Hugh MacRae and J. Allan Taylor had their own shadow force of men who reported directly to the Secret Nine. These men were scattered among the other organizations. Somewhere, four Pinkerton operatives—two white and two black, each team unaware of the other—were still rattling around, along with Special Constable John Taylor, a Negro, who patrolled Brooklyn trying to keep people indoors.
Three deputy sheriffs were also on duty, though the chief deputy, George Z. French, was in hiding in the rooms above his own at the Orton Hotel, the one place nobody thought to look for him. There had been open threats to hang him from an oak tree on Market Street. James Allen, a young man from Father Dennen’s parish, was protecting him. Allen considered French a corrupt bully, but he wanted to be able to face Father Dennen at Sunday mass without shame for the life he could have saved but didn’t.
Captain Walter G. MacRae, Hugh MacRae’s uncle, was now acting sheriff.
All told, a thousand armed white men, taking often contradictory orders from a variety of military and dubiously constituted civil authorities, occupied the city.
Sam Jenks was dimly aware of the commotion. Reflexively, he turned right when he reached Third Street, heading for home. His route took him past the jail, where a mob of Red Shirts was holding some kind of torchlight vigil. The torches sputtered in the rain, sending up plumes of black smoke. He made his way shakily to the outskirts of the crowd.
“They got Tom Miller in there,” a skinny man said. “And a bunch of other rabble-rousers.” The man looked vaguely familiar. It was a minute or two before Sam could place him—he’d seen him at the house next door. Callie Register’s itinerant husband, Farley.
“What you planning to do?” Sam was rocking back and forth, trying to stay upright. His feet were soaked from walking through puddles and, standing still, he suddenly felt cold to the bone, and said so.
“Cold as a witch’s tit,” Farley agreed, standing close enough to smell the whiskey on Sam’s breath. “Got any more of that save-the-baby?”
Sam shook his head. “Been at the club.”
“Oh,” Farley said, nodding but disappointed. “Drinking with the mucky-mucks. Don’t I know you?”
“What’s going on?” Sam asked again.
“Going to take them niggers out of here and decorate a few lampposts.”
Sam was in no mood for another lynching.
The jail was a solid block of a building just behind the courthouse. The mob was laying siege to the front door, the public entrance with its wide stairs and tall, barred windows. Sam made his way toward it through the crowd, shoving and getting shoved back.
He couldn’t tell at first what was keeping the mob at bay. Why didn’t they just rush the entrance and take the prisoners? What was stopping them? When he at last clawed his way through the crowd, he saw their obstacle: Father Christopher Dennen. The priest stood, back against the door, arguing in a loud voice with Mike Dowling. The skirts of his cassock were spattered with mud. His red hair was matted, and his fists were balled.
“Father,” Dowling was saying, “I’m not going to ask you again. Now, if you’ll kindly move aside—”
“There are soldiers behind me,” Dennen warned.
Dowling laughed. “Kinston volunteers, Father. We know all about ’em. They won’t fire on white men.” The crowd behind him hurrahed. Sam saw worried faces at the windows inside.
“Mike, don’t do this. There’s been enough mayhem for one day.”
“Father, you may as well try to stop the rain.”
From deep in the pocket of his cassock, Father Dennen pulled out an ancient watch. “Mike, it’s two minutes past midnight. This long, shameful day is over. Let the new one begin without blood.”
Dowling grabbed the priest’s arm and held it, unsure what to do next. A devout Catholic, he knew better than to strike a priest.
“Mike, if you care for your immortal soul—”
Made brave by the whiskey, Sam mounted the stairs. He grabbed for the priest to yank him out of Dowling’s grip, but slipped on the wet stone and went sprawling on the steps. It took him two tries to get back up.
Father Dennen said, “Oh, for the love of God—another drunken hero of the white race.”
“I came to help,” Sam said.
“You’ve done enough already. I’m warning both of you, I’ll have you excommunicated!”
“Father,” Sam said, but he couldn’t think of how to finish it.
From the back of the crowd came shouting. A column of men armed with Winchesters broke through and mounted the steps. At their head was Colonel Waddell, followed by the new sheriff, Walter MacRae. The men fanned out at the top of the steps on either side of Waddell, facing the crowd. Waddell was hatless, as if he’d been roused from sleep and had dressed in a hurry. His silver hair glistened in the rain. He said, “Mike, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Colonel,” Dowling said, smiling, “we’re just carrying out your orders.”
Sheriff MacRae brandished his pump shotgun. “You’ll take those men over my dead body.”
Waddell faced the crowd. “Listen to me, all of you. My position has radically changed. As your mayor, I am now a sworn officer of the law.”
“Mayor?” Dowling said, incredulous. “When did all this happen?”
Many in the crowd were also hearing the news for the first time.
There was scattered applause and a few rebel yells.
Waddell said, “This jail and these prisoners must have protection.” A few in the crowd shouted objections. Waddell held up his hands, then spread his arms wide. “There are fifty rifles up here. Special deputies who answer to the law. They will shoot down any man who moves on the jail!” He paused to let that sink in. “We have carried the day and won the field. Now, we must govern impartially. We are civilized people—we cannot abide anarchy.”
Father Dennen crossed his arms and cocked his head, mouth open, as if he could not believe his ears. Sam, too, was stunned at the hypocrisy.
“Now, go about your business. Leave justice to the proper authorities!”
In a few minutes, it was all over. Waddell left, the deputies relieved the Kinston men, and Sam stood in the rain. Mike Dowling shook a finger at him and said, “I’ll remember your face.” Then he left with his Red Shirts.
Father Dennen waited till he was alone on the jailhouse steps with Sam. Then he wound up and slammed a fist into Sam’s cheek. Sam saw it coming and didn’t even try to duck. Once again, he went down on the wet granite steps, too drunk to feel any pain. Father Dennen stood over him. “That’s just the start of your penance. Shame on you.”
Though they detoured down back streets to avoid the vigilance patrols, they were stopped twice on the way back to town. Gray Ellen explained that Grant was her servant. Grant played along—keeping his head down, shoulders slumped, eyes averted—and they let the buggy pass. They turned onto the alley behind the house on Third Street just before midnight. They were both soaked through and shivering—they’d been out since suppertime. The house was dark—where in the world was Sam? They left the rig in the alley, the mare still harnessed to the singletree, standing head down in the rain.
They entered the back door quietly. The last thing Gray Ellen wanted was for Callie to come around to share her troubles.
In the kitchen, she pulled the shades and warmed up a pot of stew. They sat across from each other at the plain wooden table and spooned the hot stew off their plates. Grant was finished with his helping almost before Gray Ellen had begun. “Been a hard day,” he explained. “All this running around, a man can work up an appetite.”
It was only then, when he leaned forward, winced, and steadied himself with both hands against the table, that she noticed the blood under his left arm.
“Take off your coat and vest,” she commanded, rising.
“Leave me be.”
“You’re not going to die in my house.”
“Nobody’s dying, teacher.”
She was alrea
dy behind him, tugging at the sleeves of his coat. He groaned in pain. “Help me,” she said.
He slipped off the coat and unbuttoned the vest, leaning forward so she could work it off his arms. The left side of his shirt was dark with old blood.
“When did this happen?” she said.
“Out in front of Walker’s Grocery this morning.”
“Are all men born fools, or do they learn it as they go?”
“There’s no bullet,” he said. “Just cut me a little.”
“Lucky shot.”
He laughed. “For who?”
“At least let me clean the wound. Take off your shirt.”
She moved his jacket out of the way, noticing a heavy lump in the right pocket. Same place Sam keeps his, she thought. Fools.
Using a sponge, she swabbed away the blood. She scrubbed gingerly, as much afraid of opening up the old scars as the new wound. In the linen closet off the kitchen, she found a pillow slip and carefully scissored it down the sides, fashioning a long, wide bandage. She doubled it up and wrapped it around Grant. The wound wasn’t bleeding much.
“Have you got a drink in the house?” he asked. “It would steady me down.”
She shook her head. “We don’t keep any. Sam doesn’t use it.”
“That a fact? Your man always leave you alone this late at night?”
“It’s been sort of a special day. Lots of things happening that never happened before.”
He sat at the table, still shirtless. He reached over to the chair on his right and felt in the pocket of his jacket.
“It’s still there,” she said. “You won’t need it tonight.”
“Never can tell,” he said. “What’s going to happen when your man comes home and finds a nigger in his kitchen?”
“Don’t use that word,” she said. “I abhor it.” Without that word, she believed irrationally, what had happened today would have been impossible. “Why do you keep goading me? What is it you want?”
“What I want is to do it differently next time.” There was no mistaking the cold rage in his voice.
“Next time?” She was amazed.
He stood and walked around the kitchen. He put his face up close to hers, and she drew back until she was trapped against the counter.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I wasn’t.” He reached behind her, picked out an apple from a bowl on the counter, and drew out a pocketknife, then backed off. He slit the apple expertly to its core and popped the two halves open in his hand. “Next time, I will not underestimate the white man.” He sliced the apple into quarters and deftly scored the seeds from each wedge, then popped it into his mouth. In less than a minute, he devoured the whole apple. “We always underestimate the white man,” he said wonderingly, as if talking out loud to himself. “We are always amazed at the lengths to which he will go. The things that do not make him ashamed.”
“We’re not all like that,” she said. “You’re not being fair.”
He raised an accusing finger. “I have seen this city today. I am done being surprised. I am done being fair.”
The rain let up a little as Sam wandered down Third Street, dimly aware that he was within a block of home. He walked closer. The rain and cold had sobered him up some, and now his cheekbone ached from Father Dennen’s punch. His shoulder and back were sore from falling down on the jailhouse steps. He had trouble seeing out of his right eye unless he squinted.
There were lights on at the back of the house—Gray Ellen must still be awake. Probably, she had sat up for hours reading, fretting, wondering where he was. Guilt overcame him. He was drunk. He was a coward. Philadelphia, Chicago, Cuba—would he just keep on making the same mistakes over and over? He wasn’t getting better, stronger, or braver. He was just getting older. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his head of the whiskey.
But the things he had seen today, the way he had felt—it was more than a man could bear with a clear head. Watching, he had been a part of it all. It was like the day on the tugboat, watching the Gatling gun tear apart pumpkins and trees. Just being there, a witness, had made him guilty. Now, he had another reason to feel guilty. He stumbled up the front porch stairs. When he grabbed the rotten railing for support, it broke off in his hand.
He took another deep breath, turned the key in the front door, and went inside.
Gray Ellen heard him clomping along the corridor to the kitchen and turned. “My God, what happened to you?” she said. “Your eye, your cheek.”
“The wrath of God.” Sam laughed shortly. “I’m all right.” He was home.
She swept across the kitchen to the doorway and reached for him, then drew away. “I don’t believe it—you’re drunk!”
“Look, I can explain,” Sam said, moving into the kitchen. Then he saw Ivanhoe Grant. “The hell’s he doing here?”
“Calm down,” Gray Ellen said. “You’re a mess.”
Sam’s hand reached reflexively into his coat pocket and pulled out the little navy revolver. He wasn’t sure what he meant to do with it.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Gray Ellen said, reaching for the pistol.
He pushed her away with the other hand. “I want to know what he’s doing in my house.” Sam was bewildered. What was a black man doing half-undressed in his kitchen, after midnight, alone with his wife? What was any man doing there?
“Take it easy,” Grant said, grinning. He strode forward casually, then picked up his coat off the back of the chair and folded it over his arm.
Sam stared at Grant. “What’s all that?” he said, meaning the scars, the bandage. Where was the man’s shirt?
Gray Ellen said, “Can’t you see he’s hurt?”
“I don’t need a woman talking for me,” Grant said. He turned on Sam. “You want to shoot me, you go right ahead.” He puffed out his chest, crosshatched with livid scars.
Sam held the pistol at arm’s length, watching it wobble as he took aim at Grant’s torso. Father Dennen’s penance came back to him: do no harm. Grant just stood there. What were all those scars? “Somebody whip you?”
“Are you going to shoot me or not?”
Sam didn’t know what to do. He looked at Gray Ellen.
“Sam, Sam—trust me, Sam. It’s all right. It was nothing improper.”
He nodded. He did trust her. She never lied, not to him or anyone. He felt the whole day draining down into his shoes—the violence, the guilt, the whiskey, all of it. He lowered the revolver. “No, I’m not going to shoot you,” he said. He wanted somebody to realize that he was trying to do the right thing—that he had been trying all day long.
Grant whipped out his two-shot Bulldog derringer. “Don’t pity me, white man,” he said softly. “So you don’t have the stomach for it?” He straight-armed the derringer toward Sam’s face. Sam just stood there, dumbstruck, drunk enough to wonder if it were really happening at all.
Gray Ellen’s mouth fell open, but she had no words.
Grant cocked the hammer. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” He fired once. The kitchen exploded in Sam’s ears. Something whizzed by his ear and slammed into the wall behind him. He dropped his revolver and staggered backward. Grant cocked the hammer and fired the second shot.
Sam was sitting on the hall floor, amazed to be alive. He moved his mouth until words came out. “You deliberately missed.” Gray Ellen was a statue at the edge of his vision, smoke curling around her head. His ears rang—hard. His own voice sounded far away.
Grant said, “Did I?” He laughed heartily, an exaggerated laugh from deep in his belly. “Work it out for yourself. Write the story.” Then he was gone out the back door. His bloody shirt still hung across the chair back. Sam heard a buggy clattering down the alley in the rain.
Only then did Gray Ellen move to his side. She knelt next to him and cradled his head to her breast. He sobbed into her damp bosom. She was done crying. She knew Ivanhoe Grant had missed on purpose. Against all his instincts, he had shown mercy. For he
r sake, she believed.
In a few minutes, she would make a pot of coffee. They would sit up all night at the kitchen table. It had been a long day. They had a lot to tell each other.
After a while, Gray Ellen said, “You have to be better than what goes on around you. We all must. Promise me.”
He promised. Then he went to work.
It was a very complicated story. Sam would have to remember the details carefully, for somewhere along the way he had lost his notebook. He would write it from memory. He would tell the whole truth. Memory did not lie.
William Rand Kenan hunkered against the sideboard of the wagon, which was backed up onto Smith’s Creek Bridge. As usual, they’d left the horses in harness. The tarp was draped over the gun against the rain—loosely, so it could be hauled off quickly in the event of action. The rain was slackening. There was reported to be a mob of Negroes headed this way, but Kenan didn’t trust the report. They’d been hearing that same rumor all day long. He was tired of being alert.
Things were quieting down. After being in the thick of it all day, he liked being on the outskirts.
The cigar tasted good. He drew in the rich smoke and blew it out again, savoring the smell. It went right to his head, making it a little light. The air held the smoke low around his face and made him feel warmer somehow. He and his crew sat quietly in the dark. The boys weren’t even talking. He hoped they were still awake. Across the bridge, they had hung a lantern to illuminate whoever might be coming up the road toward them.
A little while ago, he’d heard a horse and carriage moving along the old swamp road. When he was a kid, he used to gig bullfrogs down here. Nobody went down there much anymore—the road was all overgrown. Three years back, the creek and river had risen, flooding out most of the road and making more swamp. He wouldn’t go back there now.
But he’d been hearing the Negroes out there all night. They were just voices, invisible as every other creature that lived in the swamp. Go home, he wanted to tell them. It’s under control now. It wasn’t before, but it is now. But would they ever trust any white man again?
Cape Fear Rising Page 40