The Canadian Civil War: Volume 5 - Carbines and Calumets

  Chapter 3 –

  I drive south

  Elise had been getting up at five and running off to work by six. That morning she made no effort to get out of bed. We laid there and talked. And eventually we got dressed and went down to breakfast. Elise made a huge breakfast and sat with me while we ate it. We talked about lots of things, none of them connected to my travels. Finally when the meal was done, she talked about the trip.

  “You know where the weapons are. You should also know I had the gps capability turned on in your new phone. Keep it with you, and our people will know where to find you.” We were standing and hugging at this point. “Please be careful.” She kissed me and left, tears in her eyes.

  What was wrong with me? How could I leave her, and why would I cause her such pain? I am such a jerk. I went upstairs and packed a bag, still not certain I would go. But I did. I loaded up my silly Citroen pseudo-limo, backed out of the garage, and headed toward the highway.

  I am usually a planner. This time I was not. I drove, not sure how far I would get before nightfall, not sure how far I wanted to get. St Louis was about halfway, but that didn’t have the best memories for me. That was where I had laid up for my wounds to heal after my last trip to New Orleans. So, no St. Louis. Where? I just drove. Given the quality of French engineering, the matter might be settled for me when my new car broke down.

  I had lunch in La Crosse. The place was a madhouse. With the Kaskaskia bridges still down, La Crosse was one of the few northern crossing points for the Mississippi. Traffic was backed up all around town. I stayed on the east side of the river, but still I found myself bumper to bumper for miles. This was a country that needed a few more bridges, and maybe some more miles of highway. I got frustrated after half an hour in traffic, and pulled off into a truck stop. Things were even more crowded there, but at least once I got out of the car I didn’t have a loose spring poking me in the back. It took me forever to get served, but at least I got fed. The country was just two months past a national disaster when the river got dammed up at Kaskaskia, so I knew I should have been pleased to get any food, and pleased that traffic was moving at all. I should have been pleased, but I wasn’t. Sometimes I get like that.

  The traffic tie up gave me an idea for where to spend the night – Kaskaskia. Given how slow traffic was moving, that was probably as far as I could go today anyway, and it would be interesting to see how the city was faring.

  The drive from La Crosse to Kaskaskia normally takes about three hours. That day it took me six. What did I see for six hours? The truck that was in front of me, and the dummy tailgating behind me, who apparently engaged in magical thinking, his chief belief being that if he crowded my bumper and I crowded the truck in front of me, magically all of us would suddenly being doing 100 k per hour. The world has no shortage of morons. I took the first Kaskaskia exit, grateful to at least be bumper to bumper with a fresh set of bumpers.

  I gave some thought to stopping by the company warehouse, but by now it was after seven and I was pretty sure most of the folks would be gone, and if they were still working, the last thing they needed was an interruption from the boss’ kid. I drove past and saw a couple rigs backed in to the loading docks. Things looked normal. After that I cruised along the river. They were still reinforcing the levee, but the real work seemed to be at the bridges. There were construction barges parked at each end and now concrete pillars were visible. Elise had told me it might be another four months before the bridges were fully rebuilt, but at least visible progress was being made. I am sure folks felt pretty good about that.

  Having had a good look at the construction, I headed east, looking for a place to stay. Illinois is pretty flat, but there was a gradual rise to the east, and at one point there is a string of generic hotels. I cruised that until I saw a vacancy sign. I am not a very demanding sort. After a day trapped in the latest excuse for French automotive engineering, all I want is a parking lot to leave the car, a lobby with a bar, and a room with a bed. The “Trail’s End Hotel” had all three, plus a roof-top bar. Granted the rooftop was only three stories off the ground, but it did give me another chance to measure the progress of the city, and a good view of the sunset to boot.

  I sat at a table under an umbrella (Illinois is pretty steamy in the summer) and drank one glass of water and two glasses of wine before I began to feel relaxed. Maybe it should have been two glasses of water and one glass of wine, but it had been a long day. While I watched the sun go down I called New Orleans to see if I could get a room in the hotel I had used in the past. No problem. How long would I be staying? Not sure. Four days, maybe seven. They would be happy to have me for as long as I wished, the manager would be notified of my arrival, thanks for staying with us again, etc. Small hotels are nice that way. They actually knew who was staying in their rooms.

  Eventually I ordered dinner, and yes, another glass of wine, which wasn’t too smart given all the driving I would have to do the next day. I called Elise to let her know where I was, and we reminisced about some of the nights we had spent together in Kaskaskia. I already missed her. I gave her an update on what I had seen in the city. I am sure she knew all of that from ministry briefings, but she acted as if it was news to her – one more virtue of hers.

  Phone calls and dinner behind me, I got up and stood by the railing at the western edge of the bar area. Lights were on pretty much across all of the city. There was still darkness where the island had been, that area would be dark in perpetuity, but the rest of the city had rebuilt and revamped and was a new version of itself. Probably the one guy who would most appreciate that adaptability was the guy who founded it – Claude Jolliet. He had seen it change time and time again, and sometimes he had been the driver of that change. He knew that’s was great cities do – they adapt and they change. Somewhere out there were pieces of his island mansion – the keel and deck boards from his original river boats. With luck, someone had already pulled them from the water of the Mississippi and was using them in yet another structure. That’s what Claude would have done.