Read Online Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) by Gretchen Craig - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gretchen Craig
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still.”
Marianne took scissors from her bag and cut away the ragged,
bloody shift Sylvie wore. The bites on her arms and legs looked like
straightforward punctures, little of the tearing and gnawing as there was on
Peter’s body. One bite had gone clean through the flesh on Sylvie’s thin arm,
the four punctures lined up in perfect symmetry.
What worried Marianne was the deeper wound in her belly. How
had the hound got a grip on her there? And how deep had the fangs gone into her
body? This really was more than Marianne knew how to heal. A body cavity wound
– who knew what complications might arise from that?
Pearl came in, straining with the weight of a bucket of hot
water. “Evette said she send mo water soon as she can.”
Marianne left Pearl to finish the bathing while she went to
her storeroom for the herbs to make poultices and tea. She would pack all the
wounds, but on the tears and more open rips, she thought she’d hold off on the
sutures. The pus needed to flow first, she thought. She wished she knew more.
When she returned with the astringent witch hazel to bathe
the child again, Marianne placed her hand over the wound in Sylvie’s abdomen.
Already it was swelling, the purple lividity spreading. Sylvie needed a doctor
even more than Peter had.
Old Dr. Benet certainly would have come, but he was long
dead. His replacement, Dr. Clark, had let it be known he had no time to treat
slaves. Not any more. His Hippocratic Oath and his politics lodged in harmony
in his breast. He was a staunch advocate of the state’s right to choose its
own path, and slavery was the heritage, and the future, of Louisiana. He had
little sympathy for those who whined and fussed over the plight of their
chattel.
Marcel Chamard appeared at her elbow and raised her up. “A
moment, Miss Johnston.”
He escorted her to the darkened porch where the mosquitoes
buzzed.
“I understand you are quite an accomplished nurse,” he
began. “However, the child’s wounds are quite grievous?”
“Yes.” She waited. What did Marcel want here in the
quarters? These Chamards and their wandering about. She was ready to return to
Sylvie when he touched her arm.
“I know a doctor. Trained in Paris. He’ll come if I send for
him.”
“You know a doctor who will treat a slave?”
“His mother was once a slave. Gabriel Chamard.”
The love child of the famous affair between Bertrand Chamard
and the celebrated chanteuse? “Your . . .?”
“Yes. My half-brother. He’s at his mother’s place near
Toulouse. I’ll fetch him myself.”
Marianne put her hand on his sleeve. “Thank you, Mr.
Chamard. Ask him to hurry.”
~~~
Gabriel, asleep in his bed at Chateau Chanson, wakened to
the sound of footsteps in the house. Not Ben’s shuffle nor Claire’s slippered
feet. How long had it been since the pistol in his bedside table had been
fired? It might at least serve as a deterrent – the intruder wouldn’t know it
was unloaded.
Gabriel stood in his bare feet, listening. The steps reached
his bedroom door and the knob turned. He raised the pistol as the door opened
and a tall figure stepped in. “Gabriel?”
“Marcel!” He put the pistol back in the drawer. “You could
get yourself shot sneaking into a man’s room like this.”
“I didn’t want to waken the old folks. You’re needed across
the river, Gabe. At the Johnston plantation.”
Gabriel dressed as Marcel explained what had happened. In
five minutes, the two were ready to leave.
“I left the boat at the Toulouse dock.”
“Fine.” Gabriel picked up his bag.
At Toulouse the house was dark. Gabriel sought the window of
Simone’s room. What were they going to do, the two of them? Tied to each other,
and yet . . .
“Over here,” Marcel said.
Only a sliver of moon lit the river and the churning
current. Four men, black as the night, waited in the boat to row them across.
Gabriel stepped in, dreading the rocking under his feet. Traveling by river
Marianne took scissors from her bag and cut away the ragged,
bloody shift Sylvie wore. The bites on her arms and legs looked like
straightforward punctures, little of the tearing and gnawing as there was on
Peter’s body. One bite had gone clean through the flesh on Sylvie’s thin arm,
the four punctures lined up in perfect symmetry.
What worried Marianne was the deeper wound in her belly. How
had the hound got a grip on her there? And how deep had the fangs gone into her
body? This really was more than Marianne knew how to heal. A body cavity wound
– who knew what complications might arise from that?
Pearl came in, straining with the weight of a bucket of hot
water. “Evette said she send mo water soon as she can.”
Marianne left Pearl to finish the bathing while she went to
her storeroom for the herbs to make poultices and tea. She would pack all the
wounds, but on the tears and more open rips, she thought she’d hold off on the
sutures. The pus needed to flow first, she thought. She wished she knew more.
When she returned with the astringent witch hazel to bathe
the child again, Marianne placed her hand over the wound in Sylvie’s abdomen.
Already it was swelling, the purple lividity spreading. Sylvie needed a doctor
even more than Peter had.
Old Dr. Benet certainly would have come, but he was long
dead. His replacement, Dr. Clark, had let it be known he had no time to treat
slaves. Not any more. His Hippocratic Oath and his politics lodged in harmony
in his breast. He was a staunch advocate of the state’s right to choose its
own path, and slavery was the heritage, and the future, of Louisiana. He had
little sympathy for those who whined and fussed over the plight of their
chattel.
Marcel Chamard appeared at her elbow and raised her up. “A
moment, Miss Johnston.”
He escorted her to the darkened porch where the mosquitoes
buzzed.
“I understand you are quite an accomplished nurse,” he
began. “However, the child’s wounds are quite grievous?”
“Yes.” She waited. What did Marcel want here in the
quarters? These Chamards and their wandering about. She was ready to return to
Sylvie when he touched her arm.
“I know a doctor. Trained in Paris. He’ll come if I send for
him.”
“You know a doctor who will treat a slave?”
“His mother was once a slave. Gabriel Chamard.”
The love child of the famous affair between Bertrand Chamard
and the celebrated chanteuse? “Your . . .?”
“Yes. My half-brother. He’s at his mother’s place near
Toulouse. I’ll fetch him myself.”
Marianne put her hand on his sleeve. “Thank you, Mr.
Chamard. Ask him to hurry.”
~~~
Gabriel, asleep in his bed at Chateau Chanson, wakened to
the sound of footsteps in the house. Not Ben’s shuffle nor Claire’s slippered
feet. How long had it been since the pistol in his bedside table had been
fired? It might at least serve as a deterrent – the intruder wouldn’t know it
was unloaded.
Gabriel stood in his bare feet, listening. The steps reached
his bedroom door and the knob turned. He raised the pistol as the door opened
and a tall figure stepped in. “Gabriel?”
“Marcel!” He put the pistol back in the drawer. “You could
get yourself shot sneaking into a man’s room like this.”
“I didn’t want to waken the old folks. You’re needed across
the river, Gabe. At the Johnston plantation.”
Gabriel dressed as Marcel explained what had happened. In
five minutes, the two were ready to leave.
“I left the boat at the Toulouse dock.”
“Fine.” Gabriel picked up his bag.
At Toulouse the house was dark. Gabriel sought the window of
Simone’s room. What were they going to do, the two of them? Tied to each other,
and yet . . .
“Over here,” Marcel said.
Only a sliver of moon lit the river and the churning
current. Four men, black as the night, waited in the boat to row them across.
Gabriel stepped in, dreading the rocking under his feet. Traveling by river
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