by Hugh Ashton
“So, Nigra? Whattya doing with a nice little white girl, all alone behind the depot, then? Holding her hand? Wanted to hold something else of hers, diddya?” Before Christopher could answer, a fist thudded into the side of his neck, knocking him off his feet.
“I was only trying to—” he started to say, struggling to sit up, but a heavy boot in the pit of his stomach cut him off.
“No excuses, boy. Hey, fellas, come and help me. We’re gonna string us up an uppity Nigra tonight. But before we do that …” Another vicious kick, this time aimed at Christopher’s face, which caught him sickeningly on the cheekbone. Christopher heard something crack inside his head.
“You can’t do that, Lamar,” objected one of the good old boys with Fitchman. “That there’s your aunt’s Nigra.”
“So she’s kin to me. Means I can do what I damn’ well please,” kicking him again, this time in the ribs. Christopher had the sense to lie limp and stay still, but the kicking and beating continued. He had no idea how long it went on. He forced himself to think of happy memories, music he loved, good times he had enjoyed. He recited the Lord’s Prayer to himself, and concentrated hard on the parts where he asked God to deliver him from evil and to forgive those who sin against us. He lost consciousness briefly once or twice from the pain in his face and body, and two fingers of his left hand were in screaming agony, but he was almost beyond caring by this point, and his body refused to react to the blows that Fitchman and one of his friends continued to deal him.
At length he heard, “Fetch a rope, Slim. Time to string him up.” Trying hard not to be seen moving, Christopher opened one eye slightly, and painfully moved his head slowly. He saw the largest of Fitchman’s friends detach himself from the group and move towards the depot.
As he left, a tall man in the uniform of the Confederate army, a rifle slung over his shoulder, stepped out of the shadows. The town had been full of strangers in uniform over the past few days, as troop-trains had been coming and going through the town. “Fancy a spot of help?” asked the stranger in an accent that Christopher couldn’t place.
“Why, sure. Always glad to have the military help out,” replied Fitchman, swinging his hand up in a drunken parody of a salute.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” replied the newcomer, coldly. “I was talking to that poor chappie there,” jerking his thumb at Christopher. “Except that he doesn’t seem to be talking much right now, so I suppose I’d better do his talking for him. Four against one doesn’t seem fair play, what? Even if the four of you are half-monkey. Thought I might come along and even things up, don’t you know?”
“Why you Nigra-loving son of a—”
“Don’t say it.” The rifle had somehow slipped off the man’s shoulder and was pointing straight at Fitchman. “Slim? That your name, fat boy?” he called to the man who’d gone for the rope. “Over here where I can see you.” The muzzle of the rifle swung slightly in Slim’s direction. Slim hurried back and took his place beside Fitchman. It wasn’t so much the rifle in the man’s hands, it was the way he was holding it, which told you he was someone who had used a rifle before, and the look on his face, which told you he was prepared to use it again.
“Over towards the light, all of you potato-brains, where I can get a better look at you.” The rifle barrel moved again, and Fitchman and his friends moved towards the light. “Don’t even think of doing it, monkey boy,” to Fitchman, whose body seemed poised to make a rush at the speaker. “I don’t shoot to kill people, I shoot to hurt them. Even if one of you manages to get to me, you and at least one of your friends are going to wake up every morning for the rest of your life, screaming in pain, and cursing the day you tried something stupid against me. That’s better,” as Fitchman’s body relaxed. “And just in case,” the soldier added, fixing a bayonet to the end of his rifle faster than their eyes could follow, “you have any silly ideas about bullets, maybe cold sharp steel is easier for your slow brains to understand.”
“You stinkin’ bastard!” One of Fitchman’s friends made a move toward the tall stranger, drawing his Bowie knife as he lunged forward. Christopher couldn’t quite make out how it had all happened, but suddenly the rifle had reversed itself in the tall man’s hands, with the butt first smashing upwards into his opponent’s groin and then coming down with a sickening crack onto the right knee. With a tight scream, the man went down, dropping the knife, and looked up to see the bayonet’s point inches away from his eyes.
“Kneecap broken, I hope,” said the tall stranger, with a hint of satisfaction. “Jolly painful, you know. Never properly heal and all that. Now, which of you boys is going to drag away your fallen hero? Probably take two of you, he looks a bit large,” reflectively prodding his victim’s stomach lightly with the tip of his bayonet.
“You dirty skunk!” exclaimed Fitchman. “Slim and Jerry, you’d best be taking Mikey.” The other two moved forward, under the single watching eye of the rifle muzzle.
“Where do you want us to take him?” asked Slim, half to Fitchman and half to the stranger.
“If it were up to me, I’d just put him in the sewer where he belongs,” replied the stranger. “But you seem to have some sort of sentimental attachment to dumb animals, so you’d better take him home or something. Take that knife thing with you as well.”
The groaning Mikey was helped to his feet, and half-carried, half-dragged towards the town center. “And as for you, Mr. Fitchman—”
“How the hell do you know my name?” stammered Fitchman.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” replied the stranger, taking Fitchman’s billfold out of his tunic pocket, and holding it up. “It must have slipped out of your pocket at some time while you were taking your exercise before I picked it up just now.”
“Huh?”
“Let me explain a few things to you, old boy.”
“And if I don’t want to listen?”
“Oh, I shall shoot you,” replied the stranger, cheerfully. “First in one knee, then in the other. And then, if I’m feeling kind, I shall shoot you one more time in the stomach. With luck you’ll last for a week or two that way. Of course, if I’m not generous, I won’t shoot you a third time, and you can live for years as a cripple in constant pain.”
“You’re a damned devil!” burst out Fitchman. The other just grinned. It was a highly unpleasant grin that showed a particularly violent and sadistic side of its wearer, and Fitchman involuntarily retreated a few steps under its force.
The stranger jerked the rifle muzzle in Fitchman’s general direction. “Now take this wallet, there’s a good chap, and let’s get moving to the station. I’ll explain to you on the way there. Come on, old man. We don’t have all night.” He grabbed Fitchman’s arm in what seemed to be a particularly painful grip, judging by the reaction, and the two moved out of sight together.
-o-
Christopher lay in the half-dark, aching all over. He was sure his face was badly cut, and when he moved his tongue around his mouth, he could feel one missing tooth, and several loose ones. He was sure that his cheekbone was broken in at least one place, and two fingers of his left hand were swollen, probably broken, as well. He painfully and slowly dragged himself to a sitting position and propped himself up against the depot wall. The wail of a train’s whistle grew louder as it approached the depot, then he heard the sound of the train itself as it drew closer and stopped.
After a minute or two he could make out the sounds of the departing train, and a few minutes after that, his mysterious rescuer re-appeared, alone, with an open smile on his face.
“All packed up and on his travels. How d’you do, by the way? Don’t answer if you don’t feel like it, and, my word, it doesn’t look as if you do.”
Though the words came with some difficulty, Christopher managed a few words of thanks.
“Not at all, old chap. The pleasure’s all mine. Have you got a name you feel like giving me?”
“Christopher. Christopher Pole, sir.”
&nbs
p; “No need for the ‘sir’. Name’s Brian, by the way. Now, let’s get you home. Which way?”
Christopher pointed. “Good lad. Now, then,” draping one of Christopher’s arms round his shoulders, and lifting him from the ground with no apparent effort. Christopher bit his lip to stop himself from crying out as a pain shot through his side. “Off we go.”
When they reached Miss Justin’s house, Brian wanted to ring the front doorbell, but Christopher would have none of it, insisting that they went around to the back of the house to the slave quarters.
“All right, but I’d like to talk to the man of the house about this.”
“Lady,” corrected Christopher. “Miss Justin’s the lady of the house. There’s no man.”
“Oh, I see. Well, what are you going to tell her? Have you seen what your face looks like, old man? She’s going to notice, you know. Better if I do the talking, don’t you think?”
They went into Christopher’s shack, and Christopher lit a kerosene lamp before looking at himself in the small square of mirror hanging on the wall. He winced at the sight.
“See what I mean?” said the other. “Now let’s get you some hot water and get you cleaned up.”
“No hot water here. Only in the house,” replied Christopher.
“Then that settles it. You stay here, and I’ll go to the house and explain and get the water. Then I’ll come back with the water and clean you up.”
Brian left the shack and went up to the back of the house, and knocked on the back door. It was opened by a young black woman.
“What can we do for you?” Cautiously, but still with a certain defiance.
“Christopher’s been hurt. Not badly, I think, but he needs some hot water and some cloths to clean himself up before he can come into the house.”
“Who is it, Betsy?” came a voice from the front of the house.
“It’s a soldier, Miss Henry. He says Christopher’s hurt.”
“Oh my Lord,” came the reply. “I’m coming to see.”
Some twenty seconds later, Brian found himself looking at a tiny gray-haired middle-aged lady who hardly seemed to come up to his waist. Her dark eyes were full of concern.
“Now, young man. What in the world is happening? Where is Christopher?”
“Christopher was attacked and beaten by four men. I stopped them and brought him back home. He’s in the hut back there, and he looks terrible, but I have a feeling that he looks worse than he actually is. Before you see him, I really would like to make him a little more presentable.”
“Are you a doctor?”
Brian looked over her shoulder at the crucifix on the wall. “I have more experience than I should in binding up the wounds of my fellow men.”
“You have a strange accent to you, young man, and you use some mighty fine words. You’re not from these parts. Are you with the soldiers passing through on the trains?”
“Yes, I am. Now, I see that Betsy’s brought the hot water and some clean towels. Thank you, Betsy,” taking them. “Never fear, a restored Christopher will be with you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“He do talk awful queer,” he heard Betsy remark as he made his way back to the shack.
Christopher had removed most of his clothes and was examining himself all over when Brian walked in.
“Any serious damage, apart from your face?”
“Hurts here when I breathe.” Christopher pointed to a spot on his side. “And these hurt,” holding up his left hand.
“Let me see.” His hands probed. “Cracked rib or two, I shouldn’t wonder. We’ll strap you up in a bit. Just try not to laugh too much right now.”
Christopher smiled at this, in spite of himself.
“And those fingers are broken, I think. I’ll make a splint for them, but you should see a doctor. Fine, now hold still. Let’s get this mess fixed up first.”
Ten minutes later, Christopher looked a lot better, and felt well enough to walk to the house unaided. Miss Justin still turned pale at the sight of him as he walked into the screen porch.
“Oh, my poor Christopher! What happened? Who was it? Why did they do it?”
“I’ll answer what I can, since Christopher seems a bit shy about it. It was behind the railway station, and there were four men kicking and beating Christopher. They seemed to want to lynch him as well but I stepped in before they could get to that part. There were four of them, called Slim, Mikey and Jerry and …” he opened the billfold that he pulled out of his pocket, “a Mr. Lamar Fitchman.”
Miss Justin gasped. “That’s my nephew. The dirty, vicious low-down—I tell you, if I weren’t a lady, I’d use some strong language. Where is the filthy dog now?”
“On the train to Little Rock, Arkansas.”
“Why on earth would he go there?”
“I explained to him at the end of my gun that it was either there or Hell. He decided Little Rock was preferable. From what I’ve heard of the place, I’m not sure I’d trust his judgment on the matter, not wishing to cast aspersions on your family, but there you are. He left this money for Christopher,” removing a fat wad of bills from the billfold and throwing it on the table. “I’m keeping the wallet—it might be embarrassing if it was found with Christopher.”
“And why did they all do that, anyway?”
Christopher spoke through split lips. “I was helping the Childers girl get herself home and they thought—I don’t rightly know what they was thinking, Miss Justin.”
“I doubt if that bunch ever thought straight in their lives,” retorted Brian. “My guess is that they were looking for any excuse to kill you.” Christopher shuddered. “It’s the truth. If they’d really had a reason, they’d have been shouting it at you as they hit you. They didn’t do that. Trust me—I’ve seen men kill other men for no good reason and for good reasons, and I know what I’m talking about.” A bleak look passed over his face, to be replaced almost instantly by a charming smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch in less than an hour. We’re Savannah-bound, though I don’t suppose I should really be telling you that.”
“Well, how do I thank you, Mr …?” asked Miss Justin.
“Just address letters to me at my uncle in Richmond. Here, let me give you his address.” He reached in his uniform pocket for a notebook and a pencil, and scribbled a few lines on a page that he tore out and presented to Miss Justin. “Now if you’ll excuse me once again, all of you,” he bowed slightly in turn to Betsy, Christopher and Miss Justin, and was gone out of the door towards Christopher’s shack. He went inside, and a few moments later came out again, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He waved towards the house as he passed out of sight into the darkness.
“Did Mr. Fitchman really give you all of this?” Betsy asked Christopher wonderingly, looking at the pile of bills on the table.
Christopher smiled, but Miss Justin answered the question. “Judging by what we saw of that rather forceful young man just now, I don’t think Lamar had much choice in the matter. What happened to the others, Christopher?”
“He broke the leg of one of them, Miss Justin, and the other two had to help him to his home.”
“Lord have mercy!” exclaimed Miss Justin. She had led a somewhat sheltered life, and the thought of violence gave her a strange sort of tingle that she couldn’t rightly put her finger on. She riffled through the wad of bills. “Christopher, this is a lot of money. It’s about 450,000 dollars—that’s a good two years’ wages for a hard-working man. About two thousand Union dollars. Enough for me to pay for your freedom and you to go to California,” she half-suggested.
“No, Miss Justin. Keep the money safe for me, will you, please? I’ll stay here for now.”
“He’d better not,” interjected Betsy. That Slim and Mikey and Jerry will be after him pretty soon. I’ll tell you what you should do, Christopher. If Miss Henry here wants to be giving you your freedom, don’t you be lookin’ no gift horse in the mouth, but you just take what you’re given a
nd go.” Miss Justin nodded in approval.
“Where?” asked Christopher.
“Go to Richmond and see your friend’s uncle. If he’s anything like his nephew, you’ll be fine,” said Betsy.
“That sounds like a very sensible plan,” added Miss Justin. “Christopher, listen. You do just that, and don’t argue,” as he opened his mouth to object. “For now, you must get out of this town. Take all the money and get on the first train in the morning to Richmond. Betsy, step round to Mr. Jolley, the attorney, and ask him to pay me a call right now. I’ll have your manumission all ready for you, Christopher, all proper and legal. Mr. Jolley can do all that for us in an hour or two, you know, if I’m firm with him. Now you go and get your things ready.” There were tears in her eyes, and in Christopher’s too, as he turned to go.