Sion Crossing

by Anthony Price

  “No … if he’s got any of his old boys posted, that were with him in ’Nam, an’ one or two other hotspots—” Left to right slowly, then back right to left “—then, if they know what happened up at the house by now, we’re livin’ on borrowed time, an’ you had better believe that, Oliver.”

  There was no answer to that. Instead Latimer’s eyes were drawn to the expanse of the river behind Kingston. The trees on each side overshadowed its banks, but sunlit water between their shadows looked wider than ever.

  “That’s right!” murmured Kingston. “You any good underwater, Oliver?”

  Latimer thought of his laboured breast-stroke and noisy uneconomic crawl, and shook his head wordlessly.

  “Okay.” Kingston’s voice was suddenly soothing. “No sweat … I guess you’re smart in other ways … but right now we both got to get off old Sion land—okay?”

  Latimer tried to judge the distance between the shadows. “I could get halfway, perhaps.”

  “That’s fine.” Kingston nodded. “Because I can go all the way, an’ I’ll be in the shallows waiting for you, like I said.” Reassuring nod. “You go halfway, an’ then go like hell—odds are they won’t even be looking.” Reassuring grin. “Me … I’m jus’ careful because you are a very valuable commodity now, Oliver—they still got C.O.D. back in England?”

  Cash on Delivery?

  Huge grin. “Okay, Oliver?”

  It was still oppressively hot, even in the deep shadow, and Latimer could feel his clothes sticking to his body. It was only deep inside him that it was mid-winter in England, before the postman called to deliver his C.O.D parcel.

  Cash on Delivery!

  “Is that … ? Why you did come back for me?”

  Kingston drew a deep breath. “Shit, man—change of heart, is one half of it—” Another breath “—an’ goddam’ error of judgement, the other half—” Another breath “—ask me again on the other side, okay?” He turned away from Latimer, slipping into the river as soundlessly and naturally as an otter.

  The water was waist-deep at once. Bending down to water-level, Latimer saw for the first time that they were on the apex of a bend in the river, where the flow must have scoured the bottom. And there, altogether dreadfully near, was part of the lower structure of the wooden bridge.

  As he turned in the other direction to search for the boathouse, Kingston came round to him again.

  “Keep an eye on your back, man—” Another of the rhythmical breaths “—you see something—” The narrow black chest expanded again “—don’t wait, jus’ go, man!”

  Latimer took a quick fearful look behind him—trees all unmoving among the rocky outcrops all the way to the broken skyline—and was then pulled back to the river.

  Kingston was further away, still in the shadow but almost shoulder deep. And then the shoulders lifted—and he was gone, with only a gentle swirl of green water, and a swiftly vanishing shadow beneath the surface, lost in the greenness.

  Latimer thought: Oh God! I can never do it like that—can I?

  And then—Keep an eye behind you—because he was alone now, on old Sion land, which was no longer the Promised Land—the Promised Land was on the other side, in the land of the living—

  The woods up the slope were as silent as ever, but horribly menacing in their stillness, as though they were only waiting for the avenging Confederates to come roaring out upon those long-dead plundering Iowans—

  The rifle was in his hands. He looked down at it, but it only caused him a moment’s doubt, before he came to an Iowan decision: he couldn’t swim with it, and crossing that water was all that mattered.

  He turned back to the river. It shouldn’t take Kingston long to—

  The open stretch was no longer quite so oily-smooth. As he stared at it, the sunlight winked suddenly on a swirling eddy which rippled the surface two or three yards beyond the shadow of the trees, as though a great fish was turning just beneath it: it must be so shallow there that—

  In that instant the eddy broke into waves, and the waves boiled into spray as Kingston burst into the open, threshing wildly!

  Latimer’s jaw dropped as he watched the negro struggling for another instant in the broken water against an invisible enemy. Then the man vanished again, leaving behind him a centre of turbulence from which concentric waves spread out.

  But the commotion beneath the water continued, and Latimer’s own imagination swirled in horror and helplessness to match it, quite unable to comprehend what was happening.

  Then Kingston came up again, and as he did so a burst of gunfire which seemed to come from every direction shattered the silence of Sion Crossing.

  Latimer threw himself to the ground beside the tree at the edge of the water, hugging the earth in terror as the echoes of the shots reverberated up and down the valley. His face was only inches from water-level, and his mind was so empty that all he could register was the sight of the corrugated water rippling towards him from the center of the river. Then there was another shattering burst of fire, and the river beyond the ripples burst into spray.

  His eyes closed instinctively and his body tried to sink into the unyielding earth as he flinched against the noise, with his mind past fear because it was beyond reason. He thought, as he had thought only once before in his life, and as desperately, and as hopelessly, Mother, take me away, please take me away—

  There was a plop outside him, in the unacceptable world of reality. And then another sound, unidentifiable.

  His eyes opened as they had closed, without orders.

  The horrible river was still there, darkly rippling in the foreground, sunlight-flashing in the unfocussed distance. Then, beyond horror, the dead rose from the surface out of the ripples, black and glistening.

  “Help me, man—” Kingston lurched in the water as he threw out an unnaturally long black arm, with its pale obscene palm, in supplication. “Help me—”

  Latimer froze, sickened with shock as well as fright.

  “Help me—” The rest of the appeal was lost in incoherent bubbling as Kingston submerged.

  Latimer’s sickness suddenly included himself, and without understanding what he was doing, or why, he swung his body sideways, into the water, pushing outwards and twisting towards the point where Kingston had gone down.

  The coldness of the water shocked him, but only for an instant, because it wasn’t really cold at all. Then his hand—his hands—encountered yielding rubbery flesh.

  Half dragging, half lifting, he manoeuvred Kingston to the tree roots, the water lightening his burden, but the mud under his feet dragging him down.

  Getting the man out of the water was more difficult; but suddenly the dead-weight stopped blowing water and started helping him—at least, helping him at first, but then hurting him as a sharp edge of the Ingram, which still hung round the man’s neck, cracked against his head painfully.

  Then Kingston was lying on the bank, and he was still in the water—and the ridge was still behind them both, and they were both still on old Sion land—

  Kingston groaned, and then arched his back and shuddered … And then rolled slightly sideways, towards Latimer, and raised himself on his elbow, the river water running down his face and off his shoulder.

  The bloodshot eyes blinked vaguely at Latimer, and then cleared.

  “You gotta run, man—” Kingston’s face twisted in agony “—gotta run!”

  Run? The order simultaneously confused Latimer and comforted him. Anything was preferable to the river behind him … but run … where?

  “Not the river—” Kingston misread his doubt “—they got a box-net in it, with a trip-warning, like the East Germans have … I shoulda thought of that … Guess—getting careless—like Joe … huh?” A travesty of the old grin mocked the man’s pain. Then he concentrated on Latimer. “Take this … off my goddam’ neck—you take it—go back the way we came—don’t try the bridge … Gimme my gun … Zap anything that moves … If you go now, you jus’ might ma
ke it, man.”

  There was blood mixed with water on the black chest: there was a hole two inches above the right blue-brown nipple, from which the blood oozed steadily—and there was more blood on the arm which dangled slackly across the chest.

  Kingston wasn’t going anywhere: that arm was broken for sure—and if that was an entry-wound in the chest … where was its exit?

  “Go on, man!” Kingston snarled the words, as though he’d lost patience with an idiot. “I got a goddam’ contract on you!”

  The lukewarm water around Latimer was cold again now, as he reviewed his chances dispassionately. It seemed to him that—having not worked at all—his brain was now working overtime, in a dispute with itself, picketed by foolish inclination against intelligent self-interest. But perhaps inclination was not so foolish after all: just as he could not swim that river now, even if Kingston had told him to do so, so he doubted his ability to make it to safety through the woods, even with the Ingram to help him.

  “Go on—don’t shit me—” Kingston plucked ineffectively with his good arm, on which he was leaning, first at the Ingram, then at the butt of the pistol in his waistband “Go on—”

  “No.” Once made, even a wrong decision was better than indecision. It wasn’t an Iowan choice any more: he couldn’t cross the river now, even if the whole Union army was waiting for him on the other side … But if The Man was pulling out, maybe his Confederates wouldn’t fight so hard when their commander had abandoned them … And, in any case, he couldn’t face those woods again—he was too frightened, and too exhausted! “No!”

  “What?” Kingston’s eyes clouded.

  Latimer hauled himself out of the water, quartering the slope above him as he did so, as Kingston had done—left to right—right to left.

  Nothing … nothing?

  But there would not be nothing for long, if that was an East German trip-warning net in the river: the bloody People’s Democratic Republic had refined such devices to a fine art on land and in water alike, so that those bursts of gunfire could have been either human or automatic, there was no telling; all that was certain was that they would now know exactly where the attempted crossing had been made!

  He lifted the Ingram off Kingston, and hung it round his own neck. Then he took the black man under the armpits and started hauling him towards the safety of the outcrop of rock just above them.

  “Aaargh!” The man protested and twisted convulsively as he was moved, and as the Ingram bumped his face in turn.

  “Shut up.” It was a release of a sort to tell someone to do something at last: at least, if he was being stupid, he was his own fool now!

  He lowered the shoulders as gently as he could, although there was no time for tenderness, and then turned his attention to the Ingram.

  He had never handled a weapon like this—he hadn’t held a weapon at all for years, but they had discussed the arming of the police with rapid-firing arms, back in Uncle Jim’s time, and he had voted against it—

  It was smaller than the Heckler and Koch, but it was the same animal; single shot—varying after that from rapid to unimaginably fast, to exhaust the whole magazine at a touch.

  “Don’t be a fool, man.” Kingston had recovered enough from his rough handling to understand what was happening.

  The weapons specialist who had given evidence to the committee had brought his samples with him, extolling their different virtues and emphasizing their simplicity. But Latimer remembered being more interested in their political implications than their technology. Now he wished it had been the other way round.

  “Listen—” began Kingston.

  “Do be quiet, Mr Kingston,” said Latimer. It did look fairly simple; and, since it had been designed for simple soldiers, perhaps it was. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with you.” But he would have liked a bit of practice first, to make sure; this way, if he got it wrong, it would be too late.

  “You wanna be a hero or something?” Kingston quite misread his motives, but sounded angry rather than grateful. “You’re not going to do either of us any good … I’m …” He reached across his chest with his good arm “… I’m all bust up inside …” He touched his shoulder tentatively “… but you still got an outside chance, Oliver.” He nodded. “But this ol’ nigger’s had it, man.”

  Ridiculous, thought Latimer suddenly: ridiculous that he was fiddling with this beastly thing—and Kingston was ridiculous … and that they were both here like this—that was the most ridiculous thing of all!

  “No.” He giggled, even though it wasn’t in the least funny-ridiculous. “I do not want to be a hero—this is all like Alice in Wonderland to me, Mr Kingston—or Alice Through the Looking-Glass … ‘I’m very brave generally—only to-day I happen to have a headache’ … You see … I’m just like the oysters in The Walrus and the Carpenter, Mr Kingston—‘Some of us are out of breath, and all of us are fat’—do you see?” He found himself giggling again, and forced himself to stop. “How do you work this wretched thing?”

  Kingston stared at him for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. “Okay, Oliver—hold it up so I can see it … a bit more—that’s fine.” He nodded again. “No sweat … Now, that little catch is the safety catch—right … An’ that’s the change lever—a single shot, automatic an’ cyclic … okay? Whatever you do, don’t put it on cyclic. You got thirty-two rounds, an’ on cyclic that’s two seconds’ worth … Only, it’s on additional safety right now … So jus’ twist the cocking handle through a right-angle—that’s fine …” He grinned at Latimer. “You done jus’ fine. So now put the change lever on automatic. That’s twenty seconds’ worth … Now … you jus’ put it down here by me, an’ you crawl on down an’ get the rifle—okay? But first, you gimme my little gun—like, it’s got snagged on my trousers … huh?”

  Latimer eased the automatic pistol from Kingston’s waistband, and put it into Kingston’s hand.

  “Fine.” Kingston held the pistol weakly. “Now, go get the rifle, Oliver man, like I said.”

  Latimer slid down the slope obediently to retrieve the rifle from where he had left it beside the water. Getting the rifle made good sense, he thought. With the Ingram, and even more certainly with the pistol, he doubted that he could hit anything at less than point-blank range. But with a rifle, anyone could hit anything provided he pointed it accurately, held it steady, and squeezed the trigger gently.

  It was only when he was coming back that he remembered something else Kingston had said in the heat of that first moment on shore.

  He stopped abruptly, on knees and one filthy hand, the rifle held awkwardly in the other, and stared back up the slope towards the negro.

  “I got a goddam’ contract on you!”

  Kingston had moved slightly, half on to his good elbow, as though to lift the wounded side of his body off the ground. His pistol was held in his good hand, and it would only need a slight movement of the wrist to bring it to bear on a target below him.

  As Latimer stared at the black man in mute horror, quite unable to save himself, Kingston raised his head slightly to stare back at him.

  “You seen something?” Kingston scrabbled with his feet suddenly, and tried to turn towards the edge of the outcrop of rock. “Aaargh!” The effort of twisting brought a grunt of agony from him, and his head sank almost to the ground.

  Latimer scuttled up the last few yards to reach him.

  “No—it’s all right.” He tried to rearrange the wounded man. “It was nothing.”

  Kingston drew a deeper breath which ended in another shiver of pain as the expansion of his chest reached the damage inside it. Then he blinked at Latimer as though to clear his vision, and grinned again, but weakly. “Man, I’m never going to understand you, Oliver … but we gonna give the Johnny Rebs a run for their money, huh?”

  “Yes.” If talking was going to keep Kingston conscious, then that was what he must do. “Even though you had a contract on me?”

  The question had the desi
red effect; Kingston’s eyes lit up. “Shit, man! That wasn’t to kill you—that was to keep you alive, jus’ back there!” He shook his head lopsidedly. “You worth good money on the hoof … although I never should have made that deal, I tell you—that was one big mistake!”

  Latimer concentrated on him. “You were hired to keep me alive?”

  “Not at first—hell, no!” The big mouth twisted contemptuously, as though the question was a stupid one. “Ol’ Bill Macallan paid good money for me to look after Miz Lucy, an’ fix things for her, the way she wanted them—to hire the guys she needed to do what had to be done … to get him to Sion Crossing—the big fella … what’s-is-name—David—?”

  “Audley.” A terrible certainty took away the question mark. “Audley—David Audley.”

  “That’s the guy.” Lopsided nod. “A real bastard … Ol’ Bill owed him a score … An’ if he was killed here, at Sion Crossing, then the shit really would be in the fan … No way the Brits would ever let that one go—there’d be hell to pay in Sion Crossing if the Comrades took him out on old Sion land—you get it, Oliver?”

  Latimer hadn’t quite got it. But whoever “Old Bill” was … and “Old Bill” must be one of David Audley’s many enemies from long ago … but there would never be any shortage of them, by God!

  “Yes.” He had got it suddenly: “Old Bill” was Bill Macallan—and Macallan was a name which rang bells now, from long ago—and now Macallan had purposed something dreadful to happen at Sion Crossing, involving David Audley … and something dreadful was now happening—but it was happening to him, not to Audley—

  But something else was happening; it was a bee buzzing in his head, and the sound of it was mirrored in Kingston’s sudden frown.

  “They got a boat on the river, Oliver,” said Kingston. “You got to take him out—they get us from the river, we got no chance man—”

  It was the snarl of an outboard motor, away behind up-river.

  Latimer reached for the Ingram.

  “No!” Kingston gestured with the pistol. “Take the rifle, man! We need Joe’s gun when they come through the woods.”