Let Us Have Peace
- Thread starter AnywhereButOTL
- Start date
Why? The Paris Commune is still in the future (and might be butterflied somehow anyway). A communard would be a member of a commune, which in Romance languages doesn't just mean a radical community organized on cooperative lines but any town might go by such a title. But of course a Communard with a capital C is either someone who lived in the revolutionary Paris of 1871 or someone who retrospectively identifies with that revolutionary Commune. A Commune that has yet to form in 1869 and may never.
Communists, using that name, on the other hand have been around at least since 1848 if not before.
I don't know if they would form a distinct enough group in MacMahon's mind to identify them particularly at this point as opposed to just being one of many kinds of radical, but it wouldn't strike me as too strange if reactionaries like himself did frequently speak of Communists as such in 1869, in Europe anyway. (It would be odder for an American to refer to them though some were certainly present in America).
It would be helpful to read samples of the political press and speeches of the day to see if the rightists do habitually rant against Communists in the last days of the Second Empire or not. I would expect that at least you'd find a few examples, and suspect you'll find them being denounced quite a lot.
It's a good thing Dr Frost realizes Lily is not playing with a full deck. But I wonder if he is quite paranoid enough.
That Lily doesn't seem to be around when he gets through to Caroline is probably good. I hope she isn't lurking around eavesdropping. (Frost has the healthy suspicion she may be).
But she knows the score. She knows Frost is out to get her Daddy (and thus, in her twisted and quite Night-Rider aligned mind, herself too) and that he's already got the evidence he needs even without Caroline's confession. (And by the way a spouse can't be compelled to testify against their spouse in a court of common law--and I'm not sure if that means, even perhaps today and anyway in 1869, that she is therefore actually forbidden to. Or the extent to which the law would refuse to hear any evidence derived from her words in any form. So her confession is at best a reality check for Outlaw that they are on the right track indeed, and therapy for herself). But without Caroline saying anything (and being scrupulously forbidden to say anything at any formal hearing, with any testimony that appears to be derived from hers stricken as hearsay) Frost has seen plenty. He knows the gunshot wound is older than Lily claimed, he can testify that the gun the women brought could not be the gun that shot Fowler's elbow, he can testify that Caroline had bloodstains on her that could not be as recent as she claimed.
I don't know if that's enough to be conclusive in a fair court trial. It is certainly enough to be damaging not only to Fowler (and hence Lily, who might be caught committing perjury in any possible legal proceedings that might ensue).
So I worry you see just what Lily Fowler is going to do about it. If Doc Frost turns up dead somehow real soon, the Fowlers sure would look real suspicious to any federal investigators who might come along. But if he doesn't their goose is cooked for sure (as far as Lily's point of view goes anyway).
And I place no limits at all on what Lily Fowler might try. I think she'll take steps to try and avoid getting caught, otherwise she can do absolutely anything.
Neither Constable Outlaw nor his son nor any of his deputized officers are any safer than they can mange to secure for themselves, by virtue of vigilance and keeping a watch out for each other. Not until Lily slips up and tips herself off, and quite likely not even then.
My fear is that right now she's off trying to organize yet more Night Rider action, and she'll taunt and shame them into moving even when they themselves are a bit afraid to. She might be waiting for the Doc to get her father's arm off and stabilize him, and maybe if she's not quite as over the top as I fear she will be quite soon, perhaps she is waiting for nightfall.
Perhaps she's playing a longer game.
That Lily doesn't seem to be around when he gets through to Caroline is probably good. I hope she isn't lurking around eavesdropping. (Frost has the healthy suspicion she may be).
But she knows the score. She knows Frost is out to get her Daddy (and thus, in her twisted and quite Night-Rider aligned mind, herself too) and that he's already got the evidence he needs even without Caroline's confession. (And by the way a spouse can't be compelled to testify against their spouse in a court of common law--and I'm not sure if that means, even perhaps today and anyway in 1869, that she is therefore actually forbidden to. Or the extent to which the law would refuse to hear any evidence derived from her words in any form. So her confession is at best a reality check for Outlaw that they are on the right track indeed, and therapy for herself). But without Caroline saying anything (and being scrupulously forbidden to say anything at any formal hearing, with any testimony that appears to be derived from hers stricken as hearsay) Frost has seen plenty. He knows the gunshot wound is older than Lily claimed, he can testify that the gun the women brought could not be the gun that shot Fowler's elbow, he can testify that Caroline had bloodstains on her that could not be as recent as she claimed.
I don't know if that's enough to be conclusive in a fair court trial. It is certainly enough to be damaging not only to Fowler (and hence Lily, who might be caught committing perjury in any possible legal proceedings that might ensue).
So I worry you see just what Lily Fowler is going to do about it. If Doc Frost turns up dead somehow real soon, the Fowlers sure would look real suspicious to any federal investigators who might come along. But if he doesn't their goose is cooked for sure (as far as Lily's point of view goes anyway).
And I place no limits at all on what Lily Fowler might try. I think she'll take steps to try and avoid getting caught, otherwise she can do absolutely anything.
Neither Constable Outlaw nor his son nor any of his deputized officers are any safer than they can mange to secure for themselves, by virtue of vigilance and keeping a watch out for each other. Not until Lily slips up and tips herself off, and quite likely not even then.
My fear is that right now she's off trying to organize yet more Night Rider action, and she'll taunt and shame them into moving even when they themselves are a bit afraid to. She might be waiting for the Doc to get her father's arm off and stabilize him, and maybe if she's not quite as over the top as I fear she will be quite soon, perhaps she is waiting for nightfall.
Perhaps she's playing a longer game.
Excellent updates Anywhere. It is coming together nicely. If I could give you an award at how well you write crazy (Lily is fantastic) I would.
I have mixed feelings on that; yes, I'd like to get to the major action, but I also kinda like the slow burn feel of the side story, and I definitely understand using stories like this to continue developing your craft as a writer. So far, the author's done a good job of not letting the side story totally take over so I'm good with it.
And honestly, the side story is quite good; with a bit of context thrown in I could see it getting published somewhere like paradox.
Oops! Incorrect.
Constitution said:
emphases added.
Sorry the comment is so late, I've been kind of inactive here for a while.
Umm.... Boy, tell Baez he's black and see what happens.
in the 1920 census, 24.9 of the population was 'white' while 25.4 was 'black' (the rest being 'mestizos and yellows'.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1920_Santo_Domingo_Census
Mind, almost all of the mixed race and perhaps some of the 'whites' would be considered 'negro' in the US (one drop rule and all). Still, 25% white (or a bit less) is hardly 'almost entirely Negroes'.
Leave it for Gould - by name? ??? Seems... risky.
Oh me, oh my!! How young ARE you?
Ms. is a VERY 1960s innovation.
Miss. Maybe Miss Lily, I'm not sure.
Heh. You sure have an optimistic opinion of the Spanish language abilities of your readers.
I don't read Spanish, but can make much of this out, treating it as bad French.
2 questions, though. Would you say 'esta tierra' here? French would certainly use a different word.
Also, "líder" is probably a post WWII borrowing from English (the equivalent in French certainly is).
Social engineering is another anachronism. Not coined (in French) until 1890s, doesn't appear in English until the 20th century (basically).
BTW, this is a great TL, and I'm following it avidly. I wouldn't be quibbling about so many details if I didn't think the TL was worth it.
Regarding My Absence
I got shoehorned into writing another project that consumed my spare time for about three weeks. It's finished now, and apparently pretty decent so now I shall return to Let Us Have Peace.
Thank you.
The word 'communist' wasn't very widespread until the Russian Revolution brought it into the everyman's living room, but it was used (fitfully) before then. Especially when the person using it is an anti-collectivist like MacMahon.
It's like how Islamophobes have a tendency to use 'Moslem' instead of Muslim, even though that word isn't used often at all these days.
It's always very educational to write from the perspective of people who hold those kinds of views. That way you get into the nitty gritty of it all and gain an understanding of why they might think that way. Like the authoritarians in Russia and the Catholic theocrats in France.
Well, the Franco-Prussian War is only fourteen months away now (if it starts on the same date as IOTL). We'll have to see what happens.
Thank you very much.
Well...
You get a Catholicism! And you get a Catholicism! And you...
But on a more serious note, the Scramble for Africa hasn't actually happened yet, and depending on how things in the US affect international relations, by the time the great powers get together for the Berlin Conference in 1885, the whole power dynamic and thus the Scramble could be entirely different.
Thank you. And the Wade/Douglass trip to Santo Domingo will be great fun to write. Especially seeing as how IOTL Senator Wade did actually travel to Santo Domingo during the treaty fight so that he could get an idea of what the island was like.
Thank you.
It really was an earthshaking war. The more or less immediate aftermath of it makes for a wonderful setting for the timeline.
I'm looking forward to writing that part.
I completely forgot about that actually. But fortunately, as you said, there is plenty of evidence lying around the house that could be used to nail John Fowler to the wall.
The real question is whether the trial is held in Graham or Greensboro. Because if Magistrate Harden can make a case that Graham is not an impartial enough place to draw a jury from then Fowler goes to Greensboro and is found guilty. If not...well...things get ugly.
I'll give you a hint as to what Lily is planning on doing: it's already been mentioned before.
Perhaps...perhaps.
Thanks for the analysis, it's lovely to have people read closely enough to speculate on the future of the story with that level of detail.
Well, the Turtledoves are coming up...nah, feel no pressure to vote for me.
And a great big thank you for inspiring the creation of her character in the first place.
Don't worry, the side story is winding towards an ending. Give it another half dozen to a dozen updates and Outlaw's arc will end.
And thank you for being patient with me and my slow burn writing. I seem to have an inability to fast track things, they must be explored in detail or else not explored at all. It's both a benefit and something of a detriment. But don't worry, the side story will end with a bang.
Thanks for catching that, I'll go fix it.
I'm gonna go ahead and refer to the population of Santo Domingo as 'majority colored' from now on so I don't accidentally label the people there as something they're not.
Good point. How about Mr. Silver instead?#Metallurgyjokes
I'm just barely an adult, so no wonder the Ms./miss thing flew over my head. I guess you could say it missed me.
That was part of my McCarthy chapter, and a hallmark of McCarthy is that he'll often include entire conversations in untranslated Spanish. So I did that as well, since I was copying him.
As for the language, I really have no idea if it's 100% correct. I mostly just used Google Translate and an old Spanish/English manual I have lying around.
I did not know that, thanks for the catch.
I enjoy the quibbling, it lets me know that there's people paying attention who care enough to do their part and make the TL a better piece of work.
Thank you for your readership, glad that you're still with me.
I got shoehorned into writing another project that consumed my spare time for about three weeks. It's finished now, and apparently pretty decent so now I shall return to Let Us Have Peace.
Thank you.
The word 'communist' wasn't very widespread until the Russian Revolution brought it into the everyman's living room, but it was used (fitfully) before then. Especially when the person using it is an anti-collectivist like MacMahon.
It's like how Islamophobes have a tendency to use 'Moslem' instead of Muslim, even though that word isn't used often at all these days.
Really liked the update.
MacMahon's conversation was rather enlightening. His whole spiel about Catholic values would seem so alien to so many of us today, but I've been surprised in my own reading about how strong those ideals were back then. The conversation echoes lots of 1860s sentiment you could find in Quebec!
Looking forward to where we go forward to from here
It's always very educational to write from the perspective of people who hold those kinds of views. That way you get into the nitty gritty of it all and gain an understanding of why they might think that way. Like the authoritarians in Russia and the Catholic theocrats in France.
Well, the Franco-Prussian War is only fourteen months away now (if it starts on the same date as IOTL). We'll have to see what happens.
Lovely update!
Thank you very much.
Well...
You get a Catholicism! And you get a Catholicism! And you...
But on a more serious note, the Scramble for Africa hasn't actually happened yet, and depending on how things in the US affect international relations, by the time the great powers get together for the Berlin Conference in 1885, the whole power dynamic and thus the Scramble could be entirely different.
Thank you. And the Wade/Douglass trip to Santo Domingo will be great fun to write. Especially seeing as how IOTL Senator Wade did actually travel to Santo Domingo during the treaty fight so that he could get an idea of what the island was like.
Thank you.
It really was an earthshaking war. The more or less immediate aftermath of it makes for a wonderful setting for the timeline.
I'm looking forward to writing that part.
It's a good thing Dr Frost realizes Lily is not playing with a full deck. But I wonder if he is quite paranoid enough.
That Lily doesn't seem to be around when he gets through to Caroline is probably good. I hope she isn't lurking around eavesdropping. (Frost has the healthy suspicion she may be).
But she knows the score. She knows Frost is out to get her Daddy (and thus, in her twisted and quite Night-Rider aligned mind, herself too) and that he's already got the evidence he needs even without Caroline's confession. (And by the way a spouse can't be compelled to testify against their spouse in a court of common law--and I'm not sure if that means, even perhaps today and anyway in 1869, that she is therefore actually forbidden to. Or the extent to which the law would refuse to hear any evidence derived from her words in any form. So her confession is at best a reality check for Outlaw that they are on the right track indeed, and therapy for herself). But without Caroline saying anything (and being scrupulously forbidden to say anything at any formal hearing, with any testimony that appears to be derived from hers stricken as hearsay) Frost has seen plenty. He knows the gunshot wound is older than Lily claimed, he can testify that the gun the women brought could not be the gun that shot Fowler's elbow, he can testify that Caroline had bloodstains on her that could not be as recent as she claimed.
I completely forgot about that actually. But fortunately, as you said, there is plenty of evidence lying around the house that could be used to nail John Fowler to the wall.
The real question is whether the trial is held in Graham or Greensboro. Because if Magistrate Harden can make a case that Graham is not an impartial enough place to draw a jury from then Fowler goes to Greensboro and is found guilty. If not...well...things get ugly.
I'll give you a hint as to what Lily is planning on doing: it's already been mentioned before.
Perhaps...perhaps.
Thanks for the analysis, it's lovely to have people read closely enough to speculate on the future of the story with that level of detail.
Well, the Turtledoves are coming up...nah, feel no pressure to vote for me.
And a great big thank you for inspiring the creation of her character in the first place.
Don't worry, the side story is winding towards an ending. Give it another half dozen to a dozen updates and Outlaw's arc will end.
And thank you for being patient with me and my slow burn writing. I seem to have an inability to fast track things, they must be explored in detail or else not explored at all. It's both a benefit and something of a detriment. But don't worry, the side story will end with a bang.
Thanks for catching that, I'll go fix it.
I'm gonna go ahead and refer to the population of Santo Domingo as 'majority colored' from now on so I don't accidentally label the people there as something they're not.
Good point. How about Mr. Silver instead?#Metallurgyjokes
I'm just barely an adult, so no wonder the Ms./miss thing flew over my head. I guess you could say it missed me.
Heh. You sure have an optimistic opinion of the Spanish language abilities of your readers.
I don't read Spanish, but can make much of this out, treating it as bad French.
2 questions, though. Would you say 'esta tierra' here? French would certainly use a different word.
Also, "líder" is probably a post WWII borrowing from English (the equivalent in French certainly is).
That was part of my McCarthy chapter, and a hallmark of McCarthy is that he'll often include entire conversations in untranslated Spanish. So I did that as well, since I was copying him.
As for the language, I really have no idea if it's 100% correct. I mostly just used Google Translate and an old Spanish/English manual I have lying around.
I did not know that, thanks for the catch.
I enjoy the quibbling, it lets me know that there's people paying attention who care enough to do their part and make the TL a better piece of work.
Caught up again! There was a wonderfully large quantity to read through.
Thank you for your readership, glad that you're still with me.
Chapter 46
46.
Grant met Frederick Douglass in the front lobby of the White House and walked with him through the busy hallways of the White House. The building had become increasingly crowded as Grant got to work on bigger and bigger parts of his agenda, and more than once they had to stop and let aides with stacks of papers and ledgers pass. Intermingled were ordinary people who had wandered into the White House.
Though Grant didn’t especially like random civilians being able to walk through the front halls, he put up with it. It was, as Lincoln had told him once, oh so long ago, just another part of democracy. The White House was the house of the people after all.
Reaching Grant’s office, the President shut the door against the bustle and sighed a little sigh of relief. Douglass was looking around, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“I’ve been coming here quite often,” he said thoughtfully, “what is this, the second time in as many months?” Grant smiled and gestured for Douglass to sit. He did.
“You’re a good man to have around,” he said, “and I have a proposal for you.” Douglass nodded.
“The travel proposal your telegraph mentioned. Is it Santo Domingo?” Grant nodded without hesitation, he had suspected that Douglass would figure it out.
“It is. I’m going to put together a treaty and annex it. But if I want that treaty to pass then I need the support of Charles Sumner and his Radicals.” Douglass nodded slowly, looking slightly confused.
“So why are you sending Vice President Wade instead of Sumner?”
“Charles refuses to go. Ben volunteered in his place but on the condition that you go as well. If you agree then you’ll be meeting with my envoy, Benjamin Hunt. He’s lived in Santo Domingo and Haiti for some years, doing business there. He knows the island well.”
“A merchant,” Douglass said, “how did Sumner react to your choice of envoy?” Grant winced.
“Neither Ben nor Charles believe that he’s impartial, which is why I’m sending you along. I want you to spend some time in Santo Domingo, speak to the people, tour the island, make up your mind concerning the annexation.” Douglass raised an eyebrow.
“And if it turns out that I’m against it?” At this Grant shrugged, doing his best to hide the sharp spike of worry spearing his heart.
“Then the treaty will probably not leave the Foreign Relations Committee. But I’m not asking you to support the annexation, I’m asking you to make up your mind.” Douglass smiled, showing a row of pearly teeth.
“You must be very confident that we’re going to be taken with your annexation scheme.” Grant chuckled.
“I hope so,” he said, “because I have no idea what I’m going to do if either of you comes back with your mind unchanged.”
“If I agree to go to Santo Domingo in the first place.” Douglass gently reminded him. Grant nodded.
“Charles is concerned that if we annex Santo Domingo then it will have a detrimental effect on the people, who are primarily colored. I feel that you would be able to gain insight to this issue better than Mr. Hunt, my Vice President or even Charles Sumner himself.” Now Douglass looked interested.
“These are concerns that I share,” he said, “which is why I spoke out against annexation back when Andrew Johnson proposed it. But the circumstances of this new treaty are very different.”
“That they are,” Grant agreed, “the idea of this annexation was brought forward by a number of people for military purposes, Santo Domingo being an excellent place to put a coaling station for our ironclad fleet. But I see more benefit to the annexation than just a strategic edge in the Caribbean. If we can admit a territory to the United States with a population that is mostly made up of colored people then it will give hope to those oppressed souls in the south and elsewhere. When Santo Domingo sends territorial representatives to congress then the Negroes and Chinamen and Mexicans of this country can look upon their inclusion and say for the first time that they are living in a nation where they matter too. That’s what I envision when I think of this treaty Frederick.” For a long moment Douglass sat and mulled over Grant’s words, stroking his beard absently.
“That was the right thing to say,” he said, and then stood and extended his hand, “consider me your man.”
Grant beamed, and then fetched a pair of glasses and a celebratory decanter of whiskey.
_______
“I believe that June 10th would be a good start date for our Santo Domingo expedition,” Wade said, bustling busily around his office, in very good spirits, “that would allow us to see the island in the height of summer. I’ve heard it’s quite beautiful there.” Standing over by the door Douglass watched the Vice President at work and decided that he’d made a good decision. He liked Wade, and Grant as well. Both of them treated him like an ordinary person, with none of the false reverence that he sometimes got from whites, overawed to meet a famous Negro such as himself.
“June would be nice,” Douglass agreed, “we could spend perhaps two weeks in Santo Domingo and then come back. You’d be the first Vice President to travel to a foreign country since William King.”
“Perhaps not the best comparison,” Wade said with a wince, “King died shortly after traveling to a foreign country.” Douglass shrugged.
“You’re stronger than any old Democrat,” he said, “now let’s make a timetable. What exactly shall we do once we arrive in Santo Domingo? Where is Mr. Hunt planning on taking us?”
“We will be traveling around, I know that much,” Wade said, peering at a paper through his glasses, “I’d like to see Lake Enriquillo, I’ve heard that there are colonies of crocodiles and flamingos there. I’ve always wanted to see a crocodile up close.” Douglass smiled.
“I think I’d be more comfortable with the flamingos.”
“I’m glad that you’re coming along for this Frederick, it’ll be grand.”
“Yes,” Douglass agreed, “it will.”
_______
When Outlaw awoke Frost had gone off to collect Fowler and so he was completely alone other than Holt. His deputy, Outlaw could see, was idly leafing through a newspaper, silently mouthing each of the words unconsciously as he read. Holt, like the vast majority of former slaves, had come out of bondage completely illiterate. Outlaw and Emmanuel Reed had taught him over the past few years and now, though he could read quite well, he had never quite lost the habit of testing each word’s structure out with his lips before moving on to the next.
The headline, Outlaw noted, was something about an Act being repealed. Outlaw coughed slightly, clearing what felt like powdered glass out of his throat.
“They repeal the Tenure of Office Act?” He asked, voice gravelly and throat protesting at each motion. Holt looked over, somewhat surprised to find him awake once more, and nodded.
“Yeah…Radicals aint too happy ‘bout it.” Outlaw looked up at the ceiling and contemplated his situation. He had been nearly lynched, but had survived due to the intervention of a mystery figure. He wondered who it could have been.
“Get my shoes, would you Harry?” He asked, and Holt glanced up from the newspaper again, sharply this time.
“No way Wyatt,” he said, “Frost’d be mighty angry if you got outta that bed.” Outlaw said nothing in response and instead gripped onto the edge of the nightstand next to the bed and hauled himself painfully into a sitting position. Bruised muscles and strained ligaments shrieked their protestations but Outlaw ignored them. He couldn’t just lay here…the night riders who had done this were still out there, still posing a grave threat to all of Alamance County.
“Shoes.” He repeated, heart hammering in his chest, and this time Holt moved, slapping the newspaper down onto the seat of his chair with unconcealed irritation.
“Christ Wyatt…” He muttered, but went and fetched a pair of slippers, probably Frost’s. For a moment Outlaw was confused, then he remembered that he had been barefoot when he had been snatched by the night riders, his shoes were still at his house. Slipping his feet into them, he grabbed onto Holt’s shoulder and leaned up against his deputy, groaning as a head rush sunk his vision into static.
“I need to see Magistrate Harden,” he rasped, “now tell me everything that’s happened since I was lynched.” Holt hunched down slightly so that Outlaw could drape his arm over Holt’s broad shoulders and together they hobbled out the front doors of Frost’s clinic and into the bright morning sunshine.
It was still early enough that the streets were virtually empty and Outlaw was glad for that. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this.
“Well…” Holt said, “where should I begin?” Outlaw raised a hand and pointed to the front steps of city hall, where two unfamiliar men were standing. They both had rifles slung over their shoulders but wore no uniform.
“You could start with those fellas…who are they?” Holt sighed.
“Union League members from Greensboro.”
“No soldiers?” Outlaw asked, dismayed.
“Not so many soldiers in Greensboro anymore Wyatt,” Holt said grimly, “and the ones they got are stretched thin. Some damned fool shot a state senator while you was out…they still chasing him as we speak.” Outlaw frowned. Was there no end to the bad news?
“Which one?” Holt shook his head.
“John Stephens. Was probably night riders that did it. Governor Holden has to be shitting bricks right about now…” Outlaw wondered how Holden had reacted to the news of his near death and supposed that the answer lay in the two Union League reinforcements from Greensboro. As they drew closer he looked over the two men. One was white and tall, the other black and short, with a wispy mustache. They looked at Wyatt with concern.
“You alright?” The white man asked, starting down the steps. Outlaw did his best to put on a brave face.
“Just fine,” both of the League men tried not to wince at the grinding rasp of Outlaw’s voice but failed, “what’re your names?”
“I’m Isaiah,” the white man said, “and that’s David over there. We came from Greensboro yesterday to help y’all out…keep the peace and all. You know?” Outlaw was about to ask Isaiah if anything major had happened while he was unconscious but a bustle from beyond the front doors of city hall preempted him.
“My God, you’re up and about!” Harden said with genuine surprise as he caught sight of Outlaw. He seemed delighted, but mixed in with that was a weariness that he could not hide. He looked over Outlaw’s bruised face with almost matronly concern and then ushered them all into the building.
Once they were inside Outlaw saw Addison marching past, carrying a stack of paperwork. Harden seemed to have put him to work as a secretary during Outlaw’s absence.
“Please, sit down. Goodness Wyatt, you should be resting right now…” Harden seemed to say that almost as an obligation rather than an actual attempt to get Wyatt back to bed. He looked harried and his desk was adrift with papers of all kinds, most stamped with the state seal. Outlaw sank gratefully into a soft chair and Holt did the same, leaving Harden standing, looking over them.
“What’s happened since I got myself lynched?” Outlaw asked, and Harden dug through a stack of papers, coming up with a yellowed old paper on which a jagged message had been scrawled in red.
BEWARE YE GUILTY, BOTH BLACK AND WHITE, it read.
“The night riders were planning on pinning this to you once you were dead,” Harden said, wrinkling his nose at the abhorrent note before setting it aside. “But aside from that they didn’t leave much behind. One of them was certainly wounded, and if it is indeed John Fowler then I will make sure that that son of a bitch sees the business end of a noose before the month is out. Did you see any identifying features on the person that fired on your attackers?” Outlaw shook his head very slowly, not wanting to put his neck’s reduced capabilities to the test.
“All I saw was the muzzle flash,” wincing at Outlaw’s voice Harden poured him a glass of water, which Outlaw accepted gratefully, “too dark to see any more.” Harden looked slightly disappointed, Outlaw suspected that the magistrate wanted to pin a medal on whoever had saved his head constable.
“Yesterday was fairly quiet, no night rides anywhere in the county, we think that they’ve gone into hiding, awaiting the arrival of soldiers. But sadly we shall not be receiving those,” there was a hint of resentment in Harden’s voice, “since senator Stephens was shot and killed early yesterday morning and all available resources are going towards solving his murder. The fools in Greensboro don’t seem to think that we’re in any immediate danger, seeing as how the Klan has not come back yet.” Holt frowned viciously.
“But they will.” He said grimly. Harden nodded.
“Exactly. The lack of a response from the federals will only embolden them…even if John Fowler is out of the picture.” The picture that Harden had described was grim. Outlaw pondered it for a moment. Graham was only ten miles from Greensboro, there ought to have been a platoon of blue uniformed, hard faced veterans marching down the main avenue…yet all the mighty forces of Reconstruction had sent were two Union League men, probably untrained.
“I’ve sent Dr. Frost after Fowler,” Outlaw said, “God willing he’ll be in custody by the end of the day.” God willing…
“There’s talk of Governor Holden declaring martial law if anything else happens,” Harden said contemplatively, “but even if he does then it wont take full effect for a couple of days. That’s plenty of time for the night riders to do some ugly stuff…” Outlaw gently massaged the hollow of his throat, below the bandages. It hurt, but not quite as much as the rest of his neck. It would be a while before he had full functionality back.
“What about Paisley?” He asked. Harden and Holt exchanged a look.
“Is he really a priority right now Wyatt?” Harden asked, glancing pointedly to the ugly note that the night riders had left behind in the dust beside their unconscious victim.
“I think Magistrate Harden got a point Wyatt,” Holt said, “Allen Paisley aint a threat right now, the Negroes here are still on your side.” Outlaw hoped that that was true. He sighed.
“We ought to pass out the rifles. Form a militia. I’m gonna appoint you militia captain Harry, until this crisis is past and proper elections can be held.” Holt blinked, looking slightly surprised.
“I don’t know shit about infantry tactics Wyatt.” He protested, but only halfheartedly, sensing that this was not an appointment that he’d be able to refuse.
“But you know how to keep men in line,” Outlaw said, “now go spread the word. There’ll be a League meeting tonight, we’ll pass out the rifles then.” Harden looked pleased with that plan.
“I take it that you’ll be officiating?” He asked. Outlaw nodded as best he could, feeling desperately tired but even more determined. His community was in danger, he couldn’t let his wounds overwhelm him now.
“You’ll have to talk for me Peter,” he said gravely, looking Harden in the eyes, “‘cause I aint gonna be able to shout down Paisley again if that son of a bitch shows up. Can you do that for me?” Harden nodded without hesitation.
“Of course Wyatt.” Outlaw got up slowly, Holt jumping up to help him.
“I’d like to go see Eli and Will for a few minutes…” He said, smiling wanly, wincing even as he did so, window cracks of blood appearing where his lips had been cut during the night riders’ beating. Harden moved over the corner of his office, which was stacked high with boxes of papers, and rummaged around for something.
“Oh, Wyatt, I have a cane somewhere around here…given to me by my father. I think you should have it.” Shifting aside a box and sending a few forms and legal documents cascading to the floor Harden triumphantly withdrew a gutta percha walking stick and handed it over his desk. Outlaw took it and leant on the sturdy cane, pleased by the support it gave him.
“Thank you Peter.” Harden smiled, kneeling down to gather up the papers he’d spilled.
“Be careful Wyatt.” Outlaw gave the magistrate a ghost of a smile, then was gone.
_______
By the time Frost got back to the clinic Outlaw and Holt were gone. He had enlisted the efforts of Eustace Greene, a passing farmer, to help carry the unconscious John Fowler to the clinic, and Outlaw’s absence irked him.
“Goddamnit Wyatt…” Frost sighed to himself, then decided to commandeer Outlaw’s bed for Fowler’s use. The injured constable probably wouldn’t return. In Frost’s experience Wyatt Outlaw was a very determined man. He was probably hobbling about even now, rasping orders to rain hellfire and damnation upon the night riders.
They settled Fowler down into the rumpled bed and Frost turned to Eustace, who smelled faintly of earth and sweat.
“Thank you Eustace…” he was about to dismiss the man when he considered his situation. Caroline Fowler was standing nervously in the doorway, peeking in at her husband, face pale, wringing her bloodstained dress between shaking hands. Beside her Frost had no medical assistants, and if he was to amputate Fowler’s arm then he would need someone to hold the barkeeper down. Unconscious or not Fowler would still buck and twist…anything to keep his goddamn arm.
“You need help with Mr. Fowler there?” Eustace asked, divining Frost’s request. Frost nodded gratefully.
“Yes. But I’m gonna have to warn you Eustace, there will be blood, Mr. Fowler might start screaming…it’ll be an ugly scene.” Frost had known men to faint when amputations were performed during the war. He had once had an assistant, a gregarious man from Raleigh, never lacking a joke or quip. The merry jokester had caught a splash of crimson across the face and keeled over in a dead faint. Frost had replaced him the next day. But Eustace just shrugged his broad shoulders, looking unaffected.
“I was in the war too Doc,” he said simply, “this aint gonna be nothing I aint seen before.”
“Infantry?” Frost asked. Eustace nodded.
“26th North Carolina. Caught a ball to the side at Gettysburg and went home. I seen war Doc, this aint nothing new.” Frost smiled, a curious sad delight rising up within him. It was always nice to meet another veteran, especially one from the same regiment…yet it did bring the associated memories close to the surface.
“Glad to have you.” Frost turned to Caroline, who was still standing indecisively in the doorway.
“I’m gonna need a basin of hot water ma’am,” he said, “and a black leather bag that should be sitting on the counter out there.” The black bag contained his war equipment, the bone saw, the hammer, the knives and flayers designed for getting a limb off quickly and efficiently, so that the patient didn’t bleed to death.
Caroline fetched the requested item and hurried off to fill a basin, leaving Frost to look over Fowler’s condition once again.
“He’s burning up,” Eustace said, “what’re we gonna do about that?” Frost tapped Fowler’s arm.
“We need to get this arm off,” he said, “we’ll deal with the fever once that’s done.” He opened the black bag and withdrew an oilcloth wrapped saw, setting it onto the nightstand.
“The water is heating up,” Caroline said from the doorway, voice quavering slightly, “do you…do you need anything else?” Frost shook his head, then reconsidered.
“Get ready to heat up another basin as soon as the first one is done…I’m gonna need lots of clean water to wash my tools and…oh, Eustace, would you go wash your hands please?” Eustace went off to do so, and Frost was pleased to find, when he came back, that he now smelled rather strongly of carbolic soap.
Frost washed his own hands, scrubbing until they turned pink and the water was frothy with soap suds. Then he washed the knives and saw and clamps, laying them out in an arc next to Fowler.
Fowler muttered something indecipherable but did nothing else, just laid still, locked into himself by fever and infection.
“Hold him down Eustace,” Frost said as a fresh basin of hot water was brought into the room, “and keep that water coming Caroline, you’re doing great.” Caroline Fowler blushed slightly and Frost realized too late that he’d used her first name rather than ‘ma’am’ or something less intimate.
“What’re the…pinchy things for?” Eustace asked, looking at the clamps. Frost smiled grimly, squeezing one, forcing its jaws open. It looked like the mouth of a toothless crocodile.
“Holding the arteries shut, so that John here doesn’t bleed out.” Eustace nodded.
“Oh.” He had asked earlier how Fowler had come to be injured but Frost hadn’t said anything. He supposed that Eustace already suspected Fowler’s involvement in the night rides. But what the farmer thought about the whole thing was anyone’s guess.
“I’m gonna make the initial incision now,” Frost said, “press down on him so he cant move.” Eustace did as Frost asked, leaning down on Frost, work calloused hands pressing the wounded man into his bed. He was big and strong, perhaps stronger even than that big buck Holt, that Outlaw kept with him wherever he went. Frost was glad that Eustace had agreed to stay and assist him, he would have had to tie down Fowler otherwise, and he didn’t like doing that.
Selecting a spot two inches above Fowler’s shattered elbow, Frost cut through the skin. That was the first step, followed by a quick severing of the muscles, then sawing through the bone, then filing the bone stub down…then sewing the whole mess up. He had known men who could perform an amputation in two or three minutes, but that had been in the heat of battle, where speed was necessary. Here he could take some extra time to make sure that he got everything right. It had been a long time since he’d performed an amputation…he didn’t want to mess up.
No blood came out, just a watery yellowish pus that made Eustace wince. The farmer looked away sharply, focusing instead on the ceiling, face stoic but tinged with disgust all the same. Caroline approached from behind and laid down another basin of steaming water. Before Frost could tell her to avert her eyes she made a weak mewling noise and beat and hasty retreat to the front room.
“Alright, we’ve got the skin cut away. Now the muscles.” For this task Frost selected a sturdier knife, hooked, razor sharp. Though he hadn’t used the amputation tools since Appomattox, he still kept them sharp…just in case.
Eustace sighed to himself and Frost quickly severed the muscles. Now blood spurted, but weakly, and he patiently clamped each scarlet jetting artery before moving on. Fowler’s half flayed arm bristled with brass clamps.
Fowler remained still and quiet during all of this, not seeming to even notice the horrors being wrought upon his arm. He muttered occasionally, twitched his toes and wrinkled his nose, but his eyes never opened. Frost wondered briefly if the fever had fried Fowler’s mind entirely (as he had seen happen to entirely too many men) and then supposed that that didn’t matter. His task now was to amputate the son of a bitch’s arm, fever be damned.
The saw ground through bone and then suddenly was jerking through empty air. Fowler’s arm thumped heavily to the floorboards. Frost filed away the sharp edges of the bone and moved to sew the flaps of skin and muscle up. This part was easier, had always been the least difficult part of an amputation, at least to him.
When he finished bandaging the scarlet dotted stump Frost straightened up and was slightly surprised to find that the whole room had become quite covered in medical supplies. But not too much blood, the tourniquet and general blood loss had prevented that. Frost picked up the severed limb and looked at it. The leftovers from amputations had always looked fairly surreal to him, like puzzle pieces showing only a disconnected portion of the whole image.
“Can you pass me that pillowcase please?” Frost asked Eustace, and wrapped the limb in sweat stained cotton. He didn’t want Caroline seeing this.
“He gonna live?” Eustace asked, glancing over to the fitfully sleeping form of Fowler. Frost twitched his lips distastefully.
“Bastard’s still breathing.” He said, with more venom than he had intended. Eustace nodded to himself.
“I’d better get going Doc,” he said, “Molly’s gonna pitch a fit if I’m late for lunch.” Frost smiled a ghost of a smile and then dug into his pocket, taking out a travel worn bunch of banknotes. Greenbacks. That was what most of his patients paid in, though Frost didn’t say no to food or clothing either. He counted out three dollars and held them out to Eustace, who made no move to accept them.
“I’d like you to have these,” Frost said, “for helping me.” Eustace chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, then shook his head slowly.
“You don’t need to pay me Doc.” He said, and walked slowly out, bidding a polite farewell to Caroline as he went. Frost returned the money to his pocket and supposed that Eustace had just been glad to help out a fellow veteran.
Checking Fowler’s temperature once more, Frost walked slowly out into the main room, speckled with blood up to the elbows, looking rumpled and tired. Caroline hardly looked any better. She had sat down in one of Frost’s chairs and was staring fearfully down at the floor, still wringing away at the front of her dress.
“Are you alright ma’am?” Frost asked, taking a seat across from her. Caroline nodded very slightly.
“Is John…is he…?” Frost nodded.
“Your husband is recovering.” That was about all he could say with certainty. Beyond this John Fowler was in the hands of God…and Frost hoped that the Lord Almighty let the bastard fall. But he kept those sentiments to himself, it would hardly be polite to air them in the presence of his patient’s wife.
“Oh goodness,” Caroline said suddenly, “Lily. I have to let her know about this.” For a moment Frost thought about telling her not to, but said nothing. It wasn't his place to intervene in the affairs of another’s family…even one as poisoned as the Fowlers.
“Are you going back home ma’am?” Frost asked instead, perfectly polite. Caroline looked conflicted.
“I don’t know.” She said finally. Frost couldn’t say he blamed her. He wouldn’t want to return to a charnel house either.
“You can stay here if you’d like,” he said, “for as long as you’d like.” For a moment he wondered if he was being too forward, before deciding that it didn’t matter. He didn’t mind having Caroline around, she had proven to be a good assistant. And he felt sorry for her too. Felt like he almost needed to be around to protect her from the monsters that made up the rest of her family.
“I…thank you Mr. Frost.” Caroline said, and for the first time since he’d seen her that morning, she smiled.
_______
Lou Davis had not slept a wink since the attempt on Wyatt Outlaw’s life. Instead he had sat in his bedroom, curtains drawn, the air practically rippling with heat, waiting to be arrested. They had tried to kill an officer of the law and failed. In all of the stories he read, in all of the tales he’d been told, that always ended badly for the perpetrators.
He hadn’t even wanted to do it. And wouldn’t have but for the firm hand of John Fowler on his shoulder. He hadn’t said a word to Lou that entire evening, just kept a grip on his future son in law, silently reminding him of what he had to do if he wanted to be part of the family.
Lou had hung in the back of the crowd of white hooded night riders, letting anonymity sweep him away. He had seen Outlaw hoisted in the air, heard the savage cheers of glee as the nigger kicked and struggled against his own death.
Then one of the men holding the rope had been spun to the side and everything erupted into chaos. A shot! Someone had fired upon them! From where? Lou had been looking the wrong way, he couldn’t tell. Someone had knocked him into the dust in a panicked attempt to escape. Someone else had fired a shot into the air, maybe as an attempt to calm the riders down and finish the job. But whatever the intent it only succeeded in stirring up further chaos. They had run. Lou had crawled to where the wounded rider had fallen.
He could still feel the sensation of sickly dread that he had felt when he had heard the profanities issuing from under the mask and realized that the wounded man was his own future father in law. Harmon Schultz and him had dragged Fowler to the door of his house and run. The white hood and robe, spattered with crimson where Fowler had bled on him, were still crumpled against the wall of the closet where he’d thrown them.
He didn’t think he ever wanted to put them on again. No…not if that was what night riding was. Just death and terror and blood and murder. He had been trying to convince himself ever since then that he hadn’t seen a pair of cheering riders holding Outlaw’s kid, forcing the little nigger to watch his father’s death.
The whole thing seemed like a nightmare already, just various shades of oil paint slowly melting together in the heat of some terrible flameless furnace. He hadn’t seen Outlaw’s kid in the crowd…he hadn’t heard the constable crying out for his son…
No. Lou covered his face with his hands, sick with guilt and regret and terror and a deep realization that he had gotten himself involved in something too terrible to escape.
Then his door opened and Lou shot to his feet, hand groping for the pistol at his side before he realized that the figure in the doorway was Lily. She had a little trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth and her eyes were alight with a feral terror that made Lou’s skin crawl.
“We need to go,” she hissed, “come on.” Lou took an unsteady step forward, blinking owlishly in the light that poured from the doorway. Lily had lit the lamp in the hallway.
“What?” He asked. It was the most comprehensive thing he could force from his lips. Lily scowled fiercely and grabbed his wrist, sharp fingernails sinking into his flesh. She no longer looked even remotely playful, just murderous and frightened in equal measures. Lou was reminded of the time he had cornered a possum between the wood stack and the side of his house as a child. The animal hadn’t even bothered playing dead, had just hissed and shrieked and bared its sharp little teeth at him, berserk with terror, willing to do anything to survive.
“Jacob Frost is a nigger lover,” she hissed, digging her nails in deeper, “and he just took my father. We need to go.” Lou winced as a little trickle of blood started to collect in the hollow of his wrist.
“Go where?” He asked, baffled. Was Lily talking about running away?
“We need to do what we should have done earlier.” Lou went with her, legs stiff and jerky after hours of inactivity. God help him, he went with her.
_______
It had been at least two hours since he’d left the cabin behind. At least. Paisley had thrown his watch and all of his other valuables into the woods, along with those of the sinners that had been granted such grand redemption in their deaths. He had been careful to keep things consistent. Night riders had come from the woods and taken him and his men hostage. They had brought them to a cabin and killed their horses, then killed Josiah and Curtis…leaving him. That was what had happened. He had played dead. He had survived through luck and the grace of God. And now he was going to use that miracle to protect his people.
And there was nothing that Wyatt Outlaw could do to stop that.
He was walking through the woods, within earshot of the road, ducking down whenever he heard a horse or wagon go by. This was part of his story. He had feared running into whites on his way home and so had crept through the woods. All the way back to Company Shops.
By the time he made it the sun was directly overhead and Paisley found himself lying on the edge of a clover field, thinking of what to do next. There were workers in the field, Negroes thank God, and he could even recognize some of them from church.
Should he rise from the weeds at the edge of the field and cry out to them? Should he stagger along the main road some distance away, like a weary refugee from some Biblical conflict? He bowed his head into the dirt and asked God for an answer. And it came to him.
“Thank you Lord.” He whispered into the sweet smelling earth and rose from the weeds, spreading his arms in relieved joy.
“Thank God!” He cried, voice fraught with a lifetime of terror and stress, “thank God, I am saved.” He sank to his knees as the farmers ran to him, shock coloring their faces as they saw the dried blood caking his clothes and the scratches and bruises on his face.
“Reverend!” One of them cried out in real anguish, “what happened to you?” Paisley tried hard not to smile at the success of his story. God was truly good.
“We were riding…” He began, and God saw to it from there.
Grant met Frederick Douglass in the front lobby of the White House and walked with him through the busy hallways of the White House. The building had become increasingly crowded as Grant got to work on bigger and bigger parts of his agenda, and more than once they had to stop and let aides with stacks of papers and ledgers pass. Intermingled were ordinary people who had wandered into the White House.
Though Grant didn’t especially like random civilians being able to walk through the front halls, he put up with it. It was, as Lincoln had told him once, oh so long ago, just another part of democracy. The White House was the house of the people after all.
Reaching Grant’s office, the President shut the door against the bustle and sighed a little sigh of relief. Douglass was looking around, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“I’ve been coming here quite often,” he said thoughtfully, “what is this, the second time in as many months?” Grant smiled and gestured for Douglass to sit. He did.
“You’re a good man to have around,” he said, “and I have a proposal for you.” Douglass nodded.
“The travel proposal your telegraph mentioned. Is it Santo Domingo?” Grant nodded without hesitation, he had suspected that Douglass would figure it out.
“It is. I’m going to put together a treaty and annex it. But if I want that treaty to pass then I need the support of Charles Sumner and his Radicals.” Douglass nodded slowly, looking slightly confused.
“So why are you sending Vice President Wade instead of Sumner?”
“Charles refuses to go. Ben volunteered in his place but on the condition that you go as well. If you agree then you’ll be meeting with my envoy, Benjamin Hunt. He’s lived in Santo Domingo and Haiti for some years, doing business there. He knows the island well.”
“A merchant,” Douglass said, “how did Sumner react to your choice of envoy?” Grant winced.
“Neither Ben nor Charles believe that he’s impartial, which is why I’m sending you along. I want you to spend some time in Santo Domingo, speak to the people, tour the island, make up your mind concerning the annexation.” Douglass raised an eyebrow.
“And if it turns out that I’m against it?” At this Grant shrugged, doing his best to hide the sharp spike of worry spearing his heart.
“Then the treaty will probably not leave the Foreign Relations Committee. But I’m not asking you to support the annexation, I’m asking you to make up your mind.” Douglass smiled, showing a row of pearly teeth.
“You must be very confident that we’re going to be taken with your annexation scheme.” Grant chuckled.
“I hope so,” he said, “because I have no idea what I’m going to do if either of you comes back with your mind unchanged.”
“If I agree to go to Santo Domingo in the first place.” Douglass gently reminded him. Grant nodded.
“Charles is concerned that if we annex Santo Domingo then it will have a detrimental effect on the people, who are primarily colored. I feel that you would be able to gain insight to this issue better than Mr. Hunt, my Vice President or even Charles Sumner himself.” Now Douglass looked interested.
“These are concerns that I share,” he said, “which is why I spoke out against annexation back when Andrew Johnson proposed it. But the circumstances of this new treaty are very different.”
“That they are,” Grant agreed, “the idea of this annexation was brought forward by a number of people for military purposes, Santo Domingo being an excellent place to put a coaling station for our ironclad fleet. But I see more benefit to the annexation than just a strategic edge in the Caribbean. If we can admit a territory to the United States with a population that is mostly made up of colored people then it will give hope to those oppressed souls in the south and elsewhere. When Santo Domingo sends territorial representatives to congress then the Negroes and Chinamen and Mexicans of this country can look upon their inclusion and say for the first time that they are living in a nation where they matter too. That’s what I envision when I think of this treaty Frederick.” For a long moment Douglass sat and mulled over Grant’s words, stroking his beard absently.
“That was the right thing to say,” he said, and then stood and extended his hand, “consider me your man.”
Grant beamed, and then fetched a pair of glasses and a celebratory decanter of whiskey.
_______
“I believe that June 10th would be a good start date for our Santo Domingo expedition,” Wade said, bustling busily around his office, in very good spirits, “that would allow us to see the island in the height of summer. I’ve heard it’s quite beautiful there.” Standing over by the door Douglass watched the Vice President at work and decided that he’d made a good decision. He liked Wade, and Grant as well. Both of them treated him like an ordinary person, with none of the false reverence that he sometimes got from whites, overawed to meet a famous Negro such as himself.
“June would be nice,” Douglass agreed, “we could spend perhaps two weeks in Santo Domingo and then come back. You’d be the first Vice President to travel to a foreign country since William King.”
“Perhaps not the best comparison,” Wade said with a wince, “King died shortly after traveling to a foreign country.” Douglass shrugged.
“You’re stronger than any old Democrat,” he said, “now let’s make a timetable. What exactly shall we do once we arrive in Santo Domingo? Where is Mr. Hunt planning on taking us?”
“We will be traveling around, I know that much,” Wade said, peering at a paper through his glasses, “I’d like to see Lake Enriquillo, I’ve heard that there are colonies of crocodiles and flamingos there. I’ve always wanted to see a crocodile up close.” Douglass smiled.
“I think I’d be more comfortable with the flamingos.”
“I’m glad that you’re coming along for this Frederick, it’ll be grand.”
“Yes,” Douglass agreed, “it will.”
_______
When Outlaw awoke Frost had gone off to collect Fowler and so he was completely alone other than Holt. His deputy, Outlaw could see, was idly leafing through a newspaper, silently mouthing each of the words unconsciously as he read. Holt, like the vast majority of former slaves, had come out of bondage completely illiterate. Outlaw and Emmanuel Reed had taught him over the past few years and now, though he could read quite well, he had never quite lost the habit of testing each word’s structure out with his lips before moving on to the next.
The headline, Outlaw noted, was something about an Act being repealed. Outlaw coughed slightly, clearing what felt like powdered glass out of his throat.
“They repeal the Tenure of Office Act?” He asked, voice gravelly and throat protesting at each motion. Holt looked over, somewhat surprised to find him awake once more, and nodded.
“Yeah…Radicals aint too happy ‘bout it.” Outlaw looked up at the ceiling and contemplated his situation. He had been nearly lynched, but had survived due to the intervention of a mystery figure. He wondered who it could have been.
“Get my shoes, would you Harry?” He asked, and Holt glanced up from the newspaper again, sharply this time.
“No way Wyatt,” he said, “Frost’d be mighty angry if you got outta that bed.” Outlaw said nothing in response and instead gripped onto the edge of the nightstand next to the bed and hauled himself painfully into a sitting position. Bruised muscles and strained ligaments shrieked their protestations but Outlaw ignored them. He couldn’t just lay here…the night riders who had done this were still out there, still posing a grave threat to all of Alamance County.
“Shoes.” He repeated, heart hammering in his chest, and this time Holt moved, slapping the newspaper down onto the seat of his chair with unconcealed irritation.
“Christ Wyatt…” He muttered, but went and fetched a pair of slippers, probably Frost’s. For a moment Outlaw was confused, then he remembered that he had been barefoot when he had been snatched by the night riders, his shoes were still at his house. Slipping his feet into them, he grabbed onto Holt’s shoulder and leaned up against his deputy, groaning as a head rush sunk his vision into static.
“I need to see Magistrate Harden,” he rasped, “now tell me everything that’s happened since I was lynched.” Holt hunched down slightly so that Outlaw could drape his arm over Holt’s broad shoulders and together they hobbled out the front doors of Frost’s clinic and into the bright morning sunshine.
It was still early enough that the streets were virtually empty and Outlaw was glad for that. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this.
“Well…” Holt said, “where should I begin?” Outlaw raised a hand and pointed to the front steps of city hall, where two unfamiliar men were standing. They both had rifles slung over their shoulders but wore no uniform.
“You could start with those fellas…who are they?” Holt sighed.
“Union League members from Greensboro.”
“No soldiers?” Outlaw asked, dismayed.
“Not so many soldiers in Greensboro anymore Wyatt,” Holt said grimly, “and the ones they got are stretched thin. Some damned fool shot a state senator while you was out…they still chasing him as we speak.” Outlaw frowned. Was there no end to the bad news?
“Which one?” Holt shook his head.
“John Stephens. Was probably night riders that did it. Governor Holden has to be shitting bricks right about now…” Outlaw wondered how Holden had reacted to the news of his near death and supposed that the answer lay in the two Union League reinforcements from Greensboro. As they drew closer he looked over the two men. One was white and tall, the other black and short, with a wispy mustache. They looked at Wyatt with concern.
“You alright?” The white man asked, starting down the steps. Outlaw did his best to put on a brave face.
“Just fine,” both of the League men tried not to wince at the grinding rasp of Outlaw’s voice but failed, “what’re your names?”
“I’m Isaiah,” the white man said, “and that’s David over there. We came from Greensboro yesterday to help y’all out…keep the peace and all. You know?” Outlaw was about to ask Isaiah if anything major had happened while he was unconscious but a bustle from beyond the front doors of city hall preempted him.
“My God, you’re up and about!” Harden said with genuine surprise as he caught sight of Outlaw. He seemed delighted, but mixed in with that was a weariness that he could not hide. He looked over Outlaw’s bruised face with almost matronly concern and then ushered them all into the building.
Once they were inside Outlaw saw Addison marching past, carrying a stack of paperwork. Harden seemed to have put him to work as a secretary during Outlaw’s absence.
“Please, sit down. Goodness Wyatt, you should be resting right now…” Harden seemed to say that almost as an obligation rather than an actual attempt to get Wyatt back to bed. He looked harried and his desk was adrift with papers of all kinds, most stamped with the state seal. Outlaw sank gratefully into a soft chair and Holt did the same, leaving Harden standing, looking over them.
“What’s happened since I got myself lynched?” Outlaw asked, and Harden dug through a stack of papers, coming up with a yellowed old paper on which a jagged message had been scrawled in red.
BEWARE YE GUILTY, BOTH BLACK AND WHITE, it read.
“The night riders were planning on pinning this to you once you were dead,” Harden said, wrinkling his nose at the abhorrent note before setting it aside. “But aside from that they didn’t leave much behind. One of them was certainly wounded, and if it is indeed John Fowler then I will make sure that that son of a bitch sees the business end of a noose before the month is out. Did you see any identifying features on the person that fired on your attackers?” Outlaw shook his head very slowly, not wanting to put his neck’s reduced capabilities to the test.
“All I saw was the muzzle flash,” wincing at Outlaw’s voice Harden poured him a glass of water, which Outlaw accepted gratefully, “too dark to see any more.” Harden looked slightly disappointed, Outlaw suspected that the magistrate wanted to pin a medal on whoever had saved his head constable.
“Yesterday was fairly quiet, no night rides anywhere in the county, we think that they’ve gone into hiding, awaiting the arrival of soldiers. But sadly we shall not be receiving those,” there was a hint of resentment in Harden’s voice, “since senator Stephens was shot and killed early yesterday morning and all available resources are going towards solving his murder. The fools in Greensboro don’t seem to think that we’re in any immediate danger, seeing as how the Klan has not come back yet.” Holt frowned viciously.
“But they will.” He said grimly. Harden nodded.
“Exactly. The lack of a response from the federals will only embolden them…even if John Fowler is out of the picture.” The picture that Harden had described was grim. Outlaw pondered it for a moment. Graham was only ten miles from Greensboro, there ought to have been a platoon of blue uniformed, hard faced veterans marching down the main avenue…yet all the mighty forces of Reconstruction had sent were two Union League men, probably untrained.
“I’ve sent Dr. Frost after Fowler,” Outlaw said, “God willing he’ll be in custody by the end of the day.” God willing…
“There’s talk of Governor Holden declaring martial law if anything else happens,” Harden said contemplatively, “but even if he does then it wont take full effect for a couple of days. That’s plenty of time for the night riders to do some ugly stuff…” Outlaw gently massaged the hollow of his throat, below the bandages. It hurt, but not quite as much as the rest of his neck. It would be a while before he had full functionality back.
“What about Paisley?” He asked. Harden and Holt exchanged a look.
“Is he really a priority right now Wyatt?” Harden asked, glancing pointedly to the ugly note that the night riders had left behind in the dust beside their unconscious victim.
“I think Magistrate Harden got a point Wyatt,” Holt said, “Allen Paisley aint a threat right now, the Negroes here are still on your side.” Outlaw hoped that that was true. He sighed.
“We ought to pass out the rifles. Form a militia. I’m gonna appoint you militia captain Harry, until this crisis is past and proper elections can be held.” Holt blinked, looking slightly surprised.
“I don’t know shit about infantry tactics Wyatt.” He protested, but only halfheartedly, sensing that this was not an appointment that he’d be able to refuse.
“But you know how to keep men in line,” Outlaw said, “now go spread the word. There’ll be a League meeting tonight, we’ll pass out the rifles then.” Harden looked pleased with that plan.
“I take it that you’ll be officiating?” He asked. Outlaw nodded as best he could, feeling desperately tired but even more determined. His community was in danger, he couldn’t let his wounds overwhelm him now.
“You’ll have to talk for me Peter,” he said gravely, looking Harden in the eyes, “‘cause I aint gonna be able to shout down Paisley again if that son of a bitch shows up. Can you do that for me?” Harden nodded without hesitation.
“Of course Wyatt.” Outlaw got up slowly, Holt jumping up to help him.
“I’d like to go see Eli and Will for a few minutes…” He said, smiling wanly, wincing even as he did so, window cracks of blood appearing where his lips had been cut during the night riders’ beating. Harden moved over the corner of his office, which was stacked high with boxes of papers, and rummaged around for something.
“Oh, Wyatt, I have a cane somewhere around here…given to me by my father. I think you should have it.” Shifting aside a box and sending a few forms and legal documents cascading to the floor Harden triumphantly withdrew a gutta percha walking stick and handed it over his desk. Outlaw took it and leant on the sturdy cane, pleased by the support it gave him.
“Thank you Peter.” Harden smiled, kneeling down to gather up the papers he’d spilled.
“Be careful Wyatt.” Outlaw gave the magistrate a ghost of a smile, then was gone.
_______
By the time Frost got back to the clinic Outlaw and Holt were gone. He had enlisted the efforts of Eustace Greene, a passing farmer, to help carry the unconscious John Fowler to the clinic, and Outlaw’s absence irked him.
“Goddamnit Wyatt…” Frost sighed to himself, then decided to commandeer Outlaw’s bed for Fowler’s use. The injured constable probably wouldn’t return. In Frost’s experience Wyatt Outlaw was a very determined man. He was probably hobbling about even now, rasping orders to rain hellfire and damnation upon the night riders.
They settled Fowler down into the rumpled bed and Frost turned to Eustace, who smelled faintly of earth and sweat.
“Thank you Eustace…” he was about to dismiss the man when he considered his situation. Caroline Fowler was standing nervously in the doorway, peeking in at her husband, face pale, wringing her bloodstained dress between shaking hands. Beside her Frost had no medical assistants, and if he was to amputate Fowler’s arm then he would need someone to hold the barkeeper down. Unconscious or not Fowler would still buck and twist…anything to keep his goddamn arm.
“You need help with Mr. Fowler there?” Eustace asked, divining Frost’s request. Frost nodded gratefully.
“Yes. But I’m gonna have to warn you Eustace, there will be blood, Mr. Fowler might start screaming…it’ll be an ugly scene.” Frost had known men to faint when amputations were performed during the war. He had once had an assistant, a gregarious man from Raleigh, never lacking a joke or quip. The merry jokester had caught a splash of crimson across the face and keeled over in a dead faint. Frost had replaced him the next day. But Eustace just shrugged his broad shoulders, looking unaffected.
“I was in the war too Doc,” he said simply, “this aint gonna be nothing I aint seen before.”
“Infantry?” Frost asked. Eustace nodded.
“26th North Carolina. Caught a ball to the side at Gettysburg and went home. I seen war Doc, this aint nothing new.” Frost smiled, a curious sad delight rising up within him. It was always nice to meet another veteran, especially one from the same regiment…yet it did bring the associated memories close to the surface.
“Glad to have you.” Frost turned to Caroline, who was still standing indecisively in the doorway.
“I’m gonna need a basin of hot water ma’am,” he said, “and a black leather bag that should be sitting on the counter out there.” The black bag contained his war equipment, the bone saw, the hammer, the knives and flayers designed for getting a limb off quickly and efficiently, so that the patient didn’t bleed to death.
Caroline fetched the requested item and hurried off to fill a basin, leaving Frost to look over Fowler’s condition once again.
“He’s burning up,” Eustace said, “what’re we gonna do about that?” Frost tapped Fowler’s arm.
“We need to get this arm off,” he said, “we’ll deal with the fever once that’s done.” He opened the black bag and withdrew an oilcloth wrapped saw, setting it onto the nightstand.
“The water is heating up,” Caroline said from the doorway, voice quavering slightly, “do you…do you need anything else?” Frost shook his head, then reconsidered.
“Get ready to heat up another basin as soon as the first one is done…I’m gonna need lots of clean water to wash my tools and…oh, Eustace, would you go wash your hands please?” Eustace went off to do so, and Frost was pleased to find, when he came back, that he now smelled rather strongly of carbolic soap.
Frost washed his own hands, scrubbing until they turned pink and the water was frothy with soap suds. Then he washed the knives and saw and clamps, laying them out in an arc next to Fowler.
Fowler muttered something indecipherable but did nothing else, just laid still, locked into himself by fever and infection.
“Hold him down Eustace,” Frost said as a fresh basin of hot water was brought into the room, “and keep that water coming Caroline, you’re doing great.” Caroline Fowler blushed slightly and Frost realized too late that he’d used her first name rather than ‘ma’am’ or something less intimate.
“What’re the…pinchy things for?” Eustace asked, looking at the clamps. Frost smiled grimly, squeezing one, forcing its jaws open. It looked like the mouth of a toothless crocodile.
“Holding the arteries shut, so that John here doesn’t bleed out.” Eustace nodded.
“Oh.” He had asked earlier how Fowler had come to be injured but Frost hadn’t said anything. He supposed that Eustace already suspected Fowler’s involvement in the night rides. But what the farmer thought about the whole thing was anyone’s guess.
“I’m gonna make the initial incision now,” Frost said, “press down on him so he cant move.” Eustace did as Frost asked, leaning down on Frost, work calloused hands pressing the wounded man into his bed. He was big and strong, perhaps stronger even than that big buck Holt, that Outlaw kept with him wherever he went. Frost was glad that Eustace had agreed to stay and assist him, he would have had to tie down Fowler otherwise, and he didn’t like doing that.
Selecting a spot two inches above Fowler’s shattered elbow, Frost cut through the skin. That was the first step, followed by a quick severing of the muscles, then sawing through the bone, then filing the bone stub down…then sewing the whole mess up. He had known men who could perform an amputation in two or three minutes, but that had been in the heat of battle, where speed was necessary. Here he could take some extra time to make sure that he got everything right. It had been a long time since he’d performed an amputation…he didn’t want to mess up.
No blood came out, just a watery yellowish pus that made Eustace wince. The farmer looked away sharply, focusing instead on the ceiling, face stoic but tinged with disgust all the same. Caroline approached from behind and laid down another basin of steaming water. Before Frost could tell her to avert her eyes she made a weak mewling noise and beat and hasty retreat to the front room.
“Alright, we’ve got the skin cut away. Now the muscles.” For this task Frost selected a sturdier knife, hooked, razor sharp. Though he hadn’t used the amputation tools since Appomattox, he still kept them sharp…just in case.
Eustace sighed to himself and Frost quickly severed the muscles. Now blood spurted, but weakly, and he patiently clamped each scarlet jetting artery before moving on. Fowler’s half flayed arm bristled with brass clamps.
Fowler remained still and quiet during all of this, not seeming to even notice the horrors being wrought upon his arm. He muttered occasionally, twitched his toes and wrinkled his nose, but his eyes never opened. Frost wondered briefly if the fever had fried Fowler’s mind entirely (as he had seen happen to entirely too many men) and then supposed that that didn’t matter. His task now was to amputate the son of a bitch’s arm, fever be damned.
The saw ground through bone and then suddenly was jerking through empty air. Fowler’s arm thumped heavily to the floorboards. Frost filed away the sharp edges of the bone and moved to sew the flaps of skin and muscle up. This part was easier, had always been the least difficult part of an amputation, at least to him.
When he finished bandaging the scarlet dotted stump Frost straightened up and was slightly surprised to find that the whole room had become quite covered in medical supplies. But not too much blood, the tourniquet and general blood loss had prevented that. Frost picked up the severed limb and looked at it. The leftovers from amputations had always looked fairly surreal to him, like puzzle pieces showing only a disconnected portion of the whole image.
“Can you pass me that pillowcase please?” Frost asked Eustace, and wrapped the limb in sweat stained cotton. He didn’t want Caroline seeing this.
“He gonna live?” Eustace asked, glancing over to the fitfully sleeping form of Fowler. Frost twitched his lips distastefully.
“Bastard’s still breathing.” He said, with more venom than he had intended. Eustace nodded to himself.
“I’d better get going Doc,” he said, “Molly’s gonna pitch a fit if I’m late for lunch.” Frost smiled a ghost of a smile and then dug into his pocket, taking out a travel worn bunch of banknotes. Greenbacks. That was what most of his patients paid in, though Frost didn’t say no to food or clothing either. He counted out three dollars and held them out to Eustace, who made no move to accept them.
“I’d like you to have these,” Frost said, “for helping me.” Eustace chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, then shook his head slowly.
“You don’t need to pay me Doc.” He said, and walked slowly out, bidding a polite farewell to Caroline as he went. Frost returned the money to his pocket and supposed that Eustace had just been glad to help out a fellow veteran.
Checking Fowler’s temperature once more, Frost walked slowly out into the main room, speckled with blood up to the elbows, looking rumpled and tired. Caroline hardly looked any better. She had sat down in one of Frost’s chairs and was staring fearfully down at the floor, still wringing away at the front of her dress.
“Are you alright ma’am?” Frost asked, taking a seat across from her. Caroline nodded very slightly.
“Is John…is he…?” Frost nodded.
“Your husband is recovering.” That was about all he could say with certainty. Beyond this John Fowler was in the hands of God…and Frost hoped that the Lord Almighty let the bastard fall. But he kept those sentiments to himself, it would hardly be polite to air them in the presence of his patient’s wife.
“Oh goodness,” Caroline said suddenly, “Lily. I have to let her know about this.” For a moment Frost thought about telling her not to, but said nothing. It wasn't his place to intervene in the affairs of another’s family…even one as poisoned as the Fowlers.
“Are you going back home ma’am?” Frost asked instead, perfectly polite. Caroline looked conflicted.
“I don’t know.” She said finally. Frost couldn’t say he blamed her. He wouldn’t want to return to a charnel house either.
“You can stay here if you’d like,” he said, “for as long as you’d like.” For a moment he wondered if he was being too forward, before deciding that it didn’t matter. He didn’t mind having Caroline around, she had proven to be a good assistant. And he felt sorry for her too. Felt like he almost needed to be around to protect her from the monsters that made up the rest of her family.
“I…thank you Mr. Frost.” Caroline said, and for the first time since he’d seen her that morning, she smiled.
_______
Lou Davis had not slept a wink since the attempt on Wyatt Outlaw’s life. Instead he had sat in his bedroom, curtains drawn, the air practically rippling with heat, waiting to be arrested. They had tried to kill an officer of the law and failed. In all of the stories he read, in all of the tales he’d been told, that always ended badly for the perpetrators.
He hadn’t even wanted to do it. And wouldn’t have but for the firm hand of John Fowler on his shoulder. He hadn’t said a word to Lou that entire evening, just kept a grip on his future son in law, silently reminding him of what he had to do if he wanted to be part of the family.
Lou had hung in the back of the crowd of white hooded night riders, letting anonymity sweep him away. He had seen Outlaw hoisted in the air, heard the savage cheers of glee as the nigger kicked and struggled against his own death.
Then one of the men holding the rope had been spun to the side and everything erupted into chaos. A shot! Someone had fired upon them! From where? Lou had been looking the wrong way, he couldn’t tell. Someone had knocked him into the dust in a panicked attempt to escape. Someone else had fired a shot into the air, maybe as an attempt to calm the riders down and finish the job. But whatever the intent it only succeeded in stirring up further chaos. They had run. Lou had crawled to where the wounded rider had fallen.
He could still feel the sensation of sickly dread that he had felt when he had heard the profanities issuing from under the mask and realized that the wounded man was his own future father in law. Harmon Schultz and him had dragged Fowler to the door of his house and run. The white hood and robe, spattered with crimson where Fowler had bled on him, were still crumpled against the wall of the closet where he’d thrown them.
He didn’t think he ever wanted to put them on again. No…not if that was what night riding was. Just death and terror and blood and murder. He had been trying to convince himself ever since then that he hadn’t seen a pair of cheering riders holding Outlaw’s kid, forcing the little nigger to watch his father’s death.
The whole thing seemed like a nightmare already, just various shades of oil paint slowly melting together in the heat of some terrible flameless furnace. He hadn’t seen Outlaw’s kid in the crowd…he hadn’t heard the constable crying out for his son…
No. Lou covered his face with his hands, sick with guilt and regret and terror and a deep realization that he had gotten himself involved in something too terrible to escape.
Then his door opened and Lou shot to his feet, hand groping for the pistol at his side before he realized that the figure in the doorway was Lily. She had a little trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth and her eyes were alight with a feral terror that made Lou’s skin crawl.
“We need to go,” she hissed, “come on.” Lou took an unsteady step forward, blinking owlishly in the light that poured from the doorway. Lily had lit the lamp in the hallway.
“What?” He asked. It was the most comprehensive thing he could force from his lips. Lily scowled fiercely and grabbed his wrist, sharp fingernails sinking into his flesh. She no longer looked even remotely playful, just murderous and frightened in equal measures. Lou was reminded of the time he had cornered a possum between the wood stack and the side of his house as a child. The animal hadn’t even bothered playing dead, had just hissed and shrieked and bared its sharp little teeth at him, berserk with terror, willing to do anything to survive.
“Jacob Frost is a nigger lover,” she hissed, digging her nails in deeper, “and he just took my father. We need to go.” Lou winced as a little trickle of blood started to collect in the hollow of his wrist.
“Go where?” He asked, baffled. Was Lily talking about running away?
“We need to do what we should have done earlier.” Lou went with her, legs stiff and jerky after hours of inactivity. God help him, he went with her.
_______
It had been at least two hours since he’d left the cabin behind. At least. Paisley had thrown his watch and all of his other valuables into the woods, along with those of the sinners that had been granted such grand redemption in their deaths. He had been careful to keep things consistent. Night riders had come from the woods and taken him and his men hostage. They had brought them to a cabin and killed their horses, then killed Josiah and Curtis…leaving him. That was what had happened. He had played dead. He had survived through luck and the grace of God. And now he was going to use that miracle to protect his people.
And there was nothing that Wyatt Outlaw could do to stop that.
He was walking through the woods, within earshot of the road, ducking down whenever he heard a horse or wagon go by. This was part of his story. He had feared running into whites on his way home and so had crept through the woods. All the way back to Company Shops.
By the time he made it the sun was directly overhead and Paisley found himself lying on the edge of a clover field, thinking of what to do next. There were workers in the field, Negroes thank God, and he could even recognize some of them from church.
Should he rise from the weeds at the edge of the field and cry out to them? Should he stagger along the main road some distance away, like a weary refugee from some Biblical conflict? He bowed his head into the dirt and asked God for an answer. And it came to him.
“Thank you Lord.” He whispered into the sweet smelling earth and rose from the weeds, spreading his arms in relieved joy.
“Thank God!” He cried, voice fraught with a lifetime of terror and stress, “thank God, I am saved.” He sank to his knees as the farmers ran to him, shock coloring their faces as they saw the dried blood caking his clothes and the scratches and bruises on his face.
“Reverend!” One of them cried out in real anguish, “what happened to you?” Paisley tried hard not to smile at the success of his story. God was truly good.
“We were riding…” He began, and God saw to it from there.
Great update Love that we're seeing the Santo Domigo expedition winding up and the events in the South winding down (up?) as that story line continues!
Sincerely looking forward to more!
Love that we're seeing the Santo Domigo expedition winding up and the events in the South winding down (up?) as that story line continues!Sincerely looking forward to more!
