Sentinels

by Matt Manochio

  “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. S
o, 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.

  Chapter Five

  “For once the jails are empty, mostly.” Noah Chandler surveyed a line of unoccupied cells, save for a few, in the basement of Henderson’s courthouse.

  “The marshals chained up and took those Klansmen on Friday—you should’ve seen them marching into the stagecoaches for the trip north,” Sheriff Garrett Cole told his new deputy. “It must’ve crossed their itty-bitty minds that slaves felt equally confined not too long ago. I’m just thankful the weekend was quiet. That’s not the norm around here. But then again, I suppose you know that.”

  “What about our friends who didn’t make the trip?” Noah counted six men scattered in three large cells with turnkey locks.

  “Ah, don’t mind them. Drunks, most of them. Heck, we see Beasley over there at least once a month for disturbing the peace at the Tavern, don’t we?” Cole called to a stinking, red-bearded, middle-age man whose blue pants and shirt had become encrusted with filth.

  Beasley, slouched against the brick wall, his head drooping at his belly, groaned, “Other guy swung at me first, Sheriff,” and drifted back into a stupor.

  “Yeah, I’m sure he did.” Cole, a sergeant for the 37th New Jersey volunteer infantry out of Trenton, moved south with much prodding from the high command to help establish order. The overwhelming number of black citizens—who weren’t prevented from voting—elected Cole in a landside to protect Henderson County in 1870. Tall, fit and trim at fifty, the only thing Cole had in common with many of the men around town was a bushy brown mustache and scraggily beard—he preferred to stay clean-shaven but thought facial hair could somehow endear him to the (in his mind) unkempt, angry lifers who hated Yankees and freedmen, mustaches or not.

  “Beasley does odd jobs when he can, and whatever money he makes tends to wind up in the Tavern’s till,” Cole said. “Tavern usually doesn’t press charges and we let him sleep it off. But he’ll be back. Always is.”

  “You have to testify at all today?” Noah wandered ahead of Cole and shook the cell doors to check their sturdiness. None moved.

  “Nah, court’s out for the week,” Cole said. “Just means there’ll be a backlog next week. I’ll worry about it then.”

  “So, you want me to babysit these guys?”

  “No, I just wanted you to see where we keep the bad guys. And there will be more bad guys. I’m not certain if during your time upstairs doing your legal work you had the pleasure of coming down into the hold, so to speak.”

  Noah assisted the county prosecutor adjudicate cases, sometimes even handling a few on his own. He soon tired of the monotony of paper pushing and felt bottled up. Truthfully, and somewhat perversely, he thought, he missed battlefield action, or as he saw it, stopping the bad guys cold. So when more seasoned attorneys found their way to Henderson, and a deputy’s position opened, Noah leapt for it.

  “I appreciate you showing me.”

  “Come on back to the office,” Cole said of the brick building with its own small jail cells that stood next to the courthouse on Main Street. Unlike the western states, no seas of dry scablands swimming with tumbleweeds separated Henderson from Greenville or Spartanburg. Forests and rolling mountains—the Blue Ridge stood a few hours to the northwest—as far as the eye could see. Horseshoes and wagon wheels carved dirt roads for people to get where they needed. And in Henderson, a town of roughly one-thousand people, that usually meant Charlotte to the north or Athens or Atlanta to the south. Henderson served as a travel hub to those places, and grew with its mercantile, tannery, hotels, post office, bank, textile mill, restaurants and the Tavern—as the locals called it. And in 1872, northern soldiers, deployed by President Grant to keep the peace as new civilian governments got their footholds, seemed everywhere in North and South Carolina—or as the feds considered it: the Second Military District (the First being Virginia; the Third, Georgia, Alabama and Florida; the Fourth, Arkansas and Mississippi; and the Fifth, Texas and Louisiana).

  “Do the soldiers even do anything you request of them, Sheriff? And do you ever feel like you’re taking orders from them?” Noah and Cole exited the courthouse, its entrance flanked by two rifle-toting soldiers, who despite the oppressive heat wore blue wool trousers, shell jackets and forage caps, all of which commanded authority. They took turns patting down anyone who entered the courthouse and turned away anyone armed.

  “Oh, they’ve been plenty helpful. Especially the men posted at the courthouse. Unlike in Alabama and North Carolina, we’ve not had one instance of someone sneaking in a gun to take down a Republican-appointed judge.”

  “Did someone actually try that here?”

  “Not yet—not in the courthouse, anyway. But right after my first election a Klansman gunned down a judge as he was leaving his home for work. Now we post soldiers near the homes of government officials. Some of the troops have been here awhile and know the most heavily traveled routes better than me. I still feel like I’m the new guy around here, even though I’m going on three years. Until we get enough deputies I can actually trust, the Army’ll patrol the town and its outskirts, protecting areas where the freedmen live, the railroad station. It’s bedlam in other states—some police forces are part of the lynch mobs. At least that’s not the case here.”

  The Sheriff’s Office occupied a free-standing, two-story building—Cole slept in the second-floor apartment. The office had a small reception desk (with no receptionist), and off to its side stood Cole’s actual office. A couple of smaller rooms served as the deputies’ offices, and in the back were three tiny jail cells—Cole wished the place had been bigger, and thanked the Lord the county jail stood a stone’s throw from him.

  “I’m interviewing a couple of candidates for deputy later this morning,” he said from behind his desk. Noah sat before him. “I’ll be here in the meantime, so I suppose I’d like you to go to the black neighborhoods to introduce yourself, let them know they can come to y
ou if they feel threatened, that’s paramount. Once you’re done doing that, hit up the white folks who don’t want to kill us. Let the soldiers know who you are too. I told Lieutenant Billings about you and said you’d go talk to him. Hell, I should’ve had you do that when we were in the courthouse—that’s where he’s set up shop.”

  “I can do it now.”

  “Nah, visit him on your way back. Oh, you should also hit the Lawson, Cherington and Diggs plantations—they’re the three closest to town to the north, one right after the other, boom, boom, boom—all cotton. A lot of the blacks who haven’t left town sharecrop there. So talk to the plantation owners—shoot the shit. They can be a bit prickly, though. They’re still reeling over the loss of labor. But that lovely accent of yours could help you win them over a little, they might take you for a native.”

  “With all due respect, Sheriff, I know those plantations well. I grew up down here. My folks’ plantation borders Diggs’s place. I am a native.”

  “A southern man who switched sides? Nossir.” Cole, a New Yorker born and bred, picked up a drawl during his time in the South. “You’re a native in spirit, but not in reality. Not anymore. Some of the folks around here might think you fought for the Confederates with your brother, but not everyone’s in the dark about that.”

  “I know. I would expect most people know the truth. I ain’t no traitor.”

  “Never called you one.” Cole thought for a second before asking, “What made you do that? Side with the North. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you fought with us, but how’d that all come about?”

  “My education in Massachusetts, but even before that I never felt right about the way my folks kept slaves. They treated them fine, I suppose, compared to how others did. When I was a kid I visited the Diggs plantation. He was sadistic to the ones that tried to run away. He’d catch them, tie them up to a tree, lash them until their backs looked like something out of the slaughterhouse. And their cries: Ah-woooo, Ah-woooo.” Noah kept his voice down, but let the faux cries linger. “Over and over again. Diggs whipped the women, too. He didn’t care. Smiled the whole time. ‘You run, you bleed, boy.’ I’ll never forget him saying that. Stayed with me. I never accepted keeping slaves the way my brother did. That’s why I made the decision to go north.”