Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (33 page)

Marcel wasn’t coming back. He was going to die on some
God-forsaken field, and she’d never be pregnant. Not ever.

The truth revealed itself with perfect certitude: Marcel’s
children would be orphaned. He’d want her to see his children had advantages
that woman could never give them. He would want her, his wife, to take care of
his blood.

On trembling legs, Deborah Ann pulled herself up, steadying
herself against the cradle. Blood flowed from her womb with every painful
spasm, life’s vital force draining from her body just as with all those poor
dying soldiers on the battle field. But she would not succumb. She had to go
after Marcel’s children. Her children. Deborah Ann was his wife, not that other
woman.

Holding tight to the banister, she descended the stairs to
the second floor, then to the first. She opened the door and closed it quietly
behind her. Only three blocks down Royale to Esplanade and then toward the
river to Elysian Fields. To the yellow cottage with the orange shutters.

She walked quickly through the Vieux Carré, hardly seeing
the shops, the ladies in black, the soldiers. Charles Armand would clap his
hands in delight when he saw all the toys she’d buy him. She’d have a swing
hung behind Father’s house, and he’d yell “higher, higher, Mama,” and she’d
push him till his little legs were silhouetted against the sky.

The baby’s name. She didn’t know what it was. It didn’t
matter. She’d name him herself.

The front doors of the yellow cottage were open, the gnarled
jasmine vine perfuming the air. Deborah Ann stepped onto the stoop and peered
into the shadowed rooms. She could see the courtyard through the house, she
could hear a child’s voice, a baby’s hungry cry.

Her children’s voices.

Deborah Ann strode through the house, her heels echoing
against the hardwood floor. At the doorway into the courtyard, she could see
the three of them as if they were frozen in a painting. The woman. The creamy
skinned baby at her breast, his dark hair curling at the base of his neck. And
the boy, Charles Armand, the image of his father, on a little chair with a red
top in his hand.

With perfect clarity and purpose, Deborah Ann stepped into
the courtyard. “I’ve come for the children.”

The woman grabbed Charles Armand’s arm as she rose from her
chair, the baby clutched to her chest. “You get out of here.”

Deborah Ann’s eyes were on Charles Armand, peeking from
around his mother’s skirt. “They’re Marcel’s blood. They belong to me.”

“Get out.”

Deborah Ann strode across the bricks. She bent over,
reaching around the woman to take Charles Armand’s hand. “Come with me,
Charles,” she said.

Charles Armand shrank from her. Why would he do that?

Deborah Ann ignored the shove the woman gave her. “I’m your
new mother, Charles. I’m your father’s
wife
.”

“Maman?”

Deborah Ann seized his wrist and pulled at him, the child
still clutching a handful of the woman’s skirt.

The woman lunged for Charles, but the woman had to take care
not to drop the baby. Deborah Ann yanked hard, and the boy was hers.

Gleeful, flushed with power and triumph, she gripped Charles
Armand, oblivious to his twisting and kicking.

“Now give me the baby,” she said.

With a great shriek, the woman swung her fist into Deborah
Ann’s face, knocking her off her feet.

Distantly, Deborah Ann felt the woman’s fist smash into her
mouth again, banging her head against the paving stone. She raised her arm to
block the next blow as the woman, still clutching the baby, punched down with
all the force in her body.

The fist smashed into her nose,
then into her eye. Deborah Ann tasted blood, salty on her tongue. Dimly, as her
mind began to close down, she took in the woman’s wild face, the lips pulled
back to show her teeth, the eyes black and savage.

When Deborah Ann regained consciousness, her first sensation
was of wetness. Her face. Her legs. Her skirt clammy and sticky with the deep, purply scent of menstrual flow. Her tongue, coated with
fresh, coppery blood.

One eye swelled nearly shut, she looked around, wondering
where she was. In a courtyard. There was a little chair knocked over, a small
cradle on its side.

That woman’s house –

Shaking, Deborah Ann got to her feet. Dizziness sent her
reeling. She bent over and vomited onto the bricks.

She staggered out of the house, lurched across the street,
and clutched at an iron fence. She had to get back to Royale Street. Before
Marcel found out what she’d done.

Tottering on the undulating cobblestones, Deborah Ann veered
from one side of the street to the other.

Esplanade was busy, Yankees coming and going at the Mint,
people catching the train for Lake Pontchartrain. No one would notice her amid
so many people.

But people did notice. At first, they made way for her,
stopping, staring. She put a hand to her face to hide from them and went on.

“What happened to her?”

“Somebody beat the daylights out of her, that’s what.”

“Call the Guard, somebody.”

“Miss? Miss, can I help you?”

A Yankee soldier tried to take her arm, to pull her the
wrong way. She had to get back to Royale.

“Leave me alone,” she said, jerking away.

A big breathless colored woman rushed up to her in a blur. “Here,
here, she my Missy. You let me take her now.”

Mammy’s strong hands grasped Deborah Ann. “Me and Jebediah, we get you on home.”

Deborah Ann clutched at her. Mammy would know what to
do about all the blood.

“Miss Chamard?”

Nicolette raised her head from the message she was encoding.
A fresh-faced private stood at the office door.

“If you’re Miss Chamard,” he said, “there’s a nigger fella
downstairs come to fetch you.”

The word grated, but she knew the private used the word like
so many of the Yanks did, without contempt or feeling of any kind. To him,
nigger was simply an identifier, like saying there was a man downstairs with
long blond hair.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Something Frenchie. Pierre?”

Oh, Lord. She grabbed up her purse and hustled down the
staircase, every kind of bad news running through her head. Maman was ill. Or
Papa had fallen off his horse. He was a reckless rider, had nearly broken his
neck a dozen times.

Or had they had news about Marcel?

Pierre waited for her in the massive shadow of the Custom
House.

“What happened?” she said.

“Lucinda’s at the house with the boys. That woman Marcel
married tried to take the children.”

“Take the children?”

“Lucinda’s in trouble,” Pierre explained as the two of them
half walked, half ran back to Pauger Street. “She beat that woman up pretty
bad, she says. Likely broke her nose.”

“Lucinda did that?”

“That woman was after her children.”

At the house, Cleo had little Bertie in her arms, sleeping
peacefully. Lucinda, her eyes red and swollen, sat on the sofa clutching
Charles Armand to her. He’d given up his thumb months ago, but he sucked it
now, his eyes huge and worried.

Nicolette grasped Lucinda’s hand and sat beside her. “You
did right to come here. Didn’t she, Maman?”

“Yes, she did. If they want to arrest Lucinda, they’ll have
to find her first. She’s safe here. At least until tomorrow.”

Nicolette nodded her head. “We’ll take you and the children
to Cherleu. Papa can protect you there.”

“But she’s white,” Lucinda protested. “And she is your
papa’s daughter-in-law. If the gendarmes come for me, Monsieur Chamard will not
resist them.”

“He’ll throw them out on their ears!” Nicolette said.

“Bertrand Chamard will take care of you and his grandsons,”
Cleo assured her. “Don’t you doubt it for a minute. He can even hide you at my
place. It’s not half a mile up the river.”

Lucinda had probably met Papa only once or twice, when the
boys were born. And here she was about to show up at his door unannounced. No
wonder she was uneasy.

“You’ll need help with the boys, and I haven’t seen my papa
in too long. It’s time I went up there.”

Relief washed over Lucinda’s face. “Thank you, Nikki.”

“That Miss Presswood,” Cleo said. “Does Marcel have any idea
what kind of girl he’s married?”

Nicolette shook her head at the enormity of Deborah Ann’s
act. “Whatever possessed her?”

When Nicolette knew her before she married Marcel, Deborah
Ann appeared to be just another mild, rather dull Southern belle. She seemed an
unlikely woman to summon that kind of nerve, much less such brazen cruelty. And
yet the deed testified to an ugly selfishness, an indefensible, unshakable
presumption of righteous claim.

Cleo patted Bertie’s back as he stirred on her shoulder.
“She isn’t the first woman to lose her mind since the war started. But to take
another woman’s children, it passes understanding.”

Pierre got his hat. “I’m going to find Beaumont. He owes me
five dollars. Ricardo owes me three. If I borrow another ten, maybe that’ll be
enough for steamship tickets.”

“
Non
, Pierre.
Wait.” Nicolette fetched her enameled box. She opened Alistair’s leather pouch.
Gold coins spilled out, rolling and winking in the light.

The four of them stared at the hoard. French gold angels,
British sovereigns, $50 pieces, Brazilian coins of 20,000 Reis. “There must be
over a thousand dollars here, Nikki. Where did it come from?” Cleo asked.

“Alistair, bless him. Remember? He gave me his purse before
he left for the Lafourche.”

“I had no idea. All gold, every one of them. Did you realize
. . .?”

Nicolette shook her head. “I never looked.”

Pierre picked up a $50 piece. “We’ll get you and Lucinda out
of here today. Lock the door behind me.”

After Pierre left them, the three women were quiet. No one
wanted to say it aloud, but Nicolette thought they surely feared what she did,
that the gendarmes would find Lucinda before she could leave town and arrest
her for striking a white woman. If Lucinda were a slave, they could execute her
for such an offense. But Lucinda was a free woman, and the assault had been in
her own home, defending her children. Still, she would be taken up, separated
from Bertie and Charles Armand. Perhaps imprisoned, kept in shame, hunger, and
filth. Nicolette shuddered at the image of Lucinda, with her delicate bones and
gentle nature, being slapped around by some sweaty oaf in the city jail.

Cleo broke the silence. “Let’s do something with this
money.” She scooped the coins back into the pouch and looked for her gardening
trowel. In the courtyard, she dug into the soil around her big cactus and
buried the purse deep among the roots. “All right?” she said to Nicolette.

“
Merci, Maman
. If
I’d had any idea there was so much money there. My heavens.”

“We could have been dining out every night!” Cleo laughed.
“Now, Lucinda, let’s get you ready. You can’t go back to Elysian Fields. I’ll
fetch you a shawl and some linen from my room.”

Shortly, Pierre returned, tickets in hand. “You leave within
the hour.”

Quickly, Nicolette packed her pistol and ammunition in her
blue canvas tote bag. Around that she stuffed the diapers she’d made from an
old petticoat. Cleo handed her sausage, bread, and a flask of water, and the
bag was full.

Together, they made their way toward the docks, Pierre
carrying Charles Armand and Cleo holding Bertie in her arms, all of them
endeavoring to seem unhurried and unremarkable. Leading the way, Nicolette
paused at every cross street to watch for gendarmes before they proceeded. The
plan was that if anyone should challenge them, Pierre and Cleo would run with
the children. Nicolette and Lucinda would flee into the streets of the Vieux
Carré they knew so well. Dozens of shopkeepers would gladly hide them in the
warren of courtyards hidden behind the townhouses. But hiding at Cherleu half a
day north of the city would be far safer than hiding in New Orleans.

The steamship loomed huge and grand above them, gleaming
with fresh white paint, its red gingerbread trim giving it a festive air, as if
no one on this sunny day could have a fretful thought. One stack belched white
steam, the other black soot from the furnace.

Lucinda kept her face down, hiding behind Cleo’s bonnet.
Nicolette had Charles Armand by the hand. She too wore a bonnet, not the
tignon, and used the shadow of the brim to hide her gaze as she surveyed the
crowd for uniformed gendarmes.

Passengers, Union soldiers among them, crowded at the
gangplank waiting their turn, thoughts and gazes on the boat. No one showed any
interest in them. In two minutes, they’d be safely aboard.

At water’s edge, two gentlemen looked on while a nervous,
tittering woman was buckled into the hoisting chair. They watched the crane
swing her across the gap, the woman shrieking in dismay or delight, Nicolette
couldn’t tell which.

Then one of the men turned their way. But it was not Lucinda
whom he gazed at so intently. It was Nicolette herself.

Red hair straggled beneath the man’s stovepipe hat. Even
from fifty paces, she could see he was heavily freckled.

The red-headed man nudged his companion, who turned and eyed
her with the same lowering expression, his handle-bar mustache framing a
thin-lipped mouth. It was the orator from Jackson Square, the man who’d shouted
out her name to a mob of drunken thugs.

Nicolette fought the urge to retreat among the mountains of
kegs and casks. The blue canvas shopping bag hung from her arm. Buried among
the sausage and bread, her pistol nestled, butt up. And it was loaded.

Swallowing hard, she turned her head as if a glimpse of them
held no consequence.

In a few minutes, they’d be on the boat. By supper time, she
and Lucinda and the boys would disembark at Cherleu. In all the vastness of
Papa’s plantation, with his good name and Creole connections, they’d be safe.