Winds of the Storm (6 page)

“He can't remove the troops,” Zahra said. “If he does, the Redemptionists and the Kluxers will steep the South in blood. The only thing preventing that now are the soldiers.”

“I know, but the North doesn't seem to care.”

Knowing that further discussion on the nation's disinterest in the fate of the newly freed slaves would only fill her with frustration, Zahra turned the conversation back to the operation. “So what role does Araminta have you playing in our little drama here?”

“I'm to be a seamstress. Araminta's contacts have found a woman who wants to sell her shop,
and I've come down to be the buyer. Apparently, she caters to the elite, so maybe I can sniff out something pertinent for you.”

“That would be appreciated.”

“I'm also here to render whatever assistance you may need.”

When they'd been together in Mobile, Wilma had assumed the persona of a mad old widow woman named Annie. Zahra had played the role of her slave companion. Every morning, wearing a tattered nightgown over a soiled and ratty day dress, the blue-eyed, wild-haired Annie would walk down the streets of Mobile arguing with herself or sometimes the occasional stray dog. Whenever residents of the city happened upon her, they either gave her a patronizing smile and left her alone, or crossed the street out of fear of being forced into a loud and embarrassing conversation on such nonsensical topics as whether inchworms could grow to be more than an inch. None had suspected that in reality, Crazy Annie, as they'd called her, had been tallying the names, classifications, and numbers of Confederacy ships in the bay, and sending the information on to Washington. A few weeks after Zahra and Wilma left the city, the intelligence they'd gathered helped the Union navy gain victory in the August '64 battle at Mobile Bay.

The two women finished their tea and stood to say their good-byes. A parting hug was shared, and Zahra said genuinely, “I'm glad you're here.”

“I am, too. I should be open in a week or so, so
stop in. I can be your gown maker from here on if you'd like. I'll gown the girls, too.”

“I'd like that, but the elite Creole women probably won't.”

Wilma waved away the concerns. “Once they see the design and quality of my wares, I'm certain they won't care who my other customers are.”

Wilma then took up the pen on Zahra's desk and wrote down the number of the house and the name of the street where she'd taken a room, then she added the address of her shop.

Zahra escorted her back downstairs to the front parlor. Wilma spent a long moment scanning the beautiful ivory-and-gold décor, then said, “All this gold and white would make you think you were in a church if it weren't for those.” She pointed at one of the nude statues.

For a moment, Zahra's attention lingered on the life-sized couple embracing at the foot of the staircase. The rapture on the woman's face was riveting. Zahra could almost feel the pleasure, sense the heat of the man's cupping hand. Admittedly, her experience with men was limited to the clumsy rumblings of her youth and to the two times during the war she'd had to put herself on the lure in order to bait the fish she'd been trying to catch. However, this statue the girls had dubbed Adam and Eve touched her in ways she couldn't explain.
Could it be because you've never known such passion?
her inner voice asked. Zahra was honest enough to admit that the answer could be yes. She hastily set the
thoughts aside and found Wilma watching her intently.

“Be careful, Zahra,” Wilma warned gently. “A place like this can seduce even a woman of strength like yourself. Passion can dull your senses and make you vulnerable.”

“I'll be fine. It's just all this”—she gestured around—“takes some getting used to.”

Wilma nodded knowingly. “All right, but keep my words in mind.”

“I will,” Zahra promised.

They shared one last hug and Wilma was gone.

Zahra made her way back to the stairs to return to her office. As she climbed, she pointedly ignored Adam and Eve, but her mind's eye saw Eve's ecstatic face just the same.

Later that afternoon, Roland Keel, a cousin of Alfred's, arrived by train from Memphis. He'd come to oversee the gambling, bringing with him a three-person crew of barkeeps and dealers to ensure the house's games ran fairly and to keep an eye out for cardsharps.

“I wouldn't know a sharp from a Philadelphia lawyer,” Zahra admitted as she sat talking with Roland and Alfred in her office.

Roland was at least a foot shorter than his giant cousin, but he had the same muscular build. “Learned all I know from my old master—one of the best gamblers on the Mississippi.”

“Then you're just the man we need.”

“For Ms. Tubman I'd walk through fire,” he declared with conviction. “She helped my folks go north back in the fifties, and I'll always be grateful.”

Zahra understood his devotion. Araminta was responsible for hundreds of people escaping captivity. “All the gambling operations will be under your control. If there are supplies you need purchased, please let me know.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You'll be reporting back to the Loyal League in Memphis?”

“Yes, and they'll be sending me any news they think you should pass on to the other Leagues.”

“How are things going for the race there?”

“No better or no worse than anywhere else. The riots in '66 let us know who our friends were though, and while some progress has been made, many of us are terrified it will happen again, soon.”

The Memphis riots of 1866 began harmlessly enough with the collision of two hacks on a Memphis street. One driver was Black, the other White. It evolved into a three-day orgy of hate and murder fueled by mobs, the police and the local news organs. Forty-six people were killed, forty-four of them Black. Eighty-five people were injured. $100,000 of property, goods and money, much of it owned by the Black soldiers and their families stationed at nearby Fort Pickering was either stolen or burned. When the riot ended, a local newspaper crowed, “Thank heaven the white race are once again ruler in Memphis.” But the Congressional hearings convened to investigate the matter found the riot to be “…an organized, bloody massacre of the colored people, inspired by the press and led on by officers of the law…”

“Well, welcome to our odd family,” Zahra said genuinely. “Alfred will show you around the place, then he can take you to some of the boardinghouses.”

He nodded, and the cousins departed.

Left alone, Zahra wondered where this would all lead. Opening night was less than two weeks away, and she still hadn't filled all of her household positions. The most crucial was the cook, who'd been expected to arrive yesterday. According to the railroad agent, the train the woman was traveling on from Atlanta had experienced some mechanical difficulties and would arrive at the station today. Zahra hoped so, because they could hardly have a grand affair without food. Her staff was also on her mind. Although they all came highly recommended, common sense told her that at least one, if not two, would eventually prove untrustworthy. To believe otherwise was to be naive. Trusting Wilma seemed logical, but Zahra knew that many former friends of the race were just that—former. She also knew that if the president or Congress got wind of rumors that some leaders of the race were contemplating leading the freedmen out of the South, the ramifications would roll across the nation like a wave. Radical politicians would lose their constituencies, and planters, their cheap labor. An outraged Congress would probably hold hearings to find the conspirators responsible for “influencing” a race of people the country deemed too feebleminded to think for themselves. So, considering all that was at stake, the only counsel Zahra could wisely keep was her own.

The cook did arrive later that day, but there was a problem.

“What do you mean, she's not staying?” the confused Zahra asked Lovey, who'd come up to the office to announce the cook's decision not to take the post.

“She set one foot inside, looked around, and stomped out. You should come down and talk to her.”

Zahra found the tall, chesty woman outside on the porch. Her face was sour, and her body was tense with anger. Zahra introduced herself. “I'm Domino, and you are?”

“Doesn't matter. I won't be staying.”

“May I ask why?”

“This is a whorehouse!” the woman replied, as if the answer was obvious. “I'll not be working under the devil's roof.”

Salome and Naomi, the mulatto twins who'd arrived three days ago from Nashville, stood in the doorway, with Zahra's other girls, looking on.

The woman eyed Zahra and declared pointedly, “I've known Harriet a long time, but that young man she's married to must have loosened her mind. She knows I'm a God-fearing woman.”

“But ma'am—”

“No buts needed, miss. I'll be going back to the train station. And I'll be praying for your souls.”

With that, she turned on her heel and strode off with her carpetbag in hand.

In the silence that followed, Matilda asked, “So, what do we do now?”

A grim Zahra watched the woman climb back
into the hack and be driven away. “I suppose we find another cook.”

That evening, Zahra sent one of the maids around with a note to Miss Sophie explaining her dilemma and asking for the name of a quality caterer who might handle the food, since Zahra wasn't certain a replacement cook could be found in time to handle all the preparations necessary for the opening night festivities.

Sophie wrote back:
Archer Le Veq. Hotel Christophe.

Zahra looked at the note.
Archer Le Veq?
Hadn't she rescued him from a barn back in '63? Surely this couldn't be the same one, but casting back she did recall him being from New Orleans. Zahra got up from her chair and began to pace. Would he remember her? He'd been in such bad condition when she helped him escape that he'd barely been able to sit his horse, yet his dark eyes had flustered her so much she'd accidentally poured water from the canteen all over his face; a gaffe that brought heat to her cheeks even now.

After putting him on the gunboat, she'd ridden to her next assignment certain she'd never see him again, but he'd stayed in the back of her mind for weeks after. How had he fared, she'd wondered. Had he gone back to New Orleans, or had he been patched up and sent back into the field to continue his espionage work for the Bureau of Military Information, whose purpose had been the collection of intelligence on the Confederacy. As happens with all memories her
recollection of their encounter had faded over time, and she'd had no further thoughts of him until now.

Was he, like her, still gathering information for the government, or had he left that part of his life behind after Lee's surrender. Even though she'd had to rescue him from Crete's clutches, she knew better than to sell him short—Le Veq had to have been a skilled agent to be employed by BMI. If he was still an active agent, could she call on him for help in a pinch? And if he somehow uncovered her true reason for being in New Orleans, then what?

Zahra pondered Le Veq for a few moments longer then came to a decision. If Sophie recommended him there was really no reason not to hire his staff. After all, it would only be for a week or so. She'd have her own chef eventually. Le Veq's presence in the city was a wrinkle she hadn't allowed for however, especially when a part of her kept recalling the vivid power in his dark eyes.

The next morning she dressed in a fashionable indigo gown, put on a matching domino, and had Alfred drive her over to the Hotel Christophe.
Better to beard the dragon in his den.

Archer was in the hotel kitchen trying to convince his temperamental chef, Aristide O'Neil, not to quit over the questionable quality of the vegetables delivered this morning, when André came rushing in. “You're not going to believe who's sitting in your office waiting your attendance.”

“Governor Warmoth?” he asked dryly.

“No. Madame Domino.”

Crystal and china hit the floor; pans were dropped, and every head in the kitchen snapped up.

“She says she has a business proposition for you.”

Ignoring the eager curiosity on the faces of the kitchen staff, Archer excused himself and headed to his office.

She was standing by the window, looking down onto the busy street when he entered. The indigo silk gown, with its pleated hem and soft bustle, was highly fashionable. When she turned slowly and faced him, the dark eyes within the gilded indigo mask held his for such a long, time-suspended moment that his groin tightened in response.

“Monsieur Le Veq?”

She had a voice like black velvet.

“Yes.”

“Thank you for meeting with me. I'm called Domino.”

While the mask hid the upper portions of her warm brown face, he noted that the dark eyes were intelligent, the jaw nicely formed, and the mouth lush as any Archer had ever seen.

She walked to him, silk rustling sensually, and gracefully extended her hand gloved in black netting.

“Enchanté,” he said, bowing gallantly over her hand and placing his lips lightly against it. He politely released her hand, then gestured to the leather chairs by his desk. “A seat?”

“Thank you.”

Once again the silk whispered as she swept the gown aside so she could sit.

“May I offer you refreshment? Tea, coffee?”

“Tea would be fine.”

“Then tea it shall be.” He walked to the door intending to call for André, but when he opened it, the apparently eavesdropping aide all but fell inside the room.

André straightened himself hastily.

Archer raised an eyebrow, then asked, “Can you bring the lady some tea? Café for me.”

“Certainly,” André responded while taking peeks at the notorious visitor. “I'll return shortly.”