Makala did not say a word. She knew him well enough that there were times it was best just not to ask.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAY 744
John walked into Gaither Chapel of Montreat College, a place of so many beloved memories. Some of the weekly chapel services were a bit tedious at times; others were so moving they left him in tears, especially when Reverend Black—or his old friend Reverend Abel, who had died in the battle against the Posse—preached a service that could reach college kids and his intellectual soul, as well. There had been many a concert, recital, and guest lecture in it, and in the weeks after graduation each year, there was a flurry of weddings for students who had fallen in love, sometimes in the very classes he taught, in this cherished building. When the chestnut blight had hit the mountains in the 1930s, dying trees had been harvested off, the rich textured wood shaped into this building, right down to the pews. A group of chestnut enthusiasts would tour it every year, and as a historian, he enjoyed participating in their visit and hearing of their yearly pilgrimage to visit hallowed buildings like this one.
A month or so after the Day, it was the place where he had felt the first real stirrings of interest in Makala beyond that of gratitude for a nurse who had saved his life when he was hit with a deadly staph infection from—of all things—a cut finger. Elizabeth, holding Ben, was behind them. Grandma Jen walked slowly by Elizabeth’s side; even then, she felt it necessary to walk with pride—erect, ramrod straight—and leave the cane in the car, though she would pay for it afterward with a painful backache. The chapel was packed with nearly all of the 113 who had received notices, as well as their families. John noticed Kevin Malady, the former head librarian who, due to his massive build and long black hair that was straight cut just above his shoulders, had the nickname Conan the Librarian. Kevin could, in happier times, even do a decent imitation of the famed actor—yet another icon of the prewar society that had disappeared, no one knowing of his fate.
John was startled when Kevin stood up, smiled, faced the gathering, and shouted, “Commanding officer present! Battalion attention!”
Those who had served in the Posse conflict and in the defense force afterward leaped to their feet. It troubled him that the display was taking place in the campus chapel, a place of prayer, meditation, and peace. He looked to Reverend Black for guidance in this, but even he was standing and smiling at John as he came down the aisle, motioning for him to take the podium. John stopped and asked him to first lead the gathering in a prayer, and after it was spoken, John stepped to the podium.
“Two traditions we have that we must never forget because it is one of the core values we believe in.”
John turned toward the American flag, raised his hand, and started to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, and all joined in, some barely whispering the words in this time of confusion, others saying them forcefully. He had a terrible voice for singing, but Grace picked up the first words of the national anthem, and all joined in, John struggling to get through it since it hit him at such an emotional level. It always amazed him how some could be cynical about the song or would mock the fact that his community had embraced it with renewed vigor ever since the Day. For several months after 9/11, people heard it wherever they went, and then a cynicism seemed to take hold with some who mocked it and said it should be changed because it was too warlike or just expressed hatred of the country in general and turned their backs on any patriotic display. At least here, even in this current crisis, such had not taken hold.
The song finished, and John turned to face the gathering, scanning his audience for a moment, the upturned faces of kids who had sat in his history classes two years earlier, flashes of memory of so many who, in a different world, would have been standing here now or already graduated and getting on with their lives, buried instead up at veterans’ cemetery.
For this meeting, so many members of the community had made the trek up to the college campus that it was standing room only, and at least a hundred or more stood outside in the parking lot, windows opened for a cooling evening breeze and so that they could hear what he was about to report.
John felt a bit nervous as he waited for the finish of the national anthem. Though he was a trained officer and felt he had been a rather good professor who knew all the tricks of public speaking and keeping an audience with him, what he was about to present to his neighbors and friends would be a bitter pill to swallow. It was not a rally cry to war, such as the one he gave when word arrived that the Posse was heading their way. This was far different, with so many shades of gray and not just simple black and white.
He looked to Makala and his family, who had taken seats in the front row, someone having saved them as a gesture of respect. He cleared his throat.
“My friends, I bring difficult news, and it is a time to make difficult decisions. I’m going to ask this of you. I’ll say my piece, but after that, I am leaving so that you can freely debate things more without me present. I ask that our friend Reverend Black moderate after I leave.”
He forced a smile and looked at Ernie Franklin and his contingent of family and kin, who filled a couple of pews. “And this time, a two-minute rule, Ernie, and no one can transfer their time to anyone else.”
Ernie glared at him, but the gentle laughter that rippled through the room and even a scattering of applause with this decision finally caused Ernie to smile, stand up, wave an acknowledgment, and sit back down, shouting, “I’ve already passed note cards to others!”
John nodded and felt he had opened on a bit of a light touch to help folks settle down, and it was now time to dig in to the issues at hand.
“As all of you undoubtedly know, the head federal administrator based in Asheville, Dale Fredericks, was here this morning with an arrest warrant for members of the so-called border reivers, four of whom, including their leader, Forrest Burnett, are being tended to in our hospital. The warrant stated that they were guilty of capital crimes and under the current federal rules of martial law would almost undoubtedly face execution by hanging.”
There was a murmuring in the audience, most reacting negatively but more than a few whispering that it was what the thieves deserved.
“I refused to comply, and feel I must explain my reasoning, though I know there will be repercussions for all of us. You all know I was a colonel in the United States Army prior to coming here. By the code of military justice, if enemy combatants surrender in the field, they are to be treated justly, and it is forbidden to inflict summary execution.”
“Which is exactly what we should have done to those scum held at Gitmo!” someone shouted from where the Franklins were sitting, and more than a few nodded in agreement.
“We are not here to debate Gitmo,” John replied, “but what happens in our own community, today. But let me add a second point. Burnett and those who came in yesterday were not captured. They were not attacked by us or taken by us in an engagement. I personally witnessed what happened, as did Billy Tyndall, who is sitting there in the back of this chapel, if you doubt my word. I felt it was a vicious, excessive use of force against a civilian encampment of people who were once our neighbors on the far side of the Mount Mitchell range—which, in the months after the Day, by necessity, we decided to seal ourselves off from since there was not enough food available even for ourselves.
“Yesterday, I witnessed fleeing children, women, and elderly being gunned down, and it sickened me. Those of you here who are veterans of our previous wars know that American troops, on the ground and in the air, went to extremes whenever possible—sometimes at grave and even fatal risks to themselves—to behave with honor and to spare innocent lives, even when it was for the families of enemies we fought.
“Later that same day, after witnessing the attack, I was summoned to a watch station by the reservoir and there met a convoy of vehicles, that many of you saw, bearing the wounded and dying of that attack. Forrest Burnett made the honorable gesture of surrender with an appeal for help, partic
ularly for their children.”
He paused for a moment in a flash memory of the young lad in deep shock, holding his dead sister. Makala told him earlier the boy had died during the night. His own wound was not truly fatal, but at times, shock went so deep that the will to live truly was gone. She wept as she told him and then stoically added that perhaps it was merciful that he had gone on with his sister, since their mother had died birthing his sister and his father had been killed in a clash with the reivers over in Madison County.
“He would have been a psychological case the rest of his life,” she said, her voice suddenly distant and cold, hiding behind a professional demeanor. “Maybe it was for the best.”
That now haunted him, as well, as so many deaths haunted him, starting with his own flesh and blood, Jennifer.
“If I did wrong,” he continued, “by accepting their appeal for help and putting him and all those others under our protection, tell me now, and I will step aside.”
It was Ernie whose voice carried through the chapel. “Okay, John, it was the moral thing to do. Yeah, you were right for a change.”
After that endorsement, one of the few times Ernie had agreed with him publicly, any voices of protest, if there were any, remained silent.
“Thanks for that, Ernie,” John replied.
“Don’t expect it to become routine,” Ernie replied. Again there was an easing of tension in the room.
John looked down at his notes. He felt what he was about to say next was so important that he needed something in writing to help guide him.
“Therefore, under the code I was trained to follow, I would not release those who came to us for protection to the federal authority who stated to me that the decision had already been made that those on the arrest warrant had been tried and would be executed.”
No one spoke in reply, and there were finally nods of agreement with what John said. He looked about the room. “If anyone feels there is a need for a vote on this, speak up.”
Folks looked one to the other, but no one stood, a few voices sounding out finally that nearly all were in agreement and to move on with things. That endorsement filled his heart with a deep satisfaction. In spite of all the horrors, his friends and neighbors had not lost their basic values of morality and fair play, some of the core beliefs that defined them as Americans.
“Thank you for accepting my decision,” he finally continued. “Now to the difficult issue we face this evening and why I specifically asked that all who received draft notices should attend this meeting.”
Now there was indeed a deadly silence in the chapel.
John reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a folded envelope, and drew out the papers Dale had handed to him in the park.
“This”—he held the papers up—“is a formal notice to all 113 who received draft notices early last week that they are to report in three days’ time to the federal building in Asheville, where they shall be inducted into the ANR, the Army of National Recovery, and from there sent on to whatever training facilities and units as deemed necessary. Those who do not pass the primary physical shall nevertheless be retained for federal service as seen fit by the local administrator of our district. Those who refuse to comply with this notice shall be held in contempt of federal authority and face the full penalty as stated in Executive Order Number 1224A.” He paused. “This means you shall be subject to arrest for desertion and face a military tribunal for treason, which can be a capital offense as defined in the Constitution of the United States.”
And now the room was indeed astir, and Ernie was on his feet. “What the hell, John! And forgive me, Reverend Black, for blasphemy in a house of worship, but this is bullshit. We were told we had a month and that if you volunteered for service, the number to be inducted was cut in half to fifty-six. Just what in the hell are you telling us?”
John held both hands out in a calming gesture, but it took several minutes for the gathering to settle down.
“Ernie, you are right that if I volunteered, the draft for our community would be cut in half. I will not debate here and now the motivations behind that offer made by the federal administrator, Dale Fredericks, though for me, it was suspect from the moment it was offered. A draft quota is a draft quota. My identity is of course tied to this town—to you, my friends. Together, we forged our way through a terrible time. But on the other side, fifty-seven fewer being drafted here meant without doubt that the numbers would be made up somewhere else. We still think in terms of just our community struggling to survive, but that burden would go somewhere, someplace like Weaverville, Hendersonville, Fletcher, where we used to go for a night out or even had friends and relatives. The old saying that it is about whose ox is getting gored stayed with me. We cut our draft, someone else picks it up.
“I will add that at the same time it was offered, I was informed that my daughter would not face field service with a combat unit and could accompany me to Bluemont. That offer was later increased to incorporate the majority of those in this community who were mobilized as well to be sent to Bluemont, where they would be under my direct command as a support unit and most likely exempt from combat service.”
“So if you take it,” someone from the back cried, “half our kids and kin are exempt, and from what happened at the town meeting last week, there’s more than enough volunteers to fill the quota! John, I think the answer to our dilemma here is obvious.”
Again there was a flurry of comments and arguments, some even shouting for John that, for the good of the community, he had to go. He lowered his head, and finally it was Ernie who cried out for everyone to shut the hell up and listen to what John had to say in reply.
John finally looked back up, eyes fixed for a moment on his family. He separated out one sheet of paper from the others and held it up. “This is addressed to me personally. I’ll not read it word for word; it’s basically the same as the letters received by 113 others here. It states that rather than a request for my volunteering for national service to enter at the rank of major general in the ANR, I’ve been drafted for service.”
“I thought it was a deal!” someone from the balcony shouted. “You volunteer and half our young people are exempt from call-up.”
John shook his head. “I have now been drafted the same as so many of you and ordered to appear in the same manner as the rest of you, three days hence at 9:00 a.m. at the courthouse for induction. But yes, this notice I am holding still states that, though drafted, I will return to service with the rank of major general, and upon appearing to do so, half of those mobilized are exempt and need not report while the other half accompanies me to Bluemont. At least that is what I’ve been promised.”
“Then do it, John!” someone outside in the parking lot cried. “And let my daughter stay with us!”
John stood silent, looking about the room as the shadows of evening began to lengthen. No one else picked up the cry.
He took a deep breath, held the letter up, and tore it in half. “I refuse to comply.”
And now the room did erupt, some coming to their feet cheering, others cursing him, crying that he was a coward, others that he was damning their families to hardship, others shouting that he was a traitor, and yet others that he was a patriot standing up to a bureaucrat trying to turn the community against itself so that he could sneak in after John was gone and assert control.
Throughout it all, John stood silent, as if waiting for a firing squad to do the deed and end his misery. He kept his eyes fixed on his family, on Makala with tears of pride for him in her eyes, and on Elizabeth, as well, and Jen, who nodded approval, and poor little Ben wailing in fearful distress over the uproar of the adults around him.
Finally, it was Reverend Black stepping forward, holding his hands up and shouting for silence so John could explain his reasons for his decision.
“Thank you, Richard,” John whispered, turning again to face the group. “You have the right to know my reasoning for my decision since it dir
ectly affects fifty-seven families in our community.”
“You’re damn straight we have a right to know!” someone shouted, but the rest of the gathering hushed the voice of protest.
John nodded his thanks and cleared his throat. “More than three decades ago, I gladly decided to serve my country and swore my oath to defend the Constitution of the United States. In that time, even when I disagreed with the decisions of my supreme commander, I nevertheless followed all orders, because they were moral orders, fitting within our Constitution and the military code of justice.
“I will admit here publicly for the first time that I hold our so-called federal director in Asheville, Dale Fredericks, in disdain, and from the first time we met, I felt uneasy about his ability to hold such an important position.”
So it was out in public, at last. Makala actually smiled and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up.
“I welcomed the concept that our national government was coming back into power to reunify our nation after the most deadly blow inflicted upon any nation in modern times. When a battalion of our army came to this area a year ago, we greeted them with open arms and found in them so many of the traditions that had once bonded our country together. I had hoped for the same after they shipped out to Texas, and I went to meet the federal administrator who came to Asheville. I hoped his arrival was a clear indicator that our nation was finally coming back together, the first steps in what we all want—national recovery.
“Instead, I have come to disdain and loathe Fredericks. I saw far too many like him in the halls of power before the Day. Nevertheless, at the start, I felt I must accept his authority, which can be a tough decision for any man or woman at times, but the guiding principle was always the code I lived under as an officer and the same code I tried to teach some of you as students on this campus. It comes down to a profound question: Are the orders I receive lawful orders, and beyond even temporal law or the laws of Caesar, as some define that, are the orders given to me moral orders?
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