FAMILY TREES
In the year 1673, and in the royal hovel of a Tchoupitoulas village not
far removed from that "Buffalo's Grazing-ground," now better known as
New Orleans, was born Lufki-Humma, otherwise Red Clay. The mother of Red
Clay was a princess by birth as well as by marriage. For the father,
with that devotion to his people's interests presumably common to
rulers, had ten moons before ventured northward into the territory of
the proud and exclusive Natchez nation, and had so prevailed with--so
outsmoked--their "Great Sun," as to find himself, as he finally knocked
the ashes from his successful calumet, possessor of a wife whose
pedigree included a long line of royal mothers--fathers being of little
account in Natchez heraldry--extending back beyond the Mexican origin
of her nation, and disappearing only in the effulgence of her great
original, the orb of day himself. As to Red Clay's paternal ancestry, we
must content ourselves with the fact that the father was not only the
diplomate we have already found him, but a chief of considerable
eminence; that is to say, of seven feet stature.
It scarce need be said that when Lufki-Humma was born, the mother arose
at once from her couch of skins, herself bore the infant to the
neighboring bayou and bathed it--not for singularity, nor for
independence, nor for vainglory, but only as one of the heart-curdling
conventionalities which made up the experience of that most pitiful of
holy things, an Indian mother.
Outside the lodge door sat and continued to sit, as she passed out, her
master or husband. His interest in the trivialities of the moment may be
summed up in this, that he was as fully prepared as some men are in more
civilized times and places to hold his queen to strict account for the
sex of her offspring. Girls for the Natchez, if they preferred them, but
the chief of the Tchoupitoulas wanted a son. She returned from the
water, came near, sank upon her knees, laid the infant at his feet, and
lo! a daughter.
Then she fell forward heavily upon her face. It may have been muscular
exhaustion, it may have been the mere wind of her hasty-tempered
matrimonial master's stone hatchet as it whiffed by her skull; an
inquest now would be too great an irony; but something blew out her
"vile candle."
Among the squaws who came to offer the accustomed funeral howlings, and
seize mementoes from the deceased lady's scant leavings, was one who had
in her own palmetto hut an empty cradle scarcely cold, and therefore a
necessity at her breast, if not a place in her heart, for the
unfortunate Lufki-Humma; and thus it was that this little waif came to
be tossed, a droll hypothesis of flesh, blood, nerve and brain, into the
hands of wild nature with _carte blanche_ as to the disposal of it. And
now, since this was Agricola's most boasted ancestor--since it appears
the darkness of her cheek had no effect to make him less white, or
qualify his right to smite the fairest and most distant descendant of an
African on the face, and since this proud station and right could not
have sprung from the squalid surroundings of her birth, let us for a
moment contemplate these crude materials.
As for the flesh, it was indeed only some of that "one flesh" of which
we all are made; but the blood--to go into finer distinctions--the
blood, as distinguished from the milk of her Alibamon foster-mother, was
the blood of the royal caste of the great Toltec mother-race, which,
before it yielded its Mexican splendors to the conquering Aztec, throned
the jeweled and gold-laden Inca in the South, and sent the sacred fire
of its temples into the North by the hand of the Natchez. For it is a
short way of expressing the truth concerning Red Clay's tissues to say
she had the blood of her mother and the nerve of her father, the nerve
of the true North American Indian, and had it in its finest strength.
As to her infantine bones, they were such as needed not to fail of
straightness in the limbs, compactness in the body, smallness in hands
and feet, and exceeding symmetry and comeliness throughout. Possibly
between the two sides of the occipital profile there may have been an
Incaean tendency to inequality; but if by any good fortune her
impressible little cranium should escape the cradle-straps, the
shapeliness that nature loves would soon appear. And this very fortune
befell her. Her father's detestation of an infant that had not consulted
his wishes as to sex prompted a verbal decree which, among other
prohibitions, forbade her skull the distortions that ambitious and
fashionable Indian mothers delighted to produce upon their offspring.
And as to her brain: what can we say? The casket in which Nature sealed
that brain, and in which Nature's great step-sister, Death, finally laid
it away, has never fallen into the delighted fingers--and the remarkable
fineness of its texture will never kindle admiration in the triumphant
eyes--of those whose scientific hunger drives them to dig for _crania
Americana_; nor yet will all their learned excavatings ever draw forth
one of those pale souvenirs of mortality with walls of shapelier contour
or more delicate fineness, or an interior of more admirable
spaciousness, than the fair council-chamber under whose dome the mind
of Lufki-Humma used, about two centuries ago, to sit in frequent
conclave with high thoughts.
"I have these facts," it was Agricola Fusilier's habit to say, "by
family tradition; but you know, sir, h-tradition is much more authentic
than history!"
Listening Crane, the tribal medicine-man, one day stepped softly into
the lodge of the giant chief, sat down opposite him on a mat of plaited
rushes, accepted a lighted calumet, and, after the silence of a decent
hour, broken at length by the warrior's intimation that "the ear of
Raging Buffalo listened for the voice of his brother," said, in effect,
that if that ear would turn toward the village play-ground, it would
catch a murmur like the pleasing sound of bees among the blossoms of the
catalpa, albeit the catalpa was now dropping her leaves, for it was the
moon of turkeys. No, it was the repressed laughter of squaws, wallowing
with their young ones about the village pole, wondering at the
Natchez-Tchoupitoulas child, whose eye was the eye of the panther, and
whose words were the words of an aged chief in council.
There was more added; we record only enough to indicate the direction of
Listening Crane's aim. The eye of Raging Buffalo was opened to see a
vision: the daughter of the Natchez sitting in majesty, clothed in
many-colored robes of shining feathers crossed and recrossed with
girdles of serpent-skins and of wampum, her feet in quilled and painted
moccasins, her head under a glory of plumes, the carpet of
buffalo-robes about her throne covered with the trophies of conquest,
and the atmosphere of her lodge blue with the smoke of embassadors'
calumets; and this extravagant dream the capricious chief at once
resolved should eventually become reality. "Let her be taken to the
village temple," he said to his prime-minister, "and be fed by warriors
on the flesh of wolves."
The Listening Crane was a patient man; he was the "man that waits" of
the old French proverb; all things came to him. He had waited for an
opportunity to change his brother's mind, and it had come. Again, he
waited for him to die; and, like Methuselah and others, he died. He had
heard of a race more powerful than the Natchez--a white race; he waited
for them; and when the year 1682 saw a humble "black gown" dragging and
splashing his way, with La Salle and Tonti, through the swamps of
Louisiana, holding forth the crucifix and backed by French carbines and
Mohican tomahawks, among the marvels of that wilderness was found this:
a child of nine sitting, and--with some unostentatious aid from her
medicine-man--ruling; queen of her tribe and high-priestess of their
temple. Fortified by the acumen and self-collected ambition of Listening
Crane, confirmed in her regal title by the white man's Manitou through
the medium of the "black gown," and inheriting her father's
fear-compelling frown, she ruled with majesty and wisdom, sometimes a
decreer of bloody justice, sometimes an Amazonian counselor of
warriors, and at all times--year after year, until she had reached the
perfect womanhood of twenty-six--a virgin queen.
On the 11th of March, 1699, two overbold young Frenchmen of M.
D'Iberville's little exploring party tossed guns on shoulder, and
ventured away from their canoes on the bank of the Mississippi into the
wilderness. Two men they were whom an explorer would have been justified
in hoarding up, rather than in letting out at such risks; a pair to lean
on, noble and strong. They hunted, killed nothing, were overtaken by
rain, then by night, hunger, alarm, despair.
And when they had lain down to die, and had only succeeded in falling
asleep, the Diana of the Tchoupitoulas, ranging the magnolia groves with
bow and quiver, came upon them in all the poetry of their hope-forsaken
strength and beauty, and fell sick of love. We say not whether with
Zephyr Grandissime or Epaminondas Fusilier; that, for the time being,
was her secret.
The two captives were made guests. Listening Crane rejoiced in them as
representatives of the great gift-making race, and indulged himself in a
dream of pipe-smoking, orations, treaties, presents and alliances,
finding its climax in the marriage of his virgin queen to the king of
France, and unvaryingly tending to the swiftly increasing aggrandizement
of Listening Crane. They sat down to bear's meat, sagamite and beans.
The queen sat down with them, clothed in her entire wardrobe: vest of
swan's skin, with facings of purple and green from the neck of the
mallard; petticoat of plaited hair, with embroideries of quills;
leggings of fawn-skin; garters of wampum; black and green serpent-skin
moccasins, that rested on pelts of tiger-cat and buffalo; armlets of
gars' scales, necklaces of bears' claws and alligators' teeth, plaited
tresses, plumes of raven and flamingo, wing of the pink curlew, and
odors of bay and sassafras. Young men danced before them, blowing upon
reeds, hooting, yelling, rattling beans in gourds and touching hands and
feet. One day was like another, and the nights were made brilliant with
flambeau dances and processions.
Some days later M. D'Iberville's canoe fleet, returning down the river,
found and took from the shore the two men, whom they had given up for
dead, and with them, by her own request, the abdicating queen, who left
behind her a crowd of weeping and howling squaws and warriors. Three
canoes that put off in their wake, at a word from her, turned back; but
one old man leaped into the water, swam after them a little way, and
then unexpectedly sank. It was that cautious wader but inexperienced
swimmer, the Listening Crane.
When the expedition reached Biloxi, there were two suitors for the hand
of Agricola's great ancestress. Neither of them was Zephyr Grandissime.
(Ah! the strong heads of those Grandissimes.)
They threw dice for her. Demosthenes De Grapion--he who, tradition
says, first hoisted the flag of France over the little fort--seemed to
think he ought to have a chance, and being accorded it, cast an
astonishingly high number; but Epaminondas cast a number higher by one
(which Demosthenes never could quite understand), and got a wife who had
loved him from first sight.
Thus, while the pilgrim fathers of the Mississippi Delta with Gallic
recklessness were taking wives and moot-wives from the ill specimens of
three races, arose, with the church's benediction, the royal house of
the Fusiliers in Louisiana. But the true, main Grandissime stock, on
which the Fusiliers did early, ever, and yet do, love to marry, has kept
itself lily-white ever since France has loved lilies--as to marriage,
that is; as to less responsible entanglements, why, of course--
After a little, the disappointed Demosthenes, with due ecclesiastical
sanction, also took a most excellent wife, from the first cargo of House
of Correction girls. Her biography, too, is as short as Methuselah's, or
shorter; she died. Zephyr Grandissime married, still later, a lady of
rank, a widow without children, sent from France to Biloxi under a
_lettre de cachet_. Demosthenes De Grapion, himself an only son, left
but one son, who also left but one. Yet they were prone to early
marriages.
So also were the Grandissimes, or, as the name is signed in all the old
notarial papers, the Brahmin Mandarin de Grandissimes. That was one
thing that kept their many-stranded family line so free from knots and
kinks. Once the leisurely Zephyr gave them a start, generation followed
generation with a rapidity that kept the competing De Grapions
incessantly exasperated, and new-made Grandissime fathers continually
throwing themselves into the fond arms and upon the proud necks of
congratulatory grandsires. Verily it seemed as though their family tree
was a fig-tree; you could not look for blossoms on it, but there,
instead, was the fruit full of seed. And with all their speed they were
for the most part fine of stature, strong of limb and fair of face. The
old nobility of their stock, including particularly the unnamed blood of
her of the _lettre de cachet_, showed forth in a gracefulness of
carriage, that almost identified a De Grandissime wherever you saw him,
and in a transparency of flesh and classic beauty of feature, that made
their daughters extra-marriageable in a land and day which was bearing a
wide reproach for a male celibacy not of the pious sort.
In a flock of Grandissimes might always be seen a Fusilier or two;
fierce-eyed, strong-beaked, dark, heavy-taloned birds, who, if they
could not sing, were of rich plumage, and could talk, and bite, and
strike, and keep up a ruffled crest and a self-exalting bad humor. They
early learned one favorite cry, with which they greeted all strangers,
crying the louder the more the endeavor was made to appease them:
"Invaders! Invaders!"
There was a real pathos in the contrast offered to this family line by
that other which sprang up, as slenderly as a stalk of wild oats, from
the loins of Demosthenes De Grapion. A lone son following a lone son,
and he another--it was sad to contemplate, in that colonial beginning of
days, three generations of good, Gallic blood tripping jocundly along in
attenuated Indian file. It made it no less pathetic to see that they
were brilliant, gallant, much-loved, early epauletted fellows, who did
not let twenty-one catch them without wives sealed with the authentic
wedding kiss, nor allow twenty-two to find them without an heir. But
they had a sad aptness for dying young. It was altogether supposable
that they would have spread out broadly in the land; but they were such
inveterate duelists, such brave Indian-fighters, such adventurous
swamp-rangers, and such lively free-livers, that, however numerously
their half-kin may have been scattered about in an unacknowledged way,
the avowed name of De Grapion had become less and less frequent in lists
where leading citizens subscribed their signatures, and was not to be
seen in the list of managers of the late ball.
It is not at all certain that so hot a blood would not have boiled away
entirely before the night of the _bal masqué_, but for an event which
led to the union of that blood with a stream equally clear and ruddy,
but of a milder vintage. This event fell out some fifty-two years after
that cast of the dice which made the princess Lufki-Humma the mother of
all the Fusiliers and of none of the De Grapions. Clotilde, the
Casket-Girl, the little maid who would not marry, was one of an heroic
sort, worth--the De Grapions maintained--whole swampfuls of Indian
queens. And yet the portrait of this great ancestress, which served as a
pattern to one who, at the ball, personated the long-deceased heroine
_en masque_, is hopelessly lost in some garret. Those Creoles have such
a shocking way of filing their family relics and records in rat-holes.
One fact alone remains to be stated: that the De Grapions, try to spurn
it as they would, never could quite suppress a hard feeling in the face
of the record, that from the two young men, who, when lost in the
horrors of Louisiana's swamps, had been esteemed as good as dead, and
particularly from him who married at his leisure,--from Zephyr de
Grandissime,--sprang there so many as the sands of the Mississippi
innumerable.