Cannons and Courage Excerpt

Here is an excerpt of the story’s opening scene. I’ve reworked this part over and over again it seems, and still I’m not precisely happy with the first bit of it. So, I thought I’d put it here and see what people think–not that anybody will read it

A timid intake of breath awaited Pierre de la Mille at the window. Catherine stood there to meet him; she was in naught but her nightgown. Beautiful as always, the fine, spun-gold of her hair, which was presently loose to the waist, shimmered in the lamplight. Her eyes were bright and…wanting. Or, at least, that was what Pierre thought he saw there—a desire for him, his presence. The grey there—in her eyes—twinkled happily.

“Monsieur,” Catherine said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“How could I not, madame?” Pierre took Catherine’s hand and placed a kiss there. The apples of her cheeks reddened slightly as he straightened himself.

Outside, a full moon hung fat and bright in the sky above New Orleans. It was there, the moon, a huge glowing ball low on the horizon, there almost as if it were a sign of trouble. Pierre tried to maintain his ease about it, but, with his mother ill, and him in the company of a married woman, perhaps, trouble would indeed find him this night.

“Monsieur?” Catherine said uncertainly. “What is it?”

Pierre shook his head; he realized he’d been wearing a frown. “It is nothing, mon cher.”

“Nothing?” Catherine didn’t seem convinced. “Pierre…I—I can see it in your eyes…”

“My eyes?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed. It is quite obvious.”

“Obvious?” A grin started to stretch Pierre’s face.

Catherine nodded. “Quite so, I’m afraid.”

“Is it?”

Again, Catherine nodded; her eyes glittered mischievously. “Do tell me. What troubles you? I might be…able to help, monsieur. Oh yes”—Catherine tugged at Pierre’s stock, loosening it—“I just might.” She sighed. “So, you should tell me. I…dislike seeing a man’s thoughts on…troubles.”

Pierre laughed, though only slightly. He was concerned for his mother. Besides, he was off somewhere he shouldn’t have be—the McCabe’s residence, their plantation—and he was about to do something he shouldn’t, too: bed Lady McCabe. Her husband, from what she had confessed, was abusive to her, had ignored her severely. And that was the chief reason Pierre had found himself visiting Catherine to start with; he wanted to give her…happiness. Such a lovely creature, Pierre had thought and still did, deserved better than what she had thus received from her husband of late.

Robert McCabe, a wealthy Scottish planter (and smuggler), was a man not to be trifled with. He was a gentleman, so New Orleans’ elite were concerned, but, Pierre knew he could be anything but a gentlemen at times. This he knew too well. Pierre worked for the man—worked for him in his smuggling efforts. Those who stole from Robert’s business—the ones he employed and otherwise—usually ended up dead.

Dead, Pierre reminded himself. An…accident would be arranged by whatever means Robert had at his disposal. Naturally, such an event would seem clean of any wrongdoing and, of course, could not be traced to any individual. And, the way it was with such a trade, no link between employer and employee would be established. Simply, that connection would not be known—or admitted to if the victim somehow survived.

Through folly, you understand, not ignorance, it was surely that Pierre decided to tempt fate. He had decided to…take from Robert McCabe. It smacked of lunacy, perhaps. Yet, Pierre thought, with a bit of careful observation and planning, he could outwit Robert’s checks and balances—the ones he had installed into his operations. But…

The first phase of Pierre’s plan—his scheme to do what once seemed impossible—was directly in front of him, now. Catherine. Robert’s wife would allow him to be close to the McCabe’s plantation, particularly the study inside the house where Robert McCabe kept all his records. However, now knowing the way her husband treated her, Pierre sensed a pang of guilt and shame each time he thought about Catherine’s role in his scheme.

She was completely oblivious to it all; she assumed Pierre had come to her every night this past fortnight to purely be with her—spend time in her company. As agreeable and amiable Catherine might be, Pierre knew he must keep her what she was in his mind: part of the plan. He could not allow himself to grow an…attachment to her. Such a thing would be dangerous to him—to the both of them, really.

Robert McCabe, as it might be conceived, was a suspicious and watchful man. He seemed to suspect treachery and deceit about him every day of the week. And this was particularly in the case of his wife. He understood the beauty of Catherine, it seemed, though he scarcely seemed to care for her company. He was generally off gambling and carousing in the city, which was a nightly affair for him that Pierre had observed. Yet, if any man simply looked at his wife suggestively, he would no doubt challenge them to a duel.

In fact, Robert had fought a few duels to retain his wife’s honor. And, he was a damned good and quick shot to boot. The last man he’d challenged had barely gotten his finger on the trigger of his pistol when Robert had already had his up, raised, and had fired. His opponent, a son of some doctor here in New Orleans, had been pronounced dead as soon as he’d hit the ground. This was something to consider, Pierre thought. The elite and not-so-elite citizenry of New Orleans had been shocked when the boy had been killed, but, according to those who had witnessed the duel, Robert McCabe had committed no foul. All had been in accordance with the gentlemanly code.

Pierre wasn’t sure if Robert could have made the conditions perfect for his certain victory in that duel, but, well, he wasn’t really of the desire to try his hand at such. He valued his life, and cared little for facing Robert McCabe in a fight for honor—or a fight with him in any venue, to be honest. Catherine was a prize for Pierre, true. But, he wasn’t sure if he’d want to die for her.

Catherine stood waiting for him to say something, a curious glint in her grey eyes. She had not moved an inch, either. Then again, nor had Pierre. His face had remained frozen he realized as all those thoughts had tumbled through his mind. There was a good bit to consider, he knew. Was he getting into more than he could ever get out of? That was the true question. Yet…

Damn it all, Catherine was there—a warm, real and splendid example of womanhood. She was there, and Pierre knew there could be no resistance on his part. His body was guiding his instincts, now; his want for the female flesh was palatable. And he knew he must quench his desires, else he might lose his focus later on when it might not be very convenient.

Instead of answering Catherine, Pierre lowered his mouth to hers and coaxed her into a long, deep kiss. While his tongue was locked with hers, he could feel the touch of her body through the sheer muslin of her nightgown. The peaks of her nipples were firm; there was the softness of her, too. She was so…soft—yes, that was the only word coming to mind—and so…warm. Indeed. Warm. If not hot.

Pierre could feel his arousal deepen. Catherine’s warmth…the moisture and heat of her mouth were tangible, wonderful things to take in. Her arms looped around his back, and he could not fight it any longer…

Catherine pushed him away, pressing a finger to his lips. “You fret,” she accused. “I see it, Pierre. What troubles you? Please…tell me.”

The last of what she had said had been a whisper. In fact, it had been a warm and nearly seductive whisper upon his ear. The words “tell” and “me” rattled about in Pierre’s skull for a bit before he could utter an answer. “It is ma mère,” he explained after a moment, “she is ill with fever.”

“Well,” Catherine breathed. “You needn’t worry, monsieur.”

“Pourquoi?”

“Pourquoi?” Catherine confirmed, mocking Pierre’s occasionally broken French. “She’ll be fine, monsieur. It is merely a fever, yes?”

Pierre nodded. “I suppose, so. Oui.”

Catherine placed her hand on Pierre’s cheek. She gazed into his eyes—a lover trying to console her mate—and said, “Please…I can”—she licked her lips—“ensure your—I can ensure your happiness, Pierre. Your mother cares for you to be…happy.”

Again, Pierre nodded. This was true; his mother did want him to be content with life. It was the chief reason she could not quit trying to find him, her son, a suitable attachment. She constantly, Pierre knew, was on the lookout for a wife for him. Yet, he was, without question, a bachelor who liked the freedom that came with such. Besides, it was more interesting meeting new lady-flesh every once in awhile. He’d done just that ever since his first visit to one of the brothels in town; there he could meet different women when it suited him—gaze upon and explore a fresh body when he became bored elsewhere. It was such a thought, he realized. It should disgust him, but, somehow, it did not.

Suddenly, Catherine clasped Pierre’s arms and tugged him into the room, away from the window. He let his feet move, then, without hesitation, without ignorance of where he was being led; he simply let impulse and instinct take control.

To the bed the two of them arrived. Catherine stopped with Pierre in front of her and one of the four-poster’s posts against her back.

Pierre knew what must happen. He lowered his mouth to his lover’s; he warred with her tongue. The kiss seemed to go on and on, and Pierre’s arousal became more apparent. It was sheer agony not to simply take Catherine.

Their lips parted. Pierre looked into Catherine’s eyes. Her gaze was languid—her pupils noticeably widened. Her breath came quick, too.

Pierre could feel Catherine’s body through the thin muslin she wore. He felt the stiffened peaks of her nipples. And there was the softness of her, the fire-hot warmth of her. It was nearly too much.

Placing his nose to the nape of her neck, Pierre breathed in her scent. Catherine. She smelt of lavender and rose and…sweat. It was there, too. Sweat. Yet, somehow, the floral and sweat created an odd mixture—an earthy, bodily thing that was not at all unpleasant.

The fine bones of Catherine’s face, of her neck. The curve of her hips. The slenderness of her waist. The paleness of her skin! A beauty to be sure, Pierre thought. Beautiful. It was so. Catherine was beautiful…

Pierre could not keep from wondering why Robert would not want to be with such. Here his wife was a creature of spectacular beauty and charm, and there he was off with some prostitute on his knee, no doubt drinking whiskey or brandy and playing cards. It seemed so…wasteful.

Suddenly, skillfully it seemed, Catherine worked the row of buttons at the front of her nightgown and, within an instant, a wonderful moment of sounds and happenings, the thin muslin fell from her shoulders. In a long sigh against her skin—a seductive whisper—it fell to a soft pile about her ankles. Now, her breasts and every other bit of feminine anatomy were exposed.

Catherine reached up and gave a sharp tug of Pierre’s stock, pulling it from about his neck. She tossed it to the floor and then went for his shirt; Pierre had already removed his jacket, having thrown it on the chair by the window. In what seemed but a moment, Catherine had Pierre’s shirt open and un-tucked from his trousers.

“Mon cher,” Pierre said in a hoarse whisper. He wanted…needed her. He placed his lips to hers and, once again, fought her tongue.

Pierre found his arms wrapping about Catherine’s waist. Then, with an effort, he put a hand beneath her buttocks and one against her back and lifted, taking her off her feet.

“Oh!” Catherine gasped, surprised.

Not a word was spoken between the two of them as Pierre placed Catherine softly onto the bed. He opened his trousers, freeing his painful arousal, and she simply watched, waiting intently at their joining, it seemed. Soon, soft sounds—feminine groans and moans and just-whispered desires—issued into the August-night air.

Pierre wasn’t certain how much time had passed since the first kiss, but he was certain it was probably time for him to part Catherine’s company. He sat on the edge of the bed, naked save for his boots and trousers—which had fallen to his ankles; Catherine had yanked them completely down somewhere along the way.

“Pierre,” Catherine whispered, running fingers through the hair on his chest.

“Oui?”

Catherine giggled. “That was…wonderful, I dare say.”

Pierre smiled, pulling her into his shoulder. A slight breeze blew the curtains inward of a sudden, a welcoming thing against a sweat-slicked body, so it was.

Abruptly, the breeze carried in with it the sound of horseshoes crunching up the drive. A pair of boots blundered heavily onto the porch below. An unhealthy dose of slurred curses rent the air.

“Robert,” Catherine gasped, sitting bolt upright. “He’s home.”

“Out of my way, boy!” Pierre heard Robert shout, presumably at Xavier, the McCabe’s Negro manservant. “I said move! You’re in the way. Don’t you have something to do? Then, get to doing it you ape!”

Pierre hurriedly pulled up his trousers and fastened them. He grabbed his shirt and jacket and stuffed his discarded stock into a pocket. He shrugged into the sleeves of his shirt as Catherine drew her nightgown on. She quickly closed its front, and nodded for Pierre to quit to the porch.

Catherine, though, need not remind Pierre; he was over the sill and out of sight before she could even started tidying up the bed sheets. Only seconds later, he heard the bedroom door slam open.

“Where is he?” Robert shouted.

“Where is whom?” Catherine returned in stride.

“The man you were with! That’s who!”

“Why, whatever are you talking about?”—Pierre could almost hear Catherine shaking her head. “There be just me, Robert-dear.”

“Katie-dear,” Robert said. There was a muffled attempt where Robert McCabe tried to say something. Pierre knew Catherine must have silenced him with a kiss. Then, much to Pierre’s disgust, there was the sound of a slap, which was soon followed by a thud.

“I know you had a man here!” Robert declared. “And I’m going to find him!”

“Well,” Catherine shouted back, “I know you’ve been with a…with a whore!”

“’Tis not true, Katie-dear,” Robert said. There was a silence. “I was with two. One at the Madam’s and…the one right in front of me, now.”

There were a few more sounds that Pierre found equally as disgusting as when he knew Robert had hit Catherine. Hit her! “By God…” he said. He started to turn, to head back to the scene of the offense, but lost his will to do so. What would he do, anyway? He had no pistol, no weapon to speak of besides his fists. And, besides, it would be Robert McCabe’s word against his. Pierre was the intruder, here. In fact, he had no right to be here, so people would say—and, perhaps, he thought, they would be right. Plus, there would be complications with other matters.

That’s when Pierre had to remind himself why he was truly here. He had another task to perform tonight, one he had yet to complete. Catherine had been merely half the reason he had come to the McCabe’s residence this night. She was simply a way of getting what he needed done, of course. It was ironic, he thought, that this house (the one he had done most of his growing up in; the one that had once belonged to his father) should play host to the spectacles of this night.

Pierre’s mother, Josephine, had been unable to cope with the plantation’s operations after the death of his father. The fields, although still productive, hadn’t produced well enough under her guidance, and Pierre hadn’t truly had the interest in the family business. So, in after only a few seasons, Josephine had decided to sell the unwieldy endeavor. However, there are just so many buyers for a plantation.

Another season passed—the sugarcane still being grown and harvested—and money continued to be lost. Whether it was through some inefficiency on the overseer’s part, or lazy slaves in the fields, mattered naught. Josephine had already committed herself to quitting the business. So, when Robert McCabe and his lovely wife, Lady Catherine, arrived in New Orleans fresh from London looking for land to buy, Josephine was quick to suggest to them the plantation.

Robert agreed to the terms, and bought the failed plantation. His investment was not without its rewards, either. After a mere two seasons he had the fields back to their peak efficiency. The sugarcane was now a moneymaking endeavor, again.

Josephine de la Mille, with what was left of her stipend, bought some land within New Orleans proper and had a house built—a nice and pleasant place where she and her son might live quietly. However, the terms for transfer of the property, the plantation, to Robert McCabe, was contingent upon support during the transition period by one of the previous owners, which meant Pierre was to give guidance to the McCabes—being it would have been unusual to see a lady such as Josephine do such.

It was how Pierre had first met Catherine, had first become involved in her husband’s schemes—his smuggling. At first, Robert had convinced Pierre to help him move and receive inventory arrived from the docks. Mostly, the items were then transferred from the Robert’s cache to his customers in Baratarian Bay—the French pirates that Pierre now counted as friends. But, after Pierre’s uncle, Henry, who owned a successful shipping line, offered him a job—one which provided easy access to particular goods—Robert McCabe found a new use for him.

Robert would order goods from Henry’s shipping company; Pierre would sell them to him at a discounted rate, unbeknownst to his uncle. The very fact of this was another strain on Pierre’s conscious. He loathed the idea of stealing from his uncle, and being forced to do so at that. Each time Pierre had threatened to end his part in the affair, Robert had threatened him back, saying he would expose Pierre’s frequent visits to the brothels in town—it was always some such thing like that.

Well, Pierre had grown tired of it, which is why he decided to take matters into his own hands. If one can’t end their part of such a scheme, they might as well make some profit of their own off of it. And that’s precisely what Pierre now had in mind: he would join Robert McCabe at his own game; he would defeat the man’s checks and balances.

One of these checks and balances was a pair of shipping manifests. Mr. Smith (the overseer of the McCabe plantation, and secret manager of its smuggling operations) was to keep inventory of all items that came to and left the smuggling cache. This manifest was, in turn, to be copied for later audits. The original would be sent to Robert McCabe, while the other would be left at the cache. Pierre’s idea was to replace both, showing the item counts lower than what they really were. Then, he would take the goods he had marked off and sell them at a profit in Barataria; he would sell them cheaper than what Robert would to the pirates—all the while him ignorant to who his competition was, and where he received his inventory. The trick was switching out the original manifest at the McCabe’s plantation, hence the reason he needed Catherine.

Pierre hadn’t left his position on the McCabe’s porch. He simply listened, instead. He wanted to be sure Robert wouldn’t hear him, as his boots would surely have made a noise on the porch’s wooden planks. Silence came to Pierre. Then, a door slammed. Robert and Catherine’s fight seemed to be over. Now was the time to move.

Stealing down the porch, away from the bedroom, Pierre reached the study where the manifest, he knew, was kept in the writing desk. Parting the curtains, Pierre climbed over the sill and entered the McCabe study. Deftly, he stole towards the writing desk on the far side of the room near the door.

Pierre searched the desk’s various pigeonholes. Most were stuffed with items pertaining to the plantation’s operation. Then, he spotted a piece of parchment which resembled the one in his hand. He pulled it out and saw Mr. Smith’s neat columns and handwriting. He grinned, shoving it into his pocket.

Abruptly, a door slammed in the hall and footsteps thudded toward the study.

“Damn woman!” Robert McCabe shouted. “You be nothing but trouble!”

Pierre’s heart lurched in his chest. He hurriedly replaced the manifest with his copy, placing it in the precise hole in which he had found the other. The footsteps grew closer and Pierre realized he might yet be discovered. He sped swiftly towards the window, dashing over the sill. He turned just in time to see the study’s door swing open. Through the gauzy curtains he could just make out Robert McCabe.

The man stood there, looking puzzled. His cheeks were red with alcohol and anger. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths. Somehow he apparently could not discern the intruder out on his darkened porch, as he went for the crystal decanter beside the red velvet-upholstered settee. He poured the amber substance from it into a glass. Shakily, he put the glass to his lips and threw back its contents.

Pierre moved out of the window’s view. Then, he stole quietly down the remainder of the porch. He found the ivy-covered trellis along the side of the house, which he had so boldly risked earlier in reaching Catherine—now, he decided to do the same to make his escape. Ever so carefully, he climbed over the railing and reached for the flimsy-looking structure. He tested it and then, as satisfied with its sturdiness as ever he would be, he put a foot in one of the square-shaped holes. Slipping a hand into a similar hole, he applied weight to the trellis.

There was a creaking groan and Pierre thought he might make it down quicker than he would like. Yet, thankfully, the trellis did hold, as it had before. He soon was able to release his grip entirely from the porch’s floorboards. Both hands on the trellis, he put his feet into motion, one after the other. He utilized the trellis like a ladder.

He was almost to the ground when a piece of the trellis broke under his foot, causing him to lose his footing and go crashing into the shrubs below—a sound which seemed deafening to his own ears.

Pierre’s heart hammered in his throat; fear froze him in place.

“Aha! I knew it,” blustered Robert McCabe from inside the house. “Xavier,” he called, “get the hounds, boy. I say get ‘em! Get the ruddy things, damn it!”

There was an instant when Pierre thought his muscles were truly locked. He simply couldn’t move them; his limbs wouldn’t respond. Fear had him; it held him there in the shrubbery, a motionless mass. His brain screamed at him to move; the prickling leaves about him poked like tiny knives, a blessing it would be to leave them. Then, hearing the barks and growls of several eager dogs (big dogs), he finally found himself clambering to his feet, if a bit shakily, and readied himself to sprint across the McCabe’s lawn.

“Xavier, now!” Robert cried from the house. “Damn it! I said do it boy!”

Pierre put his feet into a dead run, and he hurried toward the comparative safety of the woods. He heard the ominous barks behind him—dogs ready to maul an intruder. He glanced over his shoulder to see several pairs of hounds darting his way. White fangs gleaming, he realized they were, indeed, in full attack mode. Xavier had had no choice but to do as his master had bade. He had been forced to sic the dogs on Pierre.

The dogs gained on Pierre. He glanced over his shoulder, again, and saw them closing. Ahead, the safety of the woods beckoned. The darkened shapes of the ancient oaks spread into view like a wall of sleepy giants. Overhead their wooden fingers swayed against the paleness of the moon. Just a few more yards…

Pierre hurried into the trees and found his horse tethered where he had left it. He bounded into the saddle, hearing the dogs’ barks. He snatched the reins and sawed them, setting his roan into a hasty gallop. Lungs laboring and legs still burning, Pierre finally let his body relax when he had made the road.

However, he never let the roan rest until he was in the drive of his mother’s house. He jumped from the saddle and hurried inside, delaying only for a moment to hitch his roan to the newel post out front. He was halfway into the foyer when he saw the doctor coming down the stairs.

“How is she?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head. “It is hard to say, monsieur.” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “The fever has yet to break, and this”—he gestured with a hand—“heat is not aiding her any. Albeit, at least, there’s a breeze.”

Pierre frowned, studying Monsieur Rousseau. The man was a noted physician here in New Orleans. He had come with the highest of recommendations. Pierre had gone to him immediately upon the realization of his mother’s illness. He knew that if a body were in such a state, this man would be its best chance. Pierre trusted him, though he wondered if Rousseau was telling him his true feelings on the matter. He might not desire to upset him.

Monsieur Rousseau shook his head. “If there’s any change,” he said. “A worsening in her condition…Call me and I shall be here. Pray Madame Josephine shall require my ministrations no longer.” He stepped towards the door. “Monsieur,” he promised, squeezing Pierre’s shoulder, “she—your mother—I believe shall make it. With God’s grace the draught I have given her will vanquish the fever. I’ll call in the morning to check her condition.” He let go of Pierre’s shoulder. “I do not wish to worry you, monsieur. Keep a vigil on her. If there is a change, do not hesitate.”

Pierre nodded. He watched the doctor disappear into the night and closed the door behind him, latching it. Then, he took a breath and began up the stairs. He made it to the landing when he saw a fretful Molly looking down at him. She scampered away with a handful of towels and Pierre hurried up the next flight. He was in the hall as Molly disappeared into the sickroom at its end.

Molly, once a de la Mille slave, now a paid servant (something Pierre had insisted upon when leaving his father’s plantation behind, something she hadn’t been all too eager to accept), was worth her weight in gold. She knew how to keep things running, even in the heat of uncertainty. However, this night, Pierre noted a falter in her step, something that smacked of…worry.

Continuing a steady tread, Pierre reached the sickroom where he found his mother laying on her back, eyes seeing yet not really seeing. Her brow was soaked with perspiration. Molly mopped at it with a damp cloth. Her dark eyes caught Pierre’s and he saw in them a heavy concern.

“Leave us,” he told her.

Molly dipped a curtsy and then disappeared through the door, closing it behind.

“Child,” Josephine whispered weakly. She gestured for Pierre to come to her. He shuffled over to the bed, grasping her hand. His mother looked up at him with such a colorless bloom that his heart—his hopes—nearly sank. “Child,” she began again, “I want you to know I…I love you.”

Tears threatened her eyes; a lump formed in Pierre’s throat. “Mère,” he said, “I…I, of course, you know I…I love you also.”

“You must,” she continued, “do something for me.”

“Of course,” Pierre said. “Say it,” he told her, “and it shall be done.”

“Henry,” she whispered. “Your Uncle Henry—I wish you to write him for me. I wish you to invite him…I n-need to…”

“Uncle Henry?” Pierre said, confused.

“Oui.” Josephine’s eyes glistened with tears. “Please,” she said, “do this for me, child.”

Pierre nodded. “You want me to mention your current…condition?”

A weak smile parted her lips, then. “Yes, child. I—I need him.”

“Need him?”

Suddenly, Pierre realized something he had simply tried to ignore in the past. He knew his mother had had a relationship with somebody since the death of his father ten years before, but he had never considered…

It made plenty of sense, though. It seemed plausible. His uncle had been the man. He should have seen it earlier—Well, he had thought there might be something between them, but he had never been witness to it. Every six months or so Henry would arrive in New Orleans to “inspect” his warehouses (the two he had had built by the river to increase the range of his line’s trade). And, surely, he had called upon the de la Mille’s residence every single trip. Then again, that was to be expected. After all, he was ever in want to see his nephew, see the progress of his growth.

In fact, last his uncle was in town he had offered Pierre a job. Pierre had told him he appreciated the offer but had already had employment. Henry had insisted, though. This was truly the reason Pierre had felt comfortable with taking from Robert McCabe. He knew he had a backup. His uncle had offered him an overseer position at the warehouses here in New Orleans. The pay was decent, and thus far Pierre had had little to complain about—well, nothing really. In fact, he had kept to the business of smuggling mainly because it was a matter of excitement (and there was the matter of receiving particular rarities, such as wine from Bordeaux).

“I shall write him,” Pierre finally told his mother. “And I shall sit up with you tonight.”

“There eez no need in that,” Josephine assured. She stroked a hand through Pierre’s hair. “I wish you not to worry for me, child. I shall…live.” She coughed roughly; Pierre was quick to hand her the glass of water that was on the nightstand. “Please, just do theese for me.”

Pierre nodded. He placed a kiss on his mother’s forehead, squeezing her hand. He turned and left the room. Molly was conversing with Girard (the de la Mille’s colored manservant, who, of course, also made a wage) in the hall. The two of them gave Pierre concerned looks. He frowned at them…and they each hurried back to whatever task it was they had been doing before their discourse. It was just something they were accustomed to, Pierre supposed, having once been slaves.

Molly and Girard’s wages weren’t anything to put a hindrance on the de la Mille’s financials, but it was definitely something the neighbors looked down upon and even verbally disagreed with. However, Pierre did not agree with the practice of keeping somebody against their will, forcing them to do the work you didn’t want to do. He didn’t care if they were supposedly of an inferior race, either.

Entering his room, Pierre strode to the writing desk by the window. He pulled out a leaf of paper and sat down. He found his quill and inkpot. Pursing his lips, he thought for a moment what to write. He wanted to inform Henry of his mother’s condition, yes. But, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to mention his knowledge of their affair.

After a moment, he decided against the latter. There was no point in mentioning that. It would simply embarrass both parties. So, dipping the quill’s tip into the inkpot he began. He wrote down a few words, then read them and decided they were useless. He snatched another leaf of paper and began anew. And, once more, he was frustrated by what he had penned. This happened several times over before he was finally satisfied. He glanced at the waist bin beside the desk and noted, at least, a dozen wads of paper. It nearly made him grimace; it was an expensive thing to waste.

Pierre found an envelope in the desk. He stuffed the finished letter into it and addressed to his uncle. Getting to his feet, he immediately went to look for Girard. He found him in the carriage house behind the courtyard where he was currying his horse.

Girard paused with the brush as he saw Pierre enter. The man lowered his eyes meekly and went back to his work. Pierre shook his head. It’d been ten years and yet Girard, the dark giant that he was, had still not forgotten his place. Pierre was a forgiving master; his father hadn’t been.

“I need you,” he told Girard, “to deliver this”—he indicated the envelope—“to Captain Norris of the Bramble. He is not to open it; it is for Henry Hensford’s eyes only.”

Girard nodded. He set aside the currycomb and received the letter. He grabbed a lantern from the workbench and headed off into the night. Pierre watched him leave and then decided, as his lids were heavy, to head into the house and find his bed.

The Bramble, Pierre knew, one of a dozen ships in his uncle’s merchant fleet, would be the most reliable means to deliver the letter. Captain Norris was a good friend of Henry’s and would be likely to transport a letter from Henry’s nephew to his hand without hesitation. So, Pierre wasn’t concerned the letter might not reach his uncle.

Climbing the stairs, Pierre tried to replace worries of his mother with thoughts of the pale and fragrant flesh he had enjoyed tonight. Catherine. She was a beauty, and knew how to please a man. He just hoped she haunted his dreams, and not the dogs her husband had sicced upon him.

Snow, Again

It’s snowing outside, again. Thursday was interesting, too, as it did the same, then. I was surprised when I came out of work on Wednesday and found white stuff falling. I knew they had been calling for it, but didn’t really believe it would snow since it’s been so warm around here over the past few weeks. Heck, yesterday it was like in the fifties. All the snow from the previous day had already melted. Then, here we are again with snow!

The weather isn’t generally this fickle in South Carolina during the winter. Usually, it’s dry and about in the forties or fifties. I mean, we just had a thunderstorm about a week ago, thunder and lightning and all.

It was interesting Wednesday driving home with the snow falling. The sky was so dark that my headlights picked up the flakes as if they were falling down over a black velvet curtain. Without other cars coming my way it was almost as if I were driving through a tunnel of some sort. I guess I hadn’t driven in it in awhile, so I had forgot how it looked.

Bad Neighborhood

How do you know if you work or live in a bad neighborhood? I was just thinking about this today, noticing things around the newspaper where I work. There are some low income apartments across the street, which are taken decent care of, but there are some rather strange characters hanging out around there. Then, all along the road near those apartments and the gas station and little store on the corner there are people walking up and down the shoulders. Some of the women are prostitutes. How do I know this?

Well, these particular women wear tight tops and extremely short skirts, fish net included. Yeah. It’s obvious. Just up from the apartments is an old motel where they rent rooms out, and probably do their “work”. Yuck! I don’t even want to think about it; most of those women are pretty damn ugly. Anyway.

Several houses across from the newspaper just next to the apartments have security bars on the windows. I hadn’t really noticed that until this morning when I was leaving to go get some gas for my car. I just happened to look up and notice them–the bars–on the windows. Oh, and something I didn’t mention: the other week, I think it was Monday, I was driving along in front of the little store on the corner and this woman came up to the shoulder of the road. She was obviously going to cross, but she had stopped and looked both ways. Well, apparently, she didn’t see my car. So, she stepped out almost right in front of me! I had to slam on the brakes. I nearly missed her. If that would have been at night I’d have hit her no doubt. She screamed as soon as she saw my car, like it hadn’t been there a moment before, and I have daytime running lights and everything. If she hadn’t stepped back onto the shoulder just in time…BAM!

Of course, I was so pissed. The woman looked like she was a drug addict, and she probably was. She was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. And I don’t believe she was wearing any shoes either. I mean, it was, at least, forty degrees that morning. People don’t wear things like that anyway even when it’s warm–at least, not outside.

I was cussing up a storm, too. I think the word “bitch” came up several times along with “stupid”, and perhaps even F-word. I was mad. I don’t want to hit anybody, even if they are a druggy or a prostitute. Anyway.

The area around the newspaper isn’t the worst section of town, but it’s close. I wish Scripps would build us a new building I mean, this place has been here since 1973. Heck, my desk is straight from the 70’s. And if you say anything the answer you’ll get is, “You’re lucky you have a desk.”

Ghost Hunting

For Christmas I received Ghost Hunting, which is a book co-authored by the founders of T.A.P.S., Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson, along with Michael Jan Friedman (who is the author of several books, though I’m not familiar with his work). T.A.P.S. stands for The Atlantic Paranormal Soceity, which, as you may know, is the subject of a hit TV show on the Sci-Fi channel. Each week we get to see investigations into the paranormal on Ghost Hunters. Of course, what I think has people interested in the show is that T.A.P.S. uses, what they call, a scientific approach. Though, as Jason points out in Ghost Hunting (the book) is that it’s as scientific as can be when the paranormal is a hard thing to honestly confirm–even with the evidence that’s been amassed over the years. Anyway.

Being the Ghost Hunters fan that I am, I was extremely happy when I received this book. I wasn’t sure what to expect in its pages, but I had the promise that there’d probably be something interesting to read. And I was right. To explain the layout of the book: Ghost Hunting has summarizations of various T.A.P.S. investigations that have taken place over the years. Jason gives the overall scoop while Grant gives a short synopsis at the end of each summarization called “Grant’s Take”–how original. The presentation is done very well in my opinion, though, and Jason’s narrative somehow is infectious and makes you want to read more. In fact, I finished the book in like three days, albeit its only about two-hundred-and-something pages.

The first section of the book begins in 1996 when T.A.P.S. was first founded, and these are probably some of the more…intriguing investigations if what is here is true–you never know with this kind of stuff. I trust Jason and Grant’s observations, but, well, they’re could be a bit of exagerating. A few of these early investigations I found rather interesting. One I remember was where a couple complained of having poltergeist activity off the charts, and an entity in particular was harrassing the husband. So, T.A.P.S. went out to investigate and, sure enough, things started happening as soon as they turned the lights off. One of the claims was footsteps and bangs on the stairs. Well, while Jason was interviewing the couple a large rock came bouncing down the stairs. And then blue and green and red lights started flashing around the room. This lasted only for a few minutes, though. When the investigation was wrapping up, one of the investigators had lost his flashlight. A few moments later the flashlight came rolling into the room along with the batteries. Strange, huh? Well, come to find out, the couple’s marriage was in trouble. They were arguing all the time. Most of the activity centered around the husband, too. So, T.A.P.S. figured it was the wife unknowingly causing all the havoc. She was sensitive to the paranormal. A few months went by and the couple finally had a divorce. After that, all activity in the house ceased.

Another early investigation I remember was where this lady’s mother had recently passed away. They had the mother’s belongings brought to the house and stored in the basement. A week or so later the kids said they could see grandma in the closet upstairs. T.A.P.S. was called in and one of the little girls, while being interviewed, told Jason that grandma wanted her ring. He followed the girl down to the basement and she went to a suitcase and opened it, bringing out a small jewelry box. The ring was inside it. The family then had the ring buried in the ground over the grandmother’s casket, and all activity ended.

The later investigations mentioned, up until late 2006, were all seen on Ghost Hunters. However, I was not bored reading about these, either. It was interesting getting the thoughts of Jason and Grant. Their views didn’t differ all that much from what they said on the show, but it was still nice to hear what more they had to say on the matter. Overall, I’m quite happy with the book. I think they did a good job with it, but I do wish it had a few more investigations. Though, maybe I’m just greedy, because there are about forty or so cases mentioned.