Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (114 page)
On the pieces of the
lettre de cachet
Cyrene had dropped the line for the name was blank. There was another
lettre,
however, half hidden among the scattered sheets. On it in slashing black script was her name.
As he spun with Cyrene in his arms, René’s booted foot caught the sheet, sending it flying toward the fire. In an instant it turned brown, burst into flames with a tiny, soft explosion, and was gone.
1THE BOOMING OF CANNONS in salute shook the still, sultry air. The thudding concussion reverberated among the half-timbered houses of New Orleans and rolled over the Mississippi River, bouncing about the hulls of the ships lying at anchor before echoing back from the green tree line of the distant shore. Pigeons startled from their perches flung themselves into wheeling flight with the glaring orange glow of the westerly sun beneath their wings. A mange-ridden mongrel, sniffing in the noisome open gutter that centered the street below the balcony where Félicité Lafargue stood, flinched and cowered, then fled from the sound. Félicité gripped the balcony railing with white-tipped fingers, leaning to stare in the direction of the Place d’Armes. There was distress and scorn in her velvet-brown eyes as she watched the boiling cloud of blue-gray powder smoke that rose to join the heat haze above the rooftops of the town.
Hard on the heels of the salute came an answering roar from O’Reilly’s fleet straining at its anchor chains on the river, followed by a fusillade of musket fire. The bells of the Church of St. Louis began to peal with a hard, unmelodious clanging. Plainly there came through it all the deep-voiced cheers of the soldiers, more than two thousand strong, as they shouted in the despised Spanish, “Viva el rey!” — ”Long live the king!”
The bells stopped. The cheers died away. The pigeons flapped back toward the square. All was quiet.
Félicité drew a deep breath, lifting her chin, squaring her shoulders. The deed was done. The fleur-de-lis of France, the golden lilies on a blue ground, had been lowered, and the lions and castles on a field of scarlet that marked the banner of imperial Spain had taken its place. There was nothing she could do now, nothing anyone could do.
She was glad she had not joined the throng of morbidly curious at the Place d’Armes. Her father, fearing there might be trouble, some demonstration of the townspeople’s displeasure, had suggested she stay away, but it had in truth been her own preference. Why should she wish to view the might of Spain brought across the seas to quell their pride, crush their brief independence, and force them to obedience? So long as she did not see the transport ships, the stacked arms and heavy guns, the assemblage of fighting men in numbers to equal, if not surpass, the entire French population, she need not acknowledge their existence. For a few minutes more she could delude herself that this was a nightmare from which she must surely wake.
When had it begun? It must be two, no, three years ago, when the rumors of the secret Treaty of Fontainebleau had begun to stir. Louis XV of France, most glorious of monarchs, had ceded the colony of Louisiana to his Bourbon cousin; Carlos III of Spain, by secret arrangement. The reasons, the machinations behind it, were many, but also meaningless. The people of New Orleans would henceforth, no matter how they protested, be forced to regard themselves as Spaniards.
Protest they had, by letter, by public proclamation, by special deputation to France. The king would hear none of their pleas. And yet hope of a reconciliation with their mother country, the land from which they had come and that had ruled over them for the seventy-odd years since the founding of the colony, would not die.
The hope was kept alive, in the main, because of the long, weary months Spain had dallied, neglecting to take up the burden of financing and governing this remote and poor outpost of her vast domain. Was it any wonder that the French in New Orleans had grown impatient, had begun to talk of refusing the Spanish yoke and, if France would not have them, setting up an independent republic and governing themselves? Could they be blamed for thinking that with such a show of loyalty the king might relent, and even if he did not, things could be no worse?
Félicité sighed, taking a turn about the small, shadowed balcony. The soft lavender light could not conceal the gleam, like old gold coins, of her hair, which seemed almost too heavy in its piled curls. It revealed also the delicate pearl sheen of her skin stretching over the oval bone structure of her face, the straight nose, the dark brows and lashes that were so unusual with her blondness. She wore a day gown of India calico in a pale gold stripe with a basque, or stomacher, of gold-embroidered white silk; holding back her flounced petticoats in front, and at the elbow-length sleeves, were shining knots of champagne ribbon. She came to a halt, pressing finely molded lips together, dark remembrance in her eyes.
The trouble had escalated with the arrival of the first Spanish governor, Ulloa. A scholarly man of great pride and little understanding of people, he had been more interested in the flora and fauna of the new land than the problems of those who inhabited it. He had held himself aloof, taking a bride from South America in a private, almost secret ceremony, denying the townspeople any share in the merrymaking.
Perhaps in order not to inflame a trying situation, he had never formally taken possession of the colony for Spain, had allowed the French flag to continue flying over the town, had kept the French commandant in office. It was no wonder that everyone was annoyed and confused.
As the grumbling, the marching, the plotting in coffee houses and posting of placards had become more forthright, Ulloa had taken alarm. With his bride, he had gone on board his ship tied up at the river levee, preparing for a fast escape should it become necessary. This show of timidity only encouraged the conspirators, who had come to count among their numbers nearly every able-bodied man in the town, if not in the entire colony. Within the week, a group of young men, exuberant with wine and the joy of a different type of wedding from that of the Spanish governor, had gathered on the levee to taunt that haughty and invalorous man. A wag had suggested they set the ship adrift, and in seconds the lines holding it were cut. Ulloa, instead of ordering the ship resecured, had let himself be carried downstream, then with the dawn had upped canvas and set sail for Spain, there to pour the tale of his mistreatment and daring escape from dangerous insurgents into the king’s ears.
Carlos III, enraged at the flouting of his authority, had sent for one of his most able commanders, Captain-General Alexander O’Reilly. Elevating him to the rank of governor-general, he had charged him with the responsibility of putting down this rebellion in Louisiana. The Irishman had arrived at the mouth of the Mississippi River near a month ago, where he had met with a delegation from the town that had included the French commandant, Director-General Aubry, still in office, plus several men of substance, and the Spanish officials left behind when Ulloa had decamped.
With a courtier’s smiling, meaningless phrases, he had sought to allay the fears of the townspeople, but the sight of twenty-odd transport ships laden to the gunwales with men and arms, in addition to O’Reilly’s frigate mounting one hundred guns, had not, somehow, been reassuring.
In the street below, a man appeared, tripping along on red-heeled shoes with the skirt of his satin frac coat swinging about his knees. Unconsciously, the lines of Félicité’s features tightened to guardedness.
Glancing up, her adoptive brother, Valcour Murat, doffed his tricorne in a mocking greeting, then passed beneath the balcony to enter the house.
He had given his hat and cane to the maid and was unencumbered when he strolled into the room behind her. Félicité turned in a silken swirl of panniered skirts to step through the open doorway, moving toward him.
“Where is Papa?” she asked, her voice low and musical.
“I left him awed by the spectacle of O’Reilly being received by the dignitaries of the church, bowing his head for the chanting of a Te Deum and accepting the benediction of the host. The smell of incense being disagreeable in connection with such a cause, I came away.”
“Yes,” Félicité said in complete understanding. “So. Now we are Spaniards.”
“Not I.” Valcour lounged out onto the balcony and, sweeping aside his coat skirts, dropped onto one of a pair of straight chairs that sat on either side of a small table. “I will always be a Frenchman.”
“Try telling that to Don Alejandro O’Reilly!” She sent a smoldering glance after her brother.
“With pleasure, ma chère, with pleasure.”
