The Founding of Denispri

By Gordon Saunders and Anna Coleman

From North and South America, Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Middle East; from the 14th and 3rd centuries B.C., from th

• Language: English
• Publisher: mediaropa
• Release date: Sep 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781956228038

Gordon Saunders

Over a period of twenty-five years, Dr. Saunders lived in four countries in Europe--working in more than three dozen countries both before and after the end of communist rule--with the purpose of describing and purveying grace. Overcoming cultural differences and ways of communicating gave him insight both into what divides people and into what unites them. It also helped him understand elements in various cultures, baggage some call it, that keep people from hearing one another. Writing fantasy gave him a way to minimize the baggage and show truths to people they might otherwise be unable to see.

Book preview

1

LEAVING NEW ORLEANS

The New Orleans waterfront spread out in an expansive panorama before Joshua and Marie from their perch on the levee. This was Joshua’s favorite spot to watch river traffic. Which had something to do with the traffic, but mostly to do with its convenient location in front of the Place d’Arm, the church with the unpronounceable name, the Hotel de Ville, and, more importantly, the Halle des Boucheries–the largest market in the city that, coincidentally, sold the best chocolate croissants in the city. Joshua was eating one now, but Marie had chosen the more fragile chocolate crepe and was striving to keep the contents from escaping onto her clothing.

There! said Joshua, pointing to his right. The word didn’t come out clearly because of the flakey, buttery, intensely chocolatey bit of croissant in his mouth that he couldn’t bring himself to swallow hastily before speaking.

Marie finished her demure mouthful and responded. Little brother, she said, are you trying to indicate that something is coming our way from the north?

Ye-es-s! he said in a sing-songy way, having finally finessed his pastry. And I’m not so little anymore, either, big sis. I’m taller than you and I have been for at least three years, since I was sixteen, I think. He pointed back up the river. Anyway, I’m sure that’s the Waltham up there.

The one that says ‘Creole Belle’ in large letters over the paddle wheel?

Ha, ha. You couldn’t see the words from here, anyway. It’s the stacks that give it away. Look more closely.

The wharves before the levy where the river flowed from the northwest were filled with steamboats as far as they could see–most of whose stacks were billowing smoke through elaborate decorations at the top. Their viewpoint was in the center of the biggest curve on the river, and on the other side of the curve, where the downstream river headed southwest, most of the wharves were taken up with large sailing vessels.

Marie looked to the left.

Not that way, he said. Honestly. Sometimes you are so…

She looked back with a smirk. I know, she said, turning her gaze upstream. The Waltham has the tallest stacks of all the boats now on the river, and a higher jack staff with a bigger flag.

How do you know all that? Joshua asked.

Boys aren’t the only ones who can read, she said. She leaned forward, shading her eyes with her hand. And the Waltham is just coming into view alongside the ‘Creole Bell,’ or whatever it’s called, in such a way as to make me believe they’re racing.

All right, said Joshua a little crankily. So you see it, too.

Yes, said Marie, and enough to note that they have not slowed down to ‘no wake’ as they are supposed to do when they pass Place de Marche.

Oh, who cares, said Joshua. Aren’t rules made to be broken?

"They are broken, said Marie. But I don’t think that’s the intent."

Other craft scurried out of the way of the two large steamboats that were making their way into the most crowded part of the river. A few boats pushing barges stopped dead on the periphery of the river, their crews emerging and cheering the two racers on.

Where is it supposed to dock? asked Marie.

Ha, said Joshua, I thought you could read.

"What I want to read," she said.

Joshua looked back at the two boats. Actually, it’s supposed to dock by Calle de Gravier. But he’s going to have to slow down pretty quickly and get on this side of the other boat if he’s going to do that.

Does it look to you like he’s trying to outrun the other boat and cut in front of him?

Yeah, said Joshua, and he’s listing to larboard, too.

The left side?

Joshua just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

By now they could see the dozens of passengers leaning on the railings on each deck, presumably to watch the race unfold.

That can’t be good, said Marie. She glanced over at Joshua. And he’s going to have to back pedal, because he won’t make it in front of the other boat soon enough to get over.

Joshua opened his mouth to respond. But Marie did not hear if he did. Because just then there was a terrific explosion that caused her to jerk her head back to the river in time to see ‘the largest stacks on the river’ flying through the air, along with flaming debris, railings, barrels, lumber, and people.

Father! she screamed.

---

Next morning, Marie picked up a newspaper at the kiosk around the corner from their house. Though she tried, she couldn’t avoid the headlines literally shouting, Steamboat Catastrophe! and the lurid, after-the-fact drawings showing steamboat pieces and people hurtling through fire and smoke. She pulled her eyes away from them and scanned the article.

… worst disaster ever seen on the river…

… dozens of fatalities and hundreds of injuries…

… both boats a total loss…

… dozens missing and presumed–

She stopped reading there. She wouldn’t accept their presumption. Maybe they would find Father. After all, some passengers had already been found down river where they had floated on parts of the boat.

No. He couldn’t be dead. Mother was hysterical and Joshua, against Mother’s specific prohibition, was out on the west side of the river in his punt, downstream by the swamps, looking for any sign of him. They needed Father back! They had to have Father back in order to have anything resembling normalcy in their lives. Why did his company have to build that stupid steamboat, anyway? It was just a pride thing. They wanted to show off.

But she wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t. She was the one holding the family together now. She would be strong.

October 12, 1842

Dear Amanda,

How I have wished to sit down and write to you! As you will see, the lapse since you last wrote was not without good cause. Congratulations as you celebrate Jimmy Jr.’s second birthday! It hardly seems possible that so much time has passed. I hope he’ll have a happy day, and I trust you won’t be too uncomfortable as little Mandy (we hope!) is on the way. I’m glad the steamboats have not taken away all your tavern business. They certainly have been the bane of our existence.

Perhaps you heard our sad news that about six months ago father was killed in a boiler explosion on the steamboat, Waltham, that his company bought. Almost every month there is news of another explosion or fire on one of the floating monsters. Still, they’re all the rage, and I daresay commerce in New Orleans could not get on without them.

I hate to think about father’s death, but I must tell you a little. We all took it quite badly, especially Joshua. They never found the body, and for weeks afterwards Joshua paddled in his little punt or walked up and down the riverbank, sloughing through the pestilential swamps, looking for some sign of father; hoping to find him alive. Finally, mother put a stop to it. But he’s been quiet and moody ever since, not his usual fun-loving self.

Mother, herself, was devastated. But she has surprised us and held up well. She decided quickly to move back to Boston and began packing up our things. I think the activity and the hope of being with her family again was a real help. Anyway, it became quickly apparent that we had too many things to move. We’d bought a lot of things in New Orleans—father went out of his way to please mother and got her almost anything she took the slightest fancy to—but we would not be able to bring them back to Boston. One day I saw mother sitting in the parlor looking at the davenport and the piano and the elaborate fancy mantle she had wanted, while the men she had hired to auction it off walked around writing down the value of things. Suddenly, she jumped to her feet. Sell it all! she cried, and went running to her room. I knew what she meant. Without father there, it didn’t mean much anymore.

So, a few months later, about the middle of October, we stood on the porch of our house watching the wagon pull out with the trunks containing our clothes and the very few things we did save. Mother handed the keys to the new owner, who graciously provided the use of his carriage to get to the train station. We looked from the carriage as he walked through the front door and closed it, ending an exciting, short, sad chapter of our lives.

Even though none of us really wanted to take a steamboat any of the way back to Boston, we had decided to do it because it was the most reasonable thing to do. I’d gotten over my seasickness enough to take a river steamer, but not enough to take a sailboat around Florida and up the coast. And besides, it would have taken a long time and had us out on the water before hurricane season was over. So we couldn’t do that.

And…those pot-holed, alternately dusty and muddy, fly-infested roads, in that unbearably hot and jolting carriage… well, we couldn’t repeat that again. Even though roads have gotten generally better, they say that the roads going north and east from New Orleans have gotten worse since the steamboats have taken much of their traffic, and now the railroads are taking the rest. They did start a railroad from New Orleans to Nashville—which would have solved all our problems—but right now it ends in a swamp only a few miles north of New Orleans. So, we took the steamboat.

I think they must dredge the asylums for riverboat captains and crews. Our crusty little captain had epaulets on his shoulders almost as big as his head, a hat twice as big as his head, a black cigar stuck into the side of his face, and a diamond ring on every finger. (And he had fifty-seven fingers! We heard an alligator got the other three.) He was a cocky popinjay if ever there was one; so proud of his Eclipse, fastest boat on the river (he said). Well, of course he had to prove it. So when we were overtaken by a packet two days upriver, it was a race to Natchez. Oh, the black smoke and sparks that flew from the funnels! The water we churned up in our wake!

But then it got serious. You know how, during a race, everyone gets on the side closest to the boat being raced? Well, everyone did that, and of course that meant the boat was listing badly to that side like the Waltham had before it exploded. I was afraid it was going to capsize! But, apparently, that’s not the worst danger. After we’d been there awhile, the captain came running out, told us we must balance the boat. The boiler was dry on the high side because all the water ran down to the low side, and that was how boilers overheated and blew up. It was dangerously overheated. That was enough for mother. She told us we would be getting off at Natchez and walking to Boston if we had to. Then she went into the cabin where I think she stood at the door in case she had to run out and jump overboard, and she never came out again until we docked.

That was not the worst of it, though! We were racing along, neck and neck with this other boat, the St. Louis, when yet another boat came into sight around the bend, heading toward us. Not unusual, we thought. But then we saw it! We were in the middle of the river, the St. Louis by the eastern shore, and this oncoming boat by the western shore. Where we would meet, about a quarter mile ahead, a great sand bar stood. There was only enough room for two boats to pass! The oncoming boat was moving to the eastern shore and would be right where we would be beside the sand bar, right when we got there! Captain Cragg decided, this time, to survive to race again. He slowed us down and put the paddle wheel into reverse. We heard gales of laughter from the St. Louis as we pulled in behind her only just in time to avoid a collision. I agreed with mother. Anything was better than this! So, taking a few clothes from our trunks, and all of our money from the sale of the house and furniture, we got out at Natchez to take the land route to Nashville. At least, I thought, maybe I’ll get to see Amanda and Steven and Jimmy again! And Jimmy Jr.!

The boat docked at Natchez-under-the-hill–a seedy, corrupted tumor that sprawls under the bluff Natchez is built on. It’s almost as bad as the district in New Orleans, with the bawdy houses and thieves and the ‘Kaintucks’ leering and lurching about. But we got up to Natchez proper and could buy three emaciated horses to ride up the trace. You know that most of it’s not wide enough for wagons, and even at this time of year it’s too wet in places to get a wagon through.

We’ll be staying at a plantation called Elgin for almost two weeks, fattening the horses and waiting for a group to assemble with which to travel up the trace. The days of its most notorious bandits are past, so they tell us, but it certainly isn’t safe to travel unless you’re in a large group, and women and children almost never go at all. We’re a little uneasy with all the money (that we’re splitting up among us in case one is robbed), but we agree that this is the least evil way of going and so are undeterred by hints of danger along the way. Not many people travel the trace this time of year, since it’s getting on toward winter and becoming cool, but it looks like we may assemble ten or twelve. Some will be going up to Tuscumbia, Alabama, and others, like us, all the way to Nashville and beyond.

It will be strange traveling up this road. I can’t help thinking about Andrew Jackson and his poor wife, Rachel, who must have gone the same way. Maybe that’s why he built the other road to New Orleans that we took to get down there. At least that was always wide enough for a wagon.

Hopefully this will reach you before I do. And I’ll keep a diary of the trip, too, so I can fill you in on what happened as we came to you.

Lovingly, Marie

2

A LETTER FROM ALABAMA

December 14, 1842

Dear Amanda,

Oh dear, it’s been a long time again, hasn’t it! Well, once more there is a reason for it-and a reason why you’re getting a letter rather than seeing me in person. I told you I’d keep a diary for you, and I did. I think that I’ll let it speak for me for the first part of this correspondence (lest I give away the ending prematurely) and then I’ll write some more.

---

Saturday morning, October 29, before dawn. The weather is cool and sunny. A Mr. Stanton from Tuscumbia, Alabama, seems to be the unofficial leader of our party. He is mounted, as are a Mr. and Mrs. Dillon, who are going to Kosciosko, Mississippi, and a Mr. Herrod who’s going only to Raymond. That makes us seven mounted. And there are five walking, who will slow us down some–but better slow in company than quick and dead alone. There are two Kentucky farm boys named Barnes, and another boy named Johnny (who’s kind of cute and very friendly). Plus, there are and two businessmen (?) going to Jackson. They look like rough characters, but Mr. Stanton privately assured mother they were all right.

---

Same night. Made fifteen miles today - very good. I wish I could say I’ll never ride a horse again. I ache! But the walkers have sore feet. Which is better? We’re stopped at a stand called Mt. Locust, which is really a lovely little place. Fortunately, it is not crowded. The Kaintucks and other walkers are sleeping outdoors, so we only have Mrs. Dillon in the room with us. Joshua wants to be in the tavern with the men and to sleep in their room, but mother won’t hear of it. She’s a little (!) overprotective. After all, he’s nineteen and even tall for his age. But he does what she wants even so.

We crossed a few brooks in deeply carved beds, and a cliff that looked like nothing but sand. Tomorrow’s the Sabbath, but we’re not likely to hear a preacher out here.

---

Monday, October 31. The weather’s holding well, and we’ve done another twenty-five miles in two days. Spirits are good and we’re not too tired yet. Would be great if we could keep up this pace. I said that to Mr. Stanton, but he only looked at me and smiled. Trees have been very close together and sickly looking today, covered with some viney stuff. I hate horses! Maybe I’ll walk after all.

---

Tuesday, All Hallows. Got to Big Bayou Pierre before noon today. It wasn’t as wide as some streams we’d crossed, but it was worse. It flows over a very sloughy sand, which the horses’ feet sink into, sometimes up to the fetlocks. Mr. Dillon’s horse threw him, so he was wet and shivering for the rest of the day. Mr. Herrod said it was unusually cold. We even saw some frost before the sun melted it. Still, it’s sunny, and the foliage is glorious.

Before we left, Mother and I had gotten straight saddles, and not the little English side saddles we’re used to. Which also means we have to wear clothing more appropriate for men. But they had such things in Natchez. I guess style and propriety aren’t so big out here as in the big cities! Anyway, Joshua has all he can do every morning to get saddles on three horses. But Mr. Stanton’s been helping him. At least it’s better than falling off.

Tonight we’re at Burnett’s stand. Amazing how wonderful a bed feels after two nights of sleeping on the ground. And it will be mostly ground from here on, too, we’re told. Very few stands between here and Nashville. I wonder why? On the National Pike you could hardly turn around without seeing one. ‘Course, there was a lot more traffic there.

---

Wednesday, November 2, before dawn. It’s drizzling, though warmer. Won’t be a good day for travel.

---

Same day, evening. Wasn’t. Can’t write. Raining.

---

Friday, November 4, morning. I was too wet and tired to write last night. Rain is awful. I think I know how they felt in Noah’s day. And to top it off, Mr. Stanton had harsh words with the two businessmen from Jackson. Seems he found one of them fishing around in his saddlebag, and the Dillons had something missing. And, of course, mother had words with us as well, as if we were children, about keeping close together and such because…I had to shush her so she wouldn’t inadvertently reveal what we were carrying.

We decided to stay here at Dean’s stand, which is really just their house and is awfully small for all of us–even with the men staying in the shed outside. Anyway, Mr. Stanton and Mr. Herrod told the two fellows from Jackson to be on their way. But he told Joshua we’d have to watch for them. At least they aren’t armed, and most of the other men are. (But whether anyone’s powder is dry enough to use, who knows!)

What a blessing to have a hot meal in dry clothes! No fire during the last rainy days, barely any food either, and definitely not a square inch of dry skin anywhere. We were thoroughly chilled, and I worry about mother. Glad we’re on horseback. Mud almost up to the ankles of walkers in some places.

---

Saturday, November 5, before dawn. Cool and clear. Everything sparkles! Three days to next stand, and Mr. Herrod leaves us tomorrow for Raymond. Johnny and the Barnes boys will go out ahead to watch for the Jackson rowdies, just in case they didn’t get the message.

---

Monday, November 7, dusk. We reached Brashear’s stand, finally, after pushing hard. Started to rain again. Mr. Stanton says we’ve gone over a hundred miles. Ten days and only one-fifth of the way to Nashville! (And then the trip to Boston! Saints preserve us!) I’ve never been so stiff. I think we’re deciding to spend the day here tomorrow if it’s raining. I hope it rains! But it is getting cooler, and we’re going north, so we can’t stop too often.

---

Wednesday, November 9, dusk. We made good progress on a brisk, clear day, after half-a-day of rain that kept us at the stand. Tomorrow we skirt Cypress Swamp. Hope it’s not too wet, but Mr. Stanton says to expect the worst with all the rain we’ve had. Mr. Dillon’s not well since Bayou Pierre. Huddles into his jacket and shivers. His wife wears a haunted look. We fear pneumonia. Also, Mr. Stanton wonders if the Jackson rowdies are trailing us to sneak into the camp at night. We don’t think (Mother and Joshua and I) that they know about our money, but they were mighty nosey, and they must know that we couldn’t