THE PIQUE-EN-TERRE LOSES ONE OF HER CREW

Ask the average resident of New Orleans if his town is on an island, and he will tell you no.  He will also wonder how any one could have got that notion,-so completely has Orleans Island, whose name at the beginning of the present century was in everybody’s mouth, been forgotten.  It was once a question of national policy, a point of difference between Republican and Federalist, whether the United States ought to buy this little strip of semi-submerged land, or whether it would not be more righteous to steal it.  The Kentuckians kept the question at a red heat by threatening to become an empire by themselves if one course or the other was not taken; but when the First Consul offered to sell all Louisiana, our commissioners were quite robbed of breath.  They had approached to ask a hair from the elephant’s tail, and were offered the elephant.

For Orleans Island-island it certainly was until General Jackson closed Bayou Manchac-is a narrow, irregular, flat tract of forest, swamp, city, prairie and sea-marsh, lying east and west, with the Mississippi, trending southeastward, for its southern boundary, and for its northern, a parallel and contiguous chain of alternate lakes and bayous, opening into the river through Bayou Manchac, and into the Gulf through the passes of the Malheureuse Islands.  On the narrowest part of it stands New Orleans.  Turning and looking back over the rear of the town, one may easily see from her steeples Lake Pontchartrain glistening away to the northern horizon, and in his fancy extend the picture to right and left till Pontchartrain is linked in the west by Pass Manchac to Lake Maurepas, and in the east by the Rigolets and Chef Menteur to Lake Borgne.

An oddity of the Mississippi Delta is the habit the little streams have of running away from the big ones.  The river makes its own bed and its own banks, and continuing season after season, through ages of alternate overflow and subsidence, to elevate those banks, creates a ridge which thus becomes a natural elevated aqueduct.  Other slightly elevated ridges mark the present or former courses of minor outlets, by which the waters of the Mississippi have found the sea.  Between these ridges lie the cypress swamps, through whose profound shades the clear, dark, deep bayous creep noiselessly away into the tall grasses of the shaking prairies.  The original New Orleans was built on the Mississippi ridge, with one of these forest-and-water-covered basins stretching back behind her to westward and northward, closed in by Metairie Ridge and Lake Pontchartrain.  Local engineers preserve the tradition that the Bayou Sauvage once had its rise, so to speak, in Toulouse street.  Though depleted by the city’s present drainage system and most likely poisoned by it as well, its waters still move seaward in a course almost due easterly, and empty into Chef Menteur, one of the watery threads of a tangled skein of “passes” between the lakes and the open Gulf.  Three-quarters of a century ago this Bayou Sauvage (or Gentilly-corruption of Chantilly) was a navigable stream of wild and sombre beauty.

On a certain morning in August, 1804, and consequently some five months after the events last mentioned, there emerged from the darkness of Bayou Sauvage into the prairie-bordered waters of Chef Menteur, while the morning star was still luminous in the sky above and in the water below, and only the practised eye could detect the first glimmer of day, a small, stanch, single-masted, broad and very light-draught boat, whose innocent character, primarily indicated in its coat of many colors,-the hull being yellow below the water line and white above, with tasteful stripings of blue and red,-was further accentuated by the peaceful name of Pique-en-terre (the Sandpiper).

She seemed, too, as she entered the Chef Menteur, as if she would have liked to turn southward; but the wind did not permit this, and in a moment more the water was rippling after her swift rudder, as she glided away in the direction of Pointe Aux Herbes.  But when she had left behind her the mouth of the passage, she changed her course and, leaving the Pointe on her left, bore down toward Petites Coquilles, obviously bent upon passing through the Rigolets.

We know not how to describe the joyousness of the effect when at length one leaves behind him the shadow and gloom of the swamp, and there bursts upon his sight the widespread, flower-decked, bird-haunted prairies of Lake Catharine.  The inside and outside of a prison scarcely furnish a greater contrast; and on this fair August morning the contrast was at its strongest.  The day broke across a glad expanse of cool and fragrant green, silver-laced with a network of crisp salt pools and passes, lakes, bayous and lagoons, that gave a good smell, the inspiring odor of interclasped sea and shore, and both beautified and perfumed the happy earth, laid bare to the rising sun.  Waving marshes of wild oats, drooping like sated youth from too much pleasure; watery acres hid under crisp-growing greenth starred with pond-lilies and rippled by water-fowl; broad stretches of high grass, with thousands of ecstatic wings palpitating above them; hundreds of thousands of white and pink mallows clapping their hands in voiceless rapture, and that amazon queen of the wild flowers, the morning-glory, stretching her myriad lines, lifting up the trumpet and waving her colors, white, azure and pink, with lacings of spider’s web, heavy with pearls and diamonds-the gifts of the summer night.  The crew of the Pique-en-terre saw all these and felt them; for, whatever they may have been or failed to be, they were men whose heartstrings responded to the touches of nature.  One alone of their company, and he the one who should have felt them most, showed insensibility, sighed laughingly and then laughed sighingly, in the face of his fellows and of all this beauty, and profanely confessed that his heart’s desire was to get back to his wife.  He had been absent from her now for nine hours!

But the sun is getting high; Petites Coquilles has been passed and left astern, the eastern end of Las Conchas is on the after-larboard-quarter, the briny waters of Lake Borgne flash far and wide their dazzling white and blue, and, as the little boat issues from the deep channel of the Rigolets, the white-armed waves catch her and toss her like a merry babe.  A triumph for the helmsman-he it is who sighs, at intervals of tiresome frequency, for his wife.  He had, from the very starting-place in the upper waters of Bayou Sauvage, declared in favor of the Rigolets as-wind and tide considered-the most practicable of all the passes.  Now that they were out, he forgot for a moment the self-amusing plaint of conjugal separation to flaunt his triumph.  Would any one hereafter dispute with him on the subject of Louisiana sea-coast navigation?  He knew every pass and piece of water like A, B, C, and could tell, faster, much faster than he could repeat the multiplication table (upon which he was a little slow and doubtful), the amount of water in each at ebb tide-Pass Jean or Petit Pass, Unknown Pass, Petit Rigolet, Chef Menteur,-

Out on the far southern horizon, in the Gulf-the Gulf of Mexico-there appears a speck of white.  It is known to those on board the Pique-en-terre, the moment it is descried, as the canvas of a large schooner.  The opinion, first expressed by the youthful husband, who still reclines with the tiller held firmly under his arm, and then by another member of the company who sits on the centreboard-well, is unanimously adopted, that she is making for the Rigolets, will pass Petites Coquilles by eleven o’clock, and will tie up at the little port of St. Jean, on the bayou of the same name, before sundown, if the wind holds anywise as it is.

On the other hand, the master of the distant schooner shuts his glass, and says to the single passenger whom he has aboard that the little sail just visible toward the Rigolets is a sloop with a half-deck, well filled with men, in all probability a pleasure party bound to the Chandeleurs on a fishing and gunning excursion, and passes into comments on the superior skill of landsmen over seamen in the handling of small sailing craft.

By and by the two vessels near each other.  They approach within hailing distance, and are announcing each to each their identity, when the young man at the tiller jerks himself to a squatting posture, and, from under a broad-brimmed and slouched straw hat, cries to the schooner’s one passenger: 

“Hello, Challie Keene.”

And the passenger more quietly answers back: 

“Hello, Raoul, is that you?”

M. Innerarity replied, with a profane parenthesis, that it was he.

“You kin hask Sylvestre!” he concluded.

The doctor’s eye passed around a semicircle of some eight men, the most of whom were quite young, but one or two of whom were gray, sitting with their arms thrown out upon the wash-board, in the dark néglige of amateur fishermen and with that exultant look of expectant deviltry in their handsome faces which characterizes the Creole with his collar off.

The mettlesome little doctor felt the odds against him in the exchange of greetings.

“Ola, Dawctah!”

“He, Doctah, que-ce qui t’apres fe?”

“Ho, ho, compere Noyo!”

“Comment va, Docta?”

A light peppering of profanity accompanied each salute.

The doctor put on defensively a smile of superiority to the juniors and of courtesy to the others, and responsively spoke their names: 

“’Polyte-Sylvestre-Achille-Emile-ah!  Agamemnon.”

The Doctor and Agamemnon raised their hats.

As Agamemnon was about to speak, a general expostulatory outcry drowned his voice.  The Pique-en-terre was going about close abreast of the schooner, and angry questions and orders were flying at Raoul’s head like a volley of eggs.

“Messieurs,” said Raoul, partially rising but still stooping over the tiller, and taking his hat off his bright curls with mock courtesy, “I am going back to New Orleans.  I would not give that for all the fish in the sea; I want to see my wife.  I am going back to New Orleans to see my wife-and to congratulate the city upon your absence.”  Incredulity, expostulation, reproach, taunt, malediction-he smiled unmoved upon them all.

“Messieurs, I must go and see my wife.”

Amid redoubled outcries he gave the helm to Camille Brahmin, and fighting his way with his pretty feet against half-real efforts to throw him overboard, clambered forward to the mast, whence a moment later, with the help of the schooner-master’s hand, he reached the deck of the larger vessel.  The Pique-en-terre turned, and with a little flutter spread her smooth wing and skimmed away.

“Doctah Keene, look yeh!” M. Innerarity held up a hand whose third finger wore the conventional ring of the Creole bridegroom.  “W’at you got to say to dat?”

The little doctor felt a faintness run through his veins, and a thrill of anger follow it.  The poor man could not imagine a love affair that did not include Clotilde Nancanou.

“Whom have you married?”

“De pritties’ gal in de citty.”

The questioner controlled himself.

“M-hum,” he responded, with a contraction of the eyes.

Raoul waited an instant for some kindlier comment, and finding the hope vain, suddenly assumed a look of delighted admiration.

“Hi, yi, yi!  Doctah, ’ow you har lookingue fine.”

The true look of the doctor was that he had not much longer to live.  A smile of bitter humor passed over his face, and he looked for a near seat, saying: 

“How’s Frowenfeld?”

Raoul struck an ecstatic attitude and stretched forth his hand as if the doctor could not fail to grasp it.  The invalid’s heart sank like lead.

“Frowenfeld has got her,” he thought.

“Well?” said he with a frown of impatience and restraint; and Raoul cried: 

“I sole my pigshoe!”

The doctor could not help but laugh.

“Shades of the masters!”

“No; ‘Louizyanna rif-using to hantre de h-Union.’”

The doctor stood corrected.

The two walked across the deck, following the shadow of the swinging sail.  The doctor lay down in a low-swung hammock, and Raoul sat upon the deck a la Turque.

“Come, come, Raoul, tell me, what is the news?”

“News?  Oh, I donno.  You ‘eard concernin’ the dool?”

“You don’t mean to say-”

“Yesseh!”

“Agricola and Sylvestre?”

“W’at de dev’!  No!  Burr an’ ’Ammiltong; in Noo-Juzzy-las-June.  Collonnel Burr, ’e-”

“Oh, fudge! yes.  How is Frowenfeld?”

“’E’s well.  Guess ’ow much I sole my pigshoe.”

“Well, how much?”

“Two ’ondred fifty.”  He laid himself out at length, his elbow on the deck, his head in his hand.  “I believe I’m sorry I sole ’er.”

“I don’t wonder.  How’s Honore?  Tell me what has happened.  Remember, I’ve been away five months.”

“No; I am verrie glad dat I sole ’er.  What?  Ha!  I should think so!  If it have not had been fo’ dat I would not be married to-day.  You think I would get married on dat sal’rie w’at Proffis-or Frowenfel’ was payin’ me?  Twenty-five dolla’ de mont’?  Docta Keene, no gen’leman h-ought to git married if ’e ‘ave not anny’ow fifty dolla’ de mont’!  If I wasn’ a h-artiz I wouldn’ git married; I gie you my word!”

“Yes,” said the little doctor, “you are right.  Now tell me the news.”

“Well, dat Cong-ress gone an’ make-”

“Raoul, stop.  I know that Congress has divided the province into two territories; I know you Créoles think all your liberties are lost; I know the people are in a great stew because they are not allowed to elect their own officers and legislatures, and that in Opelousas and Attakapas they are as wild as their cattle about it-”

“We ‘ad two big mitting’ about it,” interrupted Raoul; “my bro’r-in-law speak at both of them!”

“Who?”

“Chahlie Mandarin.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Doctor Keene,-which was the truth.  “Besides that, I know Laussat has gone to Martinique; that the Americains have a newspaper, and that cotton is two-bits a pound.  Now what I want to know is, how are my friends?  What has Honore done?  What has Frowenfeld done?  And Palmyre,-and Agricole?  They hustled me away from here as if I had been caught trying to cut my throat.  Tell me everything.”

And Raoul sank the artist and bridegroom in the historian, and told him.