Louisiana Ghost Stories Ii: Lagniappe

Copyright © 2020 Jesse L. Wimberly.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-8719-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8718-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8720-6 (e)

Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/22/2020

CONTENTS

1.     The Moss Gatherer

2.     The Fortune Teller

3.     Tattoo

4.     The Crossroads

5.     The Flambeau Carrier

6.     Pirate’s Alley

7.     The Tour Guide

8.     Le Boeuf Gras

9.     Asylum

10.   The Doctor’s Journal

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Ethel Carroll Monclair Duvall Wimberly. She read to me.

THE MOSS GATHERER

LA. Revised Statute 9:4641

Laborers engaged in gathering, saving and preparing moss for market, have a privilege on the moss for their wages. Persons advancing money or furnishing supplies to enable another to gather, save, and prepare moss for market have a privilege on the moss for the advances and supplies.

The laborer’s privilege ranks first and that of the furnisher of supplies second.

Are we lost, Ben said trying bravely to keep the fear out of his voice. So far he’d been very brave in light of the fact that we were, indeed, lost.

No Ben, I consoled, we are just a little turned around, that’s all. I was glad I remembered Daniel Boone’s explanation when someone asked him that same question. I guess if a famous frontiersman like Boone could get lost for days on end I was entitled to being lost for a night.

My father had just given me a sixteen foot aluminum flat boat with a Go Devil motor for my senior high school graduation present and I had wasted no time in trying it out.

Ben, my little brother who was twelve, had insisted on going with me so we threw some gear in the boat and launched at the boat slip by Bayou Sauvage Wildlife Refuge in Lacombe. The refuge extended from the banks of Lake Pontchartrain on the south, to the Abita River on the North, east to The Rigolets, and west to Bayou Cane. The refuge was a dense swampland, teeming with wildlife. It was also, unfortunately, known for swallowing up hunters and fishermen. We had set out at high noon under a beautiful October sky. Now the sky was darkening with the coming of twilight and rainstorms.

I was sure I knew my way in and out but as we turned to head home nothing looked familiar. Night was rapidly approaching, cold was setting in, and rain was looming. The swamp was no place for anyone at night and I shared Ben’s fear, but hoped my voice didn’t betray it.

Worst comes to worst we can just sleep in the boat and find our way out in the morning. Besides, if we don’t come home tonight they will be looking for us and probably find us before we have to spend the whole night here.

Do you really think so? Ben said innocently, and it cut me to have to lie to him, but I didn’t think I had another choice.

Yes I do, I continued.

Do you promise? he questioned.

In for the long haul I responded, yes.

I could see his face visibly relax and I knew I’d made the right decision. There was no sense in scaring him further. I’d be scared enough for the two of us.

I took inventory. I had expected to be home before nightfall so all we had was a bottle of water, some Ritz crackers, a blue tarp, two life vests, a paddle, the clothes on our back and the gasoline can for the motor. I had a lighter and knew we could start a fire with the gasoline but there wasn’t enough dry land in sight to set up a camp. I knew there was dry land in the swamp but I didn’t know where and night was closing in.

I tied off to a cypress tree when I could see no further and cut the motor. The silence was eerie. Then the insects kicked in and the swamp was buzzing with noise. A gator boomed close by, reminding me we weren’t at the top of the food chain here. I had only a paddle to fend him off if he decided to come visit.

Let’s take a break here for a bit, I said as cheerfully as I could. Lay down here on the life vests and I’ll cover you with the tarp in case it rains.

He didn’t argue and nestled down on the vests. I covered him with the tarp and resigned myself to a cold and maybe wet night. The twilight faded and soon it was pitch dark. The overcast skies kept any moon or starlight from penetrating the tree canopy and I thought this must be how dark it is in a cave.

I took a small sip of water and ate two Ritz crackers. I thought it best to conserve what little we had although I was sure the sheriff’s rescue team was already looking for us.

In spite of the terrible conditions I must have dozed off for I don’t know how long. When I snapped awake it took me a moment to process what was different. There were no insect sounds. The swamp was as quiet as the grave. I began to wonder what could have shut off that cacophony, but before I had a chance to come up with any logical explanations my attention was diverted. There through the cypress trees I was sure I saw a light. I had heard of swamp gas which was methane released by the rotting vegetation but this looked like the glow from a campfire. The light danced and flickered in the cold night air. If there was a campfire there must be hunters who could help us get out of the swamp and back home to our warm beds.

I untied the boat and used the paddle to navigate through the trees toward the light. As I got closer I saw that it was indeed a campfire and it was thankfully on high and dry land. When my eyes became accustomed to the light I saw that the fire was burning in front of a dilapidated old shack which was undoubtedly a trapper’s camp dating back who knew how long. The shack looked like it was built of the native cypress and the boards, although obviously very old, were in good shape. The nature of the cypress wood was such that it was virtually impervious to insects and rot. The roof was another story. It was made of corrugated tin and it looked like all that was holding it together was the thick blanket of rust and leaves that coated the top. I could see a dim light in the interior that looked to me like it emanated from a kerosene lantern. That probably meant someone was inside.

I roused Ben and told him we’d found a camp to spend the night. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, clutching the blue tarp around him to ward off the chill of the night air.

I tied the boat to a cypress root on the bank and we climbed out on dry land . We both walked to the fire and hunkered down to warm ourselves.

Hello, I called toward the shack. There was no reply.

Hello, I said again. We got turned around in the swamp and need some help getting our bearings.

Still there was no reply and still no insect buzzing. I was thankful to see there were moths circling the fire and I was sure I saw the shadowy outlines of bats wheeling in the night sky feasting on mosquitoes and other delights.

I thought about knocking on the door of the cabin but thought nobody was home if they hadn’t answered my calls. I was afraid to go in without being invited and the fire was all we needed just now.

Who goes there? called a voice to the left of the cabin, startling me and sending goose bumps up and down my spine.

I’m Jed Lewis, and this is my little brother Ben. We got turned around in the swamp and saw your campfire. We just wanted to warm ourselves and see if whoever was here could help us find our way out.

Ben and I stared into the darkness from where the voice came but try as we might we couldn’t see anything and the speaker made no other sound. I wasn’t sure if Ben was scared but I know I was. The entire experience was unnerving.

I kept staring into the blackness and finally saw some movement. It was as if some of the darkness coalesced within the rest of the blackness. Soon I could make out a figure standing in a pirogue, poling his way toward the spit of dry land.

When he got closer and I could begin to see some of his features I saw that he was a very old man dressed in old and tattered clothes. He wore a soft black hat with a wide brim and had what looked to be a single rooster feather stuck in the headband. I had seen similar hats in Louisiana history books worn by cock fighters. As he neared us he produced an oil lantern from beneath the bow of the pirogue and held it up toward us. The light did nothing to illuminate him and only served to thwart my night vision. He still hadn’t said a word in reply to my stammering explanation.

The bow of his boat touched land and in one fluid motion which belied his apparent age he jumped to the bank and made the boat fast by tying it to a stump. Then he turned to face us and held the lantern even closer to our faces.

Lost you say, he said in English touched heavily by French. I thought immediately that he must have been a Cajun.

Yes sir, I replied, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice. We came in earlier today but got turned around. The water drained out of what I thought was our way home and I tried to find another way out.. That didn’t work out so well.

This swamp can be tricky mon ami. I’ve lived her all my life, me, and I still haven’t seen all of it. You can stay here until dawn and I can draw you a map out of here.

Thank you, sir. And may I ask what is your name?

You may. My name is Gabriel.

You boys hungry? he asked.

We are sir but don’t bother with us. We have already inconvenienced you enough.

No bother. I haven’t had company in many years. Grab the cats out of the pirogue while I stoke the fire.

With that he walked past me toward the campfire and I looked into the boat hoping he meant catfish and not cats. I was relieved to see two fat yellow catfish and I carried them by their stringer to a table he had close to the campfire, being careful to avoid their rigid fins.

Gabriel spoke no more but began to prepare the fish for the frying pan. He nailed the heads to a tree nearby and with one practiced motion peeled the skin from the fish. Then he gutted them and finally pulled the heads off the nails. He threw all of this into a bucket I presumed for his crawfish traps which I saw nearby. Then he produced a long and slender knife and filleted the fish with four deft strokes.

He went into the cabin and came out with a cast iron pot and put it on the fire. I began to hear the sizzle of bacon and the aroma was tantalizing. After the bacon had rendered he produced a large bunch of greens from a sack hanging on the porch and added some water from the cistern and set the greens to boil. In the meantime he rendered more bacon in a cast iron skillet and set it aside to let the greens cook.

Ben and I watched in fascination as he went about preparing the meal and I realized that everything he was cooking he had probably harvested from the bounty of the swamp.

Soon the fish was in the skillet and the wonderful aroma of frying catfish filled the night air.

He retrieved three mismatched plates and forks from the cabin and served the meal. I didn’t know if it was because we were starving or because it was that good but that to this day was the best meal I’ve ever eaten, and Ben agrees.

When dinner was over he collected the plates and took them inside the cabin and came out with a bottle and three tin cups. He poured each of us some of the liquid in the bottle and when I tasted it I discovered it was homemade blackberry wine. Once again he demonstrated his resourcefulness when it came to living off this land. I made a feeble protest about being too young to drink but he just smiled.

Ben and I sipped the wine and its heat and the meal relaxed me for the first time since we had gotten lost.

He didn’t say a word during dinner as if he’d forgotten or never had the gift of small talk. I guessed living alone in the swamp didn’t call for that social grace. He took a sip of the wine and proved me wrong.

"I’ve lived in this swamp my whole life. Everything I need is here. Everything you had tonight for supper came from the land. I caught the fish, picked the greens and the wild onions, killed the wild pig, and picked the blackberries. I also have ducks, gator, turtle, crawfish, purslane, dandelions, sea grapes, and anything else I need. The swamp provides everything and what it doesn’t provide I don’t need.

I survived the flood of 1927 and more hurricanes than you can count. You might say I’m a permanent part of the landscape. He smiled to himself as he made this last observation.

Are you a trapper, sir? I asked.

He gave a low chuckle and drained his cup. He refilled it before he answered.

No mon ami, no trapper. I gather the moss for the mattresses and pillows.

"I don’t