With Every Drop of Blood

by James Lincoln Collier

  We raised our hands over our heads. “Don’t shoot,” I shouted. “We aren’t Federals.”

  They rode up to us. “What do you mean you aren’t Federals?”

  “Honest,” I said. “I scooped that jacket off a body.”

  He cocked his head. “That your nigger?”

  “He’s ours,” I said. “Pa got killed at Cedar Creek, and him and me was in a wagon train going to Richmond with beef and sech, and the Sheridans got us and killed a lot of Mosbys that was with us. We been on the run ever since, trying to get home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Shenandoah. Halfway up High Top Mountain.”

  “You say your Pa was killed at Cedar Creek?” the cavalryman said.

  “He got hit there. He came home and died.”

  “What was his outfit?”

  “Company K, Tenth Virginia Volunteers,” I said.

  He turned and looked at the other cavalryman. “That right? Were they there?”

  “I think that’s right,” the other one said. “They were with Early, anyway. It’s likely they were at Cedar Creek.”

  The first one shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Who’d be so stupid as to dress up a nigger in a Federal jacket?”

  “His clothes was plumb falling off him,” I said. “I didn’t want to haul a naked nigger around where anybody’d see him. So I scooped some stuff off some corpses.”

  “You haven’t got much brains, son, but you got more brains than that.”

  “Leave them go,” the other one said. “We got to make Appomattox before nightfall.”

  “I don’t trust it,” the first one said.

  “Well, all right,” the other one said. “Take the nigger if you want. But we can’t be hauling this boy and his wagon along with us. Slow us down too much, getting into Appomattox. The Federals are right on our tails as it is.”

  So the first one hauled Cush up behind him on the horse, and off they went through the woods. I ran after them to the edge of the woods and stood there watching them gallop across the field and then disappear down the farm road in the cloud of dust.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I had my work cut out for me now, and I knew it. They’d take Cush into Appomattox and lock him up somewheres, I figured, unless they got tired of him and decided to shoot him along the way. I heard of Appomattox, for teamsters were always talking about places where they’d been, but I didn’t know anything about it. Whatever it was, it did seem plain that there was going to be some fighting there. There’d be bodies, sure enough, and if I was smart enough I’d be able to get some clothes for us. Of course, that wasn’t going to do Cush any good unless I could get him sprung loose from wherever they locked him up. But I figured there was a chance I could talk them into it if I cried and said Ma was sick and we just had to have our nigger back to keep the farm going. I could try, anyway.

  I picked up the blue jacket out of the bushes where I’d flung it and threw it in the back of the wagon, just in case I ran into Federals. Then I drove the mules out of the woods, across the field, and onto the farm road toward Appomattox.

  There was cannon firing pretty frequent, a whole lot closer than it had been before. It sounded like it wasn’t more’n three or four miles up to the north. Sometimes I could even hear rifles pop-popping away. There was going to be bodies enough, if I could only find them.

  I hadn’t been going for more than a half hour when I heard the sounds of horses behind me, and some shouts. I swung the mules and the wagon off the road into the grass along the edge, jumped off Regis, ducked down behind the wagon, and took a look back down the road. Around a bend came a passel of cavalry, raising up a storm of dust. At first I couldn’t tell whether they were Confederate or Union, but then they swept by me, and through the dust I saw the blue uniforms. There were at least a hundred of them, and they were going full tilt down the road toward Appomattox. Were they chasing the Confederate cavalrymen who had took Cush away? It seemed likely. Even if they weren’t, the way they were galloping they’d bump into them soon enough. That was mighty worrisome, for if it came to a fight, Cush’d be in the middle of it.

  I stood by the roadside, waiting until the dust settled, and watching to see if any more Federals were coming along. Then I got back on Regis and started off for Appomattox again. And it surprised me to come upon those bodies scattered along both sides of the road ahead of me, for I hadn’t heard a sound of fighting—not a shout, not a shot, not galloping horses. There was a couple of horses down, too. I pulled the mules and the wagon up to the side of the road and climbed off Regis. For a bit I stood there, looking down the road at the bodies, feeling kind of sick to my stomach. But I had to do it, so I walked forward, easy, like I was afraid of taking them by surprise. As I got closer I saw that there were blue uniforms as well as gray. There’d be some plain farmers’ clothes, too, I reckoned. I kept on going, wondering if any of ‘em was still alive. Then I was amongst them—five or six of them on either side of the road, scattered every which way, like they’d been flung down by a giant hand from above. Some were on their backs with their arms out, some facedown—one had even died kneeling. They looked so human, but of course they weren’t human anymore—no more human than dirt and stones. Some of ‘em didn’t look like they’d been touched—I couldn’t see anything wrong with them. But others were pretty well messed up. One had been sliced across the stomach, so half his guts was spilled out onto the road. Another was missing part of his head—just one eye left. The blood was still wet on them.

  I felt sick as could be. I didn’t see how I was going to make myself undress any of them. I looked around. A little bit farther along I saw a fella wearing ordinary brown trousers and a brown shirt. I went over to him. He’d been shot in the side of the head. I knelt down over him and began unbuttoning his shirt as fast as I could move my hands. Then I raised him up, jerked the shirt off his arms, and dropped him. A minute later I had his pants off. I felt so sorry for him, lying half naked, I couldn’t look at him, and went along a little farther looking for another one wearing ordinary clothes. And I hadn’t got more than ten yards when I heard a little moan. I looked around, and saw a man propped up on a little rise of ground by the edge of the road. He was wearing regular clothes and had his arms folded over his chest. I knelt down by him. “Where were you hit?”

  “In my lung here. You got any water? I’m dry as a bone.”

  “I’ll get some. Where’s your canteen?”

  “Lost it. Maybe one of the other fellas has one.”

  “I got some in my wagon.” I trotted back to it, got my water bottle, and brought it to the wounded man. He took a long drink, choked and spluttered and took another drink. “That’s a help,” he said.

  “Where’d your outfit go?”

  “All shot to pieces. The Yankees blew right through us.”

  “If I can find them I’ll tell them where you are. Did they head for Appomattox?”

  “I guess some of ’em will make it there.”

  “Was there a fella carrying a nigger in a Federal uniform with them?”

  “There was,” he said. “I don’t know about now. It don’t much matter. The whole thing’s over. We ain’t had nothing to eat for two days. The fellas was eating horse corn. Soaked it water to soften it up, but it still like to bust their teeth.”

  “Maybe General Lee will think of something.”

  “He can think all he wants. It’s soldiers he needs and he ain’t got ‘em. A lot of them skedaddled for home when they seen how things was. I wished I did it myself. Damn shame to get it like this when it’s almost over. Another day or two and I’d be safe out of it.” Suddenly he moaned, and lay there biting his lip.

  “Does it hurt real bad?”

  “About as bad as can be. I’m a goner. Doubt if I last until nightfall.”

  That would be another set of regular clothes. But I couldn’t do it—I just couldn’t sit around there waiting for him to die, so as to strip the clothes off him. It was too much
for me.

  I hated to leave him there, but there wasn’t anything I could do for him. So I gave him another drink of water and went back to the wagon. I stripped off the blue uniform, and climbed into the clothes I’d taken from the corpse. I didn’t like it none, for there was the feeling of death on them, and it seemed like it might rub off on me. I flung the Federal uniform off to the side of the road and started up again, driving careful till I got past the bodies so as not to run any of ‘em over. Once I was a ways down the road, I felt a whole lot better, for at least I’d got shet of that cursed uniform. I needed another set of clothes for Cush, but I didn’t doubt there’d be bodies enough to go around. I just hoped that me and Cush weren’t among them.

  Where was Cush? Was he dead? Was he lying shot up somewhere? There was no way to be sure, but it was most likely they’d taken him to Appomattox. There wasn’t anything better for me to do but head there, keep my eyes open, and hope for the best.

  So that’s what I did—just pushed the mules on down the road, watching for signposts. Signs of war were everywhere: a wagon tipped up on its side with a wheel off and a dead horse still tangled up in the harness; a house burnt to the ground, with the chimney standing up out of a heap of charcoal; rifles and knapsacks by the side of the road where they’d got dropped by soldiers too tired and sick to care anymore and had skipped off for home. Here and there I came across stragglers, sitting by the side of the road, or walking along toward me, trying to get themselves out of the war. And always the sound of cannons thundering. On I went, passing through little farm villages, and then I began to see signs for Appomattox Court House. Even with a name like that, it figured to be little more than a farm village. I came around a bend, and through a cluster of trees down the road I saw the steeple of a little church and the roof of a good-sized building I figured had to be the courthouse.

  I reined up the mules and sat looking around. It was getting on toward nightfall. On down the road I could see a bunch of Confederate soldiers sitting by the side of the road, resting. All around me there was the sounds of war in every which direction—the thunder of cannons, the faint popping of rifles, over there some horses trotting, over here closer by somebody shouting orders. It seemed like I was smack dab in the middle of the thing.

  I was scared to be going among people, instead of hiding out the way we did the past few days, but I had to find Cush. So I got the mules started again and went along down the road until I came abreast of the soldiers resting by the road. They looked mighty tired: a lot of them were lying flat on their backs. I stopped the mules. “Any of you fellas seen some cavalry come through here with a nigger in tow—a nigger wearing a Federal jacket?”

  “Nigger’s making theirselves pretty scarce around here along about now.”

  That was worrisome. “You think they’ll be fighting right here in Appomattox?”

  “Ain’t any other place it can be. The only army Lee’s got left is here.”

  “Is General Lee here?” It would be exciting to see him, for he was the greatest general in history. “Do you think I could get a look at him?”

  “Look at him all you want, if you come acrost him.”

  “Did you ever see him?” I asked.

  “Never did. ’Spect I may now, for if there’s to be a fight here, he’ll be in it.”

  This wasn’t finding Cush. “Thanks,” I said and flipped the lines to get the mules moving again. Now I could see the village pretty clear through the trees—the courthouse, a few houses here and there, a white church. Out in the fields along the road soldiers were camped everywhere, setting up tents, getting the fires going, a lot of them just sitting and resting. I kept an eye out for any kind of a place that looked like it might be a prison of some kind—a barn with a couple of guards in front of it, maybe just an old horse corral where they’d got prisoners fenced in. But I didn’t see anything of the kind.

  Then I came into town. Directly ahead of me was the courthouse—a big stone building. Some soldiers were lounging on the courthouse steps. Off to one side of it was a good-sized brown house with a porch along the front, set into a nice piece of lawn. Soldiers were standing around on the porch here, too. I pushed the mules along to the house and climbed down off Regis, glad to stand up for a spell. I walked across the lawn up to the porch to where the soldiers were lounging around the door. “I’m looking for a nigger wearing a Federal jacket who was took prisoner by mistake. He’s our nigger. He isn’t a Union soldier, he’s just a plain nigger.”

  “I don’t know about no niggers,” one of ’em said. “But they got somebody locked up in a barn outside town somewheres.”

  There was just no way to guess—no way to know if Cush was dead or alive, no way to know if he was in Appomattox, no way to know anything about him at all. “Where exactly is this here barn?”

  The soldier shrugged, but another one pointed off to the south. “Down that road a couple of miles.”

  It was the only hope. I climbed back on the mules and headed south down a road that passed under an alley of trees. Appomattox was in pretty good shape—a nice, quiet little town with purple lilac bushes blooming in people’s dooryards, white blossoms drifting down from apple and pear trees behind the houses. It was a blame shame that soon enough it would be all shot up, houses burnt down, trees smashed, maybe even that courthouse knocked to pieces. And a lot of bodies scattered around the fields, the front lawns, lying under the lilac bushes and the apple trees so that the blossoms drifted down on their faces. I hated to think of it.

  By the time I found that barn, it was near dark. But they’d got a fire going close by that lit things up pretty good. A half dozen soldiers were standing around the fire, eating, or smoking pipes, and a couple more were walking guard duty around the barn.

  I got off Regis and started for the barn. I was blame tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than to lie right down where I was and go to sleep. But I kept on putting one foot in front of the next until I came up to where the soldiers were standing around the fire. Now I could see that it was an old tobacco barn, with the slats set a few inches apart to allow the air to blow through and dry out the tobacco. There wouldn’t be any problem seeing what they’d got inside if I could get close enough.

  “You got any niggers in there?” I said.

  They were eating hardtack—breaking off chunks and taking them with a mouthful of water so they could chew it soft enough to swallow. A couple of them shrugged. “What’s it to you?” one of them said.

  “Our nigger was wearing a Federal jacket and got took prisoner by mistake.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” one of them said. “He’s lucky he ain’t shot.”

  “He’s not a Federal soldier. He’s just a plain nigger. Ma’ll be mighty upset if we lose him. He’s always been a good worker.”

  He shrugged again. “Go have a look.”

  I walked over to the barn. A tobacco barn like that generally had a big door at each end so you could drive a wagon in one side and out the other. The doors were closed, and a guard was leaning on the doors at one end. I slipped up to the side, and peered in through the cracks between the slats. It was pretty dark in there—just a little light filtering in from the campfires outside. “Cush,” I said in a loud whisper. I heard a movement. “Cush.”

  “That you, Johnny? I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s me.”

  Suddenly he appeared out of the darkness and stood with his face by the slats, so the firelight flickered across it. There was a bruise on his cheek and blood around his ear. “What’d they do to you, Cush?”

  “Slammed me around a little just to keep theyselves cheered up. How you find me here?”

  “I asked around. What’s going to happen?”

  “They talking about shooting me. Don’t know as they will or they won’t.”

  “Blame it, Cush. I’ll get you out.”

  Then the soldier guarding the door trotted over. “What’re you doing here?”

  “This here’s o
ur nigger. He isn’t any Federal soldier. He was just wearing a Federal jacket.”

  “I don’t care whose nigger he is. You ain’t supposed to be talking to the prisoners. Now scat.”

  “Ma’s going to be awful sad if we don’t get him back.”

  “If I was you, I’d forget about that nigger and take yourself home. Some of the fellas around here just plain can’t stand the sight of a nigger in a soldier suit, and if they ketch him alone they’re likely to spit him like a roast chicken. Can’t say I like it myself, but my job is to guard him, and they won’t get in while I’m here.”

  “I just got to get him out. Ma needs him on the farm real bad. He’s the only one who can handle our mules,” I said, hoping he didn’t notice our mules out by the road.

  He shook his head. “Ain’t much chance of gettin’ him out, I reckon. Now you scat.”

  “I just got to talk to somebody about it.”

  He spit. “Go see Colonel Marshall then. Now git.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “Back in town somewheres.” This time he raised his rifle and stuck the bayonet about six inches from my belly. “Now git.”

  I turned and trotted back across the field to where the mules were standing, climbed onto Regis, and headed back for town. I was awful scared for Cush. It seemed like everybody was out to get him. I pushed the mules on back to town. I figured the Confederate headquarters were set up in that courthouse, but when I got there, the soldiers who had been lounging in front of it were gone. I climbed up the steps and pulled on the door. It was locked tight. I went back down the steps and ran around to the side to get a look at the windows. There were no lights in them, upstairs or down. So I climbed back on Regis and pushed on down to the house where I’d talked to the soldiers before, feeling just as weary as I could be. The soldiers were still on the porch of the house. I climbed off Regis and went up to them. “I’m looking for Colonel Marshall.”