Winter

Winter is a sigh,
a surrender
a secret whispered in
the creak of trees,
bones that bend
and sometimes break
in the breeze.

She shuffles in
On her walker,
Carried by the scent
Of burnt hearths
And hearts that
No longer quicken
At the promise
Of tomorrow

She sleeps
later every year
And fades
Like photographs
Too long in the sun

Each memory
A blow, the trail
Of a tear that’s
Forgotten why
It’s crying.

~ Elodie Pritchartt, October 29, 2014

A Winter's Tale

In the quiet morning
beneath the cashmere calm,
behind the dog's soft snoring
and the purring knead of pinked flesh,
a chill threatens from the door
that won't quite close.

The wind teases
the cracks around the casement,
searches for purchase on the slippery ledge,
its sucking need just outside.

The winter sky has gone
dull white, a rictus that sucks
the color from the earth.
And no thousand trees' brown
fingers can pull it back.

Something perches on the sill,
spies through the shutters,
ruffles it feathers and waits
for the shattering.

Poor Monster.

It is consumed with lonely
and it wants only
you. Wrap yourself in dread
and wait for the final signal bell.

The last train leaves at dusk.

Natchez Kittens in Desperate Need of Home

Have you seen the “W” kitties?

They have lived in the NACHS Shelter for most of their little lives. Until a week ago they had never seen the sun, never felt the cool grass beneath their paws, and never had the freedom to run.

The fact that the “W” kitties have been in a cage most of their little lives is not their only setback. They have the unfortunate “luck” to be born with a neurological problem. In other words they don’t always land on their paws like most kitties. (They appear to have gotten into a little wine!) These lovable kittens have a little trouble walking, jumping, and playing; but they are survivors!

Wardell (solid black) is the one that was tested in order to identify the cause of the coordination problems he and his brothers were having. Even though he went through painful testing, he still loves people. Wardell is also the first to venture out and try new things. He is the leader of the pack!

Wayne is the only black and white kitty. He is the lover boy!! He will curl up against your leg; look up at you with his eyes saying,” I love you.” Then he will rub his little head against your hand.

Wade (solid black) is loves to snuggle and he especially loves belly rubs. Wade likes to play and chase his brothers.

Waldo (solid black) was the timid one. Now he is very visible and having a grand time. His lack of coordination is the most noticeable. His rear end has a hard time following his front which causes him to occasionally tumble; however, he gets up and tries again.

I have the privilege of fostering these precious “drunk” kitties and have enjoyed every moment. They have been neutered, had shots, and want someone to love. They are litter box experts and have no other problems except slight coordination difficulties. They need to be indoor kitties or in a fenced in yard (they are unable to climb).

Immediate short term foster care or loving homes URGENTLY needed.

Please see them before saying "no".

Contact: mariegasquet@cableone.net

Suicide is Painless

Suicide is Painless

People will go to any lengths for fame, won't they? In the May, 1800 edition of a Natchez Newspaper, Thomas Thackwood advertized his upcoming public suicide by pistol -- one shot for the abdomen and another for the brain (his own, that is), promising his audience plenty of staggering, convulsing and grinning.

Heck, if you've got nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon, why not?

"C'mon, honey! Grab the kids. Let's go to the killin'."

Not to be outdone, however, he warned readers not to be taken in by claims of Mr. Touchwood, whose public hanging, Thackwood claimed, would only be staged.

I don't blame him. If I'm going to a killing, it better be the real deal.

You can read the ad here.

And, yeah, I couldn't resist: Mr. Thackwood went out with a bang.

*Posted by Elodie
*Photo not the man in the story. Just an old photo.

Childhood Memory Resurfaces in a Cast-Iron Coffin

A guest blog today by a new friend, Ann Dupont from Shreveport, Louisiana.

        The story I am about to share is true, historical and — some might say — rather dark. The fact that it led me up the front steps to Shantybellum.com to ring the doorbell and ask about pictures of magnolia trees seems a bit funny now but I'’ll always consider meeting Elodie Pritchartt to be my personal legacy from a mysterious young woman who died almost 200 years ago.

        I was 9 years old, living in Monroe, Louisiana, in 1955. No one had ever heard of cell phones back then; no one carried a camera. Something happened one day that those who knew about firsthand probably never forgot, but nobody else ever knew anything about it unless they happened to read one account in the local newspaper. It happened one day and was pretty much over and done with the next, but the memory has haunted my thoughts for over 55 years.

—

        My father was working on the campus of what was then called Northeast Louisiana State College. Nearby a construction crew laying a water line to a home being constructed along Bayou DeSiard, off Lakeshore Drive, accidently hit a brick tomb or crypt and the entire enclosure collapsed, revealing a cast-iron casket which had a glass viewing window, protected by a removable cast-iron plate, over part of the top. The body inside the coffin was in perfect condition, so well preserved that even a wreath of magnolia blooms and leaves encircling her upper body was still intact.

        The coffin was taken to a Monroe funeral home the day it was unearthed where my parents, along with hundreds of others, went to view it that night.

        The petite young woman was buried in a black silk dress that was clearly visible as was a lace handkerchief and reportedly a diamond ring on one hand. Unfortunately the glass window was cracked when the bricks collapsed and the body began to show signs of decomposition, so it was hastily reburied in a Monroe cemetery the following morning.

        The ornate Fisk coffin still bore traces of orange and black paint. There was a sterling silver nameplate engraved, "St. Clair Wade" that listed the woman’'s age as either 30 or 39 and the date September 7, 1814. The nameplate was also damaged but there was a capital "H" and other small, indistinguishable letters before the St. Clair but no other information.

        A local historian named John Humble said he thought there was a good chance the woman could have been one of Benjamin Tenneile'’s four daughters. The Tenneiles had once lived on the property where the coffin was found.   It was part of the Magenta Plantation, which had been previously owned by Col. Frank P. Stubbs's’ family before the Civil War.

        In searching genealogy websites for information regarding the Tenneile family, it didn’t take long before I found a biography on genealogy.com for Benjamin Tenneile, born around 1750 in Prince William County, Virginia, who died June 30, 1811, in "Bayou de Siard, Monroe, Ouachita Parish, LA."

        Naturally I would find this tiny text around 11 p.m. but there was no mistaking what my tired old eyes were seeing in the last paragraph:

"In 1955, while workers were laying a water line for a home being constructed on Lakeshore Drive in Monroe, a brick tomb was accidently unearthed. On the casket was the name 'St. Clair Wade,' age 30 or 39, and the date September 7, 1814.

"The property had at one time belonged to the McEnery family and was called Magenta Plantation. It was thought at the time that the young woman may have been Mary St. Clair Morrison, wife of Joseph Wade. The connection with the Tenneile or McEnery families is not known."

        There is an early entry in the record books of Ouachita Parish in 1809 that reads, "The first marriage license to be recorded in Ouachita Parish was in 1809 when John Hughes, a farmer of Bayou de Siard, was authorized by law to celebrate the privilege of marriage with Mary St. Clair Tenneile."

        So, with that, I finally felt like I had found closure for the bits and pieces of a strange, mysterious story a 9-year-old child’'s impressionable mind would hold onto indefinitely, but the realization that this was but one such story of men, women and children buried in Fisk cast-iron coffins whose remains were later found to be perfectly preserved has led to a desire to learn more.

        So how did this story lead me to Elodie'’s front door? In researching the partial name "St. Clair Wade", one historian somewhere along the way referred to "St. Clara Wade". Elodie had posted beautiful old pictures of a young woman in Natchez named Clara Wade. Guess what Clara had in her front yard? Two huge magnolia trees. 

Two heads are better than one but that’'s not saying much when two women who have probably watched too much Law & Order try to figure out what "St." could be an abbreviation for or why Clara Wade would have been in Monroe.

        It’s been interesting and fun putting the puzzle pieces together and I am so happy to have gotten to know Elodie.

As I was searching for photos to go with this story, I came across a few stories about similar mysterious cast-iron coffins.  You can read one here.    Also, if anyone has any information on what the "H" or the "St." in St. Clair Wade is, we'd love to hear it.  ~ Elodie

Cherry Grove: A Ghost Tale

All around the old place,

the dead visit. The

day he opened up the trunk

of that sweetgum tree,

and before we saw the

horseshoe hanging inside,

something brushed against

my face. I heard a nickering

far away, and the smell of oiled

leather and candlewax.

A few days later Lloyd

found an anvil half

inside an oak tree, back

by the old barn. It was ten

feet up that tree, and

the color of storm clouds

when the air smells like metal

and electricity breaks

it right in two. They say

a shipwright lived

there once. I know.

I've heard him hammering.

That was before the rumor 

of the slave revolt across 

the road. Nineteen men killed, 

tortured, all for the sake 

of a child's tale. A child

named Obey. No excuses.

The crape myrtle we cleared from

the back forty bled claret-

colored sap, and stuck inside

one old, stubborn knot

was a skeleton key.

The silver lying all around,

tarnished forks and bone-

china plates. Papa said

she burnt that house a’purpose,

took the tram to the train

and left town. Nobody

Ever saw her again.

But to be frank, I don't

believe it.

I saw her walking in the fog

one morning, early. Picking bones,

rearranging bricks,

breaking twigs over and over.

She saw me too.

We've been talking

back and forth, she and I,

between the branches.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

Refugees

Refugees

He walks with me
in the meadows of my mind
through patterns and rhyme
and meters I'd long forgot
until he pointed
at them lying in leaves
of dappled brown.

He taught me how to listen
for the sound of light
on water seen only in
periphery and gone
if I turn
my face to gaze

to understand the need
for touch, how time
slows down
when the fog comes in
and sound is muffled in a
cool, moist cloud

how loudly silence rings
in the susserrous of trees in the wind
and remembering the
joy of standing underneath
the mossy oak

Strong, like those limbs
that cupped us, children,
unaware that wind
can crush us or caress
and how to know the difference.
Find shelter from the storm.

Saving Prospect Hill

The Archaeological Conservancy is making a final push to get funds to repair the roof at Prospect Hill. If they can raise $35,000, the house can be saved.  This house has such historic significance.  The ghosts of Prospect Hill impeach us to try.

To read how you can help, click here.  https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/saving-prospect-hill

For more about the story of Prospect Hill, click here.

To My Daddy on Father's Day

A few days after my father's funeral, I stopped in to see Mimi Miller at The Historic Natchez Foundation.  She told me she'd been too shy to get up in front of a crowd and tell one of her stories about my dad at the service, but if she had, one of the stories she'd have told was of the first time she met him.

"I was intrigued by him," she said.

My father had this -- je ne sais quoi -- charisma.  He was handsome and self-assured.

It was at a party my parents were giving with another couple.  Somehow the conversation turned to the question:  What is your favorite thing to do?

Most people had the usual replies:  traveling to Europe, watching football games, going to the lake with friends, dining out.

When it came my father's turn to reply, he didn't miss a beat:  "Carpool."

"Carpool?"

People looked confused.

"Yes," he said. "Every morning I get to drive my children to school.  I have them all to myself.  Sometimes I pick them up in the afternoon and drive them home.  It's my favorite thing to do, the best part of my day."

He didn't say anything about going out on the river, hunting....anything.  His children were his favorite thing.  The man who had every woman's eye on him wanted nothing more than to be with his children.

What a guy.

I only hope I lived up to what a child should be to her parent.  He did his part, in spades.

Matters Familias - Balls of Steel

Someone was posting on Facebook a little while ago about snakes, so I thought I'd bring out an old post and dust it off. Makes me miss my daddy.


  Okay...so last night I was all freaked out and complaining about that damned Murphy whose law just plains sucks eggs.  You know, the one that says if it can go wrong it will?

I was visiting the boyfriend in town and called my dad to see what was going on.

"Dee, Versace is gone.  I've looked everywhere."

Versace, for those of you who don't know, is my daughter's precious little puggle (cross between a pug and a beagle).  The ex-husband decided he didn't want to deal with her anymore after my daughter got an apartment, so I went over to the house on my last visit to Los Angeles and got her and brought her home.  My daughter loves that dog more than anything or anyone else.  So on the few occasions something's happened where we thought we'd have to make that dreaded call and tell her something awful has happened have been truly horrifying times.

Last night was one of them.

My dad lives on 400 acres in the country.  There's a fellow who lives  behind us who raises cows, and he and my dad have an arrangement.  If he'll come and cut the pasture and make it look all pretty like a golf course, he can keep the hay and use it for his cattle.

But Versace loves to chase cars.  So we have to keep her inside if anyone's driving around outside.  So back to the story.

"I'd waited until I was sure Robert had left and then I let her out," he said.  "But a little while later I heard the other dogs making a big racket, and went out to see what it was."

Turns out all the dogs were frantically barking at a big-as-all-get-out water mocassin.  My 85-year-old father, who cut down a pecan tree all by himself last year, got a stick.  Not even a big stick.  Just a stick.  And beat that three-foot-long, four-inch-diameter, mean-ass water mocassin to death.  A little stick maybe two feet long.

"I felt bad for the poor snake," he said.  "But I had to do it."

The closer he gets to his own mortality, the more he hates taking a life -- any life.

I'd have been scared silly.

Then he noticed Versace was gone.  And that's when I called.  We both knew what had happened.  She'd been bitten and run off to die somewhere.

"I'll be right out," I said, along with a few rather horrible profanities under my breath, and drove pell-mell out to Daddy's.  We called and called and called.  Nothing.

I was supposed to have taken her to the vet this week for all her shots, her worming, and her rattlesnake vaccine.  This was a water mocassin...but still.

I was heartbroken.  And exhausted.  I went to bed.  I ranted about Murphy's Law on Facebook for a bit and then turned off the light and went to bed.  I was in that twilight where you're not really asleep but not awake either, when I heard something running into the room and jumping onto the bed.

"Versace?"

She waggled her butt and smiled and licked my face.

Am I dreaming?  I stumbled out of bed and went downstairs.  I crept into Daddy's room.

"Daddy?"

"She came to the door a few minutes ago.  I was so glad to see her I gave her a whole can of cat food."

Canned cat food is Versace's guilty pleasure.  He usually curses at her and kicks her out of the way when she tries to horn in on the kitties' food.

I took her today to get those shots.

How do you spell relief?  W-o-o-f!

Paragon of Prostitutes

Rolla by Henri Gervex (1852 - 1929)

From Natchez Under-the-Hill by Edith Wyatt Moore
Southern Historical Publications, Inc.
Natchez, Mississippi
1958

(The following nonfiction story took place in 1789)

No spot on the American continent ever more a viler name than Natchez-under-the Hill.  Early travelers described it variously as a gambler's paradise, a sink-hole of iniquity and a resort of the damned.  In spite of its black reputation, this early river town was probably no more evil than any other raw frontier. ~ Edith Wyatt Moore

As newcomers arrived [to Natchez] by nearly every boat, it soon became good judgment to ask no questions.  An inquisitive remark or ill-considered jest might bring sudden death.

Eyebrows may have lifted but you may be sure no audible comments were made when the self-styled Madam Aivoges set herself up in a manner so splendid that she might well have been a lady.  Her floors were carpeted with fine rugs and her windows curtained with satin brocades.  Furthermore, she had a spinet.  It came on a Lisbon packet and was delivered to her house by husky slaves.

Olympia by Edouard Manet 1863

The Madam's red curls and grey-green eyes set her apart from the sloe-eyed, raven-haired Latins and kinky-haired octoroons who dwelt nearby, and as if this weren't enough, it was whispered she could read and write.  Some went so far as to say she spoke several languages.

In time her hauteur and the evident scorn she felt for her vulgar, low-browed neighbors aroused their burning curiosity and the sultry passionate hatred of many denizens of the lower town.

Everyone admitted that Madam Aivoges' establishment was the most elegant place ever to exist in Natchez-under-the-Hill.  Built in the Creole manner, it was part brick and part timber with narrow iron-trimmed balconies extending across its facade.  in fact, it looked more like a quiet hotel than a place dedicated to vice.

All of Madam's entertainers were bewitching blondes who behaved in public with such decorum that they were often mistaken for the pampered daughters of rich planters.  As for the Madam, herself, she was always discreet.  Her voice was never raised.  It was low, sweet and well-bred.  And, in spite of their envy and malice, her neighbors admired her extravagantly.

The Spinet by Thomas Wilmer Dewing (1851 - 1938) 

At night, when blood-curdling shrieks and raucous music issued from the nearby catalinas, gambling dens and cheap dance halls, the only sounds heard at the Madam's were soft laughter and the tinkling music of the spinet.

When callers came, as they frequently did, all were secretly inspected through a small aperture in the front door.  If this test proved satisfactory, the portal was thrown open by a liveried attendant.  Some hinted that it opened to his Excellency, the Governor, more often than not.  This place offered the one quiet rendezvous where a lonely man could seek relaxation and sensuous amusement.

River rowdies were never knowingly admitted, but if a ruffian got in by mistake, he was summarily ejected by Carlos, a powerful, hairy-chested, blue-bearded hulk of a man, who acted swiftly and silently.  It was whispered that Carlos guarded the Madam like a bulldog and in spite of his huge frame and somber visage, it was obvious that he served her as a pliant and adoring tool.  Carlos spoke a strange tongue where foreign languages were the rule, not an exception.  When he spoke, no one comprehended and few cared.  Only the Madam understood.

Rumor said Carlos was a deserter from the Bohemian Army and an ex-convict.  Hints, innuendoes and sly gossip kept the old port in a stir, but no one dared speak openly.  Many believed that but for Carlos and the fear he engendered, the Madam's establishment might have been burned by her enemies.

Regardless of local resentment, Madam Aivoges' name eventually became a synonym for elegance.  She was discussed throughout the length and breadth of the Mississippi Valley, yet the veil of secrecy was never entirely stripped from her life.  Her name appears in old Spanish tax lists, but to this good day, no one knows her true origin.  She was the most mysterious character ever linked with Natchez-under-the-Hill.

It has been said that she left Natchez twice a year, always going south by boat.  She wore subdued apparel, was heavily veiled and was usually attended by a colored maid.  Carlos carried her luggage on board but always remained behind to care for the business.  At the end of some four or five weeks, the Madam had a way of returning as quietly as she had departed but no explanations were ever made.

Some even noted that Carlos often rode into the Indian country carrying letters and packages which neighbors suspected were being sent overland by Indian traders.  It was expensive business, but the Madam was literally coining money and no one seemed to care.  Then one warm night in the spring of 1789, the story broke.

The Lafitte Brothers in Dominique's Bar - Artist Unknown

Several hours previously three handsome young blades had stepped from a galley, which ran regularly between New Orleans and Natchez.  Two of the visitors were well known as the twin sons of an aristocratic planter in the Second Creek section.  They had been attending an exclusive school in a seaboard city of the United States.  The third, a stalwart, auburn -haired stranger, was shy and diffident in spite of his rich apparel.

It was established that the three had been classmates and fast friends.  When their school closed unexpectedly due to an epidemic, the DuForest brothers insisted that Juan De Lovis accompany them to far-off Natchez.  The invitation was avidly accepted because Juan had a burning desire to see this rich Spanish capital.  In the first place, he dreaded the loneliness of being left behind.  And, secondly, his lovely mother lived on a plantation somewhere near Natchez.  She never failed to captivate all of his friends when she visited him at school.  Now, it was his turn to meet her friends.  Once in Natchez he'd seek her out and give her the surprise of a lifetime.

As the voyage began, Juan's mind was filled with happy anticipation.  He would lose no time in locating his mother, and what fun it would be to arrive unannounced.  As the hours slipped by, troubled thoughts began to intrude; vague memories haunted him and he suddenly realized that he'd been at sea before.  Then came crowding questions that he'd dared not ask till now.  Who was he and what did he really know of himself?  Why had he never seen his father or been permitted to visit his home like the other boys?

The lavish provision made for his support and education suggested a family of ample means.  Perhaps he was the lost heir to some disputed title, or the son of an important political exile.  Better still, he might even be the banished pretender of a puppet throne.  If not, why all this mystery and deep secrecy?

His mother always laughed and put him off by promising to explain everything at a proper time.  to his way of thinking, now was the time.  He was growing acutely sensitive.  This ignorance was gradually building a wall between himself and others and was fast setting him apart as an eccentric nobody.  Half-forgotten scenes tormented him.  He was constantly trying to remember something and he was filled with apprehensive doubts, fears and speculations.

Port of New Orleans
Detail of lithograph by D.W. Moody

In New Orleans they were lucky enough to board a Government galley which speeded their arrival in Natchez.  Strolling up the street to the Kentucky Tavern, then the most respectable stopping place in the port city, they deposited their luggage with the proprietor.  From there they hurried to the Government House to make the customary report of their presence in the province.  here they chatted with the affable Governor who offered to send a messenger out to the DuForest plantation, notifying them of their arrival. It would require at least two days for all of this to happen, but whoever heard of the word hurry during the Spanish era?  In the meantime, Nick argued, why not have a fling in Natchez-under-the-Hill?  After all, this would be their only chance.  once home they'd be caught up in a round of gaiety.

On return to the hotel, they told their plans to the proprietor, who seemed anxious.  "No man in this town ventures out after dark without proper arms," he told them.  "This place is infested with robbers and cutthroats and there are houses along the brink of the river where people disappear forever.  Young men are lured inside and murdered.  Their bodies are stripped and dropped in the water.  That's usually the end of them."

At his insistence, the young men armed themselves with pistols and dirks, then set out of a notorious beer garden beneath the upper bluffs.  For a time they were enchanted.  Flambeaux flickered in a huge vine-covered pavilion and dancing strumpets kept time to tinkling tambourines.  Men from all climes were there.  Several wore turbans and others had 'kerchiefs tied on their heads in pirate fashion.  Shrieking parrots roosted on low rafters and another exotic touch was added by gay cockatoos that fanned their wings and frequently lit on the shoulders of customers.  It was so weird and unnatural, that the young men grew tired of the blatant music and odorous fumes.  "Let's go to Madam Aivoges'," Nathaniel suggested.  "I've heard her wines are excellent and her entertainers beautiful."

"Yes," Nick urged, "its the most elegant place on the river and Juan mustn't miss it."

Following inspection they were ushered in with formal politeness.


"Be seated, gentlemen," the servant said, "and I'll announce you to the Madam."

The room was dimly lighted but they noted that it was richly furnished.  Then they became conscious of several other visitors lounging on comfortable chairs.  Suddenly a tall, dark-eyed fellow recognized the Du Forest brothers.

"Jehoshaphat!" he exclaimed.  "This is a surprise.  I didn't know you were in this part of the world."

After handshakes and proper introductions, he went on to say, "Don't tell me you've never met Madam Aivoges?  By Jove, you've missed a lot.  She's the toast of the river.  For two thousand miles up and down our waterways she's known as the most fascinating and mysterious woman of the underworld.  Her past is sealed but some say she's a countess from Hungary.  Others believe she's the illegitimate daughter of a Belgian prince.  I wouldn't be surprised at anything told of her.  She's incredible!"

"Yes," one of the others agreed.  "Some say she has a respectable family whom she visits annually."

At that moment light footsteps were heard and all eyes turned toward the door.  Then each man rose to his feet as if to greet some grand dame.  The curtains parted and in walked this paragon of prostitutes.  her copper-colored curls were piled high and she wore a shimmering, Nile green satin with billowy panniers.  A frothy lace 'kerchief was pinned over her bare shoulders to form a bertha and her tapering fingers glittered with diamonds.

Hers was a fragile beauty that all men love and Juan and his friends gave an audible gasp as she turned her face toward them.  For an instant her eyes met Juan's. The young man's blood ran cold.  He couldn't believe it.  Surely he was drunk or having hallucinations.  This couldn't be his mother.  his mother in a brothel!  he must be stark raving mad!

She started to speak, but the words died on her lips and a deep flush spread to the roots of her red-gold hair.  Then her grey-green eyes turned dark with wordless shame.  As the awful truth dawned on Juan he gave a heartbroken cry.  "My God, Mother, I'd rather see you dead!"

Then he suddenly saw red.  Shaking with rage he made a swift move and before others could forestall him, leveled a pistol at her breast and fired.  She crumpled at his feet, her hands held up in supplication.  Then she gave a deep sigh and between quivering lips whispered, "My son, please believe it was for you."

The onlookers were stunned.  Then someone shouted, "We've got to get out of here!  Get Juan out!"

But at that moment they heard heavy lunging footsteps and a bellowing sound as though a raging bull were charging them.  Again the curtains parted and Carlos stood there, half clad and grimly fierce.

As he looked at his dead mistress, a swift stream of unintelligible words came from his loose lips and anger flashed from beneath his beetling brows.  When his lips moved again, the sound was a hiss.  Juan knew him instantly.

This was the dreadful man linked with his early childhood.  For an eternity they stood in tense silence as Carlos' burning eyes slowly traveled from face to face.  Then his eyes met Juan's and a swift light of recognition instantly turned to one of hate.

The next moment he gave a roar, raised a murderous knife and lunged at Juan.  Seeming not to care, Juan stood his ground but Nick acted in his defense.  Firing point blank the ball passed through Carlos' thick neck.  They saw the big man reel, stumble and fall backward as a torrent of blood spurted from his jugular vein.  It gushed over the floor and soaked the satin clad figure at their feet.  They could even hear it gurgle as he struggled for breath.  It was a sickening spectacle.

"Why didn't you let him kill me?" Juan shouted in an anguished tone.  "I want to die.  It's the only solution."

"I'm your friend," Nick whispered.  Then seizing the unhappy youth by the arm he attempted to guide him from the room.  "Come," the others urged, "we must hurry."

By that time all Natchez-under-the-Hill was seething with excitement.  For the first time shots had been heard in Madam Avioges' house.  Crowds commenced milling around and a moment later the military police arrived.

"I did it," Juan shrieked hysterically.  "I alone am guilty."

"He lies," Nathaniel spoke with studied calm.  "He has had too much whiskey and doesn't know what he is saying.  It was really an act of self-defense."

"Yes," the others agreed.  "It was plainly a case of self-defense."

"Save your breath," one of the guards ordered.  "You ain't on trial yet."

"Please take us to his excellency," Nicholas pleaded.  "He'll listen to us because he knows us.  He'll never believe we are guilty of a willful crime."

The guard laughed.  "You may be find gentlemen," one said, "but you'll get the same works all others get.  We are taking you to the guardhouse where all offenders go."  Then he snarled, "Who ever heard of rousing the Governor at this late hour?"

They clopped up the hill in double-quick time, and on reaching the portcullis of the fort, were amazed to find his Excellency there.  He was mounting his horse and looked weary.  "What's all this damnable racket?" he shouted in exasperation.  Then, as the cavalcade drew nearer, he recognized his young callers of the afternoon and a shade of deep anxiety crossed his face.  Wheeling his horse about, he dismounted and ordered the prisoners taken to the orderly room.  As the frightened, wild-eyed group stepped inside, they found torches still burning and a tired disheveled aid-major humped over a ponderous desk.

The governor spoke brusquely, "Be seated!"  Then, turning to his aid-major, he said, "It won't be necessary to record this hearing."

The major rose, clicked his heels and quietly left the room.  Then facing his prisoners, the Governor asked, "Now, what's all this mess and excitement about?"

Stephen Minor, Spanish Governor of Natchez in 1792.  Not the governor in this story, but close enough for me.

Haltingly and brokenly Juan told his story.  At intervals his voice broke and he sought to control the sob-like gasps that cut his breath short.

Perhaps the youths were too deeply engrossed with their own misery to note the pallor of His Excellency's face.  Listening intently as Juan talked, his fine eyes grew somber and his mouth grim.  It was all too evident that the lad was desperate.  His faith had been betrayed and his hopes shattered.  Furthermore, he was filled with deep remorse at his own impulsive action.  "I'll plead guilty your Honor, and take the consequences," he whispered with trembling lips.  "I have nothing to live for," he added, "so the sooner I am executed the better."

Bending a look of deep compassion on the lad, the Governor gave his shoulder a reassuring pat and said, "You did exactly what I might have done in your place."

Getting to his feet, the worried Governor paced the room, his spurs rattling at every step.  For what seemed an eternity, the watchers sat with bated breath.  Their fate rested in this man's hands, and they'd always heard a Spanish Governor was unpredictable.

At length His Excellency stopped in front of Juan.  "For the sake of all concerned," he said, "this matter must be hushed up.  you shall escape to some far country and begin life all over again."

Juan gave a quivering sigh as he ran nervous fingers through his hair.  The Governor's face was sympathetic, but he spoke sternly, "In my opinion you have suffered enough, but if I take this responsibility, you must agree to obey my orders implicitly."  Juan winced, then finally nodded assent.  The Governor went on.  "Since you are unknown, there is little danger of detection, but to make sure, I shall obtain a disguise and arrange for your passage.  Then, after you have reached a safe distance, I shall properly denounce you and offer a reward for your capture."  The boys thanked him humbly.

Perhaps His Excellency was merely touched by the stark tragedy of the stranger's story.  On the other hand, many have hinted that he had a deeper and more personal interest in Juan's heartbreak than would bear close scrutiny.

The next morning at the first grey streak of dawn, the Governor's own galley drew up at the landing.  A moment later a group of men came down the hill.  After brief farewells and handshakes, one lone passenger went on board.  He wore Spanish regimentals, carried military orders and was armed with a passport to Habana de Cuba.

In his pocket was an order for cash on demand.  It was signed by the Civil and Military Governor of the Post and District of Natchez.  The galley hastily pulled out before denizens Under-the-Hill were aware that something unusual was happening.  Only one or two knew that Juan was gone, never to return again.

For 150 years (220 years now) Madam Aivoges' bizarre story has been whispered as a choice tidbit, but her origin still remains a mystery, and as though a partner in the intrigue, the Mississippi has greedily made way with the site of her establishment.  Perhaps it is better so.

Henry Lewis - Mississippi River