Poisoned Press: The Original Plot to Stop Bernie Sanders

... and Why It Didn’t Work

                                                  BY GREG GUMA

Sanders in 1981

SPECIAL REPORT TO VTDIGGER.ORG —         Long before any votes are cast for president, some Democratic thought leaders have made up their minds about at least one thing. Bernie Sanders is too risky to be the Party’s nominee. And this existential fear of the so-called “far left” is already producing questionable choices, not the least of which is a preference by most other candidates and officials to avoid a serious discussion of socialism.

Instead, Democratic nominees tend to reinforce the Right’s red scare tactics by defensively declaring themselves capitalists, or at least deep socialist skeptics. “It can never work, not in America’s heartland,” most appear to agree, unfortunately neglecting to mention Social Security, Medicare and other democratic socialist policies that have operated successfully for decades, in the US and elsewhere. 

A notable exception is Pete Buttigieg, the Indiana mayor also running for president. In a high school essay he once praised Sanders’ for his “courage” in describing himself as a “socialist.” In fact, it won him the 2000 Profile in Courage Essay Contest, sponsored by the John F. Kennedy Library in Boston. 

At the time, most Democrats even shied away from the word “liberal” like “a horrid accusation,” Buttigieg wrote. “Even though he has lived through a time in which an admitted socialist could not act in a film, let alone hold a Congressional seat, Sanders is not afraid to be candid about his political persuasion.” 

And yet, as with George McGovern in 1972, other Democrats (and their TV surrogates) sound more concerned about Sanders and his agenda than another term for someone they claim to despise. With Trump in charge, after all, there is a clear opponent and target for organizing. With Bernie as the party’s candidate or — god forbid — president, things might actually have to change in fundamental ways.

But Sanders has seen it all before, from the public trash talking to the secret smear campaigns, ever since his first victory. 

Satirical Slander

The dirty tricks began right after the shocking election that made Bernie Sanders mayor in March 1981. Within days, a new “underground newspaper” was launched in Burlington. But you couldn’t get it at a newsstand, or anywhere public. And the content was designed to discredit rather than inform.

Named after the Gannett-owned Burlington Free Press, the daily in Vermont’s largest city, the Flea Press reached an “elite” audience in the hundreds on a weekly basis, or thereabouts. City officials and media received it in the mail. According to then Assistant City Clerk Patrick Sullivan, copies of the photocopied publication would arrive near the end of the week, in time to reach city council members before their Monday public sessions. It quickly became the water-cooler talk of the town.

The Flea Press came in “a legal-size manila envelope,” Sullivan recalled, “with sealed envelopes inside addressed to the individual aldermen.” The postmark changed every week. It was a little like how porn was delivered. Additional copies were distributed hand-to-hand inside City Hall, read and re-duplicated by the curious and amused.

When the City Council met that May, Allen Gear, a Republican on the Board, personally passed out copies from a stack in open view. And when he and Democrat Joyce Desautels charged that evening that Sanders was trying to advance “the Socialist Party” in Burlington, their rhetoric closely resembled the editorial line of City Hall’s new, unofficial house organ.

In the Flea Press world, most local media ranked near the top of an “enemies list.” Early issues roasted editors and reporters at both the Free Press and Vanguard Press, the alternative weekly renamed Rumpguard Press. Specifically, they were blamed for the defeat of “Gordon H. Pickett” (Paquette), the “luckless incumbent.”

In fact, the first issue charged that political reporters had conspired with the Free Press ad department “in electing the city’s first Marxist mayor.” In the second issue he got a name — Bern A. Sunder. 

By April, mild lampooning had turned into serious, often nasty personal attacks. Long before Twitter, nicknames were a cruel and effective way to ridicule the new personalities in local politics. The most consistent target, beyond the mayor himself, was “Pritchard Sauersmail,” often described as “Deputy Mayor.” Most readers knew that the actual target was Richard Sartelle, a Sanders ally and local low-income housing organizer whom the new mayor was paying — out of his own salary — to act as a community liaison.

The anonymous editor-writer of the Flea Press, who often betrayed a visceral distaste for “Sauersmail,” even stooped to belittling his clothing, family and intelligence, while chiding City Councilors for failing to take away his “free office space plus telephone.”

Eventually, the attack went mainstream. After the Flea Press smeared “Sauersmail” in six consecutive issues, the Burlington Free Press echoed its stance with a call for his removal. An editorial supported the case by arguing, without evidence, that unnamed city employees might view the Sanders associate as an “unofficial deputy mayor.”

Despite a few unique twists, the tactics were familiar. Mixing facts, slander and conspiracy theories was time-tested, a toxic combination employed in the FBI’s counter-intelligence campaign against the anti-war movement and New Left. In the late 1960s, anonymous mailings and leaflets also used humor to ridicule targets, mainly opponents of government policies, and to spread disinformation. 

The difference in Burlington was the insider perspective. The author of the Flea Press knew too much about activities inside City Hall to be a complete outsider. The jokes and gossip focused sharply on about a dozen key people and groups closely allied with Sanders. Many people assumed that a city employee somehow had to be involved.

Battle lines were being drawn, and the issue that best exemplified the dynamic was the appointment of city officials — normally a mayoral prerogative, but subject to Council approval. Sanders wanted to replace six out of twenty key people, mostly through attrition. Yet, on reorganization day, his candidates were rejected without a single question about their qualifications. The unspoken message was that “stonewalling” would be the order of the day.

Burlington’s new “underground press” captured and amplified the hostility. Its targets ranged from a police officer renamed Jody Kreepso, stand-in for a Sanders supporter who had been demoted, to Governor Prinz Philip (Phil Hoff), who embraced the new political energy in the city. After a while, “old guard” city workers began to use the nicknames in public. On the phone one day, the Police Chief accidentally called a reporter by his Flea Press name.

Of course, Burlington’s “underground” also had friends, especially former Mayor “Pickett,” stalwarts like City Treasurer “Austin F. Lee” (Lee Austin), Police Commissioner “Applewater” (Antonio Pomerleau), and City Clerk “Francois Vagon” (Frank Wagner).  

At first considered no more than a nuisance, the Flea Press gradually began to look more threatening. It was making red baiting acceptable. At times other media outlets even began to sound a bit like the publication that mocked them. When Sanders debated Council members about his proposed appointees, for example, The Burlington Free Press described them as a “tight cadre of comrades.” 

There was no attribution for the loaded phrase, a not-so-subtle reinforcement of the notion that Sanders was running a “socialist administration.” 

“How the System Works”

Bernie Sanders was well aware of the low-level red scare underway in early 1981, and wasn’t eager for a fight so soon into his first term. But he didn’t dodge the issue either, and decided to offer some of his earliest public remarks about socialism — less than three months after becoming mayor — as part of a welcome for Andrew Pulley. 

The 1980 presidential nominee of the Socialist Workers Party (SWP) visited the Queen City on May 21, 1981. Sanders had been one of Pulley’s electors in the presidential race. Now the former candidate was on tour to discuss a lawsuit filed by his party against the federal government.  

Here are some of Mayor Sanders’ remarks that night, as recorded and transcribed by the SWP’s newspaper, The Militant:  

I’m sure most of the people here know that for the last forty years the Socialist Workers Party has — now admittedly — been harassed, informed upon, had their offices broken into, had members of their party fired from their jobs, and have been treated with cold contempt by the United States government.

And it’s very clear that the reason they have been thus treated is because of their ideas — ideas which are frightening to the people who own the United States of America.

And they are a threat, these ideas, they are a threat.

I think the point Andrew will probably deal with is also well known. In the fifties, with McCarthyism, they created a system of bugaboos, with the bugaboo of communism. Any person who stood up for working people, or for low-income people, or for peace, was associated with the “communist front.”  Now the word is “terrorist.”

Now anybody who stands up and fights and says things is automatically a terrorist and to be associated with these people who plant bombs in buses, and murder children and innocent people.

I trust that many of you know how the system works. It happened slightly, in my case. Because I was an elector for the Socialist Workers Party, there was a “noninvestigation.” I was “noninvestigated” by the FBI. The theory is that it was an attempt to smear me.

I think there’s a way to deal with that terrible word — that pornographic word which they hate in this country — called socialism.

Sanders advised those who attended to be straightforward about socialism, but also to talk about democracy. “I don’t have to go out denying it,” he said. “Then we can have the debate which is the real debate all around the country. That debate is socialism versus capitalism. That is the debate of our century.”

“I think the best way is to be up front about that word,” he advised, “not to run away from that word. To deal with it in a straightforward way, and explain exactly what we mean by that word.” This is essentially what he has done as a presidential candidate. 

“Along with Andrew,” he added, “we are antiauthoritarian. We believe in democracy.”  

Andrew Pulley in Burlington / The Militant / Harry Ring 

Speaking with Harry Ring, a reporter for The Militant, Sanders also said, “This garbage about people don’t want government. Of course people want government to do something for them. But they don’t want the kind of government they’ve been getting.” 

“I think most people understand that there aren’t two parties. That there’s just one party called Republocrats, or Demicans, or whatever you want to call them.” But in Burlington, he added, “at least we’re bringing the word socialism into the realm of reality. It’s no longer some far-off business.”

Actually, the word was spreading as America’s only socialist mayor since the Depression fast became a national sensation. A clear sign was his July 1981 “appearance” in Garry Trudeau’s Doonesbury, in the form of an imaginary TV encounter with Tomorrow Show host Tom Snyder. 

“Mr. Mayor, let’s be candid okay?” asks Snyder. “You’re a socialist. You’re a jew. You’re from New York. So how the heck’d you get elected?”

Bernie’s reply is typically blunt. “The people of Burlington wanted a change. They decided to send the capitalist system a clear message.” Then there’s a joke about France and the fringe benefits of being mayor.

Part of Garry Trudeau’s July 1, 1981 Doonesbury 

Not everyone was so intrigued or accepting. A May issue of the Flea Press featured a poignant article by “Jeems I. Weezleson” (Free Press editor James Wilson), who revealed his yearning for the former mayor’s return:

“In striking contrast to the mayor’s appearance was the presence of the Honorable Gordon H. Pickett, former Queen City mayor, and the association’s (Queen City Downtown Merchants’ Business Association) first annual award recipient. Senator Leamy (Leahy) was unstinting in his praise for the former mayor and the association seconded it by giving Pickett a ten-minute standing ovation.”

It was a slight exaggeration. Yet, having captured an underground base in City Hall, the Flea Press was turning anti-Sanders hold-overs and employees into its distributors. The format was refined a bit, a typeset masthead proclaimed it “A. Ginnit Newspaper,” and cartoons were added under the headline, “Goonsbury.”  The content remained the same, a grab bag of gossip, labels and lies designed to anger and demean, a sophomoric merger of the National Enquirer and Harvard Lampoon.

People working in neighborhood groups were “residential hyper-active groupies,” roasted for either their looks or alleged moral failures. Predictably, the anti-Sunder majority on the City Council could do no wrong. In June, however, some concern was expressed in the Flea Press that the new mayor might get his appointees after all. “Sunder is counting on cupidity, middle-class stupidity, and terror tactics to crack the aldermanic front,” its editor speculated.

Perhaps this was a premonition. By August attitudes were indeed changing. A Republican, Robert Paterson, called the Flea Press “insulting and in bad form,” and Joyce Desautels, who once echoed its rhetoric, now considered it “a bore,” although she did like the cartoons. “Bern A. Sunder,” the “Queen City’s Marxist Potentate,” was still lampooned and labeled a “red.” But a new Enquirer-style obsession had emerged — the mayor’s personal relationship with “Jean Dripsoil” (Jane Driscoll).  

Exposure and Realignment

For almost six months, theories circulated about who was behind the weekly slander sheet. It had to be someone close to city affairs, in fact someone who had mourned with the Democrats on election night. Close analysis of Flea Press content revealed attendance at budget meetings and other city functions, along with deep contempt for neighborhood groups and the local press. 

But few knew the truth. That is, until a paste up of page two was left behind on a copier only blocks from City Hall.

At first pollster Vincent Naramore denied having left the page. “Well, did anyone see me do it,” he snapped when confronted. But absolute denial eventually became “I can’t remember” making copies on the day in question. And anyway, the Vanguard Press had the document.

Naramore had good reasons to avoid exposure. A math professor at St. Michael’s College as well as a well-known pollster, he was also a past chairman of the City Democratic Committee. Beyond that, he frequently attended morning coffee gatherings at Nectar’s restaurant with local Party insiders, including the ex-mayor, and the current City Clerk and Treasurer. Another frequent Nectar’s attendee was Brian Burns, former lieutenant governor, brother of a current Council member, and possible Sanders challenger in the next election for mayor. 

And there was more. Naramore’s sister-in-law worked in the City Clerk’s office. Naramore himself had accompanied Mayor Paquette on an election day tour of city polling places. But he was neither a pollster nor an adviser to Paquette at the time, he claimed, “just a close friend.” 

After Naramore’s exposure as editor, the Flea Press immediately vanished, never to return. But the poisonous atmosphere it had helped to create lingered on, in City Hall and beyond. Through most of 1981, Sanders had to endure working with hostile staff, including two of Naramore’s close friends (and probable co-conspirators), City Treasurer Austin and City Clerk Wagner.

But the past was catching up with the last administration. In October, we published an investigative cover feature in the Vanguard Press called “Highway Robbery?” The subtitle proclaimed, “State Law Dodged to Fund Southern Connector.” As the lead explained, the Vermont Highway Department had been spending money on Burlington’s controversial connector road for three years. But State Highway officials knew that the city hadn’t allocated local funds in time to meet a legal deadline. 

Documents obtained by the newspaper showed that Burlington officials, including former Mayor Paquette and Wagner, were aware of the deadline. So aware, in fact, that Wagner wrote a letter to a highway planning official falsely claiming that “voters of the City of Burlington approved the local portion of the cost for the project at the Annual City Meeting held March 1, 1977.”

No such vote had taken place. The public wasn’t asked for bond authorization until 1979, six months after the deadline. But the State Highway Department accepted the false statement and never asked for further proof. After the Vanguard story appeared, however, Wagner went on vacation and never returned to work.

A few months later, a hundred progressive volunteers canvassed the city and staged an impressive get-out-the-vote effort. When the votes were tallied that March, Sanders had five supporters on the City Council, up from two, and there was no denying that Burlington had a multiparty political system. Rik Musty and Zoe Breiner joined Terry Bouricius in the Citizens Party group; Gary DeCarolis, who had lost to Sanders supporter Sadie White in 1981, now joined her as an Independent. 

It took four more years for this loose organization to become the Progressive Coalition. But it had demonstrated that Sanders’ election was neither a fluke nor a socialist revolution, but instead the beginning of a political realignment. 

In 1983, only days before the next mayoral vote, Sanders’ Republican opponent played the Socialist card one more time. WARNING! shouted the headline of a full-page ad in the Free Press. If Bernie won a second term, it charged, the consequences would be dire.

“Mayor Sanders is an avowed Socialist,” the GOP ad accused. “Socialist principles have not worked anywhere in the world...They won’t work in Burlington either.”

It was a desperate move that suggested Sanders’ leadership would produce everything from higher electric bills to more unemployment. And it turned out to be a major tactical mistake. Burlington voters had seen him and other progressives in action for two years, and rejected the hysteria and negativity. On March 1, Bernie Sanders won a clear majority of 52 percent in a three-way race. Progressive politics was in Burlington to stay.

Reflecting on his first victory in 1981, Sanders concluded, “I think we had pretty much of a class vote.” Almost 40 years later, it remains to be seen whether national Democratic leaders are more open and inclusive than local Democrats were after Sanders’ first win. If they are, the rest of the country could get to cast a class vote of its own.

For More: Poisoned Press Portfolio

Unhealed Wounds: Freedom and Fear after the Civil War

In 2003 I was asked by Kentucky State Senator Georgia Davis Powers to help research and write a book about her great aunt Celia Mudd, who was born into slavery but ultimately inherited the Lancaster property in Bardstown and became a prominent local philanthropist. Here is part three of a work in progress called The Inheritance.

By Greg Guma

It was a rosy May afternoon and they were all singing. But the song wasn’t about running away and enough voices boomed to shake the Earth. Celia Mudd heard the commotion, rushed down from the second floor, abandoning piles of laundry in need of folding, and raced to the courtyard scattering chickens in her path. 

Slave cabin on the Lancaster Farm

Everyone was there, field hands and house slaves from farms nearby, Negro soldiers back from the fighting, brothers and sisters and cousins, even Grandma Patty dancing a jig around the cistern. Finally it had happened. Hallelujah, Freedom! 

Jefferson Davis was in a Georgia jail and most of his troops were surrendering. In Kentucky the union commander had announced that all Negroes, even former slaves, had the right now to go where they pleased, leave the state if they wanted. All they needed were the “free papers” being issued by General Palmer’s officers and they could say good riddance to their masters, find paying work, and ride the rails or a riverboat like any white man. Thousands were on their way.

Celia didn’t understand the details. But the basic message came through clear as a bell. Their old life was over and a new, better one was about to begin. Leaping into Emily’s arms, she hugged her mother as they spun in circles, laughing and joining in the joy. “That’s right, child,” said Emily, tears streaming. “We on our way to freee-dom. Thank you, Lord.”

“Where that, mama? We leaving now?”

“We’ll see. But first we got to hear what them whites got to say for themselves. Grandma, she says Missus Ann and Boss Sam gonna offer everybody jobs. Then we have a meet and talks it over. What you want to do, honey?”

Serious beyond her six years, Celia crinkled her brow and pursed her full lips, acting coy as she considered the options. When she was ready she wriggled free and stood up straight, bare feet planted like a heroic statue. “I want us all to be together,” she announced, “and I want to go see Mr. Lincoln and thank him for what he done.”

Emily was touched, but also impressed with her child’s thoughtful disposition. Going all the way to Washington was beyond anything she could imagine, however. Just getting back to Viney Level, maybe linking up with other family members there, seemed like an almost impossible goal. And even if they reached the Capitol, Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t be there. He’d been shot by that actor Booth a month before. Emily didn’t have the heart to tell her daughter that.

It might not even be safe to leave. Ex-slaves who passed by the farm brought frightening tales of pens where owners kept Negroes in leg irons. Some rebels were ignoring the federal decree, not to mention the fact that they’d lost the war. Women and children were being shot by white farmers and renegade soldiers, for being “fugitives” or just for ending up on the wrong road. The military camps were overcrowded. In cities homeless families were jammed into abandoned buildings and stables. And there weren’t nearly enough jobs. In some ways it sounded worse out there than what they would leave behind.

The first thing was to find out what the Lancasters planned to do. There had been rumors for years that Missus Ann wanted to free them all and offer wages if they wanted to stay and work their share. She was partial to the writing of Cassius Marcellus Clay, a wealthy, Yale-educated ex-slaveholder who argued that the institution of slavery hurt economic development and the poor whites unable to compete with a captive Negro work force. 

Sam was more confused and conflicted, moving over the last few years from “compensated emancipation” to colonization and recently resignation to the inevitability of abolition. But the family had not acted on such beliefs, afraid of retaliation from rebel raiders or the town’s vocal majority of Southern sympathizers. Until two weeks ago William Clark Quantrill had been terrorizing the countryside just twenty miles south of them, stealing horses and food and brutally punishing anyone deserting the Confederacy. Palmer’s men had finally cornered and captured him. But most of Quantrill’s guerrilla fighters were still on the loose.

After the break with her son Robert two years ago, Ann had issued an edict: no one was ever to strike a servant again. She also pledged that, once Emily’s children were old enough she would personally teach them to read.

When Bragg was defeated at Perryville and forced to retreat through Cumberland Gap into Tennessee, Ann called for a party, with fiddlers and ham for everyone. Confederate Kentucky had lasted less than two weeks. After that they’d heard about raiding parties, mainly slash-and-run affairs designed to distract and destroy. But the Union army basically controlled the state. 

By spring 1865 Sam was examining farm finances to see what freedom would cost. Shortly before sunset, just as the party was winding down, he strode onto the porch flanked by his mother and Matt. The visible nervousness of the bosses sent a hush through the crowd. Celia fought her way to the front and plopped down on a low step. She gazed up at the burly farmer as he explained the situation.

“It appears that the war is finally over,” Sam explained, “and we’re all still part of the United States. And you all know what that means.” A cheer went up. “That’s right, you’ve been made free. Free to go or stay.

“All right, settle down a minute,” he said, struggling to be heard over the ruckus. “Now, there’s talk going around about what happens next. I guess you already know of the proclamation by Mr. Lincoln. Well, let me tell you a few more things. First, the Congress of the United States has passed an amendment to the Constitution. It’s not official until enough states go along, but what it says is that slavery is over forever. And that’s fine with us. So, if you want to leave go right ahead. No one’s going to get in the way.”

“Better not,” threatened an intense black soldier in a torn Union coat.

Sam wasn’t intimidated. “Like I said, it’s up to you. But not everyone in these parts feels the same, so if you do start walking, stick together and steer clear of trouble. To some folks you’re still runaways and they’d just as soon shoot as say good evening.”

Ann leaned forward, placed a hand on his shoulder, and whispered something. Just a few feet below, Celia strained to hear. Sam paused, nodded agreement, and then looked directly at the child, his expression shifting from worry to barely concealed amusement. As their eyes locked she felt a surge of inexplicable security, as if he was sending a message: don’t be afraid.

“For anyone who lives here,” he said, “let me just say this. You want to stay on and do a day’s work, you’ll get a day’s pay. It probably won’t be much at first. Times are hard, you know that. But you’ll be treated right and share our food and live as you please. So that’s it. What’s past, we can’t change that. But we can start today, to learn to live together as free men and women.”

It wasn’t nearly the apology that Emily, Patty and the others who had served the family hoped one day would come. Not by a mile. Sometimes in recent weeks, as the news of imminent Confederate feat began to reach them, Emily imagined the farm being overrun by her people, and the Lancasters locked in the smokehouse pleading for mercy. In that dream she lit a torch and set the building ablaze. 

But there had been too much death already. She knew taking revenge wouldn’t set things right. Better to start clean and make the best of the life ahead.

When he finished talking Sam stepped cautiously forward, one hand extended as an offering, a small gesture of reconciliation. No one moved or said a word, momentarily stunned by the maneuver. Emily grabbed Celia, pulling her close in case the mood turned ugly. But Grandma Patty broke the tension. She elbowed past the farmhands and walked straight up to Sam, cupping his big hand in both of her own.

“Like the Good Book say, we got to forgive, and let go the sins of the past,” she said. “Praise the Lord.”

“Amen,” he whispered, followed by a heavy sigh of relief. The atmosphere lightened and people started hugging, shaking hands, and breaking into smaller groups to discuss the new reality. As Matt came down Ann made a bee line for Emily, eager to hear what she planned the do.

“Don’t know yet,” Emily replied defensively. “We still got people up in Maryland. But…”

“That could be a dangerous trip, and unnecessary. We can help find your family. Meanwhile, we need you here. And I would surely miss this lovely child.” Ann leaned down and gave Celia a warm smile, asking, “Would you like to stay?”

Nodding slowly, Celia explained exactly what she wanted – her family living together and freedom for everyone.

“That’s very fine. But how would it be if I taught you to read? Would you like that?” Ann then gave Emily a silent look of request. “If it’s all right with your mama.”

“That would be nice, missus.”

“Mama says yes. How about you?”

Celia glanced back and forth, assessing the two women, then put a finger to her lower lip and made her announcement. “Yes, ma’am. I want to read and write and do numbers.”

“A regular bookkeeper, or a teacher. Then that’s how it will be.”

But Sam wasn’t so sure when Ann presented the idea an hour later. “Teaching negro children too much might be bad for business later,” he said.

They had retreated into the house to take stock after mingling for a respectable period. Meanwhile, the party regrouped at the edge of the woods fueled by music and extra rations of whiskey. Sam was impressed that they’d managed to get through it without coming to blows. Some of the blacks would stay, and they would be better off without the rest, at least until the place was back on firmer footing. It wouldn’t be the same, but having employees instead could have advantages. On the other hand, the more those employees knew the more demanding they’d become.

Quickly bored with the family conversation, Matt decided that it was time for some fun. Of the brothers he had always been the most at ease with Celia’s people. To Grandma Patty, who had know him for years, he was almost like another child. He worked his share, shoulder to shoulder with her Nicholas. But he preferred a good time and took no interest in either business or his mother’s religious and intellectual pursuits. He was a good old Kentucky boy, at home with his own good fortune, ever ready to go on a tear, and oblivious to what went on in the world beyond the county line.

The bash had hit its stride by the time he arrived. One group was patting juba, rhythmically slapped their knees and shoulders and clapping hands as they sang. The rest were swinging wide and double shuffling, drinking and singing their joy as they buck and winged around the crackling campfire. Matt took a swig and joined in, trying awkwardly to follow their fluid moves.

Perched above it all on the tree branch, Celia was entranced with the bacchanalian scene. She had been to some Saturday frolics but none like this one. Dancing, when it was permitted, was normally retrained, mainly reels and simple steps. The older kids would run foot races sometimes and the men would box or wrestle, butting heads like sheep. But the limited amount of alcohol usually on hand helped keep the festivities from turning wild. Tonight, however, they weren’t just having a frolic, they were celebrating like she had never seen. The women were spinning like tops, skirts flying, and the men were jumping for joy.

She watched her mother hugging Allen Mudd for what might be the last time. Emily was laughing and crying, all at once, torn between the pure exhilaration around her and sadness about Allen’s sudden announcement. After seven years as lovers during his summer visits, after three children and maybe another on the way, he was leaving. That is, if he could keep from murdering Donatus Mudd, his ex-master, he was going to Louisville or Lexington to see about city life.

Emily would miss him, yet didn’t plead with him to stay. She’d finally overcome her illusions and accepted the fact that being together wasn’t their free choice. It was hard to admit, but they both deserved a fresh start.

The rhythm around the fire quickened. They were shouting now, smacking hands and beating time. “Mammy, don’t you cook no more,” they sang. “You’s free, you’s free.” Celia clapped along, caught up in the moment, everyone together and happy, filled with bright hopes for a new beginning. Free at last, free at last.

Then a shot rang out and the feeling instantly evaporated.

Steadying herself on the tree branch, Celia squinted and saw Robert Lancaster at the edge of the clearing, his rifle smoking and pointed up at the heavens. He glared at them, as if unable to believe what he saw. The singing abruptly stopped. But after a few seconds voices rose, this time in a collective grumble.

“What the hell is this?” He growled it and lowered his rifle, determined to stay in control. “Since when do we have this in the middle of a week?”

“Since Freedom!” The shout was defiant.

“Who said that?” Robert scoured the crowd, searching for the person with enough nerve to give him lip. More than a dozen black faces stared back.

“Cool down, General.” This voice was different, calm and friendly. Matt stepped into view from behind a tree just below Celia’s dangling feet and approached his brother, his hands high in mock surrender. “We’re having a little to-do here, in honor of changing circumstances. Why don’t you just stand at ease and have a drink.”

“Shut your damn hole, Matt. What circumstances?”

“In case you missed it, the war is over. And mama decided it was high time to face reality. They’re free, ain’t that right?” This prompted a wave of outbursts, from “that’s right” to “God almighty!” Matt savored the moment, a rare opportunity to put his over-stuffed brother in his place.

“Ah. Mama decided.” Robert bowed his head and let out a frustrated sigh. He knew now that he wasn’t frightening anyone, that in fact he was probably lucky they hadn’t surrounded and beaten him, and let the gun drop to his side.

“Is that so? And you and Sam think this is the perfect time to give a bunch of uppity, well, colored folks as much liquor as they want. I see, a brilliant plan. And what else, money for the trip north? Might as well, because this place is finished.”

He took a long look at his surroundings and traded steely stares with the most furious men in the crowd, then flashed a fake smile, turned his back, and headed for the big house. Celia watched with mounting curiosity as Matt stumbled close behind, already plotting his next impertinence. By the time the two brothers reached the front door, the celebration outside had resumed, almost as if nothing had happened.

Ann and Sam were in the parlor, a large comfortable room off the foyer filled with brightly upholstered pieces in the Empire style. Since summer was coming, the windows were disrobed of their heavy winter drapery and replaced with white muslin panels that fluttered in the evening breeze. Leaning against the tiled mantle Sam tapped his pipe into the fireplace and continued to discuss the latest reports from Washington.

“They think Davis was part of the conspiracy,” he explained. Two weeks earlier, the captured ex-president of the confederacy had been charged, with eight other defendants, for Lincoln’s murder. He was still being held in Georgia but the trial had begun without him. “It was supposed to be a kidnap, retaliation for the Dahlgren raid. Remember that, mama? When Lincoln sent that colonel to Richmond to get Davis and hold him for ransom. Damned stupid. So, of course they wanted to try the same thing.”

“But they shot the man.”

“Booth got tired of waiting, that’s what they say. Conover, that Yankee writer, he testified he knew about the whole thing in February – if you can believe anything he says. Booth and Surratt met with the rebels up in Canada, he says, and one of them says killing a tyrant isn’t murder. That’s the story anyway.”

“And you believe that liar?” Robert snorted his contempt as he marched into the room. He had paused at the threshold long enough to set down the rifle, do some eavesdropping, and come up with a challenge. 

“Maybe Davis didn’t know,” Sam answered, “but Booth was obviously working for the South and plenty of people wanted Abe out of the way.”

“Including some of his own.” Through his business contacts Robert kept up with the latest gossip from both sides. The prevailing rumor at the moment, much discussed but never mentioned in print, was that men close to the president, possibly even his own Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton, wanted Lincoln out. There was talk of an incriminating diary kept by Booth that mentioned high officials. But it had conveniently disappeared. Some even claimed that the assassin himself, reportedly gunned down in Virginia, was actually alive and on his way to California with the aid of powerful friends.

“I find that even harder to believe,” Sam snapped. “A Union plot to kill their own leader, just as he’s winning the war?”

“It’s possible. Stanton hated him, so did the radical Republicans. And don’t forget those northern speculators; he was cutting into their cotton profits. You have to look below the surface, see who really stands to gain.”

“Well, you’re the expert on that.” Sam didn’t mean it as a compliment.

“That I am. And I have to say, you are embarking on a path even more insane than I could have imagined. You let these darkies think they’re free to do as they please and, next thing you know, they’ll leave you flat or burn you down. Mother, do you really believe they are capable of rational thinking? They’re children. And like all children they need discipline, structure, and direction. Not abolitionist clap trap, and certainly not enough whiskey to marinate the county.”

“It’s over,” Sam said bluntly. “We know it, they know it. And the quicker we make peace, the quicker we get this place back on its feet.”

Robert rolled his eyes and sat across from his mother. “I know we’ve never agreed about this,” he admitted. “But please, don’t move too fast. They’re not ready. I mean, they can’t even read.”

“I’ll teach them, starting with little Celia.”

“My God! If anyone finds out it won’t be the niggers that kill you. It’ll be your neighbors. Sam, you’re going to let this happen?”

“I don’t much like it. Spoil a hand, you know. But…”

“Mother, let me explain a few things. The economy is a wreck right now, all over the state. The fighting may be over, but the war isn’t, and it won’t be for a long time. People are bitter, families divided. The roads are ruined and half the cattle and horses are gone. And our men, they’re coming back without arms and legs, by the thousands, if they’re coming back at all. This is a very volatile situation we have here.”

Ann cut him off with a wave. “I understand all that. It’s terrible, terrible. A tragedy for everyone. But something good must come out of it, or else it was absolutely pointless.”

“This isn’t the time, or the way. It’ll ruin us.”

“Stop talking about us!” Sam stressed the last word and delivered it with a sting that hit his brother like a slap across the cheek. “You left this land behind. Sold out. That was your choice. And you’ve made your money since, fine. But this is our choice and it’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Wrong. It affects me if my mother’s in danger, if you’re about to destroy everything she has. Who will have to clean up that mess?” The siblings were standing face to face, Sam in his overalls, Robert in his three-piece banker’s suit. “I can’t stand by and let you do that. I won’t.”

“Tough talk,” Sam taunted.

“Better watch out, big brother. He brought his rifle.” Matt had been following the argument, gauging the right moment to bring up Robert’s gunplay. “Ker-pow! Like to scare them niggers to death.”

Sam reacted instantly. He grabbed Robert by the shoulders and threw him against the mahogany shelves of the etagere. What-nots scattered and crashed to the floor. “You raised a weapon on them? You bastard! Do it again and I’ll shove it down your throat. We don’t need your advice, or your money.”

It took some effort for Robert to break free from his brother’s bearlike grasp. Once he did, he tripped his way to the opposite side of the room while struggling to retain some dignity. After straightening his suit he took a long, deep breath and surveyed the scene. He was on alert, poised for another attack. His mother looked terrified and near tears. At the doorway, Matt brandished his gun with a smile. And behind him, peeking in from the foyer, Celia saw everything.

She had crept in silently, concealing herself beneath a hallway chair, and heard most of the conversation. Terrible words about black folks killing white folks, and how her people were too dumb to be free. And brother threatening brother. These people seemed crazy to her, as if they’d been possessed.

“Well then,” said Robert, mustering the most officious tone he could manage. “I can see that my help isn’t wanted here. Therefore, I will simply say good evening and be on my way. Mother. Samuel.”

He moved toward the door, nodding as he passed, and calmly snatched the rifle back from Matt. “Brother, thank you.” He was about to leave it at that, then reconsidered.

“One thing,” he said icily. “When the day comes that you require my aid — and it most certainly will come – I’ll require something more than an apology. When that happens, don’t take it personally. That’s simply how business is done.”

Then, before Celia could avoid it, he kicked her aside and hurried into the night.

Chapter One: Plantation Politics

Chapter Two:  Masters and Slaves

Chapter Three: Unhealed Wounds

Chapter Four: Obstructed Justice