Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (8 page)

Alistair stared at the
still-smoking ruins of the little school. From the outside, he supposed he
looked quite calm. From the outside, he probably seemed unmoved.

Underneath, however,
Alistair burned. They’d set fire to the building with a young woman asleep in
the back room. They’d have known that. The school teacher most always boarded
at the school house.

This new group, the
Knights of the White Camellia. This was the kind of thing they got up to,
though perhaps a little more ambitious than most of their activities. They were
determined to prevent the ex-slaves from exercising any power whatsoever. The fools
somehow thought they could reverse four years of slaughter and heartache to
restore the South to its delusional purity.

The Knights were likely
all men he knew, some of them men whom Alistair had called friends. They were
school mates, cousins, fellow soldiers. Prosperous, influential men. Perhaps
untouchable men. The
Knights would not welcome riff raff like Jacques Valmar, but it had been him at the ice cream raid.

When the school house was
first built, the paint bright, the windows shining, Alistair had been there to
welcome the children the first morning. Fanny Brown had proudly rung her bell,
calling them to come learn your letters, come learn your numbers, and Alistair
had felt this little white building to be a sacred place. As sacred as any
church he’d ever been in. This was the way to end bondage in fact as well as in
the letter of the law.

Six poor white children
came here as well. The raiders would rather deny even white children an
education than see a black child learn to read. He pinched the bridge of his
nose. He was not blameless. He had owned slaves, as had his father and his
father’s father. He had been too proud to marry Nicolette when his whole being
yearned for her because even though she looked white, it was known her blood
was tainted. And he had waited until after the war to build this schoolhouse. He’d
planned it for years, well before the war, but he had not done it.

Nicolette had been right
to turn him down. She hadn’t loved him, but just as important – he had slowly
and painfully come to understand – he hadn’t deserved her, even as his
mistress.

The war had burned that
ugliness out of him if it did nothing else. He wanted to do better. He wanted
all of them to do better.

He stared at the
smoldering ruin. All he could do was rebuild. When the embers cooled, they’d
tear it down and start over, maybe make it bigger this time. Meanwhile, Fanny
could keep school in the ballroom. It was big enough, and his mother was away
so she would not be here to squawk about it.

First thing he needed to
do was hire some guards and train them so they didn’t blow each
other’s heads off in the dark. Enough men for his own home, for the school as
it was being rebuilt, and for Bickell’s place. Once again, he was thankful for
all the money flowing into his bank from his railroad and steamship
investments. His part-interest in the foundry in New Orleans was showing a
profit too.

Chamard would take care
of Toulouse. He and the DeBlieuxs were tied together six ways from Sunday, and
he was sort of an honorary uncle to Musette.

The other first thing he
needed to do was send a letter off to Finn and Nicolette in New Orleans. They
had both taught freed people to read in their back room. And Finn had been a
Yankee. Alistair shuddered at the thought of a flaming torch crashing through
the book store window. All those books, dry as kindling, Nicolette perhaps
upstairs, the flames spreading.

He wouldn’t wait for the
mail boat. He’d send a man to town to hand deliver his letter to Finn. William
was still with them, too, that great brute of a man. Only one eye, but an able
man nonetheless. He would give his life to protect Nicolette. As would Finn. As
would he himself if it came to that. Nicolette was blessed with mother, father,
step-father, brothers -- Lily Palmer’s face rose in his mind. Who was there to
care for Lily now her husband was dead?

Alistair strode off to
recruit a cadre of guards from among the laborers on the place. He’d talk to
Major Bodell tomorrow – cross burning in people’s yards fell under his purview,
his and the Freedmen’s Bureau.

By Thursday, the swelling
around Thomas’s eyes had gone down and he could see again. His headache was
mild enough he could ignore it most of the time. The doctor still would not
allow him out of bed, however. The wound in his shoulder had not sufficiently
closed for him to feel comfortable it would not open and bleed again.

Lily had to agree. Thomas
had lost enough blood between the wounds and the pint the doctor had bled from
him. The doctors in Philadelphia, at least the younger ones, no longer were
certain that bleeding accomplished anything but to whiten the complexion of the
afflicted, but Lily had certainly not argued with Doctor Huggins. Her own
father had sworn he felt better after a bleeding, whatever the ailment.

Fanny Brown came to see Thomas
at the end of the school day. Lily took her back to Thomas’s room, stuck her
head in the door, and asked him if he was decent for company.

Thomas frowned. "Who
is it?" he mouthed.

Lily mouthed back, "Fanny."

Delight chased relief
across Thomas’s face. He set aside his book and when Fanny entered the room, he
scooted up in the bed and smiled at her like the prettiest girl in the world
had just walked in.

"Hello, Thomas."

"Fanny. You didn’t
have to come all this way."

"It’s not so far."
She handed him an oiled paper packet. "I brought you some peanut brittle.
Unless your jaw is too sore?"

The room was small. One
straight back chair, a small table, and a washstand. Still, there was a bed.
Lily left them, but she also left the door open.

She settled in the
sitting room with the mending. She could hear the murmur of their voices,
talking, sometimes laughing. An hour later, Fanny was still in there, reading
aloud it sounded like. Lily headed to the kitchen to help with supper. She was
happy to be Rachel’s under-cook, shelling peas or slicing carrots or shucking
corn, anything but dealing with that cantankerous stove.

Before everyone sat down
to eat, Rachel loaded up a tray with two over-full plates and took it in to
Thomas and Fanny. Lily smiled to herself. Rachel approved of Miss Fanny Brown.

It was quite a different
scene the next day when Musette returned. She chatted with Lily for a while,
but Lily did not find it hard to read her. Musette was putting in the time with
social niceties so that it would seem only incidental when she asked about
Thomas.

"How is he?"
she asked, sipping at a cup of coffee.

"Better every day,"
Lily said.

Musette set her cup down
and stood. "I’ll just pop in and say hello."

Lily suspected Musette’s
visit would not be welcome. Who else could Thomas have been thinking of
yesterday when he had mouthed "Who is it?" with a frown on his face.

"I’ll see if he’s
awake, shall I? He still needs a great deal of sleep."

Lily’s shoes tapped
through the house, loud enough to warn him she hoped when she approached his
door. She tapped softly and looked in on him. He was in bed, reading by the
light of the open window.

"Miss DeBlieux is
here to see you," she said softly and raised her eyebrows in question.

Thomas quickly shook his
head, but it was too late.

"Good morning,
Thomas," Musette said over Lily’s shoulder. "I’m so glad I caught you
awake." She swept past Lily and took the chair next to the bed.

Well, Lily thought.
Musette was bold, she’d give her that. She caught a glance from Thomas and came
into the room herself. He moved his leg over and she sat on the edge of the
bed. They would have a nice little talk for a few minutes, the three of them,
Lily thought. And then, really, Musette must go.

"Oh, my."
Musette said, getting a good look at the bruises on Thomas’s face. "You’re
quite a lovely shade of purple, Thomas."

He dipped his head
solemnly. "Thank you, Miss Musette. I am partial to purple myself."

She grinned at him. "I’m
glad to see you feel up to reading." She nodded at the book spread upside
down and open on his knees. "
The Negro in the American Rebellion
.
William Wells Brown. I haven’t read it."

"Major Whiteaker
loaned it to me."

Musette pulled a slim
volume out of her reticule. "I’ve brought you a copy of Whitman’s
Drum
Taps
. It’s been out a couple of years but I’ve only just been able to get a
copy. I think it’s at least as good as
Leaves of Grass.
"

Thomas accepted the small
volume bound in green leather. "Miss Musette has a taste for racy poems,
Mrs. Palmer," he teased.

Musette blushed, of
course. "That’s not all that’s in there, Lily. He is quite political, Mr.
Whitman is."

"And poetical,"
Thomas said on a laugh.

"You’re awful. I
should bring you only John Milton from now on."

Well, this wasn’t so bad,
Lily thought. They were friends, and had been for some time. Surely Musette
hoped for nothing more. But, Lily knew she did. She fairly glowed to be teased
by Thomas Bickell.

Lily stood. "Well,
we mustn’t keep you from your rest."

Musette understood. She
rose. "I’ll call again to see how you are."

Thomas gestured with the
book. "Thank you for this."

"You’re welcome, as always."

Lily closed Thomas’s door
behind them and there stood Rachel. She might have been a granite sentinel she
stood so solemn and still. "Miss Musette," she said.

Musette hesitated. "Hello,
Rachel."

"You could get my
boy killed," she said quietly. "You know that."

"I – Rachel, I only
-- "

"You stay away from
here."

Musette’s face paled. She
glanced at Lily, then ducked her head as she strode to the hall table and
grabbed her bonnet. She rushed out as if demons nipped at her heels.

Lily met Rachel’s gaze.
Rachel had been harsh, but that was her boy lying in there beaten and stabbed
by white men. If they suspected he had anything to do with a white woman . . .

Lily nodded. Rachel took
a breath and let herself into Thomas’s room.

Musette did not return to
the house. Fanny, however, came again on Saturday. By then, Thomas refused to
lie in that bed another day and sat on the back porch with her. The two of them
shelled peas, bowl after bowl, as they talked. Lily was in the kitchen cleaning
up from mid-day dinner and did not try to listen, but one cannot close one’s
ears.

Fanny talked about the
children who came to her, about teaching in Major Whiteaker’s splendid
ballroom, how all of them could hardly concentrate the first day for gawking at
the green silk wall covering, the light glinting off the polished floors and
the mirrors.

So Alistair Whiteaker was
rich. She supposed she knew that, but hearing about a ballroom and silk wall
coverings – Lily had never known anyone with that kind of wealth. She supposed
his home was one of those grand affairs with the white columns and the wedding
cake trim. She was much more comfortable in Uncle Garvey’s unpainted house with
not one but two porches and a rather splendid stove which she was slowly
learning to master.

Thomas was incapable of
not talking about politics. He knew who the leaders were in the neighboring
parishes, what their positions were, their strengths and weaknesses, and Fanny
seemed well-informed herself. Thomas outlined the points he wanted to see covered
in the new state constitution. Fanny promised to help him polish his next
speech.

They were well-suited,
these two. Lily wasn’t surprised when Rachel came in from tying up cucumber
vines and made a big pitcher of lemonade for them.

Lily had had one ear open
for Maddie and Dawn who were in the sitting room playing cards with an old
dog-eared deck Uncle Garvey had given them. But now they were far too quiet, so
she left the very interesting courtship on the porch to see what they were up
to.

After breakfast, Thomas left
the house with a vigorous intent, but he had to slow down to accommodate all
the strains and bruises and aches and pains. Gray-faced by the time he’d
crossed three fields to Cherleu, he knocked on the back door. Valentine, who
always acted like he half owned the place, let him in.

"I reckon, from the
looks of you, you out of that bed too soon, son."

"Valentine, I get
enough fussing at home. Mr. Chamard in?"

Bertrand Chamard was at
his desk. "Thomas. Sit down. How are you healing up?"

"I’m doing fine,
sir."

Valentine stood at the
door, his arms crossed. Chamard delivered a mock bow his way. "You might
as well sit, too, Monsieur Valentine, if you’re going to hover anyway."

Valentine smirked and
took a chair. He and Chamard were of an age, Thomas noted, and had likely been
together their whole lives. They had worked out their own dynamic of master and
slave, now master and employee. They seemed to enjoy it.

"What can I do for
you, Thomas?"

"You can tell me
what our chances with the law are. The sheriff going to go after those men who
stampeded through the rally?" 

Chamard drew in a breath
and blew it out. He looked at Valentine first, then he said, "Probably
not."

A fly buzzed round and
round. Outside, somebody whistled.

Thomas managed to keep
his voice steady, but he didn’t try to disguise the cold rage he’d been
bottling up for days. "I wasn’t the only one got hurt that day. A little
girl got her leg broke when she didn’t get out of the way of the horses fast
enough."

"Thomas,"
Valentine said. "Don’t go off and do something stupid."

Thomas looked at him.
This man had been a quiet, steady presence among the slaves all his life.
People listened to Valentine. Thomas shifted and gazed out the window where the
rose garden bloomed with reds and pinks.

"Is justice stupid
then?"

"Yeah, Thomas,
sometimes it’s stupid."

"Think a moment,
Thomas," Mr. Chamard said. "The Army will pressure the sheriff a
while, Major Bodell telling him to round up the ones who broke up the rally.
But what’s the sheriff going to do, even with the best will in the world? They
were masked and hatted, every one of them. All they got to say is, "No,
Judge, that wasn’t me."

Thomas frowned,
his thumb rubbing hard across his other fist.

"And," Mr.
Chamard added, "say you find these men. Say you kill them, or say you just
bust them up pretty bad. What do you think happens next? There’ll be gangs of
pissed off little white men, on horseback and armed. They won’t care who’s
innocent and who isn’t. They’ll kill and likely rape until they get enough of
it. That little girl will be healed up by then, and you’ll be dead."

"You’re saying
there’s nothing I can do."

"I didn’t say that,"
Mr. Chamard said. "You’re meant to do plenty, Thomas Bickell."

"You meant to be a
delegate to this convention," Valentine said. "You meant to get us
the vote. When every black man vote, we elect a black judge, a black sheriff.
That’s when things gone change. You got plenty to do."

"Meanwhile,"
Mr. Chamard said, "we’ll ask around, see if anybody knows who did this. I’ll
talk to Whiteaker, too. If we by some miracle get proof, then we’ll take it to
the sheriff."

Thomas didn’t know what
he’d thought Chamard could say different. Maybe he’d thought Chamard would
smile his famous smile, say a few charming words, and,
voila,
the
sheriff would arrest the raiders, throw them in jail, and plant briars all
around the doors and windows so they’d never get out.

Thomas nodded. He nodded
again and then rose.

"Something else,"
Mr. Chamard said. "I want you to go to a tailor in Donaldsonville and get
fitted for a suit. Soon as you can get to town, you go in and get measured. A
man going to the state convention needs a suit. And a hat."

"Shoes, shirts,
ties," Valentine added. "Handkerchiefs."

Mr. Chamard laughed. "You
go with him, Valentine. Thomas, you are a lucky man. Valentine is the finest
valet on the Mississippi. He’ll have you dandified and prettified to a turn."

"When’s the next
time you speak?"

"This Sunday."

"Well, let’s get to
town and put that tailor to work."

"Mr. Chamard, I’m
very grateful. You’ve given me advice all these months, about how to organize a
rally, how to spread the word. I don’t know how I’d have got started without
you. I can’t accept the suit, but I thank you."

"Thomas, you need that
suit," Valentine said. "You want people to vote for you to be a
delegate, you got to look like a delegate. I’ll have you back before supper, I
expect."

"This isn’t just
about you, Thomas. Remember that."

"No, sir, it isn’t,
is it? Then I thank you."

During the war, before
Thomas’s first visit to Donaldsonville, the sound of Union artillery had
rumbled down the river all the way to Toulouse Landing. When it was over the
Union had taken Donaldsonville away from the Rebels.

A few weeks later, when Thomas
turned fifteen, he and his friend Cabel declared themselves men and slipped
away from home to join the other slaves pouring into town. They had hidden in a
nasty ditch when they heard the sounds of horses coming around a bend in the
road. Texas Rangers, who had come to defend Donaldsonville from the Yanks, had
not conceded defeat and continued to patrol the area, harassing the Union Army
and punishing any loose slaves they encountered. Having only the brain of a
fifteen year old, Thomas had thought it a great lark to elude the famous
Rangers.

When he and Cabel arrived
big eyed and impressed, Donaldsonville was bustling with soldiers in Union
blue, some of them drilling with their rifles, some setting up artillery for
the inevitable counter-assault from the Rebs. The Yanks put them to work
alongside the hundreds of escaped slaves building the fort along the levee.
Thomas wielded a shovel, pushed a wheelbarrow, and toted lumber as the walls
went up. They’d been giddy, he and Cabel, being part of the struggle, part of
history.

Before the week was over,
Peep, Mr. Bickell, and Cabel’s daddy had found them. Thomas had burned with
shame to be taken away like he was some run-away child, but when he got home
and his mother had cried all over him, he’d decided he’d have to stay home, at
least for now.

That’s when Musette
DeBlieux had taken him and his friends on. They’d been her first students, and
after Cabel learned, he must have taught a dozen others to read.

Thomas turned to
Valentine sitting next to him on the buckboard. "Can you read, Valentine?"

"Sure can. Not good
as you, but I can make out a piece in the newspaper if I work at it."

"One of Miss
DeBlieux’s students teach you?"

"Nah. I learned long
afore she was born. Mr. Chamard, he taught me after the candle was supposed to
be blown out of a night. Taught me most everything his tutors threw at him till
we got caught. That’s when I was put to work in the field."

"I thought you’d
always been in the house."

"Wadn’t in the field
long. Half a year, maybe, then Bertie – Mr. Chamard – he brought me back up to
the house after he promised his mama he wouldn’t teach me no more. Too late by
then, though."

Thomas pondered that.
Most white people thought teaching a slave to read was next thing to armed
robbery. It put ideas into their heads, made them dangerous. It wasn’t done. In
fact, it had been illegal. Miss DeBlieux, bravest woman he knew for getting
herself involved with all of them, hadn’t tried it till it was clear freedom
was on its way, and then she had to be careful who amongst her neighbors found
out. And here Mr. Chamard had done it years and years ago.

Thomas decided to just
ask him. "You and Mr. Chamard brothers?"

"Yeah, but I’m the
good looking one, ain’t I?" Valentine laughed. "Yeah, we got the same
daddy. Not the same mama, of course." Valentine was quiet awhile. "We
was brothers for true when we was little. After he got big enough to go to
school up in Opelousas, it wadn’t the same no more. Couldn’t be, naturally. But
we got on, the two of us."

"You never thought
about running off?"

It took him a minute to
answer. "I thought about it when I were a young man full of juice, sure I
did. But here’s how it was. I was four when Bertie was born, and I been looking
after him ever since. Used to wipe his snotty nose. Used to, he’d follow me
around like I had bacon in my pocket. Our daddy whipped us about the same, too,
till I got too old to whip and by then Mr. Chamard was sick and Bertie went off
to school. He’s my little brother, that’s all. And it didn’t take me long to
have younguns of my own on the place. Wouldn’t never leave them."

"And now? You can
read, you could go most anywhere and get a job."

"Marcel – Bertie’s
boy – he was with my Val when he got killed at Port Hudson. We grieved
together, the three of us. Bertie and Marcel loved him, too. We’re family,
Thomas. That’s all. We’re family."

They’d gone another
quarter of a mile when Valentine said, "You ought to understand that. Your
Mr. Bickell act like you all are family, too."

Thomas nodded. "Yes,
he does. But if he hadn’t freed us a long while back, if the war had not ended
slavery, then I couldn’t have stayed. I’d have run."

"Well, we different
there, then. But I’m still proud to see you turning in to a leader. Our people
gone need men like you to finish fixing things."

They approached
Donaldsonville from the south, the levee on their right, plantations on their
left, some of them blackened ruins from the Union bombardments. The road was
full of wagons coming into town carrying produce or people or building
materials. Some of the old buildings still stood, but lots of Donaldsonville
had succumbed before the Union took it over. The streets were full of the noise
of hammers and saws, the clang of blacksmiths fashioning hasps and clasps,
nails and hooks. 

The Army was still here,
too. Charged with keeping the peace, enforcing the laws, trying to preserve the
newly-granted rights of the freedmen, they kept a garrison right here in town.
Most every street you’d see a soldier or two going about his business.

Valentine left the wagon
and mule at a livery and walked them down the dirt street to a store so new the
unpainted pine wood still smelled fresh.

The tailor was occupied
with a white man when they walked in. He gave an abbreviated nod toward
Valentine and continued his transaction with the man dressed in a fine black
suit. Thomas knew nothing about fabrics beyond cotton and wool, but from the
cut and fit and luster of the wool, even he knew he was looking at quality
goods.

"When might you
expect to get your superfine in, Mr. Moltrey?"

"Perhaps ten days.
Maybe two weeks, depending on the weather."

"You’ll send word."

"Of course, Mr.
Tanner."

Once the well-dressed man
left, the tailor turned to them with a smile. "Valentine. Mr. Chamard
ready for a new suit?"

"Not this time, Mr.
Moltrey. He wishes to outfit this young man in a suit with all the
accoutrements."

Thomas gave Valentine a
look. He might have been listening to a cultured, educated man. Accoutrements?
And where was the accent?

Mr. Moltrey’s smile disappeared.
He gave Thomas a quick once-over.

"I don’t believe I
have time just now to make anything new. Perhaps Tafferty down on 3
^rd
Street."

"That’s too bad. No
time even to run up a few waistcoats for Mr. Chamard?"

Moltrey’s smile
reappeared. "Waistcoats for Mr. Chamard? Did he specify fabric, color? I
have his measurements – unless you believe your master –" Moltrey coughed,
realizing what he’d said. "I have his measurements. You could pick them up
next Tuesday, shall we say? Let me show you the jacquard silk that came in this
week."

Stroking his chin,
Valentine said, "No, I believe Mr. Chamard would be displeased if I
burdened you when you are already overtaxed with orders. I’ll see if Tafferty
can handle the waistcoats as well as a suit for Mr. Chamard’s
protégé.
Good
day to you."

Mr. Moltrey’s mouth hung
open as they turned and walked out the door.

"I believe you
enjoyed that," Thomas said.

Valentine grinned. "I
never liked that man even if he is the best tailor in fifty miles."

"Will Mr. Chamard be
annoyed that his waistcoats will come from another shop?"

Valentine snorted. "Like
he knows where I get his clothes. The man wears whatever I put out for him. Now
if it was his boots, he’d take more notice. The man likes his boots. Besides,
he don’t need no waistcoats."

They dodged horses and
wagons to cross the street and head up third.
Tailor, Haberdasher, Boot
Maker
the sign above the door said.

Mr. Tafferty, a
light-skinned black man himself, was delighted to take Thomas’s measurements
and Valentine’s instructions. Valentine wanted the hemline of the trousers to
break just so over the top of the shoe, and the coat should be no longer than
the upper thigh, four buttons. Two linen shirts, one tie, small clothes, socks.
The boots, he told the cobbler at the back of the shop, should have heels no
more than an inch and a half, rounded toes, not pointed.

Once they were on the
road and the traffic had thinned out, they ate the packed supper the cook had
sent with them. Over his second ham sandwich, Valentine said, "Have to be
fair. Likely Moltrey is feared that if he made a suit for a black man, those
same scoundrels who burned Major Whiteaker’s school gone burn down his new
shop. Probably not worth taking the chance."

Thomas shook his head. "I
don’t believe that excuses him. If we don’t stand up to the forces of chaos and
disorder, then we will live in chaos and disorder."