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Authors: Danice Allen
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comrades, finding their views on slavery to be identical. When Lucien confided his plan to begin underground abolitionist activities when he returned to the United States, Armande wanted to be included.
Armande’s several years in Paris made him seem more French than American, and his accent and the sometimes poetic brevity of his English reflected this Parisian influence.
“What has happened?”
“Bodine. He’s done it again.”
Lucien’s jaw clenched. “What? Rape?”
“Worse. He’s killed all three of the men we’d arranged to transport next week. One of them confided in another slave—trying to convince her to come along, I suspect—a mulatto girl Bodine gives special privileges for tattling on the others.”
Lucien kneaded the tight cords at the back of his neck. “The fool! He knew the terms of our agreement! Didn’t he know the risk he was taking, the danger he was placing himself and the other two men in?”
“He may have been a fool, but he was a brave fool. They all were. Our connection at Belle Fleur saw it all and reported this bad news to me not more than an hour ago. Bodine beat them. He wanted them to tell him where you were planning to rendezvous. He was going to surprise you with a posse of hangmen in place of the slaves. Ever since we took the family of slaves from the Belvedere he has a vendetta against you, Lucien. They wouldn’t tell him where the meeting place was.” Armande’s voice quivered with suppressed anger and emotion. “We can be grateful for that.”
“Gratitude is the least of what I’m feeling right now! I’d like to take Bodine’s whip and layer a few welts on his worthless hide, then string him up with it! Now there will be rampant fear at Belle Fleur. There won’t be another man or woman who’ll dare try for freedom, though that plantation of Bodine’s is the worst hellhole for slaves in the South, I’d wager.”
Armande wiped his brow with a handkerchief he’d pulled from a waistcoat pocket, “Time will dull some of the fear. Because of the cruelty at Belle Fleur, there will be others brave enough to take the chance of escape. So far, you’ve been amazingly adept at moving them out of the state. This is the first … mishap.”
“One too many, Armande.” Lucien sighed deeply and moved to the French doors leading to the balcony, wishing again for the whisper of cool air on his face. Armande stayed behind in the shadows. Silent, pain-filled moments passed.
“Maybe it was a premonition,” Lucien said at last, more to himself than to Armande.
“What, mon ami? ”
Lucien turned slightly, throwing Armande a self-derisive and grim smile. “The weather has been hotter than usual for this time of year. I’ve felt smothered all day. I was thinking about … things, when suddenly I imagined I felt a cool breeze. I could smell the mountain air of Switzerland, Armande. I could feel the brisk wind from the Thames. It was eerie. Now I begin to think it was a premonition, a chilling precursor to your grisly news.”
“The Creole, the blacks, we are all superstitious. Probably it was a premonition, but maybe not a bad one.”
Lucien made a scornful noise at the back of his throat. “It sure as hell appears that way to me!”
“No, Lucien. The beatings, they were done yesterday. Maybe this cool breeze—this spiritual transportation to a place where you were happy and serene—maybe it was a good omen. Maybe something good is coming to you, something from the continent.”
Lucien immediately thought of Anne, and his heart lifted, but he ruthlessly dismissed the wistful, foolish surge of hope and made a wry face. “A broad interpretation for the whimsy of river breezes, my friend.”
Armande shrugged and smiled, a purely Gallic gesture. “Perhaps. I’m no fortune-teller. If you want your fortune told, you must visit the voodoo queen.”
Lucien shook his head with resignation. “All I see in the future for me and the South is strife and
Armande’s several years in Paris made him seem more French than American, and his accent and the sometimes poetic brevity of his English reflected this Parisian influence.
“What has happened?”
“Bodine. He’s done it again.”
Lucien’s jaw clenched. “What? Rape?”
“Worse. He’s killed all three of the men we’d arranged to transport next week. One of them confided in another slave—trying to convince her to come along, I suspect—a mulatto girl Bodine gives special privileges for tattling on the others.”
Lucien kneaded the tight cords at the back of his neck. “The fool! He knew the terms of our agreement! Didn’t he know the risk he was taking, the danger he was placing himself and the other two men in?”
“He may have been a fool, but he was a brave fool. They all were. Our connection at Belle Fleur saw it all and reported this bad news to me not more than an hour ago. Bodine beat them. He wanted them to tell him where you were planning to rendezvous. He was going to surprise you with a posse of hangmen in place of the slaves. Ever since we took the family of slaves from the Belvedere he has a vendetta against you, Lucien. They wouldn’t tell him where the meeting place was.” Armande’s voice quivered with suppressed anger and emotion. “We can be grateful for that.”
“Gratitude is the least of what I’m feeling right now! I’d like to take Bodine’s whip and layer a few welts on his worthless hide, then string him up with it! Now there will be rampant fear at Belle Fleur. There won’t be another man or woman who’ll dare try for freedom, though that plantation of Bodine’s is the worst hellhole for slaves in the South, I’d wager.”
Armande wiped his brow with a handkerchief he’d pulled from a waistcoat pocket, “Time will dull some of the fear. Because of the cruelty at Belle Fleur, there will be others brave enough to take the chance of escape. So far, you’ve been amazingly adept at moving them out of the state. This is the first … mishap.”
“One too many, Armande.” Lucien sighed deeply and moved to the French doors leading to the balcony, wishing again for the whisper of cool air on his face. Armande stayed behind in the shadows. Silent, pain-filled moments passed.
“Maybe it was a premonition,” Lucien said at last, more to himself than to Armande.
“What, mon ami? ”
Lucien turned slightly, throwing Armande a self-derisive and grim smile. “The weather has been hotter than usual for this time of year. I’ve felt smothered all day. I was thinking about … things, when suddenly I imagined I felt a cool breeze. I could smell the mountain air of Switzerland, Armande. I could feel the brisk wind from the Thames. It was eerie. Now I begin to think it was a premonition, a chilling precursor to your grisly news.”
“The Creole, the blacks, we are all superstitious. Probably it was a premonition, but maybe not a bad one.”
Lucien made a scornful noise at the back of his throat. “It sure as hell appears that way to me!”
“No, Lucien. The beatings, they were done yesterday. Maybe this cool breeze—this spiritual transportation to a place where you were happy and serene—maybe it was a good omen. Maybe something good is coming to you, something from the continent.”
Lucien immediately thought of Anne, and his heart lifted, but he ruthlessly dismissed the wistful, foolish surge of hope and made a wry face. “A broad interpretation for the whimsy of river breezes, my friend.”
Armande shrugged and smiled, a purely Gallic gesture. “Perhaps. I’m no fortune-teller. If you want your fortune told, you must visit the voodoo queen.”
Lucien shook his head with resignation. “All I see in the future for me and the South is strife and
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