The Conquest: The True Story of Lewis and Clark

  IV

  _THE FEUD IS ENDED_

  Hark! Is that the boom of distant cannon? The American troops arefalling into line outside the walls of New Orleans on this 20th day ofDecember, 1803. The tri-colour of France floats on the flagstaff; thesky shines irradiant, like the "suns of Napoleon."

  It is high noon; another salute shakes the city. "Ho, warder, lowerthe drawbridge!"

  With chain-pulleys rattling down goes the bridge, never to be liftedagain. The fortress bell strikes its last peal under the flag ofFrance, or Spain. With thundering tread American dragoons file underthe portcullis of the Tchoupitoulas gate, followed by cannoneers andinfantry in coonskin caps and leathern hunting shirts.

  Curiously these sons of the forest look upon the old world forts anddonjons of masonry. The moat is filled with stagnant water. Theramparts of New Orleans are filled with soldiers from Havre andMadrid. The windows and balconies are filled with beautiful womenweeping, weeping to see the barbarians.

  Laussat was looking for Napoleon's soldiers, not a sale. Pale as deathhe hands over the keys. Slowly the tri-coloured flag of France at thesummit of the flagstaff in the plaza descends. Slowly thestar-spangled banner uplifts; half-way the two linger in one another'sfolds.

  As the flags embrace, another boom, and answering guns reply from shipand fort and battery around the crescent of New Orleans. The flags areparting,--it is a thrilling moment; up, up, steadily mounts the emblemof America and bursts on the breeze.

  The band breaks into "Hail, Columbia," amid the roar of artillery andshouting of backwoodsmen. The map of France in the new world hasbecome the map of the United States.

  "The flag! the flag!" Veterans of the French army receive thedescending tri-colour, and followed by a procession of uncovered headsbear it with funereal tread to Laussat.

  "We have wished to give to France a last proof of the affection whichwe will always retain for her," with trembling lip speaks theflag-bearer. "Into your hands we deposit this symbol of the tie whichhas again transiently connected us with her."

  And Laussat with answering tears replies, "May the prosperity ofLouisiana be eternal."

  But of all in New Orleans on this historic day, none fear, nonetremble like Sister Infelice, in the cloister of the Ursulines. Sheseems to hear the very sabres beat on the convent wall. When a tropichurricane sweeps up the gulf at night she falls on the cold stonefloor and covers her head, as if the very lightning might reveal thatform she loved so well, the great Virginia colonel. To Infelice he wasever young, ever the heroic saviour of St. Louis. That time could havechanged him had never occurred to her,--he was a type of immortalyouth.

  Infelice never speaks of these things, not even to her fatherconfessor; it is something too deep, too sacred, a last touch of theworld hid closer even than her heart. And yet she believes he iscoming,--that is the cause of all this tumult and cannonading. Herhero, her warrior wants _her_, and none can stay him.

  And when the cession is fairly over and he comes not, thedisappointment prostrates her utterly. "He cares, he cares no more!The Virginians? Did you say the Virginians had come?"

  From that bed of delirium the Mother Superior of the Ursuline housesent for the Mayor.

  "I beg to be allowed to retire with my sisterhood to some point underthe protection of His Catholic Majesty of Spain."

  "Going!" exclaimed Monsieur le Mayor of New Orleans. "For why? Youshall not be disturbed, you shall have full protection."

  "Do you stand for France, revolution and infidelity?" gasped the agedmother, denouncing the Mayor.

  The people pled, the Mayor went down on his knees. "Do not abandon ourschools and our children!" But the Mother Superior was firm.

  Twenty-two years had the Donna De Leyba been a nun. The old officialrecords are lost, but out of twenty-five nuns in the establishment weknow the sixteen of Spain went away.

  All New Orleans gathered to see them depart. When the gun sounded onWhitsunday Eve, sixteen women in black came forth, heavily veiled. Theconvent gardens were thronged with pupils, slaves knelt by thewayside, the Mayor and populace followed until they embarked on theship and sailed to Havana.

  The old Ursuline convent of New Orleans is now the archbishop'spalace. Sister Infelice is gone, but near some old cloister of Cuba weknow her ashes must now be reposing. Henceforth the gates were open.The wall decayed, the moat was filled, and over it to-day winds thehandsomest boulevard in America.

  The flatboatmen came home with romantic tales of the land of thepalmetto and orange, luxuries unknown in the rigorous north. The tideof emigration so long held in check burst its bounds and delugedLouisiana.

  Among other Americans that settled at New Orleans was the FightingParson. His son Charles Mynn Thruston had married Fanny.