My first job that last Wednesday in July was to sleep. My hotel room in New Orleans was beginning to feel more and more like home, and I felt the world owed me at least twelve hours in bed. I only had a day or two left before I moved over to Biloxi, so this would be my last chance to rest. So I took it.
Finally, around noon, I was too embarrassed to stay in bed any longer, and I began making phone calls. Elise was first, of course. I actually got through to her on her cell phone, a fact that reassured me in itself. If she had time to take personal calls, the sky must not be falling too fast. I told her about my trip to Virginia and Philadelphia, ignoring breakfast with the senator. At some point we needed to have a serious talk about politics, but this wasn’t the time, and a cell phone was not the means.
My next call was back to campus. I didn’t think I needed to be there much before classes started the second week of September, but it never hurts to talk to your boss when you are new on the job, and I wanted to talk with Messier about this web log project. He seemed to already know I would be staying on in Louisiana (had Jolliet spoken with him?), and he said he would have the tech support people set up a web log for me. He would call me back in an hour or two with a URL. Less than an hour later he was back with the web address I needed, along with a password that would let me write to the log. He also reminded me that the account would accommodate digital pictures if I wished to add them. In short, I now had a web site set up to record my observations, and I had a boss who knew about and approved of what I would be doing. Things were moving along.
There was one more thing I had to do before I left town, but I put this off until after I had eaten lunch and prepared what I wanted to say. I guess I have as much trouble with apologies as anyone. Finally, I took the walk north to the U.S. consulate to speak with the men who had saved my bacon the week before.
The consulate in New Orleans looks like a maximum security prison. There has been enough bad blood between our two countries that periodically some Frenchman will have too much wine and attack the building with everything from a tossed bottle to a home-made bomb. So there is a heavy wall all around it, with reinforced concrete the first three feet up and then tall bars that must go another twelve feet in the air. There is only one entrance through the bars, and it only gets you into a glassed booth where a soldier looks at your documents and decides if you get to go any farther into the building. I pushed open the heavy glass door and stood across from the soldier who sat behind a small counter.
“Could I see your identification, please?” He asked.
“Actually, I don’t want to go in. I just came to thank you for what you did last week. You were one of the guys who saved my butt at the restaurant, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” Suddenly a big grin crossed his face. He was a large man with a serious job, but with the smile you could see the twenty year old boy still there underneath the formalities of his job. “That was fun. They can say all they want to about us being allies and all, but I can tell you, it still feels great to beat up a Frenchie.”
“Well, it was great that you jumped in.”
“It was our pleasure. But I have to warn you. Those LNA guys are all just politicians pretending to be soldiers. If you ever come up against a real French solider, you better start looking for the back door out.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” At this point I shook his hand and started edging toward the door, but he held my hand.
“Don’t you want to talk with David Starr?”
“Was he involved?”
“How do you think we knew where to go?”
“Is he in?”
“Sure. I will buzz his office.” He called through to Starr’s office while I stood there uncomfortably. I had done everything but spit in Starr’s eye, and it turned out he had helped save me. I guess this was my afternoon to eat crow. Fortunately Starr didn’t keep me dangling too long. He came bounding out to the security booth almost immediately.
“Shawn, how good to see you. Come on back to my office.” He shook my hand like we were old college chums and then led the way down a long hallway.
“I just stopped by to thank you and the men for helping me last week. By the way, how did you know where to go?”
“Cell phones, Shawn, cell phones. Why people don’t understand they are really talking on the radio is a mystery to me. Some of the LNA folks are good, solid folks, but boy have they attracted a lot of losers.” He pointed me to a chair in his small office. The walls held pictures of various American presidents, all framed in exactly the same way and exactly the same size. There must be an embassy warehouse where they have stacks and stacks of the things.
“There’s an LNA captain who trades punches with me periodically. Do you put him in the loser category or the solid folks category?”
“I had him in the fairly solid category, but it appears he is about as hot headed as you are. Since you are a professor, you can afford to be. He is a politician and an officer in a new army. He needs to learn some restraint.”
“So you know him well?” This was obviously none of my business, but it irritated me to think that Starr somehow knew Captain Whatsis. “By the way, what is his name?”
“The guy you have been sparring with his Jean Goulet. He was a law student until last year when he started his political career a bit earlier than lawyers usually do. He is not a stupid man. And the LNA does not hand out officer ranks as easily as you might think. I’d like to think you two could kiss and make up, but I can see it isn’t going to happen. Can I ask that you at least keep your distance?”
“That should be easy. I am headed for Biloxi in the next couple days to watch the wagon train.
“That’s a good place for you. You should meet some good people there, people who appreciate history and want to educate the world to the struggles that have gone on here for so long.”
“Yes.” I suppose I could have told him I was already nervous about politicians misusing history, but I was there to thank the man, not argue with him. I began to stand so I could leave.
“One more thing before you go.” I sat back down and then waited while Starr paused for effect. He was very serious now, and apparently wanted to be sure I understood just how serious he was. “I hear you had a couple drinks with Tilden Foster. He is an interesting man. But one thing you should know about him. He is really good to his friends, and very hard on his enemies. And in his world view you are either one or the other, no third option. I suggest you find a way to make him your friend.”
“I suggest you watch him more carefully.” I replied, just as serious. “History is full of characters who drag their countries into places they shouldn’t be. He may sound like an ally to whatever you have going on down here, but I would be willing to bet his game plan is not the same as yours, despite what he is telling you.” This time I stood all the way up and extended my hand without hesitation. It was time to leave. “Thanks again for your help.” I headed down the hall, thanked the guard again, and was out the door. I wish I could warm to Starr, after all, he had helped me even after I had treated him badly, but the man made me uncomfortable. Weren’t spies supposed to be likeable? I walked back to my hotel determined to be even more careful about what I said on my cell phone.
What did I do the rest of the day? I read local newspapers, trying to see what the LNA was saying about the upcoming re-enactment. It turned out they were saying a lot. There were full-color pictures of wagons and smiling guys with arm bands and lots of folks in period costumes. Then there were maps, and timetables – this thing was being professionally organized. They had their stops down to the minute so each small town along the route could experience a parade and local folks could make speeches. There were even pony rides and petting zoos for the kids. Foster’s money was going to create a rolling party.
But it would be more than that. August 1st was Sunday. They were going to use that. People would be off work so th
ey could get big crowds the first day, but they would also bring in lots of preachers and launch this event with a huge church service. Before the wagons even left Biloxi, they would prove that God was on their side, always had been, always would be. I had to be impressed. These were not stupid people. They planned carefully and used every edge they could get.
I decided I would leave tomorrow – Thursday – to get there early and see some of their preparations. If nothing else, this was going to be one heck of a show. That decided, I turned in early, not sure how much sleep I would be getting once I got to Biloxi.
Thursday morning I got two surprises as I checked out of the hotel. As soon as I told the desk clerk that I would be checking out, he summoned the hotel manager who informed me first that my suite was being direct-billed to the Ministry of Information in Green Bay, as per President Jolliet’s orders, and second, that he recommended I keep the suite since all the rooms in Biloxi had been booked weeks ago and I would be unlikely to find any room closer than this one. I hadn’t thought of that. Given all the publicity the event was getting, there would be a crowd, and Biloxi would be filled. I should have known that. I had already made my first mistake as an observer, and I hadn’t even gotten to Biloxi yet. I thanked the manager for his advice, carried my bags back up to my suite, and drove to Biloxi with just my lap top computer and digital camera in a bag.
The drive took much longer than I had expected. Traffic was terrible. There were thousands headed to Biloxi. By the time I got to the outskirts of town, traffic slowed to a crawl, and I inched along, following signs to the parking areas that had been created for the event. It appeared every grassy field within ten miles of town had been converted to parking. I had visions of a heavy rain converting every field into a muddy mire with thousands of cars simply sinking out of sight, but so far the weather was hot and dry and I parked in a long row with thousands of others. There were lots of buses and we were gathered up quickly and carried to the event site. I don’t usually use “French” and “efficiency” in the same sentence, but I was seeing it now.
Within minutes we were carried to the old harbor area of Biloxi along the Rue Dauphin and Joan of Arc Circle. I hadn’t been into Biloxi before, so I don’t know what this part of town normally looks like, but all the paint was so fresh and the streets so clean, I have to believe they had spent many weeks getting ready for this event. I have been to harbors before, and only the harbor at Disneyland looks anything like Biloxi harbor looked that morning.
The streets were crammed with people. No cars were allowed and families wandered from store to store to buy ice cream and souvenirs. I tried to get a picture of the scene, but I was bumped by so many people hurrying by, that I finally gave up. Instead, I pushed my way south to get to the actual harbor. Here, if anything, crowds were worse, as people crowded together to see the tall ship moored along the dock. It was a good looking boat, with tall masts, freshly painted sides and decks, and a Louisiana flag flying from the top of the third mast. Tours were available, and a long line had formed with people who wished to get on board. With temperatures in the nineties, the last thing I wanted was a two-hour wait in the sun, so I took a quick picture and started backing out through the crowd. But I hadn’t taken five steps when my way was blocked by the huge frame of Tilden Foster.
“I heard you would be visiting us,” he exclaimed. “Welcome.” His voice practically thundered above the cacophony of noises around us. If people had turned to look at him before, they certainly all looked now as he suddenly seemed to swell large above the crowd. There might have been a thousand people on that dock, but only one was seen and heard by all. It was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to slip around him, so I stepped onto center stage and took my place in whatever scene he was in the midst of creating.
“It appears you have drawn quite a crowd. I am surprised to see so many people here before Sunday.” I shook his hand and tried to appear at ease, but in truth, I had no idea what to expect from the man.
“Oh, we have been very busy all week.” He gestured around, taking in the ship, the dock, the streets behind him, as if he was master of it all, and I suppose he was. “Folks here are excited about history. They are proud and respectful of those who came before.” That sounded like a line from a speech and I wondered if I had just heard the valediction address for Sunday – “proud and respectful” as the watchwords for the show. “But I understand you are taking some notes-- for your students?” He uttered the last phrase like he didn’t believe a word of it and wanted me to know he didn’t believe it. “I should show you a bit of the place so you have a complete picture when you report back.” He grabbed my arm and plowed through the crowd toward the ship, assuming – correctly as it turned out – that the sea of people would part before him. Maybe people knew his role in the event, or maybe they just had the good sense to get out of the way of four hundred pounds moving fast, but a path cleared instantly all the way to the gangplank.
Minor officials who had been performing various duties on board, suddenly appeared at the rail and welcomed Foster aboard. Somehow they all reminded me of medieval supplicants, lined up outside the castle hoping for a boon from their liege lord. They were pretty eager to please. Foster said hello to each of them and introduced them to me, and then introduced me as “Professor Murphy from the National University in Green Bay.” That drew at least one confused stare from one of the men not sophisticated enough to hide his feelings, and was followed by more confusion when he added that I was a leading scholar on George Washington, a man unknown to any these people, and probably to any person currently in Biloxi. But they managed to stumble through a “welcome” or “Hello” while they waited for Foster to tell them what they were supposed to do with me.
“Professor Murphy is sending information back to his people in Green Bay. I wonder if we could show him around the ship and explain some of its history.” Foster’s comment made me sound so much like a spy, I just had to respond, whether he believed me or not.
“I will be teaching US history at the National University this fall, but since I know all the students up there will be interested in an event of this magnitude, I thought I would create a web log so they could see some pictures and get a first-hand account.” I paused there so they could internalize my interpretation of my presence, and then I started asking questions about the ship – size, age, previous uses… One of the men appeared to come with the ship, and he took the lead in answering questions and guiding me through various cabins and holds. What did I learn? For starters that Foster couldn’t fit through any door, so he had to stay on deck, and second, the farther we got from Foster the more amenable the main guide became and the less friendly the other henchmen became. Gradually they excused themselves and went back up on deck leaving me with the captain. As for the ship itself, I learned it was a replica of a British man of war from the 1800s that had fought in the Caribbean during the endless British/French sea campaigns, and had been sitting in a dockside museum in Trinidad when the call went out for something somewhat similar to the ships used in the early 1700s. Captain Lockett was head of the Trinidad museum, spoke pretty good French, was happy to see his boat under sail, and excited that it was getting far more visitors than it ever had sitting dockside in Port-of-Spain. We stopped in one of the cabins that was used as an office, and he pulled out a detailed brochure in English that gave the boat’s dimensions, fighting history, and visiting hours back home.
At this point Foster must have slapped one of his boys alongside the head, because suddenly a well-scrubbed PR type came flying down one of the ladders to seek us out and change the conversation from Trinidad to the terrors and privations of the early Louisiana settlers. Monsieur Poincaire now took over the tour and walked me through the lower deck where he was careful to show me how they had rebuilt the bunks and hammocks used by the settlers, and how carefully they had researched the number of settlers who would have been aboard each ship, re
plicating the crowding and the sanitary privations that would have been endured for months at sea. He talked about one voyage that had taken eighteen weeks and endured not one, but three hurricanes, describing events and people as if he had been along on the voyage. Obviously Foster had found his varsity PR person, and I was now in professional hands. I took lots of pictures, copied down names, and took notes, and enjoyed the irony of the dramatic retelling of French privations while on board a British man of war.
Eventually we came topside again, and Poincaire led me back to the captain’s cabin where he told me Foster was waiting for me. I liked the cabin – it extended across the stern of the ship and had a beautiful row of windows and elegant wooden paneling – but I admit to being a bit nervous about what Foster would say to me now that we were alone. And alone we were, since he immediately suggested Poincaire guide some other dignitaries about the ship. Foster and I sat on opposite sides of a huge wooden desk that looked like it had been brought in recently. Some effort had been made to find wood similar in color and grain to the paneling of the cabin, but the style was at least a century out of sync with the rest of the room. I didn’t know whether to applaud the effort, or observe the obvious – you can’t go back in time, no matter how seriously you try.
“I hope you enjoyed your tour. So far this week we have had over eight thousand people come on board.”
“It is a beautiful ship. Were you the one who tracked it down and brought it up here?”
“Our foundation employs several staff historians. They did some checking. There is a somewhat better replica in a museum in Lehavre, but there was some concern about how seaworthy it was. This ship was far closer, and while somewhat larger than the original ships were, it handles crowds better, and it still gives people the flavor of what the sea voyage was like.”
“That seems like a very reasonable compromise.” We were both being so polite, I think we could have made a training tape for high school kids – “proper business etiquette.” I wondered how much longer it would last.
“There is a small envelope on the desk in front of you.” Foster motioned to a white envelope placed squarely in front of my seat. “It has a letter of introduction from me asking all site managers to give you full access and cooperation, and it has an invitation to a banquet we will be having on board Saturday evening. There is also the address of a tailor in New Orleans who can help you with a period costume. We are all dressing as we would have in 1720.”
“That is very kind of you.”
“I ask only two things in return.” He paused and waited for me to nod my assent. “First, I hope you will be fair in what you report back to your ‘students.’ Whatever you think of re-enactments in general, this re-enactment is being attempted to recognize an important historical period that has long been neglected. Those old Huguenots are worthy of our respect. Second, I want you to tell me what Washington did wrong.”
“Washington?” The change of topics was so dramatic it took me a second to register what he was asking. What in the world did Washington have to do with Huguenots and sailing ships? But I decided to answer. As far as I was concerned, I had known Washington’s weakness for years. “Washington was too slow. The only skirmish he ever won was his first in 1754. The minute he got his men over the mountains, he found out where a group of French troops were hidden, and he immediately attacked. That volley started the Seven Years War, but it was a success. In every battle after that he tried to maneuver large numbers of troops and he just took too long. He never won again.”
“You just summed up your dissertation.” Foster replied. He was wearing a very irritating smile and leaning back in his chair as if he had just won a victory over me. “You were right then, and you are right now. When you have some time, you ought to give some thought to what your dissertation means.” He actually winked at me (a pretty gruesome expression on the face of a four hundred pound man), and struggled to his feet. Our interview was over. He came around the huge desk and actually put his arm around my shoulder as he led me to the door.
“And let me give you some career advice. Teaching hung-over eighteen year olds gets tedious very quickly. But you will be an American teaching American history to hung-over Frenchies. There is no need for you to put yourself through that. There are far more productive things for good historians to do.”
“Thank you for your concern.” I twisted out from under his arm, shook his hand, and left the cabin. The sun was blinding, the heat was unbearable, but I immediately felt more comfortable. Was it the man’s size, or his constant hints at plots that made it so hard to be around him? In either case, I dodged a group of tourists that was boarding the ship in a long line, and got back to shore. I felt better the more distance I put between myself and Foster.
Next stop? I looked around for places to stand to get pictures of the crowd. There was a gradual rise away from the docks, and so I walked uphill back to Joan of Arc Circle and found first a park bench, and then a rock wall to stand on and take pictures. It really was an interesting sight – the mass of people, the old buildings around the harbor, the ship, and then the blue water of the harbor extending out into the Gulf. I stood and looked, and took pictures until the heat finally overwhelmed me and I headed away from the harbor, looking for any place cool.
The streets were crowded with tourists, and every store I poked my head into was packed with folks doing the same as me – looking for a cool place and a cool drink. I walked for blocks before the crowd began to thin just a bit. Along the way I was stopped three times by people asking me to take their picture. Two asked in French, but one couple asked in English and was surprised when I responded in English. They got me wondering how much of the crowd was not only from out of town but out of the country. But mostly I focused on finding some place cool.
Eventually I found myself back where the busses were lined up. Should I get on and leave the area? At least that would get me back to my air conditioned car. But I wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. I spotted a young woman standing under a sign that said “Information,” and I headed in her direction. Then, just as I was about to ask her for help finding a restaurant, a strange thought crossed my mind.
“There was a large cathedral being built here in Biloxi. Do you happen to know where that was?”
“Why yes.” She was young, and pretty, and so happy to help, my whole mood instantly changed. “You can see the site from here.” She pointed up the hill towards a bare area amongst some trees. “It is just to the left of those trees. But I have to tell you there isn’t much left to see.” And she seemed genuinely troubled by that fact. I thanked her and started toward the site. It looked to me as if it was a mile or so away, all up hill and all unshaded from a very hot sun, but I decided that is where I wanted to go.
Half an hour later I was hotter than I ever remember being. But I made it up the last block to the site of the cathedral. I could see right away that they had intended to do the same thing here as they had in Green Bay – put the parking lots slightly lower than the church so people had to walk up to the cathedral. They must have expected large crowds, because the parking lots were massive. They had already been blacktopped and even had yellow lines drawn to mark proper parking spaces. Everything was ready for a church that now wasn’t there.
I stopped in the first parking lot to catch my breath and look around. It was instantly obvious to me why the church had chosen this spot. The hill the church was on was not particularly high, but it gave an unobstructed view of the harbor, and for that matter, the entire city of Biloxi. I could see small sail boats out on the gulf, and the large sailing ship at the dock. Most of Biloxi had grown up west of this point – towards New Orleans – but this was still a great location.
It also turned out to be busy. I had assumed I would be alone amongst the wreckage, but I had only been standing there a minute or two when two cars went by me in the parking lot, and then a third foll
owed. Suddenly I heard voices and noticed there were people walking around the ruins. I followed some stairs up to what was meant to be the main doors to the cathedral and discovered there were dozens of people on the site.
Maybe some description here would help. The cathedral had been built of white limestone. When it had been blown apart, the exterior walls had been blown out, onto the surrounding lawns, and the interior pillars and roof had collapsed down onto the stone floor. Everything was covered with white dust from the broken limestone, and wherever people walked, a small white dust cloud was kicked up. But people were able to walk around most of the cathedral. Two front-end loaders, still parked inside the cathedral, had obviously moved much of the debris into piles, and the central part of the floor was now open. Dozens of people were walking up the central nave through the cleared area. Some were just looking around, but others were walking as if they were praying, their heads bowed, their walk slow, their destination a stone cross that had been set at an angle near where the altar would have been. Forty or fifty plastic chairs had been arranged in several rows near the altar, and many were occupied. This ruin was actually serving as a cathedral!
I walked up the central aisle as well, pausing to look at the broken remains of limestone pillars and to look at pieces of carved arch lying among the debris on either side. It would have been a huge cathedral, every bit as large as the National Cathedral. I didn’t count my paces, but it had to be over four hundred feet from one end to the other. Below me, the stone floor was still solid, to each side piles of rubble climbed ten to fifteen feet high. I sat in one of the plastic chairs, white with dust, and imagined how the place might have felt when completed.
I was about ready to get up again and continue my explorations when two priests came in carrying a cardboard box. They put it on a large stone block near where the altar would have been, and began setting various communion pieces out. They had all the appearance of two men about to begin a mass, but that wasn’t possible, was it? It was about two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, certainly the wrong time for a mass, but as people took their seats around me, it became apparent that a mass was exactly what everyone was expecting.
I think I sat there more in disbelief, than any religious inclination (I am sorry to say), but sit there I did, and watched a full mass materialize in the rubble. We sat there in the midst of the afternoon sun, and with the sun also reflecting off the white stones I felt like I was being baked alive and blinded. But the two priests, both young men, went though every step of the mass as if it was perfectly normal to do so. They served communion as usual, with all of us walking up for the wafer and for very hot wine, presented a short homily about the family of Christ, and made every other motion and blessing that you would expect in a mass. The fact that we were sitting in the midst of rubble on a Thursday afternoon seemed of no consequence to them at all.
When the mass was over, I waited while several others spoke with the priests, and then I proceeded to the “altar” to ask about the mass.
“Father,” I asked the younger of the two priests. He was wearing black vestments with a short sleeved white shirt and a navy blue baseball cap with a cross on the front. He was sweating as much as I was, but seemed at peace and happy to talk with any of us. “May I ask about the mass?”
“Of course.” He put down the Bible he was putting into the cardboard box and gave me his full attention. He looked me full in the face, his dark eyes wide. It seemed the standard posture he assumed, ready to hear anything and everything from his “flock.”
“I have never been to mass on a Thursday afternoon before, and I was also surprised to see a service conducted here in, well, the rubble of a church.”
“But it is a beautiful space, would you not agree? And people have come for a mass, so we gave a mass. Later this afternoon we will give another. Every afternoon and evening when we come here, there are people waiting for a mass.”
“Have you been doing this ever since the bombing?”
“No, like everyone we mourned the loss of the cathedral for more than a week. And then when the big equipment arrived and started moving the broken stones around it started feeling more like a construction site than a church. But one evening, after the workmen had gone home, we came and saw people here. Someone had pulled that cross upright, and people were standing in front of it praying. So we joined them. We did that for days until someone started bringing these chairs, and then one Sunday morning we decided to do a mass. We have been doing them ever since.”
“Will you keep at this until the church is rebuilt?”
“We don’t know if the church will be rebuilt. That decision is months or maybe even years away. In the meantime, there are people, and we are priests, so…”
I asked his permission to take his picture, and then I took more of the church and of some of the people in attendance. Gradually I backed away from the altar and took wider angle shots, both interior and exterior. Then, as hot as I was, I decided to try for a wide-angle shot of the church. There was little that was higher than the church, but there was a tree, and yes, believe it or not, I actually climbed a tree some distance from the cathedral to get a picture.
Once I was up in the tree I moved from branch to branch to get the right angle. It was not easy, and I have to admit I felt pretty stupid up in a tree like a kid. But I finally found an angle I liked. It showed the two priests still standing near the front of the church, the plastic chairs covered with dust, the rubble on all sides, and off in the distance, Biloxi Harbor. I took three quick pictures before I could fall, and then slowly climbed down, hoping nobody had seen me being so childish.
That was enough for me. I plodded back down the hill to a waiting bus, collapsed into a seat while the air conditioning revived me, and rode the bus back to my car. Two hours later I was back at my hotel and in the shower. I had survived my first day in Biloxi.
Later, after dinner and two or three pitchers of water, I tried to determine what I might say about the day on my web log. In the end, I decided I would say very little, but would let my pictures explain the day. I transferred the digital pictures to the lap top, picked out seven that showed the crowd, the ship, the harbor, Foster, the cathedral, the priests, and the wide view of the cathedral ruins with the harbor below. I wrote about two hundred words describing each one, and then FTP’d the entire file up to the web log URL. By that time it was nearly midnight. I drank two more glasses of water and fell into bed.
Chapter 16
I Meet Some Grumpy Old Veterans