"I did at that," the trader said as the flush left his face. "Pretty dumb, I s'pose." He sniffed. "Enjoyed it, though."
"So did I."
Both men grinned. Wooden Foot clapped Charles on the shoulder, then held his palm to the sky.
"She's gonna be drizzlin' soon. Let's get movin', Boy." As he mounted, he said, with a degree of seriousness, "Guess it's plain we ain't seen the last of that bastard. Hang on to your hair, one and all."
MADELINE'S JOURNAL
December, 1865. No news of Brett. And a murder in the district.
Night before last, Edward Woodville's former slave Tom found on the river road below Summerton with three pistol balls in his body. Col. O. C. Munro of the Bureau and a small detachment marched from Charleston to investigate, without result. If any in the district know the perpetrator, they are hiding it. A tragedy indeed. Tom visited here last week, still overjoyed to be free of Woodville, a bad master.
Munro and his men camped overnight at M. R. Munro inspected the new school and took down what little I could tell him about the fire. He is required to send reports of all such outrages — his term — to superiors in Washington. He will report Tom's murder also. He offered two soldiers to guard the school for a time. I refused but said I would call on him if we are troubled again. ...
... A tourney announced for next Sat. at Six Oaks, where Chas. fought his duel as a young man. I will not go, and dissuaded Prudence after long discussion. Before the war I attended some tourneys with Justin — rather, was dragged to them — and thought them pretentious affairs — the young men on horseback, with plumed hats and satin garments, trying to spear the hanging rings with their polished lances. All gave themselves high-sounding medieval names. Sir This, Lord That. With the pennons and great striped pavilions and gluttonous feasts of barbecued pig or kid, the tourneys seemed too emblematic of the society the war swept away. If slavery was a benevolent institution (so ran the unspoken argument of that society), those practicing it had a need to display themselves as persons above reproach. This soon translated itself into romantic exaggeration — the fondness for Scott's novels, endless disquisition about Southern chivalry, and tourneys.
And where will they find their young knights now, when so many fell as you did, my dearest, in the Virginia woods and fields? ...
About fifty ladies and gentlemen of the district gathered in the clearing at Six Oaks, by the river. Carriages were parked nearby, and horses tethered. The white spectators ringed two-thirds of the open space, with the low, wet ground nearest the river segregated for black coachmen and servants, all of whom had presumably entered into employment contracts with their masters.
The winter day was warm. Long shafts of dust-moted light patterned the tan ground where three middle-aged riders galloped in a line, their lances leveled at the small wood rings hanging on strings tied to tree limbs.
Hooves pounded. The first rider missed all the rings. So did the second. The third, a graybeard, speared one, then another. An old bugle blared in imitation of a herald's trumpet; the crowd rewarded the victor with desultory applause.
While two more riders prepared, a fat woman who entirely filled one of the seats of a shabby open carriage complained to the gentleman standing beside the vehicle.
"I say to you what I said to Cousin Desmond in my last letter, Randall. It is one word, one query. When?"
Her rouged lips made the question juicy with spite. Mrs. Asia LaMotte, one of the innumerable cousins of Francis and Justin, sweated excessively despite the mild temperature, and badly needed a bath. In the wrinkles and creases of her doughy neck, perspiration had hardened her powder into tiny pellets. Randall Gettys found her a disagreeable old woman but never showed it because of her family's social standing and his friendship for Des. Poor Des, doing stevedore's work, nigger's work, on the Charleston docks to support himself.
Gettys made sure no one was close by and listening before he said, "Asia, we cannot simply march to Mont Royal in broad daylight and take action. The fire failed to frighten her. That mephitic school is open again. Of course we all want it abolished, and the slut punished. We don't want to go to prison for it, though. Those damn Yankees from the Bureau are nosing about because of the murder."
Asia LaMotte wasn't persuaded. "You're all cowards. It wants a man with courage."
"I beg your pardon. We have courage — and I speak for your cousin Des as well as myself. What it wants is a man with nothing to lose. We must find him, enlist him, and let him stand the risks. It only means a delay, not abandonment of the plan. Des is as fiery as ever about getting rid of Mrs. Main."
"Then let him show the family by doing something," Asia said with a sniff.
"I tell you, we need —"
He got no further. A white man had tied his horse near the road and was strolling toward the black spectators. He was a young man, with a ruffian's air. He had a dark beard, which showed even though he was closely shaved, and a scar left by a forehead wound. He looked cocky but very poor in his gray homespun clothes, old cavalry boots, and a broad-brimmed campaign hat. In the waistband of his pants he carried a pair of Leech and Rigdon .36-caliber revolvers.
Smiling, he stopped in front of one of the blacks, Asia LaMotte's driver, Poke. Old Poke wore a cloth cap on his gray head. The stranger drew his revolvers and pointed them at Poke.
"I surely do hate to see a nigger not respecting his betters. Take off that hat, boy."
Others around Poke stepped back, leaving the old man isolated and frightened. The two new contestants restrained their horses, fascinated like everyone else by the little tableau.
Vastly amused, the stranger drew back both hammers. "I said take off the hat."
Trembling, Poke obeyed.
"All right, now prove you're genuinely respectful. Kneel down."
"I am a free man —" Poke began.
The stranger touched one of the revolver muzzles to Poke's forehead. "Yes, sir, free to go to hell after the count of five. One. Two. Three —"
By the time the stranger said four, Poke was on his knees.
The stranger laughed, put up his revolvers, patted Poke's head, and acknowledged applause from a few of the spectators. He strolled toward a white-haired man in shabby clothes. Recognition and surprise popped Randall Gettys's eyes as the young man engaged the older in conversation.
"I'll bet that's him," Gettys whispered. "I'll bet a hundred dollars."
"Who?" said Asia, petulant.
"The roughneck Edward Woodville hired. Look, the two of them are thick as anything." He was right; the stranger, chatting amiably, had one hand on the old farmer's shoulder. Gettys said, "Everybody knew Tom wouldn't sign on to work for Edward any more because the Bureau disapproved of Edward's contract. So Edward swore he'd give fifty dollars to any white man who punished the nigger. I'll be right back." He hurried away. Asia looked befuddled.
Gettys mopped his forehead with the big white handkerchief from his breast pocket. Despite the mild temperature, he was dressed in heavy dark-green velvet. He approached Woodville and the stranger. The latter stopped talking, put his thumb near his right-hand revolver, and gave Gettys a stare that froze his gizzard.
Sweating, fawning, Gettys blurted, "Just wanted to say hello, sir. Welcome to the district. I'm Mr. Gettys. I keep the crossroads store and edit our little paper, The White Thunderbolt"
"You can trust Randall," Woodville said. "He's a good boy."
"I'll take your word," the stranger said. He shook hands, found Gettys's soft and damp, and wiped his palm on his pants. "Captain Jack Jolly. Late of General Forrest's cavalry battalion."