“Oh, they sure was. Butler’s Louisiana Native Guard Third Regiment beat the tar out of you Rebs at Port Hudson.”
It was a hard thing to believe, that Southern soldiers could be beaten by the colored, but I reckoned it could happen if there was three or four colored to each of our men.
That night we pulled into a field beside an old farm that had seen some fighting. The house was half burnt—the roof gone and one wall down—but the barn was still standing. We circled the wagons and some of the Federals went off to see if the barn had any hay for sleeping. Cush went with them. I unhitched the mules and curried them. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. Just about then Ma and Sam and Sarah would be sitting by the fire, Ma reading aloud from the Bible, all nice and cozy and warm. They wouldn’t be worrying about me yet, for I’d only been gone for seven days and they wouldn’t expect me back for ten. Oh, I came near to crying, thinking of them cuddled up close in front of the fire.
I finished currying the mules and went back to the wagon. Jeb was propped up on one elbow. “Hey, youngster,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “You got any water?”
I was always careful to fill my bottle when we stopped to water the livestock. I climbed up into the wagon and knelt down beside him so’s I could hold the water bottle to his lips. He took a few sips. Then he said, “Listen, youngster, you know where I live?”
“Stanardsville?”
“Just outside, on the road toward Harrisonburg.” He swallowed a little more water. “I got a feeling I’m finished. I ain’t gonna make it to City Point. I got a brother back home. I want you to git word to him what happened. Otherwise nobody’ll ever know. I don’t want to die and not have nobody know.”
“Maybe you won’t die. Maybe you’ll get better.”
He shook his head and took another sip of water. “My legs is growing cold. That’s the way it takes you. I seen a couple of fellas go this way. They both said their legs was growing cold.” He sipped more water, and choked a little. “Now I know these here Yanks’ll just bury me by the road in five minutes like they done with that other fella. Do me a favor, youngster. Put a couple of big rocks on top of me so’s the dogs won’t dig me up.”
“Maybe you won’t—”
He reached out, clutched at my arm, and squeezed it hard—a lot harder than I reckoned he’d be able to. “Big rocks,” he said. “Big as you can drag over.”
“All right,” I said.
I didn’t know if I’d be able to do it, for the Federals wouldn’t be much interested in whether the dogs got him or not. But I reckoned I’d try.
He didn’t say anything more, just lay there breathing hard and staring up at the dark sky. Finally he said, “Thanks, youngster.” Then he began to shiver like a fever was passing through him, and a minute later he stopped breathing and lay still. The light faded out of his eyes.
It scared me all right to see Jeb die like that. I’d never seen anyone die. I’d been out in the barn when Pa died, and asleep when the other one died in the wagon. It was a big thing to see someone just give a shiver and a shake and stop breathing.
I knelt over him and pushed his eyelids closed, the way you were supposed to do. They popped right open. His skin was still warm and kind of damp, for he’d been sweating. It was strange to see those signs of life still on him—the sweat, the warmth, a couple of drops of water on his chin where he’d dribbled a little. I didn’t like seeing him stare, so I tried to close his eyes again, but the blame lids wouldn’t stay down. I rumpled around in his pocket, trying not to touch him any more than I had to, until I found his handkerchief. I spread the handkerchief over his face to stop him from staring, and climbed down from the wagon to tell the Federals he was dead. Then an idea came into my head. I climbed back into the wagon, and as soon as I saw Cush coming back towards me, I knelt down beside Jeb and held the water bottle to his lips, like he was still alive.
Cush came up to the wagon and peered in. “What’s happening to him?”
“He’s mighty thirsty. I don’t think he can last.”
“He looks dead already.”
“He’s mighty near it,” I said, shifting around a little so as to block his view. Being as it was nearly dark, he couldn’t see that there wasn’t any bubbles rising in the water bottle.
He wasn’t much interested in any of it. “There’s some hay in the barn. Maybe I could sneak you in there to sleep tonight.”
That caught me off guard. Blame me if he didn’t think we were already friends. We hadn’t been riding along together but three days. I guess it came from rambling along about how he learned his ABC’s and what kind of church we went to. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have minded having a friend right then. When you got down to it, he was a nice enough fella, willing to talk about things. And if he’d been white and on our side, I’d have jumped at the chance to make friends with him. To be honest, I’d have jumped at it even if he wasn’t on our side. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do that with a darky. Oh, I didn’t mind being friendly with Cush, and rambling on about things; but that wasn’t the same as being real friends.
The main thing, though, was: sleeping in the barn would ruin my plan. I took the water bottle away from Jeb’s face and climbed down out of the wagon to draw Cush’s attention away from the body. “That’s mighty kind of you,” I said. “But I reckon I better stay with this fella for a while in case he needs a drink of water or something. It wouldn’t be right to let him die alone.”
Cush took a look in the wagon. “He don’t look like he’d notice if you was to leave. You sure he ain’t dead?”
“Not yet. I ’spect he will be soon. I better stay with him until he goes.”
Cush looked off through the circle of wagons. I could tell he was disappointed. “Suit yourself,” he said.
The funny thing was, I felt bad about letting him down. I could see why he might want to be friends with me, for I was white. But just because he wanted to be my friend didn’t mean I had to be his. Anybody white would have said the same. But blamed if I didn’t feel bad. It was the old trouble of my feelings coming loose on their own, without no permission from me. I knew I better rein myself in, for it lowered a white person to get too friendly with a darky. Still, I didn’t want to hurt him no more than I had to. So I said, “I’d like to, but I reckon I better see to this fella. I guess I didn’t tell you, he’s my ma’s cousin. She’d never let me forget it if I left him to die alone.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, and walked away.
I’d hurt his feelings and I was sorry I had to. But I was blamed if I was going to start crying over a darky’s feeling, so I climbed back up into the wagon and took a look around.
It was near dark, but there was still light enough to see. The mules were tethered nearby, where I could keep an eye on them. Across the road from our camp was another field, and beyond that a woodlot. If I could get across the field with the mules and wagon and into the woods, I’d be safe. Crossing that open field was the problem. I’d have to make my break before the moon came up, for it was near full and it’d light up that field like day.
Now there was nothing to do but wait until the camp quieted down and the soldiers were asleep. I didn’t much like the idea of sitting there in the wagon next to that body with the handkerchief over his face, but I had to make sure nobody got a look at him yet and told me to bury him before I was ready. So I sat there, getting hungrier and hungrier, for Cush was mad at me and wasn’t about to bring me supper.
Time went along bit by bit. The Federal soldiers finished eating and bedded down. The camp got quiet. The fires flickered and burned low. I lay down in the wagon, trying to keep as far away from Jeb as I could, for I sure didn’t want to touch him any more than I had to. I let a little more time roll over me, and then I sat up and looked around.
Everything was dead still except for two black soldiers standing by the last fire, leaning on their rifles. They were supposed to be walking guard duty around the edge of the camp, but we were c
lose enough to City Point for them to think they were safe from Mosbys. I glanced out east: no moon yet. The field across the road was good and dark. Still, there was just enough starlight so anybody would see the shape of a wagon moving across it if they looked hard enough. But I didn’t have a choice—I had to chance it.
I climbed down from the wagon and trotted over to the fire where the soldiers were standing. They were arguing about something in low voices the way soldiers do. “Say—”
They stopped arguing and looked around.
“That wounded fella in my wagon just died. He asked me—”
“Who’re you?” one of the black soldiers said.
“One of the teamsters. Just before he died he asked—”
“That Reb we caught in Gordonsville?” I could tell from the way he talked that he wasn’t one of our darkies, but came down from up north.
“Yes. He asked me special to see he was buried proper so the dogs wouldn’t get him.”
“Particular friend of yourn?”
“He’s Ma’s cousin from over to Stanardsville. He said I got a family duty to bury him right. Ma’d never forgive me if I didn’t. Only I need a shovel.”
The other black soldier shook his head. “Let it go till morning. He ain’t going no place. He still be here.”
“I doubt if there’ll be time to bury him right before we break camp. I’d just as lief do it tonight. Besides, I’m not too happy about spending the night in the wagon with him.”
“Sleep on the ground.”
“Let him do it if he wants to, Willie,” the first one said. “Save time in the morning.”
“Only I need a shovel.”
“Why cain’t it wait till light?” Willie said.
“Let him do it, Willie.”
“Oh, well.” He pointed through the firelight into the dark. “Shovel in that ’ere wagon.”
I got the shovel and went back to my own wagon. I hitched up the mules, working as fast and as quiet as I could. In about five minutes they were ready. I took a deep breath, grabbed Bridget by the halter, and started to walk them out of there. Oh, my, I never realized how much noise mules and a wagon could make. The wheels squeaked like blazes, the harness jingled, the hooves of the mules hitting the ground sounded like thunder.
Of course, the two guards couldn’t miss it, and about two minutes later the one called Willie was running toward me from the fire, with the firelight behind him. “Hey Reb, where you think you gwine with that ’ere wagon?”
I stopped the mules. “He’s too blame heavy for me to carry. I didn’t want to start digging right here in the middle of camp and wake everybody up.”
It was too dark for me to see the expression on his face, but the firelight was behind him and I could see his shape. He had his head cocked over to one side, suspicious.
“You got a answer for ever ’thing, ain’t you, Reb?”
“I figured I’d catch it if I waked everybody up with the digging.”
“You making plenty noise with them mules. Where you figger on plantin’ this fella?”
I pointed. “Just over there. By the road.”
He didn’t say anything for a minute, and I waited, my heart beating fast. “Okay. But be quick.”
He turned and went back to the fire. I hustled the mules out of there as quick as I could, wishing there was some way to keep the wagon wheels from squeaking and squawking and the harness from playing tunes. In a couple of minutes we hit the road. I stopped the mules and looked back.
At that distance the fire was just a glow. I couldn’t make out either of the guards—there was no telling where they were. I took a deep breath to calm myself down some. Then I tugged on Bridget’s halter. We crossed the road and started through the field toward the woods beyond, singing and squawking in the night.
The ground was rough, for the field had got plowed, but then the war had come through and they hadn’t got it planted. The rough ground made the harness jingle worse, but I was getting far enough away so they might not hear it. I thought of poor Jeb sliding around in the wagon staring at the sky, for the handkerchief fell off his face as soon as we started up.
I got to the middle of the field. The woods weren’t more than a hundred yards away. All I needed was a couple of more minutes and I’d be safe and on my way home.
Suddenly through the night there came a shout, and another shout and then the sound of cussing and running feet. I dropped Bridget’s halter and fell to the ground, my heart racing. There came a gun shot. “Don’t shoot,” I shouted. “I’m right here.”
Chapter Nine
It took some mighty fast talking, but in the end I convinced them I wasn’t trying to escape. “I tried digging right there by the road, like I said I would, but it’s all rocks there. I figured the ground’d be softer where they plowed it.”
They were mighty suspicious and wanted me to show them where I’d dug by the road, but I said I couldn’t remember where it was and wouldn’t be able to find it in the dark. In the end the one called Willie went back to the fire, saying to the other one, “You was all hot to let the Reb bury this fella. You stay here and see he don’t wander off no more.”
I started digging. I wasn’t feeling any too good. From now on they’d keep a closer watch on me. The chance of getting sent north to a prison camp was mighty likely, for we weren’t more than a day or so from City Point. And it was kind of spooky digging a grave for a fella I knew and had been feeding water to just a little while ago. I figured some of that water was still in his stomach.
The whole thing set me to thinking. Poor Jeb. It didn’t seem like he ever got much out of his life, and now it was done, and all for nothing. Why’d he got himself into the war? Was it just to keep the niggers in their place, the way he said? I wished I’d asked him more about it while I had the chance; though come to think of it, it wouldn’t be so all-fired nice to ask a dying man if he wasted his life.
I got caught in up thinking and stopped digging. “Hurry up, Reb,” the soldier said. “I wants to git some sleep.”
I started digging again. I was about two feet down now, and getting tired, but I wanted to go deeper to save Jeb from the dogs. So I went on digging; and then the soldier said, “That ’ere’s enough, Reb. Heave him in and cover him up.”
He helped me lift Jeb out of the wagon and lay him down in the grave. “Is it okay if I say a prayer over him? I feel mighty sorry for him, for I can’t see where the war was much use to him.”
“Serves him right for getting into it, then.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Plain enough to me. Anybody go out to fight to keep people slaves, serves ’em right to get shot.”
“My pa says the War isn’t over slavery, it’s over states’ rights.”
The darky soldier laughed. “You tell that to a black man and see how far it takes you.”
I could see that. “Well, I guess the colored would figure that way.”
“I should just think they would. Tell the truth, my missus was agin it. She say no sense in gettin’ mixed up in a white folks’ war. Let ’em shoot each other for a change, ’stead of shooting niggers. Look what them immigrant crackers in New York done.”
I knew about that, for it was in the newspapers. When Lincoln started up the draft, the Irish and I guess lots others said they weren’t going to get themselves killed for the colored. They tore up New York and hung a bunch of darkies from lampposts. “My pa always said the Northerners weren’t nothing but a bunch of hypocrites, for they didn’t like colored any more than Southerners did, but at least we had the kindness to see they was clothed and fed.”
“It’s plain you ain’t never been in the North, Reb. It ain’t heaven up there the way some ignorant black folks down here think. But ain’t nobody can sell your wife and kids away from you, and it sure beats hoeing tobaccy sunup to sundown and gettin’ whipped for it in the bargain. Jist git this ‘ere fella covered up.”
I said the Lord’s Prayer over the grave. Wh
en I got done, I picked up a handful of dirt and flung it on Jeb, the way the minister always did when he buried someone. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” I said, feeling sad and strange. “In sure and certain hope of the—” I couldn’t remember the rest of it. “In sure and certain hope of—life everlasting.” It wasn’t right, but I reckoned it was close enough. I picked up the shovel and filled the grave in. “He wanted me to put some big stones over him so’s the dogs wouldn’t get him.”
“I had enough o’ this foolishness,” the darky said. “Time for some sleep. Turn them mules around and git back over to camp.” Poor Jeb. If I hadn’t used him for a way to escape, I could have buried him proper like I promised. It worried me, for maybe his spirit would come back and haunt me for it. I heard of such things. And I resolved, if I ever got the chance, to find his brother over to Stanardsville and tell him where Jeb was buried. Maybe in the morning I could find out the name of the place where we were. Maybe that’d keep Jeb’s spirit happy enough.
But, of course, in the morning I didn’t remember to ask anyone, and by the time I did remember we were four or five miles down the road and nobody knew the answer. Maybe after the war I’d be able to come along this road somehow and would recognize the place.
I didn’t get much of a chance to think about it, for Cush was on me from breakfast. “You was cuttin’ for them woods. Now don’t tell me you wasn’t.”
“I wasn’t at all,” I said. “I was just trying to find a soft place to dig. It’s all packed hard by the edge of the road and full of rocks, for it never gets plowed there.”
“That fella was dead the whole while. I thought he was. That’s why you wouldn’t sleep in the barn—you was plannin’ on cuttin’ for them woods. You was lyin’ the whole time.”
“I wasn’t. Not at all. That poor fella was Ma’s cousin and I had to bury him proper. You’d do the same if it was your ma’s cousin.”
“It didn’t have nothin’ to do with your ma’s cousin,” he said. “You a big liar. You was cuttin’ for them woods. I trusted what you told me, and you was lyin’ the whole time.”
With Every Drop of Blood Page 8