The Orphan Mother by Robert Hicks Read Free Book Online Page B

possibilities. No slave ever did that , Tole thought. The young had a courage that made him proud and envious. He’d been born free in New York City, but somehow the opportunities had never really presented themselves to him—and then the war came, and the possibilities had been defined by the notches of a rifle’s sight.
    Near Theopolis, but not speaking to him, were two white men—politicians, Tole could tell, important men from out of town. Another white man came behind them, with another Negro by his side.
    The mayor trailed at the very back, near the sheriff and his deputies, stalking around the stage like guard dogs, keeping the Colored League men back. Even from this distance Tole could hear the beat of drums and the cheers ringing out.
    From the group of white men at the corner he heard nothing at all. Near them a pair of mockingbirds worked out their disagreements, which among birds meant a whole lot of fierceness, pecking and clawing, feet first. It was always over quick, which was one thing different about birds. Men never wanted to get things sorted out for good. They liked their blood feuds.
    There must’ve been a few hundred folks gathered in the courthouse square by two o’clock: businessmen and homeless vagrants, disenfranchised Confederate boys and members of the Colored League, conservative loyalists and Republicans. It was a rally of sorts, Republicans and Conservatives, politicians shouting over each other, over jeers and riotous yelling. Tole sat up straight.
    He hadn’t anticipated a gathering this large, a killing this public. Mr. Dixon must want to make an example outta this man , he thought to himself. In the right corner, at the back of the stage, almost obscured by picket signs and tall hats, he saw a white man with a round face, his upper lip swallowed by a graying, upturned mustache, and a black top hat pulled down tight.
    Tole’s gaze would have shifted, seeking other pale faces in the crowd for his mark, had it not been for a flash of color that caught his eye on the mustached man’s hat. There, at the top, sprouting from the base like some sort of extraordinary flower, curled a bright orange feather. The man Mr. Dixon wants dead. Jesse Bliss.
    He repeated the name in his head, the next man he would kill: Jesse Bliss. One moment Bliss would be breathing, speaking, yearning; and the next Tole would squeeze a small metal lever and, like some type of terrible magic, a metal ball would puncture the front of Jesse Bliss’s forehead and all of his breathing, speaking, and yearning—his hopes and his cheating at cards when he got drunk and his laughing too loud at his father-in-law’s jokes, the things Tole imagined white men did with their time—all that would end. Click .
    Tole made minute adjustments to the angle of the barrel, judging the direction and strength of the breeze by the soft billow of the nation’s flag in his periphery. His hands stilled as he cocked the trigger and squinted, eyes trained on that orange feather as his heartbeat slowed. One more instant and—
    Just then, Theopolis walked out onto the stage and stood behind the podium. A roar from the crowds. Tole heard, or thought he heard, men shouting, Get back in the field where you belong. But he was too far away to hear distinctly.
    These boys gonna reignite a war right here, they ain’t careful . The crowd seemed suddenly much more unruly as it condensed toward the front of the stage.
    Theopolis, he could tell, was trying to yell over the crowd.
    And then Tole’s nightmare really began.

Chapter 7
Mariah
    July 6, 1867
    A rumble, like the earth clearing its throat, came drifting over from the courthouse square. Down the wide expanse of Fourth Avenue, where she stood in the doorway of the dim little quilt shop, Mariah could see the fringe of the crowd clustered around the stage, though not the stage itself. She could see the great brick courthouse, with its grand cast-iron columns and long windows, its long smooth