“Like hell,” said Old Hundred-and-Eleven in reply to the sergeant’s directive. “You talk to him.”
But orders were orders, and in a few moments, the two civilians were being prodded by bayonets toward the infantry camp.
AS QUICKLY AS she could dress herself, Morgan Rhea had gone to see Aunt Vassar Bishop. She wore a green dress trimmed in black, and net gloves, and a straw boater with a green ribbon. She swept through the morning without seeing it, past Holy Cross church where the priest was painting the door; past children playing in the dirt; past negroes with bundles of laundry on their heads, laughing and calling to one another on their way to Town Creek. She made no answer to friends who greeted her, nor gave any thought to ghosts.
“I thought you might come,” said Aunt Vassar in the cool, dim hall of the old Harper place. “I was hopin you would.”
“You don’t know me well,” said Morgan. “I was not sure if you—”
“Oh, honey,” said Aunt Vassar, taking Morgan by the hand. “I know everything about you I need to. Now come in the parlor and tell me what’s happened to my no-account nephew since he shot Wall Stutts yesterday.”
In a little while, the two women were walking beside the muddy road toward the square. Aunt Vassar wore her usual rusty black and carried an umbrella and a fan, and a reticule into which she had slipped old Frank Harper’s Remington pocket pistol and her Book of Common Prayer. She wore a broad straw hat with a black ribbon.
“Did you ever take laudanum?” asked the old woman as they marched along.
“Only once, ma’am,” said Morgan. “When I was birthin.”
“You ain’t got any now, I suppose?” Aunt Vassar said.
“No, ma’am. I liked it too much to keep it around.”
“Well,” the old woman said, “I’ll be glad when things are civilized again and we get a proper apothecary. Old Mister Lloyd promises me he’ll rebuild, and restock as soon as the roads are dry. I am tired of chewin that St. John’s wort; those little flowers never did a thing for me. How do you feel about Gawain killin Mister Wall Stutts?”
Morgan thought a moment. “Well,” she said at last, “I can only say that it seems … appropriate.”
“That is a good answer,” said Aunt Vassar. “You have your sights on him, I suppose—Gawain, I mean.”
Morgan blushed. “I suppose I do,” she said.
They passed a man whose mule was bogged down in the muddy road. He was cursing the animal and beating it with a charred board. Aunt Vassar berated the man until he stopped, breathless, embarrassed. They watched while the mule pulled itself out of the mire, then went on.
“How did you meet Nephew?” asked Aunt Vassar as they entered the square.
“At a barbecue, down by John Walker’s,” said Morgan. “I thought he was pretty hateful that day.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, indeed. He read from The Lady of the Lake, and I fell in love with him right away—but do you think he would talk to me?”
“No?” said Aunt Vassar.
“No!” said the younger woman. “He excused himself with a headache.”
“Well, he gets those now and then,” said Aunt Vassar, “especially in social situations. He is a peculiar boy—takes that from his father’s side, you know. All the Harpers were lunatics.”
“That is a comfort,” said Morgan.
They were nearly to the Shipwright house now. Just west of the road was a brick structure, the old Brummett livery which the yankees used as a magazine. A pair of twelve-pounders, hunched like sullen beasts between their high wheels, were being set up in the yard, pointed south. As the two women passed, a group of soldiers standing in ranks beside the road were suddenly overcome with coughing fits.
“Whatever is wrong with those yahoos?” asked Morgan.
“Oh, that is for you, darlin,” said Aunt Vassar behind her open fan. “It is the soldierly way of showin … appreciation. They all do it.”
“Hmph,” said Morgan. “I wish they’d appreciate themselves back to wherever they came from.”
“Lord, don’t we all,” Aunt Vassar said.
When they came to the Shipwright yard, with its soldiers and orderlies and now a gun and limber sitting by the road, Aunt Vassar stopped. She turned to Morgan and brushed a strand of hair from the young woman’s forehead. “You are a pretty girl,” she said, “and wise enough to know that every person carries yesterday with him all the time, these … these boys more than most perhaps.”
“Yes’m,” said Morgan.
“You will need a lot of patience,” said Aunt Vassar. “A lifetime of it, probably.”
“I know, Miss Vassar.”
The old woman smiled. “Yes, I expect you do. Now let us go and pluck young Gawain from his folly.”
when the federal Colonel turned at last from the window, he did not bother to introduce himself, and delivered his remarks as he paced up and down before the six former rebels. What followed lasted only long enough for Gawain to say a decade of Hail Marys on the beads he held behind his back.
“I am aware that some of you are more guilty than others,” said the Colonel, his glance singling out Nobles and Thomas. “However, you have all been a great deal of trouble, and some of you—” He paused before Nobles and fixed him with a hard look, which Nobles returned in kind. “Some of you have conspired against the national government in violation of your parole.” He began to pace again, unbuckling his sword belt as he walked. “I don’t care for your ways,” he said. “They are cowardly and stupid.” He laid his sword and pistol on the table and began to unbutton his double-breasted uniform coat. “I take them personally,” he said, and removed the coat and laid it on the table. “You see me now stripped of arms and rank,” said the Colonel, holding out his arms. “Any one of you, or any combination, who care to pursue this matter will find me just this way at sundown behind the ruins of Mr. Thomas’ late tavern.”
“Why wait, Colonel?” asked Craddock.
The Colonel smiled. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Louisa May Alcott,” said Craddock.
“I see,” said the Colonel. “Well, Miss Alcott, I am waiting because I choose to—being a woman, you should find sympathy with that.”
Craddock’s face reddened. He was about to speak again when Nobles elbowed him. The Colonel went on, speaking to them all now. “You have shamed your honorable service. You have shamed your people. The colors you followed, though tainted with treason and enslavement, deserve better of you, for no other reason than that they are bathed in the blood of brave men. Now you would shame that blood by spilling more of it. I should think you’d have lost your stomach for fighting by now, but if that is what you want, I shall be happy to oblige.”
“What if we won, sir?” asked Craddock. “I mean, what’s the point?”
“You won’t win,” said the Colonel. “But if you did, the results would be exactly the same as your insurrection—that is, nothing—but with a whole lot less trouble to everybody.”
“Colonel,” began Stribling, “if I may—”
“You may not, sir,” said the Colonel. “Lieutenant von Arnim?”
“Sir?” said the provost, straightening at the mantel.
“Do you have a copy of the Oath of Allegiance?”
“Ah, regrettably, sir—”
“Then make one up, sir,” said the Colonel. “We will see who’ll take it again. Now, raise your right hands, you men.”
This seemed promising to Gawain, and he shot his right hand up, along with Peck and Bloodworth and Stribling. Only Nobles and Craddock hesitated, which Gawain found irritating. A long moment passed. Gawain began to detect the first signs of a call of nature, and he wished he hadn’t drunk so much coffee. He wished he could be more honorable, but the fact was, Gawain Harper was ready to take any oath—willing to declare himself a citizen of Rhode Island if necessary—if it got him out of the Shipwright house. He admired his comrades, but wished they would cease this foolishness. After all, t
hey could lie to their grandchildren if they wanted to.
“All right,” said the Colonel at last. “Lieutenant?”
And at that moment, the demands of honor satisfied, Nobles and Craddock raised their hands.
The provost stepped forward. “Do you solemnly swear to uphold the laws of the United States and to not take up arms against her anymore and to return to your homes, there to dwell in peace and harmony?” he said.
The six ex-rebels signified that they would do these things, and once more they were bona fide citizens of the United States—all but Craddock, who crossed his fingers behind his back. Later, when he was old enough, and the world safe enough, Craddock would maintain that he was still a rebel and would die one—a dash of theatrics that would help make him a U.S. senator in the Hayes administration.
“Citizens,” said the Colonel, “you have once more pledged your loyalty to the national government, and it damned well better take this time. You would be on your way to the city jail in Memphis right now were it not for Mister Henry Wooster here, who seemed to think you were worth saving. Do not forget that, nor what you owe him.”
“Good,” whispered Stribling, and Gawain, too, was glad. Though he hardly knew the correspondent, Gawain, who always wanted to believe the best of everybody, did not want to think badly of the man. So, Gawain thought, perhaps they were going to get out of here after all. Yet Gawain understood that the absurd and unexpected melodrama of his homecoming was not over. Gault was still alive—the yankees might get him now, but they might not, and in that case, Gawain would still owe Judge Rhea a life. Also, there was the matter of L. W. Thomas. Gawain did not know him well either, but Thomas had joined the circle of those with whom Gawain had known fear, and that called for loyalty, no matter what the man had done.
“Now get out of here,” said the Colonel. “And do not let me hear from you again, unless you intend to be at the tavern at sundown.”
“Sir,” said Stribling, “what about Thomas there?”
“That doesn’t concern you, sir,” said the Colonel.
“Yes, it does, sir,” said Stribling.
“Who are you, anyway,” asked the Colonel.
“That is Harry Stribling,” said Wooster. “The one I told you about.”
The Colonel looked closely at Stribling. “Yes, I have heard all about your adventure at the tavern, how you assaulted a sworn officer of the law and so on. As it turns out, the man Luker has been invited to visit his relatives in Arkansas—permanently—and your beloved county is without a sheriff.” He turned to the table and took up the star-and-crescent badge and flipped it in his palm.
“Ben Luker never was our sheriff,” said Peck. “Julian Bomar was our sheriff.”
“But he was captured at Nashville,” said Gawain. “Brentwood, actually—on the retreat.”
“He ain’t home yet?” asked Bloodworth.
“No,” said Nobles. “I saw Miss Rose the other day, though—she said she had a letter from him posted at Cairo. He was—”
“Never mind,” said the Colonel. “Until your Mister Bomar arrives, who will be sheriff?”
“I nominate Harry,” said Gawain. “After all, he run the other one off.”
“Now just a damn minute,” protested Stribling, adding that he was not a registered voter in this state.
“Nobody is registered in this state,” said Bloodworth. “I second.”
Harry Stribling became the sheriff of Cumberland County by the unanimous vote of a citizen’s committee appointed by the military governer. The Colonel pinned the badge on Stribling’s butternut frock coat. “Now then,” said the Colonel, “since you are concerned with this man’s welfare, I will let you decide. What about it, sir? Should I let him go with the rest?”
“Let him go,” said Gawain, so quickly he surprised himself. The Colonel glared at him.
“I think Harper speaks for us all,” said the new sheriff.
“Very well,” said the Colonel. He turned to Thomas. “Stand up, sir,” he said.
Professor Brown helped Thomas to his feet. Thomas watched them all suspiciously. “What?” he said.
The Colonel approached and crossed his arms. “The other day,” he said, “you made me admit that I hated the rebels most when they believed we’d lost. Do you believe we lost, Thomas?”
“No,” said the other, “I never did. Fact is, it never made much difference to me either way.”
The Colonel shook his head. “Raise your right hand,” he said, then pointed to the professor. “You, too, while we’re at it.”
The provost administered the oath again, embellishing it this time to include the national flag and Almighty God. “Very well,” said the Colonel, turning to Stribling again. “I remand this citizen to your custody. Get him out of here. You will find the surgeon set up across the hall; maybe he can stop Mister Thomas from leaking. Now go.”
“Sir,” said Gawain. “Can I have my pistol back? It belonged to my daddy.”
The Colonel shook his head. “It belongs to Town Creek now, along with the Henry rifle. Don’t push it. Go.”
When the Southerners were gone, and Wooster with them, Lieutenant von Arnim lowered himself onto the settee. His face was long, and his hands busy with themselves. Burduck pulled on his coat again, and buckled his sword belt, his eye on the provost. “Rolf,” he said at last.
The Lieutenant looked up in surprise at the sound of his first name. “Sir?”
“Perhaps all that business didn’t come out as you’d expected,” said the Colonel. He crossed to the chair and put his hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder. “You mustn’t think your work was wasted,” said the Colonel. “You did all right. I suppose it had to come out that way, else—”
“Oh, it ain’t that, sir,” said von Arnim, waving his hand. “I am glad to be shut of them with so little trouble.”
“What, then? Are you afraid they will recant, go back to their foolish notions?”
“No, sir,” said von Arnim. “They are too smart for that.” He got to his feet then, walked to the window, walked back to the chair. He did not sit down, but began to rock the chair back and forth on its legs. “Five men left camp with Lieutenant Stanfield, chasing that Gault fellow.” He turned to the Colonel. “Where do you suppose they are?” he asked.
THEY WERE ALL dead now, dragged into the tall grass by the side of the southerly road. Their beards were matted with blood, their hands closed into fists, eyes turned to the greening leaves where already the crows were gathering, and the greater birds that would have them soon. They did not hear the men in the road, the talk and the cursing fueled by bad whiskey, the snorts and bickering of horses who did not know one another, nor the laughter that passed down the column when one man, drunk and reeling, was unseated by his gray mule. The troopers did not see King Solomon Gault sitting the dead officer’s horse, but Solomon Gault saw them. Somewhere in Solomon Gault’s mind, the troopers were still alive—not as enemy, not even as men, but as an idea diffused over the faces of the mounted rabble in the road. In this moment, Solomon Gault loved himself, loved the amazing thing he had created, and the dead men rose up to that love and gave it substance. Solomon Gault looked down the raffish, disordered column and saw only the idea of the dead in column-of-fours: bright young faces, dusty uniforms, oiled carbines, sabers strapped to every saddle, musicians with the bells of their bugles pressed against their chests, and above all the silken colors floating, and the guidons in red and white. Gray horses, their heads tossing against the martingales. A section of lancers, weapons erect, a bristling copse pennoned with yellow silk. His wife walked over the sweet grass, smiling though her cheeks shone with tears in the sunlight. She put out her small hand, touched his leg. Her hair was pinned up; a butterfly perched on her shoulder, opening and closing its wings. You shouldn’t be here, he said, and found his own voice catching, his eyes blurring. He shook it away. You shouldn’t be here, Milly. She pressed her cheek to his leg, then pulled away, looked up at him. I will wait for
you, she said. I will be where it is safe, waiting. Then she was gone across the grass.
Perhaps the dead men lying in the grass saw her as she passed on her way. Perhaps she stopped, spoke a kind word to them before the green leaves drew her up. Solomon Gault, unashamed, wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve—the gray frock coat he had been saving for this day, with the tarnished gilt bars on the collar. He touched his leg, believed he could feel the burning of her cheek there. Of a sudden, Solomon Gault was consumed with love, with joy. He heard music falling from the sky, beating against his heart. One last time he looked down the eager column, then pulled his horse around. He raised his hand. “Forward!” he said, and touched the horse with his spurs. In a few moments the road was empty, and the birds descending.
WHEN GAWAIN HARPER was free, his first thought was for the sinks. Peck had the same thought, and together they inquired. The sinks were, in fact, the old privy, a commodious three-holer south of the house. They stood together in the evil-smelling gloom, wasps buzzing around their heads, Gawain watching for spiders.
“I always have to piss when I’m nervous,” said Peck.
“Me, too,” said Gawain. “I can’t believe we got off so easy.”
Peck leaned on his crutch and buttoned his fly. “Can I ask you somethin?”
“Surely.”
“Do you think I can stop feelin like such an ass-hole now?”
Gawain laughed. “I believe you can,” he said, and together they walked out into the sunlight.
The first person Gawain saw when he reached the front yard was Morgan Rhea. Aunt Vassar was with her, and Stribling was talking with them both, but Gawain saw only Morgan. She seemed to occupy a space to herself, illuminated by a strange and wavering light as if she had just emerged from the flame of a candle.
“That is your lady?” said Peck as the two men paused in the yard.
“Yes,” said Gawain, aware of the foolish grin on his face and not caring. “We are betrothed.”
“I danced with her once,” said Peck.
The Year of Jubilo Page 41
