Through the Storm

by Beverly Jenkins

  Buggy reins in hand, Raimond shrugged. “I am fine. I will miss him, is all.”

  And he would, greatly.

  “You need cheering up.”

  He turned to her with the first smile she’d seen on his face since they’d left the ball. “Oh, really? You have something in mind?”

  She grinned. “It’s a magic trick.”

  “What type of magic trick?”

  She slid over on the bench so they sat side by side, and replied to his question in soft, mysterious tones. “It’s a mystical, magical trick that can make things grow right before your very eyes.”

  He chuckled at her play. “What types of things—specifically?”

  “Specifically? This…”

  She passed her hand slowly and possessively over her favorite part of his male anatomy and felt the flesh quicken to life. Holding him, she pointed out in a sultry whisper, “See…I told you…”

  Raimond just about ran the horses off the road. Her warm, wandering hand made desire burst over his senses like an exploding shell. “You need a keeper…do you know that?”

  “The queen doesn’t like it when her knight is sad, so it is her desire that he be given something else to discuss.”

  Raimond felt her seductively undoing the placket on his pants. In a voice that hovered between shock and delight, he asked, “What are you doing…?”

  “Freeing my knight so he can be happy again. Your queen demands that you drive…Pay no attention to what she is doing…”

  Raimond tried to obey the royal directive, but as the discussion continued, the reins slid unnoticed from his hands and the horses came to a stop.

  His head fell back against the seat as her warm mouth took him in and then slowly, slowly eased away. After a few moments of that, he growled and forced her to sit upright. “You should be in jail!”

  Sable licked her lips contentedly. “That didn’t make you happy?”

  “So happy, I want to drag you over to the side of the road, Mrs. Wanton LeVeq.”

  “Too many insects.”

  He grinned. “Just wait until I get you home.”

  “I’ll try, but it had better be quickly.”

  Raimond headed the horses up the road at a full gallop. “Is Mrs. Vine home?”

  “No, I gave her the evening off. I gave everyone the evening off.”

  “Good!”

  They stumbled into the house, fondling, kissing, and ripping away their clothes. He made her ride him right there in the middle of the soft Persian rug that had been put down only that morning. Then he took her into the kitchen to introduce her to a counter they’d previously discussed. When she screamed her release, he groaned right after her, and the sounds of their love echoed throughout their home.

  Chapter 14

  Louisiana’s long-anticipated Radical Convention convened two days later. Raimond had been chosen as a member of the state’s delegation and was appointed to the committee that would draw up the convention’s closing declaration. Sable and Juliana took the children to hear some of the speakers, but most days they left them in Mrs. Vine’s care and joined the hundreds of other observers in the gallery. Speaker after speaker, representatives from all across the South, stepped up to the podium to demand eloquently that Blacks of all backgrounds be given the rights promised by the Constitution. The name of Lincoln was invoked many times over and the name of his successor damned.

  President Andrew Johnson had not halted his pardoning of Rebel leaders and supporters. Even those who’d been termed traitors less than six months ago now had only to write to the former slave-holding president to receive absolution. Many Confederate military officers and government officials were now back in power as judges, political appointees, and local sheriffs, and they were using their positions to further accelerate the disenfranchisement of the freed slaves. Their policies and attitudes seemed to reflect the words expressed by the Cincinnati Enquirer at the close of the war: “Slavery is dead, the negro is not, there is the misfortune.”

  But most members of the race had absolutely no intention of accepting such sentiments quietly. In response to the political reversals threatening postwar progress, societies dedicated to the pursuit of civil rights were forming all over the South, bringing together freedmen, White radicals, Black soldiers, and the Black elite to ensure that the race’s voice was heard.

  The debates of the Radical Convention did not always go smoothly, as the delegates tried to settle on a position document. At many of the Black conventions, and this one was no exception, most of the leadership positions were held by mulatto and free elite Blacks. Some freedmen resented what they saw as an overrepresentation by the two classes and verbally aired their discontent. One delegate from Tennessee wondered publicly why the convention was even called a Black convention when there were so few true Blacks in attendance. He didn’t care to have mixed-blood men—some of whom he described as “White as the editor of the New York Herald”—determining his political future. As he sat down there was a smattering of applause and a hail of derisive catcalls.

  Sable didn’t favor either side, and as the debate around the issue continued for the next four hours, she felt they were squandering time that could be better spent addressing the crisis facing the race.

  Some of the delegates apparently shared her view, and chastised their colleagues for fiddling while Rome burned. They pointed out that Blacks from all walks of life were playing active parts in the quest for civil rights, not just the free, mulatto, and freedmen. In Mississippi where only a handful of free Blacks had resided before the war, the leadership was made up of Black army vets and their extended families. In Georgia and Alabama, Black ministers were more often the organizers and leaders.

  Henri Vincent summed up the day’s debate by sagely pointing out, “Free or freed, it hardly matters. We’re all in this boat together, and we may as well accustom ourselves to rowing as one.”

  He received a standing ovation.

  Juliana had opened her home to the convention members, and over the course of the five days, it became Black Radical headquarters. Assisted by Sable and the wives of several other Louisiana delegates, she hosted teas, dinners, and luncheons. The delegates seemed to enjoy the opportunity to relax away from the debates, and even at midnight, the LeVeq door was open and the coffee hot.

  Sable met many prominent men of all races in Juliana’s parlor, one of the most memorable being the famous war veteran Robert Smalls, whose daring commandeering of a Confederate warship had to be one of the most exciting escape-from-slavery tales she’d ever heard. Smalls, now active in South Carolina politics and a delegate to the convention, told his story to Juliana and Sable one afternoon as they sat on the front porch during a convention recess.

  “I’d been a slave working the Charleston waterfront for about ten years when the masters sent me to work on a steamer called the Planter,” he told them. “That was in April of ’62. Before the war the Planter hauled cotton. She could hold up to fourteen hundred bales.”

  “A large ship,” Juliana said knowingly.

  He nodded. “A good size, yes. But after the war began, the Rebs converted it into a warship and armed it with a thirty-two pound cannon, a twenty-four howitzer, and numerous smaller armaments.”

  Juliana whistled.

  Smalls grinned, then continued. “The only White men aboard were the captain and the two mates. Everybody else was Black, including the engineer, my brother John.”

  Sable sat enthralled as he’d told how he’d planned his escape for a night when the three White men would be sleeping ashore. “The opportunity came on May 12, 1862. There were sixteen of us, including my wife and three children and my brother’s wife and child.”

  At three in the morning they fired up the boilers and very casually set out to sea, flying the Confederate flag.

  Smalls had planned his escape very carefully. He’d even acquired a large straw hat similar to the one the captain wore. His plan depended upon the Confederate forces in t
he harbor assuming the Planter had simply started the day early. They did. He passed each Confederate post by giving the proper salute with his whistle and was waved on. His ultimate destination lay with the Union fleet barricading the harbor. As the Planter approached the last hurdle, Fort Sumter, he donned the large straw hat and the captain’s arms-crossed stance. The Planter gave the signal with the steam whistle, three shrill notes and a hiss, then waited. A tense moment later, they heard the last Confederate sentry sing out, “Pass the Planter, flagship for General Ripley.” The sentry, thinking the boat was headed out to duel with the Union fleet, added as they sailed on, “Blow the damned Yankees to hell, and bring one of them in.”

  Once the Planter sailed out of the reach of the Confederate guns, Smalls and his men took down the Confederate flag and ran up a white bedsheet.

  The Union fleet almost fired on them as they approached, but upon seeing the flag of truce, they held off.

  “The navy officers were stunned to find only Blacks aboard, so I told them I thought the Planter might be of use to Uncle Abe. They made me a pilot on the spot, and later the Planter’s captain.”

  By the end of the story, a few others in the house had gathered around to listen. One of them asked, “Mr. Smalls, what would you have done had something gone awry during the running of the blockade?”

  “I would have scuttled the ship,” he said seriously. “And had it not sunk fast enough, we were prepared to link hands and jump to a watery grave.”

  While the convention was in session, Sable saw Raimond only late at night. She would awaken to sounds of him moving quietly around the bedroom undressing after a long day, then she would smile and sigh pleasurably as his warm body slid beside her beneath the sheets. Life had been so hectic of late, she had yet to tell him of the child that was growing in her womb. She made a mental note to let him know as soon as the convention ended and they had some time alone.

  On the last morning of the convention, Hazel came into the kitchen and stood watching Sable frost a cake meant for that night’s supper. Looking up, Sable asked, “Do you want something, Hazel?”

  Sable continued her task while waiting for an answer, and when it did not come, she looked up again, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  Across the kitchen, Mrs. Vine, working dough for the evening’s bread, paused too upon seeing the serious set of the young girl’s face.

  Hazel said, “Cullen’s gonna whip me if I tell.”

  “Tell what?” Sable asked.

  She waited. The children hadn’t been in her care for very long, but already she knew they each had distinct personalities. Cullen was moody and proud; Blythe, who appeared to be absolutely fearless, was a typical ten-year-old, with an active imagination and scores of questions. Hazel, on the other hand, seemed to be caught between wanting to appear grown-up and wise like her twin brother, and wanting to remain as silly and carefree as a child.

  It was the wise, Cullen-like Hazel who was facing Sable at this moment. “Hazel, what are you trying not to tell me?”

  “He’s going to be real mad, but I’m worried about him coming to harm. He’s been sneaking out at night.”

  “Sneaking out to where?”

  Hazel shrugged. “Blythe and I don’t know and he won’t tell us. He made us promise not to tell you, but…”

  Sable placed a comforting arm around Hazel’s shoulder and said softly, “It’s all right, darling. You’re worried about your brother, I understand. I told on my brother Rhine a few times too, and yes, he was mad. But he played with me again in a few days. So how often has Cullen been slipping out?”

  “Since we came to live here. He even snuck out of Grandma Juliana’s house the night of the ball.”

  Sable’s eye’s widened. “How?”

  “He lashed together all the sheets and went out the window.”

  Sable stared amazed. Whatever was this manchild up to? “And you’ve no idea where he goes?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Hazel. Please don’t say anything to Cullen for now.”

  Hazel still didn’t appear comfortable with her decision to reveal her brother’s secret, but she nodded and departed for school.

  Mrs. Vine turned to Sable. “What are you going to do?”

  “What any mother would do. Find out what he’s up to.”

  Raimond came home late that night, dragging tired and wanting nothing more than a night of uninterrupted sleep next to Sable’s warm curves. But when he entered the bedroom, and found his wife not only awake but dressed in men’s clothes, he sensed sleep would not come soon that night. “And you are dressed for what occasion?” he asked.

  “Hazel says Cullen’s been sneaking out at night.”

  Raimond’s fatigue vanished instantly. “What?”

  Sable told him the story. When she finished, an astounded Raimond asked, “And she has no clue where he goes?”

  “Not a one.”

  Raimond found this hard to believe. “So why are you wearing those clothes?”

  “Because if he leaves tonight, I plan to follow him and discover what he’s doing.”

  Raimond shook his head firmly with denial. “No, you’re not. The roads are too dangerous at night.”

  He knew as well as she of the reported crimes being perpetrated against people of color by roving gangs of White thugs.

  “Then I suggest you come along as my protection, Sir Knight, because I’m going with or without you.”

  He didn’t have to study her determined face for long to realize that this was not an argument he could win. “Okay. We’ll both go. Just let me slap some water on my face.”

  They took up a vigil in the shrubbery below Cullen’s window. It offered them an unimpeded view of his room and enough cover to remain hidden from sight.

  Raimond knew this was supposed to be a serious endeavor, but he kept being distracted by the way Sable’s trousers accentuated the sweet curve of her behind. The unconventional attire, unearthed from one of Juliana’s trunks, had once belonged to Phillipe. As Sable explained to Raimond, she’d decided that dressing like a man would not only disguise her gender but also give her a freedom of movement not available to her in skirts. He believed her thinking sound, but considering the way the fabric hugged her hips, she didn’t look like any man he’d ever seen.

  The sound of Cullen’s window being slowly opened drew his attention back to the matter at hand. While Sable and Raimond watched tensely, a long rope of lashed-together sheets was tossed out to aid Cullen’s descent. It dangled against the house, eerily illuminated by the moon. Two big carpetbags were tossed out next; they hit the ground beneath the window with dull thuds. They then watched Cullen shimmy down the sheets. Once on his feet, he spent a moment glancing around the grounds, as if making sure it was safe to proceed, then picked up the heavy carpetbags.

  Raimond stood up and said, “Good evening, Cullen.”

  The boy seemed to jump six feet in the air.

  Sable stood up too.

  Upon seeing them, Cullen’s chin tightened.

  Sable asked, “Will you explain what you’re doing?”

  For a moment he didn’t reply. When he finally spoke it was only to say, “I must go.”

  He picked up the bags and took two steps but Raimond, not raising his voice, said, “Put the bags down, son.”

  Cullen halted in his tracks. He looked over at Raimond, then slowly eased the bags to the ground at his feet.

  “Thank you. Now, Sable asked you a question, and I’d like you to answer her, please.”

  “I can’t, because if I do you will forbid me to go.”

  “Well,” Sable said, “it’s for certain you won’t be going if you don’t tell me, so give us a chance, Cullen. We may surprise you.”

  He seemed to consider her words as he held first her eyes and then Raimond’s. Finally he said, “Then come with me and I’ll show you.”

  Cullen suggested Raimond drive the carriage because of the distance they would be traveling. So
while Cullen and Raimond went around to hitch up the horses, Sable hurried upstairs to wake Mrs. Vine and inform her of the goings-on. She promised to keep an eye on the still sleeping girls, and Sable rushed back out to join the men.

  Following Cullen’s directions, Raimond drove them down to the New Orleans waterfront and into a rundown area of the warehouse district. Abandoned and damaged ships littered the shoreline, interspersed with the shanties and lean-tos of the homeless of all races. This was a highly dangerous area during the day, and according to newspaper reports, deadly at night. Sable found it incredible that Cullen claimed to have walked all this way each night alone. More importantly, what could be here to so powerfully attract a twelve-year-old boy?

  Per Cullen’s instructions, they stopped near one of the derelict ships, and Raimond set the carriage brake. It was so quiet, water could be heard lapping at the shore.

  As they all got out, Raimond said, “Cullen, I hope this won’t take long. An unguarded carriage will be a target for thieves.”

  Cullen said, “Don’t worry. Pee Wee will watch the carriage.”

  Before either parent could ask who Pee-Wee was, Cullen placed his fingers to his lips and sent out a shrill whistle. A small, ragged child melted out of the shadows and appeared at Cullen’s side. “Hello, Cullen.”

  “Hello, Pee Wee. This is Raimond LeVeq and his lady Sable.”

  Pee Wee looked to be around Blythe’s age. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Pee Wee will watch over the carriage if you will give him a coin when we’re done.”

  “Agreed,” Raimond pledged.

  They followed Cullen aboard a listing ship, then down below deck. Carrying the carpetbags, he moved confidently through the rotting vessel, while Sable and Raimond, trailing behind, stumbled and faltered over the dark, unfamiliar terrain.

  Cullen pushed open a door and went inside. They followed.

  A stub of a candle lit the interior of what had once been a small stateroom. It took a moment for Sable’s sight to adjust to the dimness, but once it did, she found herself staring into the wary eyes of more than a dozen huddled children. There were about fifteen of them of varying ages, sizes, and shades, spread out in small groups.