Lords of an Empty Land (17 page)

The next morning, Douglas sat under a small grove of gum trees on the top bank of the Red River, his back against one of the trunks. His horse stood above him, hobbled. From the isolated promontory, he looked down the river where a small steamer had just navigated a bend, the smoke from its two boilers reaching for the heavens.

Douglas checked his watch. The boat was almost an hour late. He turned to inspect the docks below. Basil and Huff were to meet him here to catch the steamer, but they were nowhere in sight. Douglas figured they knew the boat was late, and would be along shortly. He took another bite from a pear, then cut off a large slice of the fruit and fed it to his horse before returning to the papers in his lap.

He had spent most of the last hour going through his twice-weekly ritual: reading a dozen army reports from around the state, and half as many week-old newspapers. Every week, a few political murders occurred across the state, some in the cities, others in the countryside. New Orleans was the worst, a boiling cauldron ready to explode, the opposing forces often fighting pitched battles in the streets with large, organized forces. It was almost a literal second War of Rebellion.

Douglas regaled in reading the differences between the army reports and the propaganda in the dailies. All of Louisiana was in turmoil, one big political tug-of-war. The Republicans needed the Negro vote not only to hold on to power in the state, but also in Washington. To date, the Northern coalition still held a firm grip on the government, but this was tested daily on the city streets and rural back roads. A black congressman had even been murdered recently in Arkansas. Occasionally, there would be investigations of the crimes, and even rarer, a state or even congressional inquiry, but these usually led nowhere, producing only piles of papers to be filed away in some building to turn yellow over time.

Feet shuffled behind him. An icy metallic click sounded. His spine tingled. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

“Don't you move,” a strange, almost squeaky voice said, only ten paces away.

Douglas froze. He stole a glance down at his pistol, a lifetime away on his hip. Five terrifying seconds passed, the worst of his life. Sweat poured from his skin. His vision got white. His breath got quick and heavy. Was this the end he dreaded? What a dreadful way to go
.
He finally summoned the courage to slowly turn his head, tightening up, almost cringing, waiting for the quick blast and the impact of lead into his flesh.

Basil came into view, his hands on his hips and a sick smile stretched across his almost normal face. “Just funning with you.” He chuckled.

Every inch of Douglas's body and clothes were drenched in sweat. He let out a sigh of relief. His mind still spinning, his vision returning, his anxiety transcended into utter anger as he reached over and grabbed a two-inch rock and threw it at Basil. “Don't be doing me that shit!” he yelled.

Basil laughed louder and longer, a genuine smile forming on his face. “Just joshing you. You oughtn't be hanging out in isolated places by yourself not paying attention just a few days after we gunned down a couple of bushwhackers.” Basil produced another evil laugh. “Maybe I taught you a lesson. Didn't mean to stir you up so much.”

Still overcome with disgust, Douglas gathered his composure. The last minute had added a year to his life. It was just luck that the man behind him had been Basil. If it had been someone else, he could easily be floating down the river at this very second. He put those thoughts aside and hustled to his feet. “Let's go down to the dock. We're already an hour late. Don't ever do that again. You scared the shit out of me.”

 

 

Just before noon, Douglas led his two subordinates into a little Negro community a few miles west of Lake End, a small river port with only a few structures. The three-hour trip had been typical, a crowded ride on a steamer, then twenty minutes on horseback through a land populated with dangerous-looking men and the empty faces of women and children. The boat ride had been a blessing in a way. The endless days of riding were enough to wear a trooper's pants thin.

Douglas reined up on the edge of the ten-structure settlement occupying an abandoned plantation. He inspected the pine- and cypress-board buildings, almost all former slave quarters that were now utilized as homes. Little Negro communities had popped up all through the area over the last few years. They almost all centered around their former quarters, with many of the residents now either sharecropping or employed on the same land they had toiled over prior to emancipation.

Most of the communities contained a tight-knit society. After the war, they evolved from the sheer necessity to survive, to prevent starvation, or ward off the other ills of the area. Upon gaining their freedom, the ex-slaves had no money, no property, no government handouts to rely on, and no physical location to flee to. With limited skills and virtually no economy, only the strong and flexible survived. Douglas turned to the cemetery. He saw the fresh grave, and the more than thirty wood crosses that served as testament to the hard nature of life here.

He took a deep sniff; the area had a strange but familiar sweet smell. In the distance, men sang in the fields. He loved the sound of the deep, rhythmic voices bellowing the ageless songs. The wonderful melodies filtered through the trees and over the fields as they had done for generations, a delight to the ear. He had seen no form of self-expression that gave these people more joy.

This very morning, five or six people mingled or worked over the grassless area. The days here were filled with work and few social amenities. Two men chopped wood for cooking, and an elderly woman boiled some water in a large, black kettle as two cute but sleepy-eyed young girls stood beside her.

Another woman weaved a straw basket as she sang: “I want Jesus to walk with me. In my trial, Lord, walk with me.”

A large garden, a pigpen, and a livery provided the residents with sustenance as well as goods they could barter or exchange for currency.

All the little communities had a sort of unofficial government, and all had a different personality. Some were docile and nonconfrontational, generally led by a preacher, a schoolteacher, or maybe someone appointed to a local civil position by the carpetbagger government. Others were more rebellious, generally under the sway of a fiery leader, or even whites. These communities turned out to vote and espoused a full piece of the economic, governmental, or social pie, a righting of all the old wrongs. Douglas was a little familiar with this community, sort of a mix of the two extremes. It generally kept to itself, but the local Republican officials had managed to get its residents to turn out en masse at the polls to support the Northern government, both local and statewide.

“What's the name of the fellow who got shot here, and who was he?” Basil asked.

“Jupiter Howard, and he was a politician, elected to the parish government,” Douglas said.

“Reckon there's anybody we can talk to?”

Douglas nodded down the little dirt street to a newly constructed schoolhouse. “Probably the schoolteacher.” As he spoke, two mangy dogs circled their horses and began barking. Both of the unruly beasts channeled their anger at Basil's mount, causing his horse to get antsy and rear up.

Basil pulled his pistol, ready to plant the rude mutts.

“Don't shoot 'em,” Douglas said, laughing as he bumped his horse to ride off. “Probably stir up everybody. . . . Wonder if we could get some hounds to chase down these Confederate raiders.”

“That won't work,” Basil said and sniggered. “They make too much noise.”

Douglas angled his horse toward the men chopping wood. One of the men, shirtless, a rope belt holding up his cotton trousers, looked up.

“Where's the schoolteacher?” Douglas inquired.

The man pointed to the school. “There.”

The group rode over to the schoolhouse where Douglas dismounted, instructing Basil to join him but Huff to remain with the horses. He stepped through the school's open door, where he found a man behind a desk at the head of the room. He knocked on the wooden wall twice. “Where are all the kids?”

The middle-aged Negro behind the desk looked up, taking notice of Douglas's military insignia. “Gone home at noon this time of year. They help to get the crops in. If you're here to protect us, you're late.” The teacher sighed.

Douglas stepped inside. The schoolteacher wore nice, factory-spun attire, spoke much better English than most of the other freedmen, and had a deep, polished voice to go with a firm, masculine body and graying sideburns.

Douglas removed his hat. “I'm Captain Douglas Owens, Fourth Cavalry. Here to see what I can find out about Jupiter Howard's murder.”

“Wish I knew something,” the man answered, standing. “All we know is he was shot dead one night walking home.”

Douglas pulled out a little writing pad and lead pencil. “What's your name?”

A few silent seconds passed.

“I'm just a teacher,” the man finally said. “Education means everything. It's what lets the white man keep his foot on our throats. I don't buy into all that forty acres and a mule, the so-called promise of Reconstruction. Nobody's going to give anything to us. These white folks around here will never change, at least in my lifetime. And I got no call to get caught up in the white man's business, his wicked schemes and pursuits of power and profit. And I can read the papers. I know the army ain't staying forever. I'm just a teacher and want it to stay that way. Maybe I make a difference.”

Douglas slowly lowered his pad and put his hands on his hips. “Okay, you know if anybody had threatened him? Any trouble he'd been in? Any debts? Things like that?”

“None, other than there were certain elements around here that wanted to get rid of him, what with him being elected to the parish government. They don't like Negro politicians sitting side by side with whites, and electing a few Republicans is not going to change that.”

“Don't take this the wrong way,” Douglas continued, “but would you say Howard was the antagonistic type, you know, politically? Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it helps me determine if this is a personal or political matter.”

“No, he was just a man, a good man, doing his job. I told Jupiter many times to stay out of all that politics. Let things be. It takes time for changes. But he wouldn't listen. But it's not right that they shot him.”

The teacher's cynical tone weighed on Douglas, reminding him of the bigger setting, that many people, black and white, thought his work here was a waste of time, just a charade. “Anybody else around here who might want to comment on this, on or off the record?”

The teacher put his hands in his pockets and cast dark eyes on Douglas. “If they thought something might come of it, they might. But since historically that's unlikely, I doubt it. You might say the risk is not worth the reward.”

“What about the whites, the Republicans?”

“The state representative, Mr. Foster, possibly has some insights that might be of help, but I believe he's in New Orleans. I can give you his address if you'd like to send him a letter.”

Douglas handed his pad to the schoolteacher, who scribbled the address on it.

“Any other major landowners around here?”

“Just a couple other than Mr. Foster, but they're hostile.”

Douglas turned to Basil, then walked back outside. He studied the thick, dense woods for anything out of order. The day seemed tranquil. “Let's ride back to town. See if anybody knows anything. Then I'll see if I can find that dentist.” He cynically added, “Maybe we'll be lucky enough to get back to town without anybody shooting at us.”

Twenty minutes later, the three troopers arrived back at Lake End. Douglas felt uneasy here. This area was one of the most contentious under his administration, majority black and officially ruled by Northern carpetbaggers. These bastions of the Northern government had in recent years produced the most frequent and violent clashes between opposing political forces. Like many of these areas in the state, a plan was currently being put in place by the Republicans to create a new parish here, carved out of several surrounding parishes.

Just to the south, the current government had recently succeeded in this unabashed gerrymandering, slicing off portions of Natchitoches, Winn, and Rapides Parishes to form a new and more favorable government entity. To further rub it in the face of the locals, they had named the parish after President Grant and its parish seat after his vice president, Schuyler Colfax. More than a half dozen new parishes were on the docket, most to be named after members of the Northern government.

Approaching the river port's five small buildings, Douglas noticed some commotion in front of the general store. The little community stores in the delta were a source of constant frustration and strife for most of the freedmen and poor whites. They had come to represent the new face of bondage, the store owners exercising a new power—the credit and supplies the sharecroppers required in the altered, post–Civil War economy. The local stores kept their patrons in constant debt with overpriced goods and high interest. Through this, they were transforming themselves and their owners into the hub and control of the land, replacing the plantation houses, and even acquiring significant land tracts as payment for debt.

Pulling up a hundred paces short of the store, Douglas rested his forearms on his pommel, looking and listening. Two white men currently stood in front of the store overseeing two more black men loading barrels into a wagon. One of the black men had busted one of the barrels and its corncobs had scattered into the muddy road.

“You know better than look at me, boy!” one of the white men yelled as he wielded a long wooden cane. “I'm going to dock you a day's pay for that, if not worse.” The man raised the cane high and then rapped one of the black men across the back.

Annoyed, Douglas looked at Basil and Huff before slowly riding forward. He reined up in front of the wagon and leaned back in his saddle. “What's your problem, sir?”

“Ain't
got
no problem,” the man with the cane said as he looked up at Douglas. “I got business here. That ain't against Republican law.”

Douglas let out a long breath, unsure what actions to take. He inspected the two white men thoroughly. Both looked in their fifties, small and stocky, with short necks and manes of shaggy hair. “What's your name?”

“Bubba Smith, from Pleasant Hill. That's James Smith,” the man said and nodded to his partner.

“And why did you hit this man?”

“Just trying to teach him to be a good nigger. Black radicals around here got them all stirred up, think they don't have to behave.” The man paused a second. “We doing fine around here without your outside meddling.”

Douglas produced a smile. “Well, maybe I'll pull out my Henry and whack you across the head a few times. Teach you how to be a good citizen.” Douglas reached down and jerked his rifle from his scabbard. He flung it up, cocking the lever as he did.

The two white men's faces contorted, and their eyes roved over the three soldiers, but the scene induced no anxiety in Douglas's gut, only irritation. He almost got tired of these daily episodes, more often than not finding amusement in his reprimands.

The two black men stood by the wagon with their jaws dropped. Douglas felt an urge to reach over and slap the insolent man, or worse, make him and his partner get down on all fours in the mud and pick up the corncobs. He looked back at the two black men. He'd enjoy ridiculing these Rebs, but it would probably result in some adverse retribution against the two freedmen later when the group had headed back into the bush. He didn't want to be the instrument of that. Instead, he pulled out his little pad and began to scribble.

“Bubba and James Smith. I hear of you two misbehaving in any way, I'll come look you up. And I won't be so forgiving next time. Matter of fact, I get over to Pleasant Hill every now and then. I'll stop and check on you to make sure you're being good citizens. Now get this cleaned up. We're going to go in here for a spell. When I come back out, I don't want to see your ugly faces again.”

Douglas dismounted, then walked over to the maze of buildings: a few residences, the general store, a saloon, and what appeared to be a warehouse. He tied his horse to a weathered post. “Basil, let's check the bar. Might be somebody in there who knows something about Jupiter's murder, or at least knows where I can find that dentist.” He turned to Huff. “You stay here and keep alert. No telling what type of drunk riffraff we might find inside.”

Basil led the way inside, opening the wooden door to the small saloon. Inside, two seedy-looking men, both bearded, in their forties, sat at the bar, drinking and munching on a large plate of fried frogs' legs as they conversed with the barkeep, who was similar in appearance.

The two soldiers' entrance caused the conversation at the bar to stop. The two customers turned and inspected Douglas's captain's bars and Basil's sidearms.

“I'll take a drink,” Basil snapped, walking up to the bar. “Whiskey.”

Douglas sat at a table just inside the door. He removed his hat and nodded to each of the men.

“Any law around here?” Basil inquired.

“Just the sheriff, down in Natchitoches,” one of the men answered with a drunken slur, turning up his shot glass. “He don't get up here much. Ain't nothing here, just this half-ass bar, and that group of uppity niggers outside of town. Done got them a teacher from New Jersey. They wants to read, thinks it'll solve all their problems. Make them like white folks.”

Basil filled a shot glass from a bottle the bartender had just placed on the bar. As he turned up the whiskey, he continued, “Anybody here know anything about the murder of Jupiter Howard a few days ago?”

The talkative man at the bar turned to Basil. “Probably shot by his own people. They're a jealous, bloody lot.”

Basil grabbed the bottle off the bar and walked over to sit down at the table with Douglas, just out of hearing range. “Sounds like everybody's got a sudden loss of memory. Could be just a murder, maybe amongst themselves. Don't know why anybody would give a damn about this wretched place anyway.”

Douglas sized up the men at the bar, analyzing their words. He'd probably never find out about the murder. Basil had a point. The Negroes did have a history of taking matters into their own hands. The lack of civil structure and law enforcement in their communities often lent itself to perverse crimes, but this all seemed too convenient, especially for an elected freedman. He quickly tired of his analysis, realizing it made little difference. He had been through this routine before. He had done his duty and had enough information to fill out the necessary reports. He turned his head back toward the bar. “Isn't there a dentist around here somewhere?”

The bartender looked up. “In the store next door.”

Douglas looked at his watch. “This shouldn't take long. Ferry will be here in three hours. I'll be back if the old Reb doesn't kill me.” He stood and strode outside to the one-room building with a weathered sign hanging over the door that read: Cox's General Store. Inside, he found a short, feeble old man in his sixties sweeping the floor.

“Can I help you?” the man said without looking up from the broom.

“Looking for the dentist.”

“That's me,” the man said.

“I need a tooth pulled.”

The shifty, gray-haired man cast his busy gaze on Douglas, inspecting him. He then turned and nodded to a large handmade wood chair near the window.

Douglas walked to the chair.

The little dentist followed him, then maneuvered the chair so the light from the window fell on its headrest. “Have a seat and let me look. Where's it hurt?”

“In the back, top right,” Douglas said, taking a seat. The chair's back angled up at a forty-five-degree angle. He reclined, squinting from the sunlight as he removed his pistol and set it on his lap.

The old man looked at the weapon and then Douglas suspiciously.

“Don't worry. I ain't going to shoot you.”

The dentist grabbed his little leather bag, opened it, and retrieved a plum-sized block of wood. “Open up.” He slid the block into Douglas's mouth to prop it open and then studied the mouth a few seconds, mumbling to himself. “Pretty bad, rotten, needs to come out. Fortunately for you, that's my specialty. I took a nasty one just like it from General Kirby Smith during the war. Be four dollars.” The dentist opened up his bag to expose a dozen steel instruments.

Douglas stared at the sinister-looking tools.

“Ever had a tooth pulled?” the dentist asked, removing one of the large instruments in a businesslike fashion. This one had a sharp hook and lever on one end and an ivory handle on the other. “Lean your head back, going to strap you to the chair.”

Douglas shook his head, leaned up, and looked down at the chair. Two thick leather straps hung from the headboard. He looked again distrustfully at the dentist.

“This will only take a second. You need to keep your head and mouth still, very still. If you think it hurts now, it will be much worse if I break it off and don't get all of it. Now lay back. Don't worry, I can be a gentle old man.”

Douglas temporarily removed the block of wood from his mouth and smirked, anxiously leaning his head back. “I've never met a gentle ex-Reb.” He felt the old man's soothing hands secure the two leather straps, one over his forehead, the other over his chin, as he replaced the piece of wood back in his mouth.

The dentist then raised the wicked-looking prong to Douglas's mouth. “Be still. There'll be a sharp pain, but quick. Grab the chair with both hands.” He then snickered, “Else I'll pay you back for all the army's sins.”

Douglas squirmed. He tried to relax, loosen his muscles as he watched the instrument approach, the shiny silver glinting in the sun. Just as he closed his eyes, ready to endure the terrible pain, he heard some screaming outside, several loud, angry voices, one of which sounded like Basil's. He shook his head and raised his hands to restrain the dentist. He reached into his mouth and pulled out the wood block, then secured his pistol in his right hand.

“Cut me loose, now!” Douglas screamed, raising the pistol.

The dentist nervously released the leather straps, and Douglas dashed to the door.

Outside, Basil and Huff stood over the two men from the bar, both now in the street and on their knees, each staring at a hostile gun barrel and wearing complete horror on their faces.

Basil quoted scripture: “All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.”

“What are you
doing
?” Douglas yelled.

Neither Basil nor Huff turned. Confused, heart racing, Douglas looked around. Not a person occupied the area. He spied Huff, his muscles tensed up and rifle firmly butting his shoulder.

Basil cocked his pistol and quickly fired two shots.

Douglas winced in disbelief, staring in amazement. Neither of the men fell. Basil had missed, obviously on purpose, but both men now whimpered and prayed, begging for their lives.

Basil cocked his hammer again. “I love this, torturing you two lowlifes.”

“Put the guns down, now!” Douglas yelled, raising his own pistol and pointing it at Basil.

Basil finally looked over his shoulder to smile at Douglas. “We're not going to hurt these cowards.” The gunfighter returned his gaze to the poor men on their knees, continuing to stare them down. “But I'd love to clean up the local blood. These two started this. They'll never pick another fight with me.” He finally lowered his pistol. “You two rednecks get out of here. Get back to mule skinning or whatever worthless tasks you keep yourselves busy with. And don't ever cross me again.”

Aggravated, disgusted, Douglas let out a long breath and lowered his pistol. He looked back at the dentist, who was standing in the store's doorway watching the events. Douglas had already suffered through the agony of having a tooth pulled, but now had to do it all over again. “Get saddled up, everybody, and get down to the river to wait on the ferry.” He stepped back toward the dentist.