Faith flushed bright red. The smile I wanted her to have today washed away and hid as it looked like she was desperate to do.
“I— I— You—” Valdez tripped over himself, swinging from Faith to Jacques. I’d never seen a person so flustered. “We’ve never—”
Jacques was far from done.
“Despite being barely above contempt, I sat in silence while you threatened me, my friends, and my party guests with jail and criminal records. The least you can do is listen when I’m speaking.”
In front of his class and all eyes watching, Valdez shut his mouth.
“Good.”
That was the first time in the conversation I heard something other than boredom leak into Jacques’s voice. It sounded eerily close to pleasure.
“As I was saying, the Bedlam revolt was neither illegal nor ethical. It was war,” he stated. “Revolution. The laws and ethics of society do not carry in war. They never have. To kill a stranger in battle makes you a hero. To kill a stranger behind Roadhouse makes you a murderer. We could not make the same argument for these men then or now, for they would not be prosecuted by the same lawyer under the same proceedings. They would be tried as war criminals in a courtroom the majority of us are unlikely to see inside.
“The premise of this assignment is at its root pointless, but the premise isn’t the objective. Your objective is the same as other teachers, professors, and outsiders who learned the bloody history of Bedlam and gasped in horror. A savage mob killed innocent people who stood in the way of the Men of Honor. Wives and families killed. Why don’t we see that? How can we praise them as heroes? Erect their statues in the square? Name their fight a revolution?
“You’re not the one to open our eyes, Valdez. We see the revolt for what it was, and we accepted around the time we were learning to tie our shoes and get up on training wheels, that it’s not only soldiers who die in war, but it’s always the enemy.”
Valdez shook with thinly disguised rage and humiliation, yet he didn’t speak. He didn’t do anything.
“This midterm topic has no purpose in regard to educational value or as a thought exercise. Change it,” Jacques said. “Come up with something better. I’ll tell you if it is.”
“I disagree.”
Four dozen necks swiveled. Not to Valdez, but to me. Yeah, that’s right. Of all the people to open their mouth, it had to be me.
Jacques slowly turned his head, fixing like he just noticed I was there. Just noticed I existed. “Excuse me?”
“I disagree. Both with your answer and that this assignment is pointless,” I said, voice holding steady. “Professor Valdez asked what our defense would be then and now, and it’s a thought-provoking question because if the revolters were rounded up— If the outside militias succeed in retaking the town, the revolters would’ve seen the inside of the courtroom where we’d defend them.”
A wrinkle was forming between Jacques’s brows, cracking that impassive mask to splinters.
“You’re forgetting—”
“I didn’t forget a thing.”
“Then, you’re ignoring that the people who rose up against the Men of Honor were servants,” I said. “Shop workers, cooks, housemaids, women, laborers, minorities, and African-Americans. They were seen as less than in the very society that allowed them to be ruled by tyrants. If they didn’t recognize their right to live as equals, they certainly wouldn’t have recognized their right to fight as soldiers, or lead a revolution against the very system that benefits them.
“The uprising wouldn’t have been called a battle then, and it isn’t called one now except by the descendants who pass on the story. They would’ve been tried as common killers against the elite of society. As they should be.”
“What?” someone blurted. “They should be?”
“Yes.” I didn’t break eye contact with Stone. “They didn’t take up their guns to win a battle. The revolters didn’t line the town square with bodies as a tactical move. It wasn’t about what was legal, or ethical. What happened that day and in the bloody days to come was no more or less revenge.”
The wrinkle became a deep groove separating thick brows fighting to meet.
“Revenge for years of living in fear. Revenge for the rapes, murders, and injustice. Revenge for splitting families apart and leaving the splintered members behind without hope. Everyone had to die from the oldest man to the youngest son, because that pain and fear had to go somewhere, and when it breaks, it showers the world in red.”
My throat closed, straining to choke down the truest words I ever said.
“They took up their weapons knowing their choice was to die as murderers, or live as cowards.” Black letters floated through my mind. “They took them up knowing it wasn’t a choice at all. A soldier enters into war with patriotism on their lips and reluctance in their hearts. A widow doesn’t march to war. They march to slaughter.”