A north wind brought the first welcome breath of fall air, chilling the house and rattling the windows. The big day had arrived. The school would open.
Amelia and Mama Zoé stood on the edge of the clearing where the white, one-room schoolhouse rose in the center of the fire-scarred earth. Two women––balanced on sawhorses––polished the outside of the windows and two more backed out of the double front doors as they finished oiling the floor.
“Hébert designed a fine building,” Amelia said.
“The older men built the big house. Hébert learned a lot working alongside them.” Mama Zoé’s eyes trailed her son carrying his drawings of both structures from the school over to the almost-completed teacherage.
“Al says Hébert should have ownership of this whole place.” Amelia immediately felt sorry for her outburst as she saw the pained expression on Mama Zoé’s face.
“Hébert’s my contented son. Unlike Anthony who is driven to reach as far as he can, Hébert finds satisfaction right here.” She raised her eyes. “Look, Mundy’s climbing into the little steeple. They’re hoisting the bell.”
Within minutes all work stopped, and the men gathered around the school. Hébert stepped in the front door and began tugging the bell pull. The copper peal chimed, sweet as a prayer. Children ran down the road from the big house laughing and jumping, followed by Regina crying with the abandon of a little girl. She stumbled up the steps toward Hébert’s out-stretched arm and accepted the bell pull that she continued to ring while the children lined up to take a turn.
By nightfall, desks faced the slate blackboard and shelves of books lined the walls of the building––fresh with the smell of linseed oil.
The new school opened the next morning and then closed again on November 7 for the building to serve as the precinct’s voting site for the presidential election. Word spread that Democrats all over the state intended to make sure that Samuel J. Tilden carried Texas. The local Republicans were also determined to elect Carl Schutze district attorney. Stephen Hackworth had brought Schutze to a campaign rally while the school was still under construction. The two men couldn’t have looked any different. Hackworth’s face was so tanned and dust-covered that he could have passed for a Negro instead of a prosperous white real estate man who headed the county Republicans and helped colored families get credit to buy land. Schutze, on the other hand, was a big square-jawed German with a pasty-white face. But, he took the time to find Amelia among the ladies serving refreshments.
“Guten abend, Frau Waters. I wanted you to have a copy of Deutsche Zeitung.” He bowed slightly as he pulled a copy of the newspaper from his bulky tweed jacket. “Here’s my welcome, die Zeitung to this new land.”
Amelia clutched the paper against her chest. “Vielen Dank.” She looked at Al. “Perhaps my husband will bring me a copy each week?”
Al grimaced. “I’ll remember from now on.”
When Schutze moved back into the crowd of well-wishers, Al cut his eyes toward Amelia. “That was a slick political move––be gracious to the ladies.”
“It was also very kind, Al Waters. At least he thought I might enjoy reading the news in my native language.”
Al reached for her hand. “I have no excuse, sweetheart. Truth is, I forget you speak German.”
Hébert had organized extra patrols for the day of the election to ensure against voter intimidation. Despite hearing of harassment in other areas, the election at the Waters precinct went off without a hitch. Republicans Rutherford B. Hayes and Carl Schutze carried the precinct. Schutze became the district attorney, but by the end of the week, results showed that Democrats swept most of the state. The presidential election wasn’t settled. The count in several Southern states remained up in the air.
In the midst of all the politicking, construction had continued, and Regina, Hébert, and Ezra moved into their new cottage. The entire community gave them a surprise housewarming; even Stephen Hackworth showed up with a rolling pin he said his wife had used until the day before she died. The neighbors had made rocking chairs, quilts and down pillows for both bedrooms, lace curtains for parlor windows, and a family-sized wood table for their big kitchen.
That night, Amelia and Al followed their established routine of laying out his clothes and sleeping with an ear tuned for the old clock to chime three-quarters past one. She watched him disappear into the darkness along the edge of the road as he walked toward his station at the school. He’d worn his heavy coat and a cap pulled over his ears because the wind had started picking up, blowing the last of the leaves off the cottonwoods. She always dressed as soon as he left and sat in her rocker beside the window watching the night slip past. She needed to be ready. The slightest movement among the trees wrung fresh fear from a dry place within her. The chilly nights brought out bucks proudly carrying racks to show their station as they roamed the woods. Her eyes strained to follow the graceful movement of a doe, her nose sniffing the air––a temporary queen enjoying her power.
A single shot ripped the silence, jolted Amelia and every living thing into frozen terror, then erupted in a wild scramble of animals thrashing through the woods. Shouts rang out, and the darkness opened with a wall of white coming toward the house and then passed on pounding hooves that thundered across the New Year’s Creek bridge.
Amelia raced along the road. Did she yell? Male voices bellowed out from somewhere. The road stretched on and on as she ran, and then she heard Al shout, “Stay back, Amelia.”
She whirled in the darkness, felt arms and rough sleeves gripping her. His breath came hard. “He’s all right, Miss Amelia. You need to stay back here.”
The air reeked of kerosene. Smoke cut off her breath, burning her nose, making her gasp. Men stomped the ground, trampled the last of flames that grasped at their feet like orange claws.
“You gotta calm down. Breathe easy. Don’t suck in that smoke and kerosene, Miss Amelia.” His voice stayed soft. “Now, now. Ever’ thing’s gonna to be all right.”
Then, Mama Zoé closed arms around her, speaking soothing words she couldn’t understand.
Lanterns began outlining the silhouetted figures. She could see Al bent over, lifting a white hood from a body sprawled beside a scorched torch. “Packerman.” The name uttered softly––an intonation––by each man circling the body.
Amelia saw the children and steadied herself. Ella buried her face in Mama Zoé’s breast, and Ezra stroked his sister’s tousled hair and blinked back tears.
Al laid the bloodied hood back over Jester Packerman’s face. “By the time we get him loaded in the wagon, it’ll be light enough for me to take him to the sheriff.” He looked across the space at Amelia and walked stiffly toward her, unable to hide his limp. “I killed him, precious. Hébert will go to town with me.”
“I want to go.”
“Please don’t.” Al pulled her to him. “I’ll probably be arrested. You don’t need to be part of it.” His arms suffocated her in the smell of gunpowder. “Hébert will get me a lawyer, get me out as soon as he can. I’m sorry to do this to you.” He dropped his arms and turned to stare at the dead man.
The rattle of the wagon announced its arrival. The men lifted the body in and then gathered partially burned torches wrapped in cloth-soaked kerosene and placed them beside Packerman. They arranged the torches around a can that had leaked kerosene into the dirt. “Hitch his horse to the back of the wagon. His family can claim it when they get his body.” Al turned back to Amelia and kissed her on the forehead.
The crowd watched in silence as the wagon moved off down the road.
“Shot the bastard right between his eyes. The others took off like scalded dogs. Didn’t slow down to see what happened to their buddy.” The words were mumbled among the men standing around the pool of blood soaking into the dirt.
“Come, drink coffee,” Mama Zoé said.
Al felt relieved when Hébert reached for the reins. He wanted to puke. He tried closing his eyes, but he kept seeing his clear shot of Packerman’s head as his torch caught fire. The Winchester trigger felt hard and smooth, and it pulled easy. The space between the two holes in his hood yawned open, and Packerman’s head arched back with the impact. All movement slowed down as he fell, still clutching the lit torch. His horse reared, bolted backward. The fuel can clattered loose from the saddle horn and crashed against the ground. The mare rose into a frenzy, her hooves stomping over Packerman’s body.
Horses reared and scrambled, torches fell onto the road creating footlights for white-robed figures thrashing to settle their mounts. Al heard the terrified shriek of animals pounding the ground and then thundering up the road past the big house and into the night.
The wagon rumbled into Brenham on the road edging Camptown. Hébert nodded or raised a callused hand in greeting to residents along the way. When people saw the body laid out in the white robe and bloody hood, a silent line of Negroes fell in behind them.
Wagons pulled over, let the procession pass. The sheriff stood on the porch; his arms folded watching Al climb from the wagon. “Klan?” He pulled the hood away from Packerman’s blood-smeared face, gazed at the dirt hoof marks still visible across the white robe. “Those the torches?”
“Some of them. I counted eight men.” Al spoke softly, aware that a crowd filled the street, listening––a bow strung tight––to every word.
“They burn down the schoolhouse and teacherage again?”
A murmur spread through the crowd. Two black deputies stepped off the porch and without a word slid the body from the blood-soaked wagon bed. They carried it into the sheriff’s office.
“No. We don’t intend to let them burn us out again.”
“Come inside. I’ll take your statement.” For such a small, wiry man, his boots clumped extra loud across the porch.
Al lowered himself on a straight chair with a sagging calf-skin seat, surprised at how weak he felt.
“I’d offer you some coffee, but it’s down to grounds.”
Al shook his head. “I need to get this business taken care of. Will the grand jury be meeting soon?”
“Not ’til March. You’re lucky Schutze is the new DA. And we got three Negroes serving. I don’t think you got any worry about an indictment.”
Al sucked in a deep breath. “Good. I wasn’t sure how it was stacked up now that we’ve got the literacy test.”
“Yep. There’s still a few of them can read enough to serve.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair, thumped his desk with his too-large boots and said, “Judge Kirk should be back tonight. From the looks of that crowd out there, I don’t think he’ll dare press for an indictment. Rile up that bunch, and he’ll have a riot for sure.” He rummaged in his shirt pocket and clamped a hand-rolled cigarette between razor-strop thin lips. He struck a match on his belt buckle and sucked the smoke deep. “Why don’t you spend the night at your store. Post bond in the morning and get along home.”
“Hébert’s gone to John McAdoo’s office. He’ll represent me.”
“Good Republican. May not sit so well with Kirk.”
Al sat perfectly still. He didn’t have the strength to argue politics.
The sheriff slammed his boots on the wood floor and stood, keys jangling loudly on his belt. “You’ll know tomorrow when to be back in town for the grand jury.”
The undertaker drove his wagon up the alley behind the sheriff’s office and loaded Packerman’s body into a pine coffin.
Al walked along the porches toward his store. He shook his head to a few shouted questions about how many in the Klan and how many of his men were waiting for them.
Most of the crowd––whites and Negroes––followed along in silence that made him think of the war and the soldiers marching toward a battle they expected to be hard fought.
Cora and Wally bumped into each other trying to embrace Al. He didn’t know why he wanted to shove them through the front door, but he gritted his teeth and accepted the comfort that he knew to be genuine.
“Will you get over to McIntyre’s and get a big lunch for Hébert? We left without breakfast this morning. I want him to get some food before he starts back home.”
“How about you? You need a plate, too.” Cora wrapped her soft, fleshy arm around his shoulder.
“I feel more like puking––”
“Understandable. Understandable,” Wally said. “I’ll get over there right now.” He waved at Cora, brushing her away.
“I’m going upstairs. Ask Hébert and John McAdoo to come up.” Al turned away not wanting to see the pained look in Cora’s face.
Despite being old, McAdoo walked with the erect shoulders-back assurance of a man who demanded respect. He sat quietly while Al and Hébert related all they could remember of the Klan attacks. He finally rose, pulling his long coat tight around himself. “I don’t see a thing for you to worry about. The grand jury is made up of some fair-minded folk. We’ll post bond in the morning, and you can get along home.”
Al and Hébert walked McAdoo to the store’s porch. A crowd––mostly Negroes––stood around the wagon like sentries.
“They tried to scrub out the blood. They’re waiting to follow me out of town.” Hébert’s voice sounded weak as they turned back into the store. “Packerman’s wife came in with two of their hired hands to pick up the body. All her sons have gone off to Brazil to run their new plantation. I felt sorry for the woman. She sat all hunched over on a straight chair in the back of the wagon next to Packerman’s casket. She rode out of town like she had bought a box of supplies. No sign of emotion.”
“Makes you wonder if he was as mean to her as he was to folks around the county.” Al held the front door open for Hébert.
“I’m feeling a whole lot better after talking to McAdoo.” Hébert raised his voice for the benefit of Cora and Wally who waited just inside the front door.
“You’ll feel better when you eat this steak from McIntyre’s.” Wally bellowed. “Al, I got a little something for you. Just in case you get a hunger.”
Al grinned, ashamed of his earlier annoyance. “You’re right. I feel an appetite coming on.”
Cora rushed behind the counter. “In all the excitement, I forgot this letter from Toby. It came right after you brought in the last of the cotton. And this one for Amelia. It’s been here a couple of weeks.”
“Toby...” Al reached for the letter, relief sending a wave of deep weariness through his body. He hadn’t heard from the boy since he wrote to him about the fires. And the letter for Amelia? Toby had always included both of them in his letters. He slipped Amelia’s into his pocket and tore open his envelope. How did a man tell his son that he’d killed someone? Even a lowlife like Packerman? Cora and Wally moved close enough to hear them breathing. Their nearness brought unexpected tears of comfort as he unfolded the letter.
Al laughed. “Toby lives in a different world. He asks if we read about Alexander Graham Bell talking on a telephone wire stretched two miles from his laboratory in Boston to his assistant in Cambridge. He and his friends think it’s the way we’ll communicate in the future.” Al looked at the faces staring back at him and shrugged. “It’s a long way from here to Boston.” He gazed at his son’s big looping scrawl and read silently over the part about Toby having dinner at the Reverend Perkins’ house. He did not mention the reverend’s pretty daughter. It felt newsy like the kind of letter Al had written home to conform to the rules of the Jesuits at Georgetown Prep School. Not a word about the fire.
Al folded the letter into his pocket. “He’s wanting details on the school construction, and he wants to know if Ella sold the dress she sewed.”
Cora cupped her hands over her cheeks. “I forgot. I have two dollars for Ella.” She hurried to the cash drawer. “One of those young girls who hasn’t learned to sew.” She waved the bills. “I never thought I’d see the day when a mother would let a daughter grow up without using a needle.”
Hébert pushed back his chair. “I better get along. Want to get home in time for my early night watch.”
Al handed him Ella’s money. “Tell her I’m mighty proud. When she sells a few more, she needs to raise her price to three dollars.”
“Mama says that machine’s been a blessing.” Hébert stuffed the bills in his pocket and stepped onto the porch. “I’ll fetch you tomorrow.” He looked out over the gathering of black faces. “Things are going to be all right.”
“Will you tell that to Amelia? She’ll be watching for you. And will you give her this letter from Toby?” Al stared at the envelope; a nagging concern took root.
Hébert slapped Al’s back and then stepped from the porch into the wagon. Several young men leaped into the bed. The others walked solemnly behind.
Al went back into the store that felt eerily quiet. “We’re not having much business,” he spoke to Wally bent over a crate unpacking a new shipment of denim overalls and flannel shirts.
“Stephen Hackworth stopped by. Said to tell you plenty of Germans are behind you. We’ve had more Negroes than usual. Only a few whites.” He wiped his moist face on his shirt sleeve. “I figure it’ll pick up soon as this blows over. Gives me and Cora time to get this latest order put up proper.”
“I’ll take the account books upstairs and get caught up.” Al stopped, looked down at his blood-stained work shirt and pants. “I need to clean up before tomorrow.”
“You’ve been in a stew. We knew you’d notice as soon as you got a hold on yourself.” Cora ran her hands over a stack of muslin shirts. “That blue Tricot all-wool suit and frock coat came in your last order.”
Al nodded, gathered up the clothing and climbed the stairs to the very cold apartment.
Al had started to McIntyre’s for breakfast when he felt the nudge to his shoulder. He turned into the slobbery mouth of Sunshine. Amelia, perched in the buggy, grinned at him. “What are you doing here?” He held fast to the mare’s bridle.
“I wouldn’t have missed it. My protector insisted on coming along.” She pointed over her shoulder at Hébert on horseback, dressed in his brown suit. “Are you all right?”
“I’m perfect, now.” At that moment he wanted to crush her in his arms. “Come to breakfast with me.” He motioned for Hébert to follow.
“You think I can get in?”
“Absolutely. You’re with me.” Al’s smile did not reveal the irony that haunted him. Neither of them would be welcome if his heritage proved to be what he expected.
When they left the restaurant, Al spotted John McAdoo waiting on the store’s front porch. He smiled thinly at Amelia and turned to Al. “Judge Lafayette Kirk and I stay at political cross-hairs. He would love to give one of my clients a little trouble. Let’s tread softly.”
Al squeezed Amelia’s shoulder. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
The judge’s office looked as austere as the withered man who sat behind the desk. His walnut-size eyes stared through thick wire-frame glasses. “I’ve read the accounts of you and your Negro man.”
Al held his tongue. Announcing that Hébert was his nephew would not settle anything and probably rile the old gentleman.
“I think posting bond until the grand jury meets in March will be in everyone’s best interest.” The judge’s eyes never blinked.
“Thank you, sir,” McAdoo responded before Al could speak.
“I understand you have property sizable enough to cover your bond, well beyond the minimum necessary for the homestead exemption. I’ll have my clerk draw up the papers. Give you a date.” He leaned forward, a man feeling his power. “I’m sure you’ll be available.”
Al stood to one side––the object of all the legal crap––while McAdoo assured the judge that his client would appear.
When Al and Amelia reached the edge of Brenham, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You shouldn’t have come, but I’m glad you did.”
“I could have come alone, but Hébert insisted on following me. He’s been on patrol for the last two nights.” She shuddered, pulled up her coat collar. “Do you think they’ll come back?” On the one hand, she felt horrified at how wicked men could be when they hid behind masks, but so long as Al kept up the middle-of-the-night patrols, he did not have time to drag out those ledgers and search his past.
“Did you get Toby’s letter?” The question had nagged at Al.
She said, “I brought it for you to read.” Al stared at the single page. Toby had called her ‘dearest.’ Said hearing of the fire had made him physically ill. He had needed her words of comfort.
Al read the sentences again. “My tirade is what made him sick, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She ran her hand along his coat sleeve and leaned against him.
“The letter he wrote me was so impersonal. I’m going to lose him over this, aren’t I?”
“If you keep interfering.”
“Dammit, Amelia. I need you to understand––”
“You are the one who doesn’t understand, Al Waters. He’s committed. Asking him to change his mind is an insult.”
Al stared at her. Then his head jerked up, “Look! Hébert’s falling off his horse.” Al snapped the reins and Sunshine picked up her pace. Hébert’s mare had slowed as the big man sagged forward over the pommel. Al scrambled from the wagon and grabbed the bridle.
Hébert roused enough to stumble back to the carriage and climb in.
Her body froze when Al reached into Hébert’s coat and pulled out a foot-long revolver. Without looking at her, he slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.