Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (4 page)

Leaving Lily in company
with the Johnstons, Musette walked with Mr. Chamard to visit the party in the
quarters. She hoped they weren’t too late for a dish of ice cream. Mr. Chamard
had ordered two huge chunks of ice from the factory in town, one for the picnic
up by the big house, one for the laborers’ celebration. The workers already had
two ice cream churns from the days before the war, Christmas gifts from Mr.
Chamard, and Musette herself had sent over sugar and cream. Nothing meant
summer like vanilla ice cream.

"How’s your Mr. Gale
finding his work crews?" Mr. Chamard asked as they strolled through the
orchard toward the old quarters. "My fellows say they won’t work on the
levy without an extra dollar a month. It is nasty, hard work, but – " He
sighed, weary with the unaccustomed need to negotiate with his workers. "But
a dollar a month." He shook his head.

"Mr. Gale hasn’t mentioned
that they’ve asked for more money, but I haven’t seen him for the last couple
of days. He’s in Donaldsonville meeting with some of the overseers, trying to
get a feel for what the next season’s negotiations might involve."

"I do want them to
make a living, to have a better life, Musette. I do. As does your mother. I
just have to make them understand they can’t get blood out of a turnip."

Musette laughed. "I
imagine they have little expectation of blood from their turnips, Mr. Chamard.
But I see your point."

"You heard they let
Brown’s crop molder in the fields last fall? He wouldn’t pay them what they
could get from other planters, and they walked off. I don’t know if he can
survive another year as ruinous as this past one."

"Mr. Brown wouldn’t
compromise."

"Lots of men won’t
compromise, Musette. There’s going to be trouble, more than we’ve already seen."

As they approached the
quarters, they could hear a smooth, impassioned voice above the noise of
children playing.

Thomas, of course. He was
a practiced orator by now, speaking to groups of ex-slaves like these.
Explaining the laws from Washington, the issues in Louisiana. He had a firm
grasp of what the whites wanted and what his people needed. He was, at twenty-one
years old, already a leader of his people.

"Until we have the
vote, we are not free." Thomas had a conversational style, his voice
modulated to be heard but not to shout. "We have been released from
bondage, but we do not yet enjoy fair play with every other man in Louisiana."

Thomas’s eyes roamed over
the people, catching this one’s gaze and that one’s, letting him know he spoke
to them and for them. Every eye was focused on him.

Musette thrilled at the
power in Thomas Bickell. If she couldn’t have him, she could, in her private
heart, claim a part of him for herself. She had taught him to read, she had led
him to ideas from the greatest minds of the day.

"When the boss tells
you that you must stay on the place, you may not leave to find a better wage,
you may not own a gun -- he lies! Since last April, you do not have to sign a
year-long contract. You do not have to have a pass to leave the plantation to
go to market, to visit friends or family."

People murmured to
themselves. Two years after the war, many of the old white masters tried to make
the ex-slaves believe they had to live very much as they had always lived, under
the white man’s boot.

"The end of slavery
is not just a bunch of words. We are freer today than we were even six months
ago, but -- the work is not over. Until every one of us has the vote, we will
have no power to protect ourselves. Until we have the vote, we will not have
justice."

"I thought we had
the vote!" someone called out.

"Yes. For this
moment only. In September, we can vote on who we send to the state convention
to rewrite the Louisiana Constitution. That’s a powerful thing – we have the
chance to change who gets to vote in this state for every election to come, not
just for this one. But we have to all turn out on September 27th if we want to
continue voting in the next election and the next and the next. This right to vote
we have right now? We have to make it a permanent part of Louisiana’s
constitution."

Thomas’s voice softened. "One
more thing. If we’re going to have the vote, we every one of us gone have to
learn to read. If you can’t read the ballot, and you can’t read the papers that
tell you what each candidate stands for, then you can’t be sure your vote
counts. We all got to help each other."

Thomas raised his head
and looked right at Musette. "We got with us Miss DeBlieux." He held
his open palm out to her. "How many of us can read because of her?"

Musette felt heat flash
into her face. Eight men and a woman raised their hands and everyone turned to
look at her. She was honored. And she was embarrassed.

Thomas looked over the
crowd with a cheeky grin. "Who says Miss DeBlieux gets the first dish of
ice cream?"

The crowd laughed and
hollered amen.

Mr. Chamard gave Musette
a one-armed hug and kissed the top of her head. "Come on. We get to be
first in line for ice cream."

Once they had their ice
cream, Musette sat with Mr. Chamard on the steps of one of the cabins.

"Just the way I like
it," Mr. Chamard said, licking his spoon.

"Me too! Grainy and
a little runny."

Two little girls in
pigtails ran past, giggling and shrieking at the same time. A boy a year or so
older pursued, a big grin on his face. Everyone had on their best, those who
had more than the clothes they wore every day. A red head scarf here, a splash
of yellow handkerchief there made the scene festive and happy.

Thomas was sauntering
their way, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his collar unbuttoned. My Lord,
what a picture of manhood he was. Musette had to look into her bowl instead of
at him.

"I’m not free
either," Mr. Chamard murmured in Musette’s ear. "I can’t roll my
sleeves up or open my collar."

Musette smiled at him. "You
poor thing."

"That was a fine
speech, young man," Mr. Chamard said as Thomas came up to them.

"Thank you, sir. Can
I get you some more ice cream?"

"I already had a
piece of coconut cake and a peach tart. My valet will have something to say if
I can’t button my pants tomorrow."

"How about you, Miss
Musette?"

Mr. Chamard stood. "I
need to get back to my guests. But you stay and enjoy yourself, Musette. I
think you are something of a guest of honor, am I right, Thomas?"

"Yes, sir."
Thomas looked at her. "I’ll see she gets back when she’s ready."

Thomas took Chamard’s
place on the steps. "Ginny," he called to a girl in pigtails. "Miss
DeBlieux and I would be grateful if you were to bring us some more ice cream."

She gave him a grin and
ran off. Likely every female on the place would be happy to please Thomas,
Musette thought. Ah, a little jealousy creeping in. Foolish of her.

"Did I say that the
right way?" Thomas asked. "…’if you
were
to bring ice cream’?"

"Yes. Subjunctive
case."

They watched the mama on
the stoop across the way spooning ice cream into her toddler’s mouth. "What
a face!" Musette said. "You think he ever had anything that cold
before? Oh, look, he wants more."

Thomas watched with her,
smiling. But his mind never strayed far from the passion in his life.

"I’m glad you and
Mr. Chamard came down. It helps all of us, to know everybody with white skin
isn’t the enemy."

"I’m proud to be
here, Thomas. I do feel honored."

Thomas touched her hand. "You
are. We all owe you a debt."

She swallowed and tried
to pretend her heart hadn’t sped up. They must have touched at times,
especially at first when she was guiding his hand to write his letters. But
this was deliberate. A warm, gentle touch.

It didn’t mean anything.
She knew that. There were dozens of people around. This was not meant to be a
private moment, not meant to mean . . . what she wished it meant. It was just
part of his thank you, that was all.

"You’re all very
welcome." She looked at him. "Truly."

He smiled at her. "I
know we are."

Ginny delivered two bowls
of ice cream, a heaping one for Musette, a rather stingy one for Thomas. They
were probably running out.

She handed him her big
helping and took his smaller one. He just smiled and dug in.

"God, that’s good,"
he said.

"They know how to
make it just right," she said.

"I didn’t know there
was any other way to make it. ‘Cept I had it with peaches once."

Musette launched into a
discussion of how to make the ice cream smoother, how much salt to put on the
ice, how long to crank the churn.

"I had no idea you
were a cook, Miss Musette."

She held her spoon up as
if to pontificate. "It’s not all about book learning, sir."

Musette startled as Ginny
screamed and jumped onto the porch behind Thomas at the same time three horses
tore into the quarters.

Their faces covered, the
horsemen screamed out the piercing rebel yell, the same yell that had rattled
Yankee soldiers and made their spines stiff with fear. They snapped their whips
overhead, yelling and whirling their horses in circles.

Dust rose into the air,
women screamed and grabbed for their children. Men reached for the reins or for
the horsemen themselves.

Musette stood tall and
shouted, "What is the meaning of this!"

Thomas took her arm and
shoved her onto the porch behind him. "Stay out of this!"

Several men from the
picnic came rushing into the lane – Mr. Chamard, Captain McKee, Major Whiteaker,
and Mr. Johnston. "You men are on my property," Chamard shouted. "You
will leave at once!"

Thomas rushed into the
melee, dragged a man off his mount, and slammed his fist into the rider’s face.
Musette put her hands over her mouth, terrified he’d be run over by one of the
horses.

A whip cracked again and
Thomas fell to his knees, blood blooming on the back of his white shirt.

Whiteaker seized the
reins of the man who’d whipped Thomas. The rider raised the whip to slash at
Whiteaker, but he grabbed the man’s arm and yanked him out of the saddle.

The third raider reached
down and hauled up the man Thomas had dismounted and those two galloped off,
screaming their yell, spurring their horses to pound out of the quarters --
leaving behind the man Whiteaker had taken.

With the raider on his
back in the dirt, Whiteaker kicked his whip aside and wrenched the bandana off
the man’s face.

"Jacques Valmar, you
cur," he said.

Musette rushed to Thomas,
still on his knees. She was pushed aside by Rachel and Peep as they took him
beneath the arms to help him up.

"I’ll get the
doctor," she cried, so scared her hands were trembling.

"No need, Miss
Musette," Peep said. "Rachel know what to do. Ain’t the first whip
lash we ever seen."

Thomas was standing on
his own now, his mouth grim. "Go on," he told her. He pointed his
chin toward Chamard’s big house. "Go on back to the picnic."

She blinked hard. He was
dismissing her? As if she didn’t belong here? She looked at the other faces she
knew, at Rachel and Peep, at Valentine and at Smithy, her own slave – oh, Lord.
What she’d just said – she was astonished at herself. Even if only in her own
head, she had betrayed Thomas and all he stood for – she’d called the
blacksmith for Toulouse
her own slave
. Thomas was right. She didn’t
belong here, she was not one of them.

Thomas’s face softened
and he gentled his voice. "Go on, Musette."

Chamard strode up to Valmar.
"I’ll have you thrown in jail for this."

Valmar spat. "On
what charge? I ain’t done nothing but go for a Sunday ride."

"Disturbing the
peace, that’s a good start. I imagine I’ll think of more on the way to the
jail."

Valmar nodded his head at
Thomas. "Your nigger punched a white man. What you gonna do about that?"

Chamard drew his arm back
and slapped Valmar so hard the man’s head twisted all the way to the side.

"That’s what I’m
going to do about it." Chamard nodded to a man who had once been his property.
"Cleavis, how about some of you locking this vermin up in the corn crib? Maybe
there’s a couple of corn snakes in there to amuse him."

Valmar touched his
reddened cheek, then sneered as three men of the quarters surrounded him. He hadn’t
shaved in days. His brown hair straggled around his ears. His middle was soft,
and his clothes were dirty. Perhaps thirty years old, not tall, not short. A
very ordinary man except for the expression of smug superiority on his face.

"He don’t look like
much to me," Cleavis said as he and three other men of the quarters
surrounded him. "What you think he’s so het up on himself about?"

"Why, Cleavis. Don’t
you know? The man be white."

Cleavis snorted and
shoved Valmar to get him moving.

Musette hardly noticed
the exchange between Chamard and the man. She had stepped away from Thomas, but
her eyes were still on him.

"Miss Musette,"
Major Whiteaker said. He placed her hand on his arm. "May I escort you
back to your cousin?"

She allowed the major to
take her back to the picnic where everyone but the servants was white. Where no
one would tell her to
go on back where you belong
.

Alistair didn’t like to
see Nicolette rushing to meet them in this heat, in her condition.

"It was bad,
Alistair?"

He nodded, the muscles in
his jaw tight. "But it could have been worse. One man hurt, that’s all.
You know Thomas Bickell? The young firebrand?"

"Papa has mentioned
him."

"He pulled one of
the riders off his horse and slugged him. Another rider got Thomas with a whip."