The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (11 page)

“No. First the Pharaoh's Staff. Then you'll have your rewards.”

The
Geist Führer's
voice reeked of lies, even the simmering water mocked Verdiss. He'd heard
that
tone all his life, from anyone who claimed to be his friend.
Friends? Ha!
He was the dark master's instrument of choice. The
Geist Führer
never planned to turn over
any
majik
. Verdiss had been plucked like a fiddle
all along!
Until
now
. This king of the future didn't know who he wronged. Verdiss might seem like a deformed invalid, but his intelligence and strength surpassed any man's, and now he'd
prove
it.
 

“Very well,” said Verdiss. “I will reach Baton Rouge before dawn. Then retrieve the Pharaoh's Staff from the bank of the Mississippi.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but the rage churned in inside him like wildfire. He'd served this snake and been toyed with.
Loyalty is everything. All men have is their word.
 

The
Geist
Führer
's
image vanished from the cauldron's glassy surface, leaving Verdiss alone to seethe in his rage. He'd take the staff for himself then reveal the truth to his betrayer.
I will show him I am no puppet, not a dog to be
played with.
There had to be some way to murder his
former
master, and destroy the vermin by himself.
 

Thunder clapped in the sky, lightning burst through the night. Rain tumbled from the heavens as if it shared Verdiss's rage. He pulled his hood tight over his malformed face, then mounted his mare.

“
Geist Führer
, 'thou hadst been better have been born a dog than answer my waked wrath!'” Verdiss turned the mare about and galloped off toward Baton Rouge, new plans flaring in his thoughts.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

Galin's trap failed. Major Lydell Jones and his men had marched out from the bayou and into the woods outside Port Allen as Galin expected. Though, he and his Goblins got the drop on the Northern soldiers, firing their arms from the protection of the treetops. Those with pitchforks, knives, or swords leapt from their hiding spots and managed to butcher a few soldiers. But it was a blood bath. Lydell and his force had been prepared for an ambush. Half of the Northern troops advanced into the gambit, while the remainder flanked Galin and his men.

Guns blared in the nighttime battle, swords clashed with the music of steel on steel, and the mass of soldiers thundered in bloodshed. Those honorable troops offered surrender, but Lydell called it balderdash. Twenty minutes after the battle began, it was over. Surviving Klansmen were immediately put to death by firing squad.

Galin remained hidden in the trees like a Sunday Soldier until Jones dragged him out. The two engaged in a blazing sword fight, ending with Galin stuck in the right shoulder. Though Jones wounded him, he took Galin alive.

“He could be useful.”

“Don't give that redneck nothing. Let 'em bleed to death.” Then Jones and his men continued on to Baton Rouge.

In a procession of torches fizzling in the rainy night, the Federal Troops reached the dense woods where he'd hoped they would. The major rode atop an almond-colored stallion, pulling Galin behind him by a short line of rope. A smile cracked his lips, the major kept an
actual
short leash on the former sergeant. Whenever Galin didn't answer a question Jones yanked on the leash like disciplining a mutt.
 

“I'll never give up the Grand Dragon!” Galin shouted again and again over the rain and thunder. Another yank, the rope jerked him into stumbling in a pool of muck.

“You will, scumbag! I can listen to you sing out all night,” Jones returned from his horse. A chorus of laughter followed from his soldiers. “You're going to give him to us and we agonna deliver that no-account son of a bitch to General Sheridan himself.” He yanked on Galin's leash again. The sergeant howled in pain.

Lightning flashed in the sky. Claps of thunder attempted to cover the noise of a soldier yelling to the major. “Sir, there's a whipped man up here!” The procession halted. The soldiers spread as Jones cantered to the front, dragging the wounded Galin behind him.

It'd taken most of his energy to circle around the procession just in time to throw himself at the base of a tree ahead of them. Though playing unconscious and under a blanket, he watched Jones make a motion. A young soldier nudged him with the butt of his rifle.

“Wake up! Wake up.”

He stirred for a few moments, biding his time.  Then climbed to his feet. They studied him—he must look like an obvious foreigner: short hair with a toothbrush mustache.

“
Mein
Gott. Ich wurde angegriffen, sie stahlen alles
. . . Apologies, I mean I was attacked, they stole everything.”
Idiot! They don't speak German
. Jones made a quizzical face—he didn't seem to buy his emotions.
Moron, I'm a fabulous actor. It was a part of my training.
 

“Good thing you are safe,” said Jones with indifference. “I suppose I should ask you what happened. Robbed by bandits, thugs?”

He nodded.

Jones sighed. “We can take you to Baton Rouge if you like. It's too dark and the weather is too bad to be out and about by yourself.”

“Thank you. That's where I'm going.”

Jones still seemed suspicious, but waved his soldiers on. The procession continued, he took a position beside Jones's horse. He and Galin exchanged looks, and he gave him a slight nod.
That's right. I know you, but you don't know me
. He smirked at the Klansman's confused expression.
 

“What's your name?” asked Major Jones, suspicion in his voice.

“Zelig Von Falkenstein.” He uttered the words hoping his name wouldn't sound too foreign. The
Führer
had put a lot of time and effort into conceiving and implementing the machine that sent him almost seventy years into the past. The Great War was at its peak and the
Führer
saw
Verdiss's betrayal. Out of all the assassins, he chose Zelig to kill the traitor and retrieve the Pharaoh's Staff. With it, Zelig would return to the
Führer
and
Germany a hero. He, by himself, would change the war's tide.
 

“Hmm, strange name,” Jones muttered as he continued his ride. Of course, the moron didn't notice Zelig pull a needle from his belt. He couldn't. Zelig was the best. And
no one
would compromise the
Führer
's
plans. Not the bumbling Goblins of the Ku Klux Klan, not these pathetic, ill-trained soldiers, and not Verdiss.
 

Zelig slipped the needle into his mouth, ready to spit it into Galin's neck. The rain made it difficult to gauge the wind speed or its direction. It didn't matter, he could still do it. And he did it with such skill and speed, no soldier—let alone Galin—suspected anything. Though it was a small dose, the poison was still powerful. An hour or two later, Galin would convulse, fall, and die.

 

 

 

Chapter Nineteen

 

Fallon wove an intricate, but absurd story. Jeb knew it, but of course Crispus absorbed every word as though they'd come from Lincoln's mouth. When they started their drive toward Old South Baton Rouge, the sun crawled out from underneath the horizon. Fallon didn't seem to know much, and from what Jeb gathered, the kid must've just heard rumors. As always in fairy tales, a dark ruler, the
Geist Führer
ruled a far away land with bloodshed and an iron fist. Since La'Rita had mentioned something similar, Crispus demanded it was proof. Jeb pushed his brother-in-law out of his head and continued recounting the story. The
Geist Führer
launched a war against Europe: Jews, black folks, gypsies...the world.... Recent rumors abounded that Verdiss communed with this king, and the
Geist Führer
wanted the Pharaoh's Staff. He feared the artifact could damage his war effort if it fell into enemy hands. Like most fairy tales, it was said the Pharaoh's Staff gave great power...and as in those fairytales, no one said what those powers were.
 

“I knew the
mambo
was right!”
 

Jeb flinched, Crispus's voice rattling in his head. “It's balderdash. Nothing else.” He shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable position. It was balderdash—but, then again, if asked a few weeks ago, Jeb would be calling himself insane for thinking his burns healed. He glanced at his arm, the skin looked healthier than it did before. He rubbed it.
Still real.
 

“It's a bunch a balderdash.” He'd had enough sleep the night before, but his bones ached. His soul too.
I hope they're all right. Keturah...Bettina...New York.
Jeb groaned.
I should've sent them into the bayous—they'd have been safer there. New York's full of gangs.
All for an old piece of art that belonged in a museum. Worst thing was he
had
to continue. What if he was wrong? What if the staff was everything Crispus was jawing about? Then those who'd died...Rayford, La'Rita, Lafayette, Wardell, Elle Mae, and only God knew how many more were murdered back in Allenville.
They couldn't die in vain
. The mantra in the 79
th
Colored Infantry. During the war, not a single man went AWOL—they were freed slaves or free Northerners fighting a war for an entire people. Those who died...
they couldn't die in vain
.
 

The Pharaoh's Staff brought the Klan to his small town, and caused too many deaths. Jeb needed to see whatever Verdiss planned wouldn't happen. Whether it was to get wallpapered drunk, or wage some world war. He'd stick the Grand Dragon like a pig and watch him bleed out. Jeb slouched down and closed his eyes, trying to ignore Crispus and Fallon chattering about what was to come.

***

Jeb paced inside his tent, nervous and sweaty in the Louisiana summer heat. Rufus rummaged through the equipment on his bed, muttering about his bayonet. Major Lydell Jones had called an eleventh hour assembly as he always did before a battle. He despised bummers, they'd end up in working the skirmish line—defending the company as it moved into battle. A death sentence.

“Let's go. Let's go.” Jeb kept his eyes to the ground, unable to face Rufus. “It's gonna be my fault.” The soldier's mutterings flowed around Jeb like a whirlwind. A conversation he'd had years ago—familiar yet in the background of his thoughts. “It's my fault you died, Rufus.” Tears dripped from his eyes. Rufus asked him a question, but the words were too far away to understand “I'm sorry. I should've taken better care of you.” Jeb stopped pacing. He tried to fight what was coming, but guilt forced him to his knees. “Forgive me!” Jeb meant to face Rufus, but even in his dreams he couldn't. The young soldier stood at his side. Jeb avoided his gaze like the Tennessee.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Rufus change in a moment. Moses Noitavlas. “Not your fault. Not theirs.” Jeb felt that soft, uncallous hand on his shoulder. It was a child's hand, one who'd never worked a field. “Forgive yourself. Forgive them.”

“I don't know how.” Jeb buried his face in his hands. “I didn't do right. Look what them crackers did to us,” he sobbed.

“You're already dead . . .”

Warm sunlight caressed his skin. Then pulled his eyes open. Bird songs floated through the air to the music of
whooshing water.
Just a dream. Guilt's playing tricks on me. Those boys are dead.
Jeb sat up and rubbed his eyes.
 

“What's going on here?” He scratched his bristles, looked out the window. “Good lawd!” They were at the crest of some cliff, who knows how high. And there, looking over the edge like curious children, stood Crispus and Fallon. Waiting to fall any moment. Jeb leapt from the buggy and stormed over. He yanked both away from the ledge. “Y'all are gonna fall to your deaths.” He pushed past them. Then gazed down at the Mississippi River surging south on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. “Shit.” There must've been several dozen men bustling about like grazing cattle.

“Goblins.” Crispus pointed down. “They're digging for the Pharaoh's Staff. They
will
find it eventually.”.
 

“Narce and his men,” said Fallon, his voice bitter. “Since they couldn't find you, they went right for the staff.”

“But
I
have a plan.” Crispus turned to Jeb.
 

“Now what?” Jeb counted the Goblins.
Too damn many. Forty eight, or eighty four? Twenty-nine?
 

“This.” Crispus held out the tattered, green cape. “We will sneak down and camp just far enough so they don't see us. When the Klan finds the staff, one of us will creep in unseen and steal it.”

Stupid, it'll never work, but sneaking in's the only plan I'd think of. Major Jones would do better.
“Fine," Jeb sighed, yanking the cape from Crispus's hands. “I'm a do it.” He headed down the side of the cliff to flank the Klan.