Stranger in Dixie

by James Fearn

  This was obviously a suite for the well-to-do. The walls were decorated in gold-figured wallpaper and red velvet curtains set off the large windows. John was reminded of his own home in Sheffield when, as a small boy, he was regularly chided by his mother for touching the drawing room wallpaper. He had often wondered what was so special about these walls that they should be so revered. Indeed in his adult years, he had sometimes mused about the unseen walls that divide human societies like those in his family home. Were they so sacred that they too must never be touched?

  ‘Find y’rselves a seat, gentlemen,’ said Abe, volubly pointing to several plush armchairs arrayed around the large room. ‘Ah am the bearer of the best news that has come to Louisiana in the last twenty years,’ he announced with an engaging smile upon his face. His keen brown eyes fixed John with a hypnotic stare that had cowed many lesser men before. But John was not so easily subdued and remained on his feet so that Abe, even though standing, was forced to look up to his guest.

  ‘Ah represent the Lone Pine Oil Exploration Company, gentlemen,’ he continued. He produced a set of printed brochures about the company as if to verify his credentials. ‘Have Ah got a great deal f’r yer! Listen!’

  ‘Ma company was established in Texas about ten years ago, and we’ve bin explorin’ for oil in Northern Louisiana in recent times. The prospects are looking good with several excellent strikes already. But the thing is that we need capital. We’re givin’ the citizens of this great State a chance to profit from your own natural resources. For as little as $50 each, you can purchase shares that Ah can personally guarantee will return up t’ 50 per cent. Now that’s a mighty fine deal, gentlemen, a real good deal.’

  ‘It certainly sounds like one, Mr Pickering,’ responded John. ‘But how do we know that your prediction is correct?’

  ‘Do Ah look like someone who’d take folks down?’ asked Pickering. ‘Just look at these figures.’ He opened the brochure and pointed to the Company’s returns in Texas over the past few years, which averaged 30 per cent per annum. John was quite impressed, and calculated that he could repay his borrowings within five years at that rate.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ continued the entrepreneurial visitor from Texas. ‘Y’all will know o’the political tensions buildin’ around us. We in the South may one day have to fight for all that we hold dear. We’re gonna need all the wealth we can get, gentlemen. Those of you who invest in our Company will not only benefit yerself, but y’all be supportin’ Dixie.’ This last thought interested many of his audience. This man had a point about the need to strengthen southern resources.

  And so it was that John and quite a few others signed up to take shares in this venture oil company. John restructured his mortgage with Brown and Steele for the year in the confident hope of a good return from his investment. The news of the oil man’s presence in Mansfield spread like wildfire, and many rushed to secure their parcel of shares while Pickering was in town. By the time he left Mansfield, he was carrying Confederate currency and gold to the value of more than $10,000.

  Several weeks had passed, and John was returning from a morning’s work in the fields when two men greeted him near the farmhouse.

  ‘Mr Francis?’ inquired one.

  ‘Yes,’ replied John.

  ‘Ludlow and Barnes,’ the man responded introducing himself and his associate. ‘We represent the Lone Ranger Oil Exploration Company of Texas, and we’d like to discuss a business proposition with y’all.’

  ‘You don’t mean about the exploration for oil in this State, do you?’ queried John.

  ‘Why yes!’ came the brisk response. ‘You know about it then?’ said Ludlow.

  ‘Yes! Your man was around these parts several weeks ago. There was quite a lot of interest in the proposition in Mansfield,’ responded John.

  The cheerful look upon the faces of the two oil men suddenly vanished. ‘Was this guy’s name Pickering by any chance?’ asked Barnes.

  ‘Who could forget that name? What a character!’ quipped John, jovially.

  The two visitors looked at each other and became quite agitated. Then Barnes spoke, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell yer, Mr Francis, that the our Company does not employ Mr Pickering as its representative. He’s an imposter. I hope you haven’t given him any of your money.’

  John stared at them in disbelief and his heart sank. The hope of a quick return on his money had blinded him to reality. The super con man had bedazzled them all with the hope of easy riches, and he had fallen for it. To think that after all his effort on the goldfields he had not learnt that wealth is never easily come by. He cursed his foolishness. He recalled the words of scripture, ‘the fool and his money are soon parted’.

  It was with some shame that he told Anna about what had happened of his hopes for a profit on what sounded like a good investment of a scheme to reduce their debt more quickly than they had reckoned.

  Instead, they were now in a worse position financially than before. They must pray that the next growing season would be better than the last. That at least would redeem the situation somewhat.

  Jesse Godbehere had been extremely supportive of the young couple from Australia, and had in turn earned their deep respect and gratitude. John was a frequent visitor to the Godbehere residence whenever he wanted to discuss matters agricultural or political. The two men had established quite a rapport, and John had come to think of Jesse more as a father than as his employer.

  Jesse’s wife had taken a similar liking to Anna and had sent Bessie, one of her house slave girls, to help Anna with the domestic chores once a week. Anna was quite surprised one day to walk into her kitchen and find Bessie sobbing. Thinking that the girl may be apprehensive about the growing rumour of war in the South, Anna tried to comfort her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bessie. If there is a war, then you’ll be free whoever wins,’ she said, placing a comforting arm around the black girl’s shoulders. Mary always felt comfortable with Anna. She sensed an inner sympathy as if Anna herself had suffered like her once. Little did the slave girl realise how close to the truth she was.

  Bessie had married James Whittacker, a man twice her age. ‘Ah was good an’ faithful to ’im, an’ Ah kept ’is ’ouse clean. He ’ad no reason to complain about me. But ’e’s gone an’ left me and the chillen,’ she whimpered.

  ‘For heaven’s sake why?’ queried Anna.

  ‘‘Cause Ah ’ad twins. Jimmy says dey are not ’is chillen ’cause nobody named Wittacker eber ’ad twins b’fore.’

  The girl dissolved into tears again. Anna took her by the hand, led her outside to the veranda, and sat her down in a large wicker chair.

  ‘Bessie,’ she said. ‘I believe you when you tell me that they are your husband’s children. I know you are a good girl. Now you are just going to have to stand up to your husband and make him accept his responsibilities. You tell him that it is a very great achievement for a man to father two babies at once and that he should be proud of you and the children.’

  ‘Some men’, continued Anna, ’are obstinate fools. They always expect the woman to take the blame, but never the praise. Now you tell James from me that he has to wake up to himself, and if he doesn’t, I’ll tell my John to put him in his place.’

  Bessie ventured a half-smile. She had heard of Massa Francis’ reputation. He was a powerful man with words and usually won most of his arguments.

  The political scene in the United States of America in the fall of 1860 was showing further signs of instability. Although the secessionists of the southern States were in the minority, there was a growing rejection of the Federal Government tariff and slavery policies in Dixie. But despite that few believed that the threats of intervention by the North were anything more than bluff.

  On one occasion, Jesse had ridden over to John’s place to discuss these issues with him. Jesse was a keen reader of the Mansfield Enterprise. They had had many a conver
sation in the past about the implications of secession, and Jesse wanted to show John a recent article outlining the cases for and against such an action.

  ‘Ah think it’d be a very provocative move to secede from the Union,’ said Jesse. ‘Some of those congressmen are speakin’ real nasty against us at the moment.’

  ‘If you ask me what, we need is more effective representation in the Congress. You hardly hear a word out most of them, do you?’ responded John. ‘In fact, I think most of the southern congressmen . . .’

  He was interrupted in mid-sentence by two riders who came up Crosby Street and stopped opposite them. It was the Sheriff and his Indian Deputy. The Sheriff had an anxious look on his face. ‘There’s bin a break out from the Shreveport lock-up,’ he yelled. ‘A guard has bin murdered an’ we’ve bin asked to look out for the convicts. Will y’ join the posse?’

  Within ten minutes, John and Jesse were at the Sheriff’s office where the riders of the district were assembling. No sooner had they arrived than the Sheriff rushed out and sprang on to his horse.

  ‘Men,’ he yelled with urgency in his voice. ‘There’ bin a sightin’ at the school run by Ms Brown up the Shreveport Road about ten minutes ago. If we move fast, we could take him up there.’ Following the Sheriff, the posse galloped towards the school.

  About fifty yards from the schoolhouse, the Sheriff raised his hand and the posse reined in behind him. Dismounting, they lightly tethered their horses and spread out around the schoolhouse in an attempt to cover all-likely escape routes. Stealthily, they crept towards the school under the cover of the bushes muskets at the ready. A single horse was tethered to the veranda post of the schoolhouse.

  ‘Look, there’s his horse,’ John whispered to a fellow rider.

  No sooner had he said this, then the schoolhouse door opened and two figures emerged. The smaller of the two was Ms Brown gagged and bound at the wrists; the other was a bearded man holding a gun in the middle of her back.

  Spotting the posse surrounding them the bandit yelled, ‘Fall back or the woman dies!’

  ‘Do what he says,’ commanded the Sheriff, anxious to avoid more bloodshed.

  Mounting his horse, the escapee caught up Ms Brown in his left arm, flung her across the horse’s withers in front of him, and galloped off towards the hills, firing into the air as he went.

  Within minutes the posse had remounted, and was in pursuit of the desperado. John pondered the growing number of charges the escapee was accumulating—escape from lawful detention, murder, and kidnap. What would he get for that? His mind went back to his own entanglement with the law in Lancaster all those years ago. This fellow would surely hang.

  By the time the posse reached the foot of the hills, the escapee and his hostage were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Prob’ly ’idin’ in one o’ them caves,’ said the Indian Deputy, who knew the area well. This was limestone country and the hills were honeycombed with caves. Pools of crystal clear water lay here and there, making this location ideal for hiding from the law. Many an outlaw had resisted arrest in this region for long periods in bygone days.

  The men searched for quite a while before the Indian suddenly dismounted to examine the ground near one of the openings to the caves.

  ‘Look!’ he whispered. ‘The prints show ’orse with ’eavy burden come ’ere recently then go into that cave,’ he continued, pointing towards a large opening in the side of the hill. ‘They prob’ly ’idin’ in there.’

  The Deputy discussed the situation quietly with the Sheriff in a voice too soft for the men to here. Beckoning to John, the Sheriff whispered to him, ‘You go with ma Deputy. Keep close to ’im. He’ll show you what to do.’

  Obediently, John followed the Indian for about one hundred yards around the side of the hill until they came to another opening. ‘Come!’ said the Indian.

  John followed the man into the cave, which soon narrowed down to a small tunnel through which only one could crawl at a time. John hoped the Deputy knew where he was going and kept in close contact lest he should lose him in the darkness. For thirty minutes, they crawled, feeling their way in the darkness and staggered over the hidden rocks, ever deeper into the underworld. John was thankful that he was not claustrophobic. Here and there, he could see the phosphorescent glow of the blind worms.

  Gradually, John became aware of a flickering glow in the distance. There were also intermittent noises of what sounded like a gruff human voice. Their quarry was within earshot. The Deputy stopped and tugged at John’s arm, encouraging him to keep as close as possible to him. Both men peered into the gloom in front of them. John could make out that the tunnel opened up into quite a large cavern. A bearded man was moving around a modest fire that was burning in the cavern. Sitting nearby was the schoolteacher, still bound and gagged, looking considerably distressed.

  Like a cat stalking a bird, the Indian inched his way forward behind the boulders, while the kidnapper crouched over the fire muttering to himself. His gun was never far from his right hand.

  With a sudden leap, the Indian sprang upon his prey, knocking him to the left of the fire. John ran forward to pick up the gun. Such was the surprise of the capture that the escapee found himself handcuffed before he knew what had happened. With a string of oaths and curses, the brigand finally submitted and marched quietly back up the cave, while John released the young schoolteacher.

  The story of the capture of this desperado spread rapidly, and although John had had little to do with it, he found himself to be the object of considerable admiration amongst the people of Mansfield.

  It had been an exhausting day, and John sank into bed that night with a huge yawn. Anna enfolded him in her arms. ‘Welcome home, hero,’ she said with a chuckle and kissed him.

  Life in Mansfield in the winter of 1861 had not been the most pleasant. The rapidly worsening situation on the political front, with Georgia having now joined the rebels, cast a gloom over the whole State. Not only that, but the severest of winters for many a day had delayed the preparation of the ground for the sowing. John had grown anxious that if he did not get his planting done soon, he would miss the benefit of the spring rains. But his anxiety intensified as he waited for the germination, which was extremely poor.

  The crop of seedlings, such as it was, was again cut down by the heavy frosts of early spring, and the hoped-for bumper crop of maize so necessary to redeem John’s worsening financial position seemed but a pipe dream.

  Despite these portents of gloom, the citizens of Mansfield still held the view that the North could not sustain a war to subjugate the rebellious States of the South. Their overextended supply lines would be easy targets for the brave armies of General Lee.

  The announcement that Louisiana had seceded from the Union following Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia came as no surprise to John. The farmers of the north-west had been predicting it for some time, but few really imagined that the Union would respond with aggression. To support the abolition of black slavery was one thing, but to attempt to settle the dispute by force of arms was another.

  Within four weeks of his election as President of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davis had arranged to make a tour of the key cities and towns of the South to meet the people, and to call for their support in what he described as the coming inevitable struggle.

  At Mansfield, it was arranged that the President would speak outside the City Hall.

  Coloured streamers and huge bowls of spring flowers decorated the dais, and the Town Band played patriotic songs, which bore a strong resemblance to those sung by the Yankees. Their’s was a common patriotism; their’s was a shared belief in independence and self-fulfilment. But their’s was a house divided against itself.

  Like everyone else, waiting at the hall, John was dressed in his Sunday best. Lengths of imported silk billowed from the flowing gowns of the ladies, and tall hats gave stature to the frock-coated gentlem
en of Dixie. A group of little girls made ready their posies of flowers, and liveried coachmen sat erect on the horse-drawn carriages of the well-to-do as they waited at a distance. It was a pleasant balmy morning. The sweet-scented wisteria grew in profusion on the iron-grille balconies of the surrounding houses and shops, and rambler roses budded in the private gardens. Brand new Confederate flags were draped from the high windows of the gabled Georgian houses.

  Jefferson Davis was a tall, gaunt man. An intermittent twitching cheek was symptomatic of the neuralgia, which was eventually to blind him in one eye. It was said that he was very formal, and that he disliked using first names even when addressing his slaves. His reserved manner gave him a reputation for aloof obstinacy, but amongst close friends, he was said to be warm and cordial. Since the secession of Louisiana, several weeks earlier, Davis had wondered what role he might play in the new Confederacy. With his considerable military background, he had even entertained the idea that he might lead the Confederate armies in the field.

  The well-liked Mayor of Mansfield introduced the President in the most glowing terms. Here was a man experienced in politics and in war. Here was a man of integrity who knew and loved the South. Here was a man who could lead them in the defence of all that they held dear. The Mayor’s grandiloquent rhetoric flowed on as the crowd’s enthusiasm and excitement came to fever pitch in anticipation of hearing the great man speak. They welcomed the President of the Confederacy wildly as he stepped to the rostrum.

  ‘Men and women of Mansfield,’ he began. ‘Our present political system has developed in a remarkable way. The American ideal is that government should be based upon the consent of the people, and that it is the right of the people to change their representatives if they become destructive of the ends to which they were elected.’ John nodded his approval of this principle, as the people clapped respectfully.