Fox Creek: A Novel

Book 1: The Fox Creek Plantation Trilogy

by M.E. Torrey

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

"A rich, engrossing tale about the antebellum South that delivers indelible characters." - Kirkus Reviews, starred


" . . gorgeously written and emotionally harrowing . . . " - Jessica Fahey, San Francisco Book Review


"You'll turn the last page wanting more, despairing that it finished. Highly recommended." – Madeeha, Book Nerdection, A"Nerdection Must Read" Selection


The year is 1843 when six-year-old Monette, the pampered and beloved daughter of a French Creole sugar planter, is taken to New Orleans and sold into slavery. Sold along with her is Cyrus, a boy big for his age, torn from his mother without a chance to say goodbye.

Together they go to Fox Creek Plantation in “English” Louisiana, home to the Jensey family. While Cyrus is sent to the fields, Monette becomes the childhood playmate of Kate, the planter's daughter, and catches the eye of Breck, the planter's son. It's easier and safer for Monette to pretend life is normal. That she belongs. To forget her past, even to forget Cyrus, whom she'd loved. But as the years pass, it becomes clear that children of color do not belong in the world of the white elite—at least, not as equals. The brutality and powerlessness of slavery begin to take their toll upon Monette.

Who is she now? Who will protect her? And who is that big boy from the fields who keeps pestering her?

Fox Creek is a powerful novel set during one of the most turbulent times in American history. It is a story of race, privilege, the battle of wills, and the denial of freedom. But most of all, it is a story of love, a love that transcends all that threatens to tear it apart.

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Release date: September 1, 2025

Publisher: Sly Fox Publishing, LLC

Print pages: 498

Sample

 Chapter 1

March 1843

The morning the wagon came to take Monette away, the air was biting crisp, and a sheen of frost covered the cane fields.

Awakened before dawn, Monette rubbed her eyes, yawned, and stretched, asking her nurse, Heloise, what was the matter. Instead of the usual kiss and the mug of chocolat chaud, Heloise threw back the covers and said, “Hurry, ma petite. Get dressed while I start a fire in the grate. There is only cold water for washing this morning.”

Normally, in the brightness of the day, the child’s bedroom was filled with color—the lemon yellow of the walls, the lavish courtepointe on the tester bed, its indigo cloth embroidered with metallic gold thread, the dollhouse in the corner, orange, pink, and cream, painted with both precision and whimsy. But in the vague light of predawn, all was gray and ugly and cold, as if the colors lay exhausted.

Heloise knelt beneath the marble mantel, lantern beside her on the floorboards. At the first hiss of flame, the plantation bell pealed through the semi-darkness. On any other morning, hearing the bell, Monette would roll over, burrow deep under her covers, and close her eyes, letting the resonance of the bell wrap around her in low, undulating waves. But on this morning, Monette was confused.

Why had Heloise awakened her so early? Before a fire roared in the grate, warming her room and her wash water? Tired, shivering, fumbling with countless ties, buttons, and hooks, and frightened by Heloise’s silence, Monette began to cry. A soft, delicate whimpering.

The nurse sighed and stood to help. “Do not cry, ma petite. Hush now.”

The nurse’s voice, quiet though it was, filled the bedchamber.

Monette allowed the words to soothe her, to scatter the confusion, the fear, like a fire dispelling shadow. They were words of comfort, as caressing as if Papa Léon held Monette in his arms once again and pressed his lips into her hair. Monette closed her eyes while Heloise fussed with the back of her dress, pretending Papa Léon was still here and that she could sit on his lap anytime she wanted. Wrap her arms around him. Feel his warmth, the tickle of his whiskers, the smell of tobacco as he laughed.

She had stared at her father that day. That day. She had crept around the casket, slowly, making no sound. Surrounded by dozens of flickering candles, she stared at his pale, thin body, at the glittering gold coins on his closed eyes, the red rosary in his hand. She wondered why Papa Léon did not sit up and take her on his horse to the cane fields. Wondered why he did not want to have supper with her, with guest after shimmering guest, while Monette sat beside him, a tiny sapphire among diamonds.

There in the parlor, she had pressed her cheek against his hand, quickly pulling back, startled at the coldness, the hardness, the rosary clattering to the floor. Her nostrils suddenly filled with the fragrance of greenhouse roses. She fled the room—fled from the horrible gold coins, from the sickening smell, from his cold, hard hand.

Since his death, Monette had been frightened. So many whispers. So many people looking at her, then quickly away, as if she were now a ghost. “Heloise—”

“Hush, ma petite.”

“Heloise, do I look like a ghost?”

“Mon Dieu! What kind of question is that? You invite the evil spirits with such talk. Even your gris-gris cannot protect you. Now, if you hush and be good, I shall give you a gift.”

“What is it?” asked Monette. But she saw her nurse’s eyes close in secrecy beneath her colorful tignon and knew it was useless to ask again. She could only stand patiently while Heloise smoothed and whispered, clucked and buttoned until all was done, and nothing remained but to sit.

It seemed hours later when Monette heard the rumble of wagon wheels. She set aside her new rag doll and crept to the dormered window, careful not to awaken Heloise, who dozed an old woman’s slumber in her chair before the fire. Monette drew aside the velvet curtain.

At the far end of the allée, draped under the canopy of live oaks, a wagon approached, pulled by two mules. Even from a distance, Monette heard the clank and groan, the din growing louder and louder until she was amazed Heloise could sleep at all. Finally, the wagon stopped in front of the grande maison. The driver, a stranger to Monette, handed the reins to Uncle Lazare, climbed stiffly out of the wagon, glanced around once, then ascended the steps and disappeared under the eave of the galérie.

***

Pierre Auguste Dominique drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, listening to nothing but the click of his manicured fingernails, the snap of the fire, and the tick of the mantel clock.

The parlor was vast, heavily furnished, the ceiling soaring fifteen feet above his head, designed for coolness, as was typical. The home was old, built even before the colonies rose in arms to wrest their independence from England, a struggle that concerned not at all those in French Louisiana—those who owed their allegiance to France and none other. (Though rumor had it that their new monarch, Louis XVI, was as ineffective as he was unremarkable.)

It was early still, the corners of the room yet dusted with shadow. Sunlight filtered through the pulled-back drapes. It was a weak sun, a winter’s sun, despite the fact that it was mid-March, a time of year when Louisiana should burst with warmth and wisteria.

Up until his father’s death three weeks ago, Pierre had been a banker, not a planter. As the only son, he’d always known that someday, someday, he would inherit this home of his childhood. For all of Pierre’s twenty-eight years, the plantation had been an exemplar of elite society. It was known throughout the region—and even as far distant as Paris—for the fine fêtes, the banquets, the extravagant balls, the soirées on the bayou, all delicately spiced with gentle laughter and delicious conversation.

There were days at the bank—stuporous, drugged days that made Pierre almost long for the clamoring, desperate days of recession—when he’d consoled himself with dreams of Papa’s plantation. For weeks on end, each time he closed his eyes, he saw fields ripened with cane, blackened with laborers, the landing piled high with hogsheads of sugar and molasses. What red-blooded man wouldn’t dream such a dream? An entire plantation devoted to one’s livelihood, one’s comfort. It was only natural for Pierre to long for the day when he could trade in his ledger and ink stains for a wineglass and a riding crop.

Now Pierre tightened his jaw and stared at the fire, thinking, but nothing has been the way I imagined. Never, never in my darkest dreams could I have pictured this. Oh, Papa, I always knew you were a foolish man, but until now, I did not realize the extent of your folly. How could you do this to me? To me—your son. Flesh of your flesh.

Yes, he’d known of his father’s debt. After all, hadn’t Papa Léon come into the Bank of Louisiana every year, always needing more money? Pierre smiled wryly. Rare was the planter who didn’t borrow money. It was common practice. Borrow money to build a sugarhouse, harvest the crop, purchase more land and slaves, borrow money for a new steam mill. Expand, expand, expand.

And hadn’t these last few years been hard on everyone, forcing all to run to the banks for help? The financial panic of ’37, the yellow fever outbreak in ’39, worms in the cotton the following year coinciding with a ruinous flood—and now, in 1843, the winter’s unusual severity.

Instead of the fantasy of wealth and ease he’d once envisioned, his father’s death marked the beginning of a nightmare from which Pierre had yet to awaken.

Two weeks ago, cloaked in the stillness of Papa Léon’s dusty, shuttered office, Pierre had unlocked the drawer and opened the ledger. He studied the figures, nodding, understanding. But Pierre’s empathy soon melted into horror as he turned page after page. No, no, it cannot be! After spending all night poring over the account books—loosening his cravate, mopping the sweat from his brow despite the chill—there came a knock upon the door. A representative from Citizens Bank handed Pierre a claim against the estate for forty thousand dollars, payable in thirty days. Forty thousand dollars! A fortune! How would he ever get enough money? But it was only the beginning. An avalanche of creditors soon arrived from every banking institution in New Orleans. While Pierre had known Papa was in debt, he’d never imagined the extent. A nightmare . . .

Pierre’s fingers tightened around the arms of the chair—squeezing, strangling—his knuckles turning white. It was time to put things back to their natural order before he lost everything. All unnecessary expenses must be trimmed away. Now. Today.

Another hour passed before he heard the distant rattle of a wagon approaching. He waited, unmoving, until he heard the man’s tread upon the galérie, heavy and cloddish. Pierre stood to greet his visitor, smiling through his impatience, trying not to scowl when the man crushed his hand in the vulgar way of all Americans. “Bonjour, Monsieur Finney. You had no difficulties finding the plantation, no?”

“Was right where you told me.”

“Wine?” offered Pierre, extricating his hand.

“Well, if you got whiskey, I’d be much obliged to you.”

Pierre gave orders in French to a servant. To Finney he said, “You wish to sit?” motioning to a set of chairs. Pierre sat opposite Finney and smiled, thinking, An odious man. A true American. “I understand from your advertisement you pay cash.”

“Yes, sir. You understand correctly.” Finney smiled, and Pierre resisted the urge to stare at the man’s huge, tobacco-stained teeth. They reminded him of a braying jackass.

Being forced to sit opposite a speculator with jackass teeth tested even Pierre’s cultivated manners. Having to sell nègres was a situation every planter—every respectable planter, that is—dreaded and avoided. It was mortifying. Pierre would have preferred dealing with a Creole, someone who understood discretion, but that was impossible. Such an occupation was too base. A Creole would never stoop so low.

“Top dollar for prime negroes,” Finney was saying. “Less for older or younger ones, you understand, of course. And I don’t take no sick ones. Bad for business.”

Two whiskey tumblers later, Pierre led the way to the barn, unaware of a succession of black faces at each window, peering from behind every building, a gaggle of children, pointing, whispering, flitting from one magnolia to the next like phantom butterflies. Pierre closed the barn door behind him, shutting out the sharp chill, closing in the smells of cypress, hay, and axle grease.

Thirty nègres, men and women, stood in a line—scrubbed and shining, fingernails cleaned, woolly hair combed through—all wearing their Sunday best.

Pierre heard Finney say, “Strip,” and watched the American shove a plug of tobacco between his lower teeth and lip. Abruti. He sensed the hesitation of the nègres, saw the threatening scowl of the overseer, the tightening of his hand on the butt of his whip.

The examinations took twenty minutes, no more. A contemptible process that made Pierre sigh with relief when it was finally over, and he and Finney stepped out of the barn into the cold sunshine. The distance to the grande maison was a half mile, and along the way they talked.

“Now Monsieur Dominique, no offense now, but some of them is older than thirty. You know I didn’t advertise for no negroes older than thirty or younger than ten.”

Pierre frowned. In fact, by all accounts, the oldest servant was only twenty-nine. All were of good stock—gardeners, laundresses, seamstresses, coachmen—spoiled as they were. “Monsieur Finney, I had my first gray hair at age sixteen, yes? Gray hair does not necessarily mean old age.”

“That sure is true enough. Yep, true enough. You don’t have to tell me you’ve got yourself a fine crop of young negroes, gray hair or no. But it ain’t me we’re talking about here, it’s the buyer. And sometimes the buyer’s eyes ain’t so good as mine, ’cause, you see, I got years of experience. Now if I can’t get top dollar at the market ’cause the buyers don’t know no better, well then, I can’t give you top dollar, now can I?”

“What kind of offer are you willing to make?”

“Well now, let’s see here.” Finney took off his hat, ran a hand through his greasy, limp hair, and spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Considering them gray hairs and all, I just don’t think I could pay you more than eighteen thousand dollars for the lot and still sleep at night.”

Pierre did not have to pretend surprise. “Why, Monsieur Finney, if I did not know you better, I would think you were insulting me, no? That is a trifling $600 per negro. You and I both know they sell for much more in New Orleans, especially with such skills.”

“Last year, maybe that was true. But this year’s winter hit hard. Not just you, but everybody’s got darkies to sell. Too many sellers and not enough buyers. Now you’re a smart enough man, Monsieur Dominique, to understand that when you got too many sellers and not enough buyers, prices drop. It may not be purty, but it’s the godawful truth. Simple economics is what it is.”

Pierre walked on. Unfortunately, the trader was right. Half of Papa’s livestock had died of cold this winter, and Pierre knew the same was true elsewhere. Once again, planters were in desperate trouble. And nègres brought quick money. “Twenty-seven thousand,” said Pierre, thinking he must sell some land as well.

“Nineteen.”

“Twenty-six.” Although loathe to converse more than necessary with the slave trader, Pierre haggled some more, listing reason upon reason why these nègres were worth more than Finney was willing to pay. Such bargaining was, after all, custom, and an insult to both parties to do anything less.

“Twenty-three thousand,” Pierre finally said, “and if you refuse, I shall be forced to contact another speculator. You understand, yes? How did you say—simple economics?”

“Well then, when you put it like that, I guess you got yourself a deal.”

But when Finney thrust out his hand to conclude the deal, Pierre shook his head. “S'il vous plaît,” he said with a bow. “I must beg your indulgence. I have one more negro to sell. Come. She is in the great house.”

As Theophilus Finney followed the Frenchman into the grande maison, he could scarcely contain his excitement over his good fortune. Such a deal! Twenty-three thousand dollars for thirty of the healthiest, finest-looking negroes he’d ever seen. Not a scratch, limp, bad eye, or snaggle-tooth among them. Buyers would scramble over themselves in New Orleans to scoop them up. Even at scrape bottom prices, he figured to make three to four thousand, minimum. Considering their skills, possibly as much as ten thousand dollars!

Finney accepted another glass of whiskey, furrowing his brow, anxious to be on his way, wondering whom Monsieur Dominique was going to try and pawn off on him.

A hundred-year-old washer woman? A blind seamstress? A cook with no arms and one leg out sideways? Damned Frenchmen. For men of such honor, they sure were a crafty bunch. No telling who or what they’d sell.

Monsieur Dominique gave an order to one of the servants. Finney heard footsteps ascend a staircase. A door opening. Overhead, an old woman’s soft, muffled cry.

Finney shifted uncomfortably, watching Monsieur Dominique lean against the marble mantel, his wineglass in his hand, firelight leaping upon his legs. The tick of the mantel clock sounded especially loud. He heard nothing more until, of a sudden, a small child was standing in the doorway, shyly glancing back and forth at the two of them.

Monsieur Dominique motioned her to go stand before Finney. With only a slight hesitation, she obeyed, stopping just out of Finney’s reach, her little boots making no sound on the floral rug beneath.

She was about six years old, by his guess, a mulatto, her skin the color of coffee with cream. Finney recognized in her delicate frame the slender features of Monsieur Dominique, the rosy, sensitive lips—so effeminate on a man yet becoming on such a small female child—the tender, dainty fingers, the slender nose, so unlike the splayed-out noses of full-blooded negro wenches. She was dressed in the clothing of a planter’s daughter, all flounces, frills, and ruffles. The child watched him with large, amber eyes, an unusual eye color even for a mulatto.

Finney cleared his throat. “Now Monsieur Dominique, you know well as I do that it’s against the law in Louisiana to sell a child under ten years of age without its mama.” Finney licked his lips. If the mother was as pretty as the daughter . . .

“The mother is dead. I believe she died in childbirth, or shortly thereafter. A Congo slave.”

Finney was surprised. He did not pretend to know much about Creoles and their arrogant, foppish ways, but this much he knew: Creole men did not mix with full-blooded African slaves. It was a social disgrace. A violation of caste. No wonder the Frenchman wanted to be rid of the child. “I’m supposing you have written proof of the mother’s death?”

“Oui. You shall have it before you leave.”

“Your child?” Finney didn’t usually ask such personal questions—didn’t care, really. After all, it was bad for business. But he was curious. The Frenchman was a peculiar sort.

Monsieur Dominique pierced him with a haughty look. “Of course not. She is an unwanted expense—and I am tired of unwanted expenses.” The Frenchman hesitated before adding, “Besides, the child should follow the status of her mother. It is in her blood; it cannot be helped.”

Finney looked back at the girl. A child like this would not be difficult to sell. She’d make someone a fine pet. White women were fond of that sort of thing, and sometimes spent extravagant amounts of money. “Most I can offer is a hundred dollars. She’s too young and has weak blood. Won’t be able to work none—carry a glass of water, maybe.”

“Three hundred dollars,” the Frenchman replied, a snap in his voice, disdain flashing in his eyes. Without waiting for confirmation, he said, “So the total is twenty-three thousand three hundred dollars, no?”

Finney pretended not to see the disdain and answered in the affirmative. He rose from his seat and shook hands with Monsieur Dominique.

Damned foppy Frenchman. Shakes hands like a fish.

***

Huddled in the back of the wagon, Monette hugged her doll to her chest, wrapping it beneath her woolen cape to keep it warm. “Hush, ma petite,” she whispered, glancing up at her bedroom window. She could see nothing beyond the velvet drapes. Where was Heloise? Never before had she traveled without her nurse. She hugged her doll tighter. “Do not worry, little baby. Heloise will come. She is only fetching her walking stick.”

Monette watched as the man with big teeth fastened a line of men and women to the back of the wagon. Chained together two by two, they stared at her, and she looked away. So many of them—only a few she vaguely recognized. She shrank against the side of the wagon, the rough planks hard and unforgiving, all the while searching the windows and doors of the grande maison. Heloise! Tout de suite! I am alone!

The wagon lurched forward, and Monette cried aloud. The groan of the wheels. The heavy clank of chains as the men and women trotted after. The thumping of her heart. Heloise! Where are you?

The bouncing jarred her teeth. She slammed against the side of the wagon, bruising her shoulder. Tears stung her eyes. One of the black men spoke to her, but she pretended not to hear, turning away and sobbing harder. Oh, Heloise, what is happening?

Then, from far away, she heard a rumbling. At first, she thought it was a distant thunder—the beginnings of a storm, a deluge—but soon realized the sound came from the cane fields. For a moment, she stopped crying and listened as the rumbling grew into a full-throated roar. Then she saw them: a seething mass of black poured like heavy smoke toward the wagon. Closer, closer . . . men, women, children, casting aside farm implements as they ran, stumbling over furrows, weeping, shrieking, arms outstretched. My wife! My son! Maman! The men and women chained to the wagon cried out. The mules moved faster, forcing them to trot.

Then the roaring crowd enveloped Monette like fire. Black fire. Fire that screamed crimson screams. No! No! Fire that clung to the men and women, refusing to let go, pulling against the chains, begging, wrenching—until skin ripped and blood flowed. No! No! A whip cracked the air. A gun fired, belching black smoke. She heard the smack of leather on flesh and shrieked, throwing herself to the floor of the wagon. She plugged her ears with her fingers. She rocked back and forth. Papa Léon, oh, Papa Léon. She began to sing a nursery rhyme—one he had sung to her many times—as if he held her in his arms once more, as if he buried his lips in her hair and whispered, My daughter, ma chérie.

 

Chapter 2
  

For days now the rain had pummeled Cyrus, pounding him into the muck. It was a freezing rain, intermittent yet vicious, and the boy’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. At first, the mud provided a sense of warmth—a blanket of stinking ooze that sucked at his feet with every step, protecting him from the driving, chilling rain. But after four days of travel, his feet now scratched and bleeding, he could only remember warmth as a sensation from long ago—a memory to be cherished like a piece of molasses candy, savored one lick at a time.

“Dress him up fine,” Missus had told his mother, her pale, bony finger wagging through the doorway. “I’m taking him to town.”

Mama had beamed and fussed, so proud her son would accompany Missus to town, slicked and shining like a new copper penny. With a bucket of water from the bayou and a bar of lye soap, Mama scrubbed Cyrus’ skin till it smarted. He pulled back and frowned, saying, “Mama, it hurts,” but she shook her head and tsked and said a big boy like him shouldn’t be scared of a little soap and water. Besides, it was an honor being asked to go to town with Missus. And Missus wouldn’t want no dirty boy next to her, now would she?

After the scrubbing, Cyrus dressed in his best clothes—clothes he hadn’t worn for several months. He followed Mama’s gaze as she studied his wrists poking out from the sleeves, his pants, ending just below mid-shin. Mama grunted and put her hands on her hips, saying, “Maybe Missus gonna take you to town to buy you some new clothes. Lord knows you needs them bad. I wish she take your sister too, but she ain’t growing like you is.”

Cyrus squeezed his feet into last year’s shoes. They pinched his toes and heels. “They’s too tight, Mama,” he complained. But she shushed him and said Missus was ready and calling for him, and to be good and don’t be sassing none, you hear?

Even when they neared town and Cyrus saw the double line of men chained to the hitching post like mules, even then he did not know. Even when he followed Missus into the store, bells jangling, the strong, sweet smell of tobacco thick and cloying, glancing around him for a new set of clothes, he was unaware of the sudden interest of the white men gathered at the far corner. Cyrus followed Missus. Greetings exchanged. Cyrus stared at the floorboards, his face blank, his feet pinched and throbbing. Where my new clothes?

“How old are you, boy?”

“T-t-t-ten,” stuttered Cyrus, still gazing at the floor.

There was a giggle from somewhere.

“You always talk like that, boy?”

“N-n-no.”

Missus sighed. “I know, he talks bad. And he’s a little dull, but that don’t hurt none in a negro. He’s a good worker, does what he’s asked. You can see for yourselves he’s strong and healthy. Cyrus, open your mouth and show them your teeth.”

The men peered into Cyrus’ mouth. They felt his muscles and watched him with folded arms as he jumped, squatted, and walked lively. Cyrus was glad to do all those things—just so long as he didn’t have to talk. When he was done, he stood panting, staring at the floor again, thinking, They figuring to fit me for my new clothes. And I needs shoes bad. Real bad.

“Five dollars a pound,” said one of the men.

Beside him, Missus shook her head. “Nine dollars a pound, no less. Look at him, gentlemen. He’s strong as an ox. In a year or so he’ll make a good plow boy. Just ’cause I’m a widow woman ain’t no reason to be taking advantage of this here situation. I know what this boy’s worth.”

They haggled while Cyrus blinked once, twice. He wasn’t listening to them anymore. Instead, a terrible understanding bubbled within his head—expanding, seeping like poison, cold, viscous—through his brain, his ears, his nostrils, his mouth.

She gonna sell me.

“I said, sit on the scale, boy,” one of the men repeated.

When Cyrus did not move, hands grabbed him and shoved him onto a scale where he was weighed like a bag of wheat or a hog.

Mama . . .

Outside, they led him to the lone man standing at the end of the line and handcuffed their wrists together. They fastened an iron collar around Cyrus’ neck, passing the long central chain through the hasp of the padlock. Cyrus heard Missus get into her buggy—heard the snap of reins, the creak of leather harness, the rumble of wheels as she drove away.

Mama . . .

Even before the coffle left town—three men on horseback driving, one in front, one in the middle, and one bringing up the rear—the clouds opened, and a cold, drowning rain began. Within an hour, Cyrus lost both his shoes, sucked off his feet by the deepening muck.

Mama . . .

Four days of rain. Four days of exhaustion—his limbs shaking, his jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering. Four days of cold, lumpy food—food that stuck in his throat even while he wolfed it down. Four days of whispers under the hanging moss. Where you from, what your name, you gonna eat that? Nights of pretending. Pretending to sleep in a tent that did not leak, that did not reek of mud and piss. Pretending not to awaken more tired than when he lay down.

At the edge of a large bayou, the chain of men halted. During the dry season, the bayou was twenty, maybe thirty feet across at most. But now, the opposite bank could scarcely be discerned through the veil of rain. On both banks, tree trunks, branches, all manner of brush lay half-submerged.

The lead white man walked his horse through the brush and into the bayou.

At first, the coffle did not move. Cyrus stared, like everyone, at the swollen waters, knowing he could not swim, wondering if the log he saw was an alligator or the swirling branch a snake. Then the white man in the middle of the line rode to the front and brandished his whip.

“Move!”

After a moment’s hesitation, the two lead black men plunged into the bayou.

“Move!”

Halfway across, with the chain of men stretched out, the two lead men vanished, swallowed without a sound into a hole in the muck. Immediately, the two men just behind were yanked beneath the waters, and the chain tightened as the line of men pulled back to keep themselves from going under. Then the two lead men surfaced—covered with mud, gasping—lunging like harnessed animals toward the opposite bank.

“Move!”

Unable to stop the forward momentum, unwilling to feel the lick of the lash, each pair disappeared in turn with a choked cry beneath the surface, yanked off their feet by the collar around their necks.

“Goddammit, move!”

Cyrus dug in his feet, pulling against the chain. No! No! But his feet slipped, and the water wrapped itself about his waist—deeper, deeper. Then the men in front of him fell beneath the water, the chain snapped taut, his head whipped back, and he was pulled under.

Mama!

He landed at the bottom of the bayou, face down, dragged. Mud in his nostrils, his ears, his mouth—tasting of death and decay. Already his lungs burned. He tried to crawl, to claw his way through the ooze, out of the hole, but he couldn’t move his handcuffed arm. As if the man he was handcuffed to had suddenly turned to stone. He pulled against the weight, lungs screaming. Cyrus knew he was dying. He could feel it—in the pound of his head, in the blackness that pulsed through his thoughts, in the pain and heaviness of his arm that refused to let him move. He struggled for the surface one last time, surprised to feel the kick of what felt to be a hoof, dimly aware that someone had him by the iron collar, and that he was being lifted up and out, his arm on fire.

***

The camp was centrally located at the juncture of several footpaths and cart trails. A bayou (easily crossed should such an occasion be necessary) slept nearby—a winding serpent, waking only with the passing of a breeze or an alligator across its spine. The grass of the camp rarely suffered to grow upright—in places long-dead, where thousands of feet had walked, run, and shuffled through the years. Gullies of mud—tracks from countless wagon wheels—crisscrossed the struggling grass. Hitched to the low branches of a tree, horses snoozed, waking only to eat and tramp the ground into a soupy, manure mush.

Monette awakened, knowing by the damp, chilled, stiffened feeling between her legs that she had wet herself. The first time she had done so, Finney had cursed, unlocking one of the women from the chain and ordering the woman to change Monette and wash her clothes in the bayou. The woman had looked at him, uncomprehending, fear in her face, until Finney, frustrated, had turned to Monette to translate.

So, in the cold of the afternoon, Monette had been stripped naked—stripped of her woolen cape, her dress, her lace pantalettes, her woolen stockings, her doll, and her red flannel gris-gris bag (filled with salt and pepper, red agate, sweetgrass, bone, stick, and a plait of black hair—all necessary, Heloise had warned her again and again, for protection against evil spirits). Monette had cried and shivered, ignoring the woman’s brief attempts to comfort her as the woman bathed her with cold water from the bayou—water Monette shied away from because it was cloudy and dirty and smelly.

Monette hadn’t seen her clothes or her gris-gris again. Instead, she was clad in coarse homespun—ugly, ill-fitting clothing that caused her to scratch until her skin turned an angry red. She cried for her clothes, her gris-gris. She cried for her doll, unceasing and shrill, until Finney gave it back, saying, “Jesus Christ, shut up, will you?” Monette wiped her tears, cradled her doll, and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Ma petite.

Now she had wet herself again. Cold, she lay huddled beneath her blanket in the corner of the wagon behind the driver’s seat, the tarp frozen about her waist, her doll clamped to her chest. She gazed at the ragged canopy of cypress overhead, at the weak morning light struggling to penetrate the chilling mist that snaked around the trunks of trees and through the curling of moss. The camp was stirring. She heard the snap of new fire, the occasional hurried whisper. When the aroma of bacon caused her stomach to growl, she sat up.

“Do not worry, ma petite. You shall have your breakfast soon. I shall feed you until you are plump and happy.” She pressed her lips into her doll’s yarn hair. “You shall have butter cakes with raspberry jam and custard tarts for dessert. And if you are very, very good, I shall give you a cup of chocolat chaud.”

Monette ate her breakfast of boiled bacon and cornmeal sweetened with molasses, feeding bits to her doll. By now, the light was stronger, yet it was still dim, choked, and the air colder, damp, and penetrating.

After licking her fingers, she carefully gathered all the crumbs and was tossing them away when she saw them. Three white men on horseback approached through the woods. Behind them, emerging from the mist in a ghostly swirl, trailed a coffle of black men. Monette saw the shifting whites of their eyes. All was silent except for the clank of chains and the soft shuffle of feet.

When they drew near, Finney called a greeting. “Morning, Wirt! Thought maybe y’all drowned or something. Been waiting here a spell.”

Wirt dismounted and stretched. “Yeah, I know. Woulda been here sooner but got hung up.”

“That so?”

“Got everything under control now. Just had to bust a few hides, is all. By golly, that coffee sure smells good . . .”

Soon, Wirt and Finney hunkered down around the fire, drinking their coffee. While they talked, one of the other white men rode over to the wagon where Monette sat. She watched as he dismounted, lifting a black boy off the saddle with him.

“Go on, get in,” he said, pointing to the wagon.

The boy blinked at the white man before slowly crawling over the tarp and into the wagon. The white man led his horse away.

Monette didn’t want anyone in the wagon with her. She shrank into her corner, pulling her blanket tightly around her, keeping her doll hidden so the black boy couldn’t steal it. He settled on the opposite side from her and tugged the tarp over him as far as it would go, the canvas stiff and crackling, his back against a barrel of supplies. Monette tried not to look, tried to ignore him, to pretend it really didn’t matter that she now had to share her wagon with someone else, but she couldn’t help herself. She peered out of the corner of her eye.

He was a big boy, so much bigger than she, older too, and as black as coffee beans. Dried mud caked his arms, his neck and face, even his nose—a nose wide and strong like the men who worked in Papa Léon’s fields. His full lips quivered. Monette’s eyes widened in amazement as the trembling of his lips grew worse. His breathing grew ragged, and he shut his eyes. Soon a tear streaked a lone trail down his cheek.

He is sad, she thought with surprise. Monette sat still, keenly aware of her cold, stiffened clothes, of her unpleasant smell, of the doll pressed against her chest, of her blanket wrapped about her and the meager warmth it offered. Perhaps, she thought, I should share my blanket. Perhaps he is sad because he is cold. Even as she thought it, she was also aware of her fear—almost paralyzing, choking. But what if he took away her doll forever and ever? What if he stole her blanket and then she was cold every night? Or what if he was like that mean boy who sometimes waited for her behind the grande maison so he could yank her hair and call her nasty names? Besides, he was so dirty—sale de façon répugnante.

Then she noticed the boy cradling his muddied arm and saw it was swollen and discolored. He is hurt, she thought. Sad and hurt. Pauvre garçon. Monette hesitated before slowly inching away from her position in the corner. Together with her doll and her blanket, she crept over the roughened planks that separated them, stopping an arm’s length away. The boy’s eyes remained closed. She reached out a cautious hand, lifted the canvas, and placed the doll in the boy’s lap. He opened his eyes and blinked in surprise, as if seeing her for the first time, another tear dropping from his eyelash.

She remained alert, ready to flee. But when he did not tug her hair, did not call her nasty names, she spread her blanket over the two of them, tucking it in at the edges so no draft of cold air could seep through. Already, she could feel his warmth. She lay against him then, thumb in her mouth, holding the hand of her doll in his lap as the first flakes of snow fell out of the sky and filtered through the trees—lazy snowflakes, wet, covering them in a blanket of white.