He might have had another name; we never knew. Some one had christened him Mr. Baptiste long ago in the dim past, and it sufficed. No one had ever been known who had the temerity to ask him for another cognomen, for though he was a mild-mannered little man, he had an uncomfortable way of shutting up oyster-wise and looking disagreeable when approached concerning his personal history.
He was small: most Creole men are small when they are old. It is strange, but a fact. It must be that age withers them sooner and more effectually than those of un-Latinised extraction. Mr. Baptiste was, furthermore, very much wrinkled and lame. Like the Son of Man, he had nowhere to lay his head, save when some kindly family made room for him in a garret or a barn. He subsisted by doing odd jobs, white-washing, cleaning yards, doing errands, and the like.
The little old man was a frequenter of the levee. Never a day passed that his quaint little figure was not seen moving up and down about the ships. Chiefly did he haunt the Texas and Pacific warehouses and the landing-place of the Morgan-line steamships. This seemed like madness, for these spots are almost the busiest on the levee, and the rough seamen and ‘longshoremen have least time to be bothered with small weak folks. Still there was method in the madness of Mr. Baptiste. The Morgan steamships, as every one knows, ply between New Orleans and Central and South American ports, doing the major part of the fruit trade; and many were the baskets of forgotten fruit that Mr. Baptiste took away with him unmolested. Sometimes, you know, bananas and mangoes and oranges and citrons will half spoil, particularly if it has been a bad voyage over the stormy Gulf, and the officers of the ships will give away stacks of fruit, too good to go into the river, too bad to sell to the fruit-dealers.
You could see Mr. Baptiste trudging up the street with his quaint one-sided walk, bearing his dilapidated basket on one shoulder, a nondescript head-cover pulled over his eyes, whistling cheerily. Then he would slip in at the back door of one of his clients with a brisk,–
“Ah, bonjour, madame. Now here ees jus’ a lil’ bit fruit, some bananas. Perhaps madame would cook some for Mr. Baptiste?”
And madame, who understood and knew his ways, would fry him some of the bananas, and set it before him, a tempting dish, with a bit of madame’s bread and meat and coffee thrown in for lagniappe; and Mr. Baptiste would depart, filled and contented, leaving the load of fruit behind as madame’s pay. Thus did he eat, and his clients were many, and never too tired or too cross to cook his meals and get their pay in baskets of fruit.
One day he slipped in at Madame Garcia’s kitchen door with such a woe-begone air, and slid a small sack of nearly ripe plantains on the table with such a misery-laden sigh, that madame, who was fat and excitable, threw up both hands and cried out:
“Mon Dieu, Mistare Baptiste, fo’ w’y you look lak dat? What ees de mattare?”
For answer, Mr. Baptiste shook his head gloomily and sighed again. Madame Garcia moved heavily about the kitchen, putting the plantains in a cool spot and punctuating her foot-steps with sundry “Mon Dieux” and “Miseres.”
“Dose cotton!” ejaculated Mr. Baptiste, at last.
“Ah, mon Dieu!” groaned Madame Garcia, rolling her eyes heavenwards.
“Hit will drive de fruit away!” he continued.
“Misere!” said Madame Garcia
“Oui, out,” said Madame Garcia. She had carefully inspected the plantains, and seeing that they were good and wholesome, was inclined to agree with anything Mr. Baptiste said.
He grew excited. “Yaas, dose cotton-yardmans, dose ‘longsho’mans, dey go out on one strik’. Dey t’row down dey tool an’ say dey work no mo’ wid niggers. Les veseaux, dey lay in de river, no work, no cargo, yaas. Den de fruit ship, dey can’ mak’ lan’, de mans, dey t’reaten an’ say t’ings. Dey mak’ big fight, yaas. Dere no mo’ work on de levee, lak dat. Ever’body jus’ walk roun’ an’ say cuss word, yaas!”
“Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” groaned Madame Garcia, rocking her guinea-blue-clad self to and fro.
Mr. Baptiste picked up his nondescript head-cover and walked out through the brick-reddened alley, talking excitedly to himself. Madame Garcia called after him to know if he did not want his luncheon, but he shook his head and passed on.
Down on the levee it was even as Mr. Baptiste had said. The ‘long-shoremen, the cotton-yardmen, and the stevedores had gone out on a strike. The levee lay hot and unsheltered under the glare of a noonday sun. The turgid Mississippi scarce seemed to flow, but gave forth a brazen gleam from its yellow bosom. Great vessels lay against the wharf, silent and unpopulated. Excited groups of men clustered here and there among bales of uncompressed cotton, lying about in disorderly profusion. Cargoes of molasses and sugar gave out a sticky sweet smell, and now and then the fierce rays of the sun would kindle tiny blazes in the cotton and splinter-mixed dust underfoot.
Mr. Baptiste wandered in and out among the groups of men, exchanging a friendly salutation here and there. He looked the picture of woe-begone misery.
“Hello, Mr. Baptiste,” cried a big, brawny Irishman, “sure an’ you look, as if you was about to be hanged.”
“Ah, mon Dieu,” said Mr. Baptiste, “dose fruit ship be ruined fo’ dees strik’.”
“Damn the fruit!” cheerily replied the Irishman, artistically disposing of a mouthful of tobacco juice. “It ain’t the fruit we care about, it’s the cotton.”
“Hear! hear!” cried a dozen lusty comrades.
Mr. Baptiste shook his head and moved sorrowfully away.
“Hey, by howly St. Patrick, here’s that little fruit-eater!” called the centre of another group of strikers perched on cotton-bales.
“Hello! Where–” began a second; but the leader suddenly held up his hand for silence, and the men listened eagerly.
It might not have been a sound, for the levee lay quiet and the mules on the cotton-drays dozed languidly, their ears pitched at varying acute angles. But the practiced ears of the men heard a familiar sound stealing up over the heated stillness.
Then the faint rattle of chains, and the steady thump of a machine pounding.
If ever you go on the levee you’ll know that sound, the rhythmic song of the stevedores heaving cotton-bales, and the steady thump, thump, of the machine compressing them within the hold of the ship.
Finnegan, the leader, who had held up his hand for silence, uttered an oath.
“Scabs! Men, come on!”
There was no need for a further invitation. The men rose in sullen wrath and went down the levee, the crowd gathering in numbers as it passed along. Mr. Baptiste followed in its wake, now and then sighing a mournful protest which was lost in the roar of the men.
“Scabs!” Finnegan had said; and the word was passed along, until it seemed that the half of the second District knew and had risen to investigate.
The rhythmic chorus sounded nearer, and the cause manifested itself when the curve of the levee above the French Market was passed. There rose a White Star steamer, insolently settling itself to the water as each consignment of cotton bales was compressed into her hold.
“Niggers!” roared Finnegan wrathily.
“Niggers! niggers! Kill ’em, scabs!” chorused the crowd.
With muscles standing out like cables through their blue cotton shirts, and sweat rolling from glossy black skins, the Negro stevedores were at work steadily labouring at the cotton, with the rhythmic song swinging its cadence in the hot air. The roar of the crowd caused the men to look up with momentary apprehension, but at the over-seer’s reassuring word they bent back to work.
Finnegan was a Titan. With livid face and bursting veins he ran into the street facing the French Market, and uprooted a huge block of paving stone. Staggering under its weight, he rushed back to the ship, and with one mighty effort hurled it into the hold.
The delicate poles of the costly machine tottered in the air, then fell forward with a crash as the whole iron framework in the hold collapsed.
“Damn ye,” shouted Finnegan, “now yez can pack yer cotton!”
The crowd’s cheers at this changed to howls, as the Negroes, infuriated at their loss, for those costly machines belong to the labourers and not to the ship-owners, turned upon the mob and began to throw brickbats, pieces of iron, chunks of wood, anything that came to hand. It was pandemonium turned loose over a turgid stream, with a malarial sun to heat the passions to fever point.
Mr. Baptiste had taken refuge behind a bread-stall on the outside of the market. He had taken off his cap, and was weakly cheering the Negroes on.
“Bravo!” cheered Mr. Baptiste.
“Will yez look at that damned fruit-eatin’ Frinchman!” howled McMahon. “Cheerin’ the niggers, are you?” and he let fly a brickbat in the direction of the bread-stall.
“Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” wailed the bread-woman.
Mr. Baptiste lay very still, with a great ugly gash in his wrinkled brown temple. Fishmen and vegetable marchands gathered around him in a quick, sympathetic mass. The individual, the concrete bit of helpless humanity, had more interest for them than the vast, vague fighting mob beyond.
The noon-hour pealed from the brazen throats of many bells, and the numerous hoarse whistles of the steam-boats called the unheeded luncheon-time to the levee workers. The war waged furiously, and groans of the wounded mingled with curses and roars from the combatants.
“Killed instantly,” said the surgeon, carefully lifting Mr. Baptiste into the ambulance.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded the militia steadily marching down Decatur Street.
“Whist! do yez hear!” shouted Finnegan; and the conflict had ceased ere the yellow river could reflect the sun from the polished bayonets.
You remember, of course, how long the strike lasted, and how many battles were fought and lives lost before the final adjustment of affairs. It was a fearsome war, and many forgot afterwards whose was the first life lost in the struggle,–poor little Mr. Baptiste’s, whose body lay at the Morgue unclaimed for days before it was finally dropped unnamed into Potter’s Field.