That business of the animal mutilations soured for Marcel Beauregard his joy at the fine stand of sugarcane in his first season planting in Louisiana. It was as though the ugliness and terror pursued him from the Caribbean. He urged the horse between the rows, submerging the sweat-sleeked roan like riding him into a lake. The Isleños and 'Cadiens grumbled and gave him room.
"Asesinos," one of the Isleños said as he reined up.
"What did he say, Luis?" Beauregard asked of his foreman Luis Gaureau. The young man paused from examining the carnage.
"Killers. He says killers, but that is easy to see. This one is like the others."
Beauregard looked past Luis' wheat-blond hair to where she lay. She had been partially disemboweled. What brought her down was the wound at her throat. The entire pharynx had been torn out and even a portion of the esophagus pulled away.
"Can you tell by the brand whose she is?"
"Yes, yes," Luis said. "Antonio Melerin. His old milk cow."
"She is far from home."
"Driven here," Luis said, pointing to lacerations on the hind quarters. Even examining another mutilation, Luis was pleasant. That young man took more pleasure in life than anyone Beauregard had ever known. More even than himself in his youth. He had an admirable curiosity in all things. But he was most capable at managing labor, making the right connections. In the scant year Beauregard had known him, Luis Gaureau had already proven himself invaluable.
The 'Cadiens were whispering among themselves. The lsleños, unaware that Beauregard knew the Spanish of the West Indies, did not bother to hide what they were saying. Even Luis did not know he understood them. Beauregard wanted to keep it that way.
"Tell them to get back to work," he said to Luis.
"Trabajemos, hombres, a trabajar," Luis said brightly, with gusto to the Isleños. "Back to work, cousins," he said in French to the 'Cadiens.
Luis searched the ground for several rows as Beauregard sat his horse. Beauregard was anxious to be on the road to La Nouvelle Orleans. This matter of the mutilations was a nuisance, coming at exactly the wrong time.
"Luis! Any sign!" he called.
"Not a print. Just like the last time," Luis called from behind the curtain of cane.
"What is there to do?"
"Hainh!" Luis grunted. His mother was Isleña and his father 'Cadien. He had the languages, mannerisms and attitudes of both cultures, as though he were several men in one, a concept suitable to his enormous energy. "She died on your land, you will have to pay."
"Not that. I mean about the men, this will surely turn the Isleños back to the marshes."
Luis laughed. He came and leaned on the shoulder of the horse and looked up at his employer.
"That was already meant to be," he said. "As soon as the trapping gets good, or the fishing, they'll leave you. I told you that in the beginning. Besides, you'll soon have the slaves."
"Yes, but the slaves are for the expansion, not to do the work already being done."
Luis laughed again to put him at ease. He slapped Beauregard on his knee.
"They sold you their land, isn't that enough? Of course, they were not using it. And they looked upon you as a source of employment in the summer months. I told you they would go. We shall do what we can."
"Well, we shall have to stop these mutilations. My Negroes are hardly less superstitious than your Isleños and 'Cadiens. You have everything ready to bring us inland?"
"Yes, yes. The boats, the crews..."
"The Negroes will be ill with the sea travel. They always are."
"They shall only have to walk from boat to boat. I assure you. But, Monsieur Beauregard, be very careful, yes. Trust no one."
Beauregard was irritated. He should already be on the road to la ville. His horse stamped forward and sidled, fluttering the skin of his shoulders and tossing his head slightly because of the flies.
"Damn!" he said. "New Orleans is full of illegal Africans and I can't even bring in my own slaves, my very own slaves that are like my own family to me."
Luis smiled, shrugged. Despite himself, Beauregard smiled, too.
"Ah-ah-ahhh," Luis teased, wagging a finger. Sometimes he seemed to know what Beauregard was really thinking. And he could be pleasant, even in the stench of the bowels and the nuisance of the flies.
"Well, all right, my wife is in New Orleans," he said.
"Ooh, la-la," Luis teased again.
"And my niece," Beauregard added quickly. He indicated the carcass with a sweep of his hand. "What can we do about this merde?
"You have to pay for her. Melerin will ask too much. I'll deal with him. The meat is still good. You'll have hungry Negroes soon. I shall age it, faisander."
"No, I mean about the killings."
"It is nothing. It's just a lot of talk about the werewolf, the loup-garou. A sick wolf or something. Whatever it is will die or move on. Go to your family that you have not seen in a year. Go. I shall manage everything."
"All right. As you say." And he turned his horse around.
"Monsieur Beauregard!"
Luis had knelt to the skinning but looked at his employer with an expression of gentle wickedness.
"Yes?"
"Bon appétit."
Beauregard laughed.
"Au revoir," he said, and rode on.
The ride to New Orleans was very long, almost fifty miles on a deep-rutted, narrow road. His body ached in every bone by the time the carriage wheels gritted on the brick streets of La Nouvelle Orleans. Madame Beauregard was waiting up for him at the inn. She had the servants leave food and she warmed it herself and served her husband for the first time in a year.
"Does Genevieve know about the Negroes?" he asked, eating with one hand and gently holding his wife's with the other.
She smiled. There were a few more lines at the corners of her eyes, from smiling and laughter through the years. She smiled that way sweetly, now, and he knew it was because she was thinking of their niece.
"No, no. The little one, she knows nothing of this. I told no one. I followed your instructions. Her heart was broken to think of leaving Uncle Etienne and Naomie. And that old black woman, I am grateful you could not see how she wept. There were many tears on that voyage. I believe tears made that sea more salty."
Her husband nodded ironically. He had just sprinkled salt on the food he was eating.
"That child has seen enough misery to fill the Gulf with salt, that is true," he said. "Wife, I am very worried about her in this place. Since the revolt ...."
Beauregard paused involuntarily. It had been nearly sixteen years since his brother and sister-in-law and all of the children except Genevieve were slaughtered in the slave rebellion at St. Domingue, the French half of the island Americans called Santo Domingo.
"Since the revolt, the slaves of the islands are considered dangerous. She shall hear much talk among the 'Cadiens. We shall not worry about the Isleños since she has not their language."
"Do not worry yourself, my husband. She heard much more talk in the islands. And simply look at her, at her strength. See her for the woman she will soon be."
"I want to," Beauregard said eagerly. Genevieve was the daughter he never had, his wife was barren.
"We shall see her. She is asleep, of course, but we shall look in on her, and in the morning you can greet one another properly, daughter to father."
They only allowed a little light from the lamp through a crack in the door, but Beauregard could see that in the year's absence his niece had already grown into a woman. And a lovely woman she was, her skin yellow ivory in the lamplight and the dark, wavy hair she'd inherited from his own mother brushed and soft beyond the mosquito netting. In her slender fingers were entwined knitting needles and the beginnings of what seemed to be a garishly red mitten.
Madame Beauregard put a finger to her pursed lips and handed the lamp to her husband. Very gently, she removed the knitting, the needles and the ball of thread. After she closed the door, she explained whispering.
"She has learned to knit and is making you mittens," she said, her face brighter than the lamplight. "You know all the pictures of New England, and the descriptions she heard as a child about Acadia. She was so disappointed to find La Nouvelle Orleans as hot and sultry as the Caribbean. But I have promised her that the winters will be severe."
"I shall wear them, of course, if they fit or not, weather cold enough or not, " he whispered. "But … why red?"
His wife could barely contain her mirth. Her eyes were narrow crescents. She held fingers to her mouth to stifle laughter.
"Her favorite color," she said.
They both laughed silently in the gentle discovery of parents. Then they went down the hall to their rooms. No sooner had the door shut than they were embracing passionately. Later, despite his weariness, Beauregard could not sleep. There was so much to share with his wife.
"I have a beautiful stand of Otaheiti cane," he said. "They've been growing it here for almost ten years. Mostly to make molasses and tafía. They make very good tafía here." He made a low whistle to express the potency of the drink. His wife grunted amiably.
"And I know you've sampled every batch," she teased. He laughed with her.
"The sugar industry is just starting here. It takes longer to grow cane in this climate, but it is very sweet. I have hired a man named Antoine Morin, an expert, very expensive but a fine sugar-maker. And I've got the most marvelous foreman. Luis Gaureau. Half-'Cadien and the other half -- his mother's -- Spaniard from the Canary Islands. He speaks both Spanish and French and is a marvel. Tireless, beautiful. He reminds me of myself when I was young."
"My husband is still beautiful and young," she said.
"But wait until you see him. Better than that, wait until Genevieve sees him."
"Husband," his wife said in the elongated sing-song of feigned disapproval, "have you been match-making?"
"No, I swear it, I haven't uttered a word," he said hurriedly, adding quickly to deflect her perceptiveness, "First thing in the morning, I'm going to buy my Genevieve a set of silver knitting needles."
He did and the girl loved them. She cradled them in her lovely hands all the way back to the plantation. Her first sight of Luis was not what Beauregard would have planned.
The animal was lashed to a madrier, a thick, seasoned oak plank a foot wide. He hung head down, a second mouth opened at his throat where Luis had slashed it. The blood had stained the madrier and splashed against the grass.
Luis was grinning with pride as the carriage pulled up to the big house. Even when they were still too far away for shouting, Luis displayed his kill with a gracious sweep of the arm, grinning toward the carriage. Genevieve, nearly retching, holding her handkerchief to her face, the silver knitting needles glittering, gripped in her other hand, ran past the animal with a face blanched with horror, trailing long, red knitting thread behind her. Madame Beauregard hurried behind her, past Luis whose grin of triumph had changed to a frown of confusion and embarrassment.
"But, why did you do this?" Beauregard demanded.
"Pardon, Monsieur Marcel," said Luis gravely, "to demonstrate to you the termination of your problem."
"You could have shown me in the field," he said. The animal disturbed him, too. The carrion stank and flies buzzed again at the blood.
"Pardon, Monsieur Marcel," Luis said again, "but it was also a matter of the 'Cadiens and the Isleños. For them to see that the object of their terror was just a living dog … part dog, part wolf."
Beauregard calmed himself. The boy had meant no harm.
"Yes, yes. That was a good idea, Luis," Beauregard said. "Take him to the warehouse where they will see him when they return the tools. How did you find him?"
"I waited all night at the kill. He returned just as the sun was rising and I shot him. I only bled him to keep him fresh until the others had seen him."
Beauregard squatted and gazed into the glazed, lifeless eyes, the death-snarling face.
"Bury him tonight, before we go to meet the boats. Do not let the slaves see him. He looks too much like the dogs gendarmes used to run them down after the revolt. Do not let Genevieve see him again, either. She has grave memories of that, too. She was very young. Her whole family was slaughtered, much as you have slaughtered this beast and for much less reason, of course. We still do not know how she survived. Enough of this."
Beauregard stood and clapped Luis on the shoulder.
"You have done well," he said. "Are we ready for tonight?"
"Yes. We shall have a full moon."
The moon was bright and full as Luis had said. It glinted as on water like unpolished pewter as the ship dropped anchor and furled sails on Lake Catherine. But the wind was up and there was much confusion as they transferred from ship to dinghies to long pirogues for the trip up Bayou Terre aux Beoufs. So they were nearly home before they discovered one of them was missing. Uncle Etienne. The old black house servant Naomie began to wail.
"Keep her quiet," Luis said.
"We're in no danger from the patrols," Marcel said.
"We are in Isleño territory. Blacks are not allowed here. I'll go back for him. I'll take the little pirogue. Do not worry. Tell her to be quiet, no harm will come to him."
So he took the pirogue and went back. They saw him sliding silently on the dark water, the moonlight bright against his shoulder. Although it was very late when they reached the plantation, Beauregard allowed a ration of rum and they built fires in the yard, roasted chickens and some of the beef from the slaughtered milk cow of Antonio Melerin.
Naomie settled, assured by Beauregard of Luis' prowess in the marsh and bayous. They brought her upstairs to be greeted by her charge, Genevieve, but that door was bolted. They could not rouse her. It was very unfortunate because the morning sunlight mixed grief and joy, like intermingled oil and water. Just as Genevieve was drying her tears of joy at the reunion with Naomie, Luis brought in the corpse of Uncle Etienne.
It was the same as with the animals. Throat ripped out. Disembowelment. With great care, Luis had replaced the viscera and swathed the throat and abdomen with sailcloth. But he could scarcely disguise the horror.
The Island Negroes began voodoo rituals. It lasted nearly a month. Weeks of ceremonially slaughtered chickens, sprinkled blood, African chants and late-night drumming were too much for the 'Cadiens and the Isleños. A delegation formed before the big house. Luis spoke for them.
"These are not my views," he began to his employer. "I think it is all a lot of foolishness. It is only that I am of them and that I may translate for the Isleños. You understand?"
"Yes, go on."
"There was a revolt in Destrehan. Island Negroes fresh from Martinique led it. Five hundred strong. Many were killed along the river there, many whites."
"I understand. What do they want?"
Luis smiled sheepishly.
"They really want," he said, "for you to send them back or kill them all. But they know this is impossible. So you must stop the rituals."
"It is their religion. I cannot take their religion away."
Luis translated for the Isleños and got a reply from an elder.
"He says to make them go to Mass," Luis said.
Beauregard could not prevent himself from scoffing before Luis had finished translating but at least the ruse allowed him time to reconsider.
"And I will not force on them my own religion. The rituals will end, then, after tonight," he said.
The ground on which he stood was too tenuous. It was distasteful to him, but he was obliged to do it. He also knew that the slaves were adept at deception in this regard. If he pretended that his edict had been observed, and in all likelihood the elders would understand he was pretending, his authority would not erode. Soon, he saw that it had been the best course. The Negroes practiced their rites clandestinely, in an oak grove on an island in the marsh, silently and in the darkest dead of night. Peace reigned and love blossomed between the beautiful Genevieve and the handsome Luis Gaureau.
It was all very proper. Everything was strictly chaperoned, Beauregard thought, until one night the brightness of another full moon illuminated the lovers leaving the stables for a midnight ride. He just happened to be passing an upstairs bay window and saw them.
Beauregard was shocked. He never dreamed of anything this bold from the gentle Genevieve. And he was sorely disappointed in Luis. He was frankly intending Luis for his step son-in-law, believing he had at last fulfilled the sacred trust that the untimely death of his brother had thrust upon him. Now in a rage, he saw Luis as a debaucher, a traitor, a seducer.
Angrily, he woke the stable boy to saddle his horse. Then he loaded his horse pistols and put them in the holsters of the saddle, equipment he had installed during the bad trouble at St. Dominque. Immediately, he put the horse into a canter. The soil was fertile-soft and the moon was nearly as bright as day, so it was not difficult to follow their trail.
It ambled down a wagon trace and took the turnrows by the sugarcane fields. The cane was very high, now, nearly at the end of its eighteen-month growth. Thick, too, it was, thicker than a brush.
Away ahead, he saw approaching a single horse. Beauregard eased back on the reins of his own mount and came to a slow stop. He drew a pistol. The horse came, fast. The rider was leaning forward against the mane like jockeys at the racetrack. The horse was so locked in fear that, even from a distance of fifty yards, he could see the whites of the animal's eyes.
Beauregard cocked the pistol, still holding the muzzle safely elevated. But just as the horse reached him he heard a terrible, angry howl. Movement out of the comer of his eye, a blurred, furred movement.
He turned. It sprang. The pistol discharged. A horrible wail. He was knocked to the ground. The horse fast approaching vaulted him. He looked up at the flying hooves. The stinking, blood-stained animal that had sprung at him crashed back into the cane. Both horses galloped away, his own following the one that had sailed over him.
Though stunned, Beauregard gathered his wits quickly. He cocked his ear. The howls went off in the direction of the plantation house and slowly ceased. He staggered up, started to run. He kept the expended pistol though he had no charge. The charges for reloading were with his horse, now not in sight.
Heart beating wildly out of exertion and fear, sweat streaming from his face and soaking his clothes, he ran. As he turned into the lane that led to the house, he saw no light. All was quiet, all was dark except where the moonlight penetrated the branches of the sheltering trees. The horses, winded, waited there on the lawn with reins down. There on the steps of the verandah, he saw the blood.
Bravely, he stepped through French windows at the side. They were there, on the floor. Genevieve was naked. Luis clutched her. At her left breast, there was just a tiny glitter of the head of a silver knitting needle buried to the hilt.
Her shoulder still bled from the bullet wound. Luis wept although he was quite certain that the spirit clinging to life was not the gentle, innocent one he loved beyond enduring but that violent one that took her in the moonlight. Her hands and feet were still furred and clawed.