Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  Although starting out on foot in borrowed clothes, Clay was not one to suffer a beggar’s lot, no matter how dire the situation. He immediately kept an eye out for an opportunity to improve his status. Feeling that his impoverished circumstances were caused by the Union army, he naturally felt that the Yankees should provide restitution for his losses. He found what he was looking for eight miles northwest of Appomattox when he happened upon a Union cavalry detachment camped on the banks of the Appomattox River.

  Keeping out of sight, he made his way around the camp until he found a place to hide close to a temporary rope corral where the entire detachment’s horses were collected. Seating himself comfortably behind a screen of laurel, he then patiently waited out the afternoon for the sun to set, utilizing the time to select the horse he planned to borrow when it was dark enough. A spirited chestnut with blond mane and tail caught his eye at once. It no doubt belonged to one of the officers, since it appeared well groomed and a bit spunkier than the others. You’re a fine-looking animal, Clay thought as he watched the horse tossing its head and pawing the ground as if ready to fly from the picket line where it was tied. I’m gonna liberate you from your Yankee jailers tonight.

  The afternoon passed easily enough for Clay. He was tired from walking that morning, so he was content to lay back in the laurel, taking his leisure, watching the Union camp. He wondered what their mission was, this far away from any town or army headquarters. Possibly, they were still scouring the countryside in search of pockets of Confederate resistance, even these long months after the surrender. Whatever their task, there seemed to be a generally carefree air about the bivouac, with most of the men gathered in small groups around campfires. As darkness approached, and the glow of the campfires became brighter, the cheerful voices of the soldiers seemed to become louder as they floated to Clay on the cool evening breeze. Off to one side of the camp, a young soldier with a soft tenor voice began to sing a melancholy tune that Clay had heard before but couldn’t name. Soon several other voices joined in, one in a fine harmony. It was a peaceful evening with little to remind one of the horrible war so recently ended.

  Feeling almost too comfortable to rouse himself to his task, Clay finally decided it was dark enough to discharge the chestnut from the Union army. The notion that he was acting the part of a horse thief never entered his mind. The war may have been over, but his was still a soldier’s mind, and this was certainly an enemy camp bivouacked by the river. In addition, the Yankees had killed his horse. They should rightfully be required to replace it.

  Leaving the cover of the laurel, he made his way along the riverbank, being careful to keep a sharp eye for pickets or sentries. They haven’t even posted sentries, he realized when he had stolen to within twenty-five yards of the rope corral holding the horses. They sure as hell ain’t worried about being attacked. The light from the campfires traced a patchwork of shadows that flickered upon the tree trunks, faintly lighting his path as he carefully made his way along the bank. When he reached the small clearing where the horses were picketed, he paused to listen to the voices drifting up to him from the water’s edge. Hearing nothing to indicate any concern from that quarter, he proceeded to the rope and made his way down it, counting horses as he went. One, two, three, fourth from the end. The Union mounts whinnied softly as he gave each horse he passed a gentle pat on the neck.

  When he came to the chestnut, the horse jerked its head back as if to pull away from him. But Clay had always had a way with horses, and in a few short moments, he was gently rubbing the chestnut’s muzzle. Just as he untied the reins from the picket line, he heard a voice behind him.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Clay froze, but just for a brief moment. “What the hell does it look like?” he shot back.

  There was a vacant moment while an obviously confused horse soldier strained to identify Clay in the darkness under the trees. “Is that you, Townsend?”

  “Who’d you think it was?” Clay asked, keeping the horse’s head between him and the Union soldier.

  “Well, what are you doing with the lieutenant’s horse? Sergeant Warren told me to rub the lieutenant’s horse down.”

  “Told me, too—musta forgot,” Clay said, his voice halfway muffled by his hand over his mouth in an effort to disguise it. He started rubbing the horse’s withers and back, pretending to busy himself with the job. He was hoping that it was too dark for the soldier to make out exactly what he was doing.

  The Union soldier stood dumbfounded for a long moment before deciding that the sergeant’s absent-mindedness was his good fortune. “Well, ain’t no use in both of us standing out here. I reckon you got the job. I’m going back to the fire.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Clay mumbled.

  He couldn’t help but grin when the Yankee soldier ambled off toward the glowing campfires, but he didn’t waste time crowing over the success of his bluff. He could envision the soldier’s surprise if he should happen to chance upon Townsend back in the camp. Taking the chestnut by the bridle, he backed it away from the picket line, and walking as fast as he could in the darkness, led the animal up away from the river. Behind him, no cry of alarm rang out as the Union cavalry detachment took their leisure, content in the knowledge that extreme vigilance was no longer essential. That’s right boys, he thought, just lay back and enjoy your supper. By the time the lieutenant finds out he’s now on foot, I’ll be long gone.

  He was forced to smile again now as he thought back on that night, and he reached down to stroke the chestnut’s neck. He was a fine judge of horseflesh, even if he did say so himself. The chestnut had taken to his new owner from the first time Clay crawled up on his back. Maybe it was partly because Clay had not thrown a saddle on him, and Red—as Clay had named him—appreciated the feeling of freedom. Looking back on that night later, from the safety of his father’s farm, Clay would wish he had taken the time to look for a saddle. But at that moment, he had felt no comfort in tarrying.

  Young Stephen Culver walked the mule down the path from the upper cornfield. He ambled along behind the animal, which was still in harness, dragging the singletree bumping along in the dust. Before he turned the corner of the barn, he would pick it up and carry it; it annoyed his pa to see the singletree bouncing over the ground. Stephen had put in a good day’s work, plowing a two-acre piece he and his older brother John had cleared. He had stayed with it until late in the afternoon, an hour or so after John and his pa had called it a day. It would be ready for planting tomorrow. Little James, the youngest, could help with that.

  Stephen was justly proud of the job he and his two brothers had done, bringing the farm back to where it was almost as productive as it had been before the war. If they had a good spring, with not too much rain, they should have a prosperous year. And Stephen took special pride in knowing that it was largely due to his being able to take much of the responsibility, since his pa was laid up with rheumatism for long spells at a time.

  Approaching the back corner of the barn now, Stephen reached down and plucked the bouncing singletree from the ground without slowing the mule. As he rounded the corner, his eye caught sight of a lone rider, making his way slowly up from the edge of the river. “Ho, Henry,” Stephen called out to the mule, then stood there for a few moments, trying to identify the visitor. In the late afternoon sun, he found it difficult to make out the stranger’s features at first. He rode a fine-looking horse, but at that distance, it appeared the man rode bareback. So it could hardly be one of those new officials, coming over from Fredericksburg to inspect the farm again. Another hungry wretch, looking for a handout, I expect. They had seen more than a few since the end of the war. This one sure has got himself a fancy horse. Stephen glanced toward the house to see if any of the others had spied the visitor. There was no one on the porch. He looked back at the stranger, who was now approaching the front gate. Suddenly, Stephen’s heart leaped into his throat and he was convinced he was seeing a ghost.

  Standing
dumbfounded, staring at a vision he expected to dissipate into thin air at any second, Stephen dropped Henry’s reins and rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, he realized that it was not a ghost he was seeing—it was his brother Clay, returned from the dead. No longer frozen in his tracks, he started running toward the gate, yelling at the top of his lungs. “Clay! Clay!” Then yelling back at the house, “Pa! Mama! It’s Clay!”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Clay slipped down from his horse to greet his brother, almost being bowled over by the collision as the two hugged and slapped each other on the back. “I swear, John, I hardly recognized you,” Clay said, when he stepped back to look at his brother at arm’s length.

  “I ain’t John. I’m Stephen,” he replied laughing. “I reckon I’ve growed up some since you’ve been gone.”

  “Stephen!” Clay exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be damned. I reckon you have at that.”

  He turned to see the rest of the family running from the house to greet him—John and James leading—with his father and mother hurrying along behind, all four faces shining with joy. The boys almost knocked him down again in their enthusiasm. His mother and father stood beaming, impatiently waiting for the rowdy reunion of their four sons to subside. Then John and Stephen, suddenly aware of their parents’ waiting, stepped back, pulling young James away as well.

  For a moment, Rachael Culver stood quietly smiling, looking into the eyes of her eldest, searching his face as if to assure herself that he was real. “Praise the Lord,” she whispered, and tears began to well up in her eyes as she stepped forward to hug her son. Clay took her in his arms and tenderly embraced her. His father waited until she stepped back again to look at Clay once more.

  “They told us you were dead,” Raymond Culver said. “Said you were killed at Appomattox.”

  “Well, I wasn’t,” Clay replied, smiling, “but there was a time there when I wasn’t sure.”

  His mother, still holding him by the hand while she filled her eyes with the pleasure of her lost son returned, shook her head slowly. “You’re awful thin, son.” Clay only smiled in response.

  “You’re riding a mighty fine-looking horse,” Stephen commented. “Did the army give him to you?”

  “How ’bout putting him in the corral for me,” Clay said, as his mother led him toward the house, “and I’ll tell you about that horse later.”

  “While you’re at it,” John reminded his younger brother, “you’d best unharness that mule, too—unless you’re planning to leave him like that all night.”

  “I mighta been,” Stephen answered with more than a hint of resentment. “Save me the trouble of hitching him up in the morning.” He took the chestnut’s reins and led him away toward the corral while the rest of the family walked Clay to the house.

  Amid the joyous reunion, Clay suddenly realized someone was missing. “Where’s Martha?” he asked.

  An awkward moment of silence followed his question, and he knew immediately that something was wrong. “Where’s Martha?” he repeated.

  John and James hung their heads, seeming to suddenly find the ground calling their attention. His mother gazed directly into his eyes, but reluctant to answer, sadly shook her head and left the chore to his father. “We don’t know where your sister is,” Raymond Culver said.

  Clay was at once alarmed. Martha had always been special to him. The two had been as close as any siblings could be. “What do you mean? Is she gone?” He didn’t like the sadness he now read in his mother’s eyes.

  “A lot’s happened around here since you went off to war, son,” his father said. “Come on up on the porch and set down, and I’ll tell you about your sister.”

  To begin with, the news of Martha’s wedding to Robert Vinings was somewhat of a shock to Clay. Martha had often sought Clay’s advice on many different things, and once she had asked his opinion of Robert. Robert had started calling on Martha a few months before Clay left to join General Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. At the time, Clay had little opinion of the cobbler’s eldest son. He really didn’t know the man. On the few occasions he had been exposed to Robert, he seemed to be a somewhat sober, even plodding, man. Clay was more familiar with Robert’s younger brother Charley, and that was by reputation only. Charley was well known in the taverns in town and was reputed to get into a scrape once in a while. Clay didn’t fancy having Charley for a brother-in-law, if Martha was thinking in such terms. She had been quick to assure him that, although Robert was obviously set on wooing her, she was not sure her feelings for him were of such strength that she would entertain thoughts of marriage. Robert was planning to enlist in the army, anyway, she told Clay, and she had no plans to wed with anyone about to march off to war.

  The news of Martha’s wedding was indeed a great surprise to Clay. Robert had evidently turned out to be a much more ardent suitor when he returned from the army. He had been wounded and said he had been discharged, even though the wound was evidently not a serious one. As if his sister’s wedding was not astonishing enough, he could scarcely believe his ears when his father then told him that Robert and Martha—along with Charley—had packed up and left for the goldfields in Dakota territory.

  “I tried to talk them out of it,” Raymond Culver explained. “But there wasn’t nothing I could say to change their minds. They were going, and that was that.”

  Clay was mystified. “Who put that notion in their heads? What on earth does Robert Vinings know about placer mining?”

  “He don’t know a damn thing,” John answered for his father.

  “Watch your language, son,” Raymond Culver quickly reprimanded.

  “And Charley don’t know much about anything but drinking and fighting,” John added.

  “John’s right. Robert didn’t know anything about mining for gold, but he figured he could learn. So off they went. Robert’s pa fixed ’em up with a team of mules and a wagon. I give ’em as much in the way of supplies as I could—and they took off for Fort Laramie.”

  “Dakota territory,” Clay repeated to himself. “I thought that was Indian territory.” Looking around at the faces of his family, and seeing nothing but looks of dismay, he shook his head solemnly. “That sounds mighty foolhardy to me.” To himself, he was thinking, I should have been here to talk some sense into her.

  He must have displayed an accusing expression, for his father quickly jumped to his own defense. “I tried to talk to them, but it wasn’t no use. They were two grown people, married and free-willed—nothing I could do to stop ’em.”

  “I guess not,” Clay allowed, still of the opinion that he could have somehow influenced his sister, had he been there. He thought about what his father had just told him for a few moments longer before concluding, “So that’s why you don’t know exactly where Martha is now.” Reading more than concern in their faces, he had a sudden feeling that there was more to it than that. “Martha is all right, isn’t she?”

  Raymond Culver glanced briefly at his wife before sighing sadly. “No, son, she ain’t all right. We got a letter from Robert last month saying your sister was took by wild Indians. They burned the cabin they was living in and run off with Martha.”

  Like a blow from a hammer, the news struck Clay right between the eyes. Martha abducted! She may even be dead! At once, he felt a staggering sense of guilt for not being there to protect her. He had always watched over his sister, from the time they were little more than toddlers. He had taught her how to swim, showed her how to catch a fish. It didn’t matter that a rational mind would tell him that he could not possibly have protected his sister when he was half a continent away. He felt responsible for her. Even the news that she had married didn’t change that.

  Recovering from the initial shock of his father’s words, Clay searched Raymond Culver’s eyes, hopefully looking for some sign that there was more to the story, something more encouraging. When there seemed to be nothing more from anyone, he questioned his father. “Where was Robert when the India
ns attacked? And Charley? Why weren’t they killed? Didn’t they try to stop them?”

  Raymond simply shook his head, choked with the emotion of having to relive the tragedy. When it was apparent that his father was too wrought with sorrow to continue, John answered. “All we know, Clay, is what was in Robert’s letter. According to him, both him and Charley were away from the cabin, deer hunting. They didn’t know anything about the raid until they came back and found their cabin burned down . . . and Martha gone.” He paused and shot a quick glance at his mother before adding, “They said there wasn’t no sign of blood or nothing, so they were pretty sure the Injuns just carried her off.”

  “What the hell did Robert do about it? Didn’t they go after her?” Without knowing if he had reason to or not, Clay was already angry with Robert and Charley for permitting Martha to be stolen.

  John shrugged. “All the letter said was that they had tried to track ’em, but they couldn’t catch ’em.”

  Clay sat there in silence for a few minutes. He tried not to picture his sister in captivity, straining to push thoughts of rape and torture aside in order to clear his mind for rational thought. When he had ridden across the Rapidan less than an hour earlier, he was unsure what his immediate plans would be now that he was home again. His mind had been so occupied with the simple objective of returning to his home that he had spent very little thought on anything beyond that. Now there was no longer any uncertainty. He was heading west. If Martha was still alive, he would find her. He would not assign any blame, but unlike the rest of his family, Clay could not be content to rely on the likes of Robert and Charley Vinings.