The War Is Over
by Robert Petyo

Bedford Forrest Jackson carefully buttoned the butternut jacket that he wore over tattered gray pants. After fastening each button, he paused, squared his shoulders, and straightened the jacket. From the trunk that he kept on the floor of his bedroom closet he removed the cavalry saber that his grandfather had given him. His great-great-grandfather had used it to kill five Yankees during the battle at Guntown in June of 1864 during the War Between the States.
Bedford was going to use it to kill that murdering nigger Carl.
He stuck the long barreled five-shot revolver in the belt of his pants. That was only to be a threat. The sword, strapped to his left hip, would be the courier of vengeance. Jackson family blood had been spilled in defense of this sword. Carl, too, had spilled Jackson blood.
Bedford left his house, marched to the end of Davis Street, and entered his sister’s one story cabin. She had left town not long after Mama died and when she returned two years later she insisted on getting a place of her own. Bedford had argued against it. He was the last Jackson left in the old homestead, but Kate, like many others, was shirking her heritage. She even used a different last name.
Through her kitchen window he could see the tiny backyard. Along the trees that marked the edge of the property, he saw Kate’s frail body twirling lazily at the end of the rope. He could hear her calling for vengeance, calling for him to act. Her death will not have been in vain if he used it to rekindle the flagging spirit that was strangling his homeland. This was his chance to be somebody. Killing Carl would start it all.
He wiped a single tear from his eye, pivoted, and marched out the front door. His heavy black cavalry boots made walking difficult, but he made it into town in less than thirty minutes. His distant cousin Jeremiah had marched much farther under worse conditions during the Sharpsburg campaign.
The wide streets of the Stafford Heights section were lined with skeletal trees raking bony fingers across the fading sunlight. It was that netherworldish time between afternoon and evening. People still strolled the streets, but their movements were hurried. Darkness came quickly in January, and soon the skies would close the town.
Some passers-by waved, some smiled, one saluted. Bedford was well known. He had participated in several reenactments and had spent three weeks at a camp two summers ago, sleeping on the open ground and eating sparse rations.
That’s when he had first met Colonel Farnsworth, a civil lawyer who had legally changed his name to "Colonel" when he was a member of the Klan down in Georgia because he liked the sound of it. They spent one night together huddled on a thin blanket, talking about how Kelsey was growing soft on the Blacks. It all started, Bedford said, the day Carl Short arrived on the bus from New York, like a potent virus laden with violence and death. The first thing he did was start a local chapter of the NAACP. Him and his girlfriend Shareena. Stirring up trouble. Then he started going to Commissioner meetings. More trouble. They tried to keep him out, but a Richmond TV station had been tipped and had a crew there. Next he had the nerve to run for Commissioner. Of course he lost, but the fact that he got almost a thousand votes meant there were too many nigger lovers in Kelsey. What this town needed was a leader to stir them up, make them understand their roots.
Colonel Farnsworth had responded to that with a snore.
Short lived in the high rise along College Creek, but Bedford knew that he wasn’t there. Tonight he’d be at Stafford Hall, a church that had been converted into a community center. Once a year the Scarlett O’Hara contest was held there. Kate was thirteen when Bedford had taught her how to walk in a hoop skirt and talk with an exaggerated accent and helped her win the contest. But that was long before it was taken over by the local chapter of the NAACP. Once they started holding weekly meetings at the hall, Bedford never went there.
They were having a rally tonight honoring their fallen leader. Bedford checked his revolver before approaching the main entrance which butted the sidewalk. He could hear the recorded voice of Martin Luther King, Jr. They were playing one of his speeches. The people in the hall were cheering as if it were 1963 and King were there in person stirring them up for a march.
But it wasn’t 1963.
As far as Bedford was concerned it was 1863. The war wasn’t over and wouldn’t be over until the niggers were put in their place.
"What are you doing here?" someone called as he was about to open the door.
He pivoted, one hand going to his revolver.
"Over here."
He stepped in the direction of the voice and a young man in black materialized from the bushes. His bald head gleamed in the dusk. "That you, Bedford?"
"Yep." He knew the young skinhead. Tommy was the youngest of a small gang of thugs who called themselves the Heads and drove around town in cheap motorcycles making noise and acting silly. "I’ve come for Carl Short," Bedford said.
The skinhead seemed jittery, bouncing on his toes, nervous and excited at the same time. "What for?"
"Him and I have to settle things."
"You mean about the white woman?"
"Yes." He looked down. He didn’t want Tommy to know Kate was his sister. "What are you doing here?"
Tommy stopped bouncing and thumped one fist into his palm. "We’re going to make some noise."
"Are the others here?"
He smiled. "You’ll find out."
Bedford sighed. Months ago he had approached the skinhead gang hoping he could get them to take some action against Short after Colonel Farnsworth had refused to contact the Klan. "The Klan brings more trouble than they’re worth," was his cryptic reply. But the skinheads turned out to be useless punks who enjoyed little more than hassling people at the mall outside Kelsey’s Notch and acting tough on their bikes. He struggled not to laugh as he pictured the gang tripping over themselves as they tried to start a fight tonight. "Good luck." He went inside.
There were rows of pews along the left and right sides of the hall, but the center had been cleared out. That’s where the group of about twenty Blacks had congregated. They faced the front where one woman sat on a raised platform that had once been the altar. Beside her was a large stereo system.
"Hey! Can’t have no weapons here!" A young man of twenty pointed at Bedford.
"I have a dream..." came King’s voice.
"Oh, it’s only Beddy." He turned back to the podium.
Bedford squeezed his eyes shut and flexed his fists, trembling as if cannons were going off in his head. As a kid he had gotten into many fights over that nickname. But after tonight no one would ever call him that again. His name would be reverently uttered along with those of the other great Southern heroes.
"On your way to another pretend battle?"
"I come for Carl Short," he said loudly.
"... will not be judged by the color of their skin ..."
"Quiet!" someone snapped at him. "The Doctor speaks."
"Carl Short!" he shouted again.
"... I have a dream today ..."
"He’s not here. Now quiet."
Bedford forged deeper into the hall, marching, pounding his boots, getting them all to turn to him. "I didn’t see any of you out on Kelsey Square for Stonewall Day." The day of Stonewall Jackson’s death was celebrated as a national holiday in Kelsey.
The woman on the platform snapped off the stereo.
"None of you whities come here for King Day."
"I’m here." Bedford took another defiant step forward. "I’m a whitie."
"You’re just here to stir up trouble."
"Hush," said the woman on the platform as she stood. "We’ll have no trouble here on this day." She was a lot taller than she appeared when sitting and wore a floor length print dress that gave her a matronly air. She was Shareena Jefferson, the President of the local NAACP. "What do you want, Bedford? Why do you disturb us?"
"I told you. I’m looking for Carl Short."
"And we told you he’s not here. Please let us finish the ceremony."
He grinned and stepped back. "You go right on ahead. I think I’ll stay here to honor the good doctor, too."
"Let us finish, and I will take you to Carl." She turned on the stereo and King finished his speech. The group sang a song and afterward started shaking hands. Some of them had tears in their eyes and hugged each other. An old man with gnarled hands and crinkly white hair that hugged his skull came toward Bedford and extended his hand.
Bedford folded his arms and shook his head.
"You a sick man," the youth said.
"Hush," Shareena urged. "Come back here, Bedford. Please." She moved away from the platform toward the right side of the hall. Bedford marched past the glaring crowd who silently parted before him. "Carl couldn’t make it tonight," she said when he joined her. "He told me earlier that he wasn’t feeling well. Why do you wish to see him?"
He cupped his hand on the hilt of his sword. "That’s between Short and me."
"Please don’t start any trouble."
"He and I have to settle things man to man."
"Kate’s a grown woman."
He glared at her and she withered like a tree shriveling in a sandstorm. It took all his will to keep from drawing his sword. Just hearing her mention Kate’s name was an outrage. But Bedford Jackson didn’t hit women. Even nigger women. "Short used to be yours," he said softly. "How does it make you feel to know he’s been sleeping with a white woman?"
She remained motionless, but her flickering eyes betrayed her pain. "I’ll take you to him."
"I know where he lives. I don’t need no escort." He stepped back, pivoted, and marched.
As soon as he stepped outside he heard the commotion.
"Break it up and go on home," Sheriff Clive Friskin shouted through cupped hands. There were ten Heads, dressed in black, their bald heads bobbing like fireflies in the light of the street lamps. They huddled around three motorcycles angled in the middle of the street.
Bedford recognized Rusty, their leader, a thin young man with jewelry all over his ears. And Tommy. Still bunglers.
"Break it up."
"Who’s going to stop us, old man?"
Clive slowly lowered his hands. He was dressed in brown from the wide brimmed hat to the caramel colored boots. "I am." He sounded as if he were almost laughing.
The Heads didn’t know who they were messing with, Bedford thought. Clive was trained in hand-to-hand combat. Even outnumbered ten to one and older by thirty years, Bedford would bet on Clive. But what was Clive doing here? He worked for the County and rarely came into Kelsey. "These boys aren’t causing any trouble, are they, Clive?"
Startled, Clive turned, hand dropping to the holster strapped to his hip. "Oh, it’s you, Bedford." The two had marched together in the Gettysburg reenactment last summer. He quickly turned back to the gang. "These kids are up to no good."
"Looks to me like they’re just standing around admiring their bikes."
"That’s right, old man," Rusty said.
Clive bristled and took a step toward them.
"Now, now," Bedford said. "There’s no need to insult the good sheriff here." He heard the sounds behind him and knew some of the Blacks had gathered at the door. There would be no riot tonight. "Maybe you guys shouldn’t be blocking the street like that."
"You heard the man." Another voice entered the fray from the darkness down the street. It was Colonel Farnsworth. "We know you boys are here looking for trouble. Now git." He shook his arm at them as if it were a weapon and the boys seemed cowed by it. Colonel Farnwsorth was an influential and respected man in Kelsey. But what was he doing here? On this night?
The gang members looked at each other. Their situation had obviously deteriorated. Rusty looked to Bedford.
He bowed his head and said, "I think you boys should go home."
Three guys got on the bikes and cycled off slowly, the rest following in a formal procession.
Bedford suddenly found it hard to swallow as he walked off.
"And where are you going, Bedford?" Colonel Farnsworth asked.
"For a walk. Spent some time in there." He gestured back with his head. "Listening to them chatter about King. Now I gotta go and wash the stench out of my clothes."
Colonel’s eyes drew together as if he were trying to stare through him. "We don’t want any trouble."
He moved closer to Colonel. "What are you doing here?"
"Making sure things stay peaceful in my town."
He moved even closer. "Why are you worried about these niggers?"
Colonel Farnsworth shook his head slightly. "You better go home, Bedford."
* * *
The high rise was less than a mile from the hall and Bedford got there in less than ten minutes. As he paused in front of the main doors he glanced back and noted the dusty Chevrolet parked under a streetlight about half a block down the street. It was crammed with people and he recognized the dress on the driver. It was Shareena.
He moved into the shadows of the arborvitae that marched along the front of the building and crept to the corner of the high rise.
They had followed him. Worried about what he might do. If he circled behind the building and went through the shrub covered field that separated it from the creek he could come out on Media Street behind the Chevy. He’d throw a scare into them.
Staying close to the building, he made his way around it.
He saw the body hanging from the leafless oak tree as soon as he stepped away from the high rise. Trees, some scrawny, some majestic, lined the crest of the steep slope at the back of the field about thirty yards from the apartments. The body couldn’t be seen from inside the building, but from ground level he could see it highlighted against the ambient light that seeped across the wide Creek from the County Line Shopping Center. He took a few more steps and saw that it was a Black wearing baggy slacks and no shirt. The arms hung awkwardly as the body twisted in the stale air that rustled the cuffs of the pants. Bedford kept his right hand on the butt of his revolver as he approached across the lumpy field. He stopped when he drew close enough to see the face. The dark skin was dry and bloated, but Bedford saw that it was Carl Short. Barefoot pink feet were clawed in death agony. The odd scraping noise of the rope on the high branch drowned out the gentle rustle of the creek current. An open wooden step ladder lay on its side on the ground beneath him.
Bedford’s breath became ragged as he flashed back to the horror in Kate’s yard, but it was quickly replaced with anger. No. Rage. Someone had gotten to Carl first and punished him for the sins against nature he had committed. Bedford had been denied his revenge and his place in history, and that left him with the empty feeling that his sister’s suicide had been for nothing. He had failed her. He let out a soft wail of pain.
"Don’t move!" somebody shouted.
He turned and saw three people rounding the corner of the high rise. One held a flashlight whose beam poked through the darkness.
"Don’t move, Beddy!" It was Shareena, shouting as she ran across the field toward him.
"The Sheriff’s on his way," another man called.
Bedford turned as Shareena ran past him toward Short’s body. "No need to hurry none. He’s dead."
She stopped in front of the dangling body.
"Just like my sister Kate," he added.
She turned.
"I found her hanging from the cherry tree in her backyard. She hung herself because of that scum." He pointed. "She knew what a sin it was to lay with a nigger. She couldn’t live with herself."
"What have you done, Bedford?" It was Clive’s voice. Bedford turned to him. His legs were spread and his hand rested on the gun strapped in its black cocoon.
"Hello again, Clive," Bedford said.
"We found your sister. When Shareena told me where you were heading, I sent a deputy to your house. Then he checked Kate’s place. What did you do to her?"
"Nothing. It was that scum." He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.
"Did you kill her?"
"My own flesh and blood? Of course not. She killed herself because she knew what she was doing was a sin."
"Who told her that? You?"
"A sin is a sin. I didn’t have to tell her nothing."
"Kate wasn’t the suicidal type."
"It’s his fault."
"So you came here." Clive unbuckled his holster. "To kill him."
"Yes."
"Just because he was seeing your sister."
"Because of him she hung herself."
"Did you do this to him, Bedford?"
He hesitated, but only a second. Here was a final chance to do something meaningful, to leave his mark on this society. He would trigger the new war. The South would rise again thanks to Bedford Forrest Jackson. His name would be in the history books. "Yes, I strung him up, just like my poor sister Kate."
"Did you kill Kate too?"
"Stop saying that! You know me, Clive. We’ve marched together. This nigger, yes. But my own flesh and blood? Never!"
"On your knees, Bedford."
"What?"
"I’m going to have to take that gun." His gun was in his hand but Bedford didn’t remember seeing it come out of the holster. "Stand back," he ordered Shareena who was shaking her head, mumbling something about "no time." Another deputy had appeared. "Get her back," he told him. "When the coroner gets here, take down the body. On your knees, Bedford."
His great-great grandfather would never kneel before the Yankees. But Clive was no Yankee. That’s what angered Bedford so. His own people were forsaking their heritage. What would it take for them to realize their rights were being smothered and that they had to resist?
He drew his sword.
"Don’t."
He pointed the sword at Clive who was just beyond his reach. he’d show those silly Heads how a true Southerner acted.
"Drop it, Bedford. Don’t do anything crazy."
He charged forward and felt the jolt down his arm as his sword started to penetrate, just an instant before the sound of the shot.
* * *
"You’re lucky to be alive." Colonel Farnsworth sat stiffly in the rigid metal folding chair in the tiny room and crossed his long legs. He wore a black business suit and an oversized tie that bulged from his chest.
"When’s the trial?" Bedford sat across the long metal table from him. His right arm was strapped to his chest and his shoulder swelled with heavy bandages under a loose fitting jacket that hung unbuttoned. "You going to be my defense?"
"Not going to be a trial. We decided it’s best to get all this behind us."
"But I killed him."
"We know you didn’t kill Short."
"I did."
"Stop it, Bedford. Clive worked it out with a detective down from Richmond. The coroner put the time of death as long before you got there. Besides, Shareena and the others were following you. She knew you didn’t have time to do the hanging. There were no marks on Carl’s body. No signs of a struggle. It looks pretty much like a suicide. The police believe it was a murder-suicide pact."
"A what?"
"Neither one of them could live with all the hatred around them. The detectives figure Carl hung your sister, then went back to his house and hung himself."
"No. It was me."
"Why are you lying?"
Bedford started to hyperventilate and looked away until he calmed down. "The people will rally behind me. They’ll realize I was justified in killing Short for what he did. I want a big trial. With lots of publicity. Reporters. TV cameras. There’ll be riots in the streets. We’ll throw these niggers out of Kelsey. We can do it. We just need a leader. You were in the Klan. You know it."
"That was along time ago. I was young and foolish then. Times change." He scraped his chair away from the table and stood. "Now I’m a responsible leader in this community. We won’t let you start a race war here. There’s not going to be an assault charge. Just go on home and try to cope with your sister’s death." He backed a step. "I’m late for a meeting with Shareena and the Commissioners. We have to make some plans on how we’re going to keep things under control."
"You and Shareena?"
"The war’s over, Bedford."
* * *
Colonel Farnsworth offered him a ride home but Bedford wanted to walk. He had only the thin jacket draped on his shoulder but he barely noticed the cold air. When someone fell in step beside him he didn’t turn until he’d marched another fifty yards.
"Thanks, Bedford." It was Tommy, wearing blue jeans and a heavy jacket with Confederate battle flags on the shoulders.
"For what?"
"For helping us deal with Clive and that nigger lover Farnsworth. Man, what a sellout he is. I can’t believe he was in the Klan."
"He says the war’s over," Bedford whispered.
"It ain’t over."
"Says times change."
"No way. We been waiting for you, man. Worried. Rusty wants to talk to you. Needs some advice."
Bedford was very tired, struggling to keep moving, to keep his eyes open. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with these screw ups. "About what?" he managed to ask.
"We hear the police think it was a murder-suicide."
He stopped and drew his head up, eyes wide now.
"We made ‘em both look like suicides. But now Rusty says we should take credit for what we done. Let the people know who really killed that nigger and his white trash girlfriend."
Unable to speak, Bedford pivoted on his heel and looked at the young man. He looked, and saw himself. 

Robert Petyo tell us: "My mystery stories have appeared in P.I. Magazine, Hardboiled, Blue
Murder, and Detective Mystery Stories. In my other life I'm married with three children and work as a Postal clerk in Wilkes-Barre Pennsylvania."