Vengeance Is Black

by George G. Gilman

  There was a large swelling on the boy’s cheek and Will still had a harsh grip on his hair. Tears streamed down his face, but he kept his lips pressed in a firm line, struggling to smother any sound of his fear and pain.

  “I’ll lock ’em up,” Will growled, dragging the child along by the hair. The boy had to run to keep from falling.

  Will fastened a vice-like grip on Elizabeth’s shoulder and grimaced to reveal his revulsion for females. Marshall surrendered the girl reluctantly, allowing his hand to fall away slowly, the thumb and two remaining fingers tracing the curve of Elizabeth’s rump. A renewed fit of trembling gripped her body and her legs went limp. She heard her dress tear and felt the warmth of blood on her knees as she was dragged towards one of the shacks. Will kicked open the door and hurled the boy inside. He gave a scream of pain as his head crashed into the far wall. Elizabeth was smashed to the dirt floor. The door was slammed closed and a bolt was thrown.

  “It’s my job to lock folks up,” Marshall complained bitterly.

  “You want to argue with Will about it?” Clay asked, heading towards a shack with smoke whipping from the chimney.

  Will’s dead eyes fixed the old man with a level stare of menace. Marshall swallowed hard.

  “I’m cooking a mess of rabbit stew for breakfast,” he said suddenly.

  “That sounds good, Will,” Clay said. “Don’t that sound good?”

  Will spat into the air. The wind grabbed the globule of moisture and flung it into Marshall’s face. “Mouth-watering,” Will said easily.

  Henry trailed after Clay, the express box on his shoulder. He got a wistful glance towards the shack in which Elizabeth Day and the boy were locked up. “Quicker we get it down, quicker we get to the dessert,” he said.

  In the fetid heat of the shack, the boy stared through the murky light at Elizabeth as she struggled to sit up.

  “I got something, ma’am,” he whispered, rubbing a coat sleeve across his bruised faced to wipe away the tears.

  She answered his stare, recalling the many guns which had been aboard the beleaguered stage. A flicker of hope raised light to her eyes. But as she focused more clearly upon the frail figure of the boy, she realized he could not have concealed anything as large as a revolver. She raised a finger to her lips and he nodded. Then he drew a hand from under his jacket and the short blade of knife glinted in a shaft of sunlight from the single window. Elizabeth whimpered her hopelessness.

  More of Clay’s bad poetry was whipped among the shacks of the town by the hot wind.

  “Into the chow, we’ll start tucking. Then it’ll be time to have us some...”

  Elizabeth groaned and clamped her hands over her ears. The boy’s eyes were full of hurt as they surveyed her, showing his disappointment that the knife had not aroused any enthusiasm.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE Union rout which ended the Battle of Chickamauga was halted at Chattanooga. And it was here, too, before an informal inquiry, that Captain Josiah C. Hedges and his six troopers were able to prove their true identities. A senior executive of the Pinkerton Detective Agency was present at the inquiry and was able to substantiate the claim concerning the destruction of the Rebel supply depot He also revealed that his company had a spy named James Bound based at Jonesville.

  War was, it was agreed, an imprecise science when taken off the charts at command posts and placed on the battlefield. Therefore, the deaths of the Union soldiers caused by the escape of the troopers and freed slaves could be excused. After all, the Rebel death toll was very much higher. True, Captain Hedges’ action had made not the slightest difference in the final outcome of the disastrous battle. But if the men under his command had not wrought such destruction upon the enemy supply depot, the result might have been much worse.

  There was even a commendation for Hedges from General Ulysses Grant himself. And a special order to form the ex-slaves into the nucleus of a black battalion — an idea dear to the heart of the newly-appointed commander of all military operations west of the Alleghenies.

  Hedges viewed the commendation with disdain. His job was to fight the war the best way he knew how, win it and return to Jamie and the farm in Iowa. Commendations didn’t buy seed and timber to repair fencing. The back pay he received in Chattanooga did. He sent most of what he got home to Jamie and then waited patiently for the next move in the war, filling the time by training the freed slaves into the semblance of a fighting unit.

  But on the misty morning of November 24, he had some doubts about the success of the program he had instituted. The blacks had been enthusiastic in training, proud of their stiff new uniforms, anxious to please the massive Manfred who in turn became increasingly intent upon proving his worth, and that of his men, to Hedges.

  They drilled well, kept themselves smart and clean and quickly learned there was more to firing a gun than pulling the trigger. But in gaining all this, they seemed to lose the killer instinct. Hedges had suspected this in camp. Now, in the gray light of dawn as he led the men on foot from the banks of the Tennessee River towards the craggy western slope of Missionary Ridge, he was certain of it. Forrest, Douglas, Seward, Bell and Scott moved forward with excited anticipation, using this quiet time to stoke up their hatred for the enemy. Rhett trembled and moved his thin lips in a silent prayer. The Negroes advanced because they had been told they were soldiers and been given an order. They would fight and they would kill, but only because it was asked of them. All their frenzy to spill blood had been expended on the run north. There would be no joy in the slaughter and Hedges’ experience, both of himself and his men, had taught him that the finest soldiers were those who were motivated by the pleasurable lust to kill.

  Added to this was the fact that he had trained them in the art of fighting as cavalry—and here they were, moving along at a crouch as silent infantry. Hedges’ expression was bleak as he raised a hand as a signal to halt and then turned to face the men.

  “Breakfast stop?” Forrest asked wryly and then, very late, suffixed: “Sir.”

  “You look well-fed enough already,” the Captain told him.

  It was true. After the deprivations of Andersonville and the meager eating on the long run north, the troopers had suffered badly from malnutrition. But food had been plentiful in Chattanooga and the men had gorged themselves back to full fitness. They filled out their new uniforms with little room to spare.

  Hedges gestured with a splayed hand for the men to squat down. None sat, for the long grass in which they were positioned was sopping wet from a fall of night rain. And they were damp enough from the still-falling dew and moist tentacles of cold, light gray mist.

  Manfred saluted. Hedges ignored the gesture, for it had become a habit of the head man of the Negroes to salute every time the Captain gave an order, verbal or otherwise. In the same way, he always addressed officers as mister rather than sir. Hedges also accepted this without comment, realizing that the more usual term of respect had a dirty taste in the mouths of the ex-slaves.

  “Putting in the picture time,” Hedges replied to Forrest’s question, and lashed out a long arm.

  Seward grunted in anger as a ready-made cigarette was sent flying from his hands. “What the hell!” he snapped.

  “Show a light and you might just find out,” Hedges rasped at the enraged youngster.

  “It’s a warm thought, all that fire,” Rhett muttered his teeth chattering as he blew on cupped hands.

  “Ain’t cold, Bob,” Scott lied with a tense smile. “You’re just shit scared again.”

  A ripple of laughter wavered among the troopers. The Negroes continued to eye Hedges expectantly.

  “You all through?” the Captain asked acidly as the humor subsided. He looked around at each scrubbed and shaved face and, one by one, the men failed to hold his level, cold-eyed stare. Even Forrest found a spot of rust on the barrel of his Henry repeating rifle which needed his immediate attention. “Obliged,” Hedges muttered. “You probably heard that General Joe Hooker had
a little luck yesterday.” He pointed south-west through the mist. “Over there’s Lookout Mountain. Everyone figured there was a Johnnie Reb hiding behind every blade of grass. But like I said, Hooker got lucky. Weren’t but a few Rebs dug in. It made Hooker look good, through, storming up the hill and planting a Union flag on the top. At the same time, it was lousy for General Thomas.”

  “What’s all this general stuff got to do with us, Captain?” Forrest muttered with a scowl.

  Hedges spat. “Be useful when you come to write your war memoirs, sergeant,” he answered softly, and raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck. “But if you don’t listen, you won’t remember. Maybe it’d be better if I wrote it all down — on your back.”

  The movement of his hand, hovering close to the hilt of the pouched razor, was not lost on Forrest. But he merely shrugged, adding this new taunt to the growing list of scores to be settled with Hedges.

  “What’s lousy for George Thomas is lousy for us,” the Captain continued. “Because it was his army that was chased off Missionary Ridge last month.”

  “We did our bit,” Seward said, a new grin spreading across his face as he recalled his grandstand view of the slaughter from the high seat of the wagon.

  Hedges ignored the comment. “So Thomas ain’t too popular with the top brass,” he went on. “And Hooker’s luck on the mountain makes Thomas’ retreat seem even worse. We’re in Thomas’ army.”

  Rhett’s face was a picture of misery. “They told Thomas he’s got to get the ridge back?” he moaned.

  “So let’s go help out the general,” Forrest muttered. “We ain’t doing nothing but freezing off our asses hanging around here.”

  “Don’t say that, Frank,” Bell chided in mock reprimand. “You’ll give Bob a fit of the vapors.”

  Nobody laughed. The Negroes continued to look at Hedges in tense concentration. The troopers waited expectantly, realizing that the Captain was getting close to his point.

  “Sorry I damn well opened my mouth,” Bell muttered in disgruntlement.

  “Next time you do, I’ll cut your throat,” Hedges replied softly. But his expression was as hard as a northern winter and there was not a man in the crouching group who did not believe Hedges meant what he said. The killer’s glint did not leave his hooded eyes as he concluded the briefing. “Rhett’s right. Thomas lost the piece of territory, so he’s got to get it back. Our job’s to make it easier for him.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating something beyond the layers of mist to the south-east. “Missionary Ridge is that way. Way it seems, Bragg’s got every Confederate short of Jefferson Davis sitting on it or around it.”

  The colored men glanced at each other nervously as Hedges spoke of the Rebel’s strength. The whites were used to going into a fight against heavy odds and waited in frowning impatience for the orders of the day.

  “Our objectives are the rifle pits at the foot of the ridge,” Hedges said. “We go in slow, easy and quiet. We use blades and bare hands. We say nothing and we don’t do any blasting unless the Rebs open up first. Any questions?”

  He straightened up and a bone in his leg creaked. The others stood upright with much massaging of stiffened muscles. Nobody spoke. Quickly, Hedges divided the Negroes into six groups of four and told them they were under the command of himself and five troopers. Rhett made no complaint that he was relegated as an extra man in Forrest’s unit.

  “Okay,” Hedges said when the groupings were completed. “Move forward and spread out as you go. The foot of the ridge is about half a mile ahead. We need to open up a hole in the Reb defense at least two hundred yards wide. When you’re through, get back to town. You’ll meet the Army of the Cumberland on the way. But you’re wearing the right color uniform this time.”

  He beckoned to his own group, which included the massive Manfred, and started forward, veering to the right.

  “We goin’ to do like he says, Frank?” Seward asked as the four men, with Hedges in the lead, were swallowed up by the unmoving curtain of mist.

  Forrest, his mean face twisted by hatred, jerked a Bowie knife from a sheath on his belt. “I’m goin’, Billy,” he rasped. “One day I figure to have to kill that tough-talking half-breed. I need the practice.” He eyed the nervous Negroes with contempt. “Let’s go you cotton-picking bastards.”

  He took his group far to the left. Seward, Bell, Douglas and Scott moved their groups to cover the centre.

  Overhead, the sun was loose from the horizon, but the cloud cover was too steeply banked to admit its rays. Beneath the clouds, the icily cold mist retained its damp hold on the ground. Visibility was less than a hundred feet and if Hedges had been of a superstitious nature he might have regarded the state of the weather as a good omen. But, as he called his unit to a halt at the edge of a stand of timber, his mind was running on realist lines: a bright dawn would have made his assignment more difficult, so the mist helped. Luck had an important part to play in all human Endeavours. A man should accept it, use it but not push it.

  “Bragg’s a fool,” a man said softly and it was almost as if it was the mist talking.

  One of the Negroes gave a low gasp, then clamped his lips tight shut as Hedges glowered at him. Manfred shook a meaty fist at the offender.

  “Ain’t all officers?” a second voice responded.

  The conversation was being held to the left of the dew-dripping trees. Hedges went down on to all fours and arced away, further to the left. The quartet of former slaves followed his example.

  “We had them Yankees on the run good,” the first voice complained. “Could have chased them into Chattanooga and out the other side.”

  “Maybe all the way to Washington. Instead of that, what? Dig in, sit and wait for the nigger lovers to come at us again. Christ, stinking, no good officers.”

  Hedges and his men dropped to their bellies as the voices of the Rebel guards in the rifle pit became louder. Hedges slid the razor from his neck pouch and the men behind him drew knives from their belts. There was not much grass on the ground now. Just patches here and there, with the occasional area of brush clinging to the sloping, hard-packed dirt at the foot of the ridge.

  In the four-feet deep trench, a middle-aged corporal and a twenty-two-year old enlisted man peered disconsolately out over the mist-shrouded terrain. They could see the stand of timber as a blurred shadow at the very extent of their range of vision. Between the trees and the pit there was just an un-featured slope—they had themselves cleared the ground of all cover. Occasionally they glanced to left and right, but the view was the same. Denuded ground made thus by the sweat and toil of the men themselves. At first they had imagined a hundred different kinds of shapes and movement out there in no-man’s-land, but after ten spells of night duty when nothing had materialized into substance, there was not even a single figment of the men’s joint imaginations to relieve the monotony.

  The upward slope behind them only became interesting when the time of sentry change approached, and so it was that the corporal glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder with the vague thought that the new men should soon be coming.

  His mouth dropped open but not a sound emerged. It was the soft creak of a stiffening muscle that drew the attention of the younger man and jerked his head around. Five figures, with the appearance of twenty foot giants, hovered on the rear lip of the trench. For a vital moment, both Confederate soldiers were frozen by fear. Then, even as they began to reach for their holstered revolvers, the Union men lunged forward into the pit. The first, distant, note of a cry wailed deep inside the corporal. Hedges’ razor swished through the damp air, slicing easily through the tight-stretched skin of the man’s throat. A blue vein opened up and sprayed blood, thick and red. The man was dead on his feet, but a Negro thrust hard towards him with a knife, swinging under Hedges’ upraised arm. The blade sank to the hilt in the centre of the soldier’s stomach. The blood was trapped until the knife was withdrawn. Then it gushed. Hedges looked down into the frightened face of t
he former slave and gave a sharp nod of encouragement. The man’s face broke out into a broad grin and he whirled around to look at the private.

  But the private was as good as dead. Manfred had the youngster in a forward facing, one-armed bear-hug, with his other hand clamped across the victim’s mouth. The Rebel’s eyes were wide and tear-filled above the thick black fingers. But the two blacks in front of him did not see the expression. They stared, as if hypnotized, at the victim’s chest. Then they stabbed viciously at the target. The knives struck at the same instant, driving deep into the flesh and grating against bone. A single tear was squeezed from each eye before the lids fell. When Manfred removed his hand, the dead man’s final breath spewed warm blood over the arms of his killers as they withdrew their weapons. The private was allowed to crumple beside his corporal.

  Hedges raked his eyes over the gleaming smiles of the Negroes and revised his opinion of the men. Perhaps they carried a heavy load of naked fear, but when the chips were down they could generate more than enough hatred to swamp all other emotion.

  In other rifle pits, positioned at twenty yard intervals along the sloping ground at the base of the ridge, the rest of the freed slaves were giving a good account of themselves. Seward, recalling the Captain’s demand for silence, cursed inwardly when he did not have an opportunity to kill. The four men under his authority leapt into the pit ahead of him and the only sound was the low sighs of two death rattles.

  Four bloodied knives were jerked free as scarlet blossomed across the backs of the sentries’ uniforms. The bodies were lowered gently, almost reverently, to the earth in the bottom of the trench. Teeth and whites of eyes gleamed up at the glowering face of the frustrated youngster.

  Forrest’s group found three Rebels in a pit. Two were sleeping. The third one looked up in surprise as the trembling figure of Rhett materialized out of the mist. Rhett raised a quaking hand and put a finger to his lips as the sentry pointed a Spencer at him. Forrest and two Negroes bellied forward from the sides and rear.