Tennessee
The hooves of the horses clopped against the broken stone and asphalt road. Mismatching slabs of concrete and graying asphalt paving lay in a broken pattern along a dirt path intermixed with flattened and rain-washed slabs of pink and gray field stone. Swaying on either side of the long path slender middle-aged cucumber trees rose on either side, providing inter-spaced shade and the summer air was sweet with the smell of magnolia flowers. As the carriage passed under the boughs of thick ancient oaks casting checker-boarded patterns of shade and light.
The carriage was built from a pole-built frame, covered in a long cloth of heavy colored cotton cloth. When the summer breeze blew the cover pulled against the frame. Leaning against the side of the carriage a middle-aged man with a pair of small round glasses laid his chin against gnarled knuckles with fading scars and gazed out across the fields on either side. The flashing sunlight glinted and shone off the lenses.
On either side of the road were stretches of long flowing fields that hugged the curvature of the Tennessee countryside. Bright green fields of soy rose and fell with a topography much akin to the playful dance of ocean waves. At the edge of each plotted field a pencil-thin bank of trees and brush drew lines to separate one field from another.
A field of pollarded trees lay along the other side of the road, opposite of the soy. The long slender branches that grew from the cut-away main branches thrust into the air bushels of straight and narrow shoots. Alternating rows of willow and beech created a procession of the copped trees. In places, the trees had been recently cut down, whether for fire-wood or to weave or build with creating half-bald patches in the springy thin trees.
With a tall stature, that only showed when he stood William McAlbridge was an individual whose former youthful strength shone well in his build. As he grew older his muscles had lost their vigor, but still remained as well as they could with someone who had long since left the fields. A long head of ginger-brown hair grew down from atop his head, leaving a thinning and receding hairline as it trailed to a braid which had been tied behind his head. From behind his glasses he looked out in the world with splitting blue eyes.
Having since long left the fields – his family field had actually long been bought out by the man he was going to visit – he had turned himself into a lawyer. Although in the current state of things law was no more complex than the Ten Commandments, the title was little more than a self-confession he was a man who boasted a prominent education; perhaps self-educated even. For William, it had been a process carried out with the money his family had gotten when they were bought out, and a long life of moving between trades and to read along the way, focusing on political theory and history.
He would have been a truly influential man in a sense, if he had a vote to count. But having no significant land, William couldn't be called a defacto county governor. The value of his role now becoming evident as the carriage he rode in came into sight of the large stone-house that stood on the hill overlooking the farmlands below.
Two-stories tall, it was a modest structure by the old standards of the days before the great catastrophe that brought down the world. But in its almost Quaker build it was itself far-removed from pseudo-Antebellum pride and styling which decorated these southern counties of the confederation. It still retained its porch, a large and long white dress that skirted all sides with a gentle slopping roof with wooden panel shingles. The shingles were slathered over in thick wood tar so they were a sticky matte black. Seated in the shade on a chair of wicker was a man in a white summer's coat sat waiting. Watching the carriage as he raised a glass of sweet tea to hail the visitor to his home.
“Good evenin'!” the man called from the porch, rising from his seat to reach out for the porch railing. Albert Ronson was a stately looking gentleman; though he was a farmer, if in name. For many he had more land than any one man could tend and enough money from it to pay people to do it for him. But he was a farmer all the same and held out a glass expectantly for William with the humble generosity befitting a tiller of the land.
“How's it goin', chief?” William asked as he took the glass from Sugar Tongue's hand and took his seat on the porch, his carriage driver expertly turned the cart about and headed to the stables, to tie up the horses and park the cloth-wrapped carriage around back.
“Sun shines, the fields grow, and the tea is sweet.” Albert answered his friend as he followed and he too sat down. Between the two men a jug of amber-colored tea sat on the table. It could no longer be iced like the old-days, but it could still be sweet. He sipped his glass as he looked out over his property.
Albert Ronson's name was well-earned. His words dripped like sweetened honey from his mouth. Spoken slow, but clearly in a way that was calming and relaxing. He never seemed to raise his voice in temper, but kept it level and gentlemanly. It was said once he soothed the harsh feelings of a competitor by simply holding his constant diplomatic tone, and before long the man who had earlier been enraged and disruptive was apologetic and offering to buy him a beer.
But now he was 'chief', a title as devoid of political office as it was informal, but all the same functionally uniting; in a sense. He was looked up to to settle disputes and assuage the tempers of the bitter to maintain peace. And that he that did well. Where others had did so under the threat of violence he worked with the art of flattery and humble offering.
He looked the part as much as he spoke it. A trim neatly kept man with a softly tanned caramel face. Eyes as green and blue as the Kentucky grass in spring shone with an almost grandfatherly light, practiced in his own time in teaching and guiding his own children along on the right path. His trimmed facial hair made him look like a colonel, but the shallow lines and sagging features of an aging man turned him into as much a sage as he was a military looking personality from an even more ancient age.
“Hit's all th' same then.” William said with a smile. He was a smart straight to the point man who spoke a model of English far more ancient than either man could comprehend. He had been born in the mountains, but his father had lead his family into the lowlands seeking fortune. They had gotten good at it, but when push came to shove became hard and he folded and sold. He could have lived as a land renter to the estate of the very man whose porch he sat on but William took himself elsewhere and into towns and cities where-ever he could travel and simply learned and practiced before answering the call of nostalgia and heading home, living in the outskirts of Memphis' old city and marrying a lady half his age.
“It is, but I know that everything ain't the farm.” Albert said, “If only things were easy.”
William nodded, “A-sure as the sun shines, someone's pissin' around somewhere and being trouble.”
“Inner-fact:” he continued, “Bill Curty oe'r Franklin County is gettin' itchy and looks to want to see what he can do to hit further south. If I was to make any guesses I would say he's looking to make an impression of strength to make himself a viable candidate for when you die. But there's rumors Curtis Halmridge from next door in Lincoln is afeared, gearin' to keep a balance with his rival and will like-wise be doing the same or similar. Both men have wide-pockets and I imagine they're going to be bending local wills to one or the other. I predict a proxy-war.”
“Where will they go, Atlanta?”
William gave a certain nod. “For sure.” he said, “Curtis don't have as many allies, not as much as Bill Curty does and a few friends of mine from Lincoln is sayin' that a few of his boys on horses have been moving across the Alabama Line and flirting with the Black Baptists, callin' himself some savior of negro protection. Curtis being a negro himself, he ain't going to have problems.”
“I want this stopped.” Albert stated bluntly, “Can you get them to stop?”
“I'm afeared the chief doesn't have the authority to stop it. And they's just gonna argue that this sort of thing is why the confederacy got as big as it is.”
“I don't mean using my authority.” Albert said, “I mean by whichever means. Will, you have fellow lawyer friends across the region. Can you reach them to convince their allies to refuse the offer?”
William turned his glass of tea in his hand and shrugged, “I can see what I can do.” he muttered softly, “But it isn't a guarantee.”
“Curtis is merely following Bill, if you can cut up Bill's adventures south than Curtis won't have incentive to follow and we can avoid this potentially distracting incident. The way I feel things are now, I need able men on hand and I can't have that with half the confederacy rolling south.”
“I agree, chief.”
Now it was Williams turn to fall into a steady silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the birds and the rattling of the leaves in the upper boughs of the oaks and softwoods that rung the yard. Horses whinnied and huffed somewhere off in the distance. “You're thinking.” Albert spoke up, turning in his chair to William, “What about?”
“How easy it might be if the Chief just had the power to say, and folk would.” Will answered in a long tired drawl, “And beyond that, who I might need to convince Bill to stop.”
Albert nodded his head in understanding and turned back to look out over the yard. The chair groaned as he shifted his weight and he took a sip of his tea.
“If I was to say though,” William spoke again, “your predecessor, Jackson White was a-more than happy to let these sorts fight it out, then he storm in an break up the new territories. Set about handin' it out to his best of friends in the process while keepin' down the ambitious few.”
“I would consider it but I don't want to leave any ideas for anyone outside of the confederacy.” Albert reminded, “I don't need half the land going out to war in one direction and some damnable moon-worshippers from the north swingin' their Jeahad south while our backs are turned.
“I'd be more than happy to reconcile anyone into this great union through treaty and good-will. Less men at arms need to be moved that way.”
