A Free Man of Color - Barbara Hambly [142]
A dozen things seemed to happen then, Mayerling’s horse rearing, then foundering in the shafts, which January had expected, amid the flat snaps of more rifles. Mayerling, Albert, and the two women raced in erratic zigzags across the two or three yards of open lawn to the shelter of the house gallery; a hoarse, boyish voice gasped, “Give it,” in January’s ear and Hannibal pulled the shotgun from his hand to load. January wondered obliquely where Hannibal had learned that in a close-quarters fight the loader had better identify himself before touching a man who was likely to turn around and knock him flying in mistake for another assailant.
Sobbing, Madeleine clawed open her black mourning reticule and pulled out keys, opened the shutters of the dining room door. Footsteps thundered and bumbled on the gallery overhead but Mayerling fired his pistol at the man who tried to come down to fetch the casualty lying in the stairwell, and the muddy boots retreated upward again. The wounded man screamed, “Get me out’n here! Get me out’n here!” The smell of blood was like burned metal. It dripped in sheets down his shirt, down his chest.
At the same moment January heard a groan behind him, and by the banked ember glow of the dining room fireplace within saw Dominique supporting the coachman Albert, his blood mixing with rainwater to dye the whole side of her pale dress. The elderly servant was gasping, his hand clutching at his side, eyes tight shut with agony and face already ashen with shock.
“Ben, what on earth—?” sobbed Minou.
“Not now. Can you load?” He ducked through the door, stripped away the old man’s coat as he spoke. Madeleine jerked the doors shut behind them, barred them as January ripped the white shirt, wadded it into a pressure bandage—he looked swiftly around for something to tie it with and without a word Augustus pulled Dominique’s tignon from her head, releasing a torrent of black curls around her shoulders. The bullet had gone clean through, shattering the lowest rib. Albert cried out with pain at the pressure but seemed to have no trouble breathing.
“No! I—”
“Don’t they teach you girls anything besides Italian and cross-stitch?” demanded Hannibal, pulling her away to where Madeleine stood in the shelter of the study door and the light fell through from the lantern in the stairwell outside. “Ball—just enough powder to cover the ball—first the powder, then the ball—wad—in she goes—ram, and I mean hard—pinch in the pan.” He handed the pistol to Madeleine, took Augustus’s rifle, repeated the procedure, his teeth clenched against a sudden spasm of coughing. “There. Now you know something Henri doesn’t know.”
“You shut up about Henri.” It was her flirt voice. She was over the first shock.
“With me.” Madeleine strode across the darkness of the dining room, pausing only long enough to shove the table out of the way, then opened the French doors that looked toward the bayou and parted the heavy shutters a crack. She said, “Bleu,” a ladylike little oath, and fired the pistol. A man’s voice bellowed, “Shit-eatin’ nigger!” and there was the sound of something falling, and the confusion of footsteps on the front gallery as well. Dominique rammed home the next charge before the smoke had completely cleared and returned the pistol to her, and Madeleine called across to Augustus, “Thank God you brought the good pistols, dear.”
“I think that’s the one that throws to the right.”
“My leg’s broke! Shit-fuck, my leg’s broke!” howled a voice outside.
January tied the final knot in the pressure dressing, strode across the dining room to the door of the small study beyond.
There was one window, set high in the wall and shuttered fast. He listened a moment to the ceiling above his head, then ducked through the door again. “Madame! Is there a gallery on that side of the house?” He tried to remember, but he’d only ridden up to it from the back.
“No.