Diane T. Ashley (11 page)

David woke with the dawn. Rising from his bed, he walked to the window of the Cartiers’ apartment and pushed back the curtain.

The city was not fully awake, but wagons carrying milk, cream, and eggs trundled through the streets on their routes, and stumbling revelers picked their way past vegetable vendors. Soon the streets would fill with all manner of carriages and characters—businessmen on important errands, sailors returning to their ships to earn enough for their next shore leaves, and pickpockets looking for easy marks in the rushing, oblivious crowds.

Letting the curtain drop, he thought he had a lot in common with the separate building that was attached to the Cartiers’ home. He had no real connection to Jasmine’s family, no real connection to any family. He could come and go through life, and no one would take much notice.

A small voice inside whispered that he did matter to Someone. He mattered to God, his Maker. The thought comforted him, gave him the push he needed to get dressed and get on with his mission.

As David left the apartment, he planned a route to take him to the telegraph office and the bank. The smell of freshly baked bread made his stomach growl, so he decided that breakfast was the first stop he would make.

Entering a small café on St. Charles Street, he ordered a baguette and a cup of dark, chicory coffee. The warm, crusty bread calmed his hunger pangs, and the coffee chased away the cobwebs of sleepiness. The warmth of the day was beginning to make itself felt as he left the café and caught a horse-drawn omnibus to Canal Street.

The Daily Telegraph was a large building. Sandwiched between a saddlery and a millinery store, it stood four stories tall. David thanked the driver and disembarked on Canal Street in front of the building. He tugged on his coat to make sure it was not wrinkled and entered with a deep breath.

A slender man with dark hair and hazel eyes stood inside the doorway. “May we be of service?”

David removed his hat and tucked it under his arm. “I need to send a telegraph to Chicago.”

“Yes, sir.” The employee pointed him to a window on the far side of the large, columned foyer.

Taking his place in line, David considered the most concise way to send his information. He needed to let Mr. Bastrup know he was in New Orleans and would report further progress as he could. By the time he made it to the window, he had the basics worked out. “Good morning.”

“What’s the message?” The man on the other side had stooped shoulders, a balding head, and deep-set eyes. He looked bored as he listened to David. “Direction?”

“Mr. Homer Bastrup, Pinkerton National Detective Agency, Chicago, Illinois.”

Disinterest dropped away, and the telegraph officer straightened his shoulders. “You’re a Pinkerton?”

David raised his chin an inch before letting it fall back to a normal position.

“I’ve never met a Pinkerton before.” Avid interest sharpened the man’s gaze. He glanced back over his shoulder before leaning closer to David. “Are you on a job?” His question came out in a whisper.

“Didn’t you know?” David winked at the man and flashed his badge. “We never sleep.”

The telegraph officer guffawed.

After his message was sent, David turned to leave. Several people watched him as he made his way through the lobby. Some even stepped aside to open a path to the front door. David’s shoulders itched, and he wondered whether any of the men here were connected to the bank robberies. He hoped not, or his mission would be over before he even got started.

He walked down Canal Street toward the river until he reached Royal Street. Turning right, he left the busyness behind. At the next corner, he found his destination—Citizen’s Bank of Louisiana.

The interior of the bank was posh, quiet, designed to invest prospective customers with the assurance that their money would be safe inside. A shiny marble floor gleamed in filtered sunlight. Two counters were strategically placed in the center of the room for customers who wished to fill out paperwork.

David noticed all the details as he strode to the teller window. “I need to speak with your manager, please.”

The young man gulped, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat. His nose and ears seemed too large for his narrow face. “D—do you have an appointment?”

“No.” David pulled his badge out once again and showed it to the boy. “But I think he’s expecting me.”

Another gulp. “Yes, sir.” He closed his cash drawer and disappeared from view.

While he was waiting, David studied what he could see of the area behind the teller windows. The vault looked sturdy enough. The steel door stood open at the moment, but he could see it was at least a foot thick. A large handle and a round dial would lock it closed. Steel bars provided an extra measure of security, essentially enclosing the safe in a jail cell.

“Good morning, sir.” A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed mustache approached the counter, the teller a step behind him. “May I help you?”

“I’ve come from Chicago to investigate your robbery.”

Surprise widened the man’s eyes. “You’re too late. Didn’t you know they caught the man?”

David took a step back. “What?”

“That’s right. He’s moldering in jail right now. I went down there a couple of days ago to identify him.” The manager tapped his temple with one finger. “I don’t forget a face once I’ve seen it.”

Had he come all this way for nothing? Disappointment was David’s first reaction. He shoved it away. Better to focus on the success of the local law enforcement officers. He should be glad for them. But it was a letdown all the same.

“He was arrested for disturbing the peace. When they brought him in, he had one of our bags on him. He denied being involved, but I recognized the scoundrel the moment I saw him.”

“He acted alone?”

The manager’s chest deflated a little. “No.”

David felt a stirring of interest. Perhaps he could still do something here.

The other man thrust his chin out. “He was the ringleader, though. Now that he’s in custody, the others will run for the hills.”

Wanting to point out to the fellow that Louisiana—especially southern Louisiana—was short on hills, David held his lips together with effort. Citizen’s Bank was the customer. He had no right to express his disdain for their manager’s shortsightedness. Besides, it would only be his irritation speaking. This was serious business. He needed to keep his emotions at bay and do his job. People he didn’t even know were counting on him to follow through.

“Thank you, Mr …”

“Hebert. Émile Hebert.”

David dipped his head. “Mr. Hebert, I’m very happy the robber was caught. If you don’t mind, I’d like to meet with him before I make my report.”

Hebert shrugged. “I suppose it will be okay. As long as there’s no charge.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t charge you for anything unless you agree.”

“In that case, go ahead. It may be a waste of your time, but I suppose you realize that.”

A hint of an idea occurred to David. He smiled at the bank manager. “You could be right. I just want to make sure I tie up any loose ends before I make the trip back to Chicago.”

He exited the bank with quick steps. His day was going to be longer than he had expected.

C
amellia Thornton pushed back a lock of hair and leaned over the table where the younger children were copying the alphabet onto their slates. She enjoyed working with the sharecroppers’ children, offering them tools that would ensure them brighter futures. One day soon she would begin bringing Amaryllis to the schoolhouse and including her in the lessons she prepared for these children.

Mary, one of her youngest students, caught her tongue between her teeth, her gaze focused on her slate. She glanced up as Camellia walked toward her side of the table. “Am I doing it right, Mrs. Camellia?”

Glancing at the line of letters, Camellia rewarded the child with a bright smile. “You have most of the letters right, but you’ve mixed up
B
and
D
. It’s something I had trouble with when I was your age.” She rubbed the bottom of each letter with the heel of her hand and watched as the child wrote them in once more, praising her when she succeeded.

As she went to another side of the table to help twin siblings Abraham and Zipporah, another of the younger children—a boy named Bobby—tugged on Mary’s braid. Camellia started to chastise Bobby but stopped when Mary stuck her tongue out at the child and returned her attention to her slate. It might be better to ignore the byplay since Mary didn’t seem overly concerned.

Camellia had arranged the children around the table according to their ages, which ranged from five to twelve. The older children often helped her with the younger ones, learning not only the current lesson but also how to pass their knowledge along to others.

She noted a couple of empty chairs and wondered if their parents had insisted the children work today instead of coming to school. Although most of the sharecroppers were grateful to send their children to school, one or two of them balked from time to time, deciding they needed the extra hands with planting or harvesting more than they needed educated children.

“Mrs. Camellia, what is that smell?” Abraham Shasta was a ten-year-old with cheeks the color of mahogany and a heart of gold. He and Zipporah always sat side-by-side in the schoolroom and were inseparable, even when working or playing outside.

Camellia glanced toward the window, surprised to see that the air was hazy. “I don’t know.”

Zipporah lifted her nose and sniffed. “It smells like a cookstove to me.”

This morning when Camellia had walked to the schoolhouse, no clouds had been evident. Had a thunderstorm overtaken the plantation while they studied? She walked away from the children to investigate further.

With each step she took, the air became more pungent. Her heartbeat tripled its speed, threatening to jump out of her chest as she wrenched the door open. Smoke—dense and gray—crept between the gnarled trunks of the oaks surrounding their cabin. It writhed through the upper limbs, ruffling the leaves and obscuring the sky. Her mind screamed the dreaded word as she shut the door with a snap,
Fire!

What should she do? Where was the fire? Should they run or remain in the cabin? She chewed on her lower lip as she considered the wooden walls of their schoolhouse cabin. If the fire came too close, this place would burn up in a few seconds. She couldn’t take any chances with these children’s lives at stake.

Maintaining a calm façade to keep from frightening the students, she made up her mind. They would go to the big house and raise the alarm.

An idea came to her, and Camellia clapped her hands for attention. “We’re going to have a parade this morning just like the ones on the Fourth of July. Quickly now, I need you to gather your things and form a line.”

Concerned faces turned toward her—some black, some white—a fair representation of the families who drew their livelihood from the plantation grounds since she and Jonah had implemented their sharecropping system. “James, you and Charity help Mary and Bobby. I’ll hold Dorcas’s hand.” She pointed Abraham toward his sister. “You and Zipporah will be at the head of the line. Hold hands and march with your knees high like the soldiers do. No running.”

The children followed her directions, their voices hushed and their eyes betraying some fear. Praying that the fire was far enough away to ensure their safety rather than running rampant between them and the plantation home, she nodded toward Abraham. “Go. March to the big house.”

Dorcas’s hand was so small in hers. Would the five-year-old, the youngest of her students, be able to keep up? She was not much older than Amaryllis. Her little legs would not be able to keep up, especially if they had to run for cover. Picking the child up, she settled Dorcas on her hip, glanced around the schoolhouse one last time, and stepped through the doorway.

The heat from the fire was noticeable, but a quick glance around did not reveal the hungry lick of flames. Gray smoke and blackened cinders filled the air, obscuring everything. With her hearing stretched to its limit, she thought she caught the snap and crackle of the fire behind them, on the far side of the cabin. “Follow the path to the big house.”

She could barely see Abraham and Zipporah some five yards ahead. James had picked up Mary, but Charity and Bobby were walking hand-in-hand directly in front of her. Dorcas cried against her shoulder as they picked their way down the path. The walk to her home only took a couple of minutes each afternoon, but today the distance seemed to stretch out endlessly ahead of them, as though they were caught in a nightmare. Finally they topped the rise between the big house and the cabin. The smoke had not yet reached this far, and Camellia breathed a sigh of relief as they half-ran, half-marched forward.

When they reached the front lawn, she saw Aunt Dahlia rocking in one of the chairs scattered across the front porch, Amaryllis in her lap. Camellia rushed up the steps toward them. “What’s happened?”

“Thank goodness you’re safe,” Aunt Dahlia’s voice squeaked. She cleared her throat before continuing. “Someone came to the house a few minutes ago and said the back field is burning. Jonah and your uncle Phillip have gone to see what can be done.”

At least it wasn’t harvest time. Perhaps some of the crops would survive. Camellia set Dorcas on her feet. “I have to go help them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aunt Dahlia stopped rocking. “You mustn’t forget you’re a lady. Besides, you’re needed here. Who do you expect to keep watch over all of these children you insist on coddling?”

“Charity and Zipporah can watch them.” Camellia ignored her aunt’s complaint and waved the older boys toward her. She loved her aunt, but they seemed to disagree on many things these days, including the necessity of educating the sharecroppers’ children. She was beginning to fully understand why Aunt Dahlia and Lily had never gotten along. “I’ll go see what I can do to help control the damage.”

With an expression as sour as buttermilk, Aunt Dahlia shook her head and began rocking once more. “You grow more like your sister with each passing day.”