Stars And Stripes In Peril

by Harry Harrison

  L.D. Lewis swung down from the last car in the train and seated his bundle carefully on his shoulder. He was a tall man dressed in patched and repaired trousers, wearing as well a faded blue army jacket bereft of any insignia. It had belonged to a sergeant once: the darker blue, that had been concealed from the sun by the stripes, stood out from the faded fabric of the rest of the jacket. Lots of people wore pieces of surplus army uniforms; they were hard-wearing and cheap enough. L.D. did not make a point of mentioning that this was his own jacket, the very one that he had worn throughout the war. There was a mended tear on the left hip where a British bullet had gone through it during the fighting in the Hudson Valley. It matched perfectly the scar in his skin below. He had a wide-brimmed and battered hat that was pulled low over his eyes. Deep, black eyes. Just as black as his skin. He waited until the rest of the passengers, all white, had dispersed before he entered the station. A white ticket agent was talking with a white couple through his barred window. L.D. went on through the station and into the street. An ancient Negro was leisurely sweeping the sidewalk there.

  "Morning," L.D. said. The man stopped sweeping and looked at him quizzically.

  "You ain't from around here?"

  L.D. smiled. "One word and you can tell all about me. Is that right, old timer?"

  "You a Yankee?"

  "I sure am."

  "Ain't never met no black Yankee afore." He smiled broadly; most of his teeth were missing. "As a fact—ain't never met no Yankees before. Can I he'p you?"

  "Surely. Can you tell me where the Freedmen's Bureau is?"

  The old man's smile vanished, and he looked around before he spoke. "Jus' carry on as you goin'. Two, three blocks then you turnin' right." He turned away perfunctorily and resumed his sweeping. L.D. thanked him, but his words elicited no response. This was not surprising; the older generation of Negroes in the South saw the Yankees as trouble and wanted nothing to do with them or their laws. He shrugged and walked on.

  The Freedmen's Bureau was at the side entrance of a rundown church, far down a dusty, unpaved street from the center of town. L.D. pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was dark after the glare of the street. Two Negro women were behind a table covered with cardboard boxes filled with papers. They glanced up at him; the younger one smiled, then turned back to her work. A man wearing a reverend's white collar came in through the door in the back and nodded to him.

  "Can I help you, son?"

  "Sure can—if you're the Reverend Lomax."

  "I am."

  "Did you get a letter saying I was coming? Name of L.D. Lewis."

  "We sure did. Mr. Lewis—I'm most glad to see you." He smiled as he came forward and offered his hand. "Ladies, Mr. Lewis is from the Freedmen's Bureau in Washington City."

  After the introductions had been made, L.D. put down his bundle and dropped into a chair.

  "Can I offer you some refreshment?" Lomax asked.

  "Just a glass of water, if you don't mind."

  He chatted with the two women while the reverend was getting the water. Thanked him and half-drained the glass. "I meant to ask," he said. "Did a box come for me?"

  "Surely enough did. Thought it was for me at first, labeled 'bibles.' But it was addressed to you, and said not to open. Not too easy anyway seeing as how it was sealed with riveted leather straps. It's in the back."

  "Might I see it?" L.D. rose and took up his bundle. Lomax led the way through the main room of the church beyond, and on into a small room at the back.

  "Put it here for safe keeping," he said.

  L.D. pushed the long box with his toe, then took a bowie knife from his bundle and used it to cut the straps. Then he started to lever the crate open. "Can anyone hear us in here?"

  "No. Just us and the ladies are here today."

  "The letter you wrote to the Freedmen's Bureau ended up with me."

  Lomax frowned. Sat in a chair and cracked his knuckles abstractedly. "Then you know that we have had trouble here. Nightriders set fire to the church. Lucky I saw it and could put it out in time."

  "Any threats?"

  "Some. Notes pushed under the door. Illiterate ones. Telling us to close up or we would get what was coming to us."

  "We've had some bureaus broken into. Two were burnt down. One man dead."

  "I saw that in the paper. Can you help us?"

  "That's what I'm here for, reverend."

  He turned again to the crate, levering off the boards that sealed it.

  "Will the Bibles really help?" Lomax asked, looking at the red Bibles that apparently filled the crate.

  "This kind of Bible will," L.D. said as he took out the top row of books and pulled up a greased-paper wrapped bundle. He unwrapped the paper and took out the rifle inside. "This is a twenty-shot, breech-loading, Spencer rifle. I couldn't very well carry it down here on my shoulder, so I sent it on ahead." He removed a box of ammunition from the crate.

  Lomax shook his head and frowned.

  "I am a man of peace, Mr. Lewis, and abhor violence."

  "As do I, sir. But we must defend ourselves against these nightriders. They are cowards—but they are becoming bolder every day. And they are wonders at beating old folk, women and children. In South Carolina they actually whipped a woman who was one hundred and three years of age. We are simply defending ourselves against men who seek to return us to slavery. Doesn't the Bible say something about an eye for an eye?"

  "The Bible speaks of peace as well, and of turning the other cheek."

  L.D. shook his head. "That's not for me. I fought in the war. People think I bought or stole this old jacket, but it was Uncle Sam what gave it to me. I fought for the Union—and now I fight to hold onto that freedom that brave men died in the defense of. So you tell your people not to worry about this church, tell them to get some sleep of nights now. I think I'll bed down here for a few days, just to make sure these nightriders don't cause any trouble. One other thing—how is your school going?"

  The reverend lowered his eyes: his shoulders sagged. "Not going at all, I am most unhappy to say. We did have Mrs. Bernhardt, a widow-lady from Boston. She worked so hard, with the children during the day, then at night she taught the grown-up folk who wanted to learn their letters. But—you see, people around here didn't like us learning to read and write. First she had to leave the rooming house, then they wouldn't let her stay at the hotel, not even that one down by the station. In the end they spoke to her. Never did learn what they said, but she cried all night. Took the train out next day. People here do miss that Mrs. Bernhardt."

  "Well I may not look it, but I was set to be a teacher before the war started. Had a couple of months in school before I went into the army. Should be good enough to teach people their letters."

  "You are a gift, indeed!" the reverend said heartily. "If we eliminate the scourge of illiteracy from our people—why we can be anything, do anything."

  "I do hope that you are right." He tried to keep the edge of bitterness from his words. He knew far too much about the world the white man lived in to expect any swift miracles.

  It had been a long train ride and a tiring one. The seat had been too uncomfortable to get much sleep in. But one thing that L.D. Lewis had learned in the army was the ability to sleep anywhere—at any time. The wooden floor of the storeroom, with his bundle for a pillow, was just about as comfortable as a man could want.

  He awoke some hours later to the sound of hymn-singing. Mighty pretty it was too. He hummed along with it for a bit. Then rose and went into the little church and joined the service. Reverend Lomax saw him come in and saw fit to mention him after his sermon.

  "Before I say 'Amen' I want you all to meet Mr. L.D. Lewis who has come here from Washington City, on behalf of the Freedmen's Bureau. He is a teacher, yes he is, and he is going to teach you all all about reading and writing."

  There was quick applause and warm smiles of greeting. After the amens more than one offer of an evening meal came his way; he accepted gladly.
Later, his stomach filled with grits and dandelion greens, pork belly and red gravy, he made his way back to the church just as it was growing dark. Reverend Lomax had waited for him.

  "Front and back doors, they got bolts so they can lock from the inside. That's my house down the path if you want me."

  "You get a good night's sleep. I'll be fine."

  It was a quiet night—and a restful one. The only sounds the deep moaning of the train whistles in the distance and a hunting owl hooting from the trees outside. When he grew sleepy he walked around the church, silently in the darkness, the Spencer rifle always at his side. Looking from each window in turn. But it was a quiet night. Dawn came and the church and the Freedmen's Bureau were undisturbed.

  Twelve newly washed and brushed children turned up for school in the morning. He found the McGuffey's Readers, untouched since Mrs. Bernhardt had left them. He dusted them off and held his first class. After that he slept most of the afternoon, ate another dinner with a different family, spent another night on guard.

  The third night, a Saturday night, was very different. Just after midnight he heard the quick sound of hoofbeats thudding down the road, getting closer. They appeared to stop in front of the church. L.D. had been looking out a window in the back and he quickly, and silently, made his way to the window in the front office. Staying concealed in the shadows he could see—and hear—through the partly open window everything that transpired in the street outside.

  He levered a cartridge into the Spencer rifle when he saw in the light of the lanterns they carried that all of the riders, but one, wore white hoods over their heads that masked their features.

  The unmasked man was tied into his saddle, a black man, his face twisted with fear.

  "You really sweating, boy," one of the men said, leaning out and prodding the man in the ribs with his rifle. "You now thinking that maybe you was wrong in the way you acted to your massah."

  "I ain't done nothing..." He grunted with pain as the rifle was thrust suddenly into his stomach.

  "You speaking the truth there. You ain't done nothing, that's the truth. Your massah's cotton growing rotten in the fields, while you and the other niggers sitting around in the shade—"

  "No, suh. We ready to work. But what he want to pay us we can't live on. We starvin', our chillun can't eat, suh."

  There was no humor in the harsh laughter. "Maybe you should have stayed a slave—at least you done et well then. But you don't worry about that, hear. You gonna carry a message to the other darkies. You gonna tell them to get back to work or they end up just like you. Now—get that rope over the beam there."

  One of the masked men kicked his horse forward and threw a rope over the supporting beam of the church's portico.

  Then he tied a noose in the end.

  "Get some coal oil on the church—it gonna light this boy's way to hell."

  A corked jug was loosened from a saddlebow and passed forward. The noose was going around the terrified man's neck.

  "Just stop right there," L.D. Lewis called out from the darkness inside the church. "There are a dozen men here with rifles. Just let that man go and skedaddle—hear."

  One of the riders, an old soldier from the way he reacted, raised his rifle and fired into the church. As did another—and another. L.D. fired back: the first rifleman slid from his horse. L.D. chambered another round and then another, firing so fast they must have thought the church was filled with gunmen.

  The crock of coal oil hit the ground and broke. One of the lanterns fell and the glass globe broke but the lantern did not go out. The men shouted to each other: the horses reared at the gunfire and smell of gunpowder. Then they were gone, galloping away, two of the riders holding a wounded man in the saddle.

  One hooded man remained sprawled on the ground, still holding to the reins of his horse. The Negro prisoner was unharmed but slumping in his saddle, almost unconscious with fear.

  The nightriders were gone. L.D. slipped warily out of the front door, then opened his clasp knife and cut the bound man free. Caught him before he struck the ground. There was the quick sound of running feet and L.D. whirled about. It was the reverend, a white nightshirt flapping about his legs. He was carrying an ancient flintlock shotgun.

  "I heard the shooting..."

  "They were going to hang this man, burn the church. I couldn't let them do it."

  "You shot one of them! Is he dead?"

  "Don't rightly know." He walked over to the still form and pulled off the hood. Dead eyes stared back at him through the man's glasses. "Looks like he's had it."

  Reverend Lomax joined him, looked down at the dead man and moaned. Swayed and almost fell. Choked out the words.

  "You've done it... you done shot and killed him. That's Mr. Jefferson Davis there. You shot him dead."

  A PERILOUS PURSUIT

  Pinkerton agent Craig was more than a little annoyed with himself. Yes, it had been late—and after his dinner hour as well. But Allan Pinkerton had always said that being one of his agents was a twenty-four hour job. And Craig had always agreed with this. But just this once he had forgotten the boss's creed. No one else knew about his lapse—but he did. If only he had waited a little bit longer, he could have followed the clerk. Maybe he might even have prevented the murder. Well, no point in reproaching himself for what he didn't do. It was time now to do something positive. Like finding that murderer. He looked at the picture again; it was sure a good likeness of the Scotchman. He spun the cylinder of his Colt .44 revolver; all the chambers were full. He pushed it under his belt, just next to the buckle, pulled on his jacket and left. He had no specific orders. But he would not be able to find the Scotchman by sitting in his office. He had to find him—and he had a pretty good idea of where he might be.

  Craig recognized two Pinkerton agents at the train station; they ignored him just as he did them. They were on the lookout for the fugitive. If the man were still in the city he would not be leaving by train from this station. These agents would see him, recognize him—and take him.

  But what if he was already gone? He might be in New York, but Craig felt sure that he wasn't. Why take the extra time to go there if he was leaving the country, when the port of Baltimore was close to hand? The docks in Baltimore—that's where Craig felt he should be. If the man they were seeking really was a foreign agent, why he would accomplish nothing by staying in the capital. If he had obtained the important information from the dead clerk, as seemed to be the case now, then he would surely be taking it, or sending it, to his employers. By ship. It was Baltimore then. Agent Craig boarded the train just as it was leaving.

  His first stop when he reached the city's docks was the harbormaster's office. He took out his badge and called the clerk over.

  "Never seen one of them before," the man said, staring wide-eyed at his silver-plated badge.

  "Take a good look and remember it. Then you'll always know when you are talking to a Pinkerton agent. I want to show you something."

  He unfolded the drawing and laid it flat on the counter. "Have you seen this man?"

  "Don't reckon so. But I don't get out of the office much. Along the docks, that's where you got to look. What's he done?"

  "I just want to talk to him. Any ships sail today?"

  "Nothing since midnight that I know of." He flipped through a sheaf of papers. "Got two of them due to leave tonight. One, the City of Natchez, bound for New Orleans, but I think that she might be already gone."

  Craig thought of wiring ahead, have the ship searched when it arrived. Then changed his mind. It was more than a hunch—the fugitive would have to be going in the other direction with his priceless information. "What's the other ship?" he asked.

  The clerk ran his finger down the large ledger. "Yep, here she is. Due to sail out of here in a couple of hours. Spanish ship name of the Xavier Margais. Dock eighteen."

  "Going to Spain?"

  "Guess so. By way of Rotterdam. Got a cargo for that port."

  Craig was
turning away, rubbed his jaw and turned back. "Passenger ship?" he asked.

  "No, just an old freighter. Came in under sail for engine repairs."

  "Any other ships leaving tonight?"

  "Them is the only ones."

  "Thanks."

  It didn't sound promising. But he wanted to check the waterfront in any case. Check the freighters and then the passenger ships. He strolled down towards the docks, noting that there was another agent at the main entrance gate. He stopped and leaned against the wall behind him, coughed and talked into his hand.

  "Anything?"

  "Nothing. But I only been here an hour. Relieved Eddie."

  "What time did he come on?"

  "A little after noon."

  And the clerk was killed last night. With no guard on the docks the fugitive could very possibly be on one of the ships here.

  "OK. I'm going to mosey around the docks."

  The Xavier Margais was not much to look at. She needed a repaint—maybe even a refit. There was more rust than paint on her funnel; her reefed sails were bound in clumsy bundles. Her gangplank was down. He stood there indecisively, then saw someone come on deck. Why not? It didn't hurt to make inquiries. Craig stamped up the gangplank. The sailor heard him and turned to face him.

  "I want to ask you some questions..."

  "No hablo inglés."

  He was shifty-eyed and unshaven and Craig did not like him. "Get capitano," he said authoritatively and the man darted away. There was the sound of raised voices and a minute later an officer wearing a filthy billed cap came on deck.

  "What you want?" he snapped.