Call Each River Jordan

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

  Believe me, Wylie had my strict attention. But from the corner of my eye I caught a movement.

  Barnaby had drawn his pistol, too. I thought they meant to shoot me from both sides. But the Englishman said:

  “Pull that trigger, Captain, and you’ll be dead as old King William and Prince Albert.”

  Wylie had no yellow in him. His weapon did not waver. Nor did his eyes.

  “Kill me then, you fat sumbitch. What do I care? My wife’s dead. Even my dogs. And my house burnt down around them. All cause of this runt Yankee.”

  Raines had barely moved. He sat upon the earth, as if to rise were futile. But he said, “Wasn’t him, Buck. Honest to God. He’s no more siding with Lott than you or me.”

  “Then why’d they do it? Why kill them a woman like that? Burn a man’s house?” For the first time, his eyes moved off me. To scour the ruins of Shady Grove with a glance. “Why do this?”

  I had a great deal to say, for I saw the terrible end laid out before me. And time there was little to stop it. Good men would die, and murderers would reign. But I had experience enough to know that if I said a word he would pull that trigger.

  “It’s a war, Buck,” Raines told him. “And war seems to be about the best excuse that’s come along yet for meanness.”

  “That ain’t war. That’s not even Yankee war.”

  “It’s war for some folks,” Raines insisted. “Men like Lott.”

  “Captain Wylie,” Barnaby said, “begging your pardon, sir, but I’d be delighted not to kill you. And I can attest to the major’s innocence, I can. He’s the one come up with proof how Lott’s behind them slave murders. And plenty else besides, if you ask Barnaby B. Barnaby. Now if you’d be a right gent and lower that cannon, we might discuss this decent and civil like.”

  Wylie looked at me with the perfect hatred I had seen on the face of the sepoys and holy men we executed in the wake of the Mutiny. But he lowered his Colt. He did not release the hammer, though, and he held the weapon ready at his side.

  “They killed Ada?” Raines asked him, in a gentled tone. He knew it already, of course, for Wylie had just told us. But there are questions to be asked in sympathy, the repetition soothing as a liturgy.

  Tears swelled in the warrior’s eyes, though Wylie fought them back. “They killed everything they could kill,” he said. “And burnt what they couldn’t. I was off patrolling, with just two of the boys left back. Killed them, too.”

  “I’m sorry, Buck.”

  “I reckon I’ll do me some killing hereafter.” His eyes stabbed into me again. Glistening. “See what comes of it.”

  I had an urgency in me, for I had much to say. I had it all now, every single bit. But there was fear in me, too, I will tell you truly. For Wylie was a man who would kill you in a calm mood. Excited, he would tear you into bits. I hesitated until I could no longer hold my peace and still think myself a man.

  “If you want to finish Lott,” I told him, eyes upon his gun, “I can help you. But there is little time and we must hurry.”

  “WHAT THE DEVIL’S HE GRUNTING ON ABOUT?” Wylie asked Raines. After I had tried to explain what was coming.

  “Bunch of niggers lying out in the woods,” the lieutenant said. “Set themselves up a couple of lean-tos and declared it the Kingdom of God.”

  “Sounds like niggers,” Wylie said. Every time he looked at me his nostrils flared. And the gun remained cocked in his hand.

  “Martin’s Will is with them. Leading them. Claims he’s seen the light.”

  “Well, help us, Jesus. A rope’s all he needs to see. You sure it was him, Drake?”

  Raines nodded. “Ask our Yankee.”

  Wylie whistled. “Well, wouldn’t that be something? Micah Lott up against Martin’s Will. I might just ride out there to watch.” Then he considered. “You don’t think they’re together in this someways?”

  “They are not,” I said, impatient. I would have to watch my tone. But Martin’s Will, or the Reverend Mr. Hitchens, was not the point. “Don’t you see?” I asked. “There’s a pattern. It’s clear as day.” I looked, warily, at the broadness and bigness that was Wylie. “First, Lott attacked your farm. Then he struck here. I’m not in league with him, as God is my witness, man. But he’s following wherever I go. And killing wherever I leave.”

  “Sounds like you might be his pointer dog,” Wylie said, digging the thumb of his left hand into his pistol belt.

  “I fear he has been using me as such.” Twas something to regret a life long.

  “Then you’re in with him, after all.” Wylie’s pistol nudged higher.

  “Captain Wylie, you are fond of hounds,” I said. “Would you kill your best pointer? I have done much for Lott—without intent—but he would kill me sure, given the chance. And he will see to it that the chance comes soon. For his pointer knows too much and is set to bark. He will see that.”

  Wylie snorted. “And this is all over some preacher nonsense? All hellfire and hoors of Babylon?”

  “It’s twisted in his head. But the doings are clear. He thinks he is a messiah with fire and sword. And his vengeance follows after me, like plague does a summer campaign. Now he will kill the Negroes at Beersheba.”

  “The ones in the woods,” Raines explained.

  “So . . . instead of killing you,” Wylie said, “you want me to ride off and rescue a passel of coons who run away to sing hymns and steal for their supper?”

  “No, Captain Wylie. I want you to help me stop Lott.”

  “Jones,” Raines interrupted, “for God’s sake. You’re the one who’s not thinking clearly. It’s not half a dozen miles from here to that camp. And it isn’t hidden worth a damn. If he burned Shady Grove this morning, Lott’s been there and gone.” He got to his feet. Dried tears stained his face under rumpled hair. He picked up his hat and dusted it against his leg. “In fact, I’m surprised he wasn’t already there when you went back. You were lucky.”

  I was as frantic as a child who has seen a house afire but will not be believed. I wanted to draw out my timepiece, but feared Wylie would think I was reaching for my Colt. The afternoon had begun to wane. We still had time, but not much.

  “No,” I insisted. “Don’t you see? Lott may be Bedlam mad, but he knows the killing business. He’ll wait for their evening meeting. When all are gathered to pray. That way he doesn’t have to collect them, or chase them. He won’t miss a one. He’ll trap them like he did the forty others, and butcher them the same. I think the setting takes his fancy, too. For he would rather kill a man at prayer. It steeps the vengeance.” I looked from man to man. Each had lost much. “I beg you, gentlemen. We still have time to save them. And stop Lott.”

  Wylie turned to Raines, who glanced up through the wisps of smoke. Judging the light we had left. Sunbeams speared between the trees, killing the day.

  “Think there’s anything to this, Drake?” Wylie asked. “Don’t think it’s some kind of trap, do you?”

  “We’ll have to ride hard,” Raines said in response.

  “And there ain’t but four of us,” Wylie said. “If it is some Yankee bushwhack.”

  “Surprise ain’t to be sniffed at, as me governor’s governor always said, or so they tell me,” Barnaby said. “And that was him what fought with the Iron Duke. No, they won’t be looking for Barnaby B. Barnaby and his mates, they won’t. Begging your pardon, gentlemen.” He drew himself up like the soldier he once had been, stomach thrust out mighty and magnificent. “It do sound like the matter needs attention, don’t it?”

  He wheeled toward me, still on muster parade, though his face was newly troubled. “I should have mentioned it before, I should. But I didn’t think it jolly well signified. I sees it now, though, now I sees it clear.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Barnaby?” I asked. Near frantic with impatience I was, but unwilling to spurn an ally through discourtesy.

  “The Indian,” Barnaby said. “Now don’t all this explain the Red Indian I laid me peepers on last night? B
y the Negro camp, it was. He was prowling like a Welshman out of work. Begging your pardon, Major. That weren’t but a figger of speech. No, I thought the devil was scavenging for victuals. Foraging, like a tinker after dark. And here he was off on a scout for Lott himself!”

  “Dammit, Mr. B.,” Raines said, “you should’ve told us. Lott’s known to have an Indian riding with him.”

  I should have told them several things myself. About a certain Indian and his visits. But I did not. For that would only have raised new doubts about me, deserved though they might have been on that single count. And now the hour was past for all disputes. Twas time to act. And little time was left.

  “How did you know he was an Indian?” I asked, though. For I wanted to be sure of the matter. I thought he would mention the ribbons in Broke Stick’s hair.

  “Oh, it was how the bugger moved, begging your pardon. A white man has a clumsy way when he’s sneaking about, and the Negro a furtive one in his doings. But your Indian’s simply going about his business, and clever, too. I saw him in the moonlight, creeping low. Dressed like a white man he was, but no less of an Indian.”

  “Please, gentleman,” I said. “Shall we go?”

  “What the hell,” Wylie said. “I’m in a killing enough mood. You, Drake?”

  “Yes,” the young man said, staring at the wasteland that had been so much a part of his life. “Some killing sounds about right.”

  “Then we’re decided,” Mr. Barnaby announced. “The burying can wait for the sake of the living.”

  The faithful servant moved for his horse. Trying to start us all going. You see, there was great justice in that man. He might want vengeance, too, but in his heart he wanted to save the Negroes more. I will believe that to my dying day.

  He almost made me think well of the English.

  Before we could mount, a figure burst out of the woods. Shriveled and ragged she come, the slave named Bridie. Her turban was gone and her hair sprang wizard wild. She bore a little satchel in her hands, and her features were lunatic.

  “Git, white folks,” she cried, approaching us the way a rabid creature will. “You git. I buried mah black cat bone, buried it deep down, now all this place be mines.”

  She thrust a hand into her sack and drew out a fattened fist. Her walk was twisted worse than mine when I went caneless, and she was bent. But grinning. Oh, grinning like the very bride of Lucifer she was. She scrambled, as a crab might do, for Wylie.

  “Blessed are the dead!” she yelped, hurling dust over his uniform.

  Before he could react, she came for me, digging in her little bag again.

  And then she froze. Not five feet from me. Hand raised ready with her witch’s baptism. She stopped as if a spirit blocked her way, as if a dreadful veil had been drawn between us.

  Terror strained her features. She seemed to be struggling to see me. Then her jaw dropped, and brown stumps showed where teeth should have been. Her eyes bulged madly from her pockmarked face.

  Her fist dropped and loosened. Dust sieved through twitching fingers, trailing down her skirt.

  And then she bolted. Scrambling for the woods as if pursued.

  I never claimed to be a handsome man.

  WE RODE THROUGH MILD LIGHT and fading heat. Our pace was brisk, but gallop we did not. I was learning about the horse, see. Just like a man, it cannot run at a full effort without blowing itself. Its spunk must be husbanded for the moment of need. I had seen cavalry charges in India, canter and trot, the ranks beginning to waver as gaps appeared and sirdars barked for the men to close up, then the lowering of the lances and the bugle calling horse and rider to rush, the shouts and crashing as they met the foe. I had thought the measured gains in speed were tactics. Now I saw the animal counted, too.

  Our hoofbeats made a rumpus in the landscape, while the countless creatures that drowse by day told the world of their waking. The sun’s decline spread beauty over paucity and even stunted pines were gilded things. Four raw men rode through paradise, spiting its peace. We rode to kill, and that inflames a man as mercy won’t.

  Wylie was a masterful rider and his mount a splendid beast. But he had ridden long and hard, and now he set the pace, for his horse was worn. It angered him more, that need to show restraint. He thirsted after blood and could not get there quick enough to slake him. Once decided upon a course, his set face showed no second thoughts at all.

  Raines was thorough-bred, just like his horse. Light as air, he glided over the earth. I worried he would die. For fineness is a thing men cannot bear. In battle, they can sense a better spirit and strain to slay it though their lives be spent in the act. His light brown hair streamed behind him, and the falling sun thrilled in his eyes. If fear was in him, hatred was its master. The boy would kill for all he had endured. He would kill for the sake of Barclay’s death, and then for Barclay’s theft of his youthful love. He would kill because the world had disappointed him, because the silver of his faith had tarnished. He would kill because it is a pleasing thing, though we pretend otherwise. He would kill because it is a way of dying. I saw him clearly as the miles passed. He would pull the trigger twice or thrice after his pistol had emptied. Furious that his will could not forge powder and ball out of thin air.

  Barnaby wore the face of a veteran soldier. All aplomb. He knew what killing was, and meant to do it. To him, it was a job that must be done, but he would take no joy from it.

  I think he was a better man than me.

  As we rode, the servant spoke solicitously to Wylie. As if the rougher fellow had become his charge and wanted comforting. Barnaby warned him to be cautious, not to risk himself. I could not understand it. I half thought he would ask Wylie to turn back from the danger ahead. Now, Barnaby’s worry seemed a bit queer to me. For there was barely a tie twixt him and Wylie, and his attentions should, by right, have gone to Raines.

  Wylie waved him away like a pesky fly.

  As we traced the ridge, I edged up to the new widower myself. For I had a question gnawing me within.

  “Captain Wylie?” I asked. My voice was careful as a guard on forward picket.

  He turned a killer’s eyes in my direction. The falling sun painted his face red as gore.

  “You said . . . that Lott’s men killed two fellows you left behind. By any chance, was—”

  “Dai Evans?” Hatred for all mankind poisoned his voice. “First they shot him down. Then they cut him up like a hog.” He leaned from the saddle and spat into the grass. “Kept you alive, Dai did. Every time the boys got set to hang you, he’d make ’em laugh until they let you be.” He snorted, turning away. “Old Dai got thanked right pretty for it.”

  I would not think upon such matters now.

  We entered the valley. The pines. With the marsh beyond. The light fell golden on the ridge and smoky blue below.

  We rode down into silence.

  Listening, I was. For the first shot. And the spurt of fire that would follow. The volleys and the screams. I did not know how far the sounds would carry, for the earth is strange in the ways it tells its tale. I have been half a mile from a bloody skirmish and not known there was fighting anywhere near. Regiments have marched past dying comrades, unaware the fellows were in need.

  And then you hear a battle a day’s march away, carried through the air clear as a good choir, and you quicken your step in a hopeless try at succor.

  I heard nothing. Nothing but the fresh dusk sounds, the calling of rested birds.

  The marsh loomed. In long shadows. I would not want to go through there in the dark.

  Our guns were out. But not for serpents.

  Single file we rode. Spaced apart, so we could break if fired upon.

  I jumped, but twas only a greeting bird. I know not its name, but it sounded like a loon.

  The splashing of the hooves seemed loud as ocean waves. If Lott had placed men on watch while he did his business, they could kill at least a pair of us from the shadows before we spotted them.

  I did not see
the snake till I was near past it. Coiled as thick as rope on the deck of a ship. An arm’s length from Rascal’s legs.

  It did not strike, but watched us with steady eyes. Nor did it slither off. This was its hour.

  In India, I hated night patrols. Look you. I have no special fear of snakes. Not as I do of horses. But when you must ply the gulleys and the ditches, or crawl across a field toward a hut, you do not worry about the enemy’s bullets half so much as you fear the cobra’s fangs. When your path is errant, they rise up all around you like spring toys. Once, on the worst of nights before Delhi, two died screaming of ten men who went out with me.

  I did not want to think about that now. No more than I would think of poor Dai Evans. It is bad luck to remember old dangers and failures before you go into battle. You must think better thoughts. Or, best of all, you should not think at all.

  At the far end of that vale of reeds and water, Barnaby nudged forward, raising his hand to halt us. The light was soft as velvet, but rich enough to let you hit your mark.

  We stopped. Grouped too closely for my taste. Even as Barnaby spoke, we scanned around us. The rocks. The mounds ahead. The winding path.

  God’s oblivious creatures filled the ear.

  Maybe I was wrong, I thought. Perhaps Lott had not come for them at all. What if I read him wrong, and he had not killed the Negroes? What if his fight against slavery was sincere? What if his killing, cruel though it was, had been confined to white flesh, Wylie’s family and the heir of Shady Grove? With the servants accidental victims? What if his hand had not torched the plantation? What if Abel Jones was but a fool, too swift in his conclusions, as he had been in the midst of the Fowler affair? What if Lott was far away and I was only blasting the hopes of Mr. Hitchens, leading yet another Rebel to Beersheba?

  Barnaby whispered his knowledge: Tracking Raines and myself the day before, he had discovered an overlook back of the camp. The slope was gentle on both sides. If we worked our way behind the mounds, between them and the marsh, we might avoid the rocky defile and descend into the camp without a warning.

  A dark bird swooped. Perhaps it was a bat.