Last Island

By Louis Tridico

Four elaborate mausoleums are found deep in the Louisiana swamp, far from any town. Inside are 21 bodies, yet there are no markings, no names, no dates. Historian Emma Eaton is asked to investigate. What she discovers leads to a mystery that began during a violent hurricane in 1856, with connections to a crazed itinerant preacher and a centuries-old feud between two prominent families. But there are forces at work to stop her. One, a reclusive Native American who wants the tombs left alone. The other, the massive floodwaters of the Mississippi River, threatening to destroy a dam and wash away the answers. Either could bury Emma once and for all, and forever hide the secrets of Last Island.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duke Street Press
• Release date: Aug 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986429330

Louis Tridico

Louis Tridico grew up in Louisiana’s bayou and plantation country, listening to the swamp stories his father and uncles told. Some were even true. After graduating from LSU, he began his career in advertising, PR and political consulting. He also served a while as media spokesman for the East Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff’s Department. He currently lives in Texas as a Louisiana expatriate with his wife, two kids, two dogs and one box turtle. They make regular pilgrimages back to the swamps.

Book preview

Last Island

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Louis Tridico

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This is a work of fiction.

All characters, events, organizations and some of the locations portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination.

Last Island

Copyright 2015 by Louis Tridico

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

The only exceptions are brief quotes used in reviews.

To Pat Butler

Fearless in the face of anything,

including a wild ride on an airboat.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Author’s Note

About the Author

Chapter 1

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August 10, 1856

Isle Dernière (Last Island)

Off the Louisiana Coast

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Thaddeus Laurent held on to a piling that two hours earlier had anchored a small cottage near the beach. The structure had vanished in the churning waters that had risen up from the violent Gulf of Mexico and overtaken the land. The howling wind carried sand, seawater and rain at such a velocity that it nearly tore the clothes from his body. They had been such fine clothes, too. The first he had ever owned. He had been a free Negro for 19 days, but was certain that today would be his last in this world. At least he would die a free man.

But not yet.

The man who had given him his freedom, and his new last name, was trapped in the two-story hotel only a hundred yards away. And Thaddeus was going to save him from this storm, even if it meant the loss of his own life.

The awful banshee sound of the wind was filled with the shrieking of women and children, although he could not see any of them. It had to be past noon, but the darkness was like dusk. The terrible wailing of the people seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, carried on the rising sea. They had been the former occupants of the row of cottages that only days ago had been filled with laughter and good cheer. There had been hundreds of such souls on the island this weekend. Most of those souls were now on their way to their eternal home.

Dear sweet Jesus, save us, he prayed.

He had endured hurricanes before in his lifetime, but never on the coast. The gray ocean was like the dark hand of Death itself, reaching up onto the land and snatching away the good and the evil with equal determination. He could feel that grip around his legs now that he was waist deep in the rising flood. If he were going to make it to the Muggah Hotel, it would be now or never. And ‘never’ had an awful sound to it.

John Laurent, Thaddeus’s former master and now his current employer, was upstairs in that hotel with other gentlemen who had spent the long night playing cards and drinking. The weather yesterday had forced all of the occupants of the island inside the hotel and their summer cottages, as the breakers grew in size and ferocity, and then the slashing rain had come. First in steady showers, and later in wind-lashed torrents. Most had said it was just another summer squall, common to the island. But a few of the old timers had known better. The way the surf had come up on the evening tide. The repeated bands of clouds that had appeared on the southern horizon and marched northward like columns of advancing troops. And the low baying of cattle that restlessly moved about in their pens. The animals always knew.

Thaddeus did not know. The signs of weather had never been one of his strengths. But he was strong. He had begun his life at the plantation as a field hand, but his talents for other things became known to John Laurent. He was a good carpenter, a fair bricklayer and a good manager of men. The other slaves respected him, and he was looked upon as a leader. Laurent had noticed it, too, and had given Thaddeus even more responsibilities. Eventually he was moved to the house, a place of prestige among the slaves, and helped John Laurent manage his far-flung empire. They had never been friends, but a large measure of trust and respect grew between the two men. And just a few weeks ago, Laurent had freed Thaddeus, his wife and his four children. It was a huge risk on Laurent’s part. He could have lost Thaddeus to that freedom. But the ex-slave had not left. He stayed on, now under the paid employ of John Laurent.

His former master had decided to take a short trip to the coast, partly for recreation to escape the stifling summer heat and humidity. And partly to meet with other wealthy gentlemen who frequented the Last Island resort. He had told Thaddeus that he would travel alone for the trip, but Thaddeus had insisted that he accompany his former master. Laurent was a bit portly, and not one for great exertion, and Thaddeus feared for Laurent’s health and well being. So he made the trip, and discovered that his fears were well founded, much to his dismay.

Last night, as the gaming had begun, Thaddeus left Laurent with three other gentlemen to smoke cigars, drink fine whiskey, talk business and attempt to take each other’s money. All in the face of the growing storm. There had been talk of people leaving the island on the Star, the ship that ferried people back across the 30 miles of Caillou Bay to mainland Louisiana. But the ship did not make the crossing to the island in time, so that was that.

Thaddeus had stayed the night in a small empty cottage that was under construction. There was no sleep, since the sandy ground shook with each breaking wave that seemed to grow in intensity throughout the night. A few hours ago, the water finally hit the little house, and now he found himself here.

He shielded his eyes and took another look at the hotel. The two-story wooden structure was being assaulted on all sides by the crashing water. He watched in horror as a man and woman, hand in hand, were carried away into the torrent, only to be slammed under by a huge floating log.

Then the hotel seemed to turn, did turn, as its foundation was wrenched from the ground. A powerful gust caught the edge of the roof and ripped away part of it. It sailed away to the north. Thaddeus never saw it come down.

He was running out of time.

He took a deep breath and pushed away from the piling, half swimming, half walking. His strong legs served him well. He let the storm surge carry him a bit while he angled toward the disintegrating hotel. In minutes, he found himself washed up on the wide front porch. The water was shallower here, maybe only a few feet, and he was able to stand. He quickly made his way through the open front door. The wind was somewhat less violent inside, but just barely. All the windows had long since vanished.

Mr. Laurent, sir! he yelled. Mr. Laurent!

Thaddeus didn’t wait for an answer. He dashed up the stairs and made his way to the back of the hotel. The room where the men were playing cards was on the north side, away from the beach. He thanked the heavens the roof was still on back here. He opened the door to the private parlor and stepped inside. It took some force to shut it behind him. He found the scene surreal. The fine Persian carpet was completely dry. In the middle of it was a round card table, with a few chips still on it, as was a splayed deck of cards. Two oil lamps still burned brightly on two nearby tables, casting a warm glow over the room. The three windows were still intact. Although the air was heavy with the smell of cigars and turned-over seawater, there was barely a breath of wind inside. If Thaddeus could shut out the noise of destruction outside, he would have never known a hurricane raged above his head.

No one was here.

Thaddeus began to turn and leave when he heard a low groan. At first he thought it might be the beast that roared outside. But he heard it again, and knew it was human. He took a step closer to the table and saw two feet under it. He recognized those fine boots.

Mr. Laurent!

Thaddeus moved two of the chairs away and found the body of John Laurent. Half of him lay under the table, and the chair he had probably been sitting in was lying on its back, as if the man had fallen out of it.

Did he moan or did I imagine it? Thaddeus thought.

Thaddeus knelt down and lifted the man’s head. He could see spittle like foam on the side of his mouth. Mr. Laurent! He lightly slapped the man’s face. The eyes opened.

Thaddeus, he said weakly, and placed a hand on his rescuer’s face.

Sir, can you walk? We got to get out.

Laurent coughed, and more foamy spit dribbled down his chin.

I’m done for, good friend, Laurent said. Go on, save yourself.

No sir. You comin’ with me.

The man shook his head. He’s killed me for sure.

Thaddeus leaned closer to Laurent. Who’s kilt you? What you talkin’ ‘bout?

Laurent took in a raspy, deep breath and said, I do believe I’ve been poisoned. He grimaced as if stabbed in the chest. Probably in the drink they’ve been bringing me. Possibly the food.

Then we got to get you out, Thaddeus said.

Not going to make it. Whether by man or the tempest, my time is up.

There was a whooshing sound from outside, louder than what had been a steady rush of wind, and the entire structure shuddered. The floor tilted slightly.

Thaddeus looked around. Damn, we floatin’, he said.

Laurent’s eyes widened and his right hand gripped his former slave’s upper arm. Thaddeus, I need you to do something for me. But be quick. He grimaced again and convulsed slightly.

What, sir?

Over there, on that chair, is my bag. Look inside and bring the notebook and a pen. The ink, too. Be quick about it!

Thaddeus ran over and found the leather bag. He quickly grabbed the notebook, pen and ink and brought it all over to Laurent.

Sit me up a bit, he said.

Thaddeus did as he was told. The effort made Laurent wince in pain once again. His face was flushed and his eyes were bloodshot. The foam around his mouth made him look like a mad dog that needed to be put down.

Laurent took the pen and opened the notebook to a blank page. He began to write.

No need to write no will, Mr. Laurent, sir, Thaddeus said. We ain’t dyin’ today. You need to get back to your children. I need to see mine and my wife.

Laurent stopped writing a moment. I do believe I will see my wife shortly.

Thaddeus just shook his head. Mrs. Laurent had been in the ground going on five years now.

And this isn’t a will, Laurent said. But it is testimony.

Thaddeus couldn’t see what the man was writing. But he could read and write just fine, thanks to the gentlemen next to him.

"I am a witness to my own murder, Thaddeus, and I am writing down what happened. A murder and a theft. They thought I was already dead, but I heard their plot as I lay here. The bastards!"

The high-pitched sound of wood being wrenched and torn cut through the wind and thunder. It was as if a large animal was being slaughtered. The hotel moved once again. It was headed north, across the now submerged island and into Caillou Bay.

Come on, sir. We must go now.

Laurent either ignored him or did not hear him over the din of the storm. He continued to write more urgently now. While he did so, Thaddeus bowed his head and prayed. He closed his eyes and thought of his family.

Five minutes later and with a flourish, Laurent signed his name and dated the paper. He closed the notebook and handed it to Thaddeus.

Take this back to my oldest. He will need it for what is to befall him and my entire family. Laurent grabbed his stomach, moaned and rolled over onto his side. Despite his girth, he curled into the fetal position. His eyes were clenched shut in pain.

Thaddeus held the notebook and put his other hand on his former master’s shoulder. The man was indeed dying, and Thaddeus realized that he would be leaving the hotel alone.

Sir, the water will surely destroy this, he said.

Laurent managed to open one eye and said, In my bag. A special case. Like mariners have. Oiled and waxed to keep water away. Use it.

Yes, sir. But...

Laurent rolled over onto his back, eyes wide. Promise me you will do this, Thaddeus.

I will, sir. I promise.

But...be careful. You will not be safe, even when you get home. He will try to find this...

Who, Mr. Laurent? Who has done this?

Laurent’s grip on Thaddeus loosened. He convulsed again, to the point that his back arched. Then he was still and settled back down. His eyes were now fixed open in death.

Oh, dear Lord, Thaddeus said. He bowed his head and wept.

The house shook violently once again and then Thaddeus heard a sound that most certainly originated in hell. The ceiling and roof above his head vanished in a split second, blown away as if it the structure had exploded.

The quiet room was now filled with horrible noise, wind and rain. And there were human screams somewhere, too. Thaddeus jumped up and retrieved the waterproof case out of Laurent’s bag. He placed the notebook inside and clasped it shut. The floor began to buckle and he fell to his knees. He stood, stuck the case into his waistband and made sure it was secure. He turned to make his way out the door so he could get back downstairs and then outside. In an instant, he realized he wouldn’t have to make that effort. The side of the hotel ripped away, revealing the violent sea now covering the island.

Thaddeus said a silent prayer and jumped into the water.

Chapter 2

Present Day

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The big airboat flew across the glassy bayou, its airplane propeller chewing through the hot, thick summer air. Emma Eaton pushed the big head phones tighter on her ears in a vain attempt to squelch the loud noise. It helped some, but not much. She sat at the front of the boat, her baseball cap turned backward and her blonde ponytail flapping like, well, a pony’s tail, as it galloped across the prairie. Or in this case a wide bayou in Louisiana’s Atchafalaya Swamp.

She turned around to check on her fellow shipmates. Seated behind her was a tiny elderly woman wearing khaki pants and a T-shirt that said, Jesus Rocks, with an image of Christ holding a classic Fender Stratocaster steel guitar. Her short gray hair blew in the wind, held down by her own headphones that dwarfed her head. She winked at Emma. This was Sister Gertrude O’Malley with the Sisters of the Cypress Order out of New Orleans. Friend, fellow historian, confidant and drinking buddy. Emma smiled. It was odd seeing the little nun not wearing her habit, but her current attire was more befitting the day’s upcoming chores.

Next to her was a short, pudgy middle-aged man wearing wrap-around Oakley’s, a blue fishing shirt and jeans. He had his face up into the bright summer sun. Bill Lawton. Accountant from Lafayette. Frequent fisherman in these parts and the reason Emma was on this little adventure to begin with.

Behind him was a giant. Six-foot-seven-inch, 310-pound Gibraltar Jones. Archaeologist and former All-Pro defensive end with the New Orleans Saints. He looked kind of badass with his dark shades, dark-green canvas work shirt and tan cargo shorts. He gave Emma a dazzling smile and a thumbs up.

Finally, driving this half-boat, half-airplane was Frank Scotty Scott, local hunting and fishing guide. Late forties, Emma thought. Trim, salt-and-pepper hair, friendly blue eyes and perpetually tanned skin from his long days on the water. He was focused on the twisting, turning bayou, with a keen eye for hidden stumps, logs, gators and other fishing boats.

The airboat was perfect for the trip. It could skim over any object, including land, without worry. Shallow water or mud wasn’t a problem either, not that this would be an issue. It had been a very wet spring in southern Louisiana, and the summer was picking up where spring had left off. Big showers every afternoon, dumping an inch of rain in little more than an hour. The result was unusually high water in the big 600,000-acre Atchafalaya Swamp. The rivers were high, too, including the Mississippi 25 miles to the east. It was carrying a huge load after big snows up north melted and headed south to the Gulf. The river was already hovering at flood stage.

Emma turned back and enjoyed the ride as the airboat skimmed over the water, leaning left and then right as Scotty piloted the craft through the twisting bayou. When they had started, the bayou was wide, but as he turned off into succeeding waterways, the way became narrower and he had to slow down. The big white cypress and tupelo began to close in on them, and the wildlife became more visible. Giant gray herons, standing over four feet tall, walked along the banks, looking for a quick meal of crawfish or small frogs. Big red-eared turtles sunned themselves on half-submerged logs, and somewhere, the gators were sleeping off their morning meals. They’d reappear in force at dusk. An occasional bass would hit the surface, devouring a bug or small fish.

Scotty cut the engine. Everyone removed his or her headphones.

Emma turned and looked back at Scotty. He was holding a GPS device in his hand.

We’re close, Bill, he said. Anything look familiar?

Bill Lawton stood up and stretched. Yeah, this is the way. I recognize those two fallen trees over there. See how they form a big X?"

Scotty nodded and looked back at his GPS navigation device. According to this, we’re about a quarter mile away.

Sounds right, Lawton said. Straight ahead a bit, then hang a left into a narrow slough. It goes on from there for a few hundred yards. Real tight, though. But I guess this thing’ll fit. Might be a bitch turning it around. Oops. Sorry, Sister.

Sister Gertrude smiled. No harm, no foul.

What were you doing way back up in here, Bill? Emma said.

The man shrugged. Lookin’ for the big one, what else? Damn high water is screwin’ up the fishing. Those bass are changing their patterns, movin’ all over the place. So that’s what I do.

Tell me about it, Scotty said. Really having to work for it this season.

Gibraltar looked around. Yeah, and when they open up that spillway, your season is really going to be over.

Yeah, that too, Scotty said.

Emma unconsciously looked at her watch. A reminder that time was not on her side. The big snowmelt up north, combined with big southern rains, had nearly pushed the Mississippi over its banks. Baton Rouge and New Orleans were threatened. Big populations, industry and lots of rich fields of sugar cane were all at risk. But the Army Corps of Engineers had their solution. One designed decades ago. Far to the north of them, near where the elbow of the L of Louisiana was located, was a narrow stretch of land between the Mississippi River and the smaller Atchafalaya River. The Corps had built a connecting waterway there, capped by a wide system of floodgates. It was designed to be opened if the Big Muddy got too big. The water would be bled off down the Atchafalaya and spread into the bigger Atchafalaya Swamp and then out into the Gulf. It would save New Orleans and Baton Rouge. But little villages and fishing camps located inside the Basin would be doomed. The people there knew it. They had built there and bet the farm – or fishing camp – that the floodgates wouldn’t be opened in their lifetimes. They were usually correct. The last two times were in 1973 and 2011. But damned if the dice hadn’t come up snake eyes again, way too soon.

You heard any more when they’re opening the gates? Emma said.

Scotty just shrugged. Could be this week. I think they’re scared the Mississippi will like its new path to the Gulf. Won’t be able to put the genie back into the bottle.

Some say they should let it go, Lawton said.

Never gonna happen, Gibraltar added and sat down. Ports of New Orleans and Baton Rouge would be out of business when the former part of the river filled with sediment. Lots of jobs – and votes – down there. Politicians would have a cow.

Boys, let’s get, Emma said. I can’t wait to see this.

Yes ma’am, Scotty said. Ear muffs!

Everyone put their headphones back on and he got the big prop turning again. He throttled it down so they moved slowly down the bayou. The boat eased its way over the still water until they came to the turnoff into the little slough Lawton had mentioned. It was indeed a tight fit, and low branches over the narrow channel nearly touched their heads. The airboat slid over one obstruction after another, mostly dead trees and maybe a live gator or two.

Emma, Gertrude and Gibraltar craned their necks, searching ahead for their destination. The thick foliage was like a wall filled with dozens of shades of green.

There was a sharp turn to the right, and Scotty expertly maneuvered the big airboat through it. Once he did, everyone in the boat stood up as one. He cut the engine.

Holy shit, Sister Gertrude said as she dropped her headphones on her seat.

Emma’s jaw dropped. Unbelievable.

The sound of a camera firing away came from behind her. Gibraltar was shooting with his high-end Nikon. A big smile was on his face.

Scotty stepped to the front of the boat with Emma. I’ll be damned, he said in a near-whisper.

Told ya, Lawton said.

Emma stepped out of the boat onto land. It was unusually high ground for the Atchafalaya, especially in it current swollen state. She walked up the slope that was covered with big cypress trees and palmetto.

Careful there, Emma, Scotty said. You’re walking right into gator land.

Emma froze. Good point. You first.

Scotty stepped off the bow of the boat onto dry land. He carried a walking stick he had pulled from the back. He stopped and looked around.

The big females have already laid their eggs and are guarding their nests, he said. You want to look for a large mound of grass, sticks and mud. The eggs are inside. But momma ain’t. She won’t lay on her eggs like a bird. But she’s close, guarding them. And very aggressive.

Okay, important thing to remember, Sister Gertrude said as she stepped off the boat. Gibraltar gave her a helping hand. Lawton got out, too.

Scotty walked ahead of the group up the slight slope, scanning the area for gator nests. Okay, looks good, he said. But don’t forget the snakes.

Snakes. Right, Gibraltar said.

When they got to the top of the small rise, they all stopped as a group and just stared at the thing they had come to see. Actually, four things. Marble mausoleums, each one looking like a small, white house. Two with pitched roofs and two with flat roofs, all with small iron front doors. Except these roofs were decorated. Two with crosses, one with a statue of an angel, and the last was bare.

A city of the dead, Sister Gertrude said. Like the ones back in New Orleans at St. Louis Cemetery.

More like a small town of the dead, or village, Emma replied.

The white marble of each mausoleum was covered in splotchy green lichen and vines. It was obvious no one had tended to these in decades. Maybe centuries.

I am officially creeped out, Emma said. Who could’ve put these here? How far away are we from the nearest town?

Alcide is 10 miles through the swamp that way, Scotty said. That’s pretty much it. Where we put in at Henderson is farther than that.

Everyone nodded. The boat ride had taken some time.

Was there ever a village near here? Gertrude said.

Scotty shook his head. Not that I know of. None of the old timers ever mentioned one either.

Okay, let’s go pay our respects to the lost and dearly departed, Emma said.

They walked over to the crypts. The four little houses were arranged in a rough semicircle facing the slough. Emma put her hand on the cool, damp marble of one of the crypts. She let it travel over the front as she looked closely. No names, she said. Nothing.

None on this one, either, Gibraltar said.

Or this one, Gertrude added. None of them have names on them.

Empty? Scotty said.

Maybe, Emma replied.

How many, though? Lawton said. You know, in each one.

Gertrude fielded the question. Originally, maybe six. Three stacked on shelves on a side with a central walkway. But if they’re like the ones in New Orleans, families would just keep putting the dead in there, one on top of the other. It got easier once the original occupants decomposed. They say some of those mausoleums have fifty or more bodies in them.

Nice, Scotty said.

Man, this is high ground, Gibraltar said. He looked down. Even with this high water these things are high and dry. How far up you think the water is, Scotty?

Four feet, easy, he said.

Lawton nodded his head in agreement. Easy.

You ever see high ground like this before? Emma said.

Hmmm. Not like this, Scotty said. Almost unnatural.

Or man made, Gibraltar said.

When I saw these things, a chill went up and down my body, Lawton said. Didn’t even get out of the boat. I marked the spot on my GPS and high-tailed it out of here. And contacted you folks.

And we thank you for that, Emma said. She walked around each of the little marble houses.

Dr. Emma Eaton was officially under the employ of the Moran Historical Foundation, a Baton Rouge-based group that funded the restoration of old plantation homes and researched Louisiana’s long history, including its mysteries. For the last three years, she had overseen the restoration of Gladewood Plantation south of Baton Rouge. The dilapidated and neglected Greek revival home had been completely restored, and was in its last stages of completion. All that was left to do was interior paint and finish. In a few months, it would open to the public. Emma’s degrees in history and architectural restoration had come in handy on the project. A few days ago, though, the Moran Foundation had been contacted by an excited Bill Lawton over his discovery of the four mausoleums. He had read of the foundation’s past discoveries and exploits and figured they should come check out what he had found. When Emma got the details, she immediately put together a team and headed out to the swamp.

Sister Gertrude and Gibraltar Jones were friends of Emma’s and were on contract with the foundation. Gertrude was also an historian who had taught at the convent school and was an authority on Louisiana history. Gibraltar had become a successful New Orleans businessman after retiring from pro football. He owned real estate, restaurants, tug boats and other ventures in and around the Big Easy. But his first love – and degree – was in archaeology, and