Good Time Coming

by C. S. Harris

  ‘Here you go, Miss Amelia,’ I said, putting the plate on the small pie-shaped table beside her. ‘You need to eat up now, you hear?’ I knew I was talking to her as if she were a small child or an old woman who’d lost her wits, but I didn’t know what else to do. ‘I’ll be back this evening. You take care.’

  By now, the rain had slowed to a soft drizzle. I carefully closed all the doors I’d opened and headed for home.

  I walked quickly, even though the worst of the storm had passed. I couldn’t have said if it was the oppressive weather or the disturbing vibrations of near madness in the house I’d just left, but I felt uncharacteristically jittery. The clouds still pressed low upon the countryside, the air heavy with the smell of wet trees and mud, the sky filled with the dark bodies of birds on the wing. I kept throwing glances over my shoulder, my gaze raking every dripping, dark-green stand of cypress and the deep shadows of the gulley that fell away to the north.

  I’d almost reached Belle Grove when I heard the pounding hooves of horses ridden fast, coming toward me. I instinctively drew back against a dripping willow thicket, my mouth dry, my heart pounding wildly as I watched two magnificent, long-legged dapple grays come thundering around the bend.

  And I saw him the second time in my life.

  He wore the same dark-blue frock coat and black felt hat that I remembered from that day on the levee of Bayou Sara in what now seemed like a different lifetime. His golden hair was longer, and he had a bloody, crescent-shaped cut on one cheek that he kept dabbing at with the back of his wrist. But I would have recognized him anywhere A silver bread basket tied to the pommel of his saddle bounced up and down with the horse’s gait, and he had what I realized was a bulging pair of women’s linen drawers, with the legs tied off to form a kind of double sack, thrown across his horse’s neck. I could hear the clatter and rattle of its contents as he drew abreast of me. I’d never seen the stocky sergeant who rode with him, his long, dark brown hair stringy with rain and sweat, his full cheeks unshaven.

  I knew if either man glanced sideways, they’d see me, for I wasn’t exactly hidden. I held myself very still, the sour milk crock clutched against me so tightly the edge of the bottom rim bit into my ribs. They cantered past, saddle leather creaking, horses’ hooves splattering in the muddy lane, so close I could smell their sweat and the warm hides of their horses.

  But they didn’t look at me, didn’t slow. Their gazes fixed straight ahead, they disappeared around the distant bend.

  The crock tumbled unheeded from my grasp, and I found my legs suddenly so weak I sank to my knees. My breath came hard and fast, and my head felt as if it were swelling. I could feel the muddy wet grass soaking through my dress and petticoat, imagined I could still feel the vibration of their horses’ powerful hooves trembling the earth beneath me.

  And then it occurred to me to wonder whose home they’d just looted.

  I pushed to my feet and took off at a run. I could see a brown smudge of smoke billowing above the treetops and realized it came from Belle Grove.

  By the time I turned up the long, rose-lined drive toward the big house, I was gasping for air. Smoke still boiled from the elegant pedimented porch of the west wing, but some of the field hands were beating at the fire with rugs and blankets, and almost had it out.

  Miss Gussie’s housekeeper was standing on the shell drive, her apron up over her face, her shoulders heaving with her sobs. But when I approached her and said, ‘Aunt Selma?’ she let her apron fall to show a face ravaged by fear and horror and a raw kind of grief that made my stomach twist with foreboding.

  ‘Oh, Gawd, child. What you doin’ here?’

  ‘Where’s Miss Gussie?’ I asked hoarsely.

  Aunt Selma nodded toward the house. ‘She in there.’

  I started toward the front steps.

  Aunt Selma said, ‘Child, don’t go in there!’

  But I kept walking, and I guess she didn’t feel it was her place to stop me.

  The front door stood wide open, the elegant central hall beyond in shadow. ‘Miss Gussie,’ I called.

  The house was cool, the smell of smoke mingling with the sweet scent of roses and lilies from the big vases Miss Gussie always filled every morning. Even in the dim light of the cloudy day, the fine European furniture gleamed with beeswax and orange oil, the rich citrus scent mingling with the clove-like aroma of the roses.

  ‘Miss Gussie?’

  I took another step forward and saw her. She lay sprawled on her back on the far side of the large round satinwood table that stood in the center of the hall’s long expanse of gleaming wood flooring, the lacy white scarf that normally topped it crumpled beside her as if she’d grabbed it as she fell. The broken fragments of a smashed crystal oil lamp crunched beneath my feet as I approached her. She had her arms flung up on either side of her head, and even in the dim, smoky light I could see the purple bruises on the pale flesh of her slim wrists.

  ‘Miss Gussie?’ I said again, although a part of me knew she couldn’t answer me.

  I crept forward, my heart pounding in my chest, and for a moment my vision went out of focus and I felt dizzy. Her skirts and petticoats were rucked up to her waist, her drawers torn, so that it seemed an obscene intrusion to come upon her like this. I snatched up the muddied, lace-trimmed scarf from the floor to spread it awkwardly over her nakedness, my hands shaking badly. Then I made the mistake of looking up into her face. Her eyes were wide and staring, the flesh of one temple hideously bruised, the skin pulpy and bloody. A small rivulet of dark blood had trickled from one ear to darken the hair at the nape of her neck.

  I shoved my fist in my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut. For a moment, all I could hear was my own breath rasping in and out.

  Then I heard Aunt Selma say softly, ‘Miss Amrie? Come away, child.’

  I opened my eyes and turned. The aged housekeeper stood in the doorway, her face wet and swollen, her fists twisting in her tear-stained apron. I stared at her. All I could think was how much Miss Gussie had feared this woman and her fellow slaves, yet it was white men who’d killed her.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, my voice a whisper.

  ‘Two Yankees. They come poundin’ on the door, saying they was after guerrillas. Only, they was really after anything they could find to steal. They even got the gold coins out the secret drawer of Mr Holt’s desk and the jewelry Miss Gussie done hid behind a loose brick in her bedroom fireplace. Then one of them – the good lookin’ one with the pretty blue eyes and golden curls – he say Miss Gussie’s a fine woman, and he guesses he’ll have a taste of what she been given her Secesh husband all these years. Had his sergeant hold her down while he went at her. Only, she kept fighting him – even bit his cheek, she did. So he took out his pistol and bashed her in the side of the head. She lay still after that.’

  I shook my head no, as if by denying her words I could somehow make the reality of it all go away. Then I realized I was crying, my chest jerking, great tears welling up to chase each other down my cheeks, although I made not a sound.

  Aunt Selma said, ‘Come away, child, do. Let me send my boy, Jasper, with you to see you home. There be Yankees crawlin’ all over today.’

  I looked at her. But I still couldn’t seem to find my voice.

  ‘Miss Amrie? You all right, child? Oh, Gawd. What this world comin’ to? A child, seeing somethin’ like this!’ Then she said it again, as if answering her own question with the same query. ‘What this world coming to?’

  I arrived home to find a cool, damp wind ruffling the feathers of dead chickens scattered around our muddy, dripping yard. I stumbled over a leather-bound book lying face down in the mud and reached stupidly to pick it up, smoothing the crumpled, stained pages with a shaky hand. I could see the gate to our pasture hanging open, the wet green expanse empty except for Mama and Mahalia, who were staring down at a still, small white lump at their feet.

  It took me a moment to realize the lump was Flower.

  Then my mother lo
oked up and saw me. ‘Amrie.’

  She came to hug me to her with a crushing fierceness. ‘Thank God, honey. You were so long, I was afraid something must have happened to you, that the soldiers …’ She drew back, her hands bracketing my cheeks, her eyebrows puckering as she anxiously scanned my face. ‘Are you all right?’

  I nodded.

  It was Aunt Selma’s son, Jasper, who said, ‘Yankees done hit Belle Grove, Mizz Kate.’

  She glanced over at him. ‘And Augusta Holt? Is she all right?’

  Jasper stared down at his muddy feet.

  My mother looked from Jasper to me. ‘Amrie? Is Miss Gussie all right?’

  The wind dropped suddenly, so that the air hung thick and foul with the smell of mud and drowned earthworms and death. My throat swelled up, so that I found I couldn’t say anything. But I guess at that point I didn’t need to.

  My mother knew.

  She set off for Belle Grove at once – on foot, since the soldiers had taken Magnolia and our remaining mules. I didn’t want her to go, but she said she had to. I guess she wanted to make sure Miss Gussie really was dead. Or maybe she figured somebody needed to take charge of Gussie Holt’s burial.

  It was Mahalia who told me what had happened, about the dozen Federal soldiers who’d romped through our house, saying they were looking for guerrillas even as they helped themselves to anything that struck their fancy. About how they’d laughed as they overturned mattresses and broke open work boxes and drawers, saying, ‘Got any Rebs hiding in here? How about over here?’

  I walked slowly through the ransacked rooms, my footsteps echoing hollowly on the mud-and debris-strewn floorboards. Drawers had been wrenched from chests, their contents scattered and crushed; the splintered doors of armoires hung open on broken hinges. I felt oddly dead inside, my arms and legs so weighted it seemed more than I was capable of doing to lift the overturned chairs or pick up the precious books they’d knocked off the shelves, or sweep up the fragments of my great-grandmother’s crystal glasses that sparkled on the hearth. And it occurred to me to wonder if this crushing grief was a faint version of the way Amelia Ferguson felt, if this was why she just sat in her chair all day, staring at the wall. And I felt a flash of guilt for judging her and finding her lacking because of it.

  Mahalia came to stand in the parlor doorway, her arms wrapped across her full breasts, hugging herself as she watched me pick my way through the litter. ‘I jist don’t understand why they kilt that goat,’ she said. ‘Your momma begged ’em not to do it, sayin’ there was a poor little babe needed that goat’s milk to survive. But they just laughed and shot Flower anyway. What kind of men would do something like that?’

  It was a good thing she didn’t expect an answer, because I had none that I could give her. If we hadn’t wanted to live in the same country with these people, before, I couldn’t figure out how they thought we’d be any more willing now, after all they’d done to us. I guess they didn’t care whether we were willing or not.

  But they were so bent on punishing us and forcing us to their will that it seemed to me they’d lost the whole point.

  I was helping Mahalia sweep up the broken crockery in the kitchen when Finn came over. The Federals had hit the O’Reilly place, too, stealing the mule Mama had given him after the last raid, and breaking their plow.

  ‘Did it out of pure meanness, I guess,’ said Finn, going to right a barrel the raiders had overturned. ‘’Cause we didn’t have much for them to steal. But we already been cleaned out once already, so what’d they expect?’

  Mama came home not long after that, and we all sat on the gallery and watched the evening sky turn a light blue ribbed with thick strips of pink and gold-tinged clouds. The breeze was warm and wet, and smelled of night-blooming flowers and stale smoke, the atmosphere oppressive with a sense of fear and despair that seemed almost palpable.

  After she left Belle Grove, Mama went to check on Amelia Ferguson, too. She said a raiding party had taken Miss Amelia’s cow and horses, but otherwise they’d left her alone. I guess maybe she spooked them as much as she did me. Mama said when she told Miss Amelia that Flower was dead, she’d sunk to the floor in a faint.

  Finn stared out at the oak and pecan trees still glistening and heavy with rain, their trunks black in the gloom. ‘There’s a farmer named Skate Mooney outside of Clinton who keeps a big herd of goats. He might be willin’ to sell us one – that is, if the Federals ain’t stole them all already.’

  The town of Clinton lay some twenty-five miles to the east of us, on the far side of Jackson, Louisiana. It seemed a risky thing to do – to travel so far when the roads were crawling with Federal raiding parties.

  But Mama said, ‘That’s a good idea, Finn. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.’

  Finn shook his head. ‘Let me go, Miss Kate. It’d be better.’

  ‘No,’ she said in that voice I’d learned long ago meant, Don’t even think about arguing with me. ‘I can’t ask you to do something like that.’

  ‘But you aint’ askin’ me, ma’am; Hells bells – it was my idea!’

  ‘No, Finn.’

  He argued with her for what seemed like forever, growing red in the face and saying he should never have said anything – should’ve just gone without telling her what he intended. But Mama stood firm.

  In the end, though, Finn got his way, for a message came that night from Reverend Lewis, saying he was afraid old Hypolite Brewster’s heart was giving out. So Mama had to hurry into town.

  I sometimes wonder what might have happened had old Mr Brewster not chosen that night to die. Useless imaginings, I know. But it is on such randomly timed events that the entire course of our lives can hinge and turn, for good or for ill.

  Finn left for Clinton early the next morning, carrying a hundred dollars that folks in town collected when they heard what’d happened to Flower.

  Finn could’ve walked to Clinton and back in a couple of days, if he’d been traveling by himself. The problem was, he wouldn’t be by himself on the way back; he’d be leading a goat.

  ‘How far you reckon a goat walks in a day?’ I asked Mahalia while we were scrubbing the muddy mess the Federals had made of our parlor.

  She screwed up her face with thought. ‘Well, I reckon a she goat could walk a fair ways, if’n she had a mind to. But a goat ain’t like a horse or a dog; they can be downright ornery and contrary. I reckon if we’re lucky, we might see that boy again in four or five days. Or maybe a week.’

  We both fell silent. We weren’t sure how long little Theo could last.

  About the only cow in the area the Federals had missed killing or stealing belonged to Mrs Mumford. I’d always thought her a mean, crotchety thing. But as soon as she heard what’d happened to Flower, she not only contributed five dollars to the collection to buy one of Skate Mooney’s goats, but started sending some milk over to Miss Amelia every day, too.

  Problem was, little Theodore couldn’t stomach cow’s milk any better now than he could before.

  I said, ‘Maybe Skate Mooney’ll lend Finn a mule and cart.’ But even as I said it, I knew how unlikely that was. All we could hope was that he sold Finn a very cooperative she goat.

  Two nights later, we awoke in the dark hours before dawn to a strange rumble that grew louder and louder, a cacophony of lumbering wagon wheels, men shouting, horses neighing, and the heavy tramp of tens of thousands of marching boots.

  We’d become accustomed over the past week or so to the distant boom and crash of the Federals’ regular nightly bombardment of Port Hudson. But this wasn’t five miles away. This was here, in St Francisville.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, tumbling down the stairs to find Mama in the hall. ‘What’s happening?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  But we soon found out. General Nathaniel Banks had just landed an army at Bayou Sara’s old wharves and was marching them through St Francisville on his way south to Port Hudson.

  All twenty-one
thousand of them.

  Thirty-Two

  The Federal army churned through St Francisville like a raucous plague of locusts sweeping across a cornfield. By the time the dust raised by the last rattling caisson, the last lumbering supply wagon and party of stragglers had settled, virtually anything the earlier raiding parties had missed was gone – including Mrs Mumford’s brown milk cow.

  Even though I didn’t have any milk to bring her, I still went morning and evening to help Miss Amelia, who spent most of her time walking up and down with little Theo in her arms, his thin, reedy wail gradually growing fainter and fainter. We looked for Finn every day, but he didn’t come. I spent hours mentally recalculating times and distances, as if I could somehow come to a different conclusion from the obvious one: that Finn had run smack dab into the Federal army and something awful had happened to him.

  Mama tried everything she could think of, including thinning mashed potatoes with water and feeding Theo that. But Miss Amelia’s little baby boy was failing fast.

  By the end of the week, he was dead.

  A grim-faced Cyrus Pringle built the small, whitewashed coffin, and Devon Gantry’s widow, Sophie, lined it with white silk she cut up from the wedding dress she’d been saving for her daughter’s First Communion dress. Mahalia dressed the babe in his christening gown, and I gathered white rosebuds from Miss Amelia’s overgrown garden and tied them up with a white satin ribbon donated by Laura Winthrop.

  The coffin rested on a dining-room chair set up by the front window of the parlor. Miss Amelia sat in a chair beside it, her hands clenched together in her lap, her gaze on her sweet baby’s pale, waxen face. Mahalia had coaxed her into putting on a fresh dress and letting Mahalia brush her hair, but she still looked awful. Her once shiny blue eyes were dull and lifeless, and she’d grown so thin and wan a body’d be hard put to recognize her as the plump, pretty woman she’d once been.