Mercy

by Richard Turner

The incessant pounding in his head would not go away. Like an approaching locomotive, the noise grew louder by the second. With his eyes still closed, Captain Robert Cooper reached over and felt along the nightstand beside his bed until he found his pocket watch. He brought it over until it was inches away from his face. He opened his heavy eyelids and tried to focus his dark brown eyes on the timepiece.

  "Are you awake in there, sir?" asked a deep voice from the other side of his closed bedroom door.

  Through the haze in his mind, Cooper recognized the voice as belonging to First Sergeant James Hawkins, his company sergeant. "Aye, I am, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop that infernal pounding." Cooper's Scottish accent came on strong.

  "I'm just doing my job, sir," replied Hawkins as he tried the doorknob and found it locked. "It's getting late and you've got to get ready for your meeting. I've brought you some hot water and a pot of coffee."

  Cooper swore when he saw that it was already after eight in the morning. He sat straight up in his bed. His head felt as if he had just been kicked by an angry mule. He held his breath as he waited for his stomach to turn. After a few seconds, Cooper realized he wasn't going to be sick, just very queasy. The painful pounding in his head reminded him he had once again drank far too much bourbon and smoked too may cheap cigars with his friends at the hotel bar. Cooper stood up, stretched his arms over his head, and saw his naked image in the mirror. He knew he'd gone too far again with his drinking. Cooper looked around for his underclothes and found them in a pile on the floor with the rest of his uniform. The funny thing was, he didn't remember taking them off.

  "Sir, will you open the door, or do I have to kick it open?" asked Hawkins.

  Cooper didn't doubt Hawkins would force his way inside if he had to. He pulled on his underwear and his light blue uniform pants before reaching over to unlock the door.

  Right away, the door swung open and Hawkins stepped inside. A runaway slave, Hawkins had been among the first to volunteer to fight for the Union when they asked for freemen to fight the Confederacy. Whereas Cooper was tall with a trim build, Hawkins was a head shorter than the captain and six years his senior. He had broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms. Hawkins could easily lift his weight over his head and was the undisputed bare-knuckle boxing champ of his former regiment. Hawkins placed the bowl of water and coffee pot down on a small wooden table sitting against the wall. There were several empty bottles of whiskey lying on the floor at his feet. He turned and looked over at the young officer.

  Cooper could see the disappointment in the eyes of his sergeant. They had served together for over two years and had grown to trust and respect one another. He quickly became self-conscious about his current predicament. To cover up his embarrassment he busied himself by gathering the rest of his rumpled clothes on the floor.

  Cooper looked down at his hands and saw there were fresh cuts on his knuckles. Odd, he thought to himself. He couldn't recall injuring himself, again.

  Hawkins said, "In case you're wondering, sir, you were in another fight last night."

  "Who with?"

  "Captain Nolan. I heard he called you a Scottish catamite. You took exception and the two of you ended up in the alley behind the bar."

  Cooper shook his head. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember a thing about the fight. "Do you know how Nolan is doing?"

  "From what I was told, you were plenty pissed. Hell, you broke Nolan's nose and his jaw. You're lucky there weren't any Provost Corps troops patrolling this part of the city. They wouldn't have cared if you were an officer or not. If they had caught you two gentlemen scrapping in an alley you'd have been arrested and thrown in jail for drunkenness and fighting."

  "You're right. I've really got to stop drinking."

  "I've been telling you to take it easy for months. Moderation is the key to everything. You have to lay off the bust head." Hawkins used a soldier's term for cheap booze.

  "I'll have you know Sergeant Hawkins, it was very expensive champagne not some watered down whiskey that did me in last night."

  "That doesn't excuse your behavior, sir."

  Cooper nodded and took a seat.

  "Who's that in your bed, Captain?" Hawkins asked, eyeing the sleeping blonde-haired girl in Cooper's bed.

  Cooper glanced over his shoulder. Wrapped up in a white blanket was a young woman. "I don't know," he replied, struggling to recall the girl's name. "I suppose she's some local lass I met last night."

  "Well, sir, there's no time to worry about her right now," admonished Hawkins. "You've got an appointment with Colonel Marshall in an hour, and I'll be damned if you're gonna be late. What you do or don't do reflects on me as well. Now hand me your tunic, I'll press it while you wash and shave."

  Cooper hesitated for a second. He had entirely forgotten about his meeting with the officer in charge of the Freedman's Bureau for the State of Louisiana.

  "Your tunic, sir," said Hawkins, holding out his hand.

  Cooper surrendered the garment before staggering over to the table to splash some water on his face. The refreshing water helped to clear his clouded mind. After lathering up his face, he reached down for his straight razor and saw that his hand was shaking. Cooper closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths to calm his hand. When he opened his eyes, he saw his hand was still, but his stomach began to churn. It was going to be a long day indeed.

  Captain Robert Cooper checked himself out in the tall hallway mirror of a palatial home that had once belonged to a Confederate general. After his ride through the dusty streets, he wanted to make sure he was presentable before knocking on the door of Colonel Frederick Marshall, head of the Freedmen's Bureau for the Fifth Military District. Captain Cooper stood just over six feet tall. He had thick, chestnut-colored hair and dark, piercing brown eyes. With his father's good looks, Cooper had become quite popular among the ladies of New Orleans' high society. He brushed off some dirt from his blue tunic and made sure his kepi was sitting straight on his head. With the war over and his regiment recently disbanded, Cooper thought he was going to be released from the army. Instead, his commanding officer had recommended he be employed by the newly formed Freedmen's Bureau until his service ended in just over six months' time.

  An ornate wooden door opened and a young black corporal stepped outside. He came to attention and saluted Cooper. "Sir, Colonel Marshall will see you now."

  Cooper returned the soldier's salute and followed him inside. The room had once been a study with books from the floor to the ceiling; now, however, it was Colonel Marshall's office. He had cleaned out the room leaving only a desk and a U.S. flag on a pole inside. The senior officer was standing with his back to Cooper, looking out a window.

  "Good morning, sir," said Cooper as he brought up his right hand to the brim of his cap.

  Colonel Marshall turned and returned the salute. "Take a seat, Captain." The colonel looked as if he were in his late fifties. To Cooper, he resembled a walrus with his bald head and thick, drooping gray mustache. He was overweight and his uniform barely fit him anymore. Cooper doubted the man had ever served a single day in the field against the Confederacy.

  Cooper sat down in a chair directly across from the colonel's desk.

  Marshall took his seat and opened up a file on his desk. He read it over mumbling a few words to himself before looking over at Cooper. "I have in my possession a letter dated the twelfth of August requesting a transfer for you and your first sergeant to the Freedman's Bureau. Along with this letter is a note from your former commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Augustus York, in which he calls you a smart, talented, fearless leader, but a man who when not in battle is far too fond of the bottle. Would you call this a fair assessment, Captain?"

  Cooper, clenched his jaw. York had told him that he intended to be blunt in his letter of recommendation. He was just surprised how frank he had been. Cooper looked over at Marshall and chose his next words carefully. "Aye, sir, it is an accurate assessment. I do tend to drin
k a wee bit too much when not properly challenged."

  Marshall snorted like a bull. "Challenged, eh?" He glanced down at the file on his desk. "I see in your service records that you were wounded at Vicksburg. Nothing serious I hope?"

  Cooper held up his left hand. There was a scar in the center of his palm. "I was waving my men forward when I was hit. The reb bullet traveled straight through my hand. It only bothers me when it's cold or damp outside."

  "Very well," said Marshall. "I see you joined the Eleventh Louisiana Regiment, a colored unit, when it was formed in 1863. What had you been doing up until then?"

  Cooper removed his kepi and ran a hand through his hair. "Colonel, I was in London, England studying international law. My father has always wanted me to follow in his footsteps and work as a lawyer. It was his idea for me to attend school outside of the United States to gain a broader perspective. With my gran and grandad still living in Scotland, he figured I could stay with them when not in school."

  "How did things go for you in England?"

  Cooper knew there was no point in lying. He didn't doubt Marshall already knew the answer. "I was kicked out of school for drinking and for having what one professor described as an overly active libido. Less than a year into my studies, I was sent packing back to the States."

  "I bet your father was pleased to learn this."

  "He was mortified and told me I had sullied the family's good name. He said the only way to erase my dishonor would be to join the army and get my head blown off my shoulders by a Confederate cannonball."

  "Smart man, your father," Marshall said, slapping the top of his desk with his hand. "So tell me, Captain, why did you enlist as an officer in a colored regiment?"

  Cooper sat straight up and looked into the colonel's bloodshot eyes. "Sir, I may have let my father down; however, we have always shared the same visceral dislike of slavery. When my family immigrated to the States, we arrived via Baton Rouge and lived there for a number of years. Although my father's law practice is in Washington, D.C., I thought it best if I joined a Union regiment raised in Louisiana."

  "With the fighting over and your predilection to wander, your former commanding officer thought it best if you were kept busy until your enlistment papers expired. He'd rather you were doing something useful than becoming just another drunk. That is why you're here today."

  "Yes, sir." Cooper knew he couldn't refute what was being said about him. As his father was fond of saying, facts were facts. He saw he was being given the opportunity to keep himself busy even if it were only for the next few months. It was better than the alternative and Cooper knew it. He had to do something or he'd end up on the street with the thousands of other demobilized soldiers flooding back into New Orleans looking for escape in the bottle from the horrors of the war that had scarred their bodies and their minds.

  "What do you know about the Freedman's Bureau?"

  "Sir, from what I've been told, it was created to help freed slaves start new lives, free from the bonds of oppression. It sounds like a noble endeavor if you ask me."

  Marshall reached up and absentmindedly twirled his mustache. "Noble endeavor!" chuffed the colonel. "I think you'll find it will take more than fancy words and good intentions to make the Freedman's Bureau work. Mister Cooper, how old are you?"

  "I just turned twenty-eight."

  Marshall pursed his lips while he drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment. "I prefer my agents to be a bit older. Most of my agents are in their late thirties. It gives them gravitas when dealing with the local authorities, but I suppose with your education, as flawed as it is, and your wartime service, that you'll have to do."

  Cooper smiled politely, unsure if he should be insulted by the colonel's backhanded compliment or not. "Thank you, sir. I know I've have a weakness for alcohol, but I also know if properly motivated I can put it behind me. You can count on me to do whatever it is you need to be done."

  Marshall reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a letter. He quickly skimmed the document before placing it inside Cooper's file. "Captain, I hope you aren't setting yourself up for a fall."

  "No, sir. I will do my job to the best of my abilities."

  "The army has been petitioned by a certain Mister Roy Stone to have someone come up to Williamstown."

  "Sorry, sir, I've never heard of it."

  "It's a small community in the parish of Saint John the Baptist. It's no more than two days' ride from here."

  "Did Mister Stone explain why he'd like someone to go there?"

  "In his letter, he wrote that over the past month or so that there have been a string of murders and disappearances. Most of the missing are colored folk, although some white people have also been reported missing as well. Whatever is going on has put everyone on edge. I'd like you to go up there and put an end to whatever is going on in Williamstown."

  Cooper sat back in his chair. He was confused. He thought he would be helping freed slaves and their families find employment, not solving a series of alleged crimes. "Sir, would it not be better if a provost officer conducted the investigation?"

  "I asked the very same question when this assignment was given to me. I was told that there's none available, so you're it, Captain Cooper. Sort this mess out and you'll have proved your value to the bureau and to me." Marshall handed Cooper a sealed letter. "This is a letter of introduction. Give it to the mayor, Elias Payne, when you present yourself to him. I expect you to set up your office in Williamstown and to get to work right away. This assignment shouldn't take you more than a couple of weeks to tidy up. Mind yourself and keep out of the bottle."

  Cooper squirmed on his seat at the last remark.

  "Captain, I want this matter dealt with the utmost tact and discretion. My understanding is there are a lot of demobilized Confederate soldiers in Williamstown who do not feel they lost the war. For them, the war is only in abeyance. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Perfectly clear, sir."

  Marshall stood and offered his hand. "Then I wish you Godspeed, Captain."

  Cooper got out of his chair, shook the colonel's hand, placed his hat back on his head, and saluted his superior. He took his introductory letter and put it away in a pocket on his tunic. Behind him, the door opened and Cooper turned to leave.

  Marshall brought up a hand. "Captain, I can't stress enough how delicate an assignment this is. Do what you must, but do nothing to antagonize the people of Williamstown. I don't want to hear of your demise at the hands of one of the guerrilla groups still roaming the woods up there."

  Cooper smiled. "I share your sentiments, sir. If there is nothing else, First Sergeant Hawkins and I have to purchase some supplies before leaving."

  The old colonel shook his head. Cooper could not help but see the look in the colonel's eyes as if he had just given him a death sentence.

  Outside on the dirt road that ran past the colonel's headquarters, Cooper found First Sergeant James Hawkins standing next to their horses. The sergeant saluted and handed Cooper the reins to his horse.

  "What's the word, sir?" asked Hawkins.

  Cooper returned the salute, placed his left foot into a metal stirrup, and hauled himself up onto his horse. "It would appear we have been given a job with the Freedman's Bureau up in Williamstown."

  "You don't sound too enthusiastic about it," said Hawkins as he got up onto his horse.

  "I'll explain as we go. However, with all of the guerrilla activity still going on up there, I don't think our new boss expects us to last more than a week up there."

  Hawkins let out a low whistle. "Well, sir, I guess we had best prove him wrong."

  "I don't intend to die either, Sergeant." Cooper pulled on his horse's reins and tapped its sides with his boots. "Come on, let's visit the commissary before it closes for the day. I suspect we're going to need supplies to last us a week or two. After that, hopefully, we can purchase supplies from the good people of Williamstown."

  3

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