The Legend of Bayou La Fleur

By Bill Byargeon

The Legend of Bayou La Fleur is set in the Louisiana bayou country, during the final days of our Civil War to the turn of the century. The town of Bayou La Fleur, the Desaird Swamp and the surrounding plantations form the backdrop for a cast of characters befitting any Hollywood script.
The author’s vivid and candid portrayal of life on both sides of the South’s caste system is testimony to the prejudice and hypocrisy undermining our sense of morality and justice to this very day. Its scope rattles the foundation and tears at the roots of America’s racial dilemma. The author’s straight-forward, gritty style cuts through and unravels the blood-soaked fabric of racism, whose threads are interwoven throughout our troubled society. The story is both, entertaining and timely, for it provides today’s readers with insights into the causes and atmosphere that gave rise to the bias that exists between blacks and whites alike and deprives our races from sharing our common humanity.
A descendant of Cajun fur trappers, who migrated from Canada, the author was born and raised in the bayou country of Louisiana and developed a curiosity about the tales and folklore recounted by his relatives and neighbors, a curiosity that led to the writing of this book. Throughout his childhood, he was witness to the brutality and inequity towards blacks, brought on by a system where hate was inbred and an accepted way of life. The scars on his face and body are the affirmation of a life spent as a construction worker, professional wrestler, boxer, bouncer and private detective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Byargeon
• Release date: Dec 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311565310

Bill Byargeon

A descendant of Cajun fur trappers, who migrated from Canada, the author was born and raised in the bayou country of Louisiana and developed a curiosity about the tales and folklore recounted by his relatives and neighbors, a curiosity that led to the writing of this book. Throughout his childhood, he was witness to the brutality and inequity towards blacks, brought on by a system where hate was inbred and an accepted way of life. The scars on his face and body are the affirmation of a life spent as a construction worker, professional wrestler, boxer, bouncer and private detective.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The primitive cabin trembled before the heralding thunder of the approaching summer storm. Rolling clouds, streaked by lightning, gathered momentum as the advancing edge of the storm reached the perimeter of the shack’s clearing. The low whispering drizzle turned into a heavy rattle, striking the roof with an ever increasing roar as distant flashes of light illuminated the cabin. Great lumbering clouds passed overhead, unleashing huge sheets of water plummeting to the ground. Within a few minutes, the heavy, staccato beat of the rain had once again become a soft, slow drizzle irrigating the parched earth.

Inside the cabin, a heavy-set black woman, known to her followers as Mama Justine, tossed and turned on her cot. In a semi-wakened state, her mind strove to regain full consciousness while each ache in her back and joints prodded her closer to full awareness. Accustomed to solitude, she had spent the earlier hours of the night in meditation before drifting into an uneasy slumber, but the night had been restless, her soul gripped in the throes of an impending disaster.

The Negro slaves of the Louisiana Delta country worshiped and feared this woman. Though very few had been privileged enough to see the High Priestess of their African god, Zononi, in the flesh, each slave had been told the legend of Mama Justine from childhood.

Mama Justine herself was in total ignorance of the exact manner in which she was chosen to become the high priestess. She vaguely remembered being separated from her family as a child and the secret ritual in which she had been sworn to silence, forever dedicated to spend her life in training and service. She had been transported to the Desaird Swamp and placed in the care of her predecessor, the acting Mama Justine.

In the years that followed, she had been schooled in the rites and arts of black magic. She had learned to collect and use the herbs, roots and deadly flowers of the swamp. Each piece of information had been passed on by word of mouth, since neither the young student nor her teacher could read or write. Years of training would pass before she was prepared to replace her mentor and assume the role of High Priestess.

Mama Justine knew that in the years to come the process would once again repeat itself. A young girl would be chosen to be her apprentice and taught the same rituals as she had been. Thus, Mama Justine would be reborn, carrying on the legend of the all-knowing, all-powerful, eternal bush woman of the Desaird Swamp. It was a simple, but highly effective means of controlling the minds of the superstitious slaves.

Her physical world consisted only of the small cabin with its crude furnishings and utensils. The Desaird Swamp was a vast, wet primeval place teeming with wild life, long considered worthless and impenetrable to the pioneers that had settled the surrounding area.

This foreboding land, perfect for Mama Justine, was a world apart from the advancing white man’s civilization. Life beyond the swamp was known to her only from reports brought by her followers. She had reconciled herself for many years to a life of solitude and loneliness. She felt honored to serve the god Zononi and her people despite the dismal aspects of her existence. The training had instilled in her that no sacrifice could be too great.

A few miles to the north of her swamp home, the town of Bayou La Fleur had risen from the wilderness. At first, it was a rendezvous for French and Spanish trappers, then a small settlement and lastly, a thriving and prosperous town. Its destiny would become linked with that of Mama Justine and her followers.

When the Spanish explorer, Hernando De Soto, first visited the area in 1540, there were approximately 12,000 Indians living in the wilderness, but through the years the white man’s diseases would eventually reduce their numbers to a mere handful.

The period between 1760 and 1790 had marked the influx of Arcadians (Cajuns) from Canada and along with the French, Spanish, Islenos from the Canary Islands, Germans and slaves from Africa formed the heterogeneous mixture inhabiting the land. Each group brought their own customs, religions and folklore. It was during this period that the legend of Mama Justine, undying High Priestess of the god Zononi, was transplanted from Africa to the Louisiana Delta country.

In the times that followed, tales of black magic, voodoo and devil worship would begin to blossom alongside the Christian religion. As the white man’s religion grew stronger, the bush religion of the blacks receded into the swamps and became a secret cult, known only to its faithful followers. The disciples of Zononi and his high priestess would become the strongest of all the bush religions. The signs of worship were evident to the believers, an animal skull filled with flowers, a drumbeat in the night, the chant of a slave and all the word of mouth messages that kept Mama Justine in contact with her followers. To the blacks in the Delta country, she ruled eminently, her word was law and she controlled the destiny of over a thousand slaves from her swamp home.

Through the use of her handmaidens and the swamp grapevine, she was aware of the happenings on each plantation. The slaves lived in constant turmoil, torn between the two forces that controlled their lives, the white masters that demanded their loyalty and servitude, and Mama Justine, who expected their undying devotion and fidelity to Zononi and herself.

John Snider, master of one of these plantations, would be the first to bring the struggle for supremacy over the lives of the slaves to a dreadful climax. In so doing, he laid the foundation for the first of the many legends surfacing from the Bayou La Fleur area, to be told and retold by the local people for generations to come.

CHAPTER ONE

John Snider appeared on the scene of the Delta country in 1844. He acquired the deed to ten sections of land; the east was bordered by the Ouachita river; the south side by the Desaird Swamp; to the north, fifteen miles away, lay the small town of Bayou La Fleur, and to the west, uncultivated wilderness, awaiting new settlers.

He brought forty slaves, purchased on the auction block in New Orleans, as his work force and immediately set about erecting housing for himself and his slaves. Two long, hard years would pass before the plantation was to become self-sufficient. An additional two years passed before he was actually able to show a profit from the land, and in the years that followed, the Snider Plantation grew and flourished.

John threw himself into his labor, and though he proved to be a hard-driving taskmaster, he was not a cruel man. He remained an enigma to the whites of the Parish, a man who kept to himself and stayed on his plantation except for his infrequent sojourns into Bayou La Fleur for supplies or to New Orleans to buy more slaves.

The slaves on the on the Snider Plantation were envied for their treatment and were considered a happy lot. Over the years their numbers grew to around four hundred individuals. During this entire time, Mama Justine had never heard so much as a whisper of anyone trying to escape their bondage or flee the country.

The year 1863, nineteen years after John Snider’s arrival, had brought about a change. Stories of women being beaten or maimed by the once benevolent master began to circulate, and the ages of the victims summoned to his house were reportedly younger each time. Tales of horror and deprivation spread rapidly among the slaves as more and more facts were brought to light.

Last night had brought a visitor to Mama Justine, and with him came the realization that she could no longer delay in acting……if she was to keep the loyalty of her followers. She knew the slaves on the plantation were seething with rage beneath their submissive exteriors, primed and ready to rebel, with or without her guidance or blessings.

The visitor was a young slave of eighteen, Joe Boy, one of the first slaves to be born on the Snider Plantation. He was one of her secret disciples for the majority of his young life. He made his way into the deep recesses of the swamp in an attempt to enlist her aid, but had left in rage and frustration.

Mama Justine could still picture the expression on Joe Boy’s face as he sat staring into the fireplace relating his tale.

He make her go to his house las night, Mama Justine, dere jus was nothin I thinks to do bout it.

How ole is yore sister, Joe Boy?

She twelve, Mama Justine, only a baby, an he fifty. What do an old man lak dat want wid a twelve-year ole girl?

His question had stirred in her mind as she tried to soothe the young man’s troubled spirits. It’s bad, Joe Boy, but lots of udder girls has to go up dere, an dey gots over it. Some even laughs bout it later, dey says as a man he ain’t much.

But dat was fore he starts hurtin um, Mama Justine. Sides, she jus a baby, what he want wid a skinny, young girl?

Mama Justine tried to keep her voice noncommittal, Ole white men has always want young black girls long as dey been here, Joe Boy, an slave niggers not spose to fuss.

Joe Boy’s face became set with determination, Mama Justine, he hurt my sister; I calls on Zononi fo justice. If he don answer, den I kill him myself, dis I swear.

Hush, boy! I talks to Zononi an he tell us what to do, til den, you keep yore mouth shut, you hear?

I hears, Mama Justine, but she my baby sister an he hurt her, I is gonna stop him some way! You waits an sees.

Mama Justine struggled to keep the concern from her voice, Get on home, boy, fore dey catch you gone. You waits til you gets word from me fore you gets a bunch of innocen fokes kilt.

She cursed John Snider under her breath as she watched the young man disappear from sight. He had been known for his craving of young black girls over the years, but this time there was a difference. Years before, the women he had ordered to his bed had been compensated with gifts of cloth, trinkets or food for their services. The families of the chosen women had received favored treatment while their daughters had graced his bed. The truth was that many had been happy to see their daughters summoned to the Massa’s house.

One day, to the disappointment of many of the slaves and to the relief of others (mostly male), Sal made her appearance on the scene.

John Snider bought the light-skinned Negress from an auction block in New Orleans and promptly installed her as his personal house mistress. Adored by Snider, she soon became a power on the plantation, reigning over the slaves, and second only to Clayton Lewis, his white overseer.

Years passed and then as suddenly as his cravings had stopped, Snider once again began summoning young women to his bed. This time there were three major differences. Firstly, Sal was the one doing the fetching. Secondly, the slave girls being summoned were in their teens or younger and thirdly, the stories of brutality resumed and spread like wildfire.

Joe boy had glanced back over his shoulder as he left Mama Justine’s cabin. Her huge bulk engulfed the cabin door as she stood watching his departure. In his eyes, her majestic carriage was lacking the authority that she usually projected and her face seemed as troubled as his own inner spirit.

Launching the dugout he used to make his way through the swamp, he began his journey back home. As he poled the canoe through the murky waters, the dreaded scene once again flashed before his mind’s eye.

His family, having completed their day’s work, was seated at the table for their evening meal, when Sal burst into the cabin and wasted no time in stating her message.

Gots some good news fo you, Elsa, a feigned smile touched the corners of her mouth as she dropped the bombshell. Massa John wants you to visit him tonight, he send me to fetch you.

Joe Boy could still visualize the terror-stricken look in the eyes of his little sister. Managing to compose her features before glancing over at her mother, she rose with a quiet dignity that tore at his heart as she followed Sal out of the cabin.

Unable to face his mother, he followed the two women part of the way to Snider’s house. Sal had turned to him with a leer on her haughty face, Best you get on back to yore home, Joe Boy, Massa John ain’t lookin fo any extra company tonight.

Unable to answer, he stood frozen with fear. Sal’s laughter rang in his ears as she prodded his sister up the walk.

Joe Boy tried in vain to summon the courage to bang on the door and demand the return of his sister, but to no avail. Snider was old and frail and no match for him physically, but he could foresee the consequences of such an action. He would be soundly beaten for defying his master, and even if lucky enough to escape with his life, could be crippled forever as an example to anyone stupid enough to defy the plantation master’s authority.

Ashamed, with hot tears burning his eyes and running down his cheeks, he watched in humiliation, as his sister, turning and straightening her shoulders, marched through the back door of the Snider house. He turned away and fled from the plantation, making his way into the swamp, to Mama Justine’s cabin.

The visit had been a dismal failure for him; he received no answers and now must return to face the accusing eyes of his baby sister. Joe Boy realized at the time that in spite of his youth and strength, he would never feel he was a man. In every woman’s eyes he stood helpless, unable to act in her time of need.

He sensed that something was wrong as he reached the outskirts of the plantation and hurriedly made his way through the slaves’ quarters to his family’s cabin. From a distance he heard the wails and cries of grief coming from his house. Rushing through the door, he saw the lifeless body of his sister lying on the bed, surrounded by his grieving family. From behind the cabin came hammering sounds as a wooden coffin was being hastily assembled in the yard.

His mother, her face strangely serene, stared blankly at him as she rolled the dead body on the bed.

Joe Boy could no longer control the screams of rage and horror that poured from his lips. Elsa’s back was a mass of lacerations; she had plainly been tortured and severely beaten before dying from shock and loss of blood.

CHAPTER TWO

John Snider cursed softly under his breath as the rays of the morning sun roused him from his fitful sleep. Three weeks had passed since the unfortunate death of the young slave girl, but still a peaceful night’s sleep had eluded him. Beating his pillow, he thrust it back under his head and tried to return to the oblivion of slumber.

The last three weeks had been hell for him. The slaves had been docile enough, but there was an underlying tension in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Stretching out on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head, he once again relived the night of the girl’s death in his tormented mind. Damn it! Things had been so good. The little wench was too frightened to resist when he threw her face down on his bed. He could still visualize the welts rising on her back as he worked her over with his hickory stick. Her whimpering moans, as she bit the pillow to keep from screaming, had been the perfect aphrodisiac. He felt the strength coursing through his loins and became fully erect and ready. He could still picture her bulging eyes as he rolled her over on her back and thrust himself into her.

Shit! Things had been perfect, the best ever. He had possessed a strength unsurpassed in his memory. He could still feel her flesh tearing when he buried himself inside her. Nothing could have withstood him; he was an irresistible force…..Oh Goddamn! What a feeling that was. Drunk with his own power, he felt like an omnipotent demigod, almighty and master of his universe.

She had lain there, making those god-awful noises as he finished satisfying his lust. He had risen and turned the lamp up to survey his handiwork and for the first time realized how bloody they both were. Bloodstains covered both their legs and the sheets were soaked with her blood. He normally would have gotten mad at her for making a mess….but hell! It had been so good that he would have forgiven her for anything.

He recalled walking into the kitchen to the stove and getting warm water from the reservoir to clean himself. He poured out the pink stained water and refilled the basin to clean the girl. Hell! He had helped to make the mess; the least he could do was help in cleaning it up. His good spirits plummeted when he re-entered the bedroom and found the girl’s lifeless body. The little bitch had died on him………..of all the rotten luck.

He pounded on Sal’s door demanding she get the body out and gets his bed cleaned up. Once Sal was made to understand what had happened, he hurriedly grabbed his pistols and rifles and retreated to the guest bedroom. He spent a restless night expecting some act of retribution from the girl’s family, but except for the sound of Sal having the body removed and screams of grief in the yard, the night had passed by uneventful.

Morning brought no visible changes. The slaves went about their work, subdued and tranquil as usual. The lack of laughter and song, normally emanating from the fields, was the only outward sign that something was amiss. He surmised that the slaves felt the same as he did. What was one less nigger wench on the plantation? Still he had to admit, he regretted her death. That li’l gal had given him more pleasure in an hour than he’d had in years. He knew that he’d have to find himself another sweet little thing…….just like her.

Rising from the bed, Snider cursed in a low monotone, his new mattress made him ache all over. The old mattress had to be destroyed.

Ain’t no way dat mattress can be saved, Massa John, Sal reasoned, Too much blood soaked in.

Shaking her head, she pulled the mattress into the yard and set it ablaze. Sal’s face was completely expressionless as she watched the flames eat into the blood-soaked material. Despite her outward calm, she mentally screamed in anguish as she foresaw her own life fading into the ashes……along with John Snider’s. She knew with certainty that Elsa’s death would not go unavenged.

Whether her own life would be forfeited alongside her master’s was the question and would death be decreed in her future?

The approach of Bertha, Mama Justine’s messenger, brought the answer. Smiling maliciously at Sal, Bertha stated straightforwardly.

Mama Justine, she wants to know is you got any black blood in you, or is it been tainted white by dat man of yours.

I gots black blood same as you, Bertha. You do what yore told; I do what I is told. Dere ain’t no difference an you knows it.

Mama Justine, she say tell you dat when John Snider leave de plantation, you is to send out de signal. You understands, gal?

Trying to retain her dignity and show no emotion, in spite of her humiliation, Sal still felt a sense of relief. She knew now, with certainty, that she was not sentenced to die along with her master for her part in Elsa’s untimely death.

Sal was often told by Snider that she was his present to himself. Five years earlier, he stood in the crowd of buyers and watched the young Negress make her way to the auction block of the slave market. He had made the trip to New Orleans on business and had no intention of buying, but only to watch the auction.

Sal’s courtly bearing attracted his attention immediately. Unlike the other slave women, she carried her body proudly, confident of her own sense of value. He found himself entranced and made his way to the front of the crowd.

Her skin was the color of café-au-lait, with straight brown hair cascading down her sensuous back. He surmised that she could be no more than one-sixteenth Negro. Her light amber tone suggested that some of her forefathers were white men visiting the slave quarters. Her figure was long and lean, reminding him of a thoroughbred mare, built for speed. Her breasts were small firm mounds of flesh with small dark nipples that swelled in the chilling breeze.

Sal stepped up to the auctioneer’s block, well aware of her impact on the onlookers and made no effort to cover her nude body.

She was blessed with the best features of both races. She had a tiny waist with flaring hips, a luscious and well-rounded backside with limbs firm and flawless. He loved the way her breasts thrust straight out of her body. The innocent, childlike face seemed strangely out of place with that voluptuous body. He found himself captivated by her natural beauty and defiant gaze.

He realized that he must possess this woman-child regardless of the price and with a wave of the hand, he started the bidding.

Later, he learned that she was only eighteen and was raised on the Hawthorn Plantation, becoming the master’s bed wench at the age of fifteen. Life on that plantation had been pleasant for her until the day her master returned home with his new white bride. Hawthorn’s wife took one look at Sal and demanded that she be sold and immediately shipped her to the New Orleans slave market. Hawthorn’s loss was John Snider’s gain.

Snider built a cabin directly behind his own, but for the next two years she was to rarely sleep anywhere but his bed. Only when he had a rare visit from an overnight guest would he send her to the cabin. During those times she would sleep restlessly, half-awake, waiting and listening for her master’s call.

She was pouring Snider’s breakfast coffee the morning her secure world came crashing down. He pushed his plate away and spoke in a sober voice. Sal, I want you to tell Dicie to get herself cleaned and get her butt over here tonight.

She stood paralyzed momentarily. You don wants me no more, Massa John, you done gots tired of me?

He slammed his coffee cup down and glared at her. I’m not tired of you, Sal; I just need something different for a change, that’s all. He sat for a moment staring at the table and spoke without looking at her. You had better remember your place, Sal, do as you’re told and you can keep running the house for me. I’m not going to listen to any arguments out of you about this. Do you understand?

Sal lowered her eyes and stared down at her feet. Yes, Massa, I understands, I gonna keep my place.

His pleased smile proved she had touched on the right note of humility. Sal expected something like this, since lately the fire had gone out of their couplings. She had to use every trick she knew to make him ready. Lately, there were several failures, but there was one ray of sunshine, though. She doubted that an untrained novice could accomplish what she had failed to do. Let Dicie try and fail, he’d be right back with her.

Sal was aware that the manner she used to summon a new recruit to the house would greatly determine whether she kept the respect of the slaves on the plantation. You gots to walk a straight line, gal. she whispered to herself. A lot pends on de way people sees dis.

Dicie was lighting the fire under a cast iron wash pot, when Sal approached, and studying the young girl’s face, made her announcement.

Dicie, tonight after supper, you get yore self a bath an meets me in de kitchen. Massa John wants to see if dat thing you gots tween yore legs is good fo sumthin sides to piss thru.

The look of trepidation that crossed the girl’s features proved to Sal, that she had taken the proper approach with her. Rather than being an object of scorn, she was still in command and mistress of the Snider household.

As Sal turned to leave, Dicie leaped to her feet, following in Sal’s footsteps, Wat I gonna do, Sal? I ain’t nebber bedded no man fore,

Do wat you tole, gal, an don mess on de bed. Sal laughed as she walked away from the fear-stricken girl. She remembered her initiation years ago in Massa Hawthorn’s bed. Well, tonight Dicie would learn all the answers…….if Massa’ John was up to it.

Dicie was frightened and looked ready to run. She arrived after the evening meal and was led into Snider’s bedroom. Sal left the house and returned to her own quarters. Opening her window, she sat listening to Dicie’s muted screams and the low muffled commands of her master.

Keep it up, bitch, Sal whispered to herself, Der ain’t no man wants to lissen to all dat caterwallerin, morrow you gonna be jus a bad memory! She drifted off to sleep with a triumphant smile on her face.

Come morning, Dicie would be gone, along with John’s notions about replacing her in his bed. However, morning brought a shock. Snider paraded around with his chest out, as if he’d done something great.

Dicie had lasted over a week before being replaced by a seemingly endless parade of young black girls. It was during this period that tales of beatings and torture arose and began to circulate, but most of the stories