The Cottoncrest Curse: A Novel

by Michael H. Rubin

  When the Colonel had finally come back to Cottoncrest, his ribs showed through his thin cotton shirt, his face was gaunt, his chest hollow, and he walked with a limp that never left him, the old bullet still in his left thigh.

  Marcus had made it this far. The good Lord had granted him a strong body. He was older than the Colonel Judge and had outlived him. He would do what he always had done. He would live today and let tomorrow take care of itself.

  On his way back into the big house, Marcus passed by the sharecroppers. They had been counting. This was his sixth trip. Six buckets of bloody sheets. How much blood had there been? It was obvious the curse had hit again. The Colonel Judge had killed himself. And the curse was getting worse. Miss Rebecca was dead too. Who would run the plantation? Who would honor their crop pledges? Who would market the sugarcane now that the Colonel Judge, who had handled all the financing for them, was gone?

  Some of the sharecroppers glanced upward as the sun headed toward the western horizon, the October sky the blue of well-worn Union uniforms, now absent for almost a decade since President Rutherford P. Hayes pulled the troops out and ended Reconstruction.

  Some Reconstruction it had turned out to be. Times were now worse than ever. And even if they harvested their crops, the sharecroppers worried that they would not raise enough to pay off the money owed for the goods they had bought during the season at the Cottoncrest plantation store—the salt and flour, the hoes, scythes, and plows, and the seed for their personal gardens of corn and squash and beans.

  There was hardly any wind. That was good.

  Tomorrow would be a fine day. The entire plantation would be on fire.

  Chapter 11

  Trosclaire admired the way that Jake bled the suckling pig. You had to bleed it before cooking anyway, but why did he cut the throat so deep? All that was needed was a point in the knife in the jugular vein; let the pig squeal as it bled to death, and you’d preserve the head so that it would look right when presented.

  Trosclaire tied the pig’s hind feet together and then, slipping a stout branch under the rope, he and Jake lifted the pig and placed it into the big pot until it was fully covered, but only for a minute or two. After the skin had softened, they lifted it out and, propping the branch in a wooden rack that hung from the porch beams, they started scraping, Trosclaire with his American blade, retrieved from the pine tree, and Jake with his Freimer knife. They worked quickly, removing the hair and outermost layer of skin from the carcass while the skin was soft and hot.

  Trosclaire noted that Jake worked far faster than he did, for the wiry man had no wasted motions. Jake’s long, smooth strokes were just the right depth, neither cutting too deep and hitting the meat nor cutting too shallow, leaving hair and skin behind.

  Trosclaire threw the bloody contents of the bucket on the ground behind the house. On the porch Jake was using his knife to slit the pig’s stomach. The knife cut cleanly into the flesh, exposing the intestines and stomach.

  Jake quickly scooped out the innards and then, swiftly but carefully so as not to damage the liver, removed the gall.

  Trosclaire and Jake then went to the garden on the side of the cabin and dug up some shallots and picked some peppers and fall tomatoes. Trosclaire got some salt from the barrel he kept inside the front door. Together they filled the eviscerated animal with the seasonings, and Trosclaire bound up the stomach with some wire.

  Jake and Trosclaire laid the pig into the trench next to the fire. Then Trosclaire shoveled the white-hot ashes over the pig.

  “In a few hours, my friend, we will have ourselves some fine eating. A fitting tribute to my Jeanne Marie, no? She is most beautiful. Until then, what do you say we have ourselves some fine drinking and perhaps a game of bourée?”

  “It is too fine a night,” Jake responded, “to do anything other than sit out under the stars and enjoy a drink. Why don’t we drink to Jeanne Marie?”

  Jake didn’t want to play cards anyway. He would let Trosclaire go on and on about Jeanne Marie, and he would pretend to listen attentively.

  Beautiful women could be lovely. And beautiful women could be dangerous. His brother, Moshe, had been stupid. He had let himself be led on by a beautiful woman, and that had proven deadly. That’s why Moshe could never come south again.

  Chapter 12

  “So, it’s clear that the bullet went straight through,” said Raifer, as Dr. Cailleteau set the Colonel Judge’s head back down on the board. “But the question is, where is the bullet?”

  “Damn it, Raifer, you didn’t drag me all the way out here, away from my other patients, to ask me that question, did you?”

  “No,” Raifer replied, in his own quiet and determined way, “I asked you to help me dig that bullet out.”

  “Out of what? And why do you need that bullet anyway?”

  “Well, if Bucky has got it right…”

  Bucky, standing over near a stall, swelled with pride. Not only had Dr. Cailleteau asked him what happened, but now Raifer was relying on him too.

  “… then that bullet went right through his head and lodged in her back. Take out your scalpel and dig it out for me, if you don’t mind.”

  Dr. Cailleteau, with a grunt, the vast folds of fat encasing his midsection bulging out under his vest, bent down and picked up his black bag. Placing it on the board next to the Colonel Judge’s head, he reached inside and pulled out a scalpel. “Do it yourself. You don’t need me for this. And I still don’t understand why you need the bullet.”

  “No, you do it, Doc. Let me show you something.” Raifer reached into the saddlebag that he had thrown over the top bar of a stall. “What do you make of this? Does this look like something that the Colonel Judge would have owned?”

  Dr. Cailleteau took the rusty pistol that Raifer proffered. He gave it a quick glance and handed it back. “Not likely. It’s a LeMat.”

  “It’s a pistol, Doc,” Bucky said. “Anyone can see that. It’s not a mat or rug.”

  “It’s a grapeshot revolver, Bucky,” Dr. Cailleteau sighed with impatience. “A black powder LeMat. General Beauregard had these made up in France and snuck past the blue-belly blockade. Didn’t amount to much. They say it was a deal with his son-in-law. I don’t know anyone who ever used a LeMat who didn’t have trouble with it. Not rugged like a Colt. Not as small as a Derringer. Takes nine bullets in the cylinder rather than six, and it still isn’t worth spit.”

  Handing the weapon back to Raifer, Dr. Cailleteau pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his hands to get rid of the rust stains that coated his palms. “Raifer, everyone knew that Augustine had been taught by the General, from the time he was a small boy, to care for all his arms. A cheap LeMat is not something Augustine would have owned. Even if this were his, Augustine would never have let a revolver get into such a condition. I mean, look at the second barrel. It’s completely jammed with dirt and rust. Where did you find this anyway? Out in the yard? Had he thrown it out the window or something?”

  “No, Doc. It was in his hand when we found him. This is the pistol that made that hole. At least I think it is this pistol. That’s why I want to see the bullet.”

  Dr. Cailleteau picked up the LeMat with his handkerchief. It had a long narrow barrel and under it a shorter, fatter one everyone called the shotgun. The cylinder was oversized to hold nine bullets. But having nine bullets was not an advantage; it only made it heavier and more ungainly to use. The extra-long handle of the revolver made it difficult to aim. Dr. Cailleteau had never liked a LeMat. He had never used one in the war because of the firing problem. If you were too quick in cocking or if the pin in the cylinder got stuck, the pistol wouldn’t fire.

  From the size of the hole in his head, Augustine had shot himself with the smaller round. Why hadn’t Augustine cleaned the shotgun barrel of the pistol and loaded it with a.65-caliber shell? That would have made a damn big hole pressed against your temple.

  It didn’t make any sense that Augustine would not have used the shotgun barrel, i
f he was going to use anything. Not after what had happened to the General.

  When François Cailleteau was back from the war as a young doctor, he was just starting up his practice in Parteblanc and had been called from town to Cottoncrest. That was thirty years ago. Marcus had come on horseback, the steed heaving and snorting outside his door. Marcus had run inside, past the frightened white girl waiting to be seen, and breathlessly informed the doctor that he had to come quick—the General had shot himself.

  François Cailleteau had dropped everything and, mounting his own horse, followed Marcus at a gallop all the way back to Cottoncrest. There he found the General barely clinging to life, gurgling and unable to speak. There was nothing he could do other than bandage up the General’s head with roll after roll of torn sheets and gauze and tell the family he wouldn’t last the night.

  There was no question why the General had done it. It was the bad news.

  The General always carried his combat pistol, even at Cottoncrest. It was a Whitney revolver, well made and sturdy, with the cylinder stamped with a coat of arms that seemed both En glish and American— a lion on one side, an eagle on the other.

  The General had taken the Whitney and, placing its barrel in his mouth, had pulled the trigger too soon, or perhaps he had drunk too much bourbon before doing it. He had pointed the gun too far to the side, blowing off his left cheek, shattering his jaw, blinding him but not killing him. He tried to fire a second time to finish himself off, but he was in too much pain, and his hand obviously had been shaking, for he shot off his left ear.

  When Augustine had found out about it after he returned home, he seemed inconsolable. He blamed all blue-bellies. And he blamed himself.

  The General had acted too soon. Too abruptly. If only he had thought of his wife instead of his own grief. If only he had tried to live from one day to the next, he would eventually have found that the news was in error. If only he had possessed the faith to persevere instead of giving into despair. But the General hadn’t, and he had died in agony.

  After that, Augustine became even more careful and deliberate. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was left to chance. It had seemed to François Cailleteau, as he sat with Augustine on those many evenings out on the Cottoncrest veranda, that it was as if, by keeping the things in his life orderly, Augustine felt he could keep himself from the internal disorder and disarray into which his father had fallen.

  But eventually Augustine had succumbed to both internal disorder and internal disarray. For more than a year now, Augustine had come to town only when he had to adjudicate the few court cases that arose from time to time, and then he would promptly leave. He had not received guests in his chambers. He had not paid the social visits he once did.

  Augustine and Rebecca had retreated to Cottoncrest. Augustine used to travel to the Cotton Exchange in New Orleans to conduct his transactions, but for more than a year he had simply sent instructions in writing. Augustine and Rebecca used to host grand dinners, but since before last year’s harvest, no one had been invited to the house. Internal disorder and disarray. Maybe it had consumed them both.

  Maybe the old Greeks were right when they said that the four humors had to be kept in balance—the sanguine red of blood, the impassive green of phlegm, the rancorous yellow of choler, and the black bile of melancholy. If they were out of balance, then the soul would break.

  “So you want to see the bullet, Raifer? It’s clear from this small hole that he didn’t use the shotgun barrel. Couldn’t do it with this rusty old LeMat. After what happened to the General, seems to me that Augustine would have used something that he knew would do the job the first time, no mistakes. And he wouldn’t have used anything that was not in pristine condition. Of course, the LeMat nine-cylinder takes a.40-caliber bullet rather than a.36-caliber like a Colt, but even so…”

  “Doc, let’s just see what kind of bullet he used. Go ahead and dig it out for me.”

  Dr. Cailleteau couldn’t understand why Raifer was so insistent, but he picked up the scalpel and slowly walked around to the other side of the board, where Rebecca’s body lay.

  There was no way to tell from the dress, with the hardening blood clumping up around the laces, where the bullet had entered. Dr. Cailleteau sliced through the stays on the back of her dress and pushed the fabric aside. He cut through the waist cinch beneath the dress and pulled it back to reveal the gentle curve of her backbone and the soft rise of her posterior.

  Her skin gleamed like alabaster. There was not a mark on it.

  Dr. Cailleteau looked up at Raifer with puzzlement, and their eyes met.

  “I thought,” said Raifer, “that this might be the case. Now Doc, tell me one more thing. You knew the Colonel Judge longer than any of us. What hand did he write with?”

  Dr. Cailleteau wiped the blade of his scalpel on his trousers and put it back into the black case. “Right hand, of course.”

  “Then how could he have done it?”

  Dr. Cailleteau closed his case and sat down on a bale of hay, which, even though it was tightly bound, sagged under his weight. He took a long pull on his cigar and blew a vast cloud of smoke that drifted over the uncovered bodies. “Good question. Damned good question, Raifer.”

  “Bucky,” Raifer commanded, “get back in that house and tell Marcus and the other boys I meant what I said. I want that place clean, and I want them to find that bullet. Probe the banisters and the staircase. Look at every wall. I want to know exactly where the Colonel Judge was when the shot was fired.”

  Chapter 13

  The gathering for the cochon de lait had begun. More than thirty people were at Trosclaire Thibodeaux’s house, resting on the porch, sitting on logs in the yard, standing near trees and talking.

  Trosclaire’s oldest daughter, who was not yet fifteen, was frying some of the fish she had carried home in her basket at the front of the pirogue. She had cleaned them expertly, covered them with a mixture of flour and cornmeal, and was placing them in a big pot of boiling lard. The reflection of the fire played on her face and hair, and it caught her eager smile aimed at the skinny boy who stood next to her. The boy, his thick dark hair jammed under an old hat, took every opportunity to brush against her arm and touch her elbow as he helped her with the frying.

  Trosclaire took another swig from the jug and yelled from the porch. “Do not let the fish burn, Jeanne Marie.”

  Jeanne Marie just laughed. “Étienne, he is watching the fish almost as close as he is watching me!”

  “But yes,” her mother, Aimee, replied from her seat on a nearby log where she was shucking peas. “The poudre de Perlainpainpain sure worked on him, cher.”

  Jake had understood everything Trosclaire and Jeanne Marie and Aimee had said in French until this last phrase. He looked questioningly at his host.

  “Aimee, this man, who wants to sell us a knife sharper than the teeth of that old alligator in the bayou, does not know what a poudre de Perlainpainpain is.”

  An old woman who was sitting next to Aimee and helping her shuck the peas shook her head in disbelief and said to Jake, “How can you speak so well and not understand anything?”

  Her face, a mass of deep wrinkles set in skin the color and texture of parchment, broke into a wide, toothless grin. “Are you a loup-garou, come to place us under a spell so that we will buy your needles and thimbles and fabrics?”

  “Tante Odille,” Aimee said, throwing a pea at her aunt, “if you think he is a loup-garou, then you’d better get some gris-gris before the moon gets any higher.”

  Jake called down from his perch on the porch. “I am no werewolf, but if you need a lucky charm to scare away a real loup-garou, then I think I have just what you need in my cart.”

  “See, my Aimee,” the old woman said, “who was once my little Mimi who I held on my lap, you give that man a word, and he turns it into a way to sell you something. Besides, now I think he is too foolish to be a loup-garou. If he were a loup-garou, he would have in his cart some voodoo gr
ease, and he would not use a big knife to do a boucherie and then sit and wait for his meat to be cooked. No, cher, he would bare his teeth and jump on a sheep and eat it down in one bite, yes?”

  The small children who were trying to snatch pieces of the fried fish on the platter waiting to be handed out to the guests heard Tante Odille talking about sheep and started singing one of their nursery rhymes:

  Mouton, Mouton, est ou tu vas?

  Passer l’abattoir.

  Quand tu reviens?

  Jamais… Baa!

  Jake understood it perfectly. Sheep, sheep, where are you going? To the slaughterhouse. When will you return? Never… Baa.

  Just like Moshe would never return.

  He and Moshe had left New York with such grand plans. The Cotton Exposition in New Orleans six years earlier, in the mid-1880s, had captured Moshe’s imagination, and he couldn’t stop talking about it. Countries from all over, he had said, had come to New Orleans to trade and sell. There was rum, coffee, cocoa, and dyes. There were oils and fruits. There were goods from Guatemala and Venezuela and Brazil. Mexico had built the filigreed and domed Alhambra Palace just for the occasion and filled it with display cases crammed with gold and silver from Chihuahua, Zacatecas, and Sinaloa. Lace in the Belgium exhibit, furniture in France’s pavilion, machinery in Great Britain’s arena, and strange and unusual items and food in the exhibits run by China, Japan, Russia, and Siam.

  And the money that was flowing. Opening day expenses, Moshe had said, time and time again, were almost two million dollars. Who could imagine such a sum? And that was just the expenses for one day alone! And over seven thousand exhibitors!