Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (18 page)

"You may as well
tell me," she said. "What are they saying?"

"They? The
mysterious, ever-present ‘they’?" He sipped at his whiskey. "Well,
let’s just say the gossip is not sympathetic. You couldn’t have expected it
would be."

"I did nothing
wrong. It was a public gathering, a political assembly. Why shouldn’t I be
there?"

Chamard idly rubbed at
his temple. "Musette, have you been to any political rallies at which
Thomas did not speak? Have you talked parlor politics with your friends? Have
you a reputation for serious political involvement?"

She hardened her jaw. She
had not expected a scolding from him, of all people, the most indulgent man
she’d ever known. He’d been like a second father to her since Papa died.

"I’ll answer my own
questions. You have not. You are becoming conspicuous, my dearest Musette. It
must stop."

She lifted her chin and
stared over his shoulder.

Chamard left his
comfortable chair to sit on the sofa beside her. He reached for her hand, but
she pulled away from him. "None of that now," he said, and took her
hand anyway. "Look at me, sweetheart."

She turned her face to
him, but she kept her gaze on his necktie.

"Your mother knows
you’re headstrong and she might forgive me for the trouble you’ve made for
yourself so far, but she will shake me by the scruff of the neck if I let you
dig yourself any deeper."

She couldn’t bear to look
at him. She tried to tug her hand free, but he wouldn’t let her.

"You see, don’t you,
that you endanger Toulouse as well as yourself? This bunch, the Knights of the White
Camellia. They’re a new group. I don’t know what they’re willing to do, but
they are determined to restore the life they lost during the war. They will not
let a woman, a Negro-sympathizing woman, stand in their way. You must keep your
head down – I repeat, I do not know what they are capable of, but I know you
endanger yourself going to these rallies."

She had to swallow and
blink to control herself.

"And you endanger
Thomas."

Startled, she looked at
him then.

"Your partiality for
him has also become a subject of gossip." He held his hand up as she began
to protest. "Darling girl, it is very difficult to hide one’s feelings
when they are as strong as yours. White men have done terrible things to black
men when they thought -- You know this. Black men must be seen to be sexless
creatures in relation to white women."

She leaned into her
hands, hiding her face. "I don’t want him hurt."

When she gasped and
gulped for air, Chamard wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. "Of
course you don’t."

He rocked her as she
sobbed. "Let it all out, sweetheart. Just let it out. I’ve got you."

She wept until her head
throbbed and her diaphragm spasmed with hiccups. When she calmed enough to
accept his handkerchief, Chamard told her quietly, "No one ever died of a
broken heart, my dear. It will get easier."

"That’s absurd. My
heart is not broken. I’m merely overset."

"Of course you are,
after such a day. Now. When the convention begins in the fall, I will take you
to watch the debates if you like. But, Musette – " he took her by the chin
and made her look at him – "you will not go to any more events where
Thomas is present without me, understand? Josie will skin me alive if she finds
out you were at the rally today. You have no consideration for an old man’s
dignity."

"Let’s don’t tell her
then," Musette sniffled.

"I believe I hear
our guests arriving," Garvey said.

"Yes, sir. I’ll get
the door."

Late as it was, Thomas
opened the door to Valentine, Chamard, and Whiteaker. They settled in to talk
over the debacle at the rally and Agent Witherspoon’s response to it.

"He’s a good man.
It’s just he’s got to juggle the rights of the freedmen with the planters’
demands for their own justice," Garvey said.

"I hate to think
what this electioneering would have brought down on our heads without him and
Major Bodell," Valentine said. "Every black man stuck his head up
likely been killed."

Nobody contradicted him.

"So my tailor is off
to New Orleans," Chamard said.

Valentine put on a
doleful face. "With Mr. Moltrey gone, I don’t know where we gone get your
vests no more."

"Maybe we’ll put a
needle in your nimble fingers and see how you do," Chamard teased.

Long accustomed to the
good-natured bickering of those two, Garvey cut in. "And Valmar is still
moldering in a cell."

"Yes, sir,"
Thomas said. "At least he’s still in jail. What is his legal status, Major
Whiteaker. Do you know?"

Alistair nodded. "He’s
been arraigned, but Valmar’s attorney has asked for more time to prepare his defense,
and as far as the prosecuting attorney cares, he can have as long as he likes. Meanwhile,
Valmar pleads he’s too sick to be put out. The hole in his leg festered, you
know, and as long as he’s in jail, he’s got the doctor and a deputy looking
after him at parish expense."

"He’s said nothing
about his cronies, is that right?" Garvey said. "Hell of a thing,
when you know a man is guilty as sin and can’t do a thing about it."

If he had been inclined
to bitterness, Thomas thought, the gall would be rising in his throat at the
irony of these white men feeling helpless at an injustice. But these men were
the good ones, the ones who tried to be fair as far as they could see it. Slave
owners, yes, they had been. But they were trying.

"We are doing
something about it, Garvey," the major said. "The judge will set a
court date eventually. He won’t be able to let this go, not with Witherspoon
and Modell watching him. Chamard and I, we’ll have a word with him, too."

"And the other men?"

"Fisher and Shipton are
hiding out, or they’ve left the parish. Either way, nobody knows where they
are."

"Shipton can’t stay
away forever. He’s got family here, a few acres to tend," Garvey said.

Thomas wove his fingers
together and leaned on his knees. "I don’t mean to be cynical, but I don’t
have much expectation of justice for Annie and Alfie."

 
"I
appreciate your acuity," Chamard said. "But don’t give up hope. You
have to play the long game, Thomas."

"Yes, sir. I
understand. Change will take time."

The door to the sitting
room swung open and Frederick Palmer stepped inside. "Gentlemen," he
said, looking around the room. "It seems we’re having something of a pow
wow here." He sauntered in and took a chair. "Lily tells me you’re
all worked up about the to-do in town today."

Thomas kept quiet. It
would be up to the white men to handle Palmer.

"Did you see the
rally?" Garvey said.

"Rally? I thought it
was a riot. Bunch of rabble, jawing low-lifes complaining, getting ahead of
themselves."

"And the charging
into the crowd with horses, the rifles firing?" Alistair asked quietly.

"Glad to see you got
concerned citizens willing to keep the community in line."

"By assaulting
innocent people."

Palmer snorted. "Don’t
know how innocent they were. Rioting in the streets."

Thomas stood up. He’d
heard all he could take. "Good night, gentlemen."

"Don’t rush off on
my account, boy. I know you’re something of a favorite around here. Everyone’s
pet nigger."

The silence was as
intense as the cold hostility radiating from Thomas and his friends.

Palmer laughed. "Sorry.
I see I’ve stepped on someone’s toes. Next you’ll tell me a Yank like me can’t
understand how you all get along down here. I’m sure you’re right. Garvey, you
got the good stuff hidden somewhere?"

"Good night, Thomas,"
Alistair said, releasing him from the awkward moment.

"I’ll come out with
you," Valentine said.

Garvey got out his bottle
of scotch from behind a row of books and poured each of them a glass. Surely
not Palmer’s first of the day, Alistair thought, judging by the glaze in his
eyes.

"So you were there,"
Alistair began. "As a stranger in town, I don’t suppose you know who the
‘concerned citizens’ were."

"Oh, I met a few. They
bought me a drink, I bought them a drink. Friendly fellows. Upstanding."

Lily stepped into the
room, a line between her brows. Anxious, Alistair thought. Her husband had been
drinking, and she knew what that could mean.

"Anything I can get
you, Uncle Garvey?"

When she glanced at
Alistair, he gave her the merest shake of his head. He didn’t want her in here.

"Nothing, Lily
darling," her uncle said. "Why don’t you go on to bed."

She gave her husband a
piercing look before she told them good night and closed the door.

They sipped in silence
for a moment. Palmer grinned. "You’re just dying for me to tell you their
names, aren’t you? Well, I don’t mind. And neither do they, I reckon. Let’s
see. Pete Kresky. Charlie Dillinger. Michael something or other. Can’t remember
all of them. They’re recruiting, you see. Thought I’d make a fine addition to
their numbers."

"Recruiting."
Chamard said. "Into the White Camellia, I suppose."

"Camellia,
chrysanthemum, something flowery."

"And these are the
men who rampaged on horseback through men and women on foot. Two women were
seriously injured, Mr. Palmer."

"Oh, I doubt the
fine fellows I met were involved in any rampage. The horsemen all wore masks, I
understand," he said with a sly grin. "No idea who they were."

Garvey Bickell stood up. "Mr.
Palmer -- "

"Oh, you must call
me Frederick, Garvey. We’re family after all."

Very deliberately, Garvey
began again. "Mr. Palmer. You are new to St. James Parish. I appreciate
you do not yet understand the tensions here. As long as you are lodged in my
home, I will take it amiss if you consort with these criminals calling
themselves the Knights of the White Camellia."

"Criminals?"
Frederick laughed. "That’s putting it rather strong, isn’t it?"

Whiteaker stood up. In
spite of this fascinating look into the mind and heart of Lily’s husband, he’d
had enough of the man’s company.

Chamard stood too. "Some
people would agree with you," he said quietly. "But you are in the
home of a man whose principles do not extend to bigotry and injustice. Racism,
I’m forcefully reminded tonight, is not confined to Southerners."

Chamard followed Alistair
into the hallway where they found their hats on the side table. "See you
tomorrow, Alistair," Chamard said and let himself out.

Lily was waiting for him
in the shadows. "He’s drunk, isn’t he?"

"Close to it."

"He doesn’t know
anyone. He couldn’t have anything to do with what happened at the rally."

"No. He didn’t."

The light from the hall
lamp was behind her and he couldn’t read her face, but she must have seen
something in his.

"What then?
Something? Tell me."

"Only that he’s
become acquainted with some of the men in the White Camellia."

"Acquainted." She
held his eyes a long time.

"They’ve asked him
to join them."

She shook her head,
disturbed. "He doesn’t understand, that’s all. I’ll talk to him tomorrow."

Alistair touched her arm,
the merest touch. "Lily. He does understand."

Lily pressed her fingers
against her forehead. It must be difficult for her, finding new things at this
late date to dislike about her husband. "It’s not your fault," he
murmured.

"No." She tried
to smile for him. "Of course not. Alistair?"

"What is it?"

"About church
tomorrow."

He’d dreaded this, that
she’d insist on cutting off all contact with him, even in church. "You
don’t want me to come."

"Frederick mustn’t
think, he mustn’t know . . . "

Alistair chucked her
under the chin. "Lily, when he saw us together the first time, we were
kissing. He knows."

She laughed on a sad
little exhalation. "Of course."

He wanted to dip his head
and kiss her on the forehead, just for that smallest contact. But it would not
do.

"I won’t come, Lily.
Good night."

As he grasped the front
door knob, she came up behind him and turned him to her. Quickly, lightly, she
grasped his face and touched her lips to his. "Thank you."

He nodded, too moved to
speak, and had to leave her standing in the doorway.

Monday morning, Thomas
filed into the courtroom behind Whiteaker, Chamard, and Garvey Bickell,
Valentine bringing up the rear. They seated themselves in the second row behind
the prosecutor’s table so that they could see Jacques Valmar on the other side
of the room.

The benches filled, then
men stood around the perimeter of the public area. Mostly white, as Thomas
expected, but no longer all white as there would have been only two years ago. Cabel,
Reynard, Smithy, John Carpenter, half a dozen other black men stood in twos and
threes among those who’d arrived too late to get a seat.

Whiteaker had done the impossible: Valmar
was to be tried for the murder of Alfie and Annie. Sheriff Paget had made it
clear he thought there was no case for charging Valmar with murder.
Insufficient evidence, he’d said. But Whiteaker had persuaded Major Bodell and
the prosecutor John Marshal otherwise, and here they were.

A white man, black victims. A conviction
was unlikely, Thomas knew. Plenty of white men were enraged charges had even
been brought against a white man. The tension in the room showed in all the
clenched jaws, the grim faces, the crossed arms.

 "How did you do it?"
Thomas whispered to Major Whiteaker as they waited.

"Well, the Army is
here to see the law is exercised justly. That is there mission. That, and I
called on Mr. Marshal at his second home and laid it all out for him, step by
step."

"His second home?"

"The one up the road
a piece where he lives now. Since his wife died, he stays there with Melanie
Jane, the woman he raised five children with."

No doubt one of his
slaves, ex-slaves, Thomas thought. "Black woman, black children."

Major Whiteaker nodded. "Freed
her years ago and made sure their children went to school. He’s sympathetic,
Thomas, and Melanie Jane was a niece of Alfie and Annie’s."

The jurors filed in, all
white men. The deputies brought Valmar into the courtroom to sit at the
defender’s table. His hands were cuffed, and he limped heavily, the leg the
major had sent a bullet through weakened, probably forever. Thomas did not
grieve for him.

Before Valmar sat down he
cast his eye over the citizens gathered to hear his trial and bestowed a cocky
grin on some of the audience. Then he narrowed his gaze to Thomas and sneered.

"All rise," the
bailiff called. Everyone stood, and the judge entered.

Judge Lafitte decreed
that he would consider both charges against Valmar, disorderly conduct for the
rioting around the Bickell house, and murder setting the fire that killed two
old people. He explained that, and then observed, "I doubt considering the
two events will confuse the jury. I have faith in them to sort it out," he
said. "Let’s proceed."

The disorderly conduct
charge was dispatched first. Garvey Bickell was called for the prosecution to
testify to having seen Valmar shot off his horse, prior to which he’d been
rioting with two other men, shouting and firing their rifles into his house.

"Who was in the
house at that time, Mr. Bickell?" Marshal asked.

"My niece, Lily Palmer,
and her daughter Maddie, six years old, Dawn Bickell, also six years old, and
her parents Rachel and Peep Bickell."

"Yet no one in your
household was injured. I understand there was a lot of commotion, a lot of
confusion during this episode. What evidence did you have to convince you shots
had been fired into the house?"

"Broken window glass,
Mr. Marshal. And two lead slugs in the dining room wall."

Mr. Chamard confirmed
Garvey Bickell’s testimony. Alistair Whiteaker then took the stand.

"I noticed Mr. Valmar
walks with a limp, Major Whiteaker. Can you explain that?"

"I shot him."

Judging by the buzz in
the room, some of the audience had not known that. Whiteaker continued with his
account of the events of that afternoon.

Eventually, the defense
began cross-examination. Valmar’s attorney Mr. Pickering went over Garvey’s
testimony, then asked him, "That’s a lot of Bickell’s in the house, sir.
They all your kinfolk, we may assume?"

"Not by blood, no
sir."

Mr. Pickering pretended
to be amazed. "All those Bickells and no blood kin?"

"Don’t go acting
stupid, Jacob. You know as well as everyone here it was common for the black
folks to take the name of their master. You probably got a few dozen Pickerings
in your neck of the woods. They all your younguns?"

Plenty of folks tittered
and the judge mildly tapped his gavel. "I assume you’re playing to the
reporters here from New Orleans, Mr. Pickering. Please keep to the point."

They disposed of the
charge of disorderly conduct and reckless endangerment of women and children
that afternoon. The judge gave his instructions to the jury and sent them home
for the night.

Nine o’clock the next
morning, the charge of murder was tried. Whiteaker testified again, Dr. Huggins
swore to hearing the same accusations from Annie, and then Thomas was called.
This, a black man testifying in court as a witness, was one of the new wonders
in the world. Not even a year had passed since the Civil Rights Act had
determined a black man’s eyes and ears worked as well as a white man’s. And was
as likely to be truthful.