Last of the Dixie Heroes

by Peter Abrahams

  Jesse’s gaze went from Roy to Sonny, past Gordo, settled on Lee. “What do you think, Corporal?” he said.

  Lee looked him in the eye. “Are we men or not?” she said.

  Silence. Then Sonny laughed. “The little guy, girl, whatever the hell she is, got more balls than the rest of us put together.”

  They all started laughing after that. It made them hurt, but they laughed anyway.

  “So it’s settled then,” Roy said.

  No one said it wasn’t.

  The windows went from the orange to black, the scythe, rake, ball and chain high up on the wall lost their ember-colored highlights, vanished from sight, the candles guttered and went out. The Irregulars bedded down for the night: Sonny Junior on the seat of the demolition derby car, Jesse and Gordo on straw behind the drum kit, Roy and Lee on the bare mattress back in the cantilevered section.

  They heard Jesse groan, later a higher-pitched sound, almost like a child whimpering in the night, must have been Gordo, after that Sonny’s snoring, and finally silence. Roy whispered in Lee’s ear.

  “You all right?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  They weren’t touching. Then they were, Lee making the first move. They held each other. Roy didn’t want more than that. Lee did. That didn’t make him feel any different, not at first. She was starting to do something about that, and Roy could see it all going very shabby, when one of her fingers snagged in the little hole on the left side of his jacket. Everything changed. What if he died in the Battle Above the Clouds, what if he lost Rhett up there too? Those apple trees, blossoming year after year for generations, the water flowing from the spring, almost holy: Roy went deep inside her, as deep as he could, maybe even a bit brutally.

  “That was the best,” she said after, in a low voice, but not whispering. For some reason he liked that not-whispering part most of all.

  They breathed together, softer and softer. Roy listened for the beating of heavy wings, didn’t hear them. She could name him, the baby, anything she liked.

  Roy opened his eyes. Still night, the night before the battle. Bragg’s failure to pursue: they wouldn’t make that mistake again. Roy had arrived at his destination on the journey through time, had found the exact moment when he could make things right at last, undo the mistake of Chickamauga. Forces were on the loose, as Ezekiel had said. And not only Ezekiel: Roy suddenly remembered Curtis using that very phrase, after they fired Gordo. Did black people sense those forces first? If so, why?

  Roy couldn’t get back to sleep. He thought of all the rebels who had lain awake the night before the battle, thought: Help me, father. That didn’t mean his biological father, or any sort of supernatural one, but his real father, the hero with many greats before his name, Roy Singleton Hill. Lying on the bare mattress in the cantilevered part of Sonny’s barn, Lee’s hand limp on his side, Roy remembered the diary page. He felt in his pocket: still there.

  Roy got up. He slipped out of the cantilevered section, a shadow as quiet as all the others in the barn. The big doors hung slightly open, framing a narrow column of stars. Roy went outside.

  It was cool, almost cold. The sudden temperature drop surprised him; so did the flickering yellow light he took at first for a firefly from the far side of the well. Roy walked around it, found Jesse sitting with his back to the rough stone wellhead, a candle stub burning in the ground. Roy sat be-side him.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Jesse said.

  “Shoulder?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Won’t affect your shooting none?” Roy said.

  “Not for firing blanks.”

  Roy smiled. “Was it you took away my bullets?” he said. “I had one in the chamber, a few more in my pouch.”

  “It was me.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re asking why I don’t want you firing live rounds?”

  “You hadn’t done that, we’d have won up there, and I’d still have Rhett.”

  “Can’t be sure.”

  “We can,” Roy said. “I’m deadly.”

  “I know that, Roy. I’m sorry for that part, about Rhett.”

  “Don’t worry yourself. Things’ll be different tomorrow.”

  “They will?”

  “Lee’s got bullets-unless you took them too.”

  “I didn’t,” Jesse said. “Wasn’t aware.” He glanced at the barn, a massive shadow in the night, opened his mouth to say more, stopped himself.

  “Then we’ll be fine,” Roy said. “You’re a good officer.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They sat by the well, the night quiet, the sky full of stars. Roy tried to find the Milky Way, failed. After a while, he took the diary page from his pocket. “What went on at Fort Pillow?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Roy pictured Curtis’s dark hand on the last page in the diary: Now theys thinkin twicet bout not surrenderin but we has our orders from Forrest and they was to- “Just tell me,” Roy said.

  “It’s not so easy,” Jesse said. “Forrest took the fort. There were about six hundred Union troops inside, half of them black. It was a slaughter, but so were a lot of battles. There’s controversy whether killing continued after the surrender, controversy whether the black soldiers were singled out. The evidence is inconclusive. Does it matter?”

  Roy held the paper close to the candle. kill the last God damn one of em. Was what Forrest says. Theys runnin down the bluff in thur uniferms, throwin down thar guns hands in the air, fallin on thar knees. Too late. We stood em back up and shot em back down. I shot some swimmin away in the rivr too, one at a rainge of for hunnert yard, mebbe more, the nigger in his uniferm. An Zeke I had to shoot Zeke too for desertin in batle.

  There was more, but Roy didn’t read it. He held the paper over Jesse’s candle. It browned, curled, blazed up, burned away. Roy ground the ashes under his heel.

  “What’s that all about?” Jesse said.

  “You were right,” Roy said, getting up. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He went back into the barn, lay down beside Lee. He kept telling himself it didn’t matter. But it had mattered to someone, maybe some black Hill, mattered enough to pass that casket down the generations. Maybe Ezekiel was right all along: maybe the casket had held the ashes of Roy Singleton Hill. And that line from the bio Jesse had sent him, about his one son. What was the wording? Who may have died in infancy. Something like that. Roy wondered where the line between the white Hills and the black Hills was drawn.

  “Milky White Way” started up in his mind at last, took him down, his last thought of sons dying in infancy.

  THIRTY

  Sonny Junior shook him awake just before dawn. The visual world was starting to materialize, but Roy knew who it was just from the strength.

  “Got a problem, cuz.”

  Roy sat up. Sonny stood by the mattress. He had hold of Jesse by his bad arm.

  “Caught him down at his car, Roy, going for the phone.”

  “Can’t have you firing real rounds,” Jesse said.

  “Real rounds, hell,” said Sonny. “I’m takin’ the AK.”

  Lee stirred in her sleep. Roy rose. “Let him go,” he said. Sonny released Jesse’s arm. They went into the main part of the barn, stood near a window. The light was getting stronger now, but Roy couldn’t even make out the house; the temperature drop had brought fog, as thick as any Roy had seen.

  “Who were you calling, Jesse?” he said.

  “Chattanooga police.”

  “Did you get through?”

  Jesse shook his head.

  “You lying to me now?”

  “Why would I? If anything, I’d lie the other way to stop you.”

  Roy thought that over. Was it a trick? He wasn’t clever enough to know, never would be. It didn’t mean he couldn’t lead.

  Roy called Lee over.

  “How many rounds have we got?”

  “Three.”

  “Don’t forget the AK,” said Son
ny. “Plus I got a shitload of other guns, comes to that.”

  “Corporal,” Roy said, “get your weapon and take the lieutenant outside. Keep an eye on him. Sonny and I have to talk.”

  “Why should I keep an eye on him?” said Lee.

  “The lieutenant is going on leave.”

  Lee took Jesse outside. Roy and Sonny stood by the window. “Gonna have to shoot him, Roy?”

  “Where’s his phone?”

  “Taken care of.”

  Roy gazed at his cousin. His lip was puffy, but healing already, the blood around his ear all dried up and scaly: he didn’t look too bad, even somewhat rested. The chopped-off hair effect was going to take getting used to, the way it made Sonny resemble a huge version of his father. Roy wondered whether his father’s eyes had looked like that, red flecks in the blue.

  “The AK stays behind,” Roy said.

  The red flecks seemed to get brighter, like they had some separate connection to a source of power. “You tellin’ me what to do now, cuz?”

  Sonny seemed to come a little closer, although he might not have moved at all. Behind him, a strange pattern of knots on the barnwood wall came into focus, like a sun with two moons. The sight didn’t bring everything back, but enough. It had happened by this window, two little boys rassling, but Sonny bigger and much stronger, holding him down while Roy screamed to get up. There was also something about a corn cob, lost to memory. Didn’t matter: he wasn’t afraid of Sonny, wasn’t afraid of anyone now.

  “You’ll do what I say or you don’t come,” Roy said.

  Their eyes met. Roy knew how Sonny would go for him, right for the throat, also knew how he would counter, how he’d lay Sonny out. He had no fear at all. At that moment, something came into view from above: a black spider descending on its thread, a delicate black spider, quite small, coming between them. Sonny jumped back with a little cry.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I can’t stand when that happens.”

  Roy took the spider in his hand, opened the window, let it out. He turned back to Sonny; the red flecks were almost gone.

  “There’s always the Glock with the pump action-” Sonny began.

  “None of it,” Roy said. “We got there, Sonny. Now we have to do it right.”

  “Got where?” said Sonny.

  “Where we want to be.”

  Sonny nodded. “Makes sense. Mighty happy to have a cousin deep as you, Roy. I feel a little bad about taking the farm and all. It wasn’t quite as clear-cut as maybe I made it out to be, tellin’ you before, the Cheetos and all.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” Roy said.

  They went outside. Sonny looked around. “Where’s Gordo?”

  No Gordo. They found his uniform near the drum kit, neatly folded.

  “So we shoot the lieutenant and hit the road?” Sonny said.

  “Very funny,” said Roy.

  They left Jesse sitting comfortably in the barn, as comfortable as he could be with his shoulder the way it was and his leg attached to the ball and chain, a spike driven through one of the links deep into the floor. He had a big pail of water in reach and all the hardtack that was left.

  “See you tonight,” Roy said.

  Jesse said nothing, gave Roy a look that Roy told himself had no effect at all.

  They hit the road in Sonny’s pickup, rolling through a narrow tunnel of fog, seeing almost nothing. Down on the highway to Chattanooga, they did catch a glimpse of two cars coming the other way, Tennessee State Police first, Georgia State Police right behind. A woman’s face in the back of the second car seemed familiar to Roy. After a few miles, he realized it was Marcia.

  Signs at Lookout Mountain read battle above the clouds, pointed blue one way, gray the other, but you had to be close to see them on account of the fog, everything off the road-houses, garages, cars in the driveways-invisible. Soldiers were on the march, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, blue and gray, slipping in and out of the mist as the Irregulars drove up. They parked in a Confederate lot partway up the mountain, finding a space between two tailgate parties. Lee portioned out the ammunition, one round each. Roy loaded his carbine.

  They got out of the car. A general with a lot of gold on his hat glanced up from his wicker picnic hamper.

  “You guys look great,” he said. “Who are you with?”

  “We’re irregulars,” Roy said.

  “The Irregulars,” said Sonny. “I’m the sergeant.”

  “I see that,” said the general. “Great, just great. You hard-cores really show us how it’s done. Be honored to have you march with us. We’re shaping up over at the Craven House, assault on the summit scheduled for eleven, special NPS dispensation.”

  “They’re on the summit already?” Lee said.

  “The Park Service?” said the general.

  “The Yankees,” said Lee.

  “Oh, right, the Yankees. I see where you’re coming from. We’re doing things a little in reverse, Corporal, a kind of what-if-there’d-been-a-rebel-counterattack scenario.”

  “Exactly right,” said Roy.

  “You can say that again,” said the general. “With this fog and all-who could ask for more?” It thickened even as he spoke, dissolving the general’s image. A cork popped in the mist.

  The rebel brigades trod in double file along the path that wound up Lookout Mountain from the Craven House. A huge force, but Roy could see only a few soldiers in front and behind, all the rest hidden in the fog. Perhaps that was why he took no comfort in their numbers, even felt strangely alone.

  Roy heard labored breathing all around him, but it was an easy climb for him, ambling along inside a cloud, the carbine almost weightless on his shoulder. Feeling those letters carved into the stock made him impatient, made him want to run up to the summit full speed, which he knew he could have done almost effortlessly, what with how strong he’d become.

  A hiker with a fanny pack stepped out from behind a tree, said, “Cheese,” and snapped their picture. Lee, marching at Roy’s side, turned away.

  “Go shoot us some bluebellies, now,” said the hiker.

  Sonny Junior, just in front, turned for a longer look at her bare legs.

  The rebels rounded a switchback bend, climbed a long diagonal, crisscrossing higher up the wooded slope. The fog turned golden all around them, like childhood heaven. Then from up ahead came the crack of a musket, and another.

  “Yankee snipers,” someone yelled.

  Not far up the line, a rebel grunted and fell, rolling to the side of the trail. “I’m hit,” he moaned, “I’m hit. Tell my darling wife.. ”

  Roy spotted one of the snipers, somehow knew where to find him right away: a green-clad figure on a low tree branch, almost lost in the golden haze. He pointed him out to Sonny. Sonny raised his musket, took aim.

  “For God’s sake,” Roy said, jerking the barrel down.

  “Huh?” said Sonny.

  “Not now,” Roy said.

  Sonny nodded, shouldered his weapon.

  “You don’t want him, I do,” said someone behind them. Then came a musket blast, and the sniper cried out, slid carefully down out of the tree, and lay still.

  The gray column marched past the dying rebel, beyond the writhing stage now and preparing to meet his maker.

  “Croak now and you’ll miss all the fun up top,” someone told him.

  His eyes opened. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Then I’m not hit either,” called the sniper, sitting up in the woods.

  More musket fire up ahead now, at first sporadic, then almost steady. The fog grew more golden, the men marched faster and faster, at the double-quick now, although Roy hadn’t heard a command, just did what all around him were doing, and suddenly he stepped into sunshine, dazzled above the clouds. Roy could no longer hold himself back, started running in daylight so bright it hurt his eyes. He crested the summit, Sonny on one side, Lee on the other. The Yankees had beaten the shit out of him just yesterday, and look at him now. Rebel
yells rose all around. The long roll started playing, didn’t stop.

  The Union army waited on the battlefield: a strange battlefield, more like a park, with gravel walkways, benches, information plaques, even a tall monument in the center. None of that added up for Roy, but there was no time to figure it out. The Yankees were ready, a vast blue army in perfect order, ranks square, muskets all pointed at the same angle, a single blue machine of countless parts. The rebel army didn’t look like that. The men straggled breathlessly up from the trail in twos and threes, glancing around in the sudden glare, distracted by things Roy hadn’t seen until he followed their gazes: spectators sitting on bleachers lining the field, photographers in cherry pickers high above, pushcarts selling ice cream, hot dogs, tacos.

  Roy saw all that now, but it didn’t really penetrate. He found a place in the front line, scanned the Yankee ranks, could easily distinguish individual faces, recognized none.

  Help me, father.

  The Confederates formed ranks. The musket firing, somewhere down the slope, died out. The drumming ceased. The armies faced each other in silence. Generals rode up and down, waving their splendid hats, the horses’ hooves the only sound, an earthly heartbeat. Then Roy heard a voice.

  “Massah.”

  He looked down the line, saw a man, woman, and child approaching. Barefoot, all of them, and in tatters. The man carried a pole over his shoulders, two big tin buckets on either end, heavy enough to bend the pole, bend the man. The woman bore another bucket on her head. The child, not much more than a toddler, held a tin dipper.

  “Thirsty, massah?”

  They came closer, doling out water every ten yards or so, the man lowering the buckets to the ground, the child handing over the dipper, the man struggling to get the weight back up without spilling after the soldiers had drunk. Roy realized he was thirsty. He reached back for his canteen. Not there. He thought back, remembered last having it in the Mountain House, filled to the brim with water from the creek. Would he never taste that water again? His thirst rose very fast, as though some dam for holding back dryness had burst inside him.

  “Water, massah?”