Chapter Twenty-nine

New Orleans during the winter of 1823

“I caught a ride from Perry County to Cincinnati from a farmer returning to the east. Crop failure destroyed the farmer’s dream of success. I, on the other hand, convinced myself the conversation with a gangly young boy appeased the Scarab's appetite. It was time to go home.”

“I hired a boat filled with beaver pelts headed for Pittsburgh. My curse, however, had other plans. I ended up on a flat raft carrying seed down the Ohio to markets in Memphis and Natchez.”

“That’s not fair,” Sally insisted. “You missed your children.”

Colin glanced around the room. “Yes, I miss my wife and my children. Eight months without them seemed like an eternity.” 

“I hate your scarab,” Sally cried hugging Colin around the neck, kissing him on the cheek.

Colin’s mood changed like a sunny day preparing for a downpour. His eyes etched with deep sorrow, while he released some memories long forgotten. Holding back tears, he searched for words. “I apologize for my current lack of control. I am not particularly proud of the next part of my story; I would leave it buried in my mind. However, it bears some relevance.”

“Do you need time alone?” asked Sally’s mother tenderly, placing her dainty hand on his.

“No, thank you, I’m ready. At first, I accepted my fate. The Scarab's plans didn’t include returning home to my loved ones. I knew I would return eventually. This was the first time returning home became a priority,” Colin said, tapping his foot nervously.

“I first worked in a Silver Mine in the southeast corner of the Missouri territory. The mine’s owner was Moses Austin, father of Stephen Austin. The New Mexican government gave Moses permission to take three-hundred homesteaders into their Texas. Unfortunately, Moses contracted pneumonia and died before his dream to settle Texas was realized. He asked his son Stephen to complete his dream. Stephen had dreams of his own. The scarab interceded, and in early 1821, Stephen and three-hundred followers left to settle in Texas. We all know how that ended. What with the Davy Crocket, the Alamo, and Texas independence. Not to mention Texas statehood.”

“Did you go to Texas with Austin?” asked Grant. “You have done nothing to regret, so far.”

“I contemplated traveling with Stephen, but honestly, my mind was on joining my family. I promised him I would find my family and join him in Texas, but scarabs don’t keep promises. As for regrets, I have only begun my way back home.” Colin cupped his chin in his large hands. He shook his head before continuing. “I gave up hope. It became crystal clear the scarab would not allow me any happiness. Depression came with a loss of faith. Drinking came with my depression. I thought I could drown my memories with liquor. You can never drink enough to run away from your life. Believe me. I have tried. One year became two, and two years became three. In early 1823 I found myself in New Orleans.”

Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop on the corner of Bourbon Street and St. Phillips Street was practically empty. Colin wasn’t surprised. Taverns, especially taverns owned by infamous pirates, were usually quiet before noon.  An overweight man sat in the far corner facing the opposite direction of Colin. Early morning mist from the bayou enveloped New Orleans. It was going to be another dreary March day. Colin’s fourth tankard of beer sat before him. He toyed with his breakfast of overcooked sausage and undercooked eggs. His appetite vanished, like most days. He no longer cared about his long life and wished his curse would end the sooner, the better.

A light rain splattered against the windows. The man in the corner shifted his chair at the sound of the rain, his eyes meeting Colins. The man smiled and lifted his coffee toward Colin. A loud burst of thunder rattled the windows. Colin turned from the man to watch the people caught in the sudden outburst. Colin had seen the man before. He couldn’t place where or when.

The door opened as a drenched man rushed through the door. Colin sprang from his chair to assist the soaked man to remove his buckskin coat. “What the hell are you doing in New Orleans, Stephen?”

Stephen, surprised, peered through rain-soaked eyes at the person offering assistance. “I might ask you the same thing, Colin. You were going home to your wife and children last time I saw you. I believe you said Washington D. C.”

“Didn’t quite work out that way. It’s good to see you and Stephen. Last I heard you were headed for Texas, and yet, here we are in New Orleans. I have a table,” he said pointing to his table. “Please join me.” Colin caught the attention of the barkeep, motioning for another round.

“None for me, thank you,” Stephen said pulling out the nearest chair. “I only dropped in until the rain passes. I have an important meeting at the French Consulate.”

Colin’s eyes questioned. “French? I thought Texas was Spanish.”

“No longer, the Spanish Government in Mexico no longer exists; we are now under the Provisional Government of Mexico. They are no longer friendly to our cause as free Texans.”

“Why go to the French? Shouldn’t you send your grievance to Washington D. C? You are still Americans aren’t you?” Colin placed his fork on the edge of his plate.

Stephen shook his head in disgust. “We have sent delegate after delegate. President Monroe has refused to see them, I hope a new administration will see the injustice in Texas in a new light, but we can’t afford to wait until elections. We, in Texas, don’t look favorably on either candidate. Neither Adams nor Andy Jackson will help Texas if elected.  Maybe Henry Clay from Kentucky, but he is a long shot. In the meantime, we asked France to intervene on our behalf.” Stephen glanced at his pocket watch and quickly arose. “I am sorry, but I must be off. I can’t be late for my appointment, so much hinges on it. I won’t be long, and I want to hear why you are sitting alone in New Orleans and drinking at nine o’clock in the morning. I hope you have a good explanation.”

Colin stared blankly at his friend. “I’ll be here, and time is relative. Is nine o’clock early if you are haven’t gone to bed from the night before?”

“Drinking without sleep will be the end of you, my friend,” Stephen said as he left the table.

“I'm all right, Stephen. I am too ornery to have an end of me,” Colin snapped at his friend.

Through the corner of his eye, Colin noticed the overweight man lumber him toward the table. Colin racked his brain. He could not remember how the obese man fit in his life. He had no time to run.

“Excuse me,” the overweight man said as he sat, uninvited. “Forgive me, but I just need to ask. Are you a relation to Colin Harcourt? You are an exact look-alike. Although he would be at least sixty by now, I was hoping he might be your father.” Colin stared at the man, too shocked to speak. “Forgive the intrusion,” he said backing away from the table.

“Last time I saw you, you were headed off to fight Indians. It appears the Indians fed you well. Sit down, Jim. I have one hell of a tale to tell," Colin said to his old St. Louis trapping partner.