Standing on the deck, I gasped for air as our steamer, Ship Crescent, pulled into the Port of New Orleans, January 29, 1829, after a long month at sea. Unlike Le Havre, our French port of departure, the Port of Orleans was chaotic, noisy and full of the unfamiliar. The shouts of many languages filled the air and hundreds of shirtless, sweating negros labored under the watchful eyes of the dock overseers. The January air was cool and temperate, and a mixture of offensive odors assaulted my nostrils as we approached the ramp to disembark. So here I stood, Marianne Angelique Moumerteau of Trilport, France, about to enter the new world with my two children, Eugene 9 and Amente 5, and my devoted husband, Louis Noel Vapaille.
Noel grabbed my waist to steady me as I tightened my grip on Amente’s hand, which offered no resistance. Eugene ran excitedly back and forth on the slippery deck, mustering fresh energy for this new adventure. He was enjoying the chaos, even after the laborious journey across the ocean.
“It will be fine, Mon Cherie,” Noel assured me. “We are here now, and Monsieur Sorrel has provided clear instructions to make our stay in New Orleans smooth. You need to rest after the long voyage and you will feel better.”
I had been warned about the unforgiving episodes of yellow fever in Louisiana and wondered if after surviving the voyage, I would die in this strange land, never to see my mother and sisters again. I had lost considerable weight on the journey and my resistance was low, but I shook off these foreboding thoughts for my family, “Be still Eugene! Stop running before you fall into the river!”
The brown river water swirled below the deck, filthy with debris and dead fish. A black dockhand extended a dirty hand to catch Eugene as he slipped on the damp plank, smiling at him with a toothless grin and speaking in a strange French accent. Eugene jerked away grabbing his father’s arm, staring wide-eyed at the blackness of the man’s sweating skin. He nearly threw Noel off balance, sending all four of us tumbling into the dank Mississippi. Eugene had never been this close to a black man and his face was lit with curiosity. The black man continued to smile, speaking in a strange tongue.
“Eugene, settle down!” Noel shouted, “Let’s start our new life on dry land, garcon!”
We stood shakily atop the levee, our backs facing the batture. It seemed like an eternity passed standing there, though it was only minutes. With noisy steamships and the Mississippi River to our backs, we faced this new cityscape carrying our most essential possessions for the new life ahead. Noel spotted an outdoor café in the busy market, and led us to sit. He ordered two cafés au lait for him and I and lemonades for the children.
It was the first time on solid ground in almost 30 days, and we sat amazed, watching the sundry of humanity. There were people of all colors moving in orchestrated chaos. Gangly desperate white men, dirtied, bent and rough shod from toiling work, lingered around the dock’s drinking parlors in stages of drunkenness. Bare-chested chestnut brown men, women and children with coal black hair squatted in the market on colorful blankets. Their bone straight hair was decorated with bird feathers, and they sold beautifully woven baskets, blankets and vegetables.
Negro women of different hues wearing bright hooped skirts, ruffled white blouses and colorful head wraps, peddled goods in the market stalls, while some walked through the aisles, balancing large bundles on their heads. Negro children ran in all directions, carrying things as if making deliveries, most barely clothed in rags. White and caramel-colored children sauntered along, some carrying books, the girls dressed in ruffled frocks and boys in tunics and shorts.
The white women and men were most striking, fashionably dressed and coiffed in the latest Parisian styles, sitting erect in coaches drawn by tailored negro coachmen clad in shiny black boots and tall hats. This menagerie of characters spoke different languages, from eloquent to barely understandable French dialects. Spanish, English, Italian and German were being spoken as well as the totally indiscernible languages of the brown and black people.
I was supposed to feel relieved, but I was filled with anxiety. I knew that Noel had risked everything for a life for us in this new world. Noel had descended from a long line of gardeners, producing the most glorious array of flowers, vegetables and kitchen herbs, supplying homes and cafés throughout our village of Trilport. We lived comfortably there among our families and friends but Noel was restless. He felt that France was a difficult place to live at this time. The French Revolution had instilled bitterness in his heart as civil unrest in Paris filtered into our village politics. I had not protested when he used a sizable amount of our savings to purchase land in the United States. He called it an investment, and it made me feel sophisticated and adventurous, but I never believed we would actually leave France.
Though not of wealth, the Moumerteau family was respected and had a strong community identity in Trilport. My sisters and I enjoyed the life my dear Mama and Papa had created for us. We had a loving extended family, living close by our aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, grandparents and cousins. I was known in the family for my baking skills. My desserts were legendary in our village and I generated considerable income baking for family events around Trilport. My sisters and I planned to start our own patisserie, but those dreams were abandoned to support my husband.
Now, I wondered if we had considered all the risks. Noel indicated his occupation as “planter” on the ship manifest, but what did Noel know about farming sugarcane, called the “white gold” of the new world? He no doubt imagined himself a sugar planter, gazing over his acres of land and his toiling slaves but in reality, he had no experience with large commercial farming nor with managing the enslaved. I wondered if he even had the stomach for it.
Only I had noticed Noel’s panic bouts, starting months ago, triggered by probing questions from family and friends regarding his unusual decision to leave his village with a young family in tow. It was well-known that only bachelors and gamblers took this type of risk, not gardeners. Noel’s sleep had been restless and his panic attacks increased during the perilous voyage across the Atlantic. As we sat drinking our cafés, I wondered if his fears were re-kindled by this chaotic scene set at the bottom of a new world.
Monsieur’s Martial Sorrel was Noel’s family friend in Louisiana and his American sponsor. He ran a successful sugarcane business and was an equally successful lawyer. Martial, unlike Noel, had descended from sugarcane farmers, owning thousands of acres and two hundred enslaved men, women and children in rural Louisiana. Martial had convinced Noel to purchase Louisiana farmland and assured him that he would teach him the sugar trade and make us comfortable during the transition. It was a lot to take in, but we were here now, and I was determined to make the best of it.
I stayed with the children while Noel approached the curb lined with carriages to arrange transport to our hotel where we would be lodging for the next two weeks. Monsieur Sorrel insisted we rest in New Orleans before making the final journey to St. Mary Parish. Noel had carefully planned our arrival during the Mardi Gras season. Like in France, the weeks before Mardi Gras in New Orleans were celebrated with fine foods and wines and spirited strolls through the streets. Though the New Orleans Mardi Gras was not as large or festive as in Paris, even a small celebration and the rich foods would help the children and I recover from the time at sea. Monsieur Sorrel promised to join us for part of the Mardi Gras celebration and then accompany us to our home on his plantation in St. Mary Parish.
“Bon jour!” Noel shouted to the carriage driver, “Can you take me and my family to our hotel at 917 Rue Royal. Our things are being unloaded on the dock, over there.” Noel was pointing at the ship. The carriage driver, a negro man dressed in a tailored coat with a tall top hat, nodded silently. He helped Noel gather our trunks being unloaded on the dock, and once everything was loaded, he led us to his carriage. He loaded our smaller bags, helped the children and I inside, and Noel took his place atop the carriage next to him.
The carriage ride from the market was brief. We crossed Jackson Square and our hotel was only one block behind the lovely St. Paul’s Cathedral. Ten minutes later the carriage stopped in front of the Royal Hotel, a quaint lodge located on a quieter section of Rue Royale. We were instantly greeted by two smiling negro men who rushed out to take our bags.
Once inside, Noel spoke with the coachman and the hotel manager. Within a few minutes, two negro women stepped forward to greet us, leading the children and I to a spacious suite with two bedrooms, a dressing area and a small parlor. I guessed one woman to be in her twenties and one in her forties or fifties, mother and daughter perhaps. “Est-ce que vous parlez français?,” I asked, and the younger one responded.
“0ui Madame,” my mother and I are from Saint Domingue, now called Haiti, and we both speak French. My name is Rozelle and my mother’s name is Josette. We will help you unpack, prepare baths for your family and wash and freshen your clothes. Dinner is served in the dining room at seven, but we will bring some refreshments to your room for now. Oui?”
Marianne nodded, thinking she had never encountered this many negros in all of her life.
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