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That amazed him, and he wondered how many other people knew nothing about the two convents of Black women of the Catholic church.
The traffic came to a stop, and puzzlement filled her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Not sure why we aren’t moving. Maybe there’s a funeral procession or a trolley accident up ahead.” She stood and peered down the street to try and determine why they weren’t moving. Off in the distance came the sound of horns. He knew from talking to his father that New Orleans celebrated funeral with horns. “Is it a funeral?”
“No.”
Her face was now etched with concern. She looked around, and then behind her. “We need to get over to the side.”
Other vehicles were doing the same. She reined the mare to the right while trying to avoid crashing into the wagons and buggies nearby. People on the walks had come to a stop as well. Vendors on the street corners were hastily moving their stands. The horns sounded closer. “What’s this mean?”
“Supremacists are marching.”
He froze.
She explained while she jockeyed for a space, “Now that the Democrats control the state government again and the soldiers are gone, they’re bold enough to do what they want, when theywant.” She finally managed to get them to a spot away from the middle of the road and set the brake. Moments later, the men marched silently into view. They were in columns of five across. Brax estimated there were one hundred in the procession. All wore white cotton robes with a white flower on the chest.
“Because Congress banned the Klan back in ’71, the supremacists now call themselves rifle groups,” she explained with disgust. “This one is known as the New Knights of the White Camelia.”
The participants’ faces were hidden inside burlap hoods with holes cut out for their eyes. In their hands were rifles, clubs, coils of thick ropes, and bullwhips. It was a show of force meant to intimidate. As they moved into full view, the surrounding quiet was so heavy it was as if the world was holding its breath. A blast from their horns pierced the air and was greeted with a smattering of applause and a few hearty cheers from some of the observers, but the majority of those on the walks and in the jumble of vehicles simply watched. He glanced at Raven and noted her grimly set features and the rifle across her lap. That she was prepared to protect herself pleased the soldier in him.
“Do they do this often?”
“Often enough.”
Northern newspapers, both Black and White, were filled with reports of the deterioratingsituation in the South brought on by the withdrawal of the last federal soldiers in place since the surrender of the Confederacy. The newly instituted state constitutions cobbled together by Black majority conventions in places like Louisiana, Georgia, and South Carolina were being replaced by ones returning legislative control to those who’d initiated the war. The moves signaled the demise of Reconstruction, and newly freed Black citizens were paying the cost of the reversals with the erosion of their rights and with their lives.
After the supremacists moved on and out of view, traffic began untangling itself, and he and Raven were once again under way. Brax knew he’d always remember this.
The shop owned by Henrietta Moreau turned out to be more of a small warehouse than the traditional store he’d imagined it to be. They’d entered through a door in the back, and the dimly lit interior was so crammed with items it reminded him of his grandparents’ attic. As he and Raven snaked their way down a narrow aisle in the middle of the chaos, he spotted picture frames, farm implements, cooper’s barrels, and stacked wood. Tables laden with tarnished cook pots stood next to wooden crates filled with plates, teapots, and long-handled wooden spoons. They skirted horse collars, dress forms, stacks of bricks, fishing poles, books, and two rocking chairs. As they neared the front, theinterior brightened to show racks of clothing, hobbyhorses, waders, sewing notions, and one wall of shelves holding folded bolts of cloth. In the midst of this were customers milling about. A man with a little girl were going through a table filled with shoes. Assisting them was a tiny birdlike woman wearing a gray dress and a matching tignon adorned with glass beads and feathers. The woman looked up and saw him and Raven, and a smile crossed her aged but unlined copper-skinned face. “Raven. How are you, darling?” The musical lilt in her speech was like Raven’s.
A smiling Raven walked into the woman’s open arms for a hug. “Hello, Etta. How are you?”
“Fine, dear, just fine.”
Raven stepped out of the embrace and the woman looked at him. “Is this the intended groom I’ve been hearing so much about?”
Raven threw up her hands. “Does everyone in New Orleans know about this?”
“I think so, honey. Hazel stopped by earlier to let me know you two were coming and told me everything. I even met his handsome father. Maybe we’ll have two weddings.”
Raven sighed and introduced him. “This is Braxton Steele. Steele, this is my second cousin, Henrietta Moreau.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Same here. Oh, Raven, you two are going to make such beautiful babies.”
Raven growled. “We’re not making babies.”
“Sure you are. Dorrie’s never wrong. Were I thirty years younger, you and I would be throwing dice for this handsome fella. Winner take all.”
Raven dragged her hands down her face. Brax tried not to show his amusement. Raven might be in control of many things, but her family was not among them.
Etta glanced around as if not wanting to be overheard and asked, “Has he kissed you yet?”
“Etta!”
