Lords of an Empty Land (18 page)

The warm sun of the October morning shone through a cloudless sky, halfway to its summit. No wind spoke in town, and all the dew had burned off the grass and streets. A line of nine soldiers, mounted, stood side by side on Front Street in Natchitoches. Douglas got his first glimpse of his new troops from his horse. Looking straight at the men, fifty yards away, he turned a corner and rode toward them.

In front of the squad of nine Negro soldiers sat a young white officer, his long, bright yellow hair flowing liberally from under his kepi. He stood in complete contrast to the colored troopers behind him. At the end of the line of horses, one soldier held their guidon. The bright red and white flag of the regimental colors stood out against the sea of blue uniforms and ebony skin. Douglas trotted up to the officer, a lieutenant, who saluted. He returned the salute as he eased back on his reins.

“They're all yours,” the lieutenant said in a flat, unemotional voice. “I'm getting back on the southbound ferry this afternoon.”

Douglas looked at the new troopers, all sitting quietly atop their horses with perfect military posture. Gathered around the soldiers, thirty or so residents stared at the line of men. The town sat eerily quiet. The presence of black soldiers here resounded, reverberated through every inch and soul of the region, like a churning volcano. The troops' arrival sent a message that the area was now being punished, and the presence of a squad of Federal Negro troops, tasked with policing the area, would have a polarizing effect. Half of the population would behave better, hoping this action might bring a quick end to the humiliating occupation as they were sure to see it, but the other half would be incited to utilize all their resources to resist this, force the Yankees to show the white feather and go back from where they came.

Douglas saw no color, only troops under his command. He sucked in a deep breath and shouted, “By the numbers, squad, forward, single column, walk.” He turned his horse and slowly led the column back to the small army compound on the outskirts of town. The air was so quiet he only heard the soldiers' horses' footsteps and their saddles and tack rattling behind him.

Douglas led the column behind his office, to a small parade ground. These troops weren't cavalrymen, but infantrymen on horses. All the colored cavalry in Louisiana had been sent to west Texas to combat Indians. Douglas had requested this. Infantry in this country was useless. He had been informed that all these troops had once served in the now disbanded 4th Colored Cavalry.

He barked a few more orders to confirm the men's ease and prowess on a mount. “Flank right, column of fours.” Douglas kept his tone firm and serious. He wanted to see the discipline and training of his new men, but also to convey his competence. He was in charge. He understood how relevant this was, with any command. He yelled again in his most gruff tone, “Countermarch!”

Satisfied with what he saw, Douglas stopped his horse in front of the troops. “Single rank, parade inspection.”

With quick, precise movements, the men fell into a perfectly straight line, two paces apart and facing him. A single soldier, a sergeant, trotted forward, stopping six paces and centered in front of the squad. Douglas rode forward, stopping six paces in front of the lone soldier. “To arms.”

All the black soldiers dismounted in unison, grabbed their bridles, and stood with stiff stances beside their horses' heads. Douglas slowly rode in front of the line of men and beasts. He looked every soldier in the eye. The men varied in size and age, most black as night with only one being of mixed race.

“At ease.” Douglas paused as the men shuffled about briefly. “Post the colors out front. Sergeant, have the men take the horses to the stable across the street. Then release them to the quarters behind me to get settled.” Douglas pointed to the building. “You meet me in my office, immediately.”

Dismounting, Douglas handed his reins to the sergeant and marched into the building. In his office, he sat behind his desk. The sergeant entered, snapping to attention and saluting.

“As you were,” Douglas said casually, without returning the salute. He took a minute to inspect the NCO. He always had difficulty determining the age of the colored troops. They didn't wear their years like whites, often staying healthy well into their seventies. This soldier looked to be in his fifties, maybe sixties, but his short, athletic frame still stood sturdy and strong. The man's eyes seemed flat and without excitement. His big, lean face was adorned with a scruffy beard and mustache. The man didn't look at all vexed or dismayed by this new environment. “What's your name, Sergeant?”

“Dixon, First Sergeant Trotter Dixon, sir.”

“Get your men settled in. There's barracks down that hall.” Douglas pointed. “We don't have the space for segregated quarters. The men will bunk in the back, you closest to the front. Fall in on the parade ground in one hour. I want to speak to the men. Then we're going to have some target practice. See what your men are made of. The targets are in a closet in the back room. Get them set up on the parade ground as you see fit, set at a hundred paces. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“Uh, how many soldiers are stationed here?”

“There's just three of us. Another colored troop named Huff, and our scout, Basil.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Mess will be here, three times a day at the standard hours. Our meals are catered to us by the locals. I'll go over everything else with the men this afternoon. Just to let you know, our scout is, well . . . not so agreeable to Negro soldiers in the ranks.” Douglas fashioned a small smile. “Your troops look top notch. I've commanded black troops before. And don't worry about Basil. He won't be a problem. I just wanted to give you an honest assessment of everything.”

“Yes, sir!” answered Dixon, who then turned and went about executing his orders.

 

 

A few hours later, Douglas stood on the parade ground, arms crossed, watching the soldiers fire their Henry rifles. Their marksmanship sufficed, although these troops had been stationed in New Orleans for several years and their military tactics wouldn't be as honed as those of the soldiers in the bush, black or white.

Douglas enjoyed watching them go through the firing drill, stacking arms, and uttering orders between themselves. Being no stranger to colored soldiers in recent years, he thought he understood their traits and tendencies. Unlike white troops, the Negro soldiers seemed to revel in the pomp, the parades, the cadence, always issuing orders with deep, crisp, lively voices. They carried out even the most trivial movements with a theatrical snap in their step.

These troops were of the highest caliber, most probably Civil War veterans, and many literate. Due to Louisiana's early capitulation during the war, the state had the highest ratio of black war veterans in the South, and New Orleans had been a center for raising Negro regiments during the war. The large concentration of colored veterans in the city and the poor Southern economy meant the army had the luxury of choosing only the best for the postwar army. Though there was no scarcity of able colored troops in the South, finding white officers to command them remained a systemic problem. Even though it was widely known that white officers who volunteered for these commands were advanced in promotion, a significant shortage of officers still existed. Blacks still had not been allowed commissions as officers.

One of the paramount benefits of black troops was their general nature of subservience. For all the gusto they displayed on parade, individually, most were quiet, docile, obedient, and much less likely to get drunk, rowdy, and obnoxious, compared with their white counterparts. The drawbacks, though, were vast. The public rarely respected their orders or actions without the presence of a white officer. Even then, the public often got unruly, the troops actually being counterproductive in the mission of pacifying the populace and ensuring tranquility. And to Douglas's constant consternation, most of the soldiers were superstitious. All sorts of odd things caused them to shirk their chores, things as trivial as a red moon or seeing a plucked rooster served as omens to them and induced intransigence to army directives.

Cyrus Carter stood beside Douglas, hands on his hips, watching the troops drill. His gaze got big, and a smile stretched across his face. “We'll get those no-accounts now. 'Bout time the Federal Government pitched in. These troops look top notch. Almost makes me wish I was back in the army.”

“Let's hope so,” Douglas answered. “I got your paperwork in yesterday. You're now officially a deputy US Marshal.” Douglas walked forward to Sergeant Dixon. “Sergeant, assemble the men up. I want to have a word with them. No need for a formation.”

Sergeant Dixon shouted a few orders, and in moments his seven soldiers gathered around Douglas.

“As you all can see, you're in Natchitoches now.” Douglas crossed his arms over his chest in an informal gesture. “You've been sent here to help apprehend a band of outlaws that recently hung a Federal judge. These hills are full of tough men, not the type of foe you've been policing in New Orleans. Most of the population here hates coloreds, especially colored troops. You may never see your adversary here. They'll kill you without a thought, in an instant, and nobody within a two-day ride of here will give a damn or hear from you again. This ain't New Orleans. New Orleans fell to the Union Army in the first year of the war, without a fight. Despite tenfold the effort by General Banks, these Rebs ran the Union Army out of here. The only way we'll succeed is to maintain constant military integrity. Nobody leaves these grounds without orders. Nobody does anything without orders. You step out there at night, you may not come back. Is that clear?”

His words put a look of gloom on the jovial faces he had seen just moments earlier. “I didn't hear anybody. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the men all shouted, their deep voices echoing over the green grass.

“I'm a fair officer, and I don't have any problem commanding black troops. In fact, I volunteered for it. I can see you are a quality outfit. But I want it known that I will use every punitive mechanism at my disposal if any troopers don't adhere to my orders. Now, you troops take the rest of the day off, get some rest, and relax. Mess is in two hours. Dismissed.”

Douglas remained still as the men slowly dispersed. As he watched their thick, healthy bodies move, he wondered if they had any real idea about their current predicament. Were they just sheep being led to the slaughterhouse? The future dead in this endless, nonexistent war in the middle of nowhere? He would expend all his talents to safeguard them. That was his job, both professionally and personally. Was he up to the task?

The next day, Douglas walked to the parish courthouse, where a political rally for the upcoming election was to commence at noon. Due to Republican gerrymandering, the district had a large black majority and had been easily carried by the Party of Lincoln two years earlier, but everyone in the parish believed the seat would now be hotly contested.

The previous year's presidential elections had convinced much of the white community, and its sinister elements, that they could sway the electorate in their favor, even in areas where they theoretically had a significant numeric disadvantage. The old-order political leaders and night riders had perfected their trade and learned how to employ tactics to achieve these results. Their methods included every form of political chicanery and intimidation imaginable: bribery, economic and employment reprisals, whippings, and even murder of potential voters. The chilling visions of Douglas's own dream, the nightmarish whipping at the hands of the clan, which still wetted his palms, reminded him of the persuasiveness of violence, even for third-party observers.

Both parties exploited the political machine itself to their means. The Republicans moved polling places or used the election commissions to sway the vote totals or tamper with the ballot boxes, while Democratic officials often required proof of residence or age that few freedmen could produce or tricked illiterate ex-slaves into voting for the wrong candidate. The Republicans were equally fraudulent in their intentions, but not as skilled, determined, or desperate as their opposition.

In recent days, the local papers had given the election, still three weeks away, front-page coverage, and it had become a hot topic on everybody's tongue. Even with the underhanded tactics, the election would be close. So close that the local Republican leaders had convinced the freedmen that their best chance at victory was to run a white politician who espoused their beliefs.

The large, tree-lined parish square was abuzz with activity as Douglas stepped onto the green grass and leaned against a tree. Almost every wall or fixture around the square held a political poster. Surrounding the square, operatives of both parties handed out pamphlets. Men stood under five or six large tents passing out foodstuffs that ranged from grilled treats fresh off large cooking pits to hard candy. The appetizing smoke and background murmur of conversation drifting through the air gave the scene the ambiance of a festival.

More than two hundred people jammed into the square. Douglas looked to the temporary stage in front of the courthouse, covered with red, white, and blue regalia. In front of the stage, the throng gathered impatiently. To Douglas's surprise, he calculated that almost a third of the potential voters were Negro, the remainder a good representation of the white populace.

Across the square, Douglas saw some of his enemies. He didn't see Sheriff Thaxton, but Moses Garrett mingled around quietly with four or five more toughs. Douglas studied the faces, recognizing a few from somewhere. Had any of them been under the sheets that night he'd met the bandits on the trail? During the elections of previous years, he'd often brought his soldiers to rallies like this to ensure peace and harmony, but now all he had at his disposal was the squad of black soldiers. He'd like to have shown a larger presence here, not that there was any threat of violence, but the sight of army troopers gave the appearance of political stability. However, black soldiers here would be counterproductive to that goal, and Basil hadn't been hired on to oversee the democratic process.

In the past, his men had patrolled the polling stations on Election Day to curb the misdealing, but for this election the freedmen would have to fend for themselves for the most part. Even with his new troops, the quantity of his men had been drastically reduced, and what few he had would likely have their hands full with their daily duties.

Even if he had ample troops, injecting the army into the political process was a delicate matter. Officially, the army was not allowed to prevent public disturbances, but only thwart death and violence if it commenced. Murder was a state crime, and the army's involvement in any part of the political process, other than observing, was strictly forbidden. Butting up against this policy could ruin an officer's career.

Still, he'd try to send out two or three parties of soldiers on Election Day to watch a few of the polls in the colored communities. Maybe he would get some of the additional troops he'd requested. The Democrats' favorite method of intimidation during the election season was to bring large groups of armed men from adjacent states. Since this was the only election in the state, the armed gangs would only have to come from other parishes instead of states. Due to the cloaked nature of their crimes, it'd be difficult to apprehend them even in Northern states.

The frenzy of the crowd grew silent. On the stage, a man dressed in a nice suit and top hat stepped to the front of the wood planks and introduced the first speaker, the Democratic candidate, a large, heavyset man named Bernard Jones, who served as the local postmaster.

“The time is now for change!” Mr. Jones's commanding voice echoed over the heads looking up at him. “We should put the past behind us, forgive and forget. We can't change the past. The new Democratic Party has only one goal: to look after the best interests of all the people.”

A few in the assembly applauded.

“These radicals,” Mr. Jones continued, his voice growing animated, “these strangers, these Northern thieves and adventurers that are infesting the parish have led us nowhere. Under their leadership the economy has collapsed. People are unhappy. Lawlessness is rampant. What have they given us? What have they done for us? A vote for the Republican ticket will be a vote for more of what we've had for almost a decade: deprivation and poverty. They rule this land like kings and they alone are to blame for the current state of affairs.”

The speaker paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a rag. He looked down at the crowd, first to the Negroes segregated off to his left, and then to the whites. “I can hardly pay my taxes. The governor and his minions want us to pay for black schools. If the freedmen want schools, that's fine, have them pay for them, or make the Federal government pay for them. Don't take my meager rations for this.”

The white gathering let out loud, boisterous applause, and Mr. Jones turned to his prospective black constituents. “And to our new citizens, I say I will work for your needs. The idealistic policies of the Republicans have led you nowhere. I say forget these romantic dreams of reading that have led you to hunger. Go to work in the fields or in your businesses to be productive citizens. I will help you. I will treat you fairly. The Northerners believe the government can give you wealth, riches. It cannot. Only you and your hard work can make you productive citizens with a stake in society.” Mr. Jones raised his hand, pointing to the sky. “I warn you, these invaders lead you around like donkeys while they make themselves rich off of your sweat and toil. They promise you everything. You and only you are the master of your domain. I make no promise to you of handouts, but I will not spare a moment working to give you what you really want, to help you become self-sufficient, empowering you to provide for your families through the only way you can, hard work.”

Mr. Jones turned and pointed to his opposition, sitting on the stage behind him, then slid his finger over the entire crowd. “These men will go home one day, but only after they've robbed us of everything. We'll then have no choice but to work together, black and white. I say we start working together now!”

The white mob erupted again with a few shouts from the crowd. Douglas looked to the blacks and a few poor whites in the group. Many nodded silently.

The crowd settled down as the second speaker rose and walked to the front of the stage. Douglas didn't know him, but had read he was a farmer, new to the area, who worked a couple of hundred acres of sugarcane near the southern tip of the parish.

The hopeful politician raised both hands, urging the mob to silence, and turned to the freedmen. “Mr. Jones would have you believe he holds your interests in his heart. The Democrats say they are your friends, but it is they who suppress your vote, sending out parties of terror under the moon. They are the party of slavery and subjugation. They are the party that will do everything in their power to have you, white and black, work the soil for them at as little cost as possible. It was the Republicans who freed you, registered you to vote, helped get Reverend Smith elected to this seat. It is the Republicans who built the new schools for your families, white and black. The Democrats don't want you to read, but
they
can read. The Republicans are the party of free men, working free soil.”

Douglas didn't need an education in the local political rhetoric, nor did he care about it. This man didn't have the flair of the first speaker, but seemed more grounded. Though articulate, the short, slight man appeared to be a humble creature of the land, someone who worked with his hands. Most of the Negroes and even some of the whites nodded at his words, but unlike the whites, they did not break into long bouts of cheering.

“We have made much progress,” the speaker continued. “No, our actions have not always been correct, but our hearts are filled with genuine concern for the plight of the people of this parish. If elected, I will work for more schools, better teachers, improved credit not just for the wealthy but for everybody. The Republican way is the way of the future. That has already been determined. We must move forward, reconstruct Louisiana, move it back into the Union.”

As the speaker continued his bland monologue, Douglas quit paying attention to the words, again focusing on the observers. The rally was more of a charade than anything else. Sadly, the election would be decided not by ideas, but by a force of will. He stared at several of the town's first citizens, most standing on the periphery of the crowd, or on the wooden sidewalks fronting the buildings surrounding the square. Scenes like this reminded him of the importance of his work. They pounded home his enormous responsibility. If he and his men could succeed in exposing the outlaws and their gruesome deeds, they could do more for these people than either of the hopeful candidates' wildest dreams, no matter their core constituency.