evidence that the Katogoula were well established in Louisiana when the infamous Removals began in earnest, in the 1820s. Ironically, these times of trouble were relatively good for the Katogoula, and the tribe’s numbers increased.
The territory of the Katogoula was one of the last stops on the mournful trip to the government-selected reservations. Fleeing individuals and family groups of many Southeastern tribes peeled off and sought shelter in the wild backwoods of central Louisiana, avoiding the forced marches to Oklahoma and other frontier lands. Many walked back from Indian Territory, finding life unbearable there, separated fromthe familiar sky, sun, animals, forest, and waters of their traditional way of life in the Southeast.
When Nick surfaced again, he realized it was late afternoon. He returned his films and books to the appropriate carts, and took the stairs to the third floor—Literature and Languages, faculty carrels, and Hawty Latimer.
CHAPTER 9
----
“H ow can you read this chicken scratch?” Hawty Latimer asked, the expression on her brown face somewhere between teasing and contempt. “If you’d gone to grade school where I did, up in north Louisiana, they’d have broken you of this left-handed writing. One run-in with the principal’s wooden ruler—that would have been
that
.”
After a few more silent moments, she tossed back the pages of cramped, chaotic scribbling Nick had produced. He suspected she would make a good principal herself—and wouldn’t spare the ruler. She was a formidable young woman, in both mind and body, with more drive and joy for living than anyone—in or out of a wheelchair—Nick had ever known.
“But you can’t fault the content, right?” Nick asked hopefully. “Even if the form isn’t up to your lofty standards of penmanship.”
Sarcasm was their normal mode of communication. That Nick employed Hawty in his genealogical firm wasn’t immediately obvious; a person could be pardoned for thinking their relationship was the other way around.
It was past six o’clock now, and they sat in Hawty’s carrel on the third floor of the library. The carrel was a drab seven-by-five-foot study area, painstakingly constructed, Nick often thought, to exclude any naturally occurring material. A silvery plastic grid suspendedover the carrel’s walls filtered fluorescent light from a higher coffered acoustic ceiling that extended over all of the carrels. It was too cold and too dry in here; too bright, yet not bright enough; and there was the restive silence of unseen people straining to overhear conversations or muttered secrets. Still, a carrel was a nice perk for grad students and for professors too busy to return to their offices. If you were the kind of person who could lose yourself in your work, then the facsimile of privacy would become real. Hawty had added a few comforting touches: a lamp here, a family photograph there, the odd sentimental tchochke.
Her volcano-orange wheelchair mocked the sterility of the enclosure. This wasn’t her usual chair, which she referred to as her “chariot.” Normally she rode a motorized, gizmo-crammed computer-lab-on-wheels that made Nick wonder how he’d missed the leap from present-time to science fiction.
“Oh, I suppose 1771 isn’t bad. For a start,” Hawty said.
Nick had found references to the Katogoula that far back and was proud of having done so.
“Just so happens I ran across this thesis.” She held up a slim pamphlet. “Nineteen forty-three. A girl in one of Herbert Bolton’s classes, out in your neck of the woods—Berkeley. She did some really outstanding work on Louisiana Indians.”
“Bolton, Bolton. Sounds vaguely familiar. Refresh my memory.” He knew she loved to do that.
“Herbert Bolton was a big-time historian a UC Berkeley between the world wars who broke ground with studies of the colonial Spanish and the Indian tribes in Louisiana and Texas.”
Hawty handed him the thesis and continued.
The territory of the Katogoula was one of the last stops on the mournful trip to the government-selected reservations. Fleeing individuals and family groups of many Southeastern tribes peeled off and sought shelter in the wild backwoods of central Louisiana, avoiding the forced marches to Oklahoma and other frontier lands. Many walked back from Indian Territory, finding life unbearable there, separated fromthe familiar sky, sun, animals, forest, and waters of their traditional way of life in the Southeast.
When Nick surfaced again, he realized it was late afternoon. He returned his films and books to the appropriate carts, and took the stairs to the third floor—Literature and Languages, faculty carrels, and Hawty Latimer.
CHAPTER 9
----
“H ow can you read this chicken scratch?” Hawty Latimer asked, the expression on her brown face somewhere between teasing and contempt. “If you’d gone to grade school where I did, up in north Louisiana, they’d have broken you of this left-handed writing. One run-in with the principal’s wooden ruler—that would have been
that
.”
After a few more silent moments, she tossed back the pages of cramped, chaotic scribbling Nick had produced. He suspected she would make a good principal herself—and wouldn’t spare the ruler. She was a formidable young woman, in both mind and body, with more drive and joy for living than anyone—in or out of a wheelchair—Nick had ever known.
“But you can’t fault the content, right?” Nick asked hopefully. “Even if the form isn’t up to your lofty standards of penmanship.”
Sarcasm was their normal mode of communication. That Nick employed Hawty in his genealogical firm wasn’t immediately obvious; a person could be pardoned for thinking their relationship was the other way around.
It was past six o’clock now, and they sat in Hawty’s carrel on the third floor of the library. The carrel was a drab seven-by-five-foot study area, painstakingly constructed, Nick often thought, to exclude any naturally occurring material. A silvery plastic grid suspendedover the carrel’s walls filtered fluorescent light from a higher coffered acoustic ceiling that extended over all of the carrels. It was too cold and too dry in here; too bright, yet not bright enough; and there was the restive silence of unseen people straining to overhear conversations or muttered secrets. Still, a carrel was a nice perk for grad students and for professors too busy to return to their offices. If you were the kind of person who could lose yourself in your work, then the facsimile of privacy would become real. Hawty had added a few comforting touches: a lamp here, a family photograph there, the odd sentimental tchochke.
Her volcano-orange wheelchair mocked the sterility of the enclosure. This wasn’t her usual chair, which she referred to as her “chariot.” Normally she rode a motorized, gizmo-crammed computer-lab-on-wheels that made Nick wonder how he’d missed the leap from present-time to science fiction.
“Oh, I suppose 1771 isn’t bad. For a start,” Hawty said.
Nick had found references to the Katogoula that far back and was proud of having done so.
“Just so happens I ran across this thesis.” She held up a slim pamphlet. “Nineteen forty-three. A girl in one of Herbert Bolton’s classes, out in your neck of the woods—Berkeley. She did some really outstanding work on Louisiana Indians.”
“Bolton, Bolton. Sounds vaguely familiar. Refresh my memory.” He knew she loved to do that.
“Herbert Bolton was a big-time historian a UC Berkeley between the world wars who broke ground with studies of the colonial Spanish and the Indian tribes in Louisiana and Texas.”
Hawty handed him the thesis and continued.
Similar Books
