by Zack Mason
He met their parents (His great-grandparents) who looked shockingly, though appropriately, young, and then simply asked them where they’d grown up. He repeated this process for his 2nd great grandparents. It turned out that his 2nd great grandfather, Jefferson Jr., had been born during the Civil War. In as long an interview as Ty dared risk, Jefferson Jr. revealed that his father, Jefferson Sr., Ty’s 3rd great grandpa, had been killed around that same time. Jefferson Jr. hadn’t known any of the circumstances of his father’s death, only that it had happened in Madison, GA.
After investigating further in Madison, Ty learned that in 1863 Jefferson Sr. had been lynched for the crime of stealing a chicken.
This discovery steeled Ty, and he became determined to save him.
Mark absorbed the account intently as Ty explained the history.
“So....did he steal the chicken?” Mark asked.
“Does it matter?” Ty spat on the ground. “Stealing a chicken isn’t a hangable offense.”
“Relax. I wasn’t saying it should be. Just curious.”
“No. Near as I can tell, he was innocent. It was a trumped up charge so some plantation owner could get revenge for something else.”
“What’s the real story then?”
“A lot of men were involved in the lynching, but the whole thing was instigated and led by two men in particular who owned large plantations nearby, Stephen Plageanet and Vincent Regnier. I’ve been told they hated my grandpa because he walked in on Plageanet while he was trying to rape some poor white woman named Ruby. Plageanet is a known womanizer, by the way.
“Most slaves would have meekly snuck back out of the building, knowing what it would mean for them to interfere. But not my gramps. Jefferson Sr. went right up to Mr. Plageanet and stood there, staring him down. Never lifted a hand in violence, just stared hard from no more than a foot away until Plageanet stopped.
“His aggressiveness cooled Plageanet in the way that mattered right then, but it also made his blood boil in another. If Jefferson had done anything else, Plageanet would have had an excuse to skin his hide right then and there, but there was no clear offense he could point to without incriminating himself in front of other whites. Plus, Jefferson belonged to the Martin plantation, and a man had to have a good reason to harm another man’s slave. We are considered valuable.”
Mark noted how Ty kept referring to local slaves as “we” instead of “they”, a subconscious act of solidarity.
“Jefferson went home proud, but nervous. He knew Plageanet wouldn’t forget the humiliation, not for a long time, if ever. Plageanet couldn’t stand the idea of being bettered by a slave. So, he bode his time. A few months later, he hooked up with another plantation owner, Vincent Regnier, a man who hated all blacks and treated his own slaves horribly just for the sake of being mean, together with some other like-minded folk. They stole a few chickens from the Martin plantation, cooked themselves a nice lunch, and then claimed they’d caught Jefferson with them red-handed. The lynch mob hung him that same afternoon.”
Mark couldn’t imagine the horror of having to live like that, always on guard lest you step out of line and put your life at risk. “What about Jefferson’s owner, Martin? Why didn’t he stop it?”
Ty sighed. “John Martin is indifferent, as you’ll see. He’s got a lot of slaves, so losing one didn’t bother him too much, as long as he felt there was cause. Plus, Plageanet’s stealing the chickens from Martin’s own farm stripped Martin of the ability to protest very loudly.”
“So where did your family get the name Jennings then? I haven’t heard of anybody named that yet. Didn’t a lot of slaves take the last names of their former masters when they were freed?”
“Well, there’s a fourth gentlemen I haven’t told you about yet by the name of Jacob Jennings. He also has a large plantation in Madison. From all I’ve heard, he’s a good man and treats his slaves very well. Some ridicule him for it, but when my grandpa was hung, Jennings went to Martin and offered to buy Jefferson’s wife and son, Jefferson Jr. He overpaid by a substantial amount just to make sure they had a safe place, and Martin, of course, took it, being the businessman that he was. My family took Jennings name from then on out, and ever since I learned this story, I’ve been proud to wear it.”
“But we’re going to try to save Jefferson Sr.? Aren’t you afraid we’ll screw things up in a way that might forever change your family’s history or even cause you to cease to exist?”
“It’s a risk. But, it’s one we’re gonna take.”
“Okay. Count me in.”
After that, as hard as Ty tried to maintain proper decorum for 1863, he kept finding himself drifting forward and walking more alongside Mark than behind him.
“Just don’t forget who’s boss, got it?”
“Got it.” Mark grinned.
1:57 PM, April 15th, 1863, Madison, GA
They lay silently in the brush lining the beginning of a ridge line. Both had been through sniper school in the Marines, so they felt right at home. Their bodies were well disciplined in lying for hours at a time without movement.
Ty’s previous research had led him to this grove. There was an oak tree down in the vale about fifty yards in front of them. That was the tree where they would hang Jefferson Sr later in the day — at 2:12 PM to be specific. They even knew which branch the mob would swing the rope over.
This time, however, events would not proceed as they always had in unaltered history. Ty and Mark had neatly sawed most of the way through that branch and hidden the traces of their work. When Jefferson’s weight was suddenly thrown upon it, the branch would snap off cleanly, dropping Jefferson to the ground without any pressure on his neck.
Ty had prepared well. On some previous visit, he’d stashed two sniper rifles in a camouflaged dugout. This was their only concession to modern times. It was a risk to their identities, but as long as no innocent bystanders walked into this brush, no one would be the wiser.
Each rifle was well-oiled, wrapped in waterproof plastic, and was outfitted with a decent silencer. They each took one and set it up, messing with the tripod and the scope until they were satisfied they would be able to perform.
Then, they waited.
A few minutes after two, a group of men on horses entered the clearing. An obviously exhausted black man dressed in rags stumbled along behind them, his wrists tied to the last horse. He was barely keeping up.
The men wore neither hoods nor costumes. They’d made no effort at all to hide their identity. Masked lynch mobs would come later in history. There were ten men in all, four of them seeming to be the leaders of the group. Mark guessed that one well-dressed figure who, even from this distance, gave off an air of arrogance, had to be Plageanet. Another shorter, burly man stayed close by his side and had a cruel look to him. That was probably Vincent Regnier. Mark had no idea who the others were.
They reached the lone tree and swung their rope over the fated branch. After some heckling and jeering, they got down to business and sat Jefferson on a horse. Plageanet wrapped the noose around his neck, an expression of sublime satisfaction inscribed on his face.
Both Ty and Mark readied themselves. Mark sighted Plageanet through his scope. The man’s eyes were not cruel like Regnier’s, just cold. Cold, arrogant, and merciless.
“May I?”
Ty nodded. “Be my guest.”
Plageanet slapped the rear of Jefferson’s horse. The horse bolted and Jefferson slipped off, dropping fast. Crack! The branch snapped as planned, and Jefferson fell all the way to the ground. Plageanet’s eyes opened wide in surprise, which would be the last expression the man would ever wear.
Mark calmly depressed the trigger, and then Plageanet was no more, his face disappearing in a cloud of red. His body slid lifelessly from his horse.
The silencer kept the rifle’s report from being heard by the other men. Initially, no one saw the blood, except a man standing to Plageanet’s right. Mark took him out as well. Ty dispatched Regnie
r almost simultaneously.
Three down in a matter of seconds. The men were beginning to realize they were under attack, but not hearing the customary, loud crack of gunshots, nor seeing the expected puffs of gray smoke, they had no idea where to search for their ambushers. Controlled panic ensued as they raced their mounts in circles, desperately seeking the source of the shots. All had drawn their pistols, but they held them impotently pointed to the sky.
Ty swiveled and fired again. Another man toppled from his saddle. Several of the lynchers were now spurring their mounts to the safety of the tree line like there was no tomorrow. One bold individual, however, rode over to Jefferson and brought his pistol to bear on the kneeling man’s head to finish the execution. Mark almost saw what was happening too late. He whipped his rifle around and dropped the executioner before he could pull the trigger. A second shot killed another of the scoundrels at that man’s right.
With six dead, including their leaders, and two others in flight, the last two gave up as well and rode off like bats out of hell in full retreat.
Jefferson Sr. just knelt in the dust, palms up to the sky, a look of shock painting his visage.
Mark and Ty leaned back and raised their muzzles.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Ty asked.
“This ain’t gonna to work, is it?”
“Don't think so. My plan sounded great until we actually did it. There’s gonna be relatives and friends who'll want revenge. They've no idea who we are, but they'll sure know who Jefferson is.”
“Yeah, he’s a dead man. Not much way we can protect him now. There’s always going to be someone after him.”
“So what now?”
“We could whisk him and his family away.”
“With this many white people dead, they'd probably pursue him to Siberia.”
“Why don’t we hang around the Martin plantation for a while, see if we can learn anything from the aftermath of our handiwork? Maybe we’ll stumble across a better way there.”
“Sounds good to me. Nice thing about these shifters,” Ty tapped his watch, “History’s never final.”
5:38 PM, April 15th, 1863, Madison, GA
“Massah Martin shal’ be dow’n fort-wit.”
Mark had trouble believing he was standing in an actual functioning plantation home. Expensive hand-made furnishings dotted the interior of the home, all finished in a dark walnut stain. Plush, burgundy rugs blanketed the floors. The wallpaper coverings were ornate and full of dark, but vibrant colors. He waited in the parlor for the master of the home to attend to him. Ty stood outside, waiting patiently.
“Sir? I do not believe I have had the pleasure.”
The man’s smooth southern accent rolled off his tongue in a refined drawl. His face was ordinary except for a slightly hawkish sharpness to his features, which was mostly due to a hook in the tip of his nose. His dark hair was plastered flat with some kind of oil. He had a lanky figure, which belied his imposing personality.
Mark stood.
“Phillip Trudeau, at your service, sir,” Mark responded, “Sorry to bother you, but we were traveling along the road near here when my slave fell and injured his leg. He's sprained it quite badly, I fear. We were on our way to Covington, but it appears he will not capable of continuing without some rest. Might we trouble you for room and board for a few days. I’d gladly reimburse your kindness, of course.”
“Mr. Trudeau, it would be our pleasure to host you,” the man flashed a slick smile, “Hospitality is a pillar of our society, is it not? No payment will be necessary, of course. You shall be our guest.”
The man’s head twitched to the side, an unusual look entering his eyes. “Are you sure the injury is sincere?”
“Sorry, what?...No. Uh, yes, I mean, I do know my slave quite well and feel I could tell if that were the case. No, his injury is quite real and incapacitating, I’m sorry to say.”
“Some men would force him to continue regardless.”
“I believe in taking good care of my property.”
Martin smiled. He understood that line of reasoning.
“Well, you are welcome to stay here while he heals. My servants will take your things to your room. Your man shall find a bed down at the slave quarters.”
“You are too kind.”
“On your way to Covington, eh?”
“Yes, we have relatives down there.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I must excuse myself. I have business to attend to, but perhaps we can chat more at dinner.”
Cool night air washed the plantation in tranquility. Crickets chattered their comforting song to rich and afflicted alike. Oak and magnolia branches waved in the blue moonlight under the influence of light breezes that came and went like ripples on a calm sea. From somewhere down the row, the faint rhythm of slaves singing evening hymns drifted his way. Smoke from a campfire mingled with the aromas of roasting meat and baked beans.
It was an altogether pleasant atmosphere, which Mark never would have imagined could belong to this oppressive time and place in history.
Intellectually, his mind knew in which time he stood. Freedom was denied here to so many, yet right now, his heart couldn’t feel it. For the moment, all was at peace.
Mark ducked through the low doorway into the warm interior of the shack. It was warm now only because Jefferson Sr. had stoked the fire well for the cooking of the evening meal. By morning, all the holes and cracks in the walls would allow the invading cold to dominate once more.
Mark and Ty had shared with Jefferson that they were the ones who had saved him, but only because it seemed easier than remaining incognito. They had warned him to keep a tight lid on it, but the warning was unnecessary. He knew the risks better than they. He was curious to how they'd happened to be at just the right place at the right time, and what kind of magic guns could shoot without noise, but he was also used to keeping his mouth shut, so it wasn't hard to avoid his pointed and difficult questions.
Having a meal with a regular family was a nice respite from lonely bachelorhood for Mark. Jefferson’s wife, who they called Gabi, served some sort of vegetable stew and fresh cornbread. She was kind and hospitable, though the idea of a white man eating with them in her shack obviously made her nervous.
Their baby, Jefferson Jr., was only three months old. He cooed and giggled, oblivious to the problematic world around him. He’d rolled over for the first time that very morning.
After dinner, Mark stepped outside for some fresh air. He knew he was making Jefferson and his family uncomfortable with his presence, but he wanted to keep a close eye on them. He felt responsible for their welfare now. Plus, he couldn’t stand the idea of lounging around up in that mansion while they were down here with Ty. That just wasn’t his style.
It certainly confounded the Martins as to why he’d want to fraternize with slaves and deny himself comfort, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t be here long anyway. Just long enough to get a feel for things, have a chance to hear local gossip, and come up with some other way to save Jefferson.
Whump!
Something heavy struck Mark hard in the back of the head. Before he could turn to see his attacker, his legs gave out. The last thing he saw was the ground rushing toward his face.
***
7:47 AM, April 16th, 1863, Madison, GA
“Wake up, boy.”
Cold water splashed his face, shocking him back into full consciousness. Gasping, Mark sat up and sputtered, struggling to get a grip on his surroundings.
He was in some kind of shack with a dirt floor. It smelled of damp soil and smoked meat. His back was to the wall.
His arms ached from being pinned behind him for some length of time. When he tried to bring them around, he realized a cord had been wrapped tightly around his wrists. His hands were tied behind his back.
His hands were tied behind his back!
He had no way to reach his watch. No way to shift out of whatever mess he was in. Desperately, he strained against
the bonds to see if he could break them or slip out, but they held firm.
“No use strugglin’. We gotcha tied up good.”
His ankles were also wrapped with a thick rope, which was knotted around a rafter in the ceiling. The rope had a little play in it so he could move around a bit, but if he tried to go too far, the rope configuration would yank his feet out from under him.
Ty sat against the opposite wall, similarly bound like Mark. He was awake too. His face looked beaten and a trail of dried blood ran down one of his cheeks. His head hung low, eyes to the ground, as if defeated. Mark hoped that was an act for the sake of their captors. The Ty he had gotten to know over the past few days wouldn’t give up so easy.
“Listen here, boy, Ah wanna know if you the man kilt my pa.”
“Who are you?”
“Hugh Plageanet. You two kilt my pa, I’d bet my life on it.”
“Never heard of you, nor your pa. I don’t have any idea what you talking about. We were traveling to Covington to visit some family. We stopped at the Martin house to rest while my slave’s leg healed. Now, I demand you untie us!”
“Likely story I say. If’n that so, whatcha you doing in Jefferson’s shack, the same slave pa was gonna hang for theft when he was kilt by some skirmisher?”
“I was looking for a bunk where my slave could sleep, and Jefferson offered his shack. I don’t think Mr. Martin would look to kindly on you kidnapping his guests in the middle of the night.”
“Oh, John Martin, he’s all for it! Once I told him six men were dead, including my pa, and that somehow his slave Jefferson was involved, why he was more than happy to help see justice brought. When we found you two down at the shack, we knew you had to be involved somehow, bein’ strangers and all. It only makes sense. Mr. Martin, he agreed.”
“Martin may not think like us Plageanets as to the treatment of these no account negroes, but he sure ain’t gonna stick his neck out for one. Much less for some stranger who don’t even sound like he’s from the South.”