He looked across the flames at his best friend and he bartered with his conscience. After a few hours, he wrapped his shirt around his hand again and picked the knife up by the handle, staring at the fierce crimson running the blade’s warped length. He placed the bayonet back in the fire. The day was ending. The shadows of the pines surrounding him grew deep and sanctioned the fire’s glow to echo off his bare skin. He rocked back and forth on his bottom, holding his knees to his chest and wept for his friend. He stopped rocking and saw that the crimson had swallowed the blade to the very crossbar of the hilt.
He took off his pants and muttered to himself, “It gotta be deep or ain’t no one gonna believe in your tale.” He put a stick in his mouth and tied his belt around his upper thigh and waited until the numbness in his toes became unbearable. He grabbed the handle of the bayonet and raised the long blade up with both hands like the sacrifice on Moriah. He held the hot steel but his instincts revolted and he relented to his nature, tossing the blade away into the night. It skittered along the rocky soil until it came to rest, the crimson pulsing like some crucifix beacon on a dark sea warning mariners of dangerous shoals.
He stared at the cross and cursed his foolishness for not heeding the auguries that Angus had prophesized to him as a child before the blacksmith’s forge. On winter nights as a boy, he would sleep on old blankets in front of the forge, so he could nestle in among Angus’s three runaway slave-tracking bloodhounds. The shack of his home had once been a blacksmith shop and a giant stoker that opened on two sides separated the kitchen from the sleeping spaces. It still burned hot and its thick red bricks arched over the fire gave the dwelling its structure. Angus would come home deep in his cups and on many a night he would fetch a jug and pull a stool from the kitchen up close to the fire where Augie slept and shake the sleep from him.
Angus would sit there sipping his rotgut and Augie would listen to his father’s coarse voice spewing out sermons of resentment amidst the snapping of the soft pine in the hearth. His tongue loosened by drink, Angus would rattle off the names of the slave masters and tell of the crimes that had given birth to their fortunes: “Sumbitch Briggins, his granddaddy pack’d his ships three times their hold, stack’n ’em like chopp’n wood one upon t’other know’n he’d lose half his cargo. The captains’d toss ’em overboard without so much as an amen, ships making a wake of bloated dead and sharks all the way to Hispaniola where those without the fortune to be thrown to the sea died of hunger cutt’n his cane.
“And Walker, what a piece a shit his granddaddy be. Pappy noth’n but an indentured servant born of a whore come crawl’n out Whitechapel. He was in Ol’ Virginia when he got his freedom and started cutt’n his first rows of tobacco. I turned down Old Man Briggins to oversee Walker’s fields. When I told Briggins he sat me down and told me I’d regret it. Them Walkers was hard cheats, and their granddaddy, Pappy, he were the worst of ’em all. Pappy Walker had him a partner in Old Virginia, a Scotsman that first come over in a coffin ship, named McCrary. The two planted fifty acres of fine tobacco they’d killed and cheated the savages for, but they had a fall’n out, so McCrary bought Walker out with his last cent and took the fields. Walker went the next county over and tried again but couldn’t do it alone. McCrary’s fields grew a bounty and his profits done took off, but Walker’s fields was fallow, giving up noth’n but a tangy tasting weed. Walker couldn’t beat him square so he harvested horn worms and sowed McCrary’s fields with ’em ’til there was nothing left for the merchants to trade for ’cept Walker’s filthy leaf. McCrary never found out; put a hog musket to his mouth think’n it were Providence that done took a crap on him for his sins.”
Angus would take his last drink and stretch his back and shoulders as if he were trying to free himself from a yoke of weighted stones and Augie knew the sermon would turn to salvation. Angus would stare with penitent eyes at the forge’s flames dancing off the copper pots that hung about the kitchen and tell of the evil of his work, the torments he inflicted on the hands. He would whisper, “My daddy told me to get close to ’em; work hard for them that’s got coin and you’ll not go hungry; carry the whip for ’em, there’s money to be earned from ’em. My daddy was a fool, and his daddy a bigger fool. You end up tell’n yourself you do it for family, you need coin to feed your own, nobody gonna feed yours but you, but what good that gonna be in the next world? I’ll be kneeling in the snow ’fore the gates on Judgment Day, and when I do my beseeching the Lord know every goddamn deed I done in Walker’s fields. I’ll plead it were my job but all the Almighty will hear will be the hollers for mercy of ’em souls I tied to the hitching post. Who be more damned, son? The fool that sins for coin or the bastard that pay a fool to sin. You got to take your blessed gifts, son, and free yourself, the only thing to strive for in this world is to earn enough coin so you be behold’n to no man, and then your soul be your own to tend.”
Augie looked up from the forge of his memories and stared at his best friend wrapped in the shroud of an old army blanket and said, “I can’t do it, Billy. I got to tend to gett’n the rest of them boys home.”
Augie spent the following day burying Billie in the earth, using his hands and knife to scrape away a shallow grave. He placed the strongbox under Billie’s arm and covered him in the heaviest stones he could carry so animals wouldn’t dig him up. Before he laid the soil over him, he did his best to mimic the words of the militia chaplains he’d heard a thousand times on a hundred different days, but all he could recall were remnants and his prayers rang hollow on the mountain. It wasn’t until he whispered, “You keep that safe for me, you old pirate,” that he was able to bury his friend.
In the morning, he tethered Billie’s horse to his own and rode to the southern tip of the highlands. He crawled out on a ledge overhanging the valley and took out his spyglass. He spotted a lone man about a half mile off shuffling across a furrowed farm field with a walking stick under his arm. He thought at first it was a farmer and marveled that a soul could sow amidst these killing fields, but he twisted the glass and saw that it was Walker. He saw the cavalry hat and the sword, the lion’s head at the end of the hilt scattering the morning’s sun in a dazzling prism.
As Walker crossed the farm field, Augie saw thirty horsemen rise up in his path from the trees to the west. The horsemen emerged as if they had been waiting in those shadows their entire lives to carry out Walker’s execution. The horsemen approached in a shallow arc of mounts that soon blocked Walker’s path. Walker did not waiver. He dropped his walking stick and drew his sword from his scabbard. He tossed the scabbard to the side and drew his pistol. Augie’s impulse was to race to his horse, a habit these four long years, but then he said to himself, “What good would it do?” He surveyed the spectacle as it unfolded through his looking glass and muttered, “That man’s no bullshit.” He anticipated a volley of shots but the sergeant of the horsemen took off his hat and slowly walked his horse to Walker. After a brief parlay Walker holstered his pistol and awkwardly tried to return his sword to the scabbard until he remembered he had tossed the scabbard away into the field. He paused and slowly turned the sword and grabbed it by the blade. He handed it to the Yankee and the horseman took it by the hilt. Walker picked up his walking stick and limped away, vanishing into the tree line.
Augie saw the sergeant wave his trophy about his head and heard a cacophony of hoots from the horsemen rise in the air. Augie was trying to fathom what had happened but could not and judged it best to wait for night to navigate his way back through the Yankee lines.
The following day near evening, Augie straggled into camp, emerging from the woods covered in burrs and scratches from dodging Yankee patrols throughout the night and day. The old-timer that worked the kitchen wagon said, “God Almighty, we thought you were a goner, where Billie at?”
Augie shook his head.
The old-timer said, “Ain’t that the sorriest luck.”
Augie looked quizzically, and the old-timer said, “We quit day ’
fore yesterday. Rider come this morning wit’ a sheet of paper from Richmond with a scratch’n on it the war done. We showed our belly at Appomattox.”
Before Augie could comprehend the war’s end, he sighted three corpses hanging from the low branch of the maple. He approached and gazed at Miles, Caldwell, and Taylor dangling from gallows’ ropes. Their faces were swollen and glazed with a sickly orange pallor. They looked like jack-o’-lanterns that had been carved by a madman, their eyes bulging and their tongues swollen and lolling out the sides of their mouths. Augie didn’t believe his eyes until he smelled the scat and he realized all three had shit their pants after the drop.
The old-timer said, “Caught ’em three head’n to Sommersville. Yesterday morn they dragg’d ’em here in shackles. The high command said they was shirkers and condemned ’em. We thought Walker dead, so it were left to Major Barnes, but you know he ain’t much on decid’n. They sat there. None of us eager to git it done. Walker, though, he come limp’n in to camp at sundown yesterday like Lazarus. Colonel didn’t waste no time order’n them three strung up. I reckon one more day and them three home come summer.”
“Where’s that sumbitch at?”
“Sergeant?”
“It’s Augie, goddammit, where’s Walker?”
“His tent.”
Augie strode to the tent and threw back the flap without announcing himself. Walker was sitting at his field desk, his leg in a splint, writing a letter. Augie came to the desk and pointed at Walker and spat out, “You murdered them boys.”
Walker looked up and stared at Augie, trying to size him. He slowly placed the quill on the table aside the parchment. He spoke slowly, measuring his words, “The order came down from high command, condemned. I had nothing to do with the judgment.”
“There ain’t no command no more; none of ya’ll had the right to string them boys up.”
“I was in command of this regiment when the execution order was rendered. What’s the difference? That son-of-a-bitch needed killing, and the two who followed him got what he got, cowards, the lot of them.”
“Cowards? They the same three follo’d your glory hunting ass up the hill at Chancellorsville.”
“That’s right, Augie. On that day, I showed them a soldier’s honor but in the end they had no honor. They left me to die on that road. They ran like dogs from the Yankees.”
“You sitt’n here. Why ain’t your dead ass sitt’n in that crossroad?”
“I gave my word, a promise that I wouldn’t throw my life away.”
“Billie dead. What about the promise I give to his Bea? Tell me how you tried to stop them Yankees at the crossroads, Horatio? You ran too. I know ’cause them sumbitches caught us up and shot Billie down.”
“Is that it? Is that what is causing this? My condolences for Billie. I considered him a friend.”
“A what? Billie and I know you since we was knee-high and we never shared so much as a fish’n hook wit’ you; always riding off in that bog with them snotnoses. Call’n Billie a friend, your kind ain’t got no friends. We the same county but different as coons and coondogs. You sumbitches got loyalty to noth’n but coin.”
Walker grabbed his crutch and with effort rose from his chair. He’d had enough. “My kind? What would your people be without us? A life of dropping hooks for catfish, coon hunting. We gave your lives meaning and purpose beyond your shacks. I saw you at Chancellorsville, you strode the earth like a king. I gave you that Sergeant Powell. We showed your kind how to fight for your rights, for freedom.”
“Aww, stuff all that freedom shit. This war was noth’n other than to save ya’ll’s fancy-ass living. And ya ain’t got noth’n to be high and mighty about. My kind? Yeah, it were my daddy that strung ’em to the whipp’n post, only so ya’ll could hide behind your lace curtains play’n piana and pretend’n not to hear ’em screams for mercy. You think you better than us ’cause you held title? You may o’ owned ’em, but you paid coin to my daddy to take the skin off them backs. Sure as shit, Walker, ya’ll’s hand was on that whip too.”
Augie gathered himself and looked Walker slowly up and down. “I know your kind better than you do. You indentured in Virginia, ya’ll people come from noth’n but white slaves jest like all ’em hands in your fields. Duke kin, horse-shee-it, the way I hear it too Pappy’s mama a rung or three lower on the highborn ladder, her nobility been a bit exaggerated.”
Walker straightened himself the best he could and knew now this would end in blood. He glared at Augie and went to offer his challenge but thought of Billie and relented. “Augie, that is the last insult I will tolerate without raising this to a point of honor. We are going home. I will forget this because I believe Billie’s death is bleeding this out of you. We will go and build our county, our homes again. Together. Stronger this time.”
Augie sneered at him and said, “Point o’ honor? You think I’m getting my ass shot at twenty paces after dodging Yankee lead all this time? There ain’t no go’n home for you. Angus writ me, your daddy done hightailed it. I swear Angus had ya’ll pegged from day one. I jest didn’t want to believe it.”
“I’m not my father.”
“You ain’t listen’n. That my county now. It chock-full of boys wit’ torn limbs that were as stupid as me to go and fight for ya’ll. The scarred gonna be looking for some fool to take it out on. I get back I’m tell’n Angus what you done. He’ll see to it them three’s kin know it and then they’re gonna see to it your indentured ass swinging from a maple tree for murder.”
“I was in command.”
“The hell you say. I seen you in that field. Where your sword at, Colonel?”
Walker looked about but caught himself and eyed Augie.
“Them boys told you it were all done. Now, you clear out my county. For what we been through in this stupid ass war of yours I’m giving you three days to git, but you heed me, come sundown on the third day we com’n for you at Sommersville, to burn you out.”
The Sommersville mansion had a chapel built on the ground floor. Missy Jay stood in front of the altar in the middle of the night. She listened for any sound of Molly but heard nothing stirring. Sally entered from the servant’s entrance carrying a basket. Missy Jay went to the doors of the chapel and peered out through the door making sure Molly was not about in the great room. She closed the large chapel doors and bolted them shut from the inside.
Missy said. “You got the eye?”
The girl nodded.
“What do you see?” Missy pressed.
“I sees things that sometimes ain’t happened yet, and then they do,” the girl responded.
“Has Augie come to you too?”
“Yes, he say’n I should tell him if Master John been heard from,” the girl answered.
“Why didn’t you tell me he talk’n to you?” Missy snapped.
The girl got scared, and Missy Jay reached out and held her by the shoulders. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Sally. Gist tell me what Augie say he want.”
The girl’s face was filled with fright, but she answered, “Augie say this all done for Master John; I’m to tell him if’n he show up.”
“Go over now and listen for anyone climbing them steps. You watch me and heed what I do. It’ll be your turn one day to protect dis family when Missy gone. You still got learn’n, so watch now.”
“Augie say this is all end’n and you can stay jest do his bidding.”
“Shush, child, the first thing you got to learn is to listen and the second is not to believe a thing Angus’s kin tell you, Powell mix truth wit’ lie. You listen to me good now. Augie gonna come ag’n to you, if’n he ain’t already; he gonna offer you someth’n to turn Master John. Now you listen to Missy Jay. I knew your granny Clarabelle and she was most powerful, but you got Briggins’s blood in you too, and that’s fool’s blood. Your granny taught me the secrets when I was your age, that’s why I’m will’n to teach you, but I’m tell’n you no matter what Augie offer you, don’t try to turn Master Joh
n Michael, if’n you do, I be the one sew’n you mouth shut, you heed me?”
The girl nodded and her eyes searched Missy’s to see if she was going to die.
Missy took the cloth back from the top of the basket and removed a white chicken. She retrieved a knife from her sleeve and held the bird so its throat lay exposed to the blade. She looked down into a basket on the altar. It contained arrowheads, a copper ax, hemp from the rope swing, and the daguerreotype of the Intrepid Explorer’s Guild. Sally lit a cigar and blew the smoke over the basket’s contents and she began to speak in a strange tongue.
Missy Jay turned and asked the girl, “Before beginn’n, did you see Miss Molly about?”
The girl shook her head yes.
“Yeah, what you mean yeah?”
“That’s what I been trying to tell you. I don’t need to try and see noth’n. I read the letter that come by that rider. She don’t know I can read; she left it lay’n open on the nightstand by her bed. It from Master John, the letter say for Miss Molly to take them four good ponies and meet him at the four corners bridge tonight.”
Angels of North County Page 17