Strange True Stories of Louisiana Read online

  I.

  THE TWO SISTERS.

  It is to give pleasure to my dear daughter Fannie and to her children thatI write this journey. I shall be well satisfied if I can succeed in givingthem this pleasure: by the grace of God, Amen.

  Papa, Mr. Pierre Bossier, planter of St. James parish, had been fifteendays gone to the city (New Orleans) in his skiff with two rowers, Louisand Baptiste, when, returning, he embraced us all, gave us some caramelswhich he had in his pockets, and announced that he counted on leaving usagain in four or five days to go to Attakapas. He had long been speakingof going there. Papa and mamma were German, and papa loved to travel. Whenhe first came to Louisiana it was with no expectation of staying. But herehe saw mamma; he loved her, married her, and bought a very fineplantation, where he cultivated indigo. You know they blue clothes withthat drug, and dye cottonade and other things. There we, their eightchildren, were born....

  PART OF FRANCOIS'S FIRST PAGE.]

  When my father used to go to New Orleans he went in his skiff, with acanopy over his head to keep off the sun, and two rowers, who sang asthey rowed. Sometimes papa took me with him, and it was very entertaining.We would pass the nights of our voyage at the houses of papa's friends[des zami de papa]. Sometimes mamma would come, and Suzannealways--always. She was the daughter next older than I. She barely missedbeing a boy. She was eighteen years of age, went hunting with our father,was skillful with a gun, and swam like a fish. Papa called her "my son."You must understand the two boys were respectively but two years and threemonths old, and papa, who greatly desired a son, had easily made one ofSuzanne. My father had brought a few books with him to Louisiana, andamong them, you may well suppose, were several volumes of travel. Formyself, I rarely touched them; but they were the only books that Suzanneread. And you may well think, too, that my father had no sooner spoken ofhis intention than Suzanne cried:

  "I am going with you, am I not, papa?"

  "Naturally," replied my father; "and Francoise shall go also."

  Francoise--that was I; poor child of sixteen, who had but six monthsbefore quitted the school-bench, and totally unlike my sister--blonde,where Suzanne was dark; timid, even cowardly, while she had the hardihoodand courage of a young lioness; ready to cry at sight of a wounded bird,while she, gun in hand, brought down as much game as the most skillfulhunter.

  I exclaimed at my father's speech. I had heard there were many Indians inAttakapas; the name means man-eaters. I have a foolish terror of Indians,and a more reasonable one for man-eaters. But papa and Suzanne mocked atmy fears; and as, after all, I burned with desire for the journey, it wasdecided that I should go with them.

  Necessarily we wanted to know how we were to go--whether we should travelby skiff, and how many negroes and negresses would go with us. For yousee, my daughter, young people in 1795 were exactly what they are in 1822;they could do nothing by themselves, but must have a domestic to dress andundress them. Especially in traveling, where one had to take clothes outof trunks and put them back again, assistance became an absolutenecessity. Think, then, of our astonishment, of our vexation, when papaassured us that he would not take a single slave; that my sister and Iwould be compelled to help each other, and that the skiff would remainbehind, tied up at the landing where it then lay.

  "But explain yourself, Papa, I beg of you," cried Suzanne, with herhabitual petulance.

  "That is what I am trying to do," said he. "If you will listen in silence,I will give you all the explanation you want."

  Here, my daughter, to save time, I will borrow my father's speech and tellof the trip he had made to New Orleans; how he had there found means toput into execution his journey to Attakapas, and the companions that wereto accompany him.