La Juanita

by Alice Dunbar-Nelson

　　

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If you never lived in Mandeville, you cannot appreciate thethrill of wholesome, satisfied joy which sweeps over itsinhabitants every evening at five o'clock. It is the hour forthe arrival of the "New Camelia," the happening of the day. Asearly as four o'clock the trailing smoke across the horizon ofthe treacherous Lake Pontchartrain appears, and Mandeville knowsthen that the hour for its siesta has passed, and that it mustarray itself in its coolest and fluffiest garments, and go downto the pier to meet this sole connection between itself and theoutside world; the little, puffy, side-wheel steamer that comesdaily from New Orleans and brings the mail and the news.On this particular day there was an air of suppressed excitementabout the little knot of people which gathered on the pier. Tobe sure, there were no outward signs to show that anythingunusual had occurred. The small folks danced with the same gleeover the worn boards, and peered down with daring excitement intothe perilous depths of the water below. The sun, fast sinking ina gorgeous glow behind the pines of the Tchefuncta region faraway, danced his mischievous rays in much the same manner that hedid every other day. But there was a something in the air, asomething not tangible, but mysterious, subtle. You could catchan indescribable whiff of it in your inner senses, by thehalf-eager, furtive glances that the small crowd cast at LaJuanita."Gar, gar, le bateau!" said one dark-tressed mother to thewide-eyed baby. "Et, oui," she added, in an undertone to hercompanion. "Voila, La Juanita!"La Juanita, you must know, was the pride of Mandeville, theadored, the admired of all, with her petite, half-Spanish,half-French beauty. Whether rocking in the shade of theCherokee-rose-covered gallery of Grandpere Colomes' big house,her fair face bonnet-shaded, her dainty hands gloved to keep thesun from too close an acquaintance, or splashing the spray fromthe bow of her little pirogue, or fluffing her skirts about hertiny feet on the pier, she was the pet and ward of Mandeville, asit were, La Juanita Alvarez, since Madame Alvarez was a widow,and Grandpere Colomes was strict and stern.And now La Juanita had set her small foot down with a passionatestamp before Grandpere Colomes' very face, and tossed her blackcurls about her wilful head, and said she would go to the pierthis evening to meet her Mercer. All Mandeville knew this, andcast its furtive glances alternately at La Juanita with two bigpink spots in her cheeks, and at the entrance to the pier,expecting Grandpere Colomes and a scene.The sun cast red glows and violet shadows over the pier, and thepines murmured a soft little vesper hymn among themselves up onthe beach, as the "New Camelia" swung herself in, crabby,sidewise, like a fat old gentleman going into a small door.There was the clang of an important bell, the scream of a hoarselittle whistle, and Mandeville rushed to the gang-plank towelcome the outside world. Juanita put her hand through awaiting arm, and tripped away with her Mercer, big and blond andbrawny. "Un Americain, pah!" said the little mother of the blackeyes. And Mandeville sighed sadly, and shook its head, and wassorry for Grandpere Colomes.This was Saturday, and the big regatta would be Monday. Ah, thatregatta, such a one as Mandeville had never seen! There were tobe boats from Madisonville and Amite, from Lewisburg andCovington, and even far-away Nott's Point. There was to be aClass A and Class B and Class C, and the little French girls ofthe town flaunted their ribbons down the one oak-shaded,lake-kissed street, and dared anyone to say theirs were not thefavourite colours.In Class A was entered, "La Juanita,' captain Mercer Grangeman,colours pink and gold." Her name, her colours; what impudence!Of course, not being a Mandevillian, you could not understand theshame of Grandpere Colomes at this. Was it not bad enough forhis petite Juanita, his Spanish blossom, his hope of a familythat had held itself proudly aloof from "dose Americain" fromtime immemorial, to have smiled upon this Mercer, this pale-eyedyouth? Was it not bad enough for her to demean herself bywalking upon the pier with him? But for a boat, his boat, "unbateau Americain," to be named La Juanita! Oh, the shame of it!Grandpere Colomes prayed a devout prayer to the Virgin that "LaJuanita" should be capsized.Monday came, clear and blue and stifling. The waves of hot airdanced on the sands and adown the one street merrily. Glassilycalm lay the Pontchartrain, heavily still hung the atmosphere.Madame Alvarez cast an inquiring glance toward the sky.Grandpere Colomes chuckled. He had not lived on the shores ofthe treacherous Lake Pontchartrain for nothing. He knew itsevery mood, its petulances and passions; he knew this glassywarmth and what it meant. Chuckling again and again, he steppedto the gallery and looked out over the lake, and at the pier,where lay the boats rocking and idly tugging at their moorings.La Juanita in her rose-scented room tied the pink ribbons on herdainty frock, and fastened cloth of gold roses at her lithewaist.It was said that just before the crack of the pistol La Juanita'stiny hand lay in Mercer's, and that he bent his head, andwhispered softly, so that the surrounding crowd could not hear,--"Juanita mine, if I win, you will?""Oui, mon Mercere, eef you win."In another instant the white wings were off scudding before therising breeze, dipping their glossy boat-sides into the clearwater, straining their cordage in their tense efforts to reachthe stake boats. Mandeville indiscriminately distributed itselfon piers, large and small, bath-house tops, trees, and craft ofall kinds, from pirogue, dory, and pine-raft to pretentiouscat-boat and shell-schooner. Mandeville cheered and strained itseyes after all the boats, but chiefly was its attention directedto "La Juanita.""Ah, voila, eet is ahead!""Mais non, c'est un autre!""La Juanita! La Juanita!""Regardez Grandpere Colomes!"Old Colomes on the big pier with Madame Alvarez and hisgranddaughter was intently straining his weather-beaten face inthe direction of Nott's Point, his back resolutely turned uponthe scudding white wings. A sudden chuckle of grim satisfactioncaused La Petite's head to toss petulantly.But only for a minute, for Grandpere Colomes' chuckle wasfollowed by a shout of dismay from those whose glance hadfollowed his. You must know that it is around Nott's Point thatthe storm king shows his wings first, for the little peninsulaguards the entrance which leads into the southeast waters of thestormy Rigolets and the blustering Gulf. You would know, if youlived in Mandeville, that when the pines on Nott's Point darkenand when the water shows white beyond like the teeth of a hungrywolf, it is time to steer your boat into the mouth of some one ofthe many calm bayous which flow silently throughout St. Tammanyparish into the lake. Small wonder that the cry of dismay wentup now, for Nott's Point was black, with a lurid light overhead,and the roar of the grim southeast wind came ominously over thewater.La Juanita clasped her hands and strained her eyes for hernamesake. The racers had rounded the second stake-boat, and thecourse of the triangle headed them directly for the lurid cloud.You should have seen Grandpere Colomes then. He danced up anddown the pier in a perfect frenzy. The thin pale lips of MadameAlvarez moved in a silent prayer; La Juanita stood coldly silent.And now you could see that the advance guard of the southeastforce had struck the little fleet. They dipped and scurried androcked, and you could see the sails being reefed hurriedly, andalmost hear the rigging creak and moan under the strain. Thenthe wind came up the lake, and struck the town with a tumultuousforce. The waters rose and heaved in the long, sullenground-swell, which betokened serious trouble. There was a rushof lake-craft to shelter. Heavy gray waves boomed against thebreakwaters and piers, dashing their brackish spray upon thestrained watchers; then with a shriek and a howl the storm burstfull, with blinding sheets of rain, and a great hurricane of Gulfwind that threatened to blow the little town away.La Juanita was proud. When Grandpere and Madame led her away inthe storm, though her face was white, and the rose mouth pressedclose, not a word did she say, and her eyes were as bright asever before. It was foolish to hope that the frail boats couldsurvive such a storm. There was not even the merest excuse forshelter out in the waters, and when Lake Pontchartrain growsangry, it devours without pity.Your tropical storm is soon over, however, and in an hour the sunstruggled through a gray and misty sky, over which the wind wassweeping great clouds. The rain-drops hung diamond-like on thethick foliage, but the long ground-swell still boomed against thebreakwaters and showed white teeth, far to the south.As chickens creep from under shelter after a rain, so the peopleof Mandeville crept out again on the piers, on the bath-houses,on the breakwater edge, and watched eagerly for the boats.Slowly upon the horizon appeared white sails, and the littlecraft swung into sight. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,eight, nine, counted Mandeville. Every one coming in! Bravo!And a great cheer that swept the whole length of the town fromthe post-office to Black Bayou went up. Bravo! Every boat wascoming in. But--was every man?This was a sobering thought, and in the hush which followed ityou could hear the Q. and C. train thundering over the greatlake-bridge, miles away.Well, they came into the pier at last, "La Juanita" in the lead;and as Captain Mercer landed, he was surrounded by a voluble,chattering, anxious throng that loaded him with questions inpatois, in broken English, and in French. He was no longer "unAmericain" now, he was a hero.When the other eight boats came in, and Mandeville saw that noone was lost, there was another ringing bravo, and morechattering of questions.We heard the truth finally. When the storm burst, Captain Mercersuddenly promoted himself to an admiralship and assumed commandof his little fleet. He had led them through the teeth of thegale to a small inlet on the coast between Bayou Lacombe andNott's Point, and there they had waited until the storm passed.Loud were the praises of the other captains for Admiral Mercer,profuse were the thanks of the sisters and sweethearts, as he wascarried triumphantly on the shoulders of the sailors adown thewharf to the Maison Colomes.The crispness had gone from Juanita's pink frock, and the clothof gold roses were wellnigh petalless, but the hand that sheslipped into his was warm and soft, and the eyes that wereupturned to Mercer's blue ones were shining with admiring tears.And even Grandpere Colomes, as he brewed on theCherokee-rose-covered gallery, a fiery punch for the heroes, washeard to admit that "some time dose Americain can mos' be lak oneFrenchman."And we danced at the betrothal supper the next week.

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