Wild, Beautiful, and Free(94)

“I still don’t understand how everything is here,” I said.

Calista sat behind the desk, in Papa’s chair. “It was all the captain’s doing. He took me aside that first day and said he had a particular connection to the land; that he was bound and determined to see no harm came to it, and he made his soldiers swear likewise.”

I frowned. “A connection? To our land? Who is this captain? Where is he?”

“He doesn’t stay in the house. He built a small shack on one of the outer parcels, and he and some men guard that end of Catalpa Valley.”

“Which parcel?” I stood and consulted the maps.

“Yours. The one Papa called Petite Bébinn. Here . . .” Calista came over, but I didn’t need her to point out the area I knew so well. “I showed them the maps, and the captain noticed it like he knew it. He said that’s where they would set up a guard point. I agreed because we needed it.”

“Why? I thought he said the soldiers weren’t going to destroy anything.”

“No, but I’m sorry to say Southern men have tried.”

I looked up from the map. “But the Confederate troops had all left Louisiana.”

“They did. The men I’m talking about are deserters and ne’er-do-wells. Some of the damage you’ve seen in Louisiana was their doing, not the Yankees. It’s how they sustain themselves.”

“What?” It was too awful to consider. “There’s no law and order?”

“In the more populated areas there is. But it’s all they can do to keep things stable. And it’s not like a sheriff or anyone else could get to a place in time once a gang got ahold of it.”

I grasped Calista’s shoulder. “Oh God. You’ve been at war too.”

“Yes, but these Union soldiers take good care of us. They are a miracle, really.”

We went out to the gallery. Walter was talking with the soldiers there. Annie was serving them biscuits and coffee.

“Good morning!” he greeted us cheerfully. I could feel the warmth of spirit around them. They were good men.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Where is your captain? I’d like to thank him for bringing you all here.”

One of the men stood and removed his cap. “Miss, Captain Colchester stays in the guard shack down at the southeast parcel. He’s always there, so you’ll find him right away.”

My heart at once was a bird fluttering madly like it would escape from my chest. I thought I must have heard him wrong. “What did you say his name is?”

“Colchester, miss. He brought us this way from New Orleans right after we helped secure the port.”

I looked at Calista, and I can only imagine what she saw in my face.

“Jeannette, what is it?”

Three days. He had been this close to me for three days. I couldn’t wait another moment.

“Someone get me a horse! Now, please, get me a horse!”

Walter jumped up and ran down the gallery. I followed him down the steps and saw our horses tied to the post near the end of the drive. I outran him. He was yelling for me to wait, but I was on that horse and gone.

No one had to give me directions. I knew my papa’s land. Had every road, every stream, and every field imprinted on my soul. And how could I not know the way to my own Petite Bébinn?

It was about ten miles away from the edge of the cotton fields. I could have ridden it blindfolded.

The shack looked to be about two or three times the size of a slave quarters. It was well made, though, like Silas’s place. It had a small porch on the front, and two soldiers stood there with their muskets at the ready. When I saw them, I got off the horse and walked carefully the rest of the way. I didn’t want to get shot. I must have looked wild, my hair windblown and my dress dusty.

One of them turned his head and seemed to say something. That was when I heard a voice come from inside. It called out loud.

“Who comes there?”

It was his voice! His voice! My heart thrummed. I responded.

“A friend without countersign!” I took a deep breath and added, “My countersign will have to be my face.”

He appeared at the door in an instant. Within the next moment he jumped from the porch and ran to me. He was so fast and looked so healthy. It would have been enough to know he was all right, but to see him like this, to have him fold me in his arms again—I was overwhelmed with joy, consumed by gratitude.

He kept saying, “Ma chérie! Ma chérie! I knew you’d be here! Sometime, somehow, I knew you’d find your way home. Oh my God, Jeannette!”

For the longest time I didn’t have words. I just wanted to take it all in: him, his hands in my hair and on my face, his lips on mine, his wild, beautiful eyes. Suddenly I was whole—whole like I hadn’t been in years. It was a different kind of joy from what I’d felt coming home and seeing Calista. My sister and Catalpa Valley—these were restorations; elements that already belonged to me and where I belonged. But Mr. Colchester—Christian—was part of me, like my whole being—mine and not mine, only there by way of miracle. For him to be there did feel like a miracle, which is what he had always been. A gift that was there when I’d thought I had all that I could rightly ask for, like to come home again and to see my sister. I hadn’t expected anything more. The voice came back to me, the one I’d heard so long ago: