The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

“Since the stakes have been raised to ten dollars they have.”

“But how?”

“Oh, it is very simple. Sometimes your partner designedly played the wrong card – ”

“Ha! I see now; I believe it.”

“It did not need that though. Even had you had an honest partner, it would have been all the same in the end. Your opponents have a system of signals by which they can communicate to each other many facts – the sort of cards they hold, – the colour of the cards, their value, and so forth. You did not observe how they placed their fingers upon the edge of the table. I did. One finger laid horizontally denoted one trump – two fingers placed in a similar manner, two trumps – three for three, and so on. A slight curving of the fingers told: how many of the trumps were honours; a certain movement of the thumbs bespoke an ace; and in this way each of your adversaries knew almost to a card what his partner had got. It needed not the third to bring about the desired result. As it was, there were seven knaves about the table – four in the cards, and three among the players.”

“This is infamous!”

“True, I would have admonished you of it sooner; but, of course, I could not find an opportunity. It would have been no slight danger for me to have told you openly, and exposed the rascals. Hence, the ruse I have been compelled to adopt. These are no common swindlers. Any of the three would resent the slightest imputation upon their honour. Two of them are noted duellists. Most likely I should have been called out to-morrow and shot, and you would scarce have thanked me for my ‘interference.’”

“My dear sir, I am exceedingly grateful to you. I am convinced that what you say is true. How would you have me act?”

“Simply give up the game – let your losses go – you cannot recover them.”

“But I am not disposed to be thus outraged and plundered with impunity. I shall try another game, watch them, and – ”

“No, you would be foolish to do so. I tell you, Monsieur, these men are noted duellists as well as black-legs, and possess courage. One of them, your partner, has given proof of it by having travelled over three hundred miles to fight with a gentleman who had slandered him, or rather had spoken the truth about him! He succeeded, moreover, in killing his man. I tell you, Monsieur, you can gain nothing by quarrelling with such men, except a fair chance of having a bullet through you. I know you are a stranger in our country. Be advised, then, and act as I have said. Leave them to their gains. It is late: Retire to your state-room, and think no more on what you have lost.”

Whether it was the late excitement consequent upon the false alarm, or whether it was the strange development I had just listened to, aided by the cool river breeze, I know not; but the intoxication passed away, and my brain became clear. I doubted not for a moment that the young Creole had told me the truth. His manner as well as words, connected with the circumstances that had just transpired, produced full conviction.

I felt impressed with a deep sense of gratitude to him for the service he had rendered, and at such risk to himself – for even the ruse he had adopted might have had an awkward ending for him, had any one seen him fire off his pistols.

Why had he acted thus? Why this interest in my affairs? Had he assigned the true reason? Was it a feeling of pure chivalry that had prompted him? I had heard of just such instances of noble nature among the Creole-French of Louisiana. Was this another illustration of that character?

I say I was impressed with a deep sense of gratitude, and resolved to follow his advice.

“I shall do as you say,” I replied, “on one condition.”

“Name it, Monsieur.”

“That you will give me your address, so that when we arrive in New Orleans, I may have the opportunity of renewing your acquaintance, and proving to you my gratitude.”

“Alas, Monsieur! I have no address.”

I felt embarrassed. The melancholy tone in which these words were uttered was not to be mistaken; some grief pressed heavily on that young and generous heart.

It was not for me to inquire into its cause, least of all at that time; but my own secret sorrow enabled me to sympathise the more deeply with others, and I felt I stood beside one whose sky was far from serene. I felt embarrassed by his answer. It left me in a delicate position to make reply. I said at length —

“Perhaps you will do me the favour to call upon me? I live at the Hotel Saint Luis.”

“I shall do so with pleasure.”

“To-morrow?”

“To-morrow night.”

“I shall stay at home for you. Bon soir, Monsieur.”

We parted, each taking the way to his state-room.

In ten minutes after I lay in my shelf-like bed, asleep; and in ten hours after I was drinking my café in the Hotel Saint Luis.

Chapter Fifty

The City

I am strongly in favour of a country life. I am a lover of the chase and the angle.

Perhaps if I were to analyse the feeling, I might find that these predilections have their source in a purer fountain – the love of Nature herself. I follow the deer in his tracks, because they lead me into the wildest solitudes of the forest – I follow the trout in its stream, because I am guided into still retreats, by the margin of shady pools, where human foot rarely treads. Once in the haunts of the fish and the game, my sporting energy dies within me. My rod-spear pierces the turf, my gun lies neglected by my side, and I yield up my soul to a diviner dalliance with the beauties of Nature. Oh, I am a rare lover of the sylvan scene!

And yet, for all this, I freely admit that the first hours spent in a great city have for me a peculiar fascination. A world of new pleasures is suddenly placed within reach – a world of luxury opened up. The soul is charmed with rare joys. Beauty and song, wine and the dance, vary their allurements. Love, or it may be passion, beguiles you into many an incident of romantic adventure; for romance may be found within the walled city. The human heart is its home, and they are but Quixotic dreamers who fancy that steam and civilisation are antagonistic to the purest aspirations of poetry. A sophism, indeed, is the chivalry of the savage. His rags, so picturesque, often cover a shivering form and a hungry stomach. Soldier though I may claim to be, I prefer the cheering roll of the busy mill to the thunder of the cannon – I regard the tall chimney, with its banner of black smoke, a far nobler sight than the fortress turret with its flouting and fickle flag. I hear sweet music in the plashing of the paddle-wheel; and in my ears a nobler sound is the scream of the iron horse than the neigh of the pampered war-steed. A nation of monkeys may manage the business of gunpowder: they must be men to control the more powerful element of steam.

These ideas will not suit the puling sentimentalism of the boudoir and the boarding-school. The Quixotism of the modern time will be angry with the rough writer who thus rudely lays his hand upon the helm of the mailed knight, and would deflower it of its glory and glossy plumes. It is hard to yield up prejudices and preconceptions, however false; and the writer himself in doing so confesses to the cost of a struggle of no ordinary violence. It was hard to give up the Homeric illusion, and believe that Greeks were men, not demigods – hard to recognise in the organ-man and the opera-singer the descendants of those heroes portrayed in the poetic pictures of a Virgil; and yet in the days of my dreamy youth, when I turned my face to the West, I did so under the full conviction that the land of prose was before me and the land of poetry behind my back!

Thanks to Saint Hubert and the golden ring of the word “Mexico,” I did turn my face in that direction: and no sooner had I set foot on those glorious shores, trodden by a Columbus and a Cortez, than I recognised the home both of the poetic and the picturesque. In that very land, called prosaic – the land of dollars – I inhaled the very acmé of the poetic spirit; not from the rhythm of books, but expressed in the most beautiful types of the human form, in the noblest impulses of the human soul, in rock and stream, in bird, and leaf and flower. In that very city, which, thanks to perjured and prejudiced travellers, I had been taught to regard as a sort of outcast camp, I found humanity in its fairest forms – progress blended with pleasure – civilisation adorned with the spirit of chivalry as with a wreath. Prosaic indeed! a dollar-loving people! I make bold to assert, that in the concave of that little crescent where lies the city of New Orleans will be found a psychological mélange of greater variety and interest than exists in any space of equal extent on the globe’s surface. There the passions, favoured by the clime, reach their fullest, highest development, Love and hate, joy and grief, avarice, ambition – all attain to perfect vigour. There, too, the moral virtues are met with in full purity. Cant has there no home, hypocrisy must be deep indeed to avoid exposure and punishment. Genius is almost universal – universal, too, is activity. The stupid and the slothful cannot exist in this moving world of busy life and enjoyment.

An ethnological mélange as well this singular city presents. Perhaps no other city exhibits so great a variety of nationalities as in its streets. Founded by the French, held by the Spaniards, “annexed” by the Americans, these three nations form the elements of its population. But you may, nevertheless, there meet with representatives of most other civilised, and of many “savage” people. The Turk in his turban, the Arab in his burnouse, the Chinaman with shaven scalp and queue, the black son of Africa, the red Indian, the swarthy Mestize, yellow Mulatto, the olive Malay, the light graceful Creole, and the not less graceful Quadroon, jostle each other in its streets, and jostle with the red-blooded races of the North, the German and Gael, the Russ and Swede, the Fleming, the Yankee, and the Englishman. An odd human mosaic – a mottled piebald mixture is the population of the Crescent City.

In truth, New Orleans is a great metropolis, more of a city than places of much greater population either in Europe or America. In passing through its streets you feel that you are not in a provincial town. Its shops exhibit the richest goods, of best workmanship. Palace-like hotels appear in every street. Luxurious cafés invite you into their elegant saloons. Theatres are there – grand architectural temples – in which you may witness the drama well performed in French, and German, and English, and in its season you may listen to the soul-moving music of the Italian opera. If you are a lover of the Terpsichorean art, you will fold New Orleans, par excellence, the town to your taste.

I knew the capacities of New Orleans to afford pleasure. I was acquainted with the sources of enjoyment, yet I sought them not. After a long interval of country life I entered the city without a thought of its gaieties – a rare event in the life even of the most sedate. The masquerades, the quadroon-balls, the drama, the sweet strains of the Opera, had lost their attractions for me. No amusement could amuse me at that moment. One thought alone had possession of my heart – Aurore! There was room for no other.

I pondered as to how I should act.

Place yourself in my position, and you will surely acknowledge it a difficult one. First, I was in love with this beautiful quadroon – in love beyond redemption. Secondly, she, the object of my passion, was for sale, and by public auction! Thirdly, I was jealous – ay jealous, of that which might be sold and bought like a bale of cotton, – a barrel of sugar! Fourthly, I was still uncertain whether I should have it in my power to become the purchaser. I was still uncertain whether my banker’s letter had yet reached New Orleans. Ocean steamers were not known at this period, and the date of a European mail could not be relied upon with any degree of certainty. Should that not come to hand in due time, then indeed should my misery reach its culminating point. Some one else would become possessed of all I held dear on earth – would be her lord and master – with power to do aught – oh God! the idea was fearful. I could not bear to dwell upon it.

Again, even should my letter reach me in time, would the amount I expected be enough? Five hundred pounds sterling – five times five – twenty-five hundred dollars! Would twenty-five hundred be the price of that which was priceless?

I even doubted whether it would. I knew that a thousand dollars was at that time the “average value” of a slave, and it was rare when one yielded twice that amount. It must be a strong-bodied man – a skilful mechanic, a good blacksmith, an expert barber, to be worth such a sum!

But for Aurore. Oh! I had heard strange tales of “fancy prices,” for such a “lot” – of brisk competition in the bidding – of men with long purses and lustful thoughts eagerly contending for such a prize.

Such thoughts might harrow the soul even under the most ordinary circumstances! what was their effect upon me? I cannot describe the feelings I experienced.

Should the sum reach me in time – should it prove enough – should I even succeed in becoming the owner of Aurore, what then? What if my jealousy were well founded? What if she loved me not? Worse dilemma than ever. I should only have her body – then her heart and soul would be another’s. I should live in exquisite torture – the slave of a slave!

Why should I attempt to purchase her at all? Why not make a bold effort, and free myself from this delirious passion? She is not worthy of the sacrifice I would make for her. No – she has deceived me – surely she has deceived me. Why not break my promise, plighted though it be in words of fervid love? Why not flee from the spot, and endeavour to escape the torture that is maddening both my heart and brain? Oh! why not?

In calmer moments, such questions might be thought worthy of an answer. I could not answer them. I did not even entertain them, – though, like shadows, they flitted across my mind. In the then state of my feelings, prudence was unknown. Expediency had no place. I would not have listened to its cold counsels. You who have passionately loved can alone understand me. I was resolved to risk fortune, fame, life – all – to possess the object I so deeply adored.

Chapter Fifty One

Vente Importante des Nègres

“L’abeille, Monsieur?”

The garçon who helped me to the fragrant cup, at the same time handed me a newspaper fresh from the press.

It was a large sheet, headed upon one side “L’Abeille”, on the reverse its synonyme in English, “The Bee.” Half of its contents were in French, half in English: each half was a counterpart – a translation of the other.

I mechanically took the journal from the hand of the waiter, but without either the design or inclination to read it. Mechanically my eyes wandered over its broad-sheet – scarce heeding the contents.

All at once, the heading of an advertisement fixed my gaze and my attention. It was on the “French side” of the paper.

“Annoncement.”

“Vente importante des Nègres!” Yes – it was they. The announcement was no surprise to me. I expected as much.

I turned to the translation on the reverse page, in order to comprehend it more clearly. There it was in all its broad black meaning: —

“Important Sale of Negroes!” I read on: – “Estate in Bankruptcy. Plantation Besançon!”

“Poor Eugénie!”

Farther: —

“Forty able-bodied field-hands, of different ages. Several first-rate domestic servants, coachman, cooks, chamber-maids, wagon-drivers. A number of likely mulatto boys and girls, from ten to twenty,” etcetera, etcetera.

The list followed in extenso. I read —

“Lot 1. Scipio, 48. Able-bodied black, 5 foot 11 inches, understands house-work, and the management of horses. Sound and without blemish.

“Lot 2. Hannibal, 40. Dark mulatto, 5 foot 9 inches, good coachman, sound and steady.

“Lot 3. César, 43. Black field-hand. Sound,” etcetera, etcetera.

My eyes could not wait for the disgusting details. They ran down the column in search of that name. They would have lit upon it sooner, but that my hands trembled, and the vibratory motion of the sheet almost prevented me from reading. It was there at length —last upon the list! “Why last?” No matter – her “description” was there.

Can I trust myself to read it? Down, burning heart, still your wild throbbings!

“Lot 65. Aurore. 19. Quadroon. Likely—good housekeeper, and sempstress.”

Portrait sketched by refined pen – brief and graphic.

“Likely,” ha! ha! ha! “Likely,” ha! ha! The brute who wrote that paragraph would have described Venus as a likely gal.

’Sdeath! I cannot jest – this desecration of all that is lovely – all that is sacred – all that is dear to my heart, is torture itself. The blood is boiling in my veins – my bosom is wrung with dire emotions!

The journal fell from my hands, and I bent forward over the table, my fingers clutching each other. I could have groaned aloud had I been alone. But I was not. I sat in the great refectory of the hotel. Men were near who would have jeered at my agony had they but known its cause.

Some minutes elapsed before I could reflect on what I had read. I sat in a kind of stupor, brought on by the violence of my emotions.

Reflection came at length, and my first thought was of action. More than ever did I now desire to become the purchaser of the beautiful slave – to redeem her from this hideous bondage. I should buy her. I should set her free. True or false to me, I should accomplish this all the same. I should make no claim for gratitude. She should choose for herself. She should be free, if not in the disposal of her gratitude, at least in that of her love. A love based only on gratitude would not content me. Such could not last. Her heart should freely bestow itself. If I had already won it, well. If not, and it had fixed its affection upon another – mine be the grief. Aurore, at all events, shall be happy.

My love had elevated my soul – had filled it with such noble resolves.

And now to set her free.

When was this hideous exhibition – this “Important Sale,” to come off? When was my betrothed to be sold, and I to assist at the spectacle?

I took up the paper again to ascertain the time and place. The place I knew well – the Rotundo of the Saint Louis exchange – adjoining the hotel, and within twenty yards of where I sat. That was the slave-market. But the time – it was of more importance – indeed of all importance. Strange I did not think of this before! Should it be at an early date, and my letter not have arrived! I dared not trust myself with such a supposition. Surely it would be a week – several days, at the least – before a sale of so much importance would take place. Ha! it may have been advertised for some days. The negroes may have been brought down only at the last moment!

My hands trembled, as my eyes sought the paragraph. At length they rested upon it. I read with painful surprise: —

“To-morrow at twelve!”

I looked to the date of the journal. All correct. It was the issue of that morning. I looked to the dial on the wall. The clock was on the stroke of twelve! Just one day to elapse.

“O God! if my letter should not have arrived!”

I drew forth my purse, and mechanically told over its contents. I knew not why I did so. I knew it contained but a hundred dollars. The “sportsmen” had reduced it in bulk. When I had finished counting it, I could not help smiling at the absurdity of the thing. “A hundred dollars for the quadroon! Likely—good housekeeper, etcetera! a hundred dollars bid!” The auctioneer would not be likely to repeat the bid.

All now depended on the English mail. If it had not arrived already, or did not before the morning, I would be helpless. Without the letter on my New Orleans banker, I could not raise fifty pounds – watch, jewels, and all. As to borrowing, I did not think of such a thing. Who was to lend me money? Who to an almost perfect stranger would advance such a sum as I required? No one I felt certain. Reigart could not have helped me to so large an amount, even had there been time to communicate with him. No – there was no one who would, that could have favoured me. No one I could think of.

“Stop:” – the banker himself! Happy thought, the banker Brown! Good, generous Brown, of the English house, Brown and Co., who, with smiling face, has already cashed my drafts for me. He will do it! The very man! Why did I not think of him sooner? Yes; if the letter have not reached him I shall tell him that I expect it every day, and its amount. He will advance the money.

“Twelve o’clock gone. There is no time to be lost. He’s in his counting-house by this. I shall at once apply to him.”

I seized my hat, and hastening out of the hotel, took my way through the streets towards the banking-house of Brown and Co.

Chapter Fifty Two

Brown and Co

The banking-house of Brown and Co. was in Canal Street. From the Saint Louis Exchange, Canal Street may be approached by the Rue Conti, or the parallel street of the Rue Royale. The latter is the favourite promenade of the gay Creole-French, as Saint Charles Street is for the fashionable Americans.

You will wonder at this mélange of French and English in the nomenclature of streets. The truth is, that New Orleans has a peculiarity somewhat rare. It is composed of two distinct cities – a French and an American one. I might even say three, for there is a Spanish quarter with a character distinct from either, and where you may see on the corner the Spanish designation “Calle,” as the Calle de Casacalvo, Calle del Obispo, etcetera. This peculiarity is explained by referring to the history of Louisiana. It was colonised by the French in the early part of the eighteenth century, New Orleans being founded in 1717. The French held Louisiana till 1762, when it was ceded to Spain, and remained in her possession for a period of nearly fifty years – till 1798, when France once more became its master. Five years after, in 1803, Napoleon sold this valuable country to the American government for 15,000,000 of dollars – the best bargain which Brother Jonathan has ever made, and apparently a slack one on the part of Napoleon. After all, Napoleon was right. The sagacious Corsican, no doubt, foresaw that it could not have long remained the property of France. Sooner or later the American flag would wave over the Crescent City, and Napoleon’s easy bargain has no doubt saved America a war, and France a humiliation.

This change of masters will explain the peculiarity of the population of New Orleans. The characteristics of all three nations are visible in its streets, in its houses, in the features, habits, and dress of its citizens. In nothing are the national traces more distinctly marked than in the different styles of architecture. In the American quarter you have tall brick dwellings, several stories in height, their shining fronts half occupied with rows of windows, combining the light and ornamental with the substantial and useful. This is typical of the Anglo-American. Equally typical of the French character are the light wooden one-storey houses, painted in gay colours, with green verandah palings; windows that open as doors, and a profusion of gauzy curtains hanging behind them.

Equally a type of the grand solemn character of the Spaniard, are the massive sombre structures of stone and lime, of the imposing Moorish style, that is still seen in many of the streets of New Orleans. Of these, the Great Cathedral is a fine specimen – that will stand as a monument of Spanish occupancy, long after both the Spanish and French population has been absorbed and melted down in the alembic of the Anglo-American propagandism. The American part of New Orleans is that which is highest on the river – known as the Faubourgs Saint Mary and Annunciation. Canal Street separates it from the French quarter – which last is the old city, chiefly inhabited by Creole-French and Spaniards.

A few years ago, the French and American populations were about equal. Now the Saxon element predominates, and rapidly absorbs all the others. In time the indolent Creole must yield to the more energetic American – in other words, New Orleans will be Americanised. Progress and civilisation will gain by this, at the expense – according to the sentimental school – of the poetic and picturesque.