The Creole Princess (45 page)

So much for the political and military aspects of the setting; the next most obvious questions surround the lumbering elephant in the room—slavery. It is probably true that the twenty-first-century American will have difficulty wrapping her brain around
eighteenth-century attitudes (those of slaves, slaveholders, and free objectors to the practice) about this most deplorable of human interactions. It might be helpful to remember, however, that by the time of the American Revolution, slavery had been in practice since prehistoric times, not just in the American colonies but all over the world. Still, as I developed this book, I was highly conscious that modern readers have become justifiably sensitized and guilt-stricken that America,
the cradle of freedom
, somehow managed to deny that beautiful right to some of her own citizens—for nearly a century after the Declaration of Independence.

And then it occurred to me that the eventual abolition of slavery, and the convulsions of the Civil Rights Era, must have actually germinated right along with the struggle for freedom from British tyranny—that those two major revolutions developed, not
in spite of
Americans of European origin, but
because of
their passionate investment in man’s God-given right to self-actualization. They were indeed a continuation of the Revolution, requiring a great deal more time to effect because those practices and attitudes had been entrenched for
thousands of years
. It is rather more miraculous than not that slavery in America was abolished as quickly as it was.

In any case, I chose to take my heroine, Lyse Lanier, straight through the middle of that quagmire of guilt, frustration, bitterness, and victory. I gave her a family tree rich with complex cultural roots and branches—French, Indian, African, aristocratic, slave, and free—much like many modern-day Gulf Coast natives. I matched her with a man of adventurous, generous, humorous spirit—and then let the story pieces fall where they would. I prefer not to prompt the reader to interpret the story in any particular way, but I hope you will find human truth in the characters. And while I tried not to go overboard in insensitivity, I hope some eighteenth-century terminology that may seem a bit politically incorrect to our modern ears can be accepted as historically ac
curate. Anyone interested in further study on the subject of slavery in the Deep South should check out a fascinating true story called
The Lost German Slave Girl
by John Bailey (Grove Press, 2005).

A more specific question I wanted to address here is in reference to the non-marriage between Lyse’s cousin Scarlet and her “mate,” Cain. In brief, it wouldn’t even occur to Scarlet (let alone her owners) to want a marriage ceremony. Slaves were property and could not take part in any legal contract, even marriage (“jumping the broom,” which one sometimes reads about as a substitute for formal marriage ceremonies, seems to have started in Scotland and Wales and became somewhat of a custom in the mid-nineteenth century). It appears that when the great noise of abolition controversy spread in the 1800s (several decades after my story), southern slave owners slyly began to encourage marriage between slaves, in order to counter the abolitionist argument that slavery was destroying human family units—which it was—and also to discourage slaves from running away and thus abandoning their families. It was despicable, of course, that human beings were treated so cavalierly, but it shouldn’t be surprising for the time period.

Let me address one more item, and I’ll wrap up this treatise. My leaping-off point for
The Creole Princess
was “How did a person become an American Patriot?” Or, as my editor asked it, “What
was
an American? Did they call themselves that at the time?” In a word, yes. The continents of North and South America had been called America since 1507, when the first world map that included the New World appeared in Europe. Thomas Paine’s first collection of
Common Sense
essays, published in April 1776, is titled
Writings of Thomas Paine—Volume I (1774–1779):
The American Crisis
(I highly recommend reading this collection—it’s in public domain and thus free!).

And remember, the purpose of the Declaration of Independence was to establish the new republican government,
The United States of America
. So . . . an
American
colonist was a British citizen who
lived in one of the fifteen British colonies in North America. Citizens of the thirteen rebellious colonies called themselves Americans or Patriots or Continentals, depending on context.

So, am I a complete and unashamed history nerd? You bet! And even more so after reading some of the writings that actually jump-started the Revolution. Before I go, I’ll recommend one more excellent resource for my fellow nerds:
American Exceptionalism: An Experiment in History
by Charles Murray (AEI Press, 2013).

I certainly hope you have enjoyed
The Creole Princess
, and if you haven’t read its prequel,
The Pelican Bride
, by all means do so! And look forward to more adventures of the Lanier family next year with the release of
The Duchess of Navy Cove
.

May you live long and prosper,

Beth White
Mobile, Alabama
August 2014

Acknowledgments

I
n one of those wonderful, unexpected acts of friendship and obedience to the Holy Spirit, a church friend approached me last spring to ask if I’d ever thought about recruiting a prayer team for my ministry and work as a writer and teacher. Being in the mood for gut-level honesty about my spectacular stupidity and lack of faith, I said no. Which was especially egregious, given that I was in the middle of one of the most difficult school years I’ve experienced in over thirty years of teaching, plus this book that would. Not. Get. Written.

Was I prideful, not wanting to admit aloud how desperately I needed support? Was I too busy to ask? I don’t know, but you can be sure I rectified the situation immediately and went to the women closest to me spiritually, who had demonstrated interest in my adventures in public school and publishing, and asked them to join a little email loop. There I would post specific prayer requests, and report back with successes and further challenges.

I suppose it goes without saying that sharing those needs instantly lifted the weight and anxiety. The book got done, hallelujah, school broke for summer, and I had a lovely, long vacation,
culminating in the birth of my first granddaughter, Rozalyn. So I would like to publicly thank my dear friend Elizabeth Grizzle for her sensitivity and gentle prodding. You’ll never know how much that conversation changed the course of my life.

I would also like to thank my extraordinary extended family for your love and interest in my writing, and your patience for my crazy non-schedule as a writer. The quilting and the laughter and the gumbo and the music and stories keep me sane and give me things to write about. And calluses on my fingers.

Finally, thanks to the obvious three: Lonnie, my editor; Chip, my agent; and Scott, my love and my best friend (you are the only one who is, in Rafa’s words, allowed to beat me about the head). I am blessed to have you all in my corner.

1

A
UGUST
1814

She could set fire to the letter in her pocket and it would still be true.

Smearing away tears with the heel of her hand, Fiona slid down from her buckskin mare, Bonnie, and landed barefoot in the sand. She led the horse to the water’s edge and splashed along beside her, knee-deep in waves chugging straight up from the Gulf of Mexico. At Navy Cove, on the other side of the isthmus, the beach was quieter and gentler, but here the wind tore at her hair and the salt mist stung her eyes. Perfect.

Her brother was on a British prison ship lurking off the coast of North Carolina.

The words from that terrible piece of paper floated like sunspots in front of her eyes. Her twin, the other half of herself, wasn’t coming home this time. Sullivan had been at sea since he’d turned fourteen, and in six years had worked his way up to lieutenant in the new American maritime service. His letters had been full of adventure and optimism, and twice he’d managed a few weeks’ leave between assignments.

But this . . . this was so final.

She of all people knew what the British did to prisoners of war.
Grandpére Antoine’s stories of Revolutionary War days, when he’d been held in the guardhouse at Fort Charlotte, were burned in her brain. Short rations, rancid water, little sleep. Beatings.

She shuddered. Her older brother Léon said a prisoner exchange might be arranged. But who would do that for an insignificant young lieutenant from the backwaters of West Florida?

There had to be a way. Every day since Sullivan left home, she’d prayed for his safety, and God had protected him so far.

There
must
be a way.

She threw her arms around Bonnie’s damp neck, pressed her face into the warm, quivering hide, and let the tears come.
Please, God, don’t take my brother.

Bonnie blew out a breath and nuzzled her shoulder, while the waves rolled in, rocking her, wetting her dress from the knees down. Eyes closed, she let her thoughts drift to long-gone, lazy summer days when she and Sullivan had wandered Navy Cove beach, crab buckets banging against their legs and never a care in the world. Then came the year she went to England with Aunt Lyse and Uncle Rafa, leaving Sullivan behind. By the time she returned, he’d become a sea-crazy young man, determined to travel the world on anybody’s ship that would take him.

With a sigh, she looked up at the steely sky. What was done couldn’t be undone, even by prayer.

The wind picked up, a gust that nearly knocked her off her feet, so she took up the reins once more. Grabbing Bonnie’s mane, she hopped on, her sodden skirts slapping the horse’s flanks. She’d lost track of time as usual, so probably she’d better head for home and get the men something to eat for supper. Yesterday’s storm had put them behind at the shipyard. They’d be working until dark tonight and would come home hungry as bears.

She’d guided the horse a ways down the beach, lost in thought, when Bonnie suddenly shied and stopped. Absently Fiona kicked her in the ribs. Bonnie shook her head and refused to move.

“Bonnie, what’s the matter?” Fiona leaned to the side.

Bonnie had almost stepped on a pile of black seaweed all but covered with wet sand.

Wait, not seaweed. Material. Clothing. A body. A roll of surf washed up, stirred the folds of cloth, but the body did not move. Dead?

Oh, dear Lord, please not dead.

She slid down, throwing the reins to keep Bonnie in check. The body was facedown and hatless. A young man, judging by the thick, wet blond hair, though his face was turned away. She knelt beside him, flipped him over just as another wave crashed in, sousing her thoroughly. Coughing, shivering, she struggled to her feet and grabbed the man’s arms to drag him farther up onto the beach. He was tall and muscular, unbelievably heavy, inert as a sack of potatoes, and the tide was quickly rolling in, but she managed to get him out of the reach of the waves. Bonnie wandered after her, snuffling in irritation.

“I know,” she panted. “This wasn’t in my plan either.” Léon was going to grumble about supper being late.

She let go of the young man’s arms, stood up to ease the strain on her back, then dropped to her knees. She put her ear to the wet wool covering his chest, praying for a rise and fall of breath. Maybe . . . maybe there was a faint thud under her cheek.

Tugging and shoving, she got him turned over facedown again and pressed the heels of her hands against his back. Push, push, push, wait. He didn’t move. She tried again.

He seemed to be dead.

She sat there with her hands flat against the broad back, praying for wisdom. What would her brothers have done? She’d heard them talk about breathing into the mouths of men pulled from the sea. Should she try that?

First she pushed against his back again. When he remained inert, she started crying. There was nobody to tell her what to do,
so she hauled the poor dead man onto his back and knelt above him. All but blinded by tears, she pushed his hair back from his face to look at him.

She stifled a scream. “Charlie!” Grabbing his face in shaking hands, she tried to make sense of what made no sense. Charlie Kincaid would be across an ocean, in England, not washed up on a beach in West Florida. “Charlie, Charlie, don’t be dead! Dear God, don’t let him be dead!”

Because she didn’t know what else to do, she put her mouth to his and breathed, willing him to come to life. Again she blew air into his lungs. She sat up panting, searching the familiar but man-grown face. The same, but not the same, as the boy she had known nine years ago. His face had lengthened, with slashing angles of brow, cheekbone, and jaw, and he’d grown into the commanding nose. But there were the same ridiculously long, dark eyelashes and a mouth made for smiling and teasing a bookish, horse-crazy little girl.