CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Prince Albert Saloon
On the west end of Main Street stands a solitary wooden building – The Prince Albert Saloon. Politicians could always be seen frequenting this saloon because of the adaptable social nature of their business. In this farming town of Albertville, Alabama literacy was low, and the bar provided the principal place for the exchange of information about War news, employment and other items of sociable importance to the community. A savvy politician could turn his access to these resources into votes. Other customers were field hands, injured soldiers and of late Carpetbaggers and Scalawags.
The Scalawags were native born Southerners. They believe a Negro is just as good a person as they, but in spite of their moral attitudes they are taking the impending loss of the War as an opportunity to enrich their own pockets. On the other hand, a Carpetbagger is a corrupt Yankee coming south in order to profit from the instability and power vacuum that exists at this time.
To the general population around this small north Alabama town, the Carpetbaggers were the worst. As the South is now losing the war the Carpetbaggers are moving in to meddle in local politics, buy up plantations and farms at fire-sale prices, or steal them for back taxes. Their station in the south was to take advantage of Southerners at a sizable profit to their pocketbooks.
Sitting in the far back corner of the Prince Albert was the notorious Judge Roy Slate. Was he a judge? No one knew for sure, and no one wanted to be the one to discover the truth. Judge Slade was an agent of the federal Freedman’s Bureau, which started operations to assist the vast numbers of recently emancipated slaves. Once he arrived in the South and saw how easy the picking was, helping emancipated slaves dropped far back on his list of things to accomplish. He was a harsh, disciplinarian who had control of the town’s mayor, sheriff and the Union’s small outpost of soldiers that had been stationed here to ensure the peace.
Slate was a high and mighty, narcissistic little man dressed in a dark three-piece suit with a golden watch fob dangling from his silk vest. He was short, fat, and egotistical and further made up for his lack of statute in arrogance and abrasiveness. He was a prime example of a man with the Napoleonic Complex.
Looking toward the swinging saloon doors, he could hear the jingles of spurs walking down the wooden sidewalk. The sound of the spurs was easily recognizable; everyone in this small town knew their sound. These spurs belong to Captain Louie Labeau. Labeau pushes the double doors open and walks into the smoke filled room. He sees Judge Slate at a rear table. Walking to the table, he pulls out a chair and sits down. Motioning to the bar girl, “Two more glasses and a bottle of Red Eye.”
“I’m good Labeau.”
“Those ain’t for you no how, thems for me.”
Since arriving from up north a few months earlier, Judge Slade had relegated Labeau to number two in the pecking order. Labeau had been number three as Captain of the Home Guard. He took orders from the local Union outpost commander Major Hilliard; however, the Major left Labeau alone to do as he wished. Major Hilliard was unexpectantly transferred upon the arrival of the Judge. The Major was replaced by a young second lieutenant that took his orders directly from Labeau. High upon Labeau’s list was the confiscation of the Scarburg farm for himself, along with the beautiful Malinda. While the Major was in charge, the Scarburg farm seemed to be a settled deal for Labeau. Once the Judge found out the farm was in tax arrears, and the Major gone, he wanted it for himself. The farm was to belong to Labeau, the Judge taking it for himself did not sit too well with the Commander of the Home Guard.
“Tell me Labeau what is the status of the widow Scarburg’s place?”
“Judge she ain’t a widow as I’ve said afore. In fact, she just received a letter from her husband and son a couple of weeks after Christmas. As I have done tells you, she ain’t never got no mail from none of her menfolks. I control the mail office – letters that come in for her we hold, and letters she tries to post out we keep . As fer as being a widow, I guess she thinks she is one all right. That is the intent, she’ll get discouraged and go back to Carolinny and leave her farm for the pickins.” Twisting the end of his moustache he grins and continues, “that is unless she can find other suitable accommodations.”
Lifting up the bottle of Red Eye, the judge pours Labeau another two shot glasses of whiskey. “Tell me again Labeau how much land does this woman own?”
“Right at one hundred and sixty acres.”
“What does the farm produce?”
“Cotton Judge, up ‘till this here War they wuz running ‘bout a bale to the acre of cotton. Course all of the farmland is not plowed, a bunch is in trees. More is on the side of a bluff. I suppose they might have made fifteen or twenty bales of cotton each year.”
“That’s a lot of cotton for her man to plow, sow, cultivate and harvest by himself. Did he own any slaves?”
“Yes Judge, he had three, a woman, an old man, and a boy. He also had his two oldest boys Luke and Matthew, but these boys are in the Army now. He has two younger ones by the name of William and Isaac that I’s goin’ to conscript jest as soon as I can lay my hands on ’em. Last time I went callin’ I has to shoot all them slaves – they kind of got sassy and uppity, you understand. Mizz Scarburg says them slaves wuz free, but I no’d she was lyin’.”
“I don’t give a hoot about them slaves; they would be free now anyhow, but I want that farm. I had my people go down Hog Creek surveying the mountainsides. They found an excellent saltpeter cave located on the Scarburg farm. Them ignorant hillbillies don’t know they are sitting on a fortune. Saltpeter is one of the main ingredients used in the making of gunpowder – this one mine could help the North win this War. All our northern supply of Saltpeter is about exhausted. I know the War can’t last much longer, but gunpowder is needed until the last bullet is fired, and for long after that.
“Say they are behind in their land taxes? How much does she owe?”
Labeau pulls a paper from his pocket and reads, “It says here twenty-five dollars, but plus interest and late fees it now totals thirty-two dollars and twenty-six cents.”
“All right, she can never come up with that kind of money. Labeau you go down to the courthouse and get Judge Harbin to issue me a Tax Lien against that property for fifty-two dollars and twenty-six cents – and have him give that Scarburg woman the legal ninety-day Eviction Notice. You sure that husband and sons of hers might not show up and bail the farm out?”
“Let me tells you again Judge, my man in the post office ain’t let a letter addressed to her get through in two years, he hides ’em quick as he gits ’em. Same thang happens when she tries to post a letter to her husband or the boys. Nah, them men’s of hers ain’t gonna give us no trouble, you can count on it.”
In Labeau’s mind, the Judge’s word bit hard at his innards – he figured he already had that farm for himself, and along with the farm he was gonna git that good-looking woman too. He almost had it settled and now along comes this Carpetbagger of a judge. He must do something about this situation.