His eyes are fire now. “I knew you thought it, too.” Before I can protest, he yells, “So go on back to your husband the preacher.”
I wince as if he slapped me in the face. “Please, Stonefield, you have to leave—they’ll kill you as a traitor—”
“I’m the traitor? ‘Though those that are betray’d do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe.’”
Stonefield. I did it because you wanted to leave me. I wanted to hurt you as much as you hurt me. But if you don’t go right now, they’ll kill you.
The curse blocks my silent voice. He keeps walking away. I start to run after him, when a shrill whistle sounds from the woods. Two men on horseback gallop up to the thickets at the edge of the ravine. The other bushwhackers jump to their feet—all except Joe, who’s had too much whiskey to notice.
“There’s a troop of Home Guard Unionists on horseback,” one of the riders calls. “Heard about them yesterday—they’re from Germantown in St. Louis, headed to Springfield!”
“How many?” Stonefield comes back, already loading his pistol. It seems like he and Frank are in charge of the other bushwhackers.
“Fifteen. And a wagon of supplies and guns!”
Frank makes a whooping sound. “Them supplies and guns will be ours before the day is done! I’m feeling like taking back a little of what Union soldiers stole from me. Vengeance, boys!”
Stonefield saddles up Faithful. All the men get busy. Joe puts out the fire under the still, shaking his head and muttering, “Only two runs. It’s a cryin’ shame…” The others bring out the horses, and the burly man takes hold of me. He smells like sweat and liquor.
“Should I tie her up and leave her with the other one, Chief?”
I glance toward the cave.
Stonefield takes a loop of rope from his saddle. “I’ll tie her up, but we’ll bring her along. The soldiers won’t be looking for ambushers if they’re looking at her instead.”
Lord. What’s he going to do with me? He looks so stony and cold, I’m afraid to have him touch me. My heart beats like galloping hooves. My whole body quivers like Faithful’s nervous hide as he winds the rope rough around my wrists in front of me and heaves me into his saddle. I never thought he’d bind me the way the preacher did. He pulls himself up behind me and, to take the reins, he wraps his arms around me. I smell the familiar scent of his skin and want to sink into his embrace, only it’s not an embrace. His arms are rigid. They don’t want to hold me. The big man rides beside him and slaps the horse’s haunches, making Faithful jump and nicker. He yells, “Let’s ride!” and everyone takes off.
I grip the saddle horn with my tied hands, trying to hang on as we whip through the woods, the rest of the bushwhackers racing along with us. When we reach Springfield Road, we gallop alongside it, hidden by the trees and sticking to the brush. There are nine bushwhackers altogether. The wind tears through my hair and whistles in my ears. It lifts the back of my shirt. I feel the cold weight of Stonefield’s pistol pressing against my thigh. After about five miles, he slows down and motions for the men to guide their horses over to the side.
“Make sure she’s tied up good and tight, and get her set down in the middle of the road. She’s our decoy.”
“No!” The words burst out of my mouth. “Stonefield, wait—”
The burly man lifts me off the horse, away from Stonefield, slaps a handkerchief around my mouth, and ties it firm. He sets me down hard on the road and winds a rope tight around my arms and legs till I can’t move. He lays me down in the middle of the road.
Stonefield, Frank, and the men turn and leave me, coaxing their horses up the steep hill lining the road to the low bluff. I can see them make it to the top. Stonefield holds up his hand for them to slow down. The men vanish from my sight for a little while, and when they come back to the edge of the cliff, where I can see them, they’re on foot. They each take powder, lead shot, or bullets from the saddlebags and load their guns. Joe’s face is almost purple and just as shiny as if he’d glazed his forehead with grease. He and some of the other men fumble for their flasks of whiskey and guzzle the drink down.
Frank signals for them to take positions. They crawl to the edge, partly hidden by brush, and peer down at the road, about thirty feet below them. All the men are watching the bend in the road, listening for the approaching soldiers. All except Stonefield. His face is turned toward me. My heart’s hammering. What’s going to happen next? I focus on him and listen hard for his silent voice, but all I hear is a low rumble of hoofbeats in the ground. They’re coming.
I try to turn, but I’m tied so tight, I have to rock my whole body to move my position just a smidgen. If only I could get enough momentum to roll farther away—Lord—I’m afraid the horses will stampede me before the riders have time to see me, let alone rein them in. The ropes cut into my wrists and arms. I can hear the horses right around the bend, but it sounds more like a trot than a gallop. I glance up at the bushwhackers and see the sun glinting off their rifles.
Right then I see out of the corner of my eye the leader of the riders coming round the bend. I push myself into a position where I can see better. Following the leader are two groups of six—one group riding in front of a supply wagon, and the other behind. Two men ride in the wagon. None of them are looking up at the bushwhackers—all their wide eyes are stuck on me.
When I see their blue coats and caps, my heart thumps in my ears. I imagine Frank picking one out and wetting his lips as he takes aim. I clench my eyes shut and brace myself.
CRACK!
A gun fires from the bluff. I flinch. The leader falls from his horse, landing in front of me with a heavy thud.
Mercy, mercy, mercy.
The bushwhackers let loose, their shots exploding in the air like popped corn. Blue caps dot the ground.
I want to swallow, but my throat’s a parched riverbed. I try again to roll away, but a hot poker of pain jabs my right shoulder—I’ve been grazed with lead gunshot. I duck my head and curl into a ball as the noise of shots ricochets off the bluff.
Oh Lord.
Am I going to die here on this road?
My shoulder’s on fire.
My head’s pounding.
The hurt I feel from Stonefield, the pain in my arm, and the blood from my flesh wound all flow together over me.
The blast of exploding bullets rattles my skull like hail pounding a tin roof.
The world spins. I dig my fingers into the earth and hang on.
Finally, the shooting stops and all is quiet.
I’m alive. My fingernails are deep in the dirt, and I feel stuck to the ground. I lift my aching head. Dirt and small pebbles are pressed into the side of my face.
Stonefield stands on the bluff. His gun arm relaxes at his side as he gazes at the road. All the bushwhackers stand up.
“Woo-eee! Would you look at that!” Frank whistles. “I can’t aim for shucks when I’m sober, but when I’m drunk, I sure can shoot me a mess of soldiers!”
The burly man grunts and shakes his head. Joe, his face flushed, struggles to his feet. They both disappear into the woods and bring the horses back with them. Stonefield takes Faithful’s reins, jumps on, and rides off. The rest of the men hurry after him. He gallops through the woods, down the hill, and around to the road.
Oh God. My stomach lurches. The dead men’s bodies lie twisted over each other, looking like a pile of dirty washing scattered everywhere. Oh Lord, their bodies are limp and empty, like Mother’s was when she fell to the ground.
There’s blood all over the road. My breath catches in my throat, and I turn away.
I listen to the bushwhackers’ heavy breathing and grunting as they dismount and start pulling dead bodies into the woods. Finally, I open my eyes real slow, afraid of what I’ll see. Stonefield’s squatting beside me, peering into my face. His own golden face has turned ashen. But as soon as he sees I’m all right, he stands up to help the men.
Joe’s passing b
y me, pulling a body. I keep my eyes away from the dead soldier’s face and look at his boots. They’re small, about my size. Something in my chest flutters like a trapped bird.
Frank leans over the last dead body on the road, the man who’d been the leader. He slides his knife from its sheath and kneels near the dead man’s head with his back to me. When he stands, he’s clasping something in his fist. A sour taste rises to my throat. Frank spits on the man’s face. “That’s for your damned Union Army burning down my house and barn and kicking me off my own land. You ain’t gonna be giving any Federalist orders now, are ya,” he mutters.
I watch him tie the scrap of hair he’s holding to his horse’s mane. All the life drains out of me when I realize what the trophy is that now dangles from the horse’s neck. The blond scalp of the dead man.
“Get out your knife, Chief—you can cut the scalp of Joe’s man like a true Indian savage.” Frank nods toward the body Joe’s pulling. “Ain’t that what your people do to their enemies?”
Stonefield glares at Frank. I can tell it makes him mad that he knows as little as Frank does about what his own people do or don’t do. My chest tightens, my hands go numb as Stonefield steps toward the body. Don’t do this thing. Frank’s the savage, not you.
Joe drops the soldier’s feet. They slap against the ground.
A low moan from the man makes me start. I stare at the dead man who is not dead. He isn’t a man, neither, but a boy. Younger than me. The boy clutches at the bleeding wound in his side and groans. He stares wide-eyed at Joe and Stonefield like a scared rabbit stuck in a spring trap.
Stonefield points his pistol at him.
“Nein! Nein!” The boy gasps. “Nicht schiessen!”
Howls of drunken laughter explode from the bushwhackers. “What’s a matter with him?” shouts Frank. “Is he drunk, too, or just plain stupid? What kind of crazy talk is that?”
“Him? Why, he’s one of them fool German-talkers from St. Louis, ain’t he? I hear a whole slew of them live up there,” Joe says. “He can’t help talking that-a-way—he don’t know no better.”
The boy looks from Joe, to Frank, to Stonefield with anxious eyes. “Nicht schiessen,” he repeats.
The bushwhackers burst out with fresh laughter at the strange tongue. The boy glances around at the dead soldiers and sees the scalped body of his leader. His chest heaves, and his face goes white.
Stonefield takes two steps toward him.
The boy’s eyes dart over the bushwhackers, searching for pity. When he notices me, he locks on to my gaze.
I look up at Stonefield. Please.
The boy follows my gaze and pleads, “Hab Mitleid!” straight at him.
I can feel Stonefield’s stare burning a hole through my chest.
The men roar with more laughter.
The boy holds out his hand toward Stonefield, his eyes desperate. “Hab Mitleid!” he cries.
Have mercy.
Stonefield’s eyes flicker over to me and then back to the boy. For a moment, I almost think I can hear my name. But then his face clouds over and I hear nothing.
He cocks his gun.
I drag my face against the ground to push the gag out of my mouth, and I manage to croak, “No, Stonefield. No.”
He doesn’t move his pistol away, but his hand starts to shake. His mouth trembles like he wants to say something but can’t. His gun is ready to fire, yet he still doesn’t pull the trigger.
“Damn it, Chief.” Frank spits in the dirt. “I thought you was a true Indian savage.”
The crack of a pistol splits the silence.
The thud of the boy’s lifeless body follows, but it’s Frank’s gun that’s smoking, not Stonefield’s.
My own body gives out, and my head falls to the dirt. The world spins out of control. I can’t breathe. The men’s voices sound like the buzzing of flies.
The boy’s feet were so small.
My stomach lurches and empties on the ground.
“That there soldier was a puny little rabbit, weren’t he?” Frank laughs.
The burly man snorts. “Let’s get out of here. We ought to take what we can and head back to the cave before we leave the county. We need to get, before them church folks send for some Yankees to come after us from Rolla.”
Joe, still a little drunk, mumbles, “I hope this little one’s ghost doesn’t follow us to Mexico when we hightail it out of here. I’m plum worn out from being chased, ain’t you?” The rest of them mutter their agreement. “Chief, you sure you don’t want to stick with us, instead of stopping in Indian Territory to join the Creeks? If the Union soldiers don’t track you down first, them Confederates might force you to join their army. But if you stay with us resisters, you stay free for sure—we don’t take orders from neither side.”
Stonefield stares off into the woods. I remember what he said about the group of Creeks who hope President Lincoln will grant them asylum so they can stay neutral.
He glances at me. “I’m not changing my mind.”
29
The ride back to the woods is a haze. I’m faint, and drift in and out of consciousness. When I come to, I’m being thrust onto a rocky cave floor by big grimy hands. Now the hands are gone, and it’s just me in the darkness. I hear the bushwhackers’ voices and then the sound of their horses as they ride away.
The floor’s muddy. My whole body’s numb from being tied up tight in one position. I can barely move; I’m so cold. The pain from the scattered bits of gunshot that grazed my shoulder has lessened, but I still have the sour taste in my mouth from retching up my breakfast. The young soldier’s image haunts me.
Lord. Water drips onto my cheek and tickles my neck.
“Catrina?”
My heart skips. “Lu?”
“Oh, Catrina.” Her voice has lost its creamy sugar—it’s brittle and broken like crushed herbs. She sounds so far away.
I reach out as best I can with my fingers and extend my legs, fumbling in the dark for her. “Lu, where are you?”
No answer, just low moaning. A cold dread seeps into my bones. I struggle to move toward the sound of her voice. “Lu, are you all right?” I stop moving so I can listen for her reply.
“I don’t know.” Her voice is small, like a child’s. “I don’t know!” she whimpers.
Lord, oh Lord. I push myself through the mud toward the sound of her weeping. “What did Frank do to you?” I remember how he shot the boy, and hot hate rises up in my heart. “Where did he hurt you?” My arms are tied down against my sides, but the tips of my fingers touch the lacy material of Lu’s dress. It’s a piece that’s been torn loose. I take hold of it and climb my fingers up to find Lu. Her skin is icy and she’s trembling like a rabbit. As soon as she feels me touch her arm, she leans against me heavy, like she’s drowning, and her cries come pouring out in a flood.
I let her press against me hard. Her hands are tied behind her back, or she’d probably grip me, too. Her body quakes and trembles as the sobs rack and heave through her small frame. I wait for her to quiet. “It’s all right now, Lu,” I tell her, soft, like Papa does to soothe a spooked mare. “Frank’s gone. You’re all right.”
“No, I’m not,” she whispers. “I’m not all right.”
I struggle to move out from under her and touch her hand with mine. I hold it strong but gentle like Effie would.
“He—” she tries to say, and then I feel her shake her head.
“You don’t have to tell me if it hurts too much to say it.”
“He took … he stole something from me. I screamed and screamed for him not to, but nobody tried to stop him. He just took it.” Her body shakes again with fresh sobs. “It hurt more than anything, ever.”
Lord, I can feel what she’s telling me the way I felt when Reverend Preston tied me to the bed and tried to force part of me away from myself. I grip her hand so hard she gasps. I loosen my hold and move closer to her again until we’re side by side, our shoulders touching.
“Catri
na,” she whispers, “I don’t know what it means.”
“It means he’s a sack of dirt, a pile of shit, a—”
“I don’t know what it means to be like this. You saw him mistreat me once—but this is so much worse.” She keeps talking through her sobs. “Catrina, am I still the same person? I don’t feel the same.”
I don’t know how to answer. How much can be taken away before a person isn’t herself anymore? Is there one most important part of a person—the part that would change everything if it were taken away? If the curse cut the bond that holds me to Stonefield, and he floats away from me forever, will I still be me? I can’t bear to let that happen.
But Lu fought hard to keep what was dear to her—I remember the slash down Frank’s face—and still she couldn’t stop it from happening. My darkness inside me grows blacker than the cave.
“Lu, I don’t know.”
She slumps a little, next to me. She turns so quiet, I feel alone again. I can’t tell how much time has passed in the dark stillness. I feel suspended in nothing. I know Lu’s here with me, but I don’t feel her any longer. I wonder if this is what it would be like for Aphrodite floating in the night sky if the rope that connects her to Eros got cut.
I think about the baby floating inside me—how it’s a part of me and maybe the size of a gooseberry, connected to me by a little cord. I wonder when it won’t be me anymore, not even a speck, but all its own self. When it’s taken from my body and the cord cut, will it still be a part of me? Or will I have lost that most important part? I think of my wild work in the woods, how I create a rain girl and the rain slowly steals her away. But the real girl always stays.
“Lu,” I whisper.
She doesn’t reply, but I hear her sniffle.
“I think you’re still you. You have to want to be hard enough, and then I swear no one can take you from yourself.”
I feel Lu moving back toward me. Her fingers stroke the tips of mine. At first I think she’s showing me tenderness, but then something cold and smooth fills my open hand. A knife.
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