by Beth White
Delfina beamed. “Ah! I understand. My real name is Maria Gotti.”
Joelle blinked. Well, all right then. She and Maria Gotti had something in common. “Exactly,” she said. “Gil seems to think I’ve put myself beyond hope of finding a man willing to overlook the gaucherie of my finding not one, but two wage-earning occupations. Or perhaps it’s the sin of my having lied about my identity in print.” She slid down onto her backbone and pulled her sun hat down over her face. “I don’t mind, because I could live the rest of my life in the cupola, scribbling stories, and be perfectly happy. As long as someone would bring food up to me and occasionally empty the chamber pot. I only regret the shame I’ve visited upon my unsuspecting and innocent family.”
Now Selah laughed. “Don’t be melodramatic, Jo. You’d have to empty your own chamber pot.”
Joelle sat up laughing and flung the hat at her sister. “Seriously. What am I going to do? Those ladies are poison, and I use the term ‘ladies’ judiciously. What if the hotel’s reputation suffers because of this?”
“We’ll put Schuyler on the front lines. He hasn’t an enemy in the world, and he’ll think of something.”
“I shall sing,” Delfina said. She stood, gesturing with both arms wide, black eyes sparkling. “We will have the concert, everyone comes to listen and enjoy, and no one remembers the soo-doh-neem. The so prestante and talented Mr. Riggins will accompany me.” She looked at Selah. “You will tell him so, yes?”
Selah nodded. “I’m sure Levi would be honored to play for you. Are you sure you feel well enough to sing?”
“It is of a necessity. Poison must not be allow to spread and harm my friends.” Delfina sat down, fanning herself. “I shall fortify myself with more lemonade.”
Less than a quarter mile inside the Tupelo city limit, steps dragging, Schuyler took off his hat and waved it at the carriage rattling from the west toward the crossroads in his path. He’d stayed to confer with the Boykins, Lawrences, and Fryes until the sun disappeared behind the gum trees. Refreshed in spirit, if weary of body, he’d begun the long trek back to town. If he could convince this driver, identity obscured by shadows, to stop for him and take him the rest of the way to the hotel, it would be an answer to prayer. Just as Schuyler jumped to the side of the road, assuming he was out of luck, the horses slowed and stopped.
“Sorry, I almost didn’t see you,” came a deep familiar voice from the carriage. “Need a ride?”
In the darkness, alone with his thoughts, Schuyler had combed through the threads of the investigation. Several elements snagged his progress. One had to do with General Bedford Forrest and the extent of his involvement in local Ku Klux Klan activity. A second, even more complicated question revolved around Gil Reese.
The fact that Joelle’s preacher was passing by and picking him up off the side of the road, like the rescuer in a biblical parable, shouldn’t have surprised him. He had, after all, been praying.
Schuyler walked over to the carriage, grabbed the side, and hauled himself onto the seat, stifling a groan. His back really hurt. “I’d be grateful if you’d take me to the Gum Tree. I’m staying there tonight.”
There was a solid, blank silence. “Beaumont. What are you doing out on foot at this time of night?”
“I believe the order is to meet later. Are you going?”
“Yes.” Reese gave the horses a flap of the reins to put the carriage in motion. “I didn’t expect you to come back for more.”
Schuyler hid his amusement at the preacher’s surly attitude. The Good Samaritan he was not. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for intervening the other night.” He released a whistle through his teeth. “They were serious about confirming my determination to join the group.”
“You were an unknown quantity.”
Schuyler shifted on the jouncing seat. Only to himself would he admit that walking hadn’t hurt his back as much as this carriage ride was doing. “Fair enough. But that bunch of rabble-rousers doesn’t seem the sort a Methodist preacher would naturally choose for his companions.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Reese’s voice revealed resentment. “Some of those ‘rabble-rousers,’ as you call them, are major contributors to my salary. And others have made it clear that if I openly object to their activity, innocent members of my congregation could get caught in cross fire. I can’t afford to offend any of them.”
Though he had suspected some such motivation, hearing Joelle’s intended husband admit submitting to coercion filled Schuyler with scorn. He bit back his disgust. “Precisely. General Forrest has promised to fund my campaign for Congress.”
“Is that what this is all about? I told Joelle you’d joined the Klan, but I don’t think she believed me.”
Sucker punched, Schuyler grabbed the seat with both hands. “You told her? That you stood there and watched while I was beaten half to death?”
“I didn’t go into detail. But I thought she needed to understand the lengths you’d go to for a political career, in case you ever woke up and tried to . . .” Reese cut another look at him. “You know.”
“Tried to what? What are you talking about?”
Reese’s voice was sullen. “She ended the engagement, this afternoon.”
A wild surge of joy flooded Schuyler. “What does that have to do with me?”
“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”
“I’m sorry for you. I know you love her.”
“I did. I thought I did. But it turns out we don’t have enough in common on which to build a marriage. Tell you the truth, I’m almost relieved. Joelle is . . . difficult. She thinks more than women are supposed to. She thinks like a man.”
“She most certainly does not,” Schuyler said, remembering the bathhouse scene. “I don’t know that I’ve ever had a conversation with her that didn’t end up with me twisted into knots.”
“That’s precisely what I mean. I thought just looking at her beautiful face would be enough. But she’s too much work. I want a wife who will cook my meals and play the piano in church and sew on a button occasionally. And have well-behaved children one day.”
“Well, she can do one out of those four at least. She’s a very good pianist.” Schuyler laughed. If he thought about it, he could probably list many reasons he loved Joelle, but her piano skills wouldn’t have been one of them.
Apparently not in a mood for humor, Reese shrugged. “I tried to protect her, but she keeps stirring up trouble. That speech in church . . . And now the newspaper. If anyone finds out—”
“What do you mean?”
“The decision tonight is whether to hit the newspaper office or take down the church again.”
Schuyler’s stomach lurched. “Reese, you’re a minister. How can you participate in destroying your Christian brothers and sisters’ place of worship?”
“They’re not family,” Reese spat. “That is the most unnatural idea I’ve ever heard. There’s a reason we don’t meet together. They’re different. Their minister isn’t trained in a seminary. They even practice voodoo rituals and witchcraft. And if you’re really one of us, you won’t spout things like that.”
They pray like no church I’ve ever seen, Schuyler wanted to cry. They took me in and fed me the little they had.
But he could not speak for fear of ruining his inroads into the organization. He sighed. “I guess you’re right. But it’s too bad. Maybe the newspaper office is the best place to hit next anyway. McCanless should be more careful of what he allows to be printed. People read things in the press and get liberal ideas.”
“Exactly. Anyway, I don’t really want anybody hurt—just scared enough to stay home from the polls. An educated vote is critical.”
Which was why Joelle was so passionate about training teachers. Another thing he couldn’t say. So he grunted as if he agreed, letting conversation lapse until the carriage rolled up in front of the Gum Tree. “Thank you for the ride,” he said, climbing down. “You didn’t have to
stop, but I’m glad you did.”
“You never did say why you’re on foot.”
Schuyler laughed. “Some things are just too embarrassing to mention. Let’s leave it at that.” He turned to go.
“Wait. I’ll come by for you later, if you want to ride with me out to the smokehouse.”
Had he, against all odds, made an ally out of Joelle’s former fiancé? The irony was almost unbearable. “I’d appreciate that,” he said lightly. “What time?”
“Eleven thirty. It’s a long ride out there.”
“Fine. I’ll be looking for you.” Lifting a hand in farewell, Schuyler hobbled toward the hotel’s front door. He had a couple of hours to write some letters, in case events went in an unexpected direction. If he didn’t find out tonight who was at the head of this cabal, he didn’t know what else he was going to do.
“Levi, I’m not comfortable with you leaving right now,” Selah said. “Are you sure it’s necessary? We’ve got all this male company, and Schuyler keeps disappearing.”
Joelle watched her brother-in-law take Selah’s hand and fold it between both of his larger ones. It was late, and all their company had gone to their rooms in the big house, leaving the family to repair to the small kitchen of the manager’s house for a last cup of tea and plan for the week.
Levi’s eyes were tender and regretful. “You know I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to. There’s a witness in Tuscaloosa I have to interview, maybe bring back with me, so I’ll be prepared if this thing breaks loose again here. I’ll leave on the first train in the morning and be back as quickly as I can.”
Selah blinked—if she started to cry, Joelle would be really worried—seemed to get herself under control, and nodded. “All right. We’ll manage.”
“I know you will.” Levi squeezed Selah’s hand once more, then put his arm around the back of her chair. “I’ve asked Doc to come over every day to check on you all, and Nathan and Mose are always here when Wyatt’s in school.”
“Will you be back for the concert?” Aurora asked. “That’s scheduled for Friday night, and Delfina is counting on your accompanying her.”
Levi grinned. “Since Mr. Pinkerton is the one who pays my salary, I’m a lot more concerned with his expectations than those of our Italian songbird. But yes, I anticipate returning by Wednesday at the latest.”
“I have to tell you something, Levi.” Joelle bit her lip. “I never had a chance to interview Schuyler about his campaign. As Selah said, he’s disappeared from the hotel for large amounts of time, and every time I see him, we get caught up in some unrelated discussion—you saw what happened this morning . . . was that only this morning?—then he runs off again.” When Levi just looked at her with his patented charming Sphinx expression, she set down her teacup with a clatter. “Well? What is he doing? Where has he been? You don’t even seem upset with him.”
Levi shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about Schuyler’s behavior at the moment, I’m afraid. Just be patient, and he’ll come back to us eventually.”
Frustrated, Joelle pushed away her cup and saucer. “All right. I’m going to bed. This has been a very long day, and tomorrow . . . Who knows what fires I’ll have to put out, now that Mrs. Whitmore knows who T. M. Hanson is.”
twenty-two
SOUTHERN CHIVALRY WAS ON SCHUYLER’S MIND while the world went to hell around him. He rode, brandishing a flaming torch, in the rear guard of the costumed and hooded men swarming toward the office of the Tupelo Journal.
This morning, when he’d updated Levi about what he’d seen so far, Levi had warned him that he’d eventually have to testify. He’d need to stay outside the violence, keeping eyes and ears open to identify participants.
But when he and Reese had arrived on horseback at the smokehouse and shouldered their way through the masked crowd inside, there was so much noise, the shadows so deep, he’d feared that identifying anyone or even recognizing individual voices might prove impossible. Shouts echoed, overlapped, grew more and more strident.
“We’ve got gentlewomen and children afraid for their lives and their honor!” someone yelled from behind Schuyler. “Are we going to let them live in fear, or are we going to stand up for them before some atrocity happens?”
“Now that they’re in power, how do we know the Yanks won’t come back down here and snatch everything away?”
“We all remember what happened during the war. Plantations burned. Women raped. Provisions stolen, crops destroyed. Businesses ruined.”
“They started it! They invaded. I say burn them out before they get a stranglehold on everything.”
“They’re not going to let our votes count until we speak up for ourselves.”
“Burn them out! Burn them out!”
The chant went up, roaring like wildfire through the little building.
To keep from drawing attention to himself, Schuyler raised his torch rhythmically and pretended to shout. Hixon stood just in front of him, with Jefcoat. He recognized the slant of Jefcoat’s beefy shoulders, the left higher than the right, the result of a broken collarbone. Freshman year, their fraternity, Sigma Chi, had gotten into a brawl with Delta Kappa Epsilon. Jefcoat, more sloshed than usual, had gotten the worst of it. Schuyler himself had a white scar on his forehead, just below his hairline, from a broken bottle. What had seemed like fun at the time now struck him as the utmost in stupidity. Friendship, justice, and learning. Ha.
He watched these two men, brothers he’d once trusted with his life, lean into each other, howling with manufactured rage. As far as Schuyler knew, neither of them had ever so much as talked to a Negro for more than the time it took to request a shoe shine or a horse from the stable. Neither had served in a blue or gray uniform. Neither owned any property or was likely to, as their fathers were both hale and hearty.
And that was when he first began to realize how upside down things had gotten. This madness, sweeping him from the building with an angry mob, out to mount waiting horses and gallop toward town, had twisted a former chivalric code into unrecognizable, almost demonic shapes. He prayed he could keep himself from being consumed.
They reached the outskirts of Tupelo, where the acknowledged leader reined in a big black gelding and raised his torch high. A tall man in black hood and cloak, whom Schuyler had yet to identify, he sat his horse with ease and authority. “Hold, men,” he roared in a harsh, commanding voice obviously trained on a battlefield. “From this point we must proceed with stealth. I urge you to exert your righteous anger in precise strikes. Waste no time or effort on surrounding innocent property. Courage, men! Let each one set his hand to the plow and not look back. Let no man reserve strength that could and must be utterly spent alongside his brothers. Let us urge one another on to good works, that on the other side we may stand together in having conquered an evil enemy of the Republic!”
A roar of approval went up from the mob. Schuyler took the opportunity to lean toward Gil Reese, whose sorrel mare now shifted beside his own bay stallion. “Who is that?” he shouted. “It’s not General Forrest.” He would have recognized Forrest’s cultured drawl among thousands. This man came from the hills, possibly Tennessee or Arkansas.
“Someone called Maney, they say. I’ve not met him personally. I understand Forrest requested that he come.”
Senator Maney? Maybe he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but Schuyler had good reason to believe this man had had his father shot in cold blood.
Sweat broke out on Schuyler’s brow.
“What’s the matter?” Reese asked. “You know him?”
“No, but I’ve heard of him.” Schuyler pushed his heels into the bay’s ribs and let out a whoop. “Come on, let’s go!”
His outcry stirred others, and the posse surged into motion.
As they rode through town, Schuyler kept Maney in sight. Now that the time for action had arrived, only the pounding of horses’ hooves on packed dirt streets broke the eerie quiet. Up Main Street the mob clattered, torches blazing, past the ch
urch and hotels, past the rail station and the taverns, then around the turn toward the newspaper office and bookstore. To Schuyler’s endless surprise, not a single townsperson opened a window or door, no candles or lamps burned, in curiosity as to the intent of these midnight invaders.
By the time they reached the brick building housing the Journal, Schuyler had moved up to the front of the crowd, riding on Maney’s left flank. The general-turned-senator slowed his mount, pulling to one side and forming his riders in a deep arch that spread all the way across the street. Lifting his torch, he addressed the crowd with a single word. “Attack!”
Quietly swinging behind the leader, Schuyler watched the row of men in the front—Jefcoat, Hixon, and Reese among them—boil from their horses, torches and weapons of all description flailing about. Metal pipes, hoes and rakes, broom handles, axes—all became tools of destruction, breaking the front windows and door in a fierce assault. Once the first few men broke into the office, the remainder of the mob dismounted and followed with a combined shout. Order became anarchy.
Schuyler realized he couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. This display of terrorism paralyzed him in a way that the beating he’d suffered hadn’t touched. He was here, he’d seen it, he couldn’t unsee it. But he could keep worse from happening, maybe.
Nudging his horse closer to the former senator, he pitched his voice just loud enough to be heard over the sounds of shattering glass, splintering wood, the horrible metallic noise of the printing press wrenching apart. “Senator Maney, a word.”
Maney’s head jerked around, the eyeholes of his hood spectral in the flickering light. After a startled moment, he said, “Who are you?”
Then he had the right person. Schuyler wouldn’t have said he was glad, but at least he knew how to proceed. “Schuyler Beaumont.”
There was another silence, a longer one. “Related to—”
“Ezekiel Beaumont was my father. I’m the younger son, something of a free agent.”
“What does that mean? What are you doing here?”
