Les Animeaux - Part V

Story Three

Chapter One

A Comeuppance In The Garden District

Christmas had come and gone, albeit not without a few added inches and more than a few guilty consciences. The skiing season had turned out to have been one of brilliant successes - there had been no serious injuries and the bare minimum of equipment had been hopelessly damaged.

Haemish-Mór and Callum had entered the annual Spring Free Style trials and were spending most of their days in the basement practicing on the trampolines. Fortunately the Royal Rhinosasauris School of Medicine had recently suffered disastrous setbacks in both International Polo and Mah Jong and were more than willing to give Callum the time off to compete, in an attempt to restore the tarnished honour of the school.

Zita’s hand was still quite ill at ease and she and Callum went to the rehabilitation centre three times a week. Zita took instructions, Callum took notes. When she wasn’t at the hospital she regularly took BT-McG, Albert and a most of the Q-O Pigs skating on the canal.

Albert had been a great success on skates; by using his tail as a balance he almost never fell down. All the other Animeaux thought that this was cheating, though they were not sure why. Zita had turned the sleeve of an old winter jacket into an insulated sheath for his tail. Naturally he was the envy of the regular crowd on Dow’s Great Lake.

Sadly, through all of this frolic, Beauregard was desperately homesick. It had been a long winter and as the excitement of Christmas wore off and the doldrums of February approached it got worse. He had received not a word from his family in New Orleans and was taking it hard. Even Therese had not sent him a Christmas card, which had been a bitter blow.

Now the oft remembered sound of the river rushing by the levies and the dashed expectations of the spring Mardi-Gras galas caused him to sit for hours by himself and stare out the front windows with a sketch pad, drawing designs for costumes that he would not have the opportunity to wear, to parades he could not now attend.

All the Animeaux and even Craig and Zita were concerned. Craig sat down with him one night to see if he could help. At the end of the chat it was clear that although Beauregard loved his new home, and his friends very much, the fact that his maternal family had virtually cut him off was a great shock and disappointment to him - it would have been to anyone mind you. He was far too proud to phone his mother or any of the Savannah Lyons. A call to the Malmare household was not even suggested.

Colonel Dugal had several bracing long chats with him and Haemish offered to check his book containing all the up-to-date listings of all the SAS flights into North America, to see if he had any ‘friends’ close at hand who could lend a kind ear or whatever to a dispirited friend.

It was to no avail. It was not that he felt lost and forgotten, nor was the imminent appearance of a southern spring at fault. To be quite honest even Beauregard would have been hard pressed to account for this “malaise of the soul”. Craig thought that a surfeit of Tennessee Williams, Dos Pasos, and Wagner had not helped Beauregard’s outlook. All the other Animeaux agreed and felt all he needed was a distraction, something that would appeal to his spirit of adventure and chivalry.

McGruph Takes the Initiative.

BT-McG had been requested to, and was in the process of establishing a formal organization for the TeddyBears. They had been feeling a little short changed as to the fashion that the pomp and circumstance quota had been distributed. They felt that there was more than sufficient numbers of them that they could well afford to have their own titles and Regimental Mess, exclusive ties, cummerbunds and secret milkshake recipes.

“If its good enough for those Pigs it’s good enough....” was heard on various occasions.

Their first problem was what to be, and what to call themselves. They wanted their esprit de corps to hark back to softer times and different traditions than those of the occasionally pugnacious Q-O Pigs. As a result they spent most of their free time in the upstairs den, studiously reading all of Craig’s reference books, looking for inspiration.

One day in late March BT-McG had a splendid idea, and he called on Beauregard to join them for tea, as he claimed he was in need of some assistance. Later that afternoon, Monsieur Lyon wandered into the den where he sat down, with a small sigh, holding a black and white photo of a jug of mint juleps - he didn’t drink the real thing, but it was a family tradition to be seen with some in your hand during such times of distress. (When Vicksburg fell his great cousin Alphonse spent three days inside a barrel of port, and was never spoken off again by polite society.)

“Listen Beauregard, we’se been looking at all sorts of very t’ick books up here, and downstairs too, and it’s our opinion as TBears that them baggy Zouave uniforms is quite becoming. ‘specially to us who ain’t perhaps not as perfectly ‘portioned as some might t’ink needful. In one of d’heavy books it says that d’ere was an ‘ceptionally famous collect’n of lads who were in that unfortunate ruckus that you ‘mar’cans had that many years’go. Called “The Louisiana Tiggers” or some such old fashioned name. We looked it up - t’were a Zouave unit. All ‘mediately t’ought of you - having come from there you see. As you come from an excellent family, all nastiness aside, in d’town of N’Orleans, would it be possible to ‘member yourself of olden times, and figure out who we should see ‘bout fixing up this here group. ‘Haps we could set up an territorial unit?”

Beauregard put his picture, face down, on the red cabinet, and slid down on to the floor where all sorts of reference books were spread out all over the place, pieces of paper tucked between numerous pages for future reference. The TeddyBear with the GreenFeet was sitting on The Encyclopedia Military History, by the brothers DuPuy. Unknown to them all, Beauregard had been, (until the recent unfortunate misunderstandings) an honorary Colonel in the Louisiana National Guard, and was in his element.

“If I could browse for a moment,” he said, and started to thumb through the book. After a few seconds he found the pages he was looking for, “Voila - here is the famous painting of great-gran’dad Furrouche, carrying the colours of the Louisiana Loyal Lyon Zouaves, at the famous battle of Chickamauga. It was commissioned by the Daughters of the Great Lost Cause for the re-opening of our house on the 400 block, First Street, in N’Orleans. Though to be sure I wasn’t born then I have heard the stories all my life about that famous night - the whole of the Garden District was abuzz. The hyacinth was plump and the magnolias were in their full power. The rustle of the silk could be heard right to the foot of Canal Street. Three hundred weight of ice and four hundred pounds of chocolate-mint sauce were consumed that night, along with most of the respectable reputations in town. It took weeks to get rid of the smell of mint they said. When ever any one repeated this story, my three great-aunts, Levity, Litigious and Lucitainia always used to laugh most disrespectfully and would say in unison “It was well-worth the drive from Atlanta just for the chance to see the Mississippi River under a full moon.” No one had ever dared to ask them to explain what they were referring to.

Now - somewhere up in our attic there must be not only his tattered uniform (and reputation) but the original articles of incorporation of the regiment. If I could only return home for a day or two I am sure we could establish you TeddyBears as Official Loyal Lyon Zouaves.”

(Beauregard had always said that if you had the proper attitude and the right name you could have the sun rise in the North in Louisiana - well perhaps the South, it was assumed to have set in the North anyway.)

Just at this moment Craig stuck his head into the den and said “Listen Beauregard, I’ve have just heard that I must attend a computing standards meeting in New Orleans later this month, and I was wondering if you would like to accompany me. Perhaps we can unravel this unfortunate situation that seems to be entangling your family”

Beauregard immediately rushed to the telephone. He suddenly skidded to a stop and turned, “I had best make the reservations right now, sometimes the tourists are so plentiful you can’t get a decent chocolate mousse for days on end and as for some gumbo; well I had better start now. Some of the maitre D’s would never forgive me if I missed a specialty of the house.... and if I don’t drop in on Miss Cecilia’s annual garden party—well I might as well become a born-again Republican.”

Things always got so complicated so quickly whenever any of the Animeaux got involved, but Craig knew better then to protest. It had never worked before.

Beauregard spent several days on the phone arranging their arrival. He had suggested that they stay with his second cousins on his grandmother’s side. Apparently they had a small estate up river from the city and were to be counted on to support Beauregard’s side of the dispute. Craig thought that a visit to investigate the possibility of reconciliation had best start on more neutral ground; with air conditioning and room service, and suggested the Hyatt. Beauregard agreed to this and phoned down to see if there were any Tulane games scheduled in the Super Dome, which was attached to the Hotel.

Craig saw this was going to be a hectic several days. He asked if Beauregard was going to alert his mother or any his family that he would be paying a visit. Beauregard looked up rather sheepishly, “Actually I told my third cousin Cowrie that I was coming to N’Orleans on business accompanying the representative of Her Majesty The Queen. Did I misrepresent myself too much? I wouldn’t want the Queen to be displeased with you, as I have heard that The Tower is a very uncomfortable place to spend your last days on this mortal coil.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. I am sure the Queen will understand. After all it is in a good cause and I suppose that The Colonel and Haemish still have some influence intact at the Horse Guards if any thing goes too awry.” said Craig as he browsed though a history of antebellum Louisiana that he had ordered from the departmental library.

“I see that your family has regularly made it in to the history books. Though after reading some of the entries I suppose that several of the incidents would have better been left unrecorded.”

“Well no family worth anything has a completely unblemished past,” said Beauregard, “....and anyway who are they referring to, and what sort of shameless book are you reading up there?”

Beauregard climbed on to the sofa and looked over Craig’s shoulder, “Now just look at this, it is published by Yale University. Now what would they all know or understand about us. It’s sure to have been written by the usual bunch of carpet baggers and skelly-wags that usually populate those northern temples of the fatuous. I have no doubt that the truth is as unfamiliar to them as a well tied cravat or fresh socks.”

(Beauregard had attended Tulane and The Citadel, as you might well have expected.)

“Well be that as it may, there are some rather dubious characters in your family it seems to me. Where does you cousin Montague’s family come into all of this? I see a lot of references to the Malmare family in the index but there are disappointingly few comments about the Lyons.”

“Shows you what a shoddy attempt that book really is. Can I borrow it?  I could use some humour to put me in the mood for some much needed sleep.” said Beauregard.

He wondered off to their bedroom, and propped the book up against the side of the shelves and began to read. The rest of the gang sat on the bed, and cutout and filed articles from of recent Gourmet magazines while watching “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon” for the eleventh time.

The next day was a Sunday, and as they assembled for the usual breakfast in the living room Beauregard approached Craig with a small notebook in his hand, “I am a mite ashamed to admit this, but it seems as if my lack of attention during history classes has caught up with me. I have discovered some very confusing situations in the book you lent me. I think that it will require some diligent research before I can satisfactorily unravel the convolutions that my family has obviously fallen into!”

At this one of the pigs, who had been sitting nearby on the window sill, looking out at the pond came over and said that perhaps he could help. It seemed that he and two of the other Q-O Pig’s were in the process of finishing up their Doctoral thesis in Historiography at the London School of Economics and were quite experienced at research techniques if he needed a hand. Beauregard said that this would be a great help as he was sure that his roots in academia were quite shallow, having gone through school on fencing scholarships.

“Glad to be of help,” said the Pig as he slid down the chair leg and trotted over to the newly arrived plate of Bagels.

“No disrespect intended Mister Craig, but have you ever heard of this LSE that they are all attending. I thought it was some kind of drug.”

Craig replied that as he remembered it was a cross between a university and some sort of drug. When he lived in England most of his friends thought that the LSE was giving it a jolly good try at being a university and in a few centuries they probably would have it down pat. This reassured Beauregard and he reached for the coffee-pecan roll.

 

Chapter Two

The State Papers Save the Day

A few days later these four ‘researchers’ got Zita to drive them to the National Archives where they started the formidable task of unraveling Beauregard’s family history. They packed five lunches, (just in case they met someone interesting and wanted to ask them out for lunch), a rather pleasant Danish Hock, their micro-cassettes note-takers, and a gym bag of cushions - so they could reach the desks. Thus prepared they left Zita at the Wellington Street entrance and disappeared for two days.

Actually their whereabouts were well known as BT-McG took the bus downtown that night to bring them some chutney rolls and plum-wine sauce, several more bottles from Beauregard’s cellar and fresh socks. He brought back stories of seeing Beauregard’s tail sticking out of a huge pile of old papers and LBP inundated in rolls of microfilm, and the other two typing away at the terminal, spewing reams of paper everywhere. But they did not return home to sleep in their beds that night and the house seemed a little disappointed, if much quieter.

When they returned late in the next afternoon, it was with several large boxes of Xeroxed documents and worried expressions.

Beauregard invited all the Animeaux downstairs to share in his predicament. When everyone was assembled in the dining room he got up on the table and said “I have discovered infamy, and treason. I shall require some indulgence and even more assistance - if it is at all possible. I must lay out all these official documents in the proper date order, paying close attention to all the messy signatures. I am afraid that it will take up a lot of floor space, and it would be accomplished much faster if you-all chipped in, though I know it is a very boring task, but I would deeply appreciate it if any of you could spare the time.”

L.B.P. stood up and said “You should know that the papers are full of salacious evidence of the shenanigans that Beauregard’s family has been up to committing these past many years and may be offensive or disturbing to certain individuals.”

He was knocked over by the rush of volunteer assistants.

When Craig arrived home the entire wall going upstairs was covered with pieces of paper taped and pinned to the wall. There were long different coloured lines connecting different pieces to each other. There were also countless large exclamation marks in red and question marks in green. The two smallest TeddyBears - The Lady that’s Known as Lou and Osgoode Small were dangling on harnesses tied to the upper railings and were engaged in scribbling notes and drawing lines, as directed from bellow by LB. Pig, Callum, Beauregard and the Silver Dragon.

Dugal, Haemish, and Albert were on the dining room table with charts and Beauregard’s family Bible. Rhome Clay was at the computer with the Lexis database toiling away. The rest of the Queen’s Own Pigs and TeddyBears were in the kitchen with the Wok, mounds of vegetables and shrimps, sharpening the heavy cleaver Mr. Waung had given them for their help with the burglars.

At this moment Zita arrived home from her regular appointment at the Hospital and was intercepted by Craig, “You really do not want to see this. We better go and attack some pasta shop for dinner.” they hurried from the house. Their arrival and departure were barely noticed.

Several hours later when they returned the living room was in session, and Beauregard had the floor. The staircase wall still was covered in hieroglyphics, but the other telltale remains of the evening’s work had been consigned to the Blue-Box.

“I wish to extend my most sincere thanks, and that of my family for the exertions that you all have made to-night. I wish I could be as certain of the outcome of our diligence, “But there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip.”

Craig and Zita appeared in the hallway and The Colonel went searching for two more mugs for the hot chocolate, “We have smashing good news for you,” said L.B. Pig, but he was shushed by the rest of them, “Wait for the hot chocolate and some of the t’rific sticky buns,” said BT-McG. A few moments later cups in hand they listened with growing interest and bemusement to the history Beauregard unfolded before them, “I would like to start at more or less the beginning,” he said and then embarked on his story.

 

The Last Charge of Brigadier Lyon

“My great-great-grand-father, General Armand Morand, as some of you undoubtedly remember, commanded the Chasseur of the Middle Guard at Waterloo. Due to the underhanded tactics employed by the English, and criminal negligence on the part of Marshall Sault, his valiant efforts failed, and the dear Emperor was defeated.”

A guffaw, in a broad Scot’s accent escaped from somewhere in the room, quite near to where the Queen’s Own Pigs were seated. Beauregard chose to ignore it.

“After his great humiliation and heartache had subsided, he emigrated to the New World and changed his name to Lyon - after the small town where he was born, and on account of his terrific leonine good looks. He yearned for anonymity so that he could establish a new life in the new land, free from the stale memory of “Perfidious Albion”.

Beauregard stopped looked up from his papers and stared the room into silence. Colonel Dugal pulled his favourite biography of the Duke of Wellington from the bookcase, topped up his mug and rustled the pages to punctuate his displeasure.

Beauregard loudly continued, “He proceeded to N’Orleans, where he felt quite at home, and quietly married into an established southern family, the Malmares of Tipitree, who at this time lived in and around the western marches of Louisiana. Here he subdued his deep pain and disappointment with a new family, and the new life, and then set about establishing the predominance of classical French cuisine in the wilds of America. His son was born in May of 1827 and was christened Owen Furrouche Lyon. You see Furrouche is a traditional Morand name, while Owen came from his father’s great friend Owen Owenn-llywwn, (who was, by a strange coincidence commanding the Royal Welsh Fusiliers when they were captured by the Royal Rhinosasauris forces a decade later).

From the very beginning it was clear that Furrouche was to the southern manner and manor born. His riding was impeccable, his dancing beyond reproach and his crème caramels were the envy of 12 parishes. Like any true gentleman his politics were his own business, though he had inherited his father’s odd views on the cotton business.”

Beauregard stopped and placed his notes on the table. He looked up and said “I had best explain some of the peculiar views my family has honestly held, before you hear it from strangers. It seems that since my great-great-grandfather was to take over his wife’s plantation on his wedding day, he had asked his old friend and sometimes advisory Lt. General Owenn-llywwn to be best man, agricultural adviser and general confidant. Owenn had arrived promptly, several weeks before the nuptials, and the two of them rollicked for nights and nights on end. When they were finished they had produced the finest wedding dessert meringues ever seen this side of Vienna, and Owen had convinced great-great gran’dad to form the plantation on a co-operative basis; each member sharing from the profits commensurate with their efforts, (minus 15% for Owen - just because—and 22.5% for Armand Lyon ‘cause he was French and could write up the act of incorporation which no one else could ever understand.)

This organizational experiment was quite ill received in the neighbourhood, but what with being the best cook and finest fencer in three days hard ride, all the other planters, who had rather more dogmatic administrative systems in place, decided to hope for the best.

As is only natural his son, my great grandfather followed in his steps and turned the plantation in a syndicalism experiment, (minus the afore mentioned and annual 37.5%). His quick temper, his father’s saber and his own puff pastries kept his reputation intact and his presence a welcome sight at all the country week-ends.

By 1860 the disintegration of the Union was well underway and was a great disappointment to Furrouche, but his father made it plain that Louisiana had taken him in when the world had washed away the remnants of Le grand Armeé and the very least his family could do was to repay the debt. True to his father’s last request and French traditions, Furrouche raised a Zouave regiment and rushed to the support of General Longstreet’s Texas Brigade.

Our Louisiana Loyal Lyon Zouaves paced the Texas Brigade through the oft told history of the Civil War - winning battle colours for bravery and Blue Ribbons for their famous poulet á la Grecque from Shiloh to the Wilderness.

But as in all great stories of glory and romance the truth must intrude. At the Battle of Gettysburg the Loyal Lyons were “The High Water Mark of the Confederacy”. It was also to be the low level mark of the Lyons!

On that second day of July our boys broke camp after a small buffet of corn-bread and blueberry butter (and a small side order of braised quail au poivre) and advanced with the right wing of The Army of Northern Virginia. Their task was to take Little Round Top. Fate had abandoned Furrouche that day; the vicious Union artillery arrived before them, and the Loyal Lyons suffered terrible casualties in their six heroic assaults. In the midst of their desperate fight Furrouche called for his adjutant; Major Jubal Malmare, his brother-in-law, and sent him riding back to bring up the final Zouave reserves, the band, and the treasured cooks.”

He paused and refilled his mug of hot chocolate, and Albert put some soothing Wagner on the stereo. Everyone stretched their legs and tried to remember were in the world Little Round Top was. 

Beauregard wiped a tear from his eye and continued.

“It had to have been a catastrophic situation for the General to call up the cooks you see. Well the reserves never arrived, and the Loyal Lyons were driven off the slopes of that fatal hill; retiring with far less than half their original strength. It broke his heart. Major Malmare was posted as missing in action, having never arrived back at the Brigade. The order committing the last reserves died with him! The crucial re-enforcement’s had never been dispatched.

It was widely whispered that our splendid Zouaves would have rather lost the battle then their cooks! This caused several sunrise duels and generations of damming accusations and snotty articles in little journals. It was only their supreme efforts at Chickamauga that prevented a malicious campaign of lies from sending great gran’dad to a Courts Marshall. 

For reasons we can only vainly speculate upon, a few months later he was approached by one of his less disreputable relations-in-law who informed him that far from dying gloriously in defense of his land and privilege; Jubal was alive and was the author of the malicious campaign of lies. Naturally he was appalled and not wishing to compromise the family through an ill-timed out burst he wrote of his despair to his old school chum The Viscount James Owen ApLlywwn.”

He paused for effect and brandishing a handful of papers said “And - and I have the damming notarized copy in this very room!”

Beauregard regained his composure and continued, “These letters prove that the General knew about Jubal’s dastardly behaviour and cowardice in the face of the enemy well before he fell a hero, leading the final, if futile charge of the pitiful few remnants of his once proud Loyal Lyons at Cold Harbour. Our last recorded word of him was scribbled by his orderly.”

Beauregard rummaged through his mound of paper and finally finding the appropriate bundle, continued.

“It says - Our last sight of my dear Brigadier, was as he disappeared into the maelstrom of battle - carrying his fatally wounded sous-chief on his back, standing in the stirrups, flourishing the colours, brandishing his sword, charging into the very midst of General Sheridan’s cavalry, singing the Marseillaise—impeccably!”

Beauregard wiped his eyes again, as did most of his audience and finished, “Fortunately for us he had also just sent Viscount James a true copy of his last will and testament where he forever excluded Jubal and any of his multitudinous offspring; unto the tenth generation from inheriting any Lyon property - ever! And we have a copy of the original in our possession.

Well now! This certainly puts the lie to the whole rotten charade. Montague and his ilk were disinherited in 1864 and the preposterous will that Jubal came home with in 1865 is an obvious forgery. We should never have lost the plantation, and by all that is good and righteous we’ll not let this affront to truth and honour stand unchallenged.”

The room erupted in cheers. Zita stood on the chair and applauded. Craig phoned for pizza. Dugal put his many prejudices aside and whispered to the Dragoons who rushed downstairs to break open a few bottles of “the good stuff”. L.B. Pig immediately offered the services of the Q-O Pigs Irregulars to right this infamous wrong. The Rhinosasaurises sent a telegraph to their second cousin telling him to break off diplomatic relations with Louisiana - and Iran for good measure. BT-McG and Albert were discussing advisability of forming The First Alligator Armour Division. It was a heady time.

The next morning when things had settled down they had a meeting to discuss the most appropriate next step, Craig having already ruled out a concerted night attack by hang gliders on cousin Montague’s estate. “First of all gather all the evidence and have it stamped and notated by the chief archivist; then call Bonnie in New Orleans and explain, in as much detail as possible, what you have found. Tell her you are forwarding copies of the evidence by courier and that Beauregard and I will be in town next week, give her the flight number and maybe she could pick us up at the airport. Suggest that a three way meeting of the Lyon and Malmare family lawyers and herself may well be in order and ask her if she needs tickets to the US Open.”

This seemed like a very good idea to everyone, so they took the rest of the day off so that they could go secretly excavating for the buried pirate treasure that they knew was secreted somewhere on the shores of Brown’s inlet. The small lagoon had been a famous stopping off point for Pyrates coming home from the Spanish Main for their five week paid vacation. At least that is what all the Animeaux had heard. And who could disprove them? -- Who would want to?.