The Winter Family

by Clifford Jackman

  “Aw, fuck,” Tom said in disgust.

  “Stop, stop!” Reggie sobbed. “Stop it! We’re going to Savannah! We’re going to Savannah!”

  Early lifted the scarf and stood up. Reluctantly, Sevenkiller set the bucket down.

  “Savannah?” Tom said.

  Reggie wept unreservedly.

  “Savannah?” Tom said again. “Not Macon? Or Augusta?”

  “No,” Reggie said, still sniffling. “We’re going between ’em. All the way to the sea.”

  “What kind of strategy is that?” Tom said. “You’re going to just bypass every military target in Georgia? Where are you going to get your supplies?”

  Reggie didn’t say anything.

  “Oh fuck,” Early said. “Captain.”

  But now Jackson saw it. The Union troops were not going to bring their supplies with them. They were going to live off the land. An army of sixty thousand men cutting a path across Georgia, all the way from Atlanta to the sea. Confiscating food and supplies, burning towns, twisting up the railroads. A ribbon of destruction cutting the state in two.

  “All our troops are down in Macon,” Early said, his voice panicked. “Sherman fooled us. There ain’t no one to stop him.”

  “All right,” Tom said. “Let’s go make a plan.”

  “Should we kill them?” Sevenkiller said.

  Tom gave Sevenkiller a strange look.

  “No, leave ’em.”

  “What about just this one?” Sevenkiller said, motioning to Winter and drawing his revolver. “I’ll just shoot him now.”

  “No,” Tom said. “Let him alone. That’s an order.” And then, seeing Bill, who had crept out of the shadows: “You too. Come on.”

  Sevenkiller looked into Winter’s eyes. Pure hatred burned back at him. Sevenkiller felt briefly alarmed. But then he laughed and hummed “Hi-diddly-ho” and holstered his revolver and turned away.

  Bill walked past the two Union soldiers. Slowly. He too looked into Winter’s eyes. He too saw the hatred burning out of them and an electric sensation ran up and down his spine. The boy had not broken. How was that possible? Bill could feel the strength of will, the sense of purpose, radiating off him like heat. Who was this boy? How could he be only a lowly private? Wouldn’t that kind of strength carve its own path in the world? What could contain it? It was so diametrically opposed to Bill’s perception of his own character that he could not help but pause, fascinated, before he headed out of the barn.

  The door to the barn closed behind Bill. The only sound was Reggie weeping and Winter coughing up water and blood on the floor.

  18

  The Confederates assembled in Captain Jackson’s parlor. Sevenkiller entered through the back door. Bill’s hands were tied again and he sat a little apart from the others.

  Tom told Stoga what Reggie had said, and after a pause, Stoga replied.

  “I don’t think it can be true. I don’t think they can go so far without a cracker line. I don’t see how Sherman can leave his wagon trains exposed to raiders from Macon.”

  “He don’t need no goddamn wagon train,” Early said. “He’s going to eat up the goddamn country till he gets to the sea. Then he’s going to get his supplies over the water.”

  “Hrmm,” Stoga said. “But our men are in Macon and Augusta.”

  “That’s the point,” Tom said. “They don’t want to fight our soldiers. The Union forces are deliberately targeting our civilians. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t think so,” Stoga said. “I don’t think that can be happening.”

  Sevenkiller laughed. “Of course it can!” he said. “It happened before. Don’t you remember? It wasn’t so long ago.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Early said.

  “The Cherokee used to live here,” Sevenkiller said. “Not even thirty years ago. Their lands had been promised to them by the government, in treaty after treaty after treaty. But in 1838 they were sent west, to the Indian Territory, and four thousand of them died along the way. That’s how the good people who live here now got their land.”

  “That ain’t the same thing at all,” Early said. “We’re civilized people.”

  “Ah,” Sevenkiller said. “But so were they! They lived on farms and they had their own constitution and newspaper and a Bible in their own language and nice white-man names like John and Richard. And everything was stolen from them, except for a lucky few like my master.”

  “It ain’t the same thing!” Early shouted. “What would a goddamn nigger Indian like you know about it?”

  “Everything.” Sevenkiller giggled. “I would know all about it. Wouldn’t I?”

  “Enough,” Tom said. “This is happening, whether we like it or not. So we need to get the word to Milledgeville, and to Macon too. But first we have something to do.”

  Tom gestured to the map on the table.

  “If we can take out that bridge,” Tom said, “the whole Union Army will be stuck on the west bank of the Ocmulgee. They’ll be exposed to raiders from Macon and they’ll have to eat up their supplies. And it might just buy us enough time to move our army around.”

  “Hrmm,” Stoga said.

  “They’ve got no cracker line and no lines of communication to Washington,” Tom continued. “We can still make the state of Georgia their graveyard. Lieutenant Stoga, I know this is a lot to ask. You and your men have only been free a few days, and I know you want to get back home.”

  “We’ll help,” Stoga said. “We’ll stay with you till the bridge is destroyed.”

  Sevenkiller tittered and said, “It’s a good chance to try out my new toy!”

  No one paid him any mind.

  “All right,” Tom said. With an effort he hauled himself out of his chair.

  “Lieutenant, with all due respect, I think we’ll leave Private Bread here on the farm,” Tom said. “I think he could use a little time to recover.”

  “Hrmm,” Stoga said. “I do not like to leave him alone in a distillery.”

  “Well then,” Tom said, “I suppose we’ll have to tie him up in the barn with the bummers. I hate to do it, but if I can’t trust him in the pantry, I can’t trust him on an errand like this.”

  “All right,” Stoga said.

  Bill looked at the floor and said nothing.

  19

  Meanwhile, at the Williams farm, Mrs. Williams was preparing porridge for a hundred ex-slaves. While she was distracted, Duncan Empire swiped a dozen spoons. They felt cold and hard in his hands as he slipped them into his bag and walked back outside.

  Quentin sat on a chair on the back porch. He was examining a map and speaking with the ex-slaves, including the old man Croesus. None of the ex-slaves had seen a map or knew how to read, so Quentin was asking them questions and writing the answers in a little leather-bound book, stopping frequently to lick the tip of his pen.

  In the distance, plumes of smoke were rising into the air as the railway ties and cotton gins burned. Upon Lieutenant Ross’s orders, Sergeant Service and Sergeant Müller were leading the ex-slaves in the general destruction of the countryside. The lit up anything to do with the cotton industry, flipped over railway tracks and burned the ties, and wrapped white-hot iron rails around the trees. The railway and the cotton fields were legitimate targets of warfare. Still, Sergeant Service had been concerned, particularly with the decision to employ the former slaves, a move guaranteed to inflame local sensibilities.

  Duncan squinted and saw that selfsame Sergeant Service coming up the path from the woods. Duncan’s face gave nothing away, save for a slight contraction around his eyes.

  “How wide is the river?” Quentin asked.

  “Oh,” Croesus said. “Real wide. Say from here all the way to the woods.”

  “Deep? Swift?”

  “Yes sir, and yes sir,” Croesus said. “Can’t get across it with no wagons, that’s for sure.”

  “Many bridges?”

  “No sir,” Croesus replied. “Only one for miles.”
<
br />   “How far?” Quentin said.

  “Oh, many many miles, sir,” Croesus replied. “Lord! Many miles. Got to go many miles before you find another bridge.”

  “Sounds like an important bridge,” Quentin said. “Now, none of you have seen any soldiers for days. Is that right?”

  “No sir,” Croesus said. “They walked through three days ago. They’s going south, to Macon.”

  “Excellent,” Quentin said.

  “There’s some troops still here,” one of the blacks said. A tall, powerful young man.

  Croesus pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head without turning around.

  “Really?” Quentin said. “Where?”

  “Saw one back at the plantation. He had a blue uniform on, though, and he was a black man. But he had straight hair like an Indian.”

  Croesus arched his eyebrows skeptically. The other ex-slaves let out incredulous noises. But Quentin made eye contact with Gordon Service, who was just arriving.

  “Indeed,” Quentin said. “Where did you see this man?”

  Now the black man who had spoken paused.

  “I went back to the plantation.”

  “After you escaped?” Quentin said.

  “What’s your name, boy?” Gordon said.

  The big black did not reply.

  “His name’s Freddy,” Croesus said.

  “That’s just about what I figured,” Gordon said, slinging his rifle off his back.

  “Is there a problem, Sergeant?” Quentin asked.

  “Yeah,” Gordon replied. “This one killed his owner. The word’s all over town.”

  “Is that true?” Quentin asked Johnson.

  For a very long time, Fred Johnson stared at Quentin, his expression desperate, pleading, and wrathful.

  Quentin saw something there he liked.

  “I don’t doubt he had it coming,” Gordon said. “But sensibilities on that particular issue down here are a little touchy. We don’t want to give them the idea that they’ve got to fight till the last man.”

  “It’s all right, Sergeant,” Quentin said.

  “What do you mean?” Gordon said.

  “We’ll deal with it later.”

  “Lieutenant, don’t you think we better deal with it now? The whole town’s talking about it.”

  “We’re here to bring freedom to these people, Sergeant.”

  “Like hell we are!” Gordon said. “Lieutenant! I am sorry, our orders are clear.”

  “I told you, Sergeant,” Quentin said, annoyance creeping into his voice. “The liberation of the slaves is of prime importance to General Sherman.”

  Gordon’s expression hardened.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Lieutenant?”

  Anger darted across Quentin’s face, there and gone, like a rabbit crossing a narrow path.

  “Very well,” Quentin said. He stood up and motioned with his head to Duncan Empire, and the three of them walked over to the edge of the porch.

  Gordon looked oddly calm. He didn’t even acknowledge Duncan; he only said, “Sherman doesn’t give a straw for niggers. And you know it.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Whatever you like,” Gordon said. “Because there’s no fucking way Sherman told you to let it slide if slaves started killing their masters. No way.”

  “Maybe you should watch what you say to your commanding officer,” Duncan said.

  “You aren’t even in the fucking army!” Gordon snapped. “Quentin, you want to turn this nigger loose, then you go right ahead. I’ll follow your goddamn orders. But the general will hear about it.”

  Quentin was unruffled. “Sergeant, that’s quite enough. You’ll follow my orders.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now, take your men and go and secure this bridge that Croesus was telling us about.”

  At this, Gordon lost some of his confidence.

  “Well sir, that’s why I came here. I can’t find Winter and Keller.”

  “You can’t find them?” Quentin asked.

  “They ran off and now they’re gone.”

  “Sergeant!” Quentin said.

  “I know, sir. I’m sorry, but I can’t watch them every moment.”

  “At any rate, we need to secure the bridge,” Quentin said. “Take Duncan and his brothers. And bring that Freddy along with you. I’m sure I needn’t explain to you the importance of that bridge.”

  “Yes sir,” Gordon said.

  Gordon slung his rifle onto his back, stomped off the porch, and shouted at Fred Johnson: “Hey boy! Come with me. Today’s your lucky day.”

  Duncan walked to the other side of the porch, where Charlie and Johnny were rocking back and forth in their chairs and cackling. He had to step around Mrs. Williams.

  “Mrs. Williams!” Quentin said. “Do you have the porridge for our guests?”

  “Lieutenant Ross,” she said, “someone has made off with my spoons!”

  At these words Quentin’s eyes flew wide open. He grinned. And then he started to laugh. He laughed so hard he stumbled back into his chair. He laughed so hard he wept. A couple of the blacks started to laugh as well.

  “Your spoons!” Quentin said. “Your spoons!”

  And he laughed some more.

  20

  Fred Johnson led Gordon and the three Empire brothers into Planter’s Factory. All of the houses were locked and shuttered and the streets were deserted. Charlie began to whistle “Dixie” loudly, and Johnny guffawed. They reached the foot of the bridge without incident. The only sound was of rushing water. Not a soul in sight.

  Gordon felt good when he set his feet upon the bridge. Here was a real object of strategic worth, straightforward and clean, without any of the ambiguity of their mission.

  “All right, boys,” Gordon said. “We’ll stay close to this bank, but we want to get a clean line of fire on anyone sneaking up at us.”

  “Okay sir,” Duncan said. “How about we send my brothers up to the factory for a minute? That’s another important objective.”

  “All right,” Gordon said. “If you hear a shot, come running.”

  Charlie and Johnny winked at Duncan and headed north along the riverbank. Johnson, Gordon, and Duncan walked about one-third of the way across the bridge.

  “Can I be honest with you, Sergeant?” Duncan said.

  “Certainly,” Gordon replied.

  “I’m a little worried you and me are getting off on the wrong foot. That you’ve got the wrong idea about me.”

  “Mister Empire, I don’t have the wrong idea about you,” Gordon said. “To you, this war is nothing more than a license for criminality. I know that, and so does the lieutenant.”

  Duncan stopped walking and so did Gordon.

  “Well now,” Duncan said. “What else is war but the suspension of the regular rules? And why wouldn’t a man seek to profit from that little holiday, if he could?”

  “There are rules of war,” Gordon said.

  “Rules?” Duncan said. “To this here? What we’re doing?”

  “It is not as difficult as you make it seem.”

  “Let me tell you something, sir,” Duncan said. “You think the rules are vague by accident? Uncle Billy knows we’re out here breaking the rules. He sets our quotas too high to fill by following the rules. So he makes sure the army’s fed and the people here feel the pain of war, but if the country gets too riled up, he’ll have us hung. The rules are for his protection, not yours. The rules will not save you, not on this campaign.”

  “I will tell our commanding officers what Lieutenant Ross has got up to,” Gordon said. “It will be up to them to decide.”

  “About what?” Duncan said. “This nigger?” Duncan pointed his rifle at Johnson. “Say the word, sir.”

  Johnson’s whole body tensed.

  “Lower your gun,” Gordon said.

  “You think it will save you if you tattle on Quentin?” Duncan said. “They’ll either ignore you or hang you with h
im. No, Sergeant Service. We need a lighter touch. You trust me. We’re all in this together. I’ll get us through this. I don’t want to get hung any more than you do.”

  “Trust you?” Gordon said. “I don’t think so. Mister Empire, I’ve heard quite enough. You and your brothers will obey the lieutenant. When he tells you to obey me, you’ll do that too. And in my company, you will follow the field orders. Understood?”

  Duncan smiled. The lines around his eyes were very hard.

  “Duly noted,” he said, and raised his rifle and shot Gordon in the face. The back of the sergeant’s head blew off and he crumpled to the earth without a sound.

  “Lord!” Johnson exclaimed, raising his hands to his face.

  “He won’t help you, sonny,” Duncan said. “Either He doesn’t care or He’s dead.”

  Duncan pointed his rifle at Johnson, but before he could pull the trigger, a bullet struck the wood at his feet. Startled, he swung his rifle toward the west end of the bridge, and in an instant, Johnson was moving. He was up and over the bridge’s rail before Duncan could turn back.

  “Limber son of a bitch, aren’t you?” Duncan said.

  Two more shots cracked into the wood around him, and he felt one whistle past his head. The muzzle flashes were coming from the woods on the far side of the bridge. Duncan had no cover, so he too jumped into the water.

  Spluttering, Duncan broke the surface and swam to the shore, where he climbed up the bank and took shelter behind the stone mill. Very briefly, he peeked around the edge of the building and saw four men sprinting onto the bridge. One of them, a small black, was carrying a box on his back.

  “Looks like we’re in for some action after all,” Duncan said.

  He made his way up the gentle slope to the main street of the town, where he met with Johnny and Charlie Empire. Both of them were carrying large sacks that made clanking noises as they moved.

  “What happened?” Charlie said.

  “What do you think happened, you motherless bastard?” Duncan said. “The rebs took us by surprise. The sergeant is dead. Now run! We’ve got to get to Quentin before those rebel whores chop that bridge down.”