Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (12 page)

He rode out Canal toward the park. Evidently Southern
gentlemen still indulged in dueling, and here among the spreading oaks was
where they did it. Archaic, he thought, trying to kill each other over slights
and misunderstandings. He grunted. War was much more civilized, of course.

His signalmen were paired off, the width of the park between
them, waving the big flags in wig wag code. Most of the soldiers took to it
right off. Kinda fun, wagging the flags up down and side to side. Finn set them
up, unit against unit, to see who deciphered and enciphered the fastest.
“Points off for inaccuracies!” he reminded them.

When the hot sun took all the fun out of the exercise, Finn
spiced up the messages. “No more ‘the enemy is three miles west,’ Sergeant.
Let’s try something else.” He thought a minute. “Wag this: ‘There was a young
lady named Myrtle / Who refused to be bound by a girdle . . . ’ ”

Happy with the morning’s work, Finn left his troops in fine
spirits. As for himself, he still had the telegraph boys to see about. As busy
as they all were maintaining order in an enemy city, Finn had a sense of the
war looming like a bank of dark thunder clouds. Preparing for the inevitable,
he thought, as his fertile mind latched onto another metaphor, he felt they
were poised on the edge of a precipice. Soon they would be plunging over the
edge, into battle and chaos and death.

He mounted the fly-tormented horse he’d ridden to the park
and headed back to town hoping for a cooling wind closer to the river. The sun
beat down on his head and face and shoulders. Sweat trickled into his collar,
down his back, his sides, his belly.

He tried to shake the gloom off his shoulders. Was it Horace
who said
Carpe diem? For tomorrow we die
?
He wished he could seize Nicolette Chamard before he died. He thought he saw
her everywhere, getting off the tram, turning a corner. He’d once caught sight
of a foamy white petticoat as a young woman descended from a carriage. He’d
felt his heart lurch, hoping it was her petticoat. Each time, disappointment
cut right through him.

At headquarters, Finn tied his horse in the shade and walked
into the Custom House. First step off the street, he began unbuttoning his
uniform. To hell with protocol. If he didn’t get out of this jacket, he was
going to melt.

He took the stairs two at a time. The tapping of
telegraph keys, the murmur of voices, a sudden laugh – everything ceased as
soon as Finn entered the telegraph room.

Three faces turned to him. Simpson, Wallace, and Nicolette
Chamard.

His gaze locked on hers. Then he looked away, acutely aware
that his coat hung open, exposing his white shirt, wet, nearly transparent. He
probably smelled like a horse.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, and dipped his head. Blood roaring
in his ears, his fingers worked the buttons to put himself to rights. Decently
covered, he could look at her again.

She left her chair and stood in front of him, bold as brass.
She had a proud smile on her lovely face, her chin up.

“She’s got it, Captain,” Wallace bragged. “Miss here can tap
it out good as Simpson.”

“Well, I like that,” Simpson began.

Finn quelled him with a look. “Is that right, Mademoiselle
Chamard? You’ve learned it?”

“I have. And these young men have instructed me in the
rhythm required. They’ve been most generous.” She smiled at Wallace and Simpson
in turn, and they each radiated a healthy male glow back at her.

He moved to place himself between her and the pups gawking
at her. She wasn’t here for them. Or himself, either, of course. Whatever her
reasons, she wanted to be a telegraph operator, and she wanted it fiercely. He
would have to think about her motives, later, when his head cleared. “Perhaps a
demonstration?”

“Of course.” She turned the full sunshine of her smile on
him. He kept his jaw clamped. He didn’t want to look like the two grinning
idiots at the keypads.

“Take my place,” Wallace insisted. He held the chair for her
and stood back.

Finn moved closer to the window, hoping for a little air.
What was the matter with him? He’d known other beautiful women, had
half-heartedly courted a few. But this woman knocked the pins out from under
him.

Finn turned. Miss Chamard had situated her skirts and pulled
the keypad closer. There was a damp spot between her shoulder blades. He
envisioned sweat trickling down her sides, under her corset. When she looked at
him in readiness, he blinked guiltily.

“Train arrives at seven o’clock a.m.”

With spot-on rhythm, she tapped his message on the practice
pad. A little slow, but perfectly accurate.

“This one’s longer. Write it down. ‘Enemy engaged Red River.
Left bank decimated. Right bank holds. Send reinforcements.’ Simpson, Wallace,
both of you code.”

Finn gazed at her freely as she concentrated on what she was
doing. Sweat beaded her upper lip and tiny curls stuck to her forehead where
they’d escaped from the cloth. It must be hot, that head cloth, he thought. Why
doesn’t she take it off now she’s inside? He imagined unfolding it, imagined a
mass of wavy black hair spilling onto his hands.

“Got one run-on. That’s all,” Wallace reported.

“Yep. Told you she’s got it, Captain.”

Her eyes shining like a child’s on Christmas morning, she
turned sideways in her chair. “Do I have a job, Captain?”

She’d be here, in this room, practicing, learning
encryption. He could see her every day. But why would a Southern belle help the
Federals?

“That’ll be up to the major, Mademoiselle.”

“It’s all right to use the English ‘miss,’ Captain. I don’t
mind.”

He could listen to that musical accent forever. It was as
if, with the slightest adjustment to her lilting, rhythmical speech, she’d be
singing. Hoping she couldn’t see how far gone he was, he gave her a curt nod.
“I’ll take it up with Major Farrow, Miss Chamard. Let you know tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Captain.” She raised her hand in goodbye to
Simpson and Wallace. To Finn she curtsied formally. Then she left the room,
leaving the scent of lemon verbena in her wake.

Finn closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Tomorrow.

Sleeping, an incessant stream of Morse code scrolled through
Nicolette’s dreams. Waking, her fingers tapped on her cup as she had coffee and
beignets. She read the
Picayune
, and
letters transformed themselves into dots and dashes.

When she’d watched Simpson key in “the quick red fox” that
day on the street, the thought had zinged through her like a soaring violin:
She could do this! She’d found what she needed. She could make a difference.

By the time a week had passed, when she wasn’t thinking
about the telegraph, she was thinking about the handsome Irish captain. She
knew she interested him. He watched her lips as she spoke, he let his gaze wander
over her body when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Yet he kept a distance.
Because she’d stung him that night at the Silver Slipper? Or because he didn’t
trust her? Either way, she would show him her commitment was genuine. In fact,
her commitment was avid.

Walking purposefully, a small basket on one arm, swinging
her furled umbrella with the other, she turned left onto Canal on her way to
the Custom House. She accepted that the white citizens of New Orleans would
despise her as a collaborator if they knew her destination, but the realization
made her feel as if eyes followed her through the streets. Should she have
asked the large and fierce William to accompany her? She firmed her jaw.
William had his own days to live. She would not yield to timidity, certainly
not to fear.

As she neared headquarters, a huddle of white boys played at
mumbletypeg, taking turns tossing a knife into a circle to see who could make
it stick. They were barefoot, their shirts stained and worn. They’d all
outgrown their trousers, and their bare ankles were spotted with flea bites.

As she approached, one of the boys nudged the biggest one
and the game stopped. Five pairs of eyes watched her, and she made note of
which boy now had the knife.

Nicolette took a wide step across the gutter to cross to the
other side of the street. The boys moved to intercept her. She fought the
tightening in her throat and tried to reason away the thudding in her chest.
They were only children.

One boy ran at her, veering at the last instant. Nicolette’s
knees locked.

“Whore,” the boy hissed.

The children surrounded her. “Fucking whore, going in to
fuck the fucking Yanks,” a child no more than ten declared.

They closed the circle tighter. Where was the knife? A grimy
hand reached out and grabbed her skirt. Another knocked her basket to the
ground while a third wrenched the umbrella from her hand.

Nicolette shook off the paralysis. They were children!

She seized the boy who yanked at her skirt. Taking him by
the shoulders, she twirled him around, used him to shove her way through the
circle.

The boy with the knife slashed at the back of her skirt. She
whirled around and slapped him, hard. He backed off, but another pair of hands
were at her, pulling and snatching. The umbrella lunged toward her. She grabbed
it from the boy’s hand. Using it as a cudgel, she whirled it around her, not
caring if she bloodied their noses. Boys screamed out in pain as the hard
wooden handle connected with an ear, then a forehead.

She twirled again, the outstretched umbrella scattering the
hoodlums.

A blue-coated soldier rushing toward her was a blur. “Be
gone!” the soldier roared. He grabbed hold of the nearest boy and dragged him
by the collar while he seized the next child. With a big hand on each head, he
knocked their foreheads together. Those two tore away, howling. The other three
bolted after them.

“Miss Chamard.” He gripped her arms, his face very near to
hers. “Are you harmed?”

Nicolette forced herself to focus. Captain McKee’s mouth was
only inches from hers, his breath warm on her cheek. Her whole body sagged
against him. She opened her lips, then blinked.

Suddenly, she stiffened under his hands. She drew back. She
had been routing the boys herself. She didn’t need a hero. There were no heroes
in the world.

“I’m quite all right.” She clasped her hands so he couldn’t
see them trembling. If he hadn’t come out, those boys might have . . .
No. She had been routing them. “They were just children.”

“Just children?” he said, shaking his head.

He retrieved her basket and handed it to her. The cloth on
top was still neatly tucked in and undisturbed.

“You fought valiantly, Mademoiselle. What a soldier you’d
make.”

The absurd gratitude, the wonderful relief when he’d grabbed
her arms were entirely inappropriate. He’d done no more than any man would for
any woman. She took refuge behind the coquette’s shield and inclined her head.
“A compliment indeed, Captain.”

The captain offered his arm. “May I take you inside?”

Nicolette hesitated. She’d imagined touching Captain McKee,
imagined the warmth of his skin, but she didn’t want his protection. She didn’t
want to need anyone’s protection.

The captain dropped his arm, and gestured toward the back
entrance of the headquarters. Silently they walked in together.

Upstairs, Simpson and Wallace already had the windows open.
Simpson jumped to his feet. Ignoring the captain, he blurted, “Good morning,
Miss Chamard.”

“Good morning, Mr. Simpson. Mr. Wallace.”

Nicolette needed a moment before she could concentrate on the
stack of yellow slips Wallace had for her. She leaned her umbrella behind the
door, then set her basket on the table.

“Breakfast, gentlemen?” Nicolette unpacked sugar-dusted
beignets from her basket and served the first one to Simpson on a linen napkin.
Wallace reached for his and popped the whole bun in his mouth at once.

“You make these yourself?” Wallace asked around his
mouthful.

“One of my earliest lessons in life: If I want beignets in
the morning, I better get up and light the stove.”

Nervous, Nicolette approached Captain McKee with napkin and
beignet. “Captain?”

She knew she’d offended him, not accepting his arm. She kept
her eyes on the bun as she handed it to him. His hand touched hers under the
square of linen. Just a slight grazing of his fingers on the back of her hand.
She stepped back, far too aware of him, the heat in his fingers lingering on
hers. Probably he had not even meant to do it.

Nicolette brushed the sugar from her hands and turned with a
business-like air to Wallace. There was work to be done. “What have you got for
me?”

She hadn’t been allowed to see anything important yet. She
was a Southerner after all, though she couldn’t decide why the captain should
be more skeptical than Major Farrow. When Captain McKee had introduced her to
the major, the big red-haired man had shaken her hand, holding it over long.
“Run along, Captain. I believe other duties await you,” he’d said.

Finn had scowled, picked up his hat, and left to drill his
signalmen.

With courtly manners, Major Farrow had gestured her to a
seat near the window and pulled over a chair to join her. “The question, my
dear, if you’ll forgive my saying so, is one of security.”

She had leaned forward to earnestly claim justice for her
enslaved people, but Farrow held his palm up. “I believe I may clear up all
doubts with one question, if you will allow it, mademoiselle. The cloth you
wear on your head, it carries significance a mere bonnet does not?” At her
slight nod, he’d added, “I believe it is a signifier of your heritage, if I
understand the meaning.”

“Yes, Major. You understand perfectly.”

Farrow had slapped his hands on his thighs as he rose to his
feet. “Well, then, lass. Welcome aboard.”