The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (15 page)

He stumbled to the desk and dropped into the seat. He fumbled over the parchment, inspecting the ancient writings. Verdiss peered through the dizzying array of colors. The hieroglyphics, first.

The symbols rearranged themselves on the papyrus, taking the form of letters and words the Grand Dragon understood. He read them aloud: “In the name of Narmer I command it.”
The directive to control the scepter's powers?
Verdiss turned his swirling eyesight to the Greek words written below:
 

 

Θα πρέπει να το σκήπτρο της Μήνης του Θεού-βασιλιάς που εμπίπτουν σε ανάξια χαοτική τα χέρια, πρέπει να καταστρέφονται. Για να το πράξει, αυτό πρέπει να είναι σπασμένα ομοιόμορφα το μισό από ένα ξίφος που έχει ευλογηθεί. Στη συνέχεια πρέπει να κάηκαν μέχρι να γίνουν στάχτη και να απορριφτεί αντιτίθενται ωκεανών να χαθεί για πάντα για τις θάλασσες του χρόνου.

 

These unfamiliar words, too, reordered themselves into English. While a rainbow of fantastic shapes spun around him. The sensation of vertigo pounded on Verdiss's head, but he was determined to read on.

The script, now in a recognizable language, spelled out the method of destroying the Pharaoh's Staff. “
Should the scepter of the God-King Narmer fall into unworthy anarchic hands, it must be destroyed. To do so, it must be broken evenly in half by a sword that has been blessed. Then it must be burnt to ashes and thrown into opposing oceans, to be lost forever to the seas of time.”
 

Verdiss looked up from the foul-smelling parchment, trying to connect this recipe for destruction to any myths from Egyptian folklore. One book he'd read during his decade of imprisonment. “Chaotic hands . . . Narmer unified all Egypt. Broken by a blessed sword . . . for once dead, the Pharaoh was considered if not a god then godly . . . who carried a scepter. Needing to be split in half must symbolize the parting of the two halves of Egypt Narmer had brought together. The burning to symbolize the crossing over into death?”

“What about opposing oceans? “Doesn't matter—” His mind drifted for some time, lost in the drug-induced memories of his ten years locked in the basement.

“
LA CROIX!
”
 

The name often burned on his lips when he awoke in the morning, forever haunted by his terrible father and his crimes. If Verdiss had a happy childhood, would he still be as cruel as he was?
There's no fault in my cruelty.
I know that, unlike those buffoons.
He glanced toward the camp.
 

Fallon. Another boy scarred by his father, but at the other end of the spectrum. A Union soldier, fighting for the slaves' freedom . . . a “good” man. He died defending
them
. It led to Fallon's hatred. The boy never told him any of it. But reading his underlings' dreams as they slept was one of Verdiss's few guilty pleasures. An old
voodoo
practice, watching the victim's eyes through a clear object. More nights than not, the boy dreamt of his father.
 

The drink's drug-like affect began to clear. Hidden emotions often came to light—a reason Verdiss often refused to perform the ritual.

He stood, rolling up the scroll. He shoved it into a secret pocket within his robe and retrieved a cloth bag from the satchel. He looked over the pungent water, still bubbling, and turned the bag upside down. Pulling the string, he poured out salt into the water in a wave of hisses. Verdiss muttered an incantation, “
Program mwen
.” And peered into the now calm, glassy water. It showed images of a black man waiting in an expansive hallway, rippling and dancing over the liquid surface.
 

“As I said, freedman, there is no escaping me.” Verdiss's tongue flicked from his mouth with excitement.

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

 

The red haze hadn't lifted yet. Jeb was lucky to survive the shot to his stomach during the war without having the sawbones cripple him. Late at night, plagued by nightmares, he thanked whatever kept him from turning into an invalid like so many other soldiers. Except now, he was an invalid. Fallon helped him through the nighttime roads of Baton Rouge.

The state capitol building, or Louisiana Castle as it was called,
sounded
like a castle as Fallon described it to Jeb. After all, how often would he be at the state capital—
it stood atop a high bluff across from River Road, overlooking the Mississippi River. Square, with two towers adjacent to the main entrance and stairway. It resembled an old church from one of those books. Adorned with cast iron and stained glass windows. It stood like a gargoyle overlooking the sprawling city below.
 

The main hall felt like an empty cavern; Fallon's breathing carried around by underground winds. The bench under Jeb creaked when he moved, so it was wooden. Every now and then a door would jiggle from some disturbance...maybe five feet to his left.
Stop. Relax. There's nothing you can do.
Jeb couldn't though. Not knowing what surrounded him was maddening. The same as when he ran away from Ole Massa Johnson's at age ten. Lost in the Georgian wilderness, not knowing the time, made those three hours feel like weeks.
 

He sighed. Then focused on Fallon fidgeting next to him, and Crispus pacing. Anything to help him ignore that damn red haze.
No. Gather your thoughts, make a plan, then make a move
. Grand Dragon Verdiss planned to pursue his family, that much Jeb knew, but he couldn't chase after them like a chicken without a head. Tactics. That's what Jones taught him.
 

“I always dreamed of meeting someone official," Crispus said. “I know he will help us! We can
change
things now!” He stopped pacing for a moment, his shirt rustling.
 

“Tryin' to look like a big bug,” Jeb chuckled.

“I'm not nervous about that,” said Fallon. “I'm nervous
about
her
." Jeb was about to ask, but received an abrupt “Shhh. Here she comes!”
 

“Watch yerself,” came a woman's rough voice, her dress rustling past Jeb. She opened a heavy oak door, a platter with drinks clinking, then the door closed. By her voice and the sound of her...a servant girl? From the Terrebonne Parish, maybe.

Jeb smirked—an image of her swirling in his head. She sounded about eighteen. She'd be dressed in a white blouse and black skirt. If only he had that imagination when he could see, maybe he'd been a famous painter. But then he'd need to know how to paint.

 “She's some pumpkins . . . beautiful,” said Fallon, leaning over toward him.

“Oh yeah?” Jeb found himself stifling a scoff. What kind of relationship could the two have? Ole Massa Johnson had
his
relations with servant girls, but those weren't what Rayford had with Elle Mae. At least that's what Jeb liked to think. Rayford died for them, he and Crispus. By the look of his photos with Elle Mae they seemed happy in whatever it was they had.
Maybe Moses been right
.
Though, Fallon served in the Klan, or he did.
 

“So, boy, what were you doing with them Klan boys? You said your daddy was in the Union?" asked Jeb.

 “My father was a Jew, Joseph Hymowitz,” said Fallon. He shifted, sounding uncomfortable. “When Virginia seceded, he fled to New York and joined the army. He was full of grit. Even led a black regiment, I was told. He died at the Battle of Bull Run. He left me this.”

Jeb felt cold steel in his hand. The boy's Starr six-shooter. “It's a mighty fine pistol."

“I owe y'all, your people, my father, my people...”

“You're a good kid, admitting the truth and all." Jeb struggled to find and pat Fallon on the shoulder, to comfort the boy.

It could be a lie, though. Who knew what the kid was really up?

With a creak, a door opened. Someone stepped out. The servant girl, no doubt, since Fallon fell silent like a mute.

“General'll see ye naw.”

Crispus took Jeb by the arm and lead him through the door. “Thank you kindly,” Crispus said. “Fallon, stay here, will you?”

Jeb hesitated, then stopped Crispus from shutting the door. “I want to hear this,” he whispered.

“Um...uh, hello, my name's Fallon. Um...what's yours?” Fallon stammered over the words.

“Renetta Baptiste, but...ever one call me Tempest.”

“Why they call you that?”

Damn, boy. Why do you think!

Like Jeb thought, a brief moment of silence, the girl rolling her eyes.

 “Pshaw! Cuz muh eyes and I be gettin pissed easy. Why? Watchu want wit me?” she asked, a hint of seduction in her voice.

I'll be damned, boy! How'd he hook that so quick?
Another moment passed. Fallon must look like a dope.
 

“Uh...just to talk."

“Do tell! Watchu got to say to me?”

“Um...uh, nothing, never mind.”

“Shaw!” she muttered. “I'm fixin to go get de general some tea cakes an Saratoga chips. Ifs yah wanna come, dats fine wit me.” Tempest sighed.

Double damn.

“Bully! I'd love to join you!”

Calm yourself. You sounding too damn happy, boy.
 

“Well, den come ‘on, Massa Fallon.”

“Don't talk to me like I'm some damn plantation owner," snapped Fallon.

“Reckon yah think I'm purdy, den.”

The two scampered down the hallway, talking and laughing like children.
As they should.
“Lit's go,” Jeb nodded in Crispus's direction.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

Jeb couldn't see the general's ornate office, but Crispus could and was in awe. Bookshelves containing a myriad of military manuals and tomes lined the back wall. Sheridan stood behind an oak desk lined with gold, across from fine leather seats where Jeb, Crispus, and Major Jones sat. Atop the well-stocked bar sat a silver tray containing scotch, rum, brandy, and other drinks.

“Gentlemen, I understand you have something of import to tell me,” said Sheridan as he sauntered to the bar. He plucked a snifter of brandy from the tray. He put his nose to the glass and inhaled, savoring the aroma. “Anyone for a drink?”

All three men shook their heads.

“Tell ‘im, boys,” said the major, nudging Jeb. Sheridan looked at Crispus then Jeb, waiting for a reply.

Crispus cleared his throat.
Here's your chance.
“We have reason to believe there is an assassination plot against you, General.” He swallowed a laugh, realizing with Sheridan's long, chubby torso and short legs he resembled a gorilla.
 

“They're planning to go after my family in New York,” said Jeb. Crispus felt the grimness in his voice. Keturah
was
his sister and Bettina
his
niece. Jeb seemed to forget that.
 

“I see. Not that I am surprised, but by whom do you suspect may this be executed?” The general took another sniff.

“Uh. The dreadful Grand Dragon Verdiss,” answered Crispus, thrown off by Sheridan's lack of concern. “Our friend, Fallon, overheard his plots.”

Sheridan nodded, downed his drink, and placed it back on the tray. “I suppose the Fates are in my favor, as I am in the presence of such—as these seceshers would say—top rail men.”

Crispus looked at Jeb, confused, expecting a similar look.
He's blind, you dope.
He scowled. “I do not understand, General.”
 

“The major told me about you, Jebidiah,” began the general. “I have full confidence in my men, the major, and in you both.” Sheridan ignored Crispus's bemused stare. “I am well aware of what is brewing among the Klan, along with Verdiss's nefarious designs. The federal government has been at war with these barbarians for some time, both on the battlefield and in legislation.” Sheridan passed by the piano, tapping the keys. A soft soothing ring came out, though out of key. He shrugged and returned to his seat behind the desk.

“Wait a darn second. Y'all knew this?” Jeb hit his chair's armrest. Crispus wheeled on him with a glare. Of course, Jeb couldn't see him though.

“The Force Act of 1870 declared the destruction of that heinous group. Do you think
I
would let those sorry bastards run amok down here in
my
district? Especially after my predecessors have done such marvelous jobs of trying to reinstate slavery for all intents and purposes,” said Sheridan. He bubbled with spite, his teeth grinding together. “We have had men secreted among the Klan since this past year,” he continued, “particularly close to this Grand Dragon Verdiss.”