The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (16 page)

“Y'all did?”

“Really?”

Sheridan nodded, rocking in his chair. “I can not reveal any names, but I have designs of my own.”

“Such as?” Crispus shouldn't have inquired, but he couldn't help himself.
Change is coming.
 

“I have a dear friend, Cornelius Cuthbert, who is opening a museum in New York. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, to be exact.” The General motioned to Jeb. “He is an utmost expert in all things historical. Well-versed in numerous languages—German, Italian, Latin, Greek—and has just returned from a lecture tour in Egypt. I can only assume he knows about this ‘Pharaoh's Staff.'"

“We don't...know anything about it, so he'd be of most help.” Crispus glanced away from Jeb, as though he'd scold him for not knowing something he, himself, didn't know.
 

Sheridan looked as if he expected as much. “Not surprising. It is a relic, and I doubt either of you are well versed in ancient Egypt. Again, Cornelius will divine whether it is truly the Staff of Narmer...I hope it is. There are tickets waiting for you both at the Richmond and Danville Railroad train station on Bluebonnet Boulevard." He stood and strode to the door. “I suggest you make haste. And do not fear; my men shall take care of me.” The general opened the door, making a gesture for them to exit, before noticing Tempest and Fallon standing in the doorway. She held another tray with various treats: teacakes, chocolates, and pastries.

She sucked her teeth. “Dang! Made muh self late agin.” She sounded half serious. Fallon stood behind her, looking uneasy.

“You three, out." He motioned at Crispus. “You, in.” He pointed at Tempest. The girl wore a soldier's face, cold, unafraid as she passed the three men leaving. The door slammed shut.

“What did y'all do?” Jeb asked, with a smile.

“Nothing. Just talked is all.” Fallon looked at the ground.

“Sure enough." Jeb chuckled as the boy took hold of his hand, leading him to the building's main entrance. Major Jones bid them farewell, and headed through an adjacent doorway. “We need to get my eyes fixed up."

Crispus took hold of Jeb's other arm. “Agreed. Let's head to the market and see if we can find a
mambo
or
houngan
.” Those two words sent a shiver through Crispus.
Lord protect those poor souls lost at Allenville and those still trapped there.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mein
Führer, Verdiss lives
. Zelig thought the words, otherwise the
Führer
wouldn't hear them. Another one of those paradoxical nonsenses left for the scientists.
I underestimated his strength, as you warned. I will not fail you again.
He seethed in the brougham's constant bumping. These
arschlöcher
hadn't invented automobiles yet. It couldn't be that hard. Zelig needed luxury—a Rolls Royce—not some wooden toy wagon.
 

“You had best not,
Herr
Falkenstein, otherwise I will make your death far worse than the Jews'. You must hurry. The Thule Society grows impatient.” The
Führer's
words rumbled within Zelig. The proper technology and incantations at last came together to let the
Führer
communicate through time. “The
diebe
already left the capitol building, but there is a young girl named Tempest. She is the
Jude
son's
Freundin
. Exchange her for the Pharaoh's Staff, understood?”
 

The brougham took a sharp turn, tossing Zelig against the wall. He snarled, trying to keep himself seated on the intolerable bench.
Ja, mein Führer
. The carriage came to a sudden halt, throwing Zelig onto the floor.
 

“
Verflucht!
”
 

Hearing the coachman step off and approach the door, Zelig managed to prop himself up against the bench. He readied his dagger, ornamented with the swastika and visages of an eagle with wings spread.

When the door opened Zelig pulled the shaggy-haired coachman into the brougham. There'd been no time for him to fight before Zelig pulled his knife across his throat. Blood jetted outwards, covering the bench and floorboards. “That is
für die
shitty ride.” Zelig climbed over the body and out onto the dark street. “Asshole." Inhaling, he spat on the coachman's corpse.
 

He'd found it. The castle-like building. A bittersweet reminder of home. Though this pseudo-fortress couldn't compare to the sundry of castles in Germany that'd belonged to long lines of royalty. The cool air of the Fatherland called to Zelig—begging him to abandon this
moist sinkhole of a place. But the
Führer
needed him to finish, and he would.
 

Several of the windows held lit lanterns, casting eerie shadows over the main entrance.
Plenty of places to hide, snatch a victim, and dispose of the body
. Zelig studied the entryway. Then he ascended the stairs, keeping a watchful eye on his flanks.
 

The door would be locked, but no harm in trying it. With a metallic click the doorknob turned. Zelig scoffed. “
Idioten
!" Then pushed the door open. “People back then were stupid. Or, wait—people
now
are stupid.” Zelig snickered.
 

A few kerosene lamps on the walls cast a troupe of shadows dancing down the main hall. Zelig edged the door closed. Once assured no one heard him, he moved to a close-by door. Placing his head against the thin wood, he listened. Nothing.

“Darn tootin I'ma be pissed. Makin me clean dis here shit up.”

Zelig cocked his head. The voice came from a few doors down. He crept toward the room.

“Course I ain't gon argue wit ‘im. He'd jist tell me to hush up.
Cocksucker!
” A woman's voice trumpeted.
 

Zelig flinched.
That better not be the girl—she sounds horrible!
Tempest...it's a nickname.
It fits
. She was scrubbing the floor and he wasn't about to wait for her to finish. Zelig flung the door open and stepped into the well-lit room filled with shelves of books.
 

“Who de fuck is you!” Tempest looked up from the floor, a wet sponge in hand. “Buildin's closed, suh,” she said, lowering her eyes as if remembering her place.

Ugh, servant!
In a bound, Zelig fell upon her, shoving her to ground. She tried to fight back, kicking and screaming, but he overpowered her. “Shut up!” With a punch to the girl's face, her head hit the floor. He waited, watching.
She's out.
 

“Damn." He slung Tempest over his shoulder. “You're lucky the
Jude
likes you!” Zelig stumbled into the corridor, cursing her weight. Then he descended the stairway leading to the street, where the brougham waited.
 

Führer, I have the girl.
Zelig fumbled to fling open the carriage door, then tossed Tempest atop the coachman's carcass.
Where are they now, Führer?
He climbed into the
coachman's seat. The wood was as hard as stone. “Not even a fucking cushion!”
 

“
Herr
Falkenstein, you took too long,” began the
Führer
, “The
Jude
kin and the
diebe
have boarded a train bound for Virginia heading to New York City.” Zelig's thoughts rumbled under the words bumbling around in his skull.
 

I apologize for my delay, Führer. These old wagons move slower than I'd thought
.
I swear I'll find them.
Zelig grabbed the horses' reins and whipped them into action. The dreadful bouncing started again as the horses took off down the street.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

Baton Rouge's market stretched along Main Street to Florida Boulevard, past Baton Rouge General Hospital, and ended at North Boulevard. Garbage filled the streets, bustling townspeople stepping over it or kicking it aside.

Summer began cooling, the night had a touch of chill in her breath. Men wore frock coats and bowler hats and the occasional "refined" felted top hat. Women covered their skirts and princess dresses in thick overcoats, many with fashionable bonnets.

A moonless night sky spewed dark ominous clouds, warning she was ready to let lighting and thunder loose. Gas-lit street lamps shed the darkness, leaving the open market shops in sparse rays of light and a forlorn nuance.

Or that's how Jeb saw it, still trapped in the horrible red haze. Crispus and Fallon gripped his hands, pulling him through the crowds. He'd heard of soldiers who learned to fight after losing their vision. Jeb couldn't understand it until now. His ears picked up the slack, absorbing the calls of merchants hawking their wares. Their faces took shape, but through his hearing, not sight.

“Horseshoes! Nails! Kitchen utensils! See Aulton's blacksmith shop!” shouted a barrel-chested man.

“Bootblack for hire. Need yer shoes nice and polished for dat special gal,” a boy called out.
He's gotta be waving his hands
.
 

“Fish, only caught this mornin'!”

“Sakes alive, that stinks." Jeb crinkled his nose, the stench erupting in his nostrils.

“Get out of here—he's gone. I can't see anything. Wait here. I'll try to find a
mambo
," said Crispus, his hand pulled away from Jeb. Then his boots
clacking
against the pavement.
 

“Let's have a look see.” Fallon pulled Jeb through the throng of skin and clothes.

It was like moving through molasses. Everyone pushing, shoving, and climbing over each other.
People are stocking up for the fall
. Jeb realized it was almost September.
 

“Youn' suh! I say, youn' suh, yer buck too dark? Got a salve dat'll whiten him skin right up.” A little man with a one bulbous-sided nose came pitter-pattering toward them. “Right here, suh. Make dis here boy look mulatto.” He shook a tin can.

Jeb would've glared at the imagined dwarf if he knew where he was. But he felt Fallon's uneasiness from his weight shifting.

“Uh...no. No thank you,” said Fallon.

“Suh, you don't understand, suh. Dis here salve'll make sure de missus won't be scared a yer boy no mo.” The dwarf leaned in close. “Suh, I say, suh. I ain't leavens yah alone till yah buys dis here salve. Ain't be no mistake, suh. I promise yah, suh.”

“If you don't leave us alone I'm gonna cut you.” The scrape of metal against leather echoed Fallon's words.
Did this boy just draw his knife?
A gasp, then pitter-patter as the dwarf scampered off.
 

 “All of a sudden, you got some grit, boy.” Jeb cracked smile.

“What? I said I didn't want it.” Fallon made a displeased noise, slipping the dagger back into its sheath. “Where's Crispus already? I hate crowds.”

Allenville flashed in Jeb's head. Bodies burning, people tortured and brutalized in the streets. Somehow he felt the same thoughts in Fallon. The way his slender hand tightened around his when he'd said the word. He imagined hatred blistering inside the boy.
Maybe the need for a father blinded him.
Thank the Lawd—that ain't the case no more...I hope.
 

“Jeb. Fallon. This way. I found a
mambo
a few blocks away on Laurel Street." Crispus's voice broke through the crowd.
 

“Come on!” Fallon pulled Jeb through the throng of people. Crispus's voice always sounded just beyond them, amidst the night madness of Baton Rouge. “Wait!”

“Where'd he go?” Jeb tugged on Fallon's hand, pushing aside a doughy man.

“He took a right down Nacadian Road. Wait, Crispus!” The hideous ensemble of vendors, farriers, knackers, and other merchants crying out their goods seemed to drown out the boy's call.

One moment, mayhem wracked the market, the next it
fell silent. Fallon stopped, so Jeb did. He couldn't move, the herd seemed to stop stampeding. Footfalls echoed in the street. The crowd spread. Then came the heavy
clacks
of soldier's boots on the flagstones. A band of men, too many to tell. But Jeb knew them by the procession's cadence—Confederate soldiers. Men clad in gray uniforms
marching
through Baton Rouge. No doubt, they'd be Klansmen too. Shouts of jubilation spread like wildfire among the townspeople.
 

“Kill them carpetbaggers!” came a woman's elegant voice.

“Long live the general!”

“The South shall rise again!” shouted a boy.

Jeb felt the panic in Fallon's hand, his heartbeat racing as he pulled him away.

“What general? I know that cadence like I know my field.” Jeb focused on dodging whatever lay in his way, stumbling over garbage and bumping into people.

Fallon stammered over his words, “Not—not—nothing. Nathan Bedford Forrest?" He gasped, tightening his grip on Jeb.

Somehow Jeb overcame his instincts, keeping his head bowed. Not daring to look up in fear that monster of a man would see him. Though blind, Jeb saw Forrest clad in the gray Confederate officer's uniform, adorned with medals. He'd seen photos of him. Tall, in his fifties, a receding hairline and a curly mane of black hair. A well-kept goatee tinged gray like his uniform.