Lords of an Empty Land (5 page)

Under the full moon and tall oaks, Douglas felt at ease, like he was no longer a soldier in a strange land. His only home for years had been the flag and the regimented schedule he kept daily. His tough duties and standard daily routine had all but forced him to quit living and only exist. He yearned for real company, friendship. And his days around an army of harsh, tough men had solidified his want for the soft touch of a woman, making the excursion a wonderful escape.

Douglas looked into the eyes of the town's most desirable debutante, a woman sought by many of its most eligible young men. Hannah was the daughter of one of the region's most prominent plantation owners and war heroes, Colonel John Butler, an ardent secessionist killed by an artillery shell at Chancellorsville. A year earlier, she had returned home to help her mother and sister's attempts to salvage the family's plantation from the creditors and teach at a new children's school built by the Reconstruction Act. During the last six months, Douglas had talked to her at least a dozen times, sometimes to her apparent unease, but with time and the displaying of his most charming attributes, he had noticed her resistance to his attention fading.

Hannah stood in the stirrups to readjust her saddle. “Before the war, we had a nice carriage to transport the Butlers back and forth to town.”

“Do you and your mother and sister live alone?”

“Mr. Jones lives with us, in the old overseers' house. He was one of our overseers before the war. I wish we could hire some more help, but since the end of the war we've had to mortgage the farm. Between the new taxes and the payments, we have little money. Sister is planning to rent over a larger portion of the farm this year in forty-acre tracts to some of the Negroes on a shared basis. We get a portion of their crop sales. Despite my independent leanings, running a large farm is difficult without a man in the house.”

“The party must have been strange for you. Your father was a Confederate colonel, and your uncle is a unionist.”

“As you say, Captain Owens, we must move on. What my father and uncle do has no bearing on me. It's true that I'm not as spirited as Mother and Sister. I'm the most progressive thinking. I guess it's my Eastern education. And you, why are you still in the army? The war's over. Why haven't you gone home?”

“I don't know. Sometimes I wish I had. I stay in the army for my father. I'm all that's left of the family. My mother died years ago and my brother was killed at Cold Harbor. It was the proudest day of Father's life when I graduated from the military academy. He still loves to tell everybody what I'm doing. That, and I don't have a profession or job waiting on me back home. In Ohio, there are still thousands of veterans needing work. But I'm doing some good here. I'm trying to catch these discontents that are killing all these innocent people.”

“If you do catch them, many people will be happy, though I doubt they'll ever tell you that.... You think you can catch them?”

Douglas wheeled his horse a little closer to Hannah. “Maybe; convicting them is what's hard, but since they've now attacked the army, I can use all the resources of the Federal government. Because of that, I may be able to also get some of the men who have killed many of the Negroes and Northerners in this area.”

Hannah pulled back on her reins, slowing her horse and looking at Douglas. “Their methods are regrettable, even worthy of punishment. I'm for social justice, and I hated slavery. Slavery turned us into worse people, lazy, but surely you do not think we should be ruled by ignorant Negroes and Northern miscreants. Learned men, vested in the community, should hold political power, in any society.”

Douglas sat silent for a few seconds, trying to find a polite rebuttal. “Louisiana just passed the Fifteenth Amendment, and it says everybody can vote.”

Hannah looked off toward the house, and Douglas stared down a long line of trees abutting a side road, almost regretting his statement.

“It's not far from here. I can make it the rest of the way on my own.” Hannah pointed. “That's the new schoolhouse where I teach. We did get the Republicans to buy a piece of land from us for it. I just have to walk over there every day.”

Douglas looked at the schoolhouse and then to the Butler house, a quarter mile down the road. A few sprinkles of light shone through the night. He stepped down from his horse and extended a hand to Hannah. “Let me say a proper Southern goodnight.”

“As you wish,” Hannah said, taking his hand and hopping down. “I enjoyed our ride. It passed quickly. You're certainly more talkative than Uncle.”

Douglas looked again at the Butler residence.

“The house was one of the few along Cane River General Banks didn't burn. That was because Mother and Sister stood up to the soldiers, showed them some real courage. They told the Yankee officer they would not leave the house, and he would have to burn it down with them in it. Finally, some officer with some sense and passion decided it could be used to garrison Federal troops.” Hannah put a finger to her lips. “Captain Owens, you are a handsome and entertaining gentleman, even if you are dressed in the wrong colors.”

Douglas stared deep into Hannah's intelligent and amused eyes. He sensed she was in no hurry to get home. He had also begun to notice over the months that the more isolated they were, the more receptive she was to his flirting. He bent his head down and quickly kissed Hannah on the cheek.

“Don't,” Hannah said, slightly recoiling. “We shouldn't.”

Douglas grabbed her hips firmly and put his mouth to her ear, kissing it lightly. “Nobody's around. Nobody's watching,” he whispered.

Hannah moaned and let out a deep breath. “We mustn't.”

Douglas continued to whisper. “No matter my views on the South, personal or professional, don't you Southern ladies prefer strong men of honor, men who believe in something? That's more important than what they actually believe.” He slowly thrust his lips onto Hannah. She resisted briefly before he delighted in the feel of her moist, warm tongue reciprocating.

Hannah finally pulled away, exhaling a deep breath. “That was better than your first attempt. You may eventually learn how it's done.” She turned and looked to her house. “I better go. Caroline and Mother are leaving tomorrow for a trip to New Orleans. I need to help them get ready.”

“I need to go, also,” Douglas said, letting go of Hannah. “I've got to be in Coushatta Chute tomorrow for a trial.”

“I'll see you soon.” Hannah saddled up and promptly rode off.

Douglas watched her silhouette slowly disappear. Could this even be? Hannah was something forbidden for him. The gorgeous Southern belle, the daughter of one of the region's heroes, possibly beginning a tryst with him—nothing could inflame the Southern psyche more. Just their walks around town drew suspicious glances and whispers. His heart pounded rapidly. His mind raced with excitement and apprehension. Could it be?

At mid-afternoon, Douglas looked out the open window of the small, sultry courtroom. Across the street, the Baptist church, the biggest structure in town, shone wonderfully through the grove of pecan trees. Its tall spire, painted shiny white, reached for the heavens and sat in complete contrast to three rough, unpainted shacks beside it. Douglas had gotten up early this morning and made the two-hour steamer trip to Coushatta Chute, a riverfront community in the heart of cotton country where the piney hills fell off onto the rich red soil.

He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. The court proceedings had commenced at one, and the prosecution planned to hear his testimony sometime this afternoon. After the opening remarks, the defense had spent the last hour going on and on about the injustices of the current government, the general state of lawlessness in the area, and how over the last few years, the good citizens of the area had been forced to arm themselves and fight just to protect their lives and property.

The defense attorney, in his late fifties and named Jenkins, was dressed slickly in a nice pressed white cotton suit. He spoke fast and lacked the lazy Southern drawl and pace that typically reduced conversation to a crawl. The nine-man jur y looked to be a good representation of the populace, minus the blacks. Five looked rough and tumble, probably sharecroppers, poor farmers, or laborers of some sort, but the other four men appeared to be of some means. They were all freshly bathed and attired in clean clothes. Two or three of the latter probably had some formal education and owned property or some type of business.

Mr. Jenkins continued his tirade about the injustices of the government, hypnotizing the jury. He was good. The ears and faces in the deliberation box followed the orator's movements and gestures, taking in his words. The attorney raised or lowered his voice to emphasize the points he wanted to convey, and the jurors nodded several times.

Behind Douglas, every seat in the small courtroom was full, and thirty more men stood along the walls. Four or five newspapermen jotted feverishly on their little pads, and Mr. Jenkins, ever aware of their presence, paused a few times to allow the reporters to catch up. To this point, the defense had carried the proceedings; each man in the jury box seemed completely convinced of his general dissatisfaction with things at large.

The trial revolved around a highly publicized event four months earlier in the neighboring parish of Bossier, just north of Natchitoches. For reasons still unknown, a small skirmish had occurred between two groups of opposing races in which two blacks and two whites had been shot and killed. After the incident, rumors spread that armed blacks had killed two whites, and gangs of blacks were currently on the hunt for more innocent, upstanding citizens. Several posses had been raised in the Shreveport area, and before order could be restored, more than a dozen more freedmen had been killed, their bodies thrown into the Red River.

Douglas was familiar with the often-used proclamation of a Negro revolt or uprising where colored men were planning to go on a spree of murder and rape. Though he'd seen some violence in the colored communities, the Negroes were generally more docile and peaceable than the whites. But the fear of this, especially the claim of Negroes rampaging and raping white women, stirred even the moderates and was used as a catalyst to make what would normally be atrocious, unacceptable crimes completely acceptable behavior by the general public.

Hearing the reports of unrest, Douglas had sped to the location of the killings. His men arrived too late to prevent the massacre, but he witnessed one of the killings and promptly arrested the man responsible, a farmer named Hank Johnson. Under normal circumstances, Douglas doubted they could get a conviction. It came down to his word against that of the accused, and the case would be tried in a local court. For years Douglas had hauled culpable criminals into the local courts, but had rarely gotten anybody convicted by a local jury, the citizens unreceptive to Northern laws and edicts. Most of the time, the judge, whether friendly or not, would look at the evidence and dismiss the case without trial. It took more than the word of an honest Yankee or Yankees against the word of a dishonest local to convince a full jury of anyone's guilt.

This case did have a sympathetic judge and prosecutor appointed by the Republican governor, which gave him a chance. Due to the hyperbole the crimes had evoked, the prosecutor had gotten the trial moved to another parish. During the trial, the prosecutor would likely win more battles over legal haggling. But could he convince a jury of white Southerners that the government was right and one of their own was guilty?

The odds of conviction would surely be higher if the case were prosecuted in a Federal court, but even the pro-suffrage and liberal Grant administration considered local crimes out of the realm of Federal jurisdiction. Only if the army or some other Federal entity was directly involved in the action could the full power and resources of the Federal government be used to prosecute the guilty. This was why Douglas thought he might have a chance of convicting the bushwhackers and why he currently put all his energy to that course.

The defense attorney finally finished his speech, and the prosecution called Douglas to the stand. He stood and straightened his uniform. In the crowded courtroom, he stuck out like a blooming rose in winter in his full army blues. He had pondered what to wear. His uniform represented everything that most of these people hated, but he also knew the high esteem in which the population held soldiers, especially when it came to truth and honor. He had finally decided that the uniform might add a little credence to his words. Douglas stepped forward, placed his hand on the Bible, and made his brief pledge of allegiance and to tell the whole truth.

“Please take a seat,” the judge said, looking down at Douglas and lifting his glasses off his round face hidden by a big gray beard and mustache.

“State your name and occupation,” the court reporter, a small, wiry man, said loudly.

“Captain Douglas Owens, Company D, Fourth United States Cavalry, Fifth Military District.”

“And how long have you been at this post?”

“About two years.”

The prosecuting attorney stood and walked to the witness stand. A tall, thin man, with a long, deliberating face, he looked every bit the intellectual equal of his adversary, but without the charisma and gift for animation. “Captain Owens, can you please tell the jury where you were on June four of this year, and what events you saw?”

Douglas cleared his throat. “About two hours before noon, I had ridden onto the Tall Oaks plantation. The night before I had heard the rumors of disorder there, so I led a patrol of four soldiers to the plantation. In front of the farm's storage house, I saw two dead black men. The blood spilling from their wounds was still fresh, so I sent my men in different directions looking for the perpetrators. I took off alone toward the river. About twenty minutes later, I heard some screaming and raced in the direction of the voices. I shortly came into a little field. I saw two men bickering. I then heard two quick shots. I raced forward and found Mr. Johnson standing over a dead man, a freedman. I placed Mr. Johnson in my custody, securing his hands behind his back with a piece of rope. I now know this dead man was Jeriamh Taylor.”

“Can you identify the man you arrested that day?” the prosecutor asked.

Douglas pointed to a man sitting at a table in the front of the room. The accused was a slight man with long stringy red hair flowing down to a nice black suit. Douglas's actions resulted in no change in the man's trouble-free expression.

“Have the record note that Captain Owens has identified Hank Johnson,” the prosecutor said. “Did you have any correspondence with Mr. Johnson during his detainment?”

“Yes, I asked him what he was doing. He told me he had killed the man in self-defense. That the man had taken a shot at him and he was defending himself. I believe he said something to the extent of: ‘the damned black dog tried to kill me. The sum' bitch is just a dead nigger now.'”

The courtroom came to life with a few snickers,
uhh
s, and
ohh
s, and the judge pounded his gavel. “Order.”

“And did you investigate the accused's claims?”

“I did. I searched the dead man for weapons, but found none. I then searched the accused and his horse for weapons. I found a rifle still sheathed on his horse and his pistol in his belt. The rifle had not been fired, but the barrel of the pistol was still warm. I checked it over well and found that two of its cartridges had been fired.”

“What type of pistol was this?”

“It was a Colt, Navy Revolver. Model 1860 or 1861, I believe.”

“Is this the revolver you took from Mr. Johnson?” The prosecutor raised a pistol and showed it to the jury. He then handed it to Douglas.

“That appears to be it,” Douglas answered.

“Did you notice anything else at the scene that might be of aid in determining the perpetrator of this crime?”

“Nothing much else, other than Mr. Johnson appeared to be drunk. I could smell the whiskey on his breath.”

“Objection!” the defense attorney stood and yelled. “We're only interested in the facts, not any of the captain's assumptions or dreamy ideals. We already know what he thinks: that we're all drunks and murderers.”

“Sustained,” the judge said, turning to the jury. “Please strike the comment from the record.”

The prosecutor turned to the defense. “No further questions for now. Your witness.”

The defense attorney rose and turned to the jury at an angle that put his back to Douglas. “So tell me, Captain Owens, in the two years since you've been in your current post, how many white men have you arrested?”

“Probably about twenty.”

“And how many of these honest men that you have arrested have juries from all over your dominion convicted?”

“Two.”

“It is my understanding that in both of those cases, the charges you brought were dropped, and the men pleaded to lesser crimes that did not result in incarceration.”

Douglas sat silent for a few seconds, trapped. Was the attorney about to trick him into saying something that could be misconstrued by the jury?

With his back still to Douglas, the defense attorney continued, “Captain Douglas, the jury and the good people of this parish would like to hear your answer. Is this true or false?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Douglas mumbled, as he felt his forehead burning and sweat building on his back.

“And during this same time period, how many freedmen has your command arrested?”

“I'm not sure.”

“I am. Over this time period when you have hauled twenty-one good citizens off to jail, none of whom were guilty of the crimes charged, you have arrested exactly two freedmen, both of whom were found guilty by a jury.” The defense attorney finally turned to face Douglas. “It does seem, Captain Owens, that you spend the badly needed tax dollars of our republic trying to throw the good citizens of this state in jail. Worse, you seem to be only interested in putting white people in jail. The war has been over for more than four years. I ask you, hasn't the army killed enough people around here? When will we have equal justice?”

The defense attorney returned his attention to the jury, leaning on the rail surrounding the jury box and looking over each man for a few seconds. “Mr. Johnson has given written testimony that he acted only in self-defense. It is a tragedy that Jeriamh Taylor is dead. I will concede that. Captain Owens, I have been to the spot where he died. There is open farmland around that spot for a hundred yards in all directions. You have stated yourself, under oath, that when you entered the opening of the field you saw Mr. Johnson shoot Jeriamh Taylor. I know you Yankee soldiers think you're superior to us, and you may well be, but I would be amazed if you could see the details of a scuffle from that distance. Look out that window. I have paced it off myself. It is only fifty yards to the church across the street. A hundred yards is a long way. That in itself should create the reasonable doubt beyond what the law requires to convict any man.”

The defense attorney paused, continuing to stare at the jury. He now had all nine men's complete attention.

“Further, you are the only witness. You have demonstrated your disdain for the local population. Mysteriously, despite the fact you commanded almost thirty men on the day of this crime, you are the only one who claims Mr. Johnson acted unlawfully. I cannot say what happened on the tragic day of Jeriamh Taylor's death, but I can say that I myself live in terror that I might be shot down on any day by Union soldiers. It has also been proven that whites were killed in the area by blacks the day before. The army was clearly unable to protect all the citizens of Bossier Parish, black or white. Everyone in this area knows that if they are not prepared to defend themselves, no one else will do it. As awful as it is, these are the simple facts: Mr. Johnson was in a place where rampant murder was taking place, and he acted like any citizen would. When his life was in jeopardy, he defended himself. Mr. Hank Johnson has lived in Bossier Parish all his life, and I have found not a single incident where he acted outside the law and have heard nothing here today to suggest anything otherwise except your testimony, which should be taken in the context of your documented record.”

The defense attorney paused and walked over to his desk, where he grabbed a stack of papers and raised it above his head. “Over a dozen men, all of lengthy good standing in his community, have testified in writing to this jury that Mr. Johnson is a hardworking, peaceful citizen. The fact that he should even be brought before this court is a travesty.”