The Major's Wife

by The Major's Wife (lit)

  Ruby looked at the wheel marks when she came to a crossroad. If the marks looked heavy and the way seemed well traveled, she chose that direction. After what seemed like hours, she started hearing sounds of civilization. A boat whistle told her the river was near. A distant train said she was nearing a railroad, perhaps with a depot. Voices floated in the air, too far away to make out, but at least within hearing distance. For the first time, Ruby actually felt a glimmer of hope.

  Then it started raining. No, not just rain, but a lightning and thunderstorm seldom seen. The winds alone could knock a person over. Thunder rocked the world. Lightning struck all around. She sought refuge under a large live oak, huddled against its massive trunk, just as a bolt from above struck the center of the hundred-year-old tree, splitting it down the middle. The power of the lightning tossed the woman like a doll, away from the tumbling trunk. Ruby was pinned to the ground under a mountain of branches and limbs. Her last conscious though was of Lulu. Now she could not protect Lulu from Devereaux. She had failed her daughter as she failed herself.

  Had Ruby known, she would have been delighted that she was just a mile from the outskirts of New Orleans. A passerby, as old as his ancient wagon, saw the lightning hit the tree and a woman’s body tossed in the air. He pulled his team close to where he thought she had fallen and began to pull branches apart as he searched. He was afraid to use his ax because he might hit her. Dead or alive, he did not know, but either way he could not pretend he did not know she was there.

  Twice he encountered angry snakes, but they were of no consequence to him. He knew the good ones from the bad, and these were just rat snakes. He would never harm one of them, knowing how many rodents they ate. He heard a rattle as another snake raised itself in front of him. It was a pygmy rattler—poisonous, but small enough for him to pick up with his cane and toss away. Life in the South teaches things only a Southerner knows, particularly a poor black one.

  The storm moved away as quickly as it had arrived. Water dripped from the trees in gigantic drops. The air smelled of swamp and wet moss. Dead leaves and downed branches stuck to everything. Suddenly, he heard a moan. He listened until he could pinpoint the location, and then pulled away the branches until he could see the woman. She was face down and blood flowed from a wound on the back of her head.

  Now that he knew where she was, he retrieved his ax and hacked away the limbs until he could reach her. The wound looked bad. Taking off his shirt, he wrapped it around her head, hoping to stop the bleeding.

  She was heavy for such a skinny old man to carry, but he managed. Lifting her in the back of the wagon was more than he could do, and luckily, another wagon came his direction. Between the two old men, they got her up into it. The second man climbed up beside the first, and together they took the unconscious woman to their small town. They knew nothing of hospitals. The women in their town took care of the ill and injured, so it was to one of them that they took her.

  “What ya two old bucks got in ya wagon to make you hurry dem horses like dat?”

  She was crinkled and wrinkled from a lifetime in the sun. No one knew how old Old Betty was, including Old Betty. She had picked cotton until her arthritic fingers gnarled and she could no longer grasped the boll and her back refused to stand straight ever again.

  Old Betty looked at the white woman in the wagon. She yelled for a couple of young men to come and carry the unconscious body into her small cabin. If Ruby had been able to smell it, she would have loved the smell of eucalyptus, pine needles, and bunches of garlic and peppers. She would not have appreciated the rattlesnake skins, buzzard feathers, Spanish moss, eel skins, or the jar of woodlice. These were just a few of the medicines Old Betty kept handy.

  Betty carefully rinsed the wound with fresh water before packing the bleeding puncture with cayenne pepper. The pepper clung to the skin and gradually, the blood flow stopped. When she turned the woman over on her side, she pulled away the sodden, torn veil. Old Betty had seen knife scars before, but nothing like this. Her heart filled with pity for the poor woman who had suffered so much.

  Old Betty cut the filthy clothing from the woman, once again sighing over the scars. She washed every inch of her, pulling off leeches from Ruby’s time in the swamp. These she put in a special jar, delighted to have some she did not need to find herself. She bathed the other cuts and treated them with cayenne as well. When she was satisfied the woman was clean, she covered her with a blanket and returned to the outside so she could watch the village folk. She was the matriarch and her word was law.

  Chapter 78

  Lucretia awoke with a start. She heard movement outside her bedroom door. She pulled a thin wrapper from the end of the bed and slipped her arms into it. She did not remember putting it there, but everything from the past two days was sketchy. At first, she thought it was Ruby she heard, but memories flew into her mind. Ruby was missing. She opened the door a crack, thinking a maid might be cleaning, but instead she saw Devereaux LaClaire and a bellboy rolling a food cart to the dining table.

  Anger built inside her. How dare he presume to come into her suite while she was sleeping? Even more, how dare he act as if he belonged here? She closed the door quietly and turned to her closet, where she pulled out a blue morning dress and slid it over her head. Only then did she realize she was completely naked under the thin robe. Well, she could re-dress once she got rid of her unwanted visitor.

  She flung open her bedroom door and, without a word, walked to the suite entrance, where she opened that door, too. She stood, looking at the bellboy and Devereaux until the bellboy got the hint and quickly exited.

  “You too, Mr. LaClaire. You are welcome to leave this minute as well.” Devereaux smiled at her and stepped forward to take her hand. She shrugged him away. “I mean it. Get out and do not come back.”

  He continued smiling as he stepped around her, giving her the impression that he was actually leaving, but instead he grabbed the door and pulled the knob from her hand. He shut it firmly and quietly. “Now, Lucretia, that is no way to greet your fiancé, who got up so early to arrange our first breakfast as an engaged couple. And, may I say, you look lovely this morning. But then again, you always do.”

  Lucretia stood, confused. “Engaged? Where did you get that idea? We are not engaged and never will be.”

  “Look at your hand, my darling. I almost had to mortgage my home to buy that size of diamond, but nothing is too good for the woman who will share my life forever. Come now, let us have a morning hug and sit down for our breakfast. I have scheduled several appointments for us today, so we will need our energy.”

  Still confused, Lucretia let him lead her to the table, where he pulled out a chair for her. Before she could sit, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He planted a chaste kiss on her forehead, but what she felt in his pants was anything but chaste. It brought her back to reality.

  She pushed him away. “I have no idea where all this is coming from, but I assure you we are not getting married.”

  Devereaux frowned as if in dismay. “Surely, darling, you remember last night. How I bathed you and tucked you into bed. How we talked until nearly morning, making plans for our life together. Oh, Lucretia, you have made me the happiest man in the world.” He moved toward her again, but found himself reaching for air. She ran to the suite door again, pulling it open. She pulled the ring from her finger and threw it at him.

  “Devereaux, get out! I do not want to ever see you again. Now, I mean it. Go!”

  He grinned. “I know what it is—a case of bridal jitters. Nevertheless, come now, darling. You are not a shy virgin unless that man you married was an idiot. Never would I let something as delectable as you out of my bed, ever. But as I promised you last night, I will not force myself on you and am willing to wait until we are married today before we make love. It will be a long day, my wonderful Lucretia, but I will wait for our wedding night.” He stooped to pick up the ring, seething inwardly at her callous rejection. Actually, h
e had purchased the bauble in a second-hand store, knowing it was just glass, but that was unimportant. What was important was how she was acting toward him.

  “However, if you are so anxious, I promise to leave just as soon as we have our breakfast. I know women think it is bad luck to see their intended on their wedding day, but we will have nothing but good luck from now on. Come now, let us eat and I will go.”

  Lucretia said nothing, just slipped into her chair and lifted her glass of orange juice to her lips. Oh, those lips, he thought. The things those lips will do with me and on me. Aloud he spoke as if to himself, “Since I will be alone today, I shall have a haircut and purchase a new suit suitable for a happy groom. Oh, yes, I have a dozen things to do today.”

  Lucretia took a couple of small bites from her eggs Benedict, usually one of her favorites. However, today it tasted like straw and her throat seemed to close when she swallowed. She drank the rest of her juice and sipped her coffee, waiting for him to finish his meal. He chattered on, but she ceased listening. She excused herself and went to the bathroom, feeling weak.

  She was surprised to find Devereaux standing in the bathroom doorway. “Here, my dear, let me help you. You look faint. Perhaps you should lie down for a few minutes.” He lifted her in his arms and moved to the bedroom. Gently laying her on her bed, he sat her up and removed her dress.

  “God, you are so beautiful. You are like a sunbeam, all yellow and creamy. Do you taste like cream?” She watched in a haze as his head dropped to her breast, taking her nipple into his mouth while his tongue licked around it. She felt herself drifting away. What was happening to her body was something happening to someone else. She felt the lips, but they were not on her. She was detached as she watched and felt his hands on her body. “Yes, my wife to be. You are mine from now on.” He knelt between her open legs, holding his limp cock. He stroked himself, but did not harden. Frustrated, he pinched her nipples, causing her to cry out. Ah, yes, his penis hardened. Yes, cause her pain and his dick would grow. Beating Fat Whore had taught him that. As his wife, she had no rights, no legal means to stop him. A wife was no more than a whore, but more easily accessible. What happened in the bedroom was between the husband and wife and no one else.

  He squeezed her breast and felt his hardness increase. Suddenly, there was a knock on the corridor door. He tried to ignore it, but his penis would not. Swearing under his breath, he yelled, “Who is it?” while pulling on his pants.

  “The police, sir. We need to talk to Mrs. Mills.”

  Chapter 79

  Somewhere in the southwest, Black Eagle Grant camped under a row of cottonwood trees. It was much cooler here than it had been in Mexico, but a lot warmer than at Fort Mason, where the ground was only now starting to thaw. As always when he thought of the army, his thoughts found their way to Fort Mason and the hated white vixen who had taken his heart and soul and left him a betrayed and hollow man.

  He knew in his mind that if she had betrayed him, well, it was because of him. Nevertheless, that did not matter. Seeing her fucked by the nearly beardless recruits was like watching a fire race across the prairie. It consumed his all, leaving him full of hatred. He tried again, as he did repeatedly, to erase her from his memory and dreams, but she was always there.

  Sometimes in the clouds, he could see her face or the shape of her body. What he needed, he decided, was another woman. One he could drown himself in and blot out the other. Mayte and Concha had been wonderful for sex, but he wanted—no, needed—something more than that. Perhaps where there were many women, he might find one—just one he could take as his own. He remembered his grandfather and his complete love for Summer Swan, his grandmother. Yes, that was the kind of love he wanted. Deep, intense, and forever.

  In his dream, Summer Swan came again. This time her face was sad and she did not smile her love for him. She simply said, over and over, Help Lulu. Help Lulu. He did not know what it meant, but he felt compelled to do so, though his hatred for the white woman overshadowed even his grandmother’s plea.

  He awoke in a cold sweat, even in the warm climate. He shook his head to clear it. Yes, he would find a woman who was his only, not one who belonged to everyone. He saddled his horse and mounted, heading toward the northeast.

  The prairie was much warmer than when he left a few weeks ago, or was it months? He did not know or care. He saw smoke from village fires in all directions from his stand on a small mountain. He knew which was his tribe, instinctively, but remained unsure if he even wanted to see any of them again. “Let the horse decide,” he thought. “Horse has not been wrong so far.” He gave it its head and as surely as if he had directed it, the animal moved straight to Eagle’s tribe. The decision was made for him.

  He knew he had been seen hours before he reached the horse’s destination. He rode slowly and even waved a hand at a “hidden” watcher. Whoever was chief now needed to know how poorly his guards did their job.

  As he rode into the village, dogs barked and children ran willy-nilly, some laughing and some crying. No one seemed to fear him, and a few even acknowledged his presence. It was as if he had left the morning before and returned today. As it should be, he thought. He dismounted and walked to the fire circle, where several elderly men sat smoking their pipes.

  “Hello, Black Eagle,” welcomed one, indicating he should sit. He nodded as he dropped to the ground, cross-legged. It had been so long since he sat in that fashion that his thigh muscles let him know it.

  The old man handed him his pipe, but did not turn to look at the newcomer. Who they were was for the younger man to figure out on his own. Black Eagle drew on the pipe and handed it back. “Thank you, Uncle.” He knew it was Land Hunter from the sound of the old man’s voice. “I do not see my father, Iron Eyes.”

  “Your father’s body is on his platform and his soul is with the gods. He died during the last snows. He could no longer breathe and asked Little Crane for one of her Life Enders. She did not want to give it to him, but the elders voted and ordered her to do so. He died in his sleep, peacefully—not in battle—as he wished.

  “We have had no great battles since your army came. We sometimes fight among ourselves, but it is more for practice than anything else. Soon that will stop too, as they move us to reservations. Few of us will survive the long march north when it comes, and fewer still will survive the endless cold of the Canada territory.

  “Our young men, as all young men do, want to fight, but it is hopeless. There are more white men now than all the buffalo that have roamed our prairies. Why are you here?”

  Black Eagle had forgotten the abrupt way his people had of changing their conversations from one thing to another. “I came to see my family. My father and you, Uncle. I look around and see no faces I recognize. Where are Little Crane, and the others?”

  “Are we your people, Black Eagle? I think we are no longer your people, but I think you have no people from either world. Little Crane and many others died from one of the white man’s diseases, which we could not cure. Perhaps your grandmother might have, but I doubt even she could have stopped the useless deaths.”

  Black Eagle understood all too clearly that he was not welcome to remain here. He did not fit in the white man’s world, nor did he fit in here. Once again, he damned his father for creating his life on the white female who had been his mother. He stood without further conversation, mounted his horse, and rode away.

  Chapter 80

  Claralee heaved her body out of the carriage and moved as quickly as she could into her little house next to the squalid bar. She carefully watched the businesses along the route that led to her home, but saw nothing that might have a telegraph in it. She gathered up all her money, stuffing it in a small purse that she shoved between her more than ample breasts.

  She poked her head in next door, yelling out, “Ana buddy know a telegraphy place?”

  “Yeah,” someone answered. “Up at da ol’ ’otel on Bank Street.”

  Claralee was delighted.
One so close when she had feared she would have to walk all the way into the real city. The hotel on Bank Street, called amazingly enough, “The Bank Street Hotel,” was a rundown place now used occasionally by sailors, men hiding from the law, and hookers who lived on the streets. As the hierarchy of life as a whore, Claralee was above those whores, as she had a place of her own. It was not much, but it gave her a feeling of importance, which she demonstrated as she walked through the moldy lobby to the man behind the desk.

  “I wanna send some telegraphs.”

  “Those cost money, sister.”

  “Well, jist tell me how much. I got money. Now, write this down. One do go to General Stanley Cotton, army fort in Saint Louis. One go to Mrs. Elizabeth Harold, Saint Louis. To Sergeant Michael O’Brian, Saint Louis. To everone at Cottonwood Creek, Missouri.” She reeled off the names just as Ruby had taught her. “Now, telegraphy say, ‘Find Eagle. Help Lulu. New Orleans Merchant Bank.’”

  The little man at the desk wrote and then gave Ruby a total that was more than she had stashed away. She thought a minute. “Send da one to Sergeant ‘n’ Lizabeth together. Both names together. Now how much?”

  This time it left her with a few cents, but she had done what Ruby wanted. She had a friend and she would never let her friend down. Now, she had to find that friend. When she was sure the telegraphs were sent, she returned to her house. She was uneducated, but far from stupid, and had taken mental notes of landmarks at each turn. It was too far for one day’s walk, so she had water and food. She started walking, carefully backtracking the route Devereaux had taken from the shack in the bayou.