Authors: Clifford Jackman
Other than that there was nothing to say. And so Bill looked back down at the floor and said nothing.
“Get back in the parlor,” Stoga said.
“I need to use the privy,” Bill said.
Stoga frowned.
“All right,” he said.
They walked out together. Bill shut the door behind him and sat down on the toilet. From underneath his shirt he removed a pint bottle of vanilla extract.
Shame stayed Bill’s hand as he raised the bottle to his lips. The shame of lying again, the shame of being unable to control himself, the shame of stealing. But it was his shame also that whispered to him that he would never be able to quit, that he was too weak, that his life was not worth saving in any case. He stared at the bottle, and each moment he did not drink was a kind of triumph. But a thousand triumphs could be undone by a single defeat.
He drank.
Sergeant Gordon Service and his men, including Reginald Keller and Augustus Winter, had spent the night in a farmhouse owned by an old woman named Mrs. Williams. In the morning, she treated them to a breakfast of eggs, bacon, coffee, and grits and did everything in her power to be amicable. She told Gordon that she had always viewed secession as a disastrous enterprise and remained loyal to the Union in her heart, although she had kept those feelings to herself, for fear of her neighbors.
It did not matter to him whether Mrs. Williams was lying or not. If she was willing to give him bacon for breakfast, he was willing to see that her house was spared. At least until the main body of troops came through; after that, the fate of Mrs. Williams and her property would be anybody’s guess.
They were making quite a pleasant morning of it when the back door banged open and Winter came in.
“Private Winter,” Gordon said, barely glancing up from the bread he was buttering. “So nice of you to join us.”
“You been outside yet, Sarge?” Winter asked. “There’s something out there you might want to see.”
Sighing, Gordon followed Winter out the door onto the back porch then came to a sudden stop.
“Goodness gracious me,” he said.
More than a hundred slaves were camped behind the house, crammed in the little space between the vegetable gardens and the pigpens. Men, women, little children. Not making much noise, just waiting.
At the sight of Sergeant Service, one of the older men stepped up.
“Are you a Union soldier?” he asked
“Yes,” Gordon said, “I’m Sergeant Gordon Service.”
All of the blacks leapt to their feet and began to applaud and cheer. Gordon raised his hands and started to try to quiet the crowd, but they would have none of it and instead broke into song. Many of them were weeping openly.
“All right,” Gordon said as he walked forward. “All right, quiet, quiet now! That’s enough.”
After the song was finished and the cheering and whistling finally stopped, Gordon addressed the old man who had spoken. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Croesus, sir,” the elderly slave said.
“Well, all right,” Gordon said. “As I said, I’m Sergeant Service of the Union Army, the Twenty-Sixth Illinois. We’re pleased to tell you that you’re free and that you’ve rightfully been free since January of 1863. You are free to come and go and do anything you wish.”
Another tremendous cheer, and the slaves rushed him, gathered around, and started hugging him, the children grabbing his legs and
the women kissing him and the men just tugging on his clothes and laughing and dancing on the spot.
“However,” he shouted, “however, please, however, you should know that the Union Army is not coming this way. We are merely a foraging party. So you should know that we cannot guarantee your safety.”
“Oh sir,” Croesus said, with a trace of contempt. “We ain’t worried about that. We’re ready to die for our freedom, sir. Ain’t no rebel soldiers around here anyhow. They all down in Macon, waiting for General Sherman.”
“Well, my lieutenant will soon be here and I trust he will know what you should do,” Gordon said. “Until then, take care of yourselves, and please, don’t hurt your former masters—we don’t want that.”
The slaves quieted a bit at this and glanced at one another. Toward the back of the crowd, Gordon saw one particularly large ex-slave squatting on his heels. The other slaves seemed to be keeping their distance from him.
But before Gordon could think of anything to say, there was another great burst of applause. Quentin Ross and the three Empire brothers came around the side of the house on horseback. Johnny Empire was waving the Stars and Stripes in the air. Quentin dismounted and walked up to Gordon on the porch.
“Lieutenant,” Gordon said. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Sergeant Service,” Quentin said, warmly acknowledging his salute.
“As you can see, the Negroes have heard of our arrival,” Gordon said.
“Quite right, quite right,” Quentin said. “Let me have a word with them.”
Quentin turned and faced the crowd. There was another cheer as Johnny madly galloped back and forth, swinging the flag in the air.
“Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen,” Quentin called out. “Please! Please! Your attention, please!”
The crowd quieted.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this country was founded on the belief that liberty is the inalienable right of every man. On the other hand,
the cornerstone of the Confederacy is that the Negro is inherently inferior to the white man, and that slavery is his natural condition. They believe that it was so ordained by the Creator. They are wrong!”
More cheering.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Confederates have set their faces against the natural and moral laws of the universe. They have split the country in two. They have driven us to war. And now their armies have been beaten and scattered and our troops are marching through the heart of their false republic. And still they will not surrender. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have only one task left ahead of us. We must show them they are beaten.”
Gordon’s mouth turned down a little, as if he had seen a small child take a nasty fall and was expecting a wail.
The ex-slaves made a satisfied sound that was not quite a cheer.
“They made this war,” Quentin said, “and only they can end it. We must show them the folly of their actions. We must teach them that their government cannot protect them. For that I will be enlisting your help. If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with my sergeant.”
Quentin turned around, smiling. Gordon looked as if he’d swallowed a handful of porcupine quills. If anyone had looked at Augustus Winter he would have seen a flicker of knowledge in his eyes again, before they darkened as if someone had drawn a shutter.
“Lieutenant Ross, I’m not sure about what you just said,” Gordon said.
“Why?” Quentin said. “I thought those truths were self-evident.”
“I mean the ending part, sir.”
“I thought that part most self-evident of all,” Quentin said. “The laws of war are as true as the principles of the multiplication tables.”
“But sir,” Gordon said. “The field orders were pretty clear. We’re not to enter dwellings or commit trespass and only the corps commanders can give the order to destroy buildings, and we’re to refrain from abusing or threatening the—”
“Yes, yes,” Quentin interrupted. “I am as familiar with the field orders as you, Sergeant. But have you not been listening to what Sherman has actually been saying these past few weeks?”
“Well …,” Gordon began.
“Sherman said that we are fighting a war against anarchy, for
the highest stakes. To avoid the fate of Mexico! He told the mayor of Atlanta that to reason with us was like appealing against a thunderstorm! He said that war, like the thunderbolt, follows its laws and turns not aside even if the virtuous stands in its path.”
“Well, yes sir,” Gordon said.
“Did he not say that war is cruelty and you cannot refine it?”
“Yes sir.”
“That the people of the South were barred from appealing to our constitution and laws for protection? That they had instead appealed to war and would have to abide by its principles? That he would impress upon the citizens of the Confederacy that their government was unable to protect them? That he would, in short, make Georgia howl? Are those declarations not inconsistent with these field orders?”
“Well, even if they are, sir, I don’t know if I’m comfortable disregarding them.”
“Indeed,” Quentin said. “Quite sensible, except for this. Once General Sherman cut us loose from the main column and sent us ahead, he specifically told me that his field orders were only for show.”
“For show?” Gordon said.
“Yes,” Quentin said. “He told me the whole army would have to improvise and live off the land. Proper intelligence and adequate supplies are vital, and so is our mission to break the spirit of the South. This has two components. First, we must do great damage to the foundation of the Confederacy. The fields and farms that feed and clothe their armies are legitimate military targets, as are the factories and railroads. Second, we must convince them of the hopelessness of their cause. We shall do this by bringing to their very hearth and homes the horror of war. I know it seems harsh, Sergeant, but you have fought with me in great battles. What right have these people, having brought this war upon us, to escape the consequences of their actions?”
“Well …,” Gordon said.
“Those are my orders, Sergeant,” Quentin said. “Straight from General Sherman himself. Now please, assemble your men, then meet me and Sergeant Müller so we can plan our next move.”
“Yes sir.”
Gordon glanced into the crowd of blacks before he went back
inside. His gaze fell upon the big loner in the back. The freedman’s expression was cold and satisfied.
Once inside, he attempted to assemble his men. But he found that Augustus Winter was gone.
After Winter left the Williams property he made his way north-east until he came out of the woods into a large hayfield. The grass grew a little higher than his hip, and as he walked he ran his hands over the tops of the plants. Sometimes he would tighten his fingers and come away with handfuls of seeds, which he inspected before letting them trickle away.
The wind was cold and the sky was gray and the air seemed pregnant with rain.
Eventually he reached a wall, only a couple of feet high, made with flat stones fitted together without cement. On the other side of the wall was a shallow muddy creek, smooth and silent. Winter climbed on top of the wall and stretched his arms to balance himself. Mindful of the unfixed stones, he walked along the wall. When he gained confidence, he looked up at the horizon and felt the wind on his face as he made his way between the field and the creek toward a dark line of trees.
“Auggie! Hey! Auggie!”
Reggie was coming toward him through the field.
“There you are!” Reggie said.
Winter hopped off the wall and walked over.
“Sergeant Service sent me looking for you,” Reggie said. “Why’d you run off?”
Winter had his usual air when someone asked him a question—as if he was mentally considering whether giving an answer would compromise his position.
“I didn’t like all the talk,” Winter said.
“You didn’t like the lieutenant’s speech?” Reggie asked.
“I just don’t like that kind of talk,” Winter said. “Fancy talk. In the mouth of the foolish is a rod of pride. Proverbs fourteen, verse three.”
“Boy,” Reggie said, “you got a Bible saying for all occasions.”
Reggie plucked a strand of grass from the ground, cleaned it carefully, and put it in his mouth to chew. He then prepared another one for Winter, who took it. They walked back toward the Williams property.
Winter chewed the grass, taking it out of his mouth only to spit. He always seemed to be looking at something very far away on the horizon.
“I thought it was a pretty good speech,” Reggie said. “It sure did get the niggers all riled up. Did you hear ’em hollering? Why didn’t you like it?”
Winter gave Reggie another one of his searching looks. In Reggie’s friendly countenance he saw nothing to fear.
“I’ve spent a lot of years listening to a lot of fancy talk. One day I realized there wasn’t anything to it. A man can say anything. It’s as easy as breathing. I can say the sky’s green or that fish can talk. It’s just air. That’s all. A man gets tired of it.”
After this speech, Winter retreated into himself like a hermit crab.
“Lieutenant Ross does love the sound of his own voice,” Reggie said. “But who don’t? I guess you. You treat your words like they cost you a dollar each. You got a Bible saying for that?”
Now there was a rare occurrence: a thin smile from Winter. “A fool uttereth all his mind: but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards.”
“There you go, Auggie,” Reggie said. “That’s how you do it.”
There was the barest rustling in the hay behind them, and Sevenkiller stood up, pointing his enormous revolver straight at Winter. “Well,” he said, “hidey-ho there, young fellows. Hidey, hidey, hidey ho.”
Early came up out of the grass in front of them holding a rifle. “Don’t try nothing funny,” he said.
Reggie whimpered and put up his hands. Winter did the same.
Early walked toward Winter, while Sevenkiller approached Reggie. When Early got within striking distance Winter made a queer sound, like a small rodent that had gone mad with fear, and whipped his rifle off his back and swung it at Early like a club. Early’s shoulder
absorbed most of the blow. He grunted and lunged at Winter and wrestled him to the ground.
“You little pecker,” Early snarled, then Winter bit his hand.
“Oh Jesus fuck!” Early shrieked, ripping his hand away. Winter scratched at Early’s cheek and screamed, a high sound filled with fear and fury.
Early punched Winter’s face, over and over again. After a few solid shots on the chin, Winter went limp. Early gasped for breath, and relaxed, and looked up at Sevenkiller. Before he could speak, Winter, his face a bloody wreck, smashed Early across the ear with a rock.
Early was knocked clean off Winter, who staggered to his feet, then stumbled like a drunk back to his knees, and finally keeled over on his side and lay still.