Persimmon Bayou

By Mary Brockway

The brutal murder of Delphine's twin sister, Chandler's moody drinking, and the threat of starvation came to the Persimmon plantation. Finding lost jewelry with a bloody past and catching a murderer, before he or she kills again, while trying to save her home. Can she hold everything together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597051514

Book preview

One

Delphine MacMichael stood with the mourners gathered in the white-fenced cemetery. As the pall bearers lowered her sister’s coffin into the red clay hole, she thanked God for one thing. The jagged knife wound in Diantha’s throat lay hidden under her high-necked dress. It was as if her own throat had been slashed and Delphine wondered whether she’d ever be able to swallow again with comfort.

A warm breeze rustling through the magnolia trees tossed spring petals to polka-dot the sluggish brown bayou water. From this day, the perfume of the magnolias would be deeply etched into Delphine’s memory. The waxy white blossoms would remind her forever of her twin sister Diantha’s face, a face drained of color by death.

Pastor Johns intoned the familiar burial words, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Father in Heaven, we commend this young soul to your keeping. Delphine barely heard him through her own torment over the horror revealed when the sheriff brought the body to be prepared for burial. Did others know about the blood despoiling her sister’s torn undergarments? Had they noticed that Diantha’s hair had been arranged over her ear lobes to hide evidence they were sliced through, and her gold, ruby, and sapphire, earrings stolen? Who hated Diantha enough to rape and murder her?

Turning away from the mourners, Delphine walked down the incline to a path beside the sluggish bayou. Could she summon enough strength to pull the shattered family together? She must face the stark fact that no one else would shoulder Persimmon’s problems. Three days after Diantha’s murder, this task looked impossible. Her mother, brother, and younger sister were burdens, not assets.

Since Papa died, Mama had walked like a phantom figure, speaking in disconnected sentences when she spoke at all. Bella MacMichael had suffered too many shocks during four years of war when her lifetime of plantation luxury and security slipped away. The past two years since the war ended, she had seen her husband die, and her only surviving son return with a leg missing. Now, Mama spent her time rocking on the veranda and staring down the lane as if waiting for someone to return.

Delphine paused to glance backward at the grassy knoll containing a century of MacMichael, Anthony, and Chandler graves, their headstones nestled inside the cemetery fence. Papa’s and Diantha’s simple white crosses added two more to the family plot. Some day, when she could afford them, there would be polished granite markers with inscriptions: Beloved father, Angus Callum MacMichael- born June 20, 1804, Glasgow, Scotland, died, September 1, 1866 near his home, Persimmon Bayou. On her sister’s stone, she’d have a spray of magnolias etched along with, Diantha Ilona MacMichael- born August 10, 1849, died April 10, 1867 at Persimmon Bayou.

In a corner of the cemetery were rows of crosses marking the graves of former MacMichael slaves. The simple white markers bore printed names like Doke, Effie, Rige, and a few last names, including the Simon family. Ezra had taken his name from Simon Peter in the Bible, apologizing that he thought Simon fit his black face better than a Scotch/Irish name like MacMichael. Angus MacMichael had freed Ezra and his family five years before the firing on Fort Sumter, and had drawn legal papers to extend freedom to all two hundred Persimmon Bayou’s slaves. Other plantation owners, especially Tobias Ranson, from the neighboring thousand acres, argued vehemently that MacMichael would ruin the South.

Papa probably understood Ezra’s feeling about names. He’d never quite accepted Bella’s christening their daughters with Greek titles. His two sons, Anthony, killed at Antietam, and Chandler, were born before the girls. Four years after Chandler came her and her twin, Diantha’s, birth then Thea, now fifteen.

The war between North and South had reduced both number and fortune in the MacMichael family. Delphine recalled the day, two years ago, when Angus and Bella MacMichael heard the news of Lee’s surrender from a group of Union soldiers who were taking a last fling at looting and destruction. The family had huddled in the cellar of the summer house until the troops moved down the dusty road. Her father had constructed this twelve by twelve foot sanctuary to store crop seed and provisions, which kept the family from starving during the war. The cellar had a hidden exit on the steep bluff overlooking the river and bayou.

Encounters with the Blue Coats the last year of war when Sherman finished off the South, left little of value in the plantation house, stables, and barns. The two-storied white-columned brick house had more boarded windows than glass. Deep scratches from heavy boots would forever mar the marble entry and the polished oak floors. Furniture, paintings, and china were either broken or carried away. The large cotton and cane plantation, edging a high bluff overlooking the lazy river bayou, had been owned by Bella’s family for one hundred and fifty years.

After the guns of the ruinous war were stilled, and proclamation freed the rest of the plantation’s slaves, Phoebe and Ezra Simon, who had been given full freedom before the war, were still devoted to their former master’s family, and stayed because they had nowhere to go, nor inclination for change.

Delphine clearly remembered the day the war ended. The stench of the smoke curling from the smoldering ruin of the plantation sawmill beside the muddy river bayou stayed in the air for days. Papa blamed the fire on the Ranson slaves, who had carried on their own rampage before occupation troops arrived. Shaking her head, trying to dispel her melancholy, she walked back to the family standing like a black curtain around the fresh, flower-strewn mound. She envied their copious tears. Hers were stuck like a lump of clay beneath her heart.

A movement behind a persimmon tree caught her attention. She sighed. Just Chandler nipping a drink from the liquor flask he always carried. Where he got the money for spirits, she had no inkling. Her brother disappeared for days at a time, sometimes leaving the plow in the middle of a field. Chan had never done physical work. He’d gone into the Confederate Army right after coming home from that Yankee college. Harvard evidently hadn’t taught him to earn a living with his hands, and now Chan had a peg leg to hamper his best talent, riding fast horses.

Delphine clenched her eyes tightly shut to stop such uncharitable thoughts. Chan had suffered horribly in the war. Six months after the South surrendered, she remembered him riding up the lane, his emaciated horse edging through the ruined white gate and past untrimmed grass and weed-filled gardens. Flowers beds that had framed the porch were full of weeds and scraggly seed pods. Chandler’s once immaculate Confederate major’s uniform was faded and tattered. His right trouser leg hung empty. When told about Papa’s stroke, he merely shrugged, as if another shock barely mattered.

A low whistle from Ezra, who waited in the wagon, startled Delphine to the present. Ezra nodded toward a knot of people gathered near the gate. She felt a plunge of concern and ran to her mother. Gently taking Bella’s arm, she led her to the wagon and helped her mount the step. Soon as I find Thea, we must go home, Mama.

Thea, clutching the ribbon on her wide brimmed bonnet, ran toward her. Del, the men are saying wicked things about Diantha’s killin’.

Delphine grasped her sister’s arm when Thea looked toward the group. No, Thea. Get into the wagon.

Thea handed her parasol to Delphine, lifted her voluminous black skirt revealing the ruffled pantaloons beneath, and climbed into the wagon. Her face flushed, her eyes shining with excitement. The men are going to town. There’s talk of a lynching. Some of the men say Jess Simon killed Diantha!

Delphine saw Ezra’s expression change as she climbed up beside him. Turning to him, she muttered, Pay no mind to Thea. Her mouth’s just running off. She’ll be late for her wedding if she ever— The words caught, and she bit them off. How could she think about weddings after Diantha’s death? Today was to have been a joyful celebration of Diantha MacMichael and Adrian Schell’s wedding vows.

~ * ~

After watching his family climb into the wagon, Chandler loosened the reins of his horse, led him to the flat stone marking the cemetery entrance, and mounted clumsily. Uttering a low curse, he vowed to conquer the unmoving false leg and become a real horseman again. He tipped his hat toward the group of men talking in low tones.

Turning Rebel sharply, Chandler galloped toward the dust from the wagon carrying his family. When he reached a curve that hid him from the cemetery, he veered across the fields and through the woods to the site of the burned sawmill. He glanced behind. Nobody in sight. Edging his mount around the skeletons of charred buildings, he whistled a bird call. No answer. He waited a moment then whistled the call more loudly.

Like an echo, he heard an answering bird twitter and a slight rustling from behind the only remaining wall of his father’s mill. A low voice called, Had to be sure it was you, Mistah Chan.

Don’t show yourself, Jess. There’s a lynch mob forming and they’re looking to accuse you of murdering Diantha. I think it’ll be dark before they get organized, but you’ll have to be careful or their hounds will track you. Leave your clothes and swim across, then climb up the bluff to the summer house. I’ll get clothing and food to you as soon as I can.

Why—why do they think I did that awful thing to Miss Diantha?

I have suspicions about that. No more talking. Hurry.

Chan heard the lad’s soft scuffle, barely louder than a breath of wind in the big live oak behind the ruin. He moved the horse a few yards to a niche in the scorched stone wall, pulled out an earthenware jug, uncorked it and took a long swig. Muffled hoof beats behind him nearly startled the jug from his hands.

Got any more of that fire power, Chan? I could stand a throat swabbin’. Tobias Ranson’s high-pitched voice rang through the ruins. I figured you had your own still around here somewhere.

Chan handed over the jug and watched as Ranson spat a plug of tobacco onto the ground, took a long gulp of liquor, choked slightly, and coughed after he swallowed it.

Mighty good fire in that. Nigger Jess do your brewin’?

Chan hoped his face didn’t reveal his alarm. Tobias must have been spying to guess the location of the still. Jess’s barely sixteen. How would he know how to brew whiskey?

I heard your pa taught the Scot knack to several of his slaves. The whole state knew Angus MacMichael’s spirits were the best.

And I hear you have a distillery yourself, and had a damn good man running it. Folks did some puzzling about why Abner was found with a bashed-in head awhile back.

Caught Abner selling my property at my expense. Niggers with uppity ideas sometimes have bad accidents. Tobias pushed his pristine white straw hat back on his head. Now, I might overlook the fact a posse’s looking for that boy, if you’d sell him to me.

Tobias, you know black folks are no longer for sale and besides Papa freed Jess before the war. Chan reined the horse around. I’ve got to get up to Persimmon. Folks are coming for the grieving. He reached for the jug still in Tobias’s hand. Might need that to get through the night.

As Chandler rode up the incline toward his home, he met half a dozen armed men. He didn’t know all of them, but recognized Joe Gower, one of Ranson’s sharecroppers. With help from the Army of Occupation, new families had taken over plantations when the owners couldn’t pay the high taxes. Chan swallowed his disgust at local white folks who were financed by Carpetbaggers. He tried to move around the group.

A big-framed man reached for the reins on Chandler’s horse. Not so fast. We’re looking for a nigger kid named Jess. Seen him?

Chandler jerked the man’s hands from the reins and moved to the edge of the road. Jess Simon? No. Why? Then they hadn’t found Jess, but he was fairly certain they’d been up to the house looking, and scaring the girls and his mother. Phoebe and Ezra would be on their fright list too.

One of the men tapped his crop on Chan’s peg leg. We figure Jess Simon needs to do some explainin’. You bein’ the brother of the girl he killed, I’d think you’d join us.

Lynching won’t bring my sister back to life and the South doesn’t need any more killing.

The big man spoke again. Just thought you, of all people, would be ready to get that rapin’ son of a bitch.

What makes you suspect Jess Simon?

Things point that way. Heard he was with your sisters when they started home from visitin’ the Caldwells. No one’s seen him since.

Jess came home with my youngest sister, who had gone to Emma Caldwell’s with Diantha. You plan to lynch Thea?

The beefy man hawked tobacco juice into the dust. Heard she ran ahead to do her chores while the murdered girl stopped to pick some redbud branches.

Seems like you’ve heard a lot for new folks ‘round here. I don’t aim to let you try Jess out here in the road, and I don’t aim to help y’all lynch anyone. Chandler wheeled his horse around and galloped on to the house.

~ * ~

Two buggies were waiting by the front veranda. Chandler took his horse to the rear of the house, looped the reins around a post and dismounted. He climbed the back stairs, concentrating hard on muffling the thud of his peg. In his room, he tucked the jug into a corner of the wardrobe, and searched for essential items of clothing for Jess. Stepping out of his dress trousers, he pulled on a pair of work pants and a shirt. Struggling with the effort, he donned his own clothing atop the things for Jess.

Glancing into the corridor, Chandler sighed in relief that it was empty, and hurried down the back stairs. In the big kitchen, he winked at plump Phoebe Simon pulling a pan of corn pone from the oven, and placed his forefinger over his lips. You haven’t seen me, Phoebe. He tore off a chunk of the pone and grabbed a chicken leg from a platter waiting to be served to the relatives. Phoebe put the food into a napkin.

Keeping in the shadows of the tall laurel hedge, Chandler hurried out to the summer house overlooking the bayou. Behind the white lattice, he reversed the clothing process and gathered up the work clothes. Whistling a soft night bird call, he grinned when he heard a faint answer.

Chandler pulled out a heavy bench, grasped a ring hidden beneath, and opened a trap door. A hand reached from the depths. He shoved the clothes and food to Jess.

I need to go back to the still, Mistah Chan. Mash’s ready.

No. Stay out of the exit tunnel. Can’t be certain the bluff won’t be watched. I’ll try to get back later. The cellar had a ten-foot tunnel opening to a wooded site on the bluff. Chandler replaced the bench, and hurried back to the house.

He noted the expression of relief on Delphine’s face when he entered the dining room. Surely she didn’t think he’d sunk low enough to help lynch one of the best friends he’d ever known. How anyone could suspect Jess of rape and murder was beyond him, but a lot of questions needed answers. He kissed his mother’s cheek, noting her gaze had drifted far away from the family and guests gathered around the table.

Papa’s Cousin Carrie and her husband looked even more stiff-lipped than usual. Were it not for their daughter marrying an affluent Yank before the war, they’d probably be living at Persimmon. The Reverend Casper Johns and his pale wife were the other guests. Pastors seldom turned down a free meal even if it was for a wake.

No one talked much, and though the meal was far better than the usual fare at the house, only Thea and the parson ate with enthusiasm. The corn pone and cream gravy stuck in Chan’s throat. He wanted more than anything to go up and finish that jug, but there would be no drinking tonight. After eating half his dried apple tart, he caught Delphine’s attention, raised a brow, and tilted his head toward the porch. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin and excused herself.

Chandler moved to the far end of the wide veranda to be hidden from their guests’ view through the cracked dining room windows. He waited for his sister, who walked softly toward him.

Delphine took his hand. Thank you for coming home tonight, Chan.

I have Jess hidden in the summer house. We must get him away from here as soon as possible. Could we send him to Cousin Carrie’s daughter in Baltimore? You hear from her now and again, don’t you?

Yes, but it would take maneuvering to figure out how. We’d have to be careful not to let Cousin Carrie guess or the whole bayou would hear. Jess would have to go by the river boat or the train at Clayville. How can we pay his fare?

Jess has some Yankee paper bills. The gang I met on my way home is bent on hanging someone. Jess is the handiest. Did they stop here?

No, but I heard horses down on the road. Who are these men?

A bunch of the new folks Phoebe calls poor white trash. All of them carried rifles and side arms. One was Joe Gower, who sharecrops for Ranson.

Tobias Ranson is still trying to get what’s left of Persimmon, Chan. I’m fairly certain Ranson, not his slaves, set the fire at the mill. I’ll never trust that man. He hated Papa for freeing the Simon family.

Ranson offered to buy Jess from me. He may be promoting the lynching to scare the lad into working for him, Del.

Why Jess? Of all our people, I’d think Ranson would reject those who can read and write. He likes to keep his folks ignorant.

Ranson has a special need for Jess. He wants him to replace Abner, his man found dead a few weeks back.

Chandler heard his sister gasp and felt her hand clutch his arm. Horses coming, Chan, lots of them. And hounds.

Two

Angus, hurry! Bella screamed. Those shrouds are here again.

Her mother’s cry stopped Delphine’s breath. She bolted for the doorway where Bella MacMichael stood staring at a gathering in the yard. Taking hold of both the shivering woman’s hands, she whispered, Go on inside, Mama. Chan will send them away. She called to Thea, who appeared at the door. Take Mama and the others to the upstairs sitting room. Stay with them until I call you.

Won’t Reverend Johns stay downstairs and help, Del?

He’ll not be able to change the morals of this rabble, but he might help calm Mama. Take him with you.

Delphine watched her sister follow the group up the stairs, then opened the door and walked across the porch to stand beside Chan. She noted he had retrieved his guns from the study and strapped them on. His right hand lay loosely over one of them.

Through the flickering fire from their smoking torches, Delphine counted a dozen horsemen, their heads and torsos covered by white sheets with holes cut for eyes.

The leader of the group revealed his face and tossed a white bundle to Chandler. Hounds are rarin’ to go, Chan, he shouted over the din from the hounds sniffing and yelping around the group.

Chandler caught the bundle and threw it back to Ranson, then moved to the edge of the veranda. I won’t hide behind those ridiculous sheets, Ranson. And I don’t take kindly to cowards frightening my mother. Get on now, before I decide to shoot half that pack of hounds.

Knew your pa was a darkie lover. Seems like you take after him. Ranson turned his horse around and faced the eerie riders. Y’all come on. We don’t need a limping drunk to find that rapin’ nigger.

Their horses trampling shrubbery and the newly planted vegetable garden, Ranson led the group around the house and across the rear lawn. The hounds, with noses to the ground, leapt into the octagonal white summer house and circled its perimeter. The lead dog sniffed at the laurel hedge, then headed back toward the road.

Delphine clutched at Chandler’s arm. Why did the hounds give up so fast? Isn’t Jess in the cellar? Lord, I hope he isn’t running.

Ezra’s wearing Jess’s coat and giving them a little diversion. Jess is probably scared, but he’ll be safe if he stays hidden in the cellar. Chandler moved toward the rail where Rebel was tethered, stepped to his mounting platform, and into the saddle.

Chan! You’re not going with those men!

Got to. Can’t let them get Ezra. Ranson would sooner lynch him than Jess. Just hope he made it across the bayou.

Delphine watched her brother mount and gallop after the men. She stopped at the veranda steps and considered taking Cousin Edgar’s buggy to follow, but decided she’d only slow Chan. Hurrying inside, she leapt up the stairs. Before she reached her mother’s room, she could hear Cousin Carrie’s shrill voice.

What can we do, Edgar? What on earth can anyone do with lawless renegades running through our land? Poor Bella, gone clean off her head. And no wonder. First Angus, then Diantha ...

Delphine took deep breaths to regain composure before entering the room. Cousin Carrie sounded almost as far off her senses as those she pitied. When she saw the pinched contortion on the faces surrounding the couch where Bella sat, she wondered if they were all ready for the insane asylum. Tears streaked Carrie’s cheeks making a path through her rouge. Cousin Edgar and Pastor Johns turned from their watch of the front yard to face Delphine.

Pastor Johns spoke first. Miss Delphine. I’d best get Mrs. Johns home before there’s more violence here. She’s in delicate condition, as you probably have noted.

No reason for you to stay on. Delphine wanted to be rid of the self- serving oaf. A true servant of God ought to be riding after those monsters and stop them from committing more violence. She’d wondered if all the defenders of law and order had died with Papa. Thank God Chandler had redeemed himself tonight. She straightened her shoulders and strode to her mother’s side. Taking a limp hand into hers, she tried to rub warmth into it. Turning to Thea she whispered, I think there are a few drops of laudanum left in the blue bottle in my top bureau drawer. Fetch it for me, please.

As Thea crept out, Delphine moved to the tall French doors opening onto the balcony. In the distance she could still hear Chan’s horse galloping toward the bayou and said a prayer for his safe return. A needling thought jabbed at her mind. Why had her mother called out to her father about shrouds? Had Ranson and his followers been there before?

~ * ~

Chandler followed the baying hounds tracking Ezra. As he wound through a growth of new pines near the mill, the hound’s tones changed to excited yelps. Damn! They’ve found his scent. He cantered into a clearing where the bayou met the river. The sheet-covered men were watching the water, clearly visible in the light from a full moon. Two of them had their rifles aimed at something bobbing in the sluggish bayou. Drawing his own pistol, Chan fired into the air, hoping the distraction would give Ezra time to reach the opposite shore.

One of the men wheeled his horse around and pointed his rifle directly at Chandler’s chest. Another man continued firing into the water. The bobbing object disappeared. I think I got him, the rifleman shouted. The others dismounted and ran to the bayou’s edge.

Ranson raised his sheet and spat. With no help from my neighbor. Why didn’t you stay up at your house with your whining sisters and let real southern men handle that nigger?

Chandler aimed his pistol at Ranson. Put that gun away before I blow it off your arm. He watched him slowly lower the rifle. If you’d fought the Yankees instead of spending most of the war getting rich off them, I might think you were a real southerner. Damn lucky I didn’t shoot without warning.

Ranson didn’t reply. The hounds acted confused, sniffing along the edge of the water. Ranson called to his men, Hendry and Cobb, ride around the bayou and whistle if there’s any sign we got the nigger. We’ll stay here ‘til we see you on the other side.

Chandler took a long breath, wishing he had his jug with him. He wasn’t certain, but thought he’d seen a slight rippling close to the bushes edging the opposite side. Could have been a possum or a water moccasin.

A penetrating whistle doused his hopes. Ranson and his men and dogs hurried away to join the other two.

Chan followed. Got to save Ezra, he muttered.

The men were gathered near the cemetery gate. They had Ezra trussed tightly at the ankles and wrists. Chan couldn’t see any obvious wounds. He pulled his gun out again. Ezra Simon didn’t kill my sister. Turn him loose. Witnesses will testify he was at Persimmon working in the vegetable patch when Diantha was murdered.

Witnesses are all your relatives, Chan. Why should any judge believe a crazy woman, a couple silly girls, and a nigger cook?

Chan fought hard to keep from pulling the trigger. Gentlemen don’t talk like that about ladies, Ranson, but then, I have doubts you were ever a real gentleman. He pivoted Rebel sharply and moved behind Ezra. Now untie him.

You don’t dare shoot me, MacMichael. My men will testify against you. Ranson, removed his sheet, reached for his flask, and drank long. Come on boys, take Ezra into town. Maybe he’ll tell us where his boy is hiding if he feels a little hot tar on that black skin.

Chandler knew Ranson was right about both statements. The men hitched a rope to Ranson’s saddle and pulled