Creole Hearts (7 page)

"I don't fancy
Americains
," Andre told Guy. "Still, I believe the governor is honest enough. Why doesn't he arrest General Wilkinson?"

“We might join in Burr's scheme and then take over the empire ourselves," Rafe Devol said. "Louisiana for the Creoles. Nicolas Roulleaux would agree with me, even if you don't, Guy."

In his heart he did agree, Guy thought. In his mind, he knew the Creoles were too few, the Americans too many to make any such cloud castle plan practical. About Burr he wasn't so certain. The man was charming and persuasive. If Burr had Wilkinson in back of him, might not his scheme succeed?

* * *

Early in 1806, Senalda told Guy she was expecting his child. He celebrated the news with a party and afterwards, in bed, took his wife into his arms.

"You've made me very happy," he told her as

Senalda lay limply in his embrace.

"You mustn't touch me now," she said. "It's not proper. We mustn't come together as man and wife until after the baby is born."

Guy, who'd been thrilled to the center of his being at the idea of a La Branche heir, couldn't help but think of Aimee, and how she'd welcomed his love making until the very month of Denis' birth. He turned away, suddenly not wanting to hold Senalda, his desire for her gone. After an hour of trying to fall asleep, he rose, dressed and went to the rue des Ramparts where he spent the rest of the night with Aimee.

The next day he registered Aimee's son in the parish books as Denis La Branche.

Senalda was upset when Guy didn't come back to La Belle for a week.

"Can it be he's been taken ill in the city?" she asked Madelaine.

"We would have heard. He's staying in the townhouse, no doubt."

"No, he's not. I asked Josefina to seek him there. The servants at the townhouse haven't seen him."

Madelaine thought it very unwise of Senalda to trust her maid, Josefina, with such a query. The slave was capable enough as a maid but she was young and talkative. It would be all over the city that Madame was a fool for not realizing where her husband was. The slaves, all the people of color knew very well. Certainly Josefina knew, as did most of the Creoles. Even I know, Madelaine thought.

"Don't fret over Guy, Senalda," Madelaine said. "He'll be home when it suits his fancy."

"Josefina said something about another house in town—a cottage?"

Josefina was a menace. "A—a cottage?" Madelaine repeated, trying to think how to parry Senalda's next question.

"By the fortifications at the edge of the city. Why would Guy have a cottage there?"

Madelaine wasn't fond of her sister–in-law. In truth, Senalda acted as though everyone else was of less consequence than herself. She deplored Madelaine’s manners, her demeanor, even the way she wore her hair.

It’d been months since she’d been able to slip away to meet Philippe because once Senalda had caught her coming into the house in the evening at a time she shouldn’t have been outside. Since then Senalda had taken all too much interest in her comings and goings.

“I really don’t think Guy has such a cottage,” Madelaine managed to say.

Senalda’s blue eyes narrowed, grew chill. “You’re not telling me the truth, Madelaine—you constantly lie to me.”

A spurt of anger thrust words onto Madelaine’s tongue. “If I’m lying it’s because I was trying to keep you from knowing. If you must have the truth, Guy has a placee and she lives in that cottage. It’s hers, and that’s where he is now. With her.”

The color drained from Senalda’s face. Madelaine put a hand over her mouth, whirled and fled from the room.

When Guy returned to La Belle that evening, Senalda was waiting, her face pale and set.

“You’ve been with your filthy quadroon,” she burst out as he came under the parlor archway.

Guy stooped, staring at her, then drew a deep breath. “
Madame
,” he said between clenched teeth, "this is not a matter for discussion.”

Senalda stalked across the room and slapped him, hard. “I’ll talk about it if I choose,” she cried. “How can you do such a thing to me, to your wife?”

“If you acted more like a wife in bed and less like a stick of wood,” he began furiously, When her shriek of rage cut him off.

“Animal! Beast! To lie with a black woman when I carry your child!”

Guy’s eyes glittered. Do you think you’re the only woman in the world who’s ever been pregnant?” he shouted. “I already have a son by Aimee. A boy named Denis.”

She flew at him, beating at his chest with her fists, screaming and crying. He tried to fend her off but she struggled with him, clawing with her nails, until he finally clamped both her wrists in one hand. "Josefina!" he yelled. "Come here, Josefina!"

The black maid appeared instantly in the archway and hurried to Senalda. "Hush," she said. "Be still,
Madame
."

Senalda was beyond hearing as she alternately sobbed and laughed, twisting her body from side to side, her hair straggling down from its chignon.

Madelaine rushed into the parlor. "Can I help?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"We must put Senalda to bed," Guy told her.

As they led the resisting Senalda from the parlor, Guy saw the other house servants gathered in the foyer.

"Tend to your duties," he ordered harshly and they dispersed.

The three of them managed to get the hysterical woman up the curving staircase and put her to bed. Senalda curled on the far side, her body shaking with sobs.

"Give her something to calm her," Guy ordered and Madelaine hurried to measure a draught of laudanum which Josefina finally coaxed Senalda to swallow.

In the hall outside the bedroom, Madelaine touched her brother's sleeve. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to tell her about your placee but she kept asking and I ..."

"It's all right. Someone else would have told her if you hadn't. In fact, I—I supposed she knew. Most wives . . ." He broke off. "This isn't fit conversation for your ears, Madelaine."

She shrugged.

Guy sighed and shook his head. "Senalda will get over this," he said. "She'll be... "

"
Mademoiselle
Madelaine!" Josefina's voice was shrill with fear. "Please come. Blood be over the bed. She do be losing her baby."

Chapter 7

Guy devastated with guilt over the loss of the child his wife carried, tried at first to comfort her. Senalda, pale and listless, only turned her face from him and didn't speak. He'd moved to another bedroom during the time of the miscarriage and there he stayed, aware that she wouldn't welcome him back to her bed.

Somehow, soon, they must have a rapprochement, he knew, but he couldn't seem to reach Senalda as she sat wanly in her bedroom, refusing to come downstairs even though Dr. Goodreau had assured her she could return to her normal activities.

Guy wasn't happy, either, about his position with General Wilkinson. At first Guy had thought the stout, red faced American rather foolish, but he had learned that the genial manner concealed a ruthless efficiency. Guy tried to ignore the rumors that branded Wilkinson a Spanish spy, conspiring with the Marquis de Casa Calvo.

After all, Governor Claiborne, under orders from President Jefferson, had sent Casa Calvo a passport with "best wishes for the health and happiness of the nobleman whose presence has become so unacceptable."

Whereupon the angry
marquis
left New Orleans for Spanish held Florida.

Was it likely the President would tolerate the general remaining as Commander in Chief of the United States Army if the gossip about him and the Spaniard had been true?

More rumors drifted down the Mississippi about Aaron Burr recruiting men for a takeover of Mexico and Louisiana. General Wilkinson's name became ever more firmly linked to this conspiracy.

Guy couldn't make up his mind if the general was involved in the filibustering scheme or not, and he was torn between resigning his position as aide to the man he suspected of being a traitor and staying on to keep close watch on the general.

The hot months passed, the sugar cane harvesting began, then the grinding. Guy was in the sugar house at La Belle with the overseer when a messenger arrived from General Wilkinson requesting that Guy report to him immediately.

Guy hurried to the house to change his clothes. As he came down the stairs dressed for town, he saw Madelaine waiting for him in the foyer.

"I'm worried about Senalda," she said.

"You told me last week. I'm in a hurry now, we'll talk later."

"This can't wait. She's—different. She acts strangely."

Guy sighed. "I know she's not herself."

"Is there anything you might do to—well, to make her take an interest in things again?" Madelaine asked.

Guy gazed at the tip of his boots. He'd let too much time go by without insisting that Senalda accept him in her life, in her bed. The truth was he no longer desired the pale, cold ghost of the haughty beauty he'd married. Yet she was his wife and he knew they must reconcile.

Many months had gone by since the loss of the baby. Perhaps if Senalda became pregnant again she'd improve. As soon as he came back from meeting with the general he'd force the issue.

If he gave his whole heart to wooing her, was there a chance he could make Senalda love him with all of herself? To be his wife completely? If that could happen, surely he’d regain his desire for her, Guy struck his fist into his hand.

Dieu
, he’d give it his best shot. In a way, he still loved her.

He smiled at Madelaine. “I’ll do my best to help Senalda,” he said. “Now I must go to the general.”

"Burr's threatening New Orleans," General Wilkinson told his aides and officers in a secret meeting. "We'll fortify the city, set up blockades. I intend to ask the governor to declare martial law."

"Burr's coming down the Mississippi?" Major Tomlinson asked.

Wilkinson nodded curtly. "I've informed President Jefferson of the threat against New Orleans, but we can't expect troops to get here before Burr and his men."

"How many does he command?" the major asked.

"Perhaps as many as ten thousand."

The room was silent. New Orleans had the newly formed guarde de ville, the city guard, and the Louisiana militia available. Neither were large, nor were they seasoned fighting groups.

"I'll be sending a force of men upriver to watch for Burr's expedition, to strike at him if he slips past the guards at Natchez." The general looked from one to the other. "I'll accept volunteers."

Every man in the room rose, Americans and Creoles alike.

"Major Tomlinson, you'll command one expedition. La Branche, Devol, Perrier, arm yourselves and report to the major. I'll see you get a company of soldiers, major. Captain Hock, I plan to send you up to Natchez with a squad. As for you other men, I'll expect you to recruit additional volunteers to patrol the city. Dismissed."

Guy rushed back to La Belle to arm himself for the expedition. He had no uniform except the dress whites he'd worn as aide to de Laussat so he donned hunting clothes and boots. As he came out of his bedroom, Senalda drifted past in the hall. He called her name and she jerked with surprise, turning her head.

"Senalda," he repeated, coming to her and taking her hands.

She gazed at him with oddly blank eyes. He felt a tremor of apprehension.

"
Cherie
, I've neglected you and I'm sorry. I must travel up the river on order of General Wilkinson but when I come back we'll spend time together, just the two of us."

She said nothing.

He touched her cheek gently. "We'll have a child yet, my love, don't despair. Wait for my return." He kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder.

She made no response.

"Senalda!" he said loudly.

She blinked and took a step backwards.

"Won't you wish me good fortune?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, her voice slightly hoarse, as if from disuse.

He smiled, brought her hand to his lips, turned and ran down the stairs, spurs jingling.

Senalda stood staring after her husband. Long after he was gone from the house she remained in the same spot. He'd disarrayed the curtain of grey that hung between her and the world. His voice, his touch had slashed holes through which flowed memories she'd thrown away.

A baby. She placed her hands atop her stomach, one over the other. Her stomach was flat. But there'd been a baby inside her, she remembered. Yes, she remembered.

Where was the baby now? For, although she couldn't find the memory of being brought to bed for the birth, she must have delivered her child. She touched her breasts, found them strangely shrunken.

From nursing? These weren't the full breasts of a new mother. The boy was older then, finished with his mother's milk. For hadn't Guy told her the baby was a boy? "My son," he'd said.

She even recalled the name. Denis. Of Guy's choosing, obviously.

How thin her arms were. Had she been ill? Of course, that was it, that was why her mind seemed so fuzzy— she'd been ill. Senalda turned toward the room she'd chosen for the nursery.

"Denis?" she called softly as she opened the door. "Denis, where are you? Where is mother's darling boy?"

Guy had been on the Mississippi innumerable times, crossing to plantations on the right bank, visiting others up or down stream, out into the gulf fishing. Travel upriver was always difficult, fighting against the swift current. In their bulky keelboats, poled by ten men to either side of each boat, it took almost a week for Guy's expedition, led by Major Tomlinson, to move the sixty miles up the Mississippi the general had ordered. Christmas passed while they poled upstream.

Boats of all description sailed by them toward New Orleans—pirogues, flatboats, keelboats. Most had a few armed men aboard,
Kaintocks
with their squirrel rifles, other men with muskets and pistols, but in none of the boats were the men they sought.

The weather, which had been sunny when they left the city, grew increasingly cloudy. When they landed sixty miles upriver, it was in a chilling rain. They found a stand of pines and the men immediately split into two groups, the Creoles setting up camp together, some twenty of them, separate from the thirty odd American soldiers and keelboat men.

"A damn bunch of gaudy peacocks in them fancy clothes," one of the American keelboaters muttered to a companion. "Do they think we're gonna toss a ball?" He minced about, imitating the steps of a quadrille.

Guy pretended not to understand. He spoke English far better than his fellow Creoles but it was likely the
Kaintock
didn’t realize this and so the remark wasn’t intended for his ears. There was no sense in taking offense. A fine group of guards they'd be if they began to fight among themselves. Yet anger smoldered deep inside him.

He was glad the Americans didn't know French, for Jean Perrier constantly pointed out their faults. "Hogs are clean and dainty by comparison," Jean complained. "
Mon Dieu
, what filthy pigs."

Two days after they landed, January first, 1807, dawned cold and misty. As the sun rose, Guy saw the shrubs about the campsite glittered with frost. He shivered in his greatcoat and held his hands out to the morning fire, wishing he was back in New Orleans, making New Year's visits with his friends from house to house, enjoying life.

Was Aaron Burr really coming? There'd been so many rumors. Spanish soldiers marching to Baton Rouge to join Burr, a flotilla of armed American volunteers, added to at every stop along the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers as Burr floated down toward New Orleans.

Guy didn't trust General Wilkinson. He knew the man's disarming manner hid a shrewd brain, a devious mind that might very well have conspired with Burr in the beginning and now, feeling Burr's was a losing cause, conspired against him. He, personally, had caught the general in more than one lie.

Yet who could risk the chance of Burr arriving in New Orleans with enough armed men to take over the city? That's why Guy had come to this cold and uncomfortable spot to begin with, there was little point in grousing about what he'd felt had to be done.

"I say they're a bunch of God damned sissies, each and every one of the froggies," a hoarse voice said loudly, slurring the words so Guy could scarcely understand them.

Without turning his head, he glanced toward the American tents. A buckskin clad
Kaintock
keelboater stood with his hands on his hips, staring toward the Creoles. One of the soldiers tried to pull him down by their fire.

"What's he saying?" Jean Perrier demanded. "What insult does that
cachon
, that pig, shout at us?"

"I couldn't understand him." Guy lied. "He's drunk."

"I know that word he uses. Frog. He dares to call a Perrier a frog?" Jean's voice rose and the
Kaintock
took a step toward the Creole tents.

"You talking to me?" the American demanded.

"Oui, cachon" Jean called, glaring at the man.

"I don't know frog talk but I know when I'm being called something nasty," the
Kaintock
said.

"What's he saying?" Jean asked Guy.

All the Creoles were gathered around Jean and Guy. More of the American soldiers as well as other keel boaters joined the Kaintock. Guy's muscles tensed.

"Attention!" Major Tomlinson's command was as icy as the morning wind. He walked between the two groups of men. "I'll have no brawling in this camp," he warned. "Any man who breaks the rule will find himself under arrest. Is that clear?" His eyes drifted over the men, lingering on the keelboaters, before he allowed the soldiers to return to their breakfasts.

For three days there were no further incidents as the men took shifts watching the river, two men at a time. That night, as Guy was coming off from his turn at sentry duty, he spotted Jean slipping out of his tent. The smoldering fire cast enough light so Guy could see Jean wore his sword buckled about his waist.

"Ah, Guy." Jean patted the sheath significantly. "I plan to seek out the
Kaintock
and challenge him. "I've been watching and listening. He's called Whiskey Joe Banks and I know where he sleeps."

"Have you forgotten the major's order?"

Jean held up his hand. "The duel won't be in the camp, no, we'll fight upstream at a spot I've found."

"The American will have his choice of weapons," Guy reminded him. "Have you ever fired a squirrel rifle?"

Jean shrugged. "If I can shoot one rifle I can shoot another."

"And can you also use a knife with the skill of a keel boatman? Don't be a fool, Jean. A challenge is wasted on such a lout as Whiskey Joe. Besides, we're here on a mission, not to quarrel with one another."

"Do you dare to call Jean Perrier a fool?"

Guy sighed. "Calm down. I'm just trying to make you see this isn't the time or place for a duel. Whiskey Joe didn't actually insult you in any case. He was drunk, that's all."

"I don't believe you. He called me names and you refused to tell me what the words meant. Do you take sides with the
Americains
over your own people?"

Nothing Guy said could sway Jean and, finally, Guy stood among the ten men gathered on a rise along a row of moss hung oaks to watch the duel between Whiskey Joe and Jean. As Guy had feared, the boatman chose knives, wicked instruments with long curved blades.