We dined in a private dining room at the St. Francis, where, after the usual hemming and hawing, they proposed I join their nucleus of a vigilante society, which would, as Huntington elegantly put it, "hang every thief and miscreant on this shore of the Bay. “
Mr. Sherman said civic disorder threatened business interests. He spoke of the "necessity" of action.
I reminded Sherman that necessity is not always just or worthy.
Huntington and Wright were genuinely offended — they'd assumed I was their natural ally: a man who could kill with clean hands.
I told them neither yea nor nay.
Sister, I am not a reflective man, but that night I wondered who I had become. What distinguishes the merchant who hangs a thief to preserve his fortune from the planter who whips a negro to death for insolence? I determined I would not be that man. As I would not be hanged I would not be a hangman.
I have determined to try my fortunes elsewhere. Volunteers are combining to overthrow Cuba's Spanish overlords, and perhaps I'll lend them a hand If you can write, I will pick up my mail do General Delivery, New Orleans.
Your puzzled brother, Rhett
March 14, 1853
Hotel St. Louis
New Orleans
Dear Little Sister, Proper Charlestonians would be shocked by this city. It is so French.
New Orleans' citizens — all good Catholics — are preoccupied with food, drink, and love — though not necessarily in that order. In the old quarter, the Vieux Carr?, the fragrance of sin drifts through the orange and lemon blossoms. I can attend a ball every night: formal, informal, masked or the sort of affair I attend with a pistol in my pocket. I play cards at Mcgarth's, Perritts, or the Boston Club. I enjoy four racetracks, three theaters, and the French Opera House.
The city is the freebooters' home port. These young Americans have taken Manifest Destiny as a personal creed. Their destiny, manifestly, is to conquer and loot any Caribbean or South American nation too weak to defend itself. Most believe Cuba would make a first-class American state once we run off the Spanish.
I have invested in several freebooting expeditions — if demand increases profits, patriotism swells the trickle into a flood. Until now, I haven't been tempted to enlist myself.
New Orleans is a city of beautiful women and its Creole ladies are cultured cosmopolitan, and wise. They have taught me much about love — a pursuit which is second only to the longing for God.
Doubtless my Creole mistress, Didi Gayerre, loves me. She loves me to distraction. After six months together, she is eager to marry, bear my children, and share my uncertain fortunes. She is everything a man could want.
I do not want her.
My initial fascination has turned to boredom and a mild contempt for myself and Didi for pretending to believe what we know is not so.
Love, Dear Sister, can be terribly cruel.
I will not stay with her from pity. Pity is even crueler than love.
The less I love her, the more desperate Didi becomes, and only physical separation will cure our problem.
We were supping with Narciso Lopez, a Cuban General who is organizing an expedition. He already has three or four hundred volunteers — enough, he assured me, to defeat any Spanish army. Once we land Cuban patriots will swell our ranks. He told me with a wink that there is conquistador gold in the Spanish treasury. Havana, he added is a beautiful city.
Didi ignored his barrage of reasons. She was wearing a high-bodiced brocade gown and an astonishingly red hat. She ate nothing. She was pouting.
Our omelettes were perfectly prepared and our champagne chilled but Didi was grumpy and objected to everything the General said. No, the Cubans wouldn't rise up. The Spanish army was more formidable than a few hundred American adventurers.
Lopez, who is a pompous man, explained how conquering Cuba would make us rich. "It's the white mans duty, Butler, " he advised.
"I'd become rich?" I teased him.
"Our duty to transform a primitive, superstitious, authoritarian country into a modern democracy. “
That theory prompted a torrent of Didi's angry French, whose precise meaning Lopez may not have understood but he certainly got the gist.
He leaned forward and with a condescending smile said "Butler, are you one of those fellows whose wench tells him what to do?”
Didi stood so abruptly she knocked over the champagne bucket. She stabbed pins into her bright red hat. "Rhett?" she insisted "Please...”
"You must excuse us, General," I said.
Didi was rigid on my arm. The St. Louis's doorman summoned our cab.
A filthy woman beggar limped toward us, mumbling her feeble entreaty.
Lopez followed us onto the sidewalk, apologizing "Senor Butler, I did not intend to insult you, nor your lovely companion.
"Madre de Dios!" The beggar had come close enough to offend his nostrils. She was one of those desperate creatures that service Irish stevedores behind the levees. Her hand trembled with entreaty.
"Leave us!" The General raised his cane.
"Don't, General "As I went into my pocket for a dime, I recognized a familiar face beneath her grime. "Dear God, are you ... are you Belle Watting?”
It was she, Dear Sister, a woman I had never thought to see again, John Haynes had financed Belle's escape from the Low Country. I hadn't known she'd come to New Orleans.
Some weeks later Belle told me, "I always loved the sea. I thought things would be different here." Apparently, Belle fell in with a cardsharp who used her as collateral when the pasteboards failed him. Belle's son is in the Asylum for Orphan Boys.
I will try to improve her circumstances before General Lopez and I embark for Cuba.
Belle begs you not say anything to her father, Isaiah. She is as thoroughly disowned as I am.
All my love, Rhett
July 1853
Cuba
Beloved Sister Rosemary, The beach at Bahia Hondo is the most beautiful I have ever seen. Silver sand and cerulean sea seem as endless as eternity — a destination certain Spanish officers are hastening me toward The Spanish forces were not defeated The Cubans did not welcome us as liberators. Ah well Fleeing Didi's arms into a Spanish firing squad was not my cleverest maneuver.
I've set a gamble into motion and may yet escape my fate, but the odds are long and time is short.
A corporal promises to post this letter. As with the bottle the marooned sailor tosses into the sea, I pray it will find some reader.
How dear is soft, warm sand How tender the sandpipers wading in the shallows. Though their lives are only a few seasons, they are no less God's creatures than we.
Sister, if I leave you with one piece of advice, it is: Live your life. Let no other live it for you.