by Jack Cady
“She said don’t take better guns, take no guns,” Ephriam told him. “Do you know about that?”
“You’d be amazed how much I don’t know. What that woman understands was lost by everybody else two hundred years ago. Hang onto your rifles.”
We followed a west-running trail. In these parts the lumbermen have still not struck. Giant trees rose in protected hollows and along streams. The broad trail skirted the base of mountains. In these hills are trails, paths, and great trails. Important to know the difference.
A path is well worn, short, and leads somewhere; a confluence of streams, an Indian ballfield of rough and dangerous games, or ceremonial site. Trails are different. Some trails follow the paths of animals, then extend beyond those paths. Some trails are made, hacked out, walked over, brush pushed aside; easily overgrown if not used. The trail we followed was a great trail used for war or trading. We moved without stealth, following Bester’s lead.
We felt that we moved through a timeless landscape. We stood guard through nights of owl-call and the ticking of death-watches; and whether those death-watch insects existed in the night, or only ticked in our memories, none could say. We trekked, camped, slept, woke, trekked. Twice we waited as Bester reconnoitered an Indian camp, and twice we skirted that camp. Indians scouted us from the forest, and we could not know if they were alive or spectral. Bester remained alert, as did we all. We were soldiers moving through strange terrain.
A week into the forest, and with Thunder booming in the west, the trail crested a small rise and descended into a shrouded valley. Nature, herself, seemed to change and grow dark. Orange smears of fire flashed in western hills.
Mist covered the trail. Ravens sat silent on low branches like black smudges on mist. The birds did not call, or chortle, or shriek.
“Soul catchers,” Bester said about the ravens. “Spirits. You never get a squawk from them until some fool goes to glory.”
Deer bounced across the trail and chipmunks clung to trees, watching. The chipmunks did not scold. A panther stood silent beside the trail. Our horses saw nothing, or at least did not respond. They passed the panther as if it were not there.
“Nary a snort,” Ephriam said to Charles, and it sounded like a question.
“Because the beasts can’t smell or see it,” Charles said. “I can’t smell it. I doubt my senses.”
“Soul catchers?” Ephriam said to Bester. Ephriam did not sound scientific. He sounded like a sailor, and sailors are almost always superstitious.
“Hang tight to what soul you’ve got,” Bester said. “Those birdies don’t jest.” To Charles, he said, “Spirits aren’t our problem. Trouble lies t’other side of yon hill.”
In the next valley a south-running stream crashed overfilled and dangerous because of August storms. Water tore at banks. Water backed up, and young poplars stood in water. Trees bent before current. We would have to move north, or south, in order to find a place to ford.
As we waited on Bester’s lead the horses made small snorts and caught the jitters. The mule flat-out brayed.
“Hunker down,” Ephriam said as he headed for cover. We automatically put our horses on tether between us and the hillside. The horses tried to shy from the hill. The mule went wide-eyed. During the war, mules had a reputation for frenzy in combat. This mule lived up to it. It tried to shake its load.
“I’m puttin’ trust in not much these days, but I trust horses.” Ephriam took his rifle off half-cock as he knelt behind a massive oak.
“Raiders,” Bester muttered toward the hill. “They want the horses and rifles. I reckon they’ve got more’n their share of surprise coming.” He turned away from the hill and toward the stream. We heard his weapon cock.
While Bester covered our rear we faced the hillside. Blood churns hot and fast at such moments. It’s hard to stand easy, but it pays nothing to court excitement. We heard the report of Bester’s rifle at the same moment we heard a flat explosion, almost a pop.
Bester knelt and faced the stream. Ephriam continued to scan the hillside as, at the report, Charles and I turned to Bester. On the tree behind which Charles had knelt, a black rock hit, then fell harmless to the ground. There were lots of such rocks around, and in all sizes. They were smoothed by rolling in the streams.
From across the stream a small puff of smoke showed where our assailant had been, for surely by now he had moved. I turned my rifle toward the stream.
“Find him,” Ephriam said over his shoulder, “because you’ll be looking at one dead Sadducee.”
Charles reached down, feeling for the rock that hit the tree. He kept searching while watching the forest on the other side of the stream. His hand felt here, there, and found no rock. He turned back to the hill while we continued to face the stream.
“Already dead,” Bester told Ephriam, “and he’s been just that dead for at least three hundred years.” Bester did not relax but he took his time reloading. “Keep a watch for anything ornery,” he told us, “though likely all you’ll see is smoke. We’ll soon be watching a skirmish.”
“You shot at what?” Charles did not lower his weapon. He kept it pointed across the creek.
“I saw movement that might have been alive,” Bester said quietly, “A picket is a picket.”
“Rocks,” I said, “not shot?”
“Maybe from a wheel-lock.” Bester sounded tired. “You can’t hit damn-all with them, but you can load anything that fits in the barrel. And make that a massacre, not a skirmish.” He looked to the hillside, then across the swollen stream. “If they were shooting rocks they were out of shot. Meantime, those raiders are among the living. They’re after us, but they’re about to catch a case of the dreadfuls. They’ll scamper like hares.”
I wish I could say that what followed was a mere tableau, the carefully constructed scene, and the short vision so popular in society these days. Instead, this became one more lick of fire from the Devil’s furnace.
Across the stream a small band of men appeared among trees and through mist. They dressed in light armor held together by rags, and they were no more than a dozen. Some were barefoot. They were a lost scouting party, or adventurers at the end of their adventure. Spaniards afoot in mist that rose from the hot forest; they looked like a walking museum of misery. They seemed to consult, argue as in pantomime. They were insubstantial, but more real than the sliding away, ghostly forms we had earlier seen through mist. They formed a disjointed line facing the stream. When Charles fired in the direction of the hillside, the line of men across the stream took no notice.
We turned to see Charles reloading. A horse stomped, cried, and Charles spoke to it like one friend to another. The horse quieted.
“No sense firing,” Bester told Charles. “They’re from the past. To them, you’re from the future. They do not see you.”
“Movement on the hill,” Charles said quietly. “I shot as a warrant in case anything there is living.”
“Just like that Spaniard across the stream who let off a random shot,” Bester muttered. “He tried to scare the men who are going to kill him.”
From the hillside savages appeared and they were as spectral as the Spanish. They cavorted and jeered. They tumbled down the hillside in a mob, not seeking cover among trees. They gathered near the banks of the swollen stream, actually prancing. They seemed an unlikely war crew of old men and boys. The savages carried clubs, staves, short spears. From across the stream came another puff of smoke, but no savage fell.
“Can’t hit the back of a barn.” Ephriam probably said it, but all thought it.
“Old Indian trick,” Bester said about the cavorting Indians. “They draw attention to themselves. The real war party will come in from behind. Watch what happens in yonder forest.”
From the forest behind the Spaniards, movement in mist became warriors. These were no cavorting savages, but skilled men. They moved upon the Spaniards with stealth, then fell on the backs of surprised men. They clubbed and they used stone knives.
The Spanish turned to their enemy. Lances thrust, swords flashed, and not in vain. A warrior fell, and then another. Faint cries echoed through mist. The Spaniards were overwhelmed, clubbed backward toward the stream. All but two died of wounds. The other two drowned.
“What happens if we fire into that fuss?” Ephriam had finally turned from the hillside.
“Nothing,” Bester told him. “You can’t change history, only put up with it. It’s like a blasted play. Acted over and over. Century after century.” He turned away. “Move out. There’s no sense watching what’s going happen to those corpses.”
We turned quickly aside. During the war all of us had seen dismemberment, and worse. I thought of my own savagery during the war. I was only a little less savage than those ghostly warriors, now hacking away with stone knives. We departed that scene of ancient carnage.
……
Over the next ten days, and eighty westward miles, we spoke little and observed much. Harness, which had been well-oiled, began to squeak for want of care. We were never exactly wet, yet we never felt completely dry. For awhile, even Bester was puzzled. A pattern emerged. We would see a congregation of spirits, especially soul-catchers. We, or rather Bester, would sense the presence of raiders. We would tether our horses and take positions of defense. Movement would begin in the forest. We would witness battles through mist. Indians, whites, Africs. Whenever ghostly battles appeared, living raiders disappeared.
“Those gents are molded, but never baked hard,” Bester said about the raiders. “It’s usual.”
Since the war, scattered bands of men roam the south. Known as raiders, they are also marauders. They are mostly former soldiers who know about murder, but know little about soldiering and nothing about honor. They are cowards, scamps, violators of women, and burners of cabins and settlements. They will not go face-to-face with a real man. They are backshooters.
“It’s not something that’s just-minted,” Bester told us. “In these hills it’s gone on since always. Only the Almighty knows how long.”
Before the war, and even now, Indians raid back and forth. They steal women and children, and they kill. Revenge and murder and low deeds are not exclusive to armies.
“But what’s baffling,” Bester said, “is how the enemies keep changin’. We get half-cooked whites and negras, then we get maverick Cherokee. The only common bond is cowardice.”
After ten days we had seen enough to understand that we progressed through history. Spectral Spaniards gave way to spectral Englishmen, and Indian weaponry now included bow and arrow. Then Indians obtained guns. Flintlock pistols appeared. Africs came onto the scene, as slaves, or as adventurers, or raiders. Sometimes we did not witness a battle, but an assassination. Sometimes we saw small settlements burned, or single cabins despoiled. Weapons continued to improve. Woodsmen carried Kentucky rifles which were flintlock, but no longer smoothbore. When cap-and-ball rifles appeared, we became uncertain.
“I already sailed through hell. I’m damned if I want to walk through it.” Ephriam said this to Charles, and Ephriam’s words sounded like an accusation.
We were suddenly more afraid of each other than of any enemy. We made camp when the sun already stood in back of the hills. Charles tended the horses in declining light. Nobody said a word about losing horses, but the trail was playing out. I privately thought “good riddance.” The horses had grown thin and weakish. Only the mule prospered.
Somewhere ahead the trail would narrow and then disappear. I supposed Charles already felt the loss of horses.
“You may get a second helping of hell.” Bester knelt above a small cooking fire. He looked toward the horses. “We’re walking into something. If the trail was still useful it would be open. Something mighty dead lies westward.”
“Talk this out ahead of time.” Charles had followed Bester’s lead, but now he tried to take charge. “Weapons keep improving. History closes in. We’ll soon relive our own sorrows.”
I had not thought, when agreeing to this adventure, that I would have to relive the War of the Rebellion. Now three Yankees and a Reb walked toward their recent pasts.
“Get it sorted before we have a spat,” Bester told him. “Gravel in your craw. Spit it out.” Bester still knelt before the fire, but he suddenly seemed tuned to action. Our rifles were stacked, but our revolvers were right at hand. Bester spoke quietly, as bespeaks a confident man.
“Start with this,” Ephriam said, and he was equally quiet. “Why would a man of your complexion stand with the Confederacy?” Ephriam always signals his willingness to fight with a small laugh, as though indifferent.
“And why in the name of Old Ned would a man of your complexion march into a another man’s house, and burn it?” Bester’s anger sounded dangerous. He shifted his weight, but lightly. His position changed and he could now get at his sheathed knife, as well as his revolver.
“I understand,” Charles said. “Men defend their homes. We all understand that.”
“You understand horseshit,” Bester told him. “I had a place. Had to kill a man to get it.”
“Not original,” Charles said easily. “We’ve all killed more than our share.”
“Difference is,” Bester said, “the gent I killed thought that he owned me. I even owe him somewhat. I even halfway liked the bastard. He brought me up as a house nigger.”
And that, I thought, explained why Bester, when he wished, could act like a southern gentleman.
Bester was not done with Ephriam. “Your sojer boys burned me out. Be glad for them that I had nor chick, nor child, for I would have tracked them even after I sent them to hell. As it was I left three rotting in the weeds.” Bester paused. He was clearly trying to hold his temper. “So why does a man of your complexion come barreling into another man’s business?” he asked Ephriam. Then Bester turned to Charles. “Are you forgivin’ me? Because don’t. I’m not particularly forgivin’ you.”
“Forgiving is for priests. Don’t get me started on blackbirds and their rosaries.” Charles actually chuckled, and that broke some of the tension.
“You were in the goddamned Navy,” Bester said to Ephriam, “and you’re ready to talk to me about slavery?” He sounded more peaceable, like he too was about to laugh. Then he did laugh. It was a harsh laugh, but allowed space for argument.
And Ephriam, who is no fool, saw the foolishness of anybody ever trying to enslave Bester. And, Ephriam thought of the Navy; of filthy rations, flogging which was supposed to have ended in 1844, scurvy, and death so slow and painful that hanging would be a mercy. And Ephriam also laughed. A little. Tension began to abate, but all of us remained aware of weapons kept handy.
“There were no statesmen,” I told them. “There were soldiers, and villains, and slave holders and Massachusetts industrialists, and bad generals and bad politicians and stupid presidents. We four were soldiers. Don’t shove politics or memories onto each other.” For once I was glad for my size and strength. Big men can command attention if they wish.
“Soldiering,” Charles said. “We were all good at it. Hold on to that. Put memory on the shelf.”
Easier said than done. Soldiering means battles, and battles mean unspeakable acts. In battle, all of us had cursed some of our fellows even as we cursed the enemy. All of us had fought beside men we loved and respected, but we had also fought beside men so foul and wild-eyed that the only cure for them was a Minie ball. Not all death in battle is caused by the enemy. An army cleans its ranks of certain kinds of filth.
As tension eased a thought occurred. I knew the quality of my comrades. Any fight between us would be face to face. At least no one had to worry about turning his back. A good deal of respect came with the thought, and a good deal of comfort.
And so we had avoided a fight, but we had not avoided suspicion between ourselves and Bester. We trekked for three more days. Black smoke rose from valleys. We heard the roll of drums, and distant Thunder. Cannon echoed through the valleys. I kept thinking of the yo
ung boy I’d killed. During the war I had seen things so obscene that the mere killing of a lad seemed pale. The difference was that I had seen those things, but not done them; well, not exactly; well, not all of them.
But, I had killed the boy. I had watched his eyes, had seen startlement and fear when he looked at remnants of his hand. I had felt his skull crush beneath my blow. Pondering, I forgot to pay attention. I cannot imagine allowing myself to be so stupid.
Toward sunset we unsaddled nervous horses in a grassy glade. From the forest came crashing of a heavy body. Somewhere ahead lay an end to the trail. We feared what we would find. I, who was comforted by the crashing sounds in the forest, was surprised when we were attacked.
“Soul-catchers are about to make a catch.” Bester yelled as he sought cover.
Charles and Ephriam grabbed rifles and headed for shelter among trees. Mud exploded between the legs of my horse, and the horse jumped sideways and shrieked. The horse banged against me, and mud from the shot splashed my leg. I held the reins, and staggered like a drunken man while fumbling for my rifle. Then I fell and rolled. Charles had one horse on long tether, one on short. Two horses fled. The mule cried, stomped, became crazed and would actually have rolled, but Charles ran to it. He used it as shield while he calmed it and secured its lead. From the forest across the glade came whoops and hollers, but not the whoops of Indians. These were renegade white.
“Take our front,” Bester told Charles. To Ephriam he said, “Drift to the left.” He moved quickly to the right and into the forest, silent as a ghost. Ephriam shrugged, gave a low laugh, and looked almost happy. He rolled to the edge of the glade and found thin cover behind leggy rhododendron. I turned from the yells and covered our rear.
The glade was a circle of grass. I wagered to myself that yells from across the glade were another trick, and that attack would come from behind us. I would get first shot. I got the second. Bester’s rifle sounded. From cover a man rose, staggered, fell, flopped around for a moment and lay quiet. He was red-haired and wearing dirty linsey-woolsey now flushed with blood.
