The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (5 page)

Rage engulfed Crispus. Spraying a fire of vengeance on them was a trigger away. He'd put down the whole pack of jackals.
No, you can't do that. Don't be brash. What would Jeb do? He'd wait. Watch. Protect the map
. If it fell into the Klan's hands, he might as well return freedmen to slavery.
The Klan will do it if you lose the map, Crispus.
So, he waited and watched.
 

The debauchery ebbed on in a hellish nightmare, but the pungent stench of burnt flesh was worse. Crispus buried his face with his arm, trying to hide from the sea of smoke. But in reality, he'd go insane if he watched anymore.
What do I do? I can't sit here and let these monsters do this! Do something!
He couldn't think. All his preaching and protests meant nothing if he
watched
and did nothing.
You have to. You're surrounded by enemies. Jeb would tell you in war there are sacrifices.
Crispus shuddered, death blaring in his ears.
 

“I think the boy's had enough. Now string ‘em up,” came a voice. Then the sounds of flesh pounding against flesh stopped.

Crispus lifted his tear-soaked face from his arm to find a bulky Goblin bent over, tying a noose around the man's neck. Crispus's rage pushed him to his feet. He clicked back the pistol's hammer, and stepped out from the alleyway.

“Stop!” he meant to yell, but fear seized his voice. None of the Klansman seemed to notice him pointing a gun at them. They continued laughing as they hoisted up the already-dying man.

Others grabbed and beat the mother and daughter. A cold, sweaty hand wrapped around Crispus's mouth and yanked him back into the alley.

“Are you out of your damned mind!” a familiar voice growled. Crispus couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. Someone saved him from an honorable, yet quick death. “Open your eyes, boy. It's me.” Someone snatched the pistol from Crispus's hands.

 He opened his eyes. Constable Rayford stood over him.
Don't let him see you're afraid.
“I'm no boy! You shouldn't have done that!” Crispus turned back to find the Goblins dragging the man off by the noose around his neck. He'd be dead in a matter of minutes. “Give me back my gun. They're going to kill him!” He lunged for the pistol, but Rayford held it back.
 

“Boy, if I let you go do what you want to do, I'll be explaining your corpse to Jeb
and
your sister. They both done enough for you.”
 

Crispus considered lunging for the gun again, but decided against it.
There's no point
. He slumped against the alley wall. Rayford was right. His death would destroy Keturah as if she'd lost her own child. Sometimes he regretted her love. She'd scream, yell, and bawl him out like her child. “Now, listen, we're not doing a thing until your brother-in-law git here. You heard?” Rayford straightened his white dress shirt and cotton britches, fixing his pistol at his belt. While glaring at Crispus through furry muttonchops.
 

Rayford turned away from the brutal scene. Crispus watched the man's thoughts play out in his expression. No one wanted to see a mother and child raped. Still, Rayford flinched at the screams. If they were white women, maybe he'd step in—Crispus turned away from him.
Coward.
He was more of a coward. But there were too many Goblins,
they were too angry, and filled with too much hate. That's how he justified it to himself. Rayford must think the same, Crispus decided.
 

“Just hold tight, boy. No one want to see this,” said Rayford.

Crispus listened in horror, tears welling up in eyes. “I . . . need . . . to help . . . them.” He tried to climb to his feet. His stomach twisted, pushing bile back up his throat. Swallowing it, Crispus went to move.

Rayford pulled him back, his arms wrapping around him. “Like I said, I can't let you. This is just a part of life, boy. Time you learned it.”

Crispus tried fighting the embrace, but Rayford was too strong. His muscled arms flexed around him, his age belied by his strength. Crispus sobbed more. If he had been as strong as Rayford, he'd do something.

“Pl . . . please . . . please let me help them.” He tried to squirm his way out of the constable's arms for another few minutes until the deed was done. His muscles released their tension. The sounds of fabric rustling echoed Crispus's failure to act. The remaining Klansmen, having finished their heinous act, faded away into another part of town.

Rayford let Crispus go. He collapsed to the ground. “Let them be,” said the constable when Crispus went to help the two women gather their clothing. A moment later, they retreated into their blood-bathed home. “You can't save everyone, and there ain't a reason to try. Your foolishness already cut down Lil Juris, boy.”

Crispus scowled. “Don't say that name to me! And that's not the point. I'd rather die trying than live another day.” A lie he wished was true. Grand Dragon Verdiss and his Klansmen wielded a power that far outweighed the scope of his abilities. Verdiss's most nefarious scheme was fueled by a hatred that overwhelmed the nation at such a fragile moment, that few would stand against his many. He didn't know for sure what the staff did, but it'd change the world. Of that, he was certain.
 

Crispus shuddered in a cold breeze. He needed Jeb, a soldier, trained in war, who'd survived amidst battlefields soaked with blood. More than that, Jeb
acted
.
 

Soon enough the Klan would sweep through Allenville again in search of Crispus.

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

Jeb opened his eyes. The morning light glistened on a frost-covered meadow. His breath came out in bursts of mist. The cold air bit his cheek. “Where the—” he sat up in his bedroll. “This isn't real!” The tent, the air, his traps, they were all there. That same morning breeze dug its claws in his bones as he climbed out of bed. Even the tent flaps wavered the same way. Jeb gathered his things for the coming battle: uniform of the 79
th
Union Colored Troops of Louisiana pulled snug over his undergarments, saber attached at his belt, and his personal Colt pistol tucked in its holster. Jeb grabbed his Springfield rifle and slung it over his back. He stood tall, geared, and stretched his back. Without realizing it, he'd fallen back into his routine. Something made him do it. He wanted to fight it, but he couldn't.
 

He turned and kicked Rufus's cot. It did no good. The private continued snoring. Jeb scoffed. “Major Jones'll have his ass.” It'd be punishment enough. He yawned again and then headed for the tent flaps. “Hmm grits” Jeb sniffed the air. He'd learned how to tell what was for breakfast by the sounds of the men bustling about camp. When it was grits for breakfast, they laughed louder, comparing mama's recipes. Bacon, and not a man spoke all morning. They were too busy eating. Today the grits smelled cheesy. Private Marcus must be on mess.

Jeb pulled open the flaps. Moses Noitavlas stood there, looking at him. Those eyes...that face. Jeb fell to his knees, sobbing. “Forgive me! It was meant for me! I'm sorry. I‘m sorry,” Jeb wailed. He felt Moses's eyes on him, burning through his thick skin. The boy's face screwed up in agony—Jeb felt it. Moses's lips pulled back in a vicious sneer. Then the pop of a gunshot, and the surge of blood crashed into Jeb.

He found himself screaming with his arms flailing. Before Jeb even knew where he was, he checked his face and hands. No blood. It'd been another nightmare. He knew it the moment it began. He sat for a while, staring at the dirt. Blood, death, and war raged like a storm inside
Jeb. What could make it right? That boy was dead and he wasn't, but it shouldn't be that way. That bullet was meant for him on that day in 1864, not Noitavlas. Nothing could make it right. Freedom, but the Union never explained what kind of freedom they'd earn. It was the type of freedom given a dog when it's off a leash. The dog had what freedom its owner allowed.
 

That's what kept Jeb bitter toward white folks. He and many other black men sacrificed themselves in the pursuit of gaining this “freedom.” He grunted. “The freedom they give a dog.”
This
was why Moses died?
This
had been what cursed Jeb, why he'd condemned his life? Moses's death was on him—and for what, the shadow of freedom?
 

The thoughts swelled Jeb's brain. He wanted to kill, any and all those damn Klansmen. His eyes burned. Then came pillars of smoke carried by the breeze.

Jeb covered his face. He recognized a distinct odor in the air. Still covering his mouth, he retreated to the doorway of his home when he realized the stench's source. It was the fetor of human flesh cooking, poisoning the humid Louisiana air with death.

Unable to see through the thick, black clouds Jeb rushed inside the house and shut the door. He scoured the house, through the mounds of papers on the floor, and the decrepit attic, to make certain the house wasn't on fire. It wasn't. Jeb darted for the window, scanning his fields. An orange haze on the horizon drew his attention. Black haze drowned out Allenville from the horizon.

The Ku Klux Klan must be looking for Crispus or himself. It'd begun . . . the war. Now Jeb needed to head back to town—to help those he could and find Crispus.

Jeb stood and stretched his body out. He hadn't had any exercise until now, and he'd need his strength. Though he wouldn't be surprised if his forty-year-old body gave out under him.
No. You can still move, dodge, and make a good strike in battle.
He checked his belt. His Colt pistol was still in place. Jeb caressed his sword's hilt. Wielding a sword was like a swinging a plow. When beaten into perfecting the skill, it never left. With a deep sigh, Jeb stepped off the porch and left his home—for the last time, perhaps—and made his way toward Allenville.

   
 

 

Chapter Eight

Crackling flames ran through Allenville, carrying thick layers of noxious smoke. When Jeb made his way in, blood caked over the streets sizzled and liquefied from the heat. But no war or murderous hordes. He came too late, finding the massacre's remains.

Jeb stumbled over bodies hidden by the haze. The Klan left its enemies strewn along the street, no doubt, as a warning to others.
Come outside and die
.
 

 Horseshoes
click clacking
on the street sent Jeb diving into an alley. Between the crates and smolder, he found a suitable vantage point. As the sound grew louder, Jeb's hand went to his sword hilt. Then the noise ceased. He squinted through the smog and spotted the silhouette of horse and rider forty yards ahead. The smoke cleared as if at the rider's command. Draped in a white robe fringed with the Klan's blood-red insignia, the man's body looked bulky yet misshapen. The horse whinnied and reared on its hind legs, snorting like a battle challenge.
 

“Black vermin . . . I smell your stench through this noxious cloud.” He accentuated each word.

Does he see me?
Jeb tightened his grip. Then came the sound of boots thudding down the road. Jeb edged his sword from its sheath.
Stay still, and watch like Major Jones says.
 

“Grand Dragon!” a Klansman shouted as he came running through the fog. “We got em! We got that boy! Over yonder.” He motioned south down Baker Road.

Grand Dragon? That's the Grand Dragon? Shit!

“Ah, thank you, Narce. You have done well. Show me.” His voice sounded too eloquent for some thug.
He's got to be a politician, but who?
A moment later, the two were gone, hoofbeats sinking into the distance.
 

Jeb stuck to the shadows and alleys as he made his way through the streets. Soon the sun set, casting rays of yellows, oranges, and reds over the land. The scent of burning wood lingered in the air, but the crackling of the fires had begun to die. Clouds of smog, too, drifted away from Allenville, blown by the evening breeze. Jeb listened to the gunshots, and made certain to avoid them.
 

 He reached Lafayette's
badji
, pressing his body against the cold wall. There were faint voices nearby. He peeked over to the right and saw no one. Turning left, Jeb spied two Klansmen tromping by, brandishing torches. In the glowing firelight and wind tugging at their robes, for a
moment, they seemed like ghosts wandering the street.
 

“I swear I've seen his face. Trust me—you're lucky. I just had a glance of it, too,” said one of the Klansman.

“I thought only Narce got that close to him,” the other one said. “What did it look like?”

Jeb listened.

“He was ugly. And I mean
real
ugly, covered in bruises, bumps, and all. Looked like some kind of circus freak. I ain't believe Forrest let a freak like him in the Empire.”
 

“You go tell Verdiss the fiend that.” The other chuckled. Then they turned and disappeared down Smith road.

Jeb needed to find Crispus. He hoped he'd stayed at Lafayette's, instead of running off and getting himself killed. Jeb pulled his cotton coat tighter to fight off the wind's icy claws.

When he reached Lafayette's, he found the door locked. His quiet knocks went unanswered.
Goddamn
. Jeb hurried to the one other place Crispus could've gone. Finally, the wind carried the plumes of smoke and stink of burnt flesh away from Allenville. “I hope it stay this way.”