Rebel Page 2

  “Thank you.”

  It had been a week since Val had written to her family, and like the last time, a bout of homesickness came over her as she began. She missed her mother, her older sister, Caroline, and her grandmother Rose, with whom Val and her parents lived. It would be uncharitable to admit to not missing her father, Harrison, but being alone and so far away from home, she even missed him and his overbearing ways a bit as well.

  She wrote first to her mother and sister, and lastly to her grandmother about how she was faring, the challenges she faced, and the progress of her students. She also asked for help in acquiring more books, supplies, and an increase in her personal funds so she could pay what she owed the Dumas sisters. When she finished the letters, night had fallen. She prepared her letters for the post, then went to her hot windowless room and changed into her night things. In the morning, she’d go back to the Freedmen’s Bureau office. She didn’t relish another day of standing in a mile-long line, but the pay issue had to be resolved, so Georgine wouldn’t toss her out on her ear. After saying her prayers and dousing her lamp, she stretched out on the thin uncomfortable mattress and hoped the oppressive heat would eventually let her sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Seated at his desk in the city’s smallest Freedmen’s Bureau office, Drake LeVeq, former captain with the Louisiana Native Guard, inwardly debated what to do with his anger tied to knowing the freedmen still in line would not be helped today. Mothers searching for stolen children would endure another night of fear and worry; men needing approved work contracts faced being snatched off the street by unscrupulous planters and forced to work for free, or worse, arrested for not being employed. And Drake would go home frustrated because he hadn’t been able to do more to assist them.

  The reason they wouldn’t be helped was the man now approaching Drake’s desk, the office’s new supervisor, a snippy, thin-faced lieutenant from Boston named Josiah Merritt. “We’re not going to get to the rest of them today,” he told Drake. “I have a meeting to attend, so send them away.”

  Under previous commanders, the office usually stayed open until dusk. Since Merritt’s arrival three months ago, the formerly four-person staff had been pared down to just Drake, and the doors often closed early, sometimes, like today, before three in the afternoon.

  “You’re in charge. You send them away,” Drake countered.

  Merritt drew back, his whiskered face reddening. “May I remind you that I’m in command.”

  “And I’ll remind you that I’m a volunteer not under your command.”

  Drake knew that many Bureau offices were supervised by good men like the two officers he’d previously worked under, while others may as well be supremacists for their lack of commitment to the freedmen’s plight. Merritt was among the latter. Drake longed to walk away from the inept commander but refused to leave the freedmen without a true advocate unless it became absolutely necessary.

  Merritt, not getting the outcome he wanted, stormed off. His announcement that the office was closing was met with protests. Many of the men and women had been in line since dawn. Drake’s lips thinned but there was nothing he could do.

  Once the office was empty, Merritt, on his way out, said, “Make sure the door is locked, LeVeq.”

  Angrily eyeing his departure, Drake sighed, then spent a few moments straightening the small mountain of files on his desk holding reports on work contracts, schools, emergency requests for food, and everything else the Bureau handled on behalf of the newly freed and the thousands of poor Whites displaced by the war.

  Lincoln began the operation in 1865 as the Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and Abandoned Lands. Because a disgruntled Congress refused to appropriate a budget for the Bureau, the funds came from the War Department, which was also charged with implementation. Led by Union General Oliver O. Howard, the Bureau was initially set up for one year, but its mandate had been grudgingly extended. Rules, regulations, and enforcement varied by state, sometimes by offices, resulting in chaos, ineptitude, and graft.

  Southerners were clamoring for dissolution of the offices, so Drake wasn’t sure how much longer the service would survive, or what the freedmen would do once it was gone. At its inception, there had been wrongheaded regulations demanding Blacks have passes from former masters in order to travel. In Virginia and elsewhere, some offices had forbidden rural Blacks from entering the cities to look for employment, then sent troops to round them up and force them to return to their masters. That the Army was more supportive of the old system than the new had been quite apparent. But, in spite of the shortcomings, the freedmen continued to support the Bureau, because it was all they had.

  After locking up, he left. His sister-in-law, Sable, would be returning from Biloxi shortly, and he’d volunteered to meet her boat at the docks. Her husband, his oldest brother, Raimond, was in an all-day meeting with the local Republicans to hash out solutions to combat the violence being spread by White supremacist groups like the Knights of the White Camellia, the Seymour Knights, and the Crescent City Democratic Club. A big family dinner to welcome Sable home was being held at the Christophe, the hotel managed by their brother Archer.

  The day was hot as always, and the traffic in the street thick as the air with all manner of vehicles pulled by everything from horses to mules to slow-moving dairy cows. With another sigh, Drake joined the masses of freedmen, soldiers, Northern carpetbaggers, and city natives on the crowded walks going about their day.

  After receiving permission from the nuns to forgo teaching the children for the day, Valinda spent all morning and into the afternoon standing in line at the city’s largest Freedmen’s Bureau office and finally received a scrip for payment. Relieved, she walked down the street to wait for the appropriate streetcar to take her to the docks. Yesterday, one of her students employed there told her of a small unclaimed crate of slates and chalk being held at the shipping office. The clerk in charge, having given up on finding the owner, kindly offered them to the student for his classroom, so she was going to claim them.

  But first she had to get there.

  Withering in the late afternoon heat while streetcars with empty seats passed by her and others due to their race left her and everyone else waiting fuming. It took over an hour for a black-star car to finally arrive and it was so overcrowded there was barely room to squeeze inside. At the end of the line, she got off, temper still high over the insulting treatment, and walked to the docks.

  True to his word, the clerk gave her the slates with no fuss. Pleased with his generosity and her anger soothed, she made the short hike back to the barn she’d claimed as a classroom to leave the crate there. The six slates and sacks of chalk were as valuable as gold. Admittedly, a small pang of guilt plagued her, seeing as how they rightfully belonged to someone else, but the clerk said they’d been there over a month and were destined for the burn barrel.

  Approaching the barn, she was brought up short. The padlock was gone, and the warped wooden door stood wide open. Glancing around but seeing no one about she entered cautiously. Inside, the once cleanly swept floor was now lined with thin, dirty pallets, and littered with empty spirits bottles, candle stubs, and discarded rubbers. There was even a pair of faded blue Union army trousers someone had left behind. Her jaw dropped. Yesterday, this had been her classroom. Now, it was apparently being used for nefarious carousing. As she tried to imagine who might be responsible, the smell of smoke reached her nose. Alarmed, she looked around. Once confident nothing was burning inside, she set the crate on the floor and hurried back outside to find a small fire burning under the nearby trees. In it were the five readers she’d been using with her students, and her heart jumped into her throat.

  “No!” She began stomping the flames with her worn brogans. She kicked dirt and ashes, hoping to smother it. Seeing a long thick branch on the ground nearby, she grabbed it up and tried to move the readers out of the flames. The books were all she had, and if she didn’t save them, she didn’t know what she’
d do. But the pages were old and brittle, and even in the humid New Orleans air, the flames licked greedily. Heartbroken, she stopped fighting and watched helplessly as the wind caught the charred, red-edged pages and carried them away.

  “Problems, little lady?”

  Still holding the charred, red-tipped branch, she turned to see three men dressed in dirty Union blue uniforms approaching. Two were men of color, the other White with blond hair. As they came abreast of her, the mocking gleam in their eyes set off an inner warning, but her anger over the destruction took precedence. “Someone burned my schoolbooks!”

  The tallest man, who was thin and brown-skinned, showed two missing front teeth when he replied, “Now, who would do such a despicable thing?”

  His grinning companions offered exaggerated shrugs.

  “Guess this means school is dismissed,” offered the shorter, heavier, gray-eyed man of color at his side.

  The tall one with the missing teeth slowly looked her up and down. “Where you from, girl? You don’t sound like you’re from round here.”

  They were behind the barn in a cove of tall trees. Valinda knew she needed to get back into the open where she could be better seen from the road. “Excuse me. I need to go.” She moved to walk past them, but the skinny blond man latched onto her arm.

  “He asked you a question.”

  She eyed his dirty hand, then his smirking gaze. “Let go!” she snapped, jerking her arm, but he held on.

  The tall one drawled, “Y’all ever know a teacher that didn’t answer questions?”

  “Not a one,” replied gray eyes.

  “I think we should take her inside and teach her some manners.”

  She was one woman against three men, and if they wanted to hurt her, the odds were in their favor. The only thing she had close to a weapon was the thick branch in her hand, so she jammed the smoking end into the blond’s throat. As he screamed and dropped to his knees, she ran.

  Heart pounding, every breath filled with fear, she was fast enough to clear the trees and head to the road. His companions, initially caught flat-footed, immediately gave chase. Halfway to the road, she was tackled from behind. She hit the ground so hard, pain exploded in her ribs, and her head spun, but she screamed and fought.

  A gunshot rang out. The world froze.

  “Move away from her. Now!”

  Valinda was so filled with relief, a sob escaped. Approaching was a tall bearded man of color wearing Union blue. Behind his raised rifle, fury ruled his dark-skinned face.

  “Ma’am, come stand behind me, please.”

  Struggling to her feet, she didn’t hesitate.

  The toothless one snarled, “Boy, you’re meddling in something that’s none of your business.”

  A bullet blasted the ground by his feet and he jumped with a scream.

  “This is my business,” the soldier snarled ominously. “Who’s your commanding officer?”

  The two assailants shared a look, hesitating as if weighing whether to answer the big man or not.

  He walked closer, rifle still raised. “Do you really want to die today?”

  Their eyes widened.

  Another shot sounded. Val spun and saw a golden-skinned woman wearing a blue dress and a matching blue tignon standing in a wagon that had a magnificent ebony stallion tied to the back. She, too, had a raised rifle, and it was pointed at their blond companion who’d just stepped out of the trees. The woman called out a warning. “Stay where you are!”

  He didn’t move.

  Still shaken, Val wondered who her saviors were. The woman seemed as fierce as the man.

  “Going to ask one more time. Who’s your commanding officer?”

  Though visibly shaking, they held their tongues.

  He eased the trigger back.

  Gray eyes shouted, “Lieutenant Crane Jacobs!”

  His tall companion snapped at the soldier, “You got no authority here. She’s my wife. Caught her bouncing on another man. Teaching her to respect her vows.”

  The bearded soldier turned to Valinda. “Do you know him?”

  She shook her head.

  He asked, feather soft, “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, cheri?”

  Flooded by a reaction that temporarily swamped her fear, she managed to reply, “No.”

  “Good. Hold this, please.”

  When he handed her the rifle, her eyes widened. Before she could ask why, he turned back and planted an explosive fist in the face of the man claiming to be her husband. The blow shattered his nose. Blood erupted, and he slowly fell to his knees, then keeled over, out cold.

  Her eyes shot wider.

  The angry soldier asked the now slack-jawed man with the gray eyes, “Do you want to teach the young lady some respect, too?”

  Terrified, he hastily shook his head. “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, sir!”

  The soldier responded with a deadly smile. “Smart man.” He then asked him, “That your friend over there?” He was referring to the blond man still standing motionless under the watchful eye and raised rifle of the woman in the wagon.

  He nodded.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Appleton.”

  “What’s yours? And don’t even think about lying to me.”

  Gray eyes swallowed. “Billy Baxter.”

  “And this one?” he asked of the man on the ground.

  “Walter Creighton.”

  He glanced across the field and called out, “Appleton! Over here. Now!”

  Appleton appeared torn. His friend was lying unmoving in the dirt. Valinda guessed he wanted no part of what was going on. But when a blast from the woman’s gun tore through the air only a few inches above his head, the matter was settled. He quickly crossed the open field.

  When he arrived, the soldier took in the angry bleeding gash on his throat. “What happened there?”

  Giving Valinda a death stare, Appleton wheezed out angrily, “Bitch tried to shove a burning branch through my windpipe.”

  The surprised soldier swung her way. He assessed her silently for a moment, before saying, “Good for you.”

  Once again, something unnamed washed over her.

  Returning his attention to Appleton and Baxter, the soldier warned, “If either of you ever encounter this lady again, I want you to run away like your drawers are on fire.” He leaned down from his impressive height to add, “Because if I hear that you were anywhere near her, I will find you. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Now pick him up and get out of my sight.”

  The directive didn’t need repeating. Dragging the still-unconscious Creighton between them, they left.

  “Are you hurt?” her rescuer asked.

  She handed him the rifle. “Once I stop shaking I’ll know.” The fear was still raw. Her ribs and chest hurt from hitting the ground, but it was her inner self that hurt most of all. What if he and the woman hadn’t come along? Trying not to let the thought of what might have happened take hold, she forced herself to draw in a few calming breaths.

  He withdrew a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and held it out. “Your chin and cheek are scraped and bleeding.”

  She glanced down at the linen.

  “Here. Let me help.”

  He pressed the square to her cheek and chin, applied a bit of pressure, and gently stroked it over the now stinging skin. He handed her the handkerchief, and she took it with unsteady hands, wondering how such a titan-sized man could have such a light touch.

  In a tremulous voice, she said, “Thank you for the rescue.”

  “You’re welcome. That’s my sister-in-law, Sable, in the wagon.” The woman was now heading towards them, rifle in hand. “I’m Captain Drake LeVeq. And you are?”

  “Valinda Lacy.”

  “Miss? Missus?”

  “Miss.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Lacy. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Gatheri
ng herself, she explained about the school, what she found inside, and the burned books. “Two days ago, it was my classroom. Now it’s a den for fornicators.”

  His gaze softened with amusement.

  “Something funny, Captain?”

  “My apologies. That’s just not a word one expects to hear from a schoolteacher.”

  “Sometimes the unexpected is necessary.”

  “Like stabbing Appleton in the throat?”

  She nodded. “Will you report them to their commanding officer?”

  “I will.”

  The woman reached them and said to Valinda, “I’m Sable LeVeq. Are you okay?”

  Valinda looked into her brilliant green eyes. “I will be, thanks to you and the captain.”

  “I’m glad we came along when we did.”

  “So am I.”

  That she might have been assaulted in the worst way reared its head again. She relived the terror of running, being tackled, and how powerless she felt trying to fight them off. The memory made her stomach roil. “Excuse me, I think . . .” She took a few steps away and her stomach emptied itself.

  Moments later, LeVeq handed her a canteen so she could rinse her mouth. That done, she handed it back, took a seat in the grass, and waited for her world to right itself. The captain and his sister-in-law sat with her. Worry and concern were on their faces, but they remained silent, letting her collect herself as best she could.

  “Where do you live, Miss Lacy?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m renting a room in the Treme with Madeline and Georgine Dumas.”

  “How are you going to get back? Do you have a mount, a wagon?”

  “No. I came as far as the streetcar would take me and walked the rest of the way.”

  “You’re not walking back alone,” Sable replied firmly. “Drake and I will spend all evening worrying whether you made it back there safely. We’re on our way to the Quarter. We can drop you off on the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sable added, “Drake may have put the fear of God in those men for now, but who’s to say they aren’t stupid enough to target you again if they find you alone?”