Coming Soon!
Chapter 1
Western Missouri
July 1863
Camille stepped out of the peddler’s wagon and listened. Yes, that was indeed laughter she heard coming from the Crawford homestead. The river carried the sound of merriment to her ears. They must be having a party, she thought.
By the dim light of the moon, the fourteen-year-old girl walked down to shore. Looking through the trees she could just make out the flickering light of a campfire. Oh, how she wanted to be part of the festivities.
Camille returned to the wagon and sat down on the steps with a sigh, tossing her long black braid over her shoulder. She could hear her grandfather snoring inside. Every night he retired early leaving her alone to her books and her dreams. Until now she had been satisfied, but lately she was restless and bored. Camille was young, and she wanted to dance. But who would dance with her? Her skin was not milky white and her dark, almond shaped eyes were so very odd compared to the round blue eyes of her peers.
Camille Kubilay and her grandfather were never invited to parties. Even though everyone in Douglas and Wyandotte Counties knew the Kubilays and purchased their wares, no one wanted to associate with them. Being Turkish in a land of Northern European immigrants was lonely. You were the town pariahs and allowed to exist only on the fringes of society.
Usually peddling in Kansas, today Camille and her grandfather were in Missouri where they were looked upon with even greater suspicion. Several times a year, they ventured into the Parkville area to make deliveries to three of the wealthier residents. Once the orders were filled, they returned as quickly as possible to Kansas especially now that the country was at war.
That does it, Camille thought, jumping up. I may not be invited to the party but I can watch from afar. I don’t care what Grandfather says. He worries too much. So she started down the trail along the river.
As she walked, she speculated on what she might see. Of course, there would be lots of guests and several bonfires. There would be lanterns strung over a table crammed with barbequed meats, cornbread, biscuits, and beans as well as fancy cakes and pies. Since the Crawfords had slaves, she guessed they would be running back and forth replenishing food and opening kegs of beer and whiskey for the revelers. It was a nice night, so everyone would be clustered on the front porch or down near the fires.
As Camille walked along the river, moonbeams riding the black water caught her eye. In a land of adversity, violence, and prejudice, she always searched for beauty. She had to, otherwise she’d go mad.
As she drew closer she could hear men whooping and hollering. I wager there’s dancing too, she thought with a thrill. Someday it will be me doing the reel, a jig, or maybe even a waltz.
The trail was bumpy and several times she tripped on tree roots. Camille lifted her homespun skirt to avoid catching it on thorny branches and strode on until she came to a clearing. It was the Crawford landing. Staying under the cover of the cottonwoods and oaks, she looked up at the house. It was a large home, built in the Greek Revival style with white weatherboard siding and columns running the length of the porch. She thought it was ever so grand, but Grandfather said this plantation house was small compared to those east of St. Louis.
There was indeed a bonfire but only a handful of people were around it, and they were loud and boisterous. Several men were on horseback. Camille needed to get closer, so she started up the hill pushing her way through the underbrush. Branches clung to her skirt and gouged her arms as she scrambled over fallen trees and woodland debris. She was making an awful noise, but the revelers were loud so there was no chance of discovery.
When she came alongside the group and parted the brush to see, her blood ran cold. Mr. Crawford was standing naked in front of the fire bound to a tree and gagged. Mrs. Crawford and the two children were standing near him in their night clothes, trembling.
This was no party; it was a lynching!
Eight men stood around the bonfire, passing a jug and two were on horseback. Some were dressed in tattered blue uniforms, others in homespun. Two wore plumed hats but all had red leggings covering their boots.
Camille recognized them. They were the Red Legs, also called jayhawkers, Union irregulars waging war against local slaveholders and Confederate sympathizers. She knew many of them by name.
“While we wait for this pot to boil, I think we should have a little entertainment,” a dark haired man in a tunic coat announced. Camille knew him. He was their leader, Ezekiel Blade. “What d’you think, boys?”
“Yes, sir!” they roared.
“Do we have everything we want from the house?”
“Everything!” Grady Jacobs shouted as he walked down the steps with an armful of goods.
“Alrighty, burn it!”
Whooping and hollering, the men grabbed torches from the bonfire and ran toward the house.
Camille watched in horror as the Red Legs pulled up their bandanas and pitched burning debris through the windows. The noise was deafening as glass shattered and the men shot rounds into the air with glee. The flames cast a ghoulish glow on the marauders and illuminated the terror-stricken expressions of the children.
Camille felt weak in the knees. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move.
One man mounted his horse and drove livestock from the barn as another took the cattle and horses away as spoils. Then they burned the barn too.
Mrs. Crawford looked on, tears streaming down her cheeks but she remained mute, stroking the heads of her children as they clung to her legs. Mr. Crawford was shaking violently, his eyes like saucers.
Chip Crockett, a heavy-set man in filthy homespun looked at him with a laugh. “Shall we give this slaver a jacket?”
“Not yet,” Blade replied.
“But boiling that pitch anymore will--”
“I said not yet! I want it to melt his goddamn skin!”
The jayhawkers by the fire exchanged looks.
Other Red Legs continued to smash and burn outbuildings and shoot rounds into the air. Smoke billowed up into the night sky. It burned Camille’s throat, and she stifled a cough.
At last, the order was given to remove the two cauldrons of pitch from the fire. The men gathered to watch, passing a jug.
“No!” wailed Mrs. Crawford, sobbing and running toward her husband. “No, please, no!”
One of the men restrained her as the children clung to her coughing.
With gloved hands, Grady s took a pot from the fire, stumbled over, and tipped the scalding pitch over Crawford’s head. As the resin ran down his body, he shrieked, flailed, and then lost consciousness. “Take that you, secessionist bastard!” he roared.
Another man stepped up pouring a second pot over Crawford, as Mrs. Crawford covered the children’s eyes and sobbed.
Everyone cheered.
“And here’s your new down coat,” Crockett said, pouring a sack of feathers over him.
The men guffawed.
“Good. Now get a horse!” Blade ordered. “We’ll show this town what happens to slavers.”
They tossed Jed Crawford over the back of a mare and a group took him into Parkville.
As they rode off, a large man in a plumed hat and buckskin strode up to Mrs. Crawford. “Where is he?” he demanded.
She had slumped on the ground and was crying. The children were hunched around her quivering.
The raider kicked her. “I just heard two men lived in this house. Where is the other one?”
Looking up, Mrs. Crawford moaned, “There is no one else. It’s just us and the darkies, and they’ve run.”
The man scoffed. “She’s lyin’. Search the woods,” he barked at the remaining men.
Camille jumped. Her first impulse was to run, but instead she squatted down, her heart hammering. She heard rustling behind her as someone started running through the brush. The Red Legs heard it too and dashed into the woods after them.
Afraid even to breathe, Camille didn’t move as the men ran past, pushing branches aside and jumping over logs.
“Over here!” one of them called. “We got ‘im!”
Camille couldn’t see through the darkness, but she could hear struggling, grunting and someone roared, “Goddamn it!”
Shots were fired. “He’s down!”
After more rustling through the brush, she saw two men emerge from the woods dragging the body of a man.
“No one else livin’ here, huh?” stated the Red Leg to Mrs. Crawford.
She did not reply. Instead, she pulled her toddlers close and hunched over them.
“Toss that dead son-of-a-bitch right over here,” he said to the men.
They dropped the body by Mrs. Crawford, and the group rode off.
The moment they were out of sight, Camille crashed through the woods down to the river path. Sobbing, she stumbled up to their wagon. She didn’t hear their parrot squawking but the racket woke her grandfather, and he sat up in bed.
Camille clambered up the steps, and burst inside. “Grandfather,” she cried, throwing herself into his arms. “We must go! Now!”
“What is it, little one?” the old man asked. “Calm yourself!”
Sobbing, she babbled, “Red Legs. They shot him, and set fire,” and she panted, “Poured pitch.”
Grabbing her forearms, Aslan Kubilay shook Camille. “Slow down! What are you talking about?”
Camille dragged her sleeve across her nose, took a deep breath, and said, “I stole up to the Crawfords, Grandpapa. I thought there was a party and I wanted to watch, but it was the jayhawkers. I saw them tar and feather Mr. Crawford. Then they shot his brother and burned the house down. We have to go!”
He hugged her and exclaimed, “Praise Allah, you’re safe. Did they see you?”
“No, but we have to go--”
“We cannot leave. They will hear us, see us.”
Gasping, she said, “So we stay and we wait for them to come and kill us too?”
“They will not kill us. We don’t matter to them. If they ask questions we will feign ignorance as usual. Was it the group from our side of the river?”
She nodded. “Mr. Blade, Chip Crockett, Grady, and some others I recognized.”
“Very well, then we wait. At sunrise, we take the ferry and return to Kansas as if nothing has happened.”
She stared at him, her chest heaving. Finally, she asked, “Shall I dress like a boy again?”
He shook his head. “Not anymore. Both sides are killing any boys they see over the age of ten because they grow into soldiers.”
Camille’s eyes grew large. “Oh, Grandpapa,” she whispered.
“It is an ugly world out there and we must survive, my little angel.”
Chapter 1
Western Missouri
July 1863
Camille stepped out of the peddler’s wagon and listened. Yes, that was indeed laughter she heard coming from the Crawford homestead. The river carried the sound of merriment to her ears. They must be having a party, she thought.
By the dim light of the moon, the fourteen-year-old girl walked down to shore. Looking through the trees she could just make out the flickering light of a campfire. Oh, how she wanted to be part of the festivities.
Camille returned to the wagon and sat down on the steps with a sigh, tossing her long black braid over her shoulder. She could hear her grandfather snoring inside. Every night he retired early leaving her alone to her books and her dreams. Until now she had been satisfied, but lately she was restless and bored. Camille was young, and she wanted to dance. But who would dance with her? Her skin was not milky white and her dark, almond shaped eyes were so very odd compared to the round blue eyes of her peers.
Camille Kubilay and her grandfather were never invited to parties. Even though everyone in Douglas and Wyandotte Counties knew the Kubilays and purchased their wares, no one wanted to associate with them. Being Turkish in a land of Northern European immigrants was lonely. You were the town pariahs and allowed to exist only on the fringes of society.
Usually peddling in Kansas, today Camille and her grandfather were in Missouri where they were looked upon with even greater suspicion. Several times a year, they ventured into the Parkville area to make deliveries to three of the wealthier residents. Once the orders were filled, they returned as quickly as possible to Kansas especially now that the country was at war.
That does it, Camille thought, jumping up. I may not be invited to the party but I can watch from afar. I don’t care what Grandfather says. He worries too much. So she started down the trail along the river.
As she walked, she speculated on what she might see. Of course, there would be lots of guests and several bonfires. There would be lanterns strung over a table crammed with barbequed meats, cornbread, biscuits, and beans as well as fancy cakes and pies. Since the Crawfords had slaves, she guessed they would be running back and forth replenishing food and opening kegs of beer and whiskey for the revelers. It was a nice night, so everyone would be clustered on the front porch or down near the fires.
As Camille walked along the river, moonbeams riding the black water caught her eye. In a land of adversity, violence, and prejudice, she always searched for beauty. She had to, otherwise she’d go mad.
As she drew closer she could hear men whooping and hollering. I wager there’s dancing too, she thought with a thrill. Someday it will be me doing the reel, a jig, or maybe even a waltz.
The trail was bumpy and several times she tripped on tree roots. Camille lifted her homespun skirt to avoid catching it on thorny branches and strode on until she came to a clearing. It was the Crawford landing. Staying under the cover of the cottonwoods and oaks, she looked up at the house. It was a large home, built in the Greek Revival style with white weatherboard siding and columns running the length of the porch. She thought it was ever so grand, but Grandfather said this plantation house was small compared to those east of St. Louis.
There was indeed a bonfire but only a handful of people were around it, and they were loud and boisterous. Several men were on horseback. Camille needed to get closer, so she started up the hill pushing her way through the underbrush. Branches clung to her skirt and gouged her arms as she scrambled over fallen trees and woodland debris. She was making an awful noise, but the revelers were loud so there was no chance of discovery.
When she came alongside the group and parted the brush to see, her blood ran cold. Mr. Crawford was standing naked in front of the fire bound to a tree and gagged. Mrs. Crawford and the two children were standing near him in their night clothes, trembling.
This was no party; it was a lynching!
Eight men stood around the bonfire, passing a jug and two were on horseback. Some were dressed in tattered blue uniforms, others in homespun. Two wore plumed hats but all had red leggings covering their boots.
Camille recognized them. They were the Red Legs, also called jayhawkers, Union irregulars waging war against local slaveholders and Confederate sympathizers. She knew many of them by name.
“While we wait for this pot to boil, I think we should have a little entertainment,” a dark haired man in a tunic coat announced. Camille knew him. He was their leader, Ezekiel Blade. “What d’you think, boys?”
“Yes, sir!” they roared.
“Do we have everything we want from the house?”
“Everything!” Grady Jacobs shouted as he walked down the steps with an armful of goods.
“Alrighty, burn it!”
Whooping and hollering, the men grabbed torches from the bonfire and ran toward the house.
Camille watched in horror as the Red Legs pulled up their bandanas and pitched burning debris through the windows. The noise was deafening as glass shattered and the men shot rounds into the air with glee. The flames cast a ghoulish glow on the marauders and illuminated the terror-stricken expressions of the children.
Camille felt weak in the knees. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move.
One man mounted his horse and drove livestock from the barn as another took the cattle and horses away as spoils. Then they burned the barn too.
Mrs. Crawford looked on, tears streaming down her cheeks but she remained mute, stroking the heads of her children as they clung to her legs. Mr. Crawford was shaking violently, his eyes like saucers.
Chip Crockett, a heavy-set man in filthy homespun looked at him with a laugh. “Shall we give this slaver a jacket?”
“Not yet,” Blade replied.
“But boiling that pitch anymore will--”
“I said not yet! I want it to melt his goddamn skin!”
The jayhawkers by the fire exchanged looks.
Other Red Legs continued to smash and burn outbuildings and shoot rounds into the air. Smoke billowed up into the night sky. It burned Camille’s throat, and she stifled a cough.
At last, the order was given to remove the two cauldrons of pitch from the fire. The men gathered to watch, passing a jug.
“No!” wailed Mrs. Crawford, sobbing and running toward her husband. “No, please, no!”
One of the men restrained her as the children clung to her coughing.
With gloved hands, Grady s took a pot from the fire, stumbled over, and tipped the scalding pitch over Crawford’s head. As the resin ran down his body, he shrieked, flailed, and then lost consciousness. “Take that you, secessionist bastard!” he roared.
Another man stepped up pouring a second pot over Crawford, as Mrs. Crawford covered the children’s eyes and sobbed.
Everyone cheered.
“And here’s your new down coat,” Crockett said, pouring a sack of feathers over him.
The men guffawed.
“Good. Now get a horse!” Blade ordered. “We’ll show this town what happens to slavers.”
They tossed Jed Crawford over the back of a mare and a group took him into Parkville.
As they rode off, a large man in a plumed hat and buckskin strode up to Mrs. Crawford. “Where is he?” he demanded.
She had slumped on the ground and was crying. The children were hunched around her quivering.
The raider kicked her. “I just heard two men lived in this house. Where is the other one?”
Looking up, Mrs. Crawford moaned, “There is no one else. It’s just us and the darkies, and they’ve run.”
The man scoffed. “She’s lyin’. Search the woods,” he barked at the remaining men.
Camille jumped. Her first impulse was to run, but instead she squatted down, her heart hammering. She heard rustling behind her as someone started running through the brush. The Red Legs heard it too and dashed into the woods after them.
Afraid even to breathe, Camille didn’t move as the men ran past, pushing branches aside and jumping over logs.
“Over here!” one of them called. “We got ‘im!”
Camille couldn’t see through the darkness, but she could hear struggling, grunting and someone roared, “Goddamn it!”
Shots were fired. “He’s down!”
After more rustling through the brush, she saw two men emerge from the woods dragging the body of a man.
“No one else livin’ here, huh?” stated the Red Leg to Mrs. Crawford.
She did not reply. Instead, she pulled her toddlers close and hunched over them.
“Toss that dead son-of-a-bitch right over here,” he said to the men.
They dropped the body by Mrs. Crawford, and the group rode off.
The moment they were out of sight, Camille crashed through the woods down to the river path. Sobbing, she stumbled up to their wagon. She didn’t hear their parrot squawking but the racket woke her grandfather, and he sat up in bed.
Camille clambered up the steps, and burst inside. “Grandfather,” she cried, throwing herself into his arms. “We must go! Now!”
“What is it, little one?” the old man asked. “Calm yourself!”
Sobbing, she babbled, “Red Legs. They shot him, and set fire,” and she panted, “Poured pitch.”
Grabbing her forearms, Aslan Kubilay shook Camille. “Slow down! What are you talking about?”
Camille dragged her sleeve across her nose, took a deep breath, and said, “I stole up to the Crawfords, Grandpapa. I thought there was a party and I wanted to watch, but it was the jayhawkers. I saw them tar and feather Mr. Crawford. Then they shot his brother and burned the house down. We have to go!”
He hugged her and exclaimed, “Praise Allah, you’re safe. Did they see you?”
“No, but we have to go--”
“We cannot leave. They will hear us, see us.”
Gasping, she said, “So we stay and we wait for them to come and kill us too?”
“They will not kill us. We don’t matter to them. If they ask questions we will feign ignorance as usual. Was it the group from our side of the river?”
She nodded. “Mr. Blade, Chip Crockett, Grady, and some others I recognized.”
“Very well, then we wait. At sunrise, we take the ferry and return to Kansas as if nothing has happened.”
She stared at him, her chest heaving. Finally, she asked, “Shall I dress like a boy again?”
He shook his head. “Not anymore. Both sides are killing any boys they see over the age of ten because they grow into soldiers.”
Camille’s eyes grew large. “Oh, Grandpapa,” she whispered.
“It is an ugly world out there and we must survive, my little angel.”
*For a limited time receive the free novelette by Amanda, The Shadow Patriots
|
|
|
|
|
|
