Life & Times of Christopher Le Monte

Louisiana in the summer time is a very hot and sticky place to be, especially if you are trying to work out in the sunshine. An old man by the name of (Bood-row) Boudreo Le Monte was moving slowly along the rows of cotton as he hoed the weeds that grew there. His ragged white shirt was stained yellow from his perspiration, as were his overalls. His foot ware consisted of a pair of worn out old sandals and he wore no socks. The stickers he occasionally encountered were painful when they penetrated his tough hide. His straw hat was jagged; a few holes were letting the sun to shine onto his gray curly hair. He wanted to quit and go sit in the shade of a nearby big oak tree, but if he didn’t work a full day he wouldn’t have enough money to feed his wife and young daughter that night. The four dollars the farmer had promised to pay him for weeding the cotton patch, these last four days, would feed him and the two women for three, maybe four days. All too soon, he would have to find additional employment.

Lucinda, his young daughter of sixteen was not married. However she was pregnant; due to being raped by a very wealthy land owner, Colonel Gregory Weston, who lived down the road two and a half miles from the house where he and his family lived. Because Colonel Weston was well connected politically, plus very wealthy and they were just dirt poor Cajuns, the law would not do a thing to help them. When Boudreo protested to the parish sheriff, he was thrown out of the court house and told to never return.

Doctor Mitchell was a kind hearted soul, if your skin was the right color, who said he wouldn’t charge more than five dollars to deliver the baby when it was time. The doctor was in his late fifties and his health was beginning to fade. “It might as well be a million,” Boudreo told the doctor “cause where’s a poor man like me gonna find that much money?”

“That’s the best I can do,” said Doctor Mitchell “If I don’t get paid then how can I feed me and mine?”

Lucinda’s mother, Sara Jane, said “well . . . I guess we will just have to let a midwife bring that child into da world.”

“How much dat’ gonna cost?” asked Boudreo.

“Marquette says we can work out her two dollars,” was the answer.

“But the real problem is how we gonna feed the youngin’ any how?”

“Lord only knows.”

A few weeks later the baby was born. It was a boy. He was on the small side of tiny. Marquette said “That young-un’ not gonna live very long cause he be too little, he just be a runt.”

Lucinda was a good mother to the child and the boy managed to live through the rough days. Then one day she took the infant to the house of Colonel Weston. She was met in front of the house some distance from the steps leading up to the wide veranda, where the Westons were seated in the shade being waited on ‘hand and foot,’ so to speak. The lord of the manor saw her coming up the road and went to meet with her before she would be able to reach the house.

“What do you want here?” he growled at her.

“I thought by now you would want to see your son,” she said in a nasty tone.

“That’s not my son . . . my sons are on the porch . . . so you get your bastard out of here . . . or I’ll send for the law.”

“Don’t you want to know what he looks like?” she held him up with his face uncovered.

“Get out of here,” he said loudly.

“Take a good look . . . you sum bitch . . . cause he’s gonna’ die . . . cause I just can’t feed him enough,” she began to cry. “If you can’t help me than less ways help your son.”

He looked at the very small child in her arms. The features of the child reminded him of when his two legitimate sons, when they were that small. “I can’t,” he said.

“You can’t . . . or you won’t,” she yelled.

“I can’t . . . it would break up my marriage,” he said.

“What’s the death of your son going to do to your marriage?”

“That’s a very good question,” said the woman coming up the road from the house, Gregory Weston’s wife, Barbara.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he said loudly.

“The hell it don’t, you bastard,” she said louder “What are you trying to do . . . have children by the whole female population?”

“Barbara please go back to the house and let me handle this,” he demanded.

“Like hell I will . . . I demand to see the child you and this . . . woman had together.”

“Barbara,” he screamed and stepped in front of his wife “go back to the house, now.” She pushed past him and quickly came to face Lucinda and the baby. “Awe . . . he’s cute,” she purred. Just then she was grabbed from behind and spun around. His fist struck her on the chin and she was knocked to the ground unconscious.

“I warned you,” he said as he stood over his wife lying on the ground. “Now see what you made me do,” he yelled at Lucinda “get the hell out of here . . . right now.” His face was red and his blood veins were bulging about his face and neck. Fearing for what he might do next, she turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her, clutching the infant to her body.

He watched her for a few seconds then he reached down and picked up his wife from the drive way. He quickly carried her into the house where one of the servants opened the double doors. He entered the house with out a word, crossed the wide large living room, and then up the wide curved stair case to their bedroom. There he placed her on the bed by just tossing her onto it. He went to the closet and took out his hat and riding crop. He called to the stableman out the window of the second floor “Get my horse ready and bring him to the front.”

“Ya sir,” was the answer from the elderly dark skinned man. He went into the stable and soon appeared leading a very fine animal with an English saddle and hurried around to the front of the house.

“It’s about time,” growled Gregory. “I think I better get me a new groom, you’re getting slower every day.” He snatched the reins from the groom’s hands and led the horse to a set of steps which served to elevate his body. This allowed him to just step across the saddle with out any effort in mounting. He quickly slapped the riding crop onto the animal’s side and the wanted results was achieved, as the horse dug his hoofs in and sped away at a high rate of speed.

“It be plain as da nose on yo’ face,” the groom said to one of the other servants “who’s the real bastard around here.”

“Sho nuff.”

“I want that piece of trash and her family, run out of this Parish,” he yelled at the sheriff seated behind his desk in the parish court house.

“Simmer down,” the sheriff said “the only thing you need to do now is get the judge to place some kind of an order on them to stay away from you and your family.”

“You mean a ‘Restraining Order’ . . . what good would that do? She came right up to the house with her brat. Waving him in front of Barbara’s face . . . it was like waving a red flag at a mad bull. Now the wife’s all upset.”

“I sympathize with you . . . but you have a good Lawyer . . . and the judge is your first cousin . . . so let them handle it for you . . . but what ever you do . . . don’t you use any kind of force on those people . . . you hear.”

“I just want them to stay away,” he said as he exited out the door.

“I pity the women in his life,” said the sheriff under his breath.

“What’s going on in here?” demanded Gregory Weston as he came into the master bedroom.

“I’m leaving . . . you son-of-a-bitch,” she screamed at him “I have had it with your rotten temper . . . and this time you have gone two far . . . I am not a punching bag for you to take out your frustration on . . . so it’s goodbye.”

He came across the room and grabbed her by the arms just above the wrists. “You can’t leave me . . . I won’t let you.”

“Just try and stop me,” she screamed in his face. His fist connected to her chin once more and she fell to the floor, but this time still conscious. He dropped to the floor to set on her stomach and pounded her in the face with both fists several times.

“You try to leave me . . . I swear . . . I’ll beat you to bloody pulp,” he said, and then rose to his feet and walked out of the room.

One of the servants came to her aid. “Oh my . . . yo poor child,” she said as she knelt beside her. “Yo needs ta see the doctor right away.”

“Help me to my bed . . . please,” Barbara groaned.

“Yes um . . . then I gonna send for the doctor.” She struggled with her mistress to the bed. Once she was on the bed the maid ran to the window. “Rufus,” she called out.

“I’s here,” said a slender dark skinned lad setting under the large oak tree next to the house.

“Get yo feet to flying and fetch the doctor for Miss Barbara . . . she’s done been hurt . . . real bad.”

“Yes um . . . I’s gone.”

“You got a broken nose,” said the doctor “that’s the worst of it. The rest is just bruising which will heal in a few weeks and you’ll be good as new.”

“I’ll never be the same, ever again,” she said sternly.

“There’s nothing I can do to mend a broken spirit. Medical science hasn’t progressed that far, as yet . . . that is still in the hands of the All Mighty.”

“Who sent for you?” roared Gregory as he came into the room.

“Your fists broke her nose,” said the doctor.

“It wasn’t my fists . . . it was that trash dragging her bastard up to my house, trying to claim it was mine. It got Barbara all upset and she was going to leave me.”

“Why don’t you admit it like a man . . . the child is yours . . . Lord only know how many more there are out there,” cried Barbara.

“He is not my child,” screamed Gregory.

“Colonel . . . I believe the best thing for you to do is to help the child, his mother, and the grandparents. You could give them jobs here on your farm, educate the boy, and in general help raise him,” suggested the Doctor.

“What? Bring that trash into my home,” yelled Gregory.

“I didn’t say you had to bring them into the house . . . you acquired the Mitchell place two years ago, and no one lives there . . . Boudreo could share crop the place for you.”

“Why should I do that?”

“It would go a long way in the ‘relations department’ among the other Cajuns in the area . . . the good will I mean. Don’t you see . . . then the others would be more agreeable when dealing with you,” explained the doctor.

“I don’t know . . . I better discuss this with my Lawyer.”

“You do that . . . I think you’ll find it will be of great benefit to you later on.”

“You do like the doctor says,” said Barbara from the bed.

“You made up your mind to stay yet?” he asked harshly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of leaving,” she said for deep down she was afraid he might just do her in, if she tried to leave. She was from the north while he was a local born and raised man. He inherited all his land and money from his father. He was related to all those with any authority in the parish, so if she was to leave she would need lots of help from afar.

“Colonel . . . there is one last thing I have to say,” said the Doctor.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Don’t hit your wife again . . . because she’s pregnant.” He picked up his medicine bag and hat and left the room.

“This true?” he asked her.

“Yes . . . I’m sorry to say . . . it is. Now if you don’t mind . . . I want to rest.”

“I’m sorry,” said the sheriff standing on the ground in front of the little shack where Lucinda and her family lived. “This restraining order means that if you go near the home of Colonel Weston, or any member of his family, you will be arrested and put in jail. Is that clear?”

“I just wanted him to see the baby . . . then maybe he’d help him out,” she started to cry. “I don’t care about me . . . my baby needs help, or he’s gonna . . .” the tears begun to flow big time.

“I’m very sorry . . . Lucinda . . . but you can see how it is,” said the sheriff and he place the legal document in her hands. Her father came down the steps and held his daughter in his arms. “Boudreo . . . I want to . . . here for the baby,” he handed him a five dollar bill. “I wish it was more . . . but I have a family too.”

“Thank yo kindly,” said Boudreo. “Now you tell that rotten no good sum bitch to keep away from us-ins.”

“I’m truly sorry,” said the sheriff as he turned to leave. He mounted his horse and rode away.

The heat was reaching the ultimate limit of man and beast, but Sara Jane was still working in the field picking the cotton. At a penny a pound she could make as much as three dollars that day, but she would have to keep at it all day. She had started as soon as anyone could see. There had been some twelve men and three women that morning picking the cotton. But as the day wore on they had all turned in their proceeds and retired for the day. However, Sara Jane needed the money very badly to help feed Lucinda’s baby. This was one grandmother who was determined they were not going to loose her only grandchild to malnutrition. She tugged at the bag dragging behind her as she placed the puffs of cotton inside. When she could no longer manage to tug it, and fill it with any more cotton, she took it to the wagon. There a man sat in the shade of the tree. He would take the bag and weigh it, write the figure down on her card and on his tally sheet, then he would dump the load into the wagon. He would then return the long sack to her. And then she would start again to fill it once more.

About three o’clock Sara Jane became ill to her stomach and developed a very bad headache. Things began to swing around as she became dizzier by the minute. “One more row then I’ll stop and rest,” she said aloud. Suddenly she realized there would never be any more rows to pick. She fell to her knees and said “Lord.” She fell forwards on her face to lie still. It was nearly an hour before the man in the shade noticed she was no longer picking cotton. When he could not see her any longer, he thought she had left for the day, so he picked up his things and he left for the house.

It was getting dark when Boudreo began to worry about his wife’s not returning from the cotton patch on a neighboring farm. “Lucinda,” he called to his daughter inside the shack “I’s gonna go see bout yo mama.”

“Okay, daddy,” she said as she stood in the door way of the house.

Boudreo took the old kerosene lantern and headed off down the road toward the cotton patch. He met some of the other workers from the field that day. When asked about Sara Jane they could only say they had not seen her since noon, or a little later. Fearing the worst he went into the field to search for her. Some time before ten o’clock he found Sara Jane laying face down in the rows of cotton. His screams brought several men with lights out into the field.

Sara Jane Le Monte was laid to rest in one corner of a little country church cemetery. Father Andreas conducted the services for the nearly one hundred Cajuns in attendance.

One evening, after the lamps were turned off in the shack, someone began calling at the Le Monte domicile. “Boudreo,” yelled the man standing at the bottom of the steps to the shack “I would like to talk with you.”

“What’s ya’ll wants this time of night?” he called back while still inside the house. Not knowing the intentions of the man outside, he took his 22 rifle down from the pegs over the door.

“I’m sorry about the hour, but it is urgent that I see you about some share cropping,” he replied.

“Who’s ya’ll?”

“My name is William Gordon . . . I’m an Attorney . . . my client wants you to do some share cropping for him.”

“Who’s yo client?”

“Boudreo . . . please come out here so I don’t have to shout . . . this will only take a few minutes of your time.”

The old man returned the rifle to the peg over the door, and then he opened the door. He stepped out onto the squeaky old porch. It had a very bad case of the ‘sags.’

“That’s better,” said the Attorney “My client is making you an offer to do some share cropping on his place . . . if you’re interested.”

“I’s interested fo sho,” he said “but who’s dis fo.”

“My client is Colonel Weston,” he said lowly.

“That no good fo nut-in,” barked Boudreo as he descended the steps and pointed toward the roadway “yo tell him we’s want nut-in from him.”

“Boudreo . . . I know how you feel . . . and I’m truly sorry about your loss,” said the Lawyer backing up “but please hear me out . . . then if you decided to except then fine . . . and if you don’t except then that’s fine too. At least I’ll have done my job.”

“Daddy,” called Lucinda from the door way “we needs to hear the fella’ what’s he got to say.”

“Yo sho child?” he asked.

“Yes daddy,” she said “on account of the baby.”

“Mista yo can says what yo got’s to says . . . then yo bess be gone.”

“Colonel Weston acquired a sixty acre farm and needs someone to farm it for him. There is a good sound house, barn, good well, a large pond, and it is fenced in so you can run some livestock. There is a good garden area near the house. The Colonel is willing to provide you with all the seed and fertilizer you need, plus feed for your mule from his store in town. In addition he is going to give you credit at his grocery store for the food you and your family will need until the crops are harvested.”

“That be nice,” Lucinda said “but what about the baby?”

“He’ll see to it that the child gets a good education,” was the reply.

“That be all?” she asked.

“He is not going to acknowledge the child.”

“What dat mean?” asked Boudreo.

“Acknowledge . . . it means he is not going to say the child is his . . . ever.”

“I’s don’t think we’s want nary a thing to do with this,” said Boudreo.

“Daddy . . . I know I’m no good . . . and you and momma are ashamed of me . . . but we have to think about what is best for my baby,” she placed her face into her hands and cried hard. She then turned and ran back into the old shack. Boudreo watched her disappear inside then he started up the steps.

“Boudreo,” called the Attorney as the old man climbed to the top of the steps and onto the porch. “What do I tell the Colonel?”

“We’s gonna have to think on it some . . . maybe in a day, or two we’s has da answer.”

“I’ll leave my card here,” he placed in on the porch by wedging it between the cracks of the decaying deck boards. “My office is in Baton Rouge.”

“We’s let ya know.”

“Where’s the mother of my husband’s baby?” Barbara asked Boudreo. She had driven up in a buggy drawn by a very fine horse which she pulled to a stop a few feet from the steps to the shack.

“Miss Barbara . . . yo aught not to come yere . . . what’s yo man gonna say?”

“I don’t give a damn!” she said.

“Why Miss Barbara,” exclaimed Boudreo.

“I came to see Lucinda and the baby,” she said “now where is she?”

“She be in the house,” he replied.

“Will you please, help me down?” she asked as she rose from the seat. The horse moved forward just then and she fell back into the seat. Boudreo went to the horse and took the halter rope and tied it to the hitching post. He then returned to help her down to the ground. Her feet no sooner touched the ground then she quickly ran up the steps and then across the porch to stand next to the door.

“Miss Barbara . . . yo aught not go in there . . . cause it taint no fit place for a lady such as yo self,” called Boudreo trying to catch up to her. She waited at the dilapidated screen door and turned her head toward him. When he reached the door he took hold of the door knob and then hesitated. “Ya sho yo wants ta go inside?”

“Yes, Boudreo . . . I must see Lucinda and the baby.”

“Yes um,” he said then he opened the door. She entered the old shack and went to stand in the middle of the room. The old house was one long room with a home made curtain across one end. It was made from an old wagon canvas and it did provided some privacy to those behind it. At the other end of the room was Lucinda setting on her bed nursing the baby. She closed her blouse and placed the baby back in the wooden crate she used as a crib for the child.

“What’s you want with me?” asked Lucinda as she came to the home made table and benches. She motioned for Barbara to take a seat. Lucinda slid onto the bench across from Barbara and brushed at her hair with her hands.

“Child . . . I understand . . . my husband is the father of your child,” she said.

“True,” she said “he raped me down at the swimmin’ hole on the bayou.”

“I didn’t come here to make trouble for you, or your father,” said Barbara.

“What fo then?” Boudreo asked as he took a seat next to his daughter.

“My husband has made you an offer to share crop the old Mitchell place,” she said.

“True,” said Boudreo.

“It’s important to me that you to take him up on his offer,” She said.

“Why’s dat po-tant ta yo?” asked Boudreo.

“I’m going to leave him one of these days,” she said “in the mean time I want to make his life a living hell. You will be very close to our house there and you can help me get it done.”

“Miss Barbara . . . what’s yo askin’ . . . mos’ likely be a danger ta yo an’ Lucinda,” said Boudreo “special if-in da Colonel finds out what yo two is up’ ta.”

“I know,” she said with a smile “but wouldn’t it be fun to dig the spurs into that old war horse.” She giggled then Lucinda joined in too. Boudreo looked at both of them and frowned. His eyes went wide as Barbara with drew, from her purse, a roll of money and commenced to peal off a few dollars. “Lucinda . . . you take this money and buy what ever the baby needs. She handed the bills to Lucinda. “What the hell might as well buy something for yourself too,” she handed her a few more dollars from the collection of bill. “Now don’t you worry about a thing . . . the child may not be mine . . . but from now on I’m going to be his fairy god mother.” She laughed out loud and so did the others. “Oh by the way . . . what’s his name?”

“Christopher,” his mother said “after Saint Christopher.”

“He’s the Patron Saint of travelers . . . why him?”

“Cause my baby one day is going to travel far . . . see places . . . and do mighty good thing for people . . . far, far away from this hell hole.”

“I believe you’re right,” said Barbara as she rose from the table and went to see the child lying in the fruit crate turned into a crib. “Awe . . . he’s just adorable.” She then turned to leave. “You folks take the Colonel’s offer to share crop, now, you hear.” She quickly made her way to the buggy. Boudreo untied the animal and she waved as she drove off down the road toward home.

“Honey child,” he said with a smile “yo gets dat child an’ we’s gonna ta Baton Rouge ta gets him a few things . . . yo too.”

“Daddy . . . we got to be careful where we spend this money . . . else the Colonel gonna find out.”

“Baton Rouge be a mighty big town,” he said with a big grin “an’ he not owns it all.”