Seven Out of Hell

by George G. Gilman

  The men fell silent, waiting their turn to use the razor and afterwards doing what they could to clean themselves and their uniforms.

  “What’s the plan, Captain?” Forrest asked at length.

  Hedges clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth and watched the disgruntled troopers as they performed their ablutions. “Atlanta’s up ahead,” he replied without looking at the mean-faced sergeant. “I figure the turnpike goes straight into the city. That ain’t for us. Place will be crawling with Rebels and we don’t want any awkward questions to answer. So we gotta look for a town with food and beds. One without any other uniforms in it. After we’ve rested we’ll swing around the city and keep heading north ‘till we hear shooting.”

  Forrest pondered this, then nodded. “Guess I can’t think of nothing better than that,” he allowed.

  Hedges met and held his flinty gaze. “I figured that,” the Captain replied and turned to examine the men.

  The comparative cleanness of their faces served to emphasize the emaciating effects of deprivation and malnutrition and he knew it would take time rather than water and a blade to rid their eyes of the haunted look. Perhaps, he considered, the men would never shed it until death blotted out their memories. He spat into the grass.

  “Sure don’t look like any West Point class of sixty-three,” he pronounced. “Let’s move out.”

  The true dawn had broken now and as they returned to the road and the trees began to thin out, the lightening of the new day was accompanied by a noticeable warming of the air. On the far side of the wood the country was undulating and the turnpike began to curve to left and right, swinging around and between the hills, taking the easiest course. They had ridden perhaps two miles from the wood when they saw the village, nestling under the brow of a hill amid a patchwork of tobacco fields.

  It was comprised of just a few houses, dominated by a church, and looked deserted in the sudden brightness from a sun tightening its hold on the eastern horizon. Hedges led the troopers through the refreshing coolness of a stream forded by the turnpike and then angled off on to a spur which followed the course of the water run up to the village.

  The village was spread along one bank of the stream, on both sides of a short street which dead ended at the church. From below, the setting had looked almost idyllic, but up close the impression was suddenly altered. The houses, two drying barns, saloon and general store all looked on the verge of collapse. But, strangely at odds with the warped and unpainted dereliction of the timber buildings there was a neat orderliness in evidence. Sagging sidewalks were swept clean of dust; those windows which were not broken shone with recent polishing; curtains, although patched and darned, were as white as the day they were bought; and the church at the end of the street might have been built yesterday, so well had it been kept.

  As Hedges halted in the centre of the street before the church and the troopers reined in their own mounts, an eerie silence descended upon the sunlit scene, broken only by the gentle babbling from the stream. Several hands strayed towards rifle stocks or revolver butts as the highly-developed sixth sense of each man warned him not to trust the stillness.

  “I don’t like it,” Forrest said in a whisper. But the deceptive somnolence magnified the words.

  “Even less if you draw one of them weapons,” a woman’s voice snapped.

  Several doors creaked on unoiled hinges and the men moved their hands slowly, looking up and down each side of the street.

  “Will you look at that,” Seward rasped, the breath whistling out of his as his mouth took on the line of a leering smile.

  There were thirteen of them and only one did not have a rifle leveled at the knot of riders. The exception was an aged pastor who stood in the arched doorway of the church. The rest were women, stretching across an age span of early-twenties to late sixties. All were dressed to a pattern in modest, well-cared for black gowns topped by crisp white aprons. Each guarded a doorway, her face set in a hard expression which left no doubt she was prepared to use the ancient single-shot muzzle-loader she held so firmly.

  “You’ve looked,” a stout, middle-aged redhead in the entrance to the small saloon barked. “Now turn around and get out of town.”

  She motioned with the gun.

  “We need food and shelter to rest up,” Hedges said evenly.

  “You won’t find it here,” the spokeswoman replied harshly.

  The Captain saw there would be no relenting on her part, so turned his attention to the minister. “That so, reverend?” he asked.

  The man was in his eighties, thin and stooped, with withered features and sparse silver hair worn in a well-trimmed fringe. His voice was as weak as his appearance. “I am here to care for the souls of these women, my son,” he said. “Since all their men folk were killed in the war they have only their belief to sustain them. I confine myself to nurturing their faith in the Almighty. In all other respects they are self-sufficient and I do not interfere.”

  “You understand that soldier boy?” the redhead demanded. “He means that what we say goes. And we say go.”

  The woman commanded only the attention of Hedges. The rest of the men were looking at the younger, prettier widows. And a few of the women were responding to the inquisitive scrutiny by softening the lines of their expressions.

  “We’re about beat, ma’am,” Hedges said at length. “And I reckon there ain’t nothing we wouldn’t do for some food and some sleep. So I guess we’ll have to take the risk you widows will blast us and make seven more of your own kind.”

  This captured the attention of the troopers and they watched fearfully as the Captain dismounted. His move-meats were cautious but determined and all the time the slits of his eyes kept a steady watch on the woman. “You don’t look like no married men,” she challenged. “Long time from the well,” Hedges replied, motioning for the men to slide from their saddles. He grinned with his mouth.

  “You ain’t going to slake your thirst here,” the redhead retaliated. Her aggressive attitude did not alter: but neither did she offer any further threat as the troopers dismounted.

  Hedges nodded his agreement. His cold grin faded and his lean features showed menace as he raked his eyes across the faces of the men. “Any of you try to use your dipper in this town, he’ll answer to me.”

  A hot, empty silence gripped the street again. The redheaded woman broke it with a single word. “Padre?”

  The old man was sweating. He allowed the tension to drain out of him on a long sigh. “They will not be swayed,” he said tremulously. “You must either trust them or kill them. I am pleased the decision is not mine to make.”

  The woman pondered while the men waited. Finally she stepped back into the shadowed doorway of her house and when she re-emerged she no longer held the gun. “Thou shalt not kill!” she exclaimed. “There are nine more of those,” Hedges hissed to the suddenly smiling men as the rest of the women laid down their arms. “You break any of them in this town, I’ll break you - in little pieces.”

  “Christ, Captain!” Seward murmured as the women moved out into the street, towards the men.

  “Higher than Him,” Hedges hissed into the lustful face of the youngster. “I’m an officer and you’re an enlisted man. That makes me God.”

  “I am Gilda Proctor, sergeant,” the red-head introduced herself, and proceeded to point to each of the women in turn, announcing their names, “Maria Marwick, Vivien Bull, Faith Terry...”

  Hedges did not hear the other names because he was no longer listening. And when he failed to reciprocate and Rhett’s good breeding came to the fore and the New Englander named the men, the half-breed continued to study the thirty-year-old blonde woman called Faith Terry. She was large breasted and thick of hips and her face, which had once been pretty was now aged beyond its years by the harshness of life. She responded to his scrutiny with an initial nervousness which quickly became close to guarded invitation as she misinterpreted his source of interest.

  T
erry was a name that raised a low fire of hatred in his heart.

  Other women looked at individual troopers with a similar degree of feminine wiliness, but there was no mistaking the men’s innermost thoughts.

  “You will please go to the church,” Gilda instructed. “Food will be brought to you there. We will then discuss sleeping arrangements.”

  Her words and the discontented murmuring of the troopers brought Hedges’ mind back from out of the past. “We’ll do like the lady says,” he ordered. Then he reached up and slid the Spencer from his saddle boot. “Against regulations to let these out of our sight.”

  It angered the red-head, but Hedges’ steady stare forced a nod of approval from her. The troopers withdrew their own rifles.

  “We’ll take care of your horses,” Faith Terry assured Hedges, who nodded and followed the men through the arched entrance into the murky coolness of the church. There was not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere and the wooden pews, stone altar and silver effigies showed the reward of loving care.

  The minister was kneeling before the altar and rose painfully to his feet as the men slouched down on to the pews. “I have prayed that you will honor your word,” the old man said thinly. He grimaced as Forrest rolled a cigarette and lit it, striking a match against the polished pew. “Even if you have no faith in God and respect for His house.”

  “They’re beyond redemption, padre,” Hedges said, reaching across to pluck the cigarette from Forrest’s fingers.

  The sergeant started to snarl, but it became a grin as he saw Hedges draw deeply against the cigarette. He began to roll another.

  “How about the word of the women?” Hedges asked. “Can we trust that?”

  “In what way, my son?”

  “That they’re all widows?”

  The minister’s thin shoulders moved in a shrug. “Most know for sure. The rest have been so long without word from their men, they have been forced to abandon hope.”

  “How about Faith—?”

  “They have that in the Lord.”

  Hedges shook his head. “Faith Terry, padre.”

  The minister’s mournful face became set in an even more melancholy line. “She cannot expect to hear officially. Her husband was always something of a renegade. He chose to evade regular army service and formed a guerilla band.”

  “Hey, Cap...!” Seward exclaimed, then shrilled his pain as Forrest’s boot cracked into his ankle.

  “Yeah, Billy,” Hedges muttered, grinding out his cigarette under his heel. “We all remember Bill Terry.”

  The minister’s expression brightened and the light of hope flared in his eyes. “You’ve seen him recently?”

  “It seems like only yesterday,” Hedges replied softly, rising from the pew and moving back to the doorway where he stood, staring out along the sun-bright street and across the well-tended tobacco fields.

  There was activity in the town now. Down at the bank of the stream three of the women were watering the horses, having already removed the saddles. Smoke curling up into the still air from several chimneys, and a mouthwatering smell of frying bacon and beans evidenced the task allocated to the other women. The scrape of boot leather on the stone floor drew Hedges’ attention to Forrest, who had come to stand beside him.

  “Terry killed your girl, Captain,” the mean-faced sergeant said softly. “And because you went after him, we got captured and shipped to Andersonville.”

  “So?” Hedges answered, his gaze meeting and holding the steely eyes of the other men.

  “The boys ain’t gonna take kindly to risking their lives to settle your scores.”

  Hedges stabbed a finger at the chevrons on his arm. “We’re in a different army now,” he hissed. “I been demoted but I still outrank you. Bell’s got chevrons. I ain’t asking no favors.”

  Forrest sent a length of spit splatting into the dust outside. “Terry could be dead - or a thousand miles from here.”

  Hedges looked back at the street as six women appeared from as many houses, carrying trays upon which food and coffee steamed invitingly. “I feel lucky,” he said softly.

  One of the women was Faith Terry and she was again responsive to the Captain’s staring eyes as she moved into the church with the other women. As the minister bowed to the altar, begging forgiveness for the sacrilege, the troopers roared their approval of the food and at once began to wolf it down.

  The women watched, some with disgust, others with pity, as the men ate. The meal was over when the grim-faced Gilda entered the church.

  “The three houses at the end of the street have been vacated for you, sergeant,” she told Hedges. “There are enough beds for all of you. We would ask you to go to the houses and not come out until you are ready to leave town. Which we hope will be soon.”

  “It’s a deal,” Hedges agreed, and once again the raking of his hooded eyes over the faces of the men was enough to stem voicing of their discontent. And as he rose and moved out into the street, the troopers followed him. Now that their hunger had been appeased, a stronger used was kindled in their stomachs, over-riding fatigue. Lust was like a heavy burden, dragging their feet to stir up dust as they ambled along the street. Rhett, alone, was at ease.

  “You ain’t gonna be able to hold ’em much longer,” Forrest whispered to Hedges. “It’s been a long time since the last time. I figure they’re ready to kill for a piece of ass - anybody.”

  “They’ll have to,” Hedges replied evenly. “How many horses do you see down by the stream, Forrest?”

  The sergeant looked in the direction the Captain indicated and his mouth formed into a thin line. “Six is one less than there ought to be,” he muttered, and his head swiveled, his mouth moving soundlessly as he did a head count of the women. “The Marwick dame ain’t around no more.”

  They were almost at the designated houses now and could speak at normal pitch without being overheard by their reluctant hosts.

  “Reckon they went back on their word,” Hedges said. “Won’t feel so bad about breaking mine.”

  “The word of God is in my language for a change!” Seward exclaimed in delight.

  Hedges opened the door of one of the broken down houses and halted, turning to face the exhausted men. “Get some rest,” he instructed.

  “Ain’t rest we want some of, Captain,” Seward whined.

  Hedges lips curled back to show his teeth in a harsh grin. “You need to sleep,” he said. “Go off half-cocked and likely you won’t rise to the occasion.”

  “He’s got a point, Billy,” Forrest said.

  “So have I,” Seward answered dully.

  “We can all see,” Rhett put in, leering. “It’s sticking out like a sore thumb.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Forrest responded, and guffawed as he headed for the door of the house next door.

  Down the street the women watched in silence as the Union troopers in Rebel grey entered the houses and closed the doors. Then the old man came out of the church.

  “Do you think we fooled them, Mrs. Proctor?” he asked nervously.

  The grim-faced red-head drew in a deep breath and expelled it as a sigh. “We’ve done our best, reverend,” she replied. “But I’ll feel a whole lot safer when Terry’s Raiders get here.”

  *****

  “You, you and you!” Shin said as he re-entered the car and stabbed a well-manicured finger at Alvin, Beth and Edge.

  “What?” the boy asked nervously.

  “Mr. Mao wishes to dissuade pursuit,” the Chinese replied. “So we take three hostages from each car. All hostages die if we followed.”

  An old lady with silver hair and a kindly face gasped. “Surely you cannot be so cruel?” she accused.

  Mr. Shin smiled. “We no cruel. No suffering. Kill quick.”

  The shotgun swung up and both barrels belched smoke. Many passengers covered their ears against the roar of the explosion which was almost painful within the confines of the car. The old lady no longer had a kind face.
She was thrown back against her seat, then toppled forward on to the floor, the gaping, blood-spurting holes in her flesh tinged black by the powder of the short-range shot.

  “She feel no pain,” Mr. Shin announced, still smiling. In the sudden silence, he cocked his head on one side, listening. A series of shotgun blasts rippled down the length of the halted train and he nodded. “Picture worth a thousand words,” he said to the horrified passengers. “Now everyone have no doubt we mean business.”

  He barked a command in Chinese and the two guards moved away from their positions, one aiming his shotgun at Alvin and Beth, the other covering Edge.

  “You come now!” Shin commanded.

  Alvin and Beth looked over their shoulders towards Edge. The half-breed got slowly to his feet and ambled along the aisle, stepping over the dead man and glancing down at the mutilated face of the old lady. Her hair was no longer silver as it floated in a wide pool of her own blood.

  “The money fell their way,” he muttered. “Head they win.”

  The second guard made a threatening motion with his shotgun and Alvin scrambled to his feet, urging the woman to rise beside him.

  The hostages were hustled out on to the car’s platform and then down on to the grassy bank of the stream. A dozen prisoners - nine men and three women - were already there, herded into a frightened group. Other members of the gang had been spread throughout the train for there were now a score of robed Chinese surrounding the group, staring at the hostages from the deep shadows cast by their coolie hats. Four of them had the sacks of loot slung over their shoulders. The remainder, with the exception of Mad, cradled shotguns. The leader had his hands clasped under the veil of his sleeves. Shin conferred with him and Mao rapped out an order.

  Edge glanced around at his fellow prisoners and saw the near paralyzing fear lurking in eyes that still mirrored the bloody slaughter they had witnessed.

  “Mr. Mao say form two lines,” Shin instructed. “We march to camp.”

  The hostages shuffled into the formation required. Edge was at the end of the line, next to a trembling, middle-aged drummer whose face was sheened with sweat dried by the chill mountain air. Alvin and Beth were in front of him.