The Exiles

by Gilbert, Morris

  The last of the wagons rolled across, and then Chantel saw Tallboy slap the lines on the horses. They started up skittishly and got to the edge of the bridge. They did not want to go, and she heard Tallboy calling to them, “Get on there! You get on there, you hear me, hosses! Cross that bridge!”

  Her eyes were fixed on her mother and sister, and she waved at their wagon. “Come on, Mama!” she cried.

  Her voice could not reach across, but she saw her mother, who was sitting on the front seat, smile and wave her free hand while holding Veronique with the other. Finally Tallboy forced the horses onto the bridge, but the team fought him all the way.

  “Those fool horses! I wish they’d come on,” she heard Bientot say under his breath.

  She wished the same thing and watched as Tallboy finally got out of the wagon and went to the head of the team. “He’s going to lead them across, Simon.”

  “I wish I’d gone with your mother,” Bientot muttered. “Come on, Tallboy, get those horses moving!”

  The bays behaved somewhat better, but not much. Tallboy pulled at them, and finally they started forward. They had reached the center of the bridge when suddenly there was a loud cracking sound, and she saw Tallboy suddenly go to his knees.

  “The bridge! It’s breaking!” Bientot shouted. He started for the bridge, but halted abruptly at the edge.

  Chantel stared, horrified, as the bridge, with a creaking, groaning noise, suddenly parted in the middle. The force of the water caught it and pushed the center of it out.

  “Mama!” Dropping Lady’s reins, she ran forward. Even as she ran, she saw Tallboy swept away by the water—and then she saw the wagon caught by the force of the stream. Her eyes were on her mother, who was holding Veronique tightly. The bridge was swinging parallel with the stream, and suddenly the horses, screaming almost like women, dashed forward. As the wagon hit the water, the current caught it and turned it around. It floated, but was swung from side to side.

  The animals tried to swim, but the current rolled them over. There were loud cries from the servants and slaves, and Chantel heard the sound of her own voice screaming. Just a fragment of the bridge was left standing, and as she rushed toward the river, the wagon suddenly rolled over and disappeared.

  Chantel would have gone right into the raging water, but she felt arms around her and heard a voice saying, “Nothing we can do, missy. Come on back.”

  Chantel fought against Brutus’s strong arms, but Simon Bientot’s voice repeated, “Nothing you can do, Miss Chantel.”

  And then Marie was there, and she fell against the woman’s breast crying and calling out her mother’s and sister’s names.

  Chantel clung to her father’s hand as they stood in the cemetery. To her it was a natural enough thing that the bodies of the dead would be interred above ground. In this low country, water was sometimes only as much as two feet below the surface; when a grave was dug it would fill up with water faster than the diggers could work.

  They stood beside a structure of white marble to which was attached a bronze plate, bright and shiny, with the names of her mother and sister and the date: November 19, 1824.

  The priest’s voice came to her in a barely audible hum, but she could make no sense of the words. Ever since the tragedy, she had eaten so little that she had become much too thin. She had bad dreams every night, and even as she stood there she relived the horror, seeing the wagon go down in the muddy waters and take her sister and mother out of her life.

  The priest’s voice droned on. Chantel remembered how her father had come home the day after the deaths shouting and striking at the slaves for not saving them. He had cursed Bientot and acted like a wild man. He had refused to believe that they were dead and had organized search parties on both sides of the river. After two days her mother’s body was found—but the body of Veronique was never recovered.

  It seemed wrong, somehow, that Veronique’s name was on the mausoleum when her little body was not there. Chantel’s grief rose to a pitch, and she felt suddenly unable to stand. Her father caught her as she slipped, and she buried her face against his chest, her arms around his neck, until the funeral was over.

  When they reached the house, she stepped inside. Everything in it spoke of her mother and of her baby sister, too. Chantel turned to her father, whose face was pale and had lines drawn in it she had not seen before. “What will we do without them, Papa?”

  “We have to do the best we can, dear.”

  “I don’t believe Veronique is dead.”

  “You must accept it. We must both accept it and move on.”

  The weeks that followed were terrible for both father and daughter. The floodwaters receded, and the river shrank back into its original banks. The cold weather came with December, but when Christmas came there was no attempt by either of them to make any ceremony.

  The house was full of memories, and Chantel had nightmares that came tearing at her, bringing her awake, sobbing and almost screaming.

  She stayed away from the house a great deal, riding her horse or just walking through the woods.

  One day Simon Bientot said to Cretien, “The child is not doing well, is she?”

  “No, she’s not. Neither am I, Simon. I didn’t know how much I loved them until I lost them.”

  One cold day in January Chantel could not be found. It was not unusual for her to take long walks or rides, but when she and Lady were not back by late afternoon, Cretien grew worried.

  Marie said, “Sir, we must start looking for her. Something could have happened.”

  Cretien thought a moment. “I believe I know where she is.” He mounted his stallion and rode to the cemetery. As he approached, he saw Lady tied to a tree at the edge. He tied his own horse, then walked to the mausoleum where he found Chantel lying on the cold ground, shivering. Her head was pressed against the cold marble. Cretien’s heart went out to her, and he knelt down by her side. “Come, dear. We must go home.”

  Chantel turned, and her face looked even thinner than usual. Her eyes seemed abnormally large, and her face was pale. She reached up and put her arms around his neck.

  “We must go on, Chantel, no matter how hard it is.”

  Cretien felt her arms tighten, and her face was muffled against his chest. But he heard her whisper, “You’re all I have, Papa.”

  Cretien Fontaine could not speak, for his throat was tight. He picked the child up, took her to the horses, and held her on his saddle, leading her pony by the lines back toward the house. As she clung to him, he said, “You’ll always have me, Chantel.”

  Chapter eight

  Chantel compressed her lips as she wrote steadily in her journal. The hot sun flooded in through the window of her room, revealing millions of tiny motes dancing in the pale light. From far off came the sound of the field hands singing as they did their work, but the sound made no impact on her.

  July 14, 1826

  Papa finally came home late last night. I heard him and got up, and he looked very tired. I’m glad he’s home. He stays away so much now that I get lonesome.

  Leaning back in her chair, Chantel considered the next entry. She had confided secrets to her journal that she would not want anyone to see. It had become a substitute, in a way, for her mother, with whom she always had been able to share.

  After Mama and Veronique left us, Papa stayed at home most of the time. But after six months he began going to New Orleans. He didn’t stay long at first, but as time went on he spent more and more time there instead of here at the plantation. I wish he would take me with him! I get so lonesome!

  I’ve just finished a geography lesson with Mrs. Pettis. She is so boring! That woman even makes geography dull. We were studying Hawaii, and she told me all about the annual rainfall but not a word about the beautiful dancers and the sea and the natives in their canoes. Why does she always want to talk about the boring things and never about the exciting and beautiful things? Why, I learn more from Brutus than I do from her!

 
The sound of a barking dog interrupted her, and she got up and went to the window. She had grown, and at the age of thirteen was the tallest of all the girls in her rather small society. Her frame was as slender as ever. She had grown up like a weed, and while other girls of her age were developing womanly features, she thought herself to be as skinny as a rake handle. The thought troubled her, and she went to the mirror and stared. Her face was no more beautiful than it had been when she was ten. Her eyes looked enormous, but they were such an odd color. True, her hair had darkened somewhat and was no longer carroty red, but it was still so thick that she could hardly drag a comb through it. Most of the time it was full of tangles, except when Elise insisted on combing it out.

  Going back to the table, Chantel sat down and continued to write. The words came slowly, and for a moment she did not want to put them down. But she had vowed she would tell all in her journal:

  I dream about Veronique so often. I dream about Mama, too, and they’re such awful dreams! People don’t like it when I go to their grave so often, so I have to sneak off when no one knows where I’ve gone. It’s strange how I feel about Veronique. I just can’t believe that she’s dead. I know she’s alive—I don’t care what they say!

  It did help to say things in her journal, to write down the things that she would not say to anyone else.

  Suddenly she heard her father’s voice calling her, and she quickly concealed the diary in the armoire.

  “Aren’t you dressed yet?”

  “I was just getting ready to dress, Papa.”

  She stood there feeling very much alone, for since her father had started going to New Orleans she had felt the sense of distance between them grow. Even when he was home, he did not spend as much time with her as she would like. It had been over two months since he had gone out riding with her.

  Cretien broke the silence. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “No, it’s good. At least I think it is. We’re going to live for a time in New Orleans in the town house.”

  “You mean I must leave Fontaine Maison?”

  “You’ve always enjoyed going to the town house and seeing the city,” Cretien said. “You like to see new things.”

  “But I always knew I was coming back here. I love this place, Papa.”

  “Well, you’ll love that place, too. We’ll come back here on visits. I promise.”

  Chantel thought quickly, If I’m there, I’ll get to see more of Papa, and that will be so good. “All right, Papa,” she said, brightening. “When will we go?”

  “Probably tomorrow. We’ll have to pack a lot of your things. Do you need me to help you?”

  “No, I can do it myself. I’m thirteen years old now.”

  Cretien smiled. “All right, then. We’ll try to get away by Wednesday. That will give you plenty of time to get packed. Now get dressed. Breakfast is on the table.”

  The move to town was a great change for Chantel. She had said good-bye almost tearfully to Brutus and Marie and Clarice. Elise would be coming with them to be her own maid, and she was glad of that.

  The first week was exciting, for Papa took her out every night but one, usually to the theater. The Creole life included a great love of drama, and it was possible to go to a different production every night of the week.

  Only at night, when she was alone in her room and trying to sleep, did she feel her loss. She not only ached for her mama and Veronique, but she missed her horse and the servants and the outof-doors as well.

  She continued to have bad dreams of the death of her mother, but they were not as vivid as they had been.

  One day she was in the courtyard playing with the neighbor’s cat when her father stuck his head out the window. “Come and get ready, Chantel. I want you to do an errand with me.”

  “All right, Papa.”

  Running inside, she climbed the stairs and quickly put on a fresh dress, a coat, and a bonnet. “Where are we going, Papa?” she said.

  “I’ve got to see my lawyer. His name is Mr. Harcourt.”

  “Can we go to Place d’Armes?”

  “Yes, we can. As a matter of fact, his office is just off the square.”

  “Do I look all right?”

  Cretien gave her a quick glance and nodded. “You look fine. Come along.”

  They walked to Place d’Armes, which was close to their house and not worth getting the carriage out for. The streets were crowded and, as always, the plaza was full of activity. Artists had set up their easels and were painting pictures of the cathedral. Others were selling their wares and calling out as the two passed. A juggler was juggling six balls, and Chantel was fascinated. “Give him some money, Papa.”

  Cretien laughed, reached into his pocket for a coin, and put it in the box on the ground.

  “Could I learn to do that?” Chantel asked.

  “I expect you could if you wanted to, but who would want to? There are better things for young ladies to learn.” He looked down at her and studied her for a moment. She was growing every day, it seemed. She’s taller than Aimee right now, but skinny as a rail! I would think at her age she would begin filling out a little bit. Other girls do.

  Cretien said none of this aloud but listened as she chattered on about the activities on the square. He turned in at a door and led her up a pair of stairs. To the left were two doors, both of them marked with the sign Harcourt and Son, Attorneys-at-Law.

  Opening the door, Cretien waited until Chantel was inside and then closed it behind him. A clerk was sitting behind a desk, and he rose at once. “Well, good afternoon, Mr. Fontaine. I suppose you need to see Mr. Harcourt.”

  “Yes. Is he in?”

  “He’s not busy at the moment.” The clerk moved over and knocked on the door. When a voice answered, he opened the door and said, “Mr. Fontaine to see you, sir.”

  Chantel heard a voice say a rather gruff “Come in,” and she entered with her father. A tall, heavyset man was sitting behind a desk. He rose at once and came over to shake her father’s hand.

  “Good to see you, sir. And who is this young lady?”

  “My daughter, Chantel.”

  “I’m very happy to know you, Miss Chantel.” The big man turned to a young man who was working at a high desk over by a window. “This is my son, Neville.”

  Chantel looked at the young man as he came over and shook hands with her father. When he reached out and took her own hand, she saw that he had a nice smile. He was not nearly as tall as his father nor as handsome as hers; still, she liked it when he bent over in a bow and said, “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Chantel.”

  “I have met you before, Neville,” Cretien said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall, sir.”

  “You were only two years old. It was the first time I was ever here.” Cretien turned and said, “So, you’ve taken your boy into the business.”

  “Yes, and I must say he’s going to be a fine attorney.” Oliver Harcourt glanced quickly at Chantel and shook his head. “This is going to be a rather dreary business for a young lady.” He turned to his son, saying, “Neville, take Miss Chantel somewhere for something to drink. Perhaps even a bite to eat.”

  “That will be my pleasure,” Neville said. He turned and pulled a coat from a rack, put it on, then put on a top hat. “If you’ll come with me, Miss Chantel,” he said, “we’ll see what we can find.”

  Chantel was intrigued when he put his arm out just as if she were a grown lady, and she took it at once. They left the offices and were soon on the street. Neville chatted, asking questions and listening carefully as she spoke. Chantel liked this, for many grown people would ask a question and then wouldn’t listen when she answered. She wished he were taller and more handsome, but he couldn’t help what he looked like.

  “Would you like some ice cream?”

  “It’s a little cold, but I always like ice cream.”

  “Well, perhaps something warmer. How about some gumbo?”
r />   “Oh, yes . . . but it won’t be as good as our cook makes at home.”

  “Probably not, but I know one place that has very good gumbo. It will be a close second.”

  Neville led the young girl to a small cafe where he was greeted by name by a large woman wearing a white apron. She had silver hair and merry brown eyes and remarked, “Ah, you have a lady with you.”

  “Yes, this is my very special friend, Miss Chantel Fontaine. Miss Fontaine, may I introduce Madame Charmain.”

  “I am happy to know you,” the woman said, beaming. “Come now and sit down.” She winked at Chantel, saying, “You must be careful. This handsome young fellow will get away from you. All the ladies are after him.”

  Chantel giggled at that, for Neville Harcourt was not at all handsome. She liked it, though, when he seated her and sat down and let her order for herself. The gumbo was accompanied by a basket of rolls that smelled so good that she bit into one at once.

  As they ate, Neville asked her about herself, and she found herself talking far more than she usually did to strangers. She liked this young man very much.

  “Are you married, Mr. Neville?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “How old are you?”

  Neville laughed. “I’m eighteen. And let’s see, I would guess that you’re about sixteen. Is that right?”

  Pleased at being taken for older than she was, Chantel said, “No, I’m just thirteen, but I’m going on fourteen.”

  “Well, that’s a surprise. Tell me, do you like New Orleans?”

  “I like it all right, but I miss my horse.”

  “Oh, you have a horse!”

  “Papa’s having her brought to New Orleans, and he’s going to keep her in a stable. Then I can go riding. Do you have a horse?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Perhaps we could go riding together sometime.”

  “Oh, that would be nice!”

  The two ate the spicy gumbo and the rolls and then drank hot chocolate. They sat for a while talking, sipping the tasty drinks, and finally Chantel grew silent.