The Black God's Drums

by P. Djèlí Clark

  Free Coloured men tried to cheat the slaves soon after, hoping to put them back on the plantations. But when it looked like another uprising was brewing, they passed emancipation real quick. A council runs New Orleans today, made up of ex-slaves, mulattoes and white business folk. Brits, Frenchies, and Haitians patrol our harbors and skies to keep the peace. Confederates and the Union ain’t had a big tussle in fifteen years—not since the Armistice of Third Antietam. But if that war ever starts back up, New Orleans gonna find herself right in the middle of it again. Folk say that’s why we live every day chasing the good times. Because you never know when the bad might come.

  “Goad a’michty!” I look up to find a round splotchy-faced Scotsman in a milk-white suit pointing a thick forefinger at me. Two plump octoroons hang off his arms, with piled-up hair and red crescent moons on their cheeks, wearing nothing but frilly pink corsets and black striped stockings. “Lad’s too young to be here, d’ye think?” he protests to no one in particular.

  “Not a lad,” I mutter, pulling off my cap to reveal a thick halo of black hair and a nut-brown face.

  The Scotsman’s eyes widen then narrow hungrily. Rum and wine got his face as ruddy as his side whiskers. “Hou much for the wee one?” he asks aloud. I think he’s joking. Maybe. Oya don’t. There’s a rumbling thunder in my ear. She’s protective like that.

  “Too young for you, sir,” another voice puts in sternly. “And not for sale.”

  I turn to find a woman striding down a set of stairs towards us, her hand lightly trailing the wooden bannister. She’d be tall even without the evening heels, with black skin and hair turned a dark smoky gray. Her face is striking, as beautiful as a painting I once seen of the Queen of Sheba. She moves like she’s walking on water, the roomy skirts of her ruffled blue dress swishing about her legs in waves. In my head Oya’s anger settles, and she starts up another song about Yemoja—who tricked her from her throne under the sea.

  “Guid eenin Madame Diouf,” the Scotsman greets her, stumbling into a bow that almost topples him. “I meant no offense.”

  The proprietor of Shá Rouj blinks once before smiling. I’m always envious when I look into those black eyes, like what I imagine the deepest part of the sea must look like. Mine are murky as swamp water, a plain muddy brown.

  “No offense taken, sir,” she croons in her Afrikin accent. “Have you tried the special whiskey I’ve had shipped in? From a distillery in your native country. A place called Orkney? Compliments of the house for you, sir.” The Scotsman’s face lights up and he begins to babble on excitedly about having family from this Orkney, forgetting I’m even there. Madame Diouf listens politely, then at her nod the Scotsman is pulled away by his escorts, their hips swaying with loose flesh that seems to push him along between them. She promptly turns her attention to me, showing an appraising eye. “Little creeping vine. What brings you here tonight?”

  “It’s just Creeper, Madame Diouf,” I respond.

  The older woman grimaces. “Mondjé! I prefer the name your mother gave you, Jacqueline.” She runs her fingers through my unkempt hair and tugs at the too-big brown coat on my small frame. Oya scowls as deep as I do. We don’t like being fidgeted with. “This hair could use braiding! And what is all this? Where did you get those ridiculous trousers? Do you want to be mistaken for a boy?”

  I pull away, putting my cap back on and tucking my hair beneath. “On the streets, better people make that mistake.”

  Madame Diouf puts on a severe frown. Damn Afrikin. Even that’s beautiful. “You aren’t out there running with those Guildes, are you?” she asks. “Gangs of thieves and worse!”

  “I don’t have nothing to do with any Guildes,” I retort, somewhat offended. As if I’d take on dressing up like one of those clowns.

  Madame Diouf looks me over skeptically. Then that beautiful face softens. She leans down, smelling sweet like honey and jasmine. I get dizzy in the haze of her. “You have no need to stay on the street, Jacqueline,” she reminds. “Your mother was like my own daughter. Enough schools in the city to take you in.”

  “Tried that already,” I shoot back. “Those girls hold their noses around a ‘pitènn’s daughter.’”

  Madame Diouf stands up and lets out a string of curses in her mix of Creole and Afrikin talk. It’s impressive enough to raise my eyebrows. “What nerve!” she huffs. “Mothers just two steps out of chains and they’re putting on airs!” She pats my head again, then runs the back of her long fingers across my cheek. “Well, I’ll have one of the girls set up a bath for you. Have them braid your hair up at least, yes? Get some proper clothes on you too. And stay and take some food. To maig’ comme coucou! Put some fat on those bones!”

  By the time I’m led to a kitchen table in the back of the house, I been freshly soaped, scrubbed and washed, and had my hair tied down in thick braids. Kept my own clothes, though. No matter what Madame Diouf think, dresses don’t do me no good on the street. I settle down into a chair and busy myself licking grease off my fingers as I pull meat from a bit of fried pork. Oya’s disappointed there’s no hen. I stay away from the roast mutton, though, which the goddess abhors. Eat that and she’ll have me bringing it back up half the night.

  From where I sit I can see everything in the main room. I watch all the cavorting and carrying on as the women of Shá Rouj smile, wink, laugh, and wiggle every bit of money from their customers—who willingly hand it over. Whole lot of these men gonna have lighter pockets by the end of the night, if not plain empty. They may not know it, but as soon as they walked in here, they never had a chance. The group I’m expecting has to be coming here. Got it on good information they would. Just need to bide my time. My doubts are still nagging me when they finally push through the door. I sit up, squinting to make sure. No doubt about it. That’s them.

  The first one in is a trim dark-skinned man with long hair like a Choctaw. But he’s a Hindoo, I can tell, those other Indians from the Far East. More than a few of the women glance at his pretty face, and he flashes back a smile that makes even me blush. Didn’t even know men could have eyelashes that long. At his side is a tall broad black man with a shadowy beard peppered over with white and a serious-set face. The old-time blue military jacket with gold epaulets marks him as a Haitian; his countrymen in the room raise their drinks in salute and he answers with a deep nod, his stone face unchanging. Behind the men are two more figures: one is the biggest Chinaman I ever put eyes on, wearing a tall wide-brimmed tan cowboy hat, of all things, and a long matching frock coat; the other—she turns out to be exactly who I came all this way to see.

  The captain of the airship Midnight Robber is as tall as I remember—not so much as most men, but a good height. She wears snug-fitting tan britches on long lean legs, and the red and green jacket of a Free Isles flyer. Her coils of black hair are pulled back by metal clasps above a dark brown face with the kind of big eyes men like talking about. She scans around the place, one hand dropping to rest on a pistol at her waist. At a call from the Hindoo, she moves to join her group, walking with a slight limp. The other men in the room look her over, some curious, others admiring. Seems they uncertain if she’s up for sale too. But she ignores them, instead shouting for a drink and settling into a sofa. Some of Shá Rouj’s finest wares soon arrive, one of them squealing as she falls into the captain’s lap. A stab of jealousy from Oya startles me. I push it away, trying to focus.

  Now what? The information I got is something I’m certain this group will be keen on. And I have it in my mind to make a trade. But not like this. Too many eyes here. I glance to the Confederates. Seems they noticed the captain too. And they’re doing a bad job at not staring. Definitely too many eyes. No, I’ll have to wait to get her alone. I settle back, finishing my meal and trying to be patient.

  I blink awake. Images of me in a burgundy dress dancing with a machete in the middle of a thunderstorm melt away with my dream. I’m thankful at least it’s not about giant skulls in the sky. I curse beneath my breath, thou
gh, blaming Madame Diouf a little, and myself more, for dozing off. A hot bath and a full stomach? What was I thinking! Thankfully, I look around to find the crew of the Midnight Robber just where I’d left them. The Hindoo is standing on a table, drunk off his ass and reciting something like he’s a theatre actor. The women around him clap while the Jack Tars roar in approval. But damn my luck, the captain’s gone! I search the room. Could she have returned to her airship? No, not by herself. Remembering the woman in her lap, my gaze moves to an upper floor. Of course.

  I push away from the table and walk through the kitchen to the back door. Heading outside, I make a half-circle around Shá Rouj ’til I find a good spot on the railing to pull myself up. My nickname on the streets is Creeper, and for good reason. Just like ma maman in the sweet gum tree, I’m a damn good climber. Got people to saying I remind them of one of those creeping vines that make their way up the side of buildings. Tonight, my nickname does me well. Didn’t want to take the stairs right there in the open. No one’s watching out here, though.

  Reaching the second floor I hoist myself onto a balcony and peek inside a window. Some bodies moving in the shadows make Oya titter. Not the right ones, though. Takes about three more bits of peeping ’til I find my captain. She’s lying facedown on a bed, her back rising slightly with her snores. Movement makes me pull away quick. A second woman is getting up from the bed. She walks to bend over a white porcelain basin on a dresser and spends some time washing before slipping her meager clothing back on. After deftly lacing up a frilly corset in a mirror, she stops to lay a kiss on the captain’s bare shoulder before leaving.

  Now’s my chance. Pulling open the shutters I lift the window and ease myself into the dark room, taking care not to get my coat caught on anything. When my shoes touch the floorboards there’s a creak that makes me wince, but I gingerly begin to make my way over. My mind races, trying to think of the best way to wake the sleeping woman I’ve gone through all this trouble to see. She solves my dilemma for me.

  “Don’t take another blasted step,” a singsong Free Isles accent warns. The captain rises up from the bed and I find myself staring down the skinny barrel of a gold-plated pistol. I can’t help admiring the gilded handiwork—Free Isles issue. She reaches up to turn a handle on the wall, pumping gas into a pair of hanging lamps. We both squint at the brilliance.

  “What the ass?” she asks in surprise. “I thinking you is a bandit or a jumbie, but you just a boy?”

  “Girl,” I correct, tilting my head to let the light take in my face: baby cheeks, small mouth, round lips and all.

  “Girl, then,” the captain repeats, unfazed. She doesn’t even stop to button up her corset. Her large eyes look me up and down, passing judgment. And she hasn’t put the gun away. “Somebody hire you to come here and steal from me nah? Put a knife in me neck?”

  I shake my head. That odd bit of jealousy comes again from Oya. But there’s a strange familiarity too. “Here to see you,” I tell her. “I got information. Information to trade.”

  She frowns like she don’t believe. “What you have to trade with me?”

  I hesitate. I’d seen this discussion going different, certainly not under gunpoint. Figure now ain’t the time to play coy. “The Black God’s Drums,” I blurt out.

  That gets her interest, for sure. Slowly, the captain lowers her pistol, her face flat and unreadable. Refastening the buttons on her corset, she grabs a white shirt from the brass bedpost and begins slipping it on. “Talk,” she orders. “Now.” Her voice is alert, with a tone that says she’s not having any nonsense. So, I talk.

  “I like to sleep up on one of Les Grand Murs,” I begin. “There are alcoves there no one checks, where I can see airships come in everyday. I like watching the people—”

  “Good place for a thief to mark she victims,” the captain cuts in wryly.

  Well yes, I think, but that’s beside the point. And rather rude to point out. “Saw you and your crew get off this morning,” I continue. “Two nights back though, saw something else—a Confederate airship.”

  The captain shrugs. “New Orleans open to them jackass like everybody else.”

  “It’s who’s waiting for them,” I explain. “A Cajun with white hair. He brings the Confederates down to my alcove. If I hadn’t been tucked into my corner they’d have seen me. But they don’t. And I listen to them talk. Confederates say they’re here to get the Black God’s Drums. Cajun says there’s a Haitian scientist willing to exchange it for something.”

  The captain’s brow furrows. “Exchange for what? Money?”

  I shake my head. “Not money. They were talking about a jewel.”

  The captain goes quiet for a while. Her eyes are set on me but I can tell her mind is elsewhere. When she finally speaks, it’s a question. “You know what that is—the Black God’s Drums?”

  I nod. I’d put it together plenty quick as soon as I heard it.

  “Shango’s Thunder,” I answer. In my head, Oya dances at hearing her husband’s name.

  I used to ask ma maman to tell me the story over and over again, about how Haiti had gotten free. She would talk about the mulatto inventor Duconge, who was raised up in France but returned to the island where his mother was born as a slave and offered his inventions to the black generals of the uprising. When Napoleon’s armada came to take back the island they saw dozens of cannons on the highest hills, all shooting into the air. The Frenchies laughed, thinking the blacks couldn’t aim. They stopped laughing though when the sky turned dark as night, and a storm came that wiped them from the sea. Like the hand of an angry god, ma maman would say.

  “In Haiti, the weapon is named for other gods of storms—like Hevioso from Dahomey and Nsasi of Kongo,” the captain relates. “But in Trinidad we name it for Shango, the Yoruba orisha of thunder. Name seem to catch on.”

  Oya grumbles with indignation across my thoughts: something about haughty Dahomey and upstart Kongo gods. Wasn’t just them or Shango. She was there too, dancing in the whirlwind, dashing those Frenchie ships to bits and sending thousands of men to lay with Yemoja beneath the sea. Them Frenchies still down there with her mother now, she says, their bones and spirits held close.

  “Only a few know its secret code name,” the captain goes on. “‘The Black God’s Drums.’”

  “Well, that scientist is going to give your secret weapon to some Rebs,” I say.

  Her face goes grim. “That’s no good,” she murmurs. “That’s no good for nobody.”

  That last part I already know. Anything that helps those Rebs is bad trouble. I was born after the Armistice of Third Antietam, when the Union and Confederates, all battered up and starving from eight years of war, had called a truce. Might have been good for the white folk, but it doomed those blacks what hadn’t made it to the Union. I’ve seen the tintype photographs from inside the Confederacy. Shadowy pictures of fields and factories filled with laboring dark bodies, their faces almost all covered up in big black gas masks, breathing in that drapeto vapor. It make it so the slaves don’t want to fight no more, don’t want to do much of nothing. Just work. Thinking about their faces, so blank and empty, makes me go cold inside.

  “So what you want trade with me for this, lickle gal?” the captain asks.

  I frown. Who’s she calling lickle? No longer under the gun, I move to sit in a chair and lean back—trying to look casual and at ease. “I want to go with you when you leave,” I say.

  That makes her eyebrows rise. “Go with me? Go where?”

  “On your airship, the Midnight Robber. I want to be crew.”

  She screws up her face, looking at me as if I’ve jumped out my skin and done a bloody jig around the room—then laughs. The sound makes me bristle. “What I want with a lickle gal on me ship?” She gives a brief, sharp suck of her teeth. “You think I want pickney to mind?”

  “I don’t need minding,” I snap, my temper getting the better of me. Oya disagrees, whispering a lullaby. I push it away.

 
The captain leans forward, pinning me with her gaze. Those large eyes are as dark as Madame Diouf’s. “You ever been on an airship?” she asks gruffly. “Know one end of it from the other?”

  That wasn’t fair. “I learn fast!” I counter.

  The captain shakes her head, pursing her lips and this time sucking her teeth for a long while—the way old Creole women and Madame Diouf do. “What schupidness is this? Girl like you should be in school, learning your maths and letters, not gallivanting about on some airship! What your mother and father would say?”

  “Nothing,” I retort, biting each of my words so they’re forced out. “They’re dead.” This sends her quiet. “Papa died in one of the tempêtes noires.” You took him, Oya, I accuse. The goddess don’t deny it. Just keeps humming. “I never knew him. The yellow fever took ma maman three years back.”

  The captain searches my face for truth and decides she’s found it. “I sorry for that,” she says at last. “Still—”

  “You knew her,” I break in. I take off my cap and step further into the light. “Ma maman. She used to work here, for Madame Diouf. And the two of you . . .” No need to say the rest.

  The captain looks puzzled for a moment. But when she sees my face fully those already large eyes go even bigger.

  “Rose,” she whispers, speaking my mother’s name. She stares, as if only now truly seeing me for the first time. “That same little nose and small eyes! Oh gosh, you Rose’s daughter!” Then, more subdued, “I didn’t know she had a child.”