Good Time Coming

by C. S. Harris

  The tall captain glanced at his companion. ‘You heard the lady, Boyle.’ It was said in the same deep, preacher-like voice I remembered from the banks of the river, a voice smooth with self-satisfied righteousness and a confident assumption of divine favor. ‘Let her woman go.’ He rested his thumbs on his belt, his thin lips tightening into a smile that did not match his eyes as he brought them back to my mother’s face. ‘Personally, I never did care much for blackberry jelly. Are you offering me a taste of marmalade, instead?’

  My mother stumbled to a halt. I saw the hand that was holding up the corner of her apron fall, the nest of eggs tumbling to smash against the hard earth at her feet.

  Moving slowly so as not to draw anyone’s attention, I picked up the bow leaning in the corner and carefully eased the string into its nock.

  ‘Grab her,’ I heard the captain say.

  My head jerked up. I saw my mother whirl to run. But the dark, stocky sergeant was on her instantly, dragging her down, his laughter low and husky as her nails raked his cheeks and he had to rear back his head to keep her from gouging his eyes.

  Standing above her, the captain slammed the toe of his boot into her ribs hard enough that I heard the impact. ‘Try that on me, and I’ll bash your brains out.’

  A broken sob ripped from me, tearing my throat. Throwing the quiver over my shoulder, I ran across the gallery and down the steps, feet pounding on the boards. I didn’t care anymore who saw me.

  But no one was looking in my direction. They had my mother on her back, the stocky sergeant jerking her arms over her head while the golden-haired captain shoved her legs apart, raked up the froth of her petticoats. I skidded to a halt, yanked an arrow from my quiver, fit its nock onto the bowstring and drew it back.

  My heart was pounding so hard I was shaking. I watched the Federal rear back to fumble with the flap of his trousers, saw him shove them down on his hips, his buttocks smooth and white in the sun. I wanted to scream, Stop! Stop, or I’ll shoot! But the raw sexuality of the moment, the sight of such unimagined ugly, violent lust directed at my own mother brought a burn of nausea to my chest. I swallowed, fighting to slow my breathing, trying desperately to force the words – any words – out of my mouth.

  Then I saw my mother jerk her knee up, hard, into the Federal captain’s groin. I heard his guttural curse, saw his hand scrabble for the butt of his pistol.

  His hair was the color of spun gold touched with fire, his blue-coated back broad and sun warmed. I squinted against the glare of the fierce midday light, opened my fingers and let the arrow fly.

  It cut through the air with a lethal whoosh to strike between the captain’s shoulder blades, burying the fine point deep into sinew and muscle and tender organs. I saw him tense, arms flinging out to his sides as if in surprise, his body turning as he surged halfway to his feet. He hovered there for a moment, his gaze meeting mine across the sun-spangled yard, his arms stretched out against the Southern sky, his mouth open as if in a silent scream.

  Then he pitched forward and lay still.

  I stared at him, oddly aware of the clouds moving across the sun, the dust lifting in billows off the fields.

  ‘Why you—’

  The angry snarl jerked my gaze to the sergeant. He lurched up, his homely, sunburned features twisted with rage, his pig-like eyes narrow and dark as he snatched his bowie knife from its sheath at his waist. I was only dimly aware of my mother scrambling to her feet, her face a white blur.

  She screamed, ‘Amrie. You’ve got to shoot him, too! Amrie!’

  I fumbled for another arrow. Dropped it. Grabbed another. I was trembling all over now, the arrow’s point swinging wildly as I drew back the bowstring and let it fly.

  It soared some two feet over the man’s head.

  ‘You goddamned little bitch,’ he roared, his naked knife blade gleaming in the hot sun. He filled my vision, his sweat-streaked face red and shaking, so close now that I could smell the foul stench of his body odor and the reek of sweat-dampened wool. ‘I’m gonna kill you, you hear? I’m gonna gut you like a fish and—’

  He stopped suddenly, his face going almost ludicrously slack, his eyes widening until I could see the blood-shot whites rimming his smoky-brown irises. I stared at him, not understanding. He took a step forward and stumbled, the look of wonder on his face turning into horror and then something else, something dark and terrible that I knew would haunt my dreams forever.

  He took one more step, then pitched forward at my feet, his body slamming into the ground, a dark red stain blooming around the bloody blade of the axe buried deep in his back.

  My breath was coming so fast it was like a roaring in my ears. Somehow, I dragged my gaze away from the blood-drenched dead man at my feet to where Mahalia stood, her hands now pressed flat to her thighs, her gaze fixed on the man she’d just killed. I could see the pulse beating in her throat, the strange tick that pulled a muscle beside her mouth. Then she swallowed hard and raised her gaze to mine, and we shared a quiet, intense moment of horror oddly mixed with exultant triumph.

  A movement drew my gaze to my mother. She was kneeling now beside the officer. He lay crumpled on his side, my arrow still sticking out of his back, one hand flung out as if reaching for something that would remain forever beyond his grasp. ‘Is he dead?’ I asked, my voice such a broken whisper I wasn’t sure she’d heard me.

  She looked up. Her hair was coming down, curtaining her face, the bodice of her dress torn and dusty. ‘Yes,’ she said simply.

  She rose and came to crouch beside the sergeant. I stared down at his beard-shadowed face, twisted sideways. His eyes were wide and staring, and a pool of blood darkened the earth beneath his slack, open mouth. ‘And him?’

  She nodded, and all I felt was relief.

  I watched her sit back in the dirt, her hands draped limply over her bent knees and stained now with the dead men’s blood. The sky had darkened, the wind gusting up cool and smelling of the stagnant water in the nearly gulley and a fresher scent that told of coming rain. The air filled with a chorus of birdsong from the high branches of the oak and pecan trees. Then, just as suddenly, all was quiet, as if the world waited with bated breath.

  ‘What we gonna do wit them?’ said Mahalia, giving voice to the thought that was on all our minds. ‘Two dead Yankees, both kilt from behind. What we gonna do?’

  Thirty-Four

  I walked across the yard to where the golden-haired captain still lay sprawled awkwardly on his side, his blood soaking the warm clay beneath him, his head tipped sideways as if he were only sleeping. I stared down at him, waiting to experience an exponentially heightened version of the horror and revulsion I’d felt the first time I killed a deer.

  Instead, I felt … nothing.

  A hawk circled overhead. I could see distant rain falling in a shaft of sunlight to the south like an isolated phenomenon outside our reality. I sucked in a deep breath and heard Mahalia say, ‘Maybe we can drag ’em out into the road. Make it look like partisan rangers done got them.’

  ‘No,’ said my mother after only a brief moment’s thought. ‘We can’t risk having the Federals’ retaliation for this fall on our neighbors.’

  ‘So what we gonna do? We sure as heck can’t just leave ’em lyin’ here in the yard. More Federal troops could come ridin’ by any minute. They see what we done, they hang us, for sure.’

  ‘We can hide them in the barn for now,’ said my mother, ‘while we figure out what to do with them more permanently. Amrie, grab their horses and tether them down in the gully. Mahalia, you take this one’s other arm and help me drag him out of sight.’

  My mother’s words seemed to wash over me as if from a great distance. I was intensely, inexplicably focused on the limbs of the live oaks thrashing in the growing wind and the white curve of the half moon-shaped scar Gussie Holt had left on the sun-reddened cheek of the man who’d killed her.

  The man I’d killed.

  ‘Amrie. Get the horses.’

  Tea
ring my gaze from the dead man at my feet, I whirled to catch the reins of the two dapple-grays and sprinted with them toward the coulee. The clouds were bunching heavier, the rain on the horizon a glimmering curtain advancing slowly toward us. I could smell the horses’ warm hides and the dampness carried by the wind, hear the creak of empty saddle leather and my own frightened breath rasping in my throat as I ran. The sun had become a red ball behind the clouds. I never knew if it was some eerie trick of the coming storm or a figment of my own imagination, but the day’s light had taken on a strange hue, more crimson than golden, that drenched the world in a hellish glow.

  I led the horses deep into the tangle of brush edging the stream that trickled at the base of the gully. They were magnificent animals, with long graceful necks and legs, high withers, and deep chests. As I loosened their girths, I noticed the V hanging S brand clearly visible on their near hips. It was a brand familiar to everyone in these parts as belonging to Virgil Slaughter, an old Kentucky native who raised some of the best racehorses in Louisiana. I’d heard the Federals had raided his place, killing his octogenarian mother, burning his house, and emptying his stables. Now, as I traced the outline of that telltale brand, it occurred to me that these horses could be as dangerous to us in their own way as the two dead bodies.

  By the time I climbed back up to the yard, the wind was kicking up whirlwinds of dust and the two dead men were gone.

  But I could see quite clearly where their heavy bodies had been drug through the fragile grass, and the earth where they had lain was stained dark with their blood.

  ‘We should have thrown their bodies over the horses and moved them that way,’ said my mother, later. ‘It was stupid of me not to realize that dragging them would leave traces anyone could come along and see.’

  We were huddled together around the fire in the kitchen, although it was not really cold. The door stood open to the storm, the rain drumming on the roof and sluicing off the eaves in a roaring torrent.

  ‘Don’t make no difference, now,’ said Mahalia, stoking the fire higher. ‘Ain’t nobody gonna be able to see nothin’ after this storm.’

  My mother remained silent, her gaze on the dancing flames, her lips pressed into a flat line. To my mother, the fact that her error would have no consequences was immaterial. She couldn’t get past the realization that she had allowed the pressure and emotions of the moment to overset the clarity of her thinking, and she was both mortified and deeply furious with herself for what she saw as an unforgivable failing.

  She sat on a low stool, a collection of the personal items she had gathered from the men’s pockets in her lap. I watched her sift through them: letters; a gold pocket watch; an ivory toothpick holder; a heavy purse that clinked with coins. But what caught my attention was the tintype of two children, a fair-headed girl who looked about my age and a boy a few years younger. They stared silently out at us, two nameless strangers connected to us in a way they hopefully would never know.

  ‘You think that’s his children?’ I asked. ‘The captain, I mean.’

  My mother nodded. ‘According to his papers, he was Captain Gabriel Dupont, from Racine, Wisconsin.’

  Gabriel. It was a name that had always been associated in my mind with archangels and joyous messengers from God. Not with violence, greed, and murder.

  She started to toss the photo onto the fire, but I put out a hand, stopping her. ‘Can I see it?’

  She handed it to me.

  I held the small, cardboard-mounted photograph cupped in my palm and stared down at the faces of his children. I kept waiting to feel something – guilt, horror, compassion. But that strange, dislocated sense of numbness remained.

  My mother drew one of the letters from its envelope and scanned it quickly. I watched her face harden, her breath blowing out in harsh incredulity. ‘Listen to this,’ she said, and read aloud. ‘“The blue silk dress you sent arrived last Thursday. It is by far the grandest thing I have ever owned, and I was the envy of everyone when I wore it to church yesterday. I couldn’t help but smile, thinking of the Sesech woman you took it from and how furious she would be to see me peacocking about in her finery. Jenna loves the books and the newest necklace you sent her, and the silver looking glass. She says Maddie’s father sent her a piano he took off a Reb in Virginia, and she’d like that next. I told her that until we get the Mississippi opened up, you might have a hard time shipping one home …’”

  She paused for a moment, her features suddenly, oddly pinched. Watching her, my chest felt tight, my skin cold from the damp wind gusting through the open door. ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘Who could do this to a child?’

  ‘What?’ I asked again.

  She read on. ‘“Michael has continued to cause me problems, even more than Jenna. He’s so contrary and naughty. What he needs is a good, hard licking, and though I try to give him one, he laughs at my feeble attempts. I said what you suggested, that he needs to be good for your sake. I told him that you live always with the danger of being killed, but that if he is a good boy and Jenna is a good girl, God will take care of you and protect you from harm. I explained how they must be good children, and mind me always, for when they are naughty and disobedient, God removes his protective shield from around you. I believe they finally listened to me. Hopefully fear has achieved what threats had heretofore failed to do.”’

  She fell silent, the letter crushed in her hand. In a swift gesture of revulsion, she threw the pages in the fire and sat watching the lines of flowing script darken and curl before flaring up hot and bright.

  Mahalia rubbed her forehead with her hand. ‘Oh, Gawd. And now that poor little boy and his sister is gonna go through the rest of their lives thinking it’s their fault their daddy done got hisself kilt.’

  Mama quickly skimmed the second letter, then consigned it, too, to the flames.

  ‘What was the other man’s name?’ I asked. ‘The sergeant?’

  ‘Jules Boyle. That letter was from his mother.’

  Mahalia pushed to her feet. ‘Well, I ain’t gonna waste no pity on her. She done raised a mean son, and the world’s better off without him.’

  I stared down at the tintype in my hand.

  ‘Throw it on the fire, Amrie.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We can’t risk being found with any of this. Do it.’

  I hesitated a moment longer, then tossed the photo toward the flames.

  It fell short, fluttering to land on the hearth. I watched it begin to smoke, the face of the little girl seeming almost to glow. Then Mahalia picked up the poker and shoved the photograph deep into the fire.

  I looked up. ‘What we gonna do with them bodies?’

  ‘Those bodies,’ said my mother in a distracted, automatic way. She and Mahalia had hidden the two dead men beneath a thin covering of hay so old and moldy the Federals hadn’t bothered to rake it up and steal it. But we couldn’t leave them there.

  Mahalia said, ‘I reckon we could feed ’em to the hogs. I heard tell about a farmer over in Mississippi who went down to feed his hogs one night and fell and hit his head. By the time they found him in the morning, the only thing left was his wooden teeth and his belt buckle.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ I said, staring at her in horror.

  I expected my mother to reject the idea out of hand; the sanctity of human remains was important to her because of both her religion and her medical training. But to my surprise, she seriously considered Mahalia’s suggestion before shaking her head. ‘No; it’s too risky. I’ve heard of instances where hogs ate part of a body but there was still enough left to identify. Besides … however despicable those men may have been, they were God’s children and they deserve a burial.’ She hesitated, then added. ‘Of some sort.’

  ‘So where we gonna plant ’em?’ said Mahalia. ‘Down by the creek?’

  ‘No. That’s too dangerous, as well,’ said Mama, and Mahalia nodded, her chest rising on a long, indrawn breath.
>
  The problem was, Federal troops seemed to have a genius for spotting recently disturbed earth. And it wouldn’t do any good to try to make the graves look like those of our own kin. We’d all heard tales of raiders digging up any new graves they found, convinced they contained not the dead but stashes of gold and silver. It hadn’t been more than a month since Irene Irvinel’s cook had gone mad at the sight of her three-year-old little girl’s gruesome, half-decayed corpse dug up by a band of Federals.

  ‘We need to bury them someplace they won’t be found,’ said Mama.

  ‘How about down by Cat Island?’ I suggested.

  Mama turned to look at me. I expected her to dismiss the suggestion out of hand. Instead, she said, ‘How well do you know it?’

  ‘Finn knows it better’n me. But we’ve fished the area a lot.’ I sat forward. ‘There’s one place near the bayou where an old oak fell over, and its roots left a big hole. I reckon we could hide them in there and cave the sides of it in on top of them.’

  Mama rose and went to the open doorway to stare out at the storm.

  In the silence, the kitchen filled with the roar of cascading water and the clean, fresh scent of the driving rain. Mahalia and I exchanged glances.

  ‘We’ll need to move them tonight,’ said Mama, as if coming to a decision. ‘We can load the bodies on their horses.’ She turned to look at me, her face set in tense lines. ‘Can you find your way there in the dark?’

  ‘I think so.’

  The storm raged around us, drowning out all other sounds and obscuring our vision of the world more than twenty or thirty feet beyond the kitchen. I was painfully aware of both our isolation and our vulnerability. If only Finn were here, I found myself thinking. Or Avery. Or if Simon were still alive, or Priebus … If only there were someone who could help us cope with what we were now called upon to do.

  But the men in our lives were all either off to war, or dead.

  Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because my mother said, ‘We can do this, Amrie. We can.’