The Aberystwith Observer

tALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] CAPTAIN TRAFALGAR: A STORY OF THE MEXICAN GULF. Bendered into English and Edited by WILLIAM WESTALL, From the French of ANDRE LAURIE. CHAPTER V. BLACK TOWN. THE following week my father informed me (one evening at dinner) that the time for our tryst with Jean Corbiac was close at hand, and warned me to hold myself in readiness. The announcement rather took me by surprise, for, with the usual carelessness of youth, I bad not thought once, during our twenty-seven days' stay at Now Orleans, of the business we had on hand. But when my father took two pistols from his bag, loaded them carefully, and put one in his pocket, and gave me the other, my curiosity revived. We had fifteen minutes before us, the third quarter after eight having only just gone, and the Place d'Armes, now called Jackson-square, being but a few steps from the Golden Lion. Nevertheless, my father desired to set out forthwith. During our Walk he was, if possible, more silent than usual; but 1 could easily see that his silence was due rather to emotion than pre-occupation, as if the scene and the .occasion were recalling old, and perhaps melancholy, memories. The Place d'Armes was a large open square, formerly kept in good order, now covered with yellow grass, bordered on the seaside by the old palace of the French governors, on the side opposite by the cathedral of St. Louis, on the left by a prison, on the right by a Capucine convent-the microcosm of a French colony under the ancien regime. Two badly kept paths ran diagonally across the square, and their point of intersection in the middle was the ;place which Jean Corbiac had appointed for our rendezvous. No better could have been chosen, the great square being so little frequented that neither during our walk thither nor the ten or twelve minutes of our waiting did we see a single wayfarer. But as the clock of St. Louis struck nine a human form appeared at the end of the walk leading into the Rue St. Pierre, and came rapidly towards us. As it drew near, we perceived that the new-comer was a negress shrouded in a black mantle, and wearing, turban-wise round her head, a bright-coloured neckerchief. She walked with lowered eyes, as if she did not notice us, until she was quite close, and then, after glancing backwards, probably to see whether she was followed, she uttered, without stopping, a single 'Word— BARATARIA." My father's answer was also a single word— BELUCHE." Follow me at a distance of ten or fifteen paces, without appearing to do so, and enter where I enter," ,said the negress. We followed. The woman, going swiftly forward, 11 took the diagonal walk as far as the corner of the palace, then up the Rue St. Philippe and the Rue Royal. At the end of the latter street, which, like all the others, was quite deserted, she turned towards the north-west. O ir guide next led us to the old French enclosure, built of sun-dried bricks, and already falling into ruin. After doubling towards the south-east, and following the rampart in the Rue Dauphin, we reached a quarter which I recognised as the suburb of St. Jean. Continuing our walk by the principal street of this Suburb, and crossing by a wooden bridge a stagnant pond, the residue of a recent inundation, we finally passed out of the city proper, and found ourselves in a labyrinth of lanes, intersected by bayous, which was quite strange to me. A bayou, it may be well to explain, signifies in the old French of Louisiana, a secondary arm, or even a mere branch or thread of the Mississippi. It is a local corruption of the word boyau." The first pioneers sent out by the French government were the engineer officers who planned the city; and there is reason to believe that, being short of a word to denote the natural channels formed by the great river, they called them boyaux," a term of art used by experts in fortifications to designate the embranchments of a principal trench. In the course of time, and in the speech of the early settlers, most of whom were Gascons, the word became bayou, and so remains. But whatever may be the derivation of their name, the channels were, for us and our guide, the cause of -continual detours we twisted about in all directions, and after walking nearly an hour, still went on until we began to fear that we should never come to our journey's end. After a while we found ourselves in a sort of tropical ghetto, which seemed to be exclusively inhabited by bales of cotton and negroes, whose Wretched cabins were covered with a rank vegetation. The air, moreover, was heavy with malarious vapours. Black boys, sitting astride the branches of trees, or squatted on the ground-most of them chewing tobacco—watched us with idle curiosity. Naked children rolled in the dust, and played with vagrant pigs and masterless dogs. Yet, despite these sordid surroundings, the people appeared to be happy and even gay. Here and there were merry groups dancing to the music of a guitar or a tambourine, for negroes, when their characters have not been modified by education, are great children, expansive and turbulent, as prompt to anger as to laughter, to tears aa to joy. You may imagine how the scenes, so different from anything I had witnessed in Brittany, made me open my eyes. As we went-always at ten or twelve paces behind our guide-I remarked a igroup of negroes and negresses, who were gathered round a singular being, to whom they seemed to be listening with almost religious attention—a negro, past middle age, and of herculean build. His face, on which fell the fitful glare of a resinous torch, was a mixture of ferocity and cunning. In the way of dress he wore a nondescript garment, between a woman's petticoat and a Highlander's kilt, a necklace of amulets, and a battered old hat. "Ah, yes! a beautiful country, the country of Livart Congo," he exclaimed, rolling his great blood- shot eyes and shaking his woolly head. "Down there, or in the bayous-flowers and trees! Here, Poor black people always beaten, always hungry, always working. Down there, nothing to do— plenty to eat, turtle, pig, yams, bananas, everything Here, wicked white people let us have nothing." Don't seem to me as you wants much, Livart "Congo," cried an old negress, with a. laughing face, who sat on her heels not far from the petticoated orator. "'You as fat as a pig. How much Cbloe give you when you pretended cure her of the fever ? Not less than a piastre, I know. And the rice and the cakes you pocket when you draw tooths! Ah! me not much pity you, Livart Congo." You hold your tongue, or I send the devil to tie your feet dis night," shouted the other, trembling with rage. "Is it really true you can make him come?" asked a young woman, whose eyes were dilated with terror at the mere idea of so terrible a visitation. Yes, can I; and when ho is vexed he comes without 'making, Replied Livart Congo, with a norrible grimace. And when is he vexed ?" What the answer was I did not hear, as just then a boisterous band of young people burst in, shout- ing, Zenobia Pella is going to dance! Zenobia Pella is going to dance!" and everybody left the old man for the new-comer. A mat being laid on the ground, and a lantern placed near it, the dancer stepped into the circle formed by the spectators. Enormous, obese, and grotesque, she had a bestial face, a flat nose, thick purple .1IpS, and eyes so small that they looked like holes pierced m a mass of ebony flesh. Her costume consisted of a shawl of rose crepe thrown over a dirty white gown. From the gown emerged a pair of elephantine legs in ludicrous contrast with her long grasshopper-like arms, which she waved wildly about, at the Fame time contorting her body, whirling round and ronnd, and singing the while a weird song !?I a language I did not understand, the refrain of which was taken up from time to time by the -onlookers, from whose gestures and glances I gathered that our presence was not particularly welcome. 3 All at once the dancer ceased her contortions, and 'know ^"e8t'on to onr guide, whom she seemed to a j Claircine Where you from ?'' she cried, sglassTof tafi ar,d see me dance, and pay for a '0- 0 J3108* 8° home, Zenobia Pella," answered the to » quietly. You know that I always go early 1 know. To take care of the little white Jamb," answered Zenobia, with a hideous smile. .ton are well paid for it, I suppose. All the same, it is very good of you to work so hard, washing and ironing, and break your back for the sake of the little white lamb. When I was at the St. Maur plantation I used to wash my feet in the big pan, and wipe the dishes with my old petticoat. We did as we liked there, I can tell you." On this all laughed boisterou-ly. The old hag's jokes seemed to be exactly to the taste of her hearers. You would do better not to boast of such things, if you have really done them," said Claircine, as quietly as before. She was evidently desirous not to provoke a quarrel. "And why not?" put in the negro we had heard called Livart Congo. Why not ? don't talk nonsense Give me a piastre, and I will tell you a good story." No, no, Livart Congo, I must go home." "Why in such a hurry? Is not Cupidon taking care of your white Iamb ? Come and have a drink with us at Monplaisir Giraud's You won't ? As you like, Madam Claircine. Zenobia Pella, you will come ? Here, my son (addressing a hunch- back who squatted hard by), play us a tune as we go along." Hi! Hi! Alligny Adrusa fiddles like an angel! Zenobia Pella dances like a bird!" cried several voices. Livart Congo will tell us stories at Giraud's! Come along Come along Whereupon the grotesque trio set off, followed by the spectators, who formed a procession which could be likened only to the burlesque of a village wedding, or a company of escaped lunatics. The eccentricity of their costumes was in keeping with the strangeiless of their physiognomies. One of the negresses who surrounded Zenobia Pella had a mantle of shot silk over a ragged print petticoat, and she walked arm-in- arm with-a huge dandy whose blue coat was out at elbows, and adorned with brass buttons, and his head tied up in a yellow handkerchief. Another woman sported a pair of white cotton stockings in lieu of gloves. The rear guard was headed by a ten-year-old urchin carrying an old copper kettle, on which he rattled a hideous tattoo. All went in a body towards a large cabin at the corner of the street, which I presumed was the dram-shop of Monplaisir Giraud. My father perceived the mingled astonishment and disgust with which this scene and the bestial faces of the negroes inspired me. "Poor wretches!" he said. "You may well be surprised; but you must remember that their degradation is not of their own making. These people are mostly from St. Domingo they came here with their owners at the time of the insurrection. They are of a very low type, and debased by long servitude »r>nd hard usuage. No wonder they rebelled What better can you expect ?" Our conductress now signed to us to resume our walk, and we were soon in a more agreeable neigh- bourhood. The bales of cotton were succeeded by groves of trees, magnolias perfumed the air, and here and there was a white cottage covered with greenery and half hidden in a fair garden. Everything was in striking contrast with the quarter we had just traversed, and harmonised so well with the appear- ance of the woman who preceded us that I felt certain we were approaching the end of our journey. I was so far right that shortly afterwards Claircine stopped at a well-trimmed hedge-row, and, turning in at a little gate, led the way to a white cottage, which stood in the-midst of a well-kept garden, bright with flowers. Before the closed door sat an old negro knitting a child's sock: his hair was white, and he wore a woman's shawl. Cupidon has been here all the time," said this queer-looking creature. Cupidon will go to bed now." "WOULD YOU KINDLY TELL US WHICH IS THE WAY TO THE CITY TO THE CITY ¡n Thank you," returned the negress, and the old fellow toddled off without another word. As he disappeared Claircine opened the door, and, having lighted a lamp, invited my father and myself to enter. She stood on the threshold, holding the lamp aloft, and as its light fell on her handsome features, and revealed her splendid proportions, I thought she was the finest woman I hadj ever seen. Aunt Clair- cine, as I afterwards learnt to call her, was as tall, powerful, and puissant as a caryatide of marble, yet the nobility of her gestures, the admirable pose of her head, and her finely-formed arms made yju think of one of those fabled Nubian divinities, beneath whose agate eyes lay hidden an unspeakable sadness. The expression of her eyes was sweet, melancholy, and pathetic-the look of a hunted stag at the moment when it is seized by the ravening pack. Her lips, though large, were both shapely and chaste, showing when she smiled two rows of regular and pearl-like teeth. Claircine knew she was beautiful, and, besides being scrupulously neat, dressed becomingly and with great taste. Nobody could look at her and retain the prejudice which denies to the negro race tke attribute of beauty. You smile at my enthusiasm. In truth, I have never known a more perfect creature than Claircine, for her moral qualities were'the complement of her personal charms. Yet she was a slave The room into which she took us resembled the interior of an old-fashioned French cottage. There was a fire-place, occupying nearly the whole of one side, a huge four-post bedstead, with red cotton curtains, an ancient timepiece, and the cooking utensils that hung on the wall showed that the apart- ment served both as kitchen and dormitory. After closing the door, Claircine regarded my father with a pleasant smile, and asked if he was not Massa Sordar." Yes," he replied. "And this one ?" pointing to me. II My son, Martin Sordar." Then all is well," she said joyfully, and taking my father's hand, she covered it with kisses. This done, she paid the same homage to me, much to my confusion, and called down on my head unnumbered blessings. "And I," she exclaimed, turning to my father, am Claircine, Bos ette's nurse." This remark did not enlighten me much, and my father, though he missed nothing, offered no explanation. Then taking his band, and leading him to the bed, she drew back the curtains, and pointed with pride to a little boy of some eight or nine years old, who lay there quietly sleeping. He was a beautiful child. His long curls were spread over the pillow like a mass of golden threads; his features already denoted energy of character and strength of will, and his skin, though slightly sunburnt, was as fresh as a rose. His son It is Florimond!" said Claircine. And then, lowering her voice, she added with a significant gesture: He is here!" "He!" cried my father, whom this news seemed both to surprise and disquiet. Himself," replied Claircine, triumphantly. But when IiSay here,' I mean not far from here, and in a safe place. He wants to see you, and ask you to take charge of his children. That is why he asked you to come. Poor massa! He is very sick." "Sick! He?" demanded my father, as if he re- fused to admit the possibility of such a thing. "Yes. He is very sick. So sick that he will die!" Tears rolled down my father's cheeks, and for a minute he was too much moved to speak. But con- quering his emotion by a great effort, he said in his ordinary manner: What am I to do ? Where are my instructions ?" Claircine took her little lamp, and went to a corner of the room; but, instead of opening a drawer or box, as I expected, she reached up to a shelf and, lifting down a sack of maize, placed it on the floor. Then she undid the sack, and plunging her arm up to the elbow into this strange receptacle, she drew out a written paper, without signature, and handed it to my father. It ran as follows: S. will go to-morrow morning to the Usuline Convent. He will introduce himself to the Superior in his true character; and she will place in his charge my daughter Rosette, who is being educated there as Mademoiselle Dupuy.' Once in possession of my two children (Florimond is with Claircine) he will join me at the place which will be indicated to him by that excellent and worthy woman, in whom he may have all confidence. I want to embrace my children and my old friend before I die.—Burn this paper." After reading and re-reading this letter several times, as if he wished to stamp every word of it on his memory, my father went up to the fire, lighted the paper, and sadly and silently watched it burn. Then turning to Claircine he said he should bring the young airl at ten o'clock on the following morning. I have been ready a week, she answered proudly. "All is prepared. You have only to bring Rosette. I have merely to order another horse for Massa Martin," she added with a laugh. "He was not expected. Can you find your way to my house, or shall I wait for you outside the convent ?" You need not take the trouble. We can find our way. But is there not some less frequented road by which I can bring Mademoiselle ? I don't like bring- ing her through that horrible Black Town." There is no other road, if there were I should use it; you surely don't think I come through the Black Town by choice it is because of the bayous; you would have to go at least six miles round, and order boats to be ready beforehand, but in the early morn- ing Black Town is deserted, they are all at work." Very well; it is agreed then. We shall come by the Black Town. Good night." Claircine again grasped my father's hand and lifted it to her lips. "God bless you! God bless you!" she exclaimed with deep emotion. Poor massa! he will die in peace now that his children are in good hands. The young massa, he also is good 1 saw it in his eyes when he looked at Florimond. He will be Florimond'a brother, and my darling Rosette, my dear little girl, will be his sister. She always calls me Mamma Claircine. Other black nurses are called aunt;' but Rosette always calls me mamma. Ah, massa love her." My father silently pressed the good woman's hand, and she, exchanging emotion for vivacity, explained volubly and in great detail the arrangements which she had made for our departure. This done, she profited by the occasion to expatiate on the beauty and perfections of her darling. Rosette, a topic on which she dwelt so eloquently as to make me quite eager to see the object of her eulogies. If Rosette was at all like her brother, she could not help being very good looking. I was eighteen, and at eighteen -well, one builds castles in the air sometimes: I know I did. Before leaving the cottage my father bent over the bed and kissed the sleeping child. I was about to do the sama, when there came a knock at the door, and in walked, without ceremony, Zenobia Pella. How Claircine! Not in bed yet?" she exclaimed, her piggish eyes, as she looked at us, burning with curiosity. Not yet," answered Claircine in her most sta'ely manner. "As you know, Zenobia, I always mind my own business I have no time for gossip, I stop at home and look after my house. You do the same, Zenobia go and give your children their supper, I am sure they want it; besides, it is not polite to come in when one has visitors, above all, when they are white massas." This long speech, delivered with an air of great authority, produced a marked impression. Zenobia lowered her head and murmured an excuse, at the same time, however, throwing round a glance which seemed to take in every detail. Watching her closely, for the woman was bewitchingly hideous, it struck me that her eye rested with a peculiarly evil expression on the sleeping boy. Claircine appeared to be of the same opinion, for with an abrupt gesture she closed the curtains and pointed to the door. "Go, Zenobia," she said, gravely; go, and think no evil." The negress smiled obsequiously and obeyed, and a few minutes later we took our departure. Claircine accompanied us to the garden gate, and gave us such full directions as to our road home, that we felt sure we should have no difficulty in finding it. But the disappearance of the crowds which half-an- hour before had run riot in the streets, the closing of the houses, and the deepening darkness had so altered the appearance of Black Town that when we got there we knew not which way to turn. The lanes seemed to be all alike and there was nobody of whom we could make inquiry all were gone to bed. After several desperate attempts to escape from the be- wildering labyrinth of cotton bales and cabins, we were still so hopelessly lost that we could not tell on which side of us lay the city. We were beginning to think that we should have to sitay among the cotton bales all night, when we saw in the distance a luminous point, the burning end of a cigar, and behind it the vague shadow of a man. Would you kindly tell us which is the way to the city and the quay, my good fellow ?" said my father, going up to the smoker. Strangely enough this simple inquiry seemed to surprise the stranger beyond measure. He started violently, like a man who, while deep in thought, is struck suddenly on the shoulder by an unseen hand. I then perceived that he was extremely tall, but in the darkness, and under the shadow of a broad- brimmed straw hat, his features were quite undis- tinguishable. My father, getting no answer, repeated his question inalouder voice. Willingly," said the man, in a strong Creole accent. I will go with you to the end of this street, and show you the nearest way." You are probably strangers in New Orleans ?" he asked, as we moved off. Yes," answered my father drily, and, as I thought, almost rudely. Rather late to be in the Black Town, isn't it ? No business is done at this hour; but you doubtless wanted to se e some of these niggers." This time my father did not answer at all, even by a monosyllable. You said you wanted to go to the quay are you staying at the White Horse, or the Golden Lion ?" Still no answer. Were you not just now with Claircine ?" con- tinued the stranger, with cool effrontery. Zenobia Pella told me that she had had a visit from two whites, probably to see the little boy she takes care of. Perhaps he is your child, and you, I suppose. are a sailor, no doubt an officer ?" Still no answer, and I now began to wonder at the fellow's impertinent curiosity, as I had before wondered at my father's silence. When we reached the end of the street I observed (either the darkness having become less dense or my vision more acute) that our guide was a mulatto, long of body and limb, and in build a very Hercules. But I judged him to be of an amiable, if rather over- curious disposition, as, notwithstanding my father's obstinate silence, he redoubled his attentions, and was almost obsequiously polite. "That is your road," he said at length, pointing to the left. You have only to go to the church, of which you can just see the steeple, then cross over the bayou by the wooden bridge, and you are in the Rue Dauphine. If you like I shall be glad to accompany you." Thank you," said my father, I know where we are now. Good-night." Until we were well past the church, my father said not another word, but hurried on, now and again look- iiu; back as if he thought somebody might be following us. His uneasiness was so evident that, after we had crossed the wooden bridge, I asked what troubled him. Well, that fellow is the very last I would have chosen to meet, especially at this time, and in this neighbourhood. I did wrong not to blow out his brains. His name is Vic Lubin, the WJrst scoundrel in the two Americas. There is no atrocity of which he is not capable." I tried to convince my father how improbable it was that after so long an absence from New Orleans he should be recognised on so dark a night, to say nothing of his altered appearance. All the same, I cannot say that I had much confidence in my own assurances. Something told me that at the very moment he spoke to Vio Lubin the latter recognised his voice. Be that as it may, we were certainly not followed, as we convinced ourselves by hiding in the shadow of a building and watching whether anybody passed by. Reassured by the result of this experiment we walked quietly to our quarters at the Golden Lion. (To be contittued.)