Lords of an Empty Land (26 page)

From Front Street, Douglas looked out at the distant hills, spotted with patches of deep green against the gray and auburn of the hardwoods, now without leaves. Now, three days before Christmas, the mild, brief winter was setting in. Overhead, a few cloud fingers swabbed against the edges of the platinum sky, otherwise clear over the land. Though it was late in the day, the temperature still hovered in the upper fifties.

The citizens of Natchitoches moved around the dozens of Christmas trees, all decorated with ornaments, standing along the brick avenue and abutting the Cane River. Heaps of fallen leaves lay scattered along the street, giving the town the hue of fall. Nine weeks had passed since the incident in Atkins. The local papers had touched up the story, spinning it as corrupt officials and ruffians apprehended and dealt with by honest citizens, the Federal government failing in its duties to handle such matters properly. None of the local stories made mention of Hannah in any of the events. The lone liberal daily in New Orleans had run a few back-page stories, more in line with Douglas's version of the events.

The Democrats had carried the local election, and since, the hills and backcountry appeared peaceful, at least on the surface. Nary a traveler had come up missing or even reported anything amiss in the last two months. Rumors still spread about the work of the clans, though sparingly, practicing their trade that never got reported like wild animals on the prowl at night.

The nefarious clans had suffered only minor setbacks, both directly and in the perception of the people. Despite all his efforts, and much to his consternation, there had been no trial to be covered by the state and national press where the locals got the firsthand details of the night riders' deeds, disgracing the Knights and assuring everyone that the government and its laws ruled the land.

Where had he gone wrong? He had Amos Dallon in his grasp. Instead of the procedures advocated by the legal system, he had let him go because of Hannah, and gotten drawn into bloody gun battles. But what could he have done? Had this been selfish, his personal wants overriding bigger concerns?

In the weeks since, Douglas had personally written several of his military friends serving in Texas, urging them to be on the lookout for, and if possible, pursue Francis Garrett and the Dallons. He still held out hope, but a general sense of failure filled his daily thoughts. The threat of mob violence still reigned over this land, as much or maybe even more than before his arrival. The locals still spent their unquenching energy and skill opposing the Northern government instead of channeling it to remaking the desecrated land into something fruitful again. Surely, more violence lay ahead.

The rugged individuals here hated the heavy hand of any government, and with that hatred came an undercurrent of rebellion, though he felt many yearned for the end of occupation and a return to normalcy. Good pervaded over bad in most. Somehow, he still held a rock-solid belief in the worthiness and character of these people.

Douglas had tried to put all the prior events behind him, but he still woke up several nights a week, his skin clammy as he heard the pitiful screams of Huff's dying moans echoing through the pine forest or envisioned Sergeant Dixon's brave, bloody body falling in the creek. Despite this, he had lately felt a sort of reawakening, as if he had returned from the dead. The local citizens had started to treat him with a little more respect, many possibly but silently appreciative of his work.

Did more gun battles loom ahead? He still walked uneasily, constantly fearful for his life. He'd ridded the area of most of his overt enemies and the worst outlaws, but the clans certainly wanted him gone. He had even written his letter of resignation, but had yet to submit it. Was it safe to stay here without the protection of his uniform? He thought he'd even overheard rumors of his demise. He'd been so traumatized by recent events that he couldn't decide if all this was real or simply his overreaction. Would he have the resources and wherewithal to bring the outlaws to justice the next time they reared their ugly heads? Though his work wasn't done, he was getting close to putting all of this behind him and moving on to another stage in life.

He strode into the City Hotel and made his way to a first-floor suite. He checked his watch, knocked on the door, and then entered.

Colonel James sat at a desk reading over some papers. He looked over his wire-rimmed glasses at Douglas. “Have a seat,” the colonel said before Douglas had a chance to pass a salute. “Talked to the mayor and senator today—a few of the local carpetbaggers also. Seems it's as peaceful as a Vermont morning around here. You've done yourself credit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The colonel put his papers down and sat up straight. As usual, he conversed in a very formal tone. Douglas couldn't remember a time, on duty or after hours, regardless of the setting, that he and this man had ever carried on a casual conversation. The colonel never deviated from his official mood or closed the distance between them. “I know this wasn't easy. You had to get your hands fouled. But nothing got stirred up. Hardly a word came across my desk about this area. That's the way the army is supposed to work, and the way we like it to work. We do the dirty work so the political machine moves along smoothly. The people are happy. That's what the people want us to do . . . make the country into the image they have of it. They just don't want to see us do it, or read about it. That's why they pay us. I'm going to write up a letter of commendation for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I paid Basil the rest of his gold this morning. He said that's all he was waiting on. Think he took a boat to Shreveport this afternoon. Said he had some work in Arkansas.... I hear you're getting married. When's the big day?”

“One week from today.” Douglas smiled. “We're going to spend our honeymoon in New Orleans. That's why I put in for that leave.”

“Oh, yes.” The colonel shuffled through some papers. “I approved that. Be sure and bring your new wife by my office and introduce her to me while you're in New Orleans. I depart on the first steamer out tomorrow. I'm surprised the locals let you get away with that.”

“There's a few around here who aren't very happy about it.” Douglas paused, almost stuttering. “And what about the medals and letters of commendation I put in for Sergeant Dixon and Private Huff?”

“Oh, those,” the colonel said. “I've looked over them, but haven't gotten around to doing anything yet. I will in due time.”

Douglas continued to stare at the colonel, leery of his words. He doubted anything would come of it. The army all but ignored any real combat in the South—that would acknowledge the real problems—and sweeping citations for dead Negro soldiers under the rug would be an easy task.

The colonel produced a rare smile. “That'll be all, Captain,” he said, picking his papers back up and returning his gaze to his desk.

Douglas stood and passed a few seconds without speaking. The colonel's words seemed to have a terminal taste. Even if things had manifested into something resembling his commander's opinion, they had done so through the blood and toil of his men. The army needed to maintain its commitment to the area to ensure future tranquility. One of the traits of the clans was to retreat, disappear when the federal or state government pried too much, only to reinitiate their activities when the landscape became more favorable. He searched for the right words to convey this.

Douglas finally spoke up. “Sir, will I be getting any additional troops?”

The colonel leaned back in his chair. He removed his glasses. “Captain, I know you didn't get everything you needed here. I sympathize with you. I did all I could. I like to see my men have all they need to succeed, but let me be frank. I know you read the papers. President Grant would like nothing more than to send a couple of divisions here, but's that so unpopular, he fears the Democrats will win Congress if he does. If that happens, the army will be ordered out of the South. We don't make policy. We only represent the will of the people. It's the people in New York and Ohio that won't let us do what we need to do here. So, it's not likely you'll get any additional resources. We're spread pretty thin. Just between us, I'm guessing you'll probably get orders in a few months to cease and desist all activity here. Likely close the garrison and move everybody back to Shreveport or New Orleans. Everybody in the North thinks all these newspaper stories about the violence down here are just exaggerated fiction. Hell, President Grant's under constant fire. These problems and lawlessness are only occurring in Republican-controlled states, and many in Congress and the press think the army is only being used to assure a Republican majority. The army hasn't failed these people. We've acted honorably. The democracy has chosen this course.”

Douglas let the words sink in. His forehead got tight, his temples pulsed with frustration. He raised a hand, hoping to make a case against this, searching for the right words. He also wanted to mention his future resignation. Word of it had leaked around to a few people, and he didn't want his superiors to hear about it secondhand.

“Go along, Captain,” the colonel finally said in soft, reassuring words. “I've work to do.”

Douglas turned and walked outside. The day now waned with twilight, the bricks growing dark and the abundant gas lanterns dotting the town. He walked down the street a few blocks to a bar owned by a friend and local unionists. Two of the colonel's aides, a captain and a lieutenant, had accompanied him on his trip to Natchitoches. Both were Douglas's good friends, and the three had agreed to congregate here after his meeting.

He lamented the fact that he hadn't seen Basil off. The setting sun and long shadows reminded him how uncomfortable he felt without the gunfighter at his side. It also reminded him how much he feared the Southern nights. Douglas sucked in a deep breath and thought about his meeting. The lack of support might change his future plans. He put the stressful thoughts aside. Tonight he need not worry with these. He wanted to do some catching up and recounting old adventures. Maybe the colonel was right. Maybe the worst was behind him.

 

 

Four hours later, Douglas walked outside the little bar. The dark, damp air had cooled, falling into the forties. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a few gold coins. His head spinning from all the drink, he handed the money to the establishment's owner, who locked the door as the two stepped onto the street.

“Here you go, Joe. Excellent dinner and wine,” Douglas said, grabbing his saddle pommel and climbing onto his horse.

The old barkeep, feeble, gray-headed, good-natured, and in his late fifties, turned his steely eyes on Douglas as he put the money in his pocket. “You get back to your office, straightaway. No need to ride out to the Butler place.”

“Not to worry.” Douglas urged his mare around, facing her down the street.

Joe reached out and grabbed Douglas's bridle, locking his gaze on him, and taking up a serious tone. “You're a good man. Now get on home, and stay on the main road.”

Douglas tipped his hat and gently spurred his mount as he headed down the street at a slow trot toward the army post. Just a few blocks from the bar on the far end of town, he turned the mare down a side street, really just an alley, through a complex of derelict cotton warehouses that cut the distance back to the garrison in half.

As he ambled along, fifty yards down the street, he saw some movement ahead. Four horses trotted into the street. In the moonlight, he saw the long sheets and disguises draped over the men, like something you'd see at the gates of hell. Briefly, he remembered the bar owner's admonition. Had that been a warning? He pulled back on his reins and whirled around, only to see a similar scene behind him. He looked about. Tall brick walls encased the entire block. No escape.

His horse blew, sensing danger. His vision got focused and honed as he saw the riders behind him turn and slowly walk toward him, now only thirty paces away. Was this it? “Oh my God,” he mumbled, a fear shooting down his spine. He didn't want to meet his maker, not here, not like this. It couldn't be.

Douglas wheeled back around. Death marched closer. Pulling back on his reins, he brought his horse to a stop. He scanned the situation again, the reality, the finality of it all settling in. He, even with the backing of the almighty army and all its resources, could not win this confrontation.

Hannah. He saw a mix of her bright smile and grief. He looked to the alley again. Just ahead, some bricks had fallen off the warehouse wall to his left, leaving a small opening. He raised his pistol, fired once at the clansmen, leaned forward on his mare, and spurred her forward.

The night awoke with shots and screams. Something shoved Douglas to the side, almost knocking him off his horse. He grabbed his pommel as the pain shot down his shoulder. His horse lunged through the opening, maybe four feet wide, and Douglas's face scraped against the rough brick.

The voices and shots faded in the darkness. Now dizzy, Douglas lowered himself over the neck of his mount, dropped his reins, and pushed his spurs forcefully into her ribs.

 

Douglas looked out the window of his second-story apartment on St. Peter Street. Surrounding Jackson Square and its vast parade grounds sat some of the city's grandest buildings. The day was clear and bright and the towering Saint Louis Cathedral commanded over the tall trees, well-groomed shrubs, and mighty Mississippi River churning and bubbling in the background. On Decatur Street, a large crowd had started to collect around one of the city's first buildings, the Cabildo.

“Grandpa, will you take me to the parade this afternoon?”

“Sure, Johnny, if you want to go,” Douglas replied as his nine-year-old grandson climbed up on a chair to look down at the festivities. Down below, a huge grandstand had been set up to accommodate the speakers—the governor and one of the US senators, among others. Colorful streamers, and dozens of American and Confederate flags stood out sharply against the verdant grounds as four Negro men worked large brooms over the square's gray brick pavers.

Johnny turned to his grandfather. “What is everybody celebrating and what's so important about the Cabildo?”

“The State of Louisiana is turning it into a museum. It's one of the most famous buildings in the state. Several battles took place there during the war.” Douglas looked at the impressive building. Its three stories of brick and Spanish arches had now stood for more than one hundred years. After the war, the building had been the epicenter of the local Republican government. On several occasions, pitched battles with the Southern loyalists had taken place there and it had also hosted the famous
Plessy v. Ferguson
trial. The building now served as a symbol of Southern pride and autonomy.

“Who are those men in uniforms?”

“Those are Confederate veterans, celebrating their past battles.” Douglas squinted. In the crowd, he also spotted a couple of dozen Union uniforms. He turned and looked to the north. In the last forty years, New Orleans had emerged as a modern city, the largest in the South and one of the premier cities of the nation, a bountiful economic engine that the entire country prided itself in. Where once the roads had been muddy alleyways leading to ramshackle wood shacks, shiny bricks sat under the modern streetcars that weaved through the grand new buildings, Southern mansions, and numerous parks populated with tall oaks. In the Northern psyche, the city represented the Lost Cause of the Confederacy and its proud and brave people. In the country's collective opinion, the latter had been, over the years, transformed into virtuous victims only overpowered by numbers.

Around the square, hundreds of pedestrians walked the streets. The city had come to symbolize the Old South, and travel writers in the North raved about its charms, a Southern paradise filled with wonderful food and handsome, polite gentlemen. Douglas often witnessed the droves of tourists wandering the wide tree-lined boulevards and admiring the abundant memorials dedicated to the South's heroes. Catering to these Northern invaders had become a major financial windfall for the city and its merchants.

“Grandpa, weren't you in the war? How come you don't have on your old uniform?”

“Well, Johnny, I fought for the other side, the Union. I'm from Ohio originally. I was in north Louisiana. That's where I met your grandmother. Her family had a big plantation up there, but some years after the war, they and a lot of other people lost their farms.”

“How'd they lose them?”

“The entire area had been destroyed by the war. The economy was very bad, and they had several years of really bad drought. The locals said the land was cursed by God.”

“Cursed by God, that sounds really bad.” Johnny looked at Douglas with big, curious eyes. “Those days must be over now.”

“Yes, they're over. I'll tell you about it sometime. Now run along. We'll go to the parade this afternoon.” Douglas patted Johnny on the shoulder and escorted him to the door. He turned to another young man in the room and strolled over to take a seat at his desk.

“Thanks for allowing me this interview,” the young man said, pulling out a pencil and writing pad.

Douglas motioned for the man, probably in his late twenties, to have a seat. “I hear there's a dozen reporters here from Northern newspapers to cover the celebration. Who'd you say you were with?”

“
The Chicago American.
” The reporter took a seat. “The weather here is great in December. I tell you, I went to the ball hosted by the United Daughters of the Confederacy last night. I don't know if I've ever met ladies of such refinement and beauty. It was down there by that wonderful statue of General Lee. . . . I mostly wanted your perspective. It must be strange, you really fought in two wars, one that everybody still revels in its honor, and the other, well, generally now is considered a mistake.”

Douglas leaned back in his chair. “I know it's become popular lore that the Federal government's goals in the Reconstruction years were folly, but I think I fought on the right side in both wars, if you want to call the ten years after the war a war.”

“Well, it is true that no state suffered more from carpetbagger misrule than Louisiana. Most people think it was a terrible mistake for the irresponsible Congress to force illiterate Negro rule on the educated and intelligent.”

“Mistake, huh?” Douglas squinted at him.

“Well, I do agree that some of the methods I've read about were uncalled for, even regrettable, if not downright terrible, but they were necessary and the results were inevitable.”

Douglas produced a cynical laugh. “If I had to comment on any of the Southern peoples' methods, I'd say they were
effective.”

“What about your time during the war. Didn't you fight in north Louisiana?”

“Yes, both during the war and after. I had to leave in late sixty-nine. I was forced out. You see, those were very dangerous times in that area, especially for Northerners. It became too dangerous for me to stay. Many attempts were made on my life. They almost got me once, shot me in the shoulder. I barely escaped, almost bled to death. Then I decided to leave. I'm not sure if it was my position in the army, or the fact that after I married my wife, I planned to stay and run Hannah's plantation. You see, my wife, before she passed away, was Southern landed gentry. . . . Maybe both.” Douglas skipped a breath, and his hands got jittery.

“And you decided to stay in the South. I must say, your grandson looks like he's as Southern as General Longstreet's grandson. My readers love to hear about the old war heroes, North and South, but especially the Southern ones. These modern-day novels of the Old South are really big sellers. Do you ever see any of your old army pals or enemies? Do you ever attend any of the reunions? The sons of both sides come to these, and there never seems to be any animosity. We're one nation, completely rejoined again.”

“No, I don't go to any reunions. I'm just an old man now, waiting out my days, but I still think about the wild old days all the time. It was really tough fighting, especially after the war, the worst I was ever a part of. The ex-Rebs had no rules. They killed without mercy. They wanted no quarter, and they gave no quarter. When I reflect back, I can see now the country wasn't ready for much of the changes the war brought. It wasn't the Southerners who won home rule, it was the Northerners who gave it to them. It was President Grant himself who said: ‘What good does it do to save Mississippi if it means the Republicans lose Ohio?' Initially, I didn't believe in the radical Congress's plans either, but with time I began to see their intent, and what it would have meant for the freedmen if the Federal government would have pursued their plans more vigorously. It's hard to fight and win without the support of the people, but I wanted to catch those outlaws. Not getting some of the militia leaders was what most disappointed me because my men fought hard and died. The army had a lot of good men in that fight. Many of the men I served with went on to be famous soldiers. Many went out west and fought the Indians, even the Negro soldiers. Some even died with Custer at the Little Big Horn. As for my enemies, I still keep track of some of them.” Douglas turned to a wall beside his desk where a dozen or so newspaper clippings were pinned up. He pointed to a few obituaries. “A lot of them are dying off. Some of the men I chased for years were buried like heroes, for what
they did for Louisiana.
”

The reporter readjusted himself in the chair. “Just one final question. How about you? Have you changed? What are your feelings today about those old days, and everything that's changed in the country?”

“Almost regretfully, I've come to understand the new ways, and new way of thinking about all this. I had to get on with my life, and that's part of it. I can't live in the past. After I moved here, the Republican administration got me a job with the postal service. I kept to myself and put any political leanings aside. When the Democrats took over, I went out west and worked on the railroads for a few years. Later, for my conversion and support, the state Democratic Party arranged for me to be the postmaster here.” Douglas paused, thinking for a few seconds. “About a year ago, I took my first trip back to north Louisiana in over forty years. Just wanted to look around, see how things have changed. Even today, I traveled under an alias. Doubt anybody would want to plant me now, but you never know. I walked the old streets of Shreveport and Natchitoches. There are a few people up there that still talk of the old days, but it won't be but a generation or so before no one will have any idea what went on after the war. The memories of those days, those men, the life-and-death struggles that took place, will walk the streets unbeknownst to everybody, like ghosts.”