Foreword: This is a one-shot focused on Jasper's past during the Civil War, echoing some elements mentioned in "Waiting for the Rain." Specifically, his father's support for abolition, his sister's suicide by hanging, and Jasper's complicit spectatorship in a lynching during his time in the Confederacy. It's this latter element that is more specifically explored here, and I warn that the treatment of the subject is quite abrupt... Enjoy your reading.
August 23, 1862, Taft, Texas.
"Does he not have eyes, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter?"
William Shakespeare - The Merchant of Venice (variation of Shylock's monologue)
Jasper cast a brief glance at the makeshift gallows, clenching his jaw slightly at the sight of the nooses hanging ominously. He quickly looked away, trying to crush any potential emotions stirred by the image. He refused to think about his sister. Not today. Not in this place.
The harsh August sun beat down on them, giving the dry air a suffocating quality. Despite the proximity to the sea, there was not a breath of wind on this late afternoon, and the handful of spectators crowding around the scaffold dripped with sweat, already seeming on the verge of succumbing to the drowsiness of a humid nap, despite occasional bursts of enthusiastic chatter and forced smiles. Most of his men devoured any food within reach and sipped their drinks in vain hopes of cooling down, awkwardly conversing with the dignitaries who had come to witness the execution. The elegantly dressed women, their faces flushed, swathed in heavy crinoline dresses and sporting elaborate hairstyles, seemed on the verge of fainting from the heat, standing back under the porch or sheltered by large, finely wrought lace parasols. Servants moved tirelessly among them, in an endless dance, carrying trays laden with victuals and drinks.
The opulence of the feast amazed many among his unit; he himself couldn't help but smile stupidly as he bit into a sort of brioche stuffed with seafood and spices: delicious! For days, the semi-siege along the Corpus Christi coast had left them with only a few stale loaves of bread and pieces of dried meat - whose delicately moldy edges inspired little confidence - as their only sustenance; the hunger that had severely gnawed at them in recent weeks, combined with the exhausting fatigue of constant combat in the summer heat, had left the men at their breaking point. In this context, the invitation from the owner of a large cotton field less than six miles from Fort Kinney had sounded like an invaluable boon.
The Unionists had lifted the blockade a few days ago, and the schooners and sloops that had relentlessly bombarded the city for seven days had left the shore to return off the Texas coast: although it had been a victory for the Confederacy, the costs had been high in terms of equipment and foodstuffs. Several supply routes were drastically damaged, and most of the warehouses used to store provisions had gone up in smoke under the fire of naval units. Scorched earth policy, as always... the future would be tough.
Most of the troop had been mobilized since Texas officially entered the Confederacy in March '61. The hectic pace of civilian evacuations and the lack of logistical means in the field were starting to seriously undermine the soldiers' morale at the front. That, along with the fact that the civil war situation was dragging on longer than expected, the lack of civilian support for the Confederacy's ideals in some coastal and border towns, and - above all - the injustice of the conscription exemptions were all getting under people's skin.
The defense of Corpus Christi was far from the bloodiest battle his battalion had participated in since the beginning of the conflict, but it had been morally exhausting. The Union sailors who had landed were at a glaring numerical disadvantage; they had easily been routed by the cavalry, but had only truly retreated after endless hours of unproductive skirmishes. The battle had been more subdued and tactical than any other Jasper had taken part in so far: after days of fighting, he hadn't even had a single casualty among his men, and the Northerners had mostly been able to return to their ships unharmed. Compared to the campaign in New Mexico, it had been a walk in the park and had just constituted a massive waste of time and ammunition. The hardest part had ultimately been managing the aftermath of the battle: some of the city's merchants didn't even bother hiding their sympathy for the Union, and his unit had to intervene to calm the fights between civilians; Confederate supporters had started, a few hours after the siege ended, to ransack the stores of their neighbors suspected of being in favor of abolition. Protecting anti-patriotic idealists and having to prevent a riot while they were all dirty, hungry, and exhausted had tested his garrison. The thought that, perhaps, somewhere in Houston right now his own father was playing with fire by displaying his Unionist views, stirred an acrid sensation deep in Jasper's gut.
He closed his eyes for a moment to escape the harsh rays of the sun, then immediately opened them, trying to focus on their host's conversation: the man was rather young - in his early thirties - and tall, but his elegant frock coat strained painfully around his belly, his paunch seeming to want to stretch the vest that compressed it to infinity. He looked affable, and his ruddy face was split by a broad smile as he enthusiastically congratulated them on their most recent victories. His thin mustache joyfully twitched as he rambled on with effusive comments, delighting with good humor in welcoming the youngest Major in Texas to his plantation.
To his knowledge, he was the youngest Major in the entire Confederacy. Unless others had been foolish and stupid enough to enlist before their majority.
Jasper found amusement in the remark about his age, despite himself, and forced himself to engage pleasantly with Mr. Compton, updating him on their latest strategic advances north of San Antonio. Just because the reason for their presence didn't thrill him and he didn't appreciate the spectacle to follow didn't mean he could afford to be rude to their benefactor. He and another officer still stationed nearby had received a missive at Fort Kinney two days earlier inviting them, along with their soldiers, to visit the Compton estate and celebrate their - very relative - victory at Corpus Christi. They had eagerly accepted: this interlude would be a welcome respite before having to hit the road again, and they had no intention of passing up a free feast. Only God knew what the coming weeks would bring! He didn't know if a new campaign to establish themselves in New Mexico was about to start, but the battles of Valverde - which had earned him his promotion to Major - and Glorieta Pass had left him with a bitter memory; if he and his men were to spend more days in that quagmire fighting with incredibly meager food supplies, then they would gladly take all the comfort their impromptu patron could offer before departure.
A highlight of the day's entertainment had been hastily planned, and other planters and notables from the area had been invited to join in the festivities aimed at glorifying the brave Confederate soldiers. Watching these elegantly dressed gentlemen mingle with the soldiers - all sons of farmers or laborers - in their patched uniforms and praise them for their commitment, Jasper wondered with a good dose of cynicism how many of them had paid for draft evasion to spare their children from being sent to the front lines. And more importantly, how many of them were affected by the infamous "Twenty Nigger Law". Not that he didn't understand the arguments behind the latter law, but he found the casualness with which this measure had been announced to the population absurd: on one hand, recruitment criteria for mandatory conscription were expanded to the laboring masses; on the other hand, as many people as possible from wealthy backgrounds were exempted with all sorts of more or less legitimate privileges. There was plenty to gossip about. And plenty to demobilize some of the recruits who had been fighting for over a year.
His men all deserved a bit of rest; too bad about the sordid charade they would all have to engage in. Jasper had no particular qualms about attending the execution of traitors, prisoners, or deserters, but the grotesque staging to come left him with a taste of ashes in his mouth and a sense of oppression in his chest. He fought hard not to let his eyes wander to the gallows again as Mr. Compton asked him about the infrastructures that had suffered the worst damage around Fort Kinney. The man had spontaneously offered to replace their patched uniforms with new ones, and he was now considering a substantial donation to restore the west wing, which had been the most damaged by enemy fire, of the fortified area: undeniably generous. Even if he wasn't ready to take up arms, the man was undeniably committed to supporting the Confederacy. Jasper smiled at him with a warmer warmth and bowed deeply.
"It's a pleasure to be received by a man so invested in our cause."
Mr. Compton shook his head modestly, but his smile grew even wider.
"Oh, come now, Major Whitlock, the pleasure is all mine. Everyone must do what they can within their means. I feel somewhat ashamed that I cannot physically participate in the war effort, but my obligations here make it impossible for me to leave my plantations. Alas! We have recently seen the ravages that a weak character can cause! Managin' large groups of slaves requires a firm hand to dissuade the savages from any personal ventures."
Jasper nodded gently, understanding the argument, and reflexively picked up on his host's words, commenting on them with a somewhat hollow tone.
"That is, I suppose, what the entertainment you have prepared for us is for: to show a firm hand to deter any personal ventures."
Mr. Compton continued to look at him with good humor, but something in his face changed, his expression twisted for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening and his eyebrows rising in surprise. The planter was a keener analyst than he let on; his tone was cautious when he spoke again.
"Do you disapprove, Major Whitlock? I presume it's all the pageantry surroundin' the execution that displeases you..."
Jasper must have put more disapproval on the word "entertainment" than he had intended.
Did he disapprove? He shook his head firmly and smiled again at Compton, reassuringly before taking on his most convincing tone. Hoping to convince himself.
"No, not at all. I hope you'll forgive me if I gave you that impression. I understand completely the importance of showin' strength. If we don't squash those freedom dreams of the slaves and some keep joinin' up with the Yankees, it'll be even tougher for us soldiers out there. In times of peace, we can be a bit more lenient; but in times of war, we gotta do whatever it takes to protect the State's interests. "
Compton looked relieved by his response and gave him a big approving smile, shaking his head with mock dismay.
"Well said, my friend! When I think that you are only twenty years old, I am astonished; I am almost fifteen years older than you, and it's not often that I reach this level of eloquence. It cannot be said that the Confederacy chooses just anyone to lead its troops. Yer father must be terribly proud!"
Terribly, that was the word. The tobacco pouch carefully tucked into the inner pocket of his vest suddenly felt heavier. Jasper didn't want to think for a minute about the level of pride his father – who had tried to make him read Montesquieu when he was fourteen – would still feel towards him after his actions in recent months. He might not have lost the love of the man, but he had undeniably lost a good deal of his respect by crossing the threshold of their home in White Oak.
Don't go actin' like you're headin' out to defend yer values or the honor of the South.
His father didn't know him as well as he claimed; he was trying to burden him with the weight of his own utopian moral concerns. Jasper knew very well which side his values leaned towards, and it certainly wasn't towards those his father had vainly tried to instill in him. He still respected the man despite their differences, but he doubted the same courtesy would be returned to him: Rudyard Whitlock was an ideologue to the core, who did not compromise with his principles. He would not abandon his perspectives, no matter how misguided they were, even if it went against his own interests, those of his family, and those of his state. Only a few pure and naive souls believed that the issue of secession was about abolition: the majority of Yankees cared as little about the fate of the Negroes as he and his Confederate comrades did. Lincoln's falsely humanitarian speeches had the sole purpose of stirring up the blacks and pushing them to rebellion.
Idealism had a price that progressive states had no intention of paying: it was all a hypocritical pretext to bring the Southern States to heel, by ruining their economy in order to better place them under federal domination. He couldn't understand how his father, who had fought so fiercely for Texas independence during the revolution, could so easily fall into the crude trap set by the Republicans sitting in Congress.
Jasper put on his most knowing smile to reply with a truth that had all the appearance of a jest.
"Well, he's been tellin' me since I was young that I have a certain charisma and a talent for persuadin' others of the righteousness of my reasonin', but he himself has never seemed particularly swayed by my rhetoric."
His host burst into a hearty laugh and fraternally tapped his shoulder before bidding farewell and disappearing behind the doors of the immense raised building a few hundred meters from the courtyard where the reception was taking place. Jasper let his smile fade and sighed, the man was pleasant enough but the arid heat was still taking its toll, and his thick cotton gray uniform buttoned up to the collar for show made him feel stifled. The thought of the spectacle being prepared and the idea of the shame his father would feel if he could see him witnessing such a debasement as a silent and passive accomplice made his nerves raw. The hot and sticky climate did not promote a proper mood, and he had no real desire to engage in socializing.
He grabbed one of the bourbon glasses placed on the tray offered by a middle-aged black servant and thanked her mechanically: she stared at him with two big surprised eyes and he lowered his to his glass, focusing on the amber liquid to ignore the perplexed look, wondering if he had committed some kind of mistake. Did one thank slaves? He had never visited such a plantation and felt incredibly out of place. He had no damn idea how owners treated their people. He glanced obliquely at his men, carefully avoiding turning towards the scaffold. They seemed to be melting in the sun, their faces reddened as much by the strong liquors offered by their host as by the sweat that mercilessly streamed down their temples and noses, most of them had removed their vests and jackets, remaining in simple grayish shirts of worn fabric. They all seemed rather happy and relaxed despite the scorching weather. Good. The aristocrats, dressed as fancifully as the soldiers, considering the temperature, seemed to suffer just as cruelly from the heat but had not yet shed any layers of clothing. Neither had he, for that matter: if he hadn't been a Major, Jasper wouldn't have hesitated for a moment to get rid of that damned jacket; here, he felt stuck - constantly on display - and was afraid of tarnishing the image of his "position" if he took it off. Class privilege or benign conformity? He inwardly grimaced at his own foolishness, then approached two of his men who had found a small patch of shade at the outer end of the pergola under which the vast majority of the ladies still sheltered. Samwell and O'leary, definitely good guys, he gave them a brief nod before joining them.
"Major."
"Gentlemen."
They greeted him heartily, raising their glasses with joyful expressions. He responded in the same tone and also raised a fleeting toast before gulping down half of his glass in one go. The crushed ice had completely dissolved but had barely cooled the drink. It was probably one of the best bourbons he had ever tasted, but in the infernal heat they were stuck in, he felt like he was swallowing a burning spear. He should have stuck to lemonade. If half the guests didn't end up with sunstroke, they'd be lucky. Night couldn't fall fast enough... whatever its implications might be.
"Who'da thunk Corpus Christi weather was plain ol' hell's weather? " he sniffed with an ironic smile.
"I sure as shootin' knew it was hell when I saw them Europeans flockin' in. "
Samwell added with a chuckle. The man was nearly thirty, one of the oldest in the regiment. Almost as tall as Jasper, he had a broad build and the brown skin of those accustomed to long, hard work outdoors. In civilian life, he laid railroad tracks: a true force of nature. Jasper had participated in construction sites several times when he was younger, but not intensively; he could still remember how exhausting the job was. On closer inspection, he didn't seem to suffer as much from the heat as the others, and his blurry gaze suggested that it was much more the drink than the sun that reddened his cheeks.
"I gotta hand it to 'em, if this is what hell's grub tastes like, it's downright heavenly. I reckon I'll stick around in this furnace a mite longer if it means more of that crab and fish fixin's. "
O'leary's toothless smile was dreamy, and his blue eyes sparkled with joy, his unruly red hair falling over a ruddy face, dotted with freckles. He was two years older than Jasper but still hadn't lost his childhood roundness. He seemed incredibly young to Jasper, and his skin, already vividly red from the long hours in the sun during the previous days of combat, now looked dirty. It almost hurt Jasper to look at it.
"O'leary, ya got any ointment left? If ya don't smear somethin' on yer face, it's gonna peel right off."
O'leary rolled his eyes for a fraction of a second but nodded sheepishly when he saw Jasper's stern expression.
"Yessir, Major, I'll slap it on tonight, swear on it."
"Ain't that the truth. Our host sure knows how to throw a shindig. Ain't had grub like this in a coon's age!"
"What? Ain't ya hankerin' for some jerky, Major? "
Samwell's innocent smile made him laugh.
"Don't go temptin' fate, I tell ya we're back to that dried meat tomorrow. Better savor that crab and such while we got it "
"Already fixed up!"
Both men replied in unison. There was a moment of hesitation which Samwell abruptly ended.
"And what 'bout the rest of the festivities?"
The man was staring strangely at Jasper, an unusually serious expression on his usually affable face. His sharp, black eyes seemed to be searching for something in Jasper's gaze. Jasper sighed, the light conversation had almost relaxed him, the backlash was harsh.
"And?"
"What do you reckon, Major?"
Even O'leary's bright blue eyes standing out in a sea of vermillion were now fixed on him. As if waiting to pass judgment.
"Ain't my place to weigh in on this. Just remember, we're just guests here. They'll deal with their own traitors however they dang well please. Ain't like they're ropin' us into it."
He kept his voice carefully firm and detached. Indifference itself. But Samwell continued to insist, his eyes still intense and his eyebrows now furrowed.
"Yeah, I reckon I get that. I understand. It's just... Major, you find this whole thing amusin'?"
Amusing?
He didn't know where this conversation was going. He tried to keep his tone cautious but felt compelled to answer, if only to find out what the two men, who were staring at him with such anticipation, thought about the matter. He glanced furtively at the assembly to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation and admitted in a very low voice, almost in a whisper.
"I kin see why they're goin' through with it, but if they find it amusin', I reckon these folks got themselves some peculiar hobbies. Ain't got nothin' more to add to that. "
Samwell nodded fervently, seeming relieved by his response, but O'leary appeared uncomfortable and uncertain, as if he wanted to add something but didn't dare. Jasper inwardly sighed but decided to shut down any further opening.
"That's the end of that discussion "
As if to comment on his terse statement, jeers and whistles suddenly rang out, covering the noise of conversations. Laughter echoed through the assembly between the jeers, and the shrillness of the whistles that burst forth pierced his eardrums. With fatalism, Jasper turned his gaze back to the scaffold. Well. It was going to be much worse than he had anticipated.
A dull anxiety rose within him, and he had to fight against a sudden wave of nausea. He wanted to turn away from the grotesque scene, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the three black silhouettes dragged by a long rope that bound them together by the neck as if they were draft animals. Mr. Compson had donned a more luxurious frock coat than the one he wore less than half an hour ago. His previous geniality had been replaced by a conquering attitude, and the smile that stretched thinly across his lips was no longer jovial. There was amusement, yes. Cruel amusement. The man was perched on a horse whose burnt chestnut coat gleamed deeply, he had wrapped the rope around the animal's neck and loosely held the end as if he were the one pulling the "prisoners." It might well be hell.
While Jasper spoke to Samwell and O'leary, the day had begun to decline without any of them noticing. The temperatures were still suffocating, but the sun finally seemed determined to set, hiding behind the rosy and orange mists of twilight. The sun, too, did not want to witness the circus that awaited them. They had been warned upon their arrival at their host's plantation that a lynching was scheduled at dusk to celebrate the Confederacy's victory in Corpus Christi and open the evening's festivities. Those designated for lynching were slaves who had fled the Compton plantation a month earlier to try to join the ranks of the Union; they had been caught before they could even reach the coast and had been brought back to their master. He had decided to keep them alive until he could make their death a celebration and an example. The fact that the Union forces had been pushed out of the bay and that Fort Kinney had not fallen was apparently reason enough for the grand spectacle to be organized.
Forty soldiers - who had enlisted to defend their state and their families - twenty ladies from good families - all politeness and sweet smiles - and thirty notables - full of wit and manners - gathered to feast in front of a death, bantering and mocking the execution of three slaves. Arrogance vied with barbarity.
Was this why he had enlisted?
Jasper couldn't take his eyes off the emaciated, half-naked bodies lost in the distance in front of the gallows. He could see dark, crude marks covering the backs of the two older men. Whip marks. How old were they, twenty? A little older? From where he was, he struggled to distinguish their features. He would never have approached for anything in the world. The only thing he was sure of was that the kid among them wasn't of age, he must have been under fifteen. The gallows in the background and the three ropes hanging there stood out in the light of late afternoon, like an insult to the sky. Awaiting judgment.
If there had ever been a God, He was evidently absent. Jasper was overcome with unspeakable horror. A sentence from Montesquieu that he hadn't thought of in years whirled in his mind, hitting him with more clarity than it ever had.
"It is impossible for us to suppose that these people are men; because, if we suppose them to be men, we would begin to believe that we ourselves are not Christians."
The three men were led to the scaffold amidst jeers and spitting, briefly untied to be led to new ropes, their necks passed through the loops.
The image of his sister on the morning of her death imposed itself on Jasper despite himself, and he thought again of her hazel eyes shining with life, then of the dull and painful expression in the months leading up to her suicide. He remembered with disturbing clarity the weight of the thin, rigid body he held in his arms after cutting the rope that held it to the ceiling beam. And suddenly, it was too much. The unbearable nature of the whole situation struck him with relentless intensity, and his only desire was to flee. To flee and feel nothing more. Jasper didn't understand what he was doing there amidst this jubilant crowd.
He heard the joyful exclamations and laughter echoing around him, and he suddenly felt the greatest shame he had ever felt. A devouring shame. Shame for all humanity. They would be damned for this.
He finally managed to tear his eyes away from the trio and look at the faces around him, hoping to find something in someone's face that would prevent him from collapsing and vomiting. He desperately wanted to understand what all these people thought of the macabre spectacle unfolding before their eyes. And suddenly, it was like an explosion that pierced him: there was an ocean of wild, hateful, brutal joy, but there was also anger, fear, guilt, sadness, disgust, and confusion piercing through. He looked at the faces in the crowd, and all he could perceive was an act. He had the mad feeling of resonating with each of them, of knowing precisely what each one was feeling. As if he could suddenly see through them and discern every flaw. The facade expressions they displayed did not match what they were experiencing. That woman who covered her eyes, mimicking horror but exulting internally; that aristocrat who laughed loudly and applauded but felt shame and a diffuse sadness; that soldier who lowered his eyes, falsely embarrassed but felt only polite indifference; Samwell, who wore a bored expression but was boiling with anger and disgust; O'leary, who smiled and cast nervous glances around him, feeling a curious mix of guilt and amusement; Compson, whose displayed hatred was nothing compared to what he felt inside.
Were they men?
And were the three condemned on the scaffold men?
And was he a man as he watched all this without moving?
Jasper lost himself in the terrified wide eyes of the boy moments before the rope tightened completely and he toppled into the void. He felt like he was drowning. As if they shared every second of the same agony in an infinite instant. His fear and despair as the deadline approached, his rage and hatred towards the roaring assembly, his refusal to die and his pain at the inevitability of it all. Everything blended in Jasper's body. And as the teenager stopped breathing, it was he who collapsed to the ground, clutching his throat.
They were all men, and perhaps that was the worst of it all.
Notes:
The title "If It Were a Man" is a very direct reference to "If This Is a Man" by Primo Levi.
* The Battle of Corpus Christi took place between August 12th and August 18th, 1862. At this time, the Union sought to blockade the Texan coasts (Texas was the Confederacy's main platform for shipping goods at the beginning of the war). Fort Kinney was bombarded for seven days, and food warehouses around the bay were set on fire (destroying supply routes and strategic points was referred to as "scorched earth policy"). Union forces dominated the maritime route but were easily repelled during the landing (where cavalry units were outnumbered). It was a battle that caused significant material damage but almost no deaths on either side.
** Compton is the name of an old aristocratic family in the South in several novels by Faulkner. Having lied about his age when he enlisted, Jasper was actually only 18 years old at this point in the story (so he is younger than all the other members of his unit).
*** "Draft evasion" involved paying a certain sum to avoid mandatory conscription, while the "Twenty Nigger Law" exempted owners of more than 20 slaves from participating in combat. These measures sparked outrage among the poor population in some Southern states, particularly in Texas, where secession was already divisive (Texas had many German, Mexican, and Spanish immigrants who favored the Union, especially in coastal and border areas... hence Samwell's joke about "Europeanists").
**** I named Jasper's father, a humanist, "Rudyard" in reference to Kipling's "If—" poem, you will be a man my son, all that; Jasper's views on the war's issues were quite widespread in the South during the Secession: many families did not own slaves but supported the Confederacy because they believed abolition was a maneuver to ruin states refusing federalism.
***** Montesquieu, "The Spirit of the Laws," 1748. Book XV, Chapter V.
This one-shot had been on my mind since I started writing my Twilight fanfiction. As Alice and Bella's powers manifested quite strongly while they were still human, I found it fascinating to explore the idea of Jasper's latent empathy truly awakening during a harrowing moment experienced during the Civil War. I couldn't shake the idea of Jasper witnessing a lynching and suddenly feeling the emotions of the entire audience, and then specifically those of one of the condemned. That's the result.
For your information, lynching was a prevalent practice at that time: the Gainesville lynching occurred in early October '62 (around forty Texans suspected of being pro-Union were hanged)... I preferred to narrate a completely fabricated event here, allowing Jasper to question - at least a little - his racism. Sometimes, an ideology hangs by a thread. Or a rope.