Lords of an Empty Land (2 page)

Douglas straightened his blue jacket and brushed the dirt off his trousers. He looked into the tall, thin mirror and adjusted his shoulder planks before combing his long brown hair. He then inspected his teeth, ensuring their cleanliness. He buttoned two of the gold breast buttons on his coat and donned his big-brimmed campaign hat, pulling it down firmly over his brow.

A week had passed since the shoot-out on the Red River. The bandits left him more befuddled than ever, with no clues to their origin other than the one face he had identified. Douglas had now been summoned to see the state provost in Shreveport.

He stepped outside the officers' barracks and onto the gravel sidewalk. Spotless Cotton Street was shaded with aged oaks and sided with gargantuan antebellum and Victorian homes, their thick grass and shrubs freshly cut. The ex-Confederate capital of Louisiana had not suffered so much as a scratch during the war. Here, the Southern way of life had hardly changed. It all seemed exotic, tropical, and foreign.

He headed for the large Fifth Military District's compound two blocks away, located in Shreveport's finest residential district. As he passed a timeless cemetery, he tipped his hat to two beautiful Southern debutantes, their long, wide skirts and perky, colorful bonnets bouncing with their graceful, aristocratic steps. Both women walked right by without even acknowledging his presence. This bothered but did not surprise Douglas. All things being commensurate, he should be one of the town's most eligible bachelors. He was twenty-six, healthy, handsome, from a good family of solid English stock, and educated at West Point. But Southern society and everything associated with it shunned him like a leper.

Douglas walked across the large parade ground at the army's headquarters, a onetime plantation house and grounds. A platoon of Negro soldiers drilled over the lawn. Freed slaves constituted most of the common ranks in the occupation army. Douglas didn't object to this in principle. He had on several occasions commanded colored platoons, but the sight of blacks in uniform still seemed a little queer. They made fine conscripts, tough as nails and accustomed to doing as ordered. He had no doubt about the fighting quality of these men. He had seen it in person, but still found himself not totally at ease with black ranks. Daily, he found himself somewhat ambivalent about the Federal government's current policy and the army's current role in the South: the protection of these freedmen's civil rights and their complete political and commercial incorporation into society. He had fought for the Union and believed in the war's goals. During his lonely hours over the years, he had read most of President Lincoln's speeches. Mr. Lincoln had sold the war to the public to save the Union, and later to eradicate slavery, both noble goals. But Congress's policy had recently evolved into much more. Mr. Lincoln had loathed the institution of slavery and thought Negroes had every right to fail and succeed as their abilities merited, but he had preached that Negroes couldn't and shouldn't ever assimilate into white society, and he had never promoted their full participation in the political system.

Unlike most of the Northern demagogues displaced from the realities on the ground, the army, and Douglas, were tasked with carrying out the government's new policy. Every day he moved through the foreign land trying to implement his orders. Douglas's emotions constantly ebbed from his stance as an advocate for the rights and protection of the Negroes to doubts about their viability as citizens, often even sympathizing with the South. Was he any different from the heathens he ruled? The thoughts perturbed him. Where and what would he be if he had been born five or six hundred miles to the south?

Douglas brushed aside the thoughts and looked at the impeccably clean and groomed lawn. The entire grounds exuded a sense of order, discipline, and control in complete contrast to everything outside town. The army complex, the shiny buildings, bright uniforms, and large flag hanging over the grounds beckoned Douglas's pride. He straightened his posture as he continued.

He had been in Louisiana since before the end of the war. Though many young officers zestfully volunteered for this occupation duty, Douglas considered it a dreadful, deadly, inglorious job filled with murky divisions where good and bad was not black and white, but decidedly gray. There were few amusements and little social society here, and the army's uniform mandates rarely provided space for local interpretation. Worse, his commanders and juniors spanned the gamut in their feelings about their current duties; some were fervent pursuers of President Grant's policies, others bordered on collaborating with the Southerners.

When Douglas finally stepped up on the porch of the provost's office, a huge brick abode fronted with a large porch and six forty-foot-tall Greek columns, he paused briefly, then knocked on the door. A feeling of pessimism fell over his soul. He had no idea why Colonel James wanted to see him. Most of their previous meetings had been a waste of time, standard military protocol or bureaucratic nonsense. The colonel had never shown any interest in Douglas's repeated requests for more men and matériel to tame Louisiana's hinterland.

“Come in.”

As Douglas stepped over the threshold, he locked his gaze on the overweight colonel, reclining in a fine leather chair behind his desk, the only fixture in the grandiose room. The room felt cool and damp. A subtle breeze funneled through the six large windows and brushed across the formidable wood walls.

Douglas paused, snapped to attention, and saluted. “Good morning, Colonel James.”

“At ease, Captain,” the provost said, casually returning the salute before brushing one of the long fingers of his mustache. “Have a seat. I read your report on the riverboat incident. No sign of Sergeant Simmons's body?”

“No. There never is any trace of the victims.”

He was in his fifties and in impeccable uniform, though the colonel's black hair had started to gray, and his chubby, almost boyish face had already turned sweaty with the humid morning.

Douglas looked into the colonel's lazy eyes, trying to gauge his mood and the reason for the formal summons.

The colonel sat up straight. “I'm sure you've heard, but in case you haven't, we've got a new commander, General Mower. Things are going to change. President Grant is serious about policing this state. I didn't make that four-day trek from New Orleans through that godforsaken wilderness because I wanted to. I was ordered here. We've had two army pay-runners killed in this area in the last two months, now Sergeant Simmons. We can't tolerate that. We're going to instill some law and order around here. Civilize these hillbillies. They're going to be part of the Union, whether we want them or they like it.”

“With all due respect, sir, I'm a little confused,” Douglas uttered. “It's been like this for years. The army usually doesn't do anything about these clans and gangs that terrorize the Negroes and unionists, but you want me to go get this specific group of outlaws.”

The colonel gritted his teeth. “Captain Owens, I hate an idealist. Our orders are the same: if you hear of anything that undermines peace and tranquility, the law, you are to investigate it. But we don't have the resources to police all the political infighting. The country's tired of war. What can you expect from these people? We've made them a minority in their own state. They're horrified by the thought of African rule. It's just human nature. Most of those clans don't pick scraps with the army. And none of that's been going on since last year's elections. It's not the army's job to get in the middle of local political bickering. It's not our Constitutional mandate to be a local police force. But we can't have pay-runners killed. It subverts our authority.”

Douglas groaned to himself. When did hanging or beating blacks and white unionists become only political infighting? “I don't think you have any idea how bad it is. The general countryside is completely devoid of law, and this particular area is much worse. No one moves after dark. Tens, maybe hundreds of people have been murdered and robbed. I don't think they have a cause. Last year it was politically motivated, but now it's simply robbery. The story's almost always the same—the victims are almost always traveling through the country, then the bodies disappear. The local law and judges don't give a damn. Hell, they're probably vile highwaymen themselves.”

“We're going to change all of that. I'm sending a new judge to Natchitoches. That scalawag from New Orleans—the one who's got the niece you're so fond of—Solomon Butler.” The colonel lit his pipe and took two long puffs. “And I've hired Basil Dubose to give you a hand rooting out these rogues.”

“Basil Dubose?” Douglas let out a long, exasperated breath. “Wasn't he the one who gunned down five Union soldiers in cold blood? He's half-criminal himself, on his best day.”

“
That
was during the war. All those deeds then have been pardoned. You know that. He knows what it takes to subdue those hills, and he's not afraid to get his hands dirty.” Colonel James's face got tight and serious. “And he can be bought. You can't clean out these cutthroats with West Point rectitude. It won't work here. You've been trying for months with dismal results. Besides, Dubose served down there during the Red River campaign. He knows the area. I've also heard he's fallen out with some of the same bunch that's probably causing some of the trouble. That gives him his own motivations. We're going to use his skills for the good of the army, the republic.”

Douglas spoke in his most diplomatic tone. He smoothed his hair in a nervous gesture. “Colonel, what good does it do to bring in these Confederate murderers, if we lower ourselves to their standards in the process? I thought we're supposed to be stewarding these people back into the Union, not giving a hired pistol man an unfettered rein to settle his scores with the backing of the army.”

Colonel James blinked then let out a mouthful of air. “Damn it, Captain Owens, the war's
over.
We're the only sense of law for five hundred miles in any direction. Put all your romantic thoughts away. We've got a job to do, be it adverse or not. General Mower wants it done, whatever it takes. You and Dubose are going into that backcountry. An army runner should be able to ride through there without getting shot by an ex-Confederate war party. Our job is to make this state more civil than when we got here. Is that clear? And don't come back without heads. You've got a good future in the army, and the army looks highly on men that get things done, no matter the circumstances or methods.” The colonel paused, but before he had a chance to continue, a knock came from the door.

Douglas turned to see a young private standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Dubose is here,” the private said. “You want me to send him in, sir?”

“Yes,” the colonel replied. “Right away.”

Douglas stood silently. He knew Dubose and regarded him as a hired gunslinger with no scruples. He also knew the army. When orders were given, they were meant to be carried out, and without personal interpretations. His job was to follow orders, plain and simple. The colonel's tone hammered home the fact that this mandate was not to be shirked. But as the orders settled in, he began to decipher their magnitude. This was going to be dangerous, bloody sport, probably more so than any prior mission in his army career, even during the war. He would be forced to carry out these orders. Or die trying.

Boots clattered on the floor behind him. He looked over his shoulder at the man walking into the room. Basil Dubose wore all black, including his small Stetson. Gray trimmed his attire that matched his long blond locks and two-day beard. Silver jewelry hung from his neck and adorned his left pinky.

Basil had a smooth, handsome look. His frame was tall and lean with long, lazy strides, all giving the sinister feeling it could instantly transition into something deadly swift and hazardous. Basil's blue eyes were cold and dead serious, but somehow lifeless, and his flat, square, hard face seemed aged by the times.

“Mr. Dubose,” the colonel said. “This is Captain Owens. You'll be serving under him. I've discussed all the details with him already. Your task is as we've agreed.”

Basil turned to Douglas without speaking.

The colonel dug into his desk and removed a small leather pouch. He tossed it to Basil. “Five hundred in gold. As we contracted. The rest to be paid when we have a satisfactory number of these bushwhackers jailed or otherwise.”

“And what about the locals?” Basil said in a deadpan voice. “They're not going to be too content that I've taken up the gun for you damned Yankee bluebellies. What's to keep them from stringing me up, or putting me in front of a jury?”

Colonel James paused, and then slowly stood, sucking on his pipe. He smiled and picked up a piece of paper off his desk. “Somehow, I knew you might ask that.” He handed the paper to Basil. “Here's a blank pardon from the governor with your name on it. It should get you out of anything you can't get yourself out of.”

The army's newest servant wore a small grin as he looked over the official letterhead and seal.

“Any further questions?” Colonel James swelled his belly and looked at Basil before turning to Douglas. “You, Captain Owens?”

Douglas stuttered, “Will I get any additional troops?”

“Just that new private I sent you a few weeks back. We need the rest here.” The colonel paused, chewing on his pipe for a few seconds. “You can have Huff if you want him.”

“Huff Smith?”

“Yeah, he's in the stockade.”

“What'd he do this time?”

“Beat the shit out of two white boys, almost to death. He's the meanest black bastard around. And can shoot the kernels off a cob at a hundred paces. We've got to do something with him. Flogging doesn't seem to dissuade him, and if we discharge him, the locals will hang him by week's end.”