with the smaller round. Why hadnât Augustine cleaned the shotgun barrel of the pistol and loaded it with a.65-caliber shell? That would have made a damn big hole pressed against your temple.
It didnât make any sense that Augustine would not have used the shotgun barrel, if he was going to use anything. Not after what had happened to the General.
When François Cailleteau was back from the war as a young doctor, he was just starting up his practice in Parteblanc and had been called from town to Cottoncrest. That was thirty years ago. Marcus had come on horseback, the steed heaving and snorting outside his door. Marcus had run inside, past the frightened white girl waiting to be seen, and breathlessly informed the doctor that he had to come quickâthe General had shot himself.
François Cailleteau had dropped everything and, mounting his own horse, followed Marcus at a gallop all the way back to Cottoncrest. There he found the General barely clinging to life, gurgling and unable to speak. There was nothing he could do other than bandage up the Generalâs head with roll after roll of torn sheets and gauze and tell the family he wouldnât last the night.
There was no question why the General had done it. It was the bad news.
The General always carried his combat pistol, even at Cottoncrest. It was a Whitney revolver, well made and sturdy, with the cylinder stamped with a coat of arms that seemed both En glish and Americanâ a lion on one side, an eagle on the other.
The General had taken the Whitney and, placing its barrel in his mouth, had pulled the trigger too soon, or perhaps he had drunk too much bourbon before doing it. He had pointed the gun too far to the side, blowing off his left cheek, shattering his jaw, blinding him but not killing him. He tried to fire a second time to finish himself off, but he was in too much pain, and his hand obviously had been shaking, for he shot off his left ear.
When Augustine had found out about it after he returned home, he seemed inconsolable. He blamed all blue-bellies. And he blamed himself.
The General had acted too soon. Too abruptly. If only he had thought of his wife instead of his own grief. If only he had tried to live from one day to the next, he would eventually have found that the news was in error. If only he had possessed the faith to persevere instead of giving into despair. But the General hadnât, and he had died in agony.
After that, Augustine became even more careful and deliberate. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was left to chance. It had seemed to François Cailleteau, as he sat with Augustine on those many evenings out on the Cottoncrest veranda, that it was as if, by keeping the things in his life orderly, Augustine felt he could keep himself from the internal disorder and disarray into which his father had fallen.
But eventually Augustine had succumbed to both internal disorder and internal disarray. For more than a year now, Augustine had come to town only when he had to adjudicate the few court cases that arose from time to time, and then he would promptly leave. He had not received guests in his chambers. He had not paid the social visits he once did.
Augustine and Rebecca had retreated to Cottoncrest. Augustine used to travel to the Cotton Exchange in New Orleans to conduct his transactions, but for more than a year he had simply sent instructions in writing. Augustine and Rebecca used to host grand dinners, but since before last yearâs harvest, no one had been invited to the house. Internal disorder and disarray. Maybe it had consumed them both.
Maybe the old Greeks were right when they said that the four humors had to be kept in balanceâthe sanguine red of blood, the impassive green of phlegm, the rancorous yellow of choler, and the black bile of melancholy. If they were out of balance, then the soul would break.
âSo you want to see the bullet, Raifer? Itâs clear from this small hole that
It didnât make any sense that Augustine would not have used the shotgun barrel, if he was going to use anything. Not after what had happened to the General.
When François Cailleteau was back from the war as a young doctor, he was just starting up his practice in Parteblanc and had been called from town to Cottoncrest. That was thirty years ago. Marcus had come on horseback, the steed heaving and snorting outside his door. Marcus had run inside, past the frightened white girl waiting to be seen, and breathlessly informed the doctor that he had to come quickâthe General had shot himself.
François Cailleteau had dropped everything and, mounting his own horse, followed Marcus at a gallop all the way back to Cottoncrest. There he found the General barely clinging to life, gurgling and unable to speak. There was nothing he could do other than bandage up the Generalâs head with roll after roll of torn sheets and gauze and tell the family he wouldnât last the night.
There was no question why the General had done it. It was the bad news.
The General always carried his combat pistol, even at Cottoncrest. It was a Whitney revolver, well made and sturdy, with the cylinder stamped with a coat of arms that seemed both En glish and Americanâ a lion on one side, an eagle on the other.
The General had taken the Whitney and, placing its barrel in his mouth, had pulled the trigger too soon, or perhaps he had drunk too much bourbon before doing it. He had pointed the gun too far to the side, blowing off his left cheek, shattering his jaw, blinding him but not killing him. He tried to fire a second time to finish himself off, but he was in too much pain, and his hand obviously had been shaking, for he shot off his left ear.
When Augustine had found out about it after he returned home, he seemed inconsolable. He blamed all blue-bellies. And he blamed himself.
The General had acted too soon. Too abruptly. If only he had thought of his wife instead of his own grief. If only he had tried to live from one day to the next, he would eventually have found that the news was in error. If only he had possessed the faith to persevere instead of giving into despair. But the General hadnât, and he had died in agony.
After that, Augustine became even more careful and deliberate. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was left to chance. It had seemed to François Cailleteau, as he sat with Augustine on those many evenings out on the Cottoncrest veranda, that it was as if, by keeping the things in his life orderly, Augustine felt he could keep himself from the internal disorder and disarray into which his father had fallen.
But eventually Augustine had succumbed to both internal disorder and internal disarray. For more than a year now, Augustine had come to town only when he had to adjudicate the few court cases that arose from time to time, and then he would promptly leave. He had not received guests in his chambers. He had not paid the social visits he once did.
Augustine and Rebecca had retreated to Cottoncrest. Augustine used to travel to the Cotton Exchange in New Orleans to conduct his transactions, but for more than a year he had simply sent instructions in writing. Augustine and Rebecca used to host grand dinners, but since before last yearâs harvest, no one had been invited to the house. Internal disorder and disarray. Maybe it had consumed them both.
Maybe the old Greeks were right when they said that the four humors had to be kept in balanceâthe sanguine red of blood, the impassive green of phlegm, the rancorous yellow of choler, and the black bile of melancholy. If they were out of balance, then the soul would break.
âSo you want to see the bullet, Raifer? Itâs clear from this small hole that
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