The Wolves of Seven Pines

by E. L. Ripley

  “They were children,” Carpenter said. “Can’t argue that, can you?”

  “They were young, but so were we, and it was war. Ain’t nobody a child then, not with McClellan on his way. And of all the people to find those two, it was Bill. And Byron.”

  “Wasn’t even their watch,” Joe said bitterly.

  That was true; it hadn’t been. They’d just been strolling, but Byron’s ears had been sharp. Sometimes it was better not to notice everything.

  “They confronted them, and all they had to do was raise the alarm. But Bill didn’t want to do that,” Hale said with a very direct look that Carpenter didn’t have any difficulty matching, “though I don’t know that was Bill’s fault. It was the timing. That’s what it was. Not a month earlier, we were camped with Pierre’s men, and they had caught some deserters, and Bill didn’t like the way they treated their prisoners. He was afraid that if these two spies were taken it would be the same. So he wanted them to leave. Quietly.”

  “Letting spies go isn’t cowardice,” one of the wives piped up. “It’s treason.”

  “He didn’t think they were spies,” Joe grunted, pouring more whiskey.

  Carpenter helped himself to some as well. It was miraculous how quickly an evening could take a turn. He would have his memories for life, and rumors—rumors were almost as long-lived. But he’d never heard it told this way.

  It wasn’t as bad as he might have expected. At least not for him. Carpenter made a point not to look at William or O’Doul.

  The weather was perfect, but it suddenly felt like the dead of winter, and that wouldn’t change. No one was eating, so there was no clinking of cutlery to disturb the silence. Not even the owls were making themselves heard out in the dark.

  “Were they or weren’t they?” Mrs. Hale demanded.

  “We’ll never know, ma’am,” Carpenter told her frankly.

  “Byron had a little more sense than Bill did. He called out, and one of those two had a pistol, and he brought it out. Bill had his rifle, though, so it might’ve gone either way.” Joe gave a little shrug and scratched his chin.

  “And everyone heard Byron shout, so everyone saw what happened,” the reverend said. Not everyone, no—but enough people, certainly.

  “That boy was going to shoot Byron, but Bill had his rifle on him, so he didn’t.”

  Carpenter remembered the standoff. Hale hadn’t been there himself, though most of the men at this table had.

  So far, the tale matched his memories. The captain’s whiskey was awfully good, but Carpenter didn’t taste it, though he was drinking it like water.

  “And then he did what he did. With every eye in four companies watching.” Hale shrugged, eyeing his wineglass. “He threw his rifle down.”

  Nobody said anything, but the looks on their faces were enough.

  “And he did something even more interesting,” O’Doul said, though without any real malice. “He told them he wasn’t going to shoot them.”

  “Only these two, they weren’t as compassionate, and that one with the pistol went to kill old Bill,” Hale said quickly. “And Byron, being Byron, went and tried to push him out of the way. They only got loose the one bullet before they were shot down, the both of them Yankee spies. Byron was dead before he hit the ground, and so were they, and that was all. Bill didn’t kill Byron.” He glared at O’Doul, then looked at William, who was rapt. “You hear that, Will?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy replied.

  “He tried to do those spies a kindness, and Byron paid for it with everyone watching. And there were a few of them that didn’t take kindly to it.” Hale looked distant. “They took him all the way to Richmond and saw him charged. Most wasteful thing you ever saw. Twenty men at least, and at least as many officers in Richmond all stopped what they’re doing because a few real cowards saw Bill act a fool and wanted . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know what they wanted. Revenge? Justice? I never could understand why they wanted to see one of our own hang. Bill wasn’t the spy, for God’s sake. Took me and Joe, and . . . Isaiah, and the reverend, and damn near half of us a whole week to make that tribunal understand.”

  “If the trial had gone any longer, we’d have missed Seven Pines,” Carpenter pointed out, smiling back at Joe.

  “And then there’d be even more of us at this table,” Joe remarked. “And not quite so many under the dirt.”

  “Joe Fisher,” he wife chided, pinching him. “Have respect.”

  “Got none left, darling.”

  “We did, at the end, make them see. Old Bill didn’t hang.” Hale held up his empty glass in a mock toast. “Closest thing to a victory I ever had to my name as an officer.”

  “Why?” William asked, baffled. “He don’t seem concerned by it. Does he even remember Uncle Byron?”

  Joe about spat his drink out. “Oh, I reckon he does,” he told the boy.

  Carpenter just rubbed his eyes.

  “He does,” Hale agreed. “Show the boy sometime, Bill. Just not when we’re eating.”

  “Show me what?”

  “Take your elbow off the table,” Mrs. Hale said, moving William’s arm for him, but he just glared at Carpenter.

  “Show me what, Bill Carpenter?”

  “Can’t you just be easy, Will? The man took twenty lashes.”

  A few of the men winced at the captain’s words, and the wives all went pale. Carpenter wasn’t going to say it, but the truth was that he didn’t think about it much. Not these days.

  But he couldn’t forget, and no one would let him. Even someone as polite as Silva had noticed the state of his back.

  “That one from the fort died after ten strokes. You remember that, Joe?” Roy asked.

  “I do, Reverend.”

  “That son of a gun wasn’t half Bill’s size, though,” O’Doul cut in, “and that fellow that lashed him was bigger than the one what hit Bill.”

  “Gentlemen,” Mrs. Hale said, arching an eyebrow. “The story is over. Do we need to dwell on whippings?”

  Her husband was about to agree, but William spoke up. “The story ain’t over. Father still hasn’t told why he went to fight for this man,” he said.

  “We all fought for him, Will,” Joe said, setting his whiskey glass down. “Why? Why else would you fight? For anyone but your family? That’s what we were, and that’s what we are. Because it’s what you do, son. You think Bill wouldn’t have done the same for us?”

  “Don’t look like that,” Hale said sharply, seeing William’s scowl. “Every word Joe said is true.”

  The boy just shook his head in disgust. Then he leaned back and snorted, crossing his arms.

  “Of all the men to share a name with,” he said.

  Joe glanced at Hale, annoyed, but then that went away, replaced with a smile. “Enough,” he said. “It’s enough. I want pie.”

  So did Carpenter; it was over there on the sideboard waiting, but everyone had been too arrested by the account of his disgrace. After the war, it had clung to him in Richmond, and it was no surprise that it would have to cling to him here as well.

  The years made it easier to live with.

  “No,” Hale replied, stopping the maid with a look. “No, not enough. Not yet. William, nothing is shared. Only given. Would you like to know why I named you after this man?”

  The boy rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know. He saved your life. Or something like that. Is that it?”

  Hale and Carpenter exchanged a look.

  “Not that I recall,” Carpenter said.

  “Nor I.”

  “The captain saved my life with the tribunal,” Carpenter told the boy. “I never saved his. I did poison him once, though it was not my intent.”

  “We learned not to let Bill cook fairly early,” Isaiah explained.

  “I believe I mentioned it earlier, that we had diff
iculty on the march to Richmond in the summer, a few weeks before the battle,” Hale said, speaking over Joe’s laughter. “We were ambushed, after a fashion. There were escaped slaves making north, and they believed we were there for them. We were not, but they didn’t know that. They got the jump on us in the road.”

  For just a moment, the silence had been gone, but just like that it was back. Carpenter didn’t like this story any more than the last one.

  “My horse startled, and I fell and hit my head on a rock. Joe took a bullet right away. They realized their mistake the moment they came at us, but we didn’t know what was happening. There were eighty of us, and about the same of them. We were soldiers, and armed, and they . . . were armed as well, but they were not soldiers. I was out cold. That left Tucker.”

  A few of the men groaned. No one really had a grudge with Tucker, or ever had. He just wasn’t meant to lead people—that was all. They’d known it back then as well as they knew it now.

  “There were some whites with them, and Tucker didn’t want to let them go.”

  “Nor should he,” one of the other boys piped up, one of Isaiah’s sons.

  “Our numbers were even,” Hale explained patiently. “But scrapping over some runners wouldn’t have helped us beat the Yankees. We’d have licked them.” He shrugged. “No question of that. But how many people wouldn’t be at this table?” He gestured at them all. “Which one of us would have caught a bullet? I was lying in the road; I might’ve been trampled. Anyone with sense knew it wasn’t a fight worth having. Tucker, though.” He shook his head. “Tucker didn’t have no sense.”

  “We all knew it, but Bill was the one who did something about it,” Joe said. “Knocked Tucker flat before he could give the order. Talked those runners into backing down and going on their way. They was as relieved to go as we was to let them. The captain was laid out. If Bill hadn’t’ve done it, someone would’ve fired. Maybe Tucker, maybe them. But Bill stopped it. Walked out there with his hands up. Talbot died from his wound in the starting of it, but the rest of us are sitting here because Bill didn’t let Tucker give that order.”

  “Which is the reason Bill couldn’t hang for what happened with Byron,” Reverend Brown added. “They wanted to charge him with cowardice, and we all knew that wasn’t true. There was nothing cowardly in anything he did. He made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “Byron had a lot of friends,” Hale said bitterly. “And it got around, what happened, more lies than truths, I’m sure. But no matter what anyone says, old Bill’s no coward. He’s just soft. I don’t know if that’s any better, but it ain’t for me to judge. Or if it is, then I forgive it, because there’s no sense doing otherwise.”

  “Surprised you could survive as a factory boss,” O’Doul said, sounding more tired than vicious. “Didn’t you ever have to fire a man?”

  “Never much minded firing,” Carpenter replied absently, his eyes on the pie. “It’s shooting that I don’t care for.”

  “Do you understand, William?” Joe asked.

  “Understand what?” the boy asked obstinately.

  “That Bill is one of us,” Hale said. “One of the smarter ones too, if his fortunes are anything to judge by. The man made his way proper, even if he don’t show it off.”

  A moment went by; then the boy smiled.

  “Fair enough. Been a long time since you told me a story, Pa. I apologize, Mr. Carpenter.” He glanced across the table. “Were you there, then? At Seven Pines?”

  The hush over the table deepened. There had been a few skirmishes, but Seven Pines was the only battle they had all fought together. No one really wanted it brought up, but it had a way of happening around Bill. It probably did for the rest as well.

  “He was,” Hale told William. “With his back still bleeding. But Bill did his job. He always did his job.”

  “Well, all right.” After a moment, William shrugged. “I got a brother that’s soft. I love him anyway.”

  One of the other boys threw a roll at him, and Hale relaxed.

  “You all right there, Bill?” He clapped Carpenter on the shoulder.

  “I don’t know, sir. Now that all my business is in the street, I’m inclined to leave town.”

  Hale just laughed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A shot split the night. Then another.

  “He’s got a good eye,” Carpenter observed, taking a drink from the ladle. He was at the well behind Hale’s house, in his beautiful garden. A row of columns flanked a pathway that led to a firepit, past which the boys were shooting the empty wine bottles from dinner.

  William hadn’t missed one yet.

  Hale was just a few steps away, watching the others.

  “He didn’t get it from me,” the captain said.

  Carpenter pulled up another bucket and dipped the ladle again. He’d had too much whiskey; if he didn’t drink this water now, his head would kill him in the morning, if nothing else did first.

  “I saw you kill two Yankees with two bullets,” he said, “as I recall. With that Navy six you won in Charlotte.”

  “Hell, Bill. They weren’t but ten feet away.”

  Carpenter shrugged and drank. “Two more than I ever killed.”

  It was just the two of them.

  “Is Yates still with you?” he asked Hale.

  “Of course. He’s on business, or he’d have been here tonight, I’m sure. He’ll be mighty pleased you’ve come home to us, Bill.”

  “I sure would like to see him again.”

  “You weren’t going to leave, were you?” Hale asked.

  “I certainly was.”

  “After you ate my food?”

  “Seemed you have plenty,” Carpenter pointed out.

  Hale snorted and joined him, perching on the well with a groan. “Well, I can’t let you go, Bill. I still think of you as a friend, so it wouldn’t be right. Not before I have a word with you about the company you’re keeping.”

  “Who do you mean?” Carpenter winced as another shot went echoing up and down the valley. The fire in the pit was built so hot that the embers were floating up as high as the treetops, glowing all the way. It was a touch foolish; you could start a fire this way when things were dry.

  “That skinny Mexican boy, Silva.”

  “He seems all right. Wouldn’t let an old man walk the trail alone. He let me ride with him.” Carpenter smiled. “Even offered to shoot my horse for me. If that isn’t kindness, I don’t know what is.”

  “He ain’t what he seems like.”

  “None of us are,” he reminded the captain.

  “He wants all this for himself.” Hale made a sweeping gesture. “I warned him to move on along to somewhere else.”

  “What right do you have to do that?”

  “Every right. I built this town, Bill. This ain’t the place for him. I have told him. Everyone sees it but him. He won’t succeed. He’ll never get his factory built, never do what he thinks he wants to do.”

  Carpenter scratched his chin; he needed a shave. “Seems to me there are a few that could use the work,” he said hesitantly. “Men to build it up, work the factory, move the guns. He said something about metal works as well.”

  The captain waved a hand. “Even if it was all up and running, he can’t be trusted. A man like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “He’s not one of us, Bill.”

  “A soldier? I think he has too much sense for that.”

  “He’s of low moral character,” Hale said, annoyed. “You haven’t seen it like we have.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Were you introduced to O’Doul’s oldest? Fiona?”

  Carpenter squinted, trying to remember, but the whiskey was making it difficult. “Blue flowers in her hair,” he guessed.

  “That’s her. Silva made overtur
es for some time.”

  “Was she inclined toward him?”

  “Very much.”

  Carpenter held back a yawn. William probably hadn’t cared for that.

  “But he only led her on,” Hale went on. “He did not make an offer of marriage. There was some impropriety.”

  Carpenter was taken aback. He was beginning to understand the captain’s desire to find flaws in Silva’s character, but was that really the worst he could come up with? It wasn’t even a genuine scandal. And purely on intuition, he had a suspicion that Silva had only backed away because O’Doul had probably threatened him. O’Doul was a solid, reliable man who had never been afraid of hard work. He was the sort of fellow Carpenter looked for when it was time to hire. But he wasn’t an easy man to get along with, and Carpenter doubted that part of him had changed.

  “For God’s sake, that’s nothing you and I didn’t do a dozen times or more when we were younger,” Carpenter told him. “Are we of low character?”

  “We’re grown,” Hale replied. “Would we engage in that behavior now, Bill?”

  “I like to think not.”

  The captain nodded sagely. “He ain’t right for this town, this place. I am truly sorry he did not take my advice.” For a moment he was drowned out by laughter from the children, who were now gathered around the firepit. Carpenter couldn’t see what was happening over there, but it sounded like a nice time.

  “He’s a clever man,” Hale admitted, watching the children. “I have to hand him that much. Coming up with them rifles. They will sell. Two-thirds the cost of a Winchester, and very nearly as good. But all those brains he has,” he said, glancing over at Carpenter, “and no sense.”

  Carpenter snorted, nodding. “You’re right about that.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Bill. They’re good boys, but Joe’s the only one I can trust not to smoke next to the powder. We can use your help.”

  “With what?”