II.

The Bullhead River Saga: 1863 to

1867
(c) 1998, 2008 by Clete Goffard

Marcel : 1863-64

I.
The boy's mother, a handsome woman with the erect carriage and dignity of her
forebears, had belonged to a choleric Mississippi planter named Redmond, whose sudden
intestate death had triggered a long lasting battle between his contentious children and
their lawyers. The woman, and the other slaves of the plantation, being without
usefulness to the claimants of Redmond's fortune, were put on the auction block in New
Orleans.
She and the boy were purchased by Etienne LaFrise, a Crescent City shipper. Lafrise
imagined that her poise signified a natural intelligence that would simplify the running of
his household. He was a lifelong bachelor who had no patience with stupid and petulant
women of any race. Immediately upon entering his domicile, the woman was decreed to
be Mimette, and the boy, Marcel.
The shipper's attitude toward slavery was more classical than that of the Southern
Gentry of English extraction that he knew. He was sometimes curious about the mystical
rites and protocols by which they bound themselves to the institution. They feared their
slaves, perhaps, because they knew that slavery was an intolerable condition they
themselves could not endure, so when they imposed it on others, they attributed to the
slave the outrage they would have felt under a similar bondage (had they not rebelled
against their King in the name of freedom?). Their own desire to be free was transmuted
into cruelty and repression of those they did not permit to be free. Eh bien! What fools
these mortals are.
Lafrise was more pragmatic. Alors--who can like enslavement? But it was an ancient
tradition that in a contest of war, the victors took the subdued as slaves. Is it better to die
by the sword than to serve a master? One may talk of freedom, but if the point of the
sword is against one's throat, who would choose death, n'est-ce pas?
As for race, LaFrise's grandmother had been daubed by the tarbrush, as they say, and
while he would have denied this to the point of duel to maintain his precarious place in
the society of Southern gentlemen, privately he did not care. He sometimes doubted that
the capacity, to care with a passion about anything, was in him.
The boy, Marcel, he placed in a program of tutored education when he was old enough
to benefit from it. To have personal slaves to do one's bidding was one thing, but to
operate a commercial business with slave labor was another. Who was to oversee? A free
employee could only be directed so far, and, if having any capability, was expensive to
maintain.They were also prone to give notice, and one could never quite trust them not to
carry information to their new employer, no doubt a competitor.
The owner of slaves did time for such a trivial matter as the loading of a ship. One
must have slaves supervising slaves in the way that a sergeant directs the men under him,
and the officer directs the sergeant. To direct his fellows, the slave must be quick witted
and have more on his mind than coupling with his latest amoureuse.
Furthermore, such a trained slave brought a higher price at sale. Etienne knew of
certain slaves that had been sold, in New Orleans, for as much as twenty-five thousand
dollars.
So Marcel was taught to calculate, to read the English language, and to write an
acceptable script. He learned to manage a ledger, compose a bill of lading, and to read a
bill of lading so he did not ignorantly accept a consignment of goods if it did not conform
to the documents accompanying it; in short, so he would not be at the mercy of thieves.
The he was sent to labor with the other laborers so he would know how the lash felt on
his bare back, so he would become strong, so he would learn what was being done. And
when he had attained his size, and a man's manner, and was capable of enforcing his
word, only then was he acceptable as an overseer.
When the training had been completed, Etienne summoned him into his study one
morning , handed him a translation of Tacitus with a few marked passages he was asked
to read aloud. He was then asked by LaFrise to join him in a glass of wine served by his
proud mother, and they discussed the meaning of what had been read; this test served no
other purpose than to give the shipper some idea of what he had wrought.
In time, Marcel was appointed to manage LaFrise's warehouses so the shipper could
be assured that a trustworthy subordinate knew how many bales of cotten and jute were
on hand, where they were stored, and that the goods were protected from fire, theft, and
leaking roofs.
For each promotion, Marcel was granted some additional privilege or favor. He had
his own small apartment in a corner of one of Lafrise's warehouses so he could conduct
his personal life in private. But Marcel was never allowed to believe he had free rein or
that he was immune from retaliation for insubordination or carelessness.
Etienne was outraged by the war which daily edged closer to the Crescent City. His
warehouses were bulging with cotton. A pity, because there was so much he could buy
cheaply. The hated Yankee fleet patrolled the gulf, watching for any ship that left the
delta, and the gray-clad gentry had installed a floating boom down river to keep the
Yankees out, they said. But the boom had to be moved aside to let ships out, as well, and
could one imagine they would not take note of who was leaving, and their cargo? There
was the sloop hidden in a bayou a few miles from the city that could proceed directly into
the gulf, but that was not for carrying bales of cotton.
The Confederate gentlemen did not care so much for cotton as they did gunpowder.
Did they not dress their troops from the closet of the Yankee dead? When they bought
cotton they paid with paper they said would be valuable when they had won the war. But
what madness led them to believe they could win such a war? They had not given sober
thought to the consequences, nor had they made plans. They had not acted with
determination or cunning. They had allowed their boisterous talk among themselves lead
them to the verge of sedition. When Carolina had bolted, they had let their temper and
enthusiasm get the better of them and had done likewise.
Now the fools were reduced to leaching ground from smokehouses to get the saltpeter
for their gunpowder, while the Yankees brought it in by the shipload. Had it not occured
to them that those who own the mills that spin cotton can make more guns than those
who own the bare earth upon which the cotton is grown?
It would soon be over, but what a disaster for business! Europe was crying for cotton.
LaFrise sulked in his library, spectacles perched on his thin gallic nose, drank liquers, and
complained to Mimette about the shortage of fresh lobster.

II.
Marcel was standing outside the warhouses on April 24th, when a rider on an
exhausted horse galloped into the city with the news: "The godamn Yankee navy is is
trying to run past Fort Jackson and Fort Phillip, and are getting the goddamn hell blown
out of them!"
There were cheers, but also a sense of foreboding. The city waited for the news that
Farragut and the damned Yankee navy
had been sent to the bottom of the river, but it didn't come.Sometime later in the day,
however, the news turned ominous: "The Yankees are coming up the river!"
The Crescent City of New Orleans felt the bile rise in its throat and yielded to panic.
General Lovell withdrew his troops from the city, perhaps feeling that if Farragut couldn't
be stopped, it made little sense to give him an excuse to use his cannon. Those with assets
withdrew them from the banks and galloped off to safer havens.
In the city itself, the doors of warehouses and barns were thrown open and many
thousands of bales of cotton were piled on the docks and set afire. Barrels of molasses
and bags of rice were torn open and dumped into the Mississippi to keep them out of
Yankee hands.
When the fleet was sighted next day, small boats, uncompleted ships, and what ever
else would float was pushed into the river and set ablaze. Lafrise took Marcel aside and
told him to lock the warehouses and to lay low.
By the time the gunboats had anchored, a noisy, belligerent, and largely ineffective
mob had gathered at the riverfront. When the Admiral and and his officers had stepped
from the ship's boats, they were treated to an assortment of catcalls, curses and jeers. The
crowd thought better of obstructing the armed sailors, however, as they ran the hated
candy-striped flag up on public buildings. Farragut's men had to put up with the unruly
residents of Crescent City for almost a week until General Benjamin Butler showed up to
take command.
Butler did not intend to stand for any civil disobedience, even if it was vocal and
nominally guaranteed by the Constitution; the Federal government did not recognize the
Confederacy as a legitimate entity, so the residents of New Orleans were still American
citizens. But they were American citizens under martial law. Butler had a man hanged for
destroying an American flag, and he issued his infamous Order Number Twenty-Eight,
which said in so many words, that any woman showing disrespect for his troops would be
treated as a prostitute. He quickly was given the sobriquet, 'Beast" Butler, and became
one of the most hated figures of the war. Grant had to replace him; it was intended that
Louisiana was to be the model for rehabilitation as a state of the Union.
During these days, Marcel was largely free to wander the streets of the city. He was at
a loss to know what he was, and what his future might be. He was no longer a slave--but
what did that mean? He knew enough abouit business to know that working for Etienne
as a free man would not be a great deal different except that he would draw a salary, pay
his own way, and be free to quit if he chose. But if that was all there was to it, where was
the great sense of being free that he wanted to feel?
Perhaps he should leave the city for a while to get his bearings. He was unsure what
he really wanted to do, having been largely content to do as he was instructed for most of
his life. It was his nature to accept restraints as a fact of life and to live with them rather
than rebelling.
He stoppped by the Lafrise mansion to discuss his plans with his mother. She was
laying out silver on the table and she responded to his statements with a degree of alarm.
"But Marcel," she objected, "Whatever do you imagine that you will do? You will just be
another penniless negro on the road and be taken for one.You know how much Etienne
relies on you. Why just last night he asked if it would be possible that you might stay on.
You know, son, you have a position that many white men would be happy to have."
"But maman, he said, "I must do something. I am lost. If I go on as it was, it would be
as if nothing had happened."
"Promise me that you will not be rash."
"I promise, maman," he said and left.
As he walked back to his quarters, Marcel thought over the conversation.His mother
had always been possessive and apologetic for the old Frenchman."Remember," she had
told him once, "Etienne is one of us."
"But maman," he had replied, "Of whatever race, he is our master." He know of the
rumor that the old man was part negro, but what difference did that make? His own
ancestors has been delivered into the hands of the white slavers by enemy tribes as black
as they were.
There had always been a nagging suspicion in his mind about the relationship between
Lafrise and his mother. He supposed that Lafrise had a man's normal urges, there was no
gossip afloat otherwise. His mother often spoke about the mansion as if it had been hers--
of course, Etienne would have been amused by that, he was only interested in
comfortable surroundings, and keeping up appearances, and he knew he needed a woman
to look to that.
A few days later Lafrise stopped by the office where Marcel was busy with inventory
records to say that he had decided that the wisest course of action for the business, as
there was no immediate need for income, was to close down sales and to sit tight for the
rest of the year, and perhaps longer. When the Federal government was again firmly in
charge and business normalized, there would be a great demand from Europe for cotton,
since the war years would undoubtedly create a huge shortage. Then, they might get a
handsome price for what they had stored. Until then, the old man said somewhat
wistfully, it was possible that Marcel might be free to explore other possibilities if he
chose.
Several nights later, Marcel was seated in a cafe with a dancer he had been seeing,
when Andre Cailloux, who liked to call himself "the blackest man in Crescent City,"
sauntered in and immediately became the focus of everyone's attention.Callioux was
wearing a brand new U.S. Army officer's uniform with gold Captain's patches on the
shoulders. "What might this be?" wondered Marcel.
Cailloux, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, stood cooly for a moment and
looked around, well aware of the sensation he was causing. When he spotted Marcel, he
strolled over and sat down at the table, "Just the man I am looking for," he said. He
leaned forward and continued conspiratorially, " Great things are happening, my friend!
By the end of the week there will be two thousand black men in uniform. We are drilling
down by the canal."
"I heard of that," said Marcel. What he had actually heard was part of a conversation
between two whites, one of whom was talking about a "bunch of niggers with
broomsticks playing soldier down by the canal."
"We need men like you," said Cailloux, "Men who are leaders. There is a great need
for sergeants. It is not much..."
Cailloux shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, " but one would not
believe the politics, mon vieux. Come and see me when you are ready, but do not hesitate
too long."
Marcel said he would consider the offer, and the black soldier rose, gave Marcel and
the dancer a smile and a forefinger to his forehead as a salute, and left. He had apparently
seen no other prospects for his command, so he made a dramatic exit into the night.
"Is he really a soldier?" asked the dancer, wide-eyed. Marcel said he didn't know.
The more he thought about Cailloux's offer, the more it seemed like the course of
action he should take.He had been given an opportunity to strike back at the source of
slavery itself. It would not only be an honorable way of giving himself time to sort things
out, but perhaps he had an obligation to his race to serve in this way. When he had time to
adjust to his decision, he told his mother and Etienne, who wished him well, and went
over to the makeshift camp to find Andre. He found himself hustled through a process
that attempted to make fighting men out of civilians in a few weeks.

III.
Three weeks later the troops were judged to be ready, at least able to load and shoot
their Springfield muskets, and march in formation, and they were sent north to the
encampment of General Banks, who was attempting to take Port Hudson on the
Mississippi river. Port Hudson, on the south, and Vicksburg, which commanded the river
from a bluff,on the north, blockaded a stretch of the river several hundred miles in length
which the Confederates were using to ferry across supplies from Texas. Banks had
requested assistance from Grant, but Grant was wholly concerned with the problem of
capturing Vicksburg.
Banks decided he would use the newly arrived negro troops in a night assault on the
Fort.
The night air was sweet and mild, and filled with the sound of mockingbirds.It was
soon filled with the sound of cannon and the smell of burned gunpowder. When the last
assault at one o'clock in the morning fell back through the cries of the wounded and the
bodies of the dead, Fort Hudson still stood.
Andre Cailloux was among the dead.

IV. (The Burial Detail)

Banks faced a dilemma in the use of negro troops. If he didn't use them in combat he
would be accused of favoritism by the press, and if he did use them, as in the assault of
Port Hudson, he would be accused to using them as cannon fodder to save the lives of
white soldiers. Officials in the Federal government made it clear that since the New
Orleans negros were among the best educated slaves of the rebel states, they would be
needed as leaders in the Reconstruction of the South. Since they had clearly showed their
courage at Port Hudson, the decision was made to attempt to work them into as many
noncombatant roles as possible.
Sergeant Marcel Lafrise had lost nine men and the corporal from his squad in the night
assault. His sole remaining man, private Elem Williams, had been following another man
when the squad was cut down by grapeshot form a Confederate cannon. When a long line
of army supply wagons reached the camp from New Orleans a week later, a detachment
of replacement troops for Banks left their duty of guarding the column, and Marcel and
Williams found themselves among those assigned to travel along with it.
The supply column did not have a definite destination, but would travel for some days
at a time, and then stop for awhile as various detached units of troops made contact with
it and resupplied themselves with food, ammunition, clothing, and shoes.
At one of these stops, Marcel was summoned one afternoon to the staff tent. The
sergeant at the door ushered him into see a bushy-eyebrowed Major who told him:
"Sergeant, you and your squad are to report tomorrow morning to Lt. Wayse, who we
are endeavoring to assist in our duty as soldiers. Come back here, and he will stop to pick
you and your men up en route to his destination. This is a burial detail, Sergeant, and it is
no bed of roses. If you, or any of your men feel they cannot carry out this detail, they will
be excused. Questions?"
"Sir," said Marcel, "I have only one man left in my squad."
"Well, now," replied the Major raising his bushy eyebrows, "This is, indeed, a
surprising situation. Where did you lose your men?"
"At Port Hudson, Sir."
"Ah, yes. You'll just have to do the best that you can under the circumstances. All
other personnel are already assigned for tomorrrow, and Wayse will just have to make do.
Because of the nature of this job, you will put in only one day at it. Any more questions
or comments?
"No Sir."
"Tomorrow morning, Sergeant. Dismissed."
Williams was perturbed by the nature of the detail when he learned of it from Marcel.
"I come to fight, Sarge," he said, "Not
to bury dead men."
"Be glad it's not you getting buried, Williams," They're not going to shoot at you. Can
you do this?"
"I reckon so, Sarge, I've done worse, I suppose."
"I hope you're right about that, Williams," said Marcel.
Lt.Wayse was about a quarter of an hour late arriving in the morning. Marcel finally
saw a huge wagon pulled by a double team of horses enter the compound area and stop
by the staff tent. He and Williams walked over, and in a minute Lt. Wayse came back out
of the tent and regarded him. The two negroes saluted and Wayse returned the salute,
asking, "Are you Sergeant Lafrise?" When he received an affirmative reply, Wayse waved
toward the wagon, where a sardonic corporal sat on a high seat with the reins of the
double team in his hands.
Wayse, a large-faced, good-looking man in his late twenties with a carefully trimmed
black beard and large, langorous, brown eyes, stood for a moment with his back to the
wagon staring out over the compound. He had discovered he was to have only two
workers, but a job was a job and he supposed it was his duty to get done what he could,
although it was obvious that not too much would get done today at the odious task. He
abruptly turned, climbed into the seat beside the corporal, and gestured to him to drive
on.
Marcel and Williams were perched high above the ground at the back of the wagon.
"This is the biggest old wagon I ever seen," said Williams.
It was huge. Marcel had seen a few of them in his day. The flat bed of the vehicle was
a good five feet above the ground. It had six-foot wheels at the rear and the wagon axles
were at least three feet above the roadbed. The high wagon bed kept the cargo dry when
fording streams on the backroads, and the large wheels kept it from getting stuck in
potholes.
They plodded along at a pace decorous enough for a funeral, and Marcel supposed the
horses could not pull the monstrous wagon much faster. This was a farming area of small
plantations, but most of the residents had seemingly left. The fields looked abandoned
and weedy, although there were a few carefully tended gardens.
They seemed to travel interminably. Marcel, Williams, and Wayse dozed in the warm
morning sunlight. It was early enough that a few deep shadows lingered under the
foliage of the fence rows beside the road, and the air had a cool, dewy, smell.
After awhile, the corporal, J.M. Beale, turned down a country lane. He had to make a
very wide turn, almost brushing the fence rails on the opposite side of the road before
beginning his turn, to get the huge wagon down the narrow lane. Williams amused
himself by grabbing at the leaves of trees they passed, and Marcel thought about what
might be going on in New Orleans.Old Etienne was probably sitting in the St. Charles
Hotel, which Butler had taken over for his headquarters, with a Yankee cotton dealer,
waiting for military permission to move goods.
Several times J.M.Beale yelled, "Tree branch!" and they had to push the branch
upward to keep it from sweeping them of the wagon. They finally reached a field where a
few scraggly volunteer cotton plants were growing up at random.Ruts of wagon wheels
led to a place, not far from which were piles of earth excavated from a burial pit.
As the wagon came to a stop, Marcel and Williams got to their feet, and they could
clearly see the battlefield. This was not the site of recent killing. Marcel understood now
the reason for the careful way the Major with the bushy eyebrows had dealt with the
subject. They could begin to make out the huddled lumps that were bodies spread out
over four or five acres.
As their eyes took in the sight, they realized that the dots of white littering the field
were skulls from which the flesh and hair had rotted. The bodies had lain here for
months, perhaps many months. There was the smell of ancient corruption in the air.
Lt. Wayse sat stiffly and regarded the field. "What sort of God is it that requires such
a sacrifice?" he asked rhetorically. "The horror of this place does not abate with time." He
looked up into the pale blue sky, removed his handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully
blotted his brow. It was going to be another hot day.
They got down from the wagon. Wayse wandered off a ways and stood staring intently
at the burial pit, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Give me a hand, Sarge." said J. M. Beale to Marcel. They unhooked the chain limks
of the traces from the hooks of the whiffletrees; Beale flapped the reins and the horses
moved forward a few steps allowing the the tongue of the wagon to drop from the ring of
the joiner in front of the lead team, and fall to the earth with a thud.
Beale drove the teams smartly off to the side for a few paces, then he and his helpers
coiled the individual reins and hung them on the harness hames. They separated the
teams, unsnapped the reins from the bridles, and removed the bridles and hung them on
the hames, as well.They led the horses by their halters to the shade of a tree. They
watered them from a pail, and Beale tied tethering ropes to the tree and snapped them
into the halter rings, so the animals could graze on what little vegetation they could find.
The three soldiers unloaded the equipment, from the wagon, which included a table
and a chair, two wooden buckets, and a stretcher made of a piece of heavy canvas with
loops sewn on the sides. Through the loops passed two crude poless from which the bark
had not been completely removed. This was for the purpose of transporting what
remained of the bodies.
By this time Wayse had returned from his inspection, and he took a ledger from a
leather valise and put it on the table with ink and a pen. He sat on the chair and wrote out
the date and names of those present on the detail. He opened the ledger to another section
where there were crudely drawn designs of an American and Confederate flags over
appropriate tally columns.
When he had completed his task, he turned to J.M. Beale and said, "You know the
routine, Corporal, carry on with the ghastly task."
Addressing Marcel, he said, "You understand, Sergeant, that Corporal Beale is acting
under my express orders, and you will afford him that respect." He rose, took a bound
volume from the valise, gave them a perfunctery salute of dismissal, and walked off,
immersed in his thoughts.
Corporal Beale took over the functioning of the detail, reciting the procedure as if
from memory. "This is how she works, Sarge. You start over yonder as far as you can find
bodies. Go out a good long ways to be sure, and work your way back from side to side."
"This here is a pennant." He held their inspection a three foot pine lath with one end
sharpened and a triangle of red cloth nailed to the other. "You will erect these pennants
every twenty yards and move them up when you have to. See, they want to know what
area is cleared if we don't finish --and we sure ain't gonna finish."
"This here is a stetcher," Beale said, indicating the canvas and poles contraption. "You
will grasp the remains by the clothing and place it on the stretcher.You put everything
else that goes with it--sabers, side arms, muskets, bedrolls, and sacks.--on top. They want
everything that ain't natural cleared off. You will then carry the stretcher here, and I will
examine the remains for identification."
Beale went to the wagon and returned with a round, flattish, metal can. "This here is
aromatic." He held up the container for Marcel's inspection and traced out the word, "ar-
ro-mat-ic."
You fool, thought Marcel to himself as he read the printing, It says Excelsior Dairy
Supply Company. It's udder balm!
Beale opened the can to show a pinkish salve inside that emitted the odor of carbolic
acid. "You rub this aromatic under your nose," he told them, " and the world don't smell
so bad."
"Might need a shovel, too," said Marcel.
"One in the wagon, as you know," replied Beale.
Marcel and Williams picked up their equipment and moved off, leaving Beale perched
high on the tailgate smoking a cigar and cleaning his finger nails.
The soldiers reached the boundary of the carnage, and wandered around looking for
isolated bodies. They worked their way back and finally came upon a body shrunk to
almost a skeleton by many months exposure to the sun and rain. By grasping the clothing
and using the shovel as a lifter, they managed to put it on the stretcher. They looked
around for equipment that might have been associated with the fallen soldier. Most of the
personal effects, such as the bedroll and mess equipment had been attached to the
clothing as one would expect of a soldier going to battle. They put the musket on the
stretcher with the body and toted the whole lot back to Beale.
"This here is one of ours," said the corporal, "Full uniform and good regulation shoes.
Springfield model '61." Beale used a razor-sharp knife to cut the pockets open. Odds and
ends, coins and currency, spare minie balls, and so on, he threw into one of the pails they
had brought. He showed them how to look for documents or money sewn into the
uniform.
"Lookit here! He was wearing one of them money belts the sutlers sell." He cut the
canvas pockets off the belt and extracted some currency and two well worn letters.
"These here letters might'n have a name or address on 'em." He laid the letters and the
belt on top of the corpse and showed the litter bearers where to start and "identifiable"
row to be examined later.
"If they ain't got no identification, you will be carrying 'em down into the pit. You just
tip the stretcher and roll 'em off."
On their way back to the field, Williams stopped at the wagon and smeared udder
balm under his nose. Marcel did, as well.They worked through the morning. Once, while
attempting to shift a body, a rattlesnake emerged from beneath it. Marcel killed the snake
with the shovel and flipped it aside. "Dead snakes are natural," he told Williams, "dead
men aren't."
Four or five infant snakes wiggled out and they flipped them away into the rank
weeds.
They brought the corpse back and Beale looked it over. "This, here, is a Reb," he
concluded, "The coat is Army, but he probably took it off'n us. The shoes is worn out, the
pants is brown --that almost proves it right there--and this here gun ain't regulation in
nobody's army. Ain't got nothing else worth saving. Throw him in the pit, it's all the same.
Far as the government is concerned they're all Americans."
Late in the morning Williams was distracted by some fat, raucous crows sitting in a
tree surveying them. He threw a dead man's shoe at them. They flew up to avoid the shoe
and then settled back down, cawing indignantly.
"If I had my gun, I'd shoot them crows," said Williams, "They ain't got no respect."
"No reason for them to have respect," said Marcel, "Seeing what they've been feeding
on."
"When they returned with the next dessicated body, Beale had a pail of water and a bar
of lye soap on a box near the table. "Wash up and have your mess," he said, "Plenty to
eat--we're fixed for a dozen."
Marcel and Williams took their food and walked up a rocky hill to sit in the fresh air
and eat. They had finished and begun their descent, when Williams lost his balance and
stepped off the path into some low brush. He had difficulty extracting his foot, and when
he saw that he had jammed his shoe in the ribcage of a corpse lying in the brush, he
began to wail plaintively. Marcel freed him, and Williams fell down beside the path and
vomited. He slowly raised himself up, squatted on his haunches and began to moan,
holding his head in his hands.After awhile he got slowly to his feet and said to Marcel,
"Sarge I can't take this. It's killing me."
They maade their way back to J.M.Beale. "What have you got for Williams," asked
Marcel, "He isn't taking this too good."
"Nothing new about that," said Beale laughing, "I was waiting to see how long you
would last." He went to the wagon and returned with a jug of whiskey. He made each
man drink half a canteen cup of the liquor. The rested a few minutes, and when Williams
looked better, they went back to their job.
They next body they brought back haad a fat wallet sewn into its' coat. Beale fished it
out and displayed a wad of greenbacks. "Rich man," he commented before throwing the
wallet into the bucket. A sideways glance showed him that the Lieutenant was seated
some distance away with his back against a tree, reading a book.
Beale leaned forward toward Marcel and made a sotto voce proposition. "Lookit here,
Sarge, I ain't suggesting nothing, but some of these boys has gold hidden in their coats or
tied on them. If some of that gold should happen to stick to your hand--and mind you, I
ain't saying it will--I didn't see nothing."
Beale winked, " Just as long as you keep some for me, you understand. I can't do
nothing where I am, the Lieutenant has got his eye on me. Only, don't let him catch you.
They might decide to shoot you."
When they had moved off a ways, Marcel said to Williams, "Are you listening to me
Private?"
"I hear you Sarge," said Williams.
"I said, are you listening to me real good?"
"Yeah."
"I'm telling you, Williams, no gold or anything else is going to stick to your hands, do
you understand?"
"I understand."
If anybody gets caught for anything, thought Marcel, it'll be Williams and he will get
the both of us shot.
They continued to weork. Standing above and pondering a skeleton they were about to
pick up, Williams asked, "How do them bones get out of their clothes?"
Marcel toook a second look. The remains they had picked up had looked as if their
unforms had been torn apart. When the answer occured to him, he told Williams, " The
dead bodies bloat up enough to bust the buttons off."
When the sun was getting low in the sky, Lt. Wayse came over to the three of them,
ordered them to form a rank, and turn out their pockets. They did so. When Williams
turned out his pockets, a black elastic garter fell out.
"My word" said Wayse, "What do we have here. A garter?"
"Yessir." said Williams.
"And did you take this garter from the dead, Private?"
"Nossir," said Williams, "It come with me from New Orleans. It's a memento."
"Indeed," replied Wayse, and addressing the others he said, "You men have performed
one of the most distasteful jobs the Army has. Most of the personal belongings you have
collected have little value. Much of it will be burned. Therefore, Sergeant, you and
Corporal Beale may select a memento yourself, on my authority."
Wayse had no doubt in his mind that William's account was true, but he had heard that
Beale was fond of relating anecdotes about the burial details, and he could not afford to
have suspicions cast on his stewardship. Beale would not talk about himself receiving
property of the dead.
Marcel, with reluctance, chose a small penknife, and Beal an ivory-handled straight
razor. Wayse held the pail toward Williams, who sheepishly took a cigar case.
"Now," said the Lieutenant, ""I want all three of you to secure and straighten the line
of pennants in the field, so that those who follow us will see that we have performed out
work properly."
They had walked off a dozen yards or so when Beale said with a smirk, "Take your
time, boys," and cast a backward glance at the Lieutenant, "Take your time." Marcel sent
Williams off to straighten the flags at one end of the field. When he had left, Marcel
surreptitiously tapped a rock with his shoe several times. Beale dropped down and took a
handful of coins from beneath the rock, and slipped them into his shoe. "A real fine day's
work, Sarge," he said.
Yes thought Marcel to himself. But what if there had been no gold? Would even the
Yankees take the word of a nigger sergeant against that of a white man?
When they got back to the wagon, they found that Wayse had transferred the contents
of the buckets into a canvas bag and was waiting for them. They hitched up the teams and
departed.

V.
A few days after the burial detail, the Quartermasters decamped again and made their
way to another appointmment. While passing through a wilderness of stone outcroppings
and dense undergrowth, the supply train was ambushed by a small group of raiders. The
raiders, dressed in Confederate uniforms that looked as if they had been boiled in dirt,
were ill prepared. They were not only routed, but trapped in a gully by Federal soldiers.
The bushy eye-browed Major came out to survey the prisoners, and he eyed them with
contempt. They appeared to be a rogue band of soldiers who had become little more than
outlaws. Had the Confederates not thought they served some purpose in harassing the
Yankees, they would have speedily shot them, themselves. The Major, believing them to
be one of the groups he had been briefed about before the trip, knew that his superiors
would want these men brought back for interrogation. He was thus stuck with the
inconvenience of supervising prisoners.
However, he was able to transfer them to the next unit they supplied, as it was sending
a detachment of soldiers directly back to new Orleans for reassignment. Marcel and
Williams were sent along as guards. When the detachment reached Crescent City, Marcel
was ordered to reort to his Regimental Command. He and Williams did so; Williams was
reassigned as a cook, his specialty before enlistment, and Marcel was given orders to
proceed north to Chicago, Illinois, where he would be attached to the Camp Douglas
prison. Marcel managed to keep his mother and Etienne company for a few days, but it
seemed that little had changed with their world, to which he was beginning to feel an
alienation.
The Confederate palisade compound of Camp Sumter near Andersonville, Georgia,
may have been the worst prison of the war, but Douglas, where ten percent of the
prisoners had died in a one month period, was worthy of notorious mention. During the
early part of the war, Both Federal and Confederate prisioners were routinely processed
and sent home on parole, but that changed. Even if they didn't fight, said Grant, they
might free men who would, and we're fighting a war.
Prisoners of war, historically, have been kept undernourished, because a man on the
verge of starvation is too weak to fight back effectively. It was an ancient practice of
those who concentrated thousands of men in a relatively insecure prison camp, and
controlled them with a handful of armed guards. Camp Douglas was not an exception to
the rule.
Douglas was the size of a farm, and completely enclosed by a tall fence of pine
boards. Administration and hospital facilities occupied compounds near the front gate,
and soldiers and guards were barracked in adjacent compounds. At the rear, long
barracks, hundreds of feet in length, housed the prisoners. Armed patrols marched around
the perimeter of the camp. Public transportation to the front gate was provided by a rail
line on which boxy street cars, pulled by teams of horses, ran.
Marcel commanded a squad of soldiers, most of them negroes, whose daily duty it
was to inspects the barracks for the dead and the dying. They had been carefully coached
by doctors who told them the symptoms that might signal the outbreak of a contagious
disease, and they were to carefully inspect the wooden platforms that served as beds, and
remove the dead and the seriously ill.
Marcel disciplined his squad to ignore the taaunts and questions of the prisoners. "You
have to keep your ears open. They may try to tell you that they are ill. But do not let them
draw you into conversation, even friendly conversation. All they have left to fight with
are words. I will be watching you to see that you are not drawn into their web. If you are,
I guarantee it will not happen again."
He cautioned his troops and he had to continually caution himself against even simple
questions, such as, "what's the weather like out there, Yank?" or "Any you boys from
Alabama? I got kin there."
They passed through barracks of smiling faces and friendly greetings, overly poltie
and helpful, obsequious, fawning, attentive. Marcel could see his troops visibly melt,
relax, and lose their briskness. And when they had passed, they could hear the faint
laughter and contemptuous references to niggers behind them.
The prisoners lay in their lair like a wounded animal that has lost its capacity for fight,
thought Marcel, and which knows that bearing its teeth will invite further injury, but
cannot, because of what it is, surrender its soul. It lay and watched, hate still smouldering
in its eyes, reduced to cunning, guile, and obscenity.
If Marcel hated them, he hated them for that, for they showed him the depravity that
lay within himself; what he would become if courage deserted him-- if his pride and self-
respect deserted him. They had forgotten, in their shame, that however hellish their
conditions, it was not hell. It was not forever. Soon, if they survived, they would be free
men again, which ever government was victorious.But how could they free themselves
from what they had allowed themselves to become?
I know you fools for what you are, Marcel felt like telling them in moments of
exasperation, I have seen your kind rotting like a field of melons in the sun. I have
carried your bones to the pit.
You had nothing before the war. You will have nothing when the war is over. If there
had been no war, you would still have nothing. You would live on the side of a hill with a
few acres of corn and a scrawny hog, and shoot squirrels for dinner meat.
Old Colonel Beauregard waved the star-and-bars before your eyes and convinced you
--you who cannot write your own name--that the dreaded Yankees were coming to take
your cornfields. So you picked up your gun and went off to fight against the government
you had grown up under as if it were a foreign invader.
Do you suppose the Yankees are interested in your hilly cornfields?I have hired a
horse and spent my furloughs riding about this country, past the wheatfields and the
cornfields, to the edge of a great prairie where a grassfield, untenanted and untilled,
stretched a hundred miles into the distance. The earth was ready for the plow, and the
black soil was deeper than a plow could cut. The grass of this prairie was as tall as a
man on horseback. The Yankees cannot farm the land they have. I have seen that. And
beyond the river there is more land.
Are you so concerned with the fate of Old Colonel Beauregard? Have you seen him
coming into town in his lacquered black carriage painted with designs in gold paint, his
nigger teamster proud on his seat, wearing a top hat and dressed in silk livery? Have you
seen his prancing black horses with silver colored harness buckles and red wool plumes?
Have you watched this while you stood in the gutter with your sunburned neck, dirty
fingernails, and cracked shoes? Do you suppose that if Old Colonel Beauregard had
wanted your cornfield he would not have taken it?
Beauregard, had he not been so ambitious as to extend his plantations beyond the
river into Kansas and Nebraska,
could have sat on his portico bossing his nigger slaves for the next fifty years. The
Yankees would have let him do that.
But he was a fool and went to war because of that ambition, and in doing so, finds
himself defending, against deadly force, that which he already had without challenge in
the first place: he will lose even this.
But he will not lose his land. He will sit on his portico bossing his nigger
sharecroppers instead of his slaves. He will be served by nigger servants who are fearful,
not of the whip, but of losing the pittance he pays them.
And what will you have? You who huddle there like a bundle of rags, the skin pulled
tight over your forehead, your eyes sunken, but bright with fever and cunning, crooning
through toothless gums, " Come here, Nigger--lean down, Nigger, I've got sumthin' to
whisper in your ear."
I have seen too much of war. My mouth and mind are filled with the bitterness and
hate of it.
Marcel thought back to Port Hudson . Moonlight and magnolias and two thousand
black beauregards in new uniforms playing at being soldiers and the right hand of
Almighty God. And the truth goes marchin' on. That's right--keep that truth right on a-
marching.
They weren't strangers. Hell, at times he could remember every single face from
having seen them around the city. Now suppose General Banks had had the slightest
suspicion of how many mojo bags went into battle under those new blue coats; the old
boy would have gotten red faced and had apoplexy. Let Banks know about those
midnight lights in graveyards, the poisoned gifts, the secret rites in secret places.
When the old Voudun believers were brought over and they saw the white man's
religion, they knew what it was even if the white man himself had forgotten. Oh yes, they
knew about magic signs made with magic water on which a spell had been cast, and the
priest believing the red wine they drank was the red blood of their god, and the white
bread they ate was his flesh. The Blood of the Lamb intermingled with the blood of the
chicken. Bless you, Saint Barbara.
Mais oui, let the truth go marchin' on. The Lord is trampling those grapes of wrath
into some mighty bitter vintage.
When will this terrible dream end?

Ellis - 1865

I.
Ellis Thorvald stood before the oversized glass windows in his office at the Bullhead River
Lumber and Manufacturing Company's headquarters on Chicago's lake front. He had instructed
the architect that he wanted a clear unubstructed view of Lake Michigan, and not be continually
reminded of his lumber sheds and wharves.
Most of the original Liberty Lumber Company's buildings had been torn down and replaced
with new facilities, but these were used leass and less as time went by. We're loggers, sawyers,
manufacturers, he told his people. Those are enough irons in the fire without being a lumber
wholesaler as well. Now they sold to their customers, wholesalers and dealers, direct from the
factory and the mill.No point in shipping to Chicago, unloading, storing, selling and the reloading
and shipping. Because of the machinery needed for turning out the moldings that were made into
windows, they were turning to using the machines for turning out an assortment of moldings used
in building.
It was a damp, wet, day with a brisk breeze. Torvald could see the gray waves edged with
foam sweeping in from the lake, and a few gulls standing around on their orange legs, wet and
miserable-looking, apparently undecided what else to do with themselves. Or maybe they just
enjoyed being out in the weather.
He had celebrated his forty-second birthday in May. Milly kept track of birthdays and the like,
and she had arranged for the three of them--their daughter Elisabeth had graduated from college
in New York and was spending the first summer at home in a great long while-- to have dinner at
one of their favorite spots.He felt reasonably fit for a forty-two-year-old, even though his jowls
were beginning to show, his hairline receding a little, and his waistline expanding. Perhaps he
ought to be a little more active, spend some time in the country hunting, or fishing. He was
getting a little stale. Well, he would take care of that next month when he made his yearly visit to
Bullhead River. He might look up Eb Martin and they could get away for a day's fishing.
Bullhead River. He spent more and more time convincing himself that this business venture
was important.Manning had just sent him a report laying it on the line.Four or five more years of
logginng and we will have cleaned out Geindt's little forest on the Bullhead River. What to do?
Cut it down, close down,and get out of the lumber business and just make windows? That's what
it came down to.
We can never seem to get this operation rolling, though. If its not a problem getting orders
shipped out down that muddy creek they call a river, and we can't ship anything down it the
winter months, it's some problem with the employees at the mill or factory. Just can't seem to hold
onto the skilled help needed to make windows. Manning thinks we should make the windows in
Chicago where we could have a better work force. People up in that area haven't seen anything
but greased skins used for window panes. Slap-dab job on a window and it looks wonderful to
them. It would look wonderful on a log cabin--you wouldn't notice the crudeness or unevenness,
but house owners keep getting fussier, builders tell him. They want fancy, white, beautiful houses
to impress their neighbors.
Maybe we should just take the pine and hold onto the land and not dispose of it at some
ridiculously low price they way we have been doing. There are others who are getting rich from
what we practically give away.
I'm just blundering along hoping that we will start to do well: that's the root of the problem. If
we can get the window business on a solid footing, we will have something that someone will
think worth buying. Matt mentioned that if we controlled costs, it would be almost as cheap to
buy lumber from one of the Oconto mills as to log our own, even if we cart it up by wagon. Matt
also mentioned that we could rework some of the rejected boards the big mills turn out. Windows
use smaller pieces of wood and we can easily cut around the knotholes. The real life saver will be
rail service. Now that the war's over they will be laying more track.
The war. Thank God that that terrible thing is finally finished.If Abraham had survived to
return to Springfield, what a mentor he would have made for the rest of us! How I would have
loved to talk with the man for half-an-hour to see how that mind worked. What an opportunity
lost!
Ellis had listened to a discussion of the post-War South a few days ago at his club. The thought
had passed through his mind that he might be able to do some good there--surely those people
needed some assistance to put the affairs of their lives together again. But then he thought better
of it. The last thing they needed was an entourage of meddling Yankees coming down to patronize
them.
He could imagine a distinguished old gentleman, a jurist or businessman, whose forebears had
stood with Washington at Valley Forge, a man who had been to Paris and London, a graduate of
Harvard University, perhaps, who would stand aghast at the impertinence of a former dairy
farmer who had made his money in boomtown speculation, offering his condolences. Most of
those types were Masons, anyway.
But the critics were right. Bobby Lee was a good man who deserved to be hung.How many
thousand of troops had been slaughtered in the last final days of the war, which had already been
lost, as a result of Lee's valor and tactical brilliance? Didn't the man recognise that his duty to
humanity transcended his duty to Virginia? And it the end, Grant beat him at his own game; the
tactician wins the battle, the strategist wins the war.
Jeff Davis should be hung, too, but without rancor. The man's saving grace was his
unsuitability as a leader. Dear God, what an opportunity it would have been for a Napolean!
Well, it was over now except for the stories. Several months ago, at a social gathering, an army
type who learned that Ellis had a business near Green Bay insisting on relating the story of a
certain sergeant who had rowed a young Jefferson Davis on a fishing trip when he was visiting a
fellow officer at Fort Howard in Green Bay. Davis stood up in the boat to make a cast and had
fallen into the water. The sergeant pulled him out and spent the war relating the tale. "If I had
known then, what I know now, " the sergeant would say as a prelude to raucous laughter, "I
would have let the son-of-a-bitch drown!"
A million men returning from the war, they say. The Army hard from war and looking for
something to do. That doesn't bode well for the plains Indians. It most certainly does not.
Ellis drew his gold watch, a present from Milly, from his pocket and consulted it. A slow day
and things to do this evening. Elisabeth's friend David Simmons is coming to dinner. Does that
mean what I imagine it does? Another Army man from Racine. If they announce their intentions
there will be no opposition from me. Simmons is the type of young man we would welcome into
the lodge when he matures a bit. I suppose that's the highest praise I could give a man.
The dinner had gone well.Milly had taken some pains to obtain lamb roast which they had
with the traditional mint jelly; the cook always turned out a fine roast. The lamb was a surprise,
though, and he discovered that there were several sheep farms in the vicinity of the city. David
Simmons was brilliant.Some of the things he said about his observations during the war seemed
to Ellis to be particularily significant-- so much so, that he had invited the Major to meet with him
in his office the following day to discuss them in detail.

II.

The next afternoon Ellis and David Simmons were comfortably disposed in the lake front
office enjoying cigars, and Thorvald asked the Major to repeat his story of the evening before
about the Georgia planatation. He had an important reason for this request, and perhaps David
would help him thinking through a few things.
"I was accompanying my Lieutenant on a foraging party we put together from available troops
to obtain provisions in a rural area in Georgia, " said Simmons. "As you probably remember,
since it created a sensation at the time, General Sherman proposed
to march his army from Atlanta to the sea without waiting for a supply train to provision him. We
lived offf the land, and since there were no major engagements, ammunition was no problem.
Many thought it daring, or even reckless, but actually it was nothing new in the military sense.
Philip of Macedonia would have wondered what all of the fuss was about, as would his son
Alexander.
In the course of our foraging we came upon a beautifully kept little plantation, a jewel in a
setting of rich farmland. I am afraid we were in no mood to be gracious in our search for supplies.
We had scarcely set foot,and horsehoof, on the property when an elderly man, who was in fact the
owner, came running out onto the front lawn brandishing an antique saber and ordering us to
depart. The men were quite amused by this Don Quixote roundly cursing them, and one of them
took up a pole, planted it on his chest and had given a push. The old fellow sat down suddenly on
his rear, and had regarded us from that position, a sobered and bewildered old man."
"This also sobered us,somewhat, for he was a pitiful and helpless octogenarian who was
simply trying to protect his property.I apologized for our rough behaviour and helped him to his
feet impressing him with the fact that we would not be denied in taking what we needed, but
would otherwise see to it that he and his estate would remain undamaged. He retreated into his
mansion and we did not see him again."
"As I recall it," continued Simmons, "We collected some half-dozen hogs and two yearling
bullocks which we slaughtered on the spot and loaded into wagons. We also took a good quantity
of flour, some smoked meat, and several hundred pounds of honey and unrefined sugar, as well as
a quantity of young squash and several bags of pecans."
"While this was being done, I wandered over to a building site that had caught my eye. A
rather elaborate home was being constructed on the grounds by a group of negro workmen who
were quite jubilant to see the Yankee Army arrive. I asked to see the foreman, and shortly
thereafter a negro came up to me and informed me that he was in charge of the construction. The
house was being built for the son of the owner who planned to take up residence there."
"I asked if he had the skill to follow the plans of the architect while directing the construction,
and he replied there were no plans other than what existed in his head. He had been building
houses for years. They had taken him to see a house they wished copied, and he was allowed to
examine it in detail. He then returned to the building site and commenced construction."
"You might magine my astonishment at hearing this, for I had thought of the black slave as an
unwilling laborer driven by the whip to cultivate his master's fields; a fellow who had to be
dieected in even the simplest tasks."
"When my surprise abated, somewhat, I was filled with a dozen other questions. How was it
that they were able to obtain supplies for such a project in the midst of a war that was not going
well? I was told that all of the materials were produced locally. A lime kiln burned lime for
mortar, the bricks were made from a nearby clay deposit, the timbers were cut from a woodlot
and hewed by hand, the doors, windows, and the fancy moldings for the walls and balustrades
were made at the site by negro craftsmen."
Ellis held up his and to interrupt the speaker. "You say that all of the fancy woodwork was
done by negro artisans and carpenters?"
"Indeed it was," replied Simmons, "I was shown woodworking manufacture taking place in a
shed. The fittings were all carefully done and of the highest workmanship."
"This is most enlightening," said Thorvald, "An idea is taking form in my mind. But tell me
something, first. Have you ever heard of a man named Robert Owen and an enterprise named
New Lanark?"
"Yes, I have," replied Simmons, "Owen's crusade was quite widely talked about a few years
ago. I believe an attempt was made to duplicate it in Indiana which failed."
"Oh?' said Thorvald, in a disappointed voice."And why might it have failed?"
"There's no mystery to that," replied David, "You must remember that New Lanark in Scotland
was a coal mining town,
the residents had to either mine coal or starve. Mine owners and operators took advantage of that
and overworked and underpaid the miners with the result that output was low and there was
continual dissent."
"What Owen did was fairly simple. He built good housing for his workers, paid them a
liveable wage, and gave them some hope for the future. With an opportunity for more than mere
survival, they responded splendidly. The increased output more than paid for the costs, and Owen
became quite successful with his mine."
"The experiment in Indiana failed because American workers have not been trained to
drudgery, and they found Owen's approach dictatorial, but mainly because if the work got too
hard or they didn't care for the conditions they just walked off the job and headed for the woods
to build a cabin and live off nature's bounty."
Thorvald slammed his fist on the desk for emphasis. "Exactly! That's precisely the problem we
have at Bullhead river. He paused a moment to collect his thoughts and then continued, "I want
you to answer frankly about an idea which has occured to me. It is this: Suppose I were to hire a
group of skilled negro carpenters from those crowding into our city, provide good housing and
comfortable living for them at the Bullhead River plant in Wisconsin. Do you suppose I could
rely on them to make my windows?"
Simmons thought about this. "I believe there would be an excellent chance of that, Sir,
provided you did not stint on their wages. Some of the negro troops made a point of insisting that
they would fight the war without pay,or they would accept the pay given to the white soldiers, but
they would not fight for less pay than the whites."
"It occurs to me," said Thorvald, "That the negro in his servitude has been trained to be a
diligent worker, unlike the white ne'er-do-wells who simply drift from place to place seeking to
live with the least effort."
"There is something in what you say, Sir" replied Simmons, And might I add, the negro is
anxious to take his place in the society of free men, and can be expected to be diligent for that
reason."
"Excellent! Excellent!" said Thorvald, beaming. "Now tell me this. If I were to pursue my
idea, how might I go about finding such workers?"
Simmons replied obliquely. "I resigned my Commision while stationed at Camp Douglas.
While there, I made the acquaintance of a negro sergeant who had been assigned as a records
clerk since none of the white soldiers available had been trained to compile and keep records. His
name is Marcel LaFrise, and he had all but run his master's shipping business in New Orleans.
This is the man you might do well to deal with."
"And do you suggest I enquire at Camp Douglas about thes Sergeant LaFrise?"
"I will do better than that, Sir." Since I am at large tomorrow, I will stop by the Camp and see
if LaFrise is still attached. Or, if he has been mustered out, I will try to locate him for you."
"Well done, David!" said Thorvald, "And now if you have no further appointments for the
afternoon, suppose we return and see if the ladies have any plans for this evening?"

III.

As had become their habit in the last few years, Ellis and Milly took the train north, in June, on
their annual visit to Buffalo.While Milly rested in her hotal in Green Bay, Ellis hired a buggy and
driver to inspect the operation on the Bullhead. But he needed to come up alone and spend more
time at the facility to get a feel of what was going on, not squeeze a few hours out of his personal
life.The thing to do was to take a special trip out there this fall to get La Frise's people settled in--
if he found them.
He had an interview with the New Orleans sergeant a few days before the trip. The man was
certainly competent, perhaps more than competant from what David had said. Unusual man, La
Frise. Shorter and stockier than I expected, hair more curly than kinky--must be some mixed
blood in there somewhere. Odd color to his complexion, a kind of grayish cast, almost like
...gunpowder.
"Oh for Heaven's sake Ellis! he chided himself. Soldiers the color of gunpowder--I am
becoming a fanciful old woman. Something missing in La Frise, though, a lack of spontaneity, as
if he was burned out. Something that reminds me of ...David. Of course they have that same thing
about them. They're both killers, is that it? We sent them to war to kill and they became hard.
Now they have returned to make us hard. Every war kills everyone in some way. I'm beginning to
sound like one of those dreadful romances Milly has taken up reading.
He studied the roadside out of Green Bay as they traveled north. Why, it was almost like
Chicago all over again, buildings springing up all over. Not just cabins, but houses made of
boards with proper windows. Hopefully my windows, thought Ellis. Why, a house needed six,
eight...twelve windows. A thousand new homes in a hundred cities and towns might need half a
million to over a million windows. And our output is what? Less than two thousand a year. Why ,
if we could get our factory running smoothly, and we increased production by twenty-five times
we would still have one per cent of the market, and I just took that figure out of thin air. It's
probably greater than I think; we keep forgetting what a great nation this is becoming.What a
disaster that war almost was for us.
Cultivated fields seemed to be springing up out of the forest. why, here's a fieeld of corn
planeted in straight rows, not hills.And what have we here? The farmer riding a sulky with large
wheels cultivating the field with a team of horses. And to think how much of my young life was
spent hacking grass from around cornhills with a hoe.
When they reached the Bullhead flowage, the driver pulled up in front of the McLochlin
saloon with its garish sign, as if he expected that was where a visitor would first want to stop.
Ellis shook his head emphatically and motioned to the factory buildings.
No one seemed to be around to greet him, which was just as well, for it gave him the opportunity
to see how the place operated normally. He watched the saw in operation, and saw the piles of
sawdust it turned out. What an improvement the bandsaw will be when they can get the bands
improved so it will run without continually breaking them, as Matt told him. Ellis' inspection
lasted only a minute or two before Matt and the lame-footed foreman, who were maneuvering a
new machine into place stopped what they were doing and came over.
He and Manning went into the office to discuss essential things. Ellis told Matt of his intent to
import black workers for the window factory, and while their recruitment was not yet a certainty,
he wanted him to go ahead and build four cottages, not of logs, but good modern construction,
and to plane the siding boards, if possible. They were to have front porches, to be fenced in with a
small plot for a garden, and to be painted white.
"White?" asked Manning.
"Yes, said Thorvald, and a good white lead paint, not whitewash."
"Yes, Sir," replied Manning, not a little baffled.
 Ellis made an inspection of the window factory and was displeased to see that no production
was occurring, and withheld comment after an explanation that explained nothing he could
understand was given. That would soon change. After a cup of tea with Beryl and the girls at
Matt's cabin, he had his driver summoned from the saloon.
"How much did we sell that land for?" motioning to the McLochlin's property.
"If I recall, replied Manning, "Something like five dollars an acre."
"Five dollars an acre!" said Thorvald in disbelief.
"My thinking was that if we could hold on to Sean O'Connor, we could take a small loss.He is
one of our best window makers."
"Hmmm," said Thorvald, "I suppose it was warranted in that case. But henceforth, we will
dispose of no more land. I want you to conduct a survey of the other species of wood, especially
tamarack. It's pretty clear we don't have much of a future in the commercial pine logging
business. We've still got plenty of maple and birch if we can decide what to do with it. I assume
that we can find a way to make something else besides windows. And one other thing, Matt, let's
ask around and find out how much it would cost to have a contract logger cut our timber. We've
got too many irons in the fire."
The driver arrived and Thorvald got into the buggy and, with an expansive wave of his straw
hat, departed for Green Bay. The onlookers saw the vehicle stop at the edge of town as Thorvald
lighted a cigar. The he and the driver were on their way again, and in a moment or so had
disappeared into the forest.
Ellis and Milly boarded the ship to Buffalo the next day and had a very pleasant voyage. A
rediscovered intimacy of their love life made the trip like a second honeymoon.
Matt Manning had the cottages built according to directions, and painted white. Each had a
roomy white porch, its own well, its own garden plot, and was surrounded by a neat, white, picket
fence. They made the rough exteriors of the rest of the town look barbaric.
The residents of the community, who were enormously interested in their construction once it
became known they were to house negro workers, never referred to them as other than "The
Nigger Shacks."

Marcel, Elda - 1865

I.
Marcel had not be adverse to meeting with the wealthy lumberman that Major Simmons had
said he would like to arrange. It did no harm to explore possibilities although he imagined that he
would return to Crescent City and find a place there. He knew the city and its ways. If Etienne
were still about, he might do well for himself. Were he a Cailloux, he would do very well for
himself, but he didn't have the flair. If nothing else worked out he had friends there and would
have no problem with going out with a fishing boat. If the world started to close in on him, he
knew a dozen places on the back bayou where he could tie a pirogue.
He didn't quite know what to make of Ellis Thorvald. The man was tall and bulky, but his legs
dwindled into small feet--he reminded Marcel of a tethered balloon.
The man had been nervous--no, uncomfortable. He was not accustomed to personal dealings
with negroes. Marcel had a problem trying to understand what Thorvald was trying to tell him.
He owned a factory in Wisconsin, up north, that part was simple enough.He wanted to hire negro
woodworkers and carpenters for the factory. They were to have their own cottages and groceries
from the company store and be paid a good wage. Negroes in cottages--was the man serious? And
where did he come into this?
"You want me to work at your factory, Sir? I am not a carpenter."
"I know that," he had replied, "I want you to find the carpenters for me among your own
people. There are to be three men and yourself. You will be the leader of the group."
"You want me to work with them at the factory?"
"That's right. The work is not as difficult as you think. Each task is made as simple as possible.
You will have no trouble learning.I ask for carpenters so they will find the job comfortable and
know something about working with wood. Of course they will take their families with the, we
need serious men.
Marcel pondered this.
"We will not work hard this winter, but the group will make the location their personal home."
"Sir," said Marcel, "If these are good jobs, why do not the white workers want them?"
Thorvald looked slightly discomforted for a moment before replying. "The white workers are
not trained to take care with wood working. They are rough men and not accustomd to a steady
job. Sometimes they will leave if they feel like wandering."
Marcel thought about this: And we will not leave to go wandering. We will stay in our cottages
and raise children and be happy.
Thorvald had one last card to play. "For those who stay for three years, the company will give,
free and clear, eighty acres of land."
"Let me understand this, Sir," said Marcel, "If we work for you for three years we will be
given the deed to eighty acres of land each, that is, a total of three hundred and twenty acres all
told, and it is by law ours to keep, even if we decided to stop working in the factory."
"That is right," said Thorvald.
"I must think on this Sir. I am not certain my future is in the north."
"Make your decision," said the older man, " But I ask of you one thing. If you do not choose to
go, find me four good men of your race, men with families.I will pay you well for this task."
"That I will do, Sir." said Marcel.
"Fine, fine," said Thorvald. "I am leaving on a trip for several months, soon, but the group will
leave when it is possible to do so.Mr. Evans in my office is informed of this, as will be Mr.
Manning at the factory when I visit him soon. They will see that all of your needs are taken care
of." He gave Marcel his business card, and then held out his hand to Marcel awkwardly. Marcel
took it with the suspicion that it was the first time either one of them had shaken hands with a
member of the other race.

II.
In the following days, Marcel pondered the Thorvald proposal. One instinct told him he should
not pursue the matter at all. He had always gone his way alone, even when conducting LaFrise's
business with his slaves; he was to superintend and presumably to keep them from a hasty
departure at the first loss of confidence. He was not prepared to adjucate the squabbles and calm
the fears of a group who had yet to learn how to get on in the world without direction, and who
almost certainly would be disappointed.He knew that he would be importuned and pressured by
the Thorvald company if there were a problem with the workers, and by the workers if there was
an issue with the company.
He almost regretted his promise to find the men.Yet, this was not really too much to ask, at
least the men and their families would be spared the broken down shacks of the shantytowns that
were springing up around the city. Find four men, make a few dollars for it, then back down to
bayou country. He could not deceive himself, he was no longer a young man and the war had
taken the ambition from him.
He was due to be mustered out of the Army at any time. He would have been gone by now,
except that he was asked to stay on for a while to get their records straight. He ought to have left
already, but why was it so hard to make plans about returning? Could it be he didn't want to
return? What was the problem? It certainly had nothing to do with Etienne or his mother.
Marcel thought about an oulying squatter camp between downtown Chicago and Camp
Douglas that he had often looked at from the trolley with curiosity. Maybe it would be a good
place to look for carpenters for the man.
He got off the horse drawn conveyence near the camp and walked a few yards to what
appeared to be the entrance. The entire camp seemed to constructed of scrap lumber and canvas
nailed to posts. Ragged negroes milled about or stood in small groups talking. Marcel's attention
was drawn to a prayer meeting being held in one corner of the open yard. He stopped a few steps
away to watch. When it had concluded, the preacher, who had not missed the presence of an
obviously established visitor, came over to him and said, "Greetings in Christ, brother. How may
I be of service to you?"
Marcel explained his quest, and the minister exclaimed, "Employment! That is certainly
wonderful news. We are so poor here." He went on to explain that the coming Sunday there
would be a convention of several of the camps, a mass religious gathering to buoy up the spirits.
If he came back then he would be helped. The minister would spread the word, and the carpenters
would surely be found. Marcel thanked him and gave him some money as a gift. A tear came to
the man's eye as he gratefully accepted it. "May the Lord bless you," he said, "We will eat
tonight."

III.

In the old days, Rontelle's owner used to brag on him.

"Pick yourself a tree.Cut it down and put it on horses. Rontelle will come over bye and bye
and hew a beam. If you want, let him pick out the tree hisself--you can't do better. He can hew it
to any dimension you want in a day."
"Don't mind him talking to hisself--that's his way. You can lay a straightedge on the beam, you
can measure it, comes out to an eight of an inch difference from end to end.Got his own
measuring sticks. Show him the size you want, he'll turn 'em out like clockwork. One a day, and
watch the carpenters marvel."
But that all had changed, now. Rontelle Jefferson was a free man. He had got himself a wife
and religion. One woman, the Bible said. He couldn't read but everyone told him it said that. One
woman is all you need if you put your mind away from the lusts of the flesh. Got some atoning to
do for my sinful ways of the past, he reminded himself. No time for sinning now, got to find my
own work.Don't live no better, but you can't count that when a man's freedom is what you have.
Rontelle went to the big meeting with his wife. The Preacher pointed out Marcel as a man who
was looking for carpenters. Be careful of that man, someone told him, he's got a mean look in his
eyes. Guard at Douglas Prison.From New Orleans--you don't know what those people can do to
you. Be easy with that man--he's got the smell of death on him.But if you're looking for wwork
you can't be choicy. Rontelle sought him out. Marcel asked if he could carpenter. He said he
could hew a beam out of oak, maple, pine, what you wanted.
"They don't hew beams, hereabout," said Marcel, " They cut them out with a saw machine. I
want to know if you can join wood, make windows."
"Never make windows," said Rontelle, "You got to have four kinds of planes and a box of
tools. All I got is an adz,so sharp it can slice a hair."
"Give me you name," said Marcel, "Got to ask a man about beam hewers."
"I can cut a timber so smooth you can't see the adze marks," said Rontelle.
"Man wants careful worker, might be that would do," said Marcel, "You got a family?"
"Got my wife, got my my religion," said Rontelle.
"That's good," said Marcel, "Where you be going you don't find a woman behind a bush."
"How far be this place."
"'Bout as far as St. Louis. Only north, Milwaukee state."
" I hear about Milwaukee," said Rontelle.
"Give your name to the Preacher too," said Marcel, "So's I can find you if need be."
When Rontelle left, a round-faced, smiling man with a shy wife and a child on his arm came
up to Marcel."Heard talk about a man looking for carpenters," he said, " Name is Willdo Green."
"Can you join wood?"
"Born to it," said the man."Show you a puzzle." He set the child on the ground and took a
strip of paper from his pocket. He tore it in half and gave one half to Marcel. "Make half a corner
like this," he said, folding over a corner to make an angle. "We say this is a board with a miter
cut." Marcel folded his paper and Willdo said, "Hold it up so's I can see it," and then almost
immediately handed his bent piece to Marcel. "Now put the two together so's they join." Marcel
did so and the pieces seemed to fit together into a perfectly square corner. "Put a square to it and
you will see that it is so," said Willdo, "Gift of the Lord."
"Job is making windows up north."
"Goin' north some more," said Willdo.
When WIlldo had left his particulars and departed with his wife and child, a small man with
grizzled hair tentatively made his way over. He was Octavius and admitted to no last name, but he
was not only a carpenter, but in fact a window maker.
He apologized for what he considered was a serious deficiency.While on the road north to
Chicago, he had been set upon by a gang of white youths, and the sack with his precious
woodworking tools had been taken from him.Marcel told him that the company that was looking
for workers had its own tools, but also used power tools for making windows. Octavius pointed
out a corner of the yard where he could be found if wanted and went off.
Rontelle, Willdo, and Octavius seemed to be the type of men that Thorvald wanted. Octavius
was widowed, but he was an older man, and he doubted that the factory owner would want to
exclude an authentic window maker because of a family requirement.None of the other men who
approached him seemed to be what was wanted. Most of them were carpenter's helpers,
or had done various odd jobs involving wood. He was talking to one of them when there was a
flurry of actvity nearby that drew everyone's attention.
A smooth, well-groomed and prosperous looking man who had been introduced to Marcel
earlier as Byron Robertson, a barber from Milwaukee, seemed to be involved in an altercation
with a young, intense-looking, man who who had apparently insulted him.
Robertson's wife was the focus of the altercation. She was a tired-looking blonde, obviously a
white woman.Robertson's challenger had made a comment about her moral character, since her
could not conceive oof a circumstance in which a negro would be allowed to have a white wife.
Robertson was not of a mood to let a slur of this kind pass without challenge. Fortunately, the
young man's friends hurried up to apologize to Roberston, and he reluctantly accepted it.The
State in which he lived, Robertson informed them, never had a law against interracial marriages,
and several of his frinds also had white wives and colored children.
When the altercation hasd simmered down, Marcel wandered off to a corner of the yard to
watch the crowd and think.He still lacked a worker to complete his promise to Thorvald. He
could probably find one man by milling around the streets of Chicago.
Or, he could take the job himself. He didn't expect much, but in his present state of lassitude, it
was easy to drift along with the first opportunity that presented itself since it eliminated the need
to make a determined decision.Perhaps he should travel on to
Detroit, Pittsburgh or New York to see what was available there.Maybe he should fulfill his
family obligation and return to New Orleans, if briefly, to see his mother, and to be certain she
was not in dire need of his help.
He was nursing his thoughts when he turned to see a tall, strong-looking woman holding out a
bowl to him. "Will you not share our simple food with us?" she asked.
Marcel took the bowl and spoon from her and began to eat. He looked at her. Not pretty, but
with character, strength, and a clean scrubbed look. He found the combination very appealing. A
small child, a boy, not more than four or five peeked at him from behind her skirt.
He looked at her again. "Where are you from," he asked.
"Chicago," she replied, "I was born here."
 "I am from New Orleans," he replied, "My mother lives there. Do you come to help out at the
camp?"
"No," she replied, "I live here. My husband died and I had nowhere else to go. They say you
are going north to work in a factory."
"I have no need to go," he replied, "But I may. I want to forget the war."
"Sojer!" cried the child, pointing his finger at Marcel. They both laughed. Marcel gave the boy
a mock salute and replied, "Sgt. Marcel LaFrise, at you service, Sir!"
"I am Elda Harris," she said, " I cannot make windows, but might you have need of a strong,
clean, woman who can cook?"
"I have need of a strong, clean, woman," he replied, "But perhaps as more than a cook." They
both laughed.
She took the empty bowl he offered her, and as she was leaving she turned and said, "You can
find me in the room we use as a kitchen. Come and see me when you are here again."
The following morning, Marcel's commanding officer called him into his office, thanked him
for his assistance, and told him the Army was no longer in need of his services. He was released
from active duty. He could stay on a few days until the mustering out paperwork was completed,
but his time was his own.
That afternoon he went out to the Bullhead River offices and was ushered into the presence of
a Mr. Kohlberg, who was the company's business manager. Kohlberg listened quietly while
Marcel told him of Octavius, Willdo Green, and Rontelle Jefferson. It was just such a group that
Thorvald was interested in finding. But what of the fourth man? Did he himself plan to go?
Marcel replied that he had not yet decided, but would inform Kohlberg by Friday. Kohlberg
replied that if he did not choose to go, they would need one more good man, possibly the
woodworking requirement could be relaxed slightly. A capable workman who
was good with machinery was almost as good, and possibly better, since it was efficient to use as
much power equipment as possible.
Marcel said he would make this attempt, and Kohlberg said he would make arrangements for
the group to leave the following week. The housing at the factory were completed, and Matt
Manning was waiting for his workers.
The following morning Marcel spent several hours walking with a folder of papers from one
sergeant's desk to another, each of which added or removed a paper or two, and made him sign
others. His lack of a civilian address complicated things a little, but not too much.Army staffers
would spend years getting the war organized into written form.
That afternoon he traveled to the congested area of the city in search of the fourth man for
Thorvald, and he began to appreciate the efforts of the minister of the camp he had been visiting.
The residents of the camp had nothing, but at least they had the remnants of their self-respect left.
The wretches he found downtown had been reduced to being street beggers, desparate for a
few coins to reduce their misery. Marcel simply couldn't visualize a ragged man without hope as a
productive worker clearly enough to have any faith in his judgement. He didn't have enough
money to satisfy their needs, and it was hard to turn them away. He finally left empty-handed and
disappointed.His money would be better spent on provions that would be turned into food for the
camp, rather than being spent on cheap whiskey.He bought an entirre wagonload of potatoes,
carrots, and turnips from one of the vendors and rode with it out to Elda's camp.
Sitting on a bag of potatoes on the way out, Marcel thought about Elda. He had no illusions
about her kindness to him. She was a widow, with a child, who had been reduced to poverty. She
needed a provider. Being the woman that she was, she would have no trouble with that. She had
chosen him, and had been determined enough to bring herself to his attention, She knew what she
needed, and what she wanted.
The minister was overjoyed with the wagonload of food.He started to thank Marcel, but the
sergeant held up his hand and said, that he had spent the afternoon on the streets of Chicago, and
had seen what men without hope could sink to--it was he who should be thanked for taking up the
responsiibilities and burdens of others. If the minister had had white skin, Marcel thought, it
would have tuned red from embarrassment at this simple praise.
Elda spotted him immediately as he walked into the crude kitchen, and steered him over to a
corner where a packing crate served as a table, and at which her son waited for her. She brought
Marcel and the boy bowls of stew. He had a large piece of meat which she said was from a rabbit
that one of the camp men had captured in the morning. He knew he couldn't bring himself to eat
the meat with the child's eyes on him, so he broke it to pieces with his spoon and gave most of it
to the boy who took it shyly and deviured it greedily.
Marcel looked up to see Elda's eyes on him, and it occured to him inn the strange mood of
detachment that sometimes came over him that the piece of meat had been a test that she had put
to him.
After a few moments, Elda came over to sit with them. She asked Marcel how his search had
been going, and he replied he hadn't been completely successful,but it seemed that the company
was eager to send the work force north by the beginning of next week. He, himself, expected to
be separated from the U.S. Army, and Camp Douglas, the next morning.
He then asked her if she and the boy would like to take an excursion on the morrow. He would
hire a horse and buggy and they might go on a trip to the countryside if she would like that. She
readily accepted, and he went off to find Rontelle, Willdo and Octavius, and give them the good
news that they should be prepared to leave very soon.
After signing the final papers, Marcel was paid off, and departed the grounds of Camp
Douglas and employment in the Army. He hired a wagon, drove back to Douglas, and loaded
what gear he had into the wagon. After picking up food for a picnic he drove back to the
squatter's camp and picked up Elda and her son. In a few minutes they were out of town, traveling
along a route he knew to see the prairie. They encountered a few former slaves trudging
northward, with their few possessions in gunny bags carried over their shoulders. They waved
and got a smile and wave in return; once Marcel stopped the wagon to give directions.
How could you tell such people the best place to go, or the best way to go? They would
discover soon enough there was no best way. If they had been able to understand, he might have
advised them to head for the Mississippi and head south until they came to an unoccupied spot
where they could put up a hut and at least have fish for food.
But they were pioneers in their own way, advancing into a strange land, and pioneers don't
squat at the first fishing hole at which they can eke out a living; they go out and claim their own.
Like a soldier, they had their duty, if not to themselves, then to their children.Or, so it seemed to
him.
The picnickers stopped for lunch at a place that Marcel remembered, a small depression with a
huge weeping willow tree that provided many square yards of shade, near a brook with good-
tasting water. Marcel then took out the basket he had brought to present his first surprise, a real
lemon they all felt, smelled and tasted for its fresh flavor, and a package of sugar to make
lemonade. He also produced, with a flourish, two whole loaves of fresh bread, two whole roasted
chickens, as brown and succulent as you could desire. He looked at Elda to share her pleasure at
this feast, but she had covered her eyes with her hands and was weeping.
They ate voraciously, cleaning up every bit of food. Afterward they nibbled on the lemon
peelings. It was such a quiet, pleasant, place they lay down and took naps. When they awakened,
the boy was moaning--he had eaten too much chicken.Marcel got him a drink of water and they
decided to make their journey back, just another family returning from an excursion in the
country.
It occured to Marcel that with the feast he had not only made a declaration but a promise, but
that was fine, because he had not felt so at peace with himself in years. Was there a point in
waiting? Elda's soul was clear as a brook, and he was no child uncertainof his feelings and needs.
Was there a need to wait simply for the sake of waiting? He thought not.
At the first shady spot in the road he pulled the horse over to the side and stopped. "Elda," he
said, "I have a question to ask you." When she looked at his attentively, waiting, he asked, " Will
you go north with me to the factory as my wife?"
"Of course," she replied, reaching for his hand.
When the returned to the camp, Marel had the slightly dazed minister perform a simpla
marriage ceremony. He unloaded his gear, and took the horse and wagon back.
Having been a fledgling bureacrat and buusiness manager himself, Marcel admired the speed
at which Kohlberg got the group assembled and on its way the next Monday morning.Most of the
trip was by railroad, and there was a stagecoach to take them from Oshkosh to the Bullhead River
settlement.
The newly painted cabins still reeked of turpentine,but each had a large steel bed with
cornhusk mattress, and an enameled cast iron range designed for both cooking and winter
heat.Both Matt and Beryl Manning came over to see them settled in, and Matt informed Marcel
that he should take Octavius and the women to the company store to obtain what they needed to
set up households; he thought it would be better if they picked out those things themselves.
The work at the factory began the next day for the men. Sean O'Connor showed them the
manufacturing system they were using, and the power equipment that was intended for use. The
men soon adjusted to their new lives, as best they could, although none of them traveled
anywhere in town without every white face turned in their direction.
Yet, Sitting at his own table, in his own new house, with all the food he could eat in front of
him, Rontelle felt that the promise of freedom had been achieved.
Octavius felt awed by the space he had in his cabin, and contemplated replacing his bag of
tools. He often went to the flowage and fished, when he had the opportunity.
Willdo shook the sawdust out of his clothes and carefully bathed his dry hands, proud that he
had done so well by his family. The piney woods had little appeal for him, Marcel was a little too
menacing, and Octavius a litle too eccentric and old-mannish. He and his wife often invited the
Jeffersons over, and vice-versa.
Elda was the most outgoing of the group in the community, and she traveled around town
introducing herself to the women. She and Rose McLochlin seemed to have a natural affinity.
Marcel found the wortk at the factory less of a chore than he imagined, it was almost a vacation
from his life or responsibility, for the other men of the group needed no prodding and knew more
about wood that he did. He found refuge in the quiet warmth and devotion of his wife, and let the
horror of the war leach out of him.

School Days : 1866

I.

Rose McLochlin's cheeks still burned when she remembered the humiliation she felt when she
had been unable to even write her name for the banns of her marriage. She had two younger
sisters, Colleen and Mary, who also had never seen the inside of a schoolhouse, and her new son
would be of school age before you knew it. She was determined there would be no more
illiteracy in the family.
The was no school in Bullhead Settlement, and those she asked seemed not to know when
there might be. Some thought Ellis Thorvald's company would erect a building when it became
necessary. Some of the townspeople told her that the establishment of a school was the
responsiibility of the County. Sometimes churches had schools, but Bullhead Settlement didn't
even have a church building, unless you counted Jack Boyd's chapel across the flowage.
Beryl Manning was well enough educated to be more than an adequate tutor for her two girls,
but she was not interested in the burden of taking on other children. None of the men would have
time, even if they were qualified, and none of the women, aside from Clara Hode, had completed
the Sixth Reader; many of the foreign born wives could barely make themselves understandable
in normal speech.
Yet, having set her will to the task, Rose was determined that there would be education in the
community. One needed , she concluded, to start with a school house. That she knew how to go
about doing. She expressed to Johnny, one evening after supper, her feelings about the value of an
education, which he, of course, could not object to. She then boldly announced her intention of
putting up a school building. This would involve no labor or expense on his part, except to use a
wee bit of land growing that ugly patch of sow thistles across the road from the white cottages
the Thorvald company had just put up to house its negro workers.
Johnny had looked at her with a raised eyebrow, but being well-married, smiled and shrugged,
as she fully expected him to do. She was ready for the next step.
She located Matt Manning in his office and asked for lumber, carefully explaining the
community's need. When he said something about the County, she misunderstood and pointedly
demanded to know if the County had a law against building schoolhouses. He looked at her
strangely and replied, " No, of course, not," and quietly asked what it was that she needed. She
told him, and two days later a company wagon deposited a pile of boards, two-by-fours, window
sashes, and doors next to the patch of sow thistles.
For the actual construction Rose knew she would have to pay out of her own pocket if she
hoped to keep the project firmly under her own control. She hired Carl DesJardins, known locally
as the squawman, who lived on the other side of the factory with his Indian wife.
Carl was nominally a farmer, but few stumps got uprooted by him or his two brother-in-laws
who hung around the place quite a bit and helped Carl in his wagon building business. They
belonged to Jack Boyd's Chippewas, Carl's wife like to live close to her relatives, but not too
close.
Rose got the nails and paint in Green Bay, going in on Johnny's old horse. Carl informed her
that for glazing, she wanted old Emil Gundel who lived next to the Lorquists, as he had a real
diamond for cutting glass, and did a nice job with the putty. The two brothers-in-law, Herb and
Bill, were fair carpenters and could be counted on to do a conscientious job.
She was determined to have a real fireplace, and she bought two loads of bricks from a kiln
down the river. After she had done this, Carl informed her that the beautiful pink and yellow brick
was too soft for a fireplace. She needed firebrick as well. The brothers-in-law disagreed, saying
they knew how to make a clay lining that would work just as well, which they did, and which it
did.
For roofing, the trio hauled several loads of sawed pine shingles from the factory lot. The
Thorvald operation often cut odd length logs into blocks which were sawn into shingles--one of
those fill-in jobs for workers during lumber mill downtime.
From Beryl Manning, Rose learned that the latest innovation for schoolhouses was a large
slate slab called a "blackboard" mounted on the wall at the front of the school room. No one else
had ever heard of one,but the brothers-in-law thought small slates could be had in Green Bay.
After the function of the blackboard was explained to them, Herb and Bill said they knew what
she wanted and would make something for her that would work just as well.
A few days later they returned with a large shallow pine box set on legs made from poplar
saplings, which they set up in front of the room. They poured a quantity of clean river sand into
the box and leveled it off. His tribe had been writing in sand a long time, Herb said, and it worked
well provided you didn't want to keep the wriiting. If you did, you would want to write on rock or
something hard that would really last. When you finished with your sand writing, you leveled the
sand out and gave the table a good shake to make it smooth again.
But where was she to find a teacher? The best the Settlement had to offer--other than the
unavailable Beryl--was little Clara Hode, who Rose thought of as a bleached-out doll with the
courage of a field mouse. She had the essential background, having attended parochial school in
Pittsburgh, and one knew that the good Sisters didn't tolerate scholarly dawdling. A schoolroom
of energetic youngsters would probably be too much for Clara to handle, though.
Clara adamantly refused to be a schoolmarm--she could be as stubborn as any other Dutchman
when pushed to far. When Rose dangled the bait of a dolllar a week in front of her, there was an
almost desperate longing in her eyes and she reluctantly agreed.
Rose had concocted a scheme. The two of them could make one teacher. Rose would organize,
run, maintain the school, and be on hand to see that the children behaved. All Clara had to do was
to present the knowledge. She would write down the letters of the alphabet--that was the
beginning, wasn't it?--and Rose would see to it that the letters were memorized, or else. That
ought to surely work.
School sessions were held Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, and were four hours in length. Clara
identiified the letters by name, and showed how they were made in both their "great" and
"humble" forms. Rose led them through a recital of them, making it a point of honor to learn
faster than the children. She made a sandbox from a bowl at home and practiced when she had
time.
After a few weeks she took out her marriage certificate one day and was gratified to find that she
knew all of the letters in her name, and could even write out her name in the sandbowl. The
whole thing wasn't quite as complicated as she had feared.
When classes were well established, it was suggested that Reverend Boyd, from across the
river, might give the children the fundamentals of religious instruction. He was asked to teach
about God and Jesus without all the "isms." They could get that later, to which Boyd replied, he
would try, but feared it would result in the undoing of thousands of years of religious history.
Jack Boyd's droll sarcasm usually flew right over the heads of his listeners, but they usually
didn't pay attention to what he said, anyway, unless he repeated it. He was a charming story teller,
and the children loved his talks, but had one questioned them, they probably would have had
difficulty distinguishing between the Pharoah of Egypt and the King of England, and might have
been of the opinion that Moses had been with Washington when he crossed the Delaware.
At first there were seven children in attendance. The the Manning's two girls, despite their
excellent tutoring at home insisted on coming, and one morning Rose arrived to find Elda LaFrise
and Lea Green waiting at the door of the schoolhouse with their children.
The first warning sign that the McLochlin School of Learn As You Go Frontier Education was
headed for difficulty was the arrival one morning of Fredrika Lorquist with her whole band of
little Norwegians in tow. The small children, Fredrika insisted, could not be left alone, and they
were all used to being together, and she, herself, was curious about what was going on. The
younger children also insisted on bringing the cat with them.
In retrospect, the primary complaint against the Lorquist children was their incredible
curiosity and genius for asking questions that made their teachers feel their ignorance was being
deliberately provoked. Saying you didn't know something once or twice was one thing, but to say
it repeatedly raised questions in people's minds.
Only Jack Boyd could withstand their barrage with equanimity and good humor.
How many kinds of sand are there?
Many.
What does the other side of the rainbow look like?
Rainbows have only one side.
How do you know?
Because the sun has to be behind you to see one.
Do horses have dreams?
Of course.
When birds fly south for the first time how do they know where to go?
They follow birds who have been there before.
What kind of fish is it that lives under the rocks in the river and has feet?
Newts.
 The Lorquists were entranced by this information. Are newts pets of the lady?
What lady is that?
The lady who lives in the forest watches over things that Papa told us about. The lady of the
sunrise.
Oh! A suspicion began to grow in Boyd's mind. You mean the lady with the eggs?
Yes, that one.
Oh, indeed, they are very special pets.
More special than the golden fish?
I would think so, since she keeps them so well hidden.
Reverend Boyd was utterly charmed. What special children these are, he thought, Cotton
Mather would have them tied to the stake in the twinkling of an eye.
During this exchange, Rose McLochlin and Elda LaFrise stood with their arms crossed and
shrugged at one another. Things seemed to follow a downward path after that. Clara Hode felt
uncomfortable and expressed a desire to withdraw. Rose began to have a glimmering that her own
education lacked more than a knowldege of the ABC's and simple arithmetic.
Not that it really mattered. About this time the County dispatched a school census taker to the
Town of Geindt ( which was the legal name of the Bullhead Settlement location). When it was
discovered that seventeen school age children resided in the town (township), it lost no time in
informing the town chairman that an election for school board would take place, and that they
would hire a qualified teacher and provide classroom space. The Countty would disburse the
funds for the teacher's salary and the school's upkeep.
The McLochlin school house was the obvious choice for a classroom, and later that summer, a
dapper young man with a small moustache arrived to make arrangements with parents for the fall
semester of primary school. His name was Theodore Jones, and he was a recent graduate of State
Teacher's College. He was well versed in all of the latest teaching methods, including knowledge
of how to deal with the exuberant curiosity such as that of the Lorquist's.

The Lorquists-- 1867

The Lorquists lived in a dwelling which casual visitors to the settlement often overlooked,
because three sides of it seemed to be a small hill in a clearing. The fourth side, having a door and
windows, were situated facing southeast to protect the exposed side from the cold north wind and
to capture early morning sunlight.. Rather than making fields, Nils had begun his land clearing at
the house and cleared land in a widening circle around it.
The house itself was of his own design. He had found a small natural hill, erected two palisade
walls of poplar logs in trenches dug into the hill. He tamped the logs firmly into place, cut the
tops even and pegged plates across their tops to hold them together. He then laid more poplar
logs across the top and pegged them to the plates. This log roof was covered with multiple sheets
of white birch cemented together by spruce and pine pitch, and whole covered with the bark of
slippery elm, which the Indians had once used to cover their longhouses.
This complete the basic structure. Nils then piled red clay on this roof and covered it with
ground excavated from between the walls.The back end wall was of more poplar logs leaned to,
pegged in place, and covered with bark and dirt, with a mortar fireplace in the center.The end
with the door and windows was built of limestone and mortar. He brought in more dirt from the
riverbank and piled it on top until the top was covered with about three feet of dirt. It was not an
architect's house, nor an engineer's house, but one of Nil's idea about what he wanted.
In short, he had built an earth-sheltered house, which seemed, within, to be a single large room
of about twenty feet by thirty feet-- much larger than most cabins. As average yearly temperature
of the area was a little less than fifty degrees, the room was uncomfortably cool in both summer
and winter, but a relatively small fire burning continually in the fireplace made it quite cozy.
Off to one side, Nils had added to the original design by making a store room with a door. This
room kept food cool without freezing.Here they stored their root vegetables, the barrels of nuts
they had collected form the forest, and the kegs of pickled fish his parents had sent up from the
Norwegian fishing colony on the Bay.
Having complete the house, Nils turned his attention toward clearing land , almost all of
which was used to grow food for their own use. He netted eels, which he smoked, and took fish
from the flowage, but other than that the Lorquists were vegetarians.They did not keep domestic
animals other that the children's pets or projects.
The Lorquists had departed to a home in the woods because they followed the old religion.
Not of Thor and Odin, but of the ancient cult of the great earth goddess which flourished in
Europe for millenia befire it was supplanted by the younger and more aggressive cult of the
crucified Saviour.
The Lorquist children were thus spared the Christian uncertainty about the fate of their souls,
and had yet to be intimidated by human affairs and the demands of bullies, and hence lived their
early lives in blissful ignorance. They also has an imperfect notion of Divinity. Papa's goddess, to
them, became "The lady who lives in the woods."
They kept a sharp eye out for her, as they did for any traveler passing by their door. Had she
been located, they would have dragged her home by her hand, given something to eat, and
bombarded her with preposterous questions, such as "How many feathers does a bird have?" to
which they would expect a magical answer that would light up their minds instead of the usual
dull response, "Enough to fly."
In the summer of 1866, the children were; the twins, Gertie and Jan age twelve, Willy age ten,
Andrew, age eight, Ulla age six, Ulysses, (who somehow got named after a general), age four,
and Mika, age two. Gertie, Jan, Willy and Andrew regularily attended the school at the settlement
presided over by Mr. Jones.
There was always enough to eat. They were rows of blond, intent, trenchermen as they sat side-
by-side at the trestle table eating from bowls of carved black walnut that Papa had made, and
which had been sanded to a silky smoothness before being dipped in hot beeswax to seal the
grain.
Sometimes the fare would consist of half of a boiled cabbage, each, which they attacked with
gusto, plain boiled rutabagas, roasted potatoes or a great quantity of boiled greens--young lambs
quarters was a favorite--seasoned with salt and vinegar. There were always baskets of forest nuts
and an hammer by the fireplace to add fat to their diet, and smoked whitefish for special
occasions.
The happiness of the Lorquists knew no banality; it effervesced in its freshness.If there was a
wellspring to this happiness, it was the unending courtship of Nils and Fredrika. He spend his
spare hours making little poems to whisper in her ear as the spent long langorous hours together
in their bed. She was continually delighting him with some little surprise.
But this idyll would not last forever. Even then, there were ominous clouds appearing on the
horizon, the forewarnings of a great force of nature that would forever alter their lives.

Emmet --1867
JohnnyMcLochlin was unloading a wagonload of winter squash he had just harvested from his
squash field, there having been a killing frost a few days earlier, when he looked toward the hotel
and saw an elderly man dressed in what was apparently his Sunday suit, standing and looking
about him. Johnny had see the stage from Oconto pass through about ten minutes earlier, and the
man was probably a traveler looking for a night's lodging. Odd that he hadn't gone to the Saloon
where he would have been taken care of. Johnny wiped his hands on his apron, and walked over
to the customer.
He stopped suddenly, incredulous. It couldn't be. It was, though, the pompador had turned
gray, but it was the same lined face he had looked at for years. "I'll be goddamned!" he exclaimed
to himself.
"That ye will, Johnny, that ye will," replied the man.
Johnny walked forward an embraced his father, then stood back and looked at him."This will
be Rose's doing, of course."
"Of course," You are not a great one for the Third Commandment, Johnny. Your mother went
to her grave awondering what had become of you."
"The light suddenly dimmed in Johnny's eyes. "I've never forgotten her, " he insisted.
"Not in your mind, lad," but she died unknowing. There's the difference."
"When was this?"
"Not six months after you left. Suddenly. What was it you fled from.?"
"I thought a copper had me marked for the riots."
"We thought it might have been something like that, but you could have passed word."
"And have them grilling you for my whereabouts?"
"Well, not much came of it," said Emmet, "We said you had left, no notice or address. " Some
months ago," he continued. "Your wife's priest, Father McMahon, sent notice to the parish and
they found me. And here you were all along."
"Yes," replied Johnny, "And now here you are, at last. Is it what you thought?"
"I'll say one thing, Johnny, you might have plowed you took that monstrous load of squash
from a little better. It seems rough."
"But that land has not yet seen the plow, father. I've dug the stumps and harrowed it, but no
more."
Emmet smiled ruefully and smoothed his hair."Land that has not yet seen the plow..." he
mused."I've sailed for a week on a sailing ship across an ocean of water fresh enough to drink.I
see forests without end, and I am told that this Wisconsin is almost twice the size of the Emerald
Isle, and that beyond it land stretches two thousand miles to the ocean. Johnny, I cannot
comprehend this."
Johnny put his arm over Emmet's shoulder, and the two of them walked to the hotel to find
Rose. Later at dinner there was a long discussion of Johnny's change of the name from Sweeney
to McLochlin, which Emmet chided his son about in a jocular way, beginning to relax in his new
surroundings.
For the next week he wandered around the settlement, and meeting many of the settlers, as he
was curious to see how frontiersmen lived.The family had concocted the fiction that he was an
uncle of Rose' who had fallen on hard times and come to Bullhead River to assist his niece in the
hotel business. He was far too much of an Irishman to pass for a McLochlin.
Once Johnny found him seated on a stump regarding the so-called "nigger shacks," that Matt
Manning had put up on orders from Ellis Thorvald.The young man started to explain, but Emmet
cut him short. "You do not have to explain to me, lad. As Ecclesiastes says, there is nothing new
under the sun. The owners of the mines of England and Scotland bring in men a little hungrier, a
little more desparate, from somewhere else when their own workers do nor jump to their
commands fast enough. Human nature never changes."
One afternoon when Rose left the bar to assist a customer visiting the store, Emmet slipped
behind the bar to draw a beer for one of the regulars he had begun to get chummy with. More
regulars came in shortly, and he stayed behind the bar serving drinks.
Within a week he had taken over bartending duties entirely, and in two weeks it was his bar. It
seemed as if he had always been there. Johnny had never thought of his father in such a job, but
happily admitted that it suited him.
 The Ruckus : 1867

I.
In the summer of 1867, almost two years after the arrival of the four window makers and their
families, and ugly event which later became known as "The Ruckus," took place at the Bullhead
River mill. It sprang from ill-funded rumors resulting from several business decisions which to
outsiders seemed to portend an ominous future.
Since the mid-Sixties, Manning and Thorvald had been concerned about dwindling timber
supplies on Thorvald's land, which contained most of the pine along the Bullhead River. Ellis had
decided to concentrate on making windows and being a manufacturer. This meant that a smaller,
more professional, labor force would be required. Concurrent with this, and only partly related to
it, was Manning's decision to consolidate housing by building a new large boarding house and
retiring some of the outlying cabins.
At the bar of the McLochlin Saloon, these changes were seen in a different light.Word was
coming down by way of the grapevine that the company might not hire any lumberjacks for the
coming season, there were going to be layoffs at the sawmill, and yet the company was putting up
a new boarding house when the old one was plenty big enough. What the hell was Ellis Thorvald
up to?
After some mulling over these ominous circumstances, the regulars at the bar finally "figgered
out" the company's plan. Thorvald was going to import a new, larger, batch of niggers from
Chicago and use them to replace the white workers.The rumor built and quickly spread to
Oconto, Peshtigo, Green Bay, and even the mills on the Wolf River by Oshkosh. A company up
north, the word went, is going to to bring up southern slaves from Chicago to replace the
whites.Hell--if it works up there they'll bring it in all over. Somebody ought to do something
about that, before it's too late.
Somebody intended to do something about it.
Arthur Epperson Lewis was a large, sprawling, young man who was searching for his niche in
life. He had worked as a law clerk for an attorney in Appleton, he had studied law and courtroom
procedure long enough, and had audited enough trials, to be able to stand up in a court of law
and speak without making a complete fool of himself or getting summarily escorted out by the
Bailiff, and he had clerked in several stores. At the moment he was managing the small rentals of
his mother's property in the city of Oconto and doing part time legal work. His face was not well-
formed, being as hastily thrown-together as the rest of his body. His mouth seemed to be
perpetually hanging open in a scowl.
Life, alas, didn't have a niche for A.E. Lewis, or a comfortable alcove in the hall of progress. It
had, instead, a war. He was one of the advance troops in the developing battle between labor and
capital.
Lewis, himself, was a bubbling font of animosity for the self-styled, unrestricted, grab-what-
you-can entrepreneur of his day, a group to which, in his mind, Ellis Thorvald clearly
belonged.When the rumors of Bullhead River reached his ears, he was fired with indignation.
The name Thorvald rang a bell aside from his own casual knowledge of the community a few
hours ride away. Didn't Blacky Walker have a score to settle there? When Lewis located Blacky
he got an earful. Walker didn't need to be stirred to action, but intelligently directed.Lewis sent
him on a trip to the Bullhead River Settlement to collect information, impressing on him that
what was needed was fact, not rumor. The success of a campaign required sure knowledge.
Blacky went to Bullhead River and hung around for a few days.He looked over the nigger
shacks with interest.He bent Emmet's ear at the McLochlin Saloon, which was headquarters of
the rumor. He went over and watched the new boardinghouse being put up, and estimated its
occupancy. He glared at Randy Hode, the Gimp, as he passed him on the street and spat on the
ground as he did so.
 He returned to Oconto and was carefully preened for information by Lewis. Walker's report
pretty well confiemed Lewis' suspicions, and he was quick to discern a glaring weakness in the
company's position.There would be no new influx of negroes if they ones they had were gotten
rid of immediately. The fools up there should never have let them get away with that to begin
with.Well, they seemed to be worked up now to do something about it. Maybe, with a little help.
Art Lewis had learned something about making things happen. Talk is cheap, and people were
always making threats about what they were going to do. He had counted on that in the past when
it seemed possible to stick it to the rich bastards that ran things. At the last minute, though, the
big talkers backed down and went meekly back to their jobs the next Monday morning with their
tails between their legs.
Lewis caught the stagecoach the next day and traveled to the Bullhead River settlement to get
a feel of things for himself. He talked to the people in the bar.The bartender, a man named
Emmet from New York who said he was related to the owner's wife, said he could tell Lewis
more than he wanted to know about the tricks the mine owners of England used to keep their
workers in line.
Until the workingmen stood up to the owners as a group, said Lewis, they didn't stand a
chance of improving their living. Now this situation here would probably go the same way as
most others had.There would be a lot of talk,but no action.
"Don't be too sure about that," said Emmet, "People here are plenty worked-up about this."
"There are a lot of other workers in Oconto and Peshtigo who want to know about what is
happening here," replied Lewis."They know that if it works the bastards will put it in everywhere.
A friend of mine told me that the niggers want to get away from the South and they're coming
into Chicago like a black river. What we need is a chance to talk about this, to make a decision,
and to get something done. Some kind of meeting right here where the problem is."
"Good idea," said Emmet, "A lot of people have something to say."
"I can get a number of workers here to talk about it," said Lewis, "if we had a place to meet.
Like the patch of bare ground next to the Saloon, here."
"That sounds good to me," said Emmet carefully, "But the owner of the land, Johnny
McLochlin, has got a sore toe as far as something like that is concerned. There was a big problem
in New York not too many years ago and it led to a big riot. He might get uneasy having a
meeting like that on his land since he's got nothing to do with the Thorvald company."
"Don't mention I suggested it," said Lewis smoothly, "I was just looking for a place to meet.
Let's say there might be a meeting next weekend, and we'll find a place. Not much but open space
around here."
"You think there'll be some people coming up next weekend?" asked Emmet.
"There damn well might be," said Arthur Epperson Lewis. "You got to understand they're in no
mood to take this laying down!"
Lewis caught the next stage to Green Bay. Needless to say, Emmet wasted no time in
spreading the news.
The next morning Randy Hode stopped at Matt Manning's office and informed him that
someone he knew had heard that there was to be a big meeting in town the next weekend. They
were still spreading the rumor that the company was planning to import negroes to replace the
white workers.
"Dammit," said Manning, "I thought we had stopped that nonsense."
" Blacky Walker was hanging around town last week," added Randy.
"I'll be down at the mill in a few minutes," said Manning. "We don't want this to get out of
hand."
Manning called a meeting of the mill workers, and standing on a table saw, reiterated in strong
terms that the Bullhead River Lumber and Manufacturing Company had no plans to import negro
workers. They were easing out of the lumber business, and might contract out their timber cutting
next spring to cut costs. They were going to be cutting less timber because as any damn fool
could see by taking a walk down the road they were running out of pine trees.
The old boarding house was going to be used for other purposes, or just torn down, and the
new one was going to be bigger because the company didn't want to be in the landlord business,
so most of the houses would be put out of use or sold.If they counted the rooms in the new
boarding house and compared them with what we already in use they could see that there would
be less space, not more.
When this information reached the McLochlin Saloon, it was carefully chewed over. Someone
noted that if the company were going to expand the window business they would bring in more
negroes since they liked the ones they already had. Emmet observed that Matt Manning was paid
to say what the company wanted him to say. The bastards were always telling you they weren't
going to do something right up to the minute they did it.
When Art Lewis finally got back to Oconto he called on Blacky Walker. "Good news," he told
him, "We can get this bastard Thorvald where it hurts. But first tell me what you know about
Johnny McLochlin."
"McLochlin's all right," said Blacky, "There was some talk he was run out of New York
because of the riots, and he brought a pocketful of gold with him that set him up in the Saloon
business. He came here a little after the riots. One more thing--I think the mick in the Saloon is
his old man."
"That's about what I thought," said Lewis, "It really doesn't matter a lot except that we can't
count on him for much help. We'll have to make our own plans."
"So what are we going to do to Thorvald?" asked Blacky.
"My friend," said Lewis, "You've just uttered the the right word--we, because this is going to
take some planning and teamwork to make it work right.What we are going to do first is to round
up every lumberjack and workingman that thinks straight, and we're gonna go up to Bullhead
River this weekend and have ourselves a rally and pound the drum. Second, we're gonna throw
such a scare in Thorvald's nigger help they're gonna roll their eyes and waste no time in getting
out of town.If he can't keep the niggers he's got, he ain't gonna bring in any more."
"I know a lot of guys that would be glad to do just that," said Blacky, "What else?"
"Blacky," said Lewis, "If you're gonna be one of the leaders, I've got to take you into my
confidence. Things like this have to be planned out. We need to get a wagon and we need plenty
of whiskey to put the men in a good mood. We also got to get a carpenter we can trust, a load of
wood, and a good strong rope. We're gonna build a gallows.
Blacky was taken aback. "A gallows! Hell, we'll get in trouble if we try to hang anybody."
"That we would," said Lewis, "But this is all play acting. We've got to convince the niggers
that they're gonna get hung by the neck if they don't clear out. If they ain't really scairt, it won't
work.
Putting his hand on Blacky's shoulder he continued confidentially, " Now, look. This is our
secret. We'll just take the lumber along, and when the boys get worked up good, they'll be in a
mood to do it. You and me will be there to be sure nobody gets hung."
Blacky saw the object of the plan and agreed, and shortly thereafter they departed their
separate ways to get the ball rolling. Lewis wanted Blacky to get in touch with some of his old
comrades in Bullhead River so they could start work on the negroes--dropping hints that they had
better leave before things started to get rough, throwing stones at their shacks, that sort of thing.
The big event would be planned for Saturday night.
II.

Art Lewis rented a horse and headed to Green Bay, where he dropped in to see "Hap"
Cochrane who ran a busy produce market, where customers, often restaurants, could get a bag of
potatoes, a bushel of apples, or a side of pork, at the lowest cost in town.His office was just a
closet in the corner of a rough shed. The business was cash on the barrelhead, bring your own
container if you wanted less than the standard amount already packaged. Hap was an unkempt,
belligerant-looking man who seemed as if he were permanently mad at the world and would
engage in fisticuffs with the next man that crossed his path.
This wasn't entirely true, for he had a surprisingly urbane manner of speech. He was
extensively read--reading was his passion--and his animosity toward the world was based on
poltical ideology rather than personal feeling. Hap had connections. Lewis wasn't sure who or
what they were, but they had money for the right cause, and Art expected that the Bullhead River
situation might satisfy Cochrane's requirements. He explained things to Hap who said, "And what
proof do you have that the company actually plans to import more negroes?"
"None," replied Lewis, "But my thinking is this. The existence of the workers they do have
represents a foot in the door. Mill owners elsewhere in the area might decide to try the same
thing. The next group might go to Peshtigo, Oconto, or even here in Green Bay.There is no reason
to believe that it would be restricted to the lumber business--they might be used as dockwoorkers
or general laborers. If nothing else, they might be used to stymie legitimate demands by white
workers for improved laboring conditions. There are only four in Bullhead River, and if we can
drive those out, a new foothold would have to be established before the practice was expanded."
You're correct," said Hap, "If you can rout out those four, and the word gets around, it will take
some doing before they try it again. I take it that you have come to me for monetary assistance.
Explain your plan and we will see what can be spared."
Lewis explained, and Cochrane replied, "You won't need money for whiskey and food. Get a
hundred men to you meeting and I will provide the liquor and meat. It will be venison and home-
made whiskey, but the boys won't object to that. You need something like the gallows to drive
home the threat, but don't do too good of a job on it. This is supposed to be the spontaneous
outrage of a mob."
Lewis left and made the rounds of the bars in Green Bay, Oconto, Peshtigo and divers roadside
taverns carefully building up his case until listeners thought the entire countryside was rising up
in outrage. They could almost visualize shiploads and railcars full of negroes on their way north.
Lewis and Blacky arrived at the settlement on Bullhead River in late afternoon, and found a
wagonload of meat and whiskey waiting at the McLochlin's Saloon. After some advice, they
decided to set up the meeting on company land just north of the factory amid piles of sawdust.
Wagonloads of men soon began to arrive. A roaring fire was built, and when it died down a little,
the venison was put on spits to cook. The whiskey was concealed beneath canvas sheets but there
were four barrels of beer to get the company of meeters in a relaxed state of mind.
Lewis arranged to have the meal served at sunset, while he and a group laid the wood for a
large bonfire and assembling the believable, although jerrybuilt gallows a carpenter had cut out
for them. He arranged to have it situated between the bonfire and the town so that a ghastly
silhouette would be created. A banjo player provided entertainment for the meal, and he finished
during the approaching darkness as the huge bonfire was kindled and a Lewis cohort began to
pound on a large bass drum.
Blackie's pals in the settlement left to spread the word that the meeting was getting out of hand
and that the mob was starting to call for the blood of the nigger windowmakers.
Art Lewis got the attention of the diners, many of whom were picking their teeth with pine
splinters, by discharging a pistol into the air and mounting a wagon brought in close to serve as a
podium. He held the gun in the air and shouted, "To the working man!" There was a cheer, and he
repeated, "To the working man, dammit!" There was a louder cheer. He yelled again, "The
whiskey's on the house, boys!" and there was an even louder cheer as the canvas was thrown off,
and the kegs of whiskey opened. He then introduced an introductory speaker he knew could build
the crowd's fervor, and circulated among the men , shaking hands and thanking them for coming.
All through this, the big drum continued to sound its slow beat in the background.
At the sound of gunfire, Matt Manning stepped out his front door with concern on his face. He
could make out the flickering light of the fire reflected eerily from piles of sawdust and puzzled
over the partially concealed structure he could barely discern from his vantage point.Good God!
Could that be a gibbet? He would have to investigate this.
Manning had just reached the vicinity of the four cottages when he saw a motion in the
darkness ahead of him.There was a brief flare, then a ribbon of fire sprang up across the yards
near the picket fences. Someone had poured out and lighted naptha or petroleum spirit such as
gasoline, Matt surmised. He caught sight og Randy Hode limping toward him with his gun in
hand. He gave Randy orders to patrol the factory grounds on his horse and shoot the first man
who tried to fire that, there being no telling what the mob in the sawdust field might be up to.
The negros were out in front of their cottages. He saw Marcel dressed in an army coat with
sergeant's stripes on the sleeve, sitting on a chair with his Springfield musket across his knees.
Matt didn't doubt that it was loaded. Elda and the boy came out on the porch as Matt approached
an looked at the dying ribbon of fire.
Octavius stood in his yard scratching his head. Willdo and Lea Green were standing on their
porch with their children who were clearly frightened. Rontelle came over to meet Matt. "They
say we gotta get out or they gonna hang us," he told him, "They don't scare me but my wife is like
near crying. Said she's seen this before."
The townfolk and factory workers were milling around, apparently waiting for a show to
begin. "I'll be back," Matt told the negroes, and he walked toward the bonfire to see what was
happening at closer range. As he drew closer, concealed by the darkness, there was a rousing
shout, more gunfire, and a fevered beating of the drum. Arthur Epperson Lewis mounted the
wagon bed with a bounce in his step.
Lewis knew he had his work cut out for him. He had posted one of his people in an
advantageous spot to keep an eye on what the negroes were doing. So far, they were still a long
way from running in fear. He had been told that one of them was an Army sergeant, a war veteran
and prison guard, who was sitting on his porch with a Springfield. Damn! Now he had to provoke
this group of drunken summer layabouts and barflies into a menacing mob. He cynically doubted
if there was an honest working man among them, but it was said the Lord moved in mysterious
ways.
"We all know why we are here!" he shouted, "We're here because fat greedy bastards like Ellis
Thorvald want to take our jobs away from us!" He paused between each declamation for greater
effect.
"You can look out there right now and see the big new boarding house Ellis Thorvald is
putting up.In a few weeks the boarding house is gonna be crammed full of nigger slaves, and
every white man in this town except Gimpy Hode and the bosses is gonna get fired! The proof is
standing right there before your eyes!
Lewis paused to take a gulp of corn whiskey. "If they see it's gonna work here, they're gonna
bring in more niggers and take away more jobs!
Manning turned away concerned. The man seemed to be deliberately provoking the group to
violence. What was going on here? Did Ellis have enemies I don't know about? Most of the faces
he could make out belonged to men he had not seen before. They were outsiders--but what were
they up to here? Whatever the case, he would find out next week who this fellow was. The crowd
seemed to be getting meaner and more angry. How violent might they become?
As he walked back, Matt pondered his options.If they poured out of the field to hang negroes,
someone was bound to get hurt. Marcel had a musket that had put a quarter of a million men into
their graves. If somebody gets killed here, everybody in the State will be looking at us, and Ellis
is going to be in the spotlight, which I know he doen't like. Marcel would certainly be tempted to
put a minie ball into any man that touched Elda or the boy. A prudent course of action would be to
take the negroes out of town for the night.
He explained this to the group when he returned. Marcel said he didn't intend to move an inch
from where he was sitting. For a moment Matt thought about this. Even a mob wouldn't have the
nerve to confront an armed group. With his own long gun and those of two or three others, there
would be no problem holding off a mob without harm being done. But then Lea Green grasped
his arm and pleaded to take them away for the children's sake.
Matt had them pack a few belongings, and he led the Greens, the Jeffersons, and Octavius to
the river where they climbed aboard a company boat, pushed off with poles, and drifted down the
Bullhead River.
Arthur Lewis left the wagon podium crestfallen. He thought he had failed. This was not a
group of angry workers who could be provoked with rhetoric, they didn't care enough either way
to get off their butts and away from the free whiskey. Then his spy hurried up to tell him that
Manning and the other three negroes had slipped away down the river. Lewis threw back his head
and had a hearty laugh.
The fleeing party had reached the vicinity of the Jacobsen Boat Company, when Rontelle, who
had been engaged in a confrontation with himself, leaped to his feet and shouted, "Stop the boat! I
ain't leaving."
"Rontelle," begged his wife. We got to go. They're comin' to get us."
"Don't care," said Rontelle, "I ain't running no more."
Manning motioned to Willdo who was poling at the back of the barge to help him push up to
the Jacobsen boat dock which was nearby.
"Fix these people up for the night, Jake," I'll be back in the morning to settle with you. I'm
going back to do what I should have done in the first place."
Manning had been jolted out of his anxiety of a few minutes earlier. As he made his way back
to the settlement along the dark forest road, he had time to reflect in private. What had he let
come over him? He was in charge, dammit! He had been so anxious to avoid a confrontation that
he had caved in to the liquored up courage of a mob--hell--there wasn't any real evidence that
there was a mob. All there was was some sort of labor agitator talking through his hat to men he
had brought in for show. That ridiculous gallows would probably fall over if you stood on it.
Manning's embarrassment and shame slowly turned to anger on the walk back, and it was a long
walk.
The following Monday, Matt paid Octavius and Willdo, and personally drove them and
Willdo's family to the train station in Green Bay .He had tried to convince the pair to return to
their jobs, but they said they had had enough of the piney woods and wanted to be on their way.
"No need to apologize, Mr. Manning," said Willdo, "We know how things be."
As it turned out, the Greens stopped in Racine to look the city over and decided to stay. They
were in no hurry to return to the tent city of Chicago, or what ever had taken its' place. Octavius
went straight through to Chicago, his precious tool kit having been replenished and he spent the
rest of his life installing windows.
While poking around Jacobsen's boat yard in the early morning quiet after the ruckus, Rontelle
had come across the frame of a small ship under construction and saw immediately that Jacobsen
was a man who needed beams hewed and wood shaped. So the Jeffersons never really left the
Bullhead River settlement.
As for Marcel, he continued on in his job, and exactly three years after he was hired, he
showed up in Matt Manning's office one day to remind him of the company's promise of land.
Matt found it difficult to meet Marcel's gaze, and showed him the best land the company had for
sale. But Marcel had unfolded a crude map which showed what he wanted: an odd sized parcel of
gravel hills. It was on the extreme western edge of Geindt's claim, and was included in the claim
for the stands of pine in that section.
Matt studied Marcel's map and checked the location against the larger county map fastened to
the wall of his office. "You don't want this piece, Marcel," said Matt, "It's the poorest land we
have left--not much good for farming."
"I do not intend to be a farmer," said Marcel, " I'm going to build roads."

III.
 The talk in the McLochlin Saloon for the next several weeks was that when Matt Manning
had come walking back from Jacobsen's that night he was madder than anyone had seen him. He
went straight home and got his gun, and would have marched out to the "pow-wow" and faced
down the entire bunch of troublemakers by himself if Gimpy Hode hadn't stopped him.They say
Matt's wife was screaming at Gimpy to do something, and he had wrestled Matt to the ground.
When Gimp let him up he was a little more cool-headed.
Then he, Gimpy, and some of the others decided they would bring the big party on company
land to a halt before they decided to put a match to the sawmill. They took their guns, stood back
in the shadows, and fired at will into the bonfire.That cooled the merrymaking down real fast.The
rowdys decided to slink back into the darkness where they wouldn't be targets, and then common
sense took over and they decided to get the hell out of there.
Matt and Gimpy knocked the gallows down and burned it in the bonfire.
Things were never the same at the factory after that, though. Matt knew that the mob had won
because they had run the negroes out of town, which is what they had aimed to do. Matt finally
found out later that a character from Oconto named Lewis had staged the whole thing to teach
Thorvald a lesson.
The first thing Monday morning after the ruckus, Matt called the whole factory together and
laid down the law. "There isn't going to be any work this week," he said, "Because I'm not going
to have any time to stay around here and watch over things.I've got to take some people to the
train station in Green Bay, and you know who I'm talking about. Then I'm going to have to look
around for somebody that knows how to put a window together."
"When you come back next week, I want you to keep a few things in mind. The company isn't
a slave driver and we're not going to act like one. Since you decided you don't like who the
company hires to make windows, you'd damn well learn how to do it yourselves, and do it right,
because the people who build houses aren't going to put out good money for bad windows."
"If you don't like the way we do business here, you can damned well leave. But don't count on
coming back, and if you think the outfits in Peshtigo and Oconto aren't going to get your names,
you are a fool. And if you think you're going to drop a match in the middle of the night, you'd
better think of the people you work with too, because this mill will never start up again."
Manning went on in the same vein for several more minutes, and then he left. The workers
went back to their rooms, or the Saloon, puzzled and downcast by the loss of work, feeling they
had been blamed for something that was not of their doing.
"What got me about the whole thing," said one of the workers to Emmet in the Saloon later, "Is
the idea that this outfit is going to put out a blacklist for anybody that decides to quit. That's going
too far."
"I wouldn't put too much credit in that, said Emmet, "Why the hell should they give somebody
who decides to quit a second thought? Naw, that was just Manning talking through his hat. He's
still sore from Saturday night."
"Even so," said the worker, "I can't see how the bastards expect to get anybody to do a decent
day's work if they talk like that."
Matt's crackdown took effect. He made Gimpy stop swaggering around with a coiled
horsewhip in his hand. He began the practice of Hode issuing warning tickets for violations of the
rules--the third ticket meant dismissal. The mood of the workers grew more serious and they were
more attentive. And yet, confusion, shifting of blame, mistakes, and a general reluctance to take
responsibility increased.
Matt hired several experienced wood craftsmen from Green Bay to make windows. They
worked well, but did not like the constant shifting from one job to another that production
required. The workers that helped them required constant instruction they complained. They did
as they were told to do, but wanted to be shown how they were to do each new task, which they
did exactly as instructed, stopping when confronted by a simple problem they ought to have been
able to work out for themselves. "You have to put up with that, to be fair," said Matt, "because if
they came up with a solution to the problem that you didn't like they would be criticized for
it.They want you to show them what you want."
The craftsmen also didn't like to be told that the little finishing touches they like to put on their
work took too much time. "If it's just a little roughness, the installers or painters can sand it down
a bit. We have a schedule that allows us only so many minutes to put together a window and get it
packed." Make it good, was the rule, but not too good. Or, when there was a rush, the rule was
make it acceptable within tolerance.There was no 'perfection' in the business, only 'acceptable' or
'not acceptable.'
Manning found his own inexperience in manufacturing being magnified. He was also
beginning to make stupid oversights. Why hadn't he given enough attention to the fact that the
fancier windows, being a delicate latticework of thin pieces, required almost as much wood for
their crates as there was in the window itself? We can use tamarack, not pine for the crates--or
maybe not--let's not use up the tamarack just because its there. We can use hemlock or even
boxwood. Our logging crew is going to have to cut a mix of woods. But I'm not a hardwood man.
About all I know how to do is to put in machinery to saw pine lumber.
Somehow, he couldn't get a basic grasp of how to go about manufacturing. The various
window models used a few dozen different pieces--little sticks of wood--that went through half a
dozen steps before they were ready to be put together. Some of the steps took more time to set-up
the making of the part than thhe actual making of the few parts needed. How can you be
efficient like that?
Matt's crackdown at the company did not go unnoticed in the industry. About six months later,
toward the end of the sawing season, an Oshkosh mill owner, contemplating his schedule for the
coming year, asked his secretary, "What about the man at the Thorvald mill up toward Peshtigo, is
he still there?"
"As far as I know Sir," was the reply, "Matt Manning,"
"That's right. Have someone go up there to talk with him. We need a firm hand to run this mill.
No more of this sloughing-off on the job nonsense. Have him come down here and take a look. I'd
like to meet the man, myself."
Manning came down, took a look, and found the operation to his liking. Of course, Beryl was
overjoyed at the thought of returning to her home town where she would be near her parents.
Matt was happy himself to be back in the mainstream of the lumber business.
When he received Manning's letter of resignation, Thorvald dictated a letter to a lodge brother
also in Oshkosh, outlining his need for a man to run the Bullhead River operation. "Have just the
fellow for you," this brother replied, "Name is Rufus Campion. He knows the lumber business,
has run saw mills, the type you can rely on."
When Campion accepted Thorvald offer, the lodge brother was pleased to have rid himself of
Campion in such a painless fashion.The fellow knew his stuff, all right, but was a little too stiff-
backed to function well in a large operation.Might do well in the sticks where he was his own
man, though.
Manning had agreed to spend a few weeks at Bullhead River at the beginning of the next
season to see that Campion got his feet on the ground. He wasn't particularily impressed with the
newcomer, but he did his best to put a good face on the job. The last week of his stay, Matt
showed up early to discuss the day's work with Rufus,and then slipped away to fish or walk
through the forest. He felt like a kid on a school holiday, and he supposed that was what he was.
He had really been out of the flow of things up here, and the industry seemed to be changing
daily. There were many months of work ahead of him before he could honestly call himself a real
lumberman, again.
He didn't shave every day, and he stopped by the McLochlin Saloon a few times to mend
fences. His laying down of responsibility gave him the opportunity to see the commuity from a
different perspective. How seedy the place looked! Yet he, as much as anyone else, had made it
what it was.
 He said his goodbyes, packed his things, and waited, until one day he saw Heinz and Campion
huddled together by the saw, working on a problem."Good bye, Matt," he told himself. The next
morning at three A.M. he loaded his buggy, slipped a note under the office door for Campion, and
drove off to his new life in Oshkosh.
***