Something in Madness

Prologue

On a quiet evening, when a pebble is tossed into a placid pool, scientists say ocean tides on the opposite side of the world are affected. Likewise, the courage and vision of a few obscure people can reverberate through time, moving us in profound ways of which we are unaware.

Such is the tale of Durksen Hurst, Antoinette DuVallier, and Big Josh Tyler. Their story is strange, complicated, as agents of change tend to be. In 1859, Durk, a lonely and ambitious drifter, a man we would call a hustler, rode into the hamlet of Turkle, Mississippi, needing to prove something to the town that years before had killed his father, leaving him orphaned. Fortunately for Durk, he was taken in by the Chickasaw and raised to manhood. But with no roots in the outside world or formal education, he became an itinerate promoter of schemes he claimed would help blacks and whites throughout the South.

And this time Durk was lucky. He encountered a dozen slaves hiding in the Chickasaw swamp. Wary, but having little recourse, the men agreed to Durk’s proposal to build their own plantation—secretly as partners. But Durk would need land. So he swindled fifty square miles from a Chickasaw chief, and the clearing of forest and the raising of their mansion soon began. They named their venture DarkHorse after Durk’s Chickasaw name.

But Turkle’s power structure could not stomach the new rival. Looming over the town was the shrewd widow, Marie Brussard French, owner of FrenchAcres, one of the largest plantations in Mississippi. Ironically, the widow was hiding secrets of her own: she’d been a notorious quadroon in a New Orleans bordello who’d abandoned her small daughter, Antoinette, to marry a wealthy Mississippi landowner named French.

Once married and settled in Turkle, the young Mrs. French gave birth to another daughter, Devereau. Upon her husband’s sudden death, with the town’s notables poised to steal the plantation from the vulnerable widow, the wily Mrs. French seized on a ruse to ensure her control. She concealed the infant’s gender, thus forcing Devereau to masquerade as a male throughout her life, becoming, in effect, the late-owner’s male heir. Consequently, the pair’s grip on power was as tenuous as DarkHorse’s façade of legitimacy.

Sadly for Devereau, her male subterfuge allowed no room for friendships or love, which played havoc with her mind and emotions. By adulthood, she’d become increasingly erratic and uncontrollable, to her mother’s mortification.

Meanwhile, Antoinette, now grown, prospered in New Orleans, marrying and having a son, Louis Edward. Learning this, Mrs. French, desperate to assuage Devereau’s wrenching loneliness, resorted to clandestine means to adopt the boy for her.

Frantic to recover her son, Antoinette, now widowed, journeyed to Turkle, unaware that the child was already dead and buried. There, she encountered Durk and his partners, and they soon aided each other’s efforts. As fate would have it, Antoinette and Durk fell in love—galling a jealous Devereau, who was consumed with the notion of getting Durk for herself. One night, gripped by utter hopelessness, Devereau confronted her mother, shot her, and fled.

With the war raging, Durk pleaded with the townsmen not to throw their lives away on a fool’s crusade. But he failed miserably. Consequently, the town turned on Durk and his partners, forcing them to run for their lives north to Missouri.

Both the venerable FrenchAcres and the upstart DarkHorse plantations were no more.

By 1863, after working as contraband labor for the Union army, Durk and his partners established a colored regiment to help fight guerrillas, naming it DarkHorse after their lost plantation. Peculiarly, although blacks were encouraged to serve, according to the rules of the day, black units were required to be led by a white officer. Naturally, Durk agreed to serve in that capacity.

It is now 1865, and the fighting has ended. Durk and Antoinette, along with the two surviving partners, Big Josh and Long Lou, have returned to Turkle, with a young boy they’d rescued, Caleb, in tow. The opportunistic Durk hopes to recover the DarkHorse land. And with slavery abolished, Josh is determined to dedicate his new life to helping his people. Their aspirations seem within reach, so logical …

But what will they find waiting for them?

Section I

Chapter One

Poisoned Harvest

1865. Turkle, Mississippi

The slaughter on the battlefield had come to an end, but a scourge more insidious and enduring now descended upon the shattered land.

Under the glaring sun, the rusted-out train dragged a load of bales past dust-blown fields, like a one-legged soldier taking to the plow again. Inside the train’s lone passenger car, a weary Durk Hurst wiped his face and neck with his damp handkerchief, then loosened his clinging shirt. Closing his eyes, he settled his head against the hard seatback, bare of its original leather and stuffing, struggling to conjure visions of his beloved plantation, DarkHorse, which he hadn’t seen for four years. But instead of its vast, lush green forests, and swamps rich in tangled cypress and tupelo, his thoughts were overwhelmed by the grotesque images of his ten dead partners he’d left rotting under the plains of Kansas.

He rode into their camp outside Lawrence to discover his unarmed men scattered upon the surrounding field, their black limbs and bodies twisted in the gruesome poses of failed flight, their uniforms rent by pistol balls, heads crushed in by rifle butts and caked with dried blood. As he drew nearer, his nostrils were assaulted by the stench of desiccation, his face assaulted by frenzied swarms of flies. There’s Samuel, poor Samuel. And Little Turby! Turby, they broke your glasses! Oh, hell, your damn glasses …

He swallowed hard, forcing his attention back into the train. With many of the windows boarded up, having been broken out during the war, there was little movement of air to relieve the early summer humidity, nor to dissipate the pungent odor pervading the cabin. Durk couldn’t help stealing glances at an elderly farmer seated on a coffin at the front of the car, his face etched in sorrow. Your son, sir? Durk inquired.

Our one child, the farmer replied, voice quivering. Fetchin’ him home to bury him right.

How long you been traveling?

Three weeks, mostly hired wagon and riverboat. Yankees done tore up the tracks pretty good. The man’s head sunk into his hands, and Durk looked away.

He turned to admire Antoinette sitting beside him. Now in her late-thirties, with her lovely chiseled face and dark, almond-shaped eyes, she was everything he’d ever dreamed of, a wonder to behold, wise and loving. To avoid standing out, she’d felt it expedient to dress in simple calico, her long hair pinned modestly in a bun; yet she remained every inch a lady, bearing a dignity beyond disguise.

Are you sure you don’t want to just stay on this train, Durk? To keep going? No telling how you’ll be received, she whispered. The last time you were in Turkle … She didn’t have to remind him: the torches in the night reflecting a sea of angry faces, the long guns, the shouts, his frantic escape …

He patted his pocket, absently reassuring himself that a crude, handwritten agreement giving him the rights to his deserted plantation was still there. He swallowed hard. Regaining the rights to that land could make him a man of substance, he hoped. Or was this notion just another in his long, sad history of foolhardy quests?

Do you? he asked. Being here with me could be dangerous for you, too.

She took time to consider her reply. I’m with you, whatever you decide, she assured him, placing her hand on his arm.

Durk swept his fingers through his long black hair, trying to ignore a passenger across the aisle glaring suspiciously in his direction. He was accustomed to that look. With his Seminole mother’s high cheekbones and dark features, Durk was always a stranger—and that can spell real trouble in a land where hatred and resentment always rumbled under the surface, at the point of erupting into violence and sudden death.

Durk glanced at his two black cohorts, Big Josh Tyler and Long Lou Jones, seated in the rear of the car. They were determined to reunite with old acquaintances at the French plantation, assuming everyone hadn’t deserted the place, and Durk had promised to help them get established in the changed South.

His gaze settled on Josh, an older man of substantial girth. Josh was a warm-hearted soul whose true merit was often obscured by his black skin and stutter, yet he could intimidate with a mere stare. In fact, it was Josh’s wisdom that had made him the group’s true leader, whether building their plantation or fighting rebels. And Durk loved him. Reading and writing had been proscribed for slaves throughout the South, and Josh, having been educated in army schools set up for black soldiers, was determined to educate his newly freed people.

Catching Josh’s eye, Durk nodded toward the grip beneath his seat, knowing it contained Josh’s blue uniform.

You sure you want to be carrying that around? his glance asked. He’d tried to convince him to abandon the telling attire before his return South, as he and Lou had done. But Josh had insisted that he’d worked too hard and lost too many brothers-in-arms to ever give it up, regardless of the danger.

Josh returned Durk’s hint with a dour look, which stated unequivocally: I am a free man; I ain’t giving up my uniform. Durk knew the subject was closed.

Durk studied Long Lou who, after stopping in Turkle, planned to make his way to the Carolinas to search for his wife and children, whom he hadn’t seen in seven years. He had no idea where his family was or how he’d find them, or even if they were still alive, but he ached to be with them again. This was a solitary trek many newly emancipated freedmen were making to unite with lost loved ones—slaves having been sold, on average, five times in their lives. Durk’s eyes met Lou’s, and the two men nodded, acknowledging that their years together would soon be at an end.

Through the cracked window, Durk watched the countryside pass, marked by scorched chimneys lording above burnt-out homes, grim memorials to four years of random destruction and mass murder. In the distance sat clumps of dilapidated shack colonies inhabited by black people in rags and threadbare clothing, the flotsam of four million people who’d suddenly found themselves liberated from bondage, but without the means or direction to create new lives.

The group’s journey from Missouri over the past weeks had been perilous, a hodge-podge of potentially deadly traps. Grant’s soldiers had destroyed many of the South’s trestles and railroads, firing the iron rails and wrapping them while hot around trees. As a result, their group had been forced to make its way by boat, wagon, ferry, and train. En route, they had no way of knowing which strangers might prove treacherous among the roving criminal bands preying upon travelers and emaciated Confederate soldiers returning home.

Jerked from his reverie by the squeal of brakes and a blast of steam, a surge of fear shot through Durk’s veins. They’d arrived in Turkle. Durk picked up his suit jacket and donned his hat. With a reassuring glance to Antoinette, he lifted his grip and shuffled into the aisle alone, while the others remained in their seats. No need for signals; they knew the drill. He made a final check on young Caleb, sleeping peacefully on the seat. Caleb had been orphaned after Union troops murdered his rebel-sympathizing father, but Big Josh and Lou had rescued him, and he’d been attached to them ever since.

Making his way forward, Durk descended to the platform, then paused to study the situation. The destruction immediately struck his eye: one corner of the station roof had collapsed and two nearby sheds were stripped of their sideboards. What have we stepped into?

Durk spotted the sheriff, Bake Stubbs, a few yards away, his mass of flesh perched on an empty barrel. Beside the sheriff squatted a lanky deputy resting on his heels like a country man in a field. Durk lowered his hat to obscure his face and made for the steps, but the sheriff slid off the barrel, pulled the deputy to his feet, and waddled over to confront him.

Now you see why we watch this train crawl through ever’ week, Aaron? the sheriff told the deputy, then spit tobacco juice. Never know what come steppin’ off. Pull your pistol, boy, and keep it trained on that man in the hat. Don’t you pay no attention to nothin’ else, hear? He put us in the grave ’fore we know we dead. Then he whistled with astonishment. Well, well, he said, Mr. Durksen Hurst himself. I didn’t expect to see you back here—after the friendly send-off we give you.

I see you’re still keeping the town safe, Bake, Durk replied, putting on his best folksy manner. It’s a free country now, ain’t it?

We see about that. What’s your business in Turkle?

Durk thought this over, searching for a plausible response. I’m here to open a school, he offered, Josh’s idea popping into his head.

A school? The sheriff puzzled over this notion over, then gave up. I think you’ better talk to Colonel Rutherford ’fore you get any notion of taking up residence. Aaron, he ordered the deputy, search his person and his belongings for any firearms.

His pistol-hand trembling, the deputy approached Durk as he would a cottonmouth displaying its fangs. Sorry, mister, but I gots my orders. Durk slowly set down his grip and nodded benignly, then raised his arms. The deputy patted him down, then searched his effects. Clean, Sheriff.

A wry grin spread on Durk’s face. It seemed the gossip-driven tales of his prowess as a marksman still clung in folks’ minds. In truth, he was a bad shot who’d sworn off firearms after his army discharge. But a tinge of threat couldn’t hurt, should less-than-friendly encounters ensue.

At that moment, Antoinette and Caleb descended from the car and paused to see what was transpiring. Seeing her, the sheriff was taken aback. Shoot, he said, looks like I ain’t going fishing anytime soon. Without a word, Antoinette took the boy’s shoulder and led him to the edge of the platform where she waited for their two compatriots.

Who’s this Colonel Rutherford? Durk asked the sheriff.

Well, it ain’t my place to say, rightly. He’s … the sheriff began, slightly befuddled, …;why, he’s, he’s Colonel Rutherford. He can explain hisself better’n I can. He be in town this afternoon for you to meet.

Why do I have to see this colonel? Is that some kind of law? Durk asked.

Ever’body that settles in Turkle meets the colonel. Especially you. You ain’t under arrest or nothing, if that’s what you mean. Feeling intimidated by a man he could only vaguely recall by reputation, Durk grimaced, his immediate plans temporarily sidetracked.

Big Josh and Long Lou, the last to depart the train, stepped onto the platform, assuming a wary but nonchalant stance. The sheriff seemed startled by the sudden appearance from the public conveyance of two black men wearing store-bought suits and carrying worn valises.

You two hold it right where you are. The sheriff turned to Durk. And don’t you move neither, Hurst. Aaron, keep your pistol on him.

The sheriff confronted the pair. What you two want in this town?

Just coming to w-work, Sheriff, Big Josh said impassively. Just here to work.

Well, let me inform you that we have laws here. Do you have travel papers? Negros can’t wander loose in Turkle without them papers.

Durk watched Big Josh grow tense but merely shrug, indicating he didn’t.

Aaron, Stubbs ordered the deputy, we got ourselves two vagrants. Place them under arrest. And search their bags. Josh gripped the valise containing his blue uniform, not about to relinquish it.

Durk struggled to think of something to say. If the sheriff found a Union uniform in Josh’s bag, it was certain he and Lou would suffer. He examined Josh’s face to gauge his reaction. As regimental sergeant, Josh had spent two years giving men life or death orders; now he was being treated no better than a slave. Durk feared Josh would be unable to control himself—and the lawmen were armed.

Twelve-year-old Caleb quickly stepped forward. Them crows is mine! he shouted. You keep your hands off’n them. The sheriff smiled at this.

Antoinette pulled the boy back and walked toward the sheriff. Her sure manner left no doubt about who was in charge of the situation. Vagrants? What do you mean, Sheriff? What do you intend to do with these men?

See, mam, the town passed Black Codes, like they is doing all over the South. All freedmen, free Negros, and mulattoes over eighteen got to be under a’ annual labor contract; otherwise, they is considered vagrants. They is jailed, the judge fines them, and if they can’t pay, their services is auctioned to the highest bidder. This way, they get put to work to pay back their fine. See? So both sides win.

I do see, Antoinette said, not surprised after what they’d seen since Missouri. Now that the planters can’t buy slaves at auction, this vagrancy law is a way for them to keep a fresh supply of cheap labor working their fields. You scoop up every poor freedman wandering the roads and chain them to a worthless contract. Isn’t that it?

The sheriff winked conspiratorially. Them fields need workin’, mam, and there ain’t the white folks to do it.

I do have these men under contract, Sheriff, Antoinette stated firmly. Furthermore, the bags they’re carrying are mine, and you have no right to search my possessions. Is that a problem for you?

The sheriff took a long, angry measure of Antoinette. I remember you, Mrs. DuVallier. He gave Durk a foul look, then turned back to Antoinette. And just where are you taking them people?

Wherever I please, sir. Thank you for asking, she quipped.

The sheriff thought this over. "There ain’t no more FrenchAcres, you know, Mrs. DuVallier, he said. You may want to get back on that train and take these people someplace more hospitable."

Antoinette looked to Josh for his decision, which he communicated to her by a subtle wince, before returning his expression to stone. Thank you for informing me, Sheriff. I’ll make that decision in due time. Right now, we’re here.

All right, the sheriff said reluctantly. But if I see one of these men in town unescorted, with no traveling papers, I’m gonna throw him in jail. That’s the law. You understand?

I do. It looks to me like we only thought slavery was dead.

Oh, they ain’t no more slaves; no, mam. The Yankees done seen to that. But we got to keep order somehow. All right, Mrs. DuVallier, you go on with your bidness. But remember what I tole you.

Antoinette turned to leave the station, followed silently by the boy and the two men. Watching them depart, Durk exhaled with a sigh.

The sheriff turned to Durk. "Well, I thought the pigs done ate the rotten apples, but here you is. Trouble don’t just follow you. You is trouble."

They arrived at the town square and spread a blanket for their noonday meal, dismissing concerns that passersby might be offended by the five of them eating together. Despite the relief they felt at nearing the end of their arduous travels, the condition of the town weighed heavily on their hearts. The patchwork of ruins and vacant houses among the standing homes and intact businesses told the story of war’s ebb and flow. On the streets, dispirited women in patched gingham and calico and men in work clothes wandered aimlessly as if in a dream. It wasn’t a heartening sight.

Durk ate hurriedly and headed for the courthouse. A half-hour later, he returned with a bounce in his step. "I’ve arranged a wagon to take us to FrenchAcres after I meet this Rutherford person."

It’s past noon already, Antoinette cautioned. The sheriff’s probably waiting.

Josh placed his hands firmly on Durk’s shoulders, facing him squarely, eye-to-eye. "You be careful, Durk. I know you. You hopin’ to figure a way to get DarkHorse back, ain’t you? How you gonna do that? Don’t you know it’s gone?"

Durk shrugged, brushing Josh’s hands aside. Maybe, Josh. We’ll see.

"DarkHorse almost get us all k-killed, my friend. Look, if’n you and Antoinette want to get on the n-next train outta here, n-nobody hold it against you, Josh said, his stutter creeping into his speech. Anyplace in the whole country be safer for y’all than Turkle."

Whether you help or not, Josh, I still consider us partners. I’m doing this for all of us. You sure you won’t…;?

Josh just grunted. I’m back here to build a school, he stated flatly. That’s all, Durk. I ain’t getting mix’ up in none of your flimflam. Done had enough of that to put us all six feet under.

But, Josh, I’m the legal owner. There are records.

Ha, Josh growled. It’ll be like wolves settin’ on a carcass. All that land there for the taking! The law ain’t g-gonna matter one bit, and you knows it. He paused to think. No, nothing gonna happen f-fast in these parts. I’m building a school, t-take it one step at a time. Listen, Durk, there gonna be a day—I see it!—where freedmen are full citizens, own they own land and businesses. That means we can vote, too.

Getting the vote’s gonna be hard, Durk said.

They say we can’t vote ’cause black folks can’t read—least they think we can’t, Josh harrumphed Well, most whites here can’t read, and they vote, don’t they?

Josh continued, You better put a lock on that tongue of yours when you with that Rutherford. He seem to have the power ’round here these days.

I’ll do my best, Josh, but it’s not my tongue that resents being pushed around. Who won the damn war anyway?

Antoinette anxiously gripped Durk’s arm. What matters, Durk, is not who won, but who’s still angry about the result.

Chapter Two

Citizen rutherford

While his companions waited near the wagon, Durk met Sheriff Stubbs at his office, and together they made their way down the street until they came upon Turkle Bank. Unlike the row of dilapidated and abandoned buildings, the bank was well-maintained, having a fresh coat of whitewash, clean windows, and intact plank sidewalks. Sheriff Stubbs entered the front door and led Durk through the lobby to a door leading to the back office. Bringing this man to see the colonel, he told the teller.

The teller, a slight, balding man in wire-rimmed spectacles, slid from his stool and unlocked the door, letting the pair enter. The colonel be back shortly, Bake, he called. Go on in and take a seat. The sheriff waddled in and held the door for Durk.

Peering into the shadowy, shade-drawn room, Durk let his eyes adjust before venturing in. He made for the guest chair facing the large oak desk that dominated the room and sat, examining his surroundings. Immediately catching his eye was the stained, torn battle flag hanging on the wall behind the desk, bearing the words Turkle Company One stitched across its top. The flag was split by a wavy blue cross, representing the convergence of Turkle’s major two bodies of water: the Mississippi River and its Chickasaw Branch. Fixed in brackets above the flag was an officer’s sword and scabbard with a gold tassel. The surrounding walls were lined by neat rows of rifles and pistols, many sporting elaborately etched steel barrels. It was quite an impressive collection.

The door behind him opened, and Durk turned as Colonel J.B. Rutherford entered his office, wincing with every step of his left foot, likely from a war wound. An imposing figure in his late-fifties, with thick salt and pepper hair, Rutherford stood well over six feet. He wore a tailored gray wool business suit and leather cavalry boots, as if immune to the heat.

Durk recalled that Rutherford had owned a thousand acres before the war; plus, the man had been active in the regional slave trade. Yet Durk had often heard rumors about his problems with debt.

Easing himself carefully into his chair, Rutherford ordered the lawman to leave. Got to go. Leeland’s pig done broke into Ernie Dobbs’ corn crib again, the sheriff muttered, jumped up, and scurried from the room, shutting the door behind him. Seeing Bake so intimidated put Durk on guard.

Durk rose and offered his hand. Durksen Hurst, Colonel. Good to meet you.

Waving Durk’s hand away, Rutherford lifted his left leg and placed his foot on a cushioned stool. I know who you are, Mr. Hurst, he snarled. "I remember you future-selling cotton at the county