The Court-Martial of Charlie Newell

Copyright © 2008 Gerard Shirar.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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ISBN: 978-0-5954-4491-5 (sc)

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iUniverse rev. date: 04/16/2021

Contents

Introduction

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Part II

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-one

Chapter Seventy-two

Chapter Seventy-three

Chapter Seventy-four

Chapter Seventy-five

Chapter Seventy-six

Chapter Seventy-seven

Chapter Seventy-eight

Chapter Seventy-nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-one

Chapter Eight-two

Chapter Eighty-three

Chapter Eighty-four

Chapter Eighty-five

Chapter Eighty-six

Endnotes

To my daughters, Suzanne and Janet, the brightest stars in my heaven

Introduction

This story takes place during the period of the First World War and the years immediately afterward. When the United States entered World War I on April 6, 1917, the country began a military draft. As part of the draft legislation, local draft boards were established to decide the cases of those inductees seeking deferment, including petitions from draftees who sought deferment because of their religious conviction.

A court-martial similar to the one depicted here occurred on June 19, 1918, at Fort Caswell in North Carolina. It involved a Negro conscientious objector. His draft board had refused to defer him, and he was inducted into the army against his religious conviction. The man belonged to a religious denomination that believed modern-day Negroes were descendants of the lost tribes of Israel. Members observed Saturday as their Sabbath, the day for prayer when no work would be performed. They also believed war for any reason was against God’s will. The soldier was court-martialed when he refused a direct order to work on Saturday. The order, as in this novel, was given by an officer who was probably motivated by racial prejudice.

Since 1917, checks and balances to improve a soldier’s chance for justice have been incorporated into the judicial system in use in the United States Armed Forces. Today, an order with the sole objective of attaining some private end, for example, furthering one’s racial prejudice, is no longer regarded as a lawful order, and its refusal is no longer punishable. In 1917, a soldier could only appeal his court-martial conviction through the military’s chain of command. Today, the Army Court of Criminal Appeals will review cases in which a soldier received a sentence of death, a bad-conduct discharge, dishonorable discharge, dismissal of an officer, or confinement of at least one year. Further appeal, if necessary, is made to the Court of Appeals of the Armed Forces, an appellate court comprised of civilian jurists. Under certain circumstances, appealing a case to the Supreme Court is also possible.

In 1917, the president of a general court-martial board decided all matters of law, evidence, and procedure. He was also encouraged to seek advice in these areas from the officer appointed to prosecute the accused. Today, a military judge, who is a senior member of the Judge Advocate General Corps, and a lawyer, who usually holds the rank of colonel, presides over a general court-martial. The judge decides all legal matters as they arise during the trial. The court-martial board merely acts as a jury. Its racial composition now more representative of today’s racially integrated armed forces. Unlike the trial depicted here, one-third of the general court-martial board today may include enlisted men or women when an enlisted man or woman is being tried.

During World War I, twice as many African Americans served in the armed forces than during the Civil War. But they were subjected to pervasive, unrelenting racial prejudice and discrimination. There was official reluctance to fully train or equip them. Most Negro soldiers and sailors were relegated to serving as laborers, food service personnel, stevedores, and in supply and quartermaster duties.

During the period depicted, life at the army prisons at Fort Jay on Governor’s Island in New York Harbor, Fort Leavenworth in Kansas, and Alcatraz in San Francisco Bay was primitive and often brutal. Racial prejudice, which was prevalent among inmates, guards, and officers who ran the prisons, made conditions for Negro inmates even more severe. The prison at Fort Leavenworth, where the protagonist spent the last years of his incarceration, was dubbed the castle because of the inmate building’s massive size and forbidding appearance.

The castle was closed a few years ago, and a new prison was built. It now serves as the Department of Defense’s principal prison for male prisoners from all armed services who are serving sentences longer than seven years.

Prejudice against Negroes during 1917 and the early 1920s prevailed among civilians in the North. It was rampant throughout the Southern states, where Jim Crow laws were firmly in place. Kansas, where some of this story takes place, was a free state during the Civil War and during the depicted period, was a place where anti-Negro sentiment was high. In the years following the Civil War, a large number of the newly freed slaves moved to Kansas, lured by the government’s offer of free homestead land. But once there, they were met with the same discrimination they had faced in their former homes, and racial tension was a way of life.

An incident that illustrated that tension took place on December 17, 1920, when rioting between black and white Montgomery County citizens followed a Negro’s alleged robbery and murder of a white grocer. Kansas National Guard troops had to be mobilized to help quell the rioting.

The story in this novel takes place in the context of this history, when racial prejudice and discrimination was rampant in the country.

Let me introduce myself. My name is prejudice. I have been around as long as mankind itself. I take on many forms: racial, religious, ethnic, age, sexual, economic, social, and a variety of others too numerous to mention. Those who embrace me may merely turn their backs when they see me. Some may commit violence in my name. To further me, wars have been fought, and countless crimes against humanity have been committed. I feed on racial, ethnic, and religious difference; preconceived ideas; mistaken opinion; falsehoods; bias; ignorance; jealousy; and blind hatred.

Part I

Chapter One

A Model T truck was traveling along the road.

A bird flying overhead might have noticed that the dirt road below was free of potholes and ruts. Earlier in the week, a crew from the Onslow County Road Maintenance Department had leveled the road. They had used a horse-drawn drag to smooth out the blemishes that had been part of the road since as far back as anyone could remember.

A Model T truck was traveling along the road. A few moments earlier, it had driven through the small community of Holly Ridge and passed through a grove of oak trees that lined both sides of the road. It was now crossing the Mill Creek culvert. The creek was completely dry now. It had not rained for almost three weeks.

The road originated in Jacksonville, North Carolina, and went through the towns of Vernon, Dixon, and Holly Ridge. It eventually connected to other roads that meandered southeast, passing through similar small communities and finally ending at the Atlantic Ocean.

Earlier in the day, the truck and its two occupants had begun their journey in Jacksonville. Jacksonville’s population was 14,203, a figure reached the day before by the birth of twins to the Murray family. Charles Murray Sr., the family’s patriarch, owned a prosperous dry goods store on Merchant Street. His business employed most of the male members of the family and provided them with a comfortable, middle-class living.

As county seat, Jacksonville was the center of county government and home to the county’s courts and most of the county’s lawyers, doctors, and other professions and trades vital to the operation of a thriving society.

Holly Ridge, which the truck had passed through a few minutes before, was a collection of run-down wooden cabins with a single general store. A poor community, its entire population was Negroes. Most worked the surrounding farmland that some of the prominent white families of the county had owned for generations. This included the Johnson, Campbell, Stroud, and the Ambrose families. The ancestors of many of the present residents of Holly Ridge had worked the same white-owned land as slaves.

The truck came to a fork in the road, took the left leg, climbed a short hill, and turned into the yard of a wooden church. Its peeling white paint, missing clapboards, and sagging steeple marked it as home to a struggling congregation.

Titus Morris, the man at the truck’s wheel, clenched an unlit cigar stub in his teeth. Out of habit, he periodically rolled it around in his mouth with his thumb and index finger. He wore a khaki uniform. On the left sleeve was affixed the patch of the Onslow County Sheriff’s Department. A stocky, gray-haired man of about fifty, he was the sheriff of Onslow County.

August Bird, a man in his early thirties, rode in the seat beside him. He was also dressed in the same uniform. He was thin with an angular face and a full head of blond hair. Bird’s eyes were closed in sleep; his head rested against the frame of the truck door. He had slept most of the way from Jacksonville, his head moving up and down against the door frame in time with the movement of the truck. Bird, as his ability to sleep under such conditions demonstrated, was a naturally lazy man. But a loyalty to Sheriff Morris and a good ol’ boy personality made him an invaluable asset during the sheriff’s election campaigns. These attributes also caused the sheriff to overlook his shortcomings and elevate him to the rank of senior deputy. Both men were not wearing their uniform hats. Those were resting beside them in the seat. Each wore a Colt .45 in a leather hip holster. A double-barreled shotgun hung in a rack behind them.

The cloud of dust which followed the truck as it drove along the road had settled when the truck finally came to a stop in the church yard. It was three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon on August 4, 1917.

Sheriff Morris got out of the truck, stretched his legs, and put on his uniform hat

Stay here. If I need you, I’ll holler, he said to Bird who had awakened when the truck stopped.

As he crossed the yard, several Negroes on their way from the church greeted him.

How do, sheriff? How y’all?

Fine, replied the sheriff. How y’all?

He acknowledged each greeting by touching his visor, a mannerism he had adopted during years of political campaigning.

The afternoon service had ended thirty minutes earlier. Most parishioners had already left the church. The few stragglers who greeted the sheriff had remained after the service to speak with the minister.

Sheriff Morris was a pleasant man and a skilled politician. He had been sheriff of Onslow County for eighteen years, and he had been duly reelected every four years. He was a reasonably efficient police officer. Most of the time, he tried to be fair to all the citizens of the county, including the Negroes, even though they didn’t vote because of the Jim Crow laws.

In 1917, this part of the South was heavily segregated. Racial prejudice was widespread. Two Negro lynchings had occurred recently which, for political reasons, Sheriff Morris had chosen not to prevent nor thoroughly investigate. The KKK and other anti-Negro organizations had been around since Reconstruction. They still had a strong following in the county, so Sheriff Morris had to be cautious in racial matters.

As he climbed the front steps of the church, he noticed the sign to the right of the door, announcing he was about to enter a Church of God and the Saints of Christ. Once inside, Sheriff Morris saw the church was vacant. Only the Reverend Gromes, who was tidying up after the service, was left.

Good afternoon, Sheriff. What brings you out this way? the reverend asked.

Reverend Brother Willard Gromes was a heavyset Negro in his late-sixties with white hair. His light brown skin and facial features suggested Caucasian blood somewhere in his ancestry.

I’m here for the boys. Frederick Douglass, Charlie Henry Newell, and Norman McCall. I’m just doing my job, Reverend. I got nothing against them. But I’m under orders to bring them down to Fort Caswell, Sheriff Morris said.

The sheriff was not looking forward to this job. The men had been the talk of the county for about two weeks, the time it took for the Onslow County Draft Board to decide their case. It was a religious issue. The church followed many of the tenets of Judaism and believed in a strict adherence to the Bible. It was opposed to all war, including wearing a military uniform.

These men claimed their religious beliefs qualified them for conscientious objector status. They sought an exemption from the draft on that basis. Bishop William H. Plummer, the head of the church, had traveled from Philadelphia to Jacksonville to argue their case before the draft board, but the board determined that their religion was not an established one. Therefore, it did not provide any basis for conscientious objector status.

The Negroes in the county knew race had decided the issue and the decision had been reached long before the hearing. But the majority of the whites of the county supported the decision. As a result, the men were required to report for military duty with the army. But they ignored the draft board’s order, so the army asked the sheriff to round up the draftees and bring them to Fort Caswell.

What makes you think they’re around here or I know where they are? the reverend asked.

I know how y’all feel about war and killing, Sheriff Morris replied. But the draft board has heard their appeal. They will not grant them conscientious objector status, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it. Look, I’ll take them to Caswell myself. You know I’ll treat them fair. You can count on that. I’ll see they get settled there. It’s either that or jail. Neither of us wants that.

The reverend didn’t say anything.

Look, I know they’re somewhere around here, Sheriff Morris continued. They’re hiding in a cellar or someplace. You know where they are. If you don’t help me, I’ll search until I find them. But I’ll have to bring in others. Maybe some of the whites from around here. You know how some of these people are. There was a lot of feelings about them boys claiming to be conscientious objectors, so I can’t guarantee their safety if I have to bring in others to help me. So let’s do things the easy way. I’ll just sit here and wait.

The reverend still didn’t say anything. He was still trying to figure out the best course of action for the men. He did know where the men were. He believed they were true in their belief that war was wrong. It was a basic tenet of their faith. But there also were safety considerations, so the reverend had a dilemma. If the sheriff brought in others, the men might be injured when they were found. Maybe they would even be killed. The sheriff was right. Anti-Negro feelings ran high after the men had refused to serve. The whites had deep resentments, especially those with sons who had volunteered or agreed to serve when drafted.

The war raging in Europe was a slaughterhouse that had already killed many of Europe’s sons. The first contingent of American troops had arrived in France that June. Negroes would also be serving over there, so conscientious objector status was unpopular among Negroes and whites alike.

Further resistance was risky, the reverend thought. It was better for the men and their families that they now voluntarily submit to the sheriff’s custody.

Sheriff, the reverend said, these are good, God-fearing men who believe that war is wrong. It’s a true conviction. I know it is. Our religion is firm in that belief. Those city people, those members of the draft board, didn’t give the bishop a fair hearing.

The reverend thought it was best to say city people when he actually meant those bigoted whites. Because he was speaking to a white sheriff, he was prudent in his word choice.

I know because I was there. We tried to explain our belief to them, and they just closed their minds to the fact that Negroes might have convictions.

I know, the sheriff said, trying to be as conciliatory as possible. But it’s the law. And the men have to go. I have my orders from the army. I got to deliver them to Caswell, and there’s no way around it.

You’ll take care of them, Sheriff? Promise you will. They’re good men, and their families depend on them. Newell has a young child. You’ve known these men since they were boys.

I promise, Sheriff Morris replied. I’ll deliver them safe and sound.

Then wait here. I’ll go get them. It’ll take a while, but I’ll get them.

The reverend left the church through the back door. The sheriff took a seat in one of the pews to wait.

Chapter Two

You know, by rights, I should restrain you boys.

Fort Caswell, named after the Revolutionary War hero Richard Caswell, was a coastal artillery post on the eastern tip of Oak Island, North Carolina. It had been a military post since before the Civil War. Because of a lack of adequate defenses to protect the approaches to the port of Wilmington, Congress authorized the construction of the fort in 1825. Its construction was an outstanding engineering achievement. The original fort, constructed between 1826 and 1836, was a brick structure near the end of the island overlooking the Cape Fear River. The remainder was completed around 1900. The fort was the headquarters of the Cape Fear Coastal Defense Command and home to several coast artillery batteries under the command of Colonel Charles A. Butler. The fort was used as an army basic training camp for new recruits and draftees, so the. Sheriff had been ordered to bring the Negro draftees there.

Sheriff Morris spoke to the men before they began the journey, You know, by rights, I should restrain you boys. You are my prisoners and draft resisters. That’s what the army says anyway. But I’ll leave the restraints off and let you ride in the back of the truck if you promise to do what I say and not try to get away.

During his eighteen years as sheriff, he had learned that Negroes were more likely to trust and cooperate if they thought they were being treated fairly. Sheriff Morris had asked Charlie Newell first for his promise not to escape if he left off the restraints. When Newell promised his cooperation, he similarly conferred with the other two men. While he waited patiently, holding the restraints in his hand, each man promised not to try to escape. He knew Newell was an honest man. If he secured his promise, Sheriff Morris knew Newell would see that the other two lived up to their word. Without Newell’s promise or presence, Sheriff Morris probably would not have trusted the other two.

Bird was shocked at what he heard and said, You gonna let them niggers ride without cuffs and leg irons? You must be plum crazy. Don’t expect me to chase them when they escape.

Like the other deputies, Bird didn’t like Negroes. He was usually hard on them. He thought Sheriff Morris coddled the county’s Negroes more than he should.

Sheriff Morris liked Bird and tolerated his occasional skepticism about his decisions. In the realm of Onslow County politics, there was a strong need for negotiations and appeasement that happened behind the scenes. Bird was adept at these things, and Sheriff Morris relied on him for these skills, particularly when it would have been inappropriate for him to appear to be an appeaser. Bird distrusted all Negroes. He didn’t quite understand the various subtleties of police work, particularly when it required manipulating a person’s personality.

Sheriff Morris knew Newell was a man of character and honesty. By handling him as he had, Morris had adroitly shifted the responsibility for the custody of the two other Negroes onto Newell’s shoulders.

They promised. If there’s any funny business, I’ll restrain them or shoot them, either one, the sheriff promised, stopping just short of disclosing his reasoning behind his decision. He knew Bird wouldn’t have approved.

Shooting them is best, Bird mumbled. It’ll save us the trip to Caswell.

They stopped twice along the way, once to eat and once to put gas in the truck. Even though the trip was only about seventy-five miles, it took five grueling hours because of the road conditions. Near the end, it began to rain. The Negroes alternated between talking among themselves, singing songs, and sleeping, but the downpour soon soaked them. In the town of Southport, the truck boarded a ferry for the trip to Oak Island. Once on the island, they followed the beach road to the fort. The land was flat and peppered with a few run-down wooden houses nestled among the shrubs and windblown sand dunes. The dunes were the only interruption of the island’s flat terrain.

After dark, they reached the entrance to Fort Caswell. Four sentries, stationed in a small hut just outside the main gate, stopped the truck. When Sheriff Morris told the lead sentry that the Negroes were conscientious objectors, he telephoned his captain for instructions. After almost an hour, a captain wearing the brass of the Coast Artillery Corps finally appeared. When he learned the Negroes were conscientious objectors and in the sheriff’s custody, he summoned an MP detail, which took custody of the Negroes and began placing handcuffs and leg irons on the men.

Hold on now, Sheriff Morris protested, placing his hand on the arm of the taller MP and directing his comments to the captain. These are good boys. They’re hard-working. They won’t give you no trouble or be no problem. You don’t need to worry about them. Why don’t you just give them a uniform and some work to do? Their religion doesn’t believe in war or killing in any form. They’re just simple boys. We may not believe the same, but they’re simple people. I think we got to give them their due. You must have something around here they can do until the war’s over?

That’s not my decision. the captain replied. We got procedures. They go to the stockade until we sort things out.

Sheriff Morris quickly sized up the situation. He might be sheriff of Onslow County, but this was the United States Army. He knew it would be wise to just let things go.

Remembering his promise to Reverend Gromes, he said softly with a touch of dejection, They’re good boys. Treat ’em right.

Then he presented a receipt and asked the captain to sign it. His job was finished.

Chapter Three

Most Holly Ridge families kept their children home to work the land.

Frederick Douglass and Norman McCall were both dark-skinned men with typical Negro features. McCall, stocky and short, was a sweet man with a childlike demeanor. If it had been tested, his IQ would have registered in the moron range. He lived with his widowed mother in a cabin on the land of Betty Walker, a widow. He did odd jobs for the widow in exchange for food and housing.

Douglass was thin and stood close to six feet tall. He was illiterate, which was typical among Onslow County’s blacks. He was also prone to smirk whenever he was asked to do something he thought was beneath him. Because he once lived in Charleston, he believed he was better than his country counterparts. Just barely twenty years old, he was the oldest of five children born to Rupert and Ella Douglass. He had been named after the great Negro Civil War-era abolitionist. Since moving from Charleston with his family eight years earlier, he had worked with his siblings and parents on Albert Thomas Johnston’s land. His neighbors called him a slippery boy, a description reserved for those who weren’t fully trusted.

Newell had long, straight hair. His angular features suggested his ancestors probably had come from a settlement somewhere along the Mediterranean coast. In his bare feet, he was about an inch taller than Douglass. He had completed the sixth grade in one of the one-room schoolhouses that North Carolina provided for Negroes. He was married, and his baby boy had just turned six months old. Most Holly Ridge families kept their children home to work the land, but Newell’s father wanted his boy to read and write, so he was allowed to go to school until, in his father’s mind, he was adequately educated,.

Newell was thin with strong, well-muscled arms and shoulders. He developed his physique from the farming and other manual labor, the only livelihood available to him. He was also a natural leader because people instinctively trusted him, not because he wanted or sought out the role. From the moment the men had stepped into Sheriff Morris’ truck, Newell had assumed the leadership role as unassumingly and naturally as if he had merely taken a breath.

The men were dressed in threadbare clothes, daily wear for them, when Reverend Gromes had found them. The reverend had not let them change back into the clothes they had worn to church services earlier that day. He feared the sheriff might call others in to help him if he was forced to wait too long. Newell was the first one Reverend Gromes had found, so he had enough time to pack a few things into an old suitcase while the others were rounded up.

All three men had worked on farmland for most of their lives. They were accustomed to hard work and life with few comforts. Except for Douglass, who still longed for the life he had left in Charleston, they had also adjusted to their place in Southern backwoods society.

The men spent their first night at Fort Caswell in the stockade where the MPs had brought them. They had been placed into a large holding cell with two Negro privates who had gotten drunk on whisky and become confrontational when a white sergeant asked them to quiet down. A redheaded white corporal was also in the cell, confined on suspicion of stealing from a fellow soldier. The army didn’t usually mix the races, but the other holding cell was full. The corporal had not objected when he had been placed with the Negroes.

The next morning, after a breakfast of coffee and biscuits handed to them through an opening in the bars of the cell door, the men were restrained in hand and leg irons. Two MPs brought them to the orderly room of Company A of Fort Caswell’s training command.

Master Sergeant William Dalbert was seated at the first sergeant’s desk. The company’s headquarters was housed in a long, low-profile wooden building situated among a grouping of three barracks, two-story wooden buildings that housed soldiers during basic training. The forward part of the headquarters building, known as the orderly room, was divided into two sections. The forward portion contained the company clerk’s desk, several wooden file cabinets, and a long, wooden bench along one wall. In the center of the space sat a large potbellied stove, which coal from Virginia’s tidewater area fueled during the winter. The area that the master sergeant occupied was separated from the rest of the orderly room by a low, wooden railing with a gate that swung both ways. Behind the master sergeant’s desk was a closed door that led into the company commander’s office. Behind the company commander’s office, separated by a wall, was the company supply room. The supply sergeant and his assistant presided over this area. New recruits were lined up outside the supply room door, awaiting the issuance of backpacks, bed rolls, tents, and entrenching tools, equipment they would need in the next phase of their training.

The captain is busy now, so it’ll be a little while before we can go in, Sergeant Dalbert said to the larger of the two MPs. Sit down, and rest yourselves. You Negroes can sit on the floor against the wall over there.

The group of men sat in silence. After about thirty minutes, the door to the captain’s office opened. A young private dressed in fatigues came out.

Sarge, the soldier said, the captain said to send them niggers in now.

Okay, let’s go, Sergeant Dalbert said.

The group of men got up, passed through the gate, and walked toward the door to the office. Sergeant Dalbert knocked on the door.

A deep voice with a Southern accent said, Come in, Sergeant.

You MPs stay out here, Sergeant Dalbert ordered.

He and the three Negroes, still in hand restraints and leg irons, entered.

The office was small, containing only a wooden desk, a small credenza, a single file cabinet, and a window that faced out onto the space between the barracks. A stocky, bald man with a fringe of blond hair above his ears sat behind the desk. He wore a garrison uniform with the insignia on his collar, indicating he was a captain of coast artillery. A campaign hat rested on the credenza. The sound of the supply sergeant’s voice speaking to one of the recruits being issued equipment could be heard faintly through the wall behind the captain.

I’m Captain Charles Flood, he said. I’m commanding officer of Company A, one of the training companies here at the fort. My job is to turn you niggers into soldiers. Now, I understand you niggers are from up Jacksonville way. They say you are against war. What do you have to say for yourselves?

After a few moments of silence, Newell spoke, Suh, we has a religious reason. Our religion says that wah is wrong, and we asked to be excused. It’s against our religion to carry a gun an’ go to wah.

Captain Flood sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, resting them against the bridge of his nose. He said, Seems we got a problem, Sarge. What do you think we should do?

Sergeant Dalbert was regular army. He had served in the war against Spain in the Philippines and the Mexican campaign.

I guess it’s a job for the fort commander, he replied.

I don’t want him brought in! Captain Flood said dismissively his voice raised. Maybe we can sort this out at our level.

The captain winked at Sergeant Dalbert when he emphasized at our level in his heavy Louisiana accent. The captain’s implication quickly registered with Sergeant Dalbert.

Sir, I think it would be better if the matter was referred to Colonel Butler. I suggest these men be returned to the stockade and you discuss the matter with the colonel before anything is done with them.

During the months he had served with Captain Flood, Sergeant Dalbert had come to dislike the man. The captain was a reservist. He had been a small-time politician, some sort of parish commissioner in Louisiana. The captain was a racial bigot and believed in harsh discipline. He’d enjoy brutalizing the Negroes, making him and the other NCOs in the company accomplices. This concerned Sergeant Dalbert most of all. He had known other officers like the captain. Far too many were in the army now. The war had brought these civilians in. They were neither suitable for command nor understood the purpose of army discipline. Sergeant Dalbert had been raised to consider Negroes inferior, stupid, and lazy, but he didn’t hate them like Captain Flood did.

Why do they keep drafting these niggers? Captain Flood thought. The army doesn’t want them, and they are all cowards who will run at the first sign of battle.

Captain Flood would have enjoyed having these Negroes under his control,