Will could allow for the man being drunk, but the truculence was surprising from a poor white who wouldn’t give a moment’s thought to beating a slave or free nigger if the fancy struck him.
Will finished his glass and paid. It was enough to know he’d failed, but the reception being as it was, there was little use in further attempts to track Seth down. Slipping out the front, he took a chair at a store across the street and watched. There were a lot of things Will could tolerate in this life, but having his failure rubbed in his face by some poor white was not one of them.
The man stumbled out the door after fortifying himself for an additional thirty minutes and spending his day’s wages in drink. Instead of climbing up the street, he stumbled down the hill toward the river. Will followed at a discreet distance as the man turned and headed toward the warehouse where Will had first talked to him. The docks and riverbank were now silent and empty save for one steamer loading passengers. Will stole along, keeping his distance, to see where the man would turn in. The drunk veered toward the shoreline where the water was shallow and lapped easily against the muddy shore, where he clumsily knelt down to get a handful of water.
Will came up behind him and grabbed him from behind, keeping a tight hold of the man’s head in his left elbow. Gagging and flailing, the foreman tried to loosen Will’s clamp on his windpipe, making gurgling noises.
“Easy there,” Will whispered. He let the man go, and he fell forward into the mud and tried to lift himself up, but Will kicked him forward and into the water. Before he could raise himself up on his hands, Will planted his foot on the man’s back and pushed. For an instant Will caught himself—was he just taking out his failure, or did the man’s insolence really deserve this response? Thinking of his sister, he eased his pressure on the man’s back, allowing him to come up for a breath.
Taking a quick breath himself, Will gave the man one more shove back under the water. This was not play, and it was not accident. Giving a disgusted grunt, Will lifted his foot and took a step back onto the bank. As the man steadied himself on his arms, gasping for air, Will turned his back and strode away.
He’d come close to killing a few men and more than a few runaway slaves who had refused to come quietly, but he’d not ever intentionally murdered anyone out of spite or ire. He’d not been this flummoxed by a runaway before either.
The steamer heading back down the river was still there, and Will boarded, paying for short passage back to Covington. Bidding farewell to Ohio, he calmed himself down with another drink from the ship’s stock of whiskey.
Kearns wasn’t going to be pleased, but Will never promised what he could not deliver, only what he could do—and that was hunt. He wouldn’t get his bounty this time, but he would cover his expenses. The trip back across the river was spent brooding, and the largely Southern crew and passengers left him alone. Kearns was an insufferable maggot, in Will’s estimation, and in that, he would be in full agreement with any of the equally insufferable Northerners he’d spoken with this day. The man would have to do without his property. The slave had vanished into the great Ohio River Valley or was even in or near Canada by now. They all went to Canada if they could make it that far. Not even the Northern states could be considered safe after Dred Scott. Canada could have them, or Haiti, or any place far out of reach and sight.
It was a strange world these days, Will reflected.
Resigned, Will paid the boy in the stables for seeing to his horse and hoisted himself slowly into the saddle. The road back to Alabama was going to be long and lonely.
Chapter 2
Montgomery, Alabama, April 17,1861
The mood on the streets of Montgomery was festive, almost Christmas-like in the airs that echoed from park gazebos. Bunting hung from every balcony, and flags fluttered from every window. Young men and boys paraded about in formation, and the city’s ladies walked the promenades and boardwalks arm in arm with gentlemen in new militia uniforms. Crowds cheered, and speakers cajoled patriotism. It was the twentieth day of the month, a momentous week of news from South Carolina and indeed for the whole country as the anticipated final chapter was inaugurated in Charleston Harbor: Union Major Anderson had surrendered Fort Sumter to that outlandish little man, the Creole Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard. The streets erupted now and again in cheers for the Confederacy and for war, sealing the fate of the old Union of States and the new Confederacy of States.
William Hunter stepped out of his house resplendent in his cavalier’s uniform: grey trousers and a sleek blue jacket trimmed in yellow piping along the epaulettes. A garish yellow stripe ran down the outer seam of the trousers, and he wore a ceremonial leather shoulder belt and cartridge pouch, with a long, curved saber dangling loosely on his hip to finish the ensemble. Will laid his hand upon the hilt and patted it gently. Now it was war. It was for real.
The Montgomery Mounted Rifles coalesced as militia companies gathered for the adventure. For the younger set, joining the militia brought distinction in the community. For those older and married, it meant opportunity to rise higher in political position. The difference was they would not be going home each night or donning the uniform on weekends for drill and drinking. The Rifles, ordered by the governor of Alabama, John Gill Shorter, were called to a company muster to be held at 3 p.m. this day to have their orders read and formally elect company officers.
For Will, the day was a glimmering opportunity. If he was to have any chance of stepping out of his common, low birth, this was it. Yet, the company was filled with lawyers, physicians, and other monied professions who boasted family pedigrees and educations that demanded respect. Will knew he could muster enough friends to nominate him for a slot as an officer, but could he muster enough votes to succeed? Officers had been elected to govern the militia company before, but this was to be a step of great legitimacy, as everyone knew the next order would be to muster and march as a new mounted regiment. These men would be in command and given official commissions by the governor. No one deserved it more. If at any time in his life he could have proven his drive and determination to rise above his birth, he would have been voted captain of the company.
But he knew he did not have the influence to reach that high. A lieutenancy would have to do. If, that is, he had enough support. What was more likely to happen was that the planters and their sons would be voted into the top spots. He wasn’t a lawyer, son of a lawyer, son of a planter, or son of anyone of importance. That was how it worked: my favor for you brought a favor or favorable treatment for me. The militia tradition was a gentleman’s club in times of peace and an egalitarian organization in times of conflict. Military service in Southern society was for the well-to-do, the common man did not find anything in it of value.
But this common man was different. In a few hours, the muster and the election of the officers would commence. It was time for Will to shore up his numbers.
Walking briskly, an air of self-importance in his step, Will headed not for the grounds of the state capital but to where all of the men were to be found when not politicking: at the taverns. Lunching on bread and beer, sipping the hard stuff from dirty glasses, and hobnobbing with other self-important men in uniform was the new political battleground. The hotels were full with men of means who could afford a private room, and the flophouses remained for the rest, where three men could share a room, a heater, and hot breakfast at a shared table. There were more uniforms milling about the streets than men in civilian attire. The rest were politicians serving favors or being hounded for the same.
The Montgomery Mounted Rifles—or Rangers; he forgot which as the name seemed to change based on the man claiming the troop monicker—had adopted a hotel’s watering hole as their unofficial HQ, and it was there that Will headed now. The bar and tables were full with blue blouses and grey pants and yellow braid. Will stood in the threshold for a moment to take in who was there and where his best chances lay for politicking. His eyes immediately fell on the one man whom he wished not to
see; whom, in fact, he would be happy never to see again: Jackson Kearns. Son of the family Will’s paw had worked for; the very same young liar who had told the world that Baxter had killed Abby. He was yucking it up with several other men Will recognized as area planters and their progeny, men who showed up and knew what life was going to hand them. Kearns was sitting with some Will was ambivalent toward, like William Allen, another son of a planter from Montgomery whom, like most planters in the surrounding area, Will had tracked down more than one escaped slave for. That was not a table where he would feel welcome. Jackson was the oldest of the Kearns and champing at the bit to take over his father’s empire. He was older than Will but still young enough to swagger about Montgomery and try his father’s patience.
Though they were all military equals at this moment in time, no rank to be seen in the newly volunteered state militiamen, Will headed for a table where sat several men drinking whiskey with whom Will was on more equal terms.
They welcomed him as he approached. These were not highborn men, but men who worked with their hands and minds and liked to be seen as social betters. Will had little to do with them socially except that they were all involved in local politics to some degree. Store clerks, butchers, dry-goods importers, and now they were adding soldier to their vocations and livelihoods. There was Mitchell, who had owned an importer business doing brisk trade in Northern textiles until recently. The rise in tensions meant an end to importing woven cloth from Northern factories that could be traded for other goods from the Caribbean like coffee, sugar, and rum. Mitchell was short and stocky and liked to wax his mustachios in a Mephistophelian way. His cigar, a cheap one, was clenched between two stubby fingers as he waved it about, regaling the table with one of his stories. Will liked the man, whose exuberance was catchy in any room. Mitchell’s eyes sparkled, and his voice lilted with charm that would set anyone at ease, even if he were berating them.
Next to Mitchell sat a thin, bookish man whose most remarkable feature was his bushy sideburns, which clung to his jowls like blond sacks which he groomed absently whenever he was in deep thought. He looked like a scholar; behind his eyeglasses pierced two dark eyes that saw through a man. He was a butcher by profession, but one’s first impression of him was of an academic. He was the only one at the table who did not have a cigar or pipe, the only one drinking nothing but water. Everyone called him Peters, though his name was Howard, for reasons no one recalled any longer. Peters had beat Will for a councilman seat the last term. Will felt no enmity toward him; his personal piety made it hard for anyone to call Peters enemy.
At the table, and indeed the entire room, Will’s was the only clean-shaven face in appearance. No bushy whiskers, no long sideburns, no grandiose mustache with waxed ends twirled into handlebars or wagging as he spoke or laughed. Just a modest covering of the upper lip. The conversation at the table was the universal topic in Montgomery: would the Lincoln administration declare war against the Confederacy of Southern States after the surrender of Fort Sumter? Would they be goaded into it by firebrands in the capital just as firebrands had goaded Beauregard to fire on the fort? Will nodded and shook hands round the table and feigned interest in the conversation. His mind was not on the war but on the purpose of the uniform, and more directly, on what rank would adorn that uniform. Others, especially Kearns, were flitting about the tables glad-handing.
When it was their table’s turn, Kearns sauntered up and assumed an air of privilege.
“May I count on you gentlemen’s support for captain?”
Jackson Kearns was a man of classic cavalier’s build, that romantic height and weight that was the envy of all in the room as they imagined what the ideal look of the gentleman cavalier was supposed to be. Muscular, though he’d not had to do a day’s worth of labor, a set of brown eyes that glinted with mirth and seriousness at the same time, and a well-groomed mustache and goatee that trailed to a point beneath his full lips and strong mouth. If someone had purposefully sculpted the idyllic Southern gentleman, it would have been Kearns. He stood behind Mitchell affably looking to each man in turn to find out whether they were going to be loyal subjects or competitors.
“What’s in it for us?” came the logical question any right-minded constituent might ask of a candidate’s appeal for support.
“My consideration for noncommissioned appointments,” came the practiced reply.
“Unless you plan on having more sergeants than privates, I don’t see how that is possible,” Will replied.
“I did say consideration, Mr. Hunter,” Kearns replied in measured, practiced cadence.
Those at the table remained noncommittal.
“I will thank you for your consideration all the same, gentlemen.” Kearns turned on his heel and went to the next table.
Will huffed into his mustache and looked at his companions, studying faces for any clue as to what they really thought.
“They’ve been at it all morning, from table to table drumming up votes for theyselves. Kearns and Clanton seem to be the ones vying for captain. I don’t trust either of them.” Mitchell drew his sleeve across his mouth and took a long drag on his cigar.
“Not what you know, it’s who you know,” Peters’s even clip brought a response of nodding heads. “Neither of them has any experience; shame that.”
“Will one of you nominate me?” Will asked tentatively.
“Seems a long shot, Will,” Peters replied.
“Someone needs to clip that peacock’s feathers.” Will glared in Kearns’ direction.
“Sure, I’ll nominate ya, but seems a losing proposal as they’ve been promising favors to one and all,” Mitchell replied.
“I know; the feller with the deepest pockets’ll come out the winner, but they’s other spots I have my sights on. If I can’t make a showing running fer captain, I’ll not get lieutenant neither,” Will said with finality.
The buzz in the room was continuous as more men filtered in and ordered their drinks. Most were regular citizens doing their part for patriotism’s cause. There were so many blue blouses that no one else in Confederate uniform dared enter lest they interrupt or intrude upon what was clearly a private room. Clanton eventually made his way to their table and proffered his own candidacy, with a promise of rank and privilege to those who proved most ardent in support. Will’s heart sank a little; though prepared for the lesser of the plums, he knew he could offer nothing out of his own pocket for support. He’d have to appeal to the room’s sense of justice for ability over birth. Excusing himself, he undertook to do his own unobtrusive campaigning.
First, Will tried to gain John Clanton’s attention. If he wasn’t going to have a prayer of captain, perhaps the frontrunner might be willing to throw an endorsement behind his lieutenancy. The room was not overly large, but it was full of cavaliers having a high time. Clanton was keeping himself to certain tables. Once or twice Will managed to catch his eye, but Clanton was ignoring him. It was high-handed of the man, and no less an insult than if he’d called into question Will’s parentage. Will wasn’t going to beg for an audience.
Tables were already decided for either Clanton or Kearns, though a few other names came up. The lieutenant spots were also being decided in case of failure for captain—the ballots were the same names. Will was surprised to learn that William Allen, son of the prominent Montgomery slave holder and planter Wade Hampton Allen, was only campaigning for a lowly lieutenancy. The younger Allen, with his soft hazel eyes and somewhat rounded cheeks, was unassuming in expression and countenance compared to the bombastic Kearns or even Clanton with his airs and icy stare.
Will wandered back to his table, and the others looked at him expectantly.
“I think Clanton’s got it sewed up; at least Kearns won’t get it,” Will reported.
“You get any commitments?” one asked.
“Didn’t ask fer any; wanted ta see what the tables thought of them two. Some ain’t even gonna try for captain but run for lieutenant instead.”
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br /> “Why you want to be an officer, anyhow?” Mitchell asked.
“Perks. Rather give orders than take ‘em.”
“And get the blame when stuff don’t go right.”
“Plenty are cashing in on this; just want my share.” Will pursed his lips.
As the time for the vote neared, Will cornered William Allen. “Why don’t you run against Kearns and Clanton?”
“Don’t know, really. Just seems out of my league. I’ll do my part in the best way I can. No offense, but do you really think you have a chance of beating Kearns or Clanton yourself?” Allen’s question was what everyone wanted to ask Will, the one thing he himself had failed to ask.
“No, shoot fer the top, or you’re assured of nothin’.”
“You know why you won’t get much support, don’t you?” Allen raised an eyebrow and fixed Will with a stare that was neither haughty nor friendly.
“I imagine,” Will admitted.
Allen shrugged. “Money isn’t the only commodity; birth and privilege will decide it. Kearns and Clanton have both. You might save some face by dropping out; just a friendly suggestion. I don’t care much for either of them, so I’ve not decided.”
Will knew Allen was right, even if the suggestion was ungentlemanly. But perhaps that was at the crux of why he was even running: to buck a system that bestowed privilege on those who did nothing to deserve it. Even money could not rehabilitate a dirty job and a low birth, at least not in these circles.
As Will brooded and went for another round of drinks for his table, Kearns sidled in beside him while he was waiting for his order to be fulfilled, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“So, you’re trying to get captain, eh? You really think you got any chance at all? You know you don’t.” Jackson Kearns cocked his head back slightly and raised an impudent eyebrow.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 33
