“These boys don’t like to speculate about such matters,” Hildebrand said. “They’re creatures of the here and now, ain’t you, boys?” To their silence, he went on, “Now me, I like that question. That’s the kind of thing I could chew on for a week or more. What’s your opinion, Pettibone?”
Charley studied Hildebrand’s face for a moment to see if he was being spoofed. “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “Could be a flood come down this valley sometime, piled ’em up. Could have been a farm here at some point, farmer piled ’em up out of his field.”
“You’re a logical man, Pettibone,” Hildebrand said. “I like that. But let me ask you. You ever see a flood make a pile of rocks like this?”
Charley shrugged.
“Pass the jug,” Landsome said. Lewis Dowd handed it down.
“Me, neither,” Hildebrand said. “Not ruling it out. And we know a flood will carry things a long way. But it ain’t likely.” The jug came to Charley. He took a short swallow. It was better than some he’d had, good corn whiskey, watered down a bit but not too much. He took another.
“Now a farmer,” Hildebrand continued, “that’s a high likelihood. Only problem is, I don’t see no other evidence of a farm. No old cabin, no rails, no sheds. Not even a foundation.”
“Could have burned,” Charley said.
At that, Green Pratt laughed, a harsh, knowing laugh, and reached for the jug. Charley passed it on. “Could have burned,” Pratt repeated.
“That is the truth,” Hildebrand said. “Green here has helped me burn a farmstead or two. But even our best job never completely destroyed everything. We might have burnt a house, but we never bothered to burn the chicken coops or hog pens. So I am not convinced.”
“So what do you think done it, then, Sam?” said Dowd.
“Indians,” said Hildebrand. “We know the Indians run up and down this river valley for centuries before we got here. I think this pile of rocks is a sign of some sort, maybe like a milepost, or maybe a grave.”
The five men looked over their shoulders at the rockpile.
“I don’t care if it’s a gravestone or not,” Pratt said after a minute. “I ain’t getting up off it.”
The jug went around again.
“Sam tells us you’re an Arkansas boy,” Pratt said. “What unit?”
“Second infantry,” Charley said.
“We never got no number up here,” Pratt said. “We just rode around and fought wherever we found a fight.”
“I expect that wasn’t too hard,” Charley said.
“You’d be surprised,” said Pratt. “Most of them Yankee boys didn’t like to see us coming.”
They shared a laugh at this and passed the jug around again.
“That was Hindman’s bunch, wasn’t it?” Hildebrand asked. “I hear he’s in Mexico now.”
Charley nodded. “Him and Shelby’s whole army. Never surrendered.”
“Did you surrender?”
“Greensboro, North Carolina. What was left of us. We were in the Army of Tennessee by then.”
Pratt grated out his harsh laugh again. “We ain’t surrendered.”
“Not entirely true,” Hildebrand said. “I turned in all your names at Jacksonport, remember? We got our parole.”
“Ain’t the same as surrendering,” Pratt said. “We didn’t give up our guns.”
“I ain’t done fighting, either,” said Dowd.
“That’s fine for you boys, but I have a wife and children,” Hildebrand said. “I can’t go running off to Mexico.”
“I didn’t say anything about Mexico,” said Pratt. “My idea is, we know this country better than anybody. There ain’t a Federal officer in St. Louis could find us down here. We take the run of the place, live off the fat of the land just like always, and any Yankee tries to stop us gets a nighttime surprise. What do you say to that, Hildebrand?”
Pratt passed the jug to Hildebrand, but he handed it on. “I’m getting too old for sleeping on the ground,” he said.
“What, you’re going to live the quiet life? You think they’re going to let you live the quiet life after all we done?”
Hildebrand glanced to where the horses were tied up. “Probably not. Not around here, anyway.” He reached behind himself and lifted his rifle out of its scabbard. “See these notches? Every one of ’em is a man, and a lot of them have family around here. I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t know there was ten dozen people who’d like to be the man who killed Hildebrand.”
“Some of Quantrill’s boys are still on the ride over west of here, and nobody bothers them,” Pratt said. “Afraid to.”
Hildebrand stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants. “Is that what I want? Everybody afraid of me? I don’t know.” He walked toward the horses. “You boys keep the jug, I’m riding north. Any luck I’ll see my wife tomorrow.”
“How about you, Pettibone?” Pratt said. “War over for you?”
“Maybe,” Charley said. “I ain’t got a whole lot of quarrels.”
“Ain’t got a whole lot of money, either, I’ll bet,” Pratt said. “And Sam tells me that town of yours is getting overrun.”
Charley sat silent. He didn’t think he was cut out to be an outlaw, but at the same time he knew Pratt was right. He’d seen that man Flynn crossing the river in the evening to sit at Marie Mercadier’s house two or three nights a week, the son of a bitch. Just swagger in and start courting the only local girl worth having. And those crazy people from the North, and the nigger. He was the worst, waltzing around like he owned the place. The world had turned upside down.
“I ain’t stealing anything,” he said. “I ain’t a thief. But if you’re talking about protecting our way of life, maybe running off some carpetbaggers, then I might be your man.”
At the edge of the firelight a possum trotted by, veering neither to left nor right, heading to its destination as intently as a trainman with a pocket watch.
“Watch this,” Pratt said. He took a short square-handled knife from his boot, hefted it by the point, and in a swift overhand motion threw it at the possum. The knife missed by a foot as the possum continued into the darkness and the men chuckled.
“Well, shit,” Pratt muttered. “Can’t get no aim from a sitting position.” With his foot, he nudged Dowd, who was sitting on a higher pile of rocks. “Bring me that knife and I’ll show you better.”
“I didn’t throw that knife,” Dowd said.
Pratt nudged him again. “Yeah, but you’re half standing already and I’m down here. Fetch me that knife.”
“Ain’t my knife.”
Pratt kicked him a third time, hard enough to knock him off his seat and onto the ground, and the chuckling stopped. This time his voice was low. “You never know,” he said. “Maybe I’ll give you that knife.”
Dowd rose to his feet and brushed off his hands from where he had caught himself on the ground. Everybody waited.
But Dowd did not turn to face Pratt, who was still sitting on the ground. He turned away and walked to the weeds at the edge of the fire where the knife had flown, cursing under his breath. Charley could hear him kicking in the brush as he disappeared into the dark.
Hildebrand mounted his horse and reined it toward the road. “Your aims are good, boys, and I’ll help you where I can,” he said. “But for now, I’m homeward bound. I may try to start over somewhere people don’t know me, maybe Kentucky or Illinois. We’ll see.” He called to Dowd. “It should be right there where you’re looking, Lewis. Maybe a little farther. Them things always slide.”
“Good luck to you, Major,” Pratt said, standing up, a little wobbly, to shake his hand. Landsome and Charley followed suit. “If you change your mind, we’re meeting on Rockpile two Sundays from now to talk things over. Noontime.” Hildebrand waved his hand and rode off.
“How about you, Pettibone?” Pratt said, turning to him. “You know Rockpile Mountain, across the river?”
Charley shrugged. “Sure. Ain’t no road up it thou
gh.”
“Follow Trace Creek a couple of miles up from the river, and you’ll see a track. If the farmer stops you, tell him you heard there was going to be a preaching up on the mountaintop. Don’t come armed.”
“All right. I’ll come if I can.” The men sat down to their jug again, but Charley had tired of the talk. He waved them goodbye and headed up the road to French Mills, following the silvery fragments of light cast through the tree limbs by the sinking moon. The dark, silent village made him feel mournful; it seemed deserted, although a blanket of wood smoke hovered over it in the crisp air.
He awoke the next morning, his house cold, with a pounding head and a cottony mouth. Maybe that corn of Durand’s wasn’t so good after all, or maybe he had needed to pass the jug more often.
Although it was a Sunday morning, the thock-thock-thock of someone chopping wood rang in his head in time with the thumping of his temples. It wasn’t far off, either—a few cabins up the road, from the sound of it.
Charley snapped his galluses over his undershirt, threw on his overcoat and a pair of boots, and stepped outside. He paused to decide whether to fetch some firewood for his own house or find out who was making the racket. The racket won. Breath frosting the air, he set out up the road.
He should have guessed. The goddam Irishman, pants wet to the knees from having waded the river, was chopping logs behind the Mercadiers’ house. Anything for attention. Charley walked behind the house and stood, watching.
“Ain’t you ever heard of the day of rest?” he said.
Flynn looked up but did not stop. “Didn’t get it done yesterday. Got busy digging out a stump.”
“You could at least wait until a decent hour.”
This time Flynn paused. “Sun’s up. Decent enough.” He finished the chunk and scooted the log farther onto the rick.
“Sunday’s the day for worship. You’re disturbing people.”
Flynn swung into the log and let the axe stay. “I’m disturbing you is what you mean. Go put your pillow over your head, then, before you start disturbing me and I have to kick the slats out from under you.”
Charley laughed. “Now there’s a yarn.”
“You think so, Johnny Reb?” Flynn straightened and faced him across the log-rick. “I’ll tell you a yarn if it suits me.”
“You’re a big man with an axe in your hand,” Charley said. “Typical. I seen that in the war, all you Mick brigades. Wait till everybody else done the hard fighting before you stuck your noses out.”
Flynn laid his hand on the axe handle; took it off again, his face scarlet; then stepped away from the logpile into the open yard. Charley squared to face him. Then a curious scratching sound stopped them both.
It was Emile Mercadier, feeling his way along the wall of the house with a stick.
“Boys, you make such noise,” he said. “Working at such an hour? Good lads, good lads. But I’m an old man, I need my sleep. Come back later. Michael Flynn, I hear your voice, but who’s that you brought with you? Charley, is that you I hear?”
“Yessir,” Charley said. “But—”
“Go wash up, you boys, and then come back in a couple of hours. Marie, she makes you breakfast, and then you chop wood, and I get my sleep.”
Everyone knew the old man didn’t sleep any more than a house sparrow, but the men didn’t contradict him. Charley withdrew, and a couple of hours later, his head still pounding, he found himself with a belly full of biscuits and pork, his coat off and steam rising from his sweaty body in the cold air, grimly chopping wood with Flynn while Emile sat on a bench and sawed his fiddle. His ear was still good, but he couldn’t make his fingers obey, and the tunes were painfully slow.
“What do you want to hear, boys?” Emile said. “Least I could do is entertain you.”
“Play ‘Marching Through Georgia,’” Flynn said.
“No, never learned that one.”
“Play ‘Dixie,’” Charley said, not missing a swing.
“‘Dixie,’ I can do ‘Dixie,’ I think.”
“Not that one,” said Flynn. “I can’t stand that tune.” He glared at Charley across the pile of wood.
“You’re going to have to let me pick, then,” Emile said. And in the cold sun, he scratched at one string and another for a while, until he finally found a key he could play in, and the sounds of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” crept out into morning.
Chapter 9
Turner did not overlook Marie’s new beau, wading the river two or three evenings a week to sit in the Mercadiers’ front room. He knew he had no claim on Marie, but still it galled him. He sat in the Temple at dinner in the evening, watching her out of the corner of his eye, wondering guiltily how far the son of a bitch had gotten. Flynn never came to dinner at the Temple; only Daybreak people could do that. But as Marie sat with her father and Kathleen, he imagined her thinking of Flynn. He could almost read her thoughts. And a bitter trickle of jealousy dripped constantly on his mind.
He had given up publishing The Eagle; there seemed no sense to it any more. He had run out of ideas, and even if he had any ideas he wasn’t sure if he would want to share them. What had the world ever done for him? So he went out in the morning in silence, worked in the fields in silence, came home in the evening, ate dinner, and went to bed in silence as well. And on Thursdays, when the community met in the Temple, he attended or did not attend as the mood struck him, but never spoke or voted. He listened to Charlotte until the listening tired him, then left. It all seemed pointless.
Turner and Dathan often worked side by side, harvesting, woodchopping, tending the horses. Neither of them cared to speak, so they labored silently across the valley. They spoke only of their tools, the crop, whether they could make another round before the rain hit.
On the first day of November they found themselves in the field below the cemetery, where Wilkinson was walking in circles among the gravestones.
He called out to them. “You boys live here, don’t you?”
“We do,” Turner said.
“Come up here, then. I want to ask you something.”
Turner and Dathan looked at each other a moment, then walked up the hill. Wilkinson was gazing at the ground.
“So this is Lysander Smith’s grave,” he said.
“Yes,” Turner said.
“You’re sure of that?”
“I helped lower him down myself.”
“Hm.” Wilkinson walked to the other end of the cemetery, up one side, down the other. He seemed lost in thought. Finally he returned to the two men and looked down at the grave again. Then he stared at Turner and Dathan. “You boys seem like a trustworthy pair.”
They said nothing.
“How about it? Can I trust you? There’s work to be had here for a man who won’t tell tales.”
Dathan showed no interest in speaking, so Turner took the lead. “Why don’t you tell us what you want, and we’ll go from there.”
Wilkinson eyed him suspiciously. “All right. But if any of this gets back to the old lady, I’m calling you a bald-faced liar, just so you know. So tell me—who’s the last man buried in this place?” He took in the cemetery with a sweep of his arm.
Turner returned the suspicious gaze. “Buried a whole bunch in October sixty-one down there,” he said. “Federal troops, rebels, some of our people. And I believe I see what you’re thinking, and I don’t like it, sir.”
“Oh? Sharp fellow, are you? Mind reader? Well, maybe you know what I’m thinking, and maybe you don’t. I’ll tell you what, friend. That old lady wants a body, and she’s going to get a body.”
“She wants her son’s body.”
“You think she would tell the difference after eight years in the ground? You think she’ll even look? Hell, I couldn’t even tell a white man from a Chinaman after that amount of time, and I’m a damn professional. I am going to give that lady what she wants—a body of some sort with some skin on its face, hopefully, and a veil and some salts to cover the smell.”
“What did you say, son?” Wilkinson said.
“You heard me. I ain’t digging no bodies. The body after death belongs to the Lord, and it ain’t for me or you to interfere with.”
“By God, you’ll dig if your boss here tells you to dig.”
“He ain’t my boss. Neither are you.”
Wilkinson looked incredulously at Turner. “What the hell kind of place is this?”
“Mr. Dathan here is correct,” Turner said. “He is as independently employed as you or I. We fought a war over this business, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Well, I’m damned,” Wilkinson said. “I thought Philadelphia had the most insolent niggers in the country, but they don’t hold a candle to you boys. All right, I’ll dig my own goddam graves. Sixty-one, you say?” He looked at the corner of the cemetery. “Not much better than fifty-nine.”
“You’ll dig Lysander Smith’s body and no others,” Turner said. He felt a sudden fury rise in him; he could feel his face getting hot, and his hands trembled. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d gone into battle, the strange taste of iron in his mouth. Wilkinson seemed to sense it and backed away.
“All right, all right,” he said. “Didn’t come here to make trouble. Just want to make my living and go home. Didn’t mean any disrespect.” He retreated further, wiping his hands on his black frock coat.
Turner spun on his heel and walked down the hill toward the village. He felt that if he looked behind him, he might run back there and start beating the man. He thought of Adam Cabot, buried in that corner of the graveyard, and the Federal soldiers, and the others. To imagine Harp Webb ending up buried in Lysander Smith’s family tomb! The irony was so thick that he didn’t know whether to smile or curse.
“The boys in that cemetery didn’t die just so this body snatcher could come along and carry them off,” he said, not looking in Dathan’s direction. “It’s not right.” Dathan was silent.
This Old World Page 9
