“That’d suit me right down to the ground.”
Ebenezer had figured Prescott would agree. He was no fighter. While they had been fixing the wagon’s wheel, Prescott had told Zeb how he had paid a kid about Zeb’s age to fight for him after Prescott had been conscripted.
“Them scavengers . . . vermin they are . . . they ain’t nothin’ to trifle at, ’specially with y’all travelin’ with that good-lookin’ thing,” Prescott advised. “Criminy, it’s taken all my willpower not to try to steal a kiss already.”
Zeb rose, his anger moving from Ebenezer Chase to Charley Prescott, but Luansy said out to him, “It’s all right, Zeb. He don’t mean nothing. He’s just drunk.”
He stopped, but not because of Luansy’s pleading. Charley Prescott was snoring like a chugging locomotive. That drunkard could wait, so Zeb whirled on Ebenezer.
“You got a big mouth.”
“I just figured it’d be safer if we travel with him. We don’t need to meet up with scavengers.”
“You seem to forget, Ebenezer Chase, that I ain’t going to Dallas. My trail ends in Vicksburg.”
“I guess that’s as far as Petey and me’ll go, too,” Luansy said.
“No, you ain’t. You ain’t gonna watch me kill . . .” Zeb bit off the words. “You and your little brother’ll be safer in Dallas than in Vicksburg. Trust me. You’ll be that much farther from your pa, and Vicksburg ain’t no place for no young ’un. City’s full of sickness. Always full of sickness. My brother told me that, so did Sergeant Major . . . well, it don’t matter none. Fever. Yellow fever. Folks dying all the time there. You go on to Dallas.”
“What about Comanche Indians?” Petey said.
Ebenezer chuckled. “Ain’t no Indians in Dallas, Petey. It’s civilized.” At least, that’s what he hoped.
Charley Prescott had awakened, somehow managing to pull himself to a seated position. He snorted and spit, then said, “What’s that you’s sayin’?” He picked up his jug and shook it, only to find it empty. “Dallas? Civilized?” He chuckled. “Texicans don’t like to be called that, no, sir. Ain’t no Indians there. Well, no wild and savage ones, but them Texicans, they be wilder and more savage than Nathan Bedford Forrest hisself. Major Hall, he told us what the folks in Dallas done back when the war had just started, maybe a bit before. He said there was a fire. Burned up a lot of the town, and folks just natural-like said the slaves was behind it all. So they hung three of ’em. And whipped every slave in the city.” He spit again. “Wish I could have been there to see that.” Somehow, he managed to find his feet and, unbuttoning his trousers, staggered off into the woods.
“Won’t be no civilization for colored folks till Master Abraham brings the jubilee,” Ebenezer whispered.
For a couple of minutes, until Charley Prescott stumbled back, and fell onto his bedroll, they just stared at the fire, listening to the flames crackle. Even little Petey kept quiet.
* * * * *
The road became even more congested. The temperature kept rising until the air became muggy as they churned through the muddy road, Prescott whipping and cursing the span of mules, Zeb and Ebenezer riding in front, Petey and Luansy following the wagon.
When they reached the cut-off to Vicksburg, Ebenezer reined up, and pointed to the sign. “This is it. Sign says Vicksburg’s that way.”
Zeb stopped his horse.
Prescott halted the wagon. “What’s the matter?” Charley yelled from his seat.
“You can’t do this,” Ebenezer whispered.
“Yes, I can,” Zeb said. “You ride on with Prescott. You find your wife, your baby girl.” He pointed toward Luansy and her brother. “You look after them.”
“But I’m supposed to be your slave.”
Zeb wheeled his horse, and walked it back to the wagon, drawing a handful of script from the saddlebag, offering them to Charley Prescott. “Mister Prescott,” he said, “I have business in Vicksburg. I reckon that’s enough money to cover passage across the Mississippi River.”
“Don’t know why you want to go to that city, boy,” Prescott said.
“I’m honor bound,” Zeb told him. “Need to pay a call on an old comrade. It’s my duty.” He looked over at Ebenezer, sitting his horse in the middle of the road, and called out: “You mind Mister Prescott, Ebenezer!”
Prescott shoved the money in his pocket, and shifted a quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other. He didn’t say a word, just stared at Zeb.
“I’ll catch up.” Zeb thought to add, “Might be a while.”
Another wagon was coming up the road, the driver yelling for them to move on or get off the road.
Prescott spit at a fly on one of the mule’s rumps, grumbled—“Suit yourself”—and whipped the lines. The wagon moved on.
Luansy Taylor didn’t. “Will you?” she asked.
“Huh?” Zeb twisted in the saddle.
“Will you catch up with us?”
“Sure.” With a wink, Zeb hooked a thumb at Ebenezer. “Me and Ebenezer’s traveled so much together, I don’t know how I could get along without him.” He smiled, but it was a sad smile. The driver of the wagon behind them cursed again, and Zeb swallowed down something in his throat, or maybe it was his heart. He turned the horse and loped down the Vicksburg cut-off, never looking back.
For half a mile, Ebenezer rode alongside the wagon, but his heart was sagging, and his lip trembled. “Mister Prescott,” he blurted out, “I gots to tell Mister Zeb something.” He turned his mount, kicking it into a furious lope, and rode toward the cut-off, hearing Prescott curse him as lazy, worthless, and disobedient.
* * * * *
“What are you doing?” Zeb demanded. He had reined in his mare, and he was sounding meaner than a cottonmouth just out of hibernation.
“Figured you might need some help,” Ebenezer said.
“I don’t. Get on back with them others.”
Bells started ringing all through town.
“How you going to find that woman that Sergeant DeVere was courting? You can’t read any street signs. You need me.”
“You need your wife and daughter, Ebenezer.”
Gunshots popped, keeping time with the bells. Both boys looked down the road, curious. Bells pealed. More now. More shots, too.
“Must be a fire,” Ebenezer offered.
“That don’t explain the musket fire,” Zeb said.
“Zeb,” Ebenezer said, “you don’t have to kill that man.”
Zeb took a deep breath. “Yeah, I do, Ebenezer. Go on back to your family.” He kicked his horse into a walk. Ebenezer caught up with him, but Zeb wouldn’t even look at the runaway slave. They rode down the road, which soon became a street of busted-up red bricks. Their horses had to pick their way around vicious holes.
As they rode into the city, the ringing bells grew louder. In front of a brick church, a preacher and a woman sat on the doorsteps, crying. Inside, blue-coated soldiers kept pulling the bell rope, cheering. Another soldier, a white-mustached officer, staggered down the street, a bottle in his left hand, a revolver in his right. He would stop, take a pull from the bottle, point the pistol in the air, jerk the trigger, and let out a loud hurrah. Other soldiers came trotting down the street.
Zeb and Ebenezer reined their horses to a stop.
“Mister Quirk!” the man leading the trotting soldiers, a thin man in a bummer cap, called out. “What is the meaning of this?”
The white-mustached man drained the bottle, threw it against the church’s brick wall, pointed the pistol, cocked it, pulled the trigger, but only the percussion cap fired. The man dropped the revolver to his side, and slurred: “Celebrating, Colonel.”
“You can celebrate in the guardhouse, Mister Quirk.” Two wiry men with the colonel suddenly yanked Quirk by the arms, and dragged him down the road, while the colonel, who didn’t look much older than Zeb or Ebenezer, went to the church. He swept off his hat, apologized to the preacher and the woman, and yelled and yelled until the bells stopped pea
ling. Finally three soldiers came shuffling out onto the church landing.
“General Lee may have surrendered in Virginia, gentlemen,” the colonel said, “but until we receive word that General Taylor has turned in his saber, the war in Mississippi continues. To your posts, soldiers, or to the guardhouse to share a cell with Lieutenant Quirk. Now!” He apologized again to the elderly couple, and marched off behind the three reluctant troopers.
“Colonel . . .” Zeb said, his voice breaking, as the soldiers marched past.
The officer stopped, and stared at Zeb.
“What’s all this about General Lee, sir?”
The colonel studied the two boys a long while before answering. “General Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to General Grant at some courthouse in Virginia last week.” He started off, but Zeb called at him again. The colonel turned, again staring sharply.
“I’m looking for a soldier named Ben DeVere.”
“What business do you have with him?”
“Personal. Do you know him?”
“No. What unit?”
“16th Wisconsin.”
The colonel shook his head. “They haven’t been in Vicksburg for months. They got to fight . . . unlike me.” Bitterness laced his words.
“How about an Elizabeth Gentry? Comes from a fine family somewhere in this cesspool of a city.”
“The name is not familiar to me. Good day,” he said, and walked off.
Chapter Fifteen
His entire body trembled in the saddle. Zeb knew Ebenezer was saying something, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hear him. Instead, Zeb jerked his head savagely toward that old couple sobbing and clutching themselves on the church’s steps, and barked out some command. He had to shout twice before the old woman looked up.
“The Gentry family!” Zeb repeated. “Know where they live? Elizabeth Gentry. Her and her folks.”
The woman stared as if struck dumb.
“Elizabeth Gentry. She’d be . . . I don’t know . . . nineteen years old or thereabouts. You heard of her?”
Her head slowly shook.
“Heard of any Gentrys?”
“No,” the old man croaked. “Leave us be. Our nation has been torn asunder.”
Zeb swore.
The old woman spoke like she was living a nightmare. “Our two sons died for naught.”
Yanking the reins, the mare fighting the bit, Zeb managed to turn his horse, and headed down the road.
Ebenezer called his name, and pulled up beside him. “Zeb, what the Sam Hill are you doing?” he asked.
“Hunting Ben DeVere.”
“But Zeb.” Ebenezer’s voice sounded bewildered. “General Lee surrendered.”
“So what?”
“The war’s over.”
“You heard that colonel. Said until General Taylor gives up, the war’s still going on in Mississippi.”
Spotting a young black man, head shaved clean, carrying a bucket of milk out of a barn, Zeb kicked the mare into a trot. That got him away from Ebenezer, but not for long, because he quickly caught up, and continued his argument.
“You know better than that, Zeb Hogan,” he said. “The war’s over. Or will be.”
“Good for you. You’re free, I reckon. Now leave me be.”
“But, Zeb. You don’t have to go through with this. You don’t have to find Ben DeVere.”
“Yeah, I do.” He had caught up with the young Negro with the milk bucket. “Hey! You there!” The startled man almost dropped the bucket. Zeb said, “I’m looking for the Gentry family. Girl about nineteen. Named Elizabeth. She was smitten by a sorry excuse for a Union sergeant named Ben DeVere . . . a drunkard, a traitor, a disgrace to his uniform. You know where the Gentrys live?”
“No, boss. No, sir, I ain’t heard of ’em folks afore.” He hurried on down the street, milk splashing over the brim of the bucket.
“Zeb!” Ebenezer again.
Starting to sound like my conscience, Zeb thought to himself, but slowed, tugging on the reins. “What?” He felt as though he would begin sobbing at any second. He had come this close, this far. All he had to do was find Ben DeVere, and kill him. That louse had to be somewhere in this city.
“Zeb,” Ebenezer said. “The war’s over. All but over. You don’t have to kill . . .”
“I done told you, I do. Sergeant Major Engstrand ordered me. We drawed lots.”
“But the war’s over. They’ll hang you if . . .”
“Go on, Ebenezer!” Tears streamed down Zeb’s face. “The war’s over, you say. Don’t that mean nothing to you? You’re free. Your wife and baby’s free. Go on to Texas. Go on. Leave me be . . .”
He didn’t hear Ebenezer’s words, but later, much later, Zeb Hogan would recall what the slave had said, and he would picture Ebenezer’s face clearly, the sadness in his eyes, would hear that voice so haunting, the words Ebenezer told him before turning his horse and loping off, leaving Zeb to his vengeance.
I’m sorry for you, Zeb Hogan. I’ll pray for you.
No longer could Zeb see, he was crying so hard. He gripped the horn, leaned forward. He neither saw nor heard Ebenezer ride off, but when Zeb finally managed to regain his composure, he was sitting in the saddle, alone on a rough street, surrounded by the ruins of what once had been a prosperous city.
* * * * *
Four hours passed before Zeb located the Gentry home. Two carpenters had given him directions to Grove Street, and he found the place as church bells rang out and gunshots echoed across the city. That colonel, Zeb reasoned, must have given up trying to keep his troops from celebrating. Zeb should have been celebrating, too, but couldn’t bring himself to feel any joy. Not until he had killed Ben DeVere. Now, getting closer to fulfilling his orders, Zeb’s stomach twisted into a hundred knots as he climbed the brick steps, found the knocker, and gave it five solid raps.
The house was made of red brick, the top windows busted out, the upper story checkerboarded with missing shingles. In the sprawling front yard, only two of a dozen oak trees hadn’t been chopped down, blown up, or uprooted. He had spotted smoke rising from two of ten chimneys, so somebody must be home, yet no one answered. He knocked again.
Still nothing, but Zeb heard something behind the big brick mansion, so he walked down the steps and headed toward the carriage house. A Negro man carried a bucket toward the well house. Spying each other at the same time, they both stopped. The Negro lowered the bucket, waited.
“This the Gentry home?” Zeb asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Elizabeth Gentry?”
He just stared.
“Does Elizabeth Gentry live here?” Zeb raised his voice. He felt his body trembling again.
“Miss Beth? She’s . . . she’s dead.”
Zeb took a step back, unbelieving.
“You all right, sir?”
The Negro’s voice snapped Zeb out of his trance. He must have nodded, perhaps even said something, because the Negro resumed his walk toward the well house, leaving Zeb standing like an oaf, not knowing what to do. Quickly Zeb recovered his senses and chased down the servant about the time he reached the outbuilding.
“There was a Federal soldier she had taken to . . . Sergeant Ben DeVere. You remember him?”
Now the Negro looked nervous. His head bobbed slightly, but he didn’t speak.
“Is he in Vicksburg? When did this Gentry girl die? Is Ben DeVere in town? Speak up, man.” Zeb realized that he had grabbed the Negro’s muslin shirt, was shaking him. Releasing his grip, Zeb stepped away. The black man just picked up the bucket and hurried back toward the carriage house. Zeb started after him, but another voice stopped him, and he turned.
Standing in front of the back door to the main house stood a woman in her forties, maybe older, a white woman, her black hair pinned up, wearing a tea gown of copper taffeta trimmed in black. A black ribbon was tied around each arm. When Zeb walked toward her, she took a step back, using the screen door she held open as sort of a sh
ield. Something about Zeb frightened her, and he stopped, tried to control his voice as he said, “Ma’am, I’m looking for Sergeant Ben DeVere.”
“What do you want with him?”
Maybe Zeb detected something in her voice, because he decided this time not to lie. Instead he spoke matter-of-factly. “I mean to kill him.”
She stepped back inside the house, but held the door open. “Come inside,” she said.
* * * * *
“I don’t know what Beth ever saw in that wretched, wretched man.” Mrs. Gentry placed her china cup in the saucer and dabbed her eyes with a silk handkerchief. Her voice was rich, sweeter than molasses and just as thick, but her eyes alternated between a dark sadness and a deeper anger. “I’m glad my Windermere, my late husband, Beth’s father, did not live to see her disgrace the Gentry name so.” Her eyes found Zeb’s. “Windermere died during the siege. Yellow fever.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He didn’t really mean it. He just wanted her to say where Ben DeVere might be found.
“Why do you want to kill him, young man?”
Zeb told her, leaving nothing out, keeping his account plain and truthful, and she never once blinked while Zeb laid out everything Ben DeVere had done. How he’d betrayed both the uniform of the 16th Wisconsin and the South Carolina Reserves after the Rebs had galvanized him out of the Florence Stockade. How he’d gotten Sergeant Major Engstrand killed. How it was up to him, Zeb Hogan, to seek out retribution. Why he told her everything, he had no idea. She was a fine Southern lady, and Southern ladies didn’t hold much truck with Union soldiers, and Zeb was one. Had been one, at least.
“I see,” she finally said.
Zeb’s head bobbed. He wet his cracked lips. He asked her, “Where might I find him, ma’am?”
She sipped her tea like they were talking about their parson’s Sunday sermon.
“He came back here last November,” she eventually told him. “Stole my Beth away from me. I begged her not to go, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I warned her . . . God love her . . . that this beau of hers was no good.” She lowered her voice to a dark whisper. “He pulled many a cork, young man, many a cork. Windermere never touched intoxicating spirits.”
South by Southwest Page 12