The true Nazareth, doubled on his privy bed, sloped the oilcloth above him to ward off steady streams which raced through wide cracks of the structure. Oh, better than the stockade, he thought. Growing peace, the soundness engendered by unspoiled food and plenty of it . . . he stretched in them luxuriously, turned over on the other side, got himself wet in the process, put his feet where his head had been, his head where his cramped feet had been, readjusted the coat and lay sly and happy. He yielded to creature comfort as to a vice. For he knew, in any serious consideration, that he should be up and gone if he hoped to reach the Union lines in Florida or on the Georgia coast. Catch-dogs, straying past on the trail of some other fugitive, could find him here; they could tear the calf off his leg, as they had torn the calf of a man he knew as Frenchy in Andersonville. Frenchy was an unpleasant sight, brought back all reeking. People said that Wirz took a shot at Frenchy when he was treed but didn’t hit him. Frenchy descended under threat of Wirz’s gun, and then the dogs grabbed him.
Perhaps most of all Naz Stricker lived in fear that some wayfarer, feeling an ominous qualm of nature as he wandered the ragged fields, might spy that privy and decide to make use of it.
One day—it was a Sunday, and Coral was gone to Uncle Arch Yeoman’s for tobacco and news—Nazareth sat with the peg-leg between his thin knees. Laboriously he was repacking wadding in the socket for the tenth time. As yet he and Coral had been unable to combine the necessary comfort and staunch support needed. Naz became aware of voices rising beyond the fence. How long the voices had spoken he did not know. Men’s voices, and they were coming closer. Shivering as if with malaria, he peeped out and over a low place in the bushes. He saw two Negroes approaching steadily. One was long-limbed and ruddy, the other blacker, more squat. The taller carried a shotgun in his hands. If they continued on their present course they would reach the privy area within a few minutes. Nazareth could imagine the shotgun’s blast directed against him, but was assured that he must act before the blacks came nearer. He arose immediately, snatched the shawl and draped himself, shoved the broken bonnet upon his head. His face was lost in scalloped depths of the bonnet. He dragged open the privy door and took slow step after slow step across the weedy area toward the chimney and blackened house timbers. He had turned his back toward the Negroes; every second he could feel shotgun pellets stinging through his carcass; then he heard a concerted cry and scampering, and knew that he was safe. He did not know how big Granny Rambo had been—that was a prime neglect on his part, not to ask Coral—but Naz concluded that she must have been of average old lady size, so he bent and shrank within the shawl. He reached the chimney and from its shelter he peered at the running Negroes. They were far across the briary field, scampering toward eastern pines south of the Tebbs place; the taller man held his gun on high as he fled silently with ungainly leaps; the shorter man lumbered behind, but neither of them looked back. Naz returned to the privy, removed his costume, and sat sweating in the chilly air. Alternately he was shaken by the quivering collapse of hysterical relief and by sheer youthful mirth. What a thing to tell Coral when he came.
Ira Claffey had considered driving to Americus to hear a sermon by Cato Dillard, but gave up the idea when Lucy took to her bed (she did this rarely, and then only when she was overtired and perhaps had caught cold). Harry, of course, was gone to the hospital. Trays were brought up and Ira ate eggs and fried mush with his daughter. Lucy had discovered a little diary she kept when a child, and she persisted in reading sections of this aloud to Ira; they laughed together, and wept a little in their hearts. Ninny came up and said, That Jem and Coffee ask please to speak with Mastah. She always spoke of her spouse as That Jem. Ira went down to hear their petition. Old Leander had already conducted one of his primitive services for the hands . . . the Claffeys had heard the songs while they breakfasted. Now the two younger slaves asked permission to desecrate the Sabbath with powder and shot. Ira doled ammunition out to them, presented the ancient shotgun which was kept especially for their use, and bade them stay within the requisite two miles of the plantation boundaries.
He returned to Lucy’s room and read to her a chapter from the Confession of Faith, according to weekly custom. It chanced to be Chapter Twenty-one, Of Religious Worship, and the Sabbath Day, with its indirect castigation of Catholics in Section Two, and this they found dull indeed. Lucy fretted, and Ira read only as far as Section Six. He picked up the Bible, began to read the Twelfth Chapter of Romans, more to the Claffey taste. Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love . . . rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing instant in prayer. A hullabaloo broke forth among the people below, and looking down through the window Ira saw Coffee and Jem trotting into the yard in a state of excitement, groaning and voluble. Something wrong, he said in interruption. I trust they haven’t shot someone’s mule. He put the Bible aside and hastened downstairs.
Seed her, Mastah. We seed her!
What is the matter with you, Jem? Speak quietly—
Deed they seed her. Deed they did. Oh, oh, oh, oh— Jesus, Blessed Jesus, save us from the fury! With their eyes they seed her—
Coffee, stop making mischief. What did you see? Did you shoot somebody with that gun?
No, Mastah, never even shot the gun. But we seed her walking, like folks say.
Who did you see? I’ve a great notion to shake you, you lout!
Old Mistess Granny Rambo, a-walking and a-walking.
At her old place where she done burnt up!
Bonnet on her head, she come a-walking!
Mastah, we get down on our marrows and pray to the dear Lord, but she was plain!
They seemed terrorized beyond sanity. Ira reassured them, said that Granny Rambo did not walk, that they must have seen a buzzard flying low, that they must have seen a mule in the bushes. Ira introduced these suggestions firmly. Yet both Coffee and Jem were convinced that they had witnessed the ghost in broad daylight, and that was all there was to it. Ira took the gun from them (finding to his horror that Coffee had somehow managed to cock the weapon while in full flight) and persuaded them that if in fact they had seen Granny Rambo there was nothing baleful about her. She would not follow them home, she would not creep down their chimneys or carry off any children. As the people calmed he ordered Naomi to fetch cakes all round; she had baked a batch on Saturday, using substitutes for this and that, but the cakes were delicious and tasted of caraway and ground sunflower seeds. Soon the rest of the blacks were merry, twitting Coffee and Jem about their scare. The two slaves mumbled stubbornly with their mouths full of cake. In the end Ira was convinced that they had seen something other than an animal or a buzzard. God knew that they were familiar with both; and Ira had never observed them in such panic before.
He was mounting the stair when a thought made him halt, halfway up. Perhaps some dangerous vagabond was encamped on the deserted Rambo premises. Heaven knew that the country was filled with drifters; every town held its wounded; the hordes who had fled from Atlanta and other north central war-torn areas were not all people who could be taken safely to the heart of more fortunate communities. There was the natural modicum of prostitutes, thieves, uncertain and light-fingered wanderers of all sorts. Ira had heard rumors of stabbings, rapes, robberies; he believed that such crimes were an inevitable result of war’s upheaval, but was determined to protect his own household and community insofar as he was able. Better have a look at the Rambo place. No telling who might lurk there.
He gave Lucy a description of the occurrence which she greeted with glee, but Ira made no mention of his own disquietude. Lucy thought that the slaves had suffered some infantile delusion. She and her father were out of the mood for Bible reading; Lucy did a little sewing, and sipped a glass of wine; then she said that she felt sleepy, and her father left her to the ministrations of Ninny, who came with a soapstone to place at Lucy’s feet. Ira went downstairs, loaded a pistol and put it in his jacket pocke
t. He strolled idly down the lane, seeing only a few lounging off-duty soldiers along the way. It could be that a guard might have deserted, and was hiding out in the Rambo ruins. No, he would make tracks away from there. So would any prisoner escaped from the stockade. But better go and make sure.
Soon he approached the suspect area under cover of the gloomy chimney, working forward with caution, applying the best of his woodsman’s facility to advance in silence. Examining the ground, he saw that weeds had been trampled and fresh vegetable rinds lay exposed. A shred of newspaper blew in the breeze. Edging closer quietly, Ira saw a heap of wood shavings and sawdust in front of the privy. He cocked the pistol; holding it ready in his pocket, he stepped to the door which flew shut with a shaking slam.
Ira said, Come out, or I’ll shoot through the door.
Nazareth Stricker emerged, quaking and miserable, turned pale under the pitch which still dyed his skin.
Ira Claffey studied the youth, then took out his pistol and released the hammer. You frightened my people, he said. They thought you were a ghost.
Stricker was wearing his ruin of a cap with its corroded Second Corps badge. . . . After a time Ira asked, When did you escape from the pen?
Week or so ago.
Why didn’t you travel farther?
Stricker was silent.
Where did you lose your hand?
Gettysburg.
...It behooves their officers to be nonchalant, even to the point of suicide, in disclaiming any attitude which might suggest that they were not invulnerable to minié balls. Did Suthy shoot off your hand before he fell? Ira asked it in his soul while his mouth said nothing. You were there. Did you kill my eldest? You were there.
How long have you been at Andersonville?
Came in with one of the first batches from Virginia.
More than a year.
Yes, sir, whispered Nazareth Stricker.
I don’t understand why you squatted here.
Well, I was—tuckered. And a fellow gave me rations. And—
Who gave you rations?
A keen blue blaze shot from Stricker’s deep eyes. Won’t tell, he said.
Ira looked past the youth’s legs and saw familiar objects scattered on the privy floor and leaning against the inner wall. Those are my tools. He understood before he spoke the words, he understood still more as he uttered them. . . .
What mockery of battle now remains to be fought? Ira inquired of himself. The Albemarle was long since destroyed. It was weeks since the news of Fort Fisher had turned souls to lead. Ira wondered if smoke still drifted from the ruins of Columbia . . . and General Preston, of the Bureau of Conscription, announced that at least one hundred thousand deserters had slid from the ranks of the Secessionist army. Aleck Stephens was said to have crept home to Crawfordville; people said that Early’s forces were whipped and scattered; Sherman was striding through North Carolina; it was told that Lee might withdraw the defense of Petersburg at any moment, and retreat toward Lynchburg. A man found his way down from Richmond; he reported troops rattling purposefully about the streets of the capital, impressing every horse they could find. They were impressing horses in order to collect the stores of tobacco: one shred of wealth left to the Confederacy. They would burn that tobacco if the Federals entered Richmond— When the Federals entered Richmond—
Well, sir . . . Naz Stricker discoursed in monologue, and why should Ira care to listen to him? Whyn’t you get it over with? You got a pistol. Whyn’t you march me back where I belong?
In the end Claffey told him, Hold your tongue, my boy. He pushed past Stricker, looked into the little structure, and found what he had expected to find: the peg-leg-foot with cotton protruding from the cavity.
You’ve been making this for Coral. A hard task, one-handedly.
Oh, God. I must have given him away!
No, no, you didn’t give him away. I’m Neighbor Claffey from across the way—I’ve known Coral since he wore skirts. He borrowed these tools from me.
Nazareth sat down on the privy step, folding his arms across his knees, hiding his face so that Ira could not see him as he cried.
Brace up, lad. You’re not going back.
The gaunt face came up, greasy with tears, mouth sagging in disbelief.
Twould be tantamount to murder, said Ira sharply.
He stood for a few minutes, scrutinizing fields and woods to make certain that no one else was near, and then he ordered Naz back into hiding. He took Stricker’s place upon the step and sat examining the peg, asking many questions which Stricker answered haltingly, lugubriously. It was obvious to Claffey that the boy must doubt him still. Small wonder. The smell of the stockade flowed around him suddenly, as it had drenched over Claffey acres for so long. Ira closed his eyes and shook his head; and then realized that he had done so, and thought with weak amusement of how Lucy would crow could she see him.
Where did you think to get the harness? he asked of Naz Stricker. The straps?
Coral thought his Ma had some old shawl-straps.
Those would never serve. Tell Coral that I have taken the thing home with me, when he comes. Do you both wait here for me, and keep out of sight. There may be other hunters abroad, for this is the Sabbath.
Ira added with grudging humor, and I should advise no more masquerading as Granny Rambo, in the bonnet and shawl which I saw there. The next person might shoot before he ran away.
He arose heavily and stood turning the contraption in his hands. We are whipped, he told the world.
Nazareth stared from concealment with a veteran’s challenge. Guessed that you would be, from the first. You could never beat the Union.
That is now apparent. But all three of my boys died a-trying.
I’m sorry, sir, Naz muttered.
How sorry are you indeed? Ira wondered as he went toward the plantation, carrying the peg-leg. But the enfolding humanity which his own torture had instigated would not be denied; he must perform this charity, perform it in the face of law and military conscience.
It occurred to him before he reached home that Badger or Moses, invalided home from the army instead of turned to bones, might have done the same thing. Suthy . . . no . . . Ira feared that Suthy might have remained stiff-backed to the last.
How far off was—the last?
He went to his workbench and finished repacking the padding in the socket, conforming carefully to the shape which the fugitive young Yankee had said must be retained. Painstakingly Ira upholstered the broad-headed tacks so that none of them would abrade Coral’s hide. He cut strong straps of soft leather, and fastened the buckles into place, and punched the holes . . . one strap encircling the leg immediately below the knee, and fastened firmly to the staves; one attached to soft harness and encircling the leg immediately above the knee. That must be the way of it, Nazareth Stricker had said in his apprentice’s erudition. It seemed odd to be performing a service for a wounded Yankee and for a wounded Confederate in the same act and in the same breath. Ira wished that he might make a hand for the Yankee boy; but—God knew—if the youth reached the Union lines safely he might in time acquire a hand of sorts.
There came only Jonas, seeking a whetstone, and he gazed in curiosity. What you do with that thing, please, Mastah?
It’s a peg-leg for Coral Tebbs. He’s done most of the work himself.
That poor young cripple soldier-boy, said Jonas.
In the afternoon, having disregarded his midday meal, Ira carried the artificial limb back to the Rambo site, lugging it in a grain sack. Coral Tebbs, scowling and frightened and sulky, was there with Naz Stricker. Like the other boy he found it difficult to believe that Ira Claffey could award such traitorous benevolence. Coral thought that if he were Ira he should wish to kill all Yankees in wholesale revenge. Ira had not lost a limb, he did not belong to the Lodge, he had not been fighting at that whea
tfield place. Ira recognized their mutual attitude but said nothing in explanation, because he could not explain the whole thing, not even to himself. He could not say, Yes, once I too was a soldier. In Mexico. I was wounded painfully; I thought that I would lose my leg; for years I had to tie dressings about the wound each day, and let them fill up, and throw them away; until at last a surgeon’s probe brought out the remaining loose bits of bone, and those bits had turned black as coal.
To be frank with himself, this was all beside the point.
Coral sat inert while they strapped the thing.
Don’t become too ambitious all at once, mind! Ira added, Your knee is weak, your leg shrunken from disuse. You must go slowly. Use your crutches at first.
On a level patch close to the burnt relics Coral crutched solemnly back and forth, putting the heavy peg down cautiously, lifting it again, resting more and more of his bodily weight upon the stump. It caused him a degree of pain . . . it would all take time, but Naz Stricker had warned him of this again and again. Tentatively Coral slid his crutches out from under his arms and used them as canes to hobble with. Oh, the peg was heavier than he had thought it would be; he hoisted his leg in labor, he perspired, but persisted as in a trance. At last he stood in the lowest weeds, resting his entire weight on his good right foot and on the spindle thrusting down from his left leg. He spread his arms wide, and dropped the crutches from his hand. He stood crutch-less for the first time since he was wounded. His black eyebrows rose up. I’ll be dipped in shit, he said.
Ira forgave him the vulgarity, he would have forgiven him anything. He turned away and busied himself with the grain sack he had brought. He produced some of Moses’s old clothing: jeans trousers for wear in the forest, a rough brown jacket, a shirt and shoes and socks (the shoes were Badger’s; Naz Stricker’s feet had appeared to be more the size of Badger’s), an old black hat.
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