteel’s mother and grandmother, they long time dead. Ole squaw mother to Sabine Joe, me.” He pointed to himself. “We take care of Marteel after her mother die. Injuns all get white man’s sickness and die off like flies. Marteel was left with nobody to take care of her but us.”

  “And how you take c
are of her!” cried Suzette, indignant. “You en’t make her no home, you en’t give her no bed to sleep in, you en’t cook her no meals, you give her only rags to wear. And w’y, I wanta know w’y the ole squaw all the time hurt her?”

  “Hurt her?” grunted Sabine Joe, with a shrug of his shoulders. “That the Injun way to make a girl grow up strong.”

  “Yes,” said Papa Jules, “the Indian women have to be strong so they can wait on the lazy men.”

  “That right,” said Sabine Joe, “that the Injun way. Ole woman before she die, she tell me to bring cape to Marteel.” He handed it out to Papa Jules. “It belong to Queen Nuyu’n, her great-great-grandmother. She buried in the Indian mound at the Bayou des Oies along by Chief Shulushumon. The Chief and his queen, they both buried there … at the top of that big pile o’ clam shells.”

  “At the Indian mound?” gasped Suzette.

  Papa Jules grew thoughtful. “We all the time knew it was an Indian burying ground. Plenty arrowheads and broken bits of pottery and utensils been found there.”

  “Marteel’s great-great-grandparents, they buried at the Indian mound?” cried Suzette, incredulous.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Sabine Joe, staring stupidly. “W’at so strange about that?”

  “Oh … not’ing …” said Suzette, lamely.

  “The Indians, they here long before the white man,” said Papa Jules. “Remember that, Susu. We thought the Durands owned that mound, we forget the Indians owned it first, built it themselves.”

  “You en’t takin’ Marteel away then?” asked Suzette, as the man started to go.

  “No,” said Sabine Joe. “She en’t not’ing to me. Don’t never want to see her again.” He slouched down the steps.

  Suzette ran after him. “W’at her name, Sabine Joe?”

  “Whose name?”

  “Marteel’s. W’at her last name? She got one, en’t she?”

  “Oh yes—Dardar,” said Joe. “Marteel Dardar.”

  “You don’t never want Marteel Dardar back again?” asked Suzette. “The other savages, they don’t want her?”

  Sabine Joe shook his head and was gone.

  Marteel Dardar was little disturbed by the news when Suzette told her, and quite unimpressed by her new name. She folded the old cape up carefully and tucked it under her moss mattress in the shed for safekeeping.

  “Come, we make candles,” she said. “Candles from the candleberry tree, they bring good luck.”

  “We carry them to the graveyard on All Saints’ Day,” said Suzette.

  A year had passed and once more All Saints’ Day came around. This time Marteel went proudly with the Durand family to the graveyard on the Indian mound. She and Suzette walked side by side, each carrying two blessed candles. The white painted crosses caught the light of the nickering candles of all the people in the long procession, as a gentle breeze blew in from the bayou.

  Suzette knelt by Grandpère’s and little Tit-tit’s grave and said a prayer for each, with Marteel by her side. Then she walked with Marteel to the top of the Indian mound, where the Indian girl set down her candles and said an Indian prayer and chant for her great-great-grandparents who had once been chief and queen of the People-of-the-Rising-Sun, and for those unknown ancestors of hers who had built the great mound long before they ever saw a white man.

  No one now disputed Marteel Dardar’s right to worship at the Indian mound—the altar of her fathers.

  Marteel and Suzette walked home from the graveyard arm in arm. When they reached the house, Papa Jules took Marteel in his arms and kissed her. Grandmère did the same. They wanted Marteel to know that she had found not only a name, not only worthy ancestors, but a home as well.

  “Sabine Joe, he say the ole Injun squaw, she dead!” said Suzette, happily. “So you don’t never have to go back to the Injuns again. You gonna stay here with us all the time now.”

  Marteel’s white teeth flashed in her dark face.

  “Marteel, white girl now,” came the ready reply. “Suzette’s sister, me.”

  Then she walked over to Maman, who took her in her arms and held her tight.

  “How beautiful is my Maman!” said Marteel, softly.

  A Biography of Lois Lenski

  Lois Lenski was born in Springfield, Ohio, on October 14, 1893. The fourth of five children of a Lutheran minister and a schoolteacher, she was raised in the rural town of Anna, Ohio, west of Springfield, where her father was the pastor. Many of the children’s books she wrote and illustrated take place in small, closely knit communities all over the country that are similar to Lenski’s hometown.

  After graduating from high school in 1911, Lenski moved with her family to Columbus, where her father joined the faculty at Capital University. Because Capital did not yet allow women to enroll, she attended college at Ohio State University. Lenski took courses in education, planning to become a teacher like her mother, but also studied art, and was especially interested in drawing. In 1915, with a bachelor’s degree and a teaching certificate, she decided to pursue a career in art, and moved to New York City to take classes at the Art Students League of New York.

  In an illustration class at the League, Lenski met a muralist named Arthur Covey. She assisted him in painting several murals, and also supported herself by taking on part time jobs drawing fashion advertisements and lettering greeting cards. In October 1920, she left New York to continue her studies in Italy and London, where the publisher John Lane hired her to illustrate children’s books. When she returned to New York in 1921, she married Covey and became stepmother to his two children, Margaret and Laird.

  Early in her career, Lenski dedicated herself to book illustration. When a publisher suggested that she try writing her own stories, she drew upon the happy memories of her childhood. Her first authored book, Skipping Village (1927), is set in a town that closely resembles Anna at the start of the twentieth century. A Little Girl of 1900 (1928) soon followed, also clearly based on Lenski’s early life in rural Ohio.

  In 1929, Lenski’s son, Stephen, was born, and the family moved to a farmhouse called Greenacres in Harwinton, Connecticut, which they would call home for the next three decades. Lenski continued to illustrate other authors’ books, including the original version of The Little Engine That Could (1930) by Watty Piper, and the popular Betsy-Tacy series (1940–55) by Maud Hart Lovelace. Lenski also wrote the Mr. Small series (1934–62), ten books based on Stephen’s antics as a toddler.

  The house at Greenacres had been built in 1790 and it became another source of inspiration, as Lenski liked to imagine the everyday lives of the people who had previously lived in her home. In Phebe Fairchild, Her Book (1936), for instance, a young girl is sent to live with her father’s family on their farm in northwestern Connecticut in 1830‚ when Greenacres would have been forty years old. For its rich and detailed depiction of family life in rural New England, the book was awarded the Newbery Honor.

  Other historical novels followed—including A-Going to the Westward (1937), set in central Ohio; Bound Girl of Cobble Hill (1938); Ocean-Born Mary (1939); Blueberry Corners (1940); and Puritan Adventure (1944)—all set in New England; and Indian Captive (1941), a carefully researched retelling of the true story of Mary Jemison, a Pennsylvania girl captured by a raiding Native American tribe, for which Lenski won a second Newbery Honor.

  By 1941, Lenski’s stepdaughter, Margaret, had married and started her own family, and Margaret’s son, David, spent a great deal of time with his grandparents at the farm. Lenski’s Davy series of seven picture books (1941–61) was largely based on David’s visits to Connecticut as a child.

  During this period, Lenski experienced bouts of illness, brought on by the harsh Connecticut winters. The family began to spend winters in Florida, where she “saw the real America for the first time,” as she wrote in her autobiography. Noting how few books described the daily life of children in different parts of the country, she began writing the Regional America series, starting with Bayou Suzet
te (1943). The seventeen books in this series depict children’s lives in every region of the United States, from New England to the Pacific Northwest, in rural and urban settings. Lenski traveled to each region that she would later feature in her books, spending three to six weeks in each locale. She collected stories from children and adults in each area, documenting their dialect, learning about their way of life, and otherwise getting to know the people that would become the characters in her books. The second book in the series, Strawberry Girl, won the Newbery Medal in 1946. The Roundabout America series (1952–66), intended for younger readers, was based on the same theme of daily life all over the country. Lenski was unparalleled in the diversity of American lifestyles that she documented; the combination of research, interviews, and drawings that she utilized; and the empathy and honesty that she employed in recording people’s lives.

  Other popular series for children followed, including four books about the seasons—Spring Is Here (1945), Now It’s Fall (1948), I Like Winter (1950), and On a Summer Day (1953)—and the seven Debbie books (1967–71), based on Lenski’s experiences with her granddaughter. Lenski also published several volumes of songs and poetry, mostly for children.

  In early 1960, Lenski’s husband died, and she soon sold the farm in Connecticut to live in Florida year round. There she wrote her autobiography, Journey Into Childhood (1972). Lenski died on September 11, 1974, at her home in Florida. The Lois Lenski Covey Foundation, which she established to promote literacy and reading among at-risk children, continues her mission by providing grants to school and public libraries each year.

  Lenski in 1897, at age four, when she lived in Springfield, Ohio. She was born there on October 14, 1893.