O’Malley and his men busied themselves putting the house to rights. They picked up my husband’s body and moved it to the icehouse. Mr. Sutter was brought there too, wrapped in a blanket so none of the hands could see him, as it is well known that the sight of a dead overseer agitates the negroes. Two of the patrol stayed downstairs all night, prowling about ceaselessly, though there was no danger of the insurrectionists returning. After wrecking the house and taking off everything from flatware to footstools, as if they intended to set up a plantation of their own down the way, they had marched to the river road in time to run right into the patrol.
The chase was violent and protracted, much of it in the bottomland, where mud and the darkness complicated the outcome. One of the patrol was shot in the leg, another stabbed through the eye. Four of the negroes, including the captain, were shot dead, the other two were captured and trussed for hanging. The patrol had passed half the night in pursuit and spent the other half moving the captives downriver, where they were joined by a second patrol coming north who informed them that a battle was raging in Donaldsonville and all men called. It was not until morning that Mr. O’Malley recollected seeing my spoons gleaming in the mud and thought to investigate the Gaudet plantation.
When it was all over, they had captured fifty negroes; every one was shot or hanged in the next few days. Casualties among the planters were not heavy. There were a dozen injured and two murdered: my husband and his overseer, Mr. Sutter.
THE NEXT MORNING my aunt came up from town; she was followed by a mule-drawn cart containing two coffins sent from Chatterly by my brother-in-law, Charles Gaudet. This gentleman arrived with his son Edmund in the afternoon. I refused to see anyone, as I was too sick to leave my bed, so all the arrangements fell to my aunt, which suited everyone. She sent me her own maid, a capable nurse, who administered different medicines and fed me soup, tea, and custard. Though it hurt to eat, I was ravenous. All day I listened to the front door opening and closing, the drone of voices, at first subdued, but, as the rooms filled and my aunt served a buffet dinner with quantities of wine, gradually more lively, occasionally punctuated by laughter. My aunt looked in on me every hour to describe the progress of the funeral. All the planters for miles along the river attended, for even those who had disliked my husband, or scarcely made his acquaintance, understood the importance of standing at his graveside. In the afternoon they walked out to the cemetery for a brief ceremony, then came back to the house for more food and wine. I heard it all through a curtain of pain. Toward dark they began to drift away, and so did I, into a feverish sleep. When I woke it was morning and my aunt was sitting next to my bed with an envelope in her lap.
“How are you feeling, my dear?” she said.
There was an agreeable moment of clarity in which I knew that my husband was dead and buried, followed by a blast of pain so powerful it chased out every fact save itself. “Never worse,” I said.
“What can I give you?” She gestured to the table of medicines.
“Just a little water.”
She poured a glass and brought it to my lips. “Is the letter for me?” I said when I had swallowed a few sips.
“It is from Joel Borden. He particularly asked me to bring it to you.”
“Let me see it,” I said. My aunt proffered the envelope and I made an awkward business of opening it in my lap. I shook out the page and read:
My dearest Manon,
The enormity of your misfortune is so staggering I hardly know what words to write. First your dear mother, and now this horrible misfortune and loss. If I can be of any help to you in days to come, please call upon me. If not, I hope it will be some small comfort to you to receive the sympathy and affection of your devoted friend,
Joel
“This is so kind,” I said. Then the stabbing pain in my face reminded me of my injuries. I laid my palm against the bandage over my cheek. “What will I look like when my face is healed?”
“Dr. Landry is an excellent surgeon,” my aunt assured me. “He put twenty-seven stitches in my Ines’s forehead and there is barely a scar.”
“But my mouth,” I said, probing the spiky threads that ran from inside my lip to the base of my chin.
My aunt made no reply. Perhaps she thought me frivolous, though I doubt any woman can entertain the possibility of disfigurement with equanimity. I folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. I had to use my left hand to move my right hand into a useful position. What would look worse, I wondered, my face or my arm hanging limp at my side?
“Manon,” my aunt said, “where is Sarah?”