She turned to Gawain and touched his arm. “Hey, you,” she said. “You Gawain Harper.”
“Yes’m?” said Gawain. He sat with the shotgun between his knees, smiling at her as if they were only driving out for a dove shoot.
“I am sorry,” she said.
The wagon lurched then, and threw her against him. He put his arm about her and held her. She could smell the rank, sweaty wool of his coat, and the powder and tobacco and wood smoke on him.
“You all quit that,” said Stribling. “I am tryin to drive.”
“Drive on,” said Gawain.
HIS FATHER SMELT sour, like old milk, but the boy pressed his cheek into the broadcloth of the Judge’s coat and looked through the open door behind them. The breath of the house was stale, as though of air pent up too long and drawn over and over through the same lungs. At the end of the long hall, the back door, too, was open, and Alex saw framed in it the green of the wild garden. He thought of rabbits shivering in their holes, peering out at a world of sunlight and grass where the birds sang.
No birds sang here, only the voice of the man Gault, too pleasant, too soft for the words it bore, and his father’s coiled tight and barely heard at all.
“You sent a man to kill me,” said Gault. “You should have come yourself.”
“I sent no man,” said the Judge.
Gault laughed. “Well, let’s not quibble,” he said. “I only have a minute before the hounds arrive. Are you armed?”
The Judge held up his hands. “You see I am not, sir.”
“Well, of course you wouldn’t be,” said Gault. “Talk, lots and lots of talk and great debate, that’s all you know to do.” He motioned toward Alex with the carbine. “You come down here, boy. Or you can try and run away if you want to; the door’s right there, wide open. Seems close, don’t it?”
Alex looked up at the Judge, then moved away and down the steps, his eyes still on his father. He stopped at the horse’s head and put his hand on the bit.
“That’s good,” said Gault. He leaned forward in the saddle and reached behind with his free hand into the tail pocket of his coat. After a moment of fumbling, he brought out a Colt pocket pistol. “Here,” he said, and held it out butt-first to the boy. Alex took it, held it awkwardly by the grip.
“You know how to shoot that?” said Gault.
The boy shook his head.
“I swear,” said Gault with a sigh. “We are raising little maidens. Look—you pull the hammer back—all the way, mind—then point it at what you want to shoot, then squeeze the trigger. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Alex.
“Well, do it then!” snapped Gault.
The boy put both thumbs on the hammer and eased it back until it clicked.
“Now put your finger down there—that’s right.” Gault tapped his chest. “Now point it here.”
“Gault, for God’s sake,” said the Judge. “Let me—”
“Shut up,” said Gault. “You had your chance. Now, boy, you point that goddamned pistol right here.”
Alex raised the pistol, his hands trembling. He looked back at his father. “Papa?”
“None of that,” said Gault. “Hold it steady and look at me, that’s right. Now listen, boy—I killed your Aunt Lily. I split her head open like a mush-melon so her brains leaked out.”
“No!” said the boy. He was crying now, holding the pistol with both hands.
“Oh, I killed her,” said Gault, “and now I mean to kill your daddy, and maybe your sister^ too, if I can find her. What do you think of that?”
“No,” said the boy. “Papa?”
“What’s that make you want to do, boy? Think about it—you have the means to stop me, just pull the trigger there. Your daddy couldn’t do it, but maybe you can. Go ahead, show him how a man looks after his folks.”
“Papa!” cried the boy. “What should I do, Papa?”
“Goddamn you, Gault,” said the Judge.
“Go ahead, boy!” cried Gault. “Damn, if you’d of heard the sound it made—”
“No!” sobbed the old man, and moved, but too quick, his foot slipping over the edge of the step, and he was falling toward the brick walk then, heard the snap of his wrist when he hit and his own voice crying “Lily! Lily!”
Solomon Gault shook his head and sighed. “I swear,” he said, and raised the Spencer, and drew back the big hammer, and squeezed the trigger.
“PAPA!” WAILED MORGAN. She stood up on the seat and would have jumped had not Stribling snatched her down. Halfway up the lane, Gawain leapt from the cart with his shotgun and began to run.
MOLOCHI FISH AND Old Hundred-and-Eleven came into the lane behind the studio wagon. They heard the sharp detonation of the rifle, heard the woman cry out and saw Gawain leap from the moving wagon, stumble, begin to run. Molochi raised his arm and pointed toward the Carter house.
“What?” said Old Hundred-and-Eleven.
“You wanted the son bitch,” said Molochi. “Yonder he is.”
The old man peered into the sunlight, slapping at the flies around his head. “Well, aye God,” he said. He put the Bible in Molochi’s hands. “You hold this,” he said, and broke into a loping run, waving the Enfield carbine over his head.
Molochi watched him for a moment, then looked down at the book. He opened it. On the page was a picture of a woman with wings spread like a great bird’s. Her dress flowed like water, and she hovered over two children sleeping in some hay. Behind the woman, veiled in feathery clouds, was a rising moon. Molochi stared at the picture. He touched the woman’s face, but it was cold and hard like the one in the graveyard. He looked up then. He could hear the woman’s voice. He kept the book open in his hand and started that way, opening and closing his mouth so the breath would come faster.
WHEN JOE CREE yielded up the Spencer to Solomon Gault, way back in the morning by the Leaf River bridge, he failed to mention that its bore was jammed with mud. Cree knew it was, for he had watched the cavalryman fall, watched him pull the weapon out of the mud, then shot him and took it for himself. He was just starting to clean it when Gault came shoving up, putting out his hand like he thought Joe Cree had gone to all that trouble just for him. Joe Cree didn’t say a word, but he had a thought: Sure, Cap’n—you go ahead and take it, see what happens. Poor Joe Cree wasn’t thinking anything now, for he lay dead in the yard of the Shipwright house. But if his spirit dawdled on the road a little, he might have had this to lay at the feet of the scowling saint who awaited him: the carbine acted just like Joe Cree knew it would when Gault pulled the trigger on Judge Rhea.
The late officer’s gelding was a cavalry horse trained to stand fire, so he did not bolt when the carbine exploded in Gault’s face. The horse stood with his feet planted solid; when he felt the weight leave his back, he turned his head to find Gault writhing on the ground, one foot caught in the stirrup. The man’s face was blackened, and little beads of blood were already popping out of the powder burn.
Young Alex, still holding Gault’s pistol, almost pulled the trigger when the breech of the carbine blew. He had no idea what happened, but the noise and the smoke and flame scared him so bad he wet his pants a little, though he never told that to anybody. Now the man Gault was clawing at his face, cursing and trying to loose his foot from the stirrup, and Alex stood with the pistol pointed at him crying “Papa! Papa!” Then his father was there, with his hand pressed against his belly, saying “Give it to me! Give it to me, boy!” and he took the pistol from Alex’s hand.
Gault was trying to rise now, straining to reach his boot that had slipped all the way through the stirrup, but the horse kept sidestepping, dragging Gault along, until Alex finally took hold of the bit. Then it was not just his father, but Gawain Harper with a shotgun cradled under his arm, and Old Hundred-and-Eleven with a soldier’s gun, the three of them standing in a row, watching. Then Morgan was there, and she came to the boy and caught him up, and it was her voice he heard, shouting at them: Do it! Do it
now! You would to a copperhead wouldn’t you? all the while squeezing the boy so tight he could hardly breathe. Then Gault, propped on his elbows, the blood running down his cheek and his eye swelling, watching them all, and his teeth clenched so his voice was not soft now: Sure. Go ahead, Judge—it’ll be easy now. Or maybe you still want Harper to do it for you, or this old freak. And Morgan: Give me one then! I will do it! I will! And then sobbing, pressing the boy’s head against her breast: Damn you all! Damn your honor goddamn you! until Gawain came and held out the shotgun. All right, you do it then. The boy cried No, but she pushed him away and took the shotgun and held it with the butt plate pressed right in the middle of her chest. Gawain said No, like this and put it against her shoulder. Then You have to cock the hammers, and she pulled them back, click-clack. Gault watched her with nothing in his face at all, and the men stood by silent while Morgan raised the barrels. The boy watched her finger where it pressed against the trigger; she had cut herself, it was bloody, and the nail was torn to the quick. Her hair had fallen down, and she flicked it out of her eyes, and the boy knew she was going to do it and turned his head. He saw a moth caught in a spiderweb on the porch. It fluttered, but the spider didn’t come. The boy waited. At last he couldn’t stand it and looked again, and found that another man had come into the yard. He was a country man, of the kind that sometimes brought wood to sell in winter, or game, and always to the back door. But Alex had never seen one like this, with skin raw and peeling under his straw hat, and his eyes leaking and blinking, and his mouth working like a fish’s. They all watched him, even Solomon Gault. He had no gun, but a big open Bible in his hand, his palm under the spine. He moved stiffly, and as he came to where Morgan stood, he put his free hand out toward her face, as if he were trying to feel for her in the dark. Molochi, said Gawain, but the man came closer, and Alex thought perhaps he was going to take the gun away. Gawain must have thought so too, for he said Molochi again, sharper this time. But the man didn’t want the gun; instead, he put out his hand, and with his blunt, dirty fingers he touched Morgan’s cheek. She didn’t flinch but only looked at him, as if she knew he was going to tell her something she needed to hear. He said, I come all this way. I come all this way. Then they all watched in amazement as he knelt down and pushed the hem of her dress aside and touched her foot.
Then it was over. The stillness went out of the morning, collapsed like a puffball. Alex heard a redbird in the trees. Morgan lowered the shotgun and turned her face away from all of them. Gawain came and took the gun, and Stribling raised the country man up by his elbow. Then the boy heard a ping and saw the glint of a gold coin spin in the air, saw Old Hundred-and-Eleven catch it in his palm again. Then the old man tossed it in the grass by Solomon Gault. There ye go, Cap’n, said Old Hundred-and-Eleven. I reckon you’re worth the whole twenty now.
XXIV
Colonel Burduck kept his promise, and in the twilight walked down the road to the ruins of the Citadel of Djibouti. He wore no coat, nor sword nor pistol, only a plain muslin shirt and enlisted man’s blue trousers and Jefferson shoes. He did carry a stick for snakes, a fat cigar, and a few lucifer matches. Under his arm was a dispatch case bearing the memoirs of Solomon Gault.
Gault was brought in around noontime. Burduck and Captain Bloom were at the bridge, so Lieutenant Osgood received the prisoner. He told how the photographer’s wagon rolled in out of nowhere, Stribling at the reins, Harper with a shotgun, Gault between them, his hands tied with a picket rope. Harper helped the prisoner out of the wagon, and the sergeant of the guard took him to the surgeon. Gault’s saddlebags and a shattered Spencer carbine were in the wagon; Harper gave these to the Lieutenant, then he and Stribling led the horse and wagon into the shade and walked away together up the road toward the square. Neither man had spoken a word, and Osgood apologized to the Colonel for not detaining them so they could learn how the capture was made.
“No, no,” said Burduck. “That’s all right. I am not sure I want to know.” He thought a moment. “We got the saddlebags and the Spencer,” he said. “What about the horse?”
“Oh,” said Osgood, his face coloring. “Sir, I never thought—”
“Never mind,” said the Colonel. “We have too goddamned many horses anyhow.”
Later, Burduck summoned the prisoner to his office. Gault stood in the center of the room, his face bandaged by the surgeon, in manacles now, hand and foot. He did not seem to be interested in his circumstances; in fact, he looked around the room once, then fixed his gaze on the window as if he thought he might take a turn in the yard after a while.
“Well, here we are again,” said Burduck. “The victor and the vanquished. That was your phrase, as I recall.”
Gault might have smiled.
The Colonel pushed Gault’s last note across the table. “I am glad to have this,” he said. “I’ll be sure to include it in my memoirs. Do you still wish to discuss the subject of mortality—your own, I mean?”
Gault did smile this time, a little. Burduck tapped the note with his finger. “I infer from this that you spared my life last evening, though I might have had more to say about losing it than you thought. In any event, you understand that I cannot extend the same courtesy?”
Gault nodded slightly, the least inclination of his head. The smile remained, faint, innocuous, not even insulting. Burduck leaned forward then, hands together on the table. “You fancy yourself an officer,” he said, “yet you deserted your men, left them to take the Consequences of your own folly—no, stupidity—and not once, to my knowledge, have you asked about their fate. How is that, sir?”
This time, Burduck was rewarded with a twitch in the other’s face, and a reply. “I did not desert,” said Gault. “As for the others, they are not important.”
“I see,” said Burduck, and leaned back in his chair again. “You can tell that to Mister Huff—you and he will spend your last night together.”
A movement then, unconscious but telling: a slight twisting of the hands, a turning of the head. Burduck was gratified. “Sir,” said Gault, “I would prefer—”
“I do not care what you prefer,” said the Colonel. “You caused a good many men to die today, who might have preferred to live a while longer. However, you did accomplish one useful thing—you killed yourself as well, a great courtesy to the race, sir.”
“Is that all, sir?” said Gault.
“If, at any time this evening, you should desire a minister—”
“No,” said Gault.
“Very well,” said Burduck, and called for the sergeant of the guard. Burduck followed them through the parlor and out onto the gallery, empty now except for L. W. Thomas, still groggy with ether, sitting in a rocking chair. When Gault saw the man, he stopped and pulled away from the sergeant, took a step toward Thomas. The other looked up dully, his jaw slack. “Gault?” he said.
“I saw you in the fight today,” said Gault. “Heroic behavior. Your greatest role perhaps.” He turned to the Colonel then. “Mister Thomas is a great actor; he can be anything he chooses.”
Burduck said nothing.
“Mister … Gault,” said Thomas, struggling with his slurred speech. “If you have anything to say to me … I should be glad to call on you—”
“Don’t bother yourself, sir,” said Gault. “You know what you are.” Then he turned for the last time to Burduck, and spat at his feet. “Victor and vanquished,” he said. “You think you know which is which now, don’t you?”
“Sergeant,” said Burduck.
As Gault was led away, he watched over his shoulder as long as he could, his eyes never leaving the Colonel’s face.
It rained that afternoon, a quick, intense shower that washed the blood from the ground and cooled the air for a little while. From his window, Burduck watched the soldiers; they did not seek their tents, but danced and capered in the rain like boys. Old Shipwright, in his fez and uniform coat, crept in and stood beside the Colonel, so close that Burduck could smell the aged wool of the c
oat, the tarnished buttons, the cedar shavings in the pockets. And something else, too, perhaps: youth, gallantry, fiddles at a dance, all gone the way of the old slavers on the African coast—but still there, the ghost of them, if you knew where to look.
“How are you doing, sir?” asked Burduck.
“Oh, just dandy,” said the old man. “How ’bout you?”
“I am all right,” said Burduck. “I suppose I am all right.”
“That’s good,” said Mister Shipwright. “I want everbody to have a good time while they’re here. Like those boys out there—ain’t they havin a good time?”
“They are indeed,” said the Colonel.
The old man mumbled to himself, then spoke again. “You know,” he said, “ever time it rains like this, makes me want to drink coffee. Does it you?”
“Each and every time,” said Burduck, and turned away from the window and called for the guard. In a moment, an orderly appeared with two tin cups of coffee from the cooking fire. Burduck took his to the window while the old man sat on the settee, his little claws wrapped around the steaming cup.
Burduck opened the window and let the smell of the rain come in, and the sounds of the men’s voices. What did he expect from Gault? he thought, as he sipped at the vile coffee. An impassioned speech? Cowering in the face of death? No, Gault was his own explanation; what he said to Thomas applied to Solomon Gault more than any, and it was as close to a revelation as anyone was likely to get. As for cowering, Burduck confessed to himself that he was glad the man had not broken. Too many men had died, and if their passing was to mean anything, then the evil they faced had to be strong, sure of itself, convinced it was right. Otherwise, there could be no victory. Burduck imagined Gault’s face as it looked on the gallery, and he raised his cup in salute. “Yes,” he said aloud. “I do know which is which.”
The Year of Jubilo Page 45