The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (19 page)

The door slid open and Verdiss stepped in, gathering his black robe. Narce looked up, watching the Grand Dragon as he came and sat next to him. The other men seemed occupied by a game of Monte.

“How the meetin' go?” asked Narce, still uncertain of what he heard. Or what it meant.

“He is a 'fool of fortune'.”

Narce stared at Verdiss, who in his black robe looked like death come to earth.
You should say something. What? I don't even know what the fuck he just said.
Did he mean fortune-tellers? Narce lost himself in scratching his muttonchops, when Verdiss spoke again.
 

“Ah, my simple Narce. The man's a lack-brain and a blind coward,” said Verdiss, with a wave of his hand. Narce nodded as if he understood, though it took him a moment to put together what lack-brain meant.

“Always atalkin' like a book.” Narce chuckled. Maybe he could change the subject to something he'd understand. “What about them others ya sent to take care a the general? I'm all for assassinatin' General Sheridan but...”
Let him take the lead. You ain't know nothin'.
 

“A ruse, my good Nighthawk. A ploy to distract our enemies in hopes we gain the upper hand. Your true target is that Jebidiah's family. Ultimately, if you cannot destroy the man, then destroy the man's heart. I have a dear, departed colleague to meet with, so we will part ways upon reaching New York."

Narce ran his thick fingers through his brownish-red muttonchops (the odd coloring puzzled him since the hair on his head was brown), thinking, and decided it was a sound plan. “Then what about them others?” Narce might've sounded more troubled than he was, in truth he cared about the
numbers
. More dead men meant fewer men at his command.
 

“Dead, I assume. Detestable, I know," said Verdiss, “but they are providing a great service to our cause. Sacrificing themselves for the greater good, if you will. All those men are expendable. Only you—" He gestured to the Nighthawk. “—Narce, are worthy to be by my side.”
 

“Thank you kindly, Grand Dragon." Narce nodded with a smile.

Verdiss bowed his head. “Besides the virtue of your ruthless strength, your trustworthiness is unequaled. You are a leader's boon. A good friend...and soon we will have the Pharaoh's Staff—among other things—and blot out these vermin.” He fell silent, seeming unsure of what to say.

Narce knew his loyalty would pay off some day and now it had. He'd always seen the Grand Dragon's potential. The man could do anything,
make
anything. A shrewd leader and a genius. His intelligence often reminded Narce of a chess player he knew as a child. Markum was his name. Markum could formulate a method of attack five moves down the line. So could Verdiss.
 

Before linking up with the Grand Dragon, Narce didn't think about the future. Why would he? He spent most of his nights with beautiful women. Some wanted proposals, but marriage seemed as appealing as the gallows. One woman stood out, though. Countess Pratt was her name. A tall beauty with jet-black hair. God had carved her from white marble. County, as Narce called her, was the one woman who'd ever been able to soften him. No matter what he did that day, whom he hurt, or what he was accused of doing, Countess saw in Narce the man he wanted to be. Not that he wanted to be any noble cocksucker. Maybe just a little more classy without being a fucking dandy. It wasn't meant to be though. A union between poor white trash and a southern belle from the wealthiest family in Louisiana. He'd have ruined it anyway, like everything else he did. Last he knew, she married some sniveling, kiss-ass dandy named Blanche Avon. Dandy? The man had a woman's name! Still, Narce had dreams in which that was his life. They seemed pleasant in the moment, but then he woke angrier than before. Angry at the world, or Jesus, whichever one controlled the world.

None of that mattered. A man had fifty or sixty years to live—why should he waste any of it? If you want something, you take it. Someone pisses you off? Kill them—and Narce did it many times.
Those
numbers didn't matter. Besides that he couldn't count too high. He wouldn't be able to count the number of men he killed.
Suppose it depend on sport or anger.
 

Ivory Jean
barreled north toward Virginia. From Virginia, it would push onto New York, and the Pharaoh's Staff. In his ponderings, Narce fell asleep with dreams of slavery returning.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Three

Zelig thought Louisiana closer to New York than was the case. He drove the stolen wagon, along with his captive to Zachary, a backwoods town north of Baton Rouge, before he learned from a black-faced dancer on the street how far New York was.

Zelig abandoned the brougham in an alley behind a bar. He slung the unconscious Tempest over his shoulder and carried her the rest of the way.

More than a few times, she awoke, flailing at him. He beat her senseless. Having to duck into alleys to set upon her in seclusion took too much time, but he couldn't have her shrieking. If not devoted to the
Führer
and his plans, he'd kill the bitch and leave her carcass for the dogs.
 

At the end of the chilled fall night, he found a train to take him to New York. Though it made a stop in Virginia where Zelig needed to change trains. He spent the entire trip grousing.
This is taking too long. These morons need to hurry and invent faster trains
. Worse, he kept having to explain what was wrong with his wife. A flu-like coma seemed a reasonable excuse. He was escorting her to New York for treatment. At first, he thought people stupid for believing him since Germany long outlawed interracial marriage. Until he overheard a man explaining to a child
he's an illegal slave trader
. It seemed Louisiana also outlawed interracial marriage.
Maybe not as stupid as you thought, Zelig.
 

He spent the rest of the trip trying to contact the
Führer
.
Mein Führer, I need to speak with you
. His thoughts went unanswered. It was agonizing. Did he do something wrong? After everything he did, the
Führer
ignored him!
 

Zelig's first wife Elvira accused him of loving the
Führer
more than her. He denied it, but it was true. She left him. It didn't matter. Zelig begged to serve his Chancellor. He even agreed to be cast into a godforsaken time and embark on an absurd mission to gain his favor. The Thule Society had to grant him membership now.
 

In his ruminations time seemed to pass as if listening to an awe-inspiring speech. When Zelig came out of his thoughts, Tempest cowered against the window. He eyed her. “How long have we been stopped?” Then he noticed the other passengers were gone.

“Fo bout half an hour,” she answered.

Zelig scowled.
Pay attention, Zelig. You can't afford to lose anymore time. The sooner you get to New York the sooner you can kill her.
“Where are we? Is this New York?” Through the window, he spotted an odd station peppered with benches.
 

Tempest's head stayed bowed. “Nah, suh. We's in Virginia.” Her face was swollen, riddled with bruises.

Heh!
“Let's go.” Zelig grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her from the seat. “We have to change trains here. Take me to the next train.” He glanced at his ticket. “The
Maagab Love
." He pushed Tempest out of the train into the station, following behind her.
 

She grunted in pain. Her face looking more like pulverized meat. Zelig dug his hand into her shoulder. He grinned, seeing with each step her legs tremble, threatening to give out.

“
Macht schnell!
” Zelig hustled her through the station, down the platform where another train sat. Steam whistled through a set of outdated piping. Having shoved their way out of the scuttling crowd, Tempest led Zelig to the red locomotive with the name
Maagab Love
painted in yellow letters on its side.
 

Zelig thrust her onto the train. “Faster,
hure
." He pulled her through the crowded aisle. “Sit.” He let himself fall into the hard wooden seat as he jerked Tempest down with him.
Soon, Führer, I'll have the Pharaoh's Staff and the world will be ours.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Four

 

A day and a half later the
Anne Howard
reached Richmond. From there, Jeb, Crispus, and Fallon boarded the
Lightning Express
. One of the fastest trains in the country, its metal boasted a blue electric tinge. The
Lightning Express
offered a smoking car, dining car, and a ladies car where women could escape the company of men. Even the Jim Crow Car was well furnished with cushioned seats and footrests.
 

Jeb managed to get some rest on the trip since the train ran smoother than the
Anne Howard
. She didn't break down, either. But
The Lightning Express
overflowed with passengers, so that Fallon couldn't sneak back into the Jim Crow Car. It took another day for her to glide into the Hudson River Station in New York.
The girl raced like a jackrabbit.
 

Streets teemed with city life. Barbers busy cutting hair, chimneysweepers atop buildings with long brushes, homeless begging for food or money. Coaches rolled through, drivers whipping their horses. Police officers patrolled the roadways, blacksmiths pounded iron, and paperboys shouted the local gossip. Sharpeners carrying grindstones on their backs barked that Jeb needed his saber sharpened. Street vendors hawked a myriad of foods, clothing, and women's accessories.

At first, Fallon and Crispus seemed amazed at the hectic energy of the city, but Jeb knew better. He'd visited Jupiter once before with Ole Massa Johnson. The city was just as he remembered it. A horrible stench of urine, vomit, three-week-old garbage and strange, pungent food sold by immigrants. No matter how far he walked, it followed after him, rolling over the city like a dense fog.
Just get to this Metropolitan Museum of Art. It won't stink there.
 

“Where's the museum again?” Jeb stopped, looking around for Crispus. He spotted him bent over a bench several yards away, retching on the street. “How's he doin'?” He ambled over.

“All right, I think.” Fallon patted Crispus on the back. More vomit came up and out on the street. He sniffed the air. Jeb caught it too, the stink wafting over them. “I gotta—” Fallon tried to cover his mouth, but ended up retching in his hand.

“Museum's—north—of—Central—Park,” said Crispus between retches.

“This here stink's worse than a forced march.” Jeb crinkled his nose, glancing down the road. Nothing but faceless bodies pushing against one another. A flash of white caught his eye. It could've been the sun reflecting off something. He squinted. Those ghastly Klansmen were here somewhere. If he thought they could be anywhere in Baton Rouge stalking him, here, in New York City those monsters could drag him under the sea never to be found again. Like sharks that hunt the Gulf of Mexico.

“I've got to keep moving. I'll meet y'all at the station. Be all right by yourselves?” Jeb glanced back at the two still keeled over. He waited until Crispus gave him a feeble nod, then set off into the throng. He pushed away vendors rushing at him, demanding he buy whatever they had to sell. Oysters, a single shoe, whitening ointment, and a child or two.

When Jeb reached the South Ferry Station, where he'd cross the Hudson River at noon, excitement sent his nerves alight. Soon he'd be with Keturah and Bettina. Great-Uncle Jupiter lived on West 54
th
Street, southwest of Central Park. All the madness would drift away if even for a moment. To taste Keturah's lips again, wrap his arms around Bettina and to see her smile. Hers lit the room up like sunrise.
She's the future
, Jeb would tell Keturah.
Too young to remember the war, raised in Reconstruction, even has real white friends.
Until now. He couldn't think of what happened in Allenville or whether Verdiss knew they left Louisiana yet.
Don't let that shit ruin your joy.
 
 

He couldn't stand still, his body moving to the absent rhythm of that old slave dance, the Juba. It took hold of him. Jeb patted his hands on his knees, then together, and struck each shoulder. The words of an old slave tune he used to croon as a field hand electrified his tongue and sparked out:

 

Old black bull come down da hollow,

He shake hi tail, ya hear him bellow;

When he bellow he jar da river,

He paw da yearth, he make it quiver.

Who-zen-John, who-za!

Who-zen-John, who-za!

 

At five p.m., the sun sank in the sky, casting brilliant hues of red, orange, and purple over the city. Crispus and Fallon arrived at the South Ferry Station, tired and stinking of garbage. Crispus ate from a bag of pralines, while Fallon boasted a new flowered brocade sack suit. It was long, loose-fitting.

“Your suit looks like it's made out of tablecloth.” Jeb chuckled and tugged on Fallon's sleeve. “And where'd you get this top hat? You look like a Sunday dandy.” Another chuckle and he flicked the hat.

“It was the only one that fit me.” Fallon screwed up his face, cheeks flushed. He pouted until they boarded the ferry. Then rambled on about every story of ghost and demon possession he'd heard that day as the ferry coasted through the river.