Rough Justice by Lyle Brandt Read Free Book Online

crowd was silent, nearly breathless, as he paced across the stage, commanding full attention. “Citizens! The radicals in Washington tell us we must accept the nigra as our brother, lift him up from the subservience ordained by God Almighty, and endow him with the full rights of a free white man!”
    Some muttering had started now, angry, but not at Truscott.
    â€œWhite men! Will you take it lying down, or will you stand and fight?”
    A voice cried out from somewhere in the crowd’s rear ranks, but not in answer to the question. “Soldiers!” it proclaimed.
    Another raised the shout, “Bluebellies!”
    Ryder turned and saw a squad of Union troops approaching, some of them black men, armed with Springfield rifles sporting bayonets.

4
    T he crowd convulsed, hundreds of throats raising a sound of mingled fear and anger as the troops advanced. Some individuals among the audience were shouting racial epithets and curses, others scouring the ground for stones to hurl against the marching men in blue. Ryder could see no happy outcome for the situation and had no desire to be there, but his focus was on Truscott and his corps of bodyguards.
    Atop the dais, Truscott pointed at the soldiers, shouting out above the growling of the mob. “Brothers! Behold the enemy! They’ve laid waste to our homes, and now send
niggers
to oppress us! Where’s their sacred Constitution and its freedoms when
we
try to use them?”
    More excited, angry babbling from the crowd, where several of the men Ryder could see were drawing knives and pistols. Most of Truscott’s bodyguards jumped down and joined the mob, forcing their way up toward the frontranks where the troops would make first contact. Two men remained on stage, flanking their boss with six-guns drawn, ready for trouble.
    Ryder eased in their direction, still not certain what he planned to do. His first instinct was to get out of there before the bullets started flying, knowing he could just as easily be killed by Union bullets as by Rebel fire. His mission, as he understood it, didn’t call for him to fight an army in the open, at a time and place of someone else’s choosing, but he needed something that would get him close to Truscott, and he might not get another chance like this.
    He reached the close end of the stage, ignored by Truscott’s two remaining bodyguards. That was a lapse in judgment on their part, apparently unable to conceive there might be enemies among the snarling crowd. If he’d been an assassin, Ryder could have dropped his man from fifteen feet away, an easy shot, and vanished in the mob before the guards could take him down.
    Something to think about, but since he
wasn’t
an assassin, it was useless.
    Rocks were flying now, along with curses, and the troops were taking hits. Their bayonets were lowered, aimed directly at the crowd, while their commanding officer bawled orders, brandishing a saber. If a shot was fired from either side, the scene could turn into a massacre. Ryder was measuring the space beneath the dais, wondering if he could fit in there and use the stage for cover, when it happened.
    At the far edge of the crowd, a pistol cracked. He thought it might be one of Truscott’s men but couldn’t tell for sure, with all the ducking, heaving bodies in his line of sight. He saw one of the bluecoats stumble, going down, and then the officer in charge of them was shouting, “Halt! Aim! Fire!”
    The first blue-suited rank dropped to one knee, clearly amovement they had practiced, so the second rank could aim over their heads. At the shout of “Fire!” a dozen rifles spoke as one, their .58-caliber Minié balls ripping into the crowd through a mist of black powder smoke. Men fell, some of them screaming, others deathly silent, as the third and fourth ranks slipped around their comrades and assumed firing position.
    â€œReady!” their commander ordered.