steps and the round clock face that stood out in the middle of the pediment, looming over the gathered figures like History itself. The courthouse made everything around it look smaller—the surrounding buildings, squatter and made from darker brick, that bordered the square; the pair of elm trees that framed its entryway; and the people, black and white, who stood in its shadow. For a moment she just looked toward the square and listened to the swelling sound.
“They got theyself started I guess,” Minnie Bostick, the chimney sweep’s wife, said from behind her table, arms crossed, short and wide-set, cheeks full and dark. Her eyes said, What you doing here?
Mariah didn’t answer—neither the spoken nor unspoken. “Someday I’m getting one of these here quilts, Minnie, but not today.” How she keep them quilts so clean with Mr. Bostick’s dust all over everything? He as coal chalky as they come , she thought. She walked on, letting Minnie eyeball the back of her head.
More cheers and groans wafted over from the courthouse square. Mariah wondered if Theopolis had given his speech, and whether the others had liked it. She took another two steps, toward the courthouse, yet safely far away.
At that very moment—at least, this was the way Mariah would always remember it—she heard the first screams and shouts from the courthouse square.
And then, unmistakably, gunfire.
She spun on her heel and ran toward the square.
Chapter 8
Tole
July 6, 1867
At the base of the podium, the crowd surged. Tole could not see the cause—the press of bodies was too tight—a whirl of heads and arms reaching out.
A bottle crashed near the stage. Gunshots rang out from the corner, and from Sykes’s grocery, too. The Colored League boys ran for cover, pulling pistols from bootstraps.
The white Conservatives were firing.
A Negro in rough blue homespun staggered and fell, shot in the back. Women were screaming. The Leaguers fled the square, some turning to return fire. The courthouse bell rang out. A few white boys went down, some trampled, some shot in the legs or shoulders. A stampede of whites and Negroes, gunfire and burning flags. A riot of shouts. Three white men stormed the stage. Another smashed a bottle. One man set fire to a washrag and threw it into the mob.
Jesse Bliss and his hat loomed bright and clear in the midst of the chaos.
Tole’s mind tumbled over itself. He sighted back in. He calmed his heart and his breath. This was the only thing that gave him any power, that rifle and its ball seated in the chamber, his eye, his knowledge of wind and angles. He felt the stock smooth on his cheek. Beyond the straight line between that window and the stage, the world faded away and time stopped.
Bliss’s men tried to get him down from the stage, but it was all happening too fast. Tole had only a few moments to take his shot. This was his only chance. He had nearly squeezed the trigger when his chance disappeared.
He lost sight of Bliss in the raucous ebb and flow of people. He swung the front sight post over the crowd, past a white man with a twisted, two-fingered hand raised to shield his face, past the burning washrag, past the men fighting on the stage, and on to the front left corner of the platform. There was Bliss. He sighted in on the man’s face, and let his eyes focus one last time on the target before he entered that loneliness of eye and front sight post, when the world was reduced down to a small piece of metal and a slow draw of breath. He looked one last time at the target, to make sure it was indeed a man and that he could tell his head from his ass end.
A head, blond, with a heavy-brimmed dark hat, loomed up between Tole and Bliss. Then Bliss’s hat disappeared in the mob. Reappeared.
Again and again Tole sighted, aimed, but couldn’t get a clear shot.
The hat disappeared again.
Tole could see Theopolis Reddick, young and vibrant and waving his hands for calm and a stop to the disruption. Good
“They got theyself started I guess,” Minnie Bostick, the chimney sweep’s wife, said from behind her table, arms crossed, short and wide-set, cheeks full and dark. Her eyes said, What you doing here?
Mariah didn’t answer—neither the spoken nor unspoken. “Someday I’m getting one of these here quilts, Minnie, but not today.” How she keep them quilts so clean with Mr. Bostick’s dust all over everything? He as coal chalky as they come , she thought. She walked on, letting Minnie eyeball the back of her head.
More cheers and groans wafted over from the courthouse square. Mariah wondered if Theopolis had given his speech, and whether the others had liked it. She took another two steps, toward the courthouse, yet safely far away.
At that very moment—at least, this was the way Mariah would always remember it—she heard the first screams and shouts from the courthouse square.
And then, unmistakably, gunfire.
She spun on her heel and ran toward the square.
Chapter 8
Tole
July 6, 1867
At the base of the podium, the crowd surged. Tole could not see the cause—the press of bodies was too tight—a whirl of heads and arms reaching out.
A bottle crashed near the stage. Gunshots rang out from the corner, and from Sykes’s grocery, too. The Colored League boys ran for cover, pulling pistols from bootstraps.
The white Conservatives were firing.
A Negro in rough blue homespun staggered and fell, shot in the back. Women were screaming. The Leaguers fled the square, some turning to return fire. The courthouse bell rang out. A few white boys went down, some trampled, some shot in the legs or shoulders. A stampede of whites and Negroes, gunfire and burning flags. A riot of shouts. Three white men stormed the stage. Another smashed a bottle. One man set fire to a washrag and threw it into the mob.
Jesse Bliss and his hat loomed bright and clear in the midst of the chaos.
Tole’s mind tumbled over itself. He sighted back in. He calmed his heart and his breath. This was the only thing that gave him any power, that rifle and its ball seated in the chamber, his eye, his knowledge of wind and angles. He felt the stock smooth on his cheek. Beyond the straight line between that window and the stage, the world faded away and time stopped.
Bliss’s men tried to get him down from the stage, but it was all happening too fast. Tole had only a few moments to take his shot. This was his only chance. He had nearly squeezed the trigger when his chance disappeared.
He lost sight of Bliss in the raucous ebb and flow of people. He swung the front sight post over the crowd, past a white man with a twisted, two-fingered hand raised to shield his face, past the burning washrag, past the men fighting on the stage, and on to the front left corner of the platform. There was Bliss. He sighted in on the man’s face, and let his eyes focus one last time on the target before he entered that loneliness of eye and front sight post, when the world was reduced down to a small piece of metal and a slow draw of breath. He looked one last time at the target, to make sure it was indeed a man and that he could tell his head from his ass end.
A head, blond, with a heavy-brimmed dark hat, loomed up between Tole and Bliss. Then Bliss’s hat disappeared in the mob. Reappeared.
Again and again Tole sighted, aimed, but couldn’t get a clear shot.
The hat disappeared again.
Tole could see Theopolis Reddick, young and vibrant and waving his hands for calm and a stop to the disruption. Good
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