Brotherhood

by Anne Westrick

  Clifton.

  Shad felt his muscles turn to jelly. His knees sagged. He didn’t know if his ears filled with fuzz or the marketplace went quiet, but in that moment all he saw—all he heard—was the sound of Clifton’s boots coming toward him. Thud. Thud. Thud.

  “Who is your acquaintance?” Clifton asked, and his tone was dark and menacing.

  George Nelson looked up. Way up. Clifton was a few inches taller than Shad. Today Clifton needed a bath and a shave. His pimply skin was even blotchier than Shad’s holly-hedge scratches, his blond hair unkempt.

  “Well, hello there, young man,” said George Nelson, the little hairs in his nostrils quivering. “My, you grow them tall in this town, don’t you?”

  Shad said, “We’re busy, Clifton. See you later.”

  But Clifton leaned over, thrusting his hand toward George Nelson. “Clifton Day, sir. Day like the sunshine. Howdy-do, there. Don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Mister—”

  “Busy,” said Shad, cutting off George Nelson. “We’re busy right now, Clifton. He needs a new suit.”

  “Yes,” said George Nelson, gesturing toward the carriage, “Mrs. Perkinson and I will be opening the Colored Normal School shortly and I do need a better suit for the opening.”

  “You don’t say,” said Clifton. “You gonna be teaching there?”

  “Why, yes, young man. Yes, I am.”

  Then Mrs. Perkinson was at George Nelson’s elbow. Shad hadn’t seen her climb out of the carriage—but there she was, whispering in his ear, tugging at his arm.

  “I see,” George Nelson said to her. “Uh, yes, all right.” Then he turned to Shad. “I’m so sorry, but the fitting will have to be another day. Apparently I have an engagement of which I was unaware.”

  He and Mrs. Perkinson avoided the puddle and climbed back into the carriage, and Shad let his arms fall to his sides, let his breath whoosh out. The newspaper dropped from his hand, and he stooped to pick up the pieces before they sucked up the wet ground. The carriage clattered away and he heard Clifton chuckle. He stood to see Clifton rub his chin hairs, see his eyes turn to slits.

  “The Colored Normal School,” said Clifton. A smirk came halfway up one side of his pimply face. “You don’t say.”

  29

  A New Recruit

  FOR THE NEXT couple of days, Shad avoided Jeremiah as best he could. With every step up Church Hill, he looked over his shoulder, watching for signs of the Klan, dreading what Clifton and his brother might do. At mealtimes he kept his mouth shut. After meals, he kept busy with mending jobs. The days passed, the lessons went on, and he made deliveries around town. All the while, he kept an ear to the ground. No news was good news.

  On Thursday, June 20, the Klan called another meeting, and Shad headed out the window with Jeremiah. The night was warm and clear, and Shad kept his guard up, expecting his brother to turn on him, but Jeremiah didn’t. He seemed in good spirits.

  When they went over the ridge and the Mechanicsville road stretched long and straight before them, they caught a glimpse of Clifton up ahead, ducking behind a tree. The moon was no more than an eyelash, and the night was mighty dark, but it was something how Shad’s eyes adjusted, letting him make out shadows and shapes. The glimpse he got of a too-tall ghost—no question, it was Clifton.

  Jeremiah elbowed Shad and whispered, “Let’s play a trick on him,” and the two of them crept into the piney woods. Shad smiled, enjoying this little trick, liking the way Klan membership could be good. Sometimes brotherhood was good.

  Shad and Jeremiah waited. Sure enough, after a while, Clifton came out from behind the tree and peered this way and that. Then he turned his back and sauntered away, up the Mechanicsville road.

  “Let’s go,” said Jeremiah.

  Shad ran beside him, crouching through the pine trees. When they neared Clifton, they darted onto the road, breaking into the rebel yell.

  Clifton jumped sky-high.

  Shad laughed.

  “Get on!” said Clifton.

  Jeremiah slapped his back. “Gotcha!”

  In his dying-man voice, Clifton said, “I am the ghost of Cold Harbor.” Then he laughed. He gave Jeremiah a bear hug. “Put your sheets on, boys. You crazy?”

  “Aw, we’ll get there,” said Jeremiah, unrolling the bundle under his arm. “What’s on for tonight?”

  “New recruit,” said Clifton, but he didn’t say it like he meant it. He said “recruit” like he was wink-winking under that sheet. He laughed again, then Jeremiah laughed, and Shad felt stupid because these boys clearly had a joke going and Shad didn’t get it.

  From the pocket of his burlap-sack shirt, Shad pulled out the piece of muslin with the two cutout eyeholes. He threw it over his head.

  Then he felt Clifton’s punch on his shoulder. “Well, if that ain’t a god-awful disguise. For a family of tailors, you Weavers got the sorriest sheets.”

  Shad pushed his arm away.

  Jeremiah said, “Shut up, Clifton.”

  “Can’t your Mr. Fine Tailoring granddaddy sew you something?”

  “Yeah, Shad,” said Jeremiah. “You got to do better ’n that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” mumbled Shad. “I’ll get on it.”

  “Get to the meeting now,” said Clifton. “Bubba’s up there already.”

  Shad and Jeremiah found their way to the house, stepping clear around a good-size pond, then up a hill. The house looked haunted. Even in the dark Shad could tell the bushes needed pruning and some windows were boarded up. Ever since the war, the countryside had right many abandoned farmhouses with fields gone to weed.

  Inside, ghosts lined the walls like sardines. A lantern sat in the middle of the room. It smelled dank—stale breath and body odor.

  “M-m-make room, m-make room,” said one. Had to be Bubba. Good old stuttering Bubba. Shad was glad to know his buddy was there.

  Everyone shuffled, and Shad found a place against the wall.

  “So I was saying,” came a strong voice. “We got to be extra welcoming to our newest recruit tonight.”

  Shad picked up on a wink-winking all around, and it set him on edge.

  “Why we bringing him here?” said a ghost on Shad’s left.

  The strong voice said, “What’s it matter?”

  “What if he tells on us?”

  “When we’re done with him, he won’t be able to tattle.”

  Then there was all manner of chuckling, and Shad looked from disguise to disguise and wondered who all these boys were.

  After a spell Shad heard a ruckus outside and the door burst open. Somebody grabbed the lantern, and light swung around the room. An awful stench came in. It was worse than body odor. Shadows jumped and people bumped, and Shad couldn’t make out much for all the commotion.

  Shad saw one of the ghosts shove a boy to the middle of the room. The boy wore a blindfold and his face was hidden. His sleeve was torn and his shoes were gone. He fell to all fours, kicking like an animal. He howled, “Get your hands off me!” and it wasn’t like any voice Shad had ever heard. It was high and scared.

  Shad tightened all over. He understood how a voice got high when it got scared. Shad’s voice got high sometimes.

  He saw the boy kick, and the room broke out laughing. Then the boy ripped off his blindfold. He wheeled around, and Shad nearly swallowed his tongue. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Shad knew that kicking animal—knew it wasn’t a boy. It was a man. A little man. The new recruit—he—oh, God. It was Mr. George Nelson.

  Shad watched three ghosts tackle George Nelson and hold him down while they got the blindfold in place again. A funny thought popped into Shad’s head—he’d tell George Nelson that they’d tickled him with a feather and put a baby bird down his back and into his britches. It wasn’t so bad, he wanted to say. Just good old boys hav
ing a good old time. You’ll laugh about it tomorrow, Mr. Nelson.

  But on the heels of that thought came another: George Nelson might not have been recruited at all.

  “State your name for the record,” said a ghost. The voice came from one of the officers who had been introduced his first night. What were all those titles? The Grand Cyclops. A Grand Scribe. A Grand Turk . . .

  He heard George Nelson grunt.

  “Where’d you get that nose?” somebody jeered.

  The whole room howled. This time Shad laughed, too. Here, laughing was all right. They were just boys with cloths on their faces. Shad liked how no one could tell who he was.

  George Nelson stood and ran his hands over his gray-green britches as if to brush them off, but Shad didn’t think there was much point in trying. He was badly scuffed up. His hat was gone. His oily hair was plastered to his head. Come to think on it, Shad realized his hair wasn’t oily. George Nelson had something in his hair, and the something smelled foul.

  Why, these boys had rubbed chicken shit on George Nelson. Nothing stank worse than chicken shit.

  Shad watched as George Nelson put hands on hips and got a little pout on his mouth like he meant to lecture the room. He bent one leg at the knee and poked out his other hip like he had had enough, thank you. He was a schoolteacher all right.

  Somebody yelled, “Pip-squeak!”

  The room howled with laughter again. Shad bit the inside of his cheek.

  “Your name,” said the Grand Scribe again. “State your name for the record.”

  George Nelson refused to say his name. Somebody shoved him. Then another shoved him.

  A voice said, “Get the barrel.”

  “The barrel! The barrel!” Now all manner of ghosts shouted and hooted and hollered and rough-handled George Nelson.

  Shad saw a ghost come through the door with a large wooden barrel. He put it down with a thunk and pried off the lid. A stench hit the room so hard, Shad’s hand went to his nose. It was worse than chicken shit. They must have gotten the barrel from the docks. Rotten fish. The only stench worse than rotten fish was skunk.

  Next thing Shad knew, boys had picked up George Nelson and were cramming him into the barrel. He wasn’t going to fit. He was little, but he wasn’t that little.

  George Nelson thrashed to beat all.

  Shad inched around the ghosts so he could see better.

  George Nelson cursed up a storm. He flailed his arms and pulled off his blindfold again.

  Before Shad could say “Dixie,” George Nelson’s hand flew at Shad. He got hold of the muslin cloth over Shad’s face. Shad’s disguise flew into the air. It happened so fast. George Nelson’s eyes locked on his.

  He saw Shad and Shad saw him.

  George Nelson knew Shad and Shad knew George Nelson.

  It was a second. A split second. Then Shad saw a ghost wallop George Nelson on the head. He got him right in that big nose, and George Nelson went limp. Somebody shoved the cloth back over Shad’s head, and Shad couldn’t see a thing.

  The room erupted. Boys roared. Shad struggled to find his eyeholes. He twisted the cloth around. He couldn’t see. He was in the mob and it was moving. Boys shouted and jeered. Shad heard a clatter. Something metal fell over. Was that the lantern? Where were his eyeholes?

  Shad lifted the cloth and saw a ghost in front of him, a ghost beside him, ghosts all around. They were moving. He was moving. They squeezed together, through the door, out the door, onto the porch. Cool wooden planks under Shad’s feet. What were they doing with George Nelson?

  An awful thought came to Shad and it made his stomach lurch. It brought bile to his mouth. Lord God Almighty. George Nelson wasn’t a recruit. They meant to kill him.

  Shad heard a cheer go up and he looked down the hill. Was that the barrel there—rolling down the hill? The mob cheered and the barrel rolled, and it was getting away in the dark. Shad stood on the farmhouse porch, wanting to scream, to tell them, No, stop the barrel—but he froze with one hand over his mouth.

  Fast as the cheer came up, it died down. A hush came over the mob. Shad heard a splash. The mob cheered. The barrel hit the pond. Holy, moly. It was going to fill with water. George Nelson wouldn’t be able to breathe.

  Then Shad heard someone yell, “Fire!”

  And all hell broke loose.

  Shad was pushed off the porch. Hands shoved the muslin cloth back over Shad’s head. Then someone grabbed his arm. Someone was pulling him. The cloth was crooked and he couldn’t find the eyeholes. He couldn’t see! The grip tightened on his arm. He ran with the mob down the hill. The ground went from grass to damp and mucky and up to grass again. Then it was packed dirt and he thought they were on the Mechanicsville road.

  The ghost at his arm kept pulling him. He heard boys shout and call to one another. The night crackled and roared like thunder.

  “D-d-don’t stop. K-keep running,” said the ghost at his ear, and Shad knew it was Bubba.

  “But we can’t leave him in the pond!”

  “C-come on!”

  Bubba pulled him across the road. Now Shad’s feet stuck to pine needles. He was out of breath. He smelled smoke. He tasted smoke. He felt stupid—so unbelievably stupid for not seeing right away that the boys had planned to kill George Nelson.

  Slow down, Bubba, thought Shad, but Bubba kept pulling. Shad could hear him panting hard, and Shad panted, too. Then Bubba stopped. He put a hand on Shad’s shoulder and snatched the cloth from his head. “Look b-b-back now. Real quick. L-look. Then we g-g-got, we got to run.”

  Shad turned. The farmhouse was a brilliant ball of fire. Ghosts ran every which way like a flock of sheep from a wolf. Flames licked the sky. The fire roared and crackled. A beam crashed deep inside the farmhouse and sparks raced to the stars like fireworks.

  “C-c-come on!”

  “We can’t leave George Nelson in that barrel.”

  “Who?”

  “He—I—uh.” The words caught in Shad’s throat. Oh, God. Bubba didn’t know him. George Nelson had never said his name.

  “C-c-come on!”

  “Bubba, I—I came with Jeremiah. I need to find him.”

  “J-Jeremiah don’t n-n-need nobody. He c-can take c-c-care of himself.” Bubba put two hands on Shad’s arm and pulled him into the woods.

  “But the fire—”

  “S-s-somebody kn-n-nocked that la-lantern.”

  “The man will die!”

  “He was g-gonna d-die anyway.”

  “But, Bubba—”

  “Now he’ll d-die faster. C-c-come on.”

  Shad wanted to go back for George Nelson. They’d meant to kill him! He had to get him out of that barrel. Shad was sure that he and Bubba could pull George Nelson out. He planted his feet. But Bubba was strong. He nearly yanked Shad’s arm off.

  “Bubba, I got to—”

  “No!”

  “But he—”

  “You g-g-go back and you b-b-betray the b-b-brotherhood.”

  “Dad blame it, Bubba.”

  “C-c-come on!”

  Bubba pulled and Shad couldn’t stop him. He didn’t stop him. He ran. He hated himself for running. He hated himself for leaving George Nelson.

  Please, please, he begged, please somebody save him. Maybe word would travel fast and people would come. The fire wagons would come. He prayed, Please, Lord God Almighty, save George Nelson. Please.

  30

  A Standoff

  BAM. BAM. “MA’AM? Mrs. Weaver? Official business of the government of the United States. Open up!” The voice was flat and nasal—not Virginia-born.

  In a wink, the Yankees were inside the house and Shad was on the floor. In two winks’ time, they had wrestled Jeremiah onto a horse and galloped off toward Richmond proper. Shad stood bruised and confused, Mama in tears.

&nb
sp; A half hour later, Shad was on Broad Street and he ran into Rachel.

  Rachel? She didn’t belong there at that hour, wearing such mismatched clothes. She said something that made him angry. It was the sass in her voice—the tone when she said “sir.” It was the way she said, “George Nelson saw ‘the Weaver boy’” before he up and died.

  George Nelson had seen “the Weaver boy” shove him in a barrel. Lord have mercy.

  Shad grabbed Rachel by the wrists. Grabbed her and twisted her wrists. And then he hated himself. Hated himself for hurting her.

  Then he was at Granddaddy’s.

  Then they were rushing through Richmond proper.

  They got Sheriff Parker and the sheriff got Mr. O’Malley, and the bunch of them were headed for the Yankee jail with a lie so big, their noses would outgrow George Nelson’s before tomorrow morning. Lordy, thought Shad, how has it come to this?

  If Shad went along with Granddaddy and Sheriff Parker and Mr. O’Malley, and lied to the Yankees with the gin rummy story, and if they managed to spring Jeremiah from jail—Good Lord Almighty, Jeremiah would come after him. It was Shad’s fault Jeremiah had been arrested. Shad’s fault because he’d been too lazy to get a decent ghost disguise. Shad’s fault because he’d let George Nelson see his face.

  Now he marched toward the Yankee jail knowing full well that he had to make a decision and he didn’t have much time. Would he go along with Granddaddy and these men and lie so they could spring Jeremiah from jail?

  Or not?

  How could he lie?

  But how could he not?

  Granddaddy was right there beside him. And Mama needed Jeremiah back—needed Jeremiah bad. But no, Shad didn’t think he could lie without his face giving him away. The gin rummy story? What a cock and bull story.

  Shad glanced at Granddaddy marching there on his right. In front of him marched Sheriff Parker and Mr. O’Malley. The four of them strutted smack-dab down Marshall Street toward that big brick house that the Yankees had taken over and turned into a jail. With every step, Shad’s head hurt like the dickens.