Gone to Texas (24 page)

"We'd better get moving. The river can't be far now."

"And when we get there? What then?"

"I lied about those twenty men. I'm traveling with my mother and grandfather. A friend of mine named O'Connor. Then there's Klesko and Prissy."

"Your mother. That would be Rebecca Groves, wouldn't it?"

"Why, yes." Christopher was astonished. "How did you know?"

"She saved my own mother's life."

"I don't . . . "

"My mother's name was Cilia. She was a slave at a plantation called Hunter's Creek. Her master was a cruel man named Cooper. He was also my father."

Chapter 18

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Christopher.

"Now you know who I am."

"Yes. I remember your mother. I was about five years old at the time, but I remember. She was pregnant with you when she came to Elm Tree, trying to escape from Stephen Cooper."

"And your mother helped her escape. Gave her money, and told Trumbull to take her to New Orleans. Do you remember Trumbull?"

"Indeed I do." The thing Christopher remembered most of all about the Elm Tree overseer was being carried around on the big man's shoulders. In those days his father had been absent from home for months at a time, first as a representative in the Kentucky General Assembly and then as a member of the United States Congress, and Trumbull had filled a void in Christopher's early years.

"Trumbull was like a father to me," said Noelle. "He was devoted to me and to my mother. They were never lovers, but he was always there when she needed him."

"Is he still alive?"

She shook her head, and Christopher could tell she missed Trumbull terribly.

"He lost his life in a fight. A fight over me."

"I'm sorry."

"Men in the Vieux Carré naturally assume that
women such as I are . . . available to become their mistresses. You have heard of the quadroons?"

Christopher confessed that he had not.

"Mothers bring their daughters to quadroon balls, to dance with young gentlemen, who are expected to make an 'arrangement' to provide for a girl if he takes a liking to her. The arrangement includes her family. He must keep her in a nice house, and he must buy her nice clothes and jewels, and see to her education. Sometimes, when he marries a white girl, he will give up his quadroon mistress. If he does, he must make a 'settlement' with her, to provide for her future. But sometimes a gentleman will keep his mistress even when he is married." Noelle gave Christopher a long, enigmatic look. "I am not quadroon, but I have the color."

And the looks to make all the young gentlemen of New Orleans seek an arrangement
, thought Christopher, but he dared not say it.

"My mother decided it would be a good idea for me to try to find a young gentleman. There is no shame in it. On the contrary, it is considered very desirable to make such an arrangement. But Trumbull was opposed to the idea. When he was killed I blamed myself."

"How did you become involved with Morrell?"

"An arrangement had been made, but after Trumbull's death I could not bring myself to remain in the situation. The young gentleman was very possessive. He said that if he could not have me, no one else would. Just what Morrell said, later. He made another arrangement—this time with a 'soul driver.' "

"Soul driver?"

"A slave merchant. I was sold on the auction block."

"Sold into slavery?" Christopher was shocked. "But you were born free, weren't you?"

"Yes. Trumbull bought papers which proved my mother was free. They were counterfeit documents, of course, but no one knew any different. Yes, I was free,
but that doesn't matter to soul drivers. A man named Fletcher bought me. He was a very wicked man. And then I met John Morrell.

"You know, Morrell dabbles in much more than merely robbing boats on the river. He is a horse thief, a counterfeiter, a stealer of slaves. He will entice a slave to run away from his master, and make a deal with the slave to sell him to another. No sooner is the transaction closed than the slave, as prearranged, runs away from his new master, with Morrell's help. He receives a portion of the money Morrell was paid for him. Some slaves are sold in this way three or four times. But always, in the end, Morrell will murder the slave and dispose of the body in the Mississippi. After so many escapes a slave becomes a liability to Morrell. Slaveowners circulate descriptions of runaways, and sometimes offer rewards. Morrell could not afford to have one of those slaves caught and turned into a witness against him."

"He made such a deal with you?"

Noelle nodded. "But he never sold me. He wanted to keep me for himself from the very beginning."

"You're free of him now, at least."

"Am I? When we reach the river, what will we do then?"

Christopher gave that a long moment of thought. He had been away from the broadhorn for two nights now. They had searched for him—but how long would they search? If they had discovered the bodies of Krueger and his son, Nathaniel would find himself in a position where he would have to weigh his daughter's safety against remaining in an area that was obviously an unhealthy one for travelers in order to continue looking for his grandson. What would he do? Christopher decided that Nathaniel would probably take his mother to safety and then return to continue the search. But his mother would not leave of her own accord. In a clash
of wills, who would prevail? Christopher figured Nathaniel's word would be law.

"Will your people still be there?" asked Noelle.

"I honestly don't know. But it doesn't matter, in the long run. You're not going back. I won't let Morrell get his hands on you again."

She smiled at that, and he realized how silly he must sound—battered and naked and weak as a kitten, armed with only a pistol which he was certain would not fire. How did he propose to protect her if the river pirates caught up with them?

But a second glance at her smile revealed that Noelle wasn't amused by his bravado. She didn't think him silly at all. In fact, the way she looked at him made him feel suddenly quite uncomfortable. At the White House levee a couple of months ago Greta had looked at him in this very same way, a look of fond wonder, mixed with that wisdom about such things that only women possess, when they know they will have the man they have set their sights on, that he will belong to her and to no other, and, further, that he will have nothing to say in the matter; he will no longer have a will of his own, or be the master of his own fate.

Thoughts of Greta propelled Christopher to his feet.

"Come on," he said. "We'd better keep moving."

He did not see how Morrell and his cutthroats could catch them now. The best dogs in the world could not track a man through a blackwater swamp, and Christopher figured they had crossed a couple of miles of bog at least.

An hour later he heard the river, and a short time after that they were standing on the western bank of the mighty Mississippi, gazing out across a mile of sun-silvered water. Christopher didn't recognize this stretch, but he realized that as a novice in reading rivers he could just as easily be upstream from the place he had left
Nathaniel and the others as downstream. There was no sign of life, not so much as a pirogue.

He turned to Noelle. "I don't know where we are, exactly. Do you?"

She shook her head. She was looking at him in that funny way again, and she didn't appear to be the least bit worried about their predicament. Her eyes said
I trust you to take care of me, as you promised you would
.

"We'll go downriver," he said, and turned the horse in a southerly direction.

They had traveled for at least two hours when Christopher saw a man emerge from the forest into their path. He seemed to materialize out of thin air, and gave Christopher a start—until he recognized Nathaniel and let loose with a whoop of joy and vast relief.

"Grandpa!" he cried out, jumping off the horse.

Nathaniel greeted him by clamping a hand firmly over his mouth.

"Keep the noise down, boy," said the frontiersman, a fierce whisper. His keen blue-gray eyes scanned the shadowy green depths of the forest. "There are men about, and they're up to no good. Come, we must hurry. The boat is not far. Leave the horse. We'll go the rest of the way afoot."

When they reached the broadhorn Rebecca wept tears of joy as she embraced her son, and Prissy dabbled at her own eyes, even as she proceeded to scold Christopher for going astray and causing everybody to worry so.

"Oh dear Lord!" gasped Rebecca, seeing the cuts and bruises which covered Christopher's body. "What has happened to you?"

"John Morrell and his gang. I stumbled upon them as they were killing Mr. Krueger."

"We found what was left of Krueger and his son," said O'Connor grimly.

"They captured me. Took me to their camp. Noelle
helped me escape. Mother, Noelle is Cilia's daughter. You remember Cilla . . . "

Rebecca's hand flew to her throat as she stared at Noelle.

"It is a small world, Mrs. Groves," said Noelle. "You saved my mother's life. I had the opportunity to return the favor."

"God works in mysterious and wonderful ways," said Rebecca, clasping Noelle's hands tightly in her own. "How can I ever repay you?"

"We must make certain she never falls into Morrell's hands again," said Christopher.

"We'd better get going, before we all do," warned Nathaniel. "Klesko, cast off the bow line."

"You found Clio, I see," said Christopher, noticing that the errant thoroughbred mare was back on board.

"She came back on her own," said Nathaniel as he headed aft to take the rudder. "O'Connor, grab a pole."

O'Connor clapped a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "I was beginning to think we had lost you."

"Not a chance. I'm going to dance a jig on your grave, remember?"

O'Connor laughed and moved on to brandish the starboard pole. Klesko took the other side, and in moments they were well away from the bank, and none too soon, for suddenly men appeared on the point of land downstream from where the broadhorn had been moored. Christopher saw a muzzle flash, a puff of smoke, and a bullet splintered a board on the cargo box.

"Get down!" he yelled, pushing his mother to the deck, whirling to find that Prissy was already seeking cover. Yet Noelle stood there, staring intently at the men on shore, and Christopher knew intuitively that she was seeking John Morrell, her expression once again unfathomable. Most of the river pirates were shooting now, and Christopher winced at the loud crack! each of the bullets made as they burned the air around them. He
lunged forward, grabbing Noelle and bearing her down to the deck.

Wondering if they would clear the point, Christopher dared to raise his head to look, in spite of the hail of bullets. The shore along the point resembled a solid sheet of flame—twenty, maybe thirty men shooting at them. O'Connor and Klesko had to drop their poles and seek cover. Christopher looked around for a rifle or a pistol, even though he knew there was no hope of winning this fight. The odds were lopsided.

But then he saw that indeed they
would
clear the point. He could feel the broadhorn pick up speed as the current caught it and swept it along—in moments the craft was moving faster than a man could run.

The river—the river would save them, would carry them out of John Morrell's bloody grasp.

Christopher felt like giving a cheer. Yet, suddenly, his head began to spin, and he tried to get up, but fell down instead, and dimly he heard his mother's voice, full of alarm—"Is he shot?"—and then he felt Noelle's cool touch, her hand on his forehead. He heard the word
fever
as he slipped into oblivion.

A few days later they put in at a landing on the Arkansas shore, a nameless collection of squalid shanties with a ramshackle wharf. Noelle left Christopher's side for the first time, hastening ashore on some mysterious errand. Prissy took this opportunity to speak her mind to Rebecca.

"You best keep that high-colored gal away from yo' son, Miss 'Becca," she warned.

"But why? She's clearly devoted to him. Surely she means him no harm."

"You done seen dat talisman round her neck, ain't you? Dat's a voodoo talisman."

"Oh, Prissy! Really now!"

"Dat's the gospel truth, Miss 'Becca. She's a voodoo princess."

"There's good voodoo and bad, isn't there? Well, I don't care what she does, as long as Christopher recovers, and I am certain she would never do anything to hurt him."

There was, of course, no physician available in the town. The only thing they could do was try to break the fever that had Christopher in its deadly grasp.

"It's swamp fever," was Klesko's somber diagnosis. When asked what could be done by way of a cure, the riverman grimly shook his head. "Not much you can do, 'cept pray. It's a cryin' shame. He was a bright young feller."

"My son is not going to die," snapped Rebecca.

Klesko recoiled from her flashing eyes. "Whatever you say, ma'am," he mumbled contritely, and beat a hasty retreat.

Hours passed before Noelle returned. She was carrying a muslin pouch which emitted the most awful, nauseating odor—a poultice, she said, which she applied liberally to Christopher's chest. Rebecca and Prissy stood just inside the cargo box doorway, watching. Prissy held a handkerchief to her nose, which muffled her continuous muttering. "Oh Lordy. She gwine steal his soul with dat black magic. Oh Lordy."

Noelle ignored her, but there was only so much Rebecca could take. "Be quiet, Prissy," she said sternly. The sight of Christopher, bundled up in the four-poster bed which took up the majority of the space in the cargo box tore at her heart. He was so pale! His face was covered with sweat. His eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. His cheeks were hollow. One minute he was shaking like a leaf, and the next thrashing weakly under the covers and mumbling incoherently. Horrified, Prissy could stand it no longer, and took her leave.

When Noelle was finished applying the poultice she
resumed her vigil, seated in a chair beside the bed, wetting a strip of cloth in a basin of water and dabbing at Christopher's cheek and forehead. Rebecca put a hand on her shoulder.