“Huh?” The militiaman jammed the torch into the mud, away from the wagon.
Hank laughed. “Their pee, lad. My brother took a wagon around Selma, emptying ladies’ chamber pots into barrels. He’ll have a fine story to tell his grandkids when they asked him what he did durin’ the War for Southern Independence.”
Hank disappeared, and when Thaddeus bent over to pick up the barrel, Zeb pulled the .36-caliber revolver from his waistband and slammed the butt against the soldier’s skull. His face sank into the mud next to the barrel, and he didn’t move. From inside the wagon came Hank’s cackles. “Yes, sir, Thaddeus, when this war is won, we should all thank the ladies of Selma for donating their pee and . . .”
His face froze when it reappeared beneath the canvas, his eyes trained on the Spiller & Burr in Zeb’s hand.
“I knowed you wasn’t no Alabama boy,” Hank said.
“16th Wisconsin,” Zeb said, his voice surprisingly steady. “I can’t let you blow up that bridge.” He waved the revolver a tad. “First, drop that barrel over the side.”
Hank did as instructed.
“Now, with your left-hand finger and thumb, pull out that big horse pistol of yours and let it fall, too.”
Again, Hank proved he was really good at following orders.
“All right,” Zeb started, and then came that sickening sound, the sound of a bullet striking flesh, and Hank’s face contorted, and he choked out a scream before toppling out of the wagon.
Zeb dropped to his knees, inched over, and put his hand on Hank’s neck.
“Is he . . .?” Ebenezer couldn’t finish.
“I can’t tell,” Zeb said. “Took a Minié ball in his back.” He shoved the .36 in his waistband. “You get the small guy.” Zeb nodded at Thaddeus’s unconscious body. “Drag him away from this wagon.” Already Zeb was standing, taking hold of Hank’s arms, pulling him toward the fires.
“Hank!” Gunshots accented Captain Whitaker’s voice. “Hank! We need that powder now!”
Ebenezer deposited Thaddeus by Hank’s body.
“Hank! Hank, we’ve got . . . !”
A deafening explosion lit up a good chunk of the eastern sky, followed by screams and the sound of metal slicing through the night air.
“Grapeshot,” Zeb said. He was back beside the wagon, busting open a barrel top with the butt of the Dragoon. “I want you to go fetch us a couple of horses.” He tossed Ebenezer the giant pistol, which the slave barely managed to snag.
“Man,” Ebenezer began, “I can’t steal somebody’s . . .”
“Do it!” Zeb barked, and Ebenezer turned, and ran toward the horses.
He found a couple of mounts already saddled, grabbed the reins, unfastened the tethers, and held them. Another bullet whizzed over his head. He kept expecting some guard, or maybe a bunch of Yankee soldiers, to come charging out of the blackness. Toward the bridge, flashes lit up the sky, and then Ebenezer spied sparks sizzling along the ground, a shadow running ahead of it. That shadow was Zeb.
“Can you ride?” Zeb asked as he grabbed the reins.
“Yeah,” Ebenezer said.
Zeb was trying to put his boot in the stirrup, but the horse kept twisting.
“Good. ’Cause I ain’t never been on a horse before.”
Chapter Eleven
That horse wouldn’t quit spinning. Ebenezer kept hollering at Zeb, spouting out something about how Zeb was pulling on the reins, but Zeb couldn’t really hear. Although Ebenezer had already mounted his horse, he dropped out of the saddle to help Zeb. Later, both boys realized just how lucky Ebenezer was, because at that second the wagon blew up and a chunk of wood flew right over Ebenezer’s head, just above the saddle. Had he been on that horse, Ebenezer would have been killed.
The concussion of the blast knocked the legs out from underneath the horse Zeb had desperately been trying to mount. The gelding rolled over, and Zeb couldn’t get out of the way, feeling the crushing weight of the horse as it rolled over his right leg. He let out a fearful wail that seemed to rise over the din of battle. Miraculously the horse scrambled to its feet, kicking Zeb’s thigh, but missing his skull, and took off running away from the battle, the flames, the carnage.
“Zeb! Zeb! You all right?” Ebenezer dropped beside Zeb, who had shut his eyes tightly, grinding his teeth, trying to choke down the pain.
“No,” he replied, rolling over, watching the flames consume what was left of that covered wagon. Beyond it he could make out the forms of a bunch of Jones Valley Militia men hurrying their way. Zeb was hurting, but knew he’d be dead if he didn’t get out of there. If the Secesh caught him wearing the pants of a Reb soldier and having claimed to have ridden with Nathan Bedford Forrest, Zeb would be shot or hanged as a spy. And Ebenezer . . . ? Likely the same. Zeb tried to get to his feet, but his right leg refused to cooperate.
“Here.” Zeb felt Ebenezer’s arms under his shoulders, hoisting him to his feet. Hopping around on his left leg, Zeb fell against the side of a horse, realized that Ebenezer still held the reins to his mount. “Get on!” Ebenezer cried.
“I can’t!” Zeb said.
“Hold onto these!” Ebenezer yelled as he placed the reins in Zeb’s hand, then he squatted, lifted Zeb’s left leg, shoved it into the stirrup. As the slave boosted the soldier into the saddle, Zeb howled. He could hardly bend his right knee, but somehow swung the injured leg over the horse’s back.
“Hey! You there! What’s in tarnation is y’all doin’?”
The Jones Valley soldiers had reached the inferno of the wagon. One of them started to raise his musket.
Zeb pulled the Spiller & Burr from his waistband, aimed, cocked, pulled the trigger. Nothing sounded but a dull click. He eared back the hammer, which took a lot of effort because that pistol wasn’t easy to cock, when the musket flashed, roared, and a bullet ripped through Zeb’s shirt, just underneath his armpit. The horse started twisting, turning, pawing, and spoiled Zeb’s aim. Not that it mattered. The .36 just snapped again.
“They’s stealin’ our hosses!” another Secesh yelled. Something roared off to Zeb’s right, and a Reb dropped his musket and let out a little yell as he fell to the ground. Zeb just barely made out the Reb scrambling to his knees, searching for the weapon he had dropped.
Another bullet ripped through the night, and Zeb heard the clopping of hoofs, and then he realized Ebenezer had mounted another horse and was right beside him. The runaway slave raised his right arm. A flash blinded Zeb, the roar leaving his ears ringing, his horse almost bucking him off. Only then did Zeb realize that Ebenezer was shooting the .44 Dragoon.
“Grab hold of the mane!” Ebenezer took the reins from Zeb’s hand and kicked his horse while whipping its haunches with the hot barrel of the Dragoon. They loped into the night, Zeb bouncing every which way, gripping the mane for dear life.
Another shot roared, but the ball didn’t come near the fleeing boys. After that the Rebs just sent curses after the fleeing saboteurs.
* * * * *
“Why’d you do it?”
Zeb wasn’t sure he heard. Leaning in the saddle, gripping the horn, feeling light-headed, he weakly pushed himself up. His gaze settled on Ebenezer sitting on his horse in the middle of a stream — both of their horses slaking their thirst—staring at him.
Shaking his head, Zeb tried to clear his mind. It was midmorning. They must have ridden all night. He couldn’t remember much at all, but slowly he recalled what he had done the previous night. A flash of pain shooting up his right leg from the horse kick made everything clearer.
“Done what?” he said through gritted teeth.
“Why’d you blow up that wagon? You could have gotten us both killed.”
“I’m a Union soldier.” Zeb shrugged.
“I thought you were done with this war.”
That made Zeb think. Gently he touched his right leg, which hung on the side, his boot out of the stirrup. He looked at the leg, and grimaced. It had swollen so much, it strained against h
is pant leg. Ebenezer nudged his horse closer, and offered Zeb his canteen. He took it and drank greedily, not bothering to wipe the spout before drinking after a black man, not noticing the smile that crept across the slave’s face.
“Well?” Ebenezer asked again.
“I ain’t no deserter,” Zeb said.
Ebenezer gave him a questioning, doubtful stare.
“Well, they were gonna blow up that bridge,” Zeb said. “Our boys needed that bridge to get to them ironworks, them furnaces, stop the Rebs from making iron and such, help end this war. Seemed to me that it was my duty to stop them.”
That wasn’t it, though. Zeb knew that. He wasn’t any hero. Far from it. He had just seen a chance to do something, to prove to that slave that he was every bit as good as he was. Sure, Zeb couldn’t read, not Gulliver’s Travels, not even his own name, couldn’t noodle for catfish, didn’t know his way through these thick forests, couldn’t even swim. Yet he could fight. He knew his duty. If anything, Sergeant Major Engstrand had taught him that much.
“You came this close to getting the both of us killed.”
Ebenezer held his forefinger about an inch from his thumb. He was shaking, and had to squeeze his fingers into a fist. Zeb had seen that before, among the boys of the 16th Wisconsin, and other outfits. Last night, Ebenezer hadn’t showed much fear after the initial shock of battle. He had fired that Dragoon, helped Zeb into the saddle, carried them both out of that storm, but now his nerves pricked him without mercy. Yeah, Zeb had seen that happen to many troops after a battle. He could recall shaking himself once or twice after he had seen the elephant.
“You’re just upset,” Zeb said.
“You’re damned right I’m upset!” Ebenezer barked.
“Well, I feel sorry for them, too,” Zeb said.
The slave’s face contorted. “Feel sorry for who?” he asked.
“Them ladies of Selma,” Zeb said. “All the pee they’d donated to the Confederacy got blowed up for nothing.”
Ebenezer stared at Zeb the longest while before shaking his head.
Zeb had hoped Ebenezer might smile, but that would have been asking too much.
* * * * *
When they rested shortly after noon, Ebenezer opened the saddlebags on Zeb’s horse. Lying on the ground, his head propped up against a pine, Zeb watched as the slave pulled out a Bible and a pair of binoculars, which he slid back into the bag. The other side held a shirt, a pair of socks, a clasp knife, and a wallet. Ebenezer pulled out a wad of money, looked to be counting it, and then shoved the greenbacks and yellowbacks back into the billfold, which he dropped back into the bag, and buckled it shut.
Zeb closed his eyes, listening to the wind rustling through the pine tops. It should have been cool, but he felt so hot. Suddenly he stiffened, let out a little cry and, opening his eyes, found Ebenezer pressing his hand on his right leg.
“How bad is it?” the slave asked.
Zeb shook his head, relieved when Ebenezer stopped pushing down on the swollen limb. “I don’t know.”
“Can you bend it?”
“No. Swole up too much.”
“You think it’s busted?”
“Don’t think so, but it might as well be.”
“Can you ride a little more?” he asked.
“If you can get me back in the saddle.”
“Good. Map says there’s a big river up ahead. I’d like to get across it, in case those Jones Valley men are chasing us.”
Zeb figured those Rebs had their hands full in that little skirmish for the bridge over the Cahaba, but Ebenezer was right. They needed to press on. He prayed his leg would hold out.
* * * * *
No bridge spanned the Black Warrior River. No ferry, either.
“We’ll have to swim our horses across,” Ebenezer said.
“That don’t hold no appeal to me.” Zeb swallowed, looking across the river, deep, wide, foaming from the current. He had waded through streams, floated across rivers on logs, walked across creeks over fallen trees, crossed bridges, ridden ferries, everything, it seemed, but swum across one. Or swum a horse across one. “By the Eternal, that’s the problem with the South,” Zeb snapped. “There’s too many rivers.”
“Horses are good swimmers,” Ebenezer said.
“I ain’t.”
“You get into trouble,” Ebenezer said, “you just slide off the back of the saddle, latch tight to the tail. That horse’ll pull you across.” He didn’t give Zeb time to argue, just kicked his horse’s sides and plunged into the deep, dark, churning water.
Zeb wet his lips. He could stay here for all of eternity, or follow. With a curse and a shudder, he coaxed the horse into the river. Frigid water took his breath away. The horse lunged after the mare Ebenezer was riding. Almost immediately the water was up to the saddle, filling Zeb’s boot tops. He fought off the panic trying to seize him and gripped the horse’s mane, bracing as they went deeper and deeper, the current carrying them downstream. Pretty soon, Zeb had no choice but to slip off the saddle. He grabbed the tail, held on, kicking with his good leg, somehow managing to keep his head above the water, although he thought he might have swallowed a couple of gallons of river water and mud.
He closed his eyes and tried to recall some prayer. He heard the splashing, the sound of the river in his ears, his own short gasps for breath. Then Ebenezer hollering, “Let go! Let go!” Zeb’s eyes shot open, and he realized the horse was on the bank. He released the tail, sinking into the muddy bottom, watching his mount climb up, water streaming off its body. Forgetting his bum leg, Zeb tried to stand, couldn’t, and when he looked down, he saw the current had pulled off his boots and his left sock.
“Great,” he said angrily, and Ebenezer laughed.
“You’re mad because you lost your boots.” Ebenezer shook his head. “Zeb, you could have lost your life. That’s no small feat, pal, what we just did.” Ebenezer pointed to four crooked wooden crosses on the banks. A mud-splattered gray kepi hung from one.
“Appears that a few soldiers swimming the Black Warrior didn’t fare as well as you did.”
* * * * *
When they made camp that evening, Ebenezer helped Zeb off the horse and on over to a pine tree. Zeb felt helpless, but he couldn’t do any chores, couldn’t walk, wasn’t sure how he had managed to ride. He lay there, helpless, while Ebenezer got a fire going before sneaking off to a nearby creek to noodle for catfish. After they had eaten supper, Ebenezer pulled out the Bible and sat by the fire, reading it.
Zeb watched him for a while, finally asking: “How’d you learn to read?”
Slowly Ebenezer closed the Bible. “Master Hall’s wife taught me.”
“But that’s against the law.”
Ebenezer nodded. For a moment, Zeb thought that was going to be Ebenezer’s only answer, but he cleared his throat, and started talking.
“Master Hall, he was gone to Charleston, and his wife . . . she’s a good woman, a real fine lady . . . she started teaching me. Just the ABCs to begin with. She said I was a real fast learner, but I think she was a real fine teacher. Still, I guess I picked up the letters really fast, learning the sounds each letter makes. She was real proud of me, and when Master Hall came back home, she proudly showed him what all I’d learned, what all she’d managed to teach me.”
Ebenezer stopped and for the longest time stared into the remains of the fire. They could have added a few twigs to it, but they didn’t want some traveler to investigate the smoke, so usually—on those rare nights when they risked a cook fire—they would let the fire burn itself out, and do with a cold camp the rest of the night. At last, Ebenezer cleared his throat and continued.
“Master Hall beat her. He beat her bad . . . screaming, cursing. I was just a boy, and I feared he’d start whipping me, but he just slapped her, kept slapping her . . . her crying on her knees, him pulling her hair to keep her head up . . . slapping her. Her nose was busted . . . blood just pouring down her face . . . her lips smashed. It
was horrible, Zeb. I just stood there, too scared to do anything, even to yell at him to stop. He just kept hitting her, telling her what a fool she was, that they could both go to prison for what she’d done. ‘How dare she?’ That’s what he yelled.
“I guess he would have killed her that evening, and maybe he would have whipped or killed me after he’d finished, but Mister Anderson, the overseer, he come running into the parlor . . . that’s where we were . . . revolver in his hand. He thought we slaves were revolting, killing Master Hall’s wife, and when he saw what Master Hall was doing, he pulled him off her. She just toppled to the floor and curled up in a ball. Master Hall, he stood like he was in a daze, like he was a thousand miles away. Then he walked over to the cabinet and poured a glass of brandy, drank it down in one or two gulps, thanked Mister Anderson, and retired for the night. Mister Anderson fetched a couple of the house servants, and they took Missus Hall to a settee, started bathing her wounds. And Mister Anderson, I won’t ever forget the look on his face . . . like I was to blame for what had just happened. He came over to me, whipping my arm like he was snapping a chicken’s neck, and I knew I was in for a whipping, but Missus Hall, she cried out to him, told him not to hurt me. He shoved me outside, told me to get to my quarters. I run off, run to Uncle Cain, crying on his shoulder the rest of the night.”
The fire burned out, and still Ebenezer said nothing.
“That ended your schoolin’, I take it,” Zeb said.
He looked up with a sudden grin. “No,” he said. “That made me eager to learn. Uncle Cain, he told me that if reading and writing were so important, could scare white folks that much, maybe I’d better keep at it. Improve myself. He didn’t say it, but I knew he was thinking that it could make me an equal to any white man.” He laughed. “I’ve seen that look before, Zeb.”
Zeb didn’t know what Ebenezer saw in his face, but he desperately tried to change whatever expression it was.
“That’s all right, Zeb. It doesn’t bother me. There were no more lessons from Missus Hall. She recovered from that beating, even apologized to me a week or so later . . . like it was her fault! But she sneaked me a McGuffey’s Eclectic First Reader, would even leave a newspaper or book out on the counter whenever I was in the house. I’d sneak a peek at those, keep right on practicing. Once I was in the parlor, reading, or trying to, some book about a boy named Oliver Twist, written by some fellow from England, and I happened to look up and caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked like she was proud. So I kept right on learning. Now, I’m not the best reader or writer, but . . .” He shrugged.
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