The Dawn of Fury (2 page)

Miles away, the seven renegades reined up and looked back. A spiraling column of gray smoke dirtied the blue of the sky. Satisfied their heinous crime had been concealed, they rode on.

Nathan Stone had gone to war with the Confederacy when he had been only fifteen. Now barely nineteen, his dark hair was graying at the temples and his pale blue eyes said that he had seen more than his share of hell. He wore Confederate gray trousers, a faded gray shirt with both elbows out, and no hat. His belly was gaunt, and lacking a coat, he shivered in the cold wind. The Yankees had turned him loose afoot, weaponless, without a scrap of food. He had scrounged a little food, but mostly he had gone hungry. For three long years he'd had no word from home, and his longing to return was somehow tempered with an uneasiness he couldn't explain. Nobody had escaped the privation and suffering wrought by the war, and he wondered how it had affected his own family. He approached Richmond with the hope that he might find some food, but that hope died when he beheld the devastation of the city. Debris littered the streets, while in stark contrast the capitol building stood undamaged. He limped on in worn-out boots, his blistered feet in agony with every step. He had only to follow the James River eighty-five miles, to the point where it swung north toward Charlottesville. There would be his home. Or what remained of it ...

Mighty oaks surrounded the Stone home, and leaves crunched brown and dry beneath Nathan Stone's weary feet. Through the barren branches of the oaks, he could see only the standing chimneys of what had been his home. He stood there in shock, his legs trembling with weariness, while that which had been only nameless fear became full-blown reality. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, and he trudged on. Somewhere ahead a hound bayed low and mournful. The hound bayed again, closer, and by the time Nathan reached the burned-out house, he could see the dog. It looked as gaunt and as starved as he felt. The animal glared at him suspiciously, its hackles up, growling.

“Cotton Blossom,” said a familiar voice, “hush yo' mouth.”

“Malachi,” Nathan shouted. “Malachi!”

“Mist' Nathan, suh,” Malachi cried, “do it really be you?”

“What's left of me,” said Nathan wearily. “I expected ... hell, I don't know what I expected, but not this, Let's set, and you tell me what happened. All of it.”

Malachi talked for almost an hour. Nathan Stone sat with his face buried in his hands. He wept as the old Negro haltingly described the shooting of Nathan's father and the violation and brutal murder of Neomie and Rachel.

“I couldn't save de house, suh,” Malachi said, “but I was able to git de folks out. Dey be in de fambly graveyard. I lay 'em out as fittin' an' proper as I know how, an' I speak from de word of de Almighty God, prayin' he take they souls to rest.”

“Thank you, Malachi,” said Nathan. “That helps. I reckon the Yankees took all the livestock during the war.”

Ever'thing, suh,” Malachi said. ”De springhouse ain't been hurt, nor de barn. Me an' ol' Cotton Blossom sleep there. He catch him a rabbit ever' now an' den, an' I eat from de garden. Frost kilt de rest, but dey's still plenty of taters.”

“God,' said Nathan, ”I could eat them raw.”

“I fix a fire pit near de barn,” Malachi said. “I go roast a bunch of dem taters.”

Nathan walked down the hill to the springhouse. It was of stone, and had literally been built over a spring. It had provided clear, cold water, and a year-round coolness that had preserved their milk, butter, eggs, and meat. But within its stone walls was a legacy old Joshua Stone had set aside for just such a time as this, and never in young Nathan Stone's life would there be a greater need for it. Nathan found the familiar yard-long piece of hickory, beveled at one end. From the springhouse door he counted the flat stones in the floor until he reached a specific one. Using the beveled piece of hickory, he dug around the edge of the stone until he could get beneath it and raise it. The hole beneath was just large enough for a small canvas bag. Nathan emptied it on the stone floor, and the gold double eagles gleamed dully in the dim light. There were ten of them. Two hundred dollars! Strong in Nathan's mind were his father's dying words.

He'd have done that on his own, had it taken the rest of his life, but his father's cry from the grave seared this quest for vengeance on his very soul. He would need a good horse, a saddle, a weapon, ammunition, some decent clothes, and a little money for food. But what of old Malachi? The faithful Negro had buried Nathan's family and had suffered great hardship so that he might deliver Joshua Stone's final message to his son. But old age had caught up with Malachi, and he could never ride the trails that Nathan Stone believed lay ahead. But even with his father's plea branded on his heart and mind, he couldn't leave old Malachi to starve. The Yankees had won the war and were boasting they had freed the Negro, but for what purpose? To wander a war-ravaged land, pursued by the spectre of starvation? While Nathan could not and would not leave Malachi behind, he knew the old man would never survive the trail that Nathan Stone must ride. Now, though, he needed rest and food, even if that food were only roasted potatoes. He could smell them as he neared the barn, and his empty belly lurched in anticipation.

“De taters don' be big,” Malachi said, “so dey don' take long, cookin' ‘em. Dey be ready d'reckly.”

Malachi had a blackened pot three-quarters full of water, and as he dug the egg-sized potatoes out of the ashes, he dropped them into the water.

“When dey cool some,” said Malachi, “jus' wash ‘em off an' eat 'em skins an' all.”

The potatoes were bland and the centers a little raw, but Nathan wolfed down a dozen of them. Malachi buried more in the ashes and stirred up the fire. Cotton Blossom sat on his lean haunches watching them eat, looking deprived as only a hound can.

“We must have meat,” Nathan said. “Have you tried trapping rabbits?”

“No, suh,” said Malachi. “Ain't seen none. But we got de bait. Dey be carrots in de garden.”

Despite Malachi's pessimism, Nathan managed to trap two rabbits, and on the second day after his return, they had roast rabbit for breakfast. Hungrily they devoured everything but the bones and hide.

“Sorry, Cotton Blossom,” said Nathan. “You'll have to catch your own.”

“You be going soon,” said Malachi, on the third day following Nathan's arrival.

“No,” Nathan said, “I'm not leaving you behind.”

“I cain't go, suh,” said Malachi. “I be too old an' tired. I jus' stay alive to tell you what yo' daddy say. I be goin' home soon.”

Nathan was awakened sometime after midnight by the baying of the hound. It had a bone-chilling finality that got Nathan's attention, and he found Cotton Blossom in the next stall where Malachi slept on a bed of hay. It was an eerie scene. The dog stood over Malachi in a protective manner, growling at Nathan as he approached.

“Malachi,” Nathan said. “Malachi.”

Malachi was silent. The sound of Nathan's voice had some calming effect on Cotton Blossom and the hound backed away, allowing Nathan to get close enough to take Malachi's wrist. There was no pulse. Old Malachi had gone home.

Nathan dug Malachi's grave next to that of Joshua Stone, laying the old man to rest with remembered words from the Bible. He lingered by the graves, his heart heavy. He could go now, riding a bloody trail that would lead him he knew not where. Cotton Blossom sat beside Malachi's grave, baying mournfully as Nathan walked away. Charlottesville was the nearest town, twenty miles to the north, and he headed that way. Leaves rattled behind him, and Nathan turned to find the hound following. They were outcasts, two of a kind, their loneliness drawing them together for the long trail ahead.

Nathan spent two miserable days and nights reaching Charlottesville, only to find it as war ravaged as Richmond had been, and lacking all the things that he needed. One of the few buildings left standing was—or had been—a blacksmith shop. Nathan eased one of the double doors open and stepped inside. The forge was cold and a bearded old man in patched overalls sat on an empty nail keg. A second man hunkered next to him, and the pair of them eyed Nathan curiously.

“Howdy, gents,” Nathan said. “Would either of you be knowin' of anybody with a horse or mule for sale?”

“Mister,” said the bearded man, “we been through hell, and we been picked clean as Christmas geese. Them as has a horse or mule ain't sellin' at no price. Even if some high roller come along and had the money.”