The Sword

by Gilbert, Morris

  She was only fifteen, and she was more alone in the world than any fifteen-year-old ever should be. She knew that she would have to leave, but she knew that no matter what Rufus Bragg did, she had to see her beloved mere buried like the Christian woman that she had been.

  Chantel was surprised at how many people came to the funeral. The priest was there, and the neighbors, young and old. Most of them had known Chantel’s mother for many years. They all came by, some of them embracing her, all of them expressing their grief.

  Ansel came by and took her hands and kissed them. “Why you not come and stay with me and my family? You be safe there, cherie.”

  “I’ll be all right, me,” she said dully.

  Chantel noticed that none of them said much to Bragg. He seemed to expect it. His eyes rested on her often. Every time she caught him looking at her, fear grasped her.

  Father Billaud was one of the last to leave. “What will you do now, Chantel?”

  “I will stay here. This was ma mere’s house, ma pere’s house.”

  The priest was obviously upset by this. “It may not be the best thing for you.”

  Chantel shrugged.

  “Do you have no other relatives?”

  “My mother has a sister who’s in Mississippi. Maybe I go there.”

  “I think that would be the best. Come to me if you need help, child.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  As Billaud turned and left, Chantel followed him out. They saw Bragg outside waiting, it seemed, for Father Billaud to leave.

  He was a small man, this priest, and there was a light of anger in his eyes. “I will warn you, Rufus Bragg, that if anything happens to that girl, you’ll pay for it.”

  “You would make me pay, priest?” Bragg was laughing at him. “Nothing will happen to her. After all, I’m her family.”

  “You’re an evil man, Bragg. You mind what I say. I will have the law on you.”

  “There ain’t no law in the bayou. Now get off my land, priest!” Father Billaud had no choice. He turned and walked away. Chantel heard Bragg laughing at him as he left.

  Four days after the funeral, Chantel was alone in the house. Rufus had gone out again to get drunk. She had been afraid, and she fastened her door with a bar that she used each night. She also kept her shotgun and knife beside her. She didn’t see Bragg that day, but still she lay awake for a long time. Finally, she drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke to the sound of a crash and saw the door, battered and hanging on its hinges. Bragg came in, his eyes red with drink and lust written on his face. “I’m gonna have you, girl, just like I said.”

  “You leave me alone!”

  “No, I won’t. Not ever.” He reached out and grabbed her. Chantel ran to the door. He was drunk and clumsy, but fast for a big man. He grabbed at her gown, which tore off one shoulder. He laughed. “You ain’t gonna have no place to run, you!”

  Chantel dodged as he made another grab for her. She ran to the fireplace and grabbed the iron poker. Moving faster than she ever knew she could, she turned, swung with all her strength, and hit him in his head.

  He staggered back and put both hands to his forehead. Then he held them up in front of his eyes, and they ran with blood. “I’ll get you for this, Chantel!” he growled. He moved toward her again, reaching out to grab the poker.

  But Chantel took a quick step back, then hit him again, a solid blow.

  This time his eyes rolled up. He went to his knees and fell forward.

  Chantel could hardly breathe. “I have killed him,” she whispered. She then saw that he was breathing.

  She ran back to her room and dressed quickly. Earlier that day, she’d already decided to leave, for she knew this would come sooner or later. She grabbed the sack filled with her mother’s jewelry that she’d kept hidden from Bragg. She had the money from her father that they’d never told Bragg about. She left the room and went into her mother’s room. She took the fine pistol that was her father’s and the Bible that was her mother’s. She went into the kitchen and began stuffing bacon, flour, and coffee into a bag. She then she added a frying pan, a saucepan, and a coffeepot.

  She went back into the front parlor to see if Bragg was still breathing. She saw that he was, so she ran back to her room in a hurry. She grabbed two blankets and the sawed-off shotgun and went outside. She wrapped everything in two blanket rolls. She grabbed some grain for the horse, Rosie. She saddled Rosie, put the blanket rolls on, and then mounted the mare. “Go, Rosie,” she said and kicked with her heels. The big horse moved ahead at a trot. She wasn’t a fast horse, but she was a strong one and had stamina.

  Chantel didn’t look back at the house, but she stopped by the small graveyard where her father and now her mother lay. She bowed her head and tried to pray. All she could think to say was, “I’ll be fine, ma mere. The good God will take care of me.”

  As she left their land she was thinking, Bragg will come after me. I must leave the bayou. With one last look behind her at the house and the dark waters just beyond, Chantel rode away from the only life she’d ever kn

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Chantel kept Rosie at a steady pace all night long, pausing only once to let her rest. Finally she stopped and wrapped herself in a blanket, and despite her fear of Rufus Bragg finding her, she fell asleep. Dreams came to her, and she woke once to find herself whimpering, drawn up in as small a space as she could.

  The sun finally touched her face and awakened her. She rose quickly, her eyes going to Rosie, whom she’d tied out in a patch of grass that bordered the swamp. Rosie was still dozing.

  Quickly Chantel gathered enough sticks to make a nice, hot cooking fire. She filled a pan with water, then spooned in the coffee and balanced the pot on two stones. As soon as the coffee was bubbling and wafting a delicious smell to her nostrils, she broke out the pan and fried up some bacon. When the grease had melted, she poured it out then tossed two slices of bread in to let them toast. She ate nervously, and from time to time she glanced back to the south, wondering if Rufus had gained consciousness and was already after her.

  When she finished, she cleaned up the pots and utensils, packed them, and then fed Rosie some grain and watered her. After Rosie was finished, she saddled her and put the blanket rolls in place, tying them down with strips of rawhide. Mounting up, she said with a confidence she did not feel, “Come on, Rosie. We got places to go.”

  Rosie seemed tireless as Chantel rode all day, only pausing once to rest. She was still in bayou country. The air smelled of the soaked earth. Once, far away, she saw a blue heron rising from the reeds and knew that it must surely be the bayou’s edge.

  She knew roughly where her aunt Lorraine lived. She’d been there once on a visit when she was only seven years old. She had made so few trips in her life that it was burned in her memory.

  She rode until sunset and slept lightly. At dawn she rose, and she and Rosie continued on their lonely journey.

  Chantel slept well that night. Already the hard riding and even the solitude seemed to be making her feel more peaceful and less afraid.

  The next day she came to a crossroads that she remembered. More by shrewd instinct than remembrance, she took the right-hand road, due east. There were a few travelers on the road, but they were the first people she had seen since she’d left her home days before.

  Eventually around midday, she came to the small town—really just a settlement of a dozen houses, a general store, and a blacksmith’s shop. She remembered it distinctly and guided Rosie to the house where her aunt Lorraine lived. She saw that the huge walnut tree was still out in the yard behind the house. She remembered her mother gathering walnuts and breaking them with a hammer.

  Dismounting in front of the house, she tied Rosie to a small tree. Then she went up to the door and knocked. No one came, and she grew discouraged.

  She was about to go around the house to see if perhaps they may have outbuildings when suddenly the door opened and an elderly woman stood before he
r. “What you do here?” she demanded.

  “I’m looking for my aunt. Her name is Lorraine Calvert.”

  “She no live here no more.” She peered suspiciously at Chantel. “This is my place now, me.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She find a man, and they move away. Someone say they go up north to find work. Go away now. This is my house.”

  A bleak depression settled over Chantel. She was barely able to mutter a slight thank-you to the lady. She went back and mounted Rosie. She turned her head almost instinctively to the west to make sure Bragg wasn’t there. Not knowing what else to do, she rode east the rest of the day, keeping a steady pace.

  She stopped at an inviting little clearing by the side of a small river. Chantel filled her canteen with fresh water then let Rosie drink and graze a little as Chantel rested in the cool shade. But still Chantel felt closed in, and in spite of herself, pictures rose up in her mind of Rufus Bragg coming around the bend of the road at any moment.

  They rode on. It seemed like a long, dreary day.

  Finally the sun dropped beneath the horizon and darkness overtook them. Along with the darkness a fear closed in on Chantel Fortier. As she made her camp and cooked her evening meal, she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. In some way, she felt more desolate than she had when her mother had died. She supposed that even then some hope for her aunt Lorraine had comforted her. But now that faint shred of hope was gone.

  She lay down and put her hands behind her head, remaining wakeful and worried. After a time, she began to pray aloud, for it seemed to give her some comfort. “God, do You know I got nowhere to go? I got no people and nobody to look after me except You. I’ve lost ma mere, and now You are all that I have. Help me to find a place, me. Please, keep me safe from all harm.”

  She began to think. I better keep going northeast. I’d do better in a big town. Maybe I could find some work, me. I can cook and sew and read and write and take care of horses. I can fish and hunt. Maybe I find someone to help me … someone to be with, to be friends with. Maybe I’ll even find a home …

  Chantel had thought that she was too burdened and worried to sleep, but she was very young. She pulled her blanket closer around her and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

  The sun was high in the sky. Chantel had ridden steadily northeast after rising at dawn. She began to pass more travelers and realized she was coming to a settlement. She thought about cutting across the country to bypass it, but she did need more supplies.

  It was a small but busy little town, with several houses, several shacks, and even a hotel. Businesses lined the main dirt road through the settlement: a tailor’s, blacksmith, livery, mercantile, and two saloons. The biggest and finest of these had a sign: LAUREL GENERAL STORE.

  Nudging Rosie ahead, she dismounted and tied her to the hitching post just outside it. In front of the saloon just down the road were two rough-looking men sitting on straight-backed chairs, with an upturned crate for a table that held checkers. As she went into the store, one of them whistled at her and said, “Hey, sweetheart, get your grub; then you can have a drink with Leon and me.”

  Paying no attention to them, Chantel went into the store and found no customers, but a heavyset, whiskered man was there working. He had pale skin and dark eyes with a droopy mustache that hid most of his mouth. “Good day, miss. What can I get you?”

  “I need coffee, bacon, and a loaf of that sourdough bread.” Chantel waited in front of the counter as the man found what she asked for.

  “Thirty-three cents, ma’am,” he said. As she counted out the money, he cocked his head to the side and asked, “Where’s a young lady like you heading all by yourself?”

  “South. To Lafayette,” she answered shortly, not looking him in the eye. Quickly she grabbed the bag of her goods and hurried out of the store.

  She tied her sack to the pommel. She was anxious to get out of this dirty little town, and she would sort out the supplies later.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two checker-playing men sauntering toward her. One of them was tall and had a slight limp. The other was a small man, odd-looking because his hat was much too big for him. He looked like a little boy wearing his father’s headgear.

  “Hello there. My name’s Charlie, and this is Leon. What’s your name, pretty lady?” the tall one asked her.

  Chantel didn’t answer. She grabbed the saddle horn and started to raise her foot to the stirrup.

  The smaller man—Leon—said, “Wait a minute, there. Why don’t we talk for a while? Make acquaintance, like? You’d like me and Charlie. We’re nice fellows.”

  “That’s it,” Charlie agreed, sucking on a shred of a toothpick. “Come on. We’ll buy you a drink.”

  “No,” Chantel said evenly.

  With her left hand she reached up again for the pommel, but the one called Charlie grabbed her arm and pulled at her, muttering, “Now just wait a minute here—”

  Instantly Chantel drew the knife from the sheath at her side and held it up so that the sun glinted on the sharp blade. “Let me alone, you!”

  Charlie laughed and put both his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “You don’t need no knife. We just gonna have a little fun.”

  “No, we’re not gonna have fun,” Chantel said between gritted teeth. “I’m not going to tell you my name, I don’t care what your names are, and I don’t want to drink with you. And if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll cut you. I swear I will, me.”

  “She’s a little spitfire, ain’t she?” Charlie said with admiration.

  “Uh—yep, she is,” Leon agreed, but not with quite so much admiration. He was very slowly backing away.

  With one last disgusted look at them, Chantel mounted, still holding the knife in her right hand. Without another word, she turned and headed out of town. Though she wanted to look back, she made herself stare straight ahead. Though no one could have seen it, Chantel was very scared, her heart skipping along like a wary little rabbit’s. She whispered, “Thank You, good God, for taking care of me.”

  She was at least two miles past the settlement, riding again in silence and solitude, before she could calm herself down, and then a weary sort of numbness settled on her. Blindly, not knowing what new fears may lie ahead, she rode east with the sun warm on her back, but she had a coldness in her heart.

  Ten days after her encounter with the two men, Chantel was still traveling steadily northeast. She was getting low on supplies because she was avoiding towns.

  She had tried to stop once more, but the same thing had happened. A group of toughs were lounging around outside the saloon, and they called out and whistled to her as she passed. One young man with a knife scar on his face ran up to Rosie and grabbed her reins, grinning and calling Chantel “a pretty piece.” Chantel had kicked his face then spurred Rosie to her fastest lumbering gallop, bypassing the general store without regret.

  Right then she knew that, as young as she was and with the way she looked and traveling alone, it was bound to happen no matter where she went. Once again she stiffened her resolve and decided that if she had to she’d drink water and eat fish and small game.

  She had traveled far from the bayou now, but it was pretty country. There were a lot of farms with cotton fields, and the few homes she saw were usually whitewashed two-story homes with painted shutters and deep verandas. The woods were deep and secret-looking, and sometimes Chantel thought she might like to just disappear into them and live there, like a wild thing that would not be tamed. But something kept her on the road, and something kept her going northeast. She was past questioning why. She just rode.

  Not far off the road, she saw a nice farmhouse. A young lady sat on the porch holding a baby. On impulse Chantel went up the path to the house. “Hello, ma’am,” she said uncertainly.

  The woman was in her middle twenties and pleasant-looking. “Hello. Are you traveling alone?”

  “Yes, ma’am, to my family in Tennessee, ma’am
,” Chantel said her polite lie.

  “About a mile up this road there’s a fork. The left one will take you to Jackson. The right one continues northeast, just a mule track, really, and it’s a long way to the next settlement that way, all the way to Baxley. Would you like some lemonade?”

  “No thank you, ma’am, I’d better be going on, me.” Chantel left, with the woman staring after her. She came to the crossroads and followed the right-hand fork, which led in a more northerly direction than Chantel had been riding. The woman hadn’t lied, for the road was no wider than the width of a wagon. She could even see the ruts that wagon wheels made.

  She traveled on in her dogged way for two days.

  That morning she awoke to a dirt-gray dawn and ugly dark clouds in the east. After two hours a light rain started and then turned into a downpour. Rosie was soaked, and Chantel was soaked, but she was lucky because she had a good piece of canvas that she could arrange over the saddle to cover the saddlebags that held her supplies. Still, she made a miserable sodden camp and wished she were back in her nice house on the peaceful bayou. Without Rufus Bragg, of course.

  The next day the rain kept on, and she gave up and found a deserted barn. Half the roof was falling down, but the other half seemed solid enough. She pulled Rosie in and unsaddled her. She found enough dry wood in the barn to get a fire started. She took off her clothes and wrung them out and hung them on a few sticks and branches close to the fire. She fed Rosie and rubbed her down good. The barn still had some sweet-smelling hay, and Rosie munched happily on it.

  Chantel was hungry and ate four eggs, all that she had left, a big greasy chunk of fried salt pork, and her last piece of bread. She huddled by the fire, glad to be out of the rain, savoring the warmth and comfort of the fire. She had managed to keep her blanket rolls dry, and after she ate she was sleepy. That night she slept sounder than she had in days.

  She slept a little later than usual because the day was still gray. Though the rain hadn’t completely stopped, it wasn’t the mad torrent it had been the day before. At first she was tempted to stay in the barn, but whatever it was that seemed to be driving her made her decide to ride on that day. It rained off and on, and the twilight fell early, for the sun had never come out that miserable day.