Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (20 page)

Marcel and Val hauled Dix to his feet and helped him hobble
over to the massive tree trunk. Using his bedroll for a pillow, they left Dix
as comfortable as any man bound hand and foot could expect to be.

“Take a siesta, Dix. We’ll talk again at supper.”

Marcel strode through the camp, seeing that the men were
about their business. A terrible weight pressed against his lungs at the
thought that Sunshine might have committed a hanging offense. He should relay
him on to headquarters, but if he did that – he didn’t want to risk sending him
to a noose.

Satisfied the camp was in order, Marcel turned back toward
the parlor under the arching branches of the live oak. He stretched out not far
from Dix, his head and shoulders propped up against his saddle. He didn’t want
to talk to Sunshine now. He wanted to give him time to think, give himself time
to think, too.

With a mockingbird cheerfully trilling over
head, he pulled his pocket Shakespeare out of his kit and settled down
to the sonnets. He chose one of the happier ones, the last couplet,
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv’d alone, Which three till now never kept seat in one
.
That was Lucinda. Fair, kind, and true. He meant to recite it to her some
evening when they sat before a fire, she with her knees tucked up the way she
liked to sit, her head on his shoulder.

Marcel glanced over at Dix. He had his eyes closed, but his
body looked tense. What could he be doing out here if he wasn’t spying?

He flipped through the pages, wondering if Deborah Ann liked
poetry. Lucinda, not much older than Deborah Ann, was a mature woman. His bride
though was still a girl in some ways. Marcel closed the book and pulled his hat
down over his eyes. Life would certainly be easier if he’d married a Creole
girl. The Americans didn’t understand Creole customs, like keeping a plaçée in
town. It didn’t make a man a poor husband. To the contrary, in fact.

But Deborah Ann would come around. She had the prettiest
smile of any girl in New Orleans. And the bluest eyes.

Drowsiness crept over him. She’d done very well in bed those
first two nights. Very well.

When Marcel woke, he left his cap over his eyes and listened
to the birdsong. A horse whinnied, and the cane stalks rustled as they reached
for the sun. The life of the camp went on around him, soldiers coming and
going, talking, working.

What the hell was he going to do with Dix? If he gave him a
chance, Dix could slip off in the night. That’d be the easiest thing. But
Marcel couldn’t have the Yanks knowing how many Confeds
were out here waiting for them. Or, more to the point, how few.

He pushed his hat up and looked over at Dix. Dix stared back
at him.

Marcel heaved himself up and walked over. He studied the
ropes on Dix’s ankles.

“Who the hell ties a knot like that?” he asked.

He pulled out his bowie knife and sliced through the rope.
“Let’s take a walk, Sunshine.”

Marcel left the tail ends of rope trailing from Dix’s
ankles, left his hands bound. They walked up the lane toward the Poitiers’s
house, the cane shading one side of the rutted road. Sun-warmed dirt and piles
of horse shit perfumed the air.

“I appreciate the free legs, Marcel,” Dix said. “Hell of it
is, I can’t slap at the damn skeeters like this.”

Marcel flashed him a grin. “Life’s tough all over,
Sunshine.” But he traded places with him so that Dix was in direct sun, which
generally discouraged the biters.

“We’re in a fix,” Marcel said, watching his boots.

Dix didn’t answer.

“I don’t think I could stand it if they hanged you,
Sunshine.”

For an instant, Dix lost his bravura. His eyes watered and
the muscles in his throat worked. Marcel looked away.

They walked on, avoiding the horse piles with green flies
buzzing over them, and came to the garden.

“Want a tomato?” Marcel said.

“Don’t think so,” Dix said.

Marcel nodded. The two of them stood there, looking at their
shoes, at the tomatoes, anywhere but at each other.

“Dix,” Marcel said.

Dix raised his head and finally they locked eyes.

“Only way out of this is for you to give me your word you’ll
leave the war. I could parole you.”

Dix’s blue eyes hardened.

“You could go home. Find something else to do. Stay out of
it.”

Dix looked toward the orchard, his gaze focused far off.

A stem of basil grew through the gap between the fence
boards. Marcel pinched off a leaf, rolled it in his fingers. He held it to his
nose and breathed in.

Still Dix said nothing.

Marcel tossed the leaf onto the packed earth of the lane.
“There’s nowhere I can send you. No prisoner of war camps in these parts. And I
can’t let you report to the enemy, giving him information that could cost my
men’s lives.”

Dix stepped over the ropes trailing him, turning back toward
camp. Marcel put his hand out to stop him.

“Damn it, Dix.”

Dix’s eyes blazed at him. “What would you do, Marcel?”

Marcel’s hand dropped. He thought of his sons. Of Lucinda.
Of Deborah Ann. Was it so dishonorable to accept a parole, to sit out the rest
of the war? Was the embarrassment of being caught and sidelined worth a man’s
life?

“I’d do a lot to keep from being hanged by a good friend.”

Dix snorted. “You want me to spare you the honor?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Marcel looked into Sunshine’s blue eyes, remembering boyhood
days, adolescent pranks, and brotherly affection. And now here was Dix, a man’s
beard bristling on his jaw, a man’s honor cloaking his shoulders.

He wasn’t going to hang Sunshine, dammit. If he had to, he’d
keep him tied up and tethered to his side the rest of the war.

“Think on it, Dix.”

A few steps further, Dix answered. “I’ll think on it.”

Marcel raised his head at the sound of horses and harness
coming down the lane. Alistair Whiteaker was a welcome sight leading his small contingent
into camp. Maybe he’d come up with a way out of this mess with Dix.

“Welcome,” Marcel said as Alistair dismounted. He gestured
to the area under the low-spread limbs of the oak. “Somebody here you’ll want
to see.”

They ducked under the tree canopy. “Dix?”
Alistair took in the ropes binding Dix hand and foot, the rough yellow
trousers and the calico shirt.

“Dix is out here under suspicious circumstances, Alistair.”

“Visiting Aunt Freda,” Dix volunteered, his sunburned face
the picture of good cheer.

Marcel saw the same sick understanding shadow Alistair’s
face that he’d felt himself at what Dix was up to. In their set,
everyone, even Alistair, had favored Dix, charming, devilish Dix. The
look Alistair gave Marcel said surely to God he wouldn’t hang Dix Weber.

Marcel gave him the slightest shake of his head. “Can I
offer you this fine hay bale for a seat, Captain?” Marcel took the ammo box.
The three of them, two Confederate captains and a captured Union spy, settled
down to pass the time like the old friends they were, pretending one of them
was not bound and caught. Val brought fresh spring water to mix with the
bourbon, and by the time he served them gator tail steaks, they were feeling
good.

They discussed who among their friends were in which
regiments, who had married, who had died. A boy from Opelousas played his
harmonica softly and sweetly as orange sunglow silhouetted the black fingers of
the cypress trees. An owl on an early foray hooted overhead, and the bass
rumble of a bull gator echoed through the swamp.

“Adam Johnston’s back,” Dix said.

Marcel tightened his grip on tin cup of bourbon. If his
brother Yves hadn’t knocked him out with laudanum and taken his place at the
duel, Marcel would have killed Adam Johnston. Adam was a fool if he’d returned
to Louisiana.

“He lost an arm back at Manassas,” Dix said, staring into
the campfire. “I was there when he got off the boat in New Orleans six weeks
back.” Dix sipped his whiskey. “Looked like he’d been drunk for a month.”

“So Adam’s out of it,” Alistair said.

Dix shook his head no. “I saw him a week ago, heading
upriver on the steamboat. In uniform, his sleeve pinned up. He had that
dried-out, pinched look you see on a man who’s given up the drink. Going up to
Port Hudson, he said, see what he can do with one arm.”

Marcel drained his cup. At least Adam had found a little
courage, he thought. But if Adam survived the war, he’d better plan to live out
his days somewhere besides Louisiana.

“Best be getting on,” Alistair said and got to his feet.

Through the flickering fire flies, Marcel walked with him to
the horses where Alistair’s men were already mounting up.

“What are you going to do with him?” Alistair said, keeping
his voice low.

Marcel breathed a heavy sigh. “Head’s hard as rock. He won’t
promise me to go home so I can parole him. I don’t know what to do.”

“No question he’s reconnoitering for the Union?”

“Hell, he’s no more out here visiting Aunt Freda than I am.”

They listened to the frogs singing to each other for a
moment, smelled the coming night.

Alistair ran the leather reins across his palm. “He has
courage.”

“Honor. Betrayal. It all depends on which side you’re on.
But, yes, Dix has courage.”

“You won’t hang him.”

“A spy. Out of uniform. War time.”

“But you won’t.”

“I’ll give him till tomorrow night. Maybe by then he’ll take
the oath, I can let him go.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Hell, Alistair. I don’t know.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow evening, see what he’s decided. Maybe
I can talk to him.”

“If you can talk sense into him, God, I’d be grateful.”

As dawn painted the swamp in pearls and blues, then added a
swath of yellow just over the treetops, Marcel stood at water’s edge with his
first cup of coffee. A blue heron strutted behind the row of tents, on the
lookout for a lazy frog. A trio of roseate spoonbills flew low over the misting
swamp to settle into the arms of a bald cypress. This was Eden, back here off
the Mississippi, the bayou gently feeding the wetlands.

Back in his tent, Marcel roused Dix with a friendly nudge.
“Wake up, lazy. Have breakfast with me.”

Over bacon and corn meal mush sweetened with molasses,
Marcel tried again to make Dix see sense.

“Here’s how it is, Sunshine. If you won’t take the oath and
go home, I’m willing to make you my bound shadow till the war’s over. Everybody
says it can’t last much longer. I’ll keep you tied up, miserable but alive.”

Early as it was, Dix managed a cocky smirk. “Always knew you
liked me best.”

Marcel snorted. “Anton’s more fun any day of the week.”

Val poured coffee then sat down nearby, openly listening.
Marcel let it go. No secrets anyway in a camp with thirty men living on top of
one another.

He took in Dix’s serene expression and felt his chest fill
with lead weights. Did Dix simply not believe he could hang for this? Or was he
reconciled? Could a man be as at peace with death as Dix seemed to be?

“Listen to me, Dix. What I’m afraid of, is Colonel Green
will hear you refuse to be paroled, and he’ll take you.”

Marcel left the rest unsaid: Colonel Green would hang him.
And Marcel wouldn’t be able to stop it. Or, he could knock himself in the head,
leave his knife lying out for Dix to cut his own ropes, and by morning, he’d be
gone. Course half his men would despise him. Maybe the other half wouldn’t.

“Just give me your word you’ll go home, sit out the rest of
the war.”

“Marcel, I thank you. But I can’t do that.”

Marcel got up, walked a tight circle with his hand rubbing
the back of his neck. He stopped in front of Dix, frustration and fear
constricting his throat so that his voice came out hoarse and trembling.

“Dammit, Dix. Why not? I would.”

Dix shook his head. “Right now, Marcel, this very morning,
Anton may be gearing up for battle. He could die, today. I can’t go home and
watch Mama waiting, praying for news he’s safe, and me rocking on the front
porch.”

Furious, Marcel tossed his empty cup to Val. “Tie him up
good, Val. Make sure the rope bites the hell out of him.”

Marcel gathered a wagon and the men who’d go with him up the
bayou. The horses needed fodder, the men meal and bacon. He had planters to
see, lookouts to debrief. He rode out of camp without another look at Dix
Weber. Let him play the martyr if that’s what he wanted.

Damn him to hell. If Alistair couldn’t talk sense into him .
. .

Maybe he should just let Dix slip away in the night. Keep
his cot in his own tent. He could let Dix rough him up, use his knife on the
ropes. Slaves all the way up the bayou would help him get to Donaldsonville,
and he’d be safe.

Damn him to hell and back.

All the way to Napoleonville, Marcel bought and cajoled
stores for his men and for the stock, trying to get enough ahead to see them
through the fall, at least until Butler finally began his West Louisiana
campaign. When the harvests were in, he’d have a dozen more men join his
troops, with horses, and he’d need to feed them all.

At the Rodin’s, Marcel dickered for corn meal and bacon.
Further up the bayou, the Pughs let him have three
sacks of corn, a sack of oats, and a bale of hay without gouging him for the
price. “I thank you, ma’am. When the war’s over, I’ll remember your kindness.”
He shelled out the coins into Mrs. Pugh’s hand, knowing she’d have need of the
feed for her own animals by wintertime.

Every stop he made, he had to listen to the same tirades.
The ungrateful darkies were restless, sneaking off. The planters didn’t know if
they’d see any profit at all this year, the Union hovering only sixty miles
away in New Orleans. This damned war. The damned Yankees. The people seemed to
have little sense of their vulnerability.