With each succeeding year there were more and more settlers coming to the flowery land of Louisiana. If they had flocked thither in the time of the Regent, that clever and witty intriguer, they came more eagerly during the reign of Louis XV, so shallow a king that it is hard to conceive how he won the name of “The Well-beloved.”
It was a strange company which made up the population of the Crescent City, not only those from Paris with their elegances and velvet coats, beneath which beat such loyal hearts, but rubbing shoulders with them in street and café were many of far rougher exterior, who had come down from the settlements in Canada, and learned to adore the little city which was so different from the homes which they had left in the cold North.
Yet each and every one of these, marquis from France or pioneer from Canada, or even the sad-faced Acadian refugee who had been welcomed to these hospitable shores, had a heart which beat for France alone.
With but the least assistance they would have swept the Gulf and made themselves masters of that inland sea, and not only held the possessions of the mother country on land, but added to them.
Frenchmen in language and in their hearts, they put up with the expulsion of their beloved Ursuline sisters, since the mother country so willed it, only allowing themselves the liberty of giving vent to their feelings by indulging in an unlimited number of satirical songs, burlesques, and pasquinades, as they were called. Little did they know, as they trod the white streets of the city, the deadly blow to those same stout hearts which France was plotting,—France, whom they loved so fondly and in whom they trusted so implicitly.
Completely dominated by his prime minister, Choiseul, Louis XV followed where this ugly, brilliant, inconstant man led, and trafficked first with Austria and then with Spain, till in 1761 Choiseul put in shape his famous “Pacte de Famille,” which united all the royalties of Bourbon blood and which formed into one great band the thrones of France, Spain, Turin, Naples, and Sicily.
Although Choiseul had the audacity to frame this agreement, and Louis XV had the folly to sign it, they did not have the courage to proclaim it, and so it remained a secret for several years.
It was not till October, 1764, that the news arrived at New Orleans that Louisiana had, by secret treaty, been ceded to Spain, and instructions were sent to Monsieur D’Abadie, the Governor, to hand over to the envoy of Spain, who would shortly arrive, the whole colony and its possessions.
The blow was stunning!
At first it could not be credited. To be tossed like a plaything from France to Spain, that cowardly Spain who had never assisted them in any way, who had not even fought to get them, whom they had outwitted and overmatched in every contest,—this was too much!
Not many hours elapsed before the city was in a ferment. Groups gathered on the street corners and loudly denounced the proceedings. The wine-shops held excited bands who declaimed in passionate language against both king and country that could treat a colony in such fashion, and the chorus which rose and swelled protested that it could not be borne.
Swift pirogues carried the news among the plantations which lay along the Bayous, while men on horseback went to those in the interior.
Meetings were called in the parishes first, and then a convention was planned in New Orleans itself, to which every parish in the State was to send delegates. The subject was to be discussed, and then the King was to be informed of this cruel, this awful thing that he was doing, and he was to be petitioned to listen to the voice which echoed his own tongue, and which under every trial had spoken but loyal words of him.
Every parish sent its most notable men, and of these Monsieur Valvier, Annette’s father, was one. The meeting at New Orleans was a gathering of all that was wise and distinguished throughout the whole State, and it was unanimously decided to send to France a delegation of three men, to bear to the King himself their petition.
These three men left for France on the first vessel which sailed, and one can imagine the passionate nature of the appeal which they carried with them, in which the whole colony besought the King to let them die as they had lived,—Frenchmen to their hearts’ core.
Think of the feeling of relief which swelled every heart as the crowds gathered to see the envoys depart bearing the message to France and to their King!
Not one doubted but that the eloquence of Jean Milhet, who headed it, would win back their loved State from the hated Spaniard, and that he would speedily return with the joyful news, and that once more it would be French land for French men.
To the doors of France are laid many acts of cruelty and oppression, but there is no sadder story than the grief and humiliation to which this little delegation was subjected. For one whole year they waited, were put off from day to day with first one excuse and then another, and at last, sick and heart-broken, sailed back to New Orleans without ever having seen the King nor presented their petition!
Even though their chief envoy did not return, and there was no news of the success of their petition, the people of Louisiana seemed to have no doubt as to its success. Judge then of the fever of excitement into which they were thrown when a letter arrived in July, 1766, saying that Don Antonio de Ulloa, the Spanish envoy, was on his way to take possession.
What should be done?
Whither should they turn? New meetings were called, the militia was strengthened as much as possible; but month after month passed away and Don Antonio did not arrive, so that the people quieted down and hope bubbled up afresh.
One morning in February, 1767, when the Commandant awoke, he found anchored below the Belize, that old fortress at the mouth of the river, a large frigate flying the Spanish colours. On board was Don Antonio with his personal suite, two companies of Spanish infantry, and some Capuchin monks.
In March, in a frightful storm of wind and rain, they landed on the levee in New Orleans, and were met by a sullen crowd of citizens and by a mass of unwilling French troops.
The Spanish envoy, haughty, severe in aspect, and a martinet in demanding that deferential ceremonial etiquette which was so firmly engrafted into Spanish nature, either could not or would not understand the feelings which prompted the ardent Louisianians to cling to their nationality. He expected the people to change at his coming their flag and their allegiance, the soldiers their service, and all to hasten to assume the Spanish yoke. He could not understand their refusal to do so, and when the Superior Council of the city requested him to show his credentials, he abruptly refused, although he agreed to defer taking possession till more Spanish soldiers were sent to him.
This was at least the form to which he agreed; but he proceeded to get control as far as possible, visiting in turn all the military posts, and replacing the French flag and the French commanders with Spanish ones.
Over New Orleans alone did the French flag still wave.
It may be easily understood that such high-handed deeds were not accomplished without protest on the part of the people of Louisiana. Curtailed of their possessions on every side, for by the “Treaty of Paris” much had been ceded to the English, they proposed to make as stubborn a resistance as possible.
In the remote parishes the feeling flamed almost higher than at New Orleans itself, since the sight of the detested Spanish flag was an ever-present insult.
During the year which had passed since the deputation had been sent to Paris bearing the memorial to the King, Monsieur Valvier had wasted neither time nor effort to arouse those with whom he came in contact, and keep them rigorously opposed to Spanish rule.
There were stormy meetings in the parish to which he belonged, in which he was always an impassioned leader. There were secret meetings at his and the neighbouring plantations. He became gloomy, a man with but one thought in his head,—the disgrace of belonging to Spain.
It was small wonder that with its head so distraught the plantation fell into neglect. The crops of indigo and tobacco failed, since the master’s eye no longer kept watch on careless servants.
Madame Valvier’s ill-health increased as the winter season approached, and on little Annette fell more and more the care of the family and home. Scant crops made scant money, and it was only by unceasing care that Annette kept the active little brothers clothed and fed, and saw that the languid mother had her fresh fruit and café au lait, and that her favourite gowns of delicate white were kept mended and ever fresh.
Nor were these all her duties.
At evening, when her father returned depressed and miserable from a never-ending discussion with neighbouring planters as to the ignominy of their lot, it was Annette who met and tried to cheer him. She had ever something ready for him, were it only a bowl of fresh figs; and the earnest child at last became the confidant of the despairing man.
One memorable evening he returned later than usual, and to Annette’s surprise and pleasure his eyes were bright and shining, and he carried his head proudly and with confidence. Tenderly embracing Annette, he cried,—
“At last, at last have I prevailed on these neighbours who hate and yet fear the Spanish. All is ready, and to-morrow we at least will show Don Ulloa that there are loyal Frenchmen enough in Louisiana to refuse to live under the Spanish flag and his detestable rule.”
“But, father, what is it you would do?”
“Lean closer, my child, for none here must learn of this till everything is ready and we leave for the city.”
“Does mother know, dear father?”
“No, Annette, I dare not tell her; her constant illness makes her timorous.”
The young girl pressed closer to his knee, her large, serious eyes fixed on his face. So wrapped was the man in his own thoughts that he knew not the heavy burden he was laying on the already overcrowded young shoulders.
To her the father unfolded his plans.
“Well you know the cruel blow that has been dealt to us from France, and how the Spaniard Don Antonio has sought to make Spaniards of us all,—true-born Frenchmen that we are; how he has hoisted the Spanish flag, and manned all our forts with Spanish soldiers. To-morrow evening there will start from this plantation Monsieur Biron, myself, and all the owners of the plantations in this parish, with such of their men as they can arm, and by boat we will go down the Bayou, stopping at each plantation as we go, and gathering men together till we reach New Orleans.”
“Oh, father!” interrupted Annette, breathlessly, “will you take an army into the city?”
“So I hope; and these, with the loyal French Guard and the citizens, will enable us to sweep onwards, and Don Antonio will find what manner of men he has to deal with, and we will not rest till he is safely confined within the walls of the Belize.”
In the excitement of his story Monsieur Valvier’s voice rose till there came from the room beyond, where Madame Valvier lay, the sleepy question as to why they talked so late.
Putting his finger to his lip to warn Annette, he replied,—
“I but tell a tale to Annette, who will go now to bed.” Kissing her fondly good night, he whispered in her ear,—
“Remember to tell not a word, Annette, and lest I do not see you alone again, I say farewell, till we put the hated Spaniard where he will do no further harm.”
Although Annette crept to bed, her eyes for a long time stared into the darkness. She feared, not for the success of her father’s mission, but lest in some way he be hurt. She saw, as he described it, Don Ulloa safely confined in the dreaded Belize, and she rejoiced in her childish heart over the grand part her father was to take in keeping Louisiana for the French.
When the next night came, she peeped cautiously out from between the casements, and saw dark figures take their places in the pirogues drawn up at the landing and silently paddle down the Bayou.
She saw her father in the leading boat, and with him were several of their own men, and in the flaring light of the single torch she saw the gleaming of the guns.
In a silent adieu she waved her hand, even though she knew that her father could not see her, and confiding on his belief and assurance of success, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, and over the whole plantation rested an absolute quiet.
But her father—Ah, the sadness of that night trip!
The few men who had started with him from the plantation in the hope that they would be joined by many more of wealth and power were cruelly disabused of their beliefs. There was but a handful more; but in the small group was the spirit of an army, and it was hoped that Don Ulloa could be surprised just before dawn, and with the first successful blow many would hasten to join the victorious party.
It was the old story of a forlorn hope.
In some way Don Ulloa had been apprised of the uprising, and the party had barely set foot on the levee at New Orleans before they were surrounded and taken prisoners by a strong party of Spanish soldiers.
Monsieur Valvier, as the leader, was not detained in the city, but sent up the Bayou to Fort St. John, a desolate spot on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, at the head of Bayou St. John.
During the first two days of his imprisonment Monsieur Valvier was stunned. He seemed incapable of realising the misfortune which had befallen not himself alone, but the little family at home. Too late he saw that the lukewarm policy of the others whom he had tried to induce to join him was not all selfish, and as happens so often to the enthusiast, he saw too late the folly of his actions.
It was the stinging thought of these helpless sufferers at home which at last aroused him, and spurred him on to see if their welfare could not be in some way assured. The intendant in charge of the fort was hard and cold, but, as Monsieur Valvier soon learned, was not averse to accepting a ransom.
Indeed, he informed Monsieur Valvier of this fact himself, and allowed him to send a letter home telling of his personal safety, and that his liberty could be bought. Till this letter arrived the plantation on the Bayou Gentilly had been a sad place.
When, as one day after another passed and Monsieur Valvier did not return, Annette, not knowing what to do, told her mother of the uprising, and Madame Valvier, with health already undermined, became so seriously ill that poor Annette knew not which way to turn.
One or two of the slaves had strayed home, and from them Annette had learned that at least her father was alive, and at last came the letter which told that he could be ransomed if a sufficient sum of money could be raised. The letter ended,—
“Alas, dear child, I know too well that there is naught left which may be turned into money to procure my freedom. I see too late that I have been led away from my duties to my little ones and their mother. God grant that they may be kept in safety; as for me my heart is breaking!”
Madame Valvier was too ill to give Annette any counsel. All day long the child kept saying to herself,—
“My father must be ransomed, but how? Where shall I get the gold? Oh, mamma, if you could but help me!”
At last, passing through the children’s room while waiting on her mother, Annette’s eyes fell upon the boards which concealed the leaden-lined box containing the papers and necklace.
“The pearl necklace,” she cried softly to herself, “why have I not thought of it before?” Removing the cover, she felt hurriedly within the enclosure to assure herself that it was safe.
The rest of that day, as she went about her duties, her one thought was of the way to get it to her father, and at last she decided that she must go with it herself. There was no one whom she could trust with this price of her father’s freedom, and her heart was full of the thought of saving him, so that there was no room for fear.
She determined to start that night, and, used from infancy to the management of a boat, she did not hesitate as to the means of travelling.
But her mother—how to leave her?
She called the woman from the kitchen, an old slave but a faithful one, and bade her sleep within the next room, so that if Madame called she should hear her.
“For,” said Annette, “see, Tignon, I must go on a message for my father. When my mother wakens, tell her that I shall soon return,—remember, Tignon, soon return.”
As soon as it was dark, Annette took from its hiding-place the necklace, and as the cool, milky globes slipped through her fingers, she kissed them, saying,—
“Dear father, to think that these may save thy life. I remember my mother said that they were never to be parted with save ‘for life or honour.’ Perhaps this time it may be both, but I cannot tell.”
For a moment she was at a loss how to carry them, and then putting them about her neck she snapped the clasp securely and drew over them the waist of her gown, which was fashioned to come high in the neck.
“’Tis the easiest and the simplest way, and certainly none would think that such a thing lay beneath my calico frock.”
She kissed the little brothers and sister, and bade Pierre take good care of them till she should return, whispering in his ear,—
“I go for father, but tell of this to no one till I return.”
And Pierre, with his wide-staring eyes fixed on her face, could only say,—
“I will promise.”
At the landing Annette chose the smallest and lightest pirogue, and, with the caution one would have expected from an older and wiser head, put in the bottom an extra paddle and a small basket of food. She pushed off the little dug-out, and turning its head down stream looked back with confidence, saying in her brave young heart,—
“Shortly I shall return, and with my father.”
All night the child floated and paddled down the silent and lonely Bayou, often terrified by the strange night sounds which came from the swamps, and occasionally cheered by the light glimmering in the window of some of the planters’ homes on the shore. When she was most alarmed, she would reassure her little trembling heart by putting her hand on the breast of her frock, beneath which lay the necklace, and by whispering to herself the beloved name of “father.”
The rising sun saw her heading her boat into the small channel which led into Bayou St. John, and it was late afternoon when the weary Annette saw frowning before her the rough palisades which enclosed Fort St. John.
The soldier on duty could scarcely believe his eyes when the little pirogue came alongside the quay, and was still more astonished when with trembling voice Annette said,—
“Sir, may I please see the Governor?”
“The Governor! why, what should the Governor do here? Who are you, and what would you with the Governor?”
“I have business with the Governor, sir.”
At this reply the man laughed long and loud, and poor Annette was ready to weep with disappointment and fatigue. Then remembering that at any rate her father was within those walls, she plucked up courage and began again.
“If Monsieur the Governor is not here, is there any great general here?” The soldier laughed again, and said below his breath,—
“Great general—no; but the great Sir Intendant is here, if you can do your business with him”; and there was another burst of laughter as the burly man looked at the slender form standing before him.
“Take me to him, please,” said she, and she gave one touch to the frock below which lay the precious heirloom as the soldier turned to lead the way within the enclosure.
“Ho, Roget!” he called, “this lady comes on business with Monsieur the Intendant”; and poor frightened Annette was passed along mid the rude jests of the soldiers, till she reached an ante-room to which was attached the small office of the Intendant. At last a voice said,—
“You may enter”; and Annette, who between fright and fatigue was ready to weep, found herself standing before a man with flashing eyes and a brilliant scarlet and gold uniform, who was looking at her with unconcealed interest.
“Well, child, what would you with me?” and Annette, raising her head, bravely answered,—
“I come to ransom my father, Monsieur Valvier.”
The Intendant frowned; and surely the pale child before him, in a simple calico gown, with empty hands and eyes full of unshed tears, hardly seemed able to ransom a bird, much less a political prisoner.
The Intendant’s voice was harsh and cold as he said,—
“Ransom means gold, child,—gold, or lands.”
“Alas, Monsieur, I have neither,” said the trembling little girl, “but I thought perhaps—” And she drew from its place of concealment the splendid necklace.
The Intendant could scarcely conceal a start.
“How came you by this?” he asked, letting the rich strings glide through his fingers.
“’Twas the marriage portion of my grandmother in France, then of my mother also, and was to be mine. I will give it to you for my father, Monsieur Valvier.”
The sight of the jewels recalled to the Intendant scenes in his native Spain, where the Spanish grandees loved to ruffle it in laces and jewels of the choicest description, and where the dusky Spanish beauties often chose pearls, since these milky gems but served to throw out the fire of their eyes and the rich tones of their olive skins. As he mused, passing the pearls between his fingers, poor Annette was torn with anxiety lest the necklace should fall short of the ransom desired.
“Oh, Monsieur, is it not enough?” she cried, one trembling hand holding the other; “we have naught else, my mother is ill,—I came alone”; and the tears so bravely held back now fell in showers.
The Intendant had no idea of giving up the necklace, yet was not wholly cruel; so, striking on a bell, he called to the orderly who answered it,—
“Bring Valvier hither.”
The sound of the words caused Annette to wipe her eyes, and in a moment, with a little scream of joy, she rushed into the arms of her father, whose wonder at her presence froze the words on his lips.
“Monsieur Valvier,” said the Intendant, “you are free. The ransom provided by your daughter is sufficient. But you must give me your parole that you will never again bear arms against the Spanish flag, and that you will accept such regulations as Spain deems best for her colonies.”
“I give my parole,” answered Monsieur Valvier; “but, Annette, ransom—what had you, poor child?”
Annette’s face was wreathed in smiles as she whispered in his ear, “The pearl necklace, dearest father.”
