With each succeeding year there were more and more settlers coming to
the flowery land of Louisiana. If they had flocked thither in the time
of the Regent, that clever and witty intriguer, they came more eagerly
during the reign of Louis XV, so shallow a king that it is hard to
conceive how he won the name of “The Well-beloved.”
It was a strange company which made up the population of the Crescent
City, not only those from Paris with their elegances and velvet coats,
beneath which beat such loyal hearts, but rubbing shoulders with them in
street and café were many of far rougher exterior, who had come down
from the settlements in Canada, and learned to adore the little city
which was so different from the homes which they had left in the cold
North.
Yet each and every one of these, marquis from France or pioneer from
Canada, or even the sad-faced Acadian refugee who had been welcomed to
these hospitable shores, had a heart which beat for France alone.
With but the least assistance they would have swept the Gulf and made
themselves masters of that inland sea, and not only held the possessions
of the mother country on land, but added to them.
Frenchmen in language and in their hearts, they put up with the
expulsion of their beloved Ursuline sisters, since the mother country so
willed it, only allowing themselves the liberty of giving vent to their
feelings by indulging in an unlimited number of satirical songs,
burlesques, and pasquinades, as they were called. Little did they know,
as they trod the white streets of the city, the deadly blow to those
same stout hearts which France was plotting,—France, whom they loved so
fondly and in whom they trusted so implicitly.
Completely dominated by his prime minister, Choiseul, Louis XV followed
where this ugly, brilliant, inconstant man led, and trafficked first
with Austria and then with Spain, till in 1761 Choiseul put in shape his
famous “Pacte de Famille,” which united all the royalties of Bourbon
blood and which formed into one great band the thrones of France, Spain,
Turin, Naples, and Sicily.
Although Choiseul had the audacity to frame this agreement, and Louis XV
had the folly to sign it, they did not have the courage to proclaim it,
and so it remained a secret for several years.
It was not till October, 1764, that the news arrived at New Orleans that
Louisiana had, by secret treaty, been ceded to Spain, and instructions
were sent to Monsieur D’Abadie, the Governor, to hand over to the envoy
of Spain, who would shortly arrive, the whole colony and its
possessions.
The blow was stunning!
At first it could not be credited. To be tossed like a plaything from
France to Spain, that cowardly Spain who had never assisted them in any
way, who had not even fought to get them, whom they had outwitted and
overmatched in every contest,—this was too much!
Not many hours elapsed before the city was in a ferment. Groups gathered
on the street corners and loudly denounced the proceedings. The
wine-shops held excited bands who declaimed in passionate language
against both king and country that could treat a colony in such fashion,
and the chorus which rose and swelled protested that it could not be
borne.
Swift pirogues carried the news among the plantations which lay along
the Bayous, while men on horseback went to those in the interior.
Meetings were called in the parishes first, and then a convention was
planned in New Orleans itself, to which every parish in the State was to
send delegates. The subject was to be discussed, and then the King was
to be informed of this cruel, this awful thing that he was doing, and he
was to be petitioned to listen to the voice which echoed his own tongue,
and which under every trial had spoken but loyal words of him.
Every parish sent its most notable men, and of these Monsieur Valvier,
Annette’s father, was one. The meeting at New Orleans was a gathering of
all that was wise and distinguished throughout the whole State, and it
was unanimously decided to send to France a delegation of three men, to
bear to the King himself their petition.
These three men left for France on the first vessel which sailed, and
one can imagine the passionate nature of the appeal which they carried
with them, in which the whole colony besought the King to let them die
as they had lived,—Frenchmen to their hearts’ core.
Think of the feeling of relief which swelled every heart as the crowds
gathered to see the envoys depart bearing the message to France and to
their King!
Not one doubted but that the eloquence of Jean Milhet, who headed it,
would win back their loved State from the hated Spaniard, and that he
would speedily return with the joyful news, and that once more it would
be French land for French men.
To the doors of France are laid many acts of cruelty and oppression, but
there is no sadder story than the grief and humiliation to which this
little delegation was subjected. For one whole year they waited, were
put off from day to day with first one excuse and then another, and at
last, sick and heart-broken, sailed back to New Orleans without ever
having seen the King nor presented their petition!
Even though their chief envoy did not return, and there was no news of
the success of their petition, the people of Louisiana seemed to have no
doubt as to its success. Judge then of the fever of excitement into
which they were thrown when a letter arrived in July, 1766, saying that
Don Antonio de Ulloa, the Spanish envoy, was on his way to take
possession.
What should be done?
Whither should they turn? New meetings were called, the militia was
strengthened as much as possible; but month after month passed away and
Don Antonio did not arrive, so that the people quieted down and hope
bubbled up afresh.
One morning in February, 1767, when the Commandant awoke, he found
anchored below the Belize, that old fortress at the mouth of the river,
a large frigate flying the Spanish colours. On board was Don Antonio
with his personal suite, two companies of Spanish infantry, and some
Capuchin monks.
In March, in a frightful storm of wind and rain, they landed on the
levee in New Orleans, and were met by a sullen crowd of citizens and by
a mass of unwilling French troops.
The Spanish envoy, haughty, severe in aspect, and a martinet in
demanding that deferential ceremonial etiquette which was so firmly
engrafted into Spanish nature, either could not or would not understand
the feelings which prompted the ardent Louisianians to cling to their
nationality. He expected the people to change at his coming their flag
and their allegiance, the soldiers their service, and all to hasten to
assume the Spanish yoke. He could not understand their refusal to do so,
and when the Superior Council of the city requested him to show his
credentials, he abruptly refused, although he agreed to defer taking
possession till more Spanish soldiers were sent to him.
This was at least the form to which he agreed; but he proceeded to get
control as far as possible, visiting in turn all the military posts, and
replacing the French flag and the French commanders with Spanish ones.
Over New Orleans alone did the French flag still wave.
It may be easily understood that such high-handed deeds were not
accomplished without protest on the part of the people of Louisiana.
Curtailed of their possessions on every side, for by the “Treaty of
Paris” much had been ceded to the English, they proposed to make as
stubborn a resistance as possible.
In the remote parishes the feeling flamed almost higher than at New
Orleans itself, since the sight of the detested Spanish flag was an
ever-present insult.
During the year which had passed since the deputation had been sent to
Paris bearing the memorial to the King, Monsieur Valvier had wasted
neither time nor effort to arouse those with whom he came in contact,
and keep them rigorously opposed to Spanish rule.
There were stormy meetings in the parish to which he belonged, in which
he was always an impassioned leader. There were secret meetings at his
and the neighbouring plantations. He became gloomy, a man with but one
thought in his head,—the disgrace of belonging to Spain.
It was small wonder that with its head so distraught the plantation fell
into neglect. The crops of indigo and tobacco failed, since the master’s
eye no longer kept watch on careless servants.
Madame Valvier’s ill-health increased as the winter season approached,
and on little Annette fell more and more the care of the family and
home. Scant crops made scant money, and it was only by unceasing care
that Annette kept the active little brothers clothed and fed, and saw
that the languid mother had her fresh fruit and café au lait, and that
her favourite gowns of delicate white were kept mended and ever fresh.
Nor were these all her duties.
At evening, when her father returned depressed and miserable from a
never-ending discussion with neighbouring planters as to the ignominy of
their lot, it was Annette who met and tried to cheer him. She had ever
something ready for him, were it only a bowl of fresh figs; and the
earnest child at last became the confidant of the despairing man.
One memorable evening he returned later than usual, and to Annette’s
surprise and pleasure his eyes were bright and shining, and he carried
his head proudly and with confidence. Tenderly embracing Annette, he
cried,—
“At last, at last have I prevailed on these neighbours who hate and yet
fear the Spanish. All is ready, and to-morrow we at least will show Don
Ulloa that there are loyal Frenchmen enough in Louisiana to refuse to
live under the Spanish flag and his detestable rule.”
“But, father, what is it you would do?”
“Lean closer, my child, for none here must learn of this till everything
is ready and we leave for the city.”
“Does mother know, dear father?”
“No, Annette, I dare not tell her; her constant illness makes her
timorous.”
The young girl pressed closer to his knee, her large, serious eyes fixed
on his face. So wrapped was the man in his own thoughts that he knew not
the heavy burden he was laying on the already overcrowded young
shoulders.
To her the father unfolded his plans.
“Well you know the cruel blow that has been dealt to us from France, and
how the Spaniard Don Antonio has sought to make Spaniards of us
all,—true-born Frenchmen that we are; how he has hoisted the Spanish
flag, and manned all our forts with Spanish soldiers. To-morrow evening
there will start from this plantation Monsieur Biron, myself, and all
the owners of the plantations in this parish, with such of their men as
they can arm, and by boat we will go down the Bayou, stopping at each
plantation as we go, and gathering men together till we reach New
Orleans.”
“Oh, father!” interrupted Annette, breathlessly, “will you take an army
into the city?”
“So I hope; and these, with the loyal French Guard and the citizens,
will enable us to sweep onwards, and Don Antonio will find what manner
of men he has to deal with, and we will not rest till he is safely
confined within the walls of the Belize.”
In the excitement of his story Monsieur Valvier’s voice rose till there
came from the room beyond, where Madame Valvier lay, the sleepy question
as to why they talked so late.