DearGrandpa

To My Great Grandfather, Carlos Eduardo Tappana.................aka Charles Edward, my Carlos

As I try to trace your footsteps after your arrival in America, I find moments of time where your steps have disappeared. I gaze at the Atlantic Ocean and watched the waves break as they wash the sands into New Orleans. Was it a cold and windy day or did you find the shore beckoning with warmth? While I stand wondering, I can see you as a young man look upward with the sun winking a wee smile through the fog. Documents say you came with your parents and most say you had a brother. One rendition said you also had a sister but I can find no trace . Who came to meet your family; did your father have it prearranged.? Your mother and dad must have had fantasies and dreams as they brought you to this country to escape the upheaval and dangers of your country.

So many legends have been spun around you that while I stand on the shore and look at the wafting sand I wonder if one grain remains from your feet to help me discover the truth. Later evidence tells me you were handsome and probably stood very proud and erect, searching for your future. I can see Mom grab your hand as dad makes arrangements to have your personal items brought ashore and just for a moment I thought I saw you scuff the toe of your shoe on the ground. Intuition tells me you spent some time nearby enjoying the ethnic flavors that New Orleans became famous for. The nearby streets have several hotels and boarding homes that you might have gone to, but I think you knew someone to help you find your way. I explore directories for names that are familiar in your future and wonder if you knew Hyram, Adam or G H Sigler. What about John or James Nall? Then I search for other names that will some day play a prominent role in your life and wonder if any of these people are to be found in this area. I have wandered the area for hours so I will spend the night at a pleasant hotel, and start anew tomorrow morning, but for now I walk the street searching.

I hear the sound of a soul-pleading trumpet and find that I am entrenched in the magic. I can sway and hold the cry to my chest for it is burning with the soul of a man and it brings birth and regeneration. Lights are everywhere and so are the tales of music, with lusty voice of knowing women and men of ballads. People from your country are common and I stare into each face longing to find you and I feel ever closer to your beautiful mother and the father I envision. The Spanish girls have beautiful clothes and alluring form, but most of all I see their eyes; pain, tears and joy all crowded into one frame drawing men to them. I walk over to Burgandy Street and find the same stories, the same music and couples in love or who have come to drown their sorrows or perhaps a brawl. Not even the cops seem to care as they stroll along indifferently. Soon I find the intersection to St Louis Street and find a quietly reserved hotel and stop in to see if they have a room for my tired, worn feet. The clerk is shocked to find I am alone without proper escort and doesn't seem to change his mind when I tell him why I am there. He informs me they will not allow any loose morals in their hotel and he hesitantly leads me to a comfortable and even well decorated room. Not the most expensive, but respectable and dreamy.

As I lay in my room I can see the bristling stars and I wonder if one will lead me to your family. Legend also said your mother and dad found tragedy facing them as they came here in faith. I have been told that for some reason your family returned to Spain intending to come back with other family members, but were killed when they returned to Spain. When I was a child in the seventh grade, my history teacher had taken two of us to do a brief search of our first family arrrival in America. Why did she choose me as one of the subjects; why this particular line? I don't know. I only know she said that my great grandfather came to America with a wife and two boys ( I can't remember what was said about a little baby girl), but I remember her telling me my great, great grandfather had been accused of something wrong but was found not guilty. My mind is foggy when I try to remember what happened to great, great grandmother, but I remember one of the boys were left here, and perhaps both stayed. They say you had family or friends here in America,

but I find my mind cannot recall those memories of youth.

I smell tears dampening my pillow as I cry to bring your family alive again, to right the wrong, to leave a legacy of pride as I hear was the plea of your dad. My heart tells me he was too trusting, too honest, in a troubled period of time as the different factions fought their wars in Spain. I hear he was a part of the military and would have been born into grief and years of infighting. When I wake I will continue my search.

The sounds of clattering hoofs and busy merchants selling their wares has roused me long before I planned on getting up. A pretty, young mulatto girl asks if I would like help with anything as she bustles around cleaning the room before I can get fully dressed. I take a long look into her dark eyes and see much anxiety. She appears that if she does the slightest wrong she will not have a job . I press a little extra money in her hand and thank her for her courtesy and hasten out the door to the crowded street. I wonder if anyone sleeps.

I couldn't help but notice there were stores of fashion that compared to the finest in New York. I looked admiringly at one off the shoulder red velvet gown that I would have loved to have worn, but not today, I could barely carry what I had. I was aware of a couple watching and before I could question their staring, the lady said, "you're not from around here are you?" Before I could ask why she knew, they told me if I hoped to hire transportation I was in the wrong place. When they learned I wanted to board a steamship to ride up the Mississippi, I saw a caring flicker cross their face as they explained a lady should never be alone on such a ride. Being an independent woman would make me out of place and perhaps less acceptable so I took their offer of a ride in a made-for-the-rich carriage that had just pulled aside. The driver called my benefactor sir, and his wife madam, so I surmised they were the owners. Such graciousness to a stranger was deeply appreciated and I understood the expression "southern hospitality." What I hadn't realized was the Mighty Mississippi was only a few blocks away; I could have walked! I also knew I would return to the mystery of New Orleans...............................

When we reached the pier I gazed out over the river and saw nothing I had expected. Why had I envisioned blue, clear water? One often finds fantasy amid their imagination and it can be disconcerting. With help, a steamer was selected for me and my kind friends spoke with the captain just out of earshot and I found myself being escorted to a luxurious seat with a view. As they shook my hand good bye I felt sad to lose such wonderful new friends but promised to let them know if I was successful in my search, then turned to sit and wait for the boat to roll!

Soon we wended our way around the bend into a wide, angry body of water that I knew would be part of history. There were small boats trying to stay afloat in the rowdy waves and there were barges and cargo laden ships acting as though they had been traveling this path for hundreds of years. I saw large steamers like the one I was aboard with happy, waving people. How I wish I could find your face in the crowd or perhaps be surprised by a book or newspaper with your name and picture. A tall handsome gentleman walked by that could have been you even though I wasn't sure if he was Spanish or French and my eyes followed as I saw the ladies smile coyly when he walked by.

It seems we stopped as much as we traveled and each time several got off and others jumped aboard, but none would be acquainted with you. As the sun rose in the sky I was served a most delicious lunch with oyster stew and tiny wafers with a heady cheese. Some were drinking ales, but I chose a light, fruity tea imported from England. I knew it would take days to complete the trip but I had no idea of the extreme change of scenery, climate and temperature. The weaving blades of grass was a sudden reality. You saw this scene generations ago, the only difference is the grass , like I, are part of the descending line. As I stare at the horizon I feel you traveled this way more than once. I know the scene has not changed much because it is still primitive. Birds hidden from view suddenly fly high looking down on our boat as if to say, "who are you to disturb our home? "

I soon find that you traveled up this river when still a boy and therefore may have never known the total enticement of New Orleans, but I sense that you were aware of the night life and perhaps warned of its pleasure. I question some passengers, but they also have no idea where I might search, but encourage me; for I will find you! I long to sit at your feet by a warm fire and listen to your story of which I am a part. I must return home without you but I will come back until someone can lead me to the story of tragedy and sorrow. If the tales are true, who raised you and who were your parents? I must know for they are my great, great grandparents and their loss will be told for I wait for vindication of their tears.

I will find you..........................................

This trip is different for I feel electricity in the air. Again I stand on the shore of the massive Atlantic Ocean and watch the fury of yesterdays anger crash onto the rocks. The sea is not always happy and this time it is anxious for me to hear. The waves screech that there are records of ship arrivals that I have overlooked; "go back, go back" the waves thunder. While standing with the wind blowing my thoughts awry, I notice two ladies silently watching the shore. I introduce myself and notice shock on their face as they tell me of their awareness of my many queries and that they too are searching for their great grandfather and his history. Cousins, so far from home have met on this memorable quest and I am in awe to note that this is a special day. As we embraced the eastern winds. we held on dearly to each others words to see if perhaps one had another piece of the puzzle. As we exchanged stories, one thing I stubbornly clung to was the story my grandmother had told and the teacher had related many years earlier. Somewhere in my heart or mind I knew there were curious and hidden events encased in the story.

New Orleans, Havana, we know you were there at some point. We travel and look through records and I recall a ship that held curious names. A Don Carlos de Espana, the consul of Spain to New Orleans had arrived in America in 1846. He had come with his wife and two boys, Carlos aged ten and Guillermo, aged eight. That fit the story, but what of the rest? My newly found cousins had information that had been acquired through the years and the sharing brought renewed hope. Nestled in a comfortable cafe we exchanged stories and as I held onto the brief memory of yesterdays voice and the small amount of words I could recall from my maternal grandmother, I glimpsed into the secret place I sometimes go to find answers, and thought just for a moment I could see them on the Atlantic shore someplace lost in time.

Tappana, I look again and again at your contrived name, then at the ship log of Brig Street. My eyes feel this family ...The oldest boy is listed on one log by his English counterpart; Charles. The other list has his name spelled in his Native Spanish; Carlos. His eight year old brother, with an English name of William and a Spanish name as Guillermo. The fathers name is Carlos, Don Carlos, the same as one of your sons and my grandfather. The mothers name has an entry that has been written over and to me it appears to be Madelena, but the translator many years later has written it as Madeline. I notice that it can't be Madeline because what they have interpreted as an "e" on the end is identical to the last letter of "a" that has been interpreted as an "o", making the name "Espano." That would be Italian I thought and if they were from Spain it should be Espana. I am excited because I have been searching ship logs for months now and I have never found a father, mother and two sons who are the right age entering new Orleans, and now these names are leaping out at me.

The entry is listed as September 29, 1846, and the son Carlos, is ten years old making his year of birth 1836 ? Grandpa, your military records listed your birth year as 1836, now my heart is beating faster. Am I on to something that generations have failed to find? I then notice Carlos, the father is being sent to America as a consul from Spain at New Orleans. If this is your family, why would you want to conceal your identity or change your name; I am mystified. I listen to the memories of my mother as I recall her saying; "Dolores, Charles, your great grandfather's dad had some kind of problems and was accused of some wrong doing and even though he was acquitted, there was great tragedy connected. My teachers voice echoed as her voice beckoned me to listen again to what she had said; " we have quite a little celebrity here. Her lineage leads back to royalty in Spain and unfortunately her great great grandfather was accused of being a spy and other acts but was found innocent." " Nevertheless it ruined his life." Yes, I'm sure I hear them speaking to me.

While watching the tall, distinguished man usher his family forward I recall my grandfather Don Carlos and the great resemblance. Grandpa Don was handsome like a movie star with his moustache and flirty eyes. I see those same eyes emanating radiantly from this lady, but its the man with the calm and quiet demeanor that stikes me as I remember the people who knew you and left their description. I am speechless as I watch the boys, the parents and the businessman who approaches to welcome your dad to his new post. I turn to ask my cousins if they feel the flame of discovery and I know without asking. They are wondering also.

My overwhelming sense of need leads me to find help in tracing this family and I soon find a genealogist from Spain who brings me good news. Carlos, the father is indeed been found in archives with several generations of military men and a line of nobility. I know in my heart I have found you, your father and generations of grandparents. As I hold these papers in hand and feel your spirit leading me, speaking to me, hearing me, I know I am now sitting at your feet and listening to your story of sadness, pain and tragedy that you have endured.

Today I sit at my computer and relive my journey of heart and vision for I was too old and broken of body to travel, but my minds eye with the companionship and assistance of your other grandchildren has led me to your path of yesterday. I now must find how your father died and the destiny of your brother Guillermo. Most of all I must find the beautiful lady that was your mother. She calls to me to bring her to life again, even if on the pages for rememberance. I will follow her tears until I find her. But if I should not, there are other grandchildren who will, for we will not give up until she is avenged of her despair.

"Grandpa, my Carlos, my great grandfather, " I heard you whisper today;" "had I not contracted hepatitis during the Civil War, I would have probably been killed and there wouldn't have been a descendant to bring the story of my father and mother and the tragedy of their life....................

Thank you Grandpa! I will find my family.........................

Dolores (Boots)