The White and the Black of It

D.R. McNachten

Description

In this fictionalized version of the American Civil War, the fall of Vicksburg eclipsed all rational Southern hope of prevailing, but the Confederacy refused defeat. Black citizens are obliged to raise their own military in defense of their new freedom. A pitched racial battle occurs that ends in a deadly inferno and, ultimately, a standoff. What happens when James, the Blacks’ leader, returns and meets Lee Christmas, a white man raised in conflict? D. R. McNachten’s The White and the Black of It will begin to answer that question for readers in this thrilling first volume of the Christmas Chronicles…

Sujets

• Civil War Era
• Historical
• American Civil War
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 30 juin 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781977264961
• Langue: English

Extrait

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The White and the Black of It All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2022 D.R. McNachten v5.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Table of Contents
Part One: War Within the War
Part Two: Out of Bondage, into the Fire
Part One
War Within the War
(Louisiana, 1862-1863)
 
 
For Tom Lyon     
 
 
For Springfield, Livingston Parish, the War within the War began with the killings at the town’s bridge on July 5, 1862, some seven months before the birth of Lee Christmas.

When the three mounted Confederate soldiers – a Lieutenant, a Corporal, and a Private – picked their way across Springfield’s aging bridge, it was early yet, and they did not stop to visit with neighbors on their quiet passage through town, only smiling and waving briefly to those they knew, soon pushing westward along the road out of town.
The informer may have been among those that saw them pass, the one who had brought them here today. For it was on an informer’s word that they had been sent to arrest a local man for desertion from a Confederate Regiment posted North of Louisiana’s border with Mississippi.
Springfield did not yet know, nor would it have changed the soldier’s duty, that on the day before, July 4, 1862 – a date not yet widely celebrated, the National identity still in doubt – the besieged Confederate river bastion at Vicksburg had surrendered, nor that when this word reached the siege of Port Hudson downriver, it too had given way.
These great losses, ceding the Mississippi from New Orleans on the Gulf to its headwaters far to the North, would eclipse most rational southern hopes of prevailing, though it needs noting that any despair ran very much deeper in prosperous cotton country than it did further back from the Great River, as here in Springfield.
The deserter was reported to be at his home some five miles West of town on the far side of the Blood River. This river was not substantial enough to justify a bridge, seldom running more than 20 feet in width and 10 inches deep. The blood of its name came from its color and not the bloody tales that had gathered about it. And the color derived from the heavy fall of fleshy red leaves from trees uncommon here, though the leaves declined being carried elsewhere. Instead – quick to absorb water and sink to the bottom – they formed a most unpleasant stream bed to walk on, turning a red yet darker than they had shown on the tree. It was thought the stream’s poor taste made for alcoholism among the people who lived along it and bad temper among the hogs and other livestock obliged to drink from it.
Thinking of their one-time neighbor – the deserter, Henry C. Kinchen – the three soldiers paid little mind to the color or depth of this familiar watercourse as they splashed through it. The horses made no objection to the stream bed, but they did not dip their muzzles down even for a sip.
The Kinchen family name was to be found everywhere in this and the neighboring parishes, comfortable across a range of social roles from vigorous farmer to outlaw to Sheriff. Whatever the role, it was performed with great energy. Undeniably fruitful on the evidence, they were as aggressive as seemed necessary, though peaceful once satisfied. Except as a tactical matter, they formed their views with little reference to those in general circulation. And while they were entirely familiar with misfortune along the family’s extended reaches, they were unlikely to bow to it easily.
Henry C. Kinchen had gone off to the Confederate Army just as the men in his family had before him in the wars at hand. It was not something he felt comfortable missing, and maybe the North was messing around with the South, though he was considerably less clear about this. In truth, he wasn’t much interested in reasons, and the recruiter had known better than to question the young man there at his table voluntarily.
Once in uniform, Henry had seen more bad health than fighting, and he had trouble respecting the men directly over him, the more so as they sought to inspire him through harangues he found perfectly mysterious. They failed to understand the fury was innate and more likely stilled than aroused by manipulation. Besides, the Confederate Army was at this point backing off the election of its line Officers by the men. But whether the Army would otherwise have enjoyed Henry Kinchen’s attendance any longer is hard to say.
On his return to the farm weeks earlier, he had found the home place did indeed need him badly. This was more for the everyday hiding and fetching of stores than for any planting, cultivation, or harvest. He had discarded the Army’s heavy uniform shirt, but he had found its stout field trousers and the boots entirely suitable for workaday use on the farm.
Unburdened for the moment, having just moved their modest herd of cattle to graze where human predators were less likely to find it, he was returning to the farmhouse when he saw the three uniformed riders at a distance. He took them at first to be Provost Marshal’s men, their confidence apparent in travelling so small.
Like his family and all the countryside, he felt such men should have the decency to give rest to a productive teat. The duty despised as it was, they would be outsiders.
They saw him and turned to approach leisurely, still at a distance outside sure identification, but he did not consider flight or resistance of any kind. And by the time he thought they might be the Army here to reclaim him, he knew it was too late and generally useless to run from men on horses – undignified if they proved to be men and boys known to him.
Now he could see that these were soldiers of the town. The Lt’s father – Tait was the family name – kept a general store that was Sassoon’s only competition. Not much competition, but more would get Sassoon upset, and he was doing well as such things went. The Corporal was unknown to him, but the Private was another matter. He was of the Harvey family on the other side of Springfield. They’d been marketing table vegetables from a small but fertile farm close by town, mostly for big city tables – or had been until that was prohibited. They hadn’t been there more than 15 years and so could not be considered truly local, but the war had taken three of their boys, taken meaning killed. This boy coming with the others now would be James, the last of the sons. He couldn’t imagine how that felt. Not for the father, not for James. The other three had been taken far from home in places like Tennessee and Pennsylvania. If he had been the father, he felt sure he’d have kept this boy at home, far from bullet and bayonet. The farm, any farm, was bad enough for accidents and illness and what animals might do on purpose. He was sure if he was old-man Harvey he would have kept this boy out of harm’s way.
But what were they about for sure? he wondered, thinking they looked pretty serious, and he came back to the worst at last.
As they pulled up, it was James Harvey who smiled a bit shame-faced, raising his hand in greeting near involuntarily. How goes it, Henry?
All right, James, so far as I can tell. What brings you boys out here? he responded. He ignored that Lt. Tait was refusing to put aside his rank even for a moment. Henry nodded to the Cpl. as well, who seemed uneasy but returned his nod just the same.
The Lieutenant finally drew a breath as he set himself straighter in the saddle. Henry C. Kinchen, he said.
That’s the name, Paul, he said with some irritation, thinking, well shit, so here it is.
We’re here to place you under arrest, Henry, he said. He continued after a brief pause. For desertion from the Army of the Confederate States of America.
Yes, well, said Henry. The folks needed me here, the way things are with the war.
Not here to argue, Henry. Things are pretty much the same all over.
Well, it takes a damn fool not to know the war is over.
Thus challenged on a point already tender, the arresting party felt its task considerably eased, for they could now deny the terrible fact and do their duty all in one.
We’ll be taking you over to Camp Ruggles, Henry, said the Lieutenant.
What about my family here? Henry said. What’ll they think?
Well, they knew what to think when they sent for you, Henry. Besides, there’s Oran over there, and Tait gestured off toward a nearby crest-line where a young man, Henry’s brother, stood observing this encounter. He can tell your family what’s happened.
Oran called out from his distance. What are you boys up to with my brother?
They knew well enough why Oran kept his distance. For no man in health and long pants was in the clear where service was concerned, no matter what militia he might claim membership in. Coming within disputing reach could get him snapped up along with his brother for lesser charges to start, but likely ending in the uniform of the C.S.A.
We’re going off to Springfield, Oran. He’ll be in the little compound there a while