In the harbour of Calais rode at anchor the ship “Espérance,” which was taking on passengers and their goods for the long voyage to New Orleans. Owing to the shallow water, the ship could not approach the quay, and all the watermen of the town were busy carrying back and forth those who, like our travellers, were outward bound, or those who came merely to say a last farewell.
On the walls of the town were gathered a motley crew, who, not having friends on board, sought to gain some excitement by watching the partings of others; and as from time to time the chimes rang out from the belfry behind the citadel, the little craft in the harbour became even more animated, since they now carried out to the “Espérance” some who had been belated on their way thither, and sought to get themselves and their goods safely aboard before the turn of the tide should serve to carry the ship out through the Straits into the English Channel.
Watching this scene from the cramped deck of the ship, Clemence and Pierre stood together, the former giving free vent to her tears, which rolled unheeded down her cheeks at the thought that she was leaving behind her so much which had hitherto made her life joyful.
Her sadness was reflected in her husband’s face, and at last he spoke.
“Dear wife, ’tis not yet too late to return. Say one word, and I can call one of those dingeys which shall carry us back to shore.”
“Nay, Pierre, I would go with you. But indeed I must weep, since never again do these eyes expect to look on my beautiful France.”
“I pray your sacrifice may not cost too dear,” said Pierre, pressing her hand; and as she wept she whispered,—
“The grief I feel at parting from France is naught compared to what I should feel at parting from you.”
Even as she spoke, there began such a scene of bustle and confusion that Clemence perforce dried her eyes to gaze upon it. The sailors were running to and fro stowing the goods of passengers away, and piled on the deck were feather-beds and pallets of straw, each passenger providing such beds and covering as his station in life permitted, since the ship provided only the room in which these might be laid. Boatloads of people were leaving the ship, some merry, some grave, and above all the noise rose the sharp commands of the Captain. At last sounded the shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle, and the crew began to man the capstan bars. One of the sailors commenced to sing to ease the labour off a bit, and at the sound of the well-known chorus,
“Ho, ho, batelier, batelier,
Tirez, tirez,
Ancre de flot,
Tirez Roget, tirez Notet,”
the crew joined in, so that the bars worked like magic, and the anchor rose into sight, then came short up, and finally, with another drive of the bars, swung all wet and dripping at the bows.
Ere this the huge sails had been bent into place, and now with the fresh evening breeze began to draw, while from every side came the curious creak and tugging noise which is present in every sailing craft. ’Twas not many moments ere the “Espérance” had her nose pointed seaward, and was bowling along with the white foam flying in her wake. All too quickly the shores and buildings of the town receded from the sight of those who gazed on them with tears, and even the belfry chimes had a melancholy sound as they floated out over the water.
Pierre and Clemence stood by the rail, rather apart from the other passengers, and when the purple twilight had swallowed up France, Pierre said,—
“See, Clemence, a good omen. Look at the new moon.”
“It is a happy sign, and glad am I to see it. How silvery it looks, and see the horn dips not at all, which argues well for a smooth voyage.”
Though the “Espérance” was not a swift craft, she was a steady one. There were three weary months spent on board of her, and the moon proved a false prophet, since they encountered storms and head winds, and in addition had the alarm of pirates and the heat of the tropics. Worse even than the perils of the Atlantic were those encountered when they entered the Gulf of Mexico, where also pirates lay in wait, where there were contrary currents, and worse than all, sandbars, upon which the ship grounded. Many manœuvres were tried to ease her off, and there was despair felt on all sides when it was ordered that the baggage should be thrown overboard. Fortunately this sacrifice became unnecessary, as the second high-tide floated her off, and slowly the “Espérance” glided into deeper water. Pierre and Clemence heard with joy the rattle of the chain as the anchor was thrown overboard in the harbour of the Belize, thinking, poor souls, that the sufferings of the journey were over. Clemence turned with a bright smile to poor Marie, who sat upon a pile of bedding which lay on the deck, where it had been thrown in order to be ready for departure from the ship. The old nurse had suffered greatly during the long, tedious journey, and even now she looked sad and worn as she sat there in the sunshine, holding little Annette on her knees.
“Come, Marie, look less sad; soon will we reach the spot where our home is to be. Let me hold the little one.”
“Oh, Madame, little did I know of the horrors before us! Praise God that we still live, we and the little cat.”
“Truly the little cat and Annette seem to have fared better than the rest of us,” said Clemence, laughing. “Let us hope there will be fewer mice than you expect.”
“But, Madame, a cat is so comfortable, and in this wild land there be few enough comforts, I well know.”
Just at this moment Pierre hurried up to them, and said,—
“Come, Clemence, bring Annette, while Marie helps me, for the Captain says we are to go ashore and wait at the house of the Commandant till boats come for us from New Orleans.”
It was with scant ceremony that our little party and some of the other passengers were packed into the ship’s boats and taken to Dauphin Island. Here they were made comfortable, and during the week of their stay recovered somewhat from the sufferings on shipboard.
It was in two pirogues and two barges that they at last started on the trip up the river to New Orleans, and for discomfort the seven days passed in this journey far outdid all the fatigues sustained in the “Espérance.”
“Oh, Madame,” said Marie, “who ever saw ‘Messieurs les Maringouins’ of such size and with such stings before?” and as she spoke she waved again the huge fan with which she tried to protect Annette from the ravages of the mosquitoes.
An hour before sunset the rowers stopped each day, and the whole party encamped on shore, so as to get safely tucked in beneath the mosquito bars before “les Messieurs” should begin operations.
If the nights were dreadful, the days were scarcely better, since the boats were piled high with goods, so that the passengers were cramped in narrow spaces and hardly dared to move. In fact, the little cat in its wicker basket, and Annette carried on the broad breast of Marie, were the most comfortable members of the party. They had no fears of going to feed the fishes, as had some of their elders.
At length the weary trip was over, and when at length the boats drew up at the landing much of the discomfort was forgotten.
The Crescent City lay before them, the white-walled houses gleaming in the sunshine, while the bells of the Ursuline Convent pealed a welcome, and there burned before the chapel of “Our Lady of Prompt Succour” votive candles, to commemorate the safe arrival of another band of travellers from the distant land which every one in his heart called “home.”
“Pierre,” cried Clemence, surprise showing in every tone of her clear voice, “but what a beautiful city! And oh, Pierre, behold the lovely ladies! Scarce ever in my life have I seen such brave apparel.”
Her eyes were fixed, as she spoke, on a group which came idly down towards the landing, the ladies elegant in robes of damask silk loaded with lace and ribbons, while beside them lounged officers in rich court suits, both men and women wearing powdered hair and having their faces decorated with black patches.
Louisiana was passing through an interesting period of its growth, a changing from the pioneer days when the young officers from Canadian forts came down and made things lively with their merry pranks and boyish larks, their ceremonies and festivals. The Marquis de Vaudreuil was governor now, and brought with him the elegances and dignity which he had learned in years of life at the French court. The French and Swiss officers, but newly arrived, bore also the stamp of continental training; and the house of the Marquis, reflecting as well as might be the elegance of Versailles, was the centre of all that was most refined in the city.
Tradition chatters yet of the gracious manners of the Marquis, and there are still drawn from chests and carved presses robes which once figured at his balls, when court dress was the only wear. Though these gowns are now faded and tarnished, in the time when they were first worn they flaunted brilliant flowers on a ground of gold. The yellow bits of lace at elbow and corsage are frail now as a spider’s web, but then they were the latest patterns from Alençon and Flanders, and fit companions for the jewels which sparkled amongst them.
It was at this time, when New Orleans boasted the greatest beauty and elegance of any city in the New World, that our little family landed on its quay.
It is hard to conceive that while within the limits of the city there flowed such gay life as that seen in the Governor’s mansion, without, and but a few miles away, were untrod wildernesses.
But so it was.
Pierre and Clemence rested but a few days before they sought out the plantation where they so fondly hoped to raise a home and enjoy the fruits of the rich country which they had chosen as their own.
The roads were poor, horses high in price and not at all plenty, so that Pierre bought some pirogues, a species of small boat, to take them and their goods the twenty miles up the Bayou Gentilly, to where their plantation lay.
Poor Clemence, how gloomy looked the cypress swamps which stretched away on either hand as the heavily laden boats moved slowly along! Strange and unfamiliar were the long curtains of grey moss which swung back and forth from the branches of the trees, seeming to wave in a ghostly fashion even when there was no wind, and creeping up to the tops of the tallest trees in its silent fashion, but ever turning aside from the bunches of mistletoe which stood out, great rosettes of bright green where all else seemed marked for decay.
Even the brilliant-hued birds which flitted cheerfully from one twig to another, and sang from time to time, did not cheer her, for they seemed so unfamiliar, her mind clinging more to those modest-coated friends, the linnets and finches, which she had fed in the rose garden at the chateau at Étaples.
Ever anxious to cheer her, Pierre said at last,—
“Sing, dearest Clemence. It seems so long since I heard your voice.”
“How can I sing when my heart is sad?” But even as she spoke she was sorry, since she knew that the good spirits of the little party depended largely on herself.
“What shall I sing, Pierre?” she asked, after a moment’s pause, and then, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all the while, began,—
“Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qu’as le cœur tant gai.
“Pour moi, je ne l’ai guère,
Mon amant m’a quittée,
“Pour un bouton de rose
Que trop tôt j’ai donné.
“Je voudrais que la rose
Fût encore au rosier;
“Et que la rosier même
Fût encore a planter;
Fût encore a m’aimer.
“Tra la la, la la lere,
Tra la lere, de la ri ra.”
No doubt it was the mocking-bird’s song which rang from the trees which brought to the mind of Clemence this song, which had been a favourite of theirs at home, and which told so musically of the nightingale’s song, of the red of the rose, and of the love of “Pierre.”
In five minutes the scene seemed to change from gloom to gaiety. Annette was cooing, Marie kept time to the gay little tune with the great fan which seldom left her hand, while the little cat in her efforts to gain her freedom tipped over her basket and set them all laughing.
The Bayou Gentilly, up which they were travelling in the pirogues, which were hardly more than dug-out canoes, was bordered at intervals on either side by the plantations of settlers who had owned the land for fifty years and over in some cases.
“Why, Pierre, how is this?” said Clemence, breaking off her song; “first the wilderness, then, see, the fields are planted!”
“These plantations are worked by the order of the King,” answered Pierre, “and the little shrubs with berries which have such fresh green leaves are the myrtle-wax bushes, from which wax for candles is made. We ourselves will have our plantation bordering on the Bayou set with such bushes as these; it is so directed.”
“But I thought indigo and sugar-cane were what we were to plant. I know that I could not bring half the things I wished, lest there should not be room for the indigo seeds and the little canes.”
Pierre smiled and said,—
“Truly a house, dear girl, is the first thing to be considered, and that may best be obtained by a good crop of indigo seed, since the planters hereabouts must needs get their seed from France, unless some are willing to raise seed only.”
On the forenoon of the second day the boats drew up to the shore, and Pierre, anxious, but looking cheerful, said,—
“Welcome to your new home, Clemence. Give me the little Annette, Marie, since she, with her mother, must be the first to step on shore.”
“Home, say you, Pierre?” and Clemence laughed, and looked ruefully, too, at the little log-cabin which had been hastily built by the negroes sent on in advance by Pierre.
“Patience but for a little while, and in place of that rude home you shall see a house as fair as any in these plantations.”
Laughing like two children, the young parents hastened to touch to the ground one of Annette’s tiny feet cased in its sandal, and as Monsieur Valvier handed the child back to its mother, he said,—
“What is that which makes the child’s garments so stiff?”
A warning glance from Clemence and a smothered exclamation from Marie made him remember that it was the precious packet with the pearl necklace and jewels, of which the little girl was still the unconscious custodian.
In New Orleans, indeed, they had been forced to draw on the packet, since it was necessary to have slaves to help them build and plant, and though there were frequent importations of them from Africa, the value of one working slave was equal to a thousand dollars of our money, and while it was generally paid in rice, Pierre, a new-comer, was obliged to pay in money. In order to do this, and also buy the precious seed which was so necessary, his own store was more than exhausted, and but for the packet so thoughtfully provided by Monsieur Bienville they would have been obliged to start out ill provided.