The Seige Of Dragonard Hill Part 17

Chapter Eighteen.

JEZEBEL'S GRIP.

Posey stood with his hands pianted on his hips as he faced Lloy in the colonnade which connected the kitchen annex to the main house. He said, 'Boy, there's something quality about you! You done work in the main house of the plantation you come from?'

'I did work wherever there was work to do,' Lloy answered, not lying but still withholding the fact from everyone on Dragonard Hill that he came from Treetop House.

"How long Master Peter plan to keep you here then?'

I can't answer that, Miss Posey, because I don't think even he rightly knows yet. I don't think anybody does.'

Posey lifted his head proudly, pleased that this handsome new black overseer addressed him by his preferred t.i.tle, and had done so without any prompting. He decided to take the new boy into his confidence, leaning forward to impart, 'Certain talk ain't meant for n.i.g.g.e.rs to speak but being you's overseer here and me's the head cook, I can say to you in, secret-like that you're going to be a heap better at the job than that Miss Imogen was. I don't know beans about field work and tree-chopping but I can already see you'll be better than her. The job is meant for a man to do, anyway.'

Shaking his head, Posey continued, 'Miss Imogen, I don't know what's going to happen to her. Her world's done changed and it changed fast. I think she might lose her brains.'

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Lloy had work to do this morning reorganizing the fodder system for the livestock but he did not want to cut short this conversation with Posey too quickly, too abruptly. He realized the value of having such a well-informed person on his side. Also, he preferred not to discuss his predecessor. He answered non-committally, 'Maybe time heals old wounds, Miss Posey.'

'Wounds? Miss Imogen suffering from worse than some wounds. She ain't got her job! She drunk all the time now on corn whisky. That Belladonna sleeps here up in the kitchen loft-' Posey reached for his ap.r.o.n and, wringing one corner of it in his hands, he said, 'I hope the White Lord G.o.d forgives me for my wicked ways. I done a few bad things. One be to Belladonna. I completely misjudged that Belladonna wench, I did. There's a good gal now. But the spirit seems to have gone plurnb out of her in the last few days. She was bright and sparkly like sunshine when she came to work for me a few days back. But suddenly she goes all sober. I knows it ain't over missing that Miss Imogen. No, I knows it ain't because of that because no more than just five, ten minutes ago we seen Miss Imogen staggering to the hills. Belladonna done worried Miss Imogen's going to come to the kitchen to get her and drag her back to the old house. Belladonna runs hide and-' Posey continued to wring the white ap.r.o.n in his slender hands.

Alerted by Posey's announcement that Imogen had gone past the kitchen toward the wooded back hills, Lloy asked, 'You say you saw Miss Imogen walking away from the old house?'

'Old house? She was miles away from that tumbled down shack!'

Lloy had been waiting for an opportunity to go to the old house, to inspect the attic room where his grandmother had lived. He asked for safety's sake, 'You're certain Miss Imogen won't be meeting her father? That they won't be riding back to the old house together?'

'Meet her papa? Never! They still ain't speaking! Besides, Master Peter, he's gone to Greenleaf this morning to bring young Master David back home. I know that for certain because Master Peter tells me before he left what he wants me to fix young Master David for his first supper home tonight. Miss Vicky, she's taken off to New Orleans 212.

with that voodoo n.i.g.g.e.r. And Miss Veronica, I don't know where she be around here this moment. But Miss Imogen, no. I knows she's drunk cause I've seen her.'

Thanking Posey for his time, LSoy made an attempt to leave but Posey was hesitant to lose such an attentive visitor. When Lloy finally managed to move from the flagging under the colonnade, Posey excitedly called, 'I almost done forgot the reason I shouted for you . . . Master Lloy.'

The forma! address of 'Master Lloy'-especially coming from Posey who recognized no peers amongst black people-surprised him.

Posey reached into the skirt pocket of his long white dress and, producing an envelope, he held it toward Lloy, saying, I can't read writing but I know from the tired-looking n.i.g.g.e.r man who delivers this letter to the back door, I know from the messenger the ident.i.ty of the party who sends this to you.' Posey narrowed his eyes, asking, 'That Claudia Tucker woman, she ain't your rightly owner, is she, boy?'

The name 'Tucker' first confused Lloy. Then remembering that Tucker had been Claudia Goss's married name when her first husband had been the overseer here, he said, 'No, Miss Posey. That woman's not my owner. I don't even know why she would be writing to me. How she even knows that I'm here.'

Taking the letter, Lloy quickly opened it with one finger whilst Posey lingered alongside him, saying, 'I'm surprised she reads and writes herself, her being nothing but trash.'

Lloy read: 'CONGRATULATIONS ON YER NEW JOB. MEAT ME TONITE AT X-RODES NEAR TREETOP HOUS AT SUNSIT. RESPECTIFLY. C. GOSS'

Folding the Setter, Lloy frowned. He had been expecting another letter. A message from Treetop House to contact a white lady here.

'What's the matter?' Posey pressed. 'She causing trouble for you, too.'

'She wants to meet me, Miss Posey,' he said, wondering what happened to the other letter. He hoped there was no trouble in Boston.

'Meet you? That trash woman? You watch out. You ain't 213.

a half-bad looking buck. Fact is, you're down right handsome looking. And that ugly old trash woman's got a taste for handsome bucks. You be too good for her, Master Lloy. Far too good for a trash woman like her!'

Turning to Posey, Lloy said, 'Do you know somebody here who would do me a favour, Miss Posey? I don't want to meet Claudia Goss as she asks. But also I don't think it's wise if she comes here. Not at the moment. And she just might do that if I don't turn up at the meeting place she mentions.'

'Claudia Tucker come back to this place?' Posey said. 'Not at no time!'

'Miss Posey, do you know anybody who could go to the crossroads near Treetop House?'

'Treetop House? I know where that be. Master Peter sends Christmas packages there. I rode over last winter myself.'

'Do you remember the crossroads?' Lloy asked eagerly.

'Fact I do,' Posey answered. I remembered remarking about which road leads where.'

'Could you find some one with a pa.s.s to travel at night and have them go to the crossroads to tell Mrs Goss that I'll not be able to meet her at sunset but that I'll be in touch with her? Mister Abdee might not be home before sundown so he can't give a travel pa.s.s.' Lloy was thinking out loud now. He added, 'I hate sending someone to her place. I've heard awful stories about Grouse Hollow. How she treats her-' He shook his head.

'You leave everything to me, Master Lloy,' Posey said,-s.n.a.t.c.hing back the letter from his hand. 'You leave everything all to Miss Posey.'

Lloy profusely thanked Posey and, promising to come visiting him soon in the kitchen, he hurried off toward the old house, anxious to get a look at the attic room there before Imogen returned. The time then was shortly before noon.

Bill Sandell and the other patrollers collected in the chairs around the front window of Troy's mercantile store listening avidly to Claude Fonk's second-hand information 214.

about troubles mounting on Dragonard Hill. Fonk repeated in detail the stories which Imogen Abdee had told him, embellishing on the facts about black slaves having secret meetings in the slave quarter on Dragonard Hill and to Imogen's claim that her father had replaced her with a Negro as overseer. Fonk likewise elaborated on the hearsay of Dragonard Hill's financial position, claiming that the bank had already foreclosed on Greenleaf and was now preparing to seize Dragonard Hill.

Leaning forward in his chair, he said, 'That be the big-dog banks down in New Orleans. That's where the real money sits!'

'What do city bankers know about life up our way?' asked Warren Bell, a patroller and small farmer.

'Correct!' Fonk said. 'What in h.e.l.l do city bankers know about planters going bust and the n.i.g.g.e.rs heading on a rampage worse than the Indians who used to live around these parts? Savages are savages in my eyes and we're still civilized pioneers! And white Christians!'

'Lots of pioneers were slaughtered in the olden days,' muttered Emil Groggin.

Fonk added, 'And there still be slaughtering. But by blackskins this time! That's why old Imogen Abdee, she tells me to keep a watch on her pa's place. To protect all us innocent parties who really count around here.'

Billy Sandell stood behind Fonk's chair. He said now, 'We ain't seen hide nor hair of that Miss Vicky gal in town lately.'

'Nor the other one,' added Groggin who had been one of the patrollers riding with Billy Sandell when they had stopped Veronica's wagon on the road south of Horton.

'Something fishy's happening there, all right. She'd normally complain, a proud feisty woman like that sister. But we ain't heard one complaint yet. Not a peep. They're hiding something. They're trying to keep the top on a hornet's nest out there.'

Warren Bell suggested, I think we should ride over to see.'

'Don't expect to get nothing more from Miss Imogen,' Fonk warned, leaning back on his chair. 'She ain't the overseer no more.'

'Never did trust her much anyway,' Billy said. 'Any 215.

woman who don't truck with no man ain't to be trusted neither.'

'She's a good liquor customer of mine,' Fonk reminded them.

'A little too good. No, I think we have to watch that Imogen gal, too.'

The men leaned their heads closer together, discussing who should go in what patrols, the amount of ammunition needed for such an outing, and the hour to start riding out to Dragonard Hill. They decided that the welfare of the community rested in their hands. Warren Bell said that he would bring his bullwhip as well as a squirrel gun. The time then was shortly past noon.

By mid-afternoon, Claudia Goss knew that she should start thinking about going to meet Lloy at the spot designated in the note which jack had taken to Dragonard Hill. She decided to wait at Grouse Hollow at least another hour longer, though, to see if Jerome Poliguet would arrive from New Orleans. It was his day to return to Troy. She wanted him to press Barry Breslin into selling Greenleaf immediately. She also had another plot. She was going to offer a bribe to Lloy to start an uprising amongst the slaves at Dragonard Hill. She believed that every man had a price, even a freed black man-especially freed c.o.o.ns, she thought. But by late afternoon, Jerome Poliguet still had not arrived at Grouse Hollow and Claudia decided that she could not wait any longer. The hour was approaching to meet Lloy at early evening. She decided to leave. She also decided to travel alone, not to have Jack drive her to the rendezvous. She did not want him snooping.

Naomi was still impressed by Vicky's expertise last night in the theatrics upstairs in Pet.i.t Jour; she was pleased that she had granted the young white woman her request to keep Poliguet trussed in his leather bondage until last night's final show.

Vicky had met Naomi in the bordello's office after the 216.

performance which she had viewed from the curtained box and had seen Poliguet for the first time here. She had anxiously said to Naorni, 'We can talk later about an octor-roon girl for my father. I saw a man upstairs I know. I want you to do me a favour. Please. There is no reason, I know, for you to grant it, but this is what I would like.'

Although Naomi had wanted Vicky to see the man who had been talking about her lately at Pet.i.t Jour, she was surprised when she listened to Vicky's request, and even more surprised when she watched her a few hours later put it into action.

Honouring Vicky's request to keep Poliguet in his bondage, Naomi ordered the theatre's Negresses to repeat the same performance at the last show but with one major alteration-Poiiguet would be carried, trussed as a cotton bale, not to a black woman but to Vicky standing in the centre of the candlelit stage.

Vicky showed a natural talent for performing; she was not ill-at-ease in front of an audience; instead, she enjoyed standing in a domineering position over Poliguet's body with people watching her.

Gasping when he saw who it was wearing nothing but thigh-high black leather boots, Poliguet pulled back in surprise, in horror. His actions now were not make-believe.

But the Negresses held him. Vicky pulled his head toward her naked midsection. She pressed his mouth toward her farry patch, muttering, 'If you bite me, US have you stripped of your skin. Now eat! Eat this . . . pie!'

Poliguet buried his face deep into Vicky's thrusting groin. The spectators rose from their chaise longues to watch more closely, gathering around Vicky as she pressed Poliguet's head even tighter against her mound, ordering, 'Tongue deeper. . . deeper. . . get your lips in there if you can. you Creole b.a.s.t.a.r.d She remembered the fantasies, the hopes she had had about him making love to her; she felt that he had betrayed her by being so pa.s.sive; she now was seeking a proud woman's revenge. The sensation she felt from his probing tongue did not match her feeling of power and victory.

She looked down past her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s and saw Poliguet obediently burying his mouth into her spread v.a.g.i.n.al lips. He ate, tongued, delved deeper like a desperate man.

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Smiling as she watched his eagerness now to please her, she reached toward his nose. She held two fingers forward. She pinched his nostrils shut with the tips of her fingers and-with her other hand-she firmed the grip on the back of his head which pressed his mouth even more tightly against her, locking his tongue deep into her v.a.g.i.n.a, creating almost a suction hold between his mouth, his lips, his tongue with her v.a.g.i.n.a. It was then that Vicky began to contract her v.a.g.i.n.al muscles, tissue around his only access to air. He struggled. But she held his nose with her fingers and his head to her midsection with her hand. The Negresses held his arms, shoulders, legs into position. He choked. Gasped. Puffed. But his oral attempts were m.u.f.fled by Vicky's clutching midsection as she continued to pinch his nostrils pressed tightly shut, maintaining the hold of her female orifice around his mouth. She watched as his face slowly turned blue. The blueness then darkened but she still did not release her control over him. She smiled as she looked down at him losing breath. He was physically weakening. There was no way he could escape from Vicky and the Negresses. The resistance finally vanished from his struggling arms. He grew limp. He fainted. He had been temporarily suffocated by Vicky's female expertise-and as she stood over his motionless body, she raised her arms to the audience of applauding men who cheered not only for Vicky's 'Jezebel's Grip' but for her-the first white female ever to appear in a dominating role in a theatric on the top floor of the bordello, Pet.i.t Jour, This next day when Vicky sat in the office of the bordello on Rampart Street, she saw that Naomi was impressed with her. She was still thankful for the chance to appear in last night's theatric. She had come back to Pet.i.t Jour today without Malou; she arrived to hear finally what news Naomi had to say about the octoroon girl whom she had found for her father.

First, Naomi began to explain that Poliguet eventually had revived, dressed himself, and fled from the bordello at dawn, not even asking for details of what had happened to him. Naomi laughingly told Vicky that he obviously knew 218.

who she was. That she had sufficiently 'gagged' him so that none of them would hear from him again-or that he might come back and never leave the place!

Naorni waved her white-gloved hand, saying, 'Enough talk about that man. Let me tell you what I found. A young girl by the name of Chloe St Cloud. She was the mistress of a rich young dandy who was killed in a duel behind Saint Louis Cathedral. His family refuses to support the girl so her tante-all good octoroon girls have an 'aunt' who supervises their education and welfare-is at her wit's end over what to do with the young girl's future. I told the old woman that there was a position of governess which might possibly appeal to her.'

'Governess?' Vicky asked.

'With these young ladies every bit of propriety must be observed. They are not s.l.u.ts. If you want a fine girl, then you must act accordingly. I want you to place a notice in the French edition of the New Orleans Bee, The paper called "L'abeille de la Nouvelle Orleans". I want you to place a discreet notice announcing that "Condesa Veradaga of Havana requests the services. . ." make,up something about needing a qualified young lady of character and good breeding.'

Vicky shrugged, 'If you wish '

It is not for me. It is Mademoiselle St Cloud's aunt who wishes this formality.' Naomi stood alongside Vicky's chair and said, "Now that was the good news. Are you ready to hear the bad?'

'Bad? But what else is there? You gave me a chance to take part in your theatric. You found me a very pretty girl. At least you say she's pretty and the Lord knows you've seen enough . . . young ladies. Even if this does not work out, I do have to admit that you've acted better than I might have in your position.'

Ignoring the surprise compliment, Naomi said, 'This arrived.' She held a parchment envelope toward Vicky.

'For me? A letter arrived here . . . for me?'

'I did not say it came for you. But it came. See. From Havana. And with the same coat-of-arms as your calling card.'

'My husband wrote to you?'

'I have never met your husband but he obviously has a 219.

considerable knowledge of both you and New Orleans, young lady. He sent a letter to me here, stating that you were to be informed that an "Impediment of Entry" has been placed against your return to Havana. He calls it in Spanish an "impedimenta a contra entrada". He explained that the Cuban authorities will not allow you to disembark from any ship there, that you must not even try to return home or you'll be arrested and placed in prison.'

'He can't do that!' She could not believe that a feeling of victory could be so brief.

'Sail to Havana and see if he can!'

'But I will go back home. I'll go back and I'll-' Vicky's mind swirled with possibilities. She sputtered, Til contact my grandfather! That's what I'll do. He's a slavedealer. He is powerful in Havana, too. He'll know how to deal with that. . . swine!'

'Your grandfather?'

'Yes,' Vicky said, loo concerned now with her own problems to notice Naomi falling back against her desk, gripping onto the leather-top for support. 'My grandfather lives in the district of Regla. He's a despicable old tyrant. He even kidnapped my child. I don't have Malou with me today but you can ask her. My grandfather bribed that b.i.t.c.h, Malou, to bring Juanito to his slave house in Regla. I wanted to confront him but Juan Carlos would not allow it. He even insisted I did not punish Malou. He packed us both offhere to Louisiana. And now-now I am beginning to understand why-'

'Richard Abdee is alive?'

Naomi's question took Vicky by surprise. She turned in her chair, asking, 'You've met him? My grandfather?'

'How do you think I know about your father? Why do you think I've bothered all these years about Dragonard Hill? Wasted my time with you? Oh, I've grown to like you in a strange way. Like one vixen respects another. I rant at you one moment. Help you the next. But my first concern always has been for your grandfather. Richard Abdee. I knew him on St Kitts. When he was only a-' She laughed '-the public. . . whipmaster! He left my bed to marry Honore Jubiot. Her plantation was called "Pet.i.t Jour", He changed it to Dragonard when he married her. That is where I got the name for my place here on Rampart 220.

Street..." She paused and, grabbing Vicky by both shoulders, she demanded, 'Richard Abdee is still alive? You are sure of it?'

'He was/ Vicky said, staring at the face under the black lace veil, skin which she now saw was scarred and stretched into a grotesque shape. She pulled back in repulsion, murmuring, 'He was alive when I left Havana.'

Freeing Vicky from her grasp, Naomi stood over her chair saying, 'Tell me this now. Do you want to return to Havana? Truly?'

Vicky fleetingly considered the question. She shook her head, saying, 'I cannot answer that. Not so soon.'

I will not press you. But I know this. I am going to Havana! And as long as your husband's threat is being held in effect by the harbour officials there, young lady, you cannot go near the place. So, I have a proposition to make to you, fellow vixen gal!'

Throwing back her head and laughing, Naomi said, 'The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I knew he was alive! I knew that we'd meet again!'

Stopping, spinning around in her office, Naomi iaced an ivory-framed mirror hanging behind her. She slowly approached the mirror, looking at the veiled reflection of her face. She said as if she had forgotten that Vicky was sitting in the room behind her, I wonder how he came out... How he survived . . . Does he look as-bad as I do?. . . What happened to-him?*

Naomi had been young then. Her lover was the young Englishman, Richard Abdee, whose blond hair swept back from his forehead, the only white man whom Naomi had ever known to be built like a Negro. They were well matched as lovers. He enjoyed her independence. But, finally, that night he told her to leave him.

Another windmill had been set afire that night, its straw flaps slowly revolving-burning-against the streaked Caribbean sunset. And, again, Richard Abdee tried to persuade Naomi to leave the plantation while there was still time for her life to be saved. The drums told that the troubles were close.

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