Horrible Harvest

The next night, I run into ol’ Boone again. Bobby had arranged a meeting with a former judge, turned Confederate Major General, turned shipping magnate, turned to a mark for Bobby’s latest con. The man’s name was Christopher Landry, and he was born atop a pot of gold., but to hear him tell it, he clawed his way through shit and broken glass to acquire his treasure. The truth on it was he bought up politicians, and they give him clear passage to run corrupt over the folks in his community.

Bobby’d convinced him that a cabal of former slaves had pooled their resources and was on their way to controlling the waterways in the northern Mississippi and Tennessee Rivers. This made-up group of coloreds was operating two dozen steamers and were moving freight from Minnesota to Missouri, with plans on expanding into the Gulf. As it was, at the telling of this tall tale, they was dominating the Saint Lawrence River with a separate fleet of ships.

To sell the lie, Bobby paid a printing press to print a fake newspaper story from a paper that don’t exist and a half dozen newspaper ads spelling out their low, low rates – All clipped and presented to the judge as proof that his business was about to dry up because there weren’t no way to beat their prices.

What could little Ol’ Bobby do to help? He was putting together a team of high-dollar investors to put up docking zones in every port along the river. He had deals to lease riverbanks from cities, townships, and landowners. He’d then charge any boat, raft size to house size, a fee to dock and unload freight. He and his investors, well they’d control the entire goddamn freighting industry up and down the Mississippi. The fees’d be small enough to amount to nothing to those who invested in Bobby’s firm, and near moon-high to those who’d either choose not to or were never given an opportunity to buy in. Bobby assured the judge no negro would be given such opportunity.

“White’s only,” Bobby said. “You have my word on that.”

The judge, a man with gray-bristled sideburns and a seemingly permanent, chewed-all-to-shit cigar jammed in his mouth, read over the fake story with bitter concern. “Never heard of this outfit before.”

“That’s how they like it, Judge Landry. That’s how they like it. They sneak their way in here and there, and before long, they gobble up the shipping business because of their low rates. They were none too happy the Gazette run that story on them. I can assure you of that.”

“What do they move?”

“Anything that needs moving – Cotton, tobacco, sugar, iron – Ain’t a sector they ain’t stolen from honest whites like you and me.”

“I can’t see anyone around here giving them business.”

“Well, forgive me for saying so, sir, but you are fooling yourself. Look at those prices. Can you compete with that?”

“We have ways of dealing with coloreds that don’t know their place. Their prices won’t save’em.”

“You may think that – Yes, sir – And I’m sure your confidence is warranted, but I know people, and people, well, they like money more than anything else – They do – They’d give up oxygen to acquire more of it. These negroes, sir – They are buying up your oxygen.

“And don’t forget, my investors and me, we’ll be the ones deciding docking fees up and down the entire Mississippi.”

The judge chomped down harder on his cigar. “That a threat, Bunning?”

Bobby give a grin. “I’m a businessman, Judge. I don’t make threats. I set prices and make profits. I’m just inviting you to share in those profits.”

A man dressed in a robe made out of a number of small animal pelts and a coonskin cap entered the judge’s library. He stood stiff as a corpse at the door until invited to interrupt the meeting. Stepping forward, he said, “Situations come up. Needs addressing.”

“Now?” the judge asked.

“Ya’sir. The boys’re waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“Things happened quick. Didn’t have time to gather first. A couple of us took matters into our own hands – We need to get this done ‘fore word gets back to the bluebellies in town.”

The judge sat back in his chair and scratched at his right sideburn. “Fine then. Bunning, you’re about to witness how we deal with unwelcomed developments around here.” He stood and approached a wardrobe in the corner of the room. “We’ve got us a league of whites who manage the affairs of our community. We do it right under the nose of the Yankee dogs patrolling our city. Truth is, they don’t give a damn how we keep things white around here. Long as we don’t make too much noise about it.”

He opened the wardrobe and put on his own coat made up of animal pelts. His hat was a horned coonskin cap.

Bobby smiled. “That’s a pretty loud outfit for someone who’s not trying to make a lot of noise.”

“Symbolic,” the judge said. “For the spectators. The more frightful we look, the less trouble and sass they give us.”

“Spectators?”

“Invited guests mostly. Those that we believe could be a source of trouble in the future.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Niggers, abolitionists, Republicans – Carpetbaggers – That kind of trouble. We pack the arena with whoever needs to see our brand of justice firsthand.” He smiled and took a step toward the door but stopped suddenly. “You and your boys – You are going to get a look at what we cook up around here.”

Bobby held tight to his smile. “That’s kind of you, Judge Landry, but we’ve got an early morning – ”

“I’ve just extended an invitation to you, Bunning. Out of the kindness of my heart. It would be rude to decline. Don’t you think?”

Bobby fought the dog in him to keep his smile. “It would, sir. Yes, indeed. We’d be happy to attend.”

The judge winked at Bobby. “I thought as much.” He exited the library.