Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “This one still looks all right to me.”

  “You,” he said solemnly, “are not a fish. He needs it to be wiggling.”

  She made a face. “It sounds like torture.”

  “That’s the way things are. Haven’t you ever been fishing before?”

  “No,” she said, her voice defensive.

  He gave her a slow grin. “Why didn’t you say so? Put on a new worm.”

  Lettie, her lips curled in disgust, stripped off the dead bait and carefully threaded a new, desperately wriggling specimen on her hook. Holding it in her fingers, she sent her teacher a pained look. “Now what?”

  “Put it in the water.”

  “Right.” She plopped the line and hook into the river.

  “Give him a little air now and then. Move your hook around.”

  She obeyed his instructions and also the others he gave her at intervals, but it didn’t help. After a time, she moved farther along the bank, closer to Martin. O’Connor seemed to be having about the same luck she was, for he shifted also, throwing his hook back in the water between Martin and Lettie.

  At a shout of triumph from Aunt Em, Lettie craned her neck in that direction. The older woman was pulling in a huge, slick, silvery gray fish that appeared to have whiskers.

  “Channel cat,” the older woman called in answer to a faint question from somewhere beyond her. Aunt Em’s skirt was nearly to her knees as she perched on her upturned bucket. Under it, she had on what looked to be a pair of men’s trousers. Her head was covered by a battered old man’s hat to keep off the sun. The outfit was immensely practical and looked just as comfortable.

  Lettie had worn her oldest skirt and shirtwaist and shabbiest shoes, but she still felt overdressed compared to the others. Even Sally Anne had on a faded and patched gown that fell short of her ankles.

  With a glance around to be sure no one was watching, Lettie rolled her sleeves up past her elbows and opened her collar wider for coolness. She unbuttoned the few buttons on her low shoes and kicked them off long enough to remove her stockings and put them in a rolled ball in her pocket. Then she put her shoes on again.

  The river flowed past with the sun glittering on its surface like billions of tiny flashing mirrors. It swirled sometimes into patterns, making little gurgling sounds, carrying bits of bark and leaves and spent tree blooms. A dragonfly, a beautiful insect of iridescent blue-green with black gossamer wings, landed on the end of Lettie’s pole. A great white crane flapped by overhead with slow, majestic beats of its wings. Birds called back and forth in the trees around them. It was so calm and lovely, so peaceful there with nothing to do but watch a bit of floating cork.

  Her cork! It was gone. She snatched at her pole, jerking it straight up. The line stretched taut for an instant, then, as the fish got off the hook, it snapped out of the water, flying up, reaching high, higher. The end of the black line struck a tree limb high above her to her left with the hook whirling. It caught. It hung.

  Getting a hook hung was nothing unusual from what Lettie could tell, but she had yet to see anyone, even young Peter, hang theirs in a treetop. Pink with annoyance and chagrin, Lettie yanked on her pole. Nothing happened. She thrashed it back and forth. The line whipped and vibrated and the tree limb shook up and down as if in a gale, but her hook did not come loose. Bits of green leaves and bark showered down on O’Connor, who looked up at her line caught on the tree limb above him. He had the effrontery to laugh.

  “It’s blue gills we’re fishing for, Miss Mason, not blue birds,” he said.

  Lettie looked over her shoulder at Ranny, farther along the bank now and absorbed in removing another fish, this time a blue gill, from his hook. There was no help there at the moment. Turning back, she took her pole in both hands and gave it a tremendous pull toward her.

  The tree limb bent double. With a loud and sudden crack, the hook popped free. The limb flew up and the small tree thrashed. Something long and thick and writhing fell from a higher tree branch. It struck O’Connor on the shoulder, tumbled down his shirt front, then hit the ground with a heavy, slapping thud. The tax collector gave a hoarse yell.

  “Snake!”

  O’Connor jumped back, stumbling, cursing, dropping his pole. The snake righted itself and slid with a soft rustling into the water. O’Connor rounded on Lettie.

  The danger was over, though there had been a moment when Lettie had been ready to break and run. As she saw the tax collector’s livid face and thought of his undignified scramble away from the snake and the snake’s huffy departure from the place of its disturbed rest, she gave a choked laugh and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  O’Connor’s pasty-white face turned red with rage. He stalked toward her. “What in the name of bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was there.” Lettie was genuinely contrite.

  “That was a cottonmouth moccasin; I’ve seen ‘em before. I could have died if it’d bit me!”

  O’Connor was upon her. His eyes glittered, and there were great beads of sweat on his upper lip. He reached and caught her upper arm, and she could feel the tremors of shock still rippling through him.

  Abruptly, Ranny was beside her. He clamped hard fingers on O’Connor’s wrist, wrenched the man’s hand from Lettie’s arm, and flung it back at him.

  Martin also came striding up, a frown on his handsome face. “Dammit, O’Connor, it was an accident. What are you so fired up about?”

  O’Connor looked at them. He muttered, “I can’t stand snakes.”

  “Neither can I, if it comes to that.” Martin’s tone was hard in its significance.

  “Are you insinuating—”

  “I’m stating a fact, no more than that.” Despite his words, Martin’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, as if he would not back down from the challenge if the tax collector meant to make one.

  “Please, I am sorry,” Lettie said in an effort to smooth over the situation that had boiled up so suddenly.

  O’Connor shifted his gaze away from Martin and back to Lettie. “It’s my belief Miss Mason has a liking for such low company. I hear she was seen one night not so long ago with a man who looked mighty like the description of our noble Robin Hood, the Thorn.”

  Lettie gasped. She sensed the stiff attention of the other two men as they stared at the tax collector.

  “Who says such a thing?” Martin demanded.

  “I’m not saying, but it would be interesting if there was any truth in it.”

  Martin gave Lettie a swift glance before turning back to her accuser. “My God, man, the Thorn killed her brother. If I hear any more such slander, somebody’s going to be sorry.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Are you the one who’s supposed to have seen her?”

  “Of course not!” The reply was short, flustered.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. I think, however, that it might be better if you forgot about fishing for today. Your company can no longer be pleasing to Miss Mason.”

  The dismissal was more than a little high-handed.

  O’Connor’s face tightened. “I’ve lost my taste for both, anyway.”

  Ranny made a soft sound, moving forward. O’Connor stepped back hastily as he saw the expression on his face, then retreated another step. He looked at the three of them and his thick lips took on an ugly twist. “I won’t forget this.”

  Martin curled his hands into fists as he drawled, “I trust not.”

  It was the last word. O’Connor only glared and turned away, trudging where he had left his buggy. The three of them watched him go. When he was out of sight among the trees, Lettie turned to Martin.

  Before she could speak, he said, “I apologize for my language in front of a lady just now.”

  “I didn’t regard it, I assure you. Thank you for coming to my defense.”

  “My pleasure, but Ranny was there before me.”

  “Yes,” Lettie agreed, smiling, and swung around to s
peak to Ranny. But he had turned his back and was already walking away, returning to his fishing.

  The incident caused scarcely a ripple. No one seemed to have noticed much beyond O’Connor’s departure. There was a yelled inquiry or two, but Martin smoothed it over by simply calling back that the tax collector had gotten too hot and decided to call it quits. There was no grief over the news.

  Lettie’s hook had straightened from its bout with the tree limb and she had lost her worm. She eyed the hook with some doubt, wiped it on her skirt, then, copying a move she had seen Aunt Em make, put it between her teeth and gingerly bit down on it. It served nicely. The hook looked like a hook once more. She baited it again and slung it back out into the water.

  Her pretense of competence at the art of fishing did not serve to distract her from the problem that faced her. She had been seen with the Thorn. True, there was some uncertainty about it, but the fact remained. Her name was being bandied about among the men in town. She had been foolish to think that she could ride through Natchitoches, no matter how late, and be safe from prying eyes. She had tried to dissuade the Thorn from accompanying her, but he had been concerned for her safety. It would have been funny if it had not been so disturbing.

  She had been right earlier, she should go home.

  She was jerked from her reverie by the sight of her cork going under the water once more. She let the fish take it for a second or two. It was heading for a log. If it swam under it, she might never pull it in. Lettie sidestepped and gave a strong yank on her line. Her foot came down on a dead limb. She knew what it was, and yet the thought of the snake had not been far from her mind since it went into the water near her feet. She shifted too quickly just as the fish tugged. Suddenly there was nothing under her but the muddy, sloping bank. She slipped, threw up her hands, and slid with a stifled cry into the river.

  The water was no higher than her knees here near the bank. She floundered for an instant with arms outstretched, but her feet were too deep in the soft mud of the river bottom for her to fall. With a soft oath, she began to turn back toward the bank, lifting a foot from the squishy, sucking ooze and swinging around in her heavy skirt that was wet to her thighs. Her shoe came off. Balancing precariously, she felt for it.

  “Need some help?”

  It was Ranny at his most laconic, his tone resigned. He was kneeling on the bank with one hand held out to her and the other holding on to a tree trunk.

  “I will never,” she announced in doleful tones, “be a fisherman.”

  “Fisherwoman.”

  “Whichever.”

  She reached out for his hand, but he withdrew it abruptly to point. “You’re losing your pole.”

  The fish was still on the line and was towing her floating pole out toward the middle of the river. She plunged after it, splashing waist high. She grabbed the end of it and towed it toward her. Lifting the pole, she shouted as she saw the huge red sun perch flapping and dangling on her hook. She swung the fish toward her, grasping the line just above it. Twisting around, she laughed up at Ranny. “Look! I caught one.”

  She was breathless and flushed, she had muddy water on her face, and her hair was coming down from its pins, hanging in tendrils, but she was warm and happy and beautiful, and there was not a trace of tightness in her smile. Ransom felt his heart constrict, felt the cutting blade buried inside him slice deeper. He had been so jealous of the few words of appreciation she had given Martin a few minutes before that he had wanted to throw him in the river. Now it was all he could do not to pull Lettie out and make love to her there in the mud. He was losing control, had had very little, in fact, since he had met her. He was going to have to do something, but what it could be he had no idea.

  “Yes, you caught one,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. And felt like crying as he watched the joy fade from her face.

  They cleaned the fish they had caught and cooked them there beside the river. Mama Tass had built a fire and let the wood burn down to a bed of coals. A great iron pot with a bail was hung from a support over the heat and was filled with lard that was soon so hot it rolled as if it were boiling.

  The first food to be fried was the “hush puppies,” spoonfuls of uncooked cornbread into which had been stirred chopped onions and hot peppers and even a little fresh corn from the garden. They puffed up crisp and golden-brown on the outside and moist and spicy on the inside. Next the fish were dredged in salted cornmeal and plunged a few at a time into the hot fat. Last of all to be cooked were the potatoes. Sliced into rounds like cookies, they quickly became tender and golden.

  It was while the potatoes were cooking that the Voisin family — mother, father, daughter Marie, and her friend Angelique La Cour — drove up. In addition to a croquet set to aid their welcome, they had with them two watermelons the size of beer kegs and with rinds so dark green they were almost black. Nothing was needed, however; company was always greeted with pleasure, and there was never a shortage of something to eat. The newcomers were made much over, and the watermelons were put into a water-filled tub and set in the edge of the river to cool.

  Finally, everything was ready. The rubber ground cloths were spread in the shade of a grove of oak and ash trees. The food, piled on huge platters, was placed on the cloths along with a supply of tin plates, forks, and a pile of old napkins. Quilts were spread about the edges to deter the ants and to make for comfortable seating. Peter and Lionel were put in charge of handing out the lemonade as Lettie and Sally Anne poured it. Aunt Em’s cucumber pickles and bottled tomato relish were passed around along with sliced onion.

  The smell of the woodsmoke and the delicious aromas rising from the black pot, plus the exercise of the morning, had made everyone ravenous. They all helped themselves from what was there and then, balancing their plates on their laps, fell to eating. They largely discarded their forks as they picked the fish apart to look for bones and held the hush puppies to bite into them. Frequent recourse was made to the napkins to wipe greasy fingers and mouths, but no one complained. Instead, praise poured in upon Mama Tass, particularly from the Union soldiers who declared with extravagance that they hadn’t known such good food existed.

  Finally the last hush puppy was eaten and the last potato snatched from the platter. There was an offer of muffins for dessert, but few were accepted. It was agreed by voice vote that they tarry to visit for an hour or two or three before cutting the watermelons. There was no hurry. It was a long time until dark.

  The dirty dishes were given a scrubbing with sand and rinsed in the river, then wrapped in the rubber cloths and bundled away into the wagons to discourage the gathering flies. The older women rambled away along a wagon track to “walk off their meal,” taking the two younger children with them. Sally Anne and her sister, with Marie Voisin and Angelique, the colonel and Martin and a lieutenant from Maine, cleared most of the leaves and trash from a clearing and set up the croquet set. The rest of the men and boys lay back on the quilts, moaning about how much they had eaten, until here and there they began to snore.

  It really was difficult to keep awake after the big meal on such a warm day. It was pleasant in the shade with a faint breeze rustling in the leaves overhead and the sun making a scattered pattern of moving light over the quilts and the faces of those lying on them. Lettie sat on a corner of a quilt with her back to the trunk of a big ash. Through half-closed eyes she watched the others, too content and somnolent to move to a more comfortable position.

  Ranny lay not far away. He was flat on his back with his hands behind his head. Just beyond him were Peter and Lionel, both in the same position. A smile twitched Lettie’s lips as she noticed the boys’ mimicry.

  Her gaze went back to Ranny. Was he asleep? It was impossible to tell: His chest moved with a regular rhythm and his eyelids were still, but sometimes when he lay like that on the veranda he would suddenly open his eyes and smile at her, as if he could feel when he was being watched. His headaches had not been so frequent lately, so perhaps he was sl
eeping better.

  There was a spot of muted sunlight the size of her hand across the lower part of his face. It made the bronze of his skin look translucent, and in it she could see the faint stubble of his closely shaven jaw. It was darker than his hair, almost brown. It was odd how men’s mustaches and beards were often a different color from their hair, sometimes a different color from each other.

  Her mind was drawn inexorably to that night on the ferry and the false beard the Thorn had worn. She could not think of why she had not snatched it off, had not been able to understand it in the many days since. The excuses she had given herself had no weight. The truth was, no matter how she might try to hide it, that she was a coward. She was, in some deep recess of her being, afraid to know who he might be, afraid of what the knowledge might mean to her.

  Mustaches. That was what she had been thinking about.

  Most of the men spread out before her had them, and most of them were brown. Martin Eden’s had a trace of red in it. Why had she not noticed that before?

  Of course, in his guise as the old lady the Thorn had not worn a beard, nor had he as the priest. He might have had time to grow one since, though it would have been obvious in its stages of regeneration. Perhaps he was even now wearing a false mustache while he waited for his real one to reach full luxuriance? Or possibly he never had a real one in order to give himself more diversity? She should probably have been looking for a man who was smooth-shaven all this time or else one with a false mustache.

  She was so sleepy that she wasn’t making sense. Surely a false mustache would be too dangerous, too obviously fake in the light of day? Or was that what everyone would think? So the Thorn would then do the opposite? He was bold and clever and daring. He might.

  Dear heaven, but he was bold.

  No. She would not think of that. She would not.

  She was no longer sleepy.

  Lettie got to her feet as quietly as possible and moved away from the quilts. The sparkle of the river attracted her and she walked toward it with her head bent, her hands clasped behind her back, and her steps swinging as she kicked at her skirts. They had dried quickly in the heat, but now had a wrinkled stiffness about her ankles so that they felt almost as if they had been starched. Looking up as she neared the water, she caught sight of the soldiers’ boat, which was beached on a section of sandy bank shelving off into the water. She changed direction to move toward it.