Note: A lot of Americans aren't aware that, like the North, some Southern States also recruited Negro soldiers. Some were freemen at the start and enlisted on their own for the pay, others sent by patriotic owners. Unlike the Union, the Southern Negroes of the Georgia Militia didn't fight but were mostly used for promotional purposes to help finance the war. Not being fully trusted, they worked under white officers and NCOs and were rarely or never issued ammunition. This story is based on one of those units near and after the end of the American Civil War....
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"When you gonna have it finished, Al?" Ollie Johnson asked, watching Alfred Evers work at pouring molten iron into a mold. The blacksmith and metal fabricator was working on a special project for Major Tripper, their commander.
"Whenever I get it finished, Ollie. The major's stuff comes first. Then the company commander has work for me. After that, I got horseshoes to make. Then, I might be able to work on your gun sight, if nothing else comes up before then."
"Damn, n****r. They sure keeps you busy, but I need it bad."
"Tough, Ollie. I'll do the best I can. That's all I can do."
"We're expecting them damned Yankees to attack in a couple days, you hear anything?"
"Same thing. Don't nobody know when or just where though."
"Wanna go to the House tonight, Al? Jimbo stole three hams last night. That'll get us some girls."
"Just our luck to have the Yankees catch us there, with our pants down," Al joked. "Proly'. Might be our last chance for awhile."
The two were part of a battalion of Negro soldiers fighting for the South in the War. Some were volunteers already free, and some sent by their white masters to help out. Despite a bit of military training and drilling, they were mostly used for menial labor and parades. They had been issued muskets, some even able to fire, but never any ammunition ... yet.
Alfred, or Al, was a sergeant -- Ollie and Jimbo privates. The three hung out together, along with another, Samson Travers, a corporal and the largest and most educated of the group.
It was then the sixth of April of 1865, and they were the only Negro unit left in Georgia. So far, they hadn't been battle tested. Rumors were the slaves among them would be granted freedom after the war and the free Negroes would be handsomely compensated.
***
Alfred Evers, a dark-skinned man, had been born free. As a child, he'd been apprenticed to a metal-working shop outside Atlanta. Besides the white owner, his two boys, and Alfred, the shop also employed six slaves -- three of them owned by Mr. Bates, the shop owner. The other three were under contract from their masters.
Alfred had been paid little but learned a lot, including how to read and write, illegal but skills needed for his work. He also learned blacksmithing, forging, molding, and metal fabrication. When the war broke out, Alfred volunteered for the army -- only to find they weren't taking Negroes at the time. However, the State Militia would take him on. He enlisted and soon made sergeant.
****
Oliver Johnson was born a slave. He was owned by a professional hunter in Florida. As a child, Ollie had taken care of his master's weapons as well as doing household chores. He also trapped animals such as muskrats for his master. Later, after a particularly good season, the hunter bought a slave girl to do the housework and warm his bed.
Although illegal at the time, he then taught Ollie his hunting skills, figuring the two slaves would replace and take care of him in his old age. The old man was very patriotic and volunteered the younger man's services to the militia. A contract was signed and witnessed that Ollie would return after the war, be freed, and stay with the old man for at least ten years as a freeman.
***
"You guys ready?" Al showed up at the company area to greet his three friends. They had started the festivities without him by opening a bottle of whiskey when he was late. He had stayed to work on Ollie's gun sight, wanting to get it out of the way. "Here you go Ollie. It was a b*****d to finish. Where did you get the idea for the damned thing? It'll look strange on a musket, and you probably won't hit s**t anyway."
"You think so?" Ollie reached over to pull a long rifle out of a pile of blankets. "This here's a real Kentucky rifle. Old and beat up, but I can repair it. The hell with that musket. If we ever get to fight the Lincolns I'm going into battle with style."
So far they had only trained in looking sharp, white officers using them for propaganda purposes. They seemed to go from one parade to another across the state, generating contributions for the war. Now that the Yankees were actually in Georgia, they hoped to finally get to fight.
"You better hide that damn thing before some thief sees it," Samson, a huge light-skinned man said, laughing and nudging the fourth soldier, a weaselly-looking little man in his forties. The last was Jimbo Jackson, their lazy and not so loyal companion. He was also the most accomplished thief in the militia. But he was their thief.
"What the hell you talking about, you big b*****d?" Jimbo asked, defensively. After all, he had furnished the whiskey, and also the hams they were going to use to pay for the girls. They should have more respect for him, he figured.
"I didn't mean you, good sir." Samson patted him on the shoulder with a huge paw. "Give Al a drink and lets go over an get laid."
***
Jimbo was also a slave. The only reason he had joined the militia was to avoid a death sentence. His master had caught him stealing one of the plantation horses. It was the third horse to be stolen and sold that month.
Instead of being whipped to death, Jimbo had only gotten twenty lashes and been sent to the militia. Luckily for him, the master was patriotic. Jimbo was also told to never return. If seen there again, the whipping would commence where it left off. No promise of freedom for him. Of course, with all the whip marks on his back Jimbo's resale value wasn't very great either.
****
All the others knew of Samson was that he was a freeman. What he didn't tell them was his family owned about sixty slaves. He had a vested interest in keeping slavery going. Not getting along with his father, Samson had joined the militia to rebel and to fight for the cause. He was the most intelligent and by far the best schooled of the group, as well as the strongest physically. However, with no leadership skills, Samson was lucky to make corporal.
***
The colored whorehouse stood proudly on a small island about 500 yards off the coast. There was a large rowboat provided by the "House" to ferry customers back and forth. Older retired black men, living on the island, took turns rowing or poling -- according to the tide -- visitors back and forth. In return, the House fed, housed them in small shacks, and furnished them with tobacco.
The island, not being considered of much value, also housed a small colony of free Negroes, the House being its chief means of income. Out of sight of the militia base, it was ignored by whites. Being so small and busy with the war, the State of Georgia didn't bother to give it services or collect any fees.
"Hand me that bottle, Jimbo. Don' hog it, we're almost there," Ollie implored his friend.
"You think we'll finally see action?" Samson asked Al, figuring since the blacksmith hobnobbed with white officers, he might have heard better rumors.
"Don't know. Maybe? But only if they get to here is all. The General don't want us to get our clothes tore up fighting. We got us too many parades to go to."
"I'm wishing that damn boat would hurry up and gets here." Ollie searched the horizon for the lantern carried at the bow of the rowboat. "We gotta hurry up and get back tonight. Specially if we get to fight them Yankees tomorrow."
"We ain't got no fighting tomorrow," Jimbo told him. "They ain't gonna let us loose with no guns and powder. Afraid we might shoot them up instead," he said, causing them all to laugh. "Here come that boat, guys."
Indeed, the lantern was in sight, bobbing in the moonlight and reflecting off water as the boat approached. They had to wait for a dozen soldiers to get off before getting on themselves and fighting over seats on the leeward side of the boat, there being two wooden platforms along its length. They knew the bench on the windward side might get them wet on the way across. As the boat filled, other soldiers crowded forward in line to ready for its next trip to the island.
***
"June. You get those clean towels to the rooms. We have one hell of a lot of boys coming over tonight. Those boys are anxious when they think they gotta fight," Marylou, the owner of the House ordered ten-year-old June, an orphan picked up off the streets in Atlanta. Nobody knew if she was a daughter of a freewoman or child of a slave, seeing as she never talked about it.
The youngster was a sort of maid, keeping fresh towels and sheets in the rooms, cleaning and ironing clothing, and other tasks. She liked working for the fat madam. It was better than the streets and June looked forward to the day she could start seeing boys alone like the rest.
Marylou prided herself on her morals and her business. No matter if it cut into the profits, the boys deserved a good time and clean sheets.
"And, Little Lady," which was her pet name for the kid, "you better go to the outhouse and get that lazy Girly back in here. She can smoke that weed after business hours."
Girly was the only name they knew her by. A young beautiful but violent street w***e, she moved in to take advantage of working in a house rather than on the street in Atlanta. She knew the 300 plus pound Marylou could handle any irate customers. Inside work was much simpler and more lucrative -- not to mention a great deal safer. The only problem was she couldn't make her own hours anymore. Addicted to hemp smoking, Girly took frequent breaks.
***
Violet Adams saw Samson, her favorite man, come in as she escorted another soldier up the stairwell. Damn, she thought. Another few minutes and it could have been him. No matter, she decided. He would wait for her to finish. He damned well better wait.
Talking together and laughing, the four soldiers crossed an entrance foyer to the main room, set up as a lounge with comfy stuffed chairs and couches in abundance. Lacy curtains, low coffee-tables, and a small bar at one end completed the illusion of a typical large living room.
The girls sat on stools at the bar and only approached when signaled by a man, either to sit with them, to bring drinks, or to go upstairs for privacy and more intimate intercourse.
Marylou believed in a homelike atmosphere. To that end, her girls were fully dressed in clothing that could be shucked off easily. The madam wanted to give the impression of a home away from home. It was a constant effort for her to keep some of them, such as the rough and blatant Girly, in line. Naturally there was no thievery allowed, anywhere on the island. One girl, now residing in the deep with a rock tied to a leg, had been caught stealing a gold piece off a customer.
***
Taking up the best part of a couch with his large legs spread, Samson suggested, "Lets start with a few beers? It's a long night and we done had enough whiskey for awhile." Not waiting, he motioned to one of the girls, holding up four fingers pointed at a keg. The House had its own simple code for drinks or sex.
June led Girly in from a kitchen door at the rear. The youngster headed to the pantry to get more towels while Girly looked around and, seeing the four, smiled and ambled over to say hello.
"Hey Jimbo, how they been hanging?" She grabbed his shoulders from behind and whispered in his ear. The small man was shy with women and almost turned white at her next suggestion, causing the others to howl in mirth. It also brought a frown from Marylou. She didn't like raucous behavior in her place.
"Noo -- Noo -- not right now, Miss Girly." He shook his head, reaching up to remove licking lips from an ear, almost too shy to touch her. "May -- Maybe later, okay?"
"Come on and sit down, honey," Samson invited her, knowing she would add to the entertainment. "He likes you, just a little skittish. Ain't you, Jimbo?" Nudging the man.
Soon a couple of the other girls joined them. The women drank water with a little whiskey and molasses mixed in to give it flavor and color. Occasionally they would get up to service a customer upstairs, returning to the group later.
Violet finished and came down to sit with Samson. He didn't particularly like it when she was upstairs with someone else, but that was just business. She was still his girl. The two moved to a corner chair, her sitting on his large lap.
"Whyn't you jus’ walk out'a there, honey?" she said. "War's nigh done with. Nobody gonna miss you."
"Na, woman," he replied, one large paw thrust through an armhole of her sleeveless blouse, idly flicking a hardened n****e, "I have my duty, to country and family. I know we're gonna lose, but can't tell Daddy I din't stay to the end."
"Just hide here on the island, that's all, till it's done. Those white officers don't give a f**k 'bout you. Won't even look."
He kissed her in reply. "Let's sashay up there an try'a start a family? Maybe a war tomorrow, but I'm gonna get a piece tonight."
Laughing, she took his suggestion, taking a callused hand in hers and leading him to the staircase.
Eventually they all took their turns, even Jimbo with Girly. Around midnight, the drunken comrades managed to stumble the half-mile back to base. Ollie checked to make certain his rifle was still hidden and they all slept a deep drunken slumber. All thoughts of battle the next day were forgotten.
***
The next morning brought only more drilling and shining of equipment. None of the white officers mentioned any fighting to come. Rumor was the Yankees were getting closer. The Negroes noticed the few white troops on the base seemed to be moving out on supply wagons ... toward the enemy. All the Negroes received was more guard duty to replace the white soldiers. It looked like they would miss out on the fighting again.
As it happened, none of them ever did get a chance to fight. A few days later, word came back that General Lee had surrendered and the war was almost over. Since Lee had been in charge of Confederate troops in Georgia, all hostilities ended there. By sundown, most of the officers had disappeared, apparently gone home. Many militia officers lived nearby.
The next day, the white soldiers were ordered to make their own way to Atlanta to be paid and then return home until notified of future duties, if any. State Militias weren’t Regular Army, only a reserve force that was called up for the war. Their part was now over.
Negro troops had the job of collecting the arms and equipment and storing it in the few sturdy buildings on post. To make certain they stayed to finish the job, their pay and benefits were being withheld until they were through and the post turned over to Northern forces.
Although they realized they were all officially free men at the time, being paid was a strong incentive to stay another week or so. Some simply shucked their uniforms and walked off. With no Southern Army in Georgia, AWOL wasn't seen as an issue.
***
"Let's do it. They'll never know the difference. Everyone wants to leave," Jimbo pleaded with the others. "All we have to do is move it to the island and store it there. Nobody'll miss it."
"I don't know, Jimbo. It just wouldn't be right to steal from our own side like that." Samson was unconvinced.
"It's not stealing. It don't belong to nobody right now. Some general or colonel is just gonna steal it for ‘theyselves. We got us just as much right as he does. Ain't no Confederacy here no more." A natural-born thief, he wanted them to steal muskets and other equipment from the post and hide it on the island. They could sell it later for much more than any lost army pay.
"Right now it don't make no difference if we gets paid or not. Money made in Georgia ain't no good no more anyway. This way we at least get something for our time," Jimbo argued. It made sense to all but Samson. His morals got in the way.
Finally, Samson was worn down and agreed to go along with the plan. They would stash some of the supplies they'd been inventorying, carrying it over to a lone tent at the ocean side of the camp. From there, it could be boated to the island.
Nobody questioned that they carried their burdens toward the ocean while most of the other troops carried theirs into a barracks building near the front gate. Since the end, with only one lieutenant around and two white sergeants in charge, even them disinterested, such details had become chaotic.
The white NCOs were in a hurry to finish and go home, themselves. They were satisfied to see those three men working hard under black Sergeant Evers and not loafing, no doubt figuring the four were working that hard under someone's orders. And, after all, there was a sergeant and a corporal with them. For a brief period, expensive equipment was carried in one door of the storage building by many, inventoried, and out another by only four men.
The conspirators would work most of the night, hauling their loot down to the beach and into waiting boats from the island. For a chance to share in any profit, people on the island agreed to hide it. The enterprise kept them busy for a full week. Four strong young men, working long days for a full week, can carry quite a bit of equipment away.
Finally, the job done, the Southern officer came back to inspect the work, then called the troops together.
"I want to thank you Nigras for your help here. Especially during the past weeks," he greeted the assembled troops. They were in civilian clothing, all the uniforms being stored away. After all, the uniforms were government property and the new Southern Command didn't want to see Negroes wandering around and getting into trouble while wearing uniforms.
"After this meeting, all you freemen will be paid your past wages, plus a good bonus," the colonel continued. "You who are still slaves will stay until your owners either come to pick you up or send word for your disposition. If you prefer to make your own way back home, you will get a pass to travel and a Letter of Credit for your master, issued as you leave. You can't use it, so make certain you give it to your master to cash.
"Keep in mind that our cause hasn't lost with General Lee's surrender, only the territory under his command. We encourage you to make for another Southern army where you can continue your fight."
"Sure, and in Confederation Dollars," Samson grumbled. "Can't buy s**t with it." He and Al were free to leave, the others were to wait. Ollie figured it would be quite a while, since his owner lived way back in the Florida swamps. Probably didn't even know the war was over yet, Ollie figured. As for Jimbo, he knew hell would freeze over before his owner wanted him back. Jimbo was in Limbo.
The four had agreed to meet back at the island in six months to dispose of the stolen goods. After being paid in the worthless currency, Samson and Al left for home.
A few days later, Ollie and Jimbo had to help load a long train of civilian wagons with the goods from the camp before closing it permanently.
Jimbo had been wrong, the vehicles belonged to only a former major and colonel, not the general. One of the drivers told them the wagons were headed for a civilian business owned by the major. He and the colonel would share in the profits.
At that point, the post was nothing but an empty field dotted with equally empty buildings. There was one lieutenant and a white sergeant left to keep track of the remaining slaves. Apparently the disbanded Southern forces did still consider them slaves. An army raised for a popular cause dies hard and slow. The entire State was being gradually overrun with Yankees, such small isolated camps only waiting as afterthoughts.
Before long, a squad of Bluecoats was seen in the camp. The lieutenant and white sergeant spent most of their time in one of the buildings, drinking. Sometimes right along with the Yankees.
The Yankee soldiers told them they were free to do as they wished but the Southern officer told them they weren't. Finally, Ollie just said the hell with it and took off.
"The hell with this s**t, Jimbo. Ain't nobody paying no attention to us. I'm going home."
"You ain't got no papers, Ollie. Florida is under another general. What if you're stopped by a slave patrol? They'll shoot your a*s."
"I'll just have to take a chance. This here ain't no good, just sitting around doing nothing." He shook his head. “Who knows how long the war will take way down there? Here that Indian general refuses to ever give up.”
"Well, I guess so. See you at the island later, right?"
"What you gonna do?" Ollie asked. "Your master don't want you back."
"Won't make any difference. The Yankees will win in a few days anyway. Won't need no papers then. I think I'll just go back to the island and wait for you guys. Nobody gonna bother me there."
That night, the two took their leave of the camp and both armies.
***
By the time Samson made it home by foot, the war was officially over. His home and the family business were in a state of pandemonium. Having a black master made little difference, half of the former slaves had packed up and left, some of them stealing what they could before leaving. His father would have had to let them go anyway, not being able to afford to pay them wages in gold or Federal dollars. Nobody would work for Confederate money anymore. Business was slow but might pick up. There was talk of a contract with the Union Forces. Talk was, the Yankees preferred to contract with Negro-owned businesses like his.
Samson hung around for a few months, finding he had changed more than the business had. He looked at his future running a small factory and didn't particularly like the picture. His hometown girlfriend had found a new lover in his absence. Samson couldn't help comparing her with Violet, on the island. He found he preferred no-nonsense Violet to the complex fickle women he met in town.
Everything seemed tame, too much so for the man. Although an ex-corporal, he had never been good at ordering men around. Slaves were one thing, and soldiers were pretty much the same. They did as they were ordered under fear of punishment. Ordering civilian workers around was one hell of a lot different. It only took him four months before heading back to the island, two months early.
***
Al found it easy to adjust back to civilian life. A workaholic, he easily found a job as a blacksmith. White or black, people moving around still needed horses, and they had to be shod.
He immersed himself in blacksmithing and was satisfied with life. He did spend much of his time daydreaming about life on the island and on how much he would be needed there. Here, he was one of many metal fabricators, all with a white boss -- one of the herd. Al looked forward to the coming reunion with his friends. Money didn't occupy his thoughts as much as the need to be needed.
***
It took Ollie a long time to make it to Florida. The war finished soon after he left camp. The idea of being afraid of slave patrols looking for runaways, and not having papers to travel, now seemed silly in retrospect.
The roads were filled with ex-slaves, all looking for a better life. They were interspersed with out of work whites. Ollie was only one of millions of Negroes traveling the south. The major difference was he had a destination while most of them didn't. In fact, the thought amused him, he was heading toward his old master rather than away from him.
He finally made it to the swamp and found the old shack. It was not only empty but had obviously been so for some time. There were no neighbors within miles to ask what had happened, but Ollie found an unmarked grave behind the building. It looked to be only a month or so old. The earth still hadn't settled over it, nor any serious greenery taken root. He never considered digging up the occupant to see who was in there.
Ollie wished he had his Kentucky rifle with him, but doing so would have been impossible when he left camp. The white southerners were still in charge at the time and a Negro just didn't travel with a rifle, with or without papers, in that part of the South. He would have been hung by the first white man to see him. He'd left it back on the island.
On his third night back at the shack, Ollie woke to the sound of someone entering the decrepit building. Silently flowing out of a dirty blanket and into a crouch, Ollie waited.
There was the sound of flint striking steel and sparks shot into what turned out to be a kerosene lamp. A large white man dressed in homemade clothing had his back to Ollie. Recognizing the intruder, Ollie stood.
"Jasper? What you doing here?"
The man jerked, almost dropping the lamp, then froze in place.
"That you Oliver? You back from a war?"
He placed the lamp on a table and slowly turned around. Jasper was one of the old man's friends, another hunter and trapper.
The two men clasped hands, Jasper not wanting to hug a Negro. They were friends, however.
"What happened to my master, or former master?" Ollie asked, sharing a jug of rough liquor with the man. They sat at a rickety table.
"Died. Heart must'a did it. Found a old man layin' in'a puddle back there." He shuddered. "Crawfish, they got his face."
"How long ago was it? I came back like we agreed." Ollie hung his head.
"Oh, 'bout a couple months ago. I ain't got no time thingy or nothin'. He just keeled over and the girl she took off. Nothin' to keep her here."
"Taking a chance with the slave patrols."
"Na, been a long time since any slave patrol 'round here. So many N*****s runnin' 'round even a'fore the end, they wasn't no use even trying to catch 'em all. Everyone knew the end was comin'."
They sat in silence for a while, passing the bottle and lost in their own thoughts.
"Yes sir, Oliver, was so many deserters and runaway N*****s, houses burning down with no one to fight a fires, crops destroyed, looting an all'a that stuff. And it started weeks a'fore the end, even. Just like nobody give a damn no more, 'bout anythin' no more at all."
"What you doing here, Jasper? You running away too?" Ollie took another swig of booze.
"I thought about moving in here, yes sir, that's what I thought. My place run over with N*****s, can't find nothing to hunt no more. They's running around, chase all the game away. This swampy place be better hunting an’a trappin’."
"Guess so, Jasper. I seen a lot of game here, the last couple days. You go ahead and stay. You can have the shack. Jake gone and all, ain't no reason for me to stay. I got me somewheres else I can go."
That agreed on, they finished the bottle and sacked out for the night. Before sleeping, Ollie remembered using the name "Jake." In all the time he had known the man, and no matter how friendly they'd been, even having saved each others lives on occasion, it had always been "Ollie" and "Master."
The next morning, Ollie checked his master's secret stash. It hadn't been touched. When he left to go back to the island, Ollie carried about twenty dollars in Union money, Jake's life savings, with him. He also brought along an old single-shot horse-pistol wrapped in oilcloth. It was a keepsake, being Jacob's first firearm -- important enough to save along with the money.
***
Jimbo didn’t have far to travel, only across the water to the island. Nobody from the post came after him and nobody at the camp cared. Just one Negro less to deal with. Also, you can’t desert an army that no longer exists.
He moved into a shack near the beach, on the southern side of the island. The small landmass was only a couple of miles across and maybe three long. Composed of mostly scrub-land, trees, and rocks, it grew few crops. There were, during the war, about a hundred to a hundred and thirty Negroes living there. Many of them were runaway slaves.
Nobody had ever bothered to search the island. There were too many caves and woods to hide in. Also, they could easily see any search parties coming and row to another island to hide. With their new status of being freemen, a lot of them had gone back home. The only large permanent dwelling was the whorehouse.
A white family had moved there about eighty years before to try to make a plantation. Because of bad soil, the try had failed and they had left. After sitting for years, the abandoned house had been taken over by Marylou and the island gained illegal residents. By then nobody knew or remembered who owned island or house.
Being an accomplished thief in a time of turmoil, Jimbo thought he was in seventh heaven. Finding a few other men and women of the same bent, he organized a gang. They looted on the mainland where many rich southerners, afraid of the advancing Yankees, had left their property either unguarded or in the custody of family retainers. With the confusion and movement of people, much of the property was standing vacant. Former slaves that had been left to guard those properties simply filled a wagon with stolen goods and left for a better life.
Factories had locked their doors with equipment and supplies still inside. The same with some plantations. Nobody questioned people, not even Negroes who drove wagons full of goods along the roads. The gang would quietly find a likely factory, shop, building, or plantation. Then they would go in and look for valuables.
If the owner or anyone else questioned them, they would hold the people prisoner until they were done or just run away, leaving the wagons behind. They could melt into the crowds on the roads, stealing more wagons later.
Without enough workers to keep them open, many businesses were closed. Crops were sitting in fields, the field-hands having left. On at least one occasion, a few former slaves paid to watch a plantation gladly joined the thieves. The chaos was a godsend for Jimbo.
He received plenty of moral support from Girly, the one from the House. With the soldiers gone, business was very slow there. She even went with him on some of the raids. Jimbo had to watch her closely, since she loved to beat on men, especially the few white ones they came in contact with. Jimbo, though somewhat unwillingly, would tie them to chairs or beds and exit the room, leaving their disposition to his girlfriend who would beat and kick the devil out of them.
Such an excursion would inevitably lead to equally violent lovemaking, even while the victims watched.
***
Al was to be the first to return to the island. It was on a Sunday morning and he was surprised to see a line of rowboats pulled up onto the beach. He piled his few possessions into one and rowed the short distance to the other shore.
Getting to the island, he found it almost deserted. One old man, found cleaning fish near the water, told him about the majority of the runaway slaves leaving and most of the population currently at Reverend Murphy’s Church on the mainland. Figuring they might need the boat to get back, Al left his things on the beach and rowed back to the mainland.
It was a good thing he had, because the group of parishioners soon returned, dressed in their Sunday clothes. Even Girly went to church.
The House girls were more than welcome to Reverend Murphy, since they gave him a good part of his income from donations. Marylou insisted on attendance by her employees. Church and Christmas were about the only times she closed up. And even on Christmas the place was open, a Christmas party for the entire island with no business transactions allowed.
The people who knew him greeted Al and welcomed him back. He learned the army camp was still deserted. A company of Yankees had occupied it for a few weeks and then moved on. Al moved into an empty island shack near Jimbo and soon started his own blacksmith and metalworking shop, using island labor. Jimbo promised to look for tools and equipment on his next forage.
***
Ollie returned a few weeks later to find a group of whites occupying the former army camp. They turned out to be a religious evangelical group from New York City. They were lead by a preacher named John Summers.
The good Reverend felt he had a mission to help former slaves adjust to freedom, as long as it was his type of adjustment. The preacher's manner of accomplishing his noble objective was strict
training in both occupational and moral values. A rigid regimen of classroom, physical, and religious training. The classroom part was also to train Negro representatives to spread the word of God according to Reverend Summers across the South.
They tried to recruit Ollie as he passed through but a few choice curse words followed by rapid movement saw him through to the island.
Ollie’s mistake was in arriving during a demonstration on the mainland shore. It was against the whorehouse. But, since the demonstrators weren’t allowed on the island , every time they tried to land, the residents would drive them off with gunfire. To demonstrate, they had to do it on the mainland shore.
For a few minutes, Ollie thought he would have to swim over. Some islanders in a boat saw him and landed to pick him up. The boat fairly bristled with shovels, clubs, and sharp sticks, those inside daring the demonstrators to stop them.
***
Samson, fed up with his home life, arrived days later. His trip was uneventful, arriving late at night and in-between demonstrations. He found Jimbo standing on the island-side, cursing. Jimbo hadn’t been able to make a raiding foray in weeks, with all those damned religious freaks watching for sinners’ comings and goings.
Even black Reverend Murphy was at odds with the white group. He knew that if they shut down the whorehouse his own finances would suffer.
Al and Ollie stayed in the back of Al’s blacksmith shop while Samson and Violet Adams lived in a renovated boathouse behind the House. Violet spent her time working and fixing up their shack. With the white evangelists cutting off trade, they all suffered.
Selling merchandise stolen from the late Confederate Army was risky. Jimbo never knew when the religious group would have people watching the shore.
One day about a month after Samson’s return Violet and the kid, June, ventured out to do some shopping. It was a walk of several miles to the nearest small town, but they never made it there....
***
“I’m scared.” Young June constantly swept the shore with her eyes while Violet rowed, angling to beach far from the island itself. “What if they catch us?”
“We got us as much right to there as they has.” Violet rowed, her back to the shore. “I’ll tell them. They bothers us and I calls the sheriff.”
“Yeah, you wants a white sheriff to side with us against a white preacher? Won’t do any good at all.”
When the two pulled their rowboat up onto shore, tying it to a nearby tree, several men came out of the tree line. At first, Violet hesitated, not wanting any trouble. Knees shaking slightly, she started to untie the vessel, to go back to the safety of the island.
“Hey. Hold it a minute, young lady,” one of the men, she recognized him as from the evangelist group, called. When she hesitated, feeling real fear for the first time since the war, his hand gently removed the rope from hers. “Please don’t be afraid. The Lord will watch over you, and we’re engaged in His work. No harm will come to you.”
“Leave us alone.” Violet pushed him away, grabbing for the rope. “We’re going to town to buy some staples.”
“Reverend Summers would like to talk to you,” the man told them. “Please come with us. It won’t take very long and might even save your fallen souls.”
By then, two other men had surrounded them, others hurrying in along the waterline. Violet could only hope someone on the island was watching. Someone with a gun.
“No. We don’t want to go with you. You just leave us alone, Mister.” She grabbed June by the shoulder and tried to push their way through. Hands held them as the men closed in, giving them no way out. Gentle but firm hands on unwilling shoulders, the men sang religious songs as the captives were hustled toward the old army buildings.
“The reverend gave us our orders, miss. You must come, but you won’t be sorry,” the first man told her, kindly. “Salvation is never an easy task but, God willing, is destined to succeed.”
***
“D****t Al, I can’t find that crap for you until I can get out of here. I’ve rowed miles down each side of the coast. Those b******s follow me on foot or on horseback. I think they want to starve us out or something. How the hell can I sell, find, or steal anything with them watching?” Jimbo complained. “I hope to hell nobody’s found my wagons, or I’ll have to f**k around finding new ones. Even the House hasn’t had any customers except for a few sailors rowing in from the sea.”
Samson and Ollie sat drinking homemade beer while the other two argued. Starving them out would take quite a while, as there were plenty of small gardens and domesticated animals on the Island. Enough for a long wait. Eventually though, it might work. A few people could maybe get past the blockade, rowing to sea then angling in to swim off a boat, but no business with the mainland could be transacted.
“We got us one hell of a lot of muskets, though,” Jimbo mentioned. “We could arm everybody here and kick their asses out of there.”
“Don’t you even talk at s**t, boy,” Al glared at him. “They’d have the white law here to wipe us out.”
“Ain't much law out there to begin with anymore. That a*****e and his bunch'd be gone a'fore anyone knew it.”
Al’s reply was cut off before he started, as Girly came running into the blacksmith shop, door slamming behind her.
“Al, is Samson he...?” She saw Samson and ran over, sweating with exertion. “They got Violet. They got her and little June on the mainland.”
“What you talking about, girl? What you mean by they got them? Who they, and what they got them for?” Samson jumped to his feet.
“Violet and June tried to go to the store in town. Marylou told them not to, but they went anyways. That f*****g preacher has got them, took them to the army camp. Old Johnny done saw the whole thing from the tower.”
“What we gonna do, Samson?” Al asked. The others waited for an answer.
“You the sergeant,” Ollie reminded him.
“Ain’t in no army now, boy,” Jimbo also reminded them. “Samson’s girl. He gonna say, not Al.”
“I’m gonna talk to Marylou first. It’s her island and Violet works for her.” Samson hurried out. He didn’t want to go off half-cocked. First find out what really happened, he figured. And he did value Marylou's advice.
***
“You wait in here, ladies,” the man, others called him Luther, told them, shoving the two frightened females into an empty supply hut.
Once finally alone, Violet tried the back door. It was locked, as was the one they came in through.
“What we gonna do? I’m scared.” Eleven-year-old June stood, looking out one of the barred windows.
“Ain’t nothing we can do, honey. Just have to wait.” Violet sat down to do just that, fighting her own rising fear and anger.
About a half-hour later, they could hear the front door being unlocked and opened. Reverend Summers came in with a half-dozen women, some black and some white. The females wore long white dresses with little yellow bonnets on their heads and were singing under their breaths. It was "The Old Rugged Cross."
“Bless you gentlewomen, but keep it down please. I have to talk to these wayward ladies,” he told the group in a gentle voice.
The women calmed down to a low humming, stood back and watched as the Reverend sat next to Violet on an army cot. He took her hand in his, which she instantly yanked back.
“Leave me alone, you fat b*****d,” she told him, trying to stand up. He reached up to her shoulder and forced her back down. Little June stood, wide-eyed, at a window, watching but afraid to call attention to herself.
“Now, now, young lady. We came to get the devil out of you, and that’s just what we intend to do. Sister Lucy.”
One of the women handed him a fancied-up Bible which he brandished at Violet’s face. She flinched away.
“See, ladies. The demon inside her resists the word of the Lord. Please hold her down, tightly but gently, good ladies.” He pointed at the wooden floor.
The six hummers hurried over to Violet and held her spreadeagled on the floor, Violet's resistance tearing her best dress.
“The clothing must come off. It’s filled with evil from that devil's house ... also that of the child.” The Reverend shook his head as though in pain, brow furrowed in sorrow. “They must leave everything from the evil island behind and start anew in the ways of Jesus Christ.”
Although Violet struggled, she was soon stripped and again spreadeagled on the floor while two of the women went toward June.
Reverend Summers brought the Bible down, placed it gently onto Violet’s forehead, and murmured a prayer, taking her resulting struggles as demonic. He then ran the Good Book down her body to her hips, then down each leg, the same with her arms, while muttering prayers as he proceeded in his endeavors to drive out island demons.
Since she still struggled and cursed him, he took off a large leather belt and beat Violet into submission. She eventually gave up, lying quivering and sobbing on the floor.
“You may release her, gentle ladies. Sorry you had to see this abomination. The devils were too ingrained for the Good Book alone to expunge. All too often, Satan can only understand force. Servants of the Lord must, I say MUST, be ready to use such violence when called for.” He let out a deep sigh, picking up his Bible. “Hopefully, I won’t need force for the child.” He straightened his disheveled clothing, hiding a rigid projection between his thighs with the help of the Bible.
“Bathe and clothe the child and bring her to the back room of the church. I’ll try treating her with kindness and benign entreaties. Maybe she can be saved without violence? Do you think you can, my child?” he asked the very frightened little girl.
“Yes sir. I does whatever you say, sir.” June shook with fear, eyes wide as unshucked walnuts.
“When the older lady recovers, bathe and clothe her also. Then lock the door.” He handed Sister Lucy the key to the supply room door.
***
After a frantic couple of hours of rowing, first into the ocean out of sight of land to avoid being seen, then angling back toward shore miles away, the four comrades, along with eight other grown men from the island, landed on the shore at a point a mile or so past the old army camp. They were dressed in Confederate uniforms in order to avoid confusion later and carried both muskets and sabers stolen from that army.
They were out for blood. As quietly as possible, they beached the rowboat and descended on the camp. Of course, having been stationed there, they knew the layout. Samson and Al raced directly for the old Administration Building, now a church. Their destination was obvious by the addition of a rough cross formed from two tree trunks extending over the roof.
The other ten ran to check the barracks buildings, one after the other. The men’s barracks were first. There they found their adversaries, over twenty men altogether along with a dozen women, both original northern whites and converted Negroes. They seemed to be having some sort of prayer meeting, maybe over the fallen women?
Faced with almost a dozen muskets and sharp sabers they capitulated without a fight. Ollie and Jimbo were amazed. They had figured at least some of them would fight back.
“S**t, we should have done this long ago.” Jimbo stood elated, watching Bible-thumping captives cowering in a corner like frightened rats. They didn’t even bother to tie the peace-loving religious fanatics, simply ordered them to their feet and herded them toward the makeshift church.
“Where’s our woman?” Ollie grabbed one of the men by the collar. “What you do with her?”
“She’s in there.” A woman pointed at a former supply room. “Sister Lucy has the key.” She was nodding toward another woman who, formerly white face now even whiter from fear, was already digging a shaky hand into a pocket for the key.
Leaving the others to guard their prisoners, Ollie and Jimbo ran over and opened the supply room door. They found Violet lying on a bunk, dressed in a white dress like the others. The difference was in bloody streaks soaking through the back of her clothing. She was lying in a fetal position, crying silently.
“I’ll take care of her, Jimbo,” Ollie whispered. “You go on out and see if any of those people be a medic, and send her in here. Then get them into the church. We’ll deal with them there.”
He knelt next to the cot, turning her head toward moonlight sifting through a dirty window.
“Violet. What they done did to you, girl? Can you say something?”
“Samson? That you? That you, that you, that.... Oh! My god, how I.... Samson?”
“It's Ollie. Samson's here. I'll get him. Relax, girl. We's here now. You safe.”
“The girl, Junie?” She tried to raise herself, pain from her back wounds aborting the effort. Falling back in failure, she groaned loudly, the sounds evolving to simple sobs. “F****n' preacher got her. He came in an just took her.”
“We's gonna settle that s**t too, girl. Sure as hell we is.”
***
Samson and Al, thinking the two captive islanders were probably in the church, burst through an unlocked front door. Boots reverberating loudly on a bare hardwood floor, they ran down the length of the building, now converted with makeshift seats and benches. The company commander’s and first sergeant’s former offices were in the back.
Samson took the first sergeant’s, while Al stormed into the company commander’s room, their names still on the doors. Al found his door unlocked and entered, finding the room stacked with hymn books and Bibles, a parchment map of some foreign country hanging on one wall. He turned and stepped toward a connecting door to the first sergeant’s.
Samson, on his part, had to kick his door open. It was locked. Slowed down a few moments, he happened to burst in just as Al did the same through the connecting door.
They caught Reverend Summers with his pants down, literally off. Bare-a*s naked, June lay on an army cot at his feet. He tried to turn, wide frightened eyes swinging back and forth between the two invaders of his inner sanctum.
Samson, being larger, grabbed the preaching pedophile from the rear, arms crossed under the preacher’s armpits and lifting him. Samson’s thick forearms kept the reverend from lowering his arms, short legs kicking ineffectually at thin air.
“Get the others, his people too. I think they’ll want to see this.” Samson ordered Al, who ran back outside, just in time to meet the islanders coming in, captives herded in front of them.
“Everyone run to the offices, right now,” Al ordered the congregation.
From the office doorway, all stood still and silent, shocked by the tableau inside. They saw their trusted mentor hanging red-faced from Samson's arms, naked legs kicking weakly with a naked youngster huddled and shaking on the bed, clutching her privates. A young member of his own flock.
“Oh, my God,” came from Sister Lucy. “What are you doing to that poor little girl.”
Being a whorehouse girl at heart, June took the opportunity to ham it up in front of the preacher, crying and twisting as if in ecstatic agony -- arms reaching up at the reverend's exposed and flaccid privates.
“Mine, mine. Gimme,” she simpered, enjoying the attention.
It took very little talking to set the errant Reverend Summers running wildly toward Memphis while a flock of sanctimonious crows were flying back north as fast as their buckboards could race.
Meanwhile, the islanders took time to burn the old base to the ground, it being a threat to their freedom.
To this day few Yankees, or even those from the south, have heard of those black soldiers willing to fight for the South. And that's the way Samson and wife Violet would have preferred.
The End.
Oscar Rat
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