 
# The Canadian Civil War

# Volume 5

# Carbines and Calumets

# By William Wresch

# Copyright 2014 William Wresch

# Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

# Chapter 1 –

# The first battle

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 final 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 personnel 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 provincial 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 late 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 waste 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 came 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?

I went home late in the afternoon, prepared to eat dinner alone again, but while I puttered around the kitchen, Elise came home. This was not usual, but it did happen once or twice a week. I was not sure if her boss, Etienne, had wised up, or if he had been told by the ministry to stop working his people half to death. In any case, Elise was probably down to sixty to seventy hours a week, from the bad old days of ninety or more. I suppose I should have been grateful to Etienne, but I wasn't. I wanted my fiancée back to something approximating the old, lazy, Canadian work week. But where was I?

Elise and I had the usual greeting – a hug, a kiss, small talk. She was going through the usual meetings with the usual people, monitoring the usual events, making the usual plans. I described my day at the office, and then mentioned the email from Starr.

"Are you thinking of going?" Interesting question. I had half expected her to respond with – what, are you nuts? But there was nothing in her voice to indicate disbelief or disapproval. Yes, I thought I sensed concern, but there was no immediate attempt to veto the idea. Interesting.

"It's pretty quiet around here, especially with the start of school delayed. And I have to admit I am curious about how this is all unfolding down there. So, yes, I am thinking about going down for a few days. Would that be okay?"

"I wish you wouldn't. I think it would be dangerous for you. Didn't the Heritage Party thugs threaten to kill you if you ever came back?" I could hear concern in her voice, but not panic. She was worried, but not at a level that indicated real fear.

"I'm thinking Starr is an idiot, but not so dumb he would ask me about visiting if he thought it would get me killed."

"I think you should talk with our people too. Gustav still patrols the house at night, why not ask him?"

"Fair enough. I will." And we left the matter there. Having her home in the evening was rare enough, I didn't want to spend the whole evening talking about going away. We worked around in the kitchen, got out various pots, bumped into each other, bumped into each other some more, and then we lost interest in the pots. An hour or so later we were back in the kitchen giggling and still bumping into each other, but at least now the pots made it to the stove and some food made it from the refrigerator to the pots. There was also some wine involved. Did I mention that Elise wasn't home many evenings? I really did enjoy the evenings when she was around.

After dinner we took our wine out to our patio in the back. It was sunset, and while we could not see the sun set through the trees, we looked west, held hands, and sipped our wine. I don't think we said five words. The police tape was long removed from where it had been in June, and other families were also out in their backyards. Yards are big in Canada, so we could see the other people, and wave to them if we wished, but basically people kept to themselves.

This included Elise's family directly behind us, although it didn't always apply to her younger sisters. They felt comfortable walking over when they saw us, sometimes to bring over a dessert they had made (they were both working on their cooking and baking skills, and given the skills of their mother, Marie, they were learning from a master). That night they had been working on crepes, one filled with ice cream and one filled with jelly, and they had to know our opinion of their quality. Neither crepe would go particularly well with the wine we were drinking, but how do you turn down fresh crepes and enthusiastic bakers?

They joined us at our table, non-stop energy and non-stop talk, each telling us how they had made their crepe, and why they had chosen the filling they had used, and then everything else that had gone on all day, each girl interrupting the other, the air seeming to have only so much room for words and each of them wanted to fill their half of the space, and maybe just a little more.

Somewhere in the midst of the chatter, Gustav walked through the yard. The girls were smitten with him. He was thirty, single, pretty good looking, and single, and really too old for them, but he was a nice man, and around fairly often, and single, and suddenly he was the focus of both girls. Would he like to join us? Would he like a crepe, they were fresh baked and they could get him one, and they had his choice of filling, would he like ice cream or jelly? He was pretty good about their attentions. He sat down at the table and said he would be happy to have a crepe, at which point both girls ran back to their house to get their latest creations.

"Shawn is thinking about going down to New Orleans for a few days," Elise stated, pretty matter of factly, once the girls were gone.

"There would be some risks," Gustav replied, but there was nothing in his tone to indicate he thought the idea was stupid, or impossible.

"How risky would it be?" Elise asked. I was still hearing concern in her voice, but not outright fear.

"Heritage is on its best behavior. They may be thugs, but they can't look like thugs if they want to govern the "country" they are trying to create. They also need to appear responsible to those other states they hope will join them. So they will keep their main crazies under control, but that doesn't guarantee nobody will do anything stupid. And as I understand it, Shawn, they really don't like you."

"Could you go along with him?" Elise asked.

"I am assigned to you, mam. But we do have people down there. They would stay out of sight, but we would tell them Dr. Murphy is coming down, and they could protect as available. But you understand they have lots of things going on right now, so we could not guarantee twenty four hour coverage."

"I wouldn't want to distract any of your people from other jobs they have been assigned." I said. I actually meant it, although the idea of having a guy watching my back had a certain appeal.

"I think the best thing you could do for your own protection would be to stay as publically visible as possible. That means eating in public and such, but it could also include making public statements regularly. You did a blog when you were down that last year, right? That sort of thing might make you visible enough that Heritage would put extra effort into controlling their people."

"I could do that." And at that moment the idea of going to New Orleans went from being a possibility to being a very likely event. Hmm. Did I really want to go? It felt like I was talking myself into something. I hoped I wasn't talking myself into something really stupid.

At this point the girls came back with crepes. They didn't quite race each other back to the table, they were far too mature for that (at least in their own minds), but they did walk pretty fast and managed to put the plates in front of Gustav simultaneously. He said all the right things, and made sure he ate from one and then from the other, alternating, but consistently praising every bite. He really is a pretty good guy.

Elise and I left him with the girls and went back inside.

"If I asked you not to go?"

"Then I would not go." We were standing in the kitchen, hugging.

"But you want to go."

"Yes, and I am not even sure why. Curiosity? Maybe. I would like to think maybe I could do some good, but I am not foolish enough to think I could make much of a difference. I am just one more guy. But I feel drawn to the place."

"Let's go to bed." And that is what we did.

# Chapter 3 –

# I drive south

Elise had been getting up at five and running off to work by six. That morning she made no effort to get out of bed. We laid there and talked. And eventually we got dressed and went down to breakfast. Elise made a huge breakfast and sat with me while we ate it. We talked about lots of things, none of them connected to my travels. Finally when the meal was done, she talked about the trip.

"You know where the weapons are. You should also know I had the gps capability turned on in your new phone. Keep it with you, and our people will know where to find you." We were standing and hugging at this point. "Please be careful." She kissed me and left, tears in her eyes.

What was wrong with me? How could I leave her, and why would I cause her such pain? I am such a jerk. I went upstairs and packed a bag, still not certain I would go. But I did. I loaded up my silly Citroen pseudo-limo, backed out of the garage, and headed toward the highway.

I am usually a planner. This time I was not. I drove, not sure how far I would get before nightfall, not sure how far I wanted to get. St Louis was about halfway, but that didn't have the best memories for me. That was where I had laid up for my wounds to heal after my last trip to New Orleans. So, no St. Louis. Where? I just drove. Given the quality of French engineering, the matter might be settled for me when my new car broke down.

I had lunch in La Crosse. The place was a madhouse. With the Kaskaskia bridges still down, La Crosse was one of the few northern crossing points for the Mississippi. Traffic was backed up all around town. I stayed on the east side of the river, but still I found myself bumper to bumper for miles. This was a country that needed a few more bridges, and maybe some more miles of highway. I got frustrated after half an hour in traffic, and pulled off into a truck stop. Things were even more crowded there, but at least once I got out of the car I didn't have a loose spring poking me in the back. It took me forever to get served, but at least I got fed. The country was just two months past a national disaster when the river got dammed up at Kaskaskia, so I knew I should have been pleased to get any food, and pleased that traffic was moving at all. I should have been pleased, but I wasn't. Sometimes I get like that.

The traffic tie up gave me an idea for where to spend the night – Kaskaskia. Given how slow traffic was moving, that was probably as far as I could go today anyway, and it would be interesting to see how the city was faring.

The drive from La Crosse to Kaskaskia normally takes about three hours. That day it took me six. What did I see for six hours? The truck that was in front of me, and the dummy tailgating behind me, who apparently engaged in magical thinking, his chief belief being that if he crowded my bumper and I crowded the truck in front of me, magically all of us would suddenly being doing 100 k per hour. The world has no shortage of morons. I took the first Kaskaskia exit, grateful to at least be bumper to bumper with a fresh set of bumpers.

I gave some thought to stopping by the company warehouse, but by now it was after seven and I was pretty sure most of the folks would be gone, and if they were still working, the last thing they needed was an interruption from the boss' kid. I drove past and saw a couple rigs backed in to the loading docks. Things looked normal. After that I cruised along the river. They were still reinforcing the levee, but the real work seemed to be at the bridges. There were construction barges parked at each end and now concrete pillars were visible. Elise had told me it might be another four months before the bridges were fully rebuilt, but at least visible progress was being made. I am sure folks felt pretty good about that.

Having had a good look at the construction, I headed east, looking for a place to stay. Illinois is pretty flat, but there was a gradual rise to the east, and at one point there is a string of generic hotels. I cruised that until I saw a vacancy sign. I am not a very demanding sort. After a day trapped in the latest excuse for French automotive engineering, all I want is a parking lot to leave the car, a lobby with a bar, and a room with a bed. The "Trail's End Hotel" had all three, plus a roof-top bar. Granted the rooftop was only three stories off the ground, but it did give me another chance to measure the progress of the city, and a good view of the sunset to boot.

I sat at a table under an umbrella (Illinois is pretty steamy in the summer) and drank one glass of water and two glasses of wine before I began to feel relaxed. Maybe it should have been two glasses of water and one glass of wine, but it had been a long day. While I watched the sun go down I called New Orleans to see if I could get a room in the hotel I had used in the past. No problem. How long would I be staying? Not sure. Four days, maybe seven. They would be happy to have me for as long as I wished, the manager would be notified of my arrival, thanks for staying with us again, etc. Small hotels are nice that way. They actually knew who was staying in their rooms.

Eventually I ordered dinner, and yes, another glass of wine, which wasn't too smart given all the driving I would have to do the next day. I called Elise to let her know where I was, and we reminisced about some of the nights we had spent together in Kaskaskia. I already missed her. I gave her an update on what I had seen in the city. I am sure she knew all of that from ministry briefings, but she acted as if it was news to her – one more virtue of hers.

Phone calls and dinner behind me, I got up and stood by the railing at the western edge of the bar area. Lights were on pretty much across all of the city. There was still darkness where the island had been, that area would be dark in perpetuity, but the rest of the city had rebuilt and revamped and was a new version of itself. Probably the one guy who would most appreciate that adaptability was the guy who founded it – Claude Jolliet. He had seen it change time and time again, and sometimes he had been the driver of that change. He knew that's was great cities do – they adapt and they change. Somewhere out there were pieces of his island mansion – the keel and deck boards from his original river boats. With luck, someone had already pulled them from the water of the Mississippi and was using them in yet another structure. That's what Claude would have done.

# Chapter 4 –

# New Orleans

I got moving pretty early the next morning, afraid I would be in endless bumper to bumper traffic. But the farther south I went, the less traffic I found. People weren't coming down here, and truck traffic was also lighter. Had it been this light last summer? I just couldn't remember. Was I seeing a change, or the normal state? I'd have to ask Elise; she would know.

Once I could get my stupid car up to a normal highway speed, I of course noticed the squeal of wind through windows that didn't quite fit, accompanied by a rattle from under the hood that reminded me that I was driving the ultimate in French engineering. But I can't say that I cared. It was such a relief to finally move at a reasonable speed. There was every chance I would arrive in New Orleans yet today.

And I did. It was a little after seven, but the sun had not set yet, so I could get a good view of the city. I decided to cruise around a bit and see how the city looked. This of course was dumb. Yes, the city was in the midst of major political debates, but what did I expect, barricades in the street? Mobs running from place to place? If there was any sign of the political events to be seen it was, well, in the signs. The Heritage Party had signs in lots of windows - "Freedom from Tyranny - Heritage Party." But they weren't the only party with signs out. "Independence now" was the sign of a party I had not heard of, something called the Provincial Nationalist Party. I thought I counted five other parties with signs, all clamoring for one thing or another. The whole thing seemed odd to me though, since the election had been in April, and the next election would not be for another year and a half. Why were they all in full campaign mode here the first days of September?

At one point while I cruised and stared, and yes, I was probably a danger to other cars on the street since I was paying almost no attention to the road, I drove past the Granary. This was where David Starr and I had met several times. If his message had been genuine, this is where he would buy me a beer. It was well past seven, the time he had mentioned, but I parked the car and went in.

He was sitting at a table with three men in their early twenties, all of them with shoulders and biceps that barely fit in their shirts -- consulate guards was my assumption. It was consulate guards who had saved my skin on a couple occasions the year before, and while I did not recognize any of these men, I still felt obliged. As I crossed the room I motioned to the waiter and asked that he bring another round for everyone at the table.

"Gentlemen," Starr said in English to the men at the table, "Let me introduce Doctor Shawn Murphy, history professor, gadfly, and no stranger to trouble." I shook hands and pulled another chair to the table.

"Good to meet all of you," I said. "I assume he has told you I needed to be escorted out of town last time I was here."

"Just one more consular service," he replied. Then, staring directly at me, he asked, "Did you really shoot one of the terrorists in Green Bay?"

"Wow, David, aren't embassy people supposed to be a little more discreet?"

"Embassy people are discreet. We are just a consulate. We get to be a little more relaxed. But I suppose you are right. Gentlemen, it might be time for you to drink up and give the two of us a chance to talk. Do you mind?" I doubted they minded. They could sit with us and listen, or they could go off by themselves and enjoy the evening. Their beers disappeared pretty fast, and after a quick -- and firm -- handshake, they were out the door.

"That was a pretty strange email you sent me." I decided to get the conversation moving.

"It was pretty annoying for me to go all the way to Green Bay. Why not have you come down here?"

"And why am I here?"

"I want to take you fishing."

"You understand we have fish in Green Bay too."

"Not like these." He let that drop and then sat waiting for me to say something. I guess I was supposed to inquire more. I decided I would, but not about fish.

"I'm not going anywhere with you until I know who you really are. Before I came down here, I pulled the business card you gave me last summer. It lists you as commercial attache. Dodson says you just pull drunk Americans out of jail. I have thought from day one you were a spy, but your behavior in Green Bay was so bizarre, you are either the best spy in history, or the worst. So, what are you?"

"It is a small consulate. All of us wear many hats. But whatever we do, it is in the service of our country."

"I need to know more than that before I go off with you."

"No you don't. You will go off with me because you are curious. Professors are the nosiest people on the planet. You drove eight hundred miles just because an email made you wonder. You'll go tomorrow, because you want to see what is special about these fish. By the way, bring your camera. They really are special. I'll call your room tomorrow about nine with the directions to the boat." And with that annoying speech, he was done and gone. And he left me the bill for all the beers they had been drinking.

What a jerk. The worst part was, he was a clever jerk. Yes, I would go "fishing" because I really was curious. Was I that easy to predict? Of course I was.

I paid the bill, got in my car, and drove to my hotel. There my mood improved considerably. First, it really is a very nice hotel. It consists of five beautiful old homes that have been linked together internally, but still maintain their former exteriors. History has been preserved, but modern conveniences have been added. An attendant took my car (and complimented me as he took my keys), while another man took my bag. The manager waited just inside the door.

"Doctor Murphy, we are so pleased to have you back with us. We have assigned you the same suite you had last summer, if that is agreeable to you."

"Of course it is. I loved that suite, and I love this hotel. Thank you."

"You should also know," and here he lowered his voice, "some additional security arrangement have been made."

"Thank you. I hope you did not go to too much trouble."

"It is the least we could do. And let me add personally, I am grateful for what you did for President Jolliet."

"Thank you." Not sure what more to say, I just let the conversation end there, and waited until he led me and the attendant up to my rooms. I found a very nice bottle of wine and basket of fruit waiting for me, the bed was already turned down, and the windows were open to let in the evening air. I was impressed, and grateful, and said so. They accepted my thanks and left me.

I opened my wine, poured a glass, and called Elise. Based on background noises, it appeared she was still at work. I kept the conversation short. I had arrived, I was in the hotel I had used last summer, everyone here was very nice. Tomorrow I would go fishing with David Starr. She didn't have much to report from her end, but she did remind me of Gustav's advice to write a blog. It was important that I be visible. I should do it tonight, even if it was just a few paragraphs. And that was pretty much the extent of our conversation. Add in a couple "I love you's" and that was pretty much it.

I took my wine out to the wrought iron balcony. The night was hot and humid, but the air moved enough out there to be comfortable. I sipped my wine and watched the street. A few pedestrians, a few cars, nothing very special. I would fire up my computer in a bit and do a blog. What did I have to say? I was here, the streets had lots of political signs, I would go fishing in the morning. Little did I know that final paragraph would nearly get me killed.

# Chapter 5 –

# A fishing trip I never want to repeat

Starr called a little after nine. I'd had a good breakfast in the hotel dining room. I was one of maybe four diners. Summer in New Orleans is never very popular for travelers, but this seemed light even for the season. Was business activity down? I would check on that later. For now, my job was to get down the Belle Chase highway to the little town of Venice. I have no idea why they called it a "highway." The road was tiny, in poor repair, and went on forever. Several times I wondered if I was driving to the Venice in Italy. It was just feet from the Mississippi and I could imagine the whole highway being underwater with just a little rain. Having already experienced one flood, I was in no hurry for another. As I drove, I looked for high ground. There was none I could see.

Eventually I got to Venice and took the road to the harbor. What was the town like? Small homes on stilts. I wondered how often residents commuted to work via boat. The harbor was also small. It held maybe fifteen boats, and oddly enough it appeared all fifteen were in their berths. Was today a bad day for fishing? I parked next to a large warehouse and walked down the dock. I didn't have any trouble finding the right boat -- it was the only one with people on it.

"Should I know something?" I asked, pointing around me at the rest of the boats.

"There's lots you should know," Starr said. He was wearing jeans, a polo shirt and a huge straw hat. From the way his skin shone you would think he was a walking advertisement for sun screen. "Get on board. We have lots to tell you." I climbed up onto the deck. It was not much of a boat, maybe twenty five feet, wooden, badly in need of a fresh paint job. It was outfitted with a couple fighting chairs at the stern, and had the common arrangement of a bridge and then a flying bridge so the captain would have extra height to view the horizon. The owner was up on the flying bridge fooling with his engine. I would guess his age about fifty, but he was so deeply tanned, he could have been a decade either direction from that. He had the widest back I think I have ever seen on a man. Whatever he lifted, he lifted it a lot. He kept starting and restarting his engine, paying no attention to us.

"That's Charles Desautels." Starr pointed up at the owner. Desautels must have heard his name, for he looked down at us, waved briefly, and then went back to his engine.

"Can this thing make it out of the harbor?" I asked.

"Has it struck you that the harbor is full?"

"Yes, I am not completely stupid. Is there a weather system moving in?"

"No, there is a mechanical system that has already moved in. Every boat in this harbor has mysteriously had engine trouble."

"Let me guess. All the parts need to come from Fond du Lac. But that problem should have been solved two months ago. We do the shipping now."

"Do you? You might want to check." Okay, I am up for a challenge. I pulled out my phone. The cell coverage was weak, but possible. I called back to Philadelphia and got my father.

"Dad, do you know anything about boat motor shipments coming out of Fond du Lac?"

"I know we might have made a mistake signing that contract. Our trucks are being hijacked, or if they make it to a truck stop, they are vandalized. Fully half of the problems we have with security come from the shipments from just that one plant." He paused, and then asked, "Why are you asking about that company?"

"I am sitting in a harbor in a town called Venice, Louisiana, and none of the boats are moving. The entire fleet has been vandalized and no new parts are getting here. The town is shut down."

"If we can figure out the linkage to our hijackings, we might be able to improve our security."

"I'll get back to you later today if I can make any connections. Say hi to mom for me." And I got off.

"Okay, Mr. Smart guy." I said to Starr. There was a smug look on his face I really didn't like. "You probably overheard most of what my father said. We have been getting hijacked more than in the past, payback from the Foster clan has been our guess. Now there seems to be a pattern. But why boat motors?"

"These guys all fish out of North Pass. My guess would be someone wants them to stop."

"And why would that be?"

"Why don't we go take a look?" His smug expression now included a challenge. I really didn't like this guy.

"Do you think this old tub can make it that far? It doesn't sound like the engines are up to it."

"This old tub is the one boat in the harbor with a diesel engine, and it is the one boat in the harbor that can still operate. Could be a coincidence, but I think not. As for the engine, you can imagine Charles has seen all his friends lose their motors. He wants to be really sure of his before he takes us out into the Gulf. Seems reasonable to me." The guy was a jerk, but he was right -- it made sense to be sure of the motor before we went out. So we sat and waited another twenty minutes while Charles tested and retested his motor. Finally, he seemed comfortable with it, and we cast off.

The Mississippi is a strange river this close to the gulf. There are the channels and there is the sediment on each side. All the topsoil of the plains has been brought down here and dumped. On it are grasses, shrubbery, trees, and odd debris. You see something flashing in the water and wonder if it is a fish, only to see it is a car fender. Was any of this new debris from Kaskaskia? Who knew?

Charles spent mile after mile still playing with his engine. We would speed up, slow down, even idle from time to time. He was a worried man. Starr and I sat in the fighting chairs, long heavy fishing rods at our elbow, but ignored. I was pretty sure fishing was not on the agenda.

"So," I asked over the engine noise. "Why are we here?"

"One of my many and colorful jobs is to get drunks out of jail and get them on a plane home -- American drunks, of course. About a week ago I got three drunks out of lock up, and they were still fighting mad. That is not normal. Usually the drunks are completely hung over and barely say five words. They just want a ride to the airport with as little trouble as possible. These three wouldn't shut up. They had been wronged. Some people had gotten them drunk on purpose, just so they could fire them. The point was to get them out of the country because they had been complaining about the oil rig they were working on - no safety, no permits, no inspections. Guys got hurt and nothing happened. They complained, and next thing they knew, they were in jail. I should do something about it."

"Let me guess, the rigs were in the Gulf near North Pass."

"There you go, a winner on the first try. You should put on some sun screen, by the way. You Irish burn like crazy. And that hat isn't going to protect the top of your ears." I am well aware of how quickly I burn, so I had on long cotton pants and a long sleeve shirt, even socks since I have burned the tops of my feet and it really hurts. He was right about my ears though. He offered me a tube of sunscreen and I took it.

"I understand why you are here. Why am I here?"

"Let's assume there is something out there that shouldn't be there. I can tell my government, but who tells the Canadians? Are they going to listen to me? I don't even know which side of the government might be behind what is going on there, assuming something is going on. So, I open my Rolodex to - people who might have a connection to the Canadian government. And, oddly, your name came up."

"So you shot me that email."

"Wow, you are sharp today."

"I assume you already have a pretty good idea what we are going to see - illegal drilling."

"Yes, but by whom? It could be the LNA trying to pull some cash to pay the troops. Maybe it's even the Green Bay folks trying to get some cash out of the water before Louisiana leaves the fold. So, we take a little boat ride, drown some bait, and see what's out there." That pretty much ended his description. Even if he had more to say, it was damn hard to say it. Charles was deafening us with periodic racing of his engines. Was he never going to be satisfied?

So we continued down the river, staring at the shoreline, occasionally getting out of the way of ocean-going ships, making mile after mile. Cheniere Pass came at us first, the place where the river split in thirds. Charles worked his way around the jumble of buoys and picked the route to North Pass. It wasn't quite like picking one of three exit ramps off a highway, but it did have a little of that feel. Then it was back to following the channel roughly north and east toward the Gulf. That took another hour, time Starr used to camouflage our actions by finding a bucket of bait and setting up our poles. Once we hit the Gulf we were at least going to pretend to be fishing.

So far, everything had seemed reasonable, but then we hit the Gulf and I realized how mad this was. The Gulf just goes on forever. Looking out at the endless expanse of water, how were we supposed to locate any oil rigs at all, much less ones that were supposedly illegal? We could cruise for months and not see anything.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Now we let Charles steer towards the fishing grounds the Venetian fishermen preferred. Since somebody doesn't want them there any more, it stands to reason that's where we start our search." That actually seemed pretty reasonable. So I threw a line into the water, put one hand on my fishing rod, and hoped no stupid fish would bother us while we steered due east.

Did I mention the Gulf is big? For the next two hours we steered due east, making pretty good time in this sad old boat. What did we see? Water. If I were a poet maybe I could extol the virtues of the Gulf -- the wave patterns, and the riffs that appeared with each change in wind, the changes in color and hue. Maybe. But all I saw was water - endless water.

Finally, after two hours we saw sticks on the horizon -- oil rigs. It took us another twenty minutes to get close enough to make out any detail. They were quite an assortment. There was one platform that had a ship moored to it, apparently filling it with crude. Other rigs were for drilling, others for pumping. Starr had done some research on of-shore drilling so he had some idea what he was looking at, and he gave me a general overview of what he saw. I took pictures, using my maximum telephoto lens. Starr told Charles not to get too close, so we turned to the right once we were at a good viewing distance, and we did our looking while trying not to be too obvious. Occasionally we even played with our fishing gear. Ten minutes later we were headed back west, still trolling, or at least looking like we were trolling.

"Did you notice the signs?" Starr asked.

"I'll have to check my image file." I started back through the thirty or so pictures I had taken, and looked for any with writing on them. I found two and blew them up on my camera, showing them to Starr. "Property of Retsof Refinery, keep out"

"Good, We can start going a search on that company when we get back to town."

"You don't need to. I already know who they are."

"And?" He seemed a little impatient, but I was enjoying my own brilliance. I made him wait a few seconds before explained my deduction.

"These aren't very creative people, and they don't feel the need to hide very well. Just read "Retsof" backwards."

"Foster? That's the best they can do to hide their involvement - spell their stupid name backwards?"

"Just because you are rich, doesn't mean you are smart. Or, and here I hope I am wrong, they have absolutely no fear of discovery. They have the right friends in the right places, so they feel safe doing whatever they are doing."

"Time to get back to the office and turn this over to someone with a higher pay grade." Starr told Charles to get the boat back home, and we did a gentle correction as he aimed for the North Pass entrance to the Mississippi. At one point Starr broke out some sandwiches and some water, and we took in our lines and tossed out the bait, but otherwise, we just sat for the next three hours while the boat made it to the river and then worked its way up the channels to home.

Venice harbor is small, and it was full, so Charles slowed the boat almost to a crawl as he steered through the harbor entrance. We were just inside the breakwater when his head exploded. He was up on the flying bridge. The back of his head was atomized and rained down on Starr and me as we stood below. An instant later we heard the report of the rifle that had shot him. The sound of the shot registered with us at some level, and we both dropped to the deck. Unfortunately, that was nearly useless. There must have been dozens of guns firing at us, and of course the old wooden planks were perforated instantly. Starr was hit twice almost before we could hit the deck. I was getting hit with pieces of wood as the gunwales exploded in at us. I had no idea what to do other than to escape, low and then lower. Starr was yelling something, but I couldn't hear it. I just grabbed him by the collar and pulled him behind me toward the stairs leading down into the cabin. We both went down head first, slumping on the floor at the base of the stairs. I looked around for some place lower, but I had no idea how to get down into the bilges. For the moment, this is where we would stay.

Starr was bleeding from an arm, and that looked bad, but his worst wound seemed to be in the abdomen. He was holding his belly with one hand, keeping pressure on. At least one of us had taken a first aid class. I took off my shirt and rolled it with the arms stretched out. I then got it around Starr's middle and tied the arms tight. Meanwhile, we seemed to be below the water line, so no bullets were reaching us, but everything above the water line was being blown in on us. Were they using machine guns? All the windows shattered, blowing glass everywhere, and cabinets that once were part of the galley were blown apart, covering us with dried cereal and coffee grounds.

Through all this, the boat maintained its forward motion. We were crossing the harbor. And then we were at the other side. I felt us hit the first boat, and then it ground along one side of our boat before we hit the second boat. Would these boats give us some protection? No. I understood now that we had grounded, the gunmen could now just walk up on our deck and finish us off. I looked around for someplace to hide. How desperate is that? Trying to hide on a small boat. Meanwhile, the shooting jumped several levels. It sounded like thirty guys were putting bullets into our boat. That made no sense.

And then it stopped. There were a final few shots, but the barrage ended. They would come for us now. I looked around the cabin for any kind of weapon. A flare gun? A kitchen knife? All I saw was broken glass, cold cereal, and coffee. This is where we would die. I heard two men jump onto the deck. At least it would happen fast.

"Murphy. Are you down there?"

"I've got a gun and I will shoot the first person who comes into this cabin."

"Do you have any idea how dumb you sound? I doubt you even have a fishing knife." I was trying to identify the voice. I knew the voice. Who was this?

"Who are you?"

"Colonel Goulet."

"I thought you would be a general by now."

"Enough nonsense. Get up here now. I think we got all of them, but we should get back to town with our wounded."

"We need a medic down here. David Starr of the consulate has been shot." I heard them talking up on deck, and then another person came on board. He poked his head around the doorway.

"How bad is it?"

"He has been shot twice. I think one is pretty bad." It would have been real good if Starr had been able to speak for himself, but he appeared to be barely awake. He was mumbling and moving slightly, trying to hold his belly together. A man in an LNA uniform came down the stairs and knelt next to Starr.

"There's not much I can do beyond what you have already done. We have used up our medical supplies on three of our own who were wounded. We will get him into a car. If he lives to the hospital, he has a good chance. But you are right, that wound looks bad." He called up the stairs and two more men jumped on board and then came down the stairs. Starr was a pretty big guy, and wrestling him up on deck and then onto the dock was not easy. And, I suspect it was not pain free.

I followed him up on deck. There was Colonel Goulet wearing fatigues and carrying a pistol. His uniform was torn and dirty, and his face was bathed in sweat. He looked like a man who had run ten miles and fallen down every mile.

"What happened?" I asked. You can always count on me to go straight for the obvious.

"They were waiting for you. We were tipped off, but we still got here about ten minutes too late. There were six of them, all dead. And we took two dead and three wounded trying to save your sorry ass. You can thank me later. Right now, we need to get out of here."

"I'll thank you now, although I still don't know what is going on. Why kill Charles? What did he ever do?

"He took the wrong people on a charter. Now keep moving and get in the car."

"I have a car of my own."

"Really?" He pointed to my black limo, now a beat up hulk on flat tires. Various liquids ran from underneath. This was probably the last straw for the leasing company. I doubted I would be getting another car from them any time soon. Goulet pointed to a large Peugeot SUV. Three that were identical to it were already leaving the harbor. No doubt that is where the wounded were. Goulet and I and two of his soldiers were the last ones to leave. I asked about Charles. Goulet said the local police had been notified, and they would take care of it. I hoped that was true. The man deserved better than to be shot and left collapsed on his boat like a pile of old clothing.

Where were we going? Back to New Orleans, back up the endless highway. I noticed that Goulet kept his pistol on his lap and the man riding "shotgun" in the front seat really did look like he was ready to fire, only he carried an automatic weapon rather than a shotgun. The fight might or might not be over.

# Chapter 6 –

# Fishing has its consequences

The nearest hospital was a forty-five minute drive. As we drove, Goulet watched out the windows constantly. His nervousness naturally built my nervousness. Who were we fighting? It seemed like a reasonable question to ask.

"Who was shooting at us back there?" I asked the back of Goulet's head.

"Foster thugs." He said to his window. His pistol came up as another car passed going in the other direction. Once it passed us, he lowered his weapon again. "Care to tell me why you were out on the Gulf?"

I wasn't sure how much I should tell him, but it appeared he had saved my life, so in the end I decided to be honest. "David Starr is with the American consulate. Some drunk Americans told him there was an illegal oil rig on the Gulf. He wanted to see if it was true."

"What an idiot." Goulet turned from his window and looked directly at me to make sure I got the full measure of his distain. "Why didn't he just call me? I could have told him there were illegal rigs out there, and I could have told him who owned them. If he is the best spy you Americans have, you really need to improve your hiring practices."

"So you know those are Foster rigs?"

"Of course. Those thieving Americans are all over down here. I am glad we were able to kill some of their people today."

"Why not shut the rigs down?"

"Now you are asking a question that isn't completely stupid. How is it American thugs are protecting American oil rigs in Louisiana? Who in Louisiana might make that happen? If you can find an answer to that one, you might actually be useful. Now leave me alone while I watch this highway." For the rest of the trip his eyes never left the highway, and we had nothing more to say to each other.

Eventually we got to the hospital and we parted company there, but I at least made a gesture. As we got out of the vehicles I stepped around to his side of the car and held out my hand. "Thank you." He stared at me and at my hand for a very long time. Finally he took my hand – briefly – and then walked off to see to his wounded.

I hurried to where Starr was being loaded onto a gurney. I was relieved to see he was still breathing. I followed him into the emergency room and sat in the waiting room while they wheeled him into an examination area and pulled curtains around him. Leading into the room was a trail of blood. I hoped he had enough left to make it through all this.

Miraculously, my cell phone had survived, so I found the consulate number through information, and contacted the duty officer there. They didn't sound surprised by my call, but apparently his current location was news to them, and they promised to have "people" at the hospital soon.

That responsibility accomplished, I began to think of taking a cab back to my hotel, only to have one of the nurses come over and tell me they could see me now. I looked down at the blood on my t-shirt and realized not all of it was Starr's. Maybe having a doctor take a look at me might not be such a bad idea. I followed her into one of the examination rooms and sat at the edge of an examination table. Ten minutes passed, and I was beginning to think they had forgotten about me, when a very young physician finally got around to taking a look at me. He and a nurse had me undress and then they both went over my body looking for the sources of my bleeding. I didn't count, but the final number was nearly two dozen. Fortunately, none of them were serious. In three places they pulled pieces of wood from my skin where old boards had exploded into me, but the rest of the cuts were just the result of crawling over glass and other debris. In short, I was worth a few minutes of their time while they looked for real problems, but once it was clear I wasn't in any real danger, the doctor moved on while the nurse rubbed antiseptic on me, and looked at me disapprovingly when I winced. I had just been shot at by lots of bad guys, now I was supposed to sit manfully while chemicals were rubbed into open wounds? No way. I winced every time. By the final cut she was actually smiling a bit. That probably helped more than the antiseptic.

Finally, covered in bandages, but still wearing a bloody t-shirt over them all, I stepped back out to the waiting area, Standing there were four very large men, two of whom I recognized from the Granary. American soldiers were on the scene.

"Sergeant Rodrigues, sir" one of the soldiers said when he saw me. "Can you tell us about Mr. Starr?"

"He's in one of the rooms being treated for his wounds." I pointed in the general direction of where I had seen him taken. The sergeant motioned to his men and two of them went off in that direction.

"One of the consular officers would like to talk with you outside, sir, if you are done here." There was something in the sergeant's stance that told me I was going to be speaking to the consulate guy whether I wanted to or not. Even if you said "sir," and made it sound like a request, if you are wearing a side arm and have shoulders wider than a doorway, requests come across as orders. Not that I had an objection. Why not talk to my own government? I nodded my head and then followed the sergeant out to the parking lot. It was not hard to find the consular car. It was a huge limo, had an American flag on the side, and it was also the only Ford in the lot. The sergeant opened a back door for me, and I slid in.

There were actually two people waiting for me inside. A man who appeared to be barely thirty sat at the opposite end of the back seat. Perched opposite him on a jump seat was a woman who I took to be in her fifties. Gray hair, gray suit, she was almost invisible against the gray interior of the car. But glancing at her face, I thought maybe she was the adult in the room. But it was the boy ambassador who did all the talking.

"Doctor Murphy, I am Elliot Pound and this is Helen Austin. We are very pleased you were able to escape the attack, although it looks like you have sustained some wounds."

"These are just superficial cuts, and they have been cleaned and bandaged. Once I get back to the hotel and get a clean shirt, I will be fine. I am afraid David Starr's situation is much worse. He was shot twice, and bled quite a bit before they got him to this hospital. I have not heard about his current condition."

"Could you tell us about the attack?"

"Sure. It happened as we entered the harbor. The boat owner was shot in the head and killed. Starr and I dropped to the deck, but he was hit twice. I pulled him down into the boat's cabin while the gunmen and the LNA fought each other. Eventually the LNA people got us and brought us here."

"You saw the gunmen and the LNA fight each other?"

"No. We were in the cabin of the boat staying as low as we could to avoid being shot."

"Did you see any of these gunmen after the fight?"

"No. Colonel Goulet told me they had all been killed."

"Did you see their bodies?"

"No. We got off the boat and went straight into the LNA vehicles to get the wounded up to the hospital."

"So you don't really know who was shooting at you." What is it about me that attracts smug bastards? I'm sitting there covered in bandages and blood, and this guy who is barely old enough to shave wants to tell me what I did or did not see. Why?

"I assume you are making a point."

"I hear you are a bit of a journalist as well as a professor. I am suggesting care in how you report this incident."

"Thank you for the advice. Good bye." I yanked the car handle up and practically jumped out of the car. That was stupid. I could feel several of my cuts tear against the bandages. I would be bleeding in many spots again. Worse yet, now I would have to find my own way back to my hotel. But there was something about the way he said "a bit of a journalist" that took him off my Christmas card list. Let him have his limo. I walked around to the front entrance of the hospital and looked for a cab. Seeing the condition of my clothing, there was no rush to give me a ride. I'm not stupid. I pulled a fifty franc note from my wallet, raised it in the air, and surprise, surprise, a cab pulled to the curb right in front of me. Ten minutes later I was back at my hotel. I gave him the fifty francs, and then fifty more when I saw the blood I had left on the seat. The guy was going to have some cleaning to do.

# Chapter 7 –

# Things aren't much better in New Orleans

I was concerned about how people back at the hotel might react to my appearance, but there was no side entrance to the place. My thought was to move through the lobby as quickly as I could, hit the stairs, and be out of sight before too many guests got a good look at me. No such luck. I barely got a foot on the stairs and three hotel employees, including the manager, were running after me. "Doctor Murphy – what happened. Here, let us help, what can we do for you?" etc. I was grateful for the concern, but not for the visibility. So I kept climbing stairs while hotel people followed. Once we got to the second floor, I paused outside my door.

"I was hurt during a boating accident. I have been to a hospital and they have dressed my wounds, but I probably could use a fresh set of bandages. Could I get that? In the meantime, I think I should shower and change clothes. I am sure I will look and feel better after I have had a chance to clean up." That seemed to settle the matter. They knew what had happened, they knew what I was going to do, and they had a purchase to make.

Off they went, but the manager did hang back for a moment to softly tell me, "Please Doctor Murphy, be careful. These are dangerous times." I thanked him for his concern and went into my room. I really did think a shower and a change of clothes would make everything right. I can be pretty stupid.

I got my bloody clothes off and hit the shower, only to discover that the water hurt in far too many places. I dialed the temperature around trying to find some temperature that hurt less, and played with the pressure to find something more soothing. If there was a right temperature and pressure, I never found it. Then there was the bandaging fiasco. The hotel people found a box of bandages and had it waiting in my bedroom when I got out of the shower. Now the problem was how to get them on. I would reach around to get at one cut, only to feel the pull of another cut. Every bandage I put on seemed too small, so I went for the large ones, and then everywhere I looked I could see this huge white blob, often overlaying some other bandage. In sum, I made a total mess of it.

Next, I needed to make some phone calls. I wanted to get to Elise before anyone else did. So I sat on a couch in my living room in my underwear, bandages stacked all over my body, trying to dial the phone and hold it to my ear without pulling one of the bandages free. She picked up on the first ring.

"Hi. Were you shot?" How could she possibly know something had happened? It had been maybe three hours since the shooting. I looked at a clock on the wall. Hmm. Maybe it had been four hours.

"Yes. I got a few scrapes and cuts, but no wounds. Really, I'm fine."

"Men were killed."

"Yes, the boat owner was killed, and there was a gun battle between some thugs and some LNA guys and some more died. But I am back at my hotel and I am safe."

"I won't beg you to come home, but do please give it some thought."

"I promise I will. Now let me tell you what I saw today." And I filled her in on the trip and the Retsof Refinery signs. Then I told her everything Goulet had said. He hadn't really said that much, but the fact that he didn't know who was backing Foster and the illegal rigs seemed important. We talked about that for a while, comparing possible theories. Then, because I am not a complete fool, I told her I loved her and missed her. That ended the call.

Next I called my dad, both to give him the Foster refinery connection, and to reassure him I was fine. I discovered the shooting of an American consular official made the news back home, but I had not been mentioned by name. Good. I promised to check in daily, and then let him get back to work.

Still sitting in my underwear, periodically pushing bandages back on that were already falling off, I gave some thought to my blog. What should I say? Anything? That debate lasted about a microsecond. These bastards weren't going to get away with this. I fired up my computer, transferred the images from my camera, picked the ones that were clearest and identified Retsof, and then began the story. As it turned out, the one tourist thing I had done that morning became most meaningful. I had taken a picture of Charles up on the flying bridge. I built the story around him. This guy had taken us out to see illegal rigs, and this nice guy in the picture was now dead. I probably spent two thousand words describing the trip, what we saw, and the shootings after we returned to port. I reread it three times, carefully proofing it, and then uploaded it to my blog site. Done. What were the bastards going to do now, shoot me? Again?

So now what? I briefly considered just going to bed, but it wasn't even eight yet, and besides, I had some weird energy surge. I wanted to do something. Assuming having clothes on would be useful, I went to my closet and started looking at anything that was loose fitting, but also long sleeved. Somehow I was drawn to two white shirts. White? One thought led to another, and I soon knew where I would be going – the south district.

Knowing what I wanted to do and actually doing it turned out to be two different things. I had no idea it would hurt so much to pull on pants and a shirt. And socks? How much glass had I crawled over? Getting socks over all the bandages took forever. But, only fifteen or twenty minutes after I had made up my mind, I was out of my room and down in the lobby asking for a cab. Apparently I didn't look as good as I felt, for the manager came right over to tell me he would be happy to send a meal up to my room. But no, I was going out. The manager actually walked out to the front entrance with me while we waited for the cab to arrive. I suspect he was assuming I would change my mind. Little did he know my mind. I was going to the South District, although any intelligent person would know going to bed was the far better option. Not me. The cab arrived and I gave directions. The driver gave me one good look, but satisfied my bandages would stay in place, he drove me across the river.

Okay, so what was I after? The summer before, Margaret Riemard had shown me a large square with open-air restaurants on three sides. It was Huguenot central. Everyone wore white, and everyone cheered for the greater glory of the Heritage Party and the LNA. Having seen a good man killed, and having survived their bullets, I wanted to stare into those faces.

Ten minutes later I was across the river and to the edge of the square. I got out of the cab and strolled across the square with my shoulders back and my fists clenched. You want me? Here I am. Yes, I am wearing a white shirt, so I may look like you, but I am not you. Get a little closer and you will find out.

I walked straight across the square and nothing happened. There were plenty of people around, maybe not as many as the summer before, but the restaurants were mostly full and people were walking around, but no one paid any attention to me. They talked among themselves, sat and ate, strolled here and there. I was invisible.

Okay, so now what? Might as well eat. I saw the restaurant where Margaret had taken me last summer, and asked for a table. I caught a bit of a stare as the maitre D' noticed the bandages protruding from under my shirt, but he didn't make a big deal of it. He escorted me to a table, gave me a menu, and had a waiter at my table in seconds. Service here was pretty good. I asked for wine and a fish dish, and had glass of wine in my hand within minutes. They were making it pretty hard for me to maintain my anger.

I was working on my fish and my second glass of wine when Margaret arrived.

"Hi." She really was a beautiful woman. I could see the beauty queen that she had once been, except now she had the maturity of a woman. She stood about two feet away from my table. While wearing white was a political statement down here, I could see how it also worked for the right woman. She was wearing a white cotton dress with thin straps and a hem several inches above her knees. She looked like an angel. I had kissed her once, and I had also been very angry at her once. And now? Now she was a familiar face.

"Hi." We looked at each other.

"May I join you?" There was no expectation on her face. She was asking a question, and it didn't appear she was sure what answer she would receive.

"Please do. Have you eaten?"

"Yes, but I will join you for a glass of wine." I motioned to a waiter going past, and he took her order. "I wasn't sure if you would let me sit. Last summer you were very angry with me."

"You lied to me about your position at the archives."

"I enhanced my qualifications. I shouldn't have done that."

"There was no need."

"Yes, there was. I am a beautiful woman. Because I am beautiful, people assume I am not intelligent. I have a degree in history from a leading university. My grades were high. I have done graduate work in history. But because I am beautiful, no one takes my professional work seriously."

"Yes."

"No, no, no. It is not enough to say 'yes' and acknowledge the problem, it is a serious problem."

"I say 'yes' because I think I understand it. For men, it is brains and athletic ability. We assume you cannot have both. And there is a reason for that."

"Oh?"

"I have thought about this problem many times, and I have decided people believe God is a socialist." Remember I was on my second glass of wine by this point. So I kept going. "God wants to be fair to all, to treat all equally, so if he gives talent in athletics to one, he must give talent in school work to another. Each one gets something; no one gets two talents when others get none. That would not be fair, and God is fair. He is a socialist. That is what we believe."

"You are a funny man, Doctor Murphy, I missed you."

"I appreciated you help in the archives. You found me great books to read." I was about to go on extolling the virtues of the provincial archives, but my phone rang. I could have sworn I had turned it off, but it rang anyway. It was Elise.

"You are sitting at a table with Margaret Riemard. You cannot stay there. Go to her apartment. You will be safe there. Stay there until I call again." I didn't argue. I got up, threw some money on the table and took Margaret's hand.

"I am sorry, but Elise just called and said I am not safe here. She said I should go to your apartment. Do you mind?" By the time I had finished my question we were already out of the restaurant and walking across the square to her apartment building.

"Of course not." She was wearing heels but still managed to move so fast I was practically running at her side. I looked around to see where the danger might be, but all I saw was an endless sea of white clothing. It was pretty easy to blend in here.

We crossed the square, got to her building entrance, and were up to her second floor apartment in seconds. I asked her to leave the lights off, and I sat in the floor next to one of the front windows. I had a good view of the square. I didn't see anything for a few minutes, and then I saw four fairly large men converge at the front if the building. I couldn't hear them talk, but from the looks they were aiming up at our windows, I was pretty sure we were the topic of conversation. There seemed to be some disagreement about what to do next, but one of the men seemed to be taking charge, and he was pointing in several directions. My best guess of body language was they were supposed to spread out and wait for me.

Just as they were splitting up, Margaret sat down on the floor behind me, her head peering around me at the street. In her right hand was a very large pistol. When she saw me looking at it, she said "When the Iroquois attack..."

"Everyone is a warrior." I finished the saying for her. "I knew Canadian women were beautiful. I had no idea they were also so dangerous."

"We are what we need to be." That ended the conversation for a while. We both stared at the street. Having seen the four men disperse, we now looked up and down the street for any sign of them. They were still out there, somewhere.

As she leaned forward to look out the windows, Margaret put a hand on my side and I flinched. "Are you hurt?"

"I was involved in a shooting this afternoon. They killed the boat captain, and tried to kill us."

"That was you on the news?"

"That was me. We saw some things we were not supposed to see."

"I will call some friends to help." She got up and went to wherever her phone was. I heard her make several calls. Presumably help was on the way. While we waited, she came back and sat down behind me. This time she touched my back and side much more gently. "Do you remember kissing me?"

"Yes, I do. Did you know Elise was standing nearby and saw the whole thing?"

"She is a Canadian woman. She would understand."

"I am not sure any woman would understand." Just then the understanding lady herself called.

"They are assuming you will either spend the night with Margaret, or you will go to the cab stand on your right. So that is where they are positioned. Leave by the front door, but stay close to the wall and walk to your left. Move quickly for four blocks. Just before you get to a bridge there is another cab stand. This cab is ours. Please be safe." And she hung up.

I got up and headed to the apartment door.

"Before you go." Margaret had her arms around my neck and gave me the kiss of a lifetime. Wow she was good. My arms just naturally wrapped around her, and for a minute I completely forgot about whatever was out there.

When I finally managed to get my mouth away from hers long enough to talk, I said, "You are beautiful, and smart, and brave." And then I twisted away and moved to the door while I still could. I took the stairs making as little noise as I could, and then I was out the door, walking with my left shoulder brushing the building. I am not a small guy, and I was wearing a bright white shirt, but maybe wearing the same shirt as everyone else helped. All I know is, I made it. I moved fast for four blocks and found a cab with a really large cab driver. He had the cab moving before I even had the door closed, and we raced across the bridge and back to my hotel.

# Chapter 8 –

# A little history might help

Elise and I had a long talk after I got back to the hotel. The ministry had people watching out for me, but they really weren't able to deal with the amount of trouble I seemed to be attracting. Maybe I should come back to Green Bay. That was the smart move, and clearly the obvious choice. I decided not to be smart, but also not to be stupid. I had only been in town a little over twenty four hours. I had barely seen the place. I would give it another day, maybe two at the most and then get back home. The silence at the other end of the line made Elise' reaction clear. If she could teleport me out of town, she would do it. But she didn't object. She made me promise to be careful, and then she was off the line, no doubt to call the local security detail and ask for more men.

I dropped into bed and got some sleep, but every time I turned my body I rolled over onto one cut or another and woke up again. In the morning I found a number of blood spots on the sheets. I was going to have to tip the housekeeping staff pretty seriously. After another shower and another clumsy attempt at bandaging myself, I went down to breakfast.

I discovered management had been protecting me. A dozen or so folks were waiting to speak with me, all held back at the hotel entrance by three hotel employees. Henri, the manager, waited until I was seated at a table and then came over to me with a piece of paper. He had taken the names of all the people standing outside. He would let any in who I wished to speak to; all others were staying right where they were. I thanked him, took the list, and ordered breakfast.

Did I want to speak to these people? No, I wanted to eat breakfast. But I took the list and saw two names I would speak to – one a friend, and one an officious little... well, talking to him was a duty of my citizenship. I would talk to my friend first. I got up and walked to the entrance. Andre Guillard was standing in the back of the group, waiting patiently. You have to love librarians, they are such good and kind and gentle people. He smiled when he saw me. I pushed my way through the others at the door and shook his hand.

"Thank you so much for visiting me. I apologize for this wait at the door. Please come join me for breakfast." And we entered the hotel together, ignoring the calls to "Doctor Murphy" from the strangers around us. "It is kind of you to come see me. How are things at the provincial library?" I asked as we took seats at my table. A waiter appeared instantly and took Guillard's order for a cup of coffee and a croissant.

"We still have a budget. In these times there are many higher priorities than libraries, but still we have not been cut too badly. I think maybe they have forgotten about us, and maybe that is a good thing." He had a big smile at this point. Given all that was going on around him, I am sure that just maintaining normal activities seemed like a victory of sorts.

"I am pleased to hear that. You have an important collection. Your archives especially, are unique. They are a treasure."

"I have come to talk with you about some things I found there. By the way, I was very sorry about what happened yesterday, and I am pleased that you look so well today, although a bandage near your throat seems to be slipping." He was right. I reached up and pressed a bandage down, hoping it might stay down for at least a little while.

"I have no medical skills. You would think applying a simple adhesive bandage would be easy. For me, it is a challenge. But tell me what you found."

"I heard that you and Minister DuPry had spent some time in Kaskaskia. I could see why that town would be attractive to you as you studied the early trading patterns of the country. So I did a search of our archives, and I have found five diaries that might be of interest to you. Each of them tells of travels by New Orleans community leaders to Kaskaskia, and their interactions with Claude Jolliet and others. Here are their catalog numbers." He handed me a sheet of paper with the names and numbers of the diaries.

"This is a phenomenal gift. Would it be possible for me to visit the archives later today?"

"Of course." I put the paper in my pocket, patted my bandage down yet again, and we moved on to other topics. He was engaged with the local historical society, so we talked a bit about last year's wagon train reenactment, and then about current meetings of the group. It seemed the big money had moved on to other projects, and the local society was back to meeting on folding chairs in various places. He seemed happy to get his society back to the way it had been before, a small group of mostly elderly people who had no money or influence, but had a great regard for the achievements of the past.

Eventually we finished our meal and our conversation. I thanked him for his time and promised to see him later in the day. So much for my pleasant visit. Now that I was fortified with food and coffee, I would see the other visitor, the representative of my country. I walked Guillard to the front entrance, pointed to the consular rep, motioned for him to follow, and returned to my table.

I sat down and pointed to a chair across from me. Yes, I know my manners were lacking. Where was the handshake and the greeting? What can I say, I didn't like being called a "bit of a journalist." I could also tell from the expression on his face, this was not a social call.

"Would you like some coffee?" I can at least go through the motions if I wish.

"This is not a social call." See? I told you so.

"So you are not here to check on my well being?"

"I am here because I spoke with you yesterday about the need to have evidence before you make wild accusations, yet I have seen your blog. The Foster brothers are your fellow Americans, and they have rights. By the way, they have taken ads in all the newspapers that used pieces of your blog – and many did not since they knew you were guilty of libel – and the Fosters have reminded the public that you represent a competing business family and have obviously photoshopped the images you used."

"You mean the image of Charles Desautels before he had his head blown apart?"

"Don't be dense."

"You are right. This isn't a social call. But you did your job. You delivered the message the Fosters wanted you to deliver. Are we done?"

"Are you sure it wasn't the LNA that shot you up? Why would you blame your countrymen rather than a bunch of pretend warriors from a pretend country? You admit you never saw the gun fight they claim happened."

"If it was the LNA, why didn't they finish us off on the boat? We were lying in the cabin bleeding and half buried under kitchen appliances. They could have killed us then and there. Instead, they took us to a hospital."

"They certainly look like heroes this way."

"They _were_ heroes. I am sure David Starr feels that way. Speaking of which, how is your colleague doing?"

"Once he was stabilized, he was put on a plane to Philadelphia. I understand he is in serious condition, but they expect him to survive."

"I am pleased to hear that. Now, don't you think you should be looking for the people who shot your colleague?"

"I know how to do my job."

"Yes, but what exactly is your job?" He didn't answer that. We engaged in a bit of a stare down, and then he got up and walked out the door. As he walked away, I wondered if I had hit on the right question. What was his job? What was he after? For some reason I was reminded of the conversation I had with Senator Dodson and the answer he gave when I asked what the position of the US was. He said the U.S. was a democracy, so it didn't have a position, it had thousands of positions, one for every power broker in the country. I wondered if that applied to consulates as well. Too bad I couldn't ask Starr. He would at least tell me if he and this guy sang from the same hymnal. My guess was they didn't.

So now what? I liked the idea of going to the provincial library to see the diaries Guillard had set aside for me. But how could I get out of the hotel without talking to all the folks at the front entrance. Several were from newspapers. They had made that clear from shouted questions when I had gone outside before. I didn't want to talk to them. I have no trouble with news people; I read their papers every morning. But did I want to do interviews? No. I was here to learn what I could, and then leave. Pardon me for being selfish with my time.

I signed for my breakfast and then walked over to the manager's office. First, I needed to thank him. He was handling a bad situation really well. I hoped the other guests saw how well guests were protected here and passed the word. This was a quality hotel and deserved more business. But I had one more favor to ask – a back way out. Henri seemed to be ready for the request. He just smiled and walked toward the kitchen. I followed him through the kitchen, through a pantry, and out a back door. I shook his hand and did a quick walk through the alley and out to the street. The provincial library was just six blocks away, and I was there in record time.

I thought there might be some drama going through security, but Mr. Guillard had been working in the lobby, keeping an eye out for me, and the minute I was through the front door he came over and buzzed me through.

"I hope you find these diaries useful. They are from different years, roughly a fifty year time spread from when people from New Orleans first ventured up to Kaskaskia to when it became fairly routine. If you would like, we can keep searching past that fifty year window."

"It is amazing you have multiple diaries from those early years." I was following him to the back of the library and then down the tiny elevator to the archives. "I have read materials from Claude Jolliet and from his sons, but this is the first I have seen materials from the other side, and..." by now we had reached the basement and the archives. Standing at a counter next to a stack of books was Margaret Riemard. "Hello Margaret."

"Hello." She turned and looked at me, holding my gaze. She was wearing another white dress, and once again, she looked like an angel. I thought to myself, no, Elise would not understand.

"Thank you for last night."

"You are welcome." I have no idea Guillard was thinking as we had this bit of dialog, but he went on as if he had heard nothing.

"Ms Riemard has joined us as assistant archivist. You may remember how helpful she was in the past. We started looking through diaries last week when it occurred to us they might be useful to you. Our initial thought was to digitize them as time permitted and get them to you electronically, but since you are here, you can work with the original materials."

"That was very thoughtful. I appreciate the time you took." Margaret was holding the books out to me. I walked over to her to take the books, her eyes never leaving me. No, Elise would not understand. I smiled, hoping it was my very professional "thank you" smile, took the books, and turned away. I think my breathing was mostly normal. "Might I have a study carrel to review these?" I asked Guillard.

"Certainly. I think Margaret has a place selected for you."

Margaret led me back to the elevator. Did I mention it is the world's smallest elevator? She stood just inches from me, smiling a smile that said she knew exactly how uncomfortable I was standing that close to her, and she was enjoying every second of the ride. She didn't say a word. I didn't say a word. Eons passed, and eventually the elevator made it to the second floor. She led me to a row of study carrels knowing it would be watching her every move -- and I was.

Once we were to the carrel she had set up for me, she gave me a quick overview of each of the diaries, and then stood waiting. When I said nothing, she smiled and walked back to the elevator. Eventually my breathing returned to normal, and I sat down at the desk.

My first thought was to do a quick scan of the diaries. I would look to see when they had gone to Kaskaskia, how frequently, whether they had gone as a crew member or as a captain, that sort of thing. The scan never happened. I opened the first page and was hooked. These were interesting men.

The first one was Marcel DeKalb. His diary ends when he is thirty two, usually a sign he has died of disease, or was lost in a storm. But he had an interesting life while it lasted. It appeared he grew up on a farm just south of New Orleans, and while he never comes out and says it, I got the impression by the time he was fourteen he had decided he had worked all he intended to work. His folks sent him in to town one Saturday with a load of vegetables to sell, and he was still selling things eighteen years later. His first trip to Kaskaskia he had a bag of trade goods on the boat, and while the other traders sold lumber and some finished goods they had brought over from France, Marcel sold alligator teeth, flamingo feathers, and – when no one was looking – rum to the local Indians in trade for buffalo hides, and beaver pelts. Buffalo hides were huge and heavy, but he managed to get three on the boat for the return trip to New Orleans, where he made a large profit selling to sailors who then assumed they would also make a large profit when they sold to folks back in LeHavre. He did so well he began going to Kaskaskia three times a year, and eventually he owned his own boat.

What did I learn about the river trade? It was more extensive than just northern food for southern lumber, and I was reminded that Kaskaskia was a meeting place, but goods traded there might be traded many more times either up the river or down. I also learned about dangers on the river. Robbery was attempted, either from tribes along the river, or criminals from either Canada or Louisiana who were drawn to the riches each river boat represented. Shoot outs were common. Robbers were hung on the spot, without trial. No boat went very far without muskets ready for use.

Diary number two had been seriously damaged. It had been recopied numerous times, as had all the others, but it was clear this one had taken a beating before some family member found it in some trunk and thought to bring it to the library. The copiers had taken instruction well, and had not attempted to "fix" the diary by filling in pages that had rotted, or words that had been buried under mold. Given the condition of the original book, you might have thought the family would have just discarded it. Fortunately, they had not. They transcribed an amazing story, and while pieces of the story were missing, the parts that remained were very impressive.

The man, Francois Beroux, was a builder. He had built several of the homes in New Orleans, and then he began building boats. His trip to Kaskaskia was to show off one of his designs, take orders for more boats, and then return to New Orleans to build them. While that had been his intent, one thing led to another, and he was hired to build homes first in Kaskaskia, and then throughout Illinois. What made his time especially interesting, is he was building homes at a time when the Illinois were moving to a more settled life. Where before they had built buildings of poles and bark, quick to build and no loss when the tribe moved to a new hunting ground, now they were becoming more permanent and wanted homes that better stood up to the prairie winds. He ended up spending eight years with the Illinois, slowing traveling up the Illinois River all the way to the new settlement of Chicago. He had stories to tell about every village and every village leader. If the diary had not been so badly water damaged, it could have been the source of an entire anthropology course. What had life really been like as the Illinois bands built more permanent communities? Beroux was there to tell about it.

By the time I had finished reading the second diary it was well past lunch time. I needed to stretch and to eat. I took all five back down to archives where they would be protected, and I invited Margaret to lunch. We could be friends. We could talk professionally. It would be fun to talk about the diaries with her. That's the way I saw it, and that's the way I would make it be.

There were a number of restaurants near the library with outdoor seating. Given that winter in Green Bay lasts about eleven months, if I can eat outdoors in the summer, I do it. We had no trouble finding a restaurant and took a table shaded by a large umbrella. Our conversation? Very professional.

"Are you finding what you need in the diaries?" Margaret had taken a seat next to me, both of us covered by the shade of the umbrella. There was a slight breeze that moved her hair, and she responded by periodically moving it off her face and over her shoulder.

"The two I have looked at are very interesting. They give me a much more comprehensive view of the interactions going on between the Huguenots and the peoples of Illinois."

"I am pleased you found them helpful." She smiled pleasantly, and took my hand. "If you would like additional diaries, we can keep searching." Her eyes seemed to never leave my face. I found myself looking everywhere but at her. There was some traffic going by, and lots of the other tables were filling, and where was our waiter?

"What is your plan for digitizing the collection?" I asked. I would keep this conversation professional if it killed me.

"We scan carefully. We have a priority list based on how often a book is looked at. The more people seem interested in it, the higher it goes on the list. All five diaries that you are looking at have been pushed up the list because of your interest." Her hand moved on mine as she spoke.

"Will you retain the paper versions?" If the damn waiter would come, I could move my hand to take the menu. Until then, it would seem odd to pull away from her, wouldn't it?

"Paper is still the best medium for records. Digital copies are easy to transmit, of course, but the recommended formats keep changing and early research has shown that no electronic medium is really as permanent as we would expect. Good paper in a good room will last centuries. Digital storage is vulnerable to EMI, and besides how do we even know what digital technologies will be available to us a century from now?" She was right, of course. She really did know her stuff. If the point was she could be smart as well as beautiful, she was making the point brilliantly. With the hand that was not holding mine, she moved her hair again. I looked, and she smiled. Where the hell was the waiter?

At this point a large man in a uniform took a seat across from us – Colonel Goulet.

"Hi, Margaret. You look beautiful as always." She smiled in response. They were old friends. "And for you, Murphy, I have a gift." He handed me a piece of paper with concentric circles drawn in pen. "I have no artistic ability, but I think you can understand what it is."

"It looks a bit like a target."

"Got it on the first try. I would like you to put it on your back. Oh wait. That won't be necessary. You already have managed to put a target on your back by sitting outside, right near the street. Nice of you, by the way. Your assassin won't even have to get out of his car."

"We're in the middle of town. It's broad day light. How dangerous is this city of yours?"

"Don't put this on me or my city. As near as I can tell, this is about you Americans taking your fight over here. If you want to kill each other, no problem. Just don't do it here."

"Okay, I admit this smells like it is coming from the U.S. I would bet on the Fosters. But I don't think they are working alone over here."

"That's my problem to deal with. Your problem is to stay alive. And – if you plan on being stupid about this – don't risk Margaret in the process."

"Fair enough. Margaret, my apologies." I stood and left. Margaret followed right behind me.

"We can order food brought to the library," she told me as we both walked pretty quickly back across the street.

"Good idea." She reached her hand out to me and I took it as we climbed the stairs back up to the main entrance of the library. I hadn't noticed before, but two uniformed guards stood on each side of the entrance.

"I will order something for us, once we get down to the archives area." She continued to hold my hand as we crossed the lobby and got into the tiny elevator. The minute the doors closed, she moved my hand around to her back and leaned in to me. "Will you visit me tonight in South Square?"

"I think that would be too dangerous. And I don't think Elise would understand."

"She asked you to go to my apartment last night."

"I think her intentions were different than yours."

"How do you know what my intentions are?" I had no idea what to say to that, not that an answer was needed. She already had her arms around my neck and was kissing me. The arm that was around her back had a mind of its own, and it was pulling her closer and tighter. Two or three eons later the elevator finally made it to the basement and the doors opened. We separated. She smiled. I waited for her to turn and walk into the archives area, and then I took the elevator back up to my floor. I wasn't sure if the bigger danger to me was out on the street or here in this elevator.

# Chapter 9 –

# Reading and hiding

I spent the afternoon reading the three remaining diaries. At one point Margaret brought me a sandwich. I paid her and then went back to reading. I have to admit to being a little disappointed in diaries number three and four. The authors had traveled up the river multiple times, but they both seemed to be blind. One seemed obsessed with the weather, and there was a daily report on temperature and rain fall. Since there was nothing approaching our contemporary thermometers, the best he could do was classify days into hot and really hot. He thought Illinois was really hot most days.

Diary four was less a diary and more an account book used to log what he bought and sold. I copied down some of his prices to get a sense of what kind of profit these guys were making. In general, it appeared they were doubling prices as they moved from buying to selling. Given the effort they went through to acquire their merchandise, and the transportation costs, and the risk of loss through storms or thieves, I actually thought their markup was pretty modest. But other than that, I didn't see much in the diary that helped me understand the relations between the Huguenots and the people of Illinois.

Then I started diary five and a whole new world opened up to me. The guy was a talker, and he liked to record his thoughts each day. He wasn't a preacher, but it would not surprise me if he had preachers in his family, or politicians. He talked to people, and then wrote about it in his diary, working on various ways to interpret what he had heard. Most of his interpretations were pretty original, and often pretty wild and speculative. All that was interesting for the first thirty pages as he wrote about events in Baton Rouge, and it got more interesting when he described his trip to Kaskaskia. Nominally he was there as a purchasing agent for his family, but I doubt if they got much real purchasing out of him. He was too busy talking to every man in the town.

And here's where I nearly jumped out of my chair. One of the men he spoke with was Louis Jolliet, grandson of _the_ Louis Jolliet, and the year was 1754. What was their conversation about? The invasion of the Ohio Valley by Virginia militia under the command of George Washington. The diarist misspelled Virginia and Washington, but through his conversation with Jolliet, he got most of the essential information about the invasion correct. Washington had attacked first, he had been defeated, and he and his men had been driven back over the mountains. July Fourth had been a triumph for the French.

It was interesting to know that folks in Kaskaskia knew about the fight already in mid-August when the journal entry was made, and interesting to know how accurately they conveyed information from settlement to settlement. But the diarist was a talker and thinker, so he also spent nearly four pages of very expensive paper describing what Jolliet said, and what he had said in response. It wasn't quite the dialogs of Plato, but it was a pretty extensive analysis of options and opportunities.

First, Jolliet understood Washington pretty well. This was not a raid by thirty Virginians hoping to trade illegally with the Indians and get some furs back over the mountains before they got caught. Two hundred men who took the time to pull cannons over the mountains had come to stay. This was an effort at territorial conquest.

Second, he saw right away why Washington had gone for the headwaters of the Ohio. Once they were solidly in control of that area, they could come down the Ohio at any time and take the middle out of Canada. Washington fortified at Duquesne was an existential threat to Canada.

Much as I was impressed by Jolliet, I was fascinated by the reactions of the diarist. He listened to Jolliet, and he understood the threat, but sitting in his river boat that night and writing in his diary by lamp light, it was clear he was still determining what the Washington invasion might mean to the Huguenots. Jolliet was sure Washington would try again, if not the following year, then soon thereafter. The diarist, Joseph Theire, put two and two together and came up with several versions of four. In one version the Virginians came over the mountains again, took the Ohio, and then took Louisiana. In another version, they stayed in the Ohio Valley and gave the business people of Louisiana another set of customers and a new set of suppliers. In a third version, Washington accepted help from the Huguenots and they divided the continent between themselves. The upshot was, to Thiere at least, the next steps were not all that certain. He had lots to think about and lots to discuss with his friends back home.

And... That's where the diary ended. I had spent an hour on the edge of my seat, far too excited to eat the silly sandwich, taking notes like crazy, and then it just stopped. I turned the last page and almost screamed. This is the guy who would give me the best insight into Huguenot thinking, and he just runs out of words? Out of paper? Out of time?

I grabbed all the books and took the elevator downstairs. Margaret with still in the archives area, and she still looked, well, she still looked, well, I was in a hurry so I ignored it.

"Do you have any other diaries by Joseph Thiere?"

She turned to a computer on a nearby counter and did a quick search. "Yes, and that's pretty unusual. We have two of his, and almost no one else has two in the collection. Either he had more access to paper than anyone else in the colony, or he was the most chatty."

"Could I look at the other one, please?"

"No." She was staring at the screen while she said that. "It says it was checked out, but that is crazy, since we never check out volumes form the archives. And here's where it gets really odd. It says it was checked out by Mr. Guillard. But he never does that. He is more observant of the rules than anyone."

"Any chance those diaries were digitized?"

"Yes. Okay, now it is starting to make sense. They were digitized and uploaded to the local historical society web site. I suppose Mr. Guillard was presenting them at a meeting. Maybe he was giving a talk or something."

"Thank you." I turned to go. It was already early evening. It was time to get back to my hotel.

"Shawn?" Margaret stood with her hands at her sides, looking at me. "Will you be coming back tomorrow?"

"I really don't know. Thank you for your help." I left the archives area, took the elevator upstairs, and was out of the building. I was a little surprised by how dark it was already getting. As excited as I was about the Thiere diary, I was also aware I was walking alone in a city where Goulet said I had a target on my back. I never broke into a run, but I walked about as fast as I have ever walked. By the time I made it back to the hotel I was covered in sweat, but I had made it.

# Chapter 10 –

# So who was Joseph Thiere?

Back in my room I showered and changed my bandages. You would think I would get better with practice, but no such luck. Layers of bandages already coming loose, I started making phone calls.

Elise was first. I talked about my day, explained I seemed to have a guardian angel in Goulet, and I had found a really interesting diary. Now here is where couples establish their degree of compatibility. I was genuinely excited to have read one man's reaction to the Washington invasion and looked forward to finding out what he did next. I wanted to know how his community prepared for the coming war. The questions that intrigued me involved human behavior and how things had come to be as they are. I was engaged to a demographer. The questions that intrigued her were population movements and how the government might best respond. To oversimplify, I looked at the past while she looked at the future. That could lead to uncomfortable conversations. And, since much of our personality is defined by the questions that attract us, you begin to wonder about compatibility. But here is where Elise was a marvel. I knew she had spent a long day dealing with really significant national issues, but she not only listened while I rambled on about Joseph Thiere, she seemed genuinely interested. There were so many reasons to love Elise, and this was one more.

My next call didn't go as well. I called my leasing company to tell them their car was sitting at the harbor in Venice, Louisiana, but I wouldn't be driving it home. It turned out the police had already called them, and the car was now sitting in a junk yard waiting for a final review and possible disposal. Once the paperwork was completed, I would get a bill. I probably should have left the conversation there, but I asked if the company had a local branch where I might get another car. She just hung up on me.

My third call was to Senator Dodson. Well, the call was really to his office where a very busy receptionist took my name and said the Senator would get to me as his schedule permitted, which I think was a polite way of saying they would check to see if I was worth his time, and if I was, he would get back to me eventually. I got off the phone and began thinking about going down to dinner, when the phone rang – Dodson was returning my call. I wondered if campaign contributors had ever gotten a return call that fast.

"I am pleased you called, Shawn. Do you mind if I put you on speaker phone? I am with some of my staff, and I think they would all like to hear your report."

"I am not sure that would be wise. If you would like a description of the shooting yesterday, I can do that, but the real reason I called was to ask about people in the local consulate."

"Oh?"

"I have had two conversations with a young man named Elliot Pound. In the first one he tried to tell me what I had seen during the attack, and then this morning he was back, trying to push me to change my blog. I would bet dollars to donuts he is on the Foster payroll."

"That's not possible. We vet consular staff very thoroughly. But we have many people representing many agencies in each of our consulates. Pound is not someone I know, but I will do some checking. Now, do you mind describing yesterday's events to my staff and answering a few questions?"

"That would be fine." And for the next twenty minutes I described what had happened. I had the impression there were four or five staff people in the room, and it sounded like I was getting questions from all of them. They were courteous and sympathetic. They also informed me that David Starr was still holding on, though his condition had yet to improve. They thanked me for efforts I had made to help with his wounds.

The most numerous questions were about the LNA. How many were there? How were they armed? What were their vehicles like? What was Goulet like? They seemed confused about why they had come to our rescue, and frankly, so was I. I had no ready explanation for their actions, although I also explained the Goulet had visited me at lunch and warned me about additional attacks. None of them could come up with a theory for why Goulet was protecting me, and neither could I. Eventually the questions wound down, and I assumed they needed to get to the next item on their agenda. I promised I would check back when time permitted, and I got off the line.

By this time I was not sure if I was more in need of food or wine, so I called down to room service for both. I felt safe enough to eat in the hotel dining room, but I wanted to do some research. I fired up my computer, and of course the first place I went to was the local historical society site. They would have the Thiere diaries, and I really wanted to read the next one.

Except the diaries were not on the site. It was not clear if they ever had been. There were some digitized artifacts on the site, but not many. I looked back through meeting notices to see when Guillard might have given a presentation, thinking that might be the link. But I could not find him mentioned anywhere. This was a dead end. I wondered if maybe I had gone to the wrong historical society web site, but a quick search made it clear there was only one Louisiana Historical Society, and no New Orleans Historical Society, or Baton Rouge Historical Society. There was one organization, one web site, no synonyms, no cousins that might be confused with it. I had seen the one web site, and it was empty.

Okay, so maybe I could try from a different direction. I went back to a general search tool and tried "Joseph Thiere". I got hits, but not helpful ones. Nearly a thousand web sites had some mention of that name, but it turned out it was practically the "John Smith" of Huguenot names. I tried to narrow the search by putting in dates, or concatenating it with Baton Rouge or other places that might be relevant. Nothing seemed to pull this guy out of the clutter. For the next two hours I hit web site after web site looking for the guy. I can tell you about the dentist by that name, the drunk driver by that name, the real estate agent who just made the "million franc club." The one Joseph Thiere I could _not_ tell you about is the one who was writing diaries in the 1750s. This was really annoying.

Now what? I sat back, had another glass of wine, paced around the room, pushed several bandages back down, and tried to think of another place to look. At some point, it occurred to me to try another angle. If I couldn't find anything looking from New Orleans, what if I looked from Green Bay? I logged into the National University library and searched there. And I got a hit. The library did not have his diaries, of course, nor did they have a biography about him, but he was mentioned in three books, all describing early merchants in Baton Rouge. So now I knew he had at least made it back home. And, given his gift for gab, I was not at all surprised he had ended up a store, some place where he would have regular interaction with the public. I envisioned him as the kind of merchant who knew everyone in town and never lost a sale. The books were not available electronically, so I could no download them, but just the descriptions told me he had been in Baton Rouge in the 1780s and 90s. So he had survived to late middle age. But what had he been doing in those middle years between 1754 and 1780? And where had the second diary gone?

It was so frustrating. I paced around a bit more, and then I called it a day. Maybe I would make better progress in the morning. It was also time for me to start planning to return to Green Bay. One more day would be enough, and I would find a car somewhere and start north. Little did I know.

# Chapter 11 –

# The battle for Biloxi

When I went down to breakfast the next morning, I had my eyes on the front entrance, wondering if there would be another group of people waiting for me. Instead, I saw the oddest thing - two people running past on the street. These were not people jogging for exercise (something almost no one does in New Orleans), these were men racing somewhere. By the time I had crossed the floor to the dining area, I had seen three other men and one woman run by. A waiter met me and asked if I wished to be seated by the television they had wheeled into the room, or in a quieter area. This is a small restaurant, with barely a dozen tables. The six closest to the television were occupied by silent men. The six tables away from the television were empty. I decided maybe I should sit by the TV too.

What did I see? A fire. The National Resource Building was on fire. Six stories tall, it was just seven or eight blocks away, which explained the people running down the street to see it. A voice in the background explained the fire had started around dawn, and it was assumed the building was empty. "Reliable sources" had informed the media that the few people in the building at dawn had been evacuated by an unnamed group before the fire was set. The group might have been unidentified, but the Heritage Party flag was everywhere in the street. Gee, who might have set the fire?

The last time these crazies had wanted to draw attention to themselves, they had blown up a cathedral. Was it too much work to blow up an office building? But as the television coverage continued, I could see the mad reasoning at work. An explosion was quick. Ten or fifteen minutes at the most, and it was over. This fire was going to draw attention for hours. Whatever sick bastard was doing their media work was earning his pay that day. They also got to show that while fire trucks had driven to the vicinity, they were making no real effort at putting out the fire. Clearly they were complicit in the arson. Take that, Green Bay, fire fighters will break their professional oaths, if it means you lose a building down here. Wow.

And it got worse. Whoever was choreographing this day had a full game plan. The news team broke into the fire coverage to alert viewers to a battle on an army base outside Biloxi. The Canadians have always had a set of military bases east of Biloxi. They have a naval base in Mobile Bay, and several army posts nearby. Needless to say, they are there to protect their southern and eastern flanks from us. According to the TV, sometime during the night, some officers at one of the army posts – Camp Biloxi - decided they should be serving Louisiana, and not Canada. But the vote had not been unanimous. The result was a gun battle that started small, but grew as more and more men chose sides. By dawn smoke was rising from burning buildings all over the post. Television cameras shooting from outside the base showed columns of smoke rising from multiple locations. They were also picking up small arms fire. So far no heavy weapons had been used. Most of the camp was in control of forces loyal to Louisiana, and it was expected complete control would be established by the end of the day.

What of the other bases? Reporters announced mass desertions of southern troops. They were shown leaving their bases, walking proudly and often in complete units. They were all still wearing their uniforms, but now they had blue arm bands with white crosses. They were declaring themselves for the Louisiana National Army. Oh wait, here's some luck, one of them wants to step out of line and talk to reporters. He just happens to be good looking, in an immaculate uniform, and he talks like he has been given speeches all his life. Who was stage managing this event? He deserved a Tony. No Broadway show ever had this much drama so well paced.

While the immaculate sergeant explained their motives, the tyranny of the north, the "war" on their culture and religion, I first looked for cue cards but then found something more interesting -- the arm bands. His was perfect. It was not hand made or gathered up at the last minute from blue material. The cross was embroidered - and perfect. His arm band fit exactly. I looked at the rest of the marching freedom fighters and saw that each of them had the same arm band, and each of them was perfect. This event had been planned for weeks at least. The French might not be able to build a reliable car, but it was clear they could put on a great play when they wanted to. I kept my mouth shut, but mentally I was shouting at the screen - author, author.

I was pretty sure I knew how the play ended, and I didn't need to see the second act, so I moved to a table farther from the TV and ordered breakfast. The staff might have been distracted by the events of the day, but they still did their jobs, and I had a great breakfast in just a few minutes. Meanwhile, I got out my phone and dealt with the calls that had been piling up.

The first was Elise, of course. She knew I was safe in the hotel (you gotta love gps), and she hoped I would stay there until things settled down. The ministry was working on a plan to get people out of town to somewhere safe. I thanked her for her concern, and told her I thought I could still make my own way out in a day or two. That pretty well wrapped up our conversation. I could hear people in the background. I wondered if she had been home at all the last couple days. My guess was she wouldn't be out of the office for days to come. Her country was at war.

My next call was from Catherine. It started with the usual, are you safe, how are you doing, blah, blah, blah, and then she got to the real message. They were making progress on the Fosters. First, I didn't have to worry about a libel charge since there was plenty of evidence in plenty of places putting Foster oil rigs in the Gulf. The facts could be established before a panel of chimpanzees. But, she said, the fact that they hid their tracks so badly might indicate a bigger problem. They seemed to think they had nothing to fear from discovery. Yes, they had sabotaged some boats and tried to kill me, but that was pretty small stuff for the Fosters. They had lots more muscle at their disposal and hadn't used it. So, they didn't think they needed to use it. Why would that be? Give that some thought, kid brother. There was some serious ugliness going on, probably much more than we could see. I thanked Catherine. She really was the smart one in the family. I hoped she took the business over when dad retired. My brothers didn't have half her brains.

My clown call for the morning came from the American consulate. It was a robocall telling all U.S. citizens that there was an event underway in Louisiana, and we should be prepared to leave. We should also be assured our government would do all it could to assist in our departure. What that assistance might be was never stated. Forty-five seconds after it began, the message was over, but if I pressed "2" I could hear it again. My safety now assured, I finished breakfast and went back to my room.

Sitting in my room with my phone and computer, I could smell the smoke from the fire. I assumed the fire department would make sure the fire didn't spread to more "desirable" buildings. This one would probably last all day, a blazing statement about how people felt about their national government. I wondered if they would feel the same way when they realized their pension checks might be a little late this month. Did the government even have an obligation to pay pensions to people who now felt they lived in a different country?

What else was going up in that building? I had never gone into it, but I was vaguely aware it had lots of offices and a couple courtrooms. Were court records going up in smoke? Property records? All that sort of thing was now on computers and backed up some place, right? Wasn't it? If there was some information lost, who might benefit? It occurred to me the fire might be more than just a visual statement of protest. There were some who might have an interest in record destruction. I bet Elise and her people had already come to the same conclusion and were working on that angle.

For me, the record I wanted to find was the diary of Joseph Thiere. I gave the historical society web site one more try, and then I called the provincial library. They were open. I was surprised. I could think of lots of reasons why every office in town would be closed. I asked for the archives area, and Margaret answered.

"Will you be coming to the library today?" she asked.

"I probably should stay off the streets until we know more about who is burning buildings and what buildings they plan to light up next."

"They shouldn't be doing this. There is no need."

"There are lots of people in your party, Margaret. Some of them might have special needs."

"Yes, it is my party. I will not deny it. I want my homeland to be free."

"That's why I am calling. I cannot find Joseph Thiere's diaries on the Historical Society web site. Is there another set of files you could upload to me?"

"The town is on fire, and soldiers are shooting each other, and you want to read history?"

"In 1754 Louisiana knew Washington had invaded French territory. The colony had lots of choices. In the end, they decided to support the colony of New France. Why? It seems to me that decision is more important today than any other day. What were they thinking? Why did they side with Canada and not with the British colonies? Don't you want to know the answer too?"

"Things change over two and a half centuries."

"Yes, they do, and maybe the reasoning from 1754 is no longer relevant. But maybe it is. What do you say, history major. Should we take a look?"

"All right. I will see what we have down here from that period. Whatever has been digitized I will email to you."

"Thank you."

"Shawn? Be very careful."

"I will, and I appreciate your concern." I hung up. I had no idea what Margaret could send me or how long it would take.

What to do in the meantime? I turned on my television. Not much had changed. The National Resource building was still in flames. Soldiers were still leaving bases east of Biloxi. There seemed to be thousands of them. Was that just careful photography, or were so many soldiers really leaving their units? And where were they going? The TV showed them leaving, but there were no shots of them arriving anywhere. Were they headed to Camp Biloxi to join the fighting there? Were they going to some other camp? It was almost nightfall before their destination became clear.

# Chapter 12 –

# New Orleans gets crowded

While I waited for Margaret to email whatever diaries she could find, I did another search for the Thiere diaries. This time I started with Andre Guillard. Maybe he had some other library or historical society where he had posted the materials. So I did a search on him. And I came up with the Heritage Party. My good friend from the provincial library turned out to be a delegate to the Heritage Party. He was a voting member of their central committee, and was included in their directory along with a great photograph.

What was that about? Andre looked more like the archetypal grandfather than a revolutionary. He had to be in his sixties, and had the stooped shoulders of your classic librarian. I found it impossible to imagine him out in the street rabblerousing, or even attending party meetings. How could he possibly be a member of their central committee?

I started working the web sites of the Heritage Party. I have to admit I really didn't know anything about them, other than they were nasty people who had beaten me half to death out on the causeway. Well, maybe not half to death, but it had been pretty painful. I had gone north, healed up, and forgotten about them. Maybe I should have paid more attention.

I started top down. Rene Soisson had been their lead agitator. He was the guy who was going to be the next provincial governor and then president of an independent Louisiana. But then he had jumped into that lifeboat with the women, got his picture taken deserting a sinking and burning ship (thanks to me), and then got murdered. No one had ever been found guilty of that killing, and I doubted anyone would. Soisson had disappointed some very powerful people, and the price for that disappointment had been paid. There was no reason to give him or his killer a second thought.

So who was running the crazy train now? Thomas LeBeck and Paul Andrees had been his two lieutenants. I had met both at the historical society banquet the summer before, and I had had a close encounter with LeBeck out in the hallway after I had gotten into a fight with then-captain Goulet and LeBeck's heavies had hauled the two of us out for a quick lesson in manners. My memory was that he was a pretty small man, but intense. I recall blood vessels near the surface all over his face and neck. Whatever his blood pressure reading was, it had to be two or three octaves above normal, not that he seemed to care. He was going to move the world, or at least Louisiana, and he was going to do it yesterday.

Oddly, it was Andrees who had taken the title of governor after the April election, while LeBeck was party secretary. I had no illusions that Andrees was any less a thug than LeBeck, but I would have expected Mr. Intensity to take the top spot. I wondered how their partnership was going. I browsed more pages of the party website and learned how many great things they were doing for Louisiana, and how dedicated the party was to the betterment of life down here. Folks sure were lucky to be governed so well.

Other pages told me about party structure. It turned out the Central Committee had over 200 members, representing virtually all professions and government units. So, Guillard's membership made more sense. He was essentially representing his library. If that's what it took to protect your budget, I guess that's what you do.

I kept reading, trying to determine who the bigger players were. I kept coming up with a name – Rene Malraux. He was assistant to this and vice that, and chair of something else. And then I saw his picture. I knew the guy. The last time I had seen him, he was driving a semi-load of weapons away from the party warehouse in Kaskaskia. That was quite a promotion – from truck driver to major political figure. When I had first encountered him in Dakota, he had been a poor clown who hoped maybe the LNA would let him join up. Told he might be eligible for non-com training you would have thought he had just been told he was getting free beer for life. How does a bumpkin like that end up in charge of so much in Louisiana? The Heritage Party might have been a party of clowns, but this guy was a clown's clown. So what was really going on?

The more I read, the more curious I got. I found it harder and harder to just sit in my room. With all that was happening around town, could I safely walk the streets? Maybe for just a couple hours? What could possibly go wrong? I know, sometimes I regress and the adult I have become returns to the boy who was. But there was a fire down the street, and a revolution underway, and well, I wanted to see it. So I put on a white shirt and my lightest color pants, hoping some camouflage might help, and I left.

What did I see? The minute I left the hotel I could see there were crowds up and down Canal Street. So that's where I went. Traffic had been blocked off and a parade was underway. I had found all the soldiers who had deserted their posts. There really were thousands of them. I don't know where they had been assembled, but they seemed to be coming from several blocks farther up Canal Street, and were now happily marching in columns of four to a cadence being shouted by various sergeants. A few were wearing side arms, but all were wearing blue arm bands. I can't say the marching was perfect; there were some pauses as one group ran up against another unit that was stopped for some reason, but aside from starts and stops, they all seemed to be orderly and impressive. If you were curious about what the new Louisiana army might look like, these guys looked like real soldiers.

As they marched down the street, pretty girls carried bundles of blue flags, and passed them out to anyone who would take one. They had no trouble giving them away. Who would disappoint a little girl and not accept a flag? I was standing three-deep at the curb, and the girl who came nearest to us made sure each one of us got a flag. I took one too, and waved it with everyone else. It was a celebration, and we were all part of it.

I was probably at the curb for twenty minutes watching soldiers march by. There were far more than I had expected. When the last unit marched past, watchers were invited to follow behind, to join the parade. Everyone near me stepped into the street and followed along. There had to be thousands of us. Where were we going? I had no idea. People were laughing and talking in their little groups, following along as if headed to a picnic. Block after block we walked, and then I thought I understood where we were going – the South District. The long bridge over the Mississippi was filled with people.

Here I wondered if I should edge away from the crowd and leave, but I have to admit I was seeing quite a show, and I wanted to catch the second act. So I stayed with the crowd, waved my little blue flag, and cross the bridge.

I never made it all the way to the other side. There were just too many people. South Square was packed, all adjoining streets were packed, and those of us on the bridge never got more than halfway across, but we made it over the hump in the middle, so we could look down on the proceedings. And, as with every other part of this stage-managed event, the crowds had been carefully planned for, with huge screens at the back of a stage, every image blown up four stories high, so even those of us hundreds of yards in the back of the crowd could see.

What was on the screen? Pictures of units as they marched into the square and lined up. They must have had painted lines on the pavement or something, since every one lined up in perfect rows. Had they rehearsed? It didn't seem possible, but I didn't see one soldier out of line. They were shoulder to shoulder across the square in row after row. Each unit came down off the bridge and took their place in the next row. It was a remarkable scene that lasted for another twenty minutes. By the time they were done, you would have thought every soldier in Canada was standing in that square.

Periodically there would be a reaction shot. They would show the excited people along the edge of the square practically jumping for joy at what they were seeing. Mostly it was pretty girls nearly ecstatic in the presence of such manly men, but the camera was also careful to cut to a few more mature men, guys who looked substantial and now stood nodding approvingly. In short, we were shown how to react to the scene. We were to join in the mass approval, and the people around me did just that.

While the eye candy on the screens was pretty impressive, I wanted to see what else might be happening on stage. I didn't have binoculars so I could do little more than guess at what was happening there. I could see people seated, apparently reviewing their troops. What I wanted to see was who got the honor of being up there. I couldn't see individual people from this distance, but I could see colors. So far, all the flags and signs were for the Heritage Party. That was interesting since the party had not won the April elections. They had earned a plurality, but had not gotten enough seats to govern on their own. Two other parties had been invited into a coalition and had gotten ministerial portfolios. If there was any sign of those parties, it wasn't visible from the distance I was at.

Finally, as the last of the soldiers took their places in line, (how long had the first rows been standing? Did they get medals for endurance?) the cameras panned across the stage and I got to see the platform party. As each person appeared on screen, the lower third of the screen showed their name and title. This was the Louisiana leadership, and we were being introduced to our new masters.

The back row was shown first. The camera panned left to right, from least to most. Most were people whose picture I had seen on the party web site earlier in the afternoon. They had fancy titles (chair of this, director of that, all followed by their Heritage party title). About midway through the row I saw my old friend Captain/Major/Colonel Goulet. He was also on the executive committee of the party. Interesting. I wondered if this is what he had hoped for when he signed on with this bunch of pirates years ago. There was no telling from his expression. He was completely serious, as one might expect from a military officer at a military review.

More interesting was the man seated three chairs to the right – his party superior, Rene Malroux. Here was the guy Goulet had interviewed in the hotel in Dakota as the Foster fight had wound down. This was one of two men Goulet had decided on the spot might be salvageable for the party. A long-time loser, just one more angry man living in isolation in Colorado, hiding from past failures and current relations, this guy now outranked Goulet! How strange was that? Below his face was a long string of offices and titles. Above the titles was a face that looked very nervous. He looked like he would much rather get up and run away than sit here in front of the world. I wondered if they had tied him to his seat. His eyes kept scanning the stage, looking for reassurance. Who was he looking for? That was the question. Who was pulling this guy's strings? The camera moved on and I never saw where Malroux was looking.

They finished panning the back row, and moved to the front. Here were the head weasels. To me the most interesting thing was seeing where LeBeck ranked. He made the front row, but only three chairs from the left. There were now lots of people above him in rank. Did that bother him? Not so you would notice. He sat like he owned the place. Below him was his ministerial title – Minister of Defense – and his party title – secretary. If there was any other title he wanted, you could not tell by looking at him.

There were four more men to the right, nominally his superiors, but there was something in his body language that said the seating chart was an inside joke. When the man to his left reached over and touched LeBeck, all he got for his trouble was a scowl. This was LeBeck's moment, and he was going to enjoy it undisturbed.

Eventually the camera panned to the man of the hour, Paul Andrees. I had forgotten how large he was. Or maybe he had put on weight in the last year. He stood a little over six feet and probably pushed three hundred pounds. His suit gave the impression that not all of it was his belly, and he sat with the care of a man who wanted to ensure his posture put him in the best light.

Once the camera was on him, and the crowd had an opportunity to scream its adoration, it was time to get the show started, and Andrees stood. The fact that he could get three hundred pounds up on his feet was seen as an event as exciting as anything else that had happened in history, or at least that is what you would have assumed, given the screams that took place as he rose to his feet. He walked the four feet to the lectern and stood while the crowd screamed its love for him. He let that go on for a few minutes, and then someone cued the army, and suddenly there were chants from thousands of massed soldiers.

"Lu – I – si – an- a, lu – I-si-an-a, lu – I – si – an – a." Et cetera. You get the idea. They chanted the name of the province/country over and over, emphasizing each syllable. It was actually pretty scary. Thousands of male voices chanting each syllable. I don't know if the sound system was amplifying it, or if it was just echoing off the surrounding buildings, but it sounded unworldly. I could swear the bridge was picking up the chant and vibrating in time with it. I wasn't the only one who looked down at my feet as we felt the vibrations through the road.

The cameras panned the soldiers as they chanted, and they looked pretty proud of themselves. After all, not only had they marched miles and then stood for hours, but they remembered the name of their province. While they were proud, I wasn't sure the crowd was reacting as hoped. The camera picked up one little girl who was crying, before quickly leaving her and going back to the platform sitters, all of whom were showing appropriate deference to the display.

No matter, the soldiers chanted several more times and then stopped. The sudden silence was striking. But the choreographer had more in store. Suddenly lights went on and the cameras turned to a choir of angels – teen aged boys and girls, all in white, all beautiful, all smiling as they sang out "This land I love." Apparently the new country already had a national anthem. There were two verses. Presumably there would be a third and fourth if the country lasted more than a few days. In the meantime, the kids did a great job, and the crowd was rapturous by the time the song was done.

Andrees stood through all of this, his gaze taking it all in and approving. I think I got why he had been chosen to front the thugs. His double chin and receding hairline were major problems, but he had those eyes. They were big and brown and shaded by furry eyebrows. That is what you saw in his face, not the chins. The eyes were now benevolent, the father figure appreciating the work of his children, but you could also imagine those eyes being far less kind to those who disappointed him. He was hired for his eyes.

Could he also talk? The crowd wanted to cheer longer, but eventually, with a motion of his heavy right hand, he got them quieted. And then he repeated the final line of the kids' song – "This land I love." And that got them cheering again. He nodded along, as if agreeing with their cheers.

"This land I love," he finally repeated. "Today this land I love is free." And of course that set everyone off again. And again he waited. He paced his lines pretty well. He was not Soisson, that guy was a magician, but Andrees wasn't half bad.

"Today we are free to practice our religion." Pause for cheers. "Today we are free to celebrate our culture." Cheers again. "Today we are free to enjoy our God-given resources." He continued with some other freedoms. I think they included the right to wear clean clothes and eat shrimp. It was a long list and I lost track. So far it was pretty harmless drivel. But he wanted to inflame the crowd as well, and that came next.

"We have tried to negotiate with the northerners. But how can you negotiate with people who cheer murder?" Here the screens displayed the lacrosse match in Green Bay, with a slow motion edit of the Arkansas player having his neck broken, falling to the ground while the Green Bay player stood over him, followed by a shot of the crowd cheering the murder, complete with close ups of some faces, faces frightening in their hatred and loathing.

"How can you negotiate with people who send tanks against their own countrymen?" Here the screens showed the idiot Colonel attacking the reserve base in Arkansas. Somehow they had gotten shots of him looking half crazy, as they cut back and forth from him to the "tanks" (actually armored personnel carriers), back to him, back to the tanks and the initial shooting, and back to him.

"Do these look like people you can talk to?" Huge response. "Are these the people you want running your lives?" Huge response. "Are these the people you trust with your future?" Cut away to a shot of a pretty little girl being threatened by some vague shape in the background. Another huge response.

"We love this land. We love our families. We love our culture. We love our freedom!!!" Deafening cheers. Whoever wrote his material was really good.

It was at this point that I heard a whisper in my ear – a whisper in English. "Sir, you need to leave now while they are preoccupied."

I turned toward the sound. A very muscular young man stood next to me. I thought I recognized him. He waited while I looked, and then when he saw recognition, he said, "You bought us a beer at the Granary."

"Yes, you were with David Starr."

"I wish I had been with him on the boat. But please, sir, you need to leave now. I will walk with you back to your hotel." I nodded agreement and followed him out of the crowd. Whatever else was said on that platform, I was sure I could read about it in the morning papers.

It was a long walk back to the hotel, and my guide decided to make it even longer. When we reached the end of the bridge he turned to me. "Let's walk along the river for a couple blocks. We can come back to your hotel from an angle they would not expect." That made sense to me. We followed the river walk. There wasn't a soul in sight. It seemed like every person on the planet had gone to the big celebration in South Square. Night had fallen while I had been watching the show, and we were mostly in the dark. It seemed we could move along without being noticed. Just to be safe, periodically my guide dropped back a step or two to look around.

The second time he stepped around behind me I suddenly felt a huge blow to my right shoulder. I turned toward the blow, only to catch another blow in the chest followed by five or six more so painful and debilitating I couldn't breathe. I felt myself dropping to the ground. What was happening to me? I saw it was my guide who was suddenly attacking me. He popped me several more huge punches in the chest and I was done. I had no breath. I dropped, landing on my back. The minute I was down, he literally jumped on my chest with his knees, and then wrapped his hands around my throat. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak, and very quickly the world was turning black.

It was at this point that his head exploded. He dropped, his body still on mine, his hands still on my throat. I was unable to move, still unable to breathe. I thought I still might die. Then I heard running steps and a grunt as a very large man pushed the American guide off of me and into the river. I wish I had something clever to say, but I still couldn't breathe, much less talk. The big man grabbed the front of my belt and pulled up, essentially pulling my diaphragm down to restart my breathing. It helped, but only a little. My chest hurt so badly from where he had punched me. I had been in plenty of fights, but apparently I had never really been punched before. This was a whole new order of pain.

Worse, I could not just lie there and recover. As soon as he saw I was breathing again, the big man lifted me up and started walking with me, one of my arms over his shoulders. We had covered the first block before I finally realized who he was – the cab driver from the other night. This was the guardian Elise had sent.

"Minister DuPry said you would never stay in your hotel. But I never would have guessed you would walk all the way to South Square. I am sorry it took me so long to catch up with you." Of course this is where I should have thanked him and apologized for being so stupid, but I still wasn't breathing well enough to talk. I wondered if I had broken ribs, maybe even a broken sternum. I was in tough shape. No matter, he had plenty to say.

"We think you are safe from most of the Huguenots, but the Americans want you dead, and we don't know why. Something is happening in your country, and we haven't figured it out yet. I would urge you to be very cautious of your countrymen until we know more." He was essentially carrying me as he talked. My feet touched the ground on occasion, but he was taking all my weight. He was also moving pretty fast. I wondered if he was worried. If there was another bad guy out there, my cab driver was pretty defenseless with me hanging off his side. We had a good ten blocks to cover, and who knew what we might encounter along the way?

As luck would have it, all we saw was empty streets. We paused at the edge of a building when we were close to the hotel so we could look for people who might be waiting for us. He gave the area a good look. I just leaned against the building. Once he was confident of our safety, he carried me a little ways from the hotel entrance. We stood there for a minute as he determined if I could manage the rest on my own.

"What is your name?" If you can croak and whisper at the same time, that is the sound that came out of me.

"Henri."

"Thank you Henri."

"Can you stand?"

"Yes." I had no idea if I could stand on my own, but I thought I would try. I squared my feet, took my arm down off his shoulder, and immediately swayed back. He caught me and stood with me a little longer until it was clear I really could stand.

"The Minister asked me to give you this." He took a pistol from one of his pockets and slid it into one of my pants pockets. "She also said I should give you a kiss for her, but I think she was joking."

"My thanks, Henri. I think a handshake will do." I extended a hand, and I think he took it as much to steady me as to accept my thanks. He stood a few more minutes while I took my first careful steps to the hotel, and then he faded away.

The doorman saw me approach and immediately spoke into his walkie talkie. When I got within arm's reach he took my arm and walked with me into the hotel. There waiting for me was the manager.

"Oh, Doctor Murphy. I am so sorry to see you this way." He took my other arm and the two of them walked me up to my room. Good thing. I would never have made the stairs. Once in my room, they sat me down. The doorman left to return to his station, but the manager went into my bathroom and came out with a damp towel. As he wiped my face I saw streaks of blood. Mine? No. The manager was staring at my face as he washed it, and he saw no cuts to mention. It was the blood of my assailant, my "guide." What the hell was going on?

"I will leave a man outside your door." The manager said when he was done cleaning me up.

"You better give him this." I pulled the pistol from my pocket.

"He has one of his own. I think you need this one." He left to set up my protection. I managed to shuffle the five or six steps over to my bed. I lay carefully on my back, and breathed in and out a dozen times, really appreciating for the first time for how good breathing felt. By breath thirteen I was asleep.

# Chapter 13 –

# When in doubt, read history

The first call of the morning came from my father. I was awake, and it was nearing ten, but I was largely immobile. I lay in my bed, suffering every time I tried to move. What kind of punches had that guy thrown at me? And what kind of government sends guys like that after its own citizens? I discovered my father had been working on the second question.

"Elise called us last night and filled us in. We were speechless. Why would a consular employee try to kill you? I woke up Dodson and gave him a piece of my mind. He called back this morning and would not say much other than to apologize and to explain he was working on the problem. I asked him to explain the problem, but he wouldn't. He said it was a security problem. I told him it was a family matter since his security problem was attacking my family. Our conversation went down hill from there. I don't think we are going to learn much from him. By the way, how are you feeling?"

"Tell Michael I finally ran into someone who punches harder than he does."

"Should you see a doctor?" Actually, I had been thinking a lot about that, but since I could not get out of bed, seeing a doctor didn't seem to be in the cards.

"I am sure I am all right. I will lay low for a day or two and then head back to Green Bay."

"That might be wise. I would suggest you come home to Philadelphia, but something odd is going on over here, and you might actually be safer in a foreign country, although it hurts me badly to say that."

"I understand. Thanks, Dad."

My next call was to Elise. It felt odd lying on my back making phone calls, but at least I could do that and breathe enough so that my speech sounded fairly normal.

"Thanks for Henri. He really saved me last night. But you need to dock his pay. He gave me the gun you said, but not the kiss."

"I am glad to hear you are feeling well enough to tell bad jokes. Henri thought you might have broken ribs."

"Only my pride was hurt. I trusted the guy."

"We are checking with all our sources in your government, but we have no real information yet. I am sorry."

"No need to apologize. It is my government." I paused there. What more was there to say? Nothing, really. "For what it is worth, I was at the large screen extravaganza last night, and it really was as awesome as the reviews. I would swear they were using a Broadway producer to script the show."

"Don't laugh, but we are checking that angle. We have real doubts that any of our theater people could manage a production quite that well. You Americans have a special skill in that area. I think you get that from the British."

"Didn't you tell me once that Moliere was superior to Shakespeare? Having a change of heart?

"Moliere is a better guide to life. The endings are always happy. Shakespeare is a better guide to drama. His endings... well, you know."

"Let's hope this ends up being a Moliere event."

"That is what I pray for every night."

My third phone call was a surprise. Margaret wanted to know how I liked the diaries she had found.

"I have not read them yet. I was out watching the parade and celebration last night. Did you find good ones?"

"I was able to find two that have already been digitized. Both are from the 1750s and each describes the battles with the British." That got my attention.

"Marvelous. Thank you so much. Let me take a look at them and get back to you. Are you at the library today?"

"No, I have to do some party business today. But call my cell when you have read the diaries. I want to know what you think."

I agreed and hung up. Now what? My computer was in the other room. If it had been possible, I think I would have called a cab to get me there. Since it was not possible, I slowly rolled myself to one side. It hurt so badly I was practically in tears. But I kept rolling, and ultimately I rolled out of bed. This left me on my hands and knees next to my bed. Now what? I actually crawled into the other room. That wasn't too bad. Maybe I would spend the rest of the day that way. If I could just get my computer down off my desk, I could set it up on the floor, and read diaries until my knees gave out.

I was in the process of doing that when the cleaning lady let herself in.

"I have been cleaning rooms for fifty years, and I have never seen anything quite like this," she said. But she was lying. I could tell from just a glance she had to be a hundred and ten and had been cleaning rooms for a century.

"I am a bit stiff this morning. I plan to start sitting up on Wednesday, and maybe standing by Friday."

"You are such a baby. Have you taken any aspirin?" Not a bad idea, actually, but they were in a different room and up on a shelf hard to reach from your hands and knees.

"No." What more was I supposed to say?

"Then I will get you some." She checked around in the bathroom and came out with a glass of water and four aspirin."

"Four? Are you trying to poison me?"

"If your ears start ringing, I have poisoned you. Until then, you can do four, as long as you eat something too." I laid the aspirin down on the floor, and took them up one at a time, sipping water to wash them down. At the end of four, I looked up at her. So far, I couldn't feel any difference. "In fifteen minutes you will feel better. Until then, I will vacuum around you." Good thing she was not a nurse. Her bedside manner was awful. On the other hand, fifteen minutes later I reached up to the top of my desk to grab my computer, and my chest didn't feel like it was on fire. I decided to try sitting up, and when that was not too agonizing, I tried getting myself into the chair at the desk. I made it just before she came around with the vacuum cleaner.

"Are your ears ringing?"

"No."

"So take more in a couple hours. Did you bleed on the bed again?"

"No."

"I don't see how your fiancée puts up with you. You are one stupid man. But then, all men are."

"Do you earn a lot in tips?"

"If I did, do you think I would still be working at seventy two?"

"You don't look a day over ninety."

"Move your feet so I can finish cleaning." And that was the last word out of her. I moved my feet, fired up my computer, and checked my email. I had to scan lots of emails before I found the one from Margaret. My in box is always full. I didn't pay any attention to the other emails, except for one – Dodson put in the subject line – "Urgent, contact immediately." I opened it to see he wanted a full report on what had happened last night, and he wanted me to go to the consulate to talk with their people. The second request struck me as probably the dumbest idea I had ever heard. What do I say when I get there – "Hi, you people are trying to kill me. Rather than make you walk to my hotel, I thought I would make the murder more convenient for you by coming here." Sorry, that was one visit I wasn't going to make.

If anyone was going to determine what was going on, it would be my father – or maybe Catherine. That gave me a thought. I sent an email to her, and asked her to look into Rene Malroux. How does a bumpkin from nowhere suddenly become a party leader? Maybe she could get some background information.

That was about all the energy I wanted to put into current events. I had two old diaries to read, and those would be much more interesting than the actions of current thugs.

Diary one was written by Jacques Marat. It covered the years 1753 to 1761. That was unfortunate. None of these diaries were very long. Paper was expensive, ink had to be hand made, so the typical diary was maybe eighty pages long. Quick math said that if you tried to cover eight years of events in eighty pages, you were only going to hit the high spots. That might sound like a good idea – why cover the boring days – but in reality, the things you see as boring today might turn out to be very important insights a couple centuries later.

Still, I read carefully, hoping he would describe important events. For the first two years, I was wrong. He was love struck. For two years he described efforts to see his beloved, his appreciation for the tilt of her head, the glow of her hair, the beauty of her lips. For two years there are encounters and occasional conversations, but nothing more. I felt like yelling at the guy – hey, it's the 1750s, two years from now she might be dead from malaria or smallpox. Better get a move on. He never gets past letters of lofty passion. She dies. He writes a long love letter to her soul, and then packs his bags. He needs to travel to clear his mind.

Here I discovered something. He really wants to sail to France, to see the home country. But France wants nothing to do with him – he is a Huguenot – a heretic. Unless he is prepared to convert, he can't go to France. So where does a heartbroken young man go? He goes north. He pays for his passage by helping pole the boat up the Mississippi. He also takes along some wooden toys he hopes will sell. He has a close encounter with a wicked woman in Baton Rouge, and helps fight off pirates in Arkansas, but eventually he makes it to Kaskaskia.

When he gets to Kaskaskia, he discovers that over a hundred men have left to fight the British. Washington has attacked again, this time as second in command to a much larger force of British regulars. The local men had gotten into boats and even canoes to paddle up the Ohio to meet Washington. The men have to paddle down the Mississippi first, then paddle up the Ohio River – a trip of over a thousand miles. Will they get there in time? They don't know. Washington will have to cross mountains, and the British are notoriously slow. But paddling against the current for a thousand miles will take weeks. They might not get there until the battles are over, but they were determined to try.

Marat is unsure what to do. He has made a few friends on the boat ride north, and several of them are talking about going up the Ohio to help, yet others are talking about going back home to Louisiana. Nobody seems to be in any particular hurry. They have worked hard to get to Kaskaskia, and they want to enjoy the sights. Someone tells them buffalo have come down from the north, so they walk for hours one morning just to see what they might look like. Someone else tells them the crops up here are interesting, so they go to look at fields one day. There are also intimations of whiskey and women, but nothing is spelled out. Basically, they are all young men, and they do what young men do in a new place.

Within a week, they are all bored. It is time to go. Marat is in no hurry to return to New Orleans, after all the love of his life is gone, and it might be interesting to see the Ohio region. I don't want to belittle his decision process. He has a whole page describing the honor of defending his country, and the virtues of the French, but within a page he is on about the chance to see mountains, so honor and virtue pretty quickly become sightseeing. I can appreciate that.

He ends up taking the same river boat up the Ohio. There are seven young men from New Orleans, and four Illinois. He has never spent any time with Indians before, so much of his journal is about how surprising they are, although mostly what surprises him is that they are pretty normal. Having shared a town with the French for a generation, they have some of the same habits, share the language, even have the same vices. The eleven of them alternately pole or row the boat up the Ohio, taking about four weeks to get to the headwaters.

Along the way, they stop at a number of villages, most of which are tribal. Marat does some business trading his toys for pelts. The biggest surprise for him is the lack of trust between the Illinois he is traveling with and the Indians they meet along the way. He assumes all the Indians somehow know each other and like each other, but he discovers there is a fair amount of distrust, and the Illinois are usually more anxious whenever the boat pulls into a village than the French are. Marat concludes the differences are somewhat like the differences between the French and the British. This seems a major discovery to him.

Two days before they reach the headwaters of the Ohio, they encounter the first men returning from the battle. Yes, they have missed it. The battle is over. The British have been defeated, leaving many dead on the battle field. The British have surrendered, and will be retreating back east. Marat and the others decide to continue. They want to at least see where the battle took place.

Two days later they come up on the French military encampment. The first sight they see is a hospital tent with wounded French soldiers. The smell is overpowering, as are the cries. They hurry past, climbing the hills to the meadow where the battle has been fought. Here the smells are worse. The British dead are lying where they were killed. They have been stripped of weapons and often boots or other articles of clothing. Marat and the others walk for hours through the many areas where the battle has been fought. The British were killed as they attacked, and then as they retreated, so bodies are spread over half a mile.

Marat comes back alone to the meadow that marked the farthest advance of the British. It is an open area surrounded by thick woods. One of the men he had talked to a day earlier explained how surprised he was since "the British just stood out there in the open, loading and firing by ranks, and we stood behind trees and shot them down." Marat looks at the rows of bodies and sees that is exactly how it would have happened. The British stood in ranks, firing, and were killed to the last man. What were they thinking? Marat is first baffled by the strategy; it seems mad. But as he stares at the bodies, now defiled by flies and crows, he begins to think of their courage and discipline. Ordered to stand and shoot into the woods, they stand and shoot into the woods. Hidden by trees and gun smoke, their enemy returns fire, killing troops with every shot. How many volleys did the British get off before the last man died? How many men were left each time they stood and reloaded their muskets, the guns placed with their butts on the ground, the men pulling out the ram rods, pouring powder and shot down the barrel, replacing the ram rod, raising the musket, and standing waiting for the order to fire one more time, while men are falling all around? Did they do that five times before the last man died? Four times? Standing in the sun in their bright red coats while men shot at them from every side. What kind of man could do that? He gets on his knees and he prays for the men, for their peace and for their blessings in the next world.

There is nothing in his diary for the next couple days, and then there is a very angry entry. He has run into his first priest. They are illegal in Louisiana, so he has never met one before. He and his friends are in the French military encampment, getting ready to head back down the Ohio when a priest hurries up to them. He has heard they are Protestants, except he refers to them as Calvinist heretics. Marat and his friends have only a vague sense for who Calvin might be, but they know what a heretic is, and they are not too happy about being called one. The priest then begs the young men to get down on their knees and beg for forgiveness before they burn in Hell for all eternity. By now others from around the camp are listening to the priest, and it begins to look like the young Huguenots might be attacked. They suddenly feel like significant outsiders. Is the whole camp against them? The priest won't stop with his accusations, and he seems to be getting louder, and the young Huguenots get the impression this is all building to their early arrival in Hell. They gather up their belongings as quickly as they can, run for their boat, and take off down river. Safely off shore, one of the men shouts back at the priest, something about Satan and the Pope, and they wonder if the soldiers will come after them, but no pursuit results and the men keep rowing, getting farther and farther from the priest and the encounter. And, as human nature would have it, the farther they get from the priest, the more angry they get about the whole event. Days go by and they talk of nothing else. They have had enough of Ohio and of New France. They want to return to Louisiana where they feel safe. And that is what they do.

Marat's diary goes on for six more years, but he never goes north again. He finds another love, and this time pursues her vigorously. The remaining entries in his diary are about love and life and children. In his final entry he opens a small shop in Biloxi.

# Chapter 14 –

# An awkward lunch

By now I was due for some more aspirin and some food. I thought it might even be interesting to get dressed for the day. Walking was a challenge, but I made it to the bathroom for more aspirin. Feeling encouraged about my ability to handle life's challenges, I next tried to pull on a pair of pants. I thought that was going to kill me, and getting my arms into a shirt was even worse, but I made it. A round of applause for my accomplishment would have been in order. My bare feet stuck into open shoes (socks were not going to happen), I opened my door and stepped out into the hallway.

What do you say to a man who has spent the last ten or twelve hours guarding your door?

"Thank you for helping. Can I buy you some lunch?" He smiled, accepted my handshake, and said he thought maybe it was time to go home and get some sleep. I thanked him again and watched him go.

Stairs are interesting. Fortunately they tend to also have a railing. I grabbed the railing with one hand and slowly got myself down the staircase, one stair at a time. The stairs were open to the lobby, so I knew folks were watching me, but I was in no shape to put on a brave face, although when I made it down the last stair, I did wave one hand a bit and say, "down in record time." Not sure if that drew a laugh, but it made me feel a little less embarrassed.

The dining room was about a thousand feet away on the other side of the lobby, but I managed to shuffle over there in less than an hour or so. Or at least that's the way it felt. On the plus side, the wait staff had plenty of time to get ready for me. They had a table all set, with the chair pulled out, and a very large glass of red wine waiting for me. I actually needed both hands to get the glass to my mouth, but I didn't spill much, and I set it down - empty - without breaking the glass. Maybe another round of applause was in order.

I know it sounds pathetic, but I actually sat and caught my breath after the effort to get to the table and drink a glass of wine. This was going to be a long day. One of the waiters stood very patiently while I breathed in and out, grateful again for the opportunity to do so. Eventually I ordered whatever the lunch special was. He hurried off and was replaced by the manager. Here was a man I was really coming to appreciate.

"I have become a burden to your hotel. You have my thanks for your help, and my apologies for the extra work."

"We are embarrassed by how dangerous our city has become. We are pleased to help where we may."

"Would you like to join me for lunch?"

"I am grateful for the invitation, but I have some duties to perform, and you have a guest, if you wish to see him."

"Oh?" The manager passed me a card - James O'Conner, Chief Executive, U.S. Consulate, New Orleans. So if I wasn't going to come to them, they would come to me. Fair enough. We might as well get this over with. I told the manager I would see the man. How do you get ready to speak to a man whose people tried to kill you? I reached into my pocket for the pistol Henri had given me. Getting it out was no easy process. It kept getting caught on my pocket lining. It occurred to me if this were a quick draw contest, I would already be dead. On the plus side, I managed to get it out without shooting my own leg. I set the pistol on the table and put my hand over it. I had the barrel pointed directly opposite to me.

"Professor Murphy, I am Jim O'Conner from the consulate." He held out his hand. "Don't get up, I know you had a rough night." I had no intention of getting up, or of shaking his hand. I pointed to the chair opposite and then put my hand on my gun again. He took the chair, and sat looking at me, making every effort to ignore my weapon. He was maybe fifty, with very red hair cut short. He was wearing the local uniform - white pants and white shirt, but he had an American tie with red white and blue stripes.

"Do you mind keeping your hands on the table where I can see them?" I asked. At least I made it sound like a question, but it was really an order. He complied. He put both hands out palms up, and set them on the table.

"I mean you no harm, but I can understand your caution. And if you need a doctor, the consulate has a very good one who could help you if you wish." I didn't respond. I could definitely use a doctor, but it wouldn't be one of his. "I want to apologize for what happened last night. And I understand an apology is pretty meager recompense for what happened. But I want to start there. But the real reason for my visit is to ask your help. We are trying to determine what happened last night. Clearly we have a major security problem, and we were hoping you could help us understand it." I had nothing to say to him. I just sat and listened.

"Could we go someplace more private so we could talk about the attack?"

"I'm not going any place with you." I slid my fingers closer to the trigger guard on my pistol. He noticed.

"I understand your caution. But this is a matter that requires some privacy." As he said the last, he lowered his voice and leaned forward across the table. I picked up the pistol.

"Keep your distance. If you have anything to say, say it here."

"I wish I could do that, but we have security protocols. I simply can't discuss consulate matters in an environment like this."

"Fair enough." I noticed the hand holding the gun was shaking. It was too much weight for my current condition. I began to wonder if I might shoot him by accident. I laid it back down on the table, but kept my hand on it. "Thank you for visiting."

"You won't help us?"

"If you are who you say you are, you already know who tried to kill me and why. You also know who will try next. Do your damn job and let me have my lunch." I got a long stare in response. Fine. I can do stare downs. He stared at me, I stared at him. Eventually he got up and left.

With him out of the way, my waiter brought me a bowl of soup. Chicken soup. I doubted this was really the lunch special. Someone had decided chicken soup was a better choice. They could be right. I ate the soup, spilling as much of it as I got to my mouth. I left the gun out while I ate. That was really rude, but I was afraid I might shoot my own leg off if I jammed it into my pocket while I sat there. So it stayed on the table, and I slowly splashed my way through a bowl of soup. As I got near the bottom of the bowl, the waiter brought another glass of wine and two more aspirin. The service at the hotel really was special.

I finished the soup, the wine, and the aspirin and slowly stood. I expected there would be a day when I could stand and move without pain, and I was pretty confident I would be smart enough to be grateful when the time came. For now, I cautiously put the pistol in my pocket, shuffled to the stairs, and slowly climbed back to my room. Once there, I managed to get my pistol out, and kick off my shoes, before I lowered myself back onto my bed. It may not be physically possible to be asleep before your head actually hits the pillow, but I think I was that day.

# Chapter 15 –

# How many thugs does it take to write a constitution?

When I woke the next morning, I found I could sit up with only moderate pain. Life was getting better. As I sat on the edge of my bed, I thought I might perform a series of minor miracles such as taking a shower and changing into clean clothes. I discovered the cleaning lady had been in, and she had provided me with a pile of clean towels and clean clothes. Not bad for a hundred year old lady. She had also laid my pistol right in the center of the clean towels. If there was going to be a gun in the room, it should be neatly and appropriately placed. Fair enough.

The shower took forever. I was glad I wasn't paying by the gallon. I also discovered when the attacker had knocked me down and kneeled on my chest, he had ground some gravel into the small of my back. The fact that I had gone thirty six hours without noticing showed just how damaged I had been. I washed out the gravel and cleaned out those punctures plus the punctures I still had from the fight on the boat. When had I gotten my last tetanus shot?

Back in my bedroom I managed to get more bandages on various cuts, and this day got all the way dressed, complete with socks. I might have done a happy dance when I got the second sock on, but I still couldn't lift my feet very high.

Getting downstairs for breakfast was an adventure, but I made it, and found Margaret waiting for me. She immediately took charge of me, starting by taking a comb out of her purse and combing my hair for me. I had remembered to put socks on, was I supposed to remember to comb my hair too? She led me to a table, sat next to me, and held my left hand while she ordered breakfast for both of us. Coffee arrived first, accompanied by two more aspirin. The hotel was still managing my medicines.

What did Margaret have to say? Lots. She was pretty much nonstop from the moment I made it down off the last step.

"Have you read the diaries I emailed to you? It might be a few day before I get back to the archives to find others."

"I have read through the one by Marat. Interesting man. He loses the love of his life, finds the love of his life, and in between sees the ugly aftermath of the second battle for the Ohio."

"The Marats of Biloxi. There are hundreds of them now. Most of them are shop keepers, but we even have a few in the LNA."

"I wonder if the LNA folks have read his diary. He seemed pretty disturbed by what he saw happened to the British troops."

"I don't think they are too worried. You Americans aren't planning on invading again, are you?"

"Well the joint chiefs don't clear their plans with me, but if they did, I would suggest they wait until the weather is a little cooler."

"Thank you. That would give us time to finish our constitution."

"Your constitution?"

"Every country has a constitution. That is where I was yesterday and where I will be today as soon as I am sure you are okay."

"You are writing a constitution?"

"No, I am one of the hostesses chosen by the party. The writers are the delegates from Louisiana, Arkansas, and Colorado." People don't really fall off their chair when they hear remarkable news, but it felt like my chair had disappeared from under me. Colorado? I had guessed Louisiana would try to get Arkansas to go out with them, but Colorado? For starters, who would want it? The poorest province in the county, it's where every loony went after their divorce or after getting fired yet again. The only natural resource in the province was anger. I knew Elise had made many efforts to woo Arkansas to not secede, but I had never heard her or anyone else make any mention of Colorado. The assumption had been they would stay with Green Bay since that is where their welfare checks came from.

While I was processing this news about Colorado, Margaret kept going.

"It is so exciting. Imagine being in the same room while a constitution is being written. The delegates are working so hard, and they are making great progress. They think they might have a document ready for ratification within a week. Imagine that. If the provinces act quickly enough, we could have an independence day in September."

"Yes, that seems very fast." How can I describe her that morning? She was talking fast, obviously excited. She was a vision in white, wearing a pure white silk dress with half sleeves, the white broken by a blue arm band on her left sleeve. White ribbons in her hair bounced as she talked. She kept squeezing my hand as she spoke, her body turned to me, seeming to want me to share the joy she was feeling. Breakfast - crepes - had come while she spoke. I pointed to the plates.

"The butter is from Wisconsin. The maple syrup is from Quebec. Are you worried about losing any of that?"

"We can import butter from Canada, or from America, or from California. Relax, Shawn. This will all be easier than you think. But now I must go. I am pleased you are feeling better. If you wish to watch the constitutional convention, it is all being live streamed on many web sites. This is the most transparent convention ever held. Here is one web site you might use." She pulled a very professional looking book mark from her purse and handed it to me. Then she gave me a very long kiss. With her arms still around my neck she whispered in my ear, "I will come see you tonight." She got up on the side of her chair closest to me, her skirts practically in my face, looked down at me with a smile, and then left. Every man with a heart beat watched her all the way to the door.

I sat immobilized at the table. Wow, she had an effect on men. When I could breathe again, I finished my breakfast. Butter from Wisconsin. That was the best argument I could make for not creating a new country? Good thing I was into history and not into politics.

I was curious about this constitutional convention. What did it look like? Why had I not known it was going on? I finished breakfast, went back to my room, and got my computer to the website Margaret had given me. In the process, I took a closer look at the book mark. This was not something that had been rushed into production. Plastic coated, it had the colors of the Heritage Party, and pictures of leading Heritage thugs. Andrees got the biggest likeness, but LeBeck was there too. They even called the bookmark a "commemorative souvenir" to be kept for "your grandchildren." These guys thought of everything.

The website was nicely done. There was a camera in the corner of the room that showed a large conference table surrounded by very ornate, antique chairs. This was to look like an historical event. On the walls were framed pictures of leading historical figures, interspersed with the current crop of thugs running the Heritage Party. Apparently the morning session had not started, but there were men walking around the room assuming serious poses, very much aware of the momentous undertaking they were engaged in. I wondered how long they had rehearsed to get their current facial expressions. For that matter, I wondered who had done their stage design. I had to believe Elise was wondering the same thing as she watched from computers monitoring events from Green Bay.

Besides the camera view of the room, the web site had onscreen buttons that led one to the current draft of the constitution, convention schedule, biographies of convention delegates, and the history of the Heritage Party. The latter made me wonder, were no other parties represented? Heritage did not even have a firm majority in Louisiana. I was pretty sure it was even less popular in Arkansas. As for Colorado, who knew? But how was it one party, and a minority party at that, could be drafting a constitution for a new country? Where were the other parties? Where were the other elected officials? This was all very odd, but I suppose it should not have been too surprising.

I checked the on-line schedule and saw the morning session would not begin for half an hour. In the meantime, I brought up the draft constitution to see what it entailed. What was I looking for? I suppose I expected something to jump out at me explaining how the top weasels were to get million franc monthly allowances, or something, but I could see nothing out of the ordinary. They had pretty well finished the sections on courts and legislatures. Those portions of the document were filled with edits and comments, all to demonstrate that this document was the work of many hours and careful deliberation. And I saw nothing out of the ordinary there. Each of the three main provinces would have a local branch of the national court, and each province would have substantial representation in the legislature. Even though Louisiana was far and away the most populous province, it made sure that Arkansas and Colorado would not be overwhelmed as legislation worked through the system. Unless I was missing something, the document looked pretty fair. If I were a citizen of Arkansas or Colorado, I would feel pretty comfortable with how well my rights and interests would be protected.

So at this point I had to admit one of two things was true. Either the Heritage thugs were actually honest people with the best interests of their fellow citizens at heart, or I was missing something. My money was on the second option, but I just couldn't find anything.

In the meantime, the room was filling up with delegates. Whatever store was selling white wool suits was cleaning up. Each delegate wore an identical suit and matching white shirt with a tie in the blue and white stripes of the Heritage Party. Maybe they just had a closet down the hall with a long rack of white suits and these guys just grabbed one as they got ready to go on stage. Interspersed among the white-clad men, were a few female delegates. They all wore the same shade of pale blue dress, silk by the look of it, so that as you looked at the long table of delegates you got the party colors. Subtlety was beyond the grasp of this bunch. The only thing they were missing was a constant rain of blue and white Heritage Party balloons descending from the ceiling. Okay, we get it. This is a Heritage Party event.

I counted thirty two delegates. Once they were all seated, there was a long -- very dramatic -- pause, and then Paul Andrees entered the room. Immediately all the delegates stood. He was wearing a darker blue suit to distinguish himself from the mere mortals. He stood behind his ornate carved wooden chair at the head of the table, and then asked the delegates -- and viewers at home - to join him in prayer. It was predictable, but it had the virtue of being short.

"Heavenly Father, bless the people in this room, give us wisdom as we seek to protect the citizens of our country, grant your blessings on this bountiful land as you have in the past. Amen." Maybe that was all he could manage to memorize. He then took his seat. To my surprise, his first act was to introduce Margaret.

"Citizens of Southland, as we discuss the details of governing this great new nation, we wish all people to witness our discussions and to participate in them. To that end, we have introduced a variety of technological vehicles for you. To explain those vehicles again, and to show you once again how you might participate in these deliberations, I introduce Ms. Margaret Riemard, Chief Archivist at the Louisiana Provincial Library, a noted historian who understands and works constantly to protect and honor the history of this fine region."

At this point Margaret stepped into the view of the camera. She was stunning. Some genius with lights and makeup presented her as well as any woman has ever been presented. She stood, her hands at her side, and spoke directly to the camera. How could anyone not listen to a person that beautiful?

"Once again today we will have cameras constantly on the room, so you can look and listen for yourselves as history is made. But as you should see on the screen now, we will also have an area for text messages. You can comment, and you can ask questions as this convention takes place. I will be your hostess for the audience participation area of the web, and I will attempt to answer questions where I am able, or I will catalog and refer your suggestions to the delegates. I have several assistants, and we will tabulate suggestions hourly and present them to the head of the delegate committee at the appointed time on the convention schedule." She then paused and smiled at the camera. "Thank you for participating in this historic moment for our nation." Wow. How could you not want to be part of a country that had her as its hostess? I was half ready to turn in my own passport.

Margaret disappeared from camera, but I quickly saw her name along the bottom of my screen in a new box marked "Text messages to delegates." She opened the box with "Margaret Riemard is ready for your questions and suggestions." They must screen the messages sent her way, because I would bet she instantly got a thousand men asking if she was free for dinner. The messages that made it to the bottom of the screen were more appropriate and began with many messages of thanks for the opportunity to comment, and congratulations to all for creating this fine new county.

Meanwhile, the weasels around the table got going on their deliberations. They were reviewing edits that had been suggested over night, and commenting with great pleasure on the helpful suggestions the citizens of the county were providing during this historic process. In other words, they were being as boring as hell. I found myself drifting from the comments and looking at the people around the room. They looked stiff and pompous, but there was nothing I could see that indicated they knew this was all a sham. Basically they looked exactly as you would expect them to look. Andrees sat looking paternal, rarely commenting other than to tell some delegate "That is a great point." Every motion of his face told the world, "You are in good hands with this strong leader at the helm of the ship of state."

If there was a misstep anywhere in this carefully choreographed political drama, I wasn't seeing it. But then I saw it. I was looking at who was in the room. I hadn't been noticing who was _not_ in the room. LeBeck. Where was weasel number two? Wouldn't you think he would want face time before his adoring citizens too? Why was he not here? Even Rene Malroux was there representing Colorado. Surely if a lowlife like him could get a seat at the table, LeBeck could be there. I paged through the delegate biographies and saw he was not on the list. Why not? Was the party in the midst of a purge? Had Andrees decided he could go the final miles on his own?

I have to admit this was not one of my more productive days. I hadn't posted anything to my blog in days, and the second diary sat in my email inbox along with a couple thousand other messages I would probably never read. Instead, I sat and stared at the website. It was mesmerizing. I would listen briefly to the delegates discuss appeal courts, and then I would see a text message on the bottom of the screen that looked interesting, or I would read one of Margaret's responses. There was always just enough going on that I kept watching. I watched all morning, skipped lunch and watched all afternoon, and was still watching as they wrapped up for the day and Margaret came back on screen to sum up the number of messages received (over eleven thousand by her count), and the process that would be used to aggregate all main themes and communicate them to delegates.

I was still watching when the camera switched to a street scene. Apparently the delegates liked to stand out in the sun after a great day deciding the future of their country. There was an area outside the provincial courthouse they were using, a plaza with a few raised steps where they could stand together, shake hands in public, and let themselves be seen by adoring fans.

Most of them were assembled when the shooting began. In the replays shown thousands of times over the next days and weeks, you can see a fairly large sedan cruise down the street, pull up to the curb in front of the courthouse just as dozens of other cars had pulled over, only from this one three men emerge. Each is wearing body protection and is armed with an automatic weapon. They wait until all three are standing and ready, and then they open fire into the delegates. Their weapons set on full automatic. They empty their first clips into the delegates, then stand and reload. By the time they start firing their second clips, they are already being hit by return fire from a swarm of security guards who are running to the street, firing as they charge. But most of the second clips are fired in the direction of the delegates, and most of the rounds hit home. More delegates go down, and those already down take additional hits.

Having fired two full clips into the delegates, the assassins now turn to flee. Two take head shots before they get back to the car. One makes the car, and he and the driver start down the street, only to be met by a continuous hail of gunfire from the guards who are now charging from every direction. The car is quickly disabled. Both men jump out of the car but are hit multiple times. They collapse on the street and are quickly surrounded by guards still pointing their weapons at the bodies.

Cameras from multiple angles now show the plaza where the delegates had assembled. The scene is horrible. Bodies are slumped down the stairs. I recognize Rene Malroux as one of them. Blood flows in streams in every direction. The wounded sit dazed, or sit screaming in pain. One man slowly collapses to the pavement, falling face-first down the stairs. And there, to one side, sits Paul Andrees, his arms wrapped around a woman who has been shot multiple times. The camera comes in closer to see he is crying, screaming really. And in his arms is Margaret Riemard.

# Chapter 16 –

# Aftermath

I screamed as loudly as I ever have in my life. Folks might have run to my room to see what was the matter, but they were screaming too. If forty million people were watching the scene in front of the court house, then forty million people were screaming. How could this be? She was the nation's hostess, and here she was, slumped in Andrees' arms, red blood running everywhere across her pure white dress. Was there any chanced she was alive? No. There were too many wounds, too much blood. And you could see in Andrees' actions, she was dead. He held her, hugged her, wrapped his huge arms around her. His cries went on and on.

I stared at my computer. It made no logical sense, but I also turned on my TV. Was the outcome going to be any different? Of course not, but I was not being rational. I wanted another source. The channels all showed the plaza, most using the same feeds as the website. Some had talking heads making inane observations, comments about things we could see for ourselves. Most channels I checked had the good sense to just shut up. What could you say? There had been a slaughter, and among the many killed was Margaret Riemard.

At some point I went down to the lobby. Why? Maybe just to see if other people had seen what I had seen. Maybe just to see other people. There were fifteen or twenty people standing in the lobby or in the adjoining dining room. No one said a word. All were staring at the TV in the corner. It was funny, no one sat. Maybe it felt disrespectful to sit. Everyone stood in complete silence and watched.

Time passed and ambulances arrived, and medical people. One emergency worker, running up the stairs to help the wounded, slipped on all the blood and landed on his face. Others moved more carefully, working their way from the fringes of the plaza, back to the people closer to the building. Out on the fringes, they paused, looked, knelt by each body, but it was clear these people were beyond help. Back toward the building they were able to find survivors. Each survivor drew more and more attention as more medical people arrived. But they also drew more attention because there were so few survivors. No newscaster had been stupid enough to do a body count or estimate, but all of us could count for ourselves. At least a dozen were down and not moving. Several others were making feeble gestures, gravely wounded, on the edge of death. Seven or eight wounded were getting all the attention. Those were the people who might survive.

Andrees sat with Margaret in his arms. Several times emergency personnel knelt at his side to check on Margaret, but each time they said something to Andrees and then moved on. He held her in his arms, sometimes gently rocking her. His face was generally lowered toward her, but when it was visible, his tears were flowing. He looked as anguished as if she had been his own daughter.

Eventually they started bringing body bags around. Here the video feed was cut, with an announcement saying it was to respect the dead. The last scene before the cut was of Andrees, holding Margaret almost protectively as the men with the body bags came toward him. He shouted something at them, and held her even tighter, and then the cameras went black.

With the plaza video gone, the TV showed newsrooms, the usual news readers sitting behind their usual desks. The news readers tried to explain what we had just seen, providing some background information about the constitutional convention meeting that had been going on all day. They referred to the schedule that had been posted by the meeting folks, showed some footage of the meeting room, and then switched to the scene at the plaza and reran the assault footage.

I couldn't watch any more. I walked into the dining area and asked for a bottle of cognac. While I stood waiting for it, the manager approached.

"Please Professor Murphy, do not leave the hotel tonight. Things will be very bad now." I nodded and pointed to the bottle the waiter was bringing me.

"She was a beautiful woman, wasn't she?" I asked. The manager agreed. I went back to my room. I shut off the TV and my computer and my phone. I cried through the first two glasses of cognac.

As evening came on I stopped drinking. I also stopped thinking, or even moving. I just stared at the wall of my suite. My mind seemed to be set on pause. Time passed. At some point I was aware of sirens in the distance. How long had they been wailing? I had no idea. I found myself listening to them. I thought they might be coming from several locations. The manager had been right. Things were going bad. Sirens were never good news. Things were happening in New Orleans. They were probably happening all over Louisiana. Bad things. The sirens were distant. I was safe. Other people weren't.

At some point that evening I called Elise. I am not sure if I made much sense. I was pretty drunk. She knew about the massacre and knew Margaret had died. I was glad I did not have to describe the scene. I do not think I could have done that. I think I said "Hi", and I think I told her I was in my hotel. And I am pretty sure I was not crying. Elise said she was sorry I had lost a good friend. She was also very glad I was in my hotel. Bad things were happening all over Louisiana. Cathedrals were being burned. I suspect she knew much more about the horrors underway that night, but she chose not to tell me. This was to be a quiet call to a man in mourning. The call probably did not last five minutes. The point was not to share lots of information, the point was just to hear each other's voice. I told her I loved her and missed her, and then I got off the line. Two minutes later I went to bed.

I awoke around dawn and stood by one of the open balcony doors. There was a smell coming into the room – wood smoke. It was not intense. I did not fear that the building was on fire. But clearly some thing – or things – was on fire. I closed the door, showered, and slowly replaced my bandages and got dressed. I had no idea how I would spend the day, but it felt good to start with the usual routine. I went down to the dining room thinking I would try to at least eat some croissants.

The lobby had a different feel to it. It was still silent, as it had been yesterday while the views of the massacre were coming over the TV, but somehow now it seemed even more silent. I realized the TV was on, but the sound was off. I glanced at it as I crossed to a table and I realized why none of the dozen or so people in the area were speaking. Louisiana was on fire. Or at least every cathedral in the province was burning. The TV would alternate scenes of burning churches with maps of various places so viewers could tell which cathedral was on fire. And then I saw another reason for the silence. There were bodies. Many were wearing clerical robes. Two were hanging from a tree in front of their church. The night had been very, very ugly.

By the time I got to a table, the scene had changed. Now the TV was showing pictures of military trucks. Soldiers were heading somewhere. There seemed to be long rows of trucks, and they were moving fast. The labels at the bottom of the screen identified the units as Louisiana National Army. There was going to be a battle somewhere. No destination was identified; it would have been odd for an army to tell its enemy where it planned to attack. All we could see was trucks moving. Based on shadows, they seemed to be moving north.

I was sitting at a table in the dining room, and I didn't remember ordering breakfast, but I found a plate of fruit, croissants with butter, and a cup of coffee at my place. How do you eat breakfast while watching a war get started? I don't know, but I did it.

Other people in the lobby drifted away. A few ate as I did, others went back to their rooms, a few ventured out the hotel entrance, looking fairly cautious as they pushed the door open. What do you do when the world is falling apart? Apparently you still do _something_ , even if it is just to go outside for a walk. I finished my breakfast – something else you apparently still do when the world is falling apart. I decided I would go out too. It would still be dangerous, but with so many people fighting so many people, maybe no one would pay any attention to me. And I needed to see something other than the inside of this hotel.

The weather turned out to be very pleasant. There was plenty of smoke in the air, but the temperatures had not gotten too high yet, and the humidity did not oppress. In short, it was a good day for a walk, and if people had not made a mess of things yesterday and last night, nature would have presented us with a very pleasant day. It would have been a day for deep breaths and wide smiles. Instead, it was a day of anxiety. What might be around the next corner? What might be charging down the next street?

I had walked about four blocks before I realized where I was going. Unconsciously, I had started for the plaza in front of the provincial courthouse. It was about ten blocks from my hotel. As I got closer I realized I was not the only one drawn to the location. Others were headed there too, and hundreds had gathered at the site. A makeshift memorial had been set up. A chain-link security fence had been put around the base of the stairs, and set in front of the fence were all kinds of flowers. Some were bouquets obviously bought for the occasion; others were just flowers picked from a home garden. Among them were written notes taped to the fence - hearts, mostly, but also some white sheets of poetry, some pictures, some newspaper clippings describing the massacre.

At one point along the fence was a sign in the blue and white of the Heritage Party. It said "Our 17 martyrs will never be forgotten." There were some flowers there, but most were farther down the fence near a sign that simply said "Margaret." I looked over the fence at the stairs where Andrees had been holding her. I was crying. The stairs had been cleaned. There was nothing to see, just courthouse stairs, but I stood and I looked, and I cried. At some point I realized I was not alone. Standing at my shoulder was Colonel Goulet.

"I loved her before you did. And I loved her more. You were a challenge to her. You were the distant, the foreign, the unique. I was the boy next door. She knew she had me whenever she wanted me." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"You were lucky to be her friend. We both were."

"The men who did this will pay."

"They were all killed yesterday."

"You're a moron. None of them were killed yesterday. But they will be."

"Killing priests won't bring her back. She wouldn't have wanted that."

"Priests had nothing to do with this."

"Who?" I turned and looked at him. "Who?"

"I'll take care of it."

"I want a piece of this."

"If you want to help, take this account number to your consulate." He gave me a piece of paper.

"The consulate people tried to kill me three days ago."

"You're dumb, even for an American. Find someone at the consulate who won't kill you. If you want to know who attacked you, check that account." He turned and walked away. I was tempted to grab him and ask him more questions, but I let him walk away. This was not the place for a confrontation.

So now what? As I stood there two more young women came to the fence and put flowers beneath Margaret's name. The pile was really just a jumble, but it was heart-felt. I wished I had something to add. I felt around my pockets and found the plastic bookmark she had given me. It was a "commemorative souvenir" I would not want to keep. I knelt down by the fence, put the book mark by the flowers, and said a prayer. I was still crying as I walked away.

# Chapter 17 –

# So what side are the Americans on?

I had an account number in my pocket. Whose? Presumably it would show money moving from point A to point B. Did it identify the people who did the shooting? Could it also identify the people who had paid for my murder? If so, how did Goulet get it? As for the consulate, maybe Goulet trusted them, but I didn't.

I paused at the corner and pulled up the directory on my phone. I had David Starr's number. I called it.

"David Starr's phone. May I help you?"

"This is Shawn Murphy. Could you tell me how David is doing?"

"David succumbed to his wounds yesterday, Shawn. This is Jim O'Conner. Do you want to talk to me now?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember how to find the consulate?"

"I won't meet you there. How about the Granary? If you don't shoot me, I'll buy you a beer."

"I'd rather have a Jamisons, but since it isn't noon yet, I guess we should wait. See you there in twenty minutes?"

"Yes." It was a bit of a walk, but nothing I couldn't do in twenty minutes. I would take a few detours to watch for bad guys, and I had a pistol in my pocket, but I knew if they wanted me dead, they had plenty of opportunities to get me as I approached the Granary. I was taking this on trust. Maybe I was taking it on hope. I did wish my government would be the good guys.

The Granary was barely open. The sign on the door said they served lunch at twelve. It wasn't even eleven thirty yet. Chairs were still up on tables where they had been placed the night before for cleaning. Only one table was ready for people – the one where the red-headed "executive" sat. I did a quick scan of the room and sat down opposite him.

"No gun today?"

"I'll leave it in my pocket. If the need comes, we'll see who is the quickest draw." He laughed at that, and I have to admit I smiled a bit too. I was never cut out to be a hard case. Just the idea of trying to have a gun fight was too silly to accept.

"Before we shoot it out, let me apologize again. It is our job to protect you, not to kill you."

"Last summer a few of your consulate guards did just that. They took on some LNA goons that wanted to rough me up."

"I am glad to hear they did their job."

"Here is where it gets odd. One of the LNA goons that wanted to break my head, now wants me to give you an account number. An old enemy now appears to be a friend."

"Is he a friend?"

"He and his men killed off the thugs who attacked our boat in Venice."

"Or at least it would appear that's what happened."

"Yes, I understand there are people in the consulate who have another version of events. They are wrong."

"I agree. They are wrong. So, do you want to give me the number?"

"Yes." I pushed the piece of paper to him. He looked at it.

"No bank name, or anything else?"

"All he gave me, I just gave to you."

"Maybe our finance people will recognize the bank name from the number. At least we can ask. When we find the account, what do you want from me, and what does he want?"

"We both had a good friend killed yesterday. He thinks the number will tell us who paid for the massacre. Although in truth, I think he already knows. This may just be proof, or evidence he can use in court."

"If he knows who killed those people yesterday, he needs to be very careful."

"Agreed."

"So, no gun fight. Who buys the beer?"

"Let's see where this leads. If it helps nail these bastards, we can enjoy some Irish whiskey." I stood and held out my hand. "Good luck with the search." We shook hands and I left. Did I just make things better, or did I make them worse? I walked back to my hotel hoping for the best.

# Chapter 18 –

# A country divided

I spent the afternoon watching TV news in my room. It didn't take long to learn where all those LNA trucks had gone. Canada now had a second border that extended across the northern edge of Louisiana, Arkansas, and Colorado. Essentially they had a line across the country from the Appalachians to the Rockies. Now having Colorado in the alliance made some sense.

The news was showing lines of LNA trucks blocking highways at every point they entered the southern provinces. A few soldiers with guns stood at every location, but the weapons were not pointed at civilians, and the southern news was showing pleasant looking LNA soldiers having polite conversations with drivers. The message was that the highway closures were just temporary while some customs processes were worked out. Please be patient and come back in a few days when the Southland will welcome you. I wondered how the northern stations were covering the event. I doubted they were showing patient drivers who had just been cut off from family and work.

It occurred to me I was now blocked in as well, although as an American I might be able to travel over the border to Georgia or Florida. That got me thinking about our family business. What was happening to our cross-border freight? I called Philadelphia. Dad was out but Catherine was in. It took a couple minutes to get past – are you hurt? Are you safe? – and then we were able to get down to business.

"All our trucks are getting into the northern provinces. There are some delays getting from Georgia into Louisiana, but usually they get through. We have no idea how much longer that will be true, and our drivers tell us the customs people they meet at the border are confused as well. Most of the customs people are employed by Canada, so they want to do what they have always done, but now there are LNA soldiers at the crossing points, and the soldiers want to participate in the process too. As you would imagine, that just leads to lots of confusion. No one is sure who is really in charge. For what it is worth, our customers down there are equally baffled. Can a Louisiana company export to the U.S.? Yes, at least for now. Can they ship to customers in Illinois? No."

"Interesting point," I said. It seemed time for me to say something useful. "I have some contacts in the Huguenot Business League. I might give them a call and get their take on all this."

"I suggest you make it a quick call, little brother, and get the hell out of there. We have been monitoring our friends the Fosters and things have just gotten much, much worse. They just filed the creation of a new sub-unit of one of their publicly traded companies. Guess what? They are now in the arms export business. They have set up a unit in Tampa. Their public announcement does not name specific customers, but everyone guesses they will be shipping to the LNA. The stock in that company nearly doubled the day of the announcement."

"The weasel in charge of the LNA military is Thomas LeBeck. You might see if he comes up in any connection with this new unit. It would not surprise me if he is on some advisory panel, or a consultant." I was pretty sure Catherine would find something on him. "These guys are dirty. I know they are. Foster is pumping cash into their pockets. A consultancy might be one way to do it and still avoid the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act."

"I doubt the Fosters care much about the FCPA, but I will check. Who knows, we might get lucky."

"We are long overdue for some luck. Tell everyone I am fine, and I'll get back to you again soon."

What a mess. So the roads into Georgia were open, but the roads into Illinois were closed. What genius made that call? What was next, barbed wire for a thousand miles? And what was the point? How were LeBeck and Andrees benefiting from closed highways? No doubt they would have some public statement justifying what they had done.

In the meantime, I thought it might be time to call Philippe Joubert to see how businesses on the border might be faring. Given his place on the board of the Huguenot Business League, he might be especially engaged in any business response. I pulled up my phone directory and tried to reach him. I went straight to voice mail. No surprise, a guy starting a new business at a time like this, he was a busy man. I left a message and hoped I would hear from him eventually.

"Eventually" turned out to be about fifteen minutes, but it was Marguerite who returned my call. Given how quickly she was speaking, and how breathless she sounded, I guessed her stress levels were off the chart.

"Shawn. It is good to hear from you. Philippe is taking calls from suppliers and from other members of the HBL. He asked if I would call you. We are hoping you can help with your friends in Green Bay."

"Actually I am in New Orleans."

"I hope you are safe there. But you might be even more helpful. Can you explain to the people there how much they are hurting business? If this is just for a few days, okay, we can handle shipping delays that long. But we were just recovering from the flood and the fires. We are trying to stock our new store. You should see it, Shawn." "Suddenly her voice changed entirely. You would think she was describing one of her children. "We found a larger store available in the eastern suburbs. Traffic flows are ideal. The rent was high, but when we look at costs per customer, we think this could be our best store ever. We put thousands into redecorating, and the place is beautiful. But we were only half through with stocking the store. We open in two weeks. Where are we going to get shoes?" Her stress levels were back, and I could hear her words speed up and her voice rise nearly an octave.

"There has been no announcement down here. No one has said how long the border will be closed."

"Border! Border! Have those people lost their minds? And when I see those LNA trucks after what they did to our stores..." At this point I was holding the phone farther and farther from my ear.

"What is the HBL saying?"

"Philippe called an emergency meeting for this evening. This madness has to stop. I am sorry those people were shot. That was a tragedy. And I know Louisiana has real concerns about how they have been treated as part of Canada. But this? And the LNA running the show? This is insane." Suddenly I worried about her.

"Marguerite, remember what happened to your stores? Be careful with these people. Protect yourself and Philippe."

"Oh don't worry about that. We have more guns in the car and in the store. Just let those thugs try something again. Just let them try." At that point I could well imagine her going toe to toe with the bad guys and coming out on top. I certainly hoped it came out that way.

"I will call again if I learn anything down here. Take care." And I got off the line.

What had I learned? It was one thing to know people were sitting in a room and talking about creating a new country. It was quite another to see soldiers blocking roads. I wondered if the Heritage Party had overstepped.

I had lunch in the hotel dining room, not so much because I was hungry (although I was), but because I wanted to get some sense of how others were reacting. There were fifteen or sixteen people in the dining room, and the border was the sole topic of conversation. While it seemed rude to talk about a massacre, travel restrictions were fair game. After all, everyone in a hotel is there because they are traveling. What are travelers concerned about? Traveling. Could they drive out? Could they fly? Did they need a passport now to go from New Orleans to Chicago? I heard irritability all around me. Good.

Back in my room I checked email traffic while also keeping an eye on the TV. Surely whatever passed for a government these days would make some announcement about the new border. They did, but not until nearly four. For a group that had been choreographing events better than any Broadway show, this delay of an explanation seemed odd. Had they lost their stage director in the shooting yesterday? Or had the shooting pushed them to speed up an agenda? Clearly they were off their stride.

A few minutes before four, the local stations all announced there would be a statement from the President's office at four. The President's office? I suspect I wasn't the only one who wondered if we were going to get an announcement from Green Bay. That might actually have been helpful. The folks up north had been unbelievably silent. Statements from the national government were as absent as Canadian troops at the "border." I was going to have to ask Elise about that.

But four o'clock came and it was clear we weren't going to be hearing from Green Bay. The station switched to a studio with a large Heritage Party flag covering the back wall. In front of the flag was a small desk and a beautiful woman. I would guess her age to be about thirty – old enough to be taken seriously, but still young enough... well... I have no idea what beautify pageants she had won, but my guess was the number was large. She had very light brown hair, large brown eyes, and an oval face. She was dressed in white, of course, with a modest neck line and long sleeves. On one sleeve was the party arm band; on the other was the black band of mourning. She paused long enough to give everyone a good look at her, and then she began speaking,

"Hello. I am Catherine DuNuef, press secretary for Governor Andrees. The Governor has asked me to describe a number of events that have been brought on by yesterday's tragedy. First, he wishes to thank the millions who have responded with prayers and best wishes. He has spent much of the day in prayer with his pastor as he seeks to understand those who have committed such a heinous crime. Second, he wishes me to announce a memorial service which will be held tomorrow evening at the Holy Redeemer Church here in New Orleans. Equipment is being installed that will allow the service to be shared in all Southland churches as we all seek to recover from this event. Unfortunately we have learned that yet another victim has succumbed to their wounds, bring the total to eighteen martyrs. We pray that the remaining survivors recover. We know they are receiving the best care possible here in Southland's leading hospitals. Third, acting in his role as Louisiana governor, and with the concurrence of the governors of Arkansas and Colorado, Governor Andrees has asked the Louisiana National Army to take up positions along our northern border to protect us all from additional attacks. We must stop additional terrorists from entering our country. Procedures will be quickly adopted to enable Southland citizens who may be visiting Canada to come back to their homes. Canadian citizens will be allowed to enter our country once normal relations have been established between our countries. Fourth, millions of citizens have implored Governor Andrees to reconvene the constitutional convention as quickly as possible. While heartsick from the loss of so many close friends, Governor Andrees has agreed to reconvene the convention as soon as replacement delegates have been selected by each of the provinces. In the meantime, given the dangerous times we live in, the governors of Arkansas and Colorado have asked Governor Andrees to assume the role of President pro tem of Southland. He has reluctantly agreed to accept that title during this period of emergency. Lastly, he asked me to read these words to you: 'Citizens of Southland, pray for your country. Our land is beautiful and bountiful. Our land is now free. It is ours to make safe for ourselves and for our children. That is our duty, and that will be our joy. God bless you all.'" She sat looking confidently into the camera for several more seconds, and then the scene faded to black.

So Andrees was President – and governor. Busy man. Apparently he was too busy to ask his fellow citizens to stop killing priests, but then, every man has limits on his time.

The person I most wanted to talk to was Elise. The view from Green Bay must be amazing. But I also wanted to respect her time. I would bet dollars to donuts she was sitting in a conference right that moment analyzing the speech we had all just heard. I would wait until evening and try her then. In the meantime? Maybe I would take another look around the Provincial Library.

# Chapter 19 –

# At least I didn't get arrested

The walk up Canal Street was uneventful. I am not sure what I might have expected after the speech we had all just heard. Should party faithful be driving cars up and down the street cheering their new President? Should people who had voted for other parties – the majority of Louisianans – be huddling some place plotting to retake their country? Whatever was going on, all I could see was normal foot and car traffic, with maybe a few more soldiers stationed outside public buildings. The extra soldiers were also out front of the library. These books were being really well guarded. There were a dozen soldiers on the front steps and in front of the main doors. As I started up the steps, one of the soldiers stepped directly in front of me.

"Your papers, please." Funny, he was saying "please," but it didn't sound like the "please" and "thank you" our mothers taught us.

"What papers would you like?" He was standing on a step above me, but I was tall enough to still look him in the eye – which is what I did.

"I need to see proof of your citizenship."

"My American passport is back in my hotel. Would you like to see something else?"

"Americans aren't allowed here. This is for Southland citizens only."

"Really? Do you have secret books in there?"

"You will leave now, or you will be arrested."

"Before you arrest me, please call Andre Guillard, the director of the library." We were still eyeball to eyeball and I could see him react when I mentioned the name of the director.

"He is a very busy man."

"If you will tell him Professor Murphy is here, I think he will find time to speak with me." The soldier made no reply. We continued our stare down a little longer, and then he moved toward the door.

"Do not move from this spot, or you will be arrested," he said as he left. I remembered a time when strangers greeted each other with simple phrases like, "Hi, how are you?" Oh well. I stood and waited. I was tempted to climb up one stair just to see what would happen, but the impulse passed. About ten minutes later the soldier came back, stood exactly where he had stood before, and resumed his stare down with me.

"You will remain here. Director Guillard will see you when he has time." The time turned out to be about two minutes. But it was a different Guillard who descended the stairs to me. Stiff, formal, he stopped two stairs up from where I stood. When I held out my hand, he ignored it.

"Professor Murphy, this library is closed to non-citizens."

"I was hoping to find some additional materials in the archives."

"The archives are closed to non-citizens as well."

"But.."

"There are no exceptions. The library has been gracious in the past and given you access to a few historical documents. You should be grateful for that access. The words of our founding fathers have been preserved with great effort over many years. You were lucky to have even temporary access to such documents. You should appreciate what you were given." And that was all for him. Guillard turned and walked back into the library without another word or gesture. I stood dumbfounded. Was this the same man I had spoken with just a couple days before? What in the world was going on?

In the meantime, the soldier was leaning closer and closer to me. "Now you will leave, American, or you will be arrested."

So I left. I walked back to the hotel, completely baffled – and disappointed. What kind of historian keeps people out of a library? It is against every fiber of our character. Usually we are trying to drag them in. And what did he mean I should be grateful. I was, of course. I had learned much at his library. I did appreciate what I had been given. And then, there was something about the way he had said that. I should appreciate what I had been given. What was he saying?

I admit to being a halfwit. I went back to the hotel, had an early dinner, and sat thinking about my encounter at the library. Yes, Guillard was on a committee of the Heritage Party. Maybe he was a true believer. Even educated people can be talked into racism and general thuggery. But I didn't see that in Guillard. Proud of his heritage? Yes. He had every reason to be. But supportive of a movement based on racial distinctions? No. So why was he being such a jackass?

Maybe he was only pretending. Given the current political climate, who could blame him? If so, what was he telling me? That I should stay away? That message came through loud and clear. That I should be grateful for past library use? Of course I was. What was his last line? I should appreciate what I had been given? Did he know what Margaret had given me? Is that what I should appreciate? So far, I had read one of the diaries. It was interesting, but probably more important to the family than to history. I had yet to look at the second diary. It was still buried among all my emails. Maybe it was time to take a look.

# Chapter 20 –

# It gets personal

I finished dinner and started up to my room. But I had barely taken ten steps when I noticed a commotion at the front entrance. The largest man in North America was at the door. Three security guards had him surrounded, although that term seems a bit comical when you are talking about a man who weighs well over four hundred pounds and stands six eight or so. The guards were big men too, but in a completely different league than Tilden Foster.

"He says he is here to see you." One of the guards told me as I approached.

"You have my permission to shoot him." I replied. I stood just inside the door, looking at Foster. He tried to smile at me. I can't tell you how odd it looks when a man with four or five chins tries to smile. It reminded me vaguely of a halibut I had landed one weekend. We ate halibut fillets for over a week. I think Foster steaks might last months.

"I am unarmed." He opened his white suit jacket to show he had nothing inside. One of the guards did a pat down. Was he really unarmed? With all those rolls of fat he could have hidden an arsenal on his body and we would never have known.

"Good. Then I can shoot you without fear."

"I would like to tell you some things -- things you will want to hear."

"There should be a tattoo on your forehead that says "I deserve to die." If ever it was true, it's true for you."

"Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?" My mind was screaming "NOT." The thought of hearing a single word from this man was abhorrent. But some part of my mind caused my head to nod. The lead guard pointed to a small office in a corner of the lobby.

"Sir, if you wish to use the security office, we will be right outside." My head nodded again, and the five of us walked to the office. I walked into the office first, and then turned and watched as Foster had his usual problem with doorways. He turned sideways while ducking his head, and still just managed to squeeze through. Whatever was going on in his life, it hadn't caused him to miss any meals.

The office had a small desk, and I sat behind that. As I came around the desk I pulled my pistol from my pocket and put it on the desk, pointed at Foster.

"I had two chances to shoot you in Dakota. Good people would be alive today if I had. Don't give me another reason to shoot you." Foster largely ignored me and the gun. There were two other chairs in the office and he was lining them up next to each other so he could sit on them. Both were steel, but they still squealed as his massive bulk settled on them and strained every weld.

"The good thing about your attitude is no one would ever suspect you of helping me."

"That's because it would never happen."

"We shall see." He settled himself onto the two chairs and tried to find a place to rest his back. He was also trying to catch his breath. There was also a sheen of sweat on his face. Moving four or five hundred pounds around was not easy. Too bad.

"I suppose you expect me to begin this conversation with an apology," he began. "I won't. You cost us a great deal of money when you blocked our mine up north. And I know it was your idea. Don't ask me how I know, but I know. Government salaries are small. You would be surprised how little cash it takes to buy friends. So you were already on a list. Your trip out to the Gulf just moved you to the top of the list. Sorry, but when billions of dollars are at stake..."

"Really? That's your justification for murder? You killed a guy with a family, and a man who worked for the U.S. government -- your government. Just because we took some pictures? You need to be put away - you and your brothers."

"That might happen, or it might not. But first you would have to get me back to the U.S. for trial."

"Or I could shoot you right here, right now."

"Please top threatening. We both know you won't shoot."

"I might surprise you."

"You might, but you won't. What you will do is call a Murphy Manufacturing truck currently making a delivery on the west side of town, and have it make a pick up here. It will take me to Georgia. What happens there depends on many things."

"You live in a fantasy world. If you want to get to Georgia, hire a cab, or take a plane."

"Two days ago I would have done that. I should have done that. Today, that is not an option."

"The border is not closed to Americans."

"It is closed to me."

"Pay them off. As you say, government salaries are low."

"Sometimes things get personal." He looked at me and let that comment hang in the air. What was I to make of it? Personal?

"This is about yesterday. You were part of that?"

"Yes. You will call your delivery truck and have it here in eight minutes. If you do, I will explain yesterday to you. Once safely in the U.S., I will make a public statement about yesterday, and the Heritage Party will cease to exist. You want that, don't you?"

"How is it personal?"

"Call the tuck, and while it is on its way, I will tell you." I shook my head. "What do you have to lose? If you don't like my story, you can send the truck away." There was lots I already didn't like, but I did want to hear the story. I called Philadelphia. Yes, there was a truck on the other side of town. I asked that it come to my hotel for a pick up. It should wait by the back entrance. They told me it would arrive in eight minutes.

"Now the story," I said as I ended the call.

"The Heritage Party wanted an emergency. The Canadian army was not charging down the highway. The fight at Camp Biloxi didn't build to anything dramatic. They wanted drama. So they hired me. I found some men. Their job was simple - roll past the building and fire some shots into the delegates. If a few get wounded, that's good. If one or two die, that is not a problem. It was a simple drive by shooting. The men went well past their orders. Trust me on this, there was never supposed to be so many deaths."

"And this is personal?"

"Seventeen deaths didn't matter. They would have been forgiven. One did matter. She was supposed to be upstairs, still on camera. She finished early, or rushed to the scene when she heard shots, who knows? She was out on the plaza and... well, now I need to leave the country. Get me to Georgia and I will tell all this on camera. The Party will be finished, this whole Southland nonsense will be over."

"You killed Margaret." I wasn't sure I could still breathe.

"It wasn't supposed to happen that way."

I put my hand on my pistol. I picked it up. I put it down. I stared at it. It really was time to use it. Instead I picked up my phone and called Philadelphia.

"Cancel that pick up at my hotel. I am sorry I troubled you."

"You have the power to punish all the people who did this, and end a civil war. Think what you are doing." The sheen on his face was even heavier. It looked like he was melting.

"Get out." I stood, pointing the gun at him and motioning toward the door. "Get out."

"You will never have this chance again." He stood, but made no move toward the door.

"You are right. This is personal." I motioned again with my pistol. He squeezed himself back out the door. I put my gun in my pocket and followed him across the lobby. At the front entrance he turned and looked at me one more time. I looked back at him. I had nothing to say. He turned and walked away. As he got to the corner two white government cars rolled up next to him. It takes a lot of bullets to kill a four hundred pound man.

# Chapter 21 –

# Towards the Plains of Abraham

Up in my room I paced around, not really able to focus on anything. I had another diary to read, maybe one that made a difference. But I wasn't ready to sit and read. What had I just done? I could have helped bring down the Heritage Party. Instead, I settled for the death of a fat, ugly man. I had been given a choice, and I had chosen revenge. That's not an easy decision to walk away from. At a minimum I needed to tell Elise what I had done. I had just made her life harder - in multiple ways.

It was nearly seven now. I assumed she would still be at work, and she was. But she picked up on the second ring.

"Shawn, are you okay?"

"No. I just did something you should know about."

"Let me get some place quieter." There was a pause while she walked somewhere. The place might have been quieter, but it was not much quieter. Wherever she was, there were lots of people engaged in lots of conversations. "Okay, what happened?"

"Tilden Foster came to my hotel. He offered to testify against the Heritage Party and explain that the massacre at the courthouse yesterday was all an act -- an effort to create an emergency the Heritage Party could use to increase its power. He knew about the plan because he supplied the men who did the shooting."

"What did you do?"

"He asked me to supply a Murphy truck that would get him out of the country. He was afraid the party was now going to come after him. I refused. He left the hotel and was gunned down a block away."

"You refused?"

"He was responsible for many deaths."

"Yes?"

"He killed Margaret." There was a long pause. I could think of nothing else to say except, "I am sorry."

"You did nothing with Margaret you need to apologize for. She was a good friend."

"She was beautiful, and smart, and brave, and he killed her. I am sorry. I should have put the country first."

"You aren't a saint, Shawn. And now we face one less enemy."

"I love you, Elise. I will come to you as quickly as I can." I got off the phone and went back to pacing around my room. If I went to the window, I could see where the police had placed screens around Foster's body. But I didn't go to the window. I really did not want to see the mess down there, the mess I was responsible for.

As I continued my pacing, my phone rang. It was Catherine.

"The business news services are reporting a Foster died in New Orleans. Do you know anything about that?"

"He died just outside my hotel, right after talking to me. Government thugs shot him many times."

"He talked to you?"

"He wanted my help, and I refused. You might warn the rest of the family. If his two brothers make the connection to me, they might retaliate."

"He wanted your help?"

"He hired the men who shot up the Courthouse Plaza yesterday. It was supposed to be just a few shots, just enough to create sympathy for the Heritage Party, but the men got carried away. Too many people got killed. The Heritage Party came after him. When I wouldn't hide him, they found him."

"It sounds like he got what he deserved."

"Yes." There was a long silence. I had nothing else to say. Finally Catherine spoke again.

"Shawn, are you okay?"

"No. I hate it here. I hate what is going on here. Foster is lying out on the corner. They must have shot him fifty times. I could have stopped that, and maybe much, much more. I should be in Green Bay writing lectures for students to sleep through."

"Shawn, students don't sleep through lectures any more, they boot up their laptops and watch videos, or send text messages. You are where you need to be. When you are no longer needed, you will drive home. By the way, the leasing company is suing us for damages. We claim force majeure - an act of war. Let the lawyers fight it out. In any case, there should be a brand new Ford sitting in your hotel parking lot by evening."

"Did you say a Ford?"

"What the hell. We are an American company, why not drive American steel?"

"Thank you."

"It was a pleasure, Shawn. Take care." I really needed to talk with Dad about having Catherine succeed him when he retired. She was already demonstrating incredible decision-making skills.

After those two conversations I felt calmer. There was still so much more I needed to say to Elise, but today had been a start. The rest might come soon. Things were building to a head in New Orleans. I could feel it. The Party was shooting its own thugs. Maybe in another day or two they would make another mistake and this whole nightmare would end. At a minimum it would be nice to drive north and not face a "border."

I took a couple deep breaths and sat down with my computer. Diary number 2. Margaret had selected it for me. Pierre Rouseau. I liked it immediately. It was the journal of a single trip - a trip to Quebec in 1759. This man had been to the Plains of Abraham. He had fought the British.

He began with an explanation of why he is going, an explanation you get the sense he has given many times before to friends and family. Why not stay in Biloxi, his home? This is a fair question that has been addressed over many evenings in the town. The British are currently fighting around the mouth of the St. Lawrence, but there is nothing to keep them from sending ships into the Gulf too. If all the men go north, who will protect Biloxi and New Orleans? Over many councils, it is determined that defenses should be created. A few cannons and powder are found, and a couple breastworks are created at entrance ways. Men are mustered and drilled. Officers are appointed. Could they repel a British landing? No. But the swamps are an ally. By withdrawing along roads known only to locals, they could find second and third level defensive positions and let the mosquitoes do most of the damage to the red coats.

So they have a strategy, and they have manpower. Along comes Philippe Jolliet. The son of Claude Jolliet, he is well known in town. He has traded with the Huguenots for years, stayed in their homes, had them stay on his farm in Kaskaskia. He is known, and trusted. He has been to Quebec and brings the latest news. The British are removing all French citizens from the eastern end of the St. Lawrence. They are loading them on ships and taking them to British colonies in the south - the Carolinas, or Georgia. The suffering is terrible. Suicides occur. The French are being brutalized by the British.

He has worse news. The French leadership is divided. Montcalm has military command, but Governor Vaudreuil has command of most resources and the two cannot agree on a strategy. Quebec has high ground that would seem a natural defense, but monies appropriated for defensive works have disappeared. Walls that seem stout will not withstand cannon fire. Philippe has walked the walls himself, and he knows the weaknesses. But a third shortage may be the most critical -- food. As the British take the farms at the mouth of the St. Lawrence, farmers and merchants escape up river to Quebec, but they become additional mouths to feed in a town with limited resources. The fall harvest may rot in the fields if farmers are unable to get to their fields.

Having explained all these problems, Jolliet asks for volunteers. He has committed to bringing a thousand men and a massive supply of food to relieve Quebec. What can he offer? Soldiers will be paid, and the Huguenots will be able to serve under their own officers.

Pierre notes that Jolliet make no effort to extort them with patriotic phrases. In fact, he has made it clear they will be serving under many disadvantages. Maybe for that reason, they trust him. The community elders meet in open session and the men agree that four hundred local men can be spared. They will go north to fight the British.

Pierre is an interesting narrator. He is well into his twenties and has traveled a bit, and by his phrasing I assume he has some education. He also chooses not to be an officer. Either his family does not have the money for the appointment, or he just doesn't want it. Either way, I am grateful to read the words of an enlisted man - when they tell the story well, they tell it really well, describing how it really was. They do not frame everything in how it will look back home when they advance their careers.

He does a nice job of describing the farewells in Biloxi and New Orleans and then Baton Rouge. The townsfolk are not stupid. They know many of these men will never return. They need to balance their fear of loss with praise for the bravery of the men. There are final banquets and dances and marches through town. And then the men get on boats and pole and row their way north.

The first stop is Kaskaskia. There they march in formation, practice shooting, and practice moving in coordination with the local men. Mostly the latter is practice for the officers who need to understand how to communicate over distances while men move. None of this is easy. It is late July and the temperatures are unbearable. Besides the heat, the younger men of the Huguenot corps are disoriented. Those who have never left Louisiana are stunned by the plains. The horizon is so far away. The world feels empty. Besides the usual homesickness of young men, there is this overwhelming desire to get under something. Where are the trees? Where is the shade? Where is the shelter? They want to go someplace else -- some place normal.

But the leaders keep them in Kaskaskia until August. There is a pacing they are observing. As much as they want to get the men to Quebec, they want to get food there too, so they are waiting until the harvest. To keep the men busy while they wait, many are sent across the river to hunt buffalo. This turns out to be a great idea. Not only do they get an adventure and lots of meat, but they get to see how woeful they are as marksmen. A buffalo does not go down easy. The Huguenot recruits get lots of practice on moving targets.

Finally the corn begins to ripen in large quantities and the small army can move. They take their boats up the Illinois River toward Chicago, stopping along the way to attract additional recruits and to purchase supplies. By the middle of August they are in Chicago. Here they are to transfer to much larger ships. Much has changed since the first Jolliet paddled this lake in a canoe. There are sailing ships on all the Great Lakes. Most of the men have never been on boats of this size, and there is some fear and confusion, and there are also long delays while the boats are loaded. Again the men are reminded, as necessary as they are to the fight, so is the food they have been gathering along the way.

It takes four days to load the ships. The men have almost no room to sleep, and so spend night and day on the deck, generally getting in the way of the crew. The winds are favorable, but they still ride three to five foot waves - nothing compared to Lake Michigan waves in a storm, but far more than many of the men can handle. A few spend the entire three day cruise leaning over the rail.

The first stop, the one everyone is grateful for, is St. Ignace, the village created by Father Marquette when it was discovered the soil at Mackinac Island was too poor to grow corn. It still wasn't much more than a village after eighty years in existence, but it had a small harbor used by ships as they ventured from the waters of Lake Michigan to Lake Huron. Men were allowed off the ships, but they would have gone ashore whether allowed or not. They needed to stand on firm ground. Meanwhile officers met to learn more about the British invasion. Quebec had not fallen yet, but it was being bombarded. Montcalm was keeping red coats from landing anywhere near the city.

The men were loaded back into the boats after two days. The voyage across Lake Huron was initially with the prevailing winds, really optimal conditions, but still some men could not stomach the pitching of the ships as they rose and fell over the waves. Once the boats tacked south and now rolled as well as pitched, well, the rails became crowded again. Still, they made good time and were soon navigating through the straits of Detroit. It took a full day of work to manage the route south down the straits, but the soldiers were grateful for the slower pace and quieter waters. Rivers they understood - they had all grown up on one.

They put in to Detroit for two days, another welcome opportunity to stand on a surface that did not move. There was also whiskey and women in Detroit, another welcome opportunity for some. Pierre claims he ignored the women and whiskey, which may be true since he does have a pretty good description of the town and of the information locals are learning about the British. Quebec still stands, they say, but the British control more and more land around it. Some are saying the real battle will be in Montreal this winter after Quebec falls.

Once more, the men are loaded onto the ships, and once more they cross a lake. Lake Erie runs straight east, so the winds are behind and the voyage is short, not a full two days. Good thing, since many of the men are recovering from their time in Detroit. At the end of Lake Erie is Niagara Falls, a place most of the men have heard about and are anxious to see. The officers are human too and also want to see this miracle, so half a day is spent walking to the edge of the falls and just standing in wonder.

But that is the only good afternoon. Once they have landed on the north shore of the river that flows over the falls, the men need a week to portage all their belongings, including cannons and ammunition, plus mountains of food, over to Lake Ontario. It is the end of August and the heat and humidity are unbearable. The Canadian voyageurs put huge loads onto their backs and walk for hours. The Huguenots struggle with loads half the size. Horses are used to pull the cannons and carts with food, but they need to be augmented by men with strong backs as they work over ridges or over bad spots in the road. Each sundown men drop where they are and sleep as best they can. A few guards are posted in case of British soldiers or local thieves, but most men sleep. This part of soldiering they had not expected.

It is September third before they are back on board ships to take them the length of Lake Ontario. Where before they had complained about the ships, now the men are grateful to be standing on deck rather than trudging under heavy loads. More are able to sleep below decks as they cover the final miles. One more thing has changed. Red coats have been seen in the area. This is not solely a French lake. Guards are posted, and men are alert.

It takes five days to cross the lake, partly due to shifting winds, partly due to scares. The ships are transports. They hold two or three small cannon to hold off pirates. They are no match for a British man of war. Whenever one of the watches "sees" a large ship on the horizon, all the lake boats rush for shore, as if they could hide. Fortunately, no real British ships are ever sighted. But the course changes delay their arrival. It is September eighth before they start down the St. Lawrence.

Here the sailing becomes far more complicated. The river is wide, but it is dotted with islands and with rocks that can tear out a hull. It is nearly two hundred miles down river to Montreal, and it takes the boats nearly three days to get there. They dare not travel at night, and even during daylight hours, it feels as if every movement is slow and careful.

They arrive at Montreal September tenth feeling a sense of triumph for having come so far. But what they find is a city on the edge of panic.

At that point the diary was going to have to wait. I heard a knock on my door and the voice of the manager. "Professor Murphy, I apologize for the interruption."

I opened the door to see the hotel manager and two security guards standing with Jim O'Conner from the consulate.

"Since he is from your consulate, I thought it might be an emergency," the manager continued.

"Thank you for checking," I said to the manager. I motioned for O'Conner to come in. As he did, I noticed the manager and one security guard turn to leave, but the manager motioned for the other guard to stay in the hallway. I had no idea how I was going to repay the manager for all his help, but I was going to have to find some way to try.

O'Conner, meanwhile, walked into my room, pulled the slip of paper I had given him from his pocket, and set it on my desk. He then took a chair across the room.

"It's impossible to check -- not without the name of the bank, or at least the country. Tell me who gave you the number, and I will have our people check with him."

"I don't think he wants to talk to you."

"Not even to name the bank?"

"No."

"Then there is nothing else I can do for you."

"Thanks for coming." I stood by the door. I had nothing more to say to him. He stayed in his chair for another minute, then finally stood, shaking his head.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." I opened the door and he left. I noticed he eyed the security guard in the hallway as he headed for the stairs.

So now what was I supposed to do? When in doubt, call family. I had asked Catherine to check up on Malroux and LeBeck. Maybe she could find something from her side. I called and explained the problem. She asked for the number, but then something odd happened. I had just read the first six digits when she finished the account number for me.

"We have been monitoring that account. It belongs to that first name you gave me - Malroux. We have all deposits over the last year. It started small, but grew over time and now holds tens of millions. It was moderately clever. He used a bank in Cuba connected to a casino. I guess he would claim he was an exceptionally lucky gambler. But they didn't wash the source of the deposits. It all came from one of the Foster corporations. I have already alerted Internal Revenue. They can expect an audit tomorrow."

"How did you find all this out?"

"If you go to a crooked bank, you should remember the people there are crooked. You can buy their silence. We can buy their speech. Crooks are crooks. The security firm we have hired had Malroux's account tracked in under three days."

"What happens to the money now that he is dead?"

"You would think being dead would slow activity on his account. Not so. The money has been moving to several new accounts in the last twenty four hours."

"And the owner of those accounts is?"

"The second name you gave us - Thomas LeBeck. You seem to have good radar for bad guys."

"I wish it were better. I think there are other guys involved in this."

"Let's start with the ones we know about. I will shoot you an email with all this account information."

"Thank you. And, yes, before you ask, I will be careful." We both chuckled and hung up.

I watched my email traffic, and when I saw the email from Catherine with the attachment, I called Goulet. He answered on the second ring.

"Yes?"

"It was LeBeck."

"And?"

"He created an account and used Malroux as a front, but he has moved all the money into his own accounts now that Malroux is no longer with us. It was an account in Cuba with tens of millions in it, all from a Foster corporation."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What do you intend to do about it?"

"You wanted to know whose account it was, I found out, and now I am telling you. That is what I am doing about it."

"Murphy, you never cease to disappoint. Of course it was LeBeck. Who else would it be? Obviously he was in bed with the Fosters. It was obvious to half the central committee. We guessed that early. Now you know it and can prove it. So, what are you going to do about it?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"If I reveal the accounts, it is just an internal party matter. Maybe I am right; maybe I am just looking to jump a couple levels of the party hierarchy. You, however, have that damn blog that you were happy to use last summer to embarrass us on a daily basis. How about finally doing some good with it?" And he hung up.

So now I understood. The information about LeBeck mattered, but what mattered more was who revealed it. As an American, was I more trustworthy? Maybe. I downloaded Catherine's attachment to see what it contained. It was all the records from the account stored in PDF files. Inserted on the top of each file was the translation of the bank codes - the name of the bank in Cuba with the name of the account holder - he hadn't even used a false name. The other code was for a bank in Tampa and the account holder - a corporation run by the Fosters. The last file held the newly transferred balance - fifty eight million dollars.

It had been several days since I had posted a blog entry. Who knew if anyone had even read it? But I guessed if I posted this, there would be those who ensured my blog was read widely. Fair enough. These people had killed Starr and they had killed Margaret. It was time to punch back.

I opened my blog and tried to decide where to start. With last night's horrors? With the death of Tilden Foster? No, I thought it would be best to keep the focus on one thing -- the corruption of the Heritage Party. I described the contents of the files I was attaching, revealed the total amount - and translated it from dollars to francs to ensure all understood the scope of the bribery, and closed with the fact the U.S. government would be investigating further. I reread the posting three times, gave myself ten minutes to rethink this action, and then uploaded it. As soon as I knew it was fully uploaded, I sent a copy to my father and to Catherine. They should know what I was saying too. If the blog started trouble -- a very likely event - they might be the first to feel it.

Now what? I poured myself a large glass of cognac, sat on the couch, and called Elise. Her phone went to voice mail, and I left a message, telling her to check my blog. I think I made it through my third sip of cognac before I dropped off to sleep.

# Chapter 22 –

# LeBeck evens the score

The door to my room blew in. There was another explosion filling the room with smoke. Several huge men rushed in, all wearing masks. They went straight for my bedroom, but I was still on the couch. They rushed around in there, but finding nothing, they then came into my sitting room. It seemed to take them a minute to see me through the smoke, but eventually they did, and they began shouting at me. I couldn't understand what they were saying through the masks but it seemed clear I should not move. I didn't. Four men gathered in a row with their rifles pointed at me. They kept shouting through their masks. I raised my hands, hoping that is what they wanted. Time passed. One of the men kept motioning up with the barrel of his rifle. I slowly stood, my hands still above my head. Once I was up though, it wasn't clear what was to happen next. I stood, they stood, seconds passed, and then another man walked into the room. He went straight to the doors onto the balcony and pulled them open. The smoke cleared and the men pulled their masks off.

"You are under arrest," the new guy said in heavily accented English.

"What is the charge?" I asked, also in English.

"You are under arrest." Okay, it appeared he had used up his supply of English vocabulary. I was tempted to move to French, but I waited to see what was going on. He told one of the soldiers in French to cuff me and take me downstairs. I kept silent while he did it.

Downstairs I saw twenty or thirty soldiers. They had the six security guards lined up against a wall, and were pointing weapons at them to hold them in place. The hotel manager stood near them, facing the soldiers, but with his hands in the air. As I was marched out the door he looked at me. I mouthed "sorry" and he said the same. Then I was out of the hotel and pushed into a large white truck.

The ride didn't take very long. I took that as good news. A long ride might have meant I disappeared into a swamp. A short ride meant -- I hoped -- that I was still in the custody of some jurisdiction that followed some semblance of the law.

The truck backed into some entrance platform, and I was led down a hallway and up an elevator to the seventh floor. I knew this building. It was the provincial courthouse - the same building that had been the scene of the constitutional convention. I doubted I was being invited to participate. They marched me to a small room with a large lock on the door, and pushed me in. There were two chairs and a table, all bolted to the floor. I sat at one of the chairs. Still handcuffed, what else was I supposed to do?

Time passed. I had seen a few cop movies, so I had some idea this delay might be about setting me up psychologically. Or it could just be they were delayed in getting people to the courthouse. I didn't know what time it was, but I could see from my walk from the hotel to the truck that it was still night. Maybe inquisitors didn't come to work until eight.

I waited. I looked around the room, but there was nothing much to see. It was a bright white, almost an enamel that reflected light. The chairs were white, as was the table. Whoever did the decorating had little imagination. The last time I was in jail had been DeSmet, and I had fallen asleep there. This had a different feel to it. I didn't think I would sleep in this room, even if they left me here for hours.

Eventually a young man in a police uniform entered the room and took the seat opposite me. He had a folder that he made a big show of opening. I don't read well upside down, but I could see he was looking at a form, presumably the charge form he had been given.

"You are under arrest." he finally said. It was interesting he was also speaking to me in English. Who were they using for this arrest? Clearly these folks had not been told anything about me, or they would be using French.

"What are the charges?" I asked, also in English.

"You are charge with fraud and false charge of government official." Okay, so his English wasn't the best, but I gave the kid credit for trying.

"Do you have evidence?"

"Your website is false."

"No, my website is true. Minister LeBeck is a criminal."

"You will remove the website now. It will reduce your sentence."

"Are you in the Party?"

"Party?"

"Are you a member of the Heritage Party?"

"Yes. Of course."

"This will be a very bad day for you." I switched to French and saw his expression change immediately. "LeBeck and Tilden Foster did some very bad things. The Party killed Foster yesterday. I will bet you a month's pay LeBeck dies today. Having me arrested may have given him a couple extra hours. Maybe he will use the time to get out of the country. He has three hundred million francs waiting for him in Cuba. That could buy him safety for a while. But he is done in the Party. After he is gone, the Party will clean up the rest of the mess. You need to decide if you are part of the mess, or part of the clean up."

"You lie." He shouted in French. But then he got up and left. If he was smart, he was going to see which way the wind was blowing.

I went back to looking around the room. I found some smudges along the back wall. It looked like someone had kicked the wall. Good. It was some relief from the white. I was doing a careful analysis of the next wall, and had already found a light gray crack near the floor when the door opened again and Thomas LeBeck walked in. He didn't say a word. He just hauled off and punched me in the side of the face. I rolled with it as best I could, but it still caught me pretty hard.

"When we were on the causeway last summer I told you I would kill you if you ever came back." He pulled me out of my chair and threw me against the back wall. He came after me, but I got a kick in first, directly to his left knee. I held nothing back, and braced as I was against the wall, all the leverage was on my side. His knee broke and his leg bent out at an angle. I guessed all the ligaments were torn. He screeched and pulled out his gun. He got two shots off as I dodged around the room. The first one missed but the second one caught me in the upper leg. I managed to take one more step, but my dodging time was over. I suppose we looked pretty stupid, him hobbling around on one leg, and me sliding along the wall, blood smearing the white walls behind me. That was the view the cops got as they ran into the room. LeBeck was lining up the kill shot when the first cop grabbed his arm. Lebeck fired three more times while the cops wrestled with him, but all the shots missed me. They were high and by now I was low. I laid on the floor and watched them take the gun and hustle LeBeck away.

Once he was out of the room two of the cops checked on me. One looked at my leg and said in English "You good." In French he told his partner, "get a compress, or this guy will bleed out before a doctor arrives."

I confused them both by saying in French, "Put my feet up on the chair so less blood gets to my leg, but if he hit the femoral artery, I am still dead." They slid me over and put my feet up as I asked, and then one of the men went off, his phone in his hand. The other cop twisted me to one side and took my handcuffs off. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and put it over the entrance wound. Half a measure was better than none, I guessed. The exit wound was probably too big to manage with a handkerchief anyway.

The cop who stayed with me said the usual calming things. Help was on the way, the wound didn't look too bad, et cetera. I laid my head back and let myself drift off. A little sleep might help. I heard running steps in the hallway, and a medical bag dropped near my head. That seemed a good time to catch up on my sleep.

# Chapter 23 –

# The memorial service people will be talking about for a very long time

I was awake part of the time has they got a compress on my leg, got me onto a gurney and wheeled me around. They didn't seem to be in much of a hurry wheeling me into the elevator and out to an ambulance. Either I was already dead so it didn't matter, or, the wound was pretty well managed. I was hoping for the latter.

In the hospital they used a local anesthetic while they cleaned the wound and put in a couple thousand stitches. I was going to have an interesting scar. Unfortunately, it was so far up my leg there wouldn't be many people I could show it to. I slept through much of the procedure, and I was sleeping pretty well again later when they had gotten me to bed, but of course, hospitals are full of nurses, and nurses hate sleep. I was perfectly comfortable when one took a bag of ice and pushed it against my face. I tried to reach up and pull it away, but she leaned over and held my arms down.

"Trust me," she said, "you want the swelling on your face brought down before it turns black and red. You must have fallen on something hard."

"Yeah, a fist."

"Well, just roll your face up against this ice pack. I'll come back in half an hour and we'll see if it is helping." Lovely. So now I was cuddling up against an ice bag. At least I had given as well as I got. I'd bet LeBeck had an even larger bag on his knee, assuming he was still breathing.

I drifted a bit in the hospital. Nurses came and went. Nobody said much to me. Was I staying, or going? Time passed. One time I woke up and Colonel Goulet was there.

"That blog got me shot."

"That blog will get you laid anywhere in Canada for decades to come. You are the brave young man whose blog got rid of LeBeck. You took away the boogey man."

"Is he gone?"

"He was being taken to a hospital and died unexpectedly."

"Are they putting that on me?"

"No. They say he had a heart attack after some struggles at the office. He was under a great deal of strain."

"And me?"

"You were cooperating with police about an ongoing investigation and were shot when a gun went off accidentally. The officers involved have been put on administrative leave and are expected to be put through additional gun safety training."

"My hotel doesn't look like I cooperated much."

"You might be surprised. Clear out the smoke, reattach the door, do a little vacuuming, and it's good as new."

"My cleaning lady already hates me."

"You probably deserve that. You should be nicer to people."

"What happens next?"

"I'm no doctor, but I bet they want to keep you here over night. They baby all Americans. You really are a nation of wimps."

"I mean what happens to your Party. Is LeBeck the last heart attack?"

"You don't need to know about Party business." He stared at me, his attitude very different now. "You had your chance to settle things for Margaret. My chance is coming soon."

"I thought killing Foster was your work."

"No, that was LeBeck trying to divert attention and quiet a mouth that might say too much. I would put that under the heading of too little, too late."

"Foster deserved it, but hell, they must have shot him fifty times."

"LeBeck was never subtle. Now I've got to go. Keep ice on your face; it looks like hell." And with that, the make-believe Colonel was gone. He was right though, they made me spend the night. A doctor finally came around and talked to me. The shot was clean. The stitches would be fine. I should change the dressings twice a day. The nurse would show me how. I should see a doctor as soon as I got back to Green Bay. Had I had a recent tetanus shot?

So I spent the rest of the day in that bed, and it was from that bed that I watched the memorial service.

I wanted to see the memorial service, but I was terribly afraid of how it would be used. And I didn't want to see Margaret's face again, not as part of some tribute to the Party. But I watched, and judging by the sounds I could hear coming up and down the hallway, so was every other room and every nursing station and lounge.

The start was exactly as you might predict. There were exterior shots of the huge Protestant church where the service was to be held. And there was music, a mixture of sacred and patriotic, although at this point they might have been converting the patriot to the sacred. I heard "This Land I Love" over and over.

At the start there was an off-screen voice reminding the audience that the service was to memorialize those killed at the courthouse plaza - delegates to the constitutional convention who had just finished a day doing the nation's business. There were also some comments about the technology, the fact that the service would be simultaneously broadcast to churches all over Southland, so people could share in the prayers and singing at their own church. Of course he did not say that joining in at a Catholic church might be complicated since mobs had burned every cathedral the day before. Some things are better left unsaid -- I guess.

The mood properly set, the view changed and a camera appeared to take the audience in the front doors and a short distance down the middle of the church. It was as if you had walked into the church yourself, but of course you could not since the church was packed and invitation-only. Now the camera floated up (how were they getting that effect?) and settled in about middle distance from the pulpit. A minister appeared from the side, walked confidently to the pulpit, and began his address.

"We are here to celebrate the lives of eighteen heroes -- eighteen men and women who thought of their country first, and spent their final hours pursuing the dreams of their countrymen. We have a short video segment that provides simple information about each of the martyrs. Let us watch together so we can appreciate one more time the lives of these national heroes." Walls to his left and right suddenly showed the images of the eighteen. Music played in the background while each face came up. The lower third of the screen was used to provide simple biographical information - name, home town, party position. Each shot was followed by an image of better times - people with their families, or walking through the woods.

They were in no hurry to get through the images. Each got several minutes, with suitable somber background music. I felt myself get more and more tense as I waited for Margaret's picture. They saved her for last, of course. Hers was the image they wanted people to retain. When it finally came it took my breath away, and I could hear gasping from down the hall as well as the nurses saw her. She was so beautiful. They gave her multiple images, including a picture of her working in the provincial archives, and then working with the delegates at the convention. In every picture she was an angel. And then they switched to the final image - her in the arms of Andrees as she bled to death on the plaza steps. That image created a new sound. If agony has a sound, it was voiced all over the church and up and down the hospital hallway that evening. In my room it took the form of a short catch in my throat followed by tears as I turned away from the screen.

With that image slowly fading from the screens in the church, the pastor began talking again and led the crowd in a prayer, but I am not sure anyone heard him. There was something about blessing the dead and celebrating their lives, and all the stuff that gets said on such occasions, but those were just words, while the picture of Margaret is what occupied all the millions of minds -- the picture of Margaret lifeless on the plaza.

The preacher took a break for a choir performance. They were teens and they were beautiful. Was it the same group that had sung in South Square just days earlier? It might have been. They did three slow numbers, traditional sacred music one hears at funerals. The congregants were not encouraged to sing along.

I wondered when Paul Andrees would get his time. He would be the main act, I was sure. And I was right. A delegate from Arkansas gave a short speech describing the work that the delegates were doing that day and how much he was going to miss his friends. It might have been a pretty good speech, but he was incredibly nervous and read every word from pieces of paper that shook in his hands. But Arkansas got its moment on stage.

I wondered if they would also put Colorado up there. They did, and it was a huge mistake. They picked a young woman who had been at the convention, a hostess, not a delegate. The idea might have been to remind the people of Margaret, but the attempt didn't work. She was nice enough, but she had a terrible voice. It might have been stage-fright -- who could blame her -- but there was just something about the way she spoke that was unpleasant. She also wanted to speak far too long. She repeated the earlier stories about that day, and about her role, and then she went back to describe how the day got started, and then back to her role. Basically she wandered all over the place, the main point seeming to be that she had been there. Eventually she stopped -- to everyone's relief.

At this point the pastor returned and introduced the main speaker of the service, the governor of Louisiana and President pro tem of Southland, Paul Andrees. Of course he took longer to make the introduction, and made Andrees sound like their political savior, but you don't need to hear all that nonsense from me.

What I found interesting at this point was how they stage-managed Andrees' entrance. Where others had reached the pulpit from the side, off stage, Andrees walked up the aisle from the back of the church. And as he walked, recorded music blared -- your guessed it -- "This Land I love." Meanwhile the two projectors on each side of the pulpit came back to life and showed images of the countryside, images of the Party flag waving in the wind, images of the LNA soldiers marching down Canal Street, and finally images of Andrees, sitting presidentially -- and paternally \-- at the head of the table as the delegates developed the constitution of the new country.

His pacing was really good. He managed to climb the steps to the pulpit just as the second refrain of "This land" was completed, and he joined the congregation in singing the chorus. How much rehearsal had that timing taken? I have no idea, but he was spot-on. I swear his back foot hit the top step of the pulpit at the exact second it was time for him to sing "This."

Obviously at this point the memorial service had become a campaign rally, something he had a great deal of practice at. The projectors stayed on and displayed his face thirty feet high as it nodded approvingly at the crowd. He was their daddy, and he was pleased with them, his expression said. I was deciding whether to turn off the TV or to throw something through the screen. There was no way I was going to listen to this huckster. Well, maybe I would listen just a bit. And it was a good thing I did.

"Fellow citizens of Southland," he began as the crowd yelled its approval and the screens showed the Party Flag (was that now the national flag?).

"We come together at a time of great tragedy." Images of the plaza appeared, but the distance was such that no faces could be seen. The idea was to suggest the massacre but not dwell on it. At least that is my best guess.

"We have come together to mourn the loss of our heroes." Now there were images of the convention room and the delegates at the table.

"Their loss is terrible, but we are a strong nation." The images rolled the tape of soldiers marching down Canal Street and then standing shoulder to shoulder in South Square.

"We will defend ourselves and our faith." Here the images changed and the screens were filled with burning cathedrals. I hadn't expected that, and neither had the crowd. There was a unanimous "Oh" from the people in the room, and from the people down the hallway. The burning churches were followed up by the explosion that had started all this, the dynamiting of the Biloxi Cathedral. The stone work from that had barely finished it arc across the sky and dropped to the ground when the image changed again, this time showing the two priests who had been hanged from a tree outside their church. I hadn't expected to see that image, and apparently neither had Andrees. He twisted around to see what the crowd was seeing and why they were reacting as they had. The instant he saw the hanging priests he made a motion to someone standing off stage. The look on his face was no longer paternal. He was angry, and the finger that was pointed at the unseen underling looked like a gun as he jabbed it in that direction.

"We are a prosperous nation with limitless resources." He said that a little too fast, as if he wanted the images on the screens to move on. They did, but the image was of the border. It showed trucks lined up for miles as they attempted to move either north or south, followed by the video of several truckers standing and arguing with LNA soldiers at the border. I was suddenly enjoying myself. Someone had sabotaged his speech. Let me guess who that might be.

The next sound was a large "bang" from the back of the church. A door had been kicked open was my best guess. The video room must have been the target, since suddenly the screens on both sides of the pulpit went blank. Okay, so now how would the big man react, now that his speech had gone off script? There was silence for a full minute while he gathered himself. There was sweat on his brow, and he wiped it away.

"Let us remember why we are here." He began. "Two days ago eighteen people were murdered. They stood in the sun and were gunned down. That should never happen. People in this country need to live safely. It is our job to protect you. We will do that. It is my promise to you. I will protect you. Now pastor, if you will lead us in prayer." He stepped down from the pulpit, but stayed up on the platform while the pastor took over the pulpit. He asked the congregants to rise and join him in prayer. Unfortunately, the words to the prayer were to be displayed by the screens. Since those were now off, he gave his prayer, but gave it alone. A few people tried to follow along and mumble some of the words. Ultimately he got to "Amen" and the crowd joined him in that.

The organ started playing exit music. The service was over. Andrees shook the pastor's hand and disappeared out a side door. My guess was he would have a long night as he attempted to learn who had ruined his speech. Fine. Let him lose some sleep. I was going to sleep just fine. I turned off the TV, put yet another ice pack against my face, and lay back. My leg hurt like hell, the ice pack was cold, and I knew nurses would push and prod me all night, but I felt better than I had in weeks.

# Chapter 24 –

# Cracks begin to appear

Anyone who has been in a hospital knows the morning routine. A nurse wakes you up way too early, takes your temperature and blood pressure, tells you nothing, and then leaves. Eventually really bad food arrives. French cuisine does not apply to French hospitals. You get some sort of mush with some burned, cold, toast. Even the coffee is bad. I assume hospital kitchens are run by prison inmates working for pennies a day and exacting revenge on a public that does not know they are completely innocent of the crime that had put them away. Eventually a doctor comes. He is far too cheerful (apparently he had breakfast elsewhere), and he tells you everything is fine. A nurse comes, changes your bandages, gives you some papers to sign, and you can go.

On the plus side, I will admit the nurse helped me get my pants and socks on. Bending my leg was going to be bad for a few days. She also gave me several days' worth of antibiotics and helped me to the door. I limped over to the first cab in line and got a short ride back to my hotel. The doorman helped me out of the cab, helped me through the front doors, and helped me to a table in the dining room. I needed real food. A waiter was at my table in seconds, as was the manager.

"Please," I asked the waiter. "I have only had hospital food for the last twenty four hours. Please bring me a large breakfast. You choose what to bring." He hurried off. That left me with the manager.

"Please, Messieur Jiroux, would you sit with me for a moment? I must apologize to you for yesterday."

"I will sit with you, but there is no need to apologize. We have been told the police made a mistake."

"I think not." I wanted to be completely honest with this man who had done so much for me. "I think they did what they were told to do. They have now released me, but I cannot guarantee they will not be back. I know it was frightful to your men and damaging to your hotel."

"These are difficult times."

"Yes. And I may be a risk to you. I will be happy to move to another hotel, should it be necessary."

"You would be happy to leave?"

"Of course not. I love this hotel, and I am grateful for all your staff has done for me. But if my presence is a danger to you, I should leave."

"We are honored to be your hosts. Last summer, when no one would stay here, you were our guest. I know you returned at some risk to yourself."

"Nevertheless, I also brought some risk to you and your staff. I think your security staff should get a bonus, do you not?"

"They are proud to do their duty. But of course any man with a family can always use a little additional money."

"I was thinking one thousand dollars for each man - as thanks for the extra time they have spent away from their families. My company will pay, of course. Is that acceptable to you?"

"It is not necessary, but I think it will be accepted well."

"Thank you. And of course I will pay for the damages to my room."

"That is not necessary."

"It would make me feel better about the incident."

"Then we will accept. By the way, your room is completely repaired. But there was some damage to your electronic devices. We have found a new computer for you, and a new phone. You may wish to use it this morning. Your sister has been calling the hotel. She is very concerned about you." He had the phone in his pocket, and he handed it to me.

"Thank you, my friend." What more could I say? We shook hands and he went back to his office. Meanwhile, food started arriving. I ate two croissants and most of my eggs before I called my sister.

"Elise called and told us you had been arrested and shot, but the wound was not too bad. What the hell is going on?" Henri must have been keeping Elise informed as he watched from a distance. Good. And Elise was keeping my family up to date. Also good, but Catherine never swears. Catholic school will do that to you. The sisters had really nasty responses to profanity. If she was stressed enough to swear, I could just imagine the stress my parents were feeling. My brothers, of course, would think getting shot was really neat. They would all want to see the wound the minute I was back in Philadelphia.

"What is happening here is actually pretty good. The weasels are beginning to turn on each other. The guy who shot me is already off to thug heaven. And Andrees had his big speech sabotaged last night. It may be chaotic for a few days, but I like how things are trending."

"Desperate people do desperate things. How about getting the hell out of there."

"If Sister Angelique could hear you now."

"Seriously, little brother, it is time to go."

"I agree. The minute the border is open, I am gone."

"That's a promise?"

"That's a promise." I hung up and went back to eating. Wow, the food was good. I just kept eating until I couldn't eat any more. Finally I leaned back in my chair with my third cup of coffee and called Elise.

"I take it Henri is keeping you up to date."

"He is trying. He thought he would pick you up this morning, but you took the wrong cab. I have a copy of your hospital records. The physicians here say you got lucky. How could you be shot in a police station?"

"Thomas LeBeck let himself in. He was a pretty angry guy. I have been told, by the way, that he had a heart attack yesterday."

"Yes we are trying to confirm that. Shawn, please come home. You have done wonders, but you need to come home. I am so afraid..." She let that drift off, and I could her sniffling on the line. I had made her cry.

"I just told Catherine I will leave the minute the border is open. She got me a new car. It is in the lot here somewhere, and I will take it north the minute I can. I promise." There was a bit more to the conversation, but you get the idea. I had promised I would leave. And in truth, I was ready to go.

As for the border, I was about to learn some more about that. The television was going in the dining room. It was off to one side with the sound off, and I had not been paying any attention to it, but I could see the waiters spending more and more time looking in that direction. It turned out there was a very good reason for their attention.

I was too far away to see the details, but I caught some words at the bottom of the screen. This was happening in Arkansas. What was happening? They showed a group of Arkansas provincial police rolling up to the border in their cruisers, lights flashing. They got out and two police talked with LNA soldiers standing at the border while the other police stepped across the border to speak with motorists. Even without sound, I could gauge the general tenor of the conversations. The TV cameras showed the soldiers adamant. Lots of head shaking, some pointing up the road. Whatever they were being asked, the answer was "no."

Then the camera moved to observe the police and motorists. Here was lots of anger. There were a dozen or so people standing right at the line that had been drawn across the road - the "border" - and they were clearly asking the police for something, or maybe it would be fairer to say they were demanding something. Soon the dozen became scores. They got out of cars and trucks and stood around the police, all seeming to want the same things. There was lots of arm waving, lots of pointing.

Next one of the police got out a hand radio and made a call. As he talked, he pointed to a frontage road that ran along the west side of the highway. In a couple minutes two police cruisers, lights flashing, came up the frontage road headed north. There was a line drawn across the frontage road marking the "border" but there were no troops there, so the police just drove through. At this point the officers talking to the drivers pointed back up the road. Nothing happened for a few minutes, and then one of the cruisers came back, lights still flashing, but now he was followed by a stream of cars and trucks. He was leading cars over the border. Instantly, all the people who had been arguing with the police ran back for their vehicles.

The rest of the news report consisted of the reporter, standing on camera, talking into a microphone while an endless stream of cars rolled south behind her. The barricade had been broken -- and broken by Arkansas police. It was impossible to know if the road would stay open very long, but the fact that it was open at all was a direct threat to the legitimacy of the border. Clearly the Arkansas police did not believe terrorists were coming down the highway.

"That's it then," one of the other diners said. "All this nonsense is over. We can go home." And that seemed to be consensus of the room. I was less certain. But it was certainly a step in the right direction - a crack in the wall.

# Chapter 25 –

# On the Plains of Abraham

Having eaten virtually everything in the kitchen, I slowly took the steps to my room. Eventually I would be less bruised and battered, but I was pretty confident I would never climb stairs again without appreciating the effort.

My room was a surprise. I had hoped for reasonable cleaning. What I found was new furniture in the sitting room, even a new desk. And on that desk was a new computer. Part of me wanted to sit down at the computer right then and here, but most of me saw the bed in the other room, and the majority won out. I walked to my bed and laid down for a nap. I suppose I could blame my fatigue on being shot, but I think I am just getting old. I took one look at the bed and knew where I would spend the next couple hours.

By early afternoon I felt like myself again. I took some antibiotics and some aspirin and returned to the world. My computer beckoned. They had done a nice job setting this one up. It had the standard word processing software, a good web browser, and an email system. Essentially, it was ready to go. I logged into my email service and groaned when I saw how many unread emails awaited. No human being has enough hours in his day to read, much less respond to all the email that flows these days. I scanned quickly, saw nothing from family or friends (well, there were two from family, but both were from my brothers. I felt safe ignoring those), and went back several days to the email from Margaret. The diary files were still attached, so I uploaded the second one - Pierre Rousseau's -- and went back to reading.

After three days of navigating a very challenging river channel, they had arrived at Montreal, to a city that was panicking. The locals were certain the British would be sailing into the harbor any hour, and they were equally certain they were not equipped to respond. Pierre had no military background, but he was pretty sure they were right about their second assumption -- they were not equipped to fight. He could find no real fort, and the island was huge and flat. Troops could be landed anywhere. Royal Mountain stood in the middle of the island, but it had gentle slopes that could be climbed by troops under fire, not that troops would ever climb the hill since there were no fortifications at the summit. New France had been fighting the British for five years, and at no time during those five years had town leaders made much effort to prepare for war.

Seeing all these ships in the harbor, town leaders begged Jolliet to stay. He had gathered nearly fourteen hundred men and had food for months. He would be their savior. Rousseau was not present for any of the discussion between the locals and Jolliet's officers, but he heard plenty from the leaders of his unit. "Imbecile" was the name attributed to virtually everyone in the town, whether civilian or military. Rousseau found it hard to disagree. As much as he wanted to see this town he had heard so much about, he agreed with the decision to leave almost immediately. The fight would be in Quebec. Montreal would contribute nothing.

Quebec was another hundred and fifty miles down river. Some, if not all, of that would be patrolled by British men of war. The sailors worked to navigate around island and rocks; the soldiers practiced loading and firing their muskets from the ships. If there was a battle on the water, muskets would be little protection from cannons, but they practiced anyway. It was the only defense they had.

As they approached Quebec they stopped more and more frequently in river towns, gathering intelligence. In Trois Rivieres they learned the British had already landed troops outside Quebec. Somehow they had gotten ashore and had climbed to the fields west of Quebec - known locally as the Plains of Abraham. A battle would be fought there within hours. Could Jolliet get there in time with his troops? No. They not only had to get to Quebec, still a day or so of sailing away, but they had to arrive intact, so the food would be safe. Local guides suggested they leave the main river at St. Anne and take the St. Anne River northeast as far as they could. The smaller river would be a barrier to British gun boats, and men could march the last twenty to thirty miles to Quebec, arriving from the north, presumably away from British eyes.

They took that advice and the long string of ships continued down river to St. Anne Village, and then turned north into the smaller river. Every mile they got up the river protected the fleet and the food from the British gun boats, and meant a mile less the soldiers would have to march. Unfortunately, the river was barely navigable even for these smaller lake ships. They were barely three miles up the river when the first boat caught ground. The other boats collected around it. The river ride was over.

The next day tried everyone's patience. They needed to cut trees both to create docks to unload the ships, and to create fortifications to protect the ships and their cargo. With a thousand men chopping wood, the job should have been easy, but all through the day men came into the camp, some saying they had been in Quebec, some saying they had met men who had been in Quebec, but all telling the same story - Montcalm had been defeated. He lay in Quebec wounded and presumably dying. The British general, Wolfe, had been killed early in the battle, but it was a battle the British had won decisively. French troops had run from the field, leaving hundreds of dead and wounded. With Wolfe dead, the British had not attacked the city proper yet, but it was only a matter of time. Quebec was lost.

Defeat is a communicable disease. Each man who came down from Quebec brought it with him. Any of Jolliet's troops who had been wavering in their ambition to fight, wavered more with every hour. A few talked openly of returning to Montreal "to help with the defense." Jolliet kept the men working all day - busy men don't have time to desert. And it helped that the fortifications took shape pretty quickly. With cannons brought ashore from the ships at anchor, the fort looked pretty formidable. But everyone knew the fort was just temporary. The army would move east to Quebec, or west to Montreal.

Jolliet waited until after dinner and then gathered all his officers around a huge fire. He chose an open spot, guessing that there would be many who would want to listen in. Pierre was one of many who did so. He wasn't taking dictation, so we can't know if these were Jolliet's exact words, but Rousseau sums up his words this way:

"If Quebec falls, Canada falls, as does Louisiana. There will be no second defense at Montreal. They will surrender to the first red coat they see. Quebec must not fall. Quebec need not fall. We have the food it needs, and more importantly we have the brave men it needs. We can save Quebec. We will save Quebec. Here is how. Tonight I want one hundred men to race to Quebec. They need to know we are coming, and we need to know where to bring the rest of the troops. I know twenty Illinois warriors can guide the men. I want forty men from Canada and forty men from Louisiana. These have to be the best units in our army. Which of you command the best troops?" At that question every officer in the army stood and shouted he had the best men. The power of pride is always amazing.

Jolliet made them wait. He walked around the clearing looking every officer in the eyes. Some he slapped on the shoulder. Some he nodded to. Each man was acknowledged in some way. Finally he said, "I choose Red Cloud to lead the Illinois, Captain Nicolet to lead the Canadians, and Captain Goulet to lead the Louisianans." As each unit was named, a cheer went up from those sitting out in the woods, listening. "Officers, you know how to prepare your men. You leave in one hour. Tell Quebec we are coming. We have come two thousand miles. We will not be stopped by a few red coats." At that everyone cheered.

Rousseau was in the unit called to march. He described the excitement, but also the controlled chaos as men tried to find muskets and packs in the dark. Finally ready to go, the lead units passed through the camp to the cheers of the thousand men who would be following. With only torches for light, they went east, hoping they could find the trail that got them to Quebec. In other histories I have read, the claim is made that the men ran all night. Rousseau says that is untrue. They could barely move at a walking pace since they had trouble seeing the trail. Even at the slower speed, men were constantly tripping over tree roots and rocks. He also says they did not travel all night, but just moved four hours before stopping for a two hour break. Then they walked again until daylight. Once again they rested while the Illinois guides ran ahead to see what was happening.

The Illinois returned and described the location of the British pickets. They had seen no French troops. The British seemed to be camped in a large open field, and they were bringing up cannons. Nicolet and Goulet got the men moving, not an easy task after the long night and a short sleep on the cold ground. They followed a trail that led to a farm village. The village was nearly empty, but it provided important intelligence, and a morale boost. No, Quebec had not surrendered yet, and how marvelous was it to see fresh French troops. Two of the local farmers immediately joined the unit and directed them along local trails. Now the units could move faster, and they did. Practically at a run, they were within sight of Quebec by noon.

Circling around to the north, they were able to approach the city without being sighted by British pickets until they had nearly reached the city. Here Nicolet and Goulet did something interesting. Soldiers in that day did not carry their weapons loaded. There was too much risk one would fire if dropped. Now they had their men load their muskets, and then, rather than running the last two hundred yards to the shelter of the fort, they had the men march in formation. They would put on a show, both for the British, and for the townsfolk.

Once they were visible to the British, the red coats gathered up weapons and charged, but there was no order to their approach; it was just small units attacking as they saw the French. The French stayed in formation. First the Canadians would stop and fire a volley into the British, then the Louisianans would stop and fire. The distances were such it was unclear if more than a few British were hit, but the appearances were good, and none of the French were hit as they marched into the fort -- and then kept marching in formation into the center of the town. It was a great show greeted with huge applause from the townsfolk.

The real trouble came after they stopped marching. Where was the governor? He had taken all the remaining troops with him and was fleeing to Montreal. Where was Montcalm? He had been buried that morning. Who was in charge? Three merchants were representing the town council, and they had spent the morning writing up the terms of surrender.

Nicolet and Goulet's response was immediate. There would be no surrender. Jolliet was on his way with over a thousand troops and food for months. Quebec would not fall. France would not lose Canada and Louisiana.

The power of a simple declarative sentence is often underestimated. You say "Quebec will not fall," and say it in the right way, and it becomes established fact. It also helped that Nicolet and Goulet had a hundred men around them, and they were quite prepared to take charge of the town. It was Goulet who actually gave the first order.

"Jolliet will not feed idle hands. If you wish to surrender, there are the British. Do it now. If you wish to run, you can join Vaudreuil in Montreal. Go now. If you are staying, get a weapon and meet us at the bastion." He later admitted he had no idea where the bastion was, but assumed he could follow people through the narrow streets to wherever the fortifications began. The townsfolk began moving, some back to their houses, maybe to get a weapon, maybe to pack and leave.

At this point, Rousseau becomes a bit of a tourist. There is a pause while all the townsfolk are moving, and he happens to look between some buildings to see the river below. He has never stood at any point as high before in his life. He has also never seen buildings as old as these, some over a century old. Nothing in Louisiana goes back more than two or three decades. He sneaks off for a few minutes to look around, and returns just as his unit is marching west to the wall protecting the city.

That afternoon the officers collect and question the hundreds of townsfolk who are willing to serve. Rousseau and his peers are allowed to sleep where they are - out in the middle of a field. For reasons he does not understand, the British do not attack. I could have told him why. The British generals were divided, petty, and cowardly. Wolfe had held them together. He was the only real general the British had in the battle, and he was gone. He would never be replaced. But I digress. Rousseau only knows he is able to sleep that afternoon and that night.

As the force along the wall builds in numbers, it also builds in intelligence. Men from surrounding villages are able to explain where red coats are lodging. They also report the general location of thousands of French militia under a General Levis. Nicolet and Goulet begin to understand how the various forces are arrayed. They draw maps and assign a group of fifteen men to return to Jolliet with the information they have learned. Rousseau happens to be in this group and is rousted before dawn. Before daybreak they are to get to the farming village they had found the day before, then once the sun is up, travel west until they meet up with Jolliet's forces.

Rousseau does a nice job describing the fear, the confusion, and the cold of running through the dark to get to a village he has only seen once before. They arrive and hide in a barn until daybreak. At dawn they realize there are also British pickets in the village. Should they fight the British? Run? Hide and hope the British will leave? They load their muskets but agree to wait until the sun is higher and hope the British leave. They get lucky and the British move on. Now the job of the small patrol is to find Jolliet while avoiding other British patrols. Rousseau does a nice job describing their run through the woods alternating with drops to the ground when they hear noises or see anything red. No doubt it felt like an endless journey to the patrol, but in fact it is only a little past noon before they encounter the lead forces of Jolliet's army. By evening Jolliet's forces are in the village the patrol had used that morning.

Here Rousseau describes the evening encampment and the sense of danger being so close to the large British army. Being a private, what he does not say is what was perplexing Jolliet. Positioned as he was, he could attack the British from an unexpected direction and do real damage, but if he attacked alone, he would be repulsed with serious losses and no strategic gain. He needs to coordinate with the forces in the city and with the forces of Levis – wherever he may be. All Rousseau says in his journal is that many patrols were sent out that night.

At dawn a mounted patrol rides into camp – Levis has been found. He has two thousand militia under his command, but few of them follow him into the village. There is a day-long meeting among the officers. Rousseau is not party to the meeting. All he knows is that Jolliet's troops are arrayed along a road that runs along the north side of the British. Rousseau, and every other man along the road looks due south, wondering at what point the British will discover them and attack. He (and the rest of the French) has no way of knowing just how indolent the British command is. They are spending their day determining the surrender terms they intend to take to the city leaders.

The French leaders have a plan in place by mid afternoon and Levis and much of his staff rides east to his encampment. As we now know from the benefit of hindsight, it is a plan that could fail in far too many ways. If any British patrol ventures north and finds Jolliet's forces, the fight will start too soon and probably mean the end of the French. If Levis cannot move his men into position fast enough, the French also lose. If any French farmer sees the French troops and goes to talk to the British to trade knowledge for gold, the French lose. The risks of failure increase by the hour. All men like Rousseau know is they have been waiting for many hours with little time to eat or drink or rest.

We all know from history how the battle goes the next morning. Levis moves hundreds of men in front of the Quebec fortifications to challenge the British. The British charge quickly in an attempt to kill the French before they can retreat behind the safety of their wall. Jolliet's troops, reinforced by over a thousand of Levis' men wait in silence while a battle happens. Held at bay by their officers, they wait in the woods until the British are fully engaged at the wall. Then, finally, they are permitted to come to the edge of the woods, kneel, and fire.

Shooting men in the back is the worst violation of customs of the day. Fortunately, some of the British hear the French coming through the woods and turn, allowing the French some honor in the battle. But the real advantage the French have is that the British are never able to form up in their squares. While they had advanced on the wall in good order, now forced to turn to their left while under fire, most units cannot manage it. Their fire is uneven, and the French, having the advantage of some concealment are able to fire accurately into the British ranks while taking fewer casualties themselves.

In the original battle on the Plains, we know from historical records the British forces fired three volleys and the French were done. In this attack there were almost no volleys, no mass firings to measure the time or the effort. The French fired from the woods, from in front of the fort, from the walls of the fort. To Rousseau it all seemed to last until eternity. Not an officer, and not destined for political office upon his return to Louisiana, he could give the battle a description rarely found elsewhere. He talks about the men who urinate on themselves, the ones who aim their muskets but cannot bring themselves to actually shoot at another human being, and the men who shake so much their musket balls are more a danger to birds than to the enemy. He is able to bring himself to shoot three times, but each time it is into a mass of men, not at an individual soldier. He also says after the first shot, he finds he has completely forgotten how to reload his weapon. A man standing next to him shouts the steps, and he follows along forgetting to remove the rod after jamming the wadding into the barrel. The man beside him stops him and pulls the ramrod out for him. They fire together into the mass of red coats.

The worst moment comes when a group of British do form up and advance as a line, marching like a red wall, their muskets all topped with bayonets. Some of the French run. Most fire again and again. Ultimately they are saved by distance. By the time the British form ranks and move on the woods, they have over a hundred yards to cover, enough time for the French to get in three or even four rounds each. It is enough. The British ranks thin and then stop thirty yards from the woods. They fire one round, but rather than follow up with a bayonet charge, they stand and fire until almost the last man is wounded.

We know from battle records that several senior British officers are killed or wounded, and the British lose over a thousand of their four thousand man force. The losses are too severe. Standing under a sun abnormally warm for September, taking hits from two directions, their forces break and run down the hill, back down the narrow path to the river edge, back to the safety of their ships. They leave behind hundreds of wounded and all their artillery. The second battle on the Plains of Abraham has gone to the French.

Rousseau is sick to his stomach for much the rest of the day, and he lives in fear of a British counter attack. What he cannot know is the British high command never sees this second battle as a defeat. They move their men back to safer positions and wait. They see the fall of Quebec as inevitable as soon as hunger gets too severe. They have a long history of starving cities into submission. There is no reason for them to lose more men on any battle field.

What the British never learn until long after the St. Lawrence has frozen over and forced their ships into deeper waters to the east, is that Jolliet's real brilliance lay not in the battle – a battle that could have gone the other way but for any amount of luck – but in the decision to wait until after the harvest and to bring shiploads of food with him. That food is brought to Quebec and keeps the city and armies alive through the winter and into the spring when political winds back home cause the British to sue for peace. The war ends. Quebec – and Canada and Louisiana – stay French.

So, what am I to make of this diary? The Huguenots fought during the British invasion. That was well known before, although the diary does provide a useful reminder. There was a Captain Goulet among the troops. Maybe he was some distant relative of the current "Colonel" Goulet. I wasn't sure that mattered much. Nowhere in the journal was there a long description of relations between the Protestants and Catholics, no debates, no reconciliations, no common understandings. Maybe what was so remarkable about the diary was how unremarkable the interactions of the two religions were – at least in this instance. Faced with a common enemy – us – they came together. If there was something more there for me to see, I wasn't seeing it.

I hadn't posted a blog in days and this was a pretty interesting journal, so I decided to post a short description and then attach the file for those who were interested. I also noted that the journal had been sent to me by Margaret Riemard, thinking it might make the posting more interesting to any readers in Louisiana. I also included the message she had sent to me – "These are our national heroes. They make me proud every time I read their stories." That seemed like a good way to sum up the post.

By now it was early evening and I was hungry again. I didn't much like the idea of taking the stairs again, but I was also tired of my room, even with all the new furniture. It would have been a travesty to install an elevator in such a classic hotel and destroy lord only knew how much woodwork and paneling, but just that evening I thought an elevator might have its uses. But I toughed it out and did the stairs. I wasn't sure if I was taking them even more slowly than I had a couple days after the last time someone had tried to kill me, but I was certainly not setting any speed records.

Downstairs they were still serving dinner. You have to love the French. They eat well into the evening. I took a table, ordered whatever the daily special was, and looked at the TV. It was still sitting at the end of the room, still set with the sound off. The show seemed to be the same – newscasters standing in front of cars going by. I was on my second glass of wine when I noticed the road was different. Where before the newscasters were standing in front of cars using the frontage road, now they were standing in front of the main highway. National Highway 3 was open! Arkansas had taken down the border. There were still military vehicles in the area, but they were making no effort to stop traffic. Better yet, traffic was flowing in both directions. If I wanted to, I could get home. All I would have to do is drive over to Arkansas first. I'm not sure how to explain how I felt at that moment. I hadn't been aware of feeling constrained the last couple days, but suddenly I felt an amazing freedom. I could travel. I could go home. I was certain that is what I would do the next morning.

# Chapter 26 –

# More breaks in the wall

The next morning I could barely move. If I was leaving, I would be leaving slowly. I took some antibiotics and some aspirin, showered carefully, redressed my wounds, and got mostly dressed. I thought maybe I could dodge the fashion police for a day or two and go without socks. They just didn't seem to be worth the pain.

The stairs were the usual problem. No, somehow the stairs were worse. But I made it. The TV was in the same place in the dining room and the newscasters were in the same place along the highway. Traffic was still rolling along the highway, and the TV people were still there to tell us – yes, traffic was still rolling along the highway. I asked the waiter to bring me a small breakfast and a newspaper. Maybe it was the excitement of the chance to go home, but I found I wasn't very hungry.

The local newspaper was interesting. You can never tell how political the editorial boards are on a newspaper. They try to stay objective, but they aren't stupid. They can feel a wind blow like anyone else. So I was interested in what they had to say about events. I found three articles that helped explain the situation.

Article one explained the obvious. Highway 3 was open. Traffic in and out of Arkansas was proceeding the way it had for centuries. There were some obligatory comments about how the LNA was still guarding the border to ensure no terrorists used this opportunity to get into the country, but it was hard to imagine how you spotted terrorists going by at one hundred kilometers an hour.

Article two was a detailed explanation of what Louisiana was going to do. Highway 1 would be opened at noon, but it would be restricted. Only those cars with Louisiana plates would be allowed south. All vehicles going north and all trucks coming south would be stopped and checked, and would pay a "customs fee" to cover the cost of the ongoing security operation. Nothing was said about why any idiot would stand in line and pay a fee to use Highway 1 when Highway 3 was open for free.

Article three was several pages back in the paper. Back in the business pages there was a small story about a meeting that had been scheduled between the Huguenot Business League and various Louisiana officials. Nothing was said about the agenda, but I could guess what would be said – having stopped all traffic for days, now a fee would be put on all commerce moving from one area to another. Either the fee would be absorbed by the businesses doing the shipping – nothing they would be happy about – or the fee would be built into higher consumer prices – nothing the general public would appreciate. The HBL would school the politicos about basic economics. I wished them the best. Politicos aren't always the brightest students.

I had a headache for some reason, and felt chilled, so maybe that is why I was so slow. There was a fourth article that should have been screaming at me. On the back page, under a heading of "Meeting Announcements" was a single paragraph explaining that the constitutional convention would not resume next week as originally scheduled. Arkansas had asked for additional time to select its delegates - an announcement would be made soon about the exact schedule of the meetings. How deeply did you have to read between the lines to see what was going on? Arkansas was having second thoughts about joining up with these pirates. It would delay selecting delegates until it felt better about its new partners. In the meantime, you could expect they were also burning up the phone lines to Green Bay, looking for any advantage they could gain there. I could imagine Elise signing more research grants.

At this point the doorman approached my table. Following him was Andre Guillard, the director of the Provincial Library. The doorman stopped a few feet away to give me an opportunity to accept or reject this visitor. The last time I had seen Guillard he had yelled at me on the front steps of his library, but I didn't think that was going to happen again today. I stood and welcomed Guillard to my table.

"Please join me more breakfast," I said. He took a chair opposite me.

"I would enjoy a cup of coffee, but first I must apologize for my behavior the other evening. I was being watched. It was important to say what I said, but I must tell you it pained me deeply to be so rude. You have never done anything to warrant such discourtesy."

"Your behavior was so unexpected, I was fairly certain you were not yourself."

"It pained me to be such a person, even for a few days."

"But now?"

"As you can imagine, now things are changing rapidly. In fact I have come to invite you to witness an event that will part of that change."

"Oh?"

"It is better if you see for yourself. This evening there is to be a rally for the Heritage Party in South Square. I wonder if you would be my guest. I think you will be glad you are in attendance."

"Okay." I had little desire to return to the square, and it meant delaying my return to Green Bay for a day, but I trusted Giullard, and besides, with my headache, driving all day would be awful.

"By the way, I loved your blog last night. I am glad Margaret was able to get you those diaries. It is clear you appreciated them."

"Speaking of diaries, do you know what happened to the second Thiere diary? Margaret said volume two had gone missing." I didn't want to come out and accuse Guillard of taking it, but I did want to know where it was.

"I took it from the library for safekeeping. In the second diary Joseph Thiere says a number of things I thought best forgotten. I had some fear for how his ideas might be used. "

"I see." I said, but of course I really didn't.

"I thought it best to hide the diary from everyone – including my own staff." Here he looked at me with great intensity, as if he expected to somehow communicate telepathically. His staff? Margaret?

"I have put on a copy of the diary on this drive. I hope you will use discretion with what you find here." He handed me a flash drive. "Now, I will leave you. I will return around seven. Would that be satisfactory?"

"That would be fine." And off he went. I finished a little more of my breakfast, but I was more tired than hungry, so I went back up stairs. I was tempted to read the Thiere diary, but I just didn't have the energy. Maybe after a short nap.

# Chapter 27 –

# A show within the show

There was a loud knocking on my door. I was aware of it. It took me a minute to finally react to it. There was a knocking on my door – someone wanted to see me. It was time for me to get up. I got up. I walked to the door. I put one hand on the wall to steady myself and then opened the door.

"Doctor Murphy. You are not well." It was Guillard. Why was he back so soon?

"I am fine. I am just a bit groggy. I was taking a nap. Did you want to talk some more about this evening?"

"Doctor Murphy, it is evening. I have come to take you to the rally." Evening? I looked out the window. Yes, it was already getting dark. How had that happened?

"I am surprised I slept so long. I am sorry if I have detained you. Please let me get my coat, and I will be right with you." My head hurt like crazy and I was cold. The damn air conditioning must have been cranked up to its limit. I took a second to take a couple aspirin and put on a blazer and then I returned to Guillard.

"Doctor Murphy, you may be ill. It might be better if you stayed here and rested."

"I'll be fine. I just slept too long. You know how that is, it takes a minute or two to be fully awake." I followed him down the hall, one hand on the wall as I walked. I still felt half asleep. Somehow I made it down the stairs and out to his car which was parked right in front of the doors. He had a little Peugeot. Getting into the front seat was agony. This man needed a raise so he could afford a car for grown ups.

There wasn't much conversation as we drove. Guillard kept looking over at me, but he said nothing. I couldn't think of anything to say either. I watched the streets go by. The last time I had been to South Square it seemed all of New Orleans was walking down Canal Street to get there. This evening there was some traffic, and some pedestrians, but the crowds weren't as dense. Maybe we were early.

Guillard found a place to park just a block from the square. I wondered if it had been reserved for him. He came around and opened my door for me. That was helpful since I was really struggling to get myself back out of the car. There just wasn't enough room for my feet, or my legs, or my head. In the end, I nearly fell out of the car. But by grabbing onto the door and pulling carefully, I was able to get myself into a standing position.

"I have reserved a table at one of the restaurants, so we will be able to sit during the rally and still get a good view," Guillard said as he led me across the square. I followed along. It occurred to me a blue blazer was a really bad thing to wear to a Heritage Party rally, but I was glad I had it. The night was unseasonably cold.

When we got to the restaurant we sat at one of the outdoor tables facing the square, one of dozens of tables. Most were occupied, but not all. Again, I wondered if we were early. We ordered some cheese and fruit and wine. I was still not hungry, but the wine tasted good.

About fifteen minutes after we arrived, the initial stages of the rally began. There was the usual testing of the sound system, and then some music turned up much too loud. People began to gather in front of the stage that sat along the end of the square. It was the same stage that had been there a few days earlier. Somehow it had looked bigger with thousands of soldiers standing in front of it. Now it was just an ordinary stage backed by the blue and white stripes of the Heritage Party and joined on each side by large screens that showed a series of images – mostly countryside - forests, farms, gently rolling hills. It was pretty.

While we waited for the crowd to assemble and things to begin, I couldn't help but look over at the table Margaret and I had shared.

"She was beautiful, and she was smart, and she was brave." I said. I wasn't sure if I said it to myself or if I had said it out loud. It must have been out loud, and somehow Guillard knew what I was talking about.

"She was all of that. She certainly made the library a more exciting place to work."

"She taught me how to do one of the local dances out on that square last summer. Or at least she tried."

"She was smart, but she was also innocent. She deserved better than these people."

"Yes, she deserved more."

"Tonight another payment will be made for what was done to her." I looked at Guillard, wondering if he would say more, but he just shook his head and pointed toward the stage. I would have to wait to learn what he meant. While we waited, I pulled the collar up on my coat and wrapped my arms around myself. There seemed to be a cold wind coming off the river.

The rally started shortly, beginning like all rallies and all show business acts do – with a warm up act. The guy they picked was young, and enthusiastic, but really nervous. Clearly this was the biggest audience he had ever spoken to before, and here he was, doing a warm up act for the future President of Southland. He had good looks going for him, and he had worked hard on his speech. He was too young to know that everything he was saying was a cliché. To him, it was all new. Maybe it was to some in the audience as well. They were beginning to arrive in reasonable numbers. About half the square was now full, not shoulder to shoulder, but reasonably dense. And he got them applauding at a couple of his obvious applause lines. And he had been told to get some interaction going, so there was the simple question and answer strategy with the obvious answers – Do you love freedom? Do you love this land? Et cetera.

It occurred to me the kid would have done a reasonable job introducing some small town mayor. But somehow he had been promoted to the big time. Why? Was he some hot shot's nephew? Or – and this was a big stretch – was he the best they could do? That seemed unlikely. But as he went through the pro forma riffs of the warm up speaker, I wondered if maybe the talent pool in the Heritage Party had been drained a bit.

Finally the kid finished to polite applause and was replaced by three sisters who sang several cute songs before getting to "This Land I Love." The girls were maybe eight to twelve years old, dressed in all kinds of frills, their hair in curls. Every grandmother in the crowd was thinking how cute they were, and how proud their mother must be, but still, it was one thing to listen to cute kids and another to get a rally going. Even the singing of "This Land" got reasonable participation but not the gut-busting, chest-pounding rendition it normally received. It was pleasant, that's all.

The next person on stage surprised me. It was Goulet. He was dressed up in his military finest, pistol at his side, standing with a military air that I hadn't seen much in him before. He let the crowd look at him a bit, and then he stepped up to the microphone, his face now enlarged thirty feet high on the screens each side of him.

"Good evening, my fellow countrymen." He put real energy into that line, and got a fairly good response. Maybe he should have been the warm up guy. "I am Colonel Pierre Goulet of the Louisiana National Army." He paused there and let the crowd cheer the army. "I wear this uniform with pride." He put emphasis on the word "pride" and received a good response from the crowd. I recalled he had been a lawyer before he had given up a useful career to join the weasels. His legal experience was coming through now. He put out one sentence at a time, carefully hit a key word, and let the audience do what audiences do in those situations. "I share the pride of all soldiers." Pause. "I share the honor of all soldiers." Pause. I share the duty of all soldiers." Pause. "I will defend my fellow citizens from all enemies – foreign and domestic." Pause. More cheers. "I come from a family of soldiers, dating back to the days of the first British invasion. We served with pride then. We serve with pride now." That got my attention. So he was related to the Captain Goulet who had fought at Quebec. That was interesting. But where was he going with all this?

"My duty tonight is to introduce a man you all know. He is a man who has done so much. He is a man you have elected to represent you, to lead you, to take you into the future. He holds the title of Governor. He holds the title of President." While he spoke, the screens switched from his face to a video of Andrees. He was standing in an office. There was no sound, but he looked concerned, angry even. "He is the man who has led us to where we are today." At that point the audio cut from Goulet to the video on the screen.

"It was never supposed to be that way, and you know it. They were to fire a few shots into the plaza. There was no need for anyone to get hurt. LeBeck and Foster hired bloodthirsty thugs who went on a rampage. You think I'm not sorry for that? You think I'm not sorry for her? I was grooming her. I was grooming her to be my wife. She was to be the first lady of Southland, not that fat pig I married." The screen went dark at that point.

Goulet stood at the microphone and said nothing. The crowd said nothing. Seconds went by and then Goulet spoke again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow citizens of Louisiana, I took an oath to protect my country from all enemies foreign and domestic. I failed. It was my job to protect the people on that plaza. I failed. It was my job to protect the woman I loved. I failed. It was my job to protect you. I failed. I hereby resign my commission in the Louisiana National Army. You deserve better than that man you saw on the screen. You deserve better than me." At this point he took off his hat and put it on the lectern, then he unbuttoned his jacket and laid it over his hat. Then he unbuckled his side arm and laid that on top of his coat. He turned, saluted the crowd, and walked off stage.

Lights that had been illuminating the stage went off. The rally was over. Where was Andrees? Apparently he would not be appearing. People standing in the square stood and talked, and slowly drifted away.

"Did he shoot Andrees?" I asked Guillard.

"I don't think so. But Andrees knew it was time to leave. Goulet wasn't the only person who loved Margaret. Once it was commonly known what happened in the plaza, Andrees knew he had to move fast and far. I don't know where he is now, nor do I much care. He is gone. Good riddance."

"Thank you for bringing me to this. I am glad I stayed to see it. Now, could you take me back to my hotel? I am freezing." Guillard helped me to my feet. My wound was burning a bit, and it wasn't easy to get my leg working right. But we managed to get across the square to his car and then to the hotel.

"She trusted those people," I said as I got out of the car."

"Like I said, she was innocent. I think we will all grieve her loss for a long time. And I think we will also grieve the loss of our innocence."

I shook his hand and started into the hotel. The doorman took my arm and helped me up the stairs and to my room. I dropped into bed and was asleep again in seconds.

# Chapter 28 –

# Repairs are never easy

When I woke up, Elise was sitting on my bed holding my hand. That was very pleasant, of course, but also surprising.

"Hi," I said. One of my more brilliant greetings.

"Are you feeling better?" She asked. It seemed a strange question, but then I noticed the room was strange too. Had they painted while I slept?

"I feel fine. I've just been a little sleepy." I looked around a little more and realized I was not in my room. "Where am I?"

"They moved you to a hospital. The hotel staff was worried about you."

"I hate hospitals. The nurses never let you sleep."

"You have been sleeping – or half conscious – for two days."

"Are you sure?" That got her laughing. Wow, she was beautiful. She held my hand with both of hers, and leaned down to kiss my forehead.

"They can show you your chart if you would like, but I think you can trust us on this. You have been here two days."

"Goulet told me about that. They always keep Americans in the hospital extra days – they think we are wimps."

"The word they keep using around here is "imbecile." Nice word. It works in both French and English. They don't like the way you bandaged your cuts. Several were infected."

"I was doing fine. It's the bandages down here that are deficient. They keep falling off."

"You can argue that point with the nurses when you care to." At this point she was smoothing my hair back in some sort of order. "In the meantime, I'll make sure your bandages get put on properly."

"I like that idea." I tried to raise my other hand to touch her, but I discovered it was tethered to a drip line. There was also a clip attached to one of my fingers. "Is all this necessary?" I asked.

"Probably not anymore, but they were pretty worried for a while. You had a high fever and a white blood count that was through the roof."

"When did you get down here?"

"I got in yesterday. We drove." She emphasized the last two words, and broke into a huge smile. So the roads were open still. Suddenly I felt much, much better.

"How do things look as you drive through? Are there still military vehicles out there?"

"No. The only thing you see is a sign 'Louisiana Welcomes You.' I wanted to get out of the car and hug that sign."

"So things are normal again."

"Things _appear_ normal. There are still problems, Shawn. We have work to do yet. We may have stopped shooting each other, but real differences still exist."

"So what's next?"

"First, we pump you full of antibiotics and teach you how to put on a proper bandage. Then, if you are ready in a day or two or three, we drive to Lafayette, Arkansas."

"And what will we find there?"

"We will find a meeting. Now don't make a face. This will not be an ordinary meeting."

"Where have I heard that before?"

"Trust me on this, or better yet, trust Uncle Claude. It is his idea. We will have a general meeting of people from around the country, and we will talk. It may just clear the air, or it may give us some directions for the future, but it will at least get us all in the same room, and that has to be an improvement over what we have had recently."

"What do you mean it is Uncle Claude's idea? Is he better?"

"A little. He is adjusting to the fact he may never walk again – his balance is just too bad. And his hands shake so badly he can barely feed himself, but at least he is out of bed, and he is reengaging in the world."

"He also seemed pretty depressed the last time I saw him."

"He is still depressed. In truth, I don't think he will ever recover from what was done to his people. He holds himself responsible for their deaths. But, now he talks about other things as well. This meeting seems to be helping him. It is giving him a project to work on."

"Then it is already a success. By the way, if we are driving to Arkansas, do you mind if we take my car?" Elise agreed, and I had one more reason to be happy.

It actually took two more days for me to get out of the hospital. I think in the end they released me because they were tired of arguing with me. The hospital seemed to have a work requirement that all nurses be crabby at all hours, and I thought sick guys should be allowed to sleep. I was also none too happy when one nurse brought a group of nurse trainees around and showed all my cuts and lectured on how a proper dressing should be applied and then described the terrible job I had done and the consequences. Who wants to start their day as an object lesson?

Elise did a nice job of apologizing to the nursing staff for me – after all, I was ill – and then we went back to my hotel for a day to rest. I thanked the hotel staff for getting me to the hospital, all except my cleaning lady. She didn't want to talk with me, she wanted a private conversation with Elise, and while they were nominally out of ear shot, I was pretty sure I heard the word "imbecile" multiple times. I suppose if I were a hundred and ten and still cleaning rooms, I would be crabby too.

What did I learn during my recuperation? I learned Andrees had not been found yet. The local joke seemed to be the police didn't need to search for him, his wife would find him and then he would pay for his sins. It was mildly funny, but in truth this guy really did have multiple crimes to his credit. I hoped his wife got her revenge, but there was more this guy had to pay for.

On the political front, the Louisiana legislature voted to impeach Andrees in absentia, and called for new elections in November. Suddenly Heritage Party signs were disappearing from every window. There would be a new party, or a new coalition in power by fall.

On the home front, my mother called daily, but after a few words with me, she always asked to speak with Elise. Maybe she thought my leg wound affected my ability to speak. Or maybe she just thought Elise was more fun to talk with. I can't argue with that.

The one nurse who was still speaking with me at the end of my hospital stay recommended I take walks to help my leg heal, so Elise and I took a walk after lunch. We found a park and slowly walked the paths, enjoying the flowers. There were many park benches where I was able to sit and rest when I felt tired. The park was quiet. People were around, but they seemed to move at a slower pace, and were less engaged in conversation, or maybe that was just me. I held Elise' hand and we walked (all right, I limped) at a leisurely pace, and while we spoke, there were long periods where we said nothing – and that felt fine too. It was an attractive sunny September day, and it felt good just to be outside.

Back at the hotel I asked the doorman if he knew where my car was. He pointed to a beautiful black Ford sedan. I could tell just by looking at it, it would be a joy to drive. I decided we might try it and drive to dinner. We went up stairs, showered, and changed. Elise apparently had found a different brand of bandage, because the ones she put on me stayed in place. I put on a white shirt and pants. Elise wore a pale yellow silk dress. She let me zip up her dress, and I suddenly felt much less tired.

What can I say about the car? I turned the key and it started. No funny noises, no rattles, no hesitation. It was American. My leg was stiff and it would have been very sensible for Elise to do the driving, but I was desperate to get behind the wheel. And I loved it. It turned on a dime, accelerated smoothly, rode quietly, had comfortable seats -- and it was American. I hit Canal Street doing somewhat over forty, barely aware of my speed. It would be so much fun to have out on the highway. My thanks to Henry Ford and generations of American engineers.

Elise just humored me. "That's the biggest grin I've seen on your face in a while."

"I should have asked. Are you allowed to ride in an American car?" I wasn't sure if I was asking a serious question or not.

"I probably should not own one, but I think I am allowed to ride in one. We have amazing freedoms in Canada. On the other hand, we do have speed laws."

"Good point." I took it down a bit, although I was still well over the limit. It was hard not to speed.

"Where are we headed?" Elise asked. Good question. I hadn't given it much thought, but then maybe I always knew where we would go. Otherwise, why get out onto Canal and then take the bridge south?

"Do you mind South Square?"

"No, that would be good." How do I capture the inflection in her voice as she said "good"? It was certainly not "good" as in we will have a good time. It was not "good" as in I hear they have good food. It was more a "good" as in we have a project to get done today and it would be good if we can get it done by four. And it occurred to me we did have a project to complete in South Square – Elise and I – and it was good we get it finished. I suppose that is why I had turned in that direction in the first place.

South Square had fewer people in it than I had ever seen, so parking should have been easy, but here I was with a brand new car, and I wanted plenty of room to make sure I didn't get bumped by other cars as they got into or out of adjoining parking spaces. I drove a couple blocks and found an end spot with no other cars around. It meant walking a little extra, but that was fine. I took Elise' hand and we walked to the Square, neither of us saying a word.

In some ways the square looked as it had last summer. The restaurants were all open, and people were eating dinner outdoors. The Square looked like it might be used for dancing later. But I didn't intend to stay that long. We would eat dinner, talk, and leave.

I led the way to the restaurant where I had eaten with Margaret. The maitre D seated us, showing no sign of recognition. I was just one more customer. Good. Elise and I sat side by side, looking toward the open area of the square.

"The big stage was set there," I said, pointing to one side of the square. A smaller stage occupied the space now. Large speakers were positioned on the corners. It was ready for a band to perform, if one was scheduled for later. Elise looked in that direction, but said nothing.

"Margaret's apartment is there, across the square." I continued. "Was it Henri who saw the men coming? Or did someone else call you and warn you?"

"It was Henri."

"Thank you for that. It must have been an odd call to make – hi – you are with another woman - go to her apartment."

"I wanted you to be safe."

"When we got there, she got out a pistol, and she used a line I had first heard from you – When the Iroquois attack..."

"Everyone is a warrior. Canadian girls learn that early."

"You both were trying to protect me."

"We both loved you."

"Elise," I took her hand and looked into her eyes. "I loved Margaret, but we were never lovers. She was beautiful, and she was a good person. I cried when she was killed, and it hurts me to think of her now. But – and you need to know this. Her boss called her innocent. What he meant was she was politically innocent. She was too innocent to see just how wrong her party heroes were. Maybe he was right and she was innocent, maybe she was just wrong in her views. But it was a barrier between us. There was another barrier. Two years ago I was at a party and a beautiful woman took my hand. I loved her then, I love her now, and I will love her forever."

"Thank you. Now can we leave? What I want to do with you is best not done in public." It is hard to limp and run at the same time, but I managed somehow, both of us holding hands and laughing as we hurried back to the car. And that American car? It got us back to the hotel in record time.

# Chapter 29 –

# A bad day in Baton Rouge

We took our time getting out of bed the next morning, and we had a breakfast that lasted forever. In part, I wanted to thank all the employees at the hotel, so we stopped periodically to go over and shake hands with folks. We invited the hotel manager to vacation in the U.S. at the expense of our company, and I hope he accepts. As for my cleaning lady, she explained to Elise how much trouble I was going to be, and why I might not be worth the effort, but then she gave me a hug.

Eventually we got our luggage out to the car, and as you would expect, the trunk was large and well designed and held everything marvelously. I got behind the wheel and headed the car north toward Baton Rouge. It felt so good to get it on the highway and pass an endless stream of Citroens and Peugeots. Make way for a _real_ car, I felt like yelling as I passed them all. Unfortunately, after about fifteen minutes my leg started bothering me. One more reason to hate LeBeck. Because of him I couldn't even enjoy my first real car in years. Finally it got so bad I had to pull over and let Elise drive. She gave me this bemused look as she slid behind the wheel, but at least she didn't say anything.

I took the passenger seat as far back as I could, rested my leg in different positions, and did better. In fact I got my computer out, plugged it in (one more outstanding feature of my new car), and started reading. I had never had a chance to read the second Thiere diary. Since we were going through Baton Rouge and he was from there, why not read it now?

The diary starts out disappointing. I had expected him to become involved in the French response to the British invasion. He doesn't do anything. He completely ignores the entire war. He goes back to Baton Rouge, starts a business, gets married, has kids, the usual young married life. Frankly the first ten pages of the diary are pretty insipid. He continues to express lots of opinions about lots of things, but none of them are original or interesting. Then his wife dies and the entries get darker. He is angry at the world. About a third of the diary is just him venting at God, the weather, his kids, the neighbors, anything that crosses his path. Then he finds several other angry men and they form a society. It is nominally anti-Catholic, although it is not clear why they are any more anti-Catholic than they are anti anything else. The only certainty in their lives is that they can find no reason to be pro anything.

While they are anti-Catholic, that does not extend beyond meetings and ugly slurs and an occasional sign posted here and there, until a priest arrives. While priests are illegal in Louisiana (they were until 1910), they sometimes come down the river on their way to take ship in New Orleans or Biloxi. They don't usually get off the river boats when they dock, but this priest gets off in Baton Rouge and in the course of wandering the main street meets somebody or says something. Thiere isn't clear how things got started, but very quickly the six members of the anti-Catholic club jump this priest, beat him half to death, and literally throw him back on the ship.

Having now publically demonstrated their actions as priest-haters, the club attracts another dozen members and they begin harassing any members of the Catholic faith who happen to be living in the area. Thiere has become a thug and a bully. This goes on for years. He recounts beatings in his journal. The level of nastiness is hard to read. I find myself skimming his entries, nearly shutting down the file, when he has a whole new set of entries.

He has had an epiphany. Louisiana will never be free of Catholics as long as it is attached to Canada. To free his land of Catholics, he must free it from Canada. He travels to Georgia and meets with every civic leader that will give him an appointment. He claims he is well received. Reading the language in his entries, I wonder if he is half crazy at this point. My guess would be most people ignored him or got him out of their office as soon as they realized his mental condition. But he does find sympathy with several people, including one man who is a militia leader and a real estate investor.

They hatch a plot. Thiere will get the Baton Rouge town council to declare an emergency, the Georgia militia will come to help, and once the uprising has begun, other communities will join in and Louisiana will be free to become the fifteenth state. Thiere and the militia leader return to Baton Rouge, reviewing roads as they go, plotting how each stage of the invasion/uprising will be managed. In Baton Rouge they initially get a warm reception for the idea (at least Thiere claims the reception is warm in his journal), but then folks begin to turn against the idea (no doubt being pressured by Papists according to his journal entry). In the end nothing happens, but Thiere claims it all would have been so easy. The route over from Georgia is easily passable, an army could move quickly, and with just moderate support in Baton Rouge, the fight for Louisiana might be over in days.

It was a bizarre plot, but I couldn't help think about the consequences that might have resulted. Georgia would expand west into largely open land. I could see why a real estate investor would be interested. As for the country, once the U.S. had a footing on the Mississippi, it would have been the same process as Washington taking the Ohio. You just move along the river, and ultimately most of the country is yours. Thiere might have wanted Louisiana to be the fifteenth sate, but any clever folks in Philadelphia would have seen the possibilities of five or six more states, and access clear across the plains to the Rockies. Who knew – if a southern route could be found around the Rockies, a connection to California might be made.

It was pretty attractive, although highly speculative. History might have been very different. But today? Hmm. Why had Guillard given me this journal a week ago? And why had he hidden it? Surely an invasion like the one Thiere planned made no sense any more. Even the craziest Heritage numbskulls wouldn't have wanted it. Andrees didn't want Louisiana to be part of the U.S., he wanted it to be part of his own country – Southland. He wanted to be king of Louisiana, Arkansas, and Colorado. So he wouldn't have backed such a plan. Would he? But with Arkansas pulling out of the alliance... Was such a plot now possible? How desperate did you have to be to plot something this bizarre?

"Those military units that were up along the border, do you know what happened to them?"

"I understand some reported back to their bases," Elise replied. "But most of the men just faded away. We assume they just went home. After all, they were deserters."

"And what happened in Camp Biloxi. Did the troops there surrender?"

"No, they left yesterday. When this is all over, we will have to arrest most of those men. They weren't just deserters, they killed their fellow soldiers."

"When they left, did they take their weapons?"

"I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Do you mind pulling over at the next rest stop? I really need to stand and stretch."

"Oh, so your marvelous Ford isn't perfect, is it?" She seemed to enjoy that idea.

"It will be perfect when I am perfect." I shut down the diary and pulled up a map of the region. Thiere was right. Getting from Atlanta to Baton Rouge would not be hard at all. Most of the land was open and flat. Provincial Highway 17 was almost a straight shot to the border and much of it was four lane.

A few minutes later Elise pulled into a rest area. We both headed for rest rooms. I was barely in the door when I had my phone out. I called Dodson's office and got the usual phone tree. I didn't want to leave a message on any machine. I wanted to talk with a person. I waited the tree out, and finally got an operator. She was pleasant, but obviously busy. I kept my message short.

"I want you to get this message to Senator Dodson personally, and immediately. My name is Shawn Murphy. Tell him Baton Rouge. Highway 17." I hung up and hoped that she got the message to him. If nothing happened, then I was just wildly speculating, and we could keep driving.

My phone call finished, I walked back to the car and stood stretching. Elise finally joined me, her phone still in her hand.

"The Biloxi rebels drove out in large trucks. An inventory done overnight found they had taken missiles and machine guns. The thought was they would sell the arms and use the money to leave the country. Or do you have another idea?"

"Can you wait ten minutes? I am checking on something." She agreed and we stood out in the parking lot watching traffic go by. Time passed. Elise looked at me. She was not happy, but she was patient. She didn't quite stare at her watch, but it was clear she was aware of the time. As it turned out, it only took Dodson eight minutes to return my call.

"Why highway 17?"

"Just a thought. Elise and I are headed up to Baton Rouge on our way to a meeting. So if we turned east on Highway 17 to do some sightseeing, we wouldn't see anything we shouldn't see?"

"I understand that road is under construction today. I don't think you would be allowed on it."

"But if we did get on the road, what would we see?"

"I recommend you stay away from there and let things play out."

"Is my country going to be hurt?"

"No, I think you will like how this goes. Some simmering problems will be resolved on that highway. Good guys win. Bad guys pay for past sins."

"You are sure?"

"I am sure. Go to your meeting. Enjoy a beautiful fall day." He hung up. I turned to Elise.

"Good guys win today. Bad guys pay for past sins."

"What?"

"I am guessing your missing troops are on Highway 17 east of Baton Rouge." Elise had her phone out before I finished the sentence. She walked off across the parking lot and had a very animated conversation with whomever she had reached. She came back to the car practically on the run.

"We should get going, don't you think?" I got back in the passenger seat and let her drive.

"Do you have a destination in mind?" That was a stupid question. I could tell by her speed exactly where she was going. As we tore down the highway I knew she could never complain about my speeding again. "I was told to stay away and let things play out."

"I was told the same. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere along the way?'

"No. But tell me the plan."

"The plan is to stop a blood bath. Those men may be deserters, but there is no reason they all have to die. Now get a map up on your computer and find me a back road to the east side of Baton Rouge." I did as ordered. We would find a turn off in about five miles, maybe four minutes away given how fast she was driving. That Ford was really covering ground.

"And when we get there?"

"We talk."

"You know you could go to jail for interfering."

"So we sit in a restaurant in Baton Rouge while the bombs fall? No. I'd rather go to jail." I pointed to the exit and she took the curve on two wheels. Now I was getting nervous. A Citroen would already be in a ditch, but even a Ford has limits. The back way was a two lane road through the woods. We would hit Highway 17 in about eight miles.

As it turned out, we only had to go five miles before we started driving past military trucks. They were well off the road, under trees. I didn't think trees were good camouflage anymore given infra red cameras and such, but I guess these guys thought it was better than nothing. Elise kept driving, but slowed down. She was looking for something. Just before we got to the intersection with Highway 17 she found it – a collection of trucks and cars. If this bunch had a headquarters, this was it.

Elise pulled the car over onto the grass, got out, and walked directly up to a group of men standing near a truck. I limped along behind, my phone already out and dialed.

"Every one of you will be killed in the next twenty minutes." If having an attractive young woman walk right up to you doesn't get your attention, that comment should have, and it did. There were maybe a dozen men in the group, and while they had been engaged in deep conversation a moment ago, now they were all turned to Elise. I caught up, stood next to her, and noticed an old friend in the group.

"Good morning, Jim." Jim O'Conner of the New Orleans consulate office was among the group. He was wearing a uniform like the others, but with that red hair, it was not like it was hard to pick him out of a crowd. He was wearing a side arm and pulled it the minute I addressed him.

"You two should never have come here. Now you will be the first casualties of Louisiana's battle for independence."

"You tried to kill me twice before, didn't you? I am glad now you are finally willing to do your own dirty work. But before you pull that trigger, you might want to take this call." I held out my phone. He stared at me and then at the phone. He hesitated, then stepped forward and took the phone, but he also raised his pistol towards my head. I hoped I had dialed the right number.

"Who is this?" he asked. I couldn't hear the answer. O'Conner listened, then took the phone and threw it against the side of a truck. "Did you tell them?" He had the pistol inches from my face.

"They have satellites, they have drones, hell they probably have dozens of farmers who wanted to know why so many trucks were parked around here. This isn't the eighteenth century. You can't just drive up a road and surprise people."

"We have missiles" one of the others said. He wore the uniform of an officer. I hoped all their leadership was not that dumb, or Louisiana would soon have a body bag shortage.

"Let me tell you how this is going to go," Elise stepped toward O'Conner, but was also looking at the rest of the crowd. "You are waiting for some troops this American promised you. My guess is he just hired some mercenaries. But no matter. Very shortly, that group will arrive. Then, when all the rebels are in the same place, the sky will rain bombs, and this forest will become an endless field of craters. Both governments get rid of some bad actors. All of you will be dead. My best guess is you have about fifteen minutes left."

"Thanks for the warning," another officer shouted at her. "Now we will just attack Baton Rouge fifteen minutes earlier."

"They have half a dozen drones over your head. Can't you hear them? If you move, you die. If you stay, you die. Your only option is to surrender, and do it now. Drop your weapons, stand out on the road, and raise your hands."

"Like hell I will." Officer number one was stubborn as well a stupid.

"Then you have about fourteen more minutes to live."

Unfortunately, she was wrong. At that moment we saw a flash of light from an adjoining field. Some idiot had fired a missile. Oh hell.

"Run," I shouted and grabbed Elise. We dashed for the car. At first I worried that O'Conner might shoot us, but I expect he was just as panicked as we were about getting out from under the bombs. I was closer to the driver's side of the car, so that's where I went. Elise got in the other side and we were moving before the doors closed. Rather than go back through all the trucks in the woods, I drove forward, toward Highway 17 and then left toward Baton Rouge. To the extent I was thinking anything at all, it was the closer we got to town, the safer we might be. I punched the gas, held the steering wheel in a death grip, and hoped we could cover some distance before the world exploded.

Obviously we made it, or I wouldn't be around to tell the story, but we sure didn't make it by much. The road started jumping under us and then we heard the explosions. No one has ever fully accounted for how many bombs were dropped, but it had to be overkill. The ground was shaking so much I could barely keep the car on the road. I just kept the nose pointed west and hoped we might make it far enough to be out of the blast zone. Had the bomb track been west to east, we would not have made it. But it was east to west, so we had a few extra seconds. That's what saved us. But I can tell you, as those bombs came up the road behind us, I am astonished my heart didn't stop. I thought for sure they would keep coming and bury us. But the last bomb landed maybe fifty yards behind us. The concussion still hit us hard, and all kinds of things rained down on my new car, but that Ford kept moving. So did we. We put on miles before we even thought about breathing, much less stopping or slowing down.

What finally stopped us was a huge truck blocking the road. It was parked across both lanes, and men with rifles aimed at us told us to stop and get out of the car.

"You didn't need to do that." Elise was screaming as she got out of the car and fast-walked directly to the man with the highest rank. "They could have surrendered."

"They fired a missile at our drone."

"It's a drone, they are people. You could have waited."

"Would you rather we waited for them to get to Baton Rouge and fight it out door to door across the city?"

"They weren't going any place."

"Now we know that for sure."

"You murdering bastard." Elise hit him in the face with a closed fist. I doubt he felt the blow - he outweighed her by a hundred pounds - but he felt the anger. Suddenly he grew larger as if he were some kind of blow up soldier. Every muscle strained as he held his arms at his side, surely tempted to strike back. His face was red, not from the blow, but from the effort to restrain himself. He kept his eyes locked on hers, breathed slowly, and ultimately was in control of himself.

"You will not move from this spot. Lieutenant, if they take one step in any direction, shoot them. Sergeant, they might attempt to escape in that car. Disable it. Major, load up your men and begin the search for rebels. Your men are to protect themselves at all times, and they are shoot to kill if attacked." While he was giving orders to other men, his eyes never left Elise' and all his shouts were directly in her face. She never responded to his shouts, but neither did she flinch. Her eyes were locked on his. Finally done with his orders, he continued to stare at her for a moment longer, and then he turned and walked off.

Suddenly military vehicles began appearing on each side of the road, headed east. Most had machine guns mounted on the top, with men standing ready to fire. The first vehicles had barely gotten a hundred yards when the sergeant stood and fired a clip of bullets into my car. He took out the tires, the windshield, and probably the motor.

Elise and I stood next to each other and watched and listened for the next two hours. We could hear shooting in the distance. On occasion we heard larger explosions. The surviving rebels were putting up some kind of fight, but the sporadic nature of the shooting implied to me they were in small scattered groups. The shooting would last a few minutes, and then there would be silence. I wondered if there were any prisoners.

Two hours later the general returned in a jeep. He didn't get out of the vehicle, but just shouted at the lieutenant. "We are done here. They can go. Tell them to start walking." We could hear his orders, but he seemed determined not to address us directly. Having given his orders, he had the jeep head back east on the highway. He was done with us. The lieutenant said nothing to us. He just pointed west. We started walking.

# Chapter 30 –

# Silence is not golden

The walk to Baton Rouge took about two hours. Elise never said a word. At one point I reached for her hand, but she just shook my hand a way. She put one foot in front of the other, stared straight ahead, and walked. The road was deserted. We found road blocks just outside town keeping cars and people off the highway. It was probably just as well. I think Elise might have hurt someone had they approached us.

When we got to town, we moved onto a sidewalk rather than the road, but we kept walking. We walked clear through town, onto the bridge over the Mississippi, and still we kept walking. Another hour passed. We kept walking. The sun began to get low in the sky. We kept walking. I was beginning to wonder if we would walk all the way to Lafayette, when an Interior Ministry car pulled up along side us. The driver was a young man who stopped the car, ran around to open a back door, and stood waiting. He didn't say a word, Elise didn't say a word. She got in, I got in, I said "thank you." and we drove off.

I am not sure Elise would have said anything that day, but as we rode along, I massaged my leg wound. Blood appeared on my pants. The walking might have been good exercise, but we had overdone it.

"Can you get us to a pharmacy?" she asked the driver. "We need bandages." He said he would look for one in the next town.

"How long have you been bleeding?" she asked me.

"Not long."

"I'm sorry. I forgot about your leg."

"I understand."

"All your drugs are in the car."

"So are all our clothes."

"It was a good car."

"It moved fast when we needed it to." I had had several hours as we walked to think of something to tell the leasing company. So far I had come up with nothing. I didn't think Force Majeure would work a second time. But I had bigger problems. Elise was in pain. "It might be better not to go all the way to Lafayette tonight. It might be better to take some time."

"Yes." She took my hand. I can't tell you how relieved I felt that she would make that gesture.

The driver pulled off the highway into a small town shopping center. I gave Elise my wallet, and she and the driver went in to get the bandages. Apparently she also talked the pharmacist into some emergency antibiotics. When they came out I pulled down my pants and she rewrapped my leg. It wasn't really all that bad. There was just a trickle of blood coming from one edge of the wound. I pulled my pants back up, but stayed in the car while the two of them did more shopping -- clothes, tooth brushes, whatever else she thought we needed.

Then we were off to a local hotel. I limped in behind Elise. She got us a room, and one for the driver. She also ordered room service dinner right away. It was a modern -- just-off-the-highway generic hotel with no real character, but it did have an elevator. I was grateful. We ate in the room, drank a bottle of wine and several gallons of water. When we got undressed for bed I noticed Elise' feet were bleeding. She said nothing; I said nothing. We dropped off to sleep in seconds.

The next morning we lay in bed for a long time. Then we showered and put bandages on my wounds and her feet. I joked that the new clothes made me look Canadian again, and she smiled. I ordered breakfast brought up to the room. A newspaper came on the tray, but we ignored it. The room had a small balcony, and we sat out there for a while. Hours passed. She asked about my wound; I asked about her feet. We watched traffic go by on the highway.

At one point the driver came by the room and asked if we wanted to be taken anywhere. Elise said "no." Then he said a number of people had asked if she would be taking any calls today. She said "no." He left, and we went back out to the balcony. Later a cleaning lady came by. I apologized for the blood on the sheets and gave her a number of francs. After the bed was made up we laid down and took a nap that lasted most of the afternoon.

Early in the evening our driver was back at our door. This time he had a cell phone that he handed to me. He said my family had been trying to reach me. I called Catherine. She was crying. She said the family was petrified. The leasing company had called after my car had been towed into town. When they described all the bullet damage, the family had feared the worst. I wasn't sure how to describe what had happened to the car. I said we were fine. We were resting in a hotel. I wasn't sure exactly where we were, but we might be here a couple days. I said we were safe. The ministry had a driver who would take us to a meeting in Lafayette in a day or two. I would call then.

Later in the evening we took the elevator down to the lobby to get some dinner. I could see that Elise's feet hurt her, but I was pleased she was willing to leave the room. We were seated at a table in the corner. We ordered wine and the special of the day. The hotel was generic and so was the food, but being out in a restaurant felt like progress somehow. I took her hand, and she let me. I complained about the fit of my Canadian shirt, and she smiled. We both ate everything they put in front of us and even had dessert.

Back in our room we went straight to bed. Elise laid her head on my chest and cried for a very long time. I held her and felt better the longer she cried. Eventually she fell asleep. I was fairly confident she was recovering.

# Chapter 31 –

# On to Lafayette

We were showered, bandaged, and dressed early the next morning. There was a determined look on Elise's face. I suspected she would be taking calls today, and some people would not be happy with what she had to say. We had a quick breakfast, found our driver, and were headed west across Arkansas before eight.

Elise worked the phone while we drove. Her first call was to her mother. Her mother cried, Elise cried, it wouldn't surprise me if her sisters were crying in the background. In between the tears and the sniffles, Elise explained she was safe, I was with her, she was going to a meeting, the ministry had sent a car, but she did need one favor. Her clothes had been left behind when our car had been damaged. Could the girls pack her a bag and send it to the conference hotel? Having established that the main issue now was missing clothing, her mother seemed much more comfortable and promised to get things packed and shipped yet today.

Her second call was to her boss. Yes, she had talked with the rebels, no, she would not apologize for interfering, yes, she would accept a disciplinary hearing, in fact she welcomed the chance to talk about the attack. I couldn't hear all of his side of the conversation, but I could hear his tone - neutral. I guessed he hadn't decided yet which way the wind was blowing, but at least he hadn't already come down against her. She ended by thanking him for sending a car, and told him she would be at the Lafayette meeting for at least the next two days.

Her third call was to "Uncle Claude." She inquired about his health, asked how things were going in Lafayette, and said she would be there in several hours. He apparently asked about the attack on Highway 17, and he got her version unvarnished. Did I ever mention that the French have a really extensive array of profanity? I had no idea Elise was as well schooled in the art as she was. I was waiting for the phone to melt in her hand. I was a little concerned for how Claude Jolliet might take this diatribe. After all, he was suffering from concussion damage, and he was deep into his seventies. But all I could hear of his reaction was mostly agreement, followed by, "I hear you punched him. Good." Eventually they agreed to meet later in the day, and then ended the conversation.

Now it was my turn.

"I may not be the world's best professor, but at some point I really should go back to the university. So explain to me why I am going to Arkansas."

"First, I am going to Arkansas, and you want to be with me." How does anyone turn from tigress to coquette so fast? And of course, she was right.

"Second, I think you will see something really significant. Lafayette will be our chance to show how civilized people deal with conflict. Arkansas is our opportunity. If we can win them over, we can win over lots of people in Louisiana as well. Now is the time. They have said they need more time to select delegates for the constitutional convention. We know they are having second thoughts about being part of Southland. So we sit, we talk, we negotiate. We end this war before it goes any further."

"Third, Uncle Claude invited us. This is his idea; this is his hope. So we go to support him."

"Okay, that's pretty convincing. I do fear for his health, though. I hope this isn't too much for him." Elise just nodded her agreement. What could she say? Claude Jolliet was a great man, but he was old and seriously injured. I really did hope this thing worked, if only for his sake, but what were the odds?

Meanwhile, Elise was back on the phone calling various department heads who reported to her, getting updates. I didn't keep count, but based on her facial expressions, I think she was getting an even balance of good news and bad news. Whatever the news, she responded with encouragement and occasionally some advice on strategy. As she talked, the miles went by. We were in Lafayette by mid-afternoon.

What can I say about the meeting? It was in a beautiful old hotel right downtown. It looked huge, and also looked like it probably stood empty much of the year. Whenever its prime years had been, it was several decades past them. But unless it was a firetrap, I was already pleased. It would have a great lobby, beautiful wood work, and some character.

Our driver let us off at the main entrance, and we went in to register. While we stood in line, Elise was constantly greeted by people she knew. It occurred to me I might be attending a bit of a family reunion. If so, I wasn't sure I was creating the best impression. My clothes barely fit and my comb was somewhere between here and Baton Rouge. But when Elise introduced me, many of the folks knew my name, and a few had read one of my blogs. So I knew already I would be mixing with intelligent and discerning people.

How can I best describe the people circulating around the hotel? Well, old to start. I wondered if we were sharing the hotel with some aging conference. But Elise straightened me out. President Jolliet hadn't actually formally invited anyone, on the belief that if he invited people, those who had not been invited would feel uncomfortable and even hostile. So he just announced the gathering and said he would love to speak with anyone who was interested in attending. So why all the old people? First, most of the people who knew Jolliet personally were his age. So the first layer of attendees was people who had been in government when he had been president. Second, when he had explained the gathering would be to discuss peace for the nation, it had been community elders who had taken the responsibility to attend, or at least that was Elise' explanation for the stooped shoulders and bald heads I was seeing in every direction. I can't say I was real encouraged by the attendees. Would anyone care what this bunch of former officials had to say? Obviously I kept my doubts to myself. Elise was the epitome of enthusiasm, and of course every aging former official she met suddenly had straighter posture and a brighter smile in her presence. No wonder she thought they might accomplish something -- with her in the room they were all suddenly twenty years younger.

We arrived in time for a reception. There was no formal agenda for this gathering, but there were loosely scheduled events, all of which seemed to be in a large ballroom, and all of which involved standing around and talking to people. Before dinner there was a reception. Then there would be dinner. Then there would be an assembly. The morning would see a convocation. Call it what you will, people basically were to spend time together in the ball room.

We found the ballroom and I found the ballroom bar. Both were crowded. Were there eight hundred in the room? A thousand? More? The room was huge -- but full. If there was one person in the room not talking, I didn't see him. It appeared every person was engaged in conversation, sometimes with one or two people, often with larger groups. These folks had come to talk, and that is what they did. I finally managed to get a couple glasses of wine, and I went looking for Elise.

Who did I meet along the way? Lots of people. Start with Marguerite Joubert. She had two other HBL officials in tow, and was working the room, explaining to all how terrible borders were for business. They even had a pamphlet explaining how customs costs raised prices. She must have thought the people in the room were idiots or second graders, because the pamphlet had simple illustrations showing money disappearing into the sky at each border crossing, while sad-eyed workers found they had fewer jobs and higher costs. On second thought, maybe she had the right literature for the audience. I took a pamphlet, promised to show it to Elise, and kept walking.

Next I ran into several people I had met in Desmet. The first thing they wanted to tell me was that Tilden Foster had been killed. They were practically gleeful, and who can blame them? I explained I had been nearby when he was killed, and they wanted to know every detail. Clearly he had not been forgiven for the deaths he had caused in Dakota.

Who else did I run into? The room was practically a who's who of people who had been prominent twenty years ago. Did these people really have any influence now? I wasn't so sure, but I shook hands, was introduced to dozens of people, had the start of a dozen conversations, all of which were interrupted as others came up and wanted to introduce someone to someone else. The room was flowing, people were mixing, and I had my glass of wine long gone before I finally spotted Elise. She was with Claude Jolliet, of course.

He was sitting in a wheel chair. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it. He was in a wheel chair. I knew he was pretty unstable and really couldn't walk, but they had made such an effort to mask his condition back in Green Bay, I was surprised they had been so open about it here. But maybe he felt he was among friends and need not pretend around them.

He and Elise were involved in the most intense conversation I had seen during my time in the reception. I understood the intensity the minute I was close enough to hear the conversation.

"It was a massacre. Nearly a thousand soldiers blown to pieces. Yes, they were deserters, but they were Canadian soldiers." The speaker might have been the youngest man in the room, and he was the only one who was wearing anything that resembled a political statement -- a blue and white Heritage Party button. I wondered if he was practicing lines for his next campaign stop.

"Minister DuPry was there," Jolliet responded. I was hoping to hear strength in his voice, but I heard little improvement from the voice I had heard earlier in the summer. His words were clear, but very soft. "She can tell you if the bombing was necessary." At this point more than a dozen people who were engaged in the conversation turned to Elise. I saw from the look on her face, she hated the very idea of responding.

"I drove to the encampment just before the attack and tried to get the men to surrender." It looked like every word pained her.

"You lie. You were never there. Those men never had a chance to surrender." The Heritage punk hadn't finished that sentence when I dropped the wine glass I had and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

"She was there, I was there. Those stupid bastards had every chance to surrender. When Minister DuPry warned them they were observed by drones, they fired a missile at the drone. Everything that happened, happened because of choices they made." My face was maybe an inch from his. "She risked her life to give them an option. What the hell have you done worth a damn?"

"Let me go or I'll.."

"What, shoot me? LeBeck already did that. Want to see the wound? You Heritage Party punks are a disease on Louisiana. Just remember, if it is good for a show, you will even shoot each other. You might want to think about that." I let go of his shirt, but I kept my face just an inch from his. I was so hoping he would take a swing at me. Unfortunately, he took a step back, smoothed his shirt, and left the room.

"Gentlemen," Jolliet commented to those surrounding him. "This is Doctor Shawn Murphy, a professor at the National University, and the lucky man who will soon marry my Goddaughter." I shook a few hands, and nodded to a couple people across the space. Meanwhile, Elise stepped over to me and kissed my cheek.

"I had a glass of wine for you, but I dropped it."

"We can get more." She took my hand. "Uncle Claude, do you mind if I take Shawn off and get him some dinner?"

"It gives me great pleasure to see the two of you together." I thought he was going to get a bit weepy. "Go, but do come see me later, will you?" Elise agreed, and we worked our way out of the room, still hand in hand. I scanned the space for the Heritage fool or anyone else wearing a blue and white idiot button, but there were none around. That was just as well; it was past time to take my antibiotics, change bandages, and spend some alone-time with Elise. Our room was beckoning.

About eight we were eating a room service dinner when we got a call from one of Jolliet's attendants. He would like to see us in his room, but we were to keep our meeting short. President Jolliet was very tired and he should be resting. We agreed and went straight up to his suite.

We were met at the door by a woman I could have sworn was my cleaning lady from New Orleans. But maybe all hundred and ten year old women look the same. This one sure had the same attitude. President Jolliet was very tired (where had we heard that before) and we should not stay more than five minutes. We agreed and she stepped out of the way so we could get in to the room. Jolliet was sitting in an easy chair, and it almost looked like he was napping. The ancient attendant was right – he was very tired, and we knew we should make our visit brief. But at the sight of us, suddenly he was alert and ready to talk.

"Thank you for coming. Please sit." He motioned to a couch opposite him. "I wanted to speak with you alone, first to thank you for all you have done. Elise, they have told me what you did the night of the attack on my house. That was very brave of you. And Shawn, I am aware of all the risks and injuries you have endured. All I can say to both of you is 'Thank you'. But that is not why I invited you both to visit me. I value your insights, and I wanted your appraisal of where we stand."

"Where we stand?" Elise asked.

"I am trying to determine if this war is ending, or just beginning."

"Ending," was Elise's immediate response. I hoped she was right, but right or not, I liked the change that came over Jolliet's features. Clearly it was the answer he was hoping for. "If the best the Heritage Party can send to this gathering is that puppy we met in the ballroom, they are done, and that takes out most of the political beneficiaries of the war. As for war profiteers, one Foster brother is dead and the others are hiding behind tax lawyers. It is harder to know about the American involvement (sorry Shawn), but we know they let us bomb their chief mischief maker, and the many of their mercenaries were killed in the bombing. As I see it, most of the worst actors are off the stage."

"Well put." Jolliet replied. "Now Shawn, you present the other side. Where are we still vulnerable?" Ouch. Why did I have to present the bad news? But when asked...

"There are still plenty of unknowns. We think the main actors are done, but we can't be sure. For instance, we still don't know who staged the two attacks in Green Bay. If there are more attacks like that, people will want revenge, and that means pressure to punish Louisiana. At the same time, while the bombing near Baton Rouge stopped a joint attack on the city, it also created nearly a thousand martyrs. Remnants of the Heritage Party, and others, will use those deaths. Worse, the massive desertions showed the Canadian army is not united. What will happen to those soldiers who walked away? Every trial will be a public wound for the country."

"You are right about all those problems." Jolliet replied. I was waiting for one of his attendants to shut me up. Clearly I was not helping his condition. But he had me started, so I continued.

"The biggest problem is the one we have yet to address. We have done nothing about what started all this. We put a huge Catholic cathedral in one of their sacred sites, and then we cheered when a lacrosse thug with a stick killed a man on national television. Put another way, each side hates the other – and it could be argued there is reasonable cause for the hatred."

"Yes," Jolliet was nodding his head as he replied. "We have been so caught up in the momentary events, we have not addressed the larger issues. Thank you for that insight." Elise was looking at me, and at him, and I think she wanted to say something, but in the end, she held her tongue. She said nothing, Jolliet said nothing, and we sat in silence.

At that point the ancient attendant walked up to us and put a hand on my shoulder. She had a pretty good grip for someone her age. "Mr. President," she said. "You promised, and they promised, this would be a short visit. You know how intense your schedule is for tomorrow."

Jolliet looked about to argue for a minute, but then changed his mind. "Yes, tomorrow will be important. Will you two be attending the convocation in the morning?"

We agreed we would. Meanwhile, the attendant was pulling on my shoulder. There was no doubt it was time to leave. We said our goodbyes and headed back to our room.

"I was angry that you presented such a negative case," Elise said as we boarded the elevator. "But I also appreciate that you did it. He is old and tired, but he is not an invalid, and so should be told the truth. You showed respect by telling him the truth."

"You told him the truth too. We are near the end, or at least we could be. We just need to manage these final days." Both of us spent the final hours of the evening wondering about that question – how do we heal some of these wounds?

# Chapter 32 –

# A great day; an awful day

I suspect a lot will be written about the next morning. I am not sure how much I have to add. I was there. I was impressed. It was a morning that you know will be special. I think everyone in the room felt it. How did we know it would be special? I don't know. But somehow we knew.

I will say that Jolliet had carefully stage-managed the convocation that morning. We could tell that right away. Where before people just wandered and talked, this was to be formal. He had them set up the room with a large circle of chairs. There were probably fifty in the inner circle, and two outer circles that were somewhat larger. Because the room was rectangular, the "circle" was actually an oval, but that's just detail. The convocation was to start at nine. People started arriving at quarter of, and the chairs slowly filled. Elise and I got there early, and it was interesting to see where people chose to sit. I chose to stand; Elise sat in the second circle. Others joined her in that ring while plenty took the other rings. There was no seating chart, and no invitations that we were aware of. People sat where they thought they belonged. By and large, the elders took the inner circle, and younger people took positions somewhere back from there.

If you have seen videos of the session, you probably didn't notice how quiet it was before the convocation began. I noticed it, because I recalled how loud the room had been at the reception. These people were talkers, but this morning they sat quietly. They may have exchanged a few words with the people seated right around them, but many said nothing at all. It was a huge room, and by the time the room filled there were surely a thousand people there, but it was unusually quiet.

All the seats were filled and much of the standing room taken when Jolliet arrived. He rolled through the main doors in his wheel chair. He sat for a moment, looking at the room, and then he stood. His hands shook on the arms of his wheel chair, and it seemed to take him forever to get upright, but he managed it. Then once standing, he smiled and waved to the crowd. That started a cheer that lasted as he slowly walked the ten or twelve paces to his seat in the circle. He had an attendant on each arm, but he stood straight and slowly shuffled his feet, and got to his seat largely on his own. The crowd stood and applauded each step.

Once at his chair on the inner circle, he stood smiling – and catching his breath. Clearly it had been a huge effort for him to take those few steps, and it was equally clear the effort was appreciated. He waved a hand in greeting and then motioned for them to sit.

"My friends." He said, but he was breathless and the words were barely audible. He paused, inhaled deeply, and tried again. "My friends." This could be heard across the room. His old campaigning voice had somehow been recovered.

"Thank you for all your years of friendship. Thank you for joining me here today." He paused while the crowd applauded again.

"We are here to decide if our country can be saved." He paused and let that sink in. "Yes, you heard me. We are here to decide if our country can be saved." If the room was quiet before, silence was absolute now.

"I invited you to this place for a reason. If we are to envision our country's future, we would be well served to begin with its past. Arkansas has an important place in our past. You will recall it was Louis Jolliet and Jacques Marquette and five very brave men who ventured this far when they paddled the Mississippi for the first time and learned about lands already well known to the tribes. They got this far, and fearful of the Spanish, and fearful of the local tribe, they turned north."

"I think that reminds us that conflict and fear has been a part of our country for over three centuries. We were never a single people with a single culture. We were never a single people with a uniform vision for the future. We were never a single community. We have always been many communities, with many beliefs, and many dreams – and many fears. Yet for three centuries we always found that in addition to our differences, we had one similarity – our desire to also be Canadians. We gather here to determine if we can rekindle that desire. I do not expect our work here to be easy, nor do I expect our work to proceed quickly. If we are to rebuild that belief in our nation, it will need to occur one small step at a time. Let me suggest the first step."

And he waved a hand. From the far end of the room a man dressed in tribal attire – an Arkansas? – worked his way through the people standing around him and crossed into the open area of the circle. He had been holding a calumet – a peace pipe – in front of him. At the center of the circle he stopped and raised the pipe above his head so all could see it. It was nearly three feet long, was covered in carvings, and wrapped in bead work. Four eagle feathers hung down on leather thongs. He held the pipe up, turned so all could see it, and then crossed the rest of the way to Jolliet. He held it for Jolliet, who took the mouthpiece while the man lit the bowl. Quickly smoke came from the pipe.

Jolliet took the pipe, held it aloft, and began speaking again. "We sit together having endured injury. Too many have died. Too many grieve their loss. But – and this is crucial - we also sit together knowing we have caused injury to others. We have not been the people we want to be. We have not been the people we know we can be. We sit here aware of our shortcomings." He paused there and looked around the room before continuing.

"We have much work to do. Before we talk about the people we want to be and the country we want to have, let us begin as gatherings have begun for centuries. Let us share the pipe of peace. Who will smoke with me?" His hands shook so badly I thought he might drop the calumet, but he managed to hold it before him. "Who will smoke with me?"

"I will smoke with you." Came the response. Twenty people must have said it in the first instant, and then dozens of others followed, then more. I can't be certain that every person agreed, but it seemed like it. He had asked for, and gotten, the commitment of the room. He raised the pipe, as if holding it out to all, smoked, and then passed it to the man on his left.

How long does it take for a thousand people to smoke a pipe and pass it on? A long time. People waited patiently as it was passed around the inner circle and then was passed to the next circle back. They got a bit restless after that. Jolliet stood to retake control of the room.

"A commitment to peace is crucial. We will wait until all who wish to smoke have done so. But while the pipe passes, assistants will pass out a piece of paper to each of you. The paper has two sides. On one side I wish you to write what you require for peace in our land. On the other side, I wish you to write what you will do for peace."

He waved his hand again and a dozen young people began passing papers to each person. They must have been carefully trained, for they did not just hand someone a piece of paper, they stood directly in front of the person and handed the paper with two hands, as if the blank paper had great value. It was an interesting touch. I was impressed that the kids could take it all so seriously. When I was given my piece of paper, the young lady handed it to me like she was giving me a sheet of gold. The paper was good quality paper, carefully inscribed as Jolliet had noted. One side said "What I require for peace" and the other said "What I will do for peace." Oddly, I found myself holding the paper with both hands. Where normally a piece of paper would long ago have been folded in thirds and put in a pocket, this one remained in my hands – both my hands.

Jolliet sat back down. He had also been given a piece of paper, and he set it on his legs and looked at it. Clearly he was contemplating an answer to the questions. That was the behavior he wanted to model, and that was the behavior that followed. The room stayed silent as people looked at their paper, or accepted the peace pipe, or began writing their answers on the paper. It was a room at work.

An hour passed. By now the pipe had made it all around the room, and most people had written their responses to the questions. Jolliet raised his hand again, and this time a man carried in a large barrel and set it in the center of the circle. It had been carefully decorated with a map of Canada. Once it was in place, Jolliet asked the men seated on each side of him to help him to stand again. Then they walked with him to the barrel. He took his paper, held it high so all could see it, and placed it in the barrel. The men on each side of him did the same. Then the three of them turned and walked towards the main doors where Jolliet's wheel chair waited. While they were walking away, the rest of the room deposited their papers, some raising them in a manner similar to Jolliet's, others just dropping their sheets in the barrel. Jolliet was pushed out of the room by his attendants, and several people left with him.

Those who stayed behind began talking, and once the silence was broken, the noise level ramped up pretty quickly. Those around me were mostly talking about what they wanted for peace, but a few volunteered what they would do for peace. I heard a number of things I hadn't expected. Maybe the most telling was a man who said he just wanted his kids to be able to go to school and not get beat up for who they were. Many of the other requests were similar in that they did not involve huge undertakings. They did not need a new province, or a promise of jobs. They wanted safety, or respect, or a chance to go to church. I wondered how much they spoke for the millions who were not in the room.

Gradually people began to scatter. I found Elise. She had heard the papers would be entered into a computer system, and posted for all to see – those who were attending and the public at large. It seemed like a good plan. I was curious to see if more of the ideas were as simple as the ones I had overheard. In the meantime, people talked – some in the ballroom, some in other rooms, in the hallway, or out front of the hotel. The locations varied, but the topic was the same – peace.

Elise and I wandered and talked to various groups of people. Maybe the most interesting conversation was with a group of priests. Several of them represented churches that had been burned down. The talk was about rebuilding, but rebuilding to serve their congregations while also not challenging local Protestants. Elise reminded them that before the current conflict there had been a trend of more northern Catholics moving south, slowly moving toward a majority. As the Protestant majority became a minority, it could feel threatened. If peace were reestablished, the recent migratory patterns would likely be reestablished. The challenge for the church leadership was to be a majority that respected the culture of the minority. The priests seemed to grasp the problem. In fact one had been working with local architects on church designs that featured smaller, less visible exteriors while creating maximum useable interior space. We left them at that point. I guess we will see over the coming years if those architectural ideas are implemented.

Eventually we moved down to the dining room and had lunch. The afternoon assembly was to begin at two, so we had time for a leisurely lunch, and then were able to take a walk through a nearby park. It was a beautiful day, and it felt good to feel the sunshine on our faces.

As we walked back to the hotel, we saw the ambulance pull up to the front doors. They already had a gurney out and were taking Jolliet from his wheel chair to the gurney as we ran the last block. We ran fast, but the crew was faster, getting Jolliet into the ambulance and driving away before we could get there. We stood panting in front of the hotel, listening to the scream of the ambulance siren, hoping for the best and fearing the worst. Many others quickly gathered out front as well, all facing in the direction the ambulance had gone, as if seeing it imparted some information. There were some questions from people, but no one standing out there knew anything beyond the obvious – Jolliet had been taken away.

After a few minutes Jolliet's ancient attendant worked her way through the crowd and took Elise' hand. She led Elise back into the hotel and into a small room filled with luggage. I followed along and closed the door behind us.

At first, the two women just stood there hugging. Both were crying. Eventually they stood and wiped their eyes. Somehow the old woman looked even older. She took a long time wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, and then she talked to Elise.

"He was killed in June. The concussions from the attack damaged him in too many ways. He survived the summer on prayer. Then he had the idea for this gathering. It cleared his mind and gave him energy, but he knew he could not last. He was desperate you attend. He told me a dozen times if he was unable to finish the gathering, you were to lead it. This morning he could barely breathe when he got back to his room. He told me again – you were to lead. I doubt he will survive the night, but do not let his death end this. Lead. Please lead. Grieve later. Lead now." Elise hugged her, and they cried some more, and then Elise left the room and went up to the ballroom.

Most of the room was empty, but a group of young people were gathered around some computers at one end of the room.

"Hi. How are preparations going for this afternoon?" She asked the group. There was a pause while they looked at each other, and then one of them spoke up.

"We heard President Jolliet was very sick and the sessions might be cancelled." A young man sitting closest to the computers turned to answer.

"President Jolliet is very sick. But he would be very upset if sessions were cancelled. This gathering might be the last event of his life. We should make it successful, don't you think?" This got affirmative nods. "Now tell me what you were preparing for this afternoon."

"We have entered almost all the written statements into the system. We were told to run two projectors, one for each question. They were to scroll across the screens set up over there." He pointed to two large screens descending from the ceiling.

"And how were you to set up the room?"

"We were to take out all the chairs, so the room looked like it did yesterday."

"Good. Let's do that. We start at two. I will introduce the activity, and then you will start the comments scrolling. Please put them in a loop so they come around again once all are finished. I would like the activity to last all afternoon and into the reception. By the way, I am Elise DuPry, and I am Assistant Interior Minister. Please let me know who each of you are." And she went around and shook hands with each of them, getting their names and a bit of their background. As they went about their work, finishing the data entry and removing all the chairs, she addressed them by name. She stayed with the young people until nearly two, and then she positioned herself at the doors. Lots of folks poked their heads in to see if the afternoon session was still going to occur. She assured everyone the session would go on "just as President Jolliet would wish," and she shook hands with all of them and spoke briefly with people she knew.

By two, the room was mostly full. Elise walked over to the wall with the large screens, and began.

"While I know most of you, for those I have not yet met, I am Elise DuPry. I am Assistant Interior Minister, but today I am most proud to say I am President Jolliet's goddaughter. To me he will always be Uncle Claude." She paused to let people appreciate that. "I know you are all wondering about his health. It is not good. As you saw this morning, he is seriously ill. What we can all do now is pray for him. But there is a reason why a seriously ill man would call this gathering. He loved you all, and he loved his country. It was his hope that we might yet find a way to preserve our nation. He has asked for your help in this endeavor, and he hopes you will continue this work, even in his absence."

"This morning he asked you to identify what you would require for peace, and what you would do for peace. Jacques, Pierre, Marie, and many others have put your statements into a computer system so they could be shared. Uncle Claude wanted you to see those statements this afternoon, to see what your peers want for their country, and what they will do for their country. His plan was for you to look, to talk, to consider what will be required for our country to be saved. He asked that you spend the afternoon in this review. Will you join me in this activity?"

Lots of people replied "yes."

"Then Jacques, please begin showing the statements. Friends, let's look, let's talk, let's consider the ideas we see here." The statements started scrolling up the screen, and Elise stepped away. She joined a group near the front and reviewed the statements with them. At first, not much was said, but soon a few people started commenting on the statements, and once a few people started talking, the flood gates opened and the noise level hit maximum. Some statements drew more comment than others, but all got some reaction.

How long can people stand and talk? With this bunch it was hours. Some of the older people asked for chairs, but most stood and talked. There was some movement in the room as people first talked with one group of friends and then with another, but the focus was always on the statements. Each was read and considered.

About five several portable bars were rolled into the room, and the wine started flowing. After all, these people were mostly French, and while they disagreed about many things, the importance of wine was not one of them.

I have to admit my feet got tired after a couple hours, and my wound started throbbing, so I decided I better go up to my room before I started bleeding. What I found in our room was the luggage from my Ford. There was a bullet hole in one bag, but otherwise the bags were fine. On top of the bags was a large white envelope. In it was a lease agreement that had been approved by Catherine. I have never seen an agreement this long. A team of lawyers must have worked overnight to come up with all the mumbo jumbo that was in it, or they just used copy and paste from their messages to bad customers past. Basically it said they were giving me another car – a Ford no less – but they would not approve any insurance on the car. Any damage to this car would be paid for by our company. It appeared they had even charged Catherine a $10,000 deposit. At the bottom of the envelope was a key – I had a car again! Catherine was definitely moving up my Christmas gift list.

While I was tempted to go find my car and take it for a test drive, I decided to put my feet up for a while. I must be getting old, because I dropped right off to sleep. Three hours later I was awakened by hunger and went looking for Elise. She was still in the ballroom, as were most of the other people. Wow these folks have endurance. Food tables had been moved in to one end of the room, and some folks were making sandwiches and grabbing appetizers, but most were still talking. Meanwhile, the statements kept scrolling up the two screens, and people watched while they ate and talked.

As I got closer to Elise I saw the ancient attendant was with her. That would not be good news, and it wasn't. Elise excused herself from the people she had been talking with, and accompanied by the old attendant walked toward the door. I met her halfway and joined her as she left the room. There was no need to say anything. I knew where we were going, and why.

Outside the hotel the three of us got in the first cab at the curb and rode to the hospital. Elise took my hand, but none of us said anything. At the hospital we were admitted to his room. There were no final words. A few family members were at the bed side. They said he had taken his last breath about fifteen minutes earlier. Elise took his hand, kissed his forehead, and told him how much she loved him. Then we stood as the others did. We conversed a bit in whispers, then a nurse came in and asked if we were ready for her to take him. Everyone touched his hands one last time and we filed out of the room.

As an ex-president, his funeral would be a matter of state. No doubt officials were already on their way to manage moving his body to Green Bay, and arranging the funeral. Other presidents and ex-presidents would be notified and begin their travel arrangements. Much would be set in motion. Our little moment was over.

Elise spent a few more minutes with Jolliet's family, and then she went back to the hotel. Hundreds were still in the ballroom. She made no large announcement. Instead, she walked from group to group and simply said, "We will have a memorial service at nine and begin our morning convocation at ten."

# Chapter 33 –

# Plans and hopes

I'd like to say I helped a great deal, but Elise put everything together for the next day. At some point she got the group of assistants together and explained how she wanted to do the memorial service. She asked them to find a good series of images and videos of Jolliet. She left it to their discretion to find the materials they thought most representative. The kids must have worked all night, but I bet they did it with pride knowing how many would be viewing their work.

Elise also had long talks with many people who wished to make a statement at the service. Allocating limited time to many people was surely a challenge, but she handled it well. At least I think she did. I went to bed around midnight. She was in bed with me when I woke up at six. How long she had been there, I had no idea.

She was pretty lost in her own thoughts as we went down to breakfast, and I did not bother her. As it was, she was interrupted pretty constantly by people who had suggestions for this or that. I am not sure she really got to eat much.

What was the memorial service like? Obviously I am biased, but I thought she did a great job. Precisely at nine she walked up to a lectern set between the two screens. For the last half hour the screens had been showing a long series of stills and videos of Jolliet for people to watch as they entered the room and took their seats. Now that the service was to begin, the screens froze on a great picture of him standing out on his farm with his family around him. Elise paused for just a second, and then began.

"President Claude Jolliet died yesterday. His body has been taken to Green Bay and it will lie in state in the Capital Building for two days while people pay their respects. Then there will be a formal service at the National Cathedral. As a former head of state, leaders from around the world will attend that service. That is as it should be. But it is also appropriate that we conduct our own brief service, we who were his family and friends. You are the people he chose to spend his final hours with. You are the people who pleased him the most. We feel grief at this time, and loss, but I think we should also take some pleasure in the fact that we came when he called. He had one final task for us, and we accepted the work."

"So we will talk about President Jolliet – Uncle Claude – for the next hour. We will remember him as our friend and as our mentor and as a national treasure. And then, precisely at ten, we will return to the work he gave us. We will once again discuss how we can save our nation."

At this point she introduced the first speaker, the first of nearly thirty. Most were former politicians, so they were articulate and witty. A few non-politicians stumbled a bit, or started tearing up during their remarks, but overall, it went pretty well. No one hogged the mic. No one told an inappropriate joke. No one mentioned how Jolliet had come to be so injured in the first place. The last three speakers each gave a prayer. One was Catholic, one Protestant, one a healer from the Sioux.

What I found interesting was that the memorial service was not an end in itself, but a prelude to Jolliet's gathering. We would sit, and talk about him, and then we would do his work. That gave the service a completely different feel from anything else I have experienced. Usually a service like that is all about the past. This one was about the present – and the future.

Elise reminded us of that when she retook the lectern at ten.

"Uncle Claude was a great leader, and like any great leader, he was fundamentally a teacher. And, yesterday he gave us some homework." There were chuckles around the room. I think people liked the somewhat lighter touch. "While we were talking yesterday afternoon and evening, Felicite and Paul took nearly one thousand statements and grouped them. I asked them to find common elements among the requirements for peace. Felicite and Paul, please stand so we can thank you for your work." The two young people were standing at the fringe of the meeting. They raised a hand and received a very polite round of applause. "I would point out," Elise added, "They were still working at this job at five this morning." The applause got louder.

"And now they have the materials ready for you. Here is our challenge. In the two hours we have left in this gathering, we need to review these requirements for peace, and determine if they can be met. If they can be met, we then need to explain how they can be met. This is a task that cannot be completed in one morning. You will need to take these requirements with you, and you will need to continue your work with your communities. But this morning, while we are all together, we will start down the road President Jolliet left for us to follow. Now we will study these statements, and we will ask a simple question. Can the requirements be met or not? At twelve o'clock I will call you all together and we will vote "yes" or "no"." She signaled to the young assistants, and they quickly distributed copies of the statements to all. Each booklet must have been twenty pages long. I immediately felt sorry for the people who had done the aggregating. What a job that must have been.

What happened for the next two hours? The noise was deafening. Everyone had something to say to everyone else around them. It felt like a thousand people were having two or three thousand conversations. I actually joined in. As an American, I probably should have stayed out, but I was interested, and the people around me just seemed to naturally include me. So we talked. The assistants had put labels over each of the requirements, and we discovered that at least according to them, twenty seven different things had to be done for the country to be saved. I guess that was a revelation in itself. Somehow being able to count the problems seemed to make them manageable. Did we resolve them all in two hours? Not even close. We jumped around a bit as one person in our group read ahead and found something intriguing, and then we would jump on to something else. But even a quick scan showed the problems were not unsolvable. Safer neighborhoods? Sure. Two new Huguenot holidays? Why not? More money from gulf oil to Louisiana? Not sure there. New history textbooks explaining Huguenot history more fully? Maybe. In short, we didn't have answers for everything, but there was nothing we looked at that seemed to be impossible.

So when Elsie stepped back up to the microphone at twelve and asked, "Can these requirements be met?" The resounding answer was "yes." Was that exactly a fair representation of the possibility of success? No. We were in Claude Jolliet's room. His picture still showed on the screens. We had come to his gathering. Were we going to leave saying his efforts would not succeed? Of course not. So he had stacked the deck (with help from Elise), but we knew that. Just the same, I think people also left feeling pretty positive about how things might go once they got to their home communities as well.

Speaking of leaving, I thought we never would. While the gathering had been scheduled to end at noon, and most people did, there were many who wanted yet another conversation with Elise. She stood around the ballroom for two hours, talking. But that wasn't the end of it. I got her down to the dining room for lunch, but again folks kept coming by our table to talk. At four most people were gone, but now the hotel people wanted to talk with her about charges and accounts. That went on so long I gave up on leaving until the next morning. Somewhere in the hotel lot was a brand new Ford with my name on it, but I would have to wait another day to get behind the wheel.

# Chapter 34 –

# Believe it or not, I finally get married

The next morning I got a speeding ticket driving back to Green Bay. It was pretty expensive since I was going pretty fast, but I had to laugh watching the cop try to pull up behind me in a pathetic Peugeot. He had to have his engine topped out, and I was just cruising. He put a serious hit on my credit card, but I really didn't care. I was in a real car – American steel – and I was headed home. To her credit, Elise must have felt the same way, because she never said a word.

Back in town, Elise was immediately swallowed up by her ministry, and I was back at the university. I was really angry with LeBeck. All the other professors wanted to see where I had been shot, but it was so high on my leg, I would have had to drop my pants, and I wasn't about to do that. In the movies guys are always shot in the shoulder. That would have been so much cooler. I could have just unbuttoned my shirt and shown the scar to the world. Oh well.

We of course went to the funeral. People who count these things say there were twenty three heads of state in attendance, and there was a performance from some famous singer, and all the right things were said. But to me, it was an after thought. We had said good bye in the hospital, and we had carried on his work at the gathering. Elise was a bit of a celebrity now, and people stood and talked with her forever after the service. But it felt somehow forced now. Famous people who hadn't known her before, now wanted to speak with her. She was courteous, but I could read her face, and I saw very different feelings than those she had when speaking to the people in Lafayette. She did what was expected, said what was necessary, stood as long as required, and then we got to leave.

Sunday turned out to be a great day. It didn't start all that well. Of course I drove us to mass in my Ford, and I got another speeding ticket, this one just in front of National Cathedral. It appeared all the world could see us as they arrived for church. Elise was not amused.

Things got better after mass. We went over to her parents' house as we always did for Sunday dinner, and before her sisters could say a word, Elise said, "Saturday, October 24." There was a brief pause as the girls (and her parents) grasped what she was saying. The reply from one sister was "well finally" while the other complained "We don't have any October colors!" Meanwhile, Elise and her mother hugged, while her father shook my hand.

At dinner I think Elise' parents would have liked to know more about the gathering and about Jolliet, but that would have to wait. The girls were in full preparation mode. They barely had a month to visit florists and cake decorators, and when would they get to the napkin rings? What about a dress? There was not nearly enough time for all the fittings. The older of the two actually left the table to retrieve a checklist she had created over the past year. I looked over and saw it continued over two pages. Could anybody really do all that stuff in a month? I ate my dinner and let the girls solve the many problems they had listed.

Later that night Elise and I sat in the back yard enjoying an evening free of mosquitoes and free of snow. I had my arm around her, and we watched the sun go down.

"I hope you don't mind that I picked the date. I called Father yesterday, and he said he could give me that date. There had been a cancellation. Otherwise we would have to use a chapel, or wait until spring."

"I am excited it is finally going to happen. But. And I want you to think about this before you answer. I have been watching how people react to you, and I watched how you handled the gathering. You could be a future President of Canada. I really think that could happen. But how would voters react to someone married to a foreigner?"

"You are a pretty disappointing historian. Don't you recall that European nobility always married foreigners? It was the best way to cement alliances."

All right. I challenge you. What do you say to that? I certainly couldn't think of anything.

So, let me finish the story.

Is the war over? No one is too sure, but the signs are good. Arkansas decided it would not send any new delegates to the constitutional convention. Their legislature voted that such a convention was inappropriate "at this time." Colorado was willing to send delegates to anything that seemed troublesome, but Louisiana gave that gift horse a very good look and decided to pass. All the efforts in the province went into the November elections. Polls show the Heritage Party way down and another party backed by the Huguenot Business League doing very well. We shall see. By the way, Andrees was found and arrested by a new attorney in the Provincial Prosecutor's Office -- a guy named Goulet. The trial is months off, but it looks like Andrees will be seeing serious jail time.

Here in Green Bay, my classes are going about the same as always. My undergraduates think I am prejudiced against Canada, and my graduate students think I should spend more time around the office guiding their research. The first group is wrong (I hope), but the second group is probably right. I do need to stay on campus more, and I have another book to write - this one on Claude Jolliet. He deserves my time and attention.

Back in the U.S., the Foster's companies are under siege from the IRS and cranky shareholders. They have billions of dollars for attorneys, but I hear they are also spending plenty on personal security. They saw what happened to Tilden, and they worry they might be next. All we know for certain is they seem to be too busy to bother with our company any more. Suddenly our trucks have stopped being hijacked or vandalized.

The wedding finally occurred. I think the little sisters were satisfied. Obviously the napkins, floral arrangements, center pieces, and all the other stuff they were worried about looked fine to me -- as if my opinion mattered. More importantly, an endless stream of adult women told them how beautiful the cathedral and reception hall were decorated, so every time I looked their direction, I saw smiles. I was doing a lot of smiling myself. Obviously Elise was beautiful; she really did light up the cathedral when she walked down the aisle. But I was happy with my part. I managed the three things men have to get right. I did not drop her ring, I managed to get her veil up so I could kiss her, and when we got up from kneeling in front of the priest, I did not step on her skirts. I suspect my brothers were shocked I could manage all that, but I did.

Speaking of brothers, I think if a census had been taken that Saturday, it would have found half the Murphies on planet Earth were in Green Bay that weekend. If you were a bar that served Guinness or Jamisons, you had the best weekend of your year. We didn't quite fill our side of the National Cathedral, but we were close. As for the DuPry side - they filled every pew and were standing in back. In the reception line Elise introduced me to the current and three former Canadian presidents, plus several senior officials from France. All that was nice, but well back in the line I also got a chance to shake the hand of both Jouberts and Henri Jiroux, the manager of our hotel in New Orleans. I was touched they made the effort to attend.

After the wedding I asked a colleague to cover my classes so Elise and I could have a short honeymoon. Where did we go? We drove up to Mackinac Island and stayed at the Iroquois Hotel. What else would you expect from a history professor?

#

# What's fiction, What's real?

There have been many fine books written about the battle for Quebec. My favorite is _Wolfe and Montcalm_ by Joy Carroll (Firefly books, 2004). It covers the personality of the leaders as well as the actions on the various battle fields. Governor Vaudreuil comes off as a martinet and coward while both Wolfe and Montcalm are praised. Since both generals were willing to die for their country, the general characterization seems appropriate. To me, the real heroes were the British soldiers who stood in a line and not only fired their muskets but stood before enemy fire while they reloaded, fired again, reloaded, and fired a third time. The idea of standing forty yards from men with guns and reloading while under fire is amazing to me.

There was no second battle of Quebec as I describe. Reinforcements from the south never arrived. General Nevis did have several skirmishes with the British, but he was unable to dislodge them. As for the Huguenot troops, French authorities never allowed Protestants to land in Louisiana, so there were no troops to recruit. Virginia accepted the Huguenots, so their skills and work went into developing that colony instead.

