Clockwork Souls by Phyllis Irene Radford, Brenda W. Clough Page B

beyond the safe confines of the 1st’s camp.
    The air was damp; heavy and warm. Marie, accustomed to the
tropical climate of New Orleans, thought it pleasant enough.
    They skirted the neighboring camps, following the drums. At
length they reached the camp of a Negro regiment where a bonfire burned high
into the night. Drums rumbled, hands clapped. Occasionally a voice would sing
out for a moment, then fade. This was no structured music. This was the music
of a tribe.
    Marie stood listening, swaying slightly to the drums. Too
long had she been away from this; not since she had left New Orleans had she
danced.
    Someone came toward them from the fire. A soldier, yes, but
with eyes alight. Dominic took a step forward and the man stopped.
    “Madame Laveau! It is you!”
    Marie blinked. “Skinny Jim!”
    He grinned. “Not so skinny no more. Father Abraham feeds us
good!”
    The last time she had seen Jim, he had been a slave. He was
often seen about New Orleans, executing errands for his wealthy owners.
    Marie had met his gaze sometimes in the market as he
followed his master, carrying parcels. Now and then, when his master’s
attention was elsewhere, she had slipped Jim a coin and a kind word. How he had
gained his freedom she would not ask, but she was glad.
    “Come to the fire, Madame! Come and dance!”
    How sorely she was tempted. She shook her head. “I am not
dressed for dancing.”
    “Come anyway!”
    “Not tonight.”
    “Tomorrow?”
    She glanced at Dominic. He looked disapproving.
    “Perhaps.”
    “And you bring your snake, Madame?”
    “No, she is at home.”
    At home. Suddenly the longing struck her. She had not been much
troubled by it, being so busy, but seeing Jim brought back memories that made
her homesick.
    “Do not look so dour,” she said as she and Dominic turned
away. “It is only a dance.”
    They returned to their own camp to find that a meeting of
the headquarters staff had convened. Marie retired to her tent while Dominic
reported to Anthony.
    She opened her trunk and carefully moved aside her clothing
until she found what she wanted. Fabric of brilliant colors and lively
patterns. Fabric no white woman would be caught wearing.
    She drew out the headcloth, bright with patterns of white
against the purple and wine. Just touching it filled her with excitement. It
was far too long since she had worn it.
    Tomorrow night, she would dance. She closed the trunk and
sat back on her heels, softly smiling.

    The next day the entire regiment was on duty in the mine.
Evening came, and they did not return. The bread that Marie and Philomène had
baked cooled. They ate their own supper, then banked the fire beneath the stew
pot, and waited.
    Colonel Malcomb came into the camp, looking pleased. “Ramsey’s
missed his dinner, eh? Well, it shouldn’t go to waste. Bring me a plate.”
    He sat at Anthony’s camp table and looked expectantly at
Marie. She was on the verge of defying him. Only the thought that it might
bring trouble to Anthony prevented her.
    She caught Philomène’s eye and with a tiny jerk of her head,
sent her into the tent. When her daughter was out of sight, she dished up a
plate of stew for Malcomb.
    Why was he here, casually demanding supper, when the rest of
the officers were off with the regiment? While they toiled, he made himself
comfortable at their expense. It did not surprise Marie, particularly, but it
did offend her.
    “Excellent, excellent!” said Malcomb as he devoured the
stew. “Better than my own cook can do. I’m inclined to hire you away from
Ramsey.”
    Marie said nothing. To keep busy, she started a pot of
coffee. As soon as he smelled it, Ramsey demanded this, too. Marie poured
half-cooked coffee into a tin mug and gave it to him, then returned the pot to
the fire.
    This man would never know how she despised him. Because he
saw her only as a cook, he did not know her strength and determination. He did
not see her contempt.
    She formed a resolve to protect those