The Avenging Angel: Catahoula Chronicles, #3

Chapter 1 – Changes

From Rachel’s Diary

28 July 1866

I knew, by the hard expression on my husband’s face, that he was nearing the limits of his patience. Listening to Mr. Waldo T. Pettigrew expound upon how he had been sent by Washington to repair the broken South and lead it from its wayward rebellious ways back into the Union fold was not sitting well with Ethan. In Pettigrew’s tone, you could hear the man’s utter contempt for people like us, southerners, whom he considered to be beneath his station.

Four years of war tends to change a man, and I knew it had affected my husband in ways I was yet to fully understand. But I was sure his tolerance level for carpetbaggers, like this one who came to bring us the way, the truth, and the light of his enlightened existence, was much diminished.

Can you swim? Ethan asked him in a dry, matter-of-fact manner.

Upon hearing that, I looked over the rail of our riverboat at the swirling, muddy waters of the Mississippi passing below. I knew exactly what he had in mind to do. Ethan, please don’t.

As this pompous ass pontificated on his considerable swimming ability, being as he was from the Atlantic Coast of New Jersey, Ethan noted my pleading expression punctuated by my arched eyebrow expressing my displeasure, a trick I learned from his mother. Thus admonished, he tipped his hat to Mr. Pettigrew and excused himself from his company.

I lingered for a moment only because Pettigrew inquired of me, Why did he suddenly leave? Did I say something that offended him?

I smiled. I believe he found your attitude toward the South offensive, as did I. And I would advise you to temper your speech during your stay in Louisiana—unless you fancy wearing tar and feathers.

Mr. Pettigrew’s shocked expression indicated he clearly understood my meaning. But—why did he ask if I could swim?

Because you, sir, were about two seconds away from him grabbing you by the scruff of your skinny neck and the seat of your store-bought trousers and tossing you overboard. You are not treading water right now only because I asked him not to do it.

His expression went blank as he took a deep breath and sighed before replying barely above a hoarse, stuttering whisper, I–I lied. I can’t swim.

I shrugged. Then I just saved your life.

*****

Nearing New Orleans, we stood alone at the rail as our riverboat churned downriver passed the many magnificent homes in the Greek revival style that graced the shores of the Mississippi River, grand homes, homes more opulent than our own. But in my mind, none of these were as beautiful as our Catahoula Plantation, a simple home in the Creole style along the Red River.

My heart was heavy with concerns for my husband. He had suffered terribly during the war, and he was still feeling its effects more than a year after its conclusion. He had spoken to me about some of what he experienced, but I sensed he was holding back, not wanting to upset me with gruesome details. From the corner of my eye, I looked at him as he stared off at the passing riverbank. His face was expressionless, but his eyes often narrowed, and I knew something was bothering him.

Are you all right? I asked.

Tolerable. His usual reply when he wished to be non-committal.

You weren’t really going to toss that man overboard, were you?

Yes, I was. Until you stopped me.

Suppose he would have drowned?

He looked away as if afraid to face me, but as he turned back, a frown spread slowly across his face. He would have deserved it.

For merely speaking as he did, which I will admit was thoughtless. But is that enough to kill a man?

He shook his head and looked down at the brown waters of the Mississippi boiling past. No, it’s not.

Ethan, I’m worried about you. Your temper has gotten worse.

He looked at me with sad eyes. I–I don’t know what to do. People like Pettigrew seem to easily get to me and arouse the anger inside.

The question is what is the real source of your anger. It isn’t Pettigrew or people like him. Such never seemed to bother you before.

There was a frustrated look on his face. Before? Before the war, you mean?

Yes. The war changed you. You weren’t this angry, and the man I now see sometimes frightens me.

He became pensive before answering. I would never hurt you, Rachel. I love you too much.

I know that, but what about those you don’t love so much?

He shrugged. I reckon they’re on their own.

You can’t just blow this off that easily. Your temper can get you into serious trouble.

He turned to fully face me, and his eyes flashed with anger. Rachel, I don’t think I want to talk about this any longer.

And I had to agree. I could see he was becoming quite agitated. But somehow, I must get him to talk about his pain inside. That may be the only way he can get it out of his system. For a while right after the war, he would talk, but soon he began to resist speaking of his experiences. I know the war was terrible for him. Living in Gettysburg when the war found me there, I experienced some of it myself, especially the truly awful aftermath of a recently abandoned major battlefield and the incredible damage and death associated with it. It was months before we could get a breath of fresh air that did not reek of corrupting animal and human dead.

For Ethan, it was far worse. He went through many battles. He was an aid to General Dick Taylor in ‘62, during Jackson’s Valley Campaign in places like Winchester, and Port Republic. After that, it was Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, then Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg. He was badly wounded after Gettysburg and was a year recovering from that. He returned to duty only to be captured during the late war campaign against Washington and spent the final year of the war as a prisoner in that awful place, Fort Delaware, where he was tormented and nearly killed by a sadistic guard.

He has seen things that would bring many of us to our knees, and he has done things he does not wish to even think about, much less speak of. To all those horrors, I believe we should add deep-seated guilt that he survived the war while so many of his friends did not.

Should it not be expected that such would change a man—even damage him?

Sadly, there are thousands of men just like Ethan who went through that terrible war and survived it only to be left suffering the effects of what is called nostalgia. These veterans came home, expecting to return to a normal peacetime existence, but they themselves were so utterly changed by their wartime experiences that they see their world in ways they did not see it before the war. Often for them, everything becomes a threat, and unchecked anger and frustration drive these men to do truly awful things in a vain attempt to regain what was before the war their normal lifestyle. This may, in some way, explain, though not excuse, some of their actions after the war.

Somehow, those of us who love these men must find ways to help them find relief from their mental torment—before they destroy themselves.

While many men came back damaged mentally, many also came home damaged physically with missing legs or arms or blinded. This often leaves them unable to earn any sort of living in the trade they practiced before the war and no chance for a new one after. Families are starving for want of the means to feed themselves.

Those are the wounded in body and soul who came home, but many did not come home at all. Some estimate that the South lost 300,000 men in that war. These were the men who would have worked the farms, run the plantations, built the cities, healed the sick, and hundreds of other professions and occupations—and help rebuild the South. But, they are not here. Instead, they rest in graves all over this country, some marked, and some known only to God.

Our men were not the only casualties of this long and brutal war. The southern economy is also badly broken. Many southerners held Confederate script or bonds, which are now worthless. It is hard to conceive of it, but there is simply very little money in circulation in the South. Without cash, there can be no investment in a recovery.

The planters had their fortunes tied up in land and slaves. With many of the latter gone or unwilling to work, the land has become a tax burden for its owner or to be forfeited to creditors holding the notes.

On the boat coming to New Orleans, Ethan spoke with some travelers, and they told of areas of the South, like in Georgia and South Carolina, that were little more than blackened scars on the land with broken fences, fields burned, and the once majestic homes naught but burned rubble. Only the tall chimneys remain as forlorn reminders of a once-proud plantation’s former glory.

Yes, the South is broken, and rebirth seems a long way off.

We managed to keep Catahoula operating by the hardest. Ethan borrowed money from his father, the money he had made from the sale of his properties before the war. He had wisely hidden it away in gold and Yankee dollars in case things went badly for the southern cause, and it did.

Labor is nearly impossible to find, and many days Ethan was in the fields behind a mule, cutting the earth to receive the seeds of life. He used his wits and his father’s investment to find ways to entice freedmen to come work for him. Had he not been successful in getting help, he would surely have died attempting to save Catahoula. He got enough planted and harvested that first summer after the war to risk hiring more freedmen. And it is only because of Ethan’s reputation for fairness and the way he pays his laborers did they come to work for us. Because of his hard work and his father’s generosity, we are now able to live a reasonably comfortable lifestyle many others only dream of these days, but we employ only as many as we absolutely need. Still, it is nothing like before the war when profits flowed. Men who earned $100,000 a year then must now get by without any house servants and may even be compelled to sell honey on side of the road to feed their families.

Even the freedmen are suffering. Before the war, they may have been slaves, but they had food, clothing, and a roof over their heads. No, I am not defending slavery. Neither Ethan nor I believe it was wise for America to enslave others. He freed his before the war as soon as he had the authority to do so. Now many of the freedmen think freedom means not having to work for the white man, or they have simply picked up and left for the larger cities, like Baton Rouge or New Orleans, to look for work there, any kind of work other than picking cotton or cutting cane. But they aren’t finding any jobs, and they are themselves starving and depending on the government and the Freedman’s Bureau to help them.

Indeed, that terrible war changed everything, and so far, it appears to be only for the worse.

Chapter 2 – New Orleans

We arrived in New Orleans on the afternoon of 28 July after our two-day trip from Catahoula Plantation along the Red River in Catahoula Parish. I secured a carriage to carry us to the home of my parents on Dauphine Street at Orleans. This visit was a bit unusual, since we were coming during the hottest months of the year in New Orleans, a time when many, who are able to do so, vacated the city for cooler, less humid climes with fewer mosquitoes. My parents had planned to spend their summers at Catahoula and reside in New Orleans only during the cooler months, but having been away from New Orleans for the four years of the war, Pernell, my father, seemed unable to extract himself from the Crescent City. I have too much business to attend to here. Perhaps we will spend next summer at Catahoula, was his excuse. We had not seen them since Christmas of ‘65 when Rachel and I had spent a month visiting. Of late, we had been far too busy at Catahoula getting fields prepared and crops planted and doing so without sufficient labor to properly accomplish the task. Thus, I was forced to leave some of the fields unplanted. This had prevented us from returning to New Orleans any sooner.

Indeed, my father did have much business to attend to. He had wisely seen the war coming and sold most of his properties, keeping only the Vieux Carré house in which they resided. With the war over, he found himself with ample cash and was busy investing, a financial condition few could claim.

Ester Legendre, a Creole servant who had been in my father’s employ since long before the war, met us at the door of my parent’s Vieux Carré home. Miss Rachel, Cap’n Ethan, so glad to see you again. Please, come in.

My mother was right behind her and enveloped me in one of her all-consuming hugs. Then she turned her attention to Rachel and swallowed her in like manner. Pernell! she fairly yelled, They are here!

I heard his footfalls on the stairs. I’m coming! I’m coming! And how is my favorite daughter-in-law? he said as he embraced Rachel, followed by kisses on both of her cheeks.

I’m your only daughter-in-law, and I’m just fine, thank you, she said followed by a smile.

But you would be my favorite even if I had twenty. He turned his attention to me, a broad smile swept over his face. Ethan, my boy, you look fit. Hard work agreeing with you?

Doesn’t much matter if it does or not. Help is expensive and difficult to find these days, and I must do many things for myself now. Those who have worked behind a plow now have my deepest sympathies. That is hard work.

While the rest of us went through our greetings, my mother stepped back and remained quiet. With her finger, she rubbed her chin with a questioning expression on her face as she studied Rachel. Slowly a smile burst forth from her lips and her eyes lit up.

Something bothering you? I asked.

That famous Analee eyebrow went up as she continued taking her daughter-in-law’s measure, her smile growing ever larger. After a few moments, she pointed to Rachel, and barely able to contain herself, she announced, Pernell, we are going to be grandparents!

Rachel blushed. You spoiled the surprise!

When? Analee exclaimed as the two weeping women embraced yet again.

End of February, I said as my father slapped me on the back.

Congratulations, son.

And I thought the two women would never stop hugging and weeping. Considering her previous spontaneous abortion, there had been a concern of no small nature when Rachel did not get pregnant soon after we were reunited. That miscarriage made this pregnancy all the more reason to rejoice.

We were soon settled in the guest bedroom, and Ester tapped gently on the door. Cap’n Ethan, dinner will be served in fifteen minutes.

Thank you, Ester.

Ester was the trusted servant with whom my father had left the keys and the care of his home during the war. Her mother, also a free woman before the war, was un créole de couleur. I had met her on a previous trip, but she had passed away in the spring. Ester’s mother had been a placées, a colored woman placed into a common-law relationship with a white man, thus she was a product of the practice of plaçage, which was fairly common in New Orleans. As a result, Ester was light-skinned, being about the color of rich café au lait, and she was quite comely. Women and their children in plaçage often enjoyed special privileges in the Creole society of New Orleans that other Negroes did not, including a higher standard of living as a second family of a white man, learning a trade for the children, and very often freedom as gens de couleur libres. Her husband, Isaac Legendre, was also un créole de couleur and a product of plaçage himself. He practiced the trade of saddle making and had a successful shop over near the river in the Faubourg Marigny downriver from the Vieux Carré.

For the main course at dinner, we enjoyed redfish courtbullion, fish prepared in a rich broth served over rice. Courtbullion is not normally served as a main dish, but this was not a formal Creole meal. Besides, my mother knew how much I loved courtbullion and had it prepared especially for me. We had good and varied fare at Catahoula, but I had not eaten this well since my last trip to New Orleans.

Over dinner, my mother and Rachel kept up a steady stream of baby talk. The grandmother-to-be was making all manner of plans and immediately informed Pernell they would spend Christmas at Catahoula this year and stay as long as she was needed after the baby was born.

After dinner, my father and I retired to the courtyard to enjoy the cool of the evening with cigars and aged cognac before the mosquitoes got too bad. The ladies remained in the parlor making plans for the baby. The two women were so engaged in animated conversations about Rachel’s pregnancy that you would have thought the little tyke was arriving within days.

I should take a moment to explain that I never knew my father until two years before this trip. My mother was married to Morgan Davis in an arranged marriage to help solve her father’s financial problems. She had been in love with Pernell Joubert when she was married off to Morgan Davis. I grew up thinking Morgan was my father, when in fact, Pernell Joubert was.

When I was seventeen, Rachel came into my life as Morgan’s ward—and we fell in love. Morgan went out of his way to keep us apart. His explanation was that he wanted to manage my life in detail, and he claimed Rachel would hold me back from my true potential. The real reason was that Rachel was his daughter by another woman. When Rachel found that out, she ran away. As it were, Morgan was not the only one with dark secrets, and with his untimely death, it came out that Rachel and I were not siblings, after all. My mother and Pernell had—well... I was the result.

I was left then to search for Rachel to tell her the truth that we could be together, but I didn’t know where she went, and the war sucked me into it, making looking for her virtually impossible.

Near the end of the war, I was taken prisoner and sent to Fort Delaware. It was there that I met my father for the first time. A friend eventually affected our release from prison, and Pernell and I went in search of Rachel, finally finding her in Washington City. Rachel and I were married, and with the war over, we returned to Catahoula, bringing my father along. Reunited with my mother, Analee, once again—well, they got married a month later.

Even in her middle age, my mother was a lovely woman. She aged well. She was strong-willed and willing to do whatever was needed of her by those she loved. She did, after all, allow herself to be literally sold off in a loveless marriage to Morgan Davis to save her father’s honor. She had suitors after his death during the war, but she remained single in the hope that she and Pernell could someday have a life together. She eventually got her wish.

Like my mother, my father was a New Orleans Creole, a handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes. It was often noted that he and I looked almost like twins, with the exception that he looked a bit older, and I had an ugly saber scar on my face, a souvenir from the war.

Rachel certainly seems excited about the baby, offered Pernell after lighting his cigar.

Indeed. She has already had me move the crib and a rocking chair into our bedchamber. You would think the baby was arriving tomorrow. We have been trying to get pregnant since last spring. She was concerned she could not and was wearing me out trying. Never thought something such as that could even come close to seeming like work.

Ethan!

Sorry. I suppose that was a bit personal?

Her miscarriage in ‘61 troubling her?

Yes, but I tried to remind her things were different then. She was under a tremendous amount of stress, being pregnant with our child, separated from me and thinking I was her brother, and of course, a war going on all around her. She wants a child so badly, and once she became pregnant this time, I could see the weight of her doubts lifted from her shoulders. There was a spring in her step I had not seen since that April of ‘61 when I came home from New Mexico Territory. She is deliriously happy at being pregnant, and I’m happy for her.

That’s good to hear.

I shook my head after a sip of my cognac. But then she began to fret she might spontaneously abort again. I struggled in my feeble way to reassure her everything would be fine and not to worry about it. She has been bouncing from happy to concerned and back to happy, then concerned again, and all at a moment’s notice. I hope this little visit and my mother’s encouragement might help her deal with her fears. I think she has me fretting over it now, and I’ll be glad when she finally delivers.

Whatever the reason, we’re very glad you came. Analee was lamenting about how long it has been since we have seen you two. I know it is hard for you to get away.

Indeed. There is so much that needs to be done back at Catahoula.

How are things at Catahoula?

Good as can be expected. Labor is always an issue, but I think I have that mostly under control.

My father nodded thoughtfully. Indeed, the planters who are still operating are having issues with the freedmen honoring their contracts. Just finding labor, much less reliable labor, is a problem. My father looked down at his glass of brandy, perhaps feeling a bit embarrassed at his own foresightedness. I have some money, but only because I liquidated all my possessions before the war and hid the proceeds, not trusting any bank in the time of war. But others were not so fortunate. There is no money in circulation because there is simply no money to circulate.

Central Louisiana is in no better condition. It seems each day we hear of some planter forced into bankruptcy because he could not pay the taxes on his land, and that is because he could not get in a crop and harvest sufficient enough to pay his debts. Cotton is down to half of what it sold for before the war.

Indeed, replied Pernell, England was our main customer, and they have developed other sources to feed their textile mills, like India and Egypt, and even South America. What need have they for American cotton? There is a glut on the market. Prices will not be going up anytime soon. In fact, they may go down more.

I shook my head as if that would change anything. And that means it’s extremely difficult for a plantation that was profitable before the war to be so today. It has even impacted the sugar industry. Bayou Teche was prosperous before the war, but now I hear all the sugarhouses have been destroyed with weeds and brush taking over the fields. There are few plantations in the area that are in good order, according to a gentleman I spoke to who had traveled through there recently. I fear our entire economy has been destroyed and likely will not recover for decades.

My father looked up and tossed back the last of his cognac. I hope you are wrong, but I believe you are not. The money I loaned you help?

Better than I hoped. I’m offering slightly higher wages than the others in the parish, which means I’m able to get and retain better quality workers. It’s risky, but I pay them as they complete certain tasks, but they must wait for when the crops are harvested and I get paid for them to get the final payment. This year I created a sub-overseer position that is a bit different than the old system. Big Jake remains my supervisor of all labor, and he is good at his job. I have overseers under him who are responsible for small gangs of workers. Each gang gets some objective or quota to meet, like hoe so many rows a day, mill so much lumber, or clear so many acres for planting. The overseer gets paid the same as the rest on his gang, but he gets a bonus if his gang achieves their objective. They have become quite good at weeding out the loafers. As a result, productivity is higher, and I’m able to operate with fewer laborers.

Good! You still running a Sunday school for the Negroes?

Absolutely. I consider their spiritual and moral growth important. We built a small chapel to meet in back at the end of the avenue of slave cabins—well, I guess we shouldn’t call them that anymore—‘labor cabins.’ Rachel and I use the new chapel to teach them how to read and do simple ciphers. Most are enthusiastic about that. It is a lot of work for Rachel, but we believe it is beneficial to Catahoula’s operations in the long run. I’ve learned from some that the chapel and schooling makes working for me more attractive. Some of the freedmen don’t want to learn and choose to remain ignorant, but many do want an education, and those are the ones I want to hire. They’ve proven to be the best workers. We turn away more than we need, and the ones we do hire know there are others waiting for their jobs should they quit or be dismissed. But we’ve outgrown the little school we built.

Outgrown it already?

"We have indeed, and we’re building a larger school on land Old Zeke donated from the land I gave him for staying with Analee through the war after I freed him. He built a small cabin on it but has no intention of farming the rest, so he figured since he wasn’t using it, someone should. We put up a building with lumber from timber on Old