The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (18 page)

A punch landed square on Darden's jaw, throwing him back onto the unyielding cement. Shockwaves of pain swept through him. His jaw must've been knocked clean off. He moaned, the blow echoing through his skull. The pit bull stood over him, goading him.
Stand if you dare
.
 

“Get up, you traitor, and start this here train.” Then the ogre turned his furious eyes on Smokey, who'd been watching the scene from his bench. His eyes narrowed.

“What you lookin at, boy?” He drew his pistol, and leaned over Smokey. His dog followed him. Seconds later the pistol's barrel was jammed against the bottom of Smokey's jaw. “You know what kinda dog this is?” The ogre glanced at the pit bull. “Darkness here, him a Negro dog. You know what
that
is, don't you?”
 

“Yes, suh,” said Smokey.

“During the war, we used dogs like him—" He motioned at the dog with his gun. “—to hunt boys like you. Hunt them and kill them. I think I might just let Darkness here gnash yer bones to dust.”

“Leave him alone.” Darden climbed to his feet, grumbling through his broken jaw. The Benedict monk grabbed his arm, yanking him into the
Ivory Jean
with
surprising strength.
 

“I suggest you make haste and start the locomotive for your own sake.” The monk's calm voice dripped a hint of malice. “Narce, let us be on our way."

An ear-piercing pop burst from the revolver. Smokey's jaw and skull burst, spraying blood and bone fragments out onto the cement. Smokey slumped over. The ogre chortled to himself.

“Yes, Grand Dragon. Darkness." He kneeled down, rubbing the dog's head. “C'mon, boy.”

The
Ivory Jean
roared alive, steam blasting from various pipes. The ogre stepped aboard, commanding Darkness to follow. A few seconds later, the young boys fled the train as if they had seen the devil himself. They'd seen him, and so had Darden. His name was Narce, who smiled at the death he wrought.
 

Ivory Jean
pulled away from the station and headed north toward Virginia.
 

“What am I goin' to do now?” mumbled Darden.

 

 

Chapter Thirty-One

Carcasses no longer littered the battlefield. Grass wasn't trampled and caked with blood. No gunshots, no blaring Gatling guns, no metal scraping metal, no soldiers wailing death cries or telling a comrade to deliver an "I love you" to a soon-to-be widow.

Peaceful, the sun shedding radiance over the landscape, tall grass swaying in the breeze. Tranquility held the pasture in unassuming beauty. Flowers of all colors flourished in the serene meadow, lakes of fiery reds, dazzling yellows, luscious oranges, and crisp blues.

Jeb knew the field like the curvaceous arch of Keturah's back when they made love. A Confederate soldier shot down Moses Noitavlas here. Robbed him of his chance to grow up.

Hate, rage, and guilt didn't simmer in Jeb's heart. Not anymore. He ambled through the rolling grassland. His middle-aged, battered legs didn't ache from years of battle and work on an Atlanta plantation.

Keturah, the tall, beautiful woman draped in her gray dress, stood at the opposite edge of the field. She was divine, a long face and pointed chin. That chin defined beauty.

Bettina appeared beside her, a spitting image of her mother. Her azure dress fluttered in the breeze.

Jeb watched them, his heart singing with euphonious melodies plucked from the finest of harps. He went to meet his kinsfolk when
he
spoke.
 

“They're waiting for you in New York.”

He turned, unshrinking, and found Moses Noitavlas. The seventeen-year-old didn't seem in pain; there were no wounds. His smile was as placid as the pastures. Jeb's muscles tensed, he prepared for that wave of gore to hit him.

“You don't gotta run. I'm free now. Your guilt, your hatred kept me tied to you.” Moses paused. “He'll help you.”

“Fallon?”

“You gotta wake up now.”

“No, I gotta know if you're real? Keturah, Bettina, are they all right?”

A sad expression crossed Moses. “Can't answer that. Dark forces are scramblin' for the staff. They'll never rest till it's theirs. Destroy it.” The screech of steam drowned out his voice followed by wheels turning, and metal ringing.

Jeb awoke to harsh reality. The
Anne Howard
rumbled along the Mississippi River. Marshlands lined the western horizon. He was in that damned train rolling northward toward Virginia.
 

The field of grass, rainbows of flowers, and his family were gone. Only hard, straight-backed wooden seats and tar-smelling metal spittoons filled the Jim Crow Car—or, what it was, a car to hide black folk from the whites. Several other passengers sat in those painful seats. Crispus sat next to Jeb asleep, his head leaning against the window.

Mid-morning sunlight shone through the glass in glistening spurts when it slipped out from behind overcast clouds.
No Fallon. Boy's gotta be up in the white car.
 

Moses still floated through Jeb's thoughts. He realized too many superstitions proved real. A magic talisman that healed,
voodoo
curses, and magical potions. And Verdiss. A black
voodoo
worker serving the Klan—controlling it. It'd been common for plantation owners to pit slaves against one another, break the community, keep down chances of riots. He'd heard a new word for it:
colonialism
. The same idea, which taught a people to despise themselves, that they were inferior to the ruling class. Ole Massa Johnson spent most of his day planting those seeds in his slaves. Jeb included. He shuddered at the memories, rumors spreading Toby fondled Momma Shug. Then stories that Jeb attacked his sistren. He caressed the rough, scarred over knife wound on his arm. Jeb was lucky, Toby lost an eye.
 

 Still, the idea of Moses Noitavlas's ghost warning him through a dream, revealing future events would get a man tarred and feathered. Maybe the past events and fear of losing his family drove him crazy. He imagined it all.

In spite of that, if the Pharaoh's Staff could do any of what everyone said it could, he had to destroy it. He'd have a hard time convincing Crispus.
Talk to Cornelius Cuthbert. If he's as intelligent as General Sheridan says, he'll be able
to convince Crispus. That's too many ifs.
 

The train lurched forward, wheels whining, metal scraping, biting, and crunching...

“What's that horrendous racket?” asked Crispus, looking around.

“I don't know," Jeb yelled over the commotion just as the clamor stopped. The other passengers glared at him. “Sorry." He turned back to Crispus. “We probably broke down.”

Grumbling filled the car. It went silent when the door slid open. An angry, stout man in a conductor's uniform stepped in.

“Listen up, y'all. Train's abroke down. Might be awhile. Y'all boys behave yerselves, and maybe I'll letcha go on ahead to the dining car.” The conductor slammed the door shut before anyone could respond.

“Oh, they have a dining car! This must be one fancy train,” said Crispus.

“Psh!” Jeb sucked his teeth. “That's what get you excited? A damn eating car.” He scowled.
Go easy on him. You almost lost him. Can't blame him for Lil Juris forever. Can you?
 

But Crispus grew up comfortable. Jeb struggled on plantations and battlefields. Crispus was born free. And seemed oblivious to that gift. He learned to read and write as a child, while Jeb struggled to learn through the Freedmen's Bureau at thirty-four years old.

Looking hurt and embarrassed, Crispus turned away from him. He stared at the Mississippi River through his window.

Damn. Go cool off with Fallon.
Jeb strode to the door to the car ahead. Slid it open.
 

“Dontchu do that!” said an old man, pointing his cane at him. “Them good ole boys come back here and whoop yer ass. Bring them cathauls on us all.”

Jeb shuddered at the word. Ole Massa Johnson used the cathauls, tying a tomcat to his back so it'd try to claw its way off. “I ain't letting nothing happen.” He turned back to the white car ahead and called out. “Psst! Fallon, you in there?”
 

The boy popped up from a cushioned seat several yards ahead. Seeing no one else in the car, he waved Jeb in. Cautious about entering, Jeb took another glance around and took a step in.

“I don't wanna get caught up here, so you best come back to our car." Jeb hurried back into the Jim Crow car. Fallon nodded and followed him.

“All right then,” said a lanky man, climbing to his feet. “Lit's make me some money. Who be brave nuff to join me in a Cake Walk?” He flashed his eyes at Jeb. “How bouts it? Yah down for makin' some money?”

The old man jumped up with a cat-like grace. “I'm always up for takin' a young'un's money. Don't let this cane fool you.” He flung it to the floor. Strutted down the aisle, his head turned high. “Yah know the rules. Fanciest walk wins.”

“Name's Roosevelt. Winner of this here Cake Walk.” He chuckled, sticking his hands under his suspenders.

Fallon looked on, his eyes wide, pulled open by confused interest.

Jeb wouldn't play—his legs ached like hell—even when the old man goaded him on. Besides, war loomed on the horizon. A Grand Dragon spread his horrible wings, drowning out hope like the sun in shadows. A den of Goblins following at his heels.

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Two

 

Narce stewed in his seat aboard the
Ivory Jean
. The locomotive's fuming matched his mood.
Damned Verdiss!
He grinded his teeth to keep himself from screaming. There wasn't much Narce feared, but Verdiss gave him the shivers. He'd learned a lot about the Grand Dragon since he was promoted to Nighthawk. What he learned made him all the more nervous. More careful. Yet somehow he always managed to fuck things up.
 

This time Verdiss reprimanded him for murdering the baggage handler.
Needless and unwarranted
, he'd said.
It drew too much attention
. Narce didn't care—he still would've done it. Lincoln's damn Emancipation Proclamation ruined the South. Those slaves weren't his to give away. They needed to be recaptured—but not through confidential schemes and back-door practices like the fucking Redeemers or whatever other bigwig groups wanted. Force and fear kept the slaves in line for centuries, and that'd be the way to bring them back. Narce couldn't do it himself, though. Sure he could try to become a professional lyncher—w
onder if there's one of those—
kill a few, but with damn Yankees running things
he'd
end up swinging from the gallows. No, best to follow the Grand Dragon.
He's sharp as nails.
 

Narce sighed, resting his hand on Darkness's wedge-shaped head. He itched it as they both sat by the sliding door that led into the next car. Not much of a punishment, stopping anyone from getting close enough to hear the meeting. But it was boring, and deep down Narce felt like an old lady who fell out of the wagon.

Verdiss forced the bootlicking conductor to stop the train in Baker, a hovel town a few miles north of Baton Rouge. Of course the Nancy-boy did it in two shakes. Seeing his boy's death turned him more lady-like, babbling about his precious little wife and daughter.

In Baker, they collected several men dressed in Confederate uniforms, and their Grand Wizard, Nathan Bedford Forrest. Both he and Verdiss disappeared into the car ahead. Narce strained to hear them through the door. Their voices were low, but harsh. It sounded like either one of them could fly off the handle.

“You overstepped your mark!” came Forrest's voice. “This is our last stand, and you're here causing all sorts of ruckuses. They're rounding up our men and dragging them to the gallows every day. I risk my own life by coming here, you damned fool.”

Narce couldn't help wondering if Forrest had seen Verdiss's face.

“I apologize profusely, Grand Wizard," said Verdiss. Narce knew the tone. It was Verdiss's politico voice, the one he used to settle disputes among the Goblins. He'd thought it strange at the time, but now it made sense why Verdiss insisted they stop and meet Forrest. If they hadn't, Forrest might've suspected Verdiss went out on his own schemes and branded him a traitor. Not that there were many Goblins left, but there were a lot of Redeemers and the like.

Forrest growled, then glass shattered. “To hell with your sorries. There was no need to destroy Allenville. All you were sent here to do was recruit men. You've ruined our chances of maintaining ground in Louisiana!” Forrest took a few deep breaths. A few newspapers reported he'd taken ill, before some of their journalists turned up dead, but they claimed Forrest's doctors pronounced him a diabetic.

Might actually be true.

“You must calm yourself, Grand Wizard. You will suffer a heart attack." Verdiss feigned concern.

“I'm fine,” said the Grand Wizard, his voice now calm. “Here is what you will do. After my men and I depart in Zachary, you and your den will abandon this idiotic trek north. When you arrive in Pineville, you will embark on recruitment
there
, understood?”
 

“Yes, of course, Grand Wizard.”

The train decelerated. The grating of wheels and howling of steam pipes ceased. Narce heard Forrest stand. “Good. Don't rack up other means that'd give me cause to have to return to this wretched, infested place.” He stormed off into the car ahead. Moments later, the
Ivory Jean
lurched forward and continued north.