Saturday, April 27, 2019

The Wall - 1801


George was tired. He’d been traveling for six days, headed for the Mississippi River with his wagon and two mules, his wife Hannah and their two children Ralph and Sadie. He’d heard that he could get a ferry across the river, beyond which lay the vast territory of New Spain, or New France, as it was variously called, wild and open for intrepid pioneers to create a new life. There were few aborigines beyond the river, he’d heard, and there was so much land—enough for all—that a man could plant there and live in peace with his family.

The River was wider than he had imagined—virtually a mud-brown sea. But on the far bank, clearly visible, stood something he hadn’t expected: a high stone wall, stretching in both directions as far as he could see. 

At the end of the trail that he’d been traveling stood a small cluster of buildings, not quite a village, hugging the near shoreline. A couple of barking dogs came out to greet them. George pulled up the mules and studied the scene. 


An old guy emerged from one of the houses and limped up to the wagon. “Howdy stranger,” he said in a raspy voice, “you look lost.”


“Reckon I am,” said George. “I was told I could get a ferry across the river. Don’t look like there’s anywhere to land on the other side, though, even if there was a ferry boat.”


“Not since they built that wall over there.” The old guy laughed. “Them Frenchies claim there ain’t enough space over there for all the immigrants that want to go. We figure it’s just a political thing between the French and the Spanish, like us English will take over their country or something.”


“I heard that Napoleon wants to protect the Louisiana territory,” George said, “but he don’t have enough money to fight all his wars. Why would he build that big wall to keep people out? Wouldn’t the territory be worth more with more settlers?”


The old guy shrugged. “I hear there’s a port of entry downstream about a day’s drive, where you can get through the wall, but there’s already a big crowd of pioneers waiting for permission to enter.”


“Must be an end to the wall somewheres,” George’s wife Hannah said, getting down from the wagon and stretching her legs under her voluminous skirt. She peered both ways, upstream and down, shielding her eyes from the bright sun. 


“Not for the length of the old Mississippi,” said the old guy. “A few ports of entry, but no way around it.”


“What can people do?” asked Hannah. “Can’t find any land back here,” and she gestured back up the trail, “that ain’t already spoke for.”


“Everybody said Louisiana territory is the place to go,” said George. “Miles and miles of open land.”


The old guy cocked his head. “Ain’t only the French and Spanish over there. You think you got Injuns back in Tennessee? There’s plenty of ‘em in Louisiana, and clear on to the Pacific Ocean. They ain’t takin’ much to white folks, either. They don’t care, French or Spanish or English—we’re all just immigrants, white trash want’n land that’s been in their families for generations.” He laughed. “They probably like the wall. Saves ‘em a heap o’ wampum.”


“They call it New France,” said Hannah, “n’before that it was New Spain.”

“The Spaniards still control it,” said the old guy, reaching down to scratch the ears of one of the dogs.

“For a time they stopped us from using the river, so our farmers couldn’t get their goods down to New Orleans. They got a new governor, Don Juan Manuel de Salcedo, n’he said we could use it again, so nobody’s stopping us now.”

“Is there a boat around here,” asked George, “could carry my wagon down to that port of entry? My mules is tired.”

“Reckon there might be.”

The youngsters, Ralph and Sadie, climbed down from the wagon. “Where are we?” asked Ralph.


Hannah turned to them. “Don’t know if this place has a name,” she said, smiling. Sadie smiled back shyly but didn’t say anything.

“Is this the wild west?” asked Ralph, coming up to his father.

George ruffled the boy’s hair. “Don’t look very wild to me. No,” he said, looking over the river at the wall, “the wild west is over yonder, past that wall.”

“How we going to get there?”

The old guy laughed. “Have to go down to the port of entry, or find a coyote to get you across somewheres else.”

“What’s a coyote?”

“Some kind of animal,” said Hannah, “like a wolf—or a dog.” She looked at the two dogs, who sat up, looking expectantly at her.

“That’s just what they call them,” the old man said. “men who will take you across the river and get you over the wall somehow. I ain’t never met one, but I hear about ‘em.”

“There a store here?” asked George. “We’re just about out of beans.”

The old guy pointed to one of the buildings. “Ezra, over there, can sell you some supplies, I guess, if you ain’t too picky.”

“Reckon we’ll rest up here tonight and go on down the trail to the port of entry. Try our luck getting past that wall.”

Hannah looked at her husband. “You think we can?” she asked, her voice sounding tired.

George smiled at the river. “Came this far,” he said. “Can’t stop now.”

He flicked the reins. “C’mon, Tessie,” he said to the mules. “Let’s go get some food. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

The little family followed the wagon down to Ezra’s store, the children throwing sticks for the dogs to retrieve and bring back to them, tails wagging.



The End