The Winter Family

by Clifford Jackman

  Quentin turned around, smiling. Gordon looked as if he’d swallowed a handful of porcupine quills. If anyone had looked at Augustus Winter he would have seen a flicker of knowledge in his eyes again, before they darkened as if someone had drawn a shutter.

  “Lieutenant Ross, I’m not sure about what you just said,” Gordon said.

  “Why?” Quentin said. “I thought those truths were self-evident.”

  “I mean the ending part, sir.”

  “I thought that part most self-evident of all,” Quentin said. “The laws of war are as true as the principles of the multiplication tables.”

  “But sir,” Gordon said. “The field orders were pretty clear. We’re not to enter dwellings or commit trespass and only the corps commanders can give the order to destroy buildings, and we’re to refrain from abusing or threatening the—”

  “Yes, yes,” Quentin interrupted. “I am as familiar with the field orders as you, Sergeant. But have you not been listening to what Sherman has actually been saying these past few weeks?”

  “Well …,” Gordon began.

  “Sherman said that we are fighting a war against anarchy, for the highest stakes. To avoid the fate of Mexico! He told the mayor of Atlanta that to reason with us was like appealing against a thunderstorm! He said that war, like the thunderbolt, follows its laws and turns not aside even if the virtuous stands in its path.”

  “Well, yes sir,” Gordon said.

  “Did he not say that war is cruelty and you cannot refine it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That the people of the South were barred from appealing to our constitution and laws for protection? That they had instead appealed to war and would have to abide by its principles? That he would impress upon the citizens of the Confederacy that their government was unable to protect them? That he would, in short, make Georgia howl? Are those declarations not inconsistent with these field orders?”

  “Well, even if they are, sir, I don’t know if I’m comfortable disregarding them.”

  “Indeed,” Quentin said. “Quite sensible, except for this. Once General Sherman cut us loose from the main column and sent us ahead, he specifically told me that his field orders were only for show.”

  “For show?” Gordon said.

  “Yes,” Quentin said. “He told me the whole army would have to improvise and live off the land. Proper intelligence and adequate supplies are vital, and so is our mission to break the spirit of the South. This has two components. First, we must do great damage to the foundation of the Confederacy. The fields and farms that feed and clothe their armies are legitimate military targets, as are the factories and railroads. Second, we must convince them of the hopelessness of their cause. We shall do this by bringing to their very hearth and homes the horror of war. I know it seems harsh, Sergeant, but you have fought with me in great battles. What right have these people, having brought this war upon us, to escape the consequences of their actions?”

  “Well …,” Gordon said.

  “Those are my orders, Sergeant,” Quentin said. “Straight from General Sherman himself. Now please, assemble your men, then meet me and Sergeant Müller so we can plan our next move.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Gordon glanced into the crowd of blacks before he went back inside. His gaze fell upon the big loner in the back. The freedman’s expression was cold and satisfied.

  Once inside, he attempted to assemble his men. But he found that Augustus Winter was gone.

  16

  After Winter left the Williams property he made his way north-east until he came out of the woods into a large hayfield. The grass grew a little higher than his hip, and as he walked he ran his hands over the tops of the plants. Sometimes he would tighten his fingers and come away with handfuls of seeds, which he inspected before letting them trickle away.

  The wind was cold and the sky was gray and the air seemed pregnant with rain.

  Eventually he reached a wall, only a couple of feet high, made with flat stones fitted together without cement. On the other side of the wall was a shallow muddy creek, smooth and silent. Winter climbed on top of the wall and stretched his arms to balance himself. Mindful of the unfixed stones, he walked along the wall. When he gained confidence, he looked up at the horizon and felt the wind on his face as he made his way between the field and the creek toward a dark line of trees.

  “Auggie! Hey! Auggie!”

  Reggie was coming toward him through the field.

  “There you are!” Reggie said.

  Winter hopped off the wall and walked over.

  “Sergeant Service sent me looking for you,” Reggie said. “Why’d you run off?”

  Winter had his usual air when someone asked him a question—as if he was mentally considering whether giving an answer would compromise his position.

  “I didn’t like all the talk,” Winter said.

  “You didn’t like the lieutenant’s speech?” Reggie asked.

  “I just don’t like that kind of talk,” Winter said. “Fancy talk. In the mouth of the foolish is a rod of pride. Proverbs fourteen, verse three.”

  “Boy,” Reggie said, “you got a Bible saying for all occasions.”

  Reggie plucked a strand of grass from the ground, cleaned it carefully, and put it in his mouth to chew. He then prepared another one for Winter, who took it. They walked back toward the Williams property.

  Winter chewed the grass, taking it out of his mouth only to spit. He always seemed to be looking at something very far away on the horizon.

  “I thought it was a pretty good speech,” Reggie said. “It sure did get the niggers all riled up. Did you hear ’em hollering? Why didn’t you like it?”

  Winter gave Reggie another one of his searching looks. In Reggie’s friendly countenance he saw nothing to fear.

  “I’ve spent a lot of years listening to a lot of fancy talk. One day I realized there wasn’t anything to it. A man can say anything. It’s as easy as breathing. I can say the sky’s green or that fish can talk. It’s just air. That’s all. A man gets tired of it.”

  After this speech, Winter retreated into himself like a hermit crab.

  “Lieutenant Ross does love the sound of his own voice,” Reggie said. “But who don’t? I guess you. You treat your words like they cost you a dollar each. You got a Bible saying for that?”

  Now there was a rare occurrence: a thin smile from Winter. “A fool uttereth all his mind: but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards.”

  “There you go, Auggie,” Reggie said. “That’s how you do it.”

  There was the barest rustling in the hay behind them, and Sevenkiller stood up, pointing his enormous revolver straight at Winter. “Well,” he said, “hidey-ho there, young fellows. Hidey, hidey, hidey ho.”

  Early came up out of the grass in front of them holding a rifle. “Don’t try nothing funny,” he said.

  Reggie whimpered and put up his hands. Winter did the same.

  Early walked toward Winter, while Sevenkiller approached Reggie. When Early got within striking distance Winter made a queer sound, like a small rodent that had gone mad with fear, and whipped his rifle off his back and swung it at Early like a club. Early’s shoulder absorbed most of the blow. He grunted and lunged at Winter and wrestled him to the ground.

  “You little pecker,” Early snarled, then Winter bit his hand.

  “Oh Jesus fuck!” Early shrieked, ripping his hand away. Winter scratched at Early’s cheek and screamed, a high sound filled with fear and fury.

  Early punched Winter’s face, over and over again. After a few solid shots on the chin, Winter went limp. Early gasped for breath, and relaxed, and looked up at Sevenkiller. Before he could speak, Winter, his face a bloody wreck, smashed Early across the ear with a rock.

  Early was knocked clean off Winter, who staggered to his feet, then stumbled like a drunk back to his knees, and finally keeled over on his side and lay still.

  Reggie had not moved. He stood stock-still, his ha
nds in the air and his eyes wide.

  Sevenkiller had his gun trained on Reggie’s head. He had watched the battle between Early and Winter with amazement. Now his gaze turned back to Reggie.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Sevenkiller said.

  17

  When Winter regained consciousness, he was tied to a chair in a dark barn. Dirt floor, thin gray wooden walls. The only light what leaked through the cracks between the boards. It smelled dank, like a place where things had died, and it was silent, except for Reggie whimpering and the intermittent spatter of rain against the wood.

  “Auggie?” Reggie whispered.

  Winter lifted his head and felt pain, as if there was a fork in his brain and someone had twisted it. He lowered his head and threw up between his feet.

  “Auggie, be quiet!” Reggie said, his voice so high it was a wonder it didn’t break. “Auggie, please!”

  Winter forced himself to lift his head in spite of the pain and looked at Reggie, who was tied to another chair about five feet away.

  “You have to be quiet,” Reggie whispered.

  “Why?” Winter said. “I don’t reckon they forgot they put us in here.”

  “Shh!”

  “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know,” Reggie whispered. “They took us over a bridge. Then we left the road and I got lost on the paths. I’m afraid they’re going to kill us.”

  Winter didn’t say anything to this.

  “Auggie, do you think they’ll kill us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’re prisoners of war, aren’t we?” Reggie said. “They can’t just kill us.”

  “They can do anything they like to us,” Winter said.

  “No they can’t,” Reggie said. “There’s rules to war.”

  “Yeah,” Winter replied. “And a lot of time they get broken.”

  Reggie gave Winter a reproachful look, a beseeching look. But Winter turned away. There was no real comfort he could give.

  Winter flared his nostrils. “Why does it smell like ice cream in here?”

  Something stirred at the other side of the barn. Reggie let out a little cry.

  “Who’s there?” Winter said.

  “It’s Bill,” a voice said, sounding unsteady. “Who are you?”

  Winter did not say anything.

  A man came out of the darkness. A small Indian, young, shaking as if with fever, his shirt stained with vomit and reeking of vanilla.

  “Who are you?” Bill said. “Are you Yankees?”

  “Don’t say nothing,” Winter said to Reggie.

  “It’s not me you have to worry about,” Bill said, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “What is the matter with your eyes?”

  The barn door swung inward. The sky was gray and the light was relatively dim but it was still blinding, and both Reggie and Winter squirmed in their chairs. Bill held up his hands to shield his eyes and stumbled, groaning, back into the darkness.

  “Well fucking well,” Early said as he came inside. “Look who’s woken up.”

  Captain Jackson followed behind, limping on his crutch.

  “Thought you were real tough, didn’t you? Don’t feel so tough now, though, I’ll reckon.”

  Reggie’s eyes were leaking, and he was making a lot of noise breathing, like he’d been running. Winter was not in much better shape. But there was something defiant in his manner, too, as if he had been in this barn before, and he was used to it, and he was bracing himself for something terrible but not unfamiliar.

  “I asked you a question, boy!” Early shouted.

  Both Reggie and Winter flinched but neither of them spoke.

  Early’s belt slithered out from around his waist and the buckle snapped against Winter’s face. He gave a cry and turned away.

  “You feel like biting me now, boy?”

  Winter looked back at Early and his eyes were wide with fear but burning with hatred.

  “Fuck you,” Winter said.

  “You weren’t kidding,” Tom said. “You got yourself a kicker.”

  “He’s a fucking baby,” Early said. “You think you’re tough ’cause you don’t know how bad it can get.”

  At this, Winter actually smiled. It was not for show, but a real smile, a reflex. His lip had been smashed and his teeth were bloody. “Try me.”

  Early stepped forward, went down on one knee, windmilled his arm, and punched Winter in the stomach. Winter released an explosion of air then retched.

  “You’re sickening,” Early said. “You make me sick.”

  “All right,” Tom said. “That’s enough for now.”

  He came forward as Early reluctantly stepped back.

  “I’m Captain Tom Jackson. I guess you boys are bummers with Sherman’s army. Is that right?”

  Winter was still whooping and retching, so Tom looked at Reggie.

  Reggie nodded.

  “What are you doing all the way out here?” Tom asked.

  “We’re foraging for the army,” Reggie said. “It’s allowed, according to the rules of war.”

  “You fucking thieves,” Early said. “Looting and burning our homes! Whyn’t you fight our soldiers if you’re so concerned about the rules of war?”

  Reggie started to cry.

  “I was just following orders,” he said.

  “All right,” Tom said. “Where’s the army headed?”

  Reggie hesitated and looked at Winter, who was only now recovering. Then he said, “Macon.”

  “Bullshit,” Early said.

  Tom put his hand to his sandy beard.

  “You’re going to tell us the truth,” Early said, jabbing his finger at Reggie.

  “That is the truth!” Reggie cried. “I swear.”

  “It’s a fucking lie,” Early said. “You’re too far east.”

  Reggie glanced at Winter.

  “Don’t you say nothing, Reggie,” Winter said.

  Early smacked Winter, hard, with the back of his hand, and Winter’s chair fell to the side and he hit his head. Winter let out another high cry of pain. When Early loomed over him he shrank in fear.

  “All right,” Early said, “let’s get this over with.”

  He trooped off to the far corner of the room and came back with a bucket sloshing full of water. Winter looked at the bucket, uncomprehending, until Early seized him by the hair, lifted him up together with the chair, and dunked his head into it. Winter struggled and made desperate noises. After about forty seconds Early pulled his head back out.

  “Still don’t have anything to say?” Early demanded.

  Winter gasped for air. Fear was clearly written on his face. But he said nothing, so Early jammed his head back into the bucket.

  Tom stood with his arms folded across his chest.

  Reggie was crying with his mouth open.

  The dunking continued until it was interrupted by a voice:

  “You’re doing it wrong.”

  Tom and Early started.

  Sevenkiller had come into the barn without making a sound. He was smiling and gripping a scarf between his hands.

  “He’ll break,” Early said.

  “No he won’t,” Sevenkiller replied. “You’re just taking away his air. He knows you’ll give it back. You need to put him on his back, so you make his gorge rise. Go on. Put him on his back. I’ll show you.”

  Early frowned but tilted Winter’s chair so it lay on its back. Winter stared at the ceiling and breathed, breathed, breathed while he still could.

  “Put this over his face,” Sevenkiller said and handed Early the scarf.

  Early pressed the scarf down on Winter’s nose and mouth.

  “Now watch this,” Sevenkiller said. “It’s such a very little thing.”

  A stream of water splashed down over Winter’s nose and mouth. Almost immediately his whole body went into convulsions. It was a sensation totally unlike being able to breathe. He had never felt anything like it.

  “Oh my god,” Tom
said.

  “Hidee-lee, hidee-lee,” Sevenkiller hummed.

  Winter strained against the ropes. It was like there was a pulsing, writhing thing inside his chest, like he was being turned inside out. He started to weep but he couldn’t breathe. His face turned brick red and his eyes popped out and everything else jerked and twitched. It went on and on.

  From the darkness, forgotten by everyone, Bill watched without much emotion. He had seen worse: men blown apart and screaming for their mothers in absurd, high-pitched voices. Men weeping as their limbs were sawn off by doctors. Men turning waxy and yellow as they bled out through their guts. That was all much worse than this. It would not go on long. The boy would break. Everyone did. It was the hardest lesson of war: that men were their bodies, not their spirits, and there was much that the body could not bear, no matter how strong the spirit.

  The flow of water stopped and the scarf was removed.

  “You want to talk now, young man?” Sevenkiller said.

  It was a narrow thing. It could have gone either way. Winter almost surrendered. Tears trickling down his cheeks, and he was scared. But he’d been prepared for this moment, this pain, this darkness. He was ready. All they were doing was baptizing him. Pushing him further and further into the man he was going to be.

  “All right,” Sevenkiller said.

  The rag pressed down over Winter’s mouth and the water came.

  Winter made a howling noise of agony and thrashed from side to side, trying to escape. But his eyes locked onto Sevenkiller’s, and they were not growing more desperate. As the strain, the stress, the pain grew, those eyes became harder and harder, like coals being transformed into diamonds by pressure.

  Sevenkiller, in spite of himself, felt uneasy.

  The water stopped. The rag came off. Winter inhaled in a scream and let out a choked sob.

  “Tell us!” Sevenkiller barked. “It’s never going to stop!”

  Here it comes, thought Bill.

  “Kill you,” Winter gasped.

  The scarf came down again.

  Winter bucked in the chair so desperately, with all of his muscles firing blindly, his limbs flailing in a reflexive attempt to escape, that his forearm snapped like a twig. The sound of it was clearly audible.