The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff Read online

  The

  FREEDMAN

  and the

  PHAROAH's

  STAFF

  LANE HEYMONT

  The FREEDMAN and the PHARAOH's STAFF

  Copyright © 2013, by Lane Heymont.

  Cover Copyright © 2013 by Lawrence von Knorr & Sunbury Press, Inc.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 50-A West Main St., Mechanicsburg, PA 17055 USA or [email protected].

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Wholesale Dept. at (855) 338-8359 or [email protected].

  To request one of our authors for speaking engagements or book signings, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Publicity Dept. at [email protected].

  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  February 2013

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-162-6

  Mobipocket (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-163-3

  ePub (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-164-4

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Mechanicsburg, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania USA

  To my grandfather Col. Irving Heymont and my mother for their never-ending support. Also, instilling in me a true sense of Jewishness and the need for utmost equality. And of course, to my niece Holly for indulging my banter about the Twilight Saga. To Prof. Alice Eaton, my African-American Lit. professor who, all those years ago, introduced me to the powerful slave narratives and the courageous Frederick Douglass.

  I believe that even amid today's mortar bursts and whining bullets, there is still hope for a brighter tomorrow. I believe that wounded justice, lying prostrate on the blood-flowing streets of our nations, can be lifted from this dust of shame to reign supreme among the children of men. I have the audacity to believe that peoples everywhere can have three meals a day for their bodies, education and culture for their minds, and dignity, equality and freedom for their spirits.

  -Martin Luther King, from his Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech

  Chapter One

  Small rib bones clattered on the wooden table, where several black and red candles burned, their flames dancing like a company of elegant danseuses. There was a sense of power in the air. The old conjure-woman felt its prick at the back of her throat as she studied the animal bones. La’Rita was a Haitian woman with a cape of dreadlocks. She would have been beautiful were it not for the boils covering her face—and that her eyes were devoid of any color. La’Rita leaned over the table, shifting her weight in the chair. Shelves and desks filled with jars of grotesque, rotten items surrounded her. Foul-smelling roots and herbs filled some. Rancid liquids filled others to preserve the dead animals they held. Leather-bound books occupied some of the shelves, many etched with strange, archaic symbols.

  “Ah, yes,” La’Rita whispered as she looked deeper into the bones. Images danced and twirled across the table, outlined by the dim candlelight. Her empty eyes poured over the phantasms, one by one. Stiff metal birds soared through the open sky, dropping massive pipes. La’Rita shuddered, feeling a sinister force was responsible for the contraptions. The form of an ancient staff passed through her vision. It held within it a great power. Metal boxes on wheels and metallic belts rolled across broken and burning landscapes, fire bursting from their elongated snouts.

  Her body shook, spasms rushing up from her feet.

  Apparitions whirled around La’Rita, changing, appearing, and dissipating into air. The tremors grew. La’Rita’s entire body shook. She struggled stay in her chair.

  A grizzled man wisped by her eyes. Then the fit ceased. He’d gone by fast enough that La’Rita hadn’t a chance to notice his features. Only his dark skin. She squinted her eyes, spotting the faintest aura in the air. A man with a fine mustache. La’Rita’s head throbbed as if a miner were taking a pick to it. The room shook. Was it her moving or the room?

  Her gaze met the phantasmal man’s. The ghostly image made La’Rita sick to her stomach. Utter evil oozed out of this simple-looking man. Too much to bear. Her eyes rolled back. Darkness descended.

  Chapter Two

  “Yah have to go talk to Constable Rayford.” Keturah came up from behind Jeb. She slid her hands on his shoulders. Hands soft like satin. Each crevice soothed his worn skin. “I seen some mon wit da Ku Klux Klan dressed in them white robes tek Crispus inna jail. Fur nothing.”

  Jeb tried to keep himself from scowling. Instead, staring off into his field. Tall corn stalks swayed in the summer breeze. What that fool get himself into now? Probably got someone else killed. Worse if it’s one of those damn rednecks. The thought clenched his fists. “I’m sure it ain’t for nothing. He always causes problems. Like Lil Juris,” Jeb grumbled. “And he’s always hanging out in them dang swamps with that conjure-woman.”

  A gasp escaped Keturah. “Jebidiah Johnson! ‘Im me brother.”

  His lips pulled back into a smirk. “He ain’t my brother.” Keturah scowled behind him. Jeb didn’t have to see it to know. A too familiar exchange they had on a weekly basis, if not more. He inhaled, breathing in the fresh summer afternoon. The sweet smell of freedom mingled with the tendrils of bog water.

  “Y’nuh I raised dat boy muhself afta our fudda and mudda died. He more den a lilly brudder to me. He like me son.”

  Gusts of wind carried Jeb’s grumbles away. Rayford stepped in to help Crispus more than he should have already. He was a thief, prancing around playing activist. Jeb screwed up his face. How many times was he going to have to run to this fool’s side?

  “Can’t. I promised Bettina she could come with me to pick some corn for dinner.” Jeb flung his hand at his daughter nearby playing with a doll. She was an eleven-year-old version of her mother. Curly hair, long face, and pointed chin. Only difference was the complexion. Bettina’s light skin netted her the nickname ’Pinky’ from the white children. Much to Jeb’s ire.

  Fire spit from Keturah’s eyes as she narrowed them on Jeb. Arms folded over her chest. Forget daggers, she spit Gatling gun rounds. Cute, too, since she didn’t realize she did. Hell, she probably didn’t mean to look that mean when she did it.

  What’s the Jamaican patois for that again? A fuckery?

  “That’s a fuckery.”

  “You got to go, Papa. And I can go with you this time!” Bettina jumped up, dancing like a will-o’-the-wisp sparking in the swamp darkness. She swung her hand around as if battling some imaginary enemy. “I’ll help you break Uncle Crispus out. I’m real good at fighting, Papa.” She did another jump, dodging a sword swing.

  Somehow, Jeb saw some Confederate there. His mannerisms. The way he held his sword, or rifle. The thought turned his stomach. He flashed Bettina a scowl. She stopped and sat back down to play with her doll.

  “No one is breaking Uncle Crispus out of jail. Those were just rumors to try and get him kicked out of town.” Jeb turned back to watching the field. An afternoon sun cast dull yellow light off the golden vegetables. They lit up in a sea of burning brass.

  Another round of fire from Keturah, and Jeb let out a grunt. “Fine. I’m going.”

  “Thank yah, love, thank yah.” Keturah gripped Jeb, kissing him. He returned the kiss. How could he not?

  Then
he stormed into the house, across the parlor to his desk, a table really, standing against the wall. Stolen from some dead cavalryman, the Confederate saber gleamed in the sun pouring in through the windows. It should stay mounted on the wall. Forever. A taunt to that dead racist bastard. Your great, ornate weapon? Pommel and basket hilt made of brass, grip wrapped in fine leather. Now owned by a freedman. Ha!

  Jeb grabbed the saber, pulling up the scabbard, and attached it to his belt. How long had it been? Six years since the War Between the States. He hoped since the Military Reconstruction began he’d never have to lift it again. Freedmen gained the right to hold political positions. Generals were appointed to oversee the South and maintain civil rights.

  Jeb mumbled. Nothing in particular, more to show Keturah how annoyed he was. How many more times would he have to go defend that deadbeat brother of hers? He gathered his frock coat. Too hot to wear it and stay uncomfortable, but it’d hide his saber. Then he slipped his Colt pistol in a trouser pocket.

  Thunder boomed. Rain thudded on the roof. Not too uncomfortable, I guess. Jeb barged out onto the porch, making sure to grunt when passing Keturah. He blew Bettina a kiss, and tramped off the porch into the pouring rain, under abrupt dark skies. “The last time,” he called back. Rising mud swallowed Jeb’s boots with the sickening sound of wet earth as he headed toward Allenville.

  Every time Crispus got himself in trouble, it sent waves of tension through Allenville. Especially now that the Ku Klux Klan and their damn Goblins were here. Reconstruction helped people of color, but turned the Klan into even more monstrous terrorists. But what the hell were they doing in Allenville? Out of all of Louisiana, a town of two thousand or so? Something’s not right.

  Chapter Three

  Jeb pushed through the rain and mud as he neared Allenville. If he’d been walking during the day, he could’ve seen the towering plantations through the gross, slouching trees that hung in the swamps nearby. Jeb hated the South. Swore he’d never return after Union troops destroyed and liberated Ole Massa Johnson’s plantation. Right then, he enlisted in the Union forces.

  The glow of lanterns hung from buildings flashed on the dark horizon. Jeb stopped in his tracks, fierce rain splattering muck on his clothes. The taller buildings of Allenville loomed ahead. He had to be careful. Louisiana was infested with the Ku Klux Klan, though they rarely found their way to Allenville. A backwater white town south of Port Allen, boasting a population of two thousand, escaped the political war of Reconstruction. He’d found a boring life in Allenville filled by Keturah and Bettina’s love, and working his cornfield. Until today.

  Jeb pulled his frock coat close as he entered the village. Light poured out onto the street from the windows of brick homes. It glistened off the falling rain like a sea of rainbows. He followed the road toward the jail a few hundred yards ahead. It was a large, square building sporting barred windows. Fresh graffiti covered the walls. No doubt, the Baker boys were behind it. It took Jeb a moment to make out the words “Fuck Reconstruction” painted in black and red. He frowned when he reached the door. A number of voices and then laughter rumbled from inside.

  Never a good sign hearing that much joy in a jailhouse. Jeb knocked, the urge to keep a hand on the sabre at his belt. Don’t give them a reason. Grunts and curses seeped through the bricks. Jeb clutched his sheathed saber tight to his waist, hoping whoever answered the door wouldn’t notice. The door flung open. A round man draped in a white robe stood in the doorway, the wind tugging at his cloak. The brute looked more like an animal than a man, and his pig-like nose made it worse. A Ku Klux Klan badge, the slanted cross on a blood-red background, emblazoned his robes.

  “What you want?” he snarled. The fat pig took up most of the doorway. But Jeb got a glimpse of five Klansmen sitting at a table playing cards. He hesitated a moment, those hate-filled glares burned like gunshots. “Out with it, boy!” He shoved Jeb with a thick finger.

  “Sorry to disturb y’all at this late hour, but is Constable Rayford in? I’m here about my brother-in-law,” said Jeb, realizing his voice faltered. He tried his best to stand tall. To them he was just some no-good boy.

  “Heh, yer a kin to that piece of trash.” With a grunt, the oaf pointed to a heap of a man cowering in a cell. It must’ve been Crispus. He got himself arrested almost every week about whatever injustice rubbed him the wrong way that day. “Go over yonder to Rayford’s place if you want. The boy agonna hang for tryna steal our property, and you ain’t gettin him out before Grand Dragon Verdiss show up.” The rotund Goblin pointed off down the road as though Jeb should run off at his command. He obliged, no reason to cause a ruckus yet, but worse he’d used those words. Grand Dragons were the most influential racists around. Which made them the most dangerous. Charged with overseeing whatever Realms they’d been assigned. Most of them were locked up, or abandoned the order through the years. Reconstruction scattered the Klan like rats. Except in Louisiana—they’re the cockroaches of the South.

  Jeb hurried down the street, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and those thugs. “Crispus must’ve done hell to bring him a Grand Dragon down here.” He kept his voice low as he made his way through the dark, wet roads toward the constable’s home.

  By the time Jeb reached Rayford’s house, the pounding rain had lessened into a few sprinkles. He hoped a soft knock would wake Rayford. The less folks knew what happened the better. Wonder if Rayford tried to stand up to them boys. Then again, if he had he’d probably be in that cell with Crispus.

  No answer. Jeb knocked again.

  A lantern burst alive from within, casting off rays of light. Through the window, Jeb watched as Elle Mae, Rayford’s servant made her way to the door. Though aged and wrinkled, the small woman moved through the room with grace. Elle Mae opened the door, wiping greasy hands on her weathered brown dress. Grease hung in clumps in her dreadlocked hair.

  Too tough a life for a woman her age.

  “Evenin, suh. I hear Mr. Rayford acomin down them steps.” She stepped aside as the constable came to the door. Rayford shooed her away and held up a lantern to Jeb’s face. Suspicion filled his eyes. He twitched his mustache for a moment. Seeming satisfied, Rayford frowned.

  “I’m supposin you’re here about Crispus, huh?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I did my best, but them fools wouldn’t listen. I told them you were a good man. They didn’t care when I told them about you saving that little white girl from them thieves.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’re a good man for even trying.” Jeb nodded, forcing an, ‘appreciative’ tone to his voice. “Keturah’s worried, and now I seen why." He nodded in the direction of the jailhouse.

  “Agreed. Come in, my friend.” Rayford stepped aside, motioning Jeb to enter. Though they’d known each other for five years, since the incident involving those thieves, considering Rayford a friend could prove dangerous. Trust was more than a rare commodity after the war.

  Jeb took the invitation and stepped inside to escape the rain. The living room was jammed full of items that belonged in a kitchen. The gas stove sat against the back wall, where a table with two chairs stood nearby. Most of the room was covered in antique chairs, which looked far from comfortable. Many of them looked of a French design. Several chairs appeared to have been done by locals from the bayous and were covered in images of slaves working the fields.

  “Come on over and sit down, Jebidiah.” The constable walked Jeb over to an old Creole chair and put the lantern on the ground as he took a seat. Jeb did the same, but couldn’t help wondering if the Creole chair was his place.

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late.” Jeb spoke first, shifting the saber at his side so it wouldn’t scratch the chair. “I’m wondering if you know what Crispus done?” Jeb asked, not sure if he wanted to know. What could he do? Fight off the Klan? Hell, the jailhouse thugs outnumbered him by four men. If Crispus had done something, it’d be hard enough for the white folks who knew him to let him go, let alone the Klan.

/>   “Them Klansmen came here looking for him. They say he stole some map of theirs. They plan on lynching him come sundown, I think, when this Grand Dragon Verdiss come in.” Rayford put his hand in his pocket, fishing around for something.

  “Can’t you do something?” Jeb pleaded. “You’re the constable.” His words didn’t mean anything. The Klan would bring every racist white man from the entire parish to enjoy a good ole lynching. Rayford was one man and Jeb couldn’t do anything. He had to think about Keturah and Bettina.

  The constable found what he’d been looking for and pulled a rusted key out of his pocket. “I can’t do anything with a clean conscience. We both know how this works, Jebidiah. Some of us white folk don’t hold any ill against your people, even down here in the bayous. I’m hoping there’s a way I can repay the good you done in this here town.” Rayford smiled and placed the key on the arm of Jeb’s seat. “But I done lost my key to the jailhouse. Only the Klansmen got one now.” Rayford stood, nodding to Jeb. “Now, if you excuse me, Jebidiah, my day been long and I’m too old, and tired. I known you a good man all these years we've been friends. Good luck to you and your kin.” He ambled to the front door.

  Jeb pocketed the key as he followed Rayford. He stepped outside the door into the night. A blast of cool air rushed through town, a howling ghost. At least the rain stopped.

  “I’m thankful for them kind words, Constable.” Jeb turned to face him and found his hand extended. He cracked a smile; in the six years since the war ended, his white “friend” had offered him a handshake twice. Once for saving the little white girl, and the second time for killing an alligator that’d wandered into town from the bayous. Jeb took Rayford’s hand and shook it. It was an honor to shake a white man’s hand, the Constable’s too, but Jeb hated that it was a privilege.