Black Noon (8 page)

The next day was the most pleasant since their arrival in San Melas.

At least it began that way.

Both Lorna and he slept peaceably through the night.

In the morning, Bethia brought up breakfast enough for both of them, and they partook together and even recalled good times in Monroe before the war—including the first occasion they spent time together.

 

 

It began with the Fourth of July shooting contest.

Five of the most attractive—and eligible young ladies had prepared picnic baskets. Libbie Bacon had excused herself since she was unofficially engaged to George Custer, who was away at West Point.

Mayor Claude Markham made the announcement concerning the contest.

“A dozen contestants with their rifles will compete against each other—and the best five shooters will take their pick of the five beautiful ladies and their baskets—in the order that the shooters finish.”

Reggie Harris, the richest and most favored of the contestants, sidled up to Lorna Benton, smiled, patted the barrel of his rifle, and whispered, “Lorna, looks like you and I are going to picnic together.”

And throughout most of the contest, it did look that way.

It came down to a tie for first place between Harris and Jon Keyes.

Each had one last shot at the target.

Harris shot first and made a direct bull's eye.

“Seems like Mr. Harris is the winner,” the Mayor proclaimed, “but go ahead and shoot, Mr. Keyes.”

Jon Keyes took aim and fired.

It looked like he missed the target altogether.

“Sorry, Mr. Keyes,” the Mayor said, “but it appears you're in second place.”

“Take another look, sir.” Keyes said.

They did.

Keyes's shot had split Harris's lead right down the middle.

He walked directly to Lorna Benton.

“May I have the pleasure of picnicking with you, Miss Benton?”

“You may indeed, Mr. Keyes.”

They managed to find an isolated, shady spot along the Raisin River.

“You're a good cook, Miss Benton.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed the chicken, Jon, and please call me Lorna.”

“It wasn't because of the chicken that I chose you . . . Lorna.”

“No? Then why? You've hardly ever even spoken to me in all these years. Why?”

“Because we were on different sides of the tracks, but . . .”

“But?”

“I've always had my eye on you, matter of fact both eyes—like Reggie Harris . . .”

“Those tracks don't make any difference to me . . . and Mr. Harris might as well be in China.”

“Well, I won't be in China . . . but there's law school . . . and even though you say it doesn't make a difference, it'll be easier for a lawyer to cross those tracks and have a better . . . outlook.”

“Look out for yourself, Jon . . . and in the meantime. . .”

“In the meantime?”

“You won't have to win anymore shooting contests if you want to go picnicking . . . or . . .”

“Or?”

“Cross those tracks and come a'calling.”

 

 

“But the war changed all that, for everybody, including us,” Keyes said.

“Changed for the better. You came back. We're together . . . and we'll be together in Saguaro.”

“Speaking of Saguaro, there's something I have to do.”

“What?”

“Clean that rifle.” He pointed. “Make sure it's in working order. We might need it along the way to hunt with.”

An hour later Keyes walked down the stairs into the parlor carrying the rifle.

There was an obvious reaction from Caleb, Deliverance, and Joseph.

“Well, Reverend,” Caleb noted, “looks like you're loaded for bear,” Caleb observed.

“I've cleaned and oiled it, just in case we need it for hunting when we leave San Melas.”

“We'll provide you with plenty of supplies,” Caleb said.

“Appreciate that, Caleb, but you never can tell. Thought I'd go outside, shoot a couple rounds, make sure it's in working order.”

“Not a good idea, Jon. Not in town . . . might scare the parishioners. They're not used to the rifle shots.”

“You're right, I didn't think of that.”

He turned to go up the stairs.

“Wait a minute, Reverend. Deliverance was just about to go riding . . .”

Keyes noticed that she was dressed in riding apparel.

“Why don't you join her?” Caleb suggested. “Do your shooting far out of town. You do ride don't you?”

“I have done a little riding,” Keyes smiled. “But,” he looked at Deliverance, “will it be safe . . . I mean . . .”

“Oh, she knows a safe place. Rides there often. It'll be perfectly safe.”

She on her pinto, he on a buckskin, they had not ridden far, but it might as well have been to another part of the world—or even to another world.

The narrow fold of the entrance through craggy rock-shell was nearly invisible except when the sun had angled at a precise aspect above.

The two riders paused just inside the scanty passageway, and Keyes's eyes were widened in disbelief.

In startling contrast to the raw beige and barren terrain they had traveled, Keyes beheld a verdant valley, ripe with variegated foliage: grass, fern, cypress, and butternut—a vale in thirty shades of green—and in the distance even a lily pond reflecting the gleam of sunlight.

Keyes gazed at Deliverance, then waved his hand across the horizon.

“Deliverance, this is miraculous. A virtual oasis. I've never seen anything quite like it, and in the middle of... nowhere.”

She smiled and nudged her mount toward the pond. Keyes watched for just a beat, then followed.

She dismounted at the edge of the pond and stood waiting. She didn't have to wait long.

He was at her side, still under a spell of where he was and what he was seeing.

Deliverance picked up a fallen branch and with the point wrote something in the damp ground.

My Secret Garden
.

“It
is
a Secret Garden,” he nodded, “Caleb said you ride here often.”

She smiled and began to motion with her hand and fingers, pointing to him and then around to the pond and the environs.

“I don't understand what you're trying to say . . .”

She touched his shoulder and motioned again.

“Something about . . . me?”

Her lips formed the word
yes
.

“About me . . . here?”

Again, the
yes
—and then shook her head as she motioned to him.

“Are you saying that I'm the only one you've ever brought here?”

Her eyes widened as she nodded, and her smile broadened.

“Well, Deliverance,” he took her hand, “I'm . . . flattered . . . and, well, thank you.”

With both hands she simulated shooting a rifle, then pointed to the rifle on his mount.

“Oh, yes. That's why we came here, isn't it?”

He moved to the horse, removed the rifle, and walked back and looked around.

She pointed to a tree with low hanging branches.

“Oh, the branches,” he said. “Well, there's nobody around to hear the shots. Let's see if it works and how accurate.”

Keyes took a quick aim and fired twice.

Two branches split and fell to the ground.

Deliverance clapped her hands in approval.

“That's enough,” he smiled, “don't want to waste cartridges.”

But she reached out, tapped the rifle, then pointed to herself.

“You want to take a shot?”

Deliverance nodded.

“Well, go ahead. I guess we can spare a couple more cartridges.” He handed her the rifle. “Be careful,” he smiled again, “it's loaded.”

Without hesitation, she aimed and fired twice.

Two more branches split and fell.

“Say, you're full of surprises. Must've had a lot of practice.”

No
, she shook her head and held up one finger.

“First time?”

Yes
, she indicated, and handed back the weapon, then pointed to the ground near the pond.

“You want to sit for a while and rest?”

She had already begun to lower her body.

“Well, why not? It's as good a spot as any,” he looked at her, “. . . better than I've seen in a long time.”

Her lithe body, narrow of waist, and blossoming in the right places, settled softly onto the bank, and Keyes, still holding the rifle, sat next to her, close enough to be aware of the exotic oils and wax she used in making the candles.

“You're an extraordinary young lady, Deliverance. Delicate, but strong, artistic hands, and excellent shot, and you sit a horse smartly.”

She shrugged, took his hand, and guided it to her lips, his fingers barely touching them.

“But you can't speak. Is that it?”

She nodded.

“Well, these things sometimes come and go. Maybe in time . . .”

Deliverance pointed to him.

“‘Can I help you?'”

Another nod.

“As I said, I wish I knew how. But in the meantime, you should be content with what you
do
have. Just look in this pond.”

They both leaned closer to the clear water reflecting their images.

He smiled at her, then looked back into the pond and his reflection instantly became that
of the man in the mirror, bruised, bleeding, burned, and pleading—or warning.

He took the rifle and splashed the butt into the pond despoiling the grotesque image.

She seemed stunned, with a quizzical look in her eyes.

He labored for control.

“I'm . . . I'm sorry, Deliverance . . . I thought I saw . . . some kind of... lizard, or . . . I'm sorry.” He started to rise. “We'd better get back. Lorna will be . . . we'd better get back.”

She followed him to where the horses stood.

“Can I help you up?”

She shook her head and began to mount holding the reins loosely.

A sinister hissing sound.

The snake struck but missed the nervous pinto's foreleg. The horse bolted with Deliverance barely holding onto the saddle and both reins dangling on either side and both her boots out of the stirrups.

Even as he mounted the buckskin, galloped, and gave chase, he thought to himself that anybody else would have already fallen, but though the reins flopped on either side of the animal, she managed to stay on as the frenzied pinto raced on. Her body slipped and swayed in the saddle.

He spurred and whipped his reins across the racing buckskin, with all four hoofs sometimes galloping off the ground, until he caught up, horses flank to flank. He reached out with his right arm, circled her waist, and lifted her alongside of his horse. He held her tight, and as she exhaled breath after breath, he could feel the pulsing of her heart.

Keyes reined in the buckskin and dismounted with her still in his arms.

“Deliverance, you . . . are you all right?”

She smiled and touched his face while he still held her.

“Seems like that snake scared but just missed your horse.” Keyes pointed. “Look, he's coming back to you—as if he's sorry about what happened.”

Her arms were yet around him, seeming to draw him closer.

“Well, Deliverance, I'll say one thing. I'll never forget your secret garden. We'd better get back.”

Only after he loosed his hands from her body did she lower her arms from him.

When they came back to San Melas, Caleb puffed on his pipe and smiled.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Yes,” Joseph rocked in his chair. “Tell us, how did it go?”

Deliverance began anxiously to answer, signing with her hands.

But Keyes answered instead.

“The rifle worked,” Keyes replied and looked toward Deliverance. “No need to make more of it.”

It was obvious to Keyes, if not to the men in the room that a shadow of disappointment had fallen across Deliverance's face. Disappointment that he had not given a more detailed account of what had happened at her Secret Garden—his awed impression of the environs, his and her marksmanship, the pond, his rescue of her on the runaway pinto—but Keyes was content to say that the “rifle worked” and “no need to make more if it.”

For a moment it appeared that Deliverance was about to tell Caleb her version of the events. She even began to motion with her hands, but instead, she turned abruptly and strode out of the room—presumably toward her shed.

Caleb continued to puff on his pipe, Joseph to rock in his chair, and Keyes started up the stairs, still holding the rifle.

Lorna lay propped against her pillows, with Bethia sitting in the straight-back chair near the bed as Keyes came into the room.

“Lorna. Bethia.”

“Oh, Jon,” Lorna said and looked toward Bethia.

Bethia rose and moved toward the door.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I'll bring up a supper tray for both of you.” And closed the door behind her.

Lorna pointed at the rifle.

“You were gone a long time. Something wrong with the rifle?”

“No,” Keyes smiled. “You know what they say about these Henrys, ‘load it on Sunday and shoot all week.' But Caleb thought it best not to shoot here in town, so I had to go some distance away.”

He decided it was best to make no further explanation and set the rifle against the wall.

“Well, Jon, I hope you never have to use it on the way to Saguaro—or after we get there.”

“So do I, Lorna. So do I, unless I have to,” he added and sat on the chair.

“Jon, how long do you think it will take us? From here to Saguaro?”

“Just as fast as fresh horses will take us.” He grinned.

That night after supper, Keyes and Lorna lay in their bed, Lorna asleep, but Keyes awake, rubbing his fingers through the back of his head where he had suffered that wound at his last battle—Yellow Tavern.

In her shed, Deliverance, with an enigmatic smile, sat holding the cat with one hand and with the fingers of the other hand plying a wax figure of... Jonathon Keyes.

 

 

“Yellow Tavern,” Keyes uttered more comatose than conscious. “Yellow Tavern.”

For Custer and Keyes the fiery path to Yellow Tavern was strewn with the devastating advance of the Union forces in the Shenandoah, as the reputation of General George Armstrong Custer grew to legendary proportions. His fame spread, then soared with each victory—at Chancellorsville, where in the coarse darkness, Stonewall Jackson lay mortally wounded, and at Cedar Creek, where what was left of General Jubal A. Early's army was overwhelmed and broken by Custer's charges.

The fabled Wolverines had made rubble of Shenandoah's principle towns—Winchester, Front Royal, Luray, Stanton, Waynesboro, and Lexington—and laid waste to the once fertile countryside.

The last impediment stood between them and complete victory.

Yellow Tavern loomed as the third, fateful, and final encounter of the two most dramatic and daring cavalry generals of the North and South. Custer was also known as “Cinnamon,” “Curly Top,” “Boy General,” and “Yellow Hair.” Stuart—“Knight of the Golden Spurs,” “Flower of Cavaliers,” and “Chevalier Bayard.”

Yellow Tavern—and General Jeb Stuart. Jonathon Keyes recalled Custer's words to him before the battle began.

“Jon, I'll never forget what Jeb said to me just after John Brown's hanging.

“But it has, Jon—or will—in just a few minutes.”

Custer galloped at the head of his troops.

“Ride you Wolverines! Follow me! Ride! Charge! Ride to the sound of guns!”

The earth shuddered under the din of hoofbeats. The striking of sword blades, the barking of rifles—through foaming streams, across flaming farmlands and battle-scarred forests—against the cacophonous chorus of gray-clad troopers screaming their Rebel Yells, trying and dying in vain to hold the advance of the Michigan brigades led by Custer with Keyes to his left, close behind.

The Boy General noted a slightly vulnerable line in Stuart's left flank and tore at it in the lead of his red-scarf command, charging ahead into the gray line of defense.

General Jeb Stuart was everywhere trying to rally his exposed left flank, firing at everything blue, but still his left flank fell back from the effect of the Wolverines' repeating carbines.

Gun smoke smeared the air; riders on both sides fell, and the battlefield became hell incarnate—with Stuart himself riding into the thick of it to seal the bending, then broken flank.

Both Custer and Keyes spotted General Jeb Stuart at the same time.

“General!” Keyes shouted.

“I see him!”

Both fired at the same time—one shot just missed, the other found its mark—General Jeb Stuart's chest.

Stuart fell from his horse.

Custer had lost a friend—and won the day.

At the sight of their beloved commander on the ground the die was cast—but not quite.

One of the retreating Rebels turned and fired a final shot.

Captain Jonathon Keyes grabbed at the back of his head, then fell to the ground.

Keyes, still in bed, stirred fitfully, next to Lorna who was in a deep sleep.

Even asleep his face was disturbed, sweating, and faintly mumbling, with the flameless candle nearby in the room illuminated only by moonlight.

Deliverance, with a satisfied smile curled on her lips, gazed at the wax image of Keyes.

In his unconscious mind he envisioned their honeymoon night, he and Lorna, their bodies entwined, their lips sealed together—until Lorna became the face and figure of Deliverance, her eyes locked in ecstasy—but not for long as Keyes turned and twisted in bed to dispel the image.

But almost immediately there appeared another image against a velvety black background.

His face bolted upward, awake but trembling. He breathed heavily and did his best to compose himself, not quite knowing at that moment where he was.

Keyes stroked the back of his head as he had just before he fell at Yellow Tavern.

But he knew that this was not Yellow Tavern.

Lorna was now awake and in bed next to him, upright on her elbows.

“What is it, Jonathon?”

Unsteadily, he wiped at his perspiring face.

“Nothing, honey. It was just . . . a dream.”

“More like a nightmare again . . . you're ringing wet . . . the war?”

“Yes . . .” he nodded. “I lay down a minute and fell asleep.”

Keyes rose with effort and went to the bowl and pitcher on the dresser. He dipped his unsteady hands into the bowl of water and wet his face, covering it with both hands.

He held his hands, blanketing his face, as he realized he was in front of the tilted mirror again.

Lorna sensed that her husband was more than just upset from a dream. He was afraid.

“Jonathon”—she rose, made her way to the dresser, stood beside him, and placed her hand on his shoulder—“is there something I can do?”

Slowly he withdrew both his hands from his face, tilted down the mirror, looked into it, and saw—his own reflection with Lorna near him.

He savored the moment in relief.

“You already have, Lorna.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly.

“You're the one who has to take care of himself,” she smiled, “if we're going to get to Saguaro.”

“Yes. I know,” he said and kissed her again.

Deliverance covered the wax image of Jonathon Keyes with a damp cloth and smiled as the cat leaped from the floor next to her on the table.