Lords of an Empty Land (11 page)

“Yes, a large planter. One of the few back on his feet. He's done very well since the war. Why?”

“Cyrus Carter recommended I go see him. He might be able to help me quell these gangs.”

“Maybe. Some say he survived the war by secretly selling provisions to the Federal Army. If that's so, it might make him more helpful. On the other hand, it may make him more adversarial. Hating the Yank to cover his sins. I always thought him an opportunist, but nobody around here has more to lose if the current order gets tilted.”

“Cyrus says he wants to ride with me, help hunt the judge's killers. Not sure that's what I want, but I don't have any choice. He'll storm in there and shoot everybody and everything up. He's also arranged a meeting between me and Senator Dunn tomorrow at six in the evening. You want to go with me? Aren't you a favorite of the senator's?”

“Yes, I'll go. It's a lovely ride out to his place. I don't like Cyrus. His ways aren't effective. He stirs up too many people.” Hannah paused before continuing, changing her tone to a more serious nature. “The judge was right. You can't just kill these bandits. You'll have to subdue them through legal means. If you just murder them, more will materialize. I know these people. If you show them disobedience of the law will not be tolerated, that there's a government here that upholds the law, they will change. Just killing them will only quell the short-term problem. With that method, it will take fifty years for civility to take hold here.”

Douglas pulled Hannah closer to him. He slid one of his legs between hers. She was right, but these details made his job that much more cumbersome. He closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep, and put these thoughts off until tomorrow.

The heir to a long line of cotton planters, State Senator Marshall Dunn owned the largest estate in the region. It had been in his family for more than a century. Before the war, he had operated the leading and most successful plantation in Winn Parish, worked by several hundred slaves. His large farming and ginning complex sat on a bend in the Red River, on nearly three thousand acres, some of Louisiana's richest soil.

At the end of hostilities, he had been one of the first of the planter class in the region to “swallow the dog,” as the locals said, and swear his allegiance to the Union. He had even taken up the Republican cause and been elected to the State Senate, primarily with the support of black voters.

Hannah and Douglas had been riding for almost an hour when they topped a one-hundred-foot ridge to see the vast Dunn Plantation, resting like a portrait in the alluvial valley below, the Red River in the distance. The scene stood wonderful, the fields lying over the land like a checkerboard, the straight ditch lines and roads bisecting them. A half-mile ahead along the ridge, above the annual high water, the plantation headquarters glistened in the late-day sun.

Douglas had stopped to point out a panther lying in the grass below and a hundred yards away, his six-foot-long, golden body visible in the grass only from above. “We better get going,” he whispered to Hannah.

“He's so beautiful,” Hannah said, handing Douglas his field glasses.

“We're going to be late,” Douglas said, exhorting his horse along. “What do you know about Senator Dunn?”

“I've known him since I was a kid. He only recently took over the Dunn plantation. His parents both fled during the war. Took their money and moved somewhere up North, Philadelphia I think. You know Mr. Dunn keeps a common-law Negro wife—a son by her, too.” Hannah pulled abreast of Douglas.

“I've heard. Only met the man twice, in town.” The two rode under a brick arch that led down a short road to a large residence. The Dunn house, though large, wasn't gaudy. Single-storied, it had plain wood siding and a small porch, giving it a more practical, mundane, and working appearance as opposed to many of the more grandiose residences in the area. Unlike many of the plantation homes, only the stables and carriage house stood near the manse, but the vast farm enveloping the headquarters' grounds added to the magnificence. The two rode past a noisy chicken pen and an elderly black man standing beside the drive, sucking on a mouthful of snuff.

Douglas pulled back on his reins at a hitching post in front of the house. On the porch stood three men: Cyrus Carter, Senator Dunn, and Juba Sampson, the latter the black commander of a local colored regiment of the Louisiana State Militia.

Douglas tipped his hat. “Good evening, gentlemen. I'm assuming all three of you know Miss Butler.”

Hannah tipped her own hat, grabbed Douglas's hand, and got off her horse. As she did, Douglas inspected the three men again. They couldn't have been more different. Cyrus was a Northerner, educated, well dressed, and more a trained soldier than anything else. Marshall Dunn, in his mid-forties, was disgustingly overweight, almost bald, and walked with a severe limp that required a cane and had prevented him from serving in the Confederate Army. The third man, Captain Juba Sampson, today wore his uniform, almost identical to Union Army standard issues. He was a literate ex-slave, and Douglas regarded him as nothing more than a hired gunslinger in the mold of Basil.

The Louisiana State Militia wasn't a real army or police force. It had been formed by the Northern governor, Henry Clay Warmoth, not to fight, but to protect freedmen and unionists, most notably during elections or exercises in the democratic process. It was there to prop up and protect the foreign Republican government. The black regiments were forbidden from drilling in public and conducting any exercises at all unless ordered by the governor. Juba's regiment of seventy or so men represented the militia's only presence in the four-parish area.

Douglas knew that Juba interpreted his orders rather liberally. In fact, the militia captain often employed clan tactics, riding during the night with his government-sanctioned posse administering his own form of justice. He also knew none of these men had a chance of surviving a brawl with the locals. It meant certain annihilation. Even where troops were abundant, it took the army and all its resources just to keep the bandits at bay. But Juba was unrepentant. Like many blacks, he distrusted most whites, and Douglas thought he was reckless and his ambition exceeded his brains. The Negro commander had become hypnotized by his new power over his former masters. Douglas identified with the danger of this. During the war, he had seen many Federal officers, most good men, become spellbound with their newfound power. In the end, this intoxication led to an infallible self-righteousness that oftentimes resulted in merciless and unjust deeds, the officers becoming callous to death and never wanting to give up the struggle, or relinquish their authority.

Senator Dunn asked, “When's General Grant and the army going to send us some more troops to keep the peace?”

“Don't know,” Douglas replied, tying his reins. He turned to Cyrus and Juba. “Wasn't expecting the entire government contingent here.”

“Let's go inside,” the senator said. “Have some tea and talk politics.”

Juba stepped forward. He looked at Douglas, then Hannah before speaking in a deep, domineering voice. “No offense, but not sure I want to talk about anything in front of the daughter of a Confederate colonel.”

“If you're going to talk to
me,
you're going to talk to
her,
” Douglas responded.

“The death of Hannah's uncle is a tragedy,” Senator Dunn continued, chaperoning the four into his spacious kitchen. “But there's no need for us to do anything rash or uncalled for. We should find and punish the perpetrators, lawfully. There's no need for us to do any more. I've always maintained we should stay above that. Time is the only thing that will mend this area, make it conform to the new conventions of the world, and time will do it without bloodshed. It's the only thing that will work.”

“That time may be after we're dead,” Cyrus snapped. “The way things are going, that time for us may not be much more than the judge's. I'm not going to wait around to be slaughtered.”

“Me either,” Juba said.

Senator Dunn sat down at the large wooden table in the kitchen, gesturing for everyone else to do likewise. “You can't fight these people, collectively. These men are warriors, born in battle. The army never defeated them. They're more proficient, organized, and motivated than the worst Apaches or Comanches Captain Owens's army is sparring with out west. And more numerous. They've got iron nerves, and aren't going anywhere. You can't run them off. You'd have to exterminate them . . . an impractical task.”

“You've got a higher assessment of these no-account bastards than objective analysis merits,” Cyrus said, continuing to stand. His voice rose. “We can't continue to let them run roughshod over us!”

An elderly black woman entered the room and set a tray with a pitcher and five glasses on the table. Not getting any instructions from the senator, she turned and left the kitchen.

“These mysterious masked men have visited me a few times,” the senator said. “Told me to leave, go somewhere else, threatened me. They don't scare me.”

“You may be able to be a little more brash than me,” Cyrus said. “You employ or provide for fifteen percent of the parish, in some form. It's a little harder to get rid of you than me.”

Douglas sat down and motioned for Hannah to join him at the table. He looked at the large kitchen, the dozens of pots hanging over the woodstove. “I've requested more troops, will probably get some. I'm going after these outlaws with everything I can muster, going to catch them and try them in a Federal court. Anybody who wants to ride with me can be deputized and join the hunt. But we're going to do this all under army regs. I'm here to ask for your help. To see if you know of any men who might join me, or if you can get the governor to send up some more state militia, that would be helpful.” Douglas paused. He turned to Juba. “I don't want your militia unless it's been ordered to help. No offense, but I don't want any black troops unless they're enlisted soldiers in the army or ordered here by the governor.”

Douglas hadn't wanted to make this last statement. He had thought about it for a while, and how to say it. Weeks before he had determined it. Negro troops incited the local population. Negro troops enlisted in the army and sent here by someone far away was one thing, but raising a local army of local Negro men was an entirely different matter, not likely to be well received by anybody. It would only make his job harder. He continued to look at Juba. “I'm just trying to get a job done properly, the only way I think I can get it done.”

“You can swear me in now,” Cyrus said.

“I'll have it telegraphed off tomorrow,” Douglas added.

“I'll ask around,” Senator Dunn said, “see if anybody wants to help. I should be able to find a few good men to ride with you.”

Juba slowly, meticulously put on his hat. “I can see my trip over here was a waste of time. I don't give a shit whether you want me. I've got plenty of the Lord's work to do already. I won't be staying for tea.” The captain turned on his heels and made for the door.

The next afternoon, Douglas sat in his office looking down at the telegraph he had carefully drafted that morning, reading over it silently.

Douglas folded up the paper and looked through a stack of newspapers that had arrived that morning by steamer. He skimmed over a few headlines, reading them aloud to Huff, sitting beside him. “They are calling it Black Friday in New York. Nothing to do with Negroes. Jay Gould, a very rich man, and his partner have tried to buy all the gold in the United States. They say it may cause an economic collapse.”

“Any news I should care about?” Huff said.

Douglas scanned the headlines. “Yeah, President Grant appointed the first Negro ambassador in American history to Haiti, that's a country in the sea off Florida that's mostly colored. And the first train arrived in San Francisco. The Transcontinental Railroad is complete. A man can now cross the whole country from sea to sea in six days.”

Huff picked up the paper and looked at a hand-drawn image of the train.

“Huff, why don't you go see that lady who's teaching the Negro kids to read. I can have the army pay for it. I'll just get the cost lost in the shuffle somewhere.”

“I's too old to learn all that stuff in 'em books.”

Basil walked in the room and fumbled through the mail until he found the New Orleans paper. He sat down, propped his boots on the table, and opened the daily. “Now the damn women want the right to vote, they've formed a suffrage association. Give these niggers the right to vote and the whole system gets turned upside down. God damn, won't be long before I have to go to Mexico to have a good time.”

Huff looked at Basil, then slowly stood and walked off.

Douglas flashed his gaze at Huff and then Basil, lowering the paper. “Florida's passed the Fifteenth Amendment. That's enough with the Yankee states. Everybody will be able to vote soon, like it or not.”

“Yeah, I know, and Grant's about to let Virginia back in the Union too.” Basil coughed hard a few times and looked over his paper at Douglas. “I don't know why you read that Yankee paper. It's got no relevance down here. Like reading a paper from France.”

“That cough's getting bad. I want you to go see the doctor. I may need you.”

“What you been up to all morning?”

“Just gathering forces, trying to formulate my plan. I'm waiting on a telegraph from Shreveport today that may help my cause, and then I want to go over it with you. . . . I got a tip that the local Taxpayers' League is meeting in secret tonight, out on a farm near Alligator Bayou. Get some rest this afternoon. We're going out there tonight and see what transpires at those meetings. There's a special election here in a few weeks to replace a local Republican State Representative, an elderly Negro preacher, who died a month or so ago. The Democrats are probably gearing up for the election.”

Basil lit a cigarette. “Who killed him?”

“Nobody, died of natural causes. We investigated it. He just fell over dead at the dinner table one night.”

“Any sign of Francis Garrett?”

Douglas lifted a piece of paper off the table and handed it to Basil. “None. Got a Federal warrant for him.”

“He's gone to Texas, I suppose.”

“You hear anything lately?”

“Not much, other than the whore I've taken up with is Sheriff Thaxton's favorite. Don't suspect he's too pleased with the fact she's now with me.”

“Any news in that Reb paper?”

“Yeah, looks like the army and Republicans got Bob Lee over in East Texas. This Major Chaffee and his local posse of unionists must be a lot of mean, determined sons-a-bitches. I ran with some of those boys back in the war. They're as tough as nails, and fine Southern gentlemen, though apparently not conforming to the new ways of the world.”

Douglas set down his paper. “What's with you, Basil? You used to do the Rebs' bidding, and now you're working for us. I hear you've been up in Arkansas working for Governor Powell.”

“He's a sorry lot. I work for whoever can pay me. Used to be the Rebs, but now you're the only ones with money. But the radicals up in Arkansas have pert' near licked the clans. They got a firmer hand on the situation. They're better organized, got better government men.”

Douglas frowned at Basil and rolled his eyes. “Whipping a bunch of hillbillies is a tad easier than whipping these Louisiana boys.”

“You city boys don't have the stomach for this fight, any of it in the long haul.”

“Bullshit,” Douglas said. “That's what you all said during the war. General Grant's no President Johnson. He's got the stomach for it. He licked the Confederate armies.” Douglas raised the paper. “He's decided to do something about the troubles in South Carolina. He'll put those bushwhackers where they belong, in a jail somewhere.”

“Yeah, yeah. It's not General Grant. It's the Northern people. This isn't the war when they were fighting to save the Union. They're not prepared to spend a bunch of blood and treasure for the sake of these niggers and you know it. Y'all are no different than us, just far enough away to lecture us. You don't know this because the Northern papers never say it, but the Northern business bosses, the bankers, shipping houses, and mills need this cotton. It's still the country's biggest export. These people down here ain't no dummies. The slaves and land constituted most of their wealth. You've taken one and are buying up the other. This is a fight for survival and self-preservation as they see it. They are not going to allow themselves to be a political minority, no matter what Congress and the Constitution says. You may win this battle, but y'all will lose this struggle. You ain't got the grit for the fight. The war's been won; you prepared to die for the political and social equality of the freedman?”

Douglas pondered the question briefly, his heart pattering faster, his forehead getting hot. He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. “Well, you still haven't answered my original question.”

Basil set down the paper, lowering his feet. “Professionally, I don't have an opinion. I go to the highest bidder. But personally, I'm an Old South man. There, everybody knew their place. Before the war I was a patty-roller, a damn good one too. Now, I'm just like the cotton baron and whore, a slave to the dollar, but all this ruckus is good for business.” Basil coughed again and lit a cigar. “What you got planned for the afternoon?”

“Going to take Hannah for a walk.”

“You better step light with that. These boys down here don't take much to the thought of you dipping your wick in that. You're going to make this personal instead of just a job.” Basil chuckled. “That must be some good stuff she's slappin' on you.”

“You don't need to talk about that, or make those types of remarks.”

“I know all about these Southern belles. Back in the day, word was that these pretty, dressed-up plantation gals were the best when unleashed from all their social controls. Maybe your General Grant did do us a favor getting rid of most of those standards of womanhood.”

“You don't know any such thing.”

“Frankly, sir, I'm only speaking from personal experience, not hearsay.”

Douglas stood and walked off. “Go see the doctor. I mean it.”

 

 

Lying prone, Douglas peeked through the thick brush, down to a barn, only a wood roof supported by six columns. The night was black, the moon not up, and only a sprinkling of starlight filtering through the thick pines. The gold flickering of several torches in the barn danced through the thick, balmy air.

Douglas cupped his right ear, listening attentively to the muffled sounds of casual conversation trickling from under the roof. He focused his gaze, but from his vantage point, all the barn's occupants, twenty or thirty he figured, were hidden from view under the roof. All he had seen thus far was an occasional figure step to the edge of the barn to relieve himself. Four of the locals' deadly needle guns leaned on one of the columns, reminding Douglas of what might be in store if he were discovered.

The Northwest Louisiana Chapter of the Taxpayers' League was a political club, officially advocating anti-suffrage and almost anything anti-Northern, or as Douglas believed, the political wing of the local clans. The club's meetings were often held in secret, but Cyrus had tipped him off about this meeting at a farmhouse a few miles out of town.

Cyrus had said the meeting would start at ten, but Douglas had now been hiding in the thicket for what seemed like thirty minutes. So far, the meeting looked to be nothing more than a social gathering.

As Douglas scouted the area for a better observation point, the collective babbling finally waned, and a loud, coarse voice ripped through the night. “The hour of redemption is at hand. We will never submit to Negro rule, or this tyrannical punishment by the radicals while they line their pockets off our backs. The rule of the Republicans, and the ignorant and vengeful Negro, will end. We will reassert the natural course, reestablish the difference in the races created by God, peacefully if we can, but forcibly if we must. I say white rule now and forever. I've had enough of this lunacy, educating the darkies. White rule for Louisiana today, forever. We will never submit.”

The fire-eating man's voice rose to a crescendo, paused briefly, and continued. “We will purge this state of the thieves and plunderers, dreamers and idealists, and put Mr. Nigger, who helps them, in his rightful place.”

“Down with the scheming radicals,” someone yelled. “Let's get rid of these rabble-raising Northern schemers for good.”

Another deep voice shouted, “By God, I want to whip Cyrus Carter, and that uppity Juba Sampson. I mean I want to whip 'em, like a young insolent nigger buck. Feel the whip tear into them until my arm cramps. Hear their cowardly screams. I want to do it. God damn I want it.” The man grunted. “I'm getting dizzy with joy just visualizing it.”

“Settle down, Junior,” the first voice said. “You'll get your chance in due time. We're here tonight to talk about this upcoming election. How we win it. It's our instinctive urge for self-preservation that will lead us to victory. It's our God-given right and duty, and we owe it to our heritage. We will not scruple about the means, and we will end these outrages forever. The proper order set down by Providence will prevail.”

Douglas felt his heart patter wildly. His stomach tumbled with a nervous twinge, and two beads of sweat ran down his cheek. He took a deep breath and looked over his shoulder. If the clans wanted to get him, finding him here, like this, would exceed their grandest desires.

He exhaled a long breath, reminding himself that Basil was just down the hill, guarding his rear with the horses ready. He fought off an urge to slide back down the hill and hightail it back to the safety of town. Gathering his composure, he refocused his senses on the spectacle.

Another man now spoke, this one with a more educated, polished voice. His accent was distinctive, not the deep, long Southern drawl, but the quick, high cadence common to New Orleans, its European tone unique, and easily discernible. “We're going to give you all the support, the resources you need to win the election. It's only a small rural district, but it's the only state election in October. What happens here will carry weight. Winning it will send a message that we can again carry the state, that we haven't lost the will or grit that brought us victory in the Federal elections last fall.”

Douglas moved some leaves to the side as he saw the bodies of a few men standing at the edge of the barn. He strained his hearing. Thus far, he had heard no voices he recognized, but he was certain many of the men in attendance were familiar foes. Again, a sense of anxiety raced over his body as he continued to listen.