"You're taking a hell of a gamble for somebody you just met, Mr. McKee. To be honest, I staked you out because I planned to steal a horse off'n you. At gunpoint if I had to."
"You're a terrible fella, young Eli, I seen that right off. Care for some more coffee?"
"I'm dead serious."
"I expect you are. But you didn't back-shoot me or try to rustle my stock, and nowadays that'll pass for righteous. Help yourself to some stew, son, before it gets cold. Come moonrise, I'll put you on an old Jayhawk trail. You can cover eight, maybe ten miles yet tonight."
"I—surely do thank you, Mr. McKee. Only it ain't quite that simple."
"Why not?"
"The past few days, I been layin’ up with a wounded Reb at a spring about a mile south of here. I told him I'd fetch him some help."
"A creek with cedars around it, end of a long valley?"
"You know it?"
"I know every waterhole for sixty mile around, boy. But I ain't the only one who knows it. Yank patrols scout that valley regular."
"I didn't see no soldiers."
"Then you was lucky. How long's the Reb been there?"
"I don't know. A week, maybe. He's hurt bad. Gutshot."
"Is he a local boy?” Gus asked, swallowing.
"No sir, I believe he's from Arkansas. He's ravin’ out of his head half the time. Near as I could tell, he was a lieutenant with General Price. He won't last much longer without help."
"Gutshot, he won't last long, period. Your home lies in the other direction, young Mitchell. Goin’ back for that Reb will only bring trouble down on yourself, maybe on him, too."
"But I gave him my promise."
"You can't be held to that! Forgodsake, son, there's a war on. He's probably dead already. Tell you what, I'll try to look in on him in a day or two. Will that satisfy you?"
"I—guess it will have to. Thank you."
"No need for thanks. Bein’ a damned fool comes natural to me. Here, get your ribs around some of this stew.” Dumping a steaming mix of rabbit, wild corn, and slivered yams onto a metal plate, Gus passed it to Eli. “I don't get much news up here. How goes the war?"
"Don't know much myself,” Eli mumbled around a mouthful. “Nobody tells the infantry nothin'. But from what we've been hearin', it might be over come spring."
"I've heard that joke once or twice already."
"This time it might be true. Sherman took Atlanta last fall, then burned it before he moved on to Savannah. They're burnin’ everything in a sixty-mile swath. Richmond's surrounded. General Hood's still in the field, though, maybe headed for Nashville to make a stand."
"And General Sterling Price?"
"He got whipped bad at Westport in the fall, retreated back into Arkansas. I hear his men have fallen on hard times, eatin’ their horses, livin’ on grass . . . Sorry, you said your sons . . . ?"
"Two of my boys are with Price,” Gus spat. “Damned nonsense. I never owned a slave in my life, don't hold with it. But after them Yanks raided our place, there was no keepin’ my boys back. Went off to fight for the Glorious Cause."
"For slavery?"
"Hell no, for independence, by our lights. To live free without Yanks or Hessians runnin’ off our stock. The only slaves I've seen since the Emancipation were runaways, ragged and starvin'. Rootin’ in my fields like animals. Think they're better off than before?"
"Sir, I don't believe this war's made anybody better off, black or white. The slaves we set free had nowhere to go, no food, no land. Like I said, there don't seem to be no right side to it no more. I just want to go home."
"I know the feelin',” Gus agreed. “Know it real well."
Later on, in the final faint sliver of moonlight, Gus saddled his own mare with a serviceable working rig, put Elias Mitchell aboard her, and sent him north along an old Jayhawk trace. Watching the boy move off into the shadows, Gus felt surprisingly content, considering he'd just given away a sweet-natured animal he'd raised from a foal.
But later that night, Gus woke in the darkness, tense and edgy, his hand clamped on the carbine at his side. Listening. To nothing. The keening of the wind. Foxes yapping at the stars.
He'd been in these hills so long he was half wild himself. Jumpy as a mole in an anthill. But he knew something was wrong. Knew it down to his boots. He just couldn't put a name to it.
So he let the fire die out, and settled himself between two boulders away from the glowing embers, keeping his carbine cocked under his threadbare blankets.
He drowsed lightly through the night, at rest, but coming instantly alert at the slightest sound. Then easing back to rest again, all the while staring slit-eyed out into the darkness.
Knowing something was wrong.
At noon the next day, Polly was mucking out the barn when she heard the tlot-tlot of approaching hoofbeats. Meachum? Not likely, not openly. Picking up a pitchfork, she peeked out through a crack in the sagging door.
A single-seat Stanhope buggy was coming up the road from the west, a lone woman at the reins. Turning the rig in at the gate, she guided her animal down the long lane, slowing it to a walk as she approached the farmhouse.
Still holding the fork, Polly stepped out, shading her eyes, waiting. Her visitor was dressed warmly for travel, a fine seal plush cape over a tailored woolen suit, the first new clothes Polly'd seen since . . . she couldn't remember how long.
"Afternoon, ma'am. Can I help you?"
"Pleasse, I'm becomp lost,” the woman replied, her accent harsh. Hessian. Polly's eyes narrowed. “I left Corridon this mornink—"
"Just wheel that buggy around and head out the gate, miss. A mile further on, the road splits. The north fork will take you to Centerville."
"I'm not going to Centerville."
"Look, ma'am, I haven't got all day—"
"Pleasse, I'm seeking the McKee place,” the Hessian woman said desperately. “Is it far from here?"
Polly stepped closer to the buggy, frowning up at the woman. Younger than she thought, her face as pale as buttermilk, with nearly invisible eyelashes. A bruise and some swelling along her jaw. Still, all in all, a handsome girl, Hessian or not.
"What do you want with the McKees? Who are you?"
"My name iss Birgit Randolph. My husband is Tyler Randolph. He iss a cousin to Angus McKee. He—"
"I'm Polly McKee, Gus's wife. I've known Tyler since he was a sprout, but I still don't know who the hell you are. Tyler ain't married."
"We married a few months ago. We met when he was with the state militia in St. Louis. He was very . . . dashing. After the riots he joined General Price. We wrote back and fort’ when he was in Arkansas. This past August he came for me and we were married."
"What do you mean he came for you? Came where?"
"To St. Louis. Tyler iss not a soldier anymore. He was wounded at Pea Ridge. He is discharged now."
"Wounded? How bad?"
"His leg . . . was shot. It is mostly healed now, but he limps. It causes him a lot of pain, I think. He never says. He's very . . . stubborn about it."
"That sounds like Tyler. Where have y'all been stayin'?"
"At his farm near Mountain Grove."
"I'll be damned,” Polly said, shaking her head. It was too much, first Meachum and his Jayhawks, now a half-daft Hessian woman claiming to be kin. The damned war was making the world a madhouse.
"Well, you might as well step in out of the wind, miss—I mean—Mrs. Randolph. I'm afraid we're out of coffee—"
"I haff tea and some sugar,” Birgit said, offering Polly a three-pound sack. “Tyler said the plundering hass been bad here."
"We get hit by both sides,” Polly conceded grimly, leading the way. “Come into the kitchen, I'll make us some tea."
Birgit hesitated just inside the door. Though the walls hadn't seen paint in years, the small farmhouse was immaculate.
"You keep a fine home. Very clean. Even it smells nice."
"What did you expect? A pigpen?"
"No,
I—please. I know I don't always say things right but I don't mean to make you angry. I think I've come at a bad time."
"There aren't any good times nowadays. And exactly why have you come, ma'am? What do you want here?"
"Tyler—told me to come to you. He hoped you can drive me to St. Louis then bring the buggy back here. He will send for it later."
"Send for the buggy? But not for you? Why? Is farm life too rough for your taste, missus?"
"No, I grew up on farm in Bavaria. I'm not afraid of work."
"What then? Ah, the lame dirt farmer isn't a dashing rebel lieutenant anymore? So you go runnin’ home to Mama. Sweet Jesus, it serves Tyler right for marryin’ a Hessian in the first place."
"I'm not Hessian."
"Don't lie to me, anybody with ears can tell what you are!"
"But I'm not!” Birgit flared, her throat and cheeks flushing, but not backing off an inch. “My family is German, but we are come from Freystadt in Bavaria! Hessians come from Hesse! I'm not Hessian! And I didn't leaf Tyler, neither. He drove me out!"
"What are you talking about?"
"It's true! I tell him our child is growing in me and he got terrible angry. He says I must go home to my family. And I say I won't. And he says I must obey him. Still I say no. And he . . . struck me!” Her hand strayed to her bruised mouth, her eyes brimming. “And now I am come here, and you are angry with me too—I don't know why—but I don't anymore know what to do. I don't know what to do!"
Polly knew. Wordlessly, she wrapped the younger woman in her massive arms, holding her while she sobbed like a lost child. Which she was, in a way. Good Lord, the girl couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen. Polly was barely forty, but Birgit's age seemed like a fever dream to her, only dimly remembered now.
The low moan of the blue enameled teapot broke the spell.
"I'm sorry,” Birgit said, pulling away. “This is my own trouble. I shouldn't burden you with it."
"Don't talk foolishness,” Polly said, lifting the kettle off the stove lid, filling two vitreous china mugs. “God help you, girl, we're family now. Sit yourself down at the kitchen table, we'll work something out."
"But how?” Birgit asked numbly, sipping the steaming brew. “Tyler doesn't want me. He doesn't want our child."
"That can't be true. He had to snake through half the damned Union army to marry you. Discharge papers or no, he could have been lynched or thrown in a Yankee prison any step of the way. Tyler's a stubborn boy; all the Randolphs are, and the McKees, too. But there's no quit in any of ‘em. If Tyler was willing to risk dyin’ to marry you in August, he hasn't changed his mind. There must be more to this. How are things between you two? Has he hit you before?"
"No! Never, never. It's been good with us. The best. But this last month, he's . . . his mood is very dark. Far off. He stays up nights, watching. There are fires in the hills near the farm. Deserters, he says. Or Jayhawkers. Then a few days ago, men took our plow horse. Five of them. Came up on Tyler in the field and just took our animal. He doesn't speak to me since. I thought telling him of the baby would cheer him but . . . “ She swallowed, shaking her head.
Polly sipped her tea, mulling it over. “He's afraid,” she said simply.
"Afraid? Tyler?"
"Oh, not of dyin'. After all the fightin’ that boy's seen, death's less troublesome than a drunken uncle. No, it's you he's afraid for. Afraid he can't protect you. Or your child. That's a terrible fear for a man to face, especially a soldier like Tyler. He's seen slaughter, he knows how wrong things can go. And in his heart, he's afraid of failing you, though I doubt he realizes it."
"So he drives me away?"
"Looks like it."
"What should I do?"
"That depends. Maybe he's right, girl. God knows there's trouble in the wind around here."
"But you stay."
"I got no choice, this place is all we have. You'll be safer in St. Louis, Birgit. Maybe you should go home to your family awhile."
"No. Tyler is my family now."
"You sure about that? You seem awful young to me."
"It's true, I am, maybe. But I know. When I met Tyler, St. Louis is full of young soldiers. Thousands. And I am at a cotillion, and Tyler is laughing with his friends when he sees me. And he walks over and we talk a minute. No more. And we danced. Once. But I already know."
"Know what?"
Birgit eyed Polly's wind-weathered face warily, then shrugged. “Laugh if you want, but I look in Tyler's eyes and I see . . . my life. With him. I see our children. I know it sounds crazy, but . . . I saw all this, in that one moment. But maybe you're right, maybe I am just . . . Hessian."
"No. I was wrong about that. And about you. I apologize for taking that tone with you earlier. And Tyler shouldn't have treated you like he done neither, though I can't fault his reasons."
"I don't care about his reasons. He's wrong to push me away. And I was wrong to leaf. I have to go back."
"It's not that simple, girl. These are dangerous times, he's got good cause to fear for you."
"I know that. I am afraid, too. But I'm more afraid to lose him, to lose what we have together."
"Havin’ a stout heart's all well and good, darlin', but it ain't hardly enough. There are men in these hills who'd kill you for your horse or a dollar. Or no reason at all. And the truth is, Tyler can't always be there to protect you. You'll have to protect one another. Do you know about guns?"
"A little. Tyler bought me a pocket pistol. He tried to teach me but I'm no good with it."
"Just like a man,” Polly said drily. “Give the little lady a little gun. Know the trouble with pistols? Men don't believe a woman will shoot. Or hit anything if she does. You have to kill ‘em to prove it. Or die tryin'. Over there, that's a real woman's gun,” she said, indicating a coach shotgun beside the back door. “No skill required, only sand enough to touch it off. You still have to watch out for border trash, but they'd better watch out, too. I can teach all you need to know in twenty minutes. If you'd like."
"Yes, I would. Thank you."
"We'll finish our tea first, and talk a little. I seldom see other women these days. I work like a man, dress like one. Sometimes I think I'm turning into one."
"I think you are very much woman, Mrs. McKee. And your home—now don't be angry with me—it's very clean. It even smells clean. What is that wonderful scent?"
"Eau de lilac. Lilac water. Before the war, with the boys home and their clothes and boots and such, sometimes it'd get to smellin’ like a horse barn in here. Lilac water helps. I'm surprised you can smell it atall, I've watered it down somethin’ fierce tryin’ to make it last. The boys each promised to bring me a fresh bottle when they went off soldierin'."
"You say boys. How many?"
"Angus had the four older boys by his first wife, Sarah. She died of the consumption, quite young. It wasn't like you and Tyler with Gus and me. We didn't meet at no dance. I was orphaned, livin’ with kin and Angus needed a mother for his boys. I was only fifteen when we married. We've got a boy of our own now, Jason. And I lost a girl in childbirth. It ain't been easy for us but we've built ourselves a life here. It was a good place before the war. We'll make it so again."
"But you do . . . care for him? Your husband?"
"Oh, surely. He's a good man, with a good heart, and I'm . . . fond of him, I suppose. But it's not always easy between us. Gus is older than me, set in his ways. When I took to his bed, all I knew about love and . . . such things, was seeing horses or hogs breedin’ in the fields. Angus was gentle with me, and mostly we pull together like a yoked team. But I can't say I've ever had a moment like you talked about, no . . . special feeling like that. We work hard, try to make the best we can of whatever comes. To be honest, Gus has been gone so long I wonder sometimes if things will be the same with us . . . afterward."
"Gone where?"
"To the hills. I tell folks he's in Springfield, but he ain't. After Price's troops got drove down to Arkansas, both
sides were raidin’ the border, runnin’ off our stock. So Angus took the last of our horses up into the hills. He's been movin’ around with ‘em since, hidin’ ‘em away so us and the boys can start over when the war ends. If it ever does. When he left we thought it'd be for a few months. But it's been more than two years now. Closer to three. He slips back once a month for a few hours. Seems like it's going to go on like this forever."
"Maybe not much longer. Tyler says it will end soon."
"Darlin', I've been hearin’ that ole sweet song since ‘sixty-one."
"No, it is true. Tyler sees the St. Louis paper almost every month. The Federals have all the Shenandoah Valley now. Price's men are scattered. Hood is retreating from Atlanta and the city is burning."
"Atlanta burning? But why? Who fired it?"
"Union, I think, but . . . “ Birgit shrugged helplessly. Even in faultless English, no words could explain the madness on the land.
"Dear God,” Polly said, slumping back in her chair. “This war may stop someday, but it won't never be finished. Not for a hundred years. No wonder the hills are fillin’ with deserters and the Jayhawkers are back on the prowl. Both sides smell blood. You need to get home, girl, if that's what you mean to do. But first I'm gonna teach you a bit about killin'. In a ladylike fashion, of course."
In a scant half-hour, Polly instructed Birgit in the basics of the short-barreled coach gun. Pointed and fired at close range, the stunted scattergun would erase anything in its path from a poplar stump to three men standing abreast.
The girl took to the gun as a practical matter, learning to deal out death in defense of herself and her own with no more compunction than killing a coyote raiding after chickens. Or a child.
Neither woman derived the pleasure men seem to take from slaughter. It was a chore to be done, perhaps more dangerous than some, but also more necessary.
At the lesson's end Birgit could manage the coach gun competently. And as she seated herself in the buggy to leave, Polly placed the stubby weapon on her lap. “You take this with you; I've got another. And if there's trouble on the road, you don't hesitate. These boys been killin’ each other regular for a long time, they're damned quick about it. Surprise and that gun are all you have."
EQMM, September-October 2010 Page 2