She got as far as the place on the road where lightning had split an old oak tree right down the middle. She saw the wagon tracks in the dried mud and decided to see if she could find a place to spend the night. Just down the road, off to her right, was a small community of shacks. An old woman sat on her front grass in a broken old chair, watching the world go by. “What you wan here, fat woman?” she asked.
“My name be Claralee, not Fat Woman. I lookin’ fer place ta sleep ta night, old woman. Ain’t got but two little coins.”
“Less see um.” Old Betty nodded as she took them. “Ya cain sleep down dere, ifn’t ya don na mind being pestered by young bucks. If’n I was ya, I make ’em pay me a bit first though.”
Claralee was delighted. A place to sleep, some men to pay her, and hard cocks, too. What more could any woman want?
In the shabby house, the woman on the bed heard a voice she thought she knew, even in her sleep. She tried to wake up, but her head hurt so much, she let herself drift away from the pain again. Sometime later, she woke again, but when she tried to remember where she was, she could recall nothing. Nor had she any memory of who she was or anything else. She screamed, bringing Old Betty inside.
“What ya screamin’ for?”
The woman on the bed sat up. “Who are you? Where am I? Dear God, who am I? I cannot remember anything. Nothing since I just woke up.” She stopped talking and sat staring straight ahead.
“Well, honey, ya jist relax. It all comes back ta ya in a day er two. Always does. Now, lay ya self back and sleep. Call fer Old Betty—that be me—if ya need anathing.”
Three houses away, Claralee was enjoying herself. Three young men were taking turns on her and she charged each of them for each time. When they were done, she took the money and waddled over to Old Betty to safeguard for her. She went back to the young men, deciding anything more they wanted, she would give to them for her own pleasure…and her pleasures could last for hours.
Chapter 81
In Lucretia’s suite, Devereaux opened the door only a crack. “What do you officers want with Mrs. Mills? She is sleeping for the first time in days. The news of her missing friend is plaguing her endless. Unless you have some good news for her, I refuse to awaken her.”
Behind him, steadying herself on the doorframe stood the small woman, wrapped in a towel that barely covered her. “Devereaux, let them in.”
He was flustered. She should not be awake, let alone on her feet. “My dear, you need to rest. Let me help you back to bed.” He rushed to take her arm, but she pushed him away.
“Please arrest this man. When you knocked, he was attempting to rape me. I think there was something in my orange juice.”
Devereaux stood in confusion as her words penetrated his mind. He ran to the balcony, but it was too far to jump. The two officers raced after him, even as he tried to push past them to reach the corridor door. He was no match for them and found himself with his hands in irons behind his back. “She is lying. She is a trollop who invited me to her bed. She has been after me ever since we met on the train. I am even paying for her hotel room…just ask the management. She wants my money and prestige in the city and does not care what she has to do to get it.”
That brought a laugh from one of the men. “The only place I know of where you have prestige is in a horse barn. No, on second thought, that is just the horses.”
The second officer turned to Lucretia. “We wanted to tell you we have a lead on your companion. Someone reported seeing a veiled woman near the waterfront. We are investigating it.”
“Thank you, officer. That is wonderful news. There must be something dreadfully wrong with her that she cannot return to me. Your help is…” Tears welled up in her eyes as she clutched the towel tighter around her body.
“You are welcome, Mrs. Mills. We will return later with some papers for you to sign for Judge Franklyn Mountebank, regarding this man. Be sure, the judge will see that he stays away from you for a long, long time.”
Lucretia locked the door behind them. Draped only with a towel, she went to the bathroom to wash herself. She could still feel his hands on her, even in her drugged state. Oh, how she loathed that man. And to think she ever thought him charming. Ruby was right about him—he was slime. Her thoughts wandered. Was it possible that Devereaux had something to do with Ruby’s disappearance? Of course, it was possible. Ruby had said the man would do anything to get his hands on Lulu and her money. Should she tell Judge Mountebank her suspicions? If only she had someone to talk to about it. Liz was so far away. And the others she trusted were dead. The only one still alive, as far as she knew, was Black Eagle, and after the things he had done to her, she knew he was not anyone to trust. Just like Devereaux, only worse in some ways.
She slid into bed and was asleep in minutes. The drugs had worked on both her mind and body and she dreamed. She dreamed of the night that Eagle had asked to stay with her. She saw herself lock the door and move into his arms. She felt his kisses on her face and mouth. She tasted the sweat on his skin. She remembered his strength and power. She kissed his chest as they talked the night away. She knew before she slept that night that she loved him. Really loved him. Then he had betrayed her in the most foul way. When she awoke, her face was wet with tears. She cried for the lost love, one that never really existed.
She dressed and called for a carriage to take her to the police station to sign arrest papers, and then to the bank. Once reassured that the new home was hers and carrying the keys in her handbag, she returned to the hotel. It was moving day.
The hotel staff was helpful finding her men and wagons to transport her trunks. As she left for the last time, those standing in the lobby expressed their best wishes and promises to keep looking for Ruby.
Standing on the boardwalk near the waiting carriage was an elderly black couple. The doorman tried to push them away, but Lucretia stopped him. “They are doing nothing. Let them be.”
“Mrs. Mills, they have been here for hours. They say they want to talk to you.”
“Then, talk they shall.” She motioned them forward and stared into their faces. Sadness was all she saw in their eyes. “What can I help you with? Why do you want to talk to me? I do not believe we have met.”
“No, ma’am, we hav na met. We are Sam an’ Peg. We was Mr. LaClaire’s folk. Da police made us leave, an’ the judge locked us out. We hav na place ta go.”
“Why do you come to me? That man has done much to me and I hate him.”
“Yes, ma’am, we know. He a cruel man. We was a hopin’ you could help us. Everone knows you is a great lady, kind and special.”
Lucretia laughed. “Are you trying to sweeten me up for money?” She fumbled for her purse.
Sam pulled himself up as tall as his bent frame would allow. “No, ma’am. Sam an’ Peg takes no charity. We was a hopin’ for jobs. Peg is da best cook and I is a great one for gardens an’ drivin’ n’ fixin’ stuff. We only wants a place to live an’ eat an’ a few cents when you think we deserve it…fer clothes an’ such.”
His pride struck her deep. If this pair could keep their values working for Devereaux, well… “You are hired. Come join me in my carriage for the ride to our new home.”
“No, ma’am, that ain’t right. We walk. Follow wagon.”
“Nonsense, you will ride with me. And that is your first order.” Sam smiled and helped Lucretia into the buggy and then his wife. He sat in front with the driver and never stopped smiling the entire day.
When I heard the stories years later, I learned that Lucretia settled in her home with Sam and Peg. She added a few more staff members to help them. Hiring the couple was the best thing she had done for a long time. Everyone was happy…as happy as they could be, that is, without Ruby. Lucretia never gave up hope, but as the days grew into weeks and the weeks into months, realization that she might never see Ruby again became a possibility she began to accept.
Her life was lonely. She filled her days helping at the hospital and cl
inics for the poor. She gave sums of money to charities and attended charity functions, but always alone. She had no man in her life and wanted none. She ceased thinking of Devereaux LaClaire, but her dreams of Black Eagle Grant plagued her nights.
Chapter 82
In the village of shanties where Old Betty reigned supreme, Ruby now answered to the name Scar and wore no veil to cover herself. She was not offended by the moniker and still had no memory. She moved into a shanty of her own, the only white person in the village. She helped Old Betty with the ill, tended a garden that she shared with all, and sang wordless songs.
One day she and Old Betty sat on her porch, rocking in their chairs as they did every evening, and she asked, “Old Betty, am I ever going to remember who I am? It has been months and I still am blank. I seem to remember a place with soldiers fighting and sometimes I see a face or two. I think I lived in a city, but not here. That is about it.”
Old Betty just continued to puff on her pipe. After a long while, she answered. “I dunna know. Old Betty tried everthin’ she know, even boiling da black chicken and blew black smoke in yer ears. Gave you ever kin of tea I know ’bout. Dis is jist up ta da Good Lord, Scar. But dunna give up. I heard tell of seein’ a face, hearin’ a song, hittin’ yer head…lots of thins can make ya ’member.” She did not tell Ruby that she had also fed her boiled snakeskins, bat soup, and even spiders, knowing that the woman would never have consumed them if she had known. It did not work anyway, so no reason to ever tell her.
Ruby sighed, already knowing all this. She was content as she could be, but she knew there was more to her than this life. She began to take long walks, always by herself, hoping something would trigger her memory. One day she decided to walk the bayou road, even though Old Betty told her a storm was brewing. She looked up into a clear blue sky and wandered away from the village.
A couple of miles later, the sky darkened and the wind came out of nowhere, bring with it thunder and terrible lightning. She stopped, her mind telling her she had done this before. She looked around for shelter and saw none but a split tree trunk of an old oak. She walked to it, mindless of the storm around her. She felt compelled to put her arms around the stump, standing as close to it as she could. She closed her eyes, and memories of the other storm raced around in her head.
“A shack, a fat whore…no, Claralee. A name and a place. A man…a man mounted on Claralee, hitting her.” The day ceased to exist for Ruby as she fainted, lying on the ground in the downpour of rain while trees fell all around her from the intense wind and lightning. Either way, Ruby knew none of it…she was lost in a world of memories.
The storm was over when she awoke. She was soaked to the skin, but she did not care. She continued to lie where she was, trying to sort out the flashes of remembrance. A face, but no name. A name without a face. A building, a wagon ride, a train ride, a man with a knife, a beautiful house, a tumbled down shack, warm times and cold, an outline of a girl in a park, laughing and crying, happiness and disappointments. Just pieces, but pieces she did not have before. She rose and walked the muddy road back toward the village. She could smell the freshness that came from a good rain, the smoke from the cabin chimneys, and the rot from along the river. She knew she was in New Orleans, but that was all.
Old Betty scolded her for not heeding her warning of the storm, even as she helped her remove her wet clothes. “Old Betty dun worry ’bout ya, walkin’ where da Lord’s strikes might a hit ya.”
“I remember things.”
At first, Old Betty did not comprehend what Ruby said as she continued her tirade about the storm. Suddenly she stopped. “’Member thins?” She grinned as wide as her old black face could and picked up Ruby to dance her around in circles. “Come, sit in a chair an’ tell me.”
Ruby laughed for the first time Old Betty had ever heard. “Can I get dressed first?”
They talked for hours, but Ruby’s mind refused to accept anything new, beyond what she learned during the storm. Other villagers joined them, so she told her story repeatedly. One tall, thin boy of about ten moved to stand by her. “If’n you see other thins, maybe ya ’member other thins too.”
Everyone stopped talking until Old Betty jumped up. “Outta moufs of babes. Tamorra we hitch up the wagon an’ take some drives. Litta ways ever day. How does dat sound?”
The next morning Old Betty sat in the front of the decrepit wagon, which looked older than Betty herself. She took the reins and the horses followed her commands with no hesitation. Ruby sat beside her and listened to the ancient one. “I learned ta drive a team when I was jist a chile. I followed the pickers an’ they load der bags in da wagon. It git full, I take it ta de barn to be unloaded. I jump from one wagon ta another an’ drove back. Musta did that hundred times afore boss man decide I pick cotton ’stead.”
The back of the wagon was full of children and young mothers who seldom, if ever, left their shantytown. It was like a holiday for all. They even packed lunches and water for the event. Soon they were calling out, “Scar, ya see dat church? Scar, looka dem ships.” Scar this and Scar that, each wanting his or her discovery to be the one that made the white woman remember things.
On the sixth day out, with only two passengers, Ruby put her hand on Old Betty’s. “See that fat woman… Yes, it is. It is Claralee.” She jumped off the wagon and ran with arms extended to the woman walking down the hill to a house below. “Claralee, it’s me. It’s me.” Claralee turned, brought her hand to her chest as if seeing a ghost, and then dropped her bundle and ran up the hill as fast as her obese body could move. They stood with arms around each other.
They all returned to the village and sat on Old Betty’s porch, talking, until the moon set. They decided to go to the police the next day and tell them who she was. She would tell her story, leaving out things the officials did not need to know.
Old Betty chided Claralee. “Ya shuda tell me ’bout it when ya was here bouncing wid dose young bucks down da way. Ya shuda gone ta da police soon as ya got back home.”
“Old Betty, do not be so hard on her,” said Ruby. “I know how cruel that man can be and she was right to be afraid. But not anymore. Tomorrow he will be in jail, Claralee, and you will be free of him. So will I and so will…” She stopped, unable to remember that name she knew was so important.
“Ya be meanin’ ya daughter? Ya be meanin’ Lulu?”
Without a word, Ruby dropped into a place where no one could venture. Old Betty jumped up to catch her before she fell. “How da ya know dat name? Is Scar’s girl?”
“Sure is. Ruby dun tell me when we was in dat shack in da bayou. She tell me ’bout a lotta stuff an’ we was friends.” She said it proudly, but Old Betty was not fooled.
“If’n you was friends, ya should a told police anaway. You just a no account whore, only thinkin’ ’bout ya nest cent an’ da man who give it ta ya. Now, help me. We gonna put her in my bed an’ at firs’ light we all goin’ to da police. Yes, de three of us.”
Chapter 83
The telegraphs traveled through the wires just as they were supposed to. The first arrived at Cottonwood Creek. The man was new and had never heard of Black Eagle Grant. Had the message been addressed to Captain Grant, he would have sent it on out to the fort. He shrugged after he read it and nailed the paper to the wall next to the window, above the moldy old couch.
The second reached the home of Mr. and Mrs. Michael O’Brian, who were honeymooning in New York City. They made no attempt to hide their infatuation with each other, much to the delight of those who watched them walk hand in hand through the parks and whisper as they rode carriages around the city.
The third telegraph arrived at the desk of General Stanley Cotton, who had not returned from the frontier, as his aide considered Fort Mason. The aide read the telegram and laid it on top of a pile of others that had arrived since he had departed in the dead of winter. The aide had heard rumors that the general would be back before Easter.
At Fort Mason, Corporal Jed
Dryer was now Sergeant Dryer. His new responsibilities relieved him of his wagon trips to Cottonwood Creek. Now that the trees were budded and the grass was greening, he wished he still had that duty. His opportunity came a few days later when the regular driver reported himself sick. Jed smiled as he asked General Cotton for permission to assume the duty and the general just nodded.
Jed had not noticed the now fading telegram nailed to the wall. It was unseasonably warm, so he stood in front of the open window, watching the last of the supplies loaded in the wagon. His attention was drawn to the note, but his ability to read was limited to a few words, but Black and Grant were two he recognized. He turned to the man at the desk. “Say, what is this all about?”
“Oh, somebody is looking for some Indian, Black Eagle. Called him Black Eagle Grant. Says he is needed in New Orleans. Someone named Lulu needs help.”
Jed pulled the telegram from the nail and handed it to the man. “Read it to me.” He listened. “Read it again.” He grabbed it from the man and raced out the door to the wagon. “Get this damn thing loaded now, and I mean now.” The laughing soldiers jumped to attention and finished the loading more quickly than they ever had, even though their sergeant continued to yell at them.
Jed did not know what to do with the telegraph, other than get it back to General Cotton at the fort. He pushed the team of horses faster than they were accustomed to traveling, forcing him to use his whip a couple of times. Suddenly, he pulled the team and wagon to a stop. He climbed down and took the reins of the nearest recruit. “I am taking your horse. Need to get this message to the general. You drive the team, regular speed, not like I was a doing.”
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