The Exiles (8 page)

As always, Chantel chattered like a magpie, speaking about the things she was going to do when she grew up. “You know,” she said, “I think I might be a doctor.”

Brutus broke his strokes for a moment and stared at her. “But dey ain’t no lady doctors dat I knows of.”

“Well, there will be when I get to be one.”

“Don’t see why fo’ you want to be a doctor. It’s a pretty messy job, and you allus havin’ to be around folks in trouble. Why don’t you just be a lady like yo’ mama.”

“I can be that, too.”

Brutus laughed deep in his chest. “You sho got a mess of things you gonna do when you grow up. Looks like it’d take two or three lifetimes to get ’em all in.”

They were almost to the landing when suddenly two large black birds dropped out of the sky and lit on the limb of a cypress.

Brutus stared at them. “Dat’s bad luck right there.”

“What is?”

“Why, dem black birds! Every time dey come you can figure on somethin’ mighty bad happenin’. Maybe I’ll break a leg or somethin’ like that.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Brutus! They’re just old blackbirds.”

“You think what you want, missy, but last time I seed two birds like dat come down and light, the next day I lost my good knife.”

“Well, it didn’t have anything to do with the blackbirds,” Chantel said defiantly. “Now, I want to watch you clean the fish.”

“Shucks, dat’s a messy job. I don’t know why you want to see dat.” He smiled suddenly at her, his teeth white against his ebony skin. “You more interested in things than any girl I ever seed—or any man either, for that matter.”

He paddled the boat so that the prow drove in on a bank, then stepped out and held it, saying, “You watch out for dat fish. He might bite yo’ foot clean off.”

Chantel laughed, but all the same she carefully avoided the huge catfish. She watched as Brutus tied the boat, then reached out and got the fish by the lip.

“Dis here fish must weigh thirty pounds! We’re gonna have good eatin’ tonight. Come on. I’ll let you watch me clean ’im.” They had started for the house when Brutus paused to look upward. “Dat sky looks mighty bad.”

“It does look like rain,” Chantel agreed.

“It done been rainin’ so much. That river ain’t gonna take much more.” He shrugged and said, “Well, come on. Let’s get dis here fish cleaned.” He cast his eyes up at the rolling black clouds and shook his head sadly.

The rain came down in solid sheets, slanting as though driven by a powerful east wind. Simon Bientot was soaked to the skin. The water dripped off his hat in a miniature waterfall as he trudged along, the ground squishy with each step. As he came up on the front porch and stood under the overhang, he looked back in the direction of the river, lines of worry creasing his forehead. He took off his hat, wiped his face as best he could with a sodden handkerchief, and knocked on the door. It opened almost at once, and Aimee Fontaine stood there. She stepped outside and said, “What is it, Simon?”

“Miz Fontaine, I’m worried about that river. It’s plum out of its banks already.”

“But it’s never flooded here.”

“Yes, ma’am, it did, a long time ago. The old-timers told me that. This whole area was under water. That was before the house was built, of course, just a few shacks here. But it took ’em all away.”

Aimee looked out at what seemed like a world submerged. Already the low places had become small lakes, and the water fell from the sky like a deluge. She was silent for a moment, then said, “I think it will be all right.”

“I reckon we’d better leave, Miz Fontaine.”

“No, we’re not going to do that. It may get up to the house, but we’re on a rise here. It won’t get to us.”

Simon argued. “What about folks in the lower lands? They are almost sure to get water in their houses.”

“You can bring them all here. We’ll take care of them until it stops raining and the water goes down.”

Simon was not satisfied, but he realized that Aimee’s mind was made up. “All right, ma’am, but I’m worried. And I think you should be, too.”

Aimee turned and went back into the house, where she found Chantel rocking Veronique in the nursery.

“I never saw it rain so hard, Mama,” Chantel said.

“I don’t believe I ever have either. And I expect New Orleans will be flooded. It’s so low there.”

“But the water won’t come in here, will it, Mama?”

With all the confidence she could muster Aimee replied, “Of course not. It’ll stop raining, and the water will go down. It goes down very quickly. Now, let’s give Veronique her bath.”

After the bathing was done, Chantel went out and stood on the porch. The sound of water cascading off the house and striking the ground was louder than she had ever heard it. Thunder rolled almost constantly, and the sky was lit up with blinding white flashes. She was frightened by the power of the elements and quickly turned around and went back inside. She closed the door, muting the sound, but still the storm was like a beast prowling around. Chantel went to the nursery to sit beside her mama, who was rocking Veronique.

Simon nodded with relief. “You made the right decision, Miz Fontaine. We’ve got to get out of this place. The water’s almost up to the level of the house.”

“It’s going to ruin our beautiful home.”

“We can work on it after the water goes down, but now let’s get out of here. Everybody else is all ready.”

Aimee had finally acknowledged the inevitable. Ever since Simon’s first warning, the rains had fallen steadily, though for a time they seemed to have stopped. Now the rain was slowing, but all around the big house a sheet of water continued to rise. The slave quarters were already flooded, and there was no other choice.

“Come along, Chantel.”

“Where are we going, Mama?”

“We’re going over to the Bascom Plantation. Mrs. Bascom sent word that we could stay there until the waters go down. Hurry now.”

Chantel gathered her treasures together, including her journal and the doll that her father had given her, and placed them in a canvas sack. She went outside to the barn. Brutus had already saddled Lady, and Chantel stepped into the saddle and tied her sack around the saddle horn.

Brutus held the lines and said, “I tole you bad luck was comin’ when dem two birds came down.” He handed the reins to Chantel and said, “You be keerful now.” Then he turned and hurried back to three wagons that had been loaded with the slaves and their possessions.

Simon Bientot came to greet Aimee as she came out of the house holding Veronique. “You ride with Tallboy. He’s a good, steady driver, ma’am.”

“Is everybody ready?”

“Yes, ma’am. Come along.” Bientot walked with her to the wagon where a tall, thin young man pulled his hat off and nodded. “How do, Miz Fontaine.”

“Hello, Tallboy.” Aimee got into the wagon and settled back with Veronique in her arms, as Tallboy put on his hat and looked to the overseer.

Bientot nodded and climbed into the wagon, saying, “All right, let’s find some dry ground.”

The wagons moved through the floodwaters in a small procession. Chantel touched Lady with her heels, and the mare obediently moved forward. She guided the mare until she was even with her mother and said, “Do you want me to ride with you and help with Veronique?”

“No, I can take care of her. You be careful though.”

“I’m afraid, Mama!”

“It’s all right,” Aimee said and smiled. She extended her hand, and Chantel reached down and took it. “We’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

At that moment something touched Chantel. She held on to her mother’s hand until the wagon dropped into a pothole, and they were separated. Chantel steadied Lady and moved on ahead to ride along with Bientot.

“It’ll be all right, Miss Chantel. You sure you don’t want to ride in the wagon with me?”

“No, I want to ride Lady. The rain has stopped, so I’ll be fine.”

“All right. You stick close to the wagon though.”

The journey was slow, for Bientot was cautious. They followed the line of the road until finally they came clear of the water. Mud was everywhere. “The river’s right up there,” he said to Chantel. “Do you hear it?”

Chantel had already heard the distant rumbling that sounded like far-off thunder.

“It’s out of its banks. I hope the bridge is still in place. If it ain’t, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

Chantel rose in her stirrups from time to time and finally, when they made a turn around a group of cypress trees, she saw the bridge. “It’s still there, Simon!”

“Well, that’s good!” Simon said with relief. He guided the horses until they came to the roaring river. The original banks were completely underwater, and the crest of the flood was striking the top of the bridge itself so that water flowed over it.

“We can’t cross that bridge, Simon, can we?” Chantel stared at the raging torrent with fear.

“We’ve got to,” Bientot said grimly. “Come on. I’ll go across first.” He stood up in the wagon and said, “All right. Come along, everyone. It’ll be fine. You come with me, Chantel.”

“All right.” Chantel guided Lady across the bridge. The water seemed to grab at the mare’s feet as it flowed over the bridge. The muddy torrent was beyond anything she had ever seen, and when she reached the other side she gave a sigh of relief. Simon drove the wagon thirty yards away, then halted and got out. The others were coming, and he said, “It looks like your mama and Tallboy’s waiting till everyone else is across.”

Chantel stood there and could not control the trembling in her limbs. She had climbed down from the mare and was holding the lines, but everything in her strained toward the figure of her mother and sister. “I wish they’d hurry!” she whispered.

The last of the wagons rolled across, and then Chantel saw Tallboy slap the lines on the horses. They started up skittishly and got to the edge of the bridge. They did not want to go, and she heard Tallboy calling to them, “Get on there! You get on there, you hear me, hosses! Cross that bridge!”

Her eyes were fixed on her mother and sister, and she waved at their wagon. “Come on, Mama!” she cried.

Her voice could not reach across, but she saw her mother, who was sitting on the front seat, smile and wave her free hand while holding Veronique with the other. Finally Tallboy forced the horses onto the bridge, but the team fought him all the way.

“Those fool horses! I wish they’d come on,” she heard Bientot say under his breath.

She wished the same thing and watched as Tallboy finally got out of the wagon and went to the head of the team. “He’s going to lead them across, Simon.”

“I wish I’d gone with your mother,” Bientot muttered. “Come on, Tallboy, get those horses moving!”

The bays behaved somewhat better, but not much. Tallboy pulled at them, and finally they started forward. They had reached the center of the bridge when suddenly there was a loud cracking sound, and she saw Tallboy suddenly go to his knees.

“The bridge! It’s breaking!” Bientot shouted. He started for the bridge, but halted abruptly at the edge.

Chantel stared, horrified, as the bridge, with a creaking, groaning noise, suddenly parted in the middle. The force of the water caught it and pushed the center of it out.

“Mama!” Dropping Lady’s reins, she ran forward. Even as she ran, she saw Tallboy swept away by the water—and then she saw the wagon caught by the force of the stream. Her eyes were on her mother, who was holding Veronique tightly. The bridge was swinging parallel with the stream, and suddenly the horses, screaming almost like women, dashed forward. As the wagon hit the water, the current caught it and turned it around. It floated, but was swung from side to side.

The animals tried to swim, but the current rolled them over. There were loud cries from the servants and slaves, and Chantel heard the sound of her own voice screaming. Just a fragment of the bridge was left standing, and as she rushed toward the river, the wagon suddenly rolled over and disappeared.

Chantel would have gone right into the raging water, but she felt arms around her and heard a voice saying, “Nothing we can do, missy. Come on back.”

Chantel fought against Brutus’s strong arms, but Simon Bientot’s voice repeated, “Nothing you can do, Miss Chantel.”

And then Marie was there, and she fell against the woman’s breast crying and calling out her mother’s and sister’s names.

Chantel clung to her father’s hand as they stood in the cemetery. To her it was a natural enough thing that the bodies of the dead would be interred above ground. In this low country, water was sometimes only as much as two feet below the surface; when a grave was dug it would fill up with water faster than the diggers could work.

They stood beside a structure of white marble to which was attached a bronze plate, bright and shiny, with the names of her mother and sister and the date: November 19, 1824.

The priest’s voice came to her in a barely audible hum, but she could make no sense of the words. Ever since the tragedy, she had eaten so little that she had become much too thin. She had bad dreams every night, and even as she stood there she relived the horror, seeing the wagon go down in the muddy waters and take her sister and mother out of her life.

The priest’s voice droned on. Chantel remembered how her father had come home the day after the deaths shouting and striking at the slaves for not saving them. He had cursed Bientot and acted like a wild man. He had refused to believe that they were dead and had organized search parties on both sides of the river. After two days her mother’s body was found—but the body of Veronique was never recovered.

It seemed wrong, somehow, that Veronique’s name was on the mausoleum when her little body was not there. Chantel’s grief rose to a pitch, and she felt suddenly unable to stand. Her father caught her as she slipped, and she buried her face against his chest, her arms around his neck, until the funeral was over.

When they reached the house, she stepped inside. Everything in it spoke of her mother and of her baby sister, too. Chantel turned to her father, whose face was pale and had lines drawn in it she had not seen before. “What will we do without them, Papa?”

“We have to do the best we can, dear.”