The King versus James Armstrong, Part III

Don Carlos de Grand-Pre

Circular to William Brocus, Samuel Gibson, Roswell Mygatt, William Tabor, Prosper King, Ezekiel DeWitt, John Swayze, James Swayze, William Smith, John Coleman, Samuel Walker, Waterman Crane, Israel Leonard, John Pickens, John Ford, James Stoddard, John Martin, Jeptha Higdon, Richard Adams, John Adams, Edward Lovelace, Adam Lanehart, Jeremiah Coleman, Hohn Lum, John Stampley, William Collins, John Kincaid, Joseph Fort, and Elias Bonnell:

The robberies lately committed by rebel James Armstrong, his two sons and negro, together with the vagabonds, named John and James Lovel and George Blair, who forcibly entered the houses of four inhabitants of this District and putting them in fear of their lives, stripped their dwellings of everything most valuable they could carry off, such as clothes, goods, firearms, horses, saddles, bridles, and other effects, contrary to the public peace and tranquility, being well-known.

In order to promptly and effectively remedy these, to cut short the course of these villians, I do hereby command all inhabitants, without exception to unite immediately and in parties of twenty persons and pursue these public robbers without delay until they are taken dead or alive, the public tranquility in a measure depending on their apprehension, as also on the expedition used, in which every person is interested.

It is therefore recommended to the inhabitants to concert among themselves the best means of taking these robbers, each party taking a different route and such as they expect most likely to be used by these villians in placing ambushes for them where they might think needful and where they may intercept them on their return from their nocturnal expeditions.

At Fort Panmurat Natchez, 12 Aug. 1786.  Signed Carlos de Grand-Pre

See also:

The King versus James Armstrong

The King versus James Armstrong, Part II

McBee, May Wilson.  The Natchez Court Records, 1767-1805. Greenwood, MS: 1953.

Orphans looking for a home

I've just finished taming these two little kittens, who are sweet, affectionate, and looking for a home.  If you're interested, please either comment at the end of the post or send me an email at epritchartt@yahoo.com.  Thank you!

The King versus James Armstrong

Circular addressed to Alexander Fraser, Benjamin James, James McIntosh, residing in the Chickasaw and Choctaw towns.

Sirs:  It being the custom and interest of all nations to apprehend highway robbers who by force of arms strip travellers and enter the houses of citizens and plunder their most valuable effects, and even the horses which are so necessary for the support of their families, this is to inform you that a troup of these vagabonds have associated in this District to commit atrocities abovementioned and it is expected will shortly take the route of the Indian towns with their ill-gotten plunder to avoid their punishment imposed by the laws of all nations for such offences.

Under the impression I point out to your notice James Armstrong, and his two sons and a negro belonging to him, and likewise John and James Lovell, real and pretended brothers, and and James Blair, who have lately robbed many inhabitants of the District of their firearms, clothes, goods, saddles, bridles, horses, etc. to the end that should these villians who have committed these outrages against the peace of society and the majesty of the law appear at the Indian settlements yu might be pleased to have them arrested and with their booty conveyed under a strong guard to this District to receive the reward.

Have just learned that a certain Jeremiah Routh is an accomplice and has left this District with the effects plundered by Armstrong and companions.  I have also to request that you will not admit any person into your settlements unless provided with a passport in form.  Those to appear without such recommendations to be considered as vagabonds, disturbers of the public tranquility and the welfare of the society in general.

May God preserve you many years.

Fort Panmur at Natchez, Aug. 16, 1786.  P.D.

Such persons as may compose the escort of the prisoners and the property plundered will be amply recompensed for their service. _______________________ Signed:  Carlos de Grand-Pre.

McBee, May Wilson. The Natchez Court Records:  1767-1805.  Baltimore, MD. 1979, Genealogical Publishing Co., Inc.

See also:  The Wild, Wild South

An Evening at the Slave Quarters

Enjoyed Saturday evening at Concord Quarters. Dinner was superb and we got to hear about The Slave Dwelling Project by its director Joe McGill.

Concord Quarters is the only remaining building at Concord Plantation, which burned in 1901. It was the home of the first Spanish governor of the Mississippi Territory, Don Manuel Gayosa de Lemos.

The Quarters was where the enslaved people lived on the plantation. It's now owned by Gregory and Deborah Cosey, who treated us to a delicious meal of mustard greens, ham hocks, black-eyed peas, sweet potatoes, cornbread and apple cobbler.

They also run a B&B there. www.concordquarters.com.

To learn more, go to slavedwellingproject.org.

Dagger Cane that belonged to Spanish Governor Don Manuel Gayosa de Lemos

Bragging Rights!

Shantybellum Too Invites You

It's been nearly eleven years since Shantybellum Guesthouse opened.  And it suddenly dawned on me that I've never posted about our newest guesthouse:  Shantybellum Too!  It's half a block from the bluff overlooking the mighty Mississippi River, and only a one-block walk to Steampunk Coffee Roasters and Natchez's newest Blues Club, Smoot's Grocery on the bluff.

Downtown Natchez is a short walk where you can shop, eat at fine restaurants or visit the historic homes and landmarks that make Natchez one of the best small-town tourist destinations in the country.

You get the whole cottage, and it's supplied for all your needs from TV and internet to cooking and laundry.  And it's a relaxed atmosphere.  No worrying about being careful with the furniture.  It's got a Bluesy, laid-back vibe you'll enjoy.  Check us out on Airbnb.com for rates and availability.  And be sure to read our reviews on Airbnb.  We'd love to see you.

I've said enough.  I'll let the photos tell you the rest.

Related link:  Smoot's Grocery -- Bringing the Blues Back Home

The Reckoning

In the pictures 
we seldom smiled.

Stubborn children 
forced to pause
and pose before the hearth 
in the cabin 
in the woods
in the childhood
in the life
he'd built 
in the 
happy time.

He pulls the tattered box
From under the bed,
studies each fading moment 
for clues.

The lamp sheds no new light
On the mystery of us. 

The smell of dust, 
the screen door’s slam,
the island in the pond
saddles in the shed,
the boat, the chill,
the sweat, the water,
the shadow and the light
the silence of a Sunday
night waiting 
while he locked the gate.

Turned the key 
On another memory.

The sandbar, 
Alligator gar and
Busch beer in a pull-tab can.
Dinosaurs, all gone
like the sound of a horn on a barge,
first large then drifting away.

He puts the pictures back,
Hopes the phone won’t ring,
bringing something new 
to grieve.
Lying back, he sighs,
Closes his eyes and waits
for the reckoning

~ March 3, 2010

Woodville Wildlife Festival

Woodville Courthouse

All the artists set up
around the courthouse square
beneath the oaks,
the resurrection fern
swollen and green with last night's rain.

The morning misty and damp
and strewn with color,
the smell of barbeque mingles with
hay. A skinny Catahoula hangs
around the cooking trailers,
hoping for a handout.

I buy pulled-pork sandwiches for
two -- one for the dog, one for me.
I watch her bolt it down as
a friendly cattle farmer stops
to tell me he'd bought her a hot dog
a few minutes before.

Camouflage is definitely in
at the Deer and Wildlife festival.
Don't be caught dead without it.

Didn't know what to expect,
but the dead moose being
draped over a form for mounting,
his lips hanging loosely off the side,
is a shock.

The air is filled with the sounds
of turkeys and ducks, made with
wooden calls by craftsmen
next to artists painting
things from life.

And the people....
The obese Black woman
with a blooming onion
the size of a football on
a plate, all for her.

The little girl in cowboy boots
and shorts, skinny legs so cute
it breaks your heart,
just because.
She has a puppy on a leash.
Balloons
tied in her hair,
her face painted like a cat.

The baby in the stroller,
leaning in to snag
whatever is in reach.

The friends sitting on the
corner, the same conversation
they've been having for
40 years.

Doctors, bums, wives, bankers,
lawyers, maids, babysitters, boyfriends,
girlfriends, children, vendors
all in motion as the band
plays the 70s greatest hits,
going round and round
and round.

A wonderful sound.

~ Elodie  Pritchartt
10/11/2009

Gollum

Before Gollum had tasted

the power of The Ring,

when he still had family with whom

to sing in the Gladden Fields, when

things like friendship, honor, love

and joy would bring

all the happiness of spring, 

do you suppose he considered how a

ring – a small, pretty, shining

thing could change a man?

Did he think his first

drink of power would be

a thing so easily imbibed,

how it changed

a man inside

from what he’d been

to something he despised?

Before it split his soul in two,

before his craving really grew

into a wolf howling at

the moon in the darkness

of the Misty Mountains,

did he think he might

one day loathe the light?

Did he consider

wrong from right

or did he only ask for more?

Did he grieve his own lost soul

as his father surely did when

he crawled into his hole

to find that bloody ring?

And when he clawed his way

over friends and good intentions,

and he claimed The Ring his own,

he’d lost what really mattered

and died in flames alone.

Do you think as he lay dying,

precious ring clutched in his hand,

he wished he’d never seen it?

Did he ever understand?

Poor Monster

In the quiet morning,
beneath the cashmere calm,
behind the dog's soft snoring
and the purring knead
of pink-ed 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.

It is the season
that signals death,
when the weak tire
of waiting and the strong
grow tired.

It 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.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

August 12, 2007

The Weight of Water

The wind whispers secrets soon to

be revealed.  Pushes him along.

There is no cure.

He shuffles. Small steps. Unsure

for the first time

in forever

whether he can make the hill.

Pail in hand, he bends, turns

the spigot, spends 

precious minutes.

Watches water fall. Rinses

out the larvae and the slime.

Fills the pail and after

a time convinces himself to stand.

Physics is cruel. And a body at

rest remains. He moves forward.

Pours water for the cats,

seed for the birds, feed for the possums

and raccoons. Corn for the deer.

Meat for the dogs.

They need. They all need to live, he says.

Everything is creation or calamity

and he the only thing between.

What will they do when he is gone?

It is hunger that drives him

though he does not eat. He is shrinking

and I think he may shrink into the earth

when his credits and balances are due.

He is winded, his time near its end.

He passes me the pail. I bend.

Turn the spigot.     Water falls.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

March 9, 2012

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.

The Phantom of Kingston Road

The first time I noticed him it was the holidays – I can’t remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas. I was driving home on Kingston Road when I saw the little white dog running down the road after a car. I slowed my car and he started running toward it. Then another car passed. His ears perked up as it neared; then as it blew past, he ran after it.


It was obvious what had happened; it broke my heart. How could someone just dump a little dog like that? You could almost hear him shouting, “Wait! Wait! You forgot me! Come back.”


As the car drove on, he gave up and trudged back toward his post by the gate where he’d been left. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds. He was just a little terrier mix, cute as could be and desperate to find his family.


I parked my car and got out. He stopped, eying me -- wary and distrustful. Remembering all the dog advice I’d heard throughout the years, I tried to make myself as unimposing as possible, and crouched down on my knees, holding out my hand.


“Come on, fella,” I coaxed in my highest singsong voice – the one reserved for babies and pets. It almost never fails. “Come on, baby!”


But he wouldn’t come. If I tried to inch closer, he ran away, refusing to be bribed with kindness. So I went home to get something more tempting. I came back with cold cuts from the fridge. But he was adamant. All he wanted was his family, who he was certain were in the next car coming down the road.


The weather forecast for later in the week was for below-freezing temperatures. Lying in my warm bed, I wondered how he’d make it. The next day, my father and I set out a humane animal trap, baiting it with leftover roast and hiding it behind some branches so it wouldn’t be stolen. But no matter how many days we left it freshly baited, he wanted nothing to do with it.


In the meantime, we and several other area residents began putting out food and water for him, comparing notes on our efforts to catch the little scamp. Somehow he survived the cold weather, even seeming to thrive. He moved up onto the embankment by the road, where he’d sit like a proud watchdog, guarding his little kingdom by the Kingston Road, but still chasing after passing cars, certain his family would finally stop. Hope must spring eternal in the canine heart, too.


Every day on my way to and from town, I’d hold my breath, hoping he hadn’t been hit by a car. Often, I’d not see him at all, and wondered what had become of him. Then one day there he’d be, watching for cars and running after them, day after day, then week after week, the little white, elusive phantom of Kingston Road. I dubbed him “Phantom” in my mind, and saluted his "dogged" persistence. Some days he looked so cocky and proud I laughed aloud, and began to look forward to seeing him surveying his little kingdom.


Finally one day about three months later as my father crested the hill, he saw what we’d all been dreading. Phantom lay beside the road, perfectly still while a kind and concerned woman bent over him, looking for signs of life. He lay breathing but unconscious and broken. Daddy took him to the vet where he died later that night. It was painful and it was sad and it was all so unnecessary.


I often wonder about the people who left their little dog by himself on the side of the road at holiday time. I wondered if they ever traveled down Kingston Road and saw him bravely trying to recapture his people. I wondered if they had a happy Christmas. There are crosses along Kingston Road where people who’ve died in automobile accidents are honored, their memories cherished. There is no cross for Phantom; only regrets.


I regret not calling the Humane Society – something that in all my efforts, hadn’t occurred to me. I don’t know why. Perhaps they’d have been able to catch him and prevent a senseless death.

In lieu of a roadside memorial for Phantom, I think I could honor his memory best by asking you, Reader, to make a donation to the Natchez Adams County Humane Society. And, please, please, don’t leave your pets to die painfully on a lonely road. The phantom of Kingston Road will haunt me for years to come.

http://www.natchezpetadoptions.org/

Natchez Adams County Humane Society
475 Liberty Road
Natchez, MS 39120
601-442-4001

Mailing address :

P. O. Box 549
Natchez, MS 39121

Falling Leaves

Perhaps it would be better if I don’t speak.

Reflect the silence back into the water,

listen to the evening come to help the night begin its dark trip behind the  sun.

The winter apples turn.

Fall nudges summer gently to the side,

and the light burns amber, realigns itself

so shadows  lengthen early.

The pages of this book that will not

be lain aside rustle toward its solitary end.

The dead revisit, though they are far away.

Anticipation turns to fear

that winter will not forgive.

Silence becomes prayer.

Breathe the honeyed quiet,

and brace yourself for the tilting

of the world.

So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Good Night...

I bet I've lost over 35 friends and parents of friends in the last ten years.  Sometimes it seems as though I have more dead friends than live ones.  And this past week, I lost a really special friend, Andre Pascalis Volant de La Barre of New Orleans.  

I only knew Andre for the last ten years of his life.  He was -- shall we say -- special.  Andre was handsome, brilliant, funny, outrageous and, most of all, kind.  He was one of the kindest people I've ever known.  I saw Andre clothe people who needed clothes, feed people who needed food, give encouragement and spiritual support to those who needed it most.

Andre was from New Orleans.  I'll post his obituary here, for there is nothing I can add, except that I've added a few stories told about him at the party honoring him after his funeral services.  My wish is that you all meet and know someone as special as Andre.  And recognize that person for who he or she is while they are still alive.

Andre, here's to the memories:

Andre Pascalis Volant de La Barre

Obituary Guest Book "an incredible man. thank your for your bright and generous..." - scott symmank View Sign Andre Pascalis Volant de La Barre, beloved event planner and philanthropist, passed away Thursday, November 2, 2017 at the age of 59. Mr. de La Barre, the eighth generation of de La Barres in Louisiana, was preceded in death by his father, Francois Duffossard Volant de La Barre. He attended De La Salle High School, Louisiana State University, and the Parsons School of Design in New York City. In addition to his work in architecture and design, he planned many of New Orleans' best-remembered events for more than thirty years.  He was one of the Millennium Monarchs for the Krewe of Shangri-la. Mr. de La Barre was an enthusiastic community advocate and patron of the arts. His work benefitted a multitude of nonprofits, including: Save Our Cemeteries, the Audubon Institute, Planned Parenthood, Human Rights Campaign Fund, the New Orleans Opera Association, Liberty House, Southern Repertory Center, the New Orleans Museum of Art, the National Council of Negro Women, the National Council of Jewish Women, Preservation Resource Center, the United Services for AIDS Foundation, and the Vieux Carré Property Owners' and Residents' Foundation. "His Royal Highness" will always be remembered for the depth of his generosity, his razor-sharp wit, his ability to fill any room with laughter, and that time he wore cow print pants with his tuxedo jacket.  Survivors include his mother, Mary Giovingo de La Barre; his sister, Maria Carmen de La Barre; his godchildren, Logan Carmen de La Barre-Hays and Sales Volant de La Barre; and his cherished weimaraner, Camelot. Relatives and friends are invited to attend the Memorial Service at LAKE LAWN METAIRIE FUNERAL HOME, 5100 Pontchartrain Blvd. on Monday, November 13, 2017 at 6:00 p.m. Visitation will begin at 4:00 p.m. until service time. Interment will be private. To view and sign the online guest book, visit www.lakelawnmetairie.com. Also, please enjoy these memories that were shared by his friends: