American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  Suddenly fifty yards in front of them, one of the girls tripped and fell to the ground with a cry. Thinking she would jump back up, the other girls hurried on. But she had twisted her ankle and was slow to her feet. Travis Durkin was the first to reach her and reined in. She struggled up to her knees and glanced toward him paralyzed with fright.

  “Look here, boys,” he called back. “We got one of them… didn’t even have to run her down. And you’s wrong, Max—she’s mighty fetching, this one is.”

  The girl stood and tried to hobble away.

  “Hey, where you think you’re going, pretty nigger girl!” yelled Durkin, urging his horse forward again. He cantered past her and turned back to block her way. “You ain’t trying to run from Travis, are you? You and me’s got some getting acquainted to do.”

  In terrified despair, again the girl attempted to get around him. By now the others had caught up and formed a circle with their horses to block her way and prevent her taking more than a step or two in any direction. Slowly Durkin dismounted.

  “Please, massa,” the girl pleaded. “Please don’t hurt me… please just let me go.”

  “I ain’t going to do you no harm, nigger girl,” said Durkin, walking toward her. “You and me’s going to have a little fun together, then I’ll let you go like you say.”

  “It’s my turn after you!” laughed Cardiff where he sat on his horse.

  “Go get your own!” laughed Durkin, tossing his head back in the direction of the wood. “This one’s mine. There’s plenty for the rest of you.”

  “They’re already gone,” said Cardiff, glancing over his shoulder where the other girls were disappearing among the trees. “Besides, that’s just about the prettiest nigger girl I ever saw.”

  The girl cowered back, trembling, her eyes wide with terror as Durkin took off his gray jacket. He now unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the ground, glancing around at his companions with a wink and grin whose meaning was unmistakable. He took hold of the girl’s arm and began pulling her away through the ring of horses.

  “All right, boys,” he said, “me and this pretty little thing want to be alone for a spell. What you do about the others is up to you, but you just give me ten minutes or so.”

  He half dragged the girl toward a thicket of wild shrubbery thirty or forty yards away. She cast an imploring look back. But no help would come from Durkin’s friends. They sat and watched, laughing and coaxing their leader with lewd remarks and shouts.

  But before the two were out of sight, suddenly one of the horses jumped into motion and galloped away from the group. In less than three seconds Durkin saw its huge side blocking his own way.

  “Let her go, Durkin,” said the last voice he would have expected to oppose him.

  Durkin looked up, shocked to find himself staring down the barrel of a Confederate-issue rifle.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Davidson?” he said.

  “I told you to let her go.”

  “Or what… you’ll shoot me?”

  “I hope we don’t have to find out.”

  “Come on, Davidson—what’s she to you?”

  “Nothing. But I’m not going to stand by while you rape her.”

  “You think you can stop me?”

  “You once called me a sissy. Well, maybe I am and maybe I’m not. But I know how to use this gun.”

  “You intend to kill me over a nigger girl? You’d hang for it.”

  “Maybe. But that wouldn’t do you any good. You’d still be dead.”

  “You don’t have the guts!” spat Durkin.

  “Can you take that chance?”

  Durkin hesitated momentarily. A quick glance at Thomas’s quivering hand and then into his eyes revealed as much fear as determination. Durkin saw that one false step could easily make the gun go off and blow a hole in his head.

  Sensing her opportunity, the girl yanked her arm free. Durkin glanced toward her and started to react. But the end of the gun was still less than three feet away and he dared not make another move in her direction.

  “Run, miss!” said Thomas. “Get out of here. He won’t hurt you now.”

  The girl hesitated only another second, cast one look full of silent emotion up at Thomas where he sat holding his rifle, then dashed away, not quite as fast as she had been running before but with surprising speed on her weak ankle.

  Durkin looked back up at Thomas with hate in his eyes.

  “You’re a fool, Davidson,” he said. “You’re a complete coward in battle, afraid of your own shadow. You’re about the most worthless soldier I ever seen. Then you pull an idiotic thing like this. What now? You gonna shoot me? She’s gone. What you gonna do now?”

  Thomas waited another few seconds to give the girl more time, then slowly withdrew his rifle. As he did he glanced after her.

  Durkin sprang toward him with uncanny speed, grabbed his booted foot from its stirrup and thrust it upward. The next second Thomas thudded onto his back, his rifle bouncing to the ground five feet away.

  “Come on, boys—get him!” cried Durkin. Before Thomas could recover his wind from the fall, Durkin fell on him in a rage and began pummeling him with his fists and knees.

  Relishing nothing more than an uneven fight with a helpless victim, the four others galloped to the scene and leapt off their horses to join the fray. They were weaklings and followers, motivated not by reason, not by decision, not by conscience, not by right, but only by that great societal evil by which sin is perpetuated through the ages—going along with the cruelest bully of a crowd. None would have dared oppose Travis Durkin. In their fear of nonconformity, each sacrificed his own individuality on the altar of cowardice. Only one among them had taken strides toward manhood that day, and he soon lay unconscious at their feet.

  The girl whose purity Thomas had defended heard the vicious attack behind her and glanced back. Seeing that no one was chasing her, or even looking in her direction now that their lust had given way to hatred, and knowing that she could never hope to outrun their horses, she quickly looked about for a place to hide. And thus it was that from beneath a fallen log in a damp ditch surrounded by scratching brambles and thick green shrubbery, she listened in horror to the terrible sounds of the beating.

  It did not take long. The thud of boots into Thomas’s stomach and side and back, the relentless whack of fists against his face and chin and head quickly silenced his groans into oblivion.

  Gradually the onslaught ceased. The small mob stood back, panting and sweating as they looked down on Thomas’s broken form and bleeding face. No one said a word, a pang or two now first suggesting itself to their dull consciences that they might have gone too far.

  “Is he dayed?” asked a sixteen-year-old Mississippi boy in a thick timid drawl after a few seconds, the youngest of the group, doing his best to hide the quaver in his voice.

  “No, he ain’t dead, Shorty,” said Durkin, trying to sound more confident than he felt himself. “He’s just banged up a little. The fool just got what was coming to him—he should have known better.”

  Again the small group was silent. Most of them had liked Thomas and hadn’t known why Travis Durkin had had it out for him from the beginning. But when the moment of truth had come, they had collectively taken their stand with the bully.

  “What we gonna do with him, Travis?” asked Cardiff. “Can’t just leave him here like this.”

  Durkin thought a minute. “No, I don’t reckon we can,” he said scratching his chin. “First we gotta get our story straight. You all saw what happened—he pulled his rifle on me and threatened to kill me. It was self-defense. I was just protecting myself and you all was helping me. He went crazy—and we done what we had to.”

  A few nods went around the group. It was more or less what had happened. No consciences dared speak.

  “All right, then… somebody go get his horse. Let’s lug him over his saddle and get back to camp.”

  “Captain ain’t gonna like it,” said youn
g Mississippi, “us brangin’ hiyum in like thayat.”

  “Shut up, Shorty!” snapped Durkin. “You just mind your own business and keep your mouth shut and make sure you don’t end up the same way.”

  “What if he talks?” asked Cardiff.

  “Course he’ll talk!” rejoined Durkin testily. “Who they gonna believe—him or the rest of us? What’s he gonna say, that he stuck up for a nigger girl and threatened to kill me? Now, Max, go get his horse… we gotta get going.”

  Five minutes later, Thomas’s form draped over the saddle with his head and arms dangling from one side, legs from the other, the small band of soldiers began riding back in the direction where the rest of their regiment was encamped.

  “Hey, look… here comes Sergeant Beaumont. He ain’t gonna like this neither.”

  Cameron Beaumont rode up and surveyed the scene.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, nodding to the horse with the unconscious form draped over it.

  “Private Davidson, Sergeant,” replied Durkin.

  “What happened?”

  “He went a little crazy… pulled a gun on me.”

  Cameron took the information in but said nothing further. He reined his mount around and rode back toward the camp with the others.

  From the hollow where she had been watching and listening, and obeying an inner compulsion she could neither ignore nor explain, the form of a young black woman crept out from under the fallen log of her hiding place, and, keeping well behind and out of sight, stealthily followed the six horses.

  When Thomas began to come to himself, the first sensation he was aware of was a dull ache in the vicinity of his chest. He was hardly aware at first of the bandages covering half his face and one eye. As consciousness gradually returned, he tried to roll over and sit up. Sharp pain exploded from his three or four broken ribs. He winced softly and lay back down.

  It was dark. A campfire burned twenty feet away. Everyone was asleep except the sentry on guard. He drew in two or three breaths, almost as painful as trying to sit up. Slowly the events of the day returned to him. With consciousness returned his memory and he instinctively realized it would be best to keep silent and not call attention to himself. He did his best not to make a sound.

  For the rest of the night he lay in agony, dozing occasionally, but in too much pain to sleep. He was dreadfully thirsty but did not see his canteen anywhere and dared not speak up or try to move. Morning finally came, though with it came no relief to his aching body. Someone brought him some coffee and breakfast but mostly the rest of the regiment ignored him. Travis Durkin had obviously been talking.

  Midway through the morning, Captain Young approached. Thomas looked up.

  “You got yourself hurt pretty good, Davidson,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Thomas solemnly.

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Just a little ruckus with Durkin, sir. He obviously got the best of it.”

  “He says you pulled your gun on him. That true?”

  “I suppose it is, sir.”

  “He says there were some niggers causing them trouble and you took the niggers’ side. That how you see it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you don’t want to tell me about it.”

  “Travis and the others’d just say I was lying, Captain. I don’t want to cause any more trouble. I got beat up for what I did, and if it’s all the same to you I’d just rather try to forget about it.”

  “I’ve been talking to Sergeant Beaumont. He says he knows you from home. He says you were always a troublemaker… that you come from a family of troublemakers.”

  A surge of anger almost brought an unwise reply to Thomas’s lips, but he managed to swallow it.

  The captain drew in a breath and thought a moment. “We’ll be pulling out of here tomorrow. A Yankee unit’s been spotted in the hills west of here. We don’t know if it’s been sent out from Chattanooga or is part of Grant’s advance. We’re going to swing south and try to surprise them. You’re lucky to have a day to recuperate. But you’ll have to mount a saddle in the morning and keep up with the rest of us. I can’t keep a cripple on. You be able to handle your gun?”

  “I’ll manage, sir.”

  “And pointed toward the enemy, not your own regiment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, then, Davidson, you get rested up—I don’t want any more trouble or I’ll bring charges against you myself if Durkin doesn’t. I can’t have a bad apple spoiling discipline in my unit.”

  Thomas closed his eyes and laid his head back down with a sigh. How did he get himself into such a mess? Why did he volunteer for this idiotic war anyway? Now all of a sudden he was in trouble, and hated by everyone in his unit for the same reason everyone hated his father—for standing up for Negroes.

  For years he had despised his father for his idealistic values. Now look at him—he was in the same boat! His comrades walked by but kept their distance, glancing his way with mocking stares and whispered comments. Travis Durkin had managed to poison the entire unit against him.

  Minute by minute, the hours crept by and the day slowly passed.

  Thomas talked to no one, the pain in his ribs and shoulders and head worsened. He began to wonder if he actually could mount a horse like he’d said. The idea of bouncing along in a saddle was too excruciating to think about. His ribs would never heal in the saddle. But if he didn’t ride, the captain would probably put him in one of the wagons with the sick and wounded, or, like he had said, bring charges against him and have him court-martialed.

  The afternoon gave way to evening, the evening to night. Wood was added to the several campfires around the encampment. Slowly the regiment settled into small groups talking quietly around them, most of the men sipping from a tin cup of coffee and a few from bottles they had managed to smuggle in among their things.

  The night advanced. Still worried what the morning would bring, gradually Thomas drifted into a fitful sleep.

  Eighteen

  Two young men’s voices were speaking in low tones across the dying embers of a campfire.

  “…trouble ever since I’ve known him,” said one.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked the other. “Are you saying you’d be willing to look the other way if I finished what I started out there?”

  “…can’t be that obvious… better way of taking care of this kind…”

  “You got a plan?”

  “…just say it won’t go too well for him next time we run into the Yankees.”

  Neither of the two knew that they were not as alone as they thought, or that in the stillness of the night their voices could be heard at the edge of the woods next to the camp only a short distance away.

  Thomas awoke abruptly. Something had disturbed him. The sky was pitch black and silent. But smoldering embers remained in the few fires scattered throughout the camp.

  He lay still and listened. He sensed a presence close by him… a presence of something… someone.

  Suddenly warm breath disturbed the back of his neck. Almost the same instant warm lips pressed against one of his ears. He started up in fright, but a hand on his shoulder restrained him.

  “Massa,” whispered a girl’s voice so soft he could barely hear it, “you’ve got to get away.”

  He tried to turn his head, but again a firm but gentle hand kept him motionless. “Massa,” said the girl, “you’re in danger. They’re going to kill you—tomorrow, they said. I heard them myself. Please, massa, try to get up… you’ve got to get away.”

  By now Thomas was wide awake. He knew well enough who was speaking into his ear. The girl’s speech was unmistakable. But he had no leisure to wonder about it. The important question was what she was doing here! If someone woke up and found a slave girl in the middle of the camp, they would kill her without hesitation. She was the one in danger, not him!

  He managed to roll partway onto his uninjured side and turn his head. The sentry
on duty was nowhere nearby, and thankfully no one was sleeping near him. He peered out of his one unbandaged eye. He could just barely make out the outline of the girl’s form against the glow of the dying fire.

  “You’ve got to get out of here!” he whispered frantically. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but if anyone sees you, they’ll kill you. What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you, massa. After what they did, I was afraid you were hurt or dead. I had to try to help.”

  “But why… why me?”

  “Because you saved me, massa,” said the girl. “You kept that man from hurting me. I had to help you.”

  “You’re in the middle of a Confederate camp,” insisted Thomas. “If they find you, it will be worse than it was out there—for both of us. Go away… you’ve got to go away.”

  “Not without you, massa. I can’t let them kill you, not after what you did for me.”

  Thomas sighed inaudibly and thought a few seconds. The girl may have been pretty, as he saw again even in the dim light, but she was a stubborn one! He had to get her out of here! They were both in too much danger.

  With great effort, and careful not to groan, he struggled from under his blanket and to his knees, then slowly inched away from the fire and his sleeping comrades. He had had to go off to the woods a couple times during the previous day. Hopefully if the sentry happened along and saw his blanket empty he would assume that he was obeying nature’s summons and wouldn’t go looking for him.

  He crept along slowly on his hands and knees for two or three minutes. The ribs on the left side of his chest screamed in pain with the pressure from his hand on the ground. He knew the girl was following beside him, but he heard not a sound. Her step was as stealthy as an Indian’s.

  When he judged himself far enough away, he stopped and tried to stand. Immediately two hands grasped his and helped gently ease him to his feet.