Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (34 page)

Nicolette swung Charles Armand up. “Put your legs around my
waist and hold on.” Surefooted, she followed Lucinda up the gangplank onto the
huge steamboat.

This time of year, there were no cotton bales stacked high
on the decks, but crates squeezed the passageways eight feet high. Once in the
tunnel of the passage, Nicolette breathed easy. No one could see them, and she
herself could see nothing but a woman in widow’s weeds behind her and Lucinda
carrying Bertie ahead of her. She had to put Charles Armand down and lead him
sideways through the dim corridor to the day parlor.

She and Lucinda settled the boys on the wooden bench running
the length of the chamber. Here poor white people jostled elbows with more
prosperous, free people of color. The whistle blew, the paddle wheels churned.
They steamed into the middle of the river, leaving danger behind.

“We’re safe,” Nicolette whispered. “Take heart.”

Despite her reassurances, Nicolette remained alert. Of
course they were safe, soldiers on board, other free blacks. Nothing could
happen now. And yet, a tiny hammer pinged against the taut wire of her spine.

Late in the afternoon, Nicolette calculated how many more
stops the ship might make before they hove to at
Cherleu’s docks. She was blinded by the cargo all around the decks, but she
thought only three more and they’d be home.

With a sickening lurch and a piercing screech, the ship
staggered and rolled to one side. Lucinda clutched at Bertie with one hand,
grasped for Charles Armand with the other. Nicolette threw her arm over all of
them.

Silence. Then the rumble of the engines put into reverse.
Straining, pumping engine, shouting boat men. Silence. The engines thrown into
forward again. Then reverse.

They were stuck on a sandbar.

Soon a crewman strode through the room calling out “All’s
well. Going to be a few hours. Get her going again directly.” Without breaking
stride, he took no questions, offered neither details nor comfort.

The room settled down to resigned patience. Lucinda nursed
Bertie under her shawl and then walked him up and down the aisle, stepping over
thrust-out feet and ankles. Nicolette fed Charles Armand sausage and bread.

If the crew didn’t get them off in another hour, they’d be
stuck here for the night. As the sun went down, fog would fill the river
corridor. Then, even if the boat were freed, they would have to anchor for the
night. Only a mad man would try to navigate the shifting hazards of the
Mississippi River on a foggy night.

At nightfall, the ship put out anchors, lit the lamps inside
and out, and began the continual, intermittent blowing of the whistle to warn
away any traffic foolish enough to be on the move in the black fog.

Nicolette leaned over to Lucinda to whisper. “I have to use
the necessary.”

“I’ll go with you.”

An elderly mulatto, elegant in her silk tignon, agreed to
hold their places on the bench. They gathered the children, Nicolette careful
to bring along her bag with the pistol inside. Angling through the narrow
corridors, they passed the length of the ship. Fore and aft, huge lanterns
glowed like fairy lights in the fog. The engine rumbled quietly, keeping just
enough steam to hold the bow into the current.

Abeam of the main deck, the crew maintained a gap in the
bales and barrels for disembarkations. A lantern hung at this gateway where a
couple of men lingered, the ends of their cigars dimly red in the murk.

The fog was so thick, Nicolette could not even see the river
coursing down the boat’s side ten feet below the deck. Speaking softly in
French with Charles Armand, she led Lucinda and the baby past the ghost-faced
smokers.

At the women’s necessary, they waited their turn. The only
sound that truly penetrated the blanket of fog was the ship’s whistle. Aside
from the conflagration of an exploded boiler, the most dangerous event on the
river was being rammed by another ship running with the current. With that in
mind, Nicolette was grateful for the one long, two short warning shrieks.

Leaving the necessaries behind, Nicolette and Charles Armand
sidled along the darkened corridor behind Lucinda and the baby. Nicolette
anticipated a long night on the hard benches, strangers snoring and belching
all around her. But when they arrived at Papa’s in the morning, Valentine would
see they had a feast of a breakfast with pots and pots of coffee. In the
garconniére they would tuck the children into beds with snowy white linens.
Then they would sit with Papa on the gallery and explain what Marcel’s wife had
tried to do to his grandsons.

Papa had his faults. Too sure of himself where women were
concerned. Even Maman, who’d been a fool for Bertrand Chamard most of her life,
would agree to that. Always sure only he was right. But as adamant as Papa was
about the righteousness of the Confederate cause, he had neither denounced nor
renounced his son when Yves declared for the Union. Papa loved his children,
colored and white. There never was a moment when she doubted that.

Making her way through the foggy corridor, Nicolette bent to
speak to Charles Armand. “Step on my feet.”

He loved to do this, to wrap his arms around her legs and
let her do the walking for them both. She held on to his little shoulders,
leaning to see his face in the foggy dark.

The whistle blew, so loud on the open deck it stunned
Nicolette’s senses.

A blurred shape came out of the fog. Strong hands jammed a
bag over her head.

She screamed, but she couldn’t hear her own voice over the
second blast of the whistle. The smell of old potatoes filled her nose, the
dust choked her. She struggled, trying to breathe, to tear at the musty bag, to
hold on to Charles Armand.

He was ripped from her grasp.

Nicolette flailed wildly with both hands. Her fist connected
with something, someone.

The gun! Nicolette fumbled for the opening to the canvas bag,
then groped blindly for the pistol butt. Her fingers closed on the handle.

A fisted blow knocked her head back. A second blow flattened
her against a rough-hewn crate. Splinters dug into her clawing hands as she
struggled to keep her feet, to find the pistol butt again.

Lucinda’s scream tore into the fog, then the last deafening
shriek of the whistle.

The attacker grabbed Nicolette around the waist. She twisted
and kicked and scratched. Then a brutal blow, blue fire behind her eyes, pain
radiating through her skull.

Consciousness winked in and out, Nicolette dimly registering
the smell of tobacco and kerosene, the dryness of her mouth, the ache of her
tongue. Finally she wakened, remembering.

Pain seared through her eyes when she opened them, the small
kerosene lantern’s rays piercing like needles through
her brain. A gag dug into her mouth, bruising her tongue, making her wild with
fear and anger.

Stay calm. You’re not
helpless
, she reminded herself. She’d taken care of herself before, she
would again. She took a long breath through the sour gag.
You’re alive. You’re going to get away. If you keep your head.

Rope bit into her wrists, tied behind her back. Rope pinched
her ankles. The old injury to her jaw throbbed under the new bruises.

The vibration of the engines told her they were still aboard
ship. She opened her eyes with a tight squint. She was on the floor, propped up
against a red leather bench.

A stateroom. A lamp suspended from the ceiling. A man at the
table, snoring softly in his chair. On the opposite bench, Lucinda, gagged,
eyes wide and frightened. Charles Armand lay across her lap, his hands gripping
her skirt even in sleep. Bertie slept between her and the back of the bench.

Nicolette returned her gaze to the man. The man with the trailing
mustache The orator. His lean jaw was stubbled, his hair mussed, but he was
nicely dressed in good broadcloth.

Where was the red-headed man?

Where’s my gun?

Her blue canvas bag lay crumpled in the corner. Empty.
Nicolette couldn’t see the table top. Maybe her pistol lay next to the man’s
hand.

She looked into Lucinda’s eyes. Hopelessness looked back at
her. Nicolette tried to signal her to take courage. They would get out of this.
If she had to kill, they would get out of this.

The night dragged on. Nicolette’s head and jaw throbbed, her
mouth dried out, and her arms and shoulders cramped. If dawn came, she couldn’t
tell it in the dark cabin. The steam whistle still shrilled every few minutes,
bells rang, feet stomped over head.

The orator awoke with a snort. He wiped a long-fingered hand
over his face and heaved a great sigh. Then he eyed Nicolette.

A smirk pulled his mustache to one side. “The infamous Miss
Chamard. How do you do?”

Nicolette glanced at Lucinda. Bertie was at her breast. Charles
Armand sat at her knees, watching the man.

The orator stood up and hawked a gob at the spittoon in the
corner. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then ambled across the
floor to Nicolette. He stared down at her a moment, his eyes deep sunk and
brilliant with the fire of zealotry.

“Not so high and mighty now, are we?” He gestured at
the ropes around her ankles.

The man’s drawl was thick, but not Louisianan. Mississippi,
she guessed. Dressed like a business man, a prosperous one.

He toed the edge of her skirt. “I seen
you at the Yankee headquarters, going in and out, in and out.” His voice was
soft, almost seductive, as if he were shy, talking to a woman he admired. “You
likely have a message in that pretty head to deliver to the Yanks in Baton
Rouge, don’t you, Miss Chamard?”

Nicolette shook her head slowly. She was no spy.

“Oh, I know there is no paper message. While you were
sleeping, I took the liberty of examining your clothing and as much of your
person as need be.” Her stomach heaved. He’d touched her, while she was
unconscious and defenseless. She swallowed the bile welling in her throat.

He held a hand up as if to defend himself. “The little
mother here can vouch that I did not touch you improperly, Miss Chamard. I am a
married man, and a Christian.”

She raised her chin and shot a venomous glare at him.

The orator’s tone abruptly changed as if he were offended
she did not appreciate the delicacy he’d shown her person. “You a mighty fancy
whore, you are.” He turned back toward the table. “You missing your head rag,
but you a nigger, just the same, for all the fine airs you been sporting. Just
a nigger whore.”

Nicolette pulled her knees up and shoved her feet into the back
of the man’s knees with all her might. The orator stumbled, catching himself on
the table.

He whirled on her, raised his arm, and slapped her so hard
it threw her entire body against the wall with a bone-bruising thud.

Charles Armand screamed. Bertie wailed. Blood spilled from
Nicolette’s busted lips, soaking the rag stuffed into her mouth. The room spun
around her as she fought the pain, nausea welling up. The same searing pain as
when Adam Johnston had beaten her. The same pain, yes, and the blood. But not
the same fear. Nicolette was not afraid. She was angry. And she was dangerous.
She would kill him for this.

“Shut that kid up,” the man said, fury in his voice, “or
I’ll do the same to him.”

Lucinda groaned from deep in her chest, imploring Charles
with her eyes. With shuddering breaths, he hushed.

The man stared at Lucinda a moment, then came close.
Ignoring Bertie and his red-faced cries, he rested his gaze on her exposed
breast. She kept very still, her eyes turned away.

“Modest, huh? I admire that in a woman. God never meant for
womankind to be tempting men with wanton, naked flesh.”

He looked at Charles Armand, who had half his fist in his
mouth.

“You’re a good little lad, boy.” His hand smoothed back
Charles Armand’s hair.

“See?” he said to Lucinda. “I’m a reasonable man. If I take
the gag off that pretty mouth, you gone be reasonable, too?”

Lucinda nodded.

He slipped the rag out of her mouth, his hands just
inches away from her bare breast. Lucinda shifted Bertie and cooed to him,
desperately trying to soothe him. Under the orator’s frank ogling, she
persuaded Bertie to take the nipple and he quieted.

All around, sounds from the engines, whistles, calling
voices, but inside the cabin, silence.

Satisfied the man was not going to touch Lucinda, Nicolette
turned her face to the floor so she wouldn’t drown in her own blood. The man
squatted a few feet away, out of her range.

“You learn anything here, Miss Chamard?” He laughed and
returned to his chair.

Nicolette passed out, her face in the puddle of blood.

She woke to the roar of straining engines. The boat shifted
and shuddered. Then it lurched free. The fog must have lifted. They were on
their way.

Only three stops down from Papa. Who did not even know to
expect them. How long would it be before anyone missed them?

The red-headed man came in with a basket. Pale beneath the
freckles, he was tall and stoutly built. He eyed the mess of Nicolette’s face
and dress. “Had some trouble, huh?”

“Hard-headed whore. The other one’s a sweetheart, though. What’s
your name, honey?”

Nicolette thought Lucinda wasn’t going to answer, she waited
so long. Finally, her voice quiet but strong, she said, “I am Lucinda Benoit.”

“You a traitor, too, Lucinda Benoit?”

Lucinda closed her mouth. The man grabbed her chin, squeezing
her mouth, twisting her neck. “I asked you a question.”

“Leave her alone, Murph,” the
orator said.

With ill grace, Murph backed off.
He eyed the pistol on the table. “Reckon that’s the gun she shot me with, don’t
you?” He glared at Nicolette. “You cost me a inch of
muscle off my arm, you damned whore.”