Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “I’m not afraid of them.”

  “That’s just fine, but it won’t keep your neck from stretching, and I didn’t raise you to hang!”

  It was her son Bradley, Ranny’s former manservant, whom Mama Tass was addressing. He was apparently paying an early-morning visit, since he lived in town, or perhaps he had spent the night with his mother and son as he sometimes did. To be caught listening would be a terrible embarrassment. Lettie looked around her. She could not pass the kitchen without being seen from the open door, but she could circle it to the rear and perhaps unload her apronful of eggs in the dining room.

  She stepped back and trod on the calico cat. The cat howled and clawed at her ankle, then fled, hissing. Three chickens, scratching and pecking with a wary eye on the cat, flew up squawking. Lettie, off balance, stumbled backward away from the flapping wings and sat down abruptly on the ground. There was an ominous cracking noise.

  From the upper veranda of the big house came a peal of high boyish laughter. Lettie looked up to see Lionel leaning over the railing and pointing, while Ranny, trying to hide a grin, emerged from the house, running down the steps.

  The heat of a flush rose to Lettie’s hairline, one not at all cooled by the seep of wet stickiness she could feel through the front of her skirts. Never, but never, in her life had she encountered such a series of indignities as had plagued her since she had arrived in Louisiana. She was at a loss to understand it. Her life heretofore had been sedate and proper. It may have been a little dull, but it had also been decorous and reassuringly safe. She felt as if she had forfeited that safety along with her self-respect. How it could have happened, she was not sure. One thing seemed to have led to another. She had made mistakes and paid for them. Their price, she discovered as she sat there on the ground struggling with a strong desire to burst into tears, was higher than she had thought.

  Ranny stopped in front of her and went down on one knee. He reached to take the gathered corners of her apron in one hand while with the other he grasped the upper portion near the waistband.

  “Untie your apron strings,” he said.

  She did as he said, releasing the apron to him. He took the fullness of it all into his left hand, forming a sack, then extended his right to her as he rose. She put her fingers in his, looking up at him with a smile that was a little tremulous before allowing him to draw her to her feet. His strength was unexpected. She came up against him before she could stop herself, resting there for an instant before she stepped back.

  Ransom stood holding her hand; feeling the imprint of her firm breasts where they had pressed against his arm; staring at the soft pink tint of her cheeks, at the moisture that made her eyes liquid and hugely bright, at her lips so softly parted. A wave of desire swept through him with such force that he felt as mindless and immature as he could hope to appear.

  “Mast’ Ranny? What’s going on? You two come in here so’s I can cook your breakfast and get it out of the way.”

  Bless Mama Tass, Ransom thought. She was an old tartar but a wise woman. He let go of Lettie and stepped back, allowing her to pass in front of him before he followed her toward the kitchen.

  Mama Tass’s son Bradley, who had given himself the last name of Lincoln, was of medium height, stocky, and well-formed. His resemblance to his mother was marked, his skin a rich brown, his features clean-cut, and his eyes sharp with intelligence. He greeted Ranny with easy affection, though he seemed wary of Lettie, treating her to his best English and rather forced interest.

  “So you’re the new teacher? How have you found the South so far?”

  “It’s difficult to say,” she answered, disconcerted by the directness of his words.

  “Not exactly the way you thought it would be?”

  “Not precisely, no.”

  “No turreted castles, no gilded carriages, no groveling former slaves singing praise at being released from their chains? It’s a little late for all of that. What’s left is ruins and hard work, the aristocracy of the hoe — unless you want to count the Knights with white sheets in place of armor?”

  “Bradley?” Mama Tass gave a shake of her head as she looked at her son.

  “I’m here to work,” Lettie said, the words carrying quiet dignity.

  “I thought you were here about your brother, with teaching as an afterthought?”

  “Bradley!”

  This time the warning in Mama Tass’s voice was stronger. She stood at the foot of the table where the rest of them had taken seats. In front of her were two bowls, one holding the cracked eggs still encased in the apron that was draped over the sides, the other ready to receive the ones that were uncracked as Mama Tass inspected them.

  Annoyance raced along Lettie’s vein, a reaction partly due to the man’s manner and partly because what he was saying was the truth. She arched a brow. “Are you suggesting you don’t need help, Mr. Lincoln?”

  “I’m saying I’m tired of people coming down here who claim to want to help us but are really after their own advantage.”

  “Hush up, Bradley!” Mama Tass said, but it was Ranny, rather than her son, who turned his attention to her.

  Lettie ignored the byplay. “I assure you, I have nothing to gain! But as long as you receive the help you need, do the reasons it’s given really matter?”

  “They matter because of a few facts that you and your kind never quite understand, Miss Mason. We may be former slaves, but we have our pride. But most of all, we are Southerners, too.”

  Lettie stared at him for an instant, then a smile crept into her eyes, warming them. “Yes, I think I see. Tell me, when you were with Ranny in the war, did you ever fire at the enemy?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to, but when you’re standing in the midst of an army with a musket in your hands that you’ve been reloading and two thousand men in blue coming pouring over a hill doing their level best to kill you, you don’t think about why they’re coming. You don’t think about much at all except staying alive.”

  Ranny, at the end of the table nearest Mama Tass, reached over and took an egg from the bowl closest to him, turning it in his hand.

  Lettie went on. “You saved the life of your master when he was injured, I think, and spent time with him in a Union prison camp?”

  “If you’re trying to say that I’m different, you’re wrong. There were thousands like me. If I saved Ransom, he did the same for me a dozen times over. What was I supposed to do when he was hurt? Desert him? I was his body servant from the day he was weaned. We grew up together. We were Don Quixote and Sanchez, always off on some crazy quest, the more desperate the better.”

  “Oh, Bradley,” Ranny said, his voice soft and sad as he tossed the egg in his hand, catching it with delicate precision, “you talk too much.”

  It seemed almost a threat. Lettie could not tell whether Bradley perceived it that way or not.

  The black man looked at Ranny and at the egg, and his dark brown eyes filled with an appreciative yet somber light. “My regret is that circumstances have removed the need for my services, and so I am forced into becoming the manservant of the radical Republicans.”

  Ranny placed the egg back in the bowl. He met the eyes of the man across the table. “I’m still your friend.”

  “Yes. Still.”

  Bradley Lincoln reached out his hand. Ranny clasped it. Mama Tass, with a small sniffing sound, picked up the egg bowls and turned toward the stove. Lettie watched the look that passed between the two men and felt a knot form in her own throat.

  At the same time, she had the disturbing feeling that there was something she had missed. It was not the first time she had noticed it. There were crosscurrents in the relationships of these people that they seemed to understand by some instinct she did not possess. It made her feel like an outsider. She was one, of course, and yet it was irksome to be constantly reminded of it. They did not mean to do it; she absolved them of that charge. It was simply a fact she could not overlook. She wondered if it was possible for
someone like her ever to belong. It did not seem likely.

  The dance that was held on the veranda of Splendora that evening stemmed solely from a saddlebag full of lemons. It was Colonel Thomas Ward who brought them, fresh off boat from New Orleans. He came after supper, also bringing three of his fellow officers.

  “It’s an invasion,” Sally Anne said under her breath as they cantered up the drive, and, in truth, it seemed to be one before it was done.

  Of the three additional soldiers, one was from New York, one from Maine, and one from Tennessee. They came up the steps, their faces wary but hopeful, their hats under their arms, their hair carefully combed. “Why, they’re just boys,” Aunt Em said, and struggled up out of her rocking chair to go and greet them.

  What she had said was true and yet untrue. They were not that old in years, but they were seasoned veterans. They talked softly and grinned often as they began to relax; still, there was resolution and assurance behind their quiet manners.

  Lettie had been afraid they would be snubbed, perhaps repulsed. She should have known better, she realized on second thought. Hospitality and innate courtesy would require a polite reception, if not a warm one. The men had their entrée through Colonel Ward; it would be up to them to ensure their welcome in the future.

  They attempted to do that in part with small gifts, beginning with the lemons. They were brought forth, fat, yellow globes juggled with no small difficulty from the saddlebags to the veranda. Another man produced a cone of sugar wrapped in brown paper, and yet another a tin box of marzipan, while the third brought out a fiddle in a leather case. The lemons and sugar were exclaimed over with suitable fervor and expressions of gratitude, then dispatched to the kitchen by Lionel and Peter with instructions for lemonade. Soon they were all sipping the tart beverage, talking wistfully of slivers of ice with which to chill it, as in times past, and listening as the sound of the fiddle, sweet and rather doleful, drifted over the veranda and out into the gathering twilight.

  The welcome of the next man to ride up to the gate was never in question. Johnny Reeden swung down from his mount, digging a harmonica from his coat pocket as he came up the walk. Ranny, seeing the instrument, gave a theatrical groan that was echoed by Lionel beside him.

  Johnny beamed with malicious pleasure. “I knew you would be overjoyed. There I was, feeling melancholy, and I said to myself, Now which of my friends should I choose to share my sorrows? I was riding in this direction when I heard the fiddle music and knew immediately that I had my answer! Some things are directed by a higher power.”

  “Not many,” Ranny said.

  “You,” Johnny told him, “are a pessimist” In a pretense at huffiness, he sat down on the steps, turned his back, and raised the harmonica to his mouth.

  Lettie expected to have her ears assaulted. Instead, the music of the simple mouth organ rose clear and true, blending in perfect harmony with the fiddle, adding richness. There was heart-catching emotion in the flowing sound and a degree of pathos that was unexpected from the laughing, red-haired young man.

  Johnny and the man in blue from Tennessee gave them “Lorena,” “Rock of Ages,” “Old Folks at Home,” and “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.” Just when everyone was nearly in tears from such lugubrious selections, they swung into “Oh! Susannah” in such lively fashion that Aunt Em began to tap her foot, and the moths clustering around the pair of oil lamps that had been brought out of the house seemed to flutter back and forth in time to the music.

  In the midst of the gaiety, Martin Eden drove up in a surrey. He had with him a vivacious young girl, Marie Voisin, the daughter of a near neighbor, the girl’s mother, Madame Voisin, as chaperone, and a friend, Angelique La Cour. They had been taking the evening air when they saw the lights and heard the music. Curiosity compelled them to discover the cause.

  Introductions were made. More glasses were brought out and lemonade poured. The marzipan was passed around. The music resumed and the tempo of the evening picked up perceptively.

  Marie Voisin, dark and vivacious, flirted as naturally as she breathed. She was interested in everyone and everything; her questions flew thick and fast, and her liquid brown eyes sparkled with zest. Madame Voisin, comfortably ensconced beside Aunt Em and nibbling on marzipan, was indulgent. The friend Angelique was less animated but spoke easily enough when Marie turned to include her in the conversation.

  Who began the dancing was difficult to say. One moment everyone was sitting, talking, swinging their feet, and slapping at the occasional mosquito; the next they were up and pushing the chairs and lamp tables back against the wall. No one seemed to think it was unusual. It was treated rather as a natural opportunity, one that must be seized.

  Lettie whirled around the floor with Thomas Ward, then went from one to the other of the men in blue in such quick succession that she was soon breathless and feeling the pull of a stitch in her side. Marie and her friend Angelique were just as much in demand and just as obliging. Even Aunt Em sashayed about to the rhythm of a reel, holding up her skirts and tossing her head. Sally Anne, on the other hand, pleaded fatigue and, though she was pleasant enough about it, refused to take the floor. Nothing, seemingly, could change the young widow’s mind until Ranny pushed away from the wall where he stood and moved to bow in front of her.

  The music was slow, a waltz tempo. The pair revolved down the long veranda, their movements gliding, perfectly matched, infinitely graceful. Ranny bent his blond head toward Sally Anne, and she looked up at him with a smile that had the look of wistful enjoyment. They seemed to inhabit a world of their own, one removed from the noise and laughter around them, one softer, more gentle and delicately colored than that where ordinary mortals were forced to abide. Lettie, also circling in the arms of the colonel, watched them and gave a small unconscious shake of her head.

  “What is it?” Thomas Ward asked. “Surprised?”

  She gave him a brief smile. “Yes, a little, to be honest. I rather expected him to be clumsy on the floor.”

  “I suppose there are some things you don’t forget unless, of course, the bodily responses are damaged.”

  “Yes,” she said in agreement. “I was thinking, too, that they are both casualties of the war, in their way.”

  “Are they? Tyler may be, but if the lovely widow is a casualty, it’s by choice.”

  “Because she refuses to dance with the Union army?” Lettie lifted a brow, her smile quizzical.

  “Because she’s hiding behind those widow’s weeds she always wears.”

  “Maybe she can’t afford anything else.”

  “Maybe she feels safe.”

  “Who’s to say she doesn’t deserve any safety she can find?”

  “Such as marrying Tyler and playing mother to him as well as to her son. It would be a terrible waste.”

  Lettie said no more, but her gaze on Ranny and the woman in black was wide and speculative.

  Their numbers increased. Mr. Daniel O’Connor, the tax collector, arrived in search of Colonel Ward. He had been told, the Irish carpetbagger said, that the Union commander was visiting the Tyler house. He hoped he didn’t intrude? ‘Twas the last thing he wanted to do.

  The man was invited to join them, if with little enthusiasm, and offered refreshment. He accepted, grimaced at the taste of the tart lemonade when he had apparently expected something stronger, then moved aside with the colonel for a few minutes.

  Their business transacted, the two men looked toward where Lettie stood against the railing, fanning her flushed face, The colonel started toward her and the carpetbagger trailed along at his heels. As they neared, Lettie heard O’Connor, a short, plump man whose clothes were too brightly colored and of too tight a fit, speak to Thomas Ward in what he undoubtedly thought was an undertone. “By the way, what’s the high yellow girl doing here?”

  “What do you mean?” the officer said, pausing to look down at the other man.

  “Over there. The quadroon from down Isle Brevelle way.”

&
nbsp; He was indicating Angelique, who was dancing at that moment in the arms of Martin Eden. Lettie stared at the girl. Could it be true? Her skin was the color of overrich cream and her hair jet-black and thickly curling. Her appearance was a bit exotic, but Lettie had thought that perhaps she had a strain of Spanish or Mexican blood, an inheritance from the Spanish post that had shared the Texas-Louisiana frontier with Natchitoches for decades during the French and Spanish regimes. Angelique was well known by the Tylers, apparently, and accepted as being some distant family connection of their Voisin neighbors.

  “Are you sure?” The colonel’s voice was blank.

  “Sure as shootin’. Saw her at her old man’s place not a week back. A choice piece, one I wouldn’t mind looking after for a few weeks.” He nudged the man beside him in the ribs.

  Thomas returned no answer. The two men moved on to stop before Lettie, and the tax collector was presented to her. Before there was time for more than a brief greeting, a blue-coated officer approached and swept Lettie away. She was not sorry. O’Connor was of a type she could not stomach, crude and grasping, pretentious and porcine. It was he whom the Thorn had recently left tied to a lamppost with a sign around his neck. It was possible that in this case the Thorn had reason for what he had done.

  Claiming exhaustion after an hour, Johnny Reeden put down his harmonica and staggered toward the lemonade pitcher. The dancers collapsed in the chairs along the walls or hung over the railings in search of a cooling breeze. Sally Anne, who was nearest to the lemonade, poured Johnny a glass of it and put it in his elaborately trembling hand. He reeled away, making it as far as the chair that sat between the rocker Lettie had claimed and the straight chair on which Ranny reclined with his long legs thrust out before him.

  “For a man sunk in melancholy,” Lettie said to Johnny, “you make lovely music.”

  “A woman of rare discernment.” He toasted her with lemonade. “But you can’t see the black pain in my heart.”