Ralestone Luck Page 3

  “The city had always been more or less lawless and intolerant of control. Like the New Englanders of the eighteenth century, many respected merchants were also smugglers.”

  “And pirates,” suggested Val.

  “The king of smugglers was Jean Lafitte. His forge—where his slaves shaped the wrought-iron which was one of the wonders of the city—was a fashionable meeting-place for the young bloods. He was the height of wit and fashion—daring openly to placard the walls of the town with his notices of smugglers’ sales.

  “And Roderick Ralestone, the younger of the twins, became one of Lafitte’s men. In spite of the remonstrances of his brother Richard, young Rick withdrew to Barataria with Dominque You and the rest of the outlawed captains.

  “In the winter of 1814 matters came to a head. Richard wanted to marry an American girl, the daughter of one of Governor Claiborne’s friends. Her father told him very pointedly that since the owners of Pirate’s Haven seemed to be indulging in law breaking, such a marriage was out of the question. Aroused, Richard made a secret inspection of certain underground storehouses which had been built by his pirate great-grandfather and discovered that Rick had put them in use again for the very same purpose for which they had been first intended—the storing of loot.

  “He waited there for his brother, determined to have it decided once and for all. They quarreled bitterly. Both were young, both had bad tempers, and each saw his side as the right of the matter—”

  “Regular Ralestones, weren’t they?” commented Val slyly.

  “Undoubtedly,” agreed Rupert. “Well, at last Richard started for the house, his brother in pursuit.

  “Then they fought, here in this very hall. And not with words this time, but with the rapiers Richard had brought back from France. A slave named Falesse, who had been the twins’ childhood nurse, was the only witness to the end of that duel. Richard lay face down across the hearth-stone as she came screaming down the stairs.”

  Ricky was studying the gray stone.

  “By rights,” Val agreed with her unspoken thought, “there ought to be a stain there. Unfortunately for romance, there isn’t.”

  “Rick was standing by the door,” Rupert continued. “When Falesse reached his brother, he laughed unsteadily and half raised his sword in a duelist’s salute. Then he was gone. But there were two swords on the floor. And that niche was empty.

  “When he fled into the night storm with his brother’s blood staining his hands, Rick Ralestone took the Luck of his house with him.

  “After almost a year of invalidism, Richard recovered. He never married his American beauty. But in 1819 he took a wife, a young Creole lady widowed by the Battle of New Orleans. Of Rick nothing was heard again, although his brother searched diligently for more than thirty years.”

  “How,” Val grinned at his brother, “did Richard explain the little matter of the ghost which is supposed to walk at night?”

  “I don’t know. But when the Civil War broke out, Richard’s son Miles was the master of Pirate’s Haven. The once-great fortune of the family had shrunk. Business losses in the city, floods, a disaster at sea, had emptied the family purse—”

  “The Luck getting in its dirty work by remote control,” supplied the irrepressible Val.

  “Perhaps. Young Miles had married in his teens, and the call to the Confederate colors brought both his twin sons under arms as well as their father.

  “Miles, the father, fell in the First Battle of Bull Run. But Miles, the son and elder of the twins, a lieutenant of cavalry, came out of the war the only surviving male of his family.

  “His brother Richard had been wounded and was home on sick leave when the Northerners occupied New Orleans. Betrayed by one of his former slaves, a mulatto who bore a grudge against the family, he was murdered by a gang of bullies and cutthroats who had followed the invading army.

  “Richard had been warned of their raid and had managed to hide the family valuables in a secret place—somewhere within this very hall, according to tradition.”

  Val and Ricky sat up and looked about with wondering interest.

  “But Richard was shot down in cold blood when he refused to reveal the hiding-place. His brother and some scouts, operating south without orders, arrived just in time to witness the last act. Miles Ralestone and his men summarily shot the murderers. But where Richard had so carefully concealed the last of the family treasure was never discovered.

  “The war beggared the Ralestones. Miles went north in search of better luck, and this place was allowed to molder until it was leased in 1879 to a sugar baron. In 1895 it was turned over to a family distantly connected with ours. And since then it has been leased. We have had in all four tenants.”

  “But,” Ricky broke in, “since the Luck went we have not prospered. And until it returns—”

  Rupert tapped out his pipe against one of the fire irons. “It’s nothing but a folk-tale,” he told her.

  “It isn’t!” Ricky contradicted him vehemently. “And we’ve made a good beginning anyway. We’ve come back.”

  “If Rick took the Luck with him, I don’t see how we have an earthly chance of finding it again,” Val commented.

  “It came back once before after it had gone from us,” reminded his sister. “And I think that it will again. At least I’ll hope so.”

  “Outside of the superstition, it would be well worth having. The names of the heads and heirs of the house are all engraved along the blade, from Sir Roderick on down. Seven hundred years of history scratched on steel.” Rupert stretched and then glanced at his wrist-watch. “Ten to ten, and we’ve had a long day. Who’s for bed?”

  “I am, for one.” Val swung his feet down from the couch, disturbing Satan who opened one yellow eye lazily.

  Ricky stood by the fireplace fingering the wreath of stiff flowers carved in the stone. Val took her by the arm.

  “No use wondering which one you push to reveal the treasure,” he told her.

  She looked up startled. “How did you know what I was thinking about?” she demanded.

  “My lady, your thoughts, like little white birds—”

  “Oh, go to bed, Val. When you get poetical I know you need sleep. Just the same,” she hesitated with one foot on the first tread of the stair, “I wonder.”

  CHAPTER III

  THE RALESTONES ENTERTAIN AN UNOBTRUSIVE VISITOR

  Val lay trapped in an underground cavern, chained to the floor. An unseen monster was creeping up his prostrate body. He could feel its hot breath on his cheek. With a mighty effort he broke his bonds and threw out his arms in an attempt to fight off his tormentor.

  The morning sun was warm across his pillow, making him blink. On his chest stood Satan, kneading the bedclothes with his front paws and purring gently. From the open window came a fresh, rain-washed breeze.

  Having aroused the sleeper, Satan deserted his post to hang half-way out the window, intent upon the housekeeping arrangements of several birds who had built in the hedges below. A moment later Val elbowed him aside to look out upon the morning.

  It was a fine one. Wisps of mist from the bayou still hung about the lower garden, but the sun had already dried the brick-paved paths. A bee blundered past Val’s nose, and he realized that it might be well to close the screen hanging shutter-like outside.

  From the direction of the hidden water came the faint putt-putt of a motor-boat, but inside Pirate’s Haven there was utter silence. As yet the rest of the family were not abroad. Val dropped his pajamas in a huddle by the bed and dressed leisurely, feeling very much at peace with this new world. Perhaps that was the last time he was to feel so for many days to come. He stole cautiously out of his room and tiptoed down halls and dark stairs, wanting to be alone while he discovered Pirate’s Haven for himself.

  The Long Hall looked chilly and bleak, even though patches of sunlight were fi
ghting the usual gloom. On the hearth-stone lay a scrap of white, doubtless Ricky’s handkerchief. Val flung open the front door and stepped out on the terrace, drawing deep lungfuls of the morning air. The blossoms on the morning-glory vines which wreathed the edge of the terrace were open to the sun, and the birds sang in the bushes below. Satan streaked by and disappeared into the tangle. It was suddenly very good to be alive. The boy stretched luxuriously and started to explore, choosing the nearest of the crazy, wandering paths which began at the circle of the old carriage drive.

  Here was evidence of last night’s storm. Wisps of Spanish moss, torn from the great live-oaks of the avenue and looking like tufts of coarse gray horsehair, lay in water-logged mats here and there. And in the open places, the grass, beaten flat, was just beginning to rise again.

  A rabbit scuttled across the path as it went down four steps of broken stone into a sort of glen. Here some early owner of the plantation had made an irregular pool of stone to be fed by the trickle of a tiny spring. Frogs the size of postage-stamps leaped panic-stricken for the water when Val’s shadow fell across its rim. A leaden statue of the boy Pan danced joyously on a pedestal above. Ricky would love this, thought her brother as he dabbled his fingers in the chill water trying to catch the stem of the single lily bud.

  Out of nowhere came a turtle to slide into the depths of the pool. The sun was very warm across Val’s bowed shoulders. He liked the garden, liked the plantation, even liked the circumstances which had brought them there. Lazily he arose and turned.

  By the steps down which he had come stood a slight figure in a faded flannel shirt and mud-streaked overalls. His bare brown feet gripped the stones as if to get purchase for instant flight.

  “Hello,” Val said questioningly.

  The new-comer eyed young Ralestone warily and then his gaze shifted to the bushes beyond.

  “I’m Val Ralestone.” Val held out his hand. To his astonishment the stranger’s mobile lips twisted in a snarl and he edged crabwise toward the bushes bordering the glen.

  “Who are you?” Val demanded sharply.

  “Ah has got as much right heah as yo’ all,” the boy answered angrily. And with that he turned and slipped into a path at the far end of the glen.

  Aroused, Val hurried after him to reach the bayou levee. The quarry was already in midstream, wielding an efficient canoe paddle. On impulse Val shouted after him, but he never turned. A rifle lay across his knees and there were some rusty traps in the bottom of the flimsy canoe. Then Val remembered that Pirate’s Haven lay upon the fringe of the muskrat swamps where Cajun and American squatters still carried on the fur trade of their ancestors.

  But as Val stood speeding the departure of the uninvited guest, another canoe put off from the opposite shore of the bayou and came swinging across toward the rough wooden landing which served the plantation. A round brown face grinned up at Val as a powerful negro clambered ashore.

  “Is dey up at de big house now?” he asked cheerily as he came up.

  “If you mean the Ralestones, why, we got here last night,” Val answered.

  “Yo’all is Mistuh Ralestone, suh?” He took off his wide-brimmed straw hat and twisted it in his oversized hands.

  “I’m Valerius Ralestone. My brother Rupert is the owner.”

  “Well, Mistuh Ralestone, suh, I’se yo’all’s fahmah from ’cross wata. Mistuh LeFleah, he says dat yo’all is come to live heah agin. So mah woman, she says dat Ah should see if yo’all is heah yet and does yo’all want anythin’. Lucy, she’s bin a-livin’ heah, dat is, her mammy and pappy and her pappy’s mammy and pappy has bin heah since befo’ old Massa Ralestone done gone ’way. So Lucy, she jest nachely am oneasy ’bout yo’all not gettin’ things comfo’ble.”

  “That is kind of her,” Val answered heartily. “My brother said something last night about wanting to see you today, so if you’ll come up to the house—”

  “I’se Sam, Mistuh Ralestone, suh. Ah done work heah quite a spell now.”

  “By the way,” Val asked as they went up toward the house, “did you see that boy in the canoe going downstream as you crossed? I found him in the garden and the only answer he would give to my questions was that he had as much right there as I had. Who is he?”

  The wide smile faded from Sam’s face. “Mistuh Ralestone, suh, effen dat no-’count trash comes ’round heah agin, yo’all bettah jest call de policemans. Dey’s nothin’ but poah white trash livin’ down in de swamp places an’ dey steals whatevah dey kin lay han’ on. Was dis boy big like yo’all, wi’ black hair an’ a thin face?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dat’s de Jeems boy. He ain’t got no mammy nor pappy. He lives jest like de wil’ man wi’ a li’l huntin’ an’ a big lot stealin’. He talk big. Say he belongs in de big house, not wi’ swamp folks. But jest yo’all pay no ’tenshun to him nohow.”

  “Val! Val Ralestone! Where are you?” Ricky’s voice sounded clear through the morning air.

  “Coming!” he shouted back.

  “Well, make it snappy!” she shrilled. “The toast has been burnt twice and—” But what further catastrophe had occurred her brother could not hear.

  “Yo’all wants to git to de back do’, Mistuh Ralestone, suh? Dere’s a sho’t-cut ’cross dis-a-way.” Sam turned into a side path and Val followed.

  Ricky was at the stove gingerly shifting a coffee-pot as her brother stepped into the kitchen. “Well,” she snapped as he entered, “it’s about time you were showing up. I’ve simply cracked my voice trying to call you, and Rupert’s been talking about having the bayou dragged or something of the kind. Where have you been, anyway?”

  “Getting acquainted with our neighbors. Ricky,” he called her attention to the smiling face just outside the door, “this is Sam. He runs the home farm for us. And his wife is a descendant of the Ralestone house folks.”

  “Yassuh, dat’s right. We’s Ralestone folks, Miss ’Chanda. Mah Lucy done sen’ me ovah to fin’ out what yo’all is a-needin’ done ’bout de place. She was in yisteday afo’ yo’all come an’ seed to de dustin’ an’ sich—”

  “So that’s why everything was so clean! That was nice of her—”

  “Yo’all is Ralestones, Miss ’Chanda. An’ Lucy say dat de Ralestones am a-goin’ to fin’ dis place jest ready for dem when dey come.” He beamed upon them proudly. “Lucy, she am a-goin’ be heah jest as soon as she gits de chillens set for de day. I’se come fust so’s Ah kin see wat Mistuh Ralestone done wan’ done wi dem rivah fiel’s—”

  “Where is Rupert?” Val broke in.

  “Went out to see about the car. The storm last night wrecked the door of the carriage house—”

  “Zat so?” Sam’s eyes went round. “Den Ah bettah be a-gittin’ out an’ see ’bout it. ’Scuse me, suh. ’Scuse me, Miss ’Chanda.” With a jerk of his head he left them. Val turned to Ricky.

  “We seem to have fallen into good hands.”

  “It’s my guess that his Lucy is a manager. He just does what she tells him to. I wonder how he knew my name?”

  “LeFleur probably told them all about us.”

  “Isn’t it odd—” she turned off the gas, “‘Ralestone folks.’”

  “Loyalty to the Big House,” her brother answered slowly. “I never thought that it really existed out of books.”

  “It makes me feel positively feudal. Val, I was born about a hundred years too late. I’d like to have been the mistress here when I could have ridden out in a victoria behind two matched bays, with a coachman and a footman up in front and my maid on the little seat facing me.”

  “And with a Dalmatian coach-hound running behind and at least three-fourths of the young bloods of the neighborhood as a mounted escort. I know. But those days are gone forever. Which leads me to another subject. What are we going to do today?”

  “The dishes, for one thing,” Ricky began ticking th
e items off on her fingers, “and then the beds. This afternoon Rupert wants us—that is, you and me—to drive to town and do some errands.”

  “Oh, yes, the list you two made out last night. Well, now that that’s all settled, suppose we have some breakfast. Has Rupert been fed or is he thinking of going on a diet?”

  “He’ll be in—”

  “Said she with perfect faith. All of which does not satisfy the pangs of hunger.”

  “Where’s Lovey?”

  “If you are using that sickening name to refer to Satan—he’s out—hunting, probably. The last I saw of him he was shooting head first for a sort of bird apartment house over to the left of the front door. Here’s Rupert. Now maybe we may eat.”

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” hissed Ricky as the missing member of the clan banged the screen door behind him. Having so aroused Val’s curiosity, she demurely went around the table to pour the coffee.

  “How’s the carriage house?” Val asked.

  “Sam thinks he can fix it with some of that lumber piled out back of the old smoke-house.” Rupert reached for a piece of toast. “What do you think of our family retainer?”

  “Seems a good chap.”

  “LeFleur says one of the best. Possesses a spark of ambition and is really trying to make a go of the farm, which is more than most of them do around here. His wife, by all accounts, is a wonder. Used to be the cook-housekeeper here when the Rafaels had the place. LeFleur still talks about the two meals he ate here then. Sam tells me that she is planning to take us in hand.”

  “But we can’t afford—” began Ricky.

  “I gathered that money does not come into the question. The lady is rather strong-willed. So, Ricky,” he laughed, “we’ll leave you two to fight it out. But Lucy may be able to find us a laundress.”

  “Which reminds me,” Ricky took a crumpled piece of white cloth from her pocket, “if this is yours, Rupert, you deserve to do your own washing. I don’t know what you’ve got on it; looks like oil.”