The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories

by Craig Gabrysch

  “I am. Almost talked to your partner before, but Abraham Fields came in to pick up his groceries for the week. Fields is a mean, nasty piece of work. What was your partner’s name?”

  “Christopher Freeman.”

  “Seemed a good man, by any standards you can judge a man these days. He fight in the war?”

  “We both did. What was that about Fields?”

  “Said he’s a mean one. Trash, you ask me. The whole of that family is wanting for dignity and respectability. Lucky I give ‘em the credit, else they’d be eating vermin and stolen mule the year round.”

  “You give them credit?”

  “They’re nasty, Mr. Smith, but they’re people same as me. Wouldn’t be Christian to deny them provisions.”

  “Think this Fields is nasty enough to ride with the Kuklux?”

  “Wouldn’t come as a surprise, that’s for sure,” Ketch replied, twisting the tip of his mustache with an idle finger. “But he’s got a streak of yellow wide as the Mississippi, you ask me.”

  “Color of a man’s belly doesn’t matter much when it comes to being part of a mob. Doesn’t take a lot of sand to run colored folks off their land in the dead of night,” Jacob said. “How do you feel about the Washingtons?”

  The storekeeper seemed to look out beyond Jacob Smith for a moment, scanning the windows. Jacob could have sworn he stopped and almost sniffed for danger, as if his thoughts on the equality of race would catch flight and the rest of the townsfolk would be able to sense them escaping out into the street.

  “Don’t think much on it, tell you the truth.”

  “You extending credit to them?” Jacob asked.

  “Yes.” He paused. “I need not add that I’d appreciate other folks in the town not getting wind of that.”

  “Run off your other customers, you think?”

  “That, or my customers would run me off.”

  “Well, I appreciate the tip on Fields, sir,” Jacob said with a nod. “Whereabouts is their cabin?”

  “You thinking of riding out there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, luck to you on that. Don’t expect tea and cookies from that man, though. Like I said, he’s trash.”

  Ketch gave him directions to the cabin. It was a fair ride out of town, but Jacob figured he could make it there and back before sundown. He tipped his hat to Ketch and thanked him for the warning and the information. He walked down to the sheriff’s office and mounted his horse.

  Jacob rode out of Grace.

  Fields’s cabin was a rundown derelict. It hunkered in the middle of some cleared land, its roof sagging and the eaves drooping over the windows like a drunk’s swollen eyes. Firewood was stacked haphazardly in all manner of places, but mainly surrounding a large firepit set in front of the house. Three unwashed children, two boys for sure and one that might have been a girl if her hair was ever brushed, played at soldiering around the ashes.

  Jacob rode up as the two boys were arguing over why one of them had to be dead. The girl stood off to the side, her stick-for-a-gun dangling idly. He rode up, ignored wholly by the trio.

  “No, you nigger-loving Yankee, I done shot you,” shouted the bigger of the two.

  “Nuh-uh,” shouted the other. “You missed me, Jimmy. ‘Sides, I shot you twice already.”

  “Nuh-uh.” The bigger one pushed the other. The smaller one leaped and grabbed a handful of the bigger boy’s hair. They tumbled to the mud together in a heap of elbows and knees, yelling, thrashing, and pulling at each others’ mangy hair.

  Jacob brought his horse to a stop a dozen or so feet from where they were rolling in the mud. He watched in silence while they tugged and yanked and hollered. He cleared his throat. The girl-thing looked up at him with piercing green eyes. Jacob and the girl locked gazes. She couldn’t have been more than six years old, but her eyes looked distant and sad, like she’d been on the battlefield with Jacob, watching this same brother-on-brother fight three years before. She turned and ran silently for the cabin, dropping her stick on the muddy earth. The boys stopped fighting long enough to look up and see Jacob. They scrambled to their feet. The bigger one eyed Jacob’s big pistol.

  “Hey,” shouted the smaller one, “who are you?”

  “Jacob Smith.”

  “Don’t know no Jacob Smith,” the bigger one said.

  “Reckon you wouldn’t. Abraham Fields your pa?”

  “Yeah. What’s it to you, mister?”

  “Here to see your pa, kid, not you.”

  “Pa know you?”

  “No. Need to see him all the same, though. Go on up to the house and get him for me.”

  “Go to hell,” said the smaller one. “We don’t do nothing for nobody.”

  Jacob swung down from his horse and snatched the smaller boy’s left wrist almost a breath after he’d finished speaking. The Templar swatted the boy hard on the seat of his pants, eliciting a sharp squawk of surprise. The bigger brother abandoned the younger and ran straight through the grey mudhole of a firepit. On the other side, he headed right for the house. The boy Jacob had hold of struggled vainly and hollered for his pa.

  “Boy,” Jacob said, swatting the boy’s behind again, “don’t sass your elders like that. Now get your pa like I told you.” Jacob let the flailing boy go. The boy spun away, his feet tangling and tripping him into the mud. He clawed his way back up till he was able to break into a staggering run towards the house. Jacob walked slowly around the mudhole, eyes fixed on the ramshackle cabin. The bigger of the two boys was already at the front door, hollering for Fields.

  “What in the fucking hell are you goddamn kids making so much fucking racket for?” Fields yelled from inside the cabin.

  “There’s some man saying he wants to see you,” the kid on the porch yelled back, his voice keening a little, “and he hit Eli and run me off and I reckon he’s armed and I bet he’s—”

  “Shut up, boy,” Fields yelled. Jacob walked a few paces closer and stopped. Abraham Fields finally arrived at the door. He was a grizzled man in his early fifties, hard and lean like Jacob remembered his own pa. Fields wore poorly fit long johns and hastily pulled on ragged trousers. Suspenders hung at his sides. Jacob could see the sharp edges of his cheek and collarbones pushing against his skin, the sun reflecting brightly from his cleanly bald pate.

  Abraham Fields stepped out onto the porch. He held a rifle.

  “Permission to approach the house?” Jacob asked.

  “Not till I know what you’re here for,” Abraham called back. He turned to his son and barked at him to get inside. When the boy didn’t move, Abraham cuffed him a good one on the ear. The boy scurried inside.

  “Came to ask you some questions.”

  “Is it about that damned piece of shit woman of mine?” Fields asked. “Told the sheriff she run off to Texas. Think I’d willingly raise these damned kids by my lonesome?”

  “It’s not about your wife, Abraham.”

  “What about then? You the law or something?”

  “Not as such, but I’m trying to find some people been running some . . . Negroes off their land.”

  Abraham Fields raised the rifle to his shoulder. It was an old cap and ball squirrel rifle. At this range, Jacob figured, it would still be deadly.

  “You with them black-hearted Republicans in St. Louis, then?”

  “No,” Jacob said, right hand hanging by his revolver.

  “Who you with, then?”

  “The Catholic Church.”

  “What? You some kind of Papist? We’re Methodist round here, you asshole.”

  “Ain’t looking to preach, Abraham, just looking to talk.”

  “What’s your name, asshole?”

  “Jacob Smith.”

  “Why’re you damned Papist cannibals looking to help them niggers, Jacob Smith? Ain’t you done enough troublemaking with converting them redskins?”

  “Just trying to protect some innocent people.”

  “Squatters and niggers, you mean.
” Fields spat to the side.

  “People all the same. People with children were almost burned out of house and home last night. Children, Abraham. You know anything, you should help me.”

  “So your God’ll smile on me or some such?”

  “God’s all the same no matter where you go. But that’s beside the point. You know any of these Kukluxers been riding around?”

  “No,” Fields yelled back, “I do not.”

  “Look, my voice ain’t up to the task on this. Reckon I can come up a little closer?”

  “You stay right fucking there and we’ll all be happy as bedbugs. ‘Sides, I think it’s about time you got gone, Smith. We eat plenty of varmint round this piece, so I’m a pretty good shot.”

  “You come clean on this, and about who you’re running with, and I can let you alone. No need to get Sheriff Coleson and the law involved. We just put this to bed here and now and keep it between us men.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” Fields yelled, “but I still ain’t got no fucking idea what you’re talking about. So, like I said before, you better go lest you want a bullet twixt your eyes.”

  “Fine, Abraham.” Jacob began backing up slowly. “But this was the only chance you got. I find out you were involved with those men, I’m putting you in the ground.”

  “I ain’t, but I’d like to see you try all the same.” Fields cocked the squirrel rifle’s hammer back. A few backward steps later, Jacob turned around and walked back to his horse. He mounted and turned back to eye the cabin one last time. Fields still stood on the porch, the rifle raised to his shoulder. Dark eyes glared down the barrel at Jacob.

  He turned his horse around and rode back to Grace.

  Jacob arrived in town a few hours later. He couldn’t find Christopher, so he walked into Guffey’s and sat down to a late lunch. They had enough to give him a fair chunk of cornbread, some salted meat, and a bowl of greens. He mentally ticked off the likely suspects while he ate. To this point, they had Abraham Fields. But, truth be told, they probably couldn’t discount half of Southern Missouri and Arkansas. Too many people round here hated too many others.

  Abraham Fields had probably been just some pathetic drunk, made even drunker and sadder by his wife leaving him. Eliana Reid, though, Jacob had no idea. Maybe he’d go by the livery before he left for the Washington’s farm. He finished eating his meal and had the owner pack up some more meat and cornbread for later in the day. He walked back out to his horse and put the paper-wrapped bundle of food in his saddle bag.

  “Smith,” a voice said behind Jacob. Jacob, looking back over his shoulder, saw the owner of the voice approaching. Sheriff Coleson. “Smith, a word with you please?”

  “Sheriff? What can I do for you?”

  “Word is,” Sheriff Coleson said, coming to a stop a few paces from Jacob, “you been asking folks round here questions.”

  “I have. Ain’t no law against it.”

  “Told you to leave it be.”

  “You did.”

  “Why’re you still in Grace then?”

  “Passing the time, waiting for my partner.”

  “Heard he’s been riding out to some of them Negro farms asking questions his ownself.”

  “Has he? Christopher got curious too, I guess.”

  “Listen, Jacob,” the sheriff said, walking a little closer, “you seem to me to be a good man, if a bit headstrong. If you leave it be, we’ll forget about this. You just get out of town and let me handle the situation.”

  “Sheriff,” Jacob said, taking a step closer to the other man, “the problem is that you ain’t taking care of it. Now, pardon me, but I got to go see a stable mistress.” Jacob walked past the sheriff, headed for the livery.

  “Dammit.” Jacob could feel the older man’s eyes boring into his back as he walked down the muddy street. He didn’t look back.

  The livery stable looked to have been painted in the last couple years, and was still well put together. The barn doors that faced the street had been thrown wide, the damp mustiness of the hay and horse shit wafting out. A woman wearing a man’s shirt, trousers, and thigh-high boots mucked out the stables inside.

  “Afternoon,” Jacob called as he approached. “Would you be Eliana Reid?” He stopped at the barn door and leaned against the frame. The woman stopped what she was doing and looked up at Jacob. She was solidly built, with good hips and strong arms. A deep tan covered her exposed skin. She’d pulled her hair back into a tight, silver-streaked bun. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced. She rested the pan of her shovel on the ground and wiped an arm across her sweat-shined forehead. She was a handsome woman by anyone’s measure.

  “I am. You got a name?”

  “Jacob Smith.”

  “Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Smith? Got a horse to put up? Or you in need of hiring one?”

  “Neither. Wanted to ask you about the Kukluxers.”

  “Don’t know nothing about them, except that them damned Partisan Rangers still won’t let well enough alone. War’s done. Men need to put down their arms and let families get back to peace.”

  “I agree. Heard you fought off your fair share of border ruffians during the war. Figured you might know some of those guerillas who’ve gone to ground.”

  “I fought any side what was wanting to confiscate my property and leave nothing but a receipt. I own horseflesh, which means both sides came to my door.”

  “Did you sell to the Confederate government?”

  “I did. Got what was a fair price at the time, too. Course, damned Confederate money is worthless now. Should have bought gold with it. Listen, who are you?”

  “Told you.”

  “Well, you look, walk, and talk like a marshal, but I don’t see a badge on you. Till I see one, I think we’re done talking.”

  “You’re right. No badge. Answer one last question and I’ll go.”

  Eliana Reid looked out the back of the stable at her corral, then back to Jacob. She sighed deep and long.

  “I’m gonna say one thing before you ask that question,” she said, looking Jacob squarely in the eye. “I’ve seen your type round here before. You were one of them partisans weren’t you? Well, if you’re here to settle old scores, I ain’t gonna help you. I’m tired of being hungry, I’m tired of watching my children’s backs go bare for want of clothes, and I’m tired of men who thought it was my dead husband’s responsibility to keep Negroes either free or picking cotton. Whatever it is, Smith, you let it go and you leave me out of it. I’ll not bring more violence to my family by choice. They had enough for these past four years from both sides of the Mason-Dixon. Now ask your damned question.”

  Jacob looked into Eliana Reid’s eyes.

  “I apologize for the bother, ma’am,” Jacob said, pursing his lips. “You’re right. You can’t help me.”

  Eliana Reid sighed again. This time it was a sigh of relief.

  Jacob turned and walked away. Eliana went back to mucking out the livery.

  Jacob figured there was nothing left to do but return to the Washington house and wait to see what Christopher had come up with. Hopefully the other Templar had done better with his afternoon. He walked back to where he’d tied his horse in front of the cafe and discovered Christopher, still mounted, waiting for him.

  “Find anything?” Jacob asked as he approached.

  “Might have. Waiting for you before I rode out, though.”

  “That bad?”

  “Maybe. Let’s get moving.”

  They rode south out of town towards the Fields’s place. A few miles down the road they cut off east and into the woods. They had to get off and lead their horses initially.

  “What are we looking for again?”

  “Talked to a couple of the freedmen families. No one wanted to talk to me about the Kukluxers. Folks are terrified of ‘em. Some of the children, though, they told me about this place.

  “About a fortnight ago some boys were out playing, running around in the middle of the night,
and they saw a beam of light shoot out of the woods and into the sky.”

  “Light? What kind of light? Like a lighthouse?”

  “Said it was red. Also said it scared the dickens out of ‘em. Ran home soon as they saw it.”

  “Reckon it has something to do with them Kukluxers then?” Jacob asked as they broke through the underbrush onto a broken, unused road that was little more than a deer trail.

  “Reckon so,” Christopher said as he mounted his horse and headed down the trail. “You have any leads on men from the town?”

  “Not as such,” Jacob replied, nudging his horse’s flanks to follow after Christopher’s mount. “Almost got shot by some man named Fields, though.”

  “You didn’t, I see.”

  “Could have, though,” Jacob said. “Which is why I don’t think he’s our man. He’s ornery and old and a drunk, but not the type to go running with them Kukluxers. Saw the livery woman also.”

  “No luck?”

  “No luck. Just like most of the other folks around here. Tired and sick of the war. Besides, she’s a woman.”

  “Women can kill, too.”

  “But our Kukluxer sounded to be a man.”

  “True,” Christopher said, nodding. “Children said the place is just a mile or so in.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some kind of abandoned settlement. There was a battle out here during the war, they said. Children come out here to dig out musket balls, that kind of thing.”

  “Sad times.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Children playing where men died.”

  “Well, least they get to play. I got put to work in a field, remember?”

  Jacob didn’t know how to respond, so they rode in silence. A while later the trees thinned and they broke into a clearing. A handful of derelict buildings were spread around in the dying sunlight. Some of them were burned, others knocked down to their cellars. Not a single one remained whole. A sapling grew out the window of one, its branches reaching for freedom. A bunch of underbrush grew in another. At the far edge of town stood a giant of an elm.

  “Must be from the French days,” Jacob said, his voice hushed, “back when they tried to settle these parts.”