Lords of an Empty Land (16 page)

Passing the time, Douglas cantered back down the road in the direction he had come. A few hundred yards later, he veered his horse off to the left on an unkempt drive under a two-acre stand of hundred-year-old oaks. There, he inspected the remains of a once marvelous, spacious, three-story house, its grounds grown over with thick foliage. What remained of the burnt structure, some of the brick facing and several columns, poked up through the new saplings and brush. The grand residence and all its support structures had a lonely feeling, and Douglas wondered at the vast activity that had surely occurred here just a few years earlier. How spectacular the grounds must have once been. Where were the owners, dead or now bankrupt? The entire river basin south of Natchitoches was pockmarked with similar edifices, burnt or destroyed, relics of a bygone era and a testament to the waste of the war. They resembled the ancient ruins of Mexico or Greece he had read about in books or seen in paintings.

The ferry master blew his large horn. Douglas wheeled his horse around and rode back to the riverbank. By the time he arrived at the small toll station, the ferry had moored at the dock. He got off his horse and urged his hesitant mount onto the fragile vessel, handing the operator ten cents. In just a few seconds, his footing got unsteady, and the ferry eased out into the river. Douglas grabbed his horse's bridle, the animal breathing heavy and uneasy, uncertain of the setting.

The henequen rope tethering the ferry to each bank whined over the craft's steel pulleys. The damp wood under his feet squeaked. The water jostled below. The strong, stocky ferry operator with enormous forearms now transferred all his energy to a large wheel, equipped with handles and connected to a set of wooden gears and spokes. The contraption tugged on the rope and pulled the ferry slowly across the murky water. Below, the ferry's planks rested on twenty or so wooden barrels.

Out over the water, all got strangely quiet. Douglas gauged the time from the sun, halfway between its apex and rising, as he looked out at the tall hills and steep outcroppings surrounding the east bank and some decrepit Confederate breastworks high on a ridge. He hated ferry rides. A competent marksman could take out an entire cavalcade before anyone on the ferry ever located the perpetrator.

As the ferry got a hundred yards into the river, the craft's momentum pushing it along, the operator took a respite and walked up beside Douglas.

“Name's Josiah Banks.”

“Captain Douglas Owens.”

The ferry driver, almost timidly, briefly inspected both banks. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I'm a veteran of the war of Yankee aggression, 18th Louisiana under Taylor. But me and lot of other folks, the kind not inclined to speak up or make a fuss, is all for you getting rid of some of these folks.”

Douglas's ears pricked. He led his horse over to the wheel where the operator had returned. Other than his tight, masculine frame, the man carried a rather mediocre appearance: mid-thirties, of average height, commonly dressed, with unenthusiastic and uninteresting brown eyes and expressions, and a sun-beaten complexion.

“Really,” Douglas said. “Which men are those?”

Josiah looked at both banks again quickly as he slowly and effortlessly turned the wheel with little effort. “Sheriff Thaxton and Moses Garrett and his band. Now don't gets me wrong. I don't mind them keeping the niggers from getting too uppity, or running out the damned Northerners.” The man paused. “No disrespect intended. But they walk around like they above everybody . . . well, I'll tell ya, folks getting tired of it. Nobody knows, but I thinks it's them who's killing all those good white folks for nothing we hear rumors about.”

Douglas added some confidence to his voice, but also spoke softly. “Don't worry, I'm going to get them. You reckon anybody might be interested in helping me out?”

“Maybe, if they thought you might make a difference.”

“How many?”

“There's eight or ten that might.”

“Men who might ride with me? Who wouldn't be cowed down at the first sound of lead?”

The man produced a truncated smile, exposing his yellow teeth. “These same men ran you bluecoats outta here, didn't they? Don't know if they would ride with you, but they might be willin' to do something to help you.”

Douglas looked up. His blood pumped faster, the ferry now two-thirds of the way across the river. “If you know of anybody who might want to help, I can have them appointed deputy marshal. They don't have to be deputized, just help if they can. I pay in gold. Or anybody who might know something, wants to be a witness, come see me. Of course, I couldn't pay witnesses. Might taint their testimony. I'll meet them somewhere more discreet if they prefer.”

“I'll do some checking around,” Josiah said. He worked the wheel with more zest and raised the tone of his voice. “I do believe it's going to be a fine evening. Might have a drink before I go home. Done a good business today.”

The Cotton Palace grew larger in Douglas's vision by the second. He looked at the man again, wondering if he could be trusted. Something told him yes. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts. He wasn't totally sure what the conversation meant. He wanted some time to think about it, piece it all together. Could this man be beneficial, a key to helping him catch the outlaws? His spirit perked. At the least, he now recognized that some people around here sympathized with his cause, at least partially. He had never heard a common man, a working man from the lower classes, say anything even remotely comparable to what he had heard on the ferry. The conversation gave him hope, reassured him that others noticed his work positively. A shot of confidence and zeal rushed over him, and he felt a need to hustle off to Hannah and discuss all of this. As the ferry docked, he jubilantly mounted up and rode off onto more sturdy footing.

“Just what I had in mind,” Douglas said to the young blacksmith, before grinning at Huff. He turned his attention to the blacksmith's just-completed work, an army wagon, its bed now fitted with a five-foot-square, five-foot-high iron cage. He reached out and firmly gripped the half-inch iron bars, shaking the cage and wagon to ensure their stiffness and integrity. He swung the sturdy little door a few times, making sure its hinges operated efficiently and the opening closed snugly. He turned back to Huff, who also wore a big white smile. “Next time we catch one of those bandits, let me see him escape from this.”

“Two mules or horses will pull it fine,” the blacksmith added.

Basil stepped down from the army captain's office and gingerly ambled toward the wagon.

“How you feeling?” Douglas said, inspecting the gunslinger and the dark yellow flesh around the healing bruises on his face.

“Getting better every day. I'll be back at full speed in two or three days. Worst of it is bunking in these shoddy quarters.”

Douglas chuckled. “You may have gotten rid of two of those damn Garretts, but they sure ran you out of the Cotton Palace. Ran your whores off, too.”

“Whether the army pays me or not,” Basil said, “I'm going to plant those bastards. It's going to be a slow, painful process too. This has gotten personal.”

“Maybe you ought to take up honest living for a while,” Douglas said.

“
Damned
if I will,” Basil snarled. “That'll be the end of me for sure. Just as well let one of those bushwhackers shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

“How's Nancy?” Douglas asked.

“Looks like the poor girl's going to live,” Basil responded in a serious tone that caused all four men to pause their movements.

A gloomy, somber feeling fell over Douglas. “Can you ride?”

“Yeah, so long as it's not a long trip,” Basil answered, raising his eyelids. “What's up?”

“We've got to go up to Lake End tomorrow and investigate the murder of a local colored politician a few days ago. He was found lying in a ditch full of bullet holes. We're to take the steamer first thing in the morning. Don't think it's got anything to do with Garrett's clan. Sounds like just your standard political murder. Probably a waste of time, and we'll ask a bunch of questions, look around, but nobody will know anything or say anything, but I've at least got to fill out the paperwork, file a report. Should be back tomorrow night. I guess some good will come out of it. I hear there's an old Confederate dentist up there. I'm going to get him to pull this aching tooth of mine.”

“You should have a gold cap put on it next time you're in Shreveport or New Orleans,” Basil said.

“It's killing me, and it's in the back. Nobody will ever notice, not even Hannah when she kisses me.” The noon church bells from the town's center sounded. “I've got to go. Want to see Hannah when she lets her class out. Huff, move that wagon around back where nobody can see it.”

Douglas walked over to his horse, untied his reins, and mounted up. He had not seen Hannah the previous afternoon when he had gotten back to town from his trip to the Vaughn plantation. Nonetheless, he felt in the best of moods today. Late the previous afternoon, he had received some good news in the form of a telegraph from New Orleans. A squad of cavalry, under his command, was to arrive on a steamer in three days.

A few minutes later, he arrived at the brand-new one-room school constructed on the perimeter of the Butler plantation. The white children were dispersing, walking playfully down the roads and trails spanning out from the school in all directions. Anxious to see Hannah, whom he had not seen since his confrontation with Caroline, he reached to his saddlebags and retrieved a bunch of daisies he had picked that morning. His stomach tumbled with concern. Was Hannah upset with him? The schoolmarm stepped down off the school's steps onto the ground.

He whistled loudly and waved his hat in a circle over his head. “I brought you some flowers,” Douglas said, riding up beside Hannah. He lifted up the daisies and turned to look at a basket tied to the back of his saddle. “And lunch—fried chicken, sweet potatoes, watermelon, and biscuits.”

Hannah smiled and Douglas dismounted. Without hesitation, he grabbed the teacher, cradled her in his arms, and placed her on the front of his horse, sideways, her legs and petticoat almost covering his mare's entire side. As she giggled, Douglas handed Hannah the flowers and swung up into the saddle, riding off a few hundred yards to a little meadow on the bank of the Cane River.

There, Hannah hopped off the horse, smelled the daisies with a big sniff, and grabbed the basket from behind Douglas. “I just love flowers. If you're trying to win me over, you're certainly doing it.”

Douglas quickly dismounted. When he hit the ground, he couldn't refrain from kissing the schoolteacher, who looked so irresistible in the glare of the midday sun. He loved the taste of her soft, red lips.

“My gosh,” Hannah said, recoiling.

Hannah's continued reticence for his affection in an open setting bothered Douglas. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry. I'm still not totally comfortable with all this. It will just take time. We should give people a chance to get used to us. Kissing in a field outside the schoolhouse would not be proper for any Southern lady. But I must say, you're awful spirited today. This is just too much after a morning of misbehaving kids.”

Douglas retreated and sat on the ground, leaning back in the grass, still cool from the morning dew. “I'll give you a ride home after we eat . . . if that's okay. Maybe your sister won't give me another lecture.”

Hannah reached over and brushed his hair with her hand. Her voice got more solemn. “Don't hold what she says and her fits against her. She's not so devious. She's no different than you or I. She only believes what she does because it's what she's been taught her whole life, what everybody with authority has told her. She's never been anywhere but here. She went to finishing school in New Orleans. If you or I were in her place, we'd probably think similarly. I know this violates a common Northern misconception, but on our farm, we never whipped a single slave. All our workers were treated humanely. When there were slaves who ran away from other places, they often showed up at our doorstep. Some of the slaves we owned even showed back up after the war, not even wanting to be paid, just to be fed and have somewhere to live. No one in the Butler house ever violated a single law. Under the old system, you either participated in the system or became one of the vanquished. Those were the hard facts, but many people here fear the freedmen and what they might do after what was done to them. It's only natural.”

“I know,” Douglas mumbled. “But why does she have to be so hard on me?”

“The army officer we had here before you was very corrupt. Took whatever he wanted. Treated everybody like prisoners. He was generally hated by all. His actions make it difficult for you. I know some of the soldiers in the east behaved honorably, but the Union soldiers here in Louisiana raped, stole, and burned when they weren't hunting down people and settling scores, with bullets. It's hard to imagine how bad we had it here. We didn't even have postal service for almost two years, no currency either. We had to barter to subsist like some type of primitive, native tribe. People in this land of widows and orphans have had their hearts trampled on. Heaven weeps for us. The women here live only in the past, the men only in the present. Simply surviving makes the future impossible to ponder.”

Hannah reached over and put the palm of her hand on Douglas's cheek, caressing it softly. “You know I support you, and your efforts here. The South has to modernize to survive. But you have to understand how many people here can't stand the North's hypocrisy. The Northern states wouldn't be so eager to levy black suffrage if they were minorities in their states like we are. New Jersey, Delaware, and your Ohio, just to name a few, don't allow blacks to vote, nor have they passed the Fifteenth Amendment. But the Northern government wants us to cede our government to mostly illiterate freedmen and a few Northern adventurers. You can't expect anything else but resistance from these people.”

“But in Northern states, government officials and blacks aren't murdered.”

“That's why your job is so important. You have to ensure that law and order come to fruition here. That's what's critical.”

Douglas tried to put himself in her position in an attempt to comprehend her thoughts that were almost foreign to him. Though he believed Hannah thought as progressively and liberally as most Boston debutantes, she was possibly the kindest and most benevolent person he knew. Still, she abhorred just the thought of Abraham Lincoln's name with every ounce of her mind and body.

“A squad of new troops will be here Thursday,” Douglas said, taking an upbeat tone in hopes of changing the topic. “No new judge; the colonel said he'd send one if I had somebody who needed trying.... You know a man named Josiah Banks? Owns the ferry at the Cotton Palace.”

“No, never heard of him. Why?”

“Ex-Reb, but told me yesterday, he and some of the small farmers and merchants might be willing to help me root out these night riders. I think he was sincere.”

Hannah put a finger to her lip. “There are probably plenty of people who want to see the killing stopped. They're scared, and few are exempt from the rampages. But I wouldn't let them draw you into an open fight. That's what they want.”

“I just have to catch a couple of the ringleaders. Get rid of them, and the rest will disband. It's the only way to do it in my estimation.” Douglas sat for a few moments. He wanted to change the subject again. The line of conversation was not the reason he had taken Hannah for lunch, but he was having trouble finding the right words to initiate his intended discourse. He looked away to a large patch of sunflowers beside the meadow and then to four egrets sunbathing in the river. “Got something else I want to ask you that's much more important.” He put on a bright face, but paused, searching for the correct words.

“What is it?” Hannah said, her eyes getting big above a large smile.

“Well,” Douglas stumbled again with his words, his insides churning. He felt his face growing red. “How long have I been courting you? Your sister is right. I shouldn't be staying over at your place, what without us being married and all.”

Hannah produced a large smile. “Douglas Owens! Are you about to give me the big proposal?”

Douglas felt an ecstatic, relieved sensation inside. “Well, I've been thinking about it. What are your thoughts on this, a marriage proposal?”

Hannah wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Douglas, of course I would like to marry you.”

Douglas emptied his lungs of air before rattling away excitedly. “You're all I ever wanted. And I'll get a ring next time I'm in Shreveport. When do you want to do it?”

Hannah grabbed both of Douglas's hands. “Darling, not so fast. My answer is yes, but we'll have to do some planning. Let me talk to Caroline first, and then see if you two can reconcile before she goes back to New Orleans in a few days.”

“Does this mean we'll have one of those big Southern weddings?”

“I'm a Southern lady, but under the circumstances of the time, we should have a small wedding. We're too broke to have a big wedding anyway.” Hannah shook Douglas's hands. “Let's keep this hushed until I discuss it with my family. But you're going to have to take me to New Orleans for a week for our honeymoon.” Hannah paused again, and her smile faded. “And also there's one other thing. You're going to have to promise me you're not going to get yourself killed chasing these hooligans. I mean it. I know this country and these men. . . . Nothing you can do is worthy of dying.”