It is to give pleasure to my dear daughter Fannie and to her children that
I write this journey. I shall be well satisfied if I can succeed in giving
them this pleasure: by the grace of God, Amen.
Papa, Mr. Pierre Bossier, planter of St. James parish, had been fifteen
days gone to the city (New Orleans) in his skiff with two rowers, Louis
and Baptiste, when, returning, he embraced us all, gave us some caramels
which he had in his pockets, and announced that he counted on leaving us
again in four or five days to go to Attakapas. He had long been speaking
of going there. Papa and mamma were German, and papa loved to travel. When
he first came to Louisiana it was with no expectation of staying. But here
he saw mamma; he loved her, married her, and bought a very fine
plantation, where he cultivated indigo. You know they blue clothes with
that drug, and dye cottonade and other things. There we, their eight
children, were born....
[Illustration: PART OF FRANÇOIS'S FIRST PAGE.]
When my father used to go to New Orleans he went in his skiff, with a
canopy over his head to keep off the sun, and two rowers, who sang as
they 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 Suzanne
always--always. She was the daughter next older than I. She barely missed
being 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 three
months old, and papa, who greatly desired a son, had easily made one of
Suzanne. My father had brought a few books with him to Louisiana, and
among them, you may well suppose, were several volumes of travel. For
myself, I rarely touched them; but they were the only books that Suzanne
read. And you may well think, too, that my father had no sooner spoken of
his intention than Suzanne cried:
"I am going with you, am I not, papa?"
"Naturally," replied my father; "and Françoise shall go also."
Françoise--that was I; poor child of sixteen, who had but six months
before quitted the school-bench, and totally unlike my sister--blonde,
where Suzanne was dark; timid, even cowardly, while she had the hardihood
and 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 skillful
hunter.
I exclaimed at my father's speech. I had heard there were many Indians in
Attakapas; 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 at
my fears; and as, after all, I burned with desire for the journey, it was
decided that I should go with them.
Necessarily we wanted to know how we were to go--whether we should travel
by skiff, and how many negroes and negresses would go with us. For you
see, 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 and
undress them. Especially in traveling, where one had to take clothes out
of trunks and put them back again, assistance became an absolute
necessity. Think, then, of our astonishment, of our vexation, when papa
assured us that he would not take a single slave; that my sister and I
would be compelled to help each other, and that the skiff would remain
behind, tied up at the landing where it then lay.
"But explain yourself, Papa, I beg of you," cried Suzanne, with her
habitual 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 tell
of the trip he had made to New Orleans; how he had there found means to
put into execution his journey to Attakapas, and the companions that were
to accompany him.