“Don’t be afraid of Jesus, Chantel,” Neville said. “He means only good for you.”
“Good night, Neville.”
Chantel turned and shut the door. She leaned back against it and knew that she was greatly moved. She wondered at herself and at her response to Neville’s words. Finally she prepared for bed, and when she closed her eyes and pulled the covers up, she found herself thinking of Jesus as the Savior, the Christ. She almost cried out as Neville had for Him to come into her heart. Finally she tried to sleep, but the words kept coming back: Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved—and the strange Scripture that she could not forget—You must be born again.
Finally she trembled, and fear rose in her, but along with that fear a great desire came. She got out of bed, knelt beside it, and prayed, “Oh, God, I am so confused. You know me, and You know that I really want You. So, I’m going to do what Neville did. I’m going to call on You.”
And there on her knees in that hotel room, Chantel Fontaine called on God with all her heart. She never could remember the exact words she said, but for a long time she cried out for God in desperation.
Finally she grew cold. She got back into the bed, and she felt totally exhausted. But somehow she felt satisfaction. I’ve called on God, and I’ve asked Him to save me. That’s all Neville did. She snuggled down into the bed, pulled the covers closer and said, “I’m trusting You, Jesus, to be in my heart.” Then almost at once she fell asleep.
The next morning Chantel awoke, and the first thing she thought of was, I called on the Lord, and I’m going to believe that I will have the same spirit Neville has. I’m going to believe I will know God better every day. All of her training had been that the more prayers that one said, the better it was. She had her rosary with her, but she did not reach for it. Instead she simply knelt and said, “Lord, I’m believing that You are faithful and that You have saved me, and I thank You for that in Jesus’ name.”
She got up and began to sing as she got ready to go downstairs. She found herself thinking of her sister, and somehow faith rose stronger in her, and she said, “God, I know You’re going to hear our prayers.”
When she got downstairs, she found Neville and Yves already in the restaurant. When their food came, she began to eat hungrily, and she listened as Yves spoke of what he had discovered. “I found a man whose name is Broussard—Michael Broussard. He says we’re crazy for wanting to go into Bayou Teche and find Simon Tubberville.”
“But he’ll go with us and show us the place?” Neville demanded.
“He’ll go part of the way.” Yves shook his head. “This fellow Tubberville, he’s got a terrible reputation. He’s been in jail more than once, and Broussard says he’s a killer. He got into a fight here in a saloon, and kicked a man to death with his boots.”
What a horrible man for my sister to be with! Chantel thought. But though the knowledge of such a terrible man frightened her, there was no other option. “When can we go?” she asked.
“Right away,” Yves said. “Broussard’s waiting for us. I hope you have some money. I had to promise him plenty of it, Neville.”
“I’ve got the money. Let’s go.”
“How will we actually do this, Neville? I mean—what if he won’t let her go?”
“I don’t think we can make much of a plan. I hope money will settle it, but if not—we’ll do whatever we have to do.”
Chapter twenty-four
“This is Michael Broussard. He expects to be paid ten pounds for taking us into the swamp,” Yves said.
Broussard was small and very thin but with a wiry strength that was obvious in his bared forearms. He wore a pair of dark blue wool trousers, a gray sweater over a white shirt, and a wool cap perched on the very back of his head. His eyes were quick as a squirrel’s as he glanced around.
Neville was inclined to offer only part of the fee, but he knew it was no time to bargain. He took out his wallet, extracted some notes, and handed them over. Broussard stuck them carelessly in the pocket of his trousers and said, “I have to have the money up front, you see, because, well, you may not come back soon.”
“You mean we may not come back at all?” Neville asked, lifting his eyebrows.
“That could happen. Personally, I think you are crazy to go in there. Simon Tubberville is not a man who welcomes company. One of his own daughters run off some time ago.”
“Do you know why?” Chantel asked.
“I reckon the old man was too rough on her.”
“We have to go,” Neville replied, “so do the best you can for us.”
“Very well. We go now.”
By the time they reached the edge of the bayou, the sun was already climbing high in the sky. The road leading west out of Baton Rouge was even worse than the one coming from New Orleans. At times it was nothing but a two-lane track of mud. Broussard led the way on horseback, and once the carriage became so mired that it was all the men and the horses could do to get it free.
The weather was turning colder, and a bitter wind sprang up out of the north. The earth was gray and brown with deadness, and the gloomy overcast seemed to dampen Chantel’s spirit. After leaving the main road, they followed Broussard until they were traveling on what seemed to be no more than a path. It was barely possible to get the carriage through.
Finally Broussard pulled up his horse and pointed. “There is my place. We can put the horses in the barn.”
The house was no more than a shack, and half a dozen children scrambled out to greet Broussard. He dismounted and hugged them. Then, as Chantel got out of the buggy, he said, “This is my wife, Hannah. Come, if you want to go inside. I will put the horses up.”
Hannah Broussard was a surprisingly cheerful woman, not pretty, but with a vivacious air. She fed them a lunch of fresh bread and blue crabs cooked in a way Chantel had never seen before.
Neville insisted on paying for it, and when the meal was over, he looked toward Broussard, saying, “Can we go now?”
“It will be late, but I think it best. I will take care of your horses while you’re gone.”
He led the way out to the edge of the swamp, where three small, fragile-looking boats were tied up. “We will have to take all three boats, for I am not waiting in that swamp for you. You can bring my boats back here—if you come back at all.”
“Cheerful fellow, isn’t he?” Yves whispered to Chantel as they approached the boats. He touched one with the toe of his boot and shook his head. “I hope they float.”
As Chantel got in, she realized how small the boats were. “What are these things called?” she asked Broussard.
“We call this boat a pirogue.”
Chantel got into one of the small boats with Broussard. The two men each got in another, and they all shoved off. Broussard balanced himself, standing up and using a pole to propel along. The other two men struggled awkwardly.
“This is a sorry way to get from one place to another,” Yves said under his breath.
“But the only way. We’ll just have to learn,” Neville said.
They traveled until the sun had passed the meridian. It was a world that Chantel did not know. Cypress trees rose on either side of them, blocking out the feeble sun so that it was twilight under the canopy. From time to time she sensed things alive in the swamp around, but her eyes were not quick enough to catch them. Once a horrible scream came to her, and she started. “What was that?” she asked Broussard.
“A panther. He will not hurt you here, mademoiselle, but do not get caught out alone after dark on dry land.”
Finally Broussard pulled his boat onto what appeared to be dry land, as dry as anything could be in this world. He pulled the prow up and held out his hands. “This is where you must walk,” he said.
Chantel took his hand and stepped out, and they waited until the men had pulled their boats in.
“Me, I go home. Here, I have drawn this map for you. I am not good at drawing.”
The three travel
ers bent over the map. It was indeed poorly drawn, but Broussard pointed out landmarks. “You will see a big cypress that has grown in two, like a ‘V,’ you know?” He held his forefinger and his middle finger spread wide apart. “Last time I was there, there were big birds nesting in the top, but maybe not now. The road divides there. You take the left turn. Be sure you take the left or you miss them.”
Yves and Neville went over the map several times, asking questions and adding to it as Broussard remembered other things. Finally Broussard said, “I will wait here for you until dark. If you don’t come back, I will go on. But I will leave these two boats. You bring them back to my house. Right?”
It occurred to Neville that Broussard might take the boats before they returned. He reached into his billfold again and withdrew some notes. “You can hold this for a deposit,” he said. “If we don’t come back, the boats are paid for.”
Broussard nodded. “If you must go, you be quick and careful.
Tubberville has a quick anger, and he sometimes shoots to scare people off. Not to kill. Just to turn them back.”
Yves touched the pistol at his waist and said, “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“You will not see him to shoot at him. He is invisible in the swamp. You go now. And may the good God go with you.”
The three turned and began their trek down the path. It was hard to follow, as if it were traveled infrequently. Yves went first, followed by Chantel, while Neville brought up the rear. They stopped from time to time to consult the map, and more than once they heard splashing in the swamp.
“I hope those alligators don’t come out after us. They’re vicious beasts,” Yves muttered.
The trail wound in a circular fashion, and once they heard a panther scream faintly and far away. More than once it seemed they were completely lost, but always the map mentioned some landmark that got them back on track.
Suddenly Yves halted. “Look, there’s a cabin up there.”
The other two hurried forward to stand beside him, where they could see the outline of a cabin on the border of a fingerling of water. Out beyond it there was the white of egrets, and smoke was curling up out of the chimney.
“Somebody’s there,” Yves muttered. “Do we just go right in?”
“I think we have to,” Chantel said.
“What do we tell them?” Yves demanded. “You can’t just barge in there and say, ‘We’ve come to take your daughter.’”
“That’s right,” Neville said. “We’d better think about it.”
“How about this. Let’s tell them I’m a painter and I’m interested in finding a place to paint in the swamps.”
“I don’t know. If you start out by lying to them, it may get us in trouble,” Neville said.
“It’s true enough,” Yves replied. “I could get some great paintings out here.”
“Let’s just see how it develops.”
Chantel was fraught with uncertainty as they moved forward. What would they say to whoever was in the cabin? All the descriptions they had had of Simon Tubberville were of a man who would be dangerous to cross. She did not like the idea of deceiving him, but as Yves said, what could they say to the people?
The three had gotten only halfway across the clearing when a woman stepped out. She had a rifle in her hand and raised it, finger on the trigger, although not pointed directly at them.
“Hello,” Yves called out quickly. “My name is Yves Gaspard. My friends and I are a little bit confused.”
The woman lowered the rifle. She was short and heavily built, with eyes that were dark with suspicion. “Who are you and what do you want?” she said.
They moved closer, all of them keeping an eye on the rifle. Yves boldly said, “I am a painter, madame. I am looking for a place in the swamp to paint things such as the birds and the animals and the setting.”
As Yves was keeping the woman’s attention, a movement caught Chantel’s eyes. She turned her head only slightly and then, without preamble, the girl that she had seen in the streets of New Orleans stepped out. It was the same girl, no doubt about that! Chantel studied her carefully, and her heart suddenly filled as she saw the features so much like her own mother’s. The child’s hair was dirty and entangled, but it was the same strawberry blonde color, and there was no mistaking those eyes. She heard Neville clear his throat and turned to see him watching her. She nodded slightly but did not know what to do.
Neville said, “I wonder if you could feed us? We would be glad to pay.” He reached into his pocket, pulled some gold coins out, and jangled them.
The woman stared at him and said, “It will not be much.”
“Anything will be fine with us,” Neville said. “We’re very hungry.”
The woman moved inside the house. It was filled with the smell of cooking food. The girl followed them in, and the woman said, “Get something for them to eat from, Jeanne.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The three visitors sat down, all of them watching the girl rather furtively. This was the object of their quest, but how were they to get her out of this place?
The food came, and when it was put before them, the men began to eat. Chantel took a bite or two, but could not have told what she was eating. Her attention was all on the girl who was standing up, watching them out of her strange violet eyes.
“Your name is Jeanne?”
She nodded.
The woman had stepped outside for something, and Chantel said, “I am glad to meet you. My name is Chantel.”
The girl was shy as a wild rabbit. She lowered her head and could not speak.
“Do you go out of the bayou very often, Jeanne?” Chantel asked.
“To Baton Rouge—and once to New Orleans. That was not long ago.”
Chantel longed to go to the girl and take her in her arms and cry out her true name. She sat there trying desperately to think of a plan, but nothing came to her.
The woman entered the room abruptly. “You have to go now,” she said. “My husband does not like people coming here, and it will be dark soon.”
“That’s right,” Yves said quickly, getting to his feet.
Chantel rose and went outside the cabin. She turned at the door and saw that the girl was watching her, her enormous violet eyes dominating her face. The impulse to cry her name was almost unbearable, but she clamped her lips together and turned. Neville followed her, and the three moved down toward the trail. They had not gone more than a dozen steps when a harsh voice halted them dead in their tracks.
“What are you doing here? What’s your business?”
The man that Chantel had seen in New Orleans stood off to one side of the path. He had a rifle in his hands and a pistol stuck into his belt. His eyes were fierce, and his face was half concealed behind a grisly beard. Although he was rather short, he was obviously tremendously strong, and his countenance was forbidding.
Yves started to say, “We were looking through the bayou for—”
Chantel interrupted him. “We want to talk to you, sir, about the girl who is living with you.”
Instantly the man turned toward her. “My daughter?”
Chantel hesitated, and then she said simply, “I do not think she is your daughter. I think she is my sister.”
The man’s face grew crimson. He lifted the rifle and aimed it straight at Chantel. “Get out of here! If you come back, I will kill you! She is my daughter! Do you hear?”
“Come along, Chantel.” Neville’s voice was tense, and he gripped Chantel’s arm and practically pulled her away. When they got to the place where the path disappeared into the thickness of the huge cypress trees, Chantel turned. She saw Tubberville standing there glaring at them fiercely, and beyond him she saw Veronique standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with fear.
There was nothing to be done. She stumbled down the path, and Neville held her arm, saying, “It’s all right. We found her. God will make a way to bring her out of here.”
Chantel turned her head,
and Yves said urgently, “God will have to do it. That’s a rough fellow there. Come along. We’ve barely got time to get back to the boats before dark.”
They hurried through the falling gloom, and when they knew they were safe and the boats within reach, Yves spoke to Neville. “You’re a lawyer. Is there any way to get that girl from him legally?”
“It would be hard. I think they probably found her and took her for their own, but there’s no proof or evidence. A court of law always gives preference to the parents, and that’s what they’re going to claim they are.”
Yves dropped his head and studied the ground for a moment. Then he said, “Then you’ll have to kill Tubberville. He will never let her go. You saw that, didn’t you?”
Chantel listened, and her heart cried out for an answer. But as they all climbed into the boats, she was filled with doubt and uncertainty. Silently she prayed, Oh, God, we need a miracle!
Chapter twenty-five
From somewhere far off came a hoarse bellow. Yves straightened up and demanded, “What’s that?”
“Just a bull gator.” Chantel had heard the sound so often in the bayou bordering Fontaine Maison that she was not disturbed. She slapped at a mosquito making a meal on her arm and looked over at Neville. He was sitting on the porch of the Broussards’ small cabin, leaning back against the pillar that held the roof up. “Isn’t there anything we can do legally, Neville?”
“I don’t think so.” Neville had been quiet all the way back from the Tubberville house and had suggested they go back to Baton Rouge. Chantel had absolutely refused, so the three of them had taken another meal from Mrs. Broussard and now were sitting outside, where the smells of the bayou were rich and thick.
Yves said, “But if the girl is not their daughter, how can they keep her?”
“As I’ve said, we don’t have any evidence, Yves. Not a shred. The Tubbervilles aren’t about to admit that they found the girl.”
Chantel got up and walked over to the edge of the porch. She leaned wearily against the support, which was made of hewn cypress, and peered into the bayou in the direction of the Tubberville cabin. A bitterness rose in her, and she said with desperation, “But we’ve got to do something! We can’t leave my sister there.”
The Exiles Page 22