When Johnny made as if to drop his sack, Duncan shouted, “You drop that and I’ll kick your teeth in, you dumb ox! It’s worth more to me than you are.”
They sprinted out of town, into the fields, where the fires were raging.
The largest pillar of smoke, so thick and massive it might have been supporting the sky, was also the closest. Quentin was directing a company of Negroes in burning a field of cotton. Sparks leapt up into the air, glittering to life and winking out into darkness a moment later. Great sheets of ash wafted high on the hot wind and drifted across the horizon.
Duncan arrived first, well ahead of his brothers and only slightly out of breath.
“The rebels have taken the bridge,” Duncan said. “Sergeant Service is dead.”
Quentin, who had been grinning at the holocaust before him, started at this sudden arrival. His eyes looked very large and white in his soot-stained face.
“Pardon me?” he said.
“Lieutenant Ross, the rebs have taken the bridge and it’s a safe bet they’re going to try to burn it down. We got to get over there just as soon as we can.”
Quentin turned to the old man Croesus, who was watching the cotton burn with sad satisfaction.
“Croesus, my good man,” he said. “Spread the word! The rebels are here! They’ve killed one of my men, and they’re destroying a critical bridge! We need every able-bodied Negro to rally to the Union’s banner! Go quickly now! There isn’t much time!”
Croesus ran off, shouting across the fields.
The other Empire brothers arrived. Their sacks clanked when they hit the ground.
“Where is big Freddy?” Quentin asked.
“Ran off,” Duncan said, his eyes glinting.
Quentin arched an eyebrow. “Strange of him to do that in hostile territory,” he said.
Duncan turned and motioned to Charlie and Johnny, and they backed off. When they were gone, he said, “You had two problems before, and now you have none.”
“Sergeant Service wasn’t a problem,” Quentin said.
“Sure he was,” Duncan said. “He would have found out about your little games sooner or later. Like in the cottage.”
To this, Quentin said nothing, but his face drained of any human emotion, so that it looked as if it were carved out of wax.
Duncan laughed. “Did you forget about that already? Well, I won’t forget anytime soon. But you can trust me. You and I both know what this is. We’re both having our fun. You in your way, and me in mine. So live and let live, I say, and we’ll both get through this all right, when things go back to normal.”
Only then did Quentin react. A short spasm flashed across his features. A look, for an instant, of dismay.
Duncan raised his eyebrows.
“Something the matter, sir?” he said.
“I thought …,” Quentin started.
“You thought what, Lieutenant?”
“I thought you would be different,” he said.
“Than who?”
“You sound so eager for the war to be over,” Quentin said.
Duncan threw back his head and laughed. “Of course!” he said. He kicked one of the sacks and it clanked. “What would I do with all this if the war never ended?” he asked. “Who’d buy it from me if they knew I could break down his door an hour later and take it back? Who’d buy anything from anyone, for that matter?”
Quentin did not reply.
“You enjoy your little holiday,” Duncan said. “And after the war what you do is your own business. But I’m going to set myself up as a gentleman of leisure once this is all over. And you’re not going to stand in my way any more than Service did. Do you follow me?”
Just then Sergeant Müller arrived with the rest of the soldiers, and Croesus returned at the head of a crowd of ex-slaves. Quentin’s face reassembled into an expression of relaxed confidence. He turned to address them, raising his hands.
“Gentlemen!” he called. “The rebels are seeking to destroy a bridge of enormous strategic value! We shall need your help to dislodge them. My men will take up positions along the riverbank and fire upon their flanks, while you, newly liberated slaves, will charge the bridge. We must act quickly, before they damage it beyond repair!”
“Three cheers for the Union and President Lincoln!” Croesus cried.
They cheered and began marching toward the town.
21
Winter and Reggie remained tied to their chairs in the barn. Bill Bread had been tied to a beam. He watched Winter lying on his back. Winter’s eyes were closed, so Bill could not see those strange golden irises. The boy’s face was lean and angular and drawn with pain, but it seemed to suit him somehow. Made him look like something strong and feral, like a bird of prey.
Finally, Reggie spoke.
“Auggie?”
“…”
“Auggie? Auggie?”
“What?”
“Do you believe in heaven?”
Reggie had been weeping a long time, and his handsome baby face was puffy and bloated and streaked with dirt.
“Well, do you?” Reggie said. “Your daddy was a preacher, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, do you think we’re going to heaven?”
“I don’t know.”
“We gotta,” Reggie said, his voice crumbling under the weight of his fear, more tears leaking from his eyes. “This can’t be all there is.”
Winter opened his eyes and breathed in the dirty air. He looked at Bill for a moment, then closed his eyes again. “I don’t know about heaven,” he said. “I just can’t see how He’d make heaven after He made all this.”
“Auggie, please. Please.”
“A lot of things are just talk, Reggie,” Winter said. “I don’t know what’s what anymore. God made the world. He made all of it, the good and the bad. So what’s He like? That He could let all this happen? What’s He want us to be?”
Reggie shook, literally trembled, in his bonds.
“Before my people were Christians,” Bill said, “we believed that when people died, they went to the darkening land in the west. Animals too.”
“Well, that strikes me as likely as anything else,” Winter said.
After that, no one said anything for a long time. Eventually they heard footsteps outside the barn.
“Who is that?” Bill called. “Uncle? Is that you? I want a drink of water.”
There was a tremendous noise of iron striking iron. Reggie screamed. Winter did not even flinch. His eyes narrowed to slits. The noise was repeated and the door burst inward.
Fred Johnson stepped into the barn, his drenched overalls plastered to his muscular body. He carried a tremendous metal bar in his hand, and Winter’s rifle was slung across his shoulders.
“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Winter said.
Johnson cocked his head as if he didn’t understand.
“Cut me loose,” Winter said.
Johnson freed Winter first, and he stood, clutching his broken arm close to his chest.
“Who’s he?” Johnson asked, nodding toward Bill Bread as he untied Reggie.
“I don’t rightly know,” Winter said. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Bill Bread,” Bill said. “Take me with you.”
“I don’t know about that,” Winter said.
“Please!” Bill cried. “I don’t want to go back to North Carolina. I don’t want to go back to the Confederacy! I was going to fight for the Union after I was taken prisoner. Sevenkiller and my uncle kidnapped me. Don’t leave me here!”
Reggie had already bolted out into the sunlight. “Come on!” he shrieked over his shoulder.
Johnson slapped the metal bar against his palm. It made a heavy, meaty sound.
“Please,” Bill said. “Don’t leave me!”
Johnson and Winter looked into each other’s eyes.
Winter shrugged. “Why not?”
They cut Bill loose, snatched their rifles from the hous
e, then fled into the forest, heading west, not stopping until they were about twenty feet from the rushing river. It had begun to rain, cold and flat through the red and gold leaves, which were muted against the colorless sky. Winter shivered like a newborn puppy.
“Let me look at your arm,” Johnson said.
He took Winter’s broken left forearm in his big black hands. His palms and the underside of his fingers were surprisingly white, hard, and callused.
Winter screamed.
“Shhh!” Reggie hissed. “Shhh!”
“It ain’t set yet,” Johnson said. “But you can’t yell like that.”
“Gimme your belt,” Winter said to Bill.
Bill Bread undid his belt and handed it over.
Winter took it with his good right hand, folded it a few times, and bit down. His swollen yellow eyes rolled toward Johnson and he nodded.
The motion of Johnson’s wrists was gentle but unyielding. The manipulation of the broken bones went on for some time. Winter’s screaming was considerably muzzled.
Reggie retreated to the water’s edge.
“There,” Johnson said. “It’s done.”
He pressed a sturdy branch against Winter’s arm and strapped it on with cloth.
“I’m gonna faint,” Winter said.
“You all right now, boy,” Johnson said. “You gonna be all right.”
Winter threw up between his legs, a thin yellowish stream. Reggie came back up from the river.
“Is it over?” he said, his voice small.
“Yeah,” Winter said.
Reggie sat down on a rock next to Winter.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” Reggie asked Johnson.
“Lotta broken bones on Massa Johnson’s plantation.”
Winter looked at the river and, light-headed, was suddenly reminded of the Illinois River back home.
“Help me up, Johnson,” Winter said.
Johnson lifted Winter, who swayed on his feet.
“We should cross the river now,” Bill said. “I’m a good swimmer. I can help him.”
“You go on and swim ’cross the river,” Johnson said. “I can’t go with you.”
“Why not?” Bill asked.
“I killed my master,” Johnson said.
“Was he very cruel?” Bill said.
“He was to me,” Johnson said, adding, “I didn’t make it easy on either one of us. I wasn’t born to be a slave.”
“No,” Winter said. “I see that.”
“He could have had me sold or killed or crippled,” Johnson said. “But he thought he would break me. He was making a big point about it. But he never did.”
Winter nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Reggie, you take our friend Bill back to the lieutenant. I’m going to stay here with Freddy.”
“What?” Reggie said, glancing nervously at Bill Bread.
“Go on,” Winter said. “Go on now.”
Despite his fear and to his credit, Reggie was reluctant to leave Winter. But in the end he walked up to Winter and embraced him, like a boy, and like a boy, Winter embraced him back. Then Reggie ran down to the bank and plunged into the cold water up to his knees and splashed forward, swimming hard across the river. The current swept him south, toward the bridge.
“What are you going to do?” Bill asked. “Why are you staying?”
“Why don’t you get out of here?” Winter said. “Before we change our minds about you.”
Bill shrank back and made his way to the water. Winter stood on the bank watching until Bill was halfway across. Then he walked with Johnson into the woods.
22
Stoga and Tom hacked holes into the bridge and stuffed them with kindling and wood chips to set alight. It was very slow going because the wood was thick and strong and showed no more inclination to burn than stone.
Early and Sevenkiller set up a rough barricade made from beams they’d pried loose. When they were done, Early walked to the edge of the bridge and looked down into the town. A small white man standing on top of a crate was haranguing a crowd of Negroes.
“Well, he’s sure stirring them up all right,” Early said and then began to cough wretchedly into his fist. “Come right in this little village where there’s no soldiers and turning all the slaves against their masters. That’s their idea of war.”
Sevenkiller laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll show them what modern war is all about, very soon.”
Sevenkiller was fiddling with something inside his box and humming even more quickly and tunelessly than usual.
The little white man threw his hands in the air and pointed at the bridge. The Negroes gave a tremendous cheer and ran toward them.
“Shit,” Early said. “Here they come.”
Tom hobbled over. He saw the crowd of blacks surging forward. He thought, Slaves were attacking, slaves who had never questioned their lot, who would never have dared to participate in such an act of rebellion. Despair rose up in him. Even if they won, how could things ever go back to the way they were before?
Early, coughing, tugged on Tom’s sleeve. “Captain, watch the river.”
A few of the bummers waded into the water and aimed their rifles up at the Confederates, trying to flank them while the ex-slaves charged with nothing but picks and shovels. Tom fired his pistol twice. One of the bummers, a young one, dropped into the water. The others scattered back. But the blacks were at the foot of the bridge, only fifty feet away.
Early fired his rifle. One of the blacks dropped; the rest kept coming.
Tom pumped his remaining shots into the crowd then dropped behind the barricade.
“Now Sevenkiller, now!” he shouted.
Sevenkiller tossed the box away, revealing a cylindrical metal device set up on a tripod: a pepper-box gun, designed by Orison Blunt, stolen from the Union Army, capable of being operated by one man and of firing seventy shots a minute.
“Ha ha ha ha ha!” Sevenkiller laughed as the Negroes closed to within twenty feet. He began madly spinning the crank.
The sheer momentum of the crowd carried them all the way to the barricade even in the face of the bullets. Perhaps they could still have overwhelmed the Confederates. But so many were killed so quickly, and the noise of the gun was so startling, that the mob trembled, then broke and rushed back down the bridge, screaming, one corpse dropping after another while Sevenkiller blasted away at their retreating backs, laughing.
23
Quentin and Duncan crouched against the stone wall of the mill and watched as the ex-slaves were carved up by the machine gun.
“My goodness,” Quentin said. “What manner of weapon do they have there?”
“Sir, perhaps we’d better take cover,” Duncan said.
“Did you see the kind of gun they were using?”
“No sir.”
Most of the Negroes were running straight into the woods, but some were staggering back into town. A few were screaming and tearing their hair.
“I don’t think we can drive them off the bridge,” Quentin said.
“What do we do now, sir?” Duncan asked.
“Well, if we cannot dislodge them from where they are, perhaps we can force them to come to us.”
Duncan understood. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh. He thought that Quentin was both more and less mad than at first he appeared.
Quentin gathered the Union foragers and the remaining ex-slaves in the town’s main intersection, just in front of the inn, and gave his instructions. Sergeant Müller alone looked troubled. His eyes quickly fell upon Duncan and his sniggering brothers.
“You three,” Jan said. “Come with me.”
And so it was that the Empire brothers followed Jan into the factory, where they methodically wrecked everything that could be wrecked. Duncan thought that it was typical for the German to start in the only building of actual military significance in the town and the only one without anything of value to steal.
The massive industrial looms looked imp
osing and powerful, but they were made of wood and fragile because of their complex interlocking design. They burned for only a short time before collapsing in on themselves like dried twigs.
While the others watched the looms burn, Duncan darted out of the factory. Out on the street he looked around for Quentin but did not find him. He had readjusted the bag on his shoulder and started toward one of the fancier houses when Reginald Keller staggered into the main street, his soaked clothes clinging to his body. Trailing behind Reggie was a little Indian who Duncan did not recognize.
“Hey!” Duncan called. “Babe! Where have you been?”
“Winter and I were captured, but we got loose,” Reggie said. He was shivering and his lips were blue. “We were held by some Confederate Indians.”
“Who the hell is this?” Duncan said.
“His name is Bill Bread,” Reginald said. “He says that he wants to join us.”
“He does, does he?” Duncan said. “Well, where’s Winter?”
“On the other side of the river.”
“What the hell is he doing there?”
“He’s with the nigger who sprung us loose,” Reggie said.
After hearing these words, Duncan felt as a mouse must when the shadow of a hawk passes by.
“Nigger?” Duncan said.
“Sorry, Mister Empire,” Reggie said. “I meant colored fellow.”
“What colored fellow?”
“His name was Freddy,” Duncan said.
“What did he say to you?” Duncan said, coming close to Reggie and putting his hand on the knife on his belt.
Bill stiffened. But Reggie was oblivious.
“He didn’t say nothing. He just turned us loose. Winter’s arm is busted and he couldn’t swim.”
“He didn’t say anything about how he came over there?” Duncan demanded.
“No,” Reggie said. “I don’t know where he came from.”
This one was too dumb to be lying, Duncan decided. Reggie didn’t know about what happened on the bridge. But there was no telling what Johnson had told Winter by now.
Duncan let go of his knife.
“Perhaps I’ll go look for him,” Duncan said. “You go on and find the lieutenant. Take this Indian with you.”
“Yes sir,” Reggie said. He walked down the street, hugging himself and shivering. Bill hesitated.
The Winter Family Page 8
