Latimer himself stood rooted to the spot, terrified first by the pistol as it passed and repassed him, and then by the sight of Joe tumbled in death on the landing behind him.
“Cmon—move it, man!” Kingston clutched the Ingram to his naked chest as he backed towards the open door, while his eyes and his pistol quartered the hall again. “We got to get off Sion land!”
For another half of a fraction of a second Latimer’s mind and his legs refused to move. Then they both accelerated him towards the doorway.
“Get the rifle—” Kingston’s final instruction caught him as he passed the negro and the light burst all around him.
The Confederate guard was wrapped round the corner of the balustrade on the verandah at the top of the steps, his legs sticking out stiffly halfway across them, with his rifle lying on the grass at the bottom.
As Latimer stooped to take up the rifle, already uncertain as to what to do next, Kingston passed him at the run, leaping half the flight in one bound, and was already way across the open space as he straightened up. And then he was no longer uncertain.
The trees were a thousand miles away, and the house reared up behind him as he ran, leaving his back naked. But it was too late for arguments and explanations—he had to run.
There were bushes, bright red-flowered, to his left—and Kingston was turning, no longer holding the pistol, but with the Ingram held two-handed, sweeping left—and through him—and right, to cover his rear … Kingston had dropped to one knee, and was looking back, as though he didn’t exist, oblivious of him—
The trees were so far away, and then only with their thin scattering of leaves, and he had never run like this in his life, through hot and cold, outside him and inside him, towards a winning post which seemed unattainable—
He plunged into the beginning of the forest, at the end of the lawn, without stopping—trees were obstacles, but anything that wasn’t a tree could be burst through regardless, compared with what lay behind him.
Where was he going?
But that was not what was immediately important, any more than rattlesnakes and poison ivy were important: covering ground was what was important—there was no path, but any direction which was not backwards was the right one—
We got to get off old Sion land— swerve left, swerve right—just keep running!
A stray branch whipped his face, starting tears and nearly blundering him into a thicker patch of undergrowth. He skidded in a shower of leaves, almost losing his balance as he twisted his direction—the bloody woods were all alike, and every way was suddenly indistinguishable—
Which way? Tears and sweat blurred his vision.
He drew a shuddering breath, and was conscious of the rifle in his hands for the first time: he had picked it up on the negro’s order, but it had been no more than a stick of wood to him. Now it was a rifle—but it still might just as well be a stick of wood for all he could do with it: even if he had ever been any good with guns, he could hardly see now.
He brushed the sweat from his face with his sleeve, and blinked to clear his sight. He had to get moving again—but which way?
Then there was another sound in his ears, over to his left.
He swung the rifle towards it, blinking again to concentrate his partially-restored sight, and saw—saw with an overwhelming wave of relief and gratitude—the black shape of Kingston bobbing and weaving through the trees not far away.
“The creek, man—” the negro signalled urgently “—make for the creek!”
The creek of course! That was the nearest and most obvious boundary of old Sion land. When they reached that they would at least know where they were, and whatever Kingston had in mind then, it was better than the near-panic in his own brain.
There was no time to argue anyway, for the man was already ahead of him, running like a gazelle.
Latimer’s aching legs carried him forward. As he fended off branches with the rifle he felt an arrow of pain in his side which made him gasp: he had not had a stitch like that for years—not since the agony of those dreadful house-runs at school, when he had been the fat little boy at the back of the run—
“Come on, Latimer! Don’t let the House down!”
Latimer swore silently at the memory as he ran—
“Come on, Latimer! The way to beat a stitch is to run it off!”
They had all had longer legs, and he had always come in last: this was only history repeating itself unbearably—
History repeating itself: long ago the Iowans had run through these woods, making for the creek!
At last the land was changing—it was no longer dead level, but was falling away ahead of him. Yet now Kingston was changing direction, no longer taking the shortest route down the slope, but veering away to his right, in the direction of the bridge. But the bridge was guarded—
He tried to shout, but it was useless: the arrow had fallen from his side, but he had no breath left for shouting. His chest hurt, and he could hardly take in enough air, and what he could take in burnt like fire. And he was wringing wet with sweat, as though he’d already been in the river.
It was no good: he couldn’t go on, and he wouldn’t go on—not that way, into danger!
And besides, he didn’t owe Kingston anything. It was illogical to think of the negro as having saved him: Kingston had delivered him into danger, and then into greater danger when the first danger had receded—he owed Kingston nothing except suspicion.
His legs were carrying him downhill. The stream at the bottom there was probably not very deep, and even if it was, it was not very wide anyway. And he was sick and tired of being led by the nose.
“Where you going, man?” Kingston’s voice was only slightly breathless. It was more surprised than breathless.
Latimer looked up towards the voice. Kingston’s naked chest was shiny with sweat, and it rose and fell with deep controlled breaths.
“Where you going?” repeated Kingston, steadying himself on a tree with one hand. But it was the other hand which steadied Latimer: the Ingram in that black hand was still as much a persuader as it had been in Joe’s.
“They—” He struggled to control his own breathlessness “—they have—men—covering … covering the bridge.”
“You don’t say?” The grin was only slightly smaller than usual. “Man, they got men all over.” Kingston nodded past him down the slope. “Got an old boathouse down there, covers the creek for half a mile either way nicely.” He jerked his head in the opposite direction. “’Nother guy by the bend can see up the creek this way, an’ down to the bridge. Like, interlocking fields of fire, as they say. Maybe more by now … Though losing Joe’ll throw them some.” The grin widened. “Make them trigger-happy too, though.” This time the nod was towards the rifle in Latimer’s hands. “You any good with that, Oliver?”
“Not much.” It was no good pretending.
“Uh-huh.” Kingston didn’t seem surprised. “Well, you jus’ squeeze the trigger when you have to. ’Cause they won’t know that.” Grin. “We go on a piece, an’ the creek’s not too wide, an’ there’s good cover on the other side. Okay?”
It was not at all okay, but it made sense as far as anything did, leaving aside the traffic jam of questions in Latimer’s mind.
“Okay?” repeated Kingston.
“Okay.” There wasn’t time for questions. All that was certain was that Kingston knew more about the defences of Sion Crossing than he did.
“Okay.” Kingston pointed up the slope. “You keep your eye on the top—you see anything on the skyline, don’t holler—jus’ tap me on the shoulder an’ give me the rifle. An’ if I hit the dirt, you hit it too.” He looked at Latimer critically. “Gimme your coat.”
“What?”
“Jus’ give it me, man.”
Latimer watched, at first uncomprehending, then in horror as the negro swept aside the leaves at his feet and proceeded to rub his best lightweight jacket in the red earth.
“What—”
Latimer set about ruining his trousers. The sweat-sodden material stained easily, as also did his sweaty face if his hands were anything to judge by. It seemed only natural to complete the job by wiping them on the front of his shirt, and he thought insanely if I ever come out of this I’ll never be able to look at the red fields of Devon again—
“That’s jus’ fine, Oliver man.” Kingston returned the wreckage of his jacket. “You hit the dirt now, you jus’ like part of it. Let’s go, then.”
Latimer followed him at a steady dog-trot through the trees, his mind still whirling with questions while he divided his attention between keeping up with the negro and casting fearful glances up the slope.
He was committed to trusting the man now—
There wasn’t quite a clear skyline above them; there were too many trees for that; but there were patches of light between them—
It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense—
As he moved, so the trees above him on the slope moved, each one differently relative to its distance from the others in a constantly changing pattern; and since he couldn’t keep a continuous watch anyway …
They had deliberately sent him into Sion Crossing—Kingston and Lucy Cookridge both—knowing what that meant, while making sure he didn’t know … But why?
The slope was steeper here, and there were outcrops of grey rock which he had not noticed before—
And then Kingston had come back, obviously at great risk to himself … Why?
It didn’t make sense. But then … for Senator Cookridge to set all this up made even less sense: whatever the outcome—even if it was hushed up, and even if he was blamed for his own ill-considered actions—whatever the outcome it was bound to cause serious Anglo-American trouble—the man Joe was certainly dead … and The Man himself—who the hell was he?
Just as he was about to take another useless look up the slope, Kingston dropped behind one of the outcrops, and signalled him down urgently.
Latimer flung himself down on the leaves and wormed his way to the safety of the rock, trying to keep the rifle out of the dirt. The one advantage of having ruined his suit, he decided, was that its preservation was no longer one of his worries: the preservation of himself was all that mattered now.
“I think we got company ahead, up near the path—you jus’ keep low,” murmured Kingston.
The advice was superfluous. From where he cowered close to Kingston, Latimer watched the negro slowly raise his head above the rock, and then just as slowly lower it.
“Yeah … Johnnie Rebs up there,” Kingston turned his attention to the slope below them.
“Have they seen us?” whispered Latimer.
“Uh-huh.” Kingston shook his head. “Guess they found Fat Albert near the church, where I left it for them. With any luck they’ll be expecting us to be heading that way. But our way’s thataway.” He pointed down the slope. He grinned at Latimer. “We hug the dirt, we’ll get down okay.”
Latimer had caught his first glimpse of the river below him. “And after we get across?”
“There’s a track on the top. Miz Lucy’ll be waiting for us.” Then the grin diminished. “Jus’ let’s get over first, hey?”
Latimer watched the negro slither away from him. Apart from a grovelling concern for himself, which was indistinguishable from fear and could easily become terror if things went wrong, he couldn’t analyse his feelings for Kingston adequately. The long black bastard had got him into this, but he was now trying to get him out. And it was hard not to worship the ground he slithered on for that reason.
It was his turn now. And he had come a long way in a short time from being frightened of snakes and poison ivy: there were worse things than both in Sion Crossing, and things which had a hostile interest in him now.
Where Kingston had slithered with a certain serpentine elegance, even when hampered by the possession of the Ingram, he managed the journey down quite without grace, in a series of undignified stages and with discomfort to his backside and damage to his hands.
But it was done at last, past one final weathered outcrop to where the negro lay at the water’s edge, crouched beside the spreading roots of a tree which shaded the river.
River? It hadn’t looked wide enough for that description when he’d observed it from the bridge. But here and now, looking across it from old Sion land to the true promised land of the other side, it looked more like the Mississippi in flood, in Latimer’s imagination. Or … because of its smooth unwelcoming olive-green surface … more like the great grey-green greasy Limpopo, which was the home of crocodiles.
But Kingston was looking past him, with both hands on the Ingram.
“Man …” Kingston listened for a moment “… if they ain’t heard you by now, they ain’t gonna hear you ever.”
Latimer held his breath and listened. But the woods above them were as silent as they had always been.
Then he looked at the water again, and wondered which of them was going first. If the choice was his, he thought, he would not be able to make up his mind. Rather, he would prefer to be neither first nor second, but to stay here until nightfall.
But, on the mature consideration of five seconds, that was equally frightening. In the dark, that water would suck him down and lose him forever.
“What are you waiting for?” he inquired.
The eternal grin. “Man … Oliver, you are a glutton for punishment!”
“What do you mean?”
Kingston gave the slope a last look. “I mean … this is not quite where I wanted to cross. Like … a little way further up, it’s closer to the bridge. But I reckon they’ll be watching the road from there—or maybe Fat Albert, if they can see him.” He bent down, to look up and down the river. “But from here … from here they’ve both got a fair shot—from the bridge and the boathouse.” Grin. “This is the beaten zone, where the fields of fire interlock.”
Latimer stared at the negro. There was a world of professional frontier-crossing experience in that statement, even if Joe’s fate had not been at his memory’s call.
But on whose side?
Well—on his side at the moment, anyway!
“So what do we do?”
Shrug. “We wait for two-three minutes. If they’ve spotted us from above, we’ll see or hear pretty soon—and then we’ll both go like hell, okay?”
“And if they haven’t?”
“Then I’ll go across first, in my own way. And they won’t see me.” Suddenly Kingston wasn’t smiling. “Then I’ll be in the shallows on the other side, waiting for you. And I can take out the bridge or the boathouse—or I can frighten the hell out of them, an’ spoil their aim—with this little son-ovabitch, Oliver man.” Kingston patted the Ingram. “This is something extra, that’ll make the Johnnie Rebs think twice, is Joe’s weapon.”
Joe …
Latimer looked at the negro. “Why did you kill him?”
Kingston gave him back the look. “It was jus’ bad luck, Oliver.”
That was an understatement, if ever there was one. And most of all for Joe. “Bad luck?”
The black shoulders moved slightly. “Joe Walker … he knew me, Oliver. We—we had some times together, way back … And he was a good man, was Joe. A top man, even … We were lucky back there, is what I think.” The shoulders moved again. “He must have been thinking about something else—like maybe you, Oliver, huh?”
They had both been slow, thought Latimer—he, Oliver St John Latimer, as well as Joe … Walker. Because, in spite of all the differences of race and style, Kingston and Joe were—had been—a matched pair.
“They were going to let me go, Kingston.” He watched the negro. “They weren’t going to kill me.”
“Uh-huh?” Kingston seemed to lose interest. Instea
d he put the Ingram down carefully and began to feel in the pockets of his jeans. “Is that a fact?”
As Latimer watched, the negro produced a clasp-knife from one pocket, and a fresh handkerchief and a carefully wound-up piece of string from the other. He replaced the handkerchief and grinned at Latimer again. “You ever a Boy Scout, Oliver?”
The edge of scorn in the grin flicked Latimer on the raw. “They’re getting out of this place, you know.”
“Uh-huh?” Kingston unwound the string and methodically cut two equal lengths from it, returning the remaining bit and the knife to his pocket. Latimer saw that the pistol with which he had killed Joe was jammed in his waist-band.
“They’re leaving,” said Latimer.
“That figures.” Kingston nodded as he knotted the pieces of string and attached them to the Ingram, to make a crude sling. “They didn’t reckon you were on your own—they jus’ waitin’ to hear the cavalry trumpets, man.” He hung the Ingram round his neck, grimacing as the string cut into him.
“They were going to shut me up in the boathouse,” said Latimer.
“In the boathouse?” Kingston gave up trying to adjust the sling, and turned back to Latimer. “Man—they were sure as hell going to shut you up, I’ll buy that.” Grin. “That Joe … he was careless back there, no denying that …” He shrugged. “But jus’ don’t you depend on that when you go into the water—okay?”
Latimer stared at him open-mouthed.
Another nod. “He had a few old boys he worked with—he had a lot of contacts … not like that kid on the door, that thought ah wuz jus’ a dumb nigger lost his way—” Kingston rolled his eyes and feigned an expression of vacant possession “—man, if I’d known Joe was here I wouldn’t ever have agreed to come back, no matter what, I tell you!”
Before Latimer could think of anything to say to that the negro was no longer looking at him: he was scanning the slope above very carefully, slowly from left to right.
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