The common day dress, made of black and white checked gingham, was neither fashionable nor elegant, but it fit, as did the rough muslin drawers. Sable made a point of securing Mahti’s bracelet to the strings of her drawers before pushing her bare feet into her worn slippers. Shoes were going to be a real need very soon. She doubted these would hold together much longer.
Mrs. Reese ushered Sable into her tent to finish acquainting her with her duties. “I’ll pay you ten cents a day. The days you don’t work, you don’t get paid. Some of the girls have regular laundry customers, so make sure you don’t horn in on somebody else’s territory.”
Sable nodded her understanding, then asked, “What about meals?”
“You can eat the army rations like everyone else here and take your chances with the salt horse or the lobcourse—”
“Salt horse?”
“It’s army beef so full of salt you have to soak it in water for hours before you can eat it. Most times though, after it’s soaked, you find it’s so rancid you can’t get near enough to eat it for the smell.”
Sable’s nose wrinkled. “What’s lobcourse?”
“Soup. Made out of salt pork, hardtack, and anything else the army cooks can find to throw in the pot.”
“Neither sounds very appetizing.”
“They’re not. I can cook for you if you’d like, but in exchange, I take twenty cents a week out of your pay. On Sundays you’re on own. My food isn’t fancy, but you won’t starve like some folks here.”
Since Sable was in no position to quibble, she agreed.
Chapter 3
Major Raimond LeVeq put down his pen and stretched wearily. He’d been doing paperwork for most of the day and was tired. Because no one in the local Union command had the time, or in some cases the desire, to deal with the ever increasing numbers of contrabands arriving daily, it had been left to him. He was in charge of what the army had loosely dubbed contraband liaison. General Benjamin Butler had recommended him for the post, and he now reported to Colonel John Eaton, tapped by Grant in 1862 to be superintendent of contraband for the Mississippi Valley.
Raimond had joined the fight as a member of the famed First Louisiana Native Guard, whose ranks were successors of the highly decorated regiment of free Blacks who had helped Andrew Jackson repel the British during the War of 1812. He’d been transferred to this Georgia camp less than a month ago. Helping contrabands bridge the transition to freedom had not been his reason for going to war, but he knew conditions here would be infinitely worse were he not present to help manage the chaos.
Raimond’s aide, Andre Renaud, knocked on the partially open door. “May I come in?”
“If I say no, will you go away?”
“Probably not,” the younger man admitted with a smile.
Raimond beckoned him to enter. Andre did, followed by a disgruntled-looking soldier.
Andre made the introductions. “Major, this is Private Dawson Marks. He beat up the sutler.”
“Congratulations, soldier. I only wish I’d been there to lend my boot to him too.”
Sutlers were one-man general stores, appointed by the government and contracted one to a regiment to sell supplies to the troops. Most were greedy bastards who took full advantage of their monopoly by selling necessities at prices far above the standard. Charlie Handler, the sutler there, sold butter for the outrageous price of one dollar a pound, and Mr. Borden’s condensed milk for seventy-five cents a can. Only the six-for-a-quarter molasses cookies, a favorite of the Union troops, were reasonably affordable.
Raimond told the soldier, “Private Marks, in spite of how we all feel about the sutler, I have to put you on report.”
“But he cheated me.”
“Son, he cheats everyone. How much does he owe you?”
“Sixty cents.”
“I’ll see it’s returned to you before the end of the day. In the meantime, you’re assigned to stable-cleaning detail for the next two days. Dismissed.”
The soldier saluted and left.
“Anyone else out there?” Raimond asked.
Andre nodded. “Reverend Peep.”
Peep was a representative from one of the missionary societies that had been coordinating donations from the churches up North.
“Bring him in.”
The Reverend Josiah Peep’s kind heart was as large as his massive girth. Born in Virginia to a slave-owning family, he’d turned his back on that way of life and now devoted himself to his church and to helping the refugees. He entered carrying a large crate on his huge shoulder. “Afternoon, Major.”
“Afternoon, Reverend. What can I do for you?”
“If you can stop these fool people from sending us worthless goods, I will put your name in my will.”
He dumped the crate to the ground. It burst open and hammers spilled out onto the floor. “They sent us these this time around, Major. Last month it was horse bridles.”
Raimond sighed tiredly. Hammers and horse bridles were certainly useful, but you couldn’t sleep under them, nor could you feed them to hungry children.
“Tell your generals we need blankets and food,” Peep demanded as he exited the office.
Raimond looked to Andre. “Anyone else?”
Andre shook his head.
“Good.”
After Andre’s departure, Raimond looked down at the hammers in the crate. He faced a dilemma shared by contraband camp commanders all over the South—too many people and not enough supplies. While some of the earlier camps established had been closed and their refugee populations moved to confiscated land, the numbers of confiscated and runaway slaves in many of the camps had climbed to critical levels. Where there had been only four hundred camped outside Washington in 1861, there were ten thousand a year later; an additional three thousand were camped across the river in Alexandria. Conditions ranged from tolerable to awful. Diseases such as diphtheria, typhoid, and measles found fertile ground among the weak and starving. Relief agencies run by both Blacks and Whites had stepped in to raise money and to distribute clothing, blankets and other goods, but there was never enough to go around. How the politicians planned to deal with the masses of former slaves when and if the war ended had not been clearly explained, but the size of the problem increased daily and Raimond did not believe it would simply solve itself.
He rubbed his weary eyes. He’d gotten no sleep last night, but his job didn’t care. Every day the mountain of paperwork and problems grew higher, and the lines of new contrabands lengthened. Many had been following Sherman and his men for months and would probably continue to do so until the war ended, but the numbers of new arrivals were unprecedented.
He went over to the window and looked out. Below him were refugees lined up for processing. They’d been arriving twenty-four hours a day since the fall of Atlanta. There were men, women, grandparents, and babies. There were orphans, widows, and women of questionable character. Some had been brought in by troops and gunboats; others had simply walked in. To slaves all over the South, Mr. Lincoln’s troops meant freedom, and contrary to the naysayers in the press and in Washington, Raimond knew that a majority of the freedmen were more than capable of successfully managing their own lives—if given the means and opportunity to do so.
From his own dealings here he knew that most of the contraband men were eager to work. They’d been hired by the army as teamsters, construction workers, and earth movers; some had even opted to don the Union blue and join one of the all Black regiments to help win the war. Every refugee in camp had come for freedom. Raimond shared their pride, but he was a man of action and adventure. He wasn’t looking forward to spending many more days filling out papers and negotiating the complex army bureaucracy.
Black and White soldiers were being mustered here too. Many of the freedmen were choosing to wear the Union blue, but others were being forced by the army command to join the fight. They were being drilled, taught tactics, then sent off to war. Because slave owners forbade Blacks to handle fir
earms, most of the freedmen soldiers were hopeless on the firing range. They knew nothing about sights or triggers or the difference between a sixteen shot Henry and a musket. Some of the commanders were tolerant and patient, or as patient as men could be knowing that their green troops could be thrown into the fight at any time. Other officers, those with no patience and even less experience, tried to whip the recruits into shape with bullying and insults. When their soldiers proved unprepared for battle, the officers blamed the new Black soldiers rather than their own incompetence. Prejudice and incompetence tended to play havoc with Raimond’s temper, so he made a point of staying away from the drill grounds as much as possible when such commanders were on site.
He hadn’t had many problems with prejudice here lately, although that wasn’t always the case. Many of the White soldiers had made it clear they were fighting for the Union and fourteeen dollars a day—not to free slaves. Raimond did not like the attitude, but tolerated it as long as the men were not disrespectful to his face, didn’t countermand his orders or refuse to carry them out. Those who did were put in their place no matter what their rank. Raimond was a major in the U.S. Army, perhaps the only Black major outside the state of Louisiana. His grandfather and the other members of the Louisiana Native Guard, or the Corps’d’ Afrique as they liked to call themselves, had saved Andrew Jackson at Chalmette during the 1812 war. Having been free all his life, and well educated, Raimond did not have the temperament to suffer quietly the slings and arrows of White soldiers who couldn’t even read their own names.
Sable worked from sunup to sundown washing the clothes of soldiers, campers, and the garishly painted whores who made their living following the soldiers from post to post. It was bone-aching work. Even though it was nearing the end of September, the days were still hot enough to make standing over a boiling vat filled with lye, water, and laundry seem like a trip into perdition. The first night, her arms ached so badly from the strain of lifting her weight in wet laundry, she could barely raise her arms to feed herself. She was so stiff the next morning, she could hardly move. Her hands were red and chapped from the harsh soap, and she knew they would only get worse, but she did not complain; for the first time in her life she was earning a wage. Her success in this new, free world rested in her own lye-reddened hands. She’d promised Araminta she wouldn’t squander her freedom, and she intended to keep that pledge. The sacrifices made by Mahti and the Old Queens also meant much to Sable, and she couldn’t think of a better way to honor them than by working diligently and making her life count—as long as the work didn’t kill her first.
She felt lucky to have a job. As the soldier who’d processed her had hinted, there were few opportunities for women here, and women with small children had even less choice. Only a few were lucky enough to find someone who’d watch over their offspring while they hired themselves out to the army or to the locals as laundresses, cooks, or seamstresses. Most were relegated to monotonous, uneventful days of waiting for their men to return.
None of the other women in Mrs. Reese’s employ had offered Sable a hand in friendship, so during the day she kept pretty much to herself. At night, she lay on her threadbare pallet and remembered those she’d left behind. She wondered about Vashti and little Cindi, and most of all she wondered about her sister, Mavis. Would they ever see each other again? Sable missed her very much. Mahti too.
On the fifth morning in camp, Sable saw Major LeVeq approaching the laundry area with a bundle of clothes in his arms. Their paths hadn’t crossed since the day she’d arrived. Seeing him now made her remember the teasing banter they’d shared and the sensation of falling asleep in his arms. His handsomeness hadn’t diminished a bit—he was still tall, bearded, and dazzling.
He approached the laundress named Sookie, who looked as if she was going to swoon as he handed her his bundle. Sable wondered if it was considered an honor to do his laundry. The cow-eyed woman apparently thought so. Shaking her head at the silliness of some of her gender, Sable resumed stirring her vat of clothes.
The work took a great deal of effort. To move the long length of wood around in the clothes-choked vat took more strength than she’d initially guessed. She still found it nearly impossible to move all of the clothes from the washing vat to the rinsing vat in one load, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Sable forced the long piece of wood deep into the boiling water and lifted as much of the load as she could. Her arm muscles bulging, she’d almost cleared the lip to complete the transfer when a familiar, accented voice behind her asked, “What in the world are you doing here?”
Raimond LeVeq’s unexpected presence broke Sable’s concentration, and the clothes fell back into the vat, sending up a small shower of scalding water.
Sable jumped out of harm’s way, irritation on her face. “This is where I’ve been assigned.”
Raimond stared at her ill-fitting dress and mud-caked shoes and said, “You would be more useful clerking.”
“I’m fine here, Major.”
She wasn’t really, but she wanted no special treatment. Many of the single women had become whores in order to keep themselves afloat. Just this morning, she’d overheard the other laundresses talking about certain White officers who had harems of dark beauties at their beck and call. Sable did not want to make herself beholden to the major for any help he might throw her way.
To Raimond Sable was even more beautiful than the night they’d first met. Her mysterious eyes were as green as the sea. A sea-faring man, he’d sailed all over the world, and everything about her called to him like the bewitching song of a siren. In spite of her obvious mixed-race parentage, her rich dark hair knotted at her nape bore the wave and thickness of its African ancestry. One could also see her tribal roots in her proud nose and lush mouth. “You clean up well,” he remarked.
“I’m glad you approve,” she said, not missing the daggers being shot her way by the other women. She didn’t want to draw their wrath. “I need to get back to work.”
“Would you dine with me this evening?”
Sable looked up in surprise. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not here to be your dessert at the end of the day.”
He chuckled. Although he found the wording of her refusal novel, he enjoyed the idea of her as a dessert. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She resumed stirring. “Now leave me before you get me in trouble with Mrs. Reese.”
“As you wish, but I won’t stop asking,” he promised with glowing eyes.
“Go,” she commanded, trying to hide her smile.
He bowed gracefully and departed.
As Raimond made his way back across camp, he smiled at the thought of the lovely Miss Fontaine. She had a spice and sass that seemed to breathe excitement back into his soul. The war, the refugees, and the untimely death of his brother Gerrold had stifled his usually exuberant approach to life. He’d seen more death than he cared to remember and more despair than the world should be able to hold. Men were dying, the country was torn apart, and his mother in New Orleans was having to sell her possessions piece by piece in order to eat. Over the past few weeks, he’d thought the sun would never shine inside him again, but Sable’s presence seemed to be changing that. Yes, he’d had a few discreet liaisons during his time here, but they’d never been more than a mutual satisfaction of need. Sable Fontaine made his blood rise. The challenge of getting to know her better and maybe wooing her into his bed made him feel alive again.
That evening as Sable and the other women sat eating dinner outside Mrs. Reese’s tent, Sookie, the young woman who’d been given the major’s clothes to launder that morning, asked, “What did he say to you?”
Since Sable had never been included in the women’s conversations before, it took her a moment to realize the question had been directed her way, and that Sookie was referring to the major. She shrugged. “Nothing.” She went back to the beans on her plate, hoping that would be the
end of it, but of course it was not.
Paige, Sookie’s friend, added coolly, “He was down there an awful long time to be saying nothing.”
In the silence that followed, Sable could see they wouldn’t turn the topic loose until she’d answered, so she told them the truth. “He asked me to dine with him.”
“See, I knew she was down there flirting,” Sookie snapped. “So when are you going?”
Sable wiped her plate with the last of her stale bread. “I’m not.”
They stared at her as if she’d just sprouted wings.
Bridget, who’d been quiet until then, asked, “You’re joshing, right?”
Sable shook her head. “No.”
“Can’t you see how handsome he is?” Sookie questioned.
“Do you know how rich he is?” Paige put in.
Sable answered truthfully, “I don’t care.”
It was obviously not the answer the women had been expecting. Their stunned faces made her smile.
Bridget cracked, “There isn’t a female in this camp who tells him no.”
“Then I’ll be good for him. No man should have everything he desires.”
When several of the women shook their heads at her response she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“You’re just not who we expected,” Sookie confessed.
“What did you expect?”
“Someone who couldn’t pull her weight and would complain all the time.”
“Why?”
“Because of the way you look and talk.”
Sable appreciated their bluntness. She wondered how many others viewed her with the same jaundiced eye. The misconception that her light brown skin and refined speech automatically made her different irritated her. No matter what color or pedigree, a slave was still a slave.
Through the Storm Page 6
