It, however, was deemed by the higher authorities that something must be done to vindicate the majesty of the law, and it was decided to send other troops to the County. The selection of troops, however, had been proved by the history of the County to be a matter of more than ordinary delicacy. Several different bodies had been sent there without accomplishing what had been hoped for.
It happened that Thurston’s command had just returned from the Northwest and was awaiting some disposal. It was remembered that this same troop had once quieted things in the disturbed region, and had given, at least, more of a show of peace than any of their numerous successors had done. This was one view of the case. There was perhaps another view which may have influenced some. So Thurston was unexpectedly dispatched with his command to the place from which he had been ordered several years before. His appearance was a complete surprise to the old residents, and the effect was immediately apparent.
It was not known what it signified. Some thought it meant the immediate placing of the County under martial law, and the arrest of the remaining citizens. Others held differently. Whatever it meant, the excitement quieted down. The whites had had experience with this company, and felt that they could be relied on. The blacks recognized that a stronger power had come among them, and that it meant order and obedience.
When Captain Thurston dismounted from his horse on the very ground on which he had dismounted a number of years before, he had a curious feeling of mingled pleasure and dissatisfaction. There, amid the big trees, stood the old court-house, massive and imposing as it had looked that day when he had guyed old Mr. Dockett about its architecture, and told him that it was finer than anything in Athens; there, were the same great trees; there the same rows of old offices, only a little more dilapidated; there the same moody faces of the few whites, and the same crowd of idling negroes lagging about his troop. He turned and looked at the clerk’s office, almost expecting to see the same rosy, girlish face looking out at him defiantly. Instead, a brawny negro in black clothes, with a beaver hat cocked on the side of his head, was lounging in the door smoking a cigar. It gave the captain an unpleasant shock; and as he made arrangements about placing his camp he wondered where old Mr. Dockett was now, and how his pretty daughter was coming on. He had not heard from her since his last campaign. She was probably married. The idea gave him an unpleasant sensation, he always hated to hear of any pretty girl marrying. It seemed to make the world lonelier. The negro in the door sauntered across toward the camp and spoke to some of the soldiers familiarly, his silk hat on the side of his head, his cigar rolling in his mouth.
“What company is this, men?”
The words reached the Captain. One of the men who was working told him shortly.
“Who’s your Captain?”
“There he is.”
Thurston had grown stouter, and the negro did not recognize him.
“That little man? What’s his name?”