Last of the Dixie Heroes

by Peter Abrahams

  Three tents now stood on the flat ground between the Mountain House and the slave quarters. Over to one side, at the edge of the plateau where the downward slope resumed, Lee and Jesse were digging a trench, Jesse with his shirt off, that silver Star of David glistening on his chest, Lee buttoned up to the neck. They both looked up, both gazed at Roy. Lee gave him a nod, maybe even more distant than it had to be, went back to digging. Roy heard her little grunt- his little grunt, he corrected himself. It would have to be that way in camp, must have been that way then if no one knew until it came time for the dead and wounded. Jesse jumped out of the trench, hurried over, shook hands.

  “I want to thank you, Roy.”

  “What for?”

  “Offering your place like this. We’re digging the latrines down there, right where the original ones must have been, judging by how thick the vegetation grows. Hope that’s all right.”

  Roy took a quick glance at his hand, slightly soiled from the handshake. “It’s not really my place,” he said.

  “Yours and Sonny’s,” Jesse said.

  “Sonny’s here?”

  “Gone down for a few things. He’ll be back soon.”

  Roy glanced at the meadow. The wildflowers all bent suddenly in the same direction, blown by a gust that didn’t reach the plateau. “What kind of things?” Roy said.

  “Sonny didn’t specify,” Jesse said. “He’s going to be a big help, your cousin.”

  “At what?”

  “All the things we can do now, Roy. We’re taking this to a whole new level and you’re a big part of it.”

  “It’s not my land,” Roy said. “Not Sonny’s neither.” Did he say that: Not Sonny’s neither? Couldn’t have, wasn’t the way he talked. Did he even know anyone who talked like that?

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Jesse was saying, “personally and as the ranking officer of this subgroup, it is your land.”

  Roy looked up at the mountaintop, rising behind the slave quarters. He didn’t argue, didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how it would come out, him or this other voice.

  “We’ve got the men,” Jesse said, rubbing his hands together in a way that reminded Roy of primitive people starting fires. “We’ve got the site. All we need now is a name.”

  “A name?”

  “Can’t call ourselves a subgroup,” Jesse said. “They didn’t talk like that.”

  “How about the Irregulars?” Roy said.

  “They talked like that.”

  The name: Irregulars.

  The site: Mountain House.

  The soldiers (no civilians allowed in a hard-core camp): Jesse, lieutenant in command. Sergeant Dibrell, ranking noncommissioned officer. Lee, the corporal. And three privates, Roy, Sonny, and Gordo; Gordo with the chance to try it for the long weekend, Brenda helping with the new baby at her sister’s. Gordo mentioning weekend was how Roy found out what day it was.

  Latrines dug, supplies stored under a shelter they’d built in a corner of the Mountain House, the Irregulars sat outside in the shade of a tree now past blooming, all but Sonny, still absent with leave. They drank the creek water from their canteens and gnawed on Slim Jims, which substituted for beef jerky.

  “These are disgusting,” said Gordo. “I’ll be farting all night.”

  “An authentic touch,” said Lee.

  Gordo, looking right at Lee, let loose a big fart. Lee’s face reddened, but so slightly you had to be watching closely to see it. Roy was, and wanted to smack Gordo. He liked Gordo, they were friends, but Gordo wasn’t going to make it. Funny thought: make it through what?

  “Food was bad,” Jesse was saying. “We don’t complain. What I thought we’d try, after it cools down some, is an assault on a higher position. If you’ve done any reading, you know they avoided these if possible, both sides. But assaults on higher positions happened-Little Roundtop being an obvious example, Lookout Mountain another. The commanders usually sent the men up with arms at right shoulder shift, ball loaded but musket uncapped. Any idea why?” Jesse looked around. Roy realized he could listen to Jesse talk all day. He had a thought, maybe not nice: If we’d had more Jews we’d have won.

  “You a teacher, Jesse?” Gordo said.

  “I’m a lieutenant in the CSA,” Jesse said. “And your membership here is probationary.”

  “Hell,” said Gordo, “I’m a founding member of the Irregulars. Tell him, Roy.”

  Roy said nothing. Joking around was for winners, not losers. Losers had to fight back and that was all. Not only that but it was the duty of the not-so-smart ones to listen to what the smart ones had to say. The odd thing was, even though he was one of the not-so-smart ones, he had the answer to Jesse’s question. Roy’s answer was based on a mental image, the kind of mental image he usually called a memory, impossible in this case, because what memories could he have of assaulting higher positions? In this nonmemory, he was toiling up a slope with hundreds of other men. Must have been imagining it, of course, although Roy knew he didn’t have much of an imagination, had never imagined any scene at all, and this one was so clear.

  “Too slow,” he said.

  “What’s that, Roy?” said Jesse.

  They were all watching him. Roy didn’t like it-he’d never been the type to raise his hand in class. “Can’t stop to shoot,” he said.

  “Why not?” Jesse said.

  The answer was obvious to Roy, down on that slope with hundreds of other men. What could be more obvious than bullets buzzing by like bees, and how hands shake and fingers fumble trying to reload. “No time,” he said, hearing his voice change a little, slowing, broadening into that voice of someone else, not too different from his own. “They’re firing down and you’re firing up. Got to get there first.”

  Jesse nodded. “Pretty much it,” he said. “Firing uphill you’re more likely to hit your own men in the back than anything else. Better to keep moving quick, fight on even terms.” He looked around again. “Any questions?”

  Roy had the only one. “Why are we waiting till it cools down?”

  They started up the mountain on a little ribbon of packed earth that led from the back of the slave quarters and soon disappeared in thickening undergrowth. Jesse went first, hacking with the blunt edges of his bayonet, Lee right behind him, then Gordo, Roy, and Dibrell last. The climb steepened almost right away, sometimes forcing them to their hands and knees, not easy with their weapons and gear. Roy heard Gordo’s labored breathing ahead of him, Dibrell’s, with a wheeze to it, behind. His own was silent. The space between Lee and Gordo grew until Lee was out of sight. Gordo leaned against a tree, pink blotches on his cheeks. Roy went past him, heard him say, “Are we having fun yet?”

  And Dibrell reply: “I kind of wish I’d asked my PO about this.”

  “PO?” said Gordo.

  “Parole officer,” said Dibrell. “Need his permission to leave the state. Maybe he’d of said no.”

  Roy came to a rocky shelf, caught his first sight of the summit, maybe two hundred feet above. Jesse and Lee were sitting on the edge of the shelf, dangling their feet in space. Roy sat beside them. He could see all the way to Lookout Mountain on the horizon-the big bend in the Tennessee River a faint gleam-even make out the tall buildings of downtown Chattanooga on the horizon; the only thing wrong with the view.

  “What happened at Lookout Mountain?” Roy said.

  “The Battle Above the Clouds,” said Jesse. “You’ve never seen pictures of the Yankees posing on that promontory up top?”

  “Don’t want to,” Roy said.

  When Dibrell and Gordo finally arrived, Jesse said, “From here, we split up. I’ll take Dibrell and Gordo up this side, you two find a way round the back. Always want to look more numerous than you are, Roy-one of Forrest’s favorite tricks.”

  Roy was on his feet. “Let’s go.”

  But Gordo and Dibrell wanted to sit down too, dangle their legs, start complaining about the heat, the bugs, the briars. Jesse let them. Roy didn’t understand
that. It wasn’t the way to beat Yankees.

  Lee and Roy started a minute or two ahead of the others, Lee first, Roy following. They made their way around to the other side of the mountain, crouched into the slope, sometimes pulling themselves along on roots and branches.

  “What did Dibrell do?” Roy said.

  “No talking.”

  They climbed the rest of the way in silence. Just before the top, they went flat, wriggled on their bellies to the trunk of a fallen tree. Ahead lay the summit, a small clearing circled by forest. A small clearing, but not empty: in the middle stood an array of instruments surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped fence. A sign on the fence read: no trespassing. u.s. national weather service. violators will be prosecuted.

  Lee frowned, looked more mannish frowning, but Roy’s heart was beating faster and he wasn’t really thinking about that, wasn’t really thinking. He propped the carbine on the tree trunk, cocked the hammer, checked to see that he was capped. He was. The instrument at the top, just above a small satellite dish, was one of those spinning things with cups on the end, Roy couldn’t think of the name. He raised his weapon, looked through the V, waited for one of those cups to come around, saw it with that hyperclarity, even the perforations inside, squeezed.

  The crack of the gun, the flash, the kick, the smell of the smoke: all thrilling. And just as thrilling was what happened next. The spinning cup blew to bits. Sparks cracked at the end of the mechanical arm where it had been. Little sparks, but suddenly there was a huge one, like a thick rope of lightning, arcing all the way down to a box at the base of the array. Then came a flash and a boom, and a big ball of fire shot into the sky, blinding Roy.

  When his vision returned he saw the instruments all blackened and twisted, flames licking here and there, and three men in gray on the other side of the clearing, openmouthed. Except for the occasional sound of metal popping, it was quiet, the birds and insects all silenced, nothing stirring in the woods.

  “Did someone fire a live round over there?” Jesse called across the clearing.

  “Is that wrong?” said Roy.

  He started to get up, and as he did felt Lee’s hand on his crotch, giving him a squeeze, furtive, gentle, hidden from sight by the tree trunk. He glanced at her: face scratched by brambles, blackened by the explosion, something powerful in her eyes, the eyes of a woman beyond a doubt-how did the others miss that? — this powerful something perhaps not love, maybe closer to adoration.

  “What are we going to do?” Dibrell said.

  “About what?” said Gordo, a big smile spreading across his face. Roy knew why: he’d gotten his big bang at last.

  “For fuck sake,” said Dibrell. “Open your eyes.”

  “It was a lightning strike,” Jesse said. “We deny everything.”

  “Why would anyone find out in the first place?” Lee said. “We’re way up here.”

  That made Roy smile too.

  Jesse began walking back and forth across the clearing, head down.

  “What are you doing?” Gordo said.

  “Can’t deny anything if they find a bullet.”

  Jesse was one of the smart ones that the nonsmart ones should listen to, no doubt about that. At the same time, Roy didn’t care at all about finding the bullet. You fired bullets in battle, didn’t hunt around for them after. He helped search for it anyway out of duty-they all did except Lee, who lay on the log, eyes closed-and found nothing.

  “Probably melted,” Gordo said. “No one else will find it either.”

  “What about DNA?” Dibrell said. “We must of left DNA all over the place. That’s how they got me the last time.”

  “For what?” said Gordo.

  Dibrell shook his head. “Just a crazy chain of events.”

  “Never heard of that crime,” said Gordo, still with that grin on his face.

  Dibrell moved in front of him. “What’s that sposta mean?”

  Jesse stepped between them. “Soldiers,” he said. “Form the squad.”

  Nobody moved. Roy saw they weren’t going to do it. They were hot, tired, angry, confused; even Gordo, no longer smiling. Plus they weren’t soldiers, a strange observation for Roy to have, but he knew it was true. Dibrell had the makings of a soldier but was too fucked-up inside. Gordo would never be a soldier: he was a mama’s boy and Brenda was mama. Roy even thought he understood the anal sex thing, all part of Gordo’s childishness.

  Roy said: “Yes, sir,” and took his place near Jesse, stood motionless with his gun across his chest. He didn’t say anything, but that voice inside him, the one with the broad accent and no self-doubt, was talking: Form the goddamn squad.

  They formed the squad.

  Down below the land went hazy blue and slowly darkened, but the sun still shone on the Mountain House. The Irregulars sat outside their tents, eating Slim Jims and hardtack. Gordo sent a flask around, and so did Dibrell, but whatever they had wasn’t Old Grand-Dad. Roy took a sip of each and no more. He didn’t want it. Even food wasn’t a necessity. The water from the creek was all he needed. Hazy darkening blue rose up the mountain, but without any hurry. Watching evening come and breathing were enough for Roy. Not that he was tired, although he could see the others were. He himself felt as strong as he had in the morning, maybe stronger. Time stretched, sagged, formed the shape of a bowl, accommodated itself to him. A short life span didn’t mean life was short; a long life span didn’t mean it was long. Roy liked 1863. He took wonderful deep breaths of its air.

  The hazy blue had crept halfway up the meadow when Roy heard something. He rose, gazed down from the edge of the plateau.

  “What is it, Roy?” Lee said.

  “That sound.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Listen.”

  None of them heard it.

  “The cops?” Dibrell said. Gordo tucked his flask in his back pocket, like that would make a difference.

  “Can’t you hear it?” Roy said.

  “What? Hear what?” Except for Lee they were all looking at him funny, like he was losing it, or maybe already had. Lee wasn’t looking at him at all; she was getting her gun ready.

  Was he losing it? “That,” he said. “Drumming.”

  “Drumming?”

  But Lee said: “Yes.”

  Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, soft and steady, from somewhere down in the gloom. The sound grew louder, sharper. Lee stepped behind a tree, musket trained down on the meadow. Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, and out of the deep blue haze and into the soft angled light of the setting sun marched Sonny Junior in his uniform, a long gun over his shoulder. A drummer boy, also in gray, marched beside him. Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat: crisp and steady. The drummer boy’s slouch hat was a little too big, drooped some over his forehead, which was maybe why Roy didn’t recognize him until he and Sonny had almost reached the top of the meadow. Should have been the other way around, that too-big hat, should have been a clue reminding him of the too-big helmet on number fifty-six.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ”Did I do wrong?” said Sonny Junior.

  The fire glowed bright in his eyes, more dully on the buckles and bayonets of the Irregulars. They sat around the fire under a sky more starry than black, Roy on one side of Rhett, Sonny on the other. The question-like all the details that had come tumbling out of Rhett’s mouth, and Sonny’s-didn’t really penetrate. All that penetrated was that first, and only, embrace with Rhett, who was actually sitting a little closer to Sonny right now.

  And the details? That part reminded Roy of his last year of high school Spanish, the year when English wasn’t spoken in class and he’d had to make guesses, island-hopping over fuzzy seas. Roy made his guesses: guessing that Rhett hated the new husband, his school, the tutors for English and math after school; hated Bermuda, or the cruise to Bermuda, where hated ties were worn at dinner, even by eleven-year-olds; hated Park Slope, New York, the kids and the way they talked; hated his mother. Then came a fuzzy patch with a call to Roy, where Sonny�
�s number had been left on the machine; a call to Sonny’s; and after that: action.

  The action Sonny took: a bus ticket? a plane ticket? Sonny went and got him? The stories they told didn’t quite match. And on the crucial issue of whether Marcia had been told anything, and if so, what, Roy found out that Rhett had left a note, or Sonny had talked to her, or some other not very credible connection had been made. Roy didn’t care: the meaning of crucial was changing. Even under the old meaning, what harm could there be? It was only for the weekend, or a little longer.

  “You did right,” Roy said.

  Sonny Junior grinned, patted Rhett on the back. Rhett, staring into the fire, didn’t seem to notice.

  “More to eat?” Lee said.

  Rhett nodded.

  “Hardtack or Slim Jim?”

  “Slim Jim.”

  Lee passed him one. They all watched him eat it, even Gordo and Dibrell, both half-drunk. The boy, in his uniform, leaning back on his drum, his skin smooth and golden in the firelight: they couldn’t take their eyes off him.

  “He’s a natural,” Sonny Junior said. “Learned practically all the drum calls on the way up.”

  “You know the drum calls, Sonny?” Roy said.

  “Guy in the store showed me-basic stuff.”

  “What do I owe you for the gear?”

  “Don’t insult me, cuz.”