by John Jakes
Klawdell rapped a gavel on the crate. “Meeting of the Union League Club, Ashley River District, now in session. Praise God, praise freedom, praise the Republican Party.”
“Amen,” the listeners responded in unison. Andy remained silent. To be a free man did you have to recite on cue?
“Boys—” If any of the others took Klawdell’s word as an insult, Andy saw no sign. “?e are approaching a momentous day for South Carolina. I refer to the special election to call the constitutional convention that will set this state on the right path at last. We must have a convention in order to thwart His Accidency, Mr. Johnson” groans, jeers—“who has proved no friend of the colored man. He continues to work against the Congress as it seeks to guarantee your rights—”
Andy saw bewilderment on many faces, the result of Klawdell’s two-dollar words. To impress men, did you have to confuse them?
“—and lately has perpetrated an even greater outrage, suspending the powers of one of your best friends, the Honorable E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War and loyal supporter of our beloved President Lincoln. Johnson wants to keep Stanton from doing his job because he’s doing it so well. It’s Mr. Stanton who sent the soldiers to protect you. Johnson also wants to test a fine law which the Congress passed to prevent exactly this sort of interference. Do you know what’s going to happen to Johnson?”
The men answered, “No.” Andy grimaced. Klawdell thumped his gavel.
“Your Republican friends are going to twist Johnson’s tail. They may even throw him out of office.”
That produced a lot of applause and foot-stomping. “All right, settle down,” Klawdell snapped. “We have important business here at home too. How many of you boys have gone to Summerton and signed up to vote in favor of the convention?”
Hands were raised, all but Andy’s and that of an old man. Klawdell didn’t like Andy and singled him out, pointing with the gavel. “Explain yourself, Sherman.”
Affronted, Andy leaped to his feet. “I work all day just to stay alive. They won’t sign you up at night, which is the only time I’ve got free.”
“Come on, tell the truth,” Klawdell said. “That woman who runs Mont Royal won’t let you register. She pretends to be a friend of the colored but she isn’t. Why don’t you speak out and denounce her the way you should?”
“Because she is a friend, and I won’t lie about her.”
Klawdell licked his lips. “Sherman, some of these boys felt the same way about their masters for a while. Do you know what happened to them?”
“I do.” He pointed to Rafe Hicks, a tan youth with a dirty bandage tied around his head. “Some of ’em jumped after dark, and got the hell beat out of them.”
“Then take a lesson. Denounce her.”
“I will not. You want that, I’m out of this club.”
He walked quickly to the door, tight inside. Wesley blocked his way, just itching to pull his pistol. Andy stopped, fisted his hands, and stared Wesley down. In a low voice he said, “You try to stop me, Wesley, you’re going to have broken bones. Or worse.”
Wesley cursed and started to draw. Klawdell whipped out his revolver and used the butt for a gavel. “All right, all right, everybody calm down. We need your vote more than we need a fight in here, Sherman. If you’re willing to register—”
“I am. I just have to find time.”
“Then we’ll forget about the rest.”
Andy gave him the same kind of hard stare he’d given Wesley. Then he returned to his bench. A couple of the men he had to step over to reach his seat leaned far back, afraid that even a touch might anger him. Andy felt some small satisfaction, but bitterness too. The League men were pouring into the South—to help educate the freedmen, they said. Why did that education have to include sowing distrust, even hatred, of good white friends? Andy could never think of Madeline as anything but white.
Klawdell resumed. “The special convention will be a great thing, boys. But it will never be convened unless a majority of South Carolina voters approve. Sherman and Newton have got until November 19 to sign up.”
The old man, Newton, said, “But we got to do that in Summerton, Captain. Gettys and his friends, like that Captain Jolly, they say, don’t stop in Summerton, nigger. Move right on through.”
“Why do you think there are two soldiers at the crossroads, Newton? Not just to sign you up. To make sure no one interferes with you when you do it. You tell Gettys and his pals to lean down and kiss your ass.”
As the clapping and laughter burst out, Andy winced again. Somehow the tone here was all wrong. His black friends and neighbors were being treated like children. He almost stood and walked out for good. Only the club’s larger purpose, more important than Klawdell’s behavior, kept him from it.
Klawdell saw Andy’s resentment and took a more moderate tone. “I’ll say it again, Sherman—we need you and Newton both. Every vote counts. Sign up. Please.”
Well, that was better. “Don’t worry. I will.”
“Praise God,” Klawdell exclaimed. He put his revolver away and grabbed the gavel. “All right, let’s hear it.” Whack went the gavel. “What’s the party for the colored man?”
All but Andy said, “Union Republican.”
Whack. “Who are your enemies?”
“Johnson. Democrats.”
Whack, whack. “Who’d steal away the rights we fought and bled to give you, the rights Abe Lincoln died to give you?”
“Democrats!”
“Now tell me the name of your true friends.”
They stomped for each word. “Union—Republicans.”
“Who’s going to take over this state?” Now Klawdell was shouting. “Who’s going to take over this whole country and run it right?”
“Union Republicans! Union Republicans!” The stomping shook the cabin. Andy kept his mouth shut, his hands laced together, his work shoes tight against each other on the floor. He scowled as the others swayed and clapped and filled the cabin with their din. “Union Republicans! Union Republicans!” Some of the men glared at Andy. He glared right back, damned if he’d act like someone’s trained dog. He continued to sit straight as a rod, in silent protest.
The next day, about an hour before sunset, Andy appeared at the Summerton crossroads. Walking swiftly, he approached the flag-decorated cabin. The corporal stepped out, shook his hand, and escorted him inside.
Through the window of the Dixie Store, Randall Gettys watched. When Andy reappeared in ten minutes and started for home, looking pleased, Gettys immediately penned a letter to Des in Charleston.
She now has registered every one of her niggers. I have urged caution but we cannot wait much longer. You had better come down and talk about it.
He then wrote his cousin Sitwell, up in York County.
The mephitic Republican League is inflaming all the local colored men. They outnumber us and will out-vote us this month. We are desperate for some safe means of thwarting them. Have you heard anything further of that secret in Tennessee?
_____
The vote to call a convention passed overwhelmingly. I suppose there was never a doubt. As many as 80,000 freedmen registered, and only about half that number of whites.
The military persuaded Andy to declare himself a delegate candidate, and he did. He will go to Charleston in January.
It is our only good news. Two bad crops this year—the stream saw still not repaired—Dawkins demanding the quarterly money—we are even closer to ruin. On the very edge. Again last night Prudence and I argued over appealing to George H. I prevailed, but wonder if I am right. Wouldn’t it be better to beg than to lose everything? How I wish you were here to guide me.
35
CHARLES, GRAY OWL, AND the ten-man detachment returned to the field, patrolling the railroad east of Fort Harker. On that segment of the line Indian attacks weren’t as frequent as they were between Harker and Fort Hays to the west, but neither were they unknown.
They experienced a spell of unusually hot wea
ther. Warm air shimmered over the plains, creating silver lakes in the distance; lakes that vanished long before a man reached them. On a sunny morning, the soldiers were walking their horses in columns of twos just to the north of a line of low rolling hills. On the other side, parallel with the hills, ran the railroad and the telegraph.
Charles was thankful to be moving again. It helped ease his feelings of sadness and anger about Willa. Except for that, he felt good about things. He had a fine horse; Satan ran strongly, wasn’t nervous about gunfire, and had exceptionally good wind. He had ridden the piebald long enough so that horse and man could almost sense one another’s thoughts.
He was equally satisfied with his men. He dropped back toward Gray Owl at the rear and inspected them. They all rode competently, and a few, such as Magee, had a real flair for it. Those who’d kept their regulation trousers had reinforced them with canvas patches on the seat and thigh. Brims of straw hats and bills of chasseur kepis shaded their eyes. A bedroll with extra clothing hung over the front of each man’s McClellan saddle. The saddle also carried lariat, picket pin, canteen, and a tin plate. A saddle sheath by the right knee held the rifle; at Charles’s suggestion, his men had left their generally useless bayonets behind.
They passed him two by two, each with sheath knife on the left hip, holster with pistol butt forward on the right. Only one man had retained a regulation cartridge box on his belt. The rest kept their metal in bandoliers or belts they’d sewn themselves. For former city boys they were a fierce-looking lot; they really did resemble roving bandits ready for any eventuality.
Shem Wallis rode by. Charles heard him say to Corporal Magic Magee, “Lord, it’s hot. I can’t believe it’s November. When we gonna noon?”
“Pretty soon,” Magee said. “Here, watch this coin.”
Charles called out to Wallis, “We’ll stop there.” He pointed to a grove of bare trees some distance ahead and to the left. Since trees usually grew in the damp bottomland, they might find a stream, and cottonwood bark for the horses to forage on.
Charles dropped all the way back beside Gray Owl. The men liked the tracker, but Magee had really taken to him because Gray Owl was always such a fine audience for his sleights. Charles still hadn’t learned a thing about his past, especially why he’d abandoned his people. The tracker seemed to be relaxed and in a good mood, so Charles decided to try again.
“Gray Owl, if you’re going to track for me, I’d like to know some things about you. Tell me about your family.”
The Indian hunched inside his buffalo robe. Despite the heat, no perspiration showed on his lined face. He thought for a while before he answered. “My father was a great chief named Crooked Back. My mother was a white woman he captured. They say she was fair and light-haired. She has been dead a long time.”
This surprising information was a wedge. “Any other family?”
“No. Eight winters past, my sister traveled the Hanging Road. Five winters past, my only brother followed. Both were carried off by the same sickness. The one your people brought to us that we had never suffered before.”
“Smallpox?”
“Yes.” Gray Owl gave Charles a long look, and he felt a stab of guilt. The Indian gazed ahead at the heat devils.
Charles cleared his throat. “What I’d really like to know is why you’re willing to track for the Army.”
“When I was a young man, I went to seek my vision in order to become a warrior and find the purpose of my life. In the sweat lodge I burned out the poisons of doubt and hate and headstrong selfishness. I painted my face white to purify it and went apart, as seekers must, to a dangerous place. A lonely place, with grass so tall and dry, the smallest spark could ignite a great fire to consume me.”
Charles held his breath. He was getting somewhere.
“Three days and nights I lay hidden in tall grass, crying out for my vision. I ate nothing. I drank nothing. I was rewarded. The Wise One Above, the holy spirit you white men call God, began to speak from the clouds, and from pebbles in a stream, and from a snake passing by. I saw myself hollow and smooth as a dry reed, ready to be filled.
“God moved then. All the grasses bent, each blade pointing north toward the ancient Sacred Mountain. In the empty sky, an eagle appeared. It swooped low over my head and flew west. Then, from the center of the sun, a great owl descended. The owl spoke a while. Then the sun blinded me.”
“Did the owl become your helper bird?”
Gray Owl was startled; Charles knew more of the tribe’s ways than he’d suspected. “Yes. I keep a great owl’s claw with me always.” He tapped his medicine bundle, a drawstring bag tied to his belt. “And always, if I ask, a great owl will appear and guide me when I am lost or confused. I learned my purpose from the owl and from the eagle.”
“What is your purpose?”
“It was to help the People find the way. To lead them to winter camps and to ceremony grounds for the great summer festivals. To track the buffalo south with the snows and north with the green grass. When I returned from seeking my vision I donned a warrior’s regalia, but thereafter always followed my purpose.”
“To lead the People. But now you’re leading us. Why?”
Gray Owl’s face turned stony. “The People strayed so far from the right way that not even God could lead them back. It is time to rest. Shall I search those trees ahead?”
It was as if a curtain had fallen in Trump’s theater. Frustrated, Charles nodded. The Cheyenne dug in his moccasins and raced his pony away toward the distant grove.
Ten miles east, a westbound passenger train left the hamlet of Solomon and crossed the line into Saline County. In the freight car, two men polished their guns while two others played cards.
In the second-class passenger car, a young woman on her way to join her husband at Fort Harker gazed through the window at the stark landscape. She’d never been west of the Mississippi before. Her husband was a sergeant recently transferred to the Seventh Cavalry.
In the seat ahead of her, a cavalry officer wearing a silver oak leaf intently studied a book on tactics. At the end of the car the conductor counted ticket stubs. The other passengers talked or dozed, and no one happened to glance toward the south side of the train. There, about a mile from the right-of-way, a line of twenty mounted men started down a low hill and, at the bottom, began to ride rapidly toward the train.
While they waited for Gray Owl, Magee pulled out his piece of practice rope. He handed the rope to another trooper, Private George Jubilee, then crossed his wrists and asked Jubilee to tie him. Jubilee’s father, a fugitive slave, had chosen the last name after he found sanctuary in Boston.
“Good and tight,” Magee said. Sliding his horse closer, Jubilee concentrated on looping the rope around Magee’s wrists several times. He didn’t notice the momentary stiffening of Magee’s spine, the slight shudder of his forearms, the sudden appearance of veins on the dark brown backs of his fisted hands. Charles saw it from his vantage point, though; he’d seen Magee’s escapes and was alert to the trick. Magee was almost undetectably putting tension on the rope while Jubilee finished his loops and tied two knots.
Jubilee sat back on his saddle, smug about his handiwork. Magee began to twist his hands in opposite directions, his nostrils flaring. He grunted once and suddenly, faster than Charles could follow, his hands were apart. The rope was still knotted around his left wrist. He’d created just enough slack to allow him to work a hand free.
Magee smiled lazily and picked at the knots while Private Jubilee stared, dumbfounded. He was relatively new to the troop and to Magee’s tricks.
Gray Owl returned in ten minutes. He was paler than Charles had ever seen him.
“Whites have passed here,” he said with suppressed fury. “There are dead men and dead horses among the trees. The bodies have been despoiled.”
Charles took the head of the column, ordered his buffalo soldiers to the trot, and led them toward the grove. Well before they reached it, he saw the meandering st
ream he expected, a narrow ribbon of yellow water along the grove’s north perimeter.
A rank smell floated from the leafless trees. Charles recognized it. He’s smelled the same stench at Sharpsburg and Brandy Station and other places where the dead lay a long time after the firing stopped. One of his younger men leaned to the right and shuddered with the dry heaves.
Charles unsheathed his saber and raised it to signal a halt. The saber was a useless weapon in the field, except where it would serve as a standard, something bright and visible to rally around. “I’ll go in first. The rest of you water your horses.”
He dismounted, shifted the saber to his left hand, and drew his Colt. He approached the grove with caution. Gray Owl followed without permission; Charles was conscious of him as a shadow flicking over the sere grass to his left.
From the edge of the grove he saw a dead horse, then two more. Warriors’ horses, usually left alive so that their owners would have fine mounts in paradise. This probably meant that someone other than Indians had shot them.
He swallowed, took a few more steps, and spied the three decomposing bodies. Stripped of raiment, they lay amid broken sections of wooden platforms. Upright timbers that had supported the platforms still stood in the center of the grove. Forcing himself, Charles moved closer to inspect the naked corpses. Near them he found the splintered shafts of several brightly painted arrows. Everything else had been looted.
He heard the anger in Gray Owl’s voice. “Do you know what has happened?”
“I do. It’s the custom of your people to put their dead on these burial platforms if the winter ground is too hard to dig. These were special men—war chiefs, camp chiefs, maybe society leaders—because they were buried this way when the ground isn’t frozen.”
Nearer to the sky on the platforms, the dead thus passed more quickly along the Hanging Road to paradise. It was also customary for the Cheyennes to deposit personal treasures, weapons, and a favorite mount, so the dead man wouldn’t lack for anything in the afterlife. Oddly, despite his hatred of the Cheyennes, Charles found himself sickened by the desecration.
