Crimson Stained the Bayou Pines: A Novel of Political Struggle in the Deep South

By Brian Harrell

In the early 1900s, socialist Walter Dietz arrives in a remote section of the American gulf coast. Lake Charles, Louisiana, is a small Cajun town, bustling with lumberjacks and wealthy sawmill owners. At the time of Dietzs arrival, the economic affluence of the wealthy is increasing, widening the social gap between the business owners and the men working in the pine woods to the north.

Dietz sees this widening gap as an opportunityan opportunity to become a different kind of missionary. He will not spread the Christian gospels of old in this tiny bayou town; instead, he will spread the political ideals of socialism. As word of his preaching spreads, Dietz finds himself surrounded by curious disciples. Even as his influence expands, he cannot foresee the damage his words will ultimately cause.

A study of socialism and emotional components of the human condition, Crimson Stained the Bayou Pines presents a historical narrative focused on early twentieth-century America. Dietzs journey into the Deep South will have catastrophic consequences for the town of Lake Charles, but are his words to blame? Or are new ideas always judged with an iron fist, especially when steadfast intolerance governs the souls of men?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450263849

Brian Harrell

A native of Lake Charles, Louisiana, author Brian Harrell discovered that a house he was renovating was once owned by a local historical figure, Walter Dietz. An in-depth study of Dietz, including extensive university archives, led to the creation of this novel. Dr. Harrell currently practices medicine in Lake Charles.

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Author’s Note

First and foremost, this book is a work of historical fiction. While the events depicted within its pages are factual, the story that weaves the events together is fictional. Although the author has extensively researched each character presented here, the exact interactions and beliefs held among the individuals in this story will forever be lost to the passage of time. Whenever possible, the exact words of the characters were used, but this could not be done frequently, seeing as how this story took place well before the advent of twenty-four-hour news agencies. If they could be found, the characters’ memoirs were studied in an attempt to create a character that fit the profile of his or her own writings. If the author chose to go against a historically documented fact or felt more information concerning an event needed to be stated, accurate historical information was placed in the Chapter Notes section in the back of the text.

Because this fictional story surrounds real events and historic individuals, the author has utilized photographs from the McNeese State University archives. While the author would like to express his gratitude for the library staff’s help in finding the resources necessary to complete this novel, he also must mention that the use of the archives in no way serves as an endorsement of this text by McNeese State University. Furthermore, the use of character names, places, and historic photographs does not constitute endorsements from these same entities (i.e., the City of Lake Charles, St. Patrick’s Hospital, the Catholic Diocese of Lake Charles, etc.). Rather, they are meant to give readers a true sense of the real, historic people and places while reading the fictional accounts within the text.

In writing this story, the author does not desire to portray any character in an overtly positive or negative light. Rather, he attempts to allow their actions to speak for themselves. Perhaps it is better not to pass judgment upon those who are now at rest and instead study the events surrounding the catastrophes of the past so they can potentially be avoided in the future. If the reader desires to study these events further, the author urges him or her to study the texts presented within the bibliography in order to gain a more personal perspective on the events surrounding this work and the actual people who performed them.

For Lauren … my inspiration.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Prologue

August 1971

Sweat flowed from the elderly man’s pores, drenching the loose-fitting hospital gown until finally saturating through the very sheets that were meant to offer him some sense of comfort and security in his final hours. As the fluid began to collect in the small recesses and contours of the otherwise sterile hospital bed, the man finally began to mercifully drift in and out of consciousness. The past several hours had been spent in a futile attempt at savoring the last bits of air that could be extracted from the oxygen mask tightly affixed to his worn and wasted face, and he was now tired of the battle.

Amidst the beeps and whistles emanating from the machinery around him, the gentleman began to notice how ethereal objects appeared when they were allowed to drift freely in and out of focus. Doctors and nurses assumed otherworldly forms as they danced between patients and each other. As he attempted to lift his finger without success, he suddenly became cognizant that the cool sensation of sweat pooling around his fingertips was becoming severely muted. The once-wet character of the fluid now felt coarse and gritty to his belabored senses, and he began to notice a strong metallic taste in his mouth. What once may have sounded crisp in his ears now came as muffled cries as one of the forms in his vision appeared at his side.

Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Dietz?

The muted question came from what seemed like another world. The infirm man tried to turn his head with what little strength he still possessed to look in the general direction of the stale voice. His head fell forward as he attempted to do so; he did not possess the strength to stop its momentum. A moment later he felt a gloved hand against his cheek, and another violently shook him as it gripped his right shoulder. As darkness took him, he could not remember when he had last taken a breath into his diseased lungs.

Long-forgotten images from his past stormed the once-impenetrable fortress of his ailing psyche, and for the first time in his long life he finally found himself without the strength to protect his wounded soul. Visions of courtrooms, tent revivals, and corpses riddled with bullets soared through his mind at blinding speed. Then the decades flew past his consciousness until at last he found himself in the middle of a street flanked by buildings he had not seen in many years. Fear seized his very core as flames erupted to engulf all of creation. Buildings toppled to the ground as they finally surrendered to the destructive force of the blaze.

In these final moments of despair the old man clung to the single memory that had been a constant consolation throughout his life. In an instant the flames retreated, and he found himself cradled in the gentle, loving arms of his wife. Old age and fatigue no longer plagued her features. Only love and understanding radiated from her youthful eyes as she caressed his rough cheek. He prayed to reside in this memory just for a short while, but he knew this simply could not be.

The clamor within the hospital room suddenly jolted him from the recesses of his mind, and he once again noticed the ghostly forms all around him. He was still in his hospital bed, but he was now lying completely flat. The muted voices seemed to be crying in harmony with the high-pitched noises from the machinery in an epic, orchestrated plea for his existence. Through the incomprehensible, stagnant babble around him, he discerned a detached voice cry, Clear! A second later he felt his body lift momentarily from the sweat-filled bed. Much to his surprise, no pain accompanied the movement.

A second later he could barely discern that one of the insubstantial forms had climbed atop his body and was thrusting its outstretched hands rhythmically onto his chest. He felt the cold, gloved fingers once more touch his face as they violently tilted his neck back to open his mouth. He scarcely detected the plastic tubing as it plunged down his throat to rest in his trachea. A moment after this he felt his chest rise and fall as air pumped rhythmically into his lungs.

Do I deserve this? he hazily thought as he allowed his blank eyes to relax and stare forward. Did they deserve it? Do any of us deserve this? So much death …

He allowed the final unanswered questions to drift away in his heart as his soul lilted over the memories of his life. He saw his wife again in all her beauty, and the home where they had raised their family. He remembered all the struggles they had weathered together, and how it had been so long since he had truly seen her. Visions of fires and thunderstorms leapt into his mind in a vivid display of power, as if they were occurring in front of his very eyes. Shortly thereafter the fires capitulated to the screams of dying men as the sounds of gunfire once again filled what was left of his fractured consciousness.

A deep sense of longing and betrayal accompanied the final scenes as they played out in his failing mind. Demonic images from long ago filled his heart with dread while the screams continued to echo in his dying imagination. A moment later he witnessed all the fruits of his labor displayed in front of him in vivid detail. He began to wonder if his entire life had been spent in the pursuit of helping his fellow man, or if it had rather been spent in the vain pursuit of blind ambition. In the waning moments of his existence, as he dwelt upon the summation of all things, he unexpectedly came to the full realization of his greatest failure … and peace finally came to his wearied, troubled soul.

The dark cloud in his mind swiftly gave way to the light that was beyond, and he suddenly perceived the vision of the brethren who had gone before him. As the light engulfed his entire being, he could just distinguish the muted sensations of the medical staff as they continued their futile attempts at forcing life into his broken body. But none of this mattered any longer, for he had finally found his sanctuary. He was now embraced by the love of his fellow man.

BOOK ONE

Genesis

1903–1910

And while they were in the field,

Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.

Then the Lord said to Cain, Where is your brother Abel?

I know not, he replied. Am I my brother’s keeper?

                                —Genesis 4:8–9

Chapter 1

June 1903

The earth surrendered to the weight of his boots as the exhausted young man completed the final portion of his nearly one-thousand-mile journey. Strolling alongside the train as it finally ground to a halt, the weary traveler peered through the rhythmic wisps of smoke and steam that billowed from the main exhaust of the Southern Pacific engine. His blue eyes stinging from the coal dust that covered his pale face, he reached into his pocket, withdrew the handkerchief that his bride had given him not more than a year before on their wedding day, and wiped the sweat from his thin, clean-shaven chin. Replacing the soot-stained linen in his front trouser pocket, he gazed through the mist to study his new surroundings.

The town did not appear very large. It was most certainly smaller than his hometown in Indiana. Although the train had just ceased moving forward, there was already a flurry of activity, with both men and women jockeying to see who and what might exit the belly of the iron beast. Toward the back of the train, men with teams of longhorn oxen pulling large carts were unloading heavy equipment such as large circular saws, hand saws, gears, and even railway tracks to be used at the various mill towns that blanketed the landscape of the western Louisiana Gulf Coast. Various other carts were loaded with milled yellow pine that had surely only been felled several days prior to his arrival. The beasts pulling the cargo grunted and snorted under the weight of their heavy burden, as if crying to some god who seemed to neither hear their cries nor possess the ability to release them from their enslavement.

The hiss of the whistle brought his attention back to the engine where large amounts of condensation had collected. It was now raining dew from its steel frame onto the dry earth. He could visualize the heat emanating from its body, which seemed to only intensify the already soaring temperature of the environment. The sweat on the back of his neck rolled under his starched collar and began to force his shirt to cling to his tall, thin torso. He quickly removed his new bowler hat, unfastened his top shirt button, and flexed his neck in a desperate attempt to release some of the oppressive heat confined within his own clothing.

The stranger panned his eyes left and right surveying the Sodom that lay at his feet. Many buildings abutted both the northern and southern flanks of the tracks. The vast majority of the businesses and shops that could be seen were constructed of wood—a material that was evidently extremely abundant in this part of the world. The facades of the buildings so closely resembled the images he had seen of western towns that for a moment he thought he had stepped off the train and into a paperback novel where Billy the Kid and Pat Garrett would feel at home. The most prominent structure to the north that could be readily visualized was a two-story building with a prominent overhang that offered shade from the oppressive heat. Not surprisingly, a great many people were huddled on its wooden porch.

The traveler wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled on the front of his now-drenched shirt as he read the words Podrasky Boarding House on a sign hanging from the second-story balcony.1

On the southern side of the tracks, twenty feet directly in front of him was another large two-story structure with a sign that read Southern Pacific Depot.2 Young and old men with black vests, trousers, and white, long-sleeved shirts bustled in and out of its shady overhang in order to assist passengers, check the locomotive for any signs of deterioration, and conduct the various business proceedings of the day. The young man could see that it only took several seconds for each individual to begin perspiring in the sweltering heat and humidity of the midday sun. Like most other buildings in the area, this one was constructed entirely of wood. Horse-drawn buggies lined the exterior of the building’s façade as vested men ran to and from them in a fluid yet hurried concerto of activity. The young man could see that the passengers of the buggies and carriages barked orders to those lower in social stature than they. Finally, the man noted a Wells Fargo Express wagon waiting patiently in line to have its cargo unloaded onto the train directly behind a cart filled with slaughtered pigs. A chill ran down his spine and a strong sense of nausea roiled in his stomach as the scene unfolded before him.

Kicking aside the chickens in his path, the young man could not help but reflect upon the story of Jesus overturning the money-changers’ tables in the Great Temple of the Lord. Money was being made here, and a great deal of it—but not by the people he was currently watching. The scene being played out in front of him troubled his soul deeply. Any doubt he had concerning coming to Lake Charles vanished when he saw the misuse of humanity before him.

This was why Eugene V. Debs had seen fit to send him to this godforsaken place. He was to be a missionary for all that was good on this earth. He was here to bring light to the darkness. He only hoped that the people were ready to embrace his message.

Walter, would you be so kind as to help me down?

The soft, sweet voice of the young lady abruptly ended his reflection. Walter turned to look into the beautiful green eyes of his twenty-one-year-old wife, Viola. He was always amazed at how those eyes seemed to see straight into his very soul. It was one of the reasons he had ultimately fallen in love with her. She was the only woman he had ever truly trusted to see every part of his being, and somehow beyond his belief she continued to love him. Her blonde hair was worn in a tight, meticulous bun under her wide-brimmed, plumed hat. And although her wrists and ankles were covered by the full extent of her attire, Walter was able to delight in her appearance as her dress clung tightly to every inch of her figure. But it was her mind that truly captivated him. Never before had he met a woman who was able to converse about current events, politics, and philosophy. He not only loved her—he worshiped the ground on which she stood.

Taking her outstretched, gloved hand in his, Walter helped her from the train. After gathering what few belongings they possessed in their three large handbags, the couple strode together toward the boarding house. Making their way through the throng on the wooden porch, Viola and Walter immediately noticed the cool temperature change from the exterior to the interior of the building. Walter gently placed his bag on the floorboards next to his wife’s feet and strode to the counter to speak with the innkeeper. Rather than creating a loud staccato with each footfall, his boots made a sandpaper-like sheering sound as his feet made contact with the residue from the mixture of engine soot and dust on the floor.

Good day, sir, Walter began. My wife and I would like accommodations for several days if that’s possible. Do you happen to have an available room, or perhaps you could point us in the direction of another suitable option?

The short, elderly man behind the counter regarded Walter for several seconds, trying to discern exactly from where this young couple had arrived. His accent was not southern, his attire pristine, and he spoke with a form of diction and vocabulary not typically witnessed in the southern regions of Louisiana. It was not winter, so it was unusual to have any of the northern crowd come to the gulf region for a vacation—and most of them went to New Orleans or Baton Rouge.

Uh, sure. I gotta good-sized room on the second floor for both you and yer wife, the innkeeper stated in his thick southern accent while desperately trying to sound sophisticated. And if ya need anything, jes’ let me know. I c’n tell ya where all the nice spots are in the city if ya like.

Thank you, but that will not be necessary at this time. Walter signed the ledger as requested by the keeper and began to take his bags upstairs with Viola quietly following his lead.

Midway up the stairs, Walter halted and called to the innkeeper. I’m terribly sorry, sir, but could you please tell me where I might be able to find a realtor? My wife and I have decided to settle here and require permanent lodging.

After instructing the couple on how to find Mr. Chavanne’s realty company,3 the elderly gentleman pondered once again why this couple had come to Lake Charles. Why would they decide to live in a place they evidently had previously never seen? He placed both his perspiring palms on opposite corners of the ledger and rotated it to where he could read the signatures on the page. The final names written in exquisite penmanship on the ledger were Mr. and Mrs. Walter F. Dietz.

* * * * *

Father Cramers stood outside the rectangular, wooden front doors of the Church of the Immaculate Conception and greeted his congregation. Because of its location directly across from the courthouse and places of local government, the sanctuary had always served as one of the spiritual anchors in the central part of the town. Father Cramers had always taken pride in how people of every faith came to seek refuge here from the struggles of their daily toils.

Looking out over his flock he could not help but notice the nearby convent for the Sisters of the Marianites of the Holy Cross, the large rectory, and the separate boys’ and girls’ schools he helped tend. From his vantage point, the priest marveled at how each component of the complex effortlessly created a sense of peace by framing a central garden with walking paths. The church itself was a simple wooden structure whose only prominent feature was the bell tower that reached toward heaven and overlooked its entranceway. Father Cramers always thought of this building as a personification of the strong yet simple faith of the community as a whole. But on an even deeper level the simple, rugged church reminded him that it was a responsibility of his to continually safeguard the faith and people of this town—a responsibility the priest did not take lightly.

As he continued to gaze outward he reflected upon the first days of his arrival in Lake Charles. He chuckled to himself momentarily when he thought of the distrust people had for him simply because his French accent was so different from theirs. Indeed, so much of his time had been spent earning the trust of his parishioners during those first few months that he had begun to wonder if he had made an error in volunteering to leave his home country of the Netherlands to come to such a wild and untamed land. But thankfully over time both he and the parishioners had grown to respect each other.

The stoic Father looked into the faces of the parishioners as they passed through the doors of the basilica-style church. He knew each one of them by name and loved each one for who they were. He felt truly grateful that so many of the local townspeople actually came to daily mass given their hectic schedules. Although he had been pastor at this parish for merely a year, he already felt a deep devotion to the people of Lake Charles and to the parish of The Immaculate Conception.

A slight tug on his tunic drew his attention to his right knee. His deep brown eyes gazed affectionately into those of a small child whose features were already hardened by the unforgiving nature of this land.

A moment later, a small, innocent voice greeted him. Bonjour, Père. Ça vas bien aujourd’hui ?[1]

Oui, mon enfant, Father Cramers replied warmly. "Tous vas bien. Et toi ?[2]

His round, fatherly face smiled down upon the little girl as her mother ushered her sheepishly and quickly into the church. Upon seeing the face of the girl he soberly returned to the reality that this land was hard on its people. Not three months prior, Father Cramers had presided over the funeral of the child’s father. As had happened several times over the last year, her father was one of the many lumbermen who had been injured on the worksite while loading logs onto the rail lines. However, on that fateful day the unfortunate man had slipped between the logs and was crushed by their weight. After spending several hours beneath the rubble, he was finally cut free by his fellow workers. Because there was no hospital in the city the man was brought to his own home and, as had happened many times before, Dr. Martin was called. Because the prognosis was so poor, Father Cramers was summoned to administer absolution and extreme unction. He reflected on his visiting the house dutifully for three consecutive days before the young man was finally released from his miserable state and welcomed into the selfish arms of death. Many hours since then were spent counseling the young widow and ensuring that the child’s welfare was kept safe.

Indeed, under the surface this was a harsh part of the world, and Father Cramers knew it all too well. As he turned to enter the doors of the church, the baritone voice of the bell chimed several times to signify that mass would start in five minutes. A shadow fell on his back as he paused to look at the midday sun. He watched as its oppressive façade was engulfed by the enormous thunderhead. A bolt of lightning danced across the sky to the north and was answered soon thereafter by the rolling bass of the thunderclap. By now the pastor was well aware of the showers that frequented the area daily during the summer months, but the approaching cloud seemed somehow different and more ominous than usual. He walked into the narthex of the church and shut the wooden doors behind him as the smell of dank moisture filled the air outside. The storm was fast approaching.

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Southern Pacific Depot ca. 1890. Photo courtesy of McNeese State University Archives.

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The Podrasky Boarding House. Photo courtesy of McNeese State University Archives.

Chapter 2

Dietz awoke suddenly from his deep sleep to the sounds of whistles wailing in the distance. Shaking the fog from his mind, he swung his feet from under the covers and onto the cold floorboards. The wooden planks creaked and groaned under his feet with each step as he made his way to the dresser where his trousers, shirt, and vest lay neatly folded in a small pile. Reaching into his left vest pocket he withdrew a gold watch on a chain that was given to him by his mother on the morning of their departure. In the dark he carefully made his way to the window, only stumbling once as his great toe caught the lip of a loose board. Dietz held the watch up to the open window so that he could gather every ounce of light that refracted off the newly formed horizon. The faint glow from the clock’s fine hands showed that it was five o’clock in the morning. The sun had not yet fully risen.

Through sleep-filled eyes Dietz could barely discern a number of silhouettes beginning to emerge from the various houses along the visible streetscape. Rubbing the crust from his eyes, he forced his pupils to focus on the individuals exiting their homes. Within several seconds a large throng of people were in the streets walking in concert to a single destination. All were men appearing to be sixteen years of age or older, and most wore simple, ragged work clothes such as hats and overalls. Most carried lanterns to guide their footsteps, for there were no streetlamps to be seen.

The whistle squealed once more, startling Dietz and causing him to hit the back of his head against the hard window frame. The screech came from the direction of the Calcasieu River to the north. Sudden enlightenment flooded his brain as the scene before him began to make sense. As men marched north by foot, horse, buggy, and rail, he knew this was a scene that had been played countless times in the past and would be repeated an almost infinite number of times in the future. All these men were being beckoned to a common purpose. They were on their way to perform their daily duties at one of the many local lumber mills. He knew that most of the men in his direct line of sight were most likely on their way to the Goosport section of the Bradley-Ramsey mill,1 one of the largest in the area.

In watching the scene unfold before him he suddenly became aware of the burden that was his. How many mills were in this town alone? The Bradley-Ramsey Mill, the Powell Lumber Mill, the Hodge Fence and Lumber Company, and the Stout Mill quickly came to mind, but this was not an exhaustive list by any means. And how many towns in the surrounding areas existed for the sole purpose of the lumber industry? Towns such as Longville, Bon Ami, Ragley, Grabow, and Pineville had seemed so small and insignificant on the maps when he studied them in Indiana but now seemed enormous when he beheld the mass of humanity making its way to work at merely one of the mills north of the town.

How in the world does Debs expect one man to begin the conversion of so many? he thought. Under his breath the missionary whispered a silent prayer that his mission would not be in vain. Indeed, it now seemed almost inevitable that divine intervention would be necessary to free such a mass of