Watchmen Stand Vigil in City's Wealthiest Homes

Residents Stay Behind To Protect Possessions

NEW ORLEANS -- Just blocks from a smoldering fire and walking distance from bodies floating in the floodwaters, John Crouch and Andy Guzman debated what to make for dinner.

As the sun set, the men had hurriedly chained up the cast-iron fence and locked themselves into the 10,000-square-foot, gray-green Greek Revival mansion for the night. Three dogs, three handguns and five shotguns kept them company.

Earlier in the week, the men feasted on Cornish hens and jumbo shrimp. Now they had exhausted their supply of meat and seafood, but there was a bit of good news: There was plenty of champagne in the ice chest.

"It's like luxury camping," said Crouch, 42, founder of an architectural restoration company. His own multimillion-dollar home was nearby, but he set up operations in this even fancier mansion because it still had running water and functioning phones.

Crouch and his friend Guzman, a high-end housing contractor and a neighbor, have been living here for the past 10 days, among the few thousand people who have refused to leave the city despite a mandatory evacuation order. They are standing guard in one of New Orleans's wealthiest areas over their own homes and those of about 30 neighbors who fled town. The lights from their generator cast an eerie glow on a part of the city that is otherwise pitch black after dusk.

Night in New Orleans brings into focus the unfairness of Hurricane Katrina's wrath. This has always been a city of the very rich and the very poor, and the storm, which has changed so much, has done nothing to change that.

While many of the poorest parts of the city became a toxic swamp of unspeakable things, its wealthiest areas -- including the central business district, the French Quarter and the area around St. Charles Street that includes the Garden District, the predominantly white neighborhood where Crouch and Guzman are staying -- escaped almost damage-free.

The first place the lights were turned back on, on Wednesday, was the central business district, and now the signs for the Hyatt, BellSouth and the Sheraton -- albeit with some of the letters missing -- glow in the city's skyline. In the French Quarter, Johnny White's Sports Bar & Grill continues to operate, dispensing cold beer, along with music from a boom box, to patrons who flow in and out all night. On St. Charles Street, a single gas lantern flickers in the night at the door of one of the larger houses even as some of the newly homeless scrounge in the streets for food.

Crouch's roof was partially torn, and Guzman's house lost five sideboards, but they stayed dry inside.

The mansion where they've taken up residence -- owned by some friends, the Sinclairs -- was in the best shape of all. About two square yards of the ceiling in the dining room became waterlogged and fell, but the antiques, the paintings, the lovingly restored frescoes and the furniture imported from Paris were just fine. The pool and its fountains were in good shape, and the men have been pouring chlorine into it and taking their baths there.

When the Sinclairs heard that Crouch, a former Marine who studied architecture at Tulane University, and Guzman, the son of immigrants from Guatemala who specializes in work for luxury houses, were going to remain in the city, they asked if the men wanted to stay at their house -- one of the grandest of the grand. They agreed.

The men left the city with their families before the worst of the storm, embarking on a quest for supplies through Memphis, Pensacola, Fla., and Baton Rouge, La., that netted 200 gallons of water, 100 gallons of gas, a truckload of food, a $4,000 electrical generator and other essentials.