by Jane Toombs
"Whosh cruel?" Guy's slurred voice asked from behind him. "'M hogtied," he complained.
Sherman dismounted and untied the ropes, helping Guy to slide onto the saddle where he swayed but stayed upright, staring owlishly at Sherman.
"Your horse?" Sherman asked before remounting Rawhide. "Good ole Starfall," Guy mumbled, trying to pat the black's neck and almost slipping from the saddle.
Deciding he'd have to continue on with him to make certain Guy didn't fall into the bayou, Sherman said, "You'll have to show me where La Belle is."
" 'S all gone. Smashed to smithereens years ago. Thirty-seven years ago."
Taken aback for a moment, Sherman shook his head.
Drunks rarely made sense. "Where you live, I mean. Your plantation."
Guy smiled and again something twisted in Sherman's chest. Even three sheets to the wind Guy had a singularly sweet smile. "Lac Belle's where I live," he said. "Gonna take you home to papa, he'll make you all better."
Since he didn't expect Guy to make sense, Sherman didn't bother to ask what that was supposed to mean.
It was well past midnight by the time they reached the gates of Lac Belle. Guy, now somewhat soberer, led the way to the stables.
"Ponce!" he called.
A half-grown black boy hurried up, yawning.
"See to the horses." Guy spoke in French. He slid off Starfall and glanced toward Sherman, who also dismounted. Sherman had discovered when he met St. Vrain that, somewhere in his past, he'd learned French because he recognized the French words the gambler mixed in with his English. He understood enough to know what Guy said to the boy.
He realized many New Orleanians spoke no other tongue but up until now Guy had spoken American. No, English. He kept forgetting there was no such thing as an American language.
"We'll get papa to tend to your leg," Guy said, switching back to English.
Sherman stared at him in surprise. He hadn't realized Guy was aware enough to notice his bloodstained pants leg. "You'd best tell me your name, " Guy added. "Papa'll never forgive me if I don't introduce you."
"Sherman Oso. All I know of yours is Guy."
Guy struck a dramatic pose, throwing his arms wide.
"The single surviving scion of the Kelloggs and the La Branches stands before you. Tanguy La Branche Kellogg, at your service." He bowed, linked his arm with Sherman's and led him between giant trees toward a large house, its white paint gleaming in the darkness.
They climbed several brick steps onto a brick terrace and entered through what Sherman thought must be a side door. The room was dark but the glow of lamps beyond shed enough light so Sherman could avoid the furniture as he followed Guy through the room. A short corridor gave way to a large foyer lit by lamps in gilt wall sconces. Sherman tried not to goggle at the large gilt and crystal chandelier at the foot of a curving staircase.
"Is that you, Guy?" a deep voice called from a room on the other side of the foyer.
"I'm afraid so, papa. I've brought you a patient."
A tall white-haired man emerged from an open doorway and stared across the foyer at Sherman, looking him up and down. His gaze focused on the bloodstained trouser leg. "So you have," he said.
"This is Monsieur Oso," Guy said. "Sherman Oso." He turned to Sherman. "My father, Dr. Kellogg."
"Come along, both of you," the doctor ordered. Without waiting to see if they obeyed, he strode across to another corridor.
Guy grimaced. "I was hoping to slip off to bed. No such luck." He followed his father with Sherman bringing up the rear.
Dr. Kellogg led them to what looked to Sherman to be a well-equipped surgery where he made Sherman sit down and put his right leg on a stool. Guy stood by, fidgeting, plainly unhappy at being in the room.
"I think the cut's closed over by now," Sherman said uneasily, as the doctor pushed the slit in the pants leg apart to look at his calf. "I heal fast."
Without comment, Dr. Kellogg cut the pants leg all the way open. "Bring me a basin of water," he told Guy.
After he'd washed the crusted blood from Sherman's calf, he examined the wound. "Knife?" he asked.
Sherman cleared his throat. "Yes."
"Clean cut," the doctor said at last. "All but healed. When did it happen?"
"I think we were in a fight," Guy said reluctantly. Sherman nodded.
"When?" Dr. Kellogg persisted.
Guy shrugged. "This evening sometime."
The doctor's eyebrows rose. "No one heals that fast." Alarmed, Sherman's mind raced. Should he concoct a story about an earlier injury? The last thing he wanted was to call attention to any oddity in himself. Before he came to a decision, the doctor spoke again.
"I'll amend that. In my experience I've never seen anyone heal that fast." His blue eyes met Sherman's. "You did warn me you healed rapidly."
Sherman swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Then I'll let nature continue its work and do nothing but offer you a clean pair of trousers." He focused on his son. "Mr. Oso hasn't been drinking. You have. Exactly what happened tonight, Guy?"
Guy glanced at Sherman. "I think he rescued me, papa." "Think?" the doctor echoed. "That drunk, were you?"
Guy bit his lip. "I know I promised but--"
Dr. Kellogg held up his hand, cutting off his son's explanation. "Suppose you tell us the events of the evening, Mr. Oso."
"We were in the Palace," Sherman began. "That is, I came in and happened to sit at a vingt-et-un table where Guy and his friends were playing." He went on to give a condensed story of Guy winning and being attacked by thieves. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out the remainder of the gold coins and dropped them on the table beside his chair. "These are all that was left--the thieves got the rest."
Guy had been as intent on the tale as his father. Now he took a deep breath and looked the doctor in the eyes.
"I'm sure that's the truth, sir, but I can't say I recall any of it. I came to somewhere along Bayou St. John tied onto Starfall's back. You don't need to tell me I'd probably be dead in a gutter somewhere if Sherman hadn't rescued me."
Dr. Kellogg told him anyway while Sherman shifted uncomfortably on the chair. Underneath the scathing words, he heard the concern the doctor felt for his son. He couldn't help but envy Guy--he had a father who cared very much about what happened to him.
When he finished chastising his son, Dr. Kellogg turned to Sherman. "You'll stay with us at Lac Belle this night, Mr. Oso, and you're welcome to remain as long as you wish. Gratitude and hospitality aren't enough to repay you but then, nothing is."
"I appreciate the offer for tonight," Sherman said,
not willing to commit himself.
The doctor's shrewd blue eyes studied him. "You are, perhaps, a man who cherishes his privacy?" he asked finally. Sherman was too surprised by the question to think before answering. "Yes, sir, I do."
"I thought so. Therefore I'll offer you the garconniere, our bachelor quarters, separate from the main house, in the hope you'll remain with us for more than one night."
There was nothing left for Sherman to say but "Thank you."
"Feel free to regard Lac Belle as your own home," the doctor said. "You've only to ask and the servants will bring you anything you want."
Feeling overwhelmed, Sherman thanked him again.
An elderly Negro named Francois showed him to the garconniere, a small eight-sided building on the opposite side of the house from the stables. Once inside, Sherman climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor and eased down on the four poster bed with a sigh.
Damn but he wanted to stay at Lac Belle. Stay and see if he could unravel the fascination Guy held for him. Stay and get to know Guy's father, a man who'd understood his need to be alone. He shook his head. Dr. Kellogg saw too much too quickly. And whatever had attracted him to Guy came from his past--he might never fathom the reason.
He slept better than he had in months but woke the moment a door opened below. Morning. He rose quietly, peered down the stairs and
saw old Francois setting a covered tray on a table. The Negro laid a pair of trousers and a shirt carefully over the back of a chair.
"I'm awake," Sherman called to him in French, knowing Francois spoke no English.
Francois immediately lifted the clothes and started for the stairs. Sherman, unused to being waited on, met him halfway.
"Merci," he said.
"I hope you enjoy the food, sir. Does monsieur need anything more?"
Sherman shook his head, thinking if he stayed on here he'd have to improve his French--but he didn't intend to pass more than this one night, garconniere or not.
He was finishing an excellent meal of mush, sausages and fried bread with plum jelly when Guy opened the door and stuck his head in.
"Any coffee left?" he asked.
Sherman picked up the covered pitcher and shook it. "A cup or two, I'd say."
Guy plucked a cup from a cupboard, sat down opposite Sherman and poured the strong, bitter coffee. "Creoles have a saying about coffee," he told Sherman.
"Noir comme le Diable Black as the devil
Fort comme la mort Strong as death
Doux comme l'amour Sweet as love
Chaud comme l'enfer. Hot as hell."
Before Sherman could respond, Guy pushed his coffee aside, rested his head on his hands and groaned. "I don't dare swallow even one sip. My head's pounding, my stomach's rebelling and every bone in my body aches. Why didn't you let them finish me off last night?"
"It occurred to me," Sherman said.
Guy raised his head, his dark eyes holding Sherman's. Slouched lower in his chair, he said, "I listened to you tell the story to papa last night. What did you leave out?"
"What makes you think I omitted anything?"
"You had no reason to bother with me. Yet you followed me from the Palace into that Gallatin hellhole. Why?" Sherman chose his words with care. "You were too drunk to know what you were doing and you'd won big. That can be a fatal combination anywhere."
Guy raised an eyebrow. Still watching Sherman, he pulled paper from one pocket, a dark crayon of some kind from another and began drawing lines on the paper. A frisson of unease ran along Sherman's spine.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Sketching. You've got an interesting face. Different. Not French, not Spanish."
Harmless enough, Sherman decided, though he mistrusted attention being called to anything odd about himself.
"You're an artist?"
"Not if papa can help it." Guy continued to sketch as he spoke. "He believes my drawings are a waste of time."
He scrawled a few more lines on the paper and shoved it toward Sherman.
The sketch was no mirror likeness. There was a suggestion of feralness in the slightly slanted eyes and a hint of the predator in the curve of his lip. Yet anyone looking at the drawing would know the face was Sherman's. "You're good." Sherman kept his voice even with effort. Guy was too damn good for his peace of mind. How could he see underneath the skin to what lay buried there? Both father and son, each in his own way, were too acute for Sherman's comfort. It was dangerous to remain here.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Entrez," Guy said without bothering to turn to see
who might come in. He picked up the drawing and thrust it in his pocket.
It was the boy, Ponce.
"Master Guy, the doctor, he say come quick," Ponce said. Sherman understood the simple French but wasn't prepared for Guy's anguished groan. Nor to see him grab the cup of cooling coffee and drain it.
Almost immediately Guy began to retch. Staggering to the open door, he vomited into the bushes beside the steps. "Can't help papa," he gasped before a new convulsion of retching gripped him. "Too sick. Sherman, you go."
Not knowing what else to do, Sherman hurried after
Ponce toward the stables, passing giant oaks hung with dangling gray moss. He knew Guy had deliberately downed the coffee to make himself sick but if the doctor needed help someone had to respond.
Dr. Kellogg was already mounted on a gray gelding. Starfall, saddled, waited beside him. "Where's Guy?" he demanded.
"Sick," Sherman said. "I volunteered. What can I do
to help?"
"Let's hope your stomach's stronger than his," the doctor said, kicking the gray into a lope.
Sherman vaulted onto Starfall and followed, wondering just what he'd let himself in for.
When he pulled even with Dr. Kellogg, the older man shook his head. "I swear that boy will be the death of me. Take my advice, Sherman, and have your children when you're young."
"I don't mean to have any at all," Sherman said grimly. The doctor slanted him a look but rode in silence.
While he waited for Dr. Kellogg to tell him where they were going, Sherman glanced at the tall green stalks to either side of the road, so tall they closed off a view of anything else.
On the boat, St. Vrain had pointed out similar fields on the plantations along the river. "Sugar cane," he'd said. "Sugar's the main crop hereabouts, though we grow some cotton and some tobacco."
Negros with hoes worked between the rows of cane,
some looking up to wave at Dr. Kellogg as he passed. He waved back.
"How's that new baby of yours doing, Luke?" he asked one of the men.
"Tres bon enfant," the man called back, grinning broadly.
"The boy very nearly died," Dr. Kellogg said to Sherman. "Born with the cord wrapped around his neck. Thought I'd never start him breathing. I'm happy to hear he's a very good baby."
Sherman wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the idea of men owning men. No matter what color a man's skin, he was
a human, not an animal.
"You're very quiet," the doctor observed.
"I've never been on a plantation before, sir," Sherman said. "Are all these cane fields part of Lac Belle?"
"Ours adjoin the neighboring plantation, Le Noir, with no fences marking the boundaries. That's where we're headed. The owner's Monsieur Gauthier and one of his slaves sliced into a leg with an axe. If Gauthier bothered to send for me, the injury must be damn near fatal and the slave valuable." The inflection of Dr. Kellogg's voice as well as his words, convinced Sherman the doctor didn't care for Gauthier. "You're along to help me with the injured man," the doctor added. "I hope to hell I can save the leg. God knows what'll happen to the poor devil if I have to amputate." Amputate? Sherman swallowed. No wonder Guy had forced himself to vomit rather than be conscripted to assist his father.
A black man, riding bareback, waited on the road between the cane fields to lead them to the injured slave. From his answers to the doctor's questions, both speaking in French, Sherman understood that a slave named Jacob had been chopping fire wood when the axe broke and the blade buried itself in his thigh. He grimaced. Hell of a thing to have happen. Behind a pile of uncut logs, they found Jacob, a black man of about thirty, lying on the ground near an outbuilding, surrounded by wood chips and tended by two women, one young, one old. Two large oaks shaded the area. Even before dismounting, the doctor sent the younger off to fetch soap, water and clean cloths. Kneeling beside Jacob, he slashed the blood-soaked left pant leg off, revealing a deep cut along the outer side of the thigh. Blood trickled from the wound.
"Not spurting," the doctor muttered. "Good. Didn't sever an artery."
Jacob's normally dark face was grayish, his eyes terrified as he watched Dr. Kellogg. Without thinking about what he was doing, Sherman knelt next to him, opposite the doctor. He took one of Jacob's hands in his, gripping it firmly. "Courage," he said.
The man raised his head to stare at him. Sherman soothed him as he would a frightened horse, using his own unknown tongue, hoping that, like the horses, Jacob would know what he meant without understanding the words. He kept speaking softly until the doctor said his name.
"Sherman. I need you here."
As he rose, Sherman motioned to the older woman to take his place.
He didn't recall ever threading a need
le in his life but the skill came easily enough. He watched, fascinated, as the doctor sewed the gaping edges of the wound together with black cotton thread, muttering to himself all the time he worked.
"I washed it clean, should keep down suppuration. Thank God he's healthy, he'll heal quickly. Lost a lot of blood, he ought to rest for a couple of days. Fat chance of that. I'll try to get him one." He tied off the thread and glanced at Sherman. "You'd better be listening, son. You have a lot to learn."
"Yes, sir." Sherman tried to ignore the warmth in his heart when the doctor called him son. It meant nothing. Nothing. But it was a hell of a lot friendlier than Mr.
Oso.
Even if he couldn't afford to have friends.
Sensing someone approaching, Sherman glanced over his shoulder. A man. The women saw him, too, and immediately eased away from Jacob.
The master of Le Noir, Sherman decided. Unlike the doctor's practical dark frock coat and trousers, Gauthier wore clothes more suitable for the city--fawn trousers with a dark green waistcoat under his tan coat. He carried himself with the arrogance of a man used to having his orders carried out without question. His dark gaze flicked over the two female slaves, dismissed them, focused on Jacob momentarily, passed over Sherman and and fastened on the doctor.
"Well?" Gauthier demanded. "Will he be of any further use to me?" He spoke in heavily accented English.
Dr. Kellogg straightened. He and Gauthier were of a height, Sherman half a head taller.
"If you force Jacob to go back to work tomorrow," the doctor said slowly, "I can promise you he won't ever be much use to you again. If you give him three days rest, you'll likely find him as capable as ever."
Gauthier scowled. "On your feet, Jacob," he ordered, in French. Seeing that Jacob meant to obey or die trying, Sherman leaned down, grasped his arm, helped the black man to his feet and steadied him.
Gauthier glanced at the bloodstained axe blade, lying apart from the helve. "His carelessness has already ruined my axe. Are you telling me I should let this bastard lay around doing nothing as a reward?"
Sherman tensed. It was obvious the blade and helve had parted company through no fault of Jacob's. The loose blade had come damned close to killing Jacob, besides.