Pure Enchantment: Pure Escapades, #3

Pure

Enchantment

by

Auria Jourdain

Copyright 2017

Auria Jourdain Books

Edition 1.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The historical events are also fabricated; however, the historical details of the times were researched for accuracy. Some literary license was taken with certain places and dates to fit the story. Any product names are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.

~This book is also in print at online retailers~

DEDICATION

To all the history lovers out there who hold pirate tales close to their hearts.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

* Special thanks to my CP and good friend, Dixie Lee Brown, who has mentored me over the years. She’s been my biggest support network, and without her, I’m not sure I’d still be writing. Thank you, my friend.

*Thanks so much my husband, Brian Hughes, who continues to support me with love and encouragement—including proofing and reading for me.

* Thanks also to my beta readers, Deb Aspinwall and Michele Macleod. You ladies have been such wonderful supporters of mine, and as my target audience, your input was insightful.

* Special thanks to Kelly Moran for helping me work out some cover design issues.

* A big shout out to the Floozies: Dixie Brown, Kelly Moran, Arial Burnz, AJ Nuest, Vonnie Davis, Alison Bliss, Sarah Grimm, Mackenzie Crowne, Angel Nicholas, & Amy Lillard. I’ve learned so much from all of you, and your support the last year has been fantastic. You girls rock!

*And, finally, to my local book club girls who have taken me into their group with open arms. Margo Holm, Amy Lagalo, Tammy Lynn, Jean Basom, and Meg Kolesar—thank you for your support!

*Cover art design and photography by: Earth and Sky Design. Stock Photographs legally licensed for web and print cover design purposes from Period Images, J.M. Hughes Photography, Adobe Stock Photos and Stock Photo Secrets.

Forward

Who doesn’t love a swashbuckling tale? Jean and Pierre Lafitte, mainstays in New Orleanian history, are the ultimate pirates of their time—legends, depending on whose account you read. Between their Robin Hood-esque ways in defying the new American government to their exploits in Barataria Bay, the brothers have certainly solidified their place in American history. No matter who tells it, the story of the Lafittes is a fascinating historical account, and from the Blacksmith Shop (of which I take quite the literary license in my novels) to the Old Absinthe House and the quadroon balls, the French Quarter is full of Lafitte history.

Because of its strong French influence, New Orleans is one of my favorite places to visit. As with my previous book, Pure Temptation, I did extensive research about the Big Easy. After three trips to the city, including two excursions into the bayous and a tour to Metairie, I decided that a fictionalized cousin, Alex Lafitte, needed to make an entrance in my series.

There are so many conflicting accounts of the Lafitte brothers and their beginnings. I chose to use the versions of historians I felt were most credible in their knowledge: historians Winston Groom (Patriotic Fire) and A.J. Langguth (Union 1812: The Americans Who Fought the Second War of Independence). Their books spurred me to take my series down the path of the War of 1812, one that isn’t often covered in historical romance.

Pure Enchantment covers the beginnings of the War, including the trade embargo of 1808, the auspicious beginnings of Louisiana as an American territory (and later, state), and the slave rebellions on the German Coast that were remnants of Toussaint L’Overture’s uprisings (and others) in the West Indies during the Napoleonic years. While my fictional account centers around these events, I have taken great liberties with my renditions to fit my story.

As with many of my other novels, I wanted to address stigmas and social issues that still have impacts on our society, even today. The negative effects of slavery and the discord between the races is a discussion we need to have. With our knowledge of history, we can begin to understand—and sympathize—with our African-American brethren and their struggles in American society. Zaria St. Claire was born after I researched two doctoral theses on the lives of Creole women in the West Indies and a book about the lives of quadroons in New Orleans. To add flavor to the mix, I couldn’t help but throw in the Voodoo, hence Zaria’s mother’s influence. Madame Mena makes an appearance in Pure Enchantment, and the next book in this series as well.

While I am not a black woman and I have no context as to how it was to live as a femme de couleur libre in New Orleans, I hope this story conveys my empathies and admiration for their strength and tenacity. The whirlwind of emotions that free colored women experienced during this time was surely tumultuous.

Note: Due to context and historical accuracy, I used a few derogatory terms throughout this novel in dialogue that people might have used during this time. In no way do I condone using such vulgarities today. Also, my intent was not to offend anyone who practices Voodoo. I don’t claim to understand, nor do I disrespect, the gods and/or beliefs of this religion.

Research List:

* Union 1812: The Americans Who Fought the Second War of Independence — A.J. Langguth

*The Battle of New Orleans — Robert V. Remini

* Patriotic Fire: Andrew Jackson and Pierre Lafitte at the Battle of New Orleans — Winston Groom

* Haitian Voodoo — Mambo Chita Tann

*Voodoo in New Orleans — Robert Tallant

* The Strange History of the American Quadroon — Emily Clark

* Centering Women: Gender Discourses in Caribbean Slave Society — Hilary McD. Beckles

* The Sugar Barons — Matthew Parker

* Sugar and Slavery, Family and Race — Elborg Forster & Robert Forster

* Creole: The History and Legacy of Louisiana Free People of Color—Sybil Kein

* Women and Slavery in the French Antilles, 1635-1848 — Bernard Moitt

*Women in Caribbean History — Verene A. Shepherd

Word Bank

French Words and their meanings:

A Demain — See you later (literally, upon the morrow)

Allons-y—vit! — Let’s go...quickly!

au revoir — Goodbye

beaucoup — very much

Bien sûr! — Of course!

bon — good

Bonjour — Hello, Good morning

Bonne nuit — Good night

C’est magnifique — It’s magnificent

Comprends-tu — Understood? as in do you understand

femmes de couleur libre — free woman of color

gamin — derogatory word in this period for a vagabond

gens de couleur libre — free person of color

Je desolé — I’m sorry

Je t’aime — I love you

ma chérie — my darling

Madame — Mrs.

Mademoiselle —Miss (not married)

mais oui — but, of course!

ma petite —little one (term of endearment for a girl or daughter)

merci — thank you

merde — shit

mon ami — my friend

mon amour — my love

mon dieu or dieu — My Lord (nicer version)

Monsieur— Mister

n’est-ce pas (ness pa) — isn’t it

non — no

oui — yes

pour toute le monde — for everyone

Sacre bleu — stronger version of my lord (sacred mother in blue)

s’il vous plait — please

Vieux Carré — the French Quarter

*In Chapter 4, when Alex talks with the little tyke, Mac — De mon corps mort...ou son means over my dead body—or yours.

Prologue

New Orleans, Louisiana

December 1808

I want out.

Alex Lafitte tossed a parcel on the mahogany desk, directing a frosty glare at his cousin, Pierre. Since moving their operations from Martinique to the Blacksmith Shop on Bourbon Street five years ago, Jean and Pierre Lafitte had become as infamous in New Orleans society as they had around the islands, and Alex wanted no part of it. 

Ignoring the fat envelope sitting in front of him, Pierre stroked the lapels of his fancy silk overcoat with a twist of his lips. "It is good to see you, too, mon cousin. His deep voice, laden with a thick French accent, echoed off the tin ceilings, and with a flippant wave of his hand, he indicated that Alex join him. Would you care for a drink?"

"Non, merci. Alex brushed the dirt from the plantation chair before he sat. Gazing at his cousin intently, he eyed the well-dressed Frenchman with disdain. You’re looking fit, Pierre. It seems New Orleans agrees with you."

Shrugging nonchalantly, Pierre grinned. I can’t complain. You’ve seen our shelves. They’re overflowing with merchandise. Everyone wants to buy goods from Lafitte Enterprises. The masques, the women, impeccable fashion... this grand city has been good to all of us.

Alex removed his cocked hat and glanced around with a sigh. Indeed, the shelves of the shop on Rue Royale were filled to the brim. Unfortunately, most of it was ill-gained. "The Americans are none the wiser since you’ve managed to successfully maneuver around the embargo. But we’re Americans now, oui?"

Oh, posh. Governor Claiborne can’t see in front of his own nose. He isn’t well-liked among New Orleanians, and who do we serve? I understand you and Jean had a banner trip to Havana. How many slaves did you bring back?

Remember why you’re here, Lafitte. Taking a deep breath, Alex sat forward, his jaw clenched in determination. Family or not, after the Enchanted Lady’s last run, Alex vowed to extricate himself from his cousins’ grasps once and for all. One hundred fifty, plus a few British loyalists, not to mention a dead slave or two. Thanks to Jean. Alex pushed the money toward his cousin once more. That was my last run, Pierre. I’m done.

Raising his bushy eyebrows, Pierre scrutinized Alex carefully. He finally sat forward with a sigh and opened the envelope. What is this?

Alex set his lips in a firm line. "Everything I have. I want to buy the Enchanted Lady."

Dumping the purse on the desk, Pierre counted the money, his dark eyes gleaming. "Sacre bleu! You’ve been saving, haven’t you?"

For two years. I’m extricating myself from Lafitte Enterprises—for good.

Pierre shook his head, a smirk whispering at his thin lips. "Are you sure you want out now, Alex? Jean’s new premises promises to be the best port in the Americas. We’ve already seen a return on our investments. In fact, I just bought a row of townhouses on Rue Dumaine for all of us. Think about it! You could be rich. Soirées and fine ladies every night... you’d never have to sail aboard that run-down heap again."

Slamming his fists on the desk, Alex bolted up. I don’t care about wealth! I’m a sea captain, and I want my freedom from this mess.

For whom will you sail? Twirling his black mustache around his fingers, Pierre tittered, his hazel eyes gleaming mischievously. "Mais oui, I forgot you and your former love, Madame Barberry are still good friends. I’m sure Governor Taylor can issue you a marque from Martinique to keep you safe from the wrath of the Brits—or pirates like us."

Alex clenched his fists as Pierre’s threat struck him in his chest. "I gave you plenty to cover the Lady and her expenses threefold. Take it!"

Pierre sighed and kicked his small feet up on the desk. This isn’t a decision I can make on my own, Alex. I need to speak with my brother first. Jean deserves to know, don’t you think?

What do you care? You’re the brains of the operation. Jean’s overseeing his auctions at Barataria Bay. He never cared about the business side of things. You have three other ships under your employ, so losing one merchant brig won’t hurt you, especially with Jean accosting the British and Spanish every trip he makes.

Pierre stroked his chin and nodded. "C’est vrai. But how do we know you won’t go to Governor Claiborne? You’ve been a part of our operation since you were a child, Alex. You know every move we’ve made."

Alex rolled his eyes, growling in exasperation. "Sacre bleu, why would I turn you and Jean in? I’d only bring trouble to myself. I’m not the one you should worry about, cousin. Claiborne wouldn’t bat an eye at capturing any Lafitte."

Sitting forward, Pierre folded his hands with a nod. "Oui. The American authorities are suspicious of everything we do. Our newly esteemed governor has been a thorn in our side since he arrived, and any Lafitte in his jail cell would certainly make him happy. But your word alone isn’t good enough for me. I’ll need something more binding."

Pierre stood and smoothed his olive-green breeches. Opening the heavy oak door, he called out, "Bernard, I need your assistance, mon ami."

Monsieur Delacroix is here? Why? Alex stared at Pierre. He couldn’t believe that the family’s long-time proprietor had made the long trip from Martinique.

He’s looking at our books. Jean’s business efforts have doubled our profits, and I don’t have time to keep it all straight.

Irritated and worn out, Alex suppressed his negative energy. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with legal documents this trip, especially without Reece Carrow to help. But, apparently Pierre wasn’t willing to trust that Alex could never forsake his family.

The door opened, and Alex held out his hand to amicably greet the familiar old man. Monsieur Delacroix, I apologize. I had no idea you were in New Orleans.

Bernard Delacroix returned Alex’s handshake with a smile. Monsieur Alex, it is good to see you. I trust you are well? 

"Oui, Merci." That was a falsehood, but Alex didn’t have time for mundane platitudes. The Lady would be stocked and ready to sail soon, and Alex wanted to get to the Barberry plantation before sunset. "Bon. Let’s finish this."

With a heavy sigh, Pierre opened his desk drawer. He handed a spare bit of parchment and a quill to Delacroix. Bernard, I need you to write a binding contract between Alex and me, if you would.

"Of course, Monsieur." Sitting at the desk, the man dipped the feather in ink, looking at them patiently.

Pierre raised his eyebrow. Do you plan on keeping your accounts with Delacroix’s firm? 

Alex nodded curtly. I’ve considered no one else.

"That works out for everyone. D’accord. I will free you from all Lafitte operations. As compensation, Delacroix will extricate an extra five percent from each shipment you procure to be paid to Jean and me for ten years."

"Merde, that’s thievery! I already pay Delacroix five percent to manage my books." Alex’s heart thumped erratically as he attempted to control himself. Drawing a deep breath, he silently cursed his wily cousin. This was a bad idea, and Alex was playing with fire. But what choice did he have?

Placing his palms flat upon his desk, Pierre stared at Alex, his nostrils flaring. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it. Since you’ve forced me to make this decision myself, I’m sure Jean will have no problems letting you go with that arrangement.

Alex flattened his lips into a thin line. Damn the man—he had planned this! Alex and Pierre had never been close, but didn’t it matter that he was blood? Biting out a sigh of irritation, Alex stabbed his fingers through his hair. Fine. But I keep my customers here in the Territories—Taylor, Barberry, St. Claire, and Brown. And, I want Reece Carrow. Surely you can spare one of your impressed British sailors.

Pierre laughed, his lips curling against his teeth. If you want that rogue, you must be touched in the head. Carrow’s nothing more than a supercilious pain. Bernard, write it up so Alex can be on his way.

After an hour of waiting for the old man to finish scribing their new agreement, Alex signed the documents and threw them on Pierre’s desk. An immediate weight lifted from his shoulders, and he sighed in relief. He was finally free.

With a curt nod, Alex went to the door. When Pierre clutched his shoulder tightly from behind, Alex whipped around, ready for a fight. What the hell?

Pierre held his palm up, squinting at Alex. "One more thing, cousin—just a small reminder. No matter what, you will always be a Lafitte. Nothing you do will ever change that."

Glaring at Pierre, Alex placed his hat on his head. His cousins weren’t afraid to use their name for power and leverage, but he refused to lump himself in with them. He was a mere sea captain—albeit a Lafitte, nonetheless. A curse... now and always. We’ll see.

Alex pushed past his cousin. As he wound his way through the crowd on Royale, Alex muttered a curse.

Captain!

Reece Carrow, his best friend and most loyal sailor, called to him through the holiday crowds, and Alex turned around. They had docked at the Port of New Orleans mere hours before Alex went to the shop on Royale, leaving his crew to see to the preparations for their next trip.

Captain Lafitte, wait for me!

Alex walked faster. He didn’t want Reece to see him like this. Rage still clouded his mind after dealing with Pierre. Unfortunately, Christmas shoppers swarmed the Place d’Armes, making maneuvering the square difficult.

Come on, Lafitte, don’t be an ass!

Feeling a sharp tug on the back of his overcoat, Alex whipped around, fury bubbling at the surface. Couldn’t the man see that he wanted to deal with this problem alone? Go back to the ship, Carrow—that’s an order!

Folding his beefy arms over his chest, Reece pulled his skull cap from his balding head with a stubborn pout. No, sir. I refuse to let you face Jean and Pierre by yourself.

It’s my problem, Reece. I have to deal with my cousins on my own.

Reece rolled his eyes heavenward. We’re in this together, Alex. Besides, I’d love to give that fancy dandy a piece of my mind.

Alex sighed heavily, his brows furrowing. The sympathetic look on his friend’s face only made him feel worse. There was no use in rehashing it now. It was over and done, the ink barely dry on the contract. It’s too late, Reece. I’ve sealed my fate. There is no way in hell I’m risking my customers and my marque to do Pierre and Jean’s barbarous biddings. Alex closed his lips tight.

Reece clasped Alex’s shoulder and nodded. I agree with you, Captain. I want to go with you.

Standing akimbo, Alex smiled at his friend. Despite having been at sea only a brief time, Reece Carrow had been loyal to a fault. What would he say when Alex told him he’d already been bought?

A former doctor maybe five years Alex’s senior, Carrow had been forced to work on a British brig that Jean and Alex had pillaged off the coast of Saint Domingue. They’d saved Carrow, and it was the best thing that Alex had ever done. The man was a hard-working sailor with bright blue eyes and a ready smile, and the crew liked him. Better yet, they respected him. What more could he ask for? Alex’s mouth curved into a broad grin. He’d treasured the last three years on the sea with Carrow, and, save for Talon Barberry, there wasn’t another man he would trust with his life. But first, he had to be sure Carrow’s heart was in the right place.

Alex raised his eyebrow. You realize that defying my cousins could come back to haunt you later.

Reece’s chin jutted out stubbornly. I don’t care. I’m tired of Jean’s cruelty. I didn’t spend three years of my life in medicine to sew up slashes across a child’s back because Jean can’t hold his temper.

The pain of the last three years reflected in the man’s eyes, and Alex nodded. They had both been traumatized by the Lafitte way of doing business. What if Jean and Pierre don’t agree to my terms? They might throw you off in Havana at their next stop. They aren’t exactly the forgiving type.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Reece held his head high, his eyes sparking. Then I’ll mutiny and find my way to New Haven... maybe volunteer for the new American Navy.

A large guffaw left Alex’s lips as he pictured the forty-two-year-old man on the ratlines of the new naval frigates. "That would be quite a sight, mon ami."

It’s a hell of a lot better than slaving for Lafitte and his band of unruly cretins, Reece stated.

That it is. The Americans would be fortunate to have an old buccaneer like you on board their ships. Cocking his head, Alex focused intently on Reece. Can I trust you?

How do you mean?

"Well, I recently purchased a large ship, and I need a first mate that I can trust. I can’t sail my Lady without help. You know what a temperamental bitch she can be." Alex winked.

Reece clenched his fists, his eyes wide. You son of a—you... you want me as your first?

"Oui. You’ve shown your loyalty to the Lady and me ten times over, Carrow. I need a man by my side that will follow me through hell. So, are you in?"

Smiling broadly, Reece stood at attention and raised his hand in a firm salute. Aye, sir! I promise to be a good leader. In fact, I’ll hire the crew for you. And, I guarantee they’ll be no young lads on our rat lines.

Alex’s lips curved into a grin. For the first time in four years, freedom flooded through him, knowing he’d never have to watch a child suffer from Jean’s barbarous tirades again. Clapping Reece on the back, Alex looked out at the horizon. "Agreed. Thank you, mon ami. I foresee many adventures for us and the Enchanted Lady."

PART I:

ADVENTURE

ON THE

OPEN

SEAS

Chapter 1

Three years later... the bayous of New Orleans, January 1811

Zaria, I’s can’ get ‘dis goin’ unless you help me. Quick now! Dust this off an’ put it on da table.

Zaria St. Claire jumped aside with a gasp, flinching as she caught the flask that her mother had tossed to her. Hiking up her vibrant skirts, her mother issued her a stern glare and shoved Zaria toward the makeshift altar in the middle of the room.

Removing the vase of spring tulips that sat upon a doily in the center of the table, Zaria sighed. Not a follower of the Voudou, Zaria saw no point in this silly ritual. But when Madame Mena had a vision, nobody dared stand in her way. The Voudou priestess often over-dramatized things—it was her façade. But because of recent events, her mother’s sense of urgency had taken precedence over everything else. Zaria had no idea what her mama had seen, but it couldn’t be any worse than what she had witnessed at St. Claire Manor two nights ago—and now, she was running from the law.

Brushing the tears from her lashes, Zaria set the bottle on the altar. She didn’t feel like her life was in danger. Surely, the constable had better sense than to start trouble where there was none. Like her mother, she was a femme de couleur libre, and her father had been a well-respected planter—before his untimely death, that is.

As the fire crackled in the hearth, Zaria inhaled the spicy scent of dinner wafting through the cabin. Her stomach growled. Mama, can’t we just forget this nonsense and sit down to a delicious meal? The gumbo smells amazing.

Madame Mena gathered the last remaining herbs to add to her dais. "Don’t fight me, Zaria. We gots to do dis right now. Time is not on our side, ma p’tite—da constable will be comin’ for you soon, I guarantee it. Get da curtains, now. I’s almost ready."

Rolling her eyes heavenward, Zaria yanked the black cloth over the windows, filtering out the last light of day peeking through the worn wooden shutters of the rustic cabin. Mama, I’m tired and hungry. I want to get home before dark. I’m begging you, can’t we just—

With a flick of her wrist, Madame Mena wiped the sweat from her dark brow and gave her daughter a stern look. Light da candles and incense. It be time.

Throwing her hands up in resignation, Zaria went to the stone hearth and removed a piece of straw from the brass container on the mantle. She dipped the tip in oil and struck a flame from the flint, lighting the candles on her mother’s altar. Shadows danced across the bare wooden floors as the room took on a mysterious hue, and Zaria waited for her mother to finish her preparations.

Standing at her altar, Madame Mena closed her eyes and hummed low in her throat, her long, dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks. She muttered a quick Our Father and Hail Mary, crossing herself in the process, and began her ritual with an offered prayer to Boynde.

Zaria stifled a yawn, her head bobbing as she tried to ward of the effects of the pungent incense. She had witnessed a few of Madame Mena’s rituals over the years, but an uncomfortable atmosphere surrounded them, as dark as the curls of smoke that emanated from the dais. If this sacrament makes Mama feel better, so be it. She certainly wouldn’t dishonor the woman who had given her life.

Zaria shifted uncomfortably. She wished she could just go back to the manor. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and after a big bowl of gumbo, she planned on reading a bit of René before she fell asleep. The romantic novel was her father’s last gift to her before his death, and every time Zaria read it, she felt close to him.

Madame Mena suddenly cried out, startling Zaria from her thoughts. The woman’s eyes bolted open as she raced to the door to relight the yellow candle upon the threshold. Returning to her altar, Madame Mena threw her hands up with an air of finality and began to chant in her thick, melodious voice.

I calls upon ya’, Papa Legba. Hear our biddin’ and give us your acceptance, Great Spirit! I asks you to open da crossroads an’ speak to me!

As Madame Mena danced around her, her lithe body twirling in rhythm with her chanting, the flames of the flickering candles sparkled across her face. Zaria’s stomach growled once more. Placing her hands on her hips, she scowled. Mama, enough of this. I’m going home—

With a forceful glare, Madame Mena grabbed Zaria by the shoulders and plunked her in the rickety chair that sat in front of the dais. Taking a small jar from the pocket of her red robes, the woman dipped her thumb in the pungent paste and stroked the sign of a cross upon Zaria’s forehead with a quick flick. Prostrating before her, Madame Mena pulsed with her music, her deep voice reaching out to her gods in incoherent babble.

The rosemary and mint balm tickled Zaria’s nose, and the sweet, heady scent of the incense her mother had chosen permeated the room. Her head swam as her body and mind released all that had happened the last few days. Zaria tried to fight the strange sensations, but her eyes drooped, and she swayed back and forth. No longer in control of herself, she sank back into the chair, succumbing to the tingles that radiated through her limbs. With concerted effort, Zaria focused on her mother’s haunting song to her ancestral gods.

’Tank you, Ezili Danto, fo’ yo’ wisdom! Now, I ask you, Papa Legba, you bring Ogou to Madame Mena! The old woman began to sing. "Ogou, Ogou, Fe Fe Feray O! Those who’s done good to otha’s, give dem life for me. Those who do bad, let they blood run down!"

Zaria couldn’t think. The entire cabin appeared to rotate. Grasping her head in desperation, she tried to right herself. Madame Mena lit the candles in front of Zaria, and murmuring in a foreign tongue, she massaged Zaria’s shoulders with a reassuring smile. "Don’ fight it, ma p’tite. Relax your mind."

Madame Mena reduced her chant to a dull hum while she placed an offering of rice mixed with red beans and yams in a bowl on the table. Encircling it with nine silver coins, she lifted her voice once more and doused the gift with the contents of the small bottle. With a final flourish, her mother spritzed the air around Zaria, and an exotic mix of magnolias and vanilla infiltrated her senses.

Resuming her dance, Madame Mena twirled around the room, her voice escalating, and after a few more minutes of flailing about, she threw her arms in the air and came to a sudden halt.

Zaria clutched her seat as her mother grasped her shoulders with her long fingers. Suddenly, the room spun, and a sense of disembodiment clouded Zaria’s mind. As her mother’s energies washed over her, a blinding light transported Zaria back to her father’s plantation three nights prior when the free-colored rebels attacked her father’s home...

Zaria sat on the veranda with her father after dinner, enjoying a glass of lemonade and the unusually warm, winter evening. As the deep rumbling of drums echoed through the valley, her papa’s brow furrowed. Sacre Bleu...

Stepping from the porch, he pointed to the skies. Smoke rose up over the trees, and the drums were getting closer. Confused, Zaria followed her father. Papa, what is it?

I don’t know, ma petite... stay here.

Papa, look!

Emerging from the woods, hundreds of gens de couleur hiked across St. Claire Manor armed with pikes, axes, and torches. Her father pointed at them, his face contorted in anger. Mon dieu, what are you doing? Get off my land!

But the rebels marched closer. Their rowdy din, mixed with her father’s pleas, carried on the breeze, and Zaria ran toward him. Papa!

As their servants emerged from the barn and the fields, they gathered any tools they could find to ward off the intruders. Still, the rebels marched forward. Fearful, Zaria ran back to the house. Gibb! Help us!

Her father’s loyal manservant burst from the French doors. Mam’zelle, t’ain’ safe here! You’s go inside, hear? I’s help Massa André.

Hiding behind the chairs, Zaria held her breath. The people she knew and loved scrambled for cover as the crowd drew nearer. Please be careful, Gibb!

Several of their workers joined the melee. Her father held his arms out, attempting to reason with his help, but they charged their master. Throwing André to the ground, two men set the barn ablaze. As flames consumed the weathered oak, Gibb raced into the burning building to free the horses that were whinnying piteously from their stalls.

Suddenly, a familiar figure emerged from the rising smoke with a torch firmly in hand. Zaria gasped. Claude! Please, help us!

Pulling an ax from a nearby woodpile, her best friend, Claude Logaly, sneered at Zaria. Fury smoldered in his coal black eyes. Pour toute le monde!

Abandoning her hiding place, Zaria raced to her father’s side. Claude, no! Don’t hurt my papa! If you love me...

For a split second, the Haitian man hesitated. Pursing his full lips, he shook his head. Lifting his ax in the air, Claude strode toward her father, screaming violently as he buried his ax within her father’s chest.

As the crimson stain spread across his chest, terror and pain ripped through Zaria’s body. André gasped for air, and Zaria collapsed over her father. Non, Papa! Mon dieu!

Zaria...je t’— As her father took his last breath, his arm dropped to the ground, and Zaria sobbed.

The loud cantering of approaching horses and the escalating pandemonium of the rebels roused Zaria from her grief. She glanced up as armed militiamen rounded the bend of St. Claire Manor. Coloreds scattered in every direction, and the constable and his men seized several renegades, casting chains upon the captured.

From the corner of her eye, Zaria caught sight of Claude just as he darted off into the bayou. Rage drove her pain away, and Zaria rose from the ground. That way! They’re in the bayous!

The constable pointed in her direction. That’s André’s mulatto child—seize her!

As fear overtook her rage, Zaria picked up her skirts and ran, following the rebels into the marshy forest...

––––––––

Zaria’s vision faded. Clutching the skirt of her gown, she gazed owlishly at her surroundings. Mama’s cabin... I’m safe... I’m home. Fear and sadness pierced her heart as Zaria covered her face, sobbing piteously.

Madame Mena finished her chant and gathered Zaria into her comforting arms. ’Der, ‘der ma sweet. ‘Twill be fine. You’s safe wit’ me— Madame Mena hissed and went rigid, her eyes rolling skyward.

Mama, what’s the matter? Zaria shook her trembling mother, but the woman merely stared at the dingy ceiling with her arms wide and her feet planted firmly on the ground. Zaria tugged on her mother’s robes in panic.

Madame Mena’s fingers quivered against her temples as her eyes readjusted. Her voice rough, she whispered, "We gots a new spirit here! Agwe? Mon dieu...’dat is interestin’."

As Madame Mena collapsed to the wood floor, her dark hairline brimmed with sweat and her skin glistened with dew. Zaria jumped up to help her mother to the chair. Mama, are you hurt? Who’s Agwe?

Madame Mena went limp for a moment. Gathering her skirts, she stood and patted Zaria on the