Sentinels (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sure as his word, Toby Jenkins rode into Henderson the following morning to the Methodist church. A prayerful man, Toby converted to Christianity as a way to further connect with Charlie Stanhope—but he also revered some of the teaching his parents instilled in him before being ripped from Africa. He sat in the rearmost pew—the last of twenty simple wooden planks hammered in place within the small building—and bowed his head. The preacher kept the church doors open every day for the devoted parishioner or wayward soul seeking comfort.

Deputy Felix Boudreaux—one of the newer hires that Toby had noticed around town—sat two rows in front of Toby, head bowed, hands clasped. He interrupted the quiet with the occasional prayer. Eight open windows—four spaced equally along each of the side walls—allowed entry for fresh air and the din of clip-clopping horseshoes and rolling rigs.

Toby this morning, as he did all of them, steeped himself in prayer—be it at home or in town—before attending to the day's chores. Later he would take his stallion, Zeus, to get shooed at the blacksmith's before returning to his farm to prepare for what he was certain would be a reckoning with Thomas Diggs and his henchmen. He worried not about his wife and child's safety as he prayed. He knew they were protected.
When
the attack might manifest itself was what nagged at him. He concluded his silent repartee with God, stood and walked toward the church's double doors but resisted opening them when he heard two men speaking from behind them.

“What's the sheriff gonna do?”

“Send every single one of us there to meet the Army. That's what he said he'd do if the number of Klansmen they say is coming is accurate.”

Toby deduced the two men to be sheriff's deputies, probably there to meet their man inside, and his heart thumped when he heard their concerns.

“Good God, if the sheriff's right, that means they're coming from Georgia
and
North Carolina.”

“They're all mighty pissed about what happened to eight of their so-called brothers at that farmer's house—they think the freedmen living on his property were behind it and are getting away with it.”

Toby pressed his ear to the door, mindful it could open at any moment and expose his eavesdropping.

“When's this supposed to happen?”

“That's the bitch of it, the sheriff thinks it's gonna be either Saturday or Sunday
before
nightfall. They don't want to be ambushed in the dark like their idiot brothers.”

“How many?”

“Best guess is at least fifty. It'll look like a bunch of goddamn ghosts are swarming the place. Hopefully just the sight of all of us there will force 'em all to turn back with their tails between their legs. Keep in mind, there'll be some men from around here helping.”

“Like them guys at the railroad station where the others worked.”

“I'd expect, but can't say for sure. I can't believe they all would want to leave without making some kind of statement. It could get real bad. Look, enough, let's see if Boudreaux's inside.”

Toby backed away from the door and into the center aisle splitting the pews on each side of the church. Boudreaux didn't budge.

The church doors opened and in walked the two starred deputies—so many new faces coming and going, Toby didn't know them. Instead he began walking out as if leaving none the wiser of their conversation.

“Gentlemen,” Toby said while placing his field hat on his head.

“How ya doin', sir?” one of them said and then barked, “Hey, reverend, wrap it up with an Amen and get your God-fearing butt back to headquarters.”

Miffed, Boudreaux turned. “What for? I ain't on for another twenty minutes or so.”

“Sheriff's gotta update us on something. It's urgent. Otherwise I wouldn't have interrupted your communal.”

“That's communion,” Boudreaux replied, none too pleased by the interruption.

“Whatever it is, it's time to go.” The man's look at Toby expressed to the farmer that he should move along too. And Toby did.

The last thing he heard while descending the church's steps was one of the sheriff's men speaking to the religious one.

“We'll fill you in on what we know on the way back.”

Toby untied his horse from the post by the church and mounted him for the amble to the blacksmith's.

Well, this complicates things. Maybe my men could just hang in the back and not make themselves known unless the Klan fires first.

Toby greeted the smithy and handed over his horse for the shoeing.

“I'll be outside,” he told the proprietor, who grunted in the affirmative and led the horse into a stable off to the side of his shop.

Or intercept them, like with the original eight geniuses. But the soldiers. That should never have happened.

Toby paced in circles, oblivious of the blacksmith's occasional stares between hammer taps.

How could they have massacred those men? They knew not to. I
told
them not to. Maybe they just got carried away. Dammit. I thought I had control. And Diggs …

Toby stopped, placed his hands on his hips and shook his head.

I got that bastard to worry about. I think I can handle him and his men, depending on how many that coward brings with him.

“Hey, mister, right-front hoof wall needs some extra trimming, it might take me some extra time to rasp it too,” the smithy said. “I hope you don't mind waitin' a little longer.”

“Do what you need to do.” Toby didn't look at him and then began walking. “I'll be at the Tavern.”

“Have a drink on me,” the blacksmith replied.

Toby arrived around noontime and took his customary table at the far end of the bar.

“Hey, whiskey?!” the bartender called to him.

“No, Mack. I need a clear head. Water's fine. I'll buy a bottle on the way out for later.”

“Be over in a minute.”

Toby brooded as the lunch crowd came in, and it included five men he recognized as railroad workers. They sat two tables away from him.

They ignored Toby, who slid down in his seat, letting his legs go forward. He brought down the brim of his hat so they couldn't see him watching them. He might as well have been sleeping from where they sat.

“When's that idiot coming by?”

Toby didn't even need to read lips. He heard one of them say it—not too loud—but loud enough, and listened to the three men chuckling in response.

“He's such a fucking moron. I can't figure why Diggs keeps him around,” one of them said.

“Probably good in a fight. Hell, maybe Diggs can throw a yoke on him and plow the fields.” They laughed.

Toby knew who they were mocking.

Bastard came within an eyelash of being skewered to my barn door.

“Nah, probably'd find a way to screw that up too,” said Delbert Johnson, the railway man who negotiated with Diggs on the platform. “As for when he'll be here? Soon. Diggs knows when we go on break. And I told him our boss doesn't take kindly to us being late. If that dipshit don't show up on time, that's on him, not us. Hell, when he hears what we have to say, the last thing he'll want to do is report back to Diggs.”

“Man's probably never gotten his hands dirty in his life,” another said.

“How hard is it to shoot one nigger anyway?” Johnson said.

Toby's eyes bulged under the brim of his hat.

Johnson sat directly in Toby's line of vision, but again, reading lips proved unnecessary. The men spoke softly and casually knowing full well that black men—Toby was not the only one in the bar—sat around them.

He has no idea I'm the one Diggs wants killed,
he thought.
Otherwise he'd never be so reckless.

Franklin entered the Tavern and scanned the room as it filled with workmen looking to throw back booze before the next shift. He recognized Johnson but froze when he saw who sat two tables away. Nervousness smothered him. Not certain if Toby had seen him from under his hat—Toby indeed had—Franklin scooted to the railroad men's table and sat next to Johnson. Sure, Franklin knew Toby's face. Diggs pointed out the freedman to him following the botched raid on his farm so that Franklin, Lyle and Brendan knew exactly who they were supposed to kill.

Would've been nice to have seen him before the nighttime attack
, Franklin thought.
But it
was
dark.

But now Johnson and his boys were yukking it up just a stone's throw away from the mark!

And
I'm
the dumb one?
Franklin thought.
I guess Diggs never pointed Toby out to these guys. I sure wish he had. Wait, has Toby ever seen me? Does he know I was by his house? Does he—

“What the hell's wrong with you?” Johnson said, drawing Franklin out of his fog. “Looks like someone just kicked your nuts.”

“I'm fine.” Franklin's normally low voice cracked. “Stomach's a little upset, that's all.”

“Then you're not fine,” Johnson said. “But whatever. Don't surprise me that you don't know how you feel.”

One of the railroad workers made two trips from the bar to the table, each time bringing three beers with him—one for every man at the table.

“Drink up, Franklin. It's on us—you might need it.”

Franklin nudged a sweaty glass toward the center of the round table. “Ain't thirsty. But thanks all the same.”

“Well, one of us'll finish it.”

Franklin looked at his own chest, and as clandestinely as he could removed an envelope stuffed with cash and slid it to Johnson, who leaned over and pushed it right back.

“Keep it. In fact, you can keep this, too.” Johnson plucked a cash-filled envelope from his waistband and flipped it to Franklin. It landed with a plop on his lap.

“What's this?” Franklin kept his eyes on his lap, his mouth completely concealed from Toby's view. He then admonished the railroad workers.

“And keep your fucking voices down—he's
here
. Try not to let on,” he hissed.

“Is that so?” Johnson said it mockingly. “No need to fuss. We'll be done here in a minute. That envelope's for your boss. It's what he initially paid us for the, well, errand he wanted us to do. He can do it his own goddamn self. We're backing out. Tell your boss thanks, but no thanks. Something else's come up.”

Franklin swiveled an envelope in each hand, looking at each one, unsure of what he should do.

“Why don't you just announce to the world you're holding two-thousand dollars?”

“
Oh.
” Franklin crammed them in his interior vest pockets and drummed his fingers on the table when he was done.

“Every dollar of it's there,” Johnson said. “We wanna be square with the house.”

“Why you doing this?” Franklin looked pained, knowing he'd be the on the receiving end of Diggs's wrath.

“Don't get me wrong, the pay's generous, but like I said, a bigger opportunity is just on the horizon.”

“Whaddya talking about?”

Johnson turned to address Franklin, and as he did the other men leaned in, causing Franklin, feeling besieged, to back up in his seat.

Now Toby's lip-reading skills came into play.

“Ain't you heard?” Johnson said. “Klan's coming to hit the Elkton place. Some are coming from Charlotte, Augusta—hell, Atlanta too. This is big time. They aim to wipe out the freedmen and kill Elkton for loving them. We don't give a shit about that. Word is Leroy Elkton's got a ton of money squirreled away
under
his house's floorboards. And I'm talking stacks of it—up to a million dollars.”

Franklin grinned. “Aw, hell, there ain't no way.”

“We're willing to gamble there
is
. And guess what? Only a few of us know it. And I'm talking the five men at this table, and two others back at the station. Split seven ways—that's, well, that's a lot of money.”

“More than one-hundred-and-forty-thousand dollars each,” one of the other men said.

“That Elkton guy don't trust banks. Says people rob them!” Johnson had trouble containing himself. “I'm sure your boss is well off, but unless he can promise each of us, I'll be generous, one-hundred-thousand dollars, we're out.”

“I can pretty much guarantee Mister Diggs ain't gonna do that. And he ain't gonna be happy about all this.”

“Diggs's happiness ain't none of our concern.” Johnson said. He gulped down the remainder of his beer, as did his colleagues. He looked at the beer in front of Franklin. “You sure you don't want it?”

“I changed my mind. Might be a good idea to have it after all.”

“That's what I thought. Hey, look. Why not join us? It's a big payday,” Johnson said. “It's more money than that prick Diggs'll ever pay you.”

Franklin pondered it. “What if the money ain't there?”

“Then a bunch of Klansmen get some silly sense of revenge on a bunch of men they never met,” Johnson said. “I mean, that's their business. But they ain't gonna want to hang around. They'll kill the old man, hang the coons, then beat it the hell out of there. And that's when we'll emerge from the background and pick the place clean. And let's just say it all goes to shit and the Army's there. We know the area, know how to slip away unseen. It's a risk, sure. But it's one worth taking. I'm sick of lifting those damn crates day after day, and I can't stomach the thought of doing it for the rest of my life.”

“Diggs will be mad enough at you guys backing out,” Franklin said. “I'm sure he'll try to
kill
me if I do it too.”

Toby had heard the tales of Leroy Elkton's frugality and distrust of banks—he feared the government would outright seize money from Southern banks to pay for Reconstruction efforts. But that was all they were to Toby—tales. Rumors. He knew Elkton but not well enough to glean whether a king's ransom resided beneath his home.