The Cottoncrest Curse (15 page)

That evening the officers came to Augustine's tent to toast him. Marcus had served them all with a sinking feeling that he should be on the boats with the remainder of the Corps d'Afrique, not on this side of the line.

But there was no way to get there. No way to leave. Not in May or June or July of 1863, during the siege of Port Hudson. Not even though in January of that year Lincoln had issued the Emancipation Proclamation. He had been freed by Lincoln, and yet he was still a slave, serving his master in the Confederate army.

He couldn't leave Port Hudson when he wanted to then. Now that he was old and didn't want to leave Cottoncrest, he couldn't stay.

Marcus kept walking. Soon he'd reach the end of the plantation's fields, and then the marshy woods would begin. The sky was dark in the direction he was heading, south along the river road. A heavy rain was in progress a few miles ahead. He had to reach Little Jerusalem as soon as possible.

The rainstorm, as was typical for Louisiana weather, had been both localized and torrential, its power concentrated in a small area. The low black clouds blanketed and darkened Little Jerusalem, but where Cottoncrest sat, there was blue sky smudged by the gray-brown smoke from the burning cane fields.

In Little Jerusalem they could smell the rain coming. The air grew heavy, the odor of the ground more distinct, the humidity palpable in the pleasant, late-October air. Before the storm swept through, the wind had whipped up, and the trees bent over. Then it roared past, lightning flashing and rolls of thunder pounding, the rain coming down hard and driven by the wind at an angle, liquid spears hurling viciously toward their targets.

When it seemed as if the torrent would carry them away, the rain stopped abruptly and the black sky rapidly retreated, heading southwest toward Lamou. In the short while that the storm had lingered, it had dropped several inches on Little Jerusalem. The bayou that ran nearby overflowed, and the road out front turned into a muddy, rutted stream. Yet to the north Cottoncrest remained dry, although gusts of wind could be seen shifting the smoke violently in one direction and then another.

Nimrod sat on a stool under the wide awning made by the tin roof, taking it all in. The shift in the weather caused his bones to ache, and he didn't like all the commotion and conversation anyway, even if he could have heard all the words. It was enough to watch God's work. Esau stuck his head out from time to time to check on his father.

Inside the small cabin water dripped down the sides of the walls through cracks in the tin roof and formed puddles on the dirt floor. But Rossy and Cooper paid it no attention, and therefore neither did Jake, nor did the fifteen others who had crowded into the tiny one-room house.

They each had brought a tin cup and a spoon, along with a handful of fall vegetables, and they each placed their backyard garden offerings into the pot of possum stew. It was a celebration. The Peddler Man's arrival was always a treat. Cooper had taken the possum he had shot the night before and donated it for the stew. To have the Peddler Man stay for a meal in his house was a big honor, and it showed the others in Little Jerusalem how important he was.

Possum wasn't kosher any more than pork was, but that didn't stop Jake. He took out his own tin cup and, along with the others in the crowded cabin, waited patiently for Rossy to ladle out the thick brown stew and then ate heartily, even though he was still full from the
cochon de lait
and the wedding feast earlier that morning. His customer had offered it, and he wasn't going to offend his customer. Not by words. Not by deeds.

Uncle Avram had made that clear. Never offend. Ever. One day a huge Cossack had walked into Avram's shop and complained that a coat Avram had made was ill fitting and had torn. He showed Avram the sleeve that had separated. Avram looked at it carefully, examining it closely. He didn't say what he and Yaakov and the Cossack all knew. The sleeve hadn't separated at the seam. The fabric itself had been ripped by a branch or a nail or some careless action of the owner. But Avram merely nodded his head at the Cossack who towered over them, apologized abjectly, and offered to buy it back from the Cossack for what it cost, even though the coat was now well-worn and useless. The Cossack took the money and left, happy to have put another one over on another Jew, and when little Yaakov had started to ask his uncle why he had let the Cossack take advantage of him, Uncle Avram had leaned over, his long beard scratching against Yaakov's cheek, and whispered in his ear, “
Abi gezunt—dos leben ken men zich alain nemen.
” Be sure to stay healthy—you can kill yourself later.

The trading had gone exceptionally well. Every last item that Jake had left in his cart was now gone. Every scrap of fabric, every thimble, every spool of thread, and the last two knives, all traded away for furs for coats and trim and snakeskins for belts and shoes. Now the only things in the cart, besides his grindstone, were the goods to be sold to his contacts in New York. As soon as he could get back to New Orleans, he'd send a flimsy to New York. He'd set forth both the shipping date on the next steamer headed out into the Gulf of Mexico and up the East Coast and the date of delivery of the goods to Isaac Haber & Co., the brokerage firm he dealt with in New Orleans. That would be followed by a confirming flimsy from Isaac Haber that the goods had been delivered and were as represented. The New York contacts would wire him the money, and the whole process would start anew. Jake would buy new supplies and then begin his rounds again.

Moshe had set up the system upon his return to New York, and Moshe would get a cut of each transaction. That was as it should be. Moshe as an arranger—perfect. But Moshe as a partner—never again.

They had been just north of Natchez, and the crowd had already gathered around them on the boat. They had threatened to throw a rope around Moshe's neck and hang him from the balcony right then and there. A quick death was too good for him, others had argued. A lingering death was what he needed, to teach him and others like him a lesson. They wanted to keelhaul him behind the paddle wheeler, letting him drown while being towed downstream in the swirling current of the river.

The steamboat captain had intervened, gun in hand, to hold off the crowd. One of the crew patted down Moshe, looking for weapons, and they found one of the excellent knives Moshe and Jake sold strapped in a leather sheath against Moshe's calf, under his trouser leg. That almost did it. Even the captain was considering turning him over to the crowd. But they were nearing the turn to Natchez, and when they docked, the sheriff had been summoned, had come aboard, and had dragged Moshe off in handcuffs.

Too sharp, they had said. Too sharp and too quick.

Jake had taken almost all that he and Moshe had saved up to trade in New Orleans and had given it to the sheriff for Moshe's bail. Then, retaining only enough to get himself to New Orleans, Jake had given the remainder to Moshe to make his way inland up to Vicksburg and catch the next steamer north. All the bail was forfeited. Moshe's name was still on wanted posters in Mississippi and down into Louisiana and up into Arkansas. Moshe could never come south again.

But for Jake the South was now home. Here he could make a good living. A very good living.

Jake took another large spoonful of the possum stew. As soon as the meal was done, now that the skies had cleared, he would head back to Cottoncrest and check on them.

Nimrod saw the lanky figure moving from out of the woods, across the road, toward the cabin. Although his eyesight was bad and he couldn't make out the man's features, Nimrod recognized the gait. The fact that the man was coming from the woods rather than down the road meant that he hadn't wanted to be seen coming to Little Jerusalem. And that meant trouble.

Taking his walking stick, Nimrod slowly and painfully started to make his way across the muddy yard, his bones creaking and the mud coating his bare feet. “Don't seem neighborly to be sneakin' up like that, do it?”

Marcus paused next to Nimrod and, giving his hand to his best friend since childhood, when they had been slaves together, led him to the large stump in the yard, where they both took a seat. Marcus picked up a small twig and started to scrape from his boots the thick mud he had picked up in his trek through the woods.

“Your clothes are soaked clean through,” Nimrod said, his hand still resting for support on Marcus's shoulder. The water had penetrated Marcus's light coat and was dripping down onto Nimrod's wrist and arm. “Why you want to sit out here all wet like? Come on inside, and we'll get Rossy to dry you out. Got a good fire goin' and hot stew. You know what they's say about possum stew, don't you. Will cure what ails you, and gives you what you ain't got.”

“No time, Nimrod. No time. You remember what it was like, back when, back when the Klan was roaming nightly?”

Nimrod didn't have to respond. Of course he remembered. He couldn't forget, even if he wanted to.

“It's gonna happen again, Nimrod. As bad—maybe worse—than before. The Colonel Judge is dead. Shot.”

Nimrod turned with a start, his cataract-filled eyes gazing at Marcus with amazement. “Don't tell me… was it one of us?”

“Hell no! I think it's the curse. That's what I think. Done shot himself, just like the General. And kilt Miss Rebecca too.”

Nimrod shook his head in dismay. “Black folks got no money, and when they got troubles, it's usually the troubles that others visit upon them. But white folks got money, and yet when white folks got troubles, it's the ones they bring upon themselves. Money and troubles just seem to go hand in hand. The curse, you say?”

Marcus nodded in agreement as he continued scraping the mud off his boots. “But Mr. Raifer don't think it's the curse, at least that's what I suspicion. And Tee Ray, he thinks the Peddler Man done it. Found the Peddler Man's trunk what he kept at the barn and found them fancy knives in it. Miss Rebecca, her head was cut almost clean off. Cut so clean it came off in Mr. Bucky's hands when he and Mr. Raifer were lookin' at everythin'. Blood everywhere. And her body up on the stairs and her head at the foot of it.”

“Merciful Lord!”

“Tee Ray is gettin' the Knights together. They're comin' to look for the Peddler Man. And they're gonna be lookin' at all the places the Peddler Man visits. That means they're comin' here. And you know how they're gonna be, all liquored up and spoilin' for an argument. They ain't gonna take kindly to any answers they don't like, and that means nothin' but trouble. You got to warn everyone in Little Jerusalem to get ready.”

“You can warn them yourself,” Nimrod said, pointing with this thumb toward Cooper and Rossy's cabin. “A lot of them are in there, 'course, 'cept for Keith and Peggy. They never come to anything, but you know that. They just stay back there in their cabin in the woods, all by their lonesome. Anyway, the rest of them are there, along with the Peddler Man himself.”

Marcus's eyes grew wide at this news. “Mr. Jake is here?” That wouldn't be good for Little Jerusalem at all. He stood up. “Then there really ain't much time. You stay here, old friend.”

Marcus walked briskly to the cabin and, not bothering to knock, opened the door. The voices that started to rise in warm greeting quickly grew silent when they saw the expression on his face, one of grim determination and great sadness.

Marcus quickly told them what had happened, and the group immediately began to scatter, heading back to their homes to hide their few possessions and send their children and women into the woods for shelter and protection and to prepare themselves for the evil night that they knew awaited them.

Rossy picked up her baby in one hand and began to gather her belongings with the other. Cooper took down his gun from over the fire-place. He wasn't going to use the gun; it was a single-shot muzzle-loader, and it would not do him any good against the many riders who were coming, but it was his most valuable possession, and he had to hide it.

While Rossy and Cooper went about their tasks, Jake took Marcus out the back, under the shed where Jake's cart was parked. Jake's face betrayed no trace of emotion.
Di gantseh velt iz ful mit shaidim; treib zai chotsh fun zich arois,
he thought. The whole world is full of demons; you just exorcise them out of yourself. That he had learned from his father and his uncle. Never show your emotions to outsiders. “What can you tell me about them?”

“Horrible, Mr. Jake, just horrible. Me and Cubit and Jordan had to clean up afterwards. The awfullest sight. Part of his head blowed off and her head cut off.”

“No, I mean…
them.
The others.”

“Oh, them? They're safe. Jenny saw to that. But she didn't tell Sally or me nothin' more than that they're safe. The lessen that we know, the better, she said.”

“How long do you think we have, Marcus?”

Marcus looked down at the cart. “Not enough time, Mr. Jake. Not enough. You've got to go, and go now. Get as far away as possible, and never come back.”

“Never?”

“Not as long as Tee Ray is alive. You've got to leave for good. Don't you understand? We've all got to leave. By tomorrow morning there ain't gonna be none of us at Cottoncrest. Not Sally. Not Jenny. Not Cubit or Jordan or me. We'll all be gone. Disappeared. It's Emancipation time. Not like we thought it was gonna be. Don't know where we'll end up, but I think Jenny is headed back to New Orleans. All I know is we got to get away. And when they find all of us gone…”

He didn't have to complete the thought. Jake knew that Marcus and Jenny couldn't stay, and once they left, more disasters were bound to follow.

Jake wanted to ask Marcus more, but Rossy came out the back door, followed by Cooper. “What you gonna do, Peddler Man,” Rossy inquired, “with all your goods? If'n the Knights are comin', you ain't safe either. Ain't no white man safe who trades with us and drinks and eats with us. And you can't take your cart. With all the mud on the road, you couldn't make time there even if you wanted to and had it to begin with.”