Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) (8 page)

“Hello, sweetheart,” Marianne said. “What’s your name?”

The child stared at her. “She be Sylvie,” her mother said.

“Sylvie, you’re such a brave little girl. I’m going to look
at where the dogs bit you, all right?”

Sylvie pulled away from her, crying now. “I just need to
see, honey. Be still.”

Marianne took scissors from her bag and cut away the ragged,
bloody shift Sylvie wore. The bites on her arms and legs looked like
straightforward punctures, little of the tearing and gnawing as there was on
Peter’s body. One bite had gone clean through the flesh on Sylvie’s thin arm,
the four punctures lined up in perfect symmetry.

What worried Marianne was the deeper wound in her belly. How
had the hound got a grip on her there? And how deep had the fangs gone into her
body? This really was more than Marianne knew how to heal. A body cavity wound
– who knew what complications might arise from that?

Pearl came in, straining with the weight of a bucket of hot
water. “Evette said she send mo water soon as she can.”

Marianne left Pearl to finish the bathing while she went to
her storeroom for the herbs to make poultices and tea. She would pack all the
wounds, but on the tears and more open rips, she thought she’d hold off on the
sutures. The pus needed to flow first, she thought. She wished she knew more.

When she returned with the astringent witch hazel to bathe
the child again, Marianne placed her hand over the wound in Sylvie’s abdomen.
Already it was swelling, the purple lividity spreading. Sylvie needed a doctor
even more than Peter had.

Old Dr. Benet certainly would have come, but he was long
dead. His replacement, Dr. Clark, had let it be known he had no time to treat
slaves. Not any more. His Hippocratic Oath and his politics lodged in harmony
in his breast.  He was a staunch advocate of the state’s right to choose its
own path, and slavery was the heritage, and the future, of Louisiana. He had
little sympathy for those who whined and fussed over the plight of their
chattel.

Marcel Chamard appeared at her elbow and raised her up. “A
moment, Miss Johnston.”

He escorted her to the darkened porch where the mosquitoes
buzzed.

“I understand you are quite an accomplished nurse,” he
began. “However, the child’s wounds are quite grievous?”

“Yes.” She waited. What did Marcel want here in the
quarters? These Chamards and their wandering about. She was ready to return to
Sylvie when he touched her arm.

“I know a doctor. Trained in Paris. He’ll come if I send for
him.”

“You know a doctor who will treat a slave?”

“His mother was once a slave. Gabriel Chamard.”

The love child of the famous affair between Bertrand Chamard
and the celebrated chanteuse? “Your . . .?”

“Yes. My half-brother. He’s at his mother’s place near
Toulouse. I’ll fetch him myself.”

Marianne put her hand on his sleeve. “Thank you, Mr.
Chamard. Ask him to hurry.”

Gabriel, asleep in his bed at Chateau Chanson, wakened to
the sound of footsteps in the house. Not Ben’s shuffle nor Claire’s slippered
feet. How long had it been since the pistol in his bedside table had been
fired? It might at least serve as a deterrent – the intruder wouldn’t know it
was unloaded.

Gabriel stood in his bare feet, listening. The steps reached
his bedroom door and the knob turned. He raised the pistol as the door opened
and a tall figure stepped in. “Gabriel?”

“Marcel!” He put the pistol back in the drawer. “You could
get yourself shot sneaking into a man’s room like this.”

“I didn’t want to waken the old folks. You’re needed across
the river, Gabe. At the Johnston plantation.”

Gabriel dressed as Marcel explained what had happened. In
five minutes, the two were ready to leave.

“I left the boat at the Toulouse dock.”

“Fine.” Gabriel picked up his bag.

At Toulouse the house was dark. Gabriel sought the window of
Simone’s room. What were they going to do, the two of them? Tied to each other,
and yet . . .

“Over here,” Marcel said.

Only a sliver of moon lit the river and the churning
current. Four men, black as the night, waited in the boat to row them across.
Gabriel stepped in, dreading the rocking under his feet. Traveling by river was
bearable on one of the big steamers where he could stand on an upper deck and
contemplate the water from a distance, but he’d always hated the little boats,
the ones where the lap of the water came up to the very oarlocks. He knew it
was irrational. He swam happily enough, but that was only in the sleepy bayous
or along the river sheltered by a sandbank. Crossing the shifting currents in a
boat this small, in the dark – he broke out in a cold sweat.

He tried to think of other things. Not Simone. He’d be in no
state to help anyone if he let his heart loose now. His future. That was a
conundrum to occupy his mind. If he wanted to make money, he needed to minister
to the wealthy clients in New Orleans in the winter and on their plantations in
the summertime. Would the white planters accept him? He was nearly white, but
he made no attempt to pass. He wished to be accepted for what he was, an
octoroon, a free man of Louisiana, a doctor.

Gabriel cursed the fog hanging over the river, though a
better sight of the black water would do nothing for his nerves. The air hung
heavy with the scents of wood smoke, fecund bayous, rot and rampant growth.

The four slaves pulled across the current at a slant.
Marcel’s face caught hardly enough moonlight to show his features, and he too
sat in silence.

It might be, Gabriel continued his line of thought, that he
would have a lucrative practice tending to the ailments of the other free
coloreds only. It was a growing population, and some of them were quite well
off. Furthermore, in the political climate of the times, if he came to be known
as a slave healer, it would no doubt affect his reputation, and his empty
purse. Yet here he risked crossing the treacherous currents of the Mississippi
River in the dark to treat a slave.

But of course there was no question he would treat slaves. A
child, Marcel had said. How did Adam Johnston justify keeping dogs like that,
ones that would attack a small child?

A drifting log caught the boat broadside. Gabriel gasped and
grabbed hold of the gunwale, wishing it were daylight so they could at least
see where they were going. Finally the perfume of magnolias wafted across the
water and the light on the Johnston dock beckoned them.

Ashore, Gabriel and Marcel followed the lantern past the big
house and through the pecan orchard. As they approached the quarters, Gabriel’s
spirits sank. Any slave quarters, no matter how “good,” overwhelmed him with
the poverty of hope and opportunity. He felt sympathy for the slaves, yes --
and always, that nagging guilt, and fear: it might have been him living here.

Marcel led the way into the cabin, he and Gabriel both
ducking their heads to enter. Marianne Johnston sat dozing. Everyone else in
the cabin slept, too, even the child. Marcel touched Marianne’s shoulder and
she roused with a start.

“I’ve returned,” Marcel said in a low voice. “The doctor is
with me.”

Gabriel made his bow absently as Marianne greeted him. His
eyes were already on the little girl.

He turned to the man with the lantern, who was about to
leave them, and said, “I’ll need that light.”

“It’s the wound in her abdomen that most concerns me, Dr.
Chamard,” Miss Johnston said.

Gabriel lifted the loose bandage and held the lantern close.
Sylvie did not stir, though her mother stared at the doctor with hope in her
eyes.

He placed his palm over the wound with a gentle hand. Then
he palpated the surrounding area, probing, his fingers sensing what his eyes
could not. Many, perhaps most, of his colleagues did not indulge in the laying
on of hands to make their diagnoses. Gabriel, however, had been trained by the
most progressive doctors in Europe; there was much to be learned through touch.
Next he felt the other bites, comparing the heat in them with the heat of the
punctures just to the side of her navel. Sylvie whimpered in her sleep.

“What have you given her?” he asked.

Marianne detailed all she had done, and he nodded. This time
he really looked at the mistress of Magnolias Plantation. “You’ve done well.”

“How bad is it?” she said, indicating the wound that might
have reached into Sylvie’s inner body.

“She’s so small, my guess is the teeth penetrated the
peritoneum. We’ll know more in a few hours.”

He looked for Marcel outside the circle of lantern light.
“Miss Marianne should go to bed,” Gabriel told his brother.

Marianne looked at Sylvie’s mother. “I can’t leave,” she
said.

Gabriel smiled at her, at the circles under her eyes. “You
will allow me to sit with the child now. In the morning, I will need you fresh
if we should have to open the wound.” He turned to Sylvie’s mother and placed a
hand on her arm. “You won’t be distressed to let your mistress go to bed for a
few hours?”

Irene, her faded, threadbare dress hanging on her thin
frame, hung her head. “No sir,” she said. Then she cast a shy glance on her
mistress. “I be glad Miss Marianne get some rest.”

Marcel stepped to Marianne’s side and offered his arm. She
hesitated, looking at Pearl.

“I be here, Miss Marianne, he need anything,” Pearl
reassured her.  Marianne took Marcel’s arm and let him lead her to the house.

By dawn, the draught Marianne had given Sylvie no longer
soothed her. She groaned and thrashed and called out in pain. Her abdomen
swelled, hard and hot, and Gabriel feared the worst. If the dog’s fangs had
pierced the peritoneum, that was very bad and likely fatal. If they had torn
into the intestine, there would be only hours before she succumbed.

“I bathe her again, doctor?” Pearl asked.

He nodded. Once the child was cooled, Gabriel fed Sylvie a
draught of laudanum. When Miss Johnston returned, he would consider opening the
punctures to drain them. Better Sylvie be unconscious.

The sun hardly up, the mistress of Magnolias appeared at the
cabin door. She’d pinned her hair back neatly but plainly. She wore a brown
homespun dress and a canvas apron. Her face was pale, but she was alert. And
calm. Gabriel valued her equanimity most of all.

Gabriel read her face as her eyes sought Sylvie. She was
truly frightened for the child. He made room for Marianne to kneel next to the
bed. She felt of Sylvie’s forehead, judging the dry fever. Irene’s eyes sought
her mistress’s, craving reassurance. She had sat on the floor at Sylvie’s head
all these hours, never ceasing to touch her, caressing her cheek, stroking her
hair.

To Gabriel’s surprise, Marianne reached out to Irene, and
they clasped hands.

Most of the mistresses Gabriel knew up and down the river
nursed the slaves on the plantation. Some of them did it willingly, some not.
Some of them were competent, some not. But Gabriel had never known one, in the
years he’d studied under Dr. Benet before he went to France, who involved
herself to the degree that Marianne Johnston did.

“Pearl, go on to bed,” she said. “Sleep awhile before you go
to the cookhouse.”

To Gabriel, she said, “What will you do now?”

“I’ve given her a draught. When she’s fully under, I’ll
drain what purulence I can from her belly.” He palmed Sylvie’s tight swollen
abdomen again. Very hot.

“I believe,” he said to Marianne, “you have another patient?
While we wait for the laudanum to take effect, I could look at him. The same
dogs?”

Marianne nodded. “The same pack, anyway.” She turned to the
older man standing in the corner. Sylvie’s grandfather, Gabriel assumed. “What
has been done with the dogs who attacked Sylvie?” Marianne asked.

“Dey chained up at de whipping post last I knowed, Miss.
Lessen Mr. McNaught do something ’wid em.”

Gabriel saw her jaw tighten, anger clearly stamped on her
features. This McNaught, Gabriel thought – He’s in for a hard time. I’d not
want this woman angry with me.

Gabriel followed Marianne outdoors. They passed by the
whipping post where two hound dogs slept in the morning sun. They were each
chained around the neck. They didn’t seem very dangerous at the moment, but
Gabriel knew they were never to be trusted again after what they’d done to
little Sylvie. Adam would surely have them destroyed.

Marianne stopped just out of the dogs’ reach and simply
stared at them. Gabriel saw her shoulders tremble. Is it fear or fury she’s
feeling? He offered his arm to support her, but she shook her head. “I’m quite
all right, Dr. Chamard.  Thank you.” No, I don’t imagine this young woman is
afraid of much.

They found Peter awake and propped up in his cot. His
grandmother Lena still sat by his bed. Gabriel introduced himself and then
asked to examine Peter’s wounds. Thoroughly and gently, he unwound the bandages
and tested for morbidity. He palpated and sniffed, noting the color and
firmness of the flesh around each wound.

“You’ve an excellent constitution, young man,” he said to
Peter. “And you’ve been most fortunate in your nurse.”

Peter glanced at his mistress, shy in her presence. “Yessir.
I be lucky.”

“Miss Marianne a angel,” Lena added.

Marianne smiled, and Gabriel winked at the old woman. “You
may be right, Mammy,” he said. “She may be an angel on earth.”

He turned back to Marianne. “Do you have slippery elm?” She
shook her head no. “Well, then, continue with the witch hazel solution and the
comfrey poultices. Watch the wounds do not become blackened around the edges.
You must send for me at once if that happens. Otherwise, you have done all that
needs to be done. He’s very fortunate to have come through the fever with no
more corruption than you’ve described.”