The Canadian Civil War: Volume 5 - Carbines and Calumets

by William Wresch

  Chapter 29 –

  A bad day in Baton Rouge

  We took our time getting out of bed the next morning, and we had a breakfast that lasted forever. In part, I wanted to thank all the employees at the hotel, so we stopped periodically to go over and shake hands with folks. We invited the hotel manager to vacation in the U.S. at the expense of our company, and I hope he accepts. As for my cleaning lady, she explained to Elise how much trouble I was going to be, and why I might not be worth the effort, but then she gave me a hug.

  Eventually we got our luggage out to the car, and as you would expect, the trunk was large and well designed and held everything marvelously. I got behind the wheel and headed the car north toward Baton Rouge. It felt so good to get it on the highway and pass an endless stream of Citroens and Peugeots. Make way for a real car, I felt like yelling as I passed them all. Unfortunately, after about fifteen minutes my leg started bothering me. One more reason to hate LeBeck. Because of him I couldn’t even enjoy my first real car in years. Finally it got so bad I had to pull over and let Elise drive. She gave me this bemused look as she slid behind the wheel, but at least she didn’t say anything.

  I took the passenger seat as far back as I could, rested my leg in different positions, and did better. In fact I got my computer out, plugged it in (one more outstanding feature of my new car), and started reading. I had never had a chance to read the second Thiere diary. Since we were going through Baton Rouge and he was from there, why not read it now?

  The diary starts out disappointing. I had expected him to become involved in the French response to the British invasion. He doesn't do anything. He completely ignores the entire war. He goes back to Baton Rouge, starts a business, gets married, has kids, the usual young married life. Frankly the first ten pages of the diary are pretty insipid. He continues to express lots of opinions about lots of things, but none of them are original or interesting. Then his wife dies and the entries get darker. He is angry at the world. About a third of the diary is just him venting at God, the weather, his kids, the neighbors, anything that crosses his path. Then he finds several other angry men and they form a society. It is nominally anti-Catholic, although it is not clear why they are any more anti-Catholic than they are anti anything else. The only certainty in their lives is that they can find no reason to be pro anything.

  While they are anti-Catholic, that does not extend beyond meetings and ugly slurs and an occasional sign posted here and there, until a priest arrives. While priests are illegal in Louisiana (they were until 1910), they sometimes come down the river on their way to take ship in New Orleans or Biloxi. They don’t usually get off the river boats when they dock, but this priest gets off in Baton Rouge and in the course of wandering the main street meets somebody or says something. Thiere isn’t clear how things got started, but very quickly the six members of the anti-Catholic club jump this priest, beat him half to death, and literally throw him back on the ship.

  Having now publically demonstrated their actions as priest-haters, the club attracts another dozen members and they begin harassing any members of the Catholic faith who happen to be living in the area. Thiere has become a thug and a bully. This goes on for years. He recounts beatings in his journal. The level of nastiness is hard to read. I find myself skimming his entries, nearly shutting down the file, when he has a whole new set of entries.

  He has had an epiphany. Louisiana will never be free of Catholics as long as it is attached to Canada. To free his land of Catholics, he must free it from Canada. He travels to Georgia and meets with every civic leader that will give him an appointment. He claims he is well received. Reading the language in his entries, I wonder if he is half crazy at this point. My guess would be most people ignored him or got him out of their office as soon as they realized his mental condition. But he does find sympathy with several people, including one man who is a militia leader and a real estate investor.

  They hatch a plot. Thiere will get the Baton Rouge town council to declare an emergency, the Georgia militia will come to help, and once the uprising has begun, other communities will join in and Louisiana will be free to become the fifteenth state. Thiere and the militia leader return to Baton Rouge, reviewing roads as they go, plotting how each stage of the invasion/uprising will be managed. In Baton Rouge they initially get a warm reception for the idea (at least Thiere claims the reception is warm in his journal), but then folks begin to turn against the idea (no doubt being pressured by Papists according to his journal entry). In the end nothing happens, but Thiere claims it all would have been so easy. The route over from Georgia is easily passable, an army could move quickly, and with just moderate support in Baton Rouge, the fight for Louisiana might be over in days.

  It was a bizarre plot, but I couldn’t help think about the consequences that might have resulted. Georgia would expand west into largely open land. I could see why a real estate investor would be interested. As for the country, once the U.S. had a footing on the Mississippi, it would have been the same process as Washington taking the Ohio. You just move along the river, and ultimately most of the country is yours. Thiere might have wanted Louisiana to be the fifteenth sate, but any clever folks in Philadelphia would have seen the possibilities of five or six more states, and access clear across the plains to the Rockies. Who knew – if a southern route could be found around the Rockies, a connection to California might be made.

  It was pretty attractive, although highly speculative. History might have been very different. But today? Hmm. Why had Guillard given me this journal a week ago? And why had he hidden it? Surely an invasion like the one Thiere planned made no sense any more. Even the craziest Heritage numbskulls wouldn't have wanted it. Andrees didn’t want Louisiana to be part of the U.S., he wanted it to be part of his own country – Southland. He wanted to be king of Louisiana, Arkansas, and Colorado. So he wouldn't have backed such a plan. Would he? But with Arkansas pulling out of the alliance… Was such a plot now possible? How desperate did you have to be to plot something this bizarre?

  “Those military units that were up along the border, do you know what happened to them?”

  “I understand some reported back to their bases,” Elise replied. “But most of the men just faded away. We assume they just went home. After all, they were deserters.”

  “And what happened in Camp Biloxi. Did the troops there surrender?”

  “No, they left yesterday. When this is all over, we will have to arrest most of those men. They weren’t just deserters, they killed their fellow soldiers.”

  “When they left, did they take their weapons?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Do you mind pulling over at the next rest stop? I really need to stand and stretch.”

  “Oh, so your marvelous Ford isn’t perfect, is it?” She seemed to enjoy that idea.

  “It will be perfect when I am perfect.” I shut down the diary and pulled up a map of the region. Thiere was right. Getting from Atlanta to Baton Rouge would not be hard at all. Most of the land was open and flat. Provincial Highway 17 was almost a straight shot to the border and much of it was four lane.

  A few minutes later Elise pulled into a rest area. We both headed for rest rooms. I was barely in the door when I had my phone out. I called Dodson’s office and got the usual phone tree. I didn’t want to leave a message on any machine. I wanted to talk with a person. I waited the tree out, and finally got an operator. She was pleasant, but obviously busy. I kept my message short.

  “I want you to get this message to Senator Dodson personally, and immediately. My name is Shawn Murphy. Tell him Baton Rouge. Highway 17.” I hung up and hoped that she got the message to him. If nothing happened, then I was just wildly speculating, and we could keep driving.

  My phone call finished, I walked back to the car and stood stretching. Elise finally joined me, her phone still in her hand.
<
br />   “The Biloxi rebels drove out in large trucks. An inventory done overnight found they had taken missiles and machine guns. The thought was they would sell the arms and use the money to leave the country. Or do you have another idea?”

  “Can you wait ten minutes? I am checking on something.” She agreed and we stood out in the parking lot watching traffic go by. Time passed. Elise looked at me. She was not happy, but she was patient. She didn’t quite stare at her watch, but it was clear she was aware of the time. As it turned out, it only took Dodson eight minutes to return my call.

  “Why highway 17?”

  “Just a thought. Elise and I are headed up to Baton Rouge on our way to a meeting. So if we turned east on Highway 17 to do some sightseeing, we wouldn’t see anything we shouldn’t see?”

  “I understand that road is under construction today. I don't think you would be allowed on it.”

  “But if we did get on the road, what would we see?”

  “I recommend you stay away from there and let things play out.”

  “Is my country going to be hurt?”

  “No, I think you will like how this goes. Some simmering problems will be resolved on that highway. Good guys win. Bad guys pay for past sins.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I am sure. Go to your meeting. Enjoy a beautiful fall day.” He hung up. I turned to Elise.

  “Good guys win today. Bad guys pay for past sins.”

  “What?”

  “I am guessing your missing troops are on Highway 17 east of Baton Rouge.” Elise had her phone out before I finished the sentence. She walked off across the parking lot and had a very animated conversation with whomever she had reached. She came back to the car practically on the run.

  “We should get going, don’t you think?” I got back in the passenger seat and let her drive.

  “Do you have a destination in mind?” That was a stupid question. I could tell by her speed exactly where she was going. As we tore down the highway I knew she could never complain about my speeding again. “I was told to stay away and let things play out.”

  “I was told the same. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere along the way?’

  “No. But tell me the plan.”

  “The plan is to stop a blood bath. Those men may be deserters, but there is no reason they all have to die. Now get a map up on your computer and find me a back road to the east side of Baton Rouge.” I did as ordered. We would find a turn off in about five miles, maybe four minutes away given how fast she was driving. That Ford was really covering ground.

  “And when we get there?”

  “We talk.”

  “You know you could go to jail for interfering.”

  “So we sit in a restaurant in Baton Rouge while the bombs fall? No. I’d rather go to jail.” I pointed to the exit and she took the curve on two wheels. Now I was getting nervous. A Citroen would already be in a ditch, but even a Ford has limits. The back way was a two lane road through the woods. We would hit Highway 17 in about eight miles.

  As it turned out, we only had to go five miles before we started driving past military trucks. They were well off the road, under trees. I didn’t think trees were good camouflage anymore given infra red cameras and such, but I guess these guys thought it was better than nothing. Elise kept driving, but slowed down. She was looking for something. Just before we got to the intersection with Highway 17 she found it – a collection of trucks and cars. If this bunch had a headquarters, this was it.

  Elise pulled the car over onto the grass, got out, and walked directly up to a group of men standing near a truck. I limped along behind, my phone already out and dialed.

  “Every one of you will be killed in the next twenty minutes.” If having an attractive young woman walk right up to you doesn’t get your attention, that comment should have, and it did. There were maybe a dozen men in the group, and while they had been engaged in deep conversation a moment ago, now they were all turned to Elise. I caught up, stood next to her, and noticed an old friend in the group.

  “Good morning, Jim.” Jim O’Conner of the New Orleans consulate office was among the group. He was wearing a uniform like the others, but with that red hair, it was not like it was hard to pick him out of a crowd. He was wearing a side arm and pulled it the minute I addressed him.

  “You two should never have come here. Now you will be the first casualties of Louisiana’s battle for independence.”

  “You tried to kill me twice before, didn’t you? I am glad now you are finally willing to do your own dirty work. But before you pull that trigger, you might want to take this call.” I held out my phone. He stared at me and then at the phone. He hesitated, then stepped forward and took the phone, but he also raised his pistol towards my head. I hoped I had dialed the right number.

  “Who is this?” he asked. I couldn’t hear the answer. O’Conner listened, then took the phone and threw it against the side of a truck. “Did you tell them?” He had the pistol inches from my face.

  “They have satellites, they have drones, hell they probably have dozens of farmers who wanted to know why so many trucks were parked around here. This isn’t the eighteenth century. You can’t just drive up a road and surprise people.”

  “We have missiles” one of the others said. He wore the uniform of an officer. I hoped all their leadership was not that dumb, or Louisiana would soon have a body bag shortage.

  “Let me tell you how this is going to go,” Elise stepped toward O’Conner, but was also looking at the rest of the crowd. “You are waiting for some troops this American promised you. My guess is he just hired some mercenaries. But no matter. Very shortly, that group will arrive. Then, when all the rebels are in the same place, the sky will rain bombs, and this forest will become an endless field of craters. Both governments get rid of some bad actors. All of you will be dead. My best guess is you have about fifteen minutes left.”

  "Thanks for the warning," another officer shouted at her. "Now we will just attack Baton Rouge fifteen minutes earlier."

  "They have half a dozen drones over your head. Can't you hear them? If you move, you die. If you stay, you die. Your only option is to surrender, and do it now. Drop your weapons, stand out on the road, and raise your hands."

  "Like hell I will." Officer number one was stubborn as well a stupid.

  "Then you have about fourteen more minutes to live."

  Unfortunately, she was wrong. At that moment we saw a flash of light from an adjoining field. Some idiot had fired a missile. Oh hell.

  “Run,” I shouted and grabbed Elise. We dashed for the car. At first I worried that O’Conner might shoot us, but I expect he was just as panicked as we were about getting out from under the bombs. I was closer to the driver’s side of the car, so that’s where I went. Elise got in the other side and we were moving before the doors closed. Rather than go back through all the trucks in the woods, I drove forward, toward Highway 17 and then left toward Baton Rouge. To the extent I was thinking anything at all, it was the closer we got to town, the safer we might be. I punched the gas, held the steering wheel in a death grip, and hoped we could cover some distance before the world exploded.

  Obviously we made it, or I wouldn’t be around to tell the story, but we sure didn’t make it by much. The road started jumping under us and then we heard the explosions. No one has ever fully accounted for how many bombs were dropped, but it had to be overkill. The ground was shaking so much I could barely keep the car on the road. I just kept the nose pointed west and hoped we might make it far enough to be out of the blast zone. Had the bomb track been west to east, we would not have made it. But it was east to west, so we had a few extra seconds. That’s what saved us. But I can tell you, as those bombs came up the road behind us, I am astonished my heart didn’t stop. I thought for sure they would keep coming and bury us. But the last bomb landed maybe fifty yards behind us. T
he concussion still hit us hard, and all kinds of things rained down on my new car, but that Ford kept moving. So did we. We put on miles before we even thought about breathing, much less stopping or slowing down.

  What finally stopped us was a huge truck blocking the road. It was parked across both lanes, and men with rifles aimed at us told us to stop and get out of the car.

  "You didn't need to do that." Elise was screaming as she got out of the car and fast-walked directly to the man with the highest rank. "They could have surrendered."

  "They fired a missile at our drone."

  "It's a drone, they are people. You could have waited."

  "Would you rather we waited for them to get to Baton Rouge and fight it out door to door across the city?"

  "They weren't going any place."

  "Now we know that for sure."

  "You murdering bastard." Elise hit him in the face with a closed fist. I doubt he felt the blow - he outweighed her by a hundred pounds - but he felt the anger. Suddenly he grew larger as if he were some kind of blow up soldier. Every muscle strained as he held his arms at his side, surely tempted to strike back. His face was red, not from the blow, but from the effort to restrain himself. He kept his eyes locked on hers, breathed slowly, and ultimately was in control of himself.

  "You will not move from this spot. Lieutenant, if they take one step in any direction, shoot them. Sergeant, they might attempt to escape in that car. Disable it. Major, load up your men and begin the search for rebels. Your men are to protect themselves at all times, and they are shoot to kill if attacked." While he was giving orders to other men, his eyes never left Elise' and all his shouts were directly in her face. She never responded to his shouts, but neither did she flinch. Her eyes were locked on his. Finally done with his orders, he continued to stare at her for a moment longer, and then he turned and walked off.

  Suddenly military vehicles began appearing on each side of the road, headed east. Most had machine guns mounted on the top, with men standing ready to fire. The first vehicles had barely gotten a hundred yards when the sergeant stood and fired a clip of bullets into my car. He took out the tires, the windshield, and probably the motor.

  Elise and I stood next to each other and watched and listened for the next two hours. We could hear shooting in the distance. On occasion we heard larger explosions. The surviving rebels were putting up some kind of fight, but the sporadic nature of the shooting implied to me they were in small scattered groups. The shooting would last a few minutes, and then there would be silence. I wondered if there were any prisoners.

  Two hours later the general returned in a jeep. He didn't get out of the vehicle, but just shouted at the lieutenant. "We are done here. They can go. Tell them to start walking." We could hear his orders, but he seemed determined not to address us directly. Having given his orders, he had the jeep head back east on the highway. He was done with us. The lieutenant said nothing to us. He just pointed west. We started walking.