by S. F. Wood
The Preacher breathed in deeply as he walked. It was good to be away from such sickness. He opened his diaphragm. The air felt pure as he drew it deep into his lungs. He held it good and long before slowly exhaling, the air warming his nostrils as it left his body. It felt good. “He is a bad man, do you know that, woman? How’d you meet him?”
The woman drew her thick shawl tight over her shoulders. “He’s a good man. Good man to me. What more is there to say?”
“How did you get to know him?” The Preacher kept up the pace around the shack. He wanted to know, but did not want to look the woman in the face while she spoke.
“Kansas was not good place to be during the fighting. Not good before, not good during. Not good at the end. The Baxoje had lands northeast of here. We keep away from the war, but the war not keep away from us. One day some, mainly women, we move between two camps. They attack us.”
The Preacher continued walking, starting a second orbit of the shack. “You were one of the women in the group that was attacked. Was he one of those who attacked you?”
“Patrice? No! Soldiers, yes. They not have any chief.”
Deserters. And given that the Union side was approaching victory then, in all likelihood, they were southern renegades. Cut off from their regiments, they would have banded together for security. “You escaped though.” This was not a question.
“No one escaped. The few old men with us were killed. And the older women. Even the children.”
“I see. You escaped. Continue.”
“I did not escape.”
“I see.”
“You do not see. You are a man.” The woman’s voice remained steady. “After they finish with me they decide not to kill me. I do not know why. But pity was not the reason.”
They started a third circuit.
“But you were spared. You returned to your tribe.”
“Do you know my worth as a wife after that?”
He stopped and turned to face her. It was the first time he had seen her out of the shadows. Early twenties, pleasant looking, attractive in a way. But not what he would call a beauty. Green eyes. A more oval face than was usual for Indian women. Lighter skin too. Must be because of her white mother. How had that come about? Why should he care. Broad hips and shoulders and on the tall side, her hair was plaited in the Indian way, but again, lighter in color. On second thoughts, she was almost pretty. But a half-breed nevertheless. Dressed mainly as an Indian, but clearly she wore whatever was available. He turned to continue walking, but she put out her arm and stopped him.
“There was much grieving in the village. I was cared for by some women. But they all say I was spared and not the others because I have white blood. My mother was dead long time and I had no more family to protect me. And then...” She was looking right into the Preacher’s eyes and he could not look away. “And then I found I was with child. And in the Baxoje it means it is me who is responsible. It is me who has brought shame and disgrace on the family, the Tribe.” She turned away from the Preacher and started walking, anti-clockwise now, around the shack. If the Preacher wanted to learn more he would have to follow her. She continued to speak, but without turning to face the Preacher.
“Once Ruth was born I was cast out. No one said anything. No one said to go. No one stopped me. Just had to leave. It was... understood.” Her voice was steady, her head held high, her walk deliberate, measured.
“Even though it would mean death for you and your baby?”
No reply.
“You are still alive.”
At this she stopped and turned to face the Preacher. That assured look again. “Thanks be to your God? Maybe. To Patrice? Certainly.” She continued to stare at the Preacher for a few more moments, then turned away and continued her walk, not looking to see if the Preacher was following. “Maybe there is a God, maybe there are many, maybe there are none. And if there is, who is to say it was the god of your Bible who brought Patrice to where I was with my baby? Maybe it was my Father’s ancestors. Or even some other god we do not know.”
“Could just be no more than luck.”
“Well Patrice, he find us. Patrice he take us to a town. Patrice he feed us and clothed us.”
“A veritable Good Samaritan.”
“You do not need to talk so cold,” she said without breaking step.
They reached the front of the shack. The woman stopped and turned to the Preacher. “He saved me and my baby. I know he did bad things in the war because he has bad dreams. But I do not judge him because of his dreams. We will stay with Patrice as long as we have to. Now, I must tend to him. I will make you hot coffee.” And with that, the woman parted the curtain and disappeared inside.
The Preacher sat down on a log and retrieved his pipe from his pocket. He realized he did not know the woman’s name.
He enjoyed his smoke and the coffee that was soon brought out to him. The sun was approaching its zenith, which wasn’t particularly high that time of year. But nevertheless, the cold air was suffused with sunrays.
Over the previous five long years the Preacher had killed Bascourt-Beauregard a thousand times. But now he had the chance? Retribution was to be found in keeping him alive. Each day that Bascourt lived would prolong his agony.
“He wants to speak with you again.” The Preacher stood and stretched before turning to face the woman. He discreetly rubbed his backside, for it had become numb sitting on the log.
The girl Ruth came into view. The woman took her hand and said, “He want us away from here, while he talk to you. His faith want some sort of... You will know better. We go to the town and collect stores. Will make broth for later.” She bid the Preacher enter.
He entered. It took a few moments to adjust to what light was permeating the gaps in the walls. The hovel was in sore need of repair. Or levelling. “You want to see me?” The Preacher did not think this conversation warranted politeness.
Bascourt gestured weakly that the Preacher sit beside him. Once settled, he started to speak, quietly, short of breath. “I need you to… help me.”
The Preacher waited.
“It would mean a lot. Real lot...” The voice was faint. His agony palpable. The Preacher felt no desire to alleviate Bascourt’s suffering.
“You hear me? Preacher?”
“Yes.”
“Will you help me?”
“I ain’t no doctor. And if it is the Last Rites you are wanting, I ain’t no Roman.” The Preacher’s voice carried no sympathy.
“I don’t want no doctor. Way past that. But the pain, it is beyond anything… a man should endure. And she sees me… suffer. She suffers with me. I hate that. Hate it! Do you hear?”
The Preacher heard, but didn’t say so.
“I want them to leave. To move to town. Before… winter sets in.”
“I can’t take them. I have only one horse.”
“There’s a wagon. But they won’t leave me.”
The Preacher made to get up, but Bascourt reached out and placed his hand on his sleeve. “Wait! You don’t understand.”
“Tell me then. Out with it.”
“Kill me.”
The Preacher’s face couldn’t betray his emotions just then as he plain didn’t know what to think. Or feel.
“Kill me. Use a pillow. Make it look… like I died sleeping. I won’t resist. Ain’t got the strength to anyways.” A pause for them both while one struggled for breath and the other struggled to make sense of what he’d just heard. Then, “I started to dig me a grave. A few weeks back. Made a start. Couldn’t finish. Behind the corral. Sooner they get to grieve… sooner they get to leave. They must go before the snow sets in. Else they won’t survive much longer ‘an me.” Bascourt added, “An’ it’ll end my suffering. All my suffering.”
There was silence for some time. Bascourt was sweating at the effort of so much talking. His eyes sunk deep into their sockets, his lips shriveled, exposing his bleeding gums. Most of his teeth had gone. Finally he said, “I kn
ows I done bad things. Done bad most my life. But these past five years I have tried to live a good life. Tried to live to the Word of the Lord.”
“We all should try to live to the Word of the Lord. But for longer than five years.”
“If it is Hades that I go to, then it can’t be worse’n this! It is not just the pain, Preacher. It is the anguish. Anguish I feel for the child and the woman.”
“Do you pity a man that feels anguish for his family?”
Bascourt, body convulsing, face screwed up in agony, in terror even, couldn’t answer.
“Are you ready for Hell?”
Despite finding it hard to breath, despite the gasping, the hoping that each breath would be his last, Bascourt began to calm down a little. “I would prefer heaven. But if hell is my destination, then I want to go now. I know you are a Christian fellow, agin’ to taking a life. But you’d be putting an end to suffering. That has to be a Good Thing.”
“It would certainly be an end to your suffering on Earth,” replied the Preacher. And if Jackson was right about there being nothing after death, then Bascourt’s hell would end.
“Please!” Bacourt’s hand tightened on the Preacher’s sleeve. But such was the weakness of his grip he couldn’t prevent him standing and walking out of the hovel. The Preacher could hear the dying man’s pleas, fainter now. Once in the open, he sought the log that had been his seat earlier. He was angry, angry at whatever disease it was that was threatening to undermine his quest for retribution. For without retribution, how could he achieve peace?
Fate was mocking the Preacher. Bascourt was going to die anyway. Might even die while he was outside thinking about it. Killing Bascourt would be a mercy.
The Preacher went back to the hovel. He saw Bascourt look up. “Still alive then?”
“Pass me that medicine Ana made. It don’t do much good, but better n’ nothing.” Bascourt reached out his hand. The Preacher took hold of the bottle from the nearby table and held it, but just out of reach.
“You want this? How much does it hurt? Tell me?”
“That ain’t the behavior of a Christian! Give it me! Please! I’m beggin’ you!”
“You said I had come to take your soul. Maybe you’re right. I’m not here to cure you.” The Preacher threw the bottle across the room where it smashed against the fireplace. He got close to Bascourt, real close. Closer than before. He looked down on the emaciated wretch. Bascourt stared back. Nothing scared him now.
“You gonna kill me?”
“That’s what you want. You want me to kill you. Free you of your guilt. Because guilt won’t follow you to the grave.”
“I want you to kill me, free me of this pain, not of my sin. No man can do that. It’ll free my family, free them so they get out before winter comes. Go on! Kill me! I ain’t afraid of death. It’s this dying I hate.”
“No.” The Preacher reached back and pulled a wooden stool over and sat on it. “I won’t allow you to die until I have heard you confess. I want to hear your confession. And you need to make it.”
“Confession? I have too much to confess, an’ you ain’t a Priest. I regret it all. Ain’t that enough? A man can regret can’t he?”
“If there is a place as hell, then you can regret there for eternity. But say there ain’t such a place? Young man I knew once reckoned hell didn’t exist. Said the same about heaven. Said we made our own heaven and hell right here on Earth. What have you made of your life?”
“That’s between me and my maker.”
“Don’t those you have harmed come into it?”
“Done no harm to Ana or the child. Done best as I could by them.”
“She told me. Told me the good. Now tell me the bad.”
“What’s there to tell? I done bad, I admit it. Like I said, ain’t that enough?”
“I can keep you alive a long time. Maybe keep you alive another week. You want that? Weather looks to be turning bad. You said about the squaw and her child. If you want peace you gotta earn it. You’ve got to go deep down inside yourself, because that is where hell really is. You are your own hell. What’s the worst thing you’ve done?”
“Kill some rebel prisoners.”
“That it?”
“They was unarmed. S’why it was bad. Still is. Bound and tied too.”
“No. I meant... was that really the worst thing? The worst thing you have ever done?”
“No.” Bascourt paused. He was summoning up something else. Mixed with the cancer in his guts was something even more vile. “There was this plantation.”
Oaklands.
“We were part of an advance guard. Sent on reconnaissance. Run into a bigger group of Rebs. Didn’t stand a chance. Got cut off. Most of the troop were slaughtered. Johnny Reb weren’t taking prisoners that day.” It was impossible to tell whether Bascourt’s suffering now was caused by the memory or the cancer. The Preacher hoped it was both.
“Then...” Bacourt was faltering. His eyes were closed.
The Preacher shook him. “Wake up! Bascourt! You’re not dying now. Not now I’ve got this far. Bascourt!”
The sick man opened his eyes. “Set ‘em free. Ana and the child. Give ‘em a chance.”
“They cannot be free until your conscience is...” The Preacher held his tongue at the last. He couldn’t say it.
“I don’t want the last memory I take to my grave to be that one.”
Just who had the greater need for this confession? “The three of you were scared yes? Seen your friends killed. Lost in Confederate territory. And you wanted somewhere to hide. Somewhere you could regain your strength.” The Preacher could see the scene roll out before him. They were probably drawn by the smell of a log fire emanating from the stone chimney.
“How’d you know there was three of us?”
“There’s only one of you now. Keep talking.”
“That’s how it was. Walked maybe four hours. Didn’t have any horses. We was hungry. Saw these gates. Big iron gates. So grand they were. Meant to keep us saddle tramps out. Not this time they didn’t. We just walked straight through them gates… straight up that drive. You shoulda seen that driveway! Those people had money. Bet they had kept their sons and daughters away from the war. Leave the fightin’ to the rednecks.”
Bascourt seemed to have found some strength from somewhere. Any spirit he still possessed was being dragged up from his rotting insides. “Well we was rednecks too, in a way. Yankee rednecks. Blue necks.” Bascourt mocked the Preacher: “Why ain’t you laughin’ at that? We was blue necks!” He reached out and grasped the Preacher’s hand. His grip was tighter now, all his remaining strength was being channeled to that one hand. The Preacher felt soiled by the touch, but resisted pulling away for fear of breaking the flow. “I’d seen the rich ladies in Boston, in their fineries, with so called gentlemen! Dandies they were! Dandies an’ worse. Do you hear me? Worse!” Bascourt’s eyes had the look of a possessed man. “An’ always lettin’ someone else do the fightin’.”
The Preacher did not want to stop Bascourt talking; no matter how badly he wanted to stop him breathing.
“I hated those people back in Boston, Washington, New York. So you can guess how much more I hated those who was rebels too!”
Bascourt’s eyes flickered. He looked to be slipping away. “Bascourt! Bacourt! what happened? What did you do?”
Bascourt opened his eyes. It might have been cold outside, but there was a fire in the hearth that was doing a grand job of keeping him warm, along with the thick Indian blankets. He was breaking into a sweat. “Wanted some horses. Wanted horses bad ‘cos we feared the Rebs would be after us. Wanted some food too though. An’ liquor.”
The wine cellar. Bottles imported from France. Running low after four years of blockade. The last time the Preacher - the Colonel as he was then - the last time he had visited Oaklands he’d enjoyed some vintage Claret. So Bascourt and his companions had also enjoyed it.
“Was a young fellow in the yard. By the well.”
James.
“Drawin’ water he was. Now I look on it, he seemed friendly enough. Greeted us.”
James had stayed behind to look after the estate while the Preacher had enlisted. James wanted to go, badly. But having just married Lorna, the Colonel had insisted that his new son-in-law stayed behind. James had fought at Bull Run at the beginning, and at Shiloh, so his conscience was clear regarding his duty to his native Virginia. And he had met Lorna.
“Offered us some water. Coffee too.”
The Preacher could see James’s body. It had been found later that day, beside the well with a bayonet protruding from his stomach. “Who bayoneted him?”
Bascourt turned away.
The Preacher rose off the stool, towered over Bascourt and reached down and grabbed him by the shoulders. His grip was such that he felt Bascourt’s collarbone snap. “Who killed him Bascourt? Who killed James? Was it you? Was it? Did you kill James?” The Preacher was shaking Bascourt so violently that the sick man’s head began to loll from side to side, his tongue protruded out his mouth. Bascourt could do nothing.
The Preacher regained some self-control. Kill him now and Bascourt would have won. He stopped, sat down. Both men struggled to regain their breath.
“I killed him,” said Bascourt after some time. Faintly he repeated it. “I killed him, I killed him.” Bascourt was crying now, at the memory of it all. “How’d you know? I killed him! How’d you know?” The Preacher held his face in his hands for a moment.
“Then what happened.” The Preacher’s voice was calmer.
“Walked into a barn. Saw a nigra. He’d maybe seen what happened. Had himself a shotgun.”
Moses. Served the Colonel’s father. Said that, as a child, he remembered seeing the Colonel’s grandfather.
Bascourt’s voice was noticeably weaker. The effort of remembering was exacting a price. Ironic if the effort of reliving the horrors he’d committed resulted in one final victim. But from somewhere he found maybe the last ounces of life. “Don’t get me wrong, Preacher Man. I don’t hold no truck with slavery. Setting Blacks free is one thing. But having one stand in my way with a shotgun in his hand, now that is enough to get any right thinking white man plain angry.” Bascourt was slipping between the past and the now. “What you doin’ with that gun Boy? You gonna stop me getting some horses for me and my friends here? Boy?”