Through the Storm (7 page)
Araminta grinned.
When Araminta asked Sable how the processing had gone, Sable offered only that she’d been assigned to the laundry. Mrs. Tubman peered at her for a moment, then said, “I’d’ve thought you’d been put to work clerking or something.”
“The laundry,” Sable repeated emotionlessly.
“Well, I’ll talk to the major about it later.”
“No. The soldier was very specific. The laundry will be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
Sable nodded. “I’m certain.”
Araminta still looked puzzled, but said no more.
After breakfast, Araminta offered to show Sable the way to the laundry. They took a meandering route to give Sable a chance to see more of the camp that would serve as her new home. As they walked, Sable realized it was far larger and more crowded than she’d first thought. The tents were pitched so close together, one had to be careful to avoid stepping on bedding, tent poles, cooking fires, and small children. There were even more people than there were tents. Black people of all shades, ages, and sizes filled Sable’s vision wherever she looked. Some women nodded greetings, which she returned generously, while others sized her up without smiling. There were men digging trenches, children playing happily, and areas that were roped off. Armed
soldiers were stationed at the ropes as if guarding against something.
“Probably typhoid or measles,” Araminta explained. “The area’s quarantined.”
“Are there doctors here?”
“Not nearly as many as we need. They put up a hospital of sorts in a house over behind the trees there, and the army does what it can, but the soldiers come first, as they should. I help out whenever I can. Once you get settled you might want to lend a hand too.”
Sable thought she would, then considered the poor souls who were forced to live behind the ropes. It chilled her to think they’d come all this way to freedom, only to contract a disease that might well kill them. She offered a quick prayer for them before following Araminta deeper into the camp.
They passed a grove of trees where a woman sat surrounded by a large group of children and adults. She appeared to be showing them pages in a book. Araminta explained she was one of the Northern missionary women who’d come South to help in the camps. This particular woman ran one of the camp schools.
Araminta made a detour so Sable could see the vast gardens that had been planted. She also showed her the camp graveyard. It reminded Sable very much of the one at home. There were very few markers. Most of the spots were memorialized with objects last used by the person interred. Spread out on the ground were broken pieces of crockery, spoons, combs, and bits of colored glass. She saw pieces of fabric, and in one spot a beautiful quilt had been staked down. Near the quilt stood a small but exquisitely carved wooden idol. It had the look of the motherland and made Sable think of Mahti.
The laundry was set up on the banks of a fairly wide creek. According to Araminta, access to such fresh water was one of the reasons the camp had been settled here. Sable was led past huge cauldrons filled with boiling water and the silent, watching women tending them.
Yards and yards of rope had been strung between trees to form clotheslines. In spite of the still early hour, more than a few lines were already straining under the weight of bedding, army uniforms, union suits, and blankets. Sable smelled the lye and felt the heat coming off the vats, fed by stick fires underneath them. She watched a woman use a long length of wood to lift out a steaming mound of wash and transfer it to a neighboring vat to be rinsed.
This would be hard, grueling work, especially under a full sun. Sable silently and sarcastically thanked the processing soldier for the opportunity to work there.
Araminta turned Sable over to the head laundress, a kindly woman named Mrs. Reese, but before leaving she took Sable aside.
“I have to go do some looking around for the generals, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Sable tried not to let her disappointment show. “I’ll never be able to thank you for what you’ve done.”
“Sure you can. Just don’t squander your freedom.”
They shared a hug and Araminta smiled. “Stay on the path, Sable, and good things will happen.”
She waved and was gone.
Mrs. Reese turned out to be a surprisingly optimistic woman. She was big and brown and had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. To Sable’s surprise she was not a runaway, but a free Black woman from Boston. “I own the biggest laundry in my part of town, and I wanted to come down here and help. When I arrived and explained what I could do, I thought General Sherman was going to kiss me, he was so happy.”
“You came South to do laundry?”
“Yep. With me around, our boys can concentrate on whipping those Rebs instead of doing wash. Come on. I want you to meet the others.”
The others turned out to be four women of varying sizes and hues. Some were older, some looked to be Sable’s age, none looked overly friendly. Their names
were Dorothy, Bridget, Paige, and Sookie. Only Bridget offered a smile.
Mrs. Reese then took Sable to a group of tents. “This is where you’ll sleep. Had two girls run out on me, so you’re in here with Sookie and Paige. It’ll be kind of cozy, but it’s better than being out in the open.”
Inside the tent there were three pallets. Beside two of them were small bundles of clothing that Sable assumed belonged to her tent mates. Mrs. Reese pointed out the pallet on the far left as being Sable’s, then escorted her back outside.
“First thing we need to do is get you cleaned up.”
Sable could only agree. She hadn’t bathed in quite some time, and her filthy clothing and dirty skin reflected it all too well.
“I had the troops rig me up a shower of sorts.”
Sable studied the contraption. When the rope was pulled on an overhead bucket full of water, the bucket tipped and the water cascaded down in one fell swoop. The shower was housed in a listing wooden enclosure that offered a measure of privacy.
“You only get one bucket per wash.”
Sable thought the shower was ingenious and couldn’t wait to try it.
“Go ahead and wash. The water’s going to be cold, but you’ll get used to it. And you may as well toss that dress you’re wearing onto the rag pile. I’ve got a few spares around. I’m sure I can find something that will fit. Use that sheet there to dry yourself. It’s clean.”
Sable was left to wash. She gasped as the bucket of icy water came down and rinsed her clean. She felt like a new woman.
Per Mrs. Reese’s instructions, she dried herself with the rough cotton sheet. A knock sounded shortly thereafter, signaling the return of the laundress. Wrapped in the sheet, Sable cautiously cracked open the thin wood door and took the offered dress from Mrs. Reese’s hand.
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.
M
ajor 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.