Buffalo Woman
Book Four
The Catahoula Chronicles
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A Novel By Lane Casteix
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2017 Allen Lane Casteix
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise–without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception is brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the help of Janis, my wife of 50+ years who encouraged me and tolerated me spending long hours at my faithful Mac to bring to life what was in my head. She is also my chief critic, challenging me when she sees something in the story that does not seem right to her.
I value her input and love her dearly. I must also thank my faithful beta readers who wade through rough first drafts and make suggestions, most of which get incorporated into the story—and make it better.
Table of Contents
Catahoula Genesis
1 – A Dead Toad
2 – St. Louis
3 – A Grand Dinner
4 – The Ball
5 – Lydia Thompson
6 – Go West Young Woman
7 – Going Hunting
8 – Buffalo!
9 – Hunting Men
10 – Indians
11 – Denver
12 – Who Are They?
13 – Johnny Boy
14 – Home
15 – Ties That Bind
16 – Peppermint
17 – Shreveport Belle II
18 – New Orleans
19 – Landing
20 – Mardi Gras
21 – Realizations
22 – Preparations
23 – The Best Laid Plans
24 – The Aftermath
25 – Birthing
Author’s Biography
Catahoula Genesis
December 2013
New Orleans, Louisiana
The old camelback trunk in my mother’s attic had always intrigued me. When I asked about its contents, she said it contained just some old books and papers. It originally belonged to my grandmother and had belonged to her mother before that. Past those generations its provenance was uncertain.
With my mother’s passing, the old trunk belonged to me. Unfortunately, it was locked, and there was no key to be found. Not wanting to destroy such a fine old trunk just to satisfy my curiosity, I tucked it into a corner of my attic with the expectation I would eventually find the key somewhere in my mother’s possessions. There it sat forgotten for nine years.
That changed when I was cleaning out some files that included my parent’s old income tax filings. A strange lump at the bottom of one of the folders turned out to be a key, and my first thought was this is the key to the trunk!
I went immediately up to the attic and pulled the old trunk out of its corner. I was more than a little apprehensive about what I might find when I opened it. Did it contain some dark family secrets that should remain locked away? After mustering up my courage, I inserted the old key. It fit, and the lock loosened its hold on the old trunk’s secrets.
My mother was right. It did contain some old books and papers. The books
were the personal diaries of a woman named Rachel. The papers,
nearly two thousand handwritten pages, were secured in four neat bundles with red ribbon. They turned out to be a manuscript written by a man named Ethan. I also found a portfolio of drawings by Rachel and bundles of letters they had written to each other. The documents dated from five years before the Civil War through its end in 1865 and a few years after.
With only a cursory examination of the trunk’s contents, I realized I was in possession of something very special. The diaries and the manuscript, though written by two different people, were companion pieces, telling the same beautiful story from two different perspectives.
Catahoula Book One – The Last Day of Forever tells how they met, how they fell in love, and how their love was challenged. It carries their story up to the start of the American Civil War.
In Catahoula Book Two – An Eternity of Four Years, Rachel and Ethan are separated by a lie that destroys all they hold dear. She runs from the pain, and Ethan must search for her while the war rages around them.
Catahoula Book Three – The Avenging Angel follows their story after the war into Reconstruction as the young couple began their life together at Catahoula Plantation in the shattered economy of the postwar South.
Catahoula Book Four – Buffalo Woman picks up their story five years later as they become involved with a very famous visitor to the United States.
Here begins Buffalo Woman, a story told by Rachel and Ethan in their own words.
1 – A Dead Toad
4 January 1872
Boston, Massachusetts
Angelique LeBeuf Joubert was in trouble—serious trouble—so serious that her father, that would be me, Ethan Joubert, had been summoned all the way from my home in Louisiana to her finishing school in Boston to deal with it. And I did not appreciate getting a telegram on Christmas Eve, telling me my daughter was being expelled, thus it was not a very pleasant Christmas at Catahoula Plantation that year. Much distressed, I departed for Boston three days after Christmas.
Anticipating my arrival at her school that very morning, Angel had been ordered to pack her bags, and she knew what that meant. Her luggage stacked on the floor beside her, she sat on the very uncomfortable wooden bench outside the office of the headmistress, Mrs. Warton, and contemplated her fate for nearly two hours before I arrived.
The morning was cold with a light snow falling when my hired carriage pulled up at the gate of her school. Wait for me,
I told the driver, and he nodded his agreement. A doorman let me in after my knock and bade me follow him down a long hallway to Mrs. Warton’s office. At the far end, I saw my daughter sitting on a bench with her luggage piled nearby. She rose to greet me, but I only gave her an angry nod and marched directly into the headmistress’ office. I’m sure that hurt her, but my intention was to let her know she was in real trouble this time.
Mrs. Warton rose to greet me when I entered. Mr. Joubert, I’m so sorry I had to disturb your Christmas, but...
Not the least interested in her apologies, I held up my hand to stop her. Just tell me what she did.
And she proceeded to do just that—in great detail, reading from a list of offenses four pages long. I suppose she wanted to be sure she didn’t miss anything, thus she saw the need to write everything down for my benefit.
She never offered me a seat, but as she began reading page two of her litany of offenses, realizing this was going to take a while, I seated myself in a chair across from her desk. Only briefly glancing up to be sure I was paying close attention and stopping periodically to catch her breath, Mrs. Warton prattled on. And I listened—and became even angrier.
About the middle of page three one particular offense got my attention. She what?
I yelled.
Mrs. Warton looked up, and what I considered a bit of a sneer crossed her lips. She replied evenly, Sir, I believe you heard me correctly.
Angel also heard me and jumped at the sound of my booming voice coming from the other side of the large oak door. She must have gotten to the part about the toad,
she muttered to herself.
Mrs. Warton resumed reading from her list, and Angel sat outside, listening to the muffled voices occasionally punctuated by an outburst from me. She eventually became somewhat distracted by the little dancing flecks of dust illuminated by the sun’s rays, coming in through the window. That may seem odd, considering what was transpiring on the other side of the door, but she often took notice of things others took for granted and failed to notice. Such had become part of her very nature, survival tricks she had learned during those very dark times at the end of the War of Northern Aggression, that terrible time between losing her mother, father, and younger brother and finding a new home with her adopted parents, Rachel and me. Her interest in the dancing dust particles lasted only until the next outburst from the other side of that door.
Then everything got quiet for her—ominously quiet.
The big oak door suddenly creaked open, and there I stood, staring at her. Actually, glaring
might be a better description. The perfect picture of chastised humility, Angel lowered her head and slowly stood but never took her eyes off mine, which she later told me seemed to be cutting all the way down to her very core.
Poppa...
Say nothing,
I replied sharply with a wave of my hand as my glare became even sterner.
I’m dead! She thought.
I scooped up armloads of her bags and headed for the door. She didn’t move. I stopped and looked back at her. You coming?
I’ve been expelled?
Something like that. Surely you weren’t expecting otherwise?
I’m not sure, but I think I detected a hint of a smile. I turned abruptly and resumed my march to the front door of the school. She picked up her remaining bags and followed me outside.
It was cold, and she was thankful for that, hoping it might take some of the heat off my anger.
I stopped when we reached the gate. The waiting carriage was just outside with the driver huddled in his greatcoat with a blanket across his lap, dozing up in the driver’s seat in spite of the light falling snow that collected on him, outlining his form. She caught up to me and stopped, making sure she remained out of my easy striking distance. I had never struck her before, but she thought I just might be angry enough to do so this time.
I stood there with my back to her for a long moment before I slowly turned to face her. I set her bags down, and with my lips pursed and my eyes tightly closed, as if looking at her was painful, I shook my head in an exaggerated fashion.
When I opened my eyes, I could almost see the chill that ran through her body.
And I began, You were constantly in trouble here. Your marks were awful. You never paid attention in any of your classes, except art. And you were constantly in trouble—oh wait, I already said that.
I liked art...
I paused my rant and briefly looked skyward and took a deep breath, slowly letting it out. Angel, did you really put a dead toad in Mrs. Warton’s soup?
With a frown on her face, she shrugged innocently and looked to the side as if considering her answer. Well, I figured she might enjoy frog. We do eat them back home.
I fought back a smile and just barely succeeded. The legs—we eat the legs, not the whole frog—entrails and all, much less one that has been dead since last October.
Poppa, she’s mean as a snake...
she started to explain, but nothing she would have said could possibly have made any sense or helped her cause.
With my extended palm, I stopped her to resume my interrogation. And—AND when questioned about the toad, did you reply that if she didn’t want to eat it, you could suggest another place she could put it?
She stuttered, I-I know how that must sound, but I meant the garbage.
Bullshit!
Poppa, your language. I’m a lady and not accustomed to such talk.
You needn’t pretend those words—or worse—have never crossed your lips!
I had her there and she knew it.
She took one step back and tried to change the subject. Poppa, you know I really didn’t want to come here. Even Momma was against it, but you insisted. And you’re right. I’m not much of a lady, am I?
I tried—I tried very hard, but no longer able to hold it back, I lost it then and burst out laughing. She looked at me with a bewildered expression on her face as I took the two strides toward her that separated us and grabbed her about the shoulders. For a long moment, I just looked at her and shook my head. I then pulled her to myself and swallowed her in a loving embrace. Angel, what am I going to do with you?
Relieved that I wasn’t going to kill her, she put her arms around me and hugged me as if she hadn’t seen me in years. How about take me home where I belong?
That was your intention all along, wasn’t it?
Ummm, maybe... I miss you and Momma and Thomas. And I miss Catahoula. It’s my home. Perhaps you can never understand how important y’all have become to me?
You’re right, and I should have understood that, especially considering what you went through as a child, losing your own parents and home. I’m sorry. You and your mother were right. This finishing school was not a good idea for you. Let’s go home.
Rachel’s Diary
4 January 1872
Ethan should be arriving in Boston about now. I know how he hated to leave Catahoula in the middle of winter, especially for the reason he did. Yes, it was a bad idea to send Angelique to that expensive finishing school, but he insisted. I knew Angelique would hate it, and he should have also known that. He can’t mold her into something she isn’t. She is a unique girl—I should say young woman
who is more comfortable on a horse than a fine carriage, more comfortable in buckskins than a fancy ball gown, more comfortable outdoors than inside. She can often pretend to be a lady when it suits her, but for her it is only playacting.
That sometimes frustrates me, but it is her personality, and I have learned to accept it. And to her credit, she pretends to be a lady to make me happy.
As a result of her tomboyish tendencies, she spends more time with her father than me. I am just a little jealous of that. Ethan has grown so attached to her that I shudder to think how he will react when she finds a beau and marries, as I am sure she eventually will. Unless she stays near, it will be like losing a close friend for Ethan, and I am sure he will find that most troubling. He will have to find a way to deal with that when the time comes, but then so will I. We both love her dearly and will miss her terribly if she ever moves away.
At Christmas, when we were opening our gifts, I detected a bit of melancholy in Ethan. At first I thought it might be his nostalgia because of what he experienced during the war returning again, but when we were alone later that night, he admitted that he missed her.
As badly as Ethan hated admitting his mistake of sending her away to finishing school and having to go to Boston to fetch her home because she had been expelled, I hated his leaving even more. It was more painful and frightening for me than he knows, or I even imagined it would be. I miss him terribly, and I need him here with me now. I feel so alone and helpless—and threatened. I have faced many trials in my life, but there is only one that truly shakes me to my very foundation. I should have told him before he left.
Angel had been away from home since the previous September, and on the train from Boston to New York, she had all manner of questions for me. How is Thomas?
He misses his big sister and asks about you almost every day. ‘When is Angel coming home?’ he will ask, and we must make up some story that never satisfies him.
I miss him so much, and that may have been the hardest part of going away to school. And missing you and Momma, of course.
I shrugged. She misses you, too. You and Thomas filled a void in her life left when she—when she spontaneously aborted that second time. Five years now, and she hasn’t been able to get pregnant again. That weighs heavily on her mind. I thank God she has you two. That softened the blow at least a little. As I was walking down to meet the riverboat at the landing, she kept telling me, ‘Be sure to tell Angelique we aren’t mad at her.’
Are you—mad at me, I mean?
I frowned. It was an expensive experiment, but I made that call and have to live with it. No, I’m not mad at you. I’m madder at myself for being so pigheaded about sending you away to school.
You just wanted to be sure I grew up to be a lady, which I suspect was to be sure I could marry a wealthy gentleman and not some poor country bumpkin, correct?
Well...
Poppa, I promise I’ll try to behave more like a lady and less like—like a tomboy.
All right, but I don’t want to lose my friend in the process of gaining a proper Creole lady.
That won’t happen. I will always be there.
I shook my head. "Angel, someday it will happen. You’re nineteen now and about as pretty as can be. Some handsome gentleman will eventually come along and fall madly in love with you. My fear is he’ll take you some place far away from Catahoula, maybe even some foreign country. As much as I want the best for you, the possibility of losing you sometimes frightens me."
Oh, Poppa, I’ll still be your little tomboy.
Angel was indeed my little tomboy.
She loved to hunt, whether deer and black bear or squirrels and doves, not to mention hogs, which she flipped along with the best hog-flippers in Catahoula Parish. Though she was a girl, she often dressed and acted almost like a man. That began when she found herself an orphan and alone at thirteen. She had to be able to take care of herself and did a right commendable job of that. Even after Rachel and I adopted her, she lived in two worlds. In one she wore buckskins trousers, rode horses like a man, and hunted and fished with her adopted father—as my little tomboy. In her other world, she sewed, cooked, and wore fancy dresses with her adopted mother. She was a paradox, hard as nails yet soft and sweet. And Lord knows, Rachel and I loved her dearly.
Sensing my melancholy coming on, Angel sought then to change the subject. How is the house coming? Is it finished yet? It has been five years since the Ku Kluxers burned it down.
"It’s almost done. That fancy wallpaper your mother had to have finally arrived in November. We got it up before Christmas and got the furniture back in the rooms. Just a few more little details need doing before I can say we’re finished. Yes, it took a while. We didn’t have the money to rebuild right away. What little we had went into getting Catahoula operating again after the war. But we made a nice profit the last three years, enough to get the house rebuilt and send
