The young ladies passed on without glancing back. Who cared to waste a second look on dirt?
That was Friday. All night the memory of Miss Leamington's scorn kept Des awake. He drifted to sleep on his sodden pallet around four, waking several hours late for work. He dressed without eating and hurried toward the docks, hearing the blare of a small band on Meeting Street.
When he reached Meeting, he was prevented from crossing by a parade. He saw niggers marching in formation, each man wearing a frock coat of white flannel with dark-blue facings and matching white trousers. They were festive, waving and chatting with people in the mixed crowd that had turned out to watch. At the head of the parade, two men carried a banner.
CHARLESTOWNE VOL. FIRE CO.
Number 2
"BLACK OPAL"
Des stood in the third row of the crowd, glaring as the firemen passed. Behind the marchers, horses decorated with flowers pulled two pumping units. Small American flags were tied to the burnished brass rails of the pumpers. Des's hands knotted at his sides. All that black skin, those Yankee flags — it was almost more than he could tolerate.
A shiny-cheeked, strapping buck waved to someone at Des's left. "How'd you do. Miss Sally? Fine morning."
Des turned to look. The name Sally resonated in his head with sharp echoes. He saw a fat, trashy girl waving a hanky at the fireman, who grinned at her as if he wanted to stroll right over and lift her skirts.
Miss Sally was a white girl. She waved and waved her hanky, taking notice of the nigger, demeaning herself, her race. Des felt as if the blood would burst his temples.
A small five-piece marching band, part of the fire company, had been counting cadence with drumsticks clacked together. Now the brasses struck up "Hail, Columbia!" and the white slut beamed so broadly at the fireman, he blew her a kiss.
Which she returned.
Des's huge hands flew up, one fastening on a shoulder at his left, one at his right. He parted the human wall. Someone protested, hurt, as he lunged into the street.
Then his mind turned to flame, and he remembered nothing.
Col. Munro here, inspecting the school and complaining about duplicate and triplicate reports he must file over "outrages." He left two young corporals, charming and friendly Maine boys, to guard the school for a few days. One said he wants to settle in Carolina, he finds the climate and people so winning.
Before Munro marched back to town, he issued a gloomy warning, which I quote as best I can recall it "I have now been in the Palmetto State long enough to understand something of Southern feelings. So far as my observation goes, I do not find the white people hostile to the Negro as a Negro. They like him in most instances. But when he threatens them as a possible office holder, juror, voter, political and social equal, he goes too far. Freedom's not the issue, but equality. Any persons or institutions promoting that are the enemy."
"Perhaps so," I said. "But Prudence and I will keep the school open."
"Then I predict you will keep having trouble," he said. "Someday it will be of a magnitude that neither luck nor courage will overcome."
... Cooper writes that D. LaMotte is jailed. On Saturday he attacked a colored vol. fireman with no apparent provocation, and the authorities arrested him. C. said he has lately been skeptical of LaMotte's willingness to carry out his threats. He is no longer skeptical. For some while, however, we are, to use C.'s word, "reprieved."
23
The Cheyenne's rifle shot blew out the left eye of Wooden Foot's horse. Amid blood and animal bellowing, the trader tumbled into the wind-whipped grass. Charles was already dismounted. He grabbed his Spencer and slapped Satan to send him trotting away. Boy, upset by the sudden attack, vainly tried to control the pack mules from horseback.
"Get down, get off your horse," Charles shouted. The Cheyennes rushed their ponies up the rise. A bullet snapped Charles's hat brim; the hat sailed away. He yelled at Boy again but the howls of the Indians and the bray of the mules competed. But after a few seconds, Boy understood the look on Charles's face and slipped clumsily to the ground.
Wooden Foot knelt and shot at the Cheyennes nearing the top of the rise. He missed. Charles fired as the brave next to Scar flung a feathered lance. Charles dodged it. The Indian took Charles's bullet, blasted off his pony.
Everything was noise and confusion. A few miles west, lightning sizzled down from approaching storm clouds and struck the dry prairie. The grass smoked and sparked. Boiling, tumbling, the black clouds sped on toward the Cheyennes and the embattled traders.
Boy cried out. Charles saw him stagger, clutching a reddened sleeve. A lance had grazed him. Tears of pain and bewilderment rolled down his face.
Wooden Foot shouted, "Behind you, Charlie," and fired his long gun almost simultaneously. Charles pivoted and saw a mounted Cheyenne about to hammer him with a stone-headed war club. Charles shot at the red-painted face, but not soon enough to stop the blow. The club pounded his shoulder with an impact that drove him sideways. The Cheyenne sagged from his pony, his face a sheet of blood.
The storm clouds passed over like a lid closing on the world. Thunder rolled. Lightning glittered. On the wind from the west, Charles smelled smoke. He saw Scar jabbing at Wooden Foot with his lance, from horseback.
The Cheyennes crowded their ponies in close, though with less zeal since a couple of their own had fallen. Wooden Foot dodged back; Scar's thrust missed. He thrust again. The trader gripped his rifle with both hands and used it like a staff to deflect the lance. His face was flushed.
Charles levered a round into the Spencer, aimed at Scar, and pulled the trigger. The rifle jammed.
Another Cheyenne rode by and lanced Charles's right arm. A rush of blood followed the hot pain. He dropped the Spencer, yanked out his Bowie, and drove the blade into the Indian's side. The Indian screamed and jerked forward over his pony's neck. The pony raced away, taking the Indian and the protruding steel too.
Determined to finish Wooden Foot, Scar worked his pony in again; Wooden Foot blocked his thrusts expertly with his rifle. Scar's face showed his frustration. The struggle was taking a toll on Wooden Foot, though. His cheeks were dark as plums.
Charles found himself momentarily free of adversaries. Then he saw why. Three Cheyennes were riding down on the mules and Boy. Weeping, the youngster struck at them feebly, as if swatting flies. One brave jumped down and grabbed Boy. Fen leaped from concealment in the grass as if sprung. The collie's jaws closed on the Cheyenne's forearm. Another Indian beat at the dog with the butt of his trade rifle.
Amid the buffeting of the gale wind, the white flashing of the lightning, Wooden Foot uttered a strange choked cry. Drawing his Colt and dodging as a Cheyenne shot at him, Charles saw his partner lurch sideways in the high grass. Wooden Foot gasped, as if he couldn't get air. He plucked the front of his beaded shirt as if to tear something out.
Charles remembered seeing Wooden Foot's face flushed the same way before. "It ain't nothing —" But it was: a heart seizure, brought on by the enormous strain of the attack.
Scar had his hatchet in hand, raised high. Charles fired. The prancing of Scar's pony caused the bullet to miss the target and ping the hatchet blade. Charles jumped in front of Wooden Foot to shoot again. Scar quickly trotted away down the rise, bent low over his pony.
Blood leaked from Charles's wound. He yelled in frustration, a wordless raw cry of rage, because two things demanded attention at once: Wooden Foot, kneading his shirt with both hands and trying to get air in his lungs, and three dismounted Cheyennes who were dragging Boy out of sight beyond another part of the rise. Fen chased after them, foam flying from his jaws. Wooden Foot's fingers clawed beads loose from his shirt. They sparkled and winked in the lightning glare.