The People's House

Japhy

Banned
Prologue: Untitled View of the Present Day That Was Yesterday

Populi News
Grounded Netmemo News

Presidential Government: Helen Watson and a Historical Perspective
October 5th, 2015


By Ted M. Bosch

Professor Ted Bosch is Professor of Modern American History at Oklahoma Federal Grant State College. The Author of The Principles of ‘98: The Road from Henry, and Jefferson to Munson and La Salle, With Us or Against Us: Farmer-Labor Alliances Before Solidarity, and Red on Red: The Rise and Fall of the Socialist Labor Party of America. He is a winner of the Trotter Prize for History and is a regular contributor to Populi News' History Behind the Headlines analysis series.

Jason Silver’s hard earned omnipresent reputation took yet another blow this weekend in the whirlwind of madness that was Washington City. After a summer of predictions by Mr. Silver and the rest of the professional analysts, talking heads and wonks President Watson is still a man without a party --- or at least a party that matters --- as the Alliance remained out of reach and now seems destined to shifting to unified talks with the Coalition in regards to next year's Presidential Election. The high tide marked by July’s by-elections has rapidly receded into a whole lot of nothing.

Helen Watson’s dream of cannibalizing what parts she pleased from the Alliance and the Coalition to create her vaunted “Reform Federation” has little to show for it.

Four more Congressmen will now sit in the Free Member benches along with the Independents, Socialist Laborites, Localists and Neo-Red Badgers. If Congressmen Schultz who as of writing has already been recalled by his own constituency party and the other members of the “Gang of 19” who are liable to join him are able to hold onto their seats, the four may have company, the furthest of back benches being a far cry from the cabinet posts that must have seemed so close just last week.

The Secretary of American Affairs seems doomed in the short term, as in a resignation or firing will be announced probably before Press Time tomorrow. Prime Minister Hellyer in turn, now must worry for the inevitable knives to come out. No matter what he does now what he did in 2013 to Nordal is a likely fate. We may even see Nordal return to the post. Regardless of how that goes a General Election seems unavoidable before the end of the year.

And of course we can soon expect a return to the “old days” of 2009-2013. Yes that's right, get ready for more referendums. It will of course, remain to be seen if ‘E-Government’ will work now that Watson’s finally been blocked in the Alliance, cautious neutrality on the issues seems unlikely to be a broad policy anymore.

Of course all of this will be presented as shocking and will in many instances be ignored outright by the pundit corps that Mr. Silver and his Science-to-Victory netmemo so often serve as the vanguard for. But their ironic refusal to look at longer term historical trends, and only the day-by-day numbers and their algorithms prevents a broader understanding of what Helen Watson represents and why she failed.

It is not a question of Jeffersonian or Hamiltonian views in regards to her, as much as the modern terminology creates a dichotomy between them. At the end of the day Helen Watson and her Compact Party represents the modern manifestation of the “Old Republicans” who in turn were a manifestation of the most hardline Anti-Federalists in the years preceding the Constitution of 1787.

As covered in my book The Principles of ‘98: The Road from Henry, and Jefferson to Munson and La Salle this ultra-rejectionist and conservative strain of thought has wound its way through American History, between the two larger political movements for decades. The ‘Quids’ of John Randolph and the Nullifiers of John C. Calhoun begat the ideology of the Confederacy, the antebellum Democratic Party and found its way into elements of the early People’s Party. The Patriot’s Union and the Red Badgers and more recently, the Conservative Party of Frank La Salle all represented the most powerful strains of the anti-government and ultra-decentralization ideals into recent history.

And while this “Frontier Socialists” and “New Federalist” ideals have both tapped into the well from time to time, these ideals have generally been unable to gain the upperhand in American political history, that is until recent years. The Compact Party’s triumph in seizing what had by mutual agreement become less and less powerful mechanisms of government power shows both a disregard for their ideological foundations and a political brilliance that finally allowed the movement the means to victory.

This too though is not a new event in American political history. It is after all why Presidential Government fell to the wayside after the civil war. Washington, Jackson, and Lincoln all held the great power well, and sailed the ship of state safely past the sirens rocks. But for each of them and every John Adams and James Madison who simply put in a good job with little complain there was a Tyler, a Buchanan and a Johnson who sought to transform the office into a means of forcing a political transformation on the country contrary to the people and their other elected officials.

After the horrors of the Johnson Administration and the attempted scot-free return of the former rebel states into the Union without delay or trial or reconstruction it was probably inevitable that the office would lose ground. Maybe had President Thomas lived things might have changed, at least in the short term but inevitably someone else would have come to office, just as they later would and currently are, and try to seize back control.

But luckily for the nation and unluckily for Randolphites who would seize that power just to force their vision and then walk away as the Compact Party swears it will do once its reforms are finished, we were not a collection of parties or even a two party system at the time but really a one and a half party system. And the Republican Party it cannot be understated, were the heirs to the Whig Party.

Lincoln himself had always declared that the powers of his administration were based on the idea of not letting the Constitution die in the name of following it to the letter. Like other Whigs, he had always been a strong believer in Congressional Government. With his assassination and the death of President Thomas five years later, there was no other course to take for the National Unionist-Republicans than to embrace that old Whig idea, which in turn was an ideal embraced by Jeffersonian and Hamiltonian leaders of the first era in American politics. Two grand Article Five Conventions and decades of precedent and agreement we arrived at the modern system, with stable and secure systems until the election of President Watson.

But what happens now? In 1866-67 and 1893 the country was by chance one of --- at least on paper --- unified politics. We had Thaddeus Stevens and Henry Cabot Lodge. Who stands up to those men in the modern scene? With both the Coalition and Alliance facing factions and parties who agree more with Watson than their own electoral treaties can the President even be stopped?

History yet again says, most likely. The Randolphites were cast out by Jefferson and Madison who in the end, mostly embraced those aspects of Hamiltonianism which were beyond debating and brought about The Era of Good Feelings. John Tyler’s political demise came at the hands of James Polk who agreed with him on many issues and thus moderated the ideology for a time and opened the door for Compromises. Pierce and Buchanan and Jeff Davis gave way to Lincoln, War and national transformation.

Political revolution, collaboration or battle are the main options. And while there is no chance the President is going to see Civil War began on her watch, no matter what language she uses we are seeing a unique moment in American history.

If the Alliance and the Coalition came together we may find ourselves dealing with a new force in politics as both masses become one and the Randolphites of the Compactists and their factional supporters in practically all the other major parties bond together. While any Anti-Watson pact is framed as a temporary one, such a realignment is hard to walk away from long term.

This weekend and the failure of Prime Minister Hellyer brings an end to the Polk solutions viability, at least until the next Presidential Election --- The Governor of Columbia or the LEU Ambassador both seeming to be interested in trying to take leadership of the Compactists form their now defeated President --- but doesn’t remove the possibility that the Alliance’s next leader --- or the Coalition’s for that matter --- might not be seduced by the massive referendum numbers the President is getting all the same.

And of course there’s the third option, battle. In this case of course that meaning an entirely political struggle. But with the situation in both houses of the Congress, not to mention the States where it is at this point rather than a bloody but quick March to the Sea or end run to Appomattox we’d be facing the quagmire of the secondary revolts and the occupation years.

What option will win out? I cannot say with any certainty. As Mark Twain once noted “History doesn’t repeat itself, but it does rhyme.” And while historians can trace out the possibilities, we don’t know the tune for certain. I, like Mr. Silver and the rest will just have to wait and see who will be standing at the front counter next week.

To read more on Populi’s coverage of the failings of Jason Silver’s Science-to-Victory Predictions Click Here.

More Coverage of The 2015 Alliance General Conference Click Here.

President Watson’s National Address: Video Recording and Analysis Here
.​
 
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Japhy

Banned
There is no timeline on earth where people are going to read news blogs for Historical Analysis of current events you Nerd.

A man can dream none the less.

And having given the era of your PoD away you've failed to do the right thing and make this practically unreadable, like Thande does.

Yeah but I have "Netmemo" instead of Blog and Televisions are going to called Telefunkens.

Thats the best you have?

I'm not good at making up new words for everything, I'm barely good enough with actual words.

Disgraceful. And on top of that this isn't even anything shocking, its just a Parliamentary US like everyone always seems to fantasize about

Yeah. But like this opening shows, sometimes things don't work. In fact most of American History in this Post-1865 timeline will be battles over things not working and possible, often ad hoc solutions. And then further problems. Also lots of cliche bashing since I like cliche bashing.

Anything else you want to mention?

I dont think I'm writing the whole thing of this alone? So that might work out pretty cool. I just figured I sort of had to start this thing and we'll see if folks want to just stay in the discussion side or jump in. I don't pressure people.
 
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I'm really glad this is finally getting off the ground. I'm going to try to contribute in ways that subvert the fuck out of tropes.

Also, nice first post. Wonderfully confusing.
 
Intriguing. I'll watch this with interest.

Also- and out of pure curiosity, I know you have a lot of ideas competing for your attention- are there any plans for the reforming China timeline, or the U.S. Coup one?
 

Japhy

Banned
IAlso- and out of pure curiosity, I know you have a lot of ideas competing for your attention- are there any plans for the reforming China timeline, or the U.S. Coup one?

Well thank you both for the early interest, much appreciated.

On this:
Great Power China was the result of a big project I've been reading on on for a few years now, and I'll admit a degree of cowardice in going forward, because its more comfortable for me to keep reading up on the subject. Its still on the list to get rotated back up first, after a few more books (Do hold me to it though, or else there will always be a few more books).

And on the US coup one, that one is probably dead from book reading, as in, I found a better means to go about it and while the concept itself isn't gone forever, I think its going to require a complete shift in production and planning on my end. Sorry, I know I do that a lot. But its not dead, it just might turn less into a history of American politics following a fascist getting elected Governor of Kansas and be more in line with "Our Man in Berlin". So if you liked the coup opening, thats great its going to be more of that. If you were looking for me to have a Snake-Oil Doctor go from goat testicle surgeries to Government policy, its going to be a let down.

And thats along with everything else on the backlog.
 
Could you clarify some things?

This is obviously a parliamentary system. In this world, does that mean that the president is chosen from among the members of congress like a prime minister? Or is he still separate, and the secretaries are chosen from among the members of congress?
 

Japhy

Banned
Could you clarify some things?

This is obviously a parliamentary system. In this world, does that mean that the president is chosen from among the members of congress like a prime minister? Or is he still separate, and the secretaries are chosen from among the members of congress?

All will be answered eventually! Though probably not tonight, tonight is (probably) THE POD!

But yes the President is elected separately, and has *mostly* been a ceremonial role thoughout recent years.

Also I do intend to do the occasional "Current Events" piece while writing the history, and as Azander says there will be fun pieces by he and if they're interested a few other people, so its not going to take 150 years for things to clear up.
 
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Japhy

Banned
Part One: In Medias Res

“--You sockdologizing old man-trap!” shouted Asa to Mrs. Mountchessington. And for the first time of the night Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant found himself lost in laughter.

It was a damned funny line.

But it seemed like it was more than that, this laugh was deeper, it was a sort of laugh he hadn’t had in a long time. Maybe it had last been with Cump sitting at a campfire enjoying cigars and whiskey in the long weeks waiting outside of Vicksburg.

No, he thought to himself, it was longer ago than that. Before Belmont, before the start of the war. Maybe even before the last war, when the whole world seemed like an opportunity for he and Julia.

This deep laugh was a jolly one. And it was a weight being lifted off of him. The war was over, the battle had been won.

The whole audience was laughing too. To his left Julia was grinning at him, sniggering, and to his right, the only man who had felt just as heavy a weight these long years of war was practically giggling. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln were practically giggling.

Somehow, General Grant’s smile grew. This was what peace felt like. And they would all get to feel it, all the time, as soon as Johnson saw reason and made his terms with Cump down in North Carolina, after that, it would be over.

Kirby-Smith, Forrest, the bandits in Missouri and whoever else was still bitter with a rifle in their hands would head to Mexico, where a few years of being battered by Juarez would bring them to their senses. Jeff Davis and his clique were in the wind, and Grant was amazed at Lincoln’s wise take that it was best not to notice them until they made it to Cuba and made their appointments for Europe rather than the Gallows.

But most importantly Lee had gone home. The killing was finally going to stop.

He reached over and patted Julia’s hand, everything was fine, and by tomorrow, Eli Parker would be back from New Jersey with the children, a wonderful service he’d offered to provide to make sure the Grant’s made it to the show tonight.

The crowd was still roaring with laughter. Though it was after these past several starting to weaken. He thought he was done with it himself, and then ‘sockdologizing’ came into his mind again and he roared with laughter just a little bit more.

And then there was a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, a burning sensation at his neck.

Screaming. Julia was screaming and he tried to move to protect her from the unseen threat.

The crack of a pistol. Now Mrs. Lincoln joined in the screaming.

More movement. For some reason Grant couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop staring at the roof of the box.

He had to move, he had to protect the President.

Oh God, though the pain. The pain and the gnawing blackness.

Somewhere, hundreds of miles away there was a loud thud. A man had broken his leg is sounded like. He screamed something, in a dead language that Grant had never cared for, but half remembered from his school days.

And then there was Julia, covered in red, looking into his eyes, she was terrified. He wanted to reach out to her, hold her face to his own and tell her it would be fine. His limbs failed him, his lips didn’t follow his commands.

He wanted to tell her he loved her.

He wanted to tell her the challenge was done, that they were at peace.

She knew the first one though. And as died, a detached part of himself was content that she knew that at least. And that she and the children would see the peace at hand soon enough.

---------------

William Tecumseh Sherman didn’t like being General-in-Chief of the United States Army. He didn’t like how it had been thrust upon him by the murder of his best friend, and the only decent man to be President since Washington just over a year and a half ago. He hadn’t liked the brushfire, bushwhacking wars in the Dakota Territory and across the military districts of the South and Tennessee.

And he sure as hell didn’t like the task now being set before him. It reeked of treason, Caesarism, Bonapartism, and worst of all politics.

There was no way around it though. The President, that sniveling little bastard Johnson had forced the issue when he’d dispatched him to inspect the work being done on the transcontinental railroad. That had been to get him out of the way. Just more proof that the Tennessean had planned this all out in advance. It would have been smart too, had what followed been so damned illegal.

The cabinet had been gutted of opposition to the farce of restoration. Congress had refused to accept the resignations as they had every right to by law. And what had the President’s response been? Appointing a useless waste of space like Lorenzo Thomas to the War Department and ordering troops into Washington City to make sure it all worked, regardless of the rapid impeachment that had followed which somehow or another Johnson was refusing to recognize.

Sherman hadn’t lost Grant and McPherson and all of his men just to see everything end like this, in some disgusting coup de main.

And so he was on a special train, rushing to Washington. He was General-in-Chief, he would order the troops Johnson had to stand down. If their officers didn’t the men would arrest them for him, and the ex-President too if it came to that.

He looked out the window of this private car as the train rushed through the night, all tracks cleared, all stations empty as they rushed across Ohio.

He was going to do this job, this one last job --- Make sure another Ohioan son was President, or Acting President, or whatever the hell Ben Wade was now, and that he didn’t get any damned fool idea about what he would do as chief executive. --- and then he swore to whatever Gods there were, that he’d be damned if he ever got involved in politics again. The Army was done with this, he was done with this.

Damned politicians. He was done with the whole lot of them --- well, not John. If this didn’t work they’d have made sure there was never going to be Peace.

---------------

George Henry Thomas, stared out from the window on the third floor of the Willard Hotel south, across Washington City off into the distance, back to Virginia, his birthplace, the land he had once called home, and which, if he was lucky and they one day saw reason would let him call it such again. If not, he’d liked the Hudson Valley, it was a nice enough place for a man to live out an exile.

But that would be at least four years from now. He was going to render at least four more years of service to the country he had chosen to side with, now as President of the United States.

Sherman and Howard and the Republicans had all insisted, pushed, begged him to do it, and to his surprise he had found it easier to say Yes then he previously had. After all, if it hadn’t been him, Sherman would have refused, and that only left one man besides himself who could claim to be part of the war-winning quartet. And after the Cesarean attempt of Andrew Johnson and his Marc Anthony of Lorenzo Thomas, the last thing the country needed was Phil Sheridan playing Augustus.

He turned back from the window, and faced his visitor, Senator James Ashley seemed uncomfortable with his cigar, or perhaps was still uncomfortable with being the replacement for the outgoing President in his old office.

“You want to know about what Sumner is going to say with his committee I take it?” The Ohioan asked.

“No.” Replied the President-elect, who had never been a man of many words.

“Of course not, everyone in town knows what he’s going to say.”

“Everyone in the whole country to be honest.”

“So General, I have to ask, what can I do for you? Surely you’re not asking me into the cabinet.”

“You do fine work in the Senate, Mr. Ashley. What I’d like is for you to chair an executive committee for me. If Senator Sumner’s secret program is what it will inevitably be, and it will pass through Congress, someone needs to draw the lines on the map, and someone needs to write proposals about how to enact his grand ideas in the real level.”

The Senator who had once led the efforts in the lower house to pass the 13th Amendment was taken aback for a moment by the offer if this Southern Unionist.

“Your home state would be torn apart by the proposals, along with the rest of the South, you’re not going to fight that?” He asked incredulously.

“The best of Virginia’s spirit is already its own state. East Virginia would be, in the right circumstances a proud addition to the country as part of our collection of sister states. Everything else is gone now. Every bushwacker that denies the obvious simply destroys the legacy of the state a little bit more.

And look at what happened down in Hancock’s country, no regard for the law, no regard for the spirit of the peace that was offered. Men who fought for this country butchered in the streets and in the fields because they were once our slaves. One Hundred and Seventy Five Thousand Negroes with rifles proved they were men like the rest of us. They deserve more than the Lincoln Territory as a reward for that. This is America. We mustn't have a Pale of Settlement as if we were the Lands of the Czars.”

Ashley nodded slowly, realizing that everything he’d heard from sound men like the late Congressmen Stephens had been right. Thomas was their man. He stood up and walked over to the President-Elect. And offered his hand.

“I’ll lead your commission General. We’ll need a new census and the whole Freedmen’s Bureau, but we’ll do the job. I know it must be hard for you General. But this will let us have peace.”

"I know Senator. Thats why we're going to do it."​
 
This is a great setting of the stage, and pretty fantastically written.

Johnson is a real piece of work. I can see how this ends up with de-facto parliamentarism, looking forward to how it becomes de-jure.
 
Wow
This is brilliantly written. The way you describe General Grant dying was emotionally moving.

The way you wrote about Johnson made me think of all the political cartoons made of him at the time.
George Henry Thomas

This is the first time I have ever heard about General G. H. Thomas, but on reading more about him, it is a great shame how he was not made president.
A man who would choose his own honour over being promoted for political reason.
Its also sad that none of his blood relatives attended his funeral as they had never forgiven him for his loyalty to the Union.*
 

Japhy

Banned
This is a great setting of the stage, and pretty fantastically written.

Johnson is a real piece of work. I can see how this ends up with de-facto parliamentarism, looking forward to how it becomes de-jure.

Much appreciated.

Wow
This is brilliantly written. The way you describe General Grant dying was emotionally moving.

The way you wrote about Johnson made me think of all the political cartoons made of him at the time.


This is the first time I have ever heard about General G. H. Thomas, but on reading more about him, it is a great shame how he was not made president.
A man who would choose his own honour over being promoted for political reason.
Its also sad that none of his blood relatives attended his funeral as they had never forgiven him for his loyalty to the Union.*

I'm glad the Grant piece went well. And in regards to George Thomas, he was pretty damned impressive for a Southern Unionist. Of course he's not long for the world when he takes office, stroke inbound and all that.

I'm still don't see how it will turn parliamentary, but I'll wait and see.

By 1873 there will have been 5 American Presidents in eight years. In the era of radical reconstruction. In an era that traditionally saw the powers of the President decrease. There's going to be a shift in power that develops from here.
 
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August 12, 1868
Cahawba County, State of Madison


It had to be Mary and Elijah’s wedding, Josiah Cottenham thought. His sister and her man, a former field hand from old Mr. Bailey’s plantation, had insisted on a big wedding with an evening party. There was dancing, music, raw corn liquor, and what seemed enough food to feed the whole county. Josiah wanted to be there. As the oldest, he was owed a first dance with the bride, and Mary’s maid of honor had been making eyes at him all weekend.

Instead though, he was in the bushes off the main road, silently swearing and squashing mosquitoes and hoping the chiggers weren’t burrowing their way through his hide. His Springfield was well-oiled. It got a lot more use that he wanted it to, but these were rough times. It would get more use before the night was through.

There was a rustling to Josiah’s left. Shortly after, a skinny pre-teen crawled out. Leonidas Bailey, only eight summers old when the war started, shuffled over to Josiah. His endearing attempt at a mustache was visible, barely, in the light of a near-full moon. Brambles stuck in his overgrown hair. “They has sixty-three riders, suh,” said the scout, the youngest member of Hamlin’s Hundred, about half of which was spread among the trees on both sides of the road. Josiah, one of the few members to serve in the Union army and the only one to rise past the rank of private, was its commander.

Josiah tightened his grip on his musket. “How far out is they?”

“They close.”

“Tell the rest. On my signal.”

“Yes, suh.”

Josiah still found being called “sir” off-putting. The word tasted bloody and bitter in his mouth. Still, Hamlin’s Hundred was an army, not a social club. That meant military norms, even if the militia elected their officers and drew their meagre stipends in part from the church collection plate. Military discipline was important. It let them do more than detain and search whites who strayed over the county line or take potshots at night riders. The battles here were smaller than the war of liberation had been. The air was clear, rather than thick with cordite and the percussion of firing cannons, and the dead could be counted individually rather than in scores or hundreds or boxcar lots.

Yet, they were as bloody and vicious as anything Josiah had seen as a man in the Union blue. In his brief service, he had avoided the largest battles, but the colored regiment Josiah was attached to had fought men in grey and slave patrols of old men and boys in running engagements that turned creeks red and towns into morgues. They had lost nearly three-quarters of their men to death, injury or illness by the time they reached Mobile.

Josiah heard the faint sound of horses trotting now. The riders were close. Down the road, he spotted lit torches, and could hear chatter among the enemy. They approached the bridge over the Cahaba River, and began to cross. The horses’ iron-shod hooves clattered on oak planks, making Josiah flinch. He had killed plenty of white boys. He had shoved a bayonet through the ribs of an officer and splattered the brains of an infantryman against a stone wall. He had set light to villages, pushing women and children into the countryside to starve. As General Sherman had said, “War is hell.”

“Best get ‘dis over quickly,” muttered Josiah to himself. The horsemen approached the Hundred’s position. Here, the creek bent west and the path narrowed significantly for a few hundred yards. The treeline was much closer to the road here that on the other side of the river, where the rich old Bailey plantation had started clearing trees to widen the road and eventually lay ground for a railway. There was coal in these parts, and the Baileys hoped to get at it. It was still a few miles to the old Cottingham plantation though, and the riders didn’t want to tire out their mounts. They kept at a reasonable trot.

It was a beautiful summer night. Birds and insects and all manner of God’s creation made a racket, blending into a sweet, worldly cacophony. Most of the riders were over the bridge. Josiah could recognize a few of them under their white cloaks and masks. There was Sheriff Browdey, of the next county over, a corpulent man with an affinity for whiskey and Negro women. There was Sam Hardeen, a stable boy with a sweet demeanour and a dull intellect, who had, in the days before the war, one of the kindest white men in these parts. There was Tom MacLaren, a hateful old man recognizable by his leg, missing below the knee. A shame in some way that it had to come to all this, but the buckra wouldn’t leave the freedmen alone. The Hundred would have to make them.

Josiah whistled a bird call. It was out of season, but to folks who weren’t paying much attention, it would only seem odd. The trot slowed slightly, as the lead man -old Mr. Bailey’s second son James by his jet-black horse and rumored position in the so-called Knights of St. Andrew’s Cross- signaled. Perfect. Josiah raised his rifle, aiming right at Bailey, and softly pulled the trigger.


***​


It had been mayhem.

There was smoke and fire. The dropped torches of dead night riders had ignited the grass in places: only the recent rains meant that a forest fire wasn’t imminent. The air was thick with the sounds of dead and dying men. Josiah hoped they were mostly buckra.

Their trap had worked perfectly, and while the riders could terrorize innocents, they weren’t military geniuses. Neither, then, was Josiah, but even as an illiterate field hand before the war, he had some talent with tactics: there was a reason he had risen to sergeant, and not only because his unit had gone through the sawmill floor. The riverbank and forest had made the riders immobile. Surprise and rifle fire from both the flank and the front had sent the enemy -and more importantly their horses- into a panic. Some rode further down the road: they would be dispatched by another picket. Others turned tail and tried to flee back to their county. Josiah let them go. The rest had died in place or charging the Hundred’s position among the trees. It had gotten dirty there, a battle of knives and muscles and muffled shouts. The white men had been subdued, finally, and now it was time to take an accounting.

Josiah picked his way among the dead and dying. Miraculously, he had only lost one man, Marcus Bailee, a quiet, light-skinned lad whose mother had been old Master Bailey’s favourite. He had taken a pistol ball to the throat when the riders had charged the trees, dying almost instantly. There were a few more wounded, but they all looked to be in shape to recover. The white men, not so much. Of the sixty three that Leonidas had counted, fifty-four lay on the Alabama clay, turning it from brownish-red to crimson. Members of the Hundred combed through the bodies, taking trinkets and anything useful, especially weapons and hard money. A few men bayoneted the dead to keep them there: no use having any surprises.

Suddenly, Josiah heard a rasping cough to his left. He turned, and stared at the dead body of an elderly horse. The white-clad figure underneath it had come to, and was struggling to squirm free, while coughing up a storm. The man spat to his side: Josiah could see, even with just the moonlight, that it was blood. Josiah strode over, and placed his boot onto the horse, pressing down. The figure yelped and collapsed back with the additional weight on his lower chest and legs. Using his bayonet, Josiah flipped off the mask, and stifled a gasp. It was Leroy Cottingham. He was the cousin and field boss of old Master Cottingham. He had dealt out more than his share of lashings. Josiah suddenly stiffened with pain running along the web of scars on his back, buttocks and legs.

Leroy started to speak, but began to cough again, blood spattering on the horse’s corpse. Josiah felt his vision closing him, as fury, borne of fear and pain and loathing and shame, began to boil over. Shifting his bayonet to the overseer’s throat, he looked into the man’s eyes. He saw fear. The same fear, he was certain, the man had seen many times in his own eyes.

Josiah flexed, and shoved the bayonet down.
 
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