Winds of the Storm

by Beverly Jenkins

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not really, but what bothers me are the rumors that the family turned down the offers of an autopsy.”

  Confusion lined Drake’s face. “I’d think that if there were questions about his death, his family would move heaven and earth to get answers.”

  “So would I, but supposedly his family didn’t want one.”

  “Religious reasons?”

  Archer shrugged. “I’ve no way of knowing without speaking with someone in the household.”

  “Have you made any attempts?”

  “One. I went to the house but was told his wife was too distraught to receive visitors.”

  “That’s understandable. His death had to be a shock.”

  “To everyone.”

  “Maybe she’ll make herself available in a few weeks’ time.”

  “Maybe.”

  Drake said, “Well, I just stopped by for a second. I’m on my way to see the Ursuline sisters. There’s a leak in the convent roof. They want me to see if it can be repaired.” Drake’s building skills were as well known as his architectural skills.

  Archer nodded. “Your little brother was just here.”

  “He still raving about Madame Domino?”

  The amused Archer replied, “Yes.”

  Drake shook his head. “According to all I’ve heard, the women made quite the grand entrance into town. Horses wearing feathers. Women wearing feathers.”

  “So he told me. He wanted to know if I was going to the opening night.”

  “And are you?”

  “No. Lynette and I have plans for the opera.”

  “I see.”

  Archer heard the tone. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just that the lovely Lynette has you eating out of her hand.”

  “Because she doesn’t press me or harangue me and she’s always available when I need her to be. She’s the perfect mistress.”

  “If you like the passive type.”

  “Passive?”

  “Yes. Do the two of you ever argue?”

  “Of course not. You don’t choose a mistress for her argumentative skills.”

  “True, but I’d rather a woman challenge me the way the lovely Sable challenges Raimond. Maybe a woman like Lynette is right for you, but I want more.”

  “Well, I don’t. A nice, quiet woman like Lynette suits me just fine. I was the one with three mistresses, remember. I’ve learned my lesson.” Archer then brought the conversation back to the city’s newest brothel. “So, are you going to the opening?”

  “I may, just to see the interior of the place. I know some of the artisans who worked on it. They say it is the most elegant whorehouse outside of Paris.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what they said.” Drake headed out of the door and tossed back with a smile, “Enjoy the opera. And please, see someone about that Raimond disease. It could prove fatal.”

  Archer grinned and returned to the paperwork on his desk. The next morning he and Drake rode out to investigate the results of yet another night of terror. Like last time, he and Drake found a burned-out shack, but this time they found the residents; a man and his son, hanging like strange fruit in the trees.

  Over the next few days, courtesy of Araminta and her contacts, former dispatches from all over the South arrived to aid Zahra’s mission. They came from Mississippi, Florida, and other places across the South to serve as house maids, kitchen maids, gardeners, and coachmen. Most were strangers. However, when Chloe escorted the newest arrival into Zahra’s second-floor office, Zahra looked up from the newspaper she’d been scanning and screamed excitedly, “Wilma!”

  As Chloe closed the door and quietly exited, the two women embraced with a happiness that mirrored their friendship.

  “It’s good to see you, lass,” Wilma Gray whispered fervently. “So good.”

  They rocked each other for a long moment more, then broke the embrace. Zahra wiped away the mist of tears in her eyes and smiled at the rotund Irish woman. “It’s been a long time.”

  During the war, Wilma and Zahra had spent six months living together in Alabama spying on the Confederate navy anchored in Mobile Bay. “Do you live here in New Orleans?” Zahra asked.

  Wilma shook her head. “No. Boston. Got here by train last night. Spent the morning finding a decent boardinghouse, then asked around until I found someone who knew of the mysterious Madame Domino. Miss Harriet told me the plan.”

  “You are looking well.”

  “I’m old and feeling it, but you’re as beautiful as ever. Have you found a man strong enough to match you?”

  Zahra shook her head and smiled. “No. Doubt I will, old as I am, but it’s wonderful having you here.”

  Wilma looked around the office. “Nice place,” she said. With an amused twinkle in her blue eyes, she added, “No nudes?”

  Zahra chuckled. “Not in here, thank goodness.”

  “The statue by the steps—the one with the man and woman, liked to stole me breath.”

  “I know. The atmosphere down there is very, shall we say, heady?”

  “That’s putting a polite name on it.” Wilma ran her eyes over Zahra, then asked easily, “So tell me all you’ve done since we were together last.”

  “First, would you like some refreshment? Tea, café? We’re still waiting for our cook to arrive from Atlanta, so I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything of substance to eat.”

  “Tea will be fine.”

  Using the bell pull behind her desk, Zahra summoned one of the new kitchen maids, who promised to return promptly with the tea. The young woman, a dispatch from Florida named Suzette, kept her word, and when she retired, the two old friends sat, sipped, and caught up on each other’s lives.

  “I’ve been living in Boston with my son,” Wilma began. “He’s married to a wonderful lassie, and they have two children. Most beautiful grandchildren in the world.” She met Zahra’s smile with one of her own before continuing. “Have me own dress shop now, but work with the indigent, too. Many refugees are arriving north with nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

  “How much is your organization able to help?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. Boston has a large Colored community that’s been lending a helping hand for almost a hundred years, but donations have been declining, and it’s making the work harder.”

  “The country is weary of the race’s problems. They don’t understand why the freedmen aren’t content. After all, they are free.”

  “Few Northerners realize the issue is far more complex than that.” Wilma sighed and shook her head. “So where are you living now?”

  “Near Columbia.”

  “Miss Harriet said the government confiscated your parents’ land?”

  Zahra nodded tightly over her cup. “The president has promised to look into the matter in exchange for my help here.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Zahra met Wilma’s blue eyes and said truthfully, “I don’t know. My head says no, but my heart holds hope.”

  “Well, my Boston friends and I are very disappointed with Grant. All the scandals, all the graft and bribes. Not to mention him and the Republicans turning their backs on your people. It’s unconscionable.”

  Zahra agreed.

  “Have you heard from your folks?”

  “No. I’ve no idea whether they are still on the land or not.” Zahra last saw her parents right before she left South Carolina. They, like their neighbors, had armed themselves and were determined to hold on to the land by force if need be for as long as they could. She knew that if the situation became intolerable they’d return to Sanctuary, the town in the Carolina swamp where Zahra was born and raised. But the citizens of the swamps from Florida to Louisiana were also being forced out, by Rebs who didn’t want Maroon communities of Blacks nearby and by speculators anxious to sell the land to anyone wealthy enough to ensure them a fat profit.

  Wilma said genuinely, “Let’s hope you hear fro
m them soon.”

  They spent the next hour talking about the operation Zahra was putting into place. Wilma agreed with Zahra’s theory that President Grant was after more than just a report on the state of the race. “The people and the big newspapers back home are calling for the removal of the troops. In their minds, once that is accomplished the war will officially be over, and life can go on.”

  “He can’t remove the troops,” Zahra said. “If he does, the Redemptionists and the Kluxers will steep the South in blood. The only thing preventing that now are the soldiers.”

  “I know, but the North doesn’t seem to care.”

  Knowing that further discussion on the nation’s disinterest in the fate of the newly freed slaves would only fill her with frustration, Zahra turned the conversation back to the operation. “So what role does Araminta have you playing in our little drama here?”

  “I’m to be a seamstress. Araminta’s contacts have found a woman who wants to sell her shop, and I’ve come down to be the buyer. Apparently, she caters to the elite, so maybe I can sniff out something pertinent for you.”

  “That would be appreciated.”

  “I’m also here to render whatever assistance you may need.”

  When they’d been together in Mobile, Wilma had assumed the persona of a mad old widow woman named Annie. Zahra had played the role of her slave companion. Every morning, wearing a tattered nightgown over a soiled and ratty day dress, the blue-eyed, wild-haired Annie would walk down the streets of Mobile arguing with herself or sometimes the occasional stray dog. Whenever residents of the city happened upon her, they either gave her a patronizing smile and left her alone, or crossed the street out of fear of being forced into a loud and embarrassing conversation on such nonsensical topics as whether inchworms could grow to be more than an inch. None had suspected that in reality, Crazy Annie, as they’d called her, had been tallying the names, classifications, and numbers of Confederacy ships in the bay, and sending the information on to Washington. A few weeks after Zahra and Wilma left the city, the intelligence they’d gathered helped the Union navy gain victory in the August ’64 battle at Mobile Bay.

  The two women finished their tea and stood to say their good-byes. A parting hug was shared, and Zahra said genuinely, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I am, too. I should be open in a week or so, so stop in. I can be your gown maker from here on if you’d like. I’ll gown the girls, too.”

  “I’d like that, but the elite Creole women probably won’t.”

  Wilma waved away the concerns. “Once they see the design and quality of my wares, I’m certain they won’t care who my other customers are.”

  Wilma then took up the pen on Zahra’s desk and wrote down the number of the house and the name of the street where she’d taken a room, then she added the address of her shop.

  Zahra escorted her back downstairs to the front parlor. Wilma spent a long moment scanning the beautiful ivory-and-gold décor, then said, “All this gold and white would make you think you were in a church if it weren’t for those.” She pointed at one of the nude statues.

  For a moment, Zahra’s attention lingered on the life-sized couple embracing at the foot of the staircase. The rapture on the woman’s face was riveting. Zahra could almost feel the pleasure, sense the heat of the man’s cupping hand. Admittedly, her experience with men was limited to the clumsy rumblings of her youth and to the two times during the war she’d had to put herself on the lure in order to bait the fish she’d been trying to catch. However, this statue the girls had dubbed Adam and Eve touched her in ways she couldn’t explain. Could it be because you’ve never known such passion? her inner voice asked. Zahra was honest enough to admit that the answer could be yes. She hastily set the thoughts aside and found Wilma watching her intently.

  “Be careful, Zahra,” Wilma warned gently. “A place like this can seduce even a woman of strength like yourself. Passion can dull your senses and make you vulnerable.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just all this”—she gestured around—“takes some getting used to.”

  Wilma nodded knowingly. “All right, but keep my words in mind.”

  “I will,” Zahra promised.

  They shared one last hug and Wilma was gone.

  Zahra made her way back to the stairs to return to her office. As she climbed, she pointedly ignored Adam and Eve, but her mind’s eye saw Eve’s ecstatic face just the same.

  Later that afternoon, Roland Keel, a cousin of Alfred’s, arrived by train from Memphis. He’d come to oversee the gambling, bringing with him a three-person crew of barkeeps and dealers to ensure the house’s games ran fairly and to keep an eye out for cardsharps.

  “I wouldn’t know a sharp from a Philadelphia lawyer,” Zahra admitted as she sat talking with Roland and Alfred in her office.

  Roland was at least a foot shorter than his giant cousin, but he had the same muscular build. “Learned all I know from my old master—one of the best gamblers on the Mississippi.”

  “Then you’re just the man we need.”

  “For Ms. Tubman I’d walk through fire,” he declared with conviction. “She helped my folks go north back in the fifties, and I’ll always be grateful.”

  Zahra understood his devotion. Araminta was responsible for hundreds of people escaping captivity. “All the gambling operations will be under your control. If there are supplies you need purchased, please let me know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’ll be reporting back to the Loyal League in Memphis?”

  “Yes, and they’ll be sending me any news they think you should pass on to the other Leagues.”

  “How are things going for the race there?”

  “No better or no worse than anywhere else. The riots in ’66 let us know who our friends were though, and while some progress has been made, many of us are terrified it will happen again, soon.”

  The Memphis riots of 1866 began harmlessly enough with the collision of two hacks on a Memphis street. One driver was Black, the other White. It evolved into a three-day orgy of hate and murder fueled by mobs, the police and the local news organs. Forty-six people were killed, forty-four of them Black. Eighty-five people were injured. $100,000 of property, goods and money, much of it owned by the Black soldiers and their families stationed at nearby Fort Pickering was either stolen or burned. When the riot ended, a local newspaper crowed, “Thank heaven the white race are once again ruler in Memphis.” But the Congressional hearings convened to investigate the matter found the riot to be “…an organized, bloody massacre of the colored people, inspired by the press and led on by officers of the law…”

  “Well, welcome to our odd family,” Zahra said genuinely. “Alfred will show you around the place, then he can take you to some of the boardinghouses.”

  He nodded, and the cousins departed.

  Left alone, Zahra wondered where this would all lead. Opening night was less than two weeks away, and she still hadn’t filled all of her household positions. The most crucial was the cook, who’d been expected to arrive yesterday. According to the railroad agent, the train the woman was traveling on from Atlanta had experienced some mechanical difficulties and would arrive at the station today. Zahra hoped so, because they could hardly have a grand affair without food. Her staff was also on her mind. Although they all came highly recommended, common sense told her that at least one, if not two, would eventually prove untrustworthy. To believe otherwise was to be naive. Trusting Wilma seemed logical, but Zahra knew that many former friends of the race were just that—former. She also knew that if the president or Congress got wind of rumors that some leaders of the race were contemplating leading the freedmen out of the South, the ramifications would roll across the nation like a wave. Radical politicians would lose their constituencies, and planters, their cheap labor. An outraged Congress would probably hold hearings to find the conspirators responsible for “influencing” a race of people the country deemed too feebleminded to think f
or themselves. So, considering all that was at stake, the only counsel Zahra could wisely keep was her own.

  The cook did arrive later that day, but there was a problem.

  “What do you mean, she’s not staying?” the confused Zahra asked Lovey, who’d come up to the office to announce the cook’s decision not to take the post.

  “She set one foot inside, looked around, and stomped out. You should come down and talk to her.”

  Zahra found the tall, chesty woman outside on the porch. Her face was sour, and her body was tense with anger. Zahra introduced herself. “I’m Domino, and you are?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I won’t be staying.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “This is a whorehouse!” the woman replied, as if the answer was obvious. “I’ll not be working under the devil’s roof.”

  Salome and Naomi, the mulatto twins who’d arrived three days ago from Nashville, stood in the doorway, with Zahra’s other girls, looking on.

  The woman eyed Zahra and declared pointedly, “I’ve known Harriet a long time, but that young man she’s married to must have loosened her mind. She knows I’m a God-fearing woman.”

  “But ma’am—”

  “No buts needed, miss. I’ll be going back to the train station. And I’ll be praying for your souls.”

  With that, she turned on her heel and strode off with her carpetbag in hand.

  In the silence that followed, Matilda asked, “So, what do we do now?”

  A grim Zahra watched the woman climb back into the hack and be driven away. “I suppose we find another cook.”

  That evening, Zahra sent one of the maids around with a note to Miss Sophie explaining her dilemma and asking for the name of a quality caterer who might handle the food, since Zahra wasn’t certain a replacement cook could be found in time to handle all the preparations necessary for the opening night festivities.

  Sophie wrote back: Archer Le Veq. Hotel Christophe.

  Zahra looked at the note. Archer Le Veq? Hadn’t she rescued him from a barn back in ’63? Surely this couldn’t be the same one, but casting back she did recall him being from New Orleans. Zahra got up from her chair and began to pace. Would he remember her? He’d been in such bad condition when she helped him escape that he’d barely been able to sit his horse, yet his dark eyes had flustered her so much she’d accidentally poured water from the canteen all over his face; a gaffe that brought heat to her cheeks even now.