The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (17 page)

I can end it all. Fight through the crowd. A single shot to the head. To hell with being blind, I can do it.
For a moment Jeb meant it, caressing his pistol. It'd be easy. Instead, he listened to the Ku Klux Klan founder, savior of the white race, and ender of Reconstruction, parade along the street. Celebrated by a throng of who knew how many people. They were closer now, close enough for Jeb to count them.
Four guards following him. Plus Forrest, that's five. Six shot pistol. Just enough for one miss.
He gripped his pistol. It didn't matter that the crowd loved Forrest, even cheered him on.
Six rounds is enough.
Jeb edged his pistol free from its holster.
 

“The South shall rise again,” Forrest called out. His voice tasted like bitter herbs. The crowd echoed him, condemning the damn Yankees and their War of Northern Aggression.

Jeb aimed his pistol—it didn't matter if he hit some random country boy. They all wanted to see him hang, anyway. A slender hand wrapped around his, clicking the hammer forward.

“They're gone, Jeb,” said Fallon.

“Where?” Jeb growled, keeping his weapon aimed.

Fallon eased his arm down, opened Jeb's hand and removed the Colt. “Let's find Crispus." He tugged on Jeb's hand.

Cries from the parade faded away. Jeb sighed. “Yeah—that man ain't worth the time it'd take to kill him. Not yet.” He didn't know if he believed it, but he fumbled the Colt from Fallon and holstered it.
Live. Live for Keturah and Bettina, and Crispus. And this copperhead.
 

 “There you are! I've been looking all over Laurel Street for you,” said Crispus, sauntering toward Jeb.

“You left us.” Jeb scowled.

“Crispus, let's just go.”

Jeb grumbled to himself as Fallon and Crispus led him down the road. An argument in the middle of Baton Rouge wouldn't help keep the Klan off them. They stopped in front of, from the smell of it, a tenement house. A sign creaked above Jeb. “What's it say?”

“
Mambo pou travay
.
Mambo
for hire,” answered Crispus. “Her name's Philomene Poupon. She just came back from Haiti.” The door squeaked open. “Here, let me help you. Three steeps.” Crispus grasped Jeb by the arms and helped him inside.
 

The room felt cramped by the sound of hisses from lit candles, the stink of roots, herbs, and calls from various animals banging in cages. Jeb stumbled over a pair of short drums as they moved through rows of shelves.

“Hello? Madame Poupon?” Crispus pulled away from Jeb, disappearing into the room.

“
Wi. Bonswa!
” came a meaty voice. “Oh, yeh, Crispus, I dun see ya deh.”
 

“It is all right, madame. Here is my brother-in-law."

“He dee one vexed?” Madame Poupon shuffled over to Jeb, her hand wrapping around his wrist. “Oh yeh. I can see it in dee eyes. They's vexed fa sure.” Her breath broiled in his nostrils.
Rice and onions
. It soured his mouth.
 

“Can you help me?” asked Jeb.

“A course. Come ova here.” She drew him to a shelf where she caressed his hand against vials, trinkets, and a jar that chirped like a cricket. “Nuh, yah gotta eat dis ear cricket, can yah do dis?” Madame Poupon let Jeb's hand go. The jar cap twisted off, then the chirping grew louder.

“Yessum." Jeb swallowed hard. He held his hand out, the
mambo
placed the bug in it and folded his weathered fingers over it.
 

“Nuh dun eat it yet, okay?” Madame Poupon yelled from off in the room.  Shelves scraped along the floor, glass jingled and some a bird squawked.

What the hell she have here?
 

“Oh, here it iz.” She returned to his side. “Disya drink afta yah eat dee cricket.” Madame Poupon placed a grimy vial
swooshing
with liquid in his other hand, “Okay?”
 

Jeb nodded. “I'm glad I can't see this.”

“Me too,” said Fallon.

Jeb opened his hand and forced the cricket into his mouth. It struggled, and he fought not to gag on it. It crunched between his teeth. If the onions and rice weren't bad enough, the cricket tasted like gooey wood.

“Gross!” Crispus gagged.

“All right...all right.” Jeb bent over to catch his breath. “Better than some of Keturah's cooking.” He chuckled. “You know what I'm talking about.”

Crispus keeled over in laughter. “I know! She raised me, remember?”

“Herry up then. I ain't got all night,” said Madame Poupon.

“Okay . . .” Jeb uncorked the vial, turning away from the pungent smell. “Damn.”

Fallon snickered.

Jeb put the vial to his lips. The liquid burned like salt on a cut. He downed it, trying to keep from retching. The fierce red haze shimmered and faded. First images and shapes appeared. He could see the three figures in the room with him, but couldn't make out who was who.

Madame Poupon's accent reminded Jeb of Keturah's own dialect. Though, from what Keturah said, Haitians and Jamaicans were like grits and pheasant. When he could finally see the filth encrusted hovel stacked high with bizarre components and cages of animals, all he could offer was a, “Thank you, madam.”

“Na a problem, but nuh my paymont. Dee sign sez
mambo
nut wuk fa free.” Madame Poupon guffawed.
 

“Certainly, madame. Thank you so kindly,” said Crispus, pulling out five gold dollars. He handed the coins to the
mambo
. “We must be off now."
 

“It's good to finally see.” Jeb strode out into the street. By the feel of the cold, he decided it was near midnight. “Lit's get to the station and get them tickets.”

Jeb and his companions hurried through the streets, which had emptied their bowels. It was a rare chill out for the early fall weather, but his frock coat kept the cold at bay. In truth, Jeb didn't mind the shivery temperature. His thoughts were on other things. He'd noticed a day ago that his grim mood shifted. He'd thought Constable Rayford was one of a kind, a fluke as white men go. But Fallon proved himself all right so far. More than that, he stopped Jeb from something he couldn't have done himself. As for Fallon's feelings toward that girl Tempest, he'd have thought it dangerous before. Now it seemed pointless to think about.
They could be good for each other
.
Wouldn't be the first pair coming from different worlds.
Hell, me and Keturah. Not the same thing, but who the hell knows.
 

Jeb Johnson, born a slave to a slave in the earth of one of Ole Massa Johnson's fields in Atlanta. The old bastard took a cruel interest in him, afraid his daughter, Clementine, would succumb “to the call of the Buck” as he'd say. To prevent
it,
he'd beat Jeb every night to “ruin his good lookin' Buck-ness”. Ole Massa Johnson went as far as to hang Jeb's momma, Shug, for “stealin' a good loaf of bread”. All to ruin his ‘Buck-ness'.
 

After Union forces, led by Brigadier General Don Carlos Buell, got lost on their way to Tennessee and swept through, burning the plantation in 1862, Jeb took up arms with the federal troop. A means to escape his miserable existence. But then he met Keturah in an Atlanta market in...1855? She'd come from Jamaica to reunite with her little brother, Crispus.

Headstrong, stubborn, and unafraid of a slave state—Keturah came from a well-off educated family. He saw everything he wasn't in those eyes of hers, and he was never the same again.

The same feeling struck him. Jeb didn't believe in any Pharaoh's Staff, nor the hope for unifying anybody. But, maybe...

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty

 

At this time of night, The Richmond and Danville Railroad Company Station on Bluebonnet Boulevard sat in silence. That's how Darden Di'Cela, the conductor, liked it. He enjoyed the open night sky, and the cool breeze rustling through his thick hair. Bats chirping as they darted flew through the air. He often found himself dreading townspeople walking by would come to board the
Ivory Jean
. But he greeted everyone with a smile.
 

Ivory Jean
was a beautiful, red, American 4-4-0 steam locomotive, the same one Darden played on when he was ten years old. He'd met his wife, Lilliana, on the train. Whenever Darden started
Ivory Jean,
memories of them playing hide and seek, Chuck-a-luck, and dancing on the locomotive tickled his heart.
 

Tonight was like most nights, spent sitting at a wooden bench playing Monte with Smokey, the black baggage handler. Smokey wasn't his real name—given to him for the cigars he often chewed on. When Darden tried to pry it out of the white-haired man, he replied, “Smokey wuts they call me, so call me Smokey.” They left it at that.

“I'm taking a three on top and . . .” Darden stared at the deck of cards. “Five on bottom.” He lifted the deck, spying the bottom and top card.

“Bully for you,” said Darden. “You win again, Smokey.”

He let out a laugh. “Lucky tonight. Wanna go again?” Smokey started to shuffle the deck, adjusting the cigar in his mouth with his teeth.

Darden frowned. A group of six boys in woolen trousers, some with torn shirts, appeared. “Sorry, Smokey, got customers.” Darden stood, watching the gang.
With clothes ripped like that they can't be a wholesome bunch
. He strode to meet them anyway. “Howdy boys! Y'all need tickets?”
Just go away. I can beat Smokey this time.
That was no reason to be rude. They ignored him, talking about the wild night they had in Baton Rouge. Each handed Darden a dollar and took a paper ticket.
 

“Well, climb a board if you like. We're not leaving for another ten minutes." He waved the boys on. “Okay. We got ten more minutes to play,” said Darden, sitting down at the bench.

“How's that young'un a yers? And the wife.” Smokey's calloused knuckles popped as he shuffled the deck, a smile on his face.

Darden rolled his eyes. “I know! Can't believe I got a six-year-old, but Kacie is doing good. Had the flu last week, but she's doin' good. Lilliana is chirpy—wants a dog. You should come by and say hello—I'm callin' ten on top.” Darden picked up the top card.

“I hafta come by then.” Smokey's chestnut eyes drifted off, fixated on something behind Darden. Teeth clenched, he nearly bit his cigar in half.

He turned, following the old man's gaze. A troop of men approached, a black pit bull at their heels.

Now they're an unsavory bunch
. Two men seemed to lead the pack of well-dressed thugs. The larger one looked like an ogre
with an egg-shaped head and thick muttonchops. He'd never seen a dandy, dressed in a fine gray suit and silk bowler hat, with a savage glint his eyes. The sight clutched his stomach, but Darden was determined to stay polite. After all, they were people, with lives, love, relationships, mothers, and fathers.
 

The other gentleman—he stood like a man—wore the black robe of a monk of the Order of Saint Benedict, a group of Roman Catholics who dedicated themselves to poverty, chastity, and near-silence. His hood, pulled up, covered his face, and his hands held fast in the opposite sleeve as if he were in prayer. Only his posture gave away his gender.

“Evenin', gentleman. Or is it good mornin'?” Darden chuckled. The ogre scowled. Anxious, Darden analyzed the ten other men, well-dressed wearing breeches, shirts, coats, and some nice Hessian boots. Some removed their top hats.
Odd.
“Is that twelve tickets y'all need?” asked Darden. He feigned a smile.
 

“Y'all seent some coloreds come through here?” The ogre demanded more than he asked. Darden gave Smokey a nervous glance. Smokey wore a restrained glower.

Darden cleared his throat. “Uh, sir, I'd prefer you not use that slur in front of my friend. The proper term is black or person of color. Times are changin'.”
Hope that didn't come out too harsh
—and, speaking of cuss words, Kacie
needed a talking to about saying "fart" the other day.
A detestable word,
especially for a young girl.
 

The ogre's scowl deepened.
Darden! You should apologize. He's upset.
“Listen, you no-account ass. If you don't tells me what I want to know, I'm agonna rip you apart.” The ogre stepped forward, his finger in Darden's face. Growling, the pit bull followed its master's tracks. Eyes flared as if it echoed his offense.
 

That fear in Darden's stomach tightened. “Uh...yes, sir...two boarded the one a.m. train to Virginia.”
Just give them what they want
and they'll go away.
 

Malicious joy flashed in the ogre's eyes. He turned and glared at Smokey. “Why you got that boy here?” He sneered as the other thugs boarded the
Ivory Jean
. Only the Benedict monk remained where he was, silent, unmoving.
 

How can a man of God be travelling with this racist no-good thug?
How can I get them to just move along?
“S-sir, he
is
the baggage handler.” He glanced at the train, and turned back to find the ogre and his dog shortened the gap between them. “D-do you need tickets, good sir?”
If they don't want to pay, let them. Just let them be on their way.