At Pleasant Hill the new year of 1865 slipped in strangely peacefully, and within a very few weeks the buds of new growth were veiling the devastated countryside with the first gentle promises of spring. The weather warmed and Joshua and Mattie worked side by side in the garden, or each occupied with their own tasks in this most simple of lives, but never too far from one another. When Joshua went down to the river to fish, or into the woods to trap, Mattie watched every moment for his return, and for his part he rarely let her out of his sight for any length of time. Neither spoke of the perils they knew threatened them beyond this strange, small world of theirs; both went more in fear for the other than for themselves. Indeed, as week succeeded week, Mattie found herself becoming more rather than less apprehensive, more rather than less desperate to know what was happening beyond the borders of Pleasant Hill; for she had come to understand, as Joshua had understood from the start, that anything that happened outside this retreat could only in the end be a threat. They could not stay hidden here for ever. She tried to live each day, with its surprising and beguiling gift of love, moment by moment and hour by hour; but it was difficult. It was as if they dwelt within a magic circle lit by the fragile light of a single candle flame. Beyond was darkness and uncertainty, and they could not know how long the flame would last, nor what might happen when it was extinguished. If either or both of them went to Macon to buy supplies and to discover what was happening – obviously the safest and most sensible option – it would be the end of their happiness together. There could be no question of their association continuing beneath the spiteful scrutiny of the outside world and, if either of them showed their face in the town, there would be too many well-meaning questions to be answered, too many unwanted offers of help to be ignored; they would never be left in peace again. Their present isolation was owed simply to the fact that no-one knew they were there. No other neighbours came to discover what had happened at Pleasant Hill – presumably Mr Brightwell had drawn his own conclusions and spread the word amongst whatever acquaintances might be left in the area, and people had more pressing things to do than to come to gawp at yet another deserted ruin. As spring advanced and the weather warmed and the rutted roads dried, they were more at risk from the increasing numbers of ragged soldiers that straggled along the road past the gate; deserters, Mattie assumed, or Rebels wounded or cut off from their units during Sherman’s devastating drive through the state.
‘I think it must be more than that,’ Joshua said thoughtfully, after a band of half-starved, desperate-looking men, filthy, barefoot and unshaven, and in a patchwork of uniform that defied any recognition, had fortunately decided not to explore the Pleasant Hill drive, seeing at its end the forlorn, firemarked chimneys and the blackened remnants of the house.
‘Nothin’ there,’ one had said, wearily. ‘Bastard Sherman got here first, God rot his balls. Won’t be enough left to fill the belly of a cockroach.’
‘Must ’a bin a real purty house,’ said another.
‘Sure must.’ A big, raw-boned man in tattered grey shot a stream of brown tobacco juice expertly into the ditch. ‘An’ tell you what, Ezekiah Johnson, you’d ’a got no more a welcome there before it burned than it’d give you now, an’ that’s a certain fact. Your great dirty feet wouldn’t ’a crossed that porch, you can be sure o’ that. Round the back with the other niggers, that’s where you an’ me would have bin sent – an’ the lady o’ the house drawin’ her skirts aside so’s not to be polluted by the likes of us. Quick enough to make us fight for ’em though, eh?’
There was a mutter of assent.
Mattie and Joshua, hidden in the trees, watched them go. ‘More?’ Mattie asked.
‘These can’t be men left behind after Atlanta. It’s too long ago now, and they’ve the look of having travelled.’
‘You mean – deserters? From – another battle? Another defeat?’
Joshua shrugged. ‘They look in a poor way.’
Mattie folded her arms across her breast, absently rubbing her rough fingers upon the threadbare material of her jacket. ‘If only we knew. If only we knew what was happening.’
He shook his head, his black eyes fathomless. ‘Leave it. Don’t think of it. We’ll find out soon enough.’
* * *
A week later, another such group descended upon Pleasant Hill and Mattie and Joshua only escaped detection by sheer luck. The weather was warm and they had not lit the fire in their cabin. Encouraged into the pale sunshine, Mattie had packed a frugal meal and they had followed the path upriver to a favourite fishing spot. The fat, waxy buds of the magnolias were bursting into fragrant life and the air was noisy with birdsong and the spring gossip of the crickets. Mattie felt the benevolent warmth of the sun creep into bone and nerve, and relaxed, shutting her eyes against the brightness of the sunshine, breathing deeply of the fresh, balmy air.
The shots shredded the quiet of the afternoon like claws ripping rotted fabric. She leaped to her feet, taking a breath to cry out. With a movement swift as a cat’s, Joshua was beside her, hand over her mouth, shaking his head as he held her. ‘Ssh!’
They stood in silence, listening. There came another volley of shots, and the sound of laughter, from the direction of the house.
‘Wait here,’ Joshua said.
Mattie grabbed his arm. ‘No! I’m coming with you.’
He hesitated for a moment, shrugged and took her hand. They slipped back along the path then struck into the now-overgrown woodland beside the live oak avenue.
In the clearing in front of the burned house a group of men were building a fire, dragging fuel from the ruins of house and barns. Several dead rabbits lay upon the ground. A man staggered around the corner of the house with a bucket in each hand. ‘There’s a well back there – the water’s good –’
‘Keep the water.’ A tall, thin, unshaven man unsteadily lifted a bottle to his lips. ‘This’ll do me.’
‘Hey, Stevens, whadja think you – you’re doin’?‘Another man snatched the bottle from him. ‘Greedy son of a bitch – ’s ours too, y’know.’
‘They’re drunk!’ Mattie whispered.
Joshua nodded, his hand tightening on hers in warning.
The man called Stevens swung a wild fist at the other, and missed, fell to his knees, swearing. Like most of the others, his filthy feet were bare; like all of them, he was weather-beaten from a winter spent in the open, gaunt to the point of emaciation and dressed in butternut rags not fit for a scarecrow. Another man placed a bare foot upon his buttocks and pushed, gently. He subsided flat on his face on the red earth and lay there, spread-eagled and snoring.
‘Leave him.’ The apparent leader of the group aimed a kick at the prone man as he passed. ‘An’ Jake, lay off that for a while, will yer?’ He snatched the bottle from the other man. ‘There’s only three left. Leave ’em till later. Get these things skinned, Willy.’ He tossed the rabbit to a weary-looking youngster who grabbed for them and missed. ‘An’ you, Robbie, get over there behind the barn – there’s a bit of a garden there – fetch some vegetables.’ He straightened to his considerable height, grinning crookedly.
Mattie gritted her teeth, thinking of the tender growth of their fresh vegetables. Joshua pulled gently at her hand, indicated with a jerk of his head that they should leave. A safe distance from the house he said, ‘We’ll have to stay away until they go. Go back to where we were fishing – at least we’ve some food there.’
‘Where are you going?’ She would not release his hand.
‘Back to the cabin. If we’re going to have to stay out all night, perhaps two, we need some supplies.’
This time Mattie had to let him go. She made her way back to the river and waited, rigid with fear, for his return. She could hear shouts and laughter; waited for the yell that would tell of Joshua’s discovery.
It did not come. He emerged from the trees like a shadow, carrying blankets and extra food. ‘We’ll go upriver, then cut up into the woodlands on the ridge,’ he said. �
�Then we can keep watch and see when they leave.’
‘Supposing – supposing they don’t?’ she asked, a little shakily.
He took her hand in silence, hitching the blankets over his shoulder.
* * *
The renegades stayed for two nights. From the quiet darkness of their ridge, Mattie and Joshua could see the leaping light of the fire, hear the drunken singing and brawling.
‘I don’t understand,’ Mattie said. ‘Where did they get the drink? They don’t seem to have anything else.’
Joshua shrugged in the darkness. ‘Stole it, I suppose.’ He could not bring himself to tell her of the drunken bragging he had overheard when he went back to the cabin; he remembered, as Mattie did, the Brightwell family from other, better times. The thought of the old man and his wife, having returned against all good sense to the wreckage of their home, slaughtered in cold blood for the sake of what had been salvaged from the plantation cellar, sickened him. He saw no reason to burden Mattie with it; but he was fierce to the point of anger when she wanted to stretch her legs away from their hiding place. ‘You stay right here, you hear me? You don’t move a muscle you don’t have to! Keep down and keep out of their sight! For God’s sake, Mattie, these men are animals, and drunken animals at that!’
On the morning of the second day he slipped down to the makeshift camp to watch as the leader of the deserters kicked his men awake, groaning and bleary-eyed. ‘Get up, you skunks! On yer feet!’ He bent to wrench an empty bottle from an all but unconscious man’s arms and tossed it over his shoulder to shatter in the embers of the fire, the last drops of spirit flaring. The man on the ground, who had been cuddling the bottle as if it had been a woman, muttered obscenely in protest and got the toe of the other man’s boot for an answer. ‘Up, you stupid, sodden sons of bitches! Up. Time to move on.’
Joshua watched as they straggled down the drive towards the road.
‘Hey, Willy.’ A man, staggering, threw a companionable arm about the boy’s thin shoulders, as much to support himself as anything else. ‘What you goin’ ter do now this bastard war’s nearly over?’
‘I’m goin’ home, Seth.’ The boy had stumbled and nearly collapsed under the other man’s weight. ‘Just goin’ home, to Ma an’ Pa an’ the farm. That’s all I want. Tell you straight, never wanted nothin’ else in the first place.’ The reedy voice was almost tearful. ‘Ain’t never gon’ leave again, Seth. No, Sir, not never.’
Joshua did not hear the other man’s reply. When all sound had died he walked over to the fire, and the filth and the wreckage the men had left around it. Stood for a long moment stirring the still-smoking embers with his foot, thoughtfully. To stay? Or to go? Which was the more dangerous? And if they decided to leave, where, and how, would they go? Was the war nearly over? And if it were, how did it affect them? How safe was it to move? And then again – round and round like a rat on a treadmill – how safe to stay?
They were still debating the question five days later, when their precarious peace was brutally shattered and all chance to take a decision was lost.
* * *
If it had not been for a capricious, chill turn in the weather they might once again have escaped. But the men came at night this time, and followed the smell of smoke directly to the cabin door. The first either Joshua or Mattie knew of the invasion was when the door was shouldered open, breaking the bar and slamming it back on its hinges, and two men stepped into the glowing firelight, rifles levelled almost casually. Mattie was in bed, Joshua sitting at the small table mending a broken fishing rod by the light of a single candle. He leaped to his feet, the chair flying backwards. Mattie gave one small cry, then sat frozen, the bedclothes clutched about her.
‘Evenin’, folks.’ The words were flat, lacking in the smallest amount of human warmth. The man who spoke them was much like every other they had seen in these past weeks; thin, dirty, hard-faced, tired. He wore faded and threadbare grey trousers and a Union jacket that hung open over a filthy homespun shirt. Hair and beard were ragged. He chewed as he spoke; his teeth were stained from the tobacco. Grinning, he doffed a crushed and shapeless hat to Mattie. ‘Pardon me, Ma’am.’ He emphasized the pronoun with affected deference, and his companion sniggered.
Mattie looked at Joshua, suddenly aware of his acute disadvantage in such a situation, willing him to shake off the instincts and reflexes of a lifetime of slavery and take the initiative, as a free man would. In the dim light his skin shone pale – paler, if anything, than that of the intruders, who had spent these last long, tough months in the open. That these were Southern deserters could not be in doubt; the situation was fearful enough without their guessing who and what Joshua was.
Joshua was there before her. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doin’, Sir?’ His deep, cultured voice was quiet, polite, hard as steel; he had not lived that same lifetime with his father and his half-brothers without learning the inflections of command and inbred superiority. ‘How dare you intrude in this way?’
The man chewed ruminatively, watching him. Spat into the fire, which hissed and crackled. ‘You the folks from the house?’
‘Who else would we be?’
He shrugged. ‘Could be Adam an’ Eve for all I know.’ He chuckled at his own wit, glancing at his partner who sniggered again, obediently. His eyes had barely wavered from Mattie, her hair about her shoulders, the bedclothes pulled up to her neck.
She clutched them tighter.
Joshua settled his feet firmly upon the floor, standing tall and easily. ‘If it’s shelter you’re lookin’ for, why then we can certainly supply it – you’re welcome to use one of the huts. As you see, our hospitality has been gravely limited by a visit from other, more demandin’ guests.’ He allowed himself the shadow of a bleak smile. ‘We have too some few supplies you’re welcome to share. Anythin’ more valuable –’ he spread his hands, shrugging a little, and for an unsettling moment Mattie could not believe that she was not watching Johnny, three years dead ‘– if you can find it you’re welcome to it, though I have to tell you our Northern visitors did a pretty good job, an’ if there’s even a Confederate dollar bill left we haven’t been able to find it.’
The other man grinned appreciatively. ‘Wouldn’t do you much good if you could.’
‘Quite. My opinion entirely, Sir.’
‘Things ain’t worth nothin’ but to wipe shit with – beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am.’ The apology was perfunctory in the extreme, but the bravado was obvious; the man had certainly been disconcerted and, Mattie suspected, put just a little in awe. Just so had first his masters and then his officers spoken. He had lowered the rifle. With something of a swagger he toured the room, inspecting it, lifting up a pot from the mantelpiece, a dish from the table.
His companion’s unblinking gaze was still upon Mattie.
‘So,’ Joshua’s voice was perfectly firm and calm, ‘if you wouldn’t mind?’ He made a courteous gesture towards the door. ‘There’s plenty of fuel should you feel the need for a fire, and the water in the well is fresh and untainted. We can talk, if you wish, in the mornin’?’
Almost it worked. The man could not disguise the hesitancy in his eyes, the reflex of obedience. He scratched his unkempt chin. ‘Well –’
‘In the mornin’, Sir.’ Joshua’s voice brooked no argument. ‘Until then I’ll thank you to leave me an’ my wife to our privacy, inglorious as it may be.’
The door opened.
With some relief the man turned. ‘Jeb. What kept you?’
‘I bin lookin’ round.’ The newcomer spoke from the shadows beyond the door. ‘Bin enjoyin’ the fuckin’ view an’ thinkin’ of old times. Bin’ thinkin’ that this ole war’s not bin all bad iffen it means the bastard Sherwoods got their comeuppance.’ The newcomer stepped into the light. ‘Well, well. An’ what do we have here?’
The silence was absolute, and terrifying. Mattie stared at him, trying to place him.
‘So one of you bastards survived, did you?’
The man carried a rifle. He hefted it in his hand, laid it carefully in the crook of his arm. He was watching Joshua, a faint and dangerously puzzled frown creasing his weather-beaten forehead.
Joshua said nothing.
‘Remember me? Jeb Sangster? Remember my Pa, share-croppin’, strugglin’ to hold body an’ soul together down south of the river by Silver Springs? Remember your Pa an’ his fancy fuckin’ friends houndin’ us out? Killed my Ma, between you; always swore I’d see you in hell for it –’ He stopped. That faint, suspicious frown was still there, and his light eyes had narrowed.
‘Mr Sangster,’ Mattie said, in desperation; anything to draw that shrewd, suspicious gaze from Joshua’s immobile face. ‘Please, can’t we discuss this tomorrow? I’m sure if there’s anything we can do to help you –’
The appraising eyes were on her now. She could almost see the brain behind them working. ‘You’re the piece Johnny Sherwood brought back from England after that happy bitch Lottie Barclay floored him,’ he said. ‘But this –’ He shook his head slowly, eyes steady once more upon Joshua, and then flicking about the room, taking it in, absorbing the intimacy, the sense of home.
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