Yes, he’d heard of the White Raiders. Yes, he knew them to be a gang of killers. Finally he sighed heavily and sent his man Luther out to hitch up his team.
And now here we were, bumping and rolling our way out to Abraham’s house in the Quarters. Crammed together on the back bench were Moody, Luther Cosgrove, and his brother Conrad.
Luther and Conrad were L.J.’s assistants—“my man Friday and his brother Saturday,” he joked—on call twenty-four hours a day to do whatever the boss wanted done. They drove Allegra Stringer on her errands. They ran packages to McComb and Jackson and Shreveport. If L.J. needed anybody “brought into line,” as he put it, it was the Cosgroves who did the bringing.
“What we’re doing here is extremely foolish,” said L.J. “You know that?”
“I know that,” I said. “But if we don’t help these people, nobody will. And they’re all going to die.”
L.J. shrugged and said, “Well, we can’t have that. This has to stop somewhere. Might as well be right here and right now.”
Chapter 86
POOR ABRAHAM WAS in the parlor of his house, sleeping fitfully when we arrived. Half a dozen men came from the Quarters, as volunteers, even though they had only a couple of rifles. “Guarding Father Abraham,” that’s what they called it. Abraham was that beloved here.
As it turned out, the White Raiders didn’t come that first night, but we continued guarding Father Abraham. As the sun went down the second evening, L.J. and I took our places on the porch. We’d been friends for a long time, but he’d gotten better and better with the years, the exact opposite of Jacob.
I arranged the other men as carefully as a Civil War general planning his lines of defense. I put two of the new men on the roof, despite Moody’s protest that the sheets of tin were so old and rusty that they would almost certainly fall through.
Then L.J. dispatched five of the men in an enfilade line among the old willow trees at the edge of the woods.
“Stay awake. Stay alert,” he told everyone. “Don’t leave your post for any damn reason. If you need to pee, just do it in place.”
As the second night watch began, our fears were as high as on the first.
Around eleven L.J. and I decided a finger of sour-mash whiskey was what our coffee needed to take the edge off. After midnight Moody came out with a fresh pot. She told me Abraham was awake.
Through the window I saw him propped up on his pillow. Between his hands he held a bowl of steaming liquid, which he raised to his lips.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s got a little more energy tonight. But I ain’t getting my hopes up. Aunt Henry says he’s on his way.”
I nodded and walked inside.
“How are you feeling, friend?” I asked.
He smiled. “How are you, is the question,” he said. “I ain’t doing nothing but laying on this bed, trying not to die. You the one doing somethin’.”
“I’ll keep doing my job, as long as you do yours,” I said.
I was surprised how sharp he seemed, and I seized the opportunity.
“Still no word from the White House, Abraham,” I told him. “Makes me angry.”
“The Lord and the president, they both work in mysterious ways,” he said.
“How did you ever come to know him, Abraham?” I asked. “The president, that is.”
“Mr. Roosevelt’s mama was a southern lady, you know. Miss Mittie. From over where I’m from, in Roswell, Georgia. And see, my sister Annie went to work for Miss Mittie, eventually went with her up to New York. She was still up there, nursing Mittie, the day she died. Died the same day as Mr. Roosevelt’s first wife, Alice. Did you know his mama died the same day as his wife? I was there that day, helping Annie. That was a terrible day. I guess he never forgot it.”
“Ben!” L.J. shouted. “The sons o’ bitches are here! They’re everywhere!”
From all around the cabin came a clatter of hooves, then an explosion of gunfire.
I lunged for the front door. I was almost there when one of the Raiders came crashing through the roof, landing on my back.
Chapter 87