Vengeance Is Black

by George G. Gilman

  “War’s over,” Forrest whispered. The soldier whirled around and Forrest lunged with his knife. “For you,” he added as the blade entered the man’s throat.

  The scraping of boots against the bottom of the pit woke one of the sleeping men. A Negro thudded down the stock of his Henry with hate-powered strength. The man’s forehead broke like an egg-shell and the contents of his skull bubbled out. Forrest twisted and flipped his wrist. A great globule of blood sailed across the trench and splashed into the open mouth of the second sleeper. Eyes, still bleary with the effects of too much corn whiskey, were dragged open. Two enormous black hands reached down and clawed around his neck. His tongue came out, scarlet with another man’s blood, and his skin turned blue, then purple. His hands scratched ineffectually at the strangler’s grip, then fell away. His entire body jerked once, then settled into death.

  “Did I do all right?” Rhett whispered hoarsely, looking into and then turning away from the pit.

  The Henry stock made a moist, sucking sound as it was pulled free of shattered skull.

  “You acted real scared, Bob,” Forrest muttered wryly. “Like it come natural.”

  Rhett grimaced, thinking the Negroes were grinning at the crack. “Can we leave now, sergeant?” he whined.

  Forrest rolled over on to his back, then sat up and stared ruefully at the mist-shrouded slope. He picked up his rifle and caressed the stock lovingly. “I’ve a good mind to—”

  “Ain’t nothing good about you, Forrest,” Hedges whispered.

  The sergeant snapped his head around and saw the Captain, Seward, Bell and a dozen colored soldiers looming in the mist. Forrest licked his lips as he hauled himself to his feet The sudden appearance of Hedges and the rest had shaken him, but he managed to form his features into an evil smile by the time he had straightened.

  “Just seems a waste, is all,” he said with a shrug. “To hike all the way out here just to knock off a few pickets.”

  Hedges nodded. “I’ll let General Thomas know your views when we get back,” he said derisively.

  The non-com and the officer locked their equally cold eyes on a single stare, both suspecting they could read each other’s mind. Hedges was raging inside, aware of the danger of the situation becoming explosive, revealing the men’s position to the back-up defensive line higher on the slope. Forrest was toying with the idea of setting light to the fuse and thus committing the patrol to an assault on the ridge.

  “Just keep pushing, Captain,” Forrest said harshly, but held his voice low, flicking his eyes over the faces of Seward and Bell, looking for a sign that they would back him. But neither trooper showed a flicker of enthusiasm. Seward, normally his most reliable ally in a disagreement with Hedges, even cast an apprehensive glance into the mist spilling down the side of the ridge.

  Hedges shook his head slowly. “I’m not pushing, sergeant,” he said, and twisted his wrist so that the Henry muzzle came up to cover Forrest in a one-handed grip. Forrest could see the hammer was cocked. “I’m making you a simple proposition. Follow the order I gave, or go to hell—the hard way.”

  Now rage gripped Forrest, but he could not hold it in. It turned his face purple and fed tenseness into his body. Every man ranged around the rifle pit knew that the sergeant came within a split second of snapping up his own rifle to the aim. But he had grown used to controlling his temper when faced by Hedges’ impassiveness.

  “Grave decision to have to make,” he rasped.

  “Your funeral,” Hedges answered.

  “And ours for Christ’s sake,” Rhett put in nervously. We’ll all get killed.”

  Once more, Rhett had left himself open to become the butt of Forrest’s anger when the real object was unassailable.

  “On you, it’d look good,” he hissed at the hapless New Englander, then swung around and stomped away from the trench, heading down the slope. “Let’s go home!” he snarled as he passed the pale faced Rhett.

  “You don’t have to be like that, Frank,” Rhett whined as the rest of the men started down the slope in the wake of the sergeant.

  “I ain’t!” Forrest muttered, “so if you’re gonna walk behind me, keep your damn distance.”

  “Sure thing,” Rhett replied.

  “You wished.”

  They linked up with the groups led by Scott and Douglas and were long gone from the sight of the Rebels on Missionary Ridge by the time the cloud cover rolled away and the sun burned off the mist. But they did not meet General Thomas’ Army of the Cumberland until the buildings of Chattanooga showed on the western skyline.

  The army was late reaching the foot of the slope and the rifle pits had been re-manned, with soldiers alerted for an attack. As so often happened in a war fought in such a disorganized manner as this, a delay meant that the job done by one body of men had to be repeated by another. The rifle pits were taken again, but not silently under cover of morning mist. Instead, by a full-scale charge that lost the Union more men than it killed.

  The army was supposed to hold its position there at the pits, to await news of how Sherman in the north and Hooker to the south were progressing. But the soldiers had had their fill of kicking their heels while generals planned tactics. Had it not been for the delay in following up Hedges’ inroad into the Confederate defenses there would have been no Union casualties at the rifle pits.

  The enlisted men ignored the orders of their officers and pleas of their non-coms. With hardly a pause after the carnage at the pits, the men stormed up the steepening slope in the bright light of afternoon. Many fell under the hail of Rebel bullets. Many more raced to the hill crest, sending Bragg’s army fleeing down the far side.

  “There’s been a miracle on Missionary Ridge,” an excited lieutenant yelled.

  Captain Josiah C. Hedges spat into the Chattanooga street. “I know,” he rasped. “I’m still alive.”

  *****

  The wind continued to swirl dust around the wretched buildings which formed the renamed town of Nowhere. Inside the one used as a jailhouse, it was the heat of the wind rather than the dust it carried which added to the prisoners’ discomfort.

  They sat in opposite corners of the single room. The boy toyed constantly with his small knife, a faraway, almost trancelike, look in his eyes. The discolored bruise on his cheek gave his face a strangely lop-sided look. On the infrequent occasions when he did glance up, he thought Elizabeth was asleep. She wasn’t, of course, for despite the long ride through the night which had provided no opportunity to rest, her mind was in a turmoil of terror far out of reach of fatigue. So she merely closed her eyes and prayed for spiritual help — she had no reason to expect assistance from any earthly source.

  She could pray just as well with her eyes open, but then she would be able to see the frail youngster across from her. And, in view of what she had decided to do—with God’s help to give her strength—the sight of the boy threatened to bring her torment to the brink of madness.

  “Fetch the girl as well, Will!”

  The sound of Clay’s cheerful shout cut across the soft sighing of the wind like a series of gunshots on a still night Heavy footfalls sounded outside the shack and Elizabeth snapped open her eyes and locked her gaze on that of the boy.

  “Give me your knife?” she whispered, fighting the nausea which rose into her throat. She got unsteadily to her feet and held out her hand. She felt unreal, detached from the fetid sordidness of the shack. She noticed, with the realization that it was of no importance, that sunlight penetrated the single window at a more shallow angle. For some reason – perhaps because they had been able to sleep – the outlaws had left their prisoners alone all day. It was late afternoon, inching towards early evening. “Come here and give it to me,” she urged as the footfalls drew closer. “Please?”

  The boy seemed to take an eternity to make up his mind. Then Will halted outside the door and the bolt scraped in the rusted bracket. The boy gasped, lunged to his feet and threw himself into Elizabeth’s arms, tears stream
ing down his cheeks. Elizabeth snatched the knife from his hand and whirled him around so that his back was pressed against her.

  “Please, God, I have to,” she moaned. “It’s better this way.”

  The boy craned his neck to look up at the girl, trust visible through the shine of tears welling in his eyes. The length of his throat was exposed and vulnerable. The knife plunged into the young skin as the door was flung open.

  “You stinking whore!” Will shrieked, diving in through the doorway as the wind swirled a choking cloud of dust inside the shack.

  The frail body slumped from Elizabeth’s hands, the fresh blood greedily soaking up the million motes of dust Elizabeth screamed and turned her wrist to aim the knife point at herself. Will reached her in two strides, his leading foot stomping down to crush the bones in the dead, outstretched hand of the boy. The black man’s pitted face was quivering with rage and the fire of his anger seemed to swell his muscular body to twice its size. A massive hand lashed out and the knife spun away into a corner as the blow numbed the entire length of Elizabeth’s arm.

  Hot breath rasped from his spittle-run mouth as he clawed a handful of the girl’s long red hair and began to slap her viciously on both sides of her face, fore – and backhanded. At the same time, his left knee thudded up and down, smashing into his prisoner’s stomach and groin. While Elizabeth screamed her agony, the black man’s arm and leg seemed to work as if by a mechanical pump, across and back, up and down.

  Clay and Henry approached the shack at a run, with Marshall lumbering behind. By the time the leader of the outlaws rushed in through the open doorway, the girl’s screams had stopped. She was unconscious, but Will continued with the vicious punishment, raising bruise upon bruise on the unresponsive face and body of the girl, lifting white weals at each stroke.

  “Quit it, Will!” Clay bellowed.

  But Will was deep in a private world of uncontrollable anger. It was inhabited only by himself and the girl who had robbed him.

  Clay whirled around and snatched the Winchester from the panting old man craning to see into the shack.

  “Gonna kill him?” Marshall asked in high glee.

  Henry eyed the handsome young Negro with an expression close to awe.

  Clay ignored both of them as he stepped across the thresh-hold, suddenly turning the rifle to grasp it by the barrel. For long moments the sighing of the wind and the dull thud of blows landing against the unconscious girl were the only sounds. Then the rifle was raised high and chopped downwards. It cracked into Will’s skull with every ounce of Clay’s weight behind it.

  Elizabeth twisted to the floor, mercifully unaware of the massive bulk of Will’s limp form crashing on top of her.

  “First time in his life he’s been across a woman!” Marshall cackled, then reeled away and clamped his toothless mouth shut as Clay whirled on him.

  “I’m gonna iron him!” Clay rasped. “Put him on the board.”

  He threw the Winchester hard at the old man and walked out of the shack, clenching and unclenching his fists as if to relieve an ache in his fingers.

  Elizabeth floated back to consciousness on a sea of pain and when she opened her eyes was certain she had been condemned to Hades for her crime of killing the boy. For she could feel the heat on her terribly bruised and swollen face and see the roaring flames of a hell fire—and men with charred bodies moving through the smoke.

  “Welcome back to see the show, little lady,” a voice cackled.

  She twisted her neck and looked at the toothlessly grinning ugliness of Marshall. Her misery was complete, for even hell would have been preferable to the nightmare world of the town called Nowhere.

  Her battered body was sprawled on the ground in front of one of the shacks. The insane old man was leaning against the wall behind her, aiming his Winchester at her head. He helped her, ungently, to rest her back against the sagging door, sitting up, the dreadful pains in her stomach were worse, but the agony of further movement held her in the position. Her entire face was a mass of dark-colored bruises marked with thin trails of blood. The flesh was puffed high around her eyes, but she could open them wide enough to see the horrific tableau at the centre of Nowhere’s single street.

  For although it was full night now, the sky heavily layered with cloud which blotted out the moon, there was a roaring fire to provide adequate light. The wind had dropped and the only sound was the crackle of flames as they consumed the tinder-dry wood tossed on to the fire by Henry. Clay was standing to one side of the fire, thrusting a long length of iron into the seat of the flames.

  Will was tied to what had once been the wooden door of a shack. It was resting on the hard-packed dirt of the street, not quite flat because Will’s arms had been lashed together beneath the door and it and his body were slightly tilted. The pain of so much weight crashing on to his forearms showed in the agonized expression spread across his sweating, pitted face. But he made no sound.

  “She awake, Marshal Marshall,” Clay called.

  “Sure enough,” the old man reported gleefully. “And looks worse than she did sleepin’, Mr. Clay.”

  The handsome young man leaned back from the fire to peer around the spirals of black smoke. His features were set into a hard look of animalistic evil. His eyes locked on Elizabeth’s battered face.

  “No offence to you, lady, but you’re ugly,” he said evenly. “And a handsome guy like me couldn’t demean himself to touch you. But it wasn’t your fault. Will done it to you, and I intend to make him pay.”

  He jerked the rod from the fire and a gasp of horror escaped Elizabeth’s swollen lips when she saw the cross struts of an X at the end of the iron, glowing red hot, she screamed.

  Clay stepped up to the helpless man held prisoner on the door and Will’s agony was swamped by terror.

  “Funny how nobody ever likes brand X,” Clay muttered.

  “She killed the kid!” Will screamed. “I just went crazy, Clay.”

  Behind the dark curtain of night two hundred yards short of where the altered sign marked the town limits, Cyril Miles gave a low moan and clamped a hand over the butt of his bolstered Remington. But before he could hoist it a fraction of an inch, a strong hand clamped hard down on his. He snapped his head around, his mouth opening to speak a protest. But the granite-like, mean-set features of Edge warned him into silence.

  They had followed the trail of the outlaws relentlessly throughout the long, hot day. Had stopped only to feed and water the horse. They had eaten, from the newspaperman’s supplies, as they rode in the buggy. This buggy was now parked about a quarter of a mile back down the trail, the mare still harnessed to the rig. Edge had dictated that they approach the fire glow on foot.

  “You might be a crack shot with that gun, Cyril,” the lean half-breed whispered, close to Miles’ ear. But that’s my girl over there. I wouldn’t want her to be in anymore danger than—”

  “Well, use your rifle!” Miles hissed. “He’s going to...”

  His voice trailed away as his head snapped around to stare towards Nowhere. A blood-curdling scream rose, full-throated, into the stillness of the night Elizabeth covered her face with her hands. A cackle of laughter ripped from Marshall’s slobbering mouth. Henry turned away and struggled to hold the nausea in his churning stomach.

  Clay chanted: “You spoiled my snatch. So you get it, see?”

  The glowing brand set light to Will’s shirt, then seared through skin and flesh with the ease of a warmed knife piercing butter. The musky odor of burning cloth was instantly swamped by the sickly sweet smell of charred tissue. Clay, his malevolent stare locked on the dying face of Will, put all his strength behind the branding iron.

  It entered in the region of the navel and the frothing blood immediately cooled the intense heat of the brand. But the strength of Clay’s thrust bent back the letter struts and the iron sank deep into the entrails of the man. Henry emptied the contents of his into the stream and fragments of half-digested food were swirled down to
where Edge and the newspaperman were standing.

  Miles came close to vomiting himself as the frail echo of the scream faded across the vast distances of the Black Hills. “My God, how awful!” he gasped.

  Edge peered under his hooded eyelids towards the town marker and was just able to decipher the name. He dropped his good hand away from Miles’ gun and turned away. “Come on, Cyril,” he said softly.

  “It’s revolting,” the newspaperman rasped hoarsely, unable to tear his gaze away from the fire lit scene ahead.

  “The natives sometimes can be,” Edge answered, then injected harshness into his tone. “I need you, Cyril!”

  Now the young man turned his pale face towards the half-breed. “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FOLLOWING the Union victories at Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge, the onslaught of winter which linked the end of 1863 with the birth of a new year, bogged down the armies of both North and South.

  But for Captain Josiah C. Hedges, his band of six vicious troopers and the twenty-four ex-slaves assigned to him, there was no opportunity for a respite from danger and killing. Unless two weeks of day-long training and night-time whoring could be termed a rest

  “If s frigging R. and R, that's what it is,” Rhett complained bitterly at the end of a particularly hard day of drilling under the perfection-seeking eyes of Hedges.

  The whites were quartered in the cramped conditions of a single room at a sleazy hotel in downtown Chattanooga. The New Englander was standing by the window, rain-swept street.

  Bell, sprawled on a narrow bed, gazed at the ceiling, a thoughtful frown puckering his brow. “Rest and what?” he asked at length.

  “Revenge and ribaldry,” Rhett corrected. “With more of the first than the second. Hedges hates us. Maybe he hates himself, but he takes it all out on us. All this marching up and down and spit and polish. It makes me frigging mad.”