Fire on Dark Water (12 page)
Read Fire on Dark Water Online
Authors: Wendy Perriman
Mrs. Higgins thought for a moment and then said, “Let me have a word with Master William this evening. I think I can persuade him you’ll be needing some help.” She squeezed my shoulder, then pointed toward the fireplace and added, “Why don’t you make a start on the hearth and I’ll go fetch an old blanket to cover the boards and keep the rug clean.” And from that day on Anne refused any responsibilities round the home in preference to supervising the men on the farm.
It was decided, however, that I couldn’t be relied upon by myself, so the master advertised for an experienced housekeeper who arrived a few weeks later. Mrs. Emily Drayton was the unfortunate second wife of Colonel Drayton from the Pee Wee River Plantation. She was recently widowed—middle-aged and childless—but found the entire estate had been willed to the colonel’s three sons from his previous marriage. The vindictive heirs immediately forced their stepmother off the land and therefore she now had to earn her own living. Mrs. Drayton was gray and cold and fishlike. But I can’t never say she didn’t do a good job (even if she was tightly wound and remote). One thing I will add—she was the only one who could handle Miss Annie. She wouldn’t stand no nonsense and that’s a fact! I don’t know how she did it but the two of them came to some taut understanding and generally stayed out of each other’s way. And when Mrs. Drayton turned out to be a bit of a worrier regarding her health she and I hit it right off, because whatever new ailment she developed I was always there with a cure (generally mixed in a base of strong brandy). Meanwhile, Master William was away in Charles Towne turning his shop into an elegant home from which to introduce Anne to society when she reached the age of debut.
That summer was humid and brutal, yet I learned to tolerate the heat. But at the start of the fall I spotted certain anomalies that made me feel uneasy. At first, when I saw large flocks of sparrows making for the mountains, I thought migration season had come early and was curious because they seemed headed in the wrong direction. Then I heard squawking flocks of seagulls flooding inland and began to pay closer attention. Was it normal to see so many snakes suddenly leave their burrows by the river and cross the marshes inland? Where had all the bees disappeared to when they should be storing nectar? And why were the boar and deer apparently making for higher ground? I mentioned my concern to Mr. Higgins, but he just shrugged and said that maybe some storm was brewing out at sea. The air seemed to jell even stickier and the horses became unsettled and agitated, but Annie at least had sense enough to lead them from pasture and secure them in the stables on the rise. Then the dogs started shivering and howling, and everything seemed to cower before some impending unseen force.
Now you’ll remember the terrible hurricane that September—the one that took out half of Charles Towne and drowned the rice fields in salt? Well, I ain’t exaggerating when I tell you I never seen no storm that awful before or after. It stealthily descended one sultry dawn with a full day of building wind that blustered and spread, and when we woke up the following morning the heavens were steamy and dark and threatening. The northeasterly currents whistled louder as they grew in strength and then came torrential rain that pounded fast and persistent. By now everything breathing had found its way to safety, and when the winds started shaking the scanty wood buildings, Mr. Higgins rounded up all of the men and begged Annie’s permission to shelter them in the hallway of the Big House. We all crowded together, black and white, mistress and slave, to brave the devastation. The storm growled like a bitch in heat, slapping and banging the sides of the property, trying to break through the shutters and into our space. Trees cracked and fell. Buildings tossed and tore apart over the rising fields. Frightened critters bleated, whined, growled, yelped, and grunted. Slates began tearing away from the roof as water slid from the rafters and under the doorways. The dikes couldn’t hold back the sea that burst inland and it rose and rose above the high-water mark and completely swamped the fields. The surge must have reached several feet high to have breeched the three porch steps because it seeped like a persistent puddle, gaining more and more ground along the hall. When the spill from back and front doors joined together we began to climb the stairs and hurriedly formed a human chain to move anything valuable up to the bedrooms. And then an eerie calm descended and the waters suddenly receded from the house.
I thought that the drama had subsided sufficiently to risk wading to the kitchen for a jug of ale to quench our parched thirsts so I pushed my way past the crush of sticky bodies and slopped to the back door. Gibby grunted a warning about the same time that Mr. Higgins shouted something about the eye of the storm, but I was already through to the porch. Everything was shrouded in a thick honey haze. All lay silent and still and foreboding. Then suddenly something fluffy shot between my legs and in a blinding flash I saw Annie’s confused cat instantly skid off the steps and into the knee-deep water. The poor creature tried valiantly to swim, its head bobbing up and down in the dappled yellow smog. I leaned over to grasp the scruff of its neck and just as I was hauling the pathetic animal clear a panic-stricken alligator rose from the murk and snapped its jaws around the fur. I let go with a horrified scream, sickened by the bloody bubbles splattering the surface as the predator thrashed and rolled, churning the wetness to sludge. When I turned back to the house I saw Anne standing fixed in the hallway, a jolt of intensity etched on her face as her brain slowly processed the scene she was witnessing. She came round enough to grab me by the hair, yank me inside, and violently kick the door shut. I blubbered, “I’m s . . . sorry. . . .” Her fierce eyes transfixed me in place making my blood turn to mud. She stared deep into my pupils, all the while twisting my mane round her hand, and would likely have scalped me on the spot if Mr. Higgins hadn’t soothed her grip away. Joy Higgins, right at his elbow, cast a motherly arm around the distraught young woman and led her to the bedroom. Bart’s shoulder pushed me hard against the door and he turned away in disgust as the numerous eyes lining the staircase hardened with bold contempt. Several black lips tutted and sighed recognizably, their alien language condemning my stupidity. And I ain’t never felt so shivery as on that particularly long dank day.
Eventually, during the blackness of night, the rain stopped pounding its anger and we realized the house had been spared. The wind shifted direction and with a loud sucking sound the water miraculously sank back to the river. When the dawning sun finally lit the steam the nearest hand cautiously opened the front door to allow us to survey the wreckage. I can’t never describe the otherworldliness. It was like finding yourself submerged undersea. Nearly all of the outbuildings were damaged—the winnowing house had collapsed on its stilts and the rice mill lay in ruins. The roof was missing from both slave quarters, several fences had blown clean away, weak trees were completely uprooted and stronger ones lay crippled, split in half. Only the barn and stable survived intact, being tucked away on the elevated field. Dead fish draped languidly over the bushes, a bloated hog floated by, and a young doe was carefully rescued from the fork of a treetop. Barrels and spars bobbed blithely on the river and any semblance of a pathway was washed flat. There was destruction and mayhem everywhere while the sticky sweet smell of rottenness cloyed the air. I’m told that seventy people perished in that tragedy and most of the plantations north of Black River were washed clean away. Annie Cormac sat on the top porch step, hugging her knees and staring at the debris. I ain’t never seen her upset like that and thought it best to steer clear. But Mrs. Drayton approached her timidly and asked, “Are you all right, ma’am?”
Anne raised weary eyes that seemed out of focus and shook her head in dismay. She continued to stare blindly down the ragged line of live oaks and asked, “Where’s Papa?”
The housekeeper followed the young girl’s gaze and said softly, “He’s safe enough in Charles Towne, ma’am. I’m sure he’ll be home soon as ever he can.”
Now, it actually took the master almost a week to get word to Black River—on account of all the trees blocking the paths, the boggy ground, and the washed-away bridges—and by the time the messenger arrived, Mr. Higgins had everything under control. The men had repaired their own quarters, reslated the Big House roof, and salvaged as much of the winter provisions as possible. The livestock had been attended and the house was still drying out before it could be cleaned. There was nothing to be done about the rice fields, though, so whatever had not yet been harvested was lost—but at least all the people were safe—and the tenuous riverbanks shaped by the sweat of so many muscles had survived the waning tides. Annie seemed to hold herself accountable for the catastrophe because it happened on her watch. But then later she decided to blame God instead, which perhaps helps explain her shocking belligerence toward Him in later days.
When the messenger finally arrived Annie was herding sheep to their new, hastily fenced enclosure so it was just before supper when she finally received word her father had been badly injured in the hurricane. Master William was apparently trying to sandbag his shop front when the weight of the surge had burst down the door and swept him across the room. He hit the stone counter opposite, breaking both legs just above the knees, and spent several hours in the filthy water before being rescued, so he’d unfortunately also contracted pneumonia. As he was too injured to get back to Black River he requested that Annie leave immediately for Charles Towne with the messenger, so that she could be with him. Me and Mrs. Drayton were to carry on maintaining the house and Mr. Higgins would oversee all the plantation work until his return, which would likely be six or eight weeks away. Annie read the letter of instruction twice through before she spoke. Her cheeks had drained to a chalky white as she swallowed the shock with a silent gulp. She asked a few curt questions about the master’s condition, all the while considering the answers. Then her skin flushed an angry scarlet hue. The young woman looked in my direction and snapped, “Can you ride?”
Of course I could so I said, “I’ve been riding since I could walk. . . .”
She eyed me suspiciously to ascertain that I was being truthful and then commanded, “Then get your things together. You are going to Charles Towne.”
The messenger—an arrogant young militia officer called Lieutenant Aaron Ellyott—interjected with, “But, Miss Anne . . . your father gave specific instructions I was to fetch you. . . .”
Annie gave him a scathing glare and barked, “Do I look like I am the nurse?”
The flustered gentleman was not going to risk offending the young lady he was hoping to accompany so he replied, “Of course not, ma’am. I am merely clarifying Mr. Cormac’s wish . . . to see you. . . .”
“Tell my father that I must stay and attend the fields. There is still a great deal of salvage and repair work to do and I cannot be running off to town to hold his hand at such a critical time. We have the indulgence of our own nurse—so I am sending her in my stead.” And with that Annie walked away to clean herself for supper.
Within the hour the lieutenant and I had eaten, fresh horses were saddled (although I was trained bareback), and my medicine trunk had been brought down and tied to the back of my mare with a bundle of clothes rolled up behind. Bart and Joy gave the young master enough supplies to get us both back to town and before I really knew what was happening I was clopping down a moonlit path tied to an irritated officer en route to who knew what. Now, it turns out that young Master Ellyott was the bachelor son of one of Master Cormac’s merchant friends, and the last thing he wanted to be doing was collecting some gypsy wench from a godforsaken bogged-down plantation when he had been dreaming of chivalrously attending the lovely Miss Anne. I don’t know what incentive his father or Cormac offered—but it was apparent from the pressing pace he set—by the pistol overtly strung across his chest—by the ornate sword dancing on his thigh—and in his utter dismissive silence—that he knew himself as my better. So I kept my gob shut and fell into a canter behind. We only rested to answer calls of nature, to feed and water the horses at stops along the way, and to catch a mean bite ourselves. And I ain’t sure which one of us was more relieved when he finally deposited me at the redbrick house on Broad Street.
It seemed silly to me at the time that any young gentleman wanting to woo my mistress would conduct himself like a surly brat. I suppose he believed it didn’t matter what I thought of him, but that’s really very shortsighted. I mean, I could readily have put in a good word on his behalf if he’d treated me with any shred of decency. And how could he know I wasn’t Annie’s mate? Was I so objectionable he couldn’t never consider that someone like me might have her ear? As he didn’t even bother to find out, I suppose he perceived just a worthless wench to be ground in place by his shiny boot. But something about his nose-in-the-air manner really rankled me. Still, I didn’t have to wait long to savor the delicious bite back.
The end tip of Charles Towne lay submerged in ponds all the way up to the very edge of Broad Street. We stopped at a four-story house, still in the throes of construction, where the lower shop level had been badly vandalized by forces of nature and smelled like drying bilge water. The third and fourth levels were just empty shells so all current activity was focused on the second floor. Eventually, a thin, nervous man appeared at one of the two black doors, his brown eyes all but lost beneath the bushiest brows imaginable. The lieutenant left me at the door and pushed his way through to speak with Master William as the flustered employee ushered me inside. He said, “I’m Joshua Steiner, Mr. Cormac’s associate. And you must be . . .” He knew I wasn’t the haughty daughter so his words puttered away even as he spoke them.
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