They saw it in the distance, sitting like a great crater in the middle of the river valley, a buzzard’s nest of wooden palisades, surrounded by a network of trenches. Black smoke rose from it, carving canyons across the sky as they closed in in a tight column of riders. A great gate of ironwood swung open before them, banded with blackened steel.
From the walls many faces watched them go by. Free black men in broad-brimmed hats, painted Comanche faces marked by black streaks, firm faces of hard women in black bonnets, tan faces of Mexican soldaderas, cold stares of old Laotian and Cantonese railway workers, rough-hewn features on grim bushwhackers, each face accompanied by the black barrel of a rifle or musket. Past the gates a woman in an artful green dress awaited them, her short Afro arrayed in two royal buns like French nobility, garbed in a cavalry vest adorned with Austrian knots.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted courteously with a gentle bow. “I am Mary Cook, Minister of the Interior of the Free State of Arcadia.”
“Captain James Miller, United States Cavalry,” the captain answered grimly, keeping his voice clear and cold, despite the tension in his shoulders. A hundred loveless eyes trailed his every move.
“Have you come as a diplomat to our great republic?” the minister asked courteously. “Many of our citizens hold reservations to opening trade relations with the United States, considering recent events.”
“I’ve come with a warrant, ma’am.” His tone turned commanding, looking down into her professionally courteous features. “For the arrest of Josephine Leopold.”
A choir of clicks came as answer to his words as a hundred barrels were pointed down at them, all awaiting the minister’s command.
“Captain Miller, there appears to be a mistake here,” she spoke politely. “The federal laws of the United States do not apply in the Free State of Arcadia. You are overstepping your jurisdiction.”
“I have a hundred men with me,” he continued firmly. “Camped up on the ridge. Up on the hills we’ve got six cannons, pointed right down into this valley.”
“We’ve received no formal declaration of war,” Mary noted, completely unshaken. “Neither any demands, nor attempts at diplomacy.”
Captain Miller stared down at her, waiting for his threat to take, slowly realizing its futility. “You’d rather die for some faux revolutionary, madam?” he asked sternly.
“Sir, more than a fifth of our population are former slaves,” the minister noted, her features suddenly cold. “What awaits them if they were to surrender is worse than death. Another fifth are Comanche, who’ve lost their families and lands to the United States. Another fifth are former Mexican citizens denied their citizenship after the war. Another fifth are widows of people who died, either in the name of your republic, or fighting against it. You have nothing you can offer us.”
“Is that your final answer?” the captain asked, half turning his horse.
“Mr. Miller, I’d like you to come with me,” the minister spoke with sudden firmness, waving him down from his steed with a courtly gesture. He hesitated. His eyes turned to the ten men behind him. None moved to assist him.
“For what purpose, ma’am?” Curiosity swung in his commanding tone.
“I feel it would be appropriate for you to discuss this matter with the governor of our republic personally.”
He turned once more to his men. Their faces were tense and uncomfortable as they hesitated. Finally he let out a deep sigh, dismounting from his horse. “Alright, Madam Cook,” he nodded, more to himself than her. “Lead the way.”
The great hall she led him into was plain, fashioned from clean wood, decorated with small flourishes of horsehair and tortoise-shells, benches and tables arrayed within it, as if it served both as an administrative center, a barracks, and a mess hall. At its end stood a black door of heavy ironwood, bearing small carved flourishes of calligraphy. The Minister of the Interior knocked twice, awaiting an answer.
Five seconds passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. The captain felt his innards coiling in discomfort as he waited. A bad place to be when the artillery began firing. Finally the door swung open. mutton chops stood in the doorway, tall and broad, a crooked grin beneath his unclean black mustache and muttonchops. His beady serpent eyes regarded him with deep amusement. Behind him stood another man. A Brazilian in a fashionable city bowler hat, adorned with a strip of embroidered white silk, a cigarillo between his lips, his chest garbed in a well-tailored vest.
The governor’s office was a great expanse of plans and maps pinned to every wall, a great colonial desk in its midst, upon which rested a scale, an abacus, a great stack of paper, a small arrangement of silver coins, an inkwell, and an array of pens. The woman that sat the desk was young, yet her features seemed old and haggard, her black hair unkempt, clothed in a featureless black, high-collared Chinese vest.
“Captain James Miller, Miss Governor,” the minister introduced him.
“Mr. Miller,” the governor greeted him casually, flipping through her stack of papers. “May I introduce, my Minister of War, Willem Kirk, and my Minister of Trade, Gabriel Lourenço.” She motioned to the two men as she pulled a paper from the stack. “I would also introduce you to my Commanding General, Mr. Mupitsi, but he is currently absent.”
Willem Kirk’s hand rested on the great revolver at his hip, like a rifle without a stock, his crooked grin never leaving his face as he watched the captain like a hawk. Gabriel Lourenço seemed to pay him no mind at all, puffing his cigarillo, his eyes on one of the great maps on the wall, adorned with what seemed to be a hundred pins. His hand rested on the pommel of an old Mexican officer’s saber.
“Madam Leopold,” the captain spoke in courteous greeting. “I’ve been sent by the United States Army with a warrant for your arrest. For murder, treason, rebellion, destruction of property-”
“Yes, yes,” she waved off. “No need going down the whole list. Sit. I would like to catch you up on recent events, Mr. Miller.”
“Catch me up?” He stared down at her as she scribbled across the paper, only moved to seat himself when Willem’s hand began to push down on his shoulder.
“It is spring, Mr. Miller,” she remarked dryly. “A good spring too. Plentiful harvest. And with spring comes the thaw down the mountain.” Her eyes rose to meet his, beady and emotionless. “I assume your men have been suffering some camp fever on that long a ride? Cholera, Dysentery, Typhus?”
“They’ve been well, Madam Leopold,” he countered with the firm politeness of southern gentleman. “They are accustomed to long marches.”
“Have they?” Her face remained blank. “You’ve been marching uphill past the river I assume. We saw you coming four days ago. We’ve been emptying our chamber pots in that river since. Expect the outbreak among your ranks to worsen.”
The captain’s stomach dropped as he looked into her haggard features, though his expression remained firm. “That is base vulgarity, madam,” he finally let out, grimacing.
“Your men are camped up on the ridge by the pine trees,” she noted. “Eighty-three, not a hundred. And four cannons, not six. Three bronze, one iron. Pale little linen tents. Tired horses and men shitting rivers.” Her expression turned earnest, almost kindly, watching the politeness drain from the captain’s features.
“We’d make good turnin’ this one inside out,” Willem jeered. “Scalp ‘em and hang ‘em from the walls, and all his posse.”
Gabriel grimaced and shook his head. “No point,” he murmured coldly. “Don’t want that kind of reputation.”
The governor turned, looking to the Minister of the Interior. “You’ve told-”
“Yes, I’ve had Vanida tell them that the captain has entered into negotiations and that it will take about an hour. I’ve had Mekong prepare them some rubaboo stew while they wait.”
“Why’re we feedin’ the enemy?” Willem snapped.
“I am Minister of the Interior, I have final say about ration distribution,” she countered sternly.
“About an hour, that’s good.” The governor nodded to herself. “You see, Captain Miller,” she sighed, regarding his unimpressed features. “In about an hour about three dozen Comanche riders will come down on your little one and a half platoons up there on the ridge. When they do your forces will break. When they break the Comanche will chase them down, joined by three dozen more mounted guns. There will be no survivors. Unless,” she leaned forward, “unless I give them the signal to return after you agree to our terms.”
“You can’t hope to win a war against the entire United States Army,” the captain mocked venomously. “What makes you think your forces can beat mine?”
“You see, captain,” the governor spoke, returning her gaze to her accounting. “You may root us out of our little fort here. You may burn our little towns and hamlets. But when you do there’ll be nothing keeping us here. Remind me, what are most houses east of here made of?”
“Wood?” he answered hesitantly, furrowing his brow.
“Wood,” the governor nodded. “Imagine a hundred towns blazing in the night. And all it takes is one lit arrow. Every town for three hundred miles.”
He stared into her tired features. An ancient judgment stirred in his chest. “I have never met a more evil person in my life, madam,” he hissed. “Not one.”
“Evil,” she repeated, her features contemplative. “Define evil for me, Mr. Miller.”
“The killing of innocents,” he spat.
“The killing of women and children by the United States Army at Bloody Island,” she nodded. “How about torture of innocents, Mr. Miller? The maiming and whipping and raping of uncounted Negros all across Dixieland? How about starving? The unlawful killing of every buffalo across Comancheria?”
“We were at war!” he nearly shouted. “I’ve seen what Indians do to people. Raided homesteads all across Texas, took the women, left the men scalped in their own yards.”
“Remind me, did the Indians retaliate before or after you started driving them from their homes, shooting them on the plains, and killing their main food source?”
“It wasn’t me who started that war, and it wasn’t the homesteaders either.”
“And yet you are the one piling their corpses into mass graves.” She sighed quietly. “You are cleanly shaven, captain. Your hair is combed, your face is washed, your uniform is clean and ironed. Even your boots are shined. You made an effort this morning in your tent. How come? What were you hoping for?”
“A captain should look his station, madam,” he let out venomously.
“Adds an air of normalcy, doesn’t it?” She leaned back as she watched him. “Wearing your Sunday best, clean and groomed like a show-dog when you ride out to cut down women and children.”
He gave no answer to her provocations, his iron glare resting on her calm features.
“What point is there in devastating an entire community of over three-hundred-fifty people in the mountains?”
“Bringing murderers to justice,” he hissed darkly.
“So,” she sighed. “Three-hundred-fifty persons. Widows, free slaves, railway workers, old trappers, a couple peaceful Comanche, all wiped out by your cavalry for defending themselves against repeated invasion by slave-catchers. A growing cattle industry, several silver mines, the metalworkers, several towns, wasted for self-defense. A new trail for prospectors and emigrants to reach California or Oregon through New Mexico, thrown away for…what? So Mr. Callaway can get his property back? Which, of course, he clearly needs, living in his twenty-room summer palace in Louisiana, drinking chocolate from his golden cup every evening under a crystal chandelier. You are willing to waste a growing state, a whole county, several industries, already organized and administered, just so three, maybe four, southern slave-princes can have their cotton picked a little more quickly?”
“It is law.”
“Is it?” She raised an eyebrow. “Has Arcadia ever moved out to invade or intimidate any other county or community? Has anyone who wasn’t here for reasons of harming members of Arcadia suffered any harm through its actions?”
“The people you shot were deputies of the United States government.”
“Yes, and they came armed and prepared to inflict violence upon our community unless we turned over several free men to them to be returned to Louisiana. They made several threats, they pointed guns at my citizens, they shot two people who attempted to reason with them. I see no harm in what I’ve done. They overstepped their jurisdiction, they acted hostile, they murdered my citizens. We did not linger on the ridge with rifles, picking them off on the trail. We gave them every chance to turn away. As we are giving you.”
“You call this every chance?” he nearly laughed. “Threatening to kill eighty-three men unless I sign your treaty?”
“We have little choice, don’t we? You came here with an army, intent to wipe us out. Why is it right for you to make that threat in service of your warrant, but wrong for me to do the same?”
“I stand with the United States government.”
“And I am the governor of the Free State of Arcadia.”
“You are still within the United States,” he insisted, putting his hands on the desk. “Our laws apply equally to you as they do to everyone else.”
“Why? Because you have the permission to use violence to enforce them? Because you consider yourself stronger than us?” She scoffed. “No, Mr. Miller. Your laws do not apply equally to everyone. That is why Arcadia exists. All the people you have decided the law does not apply equally to are here. Negros, Indians, foreigners, widows, former Mexicans. Our constitution guarantees them full equality beneath the eye of the law, a right to suffrage, a right to freedom, a right to their labor, a right to a bank account and a loan if they request it, a right to full equality in testimony before the court. We came together to form this legislative body of our own free will, in a territory with no former occupants other than the Comanche driven out of Texas. New Mexico is not a slave state. Not yet.”
“New Mexico is still a territory of the United States.” His voice rang cold. “If you want change, ask people to vote for it. This country is ruled by its people, madam.”
“By its people,” she repeated dryly. “Mr. Miller, there are four million enslaved Africans in this country. Millions of Indians. And now thousands of Mexicans, only half of which were granted citizenship and the ability to vote when they were unwillingly assimilated by its borders. There are millions of women in this country, which cannot vote either. In your great United States, ruled by its people, I do not have a vote. Or a right to a bank account. Even if I was a man, I am one-eighth Negro, they would still deny me. The only ones of the three-hundred-fifty people in my republic permitted to vote would be some of the old trappers and bushwhackers. And that too only recently, as previously only landowners could vote. It seems to me that this country is ruled by less than half of its people, hellbent on denying the rest their right to participate in its democracy.”
“So your answer is murderous belligerence?” the captain mocked. “Killing lawmen? Harboring banditos and hoodlums?”
“What you call murderous belligerence has built a more stable community than most counties in this country,” she countered dryly. “No taxation without representation, that was our cause, wasn’t it? How many died over taxation and independence during the revolution? How many died so you could crush the Tecumseh Confederation in eighteen-twelve? How many died in Mexico so Texas could keep its slaves and Polk could claim himself a conqueror? You may remember that killing redcoats was just as much murderous belligerence as shooting slave-catchers.”
“You believe yourself a new Washington?” he scoffed.
“No,” she conceded, shaking her head. “Only the necessary response to Pierce and Buchanan.”
“What you have done is evil, madam,” he spat back at her. “It constitutes no sane response to politics.”
“Evil,” she repeated once more. “You know that word has a meaning, Mr. Miller, no matter how much you insist on wearing it out. Evil is real. It grows in the heart as a weed that feeds off of anger and apathy and grief that you have to cut and trim, and if you don’t it swallows everything you care about. Which you have failed. You don’t even notice it anymore. You call slave-catchers innocent while crushing Indian children under your hooves. You are consumed by apathy.”
“Apathy,” he scoffed. “Were I to sign your treaty they’d court-martial me, throw me in a cell, declare the treaty void, and send another in my place. There’s no hope of victory for you, madam.”
“If we die, we die on our feet, Mr. Miller. That dignity is ours to protect. We won’t give it up for five more years of slavery or prison colonies.” Zeal flashed in her tone, wretched cousin to passion. “Slaves can still sing and fall in love on a plantation. The destitute can still break bread together. I can still protect my friends and neighbors. You can never take these things from us. And as long as we have these things, the war is not lost.”
She pushed the paper she had been scribbling on over the desk. The captain’s heart sat heavy in his chest as he read the phrase Treaty of Arcadia at its top.
“So what?” he asked almost earnestly. “You want me to martyr myself for your Gilead in the mountains? Die on the cross for your little Jerusalem refusing our laws and killing any lawman who enters it? And if I don’t you’ll kill us all, eighty-three men sent in caskets to eighty-three widows.”
“We agree to pay a three percent tax on all our earnings as a free state,” she stated coldly. “To fly your flag, to wear your colors. And in exchange in Arcadia the Arcadian constitution will reign supreme, and its elected officials will rule unimpeded. A generous offer.”
“And if I told you I don’t have the authority to make this decision?”
“You do.” The words echoed in his mind. “Save thousands of lives, captain. All it takes is a signature.”
“And if they break this treaty?” The drumming of his heart echoed in his skull. “Like they did with the Indians?”
“Then that fact will make its way into every abolitionist newspaper in the north. And the unorganized territories will burn.”
“And if I refuse?” The words were almost a whisper. The governor gave no answer, her eyes staring into his without emotion.
“You still have half an hour, Mr. Miller,” she finally spoke. “Think it over.”
She pulled another paper from the stack, beginning to transcribe the treaty onto it in silence as the captain stared at the piece of paper before him, demanding free governance of a territory between three rivers in exchange for taxation and recognition. His heart beat like marching drums in his chest as he heard his general’s uproarious protestations, saw the military court before his mind’s eye, his father’s doorstep in Kentucky, his scornful features turning into a hateful grimace as he heard his son confirmed a coward before all the world in every newspaper from New York to California.
The governor rose, pulling back the curtains before a great window at the back of the office. The hill towered in the distance, crowned by tall pines, like pillars holding up the horizon. Slender lines of white smoke rose from it, almost peaceful in its final half hour.
“You said you believe in the United States, Mr. Miller,” the Minister of the Interior remarked into the suffocating silence. “What did you mean by that?”
“That I believe in this republic,” he responded hollowly.
“What part of it?”
“Democracy.”
“Not that all men are created equal?” she asked neutrally. “Or life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Liberty and justice for all? Unalienable rights given to all humans? These words are written into the Arcadian constitution, but it appears we are more committed to following them than the republic that first wrote them.”
“It’s not perfect,” he admitted. He almost considered signing the paper, if for his life alone. His eyes returned to the great hill. His innards coiled like serpents as he watched the clouds go by above it. He examined the walls in silence, maps of silver mines, new roads to be built, designated grazing lands, planned expansion of towns and villages. Pages of newspapers, reporting on the Panic of 1857, the Battle of Black Jack, the Utah Expedition, and the Dred Scott v. Sandford rulings.
“Have you ever heard Frederick Douglass speak, Mr. Miller?” the governor spoke softly. “Or read one of his speeches?”
“I have,” he answered hollowly.
“A great orator, isn’t he?” Something nearly resembling a smile curled her lips. “A great thinker and philosopher. He would make for a magnificent statesman, don’t you think?” Her smile faded. “Frederick Douglass, four million times, stooping to pick cotton in empty fields forever. Four million. Seven-hundred-seventy roman legions. Four million engineers and writers and orators and architects and doctors and mathematicians. Four million poets and workers and painters and musicians. Wasted on cotton so Mr. Callaway can live in a white palace in the middle of an empty field and lord over his lessers.” Her eyes turned to him, desolate and cold. “Can you imagine the waste? Frederick Douglass, Alexandre Dumas, Phyllis Wheatley, Mary Cook, wasted on what? So the south can drag its feet on building proper industry for another century? So one man can play at aristocracy in Virginia?” She placed the copy of the treaty next to the original. “This place will survive you, Mr. Miller. In fragments or newspapers, in little beggar-communes in the cities, in other counties and homesteads. But it will survive you. It will survive the United States. As long as men have empathy and care in their hearts this place will survive you.” Her eyes turned to him. “Have you made your decision?”
“I can’t,” he hissed. He tried to rise, but Willem’s grasp forced him back into his chair.
“Will you not sign it, Mr. Miller?” She grasped a single silver coin on the desk, marked with the phrase Free State of Arcadia, two rifles crossed upon it. It shimmered in her grasp. “Eighty-three. A high price for stubbornness.”
He swallowed. “And if I do sign it?”
She smiled. A genuine, almost youthful expression. “The silver mine up north will be expanded. Four more houses and two more barns will be built. The courthouse will be expanded. An official trail will be opened east to west to allow travelers a safer route. A proper salon will be opened. The agreed-upon rate of tax will be paid in silver to the federal government. And the governance of this state will be left to me, Miss Cook, Mr. Lourenço, Mr. Kirk, and Mr. Mupitsi. Hundreds of former slaves and outcasts will live peaceful lives, and eighty-three men will go home to their sons and wives unharmed. It sounds like a bargain, doesn’t it? Every newspaper from New York to California will speak of Captain James Miller of the United States Cavalry, a great negotiator and diplomat, who negotiated a treaty with the Free State of Arcadia. A man of conviction and bravery, who marched alone into the lion’s den to prevent bloodshed.”
He swallowed once more. Disgrace wasn’t death. His eyes sought Miss Cook, courteous and poised as ever, patient and untouched by tension. She nodded to him. He swallowed a third time, staring down at the treaty. His fingers closed around the cold steel of the pen.
“Long live Arcadia,” Gabriel murmured behind him.
“Long live Arcadia,” he echoed.
[Image Credit : Photo by Thomas Bennie on Unsplash]
by 
Evelyne Dogan
Latest posts by Evelyne Dogan (see all)
- The Free State of Arcadia - January 2, 2026
- Gold in California - December 23, 2025
0 Comments