 
# The Canadian Civil War

# Volume 4

# Mississippi Beast

# By William Wresch

# Copyright 2014 William Wresch

# Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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# Chapter 1 –

# It started at Lambeau Field

#

Spring in Green Bay lasts about three weeks. The snow melts, pot holes appear everywhere, garbage that has been hidden by the snow is now visible at every curb, but people smile. They are happy they can take their parkas off, and they are happy they have a few days before the mosquitoes arrive. In other words, these are the best days of the year.

Things were also good for Elise and me. We had the National Cathedral reserved for our wedding May 28, and while we knew we would have to postpone until fall when the political scene was more stable, politics was trending in the right direction. The April elections had shown the Heritage Party to be weaker than it had appeared. Where some had expected it to take over the Louisiana Legislature, it only had a slight plurality. It would form a government there, but it would need the involvement of at least one other party -- a power-sharing arrangement that should moderate their damage – at least in theory.

My classes were winding down, and while I had arrived back on campus a week late (and completely unprepared for class), there had been no serious repercussions. In fact, my contract had been extended for an additional year. Maybe someone called someone. I don't know. In any case, my graduate students were doing pretty good work, and were getting used to the idea that maybe the U.S. was not the worst country in the world and had a history worth studying. My undergraduates still thought the U.S. was a pretty awful place, and I was incredibly prejudiced, but they at least became a little more accurate in the names and dates of events they chose to hate.

Elise was still working long hours, but she found one evening a week to spend with me, and Saturdays she was now sometimes home early in the afternoon. Sundays she spent an hour answering emails while I made breakfast, but then she stayed away from her computer and phone while we went to mass and then to her parents' home for Sunday dinner.

Like the rest of Green Bay, I thought these were the best days of the year. If only they had lasted a little longer. But the second week in May a training base for Canadian reservists declared it was only responsible to take orders from the "legitimate provincial government." Back in the good old days, the base commander would have been put some place until he sobered up, but these were not the good old days. The commander – and it appeared most of the senior officers at the base – made a public statement to the local media, and then locked the gates. Insubordination was bad, of course, but two things made the situation much, much worse. First, this was not some tiny base with fifty fat reservists who had cabin fever from a long winter. This was one of the largest and most well-provisioned and well-staffed bases in the country. And second, the base was in Arkansas.

Maybe the location was the most important. If it had been Louisiana, the problem might have been seen as just one more provocation from an extreme corner of the country. But Green Bay had been working on Arkansas. Elise and half her department had been down there all winter giving out dollars for government projects, and hoping to make friends in the process. If Arkansas stayed with Green Bay, then Louisiana was isolated, and so weakened it was less likely to provoke anything leading to independence. But if Arkansas joined Louisiana... The alarm bells ringing all over government offices in Green Bay were deafening.

I lost Elise for a solid week as she went to endless research and strategy meetings. She got home most nights too tired to talk, and when she did talk, there was a limit to what she could tell me. But confidentiality aside, I could quickly gather this event had been a complete surprise. No one had prepared any response. No one had even considered such an eventuality. They had no idea what to do.

Back at the university we were just getting started on exam week. As you might predict, I was asked multiple times – "Will we still have exams?" That call was up to the Chancellor, but based on what I was hearing in faculty meetings, the academy was to continue as usual. That's what I told students, and that's how I prepared. I got some fairly creative excuses from a few students about why they should be excused from finals and still pass the class. I told them to take it up with the dean. I figured he could use the entertainment. For the vast majority of students, we just kept with the schedule. Something disturbing was happening in Arkansas, but that was pretty remote, and while it might lead to all kinds of bad things, for the moment at least, people still wanted grades and diplomas, and the jobs they would get after graduation.

The spring social scene in Green Bay revolves around the emerging lacrosse season. Any new player on the team got face time on the evening news, and water-cooler conversation involved intense discussions over which team might challenge in the division. Lacrosse matters in Green Bay. We might think it is silly that anyone would waste time on anything other than cricket, but the French are the French and that is the way their world turns. I say all that to preface the first real incident after the base closure that had an impact on the average person in Green Bay.

My father's company had a reserved box at Lambeau Field, and that is where I spent my Sundays. Why not, Elise was now in the office pretty much non-stop, and the food was free. The company used me as a kind of social link to various government folks, so you could even claim my attendance was a kind of "work." So I was there about two weeks after the base announcement when the incident happened. Historians are always reluctant to name the real start of any war since so much can be assigned the blame, but when the full history of this war is written, I expect many to say the first "bullet" was fired that afternoon at Lambeau Field.

It started with the worst scheduling idea in the history of sports. Months before, some genius decided to invite the Arkansas Otters up for an exhibition game. It would be a chance to build friendships through sports, etc. Whatever back room marketing genius picked that matchup had never actually attended a lacrosse match and seen what fans look like. They sit out in the parking lot and drink endless bottles of cheap wine near their cars, a routine they call "tailgating." Hours later they stagger into the stadium and shout obscenities at opposing players for the entire game. "Friendship through sport" existed in the imagination of people who watched too many movies.

As bad as these things always are, with the constant harassment of opposing players (and any opposing fans dumb enough to attend), this Sunday was worse. The revolt at the reserve base had people angry, and maybe scared, and if you add barrels of wine to that mix, you get thunderous chants accusing the hapless Otters of any kind of vile obscenity known the man or beast. The Otters could have just put in ear plugs and waited for three hours until the clock ran out and they got to return to the safety of their province. But these were not normal men, these were lacrosse players. You weren't going to tell them they had mated with farm animals and get away with it. No sir. They had their honor to uphold. So we were no more than ten minutes into the match when three of their guys get off the bench and go charging up against the seats, only to be drenched in wine thrown from a hundred cups. This would have been a real good time for cooler heads to call the match and get everyone to safety, but cooler heads weren't running the match, lacrosse team owners were. The match would continue, after all, it was needed to achieve friendship through sport.

While that was occurring, there was the usual mayhem on the field that occurs any time you give twenty men a chance to run around and attack each other with sticks. The body checking was rough, tripping was almost universal, and then one of the Lambeau Loons totally lost his mind. In replays you could see he had just been hit really hard by one Otter as another tripped him from behind. It was dirty, but not that uncommon for lacrosse. But what people saw was his response. Getting up off the ground, he bent his knees, reached back with his stick, took a full swing with all his muscles tensed, and hit an Otter across the neck. Hundreds of folks will tell you they could hear his neck snap from clear across the field. The man was dead before he hit the ground. The Jumbotron showed the murder on a screen a hundred feet high. Everyone saw it, and everyone reacted. And – here's where it gets really bad – the first reaction was a cheer from the crowd.

To me, that was the real start of the Canadian Civil War.

People tell you that when really dramatic things occur time seems to stop or slow way down. Maybe we just pay more attention. I know I can describe the next hour or so in detail like every instant was etched in my memory. I remember the sounds. There was the huge cheer when the Otter went down. And then the dead silence when everyone saw him crumpled on the grass unmoving. There were a few drunks who shouted jeers like "Take that back to Arkansas" but even they stopped after a few more shouts. Then there was complete silence. Seventy thousand people stood in awe. Had they really just seen what they had just seen?

The players on the field continued to run for a few more seconds until they noticed things had changed. Those at the far end of the field looked up at the Jumbotron, saw the replay, and then raced to the fallen man. And yes, there were replays of the hit. The jackass running the AV systems for the stadium showed the killing at least five times until someone pulled him away from his equipment and shut down the screen. I'd like to think he is unemployed now, but who knows? Besides, you could bet the hit would be rebroadcast on television time and time again – and it was. We learned the New Orleans stations were showing it in super-slow motion for days on end, despite the pleas of the player's widow.

But all that came later. At the moment we had players running to the fallen man, the Jumbotron showing the killing, and the crowd standing and staring, leaning forward as if tilting a few inches closer would make the scene clearer. Up in our box, we had the usual split between the people who had some interest in the match – about a dozen or so of us, who had taken seats near our windows and actually saw the hit – and an equal number of folks who were standing in the back of the box eating crepes and refilling their wine glasses. None of them had been paying any particular attention to the game; they were here to do business, or at least to pretend to do business so they could get free drinks and free access to the game. None of them saw the hit. They just knew something had changed when the normal din of an athletic event was replaced by a cheer followed by absolute silence. They walked closer to the windows and asked what had happened, but the only response any of us made was to point to the damn Jumbotron and its continuing replay of the murder.

On the field there was a sprint from the sidelines as coaches and doctors from both teams rushed to the fallen man. They fell to their knees at his side and huddled over him. Most had phones out and were calling for emergency equipment. Two men brought over a backboard and laid it by the side of the player. Another man wheeled over a crash cart to restart the player's heart. It only took a minute or two for an ambulance to come out onto the field. This is a rough game, so the place was very prepared for injuries.

But of course, this was not an injury. We had all seen the hit time and time again. The doctors could call for all the equipment they wanted, and folks could hope all they wanted, but the player was dead. Looking down from our box, we could see the doctors struggle. His neck was snapped. Could they move him to open an air way? He wasn't breathing. Could they start CPR without moving his head? In the end, they went through the normal procedure for a neck injury and brought over the backboard and strapped him to it, then put him on a gurney and wheeled it into the ambulance. I don't know how fast an ambulance can go on a field like that, but it seemed to be going less quickly than maximum, which seemed yet one more sign that this case was over.

With the ambulance gone the folks on the field broke into two groups. The officials met together, presumably to do the obvious and end this "exhibition" that had exhibited far more than anyone could want. The players meanwhile, squared off, with the Otters surging toward the Loons, some in the group trying to restrain some of the men who had their sticks up and were ready to use them. The Loons backed off. At a distance it was hard to be certain of gestures, but it appeared there were some motions toward apology from a few Loons, but the Otters were having none of it. One man in particular stood forward and raised his stick about his head and pointed to himself, seeming to say "You want to fight? Here I am. Let's go." He issued the challenge over and over, but the Loons just kept backing away. They were done for the day. The officials seemed to finally agree to the obvious, and they ended the match. They motioned to the coaches present that the match was over, and they left the field without making any public announcement, not that one was needed. The folks in the stands were drunk, but they weren't imbeciles.

Gradually the stands emptied. I had never seen our box clear so fast. We had wine left and a pile of food that ended up in the trash. No one in our box had much to say. We wouldn't be closing any sales that day. Out in the stands there was some chatter, a few folks here and there seeming to reenact the hit, a few loud voices, but mostly quiet as people walked back to their cars. I have no idea what they were thinking, but I have to believe most of them knew on some level that a line got crossed that day. Lambeau would now be remembered not as a place of champions but as the site of a murder. And Green Bay? The city was different now. Maybe its character had changed, maybe it had just shown a different side of its character, but it was now the place where people cheered while a man died. What kind of city did that?

# Chapter 2 –

# My troubles start at lunch

For the next weeks it felt like the city had gone into mourning. What were they mourning? The death of the player in the field, of course, and their general behavior toward the visiting team, and the loss of any friends they might have had in Arkansas, but I would argue their real loss was something they could not fully articulate. They had lost their moral authority. Where before the rebels in Louisiana were seen as racists who blew up cathedrals while the northerners were the enlightened ones, now it was clear the north was occupied by people who were capable of cheering terrible acts. What right did they have to lecture the Huguenots about their failings? For that matter, what right did they have to rule?

There was some effort at excuse making. After all, these were lacrosse fans, and they had been drinking. Besides, they only cheered until they were fully aware the man had been injured. It was all a mistake. The excuses sounded weak to everyone. After all, the proof was there in endless replays. The hit was unmistakable, the instant the man's neck snapped was obvious, and the thunderous cheer drowned out all doubt. The fans knew what they were doing. They did it, and now there was no erasing their act.

How do you respond when you see you have done wrong? One day you have one view of yourself, and the next? You see yourself as another person – a person you don't like. Some small percentage of Green Bayers accepted that new persona and made the common arguments of the vile – the guy had it coming, he started it, it was just a matter of time before someone responded to him... The comments were ugly and common enough that they made matters worse for the rest of the city. Is that who we are? Killers who cheer the act and then blame the victim? For those willing to accept the blame, and that was most of the city, just seeing people on the street and meeting their eyes was a chore. Shame weighed on young and old like boulders hanging from every shoulder. A man came to our city, and seventy thousand of us cheered when he was killed. Who does something like that? We do.

The political ramifications were obvious, so obvious they were almost a relief for those who got to put their minds to a practical problem. How do you shore up whatever relationships are left, and limit the damage to the country? There were public relations meetings to attend, and press releases to craft, and television interviews to prepare. I knew Elise would not be waiting for me when I got home from the match. I knew I might not see her for weeks. The leaders of the nation would be in crisis meetings for weeks. And they were. I think it was mid-May before she was home for dinner, late May before she came home for dinner and then did not go straight back to work.

Those of us not engaged in damage control, just average people who went back to average jobs and the daily chores of life, we talked much less than we ever had before in our lives. I would see people coming down the hall at the university, and the closest we got to a conversation was something along the lines of "Hi, how you doing, fine, you? Yes" as we continued walking, barely slowing down as we exchanged those few pathetic words. Why would we want to talk? What would we say? Could anything come out of our mouths that did not seem silly, insensitive, or crude? And as much as we worried about what we might say, we were even more worried about what our friends might say. Might they take some wild approach to the killing and attempt to justify it, minimize it, repaint it in some way, and in the process cause us to lose all our respect for them? The simplest way to ensure they did not say something stupid about the killing was to give them no chance to say anything. So no one talked to anyone.

We non-governmental types just did our jobs. I graded final exams. Where I can normally grade a stack of essay exams in two days, I spent five days on one set. No student has ever had an exam answer read as thoroughly as those students did. It was a relief to read them - a distraction. I wrote more comments in the margins of those papers than the margins could hold, and then just turned the papers over and continued on the back. I doubt more than two students ever read past the grade at the top of the paper, but I didn't care. I wanted to engage with those students about the exam questions. The truth is, I wanted to engage anybody about anything other than what I had seen at Lambeau. And I will bet 90% of Green Bay adults were doing the same thing as me. Worker productivity must have gone through the roof.

Eventually I ran out of exams to grade, so I turned in my grade reports, and then started working again on my book. That might take me through the summer. It would also take me to a different time, a time I might feel better about the people walking the streets. My office was quiet, a good place to work. I would get there around seven in the morning, and stay until nearly dark. Lunches I would try to get outside. I avoided the faculty cafeteria, and I suspect everyone else did too. The golf course was a short walk to the east of the campus, and they had some seating outside under umbrellas. Conversations at adjoining tables were generally about chips that went in and putts that didn't, good innocuous topics that were safe. I always had the crepe of the day and some lemonade, and enjoyed my half hour or so in the open air.

I followed that routine for about three weeks when one day David Starr showed up at my table. He looked like he had come for a round of golf with the university president. He had a blue polo shirt that showed off his tan – and his muscles, white pants with a crease that seemed sharp to the point of defying physics, and deck shoes with no socks. He was about thirty, so he was no preppy, but I suspect most preppies hoped they would look that polished when they grew up. He didn't hesitate or ask, he just pulled the chair out next to mine and sat down.

"It's been a while." The way he sat back in his chair, and turned slightly to me, you would have thought we were lifelong friends. His smile matched that impression – happy to see me, but not overly excited, as if we got together regularly and would continue to do so for ever.

"What are you doing here?" Having not seen him since New Orleans nearly a year ago, I was completely confused. To me he had stepped into a new place at a new time. I had never expected to see him in Green Bay. Why would I, he worked for the consulate in New Orleans.

"I was in the area and thought I would see how you were doing. How's the food here, by the way?" He picked up a menu, but paid no particular attention to it.

"The cook is French. Order anything other than a cheeseburger, and you will get a great meal."

"Ha. I like that." He laughed as if I had just said something brilliant. As he did, I happened to look over his shoulder and saw several people looking our way. It took me a moment, and then I realized we were speaking English. Naturally people would notice two foreigners in their midst.

"Will you be visiting long?" I asked, switching to French.

"I'm really not sure." He replied in English. What kind of spy was this guy? Did he purposely want to stand out?

"Did you want to see me about something?" I continued in French. Maybe if I gave him a couple more answers in French he would get the hint.

"Well, I did have a letter for you." He persisted in using English. He reaching into a pocket and pulled out a small envelope that was nearly hidden in his hand. He slid it across the table to me and placed it partially under my plate. Was he worried it would blow away? "You might want to read that later."

"Okay." I took the letter and put it in a pocket. It would have been less dangerous if I had put a hand grenade there, but of course I was too stupid to understand that at the time.

"I have to run now, but I hope to see you again soon. We have lots to talk about." He held out his hand and we shook, but his grip seemed a bit odd. Had he hurt his hand? As he released his grip his fingers slid along mine in a funny way. I found myself wiping my hand on my pants, although I cannot remember if his hand was sweaty, or if it was just odd in some way. In any case, he walked back through the tables and out to the parking lot where I presumed he had left his car. My crepe came, I ate it, and I went back to my office. It would be a week before I understood how much that lunch cost me.

Back in my office, I started back on my book about the Jolliets – volume 2. The first volume was being copy edited and translated into French. It would come out simultaneously in English and in French through the University of Virginia Press and the National University Press. I had finished it a year after my last and final deadline, but at least I had finished it. Volume two was supposed to be done by August but I had barely started. What had I been thinking when I had agreed to the publication schedule?

Volume 2 was about the next two generations of Jolliets, or would it be three? I wanted to get into the growth of Green Bay and its gradual assumption as capital of a united country, I wanted to do some history of westward exploration by the Jolliets, and I wanted to include some early trading between the colony of Canada (New France) and the Louisiana colony. Would that all go together well in one volume, or should it be two or even three? And now that I knew more the backstory of western exploration, how would I tell that story while protecting some of the confidences I had promised? I was in tough ethical territory with some of that. Do I just hide the rationale behind the Sioux massacres? And then there is the Fox War and the French genocide. There was only ugliness under that rock. As an historian, I needed to tell that story. But, truth be told, I didn't want to.

So I stared at my computer for the hundredth time, starting a sentence or two, then erasing it, staring some more, and starting again, only to erase again while the clock moved on.

At some point I remembered the letter Starr had given me. I pulled it out of my pocket, again struck by how small the envelope was. Where do you even find envelopes that size? It looked even more odd with the large lettering on the front – "Confidential. For Shawn Murphy." Somehow it didn't seem very "confidential" with the word spread out across the envelope in block letters that barely fit. It was like screaming at someone – "hey, let's whisper." Pretty odd. Inside was a single sheet of paper that said "Call Senator Dodson's office at 202-234-9999." Couldn't Starr have just given me the number? Why the big mystery?

I threw the envelope in the waste basket and stared at the number. Did I want to talk with the senator? My dad was a supporter of his, but just in the sense that his business sometimes needed a little help or at least a willing ear while export legislation was being considered. My own meetings with him had been uncomfortable. He seemed to want information from me about events in Canada, events that he could just as easily read about in any newspaper. I had nothing of national significance to pass along. But here he was again, wanting to talk to me. Why?

I put the note in a desk drawer. Dodson could wait until I had made at least a little progress on the book, and it might also be better if I called home first and checked with my father to see what was going on. That would wait until evening. For now, I would get at least a couple paragraphs written if it killed me.

Louis Jolliet's kids. That's what I needed to be thinking about. They grow up in Green Bay. They speak the languages of the kids around them – French, Menominee, Mascoutin. They learn to read and write and do numbers. The girls learn to be French ladies and Mascoutin Princesses. The boys learn canoes, guns, bows, hunting, trading, and geography. They draw maps in the dirt until they are judged good enough to be given paper, and then they carefully draw maps of everywhere they have been and everywhere they have heard about. They use a sextant every noon. All other activity stops. Summer, winter, in between, noon is special. A sextant comes out and each boy shoots the sun. Cloudy days, rainy days, they do their best.

At age ten each boy goes out on his own for two weeks. He has to feed himself, reach the Wisconsin River at some point assigned to him, travel on to another point on the river, and map every place he has gone. He is to be home in two weeks, not one, not three. Each boy does it. Philippe comes back with bandages all over one arm and a scalp wound that needs stitches, but he doesn't come home until he has reached his places on the river, and he arrives home exactly at the two week point, carrying the front claws of a grizzly. The other three boys would always be envious of his scars, but over time they would get their own.

In short, the boys have the childhood every kid dreams of. I enjoyed writing about it. I was not sure how I would handle the rest of the book, but the first two chapters were fun to write. It felt like a kind of breakthrough. I put aside the bigger problems I might face in this volume, and just wrote about those first years. Suddenly it was one in the morning. I was hungry and tired, but I had twenty three pages done. I left the office with a smile on my face.

# Chapter 3 –

# Things get confusing

The next three days went by like a blur. I can't remember the last time I was so happy writing history. Twenty three pages becomes a hundred. I have lots of local stories about the Jolliet kids, two diaries from the girls, several mentions in older histories, all stacked up around my office as I type away with a smile. Is a hundred pages about childhood too many? Maybe, but I would let a future copy editor make that case. I was enjoying every paragraph. I liked these kids, I liked how they were raised, and I liked thinking about them and not about the current troubles. So I wrote and wrote and words scrolled up the screen.

I still broke for lunch in the middle of the day. In fact I tried to go exactly at noon, kind of a reflection on the duties of the Jolliet kids. I didn't buy a sextant, but I did have fun sitting at my table at the golf course looking at the shadows from the salt shaker, and trying to align the straw in my lemonade. It was silly, but fun, so I was especially annoyed one day when a shadow fell over my table and stayed there. David Starr. He had approached me from behind and now stood right behind my chair. Had he been watching while I played with items on my table? Did I care?

"We should talk some place more private." As he spoke, I turned around to see him, only to be blinded by the sun coming right over his shoulder.

"I like it here," I replied. "I'll buy you lunch."

"Humor me. This needs a little privacy." He moved back a step, leaving room for me to get up and follow. I decided not to fight it. I put a few francs on the table, apologized to the waiter as I left, and followed Starr out to the parking lot. He walked straight to a blaringly red Ford that stood out like a lion among sheep. He got behind the wheel and motioned for me to go to the passenger side. This was private? We might as well have been sitting on a stage.

"You haven't called the senator's office," he said the minute I was in the car. I noticed the interior was red too. Leather. Who colors leather red? Was he now a pimp? I just shrugged my shoulders.

"I have been busy. I am behind on a book."

"I think you owe the Senator something. At least basic courtesy. You will recall there was plenty of help for you in New Orleans when you needed it."

"He sent the Marines?"

"He told the consulate to watch out for you."

"Okay. So he is a good guy and I owe him. I will call." I reached for the door handle. The car was hot and the leather really uncomfortable.

"Take this first." He handed me a large while envelope that felt like it had a booklet inside.

"Okay." I put it in a pocket and reached for the door again."

"You should count it first. And I need you to sign a receipt." What was he talking about? I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and opened it. Money fell out onto my lap. Hundred dollar bills.

"What's this for?" I pushed the bills back into the envelope.

"If you would call the senator, you would find out. Now let me finish my job. Count the bills and sign this receipt."

"I don't want this." I handed him the envelope. He handed it right back.

"After you talk with the senator, you can always mail it back if you wish. Now let's get this done." I sat and stared at him. What was the money for? Did I keep arguing with him? The car was hot and he was adamant. It seemed easier to just do as he asked and leave. So, finally, I counted the bills. Fifty. He was giving me five thousand dollars. Why? I would find out. When I had counted the last bill, he gave me a piece of paper that said "I receive..." and I signed it. I put the envelope back in my pocket. Somehow it seemed bigger now.

"He is waiting for your call."

"Okay, I will do it yet this afternoon." And I was out of that hot red car. The air felt so much fresher, but I was sweating like I had just run a marathon. What the hell was going on? I walked straight back to my office, closed the door, and pulled out my phone.

And here's where it gets really weird. I called the number, but all I got was an answering machine. The good senator was very pleased to get my call, but he was serving the public right now and would get back to me as soon as possible. So said the machine to me, and probably to fifty people an hour. For this I had rush back and make a call? I put the phone down and got out the money. Who carries around this amount of cash other than drug dealers? What was I supposed to do with it? I put it back in my pocket, but it didn't feel comfortable. It was too thick, too big, too something. Maybe too wrong. There was no reason for the senator to give me money. It's not like he wanted me to buy some souvenirs of Green Bay to bring back to Philadelphia on my next visit. This just didn't add up.

What do you do when the world doesn't make sense? Call dad. He picked up on the second ring.

"Shawn, how are you doing?" I love caller ID. The conversation moves along so much quicker when you already know who you are talking to before you say the first word.

"Well, I am spending the summer working on my book series, but I just had an odd visit. Have you been talking to Senator Dodson?"

"I attended one of his constituent breakfasts a month or so ago, and we spoke for a few minutes, but not about anything substantial. He is up for re-election next year, so I think he is just pressing the flesh until he needs to raise some more cash."

"Well, he seems to have plenty. He just gave me $5000."

"What? Why would he do that?"

"I have no idea. I tried to call him, but his line is busy, so all I got was an answering machine. And here is where it gets really odd – the five thousand was all in cash – hundred dollar bills."

"This doesn't smell right, Shawn."

"I'm with you there. What makes it worse is the money was given to me by a man from the New Orleans consulate named David Starr. As near as I can tell, he is some kind of agent. Why he would come all the way up to Green Bay to give me cash is a complete mystery to me."

"And he said the money was from Dodson?"

"Yes. He insisted I call Dodson to find out why he was giving me this cash, but now I can't reach Dodson and I am sitting on a pile of cash as if I were a drug dealer or something."

"I don't like this. I will try to reach Dodson, but that kind of money seems dirty. If he hasn't called you back by tomorrow, or if I can't get through to him, I would get rid of the money. Find a charity. If this turns out to be legitimate, we can always make up the loss."

"Good idea. Thanks, Dad." I felt somewhat better already, but the envelope seemed to get heavier and heavier in my pocket. Did I really want to keep it until tomorrow? I had this weird image of getting hit by a car crossing the street and the wad of cash flying out and raining hundreds from the sky. I wanted the money gone now. So I locked my office, walked out to my car, and headed downtown.

The Bank of Philadelphia had a branch on Nicolet Drive, and I knew they could do currency exchange. The teller looked a bit surprised when I handed him the envelope, but he kept his comments to himself. He needed to go into a back room to get more francs, but he finally counted out a huge pile of them. As he was finishing, one of the bank officers that I often work with strolled over to say "hi." He pretended not to notice the pile of cash as he asked how I was doing, but finally he couldn't help himself. "That's not very safe, Shawn. I know some workmen prefer to be paid in cash, but even in Green Bay, crime sometimes happens."

"I won't have it long. In fact, maybe you could help. What's your favorite charity?"

"There's a food pantry across the river where some of us volunteer."

"Perfect." He gave me directions and I was out the door practically at a run. Given the exchange rate, my fifty hundred dollar bills had become several hundred large franc notes, and they barely fit in my pocket. I wanted them gone.

You would think getting rid of money would be easy, but it wasn't. First, I got lost. We live on the east side – the fashionable side – of Green Bay. While I have driven over to the west side on occasion, I haven't gone over often enough to really know where I am going. My car does have GPS, but it is French GPS, so... Eventually I got to the food place, only to find my problems just beginning. I was met by a very sympathetic older man who clearly wanted to help me without embarrassing me, but then I confused him by offering to make a donation. He immediately called a superior, an older woman, who told me how pleased she was and wanted to know my life story while she told me hers, only to stop mid-sentence when I reached into my pocket and put the wad of francs on her counter.

"I just wanted to make this donation." I then took a step back and tuned to leave only to see looks of anguish on their faces.

"Wait. We need to give you a receipt." The man even reached out to grab my arm.

"That's okay." And I took another step backwards. Now they were even more upset.

"Please, we have a policy. We need to give you a receipt." What could I say? I had this vision of the man pulling on my clothing as I backed away, and the old lady chasing me out to the parking lot with her walker. So, I nodded and stood there while they counted out all the bills. Or at least they tried. His hands shook enough that whatever pile of bills he created soon toppled over, and she kept losing track of the count. Finally I moved closer to the counter and helped them. Fifteen minutes later we had an agreed upon amount, and I had a receipt with some number written on it with a very shaky hand. I had either just donated 36,000 francs, or 360,000 francs. In any event, once they had completed their paperwork, they were much happier and I was free to go. The receipt took up much less room in my pocket, so I felt much happier too.

What do you do after you have just donated either 36,000 or 360,000 francs to a food pantry? I decided to go home for an early dinner. Good move, because I found a beautiful woman waiting for me.

"Elise! You're home." I am master of the obvious. But she kissed me and we stood in the kitchen and just hugged each other. It had been a very long time. I tried to remember how long it had been since we had both been home early enough to make dinner together. It had been weeks. Then a weird thought occurred to me. "Have you been fired?"

"No." That got her laughing so hard it took a minute before she could explain. "You do come up with the oddest things... But no, we were all sitting in yet another meeting saying pretty much the same things we have been saying for weeks, while staring out the windows and looking like third graders wanting recess, when the Minister took pity on us all and declared this to be – and these are his words – 'official have dinner with your husband/wife/spouse/lover day.'"

"Remind me to send her flowers."

"No flowers to other women until we have been married for years and years."

"Fair enough." I was in no mood to let her go, so we stood hugging for a good long time. I think we may have talked, but mostly it was about having my arms around her. It felt so good. Eventually I released her and we fell back into our old roles in the kitchen. I did wine and the salad, she did something beautiful with whatever happened to be in the refrigerator. We talked about this and that, but mostly we were just together sharing the space and enjoying the time together. But there was a point where the conversation got more important. Here's how it started.

"I really love the kitchen. Everything is beautiful." I had brought workmen in from Philadelphia to remodel the kitchen back in January while she was making friends in Arkansas. "It must have cost a lot."

"Yes, but these materials should last forever."

"Are you sure we can afford it? I know it is beautiful, but.."

"We have never talked about money, have we? We should. You know I get a salary from the university. But I also get money from the family business. Since I came out here as the representative to the Canadian office, I get a share of the profits. Last quarter that was seventy thousand dollars." I saw surprise in her face when I said that. "Yes, business is very good."

"So we have lots of money?"

"We have so much money today I gave 360,000 francs to a charity."

"What?"

"Well, not really. Here, let me show you." I pulled the receipt out of my pocket. "I think it is supposed to say 36,000 francs, but look at that handwriting. It really could be any amount." I thought she would be pleased, or at least amused by the receipt, but she just looked confused. "I was given some money today – long story – and I didn't want it, so I gave it to charity. A man at the bank suggested a food pantry on Allouez Drive, so that's where I took the money. It turns out giving money to charity is harder than you would think, but that's another story."

"You gave the money away."

"Yes, it didn't feel right to keep it." At this point she wrapped her arms around my neck and started crying harder than I could imagine possible. I was speechless. What was going on? Did she want the money? "Should I have kept it? Do you need it?"

"Oh Shawn, thank God you are a simple man – and an honest one."

"Please stop crying. I am sorry."

"You don't need to apologize. Every gendarme in Canada should be apologizing to you. And me too. I doubted. I was so scared it might be true. I haven't slept in four nights."

"Why? What's going on?"

"The government is on edge. They are afraid of what is coming. They think the Americans might help Louisiana. So they are afraid of Americans – all Americans.

"Me?"

"You have access to Uncle Claude, and to me. As a professor you also have access to young, impressionable students. They see an American agent come to see you. He gives you a secret phone number, and then lots of money. So they think..."

"I don't care what they think. What did you think?"

"I love you – and my country."

"That's not really an answer."

"I am here, Shawn. I came home to be with you. That is my answer."

"Good answer. But stop crying. My shirt is getting wet." She started crying all over again, but she also kissed me, so I was fine with that.

# Chapter 4 –

# A wiser me

I lost some sleep that night as I thought back over the last several days and how the Canadian authorities had been viewing me. In retrospect it would have been odd had they not wondered about me. Starr had been as publicly secret as he could have been. The envelope with "Confidential" all over it. Why not be even less subtle and label it "Hey, this is top secret, be sure to investigate the recipient"? Although I suppose all of that would not have fit on the envelope in block letters. The car that had to be noticed, the cash that had to be counted where anyone with good eyesight could see. He wanted me to be compromised. That conclusion took microseconds. What kept me awake was the more difficult question – why?

What is attractive about history research is you get to feel like an expert. You read what national leaders did, and find background information on why they did it. You begin to feel like you understand the big picture. If you are really arrogant, you even begin to feel like you can second-guess the leader. Oops, he would still be running the show if he had only done X. It feels so good.

But I was living in the middle of history, and I didn't have a clue. I thought I had a general idea of how the north-south break was going in Canada, but both sides were doing far more than was available to me through newspapers and casual conversations. Did I have a sense for the general strategy? Probably, but I knew almost nothing about how each side would implement their strategy. And then there was America. My own country was playing a role in this, or at least some people in the country were playing a role. Which side were they on? It looked like Louisiana, although I had no way to confirm that. What would they do to help their side? I had no idea. I was just a pawn, and I had just gotten smacked. Why?

The next morning I woke up to find Elise still in bed. She had been rising at five and rushing to work each morning. For her to still be in bed meant two things were true. She was really tired, and – more importantly – she wanted to be with me. She stayed with me until almost eight, so we had lots of time to do lots of things, including breakfast. That was a great morning. We both left the house with a smile.

I headed to the university, the car driving mostly on auto-pilot (not really. I always kept both hands on the wheel in case one of the wheels fell off). But I was thinking not about the book and the Jolliets, but about Starr. Payback would be sweet. But how?

Back in the office I did the usual searches. There was a biography of him on the consulate website, but who knew if any of that was true. He popped up on other sites, being a member of various boards, or getting awards for mundane things – good citizen, esteemed donor, the usual Chamber of Commerce stuff. He had been completely sanitized. Other than sending a note home to his mother asking her to spank him for bad behavior, no clear action presented itself. I made myself a cup of coffee (I import it from the U.S. Don't ever bother with Canadian coffee) and tried to think of a new approach. What could I do to get even?

Somehow, Foster came to mind. Here was another guy I owed a punch in the mouth. He kept doing nasty things and getting away with it. There was a link between them. Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but it seemed likely. They seemed to have the same agenda, and maybe they were working from the same play book, maybe they were working independently, but they were both annoying. What might I do about him?

Research on Foster turned up the stuff I had already seen. He was an officer in the family foundation, but didn't seem to have a regular job. There was information about his yachting expertise (which didn't mention his burning up a classic sailing ship in the Gulf), articles about his historical efforts in New Orleans, little that I didn't already know. Where was he vulnerable? I went back to the family foundation to see if it said more about his business. Apparently there were two companies in the family, each headed by one of Foster's brothers. I went to their websites to see if Foster was an officer in either, and it turned out he sat on the boards of both. How cozy.

I spend the next several hours reading press releases from the company websites. Is there a special level of hell waiting for PR people? Reading these things was agony, but in hour three it paid off. Both companies were in the midst of a permitting process to open a huge mine in northern Canada. Press releases made it clear there would be absolutely no environmental problems from open pit mines that would tear the tops off three mountains and pour the unused earth into local streams. What could possibly go wrong? Local tribes were opposed, but company spokesmen were meeting with them to "educate" them about the benefits of the mine. Permit approvals were expected within the month. Shareholders were already being told of projected profits in the billions. Share prices had been rising for months and were expected to double within two years.

Hmm. Who did I know at the Interior Ministry that might be able to slow down the approvals?

"Elise, do you have time for lunch?" It was already past one, but she had not eaten yet, and more importantly, she was willing to skip a meeting to spend a half hour with me. Take that, David Starr. My lady loves me. I printed out half a dozen press releases and the board of director membership lists for the Foster companies, and headed to lunch with the prettiest woman in Green Bay.

There are dozens of open-air restaurants along the Fox River, and while you cannot sit outside in the evening because of the mosquitoes, and you cannot sit along the river in August because of the smell from the green algae that blooms, in June these restaurants are available and popular. So we met at one. Did I ever tell you how beautiful Elise is? I got to the restaurant before her and was sitting at a table near the river when she arrived, so I got to see her walk across the restaurant. Every head turned to watch. And why not? She was wearing a yellow suit with a skirt that came just above her knees, and a jacket with sleeves just down to the elbows. In a word, it was professional, but professional in the sense that the designer hoped for and every woman dreamed they would look when they bought it. The skirt moved with every step, and every step was magic. Best of all, while the whole room was looking at her, she was looking at me. I am a lucky man.

"You look like a happy man," she said as she sat down next to me. She took my hand and my smile got bigger.

"I am having lunch with the most beautiful woman in Green Bay. I have lots to be happy about."

"For that, you get a kiss." Wow, my day was going well. We kissed, and I assumed half the men in the place were wondering how to toss me in the river and take my place.

"I have an idea, although I have to admit, being with you is giving me lots of new ideas." She squeezed my hand and I lost track of what I was saying.

"Easy, Shawn. I have to get back to work in half an hour." She smiled while she said that, and all I could think of is how good she looked in the sunlight.

"I spent the morning plotting revenge. Now I wish I had spent it with you."

"I have already told the minister I need to leave the office by five today – family emergency. Can you wait until then?"

"Not easily. In fact, once I tell you about my plot, you might need to work late."

"You have a plot?"

"Yes. I wanted to have some revenge on David Starr for what he did, but instead I came up with something on Tilden Foster. Want to hear it?" I went on to explain the mining project, the companies involved, Foster's membership on the boards, the profits that had already been promised, the share price elevation.

"You understand there are also some local jobs involved." Elise saw the potential downside immediately.

"Yes. I don't know how many locals would actually be employed – if any. I do know the local tribe is opposing the mine. But there may be some loss of employment."

"I can do some checking, and I do like the idea of hitting back at Foster. I hold him responsible for those deaths in Dakota. Let me talk about it with some people in the ministry." And that was all we said about that for a while. After all, it was a sunny day in June, we were outside having lunch together, and there were far more pleasant things to talk about than giant bad guys like Foster. We ordered lunch, rubbed knees under the table, held hands, and generally acted like fifteen year olds. I loved it.

As we wrapped up lunch, though, Elise circled back to Foster. "There might be another way to send a message to these people. Assuming the rest of the family is just about making money, and Tilden is the politico in the group, it might be worth letting the big brothers know that they are out billions because of little brother. They might get the guy under control better than we could."

"So we create a family feud. Agreed, that might give Tilden something else to think about and less time for mischief."

"It wouldn't be too hard. Just a quiet word from one of our negotiators. Tilden might get a slap on his wrists and a cut to his travel budget." I liked the idea, although it sounded odd coming from Elise. Turns out she can be hard when she needs to, and if there was ever a time to be a little tough, we seemed to be in it.

We left the restaurant with long hugs. It felt great to be together and to be on the same side. I walked along the Fox back to my car enjoying the sunshine, happy that I would see Elise again in a few hours. Life was pretty good.

# Chapter 5 –

# Philadelphia calls

I have to admit I didn't really think all my problems would be solved just because I had spent some time with Elise. What I didn't expect was the direction of the next punch. Dad called. I had just parked back at the university when my cell phone rang.

"Did you get rid of the money yet?"

"Yes. I gave it to a charity already yesterday afternoon."

"Good. I got through to Dodson last night. He gave me the usual BS about how glad he was to talk with me, how much he appreciates my support, he basically went into campaign mode. But once he got through his usual talking points, he dropped his voice like he was a kindly uncle or something and said he was a little worried about you. He also said he needed your help on something."

"So he sends me five thousand dollars?"

"He never mentioned the money. He did say that there were good things you could do for your country while in Green Bay, and he would make sure you were recognized later for your efforts. I was to pass along his best wishes and encourage you to help out if asked."

"Dad, I love my country, but I don't trust Dodson, and I certainly don't trust his lackey David Starr. I think he was purposely trying to make me look like an agent, trying to make the locals distrust me. I don't understand what he is trying to do, and I want no part of it – whatever it is."

"Then don't. Go with your gut on this. Get rid of the cash, and keep your distance. If they have some legitimate business there, they will let you know. In the meantime, stay away."

"Thanks, Dad." My father had done business with people in a dozen different countries and at all levels of an enterprise. He knew people. If he was uncomfortable with Dodson and friends, that was a judgment I could take to the bank.

Interestingly, I was barely off the phone to my father when Senator Slick himself finally returned my call.

"Hello, Shawn. Thank you for calling yesterday. I am sorry it took me some time to get back to you. As you can imagine, current events are keeping us all very busy. I was wondering when you might be coming back to Philadelphia for a visit. It would be very helpful to me to get your impressions of current developments in Canada."

"I am afraid I am pretty caught up in my work here, and may not be back until Christmas."

"In that case, do you think you might find the time to send me an occasional note with your interpretation of events? I think we have some money in the budget to offer you a consulting fee. It would not be much, but we don't want to take your time for granted."

"Senator, a man claiming to represent you was here twice this week, and he created real problems for me. He also gave me five thousand dollars. I have since given that money to a local charity."

"I see. I am sure the charity is grateful. And we want no problems for any of our citizens, especially good people like yourself. I will have a member of my staff investigate this matter. In the meantime, I want you to know how much I respect you and your family, and how grateful I would be for your insights."

"Thank you, senator. As I said, I will be back in Philadelphia for the holidays. Maybe we can speak then. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you asked David Starr to keep his distance."

"I appreciate the situation you are in. I hope you appreciate the situation your country is in."

"Frankly Senator, I have no idea what situation my country is in. To me this appears to be an internal matter for Canadians to resolve."

"Crises never stay within borders, Shawn. And our border is over a thousand miles long. You might give that some thought. Your country is going to be impacted, no matter how this crisis is finally resolved."

"Point taken. And as I said, I would be happy to speak with you when I am next in Philadelphia, but please, no more piles of cash and secret notes."

"Fair enough. In the meantime, I want you to know I would be grateful for any insights you are willing to share at any time."

"I will keep that in mind. Good bye, Senator."

"Good bye, and stay safe."

I sat motionless at my desk for the next two hours trying to completely analyze that conversation. On the surface, it was completely reasonable. He was right about the shared border and the ramifications of any major crisis, especially if shooting started. I did have some responsibilities to help with preparations if I could. On the other hand, much was happening that didn't mesh with the Senator's statements. What had Starr been doing in New Orleans, and now up here in Green Bay? Who was Foster working for, and why didn't they have him on a tighter leash? It was a pretty good bet I was only getting part of the story.

So what should I do? After two hours of sitting motionless in my crappy office chair (could the French make anything well?), my aching back finally got me moving. I stood up, massaged my back as well as I could, and walked to my car. It was time to go home and talk with Elise.

I got home and found Elise was already there, a full hour earlier than she had promised. And she was wearing, well, she wasn't wearing very much. I decided international politics could wait a bit.

Later that evening we got around to having dinner. It was during dinner that I made a proposal that turned out to be one of my most brilliant. The conversation started around that old staple of conversations – so, what did you do this afternoon? Elise led off.

"I had a chance to talk with an assistant minister in the national resources department. It turns out he is pretty green and has been looking for some reason to block the Foster mine. He apparently also has some Sioux relations. The minute I told him the Foster from Dakota was one of the Fosters with the mine, he came up with a hundred reasons to delay the mine. Nothing will happen up there for years."

"Score one for the good guys."

"As for passing the word back to the family that young brother is the reason for the delays, that will take some more planning. We need to make sure nothing ends up in court. So some subtlety is required. But I think we can find the right vehicle for that message."

"Nice work." We were sitting in the dining room, a huge room for just two people, but it had its romantic elements. The walls were paneled in oak, the ceiling had a fifty year old mural, and we had lit candles to provide just enough light. Did I ever tell you how good Elise looks in candlelight? We touched wine glasses in a toast, frankly pleased with ourselves for several reasons.

"How did your afternoon go?"

"I had a phone conversation we should talk about."

"Sounds serious."

"Serious, and confusing. Maybe you can help me decide what to do. The phone call was from Senator Dodson. He is from Philadelphia so we have known him as an acquaintance for many years. My father meets with him about business maybe once every year or two. He is the chair of the Foreign Relations committee, so he can be helpful to a business that does a lot of international trading like ours."

"So he wanted to talk about business?"

"No, he wanted to talk about international relations. Or more directly, he wanted me to tell him what was going on over here. That's also where the money came in. His messenger gave me cash to talk with Dodson. That whole thing gets pretty odd, and the first thing I told Dodson is to not send me any more messengers.

"Okay..." at this point she was looking at me pretty intently. Without question she was nervous about where this conversation might lead.

"I don't want to be paid for private conversations or letters. In fact I don't want to have any private conversations. I am perfectly happy to give my opinion on anything and everything, after all, I am a professor and we love to talk. But I want to be open to all."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Maybe not in those exact words, but that was the gist of it. I said I would talk with him next time I am in Philadelphia, probably around Christmas."

"But he wants more."

"I think he needs more. He did make one point that rang true. If things go bad here, it will have an impact on the U.S. We saw the damage last year at the Duquesne border crossing. You can imagine a huge influx of refugees heading east at the first sign of trouble."

"My department has to do more than imagine it; we have to plan for it. By the way, you didn't hear that from me."

"But I think that's the other part of the problem. I think these guys believe I have some inside track to the government. I talk with your uncle, I talk with you, who knows who else I might have access to, so in their minds, I am this treasure trove of inside information just waiting to be tapped. But President Jolliet and I just talk history, you and I talk about far more interesting things, and what I hear at parties is generally no more than whining about travel difficulties or shortages of employees. And, in truth, I don't want to know inside information. It really is none of my business. What Dodson and his crowd forget is what I do for a living. I am a history professor. I want to study history. If I have any value in any of this, that's how I can help – by looking into history for guidance."

"And if history shows we really should be two countries?"

"If history shows that, where has it been hiding for the last two centuries?"

"Wherever it is, do me a favor and don't dig it up. I really do like having one very big country."

"I think I know where to dig. And here's an interesting idea. Would you like to go with me?"

"I assume where you really want to go is upstairs." Did I mention how good she looks in candlelight? So, yes, upstairs is exactly where I wanted to go. She is a mind reader.

"Yes, I want to go upstairs. But at some point, and I do hope soon, I would like you to take a vacation and go with me to Kaskaskia."

"Wow. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet. Kaskaskia – home to more grain elevators than people. Will we spend our vacation watching the barges load?"

"With luck, and with your help, we will find the key that holds this country together." And yes, I know that sounds pretty grand, but sitting there, holding hands with my lady, I felt like I could do all that and more.

# Chapter 6 –

# A dinner with Claude Jolliet

As you can tell from Elise' reaction, Kaskaskia is not a honeymoon haven. It is a working class city whose primary purpose is to load Illinois grain for shipment to the rest of the world. So no, I hadn't "swept her off her feet." And there were lots of other reasons why she might not be able to come. Things in her world were not going well. The fool who had killed the Arkansas lacrosse player was sitting in jail, charged with manslaughter. He had a good lawyer who had already found six other examples of lacrosse players being killed on the field. Granted, the last had been twenty years ago, but it's not like it never happens (one more reason to prefer cricket). The killer had issued a tearful apology, and the team owners had said all the right things to the media, but a man was still dead, and the fans... well the fans were indicted in the court of public opinion. Every radio and TV pundit south of Missouri (and a few _in_ Missouri) was making a living off a righteous indignation that boosted their ratings on a daily basis. They massaged their outrage on their talk shows, always finding some new wrinkle to keep the outrage white hot.

The response of the league had been to cancel all exhibition matches. This was no real sacrifice since most of the southern teams had already stated they would not play. Bowing to the obvious, the league cancelled all summer matches but left open the possibility of playing in the fall when the regular season began. Wishful thinking? Who knew?

Meanwhile, back on the reserve base in Arkansas, not much more had happened, but clearly the situation was not being resolved. There was no public announcement of strategy, but rumors all over town were that other training exercises had been postponed and no reservists would be going to camp this summer – there was too much risk of other commanders deciding they would take their bases off in some other direction. Other talk was of senior military men being evaluated and quite a few being forced into early retirement. But all this was rumor. What was the military really doing? I certainly didn't know. I guessed Elise did know, but she could not tell me, and I would not ask. The only thing that was certain at the moment was that no shooting had started. I think that was the nightmare for all the folks in Green Bay – that some unit from the LNA or the reserve base would pull out weapons and open fire. So far, they hadn't, but how long might that last?

Given all that, could Elise get leave? No one else had seen a day of vacation in over a year. For that matter, none of the senior people had seen a free weekend. Elise had risen so fast up the org chart she would be one of the last people they would let just wander off for a few days. Too many people depended upon her to make decisions. So the odds of her going with me to Kaskaskia were pretty minimal, but she promised to ask.

In the meantime, I did all the research on Kaskaskia I could from Green Bay. Why Kaskaskia? Because of the Illinois. This was the tribe that adored Father Marquette. When the French first came down the Mississippi in 1673, it was a group of Illinois that they met in Iowa – the first tribe they had encountered since leaving Green Bay. Leaving the other five traders to stay with the canoes, Marquette and Jolliet had followed some footsteps they had seen along the river bank, and walked to a village. Anything might have happened to two men alone on the prairie, but they were treated well, and thus began a long relationship between the French and the Illinois. On the way back north on the Mississippi (having essentially been chased out of Arkansas), they found another band of Illinois waiting for them at a large river, a river (the Illinois) that would provide a short cut to Lake Michigan.

Marquette and Jolliet traveled up the Illinois River with their Illinois guides, staying with them for several days at a large village near Peoria. Continuing up the river, they came to the portage at present day Chicago and paddled the length of Lake Michigan, adding knowledge of the lake to all they had already learned. The following year Marquette tried to return to the Illinois, but he had gotten ill while in Green Bay, and while he was able to make it down to the Illinois in time to perform Easter services, his health had deteriorated and he died soon after.

While much was made at the time of the Mississippi River discovery, from a practical stand point, it may be the discovery of the Illinois tribe that was more immediately important to the French. With the Iroquois to the east and the Sioux to the west, the French needed friends. It looked like the Illinois might be the perfect allies for them. They were strong, well organized, and placed perfectly to help with a French expansion through the Mississippi Valley. One source I found estimated there were ten thousand Illinois at the time of Jolliet's first arrival. That was far more than all the French in North America. If they could stay friends, it would make a huge difference to the French.

What did the friendship give the Illinois? Yes, one of the immediate outcomes was an outbreak of European diseases that killed off much of the tribe over the next decades. And the Iroquois were even more predatory, killing off some of the confederated tribes along the eastern edge of Illinois lands. So being a French ally was costly. But there were shared communities established over the years where French traders lived among the Illinois, married, had children, and built lives.

One such community was Kaskaskia. Situated right on the Mississippi River, it was on some high ground that protected it from flooding, yet its location on the river also gave it easy access to other communities. It was from Kaskaskia that Claude Jolliet first took his grain boats south to feed New Orleans. It could be argued it was Kaskaskia that kept the Louisiana colony alive, not that folks down there were always grateful.

So why did I want to go to Kaskaskia? This is where north had first met south. The relationship had not always been perfect, not even in the early days, but there had been a relationship. Would a reminder of the early days help calm some people? Well, that seemed a stretch, but I am not an orator or a soldier, I am an historian. If I had anything to contribute to the current situation, it was history. So that is what I would do.

As I did my research, it was clear Elise was finding time to do some of her own. With a Ph.D. in demography, she had the talent and the resources to study the population of southern Illinois to a depth far beyond mine. Two days after I had brought up Kaskaskia, she managed to get home slightly after eight – a short day for her – and she filled me in as we worked on dinner.

"Do you have any idea how much food passes through Kaskaskia?" Talk about your classic rhetorical question, I had no idea, but it was clear she did. "They have measurements in metric tons for a variety of grains, but it turns out the numbers are so large they are really incomprehensible to people."

"Really?"

"Well, that's a bit of an overstatement. It turns out the guys who report the numbers could never get their superiors to grasp the quantities, so they came up with a new term they put in a private dictionary called 'administrator-speak,' also known on particularly bad days as 'numbers for dummies.' The term they invented was 'France-feeding days.' It means the quantity of a particular grain that would feed the entire population of France for a day. Somehow that worked better. Now their superiors could understand the quantities they were showing them."

"Let me guess, they called it FFD so it sounded technical."

"Not bad. You might have a future in bureaucracy."

"And how many FFDs does Kaskaskia produce?

"Literally hundreds. The world has never seen a valley like the Mississippi. You name the grain, and the farms there can produce more there than anywhere else on the planet. The abundance is astonishing. And all those FFDs get put on barges and taken down the river. New Orleans lives off those barges, but so does much of the rest of the world."

"Any chance the Minister will let you go down to Kaskaskia and look the place over?"

"I asked, and I think he is interested. Although he seemed a little nervous about me traveling with you."

"Oh?"

"Well, you have to admit you don't travel well. You get beat up in New Orleans, and then you go to Dakota and walk into a gun fight."

"Yes, who knew visiting libraries could be so dangerous. But I'm worth the risk, right?" We had been working side by side in the kitchen, and as I asked, I moved closer to her. I managed to get one arm around her and pull her closer while she pretended to decide how much risk I might be worth. Apparently I am worth some risk, for our conversation turned from Kaskaskia to other matters. It was somewhat later that we got back to finishing dinner.

The next morning I started actually planning for the trip. Elise had not promised to go yet, but I loved the fact that she was at least trying. When was the last time we had been together on anything approaching a vacation? It was far too long.

So I started checking out hotels in Kaskaskia. If we were going, I wanted this to be memorable. But it only took me fifteen minutes to see the only memories we were likely to have might involve traffic noises all night and views of grain elevators in the moonlight. It appeared the last couple looking to Kaskaskia for a romantic weekend might have done so when people arrived by stage coach. The only people who went there now, went there to work.

So I put lodging on the back burner and moved on. What more could I learn while I waited for Elise to get away? It occurred to me I had read lots of background, but I had not talked with my best source – Claude Jolliet. I made a call to his appointments secretary and ended up with a long conversation about the sorry state of lacrosse, and eventually I also ended up with an appointment for later in the afternoon. I had barely put the phone down when the secretary called again. Now the appointment was for dinner, and I was to bring Elise. That necessitated a call to Elise who immediately agreed, even though it meant coming home from a work an hour or two earlier than normal - at least "normal" these days. My day was getting better.

I puttered around the office for a while, and then headed home to get cleaned up and changed before dinner. Elise arrived pretty soon after I did, even earlier than I had expected. She was all smiles and said she had a surprise for me. I was all smiles when she changed into an orange silk formal gown with long full skirts and a top cut low and lovely. My day just kept getting better.

I think I mentioned before the way they were handling security outside ex-President Jolliet's house. The "road construction" was still underway, and presumably would stay under construction until tensions relaxed and people stopped trying to shoot him. I had to stop while a huge road grader was moved out of the way, but the guys standing at the work site never approached my car. I assume they had spotters telling them we were okay.

Up at the house Jolliet met us at the front door. Elise got a long hug and kiss from "Uncle Claude", and I got a hug as well.

"Elise, you work from dawn to dusk, and still you stay beautiful." There's a reason why this guy won his elections in a landslide.

"You are too kind."

"I think I am very honest. What do you say, Shawn, am I telling the truth?"

"I agree completely. But I must tell you she does not stop work at dusk."

"Yes," he frowned and his voice changed as he continued. "These are challenging times for our country, and the burden on our leaders is great. I am pleased you have the time to visit me."

"We are grateful for the invitation," Elise replied. As we talked, several security people drew closer, standing outside to shield us from any snipers across the road. They said nothing, but their purpose was clear. We were outside and exposed, and it would be best if we moved indoors. We moved deeper into the house as we talked.

"There will just be three of us for dinner this evening, so I was thinking we might eat in our grape arbor, but looking at your gown, Elise, it appears our formal dining room would be a better match."

"No, please, I love the idea of eating outdoors. The winter was so long, I feel like breathing in all the fresh air I can." Watching her breathe in that low cut gown, I have to admit I was all in favor of her breathing fresh air too.

"Then let's try the arbor, but if it seems at all cool to you, we can move inside." Jolliet led the way through the house and back out through two huge French doors. The arbor was sited so it sat atop the ridge that dominated the eastern side of Lake Winnebago. The view was to the west, over the lake to the Fox River that ran away to the horizon. I was always struck by the historic nature of the view. From this spot, Jolliet could look at the path his ancestor took on his way to the Mississippi and world fame. Elise sat between us, all three of us sitting on the eastern side of the table so we could enjoy the view of the lake and the approaching sunset.

"I understand a trip to Kaskaskia is in store." Jolliet began once we were settled. A steward poured wine and laid out a tray of cheese.

"Yes, I was able to get permission to go with Shawn for a five day trip." She turned to me. "That is my surprise. I had hoped for a weekend, but Etienne said I could have five days. I was worried that other people in the office might be jealous, but he told me he would be giving much of the staff a few days off. 'Tired people make bad decisions' was his explanation. I think maybe he is just as tired as we are, and we all need some time away."

"Marvelous. I will start making hotel arrangements, but I have to warn you, accommodations might be somewhat basic."

"I think I can help there," Jolliet responded. "I made call a while ago after I learned where you would be going. There is a home on the river the family has used for many years. Call this number when you get to town, and they will guide you in." He pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and passed it to Elise who passed it to me.

"Thank you. Since you know where we are going, I assume you also know why. It may be a small thing, but I want to look for bonds that might hold the country together – bonds that first linked the two colonies."

"That is kind of you Shawn, and history is not a small thing. It helps us understand who we are."

"I would think that is especially true if your name is Jolliet and your family has made much of the history." I raised a glass at that point, and Elise and Jolliet joined me. "To go a bit further down that road, I once had a conversation with a librarian in New Orleans who said the two colonies were not naturally connected. Yes, there was the Mississippi River, but Quebec did much more trading with France, as did New Orleans than either city did with each other. Distances were too large and carrying capacity of river boats too small. He said the only thing holding the two colonies together was the Jolliet family."

"He was too kind. But you are going to the real link – Kaskaskia. Once it was built, trade followed, and links grew. Did you know it was almost the capital of Canada?"

"It would be a poor substitute for Green Bay," Elise responded.

"Not all the family agreed. Once he had seen the Illinois River and made connections with the Illinois bands, Louis wanted to start a major settlement in Chicago. Ultimately that would have made a good capital, since it had access to the Great Lakes and the Mississippi. It was a logical choice, but one blocked by a not-so-logical king. As Kaskaskia grew, Claude thought it should be the capital, since it was about in the middle of the country. Clearly neither Quebec nor New Orleans could be chosen, so why not a city in the middle? But by then Green Bay had become very large, the Fox had been deepened to increase shipping, and it is nearly in the middle, so it was chosen."

"I am glad. Where else would we have this view?" Elise pointed west. The sun was getting close enough to the horizon to already be changing the color of the waters in front of us. Gold streaks reached to us from the horizon.

"Yes, it is special." I added. We had little to say for the next few minutes while we appreciated the view and watched the sun slowly decline. Stewards brought the first of several courses. French food is always good, but it seemed especially good sitting in that arbor.

For the next hour or so we enjoyed the food and the view and exchanged pleasantries. I think both Elise and Jolliet appreciated having a conversation about nothing. Too many intense days and intense conversations had been a challenge to both of them no doubt. The chance to talk about this year's grapes and this year's garden was a relief.

I enjoyed the conversation as well, but after an hour I decided I would take the plunge and ask the questions I had planned. There were things I needed to know before we got to Kaskaskia.

"Your namesake, Claude Jolliet started the food supply trade, correct? He took a boat load of corn and squash to New Orleans. As I recall, they shot him. Do you mind talking a bit about him? What kind of man was he?"

"Elise, feel free to break in with other stories you might have heard, because there are many about Claude." We were now at the cognac part of the meal. The plates had been cleared, the bottle was out, the snifters were warmed by the sun and the cognac glowed through the ball-shaped glasses. It was time to settle back for a long story, and I could see Jolliet was ready to do the telling.

"First, there have been lots of Claudes. Once when I was young, I spent a rainy day trying to count all the Claude Jolliets in the family. I came up with thirty four, but I was just a child. An adult with better research skills might have found a hundred. We seem to be a fixture over the centuries. The Claude who interests you so was Louis Jolliet's grandson. His parents had grown up in Green Bay, and they had seen the town mature. By the time they were adults, the town even had streets – two of them. As adults they liked Green Bay, but it was a different place than where they had spent their childhood. Bears didn't walk into town any more. The forest kept moving away from town as trees were taken. It was more open, and less interesting.

"So none of them was surprised that all their sons moved away from Green Bay. Between the four brothers they had nine sons, and all nine scattered. Two ended up back in France to fight in one war or another. One became a priest back in Quebec, living in some of the same places Louis had when he was considering the priesthood. The other six just went out. North, south, west, the direction didn't matter. What they wanted was new. Whatever was on the other side of the next hill. And then the hill after that. They wanted to go out into the wilderness, and they did.

"All of them led fascinating lives, although not all of them were long lives. Claude left Green Bay when he was fifteen. He had a couple friends and a few things to trade, and he decided to take granddad's route down the Mississippi. He made it all the way to New Orleans, but what he saw there was pretty disappointing. The Huguenots had not arrived yet and the governor appointed to run the colony was a drunk and a fool. Claude could see that things were not going well for the colony, but that was not his concern. He was just fifteen, he was looking to see what he could see, and he had seen New Orleans. Enough. He and his friends pointed their canoe back in the opposite direction and started paddling back north.

"It was the Illinois lands that got his attention. He liked the buffalo herds, and all the other game, and the corn fields, and the local tribes. So he stayed. His three friends liked hunting and fishing and the region had the best of both. So they stayed. They were gone three years. Mostly they stayed in Illinois camps near Kaskaskia and Peoria. They got better at the language, they made friends, and gradually they started finding wives. At age eighteen Claude finally came back to Green Bay for a visit, accompanied by a wife and son. There was a celebration, a baptism, a Catholic marriage, and then they were gone again – back to Kaskaskia.

"Claude was popular. The local Illinois band liked him, the traders who passed through the village liked him, and some of the boys he knew from a childhood in Green Bay liked him, so soon people started coming to Kaskaskia to visit and then just stayed. The village grew. Traders set out their wares in an open square, hunters brought in geese and ducks and deer and buffalo, there was always fish drying on racks along the river, and the bark houses that the Illinois built just kept getting larger and better constructed. They created a community.

"At what point did farming become significant?" I asked.

"The Illinois bands grew corn, beans, and squash for as long as anyone can remember. When added to the protein they were getting from all the game their hunters brought in, their health was pretty good. They had some stews that combined both vegetables and game, but I think we won't see them in our local restaurants."

"Oh?"

"The most popular stew was sagamite. It was a mixture of corn and fat from whatever game had been taken recently. The caloric count would have been through the roof, which was fine when people walked miles every day, or chased buffalo across the prairie. These days our doctors might object."

"It would not surprise me if my dad has tried it," Elise responded. "When he goes to hunting camp each fall the rule they have is they eat what they shoot. And he's a pretty good cook. I went up with him several times before I went to college, and we ate well, although he tends to wild rice rather than corn."

"That's the Menominee blood in your family."

"Could I get us back to farming?" I was worried I would hear an endless conversation about cooking and ethnicity if I wasn't careful. "At some point the area around Kaskaskia goes from growing enough corn and beans to feed themselves, to growing enough for export. Is that Claude's doing?"

"No, that's his wife Yvette. Farming was generally considered woman's work, and she was involved at an early age. But while the prairie has top soil that goes down three or four feet, it is covered with prairie grasses that have roots almost that deep. Digging in with sticks to plant corn kernels is unbelievably hard. She did it for years, but then one day one of Claude's old muskets disappeared. She took it to a man who did some smithing on the side, had the barrel reshaped, made room for handles, and essentially created the first stick that would cut through the grasses quickly. She also did one more thing. Rather than cut the same number of holes she had with a stick, she used the same number of days for planting and ended up with three times the number of corn plants."

"So she tripled her productivity." Not sure why I said that other than to prove I could do math and knew what "productivity" meant.

"Yes, and being every bit as popular as Claude, when the ladies of the village saw her results, suddenly more old muskets made a trip to the smithy. Within a year the village had lots of extra corn."

"So now Claude has something to trade – his wife's corn."

"Yes, but he also needs a way to move it. The canoes of the time were pretty large – five or six meters – but by the time you put people in them, the cargo space is pretty restricted, too restricted for a cargo like corn where you need large quantities to have anything worth paddling all the way down the river. But people were building boats. Here in the Great Lakes Sturgeon Bay and Marinette build the big lake boats that can handle the storms. The Mississippi needed different boats. They needed to have shallow drafts to go over shallow parts of the river and over all the debris that keeps washing into the river. It took a generation to get those river boats right, but Claude bought one of the first boats and that is what he took to New Orleans with his corn."

"As I recall, he was successful the first time, but got shot the second time."

"The first time he was a hero. They were short on food, the local farms had yet to produce anything, the boat from Havre was months late... Basically, he saved their lives. He was also paid very well. Two years later, the local farmers had just produced a saleable crop, and had planned on earning some money. Just then Claude came to town with better food at lower prices."

"So he goes from savior to competitor."

"Exactly. The local farmers objected to the outsider taking their sales, a fight broke out, and there was some shooting. Claude got hit. Fortunately it was not too serious, but he made no sales in New Orleans that year. They poled up to Baton Rouge and sold the corn and beans there."

"Then there was a tariff on corn?"

"The local farmers got the Louisiana governor to put a tax on imported grain. That helped the farms fight the competition, but it raised prices for everyone else. Pretty soon there was pressure to drop the tariff so food prices would go down. It took about four years to settle out. That's how long it took the local entrepreneurs to determine what they could sell to Claude that would equal the price of the corn, and for the local farmers to produce other crops that would be good alternatives to corn – like rice. Each region had advantages for one kind of product or another; it just took them a while to determine what those products might be."

"That gives me an idea." Suddenly Elise was sitting up straighter. The casual talk-after-cognac moment was over for her. "Tariffs. If Louisiana were a separate country, we and they would impose tariffs on trade, right?"

"The tariffs would need to fall within WTO rules, but yes, there would probably be tariffs." Jolliet replied. "But I think I see where you are going. Take it the next step."

"I am not sure we have looked at the economic ramifications of secession, and I'll bet they haven't either. You would think some businesses down there would now be at a major competitive disadvantage if they wanted to keep selling to former customers up north. All their transaction costs would go up from the tariffs. For Green Bay consumers, furniture from Louisiana would now be more expensive than the same furniture from Missouri."

"I wonder if some of the business people funding the LNA have thought about that," Jolliet responded. He was also sitting up much straighter. Story time was over.

"Maybe it is time we did an education campaign," Elise continued. "We would need to do some research on which companies and which industries, but we could initiate tariffs on select "foreign" good unilaterally and quickly. The costs would be clear to all."

"Essentially you would be creating a 'secession tax'." Jolliet was smiling a very large smile. He liked the idea.

"It will take some careful research and subtle messaging, but if we can do this quickly, we might be able to change a few minds before it is too late."

"Do it. It might cut the money supply to some hot heads down there." At that point they were both up and heading toward the house. It looked like they would implement their plan instantly. I followed along, walking fast just to keep up. Back in the house, they were both saying their good-byes as they walked down the main hallway. There were brief hugs and kisses and then Jolliet headed for his office and we were out to the car. Elise's idea would be executed yet that night. As it turned out, that speedy response also saved our lives.

# Chapter 7 –

# I lose my car

Elise had one hand full of silk skirts and another on her phone as she got into the car. She was going to make her plan happen before we got out of the driveway.

"Etienne, I am sorry to call so late." There was a brief pause as she got some response from the minister, but then she pushed on. "I was talking with President Jolliet this evening, and the subject of tariffs came up. It occurred to us, there may be some business leaders in Louisiana who might be less interested in secession if they knew they would be liable to pay tariffs as foreign companies. I think if we gathered some of our industry experts and some intelligence people, we might be able to determine which companies to target, and STOP THE CAR." Suddenly she was shouting at me. "STOP RIGHT HERE." Then she was back on the phone.

"Etienne, the president's security team is gone. Hit the alarm. Shawn, park across the road, pop the trunk, and then run." She was out the door the instant the car stopped. I got out too, but I wasn't running anywhere until I saw what was going on. Elise dug round in my trunk for a moment and then came out with a large canvas bag. I took it from her and we both went running down the hill towards the lake. With the water in the background we could see larger trees silhouetted against the lake, but we still got whipped by branches and taller ferns. And of course we could not see our footing so we kept stepping into holes and tripping over roots. Elise stayed ahead of me, her skirts pulled up to her waist as she ran.

Finally we got to the water's edge and dropped behind a fallen tree. Elise took the bag from me and pulled out three rifles with short barrels and big ammunition clips. She worked the settings on one and handed it to me. "The safety is off and the gun is set for single shots. You have thirty bullets in the clip."

"This was in my car?"

"We had them install a false wall in the trunk while you were in Dakota."

"Okay. Now what?"

"You watch, I talk to people." She set the other two guns next to her, but it was her phone that got most of her attention. Her thumbs were going like crazy as she texted several places, and then she was back making calls. She explained what we had seen and where we were. I couldn't hear much of the other side of the conversation other than "stay there." That sounded like good advice to me. Finally she set the phone down and took one of the rifles.

"If they are still in the area, I assume they have night vision goggles, so they will find us and kill us."

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"But my guess is they have already moved on Uncle Claude. Otherwise they would have killed us at the car."

"So what do we do?"

"Help is coming. We wait." I turned to look at Elsie. Her dress was torn and muddy and she had it pulled up high to free her legs. Under other circumstances... "Pay attention to the woods, Romeo."

"Mind reader." I scanned the woods as best I could, but I saw nothing. There was almost no moon and the woods along this part of the shore were thick. I couldn't see a damn thing. Hopefully that was true for the bad guys as well.

Then we heard the crash. Something coming up the road had hit my car. It sounded like parts went flying everywhere. There was a pause, and then two or three very large vehicles continued up the road, straight for Jolliet's house.

"Is that help, or is that trouble?" I asked.

"We'll know soon enough." And we did. We could hear shots and explosions just minutes later. There was a battle going on. Elise stood up and took off her gown. "Let me have your jacket, please. I want to follow along the lake and see if we can help." I gave her my jacket and followed her along the water's edge. We put the third rifle and some ammunition back in the bag and I carried that. It was probably a quarter mile back to the house, and it was not easy walking through the mud and low bushes. We made slow progress. Meanwhile the fire fight continued. We could see flashes through the trees, and we could smell smoke. Was the house on fire? We moved faster, but still it seemed to take forever for us to get to his estate.

Finally we got to the grape vines on the lower edge of the estate. They gave us some cover as we climbed the hill to see what was going on. We were moving really slowly now, barely making a sound. We were nearly to the top of the hill when Elise opened fire. I have no idea what she saw. She was about ten feet in front of me, and she just opened fire, her gun set of full automatic. Her burst was long enough to empty her full clip, and then she dropped to the ground. I dropped as well. Good thing. Return fire was instant and heavy. Elise crawled over to me and ripped the bag from my shoulder so she could replace her clip. I kept my eyes up the hill, watching from behind a grape vine. Bullets tore through the plants all around us, scattering leaves and grape canes. I pressed my face into the ground so hard I thought I wouldn't be able to breathe. I thought I heard a noise up the hill to my right. I started firing in that direction without raising my gun more than an inch or two off the ground. My singles shots sounded pathetically weak coming amongst the constant explosions and shots going on all around me. But I kept firing. I was scared, and angry, and so I pulled the trigger over and over until the clip was empty. Then I pushed my face back into the dirt and waited.

Help came in the form of helicopters. I could hear them coming over the water. Were they based in Oshkosh? The first one came in fast, firing from multiple guns, but then it was blown up by a missile. Parts rained down all over the vineyard. Several other helicopters came right behind it, two firing their guns while two or three others hovered and dropped troops below us on the hill. Now I knew we were really in trouble. With gun men above us and below us, we could be shot by either side. Fortunately, Elise had some other device in the bag. She pulled it out and set it between us. "Beacon." She mouthed to me. "We wait here."

If the shooting and explosions were loud before, they now reached a whole new level. The helicopters were laying down a constant stream of bullets from multiple guns. Then we heard huge explosions from the front of the house as well. It sounded like vehicles over there were being blown up. Which side the vehicles belonged to was impossible to tell. We just kept our heads down.

Because of all the noise I never heard the soldiers come up behind us. I just sensed motion and turned to see five men hurdling the row of vines behind us. They landed on either side of us and immediately dropped to the ground.

"Captain Deloitte, mam. I understand you are Minister DuPry?"

"Yes, thank you for coming. There are about a dozen men under those trees." She pointed. "I think I may have hit several when we arrived. They are firing at us and at the house."

"Yes, minister. Please stay down. I will leave two men with you." He made some hand signals, and I saw five or six men slide over the ground to our left while two others stayed on either side of us. The men moving to the left made it to the end of the row and then rose together, firing fully automatic into an area near where Elise had pointed. I couldn't believe it as they walked forward behind their fire. None of them had any protection. They kept up a steady stream of fire and just kept walking. Who does something like that?

Soon they were out of sight. At about this point Elise reached over and took my hand. I was unsure about the expression on her face. It was pretty dark back down among the vines, but what I could see for sure was her looking at me. I looked back. It made a difference. With all the horror around us, we just looked at each other. Suddenly I felt like I could breathe again. I squeezed her hand, and we waited.

How much longer did the shooting go on? It was nearly constant for maybe the next ten minutes, and then it became more sporadic. And we could hear it happening in different locations -- some to our right, followed by running and more shooting, and – more worrisome – some in the house. We could also tell at this point the house was on fire. There had been plenty of smoke before, but now there were flames as well, coming through some windows on the east side of the house that had been blown out. Elsie squeezed my hand again, and now I could see she was crying.

"Remember last time they tried to shoot him, and he told the cooks it was not their fault?" I said. "This time he'll tell the housekeepers the fire was not their fault." Elise slid closer to me and we wrapped our arms around each other.

More time passed, and as odd as it sounds, I was so exhausted from the last hour or so, if we had staying there much longer, I think I might have fallen asleep. But eventually the captain returned. His men got to their feet, and we sat up.

"It will be hours before we know if we got them all, but we have a pretty good perimeter now, so it should be safe to move you."

"How's my uncle?"

"Safe, but injured. Let me take you to him." He gave quick orders to his men, and they formed a barrier around us. We finished the walk up the hill. As we emerged from behind the last row of vines, we could see bodies everywhere. And the fire in the house was more apparent. It was spreading fast. The house would be gone in minutes. We walked around the west side of the house and were led to a military vehicle. Seated inside, behind bullet-proof glass, we found President Jolliet.

"Uncle Claude." Elise leapt into the vehicle and hugged Jolliet. He moved his hands, but didn't seem able to make them move the way he wanted. A doctor who had been sitting in the vehicle with the President reached over to touch Elise's shoulder.

"He suffered significant concussions from the explosions as they came into the house. I am not sure he can hear you. An ambulance will come for him as soon as it is safe."

"I can hear fine. I just can't move all that well. Where is your dress?"

"Down by the lake. It got pretty muddy." The doctor was moving around in the truck and I saw him pull a blanket from some box. He draped it around Elise's shoulders.

"They killed most of my household staff. Cooks and stewards. They killed them. Why?" He was crying now, and Elise put his head on her shoulder.

"We should get him to a hospital. Let's not wait for an ambulance. Captain," the doctor shouted out the door. "We need to go now." The captain had been watching the scene with Elise and quickly agreed. He gave orders to the driver, and pushed several soldiers – and me – into the vehicle. We were off instantly, headed back to town at a high rate of speed. We did slow down for some wreckage though – my car. Pieces were scattered for dozens of yards. Apparently Citroens make poor road blocks.

# Chapter 8 –

# Aftermath

I don't know how large the medical staff is at Green Bay's main hospital, but half of them must have been waiting for us when we arrived. President Jolliet was loaded onto a gurney and wheeled out of sight. It was pretty clear we would be getting nowhere near him for some time. Elise and I were taken into two examination rooms, despite our protests. Yes, we had cuts and scrapes from running through the woods, and mud had been rubbed into all of them, but couldn't we just go home and clean up ourselves? Apparently not. We got swiped by disinfectant, covered by bandages, and handed a small bottle of antibiotics. Oh, and some thoughtful woman gave Elise a spare nurse's uniform.

A half hour later we were cleared to go, and I thought that meant we could catch a cab back to our house, but the ministry had other ideas. Half a dozen senior people from the Interior Ministry had taken over a conference room, and they wanted to huddle with Elise, no matter what the hour. Meanwhile two investigators from another agency wanted to talk with me. They needed a statement, and no, it could not wait until tomorrow. They gave me enough coffee to keep me coherent for about an hour, but I was fading fast after that. It was deep into the night, and I had done and seen things I could barely understand. At some point my statement must have lost some coherence, since they finally decided maybe this could wait until tomorrow after all.

I left them and went to the conference room for the ministry people. There was a guard at the door, but I gave him my name and he let me in. As soon as the door opened every head turned in my direction and the conversation stopped.

"Did you want something, Doctor Murphy?" I had met Etienne Marchant several times before and he struck me as a nice enough old man. Tonight he just struck me as old.

"I have come for Elise."

"We have a few more things to discuss."

"Not tonight." I stood just inside the door. I made no other move. I had nothing more to say. There was a long pause and I began to wonder if I was going to have to fight for her. But then I saw a couple heads nod. Maybe they wanted to get home too.

"Yes," Marchant finally agreed. " Maybe it would be best to resume tomorrow after we know more about this attack. "Elise, thank you for your help – and for your bravery." And they applauded. Elise got up, gave me one of her bandaged hands, and we walked out of the room and out of the hospital. A ministry car was waiting to take us home.

We woke the next morning around noon. I have no idea where we found the energy to walk from the cab to our door, or climb the stairs to our bedroom, but we did. After that, we just collapsed and slept. We woke to a knock on our bedroom door. It was Elise' mother. She sat on the bed next to Elise, then took her in her arms and cried. This started Elise crying. I covered myself as best I could and went into the bathroom for a shower. By the time I was done dressing, Elsie had stopped crying and was hugging her mother – who continued to cry.

I went downstairs for breakfast, cursing every stair. My body was so stiff I could barely move. Every motion hurt. Walking, sitting, reaching, it didn't matter – it hurt. I also felt angry. I am not sure why I was angry, there was no special focus to my anger. I just didn't like anything that morning. All that anger fell on some poor policeman who happened to be assigned to our house. I came around the kitchen and found him standing by the back door.

"Good morning, sir," he said as pleasantly as you imagine. My response?

"Who the hell are you, and why are you in my house?"

"I have been assigned to guard the minister. My name is Gustav. I am sorry to startle you." He had to be the nicest policeman on the planet. I didn't care. I ignored him and worked in the kitchen. I made some American coffee, and mixed some eggs and cheese. We still had croissants from the previous day (although eating day old croissants is a crime in many French lands). Do you think I offered any to our guard? Nope. I made a plate for myself, a plate for Elise, and started back up the stairs, cursing every stair. Today would be a real good day to stay away from me.

Back up in the bedroom, Elise and her mother were now sitting next to each other, hands moving through each other's hair – some kind of mother -daughter ritual. Elise said nice things about the food I brought, and her mother smiled at me and mentioned how thoughtful I was. I kept my mouth shut and drank my coffee. I didn't know what was wrong with me, but I was pretty sure silence was my ally for the moment. Eventually Elise decided to shower, and her mother went down stairs, no doubt to cook something far better than what I had managed. I drank my coffee, looked out the window, and tried not to punch things.

Elise came out of the bathroom partially dressed and I helped her put on fresh bandages. She had gotten cut up far worse than I had. Her legs were especially bad where she had pulled up her skirts so she could run. There seemed to be no end to scratches and punctures that needed covering.

"Have they called about Uncle Claude?" she asked as we worked on the cuts.

"I haven't checked my phone. Sorry." I reached around to where my phone sat on my dresser. Elsie grabbed my hand.

"Shawn, I love you."

"I love you. Last night... That was so awful. I don't want to think about it. I just want to be with you."

"And I want to be with you. Just hold me, and we will stay here." And I did. And we stayed in that room holding each other for over an hour. Her mother, brilliant woman, stayed down stairs, and the phone collected calls in silence. I am not sure we said ten words in that hour. We just held each other. Near the end, we both started crying. I have no idea why. Some kind of catharsis? Whatever the reason, we just sat and cried. Then we dried our tears, stood up, finished dressing, and went downstairs. The stairs still hurt, but I was less angry. I have no idea why.

Our downstairs was getting crowded. Now all of Elise' family was there. Her father hugged her, as did her sisters. Her mother put out dishes of food, which I thought was odd, but what was even odder was that I was hungry. I had just eaten an hour ago, but I was hungry again. So I sat down with all of them and we had an odd collection of whatever Marie had found in the kitchen. And it felt good. The food was good of course, Marie is a fabulous cook, but it was sitting around a dining room table like a normal family that felt the best.

The conversation took an interesting turn. Thankfully, no one wanted details on the shootings and such, but Elise's youngest sister did want to know about her cuts and scrapes.

"How did you get so cut up?" she asked.

"We had to run through the woods down to the lake, and there were lots of branches and briars that we could not see in the dark."

"What happened to your dress?"

"Oh, I took that off down by the lake."

"You took off your dress. You were naked?" Little sister was now wide-eyed.

"Shawn gave me his dinner jacket."

"You were naked. Whoa..." The whole table erupted at that. And it was pretty funny in retrospect. Leave it to a high school girl to put a whole new perspective on things.

"By the way, Shawn," Elise's mother said, after the laughter died down. "Your mother called this morning. I told her you were fine, but I think it would be good if you spoke with her. Mothers worry."

"Why would she worry? How does she know something happened that involved us?"

"Apparently you were on the news back in the U.S. There were cameras at the hospital when President Jolliet arrived, and they saw you get out of the truck with him."

"Oh. Then I better call and explain."

"I should probably call into the office too," Elise announced. That was taken as a general signal for Elise's family to finish up the meal and head out the backdoor to their home across the yard. I was sorry to see them go. The meal had been a great delay in the inevitable effort to return phone calls and meet whatever other obligations were looming. I could see Elise felt the same way. With her family gone, we puttered around the kitchen taking eons just to scrape plates and fill the dishwasher. Neither one of us wanted to move on to the next stage of whatever was coming.

"We should visit Uncle Claude," Elise said as we stood in the kitchen. All the clean up was done, but neither of us had made a move for the door.

"Good idea. How about this. We make the phone calls we need to make, but stop all calls at three so we can go to the hospital. Okay?" Elise agreed and we both grabbed phones and headed to separate rooms. Three o'clock was about forty-five minutes away. Making calls for that amount of time seemed manageable.

I discovered my mother was fairly comfortable about my safety. Having talked with Elise' mother, she no doubt felt she was getting a more candid description of my condition than she would get from me anyway, and it appeared Marie had reduced her worries. I explained I had just been at the hospital to accompany President Jolliet, and any blood she saw on me was just scrapes and such. Had I been near the shooting? Hmm. What did I say to that? I decided to go with a gloss that was truthful in a general way. We had been at Jolliet's house for dinner, but had left. As we drove down the road we heard shooting back at the house, so we stopped the car, and cut through the woods to see what was going on. We were there when the local troops responded to the attack, and we sat with Jolliet after he had been rescued. All true in a general sort of a way. We ended the call with me promising to come home for a visit in a week or so. In truth, I liked the idea. After last night, a visit home with the family sounded pretty good.

I decided that was the only call I would make. My email box was packed, and I had lots of texts and calls waiting for replies, but I decided all of them could wait. Instead, I decided maybe I owed Gustav an apology. He was standing by the front door watching the street.

"Thank you for watching. It was a long night, and it is comforting to know someone was here to protect us."

"It's an honor sir. What the minister did last night was incredible."

"Yes, she was very brave."

"I would say more than that. My director says she killed four of them and wounded two others. Thanks to her, the attack was delayed enough to prevent the security detail from being overrun."

"Thanks, but I am not sure I would tell her that unless she asks. Last night was pretty hard on her. And on me, for that matter."

"Do you want to know about the man you shot?"

"No, I really don't. We aren't soldiers or policemen. Doing what we did was very hard on us, and I think we would both like to just move on."

"I can appreciate that. But like I said, sir, it is an honor to be here."

"Have they told you how long we might need a guard?

"I will probably be here a week while they install the security equipment that has been ordered by the ministry."

"Well, if you are going to be here a week, I am not "sir", I am Shawn. Okay?"

"Okay, Shawn." He held out his hand and we shook. I noticed his hand was much harder than mine, and I have to admit I was glad of it.

Elise finished her calls a few minutes later and Gustav brought the car around. Apparently he was guard and chauffeur for the time being.

"It just occurred to me," I said as we rode to the hospital, "I am probably going to lose the damage deposit on my Citroen. I have no idea what form I would fill out for the rental agency, but I bet no one in the office buys my story."

"Odd, I was just thinking about my dress. Some fisherman is going to wonder what was going on at that beach." You get the idea, we were sort of in the giggles phase of whatever we were going through. Sitting in the back seat, holding hands, and making silly jokes -- it felt good while it lasted.

The mood changed when we got to the hospital. With Gustav at the wheel we were able to make it through the first layer of security, but the only way to go through the next was to get out of the car, walk around the blast barriers and through the metal detector, and wait while a visual scan was done to ensure we were who we said we were.

Unfortunately, that was not the worst part of the visit. Jolliet was not doing well. As you can imagine, there was a substantial crowd of government people and family members and notables occupying much of the wing where he had been taken. I felt sorry for any other patient in that area. There was noise, and there was crowding, and there was lots of crying. I was puzzled and annoyed by the crying. Had he died? We walked down the usual antiseptic hallway to Jolliet's room, pausing here and there to talk with people we knew. We probably had ten conversations before we got to a desk where a nurse and three security people waited as a final barrier to entry. None of them looked happy to see us. Who knew how many hours they had been pulling sentry duty, and how many times they had been asked to admit people who really had no business bothering the President. So I expected trouble, but it turned out our names were on whatever magic list they were using. The nurse even stood up to take Elise's hand and guide her into the room.

As for the room, why do they do that with flowers? The French are just as bad as we are. You take a bare room and fill it to overflowing with flowers. Are they supposed to cover the antiseptic smell? Hide the pastel walls? Distract from the rows of monitoring machines that made small noises and scared the hell out of everyone? All they did for us was obscure Jolliet, who was already hidden behind a nurse, a doctor, and two more security guards. I gave one of the flower stands an inappropriate push and got it out of the way. If the window had been open, it would have been moved even farther.

"My heroes," Jolliet said when he saw us. At least he tried to say it. His voice was so weak it hurt me to hear him talk. And he waved a hand, motioning us closer, but had he lost fifty pounds over night? His arm was so skinny. The guards never moved a muscle, but the nurse moved away from the bed so we could get closer. Elise took his hand in both of hers and immediately started crying.

"We were so afraid for you."

"You saved me." He paused, and he was suddenly tearing up too. "They told me what you did. A woman should never have to do that."

"When the Iroquois attack, everyone is a warrior," Elsie said through her tears, and seemed to stand a bit taller.

"Yes," Jollier replied. "An old saying, but unfortunately still true."

"And Shawn, you helped as well."

"My contribution was to give Elise my coat when she took off her dress."

"She took off her dress?" The guards tried really hard to appear not to be listening, but I saw them both sneak a look at Elise when I said that.

"Shawn," Elise gave me an elbow in the side." You can stop telling that story right now."

"Oh, but it makes the story even better. The terrorists were beaten by a naked woman," replied Jolliet. He didn't quite have the breath left to laugh, but he was certainly trying, and the smile on his face was refreshing to see.

"I was not naked. I was wearing Shawn's dinner jacket."

"Now I recall. You were wearing it when you joined me after..." There was a long pause as a funny look came over Jolliet's face. Then he continued. "Did I tell you they killed almost all the servants? And all the security guards. The last two died at the door to my safe room. I could hear it..." he started crying again, as did Elise. I held Elise and we waited for Jolliet to continue, but he didn't. We waited a moment, and then the nurse took charge.

"I have to ask you to leave now. He is overdue for some medication, and some rest." Elise kissed his forehead. He looked up at her while she kissed him, and there was a look in those eyes. The despair he could not speak was in his eyes. I started tearing up too, and we left the room with our arms around each other.

Out in the hallway we ran into Elise' father. I kept forgetting he was a physician. To see him now, wearing his clinical white coat, it suddenly occurred to me he might be involved in Jolliet's care. It was apparent he had been waiting for us. He motioned us into a room and closed the door behind us.

"It was good he got to see you. I am not sure if he will have many more visitors."

"How badly is he hurt?" I asked.

"The terrorists were using explosives to get into the house. He was hit by multiple shock waves. The guards got him into the safe room, but even there, he would have experienced major compressions. Concussions always create brain damage. Right now he has lost some control over his limbs, and he has some nausea. The real risk is later. His brain has been injured, and it will respond."

"He'll live?" Elise asked.

"Yes, but we don't know how well. He is a strong man, but he is seventy eight. Old age makes every injury worse." Neither of us had anything to say after that. What do you say? A great man was fighting for his life. "The hospital will have regular press conferences and announcements," her father continued. "But they will want to protect his privacy and help the family keep their spirits up. So I ask you to not repeat what I have just told you." Elise nodded and gave her father a long hug. I shook his hand and we left the room and the hospital as quickly as we could.  
I

# Chapter 9 –

# Escape to Portage

As we walked out of the hospital, I think we were both wondering, now what? The last thing I wanted to do was go home and sit around the house, and I am pretty confident Elise did not want to go back to work yet, so – now what? And then I got brilliant. We had a car, we had a chauffeur, why not? We walked over to the special VIP parking area, found Gustav, and got in.

"Gustav, we'd like to go to Portage. Do you mind?" Of course he didn't. But while I had said "we," it was really "I" who wanted to go, but I had my fingers crossed that Elise would like the idea.

"Our first date," she smiled when she made the connection. "Nice idea. We'll see if you can get me up into a room this time." And we both laughed.

At this latitude, the sun doesn't set in June until almost 9, so we had plenty of opportunity to view the farms and forests as we drove along Highway 1. Wisconsin looks pretty good at this time of the year. The crops are up and tend to be a very bright color green. They call it spring green. And of course the mosquitoes are invisible, so the view is great. We held hands, and commented on this and that – a farm with an interesting barn, a house that was painted an odd color. You know, just chitchat. But it felt really good to have this time to ourselves.

Portage was looking its best. Proprietors had all winter to paint up and fix up as they prepared for yet another tourist season. We saw a few boats going down the canal, and there were plenty of people walking the streets. Whatever might be going on in the rest of the country, here people strolled among the shops and lingered over meals.

We had Gustav park near the canal. At first I thought he might want to follow along with us, but apparently Portage was considered safe, so he stayed with the car. We promised to call once we determined what we would do for the evening. And with that final obligation over, we walked away. And I have to admit it felt pretty good. I felt free.

Elise and I held hands and walked along the canal. A few of the artifacts from the old days had been preserved – winches where they had pulled a few of the larger boats along. But that was all just show now. The walk ways were wide, really a promenade now, with the canal along one side and the hotels on the other. Most of the hotels had outdoor seating, and umbrella tables. It was all far grander than when the canal had been built, but I was in no mood for historical accuracy. I enjoyed the walk and the ambiance and the lady at my side.

"We should come back here more often." I said. My grasp of the obvious has always been firm.

"As I recall, before you tried to get me upstairs, you gave me a lecture on geography and water."

"Ah yes, the water shed lecture. Any rain that hits my right shoulder falls into the Wisconsin River and flows down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. Any drop that hits my left falls into the canal and goes down the Fox to Lake Michigan and out the St. Lawrence to the North Atlantic. I think the idea was to show how little differences at the start can lead to big differences at the end. I assume you were overwhelmed by my brilliance."

"Always." We had stopped walking and were standing by the lock that connected the Fox and the Wisconsin. A boat filled with ten or twelve very happy, very drunk young people was currently waiting for the lock to drop them two feet into the Wisconsin. We stood and watched the whole process. Watching a boat drop two feet in a small lock is not exactly riveting, but we didn't care. The day was warm, the sun was setting, and people were having fun. We even waved at the kids when their boat final powered out of the lock, going far too fast into the Wisconsin.

"Shall we get some dinner?" I finally asked. I wasn't really hungry, but the umbrella tables seemed to beckon.

"Let's eat at the same hotel where we ate last time." Oh oh. I remember her. I remember sitting at a table with her. I remember how she looked, and remember how much I really wanted to be with her. But the hotel? Not a clue. They all looked the same – four stories, wood frame, layers and layers of paint. Which one was it?

"Great idea. It was that one wasn't it?" I pointed down the row of hotels, figuring it had to be one of them.

"Yes, the Iroquois." Fortunately there was a big sign on the back of the hotel, so I could see which one she was talking about. It looked vaguely familiar, but like I said, they pretty much all looked alike.

"Why so many Iroquois Hotels? Did you know there is one of Mackinac Island too? One century everyone is running from the Iroquois Confederation, and the next century they are naming hotels after them." By the time I had finished my dumb questions, we had gotten to the hotel and the matre'd was already seating us at a table near the canal. Elise always gets the best tables. "And what was that comment you made about the Iroquois to Jolliet. When the Iroquois come, everyone..."

"When the Iroquois attack, everyone is a warrior." Elise finished for me. "It's not very culturally sensitive, but it sums up how we viewed them for a very long time. Of course now they are all over the Ohio Valley, and there are plenty of Iroquois in the government, but back in the day, if they came, they came to kill all and take the land. So you fought them no matter what your age or sex."

"It makes for tough women."

"And don't forget it." She smiled so sweetly at that moment, I took her hand. Wow I had scored. What had I ever done to deserve her? I slid my chair even closer to her and put an arm around her.

"Tough and beautiful. Can I buy you dinner, tough and beautiful lady?"

"Yes, and then you can find out if they have an available room in the hotel."

So, the day ended far better than it began. Thank you Portage.

# Chapter 10 –

# I get yet another Citroen

The next few days were an effort to return to normalcy. Portage had been a beautiful break, a chance to remember that attractive cities still existed, and people still had fun. By the next day we were willing to go back to Green Bay and at least try to put in an appearance at work. I got to my office at the university some time after lunch and browsed through my research notes, trying to make some connection back to the book I was writing. Several folks just "happened" by the office to talk about this or that, but they really wanted to know more about the attack. I gave an abbreviated version of events and they seemed satisfied. Elise told me she was doing something pretty similar. People generally did not try to dig too deeply for details, and we were grateful.

I had to use a cab that first day. I wasn't ready to confront my rental company yet. I could just imagine the question – you left your car _where_? The second day a nice young man came to my door with a set of car keys. Parked in my driveway was a brand new black Citroen. If I had felt silly driving a stupid French car before, I knew I would be really uncomfortable in this quasi-limo, that would have all the pretenses of luxury and all the performance of a lawn mower. But he was a nice guy. He didn't even ask me to sign a form or give him a check for damages for the last car. He just gave me the keys and said he had been instructed to tell me "Thank you." After that, what could I say? I took the keys and reconciled myself to driving yet another Citroen. Maybe this one would rattle less.

Gustav was less happy with the car. When he got home with Elise that night he put her car in the garage, and then he put mine in there and shut the doors. About two hours later he got the two of us. Both trunks were open and a canvas bag lay in each. It appeared we were going to get a lecture on guns.

"Shawn, I have called and complained about your car, but they have told me to make the best of it. The company was just trying to please."

"I think they only stock Citroens."

"It's not the make, it's the color. We are trying to move all government cars to white. That is the most popular car color in Canada, so white government cars would blend in and be less noticeable. Your car is not strictly a government car, but since you drive with the minister, we thought it would be helpful if your car also was white – and less distinctive." While he was obvious displeased, I have to admit, as bad as driving a Citroen would be, it would be far worse to drive a white Citroen. Leave it to the Canadians to want a car that matches snow, and so is invisible eight months out of the year. But of course, I was not going to say that.

"But it has been determined you will keep this car," he continued. I have to admit at this point I was getting a little annoyed. Since when does some government guy determine whether I can keep my car? And why would I have to fight to keep a stupid Citroen? And why am I standing in my garage looking at car trunks? Gustav was fast falling off my Christmas card list.

"In any case," Gustav went on, "I wanted to show you where we will keep the weapons." He grabbed a small fabric tab and pulled a section of fabric away from the spare tire well. Inside there was no spare tire. "We have installed run-flat tires on both cars, so there is no need for a spare. It turns out to be the perfect size for the weapon case." To demonstrate, he put the canvas bag in the wheel well, and then pushed the covering back in place. Then he walked over to Elise' car and did the same thing. "So now you know where the weapons are in both cars. I just hope you never have to use them again." And that ended the demonstration. I had a number of questions – and objections – but I decided they would wait until I could talk with Elise – alone.

Gustav seemed to be in a mood to lecture, so he led us out of the garage and walked through the security measures that were planned for the house. Lights seemed to be a big deal. They would go up on our eaves, set to be activated by motion sensors that would be placed around the yard. The next level of protection would be better locks in the doors, and replacement of several windows with shatterproof glass. I hoped that all the equipment would be made in the US and installed by American workers, but I was culturally sensitive enough to keep my mouth shut. Assuming French workers ever actually showed up and got some things installed between coffee breaks, I would have time to review and replace what was necessary.

Having walked us through the plan, Gustav took a walk around the block to check for suspicious vehicles, and Elise and I got to work in the kitchen. It was there that we finally had some time to talk.

"I wish you had told me months ago that there were guns in my car."

"I am sorry. They told me about it at a meeting, but it was among a million other memos and such. I had completely forgotten about it until we saw the missing security detail the other night. Suddenly it came to me as clear as day – there were guns in the trunk."

"And you knew how to use them." It was my night to cook, and I was making New England clam chowder, maybe my subliminal way of reasserting some control over my life. No French cooking tonight. I stopped stirring the pot so I could look at Elise while she answered.

"They have been training us." She had been sipping some wine, but she put the glass down as she answered. She looked me directly in the eye. She was revealing something, and she wanted me to know the importance of the revelation. "Several times, when I have been away for a few days, they have taken us on retreats. We go north into the woods, and they show us how to defend ourselves. Guns, fists, even knives. Everyone above a certain level has been put through the training. It doesn't matter how old they are, or whether the person is a man or a woman. The ministry has decided we should all be able to defend ourselves. The alternative is to hire lots of body guards – lots of Gustavs. But even if we had them, they couldn't protect us all the time, and more importantly, it would look bad. It would seem we were at war, and we are making every effort to assure people we are not at war."

"It was my car. They should have said something."

"No, I should have said something." She looked at me. I looked at her.

"Okay." And that ended it. I would have guns in my car, and motion sensors in my yard. It was part of the package that came with Elise. I would live with it. I went back to stirring the chowder. Elise moved closer to me, and I put an arm around her as I stirred. I can't say I was happy about the situation, but I would adjust. I would adjust.

# Chapter 11 –

# The Worst trip to Philadelphia ever

Over the next several days it became apparent that Elise's ministry had decided she was recovered. Her eight to ten hour days moved back up to twelve to fourteen, and then they decided she was needed all weekend as well, after all, it was a national crisis and she had to be around to make decisions. I was less sure she was ready, but then it was a national emergency, and maybe the busy-ness of it all would help her recover from the shock of the terrorist attack. We went back to seeing each other around midnight when she crawled into bed, too tired to talk.

I went to the hospital a couple times to see President Jolliet. Once they wouldn't let me in to see him; the other time we had a brief talk. They had him sitting up in a chair. The room was still overwhelmed with flowers, and I had to push my way through several huge plants just to shake his hand. It might have been better if I hadn't. His hand was nearly lifeless, and very, very cold. He asked about Elise, but then almost before I could answer, he was back to comments about his staff members who had been killed. Two of the security guards had been killed at his door, he told me again. He had heard the shots, he told me again. I sympathized, and told him he looked better, you know, the things you say to someone who is really sick. And maybe that was the worst moment of our meeting – when I realized I was talking to him not as a great man I had come to admire, but as an old man who was in deep despair. Fortunately, a nurse came in to run some test, so I left. As I pushed my way back through the flowers, it occurred to me I was grateful for the excuse to leave. I hated myself as that thought crossed my mind. Jolliet deserved so much better.

A couple days later the workmen came to put the security system around the house. I watched three guys take two hours to hang one light and decided I needed to get out of town. I had promised to come home to Philadelphia, and now was the right time. I packed a bag, called Elise, and hopped a plane.

My folks were waiting for me at the airport. That hadn't happened since I was a teenager. Usually I arrived and caught a cab for home. Why drag the folks through all the traffic? But here they were. My first thought was "who died"? Then it dawned on me, this was about me and about not dying. Their smiles were big, so big I was seeing their "brave" smiles. They were being brave for the son who had seen terrorism. But I wanted none of that.

"Thanks for picking me up." I gave them each a hug and then threw my bag over my shoulder and practically pushed them across the airport toward the parking lot. I wanted to get home. I wanted to be back among the familiar rooms of my childhood. Come to think of it, maybe I did need some support after all. "How's business, Dad?"

"We just had the best week in our history, largely because of Green Bay. The guys in the office there are beside themselves."

"Oh. Do they need some help? I keep meaning to stop over, but..."

"No. They are fine. And you are the reason. That picture of you and Elise and President Jolliet... As far as our customers are concerned, you are the savior of Canada."

"Actually it was Elise..." and I caught myself. I really didn't want to go down that road. The details of that night were best left in Green Bay. "It was Elise who heard the explosions and said we should go back to the house. So that's why we were there at the end to help President Jolliet in the truck." By now we had made it to the car, and while Dad drove, it was Mom's turn.

"How are all those cuts you got running through the woods? Are you keeping them clean?"

"They are mostly healed." I rolled up one of my sleeves as proof. Mom took a close look. She really did want to see that the cuts were clean.

"I understand President Jolliet's house was totally destroyed?"

"It was on fire when we got back there, so that would not surprise me. I haven't paid much attention to the news lately, so I haven't seen any of the latest pictures."

"Well, it was very brave of you to go back to help the President." My mother was patting my hand at this point. "I am sure it meant a lot to him to have you there."

"The Canadian army handled the assault very well. We just stayed low until the fighting was over, and then we went to see how Jolliet had fared."

"Well, we are both very proud of you," my father added. Traffic was really bad, and most of his attention was focused on the road. Every time I come back to Philadelphia I am struck by how congested everything is. We must have ten times the population density of any city in Canada. Washington had had the right idea all those years ago. We Americans could use the extra room.

The rest of the ride home – which took over an hour because of the traffic – was an update by my mother on family and friends. These neighbors had another grandchild, this old friend had retired, that sort of thing. Oddly enough, I actually remembered some of the people she was talking about. Eventually we made it home.

Coming around the corner at Rittenhouse Square, I saw my brother and his wife getting out of his car. So, the family was coming to dinner. I am never sure how to feel about an evening with my siblings. As the youngest boy, I had plenty of memories of being bullied. Of course they had also protected me on occasion. Maybe that is how all siblings feel – there are good memories and bad.

Tonight would be a good memory. All three of my brothers were there with their wives and kids. My sister was traveling, but otherwise, the entire family filled our brownstone across from the park. And they were there, basically, to honor me. Not a bad feeling, especially if you are the baby brother.

There were greetings, hugs, comments about the kids – they had all grown. It didn't take long before the beer came out – Guinness of course. Meanwhile my mother and the daughters-in-law put food on the table and got the kids seated. Dinner was corned beef and cabbage. Any doubt we were Irish?

I knew my brothers were there to hear the story, and even the littler kids seemed to pay some attention. So, over dinner I described the evening with President Jolliet, glossing over the obvious parts. I did include Elise taking her dress off so we could travel through the woods more easily. I expected Elise would do more than put an elbow in my ribs when she heard I had told that part of the story, but who could resist? If there is one action sure to hold the attention of men, women, and kids, it is the thought of a woman getting undressed. And of course, by giving her my coat, I appeared very gallant. That description also had the advantage of being so riveting, I could just gloss over the events that followed. We ran along the lakeshore, we climbed up the vineyard, we hid until the army had killed the terrorists. One of my brothers wanted to know if there were a lot of bodies, but his wife must have crushed his foot under her heel, for he let out a shout, everyone laughed, and I never answered. I did describe the house on fire, and that seemed to satisfy whatever urges for drama my brothers had.

Eventually, the questions turned to Jolliet's condition. I mentioned we had been to see him in the hospital. He was sitting up, and looked good, but he was very concerned about all the household staff and security people who had been killed. I didn't think I needed to give any details of his condition, and no one asked.

From this point on the talk turned political. Would there be more attacks, would Louisiana secede, would more Protestants come to the U.S., would that create problems for American Catholics? All of my brothers had opinions, and after three beers, all those opinions were voiced easily and often. I let them argue it out while I worked on my dinner. My mother is a great cook. The fact that I lived in Green Bay and might have an opinion too, never occurred to my brothers. After all, I was the youngest. But this was an occasion where I was grateful to be left out of the debate. Let them argue the future of the country where I lived. To me, it was more than a subject of debate. It was where I had friends – and another family. It was uncomfortable for me to even think about where the future might lead, much less present gory possibilities over dinner. That was better left to big brothers.

Eventually my brothers' wives brought them to heel, and the conversation turned to family. Rory here was losing his baby teeth, Molly had put on the greatest dance recital... That sort of thing. Each small child at the table was complimented and physically or metaphorically patted on the head. A couple liked it, and a couple were mildly embarrassed. But they all endured it. And then, since it was a school night, they were all pulled out of high chairs and booster seats, and taken out to cars to be put into safety seats. My brothers and I stood out in the street while all this was going on, shaking hands, talking about the family business, talking about cricket and soccer -- you know, male bonding stuff. And then they were off.

Back in the house, my father poured us each a Jamisons and led me to his office. Apparently there was business talk to complete before bed. The first topic I appreciated. Business was up, so my commission check would be even larger this quarter. Then came a bit of a stunner. Our company was to supply some materials to a mining operation in northern Canada. It appeared the project was on hold, so our contract had been voided. Could I check and see what the problem might be? How did I tell my dad I knew why the project was on hold, and I was the guy who suggested it? Oops. I had no idea we had been part of the project. Blocking the Foster family was still the right thing to do, but it was ironic that we would be caught up with them. I promised my father I would see if I could find out anything. Hopefully he would forget the contract by the time I got home the next time.

Then came the real reason for the meeting, and maybe the reason for the Jamisons. Senator Dodson wanted to have lunch with us tomorrow.

"I will cancel the meeting if you like, but I think it would be good to clear the air." While my father often sat behind his desk while he talked with us about business, this evening he was sitting in one of the wing-backed chairs across for mine. The message he was sending was that we were equals. Obviously we are not, but I appreciated the gesture. I think he was saying I was free to say "no," if it really mattered to me.

"Do you know what he wants?"

"I am pretty sure he wants to apologize, but he also wants to hear your evaluation of what is happening over there. He heads the Foreign Relations Committee. It is his job to know what is going on around the world."

"Do you trust him?"

"No. He has never lied to me, so I have no reason distrust him, but I have never really gotten to know him either. We talk maybe twice a year, either because I need some help with some stupid new export regulation, or he needs campaign funds. We have never interacted socially. So do I trust him with the career and reputation of one of my sons? No."

"But you think we should talk."

"Yes. But carefully. I am still annoyed by the incident with the money. That just seems odd. But he is a U.S. Senator. We do have some responsibilities."

"Okay. But can we do it someplace public? Some place that does not feel creepy?"

"Yes. In fact he was the one who suggested a restaurant. Is Bookbinders acceptable?"

"The last lobster I had was canned. Yes, Bookbinders would be great."

And that's how we ended up at Bookbinders the next day. Dad went into work the next morning as he always did, and I got to sleep late and then sit in the kitchen for about an hour having a breakfast with my mother. It was a great morning. I took a long walk around Rittenhouse Square, read a couple newspapers, talked more with my mother, and then – finally – well rested and feeling ready for anything, I caught a cab to Bookbinders.

Not surprisingly, I was the first to arrive. Dad often gets caught up in conversations with customers or employees, and Dodson? Maybe he was busy, maybe he was making a show of his importance. I wasn't too bothered. A table had been set up for us – in a quiet corner, so apparently, while the lunch would be public, it would not be too public. I could live with that. I ordered a cup of coffee, did some people watching, and checked to see if anything had changed on the menu in the past couple years.

Dodson was the next to arrive. He was quite the show as he worked the room. Was there anyone at any table he did not know? He stopped and talked to nearly every person in the place. Big smiles, firm handshakes all around. This was his restaurant. Even the waiters got his attention and were addressed by name. He knew them all.

Eventually he took a seat opposite me, and I got the big smile and firm handshake. "Good to see you, Shawn. I am glad you finally had time to visit."

"It's been a little hectic in Green Bay."

"Ha," and he really did laugh a little. "You must be the master of the understatement." How do I describe Dodson? He was sixty and balding badly, but he kept himself in pretty good shape. Not a lot of fat, although if he did have a middle-aged spread, he was wearing a very nice suit that I assume would cover any problems. No glasses, good teeth, and big eye brows that framed a rectangular face. Not handsome, but expressive. "And I really am pleased to see you weren't hurt." Here he leaned toward me and gave me his best expression of concern.

"Thanks, but we were in no real danger."

"Shawn, I have pretty good contacts in Green Bay. I know what really happened. You were very brave, and frankly are pretty lucky to be alive." Now I was puzzled. How much did he really know?

"We just arrived at the end of the fight and were there when they got Jolliet into the military vehicle for the trip to the hospital."

"Shawn," and here he lowered his voice. "Elise killed four of the attackers, badly wounded two others, and basically stopped the attack, or at least pinned them down long enough for help to arrive. And you killed one." He emphasized the last sentence, pausing between each word. And - pause - you - pause \- killed - pause - one. It sounded awful hearing it said that way. It was like each word was a bullet.

"My family doesn't know. When my father arrives..."

"Your father won't be coming. I thought it would be better if we had a private conversation. And he agreed."

"Okay, so if you know all this, and obviously you have good sources in the Canadian government, what do you need with me? What was all that nonsense with David Starr about?"

"Yes, David was not the man to send, but he was the man you knew, so I used him. I did need to talk with you, and you have been ignoring me for months. Poor David did his best, but he does not have the best judgment."

"He makes a terrible spy."

"Thankfully, he is not a spy. He is what he says he is -- a consular agent who helps Americans in Louisiana. And trust me, between drunk fishermen and rowdy college kids, he is kept very busy. Since I knew you had met, I asked him to go to Green Bay to talk with you."

"And the money?"

"Did you really give it to a food bank?" He laughed when I nodded. "That was his initiative. He knew your family was in business, so he assumed money was a motivator for you. Why cash and not a check? I have no idea. He's back in New Orleans getting drunk Americans out of jail."

"Okay, so all this confusion aside, you wanted to talk with me. Here I am. What do you want to talk about?

"Two things. First, I have good sources among the Canadians, but it never hurts to get a reaction from an American. Your perspective helps. I need to know if we are about to have a refugee crisis on our hands. Last summer a hundred thousand Canadian Protestants came to the U.S. for safety. This summer will it be a million? Ten million? Second, I need to know about Tilden Foster. I have been trying to talk with you about him ever since January.

"Foster?"

"This is a very dangerous man. I need to know what he is up to, and I need to know more about his character. What can we expect from him?"

"I assumed you knew about him. Sometimes I wondered if you approved of him."

"Shawn." The look of disapproval and disappointment took complete control of his face. He just stared at me.

"I have never been sure what the policy of the U.S. is. Do we want the dissolution of Canada? Are we trying to help that process along?"

"Shawn, we are a democracy. We don't have a policy. We have a thousand policies, one for every member of congress, one for each governor, one for each TV talking head, and one for each billionaire who thinks he should be running the show. And all those policies will be different a month from now and different again a month after that."

"And Foster?

"Whatever our policies might be on a given day, they don't include having Americans starting battles in foreign countries."

"You know we are trying to stop him by turning his family against him."

"Yes, you had the government deny their mining permit. You think his brothers will be angry with Tilden? You should have spoken with me first. His brothers are more dangerous than he is. And you just cost them 1.7 billion dollars. They aren't going to come after Tilden, they are going to come after you -- and your family."

"That explains the contract..."

"That is step one in a very dangerous dance. And your family will lose. Your father is a good man, and his company is very successful. But he is not in the same league as the Fosters. And -- thanks to you -- he doesn't even know he is in a war. I will do what I can to help, but you have to do your part. That begins by keeping me informed. To start with, I want you to write a complete description of what happened in January. I want all the details, and every observation you have about Foster's actions and character. Email it to this address." He handed me a small card. "Now I need to get back to the office, and you should probably have a conversation with your father." He gave me a perfunctory handshake and then made his exit, stopping to talk and laugh with a few more people on his way out.

I sat stunned. The minute Dodson was gone a waiter came to take my order, but I had no appetite. I paid for my coffee and left. First stop? My father's office. I caught a cab and then gritted my teeth as it moved across town at a glacial pace. Traffic was always bad in Philadelphia. But of course my impatience was not always this bad. Today, I sat in the cab and grimaced at every traffic light that turned red, every left turn lane that was backed up. I phoned my father to let him know I was coming. I chose not to tell him why I was coming over. This was news that should be delivered face to face.

Eventually the cab made it to my father's business. I looked at it, and for the first time was fully aware of just how small it was, and where it fit in the pantheon of business. Basically, we were a large warehouse on the banks of the Delaware. We did some small scale manufacturing, but mostly we were a supply chain business, the classic business–to-business middle man. We had sources all over the world, and we had customers all over the world. If you needed something, you could try to find it on your own, or you could come to Murphy Manufacturing and we would find it for you, assure the quality, and do all the logistics work so it arrived at your door the hour you needed it, never an hour earlier or an hour later. In the world of just-in-time manufacturing, we led the way.

But of course, as I now saw with complete clarity, our place in the middle left us vulnerable at both ends. The Foster brothers could go after our suppliers, or they could go after our customers, and of course they could also go after both.

We have a six story office tower adjoining the warehouse. Dad's office was on the second floor. He always wanted to be in the middle – close to both the folks on the warehouse floor, yet also close to all the administrators making calls and handling orders on the floors above him. His office was neat, after all, he entertained clients there, but it was hardly plush. He had a desk covered with stacks of papers, three computer terminals within arm's reach, and a set of six good-quality chairs around a conference table. I pulled a chair from the conference table, and sat across from his desk. Either Dodson had called him, or there was something on my face, because it was clear he knew something was wrong the minute I sat down.

"Remember that mining supply contract we lost in northern Canada? That was my fault." That was how I started things, and then I took the next twenty minutes to describe all the interactions I had had with Tilden Foster, my "brilliant" idea for getting him to stop his crazy actions, and then what I had just learned from Dodson about his brothers and the blow back we were going to experience. My father listened, and did not interrupt. Although at one point while I paused for breath and tried to determine what to describe next, he did say,

"Well, if you are going to rattle someone's cage, one point seven billion dollars would do it."

I nodded, and then continued on, going back to the fights in Dakota and Foster's escape from his own men. I was trying to be as complete about Foster as I could be – his strengths and his weaknesses and his oddities. Finally my father said what I knew he had to, but what I had been dreading most.

"We need to bring your brothers in on this, and your sister if she is back in town." He picked up one of his phones and talked with his secretary. She was to start tracking down all Murphy's and get them to his office ASAP. There was nothing in his voice to imply panic, but it was clear Emily was to move as quickly as she could.

As it turned out, the all my siblings were reachable and arrived in dad's office within about twenty minutes. Dad had them all sit around the conference table, and then started the conversation saying, "Shawn has something to tell you." Since I was telling the story for the second time, I had some opportunity to be a little more coherent. I gave some background on what had happened in New Orleans, but then I got to Dakota and I covered that in detail.

"They tried to kill you?" Ryan interrupted at one point. Dad motioned for him to stop.

"Let Shawn tell the whole story. It involves all of us."

So I went back to the events in Dakota, Foster's departure, and then the plan I had created for the Canadians to undermine the Foster family businesses.

"One point seven billion." James said. There was a look on his face that was a combination of surprise and awe. "That would take a bite out of anyone. But what does it have to do with us?"

"There is a leak in the Canadian government. Senator Dodson is convinced they know the idea is mine, and all the Foster clan will now come after us." I paused and looked around the table. "I'm sorry. It hadn't occurred to me that this might happen."

"Damn," James again."Why didn't you just shoot the son of a bitch when you had the chance?"

"James!" Dad took control of the meeting at that point. "There will be no language like that. We have a problem. Maybe a very big problem. What we need is a strategy. This is a family problem, and that is why you are all here. So start thinking about how we can beat these people."

"I have a suggestion." Michael was usually the last to speak, so it was surprising to hear him initiate an idea. "We need a defense. They will try to go after our customers, and maybe our suppliers. But we can't just stay on defense. We need to attack them too, if for no other reason than to keep them busy. I think we should create two teams."

"Give me offense." James was sitting high in his seat, looking like he wanted to jump up and get started.

"I'll take offense too." Catherine said that so emphatically there was no debate. And we could see immediately it made good sense. James would shoot from the hip. Catherine would make sure he aimed first.

"That leaves me and Ryan on defense," Michael said. "That's fine with me." Ryan nodded his assent.

"And what do I do?" I asked.

"You go back to Green Bay," my dad answered. "Use your connections there and tell us more about Foster."

"I can't just leave this all for you to clean up."

"Are you kidding?" James was gathering up his notes and preparing to charge out of the room. "An hour ago I was wondering if I would make my quarterly projections. Now I get to take on a bunch of billionaires. This week just got much more interesting." I don't think anyone else felt as sanguine about the conflict we were in, but sometimes bravado just sounds right. So we all left it there. Each brother popped me on the shoulder as they left the office – some traditions never die – and Catherine gave me a kiss on the cheek. Then they left, two by two, off to battle the Foster clan. You can't imagine how proud I was to be a Murphy at that moment.

"And what do we tell mom?" I asked once the office was empty.

"We tell her everything. It is her company too, and besides, she has her own connections that may help." And that is what we did later that evening over the dinner table.

# Chapter 12 –

# Green Bay isn't much fun either

I stayed two more days in Philadelphia. Why declare a disaster and then run? I at least waited until my siblings had a start on their strategy and answered questions they might have. By way of penance, I also worked one day on the warehouse floor, moving some freight that had gotten backed up. It's been years since I have been there, but I can still use a floor jack. It was pretty meager repayment for all the grief I had caused, but meager repayment is better than no repayment – I hoped.

Evenings we had long dinners. One night we went out to a movie – mom, dad, and me. Another night we just talked. I called Elise every night. She always took my call, even if she was in a meeting. I took that as a sign that maybe things were not all that bad.

Finally I flew back to Green Bay. Elise was waiting for me at the airport. One look at her face told me there was trouble. "Uncle Claude is much worse." I suggested we go straight to the hospital to see him, but apparently that was not an option. "They are running test after test after test..." There was frustration and fatigue in her voice. All I could do was stand and hug her. Eventually we got in her car and drove home. Gustav was gone. In his place were lots of lights that seemed to come on at random times night and day. If goofy lights provided security, we were as safe as could be. Inside, two of the window frames had been broken when they put in shatter-resistant glass. One more example of French craftsmanship. The terrorists would probably do more damage to my house than the security firm, but the difference might not be that great.

So that is where the argument started. Elise was very upset, and I was very upset and irritated. She wanted to talk about Uncle Claude, and so did I, but it only took a few minutes before I started a conversation that probably should have waited.

"Someone in your government is working for the Foster Brothers." Hmm. Could I have said that in a less confrontational tone?

"That's crazy." Could she have been more open to my information? "No one would work for him. He killed a dozen men in Dakota."

"He knows I suggested the permit denial for that mining project, and now he is coming after my family's business."

"How would he know that?"

"I told you. Someone in your government talked." Repeating yourself is the surest sign an argument is accelerating fast.

"That would never happen."

"It happened." We were standing in the front hallway having this stupid argument. Outside one of the lights came on. I stared out at the empty lawn, too angry to talk. At least I was too angry to talk momentarily. Then I let loose again. "When do they plan to come back and fix these damn lights?"

"They thought they might be back today. I guess they got busy."

"Don't worry about it. I will fly an electrician in from Philadelphia, and we will get the job done right."

"Those are government lights."

"This is my house." It doesn't take a genius to know when you have crossed the line. Elise looked like I had just slapped her. I shut my mouth (ten minutes later than I should have), dropped my hands to my sides, and slowed my breathing. What the hell was wrong with me? "I am so sorry."

"Let's sit down." She led the way into the living room and sat on the couch. That was a good sign. She was going to let me sit next to her. I sat and said nothing while I caught my breath.

"I am afraid of what I have done to my family," I began. I made an effort to slow my speech. "There is lots going on that annoys me. There are guns in my car and no one asks or tells me. My house – our house - is rewired by incompetents. I can live with that; I can adjust. Even the shooting two weeks ago, as strange as it sounds, I can deal with that, mostly because it never seemed real. It was like I had walked into a movie. It was bad, but then it was over. But this, to think I have put my family at risk, that they might lose the business and all be bankrupt. Well, the guilt is killing me."

"I will check to see if anyone talked about the mining permit idea you had, but Shawn, Foster had lots of reasons to go after you long before this. You saw him abandon ship at Biloxi, and you watched him driven out of DeSmet, chased out by his own men. He's had lots of reasons to come after you. Maybe all that happened is you landed the first punch."

"I fear it may be the last punch. The Foster family has companies all over the world, and thousands more employees than we do. They have financial and legal resources we can't match."

"You have a very successful family, Shawn. Don't sell them short. And" she paused here and made sure I was looking at her while she finished the sentence. "You have friends. You won't be in this fight alone." At this point we held hands, and the world seemed a much better place.

"Thank you. But seriously, do you mind if I fly in an electrician? The lights are driving me crazy. The one over there by the blue spruce keeps popping on like a strobe light." I stood to point it out just as the south windows exploded. I was knocked half way across the room and nearly deafened by the explosion. All the lights went out, not that I could see anything anyway with all the dust and smoke in the air. I made an effort to move, but it was like none of my limbs would take orders from my brain.

"Shawn." I could hear Elise's voice, but it seemed miles away. And it was hidden under the noise of a klaxon that was making an incredible "uuunk uuuunk" noise. It had to be hundreds of decibels. Where was that coming from? Also, barely audible under that terrible klaxon noise, I could hear shooting – lots of it. I also started hearing sirens. Hopefully the good guys were on their way. There wasn't much I was going to do about anything. I managed to get one hand to move enough to shield my head. Other than that, I just lay there and concentrated on my breathing.

Time passed. I thought I heard Elise moving around in the room. The shooting continued, although it soon moved into a rhythm, with moments of single shots followed by longer stretches of massive fire. Through it all was that incredible klaxon and the wail of sirens. I think I fell asleep for a while, or maybe I was just day dreaming. But I had the sense that time was passing.

Then the klaxon stopped. There were still sirens in the background, and some shooting, but with the klaxon silenced it felt like I had suddenly lost my hearing. As much as I hated that sound, it was now disorienting to lose it. I tried to move again and found that now one of my legs would obey orders. I pulled it up to my chest. The fetal position seemed the most appropriate at the moment.

A large light moved up to the back of the house, and I wondered if this was when the bad guys came in to finish us off.

"Shawn? Minister? It's Gustav. I'm coming in." With his light now making things visible, it was clear getting in would not be a problem. He just walked through the hole where the south wall had been. "Minister?" He probed through the house with his light. It took a few sweeps before he found Elise, kneeling behind an over turned table with a rifle in hand. Where had that been? "Don't either of you move. We think we have them, but we will wait until more men arrive and we have finished our search."

"I think Shawn is hurt." Elsie pointed with the rifle in my direction.

"I'm oak." My words weren't responding to my brain any better than my limbs were. It took three tries for me to get "Okay" to come out, and even then it sounded more like a frog croaking. Gustav knelt down next to me and used his light to see where I was hurt. Then he felt over my body and limbs to see if anything was protruding.

"I'm guessing head trauma. I don't see anything else. No blood, no breaks." He got on his phone and made a call to medics, repeating the same observations he had just made. I could hear most of their response. Unsurprisingly, they told him not to move me, and to put a blanket over me. That seemed like good advice, but in the meantime, I was interested to see if I could move myself. I twisted to one side and found I could move my other arm. Three out of four. Not bad. And my other leg? I had landed on it. Now I rolled my weight off it, and suddenly it could move too. I was so happy I almost cried.

"Hold still, Shawn. They want to make sure you have no spinal injuries."

"Mo too." Hmm. Could you have a mouth injury? But it appeared I could sort of move and sort of talk. Not bad for a guy who had been blown up in his own house. Elise knelt down next to me, her back in my direction and her rifle pointed out the open wall.

"Damn it, Shawn, hold still. Let the medics do their job."

"I was going to redo that wall anyway."

"What?" This from both Elise and Gustav.

"The wall was out of plumb, never insulated, and the windows let in more air than they kept out." At least that is what I tried to say. What came out was a mixture of vowels and consonants. At least Elsie understood most of what I said.

"He has been rebuilding the house." She explained to Gustav. "He does it himself. Now he wants to rebuild that wall."

"Okay." Gustav didn't seem to be following, but then he was also listening to reports on his police radio. There had been no shots fired in several minutes, and fewer sirens seemed to be approaching the neighborhood. Was this all over? It would be great if it was, because I really wanted to get some sleep. I closed my eyes for just a second, only to have Gustav slap my hand. "They say you can't go to sleep. They want to check you for concussion."

"Tell them to hurry up so I can sleep." I think at least the words "hurry" and "sleep" were understandable. Gustav got on his radio and had a longer conversation with the medics. They said they were close. More lights came in through the back wall, and then the medics, and then Elise's father. Turns out sharing backyards with a doctor is a pretty good idea. He went to Elise first, and checked her out, then he joined the medics who were hovering over me. I had lots of lights shined in my eyes. They said they were trying to check for a concussion, I think they were trying to blind me. Eventually they brought in a gurney and put me on it. It was really soft. I closed my eyes, and this time they let me.

# Chapter 13 –

# Time to leave

I had never been hospitalized before, and I hope I never am again. It is impossible to sleep there. Some nurse came into my room every hour to wake me and shine a light in my eyes. By the tenth time I demanded a certificate of achievement in ocular contraction. She claimed she didn't understand my accented French. I told her I was an American and we sue hospitals for harassing patients. She told me I was too grumpy to have a concussion and she would have the doctor discharge me. I guess that proves crabbiness can be a virtue.

Elise came and got me around noon. I made a big show of walking across the parking lot on my own. She made a big show of not noticing how badly I was shuffling and weaving. Gustav was waiting for us. He would be our companion for a while until they determined who had come after us and why. All they knew so far is there had been three unidentified men, now all dead. Gustav and his squad had been paying attention to the motion sensors and were waiting. The grenade that hit the back of the house surprised them, but the rest had been pretty straightforward – or at least it was in his version of events.

Who they were attacking was a mystery. If Elise, were other ministry officials also targets now? If me, was my family at risk? Maybe it was both of us since we had both been at the rescue of President Jolliet and had been photographed many times. I asked for a phone to call my family, but Elise said her mother had already done that. And that the family already knew something was up since a squad car was parked in front of every family member's house. Someone was protecting them. My thanks to the mysterious guardian.

Gustav took us to the home of Elise' parents. Our house was uninhabitable. I could see that as I got out of the car and looked across the back yard. A huge stretch of blue canvas covered the section of wall that had been blown out. Across the backyard there was police tape in several places, presumably marking where they were still gathering evidence. I was concerned to see the tape was spread over the backyards of six or seven homes. We had brought trouble to the entire neighborhood. I wondered what kind of reception we would get the next time we walked around the block.

Inside the DuPry house we found the girls busily packing for us. Well, actually for me. The police had allowed Marie and the girls to go into the house and grab clothing for us. Elise had selected most of the clothing for herself, with Marie and the girls helping carry it down stairs. Then the girls decided they should pack for me while Elise carried her clothes across the yard. They had two suitcases and most of my clothes spread across the living room couch, and now they happily showed me where they had put my underwear, and which outfits they had selected for me. They had an explanation for every color combination and every possible occasion. They did have some concerns about my fashion sense, but they thought if I carefully wore the clothing in the combinations they had selected, I should not be too embarrassed to be seen in public. Of course what they really meant was if I wore what they thought I should wear, Elise would not be too embarrassed to be seen in public with me. I shuffled over to a chair, thanked them, and let them get on with their apparel matching.

I may have been suffering a mild concussion, but I was still bright enough to deduce that luggage meant travel. We were going somewhere. Everyone was so excited about the preparations, it took a while before anyone got around to telling me where we were going. The destination turned out to be pretty logical. We couldn't stay here. Contractors had already been hired, but it would be over a week before the house would be fixed. You will be pleased to know I kept my mouth shut about the contractors. A week? For French contractors? We would be lucky to be in by Christmas. Besides the repairs that were needed, there was the question of our security. It might be safer for us if we were out of sight. Okay, so where were we going? Kaskaskia. That actually made some sense. Elise had been cleared to go there on vacation, though they had never set an exact date for her travels. Now seemed like the right time.

I settled back in my chair, watched the girls put shirts and pants in appropriate pairs, and quickly dropped off to sleep. Since the room was gratefully free of nurses, I was allowed to sleep. Things were getting better.

While I slept, the finishing touches were put on the plan. We were to leave in the morning. Gustav would drive. Lots of people were informed of our location, and some preparations were made at the other end. Elise also talked with my mother to tell her of the plan. Meanwhile, I got hours of sleep. Finally they woke me for dinner. Marie is a great cook, but I found I didn't have much of an appetite. That bothered Elise' father a bit so I got yet another light shined in my eyes after dinner, but apparently I contracted appropriately.

Eventually it was time for bed. They had determined we would sleep in Elise' old room. I thought that might be interesting and I was right, but first I had to get there. It was on the second floor. I spent a lot of time studying the photos that covered the stairway walls, and checked out the wall paper patterns, and complimented the quality of the banister. Meanwhile, I took one stair at a time, caught my breath, and then took another one. By the top of the stairs I was drenched in sweat and really ready for bed.

But first let me tell you about her room. Apparently she had put a major effort into decorating it when she was about fifteen. There was lots of pink, and some stuffed animals, and posters of Canadian boy bands. I walked into the room and started laughing. But it was a good laugh. I felt like I could see her now as a teenager, just a normal girl doing normal stuff. "Dr. DuPry" would not arrive for another dozen years. This room captured the girl that was, the girl who had enjoyed a very normal, very happy childhood. Elise let me laugh. She was comfortable with who she had been.

She closed the door behind us. "I used to dream of having a boy up here." She said. She helped me get undressed and pushed me back on the bed. "How does it feel to be a dream come true?"

"I like it." Good thing I had taken an afternoon nap and was feeling much better.

It was logical, but that didn't mean I had to like it. It made perfect sense to get going before dawn so there would be fewer eyes around. But dawn in June came around five, and I had really liked being with Elise in that little room. No matter. Up before dawn and out the door we were. The girls gave me one final lecture on what to wear when, and Marie gave us coffee and rolls to take on the trip. And we were gone, headed down the highway to Kaskaskia.

While Gustav drove, Elise and I sat in the back seat and planned. We brought up a map of the city, and studied the main features. Of course the most important feature was the Mississippi. The river had moved many times over the years, and like a snake, it had first tossed a coil over one side of the town, and then over the other, so that the older part of town was essentially an island. But the town was so important, it had docks on both sides of the river, and grain elevators lined up for miles. Then there were the train yards, the airport, and endless warehouses. We might be able to walk around the older part of town – the island, but the working parts of town were massive. We would be driving through those sections.

What would we do in Kaskaskia? Now that we had finally found the time to go, what was the point of the trip? Let's admit, part of this was vacation. Elise and I had spent very little time together over the last year. For people slated to get married, we weren't having time to ourselves. Another reason for the trip was to hide out. That sounded bad, but apparently someone wanted one or both of us dead. Who would think to look for us in Kaskaskia, the truck stop capital of Illinois?

Then there were professional reasons. I wanted to walk the streets where the first Jolliets had created the trade that united the two colonies. Important things had happened in that town. Trade in corn and squash had become trade in so many things that two colonies had become one country. I wanted to see that place.

Elise had her own professional reasons for the visit. While I wanted to see how trade had united a country, she wanted to see how trade was being impacted by a divided country. The local barge people could give her current tonnage going in and out of the port, but she could also talk with river boat pilots and hear their stories. What were they encountering on their trips?

It occurred to me, I got the better end of the deal. I got to study the good old days. And they had been very good. They led to three centuries of nationhood. Elise, meanwhile, had to review the bad current days, where people fought over churches. Unless, maybe, someone turned this all around. Maybe in Kaskaskia. Maybe Elise.

So we drove south, reviewing the maps on her laptop computer. We laid out our initial agenda, picking our priorities. We could not be too certain of our time frame. We were pretty sure the Ministry would give Elise a week. We might even get ten days (since our home contractors were certain to be behind schedule, I could use them as an excuse). But it was unlikely we would get more. So we picked and chose with care. The one thing we were certain of is that we would stay together. We would both be present at every interview, at every historical site, at every social event. We could not control what was happening around us, but we could control our choices. We chose to stay together.

# Chapter 14 –

# Kaskaskia

Highway 1 follows the Fox and then the Wisconsin Rivers south to the Mississippi. We made good time and were on the outskirts of Kaskaskia by noon. Too bad. It would have been nice to stop in one of the smaller river towns for lunch, eating in some café along the river. Instead, we arrived early and drove through miles of warehouses, getting an immediate sense of the town. This was a working city. Trucks were everywhere. I even saw a couple that said "Murphy Manufacturing." Apparently we were making deliveries. Closer to the river we began to see grain elevators rising up into the sky. I have never seen so many. Often they were lined up in double rows that just went on and on for blocks. What was the metric, a France Feeding Day? Maybe they should have created a world feeding day.

Eventually we got to the river. There were two bridges across, one that spanned the entire river, just south of the island, and a smaller bridge that went to the island. We took the smaller bridge. I had been hoping some of the historical buildings had been kept, but this was a working city, and the first blocks we drove through were office buildings and warehouses. Only on the west end, the side away from the current path of the river, did we finally see some older buildings. There was a museum, a courthouse, a small park, and maybe a dozen houses. One of the houses had been converted into a restaurant, and that is where we went for lunch.

Did I mention how good it feels to get out of a French car? I stood and stretched for several minutes. It appeared we were in a bit of an enclave - the northwest corner of the island. Around the west side of the island, where the river had flowed before it flipped over to the east side, the land was all marsh. It extended for hundreds of years to the west. No doubt it produced a great crop of mosquitoes every evening. North of where we stood the river came right at us before taking a turn to the east, as if the island were a ship with the bow parting the water. East were docks for huge barges. South were commercial buildings and lots of traffic as people crossed the island. The traffic noise was constant. What kind of people took a vacation in a place like this? We did.

Lunch was a treat. The house-turned-restaurant had outdoor seating in the backyard along the river-turned-marsh. You couldn't pay me to sit out here in the evening when the mosquitoes swarmed and carried off small children and pets, but with the full sun at midday, it was comfortable, and even a little quieter with the house blocking some of the traffic noises. Gustav joined us at an umbrella-shaded table. Elise and I had wine; Gustav, I was pleased to see, did not.

How do you tell someone is a tourist? They can't keep their head still. That was us. Elise and I were looking at all the buildings in the vicinity while Gustav was looking at all the people. He paid particular attention to a group of men dressed all in white, but I looked over and it didn't seem they were paying any attention to us. Meanwhile, while we looked, we listened. Most of the tables were full. It was lunch time, and this appeared to be a place where some of the local office crowd liked to eat. They had the classic office lunch special – a bowl of soup and half a sandwich (what do they do with the other half? Throw it out?). Some tables were close enough for us to hear conversations, while for others we could just hear the tenor of the talk. We listened for excitement or anger or fear. We did hear concern at one table, but it didn't appear to be any more than you would hear in any office conversation. A shipment was late. It happened. Everyone else seemed to be occupied with the tedium of business.

Lunch was fine. I had soup, Elise had a salad, and Gustav broke some kind of office lunch rule by ordering a whole sandwich. I hoped the kitchen was prepared. We took our time eating. Gradually the other tables emptied as people went back to work. We stayed and had a very nice crepe for dessert and a second glass of wine. We were on vacation. Eventually we paid the check and strolled back to the car.

It was time to think about a place to stay. While President Jolliet had mentioned a home that might be available to us, I had never followed up. In my defense, I had been a bit preoccupied. As it turned out, it did not matter. Gustav had his phone out and was carrying on a conversation. Several minutes later we saw who he was speaking with, as a man and woman came out on the front porch of a home about a block away and waved to us. Elise and I decided to walk over while Gustav took the car.

I have to admit I was pretty pleased as I looked the place over. Obviously it was not one of the original structures of the town, but it appeared to have well over a century on it. It was three stories tall, white clapboard sided, and had a huge porch that ran the length of the house. It also had one of those side entrances where the horse would pull the buggy under a portico. As I got closer to the house I could see the stone step used to get down from the buggies was still there. That's the kind of touch I appreciate. Yes, the stone is annoying to mow around, but leave it there as a gesture of respect to former times.

By the time we got to the house, Gustav had already parked the car and was on the porch talking to the two people who had waved at us. Yes, I was walking a bit slowly, but it was less than two days since I had been blown up, so I felt I was actually doing pretty well. I made it up the porch stairs without huffing and puffing too much, and shook hands all around.

It turned out the couple were caretakers of the house. Long retired (they had to be in their 80s), they lived in a back corner of the house and kept the house up for those times when members of the Jolliet clan visited. How often was that, I asked? They looked at each other and mumbled a bit, making it pretty clear the house was little used. It may have been a family heirloom, but it was still an heirloom located in Kaskaskia, three blocks from warehouses and a major highway. Not exactly a romantic getaway.

We did a bit of gender bonding at that point, with the lady – Gabrielle – taking Elise on a tour of the house to include some ladies clothes from past centuries that had been kept in storage, plus a view of the ballroom on the third floor. The man – Jean – wanted me to see the billiards room. It was also where a very large number of guns were stored in glass-fronted cases. He wanted me to know that all the guns were loaded, and the key to every case was located in one of the drawers. The way he walked me right to the key, pulled it out, demonstrated how to open a case, and then put it back, made me think he either assumed I was a moron who needed instruction in the function of locks and keys, or he had been told we had more than the average number of encounters with armed men.

Eventually, both Elise and I were led up to our bedroom on the second floor. It was massive. It took one whole end of the house. It had also been designed to be used. By that I mean, much of the room was decorated with items that might have been in the room when the house was first built, but the room also had pieces from the current century and even the current decade. This was not a museum; it was a room where people were to live comfortably. Gustav already had our bags in the room, and we occupied ourselves with putting clothes in the closet and in various dressers. Then we tested out the bed. We decided we liked the room a lot.

What do you do in the evening in Kaskaskia? Apparently you entertain. Gustav knocked on our door about six and told us the caretakers had been at work setting up a dinner for us to meet the local notables. Guests would arrive around seven. I couldn't decide if I should be upset with the caretakers for their presumption, or admiring of their initiative. Elise' attitude was that this would be great fun, so I decided that would be my attitude too, or at least it would be after I'd had a couple drinks.

For the next hour we scurried around that huge room, trying to remember what we had put where. How formal was an evening in Kaskaskia? We had no idea. We (Elise) decided a dark suit might be best for me, while she wore a yellow silk gown with shoulders (no, I have no idea how women refer to such a dress, but you get the idea. She wanted something on her shoulders to be a bit more conservative, since she was not sure how the other ladies would dress). She also fussed a bit with her hair. Up? Down? In the end, up won out. And with that, we were ready to go downstairs to meet our guests.

Good thing we got downstairs when we did. Apparently seven means seven in Kaskaskia. Had they been standing around the corner checking the time before approaching the house? Four couples (Jean was kind enough to tell us that was all they invited) came up the sidewalk right behind each other. Elise and I stood out on the porch and welcomed them. Elise got hugs from all the women – and handshakes from the men. I got handshakes. Jean stood just behind us and gave us an abbreviated background on each couple as they climbed the stairs. We were getting the mayor and her husband, the head of the local hospital and his wife, the owner of a barge company and his wife, and the head of the town council and her husband, the owner of one of the grain elevators. It turned out our guess at clothing had been about right. The men were all wearing suits, although somewhat lighter in color and weight than mine, and the women were all in silk dresses with sleeves. Very conservative, but then they were also of an age. I think the youngest couple might have been fifty. The others ranged to the mid sixties.

We stood around on the front porch for a while engaging in simple chatter. We had arrived just that day, yes the weather was warm, the house seemed lovely, we had not seen much of the town yet, but we would love to see more of it, aren't the barges amazing. Gabrielle saved us from complete nonsense by coming to the door and announcing that drinks would be served in the library. That seemed to motivate a fairly fast move into the house. Jean led the way to a room in the back of the house. It was a full two stories tall, with rows and rows of books, plus a wall of windows that looked toward where the river had been. Now the setting sun was coming through the windows, and it would have been uncomfortably hot in there, but shades covered the upper levels of the windows, and ceiling fans moved the air. It also helped that there was plenty of ice in the drinks. I know it helped me a great deal.

So far, the conversation had been the usual inane first-meeting stuff, but a second round of drinks (Jean poured fast, and our guests appreciated his skill) seemed to loosen things up pretty fast. Quickly they got around to what had probably pulled them out of their homes on a hot summer night.

"The local newspapers had complete coverage of the attack on President Jolliet's house," the mayor informed us. "We are all very grateful for the help you provided him."

"We just rode with him to the hospital. It was our security forces who did an outstanding job." Elise had decided, as I had, that descriptions of our involvement would be minimal. I was glad of that. It was just too uncomfortable describing – and reliving – what had really happened. "They arrived very quickly. There were rescue helicopters over the house in minutes."

"How is President Jolliet doing?" The mayor continued.

"He is recovering, but very slowly. He is seventy eight, so these things take time."

"Those Louisiana nuts need to pay for what they did." This was from the barge tycoon, or was he the bank guy? I wasn't sure I had the names and jobs straight, but I wasn't surprised that this was the guy who wanted to start a war with a drink in his hand. He just had that look – shorter hair, bigger shoulders on his jacket, a chin held just a little higher than normal. Our other guests were now all looking at Elise to see her response, before they either piled on with their own declarations of war, or backed off.

"The Ministry is still investigating the attack. So far it is not clear who is responsible. None of the attackers survived, so there is no one to question. Until the investigation is complete, there will be no response." Those were Elise' words, but the way she said them might have been more important. There was no hint of irony or impatience in her voice. It was clear through the pace of her wording and the volume of her voice that she was in complete agreement with the process currently underway. Barge guy decided he would focus on his drink, and the rest of our guests seemed satisfied that now would be a good time to talk about other matters. Score one for Elise.

Eventually, well-oiled but still well-mannered, we were called to dinner by Gabrielle. She had to lead us to the dining room. I had no idea where it was. It turned out to be at the opposite end of the house, and like all the other rooms in the place, it was huge. It had also been decorated in wood paneling with two large chandeliers hanging from a wood-paneled ceiling. Why two chandeliers? Because the table was about thirty feet long. Since spreading the ten of us out evenly around the table would have been ridiculous – there would have been four or five feet of space between each person – Gabrielle had set the table to that all the places were set in the middle of the table. The last six or so feet on each end was left for flower decorations and such. Even so, we still had plenty of elbow room.

There was a moment's hesitation as we entered the room, but then Elise directed each person to a seat. She had remembered their names! She placed couples opposite each other at the table, and put the two of us pretty much in the middle, one on each side, so we could engage in conversation with all. Very nicely done, except I had barge-guy to my right and the mayor to my left. Well, at least I knew which direction I would take my conversation.

Dinner was pleasant but predictable. We didn't know each other, so conversations stayed at the superficial host/guest level. I hope you will stop to visit X, and please see me at Y, and while you are here we will have to get together to do Z. I have to admit it didn't take long for me to only be half listening, but that is when I made a friend. I was nodding vaguely in response to one invitation or another, when the hospital head – Jean Pierre – caught me out. I was looking at the wall paneling and occasionally stealing a glance at the ceiling.

"Those are all Louisiana hardwoods," he told me from across the table. "And none of them are veneers. Each board is at least two inches thick. Claude Jolliet started bringing them up in 1712." I had nothing to say in response. Had he just mentioned _the_ Claude Jolliet? Jean Pierre must have seen the surprise on my face. "I am a shirt-tail relation. As a child we sometimes came over here to play. On rainy days we played inside. We had the run of the house, but this is the room that always attracted me. It is a dark room, and could be a little scary to a child, but they usually kept some candles lit on the table. Maybe it was the candles that attracted me, or maybe just the size of everything. You can imagine what a table like this looked like to a nine-year old. One day I came in and my great aunt was sitting at the table writing something. I started backing out of the room, but she invited me to stay. She had to be well into her eighties, and she had shrunk with age. She wasn't down to my size, but she was small enough not to scare me. She motioned me to a chair next to her, and I sat down. That was the start of conversations that lasted the next two years, until she died. She knew every board in this house, and every piece of furniture. And it turns out there is a story that goes with pretty much every board." In the course of his description I noticed that all the other table conversations stopped.

"The joke in the town is that running the hospital is Jean Pierre's hobby." The mayor told us – and the rest of the table. "His real job is town historian."

"There may be some truth to that," Jean Pierre replied. I was pleased to see he did not seem embarrassed by the "joke."

"I think I have a new friend." I announced to one and all. And I was certain I was telling the truth. I didn't push for more stories right then and there, and the conversation turned in many directions, largely back to - you should see X and be sure you meet us for Y. I was fine with that. Time passed. Gabrielle and Jean cleared plates and brought out coffee and cognac. Dinner passed as all French dinners do. Eventually it was time for folks to go. We did our final greetings out on the front porch shaking hands and dodging mosquitoes. As you can imagine, my longest exchange was with Jean Pierre. He would be happy to return tomorrow afternoon to describe the house and its history in greater detail. Elise made sure to invite his wife as well, and with that, the last of our guests hurried to their cars, and we got back inside and away from bugs as quickly as we could. Not a bad first day, bugs and all.

# Chapter 15 –

# I get to see barges

We were in no hurry to get moving the next morning. After all, it was our vacation, or at least it was some version of a vacation. But when we got down stairs, it appeared rolling out of bed around eight created some anxiety for Jean and Gabrielle. She had apparently been up since five and had been keeping various things warm since six. There was a bit of discomfort all around, but Elise managed to resolve it with minimal angst. She invited all five of us to share the table (Gustav had been hanging around drinking coffee), while we worked out a schedule. First, breakfast would be light – mostly fruit and cereal. If it were available by eight or so, that would be great.

Then it was my turn. "Will we be entertaining again tonight?" Leave it to me to ask the more discomforting question. Both Jean and Gabrielle were immediately apologetic about springing last night's dinner on us. Leave it to Elise to calm the waters. She said she was grateful for the opportunity to meet people, and we would like to do it again, could we jointly work on a plan? This is to say, she said exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. Gabrielle was so relieved she just kept nodding her head and smiling while Elise spoke, and then she pulled a pad of paper from her apron pocket. She had been taking calls for two days, and yet more already this morning. She already had thirty names of people who would like some time with us while we were in town, either to host us, or to visit us. She was used to helping with the social calendar of family members when they were in town, but it had been a while, and the number of calls was a bit overwhelming.

At this point it was actually Gustav who took charge. "If you don't mind, I would like to see the list and do a simple check. I am sure these are all loyal Canadians, but it never hurts to check. If I could have a day?" He asked Elise. She nodded. I practically jumped for joy. A day with no social obligations. Would we be safer if he took two or three days to check? I didn't say that, of course. "And Minister, it would be easier on me and others if you did the hosting here rather than going to other locations. And lastly, while the house could accommodate a very large event, again it would simplify matters if you held events to eight or ten people." I could only guess at what "matters" would be simplified, but I was all for the idea of smaller parties, and I could see Gabrielle and Jean were not going to object. So, at least from my perspective, the day was off to a great start.

Having put some structure into our visit (and who doesn't want more of that?), we had some breakfast and then got ready for the first event of the day. Elise had arranged a visit to the port authority. This made me wonder about our agreement to stay together all day. The port authority? I had no idea what Elise got paid at the Ministry, but it had to be serious money if it caused her to take perfectly good vacation days and spend them with a building full of bureaucrats. But an agreement is an agreement, so I went along.

Gustav drove us back over the river to the Illinois side. The port authority was a huge brick building along the river, four stories of unadorned regularity, punctuated by a glass tower that rose up several additional stories. Several officials were waiting for us at the door. Elise was treated like royalty, and I even got respectful handshakes. Maybe these weren't such bad folks after all. What followed was a tour of various offices for introductions, and then a large conference room presentation with death-by-PowerPoint descriptions of what tonnage came down the river, what was loaded here, and really cool bar graphs showing that sometimes there was more shipping and sometimes there was less. Luckily, there seemed to be an endless supply of coffee, which I appreciated greatly.

Hours passed. Long hours passed. Long hours passed slowly. Eventually the computer ran out of slides and the eager bureaucrats ran out of words. Life could begin again. Elise thanked everyone for their hard work and diligence and for their contributions to their country. I waved and said thanks as I looked for another cup of coffee.

And then we finally got what Elise had come for. The director offered to take us up the tower to watch the barge traffic. We said yes, after all, who could miss watching a barge? We took an elevator up the glass tower, and then stepped out onto a balcony, just the three of us.

Louis, the port director, waited about two seconds, and then began the real report. Security had been tightened in all three locations, but as we could see, the port was huge and was actually three ports, one on each side of the river and a third, smaller port on the island. They had lengthy perimeters that were fenced, but they would be little protection in an armed incursion. Then there were the miles and miles of warehouses and grain elevators. Each had local, private, security, but break ins still happened. In a chaotic situation, they would be essentially unprotected.

Had there been an increase in break ins or evidence of perimeter probes, Elsie wanted to know? No, was the response. At this point Louis stopped, and I respected that. I had been waiting to hear a request for more security funds or more national police, but he just stood and waited for Elise.

"I can see why you were named director of our most important port. You have done well. In the months ahead I fear we will ask even more of you. We need to protect this facility. It is crucial to our country. But we need to do so in ways that are less visible. We have to get up each morning hoping that the people of Louisiana will recall their love of country. As part of that hope, we cannot be seen to put up defenses that show we are preparing for war. Preparations for war can lead to war, and that would be a disaster for all of us. I am grateful for all you have done, and I will communicate your report to the Minister, but we will be asking for tempered diligence from you and your people."

"Thank you." I watched him to see if he would object to what he was hearing, but everything I could see indicated he got the message, and he would accept the role he was being asked to play. Maybe he was the right man for this job.

While this conversation was taking place, I saw something that made me change my thinking about barges. Coming down river was a string of four barges being pushed by a boat. The Mississippi at this point is about two hundred yards wide. Buoys along each side mark the main channel so boats stay out of the shallows. That leaves maybe a hundred yards for the main channel. How wide were these barges? Thirty yards? Forty? They looked huge as they approached us, locked together in a chain, with that small boat at the back pushing them. I noticed pleasure craft on the river gave them a wide berth, passing well off to the right, while staying just inside the marker buoys. In truth, had I been on the river in a boat looking at that string of barges coming at me, I think I would have bailed out into the shallows.

Somehow that boat at the back was turning these massive barges through a bend in the river as it came around the island. It appeared it was not headed into port, but was passing on, headed down to New Orleans. The turn in the river was not very sharp, but it was a turn, one the barges had to manage. I pointed down at the barges and asked the director, "How is that possible? The boat in the rear is so small, and the barges must weigh many tons."

"The turn? There is one a hundred kilometers up river that is even tighter. We constrain the barge chains to four barges, but it is still a pretty tight fit. Each barge has rudders that are under control of the pusher, and the boat itself has massive engines, but each turn does seem a bit of a miracle. The boat captains are probably the best physicists on the planet. They master the river current, the incredible inertia of the barges, and the engine forces at the rear. The licensing process is the toughest there is. No one with a master's license gets it in under twenty years." As we talked, we could see the barge chain swing a degree or two into the turn. Watching that slow turn, I thought twenty years might be on the low side, but he made it.

I felt a tug on my sleeve and realized Elise wanted to leave. I had gone into tourist mode and probably would have stood on that balcony the rest of the day, my mouth open in amazement as each barge made the turn. What can I say? I had been on a boat or two in my life and appreciated seamanship.

We spent another half hour or so in exit rituals. Down the elevator and down one hallway or another poking our heads into offices and acknowledging the hard work people were doing – whatever work that might have been. I heard dozens of job titles and department names, none of which I could recall minutes later. There were offices, there were people in each, we made pleasant comments and moved on.

Outside, Gustav was waiting for us and walked us to the car. Elise had him drive around the perimeter of the port, and then drive through the warehouse district. On a whim I had him stop when I saw a sign for Murphy Manufacturing. Why not stop and take a look? I had him stop in a visitor spot in the small parking lot, and I led the way into the offices. I had no idea what to expect. Frankly, I was unaware we had a warehouse here, although we did enough business in Canada I should not have been surprised. What I found was a neat area with a half dozen desks, occupied by people staring at computers and talking on phones. You know, an office. A desk nearest the door was clearly set up to receive visitors, so that is where we stopped.

"Hi. I'm Shawn Murphy. Could I speak with your manager?" The woman behind the desk was middle aged, her hair just beginning to go to gray. She looked at the three of us like she wanted to respond, but her eyes had that deer in the headlights look. Murphy? "I apologize for just dropping in, but we are visiting Kaskaskia and since we were in the neighborhood..." I thought if I talked long enough, she would make the connection, and of course she did, recovering pretty nicely.

"Of course, Mr. Murphy. I will go get him." And she was up and headed for a back office. I noticed a couple other people were now looking our way. I smiled and waved. The receptionist quickly returned with a youngish man who looked like he was born to be an accountant – thin, gray suit, serious demeanor. I guessed he went to parties with one joke stored away just in case it appeared he would be required to tell a joke.

"Mr. Murphy, I am Jacques LeClerk, manager of this location. Thank you for visiting us."

"I apologize for interrupting your work. This is Elise Dupry, of the Interior Ministry, and this Gustav Poirot, also of the Interior Ministry. May we take a little of your time?"

"Of course. Would you like a tour of the facility?"

"That would be great." There followed a walk through the office and introduction to the half dozen people there, followed by a walk through the warehouse. Here things got more interesting. The first thing I noticed was clocks hanging from every wall. Above our heads were conveyor belts moving packages down multiple path ways. They made a bit of a racket, and Jacques had to shout a bit to be heard. He pointed to gateways along the route of the belts, explained how they responded to radio chips in the boxes that flowed over the belts, and the time metrics the facility used. From inbound loading dock to out bound loading dock, every package was to be on the right truck in less than three minutes. Looking at him, I was confident that standard was kept.

We followed him through the warehouse, staying within the bright yellow lines that separated pedestrians from forklifts, and looked first at the loading docks and the assembly of truckloads, and then at a storage facility. He appeared somewhat apologetic about the need for storage, but explained some products were ordered with such regularity, there was an advantage to keeping some inventory on hand. This inventory was put into a huge shelving unit run by a computer that raised up boxes to particular shelves, this process also monitored so that any package could be located, brought down, and put on the conveyor system in less than 60 seconds. What could I say? The guy was doing a great job. If he had a tattoo under his shirt, I bet it said, "just in time."

We let him finish the tour, and then followed him back to his office. I closed the door behind us as we gathered around his desk. By the way, there was a single folder on his desk. Every other inch of it was clear. What kind of person has an office that well organized?

"Mr. LeClerk, thank you for the tour. It is very impressive. There is a bit of a focus to our visit, however, and I wonder if you could help us with two questions. Feel free to discuss company business openly. Besides being from the Interior Ministry, Dr. Dupry is my fiancée."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you. First, given the unstable times, we wonder if there have been efforts to break in to the facility."

"No. We keep two guards on duty at night, after all we operate twenty four seven, so the doors are open and people come and go, so we need to exercise caution. In the past, the guards were unarmed. Two months ago we switched to armed patrols. But we have seen no security problems yet."

"That is good news. I appreciate your diligence. The second question is a bit more subtle. Within the past two weeks have there been any changes in business that seem unusual – suppliers that don't deliver, contracts that are voided, shipments that are delayed."

"Yes. I thought that might be why you had come. We have several customers who are very angry with us. Two of our suppliers have stopped delivering. They simply stopped. No explanation. They do not respond to our emails and they don't answer our phone calls. It has really caused a problem for us and hurt our reputation."

"How have you responded?"

"We have identified an alternative supplier for one of the products, and we think we are on track with the other, but you understand supply chains. Inventory is kept thin, so any disruption hurts."

"The family back in Philadelphia is working on the problem, but you should know there may be more of this. We are in a bit of a fight with another concern, and the folks we are fighting with are pretty nasty. To the extent you are able, I suggest you check on all your suppliers, monitor performance, and be prepared with alternates."

"It would help if I knew who the enemy was."

"The Fosters." The reaction on his face let me know he knew the family.

"We will do our best."

"Thank you." We shook hands all around and were out the door. I felt sorry for the guy. He had put together a very effective organization, and now he had a new problem to deal with. The best I could do to help was to call dad and explain what I had heard. At least the folks back in Philadelphia could approve some overtime, and maybe help in the search for alternative suppliers.

Back in the car, Elise tried to reassure me. "He seemed pretty competent."

"I liked him. No flash, but he's not in sales, he is in delivery."

"Oh," Elise was laughing now. "And which are you?"

"Both of course."

# Chapter 16 –

# When the river moved

It was already early afternoon, so we headed home to a late lunch. Gabrielle had been fussing for a while with our food. I hope I have that kind of energy when I am her age. We asked if there was any outdoor seating, and she led us to a shaded area behind the house that must have been the location of picnics for at least a century. Huge trees arced over a white-painted wrought iron table with matching chairs. It had to be at least ten degrees cooler in the shade, and we settled in to eat sandwiches and sorbet. Now it was beginning to feel like a vacation.

We ate, held hands, talked, looked at the scenery. We were on the west side of the house, on the high part of the lawn before it descended to the marshland below. We sat with our backs to the highway to the south, and looked north at the river, or west at the marsh and forests beyond it. We had an interesting view. At one point I put my arm around Elise, she laid her head on my shoulder, and I think we might both have fallen asleep. But then Jean came to rouse us.

"I am terribly sorry to bother you, but Mr. LaTrec is here." I must have looked confused, because he hurried to add, "You spoke with him last night about the history of the house."

"The hospital director." Elise reminded me.

"Of course. Why not ask him to join us out here?" Jean returned to the house and then escorted Jean Pierre LaTrec to our table.

"Thank you for coming." I got up and we shook hands. "Would you like to join us out here for a bit, or should we go into the house?"

"It is a beautiful day to sit here, and it will help me tell a story that might interest you." LaTrec took a chair with his back also to the south. "In my time the river has always gone east around the island, so when we played out here, we always had this view. I guess I could claim the marsh looked different in my youth, but I really can't see any difference. It was a marsh, and incidentally, very attractive to young kids. We got into lots of trouble lots of times getting down there in the mud. If you're a child and want frogs, where else would you go?" While he talked, Gabrielle brought out a picture of lemonade. I was going to have to talk to her about the health benefits of wine.

"Anyway, one day we were out here running around, just being kids. My great aunt was sitting right where you are, keeping an eye on us to make sure we didn't "slip" and end up down in the marsh. There was a storm coming out of the west, and we could see it approach over the marsh. There was thunder and lightning, enough to get our attention, and we started drawing back towards the house. We expected Aunt Nicole to lead us back into the house, but in fact she called us toward her and pointed up the river. 'Watch the river, children, when a storm comes, watch the river. It was on a day just like this when I was your age that the river moved. We were sitting right here, hiding under the trees from all the rain, when the river boiled up higher than any of us had ever seen. We thought it might come right over us. It just got higher and higher, and it seemed to get angrier and angrier as it boiled up and threw waves into the air and swirled one way and then another. It was like it was a living beast. We were all too scared to move. We knew it was going to come straight for us and eat us. We started crying we were so frightened. And then we saw the beast move to our east. It had been coming straight for us, then it moved just a few hundred yards to the east. And it ate the land. All the houses, the roads, the people, and the land, it just ate them all. And when it was done eating, it kept going on south to eat more. And that is how the river moved.' Well, you can imagine how we all reacted. Aunt Nicole scared the hell out of us. We were all staring north at the river wondering if the river beast would get us that day. I remember being so frightened, I was shaking. Finally she said, 'When the storms come, watch the river. Some day the river will be a beast again.' She was a nice old lady, but she was responsible for lots of wet beds over the next few days."

"What year did the river move?" I asked.

"1903. It found a channel around the east and took everything out in a single night. The best guess is over three hundred people drowned. Most of those who didn't drown moved off the island. There wasn't much left here."

"Was this house here at the time?" I asked.

"Yes, but it was abandoned for over a decade, and had to be largely reconstructed once people started living on the island again. This was pretty much a ghost town over here for a while."

"It must have been sad to see it decay."

"No, I think that's where Claude Jolliet had it right. Or maybe it was Aunt Nicole's version of Claude that had it right. Remember what I said last night about listening to her in the dining room? She talked about every board in that room, and later about virtually every other board in the house. They each had a story. But the reason they had a story is they had all been reused. She said that was Claude's idea from the very beginning. He saw the town grow from a few huts and a tiny stockade, to a trading center, and then to a town. He lived deep enough into his seventies to see everything change. Paths he walked on as a boy became streets. River frontage disappeared as the floods came through, or disappeared under wharves and warehouses. Houses he had seen as a child either burned down, or fell down, or were hidden under additions. Everything changed, and then changed again. And he made no effort to stop it. What he did was pick pieces of the town, and keep them. His first boats rotted away, but he kept the keel. His first stockade fell to pieces, but he kept the counter top where people traded pelts. One of his barns burned down, but the doors survived, so he kept them. Where did he put all this stuff? He built his house with it. Years later, long after he was gone, that house practically fell apart, but his grandson used materials from that house as part of a new house. Sixty seven years later, that man's grandson built another house with the materials from the second house. You get the idea. Every house has components of the last."

"For three hundred years?"

"Hopefully for much longer than that."

"And this house?"

"I like this house, but nothing lasts forever. Maybe the river will take this part of the island. Maybe it will be fire. Maybe the block will be taken over by warehouses or office towers. Maybe the foundation will just crumble from age."

"And when it does?"

"I'd like to think a Jolliet descendent will rake through the wreckage, take the best of what remains, and build it into something new."

"Are we still talking about houses?

"Maybe not."

# Chapter 17 –

# Talk of Claude

Jean Pierre's wife joined us about this time. She had been in the midst of something or other and so was late and very apologetic about it. She pulled up a chair, and Jean brought out a pitcher of the local apple wine. I like him. The conversation turned from history and houses to civic events. There would be races on the river this weekend, a concert in the park Monday evening, Tuesday there would be... You get the idea. Theirs was a bustling city and the fun never stopped. You have to love civic pride.

Eventually, we got back to history. Here I was watching Jean Pierre's wife, Yvette. It would be odd if couples shared every interest. We are, after all, individuals, and while we share some interests with our spouses, there are bound to be some differences. Not a problem, unless... And here is what I was watching for. As Jean Pierre started back on history, would Yvette signal impatience? Boredom? Or would she be a good sport about it? Thankfully, she at least feigned interest. So, I gained confidence in our evening. We could have dinner together and relax in each other's company.

And that is what we did. Wine glasses in hand, we walked back into the house, Jean Pierre leading the way.

"Every room has artifacts in it," he said, pointing vaguely around him as we walked through the house. "But the best room is the dining room. Once the decision was made to panel it in wood, it just seemed natural to put most of the wooden artifacts there." He led us straight to the room. Gabrielle was there setting the table when we entered, and she seemed a bit uncertain about what to do. Elise asked her to keep setting the table, but to set seven places, since she hoped Jean and Gabrielle and Gustav would join us. That having been settled, Jean Pierre went back to his lecture, motioning for us to all stand on the far side of the room.

"The wall on this side is decking from one of the first boats the Huguenots built. You notice it is pretty gouged out in places where equipment was screwed on to the deck, and there are polished areas from years of bare feet walking across the deck. They used the boat for several years, and then it was smashed against a dock here in Kaskaskia during a storm. Claude salvaged the wood and used it for flooring in a house he built. It then got reused several times before ending up on this wall."

"So these boards are three hundred years old, and were made by Huguenots?" Leave it to me, the math whiz, to subtract 1700 from 2000.

"The Huguenots had lots of problems. Louisiana is just an awful place to farm. If malaria doesn't kill you, and floods don't take your crops, you still have to clear the land of huge trees before you can plant anything. The colony was never going to be self-sufficient in food."

"So Claude brought them food, and they shot him." That was probably not the most politically sensitive thing I have ever said.

"What I find interesting is not so much that they shot him, but that he kept going back anyway." I liked Jean Pierre. He was going to take the high road. Good for him. "The first time he took corn down the river he practically saved them from starvation. By the time he came back the next year, they had some farms struggling to produce a crop, with the farmers hoping to make a few francs from months of backbreaking work, only to find this guy from Kaskaskia could undersell them. They were pretty unhappy. I don't think they are the first people to dislike foreign competition."

"And this leads to boat building?"

"The one thing they have an endless supply of is trees. And it is all hardwood. Northern woods are largely pine, easy to work with but quick to rot. Louisiana had hardwoods. Cutting lumber and then working with the boards was back breaking, but what they built would last." As he said the last, he pointed to the wall.

"And that became the basis of trade? Food for boats?"

"That became the basis for trade because Claude Jolliet made it the basis for trade. He could have traded muskets for beaver pelts like lots of other men were doing in those days. But instead of trading with the tribes to the west, he traded with the Huguenots. His choice – and his legacy."

"That was the clearest description of his actions that I have ever heard or seen in print."

"It's a talk I give at the local historical society. I think I have given the talk about a thousand times."

"Well, thanks for making it one thousand and one." I had no wish to keep the man performing all evening, so I suggested we move to the library while dinner was being prepared (I now knew where the library was and could lead the way). I was pleased to see that Jean had predicted the move and already had apple wine and some harder drinks waiting for us.

How did the rest of the evening go? It was mostly get-to-know-you stuff. I talked a little bit about the university. Elise talked about the Ministry. It turned out she had a new title that I had somehow missed. How many promotions had she gotten in the last year? Jean Pierre described the hospital. They had their challenges. It appeared dock-side injuries were almost never minor. If they happened on the job, they involved big machines that crushed arms or legs. If they happened off the job, they involved knives or guns. The trauma unit was big and always busy. Yvette had the most interesting job. She was an event planner for the city, and had been responsible for bringing some major acts to town. Once we got her started, she talked through dinner and well into the cognac about celebrities and their outrageous behavior. Drugs, drink, fast cars, demolished hotel rooms, public nudity, she had seen it all and had to deal with it all. And it turned out she was a great story teller. The evening flew by. It was already past midnight when we found ourselves on the front porch saying good bye and dodging mosquitoes.

We had waved our final goodbyes as they walked down the sidewalk, when I noticed Gustav dart off across the lawn. He got halfway to the street when a car I hadn't seen in the dark started up and drove away. What was that about? We had no idea, but it gave us one more reason to get back in the house.

# Chapter 18 –

# Lunch with the opposition

The next morning we had a bit of a planning meeting around the kitchen table. I have no idea what time Gabrielle and Jean had gotten up, but it looked like they had been ready for us for hours despite us telling them we would eat around eight. Oh well. Elise and I picked our way through piles of cubed fruits and warm croissants, and tried to get a handle on the next several days.

It was actually Gustav who set the first meeting in motion. He joined us at the table (and eventually Gabrielle and Jean did as well) and announced there was a couple we should avoid.

"I got a report on all the requested visits, and all of them look fine except for the Jouberts. They are both active in the Huguenot Business League, and while we cannot confirm anything, we think they may be financially supporting the LNA."

"I think we should have lunch with them," was Elise' response. Leave it to her to jig when others jag. "We aren't going to learn much if we only talk to our friends." Gustav looked like he wanted to object, but he held his piece. "Jean, would you try to reach them and set up lunch today? And please apologize for the short notice." Jean started to get up from the table to make the call, when Elise stopped him.

"Before you make that call, I need your advice on a small gathering. We have this beautiful ballroom on the third floor. Do you think it would be possible to have a dance there tomorrow night? We could get a few musicians, and invite say ten or twelve couples, and have some fun." While Elise seemed excited about the idea, I have to admit the other four people in the room all looked at her like she had just sprouted a second head. Why was there this sudden interest in dancing? And hadn't Gustav asked us to keep gatherings small? And how do you set up a dance in about thirty six hours?

"I appreciate the burden it would put on everyone," she continued. "But too much pessimism hangs over the city. Let's show people it is okay to have fun." And that settled the matter. If Elise wanted a dance, she was going to get one. Jean and Gabrielle asked permission to get help for the event, and Gustav mumbled something about having to make a couple phone calls, but it was clear the wheels were now in motion, and this house would have a dance.

As the other three left the room to make phone calls, I set down my fork and asked, "A dance?"

"Back in the day, every great house had its own ball room. Think of this as bringing some history back to life. Also think back to our conversation on the port authority balcony yesterday. Everyone in this community is waiting for an attack. Let's help change some perspectives. Don't you think?"

"Actually, I was thinking how good you will look in a ball gown."

"See? The dance is already improving perspectives." And with that, she left the room, croissant in one hand, phone in the other. I stayed at the table, staring at enough food to feed twenty people. A dance. Well, why not? When was the next time we would be staying in a grand home like this one?

The rest of the morning all five of us worked the phones. Jean and Gabrielle called an event planner they had used in the past, and periodically reported in on their progress. Food and flowers were not a problem, but musicians might be. Would we accept two violinists who specialized in period dances from 1880 to 1920? They would have to drive up from St. Louis. Elise thought period dances (whatever those might be) would be great fun, so the agreement was made. Now it was up to Jean and Gabrielle to go through the list of Kaskaskia notables who might be free on such short notice, and be willing to dance dances no one knew. Over a hundred thousand people lived in Kaskaskia. Now we would find out if a couple dozen had a sense of humor.

While everyone else worked on the dance, I called back to Philadelphia and described my visit to Murphy Manufacturing. My siblings had already heard, and were helping find new suppliers. Ryan and Michael, covering defense for the firm, had already polled all the major suppliers we used, and noted where there would be trouble. In their view, the conversations had been fun. In some cases they found good loyalty to the company, and some cases they found people who could be persuaded for a few extra bucks (which identified companies we would drop the instant our situation improved), and in a few cases they found companies that wanted to play games, giving lame excuses. These they enjoyed the most, since it gave Ryan and Michael a chance to tell off a few company execs they had been wanted to tell off for years anyway. Want to play games with us? Not a problem. See you in court. And don't expect any executive bonus this year for hitting your sales quota. I could envision Ryan having the time of his life as he had these conversations. Michael, meanwhile, would be trying to pick up new suppliers.

On the offense side, James was looking at all kinds of wild schemes, some of which might send him to jail or at least get him in trouble with the SEC. Catherine was keeping him from getting into too much trouble. She had also found a group of attorneys who had been reviewing contracts we had with various Foster affiliates. They thought they already had some actionable items. Seems Fosters were so certain their Canadian mine would go through, they had not put in very adequate cancellation clauses with subcontractors. If that was true for our contract, it might be true for many others. Fosters, of course, had their own lawyers, but while they could keep these matters in court for years, lawsuits never helped a stock price.

In sum, the Murphy clan was busy and at least at the moment, was even having a bit of fun with this. I had no idea how much of their story was pure bravado, but it was reassuring to hear. The final question I got from each of my big brothers was – hey, has anyone blown up your house lately? Catherine wanted to know if Elise was doing okay. If there is sympathy in the world, it doesn't seem to extend to baby brothers. Oh well.

A little after one the Jouberts arrived for lunch. They seemed well behaved, even friendly, but it was Elise who brought a cold shoulder to lunch. That morning she had been wearing a pale yellow dress, but I noticed now she was in something very dark green. I guess she wanted to more visibly contrast with the outfits of the Jouberts. And they arrived just as she had expected, arriving in all white, the semi-official clothing style of those who wanted to distinguish themselves from the more "mixed" Canadians. I doubt anyone cares what I was wearing, but I had on blue jeans and a pretty cool Hawaiian shirt. I thought I looked great.

But meanwhile back at the great clothing clash. Elise has ten times the personality I have, so it is normally she who does introductions and handles opening conversations, but this time it seemed to be my job. We had decided we would eat out under the trees out back, so I led the way, chattering as I walked, breaking the ice, so to speak. The Jouberts, Philippe and Marguerite, walked along and said all the right things – my what a lovely yard, thanks for inviting us over, wow, what a handsome man you are. You know, the usual. Elise walked with us, but said not a word.

We took seats at the wrought iron table, and I poured us each a glass of lemonade. I guess I was host for this luncheon. It had been Elise who wanted them over, wasn't it? We were into our second glass of lemonade, and I was into my third description of how lovely the marsh was, when Elise finally decided it was time to talk.

"I understand you are involved in the Huguenot Business League." She had locked eyes with Marguerite. Okay, so this was going to be woman to woman.

"Yes, we own a chain of shoe stores in town. We find the business league to be very helpful. They run a series of management seminars, among other things."

"And last year they ran a very helpful convention in New Orleans." I don't think Philippe understood he was being ignored. Elise never looked in his direction. She was in a stare-down contest with Marguerite.

"I understand the Canadian Business League also runs management seminars." Elise stated. I had never heard so much ice in her voice.

"Yes, I've heard that too." Marguerite had picked up which way the wind was blowing, and she appeared ready to give as well as she got. She let silence build. "At some point though, organizations become networking, and networking leads to friendships, so you pick your organizations carefully. Don't you think?"

Now it was Elise' time to let silence build. "Yes," she finally said, "I agree you need to select carefully." Another long pause. "So, may I ask, why did you wish to see us?"

"We came to thank you for the help you provided President Jolliet." Well, that stopped the conversation. She and Elise remained locked eye to eye, but I saw Elise twist her head and look confused.

"Thank you." I waited for her to say more, as did Joubert, but it appeared Elise had nothing left. After waiting for more, Marguerite seemed to give up, and even started to stand.

"Please." Elise finally said. "I am sorry. I am afraid I was expecting a very different purpose to your visit."

"Yes," Marguerite responded. She was still seated at the edge of her chair as if she might rise and leave at any moment. "We seem to be in a time of group expectations, almost all of them negative."

"Yes." Elise nodded, and her face had changed expressions. She looked like Elise again. "May I ask, did you know President Jolliet?"

"No. We met once at a conference and shook hands, a Huguenot Business League convention in Baton Rouge some years ago. But, no, we did not know him. But we respected him."

"Thank you for that. He is my godfather. I have grown up knowing him as Uncle Claude. He is a very good man. Was he a speaker at your conference?"

"He spoke for about twenty minutes near the end of the meeting, and then stood for nearly three hours shaking hands and letting people take pictures with him. He was very generous with him time."

"Thank you." Elise reached over and took Marguerite's hand. "I am afraid he was very badly hurt." And suddenly she was crying and the two women were hugging, and Philippe and I sat uncomfortably. What do you say, "so Philippe, how are shoe sales this month?" We just sat as men do and waited.

Eventually they stopped crying and hugging and began your standard "let's be friends" conversation, with Elise asking about Marguerite's family (they have three kids), and Marguerite telling her all about the city (it has its rough edges but there are good family neighborhoods on both the Illinois and Missouri sides of town). Somewhere in there Jean brought out sandwiches and more lemonade. An hour later we were walking them to their car, thanking them for their visit and for their concern. I think Philippe got in about six words in that last hour; I may have spoken three.

Back at the house, Elise announced "I liked them" and went off with her phone to call the ministry and do whatever they needed her to do. I went back out to the picnic area and grabbed another sandwich off the plate. It occurred to me I might never fully understand Elise.

# Chapter 19 –

# The last dance

Friday night we spent making final plans for the dance. I should have counted the times I climbed those stairs to the third floor. I know I earned a gold star from some cardiologist or another. But we worked out where the violinists would perform, where the food would be put, where the flowers, etc. We even made a drawing of the room for the caterers.

The next morning things began arriving. It appeared it was my job to tip the delivery men, all of whom were sure to remind me, there sure were a lot of stairs to climb. Six loads of things went up the stairs even before lunch, and by mid-afternoon the deliveries were constant, with some of the people and deliveries staying on the ground floor. Gabrielle stationed herself at the front door and directed people to the right floor. Elise stood in the ballroom and placed everything according to her map. I stood by the front door with one hand on my wallet. I am sure Jean was doing something useful, but I don't know what it was. Anyway, we were all busy.

About five the last of the deliveries were supposed to be done so we would have time to change, but being French deliverymen, it was more like six before the last of them arrived. But eventually the last of the food and flowers and chairs and tables were in, covered with the right linens, and ready for the evening. Elise and I went to change while Gabrielle and Jean instructed the waiters hired for the night where to stand, what to do, and what to say.

Elise had a surprise for me. She put on the yellow gown she had worn the first time we went to President Jolliet's ball in New Orleans. I still remember standing at the bottom of the stairs as she came down from her room. She had made me wait two hours, hours I had to spend with her mother and younger sisters, being drilled about English tea, but then standing, watching her come down the stairs to me, all I could think about was how beautiful she looked. Tonight she looked every bit as good, and I had my arms around her in a heartbeat.

"So you approve?" she asked. She really can be a coquette.

"If I approved any more, we would never make it out of this room."

"Hold that thought." She took my hand and led me down the stairs to the hall where we would receive our guests. It turned out there would be two dozen couples, far more than Gustav had wanted, but once word of the dance got out, calls started coming in, and Jean and Gabrielle had expanded the guest list. Gustav had not said anything, but it seemed to me several of the "waiters" were pretty large, so I guessed he had made some adjustments of his own.

The plan was to have the first round of introductions and drinks on the first floor while we waited for all to arrive. None of us wanted to make multiple attempts at the stairs, especially the women, all of whom had long skirts and high heels. Once again, we learned that punctuality is a prime virtue in Kaskaskia. The invitation was for eight, and by eight twenty every couple was in the house. They were an interesting bunch. All the men were wearing dark suits and ruffled shirt fronts, not that anyone cared. It was the women who drew all the attention. They had all come in ball gowns, low cut, with full skirts to the floor. The materials were silks and satins, and the colors were all bright. They had gone all out for this evening, with their hair up and jewelry carefully chosen for elegance. Ages? Mostly thirties and forties. We had let Jean and Gabrielle make all decisions about who to invite, but we were pleased to see some younger folks in the mix. But even the few who might have been up in years seemed excited to be there. They all mixed readily, and the volume in the room kept rising as folks found old friends and neighbors. Clearly the party was off to a good start, and we hadn't even gotten to the ballroom.

We let them mix and mingle and have a drink, and then Elise led the way up to the ballroom with a swirl of skirts. Two flights of stairs disappeared under dozens of ball gowns, and then, with just a bit of heavy breathing, we were up.

The ballroom was a marvel. It took the entire third floor, except for a couple maid's rooms that had been converted to bathrooms. Windows ran both sides of the room and were open to let air flow through. It was actually fairly comfortable up there, even on a warm June evening. The room itself had been filled with flowers, candles, linen-draped tables, a long serving board for food and lots of chairs. But even with fifty guests plus waiters, the room was spacious. In the center was a huge open space for dancing, the hardwood floor shining under the chandeliers.

While the guests spread themselves around the room, Elise and I went to visit with the violinists. I have to admit a bit of nervousness here. The couple had arrived late, just half an hour before the guests, and hearing them tuning up had not been reassuring. While they would play old music, it had not occurred to us they would also be old. How deep they went into their sixties was unknowable, but watching them tuck their violins under double and triple chins gave us pause. As it turned out, though, they had that performer's knack for rising to the occasion. While it looked like they should be taking a nap somewhere, the minute we approached, they both stood taller, shook our hands with real vigor, and explained that they would be happy to lead off whenever we were ready.

And with that, we were off. Elise took my hand and led me to the middle of the dance floor, where she welcomed everyone, thanked them for coming, complimented all the ladies on their beautiful gowns and handsome escorts, and then introduced the Poquettes. Since we had the benefit of using a classic home, she thought it would be fun to perform some of the classic dances. Here to show us the way were the Poquettes of St. Louis.

Pierre Poquette took over at this point, complimenting the couples, noting how perfect everyone looked in this historic ballroom, and explaining that he would instruct all in three of the classic dances that had been the most popular when this home had been built. For the first dance he asked couples to line up in one long row with men on one side and women opposite them. Elise and I took the lead, others arranged themselves, and we were off. The first dance involved certain steps, a bit of a twirl for the women, and a gradual flow around the room. He explained it once, he and his wife played the tune, and then we all tried it. It only took about four steps before a couple or two were confused and bumping into others, and the whole room broke up with laughter. At that point I knew the night would be a success. Fifteen minutes later, and four restarts, we all had the steps, had the moves, and very proudly danced something he called "the Kentucky." Men had beautiful women in their arms (at least I did), the violins weren't all that bad at holding a tune, and all the couples moved in unison. You could feel pride building. Pierre led us through four more versions of the dance, and the steps got more assured, the swirl of skirts got larger, and smiles appeared all over the room.

Time for a break, drinks, food, and conversation. The Poquettes had done this before and knew how to time an event. We were off to a great start. He gave us half a hour or so to talk and get another round of drinks, and then he brought us out onto the floor with a challenge. This next dance would not just involve couples, but would involve groups. He had eight of us start out in a kind of square and put us through some moves that involved a bit of advancing across the space, and then retreating, and then spinning your partner. It seemed a variation of a Virginia Reel. Right away we could all see this was going to be complicated, but by now we had been drinking long enough that we tried it, and then laughed when we failed, which was often. Once we in the example square had shown how hard it was to do, all the others formed squares and made just a big a mess of it as we had. But since everyone was struggling, no one was embarrassed, and in fact I suspect a couple people mis-stepped just to be funny. Pierre had us do three dances on that theme, and then he let us stop. He was a consummate professional and knew to let us stop while it was still fun.

So we had another long break - eat, drink, meet, mingle. Elise stayed by my side and we worked the tables. We knew almost no one, but we still found plenty to talk about. There was the house, the ballroom, the crazy dances. A few people had been to other events at the house, and described those, but most were new – and very, very grateful. The Jolliet Mansion was a place they had driven past for years, and now they not only got to see it, but they got to participate in an event there. We were making friends right and left.

Eventually Poquette called us to the dance floor again, and began a long explanation of a dance with six different steps and all kinds of partner changes, and group interactions... and then he said he was joking. The big dance of 1890 was the same big dance it is today – the waltz. Everyone cheered, relaxed, and grabbed their partner. It was a dance we knew. The Poquettes played song after song, and the room stayed in motion. Women's long skirts swept the floor, then flared out as they turned. Men had taken off their coats, so now we held our women against our ruffled shirts and lifted than as we moved around the room. We turned and circled, and I for one, held my date closer with every turn.

I saw lots of people step away from the floor periodically to take pictures. We must have looked great -- all the colors of the gowns, and the motion around the room. Couples sometimes stopped out to rest, but most of us just kept dancing. It felt that good. The Poquettes played a dozen waltzes before he finally said there would be just one more. He was instantly overwhelmed with calls of encore. I doubt he was surprised. He and his wife played three more songs. When they were done they got an ovation they deserved. They really had done a nice job.

Elise and I made our way to the top of the stairs. With the dancing done, people began to leave. Elise got hugs all around, and I got warm handshakes. Most promised to call, or to send copies of pictures. All left happy. We followed the final two couples down the stairs and out to the front porch. How long can you wave goodbye? Fairly long. There was a cool breeze, the mosquito hordes were gone, and I have to admit we were pretty proud of ourselves. If the idea was to show the town it was okay to have fun, we had succeeded completely. It really had been a great night. We stood out there until the last car was out of sight. Then we went back inside and up to our room, my arm around Elise' waist and her head on my shoulder. You know, life can be really good sometimes.

# Chapter 20 –

# The beast appears

The next morning I was up at six. I had gotten a call the day before from the local manager of Murphy Manufacturing. Remember – the accountant? He asked if I would be part of the boat races. Being clever, he waited until I said "yes" before he explained we would not be riding around in a power boat, we would be paddling a "dragon boat." It turns out the races are a community fund raising event where dozens of local companies pay for the right to field a team of twenty rowers who then race the other boats. Murphy Manufacturing had agreed to field a team, and since I was in town, LeClerk thought it might be good for me to join the team. I could meet more of the employees, build morale, etc. Being completely ignorant of what I was really being asked to do, I had agreed.

Now I had to get myself down to the south end of the island at an ungodly hour. Fortunately, the island is not all that big, basically six blocks wide and eight long. Our house is at the north end, and the races would be held in a park at the south end. I decided to walk, so Elise would have the car if she decided to come down later. It really didn't take all that long to get down there. Right across the middle of the island is a four lane street that connects the bridge over the river to the bridge over the marsh, but there was little traffic there, and I was able to quickly get to the park.

What I found was a tent city that had been set up, with each company competing to have the grandest tent with the most food. I found our tent and was pleased to see it was not only large, but it had been decorated with an interesting logo - "Murphy Manufacturing" set over an outline map of Canada. Inside the tent, LeClerk was passing out company polo shirts with the same logo as the tent embossed above the pocket on the front and writ large across the back.

"Everyone," he shouted when he saw me, "This is Shawn Murphy. He has agreed to paddle on our team." That got a shout from the two dozen employees in the tent. I wasn't sure of the enthusiasm level, but it appeared mostly genuine.

"Thank you for letting me join you," I replied. "I think this will be great fun. But let's win this thing, okay? Lunch is on me tomorrow if we win." That brought on a more enthusiastic cheer. So, now that we had shirts and had been introduced, what happened next? It appeared we stood around for hours waiting for our chance to race.

Maybe I should explain how these races worked. Some company had brought in five dragon boats – really just long, narrow fiberglass boats with ten seats and a big rudder on the back. Two people were to occupy each seat, armed with paddles. The race course was set south from the island down to the major highway that crossed the river about a hundred yards below the island. There was a row of concrete supports under the highway bridge as it crossed the river, and the dragon boats were to go through them, turn around, and then come back to the park. It didn't look too hard, but as we watched the first group of boats go out, we could see the challenge. The Mississippi has a huge current, and in June the river is really running strong. The island provided some protection from the current, but the farther the boats got from the lee of the island, the stronger the current. Then there was the problem of turning. These were long boats, and while they had a rudder, they also had twenty people who could lean the wrong way, or leave a paddle in the water. Add the current to the picture, and you have boats that could capsize. Everyone wore a life preserver, and there were rescue boats stationed where the boats would be making the turn, but it was pretty clear you took the turn with care. Then, assuming you were still afloat, you had to paddle against the current back up to the island. It occurred to me I had left a nice warm bed and a beautiful woman to risk drowning. I didn't know when LeClerk came up for his next performance review, but I thought I might insert a comment or two.

While we waited for our turn in the boats, I ate a couple croissants and some fruit and talked to several employees. Was I the owner? No, I was one of the sons of the owner. Was there some special reason to visit the plant? No, I was in town to study some its history, since I am a history professor at the National University in Green Bay. But didn't you say you were the owner? No, I am one of the sons of the owner. Do you do work for the company too? Yes, I help with some sales calls in Green Bay. Is there a big plant up there too? No, it is much smaller.

This went on for a while, but eventually they got bored talking to me. Some of them had brought their families along, and they played with their kids, or talked with co-workers. I kept watching the boats make the turn and wondered what idiot had decided this was the place for a race. Didn't they have any lakes within driving distance?

Finally, our turn came to race. The company that owned the boats and managed the race had several men hold the boat steady while we got in. Good idea, or I think we would have flipped it right there alongside the dock. These were not very stable boats. What idiot had decided this was a safe and sane way to entertain twenty amateurs? On the plus side, once we were all in, they put one of their men in the stern to handle the rudder. It turned out he would also be shouting directions. So at least there would be a bit of adult supervision.

I ended up seated in the second row, paired with a man who looked like he lifted shipping containers for a living. His shoulders were so broad I thought he was going to edge me right out of the boat. I slid as far to my right as I could, and hoped I didn't fall out. While all the others were being loaded behind me, I look down and saw several inches of water in the boat. Was it already sinking? Or had the last users made that much of a mess splashing around? Once again I remembered that I could have stayed in a nice warm bed with a beautiful woman.

The man at the helm decided we needed some instruction before we left the dock. Smart man.

"There are a few basic strokes you all need to use. If I shout 'stroke, you all put your paddles in the water and try to pull together. If I shout 'right stroke' that means you on the right paddle and those on the left keep your paddles out of the water. 'Left stroke' means only the people on the left paddle. Usually, if I have to call left stroke or right stroke, it means we are drifting and I need your help straightening the boat. Got it? The only other command is 'jump in the water and swim for your lives.'" We all laughed at that. He was joking, right?

With those instructions clearly in mind, we pushed off and slowly slid down to a starting line, really just the general vicinity of a motor boat that would monitor our progress. At this point the crowd started cheering, after all, we had our own fans, as did the other four company boats. A couple of our more extraverted folks started shouting at the other boats as well, telling them how we would wait for them at the finish line. You know, the usual banter of athletic contests. I would have joined in, but it seemed there was even more water sloshing around in the bottom of our boat. I hoped we would just get this event over with.

And then we were started. They even fired a gun in the air. They were taking this race seriously. We did too, and really dug in with our paddles. And that was the first of our problems. Some dug deeply and pulled slowly, others pulled faster, and within three strokes we were hitting each other's paddles and getting in each other's way. We were also splashing lots of water on each other and into the boat. We laughed. We paddled. We made some progress, mostly because the current pushed us down the river. We paddled more, and generally kept pace with the other boats. Our helmsman shouted "stroke, stroke" and gradually we got more in unison, but we were still hitting each other's paddles and splashing water everywhere.

And suddenly we were under the bridge. That had been fast! But of course, any expert would have seen we did it too fast, as did all the other boats. "Stop paddling" was the shout across the water, while each of the helmsmen tried to turn against the current. They managed, but we were swept well past the bridge before the turn was made, and all of us held our breath as we saw the boat lean and the Mississippi rise up just inches from our sides. One boat took water, and was immediately swamped. They didn't capsize, but they had to be pulled from the water by one of the waiting motor boats. Getting twenty rowers on deck had to be no easy task, but we weren't paying any attention to them, we were watching the water rise closer and closer to our gunwale. We leaned against the turn to increase our freeboard, but of course all it would take is one person leaning too far and we would flip the other way. I am not sure anyone breathed while we made the turn. We certainly didn't have anything clever to say, we just wanted the turn to be over.

And finally we had made the turn. But by now we had to be fifty yards past the bridge, fifty yards more we would have to paddle against the current. "Stoke right" came the call, and we began paddling as we finished the turn. "Stroke all" got everyone moving, and we dug in. At first it seemed we were paddling but still moving backwards away from the island, but eventually, we started to make progress. I could feel the backs of my arms burn and my shoulders ache, and we hadn't even made it back to the bridge yet. Others were feeling it too, and I heard a few begin to complain about the effort. This was suddenly real work. Those in the boat who lifted and loaded creates, guys like the man on my left, held out the longest, but even they started sucking wind by the time we got to the bridge. And the park? That looked like it was still a long way off.

Two good things happened in the next fifteen minutes. First, as we got closer to the island, the current eased off and we had less resistance. Thankfully, since we had all pulled about all we could pull. And second, we didn't win. We did a pretty respectable job, but we finished second. We all expressed concern at not winning, but I wonder if I was the only one who realized that the winner of each heat would have to do this all over again as winning boats competed against each other a second and then a third time to determine the race champion. Having been down that river one time, and having seen what it took to make that turn and stay dry, I was elated with our second place finish. We would get a tiny trophy for the lunch room, and more importantly, we would get the opportunity to watch the rest of the races from the comfort of our tent. I was fine with that, and judging by the shouts of the others as we reached the docks, I wasn't the only one. This was one time where being second was a great thing.

Elise was waiting at the dock, as were lots of other family and friends of all the employees. They gave a shout, and made us feel good, but the best I felt was when I got out of that boat. I walked up the dock on rubber legs, gave Elise a kiss, and led her to the company tent. It was barely ten in the morning, but I enjoyed a glass of apple wine and a couple pastries. I felt like I had earned the extra calories. I wasn't the only one who collapsed in a chair and downed a glass of wine. I had never worked so hard in twenty five minutes in my life.

While I sat sucking wind – and wine – Elise made the rounds talking to the company employees and families. The rank and file may not have been too sure about my status, but they had no doubts about Elise. She was "Minister" to all, and was introduced proudly to family members. As always, Elise handled it all with calm and poise.

While she was working the room, I was watching the next race unfold from the comfort of my chair. Our tent was open to the front, so a dozen of us who had paddled the last race, sat and sweated and commented on the techniques we saw being employed by the five boats that had begun the next race. Now that we were experienced, we all seemed to feel qualified to critique each paddle stroke and every turn. And we found plenty that was lacking. We were especially mindful of the turn.

"They are all going under the highway too fast," was one comment. "They will have an extra hundred meters to paddle by the time they turn." The fact that we had done exactly the same thing did not bar us from criticizing the error in others.

"Look at that turn," observed another. "They are much too sharp. I bet they are in the water before they finish the turn." And, unfortunately for that boat load, the prediction was right. The boat swamped and they all had to be pulled from the water by two motor boats.

"That's not going to work," was another judgment. "See them trying to turn just by using the paddles on one side? Look how wide that is taking them." And that seemed to be the case. Someone clever on the boat had decided that by paddling, rather than using the rudder, they could take a more gradual turn and so not swamp and not drift far down the river. It was an interesting strategy, but it took them well out into the middle of the river, well into the current, so it almost looked like they would cross the entire river to the Illinois side. "They're going to lose for sure," was the final comment.

At least it was the final comment before the screaming started. Because just about that moment, we could all see a chain of barges come around the bend. There were four of them, chained tight and being pushed by a very large tug. It was instantly obvious it was going to run right over the dragon boat. We all jumped up and started shouting at the boat, but there was no way they could hear us at that distance, and even if they did, it was far too late to do anything. They were all going to die in the next five minutes, and all we could do was watch.

The people on the boat weren't blind. They saw the barges too, and we could see lots of pointing and frantic attempts at paddling and turning, but you can't beat the laws of physics. The barges couldn't stop, the dragon boat couldn't move fast enough or turn quickly enough, so the result was inevitable. Twenty one people were going to die.

By this time everyone on shore was aware of the problem. People were screaming at the boat. "Turn! Paddle! Hurry! Watch out!" Dozens, and then hundreds of people screamed their advice, but it didn't take a sailor to see the situation could not be saved. The barges just kept coming, and the dragon boat kept moving at a snail's pace. There was nothing that could be done.

But then the barge captain acted. Working from cameras he might have mounted in front, or from radio calls he was receiving from on shore, he became aware of the boat, and he changed direction. This was not immediately obvious to us on shore, but gradually we could see that he was no longer following the channel. Swinging a degree or two to the east, he slowly veered toward the Illinois shore. It was still not clear if he would miss the dragon boat. It would be very close. The two vessels were a hundred yards apart, then fifty, then twenty. People on the shore stopped screaming. The park went silent. With ten yards of separation, it was not possible for us to tell from shore if there would be contact or not. Finally, when the barge got to the same place on the river as the boat, we could see the two had missed. The bow wake from the barge pushed the dragon boat several feet into the air, then let it down – safe.

A huge cheer went up from the park. People started screaming at the boat again. "Paddle!" as if they might do anything else. And gradually we saw the boat come closer to the park. They were going to make it. Everyone cheered. Only when the boat was almost to shore did any of us give any thought to the barges. And when we did, it was too late to react. Out of the marked channel by over forty yards, the barges took the supports out from under the highway bridge, taking down all eight or ten of them on the Illinois side of the river, hardly slowing down in the process. From where we stood, it looked like it was plowing through cardboard.

I think the barges would have kept going straight on to New Orleans, but by the time the leading edge of the first barge was hitting the last support posts on the south edge of the bridge, the northern edge of the bridge was already falling, twisting, bringing six lanes on concrete down on the second barge. Crushed under the weight of the bridge, that barge dropped straight down eight or ten feet to the bottom. The next two barges kept coming, and stacked up against the wall of concrete that now lay in their path.

While we were watching the barges pile up, someone pointed to the other end of the bridge. Over on the Missouri side, we could see explosions of concrete dust and then hear the screech of tearing steel as the huge forces of torque from the other end of the bridge worked on the Missouri side. Tons of concrete and steel had twisted and fallen sideways at one end of the bridge. Now the Missouri end was exploding as beams broke away from concrete posts and the northern edge of the bridge followed the rest of the bridge down into the water. In slow motion we could see the entire bridge break free from its supports and stand on end across the river.

Human reactions are funny in such moments. Clearly we had no idea what we were seeing. Somehow a six lane bridge was now lying across the Mississippi. How could that be? But we all had the same reaction. We found our loved ones. Elise and I looked around, found each other and quickly moved to each other. Every mother in the park immediately gathered all her children around her. In minutes, every family group was standing together, all of them touching.

So far, no one was moving, and while there was some talk, and some shouting for lost children, there was no focus to the vocalizations. People individually were trying to make sense of what had just happened. Mothers reassured crying babies, fathers knelt next to little boys. There were small motions in many places in the park, but no general direction to our movements. We simply didn't understand what had happened, and we certainly did not understand what was about to happen.

At what point did we know we were in trouble? I think a full fifteen minutes passed. We could see the bridge on its side, and we could see some turbulence from the collapse, but the bridge was about a hundred yards down river, so we missed many of the early signs. Our first understanding began as we did a very human – and foolish – thing. Lots of us (Elise and I included) walked forward to the edge of the island. Walking maybe twenty or thirty feet through the sea of corporate tents just to get a better look at the bridge was silly, of course. We were still a full hundred yards from the bridge, so it's not like those extra twenty feet were suddenly going to give us a much better view. But we walked through the tents, down a slight hill, toward the docks where the dragon boats were still coming in from their race.

It still took us a bit to grasp the obvious, but eventually someone pointed at the docks and noted that they were now underwater. Had they been underwater before? While we stood stupidly staring at the docks, the water kept rising. I think awareness didn't fully come to us until several people in the crowd were literally standing in water. At that point – finally – we began to back away. Once that motion began, it seemed to be automatically communicated to everyone in the park, and the crowd began moving quicker and quicker. A few people panicked and did a full-out sprint for higher ground, but most of us just walked across the lawn, back towards the streets of the island. We moved through the corporate tents, and while a few people ducked inside to grab this or that, most of us moved on past, abandoning whatever commercial goods were inside. We still did not know what was going on, but we were bright enough to know this was not the time to worry about a stack of polo shirts or a few bottles of wine.

As the mass of people moved away from the river, families pulled kids even closer, many making the kids link hands. One father tried to make it a game, telling his kids, "I bet I can beat you back to the car." He then jogged with them across the park attempting a laugh as he ran. The kids played along, and even laughed with them, but by now there were more and more people who had lost all restraint and were running wildly back to their cars. Pretending this was all normal play was getting harder and harder for parents.

So far there was no bumping or pushing. The park had not been overly crowded for this event and there were lots of pathways through the corporate tents, and lots of ways through the park to the parking lots and streets. A few people even helped those with babies and strollers. We were still on our best behavior.

Once we were through the last of the tents, I even stopped to look back at the river. The water was already in the first of the tents. I saw a few folding chairs lifted up by the water, and then carried away. A large tent began leaning to one side as the river took out its supporting poles. I think that's when I began to get nervous. Seeing the river actually grab things in the park, turned this all from a potential danger to a real and current danger. We needed to get higher fast.

Elise and I held hands and picked up the pace. She got out her phone and called back to the mansion. The instant Gabrielle picked up, Elise said simply, "The river is flooding the island. Get off the island now. Do no pack anything. You do not have time. Get off the island now." She listened for a response and then added, "Do not worry about that, it cannot be helped. You and Jean are more important. Get off the island. Please do it now." She listened for another response and seemed to accept whatever she heard.

Her next call was to Gustav. The minute he picked up, he started explaining what he was doing. Elise cut him off. "No, don't try to get the car down here. It will just be locked in. Can you get back up to the house to help Gabrielle and Jean?" Long pause while she listened. "I understand what you have been ordered to do. I want you to disobey those orders and do what's right. Shawn and I will be fine. We are already halfway to the bridge. Gabrielle and Jean will need your help. They are far too old to be rushing off this island, and we can't get to them in time. Please help them." She listened a bit longer and then hung up.

"He saw the problem before we did and was already getting the car for us." She told me. He's a few blocks north of here. I sent him for Gabrielle and Jean."

"Good idea."

Meanwhile, as we walked, we came up on a woman who was trying to push a stroller through the grass. She was moving, but much too slowly. I picked up the stroller and just kept walking. Elise took the woman's hand. "It's only four blocks to the Main Street Bridge. Once we get there, we can put the stroller down, and it will roll easily over the bridge."

"I have a car in the parking lot," she replied.

"I doubt any car will get off this island," I said. "They will jam up at the first traffic light. But it's a short walk. We just get to the bridge and walk across to Illinois." I made it sound simple. I hoped it would be. I made the mistake of looking over my shoulder and saw two tents go down. The water was still on the lower half of the park, but it was coming up fast. Several more people broke into a run, and it was really hard not to follow suit.

"My car is right there," the woman said. Elise pointed up the street. Cars were already backed up, waiting to get onto Main Street and the bridge. We saw one family get out of their car and run for the bridge. That settled it. All the cars on that street were now locked in. Before we even got to the edge of the park, we saw the rest of the drivers abandon their cars and start running for the bridge.

We kept moving at a steady pace. The kid I had picked up was about two and weighed little. And the stroller was just aluminum and fabric, so there was no struggle carrying him. My real struggle was not looking back. It was so hard not to. The park had a slope to it, so I assumed it would take at least some time before the river reached its highest point, but as we walked up the first street, I could see little slope in the final three blocks before the bridge. When the water hit here, it would rise fast, covering all three blocks in an instant. We started walking faster.

Elise, meanwhile, was calming the woman (and me and anyone else within earshot) by asking about the little boy ("Louis") and how he liked the park, and the usual trivia you talk about on days when you aren't thinking you might drown in the next five minutes.

There were others on the street, some ahead of us, a few behind, all walking toward the bridge. A few were talking insistently on their phones as they walked. A couple men banged on doors as they went, shouting at occupants to get out now. It appeared most residents of the street had heard or seen something and were already gone, but there were two doors that opened to people who had questions. I saw one couple start to say something, but then they saw all of us on the street, looked over our heads at the water rising across the park, and suddenly they were in the street with us.

I wondered why there was not a warning siren going off, but then realized sirens here signal tornado warnings. If people thought a tornado was coming and went down to their basements for shelter, they would drown there. How else could people be warned? Maybe the message was going out on TV and radio. Maybe.

Meanwhile, we were making progress, but we were still a block from Main Street and the bridge when I saw water in the gutter. I thought my heart would stop. Was now the time to start running? Elise saw it too, and we walked faster.

At the corner, we got to the scene I had feared. Main Street traffic was locked in place. All the cars had been abandoned. People streamed through the cars and towards the bridges. Now there was some pushing and some yelling. People filled the sidewalks and all the empty places in the street. The abandoned cars made ongoing barriers to all the pedestrians. There were two bridges off the island, one east to Illinois, and one west to Missouri. We were much closer to the Illinois bridge, but I looked to the west just to be sure the crowding was not different in that direction. All I could see was lots of people moving in every direction. East would have to do. We decided to stay on the sidewalk and merge with the crowd.

It was frustrating moving at the pace of the crowd. We were close to the bridge now, and the crowd was moving, but moving slowly. A few people lost patience and pushed their way through. I got hit hard in the back by one young man who was running for the bridge and lost his balance tripping over something. All he said was "Get out of the way," and then he was off again, pushing through more people.

My stroller took up extra room as I carried it, and I considered taking the child from it, but where would I do it, and what would I do with the damn thing once I had the kid out of it? So we just kept walking.

There was a murmur in the crowd when the water reached Main Street. We could not see it because of all the people, but we could feel it, and we could hear the splashing of a thousand people walking through water. I think what saved us from complete panic was the sight of so many other people walking up the bridge. The damn cars were in the way all across the bridge, but thousands of people were working their way around the cars and over the bridge. There really was safety ahead.

And then we were on the bridge too. The bridge rose enough that we only needed to take three or four steps and suddenly our feet were dry. I can't tell you how good that felt. We kept walking, slowly climbing. I looked over my shoulder at one point and saw that almost everyone had made it to the bridge and was climbing behind us, all moving steadily up the incline. There was one young man who was trying to run along Main Street, in water that was now knee high. I have no idea what happened to him.

About the middle of the bridge we passed the last of the stalled cars. Now suddenly we could not only spread out, but we could move faster without worrying about pushing or being pushed. I set the stroller down and the boy's mother took over pushing him. We stayed near by in case she needed help again, but she seemed comfortable and capable.

At one point I have to admit my curiosity got the better of me, and I stopped to take a good look at what was going on. I stepped out of the path of all the others crossing the bridge, stood by the edge of the bridge and looked back. I saw the beast. I had thought the water was rising, after all, the bridge below had become a huge damn, but I had not seen this was not just a matter of water changing elevation. It was changing character. Always muddy, now it was deeper brown and churning. It seemed to throw itself at the new damn, then slide along it, pushing all the way to the Missouri side looking for an opening, and when it could not find it, it charged back at the island.

The island looked like it was being chewed up. The beast came up the Missouri side and threw itself at everything on the island. Our tents were long gone, as were all the cars in the parking lot. The first block of houses was being battered by the river, and while I watched I saw one of them collapse. That just gave the river more missiles to throw at the next house and the next block. More water came, higher and harder, throwing torrents into the air whenever it met an obstacle. There were waves, there were whirlpools, there was churning and battering. The beast was angry, and it was beating the island to death.

And then our bridge moved. It felt a little like an elevator sometimes does if it misses a floor by an inch or two and then recovers itself. Just an inch, just a bit of a jog. But everyone knew what it meant. Instantly there were screams from thousands of people and a mad dash to get to the Illinois side. Fear took everyone. Everyone who could run, ran as fast as they could, and if anyone got in the way, well, they were pushed out of the way. Had we all still been in the part of the bridge where cars took up much of the road and people had to crowd between them, I think there would have been deaths from trampling. As it was, even with the extra space, a number of people were knocked down. The mother from the park was one of them.

Elise and I picked her up, righted the stroller, tried to calm Louis, but got them moving as fast as we could. Our path was downhill, our path was cleared as all the faster people quickly made it off the bridge, our job was to cover the last fifty yards before the bridge collapsed. I pushed the stroller with one hand and put a hand around the arm of the mother. Elise took her other arm, and we jogged together down to Illinois. With ten yards to go we felt the bridge move one more time, a bit of a shift to the right. It almost knocked us off balance, but we stayed on our feet. We made it. So did everyone else I had seen on the bridge.

How much time did we have to spare? I wasn't timing it, but it had to be less than five minutes. This bridge collapsed straight down. The island end went first, when the supports washed away. That end dropped down into the river, and then this end went. There was a huge splash, and even more turbulence in the water, and then the bridge disappeared beneath the rising waters.

We didn't stand and watch. We kept walking down the bridge approach, away from the river. We must have traveled at least a hundred yards from the water before any of us felt brave enough to look back. As we turned we saw the bridge on the far side of the island also go down, and then one of the taller office buildings on the island, six floors of glass and steel leaned farther and farther to the south and fell. A few buildings on the island were still partially above water, but most seemed to either have submerged or been destroyed. It was getting harder and harder to even see where the island had been. Where once there had been homes and offices, now there was just swirling water and a few rooftops. Kaskaskia Island was gone.

# Chapter 21 –

# The beast grows

We walked for another hour. We stayed on the highway until the next intersection, and then we had to get off -- cars were using it, actually filling it as people tried to get out of town. Cars were bumper to bumper headed north. A few blocks later we saw another main street taking cars east. It was time to get out of town, and anyone who could, did. So far cars were moving slowly, but they were at least moving. Would grid lock take them like it had taken cars on the island? We could hope not, but how does any highway handle such a surge of traffic?

Elise and I stayed out of the traffic and headed for higher ground. Knowing nothing of the city, we followed the crowd for a while, then decided we would make our own way to a hilltop park we could see. It even had a small watch tower on top, no doubt there for quiet views of barges coming down the river. If barges were still coming down the river, well, we hoped the port people had warned them not to.

Up in the park was a refreshment stand. It occurred to me it might be a long time before we found food again, so I bought two ice creams for each of us and some water. Oddly, we had the place pretty much to ourselves as everyone else struggled to find a highway out of town. I even had time to talk with the concessionaire.

"Do you know where everyone is going?" he asked. He was a young guy, maybe high school age, working what appeared to be a part-time minimum wage job for the summer.

"I think they are trying to get away from the river."

"It's that bad?"

"Kaskaskia Island is gone already. I suppose they are worried the river will rise over its banks and take out the city over here too."

"Yes, my grandfather told me once about the river coming over the levees. He said it was pretty bad. Although, I have to admit, I wasn't paying much attention. It was just an old story, you know?"

"So you aren't going to close down and leave?"

"I don't want to get fired. I'm supposed to be here until five. Then my relief comes in for the evening shift."

"I doubt your relief will be coming."

"Well, I wouldn't mind a little overtime pay. We get time and a half, you know." I wished him the best and took my ice cream and water to where Elise was sitting on a park bench facing west. We had disaster-side seating.

She was working her phone. Basically she was providing a first-hand account to the Ministry. I handed her an ice cream and opened her water bottle for her. We were both incredibly dehydrated from the walk, and frankly from the fear. I held the ice cream for her while she drank the water, and the water while she ate the ice cream. Her right hand stayed on the phone. Judging by what I could hear, she was in a conference call with half the Ministry.

At one point she put down the ice cream and stepped closer to the end of the park. Ice cream had probably not been the most intelligent food choice given our circumstances. It was already mostly a puddle, as were my ice creams.

"No, I cannot see a breech from here. But we are several hundred yards from the river. Shawn," she turned to me. "Could you find the name of this park? It would help them if they understood our perspective."

I walked back to the concession stand. The kid was sitting behind the counter. I wondered if he was already dreaming of how he would spend his overtime check.

"Do you know the name of this park?"

"Sure." He seemed proud of his knowledge. "It is called Pauquette Park. It is named after some historical guy." So, there you have it. In case you are ever interested, Pauquette was "an historical guy." I walked back to Elise and gave her the news -- about the name of the park, not the fact that he was an historical guy. She repeated it to the Ministry people, and then went on with her description. I ate my melting ice cream, chugged my water bottle, and looked down at the river.

From this distance, we really couldn't see anything. The river was below us to the west, but it was too distant to see its motions. We could not see the beast. We could see the river was wide here. If we were new to town, we would never have known it was wide because it now covered Kaskaskia Island. We could see the bridges were all down, not because we could see the bridges in the water, but because we could see the bridge approaches standing. They were just paths of concrete that ended abruptly at the river's edge. We saw standing water, not raging water. I was fine with that. We had been as close to that beast as I ever wanted to get again.

While I had no sense for the actions of the water, I could clearly see the actions of the cars. The Illinois side of Kaskaskia was emptying out. Every road was filled with cars. Every street was full. If you had a car, you were in it and you were leaving. But you weren't leaving very quickly. From this height I could probably see a mile or so in every direction, and in every direction traffic was inching along. There were plenty of car horns blaring. People were out of patience, although you had to wonder about horns. How was the car in front of you supposed to move forward when the thousand cars in front of him weren't going anywhere? But, maybe it felt good to lay on the horn. If so, lots of folks were getting some release.

Up on our hilltop, Elise still had her phone glued to her ear. Was she the only person they had on the spot? There had to be port authority folks who were also available, even on a Sunday morning. Or were they totally engaged in stopping river traffic? Or, given her position, was she making the call about appropriate responses? I kept my distance and let her do her work.

There was a small watch tower on our hill, and I decided to climb it. Would an extra twenty feet really give me an improved view? Probably not, but I climbed anyway. What did I see? Pretty much what I had already seen. The island was gone. The last of the rooftops had disappeared, as had all the trees. The current and the churning must have been incredible to uproot so many large trees. Where had all those trees and houses gone? I looked down river. The dam was growing. I could see tree tops, lumber, even a few cars bunched up against the bridge. It all collected there, but it also kept in motion. I could see the current continuing to push flotsam along the front of the dam, west towards Missouri. Once pressed against the levee on that side, it seemed to become locked in place. The press of objects against that levee must have been tremendous. Surely it would just be a matter of time before a tree or a car pushed through the Missouri embankment.

But that's not what happened, at least not that morning. While it seemed like all the pressure was on the Missouri side, it was the Illinois side that gave way first. I didn't notice it at first. There was some standing water on a street parallel to the levee, but it meant nothing to me. I paid no attention until suddenly the standing water was rushing up the street, and I could see the top of the levee suddenly disappear under a torrent of water.

"The levee breeched." I shouted down to Elise, pointing to where the break had occurred. She jumped up from her bench to take a closer look, then climbed the observation tower, all the time describing what she was seeing to whoever was on the other end of her phone call.

"Yes, we just had our first breech." She was saying as she ran up the stairs. "Illinois side, about forty yards north of where the provincial bridge had been. I would estimate the breech at about ten feet wide at the moment, but we are at a substantial distance, so I am not in a position to be very exact. Although I would say, whatever its width, I can see it growing."

While Elise was providing her play-by-play, I got out my phone. The area that was about to be submerged was an area of grain elevators and warehouses. Grain that might have fed the world for months was being eaten by the beast in seconds. The other loss was going to be lots of warehouses, including Murphy Manufacturing. I had my dad on the phone in seconds. I figured he would be able to speed the most comprehensive response to the situation. My end of the conversation went something like, "Dad, there's been a breakthrough in the levee along the Mississippi River in Kaskaskia. It is flooding the warehouse district, and it looks to me like our warehouse will be swamped soon. Good. Glad to hear they called you and are preparing. LeClerk is a good man. Yes, I was with him on the island. No, the island is completely gone. Elise and I are safe. We are up in a hilltop park overlooking the river." I explained a couple more times that we were safe, and then got off the line so he could do his job. The Murphys were going to get even less sleep this week.

When I got off the phone, Elise slid closer to me while she continued to report in. She seemed to be counting the blocks the water was rushing over. I put an arm around her and she snuggled closer. I hugged her tighter.

If there was any good news in this unfolding disaster, it was that the warehouse district did not seem to be full of cars caught up in a stampede to get out. It was Sunday, and this was Canada, where lots of businesses are closed on Sunday, so while we could see a few cars racing away from the area, we didn't have to witness carloads of people struggling against the water. No doubt there were some struggles going on inside the buildings as workers tried to get perishables up to higher levels. I assumed some of that was going on at Murphy Manufacturing now. Lots of folks would be running around, doing what they could with the time they had available. At the end of the day we could only hope they saved what they could – and saved themselves.

As we watched, the real drama appeared to be whether the water would reach the roadways filled with cars before the cars could make their exit. It was going to be close. A main thoroughfare ran about six blocks from the river, and while traffic was less backed up than it had been when we first arrived, it was still slow going. The brown river water quickly covered the first four blocks by the river, and moved inexorably closer to the traffic. Elise held her phone with one hand, and brought up her free wrist. She was going to time the expansion of the flood area. It didn't take long to see that the river was expanding about one block every three minutes. Clearly the last of the cars weren't going to make it. The drivers must have seen the water coming, for a few broke away from the main road and headed east up side roads to get free of the water. Others, stuck in slow moving traffic, could not or did not respond in time. Four minutes later water was over their tires, and the occupants were climbing out car windows to escape. Wading through the deep water, and then running once they got to shallower water, people headed for high ground as best they could. The beast was eating again. Lots of cars disappeared into its maw, and we could see that many more would go before the day was done.

# Chapter 22 –

# The beast comes for us

We were on a hill, not a mountain, but we had enough elevation that it never occurred to me we might be in any danger. From our vantage point, we were looking down on rooftops. Surely that put us above the flood, right? By the time the afternoon was over, I was beginning to wonder.

We could see the breech was getting wider. Where before we thought of it in feet, now we thought of its width in blocks. Kaskaskia is below where the Missouri meets the Mississippi, so the river is huge here to begin with, and this is June, so the water is always high, but now I started wondering what had been happening up river. Do I normally pay any attention to the weather? No. The winter in Canada is cold and endless. The summer is hot and full of bugs. That's all I know about the local weather, and all I ever needed to know. What kind of spring had there been in the Dakotas and Minnesota? Had there been lots of rain? Was it raining up there now? Where before I had not the slightest interest, now I wanted to know.

I pulled out my phone and checked the weather. Since I had never used the weather app before, it took me some time to find the radar feature and then to expand the screen to look up river. Just my luck, a storm system was flashing red all across Minnesota. When would all that rainfall find its way down the Mississippi? One day? Two? In the meantime, we already had a breech four blocks wide and growing. The Mississippi was finding a new way south, and Kaskaskia was going to look very different by the time the process was completed.

In the hours we had been on our hilltop, most of the cars had made it out of town. A few more had been caught on various streets near the river, but the exodus had been largely completed. The cars were gone, as were all the car horns. The town was quiet as evening approached. We could see a few people on rooftops, and we even waived to one couple, but mostly people had gotten out. On our hilltop, there was just us and Paul, the concessionaire.

Elise seemed to have incredible battery life in her phone (it was probably made in America), for she was still giving non-stop reports to her people. We stayed mostly on the watch tower, but we also walked down onto the grass occasionally and walked the perimeter of the park. And twice we stopped and bought things from Paul, water mostly, but also snacks. We had a good view of the streets below, and we saw the progress of the flood waters as they approached our park. The general direction of the flood was south, away from us, but as the waters spread the blocks nearer to us became submerged, and then finally the water was right up to our hillside.

There was still time to leave. We could get down via streets on the north side of the hill, and if we moved quickly enough, actually if we ran like hell, we could cover enough space to get to some other higher ground to the north east. We suggested this to Paul, but he had not been given permission from his boss to leave, so he felt he was required to stay. We told Paul his boss was probably worried about other things, and we would vouch for his diligence if asked, but the kid didn't want to go. Maybe he was still thinking about his overtime pay. Maybe he liked the drama. So he stayed, and to his credit, he continued to give us great service, carefully making sandwiches for us, and assuring us he not only had water for us, but wine too if we wished.

Why did we stay? Maybe duty. Elise had a good position to report developments. Maybe adventure. How often do you see a flood of this magnitude? Maybe we were just tired of running. We had started the day on the island, made it over the bridge and across many blocks. Maybe we just didn't want to be pushed any farther. In any case, we could see the water rise, we saw it close street after street, closer and closer to our hill until more and more of the streets below were under water. By sundown we knew we were going to be cut off and isolated. But we stayed.

From our elevation we could see the water rise and take over more and more of the city. What we could not see was the currents within the water. From our height it looked more and more like a lake, even a placid one, but of course this was a river, one of the largest and strongest on the planet. Rivers have currents. They move. Once in a while we had evidence of this as we saw cars moving down streets. Ghost cars, they came up streets, and even turned some corners before plowing into a tree or a building and holding fast for a while, then breaking free and moving again. We saw one car get to the middle of an intersection and do a pirouette. Can you imagine? It sat and spun two revolutions before the current moved it farther to the south.

Ghost cars were actually fun to watch. Elise was busy giving her reports, but I interrupted at one point to point out a car coming up the road and then suddenly moving sideways up to a house as if it were looking to park itself. It parked itself in the middle of a hedge and then slowly sank. She watched and then went back to her conversation. I moved to another place in the park to see what other oddities might be happening around us.

I was standing on the southern end of the hilltop when I saw two things in quick succession. First, a grain elevator went over. It was a smaller elevator, and older from the look of it, but it still made a pretty large splash as it hit the water. Since these things are generally made of concrete, I assumed even with shoddy French construction they would stand up to a flood. Was the current so fast it could push over concrete buildings? Then the second building went down, and I began to understand what was going on. Barely a hundred feet from me, a house that had been built on the side of the hill, suddenly slid down into the water and collapsed on one side. Built on dirt, once the river tore the dirt out from under them, buildings were going to go down. The beast wasn't satisfied drowning this part of the city, it was eating it too.

I found myself backing away from the edge. We were on a big hill, and it had trees and houses on the sides, so we were safe, right? Could the river eat the entire hill? The water was maybe eight or ten feet high around the base of the hill. Was that high enough to weaken the hill? Apparently it was enough to weaken the foundations of that one house, but surely not everything was just built onto a pile of mud, right? At that point a second house slid down the hill, and I got really nervous.

I walked back to where Elise was seated, and took her free hand (the other hand was permanently attached to her phone). Leading her to the south side of the park, I pointed at the two houses that now lay crumpled and partially submerged. "The hill is giving way." I said, proud to keep any note of panic out of my voice. "Both houses slid down the hillside once their foundations were taken out by the current." As if to confirm the accuracy of my account, a third house slowly made the slide down the hillside. Elise turned to look around at our hilltop, mentally measuring it against the rate the sides were being eaten.

"How much time do you think we have?"

"I haven't got any idea." I replied. I doubted my smart phone had an erosion calculation app. I did the same mental review of the hilltop as Elise and drew the same conclusion - we were in trouble. How much trouble? I had no idea. All I knew was my pleasant hilltop park suddenly seemed tiny.

"I'll mention it to the Ministry."

"I'll go warn Paul." So we split up, with Elise climbing the watch tower yet again to describe the current conditions along the river, and maybe mention we would soon be reporting from a submarine, while I walked over to Paul and said now would be a really good time to break out the wine. Based on how he smiled at my request, I got the impression he had already been sampling his wares.

"For local wine served in plastic cups, this isn't really too bad," I said. "By the way, the river is eating away at the hill."

"Some of this has been sitting in the back of the building for a long time. Maybe it has aged well. Would you like some more?"

"Sure. By the way, do you have anything in the building that floats?"

"I don't think so, but I'll take a look." I liked Paul. He was so eager to please. I wondered if he fully understood what I was saying. While he looked, I took a bottle and two glasses up the watch tower to Elise. There was a wooden railing several inches wide. I set the glasses on the railing and poured. "I'm thinking we make a raft of empty wine bottles."

Elise took a look at me and then interrupted her conversation. "Ettienne, we need to do some planning about our situation here. I'll call you back later."

"I have lost track of how many hours you have been on the phone, but I keep waiting for either your ear or your biceps to completely give out."

"My ear is the problem. The phone is hot." She put it down and turned it off. "Are you sure wine is a good idea?"

"When faced with an unsolvable problem, wine is a very good idea." We each took a sip. Elise put her arm around my waist, and I put an arm around her shoulders.

"When were you scared today?" She asked.

"When we were crossing the bridge. I was okay the first time the bridge moved, but when it shifted again, I knew we were out of time."

"Then you lasted longer than I did. I felt that first shift of the bridge and my heart almost stopped. We still had such a long way to go."

"Well, we made it, and so did everyone else. I bet by now they have all made it to friends and family on the outskirts of town, and they are telling great stories over dinner."

"And we are stuck on this hilltop."

"No, not stuck. We have an entire park to ourselves, a great view of the river, and some of the best local wine to ever grace a plastic glass." That line got me a kiss and a hug. I'm no fool, so I held that hug as long as I could.

"The Ministry said it would try to send something to get us in the morning. Maybe a boat, maybe a helicopter."

"So I get you to myself all night."

"Unless we need to share a raft with Paul."

"This hilltop has been here for a thousand years. It will last another night. We will stay right here, watch the moon rise, and wait for the good guys to arrive at dawn." And that is exactly what we did.

# Chapter 23 –

# The beast versus the bureaucracy

A night alone with a beautiful woman, watching the river flow to the sea. We stood arm in arm on the watch tower, and then we got tired of standing and sat on a park bench, and we dozed occasionally. True, we weren't fully alone. Paul came over to us once, looking like he wasn't really sure he should be away from his official concession station, but he wanted to know if we still were looking for things that floated, because he hadn't been able to find much, and he was really sorry. We told him to find some place to sleep, we would all be rescued in the morning.

Where was I? Oh yes, a night alone with a beautiful woman, watching the mighty Mississippi flow to the sea. Just us in each other's arms, listening to the river flow, listening to houses flow down the hill to the river to the sea. Listening to trees fall majestically down the hill to the river to the sea. Waiting for our park bench to flow majestically down the hill to the river to the sea.

It turned out the hard part was not waiting to drown, it was trying to stay awake while we waited to drown. Wouldn't you think fear of death would keep us awake? But it had been a long day. I had paddled a dragon boat. We had walked halfway across Kaskaskia. Elise had reported on river flowage for hours. These things are tiring. So we kept nodding off. I guess I would have been sorry if we had slept through our own drowning, but well, it had been a long day.

Eventually dawn came. It had a lot of water to reflect off of, so maybe it came early, or maybe it was just curious to see all that had happened during the night. In any case, we got lots of light sooner than we had expected. What did we see? Lots of water. But there was also some grass left. There was probably ten feet of park left in front of our bench. The watch tower was still standing, as was the concession stand. True, the hilltop was only about one third the size it had been the day before, but the best third had been saved – the third that had us on it.

We walked over and woke Paul up. The poor kid looked like a little drowning would have been preferable to the headache the wine had given him. But he gave it his best effort and served us pretzels and ice cream for breakfast. We still sometimes joke about pretzels and ice cream being official hilltop-didn't-drown cuisine. Both went down pretty well.

Having stretched our legs and eaten a fine meal, we decided it was time to work the phones again. I called home to see what was happening with Murphy Manufacturing, and Elise called the ministry to see about our rescue. As it turned out, we got good news with both calls. LeClerk had gotten most equipment and supplies up to the second floor and out of the water. We agreed a major bonus was appropriate. Oh, and my mother was pleased I hadn't drowned. Elise learned that various departments and sub-departments had been busy during the night and many plans were already in the works. Among the plans was a plan to get us off our hilltop. We should expect rescue in under two hours. As he gave us the hour of our departure, the watch tower slowly fell west into the river. Why not have a bit of last minute drama? Elise explained that one hour might be better than two, while I went back to the concession stand to verify that there really was nothing there that floated. Paul, meanwhile, had gone back to sleep.

So, what do you do while waiting for rescue? I checked my weather app and discovered it was still raining in Minnesota. I never liked that place. I pulled up the national news and discovered there had been a breech along the Mississippi in Kaskaskia, and flooding had occurred. Oh, and a French film star had gotten divorced from his third wife.

Elise used the last of her battery to call Etienne one last time. He was calling a conference of leading economists to project the consequences of the flood, and he wanted her to lead it. So, she would go from a hilltop waiting to drown, to an economic conference waiting to escape an endless stream of bar graphs. She didn't mention calling off the rescue, but I would have been tempted. Really, a room full of economists?

An hour later we were backing ourselves closer and closer to the concession stand as the hilltop shrank, when we heard an outboard motor. I had been hoping for something a bit more substantial, after all, there was a pretty good current out here, but I decided not to tell our rescuer we would prefer to wait for the next boat. We watched him come down from the north, the current pulling him up to the island.

Here things got a bit sticky. The water was a good ten or so feet below the hilltop, so we had to figure out how to get down to him. Paul and I held Elise's arms and lowered her to the boat, only to have her slip out of our hands at the last minute and fall the last three feet, almost capsizing the boat when she landed. The man with the boat, a park ranger from the look of his uniform, caught Elise and helped her get into a seat in the middle of the boat. Now it was up to me to hold Paul's arm and lower him. And, just to be consistent, I lost his arm at the last minute and he too dropped into the boat. Fortunately, with the ranger and Elise both in the boat, they were able to catch Paul and keep the boat balanced until he was settled.

That left me. The good news was there was nobody to hold my hand and then drop me. We had already done enough of that. I decided I would climb down instead. That's the kind of decision you make when you have been missing too much sleep. How do you "climb" down mud? You don't. You put one foot over the side, shift your weight a bit, and suddenly the whole side of the hill gives way and you hit the water in a big muddy splash. Fortunately, not much of the dirt landed in the boat, and I didn't land too far from the boat. I surfaced, covered in dirt, but was able to take a stroke or two and get to the side of the boat. Now we had the usual problem of how to get a person on board without capsizing, but I got around to the stern and boarded while everyone else kept their weight low.

"Anyone else?" asked the ranger. There was barely room for the four of us in his little boat, so we were happy to tell him "no." With that he hit the gas and we headed north to high ground.

It may sound cool to ride a boat up a city street, but I hope I never do it again. For the first part of our ride north we were in residential streets. The water was probably six to eight feet deep, so the houses we passed were covered in muddy water up past their windows. Any part of the house that had been touched by the water was a dark brown, and I could only imagine what the insides looked like. It occurred to me I was probably looking at block after block of tear-downs. Elise was on her phone making yet another report on what we were seeing. Her battery seemed to die about midway through her report, and I got the distinct impression she was relieved she didn't have to continue describing what she was seeing.

What surprised me was how far the water had spread. We were on that boat for over ten minutes, and probably went thirty blocks before we got to the end of the flooded area. The ranger grounded the boat in a school parking lot, and we got out. A dozen people were waiting for Elise. She got hugs from all her colleagues. I got a blanket to cover my wet clothes. Paul got assistance from a policewoman who offered to call his parents for him. They went off in one direction; we went another.

Elise and I were led inside the school. If the school people had been planning on summer school classes, that wasn't going to happen any time soon. The building was full. Cots had been set up in every room, including the gym. As we walked down the hallway, it appeared the cots were fully in use. Kids were running everywhere. The room we were headed for was the auditorium. Here, tables and chairs had been set up in every open area, including the stage. Large television monitors had been hung from the walls in several locations, and rows of people sat at desks using computers. I wondered if those folks were a little embarrassed, since they were using school desks that seemed a bit too small for adults. Embarrassed or not, the twenty or so people using the computers stayed busy, engaged in constant typing. Their backs were turned to me, so there wasn't much I could see of them, except most were wearing uniforms.

We were led to the stage where the heavy-hitters seemed to be stationed, and we shook more hands. At some point, though, it must have dawned on one of these geniuses that both of us had spent the night on a hilltop after walking across town, often through water, and even if they couldn't see the shape of Elise's shoes, they could see me covered with mud huddled under a blanket. Maybe we could use a shower?

With great apologies, we were led off to the school locker rooms and showers. I have no idea how long my shower took, but when I was done, I was pretty embarrassed about all the mud I left on the floor. I had been a real mess. I wasn't sure what to do about my blanket and all the mud I had gotten on that. In the end I just folded it up and put it to one side. Hopefully someone was working on these things. Back in the locker room, two men were waiting for me with clothes – their extra clothes apparently. We were close enough in size that I was able to take a couple articles from each.

I have no idea who invented the shower, but if ever an invention warranted the Nobel Prize, that was it. I can't tell you how much better I felt after a shower and a change of clothes. They also tried to get me some breakfast, but having had my pretzel, I was good. That left them trying to determine what to do with me. They seemed uncomfortable bringing me back to the auditorium since I was not a ministry employee. They suggested I check in with the people assigning cots, but I was having none of it. If Elise was going to be in the auditorium, so was I. I headed back up the hallway to the auditorium with my handlers in hot pursuit. If I was going to be banned from the room, I would have it done by guys in uniform.

As it turned out, there was no drama at the door. The two uniforms keeping the kids and tourists out of the room were happy to let me in. I took advantage of the opportunity to wander the room and look over shoulders at various screens while I waited for Elise to return. She's pretty fast, but unless they had a high speed hair dryer, it was going to be a few more minutes before she was back.

Elise' boss, Etienne Marchant spotted me and came down from his perch on the stage. I have no idea why I don't like the guy, but I don't. Of course the fact that he kept my fiancée away from me twenty hours a day might be partially to blame.

"I am so pleased you are both safe." His smile seemed genuine. Why didn't I care?

"Thanks for sending a boat." We shook hands and then just stood looking at each other. I didn't have anything else to say, did he?

"Elise's reports were crucial last night. We had people in several other places, but no one near where you were. She really helped with our understanding of the flood."

"She is very dedicated to her work. And to her country."

"Many people are dedicated. Few are dedicated and as talented as she. She is invaluable to her country."

"I see her talent. I also see how tired she is some days. You might give some thought to her workday." You can imagine how well that suggestion went over. Marchant was deep into his fifties, and I assume had been a senior minister for most of his life. Did he want to have his work assignments questioned by a man barely over thirty, and an American at that? Nope. He maintained his smile, but it suddenly seemed a mask to me. Had I just hurt Elise's career? Maybe, but I was right about her workday. Crisis or no crisis, you can't work people to death.

"I appreciate your concern. It is admirable. I will do what I can." And that was all he had to say about that or about anything else. He suddenly heard someone calling to him, and he was off. I stood looking around the room, waiting for Elise. Maybe pretzels and ice cream weren't the best idea for breakfast after all. They made me grumpy and confrontational.

Then Elise appeared and immediately improved my mood. She was also wearing someone else's clothes, but that other person never looked as good in that dress. She walked right up to me, gave me a kiss, and congratulated me on finally looking Canadian. I liked the kiss, but did this mean I was going to have to wear the local styles now? I hoped not.

We had about two seconds to talk before one of the uniforms walked up to us. "Minister, we have a briefing prepared for you." Elsie followed him to a corner of the room. I followed along. I figured if they didn't want me there, they would tell me fast enough. As it turned out, there was no problem. There was a laptop computer on a small table, and the uniformed man sat on one side of the table while the two of us sat across from him. He turned the laptop so we could see, and then jumped into the briefing.

"I understand you will be meeting with the economists to evaluate the economic damage this will do to the country. I will focus on the logistical damage. The short version is simple. We have been hurt very badly." And with that, he was off on a thirty minute description of the disaster. What was the problem? Everything. If the river was going to flood, the worst place was Kaskaskia, and the worst time was now. With the river dammed up by the fallen bridge, all river traffic was halted, but with the bridge down, so was much of the road traffic. National Highway 1, which he assured us had always been too close to the river, was under water in two locations and washed out in another. And to put the icing on the cake (that was his metaphor, leave it to the French to invoke food), the main rail lines south were also under water. Basically, the country was broken in the middle.

We asked about speed of repairs and he explained much was being worked on, but there was another problem that might be worse. Kaskaskia was not just a place where goods passed through, it was a place where they were stored, repackaged, redirected, even remanufactured. The entire warehouse district on the Illinois side was under water. The warehouses on the island were gone. The Missouri warehouses were intact, but cut off. Even if the river and the roads were fixed tomorrow – and they wouldn't be – it would be months, or longer, for the warehouses to be rebuilt or repaired. In sum, it was not an overstatement to say yesterday Canada had lost its industrial capacity. Over the next three months, Canada would grind to a halt.

Just for a second, I wondered if we would have been better off if we had just stayed on our hilltop park. The wine had been pretty good.

But Elise had different ideas. "That's not going to happen." She stood up and walked directly to the stage. There was some confab of top level people gathered around a table. She found a chair, pulled it to the table, and said loud enough for me to hear across the room, "Let's talk about what we are going to do."

I stayed with the uniform. "That's my fiancée." I announced.

"Did she really shoot seven terrorists?"

"She did what she needed to do. And that's what she will do here too. In the meantime, do you mind finishing your briefing? What is the response planned so far?" The uniform moved through some images on his laptop.

"Here is the most recent image of the affected area. You can see how far it has spread. We have crews working on the downed bridge. Sections of it should be blown out yet today. We also have a barge coming in with concrete sections to start closing the breech. Our best guess is the breech will take five days to close. But that doesn't solve the river problem. Once we get it back in its banks, we still have all the debris that has collected in it. Basically we will have to scour thirty or forty miles of river to clear out trees, cars, houses, and everything else, before river traffic can resume."

"And the warehouses? What is your plan there?"

"We don't have a plan yet. We are still trying to determine the level of damage. We hope to get a few people into that area later today."

"Maybe I can help there. Do you have a phone I can use? Mine took a bath." He gave me a khaki colored phone (yes, they really have such things), and I dialed up my father. He was pleased to know I had left the park where I had been viewing the flood (I didn't tell him the park was now part of the flood), and yes, Jacques LeClerk was already back in the warehouse. He and several of his foremen had taken their fishing boats in. I got LeClerk's number and called. We spoke briefly, and then I handed him off to the soldier who seemed very excited to talk with anyone in that area. Their conversation lasted a full fifteen minutes, with the soldier taking notes as quickly as he could write. I could hear most of the conversation, and it seemed mostly positive. Two cars had drifted into the loading dock and crushed the doors there, and one large truck was on its side, but the inside of the warehouse was in pretty good shape. Having seen how proud LeClerk was of his conveyor belt system and pallet elevator, I imagined the pleasure he must have felt that his best systems had not been damaged yet.

Finally the soldier finished with his questions and he gave the phone back to me while he gathered up his notes and went looking for his superior. I asked LeClerk what he needed from me or from the home office. He already had a list ready, and in fact had already emailed it to Philadelphia before my call. I should not have been surprised. Whoever had picked this guy for site manager knew what he was doing.

Done with my phone call, and left alone, I decided maybe I would look for one of those cots after all.

# Chapter 24 –

# Attack of the PERT charts

The cot people were pretty good about finding me a quiet place to sleep. I guessed it was a teacher's lounge or something. Not that I paid much attention. I laid down and was out within seconds. Several hours later I was awoken by the smell of food. Hoping I didn't look too disheveled, I finger-combed my hair and headed back to the auditorium. I was in luck. They appeared to have just finished eating, and two people were wheeling carts of leftovers out of the room. I took a sandwich as they rolled by, and since they seemed fine with that, I took a second.

Inside the room, the only thing that had changed was a large screen. It was mounted on the back wall of the stage, and it was currently displaying a large drawing that looked like badly drawn spider. My first thought was that there was an insect infestation adding to all the other problems the city faced. As I munched my sandwiches I took a closer look and realized I was staring at a PERT chart.

We had used such charts in my father's business for larger projects, so it was not surprising to see such a chart, but it was surprising to see Canadians using one. After all, it was an American invention. Our navy had come up with it to plan out large ship building projects. The idea was to track the sub components and make sure they were done in the right order and completed when needed. It made no sense to have the hull done if you then had to sit two years while the engines were manufactured, or install the engine and then sit for a year waiting for the propellers. In short, it was a great vehicle for American efficiency. What were the French doing with it?

By the time I was done with my second sandwich, I realized why the Canadians were using it, and who was directing its development. Didn't she ever get tired? Sometimes she spoke from her seat at the table, and sometimes she got up and pointed to places on the screen. I knew pretty quickly what was animating her – the critical path. The chief value of a PERT chart is its ability to help you visualize dependencies. She was looking for which actions were the most crucial to get this city back on its feet. Every time she rose it was to ask one of two questions – can we take two days off that? Or, who can we put on that to ensure it gets done?

I was surprised by the candor around the second question. One department would be suggested, or one project leader, only to have several people describe problems in the department or person. National performance reviews were being done on the fly – and mostly in public. True, there were only about two dozen department heads on the stage, but there were easily fifty others in the room working around tables or at computers, and to think they weren't listening was just silly. They were overhearing every word, and you could assume it would just be hours before reports filtered back to people all over Canada. There would be some interesting emails making the rounds tonight.

While I was standing in the back of the room watching the discussion, the young officer I had talked to in the morning came over to me accompanied by a general. I could tell he was a general, both because there were two stars on his shoulder, and because he walked like a man who assumed you knew he was a general. The young officer spoke first.

"Dr. Murphy, after I spoke with your company manager this morning, I reported to General Riloux, and he has been in contact with your manager." With that he stopped, and seemed to edge back a fraction of an inch. He had been asked to say something, he had said it, he was done, now he needed to back out of the way.

"Dr. Murphy," the general began. "I have been very impressed with Mr. LeClerk. He has been very helpful. Our experts have explained to us the importance of the warehouses to the business processes of the country, and he has been able to describe their needs to us."

"Yes, I have been impressed with him as well." Where was this conversation going? I had no idea.

"Given his expertise, we have asked him to head a council of warehouse managers who would help us coordinate our redevelopment efforts."

"That would be a very good idea."

"He has refused, citing his need to devote all his efforts to the rebuilding of his facility."

"I will call my father and have him ask LeClerk to provide this help."

"Thank you, but we have had another idea. We would like you to head the council." Do generals joke very often? I could think of no reason why I would even be considered. Then the general gave me two. "I know this would be a challenge, but we are told you have no other current assignment, and you were specifically recommended by the Interior Ministry." So, Elise wanted me to do it. It would have been nice to have her tell me why, but I guessed that would have to wait.

"What are you asking of this council?"

"They are to have loading docks open and ready to conduct business in 14 days."

"What? They are still under water! Who gave you that timeline?"

"It was explained to us that there is sufficient safety stock in most Canadian companies to bridge forward ten to fourteen days. After that, most production will stop." I tried not to laugh when he used the term "safety stock." The real name for safety stock should be – I ordered far too much, and now it is sitting in inventory taking up space and going obsolete, but hey, why do a calculation of my real needs when I can just order a big bunch at one time and call it safety stock? Any American inventory manager who used the term would be fired on the spot. But the French? Yes, given how lax they run their businesses, it would not surprise me if most did have "safety stock." But still, where did the 14 day estimate come from?

"How certain are you of that number?"

"We got it from the one person whose mathematics abilities we trust." He looked up at the stage at that moment. So, let me think, who has a Ph.D. in demographics, does data analysis all day every day, and happens to be in the room? Elise seemed to know we were talking about her, since she looked over at us and smiled. I waved back.

"I will do the job, but you have to do me a favor in return."

"Oh?"

"That woman up there had almost nothing to eat yesterday, and she got almost no sleep last night. If her boss has his way, she will get no sleep tonight. I need you to promise she will get to bed by midnight and be allowed to sleep at least until six." Given the look I was now getting from the general, I began to wonder if my French had lapsed and I was now speaking in tongues. But eventually he replied.

"I have never liked Americans."

"I'm stunned."

"I _might_ come to like you. So, yes, I will be her nanny and make sure it is lights out at twelve and roll call at six. But you will have trucks on loading docks in fourteen days." He turned and was off to give orders somewhere else. The young officer took over. He walked me out of the building and to a waiting car. I was off to head a council. Well, at least according to Elise, I finally looked Canadian.

# Chapter 25 –

# I herd cats

As we drove off to the warehouse district, the young officer introduced himself. He was Lieutenant Sislou, and it took about forty five seconds to see he was infatuated with Elise. He had lots of questions about her, but when he then asked how well I knew her, I had to remind him, she was my fiancée. That seemed to have little effect on his ardor. This guy was going to be a problem. And yes, he was young and good looking. But so were a million other guys. This could be really annoying.

I returned the conversation – multiple times – to the state of the flooding. Remember that? You know, water coming here when it should be in the river? Making a bit of a problem good soldiers were paid to address? He noted that the waters were still rising. The effort to blow up the bridge/dam and relieve the pressure was delayed. He wasn't sure why. How long would Minister DuPry be in town? Ugh.

Driving to the warehouse district was not easy. Roads they had used this morning were not passable this afternoon. Maybe blowing the dam would be a really good idea! We would turn down one street, go a couple blocks, find deep water and retrace our route. Finally the driver gave up and went way around town to come at the district from the far east. We made it as far as a truck stop. At least there was a truck stop somewhere in the middle of a mass of trucks. It appeared every rig west of the Appalachians was parked here. Every street was parked up in every direction. The highway in from the east, National Highway 3 was full as far as the eye could see, including not just the traffic lanes but the breakdown lane and most of the medium. There had to be a billion francs worth of goods and trucks sitting out on miles of concrete. That gave me an idea for how to keep Lieutenant hot-to-trot busy.

"If I was a bad guy, either someone who wanted to hurt Canada, or someone who wanted to make a quick franc, I would be heading out here right this minute with my buddies and any vehicle strong enough to haul loot."

"Yes, I agree." Good, so he could think of something other than my fiancée.

"What if I walk in to the truck stop from here, while you gather some people to begin protecting these trucks."

"Yes, I should assemble some troops." He pulled his phone and started gathering people. I got out and started walking, but before I got two steps the driver was out of the car calling me back.

"I have something you will need." He motioned me to the trunk of the car. He was an older guy, near the end of his career, would be my guess. A sergeant, and based on the hash marks on his sleeve, someone who had been a sergeant for a good long time. I decided he was someone I should probably listen to. Inside the trunk were several backpacks. He pulled one to him and opened it so I could see what was inside.

"There's two liters of water here," he said as he opened various zippers. "Water purification tablets here, food here, cell phone and charger here, and this is for emergencies." A side zipper reviewed a pistol and several ammunition clips. "Take it out and show me you can feed a new clip in and get the safety on and off." I did as instructed, but fumbled a bit with the new clip. He patiently demonstrated the correct way to change a clip (how many thousands of privates had he taught over the years?), then put the pistol away and helped me put the pack on. "It is illegal for the army to provide weapons to civilians, so if you need to use this, when asked, you are to tell people you got the weapon from your company. Understand?"

"Will I need it?"

"In a disaster, almost everyone leaves. Those who stay behind are the best and the worst. By this time tomorrow, you are going to wonder where all the best have gone." On that happy note, I started my walk to the truck stop.

How many trucks were backed up at this location? I honestly had to walk half an hour from where they dropped me before I got to the truck stop. If they were backed up this far from the east, we could assume similar back ups in every other direction. While I walked, I dialed Elise on my new cell phone and told her what I was seeing. She immediately put a team on it. They needed to block traffic or reroute traffic all over the country. Letting any more trucks get to Kaskaskia was just nuts.

When I finally made it to the truck stop, I almost wished I hadn't. Whatever resources this place had – fuel, coffee, donuts, beef jerky – were long gone. Apparently the showers didn't work either, since the stench of over-fed male bodies was overpowering. Somehow I was supposed to meet here for a warehouse council? How would I find these people, and where would we even sit? I walked in the main doors and just stood there like a fool, wondering what to do. Immediately a hundred heads turned my way, wondering if I was somebody who could make things better. It was tempting, but I did not shout out, "Don't look at me, I'm just as confused as you are."

I had already decided on two very good reasons to give Jacques LeClerk a bonus (minus a deduction for suckering me into that stupid dragon boat race), but he earned bonus number three by spotting me at the door. I saw him work his way through the crowd. Once he saw I had seen him, he waved for me to follow him, and he turned and worked his way to a room at the back of the building. Apparently these were "Council Chambers."

I don't know what the original purpose of the room was, but it had a table and enough chairs for the sixteen or eighteen men who had gathered there. The fact that they had been able to commandeer any kind of room in this crush of drivers spoke volumes about the status these men had. What did they look like? Pretty much all middle age. About half were large enough I guessed they had started on the loading dock and worked their way up. The other half probably came through college programs - supply chain or operations degrees. There was just something in their look that said they would rather work a spreadsheet than a forklift.

Would we get along and actually be a "council"? I would find out fast enough. LeClerk introduced me around. I was "Doctor Murphy" and I had been in the city for a week visiting with Minister DuPry, and I had been on the island when everything had happened. Basically, he established my credibility. That seemed to be enough. These men were all tired and stressed and from the look of their clothes, most had spent the morning at their warehouse, but at least for the moment they were willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. I might be useful. I thought the best thing I could do is not waste their time, so the minute I had shaken hands with each man, I jumped in.

"I spent the morning with the Interior Ministry. They are organizing their response and getting resources in place. Obviously lots has to be done. Let me give you their big fear, and their priority. Virtually every supply line in Canada runs through Kaskaskia. If Kaskaskia shuts down, so does Canada. They are working to make sure that doesn't happen. The river has to be reopened, and the highways, and the railroads. But it does no good to open the roads if there is nothing on the trucks. The most critical element in the response is you -- the warehouses. We have to get you reopened."

"Sure," one of the men responded. One of the college guys I guessed. "But the water is rising, not falling. I can barely get to my place by boat now."

"Yes, I was told the demolition of the bridge that is damming up the river has been delayed. I think we can assume there will be other delays. This is a huge project, and we all have enough experience with projects to know problems happen. But here is the bottom line. The ministry estimates most manufacturers carry enough safety stock to run for fourteen days. After that, production shuts down nationwide, and Canada stops being an industrial nation. Whatever other people do, you and I have one essential goal -- we must reopen all our warehouses in fourteen days. Two weeks from today, those rigs parked around this truck stop need to be standing at our loading docks." Nice speech. You can imagine how it was received. They didn't throw things, and there was fairly limited profanity (although the French are really creative in that department), but did anyone in the room think we would be open for business in fourteen days? Not a one. I continued anyway.

"We all need to get back to our businesses. But here's what I want to do. I am going to give you all my cell number. Before you leave the company tonight, send me a text with your needs. Put them in priority order. Also think about priorities at your own company. We don't have to have your entire operation up and running normally. What we need is enough of your operation running so that critical goods make it to critical companies. Think of it this way. Of all the rigs sitting out here today, which are the ones you want arriving that first day, and what products do you need to ship first? Whatever "normal" is may have to wait for Christmas. For now, we think about what is critical." That last little speech was accepted better. I still heard a couple guys say, "Just get the damn water off my street," but mostly they left ready to work. If there is one thing warehouse guys understand, it is priorities. I stood by the door, shook hands with each of them as they left, and then left with LeClerk. If there was one warehouse that would be operating in fourteen days, it would be ours.

# Chapter 26 –

# Can it really be this bad?

LeClerk led me out a back door. I noticed the minute our little group left the room, it was filled with drivers. Nature -- and truck drivers - abhors a vacuum. As we walked, LeClerk filled me in.

"Six foreman and I spent the night in the warehouse." I looked at him and was about to say something when he guessed where I was going to go. "My family is fine. Our house is on high ground north of the city. My brother-in-law and his brood have moved in with us until they can get back to their home. I would rather be at work than listening to that fool while he drinks my wine."

"And the foremen?"

"No one is working who does not want to be working. We are going to blow through the entire year's overtime budget, but we will have the people we need. People is not the problem. Water is the problem, as you will see soon enough." As if on cue, we got to the end of a street and found one of the foremen standing in ankle deep water, a small motor boat behind him. He pulled on the painter and brought the boat scratching up against the concrete pavement. We waded out to the boat, pushing it back into deeper water as we climbed on board. "When I left Guy he was fifty yards farther down the street. The water is still rising." Guy and I shook hands and then paddled down the street. It didn't take long for the water to be deep enough for Jacques to lower the outboard and start the engine.

Jacques quickly took us west into the warehouse district, and I quickly saw how much trouble we were in. It wasn't just the water, although there was no shortage of that, it was the things in the water. We had to maneuver around a ghost car that slid across the street right in front of us, then go around a street that was barricaded by a huge semi trailer lying on it side, only to be nearly capsized by a floating tree that came out of nowhere. The water was rising, the current was amazingly strong, and the beast was spitting debris at us.

When we finally got to Murphy Manufacturing, we could see that things were getting worse here too. Water had risen above the level of the loading docks, and LeClerk drove the boat right into the warehouse through an open door. I can't tell you how odd that felt. Worse, he didn't even have to raise the engine for shallow water. That meant there was at least three feet of water in our warehouse. And, I should point out warehouses are not built at ground level. The lowest level is always the level of the back of a truck, roughly five feet high. It didn't take a math whiz to calculate the depth of the water on our street. It had to be over eight feet.

That would be trouble enough, but the water was moving. How could there be a current this far from the river? Our warehouse had to be six or seven blocks from the Mississippi, or at least from where the Mississippi should have been. Yet as we slowed to a stop, I could feel the boat slip to the side – in the warehouse! This was nuts. Two men in the warehouse grabbed our boat and held it steady while we stepped out into the muddy water. Much as I hated what the dirty water would do to my cool new Canadian pants, I was far more concerned about what it would do to all the electrical equipment in the building. At what point did the water destroy every machine in the place?

LeClerk led the way to a stairway. As I waded after him, I wondered what was in the water with me. The warehouse employees had the same concern, and waded over to the door to close it. It was not water tight, of course, but it might keep out the bigger problems. I tried not to imagine what bigger problems might come floating or slithering through.

"What we could move upstairs is already moved." LeClerk said over his shoulder as he climbed. "You know if this were a modern facility, it would all be on one level. But it is old and in a congested area, so it has three floors. As much as we have cursed these stairs in the past, they are saving us huge problems this time around."

I got to the top of the stairs and saw an endless line of pallets in neat rows with just enough room between them to walk. "How long did this take? I asked.

"We were at it all night. We burned out two forklifts, and all the rest are getting recharged. Although, at the moment there is nowhere else to go. If the water comes up to this level, we have no place to put pallets. The third floor is already full."

"What about our electrical equipment?"

"The computers are up here, all portable electronics are up here, and we took the motors off our conveyor belt and pallet elevator and got them up here. But the servers are already toast. We couldn't get them out of the wiring closet fast enough. They, and the rest of the office, are all underwater."

"You brought up the motor from the pallet elevator? How much did that weigh?"

"It was over a hundred kilos. Two men got it out about ten minutes before the area flooded. They managed to drop it on a forklift and get it up the ramp just in time."

"Amazing." We now stood on the second floor, staring down the stairway at the water. I thought I saw something move in the water, but then I convinced myself I hadn't. Really. There was nothing in the water. I would just keep repeating that every time I had to go into it. "So what do we do now?"

"I told the men to get some sleep. We will need to keep watch tonight. If we can bring a boat in here, so can the bad guys. While the men sleep, let me give you a tour and show you what we need to open again. By the way, fourteen days is a pipe dream. We will still be cleaning surfaces a month from now."

"If you are right, Canada has some serious trouble."

"Dr. Murphy, Canada has been in serious trouble for years. This is just one more side of the problem. Now, let me show you where the worst damage has occurred." And off he went on a building tour, and yes, in several places it led back down stairs and into the water. But there was nothing in the water. There was nothing in the water. There was nothing in the water. I repeated that mantra over a hundred times while we looked at loading dock doors that had been bashed partially in by debris, then went even deeper into the water to see what a floating office looked like. If there was a good backup system in Philly we might be okay, but otherwise we had just lost all customer records, all invoices, all inventory information. In one day we had gone from RFID coding to pencil notes scrawled on note paper. Fifty years of technology were submerged in muddy water.

Finally, wet and smelly, we climbed out of the water up to an area of the second floor that the men had taken over for sleeping. These guys were pretty clever. They had taken sheets of cardboard and turned them into sleeping covers laid over some of the pallets. It looked like some of the boxes underneath were getting crushed, but I wasn't going to say anything. I would be sleeping on pallets soon enough as well.

"I want to report back to the Ministry," I said as we settled on top of two piles of cardboard. It looked like I had selected a pallet of laundry detergent. "What should we put on the top of our requirements list?"

"As I see it, we need three things. We need the water to go away, and we need the criminals to go away. That is for tonight. If they can do that, then we need the streets cleared. I hate to think of what is under the water. All of it will have to be hauled away before we can get trucks in here."

"You think there will be trouble tonight?"

"Dr. Murphy, this part of town always draws criminals. Starting tonight, it will be non-stop. Every place that is unguarded will be stripped bare by morning. And the places that are guarded? We will have a fight of it."

"Call me Shawn."

"Thanks. Jacques. If the Ministry can keep a few police boats running up and down First Avenue, it will help a lot."

"I'll see what the Ministry can do for us." With that, Jacques laid down on his cardboard to get some rest, while I pulled some paper out of my backpack (who had packed this thing so well?), and started going through the texts that had accumulated in the last couple hours. What did I learn? I was able to upgrade my French profanity considerably. They had lots of new and creative uses for the muddy water flowing through their warehouses. As for requests, there were several calls for food and water, more numerous calls for shot guns, and a universal request that the damn bridge be blown up sooner rather than later. I counted up the texts. Thirty one companies – more than had attended the meeting -- had sent me requests. I took that as a good sign. Word of the Council was getting around, and at least for the moment, people were willing to use me as a conduit. Now was a good time for me to deliver.

I gave Elise a call. She picked up right away.

"Hi Shawn, I hear you are chairing the warehouse Council."

"Please, Elise, if there is a Warehouse Council, it is because you created it, and if I am on it, it is because you made it so. Let's be honest. Who but you would even think of a warehouse council?"

"Okay. Yes, I did it. But you were here when we were defining the critical path. You know why we needed to jump on the warehouses right away."

"Well we had a good first meeting, and I have been collecting information. Now I need to ask for your help. First, blow the damn bridge. Water keeps rising, and it is getting pretty bad in this area. Second, there seems to be a general consensus that bad guys will be out at night. A police presence on First Avenue could do some good."

"The demolition has been delayed again. They tell me the site is unbelievable. The bridge is a tangle of concrete and steel, and water is shooting through cracks with the force of a fire hose. Two men have already been killed trying to get explosives where they need to be. They're trying, Shawn. Try to communicate that. As for the police, I think we can help there. Most of the police reported for duty this afternoon, and the military has been bringing in troops all day. I will tell them about First Avenue."

"Thanks."

"Now what's this I hear about my curfew?"

"Don't fight me on this," I said. "You know it is the right move. Sitting up all night won't be good for your health, and it won't lead to good responses to this crisis."

"So you asked a two star general to be my nanny?"

"There wasn't a three star in the room."

"You are amazing, Dr. Murphy. Make sure you get some sleep too. Now tell me you love me, and we'll both get back to work." I'm not sure that's how Council reports normally end, but that's how mine ended. And I did close my eyes for a little bit. I assumed if trouble came, I would know about it fast enough.

# Chapter 27 –

# A quiet night would have been so nice

I was mostly asleep when the first big bangs sounded. I rolled over, pretty confused about who and what and where, but then the next bang hit the side door and I was awake enough to know someone was bashing in the door. The next bang threw the door open. It was a huge noise as it spun completely on its hinges and slammed against the wall. That's when three shotguns fired and I was nearly deafened. I struggled to find my backpack in the dark and to find my pistol. By the time I got my hands around it, a burst of rifle fire came through the door, followed by shouted threats.

"If you fire those shotguns one more time, we will kill every one of you. This isn't your stuff. Let us in and we will give you a share. Let the damn owner worry about the loss."

"I'm the damn owner." I shouted as I ran to the top of the stairs. "Come in and I'll give you a share of my nine millimeter." They responded with another burst of rifle fire, and we fired back. None of us was hit, but I think we got one or two of them. At least we kept them on the other side of the doorway. We stopped shooting, as did they. We could hear them whispering. I started to move down a couple stairs, but I felt a hand grab the back of my collar and stop me.

"Just wait." LeClerk whispered in my ear. "If they come in, we kill them. If they leave, we let them." That seemed like pretty good advice. I sat down, rested my elbows on my knees, and kept the doorway in my sights. We waited. A few minutes later we could hear the sounds of men struggling through the water and dropping rifles into their aluminum boat. Always quick to grasp the obvious, I determined they were leaving. We sat and waited a while longer, and then I could hear the men around me settling back, resting their shotguns.

"We need to close that door," LeClerk explained, "or it will invite the next bunch." He ordered a couple men to push one of the derelict forklifts down the ramp, while he and I went down and pushed the door closed. I took a second to look outside. The area looked clear. Good. We pushed the door closed and held it like that until the other men pushed the forklift up against it. They set the brake on the thing. Nothing was coming through that door now. Why hadn't we thought of that before?

"When this thing is over," I said as we waded back through the water to the stairs, "We're taking a trip to the local sporting goods store. Every man gets the shot gun of his choice, on me." That got the reaction you would expect.

LeClerk got a bigger reaction when he stopped walking and pointed down. "The water isn't as deep. I couldn't figure out how they could get that door open. They should have been pushing against a wall of water. And then to have it fly all the way back on its hinges and hit the wall? That doorway is only eight inches above the floor. The door moved free because..." At which point the rest of us were cheered, but also pretty embarrassed. The water had dropped a foot or more, and we hadn't noticed? Well, yes there was the small matter of people shooting at us, but really, we hadn't noticed the water drop over a foot? "Let's get some sleep. Come morning we might be able to get some work done around here."

We climbed the stairs back to our cardboard beds. LeClerk picked two men to sit up for the next watch, and the rest of us laid down and tried to get back to sleep. Fat chance. Not after that adrenaline rush. I sat up, pulled the water bottle out of my pack, and drank. "Anyone need any?" I asked. All the guys came over and took long pulls from the bottle, then they sat around on adjacent pallets. I pulled out some of the food in the pack and passed those packages around as well. All we needed now was a campfire.

"Dr. Murphy," one of the guys said, his mouth full of freeze-dried something or other. "You know the line we will be using around here for the duration."

"Want a share of my nine millimeter?" another one of the guys finished for him. The laughing went on far too long. The joke was fine, but not that funny. This was just guys laughing off the stress.

"It's Shawn, okay?" I asked when the laughing subsided. "I wish I had thought of something more clever, but I was pissed, and that was the best I could do."

"It was pretty good, Shawn" one of the guys replied.

"Yeah, it was good, but you should have gotten in something about their mothers."

"Yeah, it should have been eat my nine millimeter, river rat."

"No, I'll share this nine millimeter with your mother." And there were other suggestions. It was dumb guy stuff. But it passed the time and calmed us down. Gradually the guys ran out of suggested insults, and the silences got longer. LeClerk sort of wrapped the session up by telling two of the guys to replace the ones who stood guard. At that point all of us laid back on our cardboard and tried again to sleep. It took a while, but I finally managed.

# Chapter 28 –

# The beast leaves a mess

While we slept, the water continued to drop – slowly. Around dawn we all got up to see what the world looked like. There was still an inch or so of water on the concrete floor below, and most of that seemed to be mud. We slid as much as we walked. There were also assorted obstacles everywhere – branches, beer cans, even a car fender. I reached down to grab one of the branches only to have one of the guys shout a warning. Seconds later he fired his shotgun into the branch, killing a water moccasin. What a great way to start the day.

We rolled up a couple of the loading dock doors to see what was happening on the street. Just then a police boat happened to go by, one bad guy handcuffed and propped up in the bow of the boat for all to see. It was nice to see one caught, but I thought we might have more nights of watches before the area was safe again.

Looking down the street we saw lots of water and the tops of things – cars, trucks, trees, parts of buildings. It occurred to me as the water level dropped, moving around the area was going to get harder rather than easier. Where before we could boat over the top of the junk, now the junk was going to block our every move. And then there was the question of what might be sliding around in the junk. For the time being, I was happy to stay high up on the loading dock.

I called Elise. She was already up, of course. I learned the bridge had been successfully blown to pieces around six last night. The river was back in its banks. Crews were now evaluating the amount of debris in the river and the resources needed to get it cleared. How had my night gone? I mentioned we had had visitors. She said more than one hundred looters had been arrested over night. Did I need anything? Well, food, water, dry clothes, and boots – oh, and if she had a ready supply of shotguns, that seemed to be the weapon of choice in the warehouse district. I also said I would try to have some kind of Council meeting later in the afternoon, and I might have a new request list by then. I'd love to say the rest of the conversation got more personal, but we were both surrounded by people and rushed, so there was not much more than a quick "I love you" and we were off the phone.

What does a day cleaning mud feel like? I recall as a little kid loving to get into mud. My brothers and I would make rivers and dams and whole ecosystems of mud after a spring rain. This mud? If every broom and shovel had handles twenty feet long, I still would have thought I was too close to the stuff. It reeked, and too often it wriggled. We pushed and shoved, even attached steel plates to the front of our forklifts and used them. Gradually we got the stuff off our main floor, but all we were really doing was moving the mess just outside. We would get it to the edge of the loading dock and then see it drop into the water that still filled the streets. There was still five feet of nastiness out there, and it seemed to be taking longer and longer to go down.

Periodically someone would find something particularly nasty in the mud, and at first we would gather around and say clever things, but after a couple hours, there was nothing coming off that floor we wanted to think about. We just wanted it all out the door. So we pushed, and shoveled, and sweated and swore. Besides getting mud out the door, we also got plenty on ourselves, and it soon got hard to move with mud clinging to our legs, arms, and all over our hands. If you wanted to see miserable people, we had them in spades.

We worked about three hours and we were already pretty gassed. We took a break for over half an hour, then LeClerk got us moving again. This time we managed about two hours before we were exhausted. Someone made a joke about "how many foreman does it take to sweep a floor?" and in truth, there was something connected to their ages. They were all in their forties, and while they still worked well, they were not the guys they had been twenty years earlier. And my excuse? I was probably also a decade past my prime. As the afternoon progressed, we took longer and longer breaks and got less and less done. We needed some hourlies to come in here and show us what young backs could do, but we knew that wasn't going to happen for a few days yet at the least. We were it for the time being.

About four I used my "council" position as an excuse to put down my shovel and make some calls. I made short phone calls to all of the men who had texted me the day before, asked for a short report, and requested another text with their priorities for the night. I heard a lot of heavy breathing from men who usually sat in the office. We weren't the only warehouse trying to clear mud. As for priorities? Water, cops, and shotguns, although a little brandy would be fine too.

After the last call I tabulated every request I had gotten, just to be sure I hadn't missed anything, and then I called Elise.

"I can give you a list of priorities, but I think our biggest shortage isn't drinking water or food, it's energy. These guys are tired. I think another day or two of this and these guys are going to be used up."

"We can try to create a shuttle system to get employees down there."

"That would help. If we can rotate people in and out, we can keep making progress."

"In the meantime, want some good news?" It was clear from her voice Elise had something she really wanted to tell me. Before I could even respond, she continued. "Gustav came in today. It turns out he made it to the mansion and picked up Jean and Gabrielle, and actually drove over the bridge to the Missouri side before it collapsed. All three of them are fine, and all of them are very proud of the things they managed to salvage from the mansion."

"What did they save?" I asked,

"Gustav is keeping that a secret until they can show both of us."

"Who knew Gustav had such a flare for the dramatic."

"I think it is actually Jean behind the mystery, but I can see they are really proud of their success."

"I'm just glad to hear they made it off the island." And it did suddenly make me feel much better about the day. "But back to my job. Top priorities from the council members? Drinking water, shotguns, food, and cops. Life here would be much better if we could sleep through the night."

"There will be deliveries of water and food tomorrow morning. I hope you can wait until then. As for the police, we have called up reserves and brought people in from lots of places, but the thieves have of lots of targets, so the police are spread pretty thin. Nevertheless, they say they will have double the patrols in the worst areas, and you are in the worst of the worst."

"It's always nice to be noticed."

"Take care of yourself. Supplies should get to you in the morning." And that was that. She had meetings to get to, and I was overdue for an elegant meal of freeze-dried something or other.

What was our evening like? We all shared the last of our water, we talked about how much progress we had made during the day (knowing full well we had not done nearly enough), checked our weapons, locked all doors, rearranged our cardboard bunks, and wondered if there would be another knock on the door. We took two hour shifts sitting at the top of the stairs, shotguns across our knees, and waited. When my turn came I was so grumpy about being woken up I would have welcomed a few robbers just so I could get even with the world for making me so hot and tired. But no robbers came our way, and eventually I finished my shift and got back to sleep.

# Chapter 29 –

# A pretty face is always welcome

At dawn we opened the loading dock doors just in time to see a large police boat come our way. It pulled straight up to our dock, and up stepped Elise! If you ever wanted to see a bunch of grumpy, sweaty, dirty guys suddenly stand up straight and brush themselves off, just bring Elise into a room. Two minutes before they were all grumping about how tired and sore they were, and now suddenly they all had energy to help her out of the boat and bring up a couple cases of bottled water. Funny how that works.

"We also have some food." And she pointed to piles of sandwiches. The baguettes were still warm. Fresh food. All of us had filthy hands, but we did a quick wash with some of the bottled water and then dove into the food like we hadn't eaten in a week. "I am very pleased to see how much progress you are all making," Elsie said as we were eating. Immediately she had five men offer to show her around the warehouse. LeClerk was given the honors of leading the tour, but four others walked along, quick to point out anything that LeClerk might miss mentioning. Elise stepped carefully in her boots, occasionally taking an arm where the floor was still wet. Suddenly no one was too tired or too hot.

I stayed by the loading bay. Judging by the contents of the boat, we must have been their first stop. There were cases of water and boxes of sandwiches from stem to stern. Lots of tired men were going to be much happier today. While I was inspecting the boat contents, I noticed Gustav working his way toward me, stepping over and around water bottles.

"Gustav." I shouted while he stepped up to the dock. "I am really glad to see you. Thank you for helping Gabrielle and Jean."

"They must be the toughest eighty year olds in Canada. They weren't leaving without piles of historical materials. Even after I filled the trunk, they wanted to stay and collect more. I actually had to pick up Gabrielle and carry her to the car before she and Jean would leave."

"Thank you for that. The house is a major loss, but losing Jan and Gabrielle would have been a tragedy."

"Getting out the Missouri side was not that hard. We were probably over that bridge half an hour before it collapsed. The problem I had for the next two days was getting across the river again. I could drive south to St. Louis and cross there, or north to LaCrosse and cross there. I never thought much about it before, but going north and south in Canada is much easier than trying to go east or west. I had to go clear up to LaCrosse before I could get over to Illinois."

Elise and her entourage returned at this point. After all, how long can it take to look at a concrete floor? She shook hands with each man and thanked them for their work. I had the feeling a lot more mud would be shoveled today than yesterday. Finally I got a kiss and a quiet conversation.

"Gustav will come back for you around four. We would like you to visit the rest of the warehouses and determine how much more needs to be done. We would also like you to create a rating for each warehouse. Which ones are in the best shape and can handle the most traffic when the roads open? Ideally, the best will be close to each other so we know where to spend most of our time clearing the streets."

"Okay. In the meantime, can I promise them water and baguettes every morning?"

"Yes. And tell them we are in the process of creating a transit system to get workers here."

"All that will be appreciated. And tell the police we are grateful for their work. No one approached our building last night."

"That came at a price," she said, suddenly looking down. "There was a shoot out several blocks from here. Two reservists were killed. As quickly as we are collecting police from around the region to help here, the criminals seem to be collecting from all over Canada. Be careful tonight." We kissed and I helped her down into the boat. As I watched the captain maneuver down the street, I could see the water had dropped another foot over night. More debris was visible now. At some point soon, the water would be so low boats would be unable to float. As much as we all wanted the water to go away, there would be a point where the streets were no longer wet, and yet not dry. How we would get around then, I had no idea.

How did the rest of the day go? Well, we didn't exactly whistle while we worked, but we did seem to work a little faster, and last longer between breaks. What did we have left to do? Where do I begin? First we needed to get the mud out of the place. We were making progress there, but I figured at least two more days. That was really the simple job. Next we had to get all our systems ready to move pallets. That would take careful cleaning of the conveyor systems, and probably major repairs to the pallet elevator. Motors on both would have to be reinstalled. That completed, we would be able to move a box from point A to point B, but moving boxes was useless unless we knew what was in the boxes and where they needed to go. At some point we were going to have to get our computer systems up and running, or all this was a waste of time.

I was still puzzling that out when Gustav came for me at four. I washed up as best I could and hopped into the boat. Gustav had created a map for us, block by block, warehouse by warehouse. We couldn't think of any clever way to do the visits, so we did the obvious – we just started down the street, stopping at each place.

What did I learn over the next four hours? I learned it was going to take more than bottled water and baguettes to get these places functioning again. I limited myself to ten minutes per visit, but you can do the math. I got my head in the doors of only twenty four places. We would have to do another round each day for at least the next four or five days to have a complete survey. Maybe the next twenty four would be better than the first, but I doubted it. Of the twenty four I checked, two had been looted and vandalized. Three were locked up tight. They were making no effort to reopen. Several others were open, but work was going at a snail's pace. They seemed to think the army or some ministry or the tooth fairy was going to come and clean their place. By my count only fifteen of the twenty four were making progress. Those places were eager to see me, and we had good conversations about what would be needed to reopen. But even in those places I saw problems as I did a quick tour of each. Several had lost all their existing stock. Unable to move it quickly enough, they now had rows of rotting cardboard cases sitting on mud-soaked wooden pallets. Others had moved their stock, but the building itself had sustained structural damage as heavy vehicles or trees had come crashing into walls. Realistically, I saw six warehouses that had some shot at opening within thirty days. Could any place be ready in fourteen days? I doubted it.

Gustav dropped me back at Murphy Manufacturing. I gave him a verbal summary of my appraisal and promised to follow up with a detailed list for the ministry. We agreed tomorrow we would start out at three. Then I climbed the stairs to my pallet palace and a dinner of freeze-dried something. I was not in a good mood.

"I take it the world outside does not look that good?" LeClerk sat down on the next pallet.

"My best guess is we might be able to get twenty-five percent of these places up and running in a month. Granted, I only saw a couple dozen places today, and maybe I will be surprised and impressed by what I see tomorrow, but today was not encouraging."

"Shawn, twenty five percent was all there ever was here. There are good companies here, don't get me wrong. But there was always a bunch of places that did little and were happy with it. I bet tonight there are owners drinking champagne and preparing for insurance payouts that will rid them of places they were hoping would burn down. The flood was a godsend to them. Why do you think Murphy Manufacturing did the amount of business it did here?"

"Let's assume my rough estimate is correct and only twenty-five percent of the places are able to get up and running. Is that enough?"

"That's all that is needed. The country ran fine on that number before, and it will run fine after this mess is cleaned up. With a little luck, two years from now the losers will collect their insurance money and be bulldozed, and the winners will expand into the space they leave."

"And Murphy Manufacturing will be one of the winners?"

"Absolutely." You have to like the guy. We were about to spend another night sleeping on cardboard, a floor above our main docks still reeking of mud, and he has decided we are winners. We really had to get him a raise.

The next few days I finished my initial reviews. The water levels slowly dropped, giving us hope for future work, but also causing temporary problems as our boats had more and more trouble getting around. It was clear we would be walking soon.

What did I find in my reviews? More of the same. Some serious damage had occurred on the street closest to the river. I was not sure those places would ever function again. A few blocks away the damage was less. Here recovery was a question of management. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was not so good. One place would not even let me in to look. They had their own agenda, whether that was insurance fraud or illegal trafficking, I didn't know and didn't care. The cops would sort it out later when there was time. For now, I needed to focus on the places that could be brought back. How many were there? About a quarter.

During this period Elise was able to get the shuttle service started that she had mentioned. We got fresh people in. Our foremen rotated home to showers and real food. Younger backs took over the cleaning. I got back to the school two nights. Each night I stood under the shower until my skin shriveled. Wow, it felt good to be clean. Then I headed to the cafeteria and ate huge meals. French cooking is always good, but those nights it was marvelous.

You would think Elise and I would spend those evenings together, but she was tied up in meetings. I could see her sitting on the stage of the auditorium, still doing most of the talking. She may not have been officially in charge, but she was clearly the leader. There was still energy in all her questions or comments, still a dedication to getting this crisis resolved within the rapidly shrinking number of days they had left.

I spend hours being debriefed by two army officers (no sign of Lieutenant hot-to-trot, thank God). We created a map of the warehouse district, with color coding for the condition – and potential -- of each warehouse. It helped. We could see where the most potential was, so we could also communicate with the street people about where the first clearing efforts should be made. This was going to take coordination, and the officers promised it would occur.

My nights back at the warehouse we were still sleeping on cardboard, but there was more water and more food. We were able to wash up after work, and that made all of us feel better. I am certain we also smelled far better. We still closed up each night, and we posted a guard, but we only had one effort to break in, and a single shotgun blast sent those people running.

The day the water level dropped too low for boats, I saw one of the oddest sights I think I will ever witness. Some genius decided to handle the debris problem with snow plows. I am serious. They brought out the municipal trucks with snow plows affixed to their fronts, and just push junk down the street. Cars, trees, boards, reptiles, whatever was on that street got pushed down the block until the pile got too high to move. Then a front-end loader and a dump truck took over, lifting huge loads into the trucks to be carried off to whatever mountain of trash they were creating in the local dumps. It was fun to watch, and pretty effective. Our block was cleared in under two hours. We still had mounds of trash in our parking lot and up against our loading docks, but at least now we were able to get in tow trucks and winches to clear those areas. In the course of three days we went from endless rubbish to streets and lots that at least resembled their former selves.

The day after the streets were mostly cleared, I got a visit from a couple I vaguely recognized but couldn't place. They had climbed the stairs to the side entrance and stood just inside the building, waiting to be greeted, or at least allowed to come further into the building. I got up from the conveyor system I had been inspecting and went over to them.

"Hi. Can I help you?" I still couldn't place them.

"I am not sure if you recall us. You were kind enough to have lunch with us at the Jolliet mansion some days ago," the woman said. Now I remembered the lunch, but I was darned if I could remember the names. "I am Marguerite Joubert, and this is my husband Philippe."

"Of course. I am sorry to be such a dunce. So much has happened since then."

"We understand. It seems like a different age."

"Yes. I am sure we should be grateful for the time we had there, but it seems such a loss. I wish now we had served you lunch in the mansion. You would have really enjoyed the place."

"We were happy to visit, and we enjoyed sitting under those huge old trees." At this point there was the usual pause that occurs when people move from the "happy to see you" part of the conversation to the "here's why I really came" section. Obviously they hadn't struggled through the mud to talk about the good old days. I stood and waited. They would get to the point eventually.

"We understand you are the head of the warehouse council." Marguerite continued.

"I think it would be more accurate to call me a conduit. I have been meeting with warehouse managers and trying to communicate their needs to the Interior Ministry." Where was this conversation going? And did Mr. Joubert ever talk?

"We have been told that you are reviewing the quality of the warehouses, and that your evaluation will determine what resources are made available to them. Several managers have mentioned their concerns to our organization."

"Your organization?"

"We are board members of the local Huguenot Business League chapter."

"What are their concerns?"

"They are concerned that Huguenot businesses might be disadvantaged during this period." She was staring straight into my face at this point. It was not so much a challenge as it was a statement of accepted truth. I was hot, mud covered, and tired. I felt my hands clench. I didn't have time for this. And I didn't deserve this. Lots of responses crossed my mind. I let them. I stood and breathed and waited for my hands to unclench.

"You understand," I finally replied. "I have no idea what the religious affiliation is of any warehouse. I am tasked with finding out which ones can be made operational before Canadian manufacturing stops. That is what I am looking for. Frankly, if they were owned by Martians, I wouldn't know or care." Now it was my time to look her in the eye and wait.

"And others in the government?"

"If you have concerns about others in the government, take it up with them." Another long silence and lots of direct eye contact. I wished her husband would say something so we could just start throwing punches and get it over with. There was a long pause, and then she said,

"I guess we will be going. Thank you for your time."

"Before you go," I might be mad, but that didn't keep me from being brilliant. "Didn't you say you had some shoe stores?"

"Yes."

"Do you sell boots?"

"Yes."

"Are they waterproof?"

"Of course." At this point her sales personality finally clicked on and she began her pitch. "All our boots are designed to be used by hunters, so they stand up to harsh conditions and are completely waterproof." I think she had just quoted some ad copy. No matter.

"I'll take a hundred pairs. I need you to deliver them yet today if possible, tomorrow for sure."

"A hundred pairs? We would give you a quantity discount of course, but that would still be over ten thousand of your dollars."

"That's fine. Take my credit card or bill the company, whichever is easier for you. I want fifteen pairs here, and the rest distributed to the other warehouses. You seem to know who the Protestants are. Make sure they get half."

"Of course. We should be able to start deliveries this afternoon. We will bring an assortment of sizes, blah, blah, blah." I nodded patiently while she rambled on about the delivery details. I still wished her husband would say something stupid so I could take out some of my frustrations, but at least this way I would have dry feet. It was clear by the time I did my survey tomorrow, we would be done with boats and I would be walking from place to place through ankle-deep water. Might as well do it in new boots.

Eventually the Jouberts went away, and I got back to work on the conveyor belt. More mud, more cleaning, another day gone.

# Chapter 30 –

# Tick Tock

It was another day before I got any time with Elise, and it was nothing casual or intimate. She essentially invited me to a meeting. By now the city was sending larger trucks and even a few buses around the flood-damaged areas, so this time I arrived at the school by bus rather than boat. If you would expect that to improve the mood of the folks in the auditorium, you would be wrong.

"Peoria's Peugeot plant shut down yesterday." Elise began. I recalled a time when our meetings began with "hi, how are you? I missed you." I let that pass. I also passed on the observation that one less Peugeot plant was a gift to the motoring public. Now if we could just shut down Citroen... But I didn't go there. She was obviously tired, obviously stressed. I wondered if I needed another conversation with my general friend.

"It hasn't been fourteen days." I replied. You can always count on me to master the obvious.

"It has been eight. They are the largest plant to close, but they aren't the only one. The ministry estimates we have already lost one hundred thousand workers. Our fourteen day estimate was far too generous."

"We are making progress," I replied. "But we still have work to do. We are getting ahead with the cleaning, but I don't know of anyone who has a functioning computer system. That's the current problem."

"Good. Computer systems. I get that. It gives us a focus. Computer systems. It helps us know what we need to know. I can put a team on it. What else should I know?" Huh? She sounded like someone talking in her sleep. I took her hand and pulled her from the room.

"Walk with me. We need to talk." I led her out of the auditorium and out of the school. There was a playground on one side of the building, and I walked in that direction, still holding her hand. There was a bench near the playground equipment and I sat down there. "Notice anything different?" I asked, once we were settled.

"It's not raining." Elise answered. She was going along with me so far, but everything about her body posture said she wanted to jump up and get back to her meetings.

"Not only is it not raining, but the sun is shining, and the sky is blue. When was the last time you were out here to see it?"

"Okay, I get it, but we really need to deal with this. We are going to lose more manufacturers this week."

"I agree it's a problem. And we need to address it. But let me share a perspective I got from Jacques LeClerk. I got back to the warehouse one night feeling pretty much the way you do now. By my calculation, only about 25% of our warehouses were going to be ready. His response? 25% is all there was to start with. Lots of companies don't really produce much and won't be missed. Peugeot may be a different case, but I bet they usually do a summer shutdown while they go through model change, and knowing folks around here, I bet they also close down for deer season and for all your crazy holidays from All Saints Day to Marie Antoinette's birthday. Life will go on if they are shut down for a couple weeks in June."

"You do understand it's Bastille Day we celebrate, not Marie Antoinette's Birthday, right?" At least I had her laughing now.

"You know I don't understand French history. I just see lots of Canadian holidays. You know we Americans are all jealous of you."

"We have a better pace of life, that's all."

"I suppose that is one way to describe it."

"Okay." She leaned back on the bench and took my hand. "I get the message. The sky is not falling, at least not today. But you understand we do have a lot of problems."

"Yes, but good people are working on them, and we are making progress."

"So tell me about your computer systems. What can we do there?"

"Of the ninety three warehouses I have examined, only one has a dry wiring closet. All the rest have mud across routers, servers, and everything else -- basically ruined equipment. Lots of the desktop equipment got carried to higher levels, but the networks are all corrupted. Without network links, about all we can do on our computers is play solitaire."

"Please tell me you have a solution." The grip on my hand just got tighter.

"I have a couple ideas you might bounce off your people. First, I hate to say this, but you should think about taking us out of the picture for at least a week or so." The grip on my hand rose a whole level in intensity. "Hear me out. The companies waiting for supplies all have functioning systems. Use them, not us. Any company due an order would have received an advanced shipping notice – an ASN . That's the information you need. It would identify the truck and the date of arrival. Use that and bypass us. Go straight to the trucks and have them ship direct. Some of the loads may be partial or mixed, but at least some of the stuff will get where it needs. It also gets trucks moving again. Having all those rigs sitting around truck stops just ties up traffic."

"That can be done?"

"The logistics companies will squawk about multiple drops, but, yes, they should be able to give the trucks at least one place to go. And that leads to my second suggestion. I recommend you order all rigs to start moving. No more sitting and tying up the highway. Just get them headed in a general direction – north to Chicago, or south to St. Louis, but moving. That will cut through the Gordian knot we have at too many truck stops. Even if it just stretches them out along the main highways, at least it will get them out of the way so other trucks can make deliveries."

"I like the idea. It at least seems like progress is being made, and that should improve the general mood. I will see how our people feel about it."

"I have two other suggestions."

"Well, you are the idea man today." This was the Elise of my dreams. She was smiling and sitting closer. I was beginning to think of more personal ideas.

"First, be careful which shipments you choose to make. Our friends the Jouberts came by yesterday." She looked confused. Good. I wasn't the only one losing track of names. "They were the Huguenot Business League people we had lunch with. They are concerned that Protestant businesses will not be treated equally during this crisis. I know it's nonsense, but whatever they are telling us we can assume lots of others are thinking."

"I will watch to make sure we are fair. And your second suggestion?"

"You have been sitting with your fiancée on a park bench on a beautiful day, and you have yet to kiss him." That suggestion worked out very well. Not only did I get a kiss and about five more minutes with her before she ran back to meetings, but I got a promise to have dinner that evening. I got back on the bus with a smile.

Back at the warehouse, I huddled with LeClerk and two of his office staff. The office area was still a mess, but it had been cleaned enough so that we could at least walk around it. All the desks would have to be replaced, and all paper files were puddles of paper pulp, but it was the wiring closet that interested us the most. We stood at the doorway and tried to find something hopeful inside.

"The system is backed up nightly at ten." One of the guys in the accounting department apparently was also the computer expert for the facility. He was pretty honest about his limitations. "Everything goes to a system in Ohio. Given when the flooding hit, we probably lost all data from Sunday, but everything up to then should be sitting on their servers. The problem will be getting it back. Assuming the link is still up to our building, we still have to get it around the building, and as you can see, these connections are toast. And if you are going to ask me if I can fix it, the only think I know about this system is the number to call when it isn't working."

"We have a contract with a local service provider," LeClerk added, as if there should be some explanation. I didn't need one. Outsourcing made good sense. Why not use an expert company? Of course there might be one reason not to outsource – if the Mississippi ever flooded the entire building and all your systems were destroyed, you had no one to put them back together again. But then, what were the odds of that ever happening?

"Have you called Philly about this?" That was my stupid question. Of course he had called Philly, probably every day, twice a day.

"They are creating a mirrored system and have it pretty much ready to go." LeClerk replied. "They can give us basic information over our phones. Where we will have trouble is in remote devices. We are used to using RFID or at least bar codes to track all shipments and get them on the right trucks. Those link into the wireless network – a network we no longer have."

"And the repair plan?" I asked.

"Your father is sending two experts and a complete network. They might get here as early as tomorrow, now that the roads are passable. Once they get here, they think three days."

"Anything we can do in the meantime?"

"They were very specific," the accounting guy said. "They were adamant that we not touch anything."

"That's probably wise advice. Let's follow it." I backed out of the room. Could they really have things up and running in three days? My dad hired good people, but from the look of that wiring, I thought they might be a bit optimistic. But at least a plan was in place. That felt good. In the meantime, we had the never ending battle with the mud all over the rest of the building. I helped with that for a few hours, and then caught the employee bus back to the school. I had a date!

# Chapter 31 –

# Love versus exhaustion

I arrived at the school and discovered a box of clothing waiting for me. My mother had sent me some of my old things, and some new clothes. How did she get it to me? I have no idea. How do you address something to a disaster area - "to my son, somewhere in Kaskaskia"? I guessed the Duprys had helped somehow. But I was happy to shower and change into my own things. I would look "American" again.

When I came out of the boy's locker room, I found Elise waiting for me. Apparently she had gotten clothes from home too. Where before she had been wearing cotton print dresses that sort of fit, for our date she had found something with a bit of sheen to it, and short sleeves. Not exactly a party dress, these were not party times, but pretty. I could see she was as anxious for our date as I was.

Gustav was to be our driver. We climbed into the backseat and held hands while he drove towards a restaurant he had heard about, except he used the trip as an opportunity to show us around. Elise and I had been all over the parts of the city that had been damaged, but we hadn't taken any time to see the rest of the city. Gustav made sure we saw the parts that were still working. Good man. He took us down a commercial street to see stores open and people shopping, and through a neighborhood with kids playing. The man had an agenda. Did he know we needed an attitude adjustment? I suppose it was pretty obvious.

Elise and I commented on various sights at first, pleased to see people out and about, but eventually we just sat back and enjoyed the views. I could feel Elise begin to relax. I put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned her head against me, and we just observed the city going by. Eventually, Gustav drove to the restaurant. It was on a bit of a hill, and we arrived as lights began to come on around the city. I can't say it was a breathtaking view, but the expanse of homes and stores was comforting. Sitting in that parking lot, looking at a functioning city, reminded us of what "normal" looked like, and it felt very good to see it.

Gustav turned to look at us, to see if we were ready to go into the restaurant, but we weren't. I asked him if he would give us a moment, and he went into the restaurant on his own. We sat and looked at the city. After a few minutes, Elise turned closer toward me, and laid her head on my chest. I thought I heard her softly say something, but then she seemed to drift off. She had gone to sleep. I put my other arm around her, laid my head back on the seat, and within two minutes I was asleep as well.

That was our date. Several hours later, Gustav got back in the car and returned us to the school. We woke up long enough to walk to our cots, and then we fell asleep again. I am not sure it was the most romantic evening ever, but it was an evening we needed, and we spent it together.

# Chapter 32 –

### Mystery Warehouse

When I woke up the next morning, I could see Elise looking at me from the cot across the aisle. "Remember when I said you really know how to sweep a woman off her feet?"

"It's not me," I responded, my head still on my pillow. "It's Kaskaskia. It has that effect on all women -- the heart of romance in the heart of the nation. I think I saw that on a tourism brochure somewhere."

"Do you think it's the grain elevators or the warehouses that create the magic?"

"Who's to know? That's the mystery of romance."

With that, we both got up and headed to locker rooms to change for the day. I put on yet another set of American clothes, and then stood in line for my turn at the sink to brush my teeth. There were still plenty of people staying at the school, but it seemed like lines were getting shorter. Sleeping on cots was definitely a motivation to make peace with relatives and move there. Elise and I found each other in the cafeteria and ate an embarrassing large breakfast. Did I mention French food is really good?

Then it was back to the auditorium and back to work. The two officers were waiting for me. They wanted yet another update on warehouses. This time Elise stayed with me while I reported. The process was getting more and more formal. They had a map system on their computers, and as they projected it on a screen near their table, I described what I knew about each one. Today we talked mostly about computer systems. I explained what was happening at Murphy Manufacturing and what I knew about the other places, the ones we had come to label the "25%". I was mostly through my data dump when a soldier came to our table to tell us two people had come to see me. I turned around to se the Jouberts standing in the door.

Elise and I both walked over the greet them. I got handshakes, she got hugs. Such is the way of the world. At least this time I got smiles. I suppose the ten thousand dollar PO I had given them might have influenced their attitude. At least my feet were warm and dry, and their smiles seemed genuine. I stood and waited while Marguerite and Elise went on at some length. How were we getting on, it was such a tragedy to lose the Jolliet mansion, thanks again for having us there, you really should visit us one evening, etc. I assumed it would all end eventually, and it did. They had driven to the school for some reason, and in time we would find out what it was. Elise was the one who finally decided to move the conversation along.

"I understand you have some concerns about fairness in the use of resources to get businesses functioning again?" There was a sweetness in the way she asked the question, that defied a positive response. How could you accuse her of anything? Marguerite didn't.

"Doctor Murphy was very clear about the methods you are using, and in talking to more of our League members, we are getting good reports from most of them. We are actually here to see if we could help in any way." The operant phrase of course was "most of them." Hmm. Where was this going to go? Elise kept the conversation moving.

"Why don't we show you the information we have. Do you have a few minutes?" She led the way back to the table we had been using, introduced the army officers, and then pulled up a couple chairs for the Jouberts. Apparently this was show and tell day. Elise asked one of the officers to bring up the warehouse district map.

"The warehouses are all color coded based on their readiness for use, as reported to us by Shawn," Elise began. "Black indicates they are damaged beyond repair, and will probably have to be torn down when we have the time and resources. Red, yellow, and green are codes for how long it will take to get the other warehouses fully functioning. Green indicates we think they might be useable within the next fourteen days. Unfortunately, as you can see, there are barely two dozen of those. As we scroll over each warehouse, you see that we get ownership information, whether they are an independent warehouse serving any company, or whether they are a wholly owned distribution center serving a particular company. In both cases we then have information on the industry they primarily serve. That, by the way, shows you the next problem we have. While we only have twenty six warehouses we think will be open soon, even that overstates our situation, since nine of them are primarily providers of food or retail goods. While food and apparel matter, they are not as important right now as manufacturing support. We need to keep our factories working, or our economy will suffer."

"We understand." It was now Marguerite's turn. She had come with something to say, and we were now going to hear it. "And we agree. While we would like to have shoes shipped to our stores, we understand that can't happen unless leather and soles make it to the manufacturers first. So we will wait. The Huguenot Business League met about this last night, and we fully support your strategy." So far so good, but we all knew the next word out of her mouth would be "but." Our drama of the morning was certain to arrive with the next sentence.

"In reviewing primary industries of the southern areas," (If you need a translation, she is talking about industries owned by Protestants.) "It looks like progress is being made in support of the refineries, paper makers, and farming. Our concern is fishing." Fishing? I am afraid at this point both the officers, and Elise and I were looking at her as if she had just lost her mind. With all the problems we faced, we were supposed to be concerned about guys going fishing? There was a very long silence before I finally decided someone had to say something. Why not me?

"I wasn't aware that fishing was such an important industry. Are we talking about sending down fishing lures, or cane poles?"

"I'm sorry," Marguerite replied, although she did not look sorry. "I am not talking about recreational fishing; we are concerned about commercial fishing. Each morning hundreds of boats go out into the gulf for fish and shrimp. Those fish and shrimp are shipped all over the world. It is a major industry." Suddenly she had gone from shoe salesperson to fishing expert. What an odd conversation. And, we still weren't getting it. I kept my dunce cap firmly on my head and kept asking questions.

"What would those boats need that is sitting here in Kaskaskia?"

"Motors." She let that word sit out there, so we could get used to the idea. "Motors and parts. For reasons we don't understand, none of the dealers down there have been able to get parts for months, so there was a shortage already. Routine repairs can't be made. Now it looks like more months before anything arrives, so fewer and fewer boats can go out. The fishing industry is being choked. When we checked with the DC, he says he can't ship anything because his street is closed off."

"Where is the distribution center located?" one of the officers asked. He was already poised over his keyboard to bring it up on the screen.

"It is called LeGuerre Logistics, and it is on Seventh Street." The officer moved the cursor over to the warehouse she was talking about. It was coded in black.

"I remember that place," I said. "I was there three days ago. The place was locked up tight. I pounded on the door. No one answered. I looked around and there was no sign of life, just mud everywhere."

"He says he can't get to his place because the road is closed."

"The road is open, barely." said the officer at the keyboard. "Here let me show you. This map provides us with road conditions." He brought up another map. This one showed the streets color coded. "Every street in that district is at least orange, as you can see. That means the main plows have gone through and removed everything that might have blocked traffic. Green means we have gone back and repaired any damage that might have been caused by the flood -- breaks in the asphalt, that sort of thing. Since almost all the best warehouses are on First, Second, and Third Street, that is where we put our crews. Seventh Street had no warehouse that would be useable within ninety days, so we put off final repairs. You could still probably get a truck in there, but it would be more work than on other streets."

"The manager says he can't get in there."

"This is the same manager who hasn't shipped anything for several months?" I asked. I already didn't like the guy.

"Yes."

"Why don't we go talk to him?" I got up, as did all the rest. "Did you bring a car?" Philippe nodded. "Let's go see what's going on." And I led the two of them out of the auditorium and out to their car. I moved at a fairly fast clip, and I was secretly pleased that they seemed uncomfortable walking so fast. Good. They were the ones making veiled accusations. Let them be uncomfortable. Once out in the parking lot, I waited for Philippe to unlock the car. The three of us got in the front seat and off we went.

There were modest attempts at chitchat while we drove. Marguerite pointed out one of the stores they owned. Philippe mentioned the improving road conditions. I was having none of it. As far as I was concerned, I was being accused of not supporting some bozo who wouldn't answer his door and was now blaming me for bad fishing. If I said two words while we drove, it was two more than I intended.

Eventually Philippe got us to the warehouse district and then to Seventh Street. Yes, we did have to slow down for some pot holes, but the road was passable. In fact, as we got to the block where LeGuerre was located, we could see a semi backed up to one of the loading docks. Impassable street? Sure didn't look that way to me. Oddly, though, even with a rig backed up to their dock, the place looked closed. We parked, and walked up to the office door. It was locked. No lights were on, and a sign on the door said "closed." So what was the truck doing here? I banged on the door, hard enough I thought I might break the glass. It was really tempting. But I held back. Instead I finally turned to Marguerite.

"Do you have a phone number for this guy?"

"No, but I can get one." She got her phone out of her purse and started making calls to various people in the League. Meanwhile, we stood by the office door. Then a really odd thing happened. A man came around the building from the far side, hurried to the semi, and got in. We all shouted at him, and he turned briefly to look our way. I knew him! I had last seen him standing in the hotel in DeSmet being promised promotion in the Louisiana National Army for services performed in terrorizing Dakota.

"Hey, you." I shouted at the top of my lungs and started running. No luck. He had the rig moving down the street before I could get down to the loading dock. What the hell was going on? I stood on the corner, watching the semi pull away. I'd love to say I got its number, but I didn't. I pulled out my phone and called Elise.

"Your call on how to handle this, but this place has the smell of LNA all over it." I went on to describe what I had seen. Elsie said she would talk to others about how to respond. Maybe a search warrant, maybe just monitoring. She would get back to me. While we talked, Philippe and Marguerite walked down the street to me.

"Do you know what's going on here?" She asked.

"I assume something illegal." I left it there. "I have called back to the ministry. I expect they will send police officers to check. Do you want to wait for them, or do you want to leave?"

"I think we should get back to our business."

"Me too. Do you mind dropping me there?" The car was pretty quiet as we drove the several blocks to Murphy Manufacturing. I waited for an apology. What I got was a comment about how they would consult with their League and provide them an update. Was that an apology? I didn't give a damn. I got out of the car, and while I didn't quite slam the door, I did close it hard enough to knock some rust off their stupid Peugeot.

# Chapter 33 –

# A very bad night

That night the LNA had a temper tantrum. I thought that if I remembered the man from DeSmet he might remember me, so I had the warehouse buttoned up pretty tight, even putting forklifts in front of every door to block them. But there was nothing I could do about the office, and that is where they hit us. It was almost childish. From the shell casings they found in the morning, the police estimated eight men had gotten out of their cars and stood at the curb firing automatic weapons into the office. They must have gone through two or three clips each, because the casings were piled high. What damage did they do? They shot out all the windows, of course, but beyond that, it was all pointless. Everything in the office was already rubbish. What difference did it make that mud-covered desks now had bullet holes in them? Who cared about the filing cabinets rapidly turning to mold? But they wanted to blow off steam, and they did. The six of us who had stayed the night were all up on the second floor protected behind various pallets. The attack was loud, and it was scary, but after ten minutes and hundreds of bullets, they just drove off into the night. What was the point?

After they got done with us, they started six fires. All five Joubert shoe stores went up in flames. What was their crime? Not knowing they shouldn't ask about the warehouse? Trying to find out why outboard motors were not getting from Fond du Lac to New Orleans? If the LNA thugs had just made a minimal effort to provide a better cover story, none of this would have been necessary. Would it be too much to ask them to take a few outboard motors south while they were doing their gun running?

The target of the sixth fire was pretty obvious. Assuming the contraband had been put on the truck we saw drive off, there was no reason to keep the warehouse around to provide evidence. So it went down that night too. Modest explosions indicated not all the munitions had been removed, but mostly the wreckage consisted of outboard motors. Fishing along the gulf was going to be curtailed a little longer.

The next morning as I stood in the office looking at all the broken glass, and then when I heard about the fires, I can't say I was as angry as I was annoyed. What a waste. I can't claim to like the Jouberts, but all they did was ask questions, not knowing in trying to stand up for some Huguenot businesses, they were getting in the way of some Huguenot thugs. They deserved better.

As for us, we had planned to gut the office anyway. We wanted it cleared before the computer guys showed up to rewire the place. Granted, we hadn't expected to put in new windows, but we had a local company on site that afternoon. By nightfall the glass was in. The next morning the computer guys showed up. They had some questions about the bullet holes in the walls, but they were able to make good progress on the wiring closet. So, to sum up, the bastards didn't do any real damage!

In fact, maybe the good guys came out ahead. Two days later we called a meeting of the warehouse council to provide an update and take suggestions on final steps. We cleared one of the classrooms at the school and set up a presentation, complete with graphics, colored handouts, even pastries. We had food for thirty; over fifty managers showed up. Later we did a little detective work and learned that nearly twenty were Protestant. We had an open discussion of what they needed from the city, people were honest about the state of their businesses, and in general, we had an attitude in the room that said we were going to get things moving again. Was everything perfect? Not hardly. But folks could see improvements all around them, and I think there was both confidence that we would get the job done, and plenty of pride that we had taken a pretty big punch and were still standing. As meetings go, it will be one I remember.

Speaking of meetings, two nights later I was called to join the Huguenot Business League local chapter for dinner. Philippe Joubert introduced me around. It turns out he can speak after all. I was invited to give an update on the warehouse project after the dinner, and I received the first standing ovation of my life. Unfortunately there were no cameras in the room. I know I will never convince my older brothers that it ever happened. But trust me, it did.

Speaking of brothers, the next morning I got a call from Michael. It began with the usual nonsense - "What are you doing helping around the business. I thought professors never did any work." Then he went on to brag about some research he had done. LeGuerre Logistics happened to be owned by a company that was owned by a corporation that was controlled by the Fosters. He said he and his research team had been identifying everything touched by Foster and now had an org chart that covered an entire wall. They were into everything, and there in one corner was LeGuerre. He then went on to gloat that he had contacts within the insurance industry telling him that since munitions were found in the warehouse, the insurance company was refusing to pay for the fire. Later that day I found out who his "inside" contacts were. The story was covered on the third page of the Wall Street Journal. Why are big brothers so annoying?

Also, why is this one so dumb? Sure the Fosters were now out some money, maybe millions if the insurer of all those out board engines came after them. But the surprise for me was the connection of the LNA and Fosters. If they were moving arms north, what was the target? If they were moving arms south, what was the source? And how were Fosters and the LNA linked? In DeSmet the LNA claimed they knew nothing about what Foster was doing out in the Sioux villages. Foster claimed he was afraid of some of the men he had hired, men who now appeared to be working for him, or for the LNA, or both. I had no idea what Canadian ministry would be looking into all this, but I assumed they would research this connection more carefully than my brother had. That LeGuerre Logistics warehouse was giving off an incredible stench. I wondered who was picking up the scent.

# Chapter 34 –

# Load number one

Back at our warehouse, we were making progress. The computer guys were pretty good. I could hear them talking between themselves about all the bullet holes. I am sure they were already thinking of all the cool stories they would tell back in Philadelphia. But they worked hard and got the equipment in during the three days they said it would take. The big test came when they linked up to the fiber from the phone company. Miracle of miracles, it worked. Suddenly we had data links at megabit speeds. Granted, in the U.S. we would have been talking about gigabit speeds, but for Canada, this was smoking fast.

Once we were powered up, I thought the guys might hop in their car and get back home, but they stayed another week. First they downloaded all the data that had been backedup in Ohio, and restored all our office systems. We had customer data again, and an inventory! Then they went upstairs and started working on our RFID and bar code scanners. Saturday, as the rest of us were sitting down to noon hour sandwiches, the two of them came to get us.

"Gentlemen, if you please, we have a short demonstration that you might find enlightening." Showmanship from computer guys? Fine with me. And they did seem very pleased with themselves. They led us to dock number one. They had a terminal sitting on a crate, and one of them had brought over a pallet using a hand truck. Once we were all standing in a circle around the pallet, one computer guy waved a bar code scanner at the pallet, while another made a big show of pointing to the terminal. "Abra cadabra - let there be data!" He shouted, and sure enough, the pallet registered in the system. We had inventory control. I'm not sure computer guys have ever been picked up and carried around on the shoulders of adoring fans, and that didn't happen this time either, but it was close. I knew these two would not be paying for their own drinks while they were in town. We had data. There was still lots more to do. The RFID system still didn't work, and neither did the pallet elevator, but from this moment on, we could at least do the basics. It would be slow, but we could move pallets in and out of the building.

While everyone else was playing with the bar code scanner and testing the system, I got on the phone to Elise.

"Remember how you wanted the warehouses operating in fourteen days? Murphy Manufacturing is up on day thirteen."

"Thank, Shawn. But don't get too big a swelled head. Green Bay Trucking called in two hours ago, and the Port Authority got their systems up and running last night."

"That's fine. Now we'll see who gets the first truck on the road." I shut off the phone and got back to my men. "Green Bay Trucking got their systems up and running two hours ago. But we're the people who will get the first truck load out of Kaskaskia, right?" That led to a cheer, and then LeClerk took over. He had a general idea for which pallets were stored where, and he started sending men off with forklifts to find the ones he wanted. Apparently he already had an idea for which load would be fastest to assemble. While six forklifts raced up the ramp to the pallets on the second floor, LeClerk was on the phone to a trucking company, and then to a driver he seemed to know well. Based on LeClerk's smile, I thought we might be in the fast lane.

And we were. This was a set up. LeClerk had guessed at when the systems would work again, and had kept this driver within a few miles of the warehouse. I discovered the computer guys weren't the only showmen working for the company. When the driver showed up ten minutes later, LeClerk personally directed him back to the dock, and stood there while his men scanned their loads and drove them into the trailer. I have never seen a trailer filled so fast. Meanwhile, one of the office people came over with all the paperwork. At twelve forty five we put our first truck on the road.

I called Elise again. "We just put our first load on the road."

"Just a minute, let me put you on speaker phone. Now, Doctor Murphy, of Murphy Manufacturing, what did you want to tell us?"

"Our warehouse facility is now operable, and we have just sent out our first load from exiting stock."

"And what did you ship?"

"We shipped auto parts to the Peoria Peugeot plant." I could hear a cheer go up in the background. She must have connected me to the auditorium sound system. Lots of showmanship going around apparently.

"Please thank all the men at your facility, and tell them how important their work is to their nation." Need I point out that I had my cell phone volume turned way up and was holding it so all the men could hear? We were all standing at the empty loading dock watching the semi we had just loaded go around a corner and out of sight. If you wanted to see pride, that was the place to see it.

What else happened that day? LeClerk called in three more rigs, and we got them on the road too. There was still lots more work to do to get the systems running like they had in the past, but at least we were functional, and that felt very, very good.

# Chapter 35 –

# Time to let the professionals take over

I knew the situation had improved considerably when Elise said we should go out to dinner that night. As before, we both changed in the kid's locker rooms, but something important had changed. When I came out into the hallway, I found a very happy young woman waiting for me. She was wearing one of her favorite party dresses, and that was nice, but what mattered more was her manner. She was relaxed. She was happy. She knew we had overcome. Her smile was wide and constant. Gustav drove us to the restaurant he had tried taking us to several days earlier, and this time, we both stayed awake. It turned out to be a nice place -- good food, candle light, quiet conversations. We held hands, talked about the food, smiled at each other, and breathed. Do you know that feeling, where suddenly your shoulders are different? They are lower, and you feel higher. Not the best way of explaining it, but that was the way we felt that night. We worked our way through several courses, talked about nothing substantial, and smiled. It was a dinner to remember.

On the way back to the school, we started talking about going back to Green Bay. There were professionals out there who could fix the last of the streets, and rebuild the bridges. It was time to let them take over.

Back at the school, we discovered there were only two cots in the teacher's lounge we had been sharing, and the cots had been pushed together. We had the place to ourselves. Some days just keep getting better. This was one of them.

At breakfast we started planning our exit. What did we need to do before we left? We should talk to the Jouberts one last time to see how they were faring. And there was Jean and Gabrielle. And for fun, we thought we might go back and see what might be left of our hilltop park. All that could be done in one day. Today we would check in with the people we were currently working with, and if there was no big problem, we would leave tomorrow.

I took the bus back to Murphy Manufacturing to find the place looking almost normal. Four rigs were backed up to our docks, including one that was dropping off a partial load. I guess that was another sign of progress -- we could not only ship stock out, but we could accept and store new stock. Good for us. I walked through the dock area and then headed for the office. Several desks had arrived, and the desktop computers had been moved down from the second floor and put on the desks, looking like that is where they had always been. It was becoming a real office again. Four men and women were in the office, so busy working on their computers they barely noticed I was there. I grabbed a chair in the corner, pulled out my phone and was scanning an endless stream of emails (one more sign of normalcy) when my father called.

"One of your brothers just showed me a purchase order you signed for one hundred pairs of boots. The cost came to just over ten thousand dollars."

"Yes, take it from my next check."

"No, I am assigning it to marketing expenses. Your sister is currently negotiating a shipping contract with a very large manufacturer of outboard motors based in Fond du Lac. We are to move all their product throughout Canada and to the U.S. They made it pretty clear you are the reason they are talking to us."

"I never met them."

"Be that as it may, it will push up our Canadian trucking business by over twenty five percent."

"Good. But make sure LeClerk gets a piece in his next bonus."

"Done. And I hear we are also buying shotguns?"

"Yes, but that is another one I can cover. They saved my butt that first night."

"No, we'll pay. We owe those foremen a great deal." There was a little family conversation after that. I explained we would probably be going back to Green Bay in a day or two, things were running well here. Dad gave me the latest on the Foster problem. We were holding our own so far. The big winners might be law firms as we sued back and forth. Otherwise, not much more to report.

After talking to dad, I went looking for LeClerk. He was at the pallet elevator -- his baby. The computer guys were making progress. He was a happy man. I mentioned the shotguns and suggested we go over lunch. He liked the idea and started contacting the guys. Some were currently working, others would join us there.

Jut for fun, I called the store and asked if they could order in some lunch for us while we shopped. The request got bumped up two levels of management, but finally it hit someone who smelled money, and arrangements were made. It sometimes takes a while to find someone in a business who actually understands business, but if you take your time, eventually you will find that person.

When noon came, the four foremen who had been working that shift looked like school boys. They were going to get new toys, and it wasn't even Christmas. LeClerk had the biggest car, so he drove us over. The other five foremen were waiting for us in the parking lot. The instant we were out of the car, they pointed to a lighted message board hanging over the main entrance. \- "Welcome Murphy Manufacturing -- warehouse heroes." All the guys had their phones out and were taking pictures of the sign. I had no idea what the shopping trip was going to cost our company, but I was already sure it would be worth it.

Inside, I told the guys to buy what they wanted - shot gun or deer rifle -- their choice. That was great, but what was better was the buffet they found by the gun racks. A big sign said "Murphy Manufacturing." Again the phones came out and the guys took pictures of each other in front of the food and in front of the guns. Suddenly all these middle-aged men were sixteen again. I loved it.

Lunch "hour" lasted until almost two, but these guys had earned it. They made themselves big sandwiches, and put dozens of guns to their shoulder before making their choices. I made myself a sandwich, stood and watched and smiled. It's always fun to throw a successful party. The one final move I made was to duck around a corner and grab a bag of freeze dried food. As the last of the guys made their choice of weapon, I called them all together and presented the freeze dried package to LeClerk.

"Guys, I am presenting this to the best warehouse manager on the continent. I know he will keep it in his office to remind all of us of the nights we sweated together. My thanks to all of you. May this bag of tasteless freeze dried food be our trophy." Then I shook all their hands and we went back to work. Total cost to the company - several thousand dollars. Value to the company? Beyond measure.

# Chapter 36 –

# Time to go

Late that afternoon I got a call from Elise. She and Gustav were going to pick me up. The Jouberts had invited us over for a quick visit. I can't say I was looking forward to this, and I had just seen them a few nights earlier, but it made sense to have one more meeting before we left town. We were never going to be friends, but I understood the need to at least reduce the number of enemies the government had.

As it turned out, I was totally unprepared for how the meeting went. For one thing, it was not really a meeting as much as it was a conversation and demonstration. Gustav picked me up and then we drove to a strip mall on the outskirts of town. It was pretty clear which had been the Joubert shoe store; it was the hole in the mall. Stores on each side of it had suffered smoke and water damage, but at least still looked like stores. The shoe store was just a blackened area. Whatever accelerant the FLA had used, it was pretty effective. Nothing remained inside the two side walls.

The more interesting view though, was what was in front of the store. There, with a car parked up on the sidewalk, were the two Jouberts, some shelving, and a big sign that said "SideWalk Sale." And it looked like the sale was doing pretty well. At least a dozen people stood around, looking at the shelves or talking to the Jouberts. Philippe had one of the car doors open, and he was pulling shoes from inside while his wife helped a lady try on a pair of shoes while leaning back against the side of the car. It looked like an approach that shouldn't have any chance of working, but somehow, people were willing to put up with the inconvenience and odd presentation of inventory.

Once Gustav was parked, Elise and I walked over and stood at the fringe of the customers. That didn't last long. As soon as Marguerite was finished with her customer, she called us both over.

"Thank you for coming. We have been hoping you would stop by. We have a gift for each of you." She stepped over to the back of the car and pulled a gift wrapped box out of the trunk for each of us. "We know you have to get back to Green Bay, and we wanted you to have these as a way of remembering us."

I thought Elise was going to break down and cry. "You don't have to do anything for us. We should be helping you. You have lost so much."

"We are just fine. Insurance will cover most of what we lost. In the meantime, we can go back to how we started. This is I how I met Philippe. He was selling athletic shoes out of his trunk at a college track meet. I was a hurdler, believe it or not. And he was this handsome young man who stood and talked to me forever. I bought a pair of shoes from him at every meet. By the end of the season we were dating. Before track season started the next year, we were married. We sold shoes out of his car for three years before we opened our first store. This time I expect us to have another store before the weather turns. But go ahead and open your presents." We did. I thought maybe running shoes, or boots. But both were patent leather and beautiful.

"I heard you were to be married soon, and I thought you might wear these when you dance that night." Now Elise did cry, and she and Marguerite had a long hug.

"These are so beautiful. But you didn't need to do this."

"Yes, we did. Remember us when you wear them. Remember you have friends here. And we will remember to be careful who we judge. We trusted a man because he said he shared our religion. We were wrong. We should have trusted you." She said that to me. I hug about one person per decade, but I hugged her.

"Thank you. We will remember you every time we dance." At that point we started backing away, letting the two of them get back to their customers. And I have to say, as they stood out on that sidewalk, they looked happy. It is an image I will never forget.

Our next stop was the hilltop park. We weren't really sure it was there any more, but we wanted to look anyway. Gustav found a route over there. I can't say it was a very pleasant drive. The last few blocks were especially blighted by the flood. There were still a few houses that had cars turned upside down on their lawn, and trees collapsed on rooftops. But there were people about. Repairs were underway. Mounds of ruined furniture had been brought out to the curb for disposal, and while the piles of couches and tables made the scene look even worse, it was part of the clean up process -- a sign of renewal.

As for our park, there was not much left. Gustav drove completely around it looking for any pathway up. It turned out there was part of a street left and a broken path on the northeast corner. We left Gustav and the car at the bottom of the hill, and Elise and I climbed up the best we could. It turned out we weren't the first ones to climb up, and in fact we weren't alone when we got up there. The park was probably one quarter the size it had been before the flood, but what remained looked in pretty good shape. There were maybe two dozen people up there getting a view of the area. And, believe it or not, while every other structure had fallen over in the flood, the concession stand was still there. And manning the stand was our very own Paul.

I had to ask if he had gotten paid overtime for his night at the stand. Yes, and the manager had not even said anything about the wine that had gone missing. But the stand had been closed for most of the last two weeks, so his summer income was down. I asked what his friends thought about him spending the night up on the hill while the flood tore the hill away. Apparently they all thought it must have been lots of fun. He was lots more popular at parties now, since he had stories to tell.

I bought two wines in plastic cups, and then Elise and I went to take a look around. We stayed away from the edges of the hilltop -- they were still not stable. But we got a good view off to the west as the sun went down. We could see where the levee had broken through. Now the entire length was covered with concrete. Huge repair barges stood at the base of the bridges that had collapsed. We were too far away to see any work, but we assumed they were there to begin repouring footings. The main channel had been cleared and boat traffic was headed in both directions. Could the big barges slide through the openings left? Probably, but we didn't see any use the river while we were up there.

It was fun to take another look at our hilltop refuge, but we didn't stay too long. I have to admit to feeling a little nervous about being up there again, and Elise seemed very happy to leave again too. We had survived the night up there, and Elise's reports from there might even have done some good in the early hours of the flood. But what we had seen around us had not been pleasant. We stopped back at the refreshment stand to shake Paul's hand and say good by, but then we were done with the hill.

That was pretty much our final evening. We went back to the school. We needed to pack, and Elise had her own good byes to make. We spent a couple hours in the cafeteria with a steady stream of people dropping in to talk with Elise. Some would be leaving soon too. Others would be staying through the complete rebuilding effort. They might be in Kaskaskia for another year. Efforts were underway to find more permanent -- and more comfortable -- housing for them. There were lots of hugs and lots of promises to keep in touch. Finally it all wound down and we spent our last night sleeping on cots.

The next morning Gustav helped us with our bags. I took my knapsack back to the sergeant who had given it to me. I offered to pay for the ammunition I had used, but he said that was impossible. Since I had never had a government issued weapon, I could not possibly have expended any government issued ammunition. Fair enough. I thanked him for the water and food, and left him to do whatever sergeants do whenever they are not helping neophytes.

Gustav seemed to be in a particularly good mood. I thought maybe he just wanted to get back to Green Bay, but it turned out he was anxious about getting us to a visit with Jean and Gabrielle and the surprise the three of them had for us. The Jolliet family had another house on the northern outskirts of Kaskaskia. At one time it must have been a farm house, but it had been surrounded by urban sprawl for decades. Jean and Gabrielle were clearly excited about living there and gave us a quick tour and history of the house. It was nearly two hundred years old and had been one of the main Jolliet farms back in the day. The house had been added on to half a dozen times and remodeled many times more, with changes Jean pointed out in every room.

It did have a certain charm, but I couldn't help feel the loss of the house on the island. I don't have much of a poker face, so I am sure they knew of my disappointment, which of course made their surprise even more enjoyable. They waited until they got to the last room -- the dining room. The room reminded me of the mansion in many ways, including all the wooden paneling. I wondered if it too came off old boats. What was especially striking was one of the sideboards that looked exactly like one that had been in the mansion. And of course, that was the surprise. Somehow they had managed to squeeze this sideboard into the trunk of the car. It was the remnant of the mansion, the piece of history carried on from one century to the next, from one building to the next. Jean struggled with the old drawers of the piece, they barely fit and certainly had not been fitted to the precision of modern furniture, but once yanked open, I could see they had been filled with papers and pictures. That so much had survived was nothing short of a miracle. I hugged both of them and told them I would be back one day to study the papers they had salvaged. At that point I got my real surprise. They had already carefully taken a picture of every document, and it was stored on a memory stick they now handed me. You give a history professor copies of ancient documents, and you have made a man very happy. I was ecstatic. I hugged them all over again, me the guy who never hugs anyone.

While I held the memory drive in my hand, and frankly felt like a little kid at Christmas, Elise took on the role of an adult, and asked them about how they were getting on, what they might need, could she help in any way. You know, she acted responsibly while I mentally danced around the room. But they were fine -- proud of themselves for what they had saved, and happy to be in yet another Jolliet home, given the responsibility to care for an important part of their nation's history.

We took some pictures of them and of the house, and promised we would write. And then we were off, headed north. We had received no updates on our house, so we didn't even know if we had a home to go back to, but we were glad to be going back to friends and family in Green Bay. I can't say I ever want another vacation like the one we had in Kaskaskia, but it did have its moments. We had made some friends and done some good. All in all, a pretty good way to spend three weeks.

# What's Fiction, what's Fact

Kaskaskia is a real place. During the French period it did serve as a trading post. Boats from Kaskaskia did bring grain and other crops down to New Orleans. When the French lost the French and Indian War, the land went over to the British, and many of the local inhabitants went across the river to St Louis, which was still French.

Over the years, Kaskaskia lost it prominence in trade. It also suffered a change in the path of the Mississippi, as the river flipped from the western side of the city to the east, making the city an island. A geographic oddity of the place is that it is part of Illinois, but only accessible from Missouri. At the last census only 8 residents remained.

# The Canadian Civil War

# Volume 5

# Carbines and Calumets

[Author's note – this will be the final volume in the series]

The reserve base in Arkansas had nominally been in revolt for months, but cooler heads essentially ignored that fact. The place was buttoned up and no one had tried to emerge and cause any trouble. Why not just leave sleeping dogs lie, and hope that the soldiers there would get tired of being rebels, or at least tired of sitting in the same buildings doing not much of anything? It seemed like a plan that was working, or at least had not yet failed.

Colonel LeBouche had other ideas. He had a battalion of men, some light armor, and orders that seemed just vague enough to let him do what he wanted to do. On August fifteenth he decided what he wanted to do was end the insurrection. After giving what no doubt seemed like a rousing speech to him, he ordered his men into vehicles and started driving. The five armored personnel carriers took the lead, followed by six trucks, and several jeeps. He was in one of the jeeps. While he commanded over four hundred men, he only had transportation for one hundred and eighty, so that's how many he took. The remainder would come later after he had captured the base.

The drive from his base was just over an hour. The long convoy was quite a sight along the highway. How often do you see so many military vehicles moving in tight formation down a major highway? Lots of people took pictures. Many of those pictures were emailed to friends. Friends then forwarded the emails to other friends, the result being that a very good percentage of the Arkansas population knew a convoy was headed straight toward the reserve base -- eventually, so did the reserve base.

When the convoy finally arrived, there was some question about how it would actually attack the base. The colonel had talked about taking the base by surprise, and directing all his forces at the main gate. So that's where the lead driver took his APC. But when he actually reached the gate, he was less sure about whether he should barrel on through the gate, stop and try to sneak on to the base claiming to be a relief column, or just point his guns at the guards and accept their surrender. He liked the last idea best, so that is what he did. He pointed his mounted machine gun at the guard shack, and told them to surrender. The guards raised their hands and backed away, so for about thirty seconds it looked like things were going to be simple.

At this point the base moved its APCs out from hiding, and even rolled a small tank into view. They had had fifteen minutes to get ready for the invaders, and while they were still running around and bringing up ammunition and locating weapons, fifteen minutes had been plenty of time to fire up diesel engines and get the heavy stuff moved to the front gate.

Who fired first? Each claimed the other. But there was no disagreement over who fired more effectively. LeBouche's convoy was still in a single column. The only vehicle capable of firing was the lead vehicle. Meanwhile, the five vehicles the base had brought up were in a neat crescent that allowed all five to fire unimpeded, which is what they did. LaBouche's personel carriers were pretty well armored, but every man who was standing at a portal was killed instantly. The tank fired one round (all they had) and missed the APCs but hit the lead truck. It exploded instantly. At this point every other vehicle in the column scattered and fled down side streets or back the way they had come. LeBouche sat in his jeep through most of this, then his driver took off as well, leaving behind three badly shot up APCs and a burning truck. In the end, eight of his men were dead, thirteen wounded, and another five surrendered. The "Tank Battle of Little Rock" was over.

The next forty eight hours were touch and go. Many in the south argued for a counter attack. Others issued calls for volunteers to save their state. Every mouth with a megaphone or a radio show declared it was time to protect their rights and teach the other side a lesson. Battles might have been launched and states invaded by other states, except that local politicians generally wanted their own time on stage, so they called for state legislatures to return to session so declarations could be made and statements issued. They needed their share of camera time. That saved the immediate situation, but just built tension for later. Eventually speeches would end, resolutions would be passed, and Canada might break apart.

The immediate response from the Canadian military was simple. LeBouche and his immediate superior were given early retirement. The long term response was more complicated. Did they call up all reserves? If so, which army would the reserves report to? Would calling up the reserves precipitate the war the country had been avoiding for the past two years? Or would a show of strength give support to cooler heads in the south? Presumably a decision on which strategy to pursue had been debated non-stop for the last two years. If a decision had been reached, it was not visible yet to the general public. In general, in the north uniforms stayed out of sight. In the south, uniforms were on parade. Days passed, people talked, politicians gave speeches.

Back in Green Bay, August was its usual awful self. Green Bay – the water, not the city – had a layer of green algae over much of the southern end. The stench was awful. Speaking of awful, we had come back to see the repairs done to our home. Where once had been large south facing windows (when you only get nine hours of sunlight in December and January, large windows matter), we now had a stone wall about four feet high topped by small windows. If we had ordered a stone wall with firing slits on top, this is what we would have gotten. I took one look and my hands automatically clenched.

Elise took one look and said, "Those are nice stones. When things settled down, you can rebuild the wall with large windows, and we can use the stones in the garden." What is it like to live with a woman who always knows the right thing to say? Pretty nice. Inside the house, we found some of the furniture had been replaced and everything had been cleaned. You would never know the house had been blown up a month earlier. They must have imported workers from outside Canada.

We settled back into our old routine pretty readily. Elise spent long days at the ministry, but every employee had at least one day off each week. We lived for Sundays. I got back to the university. I had new insights for the Jolliet biography I was working on, and I had some new material. The memory stick Jean had given me contained marvels. Sitting in the sideboard of the Jolliet mansion had been materials that should have been in an archive. They were amazing, but also confusing. It was like people had just thrown things in there over two centuries. Some had faded past recognition, and other materials were undecipherable. There were several pictures, but no captions. Who were these people? There were bills of sale for various items, including livestock and farm acreage. Three journals were in the pile, as was a treaty signed with a band of Mohicans who apparently had been traveling through. Everything in that drawer belonged in a museum. I would mention that to Claude Jolliet the next time we saw him.

Speaking of the ex-president, his condition was unchanged, and not good. Elise and I went to see him soon after our return, and we were given five minutes with him. He had been moved from the hospital to one of the Jolliet homes. It was a rambling old place that had been added onto several times and not benefitted architecturally from the changes. Most of the home was occupied by a grand niece of his and her family. There were small kids, and their noise was music in the house. It seemed to be Claude's one joy. He was in a corner bedroom on the first floor, a suite really, with two adjoining rooms for the attendants he now needed constantly. He smiled when he saw us, and he listened a short time while we described the flood in Kaskaskia. I tried to be entertaining and told him about my efforts in a dragon boat. And he was patient, but he also seemed to tire incredibly fast. When we asked him how he was doing, he said he tried to write condolence letters to all the people in his household who had been killed in the terrorist attack, but it was slow work. He had only completed four so far, and there were so many more to do. At that point his head dropped a bit and an attendant told us it was time for him to rest. We left wondering if we were seeing a great man fade away.

When I wasn't exploring the images Jean had given me, I did finally write up a long report for Senator Dodson. He wanted to know about Tilden Foster, and I had much to tell. I covered the historical reenactments he had supported in Louisiana, then the attacks he had precipitated in Dakota, and finished with what I knew about the Foster ownership of the LeGuerre Logistics warehouse that seemed to be the storage location for LNA weapons. With this additional information, would the good senator be able to curb the Foster family aggressions? One could only hope.

In the meantime, our family was bearing the brunt of the battle with the Fosters. We wondered how they would come after us after I had cost them their mining contract in the north. We now saw how they were going to do it – they would go after our trucks. Suddenly we had hijackings on the road and serious vandalism at truck stops, both in Canada and in the U.S. They steered thugs our way. Our security people caught some of them, but there seemed to be no end to them. Were these LNA or just garden variety thugs? Who knew? We would get a few arrested and then get back to find more damage. The Canadian authorities were very helpful in responding to our calls, and we came to use selected truck stops where security was better, but still, our costs were being pushed up. We raised prices a bit to try to recoup, but that cost us several contracts. Bad as that was, we were not sure if this was the entire approach – a death of a thousand cuts – or if these attacks were just a distraction while the Fosters planned something larger.

Could we hit back? Michael had all kinds of wild ideas, only a few of which were legal. Catherine meanwhile, was studying the family, using all the public sources she could find, and then hiring a firm to look into the not-so-public sources. My information about the LeGuerre warehouse backed up some information she had already collected. What she wanted was a sense of where the money would flow next. Michael was pretty impatient with her as he wanted to strike now, but she was adamant that we wait until we saw what big project was next, and then undercut that before they could defend their position. It was a pretty subtle approach, but seemed effective, and that was the direction my dad approved.

While she tracked money, the Canadian government tracked people. The manager of the LeGuerre warehouse was arrested. The fire had destroyed lots of records and most of the remaining weapons, but enough was left to build a case against him. But I was pretty sure they had no real interest in him; they wanted him to rat out the people who had put the weapons there and paid to ship them. Nothing public was said about whether he was talking or not, but in the meantime his company was shut down, and all Canadian companies owned by the Foster brothers got extra scrutiny. Whatever that was costing the Fosters in legal and compliance costs was payback long overdue.

Meanwhile life went on. What's it like to live in a capital city while state legislatures meet to call their national government vile names? It would have been easier if some of the attacks weren't justified. To the average person on the street, the lacrosse murder still loomed large, and the attack on the Arkansas reserve base still rankled. The base commander there played his hand exceedingly well. It wasn't enough that he had defeated a column of troops, but he then handled the peace exceptionally well. He made sure all the wounded attackers were taken to local hospitals where they could be shown to receive fine care. Then he released all his prisoners, doing it at mid day in front of a public gathering at the main gate. With the burned out vehicles in the background, he lectured the prisoners on the error of their ways, the folly of Canadians attacking Canadians, and then released them. The fact that their units were too stupid to provide transportation for the men was the icing on the photographic cake, as the men walked a few yards from the base and then stood there wondering how to get home. Two colonels earned early retirement for that fiasco. Eventually a lady in a minivan gave them a lift back to their base.

At the university there were lots of staff meetings. No one wanted to call them "Preparing for War," so the meetings were titled things like "Safety in times of conflict." I don't know if the calmer titles were all that helpful. And the meetings themselves had limited value. If shooting started, would there be an attack on the university? Would the south use airplanes? Missiles? Artillery? Really, could it come to that? No one wanted to develop a response to any of that, so meetings took the form of discussions of when classes might be cancelled and how students might be evacuated. It was decided to delay the start of the fall semester about two weeks, until mid-September, on the hope that everything would be settled by then. Left unsaid was the obvious fact that the shooting might be so intense by then that class cancellations would be automatic. In the meantime we had meetings and planned for the unplanable.

Then there was the wedding. Obviously we had not gotten married in May. Good thing, since Kaskaskia would have been the worst honeymoon of all time. But we had hoped for something in the fall. Periodically Elise and a few of her friends would take a long lunch and try on dresses. I had gotten a tux that she approved of, so I was ready whenever. But wedding dresses are not to be rushed into. I think it gave Elise and her friends some time together, and I am sure it was fun in its own way. Lord knows Elise had every right to some fun. Elise' sisters had taken complete charge of decorations, and were happy to tell us all about their latest choices when we were over at their house for Sunday dinner. I have no idea how you plan decorations when you don't know when a wedding will take place or where, but it didn't seem to be slowing them down at all. One Sunday it was napkins, another Sunday it was floral arrangements, and then it might be back to napkins or off to center pieces. Meanwhile the Sundays of July and August went past and September didn't look any more promising. You would think that might dampen some of the planning enthusiasm, but if it did, I couldn't detect it. I was beginning to like those girls.

# Chapter 2 –

# A mystery message

The last day of August I got a message from my old friend David Starr. Of course he is not old and certainly not a friend, but based on his message, you would think we had gone to college together. The message was, "If you get to New Orleans any time soon, we should talk. I'll buy you a beer." Why would I go to New Orleans? The last time I was there I was beaten to a pulp and threatened with death. Mardi Gras was off my celebration list permanently. And why would I want to talk with Starr? He created real trouble for me with his weird pile of hundred dollar bills and "secret" messages that made me appear to be a security risk. The guy was nothing but trouble. So I had every reason to ignore his message.

But I couldn't. I deleted the message, only to pull it up from my waster basket fifteen minutes later. Then I deleted it again, only to retrieve it after lunch. The message was so damn weird, I just couldn't get it off my mind. There was something about the message, and frankly, something about New Orleans. A revolution was happening there. People were taking actions that would determine the future of the country. While Green Bay could re-act, New Orleans could and would act. It would be an interesting place to be.

Finally I found myself responding. "I have been thinking about visiting before school starts. If I wanted a free beer, where would we meet?" The answer was almost instantly. "I am still going to the place we used to meet. I am there pretty much every night around 7."

Now what? Should I go down to New Orleans for a few days?

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