Lords of an Empty Land (19 page)

Before daylight the next morning, Douglas found himself riding the dirt streets of one of the Negro areas just outside of town. He had risen a few hours earlier, and his brief inspection of the barracks had found Huff absent. Suspecting the private had slipped out for a night of drinking and womanizing, a transgression the soldier had twice committed in garrison in Shreveport, he had saddled his horse and ridden here.

The dark morning air sat calm as Douglas inspected the rows of squalid houses abutting each side of the wallowed-out dirt road. The houses were small, many only constructed of discarded lumber nailed together over dirt floors, some resembling nothing more than large boxes. Sewer, trash, and abandoned foodstuffs, discarded around the little community, gave the area a terrible stench.

Douglas, like most whites, avoided this area, its unsightly conditions something society didn't like to look at or think about. Most of the scattered, urban Negro communities had started like this one, on a five-acre plot of low-lying, frequently flooded land purchased by the Freedmen's Bureau after the war as a camp for ex-slaves that had nowhere else to go. A few of the freedmen had purchased adjacent plots, now deemed worthless beside the unsightly shantytown.

The little communities had grown fast, forming their own economies with general stores and even houses of sin. The colonies were a necessary evil for the landed gentry. The freedmen held most of the knowledge of the little details of bringing in the valued harvest, and without their skill, what little wealth that remained would disappear quickly. The colonies kept the valuable labor close, and easily accessed.

Douglas saw a few gas lanterns glowing. He didn't like being out alone, defenseless, especially here this late at night. The clans often visited the Negro communities. He had heard the terrible stories of the masked men entering a residence and dragging someone out of bed to administer twenty or thirty minutes of persuasion, before the helpless individual, begging and praying, promised to vote the Democratic ticket.

These thoughts and the full inspection of the nasty settlement reinforced his recent conversion to the Republican cause. He had once accepted the view, held by even many liberals in the North, that Negroes should be left to obtain social equality through their own merits, and then economic and political equality would follow. But how could someone ever obtain social equality without a political voice?

Two men on foot appeared down the road, breaking Douglas's thoughts. Initially startled, his breath getting quick, he slowly and quietly eased his horse off the road. Relieving his worried heart, he heard the mumbling voices, their distinctive accents revealing them as residents. He clicked his heels and cantered back into the street toward the men, apparently field hands up early and readying for work.

Reining up, the freedmen looked up at him, both squinting their eyes.

Douglas tipped his hat. “I'm looking for a soldier, a black soldier.”

Both men stared silently, taking two steps backwards, their faces confused and eyes big.

“One of my soldiers, a big man, black, in uniform,” Douglas whispered louder. “I'm just trying to get him back to town.”

One of the men pointed down the street.

Douglas rode on down the street another block until he saw a bigger building, just as shoddy as the houses but much larger and illuminated by two large lanterns. He heard voices, growing louder as he approached.

He stepped down from his mount and tied his reins to a hitching post as he eavesdropped. Inside, three men shouted. Drawing his weapon, he stepped into the hastily nailed-together pile of boards. In the middle of the room, lit only by a single lantern, Huff and another large Negro stood, shirtless. Around them, six other men stood, cheering. Huff, his face bloody, held his fists upright, weaving and ducking.

Douglas lowered his pistol and stepped forward, into the light and a few feet from Huff.

The room got silent, and Huff lowered his hands.

“This party is over,” Douglas said calmly, flashing his eyes at Huff and then at everyone else. “Get on your horse and let's go, now.”

“Let him finish, General,” one of the spectators said.

“Yeahs,” another young man added.

Douglas grabbed Huff by the arm, pulling him forward, before pushing him to the door. “The fight's over. Let's go.”

A young black woman, covered only by a small yellow dress, rushed from the shadows and grabbed Douglas's arm. “Sir's, you got to let him stay. He owe me some of this money he win tonight.”

Douglas looked at Huff, standing in the doorway. He reached out and grabbed a wad of scrip tucked into the private's waist belt. He dropped it on the floor, grabbed Huff's army-issue shirt off a chair, and pushed the private out the door.

 

 

Two hours later, Douglas rode out to the Butler Plantation. Hannah's sister was scheduled to go back to New Orleans that afternoon, and at Hannah's request, he planned to discuss his wedding proposal with her. For most of two days, he'd thought about how to handle this, hoping he could say or do something to smooth the tension his presence seemed to incite in Caroline.

Douglas planned to be at the Butler house for breakfast at seven, but he was now almost an hour late. As he approached the Butler estate, he looked over at Huff, riding beside him. “I should have you flogged, and may yet, when I have time to bring formal charges. That is, if we're both not dead in a week.”

Huff looked at Douglas, speaking with a slight slur. “I's sorry, Captain, but I likes a woman every now and then, just likes you. And likes a drink, too.”

Douglas stared at Huff, his blood boiling, his eyes focused firmly.

“Basil get drunk all the time, shoot everything up, and nobody care.”

“The rules are different for Basil. You know that. He's white, and he's not a uniformed soldier.” Douglas pulled up. The Butler house had come into view, down the road another half-mile. He reached over and grabbed Huff's reins and pointed. “Go over there to that little meadow, lie down, and take a nap. I can't take you back to the barracks like this. That would cause a stir, and the whole damn squad would think they can sneak out and get drunk or go to a brothel. It'd be a mess by the end of the week.” Douglas looked down the road, then at the morning sun, and pointed to the meadow. “Right over there, under that tree. I may be a couple hours. I'll take your horse, so no bushwhackers will come by and shoot you. You be there when I get back here, whenever that is.”

“Yes, sir,” Huff said, dismounting.

Riding up to the Butler house, Douglas saw Hannah standing outside the large barn and administrative building adjacent to the main residence. Two elderly Negro women sat on a bench in front of it shelling peas.

Hannah waved as Douglas dismounted and walked into the barn. Inside, Caroline, who had her hair pinned up and was wearing a red dress topped with a tall, stiff collar, sat at a table. Across the table, which was covered with a few stacks of paper, two black laborers gestured with their hands as they spoke. Mr. Jones, in his sixties, with a hard, leathery face, stood in his overalls beside Caroline. Three more laborers stood against the wall, waiting.

“Come in here,” Hannah said, leading Douglas into a small office. “Caroline is trying to negotiate new contracts with the Negroes.” She grabbed Douglas's hand. “I'm sorry, this is not the best time, but Caroline is going back to New Orleans tomorrow morning. She's been busy most of the day, and I don't think she's enjoying this.”

Douglas peeked through the office's small window. Tension filled the barn. Caroline's face had drained of color, and her voice rose as she waved her hands. Mr. Jones lifted one of the papers and scribbled on it before returning it to the table. The two laborers shook their heads in disagreement, and Caroline stood, fanning herself. She picked up the papers, handed them to Mr. Jones, primly turned her back to the laborers, and walked to the office.

Slamming the door, Caroline sighed deeply and fanned herself again. “I can't take this anymore. They just don't understand.”

“What's the problem?” Hannah said.

“They all just want contracts to rent the land for a share of their yield. What happens if their crop yields are low? I tried to explain to them that the bank does not care about that. The mortgage is a fixed rate, no matter what, and we need a set amount for every forty-acre parcel. I hate this. I can't negotiate with them. They don't understand the realities of the world.”

Douglas stood silent. An awkwardness filled him, he an outsider stuck in the middle of the family's troubles.

“Let us not talk of this now,” Hannah said. “I've asked Mr. Owens to come out. As I told you, he's asked for my hand, and I've accepted.”

Douglas removed his hat as Caroline flashed her gaze at Hannah.

“Yes, yes,” Caroline said. “I will discuss it with Mother.” She stepped closer to Douglas, looking him in the eye. “You are an hour late. When a Southern gentleman visits the hostess of the house, he is usually on time.”

Biting his lip, Douglas wanted to remind Caroline she no longer commanded over anything of importance.

“I'm not going to get my blood up,” Caroline said, “but frankly, I don't see any way this will ever work. And, Mr. Douglas, I think in time you'll come to understand this as much as I do.”

Douglas stood erect, placing both of his hands behind his back. “I plan to make this work. I'm in love with Hannah, and I can't imagine anything that will change that. Caroline, I know you detest me, but I'm not sure you even know me. You only detest my uniform.”

Caroline interrupted, “And where you're from.”

Douglas produced a small grin. “Caroline, I'm prepared to resign my commission from the army if need be after Hannah and I are married. I could be of help around here. You need a man to run this place and you know it.” Douglas turned and looked back out the window at Mr. Jones and the laborers, then to Hannah, her eyes big. “My record with the army will make it much easier to work and negotiate with the Negroes, and I do have some business sense. I
did
graduate from the United States Military Academy, just like Generals Lee and Beauregard, and most of your Confederate war heroes that you all think are incapable of wrongdoing.”

Caroline put her hands on her hips, the tight lines of her face loosening. “I will discuss it all with Mother.”

“Can I even get you to acknowledge my intentions are sincere?”

“That is ‘
may
I even get you to,' Mr. Owens.” Caroline's gaze moved up and down Douglas. “And if we're going to have our blood soiled, we do plan on getting something out of you. I'd like to see you lazy Yankees dirty your hands for once. And the next time you pay us a social visit, please do it without that hideous uniform, and clean those dirty boots. We
are
a cultured family.”

The next morning, Douglas looked down at the gray, powdery remains of two skeletons, lying a few feet apart. Not a trace of flesh remained around the bones. He touched the femur of one and it fell apart like the ashes of a burnt log. He let out a deep breath and looked around at the charred remains of Cyrus Carter's four-bedroom house on the plantation he had recently purchased a few miles outside Natchitoches. It was now a pile of ebony cinders surrounded by a green lawn and under what remained of the house, a chimney, a wood-burning stove, a few pots and pans, and personal items.

Though the smoldering monolith still remained warm, expelling small tendrils of gray smoke, the thick morning dew had fallen on the remnants of the residence, allowing a close inspection. The house was nestled up in a lovely bend in the Cane River, on a tall bluff under towering oaks, and overlooked the tranquil water. A local newspaper reporter surveyed the scene, scribbling on his little pad. Beside the reporter stood three torches, stabbed into the yard, their tops covered with soot, the symbol of the Knights.

Isaac Wright, the editor for the largest newspaper in town, the
Natchitoches Times,
decidedly a Democratic institution, covered the story. Isaac hated Douglas, mostly because of his own infatuation with Hannah. Douglas suspected Isaac belonged to the Knights and had ridden with them during their reign of terror a year earlier. Slight in stature, nervous, and quick-mannered, the reporter looked to be one of the least dangerous creatures on the planet.

Douglas pondered what the headline would probably read: “Local Northern Farmer Dies in House Fire.” Anytime the army arrested someone or did almost anything, the headlines often read: “Federal Cavalry Intimidates Local Officials,” or “Wholesale Arrests, Army Impedes Local Voters,” et cetera. Though Douglas had often looked condescendingly on the man, like a fly that needed swatting, at this moment, in this burnt house, he thought how gratifying it would be if Isaac threw down on him. An inexplicable hate came over Douglas, almost a want, a desire. How pleasurable and satisfying it would be to fill this man full of lead.

“Cyrus's brother?” Douglas asked, pointing at one of the bodies as the reporter walked off and took a seat under a distant tree in the yard.

“I reckon,” Basil replied. “They have any family?”

“He had a big family and was planning to bring them down this spring to work the farm.”

Squatting, Basil pulled out his knife and delicately extricated some of the burnt material from around the bones. “Hard to tell if they were shot, or just couldn't get out of the house—probably shot first, I'd say.”

“Not hardly enough to bury. I'll send the undertaker out here. See if he can gather up enough to bury. . . . This mean anything?”

“I'm thinking on it.” Basil stood, put his hands on his hips and looked around. “Probably not. A carpetbagger like Cyrus, one that's so vain and outspoken in taking up the Radical cause and ramming it down these people's throats. This is the result of his actions. This would have most likely happened if me and you had never even set foot in Natchitoches Parish. The day he bought this farm, he was probably doomed. Anyway, it's just one less rider in our cause. These raiders may not even be the ones we're chasing.” Basil turned to look at the front lawn. “But judging from those tracks out front, it was a big party, maybe a dozen.... By the way, how's your tooth?”

Only Basil would ask a question like that at a time like this.

“Getting better . . . I may get those additional troops I asked for, maybe white ones, and enough to make a real difference.” Douglas looked sternly at Basil. “What about the Butlers, Hannah? You reckon there's any danger of something like this happening to them?”

“Not likely. Not Colonel Butler's family. That would be very desperate even for a bunch of outcast militia. It's you they want to plant. Ain't much you can do anyway. You can't guard everybody. If they want somebody, they'll eventually get them.”

“That's reassuring.” Douglas walked over the ashes toward the front yard and the reporter. He paused, turned to Isaac, and pointed to the ground. “You see all these horse tracks and those torches . . . you going to include those in your story?”

Isaac continued to scribble on his pad without looking up as he responded, “A good journalist only reports facts, not hearsay or conjecture.” He stopped his writing and looked up at Douglas, inspecting his uniform, then looked down at the pistol on his belt. “The pen is more powerful than the gun . . . or any army.”

 

 

Hannah's voice drifted behind Douglas in the Butler house's large kitchen. He looked over his shoulder from the dinner table at his fiancée. She was preparing some cornbread. Not paying attention, Douglas wasn't even sure what she said, but the sound of her voice as she made his dinner soothed his soul. She rambled on about how much she missed playing the piano. The Union soldiers had destroyed their treasured old grand piano one night in a drunken frenzy during the war. He looked out the window at the setting sun, laying a wonderful burgundy mantle of light over the Butler plantation.

His day had been long. He hadn't spent it mourning, distraught, or analyzing Cyrus's senseless murder the night before. Maybe Basil was right. It had nothing to do with him and his new soldiers, who had now been in Natchitoches for two days. He fretted more about who or what was next.

Douglas had spent the afternoon drilling his new troops for two hours, but decided more of this would probably be bad for morale. The squad appeared to be a fun-loving bunch, often spending their spare time singing, clapping, clattering tin cans, and playing energetic harmonicas in rhythm with their deep voices. They enjoyed sitting in small groups telling overdramatized stories that concluded either with a chorus of laughter or heated debate. Initially, all the soldiers looked the same, and he only saw a collective image of the unit, but now he began to get to know the troops as individuals, getting a sense of each man's personality and qualities.

The constant noise in the barracks had forced Basil to take up residence at the City Hotel downtown. This amused Douglas, for the proprietor of the hotel was a devout Baptist and tolerated no indiscretions on the property. The army captain had decided to seek his own form of solitude at the Butler plantation.

He needed to do something with the troops. Nothing degraded morale more than idle time. The countryside had been quiet lately. He figured in a day or so he'd take the squad into the hills for a night patrol, hoping he might discover some impropriety. Maybe he just needed to wait. Basil had said the bandits would come after them and not vice versa. Cyrus's plight reminded him he always needed to be ready.

As Hannah cooked, Douglas pondered Huff, what to do with him. He had grounds for almost anything, but he had bigger problems. He needed men. Huff had to be punished, to the full extent of the military code, but could he spare him? As often was the case, and much to his constant dismay, at his isolated post he had no other officers to discuss critical command decisions. He was the master of his actions, failing or succeeding on his skill and merit only.

As he weighed his options, he noticed some movement outside and stood, focusing his eyes. From the kitchen window, he saw the silhouettes of two men on horseback slowly riding up the drive to the Butler house.

“Hannah, you expecting anybody?” Douglas's voice crackled. “Two horses approaching out front.”

Hannah turned, covered the fire on the stove, and moved to Douglas's side where she looked out the window. “No.”

Douglas removed his pistol and handed it to Hannah. He then grabbed his shotgun and leaned against the wall, straining his eyes. The men on horseback, still only silhouettes, tied their horses to the rail on the front porch.

“You think there's more of them?” Hannah whispered, voice trembling.

“I've been told, daughters of Confederate war heroes aren't usually their targets, but you never know, your house may be next on the list, after Cyrus.”

A pair of footsteps rattled on the front porch, followed by two soft knocks on the door. Douglas, his throat getting thick, lifted his shotgun and stepped in front of the door, five paces from it. He raised the weapon and pointed it at the door, gesturing for Hannah to open it, standing out of view.

As Hannah slowly turned the knob and opened the door, Douglas looked down his barrel. In the half-light, he recognized the face of one of the men, Josiah Banks, the ferry master he had talked to that day after his meeting with Hiram Vaughn. Douglas slowly lowered the shotgun, but kept it at the ready.

“What do you want?” Hannah asked.

“Miss, I's lookin' for Captain Owens.”

Douglas stepped forward.

“Captain Owens,” the man said, “it's Josiah, from the ferry, Josiah Banks. Got somebody who wants to talk to you. You told me to come see you if I knew of anybody who might know something about the night riders. I didn't really want to go to the garrison with all the peoples watching, but I seen you heading out this way earlier and I's seen you here a few times. Figured you might be here, or I could leave you a message.”

“You found me. Come in, where I can see you.”

Both men slowly ambled inside. With the glare from the house's lanterns, Douglas deduced that neither carried a weapon. He lowered his shotgun farther, its barrel now pointing at the floor. “Sorry about that. Can't be too careful nowadays, especially after what happened to Cyrus Carter last night. This is Hannah Butler, the mistress of the house.”

Hannah extended a hand and smiled. “You men want some coffee? I've also got some fresh cornbread and bean soup. Please, have a seat at the table.”

“Why, thank you, ma'am,” Josiah replied, tipping his hat and following Hannah to the table. “This is Sidney Crow, and he may have some information for you.”

Douglas reached out and shook the other man's hand, noticing the dirt under his fingernails. He appeared similar to Josiah, but very short, maybe five feet three inches at best, with long blond hair, sporting a rough, bland farmer's makeup and outfit.

Hannah set three cups of coffee on the table, and the two guests each took small sips.

“Yes,” Douglas said. “I would most certainly be interested in anything you might know about the night riders, or who killed the judge or Cyrus. Anything.”

“Well, I-I,” Sidney said, slightly stuttering. “I was really scared to talk to you because of what they might do to me. But it's just gotten too bad lately. I just felt I needed to talk to somebody.”

Douglas leaned forward. “Do you know any specifics about Cyrus's death?”

“No, not about any of that. But, 'bout a month or so ago, me and my son were sitting out on the porch one night. I lives 'bout one mile other side of the ferry, across the river, 'bout a quarter-mile off the road, just before the flat plays out. You may know it, little brown house north of the road. I farm hundred-fifty acres, and it's my own land. Tell you, farming's been tough lately, what with all the floods and caterpillars and Yankee taxes. Even with all the good prices, I barely get by at all.”

“Yes, it's been very tough the last few years,” Douglas said.

“Wells, anyway, this exact night, we's up on the porch, say around midnight, waiting on the moon to come up for we's aiming to go coon hunting. Lot of people say I got the best hounds in the parish. Anyways, we heard some shots from back in the hills. Three shots. So's being a good neighbor and all, I decided to walk over and see what all the fuss was about. Likes I said, the moon was now up good, so I could see a fair piece. When I crossed this little hill, where the road came into view, right there where they say Mr. Smith used to have a gin long time ago, I saw two men dumping three bodies in an old well. I hid behind some trees and tried to see who it was, but both men wore masks. I stayed still. I was scared and didn't want them to see me. I know what they do. Anyways, after they threw the bodies in the well they got back on their horses. They took their masks off for a second to fire some tobacco, and I saw it was Clinton Dallon. The other man was his little brother, Amos. You know, the one that's just a pup, maybe nineteen years or so. Didn't see him, but I know'd it was him. Real small, and I heard him talk, sounded just like him. One of the people they threw in the well was an army soldier, had a uniform just like yours, but the others were just normal folks.”

“And you'd be prepared to tell a judge and jury this?” Douglas asked, taking a large gulp of coffee.

Sidney's eyes roamed nervously but seriously. “I don't really want to, but I will. That Sheriff Thaxton has it in for me. Figure he's going to get me one day, anyway. So does Moses Garrett. He's the den captain. See's, I used to ride with them back during the elections. But I quit afterwards. He don't like that I quit, and he's always pushing me around, trying to get me to do things I don't want to do. And he owes me a hundred dollars for some hay he took from me last year. I didn't never mean no harm, but I didn't want General Grant to be president, not after what he done to us. But these dumb black folks around here just vote how the carpetbaggers tell them. We can't have that. I seen things back when I rode with them they don't want nobody to know about, but I ain't going to talk about that stuff if that's okay. These killings lately have gotten too bad.”

“You have any family?” Douglas asked, trying to figure his next move and the applicability of all this.

“Just a son. He's up in Shreveport now, looking for work. The fever done took my wife, and my eldest son died at Antietam, Ewell's Division. Stopped those Yanks cold, sent them running.”