Al and Hébert rode toward Brenham without talking. No reason to jaw about what they already knew––this election would either pave the way forward or add another barrier for the Negroes in the county. When they reached Camptown, lamps burned in all the windows, neighbors milled in yards, hung over fences with voices kept low in the dark, waiting for the votes that spelled how morning would look.
Ella’s and Toby’s house sat dark, the storm-damaged scaffolding for the new office a ghostlike appendage only partially complete. Had they put Albert to bed, or were they still working?
When the wagon turned the corner onto Ant Street, Al was struck by the sight of lamps burning in Toby’s office and the apartment. He was working at this late hour to make a living. Did he have a patient? Was he still cleaning the place? Al had seen very little of him––the storm and then the arrival of Amelia’s family––had offered a curtain of pretense to hide the tension.
“That thing’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Hébert lifted his arm toward the lights burning in every window of the three-story brick courthouse that wore a bell tower and cupola like a gentleman’s top hat. “I figure with the county paying sixty-five thousand for that fancy building, they’re aiming for success. We’ll see after tonight if they plan to include all of us.”
Al looked away. He couldn’t say aloud what he feared the night would bring.
The double doors stood open allowing the chilly November air to circulate through the haze of cigar smoke and the smell of sweat and soured drawers. Hébert handed the boxes and tally sheets to the county clerk.
Officials updated the count on the chalkboard as the ballots came in. It looked almost split. “When the German and Black Belt votes get here, we’ll see some changes.” The clerk’s voice rose above the noise.
They were milling around, waiting for more ballot boxes when Eagle stepped in the front door with a terrified-looking colored man. Their presence hushed the room and all eyes turned to look at the pair––a quivering Negro supported by a fierce-eyed, faded redhead. His freckles were so thick that his face resembled rusted tin. When he looked down at the man beside him, his expression softened. “Tell them what happened.”
The colored man held his hat crushed tight against his chest like a shield. After he described the killing, he added that when he left, Dewees Bolton’s body lay in the middle of the floor. “I ain’t got no idea what happened to them ballot boxes.”
He barely finished speaking before a clutch of men headed for the door. “Somebody’s got to see to that Bolton boy.”
“Here comes the Graball vote.” A man, his head held high, stepped into the courthouse. “I’m reporting with only one tally sheet.” He waved it over his head. “Negroes outnumber whites five to one in our precinct. The Republican vote was a hundred ahead when three whites––masked and armed––came in and destroyed the ballots. This here’s all I got to show.”
“Shit,” Al whispered. “We can’t lose any more votes.” He glanced at Hébert who stared straight ahead driving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. How the hell does he stay so calm. I’d like to kill someone. “I’m going outside to breathe something besides the stench in here.”
He noticed a wagon standing in the shadows next to Toby’s office stairs. As he crossed the street, he became sure it belonged to Nehemiah Waters. A man came out the door and started down the stairs. Al could make out a small child in his arms.
“That you, Waters?”
“It’s me, Nehemiah. You have some trouble?” Al stared at the little girl, her face pressed against her father’s chest.
“It’s our baby girl. Fell outta one of them big pecans. Had a bone stuck plumb outta her arm. Your boy fixed her up.”
Al saw Toby following Miss Bessie and some of the other kids down the stairs, and he thought for a minute he might cry. “He’s a mighty fine doctor, isn’t he?”
“You betcha. We’re awful grateful. Been here since early morning. He let this baby rest all day on his bed.” He handed the child up to her mother who had climbed onto the wagon seat. Each family member mumbled thanks and piled into the wagon.
“Is that you, Pop?” Toby stood at the bottom of the stairs. He looked thin. His coat caved in at his chest.
Al reached for the stooped shoulders. “You’ve performed a miracle. Nehemiah and his bunch have hated us forever.” He looked into his son’s face. “I’m asking forgiveness.” His throat closed, shutting off the words. He felt the pressure of the embrace, the tightness that he’d missed.
Toby motioned for Al to sit on the steps beside him as they watched three men alight from a wagon in front of the courthouse. “Have they taken back the county?”
One of the men shouted. “We’re Chappell Hill. “Ain’t got a single ballot.”
Al laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’ve lost it.”
“Yep. Hard times are coming.” Toby stood. “I need to see about Ella. When she wakes, and I haven’t come in, she gets frantic. Always imagining somebody’s cornered me in an alley.”
He watched Toby walk off into the darkness, and he understood why Ella would worry.
The sun had painted an orange glow on the buildings around the square when the precinct chair from Independence arrived. “Judge Kirk threw out the diamond-shaped tickets.”
“He can’t do that.” A burly German with a thick accent and wild white eyebrows that worked up and down, shoved forward. “The Supreme Court ruled diamond-shaped ballots are legal. They keep Republicans like me who can’t read your damned English from being tricked. We know we’re voting Republican if the ticket is diamond-shaped.”
“May be, but Independence don’t have no Republican votes.”
Al leaned against a post on the courthouse steps and watched Toby’s carriage pull up to the foot of the stairs. It had not been more than two hours, and he was back at it again. Albert scrambled from his father’s arms and began climbing the stairs. Toby touched Ella’s cheek and then climbed back in the buggy to make his rounds.
By mid-morning, the group that had gone to Flewellen’ returned in a fury. “The damn niggers ran off. Left that poor Bolton boy’s body. He only meant to see how his papa did in the race.”
A heavily accented German voice shouted from the back of the room. “Then why did he wear a mask and carry a gun?”
As though it were a joke, the crowd burst into laughter.
By noon the official count gave the only Republican win to the county assessor.
Al and Hébert found Eagle––his hat pulled over his eyes––leaning against the double columns anchoring the front steps of the courthouse.
“You ready to go home for some real sleep?” Al decided that he needed to tell Eagle that he was proud to have him as a neighbor and working partner in the co-op. And he was going home to tell Amelia that he loved her for being the mother Toby never had.
After Thanksgiving, Amelia and Al went into town to help get the store ready for Christmas. Ester and Albert showed off the cedar tree draped in glossy paper chains and colored balls.
“Ester held me up to put the star on top.” Albert sounded like his father, both hands on his hips, feet spread––a man in charge. “You want to hear me count? Saint Nick’s coming with a pony if I can count to one hundred.”
“We count everything around here.” Ester had become one of Albert’s new cohorts.
Amelia’s chest filled with pleasure watching Ester anoint the top of the child’s head with her big square hand. She had found her place, and Albert received the blessing.
That night, they’d barely settled in bed when an uproar started in the street. Gunfire echoed off the buildings and shouting followed. Al dressed quickly. He grabbed his coat where the gun had found a permanent home and went down the inside stairs into the darkened store. Amelia followed, holding his arm, fearful he’d burst out the door into flying bullets. They reached the front in time to see a group of horseback riders thunder past.
People erupted into the street. The jailer, who looked like he’d just roused from a deep sleep, stood on the porch and shouted to the crowd. “They overpowered me. Took three of the prisoners who killed that Bolton boy. They only took three. I don’t know why they left the other five.”
Al guided Amelia back into the store. “Go upstairs and wait for me. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
She gripped his sleeve. “I’m asking you not to go––”
“Don’t hound me about this.” He pulled away. “We’ve got to stop this criminal element.”
The door slammed shut behind him sending a gust of cold air that made her shudder. She paced the apartment floor, kept the lamp off so she could watch the street. Finally, she heard Toby come up the outside stairs, and she wanted to cry with relief.
He burst in the door carrying a lantern, his hands covered in blood. “The bastards’ horses trampled a little colored girl. Her mama was cleaning the sheriff’s office.” He pushed past Amelia, went to the sink, and pumped water over his hands, rubbed his face. Then he dropped his head in his arms and leaned over the sink, his shoulders heaving.
She leaned her head against his back and held him until he raised up and wrapped her in his arms. “I couldn’t do a thing. She was crushed.”
Amelia made coffee and set it before him.
“Everybody in Camptown woke up to all the commotion and gunfire. Thank God, I left Ella and Albert at home. I figured I might need to do some patching up.”
Amelia touched Toby’s arm. “Al joined the chase.”
“Yeah, I heard. It feels like the whole place is blowing up. Ella’s bowing down to her damned white customers.” His jaw clenched. “She offers to let Karina measure them.”
A flash of fury made Amelia’s face burn. “They don’t want Ella’s hands touching them?”
Toby looked near tears. “Yep. It’s insulting. She claims she can put up with the insults by raising her price. Honestly, there’re only a few women who prefer Karina.” His fist hit the table. “What’s so maddening is that they still ask Ella about the design and even the choice of fabric. But, they want white hands touching them.”
“Are you afraid?”
“We’ve stayed out of the political battles.” Toby raked his fingers through his hair, let his shoulders slump. “Truth is, I’m scared for the future. We’re losing all the gains we made during Reconstruction.”
“What do you think the whites will do?” Amelia looked at the man she loved so dearly.
“I don’t expect we’ll go back to slavery––nothing like that. We’ll be second class. It feels like the planters are furious at how fast we started voting, how demanding we’ve been.”
They both turned at the sound of Al clumping up the outside stairs. His hair stood up in wet curls, his face red from the cold, and he trembled in fury. “They lynched all three of them. Not a mile out of town. Hanged them from a tree beside Sandy Creek.”
“Why only three? Why didn’t they take them all?” Toby raked his hand through his hair in the same restless manner as Al.
“They claim those three could testify to Bolton’s true intentions at the polling place that night.”
The next day, Toby looked like a man who had slept in his clothes when he came to the apartment carrying the Banner. “I needed to show this to you. There’s not a word about that little girl being trampled. Like it never happened. There’s plenty about the hanging.” He tossed the paper to Al.
“It says the hanging was an occurrence to be regretted.” Al stood, paced as he read. “They don’t call it a lynching. They call it an event brought on by the men who professed to have the greatest friendship for the Negro.”
Al rubbed the back of his neck. “It says they hung the Negroes scientifically with new grass ropes. Scientifically, what the hell is that? They purchased new drawers, undershirts, nice shrouds, and good coffins. They turned the bodies over to friends and relatives who took them home to be buried.” Al stared at his son, kept shaking his head.
Toby moved behind Al, massaged his shoulders in a gesture so warm that Amelia had to look away. “We grabbed the vote like drowning men holding on to the only thing that might keep our heads above water. We’re going to have to prove ourselves each day to get back to dry land.”
Al turned, threw his arms around his son. “Well, you don’t have to prove yourself to me. You’re a fine man.”
“Hi, Grandma. Have you come to help me in the store?” Albert stood at the door holding Ella’s hand.
“Oh, yes,” Amelia’s voice shook. She scooped the little boy into her arms and hurried downstairs with him.
In mid-morning, John McAdoo, walking faster than she could remember, stepped in the door and motioned to Amelia. “Is Al here?”
“Upstairs. Working on the books.” She led him to the apartment.
“Stephen Hackworth received an ultimatum from the Democratic executive committee. If he sells his property and leaves the county by December sixth, his life will be spared.”
“That’s the day after tomorrow.” Al felt paralyzed. Every move took great effort.
McAdoo drew himself up, and his nostrils flared. “That’s not all. Carl Schutze, who by any honest measure should be our judge, received the same deadline. Told to walk away from his paper. James L. Moore has until December twelfth to sell his property and get out.”
“They’re powerful Republicans. Hackworth owns a lot of property. He’s been a force for getting out the vote. Schutze’s paper is read by every German for miles around. And Moore’s been district clerk and sheriff.”
“They’ll never get more than half the value of their property,” McAdoo said.
“We’ve got to do something,” Al said.
“Not without the law’s help. We lost that at the election.”
Word spread like an infection. Armed men roamed the streets, filled the saloons and waited for the railroad to remove Stephen Hackworth and Carl Schutze. Al’s spirits lifted when a surge of supporters, including Toby, appeared like a silent militia escorting both men to the train.
Toby and Al anchored Hackworth and Schutze between them as they marched slowly past the shouts. “I’m heading to Washington, D.C.,” Hackworth spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got some connections up there. We can’t get our governor to pay attention, but we’re going to get some national notice.”
On a weekend in early February when an unusual snow blanketed the entire region, Toby and Ella drove to the farm to celebrate Albert’s and Samuel’s fourth birthdays. When their carriage arrived, Albert sat between his parents holding the reins––his back poker-straight and his face as serious as a judge. As soon as the mare stopped in front of the house, he was transformed into a glee-filled little boy. He tossed the lines to his father, scrambled down from the buggy, and raced to join all the children who were enjoying the feel of snow tickling their outstretched tongues.
“I made a lot of snowmen when I lived in Boston,” Toby called. He waded into the jumble of kids and scooped up a mound to show them how to roll it into a ball. While they giggled and struggled with the new task, Toby walked back to the adults and pulled a copy of the Banner from his coat pocket. “Looks like Hackworth made good on his threat.” He unfolded the paper to display the headline. “He’s convinced the U.S. Senate Committee on Privileges and Elections to inquire into our voting.”
Hébert bent to stare at the words. “If that’s not the beatingest thing. I never dreamed he’d get an ounce of attention.”
“It says about fifty witnesses from here are on their way to testify.” Toby turned the paper for Al and Eagle to see the print.
“I’d like to believe something will be done.” Hébert tossed the remark over his shoulder as he went to the children clamoring for help forming their snowballs into a man.
Eagle headed to the barn to saddle the ponies for the promised rides.
Al looked at his son. “When you arrived today, Albert reminded me of you at that age. Remember how you loved to drive our buggy?”
“I do remember that and lots of other things. You showed me how to be a father. I want to take Albert swimming and fishing. I want to take him on the train. I want to teach him how to be a man.” As he spoke, Toby’s eyes followed his son. Then he looked at Al. “You also taught me to be honest. I hope to show that to my son.”
Al nodded and leaned heavily into Toby’s embrace.
Then his son moved away through the thick curtain of snowflakes toward the children who were laughing with abandon as they dressed their snowman in an old felt hat. The scene reminded him of an artist’s painting promising a glorious dawn for all the tomorrows. He stepped on the porch, slipped his fingers along Amelia’s cheek, pink from the cold, and he whispered, “Today, life is good.”