by Louis E. Bourgeois
Pappy's Ditch started off as a mere trench that ran from the southern tip of Lake Borgne all the way to the back swill waters of Chico Lagoon. These days it's as wide as a canal because of all the dredging going on. I dug Pappy's Ditch myself, with dynamite and rakes, before the years of Prohibition when I was trapping for a living. But, by the end of 1919, Pappy's Ditch wasn't used so much as a trapping route as it was for a battle zone. You see, there was this group of hunters and trappers from Brownsville who came over here to take over our land. They had exhausted their own trapping grounds and wanted to do the same to ours. We along Bayou Savage were having none of it, and for about six months, we killed many Texans. They even had the Texas Rangers down here to help them out. It didn't do them any good. Right about the time we got rid of the Texans, Congress enacted the 18th Amendment making it illegal to make or sell alcohol in the United States. It was then that I stopped trapping all together and turned to rum running as a way of life. After all those months of fighting and killing Texans, I didn't even trap anymore. On the other hand, if I hadn't turned from trapping to rum running, I wouldn't have this story to tell.
We were within eyesight of the Fisherman's Rest. LeBlanc, the one who got nailed by the ray, was lying flat on his back at the stern of the boat nursing a swollen hand. The other two were at the bow finishing off a bottle of rum. They looked waxed. They didn't seem to have much life left in them. Certainly they didn't have the energy or willpower to hold me at gunpoint anymore. I decided to let them in on my plans. I yelled out, "Hey you, Malone, hey you LeBlanc, hey you Birou, when we get back I'm going to kill you. I'm going to shoot the hell out of you three."
And wouldn't you know they chuckled. I was trying to help the poor bastards, but they weren't catching on too good. Perhaps they thought I was joking. Perhaps they had taken my new found religious sensibility to heart. There is nothing more stupid than a cop. Malone said, "Jeanfreaux, you're a relic." "You'll see," I said. Birou said, "You're just a shit, Jeanfreaux. You don't have anything in you anymore. You're all washed up." LeBlanc lifted his head from where he was still lying on his back and said, "Why are you scared to make a little money like in the old days? Join up with us and it will be like it was back then, you'll see, we'll have a time of it."
"I'm through with all of that," I said, "but I'm not through with you three.
That bottle of piss you made me drink has given me the right to blast holes through all three of you bastards. And that's what I'm going to do. I'm on God's side now." We pulled into the boat shed about half an hour before dark. It was just like any other summer evening out here. Creosote burned next door at the piling plant, causing my eyes to water and my nose to run. Gnats blackened the sky, and it was still hot as hell. We never get any relief from the heat in August. Not hardly even at night. The three cops were still on the boat. They seemed happy that we were docked. A chance to get more alcohol, I suppose. I went inside and told my wife to call the New Orleans Police Station. "What?" she said. "Don't ask," I said. She didn't say a word more. Years of living with me had taught her better. Sweat poured from my face. My son was in and I told him to get my rifle. It was the only gun in the house anymore. I had won it a couple of weeks earlier on a punchboard during some fair at Audubon Park. It was only a .22, but it shot very well.
I sent my son to call the cops out of the boat. He seemed pleased to do so. I told him what I was going to do. I also told him to tell the cops that all was well and that they should come in and get a bite to eat and something to drink. After all, I was an old man who didn't want any more trouble. Well, not old exactly, but old enough not to want any more trouble with the law. I've spent my whole life fighting the law, you can't beat the bastards.
I saw my son running towards the boat shed. Then a minute later he came running back. I thought he was coming inside the house, but instead he climbed up the cistern and sat on top of it. No wind blew, and from across the bayou I could hear the cry of nutrias. Malone came out of the boat shed first. LeBlanc, who was still holding his wounded hand, followed Birou.
I was standing at an open window facing the bayou. I gripped my rifle but did not aim it. The creosote from next door burned so thick in the air I could taste it. Sweat covered my body. Mosquitoes and gnats buzzed around my eyes and ears. My wife was crying in the next room. She did not know what I was going to do. She could only sense it. Seagulls were shrieking over the bayou, where I have lived all my life. From the bathroom across the hall, I could smell piss. Malone walked up to the cistern with the other two cops behind him. He looked up at my son and said, "Boy, what are you doing up there?" My son laughed. My son dangled his legs and laughed. This surprised me. It sent a chill down my spine. My son said to Malone,"Sir, I've got me a front row seat to this show." Malone was about to say something when I kicked open the screen door and put sixteen bullets into the cops. They were all spread out on the grass wheezing and crying. I walked past the cops to the end of the wharf. I threw the rifle into the bayou. I stepped foot onto the Alice D and sat on the captain's stool. I lit a cigarette and mumbled a sort of prayer to myself. I was not sorry for what I had done, and I was not all that worried about what was going to happen. I had been here before. This was not new to me. The police came and took me to jail, but I was out on bond a week later. None of the cops I shot died, although Malone's back was severed and he'll probably never walk again. The newspaper was on the kitchen table. It was dated August 9, 1941. On the front page were pictures of Darln, Petain, and Hitler. But at least half of the front page was about what I had done a week earlier: "Jeanfreaux Shoots Three Police in Fishing Trip Row." I was drinking coffee and reading The Times-Picayune.
I told those guys I'd get them.