Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (13 page)

Mr. Gale appeared in a row boat with two slaves pulling on
the oars. “Hello, the house,” he hollered.

Emmeline crawled to the gallery rail and pulled herself up.
“Have you seen my son?”

“No, Ma’am. Not yet, but we’re still looking for survivors.”
When Cleo appeared at Madame’s elbow, he said, “Here, gal, take this rope.” He
tossed the painter to her to fasten to the railing.

“I haven’t seen your people yet, either,” he said to Cleo.
“But we got plenty of time for hope yet.”

“Your family,” Madame said, her voice steadier now. Emile
could be found yet, in a skiff, or on a knoll. “Your wife and children, Mr.
Gale. Are they safe?”

“Yes, they’s all safe, thank you kindly. They was visiting
over to the Daniels’ place upriver and didn’t see the flood atall.”

“How is it with the slaves, Mr. Gale?”

“They’s mostly saved, Miss Emmeline. I had the crews out in
the north fields, out in Sugar Hollow, and they was above the breach when it
happened.”

Then Remy is safe, at least, Cleo thought.

“Most of our lost slaves will be from the homestead here,”
Mr. Gale said, “but some of them we’ll find in trees or on roofs. Lots of them
can swim, you know, spite of the law.”

 “Let me come with you, Mr. Gale,” Cleo burst out. “Let me
come, and I can help look for Maman.”

“Certainly not,” Madame said. “I will not have you in that
water for any amount of money. This house will hold, and you’re safe here.”

Ignoring Madame, Cleo scrambled into the boat, her haste
rocking the skiff. She grabbed for the gunwale, but it was too late. Laurie
screamed and Mr. Gale cursed. Cleo tumbled into the flood and under the muddy
water.

One of the slaves in the boat slipped over the side without
fuss and grabbed Cleo’s dress at the back of the neck. He shoved her back into
the boat, where Cleo gasped and coughed.

“Put her back up here immediately, Mr. Gale,” Madame said.

The overseer grabbed her by the elbow and roughly pushed her
back over the gallery railing. Cleo fell to the floor, still coughing up water.

“Mr. Gale,” Madame said, “as soon as you find any of Cleo’s
family, you’ll bring them here directly. In fact, bring anyone who needs
tending. Cleo and I will prepare for them as well as we can.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Gale said. “You remember what I said, now,
Miss Emmeline. We’ll find Monsieur Emile. Plenty of time yet for hope.”

Madame marched into the house, but Cleo stared after the
boat as the men rowed away. Helplessness nearly choked her.

When she’d caught her breath, Cleo peered over the side of
the railing trying to guess the depth of the flood. Laurie leaned over, too,
but she pulled back. “It scary, Cleo,” she said.

The water lapped at the brick pillars only ten or twelve
inches below the floor of the gallery. That meant even Elbow John, tall as he
was, would be drowned if he couldn’t swim. She took Laurie’s hand. She was
Elbow John’s granddaughter. Laurie’s whole family, her maman and papa, her
brothers and sisters, all had been on the plantation somewhere. Laurie clung to
Cleo and together they watched the water.

Madame appeared at the dining room door, herself again. No
more cowering on the gallery floor. “Cleo, get up. Laurie come with me. We’ll
need blankets and sheets first of all.”

They gathered linens and wool blankets. They made bandages
and lay pallets on the floors. Laurie collected what little drinking water
there was in the house.

Throughout the afternoon, the boatmen rowed the poor souls
they’d picked up back to the big house. They laid the dead ones on the front
gallery, and Cleo wondered how long they could lie there before …She refused to
think about it.

The slaves who still breathed docked at the back gallery
where Cleo helped them step onto the dry boards. Some of them were in shock and
were as quiet as the dead. They lay themselves down and closed their eyes.

Those slaves whose wits were unaffected prayed, sang, or
moaned. A woman with three children missing in the flood keened on a high
piercing note, and an old grandmother rocked and shrilled in accompaniment.

With every row boat, and there were four of them rescuing
survivors, Cleo scanned the people looking for her loved ones. As dusk began to
darken the waters, Cleo peered into the eight or nine dark faces in the last
boat.

“Grand-mère,” she shouted. She didn’t even realize what
she’d called Madame Emmeline. “It’s Thibault!”

Emmeline came running from the parlor. “Where is he?”

Cleo pointed. “There. In the back of the boat.” She raised
her voice and called, “Thibault!”

Thibault lifted his head. When he recognized Cleo, he
started to stand, but someone held him back. As soon as the boat nudged the
gallery stairs, Cleo reached for him and pulled him out of the boat. She
wrapped her arms around him and rocked him back and forth.

Thibault tried to wiggle free, and still she couldn’t let
him go. “Cleo, I has to breathe,” he told her.

She laughed and released him. She wiped the tears from her
face, and Madame Emmeline stepped closer. Gently, she stroked the head of her
son’s son, and Thibault rewarded her with one of his smiles.

Cleo took her brother’s shoulders and turned him to her.
“Thibault, what happened to Maman and Grammy Tulia?” Still smiling, he looked
at her blankly. “Did you see Maman and Grammy swimming, Thibault?”

“Grammy say she too old for swimming.”

“Were you on the roof when they found you? In a tree?”

“I in a big ol’ chinaberry tree. Me and a rooster.
Erookaroo!”

“Was Maman in the tree with you? And Grammy? Did you see her
in the water? Thibault, think.”

“Maman helped that man push me up the tree. She say ‘Hold
on, Thibault,’ so I holded on.”

“What man?” Madame Emmeline said.

“The one bring me licorice, and whittling sticks.”

Cleo met Madame’s eyes over Thibault’s head. He meant Emile.
Emile had fought the river to save his son. But Emile knew how to swim. He
would have kept Bibi afloat, the two of them riding the current, until they
fetched up against a tree, or a roof.

Cleo tried to believe it, but she’d seen the violence of the
water rushing by. She put a brave face on for Madame Emmeline. “They’re waiting
for rescue, that’s all. Tomorrow. We’ll see them tomorrow.”

Mr. Gale climbed on to the gallery behind them. “Ma’am, it’s
gone too dark for us to see anybody else tonight. First light, I’ll have these
four crews out looking for people. We’ll find lots more yet. Some of them
probably washed all the way down to the Cherleu place. One wet night won’t kill
nobody, and we’ll pick them up in the morning.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gale.” Emmeline hesitantly kissed the top of
Thibault’s head. Then she went about the business of tending to the cuts and
scrapes of her people.

Cleo took Thibault indoors, out of sight of the frightful
water. She sat with him on the floor in Josie’s room and kept him close. The
only blameless soul she’d ever known, simple, loving Thibault. He might have
seen Maman’s and their father’s last moments.

Those first minutes of the flood -- Cleo remembered the
stupendous noise that was as total as silence. She imagined Maman and M’sieu
gasping, struggling in the roiling water, the panic on their faces as they were
swept away from their child. She and Thibault, they were likely orphans now –
and Josie too. She shivered in the heavy, sultry air.

The fourth day of Josie’s visit, she pulled a long brown
curl through her fingers. She admitted to being vain about her pretty hair.
Honey brown, she called it. Still, she puzzled over the fact that her nose was
as freckled today as it had been a month ago, her lips as over-plump, her
eyebrows as thick. How many beautiful women had Bertrand seen in Paris? Yet he
had kissed her. A kiss on the forehead or the hand wouldn’t count. It was cousinly. But the
brush of his lips across hers. That counted.

Today Albany planned to take them on a picnic. He had ridden
out with the slaves after breakfast to oversee the picnic site. They would need
cloths laid on the ground against the damp, and chairs, a table for the ham,
the muffins, the pitchers of lemonade. Josie hoped he’d remember they would
need some children to hold their parasols. She didn’t want any more freckles.

Lingering over morning coffee, Bertrand promised to show
Abigail where he’d seen hummingbirds in a stand of wild honeysuckle. Josie had
recognized jealousy when she saw it the night before, and she watched over the
rim of her cup as Abigail succumbed to Bertrand’s charm. It was sensitive of
him to notice Abigail needed her feelings soothed. He
could
be a
gentleman.

Bertrand would join them later. On an old mare immune to any
urges to gallop, Josie opened her ruffled parasol and tried to remember what
her maman had told her about bleaching freckles. She hadn’t been interested at
the time.

Charles the butler had arranged a lovely welcome under the
shade of a mossy live oak. White linen covered a folding table, cushions
adorned the canvas chairs, and heavy blue cloths covered the ground in their
picnic area. And yes, two little slave children stood ready to shade the
ladies.

Albany helped Josie and his sister dismount. The air was
still and warm, the droning of bees the only disturbance. Charles brought them
lemonade in elegant glasses, and Josie sat back to enjoy herself.

Albany brought Josie a plate of ham and fresh peaches, but
his pleasantries were drowned out by the sound of rapid hoofbeats. A horse with
white froth on its flanks rushed into the clearing. The rider slid off and ran
toward them, calling out, “Mas’ser Johnston.”

Albany met the man and drew him several yards from the
ladies. Josie watched them curiously, especially after Albany glanced at her
and led the man further away.

“My apologies, ladies,” Albany said when he returned to
them. “I’m afraid we’ll have to have our picnic another day.”

“What on earth, Albany!” Abigail said. “We just got here.”

“What’s happened?” Josie asked.

“Nothing to worry about.”

Josie didn’t believe him. “Please, Mr. Johnston. Have you
had a message from Toulouse?”

“No. Really, there’s no need to concern yourself. The slaves
reported a drop in the river, that’s all, and that can mean a break in the
levee upstream. But it could have happened fifty miles from here, or a
hundred.”

Abigail grabbed her brother’s arm. “A levee break? Are we
going to be flooded?”

“I told you, Abigail, not to worry. But it would be prudent
to return to the house until we know where the break is and how far the new
channel flows.”

Albany put them on their mounts and escorted them to the
stables. As soon as they dismounted, Josie hurried toward the dock. Surely a
riverboat coming downstream would stop and tell them the news. But Mrs.
Johnston, and Abigail too, feared irrationally that the river might suddenly
swell and sweep her from the dock. They insisted she stay in the house.

Josie leaned against the gallery railing even though the
afternoon sun hit her full force. She didn’t give a thought to her complexion
or the heat, but kept watch for a boat.

Before a boat showed itself, Albany, Bertrand, and Mr. Johnston
brought the news. They had ridden north along the levee to look for evidence of
a breach on either side. The levee had failed a half-mile north of the Tassins’
home, they reported, at the upper edge of Toulouse Plantation.

Mrs. Johnston began to shake. “Oh my God,” she said.

“Now, Mary Ann,” Mr. Johnston said sternly. He guided her to
a chair and forced her to sit down. “The flood is on the other side of the
river. We’re perfectly safe, and I want you to settle down. Charles, bring Mrs.
Johnston a sherry.”

Josie had gone white and stood very still. Bertrand guided
her to the opposite side of the room and sat with her on the satin sofa.

“Listen,
chérie
,” he said. “Toulouse is flooded, but
the break is far enough above the house that the first force was spent before
it reached them. The house stands; I could see it across the river.”

“I want to go home.”

“Of course not, Josephine. You cannot go home. In a few
days . . . .”

“I have to know if they’re all right.” She clutched
Bertrand’s sleeve. “Papa -- Bibi and Cleo. And Grand-mère.”

Bertrand considered for a moment. “Can you ride? You’re not
too sore from your fall?”

“I can ride. We can get a boat upstream and cross over.”

Albany stepped over to them. “Impossible. We can’t allow you
to cross the river now.”

Josie looked to Bertrand to contradict Albany. He was
family. He would understand.

Bertrand shook his head. “Johnston is right. You mustn’t
ford the river until the flood has ebbed. But I will take you up this bank to
see across the river.”

“That’s foolish, Chamard. She has no business anywhere near
the river.”

Bertrand looked at Johnston coolly. “We’ll be safe enough, I
think.”

“I’m going,” Josie said.

The three of them rode along the top of the levee wherever
they could to avoid the sucking mud of the river road. Twelve miles north of
the Johnstons’, Bertrand pulled up.

“We are directly across from Toulouse, Josephine. You see
now, the dock, the alley of oaks? And beyond is the house.”

The green shutters against the yellow boards showed clearly.
Josie couldn’t see the underhouse or the height of the water because of the
opposite levee, but the second floor was clearly steady and dry.

“I see people on the gallery.”

“Your eyes are better than mine,” Bertrand said. “The
important thing, Josephine, is the house is intact. It couldn’t have been hit
by the force of the river. Your family will be safe, and in a week or ten days,
we can take you upriver. We’ll hire a boat to cross over.”