Read Online Through the Storm by Beverly Jenkins - Free Book Online
Authors: Beverly Jenkins
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common day dress, made of black and white checked gingham, was neither fashionable nor elegant, but it fit, as did the rough muslin drawers. Sable made a point of securing Mahti’s bracelet to the strings of her drawers before pushing her bare feet into her worn slippers. Shoes were going to be a real need very soon. She doubted these would hold together much longer.
Mrs. Reese ushered Sable into her tent to finish acquainting her with her duties. “I’ll pay you ten cents a day. The days you don’t work, you don’t get paid. Some of the girls have regular laundry customers, so make sure you don’t horn in on somebody else’s territory.”
Sable nodded her understanding, then asked, “What about meals?”
“You can eat the army rations like everyone else here and take your chances with the salt horse or the lobcourse—”
“Salt horse?”
“It’s army beef so full of salt you have to soak it in water for hours before you can eat it. Most times though, after it’s soaked, you find it’s so rancid you can’t get near enough to eat it for the smell.”
Sable’s nose wrinkled. “What’s lobcourse?”
“Soup. Made out of salt pork, hardtack, and anything else the army cooks can find to throw in the pot.”
“Neither sounds very appetizing.”
“They’re not. I can cook for you if you’d like, but in exchange, I take twenty cents a week out of your pay. On Sundays you’re on own. My food isn’t fancy, but you won’t starve like some folks here.”
Since Sable was in no position to quibble, she agreed.
Chapter 3
M ajor Raimond LeVeq put down his pen and stretched wearily. He’d been doing paperwork for most of the day and was tired. Because no one in the local Union command had the time, or in some cases the desire, to deal with the ever increasing numbers of contrabands arriving daily, it had been left to him. He was in charge of what the army had loosely dubbed contraband liaison. General Benjamin Butler had recommended him for the post, and he now reported to Colonel John Eaton, tapped by Grant in 1862 to be superintendent of contraband for the Mississippi Valley.
Raimond had joined the fight as a member of the famed First Louisiana Native Guard, whose ranks were successors of the highly decorated regiment of free Blacks who had helped Andrew Jackson repel the British during the War of 1812. He’d been transferred to this Georgia camp less than a month ago. Helping contrabands bridge the transition to freedom had not been his reason for going to war, but he knew conditions here would be infinitely worse were he not present to help manage the chaos.
Raimond’s aide, Andre Renaud, knocked on the partially open door. “May I come in?”
“If I say no, will you go away?”
“Probably not,” the younger man admitted with a smile.
Raimond beckoned him to enter. Andre did, followed by a disgruntled-looking soldier.
Andre made the introductions. “Major, this is Private Dawson Marks. He beat up the sutler.”
“Congratulations, soldier. I only wish I’d been there to lend my boot to him too.”
Sutlers were one-man general stores, appointed by the government and contracted one to a regiment to sell supplies to the troops. Most were greedy bastards who took full advantage of their monopoly by selling necessities at prices far above the standard. Charlie Handler, the sutler there, sold butter for the outrageous price of one dollar a pound, and Mr. Borden’s condensed milk for seventy-five cents a can. Only the six-for-a-quarter molasses cookies, a favorite of the Union troops, were reasonably affordable.
Raimond told the soldier, “Private Marks, in spite of how we all feel about the sutler, I have to put you on report.”
“But he cheated me.”
“Son, he cheats everyone. How much does he owe you?”
“Sixty cents.”
“I’ll see it’s returned to you before the end of the day. In the meantime, you’re assigned to stable-cleaning detail for the next two days.
Mrs. Reese ushered Sable into her tent to finish acquainting her with her duties. “I’ll pay you ten cents a day. The days you don’t work, you don’t get paid. Some of the girls have regular laundry customers, so make sure you don’t horn in on somebody else’s territory.”
Sable nodded her understanding, then asked, “What about meals?”
“You can eat the army rations like everyone else here and take your chances with the salt horse or the lobcourse—”
“Salt horse?”
“It’s army beef so full of salt you have to soak it in water for hours before you can eat it. Most times though, after it’s soaked, you find it’s so rancid you can’t get near enough to eat it for the smell.”
Sable’s nose wrinkled. “What’s lobcourse?”
“Soup. Made out of salt pork, hardtack, and anything else the army cooks can find to throw in the pot.”
“Neither sounds very appetizing.”
“They’re not. I can cook for you if you’d like, but in exchange, I take twenty cents a week out of your pay. On Sundays you’re on own. My food isn’t fancy, but you won’t starve like some folks here.”
Since Sable was in no position to quibble, she agreed.
Chapter 3
M ajor Raimond LeVeq put down his pen and stretched wearily. He’d been doing paperwork for most of the day and was tired. Because no one in the local Union command had the time, or in some cases the desire, to deal with the ever increasing numbers of contrabands arriving daily, it had been left to him. He was in charge of what the army had loosely dubbed contraband liaison. General Benjamin Butler had recommended him for the post, and he now reported to Colonel John Eaton, tapped by Grant in 1862 to be superintendent of contraband for the Mississippi Valley.
Raimond had joined the fight as a member of the famed First Louisiana Native Guard, whose ranks were successors of the highly decorated regiment of free Blacks who had helped Andrew Jackson repel the British during the War of 1812. He’d been transferred to this Georgia camp less than a month ago. Helping contrabands bridge the transition to freedom had not been his reason for going to war, but he knew conditions here would be infinitely worse were he not present to help manage the chaos.
Raimond’s aide, Andre Renaud, knocked on the partially open door. “May I come in?”
“If I say no, will you go away?”
“Probably not,” the younger man admitted with a smile.
Raimond beckoned him to enter. Andre did, followed by a disgruntled-looking soldier.
Andre made the introductions. “Major, this is Private Dawson Marks. He beat up the sutler.”
“Congratulations, soldier. I only wish I’d been there to lend my boot to him too.”
Sutlers were one-man general stores, appointed by the government and contracted one to a regiment to sell supplies to the troops. Most were greedy bastards who took full advantage of their monopoly by selling necessities at prices far above the standard. Charlie Handler, the sutler there, sold butter for the outrageous price of one dollar a pound, and Mr. Borden’s condensed milk for seventy-five cents a can. Only the six-for-a-quarter molasses cookies, a favorite of the Union troops, were reasonably affordable.
Raimond told the soldier, “Private Marks, in spite of how we all feel about the sutler, I have to put you on report.”
“But he cheated me.”
“Son, he cheats everyone. How much does he owe you?”
“Sixty cents.”
“I’ll see it’s returned to you before the end of the day. In the meantime, you’re assigned to stable-cleaning detail for the next two days.
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