Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  Shad watched the rickety cart clatter away, then turned to take in the desolate brick building. It sat on the south side of Cary, stretching a whole block east from Twentieth Street. The prison had once been a tobacco warehouse, then a dry goods supply warehouse, then a warehouse for people—Yankee prisoners first, and now whomever the damn Yankees wanted to lock up. The canal ran along its far side and the James River beyond that.

  Shad put a hand to his stomach, wishing for a privy right now, wishing he’d never tipped off the Perkinsons, wishing he’d never met Rachel, never come to care about those colored children, never joined the Klan.

  The heavy wooden door creaked as Granddaddy pulled it open. Three boys in blue uniforms looked up from plates of biscuits and bacon, grits and gravy, and Shad’s mouth watered. His nose hadn’t smelled gravy this good since—he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember the last time.

  The oldest-looking boy stood but didn’t offer a hand. “What can we do for you?” His voice was flat and tight, his upper lip fuzzy. A clump of dirty blond hair fell over one eye.

  Granddaddy nodded. “This is the mother of one of the boys you arrested last night. She’s brought him some breakfast.” Shad was struck by how soft and warm Granddaddy’s voice sounded, not threatening in any way. He seemed older here in front of these Yankees, and in an odd way, even pitiable. An old man helping a poor woman plead her case.

  The Yankees chuckled. The standing one sat down and ate some grits.

  Shad, Mama, and Granddaddy waited.

  The Yankees kept eating.

  After a spell, Granddaddy said, “We’d be much obliged if you’d give this boy’s mother a moment with her son.”

  One of the Yankees pushed his empty plate aside and pulled out a pouch of tobacco and a square of paper, and rolled up the dried leaves. Another Yankee sauntered toward Mama to stick his nose in her pot. Shad tensed up, ready to slug that boy if he so much as touched Mama. But he didn’t touch her.

  The door behind Shad swung open and a burly, squat Yankee came in. The other three saluted him.

  “At ease. What do we have here?” said the burly one. He was older than the boys and had a scar across his nose, running down into a thick brown mustache.

  “Family of the accused,” said one.

  “Which one?”

  “Weaver,” said Granddaddy proudly.

  The boy with the tobacco smirked. “Wants to see her son.” He said “see” so oddly, Shad couldn’t catch his meaning.

  He saw the burly one raise his eyebrows as he came around the table, and the others shuffled out of the way to let him sit. The body odor shuffled, too.

  “Did they tell you what your son did, Mrs. Weaver?” the burly one asked.

  Mama shook her head.

  “Let me put the situation in perspective, ma’am. He’s charged with arson, attempted murder, and destruction of property belonging to a federal agency.”

  Mama shook her head faster now.

  “He lay in wait at a schoolhouse on the property of Mr. Parks Randolph Perkinson, deceased. Widow Perkinson was at home, as were four servants. Children arrived at sunup to commence lessons. Your son was seen barricading the door to the schoolhouse, then setting fire to the building.”

  “No!” Mama cried. Granddaddy put an arm at her waist.

  “There were eight students and two teachers inside at the time.”

  Shad’s knees buckled.

  “My men arrested your son, and he—well, ma’am—your son put up quite a fight.”

  Mama was crying now.

  Attempted murder, was that what he’d said? Attempted. So did that mean Rachel hadn’t died? The children hadn’t died?

  “Ma’am, why don’t you leave that breakfast here with my men, and we’ll be sure to get it to your boy? You don’t want to see him this morning.”

  Mama snorted and threw her head high. “I came here to see my Jeremiah, and I ain’t leaving till I see him.”

  The burly Yankee rolled his eyes. He nodded at the others. “I don’t suppose it will hurt to show this woman the monster she created.”

  Mama raised the pot of beans to throw it, but Granddaddy snatched it away. Shad grabbed her elbow, and Mama hissed like an angry cat.

  Two of the Yankees crossed the wide, dusty floor planks and went out the back door.

  Shad tried to picture the shed—the schoolhouse. Eight inside. He wanted to know more, but he didn’t dare ask.

  They waited. And waited. Shad shifted his feet. Finally, he heard scuffling. Dragging. Rattling noises toward the back. Then the door opened, and he saw a blue uniform. A Yankee came through the door sideways, pulling Jeremiah by an arm.

  Jeremiah looked bad. Shackles on his ankles—Shad saw them first because Jeremiah was bent over and had trouble walking. His brother’s boots were gone, his britches muddy. His shirt wasn’t white anymore. It was torn and blood-soaked. His arms were tied behind his back. His face—God help him.

  Mama slumped and Shad caught her.

  Jeremiah’s face—Lord, his face was plum and watermelon pulp. His mouth hung open. His lips and one eye were swollen purple.

  Mama pulled away from Shad and flailed her arms. “What did you do to him?”

  Granddaddy growled. “This is a travesty.”

  The burly Yankee shrugged. “You demanded to see him. We obliged. If your boy hadn’t resisted arrest, I promise you he wouldn’t be in this condition this morning.”

  “He needs a doctor,” said Mama.

  “Doc Moore stopped by first thing today. He checks on our inmates every day, ma’am.”

  Jeremiah coughed. Shad watched a thin line of red-tinged drool fall from his split lip and go all the way to a little puddle on the floor. “Mama,” Jeremiah whispered.

  The room went silent.

  “Mama, I’ll be okay.”

  Mama reached her arms toward him.

  Granddaddy held her back.

  The Yankees held Jeremiah. They weren’t going to let Mama hug him, and it was just as well. Jeremiah had to be aching all over. It hurt to look at him.

  “I don’t think he can eat yet, ma’am,” said a Yankee. “Maybe in another day or two. But we sure as hell don’t want that gruel. You leave it here, and we’ll get it to him when he’s ready.”

  Shad saw Mama’s nostrils flare.

  Granddaddy said, “Come on, Adeline.” To Jeremiah he said, “We’ll be back, son. You get some rest. I’ll meet with Sheriff Parker today, and you just hold on there. We’ll get you out of here.”

  Jeremiah nodded.

  Granddaddy guided Mama to the front door, and the Yankees opened the back to drag Jeremiah away. As Granddaddy and Mama stepped out front, Shad heard Jeremiah whisper his name. He turned.

  “Shad,” Jeremiah said again, and it seemed to take all his strength. He opened his mouth to talk, then paused to watch Mama and Granddaddy get all the way outside.

  A Yankee pulled Jeremiah’s arm. Shad saw a flash of anger cross his brother’s beat-up face, and Jeremiah shoved his shoulder into the Yankee, forcing the boy to let go. The Yankee let go all right, but he laughed. The other Yankees laughed, too. They knew Jeremiah couldn’t go anywhere.

  “Shad,” whispered Jeremiah. His voice cracked and his face winced in pain. “It’ll be a while ’fore I get home. You take care of Mama, you hear me? Whatever happens to me—don’t you never let nothing happen to Mama. You hear?”

  Shad nodded. “I hear you.”

  Then the Yankees dragged Jeremiah through the back door.

  36

  The Next Time

  AS THEY WALKED up Twentieth Street toward Main, Shad could smell the James River and was glad for it. This Shockoe smell—it was nothing after that stench in Libby Prison.

  Mama limped so badly, Shad and Granddaddy had to work together to hold her up.
After a bit Granddaddy said, “Adeline, stay the night in Shockoe.”

  “Lord, no. Take me home.”

  “It’s too much to get you all the way out Nine Mile.”

  Thank you, Granddaddy, Shad thought. Weaver’s Fine Tailoring was so close—just another half block to Main Street, then three blocks west.

  They shuffled along in silence, and when they got to Main, Mama took a deep breath. “All right, then. But only for one night.”

  Over her head, Shad’s eyes caught Granddaddy’s and they shared a look of relief. Shad knew Granddaddy would talk her into staying longer. Not just staying, but moving to the shop. With Jeremiah locked up in Libby, it made sense. Mama could visit him easier. Shad could fetch the chickens. He could put in more tailoring time instead of running deliveries from Nine Mile Road and back.

  When they turned on Main, they could see that a crowd had gathered ahead. People were there for market, of course, but also because Weaver’s Fine Tailoring sat on the corner, and word was out that the Weaver boy had been arrested.

  Shad felt Mama tighten. Then she wiggled for him to let her go, and he watched her brace herself for the walk toward the crowd. Mama picked up her head, made a funny little laugh, and wiped her face with the back of a hand.

  Then she and Granddaddy and Shad walked forward.

  When they got to the Union Hotel at the corner of Eighteenth and Main, a flat-faced woman with curly dark hair saw them and called up the street. “Adeline Weaver!” She rushed toward Mama, and other ladies followed. Soon a slew of bonnets circled around her.

  “How is your boy, Adeline?” asked the flat-faced woman.

  “He’s fine,” said Mama, and Shad marveled at the way she lied without pause or even so much as a blink. “Doing fine,” she went on. “We just come from Libby. Took him a nice breakfast.”

  “Libby? Lord, Adeline!”

  “What are they charging him with?”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  The voices of the ladies blended, one into another, until Shad couldn’t hear them or Mama anymore.

  Granddaddy tugged at Shad’s sleeve and nodded toward Weaver’s Fine Tailoring—one more block down Main Street. “Might have some customers today, Shad. You bring your mother along soon now, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, watching as Granddaddy limped toward the shop.

  Shad took in the sights past Granddaddy—the hustle of people going to and from the farmer’s market. Stovepipe hats, kepis, forage, and flat caps. Print skirts, aprons, and bonnets. Men puffing on pipes. Farmers wrapping onions and rutabaga in newsprint, and pocketing pennies in return. Chickens, flowers, fish, cornmeal. When Mama was ready, they’d stop at their choice of the tables that stretched the entire block from Seventeenth to Sixteenth Streets.

  He rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day already, and the sun wasn’t quite overhead. He tried to remember when he’d last eaten. It had been early—a fried egg. He and Mama needed a bite of something more. Shad would find the baker’s stand first—a biscuit might settle his innards.

  Then Shad’s eyes caught a black kerchief, and he froze.

  He stared.

  She was there, bending over a child. Not just one, but a group of children—four, five, six, seven of them. She was dressed in mourning clothes and putting something into each little outstretched hand. The children were putting the somethings into their mouths. Rock candy, perhaps?

  One by one, delight came across their faces. Kitty twirled with outstretched arms. A boy bounced up and down. Gabriel.

  Shad watched Rachel put a hand on Maggie’s head, then give her a hug. She rubbed her nose against Maggie’s and kissed her little cheek, and Maggie skipped away and back again. Then Shad saw Eloise, too. She was coming up Main Street with Nathaniel, and they were carrying brown sacks.

  Shad glanced beside him at Mama and the ladies who were chattering like squirrels beneath the wrought-iron fire ladders of the Union Hotel. Then he looked back down the block at Rachel and Eloise and the little ones. The Yankees had said the shed was full—eight children and two teachers—when Jeremiah set that fire. That meant someone had gotten them out, all of them, safe and sound. And now they were here.

  It was just like Miss Elizabeth to send them to market for a treat after such a fright. Send them out to hold their heads high. Show the Klan they weren’t going to be intimidated. No, the Perkinsons didn’t run from trouble.

  Shad turned to check that Mama wasn’t watching him watch Rachel. She wasn’t. The ladies were tipping their foreheads into Mama’s. Rubbing her sleeve, patting her back.

  Then Shad’s eyes were back at Main Street. At the colored children. Lookee there at them, sucking on that candy as if they could suck away all the hatred coming their way.

  Shad’s head spun. Back and forth he turned. Mama beside him. Rachel and the children down the block. And past them another half block was Granddaddy. He’d made it to the front of Weaver’s Fine Tailoring at Seventeenth Street, and a group of men were talking with him. They stood in their dark vests and trousers, smoking pipes and gesturing this way and that.

  Shad couldn’t hear a thing they said. Something told him he didn’t want to hear, anyway. Something else told him he’d heard it all before. And he’d hear it all again.

  He was one of them. A good old boy. A Confederate son. He’d sworn allegiance. The next time the Klan called a meeting, it wouldn’t be Jeremiah or Clifton telling him to put on his sheet. It would be Granddaddy.

  His very own granddaddy would tell him when they were heading out and where they were going. Shad would wear his disguise—the best tailored ghost disguise in all of Richmond. He’d go and listen well. He’d keep his ears to the ground and catch wind of whatever the Klan was planning, and he’d . . .

  A shiver went through him. Shad looked at his feet. Rubbed his eyes. Ran both of his hands through his hair. He stood that way for a minute or two, scratching at his scalp. Staring at his dirty toes. Whatever the Klan planned, if it had anything to do with Rachel or the Perkinsons, Shad would deliver that sage skirt. He’d make a quick delivery, and wouldn’t say a thing. Not one word.

  A funny feeling came over him. A feeling like someone’s eyes were on him. Shad brought his head up, and there they were. Right there.

  Rachel’s eyes.

  Still half a block down, but fixed cold on him, her head tilted to one side—face blank, mouth flat. He looked at her, and she at him, and they stood like that, half a block apart while the hustle-bustle swirled around them.

  He wanted to tell her how relieved he was to see her. How he knew he’d be able to sleep tonight because he’d seen her safe. How he would make her proud—he knew he would! He would keep reading—keep focusing when letters flipped and blurred together. Keep trying. And he hoped the children would keep stitching—even if he couldn’t be their teacher anymore.

  Rachel. He wanted to tell her all of that. Wanted to shout Amen! that she and the children were still alive. But he didn’t dare say anything. Didn’t dare approach her. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even move. He just looked at her and held his face still.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Shad and Rachel’s story is fiction. Scattered newspaper articles hint at the presence of the Ku Klux Klan in Virginia during the post–Civil War years (Reconstruction), but little if anything has been written about Klan activity in the Richmond area. Books about Reconstruction tend to focus on the political history of the time, especially the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments to the United States Constitution—amendments that abolished slavery, provided civil rights for all, and gave African American men the right to vote.

  Much of our modern understanding of the South comes from books like Gone with the Wind, but historical documents reveal that, unlike the main characters in that novel, the vast majority of white Southerners were not landowners or slave owners.
Most were small-time farmers and tradesmen, and many were illiterate. Those who opposed slavery refrained from speaking up against the landowners. The boys and men who fought for the Confederacy were a diverse group whose motives ranged from love of their birthplace and dreams of glory, loyalty, and honor to defense of property and legal arm-twisting (they were drafted). Many of those fortunate enough to survive the war returned home to cities ruled by Northern militias.

  In this novel, I tried to depict the tensions ordinary, impoverished, and poorly educated white Southerners might have felt during the period of Reconstruction. They were grieving massive losses of property, friends, and family members while struggling to understand and adjust to enormous political and economic changes.

  My research led me to interview descendants of Southern soldiers, many of whom have remained staunchly anti-Yankee to this day. When I asked why such sentiments linger despite the fact that the war ended in 1865, some said the anger stems from a feeling that Northerners had belittled them. The war was over and the South had been defeated, and yet “Yankee aggressors” patrolled the streets. “The North kept kicking us even though we were already down. The United States treated Japan and Germany after World War II better than the North treated the South after the War Between the States.” Anger over defeat, humiliation over postwar treatment, and fears about the political power African Americans might yield at the voting booth together fueled the rise of the group that came to call itself the Ku Klux Klan.

  In late 1865 or early 1866, a group of young men in Pulaski, Tennessee, started the Klan as something of a social club—a brotherhood for soldiers who had returned from the war without jobs, without money, and often without homes, as the Northern army had burned much of the South during the war. The founders came up with odd rituals and titles (like the Grand Cyclops), and maintained an air of secrecy as a way for bored, disaffected men to entertain themselves.

  As the Klan grew and new chapters formed, some members began to commit crimes while wearing their ghostly garb. Soon a group that had formed as a brotherhood became defined by lawless acts of violence. The organization became known for terrorizing blacks, Jews, immigrants, and anyone they didn’t like. Although many white Southerners spoke out against the Klan, many also supported it, and the KKK flourished (1867–1871) until the government cracked down on it. The Klan disappeared for a while, and in the 1920s and 1930s reemerged with a vengeance, establishing chapters throughout the United States. Even today, some chapters remain active.