Whippoorwill
Whippoorwill
R.L. Bartram
Copyright © 2017 R.L. Bartram
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks
ISBN 978 1788033 817
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Front cover illustration by Dave Hill, Dave Hill Arts
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For my sisters, Linda & Julia.
Contents
About the Author
Also by this author
Author’s Note
Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
About the Author
With Historical Romance as his preferred genre, Robert has continued to write for several years. Many of his short stories have appeared in various national periodicals and magazines.
His debut novel ‘Dance the Moon Down’, a story of love against adversity during the First World War, gained him considerable critical praise, being voted book of the month by ‘Wall to Wall Books’.
His second novel ‘Whippoorwill’ tells of a passionate affair between a young southern woman and a northern man at the beginning of the American Civil War.
He is single and lives and works in Hertfordshire.
Also by this author
Dance the Moon Down
Author’s Note
During the American Civil War both sides had women spies, all engaged in various forms of espionage. By doing so they risked exile, often to Canada, long terms of imprisonment and even, in some cases, execution. These women were fearless, tough and resourceful. I am reminded of Rose O’Neal Greenhow, C S A, who having acquired a vital piece of information took a horse and rode twenty miles through enemy lines to deliver it herself.
It is a matter of historical fact that over a thousand women, from both northern and southern states, disguised as men, enlisted in the army to fight and die beside the regular troops. It is their courage and fortitude that inspired me to write this book.
There are two surnames that appear in this novel, which may cause some difficulty in pronunciation. To avoid that I offer the phonetic versions here.
Cecile Prejean Prejean (Pray-Shon)
Simon Robicheaux Robicheaux (Robo-Shol)
R.L. Bartram.
Acknowledgement
My sincere thanks to Claire Bradley for all her hard work in editing and proofreading this manuscript. Thanks also to Dave Hill for the cover illustration.
Chapter One
“Cecile Huguette Prejean,” her father’s face had turned a delicate shade of purple, whilst the vein in his brow throbbed visibly.
Ceci cringed. All three names at once. It was a bad sign. All she could do was stand there, head down, hands clasped behind her back attempting to conceal her grazed knuckles. She had never seen him this angry before and there had been a few times.
“You broke that boy’s nose,” he informed her stonily. “Do you understand? You broke his nose.”
“He started it,” Ceci interrupted, attempting to justify her actions.
“Enough,” he roared, making her flinch, “not another word.” He paused, his temper appearing to ebb a little. “You’re almost fourteen,” he reminded her. “You should be a young lady by now. Instead you dress like a field hand and brawl with the local boys. What would your poor dear Mother say, God rest her soul, if she could see you now. Just look at yourself,” he commanded. “Look at yourself.”
Ceci chewed her lip and glanced down obediently, staring dejectedly at the grubby threadbare shirt, the tattered breeches and her bare toes that squirmed in the thick pile of the carpet.
Her father let out a long sigh of exasperation. “I have been patient with you for far too long,” he told her ominously, gesturing towards the open door.
An attractive creole woman of about thirty, entered the room. She wore the plain black dress and white lace apron of a household servant, her long glossy black hair neatly restrained in a crocheted snood. She glided forward, dipped into a graceful curtsey, rose and paused.
It was Hecubah. Ceci wasn’t sure exactly what position she occupied, but she understood her reputation for honesty and fairness had made her a well-respected figure, not only in the slave quarters, but also among the entire Prejean household.
“Hecubah is going to take charge of you, Cecile,” her father informed her. “From now on you will obey her in all things. All things mind, or you will answer to me. She’s going to turn you into a lady.” He paused to study her, his brow creasing, as if the immensity of the task staggered him. “I don’t envy you,” he addressed himself to Hecubah. “Are you sure you can handle this?”
“She’s just a little girl,” Hecubah nodded confidently.
“All right then,” he conceded, “but just in case you can’t.” He reached behind his desk and produced a yard of hickory. “You may need this.” He handed her the rod. “Use it whenever you see fit.”
“Daddy,” Ceci began to protest, but one glance from him silenced her.
“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked Hecubah.
She looked at Ceci, regarding her with large dark eyes, her soft, honey coloured features impassive. “No sir,” she replied.
“Very well then,” with a final, withering, glance at his errant daughter, he turned and left the room.
Ceci sniffed hard, choking back the huge lump that was rising in her throat. “It weren’t my fault,” she insisted, pressing a hand to the hot tears that had begun to sting her eyes.
Instinctively, Hecubah stepped forwards, raising a hand to comfort her.
Ceci stiffened, facing her defiantly. “You’d best get a dozen more of those,” sh
e said pointing at the hickory switch. “If you think it’ll make any difference.”
Hecubah glanced absently at the switch, as if she’d forgotten she was still holding it. Then, in one swift action, she grasped the rod in both hands, raised it to the level of her face and brought it down sharply across her raised knee, with such suddenness it made Ceci jump, before finally casting the broken pieces into the corner of the room. “I seen too many folks whipped for sport,” she told her earnestly, “to believe it does any good for anyone.”
Ceci’s mouth fell open. She tried to speak, but words eluded her.
“I think we’d best make ourselves scarce,” Hecubah suggested. “Stay outa your daddy’s way for a while. Let him cool down.”
“I guess,” Ceci conceded with a shrug.
She allowed Hecubah to take her by the hand and lead her through the great house, up the main staircase and on through the maze of corridors, to her room. She slumped down on the edge of her bed and let out a huge sigh. “I don’t wanna be a lady,” she confided despondently.
“Well, child,” Hecubah responded with a sympathetic smile. “The Lord, in his wisdom, has provided you with all the parts, so I guess you’d best settle on the job.”
Ceci’s face creased at the awful inevitability of it all. “Do I have to start now?”
“I guess it can wait until tomorrow,” Hecubah granted her a reprieve.
“Can we eat then?” Ceci asked hopefully.
“Soon,” Hecubah assured her. “But first there’s some things I gotta show you.”
“Oh,” Ceci rolled her eyes, as Hecubah pulled her off the bed and pushed and prodded her towards the full-length mirror at the back of her room.
Once Ceci stood in front of it, she stepped back and asked. “Now, who is that?”
Ceci shot her a puzzled glance, wondering if she might be a little simple, but the woman was adamant, insisting on her question. Heaving another great sigh, she looked back into the mirror. She saw the filthy tattered clothes that adorned her slight boyish figure. The freckles on her cheeks and nose and the mass of golden hair, matted and tangled, tied in two uneven braids, that fell over her narrow shoulders. There was only one conclusion to be reached. “It’s me,” she shrugged.
“Ah huh,” Hecubah mused softly, as if she’d expected nothing else. “Now c’mon, I wants you to meet Tilly.”
Before Ceci could object, Hecubah grabbed her by the hand and whisked her out of the room, down the back stairs and on through the kitchen. The clatter of pots and pans was unremitting, as the kitchen staff scurried to and fro preparing the evening meal. Hecubah didn’t pause for a moment. Ceci slouched along behind her, her nose twitching at the tantalising aromas that permeated the room making her stomach rumble.
“Can we eat now?”
“Soon.”
They continued out through the back of the house, across the lawn and down through a wide avenue of old cypress trees, their branches festooned with long pendulous swaths of Spanish moss that swayed gently in the warm breeze. Suddenly, Ceci dug her heels in, bringing them both to an abrupt halt.
“That’s the slave quarters,” she warned, pointing to the long rows of wooden shacks in the field beyond. “I ain’t supposed to go there.”
“Never stopped you before,” Hecubah replied knowingly. “Besides, that’s where Tilly lives.”
As they entered the compound, Ceci noticed an elderly black man, with greying temples and weather-beaten features, sitting on the steps of a shack, mending a shovel. When he saw them approaching he rose, pulling a tattered straw hat from his head.
“Evening, Ms Hecubah,” he smiled.
“And a fine evening it is too, Joshua,” Hecubah returned the greeting. “We’re paying a visit to Tilly. Is she home?”
“Yes ‘m,” Joshua confirmed, using the shovel as a pointer. “She’s right over there in the woman’s quarters.”
They entered a long wooden building with windows down each side. For every window, there was a rough wooden bed jutting out into the room, leaving only a narrow corridor in the middle. It was full of coloured women, of all ages, washing themselves, their clothes, their hair, gossiping, busy with all manner of minor tasks. The din of chatter ebbed a little, as each of them paused to acknowledge Hecubah’s arrival, before going on about their business.
She directed Ceci to a bed at the far end of the building, where a young black girl stood, viewing their approach with obvious apprehension.
“Hush, child,” Hecubah crooned. “You ain’t in no bother. I brought Miss Ceci to see you.”
The two girls regarded each other suspiciously.
“Now, Tilly, why don’t you tell Miss Ceci what you bin doing today,” Hecubah suggested.
The girl looked a little bemused, but, nevertheless, complied. “Just the usual,” she shrugged. “I was up at five this morning, working in the fields. Then at eight I had breakfast.” She paused and grinned. “It was a good breakfast. Anyway, after that I did my chores in the house. Then at four I went back into the fields, and now I’m home. I hopes I haven’t made a poor account of myself,” she finished self-consciously.
“That’s just fine, honey,” Hecubah applauded. “Now, I wants you to be brave and do one more thing for me.” She took Tilly by the shoulders and gently turned her around, lifting her thin chemise.
Ceci gasped, the colour draining from her face. Dozens of long knotted scars criss-crossed the girl’s narrow back. Ugly pale puckered lines on the once smooth ebony skin. Tilly began to fidget with embarrassment.
“There, child,” Hecubah soothed allowing the garment to fall back. “Don’t you fret none. See, I got this for you.” She produced a cookie, the size of a saucer, from her apron pocket and offered it to the girl.
Tilly’s look of distress faded instantly, to be replaced by a huge grin of appreciation.
“That’s right, honey,” Hecubah assured her. “It’s all for you.” She rose, motioning to Ceci to follow. “Goodbye now Tilly and don’t forget to say your prayers before you go to sleep.”
As they moved away, Ceci felt the urge to look back. Tilly sat on her bed happily munching the cookie. Judging by her expression, it was all the world to her.
“Let’s go down to the bayou,” Hecubah suggested, as they emerged from the shack. “We’ll set awhile and enjoy this fine evening.”
They carried on to the edge of the river, to an open stretch of bank where two dead sapodilla trees had been felled. Hecubah sat on one stump and Ceci sat on the other. It was the beginning of a long silence. Ceci gazed listlessly out across the Atchafalaya, across the expanse of still green water, speckled with clusters of lily pads and hyacinth flowers. She watched an egret take flight from an overhanging branch and glide effortlessly on snowy angel wings, up and over the islands of oak and cottonwood.
“Did my daddy do that?” she suddenly blurted out.
“No, child,” Hecubah was quick to reassure her, as if she’d been waiting for precisely that question. “That happened to Tilly long before she came here. Your daddy’s a rare good man, very rare.”
Ceci fell silent again. She noticed a heron hunting, knee deep in water, along the opposite bank. Suddenly its head darted down and came up with a little silver fish wriggling in its beak. With a practised flick, it swallowed the fish whole. Ceci watched the bird’s throat contract and fancied she knew how that fish felt. “Why’d you do it?” she asked eventually. “Why’d you show me them things?”
“Tilly’s about your age,” Hecubah responded casually. “But she was born a slave. She’s bin working in the fields since she was five years old and like as not, she’ll grow old and die working in the fields.” She paused, fixing Ceci with a penetrating stare. “Then, there’s you. Your daddy’s a wealthy man. You got a good life in front of you, but you is throwing it all away. Why is that?”<
br />
Ceci felt her mouth move. A few sounds came out, but, for the second time that day, words eluded her.
“It’s late,” Hecubah observed, relieving Ceci of any further obligation to answer. “We’d best be getting back. It’s supper time.”
The thought of something to eat, cheered Ceci up. She matched Hecubah step for step on the way back.
As they came around by the side of the house, they heard voices.
“Mercy,” Hecubah exclaimed, grabbing Ceci by the arm and shoving her towards the cover of a huge magnolia bush growing against the wall of the house. “This is more than I’d hoped for. Quit your struggling girl, get in there and hide.”
Ceci squinted aimlessly through the thick screen of glossy leaves, convinced that Hecubah had lost her mind.
The voices grew louder and eventually a beautiful Louisiana belle, dressed in a flowing white crinoline, her delicate features framed in clusters of auburn ringlets, appeared, surrounded by a host of young men, all eagerly vying for her attention. She carried a lace parasol and a silk fan, which she made great use of.
As they passed the magnolia bush, the young woman’s handkerchief, the merest sliver of lace, slipped from her fingers and floated out on the slight breeze, like gossamer. The young men were instantly galvanised into action and a brief pandemonium ensued as they bumped and barged each other, all trying to retrieve the item before it touched the ground. Finally, one of them emerged triumphant.
The young woman covered her face with her fan, fluttering her eyelashes over the rim. “Why, thank you sir,” she breathed seductively. “You are so gallant.”
His face split into a wide grin, whilst the others eyed him venomously.
All at once, the circus was off again, like a gaggle of geese, down the path and out of sight. The hum of male voices, punctuated by feminine laughter, gradually fading away.