Do you go, Ninny, to my father. He is in the seed house or store shed, and do you give him this note.
In this way Laurel was endowed further with a vial of Lucy’s own shampoo contrived of aqua ammonia, salts of tartar, and alcohol flavored with bergamot. Lucy instructed the girl how to mix the potion with rainwater, and how to rub it through her hair into her scalp until the lather had gone down, then how to lave it out in the clearness of the creek or in more rainwater. Laurel promised faithfully. By this time she was enamored to the point of idolatry. Lucy whirled before her eyes in a froth of the room’s pretties.
Is them your brothers what got kilt, Miss Lucy?
Not this one, child. Tis a miniature of my father when once he was a soldier too. But this daguerreotype, here, and the two ambrotypes yonder. Those were my brothers.
Surely is a pity. . . . My brother Coral, surgeons cut the foot off’n him.
I have seen him since, poor lad, with his crutch.
You got—? Laurel whispered it, and could not look at the young woman as she whispered. Got yourself a fellow?
Lucy did not speak for a moment. . . . I fear not. There is a friend, a gentleman who writes letters sometimes. But— She busied herself in emptying a basket of woven bull-grass, and this too would be a gift for Laurel; the girl could carry home her bottles, soap and thimble. Child, have you a—fellow?
Kind of. He sure did pull me round when we danced, when them Alabama sojers was a-leaving. And he held me tight against himself, she managed to breathe in confidence. A few minutes later she was running down the lane with the speed of a field-mouse, her scarred legs flashing under tags of calico. The spring of extreme youth was in her frame, appreciation for the gifts was foaming, the certainty that she must follow Lucy Claffey’s injunctions (and the sooner the better) was a delight intense enough to be named as a pain. Laurel bubbled to herself shrill bits of worship which she felt might be profanity, yet not the obscenity which she heard spoken often by Coral and Floral. Mercy God, she cried with pulpy pale lips, Mercy God, damn, hell, Jesus, damn hell, Mercy God. She stopped once shortly near the railroad, for a train approached, and she scarcely saw or heard the engine until she was beside the track. Boys rode on some of the platform cars or sat in box car doorways. They shouted, whistled, pretended to shoot Laurel with their guns, but she gave no heed. She had taken the tiny phial containing rose oil from the basket, and had withdrawn the glass stopper and was drinking in the odor with long rewarding sniffs. When the train had gone Laurel fled homeward, her sunbonnet spreading wide soiled wings above her shoulders where it had fallen.
Old Mrs. Bile taught Laurel to sew when the girl was eleven, and thus her thin fingers could fly about the business of it. Coral had caught a string of catfish that morning, and the widow fried balls of cornmeal to go with them. There were turnip greens and pork as well, but Laurel declined all invitations to join her family at table. The rest ate eagerly, greasily, washing down their feast with quantities of okra coffee. Zoral gagged on a fish-bone and choked himself into purple regurgitation before his mother could extract the bone. Through this excitement Laurel did not lift her head from her work, she did not leave her bench and basket. Her gown was finished before two o’clock, fashioned from pieces of calico sent by Effie Dillard. Waist and skirt did not match—the one was of a green pattern, the other of gray—but to Laurel they were measureless beauty and pride. What you a-doing there, Sissy? inquired Captain Ox Puckett when he came stamping in. By Ned, ain’t you a regular little Betsy Ross, like they claim stitched a flag for General Jackson or somebody! Soon Ox and the Widow Tebbs had retired to The Crib, Coral was asleep on his bed, and Zoral was a train growling back and forth in front of a chicken-coop depot. Laurel crammed her new gown into the bull-grass basket and carried off soap, shampoo and rose oil which Lucy had given her. She took also two torn towels, reasonably clean, and some scraps of underclothing. Not even to Lucy could she have expressed her desire to be fresh and scented and neatly put together, in body and hair and dress alike. Passion was in her, her eyes snapped with it as she darted across the field behind the old Rambo homestead next door and sought upper reaches of Little Sweetwater.
In a shallow calm pool among willows she whitened the water; frogs leaped away, crayfish scuttled to safety. No one came to spy upon Laurel’s nakedness, although she blushed in this fearful solitude, made small squeals when she found a leech upon her leg, felt malarial fever through her limbs at every crow-call. Once she was scrubbed and dried the rose oil made aromatic madness on her skin and in her hair. Why had she not fetched her mother’s looking glass? Oh, to gaze upon herself, to see whether her bright hair was the damp loose cloud of ecstasy which she believed it to be when her hands went through it and let it fall and then strayed aloft wonderingly again . . . an idea came to her, in the end. With skirt held high she waded to a dark untroubled place beneath a cypress, and stood motionless, not breathing until the water was cleared, unrippled; then the girl bent forward, squatting, and saw her own thin wild face wavering up at her, and saw the hair . . . oh, Mercy Jesus, God, hell. . . . Oh, Miss Lucy, lady, I do thank you for them soaps and the potion.
That evening Captain Ox was long since departed; but another mule was tethered, and a lamp burned in The Crib and was then put out at the caller’s request. Zoral slept in a wet place of his own making. Coral had gone crutching off to Uncle Arch’s, empowered to buy navy plug, meal, and a stick of red candy for his mother’s use. The late lopsided moon had not yet risen, nor would rise for hours; but starlight yielded golden brownness to enrich each tuft of nearby trees. Laurel Tebbs sat on the step, leaning her shoulder against a post. My, she had the unspoken thought, it surely does stink bad. That there prison pen yonder. Them Yankees must be powerful dirty, dirtier than ever I been in my born days. She thought of Little Sweetwater, and how savage and lonely must be the region where she had bathed; perhaps dangerous wild beasts were prowling beside the very pool wherein she had splashed—formless ferocious wild beasts—she trembled before the notion of their stealth and blackness. She thought of the shampoo, the cake of Windsor worn to a flake; she thought of the rose oil, and scrambled up to bring her bottle out of hiding. She had concealed the bottle within an old clock (the clock did not run, it stood dusty on a high shelf, it was a good place to hide her thimble or any other treasure which might be coveted by Zoral). There was still a spoonful or two of oil in the flask, and the girl resumed her place on the step and held the bottle to her nostril, and believed that the stockade’s vapor could not reach past this immediate fragrance. Presently a dark shape detached itself from hollowness of the roadway, seemed to halt indecisively, then drifted forward. It was a man who tripped over the crude two-wheeled cart which Mag had prevailed upon Coral to build for the baby; the man swore heatedly and then came closer. Laurel stood up. Ma ain’t in the house, she said automatically. She’s over’n The Crib, she’s got a caller.
The man laughed. Honey, I never did come to see your old lady. Come to see you.
She roasted quickly in the heat of her own flesh. Now, you look a here, Sergeant! I’m but a girl. It’s my Ma who does the entertaining.
Sinkfield came up to the step and stood with hands on his wide stuffed hips. Sakes, honey child, I wouldn’t want no truck with your old lady. I like young ladies, like you. Member how we danced at the pic-nic?
Hain’t no pic-nic going on tonight.
Look what I brung you, and he brought forth a crumple of paper. Brown sugar. What they call maple sugar, manufactured away at the North. Ain’t that nobby?
Laurel tossed her head, and brushed her wiry hair with her hands, then smoothed it against her scalp once more. Oh, she said, I don’t much care for sugar no way.
Took it off a Yank that I went through at the depot. Thinks I, Well, now I wonder who’d like this? Thinks I, Bet I know who’d like it. That pretty little Laurel Tebbs, that’s who. So reckon I’ll just mog along that way, once�
��t I get off duty and get myself a pass. His big hand reached out to touch her knee, Laurel slapped the hand. Sinkfield laughed, he took his hand away. Aw, come along now, honey. Just please to take one bite.
Well, she said, I will try it.
Sinkfield lounged against the post, he seemed to tower tall above Laurel, although he was not truly tall, he was only heavy and loutish. She pressed the stopper of her rose oil bottle into place, put the bottle in her lap, and explored the wad of newspaper which the sergeant had pressed upon her. She liked the odor which came up, she examined the flat lump and few granules which had broken loose. She tasted cautiously.
Now, ain’t that fine, Laurel?
Oh, it don’t taste like much.
Ah, you know it does.
No, it don’t neither, she snapped.
Aw, does so.
Well, she said, twill do for Zoral.
Who’s that?
My baby brother. Baby half-brother, mean to say. We’re all halves.
That Flory just a half-brother also?
Uh-huh.
Little snot.
I’ll have Ma take a stick to you, you go saying bad words front of me!
Why, snot hain’t a bad word, it’s just what comes out of your nose. And I do have a task, keeping Flory in line. But he’s really scairt of me, so I fetch him up sharp. Never had to thrash him but a couple of times.
Officers and sergeants and such— They ain’t sposed to hit the boys under them. I heard Captain Ox say so.
Sinkfield grasped the girl’s hand and tried to draw her to her feet, but she exclaimed and held back, and with her left hand hugged the paper of sugar and the bottle into her skirts.
Laurel, honey, less you and me take a little walk—
Her heart was thudding like a hard fist knocking at a door, nok, nok, nok, nok, nok. No, I don’t want to. Look out there, you’ll spill my ssssugar, and her voice also was a slippery entity and seemed to writhe out of management. She twisted her hand loose from the sweaty grasp.
Well, less put it away somewheres.
Well, I—
Just a little bitty walk, honey?
Well . . . you got any sulphur matches, Sergeant? Please to strike a light for me, so’s I can see where to put my sugar. She retreated into the house and Sinkfield groped after her. He lighted the match, Laurel brought a candle (in times of comparative plenty they used lamps and candles in this house, they did not have to use grease-lights). She put the rose oil into the clock, the sugar into a dusty pitcher. She stood, short rapid breathing hurting her chest, heart breaking itself apart inside her. She stood with slightly lowered head, gazing at Sinkfield through the flickers of tawny light, conscious of an indefinite limitless power which she now held. She thought that she should like to use that power to hurt Sergeant Sinkfield, she wished that his face was not so broken into pink and yellow rash; but if she hurt him severely he might not come back again, he might never dance with her again, he might never pull her tightly against his overgrown body again.
You want—? Her voice shook with the excitement ruling the room and the lout and herself. Want a drink of wwwater?
He grinned. I don’t need no water, honey. He came around the corner of the table, and Laurel retreated before him.
Want a peach? We got some.
Why ain’t you just like a little peach your own self! That pretty peachy hair and— He had her hand again, he had both hands; she laughed shrilly, without reason. She shook her head and felt the loose clean hair whipping. Again it must be like a loose cloud, a lovely scented cloud; she wished she could see herself in a mirror.
Laurel, listen—
Whwhwhat?
Less take that little old walk.
Reckon Ma might give me a whipping.
Pshaw, she won’t know nothing about it. Just a little bitty walk.
Well, if’n I do go—
Ah, strength was in her, strength of mules and horses and cruel spring winds a-twisting, power of red blood flowing in rivers, power of engines and staring stars. You know I ain’t but fifteen. We got to stay in earshot of the house, now you mind that.
Sure we will, honey.
And— And you got to promise you won’t hit Flory no more.
Why, sure I won’t if you ask it. Little snot like him—
Sergeant! And you got to swear you’ll stop a-saying that word. If’n I go. For a walk. Just a— A little way. Real close to home.
Sure enough, honey, I’ll do anything you say. He drew her out into the broken wilderness of tan light and umber shade.
Within one hour she had returned to the house, and alone, alternately running a few steps, driving her bruised pelvic region into the motion of flight; but it would pain her severely, and cause her to move more slowly, and then she would walk as one entranced. One sleeve was torn nearly loose from the new-stitched gown and fluttered as a light wind came to toss it. Certain sundered tissues scraped rawly each step that Laurel took, hot moisture oozed, her ragged drawers were stained with it. Had she said she’d go for a walk? Yes, she had said— She had said, We got to stay nigh the house, but he had drawn her on and on, across the railroad and beyond a fence into a bushy corner of the Claffey acres (which site he had selected previously with an eye to solitude and convenience; the grass was long there, no houses stood near). The unidentified power which had coursed in Laurel’s frame and spirit was frozen solid, it was no longer a power, it was ice and wail and terror. She heard a mushy voice battering her ears as later the big dry rod had slain her maidenhood. I’m just the funniest feller. She heard her own treble drawling, How so? . . . Count of the jokes I make, and tricks. I just keep them boys at the camps a-laughing all the while. You mind what my name is: I told you at the pic-nic: tis Jester. Jester Johnson Sinkfield. And what Jester means is a feller doing stunts and jokes. You got a funny-bone, Laurel? Less see— And the clumsy hand digging her side, her own protestation resounding. . . . You ever see a little pig hung up by his hind legs a-squealing? Funniest thing you ever did see! Twas my task at the slaughter-house up Atlanta way; I took care of the little ones, and didn’t they just rip. Way you do is first tie their legs, like this. No, no, honey, I hain’t a-going to tie your legs together; here, give me your hands; no, give me both hands; we’ll play like you was a baby pig, just the prettiest little baby pig, and like your hands was his hind legs; here, I’ll use this big handkerchief; and I’ll tie them tight, see? Like this; ah, that’s good. Ho, ho! Well, look at little Laurel, and I got your hands tied tight. Yes, by God, so I have. And you ain’t a-going to squeal, are you? Cause you don’t know how—and cause I’m going to take this other nice clean handkerchief and stick it in your mouth, by God, I’m going to stuff it in, ah, that’s better, ain’t it better, honey, because you can’t squeal no way, and now I got you, Laurel, get this damn dress out of the way, and by God, hot damn, holy Jesus H. Christ, I’m a-going to stuff something else in somewhere, ah, aha, aha, aha— And her own cry gagged to a mumble, a mumble and shudder turned back by the fabric in her mouth and rolled angrily in reverse to poison the very soul which had sent it forth.
XXVIII
Ought to call them the Black Brigade or the Dark Avengers or something similar, said Seneca MacBean. He was going over the list of secret Regulators in his mind. He knew a man who’d dug for gold in California (well, he knew several such men, but none of them had ever found much gold) and that man spoke of this new contingent, organized so slowly, quietly, solidly, as Vigilantes. That sounded foreign to MacBean’s ears, so he always used the term Regulators. He would have called them The Blacks or The Darks—he had heard of the Scots Greys—because so many were black-locked. It wasn’t just the pitch which stained their faces; they were dark to begin with. Take Bill Rowe, Michigander from the Ninth Cavalry. Very swarthy as to hue. Take the fellow everybody called Limber Jim, from the Sixty-seventh Illinois. Looked like an Indi
an, and maybe he did have Indian blood. Well, there were even some full-blooded Indians on this team! Take Nathan Dreyfoos, take himself: both black as to hair. And take the ruling genius of the lot: he was a printer like Sen MacBean, but from Bloomington instead of from Galena; his name was Leroy Key and he was a sergeant in the Sixteenth Cavalry. Fully as dangerous to toy with as MacBean, Key had a talent for organization and planning which matched Sen’s, and an outright executive capacity far exceeding the Galenan’s.
Lord smiled on us when he sent Key here, said Seneca.
Key has the manner of a colonel.
And he’ll be better than a colonel, mark my words!
I have a new recruit, Sen. I spoke to him again this morning, and he’ll be at the meeting tonight. Certainly he will be accepted and sworn.
Name?
His name is Hill, a sergeant from the Hundredth Ohio Volunteers. Extremely broad shoulders and the mildest manner in the world. But—
Sen MacBean slapped the board with the tattered drawers he was washing. Don’t need to tell me. I wonder I never thought of Hill before! Just goes to show how stupid I can grow. Why, when we hit Belle Isle there was a bully name of Jack Oliver, Nineteenth Indiana. Had everything pretty much his own way until one day he got to picking on an old man in A. R.’s mess. I mean Hill—that’s his initials—A. R.
MacBean paused for a time as if he were considering what style of type to use to set A. R. Hill’s name and initials.
A. R. says to this bully, Mister, I don’t think that’s a nice way to talk to an old man. Talking slowly, the way he does, kind of spelling out the words like a chorister would line a hymn. Up jumps Oliver with, Maybe you want to take it up? Well, Mister, says Hill, I don’t go around hunting trouble, but I generally take care of all that’s sent me. . . . Oh, you should have seen it, Nate. A. R. went around that fellow like a cooper round a barrel. Oliver’s front teeth were out, his ribs busted, his face looked like it had been run through a job press. He was what you might call better mannered after that.
Andersonville Page 41
