Sentinels (3 page)

Chapter Three

Sarah Jenkins opened her home's front door and stepped onto the porch, instantly spotting a Klansman's hood. Ignoring it, she approached the well facing the house.

“If you're out there, come and get me, here I am,” she called. Hearing nothing, she grappled with the sickle handle jutting from the water bucket and twisted out the blade.

Dressed in white field clothes and with a purple kerchief around her head, the fit woman in her mid-forties gripped the sickle to defend herself, while walking to retrieve the pitchfork speared through the barn's door. She dropped the sickle, grabbed the pitchfork handle like a rifle and jostled it free. Holding the tool in one hand, she unlatched the barn and swung open the double doors, sunbeams highlighting splinters poking through three fresh holes.

“We can get a new bucket. I'll be damned if we're getting a new door on account of that,” she muttered to herself while grabbing the sickle with her free hand.

Three horses flicked their ears and inched toward her so their heads hung over the interior stable walls for Sarah to pet.

“Mercy, it's too hot in here for you all. Let's get you in the field.”

The Jenkinses' wagon, big and wide to transport crops, occupied much of the barn, as did assorted plows and other farming implements. Toby rarely used the barn to store his harvest. Charlie Stanhope's buyers always knew when to arrive for their purchases. The distributors appreciated Toby and Sarah as they'd gotten to know them over the years when they were under Charlie's ownership. Whatever corn remained could be sold in Henderson or the next town over.

Sarah horizontally placed the pitchfork on two wall pegs and did likewise for the sickle, covering the tools' dusty outlines.

A long shadow appeared behind her. She turned to see the morning sun shining on her six-foot, four-inch husband standing in the middle of the entrance.

“I was wondering where you were,” she said. “Next time put the tools away yourself, if you please.”

“The baby?”

“Sleeping like a log,” she responded. “But he'll be hungry soon. He's been down for hours.”

“Good,” said Toby, pushing fifty, and athletically built like his wife from years of labor. He wore brown overalls and a straw hat. “Guess I'll saddle up Chester and head to town for a new bucket—unless you want me to make one.”

She smiled. “I'd like a bucket we can actually use and not have to put cups under it to catch the leaks.”

Toby opened Chester's stall and grabbed a heavy leather saddle as easy as lifting a bed pillow and plopped it on the horse's back.

“Steady, boy.” He calmed his trusty brown stallion.

Sarah walked to her husband to hold the saddle while Toby fiddled with the straps.

“I'll take the other two to the pasture,” she said.

“Yes, please do.”

“You saw what was on the porch?”

“Can't really miss it.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“Not a clue, but I know who sent them.” Toby tugged the saddle tight.

“Me too. Diggs. Then you know they'll be coming back.”

“That's why I want to get done what I need to get done now, dear. And I want you and the baby to be ready to hide in the storm cellar at a moment's notice. In fact, put whatever provisions you need for the little guy in there while I'm gone.”

“Did that this morning while you were out doing whatever.”

“Getting ready to harvest. Crop's almost ready.”

“You still thinking about selling corn at a time like this?!”

“It's how we make a living, Sarah.” He chuckled.

“Don't be smart with me!” She grabbed Toby's bulging shoulders and shook him to drive home the point. “Those men came here to
kill
us last night!”

“Men have been coming to this farm almost every month to harm us, it seems, and we've always managed.” He embraced her arms and guided them down from his body. “The Klan once tried showing us who's boss and we know how that ended. We'll be all right.”

“We can't stay protected like this forever. The odds aren't in our favor. Someone's gonna slip through. Had Diggs sent people whose brains actually worked, last night could've been it! Why didn't you take Diggs's money? We could've headed North and started over!”

“I ain't running from these people, Sarah.
We're
not running from them. Diggs basically told me to dance and expected me to click my heels when I saw dollar signs. We got something special here. Diggs don't deserve it. Nobody but us does.”

“And you're willing to risk your son's life?”

Toby mounted the horse and prepared to giddy-up.

“I would never risk little Isaac's life, you know that,” he said. “And what makes you think we'd be accepted up in New Jersey or Pennsylvania or wherever? State lines don't stop bigots.”

“We'd be safer.”

“Only marginally so.”

“Promise me this, Toby Jenkins. Promise me that if we have another close call—and I don't care
how
close—you'll consider selling. I know Diggs is awful. But we can be successful elsewhere.”

“I feel like I owe it to Charlie Stanhope to stay and guard what he built—what we built. All of us, Sarah.”

“I don't disagree. But we've got more than just ourselves to worry about now, and I will
die
before I let any of those monsters lay a hand on Isaac.”

“All right, if it really becomes more than we can handle around here, then I'll sell to that bastard. But—and here's my but—I'm allowed to make sure it never gets to that. Think about it: we ain't ever been close to bein' lynched. You might not believe it, but we're safe here.”

“There's a difference between being safe and
feeling
safe. And I don't. I can't say I ever have.”

“You're protected here, dear,” Toby said. “Those boys that attacked us are injured. They ain't coming back.”

Sarah, exasperated: “Not
them
, but someone else could.”

Toby, eager to leave, did his best to reassure her. “You have my promise—I won't rule out moving. But you have to honor my but—allow me room to protect us so that we won't have to skip town.”

She smiled and raised her eyebrows. “I will reluctantly honor your but, but prefer your other butt.”

“That's my girl!” Toby prodded Chester to break stride. “Go be with Isaac.”

Sarah forced a smile as Toby Jenkins rode Chester to the home's front so he could grab the last thing he needed before heading to downtown Henderson. She lingered in the barn, caressing Potato and Herman, the two remaining horses, before leading them to the pasture. Recalling what occurred the previous evening, she wanted all the protection available just in case someone came back. She gripped the sickle on the wall, thought a few seconds, and took it with her just as Isaac let out his hungry cries.

Chapter Four

Franklin stood in Thomas Diggs's mansion office, where the Englishman could survey his plantation's miles of cotton fields formerly tended by fifty slaves. Franklin, his bowler in hand, sheepishly looked at his feet as sunlight gleamed off his bald head. Diggs, sitting behind his desk, drummed his fingers on its smooth oak top while absorbing everything Franklin had to say about the early morning exploits and the current whereabouts of his two confederates.

“All I wanted you to do was get one negro's John Hancock on a piece of parchment before shooting him, and not only did you fail to obtain his signature, you shot
yourselves
instead,” said Diggs, a spindly man in his early fifties, whose muttonchops had grayed along with the rest of his hair. “And you are stinking up my house.”

The big man's body never ceased perspiring.

“Mister Diggs, I only shot Brendan, and I didn't mean to—”

“I don't give a bullmastiff's bollocks!” Diggs, wearing skivvies and a red silk robe, pounded the table and rose to approach the tall open window to escape Franklin's stench. “Did you leave anything behind that could identify you?”

“Nossir, I didn't. Lyle said he left his hood.”

Diggs mulled it. “But he was clearly seen not wearing it. And whoever attacked you and that other wanker saw you without sheets or hoods.”

“We thought about wearin' sheets but couldn't find a set that fit me—”

“That's not the point!” Diggs ignored the stink, walked straight to Franklin and gazed upward as his eye level met Franklin's nipples. “That negro isn't dumb. He knows whoever attacked him was trying to set up the Klan to take the fall, so he'll look elsewhere for the culprits.” Diggs thought for a moment. “Nobody other than Brendan and Lyle have visited the doctor with gunshot wounds—correct?”

“Just those two, and as far as I know, they were the doc's first patients of the day.”

Diggs resumed his perch by the window, scowling at the black laborers tending the cotton.

“I cannot express how dismaying it is to have to
pay
those people,” he said without looking at Franklin. “Admittedly I don't have to pay them much, but my money still goes to them.”

“Speaking of money, I expect we're not getting paid?”

“You expect correctly.”

“What do you want I should tell Brendan and Lyle? To try again?”

Diggs flicked the back of his hand toward Franklin to wave off the suggestion. “I wouldn't trust you knobs to set a haystack on fire with three lit torches. It's blatantly obvious you cannot handle this task by yourselves and therefore reinforcements are warranted.”

“Mister Diggs, why not just try
buying
the land from him?”

“Gee, now why didn't I think of that?” He glared at Franklin and paced around his spacious office, its bookcases overflowing with literature, lining every wall. “Of course I tried purchasing the property! That negro won't sell. And I made a fair offer, very reasonable. He declined every attempt. You think I
wanted
it to come to this?”

“But, what's so important about his land? You got plenty.”

“I wouldn't expect you to understand this, my dear boy, but you never cease building an empire. Before the war, labor was most important to people like me. Now it's gone, thanks to Lincoln and Grant. But not the land. Land is king. And whoever controls the most land controls the labor—and the wages. I grow cotton, only cotton. And I want corn.
His
corn. Charlie Stanhope grew bumper crops year after year—even during times of drought, like we're having now. Christ, it hasn't rained around here for close to a month. Do Toby's stalks look shriveled, brown? Hell no. He's the goddamn envy of every farmer in Henderson County. You expect me to believe he can grow his corn with just the water in his well? That negro continues Charlie's legacy
and
he pays his fellow negroes a living wage to pick. No grubs, beetles, worms or birds ever seem to eat his plants, so he rakes in more money to pay his hands extra. Do you know how difficult it is to get help to pick cotton when that negro harvests? It's like the entire population of Africa swarms his fields. Hell, one summer
I
had to go out there and pick.”

“The indignity of it all.” Franklin rolled his eyes.

“Don't get cheeky with me.” Diggs returned to his desk, sat and opened the top right drawer.

“Why, you gonna do something to me?”

“Me? Physically? No. But—” Diggs retrieved, cocked and pointed a shiny Lefaucheux revolver at Franklin, who backed up a few steps. “Oh, you think I'm going to shoot you? No, don't be silly. I don't operate that way. In case you haven't noticed, I hire others to do my unsavory deeds. Please, relax. I have this just in case you or any other brute decides to try something unwise while in my presence. A man of my stature must protect himself from beastly creatures such as yourself.”

“So I'm fired? We're all fired?”

“No, you're not.” Diggs clicked and lowered the hammer and stowed the gun in the desk. Franklin went off to the desk's side to sit on the mahogany-framed parlor sofa with red mohair upholstery. “Franklin, stop!”

The big man halted mid knee bend.

“Not only do I not want your filthy body touching one centimeter of that seat, I'm quite convinced you would crush it if you did. So, please remain standing a few moments longer and then you may leave.”

Franklin placed his bowler back on his head, eyeing Diggs while walking to face him like a truant boy would his headmaster.

“Very good,” Diggs continued. “Normally I would snatch up any number of Klansmen to perform this task but the recent intrusion by the Army seems to have spooked them into lying low for a bit. That's why I had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find you three geniuses. Good help is indeed hard to find.”

“Give us another chance.”

“I plan to, but just like small children and negroes, you will need proper supervision, and I'm afraid that supervision will be provided by myself and a few other chaps I have in mind. You see, like any good businessman, I have connections in the northern states and plan to avail myself of their services. The pieces just need to fall into place. However, we will delay our rendezvous with Toby Jenkins for a bit.”

“Why? He's the one you want.”

“Very
good
, Franklin,” he mocked. “But I believe the constables around these parts will soon become aware of last evening's exploits. There's no sense in becoming entangled with the sheriff or the Army. We will bide our time. Plus, there are other landowners who might need convincing. Some have agreed to sell and try their luck up North or out West. Others stay and remain stubborn and are showing compassion to the freedmen. Those are the farmers who'll next be visited in some fashion, but not by you or your compatriots. Now, go back to your hovel, or whatever bridge it is you reside under and remain there until I summon you again. You are dismissed.”

Franklin about-faced and left without saying a word.

Diggs took a handkerchief from his desk and wiped his brow.

“I do so hate this weather.” He said it as if Franklin still bothered listening and tossed the damp rag onto the tabletop. “And I hate having to go into town in this miserable heat.”

He reached into his desk drawer containing the gun and retrieved his checkbook instead.