Riley and I started after her. It’s hard to explain why we went. Maybe we thought giving the soldiers two more targets would give Jane a better chance. Maybe we couldn’t stand doing nothing while she got herself killed.
As I took my first step, I heard our men start shooting, trying to protect Jane. I ran as hard as I could, but tripped, fell, and rolled. By the time I had scrambled to my feet, Jane and Riley had gotten to the wounded man. They were on their bellies trying to drag him into a shallow weedy ditch on the near side of the road. As I ran toward them, I could feel the air around me moving and humming with bullets. It was like running through a swarm of bees without being stung.
I knew at any moment one of the bullets might hit me in the head, blowing my brains out one side. Or one might rip into my guts, or shatter the bones in a leg. Then I would be screaming, bleeding, and dying hard like the poor bastard Jane was trying to help. This was as close to death as I had ever been. So I should have been crazy with fear, shitting-my-pants fear. Instead, I felt laughter coming up from deep down inside, the silly laughter of a boy playing games.
That feeling went away, popped like a soap bubble, when I landed in the ditch. Then I was scared again, dry-as-dust thirsty, guts in knots, my skin trying to crawl off the bones, and my right knee hurting like hell from landing on a rock. I rose up as much as I dared and saw Jane and Riley had the wounded man down in the ditch. He had stopped screaming, and his clothes, neck to knees, were soaked with blood. Jane was next to him, her ear close to his mouth, which was moving a little. Staying low, I crawled in the ditch to them and looked at Riley. He was saying something to me, but I couldn’t make it out for all the shooting.
“What?” I shouted and cupped a hand at my ear.
“Glad you could make it,” he shouted and smiled.
I smiled back at him and shouted, “You OK?”
He nodded. I looked at Jane. She appeared unhurt. But with so much blood on her clothes, I wasn’t sure. I slapped her on one boot to get her attention. When she looked at me, I shouted, “You OK?” She nodded.
Some shots hit close by, throwing up a bunch of dirt and rocks. I ducked. When I looked up, Riley was wiping the dirt from his face, and there was a little trickle of blood on his forehead. He shouted, “Goddammit!”
“Riley,” Jane shouted, just as loud. “Don’t curse!”
He looked at her and started laughing. I started laughing too. Jane looked back and forth between us, puzzled. Then she started laughing. We laughed like three crazy people until Riley shouted, “Ready?”
“Go!” I shouted. We popped up, fired at the soldiers, and ducked down again. They fired back, kicking up even more dirt around us.
Riley and I did that for a while: popping up, shooting, and ducking. We knew we had to keep the soldiers shooting at us while some of our men got around behind them. At least, that’s what I hoped they were doing.
Jane kept talking to the wounded man, who just stared up at the sky.
Finally, we heard a different kind of shots in the woods across the road. The soldiers stopped firing at us. There was a scream and a few more shots. Then silence.
I reckoned it was over and began to stand up. But Jane screamed, “No!” and waved me down. I took cover. Just then, another burst of fire came out of the woods, slicing through the air just above my head.
When I stood up again, I saw a soldier running out of the trees. He dropped his rifle, and ran straight down the middle of road, pumping his arms and legs real wild. Stupid panic. Riley stood up, took aim, and put a shot into the man’s back, a little right of center. The soldier staggered a few steps, fell hard on his knees and hands, and crawled a few feet before collapsing.
Some of our men ran to the ditch to help our wounded man. But he was dead. It was really over now.
My knee hurt, and I felt confused, lightheaded and thirsty. I just wanted to sit down and drink cool water until the spring went dry. Jane stood on the road and watched as our man was carried into the woods to be buried. She was covered in dirt and his blood, but she was unhurt. Then she looked at me and smiled.
She had saved my life, but I was angry. She could’ve died. What she had done was stupid, crazy. But it was useless to tell her that. Jane was not some excited kid who had to be taught not to take foolish chances. She was something else, something for which I didn’t have a name.
So I just said, “Why?”
“Nobody ought to die alone.”
I nodded.
So it happened that way. Maybe I should’ve told those men what I’ve told you. But I suspect it wouldn’t have done any good. The story of Jane saving that man was just too good. And in the telling and retelling, a good story grows and grows into something bigger. The bigger story becomes easier to believe. Then it is too late to go back.
CHAPTER 14
We were searching the bodies of soldiers after an ambush and Riley said, “This one’s alive.” He took a deep breath and pulled out his knife.
“Stop,” Jane said. We all looked at her, wondering what the hell she was doing.
We didn’t take prisoners. We couldn’t. We didn’t have any place keep them or spare men to guard them. We had to kill them or leave them to die of their wounds. But not this time.
A bullet had creased the soldier’s skull, knocking him cold. Jane had us haul him away, bound and blindfolded, of course, to the cellar of an old house. Somebody put some bandages on his head wound, but it wasn’t until the next day that he woke up. Then he raised all kinds of hell, trying to get loose, shouting and cursing. The only time he shut up was when somebody fed him.
When Jane went down to talk to him, he was sitting slumped forward in a chair, his hands bound behind him. His uniform was dirty and torn. As we walked down the creaking stairs, he lifted his blindfolded head. His mouth was set a hard thin line.
Jane sent the men who were guarding him upstairs and took off the prisoner’s blindfold. He squinted and blinked getting used to even the dim lamplight in the cellar. It took a few moments, but finally he got a good look at Jane.
“Who the fuck are you?” His voice sounded dry.
Jane asked Riley to get some water and a clean cloth. After cleaning his face, she gave him a long drink of water. Then she sat down facing him.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said.
I wanted to hit him, teach him some manners, and took a step forward. Riley was doing the same. But Jane gave us a look that said, No.
“I have some questions,” she said.
“Marcus Hobbes, First Lieutenant, U.S. Army, serial number 58932923.”
“My name is Jane Darcy. God has called me to save my people from their enemy, the United States.”
Laughing, he said, “You Hillbillies are crazy.”
“Don’t you believe in God, Lieutenant Hobbes?”
“No,” he said and spat on the floor at her feet. There was blood in his spittle.
“Why not?”
“What did your God do about the Plague? Nothing. What has God done since then? Nothing. God’s a story for children. God’s a joke. There is no God. We’re on our own.”
I expected her to argue. Instead, she just said, “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” He sounded a little unsure.
“Taking our land.”
“We’re not taking your land. We’re the Government of the United States of America. This is U.S. territory. If you resist lawful authority, we have to use force.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“We’re the Government of--”
“That government died 26 years ago.”
“We’re rebuilding. The United States of America was a great nation. And it can be again.”
“And you’re going to get it all back, from ocean to ocean?”
“Yes, from ocean to ocean. One nation.”
“What if we don’t want to be part of your nation?”
“They all say the same thing.” He spat again on the
floor.
“We’re different. We’ll fight for our freedom. God is--”
He laughed and said, “Another freedom fighter. They all say that too.”
Again, I expected her to argue, but she only said, “So when everyone is forced to be in your nation, what then Lieutenant?”
“What do you mean?”
“Once you conquer everyone you call ‘Americans,’ you’ll be very powerful. But will you have a great nation?”
“Before the Plague,” he said, “Three hundred million Americans were the richest people on earth. Now there’s only thirty or forty million and most wonder if they’ll survive the next winter. You know why?”
“Tell me.”
“There’s no law and order. Law and order make everything possible. I’m from New York City. Ever heard of it?”
Jane nodded.
“Before the Plague,” he said, “New York was the biggest, richest city in America. After, it was hell on earth. Worse than any hell your damn preachers can invent. I’ve seen things you can’t imagine.”
Jane just sat, waiting for him to go on.
“All we had was hunger and fear,” he said. “For years, we were nothing but animals. Then the Government came. It fed us. Soldiers gave me my first decent meal, my first warm coat. The Government started schools. I learned to read and write. Do you know how to do that girl?”
She shook her head.
“Of course, you don’t,” he said. “The government of the United States did that for me, for millions of us. It gave us a future. And how? Law and order. Law and order make it possible to walk down a street without fear of being robbed or raped or murdered. Law and order make it possible to grow crops and to build factories. Law and order will make America a great nation again.”
“So that’s it,” she said, “law and order?”
“Yes. In Government territory, we have schools, roads, hospitals, and even some electricity. You ignorant Hillbillies ought to beg us to become citizens again. Instead, you fight us.” He spat on the floor.
“Why do you think we fight?”
“Too fucking stupid and backward to know better.”
“No. We just want to be free.”
“Freedom is bullshit,” he said. “Right now, you’re free to be hungry, free to be ignorant, and free to die young.”
“Our lives are hard, but there’s no one giving us orders, telling us how to live.”
“Somebody’s always giving orders. Without those orders, people will tear each other apart like starving rats. I know. I’ve seen it. Your Charles Winslow gives orders and your preachers tell you how to live. If you ask them why, they’ll say, ‘God says.’ But when we tell you how to live, we don’t hide behind a lie.”
“God is not a lie.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he said, laughing. “You talk with God.”
She glared at him.
“Tell me this,” he said. “When this is over, won’t Winslow and the preachers tell you, ‘Go home little girl, fuck your cousin, and make babies?’”
I wanted to hit the bastard, smash his head.
“And they’ll say,” he continued, “‘God wants it that way.’”
She didn’t say anything. It was the first time I had ever seen someone shut her up.
“But is that what you want?” he said. “Do you really want to be barefoot and pregnant in a cold, filthy shack for the rest of your life?”
“What I want is nothing. Only God’s will matters.”
“You just proved my point. The preachers have you fooled. Completely fooled.”
“Lieutenant, you don’t know anything about God or my people. And you don’t know anything about me, or about what I want. I know what God requires of me.”
“Well, I do know you people always kill your prisoners. So sooner or later, one of you will shoot me in the back of the head or cut my throat. So fuck you and fuck God. Fuck all of you.”
Jane sat looking at him with a sad expression. Then she looked away and sat up straight as though she were somewhere else, listening to a voice only she could hear.
She stood up and told Riley to put the blindfold back on Hobbes. Then she grabbed me by the arm and charged up the stairs.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to write a letter.”
I wrote down what she said. I had to stop her often because I couldn’t keep up. When she finished, I read it back to her. She changed nothing.
This is what the letter said.
To the So-Called Restored USA:
My name is Jane. God sent me to protect my people and to bring you a Message. Go home. Leave us alone. We have a God-given right to be free. We have God’s law. We do not need your law and order. Do not die to enslave us. Do not die in an unjust cause. If you do not believe God’s Message, you will die. God is with us and against you. If you obey God, you will be forgiven.
Go home. Leave us alone. Do not die and be damned for eternity.
IN THE NAME OF GOD, WE WILL PREVAIL
When we were done, I copied it out as neat as I could. I asked Jane how she planned to send it to the Government.
“The prisoner,” she said.
“The prisoner?”
“Remember what David Winslow did with the man he didn’t hang? He sent that man to spread the word. That’s what we’ll do with Lieutenant Hobbes. We’ll send him back with the letter.”
“Jane, are you sure? He probably knows a lot. Shouldn’t we make him tell us about what their army is doing? And, I don’t know, their weapons and such.”
“Remember what Jesus was always saying to the disciples?”
“What?”
“O Ye of little faith.” She picked up the letter and went to tell the officer in charge of the militia unit what she wanted.
Then Jane and I went back to the cellar. I removed Hobbes’s blindfold.
“We’re letting you go,” she said. “Deliver this letter to your leaders.”
“Letter?” he said, blinking in the light.
She held up the folded page and put it in his shirt pocket. “Deliver my letter. Tell them about me. Tell them what I said. I want them to know God has sent a Messenger.”
“What’s the trick?”
“No trick,” Jane said. “We let you go, and then you get back to your army. Deliver the letter. Tell them about me. Do your duty.”
He narrowed his eyes as if trying to see what was wrong with this.
Two men came. They put the blindfold back on Hobbes and took him up the stairs.
I heard Hobbes shout, “Hey Jane! Jane Darcy!” He must’ve wanted to say something else to her. But she gave no sign of hearing that, so I let it pass. I wanted to talk to her.
“Are you sure about this?” I said. “Now they’ll know who you are and what you look like. The Government will try to get you like it tried to get Winslow with the airplanes.”
“That’s right,” she said.
About two weeks later, someone brought in one of the signs being posted by the soldiers in the towns and villages. It offered a reward for “information leading to the capture ‘Jane Darcy.’” The sign said what she looked like and how she wore men’s clothing. It also warned she was “armed and dangerous.” It had a drawing of her--a squarish face with a mean scowl, framed by short scruffy hair.
When I read what it said to Riley and Jane, they had a good laugh. “Do you think I look like that?” Jane said, pointing to the drawing, “I mean, she’s so . . . unfriendly.”
“Well,” Riley said, “she is armed and dangerous.” And they laughed some more.
I didn’t think it was funny. Now the Government was hunting her. She was in more danger than ever.
Jane saw I wasn’t laughing. “Think what this means,” she said. “All the people who see this sign will know I’m not scared of the Government. And then they’ll all know they shouldn’t be scared either.”
I couldn’t think of what to say. I knew how to fight. I had killed. Yet I was afraid to die. I cou
ld master that fear for a while, but I was still afraid. I understood, at last, she was not.
CHAPTER 15
“Hiding it can be a mite tricky,” said the man and he began to lay twigs and leaves across the hole he had dug. “Make it look like solid ground, so maybe they’ll step there.”
At the bottom of the hole was a board with big rusty nails sticking straight up. When a soldier stepped in the hole, the nails would go right through his boot, up into his foot. It hurt just to think about it.
The man looked up at us and smiled. His name was Cosgrove, and he had a friendly face.
“Put some shit on the nails,” he said. “Just dip ‘em in a pile. Betcha that soldier’s foot will swell up bad, maybe have to get cut off. Maybe get the blood poisoning and die. Anyway, one less soldier boy we gotta shoot.” He grinned.
Jane had been squatting next to Cosgrove. Standing up, she looked around at us and said, “What’s important is making the soldiers afraid, afraid even to walk on our land.” Campbell had told us this same thing.
Solemn as deacons, we all nodded our agreement. I wouldn’t have been surprised if somebody had said, “Amen.” Then Jane squatted again and told Cosgrove to go on. We all leaned in, trying to get a good look.
I turned to say something to Riley. But he wasn’t there. I looked around and saw he was leaning up against a tree, away from the crowd. I went over to him. He didn’t look happy.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“I wonder if this is such a good idea.”
“Why?”
Riley scratched his beard for a moment. “One time I was hunting with Daddy and Uncle Dewey. You remember me talking about Uncle Dewey?”
“Sure. The story about the skunk. But what’s this got to do with--”
“Hang on. We was hunting, and our dogs got after this bear. Big old bastard. Six maybe seven hundred pounds. Dogs cornered him. While one dog came from the front, a couple others would tear at the bear’s backside. Bear would roar and turn around, but that dog would get out of reach. Then the other dog would go at him from behind. So on.”
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