Vengeance Is Black

by George G. Gilman

  “That’s fine, Captain,” he allowed. “No sweat. We crash through the Johnnie Rebs like you say and make a big enough stir for the Feds to see we’re on their side?”

  Hedges allowed his hand to drop from the gun butt and he rubbed at his thigh wound, which was beginning to itch as a sign of mending. It would have been easy to bawl out Forrest — push the sergeant to the point where the tough, former bounty-hunter, would have to fight or concede. But neither of these results suited Hedges’ purpose. Forrest would be no good to him dead—given Hedges could beat him, which was a moot point. And alive, carrying a grudge at being humiliated in front of the men, the sergeant would be a constant source of danger, liable to explode into revenge at the worst time.

  Forrest turned in the saddle and broadened his grin as his eyes raked over the expectant faces of the troopers. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s a good plan, fellers. The more niggers there are, better chance there is of them getting blasted instead of us.”

  “And of the boys in blue figuring us to be on their side,” Scott added, nodding widely.

  “Right,” Forrest agreed. “It kinda almost makes it worthwhile us rolling along out here like sitting ducks with the black guys letting everyone who sees us know who we are.”

  Hedges allowed the criticism to pass. Forrest had achieved his aim, which was to learn the Captain’s plan. It was a constant source of irritation to the mean-faced sergeant that he was so seldom consulted in such matters, for in the years before the war he had always been the leader of any group in which he was a part. And, in truth, it was Forrest’s ability to spot flaws in a scheme which held Hedges back from conveying the details until the last moment. For it only required Forrest’s self-assurance to reach the pitch of over-confidence on just one occasion — and the showdown would come: with the full-backing of the officer-hating troopers.

  Hedges did not have to look back along the slow-moving wagon train to appreciate the validity of the criticism. Just before they were ready to roll out of Jonesville, he had tried to convince the big, bald-headed Manfred that the former slaves should all stay concealed in the wagons, driven by troopers. But Manfred had been adamant He and his men were prepared to follow Hedges, but they had proved their fighting ability in the massacre of Jonesville. They had won a certain right and intended to exercise it. And it had been implied rather than spoken, that Hedges either accepted a compromise or tried to enforce his will.

  His experience with the six white men who had been under his command for so long turned him towards the compromise. So five of the Wagons were in the hands of Negroes and the six best horsemen were assigned to mounted escort duty. It was not the way Hedges wanted it, but it was the best arrangement he could dictate under the circumstances of not being the dictator he wished.

  Such was the secret of his success as an officer in a war between amateurs, with everything that meant in terms of indiscipline.

  “Hey, that’s a Cherokee word!” Rhett exclaimed as the head of the train came level with a signpost.

  “Education’s a fine thing,” Roger Bell muttered wryly.

  Hedges glanced at the sign, which pointed a gibbet-like finger northwards towards the mountains.

  “What’s it say, Captain?” the illiterate Seward wanted to know.

  “Chickamauga,’ Hedges replied using the sleeve of his tunic to wipe beads of sweat from his dirt-streaked forehead.

  “That mean we’re getting close to home?” Scott asked.

  “Means ‘river of death’,” Rhett translated.

  “Thanks a bunch,” Douglas growled.

  The progress of the wagons became even slower as the terrain took an upward slope into the foothills of the mountain range. The turnpike began to corkscrew into sharper turns, following the easiest route. Occasionally it ran through a settlement or skirted a plantation, but if there were any witnesses to the passage of the creaking wagons and their watchful escorts, they stayed hidden in the silent, blank-faced buildings.

  Out in open country the emptiness was sinister because of the danger that each hill crest or stand of timber might erupt with a charge of Rebel soldiers assigned to recapture the freed slaves and their liberators. But the eeriness which hung over the scattered habitations had a different texture. Each soldier, trained by the practice of war to be alert in all potentially dangerous situations, clamped a hand on his gun and raked his eyes over every possible place of concealment. The Negroes, heirs to a centuries-old heritage of superstition, peered about them with wide, fear-filled eyes, sensing a taint of evil in the aura of desolation.

  “Makes you feel like we’re the last people left on earth,” Rhett said against the creaking of wagon wheels and slap of plodding hooves as the train moved clear of yet another deserted village.

  Like all the other settlements they had passed through since leaving Jonesville, this one gave every appearance of being well-cared-for and lived-in. But there were no people. Every soldier heard Rhett’s words and allowed to himself that the New Englander had voiced precisely his own sentiments. Even Hedges — until his straining ears picked up & far-off rumble, like a roll of thunder in a storm many miles away.

  Suddenly, he shook free of the mood Rhett’s comment had evoked and looked sharply at Forrest. He saw that even the insensitive sergeant had been affected by the intimidating, haunting quality of the desolate landscape. So that it took him a moment to recognize the remote sound for what it really was.

  “Welcome back to the real war, sir,” Forrest said, the killer glint shining in his eyes.

  “Christ, that sounds like...” Seward began in high excitement.

  “Cannon fire,” Bell finished for him.

  Hedges had been unconscious throughout the sabotage at the Confederate supply depot. All the fighting in which he had been engaged for a long time previous to this, and since, could be termed no more than skirmishing. With this thought he could excuse himself to some extent. But it was still a source of irritation with himself that he had failed to evaluate the situation—to recognize that the complete lack of a civilian population meant evacuation had taken place, which in turn indicated they were closing in on the battle zone.

  But Hedges spent only a moment on castigating himself, during which time Forrest eyed him with amused contempt, sensing the Captain’s self-anger.

  “Scout ahead!” Hedges snapped at him as a renewed rumble of distant guns vibrated the cooling air of late afternoon. Then he swung around in the saddle, his narrow-eyed stare flicking from Seward to Scott. To the left and right. “You’re looking for Rebs on the run or relief columns moving up. Keep off the skyline and don’t start shooting. Report back the moment you see anything. Move!”

  The designated troopers waited for Forrest to heel his horse into a gallop along the turnpike before they jerked on the reins and veered to the sides.

  Manfred spurred forward from his position at the rear of the train and slotted his horse in beside Hedges’ mount.

  “What’s happening, mister?” he demanded suspiciously.

  Hedges fixed the Negro with a penetrating stare and, in the other’s unflinching expression, recognized a black-skinned version of Forrest.

  “I allow every man under my command one big mistake,” the Captain rasped. “You just made yours by moving from your post without being told to. You as much as pick your nose without an order from here on in and I’ll kill you.”

  Manfred was big, strong and had proved he could kill with expert ease. He had a Colt stuck into his waistband at each hip and cradled a Spencer rifle in the crook of his massive arm.

  “Me and my men ’bout sick of taking orders from whites, mister,” he growled.

  “You’ll be sicker if you don’t get back to your post,” Hedges replied softly and set his lips in a thin line, his teeth showing as a mere sliver of white. His right hand had stopped massaging the itching wound and rested easily on his thigh. It was a good twelve inches away from the butt of the Colt. “Sick with something you die of, feller
. Right quick.”

  Manfred showed he was not afraid of the Captain. He bared his big teeth in a flashing smile and glanced casually over his shoulder at Bell and Douglas riding behind, and Rhett on the wagon beyond. “Ain’t so many white men against all us blacks now, mister. Reckon you ought to watch your mouth.”

  The killer instinct in Hedges took control of his mind and body. Even before Manfred had started to turn in the saddle to face him again, Hedges’ right hand had completed its movement. It travelled in a speed blur and the black man froze stiff on the jogging horse as he looked down the muzzle of the Colt. His thick lips trembled as he saw Hedge’s finger whiten around the trigger.

  It would have been as easy as blinking to blast the helpless man out of the saddle: but in the instant before he was about to squeeze the trigger, Hedges recognized the consequences.

  “Just three whites,” he said tightly.

  Manfred was relieved that he had been spared from what seemed to be certain death. He blinked and beads of sweat were flung from his eyelids. The eyes beneath showed confusion.

  “I’m half Mexican,” Hedges supplied.

  What could have been the start of a rapport for a member of one minority group for another showed fleetingly on the shiny blackness of Manfred’s fleshy features. But he killed it from within and gave further evidence of the affinity of his spirit with that of Forrest.

  “You better be all good at your job, mister,” he said with heavy menace, then jerked his horse into a wheel and cantered back to the rear of the train.

  “You did all right, sir,” Hal Douglas called, pitching his voice so that it would carry the length of the train. “We gotta keep showing these niggers who’s the boss.”

  There had been a lull in the artillery fire from the north, but now a new barrage sounded—much louder than previously—its roar seeming to add emphasis to the corporal’s taunt. A low murmuring of anger spread from the wagons and among the black horsemen. Hedges saw Forrest racing back down the turnpike at a full gallop. He continued to watch him, but his shouted words were for the benefit of the men in back of him.

  “Any man uses the word nigger in my hearing’ll get treated same as if he called me a Mex or a greaser.” He raised a hand to the back of his neck and fingered the bulge of the pouched razor.

  His meaning was not lost on the troopers behind him and Douglas swallowed hard as Bell looked at him sympathetically. Both men had witnessed the horrifying results of Hedges’ skill with the unlikely weapon.

  “Jesus, sir, I—”

  “Blasphemy’s okay,” Hedges snapped as Forrest rode up and wheeled his horse. “You’ll only be damned to hell. What I’d do is worse than that.”

  The freed slaves had listened in angry anticipation to the exchange. But then Manfred gave a burst of laughter, his massive body shaking with glee. His fellow Negroes joined him in mirth. Douglas scowled. Hedges allowed a cold smile to turn up the corners of his mouth for a moment. He had won a great many friends. Douglas had always been a potential enemy.

  “What’s happening?” Forrest demanded, eyeing Douglas curiously.

  “My question, sergeant!”Hedges snapped.

  The barrage of gunfire was now almost continuous and every yard covered by the trundling wagon train seemed to magnify its sound out of proportion. It was as if each single explosion were echoed against the gathering darkness of evening. Forrest had been close enough to smell burnt power and see the muzzle flashes. He was in the grip of excitement at the prospect of spilling more blood in the legalized murder of war. But past experience of such full-scale battles had showed him that it was more satisfying if a man like Hedges planned the tactics. So at once, Forrest relegated himself willingly to a subordinate attitude, going to the extent of throwing up a sloppy salute.

  “Road curves east towards the railroad, sir,” he reported. “There’s a creek to the west. Follows the foot of a high ridge. That’s where the fighting is on the slope going up to the ridge. Didn’t see no Rebs on the run or moving up, sir. Way I figure it, that Bragg bastard don’t need no more help. It’s the Union that’s on the run.”

  Hedges nodded in acknowledgement and held up a hand to halt the wagons as Seward and Scott galloped in from the flanks. Both had made a wide sweep and seen nothing to threaten the train.

  “Let’s move,” he called, swinging around to look at Rhett high on the box seat of the wagon. Flashes lit up the dark sky now and in the splashes of orange light the New Englander’s weakly handsome face was pale beneath a day’s growth of stubble. “And make that team work, Rhett,” he ordered. “We don’t get there soon, could be the fighting’ll be over.”

  “I should be so lucky,” Rhett muttered in ill-humor as he snapped the reins across the backs of the team, urging them into a trot behind the jogging cavalry troopers.

  “I do believe Bob would rather we went the other way,” Bell yelled with a harsh laugh.

  “He should really be so lucky,” Scott shot back with a cackle.

  Hedges recognized in the voices of the men the same brand of anticipation for fighting which he had seen in the evilly glinting eyes of the sergeant. And he knew that as soon as he joined the battle he would be in the grip of a similar exhilaration. But not before. His brain was cool and his actions collected as he spurred his horse into a canter, anxious to reach the battlefield quickly but not at the expense of tiring the horses and men.

  He stayed on the turnpike for as long as it led towards the gun flashes and roars of explosions, but when the road swung to the east, he angled off to the west. He judged he had brought the train to within two miles of the fighting as he led the way into a rocky gully and slowed the pace to a walk. The cutting emerged in a wooded depression and he skirted the tree line to the far side before raising his hand to signal a halt.

  “Rest,” he ordered, sliding from the saddle, testing his weight on both legs and experiencing no pain from the wound.

  “Hell, Captain!” Forrest growled. “We could be in there blasting in less than fifteen minutes.”

  Hedges treated the sergeant to a piercing, slit-eyed stare and it was enough to remind the man that they were now in a battle situation.

  “Rest your asses, boys,” he passed on to the troopers.

  Reluctantly, the men dismounted, making it obvious that they agreed with Forrest, but without voicing their feelings.

  “Manfred!” Hedges yelled.

  The head man of the Negroes came up at a run and listened impassively as the Captain ordered him to post a ring of sentries. He bobbed his head in acknowledgement and moved away to carry out the order.

  “I think you got that … guy tamed, sir,” Bell commented.

  “Guess I’ve just got a way with handling men,” Hedges rasped, and spun around to see Rhett climbing wearily down from the lead wagon.

  The troopers had dropped to the lush grass at the edge of the trees, damp with evening dew. Rhett made to join them but sighed as his eyes were captured by Hedges’ harsh gaze.

  “That high-priced education of yours cover English history, Rhett?” the Captain asked, digging out the makings and starting to roll a cigarette.

  Rhett looked at him in confusion, waiting until he had fired the cigarette.

  “Lady named Boadicea who wasn’t no lady?” Hedges suggested.

  Rhett shrugged. “Real bitch of a bitch, sir.”

  “Had a real sharp line in chariots, didn’t she?” Hedges asked.

  The other troopers remained confused by the exchange, while Rhett caught the Captain’s meaning. “Do we have enough sabers?”

  “I reckon.”

  Rhett glanced across at the large group of Negroes who had not been assigned sentry duties. “Can I use the—the slaves, sir?”

  “Ex-slaves,” Hedges corrected. “Sure but don’t act like no plantation boss. Be nice, Rhett.”

  “He’s awful nice,” Forrest grunted, lighting a cigarette of his own and cocking his head to the diminishing sound of artillery as the night be
came perforated by the sharper cracks of far-off rifle and pistol fire.

  Then, in common with the other troopers, he turned to watch Rhett as the New Engender supervised the unloading of the lead wagon. They became so intrigued by what happened then that they failed to realize the sounds of battle had faded and that Captain Hedges had finished his cigarette and drifted into sleep.

  When Douglas grasped Hedges’ shoulder to rouse him with the news, the Captain snatched out his Colt. He was within a split-second of killing the petrified corporal. Manfred came padding up on bare feet as Douglas began to tremble.

  “One of my men reports fight stopped for night, mister,” Manfred said. “Two armies camped, both sides wood like, this one, but bigger.”

  “Fine,” Hedges replied, and quickly organized a sentry duty rota that drew men from both blacks and whites.

  He ordered everyone else to sleep and, with the exception of one man, each was surprised at how weary he was. Douglas had no more stamina than anyone else. It was just that every time he closed his heavy eyelids, he saw an image of Hedges’ murderous expression at the instant of waking. The corporal knew that throughout the entire war he had never been closer to death. It was not a frame of mind which encouraged restful slumber. He looked along the line of wagons, glinting in the Georgia moonlight, and was sure tomorrow’s battle could hold no greater horror than that he had just experienced.

  He was wrong.

  At six o’clock in the morning on September 20, 1863, divisions of General Bragg’s Army of Tennessee moved out from their positions west of Chickamauga Creek and started up the wooded slopes at the eastern foot of Missionary Ridge.

  Early morning songbirds ceased their postscript to the dawn chorus and took flight out of the gray mist swirling along the river and through the trees.

  Higher up the slope, the blue uniformed picket lines of General Thomas’ Army of the Cumberland fell back, firing for effect at the seemingly solid wall of gray-clad figures advancing upon them.