“There was a woman of Hachard’s acquaintance, who lived farther along the levee, long thought to be African, and she made her claim by speaking without stop in the mother tongue of her tribe, and her master, whether from guilt or merely to shut her mouth, freed her on the spot. For the second part of the new code allowed masters to free their slaves without obtaining permission of the cabildo or governor or anyone at all. Under the Code Noir, an official decree for just cause was required for emancipation, but this put the matter in the master’s hands. The third great change was to allow the person to own their own property and not, as the French had it, forfeit their rights to the master. After O’Reilly, we could now own money, make a contract with anyone for services on our own time, and receive an inheritance. A girl of my own age, the daughter of a freedman parted from her and living in Pennsylvania, was sent a note upon the unfortunate man’s demise that she was now the owner of a farm larger in acreage than her own master’s plantation. The irony would have been unbearable if not for the fourth part of O’Reilly’s reforms. She was able to buy her freedom by selling a parcel of land and paying her owner. The governor had granted the right of coartación to all slaves in Louisiana, just as the blacks of Cuba had enjoyed. Contracts were allowed with our masters to set a price for our freedom, and in essence, we could now purchase ourselves. A special council had been established to hear our cases and take our complaints and judge any abuse. If a master refused a contract of manumission, he could be brought before the court. If a master overstepped his bounds most cruelly, he could be ordered to sell that slave to someone kinder who might treat us as genuine humans and not mere chattel.
“One year after I had first met Hachard, on the night of the Festival of Lights, we talked in her little room about our plans for freedom, with our voices low, so as not to wake the children, but she could scarce contain her enthusiasm. The Big Fella, she whispered, says there are many people who would pay a king’s ransom for the treat of a Sunday dinner from the pot of old Hachard. And he says that Mr. Pollock, the Irish merchant who is friend to the governor, will pay a handsome price to unload the ships when the wheat comes in, or the cider barrels. We have made a pact, Marie Delhomme, the first to acquire the money shall save for the other. He must love you very much, I said, and you him. A quick laugh lit the darkness. My dear, you are a child with a view of life that is too romantic for an old crow, but we like each other well enough. I felt foolish, but excitement overpowered my shame. How much will you need to pay to buy your life? Phtt, I am an old woman of little use, and the Master should pay me to go. She mentioned a figure in French money, and I asked her for the amount in Spanish currency, for I no longer understood the French sums. We shall see, said Hachard, what M. Foiegras has to say, but I hope the price is low.
“The matter was settled at Christmastime, after the children had been sent to bed, and the Master and Mistress lingered over the roast goose. Madame LaChance sat like a stump, her arms crossed over her breast. But his lips and fingers glistened with grease, and Monsieur wore on his face a look of utter contentment. Perfect, he told Hachard as we cleared the bird from the table. Delicious, as usual. Merci, she said. Since it is the day of thanksgiving for our Lord’s birth, she said, perhaps you have given thought to our conversation? With the sharp point of a knife, he picked at his teeth and sucked in the bits of meat as he talked. Our conversation? The coartación? The price, Monsieur? Leaning back in his chair till he nearly toppled over, he said, We could never let you go, Hachard, for how then would we eat so well? But Master … One hand rose in the air to silence her, but she pressed on: I shall teach little Marie my every secret. Fat chance, he said, but let’s say you do. Ce n’est pas un perdreau de l’année. How is 100 piastres? A fair price, no?
“If the amount stunned her, Hachard betrayed no emotion, though of course I knew it well beyond her speculations. She simply bowed and removed more dishes from the table, wiping her nose on the shoulder of her dress. Curious and emboldened, I approached the Master and asked what price was upon me. You are but a kitten. He eyed me from head to toe. Shall we say 350 piastres? That’s less than I paid for you in Port-au-Prince. I could do little more than nod, but the sum might as well have been ten times as much, for I had never heard of anything to cost as much as freedom. Back in our room, Hachard and I cried together. Such a fine Christmas.
“What else can you do when life sets such obstacles before you other than to persevere and rely upon God’s will and your own wits? Hachard at least had the reassurance of her man and the secret knowledge that he toiled on her behalf. I had no one in the world but my own self. I bent to my work. There was enough to do raising six children, running the household, and squeezing every recipe from Hachard.
“Once he had shown the French and Creoles and Acadians the iron will of Spain, Governor O’Reilly departed the next February, and another Spaniard took his place. No matter. The codes had been reformed, and we were not to go back to the old ways. I had my contract for manumission tucked beneath my mattress, and on free days, took the wash of some less fortunate households to the laundry along with the LaChances’, and by the end of one year, I had five piastres to my name. Since she could hire herself to cook every night she managed, Hachard fared much better and made triple my wages. More and more she brought me into the kitchen as she had promised and showed me her techniques, those acquired over long years at a hot stove, but also a touch of Cuba in some dishes, for she picked up recipes from the Habanans who now resided in New Orleans. Very hot, with lots of cayenne and other peppers, and M. LaChance loved the new flavors. The hotter the better, and when the summer came and the sun bore down in July and August, he thrived on some smoke on his tongue. His favorite dish was écrevisse épicée …”
Loudly clearing his throat, the old man paused. “Spicy, n’est pas? But I don’t know what is écrevisse.”