The lobby was crowded and noisy. A small boy with a bundle of newspapers was doing a smart business, with people climbing over each other to buy one. An army captain in field gray came in from the street and worked his way through the crowd to a hallway on the far side of the lobby. Compton went after him: it was much quieter in the hall. Two soldiers in butternut brown guarded a doorway labeled “Ballroom” at the far end of the hallway. They looked at him suspiciously when he approached.
“I am Major Compton. I am here to see General Bragg.”
One of the soldiers opened the door and called inside. A moment later a corporal came out.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I am Major Compton of the United States Army. I am here to see General Bragg. He will have had a telegraph message about me.”
The corporal looked suspiciously at the jacket and tie. “There’s a chair over there, Major. If you’ll just sit a bit I’ll see what I can find out.”
Compton sat down and paced his bag on the floor. The guards stared into space. The crowd in the street outside were a distant roar, like waves breaking on a beach. After some minutes the corporal returned.
“You best come with me.”
General Bragg was not a happy man. He waved Compton to a chair as he shuffled through the papers on the desk before him, until he found the right one. Pulled it out and read from it.
“From the War Department… will make himself known to you… officer in the 29th Connecticut.” He dropped the sheet of paper and looked at Compton, cocking his head to one side.
“I thought that the 29th Connecticut was, well—”
“A Negro regiment?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“It is. The senior officers are all like me.”
“Well then, yes, I see. How can I be of help to you, Major?”
“Maybe I can be of help to you, General. You are not in an enviable position here…”
“You can damn well say that again, and twice on Sunday. We’re all good Texas boys in this brigade and we fought for the South. But folks here look at us like we’re lower than raccoon shit.”
“Understandable. They’re all upset.”
“Hell, we’re upset! After what happened to ol’ Jeff Davis. Went and got shot by a nigger…”
“While wearing a hood and participating in a lynching.”
“Yes, well, there is that. A man his age ought to have had more sense. But, anyway, you never say why you’re here.”
“I would like you to arrange it so I can see the prisoner in jail.”
“Nothing I can do about that. Have to see the judge, the sheriff about that. We just sent here to keep the peace, such as it is.”
“I will see the sheriff — but any decisions about the prisoner are really up to you. You are an army officer and this is a military matter. Sergeant Lewis is in the army—”
“The hell you say!”
“I do say — and you can telegraph the War Department if you don’t believe me. He was on detached service, working with the Freedmen’s Bureau. But he was in uniform when he was arrested and he is subject to military justice.”
The general’s jaw fell. “Am I right? Are you telling me that the army wants him?”
“They do. If there any charges to answer over this death he will be tried by a military court martial. Legally he cannot be tried by a Mississippi civilian court.”
General Bragg let his breath out with a whoosh — then laughed.
“I like your brass, major. One lone Yankee officer coming down here and trying to walk outta jail — with a prisoner that the whole South is dying to lynch.”
“I am not alone, General. I have the strength of the army behind me. I have you and your troops to help me make sure that no miscarriage of justice does occur.”
General Bragg rose from his chair and began to pace the room in silence. He stopped to light a black cigar, blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. Pointed the cigar like a pistol at Compton.
“You know what you asking?”
“I do. I was told that if you have doubts about your duty in this matter, that you were to telegraph the Secretary of War.”
“I gonna do just that — Orderly!” He bellowed the last word, then scratched a quick message on a pad as a corporal came in from an adjoining room. “Have this sent to the War Department. Wait there at the telegraph office and bring me back the reply.”
General Bragg dropped back into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke and looked into the distance, absorbed in thought. Finally nodded.
“This could be the way out of our problems. Trouble is going to happen very soon if something ain’t done. Maybe this is it. Get that man out of here before someone gets kilt. You want a cigar?”
“Not now, thank you.”
“Whisky?”
“It’s early — but I think that I damned well do.”
“Good. I’ll join you.”
The War Department had been waiting for Bragg’s telegram. The answer came at once and was signed by the Secretary of War.
“This is it,” Bragg said, folding the paper and putting it into the pocket of his jacket. “Bring your bag, Captain, because you are not coming back here. First Sergeant,” he shouted.
When they left the hotel the First Sergeant and an armed squad came with them. The crowd whistled and catcalled as they went towards the jail, shouted even louder when the sergeant knocked on the door.
“General Bragg is here. He wants to see the sheriff.”
After a long wait the door opened a crack. Someone inside started to speak but the sergeant pushed the door wide so they could go in. The crowd surged and shouted until the closing door shut them out.
“What you want?” the sheriff said. He was unshaven and appeared to have been drinking.
“I want your prisoner,” the general said. He took out the folded telegram. “Here is my authorization from the War Department.”
“You got no rights in here! I’m the sheriff and I beholden to the judge and the mayor and not to you.”
“Sheriff, this state is now under martial law, so I am afraid that you are going to have to do what I say. Your prisoner is a serving noncommissioned officer in the United States Army, and is therefore subject to military justice. Take us to him.”
Sheriff Boyce fumbled for his gun and the sergeant knocked it out of his hand.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” the general warned. “Sergeant, get the key. Disarm this man and anyone else who attempts any resistance.”
The sight of the armed soldiers had a cooling effect on the warders and deputies. Major Compton and four armed soldiers followed the warden into the iron-barred corridor to the cells. L.D. Lewis heard them coming and jumped to his feet. One eye was bruised and swollen shut; he cocked his head to look out of the other eye.
“Major Compton… what?”
“Open this cell,” Compton ordered. “We’re taking you out of here, sergeant. To Washington City where a court of inquiry will investigate this matter. Let’s go.”
L.D. stumbled a bit when he walked and the major took him by the arm. He shrugged it off.
“I’m just fine, sir. I can walk out of here.”
The general had organized everything in a highly efficient military manner. His troops had sealed off the alley that ran behind the jailhouse. A grocery wagon was waiting outside the door. Four mounted officers from his brigade blocked L.D. and Compton from sight as they climbed into the wagon, were pushed in by the First Sergeant who joined them. The soldier who was driving the wagon flipped the reins and they started forward. There was milling and shoving when they reached the street but the soldiers just pushed their way through the crowd. A moment later and the wagon and the officers were galloping down the street towards the train station.