The Willows (43 page)

It had been with a great sense of
ritual that they’d taken their boat to the hidden inlet this
morning. No one else knew about this, they’d whisper as they
uncovered a rowboat. Not even Michael. He wanted them to stay close
to the cabin by he didn’t understand that sometimes, the best
fishing was out on the river.

“
Here, try again.” Taking
her pull from Peter, she let it hang over the edge of the bow,
pretending the fish to please them, knowing she would in catchy
thing. She looked around, realizing that they drifted into
territory that seemed familiar. “Why, I know that place,” she said,
thinking aloud. “That is Beau Ridge, the Allentons
plantation.”

Or at least, it once was. When
remembered Missy Benson saying that they had sold out and moved
away. The Ridge had a new owner now, and likely a new
name.

She turned, hoping to catch sight of
the new owners, but all she could see was the house they were
building. Or, more accurately, the start of one, for it was little
more than a foundation with a wood frame. No one is working on it;
structure and seem to have come to a halt.

Scanning pass the knoll on which the
frame sat Gwen saw why it had been abandoned. With a breached
levee, no doubt a result of yesterday’s rain storm, every hand on
the place would be running around to make repairs for the fields
flooded. It would be devastating to losing crop this close to
harvest.

Harvest was a time of great excitement,
she remembered fondly, but also one of pre-cautious hope. If the
crop lived up to expectations, there would be new dresses and
parties to celebrate, a Rosie start to the new year. Success would
affect everyone, from the family on down to the least important
servant, so it worried in the entire plantation to do its best to
make certain the harvest did not fail.

Yet failure could happen all too easy.
On early frosts, a badly timed a rainstorm, a field burn too early,
or too late – any miscalculation could spell ruin. As she watched
the workers in the distance, one in particular stood out. Ordering
the servants to various positions, his air of authority yet shabby
dress suggested that the man must be the overseer, on whose
shoulders should the responsibility for bringing in the crop. It
didn’t surprise surge to see him pitching in, digging dirt, and
lifting sandbags, for she knew the pressure he was under. A good
harvest and his job was secure-a bad one, and he might just as well
start packing his belongings.

Remembering how many overseers her
father had let go in his day, she knew the demands of the job. From
experience, she knew the poor overseer rarely got credit, but he
always got the blame.

Hard not to be impressed the way the
workers responded to the man’s orders, how we needed no rifle or
whip to prod them to work. Watching the brisk efficiency in
history, she found it taunting, dauntingly familiar.

“
Oh my,” she said, reaching
out to tap Patrick’s arm. “Over there, in the field, is that
Michael?”

As the boy looked to where she pointed,
his eyes mere to her surprise, then went wide with alarm. “Quick,
Peter, put down the pole,” he said, grabbing the oars. “We got a
get out a here, before Michael sees us.”

Gwen had to grab at her own pole to
prevent from losing it, so hastily was their departure. Rowing like
a madman, Patrick didn’t speak, and Peter seem likewise discipline
to break the awkward silence.

Gwen too, became loss in their
amusement. Michael, the overseer at Beau Ridge? No wonder he was so
tired and distracted each night. The field had been idle for years;
it must have meant starting from scratch, retelling the soil,
buying and planting new cane. And no wonder he will had no patience
with her; after each grueling day, he’d need smiles and warmth, not
arguments and complaints.

She thought of how wistfully he spoken
about owning his own land, of having a place no one could ever take
away from him. A man should not have the work so hard, so
persistently, and not be rewarded. It made her eight to do
something, anything, to help this man realize his dream. She had no
money over own, but she had friends, and her father did still have
connections. With all their wealthy acquaintances, surely she could
find someone willing to part with an acre or two for a reasonable
sum. Biting her lip, she remembered how he’d been unable to get
that loan.

She was still deep in thought as the
road into the hidden inlet and drifted up beached pirogue. Both
boys were up and out of the boat, carrying their gear away, and
before preoccupied Glenn snapped out of her thoughts. “What is the
big hurry?” She said, scrambling out of the boat. “Someone like to
explain what is going on?”

Apparently not. Both boys pretended
they hadn’t heard her, carefully stowing their things on the
pirogue.

“
Why were you so scared to
see Michael?” She press, following after them. “This is more than a
mere case of him not wanting you on the river, isn’t it? Did he
forbid you to go out there?”

This time she didn’t need an answer,
their guilty expression told her all that she needed to know. “Does
he have a good reason for forbidding you?”

Peter look to Patrick, who turned to
her with a frown. “Papa,” was all he had to say, but that, too, was
sufficient answer.

With a jolt of fear, she remembered
Jacques Morteau, a man so heinous his own daughter had been forced
to shoot them. The last few days have been so peaceful and
pleasant, she had forgotten Jeffrey mentioned that Michael was
hiding the children here in the swamp. Realizing what might have
happened had their father, pond them unexpectedly, she felt
physically ill. “Your uncle trust me to keep you safe,” she told
the boys fiercely. “How could I face in, if I let anything happen
to you?”

They looked at her blankly. “Nothing
can happen.”

“
Your father is a dangerous
man. Even at five were able of defending you–which I’m not–what
would I use as a weapon? My fishing pole?”

“
Don’t worry, Gwen.” Patrick
smiled. “We have our swords.” He pulled a bag from the boat,
pulling out his wooden carvings.

“
Oh, Patrick, that’s just
–“

“
They have magical powers,”
he insisted with a glitter in his eyes. “The mighty Merlin blessed
each one.”

Climbing into the pirogue, she nodded,
unwillingly to tamper with their faith in magic. They were
children; they had the right to their fantasies.

But she cannot, in good conscious, let
the matter drop. “But what if you forgot your swords?” She asked.
“Or your father were to catch one of you by surprise, when you were
alone?”

“
We have a plan,” Patrick
said proudly.

“
Maybe we should show
her.”

“
Show me what?”

They exchanged glances, but didn’t
answer. With a grim smile, Patrick pulled harder, bringing the
pirogue into another hidden cove. They continue to resist her
questions as they beach the crap, then they let her in over a
narrow path. Coming upon the sudden clearing, Gwen could see why
they hadn’t spoken. They wanted her to see for herself.

Tucked beneath the trees and dripping
moss stood a mishmash of boards and unwanted metal, fashioned into
a ten foot high fortress.

“
Careful, there is quicksand
under there.” Patrick pointed to a patch of marsh grass covered
with vines. “And over here, underneath those ferns, is this really
deep hole. On the other side are pits we shoveled ourselves, but we
couldn’t dig nearly as deep. If anyone falls in ours, he can get
out again but that one… Well, just be careful where you
step.”

“
You children play here?”
She asked, appalled at how easily they could get hurt.

They shook their heads simultaneously.
“This is where we have to go, if father comes,” Patrick explained
patiently. “Each of us, even Christopher, knows to come to the
fortress at the first sign of trouble.”

“
We have got a lot more
traps,” Peter added excitedly. “If father comes to close, he will
trip and bring that stuff down on top of him.”

Impressed, Gwen shook her head. A lot
of planning had gone into their defenses. She wonder who was the
mastermind behind it.

As if in answer, Jude stood over
fortress wall, her hand clutching a rock. Paul and Christopher
appeared behind her, looking through the leaves. “Who is there?”
Jude demanded.

“
It is just us. Open up, we
are coming in.” Turning to Gwen, Patrick gestured up to where Jude
had been. “We built that in platforms up there, so we can see who’s
coming. Come on inside and we will show you.”

They brought her through an opening in
the vines, draped with Spanish moss. She can hear Jude unlatching
it from the other side, letting it swing inward on a squeaky
hinges. Following the boys inside, Gwen stood in the center of the
enclosure, gaping at the size of the space. They had taken full
advantage of the oaks that ranged around their stronghold, but even
so, a lot of work had been gone into filling in the gaps. Gwen
wasn’t good with measurements, but she figured it had to be a good
thirty feet across, and another forty feet long. “This is amazing,”
she said honestly.

“
Jeffrey helped us.” Jude
smiled, looking especially proud. “He put in the door, and helped
us find the metal.”

“
Has your uncle seem this
place?”

All five shook their heads. “He has
enough on his mind.” As always, it was Jude who spoke for the
others. “We can take care of ourselves.”

“
Patrick made us swords,”
Chris added, brandishing the stick his brother had carved for him.
“He finished mine yesterday, so now I can be in Jude’s army,
too.”

All five stood close together, small
and young and so utterly valiant in their defense of each other.
Throat tightening, Gwen had sudden strong urge to gather them up
and take them far away, where men like their father could never
touch them.

Jude nodded in Gwen’s direction. “Maybe
you should carve her one, too, and now that she’s one of
us.”

“
One of us.” The words dug
down into her, took root there, and in that moment, Gwen realize
that she was indeed part of their little army. She would fight for
the children to the grave.

“
She can be our Queen.”
Peter said it with a broad smile. “Welcome to Camelot, my
Queen.”

Paul nodded. “All we need now is a
king.”

At his words, Gwen saw how they could
make the birthday celebrations so special, even Jude would be
pleased. “Listen, you have given me an idea,” she said, smiling
broadly as she gathered the boys around her. With a little planning
any lot of work, maybe she and the children could show Michael just
how important he was to them.

And who knew? With any luck at all,
maybe they could convince them to stick around for more than just
the occasional meal in the process.

***

Later that night, Michael climbed the
porch steps to the cabin, feeling a good eighty years old. What a
long hard week it had been. The levee was repaired and the fields
nearly drained, but the extra work had put them behind schedule. He
could work day and night for the next two weeks, he feared, and
still not be ready for the harvest.

Hearing voices inside, he paused at the
door, his shoulders sagging. He’d been working so hard, he forgot
about their tournament. How on earth would he tell them he wouldn’t
be able to make it?

It cannot be helped, he insisted,
straining his spine. The days were getting sure, the night
cooler–he had equipment to fix, servants to train, the sugarhouse
to get working. Frost was unlikely, the way the weather had been of
late, but then, he ran the risk of losing sugar content, if you let
the stalks grow too long, no one had to remind him how much was
writing on his being able to get the best crop possible to
market.

Looking at the cabin door, he grimaced.
He had been back for only three brief visits since he’d issued
their imitation, but each time, he could sense the excitement
brewing in that cabin. How could he make them understand? The
tournament could be held another day, but the harvest would wait
for no one.

He hesitated by the door, the sweet
scent of freshly baked food reminding him that he hadn’t eaten all
day. Pushing open the door, seeing his family assembled in the
kitchen, his cares fell away. You forgot the harvest, and his need
to disappoint them, in the sheer pleasure of being home.

The children stood in line, holding out
their hands for Gwen’s inspection. At her nod, the fourth oldest
made a beeline for the table, but an abashed Christopher drudged
back to the wash sink. To his amazement, the other children waited
patiently by their chairs, and told her younger brother washed his
hands.

They all saw him at once,
simultaneously shouting. “Michaels here.” Instantly his stare was
drawn to Gwen. She was dressed simply, the flower dusts apron
hiding most of Jeanette’s green dress, but to Michael, she’d never
looked lovelier. Glancing up to a smile at him, she neared took his
breath away.