Circles of Displacement

by Darrell Bain

  Michael pushed the still breathing man from atop him and began crawling away. His sense of direction was awry and he suddenly realized he didn't know where he was, or had any idea of what was happening elsewhere. Oh Christ, I've blown it again! He got to his feet and began creeping through the underbrush. There was no need for quiet. The storm had reached its full fury.

  Breedlove's hurry almost led to disaster. He was plunging through the forest so fast that he almost ran right into the midst of Burley's gathering men. At the last minute he managed to halt his progress before he was spotted. He backtracked quickly, dodging low to avoid bullets spanging through the forest. Two of his men came stumbling through the blinding rain and he halted them. He slapped them on the shoulders and sent them off into the woods. “Help me find the others. Quick! Bring them back here.” This was too good of an opportunity to miss. He was so excited that he forgot to be scared.

  He had perhaps half his force gathered and was preparing them for a devastating volley when someone not contacted shot into the group of convicts, spoiling that plan. “Fire!” he yelled, seeing those few opposing men he could make out turn their weapons in his direction.

  Some shot, but others waited until most of Burley's men had scattered behind trees and brush. Within moments, Breedlove's small force became mixed up in a terrible close-quarter encounter where the enemy could hardly be seen at all.

  Victory usually went to the side who fired first. Casualties were heavy on both sides, and in a few spots the line intermingled and hand to hand combat surged through the brush, with men and women grappling rain-slick bodies and gaining and losing advantage as hands slipped off water-soaked skin. Gradually, Burley's men began gaining the advantage, buoyed by their greater numbers.

  A sudden rush by several convicts bent Breedlove's line, and he began to despair. The roar of the storm made it impossible even to call a retreat. There was nothing to do but try to hold out and hope that he hadn't misjudged and that Michael's force would turn the tide. Then Breedlove remembered that he hadn't even stopped to see if it was Michael's men fighting in the downpour. He brushed water from his eyes and tried to think what to do next.

  A few yards away, Carla fired into the brush. Breedlove made a sudden dash and fell to the squishy ground beside her. He yelled into her ear. “If I buy the farm, you get away from this mess, hear me? Don't let these bastards catch you. Carla looked up and nodded, then rolled onto her side and began to reload her weapon. She wasn't about to leave her deputy, not for anything.

  McMasters could make out the individual sound of shotguns and rifles sounding along with the thunder and rain pelting into the forest like a gang of drummers out of synch. His ears were attuned to combat, even after all these years.

  He left George, Jr. with the women and children while he, Judy, George, Sr. and the other men crept forward. He struggled to keep upright with the crutch and hurry at the same time. Somehow, he knew that the sound of battle he could hear over the drumming rain and almost continuous thunder came from the gang of convicts he had seen before. Maybe now he could make up for the hesitancy he had berated himself for in the past.

  Inevitably, as he tried to hurry the pace, he put pressure on his partially healed leg, sending sheaths of agony from the wound all the way into his hip. A bullet zinged near his head and he ducked instinctively. As he did, the crutch twisted and snapped in two. He collapsed, twisting as he fell to land on his good side. Damn. Now I am in a mess! Judy bent to help him. He tried to wave her away.

  “No, I can't go any further. George, you and Judy will have to go on. Do what you can, but don't risk your lives more than you can help."

  “I'm not leaving you,” Judy said. If it were not for the water streaming from her face, he might have been able to see that she was crying. McMasters was as frustrated as he had ever been in his life, but there was simply no sense in trying to walk; he knew he couldn't. He lay on his back and looked up. Rain drummed on his face, cascading down through the wildly twisting branches of the great oak overhead. Maybe—

  “George, wait! Help me up.” He got to his feet with George's support. The branches of the tree grew from a point low to the ground and ascended upwards almost as conveniently as a ladder. He slung his rifle and pointed. “Help me up to that first branch, then I'm going to climb as far up as I can. I think I'll be able to see from there. Then you and Judy go on.” If there was anything he could do to help, it would have to be from there.

  It took some convincing on Judy's part, but he was adamant. Unable to travel, this was his last best option. Once on the lower branch, he waved them forward and began to climb, using his good leg and both arms.

  Burley sensed his advantage. He was winning, and goddam, a whole bunch of freemen were going to be sorry when this was over. He crawled to the closest man on either side of him and told them to pass the word to get ready for a final rush.

  Just as he turned to his right to give the word, a sudden gust of wind cleared the rain away momentarily, and fifty yards to his rear he saw one of his men jump to his feet and twirl. A ragged apparition overwhelmed the man before he could fire, coming out of the sheets of rain like a wrathful black ghost. The black man rode the other convict to the ground, swinging a club. He picked up the fallen shotgun and blew the man's head to pieces from point blank range. The blacks were loose!

  “Belay that rush!” Burley yelled as loudly as he could. “Niggers in our rear! Get them, they don't have guns yet!"

  The convicts on either side of him turned and ran back to the rear. The black he had seen dropped one of them before he was overwhelmed in the rush. Others sprang forward, meeting the backward rush of Burley's men with bare hands and clubs. Half of them went down before they could grapple, but the rest clawed forward and wrestled grimly for weapons.

  Burley ran to help, leaving the others to hold the forward line. He blasted one dark-skinned man then was astounded to see him replaced by a woman with her hand extended, firing a pistol. Beside her, another woman watched helplessly, armed only with a knife. Burley ignored her and shot the armed woman, then looked around frantically. A flash of lightning showed the fringes of the clearing dotted with struggling groups of convicts, blacks and women, interspersed among brush and trees like confused animals in an earthquake. He plunged into the brush, seeking safety and a way out of the sudden impasse.

  Wanda's women had become intermingled with the blacks as they moved forward and, almost blinded by blowing rain, they plunged into the midst of the convicts before they knew they were upon them. There was no way to lead any sort of organized resistance after that. Fights developed, flared up and were brutally concluded amidst the concealing deluge and flying brush. Blood diluted with water streamed into Wanda's eyes from a scalp wound, making it even harder to see. Yells and screams surrounded her, intermingled with crashing thunder and flashes of light, a nightmare crescendo that went on without rhyme or direction. Men and women struggled and died by themselves, separated and isolated by the storm. She had no idea if they were winning or not. Her only coherent thought was that whatever happened, the women were free. If they felt as she did, they would brave the forest or even death rather than be recaptured.

  Wanda's pistol clicked on empty. She flung it in the direction of a convict who popped up suddenly in front of her, causing him to fire blindly as he dodged. A terrific gust of wind and water swept over them both. Wanda was knocked from her feet. She huddled under a bush where she fell, hand gripped around the haft of a kitchen knife. It was her only weapon now.

  Michael was perhaps the first to notice that the thunder was dying away and the lightning losing its intensity. The wind began to abate and the rain slackened. The sounds of gunfire became clearer. He slithered through the brush in the direction of the noise, concealing himself from view as best he could. He thought the battle was probably lost by now, and was surprised that firing was still going on.

  Abruptly, he stumbled over the body of a convict. A young black man lay nearby, bre
athing heavily through a punctured chest. He patted him as he passed, hoping he was one of many who had been freed. He got no response from the wounded man and went on, knowing nothing of how the fighting was going. For all he knew it might be almost over but there was no way he was going to leave the scene yet, not while there was still a chance, and not while Wanda was still out there somewhere.

  The sound of shots being fired grew louder and Michael began to move even more carefully. He carried his pistol in his left hand; his right arm was still useless. He peered around a tree trunk just as the sun broke through the clouds. Bodies lay sprawled together as they had fallen, but all around the fringes of his viewpoint, fighting was still raging. He could make no sense of it. Bullets and buckshot twanged through the air like angry wasps and impacted into branches, brush, tree trunks and flesh.

  Nearby, he saw a white-clad convict rise to his knees and aim a rifle. Without thinking, he braced his left arm against the trunk of the tree and triggered his pistol. The convict threw up his arms and fell into the brush. Bullets ripped the trunk of the tree just above his head and he ducked away. Somehow, the battle was still going on. He moved away on his belly. It wasn't over yet, and he still had a few bullets left.

  The sudden appearance of the sun saw both sides of the opposing forces still locked in combat, but the battle was inconclusive. Knots of men and women fired, took cover, grappled with figures suddenly rising from the underbrush and lived and died as chance dictated. The combat spread out along the riverbank like a slowly growing forest fire, with flames licking here and there as they found fuel to consume. It could still have gone either way, but it was McMasters who finally made the difference.

  The eye of the storm began passing over the battlefield just as he settled into his treetop aerie. As the day lightened, he gained a superb view from above. Looking down, he could spot the convicts easily by their white garb. He settled into a comfortable crouch on a whorl of limbs and began picking targets. He fired slowly, fixing the crosshairs of the scope exactly on his targets and making sure that every shot counted.

  The convicts began noticing that their men were falling, but they couldn't tell from where the shots were coming. One would suddenly drop, head or chest erupting blood and bits of brain or lung. They looked around frantically and began shooting wildly in all directions. Calmly, McMasters chambered round after round, sighted through the scope and gently squeezed the trigger. With each shot, a convict fell.

  Finally, it was too much. McMasters watched from above as the convicts broke and began running. He gloated over the consequences of their panic. As they rose into view, some came directly into sight of the remainder of Breedlove's force. Upright, and limned in the sudden daylight, many of them were cut down. Others ran the other way and were pulled down by the few blacks in concealment that were still capable of fighting. Several were tripped and done in by women who plunged knives into their prone bodies.

  Within a few moments after McMasters began his sniping the battle was over, those few convicts who managed to break through the opposition were in headlong retreat.

  Burley saw what was happening and scurried away, ducking low at first, then breaking into a full run. He crashed directly into Michael before either of them could avoid the collision. Michael was knocked to the ground. His pistol spun away into the brush. Burley staggered but kept his balance.

  Michael stared upward in horror as Burley pointed his shotgun at his chest and pulled the trigger. The firing pin clicked. He worked the pump and pulled the trigger again, but there were no shells left in the chamber.

  Michael tried to scurry away from the huge convict. Weaponless and wounded, he knew he stood no chance in a hand-to-hand fight. Burley followed and kicked him in the head. He raised the butt of the shotgun and crashed it down, just as Michael rolled groggily away. The butt of the gun glanced off the side of his head, throwing him onto his back. He raised his good arm ineffectually as Burley lifted his gun for another stroke, knowing already that it was useless. He was going to die.

  From nearby, Wanda had seen Michael appear in her vision like an icon flashed suddenly on a computer screen. Weaponless except for a knife, she could do nothing but scream as she saw Burley first try to kill him by a blast from his shotgun then by the butt end. The scream was all it took. Burley pulled his next blow, whirling in reaction.

  “Help!” Wanda screamed, hoping someone on their side was near. She advanced with her knife ready but fearful of the huge convict.

  “Bitch!” Burley screamed. He wanted badly to go after the ball-busting bitch but he was scared that help might be near. He took a last ineffectual swipe at Michael's head and disappeared into the undergrowth.

  Wanda rushed forward and helped lift Michael to his feet. She began leading him away from the direction Burley had gone, fearing that he might decide to return.

  Michael was dizzy, not sure whether he was dead or alive. Wanda's sudden appearance was like something out of a dream, not quite real. He shook his head and his senses cleared, turning the dream to reality. The sun went behind encroaching clouds as the other side of the hurricane eye approached. Rain began once more to fall and the wind rose toward another gale, this time from the northwest, but not nearly as severe as before, as if it was in concert with the ebbing of battle.

  Still using Wanda to half-support him, Michael found Breedlove near the clearing where the fiercest fighting had occurred, and after a short conference, set him to ranging about to gather survivors and flush out any remaining opposition. Gradually, a motley group of men and women began to congregate around them.

  Jason had survived. In fact, he had seen little of the fighting. In the first rush of action as he led the blacks into battle, he had been knocked senseless by a clubbed rifle and had only regained consciousness after most of the fighting was done with. Looking around at the numerous bodies being spattered by rain, he was mildly ashamed that he had had so little to do with their demise.

  Wanda introduced him to Michael, and they grinned together over their twin forehead bruises. “Bring all your men here,” Michael told him. “We've got to get sorted out."

  Jason slicked water from his bloodied forehead. “I'll get them. Christ, I can't believe we really pulled this off. What happened to Burley, by the way? Has anyone found him?"

  “The last I saw, he was running hell for leather away from here,” Wanda said. “I'm sure some others got away too. Do you think they'll be a problem?"

  “Who knows?” Jason said. “Let's worry about them later. I'll look for my men.” He walked off, wondering how many of his own followers might have been exterminated by mistake during the fighting.

  Michael sighed. He squeezed water from his hair and looked around. In the distance, an occasional shot was still being fired as Breedlove went about his business. A cluster of teenage girls and an assortment of other women were in front of him; he knew only a few of them. On the fringes, a few black faces stared into the crowd apprehensively. One huge black man towered over the others, seeming to hold them in check. There was a gaggle of convicts, Burley's remnants, who had managed to surrender rather than run, sitting bound together, heads hung, water dripping from their hair and running down their faces.

  Wanda stood by his side, armed once again. He heard noises from the edge of the clearing. Out into the open came a white-haired man, supported on one side by a young girl and on the other by a grizzled, middle-aged man. He clutched a scoped rifle protectively, as if it were a favorite child. They walked around bodies in the gathering dusk, avoiding water beginning to pool around the still forms.

  Michael sighed again. He was tired, his arm and head hurt, but the day was not yet over. “Jason, we owe you,” he said after the convict returned, bringing what few of his men he had been able to find. “Everything is just going to have to wait for now, though. You and your convicts just hold on until we get back to Livingston, then we'll see about how we're going to organize things. I suspect it won't be easy, but we sure can't do
it here, not in this weather. Can you manage that?"

  “On one condition,” Jason said. He smiled gently at Michael, then turned and gestured towards the freed blacks and his men. “Don't call them convicts. Not after all this.” He pointed to the bodies lying in pools of water.

  “I see what you mean,” Michael said.

  McMasters arrived and introduced himself to Michael. He then asked him to send someone back for George, Jr. and the women he had left waiting. He saw no reason why they wouldn't still be safe, but he was worried anyway. Characteristically, he didn't mention the devastating effect his sniper fire had had on the tide of battle.

  Michael sent two men to follow the senior George back to where the others had been left then turned his attention to getting the disparate group he now commanded moved away from the area. He knew that undiscovered bodies must still be everywhere in the brush, and scavengers would begin appearing as darkness fell. As evening came on, the rain tapered off to a slow drip, then finally ceased completely, along with the wind. By nightfall, he had everyone moved a mile or two away, transporting the wounded on makeshift litters. The next morning, he intended to send Breedlove on one more sweep of the battlefield then head for Livingston, and hopefully, a reconciliation of erstwhile enemies. He still wasn't sure how he would work that out, but he was confident that it could be accomplished.