Lords of an Empty Land (15 page)

Douglas had heard the sermon in different forms, from countless people in an endless array of settings. Southerners often cited God or religion as their motivator, the basis for their actions, especially when those words or actions disagreed with Northern rule. But this land couldn't be further from holy, at least what he saw as holy, but this call seemed to give the orators an unquestioned loyalty to, and backing for, their actions or words.

Caroline stood erect, imposing, unrepentant.

Douglas pondered what to say. Should he just walk away or confront this woman? He turned to Hannah, her face red and mouth open. He loved her. She believed in him. He didn't want to disappoint or upset her. He wanted to stand up for himself, everything his government stood for, but this was a delicate situation, the emotions in the room about to explode. He didn't want to do or say anything he might regret later. He put a hand over his mouth to clear his throat. “I'm sorry I've upset you, Caroline. It's not the proper way of a gentleman.”

Douglas sucked in a deep breath, still looking at Caroline. How could such backward selfishness take on the form of such beauty? Worse, she was educated, not like the thousands of mindless lambs being herded around. “In the last three years, the Northern government has built schools, hundreds of schools, in this area so all children can get an education. This parish didn't have a single school before the war, for whites or blacks. I don't care where you're from, that's not destructive.”

Caroline walked to the front door. “Please spare me Mr. Grant's opinions.”

Douglas turned to Hannah, almost expecting her to follow her sister outside.

Instead she lifted both her hands and placed them on his cheeks. “Keep in mind my sister lost her husband, and much, much more to the war. Her and Mother were here alone at the plantation during and after the war. She's suffered much, and has always had much more of Father in her than me. The army soldiers didn't do much to change her and anybody's mind when they occupied Natchitoches.”

Hannah's words and her cool hands on his face gave Douglas a sense of relief. He searched for the right words, but just as he began to utter a response, Hannah put a finger to his lips.

“Let me go talk to her.” Hannah gave him a small kiss on the lips. “I had a wonderful time today. I'll stop by and see you tomorrow.”

The next morning a thick fog covered the delta, hovering only a few feet above the ground and making navigation arduous. The early day's soft, balmy air held a slight nip, the first of the fall. The rising sun's rays lit the fog, illumining it and by the minute burning off the damp air. Down the dirt road, between the cotton fields, Douglas now saw a few hundred yards.

Ahead lay Hiram Vaughn's enormous cotton gin, two stories of wood planks. Overhead, a plume of smoke from the gin's steam engine rose to the sky, a steady stream of white smoke piercing the horizon. Beneath the smokestack, the gin resembled a beehive. The noise of the steam engine and overseers rumbled across the earth and over the thousands of loose cotton bulbs scattered over the ground, giving it all an air of havoc. A row of wagons, pulled by two mules each and piled high with loose cotton, lined up in front of the gin, the black drivers waiting patiently under their big straw hats.

As Douglas rode closer to the gin, he heard the steel machines inside, gnashing and squeaking as they tore the seeds from the bulbs. Freedmen carried baskets of the seed out behind the gin, piling them in a large mound. This constituted the only industry for several days' ride, except for a few scattered sawmills, brick factories, and salt mines. Douglas viewed the painting-like setting. How many generations of these same people had congregated at this very spot at this time of year, for this annual ritual? The only difference now was the roar of the steam engine and the fact the workers now got paid, though meagerly.

Douglas was here to see the owner. He had crossed the Red River at daylight and made the two-hour trek into the heart of the fertile plain north of Natchitoches that stretched out on each side of the river until it gave way to the hills. Although he had misgivings about this meeting that Cyrus Carter had suggested, he was at a loss for anything else.

His mission seemed hopeless, almost impossible now. His only two white soldiers had been killed, and Basil seriously wounded. What more could he do? It took the entire army four years to defeat these people that they outnumbered four to one, nine to one in manufacturing capability, in an open fight. Now he was tasked with taming an entire region with just three men.

This very morning, in fact, he had a tense moment on the road. At daylight, he had heard the thunderous sounds of a posse on the trail in the dark fog. Fearing the night riders swooping down on him in the twilight before dawn, he had hidden in a roadside thicket, only to witness Juba Sampson and ten of his colored state militia ride by, probably coming home from a night of marauding themselves.

The episode had rekindled the vision of his recent dream, inducing a fit of shaking. It still seemed too real. The horrific thoughts of his whipping had changed his outlook on his setting. He now saw the world like the hapless masses, maybe even the freedmen. Instead of the hunter, he now felt like the hunted, like everybody else, his life dependent on the whims of his enemies, especially if he didn't behave properly.

Over the last few days, Douglas had been thinking about all this and his feelings for Hannah that had evolved into something more than just a passing fancy. For the first time in years, his callous world devoid of feelings had gained some color and given way to an urge to live, now that he had something to live for. Was all this worth it, worth dying for? Though the Dallons and Garretts needed exterminating, did he even believe in his bigger mission, especially since the army seemed so reluctant to do what it required?

After Basil's flogging, he had actually thought about just giving up. He had killed three bandits and the deputy sheriff, and ran another night rider out of the country. He thought about just writing a report to headquarters describing these facts and stating that vigilante activity in his dominion had subsided to a tolerable level. He could cite the fact that the gold and the two sergeants had made it through the country unmolested, despite the journey being well-known in the area beforehand.

But the reflections on his nightmare had changed his psyche, his mind-set on the army's mission, humbling him, and putting him in the place of the masses instead of the protection of the army. Over the days, he had found himself no longer wanting to vanquish the bandits because he had been ordered to, but for a new desire to eradicate the clans, what they stood for. Their vigilante violence and the circumvention of the country's laws had to be stopped. And he had hope, the telegraph he had received yesterday.

“Can I help you?” a man said from behind Douglas.

Douglas looked over his shoulder to see a white overseer, in his fifties and dressed in light cotton clothes, his pants held up with suspenders.

“I'm looking for Hiram Vaughn,” Douglas replied.

The man stared at the army soldier for a few seconds without words. Instead of his adapted field uniform, Douglas had worn his official blues, trimmed in yellow and laced with gold buttons and shoulder boards. He thought this might add to the formality of his visit.

The man then pointed to a small office adjoining the gin. A moment later, Douglas walked into it. Two of the walls were covered with field maps, two more with chalkboards listing gangs of men and charting their days worked, schedules, prices, et cetera. Behind a desk stacked with papers sat a harsh-looking man, parched red with a wrinkled toughness.

“I'd like to see Mr. Vaughn,” Douglas said, folding his arms behind his back formally.

The man sneered at Douglas with intense brown eyes. “He's at home, having breakfast. That's his custom this time of day.”

“Can you give me directions?”

The man let out an aggravated breath and stood. He looked at Douglas again, and the pistol on his hip. “I'll have to take you, but I'm busy right now.”

“I'm busy, too, and I've got the authority to go anywhere I want. You can take me now, or I'm going to find him myself.”

The man swore a few times then stepped out from behind his desk. “All right, let's go.”

Ten minutes later, Douglas trotted down the long drive leading to the Vaughn house, which was perched on a small ridge and commanded wonderfully over the land even from a distance. Sided with huge oaks, the road's gravel had been meticulously edged in an exact straight line. Down below his horse's feet, the drive shone so clean it looked like it had been swept.

Douglas rode on, following the overseer, past the workers' quarters and several inauspicious sights, no longer in service but still standing: a large pole once used to tether slaves for whippings, and beside it, the spacious dog pens that once restrained a pack of hounds for tracking runaway slaves.

The two men reined up near the front steps of the enormous two-story house. Without conversation, the overseer led Douglas up on the porch, four feet off the ground, and to a table covered with a white cloth at the corner of the house. The grounds were as spotless as any military post he'd ever seen.

Douglas walked up to the table where a man dressed in nice but casual clothes sat drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. A beautiful young mulatto girl, outfitted in a proper black dress fronted with a white apron and topped with a mobcap, picked up a plate from the table without a word and disappeared into the house.

“Can I help you?” the man said and paused, putting down his paper and looking at Douglas's insignia.

“Captain Owens.”

“Hiram Vaughn.” The man pointed to a chair. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Please sit.”

Douglas slowly took a seat in one of the chairs. After carefully scanning the impeccable grounds again, he looked up at the porch's ceiling, twenty feet above. He spied the house's enormous living room through one of the windows and saw a large portrait of General Lee in his butternut uniform hanging on the wall. This was a step back in time, or at least what Douglas imagined of the old South. He looked back at Mr. Vaughn. Well into his sixties, the planter had a perfectly symmetrical lean face, but without the sadness of the years, and serious, aged, clever eyes.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Captain Owens?”

“I'll be frank,” Douglas said, sitting up straight and clearing his throat. “I'm sure you've read this in the papers, but the army is having a difficult time subduing some of the more delinquent elements of Southern society. I'm here to ask for your help. I know you hate my presence in this parish and what I represent, but the army is going to clean out these bandits. If I don't get them, then the army will send more men until it's done. It looks as if you're doing well for yourself, so I'm sure you don't want a few companies of troops around here administering the letter of Republican law. If you will help me bring these men to justice, that won't happen. Then we can all go about our business, and I can go back to doing what I do somewhere else.” Douglas paused to catch his breath. He pointed to a pitcher of water on the table.

“Help yourself.”

Pouring himself a glass, Douglas continued, “What I'm trying to say is the army is going to bring these bastards to justice. It's just a matter of how much of the army north Louisiana wants shoved down its throat. You may have some ideas or be able to help me, thus preventing further bloodshed.”

“You little son-bitch,” the overseer said. “Are you threatening us?”

Douglas turned to the man who still stood, his large frame now towering over him.

The overseer's facial muscles got tense as he continued his blustering. He pointed his finger at Douglas. “You priss around in your uniform, thinking your shit don't stink, looking down on all of us. Everybody knows you're fucking Colonel Butler's daughter, disgracing her, hanging around over at his plantation that was built by the world you destroyed. You're just a carpetbagger with a uniform. Probably got your eye on the colonel's plantation.”

The overseer's words rang out with a deep-seated passion, but the man's flat eyes gave the impression his insides were hollow.

“Can you excuse us, Honus?” Mr. Vaughn said in a calm but firm tone.

A few silent seconds passed as the overseer made his way off the porch and to his mount. As the sounds of his horse's rattling strides ebbed, Mr. Vaughn turned his attention back to Douglas. “My apologies, Captain Owens.” Mr. Vaughn picked up a napkin to wipe his lip. “Frankly, it's none of my business. I am aware of your troubles, and I have nothing to gain by taking sides in this fight. And I know nothing that might be of aid to you.”

“Mr. Vaughn, surely you can't be so vain as to assume I think you got where you are without some practical knowledge of what goes on around here. So you won't help?”

“Nope. Don't give a damn about the army any more than I give a damn about the vermin you're pursuing.”

Douglas studied the old planter's pale eyes, his reactions, everything about him in an attempt to extrapolate the man's position and opinions. He got the feeling this man feared getting embroiled at all. He currently flourished on the status quo. Though he was certainly one of the most powerful landowners in the region, Hannah had been right, he only nourished and protected his position.

Douglas slowly stood. “I can understand your caution. I am going to bust up the ruthless night riders that prey on innocent citizens. If you want to wait around until the tables start to turn, that's fine with me.” Douglas focused on the planter's face. “I only ask that you don't resist me. Let me do what needs to be done. If you do, you can expect to see me back here, with more troops. And I've essentially got a free hand to do just about whatever I want around here. I'm exempt from the local laws and officials' actions.”

Mr. Vaughn sat silent for a few seconds, scratching his cheek with his forefinger as his eyes roved quickly. He stuttered before speaking. “I can assure you, Mr. Douglas, I only have a desire to see peace and prosperity for this land. Not myself, nor anyone I hold sway over, will impede that.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Douglas said, turning to leave. Before he departed, he couldn't help throwing something else in the old man's face. Something that reminded him the times had changed. “I better be on my way. I have an afternoon dinner scheduled with a Southern belle, the colonel's daughter, as your overseer mentioned. Wouldn't want a Yankee officer to disappoint her.”

 

 

A few hours later, Douglas approached the ferry he had crossed that morning. To his chagrin, as soon as he topped the little ridge on the river's bank, he saw the ferry departing the little toll station. He would have to wait at least twenty minutes for it to return. He looked across the river to the Cotton Palace. Basil had moved out and into the safer confines of the little army post on the outskirts of town.

Douglas had spent the last two hours methodically deciphering the morning visit. In reality, little came out of it. Mr. Vaughn's voice seemed to carry a false ring. Were Douglas's current duties just a waste of time? There seemed nobody willing to help him. How could these people, who claimed honor above everything else, who had fought so valiantly in the war, not have the stomach to stand up for what was right? Were the defeatist thoughts he brooded over earlier in the morning his only logical sequence? He was running out of plausible options to pursue, and had almost grown tired of worrying about it. What more could he reasonably do?

All of these people totally confounded him. At the academy and in his service, he had intermingled with all walks and races, from every corner of the continent. He had learned there wasn't a trifle of difference in any of them—just about all of them were capable of the same good or bad, internally or externally. Taken individually, the measure of Louisianans equaled the finest stock. The people from these sunbaked, dark bayous and vast fields exceeded Northerners in charity, humanity, and the willingness to help or extend courtesies to strangers and acquaintances alike. But their zealous nature pushed them to the extremes and allowed manipulation by promiscuous elements, especially in times of crisis. He saw this at both ends in their disingenuous deeds and also grand celebrations. It was a puzzle that tore at his soul. In fact, over the last month, as his concern and anxiety had grown, they had started to affect his actions and appearance. He had already gotten drunk twice this week, something he never did, and hadn't shaved in four days. He seemed to have even lost his taste and want for food.