Winds of the Storm, Page 2

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Archer was surprised. “You aren’t coming along?”

  “No. I have another engagement.”

  Archer masked his disappointment. “Then this is good-bye. My thanks again.”

  “Au revoir, monsieur,” Zahra replied.

  Archer smiled and politely inclined his head. As the canoe pushed off, he saw her walking back towards the horses, where she disappeared into the darkness. He asked the seamen, “Do you know the lady’s name?”

  “That’s the Butterfly.”

  Archer stared back at the shore in shock. The nom de guerre Butterfly was well known in Union intelligence circles. If the rumors were true, the woman behind the name had spent the last few months posing as a house slave in the kitchens of some of the South’s most important generals, feeding Federal forces valuable information on everything from troop movements to how much food the Rebs still had in their stores. The rumors also described the Butterfly as being as beautiful as a sorceress, and twice as deadly. Archer searched the horizon in hopes of a last glimpse of the fascinating female, but saw only the dark landscape. Could she really have been the Butterfly? More importantly, Archer wondered if they would ever meet again.

  Chapter 1

  October 1871

  Calhoun County, South Carolina

  “But I don’t want the job,” Zahra Lafayette said, standing on the small front porch of her ramshackle cabin. She let the night’s silence resettle before turning to look back over her shoulder at the person who’d made the offer. The intelligent black eyes in the gnarled dark face stared back with a patience Zahra knew all too well. To the world the old woman was known as Harriet Tubman, but to Zahra and others, Harriet was Araminta, the name bestowed upon her at birth. “The Black Butterfly is no more,” she added plainly.

  “I know, but the president wants you, or no one.”

  While trying to determine how much of a verbal fight Araminta would put up to convince her to agree, Zahra studied the Carolina night. The moonlit darkness was alive with its nocturnal symphony of frogs, insects and other beasties. Stars were sparkling in the clear skies above. “Under the circumstances, President Grant has quite the nerve asking me for anything.”

  Seated on an old cane chair, Araminta replied sympathetically, “True, and when I explained the situation to him, he promised he’d look into getting your folks back their land.”

  Zahra chuckled sarcastically. “He’s promised to look into it. What is there to look into? My parents helped the Union fight because the Union asked them to, and now, the land that they worked from dawn to dark to pay off is snatched away like a blanket off a child.”

  “I know, but if you turn Grant down, they’ll never see that land.”

  And therein lay Zahra’s dilemma. She had no leverage to make the government give her parents the justice they deserved. In April 1865, her parents, like other freedmen, had been awarded land under General Sherman’s Special Order 15. The order had promised each freedmen family forty acres on confiscated Reb land in an area that reached from Charleston, South Carolina, to Florida’s St. John’s River. The provision had also been included in the congressional act establishing the Freedman’s Bureau, but the summer after Lincoln’s death, President Johnson forfeited the Blacks’ claims and titles.

  “We Black folks are looking into the winds of a storm, Zahra,” Araminta pointedy out sagely. “That’s why the president wants you to find out just how strong those winds are.”

  “Why choose me?”

  “Because you were one of the best dispatches the Union had.”

  During the war, Araminta had headed up a shadowy network of Black spies the army called Black Dispatches. They’d taken on scouting assignments, helped with reconnaissance and gathered information on everything from the deployment of Confederate troops to the size and makeup of fortifications. Some dispatches had even infiltrated the household staffs of the Confederacy’s generals and politicians. Zahra had been one of them.

  “Why Louisiana?”

  “Because the experiment Lincoln called Reconstruction almost succeeded there.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it’s like cats being thrown into a bag of dogs. Two warring Republican parties. A Republican governor passing Black Code laws like a Democrat. Bribes, scandals. You name it, it’s in New Orleans.”

  “Along with the Union soldiers.”

  Araminta nodded.

  Zahra thought on that for a long moment and on the heated debate being waged across the country over the soldiers’ continued presence in Louisiana. “This isn’t about the race’s plight at all. What Grant’s really after is something that will help him decide how soon he can withdraw the soldiers so that he can get Congress and the newspapers off his backside.”

  “Correct,” Araminta replied, then added sarcastically, “but we’re just poor, simple colored women. We’re only supposed to see what they tell us we see.”

  “Like telling a blind man he’s touching a rabbit when it’s really a water moccasin.” Zahra shook her head at Grant’s lame attempt to pull the wool over her eyes.

  Araminta laughed at the analogy. “True. Oh, I’ve missed having you in my life.”

  Zahra nodded. “I’ve thought of you often as well.”

  They hadn’t seen each other since the end of the war. Zahra’s family had been spying for the government of the United States since the 1700’s, and what she hadn’t learned about intelligence gathering from her parents, she had learned from Araminta. Her parents and grandparents taught her to track, to move silently, and to listen to her surroundings, but under Araminta’s tutelage, she’d learned ciphers and disguises, how to blend into crowds, and to estimate the size of a Reb brigade. Most importantly though, she’d learned when hardtack, a standard Union food ration during the war, was too wormy to eat.

  Araminta said wistfully as if remembering, “Even though the boys were dying all around us, we managed to do some good.”

  Zahra nodded in agreement, but then added knowingly, “We had some frightening times, though.”

  Araminta studied her. “I don’t remember you being afraid of anything.”

  “It was ’63. Near the Combahee River. We were with Col Montgomery and his Black soldiers.”

  “Oh, I remember that day. We had a good old time.”

  Zahra laughed. “I didn’t. I’d never been behind enemy lines before, and I was so terrified I thought I would shake to pieces.”

  Araminta sounded surprised. “You didn’t show it.”

  Zahra thought back. “You led out eight hundred captives that day.”

  “We led, but that was only because the Rebs were too busy trying to keep Montgomery’s boys from burning and stealing everything in sight. Them Rebs didn’t have time to fuss with us. The flames in those cotton warehouses were high as the sky.”

  Zahra remembered the sounds of the pitched battle, the smoke and the smells of burning cotton and wood. The memory faded, and Zahra’s mind returned to the present and Grant’s offer. “What worries me,” she said in a serious tone, “is Grant’s people using whatever I find out to pound the last few nails into Reconstruction’s coffin. All the Black Codes, the White Leagues, the killings. The soldiers didn’t die for this.”

  “I know, but the race needs to know how strong the winds are, too. So we can prepare.”

  “Prepare for what?”

  “Folks are talking about leaving the South and heading west where the Democrats can’t reach them. Everything you find out in New Orleans we’ll send onto the Loyal Leagues and veteran’s societies across the South. If Grant pulls those soldiers, all hell is going to break loose.”

  It was the first time Zahra had heard talk about leaving the South. How could she leave? She’d been born here and, before the war, had planned to be buried here. Now with all the lawlessness and violence everywhere, her future was as up in the air as the race’s. “How long does he envision the job taking?”

  “Depends
on how much you can glean. Six months. A year maybe.”

  Zahra didn’t doubt her abilities to handle a long-term assignment, but she would have preferred spending her time on a job that she had faith in. However, the carrot Grant was dangling before her was a powerful one. Would he really restore the title to her parents’ land? She was admittedly skeptical. The president was a politician, after all, and a promise made today could be worth dirt by dawn tomorrow, yet the hope was there, and as Araminta pointed out, declining would ensure the loss of her parents land forever. “When does he want me to leave?”

  “As soon as you’re ready.”

  “Any idea how he wants me to handle my identity? I can’t skulk around alleys for six months hoping to hear something.”

  “I’ve been thinking on that.”

  “And?”

  “New Orleans is a big fancy place, but in fancy places and in little places what two things always make men witless?”

  “Drink and loose women.”

  Araminta’s face broke into a smile. “You always were smart.”

  Zahra grinned, “Flattery. That almost makes me afraid to ask how these loose women and drinking will come into play.”

  “I want you to open a house of ill repute. You’ll serve liquor and have rooms for gambling.”

  Zahra stared and then laughed. “What?”

  The old woman nodded. “Yep. Lots of sinning going on in New Orleans. Drink and loose women ought to pry open a slew of lips.”

  “True,” Zahra replied, “but couldn’t I go in as someone a bit more reputable?”

  “Nope. This will work best. If we send you in as a seamstress or a cook, you won’t have access to the men you need to be with. Politicians don’t patronize seamstresses, their wives do, and from what I’m told the women spend most of their time shopping, so they won’t be of any use.”

  Zahra wasn’t surprised that Araminta had all avenues of escape blocked by logic; she had one of the most strategic minds Zahra had ever encountered. Zahra sighed with resignation. “Will I have to find a house on my own?”

  “No. The government has that taken care of. The house you’ll be using is inside the city. Originally belonged to an old Reb colonel who died in the war. Union used it as a hospital, but it’s been empty since the surrender.”

  “Is the interior in good condition?”

  “Apparently not, but the president’s folks are getting it fixed up.”

  Zahra was taken aback by that statement. “The work on the house has already begun? That was a bit presumptuous of them, don’t you think? How do they know I’ll even agree?”

  “I told them you would.”

  Zahra went still. She stared. “But why?”

  “Because of your parents, and, in spite of the Black Butterfly being dead, because you enjoy this business. Always have. Probably always will.”

  Zahra would be the first to admit that the drudgery of being a laundress oft times made her yearn for the life she’d led as a dispatch. Kneeling over her washboard under the hot sun and scrubbing clothes until her hands were raw helped pay the old cabin’s rent and put food on her table, but did she want to do it until she was old and gray? And Araminta was right; if she could help her parents…Her decision made, she said, “Okay. I’ll do this, but if Grant doesn’t keep his promise…” She had no idea what she would do, but she doubted Grant wanted her masquerading as a White House servant while she came up with a plan. In that role she could wreak a lot of havoc—just ask the defeated Confederacy.

  Araminta echoed Zahra’s thoughts. “If he goes back on his promise, we’ll handle it when the time comes. I’ve asked an old friend to aid you. During the war, she was known as Lilac.”

  “I remember people speaking very highly of her. Is she in New Orleans?”

  “Yes, runs a highfalutin brothel there.”

  “Then why not use her and her place?”

  “She and her man are active Radicals. Because of that the Redemptionists won’t patronize her establishment—which means you can’t declare yourself for either side. If the Democrats think you’re leaning towards the Radicals they’ll stop coming around and we’ll get nothing out of this plan.”

  Zahra understood.

  Araminta studied Zahra for a moment before saying, “Grant’s mission aside, your most important job will be your reports to the Loyal Leagues, veteran’s groups, and the township associations across the South. They are going to send trusted associates to New Orleans to help you with the Grant job but more importantly to help you spy for the race. We need to know if moving west will be necessary.”

  They spent a few more moments discussing the ins and outs of this secondary mission.

  Araminta asked, “I’m assuming the madam of the house will not be available to the customers?”

  “Correct.” Zahra had no intentions of submitting herself to any of the men.

  “I thought not, so be careful who you hire to do the actual deed. You probably shouldn’t hire any whores from Washington. No way of knowing who else is privy to this plan of Grant’s, and I don’t want you taking on any Democrat spies.”

  Zahra agreed wholeheartedly. “But who’s going to pay for all this? Surely not this laundress.”

  Araminta smiled, then called out, “Nelson! Bring that box.”

  Nelson was the young man who’d accompanied Araminta on her journey here to Charleston to see Zahra. After dinner he’d excused himself and gone for a walk. At Araminta’s call, he came out of the woods carrying a small trunk. He was a tall man, over six feet in height, but the manner in which he was bent over made Zahra assume that the trunk was heavy.

  He set the box on the wooden porch, and the dull thud spoke to its weight. “I took the bedrolls out of the wagon. Where do you want them put?”

  “We’ll talk about it later. I’m sure Zahra will have a place for us to set up our love nest for the night.”

  Only Zahra’s training kept the surprise from showing on her face, but she must have slipped somehow, because Araminta cackled in reaction, “You didn’t know Nelson and I are married?”

  Zahra shot him a quick glance before answering. “No.”

  “Been married since ’69.”

  The tall and handsome Nelson Davis had to be a good two decades younger than Araminta, but then, the woman many called Moses had always been unconventional and had always lived life on her own terms. After all, her first escape from slavery had occurred when she’d only been seven years of age. Zahra could only imagine how the tongues of the old abolitionist guard must be wagging over the marriage.

  Nelson told the women, “I’ll be around back if you need me.”

  After his departure, Araminta held out her hand and said, “Here’s the key. Open it up.”

  Zahra pushed the skinny key into the lock on the front of the trunk. She pulled back the lid, and the moonlight fell on the stacks of money inside. She stared, stunned. “Where’d this come from?”

  “President’s man. It’s for your expenses, bribes, whatever you need.”

  Zahra picked up a bundled stack. “Is it real?”

  Araminta shrugged. “I suppose so. Then again, maybe it’s just real enough to use.”

  Zahra chuckled but dearly hoped the bills weren’t counterfeit. She closed the lid and redid the lock. She’d take a closer look at the cache tomorrow when the sun came up.

  “That’s the only key, Zahra,” Araminta warned.

  Zahra placed the key into the pocket of her worn skirt, then said with amused affection, “A new husband, a trunk full of money. Any more surprises?”

  Araminta smiled. “None that this old mind can remember at the moment. Something may come back to me in the morning, though.”

  “Then I guess we should turn in,” Zahra said. “How about you and Nelson sleep in my bed and I’ll make do out here?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Zahra. Let me go fetch him.” Araminta eased herself out of the cane ch
air and down the two steps.

  As Zahra watched her disappear around the side of the cabin, her thoughts returned to the president’s request. Araminta seemed convinced the race would be helped by the information Zahra would compile, but the South was so fraught with bloodshed, terror, and fear that she hoped it wouldn’t come too late.

  Chapter 2

  November 1871

  New Orleans

  After a rousing evening with his mistress, the sated Archer Le Veq lay in bed while she slept by his side. Her name was Lynette Dubois, and her quiet breathing barely ruffled the silence—a marked contrast to the arias of orgasms that had filled the bedroom earlier. Thinking back on the erotic interlude brought a smile to his full lips. The uninhibited Lynette was worth every penny he paid to keep her gowned in the latest fashions and to lease her this well-appointed apartment. Unlike some of his past mistresses, she never pestered him about wanting to marry but seemed content with their mutually beneficial arrangement; that was worth every penny, too.

  Under the light of the dimmed lamp, Archer gently traced a brown finger down her golden cheek, then moved a damp strand of her auburn hair away from her face. In the days before the war, a mulattress as comely as Lynette would have been presented at one of the city’s famed quadroon balls with the intent of snaring a wealthy protector. Back then, plaçées, as the women were known, were as common in New Orleans as bribes. Some men spent their entire lives with one plaçée; siring children, building her a home, and treating her as a wife in everything but name. Then there were the men who went through plaçées like mistresses went through hats. Archer had once counted himself amongst them. During his younger days, he’d supported three mistresses, but the expense and the physical stamina necessary to keep each of them happy had all but killed him—not to mention the ribbing he’d had to endure from his brothers each time the women bumped into each other on the street and a catfight ensued.

  Now he was older and wiser. He had only one mistress; he was the owner of one of the city’s finest hotels; and he had the love of his family. Were the state of Louisiana not mired in political turmoil, his life would be one of perfect contentment.