There was only so much that John Henry’s pride could take. He hadn’t had to cheat even once against Alex, the boy was such a bad player.
“I may be young,” John Henry said, “but I can do the job. And I reckon I’ll be a good mole, too. No one would ever suspect me of lowerin’ myself to your level, Alex Darnell, and joinin’ in on somethin’ like this.”
“If you think you’re too good for this,” Jack Calhoun said, “then maybe you’d best get out now, before somebody does get hurt. If there’s local men around when the Courthouse goes up, your father’s likely to be one of them.”
John Henry shrugged an answer. “My father always wanted me to be a soldier like him. I reckon he’d understand about the risks of war. But don’t you worry about Major Holliday. He’s a hero, you know. He can walk on water.”
Then he took a long drink from the new bottle J.J. Rambo offered him, and felt the liquor burn its way past his aching heart.
Getting into the Courthouse to listen for information wasn’t too hard, as his father had done business for the Freedmen’s Bureau and his own face was familiar to the military guards there. And even if he hadn’t looked so familiar, who would think to question such a well-mannered and gentlemanly young man as John Henry Holliday? Although he was nearly as tall as his father, he was still a narrow-shouldered lad, beardless and blue-eyed, innocent-looking if not innocent in his heart.
“Excuse me, Sir,” he addressed the military commander, “but I hear there’s gonna be a political rally comin’ up soon . . .”
And the commander nodded and told him everything he wanted to know, the boy so obviously awed at the privilege of speaking to a real Federal Officer that he almost blustered with excitement.
“Why yes, son, a big rally for Mr. J.W. Clift. He’s running for United States Congress. He’s a powerful man, Mr. Clift, voting registrar for the whole state of Georgia. Appointed by General Pope himself.”
John Henry’s eyes widened in studied surprise. “Is that a fact?” he asked, letting out a whistle to complete the purposed effect. “Sir, you don’t suppose—I mean, if I was to stay out of the way and all . . .”
“Go on,” the commander said with a smile, enjoying the boy’s stammering subservience, so unexpected in a Rebel’s son. “Spit it out. I haven’t got all day.”
“Well, Sir, I sure would like to stay around here and help out some. Sure would be an honor to help get things ready for a United States Congressman comin’ to town.”
“I suppose that could be arranged,” the commander answered with a generous smile. “You go on over to my aide and get yourself a pass written up. A boy ought to know what’s going on in the world, and make himself some use in it.”
“Oh thank you, Sir!” John Henry gushed, “I surely do thank you!”
The commander was easy, a fool like most Yanks, full of pride and blind to what was going on around them. It was amazing such fools had won the war, John Henry mused, considering the cunning of their opponents.
But not all the Yanks were so blind. There were some who’d had their eyes opened, since their days of slave-laboring, and were still watching—like the guard who stood at the entrance to the commander’s office. He was a big black man, a former slave from one of the plantations near to the Holliday place, who’d run off to join the Union Army as it marched through Georgia. Now he was back in Lowndes County again, dressed smart in a new uniform of Federal blue, and feeling his position of importance as guard for the commander’s office. And maybe it was the Yankee blue the man wore with such seeming ease, or maybe it was seeing a familiar face himself, but the sight of the darky drove John Henry to forget his carefully crafted subservience.
“Out of my way, boy!” John Henry ordered as he tried to push past the guard. “I need to see about a pass.”
“I ain’t no boy to you, no how,” the guard said, pulling up his rifle so fast it nearly knocked John Henry down. “And I ain’t movin’ out of the way jest ‘cause some Reb’ chile say so.”
“You will move, or answer for it!” John Henry said angrily. “I’ve got business here, and no darky’s gonna get in the way of it, least of all some run-away field hand puttin’ on airs.”
If he’d had a pistol on him, he would have pulled it just to make the point. As it was, all he had was words and the arrogance of being born to the ruling class. But he also had enough of his father’s steely-eyed nerve to make the soldier back down a bit.
“And what business is it you got?” the guard asked.
“No business of yours,” came the cool reply. “Business for the commander himself—he’s sent me to get a pass. Now let me through, or I’ll report you for insubordination.”
The guard hesitated a moment before pulling the rifle away from John Henry’s ribs. “All right, you go on. But I’ll be keepin’ both my eyes on you. Like I kept both my eyes on that Dick Force ‘fore he run from jail. We got him after. We’ll get you, too, if you’re up to no good.”
John Henry knew full well that the man meant what he said, like he knew that he had only himself to blame for bringing the scrutiny. He should have put away his pride and been ready to bow and scrape before the guard the way he’d bowed before the commander, playing the game of guileless country boy that worked so well to win Yankee confidence. He could still do it now, if he wanted, and probably should . . .
Instead, he put his narrow shoulders back, turned his clear blue eyes on the guard, and drawled with all the arrogance of his fallen class:
“You do that, boy. You just keep right on watchin’. And maybe someday you’ll even learn somethin’. But I doubt it.”
Then he pushed on past and into the aide’s office, hearing the click of the hammer on the rifle behind him and hardly caring at all. As his father had said: pride was about all they had left, these days. Pride and a plan, and that seemed like more than enough.
The fourth of April dawned damp and warm, a mist rising up from the Withlacoochee River bottoms, the air all lazy and sweet with the smell of honeysuckle starting to bloom. Above the fields of fresh-plowed Lowndes County, whippoorwills sang and Jayhawks coasted against the sunrise, singing of growing things and life renewed, while in the dank alley behind Ashley Street, dark with overhanging pines and the shadows of secret plans, the Vigilantes readied for the death of a man they had never met and hated all the same. And as they finished their preparations, checking one last time on the position of the powder keg hidden under the Courthouse steps and stashing pistols in saddlebags for their horsed getaway, the Atlantic & Gulf Line Railroad hissed into town spreading a pall of black smoke across the white-cloud sky.
The crowd at the depot was mostly Yankee soldiers, making a big show for one of their own, but there were plenty of curious townsfolk as well, and the atmosphere was more like a holiday celebration than a coming election. Even the train came dressed for the party, decked out in drapes of red, white, and blue, its platforms hung with bunting and its engine and caboose flying flags of stars and stripes. Foreign flags, John Henry thought, as he stood close by the regimental commander and waited for Mr. J.W. Clift to appear. Foreign flags that would drape the coffin of a dead carpetbagger on his way home.
It was amazing how calmly John Henry could think of such things, murder and mayhem and all. But he’d lived so close to them for so long, most of his growing-up life, that death and destruction seemed of little consequence anymore. Everyone lived and everyone died. At least this man’s death would count for something, and that was more than most people got. It was more than his mother had gotten, anyhow. Alice Jane Holliday had died for nothing, her passing hardly even remembered by most folks.
Seeing his father striding toward the train platform, smartly dressed in a gray frock coat and tall top hat, didn’t calm him any. Though Henry Holliday no longer had his position with the Freedmen’s Bureau, he was still a plantation owner and a powerful man among the citizens of Valdosta, and had been personally invited by the Regimental Commander to come welcome th
e train. A dubious honor, John Henry thought. His father should have proudly turned down the invitation and watched the train arrive from the comfort of his own front porch, since the Holliday’s new home was just across the railroad tracks on Savannah Avenue. But Henry obviously enjoyed being courted for his vote, as he readily accepted the Commander’s invitation. At least his father had left Rachel at home, John Henry thought with grudging gratitude, though home was so close that everyone could see her standing out in the fenced front yard, giggling like a girl and waving a white handkerchief at the arriving train. Did she realize that the handkerchief looked like a sign of surrender? John Henry had little enough respect for Rachel as it was, and she was doing precious little to earn any more.
The brassy noise of the regimental band pulled his thoughts away from Rachel and brought him to quick attention. The band was playing Dixie in honor of the vanquished foes, then broke into a rousing rendition of The Battle Hymn of the Republic—half the crowd cheering one tune, half the crowd cheering the other. But as they started into The Star Spangled Banner, the music was blessedly drowned out by the squeal and moan of the braking train, iron on iron, a truer anthem of America. Then J.W. Clift himself finally appeared, smaller than John Henry had thought he would be, balder and rounder, and looking hardly worth all the effort that had gone into his imminent demise. But when he took a place on the back platform of the train and raised his arms to quiet the noisy crowd, his words had a fierceness that belied his small stature and meek appearance.
“My friends! My dear, Southern friends!” His voice had a nasal tone that spoke of his Northern birth. “What an honor it is to come among you! What a beautiful country you have here, so full of opportunity for those who seek and strive! Why, just this day I was crossing through the great swamp the Indians called the Okefenokee, a land of alligators and venomous snakes. A dangerous land, certainly. But it occurs to me that with some effort that land might be rid of its alligators, and those waters made safe for navigation, those swamps made healthy for cultivation. So it is all over the beautiful Southland in these days following our recent conflict. The land is ripe and ready for the taking, once the alligators are rid from our midst. My friends, there are alligators among us! But cast your vote for J.W. Clift, and I will vow to rid these swamps of danger. Cast your vote, men of Lowndes County, for J.W. Clift, and let us strive together to make our country safe!” Then, as if on cue, the brass band started up again, this time offering a discordant version of Stephen Foster’s Suwannee River, an ironic choice, considering the alligator talk.
The Courthouse had no real porch around it, so a raised platform had been constructed for the rally, leading off the wooden staircase and placing the speakers high above the crowd where their voices could carry out over the townspeople who had come to enjoy the spectacle. John Henry was enjoying it himself from his chosen vantage point in the doorway of Griffin’s General Store. Behind the store, Alex Darnell’s horses were saddled and ready to ride as soon as Jack Calhoun lit the fuse that would blow the Courthouse high into the blue spring sky. Jack had insisted on being the lighter; he was the oldest of the Vigilantes, he said, and more experienced at such things from his time in the artillery during the War. But John Henry figured there was more to Jack’s insistence than strategy. Killing J.W. Clift was Jack Calhoun’s way of taking personal revenge on the Yanks for the death of his friend Dick Force.
“Everything’s ready, just about,” Sam Griffin said as he stepped out from the store behind John Henry, sharing his space in the doorway.
“Just about?”
“Jack’s nervous we didn’t put enough charge in the keg, after all. I told him it was plenty, that my Pa would notice if I took any more. He’s fidgety, though. Says if it doesn’t blow clean, they’ll be more trouble. So I just snuck him a little more. He’s puttin’ it out there now.”
“In front of everyone?” John Henry asked, impressed by Jack’s bravery.
“It’ll be all right. Nobody’s watchin’, anyhow. They’re all caught up in Mr. Carpetbagger.”
“My dear Southern friends!” Clift was saying, “my dear colored Southern friends . . .” and he waited for effect while the colored men in the crowd, along with a few colored women, cheered him. “My dear colored friends,” he said again, his voice rising like a preacher’s putting down Satan and raising up righteousness, “shall you forever be in bondage to your old owners? Did our beloved, martyred President Lincoln not set you free?”
There were murmurs of assent, “yes, yessir,” the voices droned, “Massa Lincoln set me free. He died to set me free . . .”
“Did not the God of Heaven make you equal? Then be a man!” he thundered. “Let the slave-holding aristocracy no longer rule you! Vote for a constitution that will educate your children free of charge! Vote for a constitution that relieves the poor debtor from his rich creditor! Vote for a constitution that allows you a liberal homestead for your families! And more than all, vote for a constitution that places you on a level with those who used to boast that for every slave they were entitled to a three-fifth’s vote in congressional representation!” Then his voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “My dear colored friends. Is this not freedom? Education without charge, relief from your debts, a home for your family, a place in society beside the men who were your oppressors? Does not this country owe you as much?”
“Amen, amen, this country do,” came the reply.
“Then, friends, there is only one thing for you to do. Vote Republican in the coming election, elect me and the men like me, who will see to it that all these things are given to you. Turn away from the Democratic-Conservatives who have held you in bondage these many years. The Republican Party offers you ease and equality, and asks nothing but your vote. I ask again, dear friends, is this not freedom?”
“What’s takin’ Jack so long?” Sam asked, growing restless as the speech ran on. “He should have had that powder placed by now, with no train and all . . .”
“What did you say?”
“I said he decided to light the fuse with no train. Said it would blow better that way.”
John Henry stared at him in disbelief. “It won’t blow better. It’ll blow him up! You can’t light that much powder at the keg. Surely Jack knows that, his bein’ in the Army with Dick Force and all . . .”
And as Sam looked back at him in horror, they both realized at the same moment what Jack Calhoun’s real plan was. He aimed to blow up the Courthouse all right—and himself along with it, going to meet his lost friend in some better world.
“We’ve got to stop him before he kills himself!” Sam cried.
“No we don’t,” John Henry said with a sudden comprehension of the situation.
“What do you mean? Of course we do!”
“Not we,” John Henry said steadily, “me. I’m the only one can get close enough to the Courthouse right now without drawin’ suspicion. Jack’s already crawlin’ around under the stairs. If you start crawlin’ around down there, too, the Yanks will figure somethin’s goin’ on. The guards are used to seein’ me there. Likely they’ll let me pass without lookin’ twice.”
Sam considered only a moment before nodding. “All right then, John Henry, you go. I reckon I better stay behind, keep an eye on things here at the store.”
He couldn’t blame Sam for looking relieved. Neither one of them wanted to take a chance at being blown up.
Getting close to the Courthouse was the easy part, pushing his way through the crowd of onlookers listening to the speeches. But getting close to Jack was another story. There was a ring of Yankee soldiers on the ground around the speaker’s platform, rifles raised and aimed into the crowd. They meant business and they weren’t letting anyone through—not even a polite Rebel boy.
“But Sir,” he said with wide-eyed pleading, “my Pa’s up on that speaker’s stand, and I got to get a message to him!”
“Give me the message, and I’ll pass it on,” the guard said, standing his ground.
> “I can’t, Sir. It’s . . .” he cast around in his mind, looking for some likely-sounding excuse why he should be let through. “It’s personal,” he said at last. “It’s my Ma, you see. She’s in a way of needin’ him bad.”
And something in his words struck the guard as very funny, and he let out a laugh.
“Well, Son, if your Mama’s in a way of needing a man all that bad, you just run and tell her the Regiment will be right down to take care of her!”
It took John Henry a moment to understand the Yankee’s lewd joke, and by then he was too scared to be angry. With every passing minute, Jack Calhoun was getting closer to lighting that keg and blowing them all up. Somehow he had to get through that military guard.
But the soldier kept laughing, and his laughter caught the attention of one of the other guards, a big black man in Yankee blue.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“This Reb boy wants to get through the guard,” the first soldier replied. “Says his Mama’s needing his Papa home right away—says she needs a man. I say we go take care of her ourselves, so his Papa don’t have to be disturbed. What do you think about that?”
But the black man didn’t laugh. He just looked at John Henry with a gleam of recognition in his eyes, then he smiled with teeth as white as a panther’s.
“I know this boy,” he said smugly. “I know his Pa, too, and he ain’t even on the stand. Seems to me this boy’s been lyin’ to you, and I’m wonderin’ why. What’s he want to do that he shouldn’t ought to be doin’?” Then he pushed the barrel of his rifle against John Henry’s ribs. “What you lyin’ about now, Reb boy?”
He almost cursed himself for not having pandered to the soldier’s arrogance the last time they had met. But it was too late for bowing and scraping now. He looked from the black soldier to the white soldier, and knew there was no way he could get through them both. There was nothing left to do but yell.
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