“Well, go on,” Duncan said. “Do you need a kick in the ass to get you moving, you reb turncoat?”
Duncan loped down to the edge of the water while Bill made his way back to the inn. The front door had been kicked in, the furniture knocked about. The innkeeper was nowhere to be found.
The keg of cider was gone, but after a frantic search, Bill found a bottle of brandy hidden away in the kitchen. The first swallow hit his nerves with soothing fire. He sighed, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the wallpaper. Then he walked back into the common room and sat by the window, where he had a fine view of the burning bridge.
He could see his uncle and Sevenkiller working with the other men to destroy the bridge. For three long years, he had done everything the Confederacy asked of him. Those days were over. He was free of the army, and free of his uncle. Free to drink, finally, drink the way he really wanted to. Without restraint. It was liberating and terrifying at the same time. Where would he go? What place was there for him in the peace?
His mind turned to Winter. He remembered the sound of the arm snapping in the barn. He saw the golden eyes looking at him, the pupils narrowed to black pinpricks, focused and drawn inward with hatred. That force of will. What could you do with will like that? Where would it take you? What could stop you? How would it all end?
Now Winter was waiting on the other side of the river. For what? Revenge against Sevenkiller? And the other man, the one who had asked Reggie What colored fellow and What did he say to you with his hand on his knife. Why was he crossing the river?
Bill took another drink. Strangely, he was not in as much of a hurry to get drunk as he would have expected. His mind kept drifting away from the drink, across the water, to what was happening there.
24
The Confederates made steady progress hacking up and burning the bridge, despite the rain splattering down from the slate-colored sky.
It was Early who first saw the slender strand of smoke rising from the mill. He walked to the edge of the bridge for a closer look and noticed that the mill’s wheel was no longer turning a moment before it toppled over into the water, bobbed under the surface, and began to drift toward the bridge.
“Oh my god,” Early said.
He ran back to Tom and Stoga.
“Captain!” Early cried. “Captain!”
“Careful,” Tom said. Early had come perilously close to stepping through a hole chopped in the bridge.
“Look at the town!” Early said, as he began to cough. “Look what they’re doing to the town!”
“What?” Tom said.
“They’re looting the town,” Early said.
“What?” Tom said. He hobbled carefully around the damaged sections of the bridge to get a better view. “Why?”
“They want you to come down off the bridge,” Sevenkiller said. “To save the town.”
“But there are no soldiers in the town,” Tom shouted. “There aren’t hardly any men, even.”
“Hee hee hee!” Sevenkiller giggled. “Tell them that, sir! You should tell them that!”
Tom balled his hands into fists and felt something hot and sharp rise in the back of his throat. He hated these invaders, who had come to a land where they were not wanted or needed and shattered every notion of what was good and just in the universe.
“This is their idea of war?” Tom said. “Don’t they have any notion of decency?”
“What do we do, Captain?” Early said.
“Yes, Captain,” Sevenkiller said. “What do we do?”
Tears welled up in Tom’s eyes as he saw the church catch fire. “If we lose this war,” he said, “it will be because we refused to stoop to the depths like them.”
“Eee hee hee!” Sevenkiller squealed. “Unless when we get to heaven, it turns out niggers are human beings. Then we’re in for it, eh, Captain?”
Tom ignored the slave and continued. “There’s a lot more towns on the other side of this river, and if we leave this bridge here they’re all going to meet the same fate. Don’t let anyone on this bridge. We only need a little longer.”
“Yes, Captain,” Early said.
Sevenkiller delivered a mock salute and returned to his work destroying the bridge. So did Tom and Stoga.
Early, too sick to be much help, watched the Union soldiers move through the town. Fires sprang up and houses collapsed. He heard the screaming, the shots, the shouts. Now and then he blinked the tears away, but they returned so quickly there scarcely seemed any point.
Sevenkiller’s callused hand fell on his shoulder.
“Time to go,” he said.
Early stood up, coughing, while Sevenkiller put the machine gun in its box. They made their way back across the bridge, which had been entirely shattered except for a narrow path. The posts and pillars had been hollowed and stuffed with straw and set alight.
Just as they stepped on solid ground the bridge gave way with a suddenness that was astonishing and sublime. There was a trembling, a cracking noise, and then the whole thing was gone, breaking up and drifting south with the current.
Tom said, “It’s done. Let’s head back. We’ll pick up Bill and our prisoners and head to Milledgeville and spread the word about what’s going on.”
They had only taken about five paces toward the woods when a light flashed in the trees. Tom fell backward, grunting in surprise. A moment later, they heard the gunshot.
“Get down!” Early shouted.
Sevenkiller was already on his belly, slithering toward the woods like a snake.
Tom felt a terrible pain in his chest, right around his collarbone. It was difficult to breathe.
“Captain!” Early shouted, and he cradled Tom in his arms.
Tom looked at him but was unable to speak.
The rifle cracked again. Sevenkiller raised his rifle, and returned fire.
“He’s by the oak tree,” Sevenkiller cried. “The pale one!”
Early laid Jackson down on the ground, and then he and Stoga charged toward the source of the shots, past Sevenkiller, who was approaching cautiously and giving them covering fire. Early sprinted ahead and burst into the trees. He saw Winter reloading his rifle, and he sprang forward, but Fred Johnson came out of the bushes and struck him hard with an iron bar.
Sevenkiller tried to take aim at Johnson, but there was too much movement as the big ex-slave fought the two men, and no clear target. Another flash of light came from the woods and Sevenkiller felt a bullet whiz past. He saw Winter dive back behind the oak tree.
“Hee hee hee!” Sevenkiller said. He circled around with his rifle at his shoulder, hoping to catch Winter fleeing into the woods. Instead Winter leapt out and tackled him, making a sound like a saw biting into hard wood.
“You little black fucker!” Winter shouted.
They landed with Winter on top, pressing his splinted left forearm into Sevenkiller’s neck while his raising a broad knife with his right hand.
Sevenkiller dug his fingers into Winter’s arm, which he well remembered was broken, and Winter almost buckled. Sevenkiller dodged the knife easily by moving his head and then swept Winter off with a quick, strong movement of his hips, ending up on top of him, straddling his chest.
“Goodbye,” Sevenkiller whispered.
He kept squeezing Winter’s broken arm with one hand while he struggled for the knife with the other. Winter tried to buck him off, but it was impossible; the little man stuck close to him.
Finally Sevenkiller pinned the knife arm to the ground with his knee and smashed Winter’s face with his free hand, hissing, “You see? You see?”
Sevenkiller yanked the knife away. But Winter used his every ounce of strength to lift his legs and twist his whole body and pitch Sevenkiller off, howling as he did.
Sevenkiller scrambled to gain his feet, but this time it was Winter who was a little quicker, and his shin connected violently with Sevenkiller’s face. Sevenkiller stumbled back.
“You little—” Sevenkiller s
aid, laughing, and then stopped. He was looking at something behind Winter. Winter turned around. It was Fred Johnson, breathing deeply, flexing his big hands. He was covered in blood, but very little of it seemed to be his own.
Sevenkiller’s eyes flicked between them and then he ran.
Winter stooped and picked up the rifle Sevenkiller had dropped.
“Forget it,” Johnson gasped. “He gone.”
And indeed Sevenkiller had made it into the trees and was darting from side to side, crouched low to the earth, using every bit of cover he could find.
Winter lifted the rifle to his shoulder and held it there for a long couple of seconds. Finally he fired. From the woods there came a surprised shout of pain. And then laughter.
Winter gave Johnson a brief look, then lowered the weapon and walked into the forest.
“Hee hee hee hee!” Sevenkiller giggled. “Hee hee hee!”
They found him nimbly worming his way over the ground, his black hair plastered to his head and a big red stain blossoming on his shirt. The bullet had struck him in the lower back and he was crawling away over the mud and the leaves and the tree roots as quickly as he could. Surprisingly fast, but not nearly fast enough.
“Hidey ho! Hidey ho!”
Winter jammed the barrel into the back of Sevenkiller’s head.
“I’m free at last!” Sevenkiller screamed. “Free! Free!”
The words struck a peculiar chord with Johnson, so that as the gun fired, he flinched.
25
Duncan was halfway across the river when the bridge collapsed into the water, the flaming beams cracking and snapping and lighting up the gray autumn afternoon. For a brief time he stopped swimming, kicking against the current and holding his rifle above his head. Then he resumed swimming until his feet were on solid ground.
When he came over the top of the bank he saw the bodies lying at the edge of the woods, and he made his way over there as quickly as he could. There were two: an older Indian and a white man. Both of them looked to have been beaten to death with a blunt object.
The sound of voices came through the trees. Duncan turned his head and saw Johnson and Winter. They did not notice him. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder, lined up Johnson, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
Fuck, Duncan thought.
In all the excitement, he had forgotten to dry his weapon after he fell in the river the first time. He quickly fixed his bayonet to the end of his rifle and stepped into view.
“Don’t move!” he barked.
Johnson froze. Winter stepped in front of him.
“Get out of the way,” Duncan said.
“No,” Winter said.
“He killed Sergeant Service,” Duncan said.
“No,” Johnson said. “You did.”
“That’s a lie,” Duncan said. “Get out of the way, Winter.”
Duncan took a few steps forward, but Winter held his ground. Johnson tensed and looked as if he would bolt.
“Drop your rifle!” Duncan said. “Do it now!”
Winter hesitated, then let go. The rifle clattered into the dirt. Winter put his hand on his hips and watched Duncan.
“Now get out of the way!” Duncan said, inching forward.
“No,” Winter said.
“You’re taking this nigger’s word over mine?”
“Sergeant Service ain’t got nothing to do with this,” Winter said. “He saved my life, Duncan. I ain’t going to let you hurt him.”
Duncan laughed. “Well, you’re right about one thing,” he said. “Sergeant Service don’t matter. But your new friend here killed his master. The story’s all over the county. And that means he’s going to hang, whether he killed Service or not, whether he saved you or not. You can’t be stupid enough to think they’ll let that go. You know they won’t. So get out of the way.”
Duncan stepped forward again, so that the bayonet was only a few feet from Winter’s chest. Winter didn’t say anything.
“Last chance, boy,” Duncan said. But a hand clapped over his mouth from behind and jerked his head back, and an instant later a knife pierced his chest. Duncan let out an abrupt, surprised noise as he was pulled onto his back.
Bill Bread sat on top of him and jabbed the knife into his chest again. Duncan tried to struggle free, but then Johnson was on top of him too, and the iron bar smashed into his head. Duncan let out a hopeless, agonized wail and then was silent. Bill stood up and wiped the knife on his pants. Winter had not moved, except to pick up his rifle. The three young men eyed one another. Johnson and Bill were breathing hard.
Duncan suddenly laughed. They looked down at him. His breathing was hitched, as if every breath caused him great pain. But his eyes were still clear and focused, lit up with malevolent intelligence.
“Caught … me … there,” Duncan said. “Stupid … gun. Didn’t … think …”
He coughed three times, each seeming to cause him more pain, his face going red and the cords of his neck standing out, a thin stream of blood coming from his nose.
Bill flinched. Duncan stared at him again, a smile on his lips.
“What’s … the … matter? Can’t … look … at … me?”
The sound of his breathing, so truncated and harsh and unnatural.
“He’s … mad … Quentin … mad … I was … the only … one.”
Duncan closed his eyes and relaxed, and they all thought he was dead. But no such luck. He opened his eyes again and looked at Winter. When he spoke next it was all in a rush.
“I was the only one who could have saved you all.”
Duncan’s face screwed up in pain and he let out that terrible cough.
“You … remember. You … remember. You … remember … me.”
Bill was trembling, and Johnson’s eyes were wide. But Winter was calm. He looked at Duncan very closely, as if he were attempting to engrave Duncan’s appearance on his memory for all time. Eventually, Winter nodded.
“You remember,” Duncan whispered. “Where … where … do you think … it’s going to … end? What … do you think … going to … happen. So stupid. So … stupid.”
Duncan shook his head a little. Then he said, “Go … on. Do … it.”
“All right,” Winter said.
Winter lifted his rifle. Duncan grinned, his teeth stained with blood, his eyes so lively. And it struck Winter that Duncan was alive, even now. His hair and fingernails growing, his stomach digesting its last meal, heart beating, lungs working. Alive. But not for long. It was the end. And each time in this war that someone had died, this same thing had happened. This same unimaginable finality. How many times the universe had been destroyed.
Winter began to cry then, and he looked very much like a little boy.
“You … coward.”
The shot rang out and Duncan’s head skipped in the dirt.
Winter lowered the rifle and wiped his streaming eyes with his broken forearm.
“What the hell are we going to do now?” Johnson asked. “They going to hang us all.”
“It’s all right,” Winter said. “We’ll say that half-breed did it.”
“Where is Sevenkiller?” Bill asked.
“He’s dead,” Winter said. “Him and your uncle.”
“You killed them?” Bill asked.
“Sure did,” Winter said, and as he spoke the weakness began to evaporate from his face.
Bill shivered; he was still soaked from swimming across the river and back. He was hit with a sudden heavy blow of guilt. His uncle, who had tried to save him, was dead. All the men in his regiment were dead. The war was lost. His family’s humble lands would be forfeited, or destroyed, just like the town of Planter’s Factory. He was alone in the world.
“I didn’t …,” Bill started. Then he stopped and looked down, momentarily overcome.
“You didn’t what?” Winter asked. When Bill didn’t reply, Winter said, “Why’d you come back here anyway?”
“I knew he was coming to kill you,” Bill said.
“Yeah? What was that to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Winter said, tilting his head back, his strange golden eyes pinning Bill in place.
“I don’t know,” Bill repeated. He thought of his uncle, dead, and another wave of guilt washed over him, but this time commingled with another sensation. Of freedom. Of relief. When he lifted his head he looked into Winter’s eyes and again he felt that thrill of excitement in his spine. The feeling that anything was possible. And then more guilt, the payment for this feeling, and he looked down.
Finally, Winter said, “Well. You saved our lives. You can go where you want.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Bill asked.
Winter shrugged and turned to Johnson.
“Same goes for you, I suppose,” Winter said. “And before you ask, I don’t know where you should go neither. That’s what freedom is all about. There’s nowhere in particular you’re supposed to be.”
“They’ll kill me no matter what,” Johnson said.
“Then it doesn’t matter much where you go,” Winter said.
Johnson remembered how the lieutenant had stopped Sergeant Service from killing him. If he had protected him before, perhaps he would protect him again. What other choice did he have?
“If you’re coming with me,” Winter said, “then let’s move.”
26
Captain Jackson lay on his back and struggled to breathe. Where was everyone? He felt as if he’d been lying in his own blood for hours. His neck and shoulder pulsed with pain every time he took a breath, and his leg had flared up as well. The thought of trying to move was terrifying.
And then Bill Bread was looming over him.
Bill, he tried to say.
But blood just bubbled up in his mouth.
The Indian looked at him sorrowfully.
“Hello, Captain,” Bill said.
Bill, Tom tried to say again.
Another shadow fell over him. Tom’s heart froze in his chest. It was a Negro, tall and powerful.
The Winter Family Page 9
