The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (28 page)

During his trek across the city to Yonkers, Crispus indulged his wanderlust. He couldn't help it. Strange architecture, foreign food hawked by immigrants, and managing to pull a limited history of the city and her surrounding areas. It seemed construction on the tenement buildings in Yonkers had just finished amid rumors that the village was on the verge of incorporation as a city. Requiring more residents, public officials forced immigrants into town, crowding them into the unfit buildings. A single family apartment meant for four served as home to twenty.

This will all be over soon.
When Crispus crossed over into Yonkers, he noticed the difference from the rest of energetic New York City. Yonkers, founded in 1646, spent the past hundred years as a farming village.
 

Too true.
Crispus wandered streets lined with old wooden buildings and market stalls. Larger, more modern brick buildings dotted the roads, as well as tenement
houses sitting in piles of filth. The older tenement homes boasted few windows.
 

A shame.

Scaffolding hung from the sides of these forlorn structures. Crispus noticed the newer tenements had twice as many windows, reflecting the full moon's silvery gleam.
At least these poor people have more windows.
 

As Crispus ventured deeper into Yonkers, Riverdale Avenue came alive. People bustled about in the evening hours, filling what Crispus assumed was the town market. Lamplighters dressed in blue uniforms strolled along the road, lighting the street lamps illuminating Yonkers. Many of the market stalls were open for business, farmers yelling out what livestock, fruits, and vegetables they had for sale. Having eaten only snacks since arriving in New York, Crispus took to inspecting what food  he could afford
and
want to eat. There was more food than he thought a small town could hold. Pumpkins, radishes, potatoes, squash, tomatoes, grapes, pears, and carrots. Others sold chicken stews, corn pone, turkey, and pretzels.
 

While making his rounds through the farmers' bazaar, he noticed few meats. At best, the crofters had a few chickens or several pigs, but no beef to offer. Crispus's mind wandered as he examined the various foods.

This Cow's Head dairy farm's abandoned, but it can't be the only farm in Yonkers. Especially if their trying to incorporate the city.

Spying several bushels of green grapes sitting atop a rickety booth, his stomach rumbled and reminded him he was hungry.

Crispus made his way across the market, maneuvering himself among the maze of townspeople. It gave him enough time to survey the market fully.
Jeb taught me well.
Most of the men dressed like any po'boy would. Trousers, shirts, battered coats. Nothing unusual.
Good.
To be careful, he looked over a number of women, though he tried to hide it.
Dresses. Nothing special
.
No Klansmen.
 

Crispus almost gave a sigh of relief, then he noticed out of the corner of his eye, a trio of
well-dressed
men. Normally, it'd mean nothing, but if he were trying to hide the fact he was a criminal, Crispus would dress as well as they were. He glanced down at his suit.
That's different.
 

Each man wore fine breeches, ruffled shirts, deep blue frock coats, and well-polished Hessian boots. He'd seen the short, smiling one before. From where? The memory hid beneath his hunger. Not wanting to turn to face them and risk revealing himself, he kept them on his periphery. He tried to study the other two men, but couldn't catch any details about them. One might've been tall.

Crispus made it to the booth offering bushels of grapes, though his eyes were on the three men. One shoved a crofter, screaming something at him.
Don't stare!
Crispus turned back to the farmhand behind the stand. “Hello there, sir."
 

Sir
didn't fit the farmer. Muscular, weathered skin, dirt stained hair, and mud caked into the folds of his shirt. He looked like a redneck from down South.
Drat.
Crispus regarded him, trying to hide his alarm. He hoped he had. How did he end up at
his
stall? Pay more attention, Crispus told himself.
Say something.
Don't let him think you're being uppity.
 

 Crispus cleared his throat. “I wonder how much a full stem costs?”

The farmer scratched his mustache, small flakes of dandruff drifting into the chilled night wind. His eyes reflected an intellect greater than his appearance let on. “Ya ain't from here, ain't ya?” he asked with a Louisiana drawl.

Drat!
They had him cornered. Three well dressed thugs most likely Klansmen looking for him, stalked the market booths, interrogating the farmhands. And this redneck already seemed suspicious. Crispus caught a more detailed glimpse of the tall ruffian. Stringy blond hair and a pointed chin.
 

“Boy?” said the farmer.

Call me boy?!
Crispus turned back to the farmer. “Um. No—no, good sir, I am not." Maybe he shouldn't have come by himself. Jeb would know what to do. What
would
he do? Three men on his flank. One to his front. Pistol holstered. If Crispus went for it too quickly he'd probably end up shooting himself in the foot. Was it even loaded? He thought he made sure, but now...
 

They are Klansmen! I remember them now.

“What got'n to ya, boy, what ya scared for?” asked the farmer, disgruntled concern in his voice. Then Crispus felt a calloused hand on his arm and recoiled like a hare bounding into the brush.

Calm your nerves.
He took a deep breath. “Nothing, good sir. Forgive me, I'm just hungry is all." He cleared his throat again. “Now, how much was it for a full stem?” Seeming to sense his unease, the aged farmer glanced at the Klansmen still harassing vendors and rooting through their goods. The stringy-haired one pushed and shoved merchants, yelling obscenities at them. The three were nearing Crispus. A grumble came from the farmer as if he knew the three.
 

Scratching his face, he asked, “What's yer name, boy?”

They were closing in, their words growing more vicious now. What could Crispus do? He couldn't start a gunfight in the middle of the market. Endanger any more lives.

“Yer name, boy."

That calloused hand was on Crispus again. The threesome was only ten yards away, yelling at an old merchant who couldn't answer their questions.

“Sorry, sir, sorry. My name's Crispus Moorfield." He heard the fear in his own voice. He'd spent too long thinking about what to do, and now the time was upon him.
They're going to find me!
Still, Crispus froze, unable to react.
 

“The name's Theodosia, and, yeah, it a girl name. We deal wit that later,” he said, hand tightening on Crispus's arm. With a yank, Theodosia pulled him behind the worm-eaten stall. “Git down, boy.”

Crispus found himself shoved beneath the counter. Again, hiding in what felt like a box. He pulled his legs close to his chest. At least, he wouldn't need to hide here as long as he had in Lafayette's cabinet.

Footfalls grew closer, and louder. Right next to Crispus. Wood creaked as someone rested their hands on the counter. Through the cracks Crispus spotted the lanky-haired thug. He reeked of sweat and mildew as though he'd sprouted mold.

“Hoyt,” said Theodosia.

“If'n ain't Theodosia Rana.” Hoyt growled in return as the other two Klansmen appeared beside him. Tension stained the air, Crispus sensed it, Hoyt and Theodosia eyeing one another.

“I see nuttin changed wit ya.” Theodosia waved the smell away from his nostrils. “What ya doin' up in the Union?”

“None a ya damn bidness, now is it?” Anger or bitterness dripped from Hoyt's mouth. Crispus couldn't decide which, maybe both.

Theodosia scoffed. “Y'all boys lucky them Lib'ral Republicans ain't here. They'd gut yawl."

Liberal Republicans? Oh, the ones who think President Grant crippled the caucus by appointing corrupt officials?
They rallied in the South around election time to protect black folk and ensure they were allowed to vote. One of the reasons they proclaimed the War Between the States hadn't ended.
 

“I ain't afeared of them coots!”

Saliva dripped through the cracks in the wood and hit Crispus in the eye.
Ugh!
He almost gagged, but kept it down.
 

“An' if ya must'n know, we here for the Grand Dragon. Ya remember him, huh!” Hoyt slammed his fist on the counter. One of the Klansmen clapped Hoyt on the back and whispered something in his ear. Crispus strained to hear it, but couldn't. Whatever it was, Hoyt seemed to relax. A little, at least.

Theodosia shook his head. That same dissatisfaction crossing his face. “Y'all still wid the Klan. I'd a thought you'd a been doin' somethin else by now—even ya, Hoyt." He eyed them. “Yer whole lives agonna been wasted on that foolishness, akillin' folks cause they differnt then ya.” Theodosia watched the three, two of whom he seemed to remember.

What does that mean? Was he a Klansman?
Part of Crispus hoped he had been. It'd show a person could change.
 

“What the Grand Dragon got y'all up ‘ere lookin' for?” Theodosia maneuvered himself behind the stall so that he blocked Crispus from getting out from under the counter.

What is he doing?

“Somethin y'all ain't understandin' I bet. Verdiss the Grand Dragon—a snake If I ever seen one.” Theodosia reached into his pocket, grasping for something.

“What that mean? We's alookin' for some sour green grapes.” Hoyt sounded embarrassed.

Grapes? Sour? Green? What do they need those for? The ritual!
Crispus
had
to stop them.
 

“Beside, what ya know bout the Grand Dragon? Ya done run off an' turn damn Yankee atter the war, ya coward.” Hoyt leaned over the counter. It buckled, and for a moment Crispus swore it'd collapse on him. “What happen, ya lose yer grit, huh? Yer purdy liddle wife Gerralyn turn scalawag and yer afollowin' her, huh?”

Theodosia tapped a finger on the counter. “Yer right about that. I done turn damn Yankee, and Gerralyn gone scalawag. And I maya lost some grit. But Verdiss. Yer Grand Dragon, yer pious Christian leader, ain't pious and ain't no Christian. Him a damn devil. All him adoin' is spreadin' hate and murderin' folks.”

“What ya mean he ain't a Christian? Course him is.”

That's how Verdiss has survived in the Klan. They don't know he's a voodoo worker.
It made sense now. The thought gnawed at Crispus, even though he tried not to pay it any mind. What good would it do? For all he knew, the Klan had gone
voodoo
.
 

“Gerralyn afollowin' me. I turned damn Yankee afore she turned scalawag. That devil, Verdiss, kilt my young'un Gillie for tellin' one a them black girls she was purdy.” Theodosia's weathered skin seemed to ooze magma.

Amidst the conversation, Crispus hadn't realized the market, filled with a chorus of townspeople, grew silent. The chilled night air whispered something. A secret about someone. Was it close by? He couldn't tell.

“He kilt yer little'n?” asked one of the Klansmen. The short, bald one motioned to him as if to say
press no further
.
 

“Sho'nuff he done it!” said Theodosia.

“Bullshit.” Hoyt waved him off. “Theo jus runnin' his jaw off—bluffin' is all he doing.”

Theodosia calmed himself, glancing from side to side at the market. For a moment, he screwed his face up—Crispus saw it, but none of the Klansmen seemed to.

He's planning something.
Crispus slid his hand to his pistol.
Don't turn yellow this time.
 

“Boy,” Theodosia growled, eyes clawing at Hoyt, “I done made a home up ‘ere in the Union. I'm a po'boy from the bayous. When I'm jawin' it ain't for no lies. Y'all is a bunch a ignert deadbeats an' so is yer Grand Dragon. Whatever that demon got planned I ain't want nothin' to do wit. Keep it outta my neck of the woods...anywhere else be fine, but not where I got to deal wit it.”

By now the market crowd vanished. All that remained were the three Klansmen and Theodosia, still seething. The lines in his face twisted in a way that Crispus knew what he was planning.

A glance and a nod from Theodosia, and it confirmed what Crispus thought.
He's going to kill them.
 

“Uh—I'd athink they got to be some sour grapes around here.” Theodosia gripped whatever was in his pants' pocket. A gun? A knife? “But y'all boys agonna hafta look for yerselves. I'm afixin' to calls it a night. Eryone else done gone.” He motioned to the stalls standing empty in the pale glowing night.

Crispus watched in between the cracks as Hoyt sifted through a bushel of grapes. The short, bald Klansman hung back as if disinterested, while the other one joined Hoyt. They went grape by grape, inspecting and nibbling to make sure they were sour. Hoyt paid no attention to the juices dribbling from his mouth and down his chin
.
 

Theodosia watched them, too.

“How manys you thank we needs?” asked the Klansman.

“I reckon a hand's full,” answered Hoyt.

Now Crispus would act. Luck was on his side. Theodosia nudged him with his foot, and gave a nod. Gripping his pistol, Crispus slipped it from his belt. What now?
Do I click the hammer so I can get the first shot, or will the Klansmen hear it?
How does Jeb make all these decisions?
Then came the Union song. One Crispus hadn't heard in years, not since his last trip to the North.