March, 1866. Still much unrest in the district; and crowds on the roads, esp. the first Monday of the month, which has become "sale day," when condemned lands are auctioned, and "draw day," when freedmen journey for miles to Charleston and other centers, hoping the Bureau will distribute clothes, shoes, rations of corn. The hopeful return empty-handed if the officer in charge is short of supplies, or considers the crowd too large or "unworthy."
Three classes of people travel on draw day, the first composed mostly of elderly colored men too feeble to work and support themselves. Uncle Katanga is a good example from close by; he hobbles on two canes and is something of a figure because he can boast that he was born in Africa. A proud man, but he is starving. Black women with children, their men gone for whatever reason, form the second group. The third, the ones responsible for some Bureau officers saying "no" so often, are the kind called "low-downs" or "poor buckras" — whites, usually trashy, inevitably embittered about emancipation of the Negro, and too worthless or lazy to find honest ways to support themselves. We have one such tribe in the district, a sorry lot named Jolly. I have seen their ragged tents and campfires in the woods near Summerton a few times when desperate necessity has driven me to Gettys's store . . .
Captain Jack Jolly and his family settled in a grove of live oaks near the Dixie Store. The family consisted of its patriarch, young Jack, and his two married brothers, twenty and twenty-one years old but already greatly experienced in the ways of surviving without working. The wife of the older had been a whore in Macon; the wife of the younger, fifteen years older than her husband, came from Bohemia, couldn't speak English, and had arms as massive as a coal miner's. Three dirt-caked infants lived ' with the Jollys — none of the adults was quite sure which man had fathered which youngster — and several wild dogs hung around their trash-strewn encampment.
Their tents were made of blankets stolen at gunpoint from the homes of freedmen. They also owned a mule and mule cart gotten the same way. Supplies were obtained by the simple expedient of a trip to Gettys's store.
On his way there in the dim March twilight, Captain Jolly stepped aside and tipped his old campaign hat as a handsome, big-breasted woman driving a wagon went by, heading in the direction of Charleston. Much taken with the tightness of the woman's dress, Jolly bowed toward the wagon's tailgate and called out, inviting her in explicit language to stop and let him pleasure her. The woman flung him a look and drove on. Jolly was amused by her spunk, infuriated by the rejection.
At Gettys's store, he found what he wanted, a shiny new oil lantern. "This suits me," he said, starting out.
"Jolly, you're going to send me to bankruptcy," Randall Gettys exclaimed. "The price is four dollars."
"Not to me." He drew one of his Leech and Rigdon revolvers. "Ain't that so?"
Gettys darted behind the counter. He'd been a fool to invite Jolly and his tatty kinfolk to settle along the Ashley. The man was as dangerous as a rabid dog, and about as sensible. He and his family survived by thieving or taking corn rations on draw day in Charleston. One of the women told fortunes, and the Bohemian lady sold herself, he'd heard.
"All right," Gettys said, sweat steaming his spectacles. "But I'm keeping an account, because my friend Des and I, we're going to want you to do that little service we discussed."
Jolly grinned, showing brown stumps of teeth. "Wish you'd say when. I'm gettin' impatient. Hell, I don't even know who I'm s'posed to get rid of."
"She was just here, driving her wagon. Maybe you passed her on the road."
"That handsome black-haired woman? Why, my God, Gettys, I'll do her for free, no pay expected. Provided you let me have an hour with her, private, before I blow out her lamps."
Gettys mopped his damp face with the inevitable pocket handkerchief. "Des insists we wait for a pretext. A good, safe one. We don't want those infernal Bureau soldiers investigating and going to Washington to testify, the way they're doing with Tom's murder."
"I don't know a damn thing about no murder," Jolly said, no longer smiling. "If you bring it up once more, acting like I do, your lamps will go out prompt."
He scratched his crotch. "As to the other matter, you all just let me know. I'll do it clean, without a trace. And have a fine time while I'm at it."
Andrew J. used his veto power to reject what Congress calls its "civil rights act." As I understand it, the act gives freedmen equal access to the law and allows federal courts to hear cases of interference with all such rights. Read some of the President's objections in a Courier. He sounds as fierce about the sanctity of "states' rights" as Jas. Huntoon before the rebellion. ...
And still the roads are crowded. Men and women, sold away from spouses years ago, rove the state in hopes of finding a loved one. Sundered families seek reunions with brothers, sisters, cousins. The black river flows day and night.
It flooded M. R. in an unexpected and tragic way. A man named Foote appeared yesterday. He, not Nemo, is Cassandra's husband. Foote was sold to Squire Revelle, of Greenville, in '58, and Cassandra gave up hope of ever seeing him again.
But her little boy is Nemo's. When Foote discovered this, he drew a knife and tried to slash her. Andy threw him down and summoned me. I told them to settle it peaceably. This morning, Nemo is gone, Foote has established himself, and Cassandra is wretchedly upset. Is there no end to the misery caused by "the peculiar institution"?
April, 1866. History made in Washington, the papers say. President J.'s veto of the rights bill overridden by the Congress. Never before has major legislation been passed in this way, or a sitting President thus humiliated.
... We are reaping the harvest of white against black. Town of Memphis devastated by three days of rioting touched off by confrontations between federal troops — colored men — and angry white police. At least 40 dead, many more injured, and riot not yet under control ...
... Rioting over at last. Am sure the Committee of 15 will investigate. Col. Munro gone to Washington with a local black man to testify before the committee. ...
"I know this is difficult for you," Thaddeus Stevens said. "Please collect yourself and continue only when you're completely ready."
Representative Elihu Washburne of Illinois groaned to protest Stevens's emotional tone. The congressman from Pennsylvania could manipulate a hearing until it began to resemble a tear-laden melodrama, which was exactly what he was doing with the poorly dressed black man seated at the table facing the committee members. Sitting behind the committee in one of the chairs for observers, Senator Sam Stout made a note to speak to the leadership about Washburne's unseemly display.
The witness wiped his cheeks with pale palms and finally struggled on with his testimony:
"Ain't much more to tell, sirs. My little brother Tom, he said no to Mr. Woodville's contrack. He was scared when he done it, but down in Charleston, Colonel Munro, he tol' him it was a bad contrack. The contrack say Tom mustn't ever go off the farm without old Woodville sayin' he could. And he got to be respeckful an' polite all the time or he get no pay. An' he couldn't keep dogs — Tom loved to hunt. He kep' two fine hounds."
A heavy despair pressed down on Stout as he listened. Witness after witness had reported on outrageous work contracts drawn up by Southern farmers who still wanted to be called master. Stout put some of the blame on ignorance, promoted by the South's insularity. Men such as the one who had tried to contract with the deceased had grown up with an agricultural system based on intimidation, fear, and bondage. They probably couldn't imagine any other kind. So they kept writing these damned sinful contracts.