The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (29 page)

We Are Coming, Father Abr'am.
Crispus knew it well, and the short, bald Klansman seemed to too. First it came out as mumbling. Then foot tapping, and soon he was singing it.
 

 

“
You have called us and we're coming,
 

By Richmond's bloody tide,

To lay us down for Freedom's sake,


 

Our brothers' bones beside;


 

Or from foul treason's savage group,


 

To wrench the murderous blade;


 

And in the face of foreign foes


 

Its fragments to parade;


 

Six hundred thousand loyal men


 

And true have gone before.


 

We are coming, Father Abr'am,


 

Three hundred thousand more!”

 

If Hoyt and Corbet had been paying attention or were a bit smarter, perhaps they'd have noticed the actual lyrics. Crispus stifled a scoff. How could they not remember the song? Based on Lincoln's appeal for more volunteers to fill in for the Union's ravaged forces. Without it the South might have won the war.
Morons.
 

Theodosia must have noticed. He gave Crispus another nod. Then withdrew what he'd been fumbling for in his pocket, a battered jackknife. The Confederate flag emblazoned on its wood handle had been scratched off.

Luck seemed on Crispus's side—could this bald Klansmen be Sheridan's spy? Certain no one would hear him, he pulled back the hammer of his revolver. Wait for Theodosia to move. After all, he had the best vantage point to make the first strike.

You have called us and we're coming,

By Richmond's bloody tide.

“What'n the hells ya sanging?” Hoyt glanced back at the bald Klansman, as Theodosia opened the blade from his knife. “I says, what er ya sanging?”

Theodosia positioned himself closer to Hoyt's right flank. Crispus followed him, getting onto his knees, ducking his head from underneath the counter. Prepared to leap out and open fire.

“It's just a song, Hoyt,” the bald Klansmen answered with a smile. “Catchy tune is all.”

Hoyt mumbled something, then turned back to the bushels of grapes. Theodosia moved closer. Before Crispus could pull himself from under the stall, he struck. The blade punctured the lower side of Hoyt's neck, striking the jugular. A plume of crimson gore erupted like a fountain out onto the cobblestones.

Pandemonium struck the Klansmen...and Crispus—the bald Klansman recoiled with a shriek. Crispus jumped from the noise of blood splattering and slammed his head on the booth's underside. He groaned in pain, rubbing his pate. The other Klansman fell backward, terrified, pushing himself away from the crimson sea.

Theodosia stabbed with such precision that Hoyt hadn't even let out a death cry. Now soaked in blood, Theodosia strode toward the Klansman on the ground.

In a daze, Crispus saw or thought he saw what was happening, but the world didn't feel right. Either he was shaking or the market pulled away from him like a frightened animal. He fumbled out from the stall, pistol in hand.
Aim. Fire.
Is that them?
He couldn't tell if he were about to kill a man or a cart.
 

“Please, please! I ain't ready to meet Jesus!” cried the Klansman as Theodosia stood over him.

Crispus turned and found Theodosia's eyes locked on someone. They burned with the flames of vengeance. He edged toward the cowering Klansman, when Crispus staggered to his side. He aimed his pistol.

“Not like this.” Crispus felt a hand on his back. The third Klansman? Ready to turn and fire, he hesitated. “My name is Davis Elwood—First Sergeant Davis Elwood of the 25
th
Regiment Cavalry. I'm General Philip Sheridan's spy in the Ku Klux Klan,” he said. “This is not the way. You cannot kill this man, not like this.”
 

“But—” began Crispus. Theodosia shoved him away and wheeled on Davis.

“This here scum afixin' to fetch them Klan boys. Verdiss, him acomin' for me, I know it! Ain't he?” Theodosia spit thunder at the blubbering Klansman. He turned back to Davis. “I ain't agonna let them ignert bastuds ruin what me and Gerralyn got up here. I got land, a bidnis, and a life! Take me alotta year to git aways from all that. Y'all ain't fuckin' this up for me!”

Crispus staggered back, dropping his pistol. “I say—”

“We ain't up here for you,” said the Klansman, his hands shielding his face.

“Perhaps, he's telling—” began Crispus.

“I assure you, Theodosia, Verdiss and his men have no idea you're here.” Davis stepped between he and the Klansman.

Theodosia grumbled something. Then slid his knife back into his pocket. “What's happenin' now?”

“My head." Crispus clutched it, keeling over. The world slowed down. Almost as if time was drunk and staggering its way home.
Thud!
His feet gave way under him. He tumbled back on the ground slick with blood. “Did...did I
do—I'm still hungry.”
 

“What happens now is I arrest Corbet and secure him in the jailhouse.” Davis eyed the Klansman, his smile half visible. “Take this man to your Gerralyn for the night, give him some food." He nodded toward Crispus. “His head seems to have taken a good knock.” Davis hauled Corbet to his feet and dragged him off.

“What might I do wit em atter tomorraw?” Theodosia called after Davis. He bent over and pulled Crispus to his feet. An alarm bell pierced the quiet night. “We best git outta here," he grumbled, as he helped Crispus lurch out of the market.

Crispus tried to make time speed up again as they trudged through the roads of Yonkers. Slowly it did, like a train gaining speed on her tracks. Faint light from streetlamps lit their way. Their soft glow flickered in the night.
This is life
...
an ocean of darkness with a few flames burning the way.
Crispus watched the sputtering lights.
And soon it'll be day.
 

Chapter Forty-Three

Manhattan was teeming with political troubles. Men in frock coats and vests filled the boulevards, shouting at each other, fingers flailing. Democrats and Republicans were at odds over everything from Reconstruction to the rights of people of color. Dissent was spreading amongst their own parties, as well. Some Republicans preached Ulysses S. Grant's corrupted administration would lead the party in to chaos, allowing a wave of violence against black folks by Southern whites.

In the past year, the majority of Democrats repealed their opposition of Reconstruction and black suffrage, recognizing that to continue fighting against President Grant's suppression of the Ku Klux Klan via the Force Acts would be to re-engage in the War Between the States. Of course, they continued to fight for their right to own slaves. Instead, Southern Democrats known as Redeemers, focused on keeping Freedmen disenfranchised through unfair sharecropping laws. Often endorsing black politicians they could use as puppets.

Jeb and Fallon walked the avenues through this political battleground, coats pulled tight to ward off the September chill. The noon sun broke free of the few sputtering rain clouds.

Maybe he should have waited to see if Crispus would run off with the Pharaoh's Staff. But Jeb decided against it. Not even Crispus would dare do something
that
stupid. Jeb headed left down Fifth Avenue—south, north, east or west, he didn't know. All he did know was he regretted bringing Fallon. The boy rambled on about the sounds, sights, and all they'd learned about politics, stopping to talk with every paperboy to find out about interesting sites. But Jeb learned more about governmental affairs, far more than he'd ever heard back in the bayous of Louisiana. He couldn't help thinking that though they were free, the Redeemers succeeded in keeping Freedmen from knowing the truth about their rights.
 

After an hour of hiking down Fifth Avenue and heading right over Park Avenue, Jeb had enough and plopped down on a bench along the street. His feet and legs ached from his ankle lace-up boots. He hated admitting it, but he wasn't used to marching anymore. Or he was just getting too damn old. He pulled his frock coat around himself, putting his chilled hands to his mouth to warm them up.

“What are you doing?” Fallon came running, his face red from the bitter wind. He still perused the crumpled map in his gloved hands. “I'm not finding any farmers' market on here.”

“We ain't need a farmer market." Jeb grunted through his clasped hands. “All we need is one of them
voodoo
shops. Ain't there a Haitian neighborhood up here? I think I heard some boy yelling about it...best damn rum out of Haiti he said.” If the stone buildings didn't all look the same, Jeb might have an idea where to start looking. Not to mention the ocean of people flowing in every direction made it that much harder to distinguish any landmarks.
 

“I'm not seeing anything like that here. This is mostly points of interests—oh, wait!” Fallon jabbed the map with a finger. “Looky here. There's an old hotel down the street that's haunted by a White Lady." Jeb clapped his forehead. “Why's it matter if she's white? What? What's wrong?”

“Nothing." Jeb breathed deep. “Listen here, go and ask one of them paperboys where the closest Haitian café's at. All right?” As Fallon darted off into the swarm of people, Jeb let out a sigh. His breath came out like steam. He watched as it drifted into the air. His mind was elsewhere.

Were Keturah and Bettina safe? He couldn't be certain until they were in his arms again and this was over. Did the Pharaoh's Staff have some
hoodoo voodoo
magic powers? He doubted it, but his doubts had doubts. Blessed swords, burning things to ashes, tossing them into opposing oceans. It all sounded like one of those fairytales from that book Bettina loved. Something Grimm...Brothers...Uncles? Something like that. And Verdiss. A deformed man bent on the destruction of his own race. That slave thinking was common. Most plantation owners taught their slaves to hate each other. Ole Massa Johnson turned “his” against each other like dogs. Jeb included.
We were nothing but cocks for him to bet on. Biggest cockfight known to man. Rooster against rooster. Slave against slave. When it was the Massa running the whole damn thing.
 

A few months ago, he didn't know about politics or anything beyond Allenville. Not even the newly-elected black representatives up in Baton Rouge. Now Jeb knew too much about things that shouldn't be known. The
Geist Führer
, or Dark King—whatever it was they called him. Some unholy general making moves across time as a chess player maneuvers his pawns across the board.
Hope this is some dream and I wake up in my bed. Next to Keturah.
 

“Bully!” Fallon shouted as he came bounding through the throngs of people, map in hand, his coat tails flapping in the wind. “There's a Haitian place called Café Lakay over yonder East New York Avenue in Brooklyn.” The hawk-nosed boy pointed off in the distance.

“How far's that?”

“Twelve miles or so.”

“Go and get us a buggy," said Jeb, adjusting the saber at his belt so it didn't dig into his hip. “You'll have better luck than me." Fallon already vaulted back into the thicket of city life.

Jeb sat in silence, a silence of the soul. He took this time to rest, to relax his mind, to
be
. Something he hadn't had a chance to do in over a month. No. No idea how long it'd been. But he missed it.
 

Back in Allenville, after working the fields and spending the evening with Keturah and Bettina, he'd take off into the bayous alone. Take a chair with him and sit in the warm night, listening to the insects humming as they darted through the air. Water snakes would hiss as they hunted among the islets of the swamps, and gators glided through the brackish waters, occasionally breaking the calm swamp life with a ferocious leap to drag a bird to its grave or engage in territorial battles with other gators. It'd been a welcomed change.

During the war, hatred, rage, and death consumed daily life. The 79
th
Union Colored Troops of Louisiana led by Major Jones engaged in more battles than he could remember. He had joined both regiments of the 79
th
. The first regiment, assigned to Port Hudson in Louisiana, under constant attack, was overrun by Confederate forces in December of 1864. He was one of three survivors, including Lydell Jones.
 

After escaping to the North via the border state of Missouri, Jeb, Jones, and their companion were then
attached to the reorganized regiment of the New 79
th
Union Colored Troops. Their first station was Fort Smith in Arkansas. On January 8, 1865, the 79
th
Regiment took part in the skirmish at Ivey's Ford, which led to a Union victory, with one hundred nine casualties. From there, Jones and his men were ordered to Little Rock, Arkansas, and on the march there, they were ambushed by Confederate forces at the Skirmish of
Clarksville, where five hundred died, including three hundred five Confederate soldiers. The 79
th
was garrisoned at Little Rock until July, when they marched onto Pine Bluff, until October 1865, when they were effectively discharged.
Six
months after the war ended in April of that year. Six months of waiting, pining to return home. He'd been lucky, though. The Sawbones who worked on him didn't need to amputate anything like most of the wounded. They just carved him like a Thanksgiving turkey. A scarred torso didn't compare to a missing arm, or leg.