Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Still, he could see she was shaken.

“If you have a shovel, ma’am, I’ll start digging.”

“For all I care, you can dump his worthless carcass down the outhouse, mister. By the way, who are you?”

Buck shook his head. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I seem to have forgotten my manners. I’m Doctor . . . Major Thomson from the camp across the stream yonder.”

“I’m Martha Hewitt.” She retreated into the house and came out a minute later with a piece of croker sack. “Here, wrap him in this.”

Buck rolled the wretch’s body in the coarse material. “He kin to you?”

She walked ahead of him as he dragged the shroud toward the privy. “No kin to me, thank God.”

“You from around here?”

“Nah. Me and my husband, Caleb, worked a farm north of the James River. Times was hard before the war, but we got by. Caleb was a good man, did the best he could.”

Buck inspected the stinking outhouse. It wasn’t even suitable for holding waste. He started tearing off the lid above the hole. Martha took the pieces of wood from him and tossed them onto a pile.

“My first baby, a girl, died of fever soon after birth,” she babbled on. “The next one, Hannah, is nearly thirteen now. Then Billy was born with a twisted leg.” She stood beside Buck and grabbed the biggest plank with him. Together they wrenched it loose. “He done his share of the chores best he could.”

The hole exposed, Buck returned to the lump of what was once a human animal, dragged it over to the opening and with Martha’s help, shoved it into the cesspool.

“Damn you, Zeb Feeney,” she spat. Buck figured that was about all the funeral prayers the man would ever get or deserve.

“How’d you meet him?” Buck asked, as they walked back to the cabin.

“A couple of months ago Yankee foragers showed up at our place, stole everything they could carry, drove off all the stock and set fire to our house and barn. Caleb was trying to save his tools when the roof fell in on him. Me and the kids buried him, but there weren’t nothing to keep us there. I got kin somewheres in Tennessee, so we started walking south.”

As they reached the porch, she wiped her eyes again. “We was down to begging for food at an inn near Buckingham when Feeney said he’d give us food and shelter for work, no money. I didn’t like the loudmouth, but we was desperate. Soon found out he wasn’t no farmer like he said, but a moonshiner. Sold rot-gut to the soldiers on both sides. Bragged about all the gold he was making. Stayed drunk most of the time, beat me and the kids something awful, ‘specially Billy who couldn’t run.”

She paused, as if steeling herself to go on. “Last night he went after Hannah. I knew what he was up to and fought him off.” She lowered her head. “I yelled to Hannah to go hide in the woods. She’s a good girl.” Martha sighed and brushed away tears. “After Zeb passed out I took Billy to a tree near the creek and helped him climb up it. I was looking for his money, when a Confederate cavalry officer rode up this morning. I wanted to ask him for help, but Zeb woke up.”

Clay. He wanted to help her, and Buck congratulated him for not doing it.

“Thought you’d like to know, ma’am. Got word a while ago. General Lee’s surrendered. The war’s over.”

“Over? Praise the Lord.” She clutched her flat chest, closed her eyes and appeared to be giving thanks. After several seconds, she opened them again. “I need to collect my children. I’ll get Hannah and be over to the camp for Billy directly. We’ll stay here tonight, try to find Zeb’s gold and leave in the morning.”

Buck studied her. She was skinny to the point of emaciation and aged beyond the thirty-five years he reckoned her to be. “Mrs. Hewitt, will you and your children be all right here alone?”

“Major, this’ll be the best night we’ve had in a long time.” Tears started and she shook her head. “I ain’t gonna cry no more.”

No delicate southern belle, he concluded. A hard woman, but he said the words in his mind with admiration.

“One other thing,” he said. “You see anybody besides the cavalry officer go by here today?”

She nodded. “While Zeb was still asleep I heard shots, then a man galloped by on a bay. Poor nag was lame in the right foreleg. The rider didn’t seem to care.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Small. Had red hair. Was holding a bloody rag to his neck.”

So Billy was right. The sniper had come this way.

“Where was he heading?”

“East, into the woods.”

#

When Buck returned to the shack he found Billy sleeping and decided to make his rounds with Kentucky. Moving from litter to litter, he examined the stumps of limbs and the wasted bodies of men stricken with dysentery and other pestilential diseases. News of Lee’s surrender had torn through the ranks. Men wept with sorrow and relief, but mostly they talked about going home. Buck could see and hear signs of the return of hope and a desire to live. They’d survived. Many of them had lost limbs, lifelong reminders of the failed cause, but they were alive and now they saw a future.

Two hours had gone by when Buck heard the jingling of trace chains and the creaking of wheels. Peering through the trees, he saw a wagon drawn by a bone-ribbed chestnut moving along the road toward him, a bonneted woman at the reins. By her side sat a girl with a sallow complexion in a faded dress.

“Kentucky, here come the Hewitts. Best you wake up Billy.”

“Yes, sir. I found him a crutch. Hope it’s the right size.” He went into the cabin.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Hewitt,” Buck said as the wagon came alongside. “This must be Hannah. Are you all right, young lady?”

The girl nodded shyly.

“Thank Dr. Thomson for helping us, honey,” her mother coaxed her gently.

The girl whispered her thanks to Buck.

“I’m happy you’re all right. Your momma was worried about you.”

“I found her waiting where I told her to,” Martha said proudly. “We smashed Zeb’s jugs of rotgut—”

“It was fun,” the girl contributed, showing spirit, “but it was stinky.” She wriggled her nose.

“It was stinky,” her mother agreed with a fond smile and brushed back the child’s lackluster brown hair. Returning her attention to Buck, she said, “When I emptied his mash, all I found was one piece of gold.” She dug into the pocket of her stained frock and extracted a nugget that wasn’t any bigger than a butterbean.

At that moment Billy burst through the cabin door using his new crutch and swept with amazing agility from the porch into the yard.

“Billy!” his mother exclaimed as she dropped the reins, leaned over and extended her hands to him. “Oh, Billy.” A joyous and tearful family reunion ensued.

Several minutes went by before she asked, “But where’d you get that crutch—”

“My friend, Mr. Kentucky, give it to me, Ma, just like he said he would.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She turned to Buck. “You’ve saved our lives, Dr. Thomson. We’ll be beholden to you forever.”

“Y’all have a safe trip. I hope you find your relatives in Tennessee.”

“Thank you so much, doctor. God bless you for all you’ve done for us.” She looked around the campsite. While her features softened with compassion, she didn’t flinch at the sight of the wounded. “And for these men.”

Standing up straight, Billy shook Buck’s hand, then accepted his help getting into the wagon’s bed. Buck placed the crutch beside him. “Take care of yourself and these ladies, young man.”

“Yessir, I will.”

Martha slapped the mare with the reins. The wagon lumbered forward. She glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t worry if y’all see smoke over Feeney’s way in the morning. I’m gonna burn the place down before we leave.”

The children waved goodbye. Buck waved back. At least something positive had been accomplished in the last few days. He’d freed a family from the clutches of an evildoer.

Kentucky came up beside him. “Nice folks.”

“May their future be better than their past has been.”

“I . . .” the orderly hesitated, “I’ve arranged a burial place for your brother near the big oak tree. It’s the nicest spot I could find, sir. That all right?”

“Thank you, Kentucky.”

“Preacher Tate said he’d be proud to say words in the morning.”

“I’ll be much obliged.”

Clay’s dead. It didn’t seem possible. My brother’s dead.

“Pardon me for saying so, sir, but you ought to get some rest. I can finish up here.”

“I am fading out. Be sure to have someone wake me early in the morning.” Buck trudged to the shack.

My God! Who am I? What have I become? I killed a man today and I feel nothing.

Inside the cabin he collapsed on his pallet and fell asleep.

#

He awoke with the sunlight well established and heard familiar sounds—the clip-clop of horses, the rattle of wagon chains, the crackle of cooking pots, and the oaths, curses and moans of men. This morning, however, he was aware of a new and welcome addition. Birds had returned, chirping merrily.

Maybe the carnage has truly ended.

As always, he found a bucket of water hanging on the porch, signifying that Kentucky was already up and about. Buck carried the pail inside, stripped to the waist, and scrubbed himself as best he could. His uniform was seedy and missing a few buttons. He straightened it and finger-combed his hair, wiped his boots, then stepped onto the porch. A new day, one that would begin with a funeral.

He made his way to the knoll behind the cabin. Kentucky and a few other orderlies, cooks and gravediggers had gathered to pay respects. A one-armed man stepped forward and faced the group, a Bible in his right hand.

“Friends, on this beautiful morning let us praise the Lord and say farewell to those who have left this life . . .”

The men removed their caps and bowed their heads.

Buck stared at the bandages on the stump of the man’s left shoulder. I cut the arm off this preacher and I don’t even remember doing it.

“I am the resurrection and the life . . .”

The familiar rhythm of biblical verses should have been a consolation, but Buck found it impossible to keep his mind on the words. His thoughts drifted. Sounds faded. He saw the parson’s mouth moving, but he heard no voice. Even the birds were strangely silent.

Suddenly Tate’s head exploded in a shower of crimson.

His skull reformed. The face was Clay’s this time, then Tate’s again.

Buck was aware of a faint roaring inside his head as if seashells were surrounding both ears.

“. . . though he were dead, so shall he live . . .”

Preacher Tate’s countenance transmogrified yet again, this time becoming Zeb Feeney’s. Buck could smell the vile man’s sour breath.

Kentucky gripped Buck’s arm. “You all right, sir?”

“I think so,” he whispered. But was he? How could he be? Clay was dead and here he stood among men whose arms and legs he’d cut off. Their bodies might heal, but what about their spirits? Yesterday he’d killed a man.

“He leadeth me beside the still waters . . .”

Buck stared at a gravedigger on the other side of the abyss. The man raised his blond head and smiled. Clay’s radiant face. The man began to laugh, though he made not a sound.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .”

It wasn’t Clay at all, but a stranger.

“We commend to Almighty God the souls of our departed brethren. May they . . .”

Gradually Buck became aware of people moving away from him, of orderlies and cooks returning to their duties. Kentucky started down the hill, then glanced back. “Sir?”

Buck stared, then together they moved toward the cabin.

“Major, sir,” Kentucky said along the way, “your brother had this on him. I reckoned you’d want to have it.” He dug into the canvas bag slung over his shoulder and produced a gold watch.

So Father had given it to Clay when tradition said it should go to the eldest son. Didn’t make any difference now.

“I appreciate it.”

“Sir . . .” The orderly hesitated. “I thought you might want something more personal-like, so I also . . .” He pulled out a small cartridge case and opened it to show the contents.

A lock of hair.

“I washed it good, so there ain’t no blood on it.”

Buck stared at his brother’s golden-yellow hair. Suddenly he was blinded with tears, too choked to speak. It wasn’t until they were at the bottom of the hill that he was able to murmur, “Thank you, Kentucky.”

He was about to enter the shack when he heard the pounding of hooves, the creaking of leather, and the jingle of spurs. Cavalry was coming his way. He strode to the end of the porch. Through the trees he caught a glimpse of horsemen approaching from the west along the creek-side road. At last, he thought, someone’s bringing supplies.

But as they drew nearer he saw the guidons and blue coats. Yankees.

We’re done for.

Chapter THREE

A rider left the vanguard and trotted up to the shack. Pink-faced, mutton-chopped, and wearing sergeant’s stripes—an Irishman for sure—he dismounted with casual grace, snapped to attention, and saluted Buck.

“General Williams’s compliments, sir. He wishes to know your unit and strength.”

Buck returned the salute. “I’m Major Thomson, Surgeon, General Kershaw’s division. There’re only wounded, sick, and medical personnel here. Is it true? The war’s ended?”

“Sir, General Lee and his armies surrendered three days ago. General Johnston is still about, but should be cornered soon.” With a sweep of his head he took in the sights around him. The man stiffened, steeled himself against revulsion and asked in an arched voice, “Would you be needing anything here, Major?”

“God, yes, sergeant. Food, tents, medical supplies, everything. My people are starving. The wounded are out in the open, and we have no medicine to speak of. Perhaps if I could talk with General Williams . . .” It’s come to this, Buck thought, begging Yankees for help. But if it means these men will live, at least some of them, I’ll swallow my pride. “Please convey to the general that I’ll be much obliged for any assistance he can lend—”

The sergeant didn’t wait for him to finish. “I’ll deliver your message immediately, sir.”

Clearly eager to be on his way, he swung up into the saddle and galloped toward the column, splashing through the creek, not leaping it as Clay had.

Buck returned to the cabin, smoothed his hair, ran his fingers through his beard, and fastened the few buttons on his uniform. When he reappeared on the porch a group of horsemen was riding toward the shack. In the lead an officer wearing an immaculate blue uniform with gold braid and epaulets rode a beautifully groomed dun mare. Every button and buckle was burnished to a gleaming shine.

Buck snapped to attention and saluted as the general dismounted. “Major Elijah Thomson, Surgeon, Kershaw’s division, at your service, sir.”

His salute was returned. “At ease, doctor. I’m Major General Seth Williams on the staff of General Grant. How can I help you?” He extended his hand, his sharp eyes firmly locked on Buck’s and waited.

The war’s over. This Yankee’s no longer my enemy, yet he still has the power to kill us, to let us live, or to help us. What was it he’d heard Lincoln had said?  With malice toward none, with charity for all . . . let us strive on to . . . bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan. . . . Or something like that.

After a moment’s hesitation, Buck accepted his hand with a firm, manly grip.

“Sir, if you have time, I can show you better than I can tell you.”

“Lead on.” He turned to his staff. “Gentlemen, dismount and rest yourselves. Doctor Thomson and I will rejoin you presently.”

Buck escorted him through the rows of wounded and diseased. His guest peppered him with questions. How many wounded were here? For how long? When were they last re-supplied? By whom?

They reached the cooking pots. Williams accepted a tin-plate sample of the gruel, tasted and instantly spat it out.

“I’ve seen enough,” he declared angrily and strode to the shack while Buck hurried to keep pace.

Before they’d reached his staff the general began barking orders.

“Captain Kirby, mount up and hasten back to the supply wagons. Bring them here on the double. Captain Teague, after the rations are unloaded and these men fed, you and your troopers will load all, I mean all, of the sick and wounded into the wagons, make sure they’re well covered, then leave for the railhead at Rice or on to Burkeville if necessary. Sergeant O’Doyle, get our medical teams up here with blankets, bandages, medicines, and whatever else is needed for the trip. Have men heat water and clean these people. Burn their rags and wrap them in blankets if there aren’t any clothes available. And hear me, I want them on the trains before dark. Dismissed!”

The troopers galloped off.

He turned now to Buck. “Doctor Thomson, you have my word that we’ll get these men to the nearest hospital, Blue or Gray, and make sure they’re properly cared for.” He spoke the words formally, almost ritually, but Buck could hear compassion in them as well. The fighting might be in the past, but the horror of war remained in the present.

“General, sir, these men and I will be forever in your debt.” Buck snapped to attention and saluted.

Within minutes General Williams had remounted and started his cavalry column moving eastward once more.

Kentucky walked quietly up to Buck, stood at his side and watched the vigorous Yankee soldiers withdraw.

“Beg pardon, sir. I expect there’s no need for me to take a mule ride now.”

“No, Kentucky, I think General Williams just saved us all.”

#

Four hours later Buck sat on the porch steps observing a supply convoy ford the creek and sway into the field near the wounded. While some Union troops unloaded the drays, others stoked fires and opened tins of meat.

Coffee urns now contained clean water drawn from wooden casks lashed to the sides of wagons. Soon the aroma of brewing coffee and the tantalizing bouquet of beef stewing floated over the camp. Hard cheese and crusty bread served as appetizers for those who could chew them. None of the famished men stopped gnawing even during Preacher Tate’s mercifully brief offering of thanks.

Clean blankets were as welcome as food, for most of the men wore only rags in the damp morning air. As soon as they’d finished their feast, the wounded were loaded into conveyances of every description. A cloud of smoke still lingered across the creek, marking the burning of Feeney’s house. The Hewitt family had left hours before. May their miserable lives be blessed in the future.

Buck watched a one-armed man approach, carrying a tin cup of steaming coffee.

“Ready for a wagon ride, Preacher?” Buck asked.

“Yes, doctor. Thanks be to God.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “May I speak to you privately a moment?”

“Of course. Are you in pain? Do you need me to—”

“I believe it’s you who requires succor.”

“I beg your pardon?” Was the man tetched? After watching so many men die and losing an arm, it would be understandable.

“In these last days you’ve been sorely tested, doctor, and I sense you’re deeply troubled. Who wouldn’t be after the horrors you’ve seen. But have faith, my friend, and be consoled with the knowledge that you saved my life and the lives of many others. Remember too that God doesn’t expect us to conquer all the evil in the world, just the evil in us. For your future travels, I give you my blessing and my prayers. If I may offer words from the Psalms: Cease from anger, and forsake wrath; fret not thyself in any wise to do evil. For evildoers shall be cut off; but those that would wait upon the Lord, they shall inherit the earth.”

Inherit the earth? Buck mused as he glanced around. Not much of a patrimony. For evildoers shall be cut off.

The lanky amputee hoisted himself onto a moving flatbed. Buck recovered his voice in time to call out, “Thank you, preacher.” The wagon creaked into the trees.

An eerie stillness settled over the encampment as the forest absorbed the rattling of the wagons and the voices of the departing soldiers. Only a thin wisp of smoke now threaded the sky above the farm across the creek. The field between the shack and the stream was deserted as well. Kentucky remained down by the dying fires preparing his mule.

Mounds of earth scattered over the field marked graves. Some bore crude wooden crosses, others were barren.

Piles of cast-off clothing, ashes from the burned horses, and scattered ration boxes were the final remnants of the agony and death inflicted on this once fertile meadow.

Buck trudged up the incline to the grave on the knoll. At home marble tombstones commemorated the lives of Thomsons. Here Clay’s final resting place was indicated by a rude cross fashioned from rough planks torn from an old building. The inscription read:

CLAY A. THOMPSON

b. Dec. 12, 1843

d. Apr. 12, 1865