Inside she found a square thing wrapped in light muslin like a shroud, like something from the afterworld. She was afraid to touch it until she reminded herself she didn’t believe in the things that made her afraid. Then she unwrapped it in her lap.
It was a framed picture, a tintype. Mariah could remember when it was made. They had all been much younger. Carrie had not yet experienced the death of a child, for there they were in the photograph, the littlest cradled in Carrie’s arms and wiggling so much that she became a foggy blur, as if the camera had predicted the child’s death soon to come. The whole McGavock family stood on the walkway between the cedars that led to the front of the house and up upon the portico. There were John and Carrie in the middle and the children gathered around. Off to the right side, at a noticeable distance from the family, Mariah stood stone-faced in her best house uniform, and for some reason, she held an empty silver tray before her.
And off to the left, as if he had just materialized out of the fog at the edge of the photograph, a creature soon to return to the trees, stood little Theopolis. He was seven, maybe. He held a hayfork in his left hand, tines standing far above his head. The tintype made his eyes sharp and dark. His hand on the hayfork stayed steady, but his mouth had moved, and now it was just a smudge. She saw his strong nose, his puffed chest, and allowed herself to cry.
She lay down on the bed and held the photo and cried for a few minutes. Perhaps she drifted off. When she looked down again at the photograph, she laughed. Here she was crying over a picture of the McGavocks. A tintype of the McGavocks had been placed in a leather-padded box and wrapped in muslin as if it were a gift fit for the Christ child himself. And here they were, mother and son, the Reddick Negroes, standing on either side of that family bearing the tools of their work and staring dutifully into the camera, only little Theopolis couldn’t keep from running his mouth into a blur. This was the most precious and ridiculous gift, and she loved it.
Chapter 41
Letter
August 8, 1867
Thanks for sindin yer addres. Glad yer bak. Meet me undr the Harpeth brige by 12 st. I bring the papirs and we will see how we can get him.
GT
Chapter 42
Dixon
August 9–10, 1867
The last of the late summer sun, defiant and fire orange, quietly blued behind the distant mountains of Pulaski, Tennessee, a small Methodist town some sixty miles from Franklin. It was suppertime. Way down on Cleveland Street, a mud wagon slowed to a stop across the way from the old post office, and Elijah Dixon, the only passenger, stepped gingerly down onto dirt and pebbles. Dixon walked south to meet a Confederate veteran named John Lester. Lester was a cousin of James Mayberry; their mothers were sisters.
Dixon hadn’t planned on coming until the next day, until the Army was safely out of Franklin; but word came down that the unit was heading out early, would be gone by early afternoon. Franklin was undefended.
Dixon couldn’t wait another minute. He’d stewed in his study, pipe lodged in his mouth, puffing tobacco smoke and running the tribunal through his mind. The illiterate letter threatening his family gave him pause, but Elijah Dixon was confident that he could resolve the situation favorably.
He set out. He wanted their nigger houses burned. He’d been embarrassed enough. And he could use the land.
The letter from John Lester, the one Dixon had received that morning, said he and his boys gathered in some veterans’ club close to the church. He said the building had no sign, but Dixon would know it by the white, chipping paint and the wooden stepladder out front. Dixon walked through the gray-blue of fallen dusk and well into night before he finally found the old church and, across the way, just as the letter said, a small house and a ladder, shrouded in blackness but for a small oil lamp lighting the porch steps.
The door opened as Dixon approached, and a young man stepped out onto the porch and lit a pipe. “You lost, sir?”
“Name’s Dixon. Came to see John Lester.”
The young man’s name was Calvin, and he blew smoke out the side of his mouth as he took a step down toward Dixon.
“John’s inside. You the man from Franklin he been talkin’ to?”
“That’s right.”
“You some kinda big shot he tells us.” Calvin stamped out his pipe, blew the excess out the side of his mouth, and gestured with his head for Dixon to follow him inside. The small house was mostly bare: just a few rooms, a small space with a coal oven, a wooden table, and a few chairs. In the main room, a few boys sat around playing cards, maybe nine or ten of them.
John Lester stood first when Dixon entered the room. He was a tall, thin man—Dixon pegged him at six foot four—with a gaunt face covered in a dark brown goatee.
“Mr. Dixon,” he said in a gentle southern drawl. “See now, you weren’t s’posed to be here till mornin’.”
“Well I’m here now. Decided to head out early. We got business can’t wait till morning.”
“Understood.”
One of the veterans stood and offered his seat to Dixon, who nodded and sat, waving off a pint of beer.
“You walked in just as we were finishing a hand of rummy. We can deal you in next hand if you want.”
“All due respect, Mr. Lester, I’d prefer you put the cards away so we can talk. My patience isn’t what it used to be.”
John Lester stared steadily, calmly at Dixon from across the table, threw his cards down, face up. “Okay then. From what I understand, you got some renegade nigger that needs killing, that right?”
“The way I feel right now, that whole goddamn town needs to be burned to the ground.”
“Why you come to us? I’m curious.”
“Most of my boys are dead. Gone. Not sure which, and it doesn’t matter. I think they were all murdered.”
“What happened?”
“Don’t exactly know,” Dixon said.
“You wrote us that it’s just one nigger. It’s just the one, right?”
“He’s the worst. Mean fucking nigger.”
“What he do?”
What did any of them do? Dixon thought. They were parasites, beasts. “You boys have been making a lot of noise these last couple months around here,” he said, not answering the question.
“Somethin’ happenin’ in this country,” Lester said. “You know that feelin’ I’m talkin’ ’bout, Mr. Dixon? When you walk outside and you feel like the country you knew, the one your daddy raised you in, the one your granddaddy died for, it ain’t quite the same. It don’t feel like it belong to us anymore.”
“Yes, I know the feeling.”
“We ain’t ghosts, Mr. Dixon. We just want our country back. Since the war we seein’ these uppity niggers walkin’ ’round thinkin’ they can just take what we and our kin worked our whole lives for.”
“Uppity niggers. That’s right. That’s exactly it.”
“But what you got against this one nigger? What so special ’bout him you can’t do this yourself?”
“I think he killed your cousin, for one thing. I told you that. He’s a mean son of a bitch. Good with a rifle and quiet as a snake.”
Lester took this news with remarkable calm, and Dixon wondered whether the man had any feelings for his cousin one way or the other.
“What make you think he killed James?”
“Can’t find him anywhere. He just plumb disappeared. And a bunch of others I was working with. All vanished. Body of one of ’em turned up a couple weeks back, all shot to hell. And that nigger I’m talking about, he’s good—really good—with a gun. Couldn’t be coincidence.”
“Lots of folk are good with guns.”
“Yeah, but all my men have disappeared. Most folks don’t have the skill for that. Or the patience. This one does.”
“You think this one nigger killed all of them? How many we talking about?”
“Not sure how many he killed. Maybe five. Haven’t heard from a couple of them, but that don’t mean he got them
. Maybe they took off.”
“Hellfire.”
“Time to teach this boy a lesson,” Dixon said. “Frankly, you ought to want him dead worse than I do.”
“Funny thing about my cousin James. I wasn’t all that close with him, if I’m bein’ honest. I always found him a bit queer, you ask me. But you tell me some nigger blew a hole in the back of his head, and I guess I figure my Aunt Jo deserve some restitution. That’s why I invited you down. I could tell by the way you answered my letter. You sounded like a man I’d wanna know.”
“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get this done.”
“How do you find this special nigger?”
“He live in a part of town they call Blood Bucket. You can start there. It won’t take long to find him.”
Lester nodded.
“But I don’t want you to just stop with this one nigger. I want all those niggers to learn a lesson. Torch the fucking cesspool where they live. The Bucket, it’s called. The Blood Bucket. What kind of name is that?” Dixon didn’t expect an answer. “And Mr. Lester? I’ll pay you well for this.”
“Well then, that sounds like some good fun.”
* * *
The Bucket, well past midnight, sweltered in August heat.
Hooper, slumbering beneath his cart down off Indigo Street, woke to the smell of smoke, the distant sound of galloping horses.
Six blocks east, behind the Thirsty Bird Saloon, April and May, closing down for the night, walked outside and saw the eerie glow of fire. Smoke billowed into the sky.
Fire.
Hooper slid from beneath the cart, grabbed his pistol, and listened. He saw the same orange glow. He ran barefoot down the dirt road, glass and pebbles digging into the soles of his feet, leaving a trail of blood as he raced toward the light. He turned the corner to see a small wooden church awash in bright fire. The flames’ reflection bounced off his skin, which was shining with sweat. He turned to look behind him. In the distance, the same glow. A house on fire, and the hard gallop of horses getting closer.
“Get out! Run!”
Several houses—shacks, most of them—were aflame. The houses emptied ten at a time, two and three families tumbling onto the streets, some barefoot, naked children in their arms, running, screaming.
Gunshots.
A few riders kicked open doors, dragged women into the streets. Hooper could hear them screaming and then silenced in a thunderous roar of a shotgun. Even a street away, Hooper could feel the gunshot blasts in his stomach.
Negroes swarmed for safety. They ran down the street carrying whatever they could—dishes, hoes, sabers, children.
The roof of the Thirsty Bird Saloon caved in, consumed by smoke and flame.
“No, no, no!” April yelped and ran for the saloon.
“April, no!” May ran after her, tried to stop her. “It’s too late! It’s too late!”
April threw herself to the ground and pounded her fists into the earth, face wet with tears and snot and spit. She screamed at the fire before her while May wrapped her arms tightly around her. “You can’t, baby! You can’t save it.”
* * *
The Bucket burned on. There were blocks of flames, and in the absence of any moonlight, its whiteness lit the sky like bright lightning. Hooper lay on his belly, mouth full of dirt, the burn of sweat and tears in his eyes. He counted the bullets in the chamber of his pistol. He only had six shots, and his hunting knife in his other hand. He knew he wasn’t much of a killer, but he wasn’t a coward either. He had principles. He crawled on his forearms and peeked around the edge of a house, a house that had not yet burned, a house in which he had discovered three children and their terrified mothers, doomed by the sound of those men approaching.
He saw the horses’ hooves, and black boots marching alongside them. He was alone, gripping his gun until the handle made a deep imprint in the palm of his hand. The boots were getting closer. Shadows flickered in their torchlight. Hooper blessed himself. He believed in God the way his mama taught him to, and said a quiet prayer before picking himself up to his knees, then to his feet, standing tall behind the corner of the house. He took a deep breath.
When he ran out from behind the house, everything slowed down, he noticed everything. He yelled and they yelled back. He fired his six shots at the men, and they fired back.
He heard the gunshots and saw the blasts from their shotguns, exploding like fireworks. He felt the shards of shot rip through his abdomen and through his leg, just above his knee. It don’t feel like nothing, he thought and nearly cheered. Another shot entered his chest, but he was moving so fast it caused him to fall forward, onto one of the blackbeards, who looked surprised when he felt Hooper’s knife slip between his ribs and into his heart. Hooper rolled over, heaving, choking on the blood that was rising into his lungs. Stay away from the house, stay away from the house, he prayed.
The gang surrounded him, hooked a rope around his neck, and attached the rope to the horse’s saddle. Blood poured from Hooper’s mouth, out of his ear. He choked, he tried to speak. He couldn’t form words.
And then one man hoisted himself onto the horse and yelled “Heeawwh!” and the horse surged forward, dragging Hooper for miles across town. The second-to-last conscious thought Hooper had was to thank God that they’d stayed away from that little house. The last one was that he had been right to hate that town.
He was still breathing when they cut him loose and left him at the edge of town to die.
Chapter 43
Tole
August 10, 1867
Tole heard them coming long before they arrived—the drum of horses’ hooves, men moving fast. It was almost second nature for him to be off his pallet, pistol in hand, crouched protectively behind the door, listening.
By the time the first of the men stepped into his yard, Tole was already out back, behind a tree with his rifle, a pistol, and one long Bowie knife.
Strapped across his back, a blue-and-red satchel—what had held all his worldly goods when he came from New York—now held all the documents and the box he’d stolen from Elijah Dixon’s office. He wouldn’t let that satchel leave his side.
He had two ways of retreat, one through the hedge into the neighbor’s yard and down the hill into the deepest Bucket, and the second a dark alley that served the blocks of the upper Bucket and led through the south end of town and down toward the Harpeth. Always have two options if it all goes bad. The first assassin quietly circled the house toward him. Tole faded into dark, hard up against the tree, not breathing, thinking for a moment to reach out and collar the man who shuffled by too loudly and held his rifle too low. He could smell the tang of old sweat. He let him pass. The man disappeared into the dark.
After a time he heard voices from around the front. Several, maybe six or seven men. Tole moved down the hedge, keeping the corner of the house between him and the clot of men who had gathered at the foot of his steps.
“Check it again.”
“Ain’t that big.”
“Check it again, just do it.”
“Oh, you the boss man now I suppose. Well goddamn it.”
At some distance from the others stood Dixon, and he had his hand on something. Or someone. Tole couldn’t see, but he recognized how Dixon always kept himself just out of the fray like a good boss man.
Footsteps into the house. Sound of tables crashing over, something metal rattling against stone. Maybe his pot in the hearth. More crashing and stomping. Tole saw the flash of torchlight through the little windows down the hallway from his main room. The door slammed open and then closed again.
“He ain’t here.”
“What else you find?”
“Nothing. The fire was going, though, and coffee on it. He was here just a second ago. Don’t see him now. He a strange one, got dolls and toys and all such nonsense all over.”
“How about the floor?”
“You want me to tear up the floor? He in the floor? Come on, what the hell are
we doing here?”
There was a pause. Tole heard the low sounds of men conferring quietly. Some more argument, and then nothing. He pushed through the hedge and into the yard of the little house next door. He still had a clear way down the alley toward the other end of town and the river, but he also had a better view of the front of his house. They had more torches. Five men stood on the ground, a sixth stood looking down from the porch. He couldn’t make out their faces, they all had their hats pulled down low and their coats buttoned tight. Beards on most of them.
“No need to tear up the floor. Just burn it.”
“The floor?” This was the man up on the porch. Tole could see him cocking his head.
“The whole goddamn thing. My God, man, get some sense. Burn it all and we don’t got to worry about where he hiding. Understand? Either he in there, or he’ll come back and we’ll get him then.”
“Should have done that from the start, if you want my opinion.”
“I don’t.”
The man on the porch went back into the house. Two other men climbed the steps carrying torches. They also disappeared into the house.
Tole knew there wasn’t any stopping it, though it made him nearly shout in frustration. Everything he had in the world would soon be gone. He kept his mouth shut, though. He knew how to keep his discipline. He moved quickly down the alley, away from the house, always keeping quiet and his eye on the front door. Finally he found cover behind a line of old grain barrels, and there he set up. By now he could hear the fire beginning inside the house. He knew all of that dry wood would catch fast. The town he’d spent hours crafting together, which he didn’t mind saying he’d made better than the real one, was just tinder and kindling, and would burn like dry leaves.