EQMM, September-October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Groping around at his feet, Gus brushed against a human arm! He nearly slashed at it with the blade before he realized he'd tripped over a corpse.

  Sweet Jesus. It was Eli. They'd dumped the boy's body downwind of the camp, near the herd, to save trouble loading him again in the morning. Leaving him out here in the dark like trash. Like nothing . . . God damn their eyes!

  Rising slowly, Gus stroked the neck of the nervous mare, peering over her rump, scanning the camp as he waited for her to settle down. Across the creek, the sentry stirred once in his sleep. No one else was moving.

  Except Meachum. Grunting, the Jayhawker rolled over on his side, turning away from the fire. Facing Gus.

  But not seeing him. Meachum's eyes were closed, or nearly so. He was either asleep or drowsing . . . And no more than twenty paces away. Gus was already edging around the mare toward the creek before he'd given it conscious thought.

  Easing into the water, he waded quietly across, heading directly at the sleeping gunman with Neeland's Arkansas blade in his fist, ready to...

  What? As he stepped warily out of the water Gus realized his misjudgment. Jesus, he'd crossed the creek right into the middle of the damned camp. Sleeping Yanks were all around him, a sentry between him and the horses and a sharpshooter on the hillside above. The slightest noise, a sneeze, a bad dream? If anyone woke in the camp, he was a dead man.

  And yet, Aaron Meachum was only a few steps away, now. Within easy reach. A thrust to his black heart, a slashed jugular . . . but no.

  He couldn't risk it. No man dies silently. Butchering Meachum here would be suicide, pure and simple.

  But he was so close . . . he damned well had to do something.

  Moving a step closer, he carefully slid the bloodstained Arkansas blade into the ground, an inch from Aaron Meachum's nose. A remembrance. From Lieutenant James Oliver Neeland, of the First Arkansas. And his friend Eli Mitchell. Of Cairo, Illinois.

  "Hey.” A trooper near the campfire sat up slowly, blinking, only half awake. “What . . . ?"

  But Gus simply waved at the man as he turned away, walking easily along the creek bank as though he belonged in the camp. As he passed the dozing picket sentry, he casually lifted the rifle off his lap, then slammed the butt into his head! Sending him sprawling into the brush!

  Then Gus was off! Plunging into the creek, he waded across in three long strides. Vaulting up onto Eli's mare, he fired the sentry's musket in the air and cut loose a shrill Rebel yell, stampeding the horses down the glen away from the camp.

  Throwing the empty musket aside, Gus crouched low on the mare's neck, clinging to her mane for dear life. As she ran flat out over the uneven ground it took every ounce of skill and tenacity Gus owned to stay on her back. A few shots rang out in the camp, but he wasn't worried about them. With smoothbore muskets, the patrol couldn't hit a barn at twenty paces. Nor was pursuit a problem; they'd be chasing down their scattered mounts for a week. A minié ball whistled past his head, close enough to feel the hot wind of its passing. The echo of its report came a second later. Damn it, the sharpshooter! No man could hit a horseman running at full gallop, not by starlight at this distance—

  But Gus was already counting down the seconds it would take the Hessian to reload, trying to time the next shot. At the last instant, he leaned sharply over the mare's neck, trying to swing her with his weight—too late!

  He felt the blow of a heavy slug hammer into his left shoulder, knocking him off the mare, spinning him into the darkness.

  He slammed down hard, rolling to break his fall, crashing to a halt against a cluster of brush. He lay there stunned a moment, gasping, his wind driven out. Then he was crawling, scrambling up the hillside on his hands and knees into the cover of the aspens, out of sight, out of range.

  He crouched there awhile, panting like a dog, gathering his addled wits. In the distance behind him, he could still see gun flashes, hear the reports as the panicked patrol fired blindly into the dark, blasting away at shadows.

  Rising slowly, Gus looked back, trying to gauge the distance to the camp. At least five hundred yards, maybe six. That Kraut bastard was one hell of a shot. Gus gingerly touched his wounded shoulder with his fingertips. It burned like a brand, but there didn't seem to be much blood. A graze, no more. Still, a very near thing. Another inch, he'd be visiting with Eli and Jared.

  But so far, he was still breathing. He might make it through this after all.

  He'd have nothing to fear from the patrol for a while. They wouldn't venture out after their horses until full daylight, and they'd never recover them all in these hills.

  A few lost boys would come upon stray mounts for the ride home. And some of the Hessians would have one hell of a long hike back to Springfield. Meachum too, most likely. Gus doubted the Kraut sergeant would loan him a mount.

  Meachum. His only regret for this night's work was not seeing the Jayhawker's face when he woke to find a bloody Reb dagger an inch from his nose.

  He was a yellow cur at heart. Knowing how close death had come would keep him sweating until it came for him again. And it would. Somewhere down the line, Gus would make certain sure of that.

  Easing out of the trees, he looked to the hills, orienting himself. He was a good five miles from his horse camp, and nearly that far from the farm.

  He read the stars, estimating the hours of darkness remaining. Knew he should circle back to the horse camp and his herd. It wouldn't be the first time he'd missed his supply run. Polly and the farm would keep another month—

  But he wouldn't. On this night, Gus needed to see his farm, his land, his woman. To be sure they were real, and not part of some blood-crazed fever dream.

  He knew he'd crossed a line tonight, risking everything to make a pointless gesture. Only a fool would do that. Or a man losing his grip.

  He needed a few moments of peace amidst the madness of this life. Just a few.

  So he collected his wits, then set off down the hillside at a brisk pace, marching toward the farm in the dark. Headed home.

  * * * *

  In that same moonless dark, Polly nearly missed the corpse. Dappled with faint, starlit silhouettes, the road was a slender gray ribbon threading through the shadowed hills. Birgit wasn't sure how far she'd traveled or how long she'd been lost. The women could easily have driven past the corpse without seeing it. But the horse recognized the spot. She snorted, tossing her head, shying away from the crumpled form lying beside the road.

  "You wait here,” Polly hissed, stepping down from the buggy, her shotgun leveled at the body. But there was no need. The blast had shredded his upper torso. She could smell the reek of death from ten feet away. Not just the stench of blood and voided bowels, but the sickly sweet odor of gangrene as well.

  Couldn't tell if he was Reb or Federal. Linsey-woolsey shirt drenched with blood, canvas pants, broken-down boots.

  "Is he . . . ?” Birgit whispered.

  "Oh my, yes. He's dead as a beaver hat, girl. He was near to dyin’ anyways. Got a bandaged wound on his thigh and it was mortifyin'. The gangrene would have took him soon. You probably did the poor bastard a favor. Come on, let's get him underground."

  Straining and stumbling, the two women tried to drag the reeking body off the road into the trees, but the corpse kept snagging on the underbrush. In the end, Polly put her gun aside and lifted him by the shoulders while Birgit took his legs, and they carried him into the forest.

  Spotting a natural trench at the base of a fallen sycamore, Polly widened it with her shovel, then they rolled the corpse in and covered it over with dirt and forest debris.

  "The wind will do the rest,” Polly panted, straightening. “A day or two, it'll be like we was never here."

  "We should say words for him,” Birgit said.

  "You mean pray? For a damned road agent?"

  "We can't just leave him like this. It's wrong.” Birgit's voice was shaking, very near to tears.

  "All right, girl, all right. Do you know what
to say?"

  "Not—in English."

  "Then say it in Hessian. Or whatever that place is you're from."

  "Bavaria. But the language is the same."

  "Well, I expect the good Lord understands ‘em all, and this poor devil's beyond caring. You go ahead."

  Kneeling silently in the moist forest mold, the two women bowed their heads while Birgit prayed. Polly didn't understand a word of it. Yet somehow she felt a bit better for it as they made their way back to the road.

  The girl was right. A proper prayer was a righteous thing to do, even for no-account border trash.

  They found the coach gun in the brush beside the road where Birgit had dropped it. After reloading it, Polly handed it up to the girl in the buggy.

  "You drive on now. Corridon's less than an hour away and you'll be safer travelin’ this time of night than by daylight. You shouldn't have no more trouble, but if you do, well, God help ‘em. You blast away and don't stop for nothin'."

  "But what will you do?"

  "I'll walk home. I been in these hills my whole life, starlight's as bright as a lantern. Don't fret none about me. You just take care of yourself and that baby. I'll see you come summer, girl. I promise."

  Polly watched until the buggy disappeared, then set off for her farm, a long, weary march. It was well past midnight when she finally trudged up the lane to her home.

  She'd hoped Angus might be waiting. But he wasn't here. Or at least, not yet.

  Exhausted, Polly relit the kitchen woodstove to warm the water, then stumbled into her bedroom. By the light of a lone candle, she filled the basin from the pitcher on the washstand, then stripped off her shirt, hanging it carefully on the doorknob to avoid getting bloodstains on the bedspread.

  But as she plunged her arms in the basin to rinse off the gore, the scent of it came roiling up, suffusing the air, a powerful sweet-sour blend of gangrene and...

  Lilacs.

  Stunned, Polly stared down at the basin, already reddening with blood from her hands. Leaning down, her face just above the water, she drew a long, ragged breath. Dear God. It was eau de lilac. Full strength, undiluted.

  Her throat closed so tightly she could hardly breathe. Still, she forced herself to take her shirt from the doorknob to sniff a bloodstained sleeve. It was drenched with lilac water.

  No doubt about it.

  The—man—Birgit had killed must have been carrying the bottle in his shirt pocket. The shotgun blast splattered it all over his chest. With a low moan, Polly sank to the floor beside the bed, burying her face in her hands, rocking. No tears came, her agony was soundless and soul-deep, a pain so savage she thought she might die. And wished to God she could.

  Which boy had they buried out there? She'd never looked into his face, hadn't wanted to. He was just another lost scarecrow of war, another starving, walking corpse, looking for a place to die.

  Or to kill. Why in God's name had he attacked Birgit on the road? Was he too sick to walk any further? Or had the war bled away his soul and his honor? Made him into another Meachum?

  She wasn't sure how long she knelt there. Perhaps she fell asleep.

  Because suddenly she woke with a start! Someone was moving in the kitchen. And for a wild moment she thought she'd been mistaken, that the boy hadn't been quite dead. That he'd clawed his way out of the earth somehow, to find his way home . . . But no.

  In the kitchen Angus was fumbling with a lantern.

  "Don't light that,” Polly said quietly, carrying her candle to the rough wooden table. “Cavalry patrol was here yesterday. They might be watching the house."

  "Whose cavalry?"

  "Federals, out of Jefferson City."

  "Oh.” In the flickering shadows, her husband's seamed face was hewn from granite, his beard unkempt, his graying hair wild. She wanted to hold him, to feel his strength. But it wasn't their custom. And she wanted no questions.

  "You're late,” she said, her voice quiet, controlled. “It's nearly three."

  "I had to walk in. Took longer than I figured."

  "You walked? Why?"

  He avoided her eyes. “I run into a branch in the dark. Took a fall. Lost my horse."

  "Your mare? Why did she run off? She comes to your whistle."

  "I don't know, somethin’ spooked her, maybe. She run off, damn it. I wanted to get home so I walked on in. She'll likely find her own way back to the herd. If not, I'll hunt her up tomorrow. Let it be, Pol. What's the news? What do the neighbors say?"

  "The war might be over soon, truly. I had a visitor today, Tyler Randolph's new wife. She said the Federals burned Atlanta. Hood's retreating."

  "I heard that, too. Met a deserter, a Yankee boy."

  "Did he give you trouble?"

  "No, I . . . put him on a Jayhawk trail, sent him on his way. I've been seein’ a lot of strays in the hills lately, mostly Rebs but some Union, too. Federal patrols are shootin’ deserters now. Got a bounty on ‘em. Huntin’ them boys down like coyotes. Is that why the cavalry came?"

  "For that, and to steal anything that wasn't nailed down. Aaron Meachum was with them. Gave me some mouth, nothing I couldn't handle."

  "Meachum,” Angus rasped, his eyes narrowing. “That bloodsuckin’ scum's ridin’ high now. Got the Hessians around him, thinks he's safe. But when this is over and the boys are home, we'll be payin’ a moonlight visit to that Jayhawker sonofabitch—"

  Polly slapped him, hard! Snapping his head around! He stared at her in stunned disbelief.

  "No! By God, Angus, when this is over, it's truly gonna be over for us. We've given enough, bled enough. Let the dead bury the dead. No more killing, no more burning, not for justice nor revenge nor any other goddamn thing!"

  "What the hell's got into you, Pol?"

  "I met Tyler Randolph's wife! And she's a Hessian, except she's not, she's from—some other place in Germany. But she's a fine girl! And God willing, she and Tyler will have children. I can midwife for her, and they can come visit of a Sunday, stay a few days over Christmas, maybe.

  "But so help me God, Angus, if you ever talk about any more killin’ or use that word Hessian to me again, I'll leave you! I'll take our boy and go! Do you understand me?"

  Hot tears were streaming now. She couldn't stop them and she didn't care. Angus stared at her like a stranger, utterly baffled. He touched his lip and his fingertip came away bloody.

  "No,” he said slowly, “I don't understand, Pol. But I think it's a damn sight more than we can talk through this night. I'd best go. I need to get back to the hills before sunup anyhow."

  "No! Not yet! You came in for some hot food and a bath and you're damned well gonna have ‘em!"

  "I came in for a kind word, too. But I guess I'll have to settle for a bath."

  "Good! You soak yourself and I'll fry up some eggs. Go on, shuck your duds. You smell like a damned horse camp."

  Polly carried the steaming buckets from the woodstove to the tub, filling it with practiced ease as Angus unbuttoned his shirt, eyeing her warily all the while.

  "What happened to your arm, Gus?"

  "Must've banged it up when I fell."

  "Give me that!” Snatching the shirt out of his hands, she examined the tear.

  "That's a bullethole, Angus. And you never fell off a horse in your damn life! What really happened up there?"

  "Nothing, Pol. Let it go."

  "Don't lie to me! What—"

  "I said nothin’ happened and that's an end to it! If it needed tellin', I'd say so. It don't. Not tonight, not ever. Let it be, Polly. Just give me some peace! Please. I fell. That's it."

  That wasn't it. Gus was lying to her face and she damned well knew it. But he was right about one thing, it was more than they could talk through this night.

  When the tub was full, he turned his back and so did she, giving him his privacy, as was their custom.

  But not tonight. Instead, Polly turned and watched Gus strip off his frayed shirt and the tattered union suit beneath. Saw his pale,
scrawny frame, the bloody gash on his shoulder from his so-called fall. Next to an older scar where a horse had broken his collarbone years ago. He let his drawers drop, revealing his flat butt and skinny legs, the hipbones showing through.

  My God. He'd been up in those hills more than two years, living with their animals, living like an animal. Freezing and going hungry. For her. For their boys. With no complaints.

  As he turned to climb in the bath, he saw her watching and colored with embarrassment. But he said nothing. He just eased his aching bones down into the steaming water with a muffled groan.

  But in that briefest of moments, when their eyes met, she'd seen her life. With him.

  And nothing else mattered. Nothing.

  Not the hunger, not the war, not even the lost boy in the forest. Somehow they'd get through this. They would.

  Ordinarily she left him alone to bathe. Instead she knelt behind the tub, and after a moment's hesitation, she undid her muslin under-blouse and slipped out of it, freeing her breasts.

  Wrapping her arms around his gaunt shoulders, she gathered Gus to her bosom, enveloping him in her warmth. Closing his eyes, he leaned back, resting his head against her shoulder. Feeling her heart beating with his own, breathing in her scent.

  "I'm sorry,” she said, after a time.

  "No, it's my fault. Up in those hills I forget how hard it must be for you down here, toughin’ it out alone. Coming home feels so good to me that . . . well, I forget, that's all. Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, this minute. With you. I'll be better when all this is over."

  "Soon, maybe. And you're right, Pol. When it's finished we'll get back to some kind of a life. Make up for these sorry times. All of us. I miss you, Polly, I miss our boys, our home. God, I even miss the way it always smells . . . so clean. So sweet. Like now. What is that scent you favor?"

  "Eau de lilac,” she murmured. “Lilac water."

  Copyright © 2010 Doug Allyn