Blood Stained Eden

‘D-Reb’ was twenty seven years old and a Confederate veteran, having served as a private in Joe Johnston’s army of Northern Virginia. He saw action at First Manassas and was later wounded at the battle of Seven Pines. He lost his left arm from shrapnel wounds that turned to gangrene, four days after languishing in an overcrowded barn turned field hospital in Petersburg, Virginia.

His hometown of Columbia, South Carolina was in ruins and as a one- armed Johnny Reb, he had a hard time surviving in Billy Yanks sluggish, iniquitous reconstruction. He knew many friends that returned to nothing after the war and took a bullet in the mouth rather than beg for crumbs under the Yankee occupation.

He turned to the northwest searching for gold where the pan was better served for soup and hot beans. He learned bartending in the Northern California boom-towns, and ended up by stage in Los Angeles where there was plenty of work for tough, white men who could handle a gun and work a bar. He tended bar at O’Grady’s Saloon near the base of Bunker Hill.

“D-Reb’, let’s get ourselves good and laid tonight. I ain’t had a good fuck in months,” ‘Yankee- Bob’ said smoking a hand rolled cigarette and leaning back in a shredding wicker chair next to ‘D-Reb’.

Yankee-Bob was also a Civil War veteran and had fought in Billy Sherman’s army of the west. He had lost his right ear and eye in a charge up Kennesaw Mountain and wore an eye-patch to cover the scar. He also worked security at O-Grady’s saloon and he was an occasional hired gun and muscle-man for union-politicians trying to control Los Angeles.

“The only way we’re getting laid is two blocks down, and I’d trust my chances with the Apaches before I’d go there,” D-Reb said in the October night as warm Santa Ana winds from the east tossed anything that wasn’t heavy and fixed to the ground.

“What you worried about, they don’t hassle whites down there, besides, you got a Colt you can stick under your belt. Reb’s got this reputation as fighters; ain’t no one gonna give us any trouble if you wear your butternut coat.  I want one of them Chinese gals with hair down to her waist. Common “D” it’s your day off and we’re wasting it on this porch sittin’ in a wind funnel.”

“What’s a good fuck cost these days?” D-Reb asked.

“Two dollars if you want a full hour,” Yankee-Bob, replied.

“Now there you go… two dollars for sixty minutes. Hell, I’m paying fifteen a month for this flea-infested room. Why don’t you find one of them whores in the cribs by the river and give her dinner and a bath. Cost you seventy five cents to have her sit on your tomahawk, and you might even end up with a girlfriend or worse,” D-Reb replied laughing.

“It ain’t the same…I been down to the cribs and it’s dirty and disgusting. Hell, I’d rather ride to San Fernando and take my pleasure with a fine young lamb out to pasture,” Yankee Bob replied.

“Tell you what, as long as it’s near a bathhouse, I’m in, gimme a minute to grab the coat and Colt and we’ll go have ourselves some fun,” he said.

“That’s the D-Reb I know!” Bob said pulling on his boots.

The walk down-hill to Calle de los Negros, nicknamed Nigger Alley took five minutes. D-Reb wore a stained white cotton shirt and gray cotton britches held up with a belt. His butternut Confederate coat from the Army of Virginia hung loose on his twig frame; his Colt 45 with six bullets was tucked into his waist.

Yankee Bob was also thin, and wore the outfit of a cattle driver: gray cotton britches, held up by suspenders, and a white cotton shirt with an oriental collar. His tan, elk-skin riding boots were dusty and weathered and he wore a wide brimmed straw hat in the style of Mexican Vaqueros. The wind was so strong he finally gave up and let flop to his back, held there with a chin-strap around his neck.

The sounds of the street grew louder with each the step. Piano’s and stringed instruments and horns and gunfire and screams and laughter and the sound of horses and wagons filled the air. The boulevard was dry, hard-packed dirt and kicking up a fine, brown, powder in the steady wind. At the corner of Arcadia and Calle de los Negro’s  they stopped to take in the scene at the broad, square plaza. To their left, a full city block in length, lay saloons, hotels, dance halls and brothels. Many of the facades were of Chinese design with red tiles and dragons and colorful banners that flapped in the wind. Other building looked like Spanish Adobe’s with balconies and broad, wood-planked porches. Chinese woman stood in doorways hawking their services, as men ran in and out of bars, where there was laughter, music and occasional gunshots. Derelicts lay passed out on the sides of the street and in the tight alleys. There were several soldiers in blue but too drunk to be of nuisance for the color of his coat.

To the south, on Los Angeles Street an angry mob of several hundred white men, many carrying riffles or pistols and knives were  making their way toward the plaza where both men stood,.

“Hey Billy Blue,” D-Reb shouted at a soldier who was watching the mob approach near their position. “What’s going on?”

“There’s some Chinamen gonna catch hell tonight, ain’t you heard about the Robert Thompson affair…Johnny Boy?” he replied.

“No.”

“He was some rancher come into to town, probably to get laid and got killed in some cross fire between two Chinese Gangs up the street, fighting over some slant-eyed pussy.”

“I suggest if that’s what you came for, you might want to consider the

Whore’s in the cribs by the river. This street is blowin-up in about ten minutes.”

“Thanks Blue.”

“No problem ‘tall Johnny.”

Watts, California
1965

“Marquette, what the hell you doing nigger, pull over, I’m driving before you get me killed,” Ronald Frye shouted at his brother Marquette who was behind the wheel of a 63 Buick Riviera racing down Alameda street.

“You’re all over the place man, I said pull over,” Ronald shouted as he grabbed the wheel from his intoxicated brother.

“Let go fool or you’ll get us killed,” Marquette shouted back at his brother.

Then he continued singing “Talking bout my little girl….my girl! Ewww.”

“Shit man, check it out!” Marquette said pointing with his thumb to the rear of the car. A motorcycle cop had his blinking red lights on and signaling them to pull over with his arm.

“Oh shit, motherfuck! I told you to pull over,” Ronald said flopping back against the seat.

Marquette pulled to the curb, which was a few blocks away from their home on Elm. Traffic was heavy and the cop walked to the passenger side of the car. Ronald had already rolled down the window.

“Sir I pulled you over because you were speeding and weaving all over the road,” the officer said. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

“Yea I had a few beers, but we was just fooling around sir, I ain’t drunk,” Marquette replied.

“License and registration please,” the officer replied.

Ronald was already digging through the glove compartment.

“It’s in there fool, let me look,” he said leaning over Ronald’s lap.

“Shit man it’s here, I paid the registration a few months ago,” he said without looking up.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you both to step out of the car. I smell alcohol on your breath,” the officer said, frowning and talking into his shoulder radio. In less than a minute an LAPD car with strobes flashing pulled up behind the motorcycle, then a second and a third car all with lights blazing.

Before Marquette and Ronald exited the car, a small crowd drawn by the police lights was hovering near the scene.

The two exited and stood on the sidewalk.

“Fuck you pig!” a young man shouted from the growing crowd.

“Yea, why don’t you take your white honky asses out of this neighborhood,” another shouted.

The officers ignored the taunts.

“I ain’t drunk man,” Marquette said loudly.

“Shut up ‘Quette’ do what the man says,” Ronald pleaded.

“I want you to walk in a straight line to me with your eyes closed,” the officer said.

“Fuck you pig,” another man screamed from the crowd which was now close to a hundred people.

Ronald walked a crooked line to the officer, losing his balance and laughing.

A young kid threw a beer can at the officers and ran away. Several more were thrown and the officers called for backup.

“White- ass honky piece of shit, get out, ‘for we throw you out,” another voice cried; the mob shouting its approval.

“With your eyes closed I want you to touch the tip of your nose,” the officer said.

“Fuck man, you do it, he shouted back, I ain’t drunk,” Marquette yelled.

“Do it now or I’ll arrest you without asking again.”

“Don’t do it nigger! They fucking with you and all of us. Fuck you whitey!” a voice shouted as the crowd moved in closer.

With newfound celebrity, Marquette slowly, deliberately with a smile as big as Watts extended his right arm with his eyes closed and promptly touched his chin and then ear.

“Okay sir, hands behind your back, I’m issuing a citation for driving under the influence of alcohol and am going to impound your car.”

“Like hell you will!” a middle aged black woman shouted pushing her way through the throng.

“Mam, I’m going to ask you to step back,” the officer said as another officer walked over and restrained Winnie Price, the mother of Marquette and stepmother to Ronald Frye.

 By this time, three more squad cars had arrived and the crowd had grown into the hundreds.

“Get your hands off of her, you white piece of shit,” a voice cried.

A sergeant from one of the cars got on a bullhorn and addressed the crowd.

“Please stand back!”

“Fuck you!”

“Officer, why don’t you test me, I haven’t had a thing and I’ll drive home,” Ronald Frye pleaded.

“Is this your car?” the officer demanded.

“No, it’s his, but I can drive it!” Ronald said, now agitated.

The officer, whose face began to take on the unpleasant color of calf’s liver yelled back, “I am impounding this car and will arrest you and your mother if you don’t back off.”

“Why can’t I drive the car home? Test me! If I was white, I’d be driving home right now and this bullshit would be over,” he screamed.

“That’s enough, you too… hands against the car!” the officers shouted at Ronald as the crowd moved in closer, now being held back by ten officers arm in arm.

A rock hit the window of one of the squad cars, then another. The crowd was at the breaking point and the officers were starting to look worried.

“Get your hands off my son you honky bastards,” Winnie screamed, now pushing the officers away.

“Cuff her!” another officer shouted. “Against the car, hands to your back,” he said pushing the woman against the car.

Now the officers were being pelted with rocks and bottles and beer cans. Ten men in their early twenties began lifting the back squad car to turn it over, another five joined in as the officers fought from being overwhelmed. The three handcuffed Fryes were shoved into the back seat as the back squad car, resting on its roof was ignited. Hundreds of angry black men and women, old and young began to converge from all directions. The motorcycle was abandoned and as were two of the other squad cars, both in flames. A riot broke out. In the summer of 1965, thirty four people died, and two hundred and forty two buildings were destroyed, most of them in Watts and the inner city.

The mob which now numbered almost five hundred continued their approach from the south towards Calle de Los Negros; several in the group started running. The two Civil War veterans watched them pass and enter a Chinese store, drag an old man outside and hang him from the balcony. Two other men wearing Chinese robes were tied, blindfolded and made to kneel and then shot in the back of the head. More hangings were taking place up the street. There was more gunfire and screams.

D-Reb stood leaning against the wall with his hand on the Colt and an emotionless stare in his eyes. He had seen more atrocities committed in the name of causes than he cared to remember. The causes evaporated, but the atrocities remained in nightmares, like the one unfolding in front of him. Most of the China men being killed had nothing to do with the killing of Robert Thompson, of that he was sure, and yet he had no notion to come to their defense.

“I seen this in battle Bob,” he said with an almost casual air.

“I seen it at First Manassas and on the Peninsula at Seven Pines; when men are charging, they’re out of control. Not even a solid line of fire or artillery can stop it. Rage and instinct take over. Moral judgment disappears.  It’s why men shoot women and children; it’s why men bayonet a wounded man crawling on his belly with a leg missing; it’s why Indians take scalps and charge full speed into the face of a Gatling gun; it’s why our boys ran two miles over open ground at Cemetery Ridge against thousands of guns lined up behind stone walls, and it’s why your boys did the same stupid thing at Fredericksburg. War and insanity come from the same corner, in the same dark shadows that never see the light of day.

He and Yankee Bob sat down on the corner. He rolled a cigarette and inhaled half of it in a detached ambivalence; his eyes closed. Screams and gunfire continued for an hour. Several buildings were burning. D-Reb kept talking.

“Strangest thing I’ve ever seen… we’re lined up at First Manassas under Joe Johnston not far from where Stonewall Jacksons Virginians were holding. In the distance to the north-east in the green hills were wagons with people having a picnic, blankets spread over the open ground, with baskets of food and carriages with dandy mares lulling about in the high grass. Some folks had telescopes and were watching the affair like it was a horse race. Children were running around chasing puppies and butterflies. Billy Yank didn’t know what they were in for, had us outnumbered two to one and gonna run us straight back to Richmond, but then our lines were formed and we charged, like the men up this street. Cannons laid down enfilading fire and we couldn’t see five feet; when the smoke cleared, the field was full of limbs and corpses and dead horses and wounded men with their guts shot out, and there were men executing dying men point blank on the field. And to the north east, the picnics were just moving into dessert. Billy Blue was in full retreat, we had whipped em on their tail back to Washington and the audience in the hills just watched, kind of like what we’re doing right now. I’m not sure why we hated Billy Yank so much; we didn’t hate the people on the hill, we waived and they waived back. I don’t think I ever hated a black man, yet I walked by many an auction in Columbia without thinking twice. Men being sold off as property right before my eyes and hauled off in chains, some with whipping marks must been laid-on with metal coils. The North was right about slavery, but putting a gun to our head just set off a mob like this, like that man across the street stabbing that Chinese fellow with a Bowie knife. He’s been dead for some time, you know. Okay, I can’t watch that anymore.”

“You gonna stop him?”

“Yea, he’s in a killin trance, I seen it many times, I’ll smack him over the head and he’ll start crying, you watch.”

D-Reb walked slowly across the street as if it were a Sunday in the park, oblivious to the chaos that surrounded him. The man thrusting the knife was oblivious as D-Reb hit him in the head with the butt of his pistol. When the man jumped up his eyes were flushed red and he made a move towards D-Reb who pointed the gun at the man’s temple and signaled with it for the man to leave. The look in D-Rebs eyes had little emotion. The man with the knife was covered in blood and walked away hunched-over. D-Reb looked at Yankee Bob, held up both his hands and smiled.

He left the corpse without so much as another look, stuffed the gun back under his belt and strolled back to Yankee Bob.

“I must declare, hatred’s an ugly thing, but I’m glad we came down for that poke…I did enjoy the show.”