Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (23 page)

Deborah Ann had a long letter from her cousin Bernadette
whose father was a Creole planter on the Cane River. Ever ruled by passion,
Bernadette wrote of her fiancé’s having at last donned the Confederate uniform.
“I would hate him if I saw him flinch for an instant while standing at the
mouth of a loaded cannon,” she wrote. “Let him die, if necessary; but as to a
coward!
Merci! Je n’en veux
pas
!”

For the past two years, Deborah Ann had heard similar
sentiments from New Orleans belles fluttering their fans and uttering
inanities. She considered herself as fervent a patriot as any of the
thoughtless sillies, but these over-heated sentiments of glorious death, of
foolhardy gestures -- standing at the mouth of a loaded canon, indeed. What
nonsense.

“We have an invitation, Deborah Ann.” Father held up a
folded sheet of cream paper. “The General and Mrs. Butler are having an evening
of dinner and entertainment, St. Charles Hotel, September the twentieth.”

“I shan’t go, Father.”

He paused in clipping the end off
his cigar. “The invitation mentions you specifically, my dear. I’m told Mrs.
Butler is a charming woman. You might even like her well enough to . . .” He
hesitated. “To become her confidant.”

“Certainly not!” Instantly, she regretted her tone. “Excuse
my rude temper, Father, but you must see, I am the wife of a Confederate
officer. It would be unseemly in the greatest degree for me to consort with my
husband’s enemies.”

“Sweetheart, think of what is at stake. Butler’s office
must, I emphasize to you, my sweet child, must believe they have me in their
pockets. If you do not attend, it will look bad, Deborah Ann. Very bad.”

Deborah Ann carefully straightened her pen on the desk. She
smoothed her hair. She understood Father’s dilemma, but she was not merely his child
anymore.

“I will not embarrass you, Father, by seeming to decline
Mrs. Butler’s invitation out of hand.” She stood up and crossed the room to
ring for Jebediah. “I shall simply not be in New
Orleans on the twentieth.”

Peeved, Father told her, “I cannot take you elsewhere, now,
Deborah Ann. I thought you understood the importance of what I am doing here.”

“Oh, Father, I do.” She quickly crossed to him and placed
her hand on the white linen over his heart. “I am proud to be your daughter.”

Jebediah passed by in the hallway.
She called him back. “Jeb, I’m going home to Evermore. Tell Mammy to pack.”

Mr. Presswood covered his daughter’s hand where it lay on
his breast. “My sweet girl. You will have your way in this, won’t you?”

“Yes, Father.”

“I want Jeb with you every churn of the paddle wheel. By your
side, understand?”

Deborah Ann kissed her father’s cheek. “I promise.”

Two days later, she boarded the
Rachel
. She wished she could see her feet under the bell of her
skirt, but truly, the gangplank was adequately wide, no real danger of her
toppling over into the fetid water as long as she kept her nerve.

Early as it was, the smell of the wharves and the river
itself nearly undid her. The public rooms of the steamboat roiled with
soldiers, businessmen, and various other travelers who might at any moment spit
upon the floor or open up a greased-paper sack of odorous salami for their
lunch. Deborah Ann pressed her scented handkerchief to her nose until she and
Mammy and Jebediah settled into the private cabin Mr.
Presswood had paid a small fortune to procure. Before nightfall, Deborah Ann
would be home.

Evermore
.
Grandmother Meredith had named the new plantation as a bride, sure she had
stepped into an abiding paradise. The sun would shine, the fertile soil would
nourish the verdant crops, and the darkies would sing as they toiled. Always.
Deborah Ann, too, had believed the orderly prosperity of the planter life would
last forever when she was growing up. Even now, with the Northern forces
threatening to break the South’s very backbone, she found it hard to imagine
Evermore might not endure.

From the river levee, an alley of poplars drew the eye to a
brilliant white edifice. The house staff gathered to welcome Deborah Ann in the
grand hallway. Tired as she was, grimy from the grit and soot that seeped into
even the forward cabins, she graciously greeted the butler, the second butler,
the upstairs and downstairs maids, and the cook. She couldn’t remember the name
of Clementine’s new grand-baby, or whether it was a boy or a girl, but she
remembered to ask after it. Clementine, smiling broadly, seemed pleased.

Deborah Ann climbed the wide staircase to her room on the
second floor. There were six bedrooms up here, rather unnecessary in the
present generation with only Deborah Ann having survived the nursery years. The
house had always been quiet during Deborah Ann’s growing up. No rowdy brothers
running up and down the stairs, no sisters quarreling or playing. Father had
spent his days in the study. Mother lay in her darkened room with a vinegar
soaked cloth on her forehead. It had been a lonely childhood. No wonder she’d
relied on story books for company.

She called over her shoulder. “I’ll want a bath, please,
Mammy.”

“I’ll see to it, sugar.”

She entered her room in the front of the house. It was just
as she’d left it. The aqua tinted canopy on her bed, the blue and green Chinese
porcelain on her mantle. Her aqua silk slipper chair still had a small nick in
the fabric where she’d once caught a hat pin in it. She ran her finger along
the curved mahogany back of the chair. Home.

Next morning, she sent word for Mr. Thompson. She went
through her father’s questions, listening carefully to the overseer’s answers.
The cotton yield was good. The cane was high as a horse’s ear. They had enough
guano to start next year’s planting. Yes, there’d been some trouble with the
slaves. Laziness, sullenness, unwillingness to work. Nothing he couldn’t
handle.

“How many have slipped away, Mr. Thompson?”

“Twenty-two men. Four women.”

“Where do you suppose they’ve gone? New Orleans?”

“Some of them probably just hiding out in the woods, but in
town, the Yanks will feed them.”

“In the morning, while it’s still cool, I’d like you to ride
the plantation with me, Mr. Thompson.”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“No, ma’am. I can’t let you out on the plantation with the
slaves like they are now. This is tense times. You best stay here at the house
where you’ll be safe. Out in the fields, no ma’am. I can’t guarantee it.”

A mosquito buzzed. The clock ticked. A child cried out in
glee somewhere near the laundry.

“But you’d have your whip, Mr. Thompson.”

“And a shotgun. But like I said, Miss. Excuse me, Mrs.
Chamard. I can’t take you out. These people are riled, and I’m only one man.”
He stood up and tapped his hat against his knee. “You tell me what you want to
know, I’ll give you a report. I’m sure Mr. Presswood would agree with me.”

Deborah Ann was sure he would, too.

“I’ll think about what you’ve said, Mr. Thompson. I’ll let
you know in the morning what I decide.”

Mr. Thompson showed himself out.

Deborah Ann leaned her elbows on the desk, trying to grasp
that she could not ride out on her own land. She’d always freely ridden the
plantation, even as a child. The slaves had smiled at her, had fussed over her.
In the fall, she had always come back to the house with her pockets full of
sweet cane to gnaw on. There had never been the slightest thought that she
might not be safe.

She left Father’s study to walk down the oyster shell path
toward the laundry. Instead of having to chop cotton or cut cane, the
laundresses boiled water and stirred pots and made soap. Pearly and Rosa,
Maggie, and Anna – they had a good life here on the plantation. Used to, they
laughed and sang and told stories while they worked. When she was a child,
Deborah Ann would put on a wide-brimmed bonnet in the lonely afternoons while
her mother napped, and she’d go down to the laundry to visit her friends.
Pearly would put a clean cloth over the chair so the rawhide wouldn’t snag
Deborah Ann’s sprigged muslin. The four women, working amid the sheets hung on
cords to whiten in the sun and dry in the wind, would exclaim in delight and
amazement as she retold a fairy tale she’d read.

With a ready smile, she turned the corner into the laundry
yard, expecting Rosa and Maggie to take her hands, drag her to the best cow
hide chair, and sit her down in the shade. “Tell us ’bout them balls in Newallins, darling,” they’d say. “You say you a married
woman!” And then with mischief in her eye, Pearly would say, “That man know how
to do you right?”

Anna had her back to her, stirring a steaming pot of canvas
work pants with a big paddle. Maggie was bent over, feeding the fire under
another cast iron cauldron. The acrid scent of lye soap filled the yard.

Rosa stepped out of the cabin carrying a wash board and saw
her first. She stopped right where she was, her eyes on Deborah Ann.

“Missy’s here, ya’ll,” she said quietly.

Anna wiped her hands on her apron. Maggie pushed a hank of
hair off her forehead. No glad smiles. No welcoming hands reaching for her.

The friendly words died in Deborah Ann’s throat. “Where’s
Pearly?”

Anna stirred her pot. Rosa fished a pair of pants out of the
hot water and set to scrubbing them against the wavy tin wash board.

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest and looked Deborah
Ann right in the eye. “Pearly gone off.”

Deborah Ann had never had a Nigra look at her like
that, surly, defiant. These dear, dark faces had made her feel loved and
important. But they cared nothing for her, after all. Her chest ached with
heaviness as it had those dark months after Mother died.

She took a step away, but couldn’t help herself. She turned
half way back. “I got married.”

After a moment, a grudging pity in her voice, Maggie said, “Dat’s fine, honey.”

Deborah Ann left the laundry yard, her face aflame. She
glanced toward the blacksmith shop where Smithy pounded horse shoes, every
strike ringing across the yards. Once, when she was a child, Smithy, a gentle
man with arms as big as tree trunks, had let her touch the twisted scar on his
chest where his first owner had branded him with a hot iron.

Deborah Ann took a step toward him. Smithy lifted his head
and saw her. His staring eyes, hot as the furnace, burned her across the yard
as he held a red hot shoe up with his tongs as if to show her what fire could
do.

Her mouth dried up, her stomach clenched. She hurried back
to the house, dark unfriendly eyes scorching her back. She’d heard stories of slave
rebellions, but always they’d been in far off places, led by devils like Nat
Turner. Could it happen here, on Evermore? Angry slaves marching on the house
with torches, machete blades gleaming in the fire light?

She banged open the door into Father’s study, slammed it
shut, and latched it firmly behind her.

The tinny chime of the clock in the parlor downstairs
declared it was two in the morning. Nicolette tensed at every footfall under her
balcony until around midnight when the street grew quiet. Now she lay awake
listening for a tell-tale scratch at the door or a creak of a window latch.

Those men on the levee had not been observing the
Essex
.
They’d been watching her.

She’d known from the beginning she could not go in and out
of the Union headquarters unnoticed, but she considered the risk small. There
were many people in New Orleans who worked with the occupiers, and after all,
the Confederates still in the city could not expect a woman of color to
sympathize with their cause. Yet someone had chosen her to make a point.

She tossed under the mosquito netting, the air close and
heavy. With William sleeping at the Guards’ camp, she was alone. She could
leave New Orleans, take a steamer up river to Chateau Chanson where Maman and
Pierre were. She wouldn’t be frightened there, and no one would harm her.

But that would mean total defeat, and she would be no more
than a shadow of the woman she meant to be. She was determined not to be a coward.
If someone tried to get in, she’d hear him. She would quietly step into the
hall, creep down the stairs, and be ready. With what? She could have the water
jug from her dresser in hand. That would crack someone’s head open. And if
there were two? She snorted. She could take the sheet from her bed, toss it
over them, confuse them.

Useless. She couldn’t fight one man, much less two. Once she
had believed she was invincible, and any attacker who chose to molest her would
be very sorry. But Adam Johnston had proved to her just how foolish that
illusion was. She’d never hauled a fifty pound sack of cotton behind her, never
chopped cane, never bent her back over a row of beans. She was small and weak.

She needed a gun. Nicolette lit her lamp and crossed to the
wardrobe. She reached underneath to a hidden drawer and retrieved the lacquered
box where she kept her money. Inside were two bags. One was the small leather
pouch Alistair Whiteaker had pressed into her hand the night before he left New
Orleans. She had not opened the pouch and did not know how much money it
contained, nor did she open it now. The other bag was of lavender satin closed
with a purple ribbon.

Smoothing her sheet, she emptied her purse, the silver and
gold coins glinting in the lantern light.

She’d had a good winter. The well-to-do families who paid to
see her perform at the Silver Spoon, or hired her for their private parties,
had seemed determined to celebrate regardless of the war. And there was her pay
from General Butler. If she were frugal, if she gave her street shoes a proper
waxing so they’d last the year, she’d have enough money to buy a pistol.

Feeling calmer, she turned out the lamp and slept.