Creole Hearts (14 page)

"Wilkinson's sent an army unit," LaCasse shouted to the Creoles. "His messenger just arrived. We're to contain the slaves until the army gets here to finish them off."

Guy searched the red lit night for the big black on the white horse, determined to meet him on equal terms and vanquish him. He caught a flash of white heading away from the plantation, angling toward the swamps behind the cane fields. He took off in pursuit. Another rider cut in front of him and fury swept through Guy. How dare anyone challenge his right to kill the tattooed giant?

"Get back, he's mine!" Guy yelled, spurring the chestnut forward.

The white horse sprang ahead—the black had heard him—but the second horse stopped. Guy instinctively slowed. He'd assumed a Creole was after the fleeing slave, as he was, but with the flames behind him and only the light of a full moon, who could be certain?

"Who waits for me?" he called.

"Welcome, brother," the man called back. "It is I, Francois, waiting to settle the score between us."

Francois! Was he the mulatto who'd been agitating the slaves? Had Francois planned the uprising?

"Does fear of me make you tarry?" Francois taunted.

"
Cachon
!" Guy shouted, urging his chestnut forward. As he drew close, he saw that Francois held a pistol. He checked his horse.

Francois laughed mockingly. "No, I won't shoot you, little brother. I see you have your sword. So do I have mine. We'll dismount and discover how much the pupil has learned from his teacher. You first."

Francois kept the pistol trained on him as Guy slid from the chestnut, then Francois dismounted, flung away the gun and faced him, sword in hand.

"
En garde
," he cried. "To the death!"

Dieu
, how he hated Francois! It came to Guy that he'd always hated his half-brother, this sardonic dark man who bore the La Branche name, and who looked so much like him.

He forced himself to loosen his tight grip on the handle of his sword. One of the first lessons—hold the rapier firmly but not tightly. Guy took his position a few feet from Francois.

Francois bore in at him with a stroke like lightning, and Guy felt the blade slash his coat sleeve as he arched away from the thrust. He turned, turned again, feinted to the right, thrust to the left, only to find Francois' sword parrying his every attempt.

"I taught you everything, brother, do you think you can fool me?" Francois mocked.

Guy ducked away from a swift jab, circled. Be unpredictable, Francois had always told him. Fool your opponent. He had demonstrated to Guy many of the ways one might be unpredictable. It would be no use to try any move he'd learned from this master swordsman—Francois would anticipate his every thrust and feint.

The white light of the full moon showed him Francois’ smile. A confident smile. There'd be no use to bore in heavily, for Francois would disarm and kill him quickly. He had to outwit him. How could he?

Francois attacked again, feinting, slashing. Guy felt the point of the sword prick his side, felt the blood run from a shallow cut along his ribs. A near thing. Stop thinking, he warned himself. Start fighting.

Guy darted right, then left, and got past Francois' guard enough to tear a strip from his shirt sleeve. The man wasn't invulnerable, he must stop believing he was.

Thrust, parry, duck, circle away, parry, thrust.

Blood trickled from Guy's cheek now as well as from the wound in his side. He'd made another cut in Francois’ shirt but hadn't drawn blood. Every time he feinted, Francois knew exactly where he'd attack and met his thrust halfway.

Stop feinting. Have every thrust be just that—an attack. Would it work? He'd have to be careful, skillful, not go charging in. That way lay certain death.

Guy circled, circled again, heard Francois' taunting chuckle. Don't let him anger you, he warned himself. He means to rattle you—you're a dead man if you let him.

"Running away, brother?"

Guy suddenly realized that Francois had always hated him. He, Tanguy, white, the La Branche heir.

Guy circled yet again. In the moonlight, Francois’ face \vas a tan mask. Suddenly Guy twisted and struck, tearing into the cloth of Francois' shirt front. Guy thrust again, leaped back to avoid a riposte, pretended to feint but carried through on the thrust, felt the blade sink deep into Francois' chest. Francois staggered back and the blade sprang free, dark with blood.

Now Francois gave ground, moving back, back, Guy following cautiously, uncertain how badly he was hurt, aware that Francois was a master of deception. Francois sank to one knee, coughing. Guy came in, sword ready, then paused. He couldn't run him through. Not a man down, injured. He couldn't do it.

Francois scrabbled about on the ground, Guy stepped back, sickened and repelled. A pistol cracked. A bullet grazed his ear.

The pistol! That cursed Francois had been faking, had deliberately gone after the discarded pistol in order to shoot him. He sprang forward, seeing Francois stagger to his feet, determined not to give him time to reload. As Guy positioned his sword for a final thrust, Francois spoke.

"You've already killed me, brother," he whispered, and fell forward at Guy's feet.

Chapter
14

Madelaine let Empress have her head, knowing the mare would take her to the small rise near the bayou where she and Philippe met secretly. There was no hurry, for he wouldn't be coming today—the men were still rounding up straggling rebels from the slave uprising of two nights ago.

Guy would be furious if he knew she was out alone. Odalie had insisted she take one of the dogs along and Madelaine had obediently untied Guinevere, Guy's new hunting dog, promising Odalie she wouldn't go far.

It wasn't so very far, after all. Besides, those rebellious slaves were undoubtedly hiding in the swamps across the river, not anywhere near La Belle. Only one field hand was missing from La Belle and that slave had already been counted among the dead.

Philippe had rescued her brother! Excitement rose in Madelaine's breast every time she thought about it. Surely there was a chance that Guy would listen to Philippe now, and consider his request for her hand. While it was glorious to be with Philippe in secret, she longed for them to be married, to be openly and honestly together.

Like Annette Louise and Gabriel had been. True, their happiness had been cut short, but his baby now comforted Annette Louise. Little Gabe had been born almost nine months after his father's death. Ah, to hold Philippe's son!

The winter had been mild so far, but today the sun hid behind a grey overcast and the sweep of the wind along the bayou made Madelaine huddle in her riding jacket. No need to worry about her staying out long in this weather. A red winged blackbird flew in front of her, the splash of scarlet on its wings bright against the grey green dimness of the moss and the cypress.

The bull alligator who occasionally roared a challenge from somewhere down the bayou was quiet, and it was too cold for the frogs, so she moved in stillness unbroken except by the creak of her saddle and Empress' occasional whuffling. Guinevere darted here and there but flushed no game.

Perhaps she should turn and go back.

No, she wasn't a child to be frightened by grey silence. She'd ride as planned to the trysting place and then return home. Dr. Goodreau had recommended a daily ride and she'd done her best to carry out his prescription through the months. She felt and looked her old self.

Did John Kellogg carry a picture of her in his mind as he'd last seen her, wasted and yellow? Where was he now? Did he sometimes think of New Orleans, think of her? She shrugged. He was an army man as well as a doctor and no doubt had forgotten her already. Didn't they say soldiers had hearts like artichokes—a leaf for every woman?

She'd remember John as long as she lived. He'd saved her life as Philippe had saved Guy's. She owed John much—though not her love. Yet she often dreamed of him, dreams where it was he, not Philippe, who embraced her, and she'd wake with flushed cheeks and pounding pulse.

The spot where she met Philippe, where they lay together, was a tiny knoll of higher ground, surrounded by water oak and tupelo gum and hidden by a tangle of vines. The gums were barren of leaves now, but the rise was still concealed by the underbrush,

Today she didn’t dismount to open the secret passageway and lead Empress inside. Instead she sat for a moment thinking of Philippe

Guinevere ran to the bushed ahead, smelling the ground nearby. She growled and the mare stomped and snorted.

From behind the vines came an answering nicker. Madeline's eyes brightened. He'd come after all!

She slid off the mare and pulled back the vines, leading Empress through the tunnel of green and yellow growth into a tiny clearing. Guinevere dashed in ahead of them and began barking excitedly.

Madelaine stopped short. A huge white horse confronted her, his neck smeared with rusty stains. Guinevere circled warily about something on the ground beside the horse, whining.

"Oh!" The exclamation was jolted from Madelaine, her hands flying to her mouth too late to hold it back.

A black man lay unmoving in the yellow grass. Blood soaked his blue shirt and trousers and pooled on the ground beside him. Near his feet—Madelaine bit her lip to prevent herself from screaming—was a severed arm laying palm outstretched, a long bladed knife next to it. Unmistakably he'd cut off his own arm just below the elbow.

When Guinevere nudged the arm with her nose, bile rose to Madelaine's throat. Hurriedly she called the dog to her. She knew the man had to be a rebel slave. She must gallop back to La Belle and . . .

He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes glazed and dull from pain and loss of blood. She saw that he was a giant of a man, and noticed with dismay the tattoo marks on his cheeks. She recognized him.

The black she'd danced with at the voodoo.

He was too weak to stop her, she could easily mount Empress and rush from the clearing, but Madelaine didn't move. There was something in his eyes—not a plea for help, not a threat, but something she'd seen in the glare of captured hawks. A fierce pride.

Had he been a
candio
, a chief, in Africa? They'd hang him. Already captured black rebels dangled from trees across the river as a warning to the other slaves.

Madelaine swallowed. Slowly she approached him, averting her eyes from the severed arm. His head dropped back, his eyes closed. She was frightened, but something drove her on.

She could see that he'd tried to bandage the stump of his right arm, but had apparently been too weak to complete the grisly task. The rag was soggy with blood.

Madelaine took a deep breath, fighting to control nausea. She retreated behind Empress and lifted up her riding skirt to tear at her petticoat. The cotton was too strong for her to rip. Gagging, she retrieved the black's cane knife with its discolored blade and slashed at her petticoat, tearing a wide strip from the bottom.

She wrapped the white cotton around the stump, seeing with horror that the bloody tissue looked charred. She pulled the bandage tight, remembering how Odalie always applied pressure to a wound to stop the bleeding.

The black groaned once, but showed no other sign of consciousness. She used the knife again to cut the ends of the cotton into small strips, tying them around the bandage to hold it on.

Blood oozed from the stump, staining the white cotton. As she put the knife on the ground, she noticed that its blade was blackened rather than blood stained. She saw the remains of a small fire. Understanding flooded through her. He'd deliberately seared the stump with the heated blade of his knife in an effort to stop the bleeding.

The severed arm caught her eye, and before she could wrench her gaze away, she saw why he'd cut it off. There was a terrible wound above the wrist where the ends of shattered bones protruded.

She stood up, staring down at the black. He couldn't stay here, for surely Philippe would come—if not tomorrow, the next day. Besides, Guinevere knew he was here and Guy often took the dog out with him. The dog would likely lead her brother here, Madelaine decided. She knelt beside the man again and whispered into his ear.

"
Candio
" she said. "
Candio
, listen to me. You must listen. I'll bring food, a blanket. But then you must take your horse and find another hiding place. They will find you here."

She couldn't tell if he heard, or if he understood. His eyelids quivered, but he made no other move, no sound.

Madelaine had little trouble collecting food and a blanket, and no trouble at all bringing the supplies to the secret place. But when she came back to La Belle again, she realized she must try to conceal the remains of her petticoat from Odalie's sharp eyes.

She changed into a different gown, and brought the wadded up petticoat downstairs in her embroidery bag. An oak fire burned in the parlor. Madelaine, alone in the room, thrust the petticoat in among the glowing logs. The cloth smoldered a moment, then burst into flames. The acrid smell of burning cotton crept into the room.

By the time Odalie came into the parlor, the petticoat was ashes. Odalie sniffed the air, remarking, "Somebody be burning what don't belong in no fireplace."

Madelaine said nothing, her fingers busy with needlework.

That night Odalie had more to say. "You be missing a new petticoat. I be looking and it gone."

Madelaine shrugged.

Odalie eyed her sternly. "You do be taking up with that no good again, that be what. Fine, indeed, when you be losing a petticoat. Don't look good to me, and that be the truth."

"I wasn't with him."

Odalie's glance was dubious. "
Mari napas trouve dan vitivere
," she said. "You don't find no husband in a haycock."

"Odalie! What a thing to say to me."

The black woman snorted. "You know what I say be true. Trouble come."

The next day it rained, and Madelaine stayed home. The following day she approached the trysting place with trepidation. Would the one armed black lie dead on the grass? Was he still there, waiting to be discovered by Philippe?

She pushed aside the concealing vines and led Empress inside, her heart beating fast with fear. The clearing was empty and the rain had washed the blood away, as well as the ashes of the fire. There was no sign the black had ever been there.

A bell tinkled, a tiny sound that made her freeze with shock, recalling the ankle bells the black had worn at the voodoo dancing. She whirled around. No one was behind her. No one was in the clearing. At last she saw what made the sound. A little bell tied to a vine near the entrance. She stared at it, realizing he'd left the bell for her.

Quickly she worked it loose and thrust it into a pocket. Philippe mustn't see the bell lest he suspect a rebel slave had been here. Philippe must never know she'd helped the black, any more than Guy must know. They wouldn't understand—she scarcely understood herself, only knew she'd done what seemed right.

Philippe came soon after she arrived. As he embraced her, she lifted an eager face for his kiss, but pulled back after a few moments.

"I haven't seen Guy yet today," she said. "Were you able to speak to him?"

Philippe sighed. "Not about you, not about us. When I rode up and greeted him yesterday he only nodded. It was a miserable day to search the swamps with the rain pouring down. Yet your brother was determined to flush out the slave on the white horse who'd tried to kill him, and so he kept searching, though the others gave up one by one and returned home."

Philippe didn't notice her start of surprise.
Mon Dieu
, she asked herself, had she helped the very man Guy was hunting?

"I stayed with your brother," Philippe went on, "for I knew I’d shot the slave and expected we’d come on him wounded and helpless.”

Madelaine shuddered.

"I'm sorry I must speak of such matters to you," he said. "They can't be pleasant to hear."

"Go on," she urged.

"Soon only we two were left, Guy and myself. I talked of the enmity between our families, intending to ask him to end the feud by allowing us to wed." Philippe shook his head. "I never had the chance. He turned on me with no forgiveness in his face."

"I owe you a debt, for you saved my life,” your brother said, haughty and cold. “This has nothing to do with what stands between our families and has for these six generations. I'll go to my grave hating the Roulleaux name and those who carry it. Never expect friendship between us, debt or not.”

"Madelaine, I hated him at that moment, even though I tried to go on with what I wanted to say. He cut me off.”

“I prefer not to speak to you again,” he said. “Please leave.”

"What was I to do? I left. To stay was to risk a challenge and, while I'm not a coward, it would be death for me to face the man who killed the fencing master, Francois."

Madelaine was silent a moment, then grasped Philippe's arm. "We'll run away," she said eagerly. "Oh, Philippe, that's what we'll do. We can marry in some place far from our families and be happy together forever."

He put an arm about her. "We can't run away," he said.

She pulled away. "Why not?"

He looked at her helplessly. "So many reasons. Money. I'd have to have money to buy land to grow cane, for I know nothing else. Nicolas manages the money. If I eloped with you, I'd have to take money without his knowledge. I couldn't do that."

Tears came to her eyes. "You don't love me."

"I do love you. I love my brother, too. Nicolas raised me, and took me everywhere with him so I wouldn't be alone. He's my father, my friend, as well as my brother. How could I run off without telling him? It would be a betrayal."

"How does he feel—would he feel—about us?"

"Like your brother, I'm afraid. Nicolas has already told me he wishes I'd managed to find someone else to rescue rather than Tanguy La Branche."

"If you really loved me you'd find a way to marry me," she said stubbornly.

"Perhaps Father Antoine . . ." His words trailed off. They both knew the priest would have nothing to do with a marriage not fully approved by both families.

"Ah, Madelaine, I do love you—more than life itself," he said, putting his arms about her and drawing her close. "I think of you all the time, and dream of holding you. If you'd died of the fever I'd have died myself, I think."