The Assassins

by F. M. Parker

  “Oh, look,” exclaimed Marie. “A deer.”

  A huge stag stood at the edge of the meadow near the woods. Its large ears were spread in an intent, listening attitude. Its nostrils quivered and sucked at the air, questing for the scent of these intruders into its domain. The great sweep of antlers on its head caught the light of the torch and reflected it back ivory-white.

  The deer caught the human scent. It snorted and stomped the ground. The sharp rack of antlers were lowered for a moment as if the beast would charge the intruders.

  Abruptly the ghostly gray animal pivoted toward the woods. It exploded into a smoky blur of frantic flight, its great horns laid along its back as it fled in a series of long, lithe bounds, disappearing in the woods so swiftly it seemed it had been only a fantasy.

  “A beautiful animal,” Tim said.

  “The swamp has many animals,” Lezin said. He inserted the butt end of the torch into a hole made for it in the bow of the boat. He stepped out into the waist-high grass and dragged the craft more than halfway out of the water.

  “This is the place where the biggest frogs are,” he said. “You two wait for me here. It’s better if one man goes giggin’ by himself.”

  Using his hands, Lezin made a thick pat of mud in the bottom of the boat. He built a fire on the mud and then added a handful of green grass to the flames.

  “The fire and smoke should help keep the mosquitoes away,” he said.

  Lezin took his ten-foot frog gig from the boat. He examined the two steel points and the barbs that prevented the prey from escaping. “Good and sharp,” he said.

  He hung a burlap sack over his shoulder. Into it he placed three torches. Picking up his gig and taking the lit torch from the boat, he moved off along the shore of the lake.

  Tim sat with Marie and watched Lezin’s flickering yellow light until it vanished among the trees. “Do you often come with your father when he goes out to gig or fish?” Tim asked.

  “I used to. But then, after I became older, he stopped asking me to come with him. There have been times when I wished I was a boy.”

  “I’m glad you’re not,” Tim said.

  Marie did not know how to respond to that, so she remained silent. She watched Tim’s face in the firelight, then looked out across the swamp to where her father had gone. She remembered his words that a woman could make a man want her. She only wanted Tim to love her. Should she try? Suddenly she could feel the throb of her heart in her bosom.

  A knot of wood, superheated by the fire, exploded with a pop. A jet of sparks rose straight up in the perfectly still air. Marie jerked at the sound, then became motionless again.

  Tim studied the young woman, tracing the planes and curves of her face with his eyes. So beautiful. And so near, only an arm’s length away. It seemed to him that sitting with Marie by the fire of branches in the immense cave of the black night, they were the only two humans in the entire universe.

  Tim batted at the mosquitoes. Now that they no longer were moving in the boat, the insects were much worse.

  “The smoke is not keeping the mosquitoes away,” Marie said. “I have a piece of netting that will keep them out. Would you want to share it with me?”

  “Yes. Where is it? I’ll get it.”

  “I can find it easily.” Marie dug the netting from among the items in the bottom of the boat. “You’ll have to sit closer to me, for the netting is small,” she said. She moved slightly to the side to provide room for Tim.

  He sat down in the bottom of the boat near Marie. He felt her hip pressing against him. The feel of her flesh stirred him pleasantly.

  Together they lifted the net and draped it over their heads. It hung to touch the bottom of the boat.

  “This should keep us from getting bit,” Marie said.

  “I think so too,” Tim said. Marie’s shoulder and hip both pressed against him now. His breath quickened and his blood hurried more swiftly through his veins.

  “The fire is dying and I’m afraid of the dark. Would you hold my hand?” Marie timidly put out her hand.

  The flames were indeed weaker, but Tim recognized the fib. She was not afraid of the dark. He caught her hand in his.

  Marie looked at Tim, her eyes luminous as jewels. She was too close, too alluring. He pulled her to him and kissed her gently on the lips. God! How sweet was the taste of her. He kissed her again...and again.

  Of one accord they lay back in the bottom of the boat.

  The last flame of the fire flickered out. The darkness came into the hollow of the pirogue. It began to rock, and small waves ran out across the lake, chasing one another and whispering as if telling secrets.

  * * *

  The big bull alligator raised its head and bellowed, warning any trespassers of the danger lying in its mighty strength. It bellowed once again and then closed its toothy jaws with a rattle of ivory.

  It slid out of its den under the bank and into the lake. It swam effortlessly, its fourteen-foot, four-hundred-pound body gliding through the water with but a tiny wake. It knew exactly where it was headed.

  The alligator left the deep water and made its way through the cane grass in the shallows. It stopped when its feet on the short legs touched the muddy bottom. It raised its head, staring with its one good eye into the darkness, and sniffed the air.

  It smelled the scent of deer, the prey it sought. But it was old scent. The alligator would wait. It was extremely good at that. Sometimes it had to wait days between meals.

  The alligator crawled up from the water and onto the game trail. In a slight depression, it lowered itself to lie flat on its stomach. When the deer finally came to drink, it would catch it by the leg and drag it into the lake. There it would roll with its prey, breaking its bones and drowning it. The alligator always liked that last battle. No matter how much the deer might struggle, the alligator always won.

  The alligator closed its one good eye. Its nose and ears would alert it to the presence of something coming that could be eaten.

  As it lay in its ambush, it felt the pain in the empty eye socket. A very powerful enemy had put out that eye. At the remembrance, an angry rumbling growl arose in the beast’s chest.

  * * *

  The bullfrog heard the heavy animal crushing the grass as it came along the edge of the water. The frog hunkered lower and tensed, ready to spring away. The night turned suddenly to day. The frog became blinded by the brightness.

  Lezin spotted the big frog squatting at the edge of the water and facing the lake. He held his blazing torch steady and extended the spear slowly. Two feet from the green body, Lezin stabbed out.

  The frog sensed the impending strike and tried to leap to safety. The double-pronged gig straddled its spine and pierced it from back to front. With its powerful rear legs kicking in a wild, futile motion, the frog was hoisted into the air on the end of the gig.

  Lezin grabbed the big hind legs of the struggling amphibian and jerked it from the iron barbs that held it. He whacked its head on the hard wooden shaft of the gig. The animal went limp in his hand. Opening his sack, he dropped the dead frog in with the score or more of them he had already speared.

  Lezin entered a finger of woods that extended down to the water’s edge. The torch, almost burned out, cast a feeble light among the trees. Lezin would soon have to light the last one. Then he would return to the pirogue. But first there was one more place he wanted to check for frogs. Big ones could usually be found there. He stepped up on a log lying across the path.

  The log suddenly rose, hoisting Lezin into the air. Just for an instant, he thought the log had simply rolled. But a rolling log did not lift a man.

  Gator! Lezin leapt frantically as the mammoth beast’s back jerked from under his feet and the gaping jaws flashed back for him.

  The long teeth snapped shut on one of Lezin’s pant legs. The stout cloth held, throwing him to the ground. He dropped the frog spear. But he saved the precious light. In the darkness the beast would have all the advantages
. Lezin whirled and lay on his back.

  He saw the alligator gathering itself to drive toward him. He began kicking the broad snout with his free foot and yanking with all his strength on his pant leg. The cloth ripped free.

  Lezin rolled, came to his feet, and sprang clear. He calmed his pounding heart. That was a near thing. He held his torch up to better see the alligator. One glistening yellow eye glared at him.

  So we meet again, old man gator. I speared you in the head the last time we met and you tried to eat me. I thought you would die, but you only lost an eye. You are a tough one, and now two feet longer and a hundred pounds heavier. But can you live with no eyes?

  Lezin cautiously stepped closer to the big alligator. The beast lay partly on the handle of his gig. Lezin caught hold of the end and yanked the gig loose.

  The alligator ran forward a few quick steps. Lezin swiftly retreated.

  Lezin inched slowly back toward the beast. He reached out with the head of the gig. There would only be time for one thrust. It had to be good, and the shorter the range, the more likely the iron barb would hit the mark.

  The alligator saw the man creeping closer. The smell of the thing stirred almost forgotten memories. This was the foe that had hurt it so badly that long time past. The alligator charged.

  Lezin drove the left-hand prong of the gig into the yellow eye of the alligator, just as the beast rushed forward with open jaw. He sprang backward, wrenching at the gig. The point ripped loose from the shaft and remained behind, sunk deeply in the eye socket of the alligator.

  The beast bolted blindly onward to the very spot where Lezin had stood a moment before. Then suddenly it felt the pain of its wound. It bellowed, and bellowed again, the roar shattering the night for a mile in every direction. The alligator whipped around, trying to see its hated foe.

  But impenetrable blackness lay everywhere. The animal sensed the danger in such total blindness. When threatened, it always found safety in the water. It tore through the brush and trees toward the lake like some low-slung juggernaut.

  Lezin lit his last torch from the weak flame of the old one. He followed the trail of the alligator to the shore of the lake. He lifted his torch as high as he could. Just barely far out in the water, he could make out the back of the animal. The beast, without its eyes, was helplessly swimming in circles and gradually drifting out toward the center of the black body of water.

  * * *

  Tim saw the light coming through the woods. It flicked on and off as trees blocked it from his view for a second. He fed sticks to the red coals on the pad of mud in the bottom of the boat. He wanted the fire burning when Lezin arrived.

  A flame sprang to life, illuminating the interior of the boat. Tim looked at Marie. She smiled at him as she rearranged her clothing.

  Tim smiled back. However, Lezin’s return was not a pleasant event to him. He had taken advantage of the man’s trust and made love to his daughter.

  “The mud has mostly dried,” Marie said. “The boat may burn.”

  She began to dip water with cupped hands from the lake and poured it on the floor of the boat so that it would run onto the clay and rewet it.

  “Everyone all right?” asked Lezin as he placed the shaft of the torch into the hole in the bow of the boat.

  “Everything is fine,” replied Marie. “Tim and I had a very pleasant time while you were gone.”

  Tim said nothing. The truth was in Marie’s words. He hoped the father could not read the exact truth.

  Lezin looked at his daughter. She smiled radiantly at him, and the smile could have healed a fever victim.

  Lezin turned his back to the pair. Tim needed more time to compose himself. “Let’s cook a meal fit for a king,” he called over his shoulder. “Marie, heat the skillet.”

  He squatted on his haunches and dumped the frogs from the sack. Skillfully he severed the large hind legs from the torsos and began to strip the skin from them. He held a handful of the legs out for Tim to see. “Look at the beautiful white flesh,” he said.

  Tim nodded. “Should be delicious,” he replied.

  Lezin handed the frog legs to Marie. She rolled them in the corn meal and spices they had brought and dropped them in the hot, sputtering skillet. They added more pieces of meat until the skillet was full.

  Lezin laid his empty sack and the shaft of his gig in the boat. He sat down on the bow.

  “Father, did you know that you have lost the head of your gig?” Marie asked.

  “Yes, I will add a new one.”

  “It must have been a big frog to tear off the point,” Marie said.

  “Not a frog. I had a little trouble with an alligator.”

  “Are you all right?” Marie asked in alarm.

  “I’m fine.”

  Tim sat quietly listening to the conversation between Marie and Lezin. Her voice gave him great pleasure. He would never get tired of having her near him. How was he going to arrange that?

  Marie brought out a bowl of salad, a loaf of bread, and three plates. She removed the skillet of frog legs from the fire and set it down next to the other dinner items.

  “Both of you help yourself while I pour the wine,” Marie said. Tim and Lezin filled their plates heaping full. Marie handed them their wine, then filled her own plate.

  The three were quiet, eating and staring at the heart flame of the fire.

  Lezin studied the radiant face of his daughter. He wanted to laugh and shout. He smiled gently and laughed inside his head.

  16

  Twenty-two soldiers and one sailor are dead,” said Dr. Carstensen, his face strained and haggard.

  “How many have died at Charity Hospital?” asked Honoré Savigne.

  The two men moved down the long hallway leading to the east wing of the Marine Hospital. That isolated area served as the quarantine section of the hospital. Eight days had passed since Savigne had watched the unloading of General Scott’s wounded and ill fighting men returning from Mexico.

  “Eighteen at Charity.”

  “Forty-one men dead of yellow fever, and you are only now reporting it.” Savigne could not control the sarcasm and disapproval in his voice. He hoped none of the heroic and sacrificing Sisters of Charity had contracted the deadly disease.

  “I’ve kept the board of health informed, and they in turn kept Mayor Crossman and the city council members alerted. Several times, as more and more men died, I requested permission to release the news. Today they finally agreed; the board is posting bulletins at the official places and giving copies to the newspapers. I wanted to tell you personally and to apologize for my untruths to you that day at the docks.”

  “There’s more to this than just the number of deaths,” Savigne said, his reporter’s keen instinct for sensing the unspoken vibrating rapidly. “What’s changed?”

  “I have fourteen new cases, men who were not in Mexico,” the doctor said.

  “Then the disease is spreading. The epidemic has started.”

  “God! I’m afraid so. How I wished I knew how the disease was transmitted from one patient to another, or if it really is. But we haven’t the slightest idea. I had hoped isolating the infected men would prevent others from catching it. But, as in the past, that has had absolutely no benefit. These new sick came from the docks and the hospital itself. Charity Hospital is experiencing the same thing. They have seven new cases.”

  Savigne looked ahead at the double doors that opened into the quarantine ward. The goose pimples rose on his skin. Most of the men confined there would leave as corpses. Only the strongest would have any chance to survive. In a few days there would be no quarantine areas, for every bed would be full of those sick with the terrible scourge. Thousands would die in the dark bedrooms of their homes. Then later, as the disease spread even wider, many dead and dying would be found in the streets, falling there too weak to walk as they tried to flee the city.

  The rich would attempt to ward off the fever by drinking lime water, dosing themselves with quinine and
opium. The poor would put onions in their shoes. Savigne had observed that the onions were just as effective in preventing the disease as the more exotic and expensive methods. Not one of them worked.

  New Orleans was familiar with death. Over the city’s life more than a hundred thousand people, a number equal to the current population, had died in epidemics of yellow fever and cholera.

  Dr. Carstensen shoved the door open. Though it was but midafternoon, the ward was dimly lit, for rain poured down from the dark heavens. A double row of beds containing at least fifty patients stretched along both sides of the ward. Several mosquitoes that had found holes in the netting that covered the open windows buzzed about the sick.

  A man lay covered by several blankets. Still he was shivering. He spoke to Carstensen, “Doctor, I’m so very cold. May I have another cover?”

  “I’ll have the nurse bring you ore,” Dr. Carstensen replied.

  “One of the new cases?” Savigne asked in a low voice. A bursting headache was the first symptom. Then came a teeth-chattering chill. Then the hellish fever.

  “Yes,” Carstensen said. “Look and make your report for the paper.”

  A patient thrashed about on his bed in a feverish delirium. He shouted out in an undecipherable babble of words. His bloodshot eyes fell upon Savigne, but they did not see him. The man began to cry as if from some great sorrow.

  Another patient, a large, powerfully built man, his face a dark bronze, began to retch. He lay on his back, and the black vomit boiled out of his mouth and spread across his face. He began to strangle in his own vomit.

  Carstensen sprang to the man’s bed and swiftly turned him on his side. The doctor began to pound the man on the back. “Nurse! Come and help,” he shouted.

  Savigne’s bile rose bitter in his throat. He remembered the horrible black vomit from that time as a boy when his mother and father had died. He pivoted and hastily left the quarantine ward. He hurried down the long passageway and out into the street.