Through the Storm
Unknown
(2012)
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THROUGH THE STORM
BEVERLY JENKINS
This book is dedicated to Christine Zika—
remember to allow yourself joy.
And to Alex—because he is always there.
Now rally, Black Republicans
Wherever you may be
Brave soldiers on the battle-field
And sailors on the sea.
Now rally, Black Republicans—
Aye rally! We are free!
We’ve waited long long
To sing the song—
The song of liberty.
“The Song of the Black Republicans”
The Black Republican, New Orleans
April 29, 1865
Contents
Epigraph
Chapter 1
When house slave Sable Fontaine was growing up in the…
Chapter 2
Staying off the road, Sable used the trees and thick…
Chapter 3
Major Raimond LeVeq put down his pen and stretched wearily.
Chapter 4
Mrs. Reese and the other laundresses greeted Sable’s return warmly.
Chapter 5
As she entered the tent, Sable heard, “You’re back awfully…
Chapter 6
After the yard cleared and Borden stormed away, Sable walked…
Chapter 7
“How many more?” Raimond asked Andre as he scribbled his…
Chapter 8
Sable looked out at the gray March day and yearned…
Chapter 9
By week’s end, Sable had disposed of the last of…
Chapter 10
The next morning, Sable awakened still close to Raimond’s side.
Chapter 11
That evening, Drake and Beau came to dine with Juliana…
Chapter 12
Riding home in a hack they had hailed outside Archer’s…
Chapter 13
Like everyone else, Sable was stunned by Circular 15. Obviously…
Chapter 14
Louisiana’s long-anticipated Radical Convention convened two days later. Raimond had…
Chapter 15
They spent the remainder of their holiday in a beautiful…
Chapter 16
Sable and her children had been in Paradise for over…
Author’s Note
About the Author
Other Books by Beverly Jenkins
Copyright
About the Publisher
Epigraph
Now rally, Black Republicans
Wherever you may be
Brave soldiers on the battle-field
And sailors on the sea.
Now rally, Black Republicans—
Aye rally! We are free!
We’ve waited long long
To sing the song—
The song of liberty.
“The Song of the Black Republicans”
The Black Republican, New Orleans
April 29, 1865
Chapter 1
Georgia, 1864
When house slave Sable Fontaine was growing up in the mansion that was her home, it had taken fifteen male slaves to care for the rolling green lawns surrounding the estate. Under the watchful eye of the head gardener, an equal number of young slaves had trimmed the trees and sculpted the shrubs. They’d planted lush, fragrant flowers every spring, adding color and beauty to the genteel, pastoral surroundings, and every year the sprawling white house had been freshly painted so that its stately columns anchoring the wide front porch stood like monuments gleaming in the Georgia sun.
Now the Fontaine lawns and gardens were overgrown with weeds. No one had trimmed the shrubs or trees in three seasons, and the lush flowers hadn’t been planted for years. The house hadn’t been painted either, and it gleamed no more. Because of Mr. Lincoln’s war, no slaves could be spared to perform such inconsequential tasks. Everyone was too bent upon survival.
When the conflict began, no one imagined the war would drag on for years or that families in the South would be reduced to living no better than their slaves. The thought that there would be food riots in Charleston and Mobile, or that the Southern way of life would be destroyed, had been unthinkable. The South’s sons and fathers rode off to war in 1861 filled with the pride and arrogance of their class. It was now 1864, and the prideful and the arrogant were deserting in staggering numbers, weary of fighting, starving, and dying. Adding to the turmoil were huge numbers of escaping slaves—men, women, and children who weren’t waiting for the yoke of enslavement to be officially lifted. They were slipping away all over the south, many attaching themselves to the advancing Union troops. Sable’s great-aunt Mahti said you could smell freedom in the air.
For Sable, though, the long anticipated, sweet scent of freedom had become fouled. Even as the marauding Yankees marched deeper and deeper into the heartland, tearing up the railroads and forcing families to flee, the buying and selling of slaves continued. Yesterday, she’d been sold too.
Some would say a twenty-nine year old female slave should be flattered to fetch the comely sum of eight hundred dollars, especially with war on, but Sable felt no such pride. The buyer, a man named Henry Morse, would not treat her well.
Sable’s mistress, Sally Ann Fontaine, had announced the sale at supper last evening. Sable had stared at her in disbelief. Her anger flared as she held Sally’s triumphant eyes, but Sable knew her feelings would make no difference. In the end only numbness remained, a numbness that gripped her still.
Now, watching the sun set, Sable stood on the wide front porch contemplating her future. She felt someone step out onto the porch behind her and knew without turning that it was Mavis.
“How are you, little sister?” Mavis asked softly.
In spite of Sable’s mood, the salutation made her smile. The half-sisters had been born less than six minutes apart and Mavis never let Sable forget who’d drawn breath first. Sable’s love for her knew no bounds, but contemplating Mavis’s query made the numbness return. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. How about you?”
Sable turned and peered into the face that in many ways mirrored her own. Mavis’s brown eyes were redrimmed and swollen as she confessed, “I can’t stop crying.”
Sable turned away. She ached too but knew tears were a waste of time; they would not alter her fate.
Mavis announced bitterly, “I told Mama I’ll never speak to her again if she goes through with the sale, but she won’t change her mind.”
Sable didn’t expect Sally Ann to relent. The mistress of the household had never hidden her dislike for Sable, mostly because of what the bronze-skinned, green-eyed Sable represented. Sable’s mother, a slave woman named Azelia, had given birth to Sable six minutes after Sally Ann gave birth to Mavis. Both baby girls had been fathered by Sally Ann’s husband, Carson Fontaine, just as he’d fathered Sable’s older brother Rhine and Mavis’s brother Andrew, two years earlier.
Mavis interrupted Sable’s thoughts. “I’ll help however I can.”
Sable knew she would. Though society forced the two women to walk in different worlds—making one mistress and the other slave—they’d shared everything all their lives. When Mavis had lost her beloved husband, Sanford, six months into the war, Sable had held her while she cried.
Mavis stepped around to look into Sable’s eyes, “I know you’re thinking of running, but there must be another way. The roads aren’t safe.”
“Safer than having Henry Morse as a master?” Sable retorted.
Rumors surrounding Morse’s treatment of his female slaves linked him to at least
two mysterious deaths that had taken place last year. The local constabulary had eventually charged a young male slave on a neighboring plantation with the killings, but most people, Black and White, questioned the validity of the official findings. The slave had been hanged as punishment, in spite of protestations from his owner, who’d loudly proclaimed his man’s innocence.
Mavis spoke again. “Well, if you do decide to run, don’t worry. I’ll make certain Mahti’s cared for.”
In spite of Mavis’s assurances Sable did worry. Since receiving Sally Ann’s news, the fate of Sable’s great-aunt had been weighing heavily on Sable’s already over-burdened shoulders.
Mahti had been captured by European slavers and brought to America at the tender age of eight. Now, over sixty years later, she appeared destined to die without ever seeing her homeland again. She’d been ill for some time and although Sable knew Mavis would do everything in her power to make Mahti comfortable until the end, Sable could not leave her; it would break her heart. Were Sable’s brother Rhine there, maybe the two of them could concoct a plan to secure Mahti’s safety, but two years ago Rhine had gone to war to serve as personal valet to Andrew, Mavis’s older brother. No one had heard a word from either man since then.
So Mahti’s future remained unsettled. Sable didn’t want her aunt to die without a final farewell caress from Sable’s hand to ease the passage home. Six weeks ago, she’d been given a chance to escape with the Fontaine’s head butler and driver, Otis, but she’d declined because of Mahti’s health. Otis had forged himself a pass, “borrowed” the last working carriage the Fontaines owned, and driven himself to freedom. With him he’d taken his wife Opal, who’d been the Fontaines’ cook and head housekeeper for over thirty years, and their fifteen-year-old daughter Ophelia, the kitchen maid. Sally Ann had thrown a fit upon finding them gone, but Sable had smiled inwardly, hoping they’d reached freedom safely.
Sable had been a slave all her life and dearly wanted to be free, but she wouldn’t leave unless she could take her aunt too.
Sable’s face took on a distinct show of dislike as Henry Morse’s fancy black carriage drew up in front of the house. As he got out and headed up the long winding walk toward the porch, Mavis drawled brittlely, “Two years ago, trash like him wouldn’t’ve had the gall to call at the front door.”
Sable agreed. Like Black women all over the South, the Fontaines’ housekeeper Opal had set very high standards of etiquette for family and visitors alike. A man of Morse’s pedigree and reputation would never have set foot in her parlor. He’d have been received at the back door or not at all. Times were different now. With everyone in the South, Black and White, starving and clad in rags, the prewar caste system had been turned upside down. While the scions of the first families were on the front lines fighting and dying to preserve their way of life, back home men of questionable motives and character were forming a new class of Southern aristocracy. If the rumors were true, Morse had made a fortune over the past few years by buying up the property and slaves of planters who chose to flee the South in advance of the Yankees. Families who’d once shunned him because of his dirt-poor beginnings were now inviting him into their homes, in case they needed to make similar deals.
By the time Morse reached the porch, Sable had schooled her features into the blank mask behind which she’d been hiding her emotions since she’d become aware of her true station in life at the age of twelve.
He tipped his expensive hat politely as he stepped onto the porch. “Evenin’, Miss Mavis. Sable.”
Mavis nodded curtly and went back inside.
In spite of Henry Morse’s evil nature, he was a handsome, middle-aged man. Tall, with jet-black hair and matching black eyes, he had a charm that could melt even the iciest belle. For the past few years, desperate war widows had been tossing themselves at him like corn to a rooster.
When Sable didn’t acknowledge his greeting, he asked her with a grin, “Cat got your tongue, green eyes?”
She hated his pet name for her. Coolly, she asked, “Is Mrs. Fontaine expecting you?”
He ignored her question and reached out to stroke her cheek. She stepped away. She hated his touch.
He drawled, “You’d think you were a queen the way you act toward me, Sable. Even with all that education, you’re still a slave, you know.”
“And with all your money, you are still trash, Mr. Morse.” She swept past him. “I will tell Mrs. Fontaine you are here.”
“Hold on a minute, gal.”
She stopped and turned slowly back.
A low rumble of malevolence entered his voice as he warned her softly, “You’re going to be mine real soon, you royal bitch. We’ll see how uppity you are then.”
She held his cold eyes with her equally frosty green ones before continuing into the house.
After Otis and Opal’s escape, the role of butler had fallen upon Sable’s shoulders. Because she also did the bulk of the washing, cleaning, cooking, and whatever else Sally Ann needed, the days seemed endless. Otis and Opal weren’t the only ones who’d gone. Of the three hundred slaves Carson Fontaine had owned prior to the war, fewer than fifty remained. All but a handful were children and oldsters. According to the whispers in the quarters, most of the runaways were attaching themselves to the advancing Yankee army. There were said to be thousands of Blacks seeking freedom and safety with Lincoln’s troops.
As Sable wound her way through the big house to find Sally Ann and announce Morse’s arrival, her footsteps echoed eerily. In the old days, the place had bustled with life, but now the silence was ever present.
Sable found her mistress in the kitchen yelling at the poor young girl, Cindi, who’d taken over Ophelia’s duties. At Cindi’s feet lay the shattered remains of one of Sally Ann’s wedding plates. In her eyes were tears.
Sable interrupted the tirade. “Mrs. Fontaine.”
The furious mistress whirled on Sable. “What?!”
Sable’s face remained impassive. “Henry Morse is here to see you.”
The lady of the house turned her angry brown eyes on the girl once more and threatened, “I’ll deal with you later,” then ordered, “Sable, get this mess cleaned up.”
She sailed out.
As soon as they were alone, Sable looked across the kitchen at the distraught child and held out her arms. Cindi ran to Sable and burrowed into her arms. “I didn’t mean to break it, Sable,” she sobbed.
“I know, I know. She’s a mean old bat, isn’t she?”
Cindi nodded vigorously against Sable’s waist.
Sable spent a few moments stroking her small head, then said, “Maybe when the Yankees come, they’ll eat her.”
Cindi looked up, smiling.
Sable smiled down in reply before adding, “You go on back to your nana. I’ll clean up here.”
After the youngster’s exit, Sable swept up the shards and deposited them in the waste bin out back. When she came back inside, Mavis was finishing up the dishes. As had befitted the women of her class, Mavis had never been allowed in the kitchen during the years before the war, but times had changed. Now Mavis helped with many of the chores and housework, while Sally Ann—or Silly Ann as she’d been dubbed by the old slaves—spent her time bemoaning the lack of a qualified dressmaker and anything to eat except collards and yams.
When Sable picked up a towel to help Mavis, her sister said in a conspiratorial whisper, “No, I’ll do this. Mama and Morse are out on the porch. Go.”
Sable tossed the towel aside and slipped back outside. She had to hear what they were saying. Moving carefully and quietly so she wouldn’t be detected over the sounds of early evening, she skirted the side of the house until she reached the porch.
When the Fontaine mansion had been expanded fifteen years ago, the slaves who had done the work had purposefully left enough crawlspace beneath the porch to allow a person to hide there and listen to what was being said above. Since masters rarely informed their slaves as to the daily goings-on in the world,
the enslaved populations were forced to glean information in any way they could. Since slavery’s inception, spying had been a tried and true method.
Sable hiked up her ragged dress and scooted on all fours under the porch. Plant debris and damp earth covered her palms and knees but she paid them scant attention. Sally Ann escorted her guests out on the porch with such regularity that in the old days, the house slaves had ensured someone would be stationed at this listening post every evening.
Sable settled into position. She forced herself not to speculate on the snakes and other vermin that might be living nearby in the darkness, and hoped she wouldn’t have to wait long. Thankfully she didn’t. A pair of footsteps sounded from above, and as they came closer, she heard Sally Ann asking, “Now that we’ve come to closure on the contract, when will I receive the funds for Sable’s sale?”
“In about a month,” Morse replied.
“That long?” Sally sounded angry as she snapped, “You said it would be no more than a week.”
“War’s on, Mrs. Fontaine. Financial transactions are getting harder and harder to execute.”
Sally Ann had never been a patient woman and Sable could well imagine the sharp set of her hawklike features as she confessed, “The only reason I’m so anxious is because Carson is eager to leave.”
Carson and Sally Ann had been married over thirty years. On the morning he’d left for the war, he’d assembled his slaves and family members to hear his last words. Mounted on his finest stallion and dressed in the trim gray uniform of the Confederacy, he’d jubilantly promised to be back in a few weeks, boasting it wouldn’t take long to whip the North.
The boast had proven hollow. The weeks had lengthened into years. He’d returned eight months ago, one leg blown off by a Union shell. It was his deteriorating health that necessitated Sable’s sale, or so Sally had claimed last evening. She’d heard about a clinic in New York that performed miracles on war-injured men, and she was determined to take him there.
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