Great Republic on Rye

One: A Liberator is Fashioned

Good intentions may do as much harm as malevolence if they lack understanding. – Albert Camus, The Plague

1. Vengeance

A dying sun thrust its beams across another day of captivity, and the approaching night held no promise for the future. Jake stood in reverent prayer—head bowed, hands extended over the grave. He sprinkled homeland soil upon it in a final gesture of respect.

May you find peace in your after-world, Nata-Mara. There is none here.

Jake lifted the spade onto his shoulder and hobbled off in his leg irons. Misty darkness closed in, creating a haunted atmosphere where one could envision the ho-toi stalking about, their lifeless eyes seeking victims.

Such imaginings were childish. Why fear supernatural creatures when the hearts of ordinary men contained so much evil? Poor Nata-Mara had gone to her death still convinced a liberator would come to end their bondage. Jake shook his head at such foolishness. Only personal revenge interested him, not mystical promises of deliverance.

If the gods truly cared for their plight, why allow them to become slaves in the first place, only to provide a liberator? The whole idea was absurd. He had not said as much to the Nata-Mara, however, and now she lay at rest with her delusions.

Jake’s empty belly rumbled beneath its iron band, every one of his whipping scars ached. Ahead, he saw Old Master Walton riding toward him upon a horse.

By all the gods, what is he doing here?

He recognized the horse as that of Ellery Walton, deceased son of Old Master. Many times he’d seen Ellery sneering from the lofty heights of that animal. The young man was even crueler and more arrogant than his father.

Jake’s teeth clenched so hard he feared they might crack, but he managed a polite bow.

Good evening, Master, he said in the alien power language.

Perched upon the massive horse amid the gathering gloom, Edward Walton scowled down at his ‘property.’

What are you doing out, Jake? he demanded.

Jake fixed his eyes on the ground. Bury Nata-Mara, sir… at sunset, as is custom. Mr. William, he give permission.

Forming so many words in the power language made his jaw ache.

Yes, yes, Walton said absently, carry on.

Old Master had aged much since the death of his son two months ago. His iron gray mane had turned sickly white, the once fierce eyes joyless and bewildered. Deep within himself, where manly pride still existed, Jake grinned at the old man’s distress.

Is it not peaceful here, Master? he asked.

This supposedly innocent question disguised a spiteful intent. Death hung in the air this close to the burial ground, and its presence must pain the old man further.

Mmm.

Walton did not grasp the cruel irony. He was staring off toward the blood-red horizon and confronting his terrible loneliness. His mind drifted back over a host of sorrows.

His son and heir killed in a saloon brawl; his wife and daughters slain years ago by an epidemic. They would all still live had he remained in the West rather than coming out to pioneer this harsh land.

If only he’d protected the women better! If only he’d supervised his high-spirited son more closely!

Now that this area was finally tamed, he should be enjoying his ease amid loving grandchildren, but he was alone. Why did he have to soldier on like this, filling his nights with aimless wanderings? Why didn’t the Lord take him from this vale of tears? Somehow, he’d entered the most forlorn area of his plantation to converse with this savage creature. How much lower could he go?

He had many regrets, but these did not extend to the slaves he kept underfoot—like this one here, with its barbarous accent and heathen burial customs. At least he could rule over them in the name of civilization and true religion. Life still had a few satisfactions.

Jake followed the old man’s gaze to the horizon. The trees there offered sweet refuge, but he could not reach them, even without the chains fastened to his iron belly band. The beating he’d taken after his last escape attempt still echoed through his body.

They were alone in the barren spaces—master and slave, lord of creation and its lowliest inhabitant. All the world’s injustice seemed distilled into these two figures—one well fed and sitting upon a fine horse, the other one hungry and bowed in the dirt.

Walton took his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs. The reins went slack in his hands. A fearsome idea burst into Jake’s mind; his crushed manhood flickered back to life. The malicious grin in his heart spread over his face.

Nata-Mara rest easy, he said. As much as possible in cursed land.

The old man jerked his head around. What did you say, boy?

You hear me, dog, Jake said.

Walton reached for the gun at his belt, but Jake was faster. He smacked the horse’s rump hard with the shovel. The animal bolted, throwing off its rider a short distance away.

Edward Walton lay stunned upon the rocky ground. Jake came after him, loping grotesquely in his chains like the spirit of slavery itself. He paused beside the fallen enemy.

Old Master struggled to rise. W-what happened?

Vengeance!

Wump!

Jake crashed the shovel against Walton’s head. The skull broke like one of those chicken eggs the slaves were seldom allowed to eat.

Edward Walton lay still in the gathering dark, his lifeless eyes stared into eternity. Jake hobbled toward the slave huts as quickly as he could. The warrior’s song rang in his heart.

2. Morning Duel

Eugene Walton

The dark cavern of the pistol muzzle aimed at me offers a peculiar sort of refuge. I half desire to escape within it.

My own pistol weighs down my hand, and the morning is impossibly bright, like the anteroom to heaven. I experience no fear, only a numb detachment. Riotous bird song fills the air.

A puff of smoke, followed by an explosion and a simultaneous impact against my face, as if somebody has pulled back a tree branch and smacked me hard with it.

My gun jumps in my hand.

Blam!

My opponent goes down.

Bravo, Eugene! Lawton cries.

He runs toward my fallen enemy along with the doctor and the other second. My gun lowers. I feel relief that it’s Wright and not me sprawled upon the ground. Yet in a perverse sense, I almost envy my foe. The bird chorus has ceased. Dead silence rules the forest glade.

Lawton trots up. He looks fresh and young, like a boy on a picnic romp.

The wound’s not too bad, he reports. The doctor says he’ll probably recover.

Good.

Lawton gives me a snow-white handkerchief; it almost seems too pure for this world. I press it against my wound.

That’s a nasty gash on your face. Let’s get it tended to. He takes my arm, and we leave the ‘field of honor’ together. Why the hell did you wait so long to shoot? You could have had that sucker cold.

I shrug. It didn’t seem sporting, somehow.

Didn’t seem sporting! I’ll never figure you out, Eugene.

* * *

After a session with the doctor, it’s back to the world of tedium where only the gambling tables offer temporary respite.

For a while, I seem to possess heightened sensibilities. Food has more flavor, even the bland saloon fare. The colors of the player girls’ outfits shine with more vivacity. A new awareness of life’s possibilities dawns upon me, and contemplation of my frivolous existence saddens my heart.

I attribute these insights to my recent brush with death. They will soon fade, however, like the wound on my cheek. I pour a drink from the whiskey bottle.

The nimble fingers of the player girl seated beside me at the Musiquette table gauge my success. When the stakes begin rolling my way, her hand slips discretely to my knee. As my chips amass, her fingers journey up my inner thigh, stoking hot arousal. Her tactile artistry, along with a couple of drinks, diverts my attention from the sting of my bandaged face.

Lawton leans toward me and whispers, Good show, Eugene! You’ll soon be driving the old railway spike.

The duel I’d fought this morning was over such a one as her, or perhaps it concerned the disputed result of some card game. I’d been too drunk to remember whatever offense I’d supposedly committed, and Wright was too hot-headed to withdraw his challenge, even after my apologies.

Wright is a violent bully, not unlike my cousin Ellery who met a distasteful end a couple months ago. Somebody left a knife in him as a calling card.

So how’s our friend Wright doing? I ask.

As genial as ever, Lawton says. He’ll be up and about soon enough. There’ll be more trouble from him or his cronies. I’m thinking it would be prudent to move on for a while.

I daresay.

I envision a series of days like this one. Duel at first light, then some refreshment with the local player girls—unless somebody takes the dishonorable approach and blasts me from behind. My reputation as a dead-eye pistol shot is well established, which would give somebody an incentive to take the ambush shortcut.

It’s all so boring.

A steward approaches with a telegram for me.

Not now, Lawton says, can’t you see he’s on a roll? Give it here.

The steward hands the envelope to Lawton, and I tip the man a middle-sized chip. He positively glows.

Thank you, sir!

In the tradition of ‘let no good deed go unpunished,’ this act of generosity signals an immediate decline in my fortunes. The cards turn against me, the pile of chips decreases, and the player girl’s hand returns to her lap. Before long, the chair beside me is vacant.

Farewell, sweet opportunity, I sigh.

I turn toward my old friend. Please give me the telegram. Maybe it’s good news, an invitation to a duel or a tar and feather party.

Lawton chooses to be obstreperous and ignores my outstretched hand. Instead, he holds the telegram up to the light, as if trying to read through the envelope.

Come on, now!

Don’t get upset, Lawton says. You’ll turn your hair redder than it already is.

Quit going on about my hair. And it’s not red but auburn.

Whatever you say.

Lawton hands over the telegram. I light a cigar, nearly incinerating the paper by mistake.

Careful, old boy, Lawton says. Good job you had a steadier hand this morning.

I open the telegram and read. I practically swallow my cigar.

What’s the matter? Lawton asks.

My Uncle Edward is dead… some sort of riding accident.

Lawton’s face turns serious. Sorry to hear that, Eugene. Please accept my condolences.

I crush out my cigar and take a long slug of whiskey. No need for that. I hardly knew the man. Just a shock is all.

Lawton grips my shoulder anyhow, in a show of camaraderie. Maybe I am more rattled than I let on. I return to the telegram.

It says I’m to be executor of the estate. They want me to leave immediately for the East. They’ve wired travel funds.

Are you going?

I finish draining my whiskey. I glance about the room at the tables of card sharps, the fancy ladies, the good-for-nothings hanging around the bar. Well, I’m here, too, what does that make me?

Why not? I say. It could be an interesting trip. You’ll come along?

Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Lawton refills our glasses.

We share a toast. To the future!

3. Journey to the East

The train ride is long and tedious with scarcely a decent card game to pass the time. Lawton and I are among the few Western passengers aboard.

The great majority are Easterners heading for home. Their pleasant, rather melodious accents fill our coach, in contrast to our plain style of talking. If you cannot see the difference between an Eastern and a Western man, you can certainly hear it.

I have little to do except brood, drink too much whiskey, and listen to the exhortations of my old college chum, Lawton Elder. We were kicked out of the best schools together in the old days. Mostly, Lawton speaks of the coming war between the Western free provinces and the slaveholding East. I’ve heard it all, for years, now.

The politicians, like my Uncle Kyle, avoid the threatened war through various compromises and sellouts. I think the peace will continue to hold.

Lawton is of a different mind. If we pool our resources, we can do it. You, me, Loren, and Miles.

Do what?

Form our own cavalry troop, of course! We’ll have the best of everything—top-of-the-line sabers, repeating carbines, pistols, too. None of this muzzle-loading nonsense for us. And we’ll ride the finest horses. I know where we can buy them.

For a whole troop? I say. That’s a lot of pooled resources.

Lawton waves a dismissive hand. Little things like money do not enter much into his calculations.

There are these little pocket grenados now, he says. The army is too hidebound to purchase them, but we’ll have a good supply. You can knock off a half dozen enemy with one toss.

Sounds delightful.

Lawton nods eagerly. We’ll make Loren the medical officer. Anyone who gets shot will have the best of care.

And who will lead this merry band?

The commanding officer will be elected, Lawton says. I herewith announce my candidacy. However, should the mantle of leadership fall upon you, I would not, perhaps, be totally offended.

He flashes that impish grin of his.

That’s very generous, I say. What about Miles? He seems the leader type.

Too preachy. We can make him the chaplain.

Lawton wants to talk more about this, but I’ve had enough. I divert my attention outside the window. He takes the hint and saunters off alone toward the smoking car. It won’t be until the next meal time that I’ll have to hear more of his wisdom.

A question continues to annoy me like a dull toothache. Why the deuce did Uncle Edward pick me for this task?

It’s unlikely he left me anything, except a modest salary for handling the legal issues. He was a skin flinty old guy. Yet, I can’t imagine him leaving his estate to Uncle Kyle, either. The two of them never did get along.

Maybe Uncle Edward left a mistress behind who will inherit his wealth, or maybe he donated everything to a charitable organization, like the Benevolent Society of Misanthropes.

There were three Walton brothers: Father, who passed on when I was quite young, Uncle Edward, and Uncle Kyle who ‘raised’ me.

Actually the nannies and the boarding schools did that. Uncle Kyle has been a member of Parliament for many years and spends much of his time at the capital city. He devoted scant effort to my upbringing.

There was little love lost between the brothers. The slavery issue tore across our family the same way it divided the whole nation. Father had a deep hatred of it. He never forgave Edward for striking out to seek his fortune in the East.

I recall my father once referring to Edward as that goddam slaver. And that was about the extent of it. Uncle Edward’s name was taboo as long as Father lived.

Uncle Kyle is too much of a fussbudget to tolerate a crude roughneck like Edward. Perhaps there’s a bit of envy behind the disapproval? In any case, Uncle Kyle has been sitting on the fence so long about the slavery issue that he’s got splinters in his britches.

Mother and I keep in occasional touch, but there is little love lost between us, either. She’d been quite happy to unload me on Uncle Kyle after Father’s death so that she could pursue life with a riverboat gambler no-account. Maybe I inherited my fondness for cards from her.

My irritation and sense of being put upon increase as the kilometers clack by under the train wheels. Why did I agree to put myself in this position? What’s it to me if Uncle Edward’s wealth is properly distributed or goes straight to the devil with him?

I’d thought this jaunt would relieve my boredom, but it’s only made things worse. I’m bored with being bored! At least I won’t have to contend with Wright and his crowd for a while.

Maybe things will perk up. I’ve spent my whole life in the free provinces and have never seen the shadowy, alternate world of the slave areas. Through my ennui, I experience an occasional thrill at the prospect of discoveries ahead, along with a growing apprehension…

It seems we’ve left one batch of trouble behind only to create another. Lawton’s had too many whiskeys at dinner and is discussing his war scenarios a bit too loudly. A man at a nearby table takes issue.

Talk is cheap, my friend, he says. Should you dare to take up arms against us, you’ll discover we are far more dangerous than you can imagine.

His manner is controlled, icy. He’s waiting for Lawton to insult him so he can issue a challenge for an affair of honor. He’s not a particularly formidable looking young man. That could change on the dueling field, however. I, myself, am perhaps not the most overawing man, but my pistol speaks for me with a very loud voice.

Lawton opens his mouth. I seize his arm across the table.

Shut up, for God’s sake! I whisper.

I turn back to the offended party. Please forgive our conversation, sir. It’s really just the whiskey talking.

The man turns his frigid gaze on me but does not reply. I look back to Lawton.

Would you mind speaking to the conductor about my cigarette case? I ask. I seem to have lost the bloody thing.

Lawton is furious, but somehow the influence I’ve exerted over him since our college days still holds. God, let it hold a bit longer!

Tell him there’s a substantial tip if he can find it, I say. Sentimental value and all that.

Lawton gets to his feet. He’s so angry I fear he might take a swing at me, or throttle the man at the next table. Then what, a general melee with the two of us against the whole train? Praise the heavens, Lawton departs without further upset.

I direct my attention to the man at the next table. My friend has been embarrassing me since our days at college. Thanks for your forbearance, sir.

I strike up an acquaintanceship with the fellow, Nisbet by name. He’s not a bad sort. That night, I allow him to win at cards, thus lightening my purse a bit when I could have won. Peace at any price. Another sellout.

4. Arrival in the Slave Lands

Next morning, we cross the boundary into the slave provinces. No billboard nor guard post announces our arrival, no brass band plays a welcoming hymn. This is the same country, after all. We’ve just crossed a provincial border. Still…

There is a vague sense things are not right—that we have entered an alternate reality. The sun appears to have dimmed although it still blazes along the horizon with increasing warmth. I take a drink from my hip flask; it does not dispel the impression. Slavery was outlawed in the West long before I was born. Now I am under its shadow. I’ve taken a step back into a barbaric time.

The land looks tired, somehow. Lovely as the flowering trees and cultivated fields might be, the ambience seems worn down, as if human presence has brought melancholy to what should be exuberant natural beauty. The regional accents of the other passengers, which had once seemed so pleasant, now grate my ears.

What do you think of this place, Lawton?

I’m wondering how the women are here.

That’s my pal for you, as deep as ever.

The first sure indication we have entered a land of alternate reality comes in the early afternoon. I’ve just placed a cigar in my mouth and am ready to leave for the smoking carriage when something catches my eye outside the window.

We are approaching a specific telegraph pole among the endless progression running alongside the tracks. Something is hanging from this one. I wonder what it could be—a sack of mail, a scarecrow? As we draw nearer, a painful knot grips my stomach. I nearly bite through the cigar.

No… it can’t be! A man is hanging from the pole. A sign around his neck reads:

RUNAWAY

I am speechless with horror.

Lawton finds his voice. Dear God!

Other expressions of shock issue from the passengers. The displeasure moderates as people comprehend it’s only a dead slave festooning the pole.

That’s illegal, a man sitting across from us says.

Yes, but highly effective, his seat mate replies. Sends a message to any other slaves with windy feet. ‘What’s the harm?’ I say.

You’ve got a point.

My ears feel polluted from this hellish conversation.

It’s only a matter of a modest fine, the second man says, assuming any jury would convict a man for disposing of his property as he sees fit.

But it’s so… untidy! the first man exclaims with mock disapproval.

The two men chuckle and share a drink from a hip flask.

Lawton moves closer to me on his seat. For the first time since I’ve known him, he appears frightened. I’m scared myself, much more so than when facing Wright’s pistol.

We never leave each other’s company for the remainder of the ride. We form a pocket of sanity amid the darkness.

* * *

Early next morning, we reach our destination. I exit the train as if I’m departing a marathon ordeal in the dentist’s chair.

Great to stretch the old legs, eh? Lawton says.

He’s trying to sound jovial. Others might be taken in, but I’m not deceived.

That it is, I reply.

The depot looks the same as any back home. For a while, I feel almost comfortable with the surroundings—the bustling crowd, the purposeful men in railway uniforms going about their business, the little café with its inviting coffee scent. A telegraph office opens into the lobby.

Do you want to send Wright a telegram and let him know we got here safe? Lawton asks.

I grunt. This is pretty bad joke, even for Lawton.

We make our way outside and are back to the alternate reality. Various conveyances await the arriving passengers, most are driven by slaves. These men slump in the drivers’ seats, the very picture of dejection. One of them calls to us from an open carriage.

Good morning, Master Eugene!

He lifts his cap, revealing a head full of gray hair.

Good morning, I say, lovely weather, isn’t it?

The man hesitates, as if he’s not used to being addressed so informally. Yes, sir. That it is, sir.

Glad he recognized you, Lawton remarks. Must be the red hair.

A strong, younger fellow hefts our bags onto the conveyance, his muscles rippling with the effort. Then he removes his cap, bows, and motions us aboard.

The whole scene has a dreamlike aspect, nightmarish, really. I can’t get the vision of the hanged man out of my mind. To my jumbled recollections, this young fellow looks just like him. It’s as if he’s come back from the dead to continue his endless bondage.

As I ascend the steps, queer feelings barge into my awareness. I pause and look back toward the depot. I want more than anything to flee inside and catch the next train home.

Did we forget something? Lawton asks.

No… no. I enter the carriage and settle into my place.

Maybe I have forgotten something—my integrity. For the first time in my life, I’m being served by forced men. Always before, those who drove my carriage or handled my bags received fair payment. Now I am stealing their labor.

The chill finger of conscience jabs at me. The carriage starts moving.

Whole lives are stolen here, I mutter.

Eh? Lawton asks.

Nothing, old boy. Just admiring the scenery.

Lawton nods. He isn’t his usual boisterous self. Ordinarily, he’d be brimming with enthusiasm after completing such a long journey, and he’d be full of excitement at the prospect of new experiences, not to mention new women. Perhaps the hanged man is also paying him a visit.

The two enslaved men of our party say nothing as we ride along. They just stare ahead from beneath their furrowed brows. What unhappy visions do they see along this dusty lane? What visions would I see if my spirit was crushed?

Again, I am