The Year of Jubilo

by Bahr, Howard;

  “My God,” said Wooster before he could stop himself.

  Burduck turned then, and Wooster had another shock. The man seemed to have shrunk since Wooster last saw him. His eyes were hollow, his face drawn and pinched with anger—and something else. Shame, thought the correspondent.

  “Yes?” said the Colonel, steepling his fingers on the table.

  “Colonel, I—,” Wooster began. Then, before he could stop himself, he gestured toward the body and said, “If I may say so, sir—that is a ghastly sight, unbecoming a brave soldier.”

  “I am not interested in your opinion,” said Burduck. “If I were, it would still be none of your affair. You have already presumed too much, so state your business and be gone.”

  “Sir,” Wooster persisted, “Sergeant Deaton—”

  “What the hell do you know about Sergeant Deaton?” snarled Burduck.

  “A great deal,” said the correspondent, and plucked at the sleeve of his frock coat. “I’ve got his blood on me.”

  Burduck’s head snapped back as if he’d been hit. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. He sank wearily into his chair and waved toward the settee. “Take your seat, sir,” he said. “I have no quarrel with you.”

  Wooster settled uncomfortably on the settee, which groaned under him. He told the Colonel of the events leading to the shooting, embroidering here, editing there, moving Harry Stribling up into the footlights. He told how Deaton was shot, the reactions of the men, their subsequent flight—“Which is understandable, even if it was poor judgment,” said Wooster. “They were afraid of the very consequences which have befallen them.”

  “Indeed,” said Burduck. “And you, of course, went along to make sure they didn’t escape.”

  Wooster blushed, but ignored the remark. He pulled the notebook from his pocket. “I have a transcript of their conversation at … at the house we went to. If you will allow me to read it, you will see—”

  “Never mind them now,” said the Colonel. “I will try to keep the provost from hanging them before morning. What do you know about this man Gault?”

  Wooster related the tale he had heard Nobles tell in the hall of the Carter house, wondering as he spoke why he believed it so completely, and if it sounded true in the telling. No matter, Wooster thought—it was true. His instincts had never failed him. Nevertheless, he skirted around Thomas’ role for the moment, believing it too incendiary for this delicate stage of the discussion. He did not think the Colonel would ask for his notebook; even if he did, it was unlikely Burduck could read Pitman shorthand. Then the correspondent played what he thought was a good card. “Sir, I have it on reliable evidence that Solomon Gault ordered the killing of Kelly and Deaton.”

  “Yes,” said the Colonel. “Luker told us.”

  Damn, thought Wooster. But that was all right; that added credibility. He said: “Ah. But not only that, I have learned the very man who was assigned the task.”

  “Yes,” said the Colonel. “Wall Stutts. Luker told us. Fire again.”

  Damn Luker, thought the correspondent. Credibility was all very well, but he did not like being trumped. Still, he had one more card, maybe the best of all, and he played it now. He leaned forward. “You won’t have any more trouble out of Stutts,” he said. “He was shot dead this afternoon, trying to bushwhack Mister Gawain Harper, the associate of these same men you accuse of conspiracy.”

  The Colonel sat up, his eyes bright for the first time, as Wooster told the story he’d heard from Gawain. Again, he wondered why he believed it, and decided that he believed it because it was true. It had to be.

  “Well, this throws a new light on things,” said the Colonel when Wooster was finished. “Where is the man Harper?”

  Wooster hesitated.

  “I retract the question,” said the Colonel. “Let us see where our conversation leads. Did you know von Arnim and a company of cavalry paid a call on Gault this evening?”

  “I did not.”

  “He wasn’t home, naturally, but he left this where we would find it.” Burduck pushed a folded sheet of paper across the table. “It bears the same watermark as the note left with Kelly’s body.” Burduck snorted in disgust. “I sound like a goddamned Pinkerton.”

  Wooster heaved himself up from the settee and crossed to the table. He looked at the paper.

  “Go on,” said Burduck.

  Wooster took up the paper, unfolded it, and held it to the candlelight.

  Col. M. Burdick, Cmndg

  United States Troops

  Cumberland, Miss.

  Sir:

  If you are reading this, it is because you have discovered the true nature of our relationship. Of course, I knew it all the while, which is an excellent joke on you. I spared you today. Next time we meet, I will collect the debt. Perhaps we can talk first. I would be interested to hear what you have to say on the subject of mortality. Your own, I mean. You may think me mad if you wish, but do not allow that to cloud your judgment of

  Yours Respectfully, &c.

  Solomon Gault, Capt., PAC

  Wooster lowered the paper and found the Colonel watching him. He let the note fall on the table. “What does he mean by—”

  “Sparing me?” said the Colonel. “Oh, Mister Wooster, Gault and I are old chums. If only you could have seen us this afternoon, chatting away at the Wagner place. Of course, I did not know until I returned whose company I’d been in, but … ” His voice trailed off then, and he waved his hand vaguely. “But never mind. Try to resist putting that in the papers, however difficult it may be.”

  Wooster turned his head away, stung by the remark. “It’s an empty threat, sir,” he said.

  “That’s what von Arnim said,” replied the Colonel. “But I don’t think so.”

  Again, before he could stop himself, Wooster said, “You think Gault will come?”

  Burduck glared at him. “Come? Come! Like some avenging spirit, leading a horde of inflamed patriots under the banners of righteousness? Good God, sir—do I appear to be cowering in a bomb-proof? I wish the arrogant bastard would show his face.”

  “I didn’t mean—,” stammered Wooster.

  “Well, what the hell did you mean?” snapped Burduck.

  Wooster collected himself again. “Colonel Burduck,” he said, “you have been candid with me, and you have my pledge of confidentiality. May I be candid as well?”

  Burduck had folded again, as if he could sustain anger only so long before it sucked him dry. “Feel free,” he said.

  Wooster pressed his palms together and looked at the Colonel. “Sir, Solomon Gault is mad, and so he is still out there in the dark, believing fervently in his design. I know you have nothing to fear from him, but … but fear isn’t the issue. He has made a fool of you. Isn’t that it?”

  Wooster expected an outburst. Instead, the Colonel merely nodded. “In a word, yes,” he said. “It is personal now, would be so even if it were not for that boy and—” He stopped, shaken, and Wooster suddenly understood why Deaton’s body was laid out in plain view.

  “If he comes, what do you think will happen?” the correspondent asked.

  The Colonel sat back, and Wooster, veteran of a thousand interviews, knew that this one was nearly over. They had come as far as they could on the trust that Burduck could allow himself. He also knew that just beyond that limit was something the Colonel wasn’t going to give him. He was about to rise and go when the Colonel surprised him by opening another door, one that Wooster would just as soon have remained shut.

  “You have made a good case for these yahoos,” said the Colonel. “You seem to have left out Mister Thomas, though.”

  Wooster shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, Gault used him like he did the rest.”

  “You think so, do you?” said the Colonel. “Mister Wooster, L. W. Thomas was a spy in the Confederate service. Since the surrender, he has passed information of a delicate nature to aid an avowed enemy of the United States. He is guilty of treason. He will hang, a
nd nothing you can say will save him. Do you know where he is? If you do, and fail to speak, you’ll hang with him.”

  “Colonel, the information he gave Gault was such that anyone—”

  “Answer the question, sir. Do you know where he is?”

  Wooster fidgeted, already feeling the noose around his neck. Outside, someone threw a log on a fire, and sparks swirled skyward. “Colonel,” said Wooster, summoning all his dignity, “how can you put me in this position? I—”

  “You put yourself in it when you left the tavern this afternoon,” said the Colonel. “Do you want me to call the provost?”

  Henry Clyde Wooster rose from the settee. “Call him,” he said.

  Burduck pushed his chair back and stood up, his jaw twitching. “Sergeant of the guard!” he said.

  A beat of silence then, while the two men glared at each other across the table. Wooster could hear his own pocket watch ticking, heard the sizzle of a doomed moth in one of the lanterns. When the door opened, Wooster had to keep himself from crying out. “Sir!” said the sergeant of the guard.

  “I want—,” Burduck began, and stopped. He leaned forward, hands flat on the tabletop, his eyes fixed on a point above Wooster’s head. Wooster could see the sweat on the Colonel’s forehead, as if he were struggling physically with a great weight. The Colonel’s eyes, narrowed now, came back to Wooster’s face and remained there while he spoke in a level, almost amiable voice. “I want you to call Captain Bloom, have him come in here.”

  When the sergeant was gone, the silence only deepened in the room. Wooster had to look away from the Colonel’s eyes when he spoke. “It is all right, Colonel,” he said. The other made no answer. In a moment, the door opened again, and Captain Bloom entered with his cap tucked under his arm. “Sir,” he said, and glanced at Wooster.

  Burduck tapped his finger on the tabletop. “Captain, I—” He stopped again, the muscles in his jaw working. His hand moved across the table as if he were trying to grasp something there. Finally he looked up. “Captain, parade your company at first light for burial. Have the provost … have him engage the usual party for the grave, the digging, I mean.” The Colonel struggled with his thoughts a moment before he spoke again. “Now … now, Captain Bloom, you must take morning call. In the orders of the day—” He stopped and half-turned toward the window, as if someone had spoken his name. The Captain exchanged a glance with Wooster. In a moment, Burduck turned back again and looked at the Captain with surprise. “What?” he said.

  The Captain smiled uneasily. “You were about to say something, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Burduck. “I was about to say—” He waved his hand. “About Deaton. He is a good man. Have … ah … have the first sergeant show him in hospital on the morning report. There is no need to disgrace him.”

  Wooster turned away, studied a print of Arundel castle hanging on the wall. Behind him, he could hear the Captain’s palpable hesitation, heard him say “Yes, sir, Colonel” then back away out the door. When the latch clicked shut, Wooster turned again. The Colonel was looking out the window, his fist pressing against the frame. “Get out of here, Henry,” he said.

  But Wooster didn’t leave. He stepped to the body of Rafe Deaton. From it rose the smell of blood, and a fly was crawling across the eyes. Wooster brushed it away. “Thomas is dying,” he said. The Colonel was silent. Wooster went on. “He tried to get Deaton to go home today. He didn’t want to run when all the others did. He let the money Gault paid him burn up in the tavern when he could of got it out. He looked after your boys, Colonel.”

  Burduck turned his head. In the lantern light, his face seemed lifeless as Rafe Deaton’s.

  “The war has to end, Colonel,” said Wooster, but the other had already turned back to the window.

  On his way out, Wooster stopped on the gallery to talk with the soldiers who were smoking there. No officers were around, so the correspondent broached the subject of Solomon Gault, thinking to tap the deep waters of rumor that always ran beneath an army camp. He was not disappointed.

  “Son of a bitch ought to come if he’s comin,” said a lean corporal. “Somebody said they was a riot up in Memphis, the niggers and the whites. Washburn called all the cavalry back this evenin, nothin left but the headquarters guard.”

  “Cap’n Bradley’s company, too,” said another. “They left on the cars ’bout six o’clock.”

  “Well, well,” said Wooster. He lit a cigar and listened to the thunder, and watched the fireflies rising from the grass.

  THESE, TOO, FOLLOWED time:

  In the rays of the falling moon, Morgan Rhea dreamed of the sunlight that had come through the windows of the Carter boy’s room and the strange, suspended ambience of the hall where the men had gathered. They were all there in the dream, but silent, sitting against the wall like schoolboys while another man paced up and down, gesturing, talking, though he made no sound. She could not see his face, but she knew who it was, wanted to warn them, tried to speak but couldn’t. She struggled, trying to shape the name, and when she almost had it, she found them all turned to stone: gray headstones mottled with moss, leaning obelisks, tombs sealed by iron doors. And among them a lady passed, carrying a basket of flowers. Lily. Her sister turned, plucked a dark flower from the basket, held it out to Morgan and spoke the name—

  “Gault!” cried Morgan, and sat upright. She was sweating, the sheet twisted around her feet. The bed, the room, was painted with moonlight and writhing with shadows.

  “Gawain Harper,” she whispered. She said it again and again, like an incantation, until it crowded the other name out of her mind. Then she shut her eyes and prayed: Forgiveness, mercy, compassion, courage, all these, O Lord, and make us instruments of thy peace and fill us with thy grace and save us from evil and shame, amen. When she opened her eyes again, the shadows were gone.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and composed herself on the pillow again, listening to the whippoorwill and the soft breathing of Alex on his pallet and the snoring—

  She sat upright again. Snoring? She crept to the edge of the bed and saw Alex wrapped in his cotton coverlet in the moonlight. As she watched, the coverlet stirred in a peculiar way, then was still. She sniffed the air. It smelled of midnight, of privet and oak leaves. It smelled of dog.

  “Alex Rhea!” she hissed.

  “I ain’t done nothin,” came the muffled reply. And not only muffled but sullen, a fair indicator that he had, indeed, done something.

  Morgan slid off the high bed. In the pale light, she saw Beowulf’s tail slide out from the edge of the coverlet like a scabrous worm. It thumped twice and lay still. “I told you—,” Morgan began, her hand on the coverlet to lift it. Then she stopped, and raised her eyes to the window and the night beyond. To the west, where the Great River lay and whence their weather always came, she heard the growl of thunder. The leaves outside shuddered as if in answer. The moonlight dimmed as a cloud wandered by, then filled the room again, and the whippoorwill called without ceasing. Morgan lowered the coverlet and crawled back into the Carter boy’s bed and moved her legs across the cool bottom sheet. In a little while she slept, and this time she did not dream.

  Though Thomas did. He moaned and thrashed in his sleep, and moved his hands, and muttered lines which Gawain and Stribling agreed were from The Merchant of Venice. The three of them were bedded down in the barn with Zeke.

  “I’m damned if I bunk with him again,” said Stribling, his hands behind his head. “If he ain’t snorin, he’s quotin Shakespeare. Good God.”

  Gawain had been awake anyway. His head hurt worse than it had at morning, and he had wrapped it in a wet rag. In the moonlight slanting through the cracks, the rag glowed like some obscene cave-dwelling fungus. “I hear thunder,” said Gawain. “It’s gon’ rain again directly.”

  “I expect it will,” said Stribling. He propped up on one elbow. “Listen, you don’t fret about Wall Stutts. You hear me?”

  “I ain’t,” said Gawa
in.

  Zeke stamped in his stall. A swallow chittered restlessly in the eaves of the barn, as though in protest at these noisy intruders.

  “I hope there ain’t any spiders in here,” said Gawain after a moment.

  “I seen a big one a while ago,” said Stribling.

  “Damn you and your spiders both,” said Gawain, and groaned. “My head is killin me.”

  “You want me to get you some coffee?” asked Stribling.

  “That’s a lot of trouble,” said Gawain.

  In a moment, Stribling was creeping in his stocking feet across the dew-wet yard, heading for the shadowy bulk of the cookhouse. Midway he stopped and looked up at the moon. It was pale and watery now behind a brush of clouds, and the stars were gone. He remembered one such night when he and Zeke rode out to check the vedettes. They topped a ridge, and below them lay a broad valley cloaked in a ghostly light that did not seem to come from the fading moon. In the distant treeline burned the fires of the enemy, orange pinpricks against the dark trees, warming strangers who would kill him if they had the chance. Yet, as he watched, Stribling felt no sense of danger or harm, nor any rancor toward the travelers over there. Yonder was the valley, and beyond the invisible hills, and beyond them the whole country stretching away to the sea. And the sea itself, heaving and tossing under the same moon, bearing eastward and westward the little ships, their masthead lights winking with infinite trust in tomorrow. The world is too big to worry about sometimes, Stribling told Zeke that night, and in a little while they moved off into the valley, toward others like themselves waiting for dawn. Now, in the yard of the old Carter house, Stribling said it again, to himself this time. “The world is too big,” he whispered, nodding at the moon. “It will be all right.”

  He lit a fire on the hearth of the cookhouse. In the cupboard, he found a sack of coffee, and a blacksnake that had swallowed a rat. That was all right, too, he figured.

  MORGAN WOKE To a sharp clap of thunder and the rain blowing through the open windows. She scrambled out of bed and pulled down the sashes, and the sound of the rain diminished. Her feet were wet now, and the front of her nightdress, just that quick. She looked at the pallet where the boy and the dog lay, and saw that it was dry. Beowulf, his head out of the covers now, regarded her with friendly curiosity.