by Ginny Dye
“You just have to trust it to grow?” Rose asked.
“Yes,” Moses admitted.
“And once it has started to grow, are you responsible for what happens next?”
“I’m responsible for taking care of the plant,” Moses responded. “I can’t just ignore it and expect it to produce healthy tobacco leaves.”
“And if it doesn’t rain for months on end? If the soil has been depleted of nutrients from mismanagement?”
“I have no control over that,” Moses said slowly. He gazed at Rose with warm admiration. “I see where you’re going with this. I can plant seeds in people’s minds, and I can nurture them, but I never have control of their lives. Things will happen that are out of my control. They might make decisions that are out of my control.” He turned and stared out into the night. “It is impossible to carry the weight of every black person.”
Rose gazed at him, her heart swelling with love. “Both of us are going to give all we can give,” she said softly. “That is all we can do. We will both have to remind the other that the results are not up to us.”
“And you’re willing to live with the risks?” Moses demanded as he swung back around to look down at her again. “That could have been Felicia who was shot. Or John. Or Hope.” His eyes burned with emotion as he looked at her.
Rose had thought of little else during the long hours she had waited on the porch. “It will break my heart if something happens to one of us, or to our children,” she said huskily, “but something could just as easily happen if we do nothing to try and make a difference. You were right when you told everyone that the South is out of control. The only thing I know for certain is that nothing will ever truly change until there are people willing to take risks. All I can do is pray I will have the strength to go through whatever the future holds.” She reached up and caressed his cheek. “The most important thing is that I will face it with the man I love.”
Moses pulled her close and claimed her lips. “I am a lucky man,” he murmured.
“You certainly are,” Rose agreed easily as he led her into the house.
Carrie was surprised when her door swung open late that night. The heat was making it difficult to sleep, so she was sitting on the window seat staring out over the city, hoping for any breeze to cool her body. “Janie?”
Janie moved into her room. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Absolutely not,” Carrie replied. She patted the seat next to her.
“I can’t sleep,” Janie admitted as she settled down, sighing when a soft breeze blew over her.
Carrie was quite sure it wasn’t the heat keeping her friend awake. She waited quietly. The silence stretched out as she gave Janie time to decide what she wanted to say.
“I like Matthew,” Janie said abruptly.
Carrie blinked in the darkness. “Oh?”
Janie took a deep breath. “I mean I have feelings for him. I’ve always just thought of him as a friend,” she hurried on, “but today I felt something else. And I’m pretty sure I saw something else in his eyes, too.”
“Did you have a good walk with him tonight?” Carrie asked, a smile playing on her lips. She had been happy when she saw the two of them leave that evening, and she had also seen the envy sketched on the other women’s faces.
“Yes,” Janie said softly. “We just talked about things, but it was so pleasant. He’s a wonderful man.”
“I agree completely,” Carrie responded, wondering how to continue. “The idea of having feelings for Matthew seems to be bothering you. Why?”
“My marriage to Clifford was a disaster,” Janie reminded her ruefully.
“Matthew is nothing like Clifford!”
“I know…”
Carrie wished it was light enough to see Janie’s face, but she didn’t have to see her to know there was something else in her voice. They had spent many hours on window seats talking about life. “What is it?” she pressed. “You came in here to talk about it, so let’s talk about it.”
“I’m afraid,” Janie said hesitantly.
“That Matthew will be like Clifford?” Carrie was confused.
“No,” Janie said slowly. “I’m afraid…he will always love you.” Her voice was vaguely defiant.
Carrie sat stunned as Janie’s words hung in the air between them. “Excuse me?” she finally managed.
“Oh, Carrie,” Janie murmured. “Do you honestly have no clue that Matthew has been in love with you for years?”
“That’s not true!” Carrie cried. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true,” Janie insisted. “All of us know it. Matthew has worn his love for you on his face for years.”
Carrie shook her head, wanting to continue to vehemently deny it, but her mind carried her back to the first night they had met at the dance right here in Philadelphia. What had he said that night when he asked her to dance? I would have to approach the only girl who is already spoken for. Her mind whirled as she thought of all the years of their friendship. “He’s never given me any indication,” she protested.
“Of course he hasn’t,” Janie replied. “Robert is his best friend. Matthew is a man of honor.”
Carrie’s thoughts continued to spin. Had Matthew stayed single all these years because of her? The very thought saddened her. “I’m not in love with him,” she said.
“He knows that,” Janie said quickly. “He knows Robert holds your whole heart.”
“You’ve talked about it?” Carrie gasped. The idea horrified her.
“Of course not! I just know.”
Carrie absorbed that in silence. “What are you going to do?” she finally asked.
It was Janie’s turn to be silent. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “Even if he is over you and suddenly feels something for me, I’m not at all sure I could trust another man enough to marry him. I’m just becoming comfortable with myself.”
“Matthew would never demand you bow down to his wishes.”
“I’m sure of that,” Janie agreed, “but I’m not at all sure…”
Carrie reached out to grasp her hand. “You’re not at all sure of what?”
Janie sighed. “I’m not at all sure Matthew will ever be able to love another woman besides you. I want to believe he can, but I just can’t. Not yet.”
Carrie latched on to the last words. “Not yet,” she murmured. “Give it time, Janie. I can’t think of anything that would give me greater pleasure than to see you two together.” Janie remained silent, but Carrie could feel the tension flowing from her hand. “How long will Matthew be here?”
“He’s leaving tomorrow. He is going back to Memphis for a week or so, and then he is heading to New Orleans for a constitutional convention.” Janie hesitated. “He told me tonight that he has a bad feeling about it.”
Chapter Twenty- Nine
Matthew walked slowly through the streets of New Orleans. The oppressive heat, even early in the morning, was almost more than he could bear. He wanted to claw at the humidity until it broke away from him, but it was useless to try to free himself from its cloying hold. It was his first time in the fourth largest city in America. He regretted it had to be in late July.
The heat had demanded he rise early to have breakfast at a chic little restaurant down on the Mississippi. He had watched the busy port as he consumed a bowl of shrimp and grits, followed by a beignet that had almost melted in his mouth. He might abhor the heat, but he had fallen in love with the delicate pastries covered with powdered sugar. The famous beignet had been one of the things leftover from French occupation after the city nearly burned to the ground in 1788. The colorful stucco buildings decorated with elaborate ironwork balconies and galleries that filled what was known as the French Quarter were primarily built by the Spanish during their brief ownership of the city, but the beignet had held on.
While he sauntered down the riverfront, he thought about the fire that had almost destroyed the city on Good Friday. An alter candle in the ho
me of Don Jose Nunez, the colony treasurer, had ignited lace curtains floating nearby. Gale-force winds blowing in through the windows fanned the flames into a blazing inferno that shot sparks onto nearby buildings. The wind spread the ensuing flames quickly.
No one in the city was alerted because tradition demanded that the bells on the Church of Saint Louis, used to rally citizens during an emergency, remain silent on Good Friday. The priests made certain they remained silent, but they also ensured that eighty percent of the city lay in a heap of ashes just five hours later. The 856 buildings that had taken seventy years to build were gone in just a few hours. Just six years later, another fire had destroyed 212 more buildings.
New Orleans, still under Spanish occupation, had responded by replacing all the wooden buildings with brick that was then covered with stucco. Matthew, his stomach comfortably full, admired the architecture as he strolled along. He had especially fallen in love with the decorative wrought iron and the large arched doorways that provided the entry for multi-storied buildings centered around inner courtyards. He was determined to come back sometime during the winter so he could spend countless hours exploring the courtyards. The bubbling fountains and the cascades of bougainvillea everywhere could almost make him forget the humidity, but not quite.
“Hey, mister!”
A sharp whisper from a shaded courtyard made Matthew jerk to attention. He searched the shadows until he found the source of the greeting. Frightened dark eyes peered out at him from the face of a black man who almost blended in with the shadows.
“Yes?”
“You that journalist fellow who wrote about the riot in Memphis?”
Matthew nodded. He had met a lot of people in the almost two weeks he had been in the city. The covert greeting made all thoughts of breakfast and luxurious courtyards flee his mind. The pressure that had been building in him during the days he had been in New Orleans came back in full force, pressing down so hard he suddenly had to fight to breathe the thick air. “What can I do for you?”
“I hear you be tryin’ to make things better for black folks,” the man said quietly, edging forward enough so that Moses could see his rough spun pants and shirt.
“I am trying,” Matthew agreed, pushing down the immediate thought that he was failing dismally.
“So you think we ought to have the vote? You know about the convention tomorrow?”
“I do,” Matthew said firmly. He had thought of little else but the upcoming constitutional convention that would try to reverse the 1864 constitution that had withheld voting privileges from every black in New Orleans.
“You gotta warn folks,” the man said sharply.
“About?” Matthew had a fairly good idea of what he meant, but his job was to collect information not only for the articles he was writing for the newspaper, but also for the section he was writing for his book about life in New Orleans now that the war was over. That meant he asked a lot of questions.
The man suddenly looked suspicious. “You don’t know?”
Matthew gazed at him, recognizing the look of fear imprinted on so many black faces in the city. He knew they had very good reasons to be afraid. “I’m here to tell the story of the people who live in New Orleans,” he responded evenly. “I’ve heard a lot of things, but I also know I can learn more from every person I talk to.” He understood when the man’s eyes stayed narrow with suspicion. “The convention is coming up. You’re afraid there will be violence, and you know there are going to be a lot of your people who will be hurt.” His last statement released the man’s tongue.
“It’s gonna be real bad,” the man insisted.
There was something in the man’s eyes that made Matthew stiffen. “How do you know this?”
The man looked around furtively, making sure no one was close enough to hear, and then took a step closer. “I heard some white men talking this morning. They said…they said they were gonna wipe out every nigger in New Orleans.”
The combination of raw pain and terror on the man’s face made Matthew’s stomach clench. “Who were they?” he asked sharply.
“I don’t know. I was doin’ some work right here in this garden ‘bout an hour ago. I heard them talkin’. I was tryin’ to be real quiet, but then I had to go and sneeze. They shut up real quick and took off.” He continued, his voice dropping down to almost a whisper. “They was policemen.” His eyes glittered with panic.
“Did they see you?” Matthew pressed.
“Nope. I made good and sure of that.”
Matthew thought about what the man had said. The constitutional convention was taking place the next day. He had spent Friday night at an impromptu rally outside the Mechanics Institute where it was to occur. He had experienced the passion of the blacks who longed for freedom. “What’s your name?”
The man hesitated a long moment. “Ralph,” he said finally.
“Were you at the rally Friday night, Ralph?”
“Yes,” the man hesitantly admitted. He anticipated Matthew’s next question. “Most of the men are planning on going back tomorrow for the convention.”
Matthew’s mind spun as he thought about the speakers he had heard Friday night. He had stayed back on the fringes because he wanted to watch all the black faces, but also because he wanted to watch the reactions of the white people viewing the rally from porches and windows. The fury and hatred their faces had expressed added to the weight he had been carrying ever since he arrived in New Orleans.
“There’s gonna be big trouble!” Ralph said more insistently.
Matthew nodded. “I agree,” he said heavily.
“Can’t you do something to stop it?”
“I’m trying to warn people,” he said, “but so far no one is listening.” He stared hard at Ralph. “So now I’m warning you. You tell me there is trouble coming. Does that mean you are going to stay away from the rally?”
Ralph’s gaze wavered, but the determination on his face didn’t. “Ain’t nothing gonna change for black folks here unless we get the vote,” he said flatly. “We’s got to stand up for our rights before things get even worse.” He took a deep breath. “I reckon I gotta be there.”
“You’re walking right into trouble!” Matthew said, his insides seething with frustration, even while he understood the resolute expression on Ralph’s face.
Ralph’s expression was now oddly calm. “That might be, but I ain’t had nothin’ ‘cept trouble since the day I was born.” He took another step forward and spoke urgently. “They got to send soldiers to protect us. It ain’t just the black folks they gonna go after. They’s going after the folks who be trying to help us. There gonna be plenty of white people there tomorrow, too.”
Matthew felt the pressure build in his chest even more. He knew Ralph was warning him, as well, but he had already made the decision to be at the convention. “I’ll do my best,” was all he could promise.
Ralph nodded, turned, and disappeared again into the courtyard.
Matthew continued down the street to his hotel, thinking about the conversation. The temperature had risen with the sun. It was only nine o’clock, but he knew it had to be close to ninety degrees already. He felt the hot pavement radiating up through his shoes as it rose to blast his face. He was grateful for the arching spread of the live oak trees draped with moss, but he couldn’t always be in their welcome shade.
“You picked a bad time to be in New Orleans!”
Matthew raised his head and stopped dead in his tracks, unable to speak as he stared at the man in front of him.
“I should write this down. There are not many times I have seen you speechless. And you certainly don’t look like a red-headed skeleton anymore!”
Matthew grinned suddenly. “Captain Anderson!” He shook his head and rushed forward to lock the man in a fierce hug. “I can’t believe you’re here!” He hadn’t seen the Union captain since he helped save his life by plucking his emaciated body from the frigid waters of the James River after their escape fro
m Libby Prison. Matthew had helped him make it to Fort Monroe and then headed off to a new assignment, while Captain Anderson had been put in a hospital to recover from his ordeal. “You look fabulous, Capt—” His voice trailed off and then another smile spread across his face. “I mean, Colonel Anderson.”
Anderson smiled and shrugged. “There are less of us to compete for the ranks now,” he said modestly. He grabbed Matthew’s arm. “What are you doing here?”
“Writing about New Orleans. What else?” Matthew quickly explained about his book project, hardly believing he had run into his old friend. Their months together in the prison had forged a close friendship, but the events of the following years had kept them in different parts of the country. “It’s so good to see you!”
“And you,” Anderson replied with a brilliant smile. “I saw your articles about the Memphis Riot,” he revealed. “What’s happening there now?”
Matthew scowled. “I’m happy to tell you…once we get back to my hotel,” he added. “You may be used to feeling like a baked pig, but I need some shade.”
“You were always soft,” Anderson scoffed with a grin, but fell in beside him. “Where are we headed?”
“I’m staying at the St. Charles,” Matthew answered.
“The newspapers must be paying better,” Anderson replied with a raised brow.
Matthew grinned. “No, but my publishing editor seemed to think it important that I gain the true flavor of New Orleans while I am here.” The St. Charles was indeed the most luxurious hotel he had ever stayed in. The towering white building with stately columns made him feel he was walking into the nation’s Capitol building every time he entered. He had spent hours lounging in the opulent lobby and bar, listening to businessmen and politicians. They would probably be appalled at how much he had learned from eavesdropping on their conversations. He knew the first hotel had caught fire in 1851. The entire building had been destroyed, but miraculously there had been no fatalities among its 800 guests. It had been quickly rebuilt so it could continue its influence on the commerce and history of Louisiana.
