The Exiles

by Gilbert, Morris

  Chantel’s face revealed the pleasure that welled up inside. She turned away so that he could not see how happy he had made her. Ahead she saw a tree across the path and said, “Let’s jump it, Papa.”

  “Do you think you can do it?”

  “You just watch. Come on, Lady.” Chantel leaned forward and spoke encouragingly to the mare, who broke into a swift gallop. When she came to the log, Chantel cried out, and the mare jumped it easily.

  Chantel looked back, crying, “I did it, Papa!” She watched as her father took the jump and pulled up beside her.

  “That was fine! You’ve become a good rider.” He studied her for a moment and then shook his head. “But you’re going to have to learn to ride sidesaddle sometime.”

  “Oh, Papa, that’s no fun! Riding with your leg crooked around an old saddle horn!”

  “That may be, but it’s the way ladies ride.”

  “I think it’s silly!” Chantel turned to face her father, her brow kneaded. “I want to ride just like you do.”

  “Well, we’ll worry about that when you get all grown up. In the meanwhile you’ve gotten to be a fine rider.”

  Chantel flashed a smile. “You know, Papa, the last six months have been the best time of my whole life.”

  “Is that right? Well, I’m glad to hear it. I hope the rest of your life will be just as good.”

  “Papa, do you think I’ll ever be pretty like Mama?”

  Cretien hesitated. In truth he was disappointed that his daughter had not inherited Aimee’s beauty. She was entirely different, and he sought words carefully so that he would not hurt her feelings.

  “Let me tell you something about beauty, daughter. You have one thing that I admire very much.” He saw her eyes brighten and he smiled. “You have a fine carriage. You’re a tall young lady, and you’re going to be even taller when you grow up. A fine carriage and good bone structure, which you have—nothing can take the place of those.” He turned to look at a small bird pouring out a symphony of song.

  He gazed at the bird for a moment and then turned back and said, “I knew a lady once in France. She had the same sort of bone structure that you have, Chantel. And when you studied her face alone she didn’t seem exceptionally attractive. But she carried herself well, and somehow other people began to think she was attractive.”

  He thought for a moment about the days that he had spent in Paris, and there was a queer twist in him—a stray current of something out of his far past, half regret and half a pale sentimentality. Shaking himself, he said, “Now, you’re going to be just like that woman. You’re going to think yourself beautiful.”

  “But how can I do that?”

  “That’s what you must find out for yourself. We, all of us, have to find out things about ourselves, Chantel.”

  Chantel thought about his words and then said, “You know, I want to do so many things. Last night when I saw Veronique looking out the window she saw the moon, and she reached out for it. But she didn’t know she could never get it.”

  “Reach for the moon, Chantel,” Cretien said strongly. “You may not get it, but you must never give up trying. Some poet or other, I forget who it was, said, ‘Always reach for the stars. Some day you might get one.’ Something like that.”

  The two talked as their horses walked side by side, until Cretien said, “I think we’d better get back now. It’s getting a little bit late.”

  “Just a little ways further, Papa.”

  “No, I have things to do.”

  Reluctantly Chantel reined Lady around, and when they started back, she said, “When will you have to leave, Papa?”

  “Next week, I think.” He turned and smiled. “I’ll bring you back something from the city. What would you like?”

  Instantly Chantel said, “I would like a pistol.”

  Her answer brought a burst of laughter from Cretien. He was fascinated by the mind of this daughter of his. “A pistol! What in the world would you do with a pistol?”

  “I would protect myself. And if a burglar came in the house, I would shoot him.”

  “I think eleven is a little young to be shooting burglars. Wherever do you get such ideas?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just think of them.”

  “I believe you’ve been reading too many romances.”

  “But I love the stories, Papa. Don’t you?”

  “They’re all right. But you have to remember, Chantel, they’re just stories. Not real life.” He did not speak for a time, and then he said, “I’ll bring you back something from town, but it will be much nicer than a pistol. Maybe a new dress or some shoes.”

  “I’ll like whatever you bring, Papa—but someday when I grow up I’ll get myself a pistol and carry it in my reticule. Then I won’t have to be afraid of anyone.”

  Cretien turned to study his daughter. He did not understand her in the least, but he shrugged and thought, Maybe a man never understands a child. Especially a female one.

  A cold breeze from the north bit at Chantel’s face, but she ignored it. She was wrapped up in heavy clothes and wore gloves that were really intended for more sedate pastimes than trot lining in the river. She sat in the back of the flat-bottom boat, watching as Brutus propelled them along by tugging at a heavy line. Every ten feet or so he would stop and examine a shorter line that was tied to the long one that stretched along the banks. One end was tied at the bank and another to a cypress tree that pushed its way upward out of the murky waters of the river.

  “Let me put some bait on, Brutus.”

  “No, missy, you’d better let me do dat,” he replied. He turned to smile at her, and the late afternoon sun caught his ebony features. His weight pushed the front of the johnboat down into the water. He reached into the bucket at his feet, pulled out a crawdad, and skillfully hooked the wiggling creature just beneath the top of its shell. He examined it critically, then lowered it into the water, still holding onto the main line.

  “You cotch us a good catfish, Mr. Crawdad,” he said.

  He was humming a tune, and as he moved along to the next set line, Chantel said, “What’s that song, Brutus?”

  “Just a song I know.”

  Chantel asked him to sing it again, and the second time she sang it with him.

  “You sho is got a good singin’ voice, missy,” Brutus said. He started to speak, then suddenly he halted and turned quickly. “We got somethin’ on the line up ahead there! Feels like a big ’un!”

  “Can I help pull it in?”

  “No, indeed! These catfish can be mean critters. They got horns on ’em with pizen in ’em. But you kin watch. And then later on you kin have some good, fresh, fried catfish. Hold still now!”

  Chantel watched with excitement as Brutus propelled the boat. She saw the line dipping and straining, and, as always, wished she could help.

  Brutus kept a tight hold, and once he turned and said, “He shore is a big ’un. Must be big as Jonah’s whale.” He turned back and soon he said, “Gonna have to pull hard to get dis ’un in. You watch now. Don’t let him git close to you when he get in de boat.”

  After what seemed like a long struggle, Brutus gave a tug, and a huge catfish came dripping and flopping into the bottom of the boat. He was the biggest catfish Chantel had ever seen, and she saw him swing his head around.

  “Watch out for dem horns now! Lemme get ’em off.” Brutus approached the fish carefully, for the dorsal fin and the two side fins both had spikes that could hurt fiercely. He waited his chance, ran his huge hand in the fish’s lip, and gripped down. Chantel saw the mighty mouth close, but Brutus was not paying attention. With a pair of pliers he reached down and snapped off the dorsal fin, the horn, and then the two side fins. “There, dat’ll hold you, I reckon.”

  “He’s so big!”

  “Biggest one I ever cotched,” he said. “Now, I reckon as how we might as well go home. We got enough fish for one night, and mo’ than I expect. Everybody will have fish at Fontaine Maison tonight.” The fis
h flopped and thrashed around the bottom of the boat as Brutus dropped the line down. It sank immediately because of the weights he had tied to it. Picking up a paddle, he sent the small craft over the water with powerful strokes.

  As always, Chantel chattered like a magpie, speaking about the things she was going to do when she grew up. “You know,” she said, “I think I might be a doctor.”

  Brutus broke his strokes for a moment and stared at her. “But dey ain’t no lady doctors dat I knows of.”

  “Well, there will be when I get to be one.”

  “Don’t see why fo’ you want to be a doctor. It’s a pretty messy job, and you allus havin’ to be around folks in trouble. Why don’t you just be a lady like yo’ mama.”

  “I can be that, too.”

  Brutus laughed deep in his chest. “You sho got a mess of things you gonna do when you grow up. Looks like it’d take two or three lifetimes to get ’em all in.”

  They were almost to the landing when suddenly two large black birds dropped out of the sky and lit on the limb of a cypress.

  Brutus stared at them. “Dat’s bad luck right there.”

  “What is?”

  “Why, dem black birds! Every time dey come you can figure on somethin’ mighty bad happenin’. Maybe I’ll break a leg or somethin’ like that.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Brutus! They’re just old blackbirds.”

  “You think what you want, missy, but last time I seed two birds like dat come down and light, the next day I lost my good knife.”

  “Well, it didn’t have anything to do with the blackbirds,” Chantel said defiantly. “Now, I want to watch you clean the fish.”

  “Shucks, dat’s a messy job. I don’t know why you want to see dat.” He smiled suddenly at her, his teeth white against his ebony skin. “You more interested in things than any girl I ever seed—or any man either, for that matter.”

  He paddled the boat so that the prow drove in on a bank, then stepped out and held it, saying, “You watch out for dat fish. He might bite yo’ foot clean off.”

  Chantel laughed, but all the same she carefully avoided the huge catfish. She watched as Brutus tied the boat, then reached out and got the fish by the lip.

  “Dis here fish must weigh thirty pounds! We’re gonna have good eatin’ tonight. Come on. I’ll let you watch me clean ’im.” They had started for the house when Brutus paused to look upward. “Dat sky looks mighty bad.”

  “It does look like rain,” Chantel agreed.

  “It done been rainin’ so much. That river ain’t gonna take much more.” He shrugged and said, “Well, come on. Let’s get dis here fish cleaned.” He cast his eyes up at the rolling black clouds and shook his head sadly.

  The rain came down in solid sheets, slanting as though driven by a powerful east wind. Simon Bientot was soaked to the skin. The water dripped off his hat in a miniature waterfall as he trudged along, the ground squishy with each step. As he came up on the front porch and stood under the overhang, he looked back in the direction of the river, lines of worry creasing his forehead. He took off his hat, wiped his face as best he could with a sodden handkerchief, and knocked on the door. It opened almost at once, and Aimee Fontaine stood there. She stepped outside and said, “What is it, Simon?”

  “Miz Fontaine, I’m worried about that river. It’s plum out of its banks already.”

  “But it’s never flooded here.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it did, a long time ago. The old-timers told me that. This whole area was under water. That was before the house was built, of course, just a few shacks here. But it took ’em all away.”

  Aimee looked out at what seemed like a world submerged. Already the low places had become small lakes, and the water fell from the sky like a deluge. She was silent for a moment, then said, “I think it will be all right.”

  “I reckon we’d better leave, Miz Fontaine.”

  “No, we’re not going to do that. It may get up to the house, but we’re on a rise here. It won’t get to us.”

  Simon argued. “What about folks in the lower lands? They are almost sure to get water in their houses.”

  “You can bring them all here. We’ll take care of them until it stops raining and the water goes down.”

  Simon was not satisfied, but he realized that Aimee’s mind was made up. “All right, ma’am, but I’m worried. And I think you should be, too.”

  Aimee turned and went back into the house, where she found Chantel rocking Veronique in the nursery.

  “I never saw it rain so hard, Mama,” Chantel said.

  “I don’t believe I ever have either. And I expect New Orleans will be flooded. It’s so low there.”

  “But the water won’t come in here, will it, Mama?”

  With all the confidence she could muster Aimee replied, “Of course not. It’ll stop raining, and the water will go down. It goes down very quickly. Now, let’s give Veronique her bath.”

  After the bathing was done, Chantel went out and stood on the porch. The sound of water cascading off the house and striking the ground was louder than she had ever heard it. Thunder rolled almost constantly, and the sky was lit up with blinding white flashes. She was frightened by the power of the elements and quickly turned around and went back inside. She closed the door, muting the sound, but still the storm was like a beast prowling around. Chantel went to the nursery to sit beside her mama, who was rocking Veronique.

  Simon nodded with relief. “You made the right decision, Miz Fontaine. We’ve got to get out of this place. The water’s almost up to the level of the house.”

  “It’s going to ruin our beautiful home.”

  “We can work on it after the water goes down, but now let’s get out of here. Everybody else is all ready.”

  Aimee had finally acknowledged the inevitable. Ever since Simon’s first warning, the rains had fallen steadily, though for a time they seemed to have stopped. Now the rain was slowing, but all around the big house a sheet of water continued to rise. The slave quarters were already flooded, and there was no other choice.

  “Come along, Chantel.”

  “Where are we going, Mama?”

  “We’re going over to the Bascom Plantation. Mrs. Bascom sent word that we could stay there until the waters go down. Hurry now.”

  Chantel gathered her treasures together, including her journal and the doll that her father had given her, and placed them in a canvas sack. She went outside to the barn. Brutus had already saddled Lady, and Chantel stepped into the saddle and tied her sack around the saddle horn.

  Brutus held the lines and said, “I tole you bad luck was comin’ when dem two birds came down.” He handed the reins to Chantel and said, “You be keerful now.” Then he turned and hurried back to three wagons that had been loaded with the slaves and their possessions.

  Simon Bientot came to greet Aimee as she came out of the house holding Veronique. “You ride with Tallboy. He’s a good, steady driver, ma’am.”

  “Is everybody ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Come along.” Bientot walked with her to the wagon where a tall, thin young man pulled his hat off and nodded. “How do, Miz Fontaine.”

  “Hello, Tallboy.” Aimee got into the wagon and settled back with Veronique in her arms, as Tallboy put on his hat and looked to the overseer.

  Bientot nodded and climbed into the wagon, saying, “All right, let’s find some dry ground.”

  The wagons moved through the floodwaters in a small procession. Chantel touched Lady with her heels, and the mare obediently moved forward. She guided the mare until she was even with her mother and said, “Do you want me to ride with you and help with Veronique?”

  “No, I can take care of her. You be careful though.”

  “I’m afraid, Mama!”

  “It’s all right,” Aimee said and smiled. She extended her hand, and Chantel reached down and took it. “We’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  At that moment something touched Chantel. She held on to her mothe
r’s hand until the wagon dropped into a pothole, and they were separated. Chantel steadied Lady and moved on ahead to ride along with Bientot.

  “It’ll be all right, Miss Chantel. You sure you don’t want to ride in the wagon with me?”

  “No, I want to ride Lady. The rain has stopped, so I’ll be fine.”

  “All right. You stick close to the wagon though.”

  The journey was slow, for Bientot was cautious. They followed the line of the road until finally they came clear of the water. Mud was everywhere. “The river’s right up there,” he said to Chantel. “Do you hear it?”

  Chantel had already heard the distant rumbling that sounded like far-off thunder.

  “It’s out of its banks. I hope the bridge is still in place. If it ain’t, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

  Chantel rose in her stirrups from time to time and finally, when they made a turn around a group of cypress trees, she saw the bridge. “It’s still there, Simon!”

  “Well, that’s good!” Simon said with relief. He guided the horses until they came to the roaring river. The original banks were completely underwater, and the crest of the flood was striking the top of the bridge itself so that water flowed over it.

  “We can’t cross that bridge, Simon, can we?” Chantel stared at the raging torrent with fear.

  “We’ve got to,” Bientot said grimly. “Come on. I’ll go across first.” He stood up in the wagon and said, “All right. Come along, everyone. It’ll be fine. You come with me, Chantel.”

  “All right.” Chantel guided Lady across the bridge. The water seemed to grab at the mare’s feet as it flowed over the bridge. The muddy torrent was beyond anything she had ever seen, and when she reached the other side she gave a sigh of relief. Simon drove the wagon thirty yards away, then halted and got out. The others were coming, and he said, “It looks like your mama and Tallboy’s waiting till everyone else is across.”

  Chantel stood there and could not control the trembling in her limbs. She had climbed down from the mare and was holding the lines, but everything in her strained toward the figure of her mother and sister. “I wish they’d hurry!” she whispered.