This meeting, however—Group Six—was the beginning of a new order. This was a potent tool for restoring justice, going back to the old values, the traditional ways. He was the leader by acclaim.

The men stopped chatting and listened. “You realize, gentlemen,” Walker Taylor said dramatically, “the risk you take in even coming here. Your reputations, your livelihoods, your freedom.” He paused, turned his bright eyes first on one solemn face, then another. “If we’re caught, if word of what we’re doing ever gets out … That’s the first thing: no one must ever know our names. Not until the thing is finished.” He smiled and leaned over the table. “Not until we’ve won. Then we can march down Market Street behind a brass band!”

“Hear, hear.”

“But if something is to be done, we’re the men who will have to do it.”

“Absolutely.”

“Nobody else.”

Walker Taylor continued, “We cannot have the nigrah politicians running this town any longer. They’re choking us. It’s time to put the finish to Reconstruction.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Preparation, that’s the key. In the event of an uprising, we have to be ready to act at a moment’s notice.”

“This is a big operation, then.”

“We must put certain things in place. We’ll have the element of surprise. The backing of a few good men, loyal men. Men we can count on.”

Beery, of the Atlantic Coastline, said, “We’ll need money. It’s going to cost.”

Walker Taylor clasped his hands. “I’ve already got a man working on that. Outside man—thought it best not to be formally involved. Doesn’t care to know what we discuss at these meetings. Assures me he can operate with more latitude—legally speaking—from the periphery.”

“We should suggest he form a merchants’ committee. Chaired by a man who shares our views. Doesn’t need to know about Group Six.”

“Exactly,” Walker Taylor said, smoothing a hand over his bald scalp. “A man we can trust completely. A man who knows how to keep secrets. George Rountree.”

Sam Jenks reported to the Messenger office early. It was easy to get to work early these days. Without the cobwebs of a hangover in his eyes and a hammering headache between his ears, the world was clear and pleasant. There was a lucidity about things.

Sometimes, during a long day, there might be moments of panic, when he’d have to duck somewhere and force himself to breathe deeply once, twice, three times. But then he would be in control again. They’d warned him about the panic. Focus on one thing at a time, the doctor had said. Avoid conflicting responsibilities. Don’t go looking for confusing choices. Steer clear of contradiction. It was not a question of whiskey but of character—so the doctor claimed.