by Andre Norton
Rupert picked up from the table a sword and a long-barrelled dueling pistol and led the way out onto the terrace. Charity pointed to the big chair in the sunlight.
“This will probably be hard for you two,” she warned them frankly. “If you get tired, don’t hesitate to tell me. I’ll give you a rest every ten minutes. Val, you sit down in the chair. Slump over toward that arm as if you were about finished. No, more limp than that. Now look straight ahead. You are on the terrace of Beauvallet. Beside you is the girl you love. You are all that stands between her and the black rebels. Now take this sword in your right hand and the pistol in your left. Lean forward a little. There! Now don’t move; you’ve got just the pose I want. Ricky, crouch down by the side of his chair with your arm up so that you can touch his hand. You’re terrified. There’s death, horrible death, before you!”
Val could feel Ricky’s hand quiver against his. Charity had made them both see and feel what she wanted them to. They weren’t in the peaceful sunlight on the terrace of Pirate’s Haven; they were miles farther south in the dark land of Haiti, the Haiti of more than a hundred years ago. Before them was a semitropical forest from which at any moment might crawl—death. Val’s hand tightened on the sword hilt; the pistol butt was clammy in his grip.
Rupert had put up the easel and laid out the paints. And now, taking up her charcoal, Charity began to sketch with clear, clean strokes.
Her models’ unaccustomed muscles cramped so that when they shifted during their rest periods they grimaced with pain. Ricky whispered that she did not wonder models were hard to get. After a while Rupert went away without Charity noticing his leaving. The sun burned Val’s cheek where the paint had dried and he felt a trickle of moisture edge down his spine. But Charity worked on, thoroughly intent upon what was growing under her brushes.
It must have been close to noon when she was at last interrupted.
“Hello there, Miss Biglow!”
Two men stood below the terrace on a garden path. One of them waved his hat as Charity looked around. And behind them stood Jeems.
“Go away,” said the worker, “go away, Judson Holmes. I haven’t any time for you today.”
“Not after I’ve come all the way from New York to see you?” he asked reproachfully. “Why, Charity!” He had the reddest hair Val had ever seen—and the homeliest face—but his small-boy grin was friendliness itself.
“Go away,” she repeated stubbornly.
“Nope!” He shook his head firmly. “I’m staying right here until you forget that for at least a minute.” He motioned toward the picture.
With a sigh she put down her brush. “I suppose I’ll have to humor you.”
“Miss Charity,” Jeems had not taken his eyes from the two models since he had arrived and he did not move them now, “what’re they all fixed up like that fur?”
“It’s a picture for a story,” she explained. “A story about Haiti in the old days—”
“Ah reckon Ah know,” he nodded eagerly, his face suddenly alight. “That’s wheah th’ blacks kilt th’ French back in history times. Ah got me a book ’bout it. A book in handwritin’, not printin’. Père Armand larned me to read it.”
Judson Holmes’ companion moved forward. “A book in handwriting,” he said slowly. “Could that possibly mean a diary?”
Charity was wiping her hands on a paint rag. “It might. New Orleans was a port of refuge for a great many of the French who fled the island during the slave uprising. It is not impossible.”
“I’ve got to see it! Here, boy, what’s your name?” He pounced upon Jeems. “Can you get that book here this afternoon?”
Jeems drew back. “Ah ain’t gonna bring no book heah. That’s mine an’ you ain’t gonna set eye on it!” With that parting shot he was gone.
“But—but—” protested the other, “I’ve got to see it. Why, such a find might be priceless.”
Mr. Holmes laughed. “Curb your hunting instincts for once, Creighton. You can’t handle a swamper that way. Let’s go and see Charity’s masterpiece instead.”
“I don’t remember having asked you to,” she observed.
“Oh, see here now, wasn’t I the one who got you this commission? And Creighton here is that strange animal known as a publisher’s scout. And publishers sometimes desire the services of illustrators, so you had better impress Creighton as soon as possible. Well,” he looked at the picture, “you have done it!”
Even Creighton, who had been inclined to stare back over his shoulder at the point where Jeems disappeared, now gave it more than half his attention.
“Is that for Drums of Doom?” he asked becoming suddenly crisp and professional.
“Yes.”
“Might do for the jacket of the book. Have Mr. Richards see this. Marvelous types, where did you get them?” he continued, looking from the canvas to Ricky and Val.
“Oh, I am sorry. Miss Ralestone, may I present Mr. Creighton, and Mr. Holmes, both of New York. And this,” she smiled at Val, “is Mr. Valerius Ralestone, the brother of the owner of this plantation. The family, I believe, has lived here for about two hundred and fifty years.”
Creighton’s manner became a shade less brusque as he took the hand Ricky held out to him. “I might have known that no professional could get that look,” he said.
“Then this isn’t your place?” Mr. Holmes said to Charity after he had greeted the Ralestones.
“Mine? Goodness no! I rent the old overseer’s house. Pirate’s Haven is Ralestone property.”
“Pirate’s Haven.” Judson Holmes’ infectious grin reappeared. “A rather suggestive name.”
“The builder intended to name it ‘King’s Acres’ because it was a royal grant,” Val informed him. “But he was a pirate, so the other name was given it by the country folk and he adopted it. And he was right in doing so because there were other freebooters in the family after his time.”
“Yes, we are even equipped with a pirate ghost,” contributed Ricky with a mischievous glance in her brother’s direction.
Holmes fanned himself with his hat. “So romance isn’t dead after all. Well, Charity, shall we stay—in town I mean?”
“Why?” a thin line appeared between her eyes as if she had little liking for such a plan.
“Well, Creighton is here on the track of a mysterious new writer who is threatening to produce a second Gone with the Wind. And I—well, I like the climate.”
“We’ll see,” muttered Charity.
CHAPTER X
Into the Swamp
In spite of the fact that they received but lukewarm encouragement from Charity, both Holmes and Creighton lingered on in New Orleans. Mr. Creighton made several attempts to get in touch with Jeems, whom he seemed to suspect of concealing vast literary treasures. And he spent one hot morning going through the trunk of papers which the Ralestones had found in the storage-room. Ricky commented upon the fact that being a publisher’s scout was almost like being an antique buyer.
Holmes was a perfect foil for his laboring friend. He lounged away his days draped across the settee on Charity’s gallery or sitting down on the bayou levee—after she had chased him away—pitching pebbles into the water. He told all of them that it was his vacation, the first one he had had in five years, and that he was going to make the most of it. Companioned by Creighton, he usually enlarged the family circle in the evenings. And the tales he could tell about the far corners of the earth were as wildly romantic as Rupert’s—though he did assure his listeners that even Tibet was very tame and well behaved nowadays.
Charity had finished the first illustration and had started another. This time Ricky and Val appeared polished and combed as if they had just stepped out of a ball-room of a governor’s palace—which they had, according to the story. It was during her second morning’s work upon this that she threw down her brush with a snort of disgust.
“It’s no use,” she told her models, “I simply can’t work on this now. All I can see is that scene where
the hero’s mulatto half-brother watches the ball from the underbrush. I’ve got to do that one first.”
“Why don’t you then?” Ricky stretched to relieve cramped muscles.
“I would if I could get Jeems. He’s my model for the brother. He’s enough like you, Val, for the resemblance, and his darker tan is just right for color. But he won’t come back while Creighton’s here. I could wring that man’s neck!”
“But Creighton left for Milneburg this morning,” Val reminded her. “Rupert told him about the old voodoo rites which used to be celebrated there on June 24th, St. John’s Eve, and he wanted to see if there were any records—”
“Yes. But Jeems doesn’t know he’s gone. If we could only get in touch with him—Jeems, I mean.”
“Miss ’Chanda!”
Sam Two, as they had come to call Sam’s eldest son and heir, was standing on the lowest step of the terrace, holding a small covered basket in his hands.
“Yes?”
“Letty-Lou done say dis am fo’ yo’all, Miss ’Chanda.”
“For me?” Ricky looked at the offering in surprise. “But what in the world—Bring it here, Sam.”
“Yas’m.”
He laid the basket in Ricky’s outstretched hands.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.” She turned it around. “It seems to be woven of some awfully fine grass—”
“That’s swamp work.” Charity was peering over Ricky’s shoulder. “Open it.”
Inside on a nest of raw wild cotton lay a bracelet of polished wood carved with an odd design of curling lines which reminded Val of Spanish moss. And with the circlet was a small purse of scaled hide.
“Swamp oak and baby alligator,” burst out Charity. “Aren’t they beauties?”
“But who—” began Ricky.
Val picked up a scrap of paper which had fluttered to the floor. It was cheap stuff, ruled with faint blue lines, but the writing was bold and clear: “Miss Richanda Ralestone.”
“It’s yours all right.” He handed her the paper.
“I know.” She tucked the note away with the gifts. “It was Jeems.”
“Jeems? But why?” her brother protested.
“Well, yesterday when I was down by the levee he was coming in and I knew that Mr. Creighton was here and I told him. So,” she colored faintly, “then he took me across the bayou and I got some of those big swamp lilies that I’ve always wanted. And we had a long talk. Val, Jeems knows the most wonderful things about the swamps. Do you know that they still have voodoo meetings sometimes—way back in there,” she swept her hand southward. “And the fur trappers live on house-boats, renting their hunting rights. But Jeems owns his own land. Now some northerners are prospecting for oil. They have a queer sort of car which can travel either on land or water. And Père Armand has church records that date back to the middle of the eighteenth century. And—”
“So that’s where you were from four until almost six,” Val laughed. “I don’t know that I approve of this riotous living. Will Jeems take me to pick the lilies too?”
“Maybe. He wanted to know why you always moved so carefully. And I told him about the accident. Then he said the oddest thing—” She was staring past Val at the oaks. “He said that to fly was worth being smashed up for and that he envied you.”
“Then he’s a fool!” her brother said promptly. “Nothing is worth—” Val stopped abruptly. Five months before he had made a bargain with himself; he was not going to break it now.
“Do you know,” Ricky said to Charity, “if you really need Jeems this morning, I think I can get him for you. He told me yesterday how to find his cabin.”
“But why—” The objection came almost at once from Charity. Val thought she was more than a little surprised that Jeems, who had steadfastly refused to give her the same information, had supplied it so readily to Ricky whom he hardly knew at all.
“I don’t know,” answered Ricky frankly. “He was rather queer about it. Kept saying that the time might come when I would need help, and things like that.”
“Charity,” Val was putting her brushes straight, “I learned long ago that nothing can be kept from Ricky. Sooner or later one spills out his secrets.”
“Except Rupert!” Ricky aired her old grievance.
“Perhaps Rupert,” her brother agreed.
“Anyway, I do know where Jeems lives. Do you want me to get him for you, Charity?”
“Certainly not, child! Do you think that I’d let you go into the swamp? Why, even men who know something of woodcraft think twice before attempting such a trip without a guide. Of course you’re not going! I think,” she put her paint-stained hand to her head, “that I’m going to have one of my sick headaches. I’ll have to go home and lie down for an hour or two.”
“I’m sorry.” Ricky’s sympathy was quick and warm. “Is there anything I can do?”
Charity shook her head with a rueful smile. “Time is the only medicine for one of these. I’ll see you later.”
“Just the same,” Ricky stood looking after her, “I’d like to know just what is going on in the swamp right now.”
“Why?” Val asked lightly.
“Because—well, just because,” was her provoking answer. “Jeems was so odd yesterday. He talked as if—as if there were some threat to us or him. I wonder if there is something wrong.” She frowned.
“Of course not!” her brother made prompt answer. “He’s merely gone off on one of those mysterious trips of his.”
“Just the same, what if there were something wrong? We might go and see.”
“Nonsense!” Val snapped. “You heard what Charity said about going into the swamp alone. And there is nothing to worry about anyway. Come on, let’s change. And then I have something to show you.”
“What?” she demanded.
“Wait and see.” His ruse had succeeded. She was no longer looking swampward with that gleam of purpose in her eye.
“Come on then,” she said, prodding him into action.
Val changed slowly. If one didn’t care about mucking around in the garden, as Ricky seemed to delight in doing, there was so little in the way of occupation. He thought of the days as they spread before him. A little riding, a great amount of casual reading and—what else? Was the South “getting” him as the tropics are supposed to “get” the Northerners?
That unlucky meeting with a mountaintop had effectively despoiled him of his one ambition. Soldiers with game legs are not wanted. He couldn’t paint like Charity, he couldn’t spin yarns like Rupert, he possessed a mind too inaccurate to cope with the intricacies of any science. And as a business man he would probably be a good street cleaner.
What was left? Well, the surprise he had promised Ricky might cover the problem. As he reached for a certain black note-book, someone knocked on his door.
“Mistuh Val, wheah’s Miss ’Chanda? She ain’t up heah an’ Ah wan’s to—”
Lucy stood in the hall. The light from the round window was reflected from every corrugated wave of her painfully marcelled hair. Her vast flowered dress had been thriftily covered with a dull-green bib-apron and she had changed her smart slippers for the shapeless gray relics she wore indoors. Just now she looked warm and tired. After all, running two households was something of a task even for Lucy.
“Why, she should be in her room. We came up to change. Miss Charity’s gone home with a headache. What was it you wanted her for?”
“Dese heah cu’ta’ns, Mistuh Val”—she thrust a mound of snowy and beruffled white stuff at him—“dey has got to be hung. An’ does Miss ’Chanda wan’ dem in her room or does she not?”
“Better put them up. I’ll tell her about it. Here wait, let me open that door.”
Val looked into Ricky’s room. As usual, it appeared as though a whirlwind, a small whirlwind but a thorough one, had passed through it. Her discarded costume lay tumbled across the bed and her slippers lay on the floor, one upside down. He stooped to set them straight.
“It do beat all,” Lucy said frankly as she put her burden down on a chair, “how dat chile do mak’ a mess. Now yo’, Mistuh Val, jest put eberythin’ jest so. But Miss ’Chanda leave eberythin’ which way afore Sunday! Looka dat now.” She pointed to the half-open door of the closet. A slip lay on the floor. Ricky must have been in a hurry; that was a little too untidy even for her.
A sudden suspicion sent Val into the closet to investigate. Ricky’s wardrobe was not so extensive that he did not know every dress and article in it very well. It did not take him more than a moment to see what was missing.
“Did Ricky go riding?” Val asked. “Her habit is gone.”
“She ain’ gone ’cross de bayo’ fo’ de hoss,” answered Lucy, reaching for the curtain rod. “An’ anyway, Sam done took dat critter down de road fo’ to be shoed.”
“Then where—” But Val knew his Ricky only too well.
She had a certain stubborn will of her own. Sometimes opposition merely drove her into doing the forbidden thing. And the swamp had been forbidden. But could even Ricky be such a fool? Certain memories of the past testified that she could. But how? Unless she had taken Sam’s boat—
Without a word of explanation to Lucy, he dashed out of the room and downstairs at his best pace. As he left the house Val broke into a stumbling run. There was just a chance that she had not yet left the plantation.
But the bayou levee was deserted. And the post where Sam’s boat was usually moored was bare of rope; the boat was gone. Of course Sam Two might have taken it across the stream to the farm.
That hope was extinguished as the small brown boy came out of the bushes along the stream side.
“Sam, have you seen Miss ’Chanda?” Val demanded.
“Yessuh.”
“Where?” Carrying on a conversation with Sam Two was like prying diamonds out of a rock. He possessed a rooted distaste for talking.
“Heah, suh.”
“When?”
“Jest a li’l bitty ’go.”