Doc picked up his dead cigar and lit it with a coal from the fireplace. Mr. Birt’s eyes were squinched shut as if he was asleep, but every so often he puffed at his cigar.
Doc watched the smoke rise up toward the ceiling. I told the old man that the woman needed medical attention, perhaps even trephination. The old man looked at the woman and the blood and his face softened. “Take her to the Charity Hospital,” he said. The grizzled mulatto called for a hack while the crowd fell back and became quiet as if they were afraid of that imperious, aloof old man dressed in a threadbare, but still elegant suit, that with a sash and a sword could have been a general’s uniform. I carried her to a hack and held her on the seat. Even with the trickling blood on her ivory face and matted hair, she was quite lovely. Her features, while not delicate were fine. Her bosom rose and fell with uneven breathing, but her heart beat was strong. The cab trotted to a side entrance of the hospital and it was not until I carried her into the receiving ward and saw the black people, did I realize that it was the Negro section of the hospital.
“Why this part of the hospital?” I asked. The mullato bowed his head. “She is octoroon,” he whispered.
Without even thinking, I piped up, “What’s an octoroon?”
Mr. Birt said, “An octoroon is one eighth negro.”
Doc went on talking as if I hadn’t butted in on his story. “There wasn’t a doctor or even a nurse. An aid with dirt-encrusted hands put her on a cot that smelled of urine from the last dozen occupants. There were no antiseptics but I washed her wound with soap and water. She moaned and opened her eyes.”
Doc got a sort of dreamy soft look. “God, Paul, you have never seen such eyes. They were green, sea green, like when clouds turn the ocean from blue to green on a hot summer day.”
Doc got out of his chair and paced back and forth, then poured another drink. “She the dark beauty you sometimes see in a French or Spanish woman. I was smitten, as much by pity and mystery as by her looks. I held a finger on her pulse. It was a small hand, but with signs of work. She was a lady, though; I had no doubt about that. She came awake, gradually, like a child coming out of a deep sleep. “What happened,” she asked. “There was an accident,” I said. . Then she asked if Felice, the pouty girl was hurt. I told her Felice was fine. She sank back on the cot and ran her fingers over the bandage. “I am Odette DuBucette,” she said. “That is French,” said I. “The family came from Haiti to Louisiana. My mother was the maid for the Master’s wife and I have always been Felice’s companion. The war ruined the family,” she said. When she asked for water, the mulatto came out of a dark corner with a pitcher. I added a tot of brandy.
The mulatto returned much later and swept her into his arms with great tenderness. “The massa is waiting with a carriage,” said he. The old man took her to the hotel and hired a slovenly nurse. “I spent every day with her until the danger of infection had passed. We talked of many things and I fell in love,” said Doc.
It was late, but I didn’t think of bed. Doc heated some left over coffee and went on with his story. “I played poker every evening took nearly three thousand dollars from the planters and Yankee traders. One night the old man came to the table, bowed and gave me an engraved carte de visite.
Colonel Antoine Henri Dubucette
Grand Gorgon of the Knights of the White Camelia.
He invited me to his club the next night at ten o’clock. Somehow, I just knew that Odette would be at the club and fantasized a night of romance. Her air of mystery, native intelligence and beauty had stirred me like no other woman. The club was in an old mansion behind a high iron fence. A servant opened the door into a long glittery hall with candle chandeliers and gas lights where there was tinkling laughter and the click of dice. The old mulatto, stepped from behind a statue and silently motioned towards a door leading to a dark walled garden with the sound of water gushing from a fountain. I sensed her presence behind a screen of Spanish moss hanging from the drooping limbs of an ancient oak tree. There was a rustle of silk as her face floated in the gloom. She wore a black dress with a shawl over her head and shoulders. She was seductive and mysterious and she touched my hand. Her voice was a mere whisper “It is too dangerous, go away before it is too late. He will kill you,” said she. On impulse, I kissed her. She melted into my arms, then pulled away into the night. Dubucette was in a side room at a table with three men playing straight poker, no limit. He motioned me to an empty chair. Odette glided into the room and stood at his back. Her eyes were lowered and her face expressionless. He told her to bring the wine. Like an obedient servant, she brought a tray of glasses and a bottle of golden Madiera.
There were stacks of gold pieces and greenbacks before the other players. The Yankee bet recklessly and lost steadily, but Dubucette and the others were canny players. After a few hands, it was clear that they had often played together. I lost heavily then took back my losses, mostly from an old planter, who quit the game. When I bluffed on a pair of jacks and took a large pot, the Yankee lost everything and stomped away from the table. I thought of stuffing the money in my pockets, taking Odette by the hand and running away. She had scarcely moved but her eyes followed the cards. More than once, she mouthed a message, ‘leave’.
The Colonel’s eyes glittered. He talked constantly about the war and his devastated plantation. He was half insane and talked about the blacks as if there had been no war and they were still slaves. “The Negroes are shiftless, drunken and thieves who still need the whip and chain,” said he. He glanced at Odette. I care for some like little children,” said he.
I dealt the next hand. He leaned across the table to pick up his cards and for a moment I gaze into his eyes that were the same startling sea green as Odette’s. The thought struck me that he was her father. The room was suddenly oppressive. I needed fresh air and excused myself.
We met at fountain. “Is the colonel your father?” I asked. “Yes, he had two families, but now, Felice and I are all he has,” she said. She was so close I could hear the silk of her dress whispering against her skin. “He has my brother locked up. I cannot leave him,” she murmured. I held her until she broke away and left with a delicate sway in her hips that made the silk dress seem alive.
I had won nearly twenty thousand dollars, more than enough to set up a fine practice in Chicago. The banker had tossed in his last hand and left the table after gulping a large snifter of brandy. Dubucette was down to a handful of greenbacks. It was very late and the candles were guttering low when the Odette brought another deck. He opened the new pack and shuffled. It was my deal, but he continued to riffle the cards from one hand to another.
“You fancy my Odette?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want her bad enough to bet your winnings? If you win she is yours.”
“Odette is not a thing to be bought and sold,” said I. “You Yankees will never understand the South,” said he.
I pushed my pile of coins and greenbacks to the center of table. He dealt five cards face down. At the last card, he smiled and turned over a pair of queens. I hesitated and turned over two nines then a deuce and a seven. My last card was the nine of clubs. Three of a kind beat his pair. The old man remained perfectly still; his face was impassive but his right hand was under the table. Odette’s face was frozen in fear. Everything was wrong. Dubucette had a nickel plated pocket pistol. I ducked and tipped the table in his lap. The bullet whizzed harmlessly past my ear but the the bartender gave me a terrific clout. The last thing I remembered was Odette’s scream.
“I woke up in the back of a carriage with a terrible headache. The kind old mulatto drove me to the dock and carried me up the gangway of the Memphis Queen headed for St. Louis.”
Mr. Birt opened his eyes like he was coming out of a dream. “Robert, you should go on back to New Orleans and get that woman, even if you have to shoot the old man.”
Doc looked into the dying fire a long time. “I couldn’t shoot him, but I think about her every day. Sh
e probably doesn’t even remember me.”
Doc was unsteady on his feet when he showed Mr. Birt to the door. I drifted off to sleep by the fire and dreamed but Rachel and Odette got all mixed up and confused. Real life was a whole lot different from the dime novels, where the hero always rode off with the girl.
Chapter Sixteen
Sometimes, I almost forgot what Rachel looked like, but held the memory of her hair and her soft hand close to my heart. Some nights, she seemed so close I could touch her, but when I woke up she was gone. Doc seldom had a call to that part of the county but he kept me awful busy with the books. Aunt Alice was always a slave driver when it came to chores. After she heard about germs, she got more persnickety about housecleaning. Being a doctor’s apprentice didn’t leave time for fun.
There wasn’t even no way I could send a message to Rachel, lessen it was by letter that her pa might get first. Every Saturday, I put on my best clothes, slicked down my hair and went downtown. Rachel never came to town. When the Bontrager’s team of big Belgian horses and the wagon would come down Main Street tt was just the old man and his boys. I was careful to stay out of sight on account of I still worried that Reverend Pendelton could send me back to the orphanage. I guess Mr. Birt said something to the Reverend about leaving me alone.
One Saturday, I was moping around, wishing that I could get a glimpse of Rachel,
when Walter, the youngest Bontrager boy, came out of the harness shop all by himself.
“Walter, how’s Rachel?” I just blurted it right out without thinking.
“She’s just fine, walking as good as ever,” said he.
I got all red in the face and the words came tumbling out. “Does she ever talk about me? I think about her all the time.”
“Rachel always wants to come to town. Pa won’t hear of it, says she got big ideas about school. I think she’s sweet on you,” said Walter.
“Would you tell her that I want to see her real bad. Maybe I could get a buggy and take her for a ride again.”
“I’ll do that.” Walter grinned, like he was glad.
I just about floated on air when I walked home on account of she was sweet on me.
When they didn’t come to town the next week, I moped around and didn’t have much of an appetite. One evening Walter knocked on our back door. I figured he wanted the doctor, but he had a big grin and held his black hat in both hands. “Tom, there’s going to be an ice cream social at the meeting house next Saturday. Rachel hopes you can come.”
“I’ll be there if I have to walk,” said I
Walter looked down at his feet like he was embarrassed. “It ain’t that easy. Pa hates outsiders on account of folks who don’t know our ways are a bad influence. Rachel got the idea you could come with the ice wagon. If you git there, be real careful around Pa.”
Billy Malone was throwing his Barlow knife at the outline of an Injun on a board. From ten feet away, he could hit the bulls-eye every time. He could do most anything with that knife, from skinning rabbits to making a fire by striking the back of the blade with a piece of flint.
“Do you know about the ice cream social at the Amish meeting house next week?” I asked.
“Yep, they want two hundred pounds of ice and twenty pounds of rock salt. What about it?”
“Who is driving the delivery wagon?”
“I ‘spect Pa will send me.”
“Kin I go along?”
Billy held the point of the knife blade and gave it a toss. It turned over once in the air and went “plunk” dead center in the middle of the Injun. “Pete Stickel was going to help load the ice and drive the wagon, but you could go instead. How come you want to go to an Amish ice cream social?” He asked
I scuffed the dirt with my toe. “Aw, just to take a ride in the country n’ get away from Aunt Alice for a spell. She’s been workin’ me pretty hard.”
“It wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with that blond haired gal?”
“I was hopin’ to see her again.”
“You gotta help load the ice and chip it when we git there. We have to leave early before it gets so hot the ice melts,” said he.
I could hardly wait until the next Saturday. “Kin I have Saturday off?” I asked. “Only if you get the chores done on Friday,” Doc said. I split enough wood for a whole week, curried the horse, shined up the buggy and scrubbed the operating room with carbolic. Everything was done by Friday night. I took a bath, laid out clean clothes and shined my Sunday shoes. First thing Saturday, I got the fire going in the kitchen stove, pumped water into the wash tubs, had a bite of breakfast and combed the cowlick out of my hair. I left before Aunt Alice caught me for more chores. It was a warm, clear day, but over toward the east, the sky was dull red, hazy almost like the sun was shining through smoke.
Billy’s pa cut big blocks of ice from the lake in the winter time and stored them under sawdust in a big thick walled building. Billy and I shoveled away the sawdust then we cut the big slabs into fifty pound blocks that we put in a box lined with sawdust. We piled on more sawdust, a couple feet of straw and covered the whole thing with a canvas tarpaulin. By the time we got done I was wet and dirty. Billy settled on the wagon seat and got the two dray horses to moving. They pulled hard but slow on account of the wagon was real heavy.
Billy looked over his shoulder at the red sky. “It’s going to storm for sure.”
It didn’t make no difference to me, on account of Rachel would be at the ice cream social. It took almost until noon to get to the meeting house. A whole lot of buggies and horses were parked under shade trees. The church meeting was over and folks were just finishing lunch out under the trees. Rachel was surrounded by a bunch of big strapping young farmers making goo-goo eyes. They had on their best black Sunday suits and were all slicked up for courting. The sawdust never did come out of my wet clothes and I felt pretty sheepish. She was wearing a long homespun brown dress and her hair, done up in braids, was covered with a little white cap. She looked more filled out and all grown up. It didn’t seem fair that girls grew up faster than boys and all the older fellows got first dibs on the prettiest girls. She didn’t pay me no attention. I chipped ice so boys could pack ice chips and salt into the ice cream makers while women mixed the sugar and cream in big bowls. Long tables were covered with cakes and pies. They had peaches, raspberries and hickory nuts for different flavors of ice cream. Billy and I figured we would eat ice cream until we busted. There was lots of giggling and hollering, when they put the makin’s and the ice and salt into the mixer. Boys took turns at the crank and churned the mixture until it got cold and thick. Other kids stole the chips and crunched them with their teeth. I had just about given up hope of ever being alone with Rachel when she came by, talking to another girl and slipped me a bit of paper. “I’ll be under the big cottonwood by the creek.”
I knew right away it was the same place we had gone in the buggy. While the ice cream was getting cold, younger kids played red rover and ring around the rosy. The men had a rope-pulling tug of war over a mud pit and the women bustled around with the food. Me and Billy chipped ice, like we were the hired help. All this time, the sky was getting hazy and a breeze sprung up that took the edge off the heat.
The older folks were talking, eating and watching the young ones, but Rachel’s pa scowled every time he looked my way.
Late in the afternoon, there was a game of hide and seek. Rachel ran up a hill and disappeared. The cottonwood trees were in the opposite direction, but I figured she meant to double back. I drifted off and when no one was looking, ran through the woods towards the creek. She wasn’t there, but after a while, I saw sneaking through the trees.
“They won’t find us if we scrunch down between the roots,” she said.
She picked a place, out of sight, where we could sit together. I was all tongue tied and red in the face and didn’t know what to say until I got it out, “I ain’t seen you in a long time.”
“Can’t you say you are glad to see me,” she
said.
“Why sure. It’s about the happiest thing that ever happened.”
“I’m real sorry about your pa. Was that orphanage pretty awful?”
“Yes, it was real awful.”
She was quiet for a spell and sat with her arms folded over her chest.
“How is that little colt?” I asked.
“He ain’t mine no more. Pa says I can’t ride a horse because it was all my fault that my leg got broke.”
“I’m sorry about that. It ain’t common for a girl to ride horses, though.”
“I’d druther ride horses than anything. It’s so free and nice with the breeze blowin’ through my hair. I like takin’ care of them too. I raised that colt until they took him from me.” Her mouth turned down and it looked like she might cry.
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