Lords of an Empty Land (14 page)

It was dark, a steamy night, hot and full of the sounds of birds, bugs of all description, and a few whispers behind him. Douglas, on his knees, felt the dirt below, its dampness soaking through his trousers. Off in the woods, the branches and foliage flickered with a cherry glow from four or five torches. His feet were secured, snug with a rope. Another rope, pulled taut around both wrists, secured his bare chest to a large pine, its bark uncomfortably jabbing into his ribs.

Huff was bound to an adjacent tree, his blue soldier's pants pulled down to his knees, resting on the ground. His throat was lacerated, his head cocked back and limp. Half of his severed penis protruded from his mouth. Below his chin, blood seeped down from the mouth and neck to the soldier's bloodstained and grimy chest—farther down, around the groin, more blood and gore.

Douglas trembled with fear. To his right, a faceless man stood, his strange green eyes dancing below a large, big-brimmed hat. Perspiration gushed down Douglas's neck and onto his cramping, tired back.

The eerie man stepped forward, unraveling a long leather whip, its lashes about three feet long and made of rough, rawhide strands. He extended his right arm, and let the tip of the long whip dangle over Douglas's naked back.

Feeling the coarse leather slide over his back, Douglas shook uncontrollably, his skin turning cold, the hair on his neck rising.

The man slid the long whip down Douglas's back, slowly, gently. He paused a few times, smiling, before stepping behind Douglas, his shadow still visible on the ground. The shadow rolled up the sleeve of his muscular right arm.

Letting out all his air, tensing up, Douglas forced his sweaty chest into the rough pine bark. “Please, no,” he mumbled.

The shadow recoiled the whip, bending back his upper body. An earsplitting pop pierced the night. Douglas winced, spitting out a high-pitched squeal. Breathing hard, his mind dizzy, he heard a few laughs from the darkness. He hadn't been struck. The sadistic bandit had only cracked the whip over his head, but the torturous effect of this was probably worse than the inevitable blow.

Douglas looked over his shoulder.

The man grunted. The leather sliced the air. A penetrating roar, like the crack of a pistol, ripped into Douglas's ears, before echoing off through the trees. He flinched as the hard lash crashed into the pine tree just above his head, sending apple-sized chunks of bark flying off the trunk. The snap of the whip had a violent, powerful ring, earthshaking.

Tears now running down his cheeks, Douglas pressed his eyes shut, his entire body shaking violently, his stomach nauseated. He wished he was dead. Nothing he'd ever experienced compared to this.

The night got quiet. In front of him, he looked down at the shadow of the man behind him, securing his footing and gripping the evil instrument again.

“Please, no!” Douglas yelled. “Please! I'm sorry. Whatever you want, I'll do it. I swear.”

A distant voice chuckled loudly. “He sounds like a baby. A Yankee piglet. Don't use him all up. Leave some for me.”

“I'll leave a little; just a little, though,” the shadow said.

Douglas wanted to ball up in a fetal position and die. How, how had he managed to end up here? “Dear God, no! Please, sir, don't do this!” he mumbled through his tears. “Just kill me if you want to get rid of me. I will leave all of you alone.”

“God's not going to save you,” the voice behind him said in a stern tone.

The arm of the pulsing shadow rose, arching backwards.

Douglas trembled with horror as the rasp of the whip, cutting the thick night air, raced into his ears. The night erupted. “Nooooooo!” he yelled.

Then he felt a hard slap on his face, night turning to light. His vision blurred, he saw a face leaning over him. “It's all right,” the feminine face said, softly running a hand through his hair. “It's only a dream.”

His heart pounding, his mind jumbled, his vision still hazy, Douglas looked down at his rapidly rising and falling chest, the sheets saturated beneath him.

Hannah put a soft hand on his chest, gently massaging it.

Douglas looked at Hannah, shaking his head. He felt the bed, then grabbed a light cotton sheet and mopped his face. He lay silent for a few moments as his heart calmed, and he ran his hands through his hair.

“Was it that bad?” Hannah said softly, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“Just a bad dream.”

“It's all right now,” Hannah said softly, continuing to rub his stomach and ribs. “It's almost nine. You never sleep this late, but you passed out as soon as you reclined last night.”

Still shaken, Douglas thought about the last forty hours. He looked around the room, the reality of his location only now becoming completely real.

“You want some breakfast or coffee?”

“Sure,” Douglas said, standing, his breath still heavy. “I need some nourishment and daylight. And I need to get to the garrison.” He grabbed Hannah firmly by the arm. “Anytime you think I'm dreaming, wake me, immediately.”

At his desk back at his office, Douglas looked over some paperwork and a few army manuals that were sandwiched between two bookends. He propped up his polished boots on the desk. Four men, two parties of two Negro men each, all probably in their forties, bickered on in dispute around him. Douglas looked out the window at a squirrel eating a nut on a tree branch just a few arm lengths outside. Despite the commotion inside, he couldn't wean his gaze from the little creature partitioning and consuming the tiny acorn. Occasionally, it turned to look him in the eye. Around and above the tree, the fall sun, high in the sky, beat down on the oaks, wilting their leaves. The dispirited voices of the men continued on almost like a hum in his ears. One minute, one of the parties politely let the other speak until he didn't like the words, and the four men would begin to squabble in such a manner that nothing came across.

Three days had passed since the grotesque whipping at the Cotton Palace and his horrid dream. Nightmares had haunted him for years, especially during the war; their backdrops were always different, but all were gloomy and fatal. Many times he would realize they were dreams and forcibly wake himself, but the recent dream of his flogging by bandits had been too real, the tribulation too great. He cringed, his back tightening at the thought of the lashes. Worse, in the dream, he had cowered, begging for his life, calling the outlaws “sir,” and agreeing to capitulate. The dishonor and horror of it forced his right hand to start shaking. He now feared going to sleep. During the day, he tried to keep busy, doing anything to push the terrible thoughts from his mind.

In recent days, he had spent hours trying to place the lone night rider's voice he had heard on the trail with a face, without luck. The deep, drawn-out tones of the hill-country men lacked the uniqueness of the Northern accents. The doctor had bandaged up Basil and said he would be back on his feet before a fortnight. The whore's final condition was still in question. Douglas still shuddered as he thought of the woman's image, turning her cut-up face and sad eyes to him on the bed. This haunting sight was likely to never depart his mind.

The incident had made Douglas worry about Hannah's safety. Basil had told him she would likely never be a target; such an act would be in violation of the Southern code of honor that would damage any support the highwaymen harbored. Still, Douglas wondered what he could do to protect her. He didn't have enough troops to guard people. For everyone, there was nowhere to hide. Hannah, like everybody else outside a major city, lived in the open and unprotected, like an animal in the woods and subject to the predators' whims.

With this in mind and to soothe his aching spirit, he now spent as much time as he could at the Butler house. Hannah now seemed the only one he could turn to, her arms his refuge, but her caring words and caressing touch had given him little solace or reprieve from his state of shock. In bed, they neither made love nor confided in each other. But it had now been three days, and Douglas felt his senses returning. This afternoon he planned to take Hannah for a buggy ride, the thought of it his only pleasurable deliberation for days.

Douglas turned back to the four men, all dressed similarly, in light homespun cotton shirts and trousers, all sharecroppers. They were arguing over the compensation for some work, but the babbling also diverged into all sorts of other issues to include drunkenness, family matters, and even swearing. For years, Douglas had spent his days settling trivial quarrels, and even a few serious crimes and claims.

For almost four years, he had been the official and only judge and jury on all such matters, at least as far as the blacks, unionists, and carpetbaggers were concerned, or anyone else who respected his authority. Since Louisiana had adopted a new constitution and officially rejoined the Union a year earlier, these matters were supposed to be handled by local authorities. The army only remained to aid and abet the new Republican government and ensure its laws got carried out. But many still brought their troubles here where they thought they could get a fair shake, or at least a hearing, especially on Wednesdays. Due to the arbitrary nature of these proceedings, and feeling a need to have his sanity spared the daily, almost endless grind, he had declared this day, Wednesday, the only day of the week he held court.

Douglas rested his elbows on his desk. “Let's see, Jeremiah, you say you paid this man for a day's work he didn't perform.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That not true, Captain,” one of the other men retorted. “I work all day, in the heat.”

“Buts you'as drunk.”

“Was not.”

Douglas lifted a hand to silence the two and looked at all four. “How come I got to settle this? This shouldn't be something I'm wasting my time with. If you have to, you can go see the constable. I'm too busy trying to round up the white militia before they hang us all.”

All four men stopped. A second of silence passed.

“Naw. That man hates us,” Jeremiah said.

Douglas shook his head, trying not to smile. “Jeremiah, you say Winny was drunk, but he says he worked. I'm assuming you had something to drink?” Douglas turned to the man in question.

“Just a little, but I work fine with a little.”

“Now, Winny, you know you're not supposed to come to work when you've been drinking. But I'm guessing you did something . . . though probably not all you were paid for. Is that right?”

“Maybe, if you put it that way,” Winny replied.

Douglas turned to Jeremiah. “What's a day's wage?”

“Twenty-five cent.”

“That's settled.” Douglas slapped his hands together formally. “Jeremiah, you pay him fifteen cents for his day's work. Next time, don't let him work if you think he's drunk, and we won't have this problem anymore.” Douglas stood up in a gesture of finality, and to his amazement both parties made no objection. “Now you men get back to work, and I will, too. And now that I'm not the official authority for this type of stuff, only come see me when there's something really important.”

Just as Douglas walked out from behind his desk, Huff arrived in his office.

“Gots your buggy from the hotel,” Huff said. “Mr. Long sends his regards. There's no charge for usin' its, so long as you have it back by morning.”

“You get the two sergeants on the ferry to Shreveport?”

Huff nodded. “Wishes they would have stayed. We could sure use 'em.”

“I inquired, but that major in Monroe said they had to be back by the end of the week. Overland from Shreveport back to Monroe will only take a couple of days. Little out of their way, but they won't have to deal with any night riders.” Douglas stepped to the door without hesitation or further conversation, now having a reason to depart before further rows needed to be settled. “Huff, go see that Mr. Taylor who keeps our horses. Have him turn them out, in good pasture. They've turned into worn-down hags. The damn guerrillas have better-looking steeds than we do.”

“This just came today by telegraph.” Huff handed Douglas a piece of paper.

Douglas lifted the paper and read as he walked outside.

Outside, a disproportionate number of people were on the street, all rather quiet. Before he had a chance to ponder their motive, he saw the open wagon, slowly, dramatically moving down the almost silent street, its wheels squeaking. Two coffins lay in the back. Douglas spied the onlookers, reverently paying their respects to the two men Douglas had gunned down at the Cotton Palace by bowing their heads or removing their hats. Douglas's mood regressed to something more grave as he read some words hastily painted on the side of the wagon:
MURDERED BY THE ARMY
.

 

 

Douglas brought the buggy to a stop in front of the white porch and redbrick façade of the Butler house. The late-day sun at his back brilliantly illuminated the residence and its wooden porch that was in need of a new coat of paint. The house's landscaping contrasted the dwelling's lack of upkeep and proclaimed its occupants as women. Immaculate hedges and flowers, all trimmed and concentric, ringed the house, making it look like an oasis. Lush hydrangeas, crepe myrtles, dogwoods, and boxwoods all surrounded by colorful periwinkles and daisies presented a wonderful kaleidoscope of color.

The afternoon ride had been splendid; Hannah's gentle touch and thoughtful inspiring words had assuaged his tension. Their interludes provided him with his only escape, be it fleeting, from his work and worries, like attending the theater. He never wanted them to end. As he stepped down to the driveway, hitching the horses and helping Hannah from the carriage, a sense of anxiety oozed back over him. Hannah's sister, Caroline, had arrived back from New Orleans that morning to tend to some business for a week before returning to the city where her mother still resided. Caroline had a rather bad opinion of the Federal government and didn't mind expressing it.

Hannah, her face hidden under a big-brimmed hat lashed down with a scarf, led him up on the house's porch, holding his hand. Just inside, the two found Caroline standing in the large living room.

“Well, Mr. Owens,” Caroline said, not looking at Douglas. “I had hoped my naïve sister's fancy for your courting might pass while I was away. I'm starting to wonder what they taught her in that school in Maryland.” Caroline's tone carried no attempt at humor.

“Good evening, Caroline,” Douglas said in his most debonair voice, bowing slightly. At least in outer appearance, Hannah's older sister displayed herself as one of the most refined and attractive females he had ever laid eyes on. Tall, thin, with long black hair, intelligent amber eyes, she always dressed smartly and moved easily and eloquently. If ever a woman commanded attention, she did with her stylish, upper-class looks and ageless complexion. In those physical attributes so sought by gentlemen of education and blood, she even surpassed Hannah.

“Mr. Owens,” Caroline continued, turning to cast her gaze on Douglas. “You will not stay at this house anymore. Do you understand?”

Douglas stuttered, “Caroline, has it ever occurred to you that my intentions may be honorable?”

“Don't tell me about
honor.
I've never
met
a Union soldier yet with just a drop of honor. You know nothing of it. You're destroying Hannah's reputation. If your transgressions continue, no good Southern gentleman will ever have her. Hannah's a fine girl, from fine lineage. She's not a tramp. You and your soldiers have already ruined our lives. I'm
not
going to tolerate you destroying what's left of my family.”

Douglas felt a little queer, unsure of how to respond. Caroline had never been chummy to him, in fact often condescending, but he had never been party to such an open reprimand. Maybe his overnights at the house had been a little offensive? He finally mumbled, “I think Hannah is quite capable of determining her own course. And the United States Army spends its days and resources trying to restore this area, help you.”

“
Restore?
You have no
idea.
” Caroline's voice lost its polished accent. “I can't even begin to describe the hardships you've bestowed on us, and what you've taken from us. You detest our old system, but you made that system legal, not us. We made this land one of the richest in all the world. Then your soldiers showed up here, burned our farms, took all we worked for. You've now made us the slaves. After the war, we ate rats, had nothing, were constantly subjugated and defiled. You provided us with no protection. We did not lose to a greater cause, only to a greater force.”

Caroline focused firmly on Douglas, her voice growing high-pitched and urgent. “Do you know what it is like to hide in your room all night, shaking, for fear the drunk soldiers outside might burn down the house with you in it? If that wasn't enough, now you've forced these Northern vultures on us. As so often happens in turmoil, the scum, the white trash, and opportunists are trying to exploit the situation and rise above their station at our expense, taking what we've worked for. The lowly white demagogues are always among the ignorant, naïve Negroes, stirring them up with unreal expectations, trying to turn them against us, all for their own nefarious intentions and personal gain. They incite the slaves into these armed uprisings that our brave Southern men have to put down. Then, the Northern papers exaggerate our men's methods to turn the country against us. Now these freedmen and a few Northerners run the government, everything. The black militia rides around at night killing white folks. Our taxes are fivefold what they used to be. It takes everything we make just to pay them. You Northerners buy up the bankrupt farms like you're trading stock. If you have your way, it won't be long before we're working the fields for them, the fields
we
created.... We are God-fearing Christians here, Mr. Owens. You godless people have destroyed our harmony, the inherent way things are ordained. God's laws supersede the laws of the fraudulent radical Congress, and God will visit retribution on you for your sins. And you can put away any inclinations you might have about Hannah. They will
not
come to fruition.”