Bowman looked him straight in the eyes. His voice was calm.
“To be able to keep going. To live an honourable life.”
Bufford raised his eyebrows.
“What are you on about, Sergeant?”
Bowman smiled at him.
“Courage. That’s still me, Bufford.”
“Because you came here and looked me in the eyes?”
“No, because I’m going to turn my back on you.”
He feebly pushed Bufford’s hand from his shoulder and closed his eyes. He could smell his own blood, and Bufford’s odour, a few inches away: his sweat, his breath, his clothes. For a moment, he listened to the two of them breathing, suppressing the fear of darkness, then he opened his eyes again. Bufford had not moved.
“On the Joy, I didn’t want to choose men who were like me so I wouldn’t have to face them. In the end, it was the preacher who chose you.”
Bowman smiled one last time.
“You can stick your knife in my belly. It’ll only take a second. But do you have the courage to do this, Buffalo? To turn your back on someone like you?”
Bowman took a deep breath, let go of the pergola’s metal post, slowly swivelled on his heel and took a step towards the glass doors.
“Stop, Bowman.”
Bowman stopped for an instant, to get his balance, and then took another step.
“Don’t turn your back on me.”
He kept moving forward.
“BOWMAN!”
He was five yards from the doors.
“You were begging me not to do it. You saved your own skin just like the others!”
He put his hand on the door handle.
“BOWMAN!”
Bowman opened the door and spoke quietly, too quietly for Bufford to hear: “You’re saved, Buffalo. I’m leaving.”
He went into the entrance hall, and Bufford’s yells, repeating his name over and over, followed him to the front door. Bowman supported himself against the wall of the house as he walked over to the stable driveway and pulled himself onto Walden’s back. He stopped in the middle of the unpaved street, tore off his shirt and tied the strip of cloth around his arm. He squeezed his legs together, and the mustang started down the hill to the village.
*
A horseman in a broad-rimmed hat rode towards the Delauney house. He was wearing a black suit and the horse he rode was as black as his clothes. The chain of a gold watch hung from his waistcoat pocket. His horse breathed heavily as it climbed the slope. It was covered in foam, its mouth full of thick drool. A rifle, in a worn leather holster, flapped against the horse’s side. Bowman pulled on the reins and Walden stamped the ground. The man lifted his head and stopped next to Bowman. They exchanged a look. The preacher smiled, then his face looked gaunt and drawn once again.
“I’m glad to see you, Sergeant.”
“Why did you come, preacher?”
Peavish stared ahead of him, at the house at the top of the sloping street.
“When I sent that letter . . . I realised I wouldn’t make it, Sergeant.”
He squinted at the house.
“Is he still there?”
Bowman lowered his head.
“Don’t go.”
Peavish patted his horse’s neck and wiped the animal’s sweat on his trousers.
“It’s fear, Sergeant. I don’t have a choice.”
He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and it started walking forward again.
Bowman remained in the middle of the street, looking up at the bay and the trade ships in full sail as they moved towards the ocean.
It was August by the time Arthur Bowman arrived at the Fitzpatrick ranch after one final week-long journey along the road.
While he managed to hug his daughter, it took him several days to exchange words with Alexandra. The two of them remained mute for a long time, driven by contradictory emotions that they tried to suppress. Then, one morning, when Bowman was bathing in the lake with Aileen, Alexandra joined them in the water and he kissed her.
Work on the new house had recommenced in his absence. The builders had started on the cladding. In mid-August, while the Penders family was returning from the eastern prairies through the forest, a man in a black suit waited for them outside their hut. Bowman got down from his horse, carrying his daughter in his arms, and shook Edmund Peavish’s hand. His new businessmen’s clothes were covered with dust. He took off his hat to greet Alexandra Desmond and pay his respects. The preacher seemed to have aged even more. The sleeve of his jacket was torn and the fabric was stained with dried blood. Beneath his shirt, dirt-grey bandages were strapped around his shoulder. The two men made their excuses to Alexandra, who took Aileen from Bowman’s arms and watched them walk away towards the cove. The preacher washed his face and hands in the water, then they went along the shore until they vanished from sight.
When they returned to the hut, Bowman and Peavish were silent, walking slowly together. Their faces were grave, and the same deep wrinkles marked their still-young foreheads. Peavish spoke to Alexandra Desmond without being able to raise a smile.
“I hope that we will see each other again, ma’am. Take care of your family and yourself.”
He climbed into the saddle, untied the rifle holster and looked at it for an instant before handing it to Bowman.
“You’ll need it more than I will in these mountains, Sergeant.”
They shook hands one last time. The preacher rode away. When he passed under the ranch’s sign, his back sagged. Bowman sat in the grass and watched him disappear. Alexandra hugged him and watched Aileen crawl straight ahead.
“What did he say?”
Bowman watched as his daughter reached the fence of the enclosure. She clung on to a post and pulled herself upright. Walden poked his head through the bars to smell her hair. The little girl let go of the post so she could try to caress the horse, gave a little yelp of excitement, then fell backwards onto her bottom.
“It’s over.”
*
On 19 September, 1863, in Chickamauga, Georgia, twenty thousand soldiers died in a battle won by Confederate troops.
The house was finished in October and the family moved its few belongings from the hut to its new home, with the terrace on stilts overlooking the water of the cove. They took one last bath before winter, this time with their daughter, and warmed up around a big fire. Bowman jokingly asked Alexandra if she didn’t have any announcements to make to him this year.
“Not yet.”
The next morning, while the ashes of the fire were still smoking, snow started falling onto the lake. The snow fell heavily that month, and they feared they were in for another harsh winter. But in early December, the weather grew milder and they had two weeks of sunshine. In places on the prairies, the snow melted and for several days the horses were able to eat some more grass. As Christmas drew closer, the snow returned.
Arthur Bowman grew unhealthily silent and wrote letters which he sent to Grantsville. He seemed to be suffering, in the middle of his family, from a strange form of solitude. The peacefulness of the mountains was sometimes too painful for him, but he hardly ever went to town anymore. Alexandra Desmond left him alone when he drifted towards other times and places in this way. She could imagine those places and times, but did not want to know more about them. In these absent moments, Bowman walked around the ranch, stopping near the hut or the sign, as if he were following a track, gathering his scattered memories. Then he came back to her or their daughter and managed to smile, each time for a little longer.
On New Year’s Day, 1864, Arthur came out of the house in the middle of the night and cocked his rifle. In the stable, the horses had begun to whinny and kick the walls. A lamp in one hand, his rifle in the other, Bowman approached in silence, expecting to find wolves roaming nearby. Then he heard voices inside the building, someone trying to calm the horses. He blew out the lamp, put it down on the snow and continued to move forward. The moon was big and its light
, reflected by the snow, illuminated the night. He closed his eyes to adapt them to the darkness, skirted around the stable and half opened the manure hatch, at the back of the barn, so he could take a look inside. Walden and Trigger were rearing up, kicking the walls. Bowman moved away from the hatch and held the rifle in both hands.
“Come out or I’ll shoot.”
There was no response.
“If you come out now, I’ll let you go. Move away from the horses and leave.”
Someone answered from inside:
“We’ll leave. Don’t shoot. We’re going.”
Bowman heard the main door creak open on the other side of the building. He ran through the snow and fired a shot above the two figures as they climbed over the enclosure’s fence.
They froze.
“Don’t move.”
“You said we could leave. We’re going. We didn’t want to steal anything, sir. We just wanted to sleep in the barn.”
Bowman found his lamp in the snow and lit it again. He lifted it up at the same time as he raised the barrel of the rifle. Two dirty-faced boys in patched-up rags, with scraps of military uniform visible beneath the patchwork. They were standing in line like prisoners next to the fence.
“Are you armed?”
They shook their heads.
“Where have you come from?”
They looked at each other, their chests still swollen from running, breathing out big clouds of steam in the lamplight.
“We were on manoeuvres with our squad, sir, and we got lost in the mountains.”
Bowman lowered the lamp that was dazzling them and observed them for a moment.
“Deserters?”
One of them took a step back against the fence, while the other dared to raise a hand in protest.
“No, sir, we got lost. We’re looking for our squad and we’re lost. We just wanted to spend the night in your barn.”
Bowman lowered his rifle.
“Walk in front. If either of you tries anything, you’ll get a bullet in your back.”
He pushed them forward with his gun until they reached the hut. Then he made them go inside and blocked the door and the shutters over the windows. Alexandra was waiting for him on the doorstep of the house. He led her inside and put wood in the stove, and they sat either side of the table. The next morning, Bowman went back to the hut and knocked at the door.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, we hear you.”
“I’m going to open the door and you’re going to leave without making any trouble. I’m still armed.”
He unblocked the door and took a few steps back, his gun by his side. The two boys came out, one after the other, hands protecting their eyes from the daylight.
“Where are you from?”
“We were in Aurora with a convoy of recruits, sir, headed south.” The two boys looked alike. One of them – the one who had spoken – was a bit taller and more muscular than the other.
“Are you brothers? What are your names?”
The bigger one crossed his arms over his chest in an attitude of defiance. The other looked at Bowman.
“I’m Oliver, sir. Ferguson. And he’s Pete. We’re from near Portland, in Oregon.”
“Why did you desert?”
The elder brother uncrossed his arms.
“We didn’t desert because we weren’t volunteers. They forced us to join, so we didn’t desert. We freed ourselves.”
They had not eaten in several days and they were both in a weakened state. The younger brother had a fever. His sibling, Pete, had taken a step forward as he spoke and now raised his voice: “If you want to take us to Carson City, go ahead. Whether they shoot us or send us to the slaughter, it’s the same thing anyway.”
The Ferguson brothers stood tall in front of Bowman, as if he were a firing squad.
“How did you get here?”
They did not understand the question.
“Did anyone see you?”
They exchanged a look. Oliver turned to Bowman.
“We passed the town at night. We’ve been in the mountains for two days. No-one in Carson saw us.”
Bowman hesitated for a moment, then turned towards the house and made a signal with his hand. Alexandra came out on the terrace. She walked over to the hut, greeting the two boys as she passed between them, put some food inside, and came out again to stand next to Bowman.
“Where are you going?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
“You’re not going home?”
The big brother spoke:
“Our parents are dead. There’s just my brother and me.”
Bowman looked at Alexandra. She was pale. Neither of them had slept that night.
“Go inside and eat. We’ll see what we can do afterwards.”
They hesitated, no longer daring to look at the man or the woman.
“We’ll leave the door open, but I’d advise you not to go outside. It’s better if no-one sees you for now.”
“We’ll leave tonight. Thank you for the food, ma’am.”
Bowman lowered his head and looked at the rifle in his hand.
“Sleep here tonight. I’m going to saddle two horses in the stable. If someone turns up, jump on them and head for the mountains. And if you get caught, you’d better tell them you stole the horses, otherwise I’ll kill you.”
The threat made them shudder. Oliver took his brother by the arm and led him inside. Before closing the door, he spoke to the ranch’s owners: “Thank you.”
“Go inside.”
*
Alexandra and Bowman stayed near the house all day long, never taking their eyes off the hut. In the evening, Alexandra brought more food to the Ferguson brothers.
The snow began to fall again. Wrapped up in a blanket, his gun in his hand, Bowman stood guard on the terrace. Alexandra joined him and snuggled under his arm.
“Will they find them?”
“Almost certainly.”
“And shoot them?”
Bowman did not reply.
“The youngest one’s not even seventeen.”
“I know.”
“What will happen if they find them here?”
“Nothing good.”
She looked up at him.
“Arthur, when you were a soldier, did you . . . When there were deserters . . .”
He looked at her.
“It happened.”
“You did it yourself?”
He turned towards the hut.
“Sometimes.”
He felt Alexandra press herself a little more tightly against him. She spoke in a soft voice: “We have to hide them.”
Bowman thought for a moment.
“Until the end of the war.”
“But not here?”
His arm squeezed her shoulders.
“In the forest. We’ll build another hut.”
“In the spring, can we say that they came to work here, that they’re part of your family?”
He leaned down to her.
“They’ll stay at the ranch.”
Inside the house, Aileen had started crying. Alexandra took his hand.
“Come on.”
He kissed her forehead.
“I’m going to stay out here a bit.”
She did not let go of his hand.
“No-one will hurt them?”
“No.”
She closed the door behind her and Aileen’s crying stopped. Bowman leaned his shoulder against a post and watched the sun go down behind the white mountain peaks and the sky darken above the lake. Night was falling on the Fitzpatrick ranch.
Sergeant Arthur Bowman turned towards the little hut where the deserters waited, pulled the blanket over his neck, and crossed his arms over the preacher’s rifle.
“No-one.”
ANTONIN VARENNE was awarded the Prix Michel Lebrun and the Grand Prix du Jury Sang d’encre for Bed of Nails, his first novel to be translated into English. His second, Loser’s Cor
ner was awarded the Prix des Lecteurs Quais du polar and the Prix du Meilleur Polar Francophone.
SAM TAYLOR is an author and translator. His translations include works by Laurent Binet, Hubert Mingarelli, Joël Dicker and Maylis de Kerangal.
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