Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (19 page)

Marcel’s mount drew even with the mule’s right flank. Weber
rode hard, his back arched and his seat poised above the saddle. He looked over
his shoulder. Marcel grinned at him. Dix’s eyes widened in recognition, and the
corncob pipe fell out of his mouth.

Dix sat back in his saddle and let the mule slow. The troops
had him surrounded by the time the mule decided he was ready to stop.

“Sunshine,” Marcel said.

Dix heaved a sigh. “Marcel.”

“Last time I saw you, let’s see. At the races.” Marcel eyed
the yellow trousers and the coarse-weave blouse. “I believe you were in a tall
beaver hat and a fine black coat that day.”

Dix plucked at his loose shirt. “I have to say, Marcel,
you’d be more comfortable in this sun if you were wearing calico.”

Marcel had heard the Weber brothers had split the family,
one sympathizing with the North, the other joining Jeff Davis’s forces.
Divided, like Yves and himself.

“What on earth are you doing out here on the Lafourche,
Dix?”

“Why, I have kinfolks all up and down the bayou, Marcel. You
remember Aunt Freda? Her place just down the road a ways?”

“Best coconut cake I ever had was
your Aunt Freda’s.”

Dix’s broad German brow was tanned, his curls sun-bleached.
He’d been spending a lot of time outdoors.

Marcel took out his canteen, handed it over. “Why did you
run, Dix?”

Dix wiped his mouth and passed the canteen back. “All you
hear about these days is ruffians, vagabonds, deserters loose on the roads. Figured
you for banditos, hiding in the trees like that.”

Marcel eyed the familiar, sunburned face. The excitement of
chasing his old friend up the road was over. If Dix was out here as a Yankee
spy, he was in a world of trouble.

“I heard you knocked your brother’s front teeth out, then
joined the Union. That right?”

A roguish smile lit Dix’s face. “The teeth part’s right.
Mama’s not ever forgiving me for that, spoiling Anton’s looks.”

“And now Anton’s with Lee somewhere in Virginia. And you’re
here reconnoitering for the Yanks.”
Damn
it, Dix, deny it
.

Dix shook his head. “Anton’s in Virginia, right enough, but
I wouldn’t make any kind of a soldier, Marcel, you know that.”

That familiar half-smile, the amused gleam in his eye caught
at Marcel. Dix had been almost another brother to him.

“Mama nigh kicked me out of the house for not joining up,”
Dix said, “so I’m out here visiting while she cools off. Got kinfolk all the
way down the bayou.”

God, he hoped Dix was telling the truth.

It was obvious the Yanks would want to seize all the wealth
along the Lafourche. Cane, foodstuffs, silver candlesticks, livestock. A lot of
resources to fuel the war along this river.

And here was Dix, a son of Louisiana, trying to see how
ready they were to defend it? A hanging offense, some might call it.

“And how is Aunt Freda?”

“Getting on in years.” Dix’s eyes were on the horsefly
tormenting his mule. “Complains of the rheumatism.”

Marcel nudged his horse closer to the mule. He lowered his
voice, forcing his gaze on Dix. “I could drop by, have a visit with Aunt Freda
myself. She’d love telling me all about how you’ve been staying with her.”

Dix held his gaze, and Marcel read the truth in his eyes.

“I’m sure Aunt Freda would love to see you. If she weren’t
laid up with the rheumatiz.”

The moment stretched on. The mule’s heated scent rose, the
horsefly buzzed.

“Sergeant, tie a line to the mule. And bind Mr. Weber’s
hands to the pommel, please. He’ll be joining us back at camp.”

Camp was at the back end of the Poitier plantation. The
frontages were narrow along the bayou so that every planter had access to the
river, and the properties stretched back sometimes more than a mile. That
arrangement gave Marcel’s encampment, far from the main road on the edge of the
swamp, a measure of security from spying eyes. Like Dix’s.

Marcel rode beside his prisoner, exchanging gentlemanly
pleasantries as if there were no threat of a hanging rope in the future. An
observer, Marcel thought, might think they had no more on their minds than how
the army conscripted the best horses, ruining the last racing season.

At the Poitier plantation, Marcel and his men turned into
the lane. From the lower gallery of the big house, Mrs. Poitier waved her
handkerchief. “Captain Chamard!”

Marcel reined in.

“Will you come in for a glass of lemonade?”

Old man Poitier shuffled out to the lane in bedroom slippers
and collarless shirt.

“What’s he tied up for?” Mr. Poitier put a hand up to shield
his eyes and peered at Dix. “This the same man was here a while ago? By damn,
it is! Saw him from the upstairs window, sneaking around back toward the
quarters.”

The old man raised an accusing finger at Dix. “Captain, you
got yourself a damn spy! You got him, by God.” Mr. Poitier raised his fist and
shook it. “Been talking to my Nigras, telling them to
run off. Hang the bastard, I say!”

Marcel signaled to the sergeant to take the men and their
prisoner on to camp. It was going to take a while to settle these good people.
He dismounted and tied Hercule under a catalpa tree.

“You hang that man, Captain. Hang him for a traitorous
bastard!”

Marcel took his hat off and mopped his forehead with his
sleeve. “There’s still some question, sir, about Mr. Weber’s intentions. I know
the man for a gentleman, Mr. Poitier, and he claims to have been visiting
kinsmen.” He put his hat back on. “You understand I will proceed with due
caution. It wouldn’t do to hang an innocent man.”

Poitier harrumphed, and Marcel diverted his attention.
“Monsieur, have you yet buried your silver?”

A startled look crossed Poitier’s face. “Buried the silver?”

“Yes, sir. If I were invading a territory as rich as
Lafourche, I’d be taking up the people’s silver to pay for horses and
ammunition.”

“By God, you’re right.” Poitier wheeled and hurried into the
house. His wife watched him go. She hadn’t had her say yet. She pulled him
along to the shade of the lower gallery.

“If any more of these darkies run off, I don’t know what we
shall do when it’s time to cut cane. Even now, there’s hardly enough hands to
do the hoeing, and if the hoeing doesn’t get done, the weeds choke the cane,
and then you have stunted cane come October, and then your profit shrivels
right up.” Mrs. Poitier drew a sharp breath. “We don’t let our overseer lash
the darkies, Captain, no, sir, we don’t, not unless they need it very badly,
but I just don’t know. We might have to chain them together and then they get
sullen and don’t want to work. But if any more of them take it into their heads
--” She pressed a hand to her heaving bosom. “Captain, you soldiers have just
got to do something about these Nigras running off
and leaving their work!”

Marcel framed a diplomatic answer, but Mrs. Poitier clawed
at his arm.

“I tell you, I hardly close my eyes at night,” she said.
“Think of the dozens and dozens of hoes used in the fields every day. It would
only take one miscount when the overseer collects the tools at night for some
big buck to climb in the window with a hoe and chop us all to death like so
many weeds! The machetes are all locked up, I can tell you, but what we shall
do at harvest --!”

He reassured her as well as he could. Planters all over the
region were facing the same risks, to fortune, and to life. He disentangled himself
and road on toward camp. Never did get his lemonade.

He rode the depth of the plantation on his way to camp,
passing the pecan orchard, a banana grove, peach and fig trees. At the cane
field, Marcel slowed his horse to assess the crop and listen to the slaves’
deep-throated work-song. Stalks lush and green were already so close a man
could hardly push his way through. Two more months, the cane would be
impenetrable, seven or eight feet high, the juice sweeter than molasses.

Nearby, a slave chopped at the weeds down a row of cane.
Black as the rich earth, he straightened his back and leaned on his hoe. Two
men and a woman did the same. As the slaves further down swung their hoes and
bent their backs in time to the song, these four stared right at him.

Never in his life had a slave stared at Marcel. Never. And
this stare was hard, cold, and full of acid.

A year ago, maybe even a month ago, these slaves would not
have raised their faces to a white man, much less their eyes. Now, silently,
they dared him to rebuke them.

Marcel’s gaze flickered over the three men’s muscled arms.
Over the freshly sharpened hoes, the edges of the blades honed to a bright
silver. They might have been black statues with the hot eyes of the devil
glowing in their faces.

A cold tendril of dread curled into Marcel’s belly. In two
months, at harvest time, the machetes would come out.

He resisted the impulse to touch the pistol at his thigh.

The slaves out-numbered their owners, but cowed and unarmed
and disorganized, they’d had no hope of prevailing. Every revolt, so far, had
been put down. But now, the Union offered protection. It made wild promises,
put unrealistic, dangerous ideas in their heads. They might actually rise up in
numbers too great to resist.

Thank God Deborah Ann had not gone upriver to Evermore. In
town, ironically, she’d have the Union army to protect her if the Negroes took
up arms against their masters. And at home, on Cherleu? Well, Father was a good
master. Even if they rebelled, the Chamard slaves would not hurt Father.

Marcel rode on, feeling the heat of dark eyes boring into
his back. He’d have a word with Poitier tomorrow. More locks, at the least,
were called for at the house. And loaded guns under their pillows. Dogs in
their bedrooms to raise the alarm.

Pray God it would be enough.

Camp was a cluster of tents set up on the strip of land
between cane field and swamp. The horses and mules were corralled away from the
wetlands in hopes the alligators would leave them alone. The rest of the dry
land was taken up with wagons, hay bales, and men in grey moving about.

Marcel dismounted and shucked his jacket off. “Water?”

Val had a bucket and ladle ready. Marcel drank his fill,
then raised the bucket and upended it over his head. Val handed him a coarse
towel.

“Where’s the prisoner?”

Val led him to what the men affectionately referred to as
their outdoor parlor under a magnificent spreading oak. The ancient limbs,
thick as boles themselves, stretched horizontally and then dipped down nearly
to the ground, creating a leafy, elegant shelter. Old crates and a hay bale
served as table and chairs.

Dix sat awkwardly on the bare ground. His hands were tied
behind his back. His feet stuck out in front of him, trussed up with some
intricate rope work.

“You had any water?” Marcel asked him.

“I’d be obliged for another drink of water, long as you’re
offering.”

Marcel raised his chin at Val, who brought a fresh bucket
and ladle. While Val held the dipper for Dix, Marcel sat down on an empty ammo
box.

“Dix, this is an inhospitable welcome, I confess. But I have
to wonder what you’re doing out here, dressed like this, idly riding along. I
believe Aunt Freda would be dismayed to see you in canvas trousers and calico.”

Dix shrugged. “Black broadcloth never suits on the bayou in August,
Marcel. You know that.”

What if he were to come right out and say it: Dix, you’re a
traitorous spy. But once the words were said, he couldn’t take them back.

“Sunshine, if you’ll give me your word not to run off, I can
let you out of those ropes.”

Dix studied the knots cutting into his ankles and let out a
big sigh. “I can’t rightly make such a promise, Marcel. A man held against his
will, trussed up like a fatted pig, naturally thinks of slipping away from the
pit.”

“Well, sir, we’ll try to keep you comfortable, even in
ropes.” Marcel skewered Dix with his gaze. “Now tell me what you’re doing out
here, Dix.”

Dix’s mouth quirked in a humorless smile. “Visiting Aunt
Freda.”

Marcel’s second in command, Lieutenant Smythe, walked up
behind Dix, a noose in his hand. Smythe was a sharp-faced man, yellow-toothed
and weasely. His eyes were very blue and very small.
A nasty, scraggly blond beard hung down past his top shirt button. Marcel
didn’t like him and didn’t trust him. That went for his sidekick, too. Nelson,
an undersized corporal, reminded Marcel of a hungry whupped dog following his
master around like he had sausages in his pocket.

Without ceremony, the lieutenant dropped the noose over
Dix’s head, then turned to Nelson with a smirk on his face.

Poor Dix lost all his color.

“Lieutenant, remove the noose,” Marcel said, his voice low
but commanding.

Smythe put his weight on one leg, his hip cocked, the other
knee bent. “You know he’s a damned spy, Captain,” he drawled. The blighter
checked with Nelson to make sure he was sharing the fun. “You think he’s not,
you’d let him go. So what are you waiting for?”

His body still but every muscle taut, Marcel stared at the
lieutenant. If he had to prove to this man who was in charge, he meant it to be
a lasting lesson.

Smythe grinned, but he removed the noose.

“That axle fixed yet?” Marcel asked.

Smythe, not as humbled as Marcel intended to make him, said,
“Getting to it.”

Marcel pulled out his pocket watch. “Have it done by three
o’clock, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir, Captain.” Smythe sauntered off, swinging the
noose from his hand, Nelson in his wake.

“Sorry about that, Sunshine.”

A little color back in his cheeks, Dix summoned up a weak
smile. “Think you could prop me up against the tree trunk? My legs are used to
the saddle, not to lying straight out like this.”