1853 - Chapter 3
Saxon— “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”
Gaul—A detestable book—crazy, fanatical, lying and rascally. A book for canaille. It is worthy of the school from which it came and unworthy of a gentlemen’s attention....
Saxon—And yet it has had a large sale in England. It must possess some literary merit to secure that, for more fanaticism would never carry a novel into the lady’s boudoir and the stateman’s study. Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe is a vigorous writer, though a very unscrupulous partisan. She lies forcibly, and insults her countrymen in a more masculine style…
—The Daily Delta, Sunday Morning, November 28, 1852
The spider floated down her long silvery thread and crawled back up again, plucking each sticky filament into its perfect geometric place. Sila did not fear spiders. To her, they bode a good sign, signaling that change was afoot. She smiled, put down her book, and studied the round lines of the web, measuring each patient step the spider took toward symmetry. This web was particularly balanced, she thought. A good omen.
As the spider returned to the center of her web, Sila’s eyes drifted back over the rest of the storeroom, surveying its contents. Surrounding her were long tobacco leaves hanging off smooth wooden sticks like sleepy brown bats, the mossy sweet smell of cut leaf curling around and about her nose and animating her senses. At the table next to her lay two shiny brass trombones, a well-worn cornet, and a small snare drum. Underneath her was a pail full of water and a worn-out scrub brush—accoutrements to their deception. After all, this was François idea. It was illegal for a slave to be found reading in New Orleans, especially a book like this. So, to protect them both, Sila always kept a brush and pail close—that way if anyone dangerous were to walk in and see her, she could quickly drop to the floor and begin to scrub.
“Qu’est-ce que t’en penses…” François asked as he entered the storeroom carrying a teetering pile of small wooden cigar boxes. “What do you think?”
“It’s…well, I just can’t believe it,” Sila exclaimed, closing the book and pressing it tight against her chest. “A few days ago, some of Miss Sophie’s friends were talking about it over tea... ‘Just a horrible book!’ they said, over and over again. They just kept going on and on about what it was saying and I was shaking so much, I almost dropped the whole pitcher of punch on Miss Beverly from my shaking. I was so excited to read it and just knew you would be one of the first to get your hands on it.”
Even now her hands were trembling.
“Well, good thing you didn’t,” François said with a growl as he quickly walked to the far back wall of his shop and placed the boxes on the nearest shelf. “She would’ve walloped you black and blue if you did. That Miss Beverly, she’s a mean one…mean as a pit viper moccasin. No wonder she’s so up in arms about this book...someone finally telling the truth about the beatings our folk suffer? If I were her, with all that guilt, well I’d get the vapours too...”
François was François Dupre, a respected cigar maker from Cuba who, along with his older brother, Tito, arrived in the French Quarter during the spring of 1812 having escaped the island and certain death by hiding out in two large barrels located on a ship destined for the port of New Orleans. During the passage they were discovered by an older member of the crew, who sympathized and kept the boys a secret, bringing them water and food out of his own rations just to keep them alive. On arrival, the man leaned on his seniority in the crew to take personal charge of the boys’ barrels, which he placed at the far edge of the wharf late at night under the light of a waxing gibbous moon. There the Dupre boys climbed out undetected and disappeared into the dark streets of the French Quarter like whispers. The boys spent their early years penniless and largely dependent on the nuns. But as they grew older, they became more resourceful. Tito ran into some old Cuban acquaintances in the lesser-known sporting rooms around town, and through these connections established an enviable trading relationship with some of the best tobacco farms in Cuba. François’ developed a reputation for rolling the tightest and smoothest cigars in the Quarter. Thus, over time, François’ once seditious spirit quieted to one of a prosperously placid merchant whose acts of rebellion manifested in only two ways: by blowing a mighty horn down on Congo Square on Sundays and by secretly supplying books to the beautiful Sila for her reading pleasure, despite what the god forsaken Black Code said.
“Tell me again how to pronounce her name,” Sila asked.
“Stowe,” François replied. “Harriet Beecher Stowe. That little woman is making people ‘round here mighty upset. Why, just the other day Mr. Joseph came in to buy his weekly quota of chaw, saw that book on the counter, and spit a mouthful right there on the ground. In the middle of my store, the bastard. And then after acting like the donkey’s dirty posterior that we all know him to be, he actually had the gall to get in my face about it.” François rolled his eyes and went on. “You should have seen him screaming, all about a little book. ‘Get that garbage out of here!’ he yelled, his face all red and his chest all puffed up. Looked like an idiot. So, I just sat back and looked him square in those bulgy, brown eyes of his and snapped right back, ‘My shop, my rules. Book stays right there.’ And then just to needle him, I added, ‘You don’t like it, you’re always free to go to the Debrière’ smoke shop up the street. But then again, you and I both know his cigars don’t have the flavor you like…and the whole city knows that man shorts his cigars on leaf and then sees fit to double charge his customers.’ Well, that shut old man Joseph up.” François’ jaw tightened and his right hand suddenly fisted up and hit the table. “The nerve of that man.”
Sila sat back and stretched out her legs and smoothed out her long brown cotton skirt as it fell to either side. “Don’t I know it...,” she added. “Miss Beverly just squawkin’ on about how one of her cousins from Charleston mailed it to her as a warning. ‘There’s goin’ to be a rebellion for sure after this! I haven’t been able to sleep a bit since I heard about it…’ Lordy,” Sila continued with a chuckle. “Let me tell you, that woman was hot as a red poker. What a stupid fool. It’s all I can do to make myself serve her tea when she drops by. Can’t stand having to stoop down and show that snake respect. Of all of Miss Sophie’s friends, she’s by far the worst.” Then in a whisper Sila added. “But considering who her family is…I guess that’s no surprise.”
François nodded. “That family’s fields are bloody for sure,” he growled. “On occasion their overseerer will come by and try to sell us some of their leaf. Comes ‘round a lot, actually. But Tito and I always find some reason to say no, real polite like...sayin’ we’re all stocked up with supply or something. Nothin’ to raise any suspicion. But even if that family had the last tobacco plantation in the state of Louisiana, we’d still wouldn’t buy from them.” He crossed his chest with the symbol of the cross and added quietly. “Couldn’t bear the guilt...” Just then François began fumbling over his shirt pocket and pulled out his favorite silver cased pocket watch. “So how much longer do you got before the Monsieur notices that you’re gone?” he said, studying the time.
“Oh, I’ll leave soon,” Sila said with a shrug. “Besides I’m lucky, these days he barely notices me. Hasn’t touched me in weeks. Think I have until supper before he starts askin’ after me and by now the girls in the kitchen have gotten real good at covering for me. They’ll hand him a smoke and his paper…that will buy me a good bit of time.”
“He’d kill me for letting you read that book,” François said with a quick wink and devilish smile.
“Oh, how’s he ever going to know? I’ve been coming here for years and never once has he suspected. The fool man doesn’t even know I can read...”
“He’s never caught you?”
“No. I make sure of it.” Sila said, nervously strumming her fingers one by one across the book’s cover. “I got no power on this world, François, but I do got that. The Monsieur has no idea what I know about him...and frankly, it’s his own fault. My daddy, before he died, he swore to my mama that he would teach me to read and he did, taught me on everything from the newspaper to Shakespeare’s sonnets. The Monsieur, he knows nothin’ about it, and since he has spent all these years assumin’ that a learned girl like me is as dumb as a donkey, then well, let’s just say I could get that man into a heap of trouble if I ever need to …”
“That man…est un monste,” François said. “A nastier man could not be found across the Three Municipalities...” He stood up and soon noticed the instruments strewn across the table. “Apologies for the mess, dear. The boys are coming over tonight for a practice session. With the big parade coming up and the opening of Odd Fellows Hall in a couple of weeks, well…it’s a ripe time for a musician to make a good living in this town and my boys and I need to tighten up a bit…”
“You mustn’t worry,” Sila said with a smile. “You know I love to hear you play.”
“Actually, that reminds me! Have I told you? I have good news…my nephew, Victor, is back from Paris. Arrived last week with plans to audition for a seat with the orchestra at the Théâtre d’Orléans. Brought with himself a new instrument from Paris…they call the ‘saxophone’. I believe that’s what he said. It’s quite popular. My nephew…well as you know, he’s quite the prodigy…I just know they will hire him. Anyway, at night he’ll play in the orchestra and then during the day he’ll work here for extra money. He’s your age and doesn’t know anyone in this town…you must meet him…”
At which point the bells of St. Patrick’s began to toll.
“Oh,” Sila said suddenly. “What time did you say it was? I must go...I can’t be late.”
“Late?” asked François. “Late for what? You can’t leave…you just said the Monsieur wouldn’t be looking for you anytime soon...”
“No,” Sila said, gathering her things. “It’s something else. I must hurry…”
Just as she finished speaking the back door of the shop opened and tall young man stepped through the blast of sunlight.
“Victor!” laughed François. “Perfect timing! I was just telling Sila about you...”
“Désolé d'être en retard…,” Victor said as he walked over to his uncle for a quick hug. “Rehearsal ran long... please, set me to work…”
“Très bien…très bien…,” replied François, hardly able to contain his smile. “I shall teach you all you need to know about cigar making, but first you must meet my sweet friend, Sila…like I said, I was just telling her about you. Victor, may I present Miss Sila...”
“Mademoiselle,” he said, setting his gaze on Sila and smiling brightly. He then quickly walked over, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. “Enchanté.”
“Victor,” laughed François. “You weren’t just studying music over there in Paris, were you?”
Sila smiled and blushed. “Sir,” she said hesitantly and quickly pulled back her hand. Never had she been touched by a man with such gentleness and such intimacy, which while frightening, also brought about a sense of calm in her. Like François, Victor’s frame was large and intimidating, with a broad chest and well-set shoulders. His eyes, though, were kind, deeply set, and inviting. His smile was genuine. Sila collected herself and gently nodded her acknowledgement. “It’s good to meet you,” she added. “Your uncle is a good friend to me.”
“Yes,” said Victor with a smile. “Well, he speaks very highly of you as well.” Then turning back to address his uncle, he continued. “Although Uncle, you greatly understated her beauty.”
Slightly grinning, François winked at his nephew. “I wanted to surprise you.”
Again, the bells of St. Patrick’s tolled.
“I’m so sorry,” Sila said again as she began to rush towards the door. “It was very nice meeting you Victor, but I must go.”
“I didn’t mean to offend…” he said plaintively.
“No…of course not. It’s just that I’m just needed somewhere right now.”
“Then,” he said, taking a step towards her. “We will meet again I hope?”
“Of course,” she said as she opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. “I visit your uncle quite often. We shall see each other again…I’m sure of it.”
The good thing about Sila was that she went largely unnoticed. She could stand for hours peering into the courtyard gates of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and never raise one ounce of suspicion from the neighboring shopkeepers. She enjoyed this time, the waiting. The warm tingling that came with expectation. It bubbled in her chest and chased out the cold.
They would always emerge the same way. The large solemn doors of the cathedral would slowly open and soon, bursting, like her heart, the orphaned girls spilled out into the courtyard, followed quickly by the Sisters’ plaintive cries of “ssshhhh,” their fingers pressed firmly to their lips. The older girls tended to congregate towards the back of the courtyard, closer to the chapel door, as they were the group of girls that generally assisted the Father with cleaning up after Mass. The younger girls convened towards the front of the courtyard. There, they would wrap their tiny hands around the fence’s black wrought-iron bars, and swing back and forth in white cotton dresses, while calling out to each other like marshland cranes. This unchecked freedom would not last long, however. Rather, alerted to their liberties—and so close to a house of worship—the elder Sister would always set about restoring order, ordering the children into a single file line with the younger Sister—the children’s favorite—holding the position at the head. The elder Sister, with a trained eye and being more comfortable with the task of administering discipline, took her position in the rear.
It was during this commotion that Sila’s gaze remained fixated on the maneuverings of one small child in particular, always locking her eyes on the little girl as soon as she emerged from the church, set on witnessing every second of the child’s activity. On this Tuesday, the little girl moved slower than the rest, approaching the other girls with caution and taking her position midway in the line without any particular allegiance. The child seemed determined to remain isolated, with even her long, well defined corkscrew curls falling deliberately in front of her face, obstructing any real eye contact. It was only when the younger Sister approached to thread the rope through the little girl’s tiny fingers, did the child even smile.
Sila leaned against the shop wall across the street and rubbed her temples, trying to temper her anxiety. She longed to go to the child, to touch her. To wrap her arms around her and draw in her scent. But doing so, Sila knew, would compromise the child’s future. She was safely in the hands of the Sister’s now, and Sila knew that above all, her actions must not reveal the child’s true identity. Thus, Sila wiped her tears, buried her truth, and remained hidden in the patch of shadow she had found for herself.
The elder Sister took a final inventory, and then, upon her instruction, the younger Sister opened the gate and led the string of young girls down Camp Street towards Lafayette Square. It was a sunny day for November and given the rain that had showered the City of late, the children were due for some extra playtime. Sila followed the processional several paces behind so as to avoid detection, her determined gait only occasionally interrupted by the lumbering clip clops of carriage horses passing down the street.
Upon arriving at the park, the girls fanned out to play hopscotch and run through the grass, while the Sisters sat on a park bench comfortably shaded by knotty oak trees, reading their Scripture. Across the square, workers milled about setting the final touches on the new city hall, racing towards its overdue completion. Sila walked the periphery of the square toward the building, preferring to watch the children from that location, hidden in the cover of its inquisitive crowds.
Towards the middle of the park, away from any trees, the little girl was lying on a patch of grass staring up at the clouds and pointing at each cottony formation. “I see a rabbit,” she chirped. “I see a kitty-cat.” Today the park was particularly crowded, affording Sila the opportunity to move even closer to the child. Dropping to her knees, she feigned garden work, pulling on weedy dandelion roots as she moved nearer to the little girl. Her head down, Sila tended to the flowerbeds without raising the suspicions of the Sisters; after all, it was easy to avoid detection in a society that could not acknowledge you.
The little girl continued. “I see a duck. I see a bear.” Then, stretching out her legs, she sighed and said with resignation “…just too many animals” and closed her eyes.
As Sila approached, she could hear the child’s softly humming to herself. She saw a soft patch of dandelion flowers just next to the little girl and moved toward them. Just then the youngest Sister stood up and called the orphans to attention. The little girl stirred and opened her eyes. Sila took a deep breath and smiled. “They’re calling for you, little one,” she said softly.
The little girl nodded and rubbed her eyes.
“Here,” Sila said as she reached down into her pile of dandelions and found a large seed head, ready to burst. “Saved this one for you,” she said, handing it to the little girl as she rose to her feet.
The little girl looked at Sila and reached cautiously towards the flower. As she took it, her soft tiny fingers brushed against Sila’s, who quietly gasped at the child’s touch.
“Blow on the seeds,” Sila said after composing herself.
The little girl tilted her head, unsure as to what to do next.
Sila grabbed a smaller seed head, raised it to her own lips, and blew. As she did, hundreds of stringy cottony seedlings took flight.
The little girl laughed, and, now understanding, began to blow furiously on her own seed head as patches of seeds fell away in heavy clumps, leaving only a few straggly seedlings on the stem. The little girl stuck out her lower lip dejectedly.
“No, honey, that’s good luck. Let’s see here…we got to count all the seeds left on your flower.”
The little girl looked confused.
Sila continued, “One, two, three, four, five, six…I say, there are too many to count! From the looks of all those seeds, I’d say you’ll be living a nice long life.”
The little girl remained silent, a puzzled expression settling across her face.
Sila continued, “You see, the number of seeds left on the flower’s head is the number of years you will live. And look at all the seeds still on your flower! A young girl like you…well, it’s just what I’d expect…you’re going to a nice long, happy life.”
The little girl smiled and pointed toward the mound of flower’s Sila had collected lying on the grass. “Again!” she chirped loudly.
The Sister called out once more and Sila skittishly turned back to pulling weeds.
“No child…Go on and join your friends,” Sila said under her breathe as she cast her gaze back toward the ground. “But take your flower with you and remember what a lucky little girl you are.”
The little girl nodded. “Thank you,” she said and then, surrendering to her fate, ran off to join the other little girls in line.
Sila watched her run off and, as soon as the child was far enough away, collapsed to the ground, exhaled, and began to weep.