About two hundred miles from the mouth of Red River--the Red of
Louisiana--stands the town of Natchitoches. The name is Indian, and
pronounced as if written "Nak-e-tosh." Though never a populous place,
it is one of peculiar interest, historically and ethnologically. Dating
from the earliest days of French and Spanish colonisation, on the Lower
Mississippi, it has at different periods been in possession of both
these nations; finally falling to the United States, at the transfer of
the Louisiana territory by Napoleon Bonaparte. Hence, around its
history is woven much of romantic interest; while from the same cause
its population, composed of many various nationalities, with their
distinctive physical types and idiosyncracies of custom, offers to the
eye of the stranger a picturesqueness unknown to northern towns. Placed
on a projecting bluff of the river's bank, its painted wooden houses, of
French Creole fashion, with "piazzas" and high-pitched roofs, its
trottoirs brick-paved, and shaded by trees of sub-tropical foliage--
among them the odoriferous magnolia, and _melia azedarach_, or "Pride of
China,"--these, in places, completely arcading the street--Natchitoches
has the orthodox aspect of a _rus in urbe_, or _urbs in rure_, whichever
way you wish it.
Its porticoes, entwined with parasites, here and there show stretches of
trellis, along which meander the cord-like tendrils of bignonias,
aristolochias, and orchids, the flowers of which, drooping over windows
and doorways, shut out the too garish sunlight, while filling the air
with fragrance. Among these whirr tiny humming birds, buzz humble bees
almost as big, while butterflies bigger than either lazily flout and
flap about on soft, silent wing.
Such sights greet you at every turning as you make promenade through the
streets of Natchitoches.
And there are others equally gratifying. Within these same trellised
verandahs, you may observe young girls of graceful mien, elegantly
apparelled, lounging on cane rocking-chairs, or perhaps peering coyly
through the half-closed jalousies, their eyes invariably dark brown or
coal black, the marble forehead above surmounted with a chevelure in hue
resembling the plumage of the raven. For most of these demoiselles are
descended from the old colonists of the two Latinic races; not a few
with some admixture of African, or Indian. The flaxen hair, blue eyes,
and blonde complexion of the Northland are only exceptional appearances
in the town of Natchitoches.
Meet these same young ladies in the street, it is the custom, and _comme
il faut_, to take off your hat, and make a bow. Every man who claims to
be a gentleman does this deference; while every woman, with a white
skin, expects it. On whichever side the privilege may be supposed to
lie, it is certainly denied to none. The humblest shop clerk or
artisan--even the dray-driver--may thus make obeisance to the proudest
and daintiest damsel who treads the trottoirs of Natchitoches. It gives
no right of converse, nor the slightest claim to acquaintanceship. A
mere formality of politeness; and to presume carrying it further would
not only be deemed a rudeness, but instantly, perhaps very seriously,
resented.
Such is the polished town to which the Belle of Natchez has brought
Colonel Armstrong, with his belongings, and from which he intends taking
final departure for Texas. The "Lone Star State" lies a little beyond--
the Sabine River forming the boundary line. But from earliest time of
Texan settlement on the north-eastern side, Natchitoches has been the
place of ultimate outfit and departure.
Here the ex-Mississippian planter has made halt, and purposes to remain
for a much longer time than originally intended. For a far grander
scheme of migration, than that he started out with, is now in his mind.
Born upon the Belle of Natchez, it has been gradually developing itself
during the remainder of the voyage, and is now complete--at least as to
general design.
It has not originated with Archibald Armstrong himself, but one, whom he
is soon to call son-in-law. The young Creole, Dupre, entranced with
love, has nevertheless not permitted its delirium to destroy all ideas
of other kind. Rather has it re-inspired him with one already
conceived, but which, for some time, has been in abeyance. He, too, has
been casting thoughts towards Texas, with a view to migrating thither.
Of late travelling in Europe--more particularly in France--with some of
whose noblest families he holds relationship, he has there been smitten
with a grand idea, dictated by a spirit of ambition. In Louisiana he is
only a planter among planters and though a rich one, is still not
satisfied, either with the number of his negroes, or the area of his
acres. In Texas, where land is comparatively low priced, he has
conceived a project of colonisation, on an extended scale--in short, the
founding a sort of Transatlantic _seigneurie_. For some months has this
ambitious dream been brooding in his brain; and now, meeting the
Mississippian planter aboard the boat and learning the latter's
intentions, this, and the more tender _liens_ late established between,
them, have determined Louis Dupre to make his dream a reality, and
become one of the migrating party. He will sell his Louisiana houses
and lands, but not his slaves. These can be taken to Texas.
Scarce necessary to say, that, on thus declaring himself, he becomes the
real chief of the proposed settlement. Whether showing conspicuously in
front, or remaining obscurely in the rear, the capitalist controls all;
and Dupre is this.
Still, though virtually the controlling spirit, apparently the power
remains in the hands of Colonel Armstrong. The young Creole wishes it
to appear so. He has no jealousy of him, who is soon to be his second
father. Besides, there is another and substantial reason why Colonel
Armstrong should assume the chieftainship of the purposed expedition.
Though reduced in circumstances, the ex-Mississippian planter is held in
high respect. His character commands it; while his name, known
throughout all the South-west, will be sure to draw around, and rally
under his standard, some of those strong stalwart men of the backwoods,
equally apt with axe and rifle, without whom no settlement on the far
frontier of Texas would stand a chance of either security, or success.
For it is to the far frontier they purpose going, where land can be got
at government prices, and where they intend to purchase it not by the
acre, but in square miles--in leagues.
Such is Dupre's design, easy of execution with the capital he can
command after disposing of his Red River plantation.
And within a week after his arrival in Natchitoches, he has disposed of
it; signed the deed of delivery, and received the money. An immense
sum, notwithstanding the sacrifice of a sale requiring quick despatch.
On the transfer being completed, the Creole holds in hand a cash capital
of $200,000; in those days sufficient not only for the purchase of a
large tract of territory, but enough to make the dream of a seignorial
estate appear a possible reality.
Not much of the future is he reflecting upon now. If, at times, he cast
a chance thought towards it, it may be to picture to himself how his
blonde beauty will look as lady _suzeraine_--_chatelaine_ of the castle
to be erected in Texas.
In his fancy, no doubt, he figures her as the handsomest creature that
ever carried keys at her belt.
If these fancies of the future are sweet, the facts of the present are
even more so. Daring their sojourn in Natchitoches the life of Louis
Dupre and Jessie Armstrong is almost a continuous chapter of amorous
converse and dalliance; left hands mutually clasped, right ones around
waists, or playing with curls and tresses; lips at intervals meeting in
a touch that intoxicates the soul--the delicious drunkenness of love,
from which no one need ever wish to get sober.