by Toombs, Jane
Every man in the room rose, Americans and Creoles alike.
"Major Tomlinson, you'll command one expedition. La Branche, Devol, Perrier, arm yourselves and report to the major. I'll see you get a company of soldiers, major. Captain Hock, I plan to send you up to Natchez with a squad. As for you other men, I'll expect you to recruit additional volunteers to patrol the city. Dismissed."
Guy rushed back to La Belle to arm himself for the expedition. He had no uniform except the dress whites he'd worn as aide to de Laussat so he donned hunting clothes and boots. As he came out of his bedroom, Senalda drifted past in the hall. He called her name and she jerked with surprise, turning her head.
"Senalda," he repeated, coming to her and taking her hands.
She gazed at him with oddly blank eyes. He felt a tremor of apprehension.
"Cherie, I've neglected you and I'm sorry. I must travel up the river on order of General Wilkinson but when I come back we'll spend time together, just the two of us."
She said nothing.
He touched her cheek gently. "We'll have a child yet, my love, don't despair. Wait for my return." He kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder.
She made no response.
"Senalda!" he said loudly.
She blinked and took a step backwards.
"Won't you wish me good fortune?" he asked.
"Of course," she said, her voice slightly hoarse, as if from disuse.
He smiled, brought her hand to his lips, turned and ran down the stairs, spurs jingling.
Senalda stood staring after her husband. Long after he was gone from the house she remained in the same spot. He'd disarrayed the curtain of grey that hung between her and the world. His voice, his touch had slashed holes through which flowed memories she'd thrown away.
A baby. She placed her hands atop her stomach, one over the other. Her stomach was flat. But there'd been a baby inside her, she remembered. Yes, she remembered.
Where was the baby now? For, although she couldn't find the memory of being brought to bed for the birth, she must have delivered her child. She touched her breasts, found them strangely shrunken.
From nursing? These weren't the full breasts of a new mother. The boy was older then, finished with his mother's milk. For hadn't Guy told her the baby was a boy? "My son," he'd said.
She even recalled the name. Denis. Of Guy's choosing, obviously.
How thin her arms were. Had she been ill? Of course, that was it, that was why her mind seemed so fuzzy— she'd been ill. Senalda turned toward the room she'd chosen for the nursery.
"Denis?" she called softly as she opened the door. "Denis, where are you? Where is mother's darling boy?"
Guy had been on the Mississippi innumerable times, crossing to plantations on the right bank, visiting others up or down stream, out into the gulf fishing. Travel upriver was always difficult, fighting against the swift current. In their bulky keelboats, poled by ten men to either side of each boat, it took almost a week for Guy's expedition, led by Major Tomlinson, to move the sixty miles up the Mississippi the general had ordered. Christmas passed while they poled upstream.
Boats of all description sailed by them toward New Orleans—pirogues, flatboats, keelboats. Most had a few armed men aboard, Kaintocks with their squirrel rifles, other men with muskets and pistols, but in none of the boats were the men they sought.
The weather, which had been sunny when they left the city, grew increasingly cloudy. When they landed sixty miles upriver, it was in a chilling rain. They found a stand of pines and the men immediately split into two groups, the Creoles setting up camp together, some twenty of them, separate from the thirty odd American soldiers and keelboat men.
"A damn bunch of gaudy peacocks in them fancy clothes," one of the American keelboaters muttered to a companion. "Do they think we're gonna toss a ball?" He minced about, imitating the steps of a quadrille.
Guy pretended not to understand. He spoke English far better than his fellow Creoles but it was likely the Kaintock didn’t realize this and so the remark wasn’t intended for his ears. There was no sense in taking offense. A fine group of guards they'd be if they began to fight among themselves. Yet anger smoldered deep inside him.
He was glad the Americans didn't know French, for Jean Perrier constantly pointed out their faults. "Hogs are clean and dainty by comparison," Jean complained. "Mon Dieu, what filthy pigs."
Two days after they landed, January first, 1807, dawned cold and misty. As the sun rose, Guy saw the shrubs about the campsite glittered with frost. He shivered in his greatcoat and held his hands out to the morning fire, wishing he was back in New Orleans, making New Year's visits with his friends from house to house, enjoying life.
Was Aaron Burr really coming? There'd been so many rumors. Spanish soldiers marching to Baton Rouge to join Burr, a flotilla of armed American volunteers, added to at every stop along the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers as Burr floated down toward New Orleans.
Guy didn't trust General Wilkinson. He knew the man's disarming manner hid a shrewd brain, a devious mind that might very well have conspired with Burr in the beginning and now, feeling Burr's was a losing cause, conspired against him. He, personally, had caught the general in more than one lie.
Yet who could risk the chance of Burr arriving in New Orleans with enough armed men to take over the city? That's why Guy had come to this cold and uncomfortable spot to begin with, there was little point in grousing about what he'd felt had to be done.
"I say they're a bunch of God damned sissies, each and every one of the froggies," a hoarse voice said loudly, slurring the words so Guy could scarcely understand them.
Without turning his head, he glanced toward the American tents. A buckskin clad Kaintock keelboater stood with his hands on his hips, staring toward the Creoles. One of the soldiers tried to pull him down by their fire.
"What's he saying?" Jean Perrier demanded. "What insult does that cachon, that pig, shout at us?"
"I couldn't understand him." Guy lied. "He's drunk."
"I know that word he uses. Frog. He dares to call a Perrier a frog?" Jean's voice rose and the Kaintock took a step toward the Creole tents.
"You talking to me?" the American demanded.
"Oui, cachon" Jean called, glaring at the man.
"I don't know frog talk but I know when I'm being called something nasty," the Kaintock said.
"What's he saying?" Jean asked Guy.
All the Creoles were gathered around Jean and Guy. More of the American soldiers as well as other keel boaters joined the Kaintock. Guy's muscles tensed.
"Attention!" Major Tomlinson's command was as icy as the morning wind. He walked between the two groups of men. "I'll have no brawling in this camp," he warned. "Any man who breaks the rule will find himself under arrest. Is that clear?" His eyes drifted over the men, lingering on the keelboaters, before he allowed the soldiers to return to their breakfasts.
For three days there were no further incidents as the men took shifts watching the river, two men at a time. That night, as Guy was coming off from his turn at sentry duty, he spotted Jean slipping out of his tent. The smoldering fire cast enough light so Guy could see Jean wore his sword buckled about his waist.
"Ah, Guy." Jean patted the sheath significantly. "I plan to seek out the Kaintock and challenge him. "I've been watching and listening. He's called Whiskey Joe Banks and I know where he sleeps."
"Have you forgotten the major's order?"
Jean held up his hand. "The duel won't be in the camp, no, we'll fight upstream at a spot I've found."
"The American will have his choice of weapons," Guy reminded him. "Have you ever fired a squirrel rifle?"
Jean shrugged. "If I can shoot one rifle I can shoot another."
"And can you also use a knife with the skill of a keel boatman? Don't be a fool, Jean. A challenge is wasted on such a lout as Whiskey Joe. Besides, we're here on a mission, not to quarrel with one another."
"Do you dare to call J
ean Perrier a fool?"
Guy sighed. "Calm down. I'm just trying to make you see this isn't the time or place for a duel. Whiskey Joe didn't actually insult you in any case. He was drunk, that's all."
"I don't believe you. He called me names and you refused to tell me what the words meant. Do you take sides with the Americains over your own people?"
Nothing Guy said could sway Jean and, finally, Guy stood among the ten men gathered on a rise along a row of moss hung oaks to watch the duel between Whiskey Joe and Jean. As Guy had feared, the boatman chose knives, wicked instruments with long curved blades.
Three lanterns hung from branches of the trees, casting a sinister glow over the scene. Guy knew that Jean had never fought with a knife. Creoles regarded knives as implements for skinning game or cutting cane. Certainly not for a duel between gentlemen. Le bon Dieu only knew how many men Whiskey Joe might have knifed up and down the river. The only thing in Jean's favor was that the boatman was half drunk.
"I'm a roaring ripsnorter and I can lick an alligator one handed," Whiskey Joe shouted, waving his knife above his head.
"Engarde" Rafe Devol cried, acting as Jean's second.
"Go to it!" exclaimed the boatman standing by Whiskey Joe.
The duelists circled one another warily. Jean dodged aside from a feint by the American, who immediately lunged again, narrowly missing the Creole. They circled again.
Guy held his breath, watching. "Use the bedamned knife," he urged Jean inaudibly, for it wasn't proper to shout advice to duelists. "Strike at him when he rushes you."
An explosion split the air, the crack of a rifle. Guy spun around, searching the darkness. Another shot. Six soldiers double stepped into the open from the pines, lantern light glinting on leveled gun barrels. For a moment, Guy thought he was looking at Aaron Burr's men.
Major Tomlinson stepped into the light. "Perrier, Banks, you're both under arrest," he snapped. “Drop the knives and submit quietly. I'm in no mood for argument after being roused from my sleep by your foolishness. Do you think I issue orders to hear myself talk?"
Under the unwavering rifles on the soldiers, both men threw their weapons to the ground.
"You'll be confined in a tent with guards set," the major said as Jean and Whiskey Joe were marched off. He smiled for the first time. "Confined in the same tent. I trust you'll enjoy each other's company." He turned to the onlookers. "As for the rest of you, keep this in mind before you decide to flout camp rules."
The next day the Creoles avoided Guy and, as he approached his friend Rafe, even Rafe hesitated before he returned Guy's greeting.
"What's the matter with everyone?" Guy asked.
"They think you told the major."
Guy's eyes widened.
“I don't believe you'd turn against us," Rafe said, but there was a hint of a question in his words.
The next two weeks, dragged on, Guy a pariah among his fellow Creoles. When the news came on January eighteenth that Aaron Burr had been arrested near Natchez the day before, and that his force had amounted to only sixty men, Guy felt it was an ironic anticlimax.
Chapter 8
In the foyer of the plantation house, Madelaine tried to smile at her sister-in-law. Behind Senalda, the front door stood open and a cold January wind rattled the tear drop crystals of the chandelier. The setting sun slanted dull redness onto the polished tiles.
"Please stay inside," Madelaine said. "You haven't your pelisse on or even a shawl. You mustn't catch a chill."
Senalda held out her hands imploringly. "Why won't you help me?" she asked. "I know my son is out there, lost in this terrible swamp country. I've searched and searched but--"
Madelaine took her hands. "Senalda, come upstairs. Josefina has a hot bath ready for you, the tub is in your room." Her heart contracted with pity for the gaunt, bedraggled figure who stood in front of her.
Senalda looked twice as old as she was, her beauty faded. Madelaine had tried time and again to convince her that she had no baby, but Senalda wouldn't listen to her. Day after day Senalda searched the house and grounds for an imaginary son. Denis, she called him, and Madelaine felt a frisson of unease every time Senalda said the name for she knew that Guy's placee had a son named Denis.
Guy, please hurry home, Madelaine prayed under her breath. Hurry.
When she'd coaxed her sister in law up the stairs and into Josefina's care, Madelaine withdrew to her own room, where Odalie sat mending one of her mistress' gowns.
"Odalie, I'm at my wit's end," she said. "I don't like to think about locking her in her bedroom but what am I to do? If that field hand hadn't seen her go into the swamp yesterday and followed her, she'd have died. The quicksand would have swallowed her and no one would have known. We can't watch her every minute."
"Monsieur Guy be home soon. Maybe he help Madame."
"I hope so. Oh, how I hope so."
Later that night, when she was ready for bed, Madelaine walked quietly to Senalda's door and eased it open. Seeing Senalda on the bed, she beckoned to Josefina to come to the door.
"You must watch her carefully tonight," Madelaine whispered. "We can't have her outside in the dark."
"She never go out, be it dark," Josefina said.
"She's getting more and more restless. We must take no chances. Sleep in front of the door."
Josefina nodded, glancing slyly at Madelaine. "She do be talking about that Aimee when she take her bath," she said.
Madelaine frowned at her. It seemed every slave in the house had overheard the quarrel last year that had culminated in Senalda's miscarriage. Still, they'd probably known well before that about Guy's placee and the son she had. House servants seemed to know everything.
"I watch Madame good," Josefina said, eyes downcast.
"See that you do." Madelaine turned away from the door and returned to her own room, troubled and uncertain. Should she have punished Josefina for daring to speak Aimee's name in her presence? Dieu only knew Senalda said the name often enough, demanding to know who Aimee was, where she lived.
She seemed to have forgotten entirely about the placee business which was just as well.
Every day Senalda seemed to sink deeper into a morass of confusion and agitation. When Madelaine had stopped her from going out this afternoon, the wild look in Senalda's eyes had been more chilling than the winter wind.
Senalda kept her eyes closed when Josefina bent over her. Everyone in this house was against her, she knew that. No matter how they smiled and pretended concern, no one would help her find Denis.
She'd asked and asked about Aimee. Tanguy had said the name, she recalled that clearly. Who was this person? Yesterday she'd asked one of the field hands, threatening to have him whipped if he didn't tell her. She'd frightened him into revealing where Aimee lived. Now she clutched the knowledge to herself.
Rue des Ramparts.
She lay very still, eyes shut, hearing Josefina fuss about the room, straightening, putting things away. Finally the glow of light on her eyelids faded and she knew Josefina, believing her asleep, was planning to prepare for sleep herself.
To sleep in this bedroom in front of the door. Madelaine had told her to. They thought she couldn't hear as they whispered and plotted against her. Where was Tanguy, why had he left her alone?
Senalda waited, listening for Josefina's snoring to begin. When she heard it, she opened her eyes. The lamp was turned very low. Josefina lay on a straw pallet next to the bedroom door so that the door couldn't be opened, Senalda's eyes turned to the windows that were really glass doors leading onto the balcony. Outside, next to the balcony, thick vines of wisteria clung to the stuccoed brick walls. Once, a long time ago, hadn't she stood on that balcony with Tanguy while voices shouted below?
Carefully, Senalda rose from the bed. She saw Josefina's old black shawl folded on the floor next to the pallet and, tiptoeing, picked up the shawl and flung it over her shoulders so it covered much of her white nightgown. She crept to the glass doors and very sl
owly eased one open, freezing in place when it creaked. Josefina grunted and turned over.
Senalda waited, then inched the door farther open until she could slip past it onto the balcony. She pulled up her gown and bunched it around her thighs, tucking in the ends to hold it in place, climbed onto the balcony railing and clutched at the vines of wisteria.
On the way to the ground, strands of the vine ripped loose under Senalda's feet and she almost fell, but she hung on grimly with her fingers until her bare toes found new holds. She realized when her feet touched the cold ground that she'd forgotten her slippers. It didn't matter, the important thing was that she'd escaped. She was free now to find Aimee.
As she headed toward the city she prayed to the Virgin. "I must find my child, Mary. You, who lost your beloved son, aid me in my search. Mother Mary, guide my steps."
Senalda sighed, remembering Sister Ana in the Convent of the Blessed Miracle near Madrid. Sister Ana had been like a mother to her, more beloved than her own mother, whom she rarely saw. Sister Ana had urged Senalda to pray that God might lead her to a religious vocation. Senalda had been of two minds. She knew men admired her and the knowledge was like wine but she still felt at home, protected, behind the convent walls where she'd spent so much of her life.
Her mother wouldn't hear of such a notion. "You'll marry well, Senalda," she said. "You'll marry money."
Tanguy was wealthy, but she'd married him because he didn't frighten her as much as some of her other suitors. With his arm in a sling he'd been a romantic figure, she'd felt he needed her to take care of him.
After the marriage . . . Senalda put her hand to her heart. No, she wouldn't remember. She couldn't All she knew was that Tanguy wasn't with her. Where was he? Why wasn't he helping her to find their son?
A bobcat screamed in the darkness to her right, startling her. So many wild animals in this country, the swamps filled with them, with snakes and birds and plants that fought each other for room. Too much life and growth, a choking green profusion. Not like Spain's hills and fields which had never threatened her.