The Canadian Civil War Volume 2- The Huguenots Arrive

I would like to say that I was up a dawn the next day, but in early July Green Bay gets nearly sixteen hours of daylight. Dawn comes much too early for me. But I was up by six and on the Mississippi Highway by seven. My goal for the day was Cape Girardeau, the last substantial city before Louisiana. I wanted at least a little time in the evening to determine just how safe things were before I crossed the provincial line.

  I am no demographer, but I thought I might be able to gather at least a little useful data for Elise if I counted cars with trailers along the way. I even made a little tick sheet that I kept on the dash. I would see how many trailers were going in each direction, and would total them by the hour and correlate that with my location. Would that be useful to Elise? Who knew? But I wanted to find someway to help her. It also gave me something to do. For the first few hours I counted trailers – lots and lots of trailers. Clearly my family was in the wrong business. Someone was getting rich.

  Have I mentioned that I hate French cars? Actually I hate anything manufactured by the French. They make great wine, and great food, but can’t make a stove with a door that closes right. My Citroen is the top of the line for French vehicles, but being the best French car is like being the best Irish wine – “best” in this case doesn’t mean “good.” I was barely to Illinois when I was hurting where the seat springs were poking me, and I was nearly deaf from the engine noise. Most of the cylinders were running today, and they wanted to make sure I knew that by screaming to the world.

  My solution was to turn on the radio. Each week Claude Jolliet was a little less restrictive of the media, so I was curious to hear what was being said in the communities I passed. I think he would have been happy with what I was hearing the first few hours. Were call-screeners keeping the nut cases off the air? The folks who were calling in to the talk shows had modest complaints, but lots of suggestions. One caller mentioned a brother whose family had been chased out of Baton Rouge. Everyone had suggestions on how to help that family adjust to life back in Illinois, and there was even one caller who made a plea for better treatment for local Huguenots so that they stayed in town. There was one rather spooky commercial with a hardware store advertising specials on guns and ammo, but everything else I heard that morning was reassuring. At least in the Illinois plains, people seemed to be looking for ways to help their neighbors.

  Missouri was more mixed. By mid afternoon I was getting near St. Louis. My count of trailers was getting so high I thought there must be a factory someplace turning out trailers by the thousands. Where were they all coming from? I didn’t see any broken down along side the road, so maybe they were coming from America. Comments on the radio were getting more testy. While Louisiana might have been the home province for Huguenots, it was clear there were plenty in Missouri too, and they weren’t going to leave without a fight, or at least some final words before they filled their trailer and joined the convoys. A num called in, sounding almost like my old teacher Sister Angelica, and gave all the heretics hell. How dare they blow up a house of God? They should move to America with the rest of the sinners.

  That was the first reference I had heard to the U.S. all day, but it was not the last. Suddenly we became the main topic. Since we were a nation of hate-filled Protestants, should the Huguenots go there? Would the Americans accept them? Yes, in fact they were letting tens of thousands cross the border. Then the conspiracy theories began to spin out of control. This whole problem was created by the U.S. to inspire a religious war – a protestant alliance to overwhelm the Catholics and seize control of the Mississippi Valley. At this point the station suddenly cut to music – Beethoven’s Ninth. Ode to Joy would take up at least an hour and whoever had been screening calls and had let the nuts get through would be long-replaced by the time the last movement was over. In any case, it was obvious one of Claude Jolliet’s people was still monitoring the radio, and there was a line that was not to be crossed.

  I like Beethoven, so I left the station on while I circled St. Louis and began the last part of my drive to Cape Girardeau. I had heard enough talk anyway. Were things down here a bit crazy? Yes, but at least they weren’t shooting each other. And a few of them had even found a common enemy – the U.S. That made me a little nervous. The idea of an alliance with Louisiana was ridiculous. The average American couldn’t tell one Frenchman from another, and didn’t want to tell them apart. Whatever church they attended, they were French, and that was always bad. Would we get involved in this fracas? No. Could we be blamed for this mess? I hoped not. Our countries hadn’t fought each other for more than a century. We would never be friends, but if we could go one century without killing each other, you could always hope we could go another century the same way.

  I got to Cape Girardeau around seven, deafened from the car, too sore to sit any more, and tired of counting trailers and crackpots. I found a small hotel along the Mississippi, got my bags up to my room, and then stood on the riverbank for a very long time watching water move and feeling blood return to my legs after all those hours in the pinnacle of French engineering. I would love to give you a description of the river, but in truth I wasn’t really looking at it, I was just enjoying the freedom of being out of my car.

  Eventually I started to slowly walk down the street in the same direction the water was flowing. Cape Girardeau has a nice enough river bank, but the town itself looks a bit down on its luck. Within a couple blocks I was walking past shops and restaurants that looked like they needed a fresh coat of paint. There were a few people about, but no great numbers, just locals out doing a bit of shopping. I started looking for a café, torn between my hunger and my hatred of sitting down again. I walked a couple more blocks and found a small place that advertised catfish specialties. You’d be surprised by how little catfish we have in Philadelphia. I decided to give it a try.

  The minute I walked through the door I knew I had made a mistake. The inside was far more run down than the outside suggested, and far too dark. I thought about walking back out when a waitress sauntered over and invited me in. She was somewhere in her thirties and was wearing a black satin cocktail dress that probably fit her better when she was twenty pounds lighter. This was the moment to leave, but I followed her ample backside over to a table and sat down. I reasoned that they needed the business, and besides, how bad could catfish be?

  Michelle was happy to have someone to talk with – there were barely eight or ten other people in the café, all aging men – and wanted to chat while taking my order. I had such a cute accent. Was I from Ohio? Would I be staying in the Cape long? She had been in town for years and found the people to be so friendly,,, Somewhere in there I asked for the house special and a glass of Bordeaux.

  She took my order back to the kitchen and then I started hearing a loud male voice. “American?” Then some more questions, and then again, “American?” Suddenly a huge man came bounding out of the kitchen carrying a sawed off hockey stick and heading straight for me.

  “Get out!” He shouted before he was halfway across the small room. “We don’t serve Americans here. Eat with your Huguenot friends down south.” He must have weighed three hundred pounds, and while most of that was fat, he was still an imposing sight as he approached. I now had one more reason to leave the café, and I should have, but I found myself getting really angry. I had just spent twelve hours in a French rattle trap. I was in no mood to be pushed around.

  “You heard me. Get out!” He now stood directly opposite my table, sweating and panting from the exertion of getting his weight across the room. I stood up, stared straight at him, and did something I have never done before in my life. I unbuttoned the top three buttons of my shirt, and held my shirt open so he could see the gold crucifix that hung from my neck.

  “I have no Huguenot friends. I am Catholic and I live in Green Bay.” I continued to stand with my shirt open, holding eye contact. I saw him look down at the crucifix and then back at my
face. There was hesitation in his eyes now.

  “Monsieur, she said you were an American…”

  “Yes, I am American.” I held my stare. Suddenly he wanted to look anywhere but back at me.

  “But you are Catholic.”

  “That is what I told you. I am Catholic.

  “You are not here to help the Huguenots burn cathedrals?”

  “I don’t believe in burning churches of any kind.”

  “Ah, monsieur, I apologize. We have heard stories…”

  “I do not accept your apology. As you are proud to be Canadian, I am proud to be American. Now put down that hockey stick or use it.”

  “Of course.” He set the hockey stick on the table. I got a good look at it for the first time and saw it would have done serious damage. I had gotten off lucky this time. “I did not know there were Catholic Americans. The radio has been telling us there is a Protestant alliance. The Americans will come to kill all Catholics as they have before.”

  “Americans have not killed all Catholics before. We have attacked your country four times, and four times you have won.”

  “Yes, that is right!” Suddenly he was happy as a child at Christmas. “Please monsieur. Sit and eat. Be my guest for dinner. I apologize again for my actions.” At this point I could sit and make a friend, or I could leave and make an enemy. I sat. He took his hockey stick back to the kitchen to make my dinner, and every old man in the café suddenly moved to the tables next to mine. Were there really Catholics in America? Why had the Americans attacked at Versailles Pass? Weren’t the Americans planning to invade in August? In amongst all the questions they were also all determined to buy me a drink, so during the course of the next couple hours I had some of the worst wine Missouri has to offer. The fat cook also brought me the house special – catfish quiche. I would describe it to you, but all you need to know about catfish quiche is that if you ever see it on a menu, order something else.

  I explained America as best I could to men who had obviously never been anywhere east of the Mississippi, and tried to calm their fears. Ultimately, the argument that worked the best was the one that was also the most obvious. American had fought the French for three hundred years. Why would we suddenly fight on the side of some of the French – any of the French? It was pretty good logic, and we all believed it – even me. I guess that explains why I am historian – we never understand things until they have been over for a hundred years.

  Hours passed and I had far too much wine. But the evening was a success. I had served as an American ambassador, solved all the continent’s problems, and gotten a free meal. Not a bad night. I am not sure how I found my way back to the hotel, but I managed.

  The next morning got off to a slow start. It felt like the wine and catfish were actually going to do more damage to me than the hockey stick would have. I had several aspirin, three cups of coffee, and decided I was off wine for a week and off catfish for a lifetime. Eventually I found my car and got going south again. I quickly got into Louisiana and should have been making profound observations about life in this rebel province, but in truth it was all I could do to keep the car on the road. Every couple hours I popped more aspirin and prayed that I would somehow, someway make it to New Orleans.

  By mid-afternoon I was feeling more human again. I began to take note of my surroundings. I don’t know if I expected to see barricades being built along the highway, but the only real change I noticed from January was how green things were. Louisiana is really an attractive place. It is also hot and wet. When I stopped for gas and got out of my air conditioned car (yes, even the French have air conditioners on their cars), my clothes instantly clung to my body. It was basically the most uncomfortable day I had ever experienced in Virginia, turned up a notch or two. This was obviously not the prime tourist season for Louisiana.

  I reached New Orleans around dinner time. Our company rep had found me a suite at the Maison Dupuy Hotel on Toulouse Street in the Old Quarter. He had me figured out pretty well. It was an old hotel in the old part of town, exactly where an historian would like to stay. The hotel was actually five old town houses that had been converted into a hotel, much as they have done so often in London. The floors never quite match up, but the exterior looks as it did centuries ago, complete with wrought iron balconies. I had my choice of any suite in the place, street-side or courtyard side. I took the street side. I spent a quiet evening in the hotel and went to bed early. Good thing. New Orleans turned out to be a lot more eventful than I was prepared for.

  The next morning I started what I expected to be a pattern – good breakfast, a walk over to the Louisiana Library for a day of research, followed by a quiet evening in the quarter. At least the day started off according to plan. The provincial library was just a few blocks away from my hotel on Canal Street, and I enjoyed the walk. It was already warm, and the air was wet, but it was a quiet morning. A few people were out and about, but no one seemed in a particular hurry. There were flowers in window boxes and trees shading the street. A few cars went by, but they created little noise. It felt good just to be present on that street.

  The library was heavily air conditioned, and the minute I felt the cold air, I realized I might not be able to find the history I was looking for. Warm wet air killed books or anything else on paper. Mildew blackened and rotted anything not protected. Of course the library was now climate controlled to protect all the holdings, but there hadn’t been air conditioning here for the first two centuries of Louisiana. All the old records would have been attacked mercilessly. Was there anything left here for me to find? It was a rude thought to begin my first morning of research.

  I was tempted to go straight to the reference librarian to ask about the condition of the archives, but I didn’t feel prepared yet. It is a point of pride with me that I don’t just walk up to a librarian and ask general questions. I would seem like a school kid if I asked, “what materials do you have on the Huguenot immigration?” Presumably they have rooms full of materials. I needed to do some initial research to get a general understanding of the field. Once I had more particular questions to ask, I could find out what they had in the archives, and how much had survived the climate.

  So I went to the general history section, found some books on the Reformation, and began to catch up on Europe in 1600. I knew from Sister Angelica that is when the heretics were active. Now I needed to know a little more about them than the fact they were all destined to burn in hell for eternity.

  What did I learn? It took all the rest of the day, but I caught up on a very busy century. Luther had presented his complaints about the Catholic church, and then fought a running battle with the Calvinists, the Anabaptists, and all other sects. Suddenly lots of folks had alternative forms of Christianity. Why the explosion of religions? Pick your author and you picked your explanation. The technology folks pointed to the printing press. Now you had the quick spread of Luther’s ideas, and the ready availability of bibles in local languages. People had the tools to begin making decisions for themselves about the afterlife.

  The economists put everything on the improving economic life of Europe. There was a growing middle class, and with their new money they wanted new rights, both from the nobility and from the clergy.

  The religious philosophers were the most difficult to follow. Calvin and Luther could not agree on what communion meant, and Luther and the Popes could not agree on who should get communion, and there were a hundred other issues of doctrine that everyone fought over. Less confusing was the current state of the Catholic church. Priests couldn’t read, bishops were crooks, and popes had families to feed. The institution was at its low point. A literate middle class was not in a mood to take orders from illiterate priests and crooked bishops. They had much to protest and new strength to protest with.

  The political scientists had it figured out a different way. Kings were gaining power. Somethi
ng approaching the current nation state was becoming possible and kings wanted to assert their authority directly rather than through a hierarchy of nobles. The nobles were not very keen on this change, and looked to protect their turf. Sometimes a new religion gave them an advantage in this fight.

  Skimming these books for eight hours I was reminded of the fable about the blind men and the elephant. Each scholar was certain he was seeing the Reformation when it looked to me like they were each grabbing one part and assuming they were seeing the whole elephant. What was the whole story? Lots of folks had died, France became a major power, Spain stopped being important, and the church got out of political matters. The elephant was very different at the end of the century than at the beginning.

  I was just about to quit for the day when I found gold. I was getting a bit drowsy and losing patience with an endless series of Popes and kings and meetings and convocations and slaughters and wars when I happened upon Henry of Navarre, also known as Henry of Bourbon, and finally known as Henry IV, King of France from 1589 to 1610. Funny thing about old Henry – he was a Huguenot! For twenty one years France had been ruled by a Huguenot king, and furthermore, this Henry was the father of Louis XIII and grandfather of Louis XIV. The Bourbon dynasty was founded by a Huguenot. Wasn’t that interesting?

  And to make things real interesting, it was this Huguenot king who had sent Champlain to the new world, who had established France’s possessions in Canada, and had founded the city of Quebec! Quebec had been built under a Protestant king. I wondered how common that knowledge was. This was getting real interesting.

  I closed up my books for the day and left the library in a daze. I am always dumbfounded by people who think history is boring. I find amazing things every time I look into the past. But this was more than amazing. A country about to be split up by Protestants had actually been founded by a Protestant. Who would have guessed?

  The streets of New Orleans were incredibly hot, and I would have normally wilted under the weight of the wet air, but I was too excited. I walked down Canal Street to the river and wandered along staring at the water but seeing only Henry IV. I had to learn more about him.

  Eventually the heat overcame my excitement and I looked for a place to find food and air conditioning. I spotted the Granary. I had been there once before with Elise. It has all kinds of virtues – good food, good wine, and hundreds of years of history. I assumed today it would have one additional virtue – field stone walls and high ceilings that would provide a naturally cool temperature.

  It turned out I was one of the few people in town who would appreciate the place that night. While it had been packed when we had visited in January, now it was virtually empty. A waiter came to my table immediately and stood and talked with me forever. He was so friendly I almost thought I was back in the U.S. I took his attitude as the surest sign that New Orleans was in desperate shape – the waiters were providing good service.

  He had barely left my table to gather up my order when a man sitting at a nearly table turned to me.

  “I am sorry to bother you,” he said in English, “But my hobby is trying to place people. Based on your excellent French and slight accent, I would guess western Pennsylvania.”

  “Yes, I am American, “ I replied in French. In truth, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to talk with this man or not. Some people love to strike up conversation with total strangers. I am more hesitant about it. In retrospect I should have been much more hesitant about this conversation, but I was still excited about my discovery in the Library, and so let the conversation continue. “I am from Philadelphia.”

  “Really? I have lived there for years.” He replied in very good French. I liked that. It just seemed proper to speak French while in Canada. ”I went to Penn and then went to work for the State Department. They shipped me out here about year ago – commercial attaché. That’s what I get for double majoring in French and International Business. What about you? I assume you also went to Penn. I graduated in 1997. Any chance we had classes together?” He was indeed almost the same age as me. Blonde and blue-eyed, he looked like the kind of person the State Department would want to represent the country.

  “I went to the University of Virginia. They have a much better history department – my major."

  “So what brings you down here?”

  “I have become interested in the history of Louisiana. This seemed like a good place to study it.”

  “Really? You do understand there’s trouble down here, right? It seems like half of the consulate staff down here is occupied with what it will take to get U.S. citizens out when the shooting starts. Speaking of which, you should stop by the consulate and register.”

  “I only plan to be here a couple weeks.

  “I am not sure there is any guarantee the extremists will wait until you get back to Virginia.”

  “Actually I live in Green Bay now. I teach U.S. history at the National University.” There was a curious expression on his face when I said I lived in Green Bay. I couldn’t place it at the time. Surprise? Concern? He immediately pulled a card from his pocket, wrote a number on the back, and handed it to me.

  “I have written my direct number on the back of my card. If you don’t mind, I would like to meet with you from time to time while you are here, just to make sure you are still doing OK.” I recognized the name on the card. This was the man Senator Dodson had wanted me to meet. Small world.

  “For what its worth, Senator Dodson gave me your card last month. He thinks a lot of you – said you knew all the best restaurants in town. I guess that explains how you know about the Granary.”

  “You know Senator Dodson?” I was never able to answer. At that moment half a dozen young men walked into the room. They were obviously American, and obviously drunk. I would have guessed their age at around twenty, and the way they were built, they could have been a rugby team – that would explain the shoulders and the drunkenness. Their French was terrible and they wanted wine and to find someone.

  “I am afraid this lot is mine. I can’t remember if they are here for alligator hunting or bass fishing, but their company warned the consulate they might be a handful. Now if I can just prevent an international incident, I will have earned my meager wages for the day.” He got to his feet and started toward the group, but then stopped and put out his hand. “By the way, I am David Starr.”

  “Shawn Murphy.”

  “Shawn, do call later this week. I know it seems melodramatic, but we need to keep track of our nationals these days. OK?”

  “Sure.” And then he was off. He was greeted with a great cheer by the young men – apparently he was the man they had been looking for – and then he managed to direct them all into a private room in the back. The last sound I heard before they closed the door was “Do they have any beer in this godforsaken place?”

  And that’s how I met the first spy and the first American troops to arrive in Louisiana.

  Chapter 5

  New Orleans and a bit of French History