Through the Storm

  They both looked up to see Andre Renaud outlined against the tent’s opening.

  Embarrassment heated Sable’s cheeks as she stood in the major’s arms.

  Raimond was just plain mad. “What?”

  Clearly uncomfortable to be interrupting them, the glower on the major’s face not making it any easier for him, Andre stammered, “My apologies, but, uh, in the hubbub of tonight, Mrs. Fogel wasn’t paid.”

  Sable had no idea who Mrs. Fogel was.

  “Hurry up,” Raimond growled.

  Sable watched as Andre went to the big sea chest beside the cot.

  “Mrs. Fogel is our cook,” Raimond explained. “She prepared the meal for us last evening and for the soldiers who were married today.”

  “Is she the one who makes those heavenly biscuits?”

  “One and the same.”

  Andre seemed to be having trouble with the lock and key.

  “What the hell are you doing, Renaud?”

  “It won’t open. I told you you needed to have this lock replaced.”

  Raimond stormed over and managed to open the rusty-looking padlock, but once it came open the key would not come free. “I’ll have someone fix it soon. Here.”

  He tossed Andre a small bag that appeared to be made of black velvet. Andre caught it, shook out a few coins, and handed the bag back.

  Andre stood and bowed in Sable’s direction. “My apologies again, Miss Fontaine.”

  “Just go, Andre,” Raimond said impatiently.

  He did.

  Raimond pulled her back into his arms. “Now, where were we?”

  “You growled at him like an old bear.”

  “It’s what old bears do when they’re interrupted in the middle of eating their honey.”

  “You shouldn’t growl at Andre, he’s just doing his job, isn’t he?”

  “Do you wish to be kissed or to spend the time discussing Andre?”

  “You need to exercise more patience.”

  “If I do, will I get more kisses?”

  “You’re shameless.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, bien-amié.”

  “That means ‘sweetheart,’ doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Although Sable felt certain the endearment was one he employed often, it nonetheless gave her a thrill because she’d never been called sweetheart by any man before.

  He asked, “How much French do you understand?”

  “Quite a bit actually. Mavis’s tutor thought the world rose and set with the French, so we were forced to learn whether we cared to or not.”

  “Any other languages?”

  “A smattering of Spanish, German, and Latin.”

  “So you are as educated as you are beautiful?”

  “I am educated, but the beauty, that is debatable.”

  He stroked her cheek. “No, bijou, it is fact.”

  The tone of his voice told her he intended to kiss her again and he did, slowly, thoroughly, completely.

  Soon his hands were sliding circles over her back, and the kisses became more fervent, more dizzying. She felt as if she were melting inside and out. His touch set her aflame. She dropped her head back, and he placed sweet, fiery kisses on her throat, her jaw. When his hand came up and cupped her breast, the intensity made her moan softly. She knew she should not let him take such bold liberties, but she couldn’t find the words or the will to break the spell.

  He spoke against her ear, “Do you know how much I want to make you mine?”

  Sable wanted to be his, wanted to know what it meant to be consumed by passion.

  “Were you mine, I’d make love to you before the fire and watch the flames reflect against your skin…”

  His words conjured up such sensuous pictures in her mind, she trembled in response.

  “I’d spend hours scenting your skin with the finest perfumes my gold could buy…Then I’d kiss you here…” he promised as his lips closed over her nipple through the thin material of her ragged dress. “And here…” he added, moving his caress to her other breast. Sable moaned and arched as her nipple peaked within his warm mouth.

  “I’d kiss all of you, bijou, all of you.”

  Sable wasn’t sure how long she could remain standing. His lips were magicians, his hands tempters. She and Bridget had talked about being rendered insane by passion, but Sable was only now beginning to understand just how overwhelming being with a man could be. His heated words were enough to put her in a spiral; were he to touch her as he wished, she knew she would ignite and burn. Her nipples were hard and yearning, and parts of her body she never knew could be set afire were blazing under his sensual tutoring. Taking her cue from him, she ran her hands over the strong lines of his back and arms and nibbled his full bottom lip.

  The sound of gunshots startled them both. Raimond backed away and moved quickly to the tent’s open flap. He heard the return fire of Union rifles, women screaming, men shouting.

  “What’s happening?” Sable cried.

  “I don’t know. Stay here until I get back.”

  He grabbed up his gun and ran out.

  Sable began to pace anxiously. The sound of shots became louder as more guns joined in. What in heaven’s name could be happening? A heartbeat later, Bridget ran in. “Oh Lord, thank goodness I found you. The camp’s under attack. We have to leave. Right now.”

  “Under attack by whom?”

  “Reb cavalry. Come on.”

  Bridget grabbed Sable’s arm, but she pulled away. “No, the major wants me to wait.”

  “Fontaine, you don’t have time. Borden’s looking for you. He has Morse with him.”

  “But—”

  Into the tent rushed a White soldier Sable did not recognize. “Come on Bridget!” he snapped.

  “Fontaine, this is Randolph Baker,” Bridget said. “He’s one of Sherman’s aides. Tell her what you told me.”

  “I heard Morse and Borden talking last night. They made a deal. Morse gave Borden gold on the understanding that you’d be turned over to him. Borden says he has Sherman’s approval to do so.”

  “No!” Sable couldn’t believe it.

  Outside, the guns were still reverberating and chaotic cries filled the night air.

  “I want to wait for the major.”

  “Dammit, Fontaine, he can’t help you. He’s being brought up on charges for threatening Borden. Randolph handled the papers less than an hour ago. Do you have any money?”

  “No.” Sable was beginning to catch Bridget’s fear. Having been a slave, she began to question whether a man of the race could indeed protect her from such powerful enemies, but she’d die before she was taken back.

  Bridget said hastily, “You’ll need money, Fontaine. Does he keep any here?”

  Sable remembered the bag in the chest. “Yes, but I don’t want to steal from him.”

  “Fontaine, do you want to go back on the block?”

  That prospect sealed her decision. She had to flee. She ran to the chest beside Raimond’s cot and prayed he would understand. The broken lock gave her immediate access to the small velvet bag. She emptied out a handful of coins but Bridget said, “Take it all, you’ll need it to get North.”

  Sable swallowed her guilt and did as she was told. At the last minute, she turned her back and untied the gold bracelet from her drawers. She put it inside the bag, then placed the bag back in the chest. She looked up to see Randolph Baker rifling through the papers on the major’s makeshift desk.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Looking for passes so we can get through the lines.” He snatched up some papers and slipped them inside his coat. Just as he did, the major returned. Sable opened her mouth to greet him only to see Baker slip up behind him and bludgeon him in the back of the head with the butt end of his rifle. LeVeq’s surprise mirrored Sable’s own as he dropped to the ground like a stone.

  Sable ran to him, screaming to Baker, “Why did you do that?” She quickly checked
Raimond for injuries. He appeared to be breathing, but was out cold. “Why?!” she snapped again.

  Bridget explained. “Randolph is deserting, Sable. He can’t risk being seen.”

  “Bridget, he could have killed him!”

  Baker knelt at Raimond’s side and placed his head against his chest. “He’s still breathing, let’s go!”

  Still on her knees beside him, Sable was torn between wanting to escape and wanting to aid the man she loved.

  “Come on, Fontaine!” Bridget implored. “Come on!”

  Sable’s vow not to return to slavery overrode all else. She took a moment to kiss Raimond softly and whisper, “I’m sorry,” before she followed Bridget’s hasty retreat.

  Chapter 8

  Boston, 1865

  Sable looked out at the gray March day and yearned for the balmy winters of Georgia. Boston’s frigid temperatures made her wonder if she would ever be warm again. Her employer, Mrs. Jackson, assured her spring would come, but the knee-high snow presently blanketing the street made Sable seriously doubt the claim.

  She’d been in Massachusetts since late November. The hasty flight she’d taken from Georgia with Bridget and Randolph Baker had culminated here after nearly a month of walking, taking trains, and hitching rides with others fleeing the war. More than once, to her absolute surprise, Baker had donned a Confederate uniform to cross disputed territory, and Bridget and Sable had posed as his slaves. At the time Sable wouldn’t have cared if he’d posed as Mr. Lincoln himself if it helped her escape reenslavement.

  Raimond LeVeq still weighed heavily on her mind. Every time she thought back, the memory of him lying prone and still on the tent’s dirt floor tore at her heart. What must he think of her? Or did he even think of her at all? She’d vowed to return the money she’d stolen from him, though she had no idea how she would find him to do so.

  Upon their arrival in Boston, Baker had gone on to his family upstate, leaving Bridget and Sable alone in a city where neither woman knew a soul. Bridget’s desire to establish herself as quickly as possible sent her in search of a brothel that would take her on. Sable had no such aspirations. She gave Bridget a hug and a vow to remain in touch, then set out to find a more traditional way to make a living.

  For the first week or so, she stayed in the basement of one of the Black churches, using the name Elizabeth Clark just in case Morse had trailed her North. Like most refugees she was provided a cot on which to sleep, a few changes of used clothing and a hot meal once a day. Some of the church ladies were generous enough to help her learn a bit about the city, and in exchange Sable helped them with the makeshift school they’d organized by teaching reading and sums to some of the local children. When Sable politely asked if they knew anyone who might employ her, they directed her to a semi-invalid member of the congregation, an elderly woman named Verena Jackson. Mrs. Jackson, a leading member of Boston’s Black elite, needed a companion. At the initial interview Sable and Mrs. Jackson got along so well that less than three weeks after coming to Boston, Sable had a job. Her duties included reading to the nearly blind woman and seeing to her needs.

  Mrs. Jackson, a native of Louisiana, was not well. She’d come North thirty years ago upon marrying her second husband and she would soon be seventy. Her advanced age and Boston’s cold weather had taken their toll on her health. In the spring, war or no war, Mrs. Jackson was determined to return South. The feisty old lady vowed not to be buried where it snowed.

  Mrs. Jackson hadn’t been feeling well for the past few days. As a precaution, Sable had sent one of the neighborhood children around with a note to the doctor. He was presently examining the elderly woman. His footsteps entering the parlor drew Sable from her reverie.

  “Miss Clark, Mrs. Jackson is resting quietly now. She should stay in bed for the next few days.”

  Sable chuckled. “Who’s going to tell her that, you or me?”

  The kindly old doctor smiled in reply. “Certainly not me.”

  They both knew how stubborn she could sometimes be.

  “She insists upon going to hear Mr. Douglass speak tomorrow,” Sable said.

  “Well, she can’t. You tell her. At least she’ll listen to you.”

  “Only sometimes,” Sable reminded him.

  “She never listens to me. Hasn’t for the fifteen years I’ve known her.”

  “Maybe the freezing temperatures will deter her, though I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Is she still set upon going South?”

  “Soon as Lee surrenders, she says. I haven’t been able to dissuade her.”

  “The journey may kill her.”

  “I know, but she is determined. Is her cough a sign of something more serious?”

  Sable had grown very fond of Verena in the short time they’d been together.

  “Just congestion from her cold. I left a draught on her nightstand.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Ellis.”

  “You’re welcome. So, have you thought about that proposal I put to you?”

  Dr. Ellis had been trying to match Sable with his youngest son since the day she and the doctor had first met.

  He added, “I’d be real proud to call you an Ellis, Miss Clark.”

  “I’m flattered, Dr. Ellis, but I’m not looking for a beau. I’d like to settle into my position first. Please don’t be offended. If your son is as fine a gentleman as you are, I’m sure I’ll be pleased to meet him someday soon.”

  “Just thought I’d ask, no offense taken.”

  Sable escorted him to the door. He tipped his hat and headed down the snowy walk.

  Mrs. Jackson was sitting up in bed when Sable came up to check on her. “That ol’ sawbones wants me to stay in bed, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think you should follow his advice.”

  Verena snorted. “What time is Fred Douglass speaking tomorrow?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You aren’t going.”

  Verena slumped back against the pillows like a sullen child. “You’re as bad as Ellis.”

  “And you are going to get wrinkles, pouting that way.”

  Verena grinned. “Wrinkles? I’ve more wrinkles now than a dried apple.”

  “But you’re much prettier.”

  Verena shook her head. “I do adore you, Elizabeth. Those other two girls I hired before you shook in their boots every time I so much as looked at them. You’ve a backbone, child. I like that.”

  “I like you too, Mrs. Jackson. How about I read the paper to you for a while, then fix us some luncheon?”

  “You have a deal, miss. First, though, is that ol’ sawbones Ellis still trying to get you yoked to that varmint son of his?”

  Sable couldn’t hide her grin. “He did mention his son today, yes.”

  “Well, the minute you see him, start running. He’s handsome but he’s a cad. Some young ladies see his smile and forget you’re not supposed to let a man sample the milk until he buys the cow, if you get my meaning.”

  “I do.”

  Sable thought back on the handsome Raimond LeVeq and his devastating smile. Shaking off the sadness, she asked, “Shall I read the papers now?”

  “By all means.”

  When Sable first began her job as Mrs. Jackson’s companion, the papers were filled with reports of Sherman’s remarkable march to the sea. After pulling out of Atlanta on the fifteenth of November, he and his sixty-two thousand men headed south to conquer Savannah, 285 miles away. Although Wheeler’s Rebs destroyed bridges, toppled trees in their path and mined the roads, their actions did little to slow Sherman’s daunting twelve-mile-a-day pace. His men spread out like locusts over the land, foraging for food and destroying everything of military value to the South, and anything they could not eat. They stole from farms, homesteads, and slave cabins; they made Sherman neckties out of the railroads, burned cotton, encouraged slaves to run, and generally caused hell for the people of Georgia. But Sherman’s men
weren’t the only ones plaguing the citizens of the state. Deserters from Wheeler’s own cavalry were just as lawless. Their actions caused one Southern newspaper to angrily conclude, “I don’t think the Yankees are any worse than our own army.”

  On December 10, the ten thousand Confederate soldiers defending the city of Savannah fled rather than be trapped inside the city by the men in Union blue. General Sherman sent President Lincoln a telegram that read: “I beg to present to you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with 150 heavy guns and about 2,500 bales of cotton.” Marching into the city with Sherman and his troops on that triumphant day were his corps of Black teamsters, Black laborers, and the ten thousand contrabands who’d trailed him from Atlanta.

  Like most members of the race, Sable and Verena were always eager for news of the 180,000 Black soldiers and the 30,000 Black naval men who were fighting the war. The United States Colored Troops comprised 120 infantry regiments, twelve heavy artillery regiments, ten light artillery batteries and seven cavalry regiments. Black troops guarded Confederate soldiers in places like Point Lookout, Maryland, and Rock Island, Illinois. They fought against small bands of guerrillas, protected contrabands growing Union cotton, and did not desert as often as their White counterparts despite impressment, unequal treatment and pay, and the threat of being captured and sold into slavery.

  Sable was elated to read that the first soldiers to enter the conquered city of Charleston on February 18 were the Black Twenty-first United States Colored Troop, and two companies of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts. The article she read to Mrs. Jackson went on to say that following the Fifty-fourth were men of the old Third and Fourth South Carolina regiments, many of whom had been among the city’s eighteen thousand resident slaves when the war began.

  Before coming North she’d had no idea so many Black men were in the war. Each day as newspaper reports of their accomplishments filed in, she felt more and more proud. Their bravery and courage during battles at such places as Miliken’s Bend, Fort Pillow, Battery Wagner, and Olustee showed a previously doubting country that, yes, they were men.