A LAFAYETTE CITY STORY
It was February 23, in the year 1852; the place, Lafayette City, the independent municipality on the Mississippi River, just above the thriving city of New Orleans. The hazy sun was turning a chilly morning into one of the unseasonably warm late winter afternoons typical of the semi-tropical climate. Throughout the spacious back residential section of Lafayette City, known as the Garden District, the azalea bushes were covered with swollen buds, ready to burst into their annual blaze of glory.
A morning rain had sent a tiny fresher gurgling along the deep, weed-lined gutters, carefully retained between street and banquette by stout “gunwales”, long planks from broken up flatboats. The neat herringbone pattern of the red brick banquettes was set off by the doily-like border of the white pickets fencing the fine mansion of John Layton on Jackson Street.
Tall jalousies guarded the front door of the Layton home. Suddenly they parted, and John Layton, Esquire, himself, walked out, followed by John, Junior, a lad of 12 years. Emerging from the darkened interior, they both squinted at the afternoon haze. Obviously, from their winter finery, hats and light topcoats, this was a more-important-than-usual sortie.
“There she comes, John, c’mon!” shouted Father, grabbing John by the arm and hustling him down the wooden stairs of the gallery, out the swinging gate and into the street to hail the passing omnibus mule car, bound in Jackson Street toward the lively commercial center of Lafayette City, near the river front.
Father physically scooped son aboard the double-decker omnibus “Governor Johnson”, the pride of Lafayette and product of its own Hart, Thomas and Company. It was crowded this day, top to bottom, and all passengers were dressed in unaccustomed finery.
“But, Father...,” panted young John, “... why are we ... where are we...?”
Both struggled into the packed lower section of the “Governor Johnson” and sandwiched into seats. Blowing hard, the elder Layton withdrew a large linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. In February! Then he answered his son.
“It is a day in history, lad. You’ll see. ’Tis a memory of it I want you to have. Whew!” It was close inside the “Governor Johnson”.
The rocky ride on the mule car compounded the effort of John Layton, Sr., to regain composure. Someone opened a window, but little breeze was generated by the four-mile-per-hour clop, clop, clop of the two scrawny mules. Father knew he still owed son an explanation.