I was born in New Orleans; a city steeped in secrets, shadows, and song. Adopted at birth, I lived much of my life untethered to the stories of blood and bone, until fate, like the turning of a pirate’s compass, steered my biological family back to me. My mother, a proud daughter of the old Manchac line, spun tales with the richness of a Mississippi fog and the charm of a seasoned riverboat queen.
She told me, with eyes like stormy hazel glass and a voice dipped in molasses and moonlight, that I was descended from none other than Pierre Lafitte, the elusive, lesser-sung brother of the infamous privateer Jean Lafitte. I laughed. She didn’t. Her gaze narrowed, her tone sharpened like a cutlass. “It’s true,” she said, “and you must find where he lies buried. He’s waiting for you, to pay your respects.” And just like that, my first search began, not for treasure, but for the truth, and it yielded nothing.
My second search for Pierre began, fittingly, at the University of New Orleans, specifically, its curious and almost mythical College of Privateering. A place I imagined to be rich with sea charts, cannonball relics, and professors in tricorn hats quoting Blackbeard over bourbon. The Dean, a man named Claude Theriot, was said to be the keeper of all knowledge related to Louisiana’s piratical past. I arrived unannounced, hoping to find a scholar or at least a lead. But the halls echoed with absence.
There was no receptionist. No advisors. No faculty that I could see; only students drifting through classrooms like specters in a dream, laughing and spinning yarns thicker than a ship’s rope. I stopped one and asked, “What’s the curriculum here?” He blinked at me. “We don’t know,” he said with an earnestness that made it worse. I pressed on, “Are there lectures?” Another shrugged, “No. There are no lectures.”
Perplexed, I asked, “When does Dean Theriot come into the office?” The reply came with a lazy shrug. “Never seen him. Never seen anyone, really.” I was losing patience. “Then how do you pass?” The student grinned. “We drop our papers in a wooden box. A few weeks later, they come back graded.”
It felt less like an academic institution and more like a secret society where no one knew the rules, including those in charge. Still, I had a feeling that somewhere in that fog of folklore and laissez-faire academia, a clue was waiting to surface.
One of the students, perhaps moved by my persistence, or amused by my bewilderment, finally pointed me in the direction of the Dominique Youx Library, a name that felt like a riddle itself. Dominique Youx, had earned his own mythos in the annals of New Orleans lore. If there was truth buried beneath centuries of salt, soot, and Southern storytelling, it would be here.
The library was not the grand, vaulted sanctum I had imagined, but a quieter place; dusty, dim, and humming with the soft whispers of forgotten pages. I spent months there, my days unraveling into nights under the flicker of gas lamps and the smell of old paper. I combed through sea-stained maps, brittle French journals, old legal records, and romanticized accounts penned by men who couldn’t separate fact from fable.
Each book was a puzzle; every document, a whisper from the grave. Somewhere in that chorus of ghosts, I hoped Pierre was speaking to me. I just had to learn how to listen.
Eventually, the same student, perhaps out of pity or mischief, offered a final breadcrumb. “If you really want to find Dean Theriot,” he said, leaning in like he was sharing a ghost story, “head down to Golden Meadow and start asking around. But don’t hold your breath, we’ve all tried.”
That was enough for me.
I took the long road south, where the Spanish moss drapes low like secrets, and the humidity presses against your chest like a confession. But before I could reach my destination, the infamous Galliano speed trap swallowed me whole. A local ritual, it seemed – part warning, part welcome.
When I finally rolled into Golden Meadow and started asking about Claude Theriot, the air grew colder. Not literally, of course. It was still thick and hot enough to melt your bones, but the people? They stiffened. Eyes narrowed. Conversations died mid-sentence. It was as if I’d mentioned a ghost who owed them money. Whatever Dean Theriot was, or had been, he was still very much a presence. I didn’t know if I was getting warmer, but I was definitely making people uncomfortable, which suggested I was on the right trail.
Out of options and hungry for a distraction, I booked a fishing charter to chase some redfish out in the marsh. The captain’s name was Timmy, a weathered man with the posture of an old anchor and a voice like driftwood scraping the hull. He wore his miles plainly. As we cast off lines and made idle talk, he asked what had brought me down the bayou. I told him.
Timmy stopped mid-knot. He gave me a long, slow look and said, “I know where Theriot is.” Just like that. Then he squinted toward the setting sun and added, “But not tonight. Meet me at the dock, 8:00 AM sharp, and bring two one-hundred dollar bills.”
I was at the dock by 7:45 AM, the fog still clinging to the water like spirits reluctant to leave. Timmy arrived without a word, I gave him one-hundred dollars, we cast off, and slipped into a winding labyrinth of narrow canals. Cypress knees jutted out like bony fingers, and the hum of unseen life buzzed in the reeds. After what felt like hours navigating the liquid veins of Cajun country, we pulled up to a weathered fishing camp that looked stitched together with rust and river rot.
Standing in the doorway was a woman, regal in posture, wild in presence. Timmy turned to me and said in a hushed voice, “That’s Miss Lashonda. She’s a voodoo queen.”
Miss Lashonda didn’t smile, but her eyes twinkled with dangerous amusement. A three-legged monkey clung to her shoulder like a familiar friend, and around her neck hung a withered monkey paw pendant that pulsed with quiet menace.
“Miss Lashonda,” Timmy said with a respectful bow of his head, “this here’s Richard Windmann. He’d like a word with Claude Theriot.”
She tilted her head and appraised me like she was measuring my soul for something. Then she stepped aside and beckoned me in. The inside of her camp was equal parts shrine, séance, and swamp shack. Incense curled from a tin can. Bottles clinked without being touched. The air was thick with jasmine, mildew, and the promise of secrets.
“If you want to talk to Theriot,” she said, “it’ll cost you a hundred dollars, and a turducken for Thanksgiving.”
I handed over a crisp hundred without hesitation. But as for the turducken, in my mind I thought: There’s no way in hell I’m coming back down here for Thanksgiving.
That’s when the monkey leapt from her shoulder, swift as a curse, and landed squarely on my head. I yelped, twisted, spun. As I began to react, it vanished.
Heart racing, I asked, “Where’s the monkey?!”
Miss Lashonda didn’t flinch. “Never mind that,” she said calmly, lighting a strange-smelling bundle of herbs. “But if I don’t get my turducken this Thanksgiving, you WILL see him again.”
She gave a slow, knowing nod to Timmy.
And just like that, we were back in the boat, slicing through the swamp, heading deeper into the unknown.
After another mile of weaving through that watery maze, where every bend looked like the last and every shadow seemed to watch, we reached a second camp. This one was older, quieter, like time itself had stopped knocking.
Timmy slowed the boat and pointed. “Theriot’s in there.”
We docked. I stepped onto the weather-beaten planks and made my way to the door. I knocked twice, the sound hollow and final. The door creaked open, and there stood the elusive Dean Claude Theriot; gaunt, sun-worn, and carrying the weight of too many secrets.
“Dean Theriot,” I began, “I’m Richard…”
He cut me off with a low grunt. “I know who you are. And I know what you want.”
I nodded, a little shaken but undeterred. “My mother, Karen Manchac, told me I needed to find my great grandfather’s grave, Pierre Lafitte. She said I had to pay my respects.”
He sighed, deep and gravelly, as if he’d been holding that breath for decades. “Yes. I know that, too.”
Then he stepped aside and waved me in. The inside of the camp was simple; books stacked like barricades, maps spread across every surface, and a half-empty bottle of something brown and unforgiving sitting on the windowsill.
He poured himself a drink and leaned in.
“I know exactly where Pierre Lafitte is buried,” he said slowly. “But it’s not here in Acadiana. Not in Louisiana. Not even on the mainland.”
I held my breath.
“You’ll need to take a flight to the northern shore of the Dominican Republic,” he continued, never breaking eye contact. “Go to a town called Sosua. When you get there, find a place called “El Fogon.” Ask for a man named Guillermo. Tell him what you’re there to do. And bring cash.”
Just as I turned to leave, thinking the hard part was over, Theriot leaned in close, so close I could smell the alcohol and smoke on his breath. His eyes, dark and unwavering, pinned me to the floor.
“And Richard,” he said, voice low as a grave prayer, “you will return here when it’s done. You and I, we still have a conversation to finish.”
He let that hang for a moment, then added, almost in a whisper:
“Or you’ll see Lashonda’s monkey again.”
A chill laced down my spine like a bayou breeze at midnight. I remembered the monkey’s weight on my head, the way it vanished like a bad omen, and the voodoo queen’s quiet warning about Thanksgiving.
I didn’t ask what the conversation would be about. And I didn’t ask what the monkey would do.
I just nodded.
Some debts you pay in cash. Others, in conversation.
And some, in turducken.
I booked a flight the next morning, the kind of one-way journey that feels more like a pilgrimage than a trip. The plane touched down in the humid arms of the Dominican Republic, and I made my way east to the sleepy coastal town of Sosua, a place where time strolled, not sprinted, and the sea always seemed to be whispering old stories.
El Fogon wasn’t hard to find. The scent of grilled meat and woodsmoke guided me better than any map could. Inside, sitting at the bar like he’d been waiting for years, was Guillermo, a man carved from mahogany and sea salt. His eyes studied me before I even spoke.
“I’m here about Pierre Lafitte,” I said.
He didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, finished his drink, and motioned for me to follow.
We drove east, past swaying palms and the distant shimmer of the Caribbean, until we reached a quiet beach town named Cabrera. From there, another fifteen minutes inland along a crumbling coastal road brought us to a forgotten rise of earth fringed with scrub brush and wildflowers; a small, unkempt cemetery swallowed in green and memory.
No gates. No signs. No tourists.
Just the stillness of the dead and the whispers of the past.
Guillermo led me through the uneven stones and crumbling crosses until we stopped before the Lafitte family crypt.
I stood there for a long time. Said nothing. Let the waves speak for me. Then I knelt, brushed the dust from the engraving, whispered a quiet thanks to the man whose blood ran in mine, and paid my respects.
Then I turned back toward the path, and flew back home. My two-week vacation is almost over, I took two days to decompress and reflect.
Back in the bayou, I gave Timmy a hundred dollar bill. The sun hung low and thick over the water, painting everything in gold and ghost. I returned to Theriot’s camp just as I had promised. He was already waiting, seated like a prophet who knew I’d keep my word.
He looked at me with a smirk, sitting across from one another, glass in hand, he offered me a glass and I accepted.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You started your first journey at the Lafitte Historical Society in Galveston, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Thought it’d be a good place to start.”
“And what did you learn there?”
I laughed. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”
He chuckled, then leaned in. “And you went to the Sam Houston Museum to see Jean Lafitte’s manuscript, didn’t you?”
I confessed that I had. “It was under glass. Couldn’t touch it, but I’d already read the printed version.”
He studied me for a moment. “And what did you learn?”
I shrugged. “A bunch of unbelievable stories.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s half the truth of any legend.”
And from there, we tumbled into the annals of forgotten lore. We talked about Pierre’s history. We talked about the bloodlines. We talked about ghosts.
“You know Pierre was the oldest, right?”
“I do.”
“And Dominique Youx?”
“One of the Lafitte brothers, undercover.”
He grinned. “Did you know Dominique infiltrated New Orleans high society? Business, politics, even the courts?”
“I had heard,” I said. “but I do not know to what extent.”
He let out a laugh that echoed through the camp like cannon fire. “Nobody does. That’s how good he was.”
He reached for the bottle, topped off my glass, and raised his own.
“Well,” he said, “congratulations. You just graduated from my course. 4.0.”
I blinked, puzzled. “How? I never enrolled.”
He leaned forward, and his voice softened like a warm wind over dark water.
“Because you are a Lafitte.”
